Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he rifles through his memories, Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise can’t see any now-obvious, flashing red alerts, warning that Spock and Uhura's relationship was hurtling toward disaster. Hurtling toward a bonding ceremony? Sure. Adorably pointy-eared, quarter-human babies? Maybe. But from his own observations and Spock’s off-handed comments, the couple had shared four years of restrained, boring, drama-free bliss. Kirk can’t fathom why they would suddenly break off their engagement so dramatically—and why they would do so at the wedding altar of a desert temple on New Vulcan, of all places.

He figures he deserves answers as much as anyone.

Because Kirk does not like the idea he’s been caught wrong-footed about his command’s teams status and needs. Emotional distress affects people—and most aliens he’s met—as intensely as anything physical might do. Maybe even more so. For the sake of the Enterprise, he should’ve done better than to have allowed Spock and Uhura to get into a situation where they were less-than-a-hundred-percent.

So his intervention, now, has nothing to do with a desire for gossip. Or an inappropriate investment in his best friend’s relationship. Or the hot flame of need in Kirk’s stomach for Spock to be okay, a heat that sometimes softens into a warm ember, but never quite goes away.

Nope. He just wants everyone to do their job, to keep being the best command team ever. They only have one year left in their five year mission, and they’ve got to make it count.

“So,” he says to Nyota Uhura. He has pulled her into a conference room shortly before her first command shift following the failed bonding ceremony. And he has slapped on his best ‘I’m your friend, you can talk to me’ demeanor. “It’s been a week, huh.”

Nyota sighs, pinching the space above her nose.

“Captain, we have ten minutes before B shift. I’d like a few minutes to transition protocols, if possible.”

“I know, I know. This won’t be long,” says Kirk. He leans on the armrest of his chair, his posture fully relaxed and casual and a reminder to Uhura that he’s safe to talk to. “I noticed you avoided my question in the transporter room. I’m going to ask you again, now that we’re in private. Now that Spock isn’t here. Now that you’ve had three days. What happened on New Vulcan?”

“Is that an order?” asks Nyota.

“To answer my question? Yeah. I guess so.”

“You guess,” she snorts. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

Uhura doesn’t shift in place or break eye contact. All considering, her composure is admirable. Kirk’s lucky to have her as an officer. And a friend.

“You’re an asshole for calling me in to discuss this,” says Nyota.

A friend who thinks he’s an asshole.

“I have to, Nyota. I need to be sure there wasn’t a diplomatic incident,” says Kirk.

“You know I would’ve told you if there had been.”

Kirk considers this silently. It’s probably true, but he can’t be 100% sure. Can he?

“Captain,” says Nyota with an exasperated sigh, “What did or did not happen on New Vulcan bears no relevance to the mission of the Enterprise or the Federation. Or my ability to do my job. And I find it offensive you’d suggest it.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything about your work,” says Kirk.

“You didn’t have to,” says Uhura.

And damn if she isn’t in a mood. Kirk figures he should’ve expected this. The way she’d looked on the landing pad three days ago had been… Dazed, when

Scotty spoke to her. And slumped. Devastated. Spock was worse. He’d been completely stone-faced and clammed up; not saying a single world before swiftly marching to his quarters, presumably to meditate. Thrown off as he’d been, Kirk could tell right away he’d be able to get more information out of Nyota than Spock.

Not that it stopped him from banging at Spock’s door every night for the last three nights. And leaving his commander more than a few sternly worded messages on his padd.

“Here’s the thing,” says Kirk to Nyota, leaning back in his seat with more charming insolence. This is the posture he tends to take when he’s bringing in the big guns. “‘Fraternization between officers is allowed, so long as it is properly disclosed and—’”

“Are you seriously citing regulations at me?” Nyota asks. “You?”

Kirk pauses. Yeah, space has done a number on him. Also, he’d totally guessed right that this approach would get under her skin.

“It’s allowed,” he continues as if he hadn’t paused, “‘…so long as it doesn’t impact the command negatively.’ You know I don’t give two shits about regulations except when they’re right. If your thing with Spock makes our team act weird, and you two can’t work together well in an emergency—”

“You know that won’t happen, Jim!”

“I know, I know, just let me say my piece.”

“We’ve been maintaining professionalism for years,” Nyota insists heatedly. “We haven’t hinted at our relationship outside our private quarters, nor have we let it affect our work. That won’t change now.”

Kirk internally shudders at the suggestion of Spock and Nyota having any form of intimacy within the privacy of their quarters. The words quickly become a visual, which makes him feel strangely light-headed, and it takes effort to push away. He puts his hands together.

“You were planning to get married and have little Vulcan babies, and you didn’t,” he says. “You expect me to buy that that won’t make it weird on shift?”

“No,” Nyota admits. “But for Spock’s sake, for Vulcan’s sake, I’m not allowed to explain more. You should talk to him if you want the full story.”

Kirk sits with that for a moment. The whole, ‘this has to do with Vulcan’ implication is like an unmissable subspace communication. It’s like red-alert sirens in his ears. Or a bad allergic reaction. Or a hypo to the neck.

“Uhura,” he says slowly. “Are you saying there’s a cultural reason you didn’t end up as Mrs. Spock?”

Uhura stares at him rather than answering.

In a flash, Kirk knows the answer must be ‘yes’. The flame in Kirk’s stomach twists violently. Grows in size, and heat. Like it’s starting to melt him from the inside.

Nyota and Spock wanted to bond, right up until the end, he guesses. But they must have broken up for reasons that were outside of their control. Most likely? The Vulcan council forbid their union. And… That… is bad. 

There’s something about a person being ‘forbidden’ that makes them more irresistible. Kirk gets it. He’s been there, done that. The last thing he wants is to have to witness his two officers falling victim to that impulse of pining in front of him. He doesn’t want to have to see Spock, his closest friend, casting a long gaze across the deck, looking past him, eyes fixed on Nyota as she’s turned to her panels. He doesn’t want Spock to be melancholy and quiet while they place chess together, his hands in one place and his head in another. How long until the tension grows too much? Until Kirk feels pressed in by discomfort anytime he’s in the same room as Spock, instead of filled with lightness and delight?

Already Kirk’s chest has begun to sag, heavy with dread, crumpling up from the inside.

“Sir.”

Kirk looks up.

“Spock and I won’t be getting back together,” Uhura says.

He stiffens, but tries to cover it. “I… how are you so certain?”

“I told you I can’t tell you. But our failure to complete the koon-ut ceremony was not a… legal issue. It had more to do with… compatibility.”

A wave of relief washes over Kirk, dampening the flame of his fear, followed by a whole flood of questions. Like, how could two people as hot as you not be compatible? What could you have figured out this late in the game, that you didn’t realize over the last four years? Was it sex? Nah, no way could Vulcan tradition be that kinky. But what if…?

Before Kirk can let his curiosity get the better of his professionalism, he stands up.

