Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hover trucks aren’t a rare sight in Iowa, especially out here in the endless fields of crops that line both sides of the highway. A hover truck that’s tilted ominously to it’s side and sputtering expletives from under the hood though, that’s unusual. Most folks around here are fanatical about maintaining their equipment. 

Frustration bubbles up in Jim’s chest. He’s only been walking for about half an hour, and he’s already exhausted. Slipping away from the shuttle crew that had brought him back to Iowa had been easy enough; though the short sprint to clear the tarmac and disappear into a nearby corn field had made black spots dance across his vision. 

He was still so damn weak.

And now this jackass and his broken down blue pickup truck were going to be another obstacle. Jim eyed the road ahead; he could either dip into the fields and avoid the guy entirely, or cross the road and hope whoever was under the hood didn’t catch sight of a boney teenager skulking down the road.

Jim briefly considered stowing away in the back of the truck. He’d get further, much faster that way, and the rig was pointed in the right direction… But he didn’t relish the beating it might get him when he got caught. Heaving a sigh of frustration, Jim wobbles in place for a moment as his body once again protests being up and about.

A year ago he’d been lapping the other kids in foot races around the colony’s school yard, and now he was seeing spots after walking. 

Closing his eyes against the stabbing pain in his side and the bright summer sunlight that's starting to feel like starship phasers attacking his brain, Jim’s focus is pulled away from the tilted truck and dedicated entirely to just staying upright.

“Holy shit.” 

The cursing is louder this time, and followed by the rapid sound of boots beating on asphalt. Jim’s heart, already racing, kicks into a rabbits pace as adrenaline floods him.

He’s been caught.

His first instinct is to run, he has to hide-

But instead of wrenching him around or shoving him to the ground, the body that pulls up beside him gently scoops Jim into a bridal carry.

“Stars alive kid, you don’t weigh nothin’.” a voice rumbles under Jim’s ear, pressed now against a broad chest. “The hell are you doin’ out here?”

Arching his back to try and wiggle his way out of his captor's grasp, panting like a wild thing, Jim struggles uselessly against the strong arms holding him up.

“Shh, hey now, don’t go gettin’ any ideas.” the voice grouches, and then he’s being released, he’s free-

But his body has had enough; the short burst of adrenaline it had managed to pull together flees, and Jim is left with the horrible achey crash. His skin registers that he’s out of the sun, and he’s sitting on something softer than the ground, but he can’t clear the black spots from his vision well enough to see what the hell is going on.

“Sit here, I got some water in the back.” the man says, and his accent is out of place in Iowa, but at least the hands that had settled him were soft. Treating him like he’s fragile, like the doctors on the ship; the ones who’d learned right quick that Jim did not like to be touched and could swing a nasty punch for a kid whose muscles had all but been eaten by his own body.

“Drink.” the man ordered, and something plastic and threaded pressed against Jim’s lower lip; but Jim had learned this lesson the hard way.

Twisting his head to the side to dislodge the proffered bottle, Jim croaks out, “Can’t. Allergic.”

“You can’t be allergic to water.” the stranger snorted. 

If Jim could roll his eyes right now without passing out, he would. The bottle pressed at his lips again.

“Replicated.” he rasped, trying to raise a trembling arm to push the bottle away. Dirtside, there were better odds that it wasn’t replicated than there would be on a starship, but Jim wasn’t taking any chances.

The bottle retreated, the crinkle of the thin material nearly lost in the man's grumbling. At least he was checking. 

“Spring water, bottled in Texas; made from recycled materials. Picked up a case when I left Davenport.” The man announced, “Now, drink.”

This time when the bottle pressed against his mouth, Jim drank, one hand coming up to take the bottle. Small practiced sips, which earned him an approving grunt from the man. 

Concentrating on his breathing and drinking the water that his body was apparently thrilled at receiving, Jim lost track of the man's location for a moment. Peeling his stubborn eyes open, Jim found himself in the cab of the truck, on the tilted side. The relative shade of the rig was nice, but not nearly as heavenly as being off of his aching feet. 

The door on the other side of the truck creaked open, and Jim silently judged the man for not properly lubricating his hinges. The door closed, and when he circled back to Jim’s side of the rig, he got his first real look at the guy.

His brown hair was ruffled by the steady breeze, and he had sweat forming at his temples, darkening the neatly trimmed sideburns that disappeared into a few days worth of facial scruff. Thick eyebrows and a semi-permanent scowl marred an otherwise youthful face; he couldn’t be more than a few years older than Jim himself. 

He wore a dark green henley despite the heat, the color complementary to his hazel eyes. His jeans were worn and his boots had actual scuffs on them, not the artfully placed kind that were popular for that style of dress. His belt was old too, leather, and molded to his hips in a way that said he hadn’t changed it out in years. 

Fiddling with something in his hands, Jim almost didn’t recognize the medi-scanner being leveled at him until it began to beep. The ones on the starships had all been shiny white models, the latest and greatest available; this thing looked like it should have been retired years ago.

Nerves threatened to send his heart racing again, but Jim was too beat from the last scare to muster any kind of reaction. Either he’d mangled the coding that eliminated his latest persona from the Federations system or he hadn’t; either way, there wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

“How the hell is there ‘no history’?” the man grouched. “What happened, the stork take a wrong turn at Albuquerque and drop you off half grown?”

Then his eyes went wide as the scanner began to chirp, repeatedly, as Jim’s physical condition registered.

Jim closed his eyes and mentally braced himself against the oncoming freak out. Every medi-scanner in existence would have the same to say about him in the state he was currently in, the state he’d been in for months at this point; medical emergency, immediate treatment required. 

Then the signal changed, and Jim’s lips twitched in amusement at the disbelieving snort the man loosed as the scanner announced, “Do not treat. Multiple allergies. Underlying medical conditions. Emergency contact: null. Do not treat.”

So that part of his temporary profile had stayed. He’d have to look into it, maybe that was a different line of code? 

“Null?” came the whispered response, and Jim opened his eyes in time to duck his head,  avoiding the searching look that was leveled at him. 

“What do you want for the water?” Jim asked, trying to distract him. He shuffled forward on the seat, spindly legs searching for the asphalt that should be just below his hanging feet.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” the man held out a hand to stop him. “What’s your name kid?” 

Jim briefly considered giving a fake name, but the first rule of a good lie is to keep it simple. “Jim.”

Full stop. No last name. There were plenty of boys out there named James, or Jim, or Jimmy. Maybe fewer JT’s, and only one James Tiberius Kirk.

But that boy had died on Tarsus IV. Kodos had made sure the records reflected that.

Technically, the fake name he’d given to the officers on their rescue ship had been a real one; but Jim had watched Jacob Summers and his parents disintegrate in Kodos’ antimatter chambers, just before he’d been about to march in with the next panicked herd of people slated for death. With his governor's clearance, the tyrant had eradicated all records of the colonists he’d deemed unworthy; Jim had only had to modify the data collected after he’d left that awful planet.

It would be a tragedy that the journalist vultures would no doubt eat up the Kelvin hero George Kirk’s youngest son dying under the tyrannical rule of an insane governor on Tarsus IV; but the news didn’t know about Tarsus yet. Starfleet and the Federation would probably try and keep it under wraps for as long as they could.

But you couldn’t hide the truth for long, not when thousands of people had died. And not when the survivors were starting to go home.

“Well, ‘Jim’, you look like shit.” 

Jim blinked in surprise.

“You don’t look like the sort to appreciate sugar coatin’, and I ain’t no honey bee on a good day.” he leveled a glare at the tilted pick-up, dropping the scanner into the back pocket of his jeans. “You finish that water while I work on gettin’ this thing tipped upright.”

Jim suppressed a flinch as the man stuck out his hand; he must not have hidden it well enough though, as the man’s voice was softer when he added, “Name’s Leonard McCoy. Call me Leo.”

Jim balanced the water bottle in his left hand on his knee before reaching out. He squeezed with all his might, both because it was important to make a strong impression and because ‘all of his might’ at this point was about the strength of a barn kitten’s swipe.

McCoy didn’t say anything though, just shook his hand and made his way to the front of the truck.

As more cursing emerged from under the hood, Jim tried to calculate whether he could feasibly make a run for it. The corn field ahead of him swayed its green stalks in the breeze, the massive blue dome of the sky looking almost cartoon-like after the hazy atmosphere on Tarsus.

“Son of a bitch.” cursed McCoy, followed by a hiss of pain.

Maybe there was something Jim could do to pay back that water bottle.

☕

This damn truck was going to be the death of him. He was a doctor, dammit, not a mechanic. But it was also the only viable means of getting himself to San Francisco.

Leo had taken one look at the shuttles landing in the Iowa shipyard and gotten right back into his truck. It’d be a cold day in Hell before he stepped foot on one of those tin death traps.

But he couldn’t go back to Georgia. 

He’d sat in the cab and thought long and hard about it, before turning the truck west and heading for the highway. He could figure out what to do about Starfleet operating predominantly in space sometime after he got to San Francisco.

But it didn’t look like he’d have to worry much about that at all, given that his only means of transportation had started listing to the side long before he’d even hit the I-80.

And now he had some orphan Annie looking kid to deal with too.

It had taken all of his considerable will to walk away from the boy in his cab and turn back to working on the truck. That kid had issues, capital I and it hurt Leo’s already broken heart to not be able to help him.

Boy looked like he had a wasting disease, textbook, and those had gone the way of the Dodo centuries ago. Hormones all over the place, vitals nowhere near stable, and yet the kid looked like he was one wrong move from making a run for it.

Leo wouldn’t be surprised if the kid snuck off while he was under this here hood, twisting some cable that maybe looked a little loose-

“Son of a bitch.”

The whole god-damned thing was hot; he’d been running the truck all day trying to get to the shuttles in time, and now-

“Move over.” commanded a quiet voice.

Hobbling along the side of the road and obviously leaning on the rig for support, Jim rounded the front of the truck.

Leo’s hands itched to reach out and help him, but the kid had a feral air about him, like a cornered animal, and McCoy wasn’t interested in getting bit.

“You some kinda expert?” Leo snorts, but he steps out of the kids' way. Hell, there were farm kids back home that knew more about this shit than he’d ever know; maybe Jim was like them.

A twitch of his knobby shoulders that might’ve passed as a shrug on someone with any kind of muscle tone at all was the kid's only response as he peered into the truck's engine block.

Leo took the opportunity to get a good look at the boy, now that he wasn’t collapsing in the middle of the highway or trying not to pass out in the front seat.

Thin, just way too thin, and nothing that oversized yellow hoodie could possibly cover up. His pants were medical scrubs, baggy as all hell and rolled more than twice at the cuffs. Leo had no doubt that a look at the waist of those pants would show them drawstringed to their tightest, and likely bunched and rolled at his hips too.

Shaggy blond hair and eyes blue as tropical water, the kid was a genetic anomaly to boot, the recessive traits hardly cropping up in tandem like that anymore. His first thought was an unkind one; that if it were going to happen anywhere, of course it would be the backwaters of Iowa. But Leo squashed that idea, his attention snapping to Jim’s hands as he reached under the hood.

Pocked and yellowing nail beds, the nails themselves thin and shredded where they weren’t chewed down to the quick. Bruises around his mouth in a ring, with sores in some parts; like someone had slapped an old fashioned oxygen mask on him and left it there for a month.

Leo didn’t need a scanner to tell him that the boy’s health was suffering, and in a bad way. 

Wordlessly, Jim pressed at some part of the engine. Huffing in frustration when the piece didn’t do what he wanted, he pushed himself up on the bumper and jabbed at it again.

Leo twitched in surprise when the entire side of the block slid out, a slim cartridge no bigger than his palm. The kid pulled it out, looking at it with a grim expression on his face, before blowing at the piece. Then he shook it, like flicking excess water off of his hand, before sliding the piece home into the slot it’d come out of.

