Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Have a seat, son.”

Captain Pike waved to the notoriously uncomfortable, ball-pinching chair in front of his desk. The comfortable chair beside it was piled high with PADD’s and oh so tempting actual paper briefings in sleek color coded folders. Cadet Kirk desperately wanted to move the entire stack onto the Chair That Bites Your Balls, and just maybe drop that gold colored folder on the ground in the process so he’d get a glance at the contents as he apologetically picked it up. 

Instead, he sprawled in the awful chair. “Are we going to waste time with small talk, or are you ready to tell me why I’ve been un-enrolled from my entire summer course load?”

“Consider booting your ass out of summer school to be your birthday present,” said Pike. 

Rage surged through Kirk’s veins; hot and sticky, smothering his carefully manicured affected calm. “My birthday is during the summer.” He made himself plaster on Miderwestern Indifferent Smile #2. “When I should be in class. But hey, thanks for ruining my plans. I guess I’ll spend the anniversary doing the same thing I do every year.” 

Pike raised an eyebrow. “Getting shitfaced in a bar until you find someone to fuck you, fight you, or both?” 

“Winona never felt like throwing a party on the anniversary of her husband’s death,” said Kirk. “I commemorate the occasion in my own way.” 

Pike smiled sadly. “Not this year, kid. You’re up for disciplinary action. Again.” 

“Listen. About the…”

“Nope.” Pike held up a hand. “Save it. You hacked the school’s registration system to enroll yourself in a waitlisted class on warp field mechanics that isn’t even open to underclassmen.” Pike leaned forward, eyes twinkling as he fought back a grin. “We can’t reward that kind of behavior. So your summer plans are canceled.”

Kirk forced his face into Humbled And Embarrassed Expression #4. Pike was immune to #1 and #3, and had sent him for a psych evaluation when he tried #2. “Sir. Please. If I’m not enrolled in classes I have to give up my dorm room. I don’t have anywhere else to go this summer.”

“Yes you do, Cadet.” Pike finally lost his battle with an encroaching grin. “Congratulations on your shipboard internship.” 

Kirk straightened up. The chair crumpled slightly under his left leg, snagging his pants at an angle that made the fabric tug mercilessly on his balls. “The Farragut?” 

“Nice try, kid,” Pike laughed. “But I don’t like you that much. After some of the stunts you’ve pulled here, the board agreed  you need some real world experience working with non-human crews. If you can’t handle a semester abroad with our allies, we’re not sending you out to screw up our first contact missions.” 

“Yes, sir.” Kirk immediately regretted sitting up straighter as the damn chair snagged more of his uniform pants. The bit of fabric tugging on his balls made a play for separating them from his body. He forced himself to keep a straight face. Pike might be playing this internship off as a punishment, but they both knew what an opportunity like this could mean for a promising command track cadet. “How many of us are you sending?”

“For this particular ship? Just you.” Pike’s grin widened. “This is a trial year for the Sh’Raan . If they like you, then next year they’ll take on three interns - one from command, one from xenolinguistics, and one from diplomacy. Don’t fuck this up.”

“The Sharon ? I haven’t heard of that ship.” Was this a new ally? Did Starfleet trust James Tiberious Kirk to be an unofficial junior diplomat to a new member of the Federation?

“Did I mess up the pronunciation?” Pike pushed a PADD across the desk. “You’d know better than me. I don’t speak any Vulcan.” 

Fucking. Hell.  There was no way he’d live long enough to board the VSS Sh’Raan this summer. Some first year cadet would find his dismembered corpse in a dumpster by tomorrow morning. As soon as Uhura found out about this internship she was going to murder him.

Chapter Text

Kirk rubbed his bruised arm. If this was Uhura’s version of a play-punch, he never wanted to be on the wrong end of the real thing. 

“Your level of force exceeds what I typically witness in congratulatory displays of mock aggression,” said Spock.

“See, Nyota! Even your Vulcan boyfriend thinks that was too much,” said Jim. 

“I was not protesting,” Spock corrected. “Merely observing.” 

“I can’t believe he stole my internship!” Uhura flopped backwards into the bar’s C shaped booth, glaring daggers at Jim Kirk. 

He decided to get her off campus in order to tell her the news - somewhere the professors who only knew her as the golden child of xenolinguistics wouldn’t be able to see her reaction. Gaila he invited along because Orions were more than twice as strong as humans, and it never hurt to have backup in case Uhura got violent. Plus, she was Uhura’s roommate. 

He hadn’t anticipated Uhura bringing her uptight Vulcan boyfriend to their seedy off-campus dive bar. 

Gaila laughed. “You make it sound like Jimmy snuck into Pike’s office wearing a miniskirt uniform and a beehive wig to secretly trade out your files.” 

“I could pull it off,” said Jim. “I’ve got the legs for it.” 

Uhura punched Jim’s other arm. 

“Ow! Come on, Nyota! You know I didn’t ask for this. Pike wants me off-planet this summer. He’s probably afraid I’ll embarrass the academy during that summer conference on moss. 

“A reasonable assumption,” said Spock. “The Interplanetary Conference on Moss Analogues and Subtypes is notoriously raucous.” He lay a hand on Uhura’s shoulder, and his voice dropped half an octave. “I have taken the liberty of procuring us tickets.”

She idly patted his hand, too busy glaring across the bar at Kirk to be enthralled by moss analogues. “You need at least a level three proficiency in conversational Golic Vulcan to even apply!”

This was it. Time to put up or shut up. 

Shut up, Kirk. Don’t do it. No one needs to know. 

“ I am stalled at Level Five ,” he said, in heavily accented but otherwise flawless Golic. 

Uhura’s hand dropped to her side. “How the hell do you know any Vulcan?”

Spock’s eyebrow disappeared under his bangs. “And how did you pick up such an obscure accent?” 

“Space brat. Picked it up here and there as a kid.” He wrapped his hands around his beer glass and forced his shoulders to relax. Chin up and defiant, he tried his best to look like an entitled child of nepotism. Winona and the late great George Kirk’s legacy admission baby must’ve been around the space block more times than anyone could count. At least, that’s what all the rumors said. 

Uhura crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she studied his face. “You constantly complain that your mother left you and Sam in Iowa for your whole childhood.” 

Jim clearly needed to work harder on spreading those rumors. 

Gaila lay a hand on Uhura’s arm and gently shook her head. Uhura met her gaze, hostile and ready to shrug her off, until she saw the look in Gaila’s eyes. Gaila’s mouth pulled into a tight, thin line just as Uhura’s eyebrows rose in a question.

“All of your academic records before enrolling in the academy are sealed,” said Spock. 

“Checking up on me?” Jim pretended to ignore the silent conversation of micro - and occasionally macro - expressions going on between Gaila and Uhura. 

“You represent an academic mystery,” said Spock. “Children of Starfleet officers typically have colorful transcripts with letters of recommendation from members of their parent’s crews and the assorted tutors and boarding schools they attended during their parent’s service. Meanwhile, Captain Pike was your only personal reference, your transcripts are nonexistent, and your only listed residence before attending the academy is your late father’s home in Riverside, Iowa.”

George’s house. Despite what it said on the deed, he couldn’t think of it as home. Winona sure as hell didn’t. She rarely spent more than twelve nights there a year. 

“I did spend a chunk of my childhood in Riverside. Winona was busy with her duties. When she was away, she mostly left raising me and Sam to her second husband.” 

Except when she didn’t. 

Except when Frank got sick of Jim stealing his car and Winona got sick of yelling at him over subspace and Sam got sick of protesting that he wasn’t Jim’s dad, so they had to stop holding him accountable for the little asshole’s actions. Frank and Winona sent Sam - the kid they liked - to a nice Starfleet Prep School. Jim was sent so far away he couldn’t embarrass any of them, to live with his aunt on an experimental colony called Tarsus IV. 

Whenever Tarsus IV came up in academic circles, people still forgot that the first rescue ship was Vulcan. 

Once the official cavalry arrived, the Vulcan science crew tried to hand Jim over to Starfleet. He was 15 kilograms underweight, missing hair and teeth, and unable to stop himself from compulsively hiding non-perishable food all over the ship no matter how often they told him the replicators were in excellent working condition. Jim couldn’t - wouldn’t - go back to Riverside - back to asshole Frank, back to perfect Sam, back to a small town full of people who he knew wouldn’t accept, “I don’t want to talk about it,” for an answer. 

Every time the Vulcan crew found him hiding from visiting Starfleet officers in increasingly improbable places, they were polite and gentle. T’Ree, their communications officer, replicated a small portable chess set that was still one of Jim’s most prized possessions. She’d sit outside his hidey hole and patiently teach him to play until he felt safe crawling out. 

The rest of the surviving kids spent their days in Sickbay on endless subspace comms with crying families who couldn’t wait for them to get home. He promised that would happen if they made it, and he was grateful their families didn’t make him a liar. Meanwhile Jim received one pre-recorded message from Winona telling him not to embarrass her in front of the Vulcans. 

He was the last surviving kid still onboard the Vulcan ship when Starfleet said thanks for the help, but we’re good here. You can move along. 

Instead of trying to force him over to the Starfleet ship or track Winona down, T’Ree quietly took Jim to her weirdly technicolor hometown on the Vulcan colony of Typerias. For the next five years he spent his mornings in endless therapy sessions and afternoons in mostly interesting classes at what amounted to a surprisingly nice Boarding School for Refugees. 

He learned Vulcan in the locals thick backwater accent, learned passable conversational Andorian and Rigellian from other orphans, and picked up just enough Orion from the school’s doctor to let loose some truly excellent curses. It was the best five years of his life - until someone asked Winona if she wanted to join a support group for the parents of Tarsus IV survivors and she suddenly remembered she had two sons. 

He still sent T’Ree a Mother’s Day card every year. 

“Let’s make a deal.” Kirk dialed up Earnest and Trustworthy Look #2. “My accent is hot garbage and my knowledge of life on Vulcan functionally nonexistent.” 

“Wow, Jimmy. I love the self awareness.” Gaila raised her beer to him. 

Jim waved to Uhura and Spock. “You two know way more about Vulcan elite culture than I ever will. I can’t swap internships with you, Uhura, but I can promise to comm you about VSA shipboard life every week. I’ll even record messages for you when we’re out of subspace range.”

Uhura opened her mouth to protest, but Spock once more lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like had I accepted the Vulcan Science Academy’s offer of admission. An outsider’s view of shipboard Vulcan life would be… fascinating.”

“I’m as unbiased as they come!” Kirk beamed at them. “Hell, I didn’t even know this internship existed until Pike dumped it on me.” 

“Dumped it?!” Uhura threw a loaded potato skin at him. Jim surged sideways and barely managed to catch the edge of it in his mouth. He placed his palms flat on the table and locked eyes with her as he used his lips and tongue to sloppily coax the entire dripping cheese and chive covered spud slice into his mouth. Gaila buried her head on Uhura’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. Spock, on the other hand, watched his display in wide eyed shock.

Kirk washed the potato skin down with a couple gulps of his warming beer. “This will be good for us all! I’ll ask questions on your behalf - and let them know they’re from you, the smartest xenolinguist at Starfleet Academy!”

“I would prefer my questions remain anonymous,” said Spock. 

“Right, right,” Jim nodded, as if he’d actually invited Spock along in the first place. “I was talking about Uhura, but I’ll totally ask questions for you, too.” 

“What about me?” Gaila peeked up from her perch on Uhura’s shoulder.  

“That depends,” Jim smirked. “Will your questions get me shoved out an airlock?” 

“Probably,” said Uhura. Spock nodded in silent agreement. 

Kirk folded his hands as if in prayer. “In exchange for this rare insider’s look at a VSA science vessel, I am begging you to help me not embarrass Starfleet when I forget some bit of Vulcan cultural minutiae.” 

Folks on Typerias had the same attitude towards the Vulcan homeworld as folks in Iowa had towards San Francisco. He loved them for it. Right now, though, if he didn’t want to embarrass Captain Pike, get kicked out of Starfleet, and worst of all, actually hear from his mother for the first time in five years, he needed help from someone with a solid knowledge of life and manners in major Vulcan cities like Shi’Khar. 

“Ten credits says even with us on speed dial, he fucks this up so bad they boot him off the ship in the first week,” said Uhura.

“Where’s the faith!” Kirk protested, one hand over his heart. 

Uhura sighed. “Kirk, I watched you spend a drunken hour trying to pick up a Horta.” 

Gaila’s hand covered her mouth as she struggled not to laugh. 

Jim shrugged. “It looked lonely.”

“It was a pile of construction gravel with moss growing on it.” Uhura’s gaze softened. “You punched a very patient campus security guard who tried to shovel some gravel into another pile to show you it wasn’t sentient.”

“I thought he was hurting her.” Kirk stared down at the scarred metal table. He wasn’t going to apologize for trying to protect someone who couldn’t defend themselves.

“That is both the sweetest and stupidest thing you’ve said to me all week.” Uhura stared up at the ceiling, praying for strength. “You’re going to be the reason Vulcan drops out of the Federation. I can feel it.”

Spock nodded. “I will prepare to defend Starfleet Academy’s honor to the Vulcan Consulate.” 

“I’m going to make some popcorn and watch the drama,” Gaila winked. 

Fuck Pike and his fucking horrible chair and his fucking nightmare internship. Kirk should’ve spent the summer learning how to make warp drives sigh his name when he touched them just right. 

“So we have a deal?”  He shot Uhura his best Wholesome Farmboy Smile #7. 

Uhura held out a hand. “You know I’m only doing this for the good of the Federation.” 

Kirk took her hand in both of his and shook it warmly. “You are the best.” 

“First lesson,” Spock used the edge of an empty water glass to gently push Kirk’s hands away from Uhura’s. “You may have misunderstood normal Vulcan manners due to my frequent and blatant public displays of affection. While onboard their ship, do not, under any circumstances, touch the Vulcans.” 

Chapter Text

“Welcome to the VSS Sh’Raan. ”

Jim’s eyes widened in shock as the distressingly handsome Captain Spisee opened his arms wide, slowly and gently wrapped them around Jim’s torso, and firmly patted him three times on the back. 

“Thank you?” Vulcans didn't hug strangers. At least, not past the age of six, and the Sh’Rann’s tall, broad shouldered Captain was very much a grown man. 

Was Jim stroking out? This couldn’t be real. He had to be in sickbay right now experiencing hallucinations from the kind of allergy attack that would land him in at least three medical papers. The Captain of the VSS Sh’Raan did not just welcome a Human Starfleet Cadet onboard with a gentle yet awkward embrace.

Captain Spisee retreated behind his desk. He waved elegantly towards the most comfortable chair Jim had ever seen in his life. 

“My crew and I have been tasked with ensuring this is a successful cross-cultural exchange.” The round vowels of Captain Spisee’s unfamiliar accent made him sound like he gently licked every single word before releasing it from his full lips. It was nothing like his own Tyresian accent or Spock’s regal tones. A thrill raced up Kirk’s spine at the knowledge he was about to spend the summer working under an accomplished captain who did not see any logic in faking a Shi’Khar accent. 

“We conducted extensive research on optimal conditions for humans. While we can not adjust the gravity, temperature, or humidity levels on the Sh’Raan without causing significant distress to our existing crew and ongoing experiments, we are able to adjust our behaviors to meet Human social, psychological, and biological needs.” 

Jim wanted to pay attention. He really did. But when he wasn’t distracted by Spisee’s accent, he was distracted by the chair. It cradled him like a gentle lover; supportive and understanding of all his body’s needs. Soft, supple, and comforting to the point of almost being obscene. Jesus. Did he want to fuck this chair? 

“To ensure optimal wellbeing, we have created the following enriching and healthy agenda for the duration of your time with us.” 

Captain Spisee handed Jim a heavy sheet of rich, cream paper embossed with gold dusted Vulcan calligraphy bearing the ship’s name. It was a bit cheap by the standards of Vulcan stationary aesthetics, but shipboard life meant some sacrifices. In the most elegant handwriting he’d ever had the privilege to lay eyes on, it read:

Human Enrichment and Optimal Health Program:

• One (1) Daily Shoulder Pat (more provided upon request)
• Seventy (70) Seconds of Hug Time Per Week (divided between crew members as you deem necessary)
• Three (3) Discrete Instances of Daily Praise
• Three (3) Structured Entertainments per week
• Minimum of One (1) Social Companion per meal (more available upon request)

Jim looked up from the Human Enrichment And Optimal Health Program and into Captain Spisee’s luminous brown eyes. There was no hint of mockery or malice there. He was an earnest scientist, possessing both cheekbones so sharp you could cut glass with them and the quadrant’s most excellent taste in guest furniture. He’d been given a unique task, and on Surak’s Katric Ark, he performed it with the same thoroughly Vulcan scientific intensity he would give the discovery of a new species of cave moss. 

“We would appreciate detailed weekly feedback on the efficacy of our Human integration efforts,” said Captain Spisee. 

“This is…” Intense? Weird? “Incredibly thoughtful.”

“You are not required to reciprocate the Daily Praise,” said Captain Spisee. Despite his words, Jim could swear one corner of his mouth twitched upwards two entire millimeters.

Chapter Text

Jim held the Human Enrichment and Optimal Health Program up to the screen. He batted his eyelashes at Uhura, beaming through Innocent Farmboy Look #2. “He smelled like cardamom and cloves. I may spend my entire seventy seconds of weekly hug time buried in Captain Spisee’s powerful arms.”

Uhura ignored Jim’s antics on the screen, continuing to look into a mirror to the left while she applied gold eye shadow. “You are an embarrassment to the entire fleet.” 

“Excuse me.” Spock lifted Uhura up, took her chair, and gently sat her back on his lap. She bent backwards, smiling, and gave him a gentle kiss. Jim tried not to cringe from the sweetness of it. “Cadet, did you say Captain Spisee ?”

“I mean, it’s pronounced like ‘Spicy,’ but yes. Tall, high cheekbones, mysterious sexy scars peeking up from the neck of his robes?” Jim smiled. “Why? Do you know him?” 

Uhura stopped putting on mascara long enough to roll her eyes. “Kirk! There are over six billion Vulcans on the homeworld alone! They don’t all know each other.” 

“I am aware of a Captain Spisee,” said Spock. 

“See!” Jim grinned at her. 

Uhura shook her head and went back to finishing her makeup. 

“Cadet, I understood you were assigned to a Vulcan Science Academy vessel.” Spock’s words were surprisingly slow and thoughtful. 

“That’s right,” Jim nodded, “The VSS Sh’Raan .” 

“Captained by Spisee.” Spock rested his chin on Uhura’s shoulder. “Interesting.” 

“I mean, sure, if you’re really into botany and stellar cartography,” said Jim. 

Uhura’s communicator beeped. “Oh! He’s early.” She quickly applied one last coat of lipstick before turning in Spock’s lap. One hand cupped his cheek as she beamed at him. “I went to the trouble of setting you up a playdate, so you two be nice while I’m gone.” 

“We’re not kindergarteners,” said Jim.

“No.” She playfully glared into the viewscreen. “They have object permanence and a healthy sense of boundaries.” 

Spock’s hand lingered on her arm as she stood, holding onto her fingertips until she stepped away. 

As she disappeared from the screen, Jim leaned forward and shouted, “Where did she go? Spock! Is she dead?”

“Try not to murder him,” Uhura laughed from offscreen.

“Spock! I can still hear her ghost!” 

“Then listen to it. You would benefit greatly from Nyota’s wisdom, even if she is imaginary,” said Spock. 

“That was either the creepiest or the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Jim laughed. “I think I’m jealous.” 

“You should discuss the feeling with one of your copious imaginary friends,” said Spock. “But do so later. For now, I would like to know how the crew responded to your conversational gambits.”

Jim shrugged. “It’s hard to get them to talk about themselves. Hell, I don’t even know what world any of them are from, though I’ve gotta say most of them share the same sexy accent.” 

“Can you mimic it?” Spock raised an eyebrow.

Jim sighed. “Uhura would be better than me at this.”

“As she is in all things,” Spock agreed. “Alas, you are my only resource.”

Jim took a deep breath, thinking about Captain Spisee’s soft, round vowels and softer plush lips. “The crew of the VSS Sh’Raan welcomes you, young scholar,” he said in Golic. 

“Stop.” Spock winced. “I doubt that is an accurate rendition of their speech.”

“I thought it was pretty good,” said Jim. 

“Surely not.” Spock looked insulted on their behalf. “What can you report about their current experimental work?”

“Not much,” Jim admitted. “My clearance only covers about half the ship. The botany lab is impressive. They have several long term projects related to crop disease resistance, and a couple pet projects improving protein yields in crops that thrive on otherwise marginal land. I’m no botanist, but I’m impressed. T’Akos and I talk about that a lot.”

She never asked why someone on the command track had such an intense interest in crop health and diversity. But then, he never asked why a botanist spent a half shift every day at the bridge’s security station. 

“Aspirate the T,” Spock sighed. “Her name is not pronounced like an Earth snack.”

“No,” Jim chuckled. “Snaak is my shift supervisor in Tactical.” 

Spock stared at a spot over Jim’s shoulder as he took a long, slow breath. Jim grinned at him, predatory and proud. He didn’t need to be a telepath to know Spock was silently chanting, ‘ I am in control of my emotions.’ 

“Cadet Kirk. I can not stress enough the importance of not embarrassing yourself in front of these Vulcans.” 

Jim winced. That was the last thing Winona said to him before she forgot he existed for three years. He forced himself to ignore the sting of the past and focus on the mystery of the present. There was something hiding underneath Spock’s admonition. He wanted to scratch it like a bus stop lottery ticket. 

“Captain Pike trusts me with them,” he said. “And honestly? They trust me, too. It’s … nice. They’re all really nice.” And so very earnest. 

“Your usual carefree, rules-averse behavior will not impress this crew,” said Spock.

There it was. Jim narrowed his eyes. “Spock, you’re not speaking in general terms. You’ve said this crew, these Vulcans.” He chewed his lip, worrying at the grammar. He didn’t have Uhura’s intrinsic understanding of multi-layered communication, but he had enough lived experience with Vulcans to pick up on some of their nuance. “You’re not worried about me generically embarrassing all of Starfleet as an institution. You want me to look good in front of these specific Vulcans.” 

Spock’s face went stony, and Jim knew he’d hit his target. “As a visiting scholar, you should treat the crew of any ship you are assigned to with the respect they have earned.” 

Jim leaned forward, elbows on his desk, one hand on his chin. “You did it again, Spock. C’mon, spill. What’s so special about the crew of the Sh’Raan ?” 

“They are known to me.”

Jim stared into Spock’s eyes, his gaze scraping that lotto for the prize underneath. Spock had mastered the legendary stoicism of Shi’Khar’s elite, but Jim could see something under all that affected nonchalance. There was real admiration behind Spock’s surface level dismissiveness. Hero worship, even? It wasn’t hard to imagine. Jim had just met Spisee and he had a bad case of it himself. 

“Bet you wish you were here.” Jim rejected his Friendly Farmboy expression in favor of his I Just Fucked Your Girl look #2. That always guaranteed a good fight.

“You are attempting to goad me,” Spock chided. 

“You caught me.” Jim grinned, his face relaxing into Good Natured Chagrin #1. “C’mon, gimme the gossip! Have they won awards for protein yield improvements? Did they discover a particularly aesthetic nebula?” He lowered his voice to a playful whisper. “Do they all have perfect attendance records from Vulcan elementary school?”

Spock looked thoughtful. “I am perplexed by both Captain Spisee’s assignment and his willingness to host a Starfleet exchange cadet.” 

“Yeah, I get that,” said Jim. “I’ve been on a few Vulcan ships before and they were nothing like this.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating.” The softly spoken word invited an onion’s worth of layers, but most of them were too rotten for Jim to voluntarily peel into. 

“You really do wish you were here,” Jim said, his soft tone more sympathetic.

Spock’s spine stiffened. “I do not regret choosing Starfleet.”

“Me, either,” said Jim. “Despite how I joined up. But sometimes, I can’t help thinking about what things might’ve been like in a different life.” One where Winona never forced him to return to Earth, where he could’ve graduated with his friends on Tyresias instead of becoming an Iowan high school dropout by sixteen. 

He wouldn’t have ended up on a VSA vessel, but everybody on Tyresias knew those were only crewed by stuck-up people from the homeworld, and only captained by snobs from Shi’Khar who could trace their family lines back a thousand years. Sure, other, lesser , people could study at the VSA, but they’d have to do it on their knees because the glass ceiling was so damn low. 

Luckily, there were plenty of other universities out in the colonies, and they all had a ship or three. He never forgot that 22% of T’Ree’s shipmates weren’t Vulcan. Back at the orphanage, he and Azmar and Jilleth would lay in their bunks, staring through their portrait window at the stars, one-upping each other with stories of which fleet they’d join, the adventures they’d have, the kids they’d rescue. 

Jim studied Spock, so stiff and formal and visibly uncomfortable - and suddenly he also seemed so young. 

Vulcans didn’t age at the same rate as humans. Jim had grown used to thinking any Vulcan who looked somewhere between 25-40 by human standards was probably at least in their 80’s. Treating them like that was a hard habit to shake. 

But Spock was only a couple years older than Jim. From what Gaila told him, while Jim was busy fighting and fucking strangers in bars, Spock had to fight like hell to get into the Vulcan Science Academy, despite his aristocratic lineage. Then he made history by turning them down after acceptance, all because the proctor insulted his mother. It took balls. Green, internal balls, but metaphorically massive ones just the same. 

“I’ll bring you back something he’s autographed,” Jim said, gently. Fuck, this was awkward. He was living Spock’s childhood dream, and he hadn’t done shit to earn it.

Spock looked away. “That is unnecessary.” 

“Sure, Spock.” Jim looked at the time readout in the corner of the display. “Hey, you know Uhura and I traded in our rec credits for a full hour of subspace. Use it or lose it, you know. Neither of us have anything better to do tonight, so can I tempt you with a game of chess?” 

It was time for Lonely Boy Look #4. That was playing dirty, and he knew it, but Jim suddenly wanted to build a bridge between himself and Uhura’s weird boyfriend. Neither of them were supposed to be in Starfleet, but they’d both chosen it anyway. The Academy was full of people who’d dreamed of joining since they were toddlers. It’d be nice to make a friend who might understand his own bittersweet feelings.

“Surely you would prefer to spend the rest of your evening goading your new crewmates until they report the loss of their human cadet in a tragic airlock malfunction.” The corner of Spock’s mouth quirked up half a centimeter.

Jim shot him a genuine grin. “Right. Just for that I’m starting with white.” 

“That will only give you a brief reprieve before your inevitable defeat.” Spock pulled up a chessboard overlay, linking their screens. 

“You wanna put money on that?” Jim’s grin widened. 

“That would be akin to stealing from a misguided child,” said Spock. 

“Right.” Jim cracked his knuckles. “Prepare to get spanked.” 

Spock’s eyebrow rose again, and Jim was delighted by the playful twinkle in his eyes. “Your move, Cadet.”

Chapter Text

“Hell yeah! That’s another one point three percent boost in efficiency to our long range scanners! No pirates are gonna sneak up on this science ship!” Kirk raised his hand for a High Five. “Bring it in, Selerie. You know you want to experience a quirky Human social custom!” 

Selerie’s hand rose. Muscle memory quickly split his fingers into the Ta’al. Jim nodded encouragement, and Selerie took a step in his direction, arm moving oh so slightly forward so his palm was exactly parallel with Jim’s, albeit a meter away. Behind him, Snaak gently cleared his throat. Selerie avoided Jim’s eyes as his hand sank down. 

“We appreciate your attempt to offer reciprocal praise,” said Snaak. “It is unnecessary. Vulcans have eidetic memories, which means we naturally recall when we have performed adequately or better at our assigned tasks.”

Jim folded his hands behind him, waiting for Snaak’s unintentionally condescending speech to wind down. This was the ninth time he'd explained Vulcan eidetic memory to Jim, who could now naturally recall the entire speech. He wanted to praise Snaak for his use of repetition to reinforce the lesson.

After two weeks on the Sh’Raan , Jim knew that when Snaak went off like this he honestly wasn’t trying to be a dick. He was way too earnest in his desire to gently educate their Human guest about Vulcan culture. 

They were all so earnest. This crew had zero real life understanding of how human memory worked compared to their own. Some of their attempts to be helpful and understanding made him feel like he was a goldfish they were patiently training to do tricks.

“Since Human memory relies on repetition and reinforcement,” There it was. Kirk suppressed his smile. “Our crew understands that your performance efficiency increases with strategic implementation of Daily Praise,” Snaak continued. “Therefore I offer you congratulations on performing your designated task. Well done.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Kirk fought hard to keep his gaze from straying in the same direction the Vulcan crew were sneaking glances. No one on the Sh’Raan knew he could understand spoken Vulcan, much less read it. After weeks of being privy to their secret messages about him, he was damned if they were going to find out. 

A deep maroon tapestry covered in gold Vulcan calligraphy hung against the lab’s rich peacock blue wall. It perfectly matched the other tapestries hung artfully around the lab, but Kirk knew this one was a brand new addition, made specially for his arrival. Instead of lab safety procedures and details about which experiments they were not to work on in Jim’s presence, the Special Tapestry detailed the Rotation of Daily Praise calendar that Captain Spisee established after his thorough reading about human physical and social needs. Embroidered ribbons with each crew member’s name hung from hand knotted buttons on the intricate twelve week calendar.

He had already received one Designated Unit of Praise today. Now that Snaak had delivered his second, that meant some time before evening meditation it would be T’Malis’ turn for his third. 

“Sir, in response to this praise, I would like to request five seconds of my weekly seventy seconds of hug time,” said Jim. The captain had clearly expected him to request a maximum of three or four soothing hugs per week - and damn but he wanted to know where they came up with that number as the minimum for human health. Jim quickly realized that if he rationed each hug to five seconds he could get away with up to two hugs per day. 

Snaak sighed faintly and opened his arms. Jim ignored him and wrapped his arms around a shocked Selerie instead. “Good job, buddy.” One of Selerie’s trapped arms fluttered as he tried to gently pat Jim. 

The Human Hug Ritual consisted of three parts. Jim knew this, because it was detailed on one of the many informative tapestries in the mess hall. There was the opening of the arms, the enclosure of the human, and the upper back triple pat. This was not to be confused with the Daily Shoulder Pat of Affirmation, which was the subject of both a separate tapestry and a heated ongoing debate among the Vulcan lower decks. 

The sound of wind chimes gently filled the lab. 

“Darn. Sounds like Delta shift is over. Thanks for another great day, folks!” Jim beamed at the Vulcan crew. He knew damn well that Vulcans had an uncannily precise internal sense of time. If you asked how long until shift change they could tell you down to the second. The chimes were purely for his benefit. 

They could’ve achieved the same effect with a vibrating watch, like the ones he and the orphans wore back on Typerias, but Captain Spisee wanted their Human to feel like he fit in as One Of The Crew, so everyone was treated to chimes. Selerie confided the chimes enhanced his day. 

“You are welcome,” said Snaak. “Enjoy your evening meal. Once you are finished, An Entertainment can be provided at your request.” 

Stork folded his hands in front of him. “Query: Is there a specific type of musical Entertainment you prefer?” 

God, they tried so hard. “Do you mean live music or something pre-recorded?”

The three Vulcans stepped closer to one another and gently pressed the backs of their wrists together. Jim felt like he was thirteen again, watching his teachers back on Typerias hold silent telepathic conversations about the students. 

As a kid, it took him three months to realize the stoic looking Vulcans only appeared quiet to psi-null species. They constantly passed information to one another, sometimes intensely like this, but more often a casual brush of the back of the wrist as they worked together or even passed one another in hallways. He learned to recognize when an aurally silent room was actually full of chatterboxes - and these three on the Sh’Raan talked to one another nonstop. 

Selarie looked at him expectantly. Snakk sighed. 

Stork cleared his throat, as much a reminder to them that he hadn’t been part of their conversation as it was to get Kirk’s attention. “Would you find pre-recorded music from Earth to be relaxing?” 

How was he supposed to explain that Orion-Andorian Acid Fusion was his favorite musical genre? 

“You know what? I really like the Vulcan lyre,” said Kirk. “Let me know if any of you jam it up together for fun.”

“You apply sucrose to musical instruments?” Selarie raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s another Human colloquialism. I’ll explain it next shift, okay? Tonight I have a lot of coursework to plow through,” said Kirk. “Your thoughtfulness is appreciated.” 

Snaak nodded in approval. “Your diligent studies should result in successful completion of exams.”

“Is that my third praise of the day?” Jim’s eyes widened in mock surprise. 

All eyes snapped to the calendar tapestry. Selerie and Stork exchanged a subtle distressed look that Jim knew could only come from the dread of messing up Spisee’s carefully crafted schedule. 

“Merely a statement of fact,” said Snaak. 

“Aw, you’re so sweet! Gotta love that Vulcan optimism.” Jim winked. Selerie and Stork relaxed as Jim let Snaak off the hook. “May your meditations be peaceful and your sleep restorative.” 

“Do not be consumed by imaginary insects during your sleep cycle,” Selerie replied. Kirk gave him a Thumbs Up. He was really getting the hang of Human small talk. 

Chapter Text

Everyone on the Sh’Raan was ridiculously hot. 

For the Vulcans, it was just biology.  Maybe they were all from a region that gifted them with impossibly high cheekbones and soft, plush lips. Maybe this crew spent a minimum of 90 minutes a day in the gym. Maybe he imprinted on Vulcans at a critical age in his development. Regardless, every single crew member of the Sh’Raan looked like they stepped out of an action-adventure holovid. Or maybe Jim’s wet dreams.

In Kirk’s case, he was hot because the ship reached a high of 32 degrees at mid day. The crew provided him with special lightweight, sweat-wicking robes with higher hems and fewer layers. Compared to the heavy drape and elegant flow of the crew’s robes, Jim couldn’t shake the feeling that they dressed him in the Slutty Halloween Costume version of their uniform. 

They glided through the 126% Earth Gravity like dancers. Even after a full semester of acclimatization exercises to prepare his body for this internship, he still felt like an embarrassingly slow, sweaty, stomping barbarian amidst their easy grace.

At night, the ship’s temperature dropped to 17 degrees and the lights in the hand painted corridors were not only reduced by 60%, but also took on the soothing reddish-orange hue of sunset. Deep in his Iowan heart, that felt like shorts and a flannel shirt weather. 

Most Federation ships held a steady temperature and steady lighting outside private quarters, stuck at a permanent ideal of peak Human efficiency. He’d never been on a vessel that put so much effort into replicating a day-night cycle. Sunrise began on the bow, brightening its way across the ship until it reached the stern.The ventilation caused breezes from different directions, and he could swear there was a little something circulating on each level that made the air smell ever so faintly different. The Sh’Raan wasn’t just a place people worked for a couple of years. It felt lived-in. 

Jim found it unexpectedly grounding. 

He’d always loved staring at unfamiliar stars through a ship’s viewport, but during the Sh’Raan’ s chilly ship’s night, staring into the black hit differently. He enjoyed feeling the cool ventilation breeze in his hair coupled with the warmth of a mug of tea in his hands, knowing tomorrow would be another scorcher. 

Subaltern T’Akos stopped next to him. She pulled out a thermos and silently pointed it in his direction, one eyebrow raised. He held out his mug while she topped up his tea. 

“You have not yet exercised today,” she said. 

Dammit. Of course she could smell that he wasn’t the right kind of sweaty. 

“T’Akos, walking around in 126% gravity is already plenty of exercise.” Jim grinned at her and flexed a bicep. “I’m gonna be ripped when I get home.” 

“Indeed. Torn muscles are often a side effect of inadequate training. Come with me to the gymnasium,” said T’Akos.

“Honestly, I’m good,” said Jim. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Come.” 

The tone went straight to Jim’s dick. “Yes ma’am.” This was going to hurt.

In theory, he’d planned to work out every day in order to get an easy yet enviable Summer Abroad Body on the high gravity ship. In reality, there was one major problem. As soon as they entered the gymnasium, all those layers of elegant robes were peeled off like avocado skins, showing off so many shades of sexy green-flushed flesh that he found it embarrassingly difficult not to stare. 

It’s not like he could just ignore them. Whenever he stepped up to the weights, every Vulcan in the room stopped what they were doing as they all turned into personal trainers for their fragile human guest. They were all so earnest, and so helpful, and so nearly naked. 

At least the ever efficient Vulcans kept their jewel toned boxer briefs and tank tops on while they worked out. After exercise, instead of a water shower or a sonic, they went from nearly naked to fully naked before entering the Cleansing Room. It was at least 115 degrees Celsius and only 5% humidity inside, so they never invited him in, but every time the door opened he could see them oil one another up like ancient Romans before scraping one another clean with a modern version of a strigil.* Once fully clean they applied a fresh layer of scented oil and emerged, naked and smelling of cardamom and nutmeg, before wrapping up in one of the gym’s post-workout robes. It was more than his poor dick could stand, so he hadn’t been back to the gym since his fifth day on the ship.

Kirk and T’Akos passed the ever gentle Stork, who led a group of six through Suus Manha practice. Behind him, pairs and trios of emerald-flushed Vulcans in their jewel toned underwear circled one another in hand to hand combat practice. Sub-Commander Shugar broke off from the Suus Manha practice, eyeing Kirk. 

“Cadet. Have you come to help us settle our debate?” 

“Yes?” If Shugar was in the mood for another rollicking debate on the merits of emphasizing grain texture over additional protein yields then maybe Jim could get out of embarrassing himself by struggling with the smallest weights in the gym.

The entire room froze. As one, they turned slowly to face him. A little too late, Jim wondered if perhaps he should’ve asked what they were debating. 

T’Akos nodded in satisfaction. She lay down on the wrong end of a weight bench, with her feet close to the barbell. 

“Six,” Shugar said, in Golic. 

“Four,” said T’Hini. “He wiggles like a bowl full of gak.” 

“ You underestimate him,” said Selarie. “Eight.” 

T’Akos beckoned for Jim to join her. One finger pushed gently into the soft flesh of his belly. “You can hold a plank, yes?” 

“Why?” asked Jim, nervously eyeing the counting Vulcans. 

“We are curious how many times I can successfully bench press you.” 

T’Akos was six centimeters taller than him, broader in the shoulders and narrower at the waist, with biceps Jim could only dream of. Instead of the Surakian bob preferred in Shi’Khar, her waist-long black hair was styled into a thick braid that circled her head like a crown. She looked like a goddess, and if this was how she wanted him to worship her, Jim was all in. 

“How do we do this?” 

T’Akos unceremoniously placed both hands on Jim’s abdomen and pushed him up off his feet. He wriggled in the air, trying to get his balance as she hefted him into a mostly centered position over the bench. 

“Straighten your legs,” said Shugar.

“What is he doing with his hips?” Selarie sounded intrigued. Jim forced himself not to look. 

“As you can see, the issue is not mass or weight. It is movement,” said T’Hini. 

Jim clenched his hands behind his back and hooked one ankle over the other as he tried to make a straight, hard line of his body. Every rep brought him down to where his belly just barely touched her nose before T’Akos pushed him back up into the air again. 

By the sixth rep, his abs were burning. By the eighth, his head sagged forward. He tried to bend his knees backwards to make up for how much his hips drooped. As she pushed up for the tenth time, his hips buckled, legs awkwardly swinging down in the high gravity.

Jim was so focused on his screaming muscles that he hadn’t even noticed Selarie and Shugar move to either side of the weight bench, effectively spotting T’Akos as she did reps of their human intern. Before he could fall on her face, Selarie deftly lifted him out of T’Akos arms and set him on the ground. 

T’Akos sat up and stretched. “That was enlightening.” 

“Really?” Jim raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you doing a research project on how many humans you can throw across the room?”

“Interesting,” said Selarie. “Perhaps we should replicate a net?”

“So you can all literally toss me around?” Jim laughed. When no one contradicted him, his eyes went wide.

“He is nearly the same size, but barely more than half the weight of an Orion,” T’Hini mused.

“More comparable to an Andorian,” said Shugar. 

T’Akos dragged an appreciative gaze over Jim. “Only if one ignores his superior aesthetics.”  

The Vulcans nodded to one another, occasionally brushing a wrist against an arm, or gesturing to an area they could clear to make room for their exciting new sport of Human Tossing. Jim turned to Selarie, who still hovered on the floor next to him, apparently waiting to pick him up if Jim’s muscles should all turn to jelly. Instead of meeting Jim’s gaze, Selarie’s eyes were fixed on the soft, rounded curve of Jim’s pink ears. Jim cleared his throat.

“Well done.” Selarie gently squeezed his shoulder, gaze still focused on Jim’s ears.

“He has already received three instances of daily praise today,” said T’Hini.

“And a shoulder pat,” Skotch added sternly. 

T’Akos stepped to Jim’s other side as she narrowed her eyes at Selarie. “Thank you for your assistance, Cadet. May I offer you some tea?”

“Thanks.” Jim’s thighs burned as he stood. “That sounds good.” Anything to get away from what appeared to be an increasingly enthusiastic silent conversation about net and mat placement happening on the other side of the room. 

He sucked air through his teeth as they stepped into the refreshingly cool hallway. T’Akos watched in fascination as goosebumps made the hair on his arms rise up. He reached out to brace himself against the bulkhead, but T’Akos hand closed around his wrist. “The paint has not yet cured.” 

“Right, sorry.” He smiled shyly, but didn’t pull his wrist away from her. 

They were on the arctic deck, which the crew was midway through slowly repainting to resemble a swamp. At some point in the recent past the deck had been violently ripped in half, like a giant can opener had latched onto the side of the ship. They painted the entirety of the repaired deck plating with a Federation standard layer of anti-microbial white, then went back over the wall’s violent scars with shades of blue and green, adding shading and depth, until the damage transformed into mere texture, adding dimension to glaciers floating in a mysterious ocean. 

It was a fast way to add stark beauty to their repairs, but he could understand why they’d prefer to redecorate it into something that wouldn’t be a constant reminder of a violent attack. This wasn’t Starfleet. They never considered simply leaving the walls blank. 

The corridors on each level of the Sh’Raan were hand painted to look like different biomes. MedBay was on the Coral level. Crew quarters were in the Desert. The botany labs, appropriately enough, were in a tropical jungle. Every flower, every vine, every flock of birds, was painted by a member of the crew. There was so much detail that the landscape murals had to be the product of years of work by dozens of people. 

He knew the Vulcan sense of aesthetics was as innate as their sense of time. Back on Tyresias, his math class taught applied linear functions through basket weaving, geometry through origami, and self-similar fractal quasicrystalline tilings by creating mosaics. He, Azmar, Jilleth, and Bo’khar decorated their dorm room with their homework. 

Jim loved it. His lessons in applied geometry at the age of fifteen made Starfleet’s second year classes in warp field mechanics seem, well, logical. At the very least, they were easy for him to visualize. He was surprised when half the class dropped out by the end of the first quarter. When a skeptical professor Nylan asked him to prove the work he submitted on a test, he showed up at her office hours with an entire origami mobile. She’d brought it to class the next week as a visual aid. 

Here on the Sh’Raan , the endless landscapes wove mathematical functions with documentation of the worlds they’d visited in an aesthetically pleasing way that made the vessel unique. Hell, the whole damn ship was a work of art. Every brushstroke was a testament to how passionately this crew loved their ship. They’d never say the words, but their actions screamed it.

Their love ignited an ember of longing in Jim that was quickly smoldering into a cheery little flame burning in his gut. He wanted to belong to some place, to some one, the way this crew belonged to the Sh’Raan . He’d always known he wanted to work in space, but the Sh’Raan made him realize he could also make space his home. 

Jim smiled at T’Akos reflection in the viewport window, acutely aware of her fingers still lightly looped around his wrist. 

“So, when you’re not bench pressing people, what do you do for fun around here?”

“We monitor trade routes and resource management techniques of Orion Pirate Ships,” said T’Akos. 

“Right. Okay. That sounds like a blast.” He couldn’t resist leaning forward, as if he could look around the corner and see an encroaching ship sneaking up on them. “Anything less… intense?”

T’Akos offered him her thermos. “Have you visited our craft room?”

“Your what?” Jim nearly dropped the tea. “I mean, please. God yes. I need to see it now.” 

Chapter Text

“Quick question,” Jim ran a hand over his bruised abs. “What does it mean if a strong, tall, sexy, Vulcan wants to bench press you?” 

His sexual education on Tyresias was surprisingly detailed and judgment-free for all nine species of displaced kids living at the orphanage. But they wouldn’t say shit about Vulcans. When the kids tried to ask, their teachers shut them down by saying it wasn’t relevant to their future. When they kept asking, their teachers distracted them with anatomical drawings of Orions. At fourteen, it worked every time. 

He’d held hands with a couple of particularly adventurous Vulcan kids in town, feeling horny and confused as they stroked one another’s fingers. One of them wanted to try human kissing - something he’d only ever seen in holovids two lifetimes ago, back in Iowa, curled up on his dead father’s couch while watching movies with Sam. His first “human kiss” was with an Andorian study-buddy who also wanted to get in some practice in order to impress a flirtatious townie. They didn’t know adults opened their mouths during a kiss, much less used their tongues, so they just pressed their lips together and giggled. 

Despite the passive-aggressive denial of any relevant reproductive information, Jim picked up a little by osmosis. Horny Vulcans were so scary and dangerous that sometimes they took a whole month off work just for fucking. Most Vulcan siblings were born 7 years apart. Vulcans didn’t have any balls to kick.

None of that was particularly helpful in his current situation. He was pretty sure that most Vulcans were betrothed at seven and married around twenty one, which meant everyone on the ship was probably married. He had no idea whether they flirted for fun, or if he was reading too much into last night at the gym. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is this a euphemism?”

“Kirk, the Vulcans aren’t flirting with you,” Uhura sighed.

Instead of Uhura and Gaila’s dorm room, this week they took his subspace call from Spock’s apartment at the Vulcan embassy. Jim desperately wanted to ask them to carry the PADD around in order to give him a full tour.

They sat on a plush, sky-blue loveseat covered with what Jim suspected were hand embroidered butterflies. Every Vulcan he’d ever met was a total slut for embroidery. Spock probably embroidered his name on his underwear while listening to lectures on moss analogues.

Behind them was a cobalt blue statement wall with an ornately carved cherry wood display case in front of it. He could make out a 12 stringed Vulcan Lyre, some clay tablets behind glass that probably cost more than everything he’d ever owned, several tasteful ornamental water pitchers and carafes, an illustrated edition of Alice in Wonderland, and a Vulcan Bell Rattle.  

“Okay, sure. Whatever you say.” Jim looked at Uhura, a twinkle in his eye. “So has he ever just picked you up and…” he mimed pushing his hands up in the air. 

“What the hell, Kirk?” Uhura shook her head, more mystified than angry. 

“That sounds physically uncomfortable for everyone involved,” said Spock.

“I know!” Jim leaned closer to the viewscreen and lowered his voice. “It’s even weirder if a bunch of other Vulcans stand around and watch. Right?”  

“Are you taking your tri-ox boosters?” asked Uhura.

“Please do not embarrass the crew by causing yourself brain damage from oxygen deprivation,” said Spock. 

“Would anyone notice?” Uhura rolled her eyes. 

“It might take weeks,” Spock conceded. 

“You’re supposed to be my Vulcan experts!” Jim tossed his hands up. 

Spock turned to Uhura. “Is being used as fitness equipment a common sexual fantasy for humans?” 

“It’s new to me,” she shrugged. “But who knows what he’s into.”

“We do, now,” said Spock. “As does a statistically significant percentage of the Academy’s undergraduates.” 

“Fine. Don’t help me.” Jim crossed his arms, and instantly regretted it. 

“Oh, by the way, Gaila’s sorry she couldn’t make it,” said Uhura. “She’s studying tonight. But she wants to know if you’re caught up on The Stars Live In Your Eyes ?”

Jim blushed as Spock raised an eyebrow. “Tell her I’m up to the episode where Dronar gets arrested for painting googly eyes on the sacred trees.” He stared at the stars passing outside his desk window, unwilling to make eye contact with Spock. 

“I expected the Betazed contingent to decorate the park’s obelisk like a phallus,” said Spock.

Jim whipped back to the viewscreen so fast his bruised abs screamed in protest. He stared at Spock, open mouthed. There was no way. No fucking way did Spock, son of Sarek watch his favorite show.

“Don’t tell me you watch that trash, too!”  Uhura leaned away from Spock, eyes wide with playful shock. Jim pointed to her, nodding furiously.

“It is one of few popular entertainment programs in Federation Standard with a multi-species cast where the action is not centered around the needs of humans,” said Spock.

“It’s a cheesy soap opera!” Uhura laughed.

“Which is enjoyed by the majority of my non-human students,” said Spock.

That was an understatement. Jim was one of only two humans invited to Gaila’s weekly viewing parties. She kept hers ‘intimate,’ which meant 40 people crowded into a dorm common’s area meant to hold a maximum of 16. His previous group reserved a viewing theater for 100, where everyone had a seat of their own and plenty of room for snacks. He vastly preferred Gaila’s parties, where people were packed in so tightly he had no choice but to sit on a different lap every week.

“I bet they love having a cool professor who gets all their in-jokes.” Jim winked, tapped two fingers to his heart twice, then looked up at the ceiling. Spock subtly tapped two fingers against his lower side, where his own heart resided. 

“But the writing is so unrealistic!” Uhura poured them both a fresh cup of tea from a Victorian-style teapot hand painted with scenes from Alice in Wonderland. 

Spock accepted his cup, painted with Alice in her blue dress, and closed his eyes as he inhaled the aroma. “The human secondary characters are portrayed quite accurately.” The left corner of Spock’s mouth ticked up half a centimeter, not quite blocked by the teacup. 

Jim clutched his bruised abdomen, laughing. “Wow. Uhura. We’ve just been insulted.”

“Is this dumb show why all the non-human underclassmen are wearing charm bracelets this semester?” Uhura playfully glared at Spock over her teacup, which read ‘We’re All Mad Here.’

Spock stared into the viewscreen, meeting Jim’s gaze. Jim stared back, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

“That’s just fashion,” Jim said brightly. “I’ve banged lots of folks wearing them.”

A faint smile ghosted over Spock’s face, quickly replaced by stoic concern before he looked back at Uhura.

“You are the worst,” she said. “It would serve you right if they had a commemorative Jim Kirk Gave Me A STI  charm.”

Jim shot her Playfully Seductive Smile #2. “Who says they don’t?” He met her gaze and chewed his bottom lip.

Spock stretched a possessive arm around Uhura’s shoulders. “Query,” he said, bluntly changing the subject, “Where, exactly is the Sh’Raan at the moment?”

Jim shrugged. Not this shit again. Why did Spock have to ruin it whenever they were having a good time? “Space?”

Spock glanced at Uhura, who rolled her eyes on his behalf. “Please be more specific.”

“Deep space? My shifts are in tactical and botany, not navigation. We haven’t stopped at a planet yet. Once we do, I can give you better coordinates.” He twirled the belt of his robe around his fingers, paying more attention to the texture of the cloth than Spock’s words. Every single time they talked he wanted the ship’s exact coordinates and a map of where they’d been.

“Cadet, I am concerned.” Spock ignored Kirk teasing the fabric around his fingers. His mouth pulled into a thin, tight line. “The Sh’Raan did not go through normal channels when volunteering to take a summer intern.”

“Really?” Uhura looked surprised. 

“I could not understand why anyone would prefer Cadet Kirk to you.” Spock cupped her cheek. “I was compelled to investigate.” 

She leaned into his hand, beaming up at him.  

“Honestly? I get it,” Jim sighed, enviously. “So what did you find?” 

Spock’s hand slid from her cheek and settled on her knee. “Normally new ships are coerced into allowing interns on board by Captains, Commodores, and Vice Admirals who are owed favors. From what I have learned, an independent Vulcan research vessel previously unknown to him sent a request for an intern directly to Admiral Pike. This is… unorthodox.”

“Yeah.” Kirk dropped the belt and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. Spock had his attention now. 

“They initially asked for Nyota. Her presentation on Vulcan at the Translations As Art conference impressed them, and they believed she would be helpful in fleshing out the Universal Translator entries for the newly discovered Kp’tha’ii and their notoriously untranslatable language.”

“Shit, Uhura. That blows.” Kirk rested his chin on his hand. “Pike really did want to get me off-planet for the summer.”

“Did you fuck one of the Moss and Moss Analogues Conference organizers?” Uhura teased. 

Jim chewed his bottom lip. “Maybe I fucked the moss.” 

“Yeah, I hate you so much,” Uhura replied in a bored tone. She tugged Spock’s arm tighter around her shoulder and leaned against his side. 

He gently nuzzled his cheek into her hair before turning stern attention back to Kirk. “However, after Captain Pike notified them that he was assigning you instead of Nyota, the internship was redirected to the Sh’Raan instead of the original ship.”

“That’s weird,” said Jim. “What was the original ship?” 

Spock’s frown deepened. The Haulan . They set aside normal duties to volunteer as a relief ship after unexplained tsunamis destroyed multiple cities on the Lichtaq colony. The paperwork said that as they did not know how long their relief mission would take, they needed to reassign you.” 

Jim smiled. It did his heart good to know Vulcan science ships were still out there dropping everything to offer aid in a crisis. When he was done with this call he had to write another letter to T’Ree. 

“So I could’ve both added to the Universal Translator and taken part in a multi-species relief mission if Kirk here wasn’t such a screwup?” Uhura snuggled deeper into Spock’s side.

“No,” said Spock. “It would be unethical to knowingly subject an untrained student to such conditions. Your internship effectively ended as soon as they accepted the relief mission. What puzzles me is why they, in effect, created a new internship for Cadet Kirk.”

Jim stared down at his desk, lips pulled in a tight line. “I think they took advantage of the downgrade to snag a ship’s pet.” 

Spock raised an eyebrow. 

“Listen, if Uhura was here she’d be a real member of the crew. They’d probably have her on the bridge - which I’ve never seen, by the way - working shifts alongside the chief communications officer. You’d be holding salons by night and jamming it up on the lyre in the craft room.”

“I’m sorry, did you say craft room?” asked Uhura.

Jim waved her off. “We’ll come back to that. My vibe is that Pike told them I’m a screw up who needed some Vulcan discipline, and they said you know, that sounds like fun. We could use some fun. Send him our way.” 

“Vulcans do not have fun,” said Spock.

Kirk and Uhura stared at him in disbelief.

“I propose an alternate theory,” said Spock. “Admiral Pike, and others at the Academy, were not willing to risk Uhura’s safety, and therefore reassigned her internship to someone they would not mourn should the worst befall them.”

“Harsh,” said Jim. 

“But not necessarily inaccurate,” Spock replied.

Uhura frowned. “Kirk,” she said slowly, “he might have a point.”

“Et tu, Nyota?” Jim dramatically lay a hand over his heart. 

Her gaze sharpened around an angry glint. “I’ve told all my advisors I want to serve on a Starship, but they keep trying to fast-track me into an academic career. Not to sound cocky, but I’ve effectively been promised a tenure track position if I stay.”

Jim whistled. “Damn. That’s hella impressive.”

“Indeed,” said Spock. He slid two fingers to brush against her own. She brushed back before curling a pinky around his.

“I told them to ask me again when I’m 50,” Uhura snorted. “Let me get some life experience outside academia! If I wanted to be a university professor I could’ve taken admission to any of my backup schools.”

“Including Oxford, Stanford, and the Bolian Institute of Inter-Species Linguistic Studies,” added Spock. Kirk rolled his eyes. Everyone knew Uhura turned down Bolian admission for Starfleet. In terms of legendary Fuck You’s, it was right up there with Spock turning down the Vulcan Science Academy.

“I don’t want to study languages like they’re butterflies pinned to a display. I want to be out there on the frontier, learning new ones, helping us communicate with species we’ve never met before. All I’ve ever wanted is to learn about new cultures first hand, but they want me here on Earth, writing papers where I criticize the people actually out there doing the work!”

“You will have an uphill battle fighting against people too afraid of losing you to let you fulfill your potential,” Spock said gently. “You are a once-in-a-generation talent.”  

“That’s not just your boyfriend’s opinion,” added Jim. “We all know it. Some day I’ll get drinks bought for me by some species we haven’t even met yet when I tell them the epic legend of the night I finally convinced renowned Xenolinguist Nyota Uhura to take a ride on this.” He folded his hands into a V pointed down at his dick.  

Spock tightened his possessive arm around Uhura’s shoulder. 

Uhura laughed. “And some day I’ll tell people that I was one of the few cadets in our dorm who didn’t get the Andorian Shake from Captain Jim Kirk because I recognize a walking disease vector when it hits on me.” 

“Anti-Virals cleared that up in five days,” Jim grinned at her. “And really, it was a public service. The whole dorm got comprehensive STI tests for the first damn time that year, and it turns out a lot of them were sentient petri dishes.” 

“That is to be expected among cadets,” Spock sighed. 

Jim pulled up Saucy Seductive Look #3 as he dragged a slow gaze across Spock’s body. “You’re just jealous I didn’t give you the Andorian Shake.”

“Rather than dignify that with a reply, I would like to return to the subject at hand – your safety,” said Spock.

“Ooh. You threatening me, Spock?” Jim rumbled, dropping his gaze to Spock’s lap as he licked his lips. Uhura rolled her eyes.

“I will not be dissuaded by your ongoing attempts to provoke an emotional response,” said Spock. “I am genuinely concerned for your wellbeing.”

Jim laughed. “I’m traveling with a crew full of botanists! They’re obsessed with improving grain protein yields for crops growing on marginal soil – which, by the way, is fucking awesome. I love them for it! For fun,” he waggled his eyebrows at Spock, “they hang out in a big lounge doing origami and embroidery to live music!”

He expected the lutes and bell rattle, but he still wondered how the hell the crew of the Sh’Raan got ahold of a banjo and an autoharp.

“When last we spoke you mentioned they are unusually physically fit,” said Spock.

“Sure, they work out,” Jim snorted. “Have you ever met a Vulcan who really let themselves go?”

“Your exact words were that they all looked like, and I quote, Holovid Versions Of Super Jacked Security Officers,” said Spock.

Jim frowned at him. “I mean, yeah, the culture on this ship is pretty fitness focused, but it’s also pretty art focused. You should see the murals.”

“I want holos of everything,” said Uhura. “The murals sound incredible!”

“It’s not just the corridors,” he grinned at her. “They decorate all the public spaces. I really do wish you were here. I bet you’d understand layers of communication in this art that go way over my head.”

Spock held up a hand to silence him. “You are once more attempting to change the subject. Cadet Kirk,” he locked eyes with Jim. “I am concerned that the Sh’Raan might engage in an altercation wherein you will suffer trauma and or injury.”

“Whatever you think is going on here, Spock, I promise you, I’ve been through worse.”

He forced his features into Calm and Indifferent look #3 despite his blood roiling, anger hot and sticky in his veins. Trauma and or injury? He fucking survived Tarsus IV. He survived being taken from the only place adults actually cared about him just to end up a homeless teenager on Earth. Spock thought a summer onboard a botany ship was too much for him? Fuck that, and fuck him. 

“Cadet, you mentioned that Captain Spisee, leader of a botany research vessel, has scars here,” he curled a loop on the left side of his neck, stopping just shy of the jugular, “and here,” he drew a new line curling from behind his ear down the right side of his neck and over his collarbone.

Jim blinked. He had only said Spisee had sexy scars on his neck. He hadn’t specified exactly where.

“Does he also have a scar looping around his thumb, stretching up his arm, between the ulna and radius?”

As if someone stuck a dagger between the bones and through his arm, down to his wrist, and then raggedly cut off his thumb. The thumb beside the thick loop of scars was a notably greener and paler shade than the rest of his body, which was expected in regrowth that took place too long after an initial injury had healed.

“What do you have against Captain Spisee?” asked Jim.

“Nothing. He has my immense and sincere respect,” Spock replied. “But I question his judgment in allowing a human cadet onto his vessel.”

“Why?” Kirk pressed.

“Ask him,” said Spock.

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him why he left his homeworld.” 

Chapter Text

The gentle sound of upbeat, cheerful chimes washed over their workstations in Tactical. Jim’s fingers danced on his screen, fighting to get through this last bit of work before - damn. His screen swirled into a deep sapphire blue, and all his work was replaced with gold lettering stating that Work Will Resume At Sundown Tomorrow. 

He spun in a circle in his chair before hopefully poking his screen one more time. It didn’t change. He was locked out for one full ship’s day. “Phew. Captain Spisee is hardcore about everyone taking their day of rest.” 

“You have demonstrated why, James.” Stork’s eyes twinkled as Jim tried an alternate login. “You are not the only member of our crew who would take no rest if it was not enforced.” Behind him, Snaak guiltily stopped trying to log into his own station.