“Okay,” he says. “Shift’s about to start, and I don’t want you coming in until Spock’s out of there, you clear? We’ll go back to our old routines after about a week of alternating schedules. Then, if things gets weird, we’ll talk again, but this time it’ll be the three of us. Got it?”

Uhura sighs. 

“I’ve got it. Permission to leave, Captain?”

“Sure.”

The communications officer gathers herself, primly, and makes to exit the conference room. Kirk gives her a few seconds to near the door—just long enough to think that’s the end of it—before he calls out: “Nyota?”

She turns to him, hand on the doorframe. Some of her body weight leans toward it. It’s an unintentional gesture Kirk can’t miss: she needs support, much more than she’s willing to admit. 

“Yes?” she asks.

“Take care of yourself.”

His commander softens. “Thanks, Jim.”

Once she’s gone, Kirk waits thirty second before himself heading for the bridge. He considers going to the toilet, first, and that ends up being the right call because once there he’s intercepted by a welcome sight.

“McCoy!” Kirk jogs over to the doctor, who is wringing water from his hands with a face as sour as Kirk’s is bright. “What are you doing around here?”

“Am I not allowed to pee on this goddamned ship?”

Kirk slings a hand over his friend’s shoulder and looks covertly around them.

“Hey,” he says once it’s clear the bathroom’s empty, “You ever hear anything about Vulcan compatibility? Do they have some kind of personality test they do before they marry?”

“Bond, Jim. And why do you think I’d know anything about that?” grouches McCoy.

“Psych is medical.”

“Yeah, and Vulcan psychology might as well be a black hole for psych-null human doctors.”

“Uhura said she couldn’t marry Spock on a technicality. But it had to do with being incompatible. I’m pretty sure the Vulcans did some kind of test. I’m thinking it’s got to be telepathic. That’s why they had to do it on New Vulcan, and their problem was discovered at the last minute.”

“Why don’t you just ask that hobgoblin of yours?” McCoy squints. “Are you avoiding him?”

“No,” says Kirk. “I’m giving him space. I’m a good friend, Bones.”

“Uh-huh. Next you’ll be telling me roosters crow at noon.”

Kirk cocks his head to the side. They didn’t keep chickens, back in Iowa. “Do they?” he asks.

“Only when they’re stupid.”

“Thanks,” says Kirk dryly.

He arrives on time to his shift, taking note of his command team. Their behavior is studiously, respectfully professional toward their freshly returned communications officer. Uhura’s fingers have carefully, lovingly even, returned to the settings on her panels as she retunes them to her preference. Spock’s command center is empty, the way it’ll be for another week. Granted, a science officer will take over that station during most of the B shift, but that officer won’t be Spock. Kirk feels a tiny war inside him, wishing Spock were here and grateful he isn’t. His mind reopens that mental picture again, of Spock watching Uhura, the Vulcan’s expression neutral but not really—Kirk can always tell what he’s thinking—and in his imagination, he can see Spock wishing the distance was closed between himself and Uhura. Both physically and mentally.

What was it that Spock said before a mind meld…?

My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts…

He thinks about the way Spock’s long fingers might move on someone’s skin, and when he imagines it being Uhura, at that Vulcan temple under the hot desert sun, he doesn’t like the feeling it leaves him with. Not a little bit.

Not at all.

* * *

Kirk’s bad feeling worsens to a nasty one as shift continues. The first reason is because Spock continues to not reply to the messages Kirk sends him. The second reason is because, while he’s midway through some mind-numbing bureaucratic paperwork regarding a recent transport of dilithium crystals from a mining colony, Uhura says with clear surprise in her voice, “There appears to be an urgent communication coming through, sir. From Admiral Komack.”

With unmasked distaste, Kirk draws back from his padd and hands it again to his yeoman. Of the six fleet admirals, Komack is his least favorite. For all the reasons.

“Think we can pretend we didn’t see it?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

Uhura’s ice-cold tones prompt Sulu and Chekov to share an uncomfortable look. It seems Kirk isn’t the only one who notices that Uhura being overly determined in her professionalism today. And, shit, it looks like he’s going to have to put on his best ‘Starship captain’ face, too. 

With Komack of all people. Might as well get it over with.

“Patch him in,” Kirk says.

The whole of the command team—minus Spock and McCoy—observe Admirable Komack’s frankly unattractive face filling the screen in front of them.

“Admirable Komack,” says Kirk, failing on purpose to make a salute or anything remotely like. “How can I help you?”

“Captain Kirk,” he says shortly. “Your ship is required to rendezvous at Starbase G-X in the Garandala System. Your arrival will be expected in four days’ time.”

So Komack’s getting right into it. That’s always fun.

“What, no insults?” says Kirk. “Just orders, sir? What’s the occasion?”

Komack’s expression doesn’t waver. If anything, there’s a smirk shadowing the corner of his thin-lipped mouth. Kirk begins to feel a glimmer of worry. He suppresses it. He’s gotten better at suppressing things.

“There’s going to be a military tribunal,” says Komack. “One the admiralty would like you and your commander Spock to attend.”

Kirk licks his lips. He’s racking his brain. Ideas pour out, possibilities, so many, and none of them good. “Sir?”“

As the defendants.”

Nothing shows on Kirk’s face. He knows it doesn’t, because he has too many years of diplomacy under his belt now, too much training from his Vulcan first, his Vulcan first who upholds regulation perfectly—except, Kirk knows, when he doesn’t.

But he’s still reeling from the whiplash when he asks, “What are the charges, sir?”

“Receiving data now,” says Uhura, her voice stiff.

Komack’s self-satisfied smirk bleeds out from his ugly mug into his voice.

With too much pleasure, he says: “Emotional compromise, leading to wanton negligence.”

After a long silence, Kirk bursts out laughing.

* * * 

Kirk knows he’s got to be the one to tell Spock. How is he going to keep a straight face? Of all the charges that could possibly be brought against him in a pathetic attempt to stymie his glowing career—and there’s no question that’s what this is, with Kirk so close to ending this mission and receiving his next commands—this is what Admiral Komack came up with?

Even Spock will find it hilarious.

Messed up, but hilarious.

What’s extra great is, a military tribunal is a perfectly valid reason for him to override the privacy settings on Spock’s room.

When Kirk strides into the Vulcan’s quarters at 1900 hours, the expression on Spock’s face, as he unwinds himself from meditation on his mat, is visibly one of surprise. Not visible-visible. But there’s a quirk of the eyebrow that he pulls sometimes. It’s present, and it’s endearing. 

“Jim,” says Spock. “You should not be in here.”

Kirk notices the bags under Spock’s eyes. He observes the hair that looks tussled, though not greasy—Vulcan biology would never be so wasteful as to allow water-based emissions eke out onto the skin—and the slight stagger of Spock as he stands on a briefly unsteady leg.

“Neither should you. You’ve meditated for three days straight; that’s got to be enough time. I bet you haven’t eaten.”

“I intended to complete my meditation in 1.65 hours, followed by a meal.”