The entire truck shuddered, and then, miraculously, leveled out.

“Well I’ll be.” Leo whistled appreciatively. “What’d you do?”

Another shoulder twitch.

“Electromagnetic sensor was out of whack. They get dusty sometimes, and you gotta keep ‘em clean or you get lopsided ‘cause it can’t tell where it is.” he explained. 

Jim turned a sharp look on him then.

“That’s for the water.” he said matter of factly.

Leo frowned. “You don’t owe me nothin’-”

“Not now.” Jim interrupted sharply. “We’re even.”

What the hell was this kid's problem?

“You know that shit’s free, right? Not like I had to pay for water, for fuck’s sake.” Leo snarked.

The kid stood up to his full height, all of maybe four and a half feet; the imposing image he was no doubt trying to convey spoiled somewhat by his knees quivering in protest. “Yeah, well, I don’t like owing people.”

Leo rolled his eyes and dropped the hood, careful of the boy’s fingers.

“Well, where you headed? I can give you a lift, if nothin’ else. I’m goin’ west myself.” Leo called as he headed back to the driver's side of the truck.

Jim was quiet, but he appeared at the passengers' side door as Leo got settled in his seat. 

“How far west?” he asked quietly.

“San Francisco.” Leo responded, powering up the truck. She didn’t give him any trouble, and there was one less alert light on the dash.

“What’ll it cost me?” Jim asked harshly, and Leo looked over at him in surprise.

“What, for me to drop you off at home?” Leo scoffed. “Nothin’, same as the water. How far’s your farm?”

With the way the kid handled the truck, it was obvious he was some kind of farm kid. Or maybe he was just really into trucks; it wasn’t any of Leo’s business either way.

“No, to get to California.” Jim said firmly.

Oh hell no.

“Look, son, I’m not tryin’ to get slapped with any kidnapping charges. Whatever issues you’ve got at home-”

“I don’t.” Jim interrupted. “I’m on my own, I just need to get out of Riverside.”

Every alarm bell in McCoy’s head was going off. A kid who looked this rough, trying to get out of the state…

Like an echo, Leo heard the emotionless intonation of the medi-scanner ‘Emergency Contact: null.’

“How old are you, anyway?” Leo asked, trying and failing to keep up his resolve.

“Eighteen.” Jim said, too quickly.

“Like hell.” Leo snorted disbelievingly. 

The kid scowled something fierce.

“Fine. Sixteen. I’m emancipated.” he added swiftly. “I got papers, I can prove it.”

Leo gave the kid a stare that had made his classmates and younger cousins cower and fess up. This kid didn’t even look like he’d hit puberty yet, for fucks sake.

Jim squirmed. He was already pale, but the look was similar enough to the worms that Leo had skewered while fishing with his Pa that the comparison was uncanny for a moment.

“Look, it’s uh. I mean it.” Jim shifted gears, clearly switching to a sympathy play, and he stared back up at Leo with those baby blue puppy eyes. “You’re a doctor, right? You got a scanner, and your pack is marked for medical.”

At Leo’s reluctant nod, Jim continued in a rush. 

“Well, I wasn’t kidding about the water. I’ve got R-PIES, and immuno issues. This-” he waved a hand at himself. “I just went through some cachexia. They didn’t think I’d kick it, but I did.”

Replicator protein-induced enterocolitis syndrome wasn’t just rare, it was practically theoretical. It had been years since Leo had even heard of it; and you didn’t just ‘kick’ cachexia, that shit was end of life business.

But it would explain the kids' health issues. Not entirely, of course, but if he had immuno issues to boot, no wonder he was so small. 

“And you got nowhere else to go?” Leo asked, disbelieving. Even after his short whirlwind of a marriage and the subsequent divorce, he could have stayed in Georgia. His family had been more tore up over him running off to Starfleet than they were about the break up.

He couldn’t imagine having no one to turn to, nobody to fall on in hard times.

“Nowhere.” Jim said firmly.

Leo sighed, and tipped his head to the side, waving the kid up into the cab.

What was one more fuck up, in the long line of mistakes he’d made so far?

Chapter Text

In the privacy of his office, Spock frowned down at the essay he was grading. There wasn’t anything wrong with the essay; it covered the topic presented, stayed on focus, and demonstrated the student’s unequivocal understanding of the material. 

He only took issue with this because it was Cadet Chekov’s essay.

The cadet had, quite appallingly, been in tears in this very office the week prior; when Spock had had to inform the student that unless his grades made an immediate improvement, he would not receive a passing mark for the course. 

Chekov was all of seventeen years old, and it was Spock’s understanding that it was quite impressive for a human to have achieved as much in so few years as Chekov had. But perhaps linguistics was not the human's strong point; he certainly appeared to have issues with the accent of his native language slipping into his Federation Standard.

But this essay, a re-written version of the mangled document that had caused Spock to struggle understanding how someone could so completely miss the entire point of the prompt, was far from passable; it was borderline commendable.

Closing his eyes and folding his hands in a meditative pose, Spock replayed his interactions with the student over the course of the past week in an effort to understand what could have caused the change.

As an expressive species, it was usually quite obvious when a student had an ‘eureka!’ moment, the epiphany of understanding on a topic that had previously eluded them. It was one of Spock's great joys as a teacher, invigorating young minds towards this point. 

But he could not recall any such moment during seminars with Chekov, and the Cadet had not sought out extra instruction or tutelage during Spock’s open office hours since their meeting.

The previous week, after their meeting, another Cadet had joined the weeping boy in the hall; Cadet Sulu, while not currently registered for any of Spock’s courses, was known to the Vulcan. A capable student and apparently a good friend to the younger Cadet, Spock replayed their interaction in his mind for any hint as to the method of Chekov’s dramatic academic improvement.

“Aw, chin up Pav, you’ll figure it out eventually.” Sulu had insisted, drawing the younger man in for a hug.

“I do not understand ze difficulty I am having.” Chekov practically wailed. “I haf studied wery hard on the materials, but it is not-” 

The Cadet made a clicking sound with his thumb and middle finger.

“Tell you what, why don’t you come down to the Lazy Daisy with me?” Cadet Sulu urged. “I know a guy who could turn your whole grade around, and he makes a mean mocha.”

“Coffee?” Chekov seemed immediately intrigued.

“Well, maybe decaf for you, youngster.” Sulu had laughed then, presumably at whatever facial expression the Cadet had made in response.

Spock considered this. Perhaps there was a tutor of some skill at this ‘Lazy Daisy’ establishment? He’d heard other students and some of the faculty discussing the popular cafe before, though he’d never been himself.

Recalling Chekov’s behavior over the week since, Spock was able to identify a change in the student’s behaviour since that meeting; a second PADD at his station in the classroom. He’d referred to it frequently throughout the lecture, but since his own note taking hadn’t suffered from the distraction, Spock had seen no reason to address the issue.

But perhaps there was more than met the eye on this; Spock had assumed that the other PADD contained notes, possibly from Cadet Sulu’s time in the same course. But could another student’s notes truly account for the change in Chekov’s performance?

Perhaps it would be worth stopping by the cafe himself to see what the situation was. It would not do to assume that the Cadet had simply miraculously improved; and though it was not likely, given the Cadet’s obvious intelligence and skill in other areas of study, it would not be unheard of for a struggling student to resort to cheating, or academic dishonesty, to get by.

With twenty seven minutes left in his open office hours, Spock resolved to skip his afternoon meditation and embark on this mission instead. Perhaps he was even due for what his mother called ‘a little treat’ after all of the grading he’d worked through today. 

The grading would happen either way, and as a Vulcan, Spock hardly needed a reward based system for motivation. But abiding by his mother’s cultural practices helped him to feel close to her, even when she was light years away on his home planet; her obvious pride and joy when he recounted these Vulcan ‘failings’ made them more than worthwhile.

And a little treat did sound appealing.

☕

The trek to the cafe was not a long one, the shop being optimally located between Starfleet Academy and just across the street from Starfleet Medical. Tucked between two other shops in the same brick building, a polished historical plaque was mounted next to the front door of the cafe:

Historical Landmark No. 1701

William & Daisy McCoy House

Constructed 1850

San Francisco Heritage Society

A bright yellow canvas canopy extended out over the doorway, yellow dags embroidered alternately with a single white flower and a steaming mug. Hanging lights in a dull orange color flickered to life as Spock approached, the photocells reacting to the evening’s fading light and giving the storefront a hazy glow, likely meant to evoke a sense of coziness and comfort in its patrons. White lettering on the front window with excessive curling in the font declared this to be the Lazy Daisy Cafe.

The glass door into the cafe had multiple flyers displayed; upon closer inspection, Spock was amused to see that most of them were printed on an archaic form of paper, with a branded letterhead for the cafe scrawled across the top. The papers declared the building to be a fragrance free environment (please), the hours of operation (5am - Whenever), specials for the month of April (Lavender… everything!) and a calendar with the month’s schedule (Study groups, chess club, and something called hot yoga.)

Puzzled at the hours that the cafe kept, Spock peered inside the door to see an almost empty seating area. A lone person in blue jeans and white tee shirt on a ladder near the back of the room was the only source of movement, but when Spock tried the door, the old fashioned glass pane swung open with ease. 

A bell chimed over his head, catching the Vulcan by surprise with its bright tinkle; rather than a sensor programmed to alert occupants of a newcomer, an antique bell on a hook dangled just over the entry.

Effective, if antiquated.

“-should I worry? Why should I ca-ya-ya-air? Said I may not have-”

The human sang along to the loud music emanating from speakers throughout the large dining area cluttered with tables, most with chairs tipped upside down and resting on their seats. The music was cheerful, though the man’s swaying to the beat while standing on a ladder some ten feet up in the air seemed ill-advised.

Now inside, Spock could see an entire wall of clocks, dozens of different kinds, spanning the yellow wall that the ladder was up against. The man was apparently attempting to hang yet another for this strange collection, as he held a square faced clock against the wall.

 There were so many things in this room to take in, it was nearly overwhelming; the overly loud music, the strong scent of espresso, and the appearance of the man on the ladder most of all. Slim but muscular, with a head of short cropped blond hair, he would be considered downright exotic on Vulcan. 

Spock found himself nearly entranced by the skin exposed at the employee’s hips as they twitched to the beat of the music; purely scientific curiosity in the human physique would have been a passable excuse, but Vulcan’s should not lie, even in their own thoughts. Attraction was not nearly as foreign a concept to Vulcan’s as humans liked to think it was; most of Surak’s followers just did a better job of hiding it than the more emotive inhabitants of Earth.

Approaching the ladder and the man still singing away obliviously on top of it as he affixed his latest prize to the wall, Spock cleared his throat in an effort to draw his attention.

“They love me at the Chelsea, they adore me at the- shit!” the human yelped in surprise, wobbling precariously on high before dropping something from his left hand and hurriedly clutching at the ladder to prevent plummeting to the ground with his right.

“Hey, uh. Sorry about that.” the man said sheepishly, glancing briefly at Spock before ducking his chin and huffing softly in laughter. “Didn’t hear you come in. Computer, music to ten percent.”

Something rolled into Spock’s shoe and he tore his gaze away from admiring the impressive flex of muscle in the human’s arm as he gripped the ladder. An old metal fastener, unthreaded, shone up at him from the polished wooden floor.

“Pass me that? I’m almost done up here, then I can get a drink started for you.” the man offered. 

Spock quickly retrieved the nail in question and held it up to the cafe worker, who bent to extend a questing hand, splayed to receive it.

Neither Vulcan nor human expected the psychic shock that sparked between their fingers as they met on the nails' slim form, as immediately evidenced by the human losing his balance for certain this time and tumbling backwards off of the ladder.

A choked off exclamation of surprise had hardly left the man's lips before Spock was in motion; mind still scrambling to process the strange reaction to their touch, the Vulcan held his arms out and plucked the falling human from the air.