The crew was experimenting with Informal Address during their days off. Jim initially agreed because he wanted to hear Captain Spisee say his name in that gorgeous, low, rumbling voice - and not only to log it away for masturbatory purposes. Really.

The Informality Experiment also turned out to be an excellent way to tell who was off work on a random weekday. The crew had a 10 day week with 3 days of rest sprinkled throughout. The day he dubbed “Friday” was special, though, because that was the day everyone took off together. It turned into a minor shipboard holiday. 

All non-essential jobs were paused for the sake of community and rest. The skeleton crew with essential jobs were on a four week rotation, so the majority of the crew shared the same day off three weeks out of every four. 

Selarie rocked back on his heels, eyes bright with anticipation.“Please convey positive confirmation to your friends on my behalf during your weekly subspace call.”

“It’s Hi as in Hello, not Hai as in yes,” Jim grinned at him. Hi versus Hai was at the top of Jim’s Big List of Badly Translated Words. He couldn’t submit the corrections himself without the crew of the Sh’Raan learning he was secretly proficient in Vulcan, but he was making a hell of a list for Uhura. Whoever left so many mistranslated homonyms in the Vulcan to Standard dictionary and lesson plans deserved to meet a creature who saw them as meat. 

“I’ll have to tell them you said ‘Hi’ next week,” Jim continued. “My friends are all enjoying dates tonight.” Even Bones. Jim was proud of him. He’d wreck it by talking about his ex-wife too much, but at least he was putting himself out there. 

Selarie tapped his PADD for a few moments before flipping it over. It displayed an image of Medjool dates stuffed with labneh and sprinkled with pistachios. He raised an eyebrow at Jim.  

“It’s another homonym,” Jim chuckled. “A date can be a specific time on a calendar, a delicious Mediterranean fruit, or a social event between romantic partners.”

Selarie blinked slowly, processing the new information. He cleared his screen and put down his PADD. “Do you enjoy dates, James?” 

Jim struggled to keep a straight face. “Not recently.” 

Selarie licked his lips. Before he could speak, Snaak cleared his throat. Selarie glanced away from Jim just as Snaak nudged him over towards Stork’s console. 

Jim pretended not to notice as the three of them brushed their wrists together, occasionally glancing up at Jim before nodding at a readout that Jim knew damn well held nothing but a message stating that this station was currently inactive.

Stork nodded once and looked up. “Have you arranged alternative evening socialization?”

“It’s okay. Honest,” Jim smiled at them. “I’m a big boy. I can entertain myself for one night.” 

The three of them stared harder at the console. Jim glanced down at his own station to make sure the message on it hadn’t changed. Selarie tilted his head to one side like a curious animal. Snaak replied with a narrowing of his eyes, while Stork glanced over at Jim and sighed in a way that felt like an eyeroll. Jim winked at him, wishing he had some idea what the trio were so worked up about. 

“Join me in the craft room.” Selarie beamed at Jim. “We will Jam It Up together.” Jim could hear him pronounce the capital letters. 

Snaak pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. Beside him, Stork’s eyes twinkled with humor as he watched Jim. 

“You know what, buddy? I’ll grab my guitar and meet you there.” 

Selarie bounced lightly on his heels until Snaak put a hand on his arm, anchoring him to the floor. Jim squeezed Selarie’s shoulder on his way out. “See you soon.” 

Heading straight to the craft room wasn’t an option. “Craft Room” made it sound like a cute little rec room with a closet full of art supplies, but in truth it took up every part of Coral deck that wasn’t used by MedBay. 

The massive shared space felt small on Friday nights, when it was packed to capacity with busy Vulcans. He needed to swap out his already skimpy robes for the special lightweight versions with cooling gel-pack pockets at the neck, underarms, waist, and groin. He felt positively indecent in it, but he didn’t want to overheat in the middle of painting Starfleet Deltas on his guitar. Major Sepsis wouldn’t let him live it down a third time. 

He fastened his command gold Starfleet kippah with a sparkly barrette Bones’s daughter JoJo gave him last Hanukkah then took a step back to admire himself in the mirror. This sexy beast could totally seduce the chairperson of The Interplanetary Conference on Moss Analogues and Subtypes … mostly because he looked like the porn parody of a Vulcan science officer. His wide sleeves stopped at his elbows, the hem of his robe barely dusted his calves, and he was a mere two revealingly thin layers from nudity. 

Since his only choices were to spend the best night of the week alone in his room or show up looking like a V.S.A. themed stripper, he grabbed his guitar and headed to the whimsically decorated Coral Deck. 

The turbolift dropped him off an easy five minute walk from MedBay. Past that it took another five to reach the craft room’s main door. The corridor was peppered with Vulcans eagerly pressing wrists together, sometimes raising an eyebrow or looking askance as they silently chatted about their plans for the night off. 

Of all the decks on the ship, Coral reminded him the most of Tyresias. Schools of technicolor fish swam among purple and red chimney coral. Between the chimneys, Octopodes played ball with yellow and green brain corals. His fingers traced the branching lightning pattern of a well shaded pink and orange staghorn coral that stretched from the floor up the wall and across half the ceiling, home to playful life from alien oceans. 

The crew did an amazing job transforming the Lichtenberg pattern of a plasma blast scar into an integral part of their beautiful seascape. If he wasn’t actively looking for damage in parts of the ship other than the Glacier Deck he would’ve missed it. 

Dammit. 

Since their last conversation it felt like Spock had pitched a tent in his mind. He couldn’t just enjoy the incredible art and atmosphere anymore. No, he had to look beneath the surface, see the battle scars, hear Spock asking him why.  

These repairs shouldn’t be here - and not just because a botany research vessel shouldn’t be able to survive this kind of damage. There shouldn’t be any battle scars on the same deck as MedBay. It was the second most shielded part of the ship, after the warp core itself. Even if it wasn’t so well protected, any pirate who knew their target’s general layout stayed the hell away from MedBay. After the attack they’d need it to treat their own people. So why was he looking at a plasma blast scar?

His imaginary Spock stuck his head out of his tent. “You are a command track cadet with three semesters of tactical classes. You know why MedBays are attacked.” 

“James!” Selare’s cheerful voice shook Jim out of his reverie. He wove through the crowd milling outside the craft room, gently brushing the back of his hand against anyone between them so they’d step aside to make room. He bounded past bemused colleagues, cradling his Lyre on one hip like a baby. 

“James.” Selarie said his name again softly, reverently, as if days had past since they last spoke instead of minutes. He bowed his head in greeting, then reached into his robes and pulled out a small pot of Lingonberry jam, which he shyly offered to Jim. “For tonight.”

“You are the sweetest thing on this ship.” Jim wrapped his hand around the pot, letting his fingers overlap with Selerie’s. “Let’s join the music circle.” Selarie’s pinky gently looped around Jim’s as the tips of his ears flushed a deep, metallic copper. He held on, feeling a little like a teenager again as Selarie led him through the crowd. 

Jim privately called Friday nights in the music corner of the craft room the Stone Soup Jams - mostly because if he ever said it out loud he would definitely find jelly covered rocks in his Plomeek Soup at breakfast. There was no sheet music or set list. You joined in when you felt like it and played for however long the music moved you. Musicians and instruments changed all night long as people improvised an ever changing shared soundscape.

T’Una was on the banjo again, making it absolutely sing. Next to her, Shugar strummed his autoharp hummingbird fast. Jim still had no idea where they’d found such obscure Earth instruments. There were a pair of botanists on dueling Orion flutes, a communications officer on the Andorian Purple Cello, and T’Apas was back with her instrument he couldn’t pronounce that looked like scrap metal and wires but sounded like a fiddle. The wall behind them held dozens of instruments available to anyone who wanted to meander over and join in.

Selarie pulled up two comfortable, hand made chairs. T’Una nodded a welcome at them over her banjo.He could feel the warmth of Selarie’s knee centimeters from his own, the buzz of conversation from the crafters packed into the room, working on their own projects, and most of all, the liquid patterns in the music itself. He closed his eyes, listening for a few minutes, then eased in by adding a simple bass line. 

The perky tune they were improvising felt a little like the joyful and welcoming Tyresian Harvest Festival music and a little like Appalachian folk rock, and a lot like something unique to these people. The corners of Selarie’s mouth ticked up an entire centimeter as his fingers strummed across his lyre. Jim’s universe narrowed down to this one corner of this one room on this one ship as the music washed over him, eroding his tension like waves smoothing shells into sand. 

Eyes closed, his fingers moved of their own accord. He listened to himself add a unique piece to something none of them could create alone and no one would ever hear again. Sometimes that bothered him. He wanted to record it all, trap this moment in time in a data cube so he could enjoy the beauty of it for the rest of his life. 

After a few moments, he let himself stop worrying, stop thinking, stop analyzing. Instead of trying to draw a map back to this place with a recording, he lost himself in this moment, in this music. 

It wrapped around him like a cloak; warm and comforting and eternal. It existed beyond words, beyond even telepathy. Music tied people together across cultures, across species, across time. Snug in the music’s eternal warmth, he could feel himself sit beside his own Jewish ancestors, camped on the outskirts of a Medieval town, sharing a warm fire and a bowl of soup with passing travelers who didn’t speak Hebrew or Yiddish, but understood the universal language of music. 

He let it drag him further back, to nights on the silk road where the explorers who still lived in his bones brought Roman glass to trade for Chinese silk, unsure of what welcome they’d receive until a smiling stranger pulled out a lyre. 

Jim felt most connected to his heritage out here among the stars. If he was a damn good captain, he’d forge bonds with people that would last for generations, becoming one more brick in a road stretching back over five thousand years. And if he was merely adequate, well, at least he could satisfy the wanderlust that a long line of explorers had bequeathed him. 

When Jim opened his eyes again, he found Shugar watching him with a friendly mix of challenge and invitation. Jim raised an eyebrow. They locked gazes, fingers dancing faster and faster as they sped up the tempo. T’Una wove a twangy melody into the background, adding a layer of complexity to their speedy battle. Sweat dripped into Jim’s eyes. He ignored it, grinning fiercely at Shugar. He’d almost hit the point where he couldn’t keep up when sweet notes from the mass of scrap metal and wires he’d decided to call an electric fiddle slid over them all, gloriously saucy and more than a little demanding. By unspoken agreement, he and Shugar eased away from their musical dick measuring contest, gradually slowing until they were merely a gentle backdrop for T’Apas as her fiddle bow flew.

Jim took deep, heavy breaths, felt the sweat dripping down his chest, pooling on his back. His blood bubbled in his veins, carbonated with happiness. This was it. This was what made everything else worth it. This feeling was the point of everything.

Selarie’s soft hand on his arm drew him back to the present. He cocked his head towards the Hydration Station and breathlessly asked,  “May I bring you water, James?” 

Jim’s heart skipped. Touching hands was one thing, but that was a hell of a forward offer. Before he could answer, Shugar loudly said, “There are many mysteries T’Hini hopes you will clarify for her.” Selarie withdrew his hand from Jim’s bare forearm.

Jim patted Selarie’s knee. “Join me at the papercraft table?” Selarie instantly perked back up. T’Una stared sidelong at Shugar, who shook his head. Just for that, Jim braced a hand on Selarie’s shoulder as he pushed himself upright. Once standing, Selarie gallantly offered Jim his forearm. He winked at Shugar as he put a hand on it and let Selarie lead them away. 

Everyone knew the Sh’Raan’s crew gathered in the craft room on Friday nights to relax, but, being Vulcans, they were morally obligated to insist they were merely honing useful skills. 

Skotch led a dozen people in a new Vulcan crochet technique that he said was useful for visualizing the difficult Lorenz Manifolds troubling them in the botany labs. The cozy throws and pillow covers were merely a side effect. 

The clusters of embroiderers said they worked on anything from improved manual dexterity to hand stitching wounds in case of a medical emergency. Though really, he’d never met a Vulcan who wasn’t an absolute slut for embroidery. Even Spock sometimes pulled out an embroidery hoop during their subspace calls. 

Lone painters at easels dotted between tables offered first person perspectives in documentation of planets, nebulas, and crew life. T’Ikka definitely wasn’t painting an adoring portrait of T’Una playing her banjo against ethereal light, nor was she lovingly highlighting the way her features transformed when she was caught up in the music. 

Then there were the dueling paper crafters. The two groups were one big box of chocolates away from an ugly brawl that would land them all in MedBay with enough wounds to give the embroiderers plenty of stitching practice. 

One group was in the midst of making fleets of ships using a technique similar to origami. The other used scissors, glue, and tape to make a rival fleet. The two groups constantly peered over at one another’s work, nostrils flaring, frowning in open disapproval. Their battle had gone on long enough that the ceiling was covered with papercraft mobiles depicting twenty three discreet space battles. 

Orions featured heavily, though there were a few menacing Birds of Prey, Romulan Warbirds and quite a few completely unfamiliar ships he wanted to take down and study. Rhinestone studded paper ships glittered menacingly as they surrounded Vulcan science ships, Federation long haul transports, and other notoriously slow vessels. The scenes were eerily beautiful if you ignored the lovingly detailed ragged hull damage and little lines of green and red tinged paper bodies spilling into the vacuum. 

Last week, Jim sat with the origami crafters. Rather than give either side an excuse to fight, this week he headed to the group dangerously armed with scissors. 

T’Hini narrowed her eyes as Selarie took the seat next to him, scooting close. “Would you like to trade places, James?”

“Nah, I’m good here.” He wasn’t sure if it was the thumping bass from the ongoing music or Selarie’s knee alongside his that made his stomach flutter. Either way, he wanted to enjoy it. 

T’Hini raised an eyebrow. “You prefer an unobstructed view of the upholstery area.” 

Dammit. Of course he did. The greatest love of his life was about to gain two beautiful new sisters as soon as the upholsterers finished creating duplicates of Captain Spisee’s guest chair. Watching them work felt pornographic. He knew what was inside those chairs, the things that filled their cushions and hardened their frames and gave them their unique personalities. He’d seen them naked, and now, thanks to the upholsterers, he was watching them get dressed for company.  He’d named them Carlotta and Svetlana, and if he wanted to take them home and love them forever. 

T’Hini picked up her things and waved towards her chair. Jim shot Selarie an apologetic look as he headed to the opposite side of the table. 

“Water now, yes?” T’Mari’s accent was so thick Jim had trouble understanding her. “H’eye D’raate yes, die no.” 

Selarie reached for Jim’s water bottle, hope in his eyes, but T’Hini quickly used the flat edge of her scissors to push it over towards Jim. 

While Jim obediently hydrated, T’Hini subtly glanced up at the freshly updated Human Fraternization Checklist tapestry.  Jim stretched his neck and shoulders as an excuse to read the updates. Oof. This week’s Small Talk Goals revolved around Consumables. Based on the ribbons, it looked like T’Malis was in the lead. That made no sense to him because she always turned Small Talk into Big Talk. Poor Selarie somehow wasn’t even in the top 10, which was totally unfair. No Vulcan tried harder. 

Jim took his time looking over the room for any other fresh updates. According to a lovely teal tapestry with orange and pink embroidery, crewmemers - which everyone knew meant Skotch - were reminded not to eat the experiments in Botany Lab 7 without filling out proper paperwork first. They should really tell Skotch not to munch on Lab 7’s fruit in other labs unless he brought enough to share with everyone. Jim still hadn’t managed to taste a single Romulan Kolanthas fruit during the 10 hour window when they were finally ripe but not yet spoiled because Skotch always showed up early for his shift to ‘assess the health of the plants.’ 

Fuck. According to a frankly sloppy yellow and green tapestry, the gymnasium’s new acrobatic Tossing Net was ready for use. Volunteer sign-ups to be the person tossed were closed, though they were still looking for more people willing to bodily throw their coworkers around the room. That was a relief. At least they were playing nicely with one another instead of demanding to take turns tossing him around like a bag of rice. Best to avoid the gym, though. Just in case.

He tried to ignore the growing curtain of passive-aggressive tapestries the rival paper crafting tables hung side by side. If you didn’t understand what they said, the ever spreading midnight blue and sunset purple tapestries were quite lovely.  Orange and gold calligraphy looped around, the words themselves pointing to parts of rival tapestries in a way that looked like a graceful shared pattern instead of an increasingly ugly argument. Jim narrowed his eyes. Ouch. He’d have to add some of those words to his growing list of Vulcan Profanity.

During his first couple weeks on the ship he was afraid to even look at the tapestries when the crew could see him. Now, though, no one questioned him for staring around the craft room as if this was the first time he’d seen it. They had no idea how human memory worked, just that it was Tragically Bad. If he told them he didn’t remember the mural of a giant Sehlat gripping the room’s large circular central window in its maw, or the senior staff painted as children riding its back, they’d believe him. It would be buck wild to forget Baby Spisee and Stork, but he could totally pull it off. 

When he sat back down, T’Mari passed him a stack of stiff papers, glitter, and rhinestones. 

“Are we still working on Orion ships?” Jim grabbed a pair of scissors. 

T’Hini pointed up at one of the dozens of completed battles stretching over the ceiling. “We need seven more to stage our next simulation.” 

The simulations were increasingly grim. Plans for the one they were working on included nine Orion ships surrounding a Vulcan science ship and a lonely cargo freighter. Some of the completed Orion ships had little lights installed so it looked like they were perpetually firing their phasers. Others had a string of paper bodies, drenched in bloody green, trailing out behind the ship like they’d been blown into the vacuum during an explosion. 

He glued rhinestones on his paper. “Are Orion pirates a problem on your homeworld?” 

“Orions big prob'lem all species.” T’Mari shrugged. 

“Not all Orions are like that,” said Jim. “One of my best friends back in the dorms is Orion.”

“It would be illogical to assume all Orions are pirates,” said Selarie. Somehow, he was already covered in glitter. 

“Indeed.” T’Hini wove a lighting filament through her paper ship. “Someone has to build the spaceships, run the government, and maintain the culture.”

“Sell,” T’Mari frowned as she struggled for words. “Big But'tocks.” 

“Booty.” Jim kept a straight face. “Someone sells the pirate booty. It means stolen cargo.” 

“Booty also but'tocks?” T’Mari raised an eyebrow. 

“Only when using very casual, colloquial language,” said Jim. He admired her for choosing to learn Standard instead of relying exclusively on the Universal Translator. Especially since he knew she was heartbreakingly poetic when speaking Vulcan Golic. 

A lot of people shuffled assignments before he boarded. Only a third of the Sh’Raan’s crew was fluent in Standard, so they got priority in working with him. Twice a week he ran conversation classes for crewmembers who wanted a chance to practice with a real, live, illogical human instead of the painfully boring and formal teaching simulations. 

If some misunderstandings from those conversations circulated into mainstream Vulcan society then Uhura might get to blame him for Vulcan leaving the Federation after all.  

“Query,” said T’Hini. “If you were not from Earth, where would you like to have been born?”

Well someone obviously needed to update the Small Talk questions because that one was terrible. “My parents are from Earth,” said Jim. “I was born in space.” He picked up a completed  ship and zoomed it around with one hand. 

“You do not consider yourself Terran?” she raised an eyebrow. 

Jim shrugged. “Earth is as good a place to be from as any other.” 

“What is your favorite beverage?” asked Selarie, whose fingers were covered in an ominous amount of glue. The women narrowed their eyes at him, but Jim shot Selarie a grateful smile. 

“Soup,” said Jim. “I don’t drink it much here, but when I’m somewhere cold I always have a thermos of broth with me.” Even a shitty broth had salt, protein, and a few calories in a form he could keep down no matter what awful condition his damaged stomach was in. A good broth could change his whole day. 

“Do you prefer sweet or savory soup?” asked Selarie. 

How the hell could anyone think Selarie was bad at small talk? Whoever was in charge of those rankings had no idea how to talk to humans. 

“Savory,” said Jim. “Back in San Francisco, there’s a little hole in the wall grocery just off campus that makes their own miso. I always have tubs of red, white, and yellow in our fridge. All I have to do is fill my thermos with hot water, toss in some nori, miso, and soy sauce and shake it up. Instant broth that’ll keep all day. If I want some extra protein I toss in a handful of tofu.” 

It was just as healthy as the protein and hydration drinks Bones kept around, with the added bonus of not tasting like chalk that’d been stored in a Klingon’s gym socks. 

“We eat soup for our first meal,” said Selarie. Jim was proud of him. That was three for three with easygoing small talk.

“I’m enjoying it. Most people in San Francisco think of soup as something you eat when you’re sick or injured,” said Jim. “What about you? Is there something special you feed the crew when they’re feeling down?” 

Selarie looked under the table, as if he expected to find someone drunk on chocolate laying on the ground. When he sat back up, he’d somehow managed to glue three rhinestones to his already glittery cheek.

Jim’s smile grew. “I meant sick or injured.”

T’Hini raised an eyebrow. “Our crew has excellent safety ratings.”

“Really?” Jim kept his tone light. “Because the Glacier Deck looks like it took a lot of damage.” And the Coral Deck. And the Jungle. 

“Our is an old ship,” said T’Hini. “Instead of disposing of something that is damaged, we repair.”

“I see that.” Jim nodded towards the tables where crew were engaged in Kintsugi-like repairs of everything from control boards to cutlery, leaving bold, glittering scars over their fixes. “I’m not sure a Starbase in the Federation core would have the right supplies to patch you up. Where does a ship this old usually dock?”

“Wherever we are needed.” T’Hini tested the light filaments for her Orion ship’s phasers against his hand. 

“I meant your home dock.” Jim picked up a mostly complete Orion ship and flew it on an intercept course so T’Hini’s lights couldn’t reach him. “For repairs, shore leave, supplies, you know?” 

“This is our home,” said Selarie. 

“I can see that. The ship is gorgeous. I’ve never seen another one like it,” said Jim. “Are all ships from your homeworld so comfortable?”

“Comfort is important for spending years in space,” said T’Hini.

Every conversation about their homeworld went like this. Since boarding the Sh’Raan , Jim rarely needed to tune in any specific looks. Leaving his masks back on Earth was more relaxing than he’d ever imagined. He didn’t want them to see his frustration tonight, though, so he dialed in Mildly Engaged But Not Really Paying Attention. 

“I really am impressed with what you’ve done on Glacier deck. Starfleet would scrap a ship that was torn in half like that.” 

T’Mari and T’Hini shot one another a knowing look. 

“We would not scrap the Sh’Raan. ” Selarie looked up from his papercrafting, genuinely distressed. “This is our home.” 

“You don’t keep an apartment on your homeworld? Or at least a storage unit with your stuff for when you retire? asked Jim. 

Selarie wove a line of phaser lights into his paper Orion ship. “No,” he said softly. 

“I’m sorry,” said Jim. He wished he could give Selarie’s glitter covered arm a reassuring squeeze. “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong to any place. The USS Kelvin was supposed to be my first home, but it was destroyed minutes before I was born. The shuttle where I was actually born was so damaged they dismantled it for parts. There’s no home for me to go back to, no physical place. Nothing but the void.” He shrugged. “I mean it when I say I’m from space.” 

“Space suits you,” said Selarie. 

Jim shot him a quick smile. “I like it here.”

Selarie’s mouth ticked up half a centimeter. “Your presence enhances our experiences.” 

“You are nothing like Rohingar, despite the similarity in coloration,” T’Hini said, a little too loud.

Jim nearly choked on his water. What. The. Fuck.  “I’m surprised you have heard of such an obscure holovid character.” Plus, he didn’t look anything like the redheaded Rohingar.

“ The Stars Live In Your Eyes,” T’Mari’s mouth wrinkled as she searched for the right words. She shook her head and switched to Golic. “How do I tell him it is a most beloved source of both discord and unity?” 

Selarie demonstrated a Thumbs Up. She stared at him for a moment, then grudgingly mimicked the gesture. 

“You like it?” Jim blinked hard. What. Was. Happening? 

“Indeed. Those who are off shift and able to watch immediately when new transmissions arrive must learn not to initiate discussion until we have all viewed the episode.” T’Hini stared hard at Selarie, who refused to look up from gluing rhinestones to his paper Orion ship.

“I am surprised you have seen such a,” Jim scrambled for words, “frivolous program.” 

“It is highly educational,” said T’Hini. From his peripheral vision, Jim could see heads bobbing as most people at their end of the table nodded agreement. He stared at her incredulously.

“Four t’een species,” said T’Mari. “All good.” She tapped a finger against her bottom lip, frowning. “No. All Ants Re’estng. Vulcans and Romulans. Much Ants Re’esting.” 

“All Interesting, indeed.” T’Hini nodded. “Weekly viewing is an efficient way to learn about other cultures from their own points of view.” 

“I like the small domesticated creatures,” said Selarie. “They look very soft.” 

Jim beamed at him. Of course he liked Bob and Rohingar’s ever growing collection of pets.  Jim tried to glue another rhinestone onto his Orion ship, but the paper was so damp from his own sweat that it slid off. “Gruhlon reminds me a little of Captain Spisee.” 

Silence washed over their end of the table as every Vulcan in earshot stared him down. 

“Because of the scars,” he said slowly. “And the tragedy. When Captain Spisee lost his thumb…”

“It was never lost,” T’Hini cut him off. “We knew exactly where it was.”

“We retrieved it,” T’Mari’s voice lowered, smooth and dangerous. “And every drop of his blood.”

“How?” Jim’s eyes widened.

T’Hini’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “Efficiently.”

“Is that why someone tried to rip your ship in half?” Jim put down his paper spaceship, staring hard at T’Hini. “Revenge?”

Jim froze as her strong hand gripped the back of his neck, squeezing ever so gently. “You appear to be overheating. Your gel pack is room temperature.”

“I’m fine.” His paper spaceship was so damp from his own sweat that not even glitter would stick, but he wasn’t ready to leave when he was so close to getting a tidbit of useful information for once. 

“Major Sepsis will be distressed if you overheat again, James.” T’Hini’s fingers tightened. “Return to your room for fresh cooling packs. You may rejoin us when you have refreshed the supplies needed to maintain your body temperature.” 

Jim knew a blunt excuse to shut a conversation down when he heard one. “Of course. Thank you for your concern.” 

Selarie began to stand, but T’Mari brushed her wrist against his. He sank back down into his chair, shoulders slumped. 

“Hey,” Jim said softly, “We should make some time soon to watch a couple episodes together. I’m not caught up yet.”  

Despite T’Mari’s wrist still pressed firmly against his, Selarie’s face brightened like Jim had just turned on the sun. Jim left his guitar hanging on the back of his chair as a silent invitation for Selarie to bring it to him later. 

As much as he hated to admit it, the crisp, ship’s-night air felt refreshing. The craft room could fit 100 crew comfortably, or 130 packed in tight on Friday nights. That many warm Vulcan bodies pushed the room past the upper end of his comfortable range. This time of night, though, the corridors were a brisk 16 degrees. One step outside and his nipples hardened instantly while goosebumps raced up his arms. 

The crew milling near the craft room looked askance at the damp hair matted to his head, sweat soaked robes clinging to every curve of his body, and perspiration dripping down his thighs, pooling in his sandals. He could see gossip flying as wrists subtly snaked out to one another, but the Vulcans had the good manners to gracefully step out of his way and not say anything about his condition out loud. 

Jim rounded a corner away from the crew gossips. Once he had a stretch of hall mostly to himself, he pressed both palms and his forehead against the bulkhead, enjoying the way the metal quickly cooled him down. Damn. T’Hini didn’t have to be such an ass about it, but he really did need to replace the gel packs. 

He dragged his hands along the beautifully cool bulkhead as he meandered towards the turbolift. Fingers playfully traced the long tentacles of a squid-like creature until the smooth wall gave way to a series of unexpected divots. He stopped, taking them in as though seeing them for the first time. 

Cheerful little bubbles stretched up from the mouths of a family of sea turtles. The bubbles seemed almost three dimensional. He closed his eyes, blocking out the jolly art to focus on the brutal inner hull damage it was hiding. Despite circles of cleverly painted, well sanded repairs, the hull still had divots so deep he could fit a finger inside up to the first knuckle. 

Fucking bullet holes. 

What kind of suicidal idiot used a slug thrower on a spaceship? He took a step back, looking for a pattern. The bubbles spread in all directions, and damn but the trompe l'oeil effect on flat surfaces gave the ones that were just paint  an incredible three dimensional feel so they matched the patch jobs. When he closed his eyes again and felt for a pattern, the patched holes formed a 50 centimeter wide circle. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Someone wasn’t just shooting while drunk or deranged. If you were fast enough and determined enough, you could theoretically perforate a circle in the bulkhead. Vacuum pressure would rip the middle out, leaving a hole wide enough for most sentient’s shoulders to comfortably fit through. There was only one reason to do that. 

Someone wanted off this ship so badly they were willing to risk sucking vacuum. 

He thought of all the lines of green tinged paper bodies stretched out from the crafter’s grisly mobiles. It didn’t make any damn sense. These people were kind and considerate. They were Vulcans for fuck’s sake! Jim closed his eyes and splayed his fingers, dipping them into the patched bullet holes as if he could pry answers out of the ship’s cold scars. 

A warm hand closed on his shoulder just as the aroma of ginger and cardamom washed over him. Fuck. No. Not now. 

“James,” said Captain Spisee. “Walk with me.”

Chapter Text

“James,” said Captain Spisee. “Walk with me.” 

Jim stared into the judgemental eyes of a cartoon sea turtle. He was spread eagle against the bulkhead, arms wide, fingers buried in cleverly patched bullet holes. His sweat soaked robes clung awkwardly, with one side of his green over-robe riding up his thigh, most of the way to his belt. Instead of providing modesty, the blue shift beneath was sweat-plastered to his thighs and ass.

“Good evening, Captain Spisee.” He dragged his hands away from the cleverly repaired bullet holes. Before turning around, he tried to straighten his over-robe out to give himself a little dignity. 

“This isn’t what it looks like.” He stood straight, hands folded behind him, chin high. 

Spisee raised an immaculate eyebrow. “You were not attempting to fornicate with the bulkhead?”

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. “Listen, I can see why you would think that, but I’m in the middle of a totally different sketchy behavior right now.” 

“Fascinating.” Spisee studied the cheerfully painted turtles and octopodes, as if trying to discern which a human would find so compellingly erotic. “A man whose Starfleet file is full of such colorful details must be aware that humans have a certain reputation.” His twinkling eyes contrasted his flat tone.  

“Which details?” Jim forced his face into Neutral Calm #2.  He didn’t mind the sex stuff, but as a condition of joining Starfleet, there were things in his file that Pike agreed would remain fully classified. 

“The Horta would likely appreciate your attempt to defend one of their own. However, perhaps one should redact the portion of the file where you first attempted to solicit a member of their species for sexual congress.” 

“It was actually a pile of moss covered gravel, but …you know what? I’m not going to lie. That whole night went down pretty much exactly how it reads in the report.”

“Walk with me, James. Before you give my bulkhead the Andorian Shake.” Spisee waved his scarred right hand towards the T intersection at the end of the hall. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Spisee, of course, looked as immaculate as ever. His wrist-thick French Braid hung in a perfect line down the thorax of the intricate butterfly that stretched from his shoulders to his waist. Embroidered flowers from a distant world bloomed at his hem, with bits of pollen lazily curling upwards towards the sunny band of his belt. Tonight’s under-robe represented rebirth - with the left side made from a soft, fuzzy texture in a caterpillar’s muted yellows and beige while the right was shiny, crinkled, and almost reflective, shaped to look like a red, gold, orange, and green wing he’d protectively tucked under his over-robe for safekeeping. It felt cheerful and optimistic, befitting of the ship’s shared night off. 

Hands neatly folded behind his back, ignoring the sweat still dripping down his legs, Jim summoned an expression of calm patience straight out of his school years. “I have questions, Captain.”

Spisee glanced at the bulkhead before raising an eyebrow. “As I do, Cadet.” 

Jim fell into step beside him as they headed away from the craft room. The top of his head only came up to Spisee’s shoulders. At 184 centimeters, Jim wasn’t a short man, but Spisee was a solid 206. The difference  made him feel like a child caught trying to sneak out for the night. 

He’d never met a Vulcan man shorter than 186 centimeters, but the ethnic group that gave most of the Sh’Raan’s crew their impossibly high cheekbones, plush lips, and metallic copper undertones was also just tall enough that they couldn’t seamlessly blend among humans. The shortest women were 196 centimeters, while most of the men were between 202 and 212.

Their height wasn’t the only thing that made them stand out. Compared to the Vulcans in San Francisco, or even the ones Jim grew up around on Typerias, their ears were just a little bit bigger, their shoulders a little bit broader, and their copper to bronze skin just the wrong shade to pass for human. Spock could disappear into a San Francisco crowd by bundling up in a bit of winter clothing, but if the crew of the Sh’Raan tried to pass for human by covering their pointed eyebrows and ears with a beanie, they’d just look like aliens in a hat. He wondered if their inability to blend in was part of why they worked so far from the Federation core. 

They rounded a corner and found Skone and T’Oast sitting in comfortable chairs they dragged just outside the Lilac Conference Room, like an old couple sitting on their front porch. A pair of well padded meditation mats stretched out in front of them, with small, lidded baskets on each. Jim had baskets just like that back in his dorm room, though his old geometry homework didn’t include such intricate bead interlacing. A neat pile of fuzzy lap blankets and multiple thermoses of tea were neatly lined up in the space between their chairs, a welcoming gesture for anyone who wanted to sit with them. 

A little further down the hall, Spatzle and Skwash sat in another pair of conference room chairs. Spaetzle read a book on his PADD, one hand stretched out to gently rest on the back of Skwash’s neck while he worked on his embroidery. Skwash looked up and nodded a silent greeting. 

Jim waved. The entire hallway was dotted with people who felt social but weren’t up for the noise and energy of the craft room. That sat in twos and fours, working on small projects in the companionable quiet. 

Spisee sat on the floor in front of T’Oast. As he leaned back, her long legs parted, stretching out on either side of his shoulders. Skone handed her a hair brush. Together, they began to unravel Spisee’s thick, black braid. Jim watched, fascinated, as Skone subtly left his index and middle fingers on one of Spisee’s psi points while keeping his other hand moving. A line formed between Spisee’s eyebrows.

It felt like a scene out of a pre-Surakian painting; a battle scarred warlord in his desert keep, groomed by trusted advisors while under the watchful eyes of alert, loyal warriors who waited mere steps away. Behind his desk, Spisee looked like a kind, competent, and unexpectedly attractive administrator. Seated on the painted floor, his bright Friday night robes pooled around him, tended by people who knew exactly what happened to his thumb and probably helped retrieve it - he looked positively regal. 

“Humans have a reputation in matters of bonding.” Spisee’s deep baritone with it’s seductively rounded vowels filled the hallway. From his peripheral vision, Jim saw a wave of heads turn in their direction. 

His heart tried to punch its way out of his ribcage. “I think I might need to sit down for this conversation.” 

Skone offered him a warm lap blanket and a thermos of tea. Jim wished Bones was here - or at least his flask. He could use something stronger than mint. He sat on a meditation mat, his thigh only ten centimeters from Spisee’s.  Between T’Oast and Skone sitting above him on their artfully upholstered chairs and the difference between his and Spisee’s height on the floor, Jim felt like a petite arctic flower amidst towering desert agave. 

Spisee watched him carefully. “When you picture your future, James, do you see yourself alongside a mate?”

Well this was not the conversation he expected to have tonight. Spisee was charismatic and gorgeous and oh hell yes Jim had entertained himself alone in bed while thinking of him. He wanted to say yes, of course he could see himself with a spouse and kids. That’s what normal people said. Hell, that’s what normal people wanted. But while he was unapologetically a communal bike half the Academy had taken for a ride, he’d never lied to get anyone into bed. 

“I don’t know if I’m mate material,” he confessed. “My first love is the void.” 

Spisee looked away. “I am insulted,” he said softly.

Jim stared down at his sandals. Shit. Was it too late to go back to the craft room where he could quietly die from heat exhaustion?

“I thought your first love was my guest chair.” 

Jim’s head snapped up. One corner of Spisee’s mouth had quirked up an entire centimeter. Even the braiders paused, watching him with undisguised mirth. Jim blinked once, twice, then fell back against the bulkhead laughing. 

Spisee’s eyes twinkled. He folded his hands, watching indulgently while Jim caught his breath. Behind him, Skone and T’Oast pressed their wrists together, matching faint smiles teasing the corners of their mouths. 

“I thought that was a private matter between the two of us!” Jim braced his hands against his thighs for support, shaking his head in mock despair. 

“I believe the human expression is, Couscous Tails?” Skone raised an eyebrow. 

“Kiss and Tell,” Jim grinned at him. 

“Indeed. Many have,” T’Oast paused, searching for the right word, “Reclined? This language is nonsensical. ” She idly ran her fingers through Spisee’s long hair, thinking. “Their booty did kiss that chair,” said T’Oast

“Most kiss and tell later,” said Skone. “Be not embarrassed, James. You are far from the first to succumb to its charms.” 

T’Oast was the second Vulcan tonight to call someone’s ass their booty, and Jim was done correcting them. He deserved to leave that in the official Standard to Vulcan dictionary as a little treat. 

Captain Spisee shifted to get a better view of Jim while not interrupting Skone and T’Oast at their work  He sat with one knee comfortably braced against his chest, the other wrapped around it, cross-legged, T’Oast’s long legs flanking him on either side. Skone stretched out a hand and Spisee passed him one of the lidded baskets, which turned out to be full of colorful hair clips shaped like sparkling insects.

“James, you are well liked,” said Spisee. 

“Thank you?” He tensed up again. Why was Spisee doing this so publicly?

Skone and T’Oast carefully divided Spisee’s hair into fifteen strands, holding them in place with butterflies, dragonflies, and insects Jim couldn’t pretend to identify. While they worked on specific sections, Jim caught them carefully pressing fingers against Spisee’s temples, his jaw, and his neck before all three would glance at Jim. 

“As is Selarie. My crew is,” he paused, and all three of them pursed their lips as they silently consulted one another in search of the correct Standard word. “ Protective of him.” 

Jim’s heart dropped. Was he about to get the Shovel Talk from Captain Spisee? Oh, hell. That made a lot more sense than assuming Spisee was publicly inviting him to move in. 

He’d give up a kidney before he let Uhura learn about this, but god damn he already couldn't wait to tell Gaila. He took a deep breath, quickly reassesing everything that had happened since Spisee found him spread eagle against the bulkhead. 

“I can see why,” Jim said slowly. “He’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.”

That earned him approving nods from Skone and T’Oast. Spisee continued to study him like he was a promising student who just might live up to his potential.  “Indeed. Do not mistake his gentleness for a life of ease.”

Jim wrapped the lap blanket around himself and hugged his shins. “Yeah. I kinda picked up on that. We haven’t talked about it. I won’t push him, but if he ever needs an ear, he can have mine.” 

Spisee gently cupped Jim’s left ear and tugged, then raised one eyebrow. 

“Right,” Jim rolled his eyes. “Okay. I won’t phrase it like that.”

“James.” His hand dropped, and his voice lost all playfulness. “Selarie is unbonded.”

Jim rested his chin on his knees. “That’s a relief. I was worried he might have a spouse who thought I was leading him on.” His Vulcan teachers were purposefully vague back on Typerias, but from what he could tell, nearly all Vulcan adults were married, and had been since childhood.

T’Oast and Skone paused their complicated seven strand center braid to exchange a worried look.

“He is unbonded,” Spisee’s mouth pulled into a hard line, “and he is nearing His Time.” 

“His time for what?” asked Jim.

Spisee stared into his eyes with an intensity that stole Jim’s breath from his lungs. When he finally turned away, Jim felt like he’d failed a test he didn’t know he was taking. 

“Forgive me,” Spisee said, sadly, “I thought you understood.”

T’Oast and Skone rested their hands against Spisee’s neck. By the stoic standards of Vulcan facial expressions, all three looked impossibly sad. 

“I’d like to,” said Jim. “Is Selarie ill?” ‘His Time’ sounded incredibly ominous. 

“He will die.” Skone pulled too hard on the braid, knocking the whole design off-center. 

T’Oast shot him a chiding look. “If his needs are not met.”

“What does he need?” Jim sat up straight. There was little he wouldn’t do for Selarie. “Can I help?” 

“Do not be concerned,” Spisee sighed. “We will care for him, as we do all our unbonded. That is not his preference, but at least he should survive.”

“Should?” A hard lump grew in the pit of Jim’s stomach. “How long does he have?”

“Six months, at most. Possibly as little as four,” said Spisee.

“But you can help him, right?” said Jim. “He’s not going to die?”

“None of us are immortal,” said Skone. 

“That’s unhelpful and you know it,” Jim snapped. 

Spisee held up a hand, silencing them. “I do not want to discourage your friendship, but, James, you must be aware that Selarie wants more from you than you are able to give.”

“Because of His Time?”

Spisee’s look softened. “Not exclusively.” 

“What about making him more comfortable? Giving him some happy memories? He seems healthy enough right now. And he’s… expressed an interest in me.” They wouldn’t be having this talk if he hadn’t.

Skone and T’Oast shared a look Jim couldn’t interpret. 

“I’ve never been with a Vulcan before, but it can’t be that different,” Jim’s mouth kept running in defiance of his brain’s attempt to pull the brake. “After all, Spock exists, plus a bunch of younger kids who are both human and Vulcan.”

Spisee steepled his fingers. The three of them watched while he took two long, cleansing breaths. “If you intend to offer Selarie sexual relations, I ask that you be exceptionally clear and precise when defining your intent, both in the moment and for the future."

“You think he wants a relationship?” Everyone on the ship knew that Jim was just a summer intern, but Spisee had started this conversation asking if he could picture himself with a mate. 

Spisee raised an eyebrow. “You think he does not?”

Jim folded his arms tightly across his chest. The worst part was that he could picture a life on the Sh’Raan . Friday nights in the Craft Room. Teaching the Vulcans standard three nights out of every ten. Working on improved protein yields for blight resistant grains that thrive in marginal soil. Learning to cold weld in the vacuum of space the next time this ship was ripped in half. 

Spisee lay a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder. “You would be welcome here, James, if you chose to stay.” 

Jim’s brain stopped spiraling as the full force of his attention locked onto that offer. He looked into Spisee’s kind eyes. “Really?”

“Your presence enhances the lives of my crew,” said Spisee. 

Jim scoffed. 

“Your presence is,” T’Oast squinted, thinking through vocabulary. “ To recharge? Add energy? ”

“Invigorating.” Spisee pinned Jim in place with the sudden intensity of his gaze.

“Many who saw no logic in learning Standard have begun to study it,” Skone added. 

“Why would it ever be illogical to study Standard?” Jim couldn’t look away from Spisee. A whole new future shimmered in his eyes, and part of Jim wanted it. Badly. 

“Why invest considerable time and mental energy when there are so many skilled translators present?” asked Spisee.

“Just so they can talk to me?” It was Jim’s turn to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“No,” said T’Oast. “You remind us we are…” She tried to reach for Skone, who pulled his hand away. She snorted, and her mouth puckered in thought. “ A forgotten piece of a larger whole? ”

“That sounds suitably poetic. Do you know the words in Standard?” asked Skone.

Spisee carefully watched Jim force himself not to react. He read Starfleet’s detailed file. He had to know Jim was fluent in Vulcan.

“Included,” Spisee said, gently. “We do not exist apart, but are part of the Federation.”

T’Oast looked skeptical. Jim couldn’t tell whether she disagreed with the vocabulary or the sentiment. 

“We believe in the principle of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations,” said Spisee. “But our own lives have become insular and homogenous.”

His eyes closed, and a whisper of a smile ghosted over his features. “The one who arranged to bring you here assured us you would be an unexpected blessing.”

“That sounds very human,” said Jim. 

“As are you.” Spisee opened his eyes. “Stork, acting as both my first officer and most trusted friend, agreed.” 

“But why?” Jim frowned. 

“Because Stork saw the logic in the proposal,” said Spisee. 

Jim shot him a look. They both knew that wasn’t what he meant. 

“Meditate upon our conversation, James. If you find logic in a union with Selarie, we will welcome you,” said Spisee. “Your presence enhances our existence.”

A week ago, Jim’s heart would’ve skipped a beat hearing Spisee call him James over and over. Mind you, a week ago, Spock hadn’t put ideas in his head, T’Akos hadn’t put ideas in his dick, and Selarie hadn’t put ideas in his heart. Now the intimacy of it was just confusing.

Jim shook his head. This made no sense. He worked half shifts in botany and tactical, where he was the least experienced officer in both. “How could I possibly make life better on the Sh’Raan ?” 

“You are the first human most of my crew have met,” said Spisee. 

Jim’s mouth opened, then closed again. Sure, they were far from the Federation core, but humans had a way of cropping up everywhere. “Wait, really?”

“Their knowledge of your species is mostly derived from episodes of The Stars Live In Your Eyes,” said Spisee. 

T’Oast and Skone looked up from their braiding and nodded eagerly.  

Jim’s mouth opened into a small O. No. Absolutely not. This was not happening. “Sir, surely you are teasing me.” 

“Vulcans do not tease.” As one eyebrow rose, Spisee’s opposite eye fractionally narrowed into something dangerously close to a wink.

“We had prepared accommodations for your fox,” said Skone. Vulcans claimed they didn’t express disappointment, but the looks on Skone and T’Oast’s faces came damn close. 

“Rohingar’s fox is actually a Pomeranian,” Jim sighed. He’d had this conversation with too many of Gaila’s friends. “And there is no human coming of age ritual around pets.”

“Then how do you build your menagerie?” asked T’Oast. 

She didn’t know the world for ‘included’ but because of this show, she knew ‘menagerie.’ 

“That’s not a thing. You can’t learn anything about humans from that show,” Jim protested. “And why would you try? There aren’t even any human main characters.”

“There are four human secondary characters,” said Spisee. 

“I am fascinated by the program’s depiction of human pack bonding,” added Skone. 

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t actually adopt every creature we meet that has big eyes and a pointy chin.” Of course T’Oast knew the word ‘menagerie.’  Bob and Rohingar’s growing collection of pets was getting out of control this season. 

“Indeed. It seems a living creature is unnecessary, as humans will pack bond with inanimate objects if one paints eyes upon them,” said Spisee.

Jim wanted to protest. He really did. But back in San Francisco, he glued googly eyes to their robot vacuum as a joke. Prying them off felt like injuring it. Now he and Bones bought it treats at the electronics store and refused to let it work on Fridays. 

“That’s a gross over exaggeration and is not at all reflective of humanity,” said Jim.

“Have you not pack bonded with my crew?” asked Spisee. Skone and T’Oast paused their work to watch him intently. 

“Maybe,” Jim glared at him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to pack bond with a copse of sacred trees with googly eyes if you let me beam down for an away mission.” 

Spisee raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, they’d have to be really sexy trees,” Jim relented. 

“Noted.” The corner of Spisee’s mouth twitched up again. “Stork wants three human interns next year, and five the year after. Between us, that is too many.”

Skone looked disappointed. 

“Why?” Jim still didn’t understand the usefulness of having him here, much less three to five other human cadets.

“Our work work would cease as my crew hedonistically reveled in so much novelty and distraction.”

Jim stared up at him, searching for some sign of insincerity. “Captain, we both know my work here is unnecessary.”

“You are an intern, not an admiral. It is our responsibility to improve your skills and enhance your knowledge,” Spisee chided. “And yet, your contributions are both significant and greatly appreciated.” 

“As entertainment?” 

“You think so little of us?” Spisee asked softly. 

Jim swallowed hard. “Honestly, sir? I don’t know what to think.” 

“Understandable. Initially, I opposed the proposal to bring an intern onboard,” said Spisee.

“Really? Because I heard your first choice was Cadet Uhura.” 

“Indeed. Sub Commander Stork extolled her virtues. But my wife insisted on you,” said Spisee. “As in all things, she was correct.” 

Jim frowned up at him. “Your wife?” Had he met her? Please. Please , don’t be married to T’Akos. 

T’Oast and Skone stopped their braiding long enough to stare into one another’s eyes with such mirth that Jim thought they might actually laugh. 

“We have been married for three years, seven months, and five days.” Spisee counted the days like each one was a gift. 

“Wait, three years?” That math didn’t make any sense. “That’s all? I don’t think I’ve ever met an unmarried Vulcan.”

T’Oast and Skone snorted.Their seven strand central braid with it’s two beaded purple ribbons was finished. Now they were working on the smaller four strand braids paralleling it. 

“You have met many.” Spisee raised an eyebrow. “They find you… fascinating.” 

Well that answered one question while raising about a dozen others. “Were you and your wife betrothed as children?” 

Vulcan ages were difficult to gauge. Spisee had an incredible air of authority, but realistically he could be anywhere from 30 to 80. Regardless, that would make for a hell of a long engagement. 

“No,” said T’Oast. Spisee’s eyes sparkled as he shot her a playful look of reproach. 

“Really?” That was unexpected. “How long did the two of you court before you got married?”

The hand on Spisee’s heart moved up to the middle of his chest, resting over a small rise in his clothing that Jim suddenly realized indicated the presence of an engagement pendant. “Nine days.”

Jim’s eyes went wide. He turned away, only to stare into the face of an equally incredulous painted octopus. “No, for real.”

“Nine days, eleven hours, and seventeen minutes.” Spisee’s eyes danced with mirth. Behind him, T’Oast snorted. Skone’s hand subtly slid over until his first two fingers pressed against hers. 

“Seriously?” asked Jim. Spisee looked proud of himself. It messed with Jim’s perception of reality. 

“Unbonded Vulcan adults do not engage in the human courtship behavior known as dating,” said Spisee.

Jim eyed him dubiously as he thought of T’Akos strong hands on his abdomen and Selarie’s gentle one on his shoulder. Vulcans might not date, but they did flirt. 

“Upon meeting we quickly realized we had…” Spisee’s handsome face subtly transformed in a way that made Jim’s heart lurch. He’d give a kidney for someone to love him so much they looked like that when thinking of him. “...deeply compatible minds. In addition, we shared multiple interests and were open to pursuing complimentary hobbies. Neither of us saw a need to draw out our acquaintance before marrying.”

Jim felt like he’d spied something private, something precious that he wasn’t sure he should’ve been allowed to see. He scrambled for something to say. 

“Is this your first marriage?”  He wanted to kick his brain across a field the moment the words tumbled out of his mouth. What the hell was wrong with him?

T’Oast and Skone radiated amusement. She started nestling small butterflies into Spisee’s intricate braids. 

“That is open to interpretation.” Spisee watched him carefully, once more bemused. 

Wait. What the hell did that mean? “But, uh, aren’t Vulcan marriages for life?” 

“Ideally.” T’Oast beamed at Skone. His fingers brushed against hers as he too nestled a dragonfly into Spisee’s braids. 

Jim’s teachers on Typerias had prepared him for seven different modes of marriage across eleven species, but the only things he knew about Vulcans he picked up from rumors and innuendo.  “I thought Vulcans all had arranged marriages?” 

That earned him faint, disapproving snorts from people listening in all along the hallway. 

“We are typically betrothed at the age of seven,” said Spisee. “If all goes well, the bond strengthens as the children mature. There is no need to pursue romantic relationships, because you have always had an appropriate mate.”

“And if things don’t go well?” asked Jim.

“Puberty becomes,” Skone’s nostrils flared. “Interesting.” T’Oast looped her pinky around his and gently squeezed.

“I do not regret meeting my wife at this age. It took me this long to become a man worthy of bonding with her,” said Spisee. “Our marriage is an endless adventure.” Behind Spisee, T’Oast and Skone locked gazes. Jim didn’t need to be a telepath to sense them sharing the Vulcan equivalent of affectionately rolling their eyes behind a newlywed’s back.

“I learn something new about her every week,” said Spisee.

“Literally?” Kirk raised his eyebrows. 

Spisee’s eyes lost their focus as his soft, warm smile spread. “Yes”.

T’Oast patted Spisee’s shoulder. “Your aesthetic is acceptable.” 

They created a thick seven strand braid down the middle of his head, with a delicate four strand braid flanking it on either side. At his neck, the two four strand braids wove into the middle and out to the edges of the seven strand braid, creating an interlocking pattern that excited something in the mathematical part of Jim’s brain. Two beaded purple ribbons stretched down the center of the braid, and dozens of flying insect clips nested throughout his hair. 

Spisee rose in a fluid, graceful movement that made Jim’s knees ache. “Thank you.” He bowed to T’Oast and Skone, who nodded their heads back at him. “James?” he raised an eyebrow and waved languidly towards the turbolift. 

Jim folded the lap blanket and handed it back to Skone, a little embarrassed by how much sweat it absorbed. Now that he was no longer clammy, the ship’s brisk night temperatures felt refreshing. “Thank you for the tea and conversation.” 

Every Vulcan they passed paused their painting, embroidery, or reading to give Spisee an approving nod. Most reached out to brush a wrist against his as he passed by. 

Jim folded his hands behind him as they walked. 

He could do this.

Really.

There was nothing wrong with companionable silence. He didn’t have to fill every bit of quiet with his own voice. He was a grown adult, in control of his own emotions. 

“Tell me about the waters of your homeworld.” Jim waved at the playful fish swimming through the ship’s coral scars. 

Spisee’s eyes sparkled. “That book fascinated me when I was your age. A human who lived before your species left their homeworld imagined traveling to a desert world full of honorable warriors. It disappointed me that he imagined the universe empty of all other sentient life.”

“Are you trying to distract me?” asked Jim.

Spisee raised an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

To Jim’s surprise, the turbolift was empty for once. He waited for the doors to close, then blurted, “Why did you leave your homeworld?”

Spisee looked bemused. “Why did you leave yours?”

Jim’s laugh came out with an angry edge that surprised him. “Did you get an internship with an exotic group of aliens?”

“No,” said Spisee. The turbolift opened onto Jungle Deck. With so many people enjoying themselves on Coral, the corridor outside the botany labs was unusually empty. 

Spisee paused with his hand on Lab 7’s scan plate and gave Jim another of one of his signature long, penetrating looks that made him feel like a child who just realized he hadn’t fooled any adults. The heavy aroma of newly ripe Kolanthas fruit rolled over them as the door opened.  Spisee led him to the tall, spindly trees with their sunny yellow bark and beige wood. Heavy fruit sprouted directly from the trunk. As each one grew and ripened, it peeled the bark it was attached to downward, making the trees resemble pencils covered in their own shavings.  

“I left my homeworld because of Sarek, son of Skon.” Spisee picked two of the purple spotted red fruits and handed one to Jim. 

“Spock’s father,” Jim said softly.

Spisee nodded once. “Your young friend chose wisely when he rejected the Vulcan Science Academy.” He opened a drawer and pulled out two small bowls and enameled knives which were absolutely not in their proper place. No wonder Skotch was usually able to nab these before anyone else. 

“Because it distanced him from his father?” Jim cut into the fist sized fruit. Deep green juices the color of Vulcan blood pooled in the bottom of his white bowl. 

“No,” said Spisee, his face once more an unreadable mask. “That was merely a beneficial side effect.” 

“He doesn’t trust you,” said Jim.

Spisee paused halfway to reaching for another ripe Kolanthas fruit. Jim took a step back, feeling like a butterfly pinned to the wall by Spisee’s sharp look. “Truly?” 

Jim’s mind raced through his memory of conversations with Spock. “He respects you. But he thinks you’re dangerous.” Jim thought of the Lichtenberg plasma scars on Coral deck. “His suspicions are not unfounded.” 

Spisee carefully sat his knife on the counter, closer to Jim than to himself. “If you fear us then I will send you home immediately with positive references. Know now that you will be missed.” 

Dammit. He should be afraid. These people were kind and gentle and jacked and strong. They wove baskets for butterfly barrets and welded patches on their gaping hull. How many times had this ship been ripped apart, and why? It didn’t make any damn sense. If he left now, he’d never know.

“Spock wants me to end my internship.” He looked down at the juices pooling in the white bowl and thought of the strings of green tinged paper people strung out from gaping holes in origami spaceships.

“And who is Spock to you?” asked Spisee.

Jim looked away from the fruit, unsure how to answer that question. He was Uhura’s weird boyfriend. But he was also someone Jim talked to twice every ten-day week, whether or not Uhura was available for a call. They’d played slow games of chess over subspace for the last four weeks - and for the last two, they had increasingly long conversations in the ChessPADD game comments. 

“A friend from school.” It didn’t feel right, but he didn’t have a better answer. 

“Good.” Spisee plucked four more ripe fruits from the tree, comically overfilling his small bowl. He left the knife untouched on the counter. “He could use trustworthy friends.”

Before Jim could ask another question, Spisee headed out of the lab in a swish of robes, ripe fruit balanced delicately in front of him. Jim scrambled to catch up. 

“Wait!” Jim looked down at his Kolanthas fruit again. Its skin was the red of human blood, dotted with deep purple bruises. Within, the flesh bled a deep Vulcan green.  “How did you get your scars?” 

Spisee stopped in front of a familiar set of clockwise spirals, decorated like small snail shells crawling over the thick, painted vines that stretched down from the ceiling. “Involuntarily.”

Something about the snails nagged at Jim every time he passed them. Spisee’s body blocked the middle. Fewer visible spirals made it easier for Jim to spot a pattern.  His eyes followed them up, around. If he ignored the more two dimensional snails and focused only on the ridged ones, the collection of little shapes combined to make a two meter high circle with Spisee standing in the middle, as though he just walked out of a vine encrusted portal. The last pins of a lock slid free in Jim’s mind, and holy shit, he wished he hadn’t opened this safe.

Take away the paint and the patches and it was obvious. Dozens of twisted spirals five centimeters apart created a two meter circle on an exterior bulkhead. The effect could be formed using four different techniques he knew of, but all of them added up to an attacker cutting an improvised airlock directly into the ship’s hull. Spisee stood framed in the middle of a Barnacle scar, watching Jim assess the damage. 

Jim folded his hands behind his back and frowned at Spisee. “Am I in any real danger?”

“You are hurtling through space in a pressurized capsule which could be punctured by a spec of dust, leaving us all choking on vacuum,” said Spisee. “It is also a common and widely accepted means of transit. Danger is a matter of perspective.”

“Am I in more danger than I would be on Earth?”

“It is my understanding that Earth has been particularly unkind to you” Spisee said sadly, “We aspire to be better.” 

“You have. It’s just…” he traced a finger over the ship’s battle scars. “Captain, I have to ask. And I hope you’ll be honest. Were you the aggressor when any of this happened?”

“Ask your real question.” Spisee said, his voice low and kind. 

“Are you pirates?” Jim stared at him pleadingly. “Or terrorists? Or some kind of rebels?”

“You raise interesting semantic issues,” Spisee looked thoughtful. “What exactly is rebellion? Is Spock a rebel for refusing the VSA?”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not helping.”

“You aspire to your own Captaincy,” said Spisee. “And so you must learn to make your own judgment.” He stepped out of the frame of the barnacle scar and headed towards the infuriatingly mysterious Blue Zone.

“You have been with us four weeks, three days, and eleven hours. In that time you have seen more of this ship than anyone who does not live here. Are we a danger to you?” Spisee raised an eyebrow. “To ourselves? To others?” 

He stopped at the door to a restricted section of the ship where Jim could not follow. As he stepped through, he looked back over his shoulder, watching Jim curiously. “I look forward to learning your conclusions.” 

Chapter Text

“I’m dying over here, Uhura!” Kirk’s cheeks were ruddy from laughter. 

“Yes, clearly. How can you stand having a gorgeous room all to yourself on a ship where everyone wants you to give them a good grade in Integrating the Human.”

Uhura sat on the edge of her narrow Starfleet Academy dorm bed. Gaila occasionally crossed in front of the screen, knees bumping against Uhura’s in the tight quarters as she tossed rejected Date Night outfit choices onto a growing pile on the bed.

You could easily fit three Starfleet dorm rooms into Jim’s guest quarters on the Sh’Raan . He knew. He’d measured the space. One side held a desk in a highly polished burnt orange synthetic stone that was probably the color of some sacred patch of Vulcan sand. It came stocked with stationary, ink, pens that required ink, both plain and embroidered satin ribbons, three colors of wax, and an embossed seal representing the Sh’Raan . He felt like he should be writing letters to Napoleon instead of taking notes for Uhura’s boyfriend, Spock. 

In the middle of the room, between two sets of floor to ceiling dividers shaped like constellations in an unfamiliar sky, was a small sitting area with chairs for four, a dedicated tea service caddy, what Jim dubbed the Incense Station, and enough space to spread out a meditation mat. 

The furthest area held his bed , the new love of his life. At an insanely luxurious 137 centimeters wide, he’d never even dreamed of sleeping in a bed that big. Hell, he wasn’t sure beds that big existed outside holodramas.* When he stretched both arms out his fingertips barely wrapped around the edge of the mattress. You could easily fit two grown adults on this bed - three if they didn’t mind spooning. 

He fully intended to steal the buttery soft gold sheets with their sky blue embroidery. Hell, he'd steal the mattress if he could fit it in his luggage. He loved that bed almost as much as he did Captain Spisee's guest chair.