Ignoring Spock’s rebuttal, Kirk plugs in a double helping of Plomeek soup. This isn’t the first time he’s had to force-feed his first officer, and it probably won’t be the last.

“I recognize,” says Spock, “that you are not here out of concern for my nutritive status. I brushed past you without greeting upon my return from New Vulcan, and I did not respond to your communications. If I have caused you undue mental discomfort, then I regret—”

“Nah, we’re good, Spock. I figured you needed to work things out by yourself. In your own time.”

“Indeed.” Spock considers this. “Your interruption therefore indicates something must have changed outside of my immediate surroundings. It appears the ship is not in danger, from your mood and from the lack of other external indicators. I am curious what may have occurred.”
Jim brings the plomeek soup to where Spock is sitting, and folds himself up in a cross-legged position before the pale-faced Vulcan. “Bon appetit, Spock.”

“You are delaying.”

“You know what I like to say, humans always have more than one reason for what they do.”

“Affirmative. You do say this.”

“So can’t I just be happy to see you? It’s been three days! And—no, don’t look at me like that, I’m not going to force you to dish about what happened with Uhura—”

“It is not possible to dish an experience on a plate, Jim.”

Kirk grins. He was already grinning, of course, because being around Spock again after three days without the man feels almost as good as an Andorian drug trip. But Kirk’s grin is broader now, better. He’s as warm as if a heated blanket is tucked in around him, chin to toes. He could almost hum with the delight of it.

Which is probably an inappropriate way to feel when he’s discussing his best friend’s failed attempt at marriage. He knows that Spock cared about—cares about Uhura. The thought steals some of the wattage from his smile.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m not going to pry. If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

Spock looks directly at his captain, the bowl of soup resting in his hands. “That is kind,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Sure. My point is, I’ve missed hanging out.”

Feeling extremely done with the touchy-feely stuff, Kirk decides to change the subject.

“Want to hear something weird?”

Though Spock doesn’t say yes or no, his not-answer is encouraging. As is his desire to finally eat, indicated by how he picks up his spoon. Kirk grins at him. Takes a bite of his own toasted roast beef sandwich.

“The admiralty thinks we’re fucking.”

The soup drips off of Spock’s spoon into his lap.

* * *

“But we are not engaged in a romantic relationship,” says Spock, once words return to him. The bewildered expression on his face, although only visible for a split second, is one Kirk will try to hold onto forever. It’s too perfect.

Gotcha, he thinks giddily.

“Jim, you almost seem pleased by this development.”

“Of course not! It’s just funny, right?”

“No,” says Spock quietly. “It is a threat to both of our careers.”

Kirk shakes his head. “C’mon, Spock. It’s baseless. You and I know there’s nothing to it. It’s some dumb kind of political move that’s about to backfire in Komack’s face.”

Spock doesn’t say anything. Why not? thinks Kirk, a little displeased at getting a different reception than he’d expected. He thought he knew Spock well enough to have played his hand correctly; that they’d be on the same page. Why is he acting this way? Is it because of Uhura? If that’s true, perhaps Spock is pissed that his love life is getting public attention. Or at least his new lack of a lovelife. Spock has never enjoyed the limelight; merely accepted it… But no, it’s something else. With an annoying itch of empathy that cuts through his amusement, Kirk realizes the problem might not be Starfleet’s accusation itself, but the unfairness in it. Maltreatment doesn’t spark a rebellious joy in the Vulcan the way it does in Kirk. It reminds Spock of his bullies. Of the closemindedness of his people. Of being told he’s wanting in some way; that he’s not worthy. Not enough.

Shit. Shiiiit.

His tone more serious, Kirk says: “Spock...”

“On what basis did these charges develop?”

Feeling a little choked up, Kirk replies, “I haven’t had a chance to look into it yet. I came straight here; thought we could go through them together.”

Spock nods. “That is acceptable.”

Glad that his friend has been mollified—at least somewhat—Kirk breaks out his padd and begins reading out the charges. In addition to the charges, they find a list of incidents that Komack’s prosecutors have cited as foundational evidence for the case to be heard.  

There are quite a few.

Like, thirty.

“My actions were within protocol,” says Spock, testily, to one particularly lengthy entry.

Kirk recalls the incident. “What part of protocol is hitting the Andorian with a steel beam after he’d surrendered?”

“I suspected he had a hidden weapon.”

“It may look like revenge,” says Kirk. “For how he’d imprisoned me without food or drink.”

“It might,” Spock concedes.

The amount of times both Kirk and Spock have to concede, as they go through the list, is… not great. As Spock might say, it is troubling. Very. Extremely.

They review entries about fighting off hordes of aliens, of bombing secret hide-outs, of deep space fights between vessels, of hand-to-hand combat while wounded—of sharing a blanket to conserve heat in a frozen, sub-zero cave—of that time when he was looking into Spock’s eyes and reaching out while he thought he was dying.

If someone didn’t know better, they might think there was something going on between himself and the commander.

They’re going to need a hell of a lawyer.

“Well, on the bright side,” says Kirk while stretching, prepared to return to his room for at least an hour of sleep. “As the evidence shows, we’ve faced worse odds and rougher situations.”

“Indeed, Captain,” says Spock.

“I mean, this is rough but not too rough. You know?”

For some reason, Spock isn’t quite meeting Kirk’s eye. “I suggest we resume this conversation after a time of… rest.”

He seems to be staring at Kirk’s torso. The skin exposed there, where his shirt has ridden up. 

Kirk smooths his uniform top back down, covering up. It’s so like Spock to be on the up-and-up about protocol, even in his own room, away from other eyes. Amusement warms Kirk’s belly. Surely, it’s amusement, that little flame sparking back to life. Something that makes Kirk think, maybe he doesn’t want to leave Spock’s rooms? To stay in this cozy, warm feeling…?

But that’s silly. He’s going to see Spock first thing in the morning—Uhura won’t be on shift yet.

“Goodnight, buddy,” Kirk says, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Spock’s answer comes softly.

“Good night.”

Chapter Text

After a few hours of sleep, Kirk arrives early onto the bridge. He spends twenty minutes making sure nothing urgent waits in his docket. Once he signs off on a crew rotation update, he shares a quick look with Spock. The Vulcan has returned to his rightful place at his command center, and he’s standing at his usual position—an angle that has him partially facing Kirk. Noticing his captain’s attention, he gives Kirk a slightly raised brow, a slight tilt to the head. The crisp press of his blue uniform and the crisper line of his ramrod straight back do nothing to conceal the puffy shadows below his eyes. It worries him that the Vulcan seems no more rested than he had during their pre-nap conversation. Of course, Kirk knows better than to mention it. He’ll just have to hope that, so long as his second is at his second-best, random emergencies dodge the Enterprise.

To be fair, being summoned to a tribunal probably constitutes an emergency.

It really doesn’t have the spice of deep-space gunplay, though. Or psychic aliens with surprise teleportation skills. Starfleet needs to up its game if they want him to take their threats seriously.