The hand that grasped at the man’s jean clad thighs registered a muted surprise, but the hand on his bare skin, where Spock had gotten tangled up under his threadbare white shirt, practically sang in harmony with the Vulcan’s telepathy. 

Bombarded by a swirl of emotions and thoughts clearer than any he’d experienced from another outside of a meld, Spock barely registered the human's hands darting around his neck for support.

But a sudden flare of pain was bright/hot/white in the next second, as gravity and their differential in height caught up to the man’s ankle, still snagged on the rung of the ladder above them.

The wet gasp of shock from the mouth pressed nearly to his neck sent a shudder through Spock, an unfamiliar warmth coiling in his gut even as he stretched to carefully unhook the man’s ankle without causing him further pain.

“Ugh, Bones is gonna kill me.” the man groaned, but the mind that still lingered in contact with his own expressed no fear of the impending death; just lingering pain and a wash of embarrassment as the human pulled back to look Spock in the eye.

It was the Vulcan’s turn to experience a respiratory anomaly, as the shocking blue color of the human’s irises registered. He would deny to his dying day that it was a gasp; it was a sudden shortness of breath at best.

“Oh hey, you’re Vulcan.” the exotic creature in his arms said with a start. He immediately withdrew his hands from Spock’s neck, tucking them under his own arms, and the loss of contact left saidVulcan feeling oddly bereft.

“I… am.” Spock agreed slowly.

Amusement and something warm like spiced tea began to filter in through the connection that Spock maintained on the human's back. The pain was still present as well, but the man was impressively adept at compartmentalizing the sensation to background noise in his mindscape.

“Well, I’m Jim. Nice to meet you.” he gave Spock a wry smile. “Could you set me down over there, on the bench?”

Holding up his wrist as if in explanation, Spock eyed the micro display on his bracelet that was flashing an alternating green/yellow color.

“I gotta check in quick or Bones’ll lose it.”

Suppressing the urge to shake his head in an effort to clear it, Spock approached the indicated bench and found himself assessing how best to sit on it with Jim still in his grasp when it occurred to him that the human likely meant to be placed there in a solitary arrangement.

The negative emotions that bubbled up in his chest at the thought were not, unfortunately, Jim’s in origin.

Perhaps skipping his afternoon meditation had not been the best course of action.

When the connection between them frayed as Spock removed his hands from Jim, having settled him on a long bench that took up the entire wall, the Vulcan very nearly reached back out to reestablish it.

Without the touch of his hands on Jim’s skin, Spock’s mind returned to its solitary state; centered, organized, and mental shields in place. But having touched Jim’s mind, even scraping the surface, left Spock with the distinct feeling of unease that something was now missing. Something vital.

His hands fluttered uselessly for a moment before slipping into parade rest, ruthlessly beating back his desire to touch the fascinating human once more.

Jim pulled a communicator out of his pants pocket, hips wriggling in a truly distracting fashion as he tried to lift them without putting weight on his aggrieved ankle.

“Not dead. Twisted my ankle. Mac and cheese for dinner.” Jim spoke into the comm, utilizing the voice to text function before turning a dazzling smile up at Spock. “Nice catch by the way. This thing’d be busted for sure if you hadn’t caught me.”

Sitting up to assess his injury, Jim broke eye contact; Spock had the unsettling feeling that he might’ve been frozen under that entrancing gaze for all of eternity otherwise.

He definitely needed to meditate.

Chapter Text

“Uh, Professor?" Jim said softly, having determined that his ankle was probably fine and not wanting to spook the man who’d admittedly given him more than one shock for the day. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have thought it even possible to spook a Vulcan, but here was Professor Spock, eyebrows slightly furrowed as his eyes darted back and forth across Jim’s figure.

At his title, the Vulcan’s eyes widened in apparent surprise and his gaze snapped up to meet Jims. 

And those eyes.

Like fresh espresso drip, the Vulcan’s eyes were a dark enough brown to be almost black, but with soft flecks of an almost golden brown color throughout. 

He’d heard of Professor Spock of course, hell, most of the Daisy’s patrons had taken his class at some point or another. 

How none of them had bothered to mention he was insanely attractive was something Jim would be bringing up at Chess Club, forthwith.

“How-” Spock began to ask, his voice gravelly and low and making Jim’s heart race nearly as bad as tumbling off the ladder.

“Well, I mean…” Jim gestured at Spock’s uniform grays.

“I… yes.” Spock replied, his eyes skittering away from Jim’s and landing on something on the floor.

Bending to pick it up, Jim admired the cut of the professors uniform even more, especially the way it pulled tight against his-

“Oh!”

Spock set the nail that Jim had dropped on the table this time, instead of risking another shock like before. Smart.

“Any chance I could get you to climb up there and grab the square clock down for me? It won’t stay without two nails, and I uh-” Jim gestured at his ankle. It wasn’t even that swollen, but he wasn’t going to trust it on a ladder until Bones had looked him over.

“I am trained in first aid.” Spock offered, taking a single step closer and holding his hands out, palm up.”I can perform a basic assessment of your injury, and escort you to Starfleet Medical if-”

“Uh, no. No thanks, I mean.” Jim hurried to interrupt him. If Spock got it in his head to snatch Jim up and run him across the street, it wasn’t like he could stop him, Vulcan strength and all.

Jim tried not to find that as exciting as he did, giddily willing the butterflies in his stomach into submission before pointing up at the clock again.

“I know what broken feels like, and busted, and this isn’t either of those. But if we don’t get that clock down on our terms, gravity is gonna take matters into its own hands.”

Spock gave Jim’s ankle one more mis-trusting look before approaching the ladder, checking its stability, and then delicately picked his way up the rungs to reach Leslie’s clock.

Objectively, Jim could tell that Spock had a few inches on him, but watching those long limbs work as the Vulcan plucked down the clock was akin to observing a piece of art in motion. He was so damn graceful, like each move was calculated for maximum efficiency. 

And he managed three points of contact on the ladder at all times; Bones would be delighted.

Absently rubbing at his sore ankle, Jim tried to avoid staring as Spock came down the ladder and set the clock before him. 

“This time piece appears to be malfunctioning.” Spock pointed out. “As do many others in your… collection.”

Leslie’s clock read just after three in the afternoon, but Spock was right; it was just after six here in San Francisco.

“Well, it’s wrong for San Fran time. But the clock’s are all set to wherever their person is.” Jim explained. “It’s how we keep somebody here, even when they’re far away.”

The first clock had been from Bones, pointedly hammering it into the wall and making colorful marks for when Jim was supposed to take his meds, like Jim was some kind of kid that couldn’t tell time. Then Travis had graduated and got himself assigned to the Farragut, and he’d brought his dorm room clock in, programmed to match the ship's time because Travis was a show off and a wiz at coding.

It had turned into a Lazy Daisy tradition; graduates that had been part of the cafe’s study groups could bring in their own clock, and Jim would program them like Travis’s, so everyone would know when was when for who.

Jim loved it.

“Different time zones on the planet?” Spock asked, clearly trying to be polite but very obviously exuding the vibe that he thought humans were nuttier than squirrel shit.

“Nah, starships. Or starbases, for a couple. We even have one for Vulcan, over there.” Jim pointed at Selek’s clock. The old Vulcan had been delighted to participate in the Lazy Daisy tradition after he and his husband had helped Jim remodel the book nook along the back wall.

This Vulcan was frowning though.

“That is not-”

“-how time works, I know.” Jim laughed, noticing as he did that Spock’s eyes seemed to glaze over slightly at the sound. “Moving through space is tricky, but even at warp a ship still follows a schedule. Look, the Exeter’s going into warp now.”

Rather than displaying a time, the clock that Jim pointed at had both arms of the time piece spinning at a rapid clip in clockwise motion. A moment later, they settled back into their places at four hours and twenty five minutes.

“Fascinating.” Spock said softly.

“So what brings you to the Daisy?” Jim asked, swinging his legs off of the bench and testing his ankle. It was tender, but the pain of crossing the room would be worth it for the ice pack he’d be able to nab.

Spock slid into parade rest again. Jim wondered if he did it consciously, or if it was a conditioned response to being asked about something.

Pressing his palms to the table top as Spock began to reply, Jim mentally prepared himself for the inevitable pain of standing. He wanted that ice pack, dammit.

“It is my understanding that students of the Academy frequent- What are you doing?” Spock demanded, hands shooting out to grab at Jim as he stood.

He’s gotten better about flinching, but Spock’s reach caught him off guard; who’s ever heard of a touchy Vulcan? So Jim can’t entirely contain the flinch backwards from those hands, a lingering pavlovian response of his own.

Unfortunately, his balance on one good ankle is nowhere near as good as it is on two, and he wobbles before collapsing back towards the bench seat.

Or that’s where he would have landed, if Starfleet’s touchiest Vulcan hadn’t scooped him up again.

Jim makes a garbled noise of protest as Spock lifts him in his arms once more.

“I just, I was-” Jim sputters, flailing a hand at the cafe’s main counter. “Ice pack! For, y’know-”

“Understood.” Spock says, nodding sharply.

And instead of putting Jim down, like a normal person, Spock proceeds to carry Jim across the cafe, carefully picking his way around the furniture to prevent knocking Jim’s ankle into anything while en route.

Jim’s cheeks are on fire from how much blushing he’s doing, it’s ridiculous. Gaila would have a field day with this. She’s always reading those trashy spacedock romance novels and swooning over the love interests hauling each other around.

Not that Jim considers himself, or Spock, a love interest.

Nervous laughter bubbles out his lips before Jim can stop it, as he recalls that Vulcan’s are touch telepaths. Even though Spock isn’t actually touching any bare skin at the moment, Jim still feels embarrassment akin to that time that Bones found him flipping through the antique naughty skin mags he’d found in the basement.

It can’t take more than thirty seconds before Spock is gently settling Jim on a stool that lines the long side of the front counter, but it feels simultaneously like an eternity of not knowing where to put his hands and like it was over too soon, and Jim already misses the warmth of those strong arms cradling him.

“Thanks.” he wheezes.

This isn’t humiliating at all.

☕

Spock was actively tempting his control to crack by willingly touching Jim again, but when the man had started to wobble, Spock could no sooner allow him to fall than he could stop the planet on its axis.

He hasn’t touched a human this much since he hugged his mother goodbye on her last visit to Earth, some three months ago. That Spock cannot recount the time down to the minute is further evidence that his mind is not performing optimally at this time.

“Where should I procure ice from?” Spock asked Jim, now settled on a stool and looking charmingly flushed, the pink color high on his cheeks causing some hitherto silent portion of the Vulcan’s mind to coo in delight.

The feeling was both pleasant and entirely unsettling.

“Oh, uh.” Jim thumps the countertop to his right. “Fridge is down here, top shelf.”

Spock circles the counter and opens the indicated cabinet door, finding that there is in fact a miniature fridge installed underneath the countertop. Glass jars of green fluid and plastic tubs of food are labeled in an indecipherable handwriting, beside multiple vials of medication. A secondary door within the fridge is marked with a caricature of a snowflake; pulling this open, Spock finds a variety of ice packs in different sizes, as well as something that looks suspiciously like a half empty tub of ice cream with the spoon still in it. 

Though touching the ice pack directly with his sensitive fingers is probably the last thing that Spock wants to do at this moment, he cannot allow Jim’s pain to continue for the sake of a moment’s discomfort on his own behalf. Grabbing the largest pack with the barest tips of his index finger and thumb, Spock draws the pack from the freezer and brings it to counter height.

Jim has laid a towel, or possibly a dishrag, on the counter top and he directs Spock to place the ice pack there.

“Thanks. You’re the best.” Jim sighs, deftly wrapping the ice pack up and transferring it to his ankle, now propped on the neighboring stool.