Jim tore his loving gaze away from the bed and back to the large viewscreen mounted over his desk. “Tell me you found some ancient Vulcan tradition about joke names,” he begged.

Uhura rolled her eyes. “The entire crew of a Vulcan science vessel did not pick joke names just to screw with you!”

Jim seductively ran a hand along the open edge of his uniform’s outer robe, fingers stopping just over the belt. “Oh, they wanna screw with me, alright.”

Gaila tossed another outfit on the bed, laughing. “Jimmy, you are delusional. Vulcans are not trying to seduce you!”

“It’s not my imagination, Gaila! There are at least two people on this ship who think the T in my name stands for Tasty.” He slid a hand under his robe and mimed tweaking a nipple. “And their names, which Uhura keeps insisting are real Vulcan names ,” his free hand pointed an accusing finger at her, “are Celery and Tacos!”

“Please tell me you’re not pronouncing it like that!” Uhura’s head sank down between her knees as she struggled for breath. When she sat up, her features were calm as a Vulcan’s, though her cheeks were flushed from laughing. “It’s T’ Ah Kos and See lah ree. You need to aspirate the T instead of pronouncing it like tuh , farmboy.” 

“Gaila, go back to the navy skirt with the gold trim. It shows off your legs,” said Jim. “Uhura, help me out. Please. I am in over my head.”

“Should I call Spock?” she asked.

“What? NO! The tips of his ears would fall off if he heard this conversation! Because Uhura, I need you to hear my words - do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a straight face in front of a damn good looking man named Captain Spicy ! ” Jim groaned. “Nyota, I need to know what he tastes like!”

“Jim, NO!” Uhura's eyes twinkled as she struggled to keep a stern expression. “I can't believe I'm saying this to an ostensible adult, but do not lick Captain Spisee!”

“Jim, yes.” Jim gleefully leered at her before slowly licking a long stripe up his forefinger. 

Uhura rolled her eyes. “You know that doesn’t do anything for either of us.”

“I mean, you’re welcome to keep trying.” Galia sat on the bed, watching him critically. But you should take the robe off first. Slowly.” 

“I hate you both.” Uhura stared up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “Kirk, please behave.”

“I will.” Jim flopped back in his chair and stared imploringly out at the stars. “Because he’s married.”

“What the hell, Kirk?” Uhura’s hand covered her face, “If you hit on the married captain of a Vulcan research ship then you deserve whatever happens to you.”

“Have you spoken with his wife?” asked Gaila.

“Maybe?” Jim shrugged. “I don’t know?” 

“If she likes you and the three of you have an adult conversation about boundaries…” Gaila began.

Uhura put a hand over her mouth. “Don’t encourage him!”

“It wouldn’t work, anyway.” Jim shot them his second best Puppy Dog Eyes. “The way he looked when he talked about her. Wow. It was amazing. I want to make someone look like that when they talk about me.” 

“Kirk, you’re talking about a Vulcan,” said Uhura. “They don’t get moon eyed over their spouses.”

Jim flopped forward on the desk and rested his chin on his hands. “Uhura, you are buying into the propaganda. I’ve seen how Spock looks at you.”

“Don’t say that around him,” Gaila muttered. 

“Spock looks at me with courtesy and respect,” said Uhura. 

Jim sat up; spine straight, shoulders broad, face blank. “I know how to read Vulcan expressions, Cadet,” he said, flatly. 

“Halfway through a summer internship and suddenly Jim’s an expert on Vulcans!” Uhura smirked.

He let one corner of his mouth tick up a single centimeter. “We are interested in conducting a socio-biological experiment similar but not identical to that conducted by Ambassador Sarek and Amanda Greyson.” His voice was a calm, even monotone. 

Gaila buried her face on Uhura’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. Uhura’s lower lip trembled as she struggled to keep a straight face. “I’m so glad Spock’s at an embassy function tonight, because if he heard you talk like that about his parents…” 

Jim let his Vulcan Mask break. “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me Spock is one of those prudes who likes to pretend his parents only fucked once!”

“Oh no,” said Gaila. “It’s the opposite problem. He knows way too much about his parents sex life.”

Uhura nodded, eyes round. “Way. Too. Much.” 

“I’ve learned things from Amanda.” Gaila’s voice held a hint of admiration.

Uhura looked away from the screen, blushing. “So have I.” 

“These aren’t homeworld Vulcans,” said Jim. “It’s different here. They’re…”

“Tastier?” Gaila winked. 

Uhura closed her eyes and silently shook her head. “I am surrounded by teenagers.”

“Listen up, Uhura!” Jim cheerfully waggled a finger at the viewscreen. “Just because you get perfect grades, and are the darling of the xenolinguistics department, and were officially invited back to the embassy gala we snuck into last year while all I got was a restraining order, you think you'd be the perfect professional Cadet intern, but … You. Would. Break. Captain Spisee's incense smells like ginger and cardamom. After a week on this ship you would try to drink him like a mug of Chai.”

“Just a sec, Jim. I'm getting another call.” Her face was replaced by a Starfleet delta, but he could hear Nyota and Gaila laughing hard. When she came back, her lower lip trembled faintly from the effort of keeping a straight face.

“You can’t tell me these are real Vulcan names,” Jim grinned at them. “Two of the most intimidatingly beautiful women I've ever met work on this ship, and they're both named after condiments! Tahini and Tamari!”

“Jim, I’ve researched the personnel information you sent me. There’s not much on most of these people - nothing at all in fact on T’Akos or Selarie - but I’m sure a lot of this is merely cultural misunderstandings based on audible similarities to Federation Standard.” 

“Gaila, if your date is under 190 centimeters then the gold platform boots are too much,” said Jim. “What happened to the navy blue ones with the gold stripe down the side?” 

“Oh!” Gail bent over, her round ass filling the camera as she dragged boxes from under the bed. 

Uhura gently pushed Gaila’s hip to the left so she could see Jim. She held up a PADD and idly scrolled through her own notes. “T’Hini is a pre-Surakian name based on a legendary warrior who fought for knowledge,” said Uhura. “Do not, under any circumstances, invite her back to your quarters to make hummus together.”

“Uhura, I love you, but that is the worst innuendo I’ve ever heard,” said Jim.

“You haven’t heard Spock trying to talk dirty to her,” said Gaila. 

Jim rested his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands. “Tell me everything!” 

“No.” Uhura said sternly, “And according to her file, Subaltern T’Mari was named after a human who saved her mother’s life. God, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it says she’s fond of vegetarian sushi.” Her eyes twinkled as she struggled to keep a straight face. “She toured a soybean farm in Japan the last time she was on Earth.” 

Jim’s head fell on his desk as his whole body shook with laughter. “Uhura. Listen to me. I’m not going to make it. I have a meeting tomorrow with a woman named Tamales!”

“Are you gonna wrap her up in corn husks like the good little Iowan boy you are?” Gaila held up two translucent gold blouses - one with long, puffy sleeves and the other stretchy and skintight. Jim pointed at the loose one, still shaking with laughter. 

“It’s T’ Mahl Ease, with the emphasis on the last syllable,” said Uhura, “Do not mess with her. Not even as a little joke. She’s a member of Ambassador Sarak’s clan. T’Pau is their matriarch.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do not offer her bundles of food stuffed in cornhusks. Promise me, Jim!”

“I can’t do that, Uhura. I’m not strong enough. This entire internship is a nightmare. One of the medics is named Sepsis! Did you hear me, Uhura?” Jim’s already wide eyes went a little wild.  “He’s Ship’s Medic Major Sepsis!” 

Uhura hugged herself to keep from laughing. “At least you’re not mistaking his name for a food.”

“Oh, you want food?” Jim ran a hand through his hair. “I sound like a Southern Belle every time I talk to Sub Commander Shugar! Major Skotch eye fucks me whenever we play music together. And don’t get me started on Major T’Ikka or her crush, Subaltern T’Una!”

“You’re hearing perfectly reasonable names through the cultural filter of Federation Standard,”  Uhura repeated, eyes twinkling.

“She’s right.” Gaila pulled the puffy gold blouse over her skintight purple bra. “And these jokes never end well. Remember when Professor Kharat tried to play along with the homophone and showed up in that Bugs and Bunnies costume? The humans lost their minds!”

“That’s because he showed up wearing replicas of rare insects pinned to a synthetic rabbit fur coat,” said Uhura. 

Jim remembered that Kharat also brought a ten pound bag of raw carrots to share with the class. When Uhura asked if a purposeful misunderstanding of cultural media was part of the lesson he told her that on one region of his planet, Nyota was local slang for cheerful weeknight inebriation. He slyly winked at Jim, then suggested Uhura live up to her namesake every once in a while. 

“One or two names, sure, it’s on me. But there are dozens of suspicious names on this ship! The best hair braiders are named T’Oast and Skone.”

“Wait, the best what?” said Uhura. 

Jim rolled on without taking a breath. “T'zatziki and T'Bouli are fascinated by the Federation programmed replicator they installed for me. We started a snack club. And speaking of snacks - that’s the name of my supervisor in tactical! And you know what? Snaak is one hell of a snack! Uhura, why are Vulcans so good looking? It’s not fair. I shouldn’t have to look a gorgeous man in the face every day and call him a snack! I am not that strong!”

“I really think half the problem is your horrible accent,” Uhura shook her head. “It’s Sah Nakk, with a faint glottal stop on the final consonant.”

“That is literally what I just said,” Jim protested. 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not even close.”

“Uhura,” Jim suddenly couldn’t look her in the eyes, “For the last two weeks I’ve been avoiding Subaltern Sperm .”

Gaila's sat down next to Uhura on the bed and buried her face in Uhura’s lap, laughing hard. Uhura stared deadpan into the viewscreen.

“I can’t look him in the eyes and raise the Ta’al without laughing. I will break. There will be an interplanetary diplomatic incident. You can’t tell me Sperm is a really real Vulcan name.”

Uhura’s stern expression cracked. “Okay, that one really is the Vulcan equivalent of the German Fucker .”

Jim crossed his arms, eyes alight. “I did no such thing.” 

“It’s spelled F-U-L-C-K-E-R, though there are more popular modern variants like V-O-L-K-E-R that transform the U sound into a hard O. It dates back to the seventh century, and is where modern Federation Standard derives the word Folk.”

“Stop. Uhura, please stop.” Tears streamed down Jim’s face. “Surely someone has told Sperm about his name. Someone other than me. Because I can’t. Uhura. I’m begging you. I can not be the first person to break and tell him.”

“You are the reason cultural sensitivity training exists,” said Uhura. 

Jim stared her down. “You. Would. Break.”

“There’s no choice.” Gaila rolled her face towards the screen so her nose was no longer buried in Uhura’s crotch. “You’re going to have to take a walk out the airlock, Jimmy. For the sake of the Federation. It’s not just you. No one is strong enough for this internship.” 

Uhura stroked Gaila’s long, red hair. “Spock would be relieved if they booted you off the ship.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s got a hard on for ending this once in a lifetime opportunity for me.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Speaking of Spock, where’s your man? I wanted to run a couple of things by him regarding protein nucleotide resequencing in dual purpose rootstocks.” 

“He and his parents are attending an event at the Vulcan embassy with T’Pring, T’Pril, and Sevet,” said Uhura.

“You know I don't have any idea who those people are,” said Jim. 

“You've heard of Spock,” said Gaila.

“Who?” Kirk blinked, his face a picture of innocence.

“Your secret chess buddy.” Uhura grinned at him.

Kirk lay a hand over his mouth, as if hiding a shocking revelation. “It's not much of a secret if you know!” She rolled her eyes at him again. “What do you think they're doing?”

“Probably yet another ancient poetry recitation, some ritual, and a bland meal,” said Gaila. “You'd think no Vulcan has written a line of poetry in the last thousand years.” 

“Pre-Surakian poetry hits different,” said Uhura. 

“When the carrion birds are gorged on their rotting flesh, our sehlat cubs grow fat on the marrow of our enemies sun-bleached bones,” Jim quoted. 

“That sounded lovely,” said Gaila. 

“It’s not,” Jim and Uhura said in unison.

“Who knows,” Jim picked up a paper Romulan Bird of Prey and zoomed it across the screen. “Maybe they're making origami spaceships?”

Uhura broke into a laugh. “Right. Vulcans are more likely to flirt with you than they are to do that!” She looked up at Gaila, who laughed along with her.

“If I was at the embassy maybe they'd do both!” Jim parked the Bird of Prey over his cock, with the long neck sticking straight up. 

Gaila slid on the navy boots with the wide gold outer stripe. “If you were at an embassy the building would be on fire.” 

“Once!” Jim protested. “It was a trashcan fire, not a whole building, and I put it out before the firefighters arrived!” 

“That was pure luck.” Gaila’s eyes twinkled. 

“You helped!”

Gaila put a hand over her heart. “There were innocent lives at stake, Jimmy!”

“You wanted to see the hot firefighters.” Jim crossed his arms. 

“So did you,” Gaila winked at him. 

Uhura sighed. “How do I know either of you?” 

“Starfleet room lotteries are the best!” Jim grinned. 

“At torture?” Uhura raised an eyebrow. 

Jim teased the soft fabric of his belt back and forth between his fingers. “Hey, if you’ve got time, could you look something up for me?”

“Is Jimmy pretending to study in between being seduced,” Gaila’s fingers curled into air quotes, “by Vulcans?” She faked a swoon into Uhura’s lap. Uhura rolled her eyes.

“Well it does involve a grower not a shower that achieves breathtaking penetration.” Jim waggled his eyebrows. 

“Did your elephant’s toothpaste break containment in the biolab?” asked Uhura. 

Jim picked up the brass pocket telescope he kept on his desk, slid it all the way open, and stroked its length. 

“Actually, can you send me whatever you can find about Barnacles?” Jim studiously kept his face at Casually Indifferent #2.

Gaila looked up, her expression suddenly serious. “You weren’t kidding about breathtaking penetration.” 

The long shaft of the telescope retracted in Jim’s hand with an ominous series of clicks. “The vacuum of space will do that to you.” 

“Is this what Spock’s so worked up about?” asked Uhura.

“Who knows what’s happening in Spock’s head,” Jim shrugged. “It’s probably full of bees.” 

“He’s convinced you’re going to come back missing a limb,” said Uhura. 

Jim put the telescope back on his desk, held up his hands, and wiggled his fingers. “I’ve got all my fingies. You wanna see my toes?”

“That depends,” Gaila smirked. “Will we be able to see straight up your robes if you put your feet on that desk?”

“If you wanna ride you know I’ll provide.” He spread his legs wider, bucked the paper Bird of Prey from its perch, and cupped himself through his robes. 

“Really?” Uhura raised an eyebrow. “That’s all the finesse we’re getting out of the legendary Jim Kirk?”

He dragged a slow gaze over her and lowered his voice half an octave. “How would you like to be seduced?”

“Now that’s what really gets Spock worked up,” said Gaila.

“My seduction techniques?” Jim smirked. “Someone should’ve told me. I would’ve turned my charms on him sooner!”

“Using your seduction techniques on Uhura,” said Gaila.

Uhura sighed wearily. “He’s convinced it’s only a matter of time until I succumb to your irresistible allure.”

“Is it?” he purred. 

“This is the man who believes Vulcans are trying to seduce him?” Uhura shot Gaila an incredulous look. They both laughed. 

“Hey! I’m a frail arctic flower among towering desert agaves and they all wanna sample my exotic icy nectar.” 

“Don’t say that to Spock,” said Uhura. “His eye will start twitching.” 

“Oh, no,” said Gaila. “Do say that to Spock! Slowly. I want to see him completely lose his composure!”

“Speaking of keeping secrets from your boyfriend,” Jim kept his voice loose and casual, “he doesn't need to know you’re passing me Starfleet information on Barnacles.”

“You plan on becoming a pirate?” Uhura raised an eyebrow.

“I’m curious about their use in rescue missions,” said Jim. “That’s what they were originally designed for.” 

“Maybe before transporters became trustworthy.” Gaila narrowed her eyes, watching him dubiously. “Now they’re only used against transporter-resistant ships.”

“Which is a lot of them.” Jim grabbed his PADD for reference. “Freight and cargo haulers, for obvious reasons, but a surprising lot of research vessels, too. Something about delicate experiments being ruined by getting their atoms scrambled.”

“I don’t understand why you pretend you don't understand the principles better than most Engineering majors,” said Gaila.

“Who me?” Jim beamed at her. “I’m just a dumb blond with a big mouth and a bigger cock.” 

“That’s not a healthy coping mechanism,” she said gently. “But I’m not going to give you shit about it."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. 

“Today,” she conceded, “But Jimmy, no one’s going to give you a ship if you keep up this dumb slutty blond act. You need to clean up your reputation next year or they’ll ship you off to the Starfleet outpost on Risa and call it a day.”

“Worse things could happen,” Jim leered.

“Not to you,” she said, sternly. 

Uhura frowned. “You didn’t hear this from me, Kirk, but don’t tell Spock that a single thought even tangentially related to rescue has drifted between your pretty ears. He’s weirdly on edge about your summer vacation. One hint that you’re concerned about any actual danger and he’ll go straight to Pike and have you yanked back here before the mist is dry at the Moss and Moss Analogues Symposium.”

“Speaking of the conference, did you get the little present I ordered for you?” Jim smiled slyly.

Uhura blushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” said Jim. “Just remember which part is edible.”

“I thought that was the whole thing,” said Gaila.

“Not for humans,” said Jim. “Our teeth are pretty fragile.”

“Your whole bodies are fragile,” she said. “It is an interstellar mystery how your species managed to survive at all, much less expand into billions.” 

“We’re friendly.” Jim shrugged so that the left side of his robe slid down his shoulder. 

“You’re a menace,” Gaila laughed.

Jim winked at her. “We’re a friendly menace that will pack bond with anything.”

“Oh!” Gaila stopped flipping through her box of inter-species condoms and stared up at him in excitement. “Are you caught up with The Stars Live In Your Eyes ?”

Jim held up his hands. “Don’t tell me anything! I’m still three episodes behind!”

“Ugh! You’re the worst!” Gaila groaned. “But if my date gets lucky tonight then after sex I’ll introduce them to the best program they’ve never watched.” She turned around, wiggling her ass at the camera so Jim couldn’t see what species of condoms she transferred from the box to her purse.

“You and I have very different ideas about getting lucky,” said Uhura.

Gaila looked back over her shoulder, grinning at Jim. “And if they get VERY lucky, we’ll curl up in their roommates bed tomorrow and watch a whole season.”

“With or without their roommate?” Jim laughed. 

“They’ve got the place to themselves while their roommate is away on assignment,” said Gaila. “I’m already planning to fuck them senseless in their roommates bed.” 

“You know Bones would eat my liver with onions if he came back from a work trip and found me fucking a stranger in his bed.”

Gaila playfully chewed her bottom lip. “Only if you don’t invite him to join.”

“Especially if I invite him to join!” Jim laughed. “He’s a 92 year old Southern Matron trapped in a hot doctor’s body.” 

“There are worse ways to be resurrected,” said Gaila. 

“Not for him!” said Jim. “His looks are entirely wasted on that man. He should donate them to a horny person with low self esteem.”

“You should be nicer to Bones,” said Uhura.

“Nah. He needs someone to argue with. If he doesn’t do it with me he’ll end up arguing with his ex wife, and that’s no good for anyone.” 

Jim watched suspiciously as Gaila and Uhura exchanged a look. 

“Maybe we can find him a new friend,” Gaila said slowly.

“No.” Jim sat up straight. “Absolutely not. He’s my best friend, and the two of you are not going to try to replace me in that role while I’m away this summer!”

“Better watch out, Kirk,” Uhura stage whispered, “Or I’ll let Spock know I uncovered new leverage to lure you home early.” 

“That nice Dr. M’Benga would make a good friend for Bones,” said Gaila. “And they’d be very pretty together.”

“Stop it,” said Jim. “I hate you both.”

“Nah,” said Uhura. “M’Benga’s too nice. McCoy needs a shiny new friend who will sass him back.” 

“It won’t work.” Jim crossed his arms. “He hates everyone. Except for me and JoJo.”

“Not everyone,” Gaila purred. 

“Don’t.” Jim glared at her. 

“See, this is how Spock feels whenever you pretend you’re trying to seduce me,” said Uhura. 

“Who says I’m pretending?” The words came out as a reflex, but his heart wasn’t in it. 

“One of these days someone’s going to call your bluff,” said Uhura. “And when they do you won’t know what hit you.” 

“You kids have fun being philosophical at one another.” Gaila picked up her purse and stepped over the pile of discarded clothing. “I’ve got a busy night ahead of me blowing my date’s mind.” 

“I hope that’s not the only thing you blow.” Jim shot her a good natured smile. 

“Maybe I’ll get almost as lucky as you will with the Vulcans.” Gaila grinned back.

“I’m not imagining this!” said Jim. “Honest!” 

“Of course not,” Uhura snickered. “Every Vulcan wants you.” 

“You know what? No more hitting on you. You don’t deserve my magical dick.” Jim grinned at her. “You don’t wanna believe me? Watch out, or I’ll fuck your boyfriend!” 

The screen faded out to the sound of Gaila and Uhura’s laughter. 

Chapter Text

“I am your designated social companion for the evening meal.” T’Akos sat her tray down opposite Jim’s. 

He’d been here a month and was still in awe of the Sh’Raan’s mess hall. Instead of the utilitarian steel grey of Starfleet ships, the walls here were the pale orange of a summer sunrise. Bright yellow tapestries hung from ceiling to floor, making the useful panels of instructions and updates look like beams of sunlight filling the room. White and blue Vulcan calligraphy chased one another across their surfaces like wispy clouds. Between the tapestries the crew hand painted murals of birds and bird analogs from worlds Jim had never heard of. 

His favorite tapestry was the ongoing commentary on their Human Guest. That one had been removed and replaced six times in four weeks, and the ongoing debate in the commentary ribbons attached to it made him want to steal the whole thing and take it home with him. 

“Really? I was expecting T’Hini,” he lied. 

This was the third time T’Akos traded another crew member for the evening Human Socialization Shift. He missed his Turbolift stop this afternoon because he was too busy pretending not to listen to T’Akos and T’Hini openly discuss the positives of his aesthetic properties versus the negatives of his physical weakness and distressingly bad memory. He almost tipped them off to his knowledge of conversational Vulcan by snorting when T’Hini compared his memory and coloration to that of a Koi Fish she’d seen at the zoo in Shi’Kahr. T’Akos replied that she was interested in seeing him wet. 

“If the change in expected companions distresses you, T’Hini can be summoned.” 

Her thick crown braid was decorated with delicate succulents culled from Botany Lab 3’s overgrowth. Half the dining hall was sporting a few of the blooms. Each rosette was no more than four centimeters, adding lovely flashes of purple, orange, and red to her onyx locks. The colors matched the bold floral pattern of her silky outer robe, while the matte satin texture of the succulent’s leaves was mirrored in the folds of her under robe. While no individual item was exceptional, he could tell by the sum of them that she’d dressed up for dinner. 

“You’re already here.” He twirled a garlic breadstick between his fingers. “Take a load off. Tell me about your day.”

T’Akos sat a platter in between their trays. Her dinner this evening came in six small enameled bowls, each painted with a different bird. One held thin slices of a slightly sweet purple tuber, fried in a crispy tempura-like batter. She used her chopsticks to lay three slices onto the platter, then pulled the rest of the bowl close to herself, shooting him a quick warning look. He grinned and picked up one of the slices with his bare fingers, enjoying the way she watched him eat it. 

“We successfully deployed a decoy beacon which lured an Orion pirate ship off our course.” T’Akos poured a fragrant red gravy over a yellow grain that looked a lot like rice, then topped it all off with crunchy fried cubes of human-style soy glazed tofu.  

“The one that reads as a freighter ship leaking reactor coolant?” Jim slid a wide spoon under his fork and spun up a mouthful of surprisingly good Fettucini Alfredo. 

“Indeed. If the Orions follow past patterns then the beacon should lead them to a nearby patrol ship.” She added two well stuffed vegetable dumplings to the platter between their trays. Jim reciprocated by offering one of his garlic breadsticks. 

“That sounds like a solid day’s work,” said Jim. 

He wanted to shove that beacon right up Spock’s ass. The crew of the Sh’Raan were smart enough to be aware of danger and practical enough to proactively lure pirates away from their ship and towards well staffed patrols. 

‘You know, not all Orions are pirates,” he said. Gaila wasn’t, and neither was Dr. Oumou back on Typerias. 

“Agreed,” said T’Akos. “Someone has to build the spaceships, establish a market for stolen goods, and maintain the culture.” She took a bite of her fragrant sweet-and-sour pickled vegetables and sighed with a pleasure that bordered on human. 

“That sounds surprisingly judgemental for a Vulcan.” Jim tried to poke his fork into one of her remaining tempura slices. She swatted him away with her chopsticks. 

“Have you seen an Orion ship?” T’Akos raised an eyebrow. 

“Only in textbooks,” Jim admitted. 

“They possess impressive exterior aesthetics and daring architectural design, although their interiors are notably lacking.” 

Jim stuffed his mouth with more fettucini to buy himself a little time. When the hell had T’Akos seen the inside of an Orion ship? Dammit, no. He wasn’t letting Spock get into his head. 

“You’ve been inside the belly of the beast?” Jim twirled up another bite of fettuccine. 

“Belly of the beast. A solid day. I look forward to researching the origins of your colorful idioms,” said T’Akos. “Captain Spisee agrees that an understanding of their etymology and historical use will deepen our comprehension of modern Federation Standard.”

“Nice!” Jim grinned at her. “You plan on publishing your findings?” 

“I would require a human co-author who can verify the authenticity of the idioms in question and direct me towards ethnographic research resources.” She indulged in another decadent bite of her pickled vegetables. 

Jim’s smile widened as he looked her over. “I might know someone who could help.”

“Thank you,” said T’Akos. “I would appreciate you sharing my contact information with Cadet Uhura.”

“I’m wounded.” He lay a hand over his heart. “You weren’t using research as an excuse to get my contact information?” 

“Your injuries are imaginary,” said T’Akos. “Captain Spisee has your full contact information should anyone onboard need it. However, if it would not be an intrusion upon your privacy, we can schedule a time for you to introduce me to Cadet Uhura via comm. Once scheduled, I shall join you in your quarters so you may facilitate an introduction.”

Despite earnestly offering him a dizzying array of decorating supplies so he could make the room fit his personal and cultural aesthetic, no other Vulcan had asked to see what he’d done with the place. “That can be arranged.” 

She nodded once, clearly satisfied with this interaction. “Have you received your third Unit of Praise today?” 

His smile widened. “T’Akos, are you telling me I’m a good boy for introducing you to Uhura?”

“You are a legal adult, and you have as yet made no introductions,” said T’Akos. “Praise is reserved for actual accomplishments.” 

She reached across the table and gently gave his shoulder three long, soft pats, almost like she was petting a skittish kitten. “You are especially well groomed this evening, Cadet Kirk.” 

Her low tone and soft touch went straight to his dick. From a human, that would be exceptionally condescending. But from T’Akos, he was sure it was flirtation. Almost sure. “Thank you. ” 

“Query.” T’Akos studied his dinner tray. “Are your edible ribbons derived from a cloth that can be worn as a garment or are they only used as food?”  She studied the individual noodles in search of calligraphy or other ornamentation. 

“It’s called Fettuccini. Just a sec.” He headed back to the Starfleet replicator they installed for his comfort and asked it for a fork, a ramekin, and a small box containing four Betazoid truffles. The box earned him looks of both worry and reproach. It was his third one this week. 

The crew’s cuisine was nothing like the herb-rich food he’d enjoyed on Tyresias or the expensive, minimalist Vulcan restaurants back in San Francisco. 

At the table next to theirs, Shugar, T’Una, Sepsis, Snaak, and T’Mari sat steaming bowls on a lazy susan. Breakfast was just a hearty soup, but lunch and dinner on the Sh’Raan were leisurely affairs with anywhere from five to eight courses shared by the entire table. They liked heavy gravies, full of flavor, poured over a dizzying assortment of  grains. There was always a small fried course, pickles, some sort of protein paste, and on good days, dumplings.  

They thought the Federation replicator was malfunctioning the first few times he pulled out huge plates of just one or two things, like tonight’s Fettuccine Alfredo with a side of breadsticks. 

When he came back to the table, his giant plate of homogenous noodles was surrounded by small bowls of battered and fried orange tubers, a sweet and sour pickle that tasted like tart lemon candy, and the truly excellent Red Squared dumplings made with a paste of Terran red beans and Vulcan red spice.

“Here. Give this a try.” He wound the fresh fork in his Fettuccine Alfredo, placed the bite of noodles in the ramekin, and sat it on the communal tray. The fork wobbled, threatening to fall out of the ramekin. Jim’s fingers propped it up just as T’Akos reached for it. He pretended not to notice her pupils widen as their fingertips touched. 

Cheeks flushed faintly green, T’Akos dutifully tried the bite in the spirit of cross-cultural understanding. “It is…damp.” 

“That’s accurate,” Jim admitted. “What do you think of the flavor and texture?” 

She sniffed a loose noodle that had fallen into the ramekin. “Is this ribbon replicated from a garment that was worn by someone with a fungal infection?” 

“Ouch!” Jim laughed. “Even on Earth, cheese isn’t for everyone. And just so you know, the ribbons are called pasta, and they’re not used as garments. They’re made from a grain that’s processed into a powder, rehydrated, turned into a sort of dough, then rolled thin like this. I’m sure there are excellent educational videos detailing the whole process.” 

“Noted. Perhaps we can enjoy an educational video together for your next Entertainment. I could reciprocate by supplying one about equally obscure Vulcan customs.” She picked up her PADD before his brain could process what the hell she meant by that. “Continuing with the Human Fraternization Checklist, what are your three favorite colors, ranked in order?”

Right. Time for more small talk. At least once a day Vulcans asked him questions from the Human Fraternization Checklist, often pausing to dutifully take notes. 

“Most humans just pick one. Mine’s gold.” Just like his future uniform. “If I had to pick two more, I guess I’d say blue and red.” 

T’Akos held the last slice of tempura fried purple tuber over the communal tray as an enticement. “Can you be more specific?”

Not without admitting to the aesthetically obsessed Vulcans that his favorite colors were the Starfleet Uniform trifecta. “Um, I think the human visual range is more limited than yours.” 

“Unfortunate.” T’Akos ate her tempura. “Query: what do you miss the most about Iowa?”

“Corn.” Jim didn’t even have to think about that one. “There’s a beauty in rows upon rows of the prettiest green you’ve ever seen, stretching all the way to the horizon. We have fun with it, too. Corn plants grow tall - about two meters per stalk. Every county has at least one corn maze. That’s where you strategically plant the corn so there are twisty paths in it wide enough for two humans to walk side by side. Finding your way out is a fun little challenge.” 

“Fascinating. Is this enrichment activity exclusively for people of a specific age or social standing?” asked T’Akos.

Jim laughed. “Nah. It’s wholesome fun.” 

Sam had taken him every year until Jim left for Tarsus. When Winona dragged him away from Typerius, the mazes felt more like home than Dead George’s house. He’d had his first kiss with a human in a corn maze. David’s mouth tasted like all the sweetness of summer had been concentrated in his lips. They held hands and chased little kids around corners, giggling whenever they ran into another couple trying to steal a taste of summer.

“Do specific regional dishes accompany the corn maze enrichment activity?”

“They can, but I don’t think you’d like them,” he chuckled. “Human celebratory foods traditionally hold next to no nutritional value.” He paused, trying to think of how to describe Fair Food to a Vulcan, “At the corn mazes and county fairs, the booths serve a lot of variations of deep fried dough accompanied by excessive amounts of sugar.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And chocolate?” 

He laughed. “I mean, in a city like Riverside you can always get a deep fried Snickers Bar, usually with chocolate syrup and powdered sugar on top.” 

“Fascinating.” Her gaze drifted to his little box of four chocolates. “Perhaps you can replicate examples to consume when we share educational videos.” 

Jim could feel Sepsis and T’Una’s eyes on them from the next table.

“Will the subject of her educational videos be comparative anatomy?” asked Shugar. 

Jim coughed around a bite of pasta. He forced himself not to look in their direction. 

“ I too am curious ,” said T’Una. “He is quite small and fragile, but humans are reputed to be surprisingly energetic.” 

“Satisfy your curiosity about human mating customs with the antics of Bob and Rohingar tonight,” said Sepsis. 

Jim perked up. Did they say Bob and Rohingar? Tonight! A story about watching The Stars Live In Your Eyes   in a room full of Vulcans would get him free drinks for a week from Gaila’s crew. He was possessed with a sudden need to snag an invitation without giving away his secret knowledge of Vulcan.

“Both characters are both played by Bajoran actors wearing a nose prosthesis,” said T’Una.

“Close enough,” said Sepsis. 

“Are we close enough to Romulans?” she asked. 

Oh God. He couldn’t do it. That was one of the biggest running jokes on the show!

“Are you well, Cadet?” asked T’Akos. “Your breathing is erratic and your posture … awkward?” 

“I’m fine, T’Akos,” he said. “Just thinking about home.”

“And the corn mazes,” she prompted, once more picking up her PADD.

“Honestly? I’m kinda missing an obscure holo program you’ve probably never heard of. I used to watch it with my Orion and Andorian friends back at the academy.” He picked up a breadstick and twirled it between his fingers.

“Oh?” T’Akos reached her chopsticks over the communal tray to snag a bite of his lemon pickle. 

“It’s called The Stars Live In Your Eyes .”

Every head in the room slowly turned his way.

“You’ve heard of it?” He politely placed half the contents of all three surprise bowls on the communal tray between them. 

“Indeed.” T’Akos chose a Red Squared dumpling. 

“Ask if he wishes to view it with us.” T’Mari steadfastly pretended all of her attention was on her meal. 

Jim carefully kept his eyes on T’Akos and his expression pleasantly neutral. The absolute best part of being raised by Vulcans was his poker face.  

“Tell him snacks will be present,” added T’Una. 

Every Vulcan he’d ever met ate highly structured meals on a set schedule. He’d never once seen a Vulcan “snack.” What did they think that word meant? Was Snaak going to be present? Would there be little plates of food? Would they ritually indulge in something unhealthy? Damn, he wanted to know!

“I will not.” Snaak said sadly. “I have a duty shift after my meal.” 

“You need not be present for the ritual consumption to honor you,” said T’Hini.

Okay. That sounded like cannibalism. He was behind a couple of episodes, but he was sure The Stars Live in Your Eyes hadn’t suddenly turned dark. 

“A genuine human perspective would add significantly to the knowledge base we acquire from the program,” said T’Una. 

“You wish him to support your theories,” said Shugar . “As a human his voice would carry authority yours lacks.” 

T’Akos narrowed her eyes at them. “I am his designated social companion this evening.”

Jim ditched his fork and used his fingers to pick up another dumpling. He thoughtfully tapped it against his lips. T’Akos nostrils flared as she watched him. “I have missed watching the program with friends.” He bit the dumpling in half, sending warm filling trickling down his thumb. He stared at T’Akos as he casually licked it off. 

“W’eld T’gath’er?” T’Hini said slowly. 

Jim blinked at her, sifting through possible synonyms. “Join together? Are you inviting us to your viewing party?” 

“The program will be entirely in Vulcan,” said T’Akos. 

“The subtitles are in Vulcan,” said Sepsis. “The program itself is in the original Standard.”

“It has proven exceptionally useful as an aid for those studying the language,” said T’Una. Beside her, T’Hini nodded agreement. 

Jim raised an eyebrow at T’Akos. He wasn’t entirely sure whether they genuinely wanted him there or were trying to subtly provide a post-dinner chaperone for him and T’Akos.

“Your presence could prove a distraction for those using the programs for educational purposes,” said T’Akos.

Jim grinned at her. “I can stop by my quarters and put on a longer robe if you’re afraid my ankles will prove too titillating for Vulcan sensibilities.” 

Shugar and T’Una exchanged a bemused look. 

“Or you could loan me your outer robe when we get there. You’re wearing, what, four layers? Surely you could spare one.” Jim left his hand on the table, fingers stretched to her side of the communal tray between them. “To cover me up so I won’t be … distracting.”

It was Snaak’s turn to cough around a bite of food. 

T’Akos rested her hand next to the shared tray, her long fingers only centimeters from his. “A sensible suggestion,” she conceded. 

“How long until the program?” Jim gave Sepsis his best Interested But Not Too Eager look. 

“Two hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty four seconds.” Sepsis eyed their fingers. 

“What are your plans until then?” asked T’Akos. 

“I am here to learn.” Jim slid the tips of his fingers over hers on his way to picking up another dumpling. “Perhaps,” he smiled at her, eyes twinkling. “Something suitably educational.” 

Chapter Text

Jim threw today’s sweaty robes into the laundry and quickly toweled himself off. Tomorrow’s rich green and gold robes beckoned from the closet, temptingly clean and deliciously dry, but if he put those on just for his subspace call he’d have to do laundry before bed tonight. 

Of all the things that surprised him about life on the Sh’Raan, it was the laundry room that he still found strangest. Everyone, including Captain Spisee himself, did their own laundry. The crew sat around the machines for hours, chatting amiably and helping one another mend anything in need of repairs while their clothes tumbled through the cleaning cycle. 

When he told them Starfleet cadets simply chucked their laundry in a chute and picked up clean clothes at the quartermaster’s office once a week they were so mortified that Captain Spisee doubled that week’s hug time allowance. 

“ Incoming Subspace Call ,” the computer said in its musical South Asian accent.  

“Shit.” Jim grabbed today’s teal and orange over-robe and a mismatched belt. Without anything underneath it looked like he’d left a skimpy bathrobe open to the waist, but at least his balls were covered. 

“Computer, answer call.”

He flopped into his desk chair and spun it around twice so no one would notice him carefully adjusting the fabric. 

“Hello, gorgeous!” Jim put on Happy To See You Smile #2 as he brought the chair to a stop. He leaned from side to side, as if trying to see around the corners of his vid screen. “Hey, Uhura. Where are Gaila and Spock?”

“Nice to see you too.” Uhura smirked. He was pleased to see she was in the comfy looking pajamas he sent her with the words ‘Cunning Linguist’ emblazoned across the front. “It’s just me tonight. Spock is still pissed at you, and Gaila has a date.”

“Another one? She usually limits herself to two conquests a week.” 

“Oh, no,” Uhura shot him a wicked, knowing grin. “This is the tenth time she’s seen this person.”

“You’re kidding.” Jim was impressed. Gaila had the highest standards of anyone he knew. She’d go on a first date with anyone who asked. A second date with her was a badge of honor. A third date might as well go on your CV as a character reference. He couldn’t imagine who could possibly make it to ten. 

“Spock set them up,” said Uhura. “They’re really cute together.”

“Cute?” he raised his eyebrows. “Spock knows someone that you, the intergalactically renowned linguist, defines as cute ? This is something I need to see!”

Uhura pulled her embroidery hoop up so it covered her face, but he could still hear her laughing behind it. Rich green silk trailed down into her lap, decorated in a growing embroidered line of gold and white Vulcan calligraphy. From the back he couldn't make out any of the words. 

“Come back to me, Uhura!” Jim made grabby fingers at the screen. “I need you!”

She pulled the embroidery hoop down just enough for him to barely see her twinkling eyes. “Oh, god. What now?” 

“I’m really glad it’s just you tonight,” Jim confessed. 

She rested the embroidery hoop under her chin. “That never bodes well.” 

Jim tried to tug his over-robe a little tighter across his bare chest. “Uh, are Human and Vulcan bits, you know, compatible?”

Uhura put down her embroidery, face suddenly serious. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Are you saying they’re not compatible,” he asked slowly, “or are you saying you don’t want me to find out?”

“I’m saying don't do something monumentally stupid, Jim,” she sighed.

“Uhura, T’Acos really wants a taste of my Chorizo, if you know what I mean.” He pointed finger phasers at his dick. 

Uhura closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m going to pretend I don’t.”

“She’s made plans to visit my room. Unchaperoned. Allegedly to meet you and discuss co-authoring a potential research paper, so you’re welcome for that,” said Jim. “But after?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Jim, listen to me.” Uhura sounded like she was talking to a first year cadet who didn’t understand why they couldn’t stand directly behind the shuttle engines to watch them launch. “On the inter-planetary stage, Humans are right up there with Orions and Betazeds when it comes to species known for seducing anything with vaguely compatible genitalia. Please. Do not live up to their expectations.”

“So you’re saying the bits do match up?” He shot her a hopeful smile. 

“That depends. Have you ever been with a species that has a cloaca?” She raised one eyebrow. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Jim grinned. 

“You are not prepared for this, Jim.” Uhura shook her head and muttered darkly to herself in Swahili. 

He stared into the camera, eyes wide and innocent as he put on his very best Naive Farmboy #3. She stared back, immune to his charms. He blinked at her, waiting. He could play this game until their evening’s subspace credit ran out. 

“Fucking hell,” Uhura glared up at the ceiling, shaking her head. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”

“She can bench press me, Uhura,” he laughed. “Vulcans are crazy strong.”

“Yeah, but,” Uhura sighed. “You said Selerie wants to get in your pants? Maybe you’d be better off with him.”

“The whole damn crew is conspiring to cockblock poor Selarie,” Jim said, his voice a little soft and sad. 

“Good for them.” She picked up her embroidery and started working with the gold thread. “But wait - no one minds you flirting with T’Akos?”

“Minds?” he snorted. “I swear, Skotch practically slipped me a condom and lube during my last meal with her.”

“Huh. Before you do anything stupid with anyone on the crew, maybe you should look into that drama.” She shot him a knowing look. “But if you absolutely have to fuck one of your crewmates, you really would be better off with a Vulcan male.” 

Jim leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk so he could rest his chin in his hands.“Okay, now I’m just curious. Why?”

Uhura kept her eyes strictly on her embroidery. “Vulcan males and human females work out surprisingly well, as long as you don’t have carpet and aren’t averse to waterproof sheets.” 

“What?” A line formed between Jim’s eyebrows.

“Vulcan females don’t produce much sexual lubrication. At all. That’s the male's job. And they’re good at it, Kirk.” Her voice lowered to a near mumble. “Ruining a mattress forever level of good at it.”

“I can’t imagine Spock getting that nasty,” said Jim. “Uhura, are you having an affair with someone at the embassy?”

“Shut up. I’m trying to help you.” She rolled her eyes. “On an evolutionary level, you really don’t want to create a viscus sand trap inside a woman’s body - especially since the sand on parts of Vulcan is like regolith. It’ll mess you up. So it’s more advantageous for the males to flush out their pipes, so to speak, instead of letting the females attract potentially hazardous irritants if they happen to sit down while aroused.”

She stared down at the silk, still avoiding eye contact with him. “The males are already expelling sperm anyway, so evolution just added a little something extra to the sauce.”

“Right. Okay. I’m not sure what to do with this information,” Jim frowned. 

“It doesn’t matter how aroused she gets,” Uhura sighed. “You can’t just jam it in there. You’re going to need industrial quantities of lube.”

“Right,” Jim nodded. “I think I’ve caught up. What size factory are we talking about?”

“A healthy, well hydrated Vulcan male can produce up to 300 milliliters of lubricant per sexual act.”

Jim’s eyes went wide. 

“And they don’t have a refractory period. If you make an afternoon of it you could end up with an entire liter of sexual fluids soaking into your mattress.”

Jim whistled. “That really sounds like the voice of experience.”

“ Meanwhile , your Vulcan female is expecting to be drowned in her partner’s natural lubrication.” She looked up from her embroidery to eye him judgmentally. “Your quarter teaspoon of pre-come isn’t going to cut it.”

“You are way too optimistic about my body’s abilities,” he winked.

“Listen to me, Jim. You can’t even go down on her for long without some extra lube.You’d have to find a flavor you really like and be prepared to have a stomach full of it by the end of the night.”

“Oh my god. You’re having an affair with a Vulcan couple, aren’t you?”Jim leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Uhura rolled her eyes. “You are a child.” 

“Is it Ambassador Sarek and Lady Amanda? Wait, no. She’s human. Is it Ambassador Sarek and his secret Vulcan mistress?” Jim lowered his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Uhura, is Spock going to have a new Mommy?” 

“Jim, listen to me. Before you even get to the lube stage you have to get her aroused enough that her genital slit opens.”

Jim waggled his eyebrows at her and slowly liked his lips. She put down her embroidery needle and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Remember what I said about Vulcan sand ripping up soft bits? Vulcans keep their genitals on the inside. With the males, once they reach full arousal the slit opens, a surprising volume of fluid gushes out to get the party started, and the penis emerges. With females, once they’re fully aroused, the slit opens and sort of folds back like origami to reveal the vagina.”

Jim pictured the Vulcan Arts and Crafts lounge. They had a lot of origami, and it wasn’t all of Orion ships. 

“Do you even know how to arouse someone with a genital slit, Jim?” She cocked her head to one side, watching him critically.

Jim idly toyed with the end of his belt. “She suggested we watch an educational video.”

“Jim, NO!” Uhura’s eyes went round. 

“Jim yes?” He looked up from the belt and shot her a sly grin. 

“This is a terrible idea,” said Uhura. “Do not bring her back to your room to watch educational videos together.” 

“Not even about pasta?” His eyes twinkled. 

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism?” her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You are not ready for Vulcan porn. I mean it, Jim. I’ll wear spiked epaulets around you so you can’t cry on my shoulder about it.”

“Well now I’m really curious,” he laughed. 

“I know it’s hard-” Uhura began.

“Not yet, but keep talking.” Jim bit his bottom lip and slowly raked his gaze over her baggy pajamas. 

“Jim, please!” Uhura snapped. “Just jerk off.”

“Jerk Off Jim and His Vulcan Summer Abroad sounds like terrible porn.”

“You want to know what’s really terrible?” asked Uhura. 

He leaned forward, chin in one hand. “Yes, please!”

“You know what? I give up.” She picked up her embroidery again, shaking her head. “I did my due diligence. What happens now is all on you.”

“Only if Jerk Off Jim aims well,” he winked. 

“I’m hanging up the call now.”

“Aw, c’mon Uhura!” Jim grinned at her. “You want to know how this ends!”

“This is either going to end with you hand carving a betrothal pendant for someone you met on your summer abroad or with you getting the entire internship program shut down,” she said.

He lay a hand over his heart then let it slowly glide down towards his belt. “Both, if I really apply myself.” 

“You are the worst.” 

“That’s why you love me.” He blew her a kiss.

Uhura glared at him. “I hope she crushes your pelvis.”

Jim beamed at her dreamily. “So do I.”

Chapter Text

Jim glanced down at the replicated pedometer attached to his wide green belt. He’d synched it with a popular exercise program on his PADD where people competed to walk or run in ways that drew a specific shape. The shapes were mostly dicks, though to their credit, junk from over 20 species was represented. He could personally vouch that twelve of the designs were surprisingly accurate. 

Tonight he put it to use tracing the interior of the Sh’Raan . Another two decks and he’d have a pretty accurate map of every corridor he was allowed to access. Then he could compare his pedometer’s Walk Pal path to both his own sketches of the Sh’Raan and official schematics of Suurok class ships.

Despite what he let the crew of the Sh’Raan believe about his goldfish-like memory, his spatial navigation scores were so good his Starfleet astro-navigation instructor accused him of cheating. Now that he’d walked the whole thing a few times, something about this ship’s layout was making his brain itch. He couldn’t sleep properly until he’d scratched it. 

Lost in thoughts of ship schematics, he didn’t notice Selarie until he rounded the corner and bumped right into him. Jim laughed as he staggered back, stumbling a few steps to keep from falling on his ass.

“Cadet Kirk.” Selarie sounded pleasantly surprised to be roused from his own reverie. He reached for Jim’s upper arm to help steady him. 

Selarie had been staring out the round, meter-wide window that formed the giant eye of a hallway-spanning blue and orange octopus mural that fully wrapped them in 3 dimensions. His tall shadow formed a dark slit pupil in a mysterious eye full of stars. 

Everyone looked different by the soft glow of ship’s night. Selarie, despite shoulders as wide as a door and thick curls of chest hair peeking from the neck of his blue under-robe, somehow looked improbably young. 

The evening’s gentle glow hid his permanent five-o’clock shadow. Bright metallic threads sparked life into the small, fuzzy animals playing around stylized fruit trees on his outer robe. A few black locks of hair escaped his topknot, curling gently around his face. Jim clenched his hand into a fist to avoid tucking a loose strand behind his pointed ears. 

He backed two paces away and respectfully folded his hands behind his back. “Selarie! Always good to see you!” 

Selarie’s head dipped, hiding a hint of a smile. “Have you successfully cultivated beyond your studies this evening?” 

“Yeah, I plowed right through my lessons.”Jim grinned at him. “How’s your night?”

“Improved by your presence,” said Selarie.

Jim glanced at the floor, fighting down a blush. “If you don’t have anything better to do, wanna walk with me?” 

Selarie nodded, eyes crinkling happily. Jim set a leisurely pace through the Deep Ocean deck - making it easy for him to enjoy the company and for Walk Pal to map his route.

A cool breeze that smelled of salt and seaweed ghosted over his skin. “You know, this is the only ship I’ve ever been on where you could make small talk about the weather.” 

“Weather is important,” said Selarie. “T’Ikka works diligently to give us this. Most ships lack her attention to detail.” 

“It’s impressive.”Jim rubbed the goosebumps brought on by the night’s cool breeze. “It almost feels like a planet.” 

“Which one?” Selarie raised an eyebrow.

They rounded a corner onto a hallway full of botany labs, all quiet for the night. A pair of long tentacles from the massive octopus teased a few meters into the new setting, now full of bright schools of fish in colorful formations. 

Jim paused, staring at the lively ocean scene surrounding them. “You’re right. This is impressive for what it is, not for what it isn’t.” 

Selarie lay a tender hand on a cheery, wide-eyed baby octopus bobbing at waist height, its tentacles stretching out to catch a ball of moss tossed to it by a tiny dolphin. “But it is impressive.” 

“Did you paint that one?” asked Jim.

“No.” Selarie traced a tentacle with his fingertips. “It was a gift.” 

“Oh.” Jim stepped back, trying to see the whole for a change instead of the individual parts he’d become so obsessed with in recent days. “I thought people painted whatever inspired them.” 

“Yes.” The back of Selarie’s fingers brushed over tentacles. “We are often inspired to paint for one another.” 

“It’s so beautiful here.” Jim snuck a glance up at Selarie’s face, so soft and open as his fingertips glided over the playful art. Jim quickly looked away before he was caught. Ignoring the part of his brain that remembered Captain Spisee’s shovel talk, he let his hand land gently on Selarie’s forearm.

 “I’m going to miss this,” Jim said, softly.  Selarie took half a step closer to Jim, eyes still fixed on the playful octopus. 

The halls on this deck were mostly empty this deep into delta-shift. Jim angled himself sideways in order to get a good look at the vast, panoramic ocean mural that surrounded them - coincidentally taking half a step closer to Selarie. He’d never noticed the glow-in-the-dark accents before. Each school of fish had subtle stripes of reds, blues, and golds that seemed positively bioluminescent in the dim ship’s night. He turned his head to one side and squinted. The glowing stripes almost seemed to form words. 

“Selarie, is it my imagination or are the fishies trying to talk to us?” 

“Yes.” The corner’s of Selarie’s mouth ticked up half a centimeter. “This hall forms the pages of a popular children’s book.” 

“What does it say?”

Selarie’s fingers brushed over the red lines. “Here, the fish promise they will still be here in the morning.” He bent down to touch the blue. “They say children need more sleep than fish. So go to bed and visit again later.” 

He’d never seen the font before, but Selarie’s fingers moving over the words as he very loosely translated the incredibly cute poem helped Jim make it out. Once he could see the glowing words for what they were, the gold lines grabbed him by the heart. One her first quarterly visit, T’Ree had painted the same words over his new bed. You belong. You are wanted. You are home. Azmar and Jilleth told him it was what Vulcans said to their kids instead of ‘I Love You.’ 

“Have you ever been on a Federation ship?” asked Jim. He smiled as they strolled through the sweet children’s book made larger than life. It had to be from the colonies. For one thing, he’d never seen that font before. For another, Vulcan children’s books from the homeworld were all about how to survive being abandoned in the desert. One particularly memorable one aimed at seven year olds included detailed instructions on how to recycle your own urine. This art was made by people who knew the mysteries of an ocean and found them beautiful. 

“We are members of the Federation,” said Selarie. 

“I meant a Starfleet ship.” Jim smiled up at him. 

“No,” said Selarie. “Starfleet has not sent ships to this sector in twenty years.”

“That can’t be right.” Jim blinked hard, scrambling to remember sector patrol schedules from his Academy lessons. 

“I agree,” said Selarie. “It is not right.” The hand not anchored by Jim’s soft touch on his sleeve reached out to brush against a small school of blue and gold fish. “What will you miss?” 

Jim looped his arm in Selarie’s and gave a gentle tug. Selarie’s eyes lit up as he obediently let Jim pull him along in the direction he needed to map. Selarie’s body was distractingly warm, and smelled faintly of cardamom. 

They turned a corner and stepped out of the storybook. The sides of the hallway bulged outwards, making this section of the deck feel like a round tunnel built into an aquarium, turning them into the strange aliens there to entertain curious fish. 

“The beauty of your ship. Everything here is lovely.” Jim snuck a sideways glance. 

“You fit in well.” Selarie caught his gaze, and the tips of his ears flushed a dark bronze. 

Jim felt his own cheeks warm. “You’d hate Starfleet ships. All the interiors are the same shade of gunmetal grey. Every single deck on every single ship. The only color comes from interface panels built into the walls. If you’re on a Constitution Class ship, it’s completely identical to every other ship in that line.” 

Selarie raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Uniformity,” Jim shrugged. “It’s portrayed as a very Vulcan inspired design.”

Selarie’s nostrils flared in disbelief. “Have the ship architects met Vulcans?” 

“Probably not,” Jim laughed. “Their idea of IDIC is to make everything so bland that no one can be emotionally excited or offended by it.”

A line formed between Selarie’s eyes. “Is the goal to initiate biochemical depression in a significant portion of the crew?” 

“Buddy, sometimes I want to tuck you in my pocket and take you home with me.” Jim squeezed his elbow against Selarie’s 

His cheeks flushed dark enough to match the tips of his ears. “I possess 18% more height and 136% more mass....” Selarie began. 

Jim squeezed his arm to stop him. “Well now you’re just showing off.” He grinned. “I’m halfway through my internship. Today I realized I have more days on the Sh’Raan behind me than ahead of me. It’ll all be over so soon.” He pulled Selarie’s arm closer. “I’m taking time to appreciate the best parts while I still can.”

“Is there anything specific you wish to appreciate?” Selarie asked softly.

Jim swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the cool breeze, the soft light, the twinkling eyes of cheerful fish. In the romance holovids this would be the point where the couple kissed. Selarie’s hand was right there. It would be so easy to hold it. Jim’s hand slid from the crease of Selarie’s elbow down to the middle of his forearm. Selarie quietly caught his breath. 

Jim looked away and guiltily clasped his hands behind his back. Captain Spisee might be as kind as he was handsome, but he had no doubt the man would crush him into a paste if he broke Selarie’s heart. Jim wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d deserve it. 

He fumbled for some words to fill the silence. “Who weaves the tapestries?” 

Selarie’s mouth curled down faintly at one corner. He stared at the spot on his arm where Jim’s hand had rested. With a heavy sigh, he folded his hands behind his back. 

The only thing worse than seeing Selarie sad was being the reason. Jim put on his best Friendly and Approachable smile #2 and gently elbowed Selarie in the ribs. “C’mon, spill the beans. I’ve never seen them at work in the craft room.” 

Selarie’s hands dipped into his pockets. “I possess no legumes.” 

“I…” Jim covered his mouth with one hand. 

Selarie cocked his head to one side. “Is there a species of sentient legumes which engage in manual labor?”

“No.” Jim struggled not to laugh. “I didn’t mean that the beans would be working in the craft room.” 

“Disappointing,” said Selarie. “I have met a sentient moss.” 

“Really?” Jim’s eyes went round. 

“It was very soft.” A faint smile ghosted over Selarie’s features. “We can replicate beans for your ritual act of spilling. Does it require a specific bean?” 

“Not everything humans do is a ritual,” said Jim.

Selarie shot him a dubious look.

Jim gave in and let himself laugh. “To ‘spill the beans’ is a colloquialism,” he said. “It means telling a harmless secret.” 

“Our tapestries are not formed in secret. There is much…” he paused, considering his words carefully, then nodded. “Competition. To use the loom.” Selarie folded his hands in front of him this time, apparently unsure what to do with them. “Before the loom we painted notices on long strips of paper. This is better. You can not recognize any handwriting.” 

Jim flashed on the ongoing and increasingly heated tapestry-based argument between the feuding papercrafters. Keeping individual handwriting out of it sounded like a good idea. “Who works the loom?” 

“It is a machine. It works itself.” Selarie raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see it?” 

“Hell yeah!” Jim couldn’t leave Selarie looking sad. He gave into temptation and squeezed his arm again. “Lead the way!” 

He knew every room in the areas of the ship where he was permitted. The mystery loom wasn’t in any of them. He could spend time with Selarie, see how the copious and occasionally catty tapestries were made, and add to his map, all during one late night stroll. The efficiency was positively Vulcan. 

Selarie led him past the biology labs, past a cluster of administrative offices, to an unassuming, unlabeled door. Most of the lab and office doors were painted by the occupants, so he’d always assumed this was a storage closet. 

Selarie pressed a big hand against the palm reader. It flashed pale blue and slid open. He took a short step in, looking both ways. His arm slid from Jim’s hold, fingertips brushing a line so soft Jim could almost pretend he didn’t feel the trace of them on his naked forearm. He dutifully folded his hands behind his back and stood up straight as he followed Selarie into an unfamiliar section of the ship. 

His heart beat hard enough he was afraid the whole deck could hear. This was exciting, and not just because he was exploring a new part of the ship. He took a deep breath, hoping to slow his pulse. He was a Starfleet Cadet, not a teenager sneaking off with a cute boy. He glanced up at Selarie. Damnit, he was cute. 

This wing of the Sh’Raan was steppe themed. Endless waves of an unfamiliar grain were painted in such detail that they seemed to sway beneath the big blue sky of the arched ceiling overhead. Herds of large herbivores grazed in the distance. A wistful pain surprised him as he suddenly wished the grass was maize. 

Other than the new murals, this wing seemed to be mostly administrative offices and storage. Selarie peeked both ways before leading him down a short hallway that ended in a single ornate door decorated with a mosaic of two pre-Surakian Vulcan women working at a massive  warp-weighted loom. 

Selarie opened it with the barest hint of flourish. 

The other side of the door looked less like a storage room and more like a cargo bay. Jim’s eyes quickly scouted out each of the corners. The room was at least 28 meters across, 40 deep, and five high. 

The living space of the public decks was 3.7 meters high, plus room between for flooring and mechanicals. Something about this room’s shape made the back of his brain itch. 

He didn’t have time to scratch it, though, because his attention was drawn to a massive loom that looked like something straight out of the industrial revolution. It needed the full five meters of clearance space. Punched cards flowed like giant lace ribbons overhead, controlling dozens of spools of string. The click of the cards and rise of the heddle bars thumped out a dance-worthy beat as the loom followed the punched instructions.

“It makes three tapestries each day.” Selarie gave the loom an affectionate pat that looked suspiciously like the way the crew patted Jim’s shoulder. 

“That seems like a lot,” said Jim.

“No. The wait list is long.” said Selarie. “We have made duplicates of the loom.” He gave the machine another affectionate pat. “But whenever we build another, it soon becomes a gift.” 

Jim chewed his lip while he stared at the heaving machine. Who would want a duplicate of an industrial era loom, even one built with Vulcan precision?

“It takes all this to make a meter wide tapestry?”

The walls on both sides of the loom were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. To the left, every shelf held neatly stacked, industrial sized spools of thread in a dazzling array of colors, textures, and thicknesses. To the right, the shelves were filled with brightly painted drawers in a dizzying array of sizes, many with calligraphy, animals, and objects painted on the front. 

“Yes,” said Selarie. “We have streamlined the process.” 

He pulled a stray bit of embroidery thread out of his pocket. On the spool side of the loom stood a dazzling abstract welded and beaten metal sculpture of a woman with a high crown made of small succulents and a basket of roots at her feet. She held a wide bowl at her hip, filled with scraps of thread and snagged or mangled bits of cloth. He dropped his offering into the bowl before walking around the machine. 

The other side of the loom was dedicated to an antique console terminal hooked to a mishmash of hardware. Jim knelt to stare in awe at a mess of converter plugs, power transformer bricks, and electrical tape that made him want to crawl into the lap of whatever genius convinced Orion, Romulan, and Federation parts to work nicely together and give them the best head of their lives. That kind of tech interoperability was as much a work of art as the unfamiliar goddess guarding the loom. 