“Yeoman Rand,” Kirk instructs the short-haired blonde waiting behind him. “Can you ensure I’ll have ten minutes without interruptions for an off-the-record bridge meeting?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Officer Hart,” he says to the communications officer standing in for Uhura. “If possible, I’d like you to record a pattern of silence while we’re talking.”

“Is that… is that allowed, sir?”

“We’ll make it look like a glitch. Glitches are allowed, aren’t they?”

“Yessir,” she says uncertainly.

“Perhaps,” interjects Spock, “it may be best to have Officer Uhura come in and make sure the glitch shows up.”

It goes so quiet, Kirk would swear he can hear an ensign outside the bridge, down the hall, flushing a toilet.

So. . . That’s great. Spock has found a way to make the situation more awkward than it already was. Kirk wants to be annoyed at this clear obstruction of his good-vibe-building effort, but Spock’s right: Uhura deserves to be here. Plus, it’s beginning to feel like it’s in his job description to give Sulu and Chekov opportunities to stare at each other in a fascinating tangle of confusion, intimate knowledge, and anticipation. And what kind of Captain would he be to disappoint his crew?

“Well?” Kirk smiles at Hart, in hopes to reset the room’s vibe. “You heard my commander.”

“Yes, Captain. Understood.”

Hart hastily salutes him and escapes the room.

“All right, now the rest of you. Listen up.” Kirk touches one of his screens, connecting the bridge to engineering. He brings his mouth close to the audio receiver. “That includes you, Scotty.”

“Aye, I’m listening, Captin,” says Scotty. Kirk confirms visually that Chekov and Sulu have also stopped ogling each other and come back to attention. As has McCoy, standing cross-armed in the corner of the room—presumably annoyed at having had to wait through all the drama.
Spock also has his attention focused on Kirk. And the audio receptor. Or something. Whatever it is, for some reason, it makes Kirk weirdly preoccupied with where his lips exist in space. He wets them with his tongue.

“I’m calling this meeting to discuss the charges that Starfleet dropped on Commander Spock and myself yesterday,” says Kirk, moving subtly back from the audio receptor, “Typically, Spock and I work together to resolve any performance concerns directly with admiralty, instead of getting you wrapped up in it.

But the two of us figured transparency is important right now. And we need some… outsider insight, if you will. When we reviewed Starfleet’s charges together, we agreed that some of them looked pretty bad for us. But most of the evidence was weak. Overall we don’t think the case should’ve come to tribunal in the first place. Spock, care to explain?”

Spock, his hands clasped behind his back, and his voice calm and measured, nevertheless impels the room’s attention.

“I cross-referenced the logs of the Farragut and other similarly-classed Federation starships in order to identify patterns of behaviors of their top officers,” he says. “There are more than several cases of officers deviating from strict protocol in order to effect rescue missions. That frequency was approximately 2.44 times higher for the Enterprise. However, the number of incidents that our flagship has encountered had a deviation of 2.173 above the norm.”

“What’s your point, Spock?” grunts McCoy.

“His point is that we’re not crazy out of line,” Kirk answers. “At least, barring the weird circumstances we’ve faced, we’ve toed the line of protocol about as well as anyone else. There’s not been enough negligence to merit an investigation. Which is probably why Scotty wasn’t put temporarily in charge of the Enterprise as the next-highest ranking officer. No, something else is happening here. Something that we’re missing.”

“Yessir,” says Chekov, a little too easily.

Kirk narrows his eyes.

“Want to elaborate on that, kid?”

The Russian’s eyes dart between Kirk and Spock. “. . .Not really.”

“I know a good lawyer on that base,” Sulu interjects. “He used to live in my husband’s condo unit. I bet he can help you two out, refuting the charges.”

“Nice. Put me in touch with your guy, will you? I don’t know if I can trust the one I’ve been assigned,” says Kirk. He notices that Spock raises an eyebrow, but the commander doesn’t object. He’s probably thought the same.

Sulu says, “Will do, Captain. For what it’s worth, we’re all on your side.”

Kirk grins. “Thanks.”

The lieutenant goes on, “We’re happy to take as many risks as necessary to ensure you and the commander keep each other safe.”

Kirk isn’t sure he liked how that was worded.

“Oh yes,” Chekov pitches in. “The close calls make me feel young.”

“How old are you agin?” asks Scotty, scratchy and far-away-sounding.

Chekov is all lament. “Old enough I have to drink.”

“Aye, but don’t Russians—”

“Ignore them,” McCoy interjects from the wall. Not shockingly, his face knotted in a scowl. “The two of you with your risk-taking shit have taken at least ten years off my life. This should be the sign from the universe that it’s time to, for the love of all that’s good and holy, stop.”
Kirk swivels in his chair.

“Hey, now, Bones. You don’t love what’s good and holy.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” Spock enjoins. “A rational man would not wait for an inanimate construct to communicate with him personally.”

Good ol’ Spock, backing him up as always.

“It’s a colloquialism, you snarky son of a. . .” McCoy cuts himself off. “Sorry. Point is, Jim, I’ll take the stand for your defense, too. If you need me. I’ll be happy to say there hasn’t been undue negligence. Some negligence, sure, but always for the greater good. It’s nothing my team hasn’t been trained to handle.”

Kirk accepts the sentiment for the genuine thing it is. “Thanks, Bones.”

“Your assistance is appreciated,” says Spock. “Captain, I believe there was something else?”

Oh hell yeah there was.

Lending himself gravity, Kirk makes eye contact with each member of his command team barring Scotty. And Spock, obviously. Because Spock isn’t the problem.

“One thing I’ve noticed,” he says, “Is that all of you are discussing the second half of the charge and not the first. You’ve got a lot to say about the negligence part, but not the compromise.”

Again, his officers are quiet. There are no toilets being flushed in the whole of the Enterprise: Kirk’s sure of that. Even Spock is staring at his console as if it holds the mysteries of the universe. Which to some extent it does, but for the moment, that’s irrelevant.

“So, let me get something straight,” Kirk says. He ignores Chekov’s coughing. “Spock and I are not in a relationship. He was with Uhura. For four years.  Unless you’ve all forgotten, they were planning to marry, like, a week ago.”

“Why would that’ve stopped you, Captin?” asks Scotty.

Kirk sputters. “Because I’m not a cheater!”

At the same time, Spock says, “I would not. . . !” and the tone of his objection clearly hints at anger, even by human standards.

“I ment t’say legally speakin’!” Scotty’s voice rushes in with a nervous speed. “I’m playin’ the devil’s advocit! We all know Nyota would kill ‘em both.”

“She still might,” mutters Bones.

"What happened, anyway?" asks Sulu, because his balls are bigger than the Terran Sun.

“Listen, guys!” Kirk throws up his hands. “Even if cheating was on the table, it wouldn’t matter because Spock’s heterosexual. End of story. And—look, there’s Uhura. Thanks for coming in. Did you hear from Hart what we need?”