Spock is an adult, and a professor at one of the most prestigious academic learning centers in the entire quadrant; but Jim’s praise sends unexpected delight pulsing across the Vulcan’s mindscape and he is forced to duck his head to hide the smile threatening to make an appearance.

In an effort to wrangle his mind back to an acceptable baseline, Spock kneels down to close up the fridge, his eyes catching on the medication bottles. James McCoy is listed as the patient's name, and, curiously, Dr. L.H. McCoy as the prescribing doctor.

“So, Cadets?” Jim says, looking at Spock expectantly and smiling sweetly enough to make Spock’s hope of regaining his Vulcan composure suddenly seem like a task of Sisyphean proportions.

Jim must infer a lack of understanding from Spock’s silence, rather than the distressing loss of concentration on the Vulcan’s part.

“I asked what you were coming around to the Daisy for, and you said ‘academy students’. Since most people come for coffee, tea, or my signature lemonade, I have to let you know, I’m plumb out of cadets right now.” Jim smiled again as he waved his free hand at the empty cafe, the other hand occupied with holding his ice pack in place. “Most everybody clears out by four, unless it’s a club night.”

The bracelet on his wrist is now pulsing an alternating green and chartreuse color. Interesting.

“Yes. I have a student that I believe sought tutoring here, and has since dramatically improved his ability in class.” Spock said, working at keeping his voice a level Vulcan monotone and taking a moment to be grateful for the countertop that separates him from reaching for Jim once more.

Jim nods, beaming. “Pavel! He had a real breakthrough last week after I piggybacked on some of your lectures. He just needed another perspective.”

Spending a moment to try and untangle that… statement, Spock finds himself at a loss.

“Please clarify.”

Jim’s smile faded at Spock’s cool tone, and his brow furrowed in a way that Spock had come to associate with humans when stressed or faced with something puzzling.

“He just needed some help with the material. It’s not cheating to use a tutor.” Jim defended. “Your teaching style and his learning style are just different. I took your lesson, broke it down into a relatable metaphorical scenario, and restructured the lesson up from there. Once he had a grasp of the core concept in a way that he could relate to, picking up the rest of it was easy peasy.”

Spock could not honestly recall any of the Academy’s advanced classes being referred to as ‘easy peasy’, but then he also had no idea why a small green vegetable would be used in such a comparative basis in the first place.

“Piggybacking?” Spock asked, attempting to further clarify how Jim had worked his ‘miracle’ on the Cadet in question.

“I sat in on your lectures this week via audio and helped Pav connect the dots.” Jim shrugged. “He took one of my PADD’s with him and I sent him notes as we went, tying it all together for him.”

“You rewrote an entire lesson plan after only attending a week’s worth of lectures, without conferring with the professor of the class and without the instructor's lesson materials?” Spock asked, his voice taking on the faster, clipped pace that he usually reserved for rapid paced quizzes and disciplining unruly Cadets.

Jim did not appear intimidated.

His posture stayed relaxed, but his expressive blue eyes narrowed slightly at Spock.

“I did. Is that so hard to believe? Or did you come here tonight thinking you’d get some kind of confession of cheating?”

Now Jim looks upset, brows furrowing and his lips curling into a frown.

Spock is mildly horrified to realize that he has not only disappointed Jim, he is having an unprecedented and entirely un-Vulcan-like emotional reaction of distress to said disappointment.

“That is-” Spock stumbled over his words in his haste to erase that damning look from Jim’s face. “While the possibility had occurred to me that academic dishonesty was entirely feasible, I had already calculated that probability to be less than two percent prior to my arrival at your establishment. Cadet Chekov has an exemplary record and displays an unprecedented intelligence for his age.”

Jim’s shoulders lost some of their tension, but his eyes remained narrowed, and a slight uptick of his thick eyebrows encouraged Spock to continue.

“Having ruled out ‘cheating’ as the means of his sudden capability, I wished to gain further understanding and insight to his marked improvement.” Spock was relieved to see suspicion fade further from Jim’s expression, and noted his own ‘marked improvement’ as a knot of panic that had been building in his own chest untangled at the observation.

Jim grinned, suddenly, and Spock found himself shifting his weight to his hands on the counter top, as his knees threatened to go weak at the look.

Sweet Surak, what was happening to him?

“So Chekov’s grades whip a u-ey and now you’re suddenly curious about the cafe that your students have been coming to for… years? At this point?” Jim prodded, one arm resting on the counter while the other hand, still holding the ice pack, began to absently pick at a trailing thread from the worn towel.

“My students also regularly visit the dorms, the mess hall, and Starfleet Medical, yet I have no pressing need to attend these locales without further motivation.” Spock countered smoothly, inwardly relieved that his voice conveyed none of the chaotic emotions he was experiencing. “I deemed the question sufficient to justify the visit.”

“And your question? Has it been sufficiently answered?” Jim shot back.

“Yes, though it has been replaced now with another pressing question that I must impose on you for an answer to.” 

“By all means.” Jim twisted the hand resting on the counter top in a wide sweep. “Ask away.”

“May I return to this establishment at a later date, under more favorable terms, and partake in one of your ‘signature lemonades’?”

Jim reared back in surprise, before smiling so brightly that Spock could swear there was a physical emanation of warmth from the reaction.

If for no other reason than to test his control and better prepare himself for interactions with different peoples and cultures on his upcoming ship assignment, Spock felt that he owed it to his own betterment to return to the cafe and its curious keeper. And if that meant more time with this fascinating human… then so be it.

“Of course. It’s a date.” Jim replied with a wink.

The weakness in Spock’s knees returns, full force.

Chapter Text

The truck had been coasting along the road for a few hours at this point, the only sounds in the cab coming from the dashboard media player and the rush of air through JIm’s open window. Music from a bygone era filled the silence as the endless fields of crops flew past in the fading evening light, and the moody teen in Leo’s passenger seat sat with his lips pursed in a frown.

“-Go west young man, haven't you been told? California's full of whiskey, women and gold-”

McCoy snorted in amusement at the irony of the song's lyrics, and the sound must’ve spooked Jim, shooting upright in his seat. 

“Y’good?” Leo asked, careful to keep his eyes on the road. He’d already cottoned on to the fact that Jim didn’t like being stared at, and barely caught the silent nod.

Reaching to dig into his pack in the backseat, Leo pulls out a PADD and drops it onto the worn bench between them.

“See if you can’t find us some grub, would you? I’m starved.”

Jim’s hand, reaching for the PADD, froze momentarily before snatching the unit up and tapping away at the screen.

Leo was honestly surprised the kid hadn’t passed out at any point over the last few hours, as obviously worn down as he was. He needed to sleep for a week, at least, in McCoy’s professional opinion.

Preferably with an IV drip. In a hospital. 

But though his eyelids had drooped a few times, the kid always shook himself back to alertness, vigilant in a way that rubbed Leo’s nerves the wrong way.

“Ten miles up, there’s a diner and a farmstand.” Jim croaked out a moment later. 

“Sounds great.” Leo mumbled.

The miles passed in a blur, and he didn’t comment on the two exits they passed with obvious food options. Maybe a diner would have something the kid could actually eat, instead of being a replicator drive through. 

But when he pulled the truck into the gravel lot of the diner, Leo caught the slump of Jim’s shoulders out of the corner of his eye. 

The diner was well lit in the evening light, but the farm stand was shuttered up; stalls empty and the only movement coming from a battered looking windchime.

“Place like this might have some real cookin’.” Leo offered, but he wasn’t very optimistic. Replicators weren’t just handy, they were the healthiest option available; all your daily necessary nutrients, plated up in whatever form you found the tastiest. 

“I’m gonna stretch my legs. You go eat.” Jim said quietly, and he’d popped the truck door open and had slipped out before Leo could object.

☕

Shoving off from the truck and moving as fast as his stiff and aching limbs would carry him, Jim crossed the parking lot and made his way around the backside of the empty farmstand.

His stomach was aching with hunger, but it wasn’t exactly a new feeling. Even on the journey back to earth, the doctors had been stumped on how to feed his famine ravished body. 

Everything came from a replicator, on a starship.

When medications sent him into convulsions, and even the bandages they wrapped his wounds in had caused blisters, Starfleet's finest had been stumped. Even the air on the ship had tried to kill him, and the hastily cobbled together rubber oxygen mask and quick thinking on the engineers' part to build an archaic oxygen cylinder had only barely made the journey possible.

But Jim hadn’t survived for as long as he had by giving up when things got tough.

The first opportunity he’d had, Jim had snuck out of the medical bay, toting his tiny cylinder in arms that shook from the strain and being careful not to pinch the tube that provided his air. Having determined his exact route from a pilfered PADD, Jim made his way to an entirely different level of the ship.

Specifically, the botany lab. 

Because the ship had been a research vessel, before being shunted off to Tarsus for a rescue effort, on account of being the closest one available. And the plants there wouldn’t have pesticides on them, because starships were so closely moderated for foreign contaminants.

He’d eaten his fill of almost a full handful of berries, dropping them into the top of his mask while holding his breath, and tonguing them to mush in his dry mouth. Thoroughly exhausted, he’d then jimmied off a wall panel and curled up inside, utterly oblivious to the panic his absence had wrought in the medbay above.

This excursion felt oddly similar. 

The lean to that made up the farmstand looked empty from the front, but more than likely there would still be food in the chests on the backside; extra produce that hadn’t sold, but couldn’t be left out for the local wildlife to get into while the stand was unattended.

Jim nearly crows in excitement when he works open the latch on the first chest and spots satchels of chilled apricots and carrots, and neatly stacked clamshells of blueberries and raspberries.

Picking through the selection and thanking whatever force for good existed in the backwaters of Iowa that despite the removal of any harmful chemicals from pesticides, there were still farmers that stubbornly insisted on growing ‘clean’ crops.

Dropping to the dirt and picking carefully at a handful of cooled blueberries, Jim sets his mind to the logistics of getting food back to the truck and quickly, before his reluctant chauffeur makes a break for it.

The thought spurs Jim into action, and he hurriedly piles together what he can in a dusty crate from inside the lean to, making his way back to the truck.

☕

“Nothin’ at all?” Leo slumped in defeat at the waitresses' response about non-replicated food options.

“Sorry hon’.” she offered him a consolatory pat on the shoulder before leaving the steaming coffee pot in front of him and heading off to check on her other tables. 

Tearing into the sandwich she’d brought him, Leo stared out the window into the dimly lit lot where the truck was parked. It was set-up with a biometric starter, so he wasn’t worried about the kid stealing the damn thing.

But it was hard to stomach dinner when he knew Jim was out there, probably hungry and definitely in greater need of nourishment than Leo was.

Jim didn’t join him inside, but that wasn’t very surprising; being around the smell of warm food when you couldn’t eat any of it was nobody’s idea of a good time. 

Something moved in the shadows near the truck, a flash of pale arms, wobbling in protest as they dropped a crate into the bed of the truck.

What the hell?

Cramming the remainder of his half sandwich into his mouth, Leo jumped out of his booth seat, washed it down with a hasty couple of gulps of coffee, and hurried to the parking lot.

Jim was there all right, sitting on the back bumper and leaned against the tailgate; gulping huge huffs of breath with his eyes closed, head tilted towards the star studded sky.

“Just what’re you doin’ back here?” Leo grumped, hands on his hips even as relief flooded him at finding Jim at least upright. If he was surprised to find himself relieved that the kid hadn’t disappeared completely, never to be seen again, well. That was just the doctor in him, that’s all.

“Food.” Jim huffed victoriously, jabbing his thumb up towards the truck bed behind him.

Peering over the side, there was indeed a small crate of produce back there.

“I thought the farm stand was closed?” he asked carefully. It didn’t matter that the food would be free to anyone that needed it when the stand was open; a flash of his credit chip to document who had taken the food would be all that the farmers needed to let it go. 

But it didn’t sit easy with Leo.