Stacks of blank punch cards sat on one side of the terminal, while ribbon-tied stacks of freshly punched ones sat on the other. 

Selarie opened a nearby drawer and pulled out a thick stack of weathered cards. When he let go of one end, they clattered down to form a long ribbon, loosely but securely bound to one another along their longest edges. The pattern of punches on each one was subtly different from the ones it was connected to, and each had small notations in neat Vulcan script. 

“These are the patterns.” He peered at Jim through the gap between two cards. 

“This is incredible.” Jim leaned in next to him, arms not quite touching, and picked up another stack of cards. It was surprisingly heavy. “You make one of these for every single tapestry?”

“It is an honor,” said Selarie. 

 “On my homeworld this is six, maybe seven hundred year old technology.” 

“This loom is over a thousand years old. It spent centuries in a museum. Fifty two years ago it was modified for torture.” Selarie carefully refolded the punched cards into a stack, retied their ribbon, and placed them back in the drawer. “We scrubbed out the blood and returned its purpose.”

“Good.” Jim squeezed his bicep. “Other people would’ve taken a sledgehammer to it.” 

“Not if those people were Vulcans.” Selarie gave the loom another reassuring pat. “A tool can not choose how it is used.” 

Jim walked back to the machine, thumping away its steady drumbeat. It would be easy to lose a digit in there. Perhaps a thumb. He circled the loom at a respectful distance, watching in fascination as a beautiful green and yellow tapestry with blue and orange calligraphy was created one line of thread at a time. From what he could read, this one had something to do with an upcoming Kal-Toh tournament.  

Jim touched the back wall, behind the terminal, and dragged his fingers along the cool metal.  “There’s only so much wall space on the ship. What do you do with the old ones when a tapestry is replaced?” He followed the line of the wall until he reached the shelves of thread spools, turned 90 degrees, and slowly walked the length of the room.

“A tapestry belongs to its creator. They share it with us for as long as it is useful,”  said Selarie. 

Jim continued slowly pacing the perimeter of the room. Hopefully one pass would be enough to give Walk Pal an accurate idea of the room’s dimensions and relative location. 

“I wonder if anyone would let me have theirs.” Jim dragged his fingered over spool after spool of thread. “I would like to take one home as a memento.” 

“Yes,” said Selarie. “We want you to remember us.” 

“Selarie, you are unforgettable.” Jim glanced up just as Selarie glanced away. When he looked back, he saw the corners of Selarie’s mouth had ticked up. 

“Are there any tapestries in your room?” Jim stopped next to Selarie, and rested with one hand hanging from a drawer handle. 

“Would you like to see them?” Selarie hung his hand from the next handle over, less than a finger’s length away. 

Jim’s cheeks flushed. “Yes.”

Selarie’s forefinger stretched out so it barely touched Jim’s knuckle. He leaned into the soft touch and took another half step closer. 

“I still have twenty five seconds of hug time left this week,” said Jim. 

“So much?” Selarie raised an eyebrow.

Jim stared into his eyes. “I was saving it for something special.”

Selarie anchored one hand on the solid drawers. The other stretched towards him. Jim’s hands reached up towards Selarie’s wide shoulders.

The door suddenly swung open to reveal Sepsis and T’Una, wrists pressed together in conversation. His long hair was loose, bent into unnatural waves from a recently unfastened braid. Her cheeks and ears were flushed darker than Selarie’s. They stopped in surprise just as Jim and Selarie stood at attention, hands folded neatly behind their backs. In sync, both older Vulcans raised an eyebrow at Jim. 

T’Una sighed. “Selarie. He should not be here.” 

Jim stared guiltily. He knew that look. He’d seen it on the face of every teacher on Typerias, and lately on Pike. It transcended languages and cultures, but could be loosely translated to, ‘I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.’ 

“It’s my fault.” Jim stood straighter. “I asked to see how the tapestries are made.” 

T’Una and Sepsis exchanged another knowing look. Jim narrowed his eyes, suddenly wondering what the pair of them were doing here this time of night. 

“Come, Selarie,” said Sepsis. “Let us discuss this with Stork.”

“He shouldn’t be the one in trouble,” said Jim. “I am very persuasive. If there are consequences, they should be mine alone”

Sepsis pressed his wrist against T’Una’s. Jim watched carefully. Both were mildly exasperated, but if he read his Vulcan’s right, Sepsis was mostly bemused while T’Una was concerned. 

“There will be no reprimand,” said Sepsis. T’Una shot him a slow side eye.  “Merely a discussion.” 

Jim glanced at Selarie, who was entirely failing in his attempt not to look miserable.

“May I have a reprimand instead?” asked Jim.

Sepsis snorted. T’Una shot him a warning look. The faint flare of his nostrils in reply was as close as Vulcan’s came to rolling their eyes. 

“Accompany me, James,” said T’Una. “I will escort you back to your quarters.” 

Jim turned to Selarie.”Will you be okay?”

Selarie stared down at the deck. “Sepsis will not harm me.” 

“Maybe not physically, but we both know he can do a lot of damage with a cutting remark,” said Jim.

“My scalpels are in MedBay,” said Sepsis. “Selarie is safe with me.”

“Come.” T’Una waved gracefully towards the open door. 

Jim reluctantly walked towards her just as Sepsis headed towards Selarie. It felt like an exchange of hostages. As he passed Jim, Sepsis gave his shoulder a firm, reassuring pat. 

When he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Selarie and Sepsis, heads bowed together. Their words were too soft for his human hearing, but at least Selarie didn’t look afraid. 

“Where did you enter this deck?” asked T’Una.

Jim looked thoughtful. This was a chance to add a little more to his map. “Through a door?” 

“Follow me,” she sighed. 

Jim forced himself not to look down at his pedometer when she led him away from the door Selarie brought him through. As they walked, the illusion of distant herbivore herds grew nearer, making it feel like they’d walked kilometers by the time they reached the end of the hall.

“Captain Spisee spoke with you about Selarie.” 

“Yes,” Jim sighed. 

T’Una narrowed her eyes. “Have you carved a pendant for him?”

“I’m a little young to be married,” said Jim.

T’Una led him through an unremarkable door. They emerged onto a far corner of the crew quarters deck. The evening lights were even dimmer here, casting them both into deep shadow. “He is not.” 

The concern thick in T’Una’s voice stopped Jim’s feet. The musician’s usually loose and friendly posture was stiff, her eyes creased with sadness. 

“What happened to his betrothed?” Jim asked, gently.

“Do not ask him.” T’Una crossed her arms tight over her chest. “Please.” 

Floor lights brightened a path one meter to either side of them as they walked the unusually quiet hall. 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” said Jim. 

“We know,” said T’Una. “If we did not trust you, he would be assigned a different shift.” 

“I’m glad you haven’t. Selarie’s my favorite person on the Sh’Raan.” 

“We agree.”

Jim leaned against the wall outside his quarters. “If you tell me I’m hurting him, I’ll ask to be transferred to another shift.”

T’Una studied him like a lab specimen. After a long moment, she nodded. “Some among us are pleased he has so easily befriended a stranger. It bodes well for his future.” 

“Thank you,” said Jim. “Do you plan to introduce him to more strangers soon?” 

“Yes,” said T’Una. “We will find him a suitable mate in the next four months.” 

Jim frowned. “Why such a strict deadline?” 

“His Time approaches,” said T’Una, as if that explained everything. She took three steps, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. “It is a pity you are not dissatisfied with Starfleet.” 

Jim shot her a melancholy smile. “If anything could change my mind, it would be the Sh’Raan.”

She nodded once, and headed down the hall. 

“Hey,” Jim shouted after her. “You know T’Ikka has a crush on you, right?” 

This time, when T’Una looked back over her shoulder the corners of her mouth curled up in a faint smile. “I have seen her paintings.” 

“Are you going to do anything about it?” asked Jim. 

T’Una’s smile grew by half a centimeter. When she met Jim’s eyes, the softness and worry for Selarie was replaced with something that, by Vulcan standards, bordered on mischievous. “Yes.” 

He shot her a saucy wink before finally stepping into his room. After the cool air of the ship's night, his room felt comfortingly warm. He grabbed a glass of water and headed to his desk. 

He synched his pedometer to his PADD and watched eagerly as new walking lines were added to the map. “What the actual fuck?” 

Jim dug out his personal sketches and lay them next to the PADD. The known parts of the ship lined up perfectly, but the new section he’d just been in didn’t match any of his extrapolations. He pulled out another PADD and started flipping through ship schematics. 

The Sh’Raan was ostensibly a Suurok class ship, but if his sketches were accurate - and he knew they were - then that was only true for six decks. The rest of them were a hot mess. Instead of clearing things up, the new paths leading to and from the loom didn’t match anything in his Vulcan ship database. 

“Walk Pal,” said Jim. “I want to pretend I’m walking on a starship. Look at the following files,” he punched in his files for each deck separately. “and let me know if there’s a ship configuration that matches any of these.” 

“No known matches,” the PADD said cheerily. 

Jim’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Walk Pal, what about partial matches? Overlay portions of my routes that match configurations of known ships, both inside and outside the Federation. It’s fine if the match isn’t precise. Let’s see how close we can get.” 

His PADD lit up. Decks 3-9 seemed to have a Vulcan Suurok class ship for the starboard 2/3, but something else for the port.

“Walk Pal, does this section of my walk paths match any interior ship schematics? It’s okay if there’s only a partial match.” He circled the front third. 

“Arr, mateys!” The Walk Pal voice said cheerfully. “So you wanna walk the decks of a Naussican pirate ship! Be careful they don’t toss ye out the airlock!” The PADD played him a jaunty pirate tune. 

Jim set one PADD to show him a Suurok class ship and the other a Nausican pirate ship. If you removed the engines and aft plasma canons so you were only left with the Nausican ship’s cargo bays and crew decks, it still didn’t quite match up. 

He flipped through his personal drawings of the Sh’Raan’s interior while staring hard at the Nausican schematics. He was making this too complicated. It was simple three dimensional geometry.

First he mentally rotated two Naussican ships so they were stacked on top of one another. That didn’t work. He flipped one of them 180 degrees so they were stacked with the area schematics designated as the tops touching. Then he moved them ever so slightly off of center, and filled in the spaces around the middle of the stack, where the two ships met, with a horseshoe shape of empty cargo bays. 

It was a fucking nonsensical mess, but damn if it didn’t line up with some of his personal sketches. He turned the new frankenship 90 degrees in his mind. Then he shoved the whole mess up against the big elbow bend at the port end of a Suurok class ship. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Now eight of the decks he mapped out made a frightening amount of sense. 

That couldn’t be right. 

For one thing, it would be absolutely bonkers engineering. There would be so many interoperability issues that the end result wouldn’t be worth the effort. For another - why? What would be the actual point? 

You couldn’t just tear apart three ships from two wildly different engineering pedagogies then weld them all together. Not if you wanted a single space worthy vessel when at the end. 

But these were Vulcans. 

If anyone could look at objects in three dimensions and effortlessly perceive how they could fit together, it would be the people who taught him math using basketweaving and mosaics. 

Jim sat back, eyes closed, and pictured the deck-length scars on Glacier. Maybe the ship’s interior looked like it had been ripped in half because it was. Maybe - and this was the wildest thought he’d had all night - maybe they did it on purpose?

He sucked air through his teeth. It didn’t make any damn sense. Even if you were going to do something that mechanically insane, why fuse a Suurok class Vulcan science vessel with a Naussican pirate ship?

He sat the PADD’s with their schematics upright, one slightly overlapping the other, and spread out his own map sketches of the Sh’Raan’s interior in front of them. He had to be missing something. No one would believe him. Hell, he didn’t believe him.

But he’d never seen the Sh’Raan from the outside. 

Starfleet told him he’d be serving on a Suurok class ship and he’d said yes, sure, that sounds right. But he had no idea what the ship actually looked like. He’d beamed aboard the Starfleet ship that brought him out to this end of space, beamed from there onto a merchant vessel heading towards the Sh’Raan’s location, then beamed onto the Sh’Raan. He’d never boarded via shuttle, which would’ve given him a nice exterior view. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought to ask the merchant ship if they had a viewport where he could get a good look at the ship that would be his home for the summer.

For that matter, when was the last time he actually looked at the exterior of any space ship? Space could be full of big cubes for all he knew. 

What the hell was the Sh’Raan ? There was no one he could ask. This wasn’t the kind of question you dared voice unless you were damn confident of the answers. 

He grabbed a fresh stack of paper and began a new series of sketches. 

Chapter Text

“Spock!” Jim grinned at his viewscreen. “I hoped you’d be at Uhura’s place tonight. Homework is kicking my ass. I really want to pick your brains about a damaged starship’s architectural stability during warp drive.”

Spock sat next to Uhura on her narrow Starfleet dorm bed. One leg stretched sideways past her hips, loosely encircling her. Her knees pushed up against the inner thigh of his other leg. He held her makeup pallet between his hands, eyes closed while she carefully painted his eyelids a dramatic purple. 

“Hi Jimmy!” Half of Gaila’s grinning face shoved into view, turning the left side of the vidscreen a cheerful shade of green. “We’re getting ready for a double date.” 

“Double the pleasure, right Gaila?” Jim grinned broadly at them both while Uhura rolled her eyes at Gaila’s wink.. “So when am I finally going to meet your mystery beau?” 

A familiar voice cleared his throat offscreen. “About that, Jimbo.” 

Jim’s eyes slowly widened as Gaila shoved Leonard McCoy onto the bed, thigh to thigh next to Spock. Her left arm wrapped possessively around his shoulder, though her fingers teased the back of Spock’s hair. 

“Gaila, no!” Jim said sternly.

“Gaila, yes!” she grinned at him. 

“Do I have any say in this conversation?” McCoy glanced between them. 

“No,” chorused Gaila, Uhura, Spock, and Jim. Gaila buried her face in McCoy’s shoulder as she broke into giggles. He smiled softly at her.

“Gaila!” Jim snapped. “You told me you and your new date were fucking nightly in their roommates bed.” His voice lowered, “You said you ruined their mattress.” 

McCoy flushed dark pink and looked away from the viewscreen.

“Come on, Jimmy! I didn’t Vulcan ruin it!” Gaila laughed. Uhura shot her a glare over Spock’s shoulder. “There’s just a little fire damage.”

“And some wax buildup,” McCoy muttered.

“What the actual fuck?” Jim’s eyes went wide. 

“Yes. That’s what we were doing. I’m glad you’re keeping up with the conversation.”

“I’m in a special circle of hell,” Jim muttered. “How long has this been going on?”

“Spock set us up five weeks ago.” Gaila planted a soft kiss on McCoy’s cheek. He leaned sideways, resting his head against hers. 

“First, congratulations. That’s the longest relationship you’ve had in the last year and a half.” Jim crossed his arms and sat back, glaring. “Second, What the fuck, Spock?!”

“I ascertained that I may need assistance influencing your behavior.”  Spock ignored the jostling on the bed, posture relaxed and calm under Uhura’s ministrations. 

“You set my roommate up with your girlfriend’s roommate so he’d take your side pressuring me?” Jim pushed his irritation down in favor of smiling his way through Curious but Concerned Look #2.

Uhura didn’t look up from applying Spock’s makeup. “It only worked because they’re good together.”

McCoy and Gaila leaned their foreheads together, staring into one another’s eyes. 

“Dammit, Bones!” Jim sighed. “How many times have you told me my dick has led me places I wouldn’t go with a phaser to my head?” 

“Now wait a damn minute!” McCoy snapped out of the bubble he’d been in with Gaila. “You’re like family to me, Jimbo, but I won’t have you talking ‘bout my girl like that.” 

‘I’m his girl!’ Gaila mouthed at Jim, one hand over her heart. 

“Gaila’s a catch and you’re lucky to have her,” Jim conceded. “But holy shit, I don’t know which one of you I’m supposed to give the shovel talk? This is a real sword of Damocles.”

“If we break up you’re going to break both our noses?” Gaila trailed a green finger down the length of McCoy’s nose. He tilted his head up to lightly kiss her fingertip. 

“Don’t get him started, sugar,” said McCoy. “He’ll be picking out wedding rings for us before breakfast just so he don’t have to pick sides in a breakup.”

“I mean, as long as JoJo approves,” Gaila leaned against his side. 

“You’ve met JoJo!” Jim’s eyes bulged. “He didn’t introduce me to JoJo for a year!” 

“I’m a better influence than you are,” Gaila grinned. 

“You’re the worst,” Jim rolled his eyes, settling into Bemused but Accepting #1. “I don’t know how you could do this to me. When I get back to campus--” 

“Speaking of which,” Spock interrupted him, “The time has come for you to end your internship. I have spoken to Captain Pike on your behalf. You will receive full credit and an excellent letter of recommendation based on your experiences.” 

“Well fuck you very much.” Jim’s open and welcoming expression snapped into his default Human Neutral #2. “No. Absolutely not. I’d sign up for another 3 months if it wouldn’t interfere with my fall class lineup.”

“Three more months of us fucking in your bed?”  Gaila waggled her eyebrows.

“I have a perfectly good bed here,” Jim said calmly. “With a mattress that isn’t lube logged, fire damaged, or crunchy with wax.” 

“There are a few knife wounds,” Gaila added sweetly.  

“Shh, darlin’,” McCoy gently knocked his shoulder against hers. “I sewed those up.”

“He has the hands of a surgeon.” Gaila’s sweet smile turned saucy as she picked up McCoy’s hand and held it over her heart. 

Jim stared hard at McCoy. “Who are you?” 

“I’m the man who calls you family, Jim.” Gaila squeezed McCoy’s hand for support. He smiled at her through his lashes before turning his full attention to the viewscreen. “Spock here dragged me to Pike’s office with him. I know you’re having fun out there, but,” he sighed. “We’re worried about you.”

“Why is that?” Jim crossed his arms.

“Listen, Starfleet has a bad habit of taking anything a Vulcan says at face value,” said McCoy.

“It’s a very pretty face.” Uhura stroked Spock’s cheek. One eye opened to peek at her, and they shared a soft smile. 

“Vulcans are so private that they barely translate anything into Standard. If you want to know what they’re talking about you need to understand Golic,” added Gaila. 

“So it’s not Pike’s fault he didn’t know,” said McCoy.

“Didn’t know what?” asked Jim.

Uhura’s face was as neutrally blank as a Vulcan’s. She painted a sweep of sparkly gold eyeliner over Spock’s purple shadow, her posture radiating ‘I am not a part of this.’ Jim watched her while McCoy talked. 

“According to the records this green bean dug up,” he jerked a thumb at Spock, “the Sh’Raan went out of service forty years ago. She was banged up so bad they sold her for scrap. The scrap merchant had the ship’s license, though, so legally anyone who bought her second hand could fix her up.”

“However,” said Spock, “The damage was so extensive that any potential buyer would need to replace starboard portions of ten decks. I believe the ship was purchased not for scrap, but for the ship’s license.” 

Jim took a deep breath. He hadn’t whispered a thing to anyone on Earth about his private project mapping the Sh’Raan. “This is a Suurok class ship.” 

“You can not be certain,” said Spock. “You have not seen it from the outside.”

“I’m gonna cut you off right there.” Jim held up a hand. “I use Walk Pal to keep me motivated to exercise in this gravity. I can’t draw any dicks walking this ship.” Gaila snorted. “It’s just endless loops of the portions of a Suurok class ship that I have access to. All the walk maps line up.” 

It wasn’t entirely a lie. At least two thirds of the parts of the Sh’Raan he’d mapped did line up with a Suurok class ship. Spock didn’t need to know about the other third. Not before Jim figured out what was going on here. 

“We both know Pike wouldn’t send me out here if it wasn’t safe,” said Jim.

Gaila and Bones shared a dubious look. 

Spock continued to calmly hold Uhura’s eyeshadow pallet in front of him, eyes closed and posture relaxed while she prepared him for their date. “Pike did not realize the gravity of the situation.”

“It’s 1.26 times the gravity of Earth,” said Jim. “And why the hell would anyone go through the trouble of contacting Starfleet and leaving a paper trail if they wanted anything other than an intern?”

“Spock,” McCoy said the name like a warning. 

“As I said before, I believe they initially wanted Nyota,” Spock ignored him. “She would be an invaluable asset to a multitude of governments on the fringes of Federation space. Pirates would profit greatly from kidnapping her.” 

Jim shook his head. “So why keep up the pretense when they realized they’d be stuck with me?” 

“Because you are the Narada baby,” said Spock.

“And you’re exotically recessive on top of that,” added Gaila. “You look really undersaturated, Jimmy. It’s a little offputting at first, but once you get used to it, well, it makes you doubly exotic.” 

“You think the crew of the Sh’Raan has trained me in tactics and botany for the last two months because they want to sell me to Orion slavers?” Jim’s mouth hung open in shock. 

“It is not an unreasonable theory,” said Spock. 

“Yes it is!” Jim’s face fell into his hands. “What is wrong with you?” He looked up, unable to contain his mix of confusion and frustration, “You are so determined to find something troubling here. What the hell did any of these people do to you?”

“Nothing,” said Spock. “However, I have seen their leader in action. I am increasingly concerned for your safety.” 

“You think Captain Spisee would leave a paper trail with Starfleet showing that he kidnapped a Cadet just to sell them to Orion slavers? This is worse than the plot of The Stars Live In Your Eyes !” 

“Do not take our favorite show’s name in vain,” said Gaila. 

“If they wanted to kidnap a Starfleet Cadet they could hang out at the mid level atmospherically seedy bars at literally any space station. Their cargo hold would be full of hung over cadets by the end of the week!”

“Spock, he has a point,” said Uhura. 

Jim shot her a grateful look. “Nothing you’ve said is logical. Maybe that’s the line you fed Pike, but I want to know why you’re really out here smearing shit on a good man’s reputation.”

“I am not -” Spock pivoted towards the camera, mouth curled in anger as his eyes crinkled with offense. 

“You just called him a kidnapper and a slaver!” Jim shouted. 

“You need to tell him the truth,” Uhura said softly. 

“Told ya so,” McCoy muttered. 

“My family has interacted with Captain Spisee in the past.” Spock said the name as if putting air quotes around it. “There are reports of instability in the sector where his ship is located. I have stated before that you are in danger. Everything I learned of late has indicates I underestimated the situation.”

“Things like what?” Jim demanded. 

Spock closed his eyes again and turned back to Uhura. “That is classified.” 

“Fucking unclassify it!” said Jim. “You’re going to have to give me damn good evidence if you want me to believe that the same kind people who spend every Friday night embroidering and making paper crafts to live folk music are somehow scary bad guys!”

“I am certain they perceive themselves as virtuous,” said Spock. 

“Spock,” Jim said softly, “Please. What’s really going on here?”

“I am trying to protect you,” a hint of desperation crept into Spock’s voice. “I ask for your trust.”

“Spock, it’s not you versus them. If you met the crew of the Sh’Raan , you’d understand. This is,” he shook his head, eyes darting around his comfortable quarters. “This is one of the best places I’ve ever been. I feel at home here in a way I didn’t know was possible.” 

“It is also a dangerous environment where you are in significant peril,” said Spock. “These facts need not be mutually contradictory.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Jim pleaded. 

Spock’s head bowed enough that Uhura gently tilted his chin back upwards before applying blush. “That is classified.” 

“That’s not enough,” said Jim. 

“Would it be enough if I said it?” asked McCoy. “I don’t have the green bean’s clearance, but mine is still a few steps up from yours. There’s something going on in that sector, Jimbo. Something bad.” 

Spock lay a hand on McCoy’s forearm and silently shook his head. 

“I told you not to bring up the whole pirate bullshit,” said McCoy. “All that did was piss him off. You should’a listened to me when I said to start by asking for trust.”

“We know one another through games of chess,” said Spock. “That is not a strong enough foundation to presume compliance.” 

“Well he knows me because I’ve saved his damn life more times than either of us can count.”

“Twenty nine,” said Jim. 

“This is me trying to make it thirty.” McCoy stared into the viewscreen, suddenly looking five years older. “Come home, Jimmy. Please.”

“In six more weeks,” said Jim. 

“Dammit, kid!” McCoy snapped. Gaila wrapped an arm around McCoy’s shoulders while shooting Jim a chastising look. 

“I like it here,” Jim ignored her. “I’ve made friends.”

“With Vulcans?” McCoy looked incredulous. 

“They’re nice!” 

“Kid, you could make friends with a fire hydrant,” McCoy rolled his eyes. 

“I thought you said he slept with T’Akos, not Selarie?” Gaila frowned at Uhura, who quickly put a finger over her lips. 

“Who bailed you out when you punched that security guard who tried to stop you from fucking a pile of gravel?” asked McCoy. 

Jim rolled his eyes. “I thought it was a Horta, and I didn’t touch her.” 

“In fairness, he was a complete gentleman,” said Uhura.

“Not according to the security guard,” said McCoy. “My point is you see the best in people. Or rocks. Or Vulcans.” 

“What would they have to gain?” asked Jim. “Be logical!”

“That’s the worst part,” McCoy sighed. “They don’t got anything to gain. Not that I can see, at least. Which means they don’t got any reason to keep you safe iffin the worst happens.”

“What kind of worst?” asked Jim.

“That is--” Spock began.

“I swear, if you say classified I will punch you through this viewscreen,” said Jim.

“Not currently information we can share,” said Spock.

Gaila pulled out her PADD and frowned. “Spock, you’re pretty enough. If we don’t leave now we’ll be late.” 

Uhura lay a soft hand on Spock’s cheek and nodded. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping slightly. She brushed a kiss on his hair, then held her hand out to him. He took it and rose without looking at Jim again. 

Gaila leaned in close and kissed the side of McCoy’s face. His lovesick smile stiffened as she whispered to him. He squeezed her knee, shot one sad glance at Spock, and nodded. 

“You three head on out,” Gaila said brightly. “I’ll catch up. Jimmy here still has a few minutes of subspace credit left. I don’t want it to go to waste.” 

“Take however long you need.” Uhura squeezed Gaila’s shoulder. “Spock and I can ensure the concert doesn’t start until you arrive.” 

“Still can’t believe you’re the reason the San Francisco Philharmonic started half an hour late last month,” McCoy muttered. 

“We won’t be long,” said Gaila. “Just make sure they let box seat patrons sneak in a minute or two late.” 

Uhura kissed the top of Gaila’s hair while McCoy pulled Gaila’s fingers to his lips for a soft kiss. The two of them each put a reassuring hand on Spock’s back, leading him out of the dorm room. 

Gaila waited until she heard the click of the door’s automatic lock before turning back to the vidscreen. “They’re really worried about you, Jimmy.”

“I’m fine.” Jim’s shoulders broadened and his smile perked up, projecting relaxed confidence. “I’m better than fine. I’m actually good. Gaila, I like it here.”

“You should tell Spock why,” she said softly.

“No.” Jim looked away from the screen. “He knows me as a cocky Cadet.”

Gaila leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “Do you really think he’d look at you differently if he knew why you have that accent in Vulcan?” 

He dropped his masks and stared at her; open and hurt, vulnerable and trusting. “You do.” 

“That’s right, Jimmy,” her voice was kind and patient, “But is the way I look at you worse?” 

He stared down at his hands. “It depends on the day.” 

“Really?” 

“No,” Jim admitted. “But I don’t know if I could take that from him.” 

Gaila sat back up and scooted back so she could rest cross-legged on the narrow Starfleet bed. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“Not like that,” he rolled his eyes. “We play chess. We talk strategy and science.”

He felt Gaila’s gaze on the corners of his eyes, the bottom of his lip, all the places it was hardest to hide a tell. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it,” she said slowly, “when you don’t have to dumb down your conversation.”

“He’s never asked about Dead George,” Jim didn’t look up. “He gets what it's like to be born a celebrity and grow up into a disappointment. And yeah, he’s smart as hell. He should be teaching academy classes, not taking them.”

Gaila snorted. “That’s rich, coming from you.” 

“Don’t even start.” Jim looked up through his lashes and rewarded her with a small, honest smile.

“Give it a couple of years,” said Gaila. “Not for you, obviously. We’re both getting the hell off this rock. But Nyota’s not the only person they plan to offer a tenure track position. Rumor has it she and Spock were set up by professors who hoped that if they got married they could become the academy’s next power couple.”

“They know he’s engaged, right?”

“Have you met his betrothed?” Gaila rolled her eyes. “I could see her settling down with Uhura before I could see her actually go through with things with Spock!”

Jim whistled. “Seven years old seems like a rough time in a Vulcan kid’s life.”

“Survive alone in the desert and you’re rewarded by getting married to a stranger,” said Gaila. “After that, second grade seems easy by comparison.”

Jim grabbed a wadded ball of paper off his desk and idly tossed it from hand to hand. “Speaking of romance, how are things between you and Bones? For real.” 

Her cheeks flushed a darker shade of green. “I wanna be mad at you for holding out on me, Jimmy. He’s great.” 

“He didn’t seem like your type. Too…”

“Human?” She smirked at him. 

Jim shrugged. 

“I get it. We went out the first time to shut Spock up,” said Gaila. “You wanna know what we bonded over?”

“Peaches?”

“You,” she said. “He needed someone to talk to about you. Someone he could trust. And he knew that I knew.” 

The paper ball he was tossing fell to the floor. “Fuck,” Jim whispered. “I knew I shouldn’t have told him. It’s too much.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimmy,” Gaila said, kindly. “I know you’re thinking it was a mope fest. But we talked about how proud we are of you. Hey. Look at me.”

Jim forced himself to meet her gaze. She stared at him with love and understanding for so long his own eyes grew wet. 

“Yeah, that meant talking about how hard it is that we can’t punch people in the face over that bullshit cover story about your fake two year long gap year. We hate it when people think you must’ve had an easy life as the Narada Baby.” She shook her head, chuckling, “We had a great conversation pondering what they’d actually do if we set certain Admiral’s offices on fire for, well, you know what they did.”

“Did you have this conversation while you were setting my bed on fire?” Jim raised an eyebrow.

Gaila laughed. “Like you’ve never knocked over a few candles while someone was tied to that bed.”

“Fun fact, Gaila!” Jim leaned forward so his face filled the camera. “I have not!”

“Listen, between us? That mattress is ruined. Make Spock buy you a new one. He’s got the cash for it. You can say it’s all his fault for setting us up.” Gaila mimed pushing his face backwards. He complied, moving in time with her arm until he was leaning back in his plush desk chair. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think Spock is going to be talking to me about anything for much longer.”

She sighed heavily. “Jim.” 

He looked up, eyes narrowed in concern at her for using his actual name. 

“Spock doesn’t have a lot of friends. You don’t treat him like The Ambassador’s Son, or like The Medical Curiosity, or like he’s half of too many things and not enough of anything. You see a whole man.”

“You say that like he’s not,” said Jim.

“Right answer,” said Gaila. “To you he’s just some guy you can play chess with and have nerdy conversations that would go over the rest of our heads. You don’t get it. He doesn’t have anyone else like that in his life.”

“Like I do?” Jim scoffed. 

“No, sugar,” Gaila’s tight smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I know you don’t.”

“Sugar?” Jim shot her Moms Think It’s Saucy Smile #2. “You really have been spending too much time with Bones.”

“I’d say not enough.” For a moment she dropped her own masks and looked 10 years younger, like a college girl in love. “Don’t ruin this for me, Jimmy.”

“Never.” His makes fell in a mirror to hers. Jim leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, face sincere and earnest. “I’m gonna be the best man at your wedding.”

“I want to say you’re moving too fast,” Gaila’s blush returned. “No matter what happens, he’s a good man.”

“I know,” said Jim. “

“Listen, I really do need to go. Spock and Uhura will make the Zero Gravity Music Festival start late if they have to.”

“Excuse me, you’re going to the ZGMF?” Jim’s eyes went round. “The tickets cost more than a semester’s rent!”

“It’s nice to have rich friends.” She winked at him. “And it’s good for Spock to have people in his life he can do fun things with. Spock’s a good man. He’s not trying to fuck you, Jimmy.”

“I wish he was,” Jim sighed. 

She blinked in surprise. “Wait, really?” 

“It’d be easier if he was on some kind of power trip and wanted to ruin this for me just because he can.” Jim crossed his arms again, frowning. “I know that’s not it, but Gaila - he’s wrong.”

“He’s right about some things. When I found out what sector Pike sent you to,” she shook her head. “You have no business being out there.” 

“I’m on a botany research ship!” Jim snapped. 

“I know you can take care of yourself, but don’t get hurt, Jimmy. And if you do,” she looked at the door, her mouth pulled into a hard, tight line. “Fucking hide it. Don't let him know.” She stared at him, face scary serious. “I mean it. He won’t be the same if he blames himself for letting his first healthy male friendship end because he couldn’t stop your dumb ass from walking into phaser fire.” 

“That’s…a lot.” 

“You have no idea how loyal that man is,” said Gaila. “Uhura could dump him tomorrow and he’d still take a phaser blast to the chest for her.”

“Okay, good to know,” said Jim. “But I meant the other thing. What’s going on in this region of space?” 

“I shouldn’t tell you this, but…”

Her face was replaced with a Starfleet Delta. The words ‘Communications Lag’ flashed beneath it while the seconds of his subspace credit continued to tick away. He only had 1:45 left. Plenty of their conversations had been cut off earlier than that due to unexpected signal lag. 

He stared at the screen, one leg bouncing uncontrollably, until the seconds counted down to zero and the screen went black. 

Chapter Text

“Fucking hell!” Kirk fought against the impulse to put his bloody finger in his mouth. He did not want the kind of attention that would bring on a Vulcan ship. 

Stork pocketed his wrench and rushed to Kirk’s side. “Why are you crying, Cadet?” 

Oh. Right. A little bit of blood didn’t bother them, but tears freaked Vulcans out. 

“It’s nothing. I just jammed my finger and it hurts like a son of a bitch,” said Kirk. 

Selarie looked around, his eyebrows bunched together. “I see no fruit preserves.”

“It’s not that kind of jam, Selarie,” Kirk shot him an affectionate smile.

“That word is exceedingly versatile,” said Snaak. He curiously watched a drop of blood drip from Jim’s finger. 

Stork flipped his comm open. “ Medical to Engineering. Our human is injured .”

Jim pushed the lid of the comm closed. “It’s nothing. Really. Tears are an autonomic reaction to pain. It’s a Human thing. I just need a bandage for the sake of proper hygiene before I get back to work.” 

Snaak, Selarie and Stork instinctively gathered into a protective triangle formation with Jim at the center. The decorative edge of that console wasn’t going to get a second chance to squish his finger into the back of a chair. Not on their watch. While Stork scanned the perimeter, Selarie and Snaak stared down at the slowly swelling pink flesh and the scant trickle of bright red blood pooling along Jim’s cuticle. 

“It appears more viscous than in the holodramas,” said Selarie. 

“Is this the correct color?” asked Snaak. “The manual said lighter blood comes from capillaries while darker red indicates arterial blood.” 

“There are no arteries in my fingers,” said Jim. 

“May I offer a second Shoulder Pat to soothe you?” asked Selarie. 

“That is a dangerous level of intimacy,” said Snaak. “Only sixty two minutes have passed since his morning Shoulder Pat.” 

“You know what? I really would find that soothing, buddy,” Jim ignored Snaak’s raised eyebrow of disapproval. “Bring it in.” 

Selarie lay a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder and barely squeezed. 

“See,” Jim grinned at Selarie. “I’m already feeling better.” 

Encouraged, Selarie gave Jim’s shoulder a firmer squeeze. 

He crumpled to the floor, unconscious. 

Before he was even fully conscious, Jim knew he shouldn’t be lying down. He froze in place, then forced his body to relax. Look like all the other corpses. He heard movement nearby, but no voices. A swish of fabric. Confident steps. At least three people. He resisted the urge to open his eyes. It was too early to tip them off that he was awake. 

He didn’t know why he was down yet. It felt like his brain rowed too far from the shore of his consciousness and was just barely being washed back into place by the waves. 

Jim stayed still, muscles limp, breathing shallow, and did his best to look like any other body. Order of operations. Assess your own damage then assess the situation. He went through his checklist, tuning into his body. 

Nothing was bleeding. Nothing was broken. Nothing was burned. He wasn’t bound or gagged. There was unfamiliar soreness along his right side - a line stretching from his knee up his elbow, to his shoulder, plus a bit of his head seemed bruised. Okay. He must’ve fallen forward. 

Stilling his breathing was a struggle. The air seemed too thin, too dry. His body wanted to suck in deep gasps, but his mind knew if he gave in those breaths could be his last.

Another swish of fabric. The clink of plastisteel on metal. Fuck. That sounded medical. A firm hand tugged his collar open. Jim reached for the wrist with both hands and pulled down, hard. Whatever they were holding clattered to the floor. At the same time, he used their body for leverage, swinging his legs around until he was behind them, perched like an angry backpack with his legs around their waist and one arm around their neck.

“Where am I?” he growled.

The person he was lightly choking stood up in a single smooth motion and shrugged him off as though he was a toddler. As he fell, strong hands grabbed him by the waist. He was lifted off the floor and gently placed on a BioBed. 

“You are in the Sh’Raan’s medbay,” said an impossibly tall Vulcan. He wore a gaudy parody of traditional blue and white medical robes. “Selarie attempted to improvise a more enthusiastic Daily Pat of Affirmation. Instead of gently squeezing your shoulder he rendered you unconscious.” 

Jim stared around the cheerfully painted MedBay, memories trickling back too slow and too cloudy to be useful. A pair of strikingly beautiful women he was sure he knew sat at a table nearby, methodically testing the contents of emergency med kits before replacing the Use By stickers. “You should add rations to those,” he said. They looked up at him in surprise. 

“Cadet Kirk,” The handsome doctor’s voice was low, cautious. 

“And a pair of one liter water filtration bags, plus electrolyte tablets. If you’re relying on an emergency med kit, you don’t have access to a replicator.” 

One of the women nodded in agreement. “I have said as much.” 

“Let me help,” Jim instinctively replied in her language.

He tried to slide off the BioBed, but a firm hand held him in place. Jim stared up into dark Vulcan eyes, his face naked with hurt and betrayal.

“Cadet.” The man stared back in concern. “James. Your memories will align shortly. I am your physician, Major Sepsis.” 

Jim snorted, and the tension in the doctor’s body eased. “Major Sepsis?” 

“Yes.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement at Jim’s struggle to keep a straight face . 

Fuck. How could he forget a man like Sepsis? He was a friend. Though not as good a friend as… “Wait, did you say Selarie Nerve Pinched me?” 

“He reported to Captain Spisee for disciplinary action while you were unconscious,” said Sepsis. “He is now meditating on his actions.” 

“Wait, no!” Jim’s thoughts were still wrapped in seaweed, but he knew Selarie would never hurt him. “You can’t fire my buddy! It was an accident.”

Sepsis gently but firmly took both of Jim’s wrists and placed them at his sides. He then pulled the collar of Jim’s robes open and pressed a hypospray to his neck.

“This contains a tri-ox booster, a vasodilator, a stimulant, and a moderate pain killer,” said Major Sepsis. “Full alertness should return in ninety seconds, while breathing should become measurably easier in two point four minutes. You may feel mildly intoxicated for up to an hour. Do not make any life changing decisions in that time.”

“Damn,” said Jim. “I was thinking of redecorating my room.”

T’Una perked up from her work testing the emergency medkits. “You must release him as soon as he can safely walk.” Her eyes crinkled lightly as she watched Jim. “T’Akos says he left the default decor unaltered.”

“Perhaps I should have added more stimulants to the mix.” Major Sepsis’s eyes twinkled. “So you will not lose motivation to act before completing the task.”

“I did not come to this MedBay to be roasted,” Jim laughed. 

“You did not come here of you own volition at all,” T’Una replied. “But your presence may still have a metallic coating.” 

“Silver lining,” said Jim. “And holy shit, what else did T’Akos say about me?” He idly patted his robes until he found the pocket holding his PADD. When he tried to swipe it open, Sepsis gently took it away and set it just outside Jim’s reach. 

“She informed us your proficiency with the guitar is indicative of the grace, stamina, and creativity of your manual dexterity,” said T’Ikka, “In diverse applications.”

“Your efforts to assess his health are appreciated, but need not continue. This degree of facial capillary activity indicates his circulatory system has fully recovered.”   Major Sepsis shot them a chiding look despite the faint upward curl of his lips. He produced a paintbrush from the depths of his robes. “Please follow the tip with your eyes, Cadet Kirk. Once you are done rolling them, of course.” 

Jim grudgingly obeyed. 

“Very good. We will engage in distracting dialogue while I continue your assessment. Tell me, what is your favorite animal?” 

Jim blinked in surprise. “What? Uh, horses, I guess.” 

Sepsis sat down the paintbrush and tapped hard on Kirk’s left knee. It reflexively kicked forward. “What about your favorite dinosaur?” 

“I’m not six,” Kirk protested, as he reached for his PADD. 

Sepsis raised one eyebrow and tested his other knee. 

Jim stopped reaching for the PADD and folded his hands in his lap. “Fine. It’s the Oviraptor. They look so much like chickens. As a little kid I tried to talk a replicator into making me one of their eggs.” 

“Did it comply?” After weeks on board the Sh’Raa n, Jim was well versed in the crew’s specific version of Vulcan micro expressions. By their standards, Sepsis was grinning with amusement. 

“No. But it did give me chocolate candy eggs with a toy oviraptor inside. As a six year old that felt pretty neat.” 

Sepsis looked mortified. “You were allowed chocolate at the age of six?” 

Jim had to laugh. “It doesn’t get us drunk.“

“Was the interior oviraptor edible?” asked T’Una. 

“Nah, it was just a toy,” Jim laughed. “I had a whole dinosaur henhouse full of them. I told Frank I needed to keep replicating the eggs for a science fair display on oviraptor nests, but really, I just ate the chocolate and kept all the toys for myself.”

“Scandalous.” Major Sepsis looked over Jim’s shoulder. His eyes twinkled as he met T’Una and T’Ikka’s gazes. 

The sickbay lights suddenly pulsed three times before settling into an ominous reddish-orange, the shade of sand in Vulcan’s Forge. 

“Uh, what’s with the mood lighting?” asked Jim. 

“It is a pity you are not still unconscious,” Sepsis sighed. 

“We could nerve pinch him again.” said T’Una.

She and T’Ikka began to undress, removing layers of robes before folding them neatly and laying them on an empty BioBed. When they were left wearing nothing but what looked like maroon and silver boxer briefs with a skin-tight, azure blue tank top, the women began to stretch. 

“Uh, no?” said Jim. 

“We will lock him in sickbay for the duration.” Sepsis own clothes were on Jim’s BioBed, folded neatly next to his PADD. He opened a drawer on his desk and removed six stunners.

Jim had dreams that started like this. Well, the stripping then stretching. Vulcans were practical like that. The stunners  weren’t part of his fantasies, though. “What’s happening?” 

“We are under attack.” T’Ikka pressed a hand against what appeared to be a random panel on the sickbay wall and recited four short lines of poetry about the beauty of fire tornadoes on Vulcan’s Forge. 

The wall panel popped open, revealing a stack of weapon harnesses. Each one was equipped with a set of six knives - one practical carving knife with a serrated edge, the others streamlined for throwing. The three nearly naked Vulcans buckled them on over their colorful underwear before sliding their stunners into place.

“Why do you keep stunners in sickbay?” Jim demanded. 

“To protect the injured during attacks,” said T’Una.

Sepsis locked eyes with Jim. “Be not afraid. So long as you stay here, you will be safe.” 

“I’m not afraid,” said Jim. “I’m unarmed. Give me one of those harnesses and stunners.”

“No,” said T’Ikka. “Your safety is our responsibility.”

“You are too fragile to aid in the ship’s defense,” said Sepsis. “Humans possess only one third the strength of Vulcans.”

“Which is why I need a stunner!” Kirk protested. 

Sepsis picked him up like a child and tucked him behind the wide column of a BioBed. “If anyone not Vulcan penetrates the door, stay hidden. We will come for you.”

“You must be like Fluffnormous,” said T’Una, mid-stretch.

“Rohingar’s pet rabbit?” Jim stared at her incredulously.

“He knows the art of concealment in times of danger.” She rolled into a ball, somersaulted to his location, and patted his head twice. Jim glared daggers at her.

Sepsis looked back at them over a broad shoulder. Jim didn’t meet his gaze, too busy noting how the bronze skin of his back rippled with scars around the shoulder and back of the knee. 

“Fluffnormous understands that the larger beings who care for him will protect him. He is a good role model in this situation,” said Sepsis.

“He’s a fictional rabbit from a TV show!” Jim snapped.

“Your people place great wisdom in rabbits,” said T’Una. “Bugs of the Bunnies, Rabbity Babbity, E’ner G’izer.” 

“You’re fucking with me,” said Jim. “Tell me you’re all fucking with me.” 

T’una and Sepsis exchanged a look that, under other circumstances, would’ve sent the whole conversation in an entirely different direction. “Perhaps later,” she purred. 

Before Jim could ask what the hell that meant, the trio of barefoot, barely clothed Vulcans had locked him inside the MedBay. 

He stared at the door in shock. “Fuck this!” 

No matter who was out there, he was confident the crew of the Sh’Raan could take them in hand to hand combat. In fact, their beefiness would be a real advantage if their attackers were Klingons, who took pride in fighting with fists and blades.

They weren’t near Klingon space, though, and most species preferred to shoot first and loot the bodies after. The three didn’t even have a real phaser between them - just knives and the same kind of stunner they used at the academy during shoot-to-kill training simulations. 

He was pissed as hell, but he wasn’t surprised. These were Vulcans. No matter who attacked them, they wouldn’t take a life.

As Jim paced around the BioBed, one thought chased him relentlessly. 

They wouldn’t shoot to kill. 

Hell, they couldn’t shoot to kill. They took stunners into a firefight.

Before Vulcans took a life, they’d take turns throwing themselves in front of one another like big damn heroes until the hall was piled so high with their bodies that the invaders couldn’t get through.

“ Computer. Status update,” Jim said in Vulcan.  

It replied with gentle, soothing flute music, punctuated by chirping birds. After five seconds, he realized the music was now a permanent fixture. 

Great. So their defensive strategy was to lull the invaders into taking a nap. Dimming the lights and changing the visible spectrum was a good idea. Honestly, so was the flute music and bird chirps. The combination created an unsettling atmosphere that would leave most raiders on edge. 

These big, sweet Vulcans were doing their damndest to make the ship hard to take. He respected the hell out of them for it. But Jim couldn’t imagine a scenario where they all came out of it alive. 

Unless. 

He could find the raiders first. He’d taken lives in defense of others before. He could survive the deaths of more armed and angry strangers on his conscience, but knowing T’Akos or Stork or Selarie died while he did nothing would break him. 

Jim looked around MedBay, assessing his options. They took all the stunners, knives, and harnesses, which meant he’d have to get creative with his weapons. He had no idea who was invading or what they wanted, so best to assume they were big, scary, and violent. He pulled open BioBed drawers, revealing hyposprays and cartridges. 

Yes. He smiled at their Vulcan efficiency. On Human ships, painkiller cartridges were limited to no more than three doses. That made it both harder to steal a controlled substance and impossible to accidentally overdose from it. The Sh’Raan MedBay’s painkiller cartridges contained twenty doses each, calibrated for Vulcan physiology. He didn’t know of a single species that could take that much at once without overdosing. He loaded up six hyposprays, set them to full release, and tucked them into his belt. 

His hand stopped over the stimulants. Sepsis had given him a small recovery dose along with the tri-ox and painkiller. He could feel it surging in his veins, mixing with his adrenaline. When it all ran out, he’d crash hard. He grabbed a hypo, dialed the dose down to 20% of normal, and gave himself a booster before stuffing it into a pocket. 

He kept pulling open BioBed drawers until he found surgical supplies. Perfect. He grabbed a laser scalpel, set it to maximum and threw it as hard as he could. It sliced a neat hole in the wall before bouncing off and automatically powering down. He stuffed every one he could find into his robe’s pockets. 

Jim took a deep breath. He didn’t survive Tarsus IV, didn’t get the rest of the kids to safety, didn’t make it on his own after running away from Frank - all just to be killed hiding in a damn MedBay during a ship invasion. He was a fucking Starfleet cadet. He wasn’t going to let his sweet, pacifist, Vulcan hosts sacrifice themselves. 

He grabbed his PADD and swiped it open. IInstead of turning on, a black on black number 3 briefly flashed in Vulcan Golic. He held the PADD up so the camera could easily see his face and said, “Cadet James T. Kirk, password Tasty Tiberius.” While speaking, he pressed his thumb against the print reader. 

Two seconds passed, and the screen flashed twice. In Standard, it read, ‘What is your favorite grain?’ He typed in Maize. 

The screen went blank, then new text appeared. ‘Name an intoxicant sold at Iowa Stafurs.’ 

He blinked at that one for a moment, then laughed and typed, ‘Deep Fried Snickers.’ He’d have to correct that to State Fairs later. 

It flashed once, and asked, ‘Name your most favorite color.’

‘Gold,’ he typed. The screen flashed green for failure. He rolled his eyes. ‘Command Gold,’ he typed. 

The screen cleared, once more usable - though the whole thing was ringed in a deep burnt orange. 

“Show me security cameras for Coral Deck,” he said. The PADD made a sad noise. “Okay, no showing invaders the cameras. Got it. Computer, are there any decks of the Sh’Raan where the atmospheric mix is unbalanced?” Coral and Jungle decks lit up. 

“Is there a particular region on Coral deck most in need of repair in order to restore optimal life support?” The craft room lit up, along with a slowly growing section of hall outside it. 

“Computer, is the atmospheric mix in the affected areas of Coral deck safe for human anatomy.” It flashed a cheery yellow for positive. 

He tore open one of the emergency med kits and smiled in grim satisfaction. The atmosphere mask was tailored for Vulcan physiology, but if the corridor was leaking breathable air, some extra oxygen would be better than none. He hooked the mask around his neck then expertly adjusted the position so he could nose it up into place hands-free if necessary. 

He lay a hand on the doorplate. In his heavily accented Vulcan, he said, “ Open for one second then close and lock. Authorization Sepsis Forty Two: the feast of our enemies is the color of our blood.”

He’d heard Sepsis repeat it every time he opened a locked MedBay cabinet, always confidant Jim had no idea that it was the staff access code phrase. If he was lucky, it would also work on the door. Jim found it a brutal line of pre-Surakian poetry, but a surprisingly common one for Vulcan medics who dealt with any species where their homeworld’s plant life was chlorophyll based. When Vulcans looked at a bowl of spinach they saw a collection of bloody scabs. 

The door whooshed open just long enough for Jim to rush outside. He flattened himself against the cheerfully painted wall. No one yet.

Even this far from the dangerous green zone, the air smelled fundamentally wrong; green and earthy, rich with life and so full of oxygen that it made him heady. Each step towards the craft room perfumed the air with an aroma that reminded him of tulips and oranges and body odor.  He held a hypospray tucked up under each sleeve, ready. 

A quartet of humanoids ran out of the Craft Room’s main door, hooting with joy. Their enormous raid backpacks were stuffed to bursting with something squishy. Long stretches of cloth wrapped around all of their bodies, trailing behind them like flags. 

“We can fill a pool with latinum on what we’ll make from this!” said a tall Orion woman, made taller still by a pastel blue pompadour. 

“Maybe a bath tub,” laughed a man next to her. He was shorter, with the sides of his salt-and-emerald hair shaved close, flanking a long, thick central braid. 

“I wanna keep this one for myself.” Stork’s robe fluttered as Pastel Pompadour wrapped it around her neck. 

Jim ground his teeth. Stork spent six years working on that one piece of embroidery. There was no fucking way Jim was letting them have it. 

“The craftsmanship is incredible!” she continued, “So much better than the last Vulcan ship! If we can take the Vulcan who made it, imagine what we’ll get for them and their work at auction!”

“Look for the Vulcans with the softest hands!” laughed the third member of their trio - a stout, maternal woman with short, pixie-cut hair that was more silver than emerald. 

Someone behind Jim cleared their throat. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. Showtime. 

“Turn around slowly.” 

Jim held his hands up, careful to make sure his sleeves snagged on the hyposprays enough to hide them. “I’m just a nurse.” He dialed up his very best look of Faking Bravery But Actually Scared Shitless. 

Behind him stood a burly Orion with thighs like tree trunks and a belly that would make a deliciously comfortable pillow. He leaned against the wall, phaser-rifle held casually against one hip, smoking an herb that smelled of peaches. 

“What the fuck is a human nurse doing on a Vulcan ship?” He looked Jim over, appraising his worth in latinum. 

“I’m an intern,” said Jim. “It’s kinda a big deal, getting this internship with Vulcans?” 

“Hostage material?” Pastel Pompadour had shucked off her backpack. She sank to her knees, leaving it in front of her, with her phaser rifle balanced on top. He shot her a scared look and she pointed directly at his chest. 

“We can always sell him if we don’t get a ransom,” said Pixie Cut. She and Emerald Braid kept their backpacks on, but their eyes and phasers were pointed at Jim. “We don’t get a lot of these overly recessive humans out this way. Dress him up right and we can find a buyer into exotics.”

“Thanks,” said Jim. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Tree Trunk Thighs. 

“Why do you want a bunch of Vulcan clothes, anyway?” Jim ignored him. Better to babble, make himself look ignorant. Let them think he was too dumb and scared to be a threat.

“They’re priceless!” laughed Emerald Braid.

Jim faked a nervous laugh. “You’ve heard of replicators, right?”  

“Vulcans never sell their embroidery,” said Pixie Cut. “Never. The only way to get it is at an estate sale when they die without heirs.”

“Or by taking it off their bodies,” grinned Pastel Pompadour.

That wasn’t entirely accurate. After he ran away from Frank, Jim made surprisingly good money taking on embroidery rush jobs from the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco. They were always savagely critical of his friend “Apprentice T’Birous’s” stitches. But they also paid on time. With so many diplomatic events and so few qualified people on Earth willing to take on thankless, ornate stitch work for anyone outside their own clan, they always sent him home with detailed notes on improvement and new pieces that needed to be completed on a tight deadline. 

“You haven’t,” Jim gulped audibly. “You wouldn’t. They’re just a bunch of botanists.” 

The three behind him laughed. Jim forced his eyes to stay afraid despite the satisfaction of seeing them relax. He added a little lower lip quiver for good measure, which had them laughing harder.

“I told you to shut the fuck up.” The burly Orion grabbed Jim by the sleeve. Jim pretended to trip, lunging forward into his arms. Jim reached up like he was trying to steady himself and pressed the hypospray into his neck.

As soon as the hypospray was spent, Jim let it go and grabbed onto the front of the man’s shirt. He held on as the Orion went down. When they hit the ground, he rolled, putting the man’s body between himself and the rest of the Orions.

If Tree Trunk Thighs wasn’t dead from the hypo, he was by the time the other three riddled his body with phaser fire. He made a good shield, but the asshole let go of his phaser rifle at just the wrong time, leaving it on the other side of his corpse. 

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a laser scalpel. He set it to cut through bone. Between blasts, he risked a hand in order to throw it at Emerald Braid. He screamed as it sliced through his hamstring before clattering to the ground. Dark emerald blood sprayed the gentle coral walls. 

“We’ll fucking kill you, human!” He screamed, clutching his leg. 

Jim ducked back down behind the dead Orion’s body, wondering how much phaser fire it could take before it stopped being an effective shield. 

The soothing mix of flute music and birdsong faded as Captain Spisee’s baritone reverberated loudly through the halls.  “Go ahead.” 

Chapter Text

Last time…

“We’ll fucking kill you, human!” Emerald Braid screamed, clutching his bleeding leg. 

Jim ducked back down behind the dead Orion’s body, wondering how much phaser fire it could take before it stopped being an effective shield. 

The soothing mix of flute music and birdsong faded as Captain Spisee’s baritone reverberated loudly through the halls.  “Go ahead.” 

---

The pirates were so startled they stopped firing. “Excuse me, what?” 

Jim adjusted the dead Orion’s arm so he could peek through the gap between his elbow and his hip. Of his three attackers, only Pastel Pompadour was still ready to fire, half hidden behind her overloaded pack, phaser pointed his way. Emerald Braid was on the ground, with Pixie Cut bent over him, trying to help her injured friend before he bled out. 

One dead. One down. Two to go. 

“Oh shit.” Pixie Cut glanced nervously up at the ceiling before she ripped off the bottom of the man’s pants and tried to use it as a tourniquet.. “Oh fuck. Oh shit. This isn’t good.” 

“He is illogical and willful.” It was impossible to tell what direction Captain Spisee’s booming voice came from. His presence seemed to fill the entire corridor.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Pixie Cut rubbed the bloody heel of her palm against her eyes, visibly trying to resist an impulse to run. 

“His disobedience cost us valuable time we could spend fighting off your attack.” Spisee’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, like words breathed forth from the very lungs of the ship. 

“Uh, won’t someone miss him?” asked Pastel Pompadour.

“Only if they are excessively sentimental,” boomed Captain Spisee.  

“I’d like to hear from someone else.” Pixie Cut looked around, panic warping her maternal features. 

“Krylar and his team are incoming,” Pastel Pompadour snapped. “Keep it together long enough for them to get us out of here!”

They all sat still for a breath, waiting. Then the chirping birds returned, overlaid with the gentle flute music. An overwhelming sense of terror gripped Jim’s guts so hard he nearly shit himself. He pressed his forehead hard against the corpse, breathing slow and steady, trying to force calm. He fought past the panic and focused on the audio. A faint buzzing, almost undetectable under the flutes and birds, reverberated at a frequency that made his brain think he was being hunted. The first time they used it during an Academy security training he pissed himself. 

“We have to get out of here,” Pixie Cut hissed. “Now.” 

“Do it,” said Jim. “I won’t stop you.” 

The soft whisper of sound canceling boots almost blended in with the gentle birdsong. Jim closed his eyes, inhaled the sweet orange and tulips scent of the dead Orion’s body, grounding himself in the moment. He focused on the distinctive quiet stroke-slide as he tried to count the number of people closing in on them. 

“Thank the trees!” Pixie Cut sobbed.

Four figures rounded the corner from the left. They brandished a mix of Federation phasers, Romulan disruptors, and Orion multi-tools. One leaned hard against the wall, smearing Selarie’s favorite cheery octopus with a smear of light green blood. Jim grabbed tight to his anger at the sight. Anger was better than fear. 

“Did you get the bio memetic gel?” snapped a tall, wiry Orion. His shock of blond hair and shining gold clothes made him look like an exceptionally well dressed french fry. The two Pirates flanking him stared nervously up and down the hall, understandably expecting something to jump out of the shadows at any moment. 

“Does it fucking look like we did?” snapped Pastel Pompadour. 

“Let’s take the embroidery and get out,” hissed Pixie Cut. 

“This duct taped garbage scow still has plenty worth looting,” snapped French Fry. “We’re not leaving until…”

“There’s only one voice!” Pixie Cut screamed. “It told us to kill the kid then kill ourselves!”

The fear inducing buzz had nearly succeeded in making Jim vomit all over the corpse. His head snapped up at her scream. That wasn’t remotely close to what Spisee said. 

Was it?

“Baritone,” said Emerald Braid. “Came from everywhere and nowhere.”

“Fucking say something!” Pixie Cut screamed at the ceiling. 

“It’s time to cut and run,” said Emerald Braid. “It won’t be much, but we’ll still turn a profit if we get out now.” 

“What about the kid?” asked Pastel Pompadour. She and Emerald Braid exchanged a look. Behind them, Pixie Cut beat her fist against the eyes of a cheerful school of fish, like she was trying to blind each of them in turn. 

Pastel Pompadour sighed.  “Get over here, idiot. We’re taking you captive.”

“No thanks,” Jim said, from behind the corpse. “I’m good here.” 

“You’re really not,” said Pastel Pompadour. 

“Say something say something say something,” Pixie Cut chanted as she punched eye after fishy eye. 

French Fry knelt next to Pastel Pompadour. He sucked air through his teeth as he got a good look at Emerald Braid’s wound in the ship’s dim orange light. “You’ll need money to fix this leg.” 

“The kid’s coloration will fetch a high price at auction,” said Emerald Braid. 

“Are you sure? He looks unhealthy to me.” Pastel Pompadour frowned in Jim’s direction. She suddenly rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes and shook like a wet dog. “Looks like you took a normal human and undersaturated him.”

“I’ll have you know I’m considered very pretty by human standards,” Jim shouted. 

“Say something!” Pixie Cut shouted at the ceiling. “Let us hear another voice! Come on you bastards! We’ve got your pet!” 

The only sound was flute music and birdsong, punctuated only by Emerald Braid’s ragged breathing. 