“Yes, Captain,” says Uhura, meeting his eye like a consummate professional. With a vengeance. Thank god one member of his goddamned crew is.

Beside Spock, obviously. If Kirk has learned anything over the course of his time captaining the Enterprise, it’s that his commander is pretty much the exception, always, to everything.

Satisfied, Kirk calls the meeting to an end. Once his shift is over, he’ll check on Uhura’s wellbeing. He doesn’t quite buy her professional facade; she’s kinda being dragged through the mud with him and Spock in this case. Then, he’s going to take care of himself. Namely, that means he’s going to have a really good, sweaty, mind-numbing workout. It’s going to be awesome.

But before he can even sink into his chair, preparing to sign off on requisition requests for updating the ship’s photon inventory, Bones pulls him aside.

“A word, Jim?” he asks.

“As many as you want, Bones.”

“All right. C’mon, let’s go outside.”

Curious, Kirk can’t help but capitulate.

“The comm’s yours,” he says to Spock. “Be back in five.”

Spock nods in affirmative. Though Kirk does notice the concern writ on his sharply poised brow.

In the hallway, McCoy sticks his hands in his white coat and sneers with obvious distaste. Like, as if he’s actually eating a lemon. This isn’t too far from the norm of his friend, but the timing of it bothers Kirk.

“What’s this about?” he asks.

McCoy sighs, long-suffering.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he says lowly, “And I really, really don’t want to get in the middle of anything here. I have my license to maintain. And my sanity. But medical records might be pulled in this tribunal, Jim, and I don’t want you getting any nasty surprises.”

“. . . Okay?”

“So let’s say. . . That Spock’s medical records might say something’ different than what you did.”

Jim Kirk takes a moment to connect the dots, but he isn’t an idiot. There’s only one thing Kirk said that his doctor could refute from the perspective of medical records.

“You mean his sexuality,” says Kirk.

“Yeah.”

“Spock isn’t straight?”

“Theoretically.”

Kirk stares at Bones, who refuses to stare back. Instead the doctor lifts his eyes to the white ceiling, closes them with a pained expression, and says, “I’m erasing this conversation from my brain forever.”

* * *

So.

Spock isn’t straight.

Kirk isn’t, either.

He assaults the punching bag, vigorously, passionately even, siphoning as much energy into the action as he can. Because he has decided not to think. That is the whole point of working out; it’s about decompressing and holistic, mental-physical health.

Also, he and Spock spend a lot of time in each other’s rooms.

He and Spock have adjoining rooms.

Which doesn’t look great. If they’re both not straight. If they’re being accused of a covert relationship. But it’s all hearsay, isn’t it? It’s not like anyone has seen them. . . Do anything. Sure, he and his first talk a lot, and they eat in the mess hall together, sometimes. And in each other’s rooms.  Also a lot. But no one’s seen them do anything that would indicate a romantic relationship, instead of friendship. They’ve never been caught. . . never done anything. . . physical.

Speak of the devil, as Bones would say, Spock has arrived in the workout facility, too.

Same as him, the Vulcan enjoys exercise. No, he wouldn’t say he ‘enjoys’ it, but Kirk can see through Spock like he can see through a handful of water. The Vulcan is getting into position to practice his planet’s traditional martial arts, the name of which escapes Kirk now in his intentionally thoughtless, adrenaline-fueled haze. He pounds the bag, noticing how Spock’s body language reads solemn, distant. Somewhat mysterious, if Kirk’s being honest about it. The Vulcan has allowed his tunic to fall off his shoulders and pool on the ground. He’s bare-chested, his creamy skin exposed. Kirk’s eyes wander over that skin. Tracing the lines of his clavicle. Then across his pecs, trailing down to his trim but not too-trim abs, and to the curving, shadowy line that gets lost beneath the band of his—

Kirk completely misses his target and gets whapped by the punching bag in the face.

“Are you all right?” asks a nearby ensign. He waves her away.

Is he? Is he? No. Ogling one’s best friend is one hundred percent out of bounds. Especially when one is about to go on trial for an alleged relationship with said friend; a physical, sexual relationship that doesn’t exist. Being attracted to anyone in that situation would be wrong. Totally wrong. It’s completely forbidden because—

Oh god.

No.

Kirk wishes he never thought of it.

Because now that he’s put a name to it, now that he’s acknowledge that he can’t have Spock, but also that Spock maybe likes men, sometimes, in the right situation, and Spock has a lot of features, a lot of handsome, sexy features, Kirk knows that he’s in trouble. 

Because this searing-hot flame of attraction?

It will never, ever go away.

* * *

Or at least it won’t go away until he does something about it.

* * *

“You understand that in merely forty-eight Terran hours, I will have to construct a case in your defense,” says their lawyer.

Kirk and Spock are in Spock’s quarters, speaking to the lawyer connected to them from Starbase G-X. It’s Sulu’s friend, a Terran named Gareth Brooks, who has a drawl like McCoy’s and has been able to schedule a call with them almost as soon as Sulu reached out. Starfleet admiralty has been oddly, suspiciously silent about his and Spock’s defense. So Kirk’s moving forward with Brooks. He doesn’t want to arrive for the tribunal without a backup plan.

He probably shouldn’t be thinking about backing up anything while seated so close to Spock, who has a very, very sexy, post-shower scent wafting off his skin. It was just a glimpse, but already Kirk misses seeing that skin. It’s now covered up by robes.

Robes are easy to pull off. So easy.

His fingers itch to do it.

“Yeah. Forty-eight Terran hours,” says Kirk. “Pretty messed up, right?”

The lawyer snorts.

“That’s one way of putting it, son,” he says. “If this weren’t a military trial, it would be illegal. As it is, I believe the admiralty is pushing the limits of fair and just exercise of their powers of override. In a worst case scenario, if you’re found guilty, we could get a retrial or an appeal over it.”

“Indeed,” says Spock.

“We’re not going to be found guilty,” says Kirk. “But otherwise, we’re on the same page. I got into a lot of trouble when I was a kid, and what I remember the time I had to go to court—"

“Times,” corrects Spock, unhelpfully.

“—is that it took ages to get everything processed. Man, how long ago was that…?”

“Ten years and three months ago,” says Brooks.

Kirk beams and turns to Spock. “Hey! He’s looked at my file already. And even accessed that not-public stuff. This guy’s good.”

Spock seems disinterested. “I suspect that the council of New Vulcan may have objections to the basis, execution, and outcomes of this trial. Any decision made will be unlikely to be accepted.”

Kirk holds back from showing his surprise.

Where did that come from? And why didn’t Spock bring it up earlier—when Kirk first told him about the charges?

“Interesting,” says Brooks. “I’ll look into that, but through subtle channels. I can make no promises I’ll be able to get anything done by deadline. Forty-eight hours ain’t much.”

“Hear you loud and clear,” says Kirk.

Less pleased, Spock dips his chin in a restrained form of assent. Kirk feels warmth stirring in his belly at that thought. The restraint of him. The power he keeps under control. All wrapped up, all tied up, tight. Also, he thinks: Stop stop stop stop stop stop.