“There was a box in the back.” Jim panted, and with a closer look, Leo realized that Jim’s eyes only looked closed; a thin sliver of blue barely peeking out of his lowered lids, locked on McCoy.

“And you don’t think they’ll mind that it’s gone missin’?” Leo frowned, realizing his hands were resting on his hips like his Ma would do when she caught any of the kids with their hands in the cookie jar.

The harsh panting of Jim’s breaths cut off suddenly, and the kid stilled, now taking shallow breaths through his nose and watching Leo with suspicion written all over his face.

“They left it out.” Jim defended, and the way his body was tensed, like his fight or flight response had been triggered, had Leo dropping his hands slowly. Holding them out, palms up to show he meant no harm, Leo took a step back.

He didn’t miss the way that Jim’s eyes tracked the movement, the slight flinch when Leo rotated his wrists.

What the hell had happened to this kid?

“Well, if you’re sure…” Leo said softly, even though he wasn’t so sure himself. Lord knew that if anybody needed this food, it was Jim; the kid was skin and bones and pure cussedness. 

Jim’s posture didn’t relax, but he stood up on wobbly legs and faced Leo head on.

“Did you eat? Are you ready to leave?” he asked nonchalantly, like he hadn’t just been about to throw hands over some sad looking apricots.

“Gimme a minute. Those won’t last the night without proper storage.” Leo pointed out, turning back to the diner to ask for some ice. The truck had a compartment, currently full of water bottles, that would keep the food longer while chilled. “I’ll get some ice from inside.”

Jim’s panicked look at his pilfered produce showed that he understood what Leo meant; the heat of summer in Iowa was nothing to scoff at.

“I don’t have a credit chip.” Jim frowned.

“I’ll use mine, we can get you a new one when we hit the big city.” Leo said over his shoulder as he headed back inside.

He caught a look at Jim’s face in the reflection of the glass though as he approached the front doors; brows furrowed in lost confusion as his lips silently echoed a single word.

We?

Chapter Text

The lights are still on as Leo approaches the Lazy Daisy after a blessedly boring shift, and since he knows the after hours schedule like the back of his hand, Leo’s hackles are up long before the bell tinkles his entrance to the cafe. 

The first thing he notices is the ladder, still thankfully upright, and then Jim; also upright, but staring off into space, so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t appear to register that he’s no longer alone.

“Jim?” Leo calls out, pulling off his jacket and slinging it over one of the stools closest to the door.

The kid startles, wide eyes whipping towards the entrance in surprise.

“Oh, hey Bones.” 

Jim visibly relaxing when he sees Leo is something that he’ll never get used to, not if he lives to be a hundred years old; melts his heart, every damn time.

“You good?” he asks, tugging loose a couple of the mag clasps at his collar and sidling along the counter until he reaches the stool Jim’s perched on. Looping an arm around the blond's shoulders and dropping a kiss into that untamable ruff he calls hair in greeting, Leo smiles as Jim leans into the embrace.

“I think so.” the kid replies, and by the look on his face, he’s feeling as confused by his answer as Leo is.

“You think so?” McCoy parrots back dryly. When he catches sight of the half melted ice pack on Jim’s ankle, he sighs.

“Dammit, Jim.”

“Sorry.” 

No explanation? No denial of fault? No paltry excuses?

The hackles that had settled upon seeing Jim whole and upright are suddenly spiking up again.

“Care to elaborate?” he presses, but he keeps his touch light as he pulls off the ice pack and begins to untie Jim’s shoe. 

Where the kid found honest to goodness laced shoes is beyond him, but at least he wasn’t wandering around barefoot on the old wood floors anymore; polished to a sheen as they were and slicker than snot as a result. That first summer after they’d been refinished, Jim’d nearly brained himself a few times deliberately sliding around in his socks, cackling like a mad man.

Leo could count on one hand without using his thumb how many times he’d heard Jim laugh like that back then, so he’d administered ice packs with only minimal grumbling.

“I think… I think I got hit on.” Jim says slowly, like he doesn’t know he’s the prettiest thing in the room, even when they’ve got a full house. 

Leo rolls his eyes.

“And that’s somehow new and exciting for you?” he snorts. “You get hit on every day. It’s those baby blues and your trouble maker charm.”

Jim shoves playfully at his shoulder, but Leo’s expecting it, so he doesn’t jar the kid’s ankle as a result.

“Yeah, but not by a Vulcan.” Jim clarifies.

“They do seem to have a sweet spot for you.” Leo admitted, rolling Jim’s ankle in a Talar tilt test. 

It was Jim’s turn to snort.

“Selek’s married to a human, who’s named Jim. Of course he liked me. And those ‘definitely not bodyguards’ that follow Mandy around are nowhere near as intense as this guy was.” Jim explained, before muttering, “Or as ridiculously attractive.”

Jim yelped then, as McCoy pressed his ankle into an inversion flex. 

“There it is.” Leo nodded, gently propping Jim’s ankle back on the stool. “Sit tight while I grab the regen. And what’s this about sexy Vulcans? You hit your head, too?”

Jim rolls his eyes so hard, Leo could hear it, even with his back turned as he rounds the counter.

“No, Spock caught me before I hit the ground.”

That was interesting.

“Some Vulcan, other than Selek, willingly touched you?” he asked, doubtful. Pulling one of the oh-so-many medical kits stashed around the building out, he plucked the regen wrap out and slipped it into the floral patterned cozy he’d sewn up for it.

The regen just sped up the body's ability to heal by invigorating the right cellular structures, so that didn’t set off Jim’s allergies. But the material it was replicated from would, so all of their wearable regenerators had fun little sleeves made from non-replimat fabric, which had been hell to find until Leo had bitched about it to his mother.

Who’d then told his Auntie, who had a friend that knew a gal who was big into quilting, and suddenly they were up to their earlobes in ye old quarter rounds, in the most audacious floral patterns imaginable. Leo had happily sewn up the sleeves and cases, without an ounce of what Jim insisted was ‘malicious glee’.

Grabbing a jar of pickle juice from the mini fridge, Leo slides it along the counter top towards Jim, who makes a face because it’s dill and he’s secretly a giant baby who loves his sweets. But he pops the top and begins to drink it down, because experience has taught them both that regeneration takes a heavy toll on his system. Circling back around the counter and dropping into a crouch for better line of sight, Leo starts arranging the regenerator band.

“Twice.” Jim clarifies, obviously stifling a belch because he knows it drives Leo up the wall when he practices bad table manners. “Caught me comin’ down the ladder, and then scooped me up like a princess and carried me to the bar when I tried to get my own ice pack.”

Leo grunts in acknowledgement, focusing on getting the regen properly aligned before he lets the mag clasp snap into place.

“Well you owe him then, seein’ as how you could have made this a hell of a lot worse, wanderin’ around on it.”

Slapping the knee on Jim’s good side, Leo levered himself up once more. “Leave that on for about twenty minutes and you should be good. You said leftovers?”

“Yeah. There should be enough mac and cheese to go around.”

Leo dipped back into the mini fridge, waving one hand over the counter top in a ‘go on’ fashion.

“It’s not just the touching though. He’s Starfleet, so he’s probably more used to physical contact with humans than other Vulcans.” Jim continued, and the introspective tone of his voice made Leo stifle a snort.

How long would it take Jim to realize he was crushing on this fairytale Vulcan of his?

“But he kind of came here to accuse me of helping Pav cheat on his homework-”

“Curly haired beanpole, thinks everything was ‘inwented in Russia!’?” 

“Yeah. And then he doesn’t even apologize, he just verbally sidestepped the whole topic and asked if he could come back and if I’d make him a lemonade if he did.”

“You do make a mean lemonade.” Leo admitted, striking one of the long matches they kept handy for the ancient gas stove. As the makeshift pilot light caught and the flames flickered in a deceptively cool blue ring, he settled the pot full of yesterday's lunch on the warmer. “Don’t know that I’d call that really gettin’ hit on though. Maybe he just really likes lemonade.”

Jim hummed consideringly.

Turning to look at him, Leo caught sight of Jim whipping his hand away from his mouth. The nail biting had gotten much better over the years, but it still rose its ugly head every once in a while. 

“Don’t make me get the hot sauce out.” Leo warned, and Jim grinned sheepishly.

“But seriously, you’d know what I mean if you’d been here. There were, I dunno, vibes.” Jim stressed the last word with added tapping of his fingers against his temples.

“Oh, vibes, I gotcha.” Leo said wisely. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place.”

“Come on Bones, you know what I mean!” Jim whined, and it was like he was fifteen all over again, lying about his age and wrapping every one of Leo’s bruised heartstrings around his little finger.

Leo sighed.

“So you think he’s into you?” he asked, turning back to the ancient and massive cast iron stove to stir dinner.

“I don’t know. I think so?” Jim worried. “Stars, I hope so. He’s gorgeous, Bones.”

Rolling his eyes, Leo grunted out, “Uh huh. I’ll bet.”

“But it felt like he was into me. Or at least confused about me. Or maybe it really is the lemonade.” Jim finished, sounding more defeated than Leo liked.

Looking over his shoulder at the kid, Leo took in the slumped posture and the way Jim was rubbing at his eyes. Classic signs of a tired Jim. Reaching with his free hand, he pointedly shoved the pickle juice closer. “Drink that.”

With minimal grumbling, Jim complied.

“So you make him the lemonade, stay off of the damn ladder for a few days, and see how it plays out. Worst case scenario, you still end up with a new study buddy for your cult.” Leo offers, dishing up dinner and sprinkling bacon bits on top; nothing cheered Jim up faster than contraband bacon crumbles. 

Which was half the reason Leo kept them locked away most of the time; saving them for a rainy day.

“It’s not a cult.” Jim protested weakly, and sure enough, his eyes lit up like Christmas had come early when Leo slid his bowl across the countertop at him.

Leo looked over at the wall of clocks, the book nook, and Jim’s apron that was so covered in scrawled marker signatures that you could hardly see the yellow fabric anymore.

“Sure kid. Now eat up.”

☕

Spock is halfway back to his apartment, silently reviewing his interactions with Jim at the cafe, when he comes to a startling realization. The sense of unease that had been plaguing him since stepping out of the cafe minutes prior crystalizes, clarifying into mild distress as Spock tries to unravel the unfamiliar sensation.

He’s worried, stressing about some aspect of the evening's strange events. 

Moving steadily along the sidewalk, Spock mentally delves deeper into the worry and picks at its source. It’s something about Jim, and since he’s hardly stopped thinking about the curious human since he first stepped foot in the cafe, this is unsurprising. The worry is stemming from something deeper, some hind mind instinct that had begun to raise in alarm as he’d left Jim-

Of course.

He’d left Jim, injured and alone, and Spock has hardly completed his realization before his heels have turned of their own accord and begun to carry him back to the cafe at a swift clip.

After securing a second meeting with the attractive human, Spock had beat a hasty retreat; unnerved and in need of meditation, and not at all because he feared that lingering would give Jim an excuse to rescind his invitation. He’d given Jim the ta’al in farewell, and left before the human could raise his own hand from the counter top, not looking back once.

How unaccountably rude he’d been!

As the cafe’s warm lights drew closer at Spock’s nearly trotting pace, he tried not to think about how his mother would scold him for leaving someone injured all by themselves like this. His Starfleet mentor, Christopher Pike, would also surely be disappointed in him.

Spock is passing the dark shop that brackets the Lazy Daisy and has a hand outstretched for the glass door when his eyes adjust to the bright light inside and he freezes. There is a man in a Starfleet Medical uniform touching Jim, kissing his crown of blond hair, and that hindbrain instinct immediately flares with distress and disappointment.

He is too late, and someone else is caring for Jim.

Spock’s reaction is startling enough that he quickly retreats back out of the cafe’s glow in order to compose himself. His response had been so visceral and intense, and for what? A stranger he’d been completely unaware of until twenty seven minutes prior? It wasn’t just nonsensical, it was practically unreasonable.