“No.” Understanding hit Pastel Pompadour’s face like a slap. “Oh, fuck me. No.” 

“We never should’ve latched onto a ship that was transporter shielded!” Pixie Cut punched another painted fish in the eyes. 

“These patched up research ships have the best payouts,” said the Orion bleeding against the wall. 

“How’s that working out for us?” snapped Emerald Braid. “Look, we’ve got meters of embroidery.” He nodded at the two uninjured Pirates. “You two grab the kid and let’s get out.” 

French Fry pulled something small and shiny out of his gold wraparound jacket. He squinted down the long, dim hallway, nodded to himself, and threw. Jim watched the gold dart arc high over his head. Then he waited. And waited. It never collided, never fell. It just silently disappeared into the air behind him. His entire body shuddered as he suppressed the urge to scream. 

“I’m calling it. Yhilia, Hrinel grab the packs. You two,” he pointed at Pastel Pompadour and Pixie Cut,” help Jadenhir through the barnacle. 

The guards exchanged a scared look as they silently pulled on the overloaded backpacks. 

“You wouldn’t,” hissed Emerald Braid. 

“We’ll make sure your husband and kids get your share.” Pastel Pompadour gave his good knee a sad pat. 

“You absolute shit faced fuckers!” Emerald Braid snarled.

“Listen up, kid,” shouted Pastel Pompadour. “You pull another knife on us and we’ll blast you in the head. Olganish’s body can’t take much more. If we keep firing you’ll be as dead as him in minutes. So come along and let us save you from the fucking Ghost Ship. You’ll thank us for it later.” 

“Come and get me,” Jim shouted. “I wanna give you a hug!” 

“What the fuck is wrong with that moron?” asked French Fry. 

“Brain damaged.” Pastel Pompadour snatched up pieces of embroidery that had fallen from the overstuffed backpacks. “Probably a result of inbreeding to produce all those recessives.” 

“This is your fault, human! If you have half a soul you’ll help them carry me back to the ship!” shouted Emerald Braid. “You let me bleed out here and I’ll haunt you from this life into the next.” 

“Good recessives?” asked Frency Fry. 

“His hair’s the color of your jacket,” said Pastel Pompadour, “With eyes like sapphires and skin like, well, kinda like raw dough, to be honest. It’s a little unsettling.”

“Hey!” Jim shouted. “You meant skin like cream! Or porcelain!”

French Fry sighed. “Go get him.” 

“Fuck that kid,” Pixe Cut looked up from the lime green blood smears her fists left over the eyes of every painted creature she could reach. “Let’s go! Now! We’ve gotta make it to the other side of the barnacle before the Captain figures out we’re thigh deep in shit! You know he’ll pop the lock and leave us here the second he realizes what we walked into.” 

French Fry jerked his chin in Jim’s direction.

“Fine.” Pastel Pompadour rolled her eyes at French Fry. “Don’t try any bullshit, kid. Pull a knife on me and I’ll use it to cut your pretty throat.” 

Jim’s mouth pulled into an ugly grin. He gripped a laser scalpel in one hand and a fully charged hypo in the other, ready to add to his pile of body shaped shields. 

The orange-red light suddenly dimmed to a twilight so deep the pirates were no more than dark shadows impossibly far away. Long, cool fingers wrapped around Jim’s ankles and efficiently pulled him backwards. He gripped his weapons tighter, barely in control enough to keep his head down and mouth closed instead of making his easily damaged skull a more obvious target. 

He tried to roll onto his back, ready to hypo whoever dared lay hands on him, when a familiar Vulcan body covered his. T’Akos hands closed around his wrists just as her forehead pressed against his. Her hands squeezed his wrists twice with purpose, then moved from his wrists up to his fingers. He didn’t fight as she gently coaxed his grip open and took away the hypo and scalpel.

Once disarmed, she flipped him onto his belly and lay over him, her muscular body shielding his. One hand gently tilted his chin until he faced the dead Orion’s body. When she was sure he was watching, her fingers slid over his mouth. He nodded in silent understanding. 

“Where the fuck is he!” Pastel Pompadour kicked Dead Olganish’s corpse. 

“We’ve gotta go. Gotta go. Gotta run!” Pixie Cut chanted. 

Barefoot, wearing nothing but his indigo boxer briefs, an emerald undershirt, and a coral colored  weapons harness, Captain Spisee rolled into the place Jim’s body had been, hidden behind the dead Orion’s corpse. He was almost close enough to reach out and grab the unsuspecting Pastel Pompadour’s leg. Two bronze shadows silently moved into place on either side of him. 

The only sound in the corridor was the gentle flute music, birdsong, and Pixie Cut’s ragged, panicked chanting. 

Spisee rose, elegant as a dancer. His hands slid under the dead Orion’s armpits and he easily lifted the corpse upright, holding it in front of him as a shield. At the sight of their dead friend rising to his feet like he’d been resurrected, Pixie Cut turned on her heel and ran, French Fry close behind her. 

Pastel Pompadour fired wildly. Each blast lit up a streak of hallway like a strobe. 

FLASH! The shadows on either side of Spisee resolved into Spatzel and Skwash, kneeling with their shoulders pressed against his calves, stunners in hand. 

FLASH! Spisee hefted the dead Orion’s corpse over his head like it was weightless and threw it.  

FLASH! The body moved like it was in null gravity, surging farther than Jim though possible until it collided hard with Pixie Cut and French Fry, smashing them to the ground. 

FLASH! Spatzel and Skwash, half his face swelling with an ugly bruise, crouched thigh to thigh and fired their stunners. 

FLASH! Emerald Braid, Pastel Pompadour, and the injured pirate who bled all over Selarie’s octopus all collapsed. 

After the brightness of the phaser blasts, Jim’s night vision was ruined. He heard the quiet stunners fire twice more, and Pixie Cut finally, mercifully went silent. 

By Jim’s count, five seconds had passed since he’d been pulled back by his ankles.  

T’Akos big hand slid up Jim’s face, settling gently over his psi-points. His mind stretched out to greet hers, eager and hungry. He felt a wave of amusement and affection wash over him as his mind launched itself at the open link like a puppy who had been left alone too long. Suddenly, an unnatural wave of calm washed over him, drowning out the sound-induced fear. T’Akos soothing voice filled his mind. “You are safe with us, Cadet Kirk. Behold.”  

Through T’Akos eyes, the dim corridor grew more detailed. At first, all he could focus on was the lime green Orion blood, which seemed to be everywhere, and the thankfully rarer streaks of darker Vulcan blood, sweet smelling and dark as pine needles. When his mind finally settled on how to process the input from eyes with more rods and cones than his own, he saw where the dark green blood came from. 

He was surrounded. 

Shadows lightened, contrast deepened, and gradually, like looking at a drawing that was a rabbit from one perspective and a duck from another, walls that seemed like dark coral punctuated by bright jewel toned fish resolved into a dense press of Vulcan bodies in their colorful underwear; most bruised, a few cut, all silent as they prepared for the fight ahead. 

He blinked twice and they seemed to disappear into the mural; bright fish, his own eyes seeing only dark coral, and deep shadows in the dim orange light. Jim forced himself to concentrate on using T’Akos eyes until he could make out individuals again. The spectrum of light against their skin combined with folds of fabric the same colors as the fish created an effortless camouflage. 

In the hallway before him, Spisee gracefully flattened to the ground as more Orions raced into the fray, summoned by Pixie Cut’s screams. He, Spatzel, and Skwash grabbed the three closest bodies to use as shields. They deftly propped them up, so Emerald Braid, Pastel Pompadour, and Bleeder looked like three injured invaders sitting upright with phasers in their laps. 

The Vulcans curled behind them, invisible in the long shadows, using a hand on their necks to move their heads from side to side as though the unconscious pirates were silently searching for their allies. 

“D’Kara!” An Orion woman fell to her knees, crawling through dark pools of viscous green blood to reach the body Spisee was puppeting. As soon as she was in his arm’s reach, she silently slumped to the ground. 

“Grab him and let’s go!” snapped another pirate. When the downed woman didn’t move, he reached for her arm - which put him in range of Spisee. Just as he went down, Spatzel and Skwash rose up. Jim couldn’t see what they did, but he heard fists and feet. Four more bodies quietly hit the floor, followed by the painfully familiar wet sounds of flesh being dragged through blood. 

Through T’Akos ears he could hear Orion orders to do whatever it took to reach the barnacle. Distant screams cut short one hall at a time. The gentle slip-slide of silencer boots sounded like a pounding drumbeat as desperate people raced in their direction. 

Jim tried to take in as much of the battle as he could from his vantage on the floor, in a distant corner. He’d always thought of Vulcans as a race of awkward but well intentioned scientists and scholars, but right now they were just fucking alien in ways three years on Typerias had never prepared him for. 

Touch telepathy changed everything. 

No Vulcan had spoken a word since Spisee told the Orions to go ahead and kill Jim for being an inconvenient asshole. They didn’t use hand gestures. They didn’t even make eye contact. There was no way any outsider could guess their next move - and yet constant, detailed communication moved through them like a warm desert breeze. A bare foot touched a calf, the back of a wrist touched a forearm. Orders and observations passed silently as the mass of Vulcans moved like a single organism. 

After the last Orions at the starboard end of the hall went down, Jim could see Spisee’s toes barely touching Spatzel and Skwash. The pair surged forward as a single silent unit and positioned themselves at the hallway intersection, facing opposite directions but kneeling so their feet touched one another’s calves. 

As Spisee silently crept back to the larger mass of Vulcans, his hands grazed over everyone he passed. T’Hini and T’Mari separated themselves from the pack. Neither was close enough to have personally touched Spisee, but through his shallow meld with T’Akos, Jim felt Spisee’s orders pass lightning fast from hand to hand until they reached the people they were intended for.

The pair moved into the blood splattered hall with the deadly grace of  predators. Jim watched as they joined Spatzel and Skwash, currently on their knees. The quartet silently spread into the middle of the intersection, laying flat on their stomachs, stunners pointing forward, legs tangled behind them so all four were touching. The way they moved, he couldn’t even think of them as individuals. They had become a single organism with eight eyes and four phasers, guarding all sides of the intersection at once. 

Spisee knelt next to Jim. He’d seen most of these people naked before as they shamelessly wandered in and out of the Cleansing Room after a good workout, but he’d never seen Spisee in anything other than his long, elegant robes. From the tapestry of scars covering his well muscled body, Jim could see that losing a thumb was far from the worst thing the captain had survived. 

An overwhelming sense of relief and affection wrapped around Jim’s consciousness like a fatherly hug as Spisee’s powerful hand gently touched Jim’s psi-points.  “I would not have let you die. That was a fabrication intended to distract them. It worked.” 

There was no time for Jim to fumble a response before Spisee’s hand dropped away.  He blinked back tears at the lingering sense of unconditional belonging that remained even as Spisee went back to the battle. Wordlessly, yet with full understanding, T’Akos guided him deeper into the shared group meld. He reached out for familiar presences, afraid of the answers he might seek but desperately needing to know who was injured. Who was dead. 

Everywhere his mind touched he was met with an eager greeting, like the warm hug of a relieved parent who would hold you tight before punishing you for doing something so damn ridiculous. When he moved on, he felt a cool rush of relief follow in the wake of his presence. 

Their human was alive. He was healthy and well, and perhaps a little bit stupid, though clearly very brave. They roiled with a desire to see his actions from his own point of view, to understand, to chastise, to compliment. But that would have to wait until they turned back the invading forces. 

He stretched out again, scared and seeking. In one cluster of minds he found Skotch and Snaak busily hog-tying a pirate who somehow resisted the Vulcan nerve pinch. In another, Stork, T’Malis, and Sperm were in the middle of a firefight, with T’Oast unconscious and bleeding beside them, but still alive. He pushed further, searching, until he found a mind that both reached for him and recoiled at his presence. Selarie.  

With a huff of bemusement, T’Akos reached alongside Jim, pulling Selarie close despite the embarrassment and shame he felt at the touch of Jim’s mind. Suddenly, Jim could feel the cool bulkhead against Selarie’s back, the steady drip of his own blood down his thigh, the reassuring press of Vulcan bodies as they awaited their next orders. Their mutual relief and worry, curiosity and concern, threatened to spiral into a feedback loop until T’Akos gently separated them with a mental gesture that felt somewhere between a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head. Safe.

“How long?”  He knew better than to speak aloud, but even in the comfort of their link, finding words again felt awkward and inefficient compared to sharing the group meld. 

“Seven point two seconds have passed since Captain Spisee touched you,” T’Akos voice in his mind was strong and sure. She guided him to focus on the sensations of his belly pressed against the deck, the aroma of tulips and oranges and alien sweat filling the hall, her cool body wrapped protectively around his own. “Our worry for you was a distraction. Thank you for allowing us to sense your condition.” 

“I don’t know if I understand my own condition,” Jim replied through the meld. 

T’Akos gently stroked his hair. “You are concerned for your friends. You are unafraid of what you have witnessed. You are safe in my arms. All else can wait until we are victorious.” 

Around them, the Vulcan Hive Mind moved as one silent, deadly unit. Beyond the birdsong and flute music, the only thing Jim heard as Vulcans spilled into an adjacent hallway was the screams of Orions desperate to flee back to their own ship. He shuddered, grateful he was on the Vulcan’s side.   

He spied a sniper with two other Vulcans creeping next to her, the backs of their hands casually pressed against her thigh as they looked behind and to the side of her. As her stunner fired with unerring accuracy in directions impossible for her to see, it became clear she was using their eyes as much as her own. 

As people moved into position, calves brushed against T’Akos, who was still acting as a living shield for his fragile human body. Jim felt snippets of their thoughts through the skin to skin contact.

Relief. Determination. Amusement. 

Spisee’s orders and updates from dispersed units passed too fast for him to understand, but with each brush of physical contact, those big, deep, powerful Vulcan emotions that they kept under such tight control lingered. Concern for his safety. Confusion why he was present. Regret that T’Akos would be too busy babysitting him to be part of the boarding party already en route to take the Orion ship. 

Wait. What the fuck? They were boarding their attackers?

T’Akos amusement bubbled up. “It would be unethical for us to leave such predators free to attack ships not as well defended as our own.”

Laying on the floor as scream after pirate scream was efficiently silenced, Jim felt a powerful need to read up on pre-Surakian Vulcan history. 

They had been fierce fucking warriors before Surak’s reforms. On Typerias, he’d learned that while Humans were still figuring out indoor plumbing, Vulcan had an aggressive interstellar expansionist period that made human wars look like kids fighting on a playground. Until today it seemed like hyperbole. 

More calves brushed against him and T’Akos as the next wave moved into position. They’d effectively blocked all paths to the barnacle but this one. He felt their anticipation and eagerness to take down the incoming pirates who tried to flee to the safety of the barnacle connecting the two ships together.

They’d never speak the words, not even to give them form in shared group meld, but he could feel deep in his bones that the scientists who crewed the Sh’Raan weren’t the slightest bit afraid of the attacking Orion Pirates. This wasn’t even a challenge for them. 

They were having fun. 

Realization washed over him, cold and harsh. He knew Vulcan emotions were bigger than humans. He’d felt T’Ree’s love for him, for Azmar and Jilleth and the rest of her adopted strays. Logic was presented to him as a way to understand the good and tame the bad so society could function smoothly. 

That was a sensible explanation for a traumatized child. He could see now that Logic was a thin veneer Vulcans painted over their instincts. For now. 

Nothing in his Starfleet training prepared him for battle with a silent, deadly, camouflaged hive mind. The invading pirates never stood a chance. If they wanted, Vulcans could rule the entire Federation. 

Luckily for him, and all his fellow soft, weak humans, they couldn’t be bothered. Ruling an empire was tedious work that would get in the way of their science, music, and art. For now. 

T’Akos gently stroked his hair. “You may have as many Reassuring Pats as you need today.” 

He reached up to squeeze her hand, seeking comfort in her strength as he watched T’Hini and T’Mari effectively clothesline a pair of desperately running Orions before nerve pinching them. “Should we find somewhere safer to wait this out?”

“We left you somewhere safer,” she chided. “You refused to stay.”

“I thought you needed my help.” Embarrassment coiled around his confidence, dark and taunting.

Her amusement swept it away, replacing it with kind fondness. “I will stay here,” her hips wiggled over his, “To ensure you do not bravely race onto the Orion ship.” 

Jim sighed loud enough that three other Vulcans turned from nerve pinching frightened Orions to shoot him synchronized silencing glares. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“I will convey to Captain Spisee the depth of your certainty that we were but helpless scientists.”

“Or, y’know, I could save time and toss myself out the airlock now so I don’t die of embarrassment later?”

She rested her chin on his shoulder and wrapped her strong arms tighter around him as distant screams were silenced one by one. “Then I will stay here to protect you from yourself.” 

Chapter Text

She didn’t have to protect him for long. Only 42 minutes passed from the moment the Sunset Alert began to the moment Spisee and his crew finished capturing the Orion ship. 

The flute music, birdsong, and sonic-induced terror faded away, replaced with a perky, upbeat tune he’d heard Skotch play in the craft room. Dim orange light gradually brightened to a clear white, and as it did, T’Akos gently pushed his perceptions back into his own body. 

Jim lay on the floor, breathing hard, staring out through his inefficient human eyes. He knew these were his normal, familiar perceptions, but losing that connection to both T’Akos and the meld made him feel like he’d spent a glorious half hour seeing in shrimp colors only to have the ability ripped away. Everything was muted. He couldn’t hear movement four hallways over. Colors he had no names for were simply gone. He was alone in his own head. 

He tried to focus on the positive. At least the hallway smelled markedly better. To the Vulcans, the passage was rank and disgusting, heavy with the odors of fear, anger, and a bit of urine. Jim’s mere human nose perceived Orion sweat as floral and earthy, while both Vulcan and Orion blood smelled tangy and sweet. 

Further down the green streaked hall, Stork and Snaak tested crumpled bodies. Those who still had a pulse were efficiently nerve pinched, their wrists and ankles zip tied together before being dragged to a row along the right side of the hall. After all the weapon’s fire, Jim was surprised how few corpses they piled to the left. The Vulcans only brought stunners to the fight, so the bodies were mostly victims of friendly fire - and of Jim. 

Stork brushed the back of his wrist against Snaak’s before walking over to where Jim still lay pinned beneath T’Akos. He’d always thought of Stork as a grandfatherly sort, with his long salt-and-pepper braid and perpetually gentle manner. He knelt beside them and stroked Jim’s hair as if reassuring a well behaved child. 

“Do you need privacy to meditate upon the day or do you need a task to distract from your thoughts?” 

T’Akos rolled off him and began to stretch, though she kept her toes pressed against his calf, quietly monitoring him without being intrusive. Stork sat next to her and continued gently stroking Jim’s hair. He leaned into it, wanting to press his face against Stork’s fingertips like he did when T’Ree would soothe him to sleep, but he recognized the hair touching as a way to maintain contact without allowing either side to initiate a meld - weaning Vulcan children off the near constant contact they had with their extended family from birth. 

“I need a task,” said Jim. “Preferably a complex one.”

“Good,” said Stork. “You can be of great use to us, but I did not want to pressure you.” 

Jim finally sat up. Reluctantly, he crossed his legs so T’Akos toes were no longer pressed against him. The last connection to the group meld faded, leaving him feeling empty and hollow. 

“How can I help?” 

“The Orion ship is full of prisoners. They are underfed, confused, and quite logically scared. The second youngest group finds us intimidating. They would benefit from a representative of the Federation. Someone closer to them in size and emotional expression. We need to gauge their understanding of their situation, their mental state, and their nutritional needs.” 

Jim sat up straighter. “What ages?” 

“Twelve to nineteen,” said Stork. 

Jim stood up and straightened his tunic. “I’ll need access to your medical replicators. There are also some things in my cabin that may come in handy. How many are we talking about?”

“Fourteen,” said Stork. 

Jim nodded to himself. “And how many adults?” 

“Considerably more. We will care for them to the best of our ability, although when they learn there is a human among our crew we expect they will demand to meet with you.”

“How many humans among the prisoners?” asked Jim.

“None,” said Stork. “There are no human colonies in this region of space, and nothing of interest to human tourists. They are primarily Andorian, Vulcans, and other Orions.” 

“Fourteen traumatized Andorian, Orion, and Vulcan kids,” Jim nodded to himself. “Can you give me thirty minutes to prep?” 

T’Akos lay a strong hand on his back. “If you find yourself overwhelmed when alone in the comfort of your room, do not be ashamed to comm us.” 

He leaned back into her touch for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight, secure that he wouldn’t hurt or scare her. Stork continued to gently stroke Jim’s hair. 

“Don’t judge me,” he said, softly. “I can replicate some things that might help them, but you can’t ask me about it.” 

“We are grateful you are here. Their transition to freedom will be less traumatic due to your presence,” said Stork. 

Jim nodded once, then stepped away from T’Akos. She gently cupped his cheek before planting a soft kiss on his lips. He turned his head to kiss the tips of her fingers. 

“Let me be the first person to feed them,” he said. “It’s important. Just…trust me on this.” 

He avoided their eyes as he raced back to his quarters. Vulcans reached out to him, big hands gently brushing against his exposed wrist and calves as they mopped up blood and repaired damage to the ship. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. They were competent. They’d obviously done this before. They didn’t need him - not like the kids on the ship. 

He didn’t waste any time. Before the door even closed, Jim pulled out the wide drawers beneath his bed. He tossed the extra sheets and duvet covers on top of the bed before stretching his arm deep into the drawer to reach a small notch in the back. He pulled up, and the false drawer bottom he'd carefully crafted neatly folded in half. Once bent they never looked right again. He’d need to print a new one after this. But then, he’d need to print a lot of things. 

Under the false drawer bottom lay his vacuum sealed, pre-packed go-bag. Beneath that were 60 additional medical grade ration bars, each one theoretically good for one week, though on the run they’d last, at most, five days. 

He ripped the notch on the vacuum seal with his teeth and pulled out his good-enough emergency ID and latinum stash. Those went into his pillow case. He shoveled ration bars on top of his clothes, spare PADD’s, and refillable water filtration bottles already packed in the go-bag. 

When he was down to the last row of ration bars, his hand started to shake. He looked away, ashamed of himself, and slammed the drawer shut with 10 still left inside. 

An outer pocket held his private data carts. Everything red and green went under the pillow with his latinum and ID. There were some things he wasn’t about to let the crew of the Sh’Raan know. The yellow and blue carts stayed in place. He slung the bag across one shoulder and ran for medical. 

Everyone he passed reached out to gently touch him - a wrist, some fingers, a shoulder bump. He didn’t stop for any of them, but he could pick up just enough to know that, to their immense relief, Stork told them he’d help with the kids. 

MedBay smelled like a candy factory turned sour. He didn’t let himself look at faces. There would be time enough for that later. He was here for the pre-packed emergency med kits. “I need a replicator. Supplies for the children.” 

T’Una bent forward at the waist, hands perfectly stable as she reset Shugar’s broken femur. Her leg stretched up and back until her foot rested against Jim’s calf. He sucked air through his teeth, picking up on too much of Shugar’s own self-soothing chants and conscious efforts to suppress his pain while T’Una worked on him. Wordless knowledge of which replicator to use, proper codes to operate it, and recommendations for things to bring the children flooded into Jim’s mind. 

“She’s good at her job, Shugar,” he said aloud. “You’re going to be fine.” Jim took a deep, calming breath and pushed his biggest, boldest confidence across the connection. The emotion was met with a hint of bemusement laced with gratitude from T’Una and appreciation for his efforts from Shugar. Reluctantly, Jim stepped away from the connection and headed to the replicators. 

He shoved in the yellow cart with the red stripe. “Computer, give me 42 Orion Berry Blaster Bars with randomized collector cards, no duplications.”

A moment later, the door opened. Jim shoveled the narrow bars out in three batches before switching carts. 

Moving as fast as the replicator could function, he printed 14 bags  that matched his own.

He switched carts and printed out travel game sets with pieces for chess, checkers, and go, then shoveled them into the bags. If he gave them a coloring book at least one of them would set it on fire. 

“I’m taking the emergency med kids you were working on earlier,” he said to the room. When no one contradicted him, he printed multi-purpose tarps, then zippable blankets - soft and fuzzy on one side, thermal insulating on the other - equally useful spread out over a bed or zipped tight into a sleeping bag. You could even blow up the hood to create a portable pillow. He was particularly proud of making that addition to the design.

“Computer, give me fourteen Orion female personal hygiene emergency packs and twenty pheromone suppressant nasal gel packs.” 

Jim didn’t look up from sorting things into the 14 go-bags. “Can someone bring me water?” 

The room went quiet but for the sound of laser scalpels and clink of shrapnel dropped into a surgical tray. Jim looked up from packing the bags and glared. “If you feed them without hydrating them then someone will choke! Don’t be so fucking Vulcan about it!”

“What else could we be?” Shugar managed. 

“Fuck.” Jim closed his eyes. “FUCK! That came out all wrong. I’ll take care of it.” 

“There are crates of rehydration drinks en route to the Orion ship now.” Major Sepsis didn’t look up from his work. Jim couldn't see who was on the bio-bed, only that there was so much blood. “Take as many as you need. They will be replenished.” 

Jim hung his own go-bag diagonally across his body then began latching the bags he’d just packed to the shoulder straps with multi-colored carabiners. His muscles were mostly used to the heavy Vulcan gravity, but this extra weight made him grunt from the effort of standing. 

“Use a walker.”

Jim glared at Sepsis, who still hadn’t looked up.  “They will be needed on the Orion ship. Please transport one for me.” 

Jim wanted to protest, but instead he let the walker take his weight. He could be proud on his own time. Right now there were fourteen kids on that ship - scared and hungry and understandably afraid of these giant, muscular Vulcans. He pushed his way down the hall, following the rich, earthy scent of the Orion ship and the heady rush of extra oxygen until he reached the barnacle itself.

Stork was still naked but for his jewel colored underwear. He nodded approval at Jim’s arrival and silently handed him a space-worthy tether-belt. Jim gratefully latched it, staring at the gaping hole in the ship with a mix of horror and awe. 

A barnacle was a crude instrument under the best circumstances, but this cheap cobbled together mess was begging to leave them all sucking vacuum. 

Most transporter pads could fit a maximum of eight people at a time with a three minute turnover between each use. If you needed to evacuate people en masse and couldn’t sync airlocks, a barnacle was still the fastest way to do it. 

A proper rescue barnacle created an emergency airlock and travel tunnel between a damaged ship and their rescuers. This monstrosity cut a dirty hole in a ship with no pretense at leaving the vessel habitable when the looting was over and the barnacle ripped loose.

From the looks of it, they heat sealed thermal blankets into a tube and duct taped that to a two meter wide O ring. The tube was reinforced with four guidewires each on the inside and outside. If the thermal blankets ruptured, anyone who actually bothered to attach their carabiner to the guide wires could be reeled in. Realistically, in operations like this only the cargo was attached to the guide wires. 

The O ring itself was attached to an actual Federation-issue barnacle mount, though this one had seen better days. Of the 42 acid drills, only 30 seemed to be in full working order. The rest they’d simply coated with whatever acid was available and hoped for the best. 

Once it latched on, the exterior of the mount glued itself to the hull then sprayed a sealant foam between the tube and the mount. Inside the O ring, acid drills bored through the hull, perforating a neat circle that should fall inwards, creating a ramp down to the floor of the ship they were invading.

“I can’t believe you’re actually using this,” said Jim. 

“They do appear especially desperate,” said Stork. “By this evening we will repair this section of hull plating and properly dock with the Orion ship.” Two emergency patch kits were mounted to the wall, one horizontal and one vertical, in case the improvised tunnel ruptured. 

“Why?” 

“So we are not all sucked into vacuum.”

“I meant, why are we docking with the Orion ship in the first place?” 

T’Hini rounded the corner, pushing a dolly stacked with boxes labeled “rehydration fluids” and “rations: sweet; rations; savory; rations; umami.” She raised an eyebrow at Jim, with his chaotic walker covered in go-bags, then pressed the back of her hand against Stork’s bare forearm. 

“Aloud.” 

Her nostrils flared in annoyance. “The water in the prisoner area is unsafe for consumption. Partially due to negligence, partially due to badly calibrated drugs intended to keep them lethargic. Do not let them drink from it.” 

“What do we have instead?” Jim eyed the boxes. 

T’Hini pulled up the edge of the neatly labeled “Rehydration Drinks” sticker to reveal the familiar logo of “Rohingar’s Rockin’ Ranaberry.” A long haired human with Ranaberry flowers in his hair winked at them while his pet fox nuzzled against his cheek. 

“It’ll have to do,” Jim sighed. He looked down at his walker, then over at the flimsy barnacle. “Uh…” 

“Allow me,” said Stork. He slid go-bag straps over his arms before Jim could protest. 

Jim stared down the flimsy barnacle tunnel. He took a deep breath, grabbed the guide wire, and stepped into the void. 

Weight disappeared instantly. He held onto the wire for a moment as his feet drifted up behind him. The thin thermal blanket protecting him from the vacuum of space contracted and expanded faintly with every one of his breaths. He hooked his carabiner onto the guide wire and pulled himself across as fast as he could. 

On the other side, big hands slid under his armpits and pulled him into the Orion ship, setting him gently on his feet. He took a step back, feeling light on his toes for the first time in months.  Behind him, the Vulcans cranked the guide wire, pulling his bags  into the Orion airlock and tossing them onto a flat dolly, already loaded up with even more of Rohingar’s Ranaberry drinks. 

“That’s no one’s favorite flavor,” said Jim.

“We have two thousand one hundred and nineteen remaining units,” Skotch sighed. 

“Who did you piss off?” Jim shot Skotch a wry smile. “Where are my kids?” 

Skotch rested both hands on Jim’s shoulders, thumbs gentle against his neck. “This is not make-work. Your presence is beneficial.” 

Jim felt the gentle push of sincerity and gratitude across the faint connection. “You scare the shit out of them, don’t you?” 

Skotch pulled his hands away and nodded once, avoiding Jim’s gaze. 

“Hey,” Jim said softly. “You don’t scare me.” 

Skotch raised an eyebrow. 

“I could be cowering in my room right now, making desperate calls back home,” said Jim. 

Skotch studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I do not believe you could.” 

He led Jim to an elevator that seemed to be made of grease, sweat, and duct tape held together by decaying plastisteel parts that were mid-grade when new. Instead of a fully enclosed box, it was an open cage, letting you see every level as it descended. It creaked ominously under their weight as Jim and Skotch pushed the dolly inside. 

This end of the ship was all cargo decks. He saw Vulcans wearing nothing but their underwear, boots, and gloves next to visibly terrified Orions, who carefully opened storage crates while the Vulcans logged the actual contents. It wouldn’t have taken them long to pull on a robe, but then the Orions wouldn’t have been able to see the scars covering their powerful bodies. 

The bottom two levels were prisoner holds. 

Jim put on his pheromone blocker mask. It made him look like he had a bubble of clear plastic wrap bunched around the bottom of his face, but people could still see the movements of his mouth clearly through the membrane. 

“The children are in the last two holds on the right,” said Skotch. 

Jim wrapped his hand around Skotch’s forearm and squeezed. Skotch lay a hand over his, and Jim felt a small surge of relief laced with a soupcon of guilt.

“Whatever happens next is better than what their captors intended.” Jim squeezed again, then settled behind the overstuffed dolly and pushed. 

“Who ordered a stripper?” An Orion girl leered at him from behind the bars. She wore her hair in two braided pigtails, with strategic smears of grime on her face and body to make her look younger. Her figure was obscured beneath baggy, oversized men’s work coveralls. If she’d been shorter she might’ve been able to pass for 12, but he guessed her age was closer to fifteen. 

“The littles get The Colonel and we get a lap dance?” hooted an Andorian. He’d turned a badly stained set of long, once-translucent red scarves from a belly dancing outfit into a bandolier-style wrap top with more scarves wrapped in layers around his waist, sending dirty ruffles down to his knees. 

Jim pressed his hand against the lock. It flashed red twice before cycling open to admit him. He took a deep breath and heaved the dolly around the corner and into the cell. The children silently backed up towards the bars, watching him with wide, suspicious eyes.

He casually tossed thirteen of the go bags in a wide circle surrounding him - far enough away they’d be well out of his arm’s reach if they grabbed one. They watched dubiously. He pulled a fourteenth bag off the stack, unzipped it, and dumped all the contents on the floor. “They’re all the same,” he said, pushing the contents around with his foot so they could see everything. 

Next he ripped open a crate of Rohingar’s Rockin’ Ranaberry Rehydration and dropped it outside the circle of go-bags. Then he headed back to the dolly, unzipped his own bag and slowly pulled out his Federation standard clothes. 

Pigtails watched him for a moment before snatching a bag and retreating to a corner. “Check it,” she hissed at a group of four Vulcan children who looked between 12 and 16. They nodded once and began a thorough examination of the bag’s contents. 

Jim pulled on his boxers under his Vulcan robe. Then he slowly pulled off the robe, turned in a slow circle so they could see he wasn’t armed, and took care to fold the robe and put it back in his bag. Naked but for his underwear and sandals, he pulled out a rations bar. He made hard eye contact with Pigtails and ripped off the phermone blocker mask, then turned to the Andorian boy dressed in stained red scarves. "Which corner?"

“Bottom left.” 

They watched him rip the packaging open and take a healthy bite. He broke it in half, took a nibble off all four corners, and tossed that half at the boy. Then he grabbed a bottle of the Ranaberry Rehydration drink to wash it down. He capped the bottle and tossed it at Pigtails, followed by the other half of the bar. 

“My name’s Jim.” He pulled on a generic blue and yellow asymmetrical shirt in sweat wicking fabric followed by a pair of flowy, hand-embroidered pants that suggested someone with money didn’t really understand how Slumming It worked. He capped the whole thing off with a stupidly expensive pair of shoes to ensure people got exactly the wrong impression. “Starfleet brat. Grew up a little bit of everywhere.” 

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” snapped another Andorian girl, also dressed in stained, oversized men’s clothes, rolled up at the wrists and ankles but left loose and concealing around the waist.

“Wild as it sounds, I’m interning on a Vulcan ship.”

The four Vulcans in the corner looked up at him dubiously. 

“A Vulcan ship out here in the void?” snorted Scarves. 

“Just an ordinary botany research vessel,” said Jim. “Minding our own business when the people who took you captive attacked us.” 

The children clumped together again, the larger ones facing Jim while the rest whispered feverishly. After a few moments, they broke apart and all eyed him incredulously. 

“Since when does the Ghost Ship take interns?” Pigtails snatched two more go-bags and dragged them to the Vulcans. They leaned in and whispered to her, all eyes on Jim. She broke the ration bar into six sections and gave them each one, keeping two for herself. 

“It’s called the Sh’Raan ,” said Jim.

“Sure it is,” she snorted. “And I’m called Charity.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Charity,” said Jim. “Before I give you the big speech, who the hell is this Colonel you’re talking about? I wasn’t told there’d be any military people bugging the kids.”

Pigtails and Scarves looked at one another and broke out in giggles. The Andorian boy casually sauntered over to the circle of go-bags and kicked six of them backwards. Kids behind him grabbed the bags and ran to the furthest corner. Jim waited until they were pressed as far from him as they could get before slowly walking over to stand just outside the older boy’s reach. 

“The Colonel.” Scarves nodded at a section of the cage mostly obscured from the hall due to the curved design of the deck. 

A tall, broad-shouldered figure sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Jim’s face softened at the sight of Selarie with a pair of Orion toddlers shyly curled up on either side of him. He wore the biggest, fluffiest red robe Jim had ever seen, trimmed in a wide band of white, with a matching, tightly-fitted fuzzy red cap that covered his ears. The cap tapered to a long point, hanging down to his shoulder blades and ending in a friendly white puffball. The toddler on his right kept stroking a corner of Selarie’s robe, their little hand disappearing in the fluff up to the wrist. 

He’d arranged a ring of cuddly toys around him, just out of arm’s reach. Each one held a ration bar in its arms. Beside him was a massive red sack, made from the same fluffy material as his robe. He caught Jim’s eye as he pulled out more bottles of Rohingar’s Rockin’ Ranaberry Rehydration drinks. 

“It’s like he walked right out of The Stars Live In Your Eyes Chris Must Holiday Special,” said Scarves.

“I regret I could not bring them traditional Udon Noodles and Chick Hens,” said Selarie. “But I do come bearing gifts.”

Pigtails kicked the last four bags towards a group of Orion kids. They snatched them up and retreated to their corner, quickly ripping the bags open and digging through the contents. “How come they get plushies and we get tarps?” 

“Chris Must be an asshole,” said Jim. A few of the kids laughed along with the show's in-joke. “He must’ve thought you’d want easily portable survival gear in case you bail on these Vulcans before they get you home.”

“Fuck home,” snarled an Orion boy. “My parents will just sell me a second time.” 

Jim nodded. “Yeah. I expected as much.” He pushed the dolly forward just far enough that he could see Selarie and the younger kids. A couple of siblings, perhaps six and eight, each snatched a plush animal and scooted out of Selarie’s arm’s reach. 

He pulled out four of the Rohingar’s Ranaberry Rehydration drinks with a sigh. The water wasn’t safe, and the drinks had vitamins and electrolytes in them. He casually shook each of them, cracked the seal, and took a long drink before twisting the cap back on and setting them as far from himself as possible. 

“Some of you have families who’ll miss you,” said Jim. “We’re going to do everything we can to reunite you. The rest of you need a place to grow up.” 

“We take care of each other,” said Scarves.

“I see that.” Jim grabbed another four bottles of rehydration drink and started taking a swig from each. “You boys did a good job making sure your captors can’t leer at the girls. By the number of scarves you have down here, it looks like they put a lot of work into trying to force them to change into sellable costumes.” 

“I’m a biter!” an Andorian girl said, proudly. Scarves nodded approval at her. 

Jim stared at Selarie, heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t a gossip - but Jim had felt the power of the group bond. When they reached out to one another, there were no secrets. 

As he watched, a Vulcan boy, perhaps nine years old, carried a baby to Selarie. He gave the toddlers on either side of him comforting pats on the back before reaching for the baby. Its little arms stretched out to him, and when he pulled it close, the baby headbutted him. Hard. The corners of Selarie’s mouth curled up a full centimeter. He pressed his forehead firmly against the baby’s. It gurgled happily and immediately relaxed in his arms. 

He reached for the older boy and gently tugged his hand towards Selarie’s face in an invitation. The boy trembled as his hand touched two of Selarie’s psi points. Suddenly, his whole body began to shake. Selarie curled the baby into one arm and gathered the boy into his lap, pressing their foreheads together while he kept one hand on the baby’s face. He rocked side to side, gently bumping up against the Orion toddlers who watched, wide-eyed, little hands still buried in his soft red robe. 

“Your boyfriend’s really good with littles,” said Scarves. 

“He really is.” Jim took a deep breath, steadying himself. He grabbed another quartet of drinks and cracked one open. “If you don’t trust your families, I know a place.” He switched from Standard to his heavily accented Andorian. “There’s a Vulcan-run boarding school that takes in all types.” He took another drink, then handed the bottle directly to Scarves. “Even humans,” he said, this time in Orion. 

“Where’d you get the shoes?” Pigtails asked in Orion. She picked up four of the bottles Jim drank from and carried them to the Vulcan corner. 

Jim’s Orion was shit and he knew it, but he thought he could get the point across . “Much trade to spoiled Academy brat. Took all his exams. He got grades. I got shoes. Much things. Make me look right. To riches. To power. ” 

Scarves and Pigtails nodded approval, and the boy distributed more of the drinks Jim had sampled. 

“Your accent gives you away,” said Scarves. 

“Not in Standard,” said Jim. “And let’s face it, to people from Earth, this is the only accent that matters.” 

“Can you teach us?” An Orion girl cradled the drink to her chest, taking slow sips as if she wanted it to last for days. 

“No,” said Jim. “But the people in my old foster home can.” 

“What kind of work do they make you do?” An Andorian boy wrapped in blue scarves looked up from cataloging the contents of his go-bag for a third time.

“Crafting,” said Jim. “If you hate it or just suck, there’s also gardening and building maintenance.” He stretched taut the fabric of his pants and drew his fingers over the embroidery. “I got these third hand, fixed them up, and added the embroidery myself.” 

A Vulcan teenager broke from the group and crossed the room. Between the bowl cut and the baggy clothes, the kid was effectively asexual. They knelt next to Jim and critically studied the embroidery. “This is, how do you say, journeyman work.” 

“That’s right,” said Jim. “I’m no master, but I’m a good deal better than an apprentice.”

“Humans think this is adequate?” The Vulcan teen raised an eyebrow. “To wear in public?”

Jim laughed. “I made good money selling authentic Vulcan embroidery back on earth.” 

From the other side of the bars, Selarie scoffed. Jim glanced up at him, blushing. Three more children had crept closer, now leaning against Selarie as they ripped ration bar wrappers open. 

“To sell this here would be,” the Vulcan teen frowned, searching for words. “Criminal.” 

“Morally or legally?” asked Jim. 

“There is a difference?” the teenager once again raised a judgmental eyebrow. 

“Wow. Tough audience!” said Jim. He pulled out another Ranaberry Rehydration drink and stared at it sadly. “I’m going to be honest with you. If I drink any more of this I’m going to throw up from being too full of Ranaberry. Did everyone get one? I’ll take a few more swigs, but after that you’ll either trust the rest of the crate or you won’t.” 

The Vulcan teenager took a drink from the crate, opened it, and sniffed. “This is the worst flavor.”

“We have over 2000 units,” said Jim.

“You understand how airlocks function?” asked the teen. 

Jim snorted. “The crew was scandalized when I wanted to bring you water.” 

Selarie’s head snapped up. The baby cried out and reached for his face, headbutting him again and holding tightly to his ears. 

“Sorry, man, you’re not my type,” said Scarves. 

“Sharing water means nothing to humans.” Jim rolled his eyes. “But speaking of water, the showers on the Sh’Raan are all sonics, but they’ll get you clean. We’ve got clean clothes, too, as shapeless as you’d like, and a hell of a lot better food than this. If you’re ready, you can grab your bags and I’ll lead you over.” 

“If we’re not?” asked an Orion.

“Then we’ll wait.” Jim pulled the blanket from his go-bag and held it up so they could see the cuddly side and the weather resistant side. He popped the nozzle at the top corner and blew up the built-in pillow. As they watched, he slowly demonstrated how to fasten snaps and zip it closed in order to turn it into a sleeping bag. “I can stay all night. There’s plenty of rations." He frowned at the crates. "And Ranaberry.”

“Tell me there’s something else to drink on their ship,” said Scarves. 

“There’s tea,” said Jim. “So much of it.” The Vulcan teens looked up with interest. “Broth, too. Good stuff, if you prefer your drinks savory.” 

“How do we know you’re really taking us to some ship full of weird Vulcans?” asked Pigtails.

“You don’t,” said Jim. “No one’s going to force you to follow me. If you want, you can pick people for a scouting party. We’ll bring them back tomorrow and they can give you their honest opinions.”

Selarie adjusted the big fluffy sack so it transformed into a comically large backpack. He pulled out six more plush toys. The children’s eyes lit up. He gently kissed each of them on the forehead, then threw the toys as hard as he could, so they landed in the cell with the teenagers. Dirty hands snatched them up and quickly stored them in go-bags. Those who weren’t able to grab one in time glared at Jim. 

“You need medical attention,” Selarie said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I do not have arms enough to carry you all, so some will have to ride on my back, and others will hold hands.” The wide eyed toddlers let him scoop four of them into the backpack. He kept the Vulcan baby in one arm and held his other hand out to the 9 year old. The boy took his hand, careful to not make eye contact with the Vulcan teens. Selarie nodded towards the other children. The boy holding his hand reached out to them, and they formed a little line, hand-in-hand. 

“Anyone who wants to explore the ship should go with The Colonel,” said Jim. “He can even get you a bowl of udon and a plate of crispy Chick Hen strips.” 

The quartet of Vulcan teens whispered to themselves, eyeing both Selarie and Jim. Pigtails joined their whispers. After a moment the four picked up their go bags and headed to Selarie's line.

“What about you?” Pigtails crossed her arms, watching Jim. 

“I already inflated my pillow.” He met Selarie’s gaze. “I’m staying the night.”

Selarie nodded once, kissed the baby’s forehead, and led his group to the elevator. 

“When do you get off shift?” asked Scarves. 

“It doesn’t work like that.” Jim pulled out a replica of the chess set T’Ree gave him. “I’m here until you feel safe venturing out.”

“You could force us,” said Pigtails.

“He could try!” said the proud Andorian biter.

“No need.” Jim set up the board. “Now who wants to learn to play chess?”

Chapter Text

The kids sat three to a biobed, kicking their heels as they dug into bowls of high protein noodles from the Federation replicator. Behind them, T’Una, T’Ikka, and Sepsis methodically ran medical tricorders, occasionally leaning in to gently rearrange a limb or encourage better posture as the scans continued.

Jim’s back ached from sleeping on the metal grate that served as the floor in their Orion cell, he reeked of sweat and spilled Ranaberry, and he was constipated as hell from eating nothing but emergency ration bars for three days. 

But it was all worth it to finally see the the last of the kids sitting calmly in Med Bay, slurping noodles and barely glaring at the Vulcan medics. It would’ve been so easy to pick them up and carry them, screaming and afraid, not knowing who had them or where they were being taken. Seeing them only moderately on guard, but mostly curious, planting the seeds of trust before what was about to be a scary and uncertain time in their lives - it was worth doing this the hard way.

This morning he was sure they’d refuse to move for another day. They’d outgrown their fear of the Vulcans, who had donned their heavy robes and subtly made increasing appearances on the periphery of their open cage until the kids no longer flinched at the sight of them. Twice a day, the Vulcan kids who left with Selarie returned to give reports about the Sh’Raan and her crew. Each time, they left with another one or two of the kids. 

By day two, the remaining kids were gleefully watching grime saturate Jim’s fancy embroidered pants and snickering every time he shifted around in search of a more comfortable position. The only thing that swayed them was the delivery of a fresh crate of Rohingar’s Rockin’ Ranaberry drink. No amount of taunting Jim was worth drinking another case of it. 

“This is the stupidest food ever,” Pigtails, who went by the very grown up name of Kalterin, slurped up yet another mouthful of spicy Udon. “It’s just gummy ribbons.”

For his second bowl of Mac-N-Cheese, Scarves - who said his name was Flaxnir despite clearly not being a famous 60 year old boxer - carefully picked up one elbow noodle at a time using his chopsticks. He stared through each one as if this time he might find something new inside before shrugging and eating it. 

“I like the warrior’s dish!” Jaxni, the Andorian biter, said around a mouthful of spaghetti in marinara sauce. She was the only one brave enough to try something they all insisted looked like spilled human guts. He knew better than to bring them any noodles made with pesto or spinach. 

“Three long breaths from the inhaler, please,” said T’Ikka. 

Flaxnir possessively crossed his legs, cradling his bowl of Mac N Cheese with his hands over it before he complied. 

“This is boring.” Kalterin looked up from slurping down the last of her spicy broth. “I wanna pet your fox.”

“Not again,” Jim sighed. “I told you. I don’t have a menagerie.”

“We know,” Jaxni winked at him. “Not on the ship.” 

“At all.” Jim took another soothing drink of his miso broth and once more wished it was bourbon. “That’s not a real human thing.”

The teens stared at him for a breath, then they all broke out laughing. 

“No, really,” Kalterin turned to T’Una, who was slowly working a dermal regenerator over the girl’s bruises. “Doesn’t he have a therapy rabbit or something?” 

Jim pulled out more personal hygiene wipes and started rubbing down his face. “I don’t own a rabbit.”

“What about your fox?” Jaxni licked the inside of her bowl. “I bet it’s in your room and you don’t wanna bring it out because you’re afraid it’ll love us more than you.” 

Jim stopped rubbing grime off his face long enough to roll his eyes at her. “My imaginary fox would find me very loveable.” 

“Not after it met me!” Jaxni’s grin was all teeth.

“I’m writing a letter of protest.” Jim’s shirt was completely ruined. He wanted to take it off - hell, he wanted to strip down and shower before falling into his deliciously soft bedsheets. 

“I’m right here!” Jaxni stuck out her tongue. 

“To the writers of The Stars Live In Your Eyes .” Jim settled for rolling up his sleeves and rubbing grime off his arms with the personal wipes. “They desperately need a human consultant.”

“Oooh! Is that what you’re going to do after they kick you off the ship for being a dumbass?” Kalterin held her arms in the air so T’Una could reach more dark green bruises. Beside her, T’Ikka frowned at a fresh looking scar on her upper arm.

“Cadet Kirk’s ass is well appreciated on this vessel,” said T’Una.

“Really?” Flaxnir looked him over critically. “I mean, he’s got a nice enough personality, but he looks like unbaked dough.” 

“I’m considered very pretty where I’m from.” 

Jim caught sight of his own reflection in a medbay readout panel and almost flinched. His greasy hair was matted to his scalp. The bags under his eyes had grown into overstuffed suitcases. And despite going through most of a pack of personal hygiene wipes, he was still covered in the viscous, sticky, omnipresent mystery grime that coated the Orion ship’s cargo deck. 

T’Una’s eyes twinkled. “Some of the crew appreciate his unique aesthetics.”

“Only some?” Jim flirted out of reflex rather than interest. 

She caught his eye. “Many.”

“Now you’re just being gross,” said Kalterin. “He’s like half your size.”

“Five eighths.” Jim took off his shoes and stared critically. These would take hours of cleaning before they’d once more look like they belonged to old money.

“That big guy who looks like the Colonel could tuck you in his pocket,” said Flaxnir. 

“I’d let him do it if that would get me out of this conversation,” said Jim. 

“I bet you’d like to tuck his -”

“James, a moment, please.” The teenagers broke out in a fresh wave of giggles at Sepsis’ interruption.

"Ooooh! You’re in trouble with the headmaster!” said Jaxni.

“He’s not the headmaster. He’s the head doctor,” said Jim.

“Even worse! The head doctor can cut you with a scalpel instead of cutting you with words!”

Sepsis pressed his thumb against a locked tray and carefully picked up a scalpel. Casually making sure she was watching, he turned it so the light glinted off its surface, then raised one eyebrow at Jaxni. Her face split into a wide grin. He nodded knowingly once, then slowly placed it back in a locked tray. She wrapped her arms around her go-bag and snickered. 

“Promise not to maim my Vulcan friends while I’m gone,” said Jim. 

“That’s up to them.” Flaxnir eyed T’Una, who was holding a hypo up next to his arm. 

Jim sighed. Sepsis lay a hand on his shoulder and gently steered him to the CMO’s private office. Before Jim could sit, Sepsis pulled out a disposable paper gown and draped it over his embroidered guest chair. 

“I look that bad?” Jim eased into the chair, taking care to make sure he didn’t come into direct contact with the upholstery.

“Had I known the state of your clothes I would have insisted all of you change into clean robes in the airlock,” said Sepsis. 

“I’m grateful you all dress so modestly,” said Jim. “You know, when you bother to put on robes at all. Once you’re done here, they’ll happily change into clean, oversized robes. But don’t expect them to wear belts.”

His arms hung limply on either side of the chair. The longer he sat, the heavier they felt. “I doubt we could talk them into current Federation fashion. Everything is fitted pretty close to the body, and shows a lot of skin.” 

“James, you are exhausted,” Sepsis said gently. “We are eager for your assessment of the children’s health and wellbeing, but I will be personally vexed if you turn in a written report before you sleep for a minimum of eight hours.” 

“I should…” Jim rubbed a hand over his eyes, flinching a little at the sting of hygiene wipes chemicals on his hands. “Thank you.”

“You have been through an ordeal of your own,” Sepsis said, switching to Golic. “How fare thee?”  

“Oh.” Jim slouched into the seat. “It’s time for that conversation.”

Sepsis knelt in front of Jim. One hand gently tilted Jim’s chin to the left, then to the right, studying his face. After ten seconds of this, he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Jim, and pulled him into a warm embrace. 

“This therapy does not count towards your 70 seconds of weekly hug time,” Sepsis said gently. 

“I’m going to ruin your robes,” Jim protested.

“They are standard issue from the replicator.” Sepsis gently stroked Jim’s greasy hair. “But my finest embroidery would be worth less than your peace of mind.” 

“This is my finest embroidery,” Jim replied in Golic.

Sepsis leaned back, one eyebrow raised . “I will keep that secret.” He sat back on his haunches, but left his big hands on Jim’s knees. “Along with everything learned during your recent medical emergency.” 

Jim closed his eyes . “The whole ship must know by now.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Sepsis. “T’Una, T’Ikka and I agree that while we do not understand your motives, you deserve full patient confidentiality.”

Jim stared at the soothing geometrical pattern of the carpet, avoiding the doctor’s gaze. “It’s going to have some big fucking consequences.” 

“Do you think so little of us?” 

Jim turned, surprised by the pain in Sepsis’ voice. 

“We were entrusted with your safety, education, and care. In quick succession, you were nerve pinched by a trusted friend, retraumatized by incomplete memory return, taken prisoner, incorporated into an unfamiliar clan bond, and given a vital assignment for the wellbeing of hostage children. At no point in this succession have you been given a moment of rest, meditation, or reflection.”

“Nobody’s had time to sleep,” said Jim.

“We are to blame for your current state. Vulcans can survive for extended periods on minimal rest, though there are eventual consequences. Humans can not,” said Sepsis. 

“Calm down,” said Jim. “I’ve been through worse. You do what has to be done.”

“There are those who are grateful the children were so recalcitrant,” Sepsis spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. “There is great concern. We were overly confident in the measures we took to reduce the odds of an attack during your time with us. Our discussions with the Orion crew revealed that we greatly underestimated the desperation of pirates on this portion of our journey. You … were not supposed to see us like this.” 

“You mean I was never meant to be part of your bond.” Jim’s voice cracked. 

Sepsis pressed his wrist against Jim’s. Worry-Frustration-Concern-Affection-Embarrassment spilled into Jim’s consciousness. His heavy arms moved up, slow and robotic, pushing Sepsis’ hand up to his face. Sepsis nodded and haltingly, his touch feather-light, settled on Jim’s psi-points. 

Jim opened himself willingly to the memories Sepsis shared. There were no words. Instead, he felt a sequence of tired hands clasping one another - sometimes pressed against a face for emphasis - as they shared worry that Jim would be angry, hurt, betrayed. They’d never outright lied, but they had taken care to steer certain conversations as carefully as they’d steered the ship - and in both tasks they had failed. Because of them, he was endangered. His actions in ignorance were their responsibility. Most expected that he would leave with the children; his incipient anger and bitterness smothering any more pleasant memories of his stay. 

Jim pulled back, eyes wide. “Do YOU really think so little of me?” 

“Selarie argued that our fears were a mirror.” Sepsis looked away. The tips of his ears darkened to a deeper bronze. “Crew who would make such choices for themselves do not know you well enough for us to trust their judgment.” 

“You should listen to Selarie,” said Jim . “I don’t understand why he’s not in the lead for human small talk. He’s the best one at it.”

Sepsis’ eyebrow shot up. “We are not competing to best one another at human small talk.” 

“I’m literate.” Jim moved a limp hand as if holding a calligraphy brush. 

Sepsis blinked slowly. After three long seconds, one corner of his mouth ticked up a full centimeter. “When I next meditate, I look forward to reflecting on memories of you with that added context.”

“Memories. Past tense.” Jim swallowed hard. “Am I about to be kicked off the ship?”

“No.” Sepsis put both hands on Jim’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. Jim felt frustration at the inexactitude of words coupled with a deep determination to make him understand. “You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay. Beyond even the terms of your internship.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Jim’s voice quavered.

“Why not?” asked Sepsis.

Jim blinked back tears as the thing he’d pushed out of his mind for the last three days rose to the fore. Sepsis watched him, dark eyes full of concern. He pulled Jim into another hug, holding him tightly. Jim stiffened, then let his head fall against the doctor’s shoulder. He held on tight as his whole body shuddered with suppressed tears.

“Sepsis,” he managed. “I killed a man.” 

Chapter Text

Jim staggered into Spisee’s office, skin waxy and eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He tried. He really did. The gentle caress of his buttery soft sheets had been enough to lull him into a solid 20 minute nap. After that, he stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes more before taking yet another shower and getting dressed in his second best Vulcan stripper robes. He’d get hell from Sepsis for being out of bed so soon, but he wanted to give a little hell first. 

“We should talk.” Jim held onto the ivy painted doorframe for support, striving to look casual and cool instead of like someone about to fall over from exhaustion.

“You should sit.” Spisee nodded towards The Chair. 

Jim looked at his beloved like a starving man in an orchard. He gently eased into it, sighing with pleasure. “Captain Spisee, have you ever been in love?”

“For three years, six months, and four days.” 

“I know you care about your wife,” Jim said dreamily, “but I don’t think your feelings for her can compare to my love for this chair.”

Spisee’s eyes twinkled. “I look forward to officiating your bonding.” 

Jim’s hands roamed the firm but supple fabric. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Can I tempt you to sleep?” Spisee said gently.

“Not yet,” Jim sighed. “First I need to know how much trouble I’m in.”

Spisee steepled his fingers. The four strand braid holding his long, black hair back from his face was frayed around the edges, and there were traces of the Orion ship’s ubiquitous viscous grime on the embroidered hem of his sleeves. Vulcans could go longer than humans without sleep, but Jim suspected Spisee hadn’t seen his bed since before the attack, and it was starting to show.

“Seventy six hours have passed since the attempted invasion. If you were to be admonished, why would I wait?” 

“Has anyone ever told you that answering people’s questions with more questions is annoying?” asked Jim.

“Frequently,” said Spisee. 

Jim’s fingers trailed along the chair’s seams as if tracing a lover’s scars. “I know I fucked up. And Sepsis says - well, he said a lot of things. Just…tell me now. Are you kicking me off the ship?” 

Spisee closed the console he’d been frowning at when Jim walked in and absently wrapped the end of his long black braid around one wrist. “I would not have left you in such an important position for so long if I had any doubts about you.” 

“Bullshit,” said Jim. “I was a logical choice. Sending anyone else would’ve been a waste of resources.”

“I am glad you know your worth,” said Spisee. “Soon so will your Starfleet instructors. You will be receiving commendations for both bravery and creativity in your evaluation.” He moved the tip of his braid as if it was a quill pen. 

“You’re going to tell them what happened here?” Jim frowned.

“Ships in this sector of space are attacked far more frequently than ships near human colonies,” said Spisee. “As are our colonies. While it was our intention to ensure you did not experience that reality, now that we have failed, it is my hope Starfleet will understand that the danger you experienced once is a daily reality for us.” 

“Yeah, we’re gonna circle back to that in a bit.” Jim yawned widely.  “Captain Spisee, may I speak freely?”

The Captain raised one immaculate eyebrow. “You have been restraining yourself?”

“Is the Sh’Raan really a science vessel?” Jim blurted. 

Spisee blinked slowly. “You worked shifts in our botany labs.” 

Kirk held up a hand to interrupt him. “Yeah, and the astrophysics department, and stellar cartography. But, are those just…hobbies? Something to keep you all occupied while you zoom around out here looking like perfect pirate bait?” 

The corner of Spisee’s mouth ticked up two millimeters. “Do we?”

“Oh, come on!” Kirk’s arms flopped dramatically against the chair. “Poor little notoriously pacifist Vulcan scientists all by their lonesome way out in the depths of space with nothing but their incredibly rare samples and ridiculously valuable embroidery to keep them company? You might as well paint ‘please board us’ on the side of the ship!” 

“Interesting,” Spisee idly circled the end of his braid around his wrist. “We have not redecorated the hull exterior in three point seven years.” 

Jim leaned forward, watching Spisee carefully. “It must be hard to find the perfect contrasting colors when you have three ships welded into one.” 

“We needed cargo space,” said Spisee.

“For what?” Jim narrowed his eyes. 

“Inanimate objects which do not require a pressurized atmosphere,” said Spisee.

“I know what a cargo bay is.” Jim rested his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to Spisee’s massive hand carved desk. “And I know you’re trying to distract me.” 

“Am I?” Spisee raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating.”

Jim closed his eyes and took three long, centering breaths. When he opened them, Spisee was watching him curiously. 

“Captain Spisee… when I was in the group bond,” Jiim swallowed, pushing down the longing that came with the memory, “no one was surprised.”

“Indeed. We found your mind eager to meld.” Spisee’s dark eyes pinned Jim with an unexpected look of compassion. “There are unfulfilled pathways in your mind,” he said softly, “Places where a family bond should be. It is as if someone laid the foundation, but never built a house.” 

“Really?” Jim hated the hint of hope in his voice. 

“I expected T’Akos to render you unconscious for the duration,” said Spisee. “But she perceived that, despite being human, you would not be overwhelmed.”