“So far,” says Brooks, oblivious to the images rolling around in Kirk’s head, “there is no public awareness of your trial. I believe that’s in your best interest.

The case could be tipped in the wrong direction by public interest. Already, I suspect the verdict will be made on a highly circumstantial basis.”

“Of course it’s circumstantial,” says Kirk. “There’s no evidence.”

“I don’t have time to play nice,” says Brooks. “So I’m gonna stop you right there. There is evidence. To be clear, it’s against you.”

“That is highly improbable,” murmurs Spock. “We’ve looked at the files.”

“Yeah. And it’s all bullshit,” says Kirk. He would, personally, love some evidence. In his pants.

STOP.

The lawyer snorts again. It must be taught in the public education system of the American South, because it sounds exactly like McCoy’s.

“‘Sorry, not sorry,’ to use a classic, historical phrase,” Brooks says. “But look at yourselves. Seriously, look.”

Reluctantly, Kirk and Spock meet each others’ gaze. Kirk can’t get a sense of what’s going on behind Spock’s dark, near-black eyes, except that he’s clearly pained to be having a conversation about anything emotional or intimate, and Vulcan logic won’t let him dodge it with levity like Kirk does. It’s kind of brave, actually. Brave and hot. Really hot.

“Okay, we’re looking,” says Kirk, if only to interrupt his out-of-control thoughts.

“What do you want us to do?” asks Spock.

“For the love of… Use your brains, not just your eyes! The two of you are in a private space right now. Together. Alone. Sitting what, a foot feet apart? And I’m guessing you were here before our call began? That could count as evidence against you.”

Kirk returns his attention to the screen; to Brooks. “We were playing chess.”

“Our games of chess occasionally are spread across several sessions,” adds Spock. “It is logical to ensure that our playing board is not modified in our absence. Therefore, we meet here.”

“What he said,” says Kirk.

“I don’t give a crap if it’s chess or oral sex,” says their lawyer. “What matters is what the court thinks. And unless your judge is a grandmaster, they’re going to find it suspicious that over the past two years, Commander Spock has more off-duty hours logged in Kirk’s presence than he does with his ex-fiance.”

Kirk intakes his breath against his will. Is that really true? How had he never noticed? And—why didn’t Uhura ever complain? Spock has no answer. He’s been completely silenced, too. He’s—he's actually gone still, like he's been shot with a phaser on 'stun'.

Wow.

Kirk had been joking before, but damn. Sulu was right: This lawyer really is good. If by good, Kirk means, absolutely terrifying.

“So here are your new rules,” says Brooks. “No more spending time in each others’ quarters. No more sending messages to each other off-shift. If you eat together, you have to do it in other peoples’ company. And for the love of—when you stand or sit near each other, can you leave enough space for a couple of atoms to pass through? Would that be so hard?”

Spock shifts away from Kirk, clearly ruffled. Or at least it’s clear to Kirk that Spock’s upset. And he doesn’t like anything that upsets his friend.

His very attractive friend, whose warmth is now conspicuously missing from his side.

“Listen,” says Kirk, starting to get heated, “I don’t like being told what to—”

“I’m not telling you to do this forever. Just until the trial. For your careers. Can you handle that? Your whole damn career, for just two days?”

“Yes,” Kirk grumbles.

“Affirmative,” says Spock. “It is logical.”

The way he tacks it on, with a strange reluctance, makes Kirk take notice. He thinks, if he pushes, that he could get Spock to agree with him that they don't have to go to such extremes. That they can continue what they've always done, enjoying each other's friendship.

The problem is, Brooks has a point. And Kirk, if nothing else, is the king of showmanship. He's going to prove to everyone, whether they're on the ship or they're in admiralty, how completely, and totally, not-in-compromise he is with Spock.

Starting now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Avoiding each other may be a logical way to avoid romantic speculation. But also? It’s hell.

In the archaic, literary sense, a la Dante’s Inferno. In a darkly fantastic moment, Kirk can imagine himself switching places with Dante’s protagonist. Plunging through rings of hell, fending off jumpy red devils with pointy sticks. Being forced to dance atop hot coals, prodded by the aforementioned sharp and pointy sticks. Possibly naked. Probably in front of his entire command class when he first failed the Kobayashi Maru.

That version of hell might be preferable to this one.

Because now, thinks Kirk, Spock is extra forbidden. Even the stuff that wasn’t forbidden before, the friendship stuff, is out of bounds. Sure, he and Spock can still talk, in front of other people. In public spaces. From a safely calculated distance—one that keeps him too far away to smell Spock’s hair, indicating how long it’s been since the Vulcan has taken off his clothes and showered. Kirk has been reduced to periodically checking their shared bathroom for the smell of the sonic: an artificial, orange-rind scent laced into the vibrational spectra of the molecules. And that’s not all. Oh, no. Now, in the mess, he can’t grab Spock’s fork and put it in his mouth, in an attempt to rile the Vulcan up. It would throw up all kinds of red flags if he swirled his tongue over the tines lasciviously, while staring into Spock’s eyes.

Which he is something he used to do as a joke. As a friendship thing. Totally.

Kirk shakes his head.

Seriously, who has he been kidding?

He’s clearly had the hots for Spock, for a while. How the hell were those feelings so repressed, and how come he didn’t notice?

Oh, right.

Uhura.

UHURA. Who only broke up with Spock, what, a week and two days ago? Shit. It’s morally questionable enough to try and pick someone up on the rebound. But to be considering making a move on a friend’s ex, less than 10 days later? That’s low—even for Kirk. He’s an awful friend. And captain. But mostly friend. Shit.

This, and not the spectre of the trial, is the only thought that successfully armors Kirk against his newly-uncovered desire for Spock. That keeps him sitting in his command chair on shift, rather than walking across the bridge, closing in the distance, until between him and Spock there isn’t space for a single breath to pass through. It restrains Kirk against leaning over the tall Vulcan’s shoulder to smell his fine, black hair as he unnecessarily reviews their orders to visit the nearest base.

It’s respect for Uhura, and an ugly sort of guilt, that keeps Kirk from casting longing gazes after Spock when they say goodnight to each other at Spock’s door, after a long, silent, eyes-straight-ahead walk—during which their bodies were so far apart, an ensign had cartwheeled between them.

Which really wasn’t in protocol. What was that about?

It makes Kirk delete his messages to Spock before pressing ‘send’, at least a dozen times. It keeps Kirk from asking the questions he’s desperate to know the answer to. Like, What, exactly, happened at New Vulcan? And why don’t you seem all that upset?

And why did you spend so much time with me instead of your smoking hot fiance?