Clearly Jim was in good hands, and had no need for Spock to attend him. And equally as clear, Spock needed to go home and meditate on the strange events of the evening. His control hadn’t lapsed this poorly since his unfortunately tumultuous pubescent years, when his few human hormones had wreaked absolute havoc on his Vulcan sensibilities.

Vulcan’s did not fret.

Turning once more on his heel, Spock fled for the privacy and relative sanctuary of his apartment.

☕

By midnight, Spock has spent enough time reflecting on his meeting with Jim to convince himself that the intensity of their social interaction was most probably a direct result of not having slept for the last two days. Breaking his routine was also likely a contributing factor, combined with skipping his meditations after a day of lectures and grading, and it was reasonably understandable that he had not been operating optimally. 

Touching another person, skin to skin, was also part of the problem.

He’d nearly lost his train of thought and meditative calm, remembering the texture of Jim’s skin beneath his fingertips, the crystal clear emotions that pressed against his mind.

By one in the morning, Spock has come to the conclusion that sleep is his best course of action. He will sleep, and wait until his next duty-free day to return to the cafe.

By four in the morning, Spock has awoken, feeling refreshed and optimistic about his choices.

It is with some mild confusion then, that he finds himself in his current position.

Because it is now five in the morning and Spock is standing outside of the Lazy Daisy, eyes locking on a pair of impossibly blue irises, widening in surprise on the other side of the cafe’s glass door.

Chapter Text

Jim has almost convinced himself that last night was some kind of fever dream. That maybe he did knock his head at some point, or had a whole new kind of hallucinogenic allergic reaction to dust or something.

It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for certain.

But despite his conscious mind's decision to forget about the whole thing, his subconscious had an entirely different stance on the matter. He’d dreamed, all night, about the strange interaction; his mind replaying the Vulcan’s touch over and over again, the way it had felt like Spock was touching his mind, not just his body.

How much he’d liked it.

Seeing the Vulcan now, through the front door, sends a shiver of anticipation zinging up his spine.

Flipping the levers at the top and bottom of the door to release the lock, Jim pulls the door open wide, sending the bell tinkling.

“Morning, Professor.”

Don’t make this weird, he pleads with himself. 

Smiling at the Vulcan lingering in the doorway, Jim waves him inside. 

“Back for your lemonade?”

The question seems to jar the professor into motion, breaking his stare and scattering the look of mild confusion that was just barely creasing his forehead.

It was eerily similar to Selek’s face, the way that Spock’s emotions were so much easier to read than the other Vulcans that visited the Lazy Daisy. Maybe they were from the same region back home, one less strict about letting emotions show.

“Good morning, Jim.” Spock finally says, stepping into the cafe and blinking down at Jim as they stand side by side for the first time. 

Jim does not blush under that intense scrutiny. He’s not that much shorter than the Vulcan, his eyes level with the taller man’s chin. With his health issues, Bones always insisted it was a miracle he’d survived puberty, let alone broken five feet in height.

Leo putting him on a nutrient smorgasbord within a week of meeting had probably had something to do with that.

Standing beside the Vulcan on his own two feet for the first time though, Jim feels the scant difference in height quite keenly. 

“How is your ankle?” Spock asks politely, his voice a level monotone. He’s got his hands clasped behind his back in a parade rest again, but the way he cocks his head in curiosity is just… Who gave him the right to be so adorable?

Focus, Jim.

“Oh uh. Yeah, Bones fixed me up last night.” he manages to get out, scooting past the Vulcan to head for the counter. “Thanks again, by the way.”

“Thanks are unnecessary.” Spock replied, and it sounded rehearsed, like he’d said it a thousand times before to every other human that’d thanked him. 

Jim rolled his eyes. Vulcans.

“Well, let me get you something to drink as not-thanks then.” Jim pressed, pulling out the materials he’d need to make up a lemonade. Jim had never had a Vulcan order coffee from him before, and Spock didn’t seem the sort anyway. More of a tea guy, really.

“This is a cafe.” Spock said, and that wrinkle of confusion made an appearance. “Is it not the primary function of the establishment to provide beverages and refreshments?”

“Well. Yeah.” Jim said, still smiling. “Just tell me what you want, Professor. Unless you’d like me to surprise you? That’s on the menu, too.”

Pointing at the wall that ran along the front of the cafe, painted floor to ceiling with blackboard paint, Jim indicated the menu sections and specifically pointed to the options near the bottom; ‘Surprise me!’ written directly below something called a ‘Doctor’s orders’.

“I-” Spock began reluctantly. “That is, yes. Please. I would like one ‘surprise me’, if that is your recommendation.”

Jim laughed. 

“Comin’ right up!”

☕

As Jim turned to a water sink and began to wash his hands, Spock hurriedly tore his gaze away and spun around to observe the cafe. Most of the tables still had chairs stacked on them, cheerful yellow tablecloths protected by a thin clear material, weighing them down while allowing the edges to drape in an aesthetically charming fashion. 

The wall of clocks is silent, not a single one of them ticking as the human idiom had led him to believe they might. The cafe is far from quiet though, music piping through speakers that are strategically placed at each corner. 

“-and each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories-”

Spock listens to Jim hum along as he works, the sound of ice and liquids shaking together behind him. 

The wall of clocks is interrupted with an open archway, a polished brass plaque declaring in all capital letters HEAD, indicating that the closed doors in the hallway beyond no doubt lead to bathrooms. The wall that runs along the back of the cafe is white painted brick, with massive windows made up of dozens of small panes of thick, warped glass; it fills the space with natural light, even if the view beyond is entirely obscured. 

A spiral staircase, made of twisted iron, takes up a portion of the back wall; leading up to the second floor and ending in what appears to be a closed trap door. The way up is blocked by a paltry chain that would hardly stop even a determined child, bearing a painted wooden sign reading ‘Private’. If it leads to a storage area, the staircase would hardly be convenient, logistically speaking, for moving goods back and forth.

“-tonight I’ll sing my songs again, I’ll play the game and pretend-”

The wall opposite the clocks has a hallway and two more archways, each closed off with a metal accordion style gate, apparently of the same material as the stairs. One is propped open, the metal folding in on itself and leaving the archway accessible, while the other is closed off; the hallway beyond is dark, as is the unbarred hall. Between the two archways is a curious looking machine, with flashing lights and a myriad of buttons on the front, worn from use.

The walls of the cafe are far from bare, some areas cluttered with archaic paper photographs, some with presentation boards not unlike the ones found in Starfleet’s classrooms. There is art too, signs painted on wood, twists of metal, and one piece in particular that catches Spock’s eye; a set of Vulcan bells, the hexagonal frame hanging from two hooks, bells shining.

“Order up!” Jim calls, drawing Spock away from speculating further, and he suppresses a physical reaction of startlement.

Turning to face Jim, his breath catches at the human's smile. The look is warm and somehow teasing at the same time, without feeling belittling.

Today Jim is wearing khaki slacks and a billowing collared white shirt, the unbuttoned neckline revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his collar bones as he moves; upon closer inspection, Spock notices that there are tiny blue… sharks, or at least an attempt to resemble a shark, embroidered along the open V. 

He has never been so distracted by an article of clothing before.

“Give it a shot, tell me what you think.” Jim insists, sliding the glass closer to Spock’s edge of the counter and snapping the Vulcan from his staring. The liquid inside is a foggy yellow color at the top, and oddly purple at the bottom. There is a sprig of Earth's lavendula garnishing the glass, as well as a single slice of some citrus fruit, trapped beneath two large cubes of ice. 

Picking up the glass, Spock sniffs at the concoction, aware of Jim’s watchful stare and trying not to be distracted by the exotic blue of his eyes.

The lemonade is tart, the flavor somehow dry and Spock is surprised to recognize it.

“Sash-savas.” Spock identifies the citrus fruit native to his home planet, and Jim’s smile grows wider as he slaps the counter in apparent triumph.

“Yep! I keep a couple on hand for the Vulcans that come through here, since it’s way too acidic for humans.” Jim explains as he moves from behind the counter and out into the dining area. He begins pulling chairs from the table tops and setting them on the floor, lining each up neatly to the table edge. 

Vulcans? Frequenting a cafe in San Francisco? 

While it was not unheard of for his people to leave their home planet, Spock found it hard to believe that the loud and bustling human city would have been most Vulcan’s first choice of locale.

Spock takes another drink. The flavor is not at all what a human would find palatable, but Spock finds himself enjoying it immensely.

“Your attempt has succeeded.” Spock announces, taking another sip before setting the glass down on the countertop and moving to join Jim in his task without a second thought.

“My what?” Jim asks, doing a double take as Spock takes down a chair and aligns it to the one Jim has just finished placing.

“You have ‘surprised me’, as advertised.” Spock clarified, rounding the table and grabbing the next chair.

“Oh. Good.”

☕

Jim is used to opening the cafe by himself, since Bones functions best on eight hours of sleep, and an early lifestyle of rising with the sun always has Jim waking up first; plus, the cafe is his baby. Working with Spock is… nice. Very nice, and not just because it makes opening go much quicker; the view is fantastic as well.

The tailored gray material of Spock’s professor’s uniform is obviously Starfleet issue, and therefore made as much for functionality as it is for aesthetics. The ease with which Spock flips the chairs, lining them up to the table the way Jim likes, is far more entrancing than any mundane task like this has a right to be.

The bell tinkles over the door, and the first wave of early birds stumbles in. Judging by their rumpled Cadet reds and the haunted looks in their eyes, it’s either a very late night study group that just woke up, or these kids haven’t slept yet at all.

Not that they’re that much younger than Jim himself. But Bones is rubbing off on him, and every new batch of Cadets seems younger than the last.

“Mendez! Ch'kahliss! Holt!” Jim calls a happy greeting as the trio shuffle to the counter and give him half hearted waves in return.

“Duty calls.” Jim tells his Vulcan helper, slapping him on the back in thanks without thinking. The spark of psychic something tingles his palms again, but this time it’s more contained; like skipping a river rock across the edge of his awareness, instead of lobbing a boulder in for the biggest splash possible.

The pair gasp in unison, and Spock quickly steps out of Jim’s reach.

Disappointment rears its ugly head, but Jim ruthlessly smothers the feeling and approaches the counter, focussing on his duty to his patrons instead of the whatever-that-was between him and Spock.

“How can I assist you three in your quest for excellence this morning?” Jim chirps, easily slipping into a customer service role.

Taking their orders and clearing away the mess from cutting up the sash-shavas, Jim settles himself by focusing on the mundane task of preparing their drinks. Watching the three take their seats against the bench wall, the Andorian folding his head and seemingly dropping off to sleep right then and there, has him biting back a smile.

He catches Spock staring at him, sipping his lemonade as the Vulcan sits on the same stool that Jim had been deposited on last night. Cheeks warming at the sudden scrutiny, Jim focuses on preparing the drinks, taking comfort in the practiced motions of pouring, steaming, and stirring the various concoctions.

Dropping them off at the table to a chorus of worshipful thanks, Jim leaves the three to their espresso and gives Spock a wide berth on his way back past, careful to avoid brushing against the Vulcan. He knows they don’t like being touched by strangers, and is kicking himself for the slip up.

Could be worse though. At least he’s managed to stay on his own two feet for this whole meeting.

So far, at least.

☕

Spock has barely recovered from Jim’s touch to his shoulders, still reeling that he could feel the human’s mental presence through two layers of clothing, when Jim catches him entirely off guard again. The way he moves behind the counter is entrancing; there’s no hesitation about where his materials are stored, and he very clearly knows exactly what he’s doing with the equipment.

Various spouts and nozzles are twisted and turned expertly, Jim’s hands flying over the controls without hardly watching them as he deftly plucks three cups from a metal storage sleeve. The fact that Jim is making these drinks from scratch, rather than utilizing the replicator installed on the wall nearby, is a curiosity that pales in comparison to Spock’s appreciation for Jim’s obvious expertise in his craft.