“I’ve melded before,” said Jim, remembering T’Ree’s gentle hand on his face, soothing him to sleep. “But not like that. Just one person at a time. I didn’t know a group bond was even a thing, much less that it could be so…” he shook his head, searching for words. 

“Clan bond,” Spisee corrected.

Jim’s breath caught, barely shy of a gasp. Laws were for the hinterlands, for places like Typerias and the outer colonies. Custom was for the homeworld, and the custom there was strict, unquestionable, and ancient. “I thought all recognized clans were founded thousands of years ago.”

“When our ancestors settled these colonies they agreed to leave their clans behind,” Spisee nodded. “Logic dictated clans were nothing more than a legacy of our pre-Surakian heritage, one which served only to divide people. But we brought other legacies with us, things our ancestors had never questioned, and therefore did not understand.” His big hands folded on the desk, drawing Jim’s eyes to the heavy scars. “In our blood and in our bones.”

And their hands. He’d never seen Vulcans so casual with their telepathy before. 

Jim thought of T’Malis, smaller than the others, with a face that would blend in on the streets of ShiKhar. “Is everyone on the ship part of your … clan?” 

One corner of Spisee’s mouth hitched up a millimeter. “There is one who is not.” 

Jim left the sweet caress of Spisee’s guest chair and began pacing behind it. “If this was known,” he struggled to find the right words in Standard to express something so brutal yet simple in Vulcan, “There would be consequences.” 

“James,” Spisee said gently, “We are far from T’Khasi, and further still from the thoughts of those in ShiKhar. You have glimpsed some truths not intended for you, and so I ask. What more could they do to us?”

In all the time he’d been on the Sh’Raan, they hadn’t encountered a single Federation ship. Closer to the core worlds, that was impossible. There was constant subspace chatter - and not just between fleet ships. There were merchants and colony ships and space cruises. There were starbases and personal spacecraft and research vessels. Space itself was impossibly vast, but subspace traffic made the Federation feel like a crowded urban city, densely packed with all the diverse parts of a thriving ecosystem. 

Here, they encountered three ships a week, most of them long haul freighters. 

None of them were Starfleet. 

Jim stopped behind the chair, holding onto it for support. “No one was surprised by the attack.” 

“This is a notoriously dangerous sector of space,” said Spisee. “A truth which is well known on T’Khasi.”

An idea that had been slowly coalescing in the back of Jim’s mind since before the attack suddenly came together. 

“This was all routine to you. The stunners and knives in sickbay. The lighting. Even the way your underwear blends into the murals.” He waved dismissively at the stacks of botany lab reports on grain yields and fruit production abandoned on one side of Spisee’s desk. “This is your real job, isn’t it? Defending colonies in this region of space.” 

“The one who arranged your internship will be displeased.” Spisee once more wrapped the end of his braid around his wrist, twirling it meditatively. “We promised not to endanger you.” 

Jim started pacing again - ten long strides from one end of the ornate red and yellow carpet to the other. Between the dyes, the lighting, and his own exhaustion, he felt like he was walking on coals. 

“See, what that tells me is it’s worse than you’re letting on, because you’re afraid to leave this area unpatrolled.”  Nervous energy from sleep deprivation and worry surged through his tired muscles, pushing him to move, to act, to solve a problem he knew he didn’t fully understand. “Otherwise you could’ve spent three months in a less dangerous part of space, making sure I’d go back to Earth with nothing but cheerful stories about your murals and experiments. But you couldn’t.”

He stopped his pacing and stared up to find Spisee watching him like a promising pupil who had finally understood a difficult lesson. “Because if you’re gone, who’ll keep the pirates and raiders at bay? Keep them away from all those isolated colonies that haven’t seen a Federation ship in - how long now?” 

“A generation,” said Spisee.

“Shit.” Jim breathed. “Is that even legal under the Federation charter?”

“Our youth only know the Federation as a distant maker of entertainment; a collector of taxes and a hoarder of resources.”

“That’s,” Jim chewed his bottom lip, thinking as fast and hard as his exhausted brain would allow, “Fair. They don’t know the Federation, and that’s a whole other issue I really want to talk about in more detail soon.”

He stared at Spisee’s bookshelves, packed with small mementos from dozens of worlds Jim had never even heard of. One of them was a small purple succulent, native to Typerias. He walked to it, drawn in like a siren song, and gently touched one of the soft spines. 

“Sir, there is another issue I want to discuss with you.” 

He knew should wait until he was refreshed and thinking clearly. The consequences of failure were too high. He dragged a finger along the succulent’s long spine again, remembering the sweet taste of its jelly-like inner flesh beneath the purple skin. 

“It’s about the kids,” he said.

“It is my understanding that Healer Sepsis ordered you not to begin your report until you had completed a minimum of three REM cycles and consumed at least two full meals.” Spisee’s gentle tone held a faint note of admonishment. 

Jim tore his gaze from the succulent. Sepsis was right. His own unconscious was right. He couldn’t wait on this for long, but he could wait until he’d had one real night of sleep.

“They told me about an Orion legend,” he said, switching gears. 

“I am most interested in their tale,” said Spisee.

Jim lowered his voice, as if sitting around a campfire. “The Legend of the Ghost Ship.”

Spisee’s eyes twinkled. He leaned in, nodding for Jim to continue. 

“The Ghost Ship looks different every time you see it.” Jim resumed his pacing across the fiery carpet. “Sometimes it’s a juicy freighter fresh from the loading docks. Sometimes it’s a rich idiot’s yacht. Sometimes,” he stopped and looked at Spisee, “it’s a science ship, damaged and limping, full of rare and expensive Federation tech no one bothers to export out this far.” 

Spisee rested his chin in one hand, drawing attention to the thick rope of a scar around his once severed thumb. 

“When you first board her it seems too good to be true. The crew is always asleep, the doors are always unlocked, and you’re able to gather up enough loot to last a year. Some say enough to set you up for life. But then the lights go down.” 

Jim held up a hand, and slowly pinched his thumb and forefinger together until he could barely look at Spisee through the slit between them. “Not out - because if they went out, you could use a flashlight. Instead, the light switches to a frequency that seems to absorb your flashlight’s beam while turning everything around you into shadows. It should be impossible. Light doesn’t work that way. But while you’re busy fiddling with your flashlight, you hear a voice. One voice.” 

Jim dropped his hand and stared into Spisee’s eyes. “They say once you hear the voice of the ghost ship, you’re doomed - because the voice summons the Monsters.”

“Terrifying,” Spisee nodded encouragement. “Do go on.”

“The monsters climb out of the walls themselves. Sometimes they’re even part of the floor or ceiling. They’re impossibly strong, and feel no pain. You can’t reason with them or beg them or bribe them. They see without eyes and attack without mercy. You’re doomed from the moment you hear the One Voice voice, because no matter how strong you think you are, they are stronger,” said Jim, still in his campfire voice. “All who hear it are lost, never to be heard from again.”

Spisee’s eyes danced with mirth. “If the Ghost Ship consumes all who invade it, how does anyone know of its existence?” 

“Logically it can’t exist,” Jim shrugged. “And everyone knows that. But the kids all have a friend of a friend of a friend who was a captive back in the day. They say one day the people who captured them all disappeared. They thought fuck, there goes the air. We’re going to asphyxiate before these idiots can sell us.” 

Jim let his fingers drape across the back of the chair on each pass as he resumed pacing Spisee’s office. “Instead, the air got cleaner, the water turned potable, and the food wasn’t poisoned anymore - though they never saw who did it. Then one day, usually a week or so later, they felt the ship dock. Some nice Andorians or Vulcans came on board and said hey, we’re at a Starbase, you’re free now. But when they asked how they got there and who rescued them, the nice strangers said their ship was abandoned in orbit of the Starbase, emitting a distress call, and when they boarded there was no crew left alive. Just prisoners.”

“That is quite a legend.” Over the course of Jim’s tale, one corner of Spisee’s mouth had risen an entire centimeter. “Are there any theories on the nature of the monsters?”

“Souls of angry people who died in space, mostly.” Jim perched on the edge of Spisee’s desk. From here, he barely had to look up to meet Spisee’s gaze.  “You wanna add any new details before we bring the kids to Typerias?”

“Oh?” A hint of surprise ghosted across Spisee’s handsome face. “That is not our current heading.”

Dammit! Jim was on his feet again. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. This was supposed to be a delicate negotiation, preferably over a meal, with a stack of PADD’s next to him full of notes and reports supporting Jim’s proposal. 

“It’s where you’re taking them,” he said, with forced calm. Jim stood behind his beloved chair, holding onto the back for support as he stared Spisee down. “You have to trust me on this. You’ll get a full report after I’ve slept properly, but trust me, I’ve done my research. There’s a place on Typerias that’ll be good for them.” 

Spisee leaned back, dissecting Jim with his gaze. It was exhausting. Jim sank back into his beloved chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to keep himself falling over. 

“Captain, you said Pike is going to be pissed. If you agree to take them to Typerias, then once they’re settled you and I can sit down and figure out exactly what story I’m going to tell Starfleet when I get home.”

“A fascinating bribe,” Spisee said slowly.  “Typerias is known to me as well.” Instead of nodding towards the purple succulent, Spisee cocked his chin towards the opposite bookcase. The third shelf down, right at Spisee’s eye level, held two hand woven baskets in a style Jim knew well from his youth, flanking a playful painting of an open air spice market. 

“The capture of this Orion ship necessitates a change in the travel itinerary we logged with Starfleet,” Spisee said slowly. “While we are off course, a diversion to Typerias would be a logical choice.” 

“What?” Jim whispered. 

“There is a Typerian orphanage known to take in charges who can not be reunited with trustworthy family,” said Spisee. 

“So I’ve heard,” he managed. Tension Jim didn’t know he’d been carrying suddenly drained from his body, spilling out of him like blood from a slit artery. He slumped back against the chair, boneless and drained. “Say it again.”

“A fascinating bribe,” said Spisee.

Jim rolled his head just enough to glare at the captain. 

“Typerias is known to me,” Spisee said gently, “And I agree it will be a good home for those who have no other.” 

Jim wished he had an informational tapestry covered in a colorful debate across embroidered ribbons to tell him how to feel. 

Typerias. 

When he closed his eyes, he could feel the soft dusting of cactus pollen on his cheek during the scant six weeks when local succulents exploded into a fury of colorful blooms.  His hands prickled with memories of scraping spines off prickly pear paddles to make nopales stir fry, and his ears rang with the laughter of his foster brothers as they joked that a scraped paddle looked like a Vulcan’s sheath - something none of them had ever seen but everyone their age whispered about.

The cacti had been in bloom the day he left, towering green giants wearing their brilliant red, yellow, and orange spring crowns, dressed their very best to see him off - just like Azmar and Jilleth. 

He never expected to smell that air again, and now Typerias was two stops away.

Spisee was taking him home.

Chapter Text

For the last three days Jim wanted nothing more than his soft, comfortable bed. Now that he had been medically ordered to sleep for a minimum of eight hours before reporting for any duties, slumber eluded him. He managed two and a half glorious hours after his talk with Captain Spisee, but once he woke, his brain churned with too many ideas and not enough to do with them. 

Despite Sepsis insistence he was banned from work, the first thing he did was check with the kids again. After three days of refusing to trust any Vulcans, they’d now decided T’Akos was cooler than Jim. This was mostly because she bragged that she’d bench pressed him for ten reps, then offered to bench press any of them. 

When he left, they were gleefully crafting a bird-like perch the kids could sit on so she could try to do bicep curls with one child in each hand as weights. Stork watched from nearby, patiently coloring with the smaller children. He caught Jim’s eye and folded his hands in a sign for sleep. 

Instead of going back to bed, Jim wandered the twilight decks, the cool early evening air making him wish he’d dressed in a heavier robe. Aimless meandering led him to the Deep Ocean deck, with its whimsical creatures that stretched for meters and peeked cheekily around corridors. The higher humidity and hint of salt in the air made him feel like he might round a corner and bury his toes in a sandy beach. Along the way, access panels were crafted to look like tentacles or flippers which lit up and moved, so a sly octopus or laughing dolphin appeared to open the doors for you. 

A familiar silhouette stood framed as the long, narrow pupil of a giant octopode’s eye. Jim silently stood next to Selarie, staring out the two meter round window into space.  

“Coming or going?” Jim asked.

Selarie had brightly colored origami paper tucked into his emerald under-robe. His twilight blue belt was more glitter than cloth, and somehow he had both confetti and glitter in his hair. 

“Stork soothed my youngest to sleep,” said Selarie. “I am ordered to do the same.”

“Sepsis sent me to bed,” Jim chuckled. “I literally have a prescription for sleep.”

Jim reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Selarie’s ear. His hand came away dusted with silver glitter. “You’re good with kids.”

“You are better with the older ones,” said Selarie.

Jim looked down at the glitter on his fingers, so reminiscent of the passing stars. “I was around their age when I really needed help.”

Selarie sat on the wide, comfortable window seat and nodded at the space next to him. The orange tones of the ship’s artificial twilight combined with the glitter to transform him into a handsome bronze statue come to life. Jim tucked another stray lock of hair behind Selarie’s other ear, fingers straying a little along the tip as he pulled away.

“You’re really good with the youngest kids,” said Jim. “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to, I get it. Probably more than most people on this ship.” 

“We are cousin ghosts,” Selarie nodded. 

“Kindred spirits,” Jim beamed at him. “I feel it, too.” His fingers twitched with the temptation to rest a hand on Selarie’s shoulder. Or his cheek. “How old were your children when…” Jim shrugged, waiting for Selarie to confirm his suspicions.

“James,” Selarie’s mouth ticked up an entire centimeter. “How many years do you think I have?” 

Vulcan ages were hard to interpret. He was at least a generation behind Spisee and Sepsis, but Jim had no idea how old the senior staff was. “Fifty?” he guessed. 

Selarie’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I am twenty two.” 

Jim’s mouth formed a small O of shock. “But you said you’ve served on the Sh’Raan for twelve years.” 

“No.” Selarie picked up the end of his long belt and meditatively wrapped it around his fingers. “The Sh’Raan has been my home for twelve years. Stork brought me with him.” 

The only children Jim had ever seen on the Sh’Raan were the kids they rescued from the Orion ship. 

“Were there many other children on the ship back then?”

“No,” said Selarie. “After Stork and his crew found us…Little remained.” He looked down at his hands, twined in the fabric of his belt. “They took us to an orphanage.”

Jim wondered what his life would have been like if T’Ree’s ship would’ve let her keep him onboard instead of sending him to Typerias. She visited him and her other foundlings four times a year, and commed them all multiple times a week. A lot of the orphans had an adult on a starship somewhere who functioned like a parent. 

“Stork had duties in the stars,” said Selarie, “I would not be parted from him.” 

The two couldn’t look less alike. Selarie had a wide face with big, expressive eyes and beautifully plush lips. Stork was shorter, with a willowy build and a narrow face dominated by his noble, hawk-like nose and wide, thin mouth.

“Stork is a kind man,” Jim said softly. 

“Yes.” Selarie’s cheeks flushed bronze. He lay a big hand on his side, over his heart. Jim smiled at him. Vulcans might say it was a display of loyalty, but in context, he recognized the gesture of affection.

“Why did he bring you here?” asked Jim. “A warship is a hell of a place to raise a child.”

“We are not at war,” said Selarie.

Jim’s lips tightened as he forced himself not to argue semantics. 

“Stork captained the Lanka-Gar,” said Selarie, “It is small. Maneuverable. The Sh’Raan is larger. And more handsome.“ His hand stretched out to the wall, fingers gently tracing over a bright gold and blue striped fish.

Jim sat on the window seat next to him, their knees barely touching. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised that Stork was a captain.” 

“His crew missed him,” said Selarie. “But they understood. Many retired after they found us.” Selarie looked out at the stars rather than at Jim. “They said they could not bear to see such things again.” 

Jim gave Selarie’s knee a gentle squeeze. “They said similar things about us. It made me so mad. Adults who didn’t survive it complaining to each other that no one should have to see it. As if witnessing it was harder for them than living through it was for us.”

“Starting fresh here was good,” said Selarie. “Captain Spisee missed his sons. Others missed brothers. When they looked at me, they only saw a boy.” 

“I bet you were a cute kid,” Jim smiled at him. “All big ears and too many layers of robes.” 

A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Sa-kuk Spisee said I was good for the crew. They wanted to make the Sh’Raan better for me. And so it became better for all.” 

Selarie’s hand slid next to Jim’s, pinky’s pressed together. “The same is said of you.” 

“Really?” Jim looked up, suddenly shy. 

“You are brash. Daring. It excites,” Selarie’s cheeks flushed a darker bronze, “Many of the crew. Your presence is good for us.”

“Spisee said the same thing.” Jim looped his pinky around Selarie’s. 

“He is wise.” Selarie shifted his weight so the warmth of his body pressed softly against Jim’s side. “The Captain told you to avoid me?” 

Jim nodded, chagrinned. 

“James,” Selarie’s voice lowered, tasting Jim’s name, “I am not a child.”

Jim looked at his broad shoulders and the dark curls of hair peeking from the emerald V of his robes and swallowed hard. “No. No you are not.” 

Selarie was warm and comforting. His perpetually soft robes and gentle presence made Jim want to snuggle into his side. “I’m only here for a few more weeks,” Jim said softly. 

“Yes. Your time here will end soon.” Selarie nodded. “Kaiidth. Our lives will be the intersection of animal trails for a short time.” 

Jim rested his forehead on Selarie’s shoulder, shaking a little with quiet laughter. “We’ll only cross paths for a little while,” he said. 

“I know you are not ours.” Selarie’s big hand stroked the back of Jim’s head. “You belong to Starfleet.”

“I do. I’m going to be a captain someday - and sooner than people think. In a decade I’ll be the youngest captain in the fleet.” Jim turned his face so Selarie’s hand rested on his cheek. “But if there was anyone who could make me reconsider that life, it would be you.”

“You are beautiful.” Selarie’s face was open, warm and inviting. “It is known I covet my own bondmate. The crew fear you will induce sudden cardiac arrest.” 

“Break your heart,” Jim whispered. 

“They are wrong. You are not my future.” Selarie gently cupped one of Jim’s hands in his own and shyly looked at Jim through his lashes. “But I have learned not to make the future the enemy of the present.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Jim turned his hand over and squeezed. “I’ve been so afraid of leading you on.” 

“I am unleashed,” said Selarie. “Any companionship you share is a gift. Like a meal. Savored once.” One corner of his mouth quirked up again. “But you are not the cook of my household.”

“I’m more like a nice takeout meal.” Jim beamed at him. 

“Very nice.” Selarie looked down at their hands. 

Jim stretched out two fingers and lightly stroked a line over the back of Selarie’s hand. “I wish your crew understood that.” 

“They will always see the boy I was. I like that you look at me as a man.” 

Jim wrapped his first two fingers around Selarie’s and slowly dragged down their length until reaching his fingernails. Selarie gasped softly. 

“A handsome man,” Jim’s voice lowered. “I can’t offer you anything past the last few weeks of this summer. Are you sure that’s enough?”

“You are a comet, blazing across the sky,” said Selarie. “Cowards fear your presence. I would behold your beauty before you disappear.” 

“I’ve always loved that poem.” 

Jim pressed the tips of his fingers hard against Selarie’s and surged up, mouth pressing against Selarie’s plush lips. Selarie’s eyes widened, then he pulled back, chest vibrating faintly with what Jim recognized as a Vulcan’s answer to laughter. 

“Humans do this?” Selarie cupped Jim’s cheek, one eyebrow quirked in a question. 

Jim couldn’t stop himself from giggling. “It’s how we make the ozh’esta.”

Selarie’s faintly vibrating laughter rocked his body again. “It is not a comic falsehood created for  The Stars Live in Your Eyes ?”

Jim’s forehead banged against Selarie’s chest and he shook with laughter. “It’s the one thing about humans the show gets right!” He pulled back and beamed up into Selarie’s sparkling eyes. “We don’t have to. But humans, uh, we like doing things with our mouths.”

Selarie drew a finger over Jim’s bottom lip. “Yes. T’Akos was fascinated.” 

“Yeah,” Jim snorted. “She threatened to write a report about me.”

“It was very detailed,” said Selarie. 

Jim’s eyes widened. “You know what? I have a healthy ego. This is alright. I’m not stressed about this at all,” he muttered.

“She wrote of your talent with your hands,” said Selarie. “And your mouth.” 

Blushing, Jim smiled up at him. “As a scientist, do you want to collect some first hand data?” 

Selarie nodded, eyes wide and eager. 

Jim climbed into his lap. One hand wrapped around the back of Selarie’s neck while the other sought out his fingers. Selarie’s arm wrapped around Jim’s waist, pulling him close. The Vulcan’s eyes closed as Jim traced heavy lines up his fingers, swirling gently around his palm before working their way back down. 

Instead of going for his mouth again, Jim nuzzled against the triangle of exposed skin between Selarie’s under-robe. He slowly kissed his way up Selarie’s neck, brushed his lips over the stubble on his jaw, and continued upwards until he nipped gently at the bottom of Selarie’s ear. He gasped as Jim’s tongue traced a warm line up the soft curve of his ear until he reached the tip. The arm around Jim’s waist tightened as his lips gently wrapped around the point, tongue tracing lazy lines around it. 

The hand around Jim’s waist slid down, roaming appreciatively over his ass. Jim breathed hotly into Selarie’s ear. “That’s nice,” he whispered. 

Selarie’s fingers teased the hem of Jim’s short robes, and a thrill shot through him as a warm hand slid up his thigh. 

Selarie suddenly froze. His head cocked to one side, and he quickly picked Jim up by the waist and sat him on the bench. Jim looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in a question. Before Selarie could answer, he heard distant footsteps. 

Laughing, Jim hopped to his feet. He grabbed Selarie’s hand and tugged. Selarie rose with hope in his eyes as Jim gleefully pulled him to the turbolift. As his free hand dragged along the wall, Jim imagined the dolphins and octopodes giving him congratulatory high fives. 

Selarie looked both ways before they crossed the hall that ended in the turbolift. While they waited for it, he gave Jim a secretive nod then quietly slid their fingers together.

The elevator settled, and they both took one step away from one another before the doors opened. Sepsis stepped out, with T’Una and T’Mari close behind. He sighed at Jim and Selarie before shaking head, disappointed.

“I promise you,” Jim said solemnly, “I am going to bed.” 

Beside him, T’Una and T’Mari eyed Selarie. 

“I am also going to bed.” Selarie stood at attention, hands folded behind him.

“Your own bed?” T’Una raised a judgemental eyebrow.

Sepsis herded the young men into the turbolift. “I care not where you sleep so long as you rest and meditate. You are both relieved of your shifts tomorrow.”

“He will not have enough stamina to effect their duty shifts,”   T’Mari said in Vulcan. “T’Akos’ report says humans are capable of release no more than three times a night.” 

“Good,” said Sepsis. “They both need sleep.” 

T’Mari narrowed her eyes at them. “We should summon Stork.”

“No!” Jim and Selarie chorused, eyes round.

Sepsis leaned inside the turbolift and pushed the button for Jim’s floor. His eyes twinkled. As the doors closed, he locked gazes with Jim and winked. 

Jim’s hand cautiously sought out Selarie’s once they were alone again. Selarie’s big hand wrapped around his and squeezed gently. Breathlessly, Jim took another step towards Selarie, his free hand reaching for the open collar of his robe.

The turbolift slowed. With a sigh, Jim took two steps to the left and pretended to casually lean against the turbolift wall in a way that left his half-hard cock in shadow.

T’Ikka, Skotch, and Sperm stepped on. Jim closed his eyes, mouth pressed into a tight line to prevent himself from giggling. 

“Do you need assistance?” Sperm asked gently. 

Jim took a deep breath. He was a grown adult. He could have a conversation with this man so long as he didn’t actually refer to him by name. 

“I will ensure Cadet Kirk reaches his quarters,” said Selarie.

All three stared at him, eyes narrowed. T’Ikka and Skotch slammed their wrists together so hard their flesh smacked loudly. Jim peeled one eye open and stared. “It’s impolite to talk about people when you know they can’t hear what you’re saying.” 

T’Ikka and Skotch both looked down at their wrists in slow motion. Their hands parted grudgingly.

“Selarie, you are needed,” T’Ikka began, as the doors opened. 

Jim took a step, then pretended to stumble. 

“The Cadet needs rest.” Selarie’s hands hovered near Jim’s arm, as if ready to catch him should he faceplant from trying to walk. “Sepsis prescribed him three REM cycles and two meals.”

“I will escort him,” said T’Ikka. 

Sperm shifted, blocking T’Ikka from the door while giving Jim and Selarie a narrow path out. “There is no need, Besu.”

Jim and Selarie squeezed out the turbolift doors behind him. Selarie’s wrist brushed against Sperm’s, lingering for a moment before he hurried after Jim. 

This time of night, the crew quarters deck was quiet, soft lights down to only 30%. Jim put a finger over his lips, grinning. They looked over their shoulders as they ran down the hall, breath heavy and eyes joyful. 

When he reached his door, Jim pushed Selarie up against it. The tall Vulcan let himself be manhandled, lips parted and eyes eager. Jim reached up, cupping his cheek in one hand and beamed at him. He wanted to try a human kiss again. Instead, he dragged his thumb over Selarie’s lips and slapped his hand against the scanner. 

The door swooshed open behind Selarie, who stepped backwards into the room at Jim’s gentle push. Warmth wrapped around them, a welcome contrast to the brisk cold of ship’s night. 

“We’re going to be in so much trouble in the morning,” Jim said.

“Yes,” Selarie agreed breathlessly. 

Jim wrapped his arms around Selarie’s waist. “So we should make sure it’s worth it.” 

“Yes.” Selarie’s voice was lower, huskier. He closed the space between them and ran a soft hand over Jim’s hair, gaze on the pink curve of Jim’s small human ears. 

“May I offer you water?” Jim took Selarie’s hand. 

He nodded eagerly, so Jim led him to the small en suite, where he had a growing collection of half empty cups even more plentiful than the ones on his desk. He picked one and filled it from the tap. Selarie watched as Jim took a long swallow before handing him the cup.

It looked so small in Selarie’s hands. He drained it down to the last swallow, then offered it back to Jim, who finished it off. 

Jim sat the cup back on the counter and lay a hand on Selarie’s chest. “You’re all I’m thirsty for.”

He laughed, voice full of equal parts joy and surprise as Selarie swept him off his feet and carried him to the bed. He wrapped his arms around Selarie’s neck and planted soft kisses on his chest, reveling in the permission to touch.

When Selarie stopped, Jim glanced over his shoulder, ready to be tossed onto his bed. Selarie paused, frowning at it. He slowly turned around in a full circle before gently laying Jim down. “These are your quarters?” 

Jim planted another line of kisses on Selarie’s collarbones. “The door opened to my hand.”

Selarie’s frown deepened two more millimeters as he took in the bare gold walls, adorned only with three bold horizontal meandering stripes of rust, copper, and bronze that looked like stylized sand dunes sweeping around the room. “This is untouched.”

Jim squirmed out of Selarie’s arms, still smiling up at him. “I thought it looked nice.” 

Selarie blinked at him, face blank with confusion. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the ties holding Selarie’s blue belt closed. “Come here and complain about my terrible sense of aesthetics.” He tugged the belt’s knots loose until it fell to the ground. Jim’s breath caught a little as Selarie’s over-robe parted. The hem was a rich brown, with lines of bronze embroidery that made it look like healthy bark. The embroidery continued up into a deep forest green that exploded into a sunny yellow around the front trim. He looked like a tall sequoia sitting in a ring of sunlight. 

Jim stood again and pushed the robe off Selarie’s shoulders. His hands trailed down the silky emerald under-robe, gliding over Selarie’s muscular arms, down to his hands. At 184 centimeters, Jim was taller than the average human male, but his hands looked petite sliding over Selarie’s. He nimbly traced teasing loops around each of Selarie’s fingers before his two front fingers dragged over their backs. 

“It’s like unwrapping a present,” Jim pulled Selarie’s hand to his mouth and gently brushed his lips over the knuckles. “Vulcans dress in so many layers.” 

He let go of Selarie’s hand and reached up to push the emerald under-robe off Selarie’s shoulders, leaving only the linen-like shift worn underneath to protect the clothing from a body’s sweat and oils. He sat back on the bed, smiling mischievously as his hands rested on Selarie’s thighs. Selarie stroked his hair, watching as Jim’s fingers ruched the linen up in a slow reveal of flesh. He chewed his lip as he took in calves, knees, thighs, and finally hips.  

“Oh.” Jim’s eyes widened. After being with T’Akos he thought he understood Vulcan anatomy, but this was all new territory. The skin between Selarie’s legs bulged heavily against what looked like a seam. The flesh closest to the seam appeared to be thinning as he watched. Two narrow green tentacles peeked out from the top of the seam, probing the air curiously. 

“May I?” Jim kissed Selarie’s hip, took another look at the thinning seam, then looked up at him. Selarie stared back, eyes wide, and nodded. 

Jim gave his massive thigh a reassuring pat before dragging his tongue down the length of the seam. Selarie gasped, fists clenching at his sides. Jim’s grin widened. He lapped at it again, tongue teasing the seam as his mouth moved over the bulging flesh. The tentacles curled over his cheeks, mapping the contours of his face. 

“We must replicate,” Selarie panted as Jim’s tongue worked over him. “A protective cover.” 

“I have condoms,” said Jim. “Human ones, at least. If they don’t fit you we can take a break and head to the replicator.”

“No,” Selarie’s hands rubbed a line from Jim’s shoulders to his neck, thumbs resting against his cheeks. “For the bed.”

“I’ll change the sheets when we’re done.” Jim laughed. “Don’t worry. I may not have any aesthetic sense, but good hygiene is important.”

He wrapped one hand around Selarie’s muscular thigh before enthusiastically diving back between his legs, eagerly lapping at the seam. A thin trickle of something deliciously sweet leaked from the pencil thin hole where the soft tentacles escaped. He wormed the tip of his tongue into it and pressed down. The skin rapidly thinned, and Jim couldn’t contain his grin of anticipation at the throbbing hardness he felt beneath. His free hand tugged his own belt loose and he rolled his shoulders to slide his over-robe off while still eagerly licking between Selarie’s legs. 

Selarie moaned softly, hands tightening on Jim’s shoulders. “James,” he hissed.

The thinning skin suddenly shot to each side as half a liter of sweet, viscous fluid splashed over Jim’s face and chest. A massive green cock erupted from the open slit and thudded heavily against his cheek. 

Jim fell back with a laugh. “This is what Uhura meant!” The front half of his hair was completely soaked. Selarie’s wetness spilled down his robes, over the sheet, onto the carpet. 

“How much trouble do you think we’ll be in if we ruin the mattress?” Jim grinned up at him. 

The corners of Selarie’s mouth curled up a full centimeter. He pulled off his shift and tossed it far enough from the splash zone that it shouldn’t be ruined, then kicked his robes in that direction as well. 

He hooked a finger under each side of Jim’s sleeveless shift. Jim put his arms straight up so Selarie could pull it off him. He tossed the wet fabric away from the bed, but not too near his own clothing. 

“Come here, gorgeous.” Jim pulled Selarie onto the bed, laughing as he play-wrestled the bigger man onto his back. “I want a good look at this.”

Selarie’s back arched as Jim wrapped two hands around his massive green cock. Jim whistled appreciatively. “I’m glad Vulcans are into hands. There is no hole in my body this would fit inside.” 

It was a good 36 centimeters long, and so thick that with both his hands wrapped around it Jim’s fingers only overlapped one another to the second knuckle. A line of round protrusions the size of pearls graced the underside, one every centimeter, leading up to a set of double ridges beneath the head. A slow trickle of a thicker lubricant eased from between the ridges with every stroke of Jim’s hands. 

The two narrow green tentacles were half again as long as the cock itself. They moved playfully, one stroking his hand while the other probed up his thigh, searching. 

“I can’t actually fit it in my mouth, but I’m gonna lick over this beauty, if that’s alright with you.” 

Selarie nodded eagerly.

Jim kissed the head, tongue darting between the two ridges. Having had his hand inside T’Akos, the thick fluid seeping out here seemed well suited for keeping everything deliciously slick inside a Vulcan woman. He sighed a little, wishing he could scale this magnificent dick down to a size he could actually take. 

He closed his mouth around the spine and dragged his lips over the pearly bumps, swirling his tongue over each one, until he reached the base. Moisture welled around the thick green cock, pooling briefly in the valley between the shaft and lips before spilling out over his muscular thighs. Jim lapped at it. This was thinner, but more slippery - and there was considerably more of it. 

Selarie used one finger to gently tilt Jim’s chin upwards. “You are drenched.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Jim straddled his thigh, one hand still idly caressing the thick, green cock. 

“Yours.” Selarie eyed the replicator, then looked back at Jim, one eyebrow raised. 

Jim laughed. “Worth it.” He waggled his eyebrows at Selarie, whose chest vibrated faintly with laughter in return. 

He kissed Selarie’s hip, one hand still on his cock. Slowly, he dragged his lips over a twenty centimeter bronze scar over his right hip. The soft black curls of thick hair caressed Jim’s cheeks as he nuzzled over Selarie’s navel, up his chest. Teeth gently closed over a nipple while fingers traced a parallel set of scars just over Selarie’s ribs, above his heart. 

He took his time, enjoying the way Selarie’s hands clutched at the sheets as he nipped and kissed. He had to let go of Selarie’s cock halfway up his chest. Selarie’s hands moved from the sheets to Jim’s back, tracing slow, lazy lines over his flesh. 

He dragged his lips over Selarie’s collarbones, up his neck, planting small kisses over his jaw. Selarie’s hands tightened on Jim’s ass as Jim traced the outline of Selarie’s ear with his tongue. The moan that escaped him when Jim swallowed the tip felt like a victory. 

“Would you like to try another human kiss?” Jim breathed.

Selarie nodded again, breathless.

Jim kissed a path back down Selarie’s jaw to his mouth. This time, he gently brushed his lips over Selarie’s, letting him get used to the unexpected contact. He planted a soft, light kiss on Selarie’s lips and pushed himself up to look into his face. Selarie’s pupils were blown black, his face flushed a deep bronze, eyes wide, eager, and hungry. Jim dipped down again, kissing him a little more confidently. 

He dragged one of Selarie’s hands to his face. “Let me show you.” 

Selarie’s fingers slotted into place over Jim’s psi points. “My mind to your mind.”

“My thoughts to your thoughts,” said Jim.

His mind opened eagerly to Selarie, inviting him in. Selarie stepped past his shields, awed and humbled at Jim’s easy willingness. Jim leaned down to Selarie’s lips again, and this time they both felt the erotic charge of Jim’s mouth on his, the soft pressure shooting waves of lust down his spine, filling his cock. 

Selarie’s mouth opened, hesitant but curious. His chest vibrated with another quiet laugh when Jim’s tongue breached his lips, but the feel of Jim’s mind, the sense of his pleasure at their tongues darting together as their lips moved turned the laugh into another soft moan. 

His free hand glided down Jim’s ribs, curling around to grab another greedy handful of his ass before moving between his legs. 

“Uh,” Jim said aloud, “It’s a little different from yours.” 

Selarie rolled them onto their sides so he could see the length of Jim’s body while keeping one hand on his face. 

“It is…” he dragged two fingers over the length. 

“I heard that,” Jim laughed at Selarie’s attempt to hide the thought, ‘petite.’

“It’s actually a little above average for human males, but we’re all this dry. Our females are the wet ones.”

Selarie’s eyebrow shot up. He probed curiously into Jim’s mind. He shrugged and let Selarie glimpse a memory of a particularly nice one night stand. 

“Curious,” said Selarie. 

“Hey.” Jim gently poked his bicep. “Back to the present.”

Selarie wrapped his hand around his own cock, stroking the length a few times until he was good and soaked. Jim gasped as the big fist wrapped around him, warm and wet and strong. 

“Oh fuck,” he hissed. “If you keep that up I won’t last long.” 

Selarie kept his fingers pressed to Jim’s face. Both stared, open mouthed, as Jim’s cock disappeared into Selarie’s wet hand on every stroke. He could feel Selarie’s cock twitch where it rested against his thigh. The two thin, flexible tentacles probed over Jim’s flesh, almost tickling, until they reached his balls. They explored curiously, gently squeezing in time to Selarie’s strokes. 

“That’s nice,” Jim whispered. 

One tentacle continued teasing his balls, licking over them like a hungry tongue, while the other probed further down. 

“I’m close,” he panted.

He’d wanted to last longer, to make sure Selarie came first, but less than five minutes into a handjob he was teetering on the edge. He could feel Selarie right there with him, their minds touching. Selarie wanted to make him come, wanted to see what kind of look he could put on Jim’s expressive face, wanted to feel the second hand pleasure through their meld. 

Selarie’s hand tightened fractionally, moving faster. The tentacle probing downwards found Jim’s entrance and traced a lazy circle around it. 

“Oh!” Jim’s spine arced. The tentacle gently pushed inside, and suddenly Jim was pushed over the edge, filling Selarie’s tight hand with thick white cum. Selarie stroked him through it, pulling more out of Jim than he thought was possible. 

He panted, shocked by the ferocity of his orgasm. Selarie pulled him tighter, one hand still on his face as Jim’s cum spilled hotly between his fingers. 

Hands trembling, Jim reached for Selarie’s hot, throbbing cock. The tentacle was still a couple centimeters inside him, making lazy circles around his rim. Selarie stared down at Jim’s small pink hands wrapped around his cock, dragging a band of pleasure up and down his length. He let go of Jim’s cock and, hand still dripping with Jim’s cum, wrapped his fist around one of Jim’s hands. They moved together, Jim enraptured at the slick heat. He nipped at Selarie’s shoulder and smoothed over the bite with a kiss. Selarie’s breathing was ragged. He stared at their hands clasped together, eagerly stroking his length. Jim tried to push into his mind, find what would help set Selarie off, and instead found him furiously building a wall to make it last longer. 

He laughed again. “Let yourself go. We have all night, and rumor says you don’t have a refractory period.” 

Jim mentally bumped him away from the wall he was building. He imagined taking Selarie’s hand, guiding him to a bouncy castle and jumping in together. He squeezed his hands tighter around Selarie’s cock. “This is amazing,” he breathed. “You’re incredible.” 

Selarie’s head fell forward as he took the leap with Jim. Glee bubbled up, pure and clean, as a surprisingly turquoise eruption sprayed hot and slick over Jim’s hands. The force of Selarie’s orgasm sent blood shooting back into Jim’s flagging cock, and he rutted against a muscular thigh as it went on and on until Jim wasn’t sure his nervous system could take anymore. 

“Wow,” Jim gasped, ours don’t last that long.

“I will share another with you,” Selarie fell back against the mattress. “In a moment.” 

Jim laughed at the turquoise streaks dripping over his chest and thighs. 

“How dehydrated are you?” Jim marveled. “I think you’ve lost most of a liter!”

“My body is preparing itself,” said Selarie. “This is…” he dragged a finger through the sticky mess on Jim’s chest. “So much.”

Jim lifted Selarie’s finger to his mouth and licked it clean. Selarie moaned into the pillow, and a smaller spurt of cum erupted from his still-hard cock. 

He kissed the tips of Selarie’s fingers, beaming proudly. “Selarie,” he said, his voice low and serious, “May I bring you water?” 

Selarie rolled his head back to look at Jim, overwhelmed, undone, and frankly happier than he’d ever seen a Vulcan. “Yes, James.”

Jim brought Selarie’s hand to his lips once more and kissed the knuckles. “I will return.”

He rolled off the side of the bed, wobbly on his feet. The floor was slick with Selarie’s fluids. He headed to the conversation nook and picked up a pitcher and two clean glasses instead of his half empty ones before veering for the en suite for towels.

“Hey, Selarie!” he shouted, frowning at his reflection as he wiped down his chest. “Does Vulcan cum stain?”

“Yes, we mark our mates.” 

Jim scrubbed at a turquoise spot on his cheek. “How long does it last?” 

“Up to five days.”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course it did. He wondered if he could get Sepsis to extend his mandatory time off to last a week. 

Once he’d toweled himself off, he draped a clean towel over one arm, filled the pitcher, and grabbed the clean glasses. On his bed, Selarie was rubbing a bit of Jim’s own translucent white cum between his fingers curiously. 

“Ours gets crusty but doesn’t stain,” said Jim. 

“Stealthy,” said Selarie. 

Jim sat the tray on his nightstand and poured two glasses of water. He took a drink from one, then handed it to Selarie. Selarie drank greedily, but paused before the last few drops were gone and sheepishly handed the glass back to Jim. He drank the last few drops with a wink.

Selarie propped himself up on one elbow and filled the glass. He took a long drink before handing it to Jim. Jim drank about half before passing it back. Selarie stared into his eyes as he finished it. 

“I would taste you, James,” he said. “In the way you tasted me.”

Jim’s cock twitched to attention. “Yes. Absolutely. That sounds great.” He picked up the pitcher and nodded towards Selarie’s glass. “More?” 

Selarie nodded. Ritual complete, he drank two more glasses before leaning back on the bed. Jim sat next to him. The mattress squished. “You did try to warn me.”

“We can stop.” Selarie frowned at the fluid dripping down the side of the mattress.

“Oh hell no!” Jim laughed. “But I might sleep on the floor until the mattress dries.” 

“It will not fit in your room’s recycler.” Selarie pursed his lips. “Perhaps the airlock?” 

Jim imagined the pair of them sneaking through the ship during the cool night, carrying a stained, soaked mattress across the length of the deck and down two levels without anyone noticing. 

“Where would I get a new one?” 

Selarie pulled Jim into his arms, holding him close. “You may sleep in my quarters until your mattress dries.” 

“If I do that then I guarantee we’ll get your mattress wet.” Jim snuggled into his arms. 

“I will use protection,” said Selarie.

Jim’s head fell onto Selarie’s chest, laughing at the pair of them - sticky, wet, and stained turquoise on a ruined mattress. “I was going to steal these sheets,” he confessed. “They’re so soft.

“They are machine embroidered,” Selarie scoffed. “These are an unworthy memento.”

His hand slid up to Selarie’s face. “This memory is the best memento I could take home.”

Selarie leaned in, experimentally instigating a human kiss. Their tongues playfully darted over one another, soft lips wet and warm and inviting. 

Thin tentacles wrapped around Jim’s cock. He gasped as they softly stroked his length. “What are those called?”

“Fra’als,” said Selarie.”More will come with my Time. And each Time after.” 

“I’m going to call the left one Sesame and the right Sazon,” said Jim. 

Selarie’s chest vibrated with quiet laughter. Jim yelped in surprise as he was rolled onto his back, the cooling wet spot squishing beneath him. He eyed the floor, but before he could suggest they move, Selarie sat upright, straddling his thighs. 

Jim stared up at the rich copper skin, darkened to bronze with scars from nights clearly more dangerous than the Orion’s attempted invasion. The bed looked so impossibly big when he was in it alone, but Selarie was over two meters tall, with shoulders nearly a meter wide. It was exhilarating to be dainty and petite alongside someone he knew would never hurt him. 

Selarie’s fingers stroked the tips of both Jim’s hands while his deep green fra’als eagerly caressed Jim’s cock. Selarie’s erection was hot and heavy, eagerly leaking once more as he gently rutted against Jim’s thigh. 

His big hands dragged their way up Jim’s arms, over his shoulders, until he cupped his face. Jim stared up at him, breathless, as the fra’als lickingly teased over his cock. Selarie slowly stroked his way down Jim’s turquoise stained chest, over his belly, along his hips. The fra’als unwound themselves, and Selarie slipped off the bed, onto the floor. 

“Well that’s not fair,” Jim gasped as Selarie pulled his ass to the edge of the bed. “You just picked that position so you don’t have to lay in the wet spot.”

His hips uncontrollably bucked up as Selarie swallowed him whole. His mouth was a molten softness, all consuming and so impossibly good. Fingers quested around Jim’s pelvis, circling his cock, stretching over his thighs. He squirmed under them, laughing uncontrollably as he reached a point on Jim’s lower back.

“I don’t know what you’re looking for,” Jim gasped. “But that tickles.” 

Selarie pulled off of Jim’s cock. “You have a psi point here?” His fingers ghosted over the ticklish spot again, making Jim writhe with laughter. 

“I don’t know! I’ve always been ticklish there.” He tucked a strand of hair behind Selare’s ear, admiring his wet, swollen lips. Selarie pressed firmly, and Jim could feel the whisper of his mind. 

“I don’t think that one’s strong enough for a meld,” he said. 

Selarie swallowed Jim’s cock again. This time, one hand stretched up to rest on Jim’s psi points. “My mind,” Jim panted, watching Selarie’s head bob, “To your… Oh fuck. Oh dammit, I’m not going to last if you…” 

Selarie’s mind wrapped around his, soft and gentle as a beloved family sehlat. He could feel Selarie’s fascination with Jim’s perfectly respectable sized cock for a human, thank you. Beneath the charm with his size, Jim felt satisfaction that this was considerably easier than with a Vulcan, and curiosity whether he could make Jim come even faster than the last time. 

“What if I want it to last?” Jim panted. 

Sealrie moved faster, his warm, inviting mouth eagerly swallowing everything Jim could offer, joyful at each stroke of pleasure he pulled from the human. Through the meld, he could feel Selarie’s fluids leaking down his own cock, soaking the floor between his knees. He took it in hand, stroking himself each time he sank down Jim’s length. 

“Oh god oh fuck oh wow oh this is happening isn’t it,” Jim babbled uncontrolably. “I swear oh fuck I normally last a decent OH that’s good. I’m better than this.”

“You are perfect,” echoed in Jim’s mind. 

He gave up trying to hold back and grabbed Sealrie by the ears, trying to pull him of before he came. He pushed Jim’s hip down, holding him on the bed as he sucked. “I’m. You’re. Oh. This is… fuck. Fuck!” Jim’s back arched off the bed as he erupted into Selarie’s hot, wet, welcoming mouth. 

His hands tightened around pointed ears as he felt Selarie come; sweet and strong and oh god how could it last this long? Coils of pleasure looped up his spine, setting every nerve in his body alight in the best way. How could a Vulcan get anything done in life when they could be doing this? The tsunami of pleasure faded into mere waves, which eventually pulled back to gentle ripples against the shore of his mind. 

Selarie pulled off him and nuzzled against his thigh. He wrapped his fingers around Jim’s and squeezed. 

“No wonder your people need logic.” Jim’s free hand stroked Selarie’s hair. “It’s the only way to keep you from dehydrating to death via masturbation.”

Selarie stretched, languid and cat-like. He picked Jim up off the mattress and sat him on the floor, then flipped the mattress over. When he pushed on it, some moisture squished out from the bottom, but the top remained dry. He crawled onto it and opened his arms for Jim. 

Jim curled up against him. “Is it my imagination or were there turquoise stains on the bedframe?” 

“You are not the first guest to use this room.” Selarie rested his chin on Jim’s shoulder and looked around the room. “Although no others left it unadorned.”

He lazily kissed over Selarie’s collarbones before settling his head on his bicep like a pillow. “Will you feel better if we hang some art between rounds tomorrow?” 

“Sepsis commanded us to sleep,” Selarie’s tone was soft and playful.

“He also gave us the whole day off tomorrow.” He rolled over so he could see the walls and pulled Selarie around him like a blanket. They looked fine, but he had to admit, his perspective was skewed by plain gunmetal grey Starfleet interiors. 

“Humans are missing out. I didn’t know orgasms could be like that.”

“I near my time.” Selarie stroked a long line from Jim’s ribs down to his thigh and back up again. “Once it is passed, mine will be akin to yours.” 

"What does that mean?” asked Jim. 

“I do not yet burn,” said Selarie. “You are an oasis, not kindling.”

“That’s a non-answer worthy of Spisee.” Jim idly dragged a hand up and down the arm wrapped around him. “They said you’re… ill?” 

Selarie’s body felt warm and healthy and strong. He’d felt eagerness, desire, and curiosity in their meld, but no pain.

“I will be cared for,” Selarie sighed. 

“But not the way you want,” Jim said softly. 

“Some day,” said Selarie. “Kaiidth. Those are tomorrow’s troubles. Tonight.” He rolled Jim onto his back and beamed down at him, cock rutting softly against Jim’s hip. “Let us ruin this side of the mattress.” 

Chapter Text

“Shit. Is the connection frozen?” 

Jim frowned at his PADD. Gaila sat on the edge of Jim’s own very messy bed, elbows on her knees, staring into the PADD wide eyed, mouth slightly open. He tapped on her face, breaking the spell. 

“ Jh’Mii ,” she whispered. 

“Are you alright?” Jim leaned forward, worried. 

Gaila bent over, head between her knees, shaking with laughter. 

“Jimmy!” She sat up, struggling for air, “If anyone could score a Vulcan orgy I knew it’d be you!” 

“This is all from one Vulcan!” He rested his chin on his turquoise stained hand. 

“Seriously?” Gaila looked behind her, nodding at a framed collage of Jim she’d made from his old STI exam receipts, then back to him again. 

“Gaila,” Jim’s face fell into his hands. He took a deep breath, then parted his fingers to stare at her with one eye. “It’s everywhere.”

She curled up cross legged on his mattress. Padded handcuffs dangled from the bedframe, one clenched snugly around a large bottle of lube. “Show me,” she grinned.

He sighed and pulled off his lightweight green over-robe. Deep turquoise stained his hands to the wrist. Whip-like tendrils stretched up towards his elbows, fading in color as they reached his biceps. His lips and a spot on his chin were a lighter shade of aqua, though there were darker splotches on his cheek and neck. He pulled the top of his shift down so she could see the mass of stains on his chest, like a blue gunshot wound over his heart.

“You look like you caught a DNA revision virus that’s slowly transforming you into an Andorian.” Gaila’s grin turned mischievous. “It’s nice to see you get some proper color in that dough you call skin.” 

He rolled his eyes at her. “It’s also on my legs, which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but my robes only go down to my knees. 

Gaila covered her mouth with one hand, shaking with laughter. “No wonder Vulcans cover everything under those heavy robes.”

“I need your help,” Jim’s bright smile bordered on manic. “There has to be some kind of stain remover that works on this.”

“You don’t know?” she raised her eyebrows. “C’mon, Jimmy. Are you telling me you never got your hands a little blue back on Typerias?” 

“I’m not that kind of boy!” His face morphed into Innocent Farmboy #2. 

Her mouth opened and closed, silently searching for words as she pointed at his chest, his hands, the splotches on his face. She gave up and flopped backwards on his bed, shaking with uncontrollable laughter.  

“Come on!” Jim pleaded. “Help me out. I can’t leave my quarters looking like this.” 

“I might have a couple of suggestions.” She rolled onto her side. “But only if you tell me everything .” 

Jim looked back over his shoulder as if the crew was watching him just out of frame. “You have to promise to keep it a secret. Can you imagine what Bones would say?”

“What in tarnation, boy!” her face scrunched up in a parody of McCoy’s. “You look like Achilles mama after splashin’ her son in the river Styx!”

“Dammit,” Jim laughed. “You’re spending too much time with that Southern Belle.” 

She proudly pulled back the stained cartoon sehlat sheet, revealing a lumpy mess of wax dried into the upper left corner of the mattress, just under the section of his headboard suspiciously covered with a towel. Someone had clearly tried to scrape the wax off with a spoon. A dark char spread out from it in an arc, growing thicker and blacker as it approached the edge of the mattress.

“I hate you so much,” Jim growled. 

She blew him a kiss. “I don’t know what we’re going to do when you get home. We save all the really fun stuff for your bed.” 

Jim caught the blown kiss, narrowed his eyes at his hand, and mimed tucking it into one of the heavy embossed envelopes on his desk. “This is real rescue-cat lashing out when you go on vacation behavior.”

“Meow, lynudi, ” Gaila winked. “Now let me see the show again.” 

Jim pulled his robe open, once more revealing his turquoise stained chest. “Help.” 

The border of his PADD flashed repeatedly as she took screenshots. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders, and let one side of the robe fall down far enough to reveal his bicep. 

“Give me an over the shoulder smolder,” Gaila winked. 

Jim turned his chair around and straddled it.  One arm rested on the chair back while the other dropped low, letting his green over-robe once more hang down suggestively. He looked down at his own arm, then oh so slowly craned his head back until he stared at Gaila through his lashes. 

“I always thought they’d be more fastidious,” Gaila laughed, “Or at least have better aim. Was this a full on Vulcan Gang Bang, or did you pick up these stains one at a time, sneaking into different quarters by dead of night like a sexy Santa?”

Jim’s PADD flashed nonstop as Gaila took picture after picture. He blew her a kiss, and she pretended to catch it and slap it on her cheek. 

“Did I tell you about Selarie dressing up like Santa when we rescued the kids?” Jim’s smile softened into fondness.

“No.” Gaila peeled the imaginary kiss off her cheek and dropped it on a pillow. “Jimmy, what was your,” she made air quotes with her fingers,  “ totally normal botany ship ,” her hands fell as she rolled her eyes, “doing on a rescue mission?” 

Jim stared out his window, frowning at his own reflection. “ Lyontar , you can’t tell anyone about this.”

“Fuck you, Jimmy.” She crossed her arms. 

“Not with another man’s dick.” Jim stared her down. “I’m serious. They’ll get it all twisted.” 

“Is this why no one has heard from you in a week,” she said softly. “We’re all worried.”

“I’m fine.” He held up a turquoise hand. “More than fine. Look at me! I got laid with the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. You’d like him, Gaila. He’s good with kids.” 

“You plan on sticking around and starting a family?” Her voice was carefully light. 

“No.” He spun the chair around so he could lean back, feet propped on the edge of his desk. “Selarie’s a sweetheart. I’d eat him alive. Plus, it’s not like I’ll ever climb the ranks from cadet to captain on a Vulcan science ship. Starfleet is the only way for me to get my own captaincy.”

“You could try piracy,” she smiled darkly.

“Out here? Hell no!” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling “I’d be caught by the j’hordak slethi. ”

Gaila’s eyes narrowed, all traces of humor gone. “What do you know about the Ghost Ship?” 

“You have to promise not to get weird.” Jim kicked his feet off the desk, practically bouncing with excitement. 

“Too late,” said Gaila. “Born that way. Now out with it.” 

Jim spread his arms wide. “I’m on it.”

Gaila stared, eyes slowly widening. “What the actual fuck, Jimmy?” She wrapped her arms tight around her knees.

“Whatver you’re thinking, it’s not like that!” He waved a hand back and forth as if he was erasing the imaginary speech bubble over her head. “We were the ones attacked by pirates.”

“Of course you fucking were,” she ran a hand through her long red curls. “A Vulcan science ship out in that part of space, all by itself? Hell, even if the ship wasn’t full of modern Federation tech, people that close to the neutral zone would kill the crew just to steal their embroidery.” 

“They tried,” Jim lost his fight against bouncing with excitement. Eyes bright, face proud, he beamed at Gaila like a man in love.

“They were mostly after  supplies from medbay, but a bunch of them were running around just covered in ongoing embroidery projects they’ll stolen from the craft room. I…well, I’ll get to that in a bit.” He stared into the middle distance, caught up in the memory. “You should’ve seen them. I was in medbay when it started.”

Gaila folded both hands over her face, covering her mouth and nose as she took a long, calming breath. “What were you doing in medbay?”

Jim’s smile went soft again. “Selarie tried to congratulate me a little too enthusiastically.” He mimed pinching his own shoulder.”

“Only you, Jimmy.” She rolled her eyes.

“Hey!” He held up his stained hands, wiggling his fingers, “it worked out in the end!” 

“So you were in medbay, where the sexy doctor diagnosed you with being an idiot,” she prompted. 

“That’s confidential!” Jim winked. “He’s not supposed to share my charts.” 

Gaila rolled her eyes. “And then your ship was attacked.” 

“You should’ve seen it,” he shook his head. “All these sweet scientists.” 

“Right. Yes.” Gaila stared him down, voice suddenly serious. “The giant Vulcans from an ethnic group that Spock says was abso-fucking-lutely legedary before the Surakian reformation for being loyal, brutal, neigh unkillable Le-matya’s .”

“Yeah, and a thousand years ago my ancestors were writing angry letters about how all their wives wanted to fuck Viking invaders because unlike them, the Vikings bathed,” Jim bristled. “You know what those tall blonde warrior people do now? They make flat pack furniture and Legos.” 

“A thousand years is different on a Vulcan time scale,” she said, her voice gentling a little. “That’s only five Vulcan generations.”

“Bullshit,” Jim snapped. “I hate it when people abuse math like that. It’d only be five generations if every Vulcan was a phoenix. You hit 200, die in a fire, and are reborn as an infant.”

“Jimmy!” she rolled her eyes. 

“No! You started this!” He pointed at the screen. “Most Vulcans start having kids in their 40s. The ones with big families mostly stop before they hit 100. If you’re at looking firstborn to firstborn, there’ve been over 22 generations. For later born kids, it’s still over 12. So don’t give me any of that bullshit about how their great-great grandparents were pre-Surakian warriors, or that there haven’t been enough generations for attitudes to change.” 

“It’s still not the same as human time!” Gaila snapped back.“Your lives are so short. Nobody can keep up with you because you crank out four generations a century, and each one is in competition with the last for making their mark.” 

“Once my little mayfly life is over you’re gonna name a kid after me,” said Jim.

She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair again. When she opened them, her anger had faded to sadness. 

“ Jh’Mii ,” she said softly. “Though if you can avoid getting yourself killed before you’re 50, you might actually get to meet them.”

They stared at one another, the silence heavy between them. 

“I’m gonna spoil the hell out of Baby Jh’Mii,” he said softly. 

“I hope so.” She crossed her legs again and pulled the dancing sehlats duvet around her hips, eyes still sad despite the brittle smile she forced. “So your giant, scary, Vulcan friends…”

Jim held up a finger. “You mean my sweet scientists who get excited about increasing protein yields by 3.7%.”

“Right, right, your scary warriors enjoy their hobbies.” She waved dismissively. “When you were attacked, did those sweet, innocent little scientists phaser the pirate ship in half?” 

“What?” Jim looked shocked. “These are Vulcans! They’re not going to murder someone!” 

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“They stripped.”

“I…they…What?” Gaila blinked. 

“You should’ve seen it!” Jim spun his chair around in a circle. When he looped again, his hands moved as fast as his mouth. “They stripped down to their underwear and changed the light settings. When they plastered themselves to the walls, they just…disappeared. I can’t believe I never noticed it before, but their underwear is the same colors as the fish and birds in the murals, and in that lighting their skin blended right into the background.” 

“That’s a neat trick,” Gaila said, thoughtfully. 

“Made it easy for them to pick people off. Some idiot would come running down the hall, covered in as much embroidery as they could carry, and smoke would detach itself from the wall and take them down.” He excitedly moved his hands through the air, demonstrating. 

Gaila frowned. “That sounds terrifying.”

“For the invaders! I wish I’d known, though. I thought they were going to stand there like a bunch of pacifists and wait to get slaughtered,” said Jim.

“Of course you did,” she sighed. 

“So I brought some laser scalpels with me when I hacked my way out of med bay,” Jim barreled on. “Fun fact - if you treat them like throwing knives you can hamstring a guy. Ask me how I know.”  

Gaila’s voice went hard. “What. The Fuck. Were you doing in the battle?” 

Jim looked away from the screen. “I mean, they tried to lock me in medbay when it started, but c’mon. I wasn’t going to sit back and let them get killed.”

Gaila rubbed her forehead. “So you decided to take on a whole pirate crew all by yourself? And force your sweet scientists to watch you get killed for them?”

He blinked at her, frowning. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Fuck, Jimmy.” Gaila rested her chin on her knees, staring at him. 

“Yeah, I know.” He stared down at his desk for a long moment. 

“You can’t do this to me,” she said softly. “Human life is so short. You promised me you’d learn to value the years you do have.” 

“And I told you that befriending me was like adopting a kitten,” said Jim. “If you can’t handle seeing them die in 20 years, you shouldn’t take them home at all.” 

“If you keep this up, meshti , you won’t make it 20 years,” she sniffed. “And that’s just fucking stupid. Even with your allergies and your bone issues, you could last another 60 to 80 if you fucking tried.” 

“You’ll make more human friends.” Jim crossed his arms. 

Gaila threw a dildo at her PADD, knocking it off the bed. “If I was there I’d punch you in the throat.”

“Well, that’s one way to make you stop counting the months till I die.” 

Jim saw a dizzying view of his own bedroom as she picked up the PADD and put it back on the nightstand. Her triple goddess idol sat on his dresser. An old fashioned stethoscope wrapped around one head’s neck, a starfleet command delta was drawn on another’s forehead in gold ink, and a hand woven grass crown rested on the third’s head. Wheat stalks tucked behind each ear, heavy with seed, hung forward like antennae.  