* * *

“What’s with the sad puppy eyes?” McCoy asks bluntly, dropping onto a bench across from Kirk in the mess. It’s been almost two full days since Kirk was ordered to play keep-away from Spock, and Kirk has never been more miserable. He feels worse than when Kirk was grounded, and he had to watch the Enterprise being refitted. Worse than the day Winona married Frank.
No, it’s not worse than Tarsus, but that place was a worse-than-Dante hellscape, and he’s not allowed to compare anything in his life to that.

So the last two days have been pretty much, just, the worst.

Impressed by Kirk’s silence, McCoy looks around, then chortles. “Let me guess. There wasn’t space for you at the hobgoblin’s table.”

“There was space,” mutters Kirk.

“Oh yeah? You two having a lover’s tiff?”

If only. But the only seat that had been available at the table was the seat directly next to Spock. And Kirk doesn’t trust himself not to let his leg creep over, brushing against Spock’s, more often than would be appropriate. The thrill of it would be awesome, but not worth it.

Yeah. . . It would be great if he actually believed that.

“Shut up, Bones,” Kirk says. Then he scowls into his plate. At his rubbery egg burger, untouched and growing cold. What he’d give to have the time to hack into the replicator system and plug in an override to get synthesized red meat back on his plate.

“You should eat something. Pining doesn’t become your pretty princess features.”

Crouching over his neglected food, Kirk says, “I said shut up.”

“This is hilarious.”

Kirk must admit, if it weren’t happening to him, he’d agree. As the situation stands, though, he just wishes he they could land on the starbase and get over all this already.
He’s starting to imagine things. Like, that he’s not the only one casting longing gazes across the room. Spock would be more surreptitious, of course. Spock is never anything but subtle. Kirk can sense—imagine, he corrects himself—the Vulcan’s attention, sometimes, psi-null as he is. Like an itch on the back of his neck.
If only it were something he could feel. Like Spock’s warm, humid breath as they talk quietly. The brush of his fingers while playing chess. The heat of his shoulder, the sculpted bone of it fitting hard beneath his hand, the muscles pliable--

“How’s Uhura doing?” he asks McCoy, because he has to get his mind off of this, stat, or else he’ll need to be getting off, period.

McCoy sticks a forkful of creamed spinach into his mouth. “What’ya think? Why aren’t you paying attention, yourself?”

“I am,” Kirk protests. Then sighs, because his heart isn’t in it. “We’re not talking. I think she’s mad at me for the whole trial thing.”

“The whole trial thing,” repeats McCoy.

Kirk doesn’t appreciate it when members of his command team repeat his words, merely to point out how unprofessional they sound.

“Yeah, the trial.”

“Uh-huh. Ya think it might be anything else?”

Kirk scowls. “Are you my friend or not?”

“I’ve got some brandy in my office when you’re ready to come clean,” says McCoy.

“What doesn’t seem clean about me? Hey! Bones! Where you going?”

“To eat with someone who’s less of a wet ’n dishonest blanket,” says McCoy, heading to the table where Scotty has sat down with a pretty lieutenant from engineering. 

“I see through you, too, you know,” Kirk calls out after his friend. Then he pushes away the pathetic atrocity that is an egg burger. As it is, he’s not going to get a square meal. Or good conversation. If only there were a way to hack into McCoy.

Well, there is Saurian brandy. Should push come to shove.

Begrudgingly, Kirk figures he might as well head to his room, do some more work, and head to sleep. They’ll be on the base soon enough, and he has a feeling that as bad as things have been onboard the Enterprise, they’ll only get worse once he’s off it.

* * *

He can’t sleep.

* * *

In the middle of his much-fought-for shut-eye, Kirk’s padd lets out a ‘ping’. His eyes pop awake in a flash. Four years ago, he instructed the computer to only allow emergency messages to interrupt his sleep. Since then, he’s been thrust into waking by genuinely distressing reports: a visual anomaly, a distress call, a sighting of a warship on the scanners, an overtaxed engine stressed by Scotty’s relentless tinkering—

But this ‘emergency’ is nothing along those lines.

It’s a message from Spock. Private channel.

Efficiency would call for Kirk to ask the computer to read it out to him. To keep his eyes shut, better allowing him to return to his REM cycle again, afterward. But instead Kirk calls for the lights to go up to twenty percent, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed and scrambles to get to the message, to look at it for himself. Bleary-eyed, he wobbles to his chair and knocks into the table, groaning before reading Spock’s message aloud, mouthing the words as if he could imagine them sounded out by Spock himself.
Brooks is going to meet us when we arrive at the base.

That’s the message.

Which. . . Okay, it’s good to know their lawyer will be close at hand when they arrive. But… Why? Why did that need to be sent in the middle of Kirk’s sleep cycle, flagged as an emergency to ensure Kirk saw it? Surely the lawyer also sent a message to Kirk, including that same information. Logic would tell Spock that his message could wait.
Unless, sending it wasn’t about logic.

As the thought cements itself in his mind, Kirk’s heartrate accelerates. To the point where the organ nearly beats itself out of his ribs.

It wasn’t logic it wasn’t logic it wasn’t logic.

This message didn’t need to be sent. What Kirk is looking at, really, is the Vulcanized version of: I miss you.

He actually groans aloud.

* * *

The USS Enterprise is in the process of signaling to land on the starbase when the call comes through. Kirk is seated in his command chair, entering into the docking procedures with the assistance of his full command team minus Spock. The Vulcan commander has visited the science lab, supervising the progress of multiple projects prior to going off-line due to the trial.
As Kirk recalls learning over a game of chess they played together an unacceptably long number of days ago, Spock has been particularly fascinated by a series of botanical experiments spearheaded by Lieutenants Bradley and Davikt. Kirk likes the idea of plants, and the fact they exist, and that’s about where his interest stops. When a call comes in from that same lab, initially, he listens perfunctorily.

He has a whole impending, unjust legal trial to deal with, after all. A potential ‘end of his career’ situation, due to jealous superiors who have critically misread and over-glamorized his dating life and sexual exploits. And the lieutenant patched through the comm sounds calm and measured. So much so, that Kirk is taken off guard when said lieutenant casually drops the word ‘explosion.’

“What explosion?” Kirk demands of the comm.

“It’s no big deal,” reports said lieutenant.

Kirk’s entire body is a frisson of tension. “Explain, Lieutenant.”

“Yessir. Well sir, it was a fairly common, garden-variety, if you can forgive the pun, explosion. Ensign Davikt was analyzing a lab result with Commander Spock’s assistance, and not paying attention to the warning signs of the Saurian sympho-flower, the very same used in Saurian brandy, when it was preparing to release—or one should say, detonate—its pollen, which is rainbow colored, sir, and—according to our nutraceutical stability test results, we suspect that the pollen—”

Enough of that. Kirk’s mouth is dry, his tongue sticks briefly to the roof his mouth before he can interrupt to ask: “How is Commander Spock?”

Coughing comes from the other side, unseen. Of course now the lieutenant is finding it hard to speak, after his long-winded, inefficient answers. Unless the coughing was coming from Spock? No. He doesn’t think that’s how Spock’s coughing sounds.

Why does he know how Spock’s coughing sounds?