His hands move with a confidence and certainty that make Spock’s mouth water in an entirely unfamiliar way, and he has to take a drink of his dwindling lemonade to keep from licking his lips. 

The sash-shavas bites into his tongue, drawing his attention back to his drink and breaking his stare. When he looks up next, Jim is gone, delivering the drinks. He skirts around Spock, maintaining a careful distance, and the Vulcan acknowledges his twinge of disappointment even as he is grateful to be spared the touch. 

He has to review tomorrow’s lecture and has lab time scheduled after this unexpected early morning venture, and he doubts he will have time to meditate again before they start.

“You are quite skilled at this.” he says aloud, as Jim begins wiping down the equipment.

“Lots of practice.” Jim demures, and Spock can’t help but notice that Jim is avoiding direct eye contact. 

“You are a barista and a tutor then?” Spock tries again, silently urging Jim to look at him, even as he recognizes that the results could be less than favorable; he has frozen under that stare more than once now. 

“Well, I don’t know if tutor is the right word.” Jim waves a hand dismissively, the dishrag mimicking a white flag of surrender from the darker days of Earth’s history. “I just help out a little when the Cadets have questions on the topics I’m… familiar with.”

“And you are ‘familiar’ with advanced xenolinguistics?” Spock asks, aware that his monotone has taken on what Pike called ‘a tone that’s drier than Vulcan’s Forge’.

“Among other things.” Jim replies, and he finally looks up at Spock, giving him another wink. 

The most curious sensation of fluttering shakes the Vulcan in his core, and he breaks eye contact, pressing his now empty glass across the countertop.

The bell tinkles again, signaling the arrival of more customers, and Jim calls a greeting to these ones by name as well before turning back to Spock.

“I find myself intrigued about these ‘other topics’ of interest to you, and would welcome further discussions if you are amenable.” Spock asks, hardly believing himself. He just has so many questions about Jim, and if satisfying his curiosity could help lessen the strange draw he feels for this attractive individual, perhaps his focus could return to the more pressing matters in life.

Classes. Labs. His upcoming assignment to Starfleet’s flagship.

“I could be amenable to that.” Jim chuckles, and his cheeks are turning pink again in that hypnotic fashion, eyes averted from Spock’s own. 

“May I return-”

“At a later date and under more favorable terms?” Jim finished with a teasing grin, echoing Spock’s request from the night before. “Yes, Professor. Of course you can.”

“Spock.”

Jim’s thick eyebrows twitch upwards in question.

“Please call me by my given name. You are not a Cadet, and as such are not beholden to the formalities of the academy.” Spock clarifies. 

He intends it as a means of increasing their familiarity and ease with each other, but the briefest flash of hurt in Jim’s eyes leaves Spock mentally scrambling, reevaluating his statement for the source of unintended slight.

The look fades quickly though, replaced with a beaming smile.

“Okay then, Spock. I’ll see you when I see you.”

☕

Spock spends the rest of the day experiencing, for the first time, the oddity that is a ‘frequency illusion’. He’d been aware of the Lazy Daisy before, in that with his sensitive hearing, he’d heard students discuss the locale more than once. But now, it seemed evidence of the popular cafe was popping up every time the Vulcan turned around.

PADD’s and water receptacles with disturbingly anthropomorphic daisy stickers, bearing toothy grins and the letters TLD in white. Circular buttons in bright yellow, attached to satchel straps with the Lazy Daisy shop name in the same curling font as the front door, usually accompanied with an icon; a chess piece, a sword, a leather bound book.

Over the course of the day these things, once merely relegated to background visual clutter, catch Spock’s eye on fourteen separate occasions. Clearly, the cafe is far more popular amongst the student body than Spock had initially assumed. 

It is not just the human Cadets sporting these adornments either; besides the Andorian he spots for the second time that day, Spock also finds the pieces attached to no less than five Federation species. The bearers are rarely alone, instead travelling in flocks or cliques with humans, speaking animatedly with one another in an openly friendly manner.

Curious.

His own Cadet years at the Academy had been mentally engaging, as no amount of study in the Vulcan learning pods could have prepared him for a largely human education. Adapting to an entirely new methodology of teaching, one teacher for a large group of students as opposed to a solitary and self driven curricular, had left Spock little time to develop social circles. 

His relationship with Christopher Pike, his Academy assigned mentor, had been the closest thing that Spock could equate to a friendship in the human sense. His mother had expressed concern over his lack of social bonds in the human definition of the word, but the general friendliness of the people around him was such a stark contrast from the isolation of his Vulcan peers that he’d hardly felt the need to develop anything deeper.

In what his mother might refer to as a ‘fit of whimsy’, Spock wondered how different his experience might have been if he’d had access to a unifying locale such as the Lazy Daisy appeared to be. He shoved the thought away though, focussing instead on gratitude that the nun-human Cadets had someplace to gather and form social connections with their human peers.

Each instance of spotting the Lazy Daisy accessories turned Spock’s mind back to his limited experiences at the cafe, and the intriguing barista he’d encountered there. It had an unexpected effect on his productivity levels throughout the day, as his faultless Vulcan memory replayed one particular sound bite on a constant repeat; Jim’s utterance of his name. 

Spock.

It was his name, the oldest word he knew and yet the sound of it falling from Jim’s lips gave the word an exciting new purpose; of which Spock was as yet uncertain, but the potential was intriguing to his scientific mind.

Jim was clearly intelligent, if he was truly running the cafe on his own and tutoring Academy Cadets simultaneously. 

He appears physically fit, distractingly so.

He is personable, and clearly has no compunctions against alien relations. 

Starfleet seemed like a perfect fit for someone like him.

So why wasn’t Jim enrolled or enlisted? And how could Starfleet possibly be missing this gem of a recruit, to borrow the human phrase, right under their very nose?

Chapter Text

“Just me!” Leo called when he got home, shouldering the old wooden door open and glaring at the wall where there had been hooks the day before. Now, instead of someplace to hang his coat and medkit, there were chalk marks spelling out ‘window? BIG?’.

“I thought I told you to take it easy for a few days? That cold nearly killed you.” Leo grouched, directing his ire at the hammock strung up in the corner, though it more resembled a floating arc of blankets and pillows at this point.

“I am.” Jim replied absently, dropping one PADD and plucking another from somewhere in his nest.

He was still too thin for Leo’s liking, but Jim looked leaps and bounds improved over the wretch of a boy he’d picked up in Iowa; even if a simple cold really had almost punched his ticket yesterday. He’d almost called off of his orientation training at Starfleet medical to stay home and supervise the kids' recovery, but Jim had promised to rest.

“What’s with the wall then?” Leo asked, throwing his things on the bar top; at least it was relatively clean at the moment, just some sawdust and a box of broken chalk pieces marring the butcher block surface.

Pulling out his medi-scanner, Leo picked his way across the room, mindful of the piles of construction material, mounds of dusty plaster, and the ominous sag in the floor that squished a little too concerningly to be safely walked over; this was marked with chalk too, a large wobble of a circle with the word ‘FIX’ scrawled in the middle. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the one window that wasn’t boarded up, catching on the dust he kicked up along the way.

Jim switched PADDs again, snorting derisively at what he found there.

That he wasn’t watching Leo’s every move was a testament to how far they’d come.

And lord, what a bumpy road that was proving to be.

Jim still seemed more like a flight risk or a feral barn cat some days, even as he was settling in, slowly but surely. Kid could be sweet as a kitten when his guard wasn’t up, and smart as a whip besides.

“I sat on a stool while I worked.” Jim huffed, dropping the PADD with a satisfied grin as Leo arrived at his bedside. 

Hammock-side, whatever.

Running the medi-scanner over Jim, it began to beep in distress. Frowning, Leo adjusted it to the baseline profile he’d had to design specifically for Jim’s unique physiology; the scanner settled, but the readouts still weren’t at what passed as okay for the kid.

“Riiiight.” Leo drawled, disbelieving but distracted by the scanner. Kid needed fluids, and a few days of real rest, but he’d live.

Stars knew he was stubborn enough.

“So what are you playin’ at here while you ‘rest’?” Leo asked, tucking the scanner away and meeting Jim’s eyes.

Jim blinked innocently at him, fluttering those too long lashes before grinning like a cat in the cream.

“Starfleet entrance exams.”

Leo laughed.

Jim’s grin didn’t waver.

“Shit. You serious?”

“I know I can’t actually join up. But I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Jim explained, piling the PADD’s into a neat stack and suddenly avoiding Leo’s eyes. “Y’know, for shits and giggles.”

“And?” Leo pressed. “Do I even wanna know how you managed to get past enrollment without, y’know, a full name?”

It had been an ongoing ‘discussion’; Jim refused to divulge his last name, if he even had one. Leo wasn’t entirely convinced the kid hadn’t sprung, half grown, from a cabbage patch. Jim had had no medical profile to speak of either, not until Leo had started one for him under the moniker ‘Jim Doe’ as a placeholder.

“Uh.”

Color was flooding into Jim’s cheeks now, a flush of embarrassment that was similar enough to his fever flush to have Leo’s fingers twitching for his scanner.

“I could bypass most of it.” Jim mumbled, picking at a loose string on one of the quilts that Leo’s Ma had sent their way. “But I couldn’t get into the system without at least a first and last name.”

Leo waved his hand in a hurry-up motion.

“So I put McCoy, and I can change it later if you don’t want me using-” Jim rattled off in a rush, and he looked so damn vulnerable as he cast a fearful look up at Leo.

“It’s fine.” Leo croaked out, the sudden tightness in his throat strangling the words as they escaped.

Jim’s eyes dropped to the scanner that was now held in Leo’s white knuckled grip.

A whole herd of emotions was running the gamut in Leo’s chest, but the curl of Jim’s posture, as if bracing himself for rejection, shook him into action. Forcing his fingers to relax, he thumbed at the controls on the scanner. 

“It’s-” Leo cleared his throat. “It’s fine, ‘course it’s alright. You’re sure stubborn enough to be a McCoy, no denyin’ that.”

The shuddering exhale of relief that whooshed out of the kid’s body was heartbreaking; a reminder that Leo still had big enough pieces of a heart to be stepped on. 

Jim was helping with fixing that, more than he’d probably ever know.

“Okay.” Jim whispered, still not meeting Leo’s eyes. “Thanks.”

They both jumped as all three PADD’s chimed an alert at the same time.

Jim splayed them out and hurriedly punched in his passwords.

“Huh.” he huffed in amusement.

“Well?”

The smile Jim turned up at him then was bright enough to light the entirety of the dusty old building.

“Full marks.”

☕

Tuesday, Spring 2254

Present Day

Christopher Pike didn’t believe in ghosts, per se; but that doesn’t rule out the thought that he’s being haunted. 

And yet here he was, on a fine spring morning, trucking his way across campus; hunting ghosts.

Maybe hunting wasn’t the best word to describe ‘filling his recruitment quota’, but as elusive as this particular recruit was, it sure felt like a hunt. Years had passed since his ghosts’ profile had shown up in his inbox, flagged as urgent and demanding his immediate attention.

A remote application had been filed for Starfleet entry, and the scores had been… unprecedented. Off the charts, in all three categories; IQ, EQ, and a PPA score that had broken records that had been standing for decades.

Chris had immediately cancelled his evening plans and gone to meet this promising individual. 

Arriving at the listed home address and finding an abandoned and boarded up building had been… distressing. Adversity could be a breeding ground for greatness but there were, thankfully, hardly opportunities for it anymore; at least in Federation spaces. Basic needs were met for everyone, from healthcare to food and education.

So either his promising young recruit had somehow slipped through a system that was specifically designed to prevent such a thing from happening-

Or the application had been faked.

He’d pounded on the door anyway, or at least the boards that looked like they could be a door. 