“Why do you think I sleep in your room?” 

Jim crossed his arms. “Because you know you can make Spock buy me a new mattress.”

“Everything in here smells like you.” Gaila’s wet eyes stood in contrast to her stern glare. “I can curl up with Lenny in my arms and the smell of you surrounding me and pretend the humans I love the most are safe and alright.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Then you fucking tell me that you’re on the gods damned Ghost Ship?” 

“It’s not what you think,” he said softly. 

“I’ve heard about the j’hordak slethi for twenty years!” she snapped. “The tastiest bait in space! But as soon as you board them they steal your cargo, cut up your ship for parts, and eat your fucking souls.”

“Well I can promise there’s no soul eating,” Jim held up his hands, palms out. “In fact, they went out of their way not to kill anyone.” He shook his head, “Gaila, it was amazing. If this was a Starfleet crew you know they’d go in blasting phasers first, asking questions later. Spisee’s crew took extreme measures to keep the invaders safe.” 

“Who was keeping you safe, Jimmy!” Gaila shouted. 

“Gaila, stop,” he sighed. 

“No, lynudi! You put yourself in these situations , and it breaks my heart.” She wiped the back of her wrist across her eyes. “Look at you. You’re covered in spunk. You fall into people dick first then laugh when the clinic says you’ve racked up another STI.”

Jim looked down at his turquoise hands. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It never is.” She let the tears fall freely. “When you get home, I want you to talk to Dr. Hemmelgarn again about your death wish.”  

“It’s not a death wish.” Jim stared out his window again, unwilling to meet her gaze. “The doctor says I have an underdeveloped sense of self preservation combined with a hero complex.” 

“You challenged Nadyllar to a duel!” she snapped. “You don’t fucking duel with Tellerites!” 

“You didn’t hear what he said about you.” Jim sat up straight, face suddenly serious. 

“Do you think I care?” She wiped the duvet over her eyes. “I’ve heard worse!” 

“I knew he was a bad shot.” said Jim. “People needed to know they couldn’t talk about you like that.” 

“We were late on our rent because I had to spend the money on your bail after you shot him through the knee!” 

“You know you make me sound cooler when you say it like that,” said Jim. “His whole gang of assholes treated us with more respect after that.” 

“You are a fucking child,” Gaila snapped.

“I am an adult who fucks.” He held up his turquoise stained hands as proof. “And I really need your help.”

“I should’ve left you at that shitty bar,” Gaila muttered.

“Too late,” Jim smiled, smelling victory. “Once a kitten imprints on you you’re stuck with it.” 

“Uh huh. Speaking of these kids you and Selarie rescued,” she eyed his stained hands. “You sure the two of you haven’t already started a family?” 

Jim’s turquoise hands flew to his belly, patting over the firm muscles. “Oh fuck! Gaila, am I pregnant?” 

“I hate you,” she glared.

“Do you think it’ll be twins?” Jim held up his arms, staring at the stains. “I swallowed a lot of it. Quadruplets? Do Vulcans have liters?” 

“I dunno. How many kids did the two of you rescue?” said Gaila. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not as nice as you are,” he smiled fondly. “Well, he is, but we’re still taking them to a nice planet with a great orphanage.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Wait. You don’t mean…”

Jim nodded faintly. Her mouth formed into a silent O. 

“It’s a good place. They’ll be pissed at me for leaving them,” said Jim, “But that’ll give them somewhere safe to put all their anger. And they’ve got a lot of it. They’re going to remember me as an asshole.” 

“Speaking of assholes,” Gaila’s face softened. “I’m amazed you can sit.”

“Gaila,” his smile widened. “It was so big.” He picked up a half full glass of water and wrapped both hands around it, leaving a gap where his fingers didn’t quite touch.

“Tell me again how you don’t have a death wish?” she snorted.

“Why do you think it’s all over me instead of inside me?” His grin widened. 

“I thought you said you swallowed,” Gaila winked. 

Jim stuck out his blue tongue. 

“You’re sure this is all from one guy?” she raised a dubious eyebrow. “You look like the stripper at a Romulan bachelor party.” 

“I told you,” Jim rolled his eyes. “This is my official uniform. It’s lightweight, sweat-wicking fabric designed to keep me from overheating.” 

“Uh huh. Next you’re going to tell me that flashing your arms and ankles like a little strumpet didn’t lead directly to you banging two members of the Sh’Raan’s crew during the first two months of your summer internship.” 

“They succumbed to my natural Kirk charm,” Jim sat up straight as his face slid into Starfleet Recruitment Poster #3 “And my encyclopedic knowledge of The Stars Live In Your Eyes. ” 

“I was about to say they have good taste in entertainment,” Gaila raked her gaze over Jim’s blue arms, “but then I remembered that two of them know what you taste like.” She wrinkled her nose in mock disgust. 

“Did you know Vulcans taste like candy?” Jim waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t get a taste for it,” said Gaila. “You don’t want to turn into one of those penny suckers you see hanging around the Vulcan quarter.”

“Because historic coins are crazy expensive.” Jim winked. “Cheaper to just replicate some really oxidized copper. Maybe a whole copper dildo.” 

“Now I know what to get you for Chris Must,” Gaila smirked.

“No.” He narrowed his eyes, looking over her shoulder. “You’re going to get me a new headboard. I don’t want to know what sins that towel is covering.” 

Gaila walked her fingers over the crunchy wax soaked into the mattress and teased at the edge of the strategically draped towel. “Uhura’s going to be pissed she lost her bet. She thought you’d bag the sexy doctor.” 

“That was always wishful thinking,” Jim waved her off. “Sepsis is already in at least two relationships I know about, and they’re both with women.” 

“Maybe he’s going through a phase?” Gaila leaned back and peeked under the towel. She turned to the PADD, nose wrinkled in disgust, then lay the towel back down and gently patted it. 

“If you make him your next conquest you could start a whole new fetish out yonder for tiny pink dicks.” 

“Yonder? You really are spending too much time with Bones,” Jim laughed. “And it’s slightly above average for a human.” 

“I bet it looked like a toy in his hand.” Gaila lay one finger on her palm and rocked her hand back and forth like she was holding a tiny baby. “Like a cute little lipstick vibe.” 

Jim grinned at her. “You are the worst.”

“You dare say that to the person who is about to send you a replicator recipe for a creme that  counteracts Romulan cum staining?” said Gaila. “It even smells like bergamot and cardamom.”

“Really?” Jim’s eyes were desperate with hope.

“Okay, it’s orange peel and replicated Chris Must cookie spice,” Gaila lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It was the only combo that covered up the stain remover’s musk.”

“Do you think it’ll work on Vulcan cum?” Jim frowned at his turquoise stained hands. 

Her eyes twinkled. “Uhura says it works.” 

Jim shook with laughter. “Why didn’t you tell me Vulcanoid cum stains your skin before I started my internship?”

“And deny myself the pleasure of seeing you like this?” She waved at his turquoise stained skin. “Oh, Jimmy. You know me better than that!” 

Her PADD spun around the room again. When it stopped, it zoomed in on an awkward view of her face from the bottom of her chin upwards as she split her screen and typed in fresh instructions. A moment later, his PADD flashed with the notification of an incoming file. He smiled and pressed to accept. 

“I’ve missed you,” said Jim.

“Back atcha,” said Gaila. 

“I mean it, lyontar. Sometimes I forget I can’t tell you all about my day over dinner.”

“Thank the gods you have a giant Vulcan cock to console you,” said Gaila.

“Once!” said Jim. “All this is from one night! And you’re the only person I’ve commed.” 

Her grin widened. “If I found out you had an Andorian Facial and didn’t let me see it in all it’s blue glory I would’ve disowned you.” 

“I want you on my ship when I’m captain.” Jim put on Mischevious But Secretly Means It grin #2. “I don’t want to go this long without being able to tell you all the good gossip. Plus, a captain needs some confidants who’ve known them since they were a young dumbass.” 

“Your ass is the dumbest.” Her own face lit up with a feral grin that made bar toughs swoon. “Which is why when I make captain you’ll be my tactical officer. Unless I send you to Engineering.”

Jim fell into the old debate with a genuine smile. “You can’t be my communications officer. I’ve got eyes on Uhura for that.” 

“You and every other captain in the fleet,” she muttered. “If she doesn’t take Starfleet’s offer to stay on and teach.” 

“Nah. She feels the call of the void. They won’t be able to ground her,” said Jim. “Any chance Pike will give up Spock as chief science officer?” 

“Wow. You nepo babies really do just hire all your best friends to work for you,” Gaila crossed her arms in mock offense.

Jim leaned forward, face stern as Pike’s. “Just for that I’m putting you in security.” 

Gaila met his look, eyes twinkling. “You’re going to medical.” 

He gasped in mock offense, one hand flying to his chest. 

“As a junior entertainment officer. They report to psych, and psych reports to my chief medical officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy.”

“Now who’s making nepo hires?” asked Jim. 

“Oh, I’ll keep some berths open for the dumbest of asses that Starfleet can send me,” said Gaila. “So you can make new friends.”

“I don’t need new friends. I have you,” said Jim.

She rolled her eyes. “Jimmy, you’ve pack bonded with a ship full of scary Vulcan warriors.” 

He batted his eyelashes. “And I didn’t even have to put googly eyes on their nipples.” 

They stared at one another for half a second before both slumped over, laughing. 

“Have you told Bones about that?” Jim sat up, still chuckling.

“No, and neither will you.” Gaila waved a finger at him. 

“Speaking of secrets.” Jim pursed his lips. “Promise me you’re not going to tell our friends anything they don’t need to hear.” 

“They need to hear all about your Andorian Facial,” Gaila smirked.

“You earned that,” Jim rested his chin on one stained fist. “Have fun with all those images you took. But  you know what I mean.” 

She stared at his turquoise hands for a long moment before nodding once. “No one has heard from you in over a week. I’ll let them know what they need to hear, meshti. ”

Jim’s PADD flashed blue twice. He glanced at the subspace timer in the lower right corner. He had less than a minute of talk time left. From Gaila’s frown, he could see she was looking at the same notification on her own PADD.

“I miss you, lyontar,” Jim said softly. 

“You too, lyundi."” Gaila blew him a kiss. “See you soon.” 

Chapter Text

Jim looked both ways before stepping out into the hallway. He wasn’t normally awake so early, but Selarie got a comm from Stork about one of the toddlers, and he hadn’t been able to fall back asleep alone in his bed. 

The Sh’Raan was soothingly quiet during the ship’s early morning hours. The steady thrum of the engines combined with the gentle hiss of the ship’s carefully calibrated weather made the ship feel like a sleeping animal curled protectively around him. 

He made his way down to the replimat, pausing at each intersection to listen for the sound of other early risers. Other than a brief moment of panic when he spied Sepsis slip out of T’Una’s room, the corridors were clear. 

This early, the ship’s brisk night time temperatures provided an almost plausible cover for his billowy pants and long sleeved hooded sweatshirt. He kept the hood up and his hands in the front pouch pocket, tightly clasped around the yellow data cart he’d loaded with Gaila’s secret recipe. 

Jim let out a long sigh of relief when he peeked into the empty replimat. He hurried over to the Federation replicator, quickly slid the yellow cart into the custom recipe slot, and slapped his hand on the authorization panel.

It flashed red twice. Jim wiped his sweaty hand against his hoodie, drying it as much as possible, and pressed it against the panel again. This time, it not only flashed red but also gave him a warning about unauthorized access. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” 

Jim jumped in surprise. He turned the less stained side of his face just enough to see Flaxnir leaning against the replimat’s open door. The infinite pockets of his shapeless coveralls were weighted so heavily it looked like the Andorian teenager was carrying half again his own weight. 

“Are you trying to rob that replicator?” asked Flaxnir. “You know the food is free, right?” 

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. It was too early for this. Hell, it should’ve been too early for the kids, but they were still on the Orion ship’s schedule. 

“Jaxni! Kalterin!” Flaxnir leaned back and shouted down the hall. “Their human pet doesn’t know how to use a replicator!” 

Jim stared at the replicator panel’s shiny surface, hoping they wouldn’t be able to get a good look at his reflection. He squared his shoulders, unwilling to turn around and acknowledge this conversation was actually happening. 

“Shouldn’t you be batting your eyelashes at Stork and pretending you’ve never seen Vulcan embroidery before?” They were all angling for some high dollar embroidered “memory keepers” from the crew. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” Jaxni was a little out of breath from running to catch up. The cooling fan they’d installed in her jumpsuit inflated the fabric so she looked like a hyperactive iceberry. “You’re dripping on the floor. That’s gross.” 

“Sweat is a normal human reaction to heat,” said Jim. 

“That’s why they gave you the stripper robes,” Kalterin sauntered up and leaned against the side of the doorframe opposite Flaxnir. “They like to see you wet. ” 

Flaxnir stretched out his arm so they could bump wrists, grinning. 

Jim pulled the cart out, blew in it, flipped it over, and pushed it back into the slot. “Shouldn’t the three of you be riding around in a rickshaw pulled by T’Akos?” 

“Turn around,” said Kalterin. Unlike the Andorians, she was dressed in billowing Vulcan robes that covered everything but her hands and face, though she didn’t have a belt. She’d buzzed her purple hair down to half a centimeter on both sides of her head, giving her features a surprisingly elfin look. The remaining wide stripe in the center was pulled back into a thick five strand braid decorated with two blue ribbons. She was a bookbag and water bottle from looking like she was on her way to school. 

“Nah. I’m good here.” Jim lay his hand against the screen. It flashed the red warning message again. 

“You’re obviously not.” Flaxnir and Kalterin locked eyes. 

“Hey! Why do humans like eating food the color of your blood?” asked Jaxni.

“Not now,” said Flaxnir.

“Why not?” Her stubby antennae pointed at Jim. “He’s at the Federation replicator. He could make us a whole body’s worth of red food to try.” 

Kalterin sauntered forward, smirking. She leaned against the wall of replicators, giving Jim a long, slow once over. He pretended to be fascinated by the warning message. 

“Here, let me…” She reached for the replicator panel, then at the last moment grabbed the top of his hoodie and pulled down, hard. 

The three of them stared at him for a long moment, taking in the blue stained face and hair. Kalterin fell to her knees, laughing. Flaxnir slid down the door frame, pointing at Jim, gasping for words. 

“Ew.” Jaxni eyed him dubiously. “Is it contagious?” 

“Oh, I know where he got it from,” Kalterin shook with laughter. “Looks like you got it good , old man!” 

“Would you please shut up and use the replicator for me.” Jim rolled his eyes. 

Kalterin pushed herself to her feet and staggered in his direction, still laughing. She took a look at the yellow data cart in his blue hands and slid back down the wall, fist in her mouth as she shook with laughter. 

“Wow. This is…wow. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“He obviously didn’t.”  Flaxnir ambled over and offered her a hand. She let him pull her to her feet. “That’s why he has it all over himself.”

“What is it?” Jaxni ran across the room after them and pushed up Jim’s sleeves, turning his teal stained hands over in her pale pastel blue ones. 

“Somebody got an Andorian Facial,” snickered Kalterin. 

“They didn’t do a good job,” said Jaxni. “You can still see some of his dough color.” 

Kalterin and Flaxnir hugged each other harder, shaking with a new round of laughter. 

“Gaila would love you two so much,” Jim mumbled. 

Kalterin titled her head sideways, chin resting on Flaxnir’s shoulder as she gave Jim a quizzical look. 

“Listen, the replicator doesn't recognize my handprint. One of you pulsing solar flares needs to authorize it for me.” 

“Absolutely not,” said Kalterin. 

“You’re gonna walk around like that all day, and we’re gonna follow you,” Flaxnir slipped an arm around Kalterin’s waist, grinning. 

“I fear not.” Sepsis' voice filled the replimat. Flaxnir and Kalterin stood up straight, faces suddenly as serious as a reactor breach. Jaxni grinned widely and waved. “Come with me to medical, James.”

“This day keeps bearing gifts.” Jim yanked the yellow cart out of the wall and shoved it in his pocket.

“Can we come, too?” Jaxni ran to Sepsis. 

“We will not be dissecting him,” Sepsis said fondly. “You would bore quickly.”

“Can I come back when you are dissecting someone?” she batted her eyelashes at him. 

“You may join me for educational videos of new surgical techniques while you eat lunch,” said Sepsis. 

“What the fuck?” Jim whispered. 

“Why else do you think we wanted to follow you?” whispered Flaxnir. 

Kalterin elbowed Jim in the ribs. “You’re not the only one learning Vulcan anatomy.” 

Across the room, Jaxni bounced on her heels. “What color will the blood be? I’ll make sure my food matches!” 

“Today’s educational video involves Ferengi,” said Sepsis. 

Jaxni frowned. “What color is their blood?” 

“Come along, James.” Sepsis cocked his head towards the hallway outside. Jim’s shoulders slumped as he obediently followed. 

Behind them, Jaxni pulled a tablet from one of the countless pockets on her inflated jumpsuit and shoved it at the laughing teens. “Help me find the color of Ferengi blood.” 

Kalterin caught Jim’s eye and winked at him before bending over the tablet. 

Alone in the hall, Sepsis dragged his gaze over the varying shades of blue stains covering Jim’s skin. “I see congratulations are in order.”

“Is T’Una taking the day off to exfoliate?” Jim snapped. 

One corner of the doctor’s mouth ticked up half a centimeter. 

“I fear we have been negligent in Selarie’s education.” Sepsis put a patient privacy lock on medbay’s door then led Jim into a semi-private exam space. He handed Jim a disposable exam gown, though instead of looking away he watched curiously as Jim changed. 

“None would judge Selarie for a temporary lapse in logic upon seeing you so dramatically marked.”

“You know you’re breaking every Federation stereotype of Vulcans.” Jim folded his clothes and put them in a basket at the end of the exam bed. “You have people fooled into thinking you’re unfeeling computers instead of kinky bastards.” 

“My parents were bonded before my conception,” the doctor’s eyes twinkled, “Though I do not see how that is relevant to their sexual enjoyment of one another.”

Jim shot him a desperate glare. “Can you please replicate the stain remover for me?” 

Sepsis pulled the yellow data cart from somewhere in his robes and pushed it into a medical replicator. The display screen lit up with a chemical analysis of the contents. “Fascinating.” 

“You shouldn’t stick strange data carts into your ports,” Jim kicked his blue heels against the exam bed, “That could be loaded with a malware virus that would disable the whole ship.”

“Yet another reason our engineers keep medical on an independent system.” 

Sepsis folded his hands behind him, studying an analysis of the cart’s recipe. After a moment,he shrugged and replicated a small pot of it. 

As soon as the lid came off a fastball of citrus and Chris Must spice slammed into their sinuses like an orange studded with cloves. He slapped the lid back onto the jar. “Computer, ventilate the room and filter out all aromatic particulates.” 

Jim’s short hair was pulled into spiky points by the force of the ventilation fans. He couldn’t hear what Sepsis said to the replicator over the noise, but he did see the small pot disappear into the matter reclaimer only to be replaced by a one kilo box of a thick white cream, sleeve pins, and a pair of elbow length globes. 

Sepsis sat the box on one side of Jim and a small garbage can on the other, then pulled up a stool, putting him eye level with Jim’s kneecaps. “If we work efficiently the stains can be removed before your first shift today.” 

Jim’s eyes widened as Sepsis pinned his robe’s long billowing sleeves up at his shoulders, revealing the faint trail of long healed scars on his arms. He pulled on the elbow length gloves with a firm snap. 

“You had this all along?” Jim rubbed a little of the creme between two fingers. It slowly took on a light blue hue, leaving clean pink dots on his fingertips. His eyes lit up. 

“Would you rather use your own?” Sepsis raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck no.” Jim grabbed a handful and rubbed it into his arm. It tingled like menthol. “You’re my second favorite person on the ship.”

“Surely T’Akos, Spisee, and Stork rank higher.”  Sepsis scooped out a handful and began aggressively massaging it into Jim’s legs. The color immediately began to fade under his brisk ministrations. 

“Fine. I have one favorite.” Jim grinned a little sheepishly, eyeing the blue stains. “The rest of you I love equally.” 

The doctor’s nostrils flared with humor. 

The creamy lotion smelled faintly of citrus and cardamom, which didn’t quite cover the same distinctly medicinal smell that always seemed to hover around Sepsis. The harder it was rubbed in, the more the lotion absorbed the color from his skin. They dropped large blue handfuls of spent lotion into the garbage can. 

Jim pulled the exam gown down to his waist and started rubbing lotion onto the deep blue bullseye that was his chest. “Not to be rude, but why doesn’t Selarie know about this?” 

“Our clothing hides most markings.” Sepsis started on Jim’s other leg.

Jim’s hands slowed as he smiled down at Sepsis. “Oh. I get it. You like to leave a little memento.” 

“Vulcan evolution --”

“No, no,” Jim cut him off with a laugh. “I get it.”  He went back to aggressively rubbing the lotion into his chest. “I bet you straight up forgot to tell him, didn’t you?” 

Sepsis narrowed his eyes. “It was assumed he would make the logical deduction, since the crew does not roam the halls with blue stained hands.”

Jim considered flicking a handful of turquoise stained cream into Sepsis’s hair. 

“Is it always like this?”  

The little garbage can was already half full of spent lotion. Jim’s legs to the knees were barely tinted pastel blue, and his hands were almost back to their original color, but there was so much more skin still darkly stained. 

“No. He is at a time of life when the mate marking is especially prominent. And, from the looks of you, prolific.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re horny boys,” Jim laughed. 

Sepsis propped Jim’s foot on one knee and stared hard at the stains between his toes before raising an eyebrow at Jim. “How did you remove your own marks from Selarie?” 

“Oh. Uh, humans don’t work like that,” said Jim. 

Sepsis worked the lotion into Jim’s feet. He sighed for a moment and leaned back against the biobed, eyes closed. “I thought T’Akos would’ve put that in her report.” 

Sepsis moved from Jim’s feet back up his legs, taking a second pass at the now merely pastel blue patches of skin. “I have not read it.” 

“Really?” Jim opened one eye. 

“There are over 200 new patients in my temporary care,” said Sepsis. 

“Yeah, about that.” Jim tilted his head back and started rubbing the cream into his neck. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“We are transporting the individuals and their ship to a place where they will be unable to inflict harm on others.” 

“You know that sounds incredibly ominous,” said Jim. “Are they going to rot in a holding cell until a Federation circuit judge makes it out here?”

Sepsis thumbs rubbed hard enough to bruise. “The Federation does not judge us.”

Jim reached down and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know that sounds worse, right?” 

The pair of them eyed the thick blue lotion left on Sepsis’s robes. “I’d offer to embroider you a new one,” said Jim. “But I don’t want to insult you.” 

“These are standard issue from the replicator,” said Sepsis. “I will replace it when you are once more mostly the color of underbaked kreplah.” 

“Really? The stitches look so realistic.” Jim’s lotion logged fingers dragged over an embroidered lizard. 

“They do not,” said Sepsis. “When I replace the recipe on your data cart I will also include an introductory stitch sampler for children.”

Medbay’s door panel beeped. 

“Did you lock us in?” Jim eyed the door. “You know what happened the last time.”

Sepsis raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I let the Terror Trio follow you?”

“Is that what they’re calling themselves today?” Jim sighed. 

The door beeped again, followed shortly by a fist banging against it. “I need a bandage!” shouted Jaxni.

“For herself or someone she bit?” Jim muttered. 

“Probably both.” Sepsis discretely shoved the small trashcan under a biobed and pulled out a fresh one. 

“I brought you Ferengi blood soup, but some of my blood got into it!” Jaxni shouted. 

“Your lunch sounds amazing,” Jim smirked.

Sepsis narrowed his eyes. “Computer, unlock the medbay door.” 

“You’re no longer my third favorite,” said Jim.

The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “I am devastated by the demotion.”

Jaxni tumbled inside. Flaxnir caught the Snorri Sehlat bento box holding her lunch while Kalterin caught the girl by the arms. As soon as she was on her own feet again she grabbed her lunch and ran straight to Sepsis. 

“As you can see, I am occupied,” Sepsis looked up from rubbing lotion into Jim’s calf. “We will consume a meal halfway through first shift.” 

“But look!” She unpacked the seven small containers in her Snorri Sehlat bento box onto the doctor’s lap, ignoring his hands on Jim’s legs. “Here, hold this.” She handed Jim a small box full of blood-clot red dumplings and another of pickled beets. Triumphantly, she unscrewed the lid of her soup bowl and sat it on Jim’s kneecap, nestled in a thick bed of blue lotion. She poked the edge of the lid and smiled in satisfaction when the lotion stopped it from falling. 

“See! Ferengi blood is gold!” The creamy yellow soup smelled amazing - rich with carrots and cumin with something Jim didn’t recognize. He eyed the streaks of blue on the lid and decided not to say anything.

“Jaxni, you’re going to get stain remover in your lunch,” said Flaxnir. 

She seemed to notice Jim for the first time - mostly naked, half blue, and covered in stain removing lotion. She turned to Sepsis. “Is it edible?”

“Most things are not,” said Sepsis. 

“Yeah, but is this?” She dipped her finger into the smear coating Jim’s leg and locked eyes with Sepsis. The two of them stared at one another as she slowly moved her finger closer and closer to her mouth.

“It’s full of human germs,” said Flaxnir.

Jaxni didn’t break her staring contest with Sepsis. As it almost touched her lips, he said, “It contains citrus.” 

She flung it off her finger in disgust. “You’re so gross!” 

Flaxnir took the containers from the bento box off Sepsis’ lap and flashed him an apologetic smile. 

“Hey, quick question,” Kalterin sat on the exam bed opposite Jim, kicking her legs to make her long robes swish. “Are human holes somewhere exotic? Because it looks like Selarie couldn’t find yours.” 

Jim stopped rubbing lotion onto his neck and glared at her. 

“That or he’s got terrible aim,” she leered. “Did you blindfold him first?”

“I’ve been blindfolded,” Jaxni said around a mouthful of dumpling. 

Flaxnir squeezed the girl’s shoulder while Jim and Kalterin shared a long look. 

“As have I,” said Sepsis. “One learns to listen carefully.”

Jaxni nodded agreement and offered him a dumpling she’d already bit in half. Sepsis opened his mouth and let her feed it to him. 

“Speaking of listening.” Kalterin idly kicked Jim’s foot. “The crew of the Korgasant wants to talk to you.” 

“The crew?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “Stork said the adult prisoners were demanding me.”

“Oh, sure. They think you’re the Federation Messiah,” she arched her hands as if in worship, “here to take them to the land of replicators in every room and the thickest air you could breathe.” 

Flaxnir, Jaxni, and Kalterin all laughed at that. 

“But everybody says the crew are out for borscht!” Jaxni bit into another red dumpling. 

“Do you mean blood?” asked Jim.

Kalterin hopped off her table and opened the storage drawer beneath the cushion. She pulled out a long medical gown, a pair of gloves, and some sleeve pins. 

“It’s a vegetable soup the color of human blood!” Jaxni grinned. She held a spoonful of the gold soup up to Sepsis’ mouth. He let her feed him, nodding in appreciation at the flavor. 

“What about tomato?” asked Jim.

“Ew. I don’t like fruit soups.” Jaxni fed Sepsis a piece of beet pickle. 

Kalterin pulled her sleeves up to her elbows and pinned them in place before pulling on the gown. Flaxnir tied the straps closed behind her. She smiled back at him over her shoulder. 

“You know what? Life’s too short to explain tomatoes,” Jim sighed. 

Satisfied once Sepsis had a bite of all her food, Jaxni began eating in earnest. Flaxnir pulled a Cinnamon Blast ration bar from his copious pockets, took a nibble off one corner, and sat it on top of Snorri Sehlat’s smiling face. She grinned up at him and gently bumped her stubby antennae against his knuckles.  

“Be careful, Federation.” Kalterin circled behind Jim, loudly snapping medical gloves into place. She grabbed a handful of the stain removing lotion and plopped it on top of his head. 

“Hey!” Jim ducked, glaring back over his shoulder. 

She turned his head forward and began aggressively working the lotion into his hair. “Olganash’s family wants your blood. All of it. Preferably in a thousand small vials.” 

“That’s--” Not unreasonable, he thought, considering he’d killed the man with a hypo then used his body as a shield.

Sepsis took Jim’s left arm and began working lotion into the skin while Jim continued to rub it into his torso with his right hand.

“That is why you have not been permitted on the ship in the last three days.”

“Wait, really?” Jim looked surprised. “No one told me.”

“You were busy, dumb ass.” Kalterin spiked his hair into a mohawk. 

Flaxnir stealthily took a holo of Jim; one ankle on Sepsis shoulder, Kalterin’s hands in his hair, body smothered in lotion and skin myriad shades of blue. 

“I want a copy of that.” Jim winked. 

Jaxni held onto a crescent shaped red dumpling with her teeth, points down, so it made an angry looking frown. She hopped onto the bed beside him and gave the camera two thumbs up. 

“Gaila’s gonna love this.” Jim held two fingers up behind Jaxni’s head and posed for another picture. 

“Wow. That’s like bragging you know a Vulcan named Selek.” Flaxnir rolled his eyes. “You have an Andorian friend named Shran, too?” 

“I had a Vrat Gaila when I was little,” said Kalterin.

“Everyone has a Vrat Gaila,” said Flaxnir. 

“Mine was my mom’s Lynoti. She died with the rest of mom’s Caj’lyn .” 

Jim’s brain churned quickly. There were a lot of nuances in Trade Orion, and with Kalterin’s accent it’d be easy to make a mistake. He was pretty sure the relation meant Mother’s younger sister from her family of choice. 

“Care to share a memory of your mother to crystalize her immortality?” Jim kept his voice casual, bordering on bored.

Kalterin’s rough tugs on Jim’s hair gentled. “She loved braiding my hair so much you’d think she was a Vulcan. I used to have holos of her favorite designs.”

“Your hair’s really pretty,” said Flaxnir. “I bet she couldn’t keep her fingers out of it.” 

Jim plastered on his Mildly Annoyed But Tolerating This mask rather than give into the temptation to smirk at the boy. 

“Maybe if you meld with T’Akos or Stork they could see it in a memory and help you recreate it?” Jim said gently.

She rubbed the short buzzed side of her head against her shoulder. “When my grief grows out.” 

“I hope I live long enough to see it,” said Jim. 

She slapped the side of his head, making a wet, sticky noise that had them all laughing. “I’m serious, dumbass! Take that big Vulcan hunk with you if you go over there! If they get you alone for ten seconds they’ll push you into a matter reclimator and claim it was an accident.” 

“Don’t bring Selarie,” said Flaxnir. “He’s as scary as a dumpling.” 

Jaxni bit her last dumpling in half with a grin. Flaxnir winked at her. 

Jim remembered Selarie in the attack. One strong arm picked up a passing Orion by the shoulder, instantly rendering him unconscious before tossing him in front of the companion he’d been speaking to. She stumbled over his body, screaming, until Selarie nerve pinched her, too. They never saw his face.

“Selarie can take care of himself,” said Jim.

“You’re biased.” Kalterin tried to comb pale blue lotion out of Jim’s hair. 

“We will not allow him to come to harm,” said Sepsis.

“Good job on that so far,” Kalterin snorted. “The price on his head is higher than yours, and everyone pays well for Vulcan doctors.” 

“Don’t worry, Sepsis,” Jaxni’s voice was earnest, “They want you alive.” 

“Do they really think they’re going to retake the Sh’Raan?” asked Jim.

“No,” Kalterin tried flattening locks of hair between her fingers and squeezing the lotion out. Ribbons of blue squirted between her fingers. “But it’s not like they have anything else to do. Might as well plan their revenge while they wait for the plomeek shuttle.” 

“What does that mean?” Jim frowned at Sepsis. 

“It means that despite the ongoing demands to speak to a human--” said Sepsis.

“Because humans are in charge of everything!” Kalterin pulled hard on Jim’s hair, earning her a quick glare. 

“You will be well guarded during the scant time you spend with them,” Sepsis continued.

“They want to meet with him alone,” said Flaxnir.

“Of course they do,” Kalterin snorted. 

“I mean the prisoners, not the assholes on the crew. Those fuckers can suck vacuum.” Flaxnir crossed his arms. “But the prisoners will think he’s a little human puppet if he’s surrounded by Vulcans.” 

“I’ts not like I have the authority to do anything,” said Jim. “I’m just a convenient target to scream at.”

“But you’re in Starfleet, right?” Flaxnir frowned at him. 

“I’m just a cadet,” Jim shrugged. “That’s like a second year university student.”

“Except you’re graded on killing,” said Kalterin.

“No, that’s Klingons,” said Jim. “I’m taking classes in warp field mechanics, astronavigation, and human psychology.” 

“I thought humans were psi null?” said Jaxni. 

She neatly packed all seven little containers back into her Snorri Sehalt bento box back and solemnly handed it to Flaxnir. He unzipped his coveralls and tucked it into an interior pocket over his belly so it looked like he was pregnant. She snickered and kissed his food baby before scampering up onto the table. 

“Jaxni, no.” Jim held up his hands. “Psychology doesn’t mean what you think.” 

She leaned over his lap, grabbed a double handful of lotion, and slapped her hands onto Jim’s face. Her fingers sought out his psi points and she lowered her voice. “My mind to your mind,” she growled. Her antennae curled forward as her face scrunched up in concentration.

Jim stared into her rich brown eyes, flecked with gold. The gold seemed to spark into a cheerful little flame of connection. She wanted to stay on the Vulcan ship, just like Jim. She trusted Vulcans, especially Sepsis. He didn’t look like her grandfather, but when she held the doctor’s hand, his katra felt similar. Jim’s eyes widened in shock. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Kalterin and Flaxnir laughing at the comedy of Jaxni ‘Playing Vulcan.’

“Jaxni,” Sepsis said gently. 

She moved her fingers off his psi points and the spark faded down to an ember. 

“What was that?” Jim asked softly. 

“Ignore her,” Flaxni shot Jaxni a stern glare. “She knows better.” 

“Why are humans so boring?” she squished Jim’s skin so it all bunched up in the  middle of his forehead like Klingon ridges. “You’re all the color of sand or dirt. Doesn’t your planet have any moss or ice?” 

“There was a moss conference on Earth last month,” said Jim.

Sepsis raised an eyebrow. “The interplanetary conference on Moss and Moss Analogues is not an appropriate topic of discussion around minors.” 

“Oh no!” Flaxnir grinned at Kalterin. “If we get ahold of moss we might paint living messages on our cell walls.” 

“What sort of messages?” Kalterin smiled back at him. 

“Naughty ones.” His smile widened. 

Sepsis wiped lotion off the soles of Jim’s feet. “James, it is time for you to use the emergency medical shower.” 

Jim stared down at his lotion covered body. The disposable medical gown was wrapped around his waist like a greasy loincloth. Every bit of skin and most of his hair was covered in a translucent white sheen that would make a bukkake actor proud. 

“Yeah, I guess he’s mostly doughy again.” Kalterin gently slapped the side of his head once more, just hard enough to hear the wet splat. 

“Oof, sorry, man,” Flaxnir shook his head. “That’s gonna be weird.” 

Jim tried to wipe off as much lotion as he could. The mound of it cresting the tiny trashcan next to him wobbled with each fresh splat. Vibrating all this off him in the sonic was going to be a hell of an experience. 

“What are we supposed to do now?” asked Kalterin.

“We’ve already been banned from the craft room,” said Flaxnir. 

Jaxni whispered, “Not me!” in Jim’s ear. 

“I suggest you find other enrichment activities,” said Sepsis.

“Can we paint in the halls?” asked Kalterin. 

Sepsis and Jim’s heads snapped around. “No!” They said in unison. 

Kalterin and Flaxnir grinned at one another. His antennae pointed at the door and she nodded. 

“Can I stay here?” Jaxni tugged on the doctor’s sleeve. 

“Good idea!” Flaxnir kissed the top of her head on his way to the door. 

As it swished closed behind them, Jaxni muttered. “They’re gonna get bored with painting and go make teal babies.” 

“Probably,” said Jim. 

“Would you like to see how to repair a torn meniscus?” asked Sepsis. 

Jaxni’s eyes lit up. “That’s in the knee, right?” 

“Indeed. The damage causes excruciating pain and limited mobility.” Sepsis nodded towards the PADD on his desk. 

“You have to eat a full lunch while we watch,” Jaxni said sternly. 

“First shift has not yet begun,” said Sepsis.

“Then you have to eat a full breakfast.” She crossed her arms. “Bites of mine doesn’t count.” 

“That was your breakfast?” Despite scoffing at everything she’d stuffed into her Snorri Sehlat lunchbox, Jim was glad the kids had an appetite. Most of them would sample anything the Vulcans tried a token bite of first - and Jaxni had moved on to offering Sepsis a taste of all her favorite dishes, as befitted a respected elder. 

“We will enjoy soup together while James uses the medical cleanser.” 

Jaxni’s face lit up like a supernova. “I’ll get it!” 

While she scurried to the replicator, Sepsis wiped his robes down with disposable towels, pulled off his gloves, and unpinned his sleeves. He still looked like he’d been hit by an exploding squid, but Jaxni, in all her grimy glory, looked like she’d dived in front of the beast to take the brunt. 

Sepsis caught Jim’s eye and jerked his chin towards a short hallway.

“It’s going to be a long time before she feels safe being clean,” Jim whispered.

Sepsis nodded. “Once she is comfortable with hygiene I believe she has considerable potential as an emergency medic.”

“Fixing things would be good for her,” said Jim. “And not just her. Kalterin’s better with machines than she lets on. She says Engineering is for Vulcans, but her 3D spatial skills are as good as mine.”

Sepsis studied Jim carefully. “High praise.”

“I picked our soup!” Jaxni shouted. “Does he need help turning it on?” 

“Go on,” Jim smiled. “I don’t want to know what she’ll do if she gets too bored.”

Sepsis’s nostrils flared with humor. “We have secured the hyposprays and surgical lasers.” 

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” asked Jim. 

Sepsis nodded to the emergency shower door. “Take your time.” 

Jim shoved his lotion saturated exam gown in the medical grade reclimator. The sooner this was over the better. He braced himself - stark naked and covered in dubious cream - and opened the emergency shower door. He lay a hand against the interior control panel and said, “Human standard comfort level. Intense cleaning.” 

Relax the jaw. Don’t clench up. Try not to think about what this will feel like vibrating off his balls.

A ripping sound echoed through the small closet, making him jump. 

One fat drop of water fell from the ceiling, quickly followed by another. Jim looked up in shock, just in time for the cubicle’s entire ceiling to pour down a warm, strong summer rain. He laughed, reveling in the decadence of liters of potable water unexpectedly pouring over his naked skin. The ripping sound happened again - thunder, he realized - and the volume of water increased. 

He closed his eyes and let the rain shower roll over his body, through his hair. When he was good and wet, he said, “Computer, soap me up!” 

The rain eased to a drizzle. In its place, sprays from the all sides blasted him in a 360 degree coating of honey-sweet soap. Laughing, he rubbed it in, watching soapy blue lotion swirl down the floor drain. The rain above picked up again, rinsing him clean. He stretched his arms up, reveling in the feel of so much deliciously warm water caressing his skin.

While his arms were up, a second round of spray foam covered him - this time enticingly scented of cinnamon and ginger with only the faintest hint of antimicrobials in the background. He obediently rubbed it all in until he could feel the bubbles scrubbing clean every single pore. Sonics got the dirt off, but he never felt truly clean afterwards - not the way he did after a proper water shower. 

This was why he had to make captain. He’d seen ship’s diagrams. Captains, First Officers, and Chief Medical Officers all had water showers in their private quarters. If that wasn’t motivation to rise through the ranks nothing was. 

He stood under the water, face tilted up, luxuriating in this simple feeling until the thunder crackled once more and the rain gradually faded. 

When he stepped outside the shower, Sepsis was waiting with fluffy towels and the plushest bathrobe he’d ever laid eyes on.  

Jim grinned at him. “You’re back to being my third favorite.”

“Hey!” Jaxni shouted from the main exam room. “Can we do surgery on your human?” 

“No!” Jim and Sepsis shouted back at her. He slid the fluffy bathrobe on and sighed at the softness. They wouldn’t care if it accidentally fell into his luggage. It barely even had embroidery along the lapels. 

“Just a little one? I’ll even numb him up first!” Jaxni shouted. 

The corner of Sepsis’ mouth ticked up half a centimeter. “She is feeling especially generous.”

Jim padded down the hall, toweling his hair clean. “You have to wait until the prisoners rough me up before you can practice your field stitches.” 

“Perhaps this afternoon,” said Captain Spisee. 

Jim reflexively pulled his fluffy bathrobe tighter around his body while simultaneously trying to stand at attention. “Good morning, sir.” 

Captain Spisee’s forest green robes with hints of bronze and umber embroidery peeking from the folds made him look like a sexy pine tree. He wore a sunny yellow sling across his chest. Chubby teal hands stretched up from it, playing with the end of Spisee’s modest five strand braid. Beside him, Jaxni played with an oversized 3D model of a Vulcan eye. 

“As you see,” he told Jaxni, “Our James emerged from his water shower unscathed.” 

“He’s human,” she scoffed. “Plus he’s gonna need another shower before bed.” 

“I’m not that stinky, am I?” Jim eyed his armpit suspiciously.

“Members of the Korgasant’s crew have threatened a hunger strike if we do not arrange a meeting with you,” said Captain Spisee. 

Jim crossed his arms. “Good. They’ll be too tired to cause trouble.” 

Spisee raised an eyebrow.

“Right. So don’t wear my good clothes,” Jim sighed. “What do you want me to say to them?”

“Nothing.” Spisee gently adjusted the baby sling so the child rested in the crook of one arm. “Your words are your own. However, we are most curious what they intend to say to you.” 

“It won’t be nice,” Jaxni poked a stylus through the model eye’s pupil. “They’re not nice people.” 

“Agreed,” said Spisee. “However, intersecting with them allowed us to meet you and the other prisoners, many of whom are quite pleasant.”

Jaxni knocked the eye model over, sending pieces spilling across Sepsis’s desk. “Are we worth it?” she said softy. 

Spisee knelt so he could look her in the eye. “Never doubt that.”

She reached into the baby sling and stroked the child’s face. It gurgled happily at her touch. Jim caught a glimpse of deep black eyes, two iridescent patches on the forhead, and pointed ears far too large for the baby’s head. 

While she tickled the baby’s nose with the end of Spisee’s braid, Jaxni’s stubby antennae pointed curiously up at the captain. She chewed her lip, then slowly took one hand off the baby and reached up to rest it on Spisee’s face, settling on his psi points. 

Next to him, Jim felt Sepsis press a wrist against his own. Somewhere in the distance there were whispers of words he couldn’t hear without a proper meld, but he could still feel the doctor’s mix of concern and fondness for the girl coupled with gratitude at Jim’s ability to understand and manage the older children’s emotions so he could focus on her.

Spisee’s free hand cupped her small blue face and she leaned hard into the touch. Fingertips gently pushed her curly white hair back behind gently pointed ears. With a start, Jim realized some of the grease stains were actually dark lowlights in her hair. With it pulled back, he realized her cheekbones were sharper than he thought, her eyebrows straighter. 

“My mommy’s dead,” she said. “I couldn’t fix her.” 

“That was never your responsibility,” said Jim. “We can’t fix our parents.”

Sepsis put a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder and shook his head. 

“You are no longer alone.” Spisee leaned in until their foreheads touched. “We will find your clan and kin.” 

“What if they’re all gone?” she whispered. 

“Then you shall do as our Orion cousins and find a Caj’lyn who will be your new clan,” said Spisee. “The loneliness will not last forever.” 

“It’s too quiet in my head.” Jaxni’s fingers dug into his face as her antennae pressed hard against his temples. 

Spisee scooped her up in free arm, foreheads still pressed together. “Then my clansfolk and I will fill the emptiness with song.”

Jim watched Spisee carry Jaxni and the teal baby out of medical. When the door swished closed, he turned to Sepsis, letting the shock finally show on his face. “Is she…”

“Basmunatha? They all are. It is why they were such valuable prisoners.” Sepsis raised an eyebrow. “Did you not know?”

“I didn’t know it was possible.” Jim sat down, rethinking everything he thought he knew about the children. “I thought Spock was the first Vulcan hybrid.” 

“The first Vulcan-Human hybrid born on T’Khasi, perhaps,” Sepsis cocked his head to one side. “Though I doubt he is the first to exist. The Federation has many colonies, and humans are well known for…” he pursed his lips.

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, we’re the third sluttiest species in the galaxy.” 

“Who do you think falls between yourselves and the Betazed?” asked Sepsis. 

Jim held up a hand. “I’m not falling into that trap.”  He idly reassembled the model Vulcan eye while the word Basmunatha rolled around in his mind. Well mixed. Ice blue Jaxni and sky blue Flaxnir and Kalterin with her elfin features and bronze undertones beneath forest green skin. 

“Spock’s family told him he’s all alone in the universe,” he said softly. “One of a kind.”

Sepsis put a hand on his shoulder. “Invite Captain Spisee when you inform him otherwise.”

Jim looked up at Sepsis, forehead lined with concern. “It’s going to break his worldview.”

An unreadable expression crossed the doctor’s face too fast for Jim to parse it. His face settled back into the Vulcan equivalent of a friendly country doctor and he gave Jim’s shoulder a gentle pat. “It won’t be the first time Spisee has changed a S’chn T’gai’s understanding of the universe.” 

Chapter Text

T’Akos glanced back over her shoulder, mirth in her eyes. “You may hold onto the hem of my sleeve so you do not get lost.”

Jim raced three steps to catch up with her and T’Hini, feeling light on his toes in the 107% gravity. Despite their best attempts to escort him directly to the pirate ship’s crew, he slowed down every few meters to take in the Orion vessel’s changes.

Each room they passed held busy teams from the Sh’Raan. The quartet of Vulcan teens he’d found in the same cell as the Terror Trio sat on the floor of what used to be some sort of laboratory, sorting individual nuts and bolts into containers as the adults removed wall panels and disassembled everything behind them. 

The wall panels went into specialized containers, as did every control panel, interface, and all the circuitry behind them. He wanted to ask what the hell they were doing, but T’Akos was taking full advantage of her long legs, making him sprint to keep up.

“Be aware,” T’Akos said as they summoned the rickety, open-air elevator, “They are exceedingly unpleasant.” 

On each level, Jim watched more crews disassembling the interior of the Korgasant as they descended down to the same cells where they’d kept his kids. Stork told him this was the nicest prisoner area on the ship. He didn’t want to see where they’d held the adult captives.

The children had only taken up two of the nine cells, but Jim counted nearly 40 angry pirates spread across the greasy cell block. Cases of Rohingir’s Rockin’ Ranaberry Drink sat untouched inside the bars. 

“You raging hemorrhoid!” A Naussican woman screamed as soon as they stepped off the elevator. She rattled the bars of her cage and spat in their direction. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” said Jim. 

“Did you bitches bring us the F'deraxt'la ?”  snarled a burly, emerald green Orion man with large shiny patches near his temples. 

“I know what that word means,” said Jim. “And my parents were not related.” 

“You’re an infected ulcer on a Tellerite scrotum!” shouted French Fry. He was still in the same bright yellow suit from the invasion, though it looked like it hadn’t been washed. 

“Great.” Jim crossed his arms. “I can see we’re all going to be best friends.” 

“Tax auditor!” snapped Pastel Pompadour.

“Really?” Jim stopped walking and blinked in surprise. “Is that a big insult where you’re from?” The last time he’d seen her she sounded sincere about trying to save him from the Ghost Ship. She also called him an inbred idiot. It looked like she was keeping her hair tall and shiny using the ship’s ubiquitous grease.

“I hope you drown in a pool of Romulan semen!” spat Pixie Cut. She elbowed her way up front to snarl at him. She still looked soft and matronly as long as you ignored her glare of utter hatred.

Jim braced his hands on his hips, standing with his groin jutted forward enough for them to see the outline of his dick through his thin robes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“If you requested his presence so you could hurl insults at a human, he shall return to our ship,” said T’Akos. 

She and T’Hini stood behind him, arms crossed, faces grim. Their robes were sportier than the usual shipboard cut, made from stretchy fabrics for maximum mobility. He noticed they’d also been hemmed up over their ankles so the robes wouldn’t sweep across the Orion ship’s filthy floor. 

“Coward!” came a shout from the back. “You hide behind women!”

Jim quickly looked over both shoulders at T’Akos and T’Hini and laughed. “Yeah! They’re a hell of a lot bigger than I am!” 

T’Akos put a hand on his shoulder, “Come, Cadet.”

“Wait!” A teal man wearing a leather collar and matching wrist cuffs pushed his way forward. In other circumstances he might be called willowy, but here he just looked underfed. Jim reflexively reached into the pocket where he kept snacks for the kids. 

“You asked for me,” said Jim. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“I want to see you shoved out an airlock!” shouted another voice from the back. 

“I am Ditov.” The teal man held up a single hand, silencing his fellow Pirates. His fingers moved in a nervous tic. Jim glanced at Ditov’s free hand, catching subtle twitches before he rested it behind his back. 

“I am Purser of the Korgasant, and the one elected to speak to you on behalf of us all.”

The rest of the pirates grumbled quietly, but none contradicted him. They crowded against their bars, watching Ditov and Jim hungrily. 

Ditov nodded a polite bow in Jim’s direction, both hands now folded behind his back. “We officially recognize that we have broken Federation law and request that you take us back to the Federation for our trial and sentencing.” 

Jim crossed his arms. “You’re in the Federation.”

“No. I mean the real Federation,” Ditov said slowly, as though speaking to a child. “The one with courts and judges and rehabilitation colonies equipped with replicators.” 

Jim frowned up at T’Akos. “There are no judges here?”

“We await the Federation circuit judge assigned to our sector.” T’Akos sounded tired. 

“What happens to them in the meantime?” Jim stole a glance at the pirates, most of whom were watching him, though more than a few were staring hard at Ditov. 

T’Hini stared hard at the burly Orion up front. “They will be housed at the same facility as the rest of those awaiting Federation judgement.”

Nothing about that sounded good. Jim let a bit of worried distaste creep into his expression. “Right. And what’s that like?”

“It is a self-sustaining agrarian colony,” said T’Akos.

“Its been thirty years since a Federation judge came out here!” shouted Pastel Pompadour. Behind her the pirates roared in a mix of languages. 

T’Akos leaned in so Jim could hear her. “Nineteen years, seven months, and four days.” 

“Wait.” Jim held up his hands. “Are you telling me you have a colony of people who’ve been in jail for 20 years while waiting to see a judge?” 

Ditov waved then snapped twice, silencing the angry crowd.

“We file paperwork for the new detainees promptly,” T’Hini eyed the assembled pirates with open distaste. “And follow up with separate quarterly requests for an emergency justice to address both the backlog and more current detainees.” 

“Listen. Kid. We’re begging you,” said Pastel Pompadour. “Don’t let them send us to The Farm.”

“No one leaves The Farm!” someone shouted from the back. “You can’t even do vid calls because all the fucking technology is limited to steam machines. Your only contact with the galaxy is through letters written on paper!”

“And every time it’s traded back to the Romulans they just shrug and say they’ll leave it for the Federation to deal with the next time it’s traded back.” The burly emerald Orion’s fingers tapped against the bars. 

“Please,” Ditov held up a hand, silencing the rest of the pirates, “All we ask is that you bring us back to the Federation with you so we can face justice there.” 

Jim looked at T’Akos in horror. 

She lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Cadet, remember they kidnapped and imprisoned nineteen children and forty two adults with intentions to sell all into slavery.”

“Fuck off, you sanctimonious bitch!” shouted Pixie Cut. “Half the damn crew are slaves!”

Ditov rested two fingers on his collar. Jim looked around, noting a similar combination of collar and cuffs on several of the pirates - though none but Ditov were in the first row with the best view.

“Indeed,” said Ditov. “I have served the Korgasant ’s captain for sixteen years.” 

“You saw how the children were dressed,” said T’Akos. “And the conditions they were kept in. The adult cells are far worse than these.” 

Jim’s gaze slid over the pirates. “What do you even expect me to do? I’m not going to bring forty two slavers onto my transport back to Earth. That’s a good way to guarantee I never get home. You get a free ship, and the crew and I end up being sold.” 

“I told you this was useless!” shouted a pirate in the back.

“We should just kill the fucker already!” snarled another. 

Ditov once more held up a hand, fingers twitching subtly. The shouts quieted to angry grumbling. “We propose bringing three slaves with you as representatives of the cause. We are willing to travel in suspended animation if you fear violence. Upon our arrival we will petition in person for the Federation to send long overdue justices.”

“Oh fuck you, Ditov!” snarled Pastel Pompadour. “The second you get off the transport you’ll start crying fat tears about all your years as a slave while begging for sanctuary.” 

Jim narrowed his eyes at Ditov. One corner of his mouth briefly curled up by a few millimeters. 

Jim drummed his fingers against one arm in a pattern he’d picked up from Gaila. A couple of the pirates nudged one another, silently eyeing his hands. He folded them behind his back and stood straighter. “Did any of you really think this would work?” 

“Humans aren’t that smart to begin with,” said the emerald man up front, “and you’re an inbred leucistic variant.”

“This is perfectly normal coloration where I’m from.” The pirates scoffed at Jim’s words. “And aren’t you supposed to be buttering my dumb ass up?”

The emerald Orion stared hard at T’Hini. After a beat, he straightened, tugging the bottom of his tunic down and shaking his thick purple hair back over his shoulders. Jim watched, impressed, as the man transformed from a surly dumbass into a commanding presence. 

“You are here because I needed to know what kind of man murdered my lisk'mxn Olganash.” 

Jim kept his face still despite his heart suddenly pounding hard. “Like what you see?” 

The rest of his crew leaned in, eyes wide and mouths closed. Their captain stared Jim down, eyes alight with rage in contrast to his calm, matter-of-fact tone.“You’re going to die, little man. It will be slow, and painful, and hopeless.”

“Probably,” Jim agreed. “But not by your hand.” 

T’Akos brushed the back of her wrist against Jim’s, broadcasting concern. He pushed back all the confidence he could bluff. 

Jim stared the pirate captain down. “He knew the risks when he boarded our ship.” 

“What risks?” shouted Pixie Cut. “You murdered Olganish in cold blood then used his body as a corpse shield!”  

“Your people attacked our ship.” Jim took a step forward, stopping just far enough from the bars that neither the captain nor long limbed Ditov could reach through them to strangle him. 

“You cut my damn hamstring!” Jadenhir’s familiar voice came from the back. “You’re a fucking monster!”

“And you’re a fucking idiot,” said Jim, gaze still locked with the pirate captain. “You attacked a Vulcan ship and thought nothing would happen?” 

“It was a low risk mission!” Pastel Pompadour stared at him, appalled. “Everybody knows Vulcans don’t kill.” 

“You’re mad because the crew defended themselves against your attack?” Jim was incredulous. “What did you expect them to do? Use all their embroidery as padding when packing up their medical supplies for you to steal?” 

“This wouldn’t have been a Code Green mission if you weren’t there, you sentient scrotum!” snapped French Fry. 

T’Akos lay a firm hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Cadet, let us depart.”

“Not yet,” Jim waved her off. “You know the Ghost Ship is out there but you still think there’s such a thing as a low risk mission?” Jim stared hard at the pirate captain.

The Orion man’s fingers tapped their way down the bars. Beside him, Ditov cleared his throat. “Allegedly reliable authorities said the Ghost Ship was currently masking itself as a Ferengi trade vessel.”

Jim froze, mind racing at warp speed. He let his gaze rake over the crowd before his smile turned predatory. “But has it ever worn the same mask twice?” 

Grumbling from the back buoyed Jim’s confidence. 

“The Ghost Ship doesn’t murder you!” said Pastel Pompadour. “They drink your souls, sure, but they leave your body intact.”

“You know that’s worse, right?” Jim said softly.

“You can still sell the body,” the pirate captain’s voice was low and angry, “And sometimes, with care, it grows a new soul.” 

“We tried to save you!” said Pastel Pompadour. “We were going to bring you back onto the ship with us when we ran!” 

Jim’s face settled into his most dead-eyed look, the one that made men twice his size back away in bars. “Why do you think I have a soul?”

The crew went silent.

“You found me on the Ghost Ship. And you know what they do to people. So why do you think there’s anything inside me to negotiate with?” 

A low murmur went through the pirates, laced with increasing worry.

“You were scared!” Pixie Cut’s hands started to shake against the bars.

Jim held a hand up to his neck and mimed turning an old fashioned key. His face morphed into a rictus of fear. He blinked once and turned the key again. This time he gave them glee. Another turn and he faced them with a sultry, seductive smile. He turned the invisible key one more time, leaving his face as blank as a Vulcan’s. 

“What the fuck,” whispered French Fry.

“Your Vulcan prey is no longer unprotected,” he said, voice bland and indifferent. “And I am not the only human on a Vulcan ship.” 

T’Akos raised an eyebrow. 

“What the fuck are humans even doing in this sector of space?” someone murmured.

“Subcommander, let us return to the ship.” Jim walked towards the elevator without looking to see if either of the Vulcans followed. 

“I’ll feel no guilt about killing a puppet.” The pirate captain’s voice boomed after him. “Don’t get too attached to your toy, Vulcans.” 

Jim opened the elevator gate and stood inside, hands folded neatly in front of him, face blank as a robot’s. T’Hini watched him curiously as she and T’Akos joined him in the elevator. He was silent until they reached the floor with the real, sturdy airlock that connected them to the Sh’Raan. 

“They’ll spread that rumor,” he said. “Other pirates will think twice before attacking Vulcan ships. I know that makes you less useful as bait, but it also means other Vulcan ships are a little safer.”

T’Hini studied his face. “Fascinating.”

He relaxed into the casual neutral expression he wore around the Sh’Raan. “As far as they’re concerned, a soulless human murderer joined the Ghost Ship.” Jim winked at her. “My little addition to your mythos.” 

He paused outside the airlock, enjoying a last moment where he felt light on his toes in the mere 1.06 gravity. 

“They will also spread their caj’gan demanding your death,” said T’Akos. 

“I’ll be safe on the Sh’Raan until the end of my internship,” Jim shrugged. “Before I get home they’ll be stuck on a low-tech world at the opposite end of the quadrant.” 

Jim squeezed into the sturdy, solid airlock with them. The Orion side cycled closed, and for a moment they were locked together in the liminal space between two ships. The part of Jim that was born in space, that always welcomed the void like a brother, let his hand drift to the connector panel. Flip it open, punch in a code, and the airlock would disconnect from both ships, leaving the three of them floating free. 

The inner door hissed open, letting the hot, perfumed air of the Vulcan ship slip around them like a teasing caress. Jim’s hand fell to his side. T’Akos stepped out first and offered him her forearm to brace against. He struggled not to grunt as he stepped back into the Sh’Raan’s 127% gravity. 

Just as sweat beaded on the nape of his neck, a cool breeze from the ventilation ruffled his hair, carrying with it a hint of salt and seaweed, as if he was on his way to the ocean and not just walking the halls of Coral Deck. It was refreshing after the oily stench of the prisoner cells.

“Listen,” Jim sighed, “The lack of regional judges out here is fucked up.”

“Agreed.” T’Akos led them towards the aft turbolift. Jim suppressed a sigh. They weren’t going to have lunch and talk about his performance on the Korgasant . Instead, they were taking him straight to Captain Spisee’s office.

“I’m not able to kidnap any Federation circuit judges and drag them out here, but when I get home I promise to raise a stink. I know you’re on the border of Federation space, but that means the Federation should pay extra attention to you, not act like you don’t exist.”

T’Hini stopped in front of a newly re-painted section of the murals. The technicolor coral was punctuated by cheeky, four eyed fish playing with balls of bright red moss. Her thumb moved gently over the moss, and Jim noticed someone had added a soft, fur like layer over all the little balls.

“We were here before the Federation,” she said. 

Jim blinked. The fact shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He knew the Federation itself wasn’t even a century old. He also knew that Vulcans started colonizing space before the time of Surak, over a thousand years ago. The Andorians and Orions weren’t far behind them. 

He’d never thought to line those facts up. These people’s ancestors had been terraforming new worlds out here on what the Federation considered the fringes of space while Zheng He was mapping the Earth in a wooden ship. 

“Did anyone ask if you wanted to join?” asked Jim. 

T’Hini gently patted the moss ball before folding her hands behind her back. “The elders on T’Khasi declared all colonies part of the Federation.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Jim said softly. 

“T’Khasi is not the only authority.” T’Hini led them the rest of the way to the turbolift. “We were content to be part of your Federation for decades, but the benefits have waned to nonexistence.” 

More than the turbolift shook him as they descended decks.  “What are the other alternatives?”

T’Hini and T’Akos traded glances, and Jim caught T’Hini’s subtle nod.