“Answer me, Lieutenant!”

“I’m not sure,” says Lieutenant Bradley. “It’s hard to say—well, hard to speak to be more precise, but—oh, he’s down, sir, he’s down!”

Kirk’s thoughts spins out. Spock must’ve been at the work station right beside Bradley. Of course the Vulcan would’ve been affected by the explosion, but how badly? His flank would’ve been facing the sympho-flower. What if the explosion got him; what if it was a direct hit? Could it have gotten his heart?

What if he’s bleeding out?

How fast can Vulcans bleed out, and why has Kirk never demanded this exact information before? How did he always take it for granted that McCoy would save him?

“…to Med-bay. Captain Kirk? Captain!”

“Captain,” says Uhura, sharply. 

Kirk comes back to the present, horrified at his lack of focus. He’s able to snap back to form, listening a few seconds longer before sending instructions and medical personel down to the lab, assigning the right people to help the matter be contained, and getting them—rather than the unhelpful Bradley—to confirm that his Spock is, in fact, okay.

And he is. Spock, though thrown to the floor from the impact, is ultimately fine. Sure, he may have rainbow tie-dye coloring to his skin for a few days, but it’s more of a temporary tattoo than anything serious. The lab cleanup even goes smoothly, in the end. The situation is handled.

But the situation wasn’t handled as well as it could have been. As it should have been. And Kirk knows it’s his fault, for that moment of inattention. Of blanking out when he needed to be taking the lead. Of worrying about Spock to the point where he could only hear rushing blood and wind in his ears, and nothing else at all.

Kirk can’t believe this.

He’s becoming… no.

He’s become emotionally compromised.

* * *

But not like, compromised-compromised. Just the garden variety.

In other words: still fucked.

* * *

Gareth Brooks, lawyer-extraordinaire, seems to agree. Shortly after the Enterprise lands, he give Spock and his temporary tie-dye face a plainly confused look. Then he shakes his head and pulls Kirk aside, well in sight of the Federation security detail that’s been assigned to hover near him and Spock, in case either of them decide foolishly, and uncharacteristically, to become flight risks.

The admiralty’s reticence to make a public spectacle is the only silver lining Kirk can see in this moment. Besides Gareth Brooks, the security detail, a landing crew of mechanics and assorted personal assistants, and one perplexed-looking local Federation official, no one greets the Enterprise upon landing. No adoring crowds or belittling journalists.

It’s almost comforting.

Unfortunately, his lawyer is anything but that.

“I’ve wrangled myself an office set-up,” Gareth explains to Kirk, taking him down the chrome-metal lobby of the Federation hotel where Kirk is, essentially, being kept on house arrest. “This way.”

Kirk passes under the door frame, wary he’s being brought into the makeshift office, and surprised he’s being brought in without Spock. But his gut signals nothing; he has no instinctive fear of his lawyer. It’s strange, if anything, that he feels as much innate trust toward the guy. That he’s willing to drop his cheery facade for someone who’s almost entirely a stranger.

“You don’t seem well,” says the lawyer the moment the door has closed and the noise seal activated to soundproof against the waiting guards outside. “Better chin up, Kirk. Don’t want it to be obvious to the media that something’s afoot.”

“They aren’t here yet.”

“Harumph,” says Gareth. “They’ll know soon enough.”

Kirk shrugs. He’s spent his entire life being dissected by the media, so he expected the gift of the trial’s anonymity was a temporary feature at best.

“If I look like a kicked-puppy, they might find me sympathetic.”

“I’ve heard about you, Kirk.”

“Have you?” asks Kirk, amused by the non-sequitur.

“My sources say you you’re a chaotic optimist. You don’t believe in no-win scenarios. But you’re also a realist, perceptive. Maybe a genius, though frankly, I’m not buyin’ it just yet. I’ll give you this, at least: seems like you’re able to see the bigger picture when other folks get caught in the weeds.  From your attitude, I’m guessin’ you already have figured you’re set to lose this case. That it’s stacked against you. So you’ve already moved on, taking a look at the bigger picture. Thinking you can win the court of public opinion, if not your own trial. Am I on the right track here?”

That makes Kirk grin. Because it’s right, and also, because Spock would be derailed by the anachronistic metaphor.

What is this track of which you reference, says Spock’s voice in his head. Kirk imagines him cocking his head slightly to the side, the angular lines of his face catching the light. And how could you be on it?

“You might be onto something,” says Kirk to Brooks. “I’ve more enemies than friends in the admiralty, of late.”

“Do I look like I give a shit about that?” says the lawyer, cutting to the chase as usual. “I get paid a higher commission if you win. Captain Kirk, you are going to get off because I’m working my tail off here. I know you are, too, so don’t stop now. From my reports, you’ve done a good job acting goody-two-shoes on your ship.”
Kirk would feel more proud of the feedback if it hadn’t required days of excruciating torture to perform. 

“Yeah?”

“Except,” Brooks says pointedly, “You’ve been sending messages to Spock every waking hour for the last three days.”
Kirk shrugs. “So? We’re good friends.”

“You haven’t sent any to Dr. McCoy.”

“Spock and I are really good friends. Besides, he just broke up with his fiance. He’s going through a crisis.”

“A manufactured crisis,” says the lawyer.

Up to this point, Gareth Brooks’s behavior has been relatively predictable to Kirk. Clever, but not saying anything that’s truly surprising. Gareth reads him well, but Kirk’s good at that, too. 
He shifts in his seat. “Go on,” says Kirk.

“Spock requested that I look into certain Vulcan matters, in order to prepare for this case.” Kirk remembers. “Captain Kirk, this is confidential information, I’m certain you will use with equanimity and valor.”

The pinch of the lawyer’s eyes indicates he doesn’t quite believe his own words. Kirk leans forward in his chair, unable to restrain his interest. What kind of confidential information could Gareth have ferreted out?

Brooks looks at him straight-on.

“The elders of New Vulcan do not believe that your commander ever intended to marry Uhura.”

“What?” Kirk says, stupidly.

“Indeed. They found him, apparently, to be deep in denial, and chewed him out for it.”

“What??” Kirk says again, as the blood rushes out of his head. This cannot be real. Spock and Uhura have been in love, since forever. Why would he only pretend to plan to marry her? Did he really not know he didn't want to marry her? Spock? Mr. Meditation-central, I-keep-my-feelings-close-so-no-one-else-needs-to-know-them, because-I'm-so-in-control-of-them, be in denial?

“Apparently you are both gifted in this area.”

“I’m not in denial,” says Kirk. “I’m in love with Spock. See? No denial.”

The lawyer stares at him.

Kirk stares back.

“Damn,” says Kirk after a while.

Brooks pinches his nose. “For the sake of your case, we’re going to pretend you didn’t say that to me.”

“Probably best,” Kirk agrees.

“Maybe denial was a better approach. We can’t win this if you’re in love with him.”

“Wish you’d told me that three days ago,” Kirk mutters.