“The border between the Federation and the Romulan Star Empire changes every five years,” said T’Akos. 

Jim followed them out of the turbolift, mind racing at warp speed. They couldn’t be implying what he thought. It wasn’t logical. 

Spisee’s office was just around the corner. He could hear the babbling of excited toddlers over the captain’s gentle baritone as he read to them from the daily engineering maintenance report. 

He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his face calm. “And when is the next border negotiation?”

Something dark sparkled behind T’Hini’s eyes. “Four months and twenty six days.” 

Chapter Text

“I do not understand why I need to be present for this comm.” Spock sat alone on his couch, embroidery abandoned next to him while he and Jim idly played chess on their PADD’s. Jim could hear Uhura and Gaila’s laughter from offscreen, punctuated by McCoy’s low rumble.

“Trust me.” Jim moved his rook. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “While I do trust you, I do not  see any purpose in introducing me to children.” He took one of Jim’s pawns, then narrowed his eyes at Jim’s faint smile.

“Listen, I don’t really know how to explain. You’ll understand when you see them.” Jim idly twirled the end of his long belt between his fingers. He’d stopped indulging in that nervous habit around the crew of the Sh’Raan, but he wasn’t above distracting a Vulcan to give himself a strategic advantage in chess. 

“If you are implying the potential relationship between Gaila and your eldest ward...”

Jim held up a hand to cut Spock off, accidentally pulling his belt taut in the process. “Great bird, no. They’re not my wards.”

Spock’s eyebrow shot up. “Ms. Vro informed me that you filed paperwork to become their temporary guardian until biological or foster family can be found.”

Jim leaned over, as if he could look past Spock centered on the vid and see what Gaila and Nyota were up to half a sector away. “They don’t look anything alike,” he whispered. “If she’s not who I think she is then I want to make sure she ends up somewhere that’ll treat her right.”

“Are you suggesting your Vulcan crew would,” Spock frowned before moving his bishop, “Treat her wrong?” 

“What? Never.” Jim sighed. “It’s just…there’s a lot going on here. I want to get them somewhere safe. Sooner rather than later.”

Spock took Jim’s knight. “Unlike yourself.” 

“Excuse me?” Jim frowned at the screen. That was a sneaky move on Spock’s part. He wanted Jim off guard for yet another lecture on the dangers of border territories. 

Spock’s gaze slid to one side, in the direction of the cheerful offscreen chatter Jim couldn’t quite understand. Satisfied, he caught Jim’s eyes then subtly pointed at the volume. 

Jim cranked his volume to the maximum setting. 

If Jim hadn’t increased his volume then Spock’s whisper would be inaudible. His lips barely moved as he spoke. “Ms. Vro engineered an argument with Nyota in my presence. Her intention was clearly to inform me of the Sh’Raan’s recent altercations without breaking her vow of silence to you.”

Dammit. That was such a Gaila move. 

“I’m not in danger,” Jim said. “No matter what you think about this part of space.”

“On that we disagree,” said Spock. 

“Oh, I know.” Jim rolled his eyes. “You are biased by emotion, cadet. You have a tragic misunderstanding of the situation, cadet. Your loyalty is admirable but misplaced, cadet.”

Spock took another pawn. “I shall make a notation in your file that your listening comprehension and memory are significantly higher than you pretend, cadet.” 

Jim frowned at the pieces. Spock wasn’t wrong about him being biased by emotion. His entire game was off tonight. “You still planning to march into Pike’s office and demand my internship end early?” 

“It would be fruitless,” said Spock, “As I do not believe you would come willingly until your wards are settled. However,” His gaze once more slid towards the offscreen laughter, and his voice again lowered to a whisper. “There may be alternatives.”

“That sounds menacing as hell,” Jim frowned.

“Once more, you misunderstand, cadet,” said Spock. “I have already contacted…”

Spock was drowned out by a loud knock at Jim’s door.

“You’ll have to threaten me later.” Jim saved their game. “They’re here. Go get the others. I’ll be right back.” He swiveled in his seat, shouting, “You know I have a bell!”

Kalterin and Flaxnir brushed around either side of Jim as if the needed to get out of the hall and into safety before anyone saw them. Selarie reached out two fingers. Jim wrapped his own around them, stroking up their length. 

“Get a room, you two!” said Kalterin. 

“You’re in my room!” Despite his tone, Jim waved invitingly at the chairs he’d ringed around the vid for this call. Spock’s crew was still offscreen, leaving them with a view of his butterfly embroidered couch and wall of knick-knacks. 

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Kalterin muttered. She took a quick look at the screen and immediately stepped out of the viewer’s range, leaving her plastered to his wall. 

Despite her affected nonchalance, she obviously had T’Oast and Skone ornately braid her hair after lunch. Pulled back, Jim could see shiny patches near her temples, glittering in the light like iridescent insect wings. Dark green scars ringed the tops of her round ears, something he’d never noticed when she wore her hair down. 

“You know you want to meet people at Starfleet Academy,” Jim’s face settled into Indifferent Mask #2, though a bit of a smirk slipped through. 

Flaxnir kept a stern eye on Jim, taking his duties as chaperone seriously. 

“Are there really Orions there?” Kalterin looked dubious. 

“Not many,” said Jim. “But Gaila’s going to be a captain. She’s the best of the best. Gaila has…”

Jim was cut off by his door chime. Again. The three of them glared at the door.

“If we don’t let her in she’ll start yelling,” said Flaxnir. 

“This room is really well soundproofed,” said Jim.

Kalterin leaned over and eyed Jim’s neatly made bed with its freshly dyed sheets. The dark blue covered most of the existing teal stains. “I bet it is.” 

The door chime rang three more times in a row. 

“I have limited subspace time,” Jim grumbled. “I want to make sure you and Gaila get to use most of it.”

Jim’s door opened to the sound of a senior staff level override. Stork leaned his head in. “He is appropriately clothed.”

“See,” said Flaxnir. “Nobody trusts you alone with Kalterin.” 

“I’m not after your girlfriend,” Jim rolled his eyes. “She’s a literal child.”

“I’m seventeen in Earth years,” said Kalterin.

“Like I said.” Jim rolled his eyes at Flaxnir. “A literal child.”

“Forgive our intrusion.” Stork stepped inside, Jaxni on his heels. “Our young guest presented convincing arguments that she should be allowed to join this subspace call.” 

Jim crossed his arms, glaring at Jaxni. “Were any of those arguments if you don’t let me in I’ll scream? ”

Jaxni looked back and forth between Stork and Selarie, fresh light in her eyes. “Would that work?” 

Stork gave Jim a long, hard stare of disapproval. The last thing they needed was him giving her fresh ideas. “No.” 

Jaxni ran to his small sitting area and dragged another chair behind his desk. “This is for you,” she told Selarie. “I’ll sit in your lap.” 

“Absolutely not,” said Jim. “Get your own chair. And put a towel first. I don’t want you staining the embroidery.” 

Kalterin winked at Jim. “James is the only person allowed to sit in Selarie’s lap.” 

“Yes,” Selarie took the seat behind Jim and lay an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Jim briefly lay his hand over Selarie’s.

“I shall depart,” said Stork. 

“Nooo!” Jaxni grabbed his hand. “You have to see their menagerie! Then we can make authentic human animal plushies for the littles!”

Stork ran a gentle hand over her hair. “They are quite content with their stuffed sehlats.”

“Only because they’ve never seen a raccoon!” said Jaxni. “Or a lion!”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am once more telling you all of those animals are trained dogs wearing different costumes. The raccoon is a dalmatian.” 

“You’re just making up words,” Jaxni huffed as she dragged another chair behind Jim. 

Jim narrowed his eyes at her. “Put down a towel or go take a shower.” 

Flaxnir pulled one of Jim’s robes out of the dirty laundry and tossed it at her. “The camel’s my favorite.” 

“That’s a partially shaved Irish Setter wearing a hump shaped backpack,” said Jim. “Real camels don’t have pouches where they can store treats.”

“I see you brought your own menagerie.” Gaila’s voice on the subspace comm silenced the entire room. Stork crossed behind the circle of chairs to stand against the wall next to Kalterin. She pressed her wrist against his, wide eyes locked on the screen. 

Jim spun his chair around and beamed at the screen. “ Lynotar! It’s good to see your face.”

“He’s talking to you, darlin’.” McCoy bumped his shoulder against Gaila. She squeezed his thigh while waggling her eyebrows at Jim. 

Gaila and McCoy sat on the floor in front of Spock’s ornately embroidered loveseat. Spock and Uhura sat on it, with Uhura’s legs resting easily against Gaila’s side and twenty centimeters of space between McCoy’s shoulder and Spock’s legs. Spock and Uhura both held embroidery hoops in their laps. 

“Humans!” Jaxni bounced in delight. “Show us your pets!” She pulled a greasy stuffed sehlat from her shapeless jumpsuit and proudly held it up to the screen.

“I warned you,” Jim sighed. 

Flaxnir crowded in next to Jim, his antenna bent towards the screen. “Is it contagious?” he whispered. 

Jim stole a sidelong glance at Jaxni’s well loved stuffed Sehlat. “I won’t let her put it on any table where food is served.” 

Jaxni hugged her sehlat protectively and whispered into its ear, glaring at Jim. 

“No.” Flaxnir poked a blue finger against Jim’s cheek and looked from him to McCoy and back. “This.”

Gaila rested her head against McCoy’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “It’s not a fungus.”

“Excuse me?” McCoy sputtered. He brushed Gaila’s hair from his mouth and gave her a soft kiss on the neck. 

“I told you I don’t have Orion Vitaligo,” Jim sighed. “Some people are just born pink.”

“You know it’s contagious,” Flaxnir shot Gaila a worried look. “The creams don’t really work.” 

She planted a wet kiss on McCoy’s cheek. “I love him just the way he is.” 

“You’re so brave!” said Jaxni. 

Flaxnir eyed Spock. “Even their basmunatha aren’t immune.” A line formed between Spock’s brows. Uhura leaned in close and whispered in his ear. 

“It’s not a fungus,” Jim sighed. “Spock, Bones, and I were all born like this.”

Gaila grinned at him. “Jimmy does change color if you expose him to low doses of UV radiation.”

“Dammit, Gaila!” Jim shot her a warning look. “Please. Do not give them ideas.” 

Selarie tugged on Jaxni’s sleeve. She raised a gently pointed eyebrow. He pressed his wrist against hers and nodded to the screen. The girl’s face lit up with delight. 

“It’s time to show us your menagerie!” She crowded in front of Jim so her blue face filled the entire screen as she tried to look into every corner of Spock’s sitting room. 

“What the Sam Hill is she talking about?” asked McCoy.

“Bob and Rohingar,” Gaila stage-whispered. 

McCoy frowned. “The guys from a couple episodes of your show?” 

“It is the longest running program in Federation history.” Spock lay two fingers on his side, over his heart. Gaila did the same, laying her fingers on her chest. 

Jim reflexively did the same. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Flaxnir subtly lay fingers over his heart before pretending he was brushing imaginary dirt off his chest. 

“Please!” Jaxni bounced. “JimJams won’t show us his menagerie. He’s afraid his ferret will love me more than him.” 

Gaila’s eyes lit up with delight. “JimJams?”

“No,” Jim said firmly. 

Uhura beamed at Jaxni. “Why do you think he has a ferret?” 

“Look at him,” Jaxni shrugged. “He’s got a ferret personality.”

“She has a point,” said Flaxnir.

Gaila turned to McCoy. “We should get some cats.”

“We?” Jim raised an eyebrow. 

“The three of us.” Gaila grinned widely at Jim. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’d better be talking about you, Bones, and Nyota.”

Uhura laughed as she playfully kicked Gaila’s shoulder. “Oh, no. She’s your problem, now.”

“It’s her fault.” Gaila wrapped an affectionate arm around one of Uhura’s legs.

“How?” asked Jim.

Uhura shot a look at Spock, who rewarded her with a faint, proud smile. “I’ve been invited to share quarters with a visiting Vulcan scientist.” 

Jim leaned back, nodding slyly at Spock. “Is that what you two are calling it?”

“She will live in the Vulcan ambassadorial residences with T’Pring, daughter of Sevet. Nyota was specifically requested due to her prior experience helping Vulcans understand the nuances of Terran culture.”

“Nuances, eh? Is that what you’re calling it?” Jim winked. 

Spock stared hard at Jim. “No.”

“The academy won’t let me keep our quarters unless I find a new roommate,” said Gaila, “So instead of taking my chances with strangers - surprise! -  I’m moving in with you and Lenny!” 

The future spiraled out in front of Jim. He could fight this and end up living alone in the dorms instead of in McCoy’s off-campus apartment. Or he could accept that he’d spend his first week back home installing soundproofing tiles on Gaila’s bedroom and investing in a mini-fridge so he could keep his food away from her ongoing experiments in traditional human foods. She was deep in a fermentation phase. 

“Fine,” he conceded, “But you’re still buying me a new mattress.”

Selarie’s eyebrow went up. 

“No, Spock’s buying you a new mattress,” Gaila laughed. “This is all his fault.” 

“You have ruined a mattress before?” Selarie looked between Spock and Jim, curious.

“Not like that, big guy,” Jim squeezed his knee. “Those two set my mattress on fire.” 

“Is this part of a human mating ritual?” asked Selarie. 

“Oooh. Humans are nasty,” Flaxnir snickered. 

“Have you ruined a mattress while on the Sh’Raan?” Spock looked between Jim and Selarie, eyebrow raised. A whisper of a smile ticked up at the corners of Selarie’s mouth.

“We’re getting way off topic!” Jim raised his hands. “And you should all know better. There are children in the room!”

“I see that. Hello, Jaxni.” Uhura waved. 

Jaxni’s mouth hung open, eyes round. She pointed at her chest. 

“Jim says you’ll be an amazing doctor when you grow up,” said Uhura. 

Jaxni looked up at Selarie. “He talked about me!” 

Selarie ran a gentle hand over her matted hair. “With great affection. As he does Flaxnir and Kalterin.” 

Kalterin scoffed quietly from her spot on the wall and pretended she wasn’t interested in the screen. 

“We really hit the ground running,” said Jim. Selarie frowned at him. He made a fist and leaned over to glance at the floor. “Not like that, big guy.” Jim patted his knee. “It means we started this conversation quickly, without any introductions or explanations.” 

“What would striking the floor explain?” asked Selarie. 

“Many humans speak in near constant colloquiasms,” said Uhura. “I promise we’re not actually trying to circumvent the universal translator. It’s badly encoded - especially with Standard to Golic.” 

“Everybody, that’s Nyota Uhura,” said Jim. “She turned down the Bolian Institute of Linguistics to study at Starfleet.” Flaxnir, Jaxni, and Selarie looked impressed. “Most of my professors say she’s a once in a generation talent.” 

“Only most?” Uhura shot him a saucy look. 

“Professor T’Angle’s over 200 years old,” Jim shrugged. “She doesn’t really understand that you and Hoshi Sato aren’t in the same generation.” 

“A once in a generation talent is friends with you?” Flaxir scoffed.

“She’s roommates with my Lynotar.” Jim shrugged. “We’re like friends-in-law.”

Uhura held her embroidery hoop in front of her mouth to cover her laugh. 

“The other human is my best friend and personal physician, Dr. Leonard McCoy.” Jim watched them look Bones over skeptically. “He does not have a fungus,” he sighed.

McCoy crossed his arms. “What in tarnation have you been telling them?” Gaila whispered something to McCoy that made him turn a deep pink. 

“Next to Uhura on the couch is Spock.” Jim caught his gaze, eyes twinkling. “The second best chess player I know.” 

“I didn’t know there were basmunatha in the Federation,” Jaxni pushed her hair back over her gently pointed ears, grinning. 

Spock stared at the girl's ears for a long moment. “I did not know Andorians and Vulcans could produce healthy children.”

“They can not,” said Selarie. “But both can have children with Orions, and those children can have children with one another.” 

“Did you get telepathy with your ears?” asked Jaxni. 

Flaxnir tugged hard on her sleeve and shot her a warning look. Jaxni nodded and stared down at the carpet. 

“Indeed.” Spock locked eyes with Jim, who shot him an apologetic smile. 

“These kids are incredible,” he ruffled Jaxni’s salt-and-pepper hair, “You have to see them to believe. Flaxnir,” Jim nodded at the Andorian boy. “has a strong tactical mind and isn’t afraid of making personal sacrifices to defend his people.” 

Flaxnir blinked in surprise at Jim’s praise. 

“Cadet Kirk has spoken of this,” said Spock. Flaxnir’s eyes widened in shock. “He expressed concern over providing you with an adequate education for such a creative mind.”

“You too, kiddo.” Jim lay a hand on Jaxni’s shoulder. She glanced up at him, and he lifted her chin so he could look her in the eyes. “You’re so smart. Next time I talk to Doctor Bones you’re invited along. He knows way more anatomy than I do, plus he has a daughter around your age.” 

“Is she there?” Jaxni looked back at the screen, excitement creeping back into her voice. “Human or basmunatha ?”

“I’m not sure,” McCoy laughed. “What’s that word mean?” 

“Well mixed,” said Jim. 

Spock’s eyes widened fractionally. He moved his embroidery hoop so it rested against Uhura’s thigh. By their posture, Jim was sure he grabbed her hand. Hard. 

McCoy beamed at Jaxni. “Well my Joanna doesn’t have pretty blue skin like yours, darlin’, or antennae like you and your brother, there. We’re plain human.” 

“That’s okay,” said Jaxni. “I like humans! And when she grows up she can marry someone who doesn’t have a fungus and they’ll have normal looking kids!”

Flaxnir rubbed a hand over his eyes. Jim looked up at him, and for a moment they shared the same tired look of solidarity.

“Missy, you and I are gonna have a long talk about medical ethics and bedside manners.” McCoy’s gruff tone contrasted his wide grin. 

“Okay!” Jaxni bounced with excitement. “Bring your daughter! And your menagerie! I wanna meet a ferret so bad!”

“So,” Gaila cleared her throat. “Two kids.” She wrapped her arms around her calves and rested her chin on her knees. “Kallie changed her mind about meeting me?” 

Jim resisted the urge to look at Kalterin. The girl had spent the entire exchange standing next to Stork, wrists jammed together as they watched from outside the viewscreen’s range.

“Let her know it’s not a one time offer,” said Gaila. “If she ever decides she’d like to meet me, I’m here.” Beside her, McCoy gently rubbed her back. 

Flaxnir crossed his arms. “What if she’s not who you think she is? Space is big. She could be anyone.” 

“Whoever she is, whether or not she’s of my caj’lyn, she gave me hope that some of my people might still be alive. And free.” Gaila rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Tell her that’s why I’m in Starfleet. I can’t do shit for my caj’lyn on Federation Basic. I tried. My side gigs didn’t bring in enough money to pay for passage back home, much less fund a search. But if I rise up the ranks until I’m captain of my own ship then I’ll have warp 8 speeds and Federation phasers. Hopefully with a crew that’ll have my back.”

“How long will that take?” asked Flaxnir. 

“Around a decade,” said Gaila. 

“You think you’ll still care in a decade?” asked Flaxnir. “You’ll have a new crew, new caj’lyn .”

“I’ll die caring,” she said fiercely. “Same as I would if anything happened to my Jh’Mii .”

Flaxnir and Jaxni stared hard at Jim. The girl’s lower lip quivered, struggling to hold in a laugh, until Flaxnir put a hand on his shoulder and chuckled hard. “ Jh’Mii! ” His antenna spun in happy circles. 

“You are Jh’Mii.” Selarie pressed the back of his wrist against Jim’s. He looped a pinky around Selarie’s, smiling at the warmth of his gentle affection. 

Flaxnir slumped into the robe-draped chair Jaxni had dragged in front of the screen, arms around his waist as he shook with laughter. 

“Every day is like this,” Jim rolled his eyes at Gaila. 

She smiled back. “Good.” 

With a loud rustle of her long maroon robes, Kalterin stepped forward. Gaila gasped. 

“I am Kalterin, daughter of Andra, born to caj’lyn Vro,” she stood straight and tall, hands folded neatly in front of her. “Name yourself.”  She wore her best neutral mask, but Jim could see the mix of fear battling with hope behind her eyes. 

Gaila sat up straight and tugged her Starfleet Academy cadet’s uniform into place. 

“I am Gaila of caj’lyn Vro. My caj’mxn is irrelevant and unworthy of a name. In my caj’lyn Andra and Shullo each declared me their lynoti , making me lynotar of Kalterin, Vaillid, Thissa, and Jetem. They are my blood in all ways but medical transfusions.” 

She swallowed hard. “The last time I saw you was over Cludrat, at the outdoor festival. I told you all the carnival games were rigged, but there were a few you could beat anyway. We played Juun-tolta, whacking all those little voles on the head, until you won that terrible knockoff The Stars Live In Your Eyes graphic tunic. It was too big on you, but you said that made it a perfect sleep shirt.” 

Everyone stared silently at Kalterin.

“You’re dead,” she whispered.

“So are you.” Gaila tightly clutched McCoy’s hand. “Your mother?” 

Kalterin shook her head. 

“...you’re sure?” Gaila asked softly. 

“Yes.” Flaxnir said, his voice hard and angry. 

“Stop.” Stork’s gentle voice cut the boy off. “This is a moment of reunion. Do not let your grief subsume her joy.” 

Uhura’s eyes flickered to the side of the screen, curious. She leaned into Spock’s side, casually pressing their wrists together. 

“Oh, Kallie.” Gaila’s green finger obscured a quarter of the screen as she reached out to stroke Kalterin’s image. “What happened to your ears?”

Kalterin ran a hand over one. “Mom thought I’d be less of a target.” 

“For all the good it did,” muttered Flaxnir. 

Gaila rubbed her hands over her face. When they came away her eyes were wet. She looked at Kalterin with a mix of hope and worry. “I never thought I’d see another member of my caj’lyn. Are there…more of us?”

Kalterin nodded. “Mostly bought by Rhyuk, but he only wanted the basmunatha. I don’t know what happened to the rest.” 

“I can guess,” Gaila said darkly.

Flaxnir held Kalterin’s hand in both of his, watching her with worry. 

“Forgive me for askin’,” McCoy looked between the two Orions, “but what exactly is your relation?” 

Gaila frowned. “It doesn’t translate well into Standard. Kallie is the daughter of my adopted sister’s biological sister. The sisters each had their own caj’lyn - it translates loosely to family of choice - but my sister, Kallie’s mother, and their brother were all born of the same womb and remained close.”

McCoy pondered for a moment. “That sounds like a niece to me.”

“That’s how I’m translating it into standard,” Jim agreed. “And according to my research, the Federation should recognize you as her last living family.” 

Gaila’s hands covered her mouth. She stared wide eyed at Kalterin for a long moment. “Jimmy tells me you’ve forged your own caj’lyn,” she said, slowly. “I won’t force your past to take precedence over your future. But I’d like to be part of that future if you’ll allow it.” 

Kalterin rested one hand on the small of Flaxnir’s back and the other on Jaxni’s shoulder. “They are my blood in all ways but transfusions.”

“Good.” Tears rolled down Gaila’s cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re not alone.” 

“If the three of you have any documentation to show that you’re a legally recognized caj’lyn then, according to Federation law, you are siblings and can not be separated,” said Uhura. 

Jaxni looked at Flaxnir, antenna pointing straight up, eyes round. Kalterin looked at the two of them and gently shook her head.

“Documentation can be procured,” said Stork. 

Spock’s head tilted to one side as he studied the older Vulcan. 

“You’re sure?” Gaila looked from Stork to Uhura and back.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I talked to Chancellor Resnik,” said Uhura. 

Jim was impressed. “How did you get a meeting with the Chancellor of Immigration?” 

“I was T’Pring’s plus one at an embassy event I knew he’d be attending,” Uhura shot him a smug smile. “He was very excited when I told him I had a lead on potential resources who could add obscure border dialect information to the Universal Translator.”

“What that means in Standard, kids, is Miss Uhura here is gonna pick all your brains about the languages you speak,” said McCoy. 

“Do we have to go to Earth?” Jaxni tugged on Kalterin’s sleeve. “Stork and I commed JimJam’s orphanage. The kids seemed really nice.”

Jim forced himself not to wince at her words. Bones and Gaila already knew. He’d have to find some way to spin it for Spock and Uhura. 

“Typerias is a good place,” said Gaila. “It’s not too crowded, like Earth, and you’ll get a better education than I can get you here. You should’ve seen Jimmy when he was your age.” She beamed at him until Jim blushed. “Sixteen years old and lazy Starfleet nepo babies in their twenties paid him to do their Starfleet Academy homework. He was a smart little ghost in five years of courses before we ever enrolled.” 

Spock and Uhura exchanged a speaking glance before both turned the full force of their combined attention to Jim. He refused to meet their eyes. 

“I’ve heard a lot about the place Jimmy really grew up,” Gaila continued. “Not the cornfield where he was born, but the place that turned him into the man he is today. They’ll do right by you. Vulcans see an abandoned kid and don’t even ask if someone’s going to adopt them.” 

Stork looked affectionately at Selarie, then at the children. Jim snorted and shot him a wink. 

“No pressure,” Jim turned to Kalterin, “But I’ve done some research. If you let Gaila legally adopt you by Federation standards then you’ll have mutual visitation rights. That means even on Federation Basic, they’ll pay for free passage four times a year. She can come to you during Starfleet school breaks or you can come to see her on Earth.”

“She doesn’t need us gluing her hatch shut.” Kalterin shrugged, feigning indifference.

“You’re the only family I have left,” said Gaila. “It’d be my privilege to make that legal. I won’t force it. Ever. That’s something the three of you should discuss in private. And it’s not a one time offer.” 

“Here. Take my seat.” Jim gestured for Kalterin to sit closest to the comm. 

Onscreen, Spock picked up his PADD and tapped a few things into it. Jim’s own PADD dinged quietly. When he turned it over, there was a ChessPal message piggybacking on the subspace frequency reading, ‘I have added an additional 42 minutes to this subspace call.’   Jim looked up and met his gaze, impressed. At these distances that cost more than tickets to the Zero Gravity Music Festival. Spock nodded faintly. 

“If we visit them on Earth we can see their menagerie.” Jaxni tugged Kalterin’s sleeve. “I read Starfleet admirals get special animals called Bee’Gulls. I think it’s a bird that pollinates really big flowers.”

Gaila bumped her shoulder against McCoy’s. “I told you we should’ve borrowed Admiral Archer’s beagles for this call.” 

“You leave that old man and his dogs alone,” he muttered. 

“But he has an actual menagerie!” Gaila tilted sideways until her whole body rested against his, leaving his face eclipsed behind a mess of red curls. 

“That show ain’t nothin’ but slander,” said Bones. 

Jaxni giggled and stepped closer to the screen. “I heard Bob’s brother is coming to visit and bringing his whole menagerie!”

“You know most humans don’t own pets,” Uhura said gently.

“Nooo!” said Jaxni. “All humans get their first pet during their Quinceañera. There’s a whole ritual about it!”

Uhura and McCoy stared at one another, both unsure where to start unpacking that. 

“Go on,” said Gaila. “Tell us everything you know about humans.”

“Lord have mercy,” McCoy muttered. 

Jim took a couple steps back, standing at the periphery of the vidcon’s sensors so Gaila could talk to the kids. He pulled out his PADD and typed, ‘Spock, I’m sorry.’

Spock’s gaze met his. He raised a single eyebrow. 

“I wanted to tell you first, but I didn’t think you’d believe me,’ Jim typed. 

Onscreen, Spock’s face remained a neutral mask as he subtly tucked his PADD behind his embroidery hoop. ‘Would these children consent to meeting in person? I have never met another half Vulcan.’

Jim caught Jaxni holding onto Kalterin’s pinky finger. Flaxnir rested a hand on the excited girl’s shoulder, two fingers gently pressed against the bare skin of her neck. He turned his attention back to his PADD. ‘I think the math is more complicated than that, but yeah. I’ll talk you up to them. If you can time it you should come along on Gaila’s first visit.”

Spock studied Gaila. She and Uhura were deep in conversation with Kalterin and Jaxni about whether the mayor in The Stars Live In Your Eyes was onto T’Ruth and T’Pila’s secret. Meanwhile Flaxnir and McCoy shared a look of understanding at playing a supporting role in this drama. 

Jim’s PADD vibrated with a new message. 

‘My parents struggled to conceive me. And yet three Orions have successfully produced children with Vulcan partners. Two of those Vulcan-Orion hybrids not only survived to adulthood, but also went on to bond with Andorians and produced a second generation of viable hybrids.’

Jim stared at Jaxni with her pointed ears and stubby antenna alongside Kalterin, with her surgically trimmed ears and the strange iridescent patches he’d noticed on some of the Korgasant’s crew. “I think there’s a lot more of them.”

Spock looked up from his PADD, eyes full of surprise.

“There were 19 captive children on the Korgasant. At first I thought they were Vulcan, Andorian, or Orion. Since then I’ve learned there’s a huge market for phenotypically presenting kids who are also basmunatha.”

Spock looked from the kids to Jim and back again. “Nineteen hybrids?”

Jim grinned. ‘You’re doing a good job keeping the shock off your face.’

‘I am Vulcan.’

‘Not to them.’ Selarie and Stork belonged to the most common Vulcan phenotype in this region. T’Malis was the only person on the Sh’Raan who shared Spock’s height, coloration, and comparatively small and delicate ears. ‘They see you as a fellow basmunatha.’

Spock’s mouth straightened into a thin line. ‘I have been called poorly mixed my entire life.’

‘Whoa! That’s not what that means at all! It’s well mixed, with an emphasis on the syllable that indicates positive connotations. Uhura can explain it better. But it’s not an insult. They’re happy to be basmunatha.”

‘I find that dubious.’

“Hey!” Jim interrupted Kalterin and Uhura’s heated debate about human spice tolerance. “What’s the best part of being basmunatha?”

Selarie raised a curious eyebrow. 

“Jealous, much?” Flaxnir snorted. 

“Hell yeah,” Jim grinned. “Tell me why.” 

“I can go all the places!” said Jaxni. “Even if it’s hot or cold! I’m a really good sweater!” 

“She’s not wrong,” Kalterin bumped a shoulder against Jaxni’s. “She can sweat through her clothes like nobody else.” 

Jaxni grinned proudly. 

“I have an actual sense of smell,” said Flaxnir. “Andorians are almost as bad at that as humans. Plus I’m not heat-blind.” He pumped his antennae up and down, showing off. 

“Are you all telepaths?” asked Spock. 

Flaxnir put a firm hand on Jaxni’s shoulder. She stared up at him. After a beat her shoulders slumped and she stepped a little bit behind him. He left a protective arm in front of her, reflexively prepared to take on any threat. Jaxni wrapped her little hand around his wrist and held on tight, face scrunched in concentration. He shot her an annoyed look.

“Do we look Vulcan?” said Flaxnir. 

The trio stared defiantly at Spock. 

Jim quickly typed into his PADD. ‘That’s why they were captured!’

“Please accept my apologies,” Spock looked up from his PADD. “I did not mean to overstep.” 

“Are you a telapath?” Flaxnir snapped. 

“Yes,” Spock said calmly. “My parents were surprised.”

“Oh.” Jaxni thoughtfully cuddled her greasy stuffed sehlat. “Did your mama overheat when she was pregnant?” 

“You can’t ask people that!” Kalterin whispered. 

“Maybe that’s why he’s so pale! He didn’t get baked right!” said Jaxni. 

“It’s the fungus,” Flaxnir whispered. “You can see residual melanin spots on all of them.”

“They’re called freckles,” Uhura laughed. “And they’re normal for humans with that pigmentation.” 

Jaxni turned pleading eyes to Gaila. “Can you help them? JimJams is too nice to be a walking fungus.” 

“Jimmy is beyond help.” Gaila winked at him.

“I will somehow suffer through having highly desirable pigmentation that’s considered very pretty where I come from,” Jim said loudly. 

“Healer Sepsis assured me of his health before we pursued sexual relations,” said Selarie. 

All eyes onscreen went to Jim. 

“That there’s a story I wanna hear more about,” McCoy drawled. “When there ain’t children in the room.” 

“I did not realize you pursued sexual relations with males,” said Spock.

“Jimmy’s never met a genital configuration he didn’t like,” Gaila smirked.

“Anyway!” Jim said brightly. “I have five weeks left on my internship. “That’ll give you three some time to get to know Gaila better over subspace before we get you settled onTyperias and I book passage back to Earth.”

“Typerias is not our next stop,” said Stork. 

“What?” Jim stared at him in confusion.

“We must divest ourselves of the Korgasant and her crew,” said Stork. “Until then we continue our search for families of their victims who can meet us when we dock.”

“Don’t fucking bother with mine,” Flaxnir muttered. Kalterin pulled him into a gentle side-hug. 

“There will be transports at our port which can take you directly to Earth before your next school year begins,” said Stork.

“I can sleepwalk through those classes,” Jim waved dismissively. “I’m not leaving the kids until they’re on Typerias and have told me privately that they want to stay.”

“What if we hate it?” asked Flaxnir.

Jaxni glared up at him. “They seemed really nice!” 

“Then I’ll take a semester off and we’ll find some place that’s a better fit for you,” said Jim. “No one’s dropping you off on the first world that’s mildly convenient then walking away forever.” 

“James.” Selarie lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We would not.” 

“I…” Jim deflated. “No. Of course you wouldn’t. But I’m still staying until they’re settled.” 

“I welcome any days I can spend with you,” said Selarie.”But I have,” he and Stork shared a speaking glance, “responsibilities when we dock.” 

“The Vulcan run orphanage on Typerias would welcome,” Spock paused as if tasting the word, “ basmunatha? ” 

“They’d be fucking lucky to have us,” said Flaxnir. 

“Damn straight they would,” said Jim. “And so you know, there were fourteen different species of students the last time I was there. Probably more now.”

Spock steepled his fingers. “Fascinating.”

“If Jimmy’s taking a semester off then so am I,” said Gaila. “I want to meet you in person.” She glanced at Kalterin, suddenly shy. “And Jimmy’s not the only one who needs to see that a place is safe before he’ll leave his people there.”

“Now wait a minute, darlin’,” said McCoy. “Jimmy’s got Pike wrapped around his little finger. He’ll be fine. But I don’t wanna see you risk your place at the Academy. There’re fifty thousand hungry people fightin’ for every seat at the San Francisco campus.” 

“If I have to graduate from the Mumbai or Barcelona campuses then it’ll be worth it,” said Gaila.

“The Barcelona campus is for the diplomatic corps!” McCoy protested. “Half the kids there are jockeying for a full time posting on Risa!”

“I too would like to meet cadet Kirk’s young wards,” said Spock. 

Flaxnir narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

The room went silent, all eyes on Spock. 

“I have never met another… basmunatha ,” said Spock. “I was told Vulcans can not reproduce with other species.”

“Only Andorians,” said Jaxni. “They can’t get their babies to bake.” 

“Vulcan-Andorian conceptions are rare,” Stork explained. “Most end in early miscarriages.”

“My conception required considerable medical intervention,” said Spock. “Until now I believed I was unique.”

“Because of the fungus,” Jaxni nodded sagely. “That is weird. We never catch stuff that makes everybody else sick.”

“No.” Kalterin studied Spock thoughtfully. “Because they told him he was all alone.” 

Jim watched Spock carefully. There was a hunger behind his Vulcan mask. They hadn’t discussed it at length, but in their conversations over chess Spock had casually referred to himself as a failed science experiment unlikely to be repeated. Now he was speaking to three unrelated teenagers who each had Vulcan, Orion, and Andorian ancestors. 

“Indeed.”

Uhura turned to Spock, frowning. 

“I propose one solution which will accomplish multiple goals.” Spock ignored Uhura’s concerned look. “Gaila and I both wish to meet cadet Kirk’s wards. He rightfully intends to stay with them until he is confident they are safely settled into a nurturing home. And yet Kirk, Gaila, and I also have responsibilities here on Earth at the start of the fall semester.” 

Jim crossed his arms. “I’m listening.”

“My father recently returned to Earth as part of his diplomatic duties. He arrived in our clan yacht, which is capable of speeds up to Warp 8. At that speed we can reach your current location in five days and return to Earth in another five. That leaves us with up to twenty seven days of cadet Kirk’s internship to find you a satisfactory home.” 

“Warp 8?” Kalterin’s eyes widened. “Are your clan pirates?”

“No,” said Spock. “But we often need to outrun them. More frequently, the highest speeds allow our clan diplomats to arrive on distant worlds with little notice due to unexpected political events or crises.” 

Stork gingerly removed the dirty robe Jaxni had been sitting on and took the chair next to Selarie. They pressed their wrists together, watching the conversation with keen interest. 

“Spock, you can’t be fucking serious,” Gaila laughed. 

Uhura stared at him in shock. “Do you really think your father will agree to…”

“I do not intend to ask.” Spock cut her off. “I will file a flight plan with our clan after we are en route.”

“And if your father needs the yacht while we’re off planet?” asked Uhura.

“He can chastise me from T’Pring’s family yacht,” Spock said icily, “Or a rented vessel.”

Uhura snorted. “Imagine him renting a ship!”

“I would rather not,” said Spock.

Jim shook his head. “Are you and Gaila going to sneak into the shipyard in the dead of night so you can warp out to the Romulan border in a yacht ?” 

“No,” said Spock. “The docks are closed. We will leave promptly tomorrow morning.” 

“I’ll be ready,” said Gaila. 

“We’ll start packing as soon as the call ends,” Uhura agreed. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You have duties and responsibilities here.” 

Uhura laughed. “You do not know me as well as you think if you believe I’ll ignore a chance to learn a Vulcan-Andorian-Orion pidgin from native speakers.” She pointed at Jim. “Talk him into it. You owe me this.” 

All the improved translations he wanted to add to the Universal Translator raced through his mind. Uhura’s submissions would be accepted without question. 

“Be honest with yourself, Spock. You’re gonna lose this fight.”

“I do not wish to be responsible for bringing a talent like Nyota to such a dangerous region of space,” said Spock.

“It’s fine for us,” Flaxnir muttered. “Never mind all the people who live here.”

Stork pulled a PADD from his robes, face calm but fingers flying as he typed. 

Uhura punched Spock’s upper arm. Hard. “Don’t you dare. Starfleet’s already trying to put me in a gilded cage. This is why I joined! If I wanted to spend my entire life at a University I’d be on Bolias right now!”

Stork cleared his throat. “G’how T’gai T’Malis has volunteered to take personal responsibility for the safety of cadet Uhura. Twenty four point six percent of the Sh’Raan’s crew has volunteered for additional guard duty, linguistics education, and cultural immersion for our visitors. Forty eight percent of the crew request that you delay your departure by however long is necessary to bring the latest episodes of The Stars Live in Your Eyes. ” 

“See.” Uhura crossed her arms. “Your own cousin volunteered to be my personal guard.”

“The relation is more distant than that,” said Spock. “But it is true that T’Malis is…formidable.”

“If anyone’s coming it ought to be Uhura,” said Jim.

“Hey!” Gaila protested. 

He put a finger over his mouth and winked at her. 

Spock’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “Can you be ready at dawn?” 

“I can be ready in two hours,” said Uhura. “Including time to load a PADD with every episode of The Stars Live In Your Eyes. ” 

“Every episode?” Selarie’s eyes crinkled with excitement. 

Jaxni threw her arms up in the air. “I will be the queen of spaaaace!” 

Kalterin hugged her tight, laughing. 

“I hate getting up so dang early,” said McCoy, “but I’ll have five days to sleep while we scoot out yonder.” 

“You were not invited,” said Spock.

McCoy pointed between Gaila and Jim. “Somebody’s gotta make sure these idiots actually come home. If you lose them both out there Pike will never forgive you.”

Gaila planted a wet kiss on McCoy’s cheek. “I’ll make sure he’s there at dawn.”

“He will be your responsibility on this journey,” said Spock.

“I ain’t a puppy,” McCoy protested.

Jaxni’s attention snapped to the screen. “Can you bring a puppy?” 

Stork gently stroked her hair. “Animal imports are highly regulated. There is not enough time left in cadet Kirk’s internship for the paperwork to be processed and approved.” 

“I accept your terms,” Gaila told Spock. “What’s our maximum luggage allowance?” 

Jim eyed the subspace timer. “Debate that after the call. We only have a few minutes left and you forgot an important detail.” He turned to the Sh’Raan’s first officer. “Stork? May my friends come visit? And will it be safe out here for their suspiciously fast yacht?”

“Captain Spisee has already agreed.” Stork lifted his PADD. Spock’s head snapped up. “The safety of your friends and their vessel will be paramount. That said, a warp eight vessel under S’chn T’gai clan protection will be the safest possible transport to return you to Earth at the end of your internship.”

“Wow. So this is really happening.” Jim shook his head. This was not the conversation he’d been expecting when he invited the kids to take part in his subspace call. “Okay, who’s coming?” 

They all spoke at once. 

“Me,” said Gaila.

“Obviously,” said Uhura

“I guess so,” sighed McCoy.

“It is my family yacht. I am required for this expedition.” 

“The whole crew, then.” Jim’s mind reeled with messages he needed to send them over subspace before they launched. Printed animal books for Jaxni. Tactical histories for Flaxnir. An Orion autoharp for Kalterin. Not to mention presents for the remaining 16 kids who had picked other members of the crew as their favorite adults. Plus a few things that would help them make friends with the Sh’Raan’s crew. 

But none of that mattered as much as making sure Gaila could meet Kalterin. He’d held her while she cried on every member of her dead caj’lyn’s birthday. She’d made sure he only had happy drugs while surrounded by soft surfaces on the anniversaries of when he left for Tarsus and the day he was forced back to Earth. He knew what it meant for her to find one unexpected survivor. 

“How soon can you get here.”

Spock was still staring hard at Stork. He made himself look away at Jim’s question. “We will arrive in five point three six days.” 

Chapter Text

“This is a damn stupid way to die!” shouted Beau.

The last shot took out the gravity generators, sending the ship gently tumbling counter-clockwise. They drifted up out of their seats to the middle of the cockpit, floating free as the yacht slowly spun around them. 

Contents floated off their supper trays and out of open bags, slowly filling the room with spheres of curry and boba tea, PADD’s, clothing, replicator data carts, Earth snacks, and dildos. Gaila’s massive yellow leather purse, now empty of all its contents, drifted by like a hungry octopus, trailing buckle studded straps behind it. 

This was why starships needed seatbelts, dammit.

Beau flailed out like he was swimming, struggling to find something to hold onto before the damn ship was hit again. 

“Return to your seats and strap yourselves into the safety harness,” said Spock. 

“You think we’re floating out here for our health?” Beau snapped. What the hell was the point of a safety harness stored under the seat? Sure, sure, the pirate ship shooting at us will pause out of the politeness in their hearts while we buckle up safe and sound.

He grunted hard as one big Vulcan foot slammed onto a silver birdie painted on the ceiling as the other one grazed his shoulder. Spock glided directly towards the yacht’s controls, as calm as if this was a Starfleet Academy simulation. Meanwhile Beau’s body sumer-saulted backwards until Gaila’s open purse closed around his head like an executioner’s hood. 

“Nyota, are we still broadcasting the distress call?” Spock said calmly.

“On every frequency I can!” she shouted. She’d managed to hook her knees under the arm of her chair, giving her something to hold onto that left her in range of the communications console. “The raiders have turned their replies into a limerick.” 

Uhura flipped a switch. Thickly accented voices chanted at them, laughing at one another as they came up with fresh rhymes. 

“There once was a yacht deep in space

Who thought they could outrace

Any pirates out here

But we said ‘hold our beer’

And the yacht vanished without a trace!”

“It’s not a very good limerick,” shouted Gaila. 

Uhura turned the speakers back off. “It’s better than the one where they rhyme fucking our face with captured in space.”

“Have there been any other replies?” asked Spock.

Another blast hit their shields - low powered enough that even Beau could tell it was meant to disable rather than destroy. 

Uhura sighed. “A freighter said Good Luck then blocked all our comms.” 

Beau wrestled Gaila’s massive purse off his head just in time for the ship to take another hit. He flew sideways, body slamming the replicator. The red cart sitting half in the slot pushed all the way in, and the replicator quietly hummed to life behind him. “This ain’t how I thought I’d die.”

“How did you think you’d go?” Gaila had managed to lasso her belt around her chair’s arm and was carefully pulling herself in. 

“Transporter accident,” he said, eyeing the replicator.  

“There’s still time,” Uhura’s fingers danced over her console, “If we can find another Federation ship.” 

“We ain’t seen hide nor hair of Federation ships in the last day,” Beau grumbled.

Another teasing phaser hit rattled their shields. 

“The raiders want to speak to our captain,” said Uhura.

Spock steadied himself with one hand on the back of his chair, face aimed at the screen while his body floated weightless amidst the PADD’s, clothes, and dildos drifting behind him. “Onscreen.”

A mix of Orion and Andorian faces filled the viewer, larger than life. They took a look at Spock and the debris floating behind him and bent over laughing. 

“I needed this,” said an ice blue Andorian with stubby antennae and slightly pointed ears. “It’s been too long since I’ve laughed this hard.” She wore a command gold quilted onesie that looked inspired by Federation coveralls with ‘Bubba’ embroidered over the left breast. 

The Vulcan replicator made a sound like a dozen tiny bells being rattled at once. The door slid open and a large glass of plomeek and plum boba tea drifted out.

A woman who looked more Orion than anything else tapped the screen as if they were in a fishtank. She had ‘Tilar’ embroidered on the breast of a paisley onesie that looked like what would happen if you stapled Vulcan robes into a jumpsuit. “Hello, pretties! Thank you for the shiny Federation yacht!”

“Are those humans ?”A bronze Vulcan with heavy green freckles like a slowly oxidating sculpture pushed forward to get a good look. Beau eyed the large iridescent patches that glittered on her forehead, reflecting back blues and greens like beetle wings. “You are way off course!” She wore a thick rust-orange hooded poncho, belted at the waist, with heavy mittens hanging from strings attached to the hem. She had “T’Rusty,” embroidered on her chest. 

Bubba held up a hand. “Okay, kids. We’re all having fun.”

“I’m not!” Beau snapped. 

Bubba leaned against T’Rusty’s shoulder, shaking with barely contained laughter.

“He’s cute,” purred Tilar.

Gaila shot the other Orion a hard glare and the pirate’s laughter broke containment. They leaned against one another, shaking their heads and muttering something in a language Beau had never heard. Nyota’s body froze as she tried to pretend her mind wasn’t racing at the sound of those syllables. 

Bubba grinned at them, antennae twirling with delight. “You don’t want to play with him, Tilar. That fungal medicine costs as much as a replicator.” 

“Their basmanutha rode him so long he practically looks human.” T’Rusty nodded at Spock.

“We’ll quarantine them in the same room,” Bubba waved her off. “See, as a gift to you!” She shot Spock a saucy wink. “ If you cooperate. You’ve got two options, Federation.” 

She propped her feet up on her console, relaxed and happy. “If you’re smart you’ll relinquish control of the helm to us - in which case you get to sleep in crew quarters and eat decent meals tonight while we arrange your ransom. But if you’re dumbasses,” the three of them broke out in laughter again, “Which seems probable considering you’re out here in the first place in a sexy yacht like that, then we’ll stop playing with your shields and send Tilar over to cut a hole in your hull and shove in a gas canister.” 

Tilar held up a canister the side of a boba tea bottle and grinned widely. 

“Your ship gets flooded with gas, killing everyone inside, and we still get to collect the yacht and sell all your pretties.” Bubba leaned back, chest still shaking faintly with laughter as she took in the disaster inside the yacht. “Now if I was you, I’d choose life. But hey, you’re out here in shitting nowhere, so maybe you don’t enjoy the mysteries of the cosmos the way I do. You have two minutes to decide.”

The screen went blank.

Spock’s fingers dug into the embroidered upholstery of the seat he’d anchored himself to. “Cadet Vro, is that a valid threat?”

“They’re not going to risk us taking them out with hand phasers.” She’d pulled herself back into her seat and buckled the safety harness. “The gas is fast and brutal. It kills you quick, but it’s an ugly way to go.”

“Yes. Perfect. I always wanted to vomit up my own lungs,” Beau muttered.

“If I fire our port engine I can increase the ship’s roll in an attempt to fling the attacker off,” said Spock.

“If she’s only using grav boots and a little thruster pack that’ll work great,” Gaila shook her head, “But if they have harpoons she can physically attach herself to the ship, gas us, and use the harpoon lines to tow us. It’s messy, but they can fix up the cosmetic issues while cleaning our blood out of the ship.”

The yacht’s bridge went quiet for a long moment. 

“Options,” said Spock. 

“I vote for not dying,” said Beau.

“Spock, even if we fling a person off, we’re down to one thruster,” said Gaila. “And they’re crowded in too close for a warp bubble to form.”

“It will be physically uncomfortable for all, but I believe I can pilot the ship far enough away that we can engage warp.”

“We’re already spinning, man!” said Beau. “I’m a doctor, not an engineer - but even I know that if y’all try to move a spinning ship forward with one thruster you’re gonna create a helluva lotta centrifugal gravity.”

“Approximately 4.72 times the gravity of Earth,” said Spock. “Cadet Vro, please help Doctor McCoy into his seat and strap him in. Nyota, inform me if you need help securing yourself.”

Gaila unbuckled her safety harness and barely pushed off from her seat, graceful as a bird as she floated towards Beau, one arm outstretched. 

“Are you sure about this?” Uhura pulled herself down into her chair, batting away a floating blob of plum and plomeek boba tea that was being chased through the air by a gently tumbling vibrator. 

“Starfleet does not pay ransoms,” Spock flipped into his seat in a single, effortless arc, like the showoff he was, and loudly snapped his harness into place. “And as a private citizen, my father will not pay a ransom for me.”

“What happens if nobody pays up?” Beau struggled to get the god damned safety harness out from the bottom of the embroidered crew chair before the impending gravity crushed him. 

“They sell us.” Gaila locked eyes with Spock and nodded once. “Do it.”

“Recievng another hail from the attacking ship,” said Uhura.

“Ignore it,” said Spock.

The screen lit up with an emergency override SOS beacon and once more, the laughing pirates filled the screen. Tilar pointed at the flashing red lights indicating a Priority 1 Distress Call before burying her face in T’Rusty’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Fuck, I didn’t think that would work!” 

“ F'deraxt'la tech is so easy to hack!” laughed T’Rusty.

“So what’s it gonna be, kids?” Bubba grinned at them, happy and feral. “Say yes to the majesty and wonder of life or vomit up your own lungs in a nasty, painful death?”

“Y’all gotta know I got my fungus all over this ship,” Beau said, a little too loud. He wiped his hand over the intricate Vulcan embroidery on his seat cover, making sure to grind it in real good.

Gaila, Uhura, and Spock stared at him in shock. 

“Why in tarnation d’you think we’re out here?” Beau stared the raiders down. “Y’all ain’t heard the news?”

He turned to Gaila, who made a not so subtle Orion gesture he knew meant these idiots deserved what happened to them. She turned her head far enough that one eye was invisible to the screen and shot him the faintest affirming wink.

“No dock’ll take us,” Beau continued. “It’s no longer limited to skin-to-skin contact. This critter’ll burrow into anything organic we touch.” He ran a hand over the embroidered armrest. “Like all this upholstery.” 

He saw Spock’s foundation floating by and batted it in Gaila’s direction while pulling himself closer to his seat. 

“What about her?” T’Rusty pointed at Uhura. “She looks like a normal human.”

“Only with all her clothes on,” Gaila shot the raiders a saucy wink. “You should see what’s between her legs.” 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Tilar grinned at Uhura. 

Gaila subtly stuffed the foundation tube into her bra. “Or you can see what’s between mine.” She pulled her Vulcan style robes open to reveal a thick, pale green patch along one inner thigh flanked by multiple pale streaks and dots on the other leg. A tendril of lighter skin slithered towards her knee. Onscreen, Tilar recoiled in disgust. 

“Fill this ship up with our blood and you’ll never be able to sell it,” said Beau. “Y’all know how tenacious the fungus is. This here is a plague ship.” 

“I don’t think so,” Bubba narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why would anyone send you out to die in something so nice?” 

“We didn’t give ‘em any choice,” said Beau. “Once we broke into the shipyards they were more concerned about sterilizing everything we touched.”

“And we’re very touchy people.” Gaila licked her clean palm before dragging it over the back of her seat. 

“That’s just unnecessary,” Tilar muttered in disgust.

“Knowing our carrier status, our most ethical choice was to flee in a small ship whose owners could afford to replace it.” Spock pulled down the neck of his shirt, showing off his pale skin. “It is inescapable.” 

“Even for basmanutha,” Gaila nodded towards Spock.

The trio onscreen stared at one another in concern. “Do you think they’re bluffing?” 

T’Rusty pointed between Spock and Beau. “Look at the men. The human still has a few dots of melanin on his face and forearms.”

“I’d like to see the human woman’s thighs.” Bubba narrowed her eyes.

“You’re not my ty--”

The yacht suddenly stopped spinning, as if grabbed by an invisible hand. Beau flew across the breadth of the ship, slamming into the hard edge of a console. A loud crack accompanied his scream as his arm broke. 

“Lenny!” shouted Gaila.  

“Why the hell did they wait this long to use a tractor beam?” snapped Uhura.

Onscreen, Bubba looked confused. “We don’t have a tractor beam.” 

“Incoming comm,” Uhura turned to Spock, surprised. “On the same band we used for our distress call.”

“Split screen,” said Spock.

“Greetings.” A tall, bronze Vulcan woman with her thick hair pulled up and braided into the shape of a crown stared at them. “I am Subaltern T’Akos of the Sh’Raan . We are responding to your distress call.”

“Lord have mercy,” Beau muttered under his breath. Any one of the four Vulcan robes she was wearing would’ve looked expensive and just a little bit gaudy on its own. Together, the technicolor nightmare made him want to shield his eyes. 

“They should be over a day away,” whispered Gaila.

“Oh, fuck all the way off!” snapped Bubba.  “We nabbed these idiots first. Go find your own little lost F'deraxt'la.”

“Disengage immediately or we will use force to ensure you do so,” said T’Akos. 

She didn’t move, didn’t blink. If not for the light dancing in her eyes she could be a mannequin advertising authentic Vulcan embroidery in your choice of 97 original colors.

“What are you gonna do? Throw petri dishes at us?” laughed Tilar.

“Wait,” said T’Rusty. “That ship may be a void-wreck, but that lump between the Naussican hull welded to the fore and the largest emergency plasti-seal scar almost looks like a Romulan disruptor canon.”

T’Akos folded her hands in front of her. “Yes.”

“Fuck me!” said the Orion. 

“No,” said T’Akos. “I do not want coitus with you. I want you to cease your attack.” 

“Well that’s a damn shame sand-cunt,” said Bubba. “Because that floating garbage heap you’re holding together with glue and spit is about to get fucked up the nacelles if you don’t run off and find youself some moss to study.” 

“That was your second warning,” T’Akos said calmly, “This is your third. Cease all hostilities and depart or there shall be consequences.”

“Whatcha gonna do? Write an angry report about the mean pirates?” snickered Tilar. 

T’Akos raised an eyebrow. “Is that verbal confirmation you do not intend to cease your hostilities?” 

Beau caught Uhura subtly mouthing along with T’Akos, trying to get a handle on her accent.  

Onscreen, Bubba waved as if dismissing T’Akos. “Fire on the garbage heap.”

All three crews waited in silence. 

“I said fire!” snapped Bubba.

“It’s not working!” Panic filled Tilar’s voice.

“The fuck it’s not?” T’Rusty leaned over her shoulder.

Tilar jammed a finger into a bright green button over and over. “It’s. Not. Working!”

“Fine.” Bubba leaned forward, elbows braced against her knees as she glared into the screen. “Waste a torpedo. We can afford more for what we’ll get selling that yacht.”

The first hint of their screams cut off as the screen went blank. 

“What in Satan’s sulfur balls just happened?” asked Beau. 

Uhura’s hands moved over her console. The blank half of the screen was replaced with a view of space. 

“Uh…which one of them is the pirate ship?” Beau stared in horror. 

The smaller ship looked like someone who’d never seen a real Bird of Prey tried to weld a bunch of feathers onto a Naussican pirate ship. Four stubby legs protruded from the belly, badly painted to look like claws. Each one housed a different weapon - phasers, shield disruptors, torpedos, and some damn thing they didn’t teach about at Starfleet Academy. Instead of the sleek, menacing beauty of a Romulan Bird of Prey, this looked like an inbred space chicken with the mange. 

But it was still a far sight better than the other ship. 

The silhouette was a Vulcan Surrok class ship, but this one had been through a war, sold for scrap, and welded back together using a couple of once-sleek Naussican pirate ships as a giant patch. It looked like a single hit to their shields would break the ship into a cloud of metal and bodies. 

“I believe the Surrok class ship is the Sh’Raan, ” said Spock. 

“Indeed,” said T’Akos. “We appreciate your patience while we neutralize the threat.” 

Half a dozen bright white shapes launched from the Sh’Raan , silver trails unwinding behind them. Spock moved a hand over the console, bringing them into closer focus. Instead of missiles, they’d launched six people in environment suits, each with a tether unspooling behind them. They watched as the figures landed on the pirate ship, mag boots clinging to the surface. 

The suited figures ran instruments over the hull for a few moments, moving a few meters to get into position before skewering the hull with harpoons. The dead ship was quickly anchored  in six locations so it could be towed by the Sh’Raan. Once the harpoons had fused into the ship’s hull, the six figures slowly walked to the nearest airlock and cycled it open - from the outside. 

“Airlocks aren’t supposed to work like that,” Uhura was aghast. 

“The locking codes are not complex,” said T’Akos. “Our crew will subdue your attackers so they are no longer a threat. While they work, we can tractor you into our docking bay. Do I have your consent?”

“Do we have a choice?” Beau muttered.

“Yes,” T’Akos once again folded her hands in front of her. “We can also send a repair crew to your ship. Once you are repaired you may return to Earth. Cadet Kirk will experience emotional distress at being unable to offer you both greetings and goodbyes.”

“Spock!” Gaila snapped. “We can’t turn around when we’re this close.”

“Yes, you have our consent,” said Spock. 

Onscreen, a massive metal feather broke off the DIY Bird of Prey as the Sh’Raan slowly reeled it in. 

“How did you get here so quickly?” asked Uhura.

“Based on your flight plan and recent changes in local unlawful activities, Captain Spisee revised his estimate of the odds of your yacht being attacked before reaching our rendezvous to 64.7%. We were already en route to meet you when we received your distress call,” said T’Akos.

“Why did he not warn us?” asked Spock.

“He did not wish to advertise the presence of tempting pirate bait before we were in range to protect you,” said T’Akos.

Spock raised a single eyebrow. T’Akos studied him for a long moment before adding,  “Logically, if forewarned you would cease this endeavor and return to Earth. Spisee wants you here.”

“Me specifically, or all of us?” asked Spock.

“Are you ready for us to tractor you into our shuttlebay?” asked T’Akos. 

Beau, Gaila, and Uhura looked at Spock. He stared at T’Akos for a long moment before slowly answering, “Yes.” 

“Please strap yourselves into launch-worthy chairs or lay flat on the floor, preferably on a mat or other soft surface,” said T’Akos. 

Spock and Gaila grimaced at the hum of the tractor beam. The hair on Beau and Uhura’s arms and neck stood up straight. Gaila helped strap Beau into place, taking care with his broken arm, before she buckled herself.

They all nervously watched the rust-orange ship grow larger as they were towed in. Up close, it was pitted with smaller puncture hole patches and phaser scars. Two shuttle shaped bulges were welded over a large area beneath what should’ve been the bridge. Ugly plasma scars stood out at either end of the bulges, making them look like giant patches over catastrophic damage. 

“What the hell’s holding that scrap heap together?” asked Beau.

“Love,” Gaila whispered. 

They passed two sets of battle-scarred blast doors enclosing areas designed for multi-purpose use as either unpressurized cargo bays or secondary shuttle bays before being towed into the only open bay. The captured space chicken was carefully towed into a third bay before the little yacht pulled into the fourth. 

The tractor beam gently sat the yacht next to something that looked like a real miniature Romulan Bird of Prey instead of an egg Baba Yaga stepped on before it could hatch. The moment the yacht connected with the ship’s deck their weightlessness was replaced by the Sh’Raan’s full gravity. 

Beau howled in pain, clutching his broken arm, as all the debris floating in the ship rained down around them. A floppy dildo bounced off his head and into Gaila’s lap. He looked up into the screen and saw T’Akos eyeing Gaila’s sex toys scattered over the yacht’s bridge, one eyebrow raised. Two new stone faced Vulcans leaned into the screen’s view to get their first look at their new guests. 

“Welcome,” T’Akos said slowly, “to the Sh’Raan.”