But there had been no response.

Disappointed, but not surprised, Pike had returned to his regularly scheduled evening and dropped the application into the ‘false positive’ file. Then he’d gone about his life, hardly thinking of the name James McCoy again.

Until he’d run into a Doctor McCoy at Starfleet medical, almost a year later. A grumpy young thing that had rolled his eyes at Chris in a show of insubordination that he hadn’t seen since he’d earned his Captain pips. And then he’d promptly been shooed out of the doctor’s office, with pointed instructions to ‘take it up with Jim, I’m busy’ and directions to the cafe across the street.

A cafe that was coming into view now, yellow dags flapping in the coastal breeze coming in off the bay.

His first interaction with Jim had been perplexing.

Chris couldn’t understand how Jim had aced an exam that most spent years preparing for, only to dismiss his impressive score with such a nonchalant attitude. He’d been loudly and utterly uninterested in joining Starfleet.

But Pike was pretty sure he had this kids number; he may be young, and maybe he had some issues, but Chris had seen the wistful look in Jim’s eyes.

He wanted that kid in Starfleet, and Jim, though he might deny it, wanted it too.

But he’d rebuffed Pike, time and time again, and it had driven the Captain up the wall; how Jim could help Cadets turn their grades around, how he’d built a community not at all unlike a starship’s crew, balancing morale and performance while wearing a cafe apron…

He’d made a few more overtures at the kid, but he was about as stubborn as a mule and insisted he didn’t want it.

Then Chris had been shipped out, and it had bought the kid an additional few years to mull it over. Maybe now, he’d have changed his mind and be ready-

But Pike reined in that hope before it grew too big for its britches.

Because the last couple of times he’d tried to approach Jim, the kid, now hardly a kid anymore but a vibrant young man, had been… mysteriously absent.

Suspiciously so.

Sidling up to the glass to look inside the building that was about as far from the dilapidated wreck it had been a few years ago as could be, Chris clocked the activity within.

A dozen or more Cadets were scattered about the large dining room, clustered in packs of three or four, mixed in with a handful of civilians and staff from the nearby medical building. An Orion with flaming red hair was behind the counter of the cafe, animatedly chatting with a starstruck looking Cadet.

But there was no Jim in sight.

Maybe he was just in the back?

Chris readied himself, mentally running over his arguments that he’d like to present in an attempt to change the kids mind, and opened the glass door.

The bell tinkled over his head, announcing his entrance, and while a few heads turned his way, most remained engrossed in their drinks and discussions.

“Hi Chris!” the woman behind the counter gushed.

Cadet Gaila Vro very rarely let such minor things as rank and seniority stop her from being just as friendly as she wanted, and while some of the staff at the academy looked down their noses at her attitude, Chris found it quite refreshing. This was no cowering cadet, intimidated by his stripes.

“Gaila.” he bowed his head in greeting, casting his eyes about once more for his elusive ghost. “Jim in today?”

“-no time to count what I'm worth, 'cause I just left the planet Earth-”

The music playing over the speakers, originating from the old jukebox that took up a portion of the wall on the far side of the cafe, caught Chris’s attention.

He knew the answer before the words left her mouth, as Gaila gave him a pitying smile.

“Oh! Sorry, you just missed him!” she pouted. “I can get you a drink or something though, as long as it’s pretty basic. I’m still learning the ropes back here.”

She leveled a saucy wink at him as she did a little shimmy to show off her bright yellow apron, but Chris’s attention was suddenly focussed on the jukebox.

“Sure, I’ll take a-” glancing at the menu, Chris snorted to himself at the options. “-whatever a ‘surprise me’ is. Please.”

“Sure thing!” Gaila chirped, setting to work and returning to her conversation.

Chris made his way around the seating area, nodding politely at the cadets he recognized, as he approached the jukebox with growing suspicion.

“-I don't know, I don't know-”

The song was nearly finished now, the sound rounding into a final crescendo.

“-I don't know where I'm a-gonna go when the volcano blows-”

He’d made a remark, the first time he’d visited Jim at the cafe, about the selection of music playing. At the time, it had been a song he recognized from visiting his grandparents as a child, something about a cheeseburger in paradise. 

And the last time he’d tried to catch Jim at work, another song from that same artist had been playing; that one about being the son of a sailor.

Staring into the top case of the jukebox and its myriad of album options, dozens upon dozens of them, there was absolutely no way it was a coincidence.

The kid had rigged an alarm, a warning system, for when Chris was coming; in the form of playing music from a specific set.

Chris couldn’t decide if he was outraged or impressed.

Staring down at the machine as it rolled into the next song, Chris sighed in begrudging respect as Gaila skipped over with his drink.

He’d have to find some other way to make his case with Jim.

Hunting ghosts, indeed.

Chapter Text

Spock’s initial plans for the evening had been to seek Jim out at the Lazy Daisy and see if he might be interested in taking a walk. The weather was particularly balmy for a spring day, and he was curious to see how Jim acted outside of his work environment.

He’d been distracted all day, working his way through his lecture and office hours with only a fraction of the attention he usually paid to his duties. His mind was nearly buzzing in excitement with questions about Jim, and each time he managed to focus himself back on his work, some token bearing the golden TLD would inevitably catch his eye from one of his students belongings, and his mind was off task all over again.

It was incredibly distracting.

There were a myriad of things that Spock should be focussing on, not the least of which being his duties as a professor. 

His mothers upcoming quarterly visit.

The end of the winter semester and impending final exams.

His impending rumored assignment to the Enterprise, a newly minted ship of the line that was being lauded as Starfleet's next flagship.

Realistically, he’d never had less time, to borrow the human colloquialism, to pursue an interest in one lone individual.

Let alone a romantic interest.

It had taken the Vulcan only a single meditation session after their second meeting to realize that yes, his interest in Jim was very much romantically inclined. Cursory research of his unanticipated physical reactions to Jim’s very presence had confirmed his theory, and now Spock was eager to begin the information gathering stage of this new development.

Because regardless of the lack of logic in choosing now to find a prospective mate, this was the one aspect of Vulcan culture where logic did not and could not reign supreme. At least, not beyond the obvious logic in immediately pursuing a potential partner that was as compatible as he suspected he and Jim to be.

The few touches they’d exchanged, and the heat of Jim’s consciousness that pressed against Spock’s mental defenses like an overly affectionate feline, had him more than convinced of their compatibility.

And more than a little distracted, as well, as questions buzzed circles in his mind.

He would first need to ascertain if Jim was even interested in a romantic liaison; perhaps he was already committed to one. 

This thought caused an unpleasant roiling in Spock’s torso, and he shied away from the very idea of it; though it would hardly be surprising, as appealing as Jim was, for him to already have been paired up.

Or perhaps it would be best to spend time with Jim, ascertain if they had similar interests beyond their mental compatibility. Being mentally tied to a person with whom he shared zero similar interests was a mildly horrifying thought, regardless of telepathic harmony.

Unnecessarily checking the time on his computer's chronometer to his own internal time sense, Spock was disappointed to confirm that there were still eighteen minutes left in his open office hours. Adamantly tamping down on the irrational desire to simply close his office up early and leave immediately to seek out Jim, Spock settled himself in at an attempt to perhaps get in a short meditation before leaving. 

His evening visit to the cafe would simply have to wait.

☕

Leo’s not sure why he signed up for this torture week after week, but it probably had something to do with blue eyes; either Jim’s puppy eyes, or the nearly matching set on Gaila. Given that ‘hot yoga’ had been Gaila’s idea, and Jim was an absolute pushover for anyone in his study buddy cult, either seemed likely.

And that’s why he’s here, rolling up a yoga mat and sweating from every pore in his body as the class disperses and someone, probably Jim, kicks on the Daisy’s old swamp coolers to try and bring the temperature of the room down.

Patrons both cadet and civilian alike in various states of athletic dress, start hauling tables and chairs back to their rightful places, and Leo’s at least grateful for that. 

Regardless of which study group they're in, all of the Daisy’s patrons respond quickly and eagerly to even the slightest hint of direction from Jim. All he’d had to do the first time they’d hosted this hot mess of a workout lesson was ask and every single person present had moved to line things up to Jim’s exacting standards.

The bell tinkled as someone wandered in, and Leo paused mid swipe of his brow to check who it was. Most of the patrons that attended Gaila’s class would linger to socialize for a bit before taking off, and anybody coming in this late was way too late to catch the class.

And boy howdy, the professor standing in the doorway wearing his full uniform grays certainly wasn’t dressed for hot yoga.

Leo barely had time to clock the pointed ears and realize this must be Spock, Jim’s Vulcan friend, before the professor turned an alarming shade of green, freezing in place.

Immediately concerned for the Vulcan’s wellbeing, as stars only knew it couldn’t be the heat getting to the desert bred Vulcan, Leo turned to see what Spock was looking at.

McCoy wasn’t the only one that was sweaty; that was the whole point of hot yoga, after all.

And sure enough, there was Jim, peeling up his tank top to wipe the sweat from his face; exposing his bare midriff and the well toned muscles beneath. One of his cadet groupies said something to make Jim laugh, and he visibly winced as sweat ran into his eye. A shirtless Jim was a sight Leo was far from being a stranger to, but the effect it had on Spock was immediate and obvious.

Rolling his eyes and turning back to look at the Vulcan, Leo just barely catches the motion of the professor's tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he stared intently at Jim.

Stars, Jim wasn’t kidding, there was something practically tangible in the air between those two.

Vibes, indeed.

Leo yelped in surprise as something solid slammed into his back, a cheerful, “Leeeoooo! I’m so glad you came this week!”

Gaila Vro was a storm in a shotglass, and Leo was far from immune to her joyous nature. As he turned to face his assailant and got a face full of red curls for his efforts, Leo heard the bell tinkle again and watched Jim’s eyes dart towards the door as he caught the sound this time.

But Spock had already vanished.

Chapter Text

The bell tinkles a greeting as someone walks in, and Jim pries his eyes up from the PADD he’s reading. It’s someone he doesn’t recognize, at least by name. But he can read ‘new and confused’ from a mile away, regardless of whatever planet a person is from.

The latest copy of Warp & Bolts: Engineering Weekly will just have to wait.

Tail tip twitching ever so slightly and eyes wide, the Caitian steps into the cafe and eyes the bell with surprise. He’s got tabby striped fur and is thicker in the middle than the other Caitians that Jim’s met from the academy, but his gold eyes are alert and he latches on to Jim’s approach the moment that he rounds the counter to get to the business side.

It’s a quiet day at the Daisy, but there’s still nearly a dozen people in here; a small group from ‘fleet medical, a handful of cadets between classes, and a pair of Academy teachers that are Thursday regulars.

“Hey! Welcome to the Lazy Daisy!” Jim says with a smile, propping his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. “First time?”

The Caitian approaches with an air of someone relieved to have been given some sort of direction, hitching his satchel higher on his shoulder. It’s a ‘fleet branded bag, the kind they hand out at orientation because they know you’ll be handed more things than you could possibly carry.

“I, uh. Yes.” he mumbles. The words are quiet and rumbly, but his tone is higher than Jim expected. He must be pretty young. “I was told that I should stop here, as part of my orientation?”

“Oh? By the Academy?” Jim prods. He’s not officially associated with any part of Starfleet, but if he can sus out who this kid already knows and feels comfortable listening to, it’ll help get to know him better.

“Well, uhm.” the Caitian shifted in place, lifting first one foot and then the other, tail beginning to lash. “There was an Orion lady, and she-”

Ah.

“That’s probably Gaila. Big red curls, blue eyes, kinda bossy?” Jim asked sympathetically. 

The boy nodded eagerly. “Very bossy. But nice!” he hurried to add.

“Well if you ran into a Gaila, then you must be on the Engineering track, right?” Jim waved the Caitian over towards the stools that lined the countertop. “I’m Jim, what’s your name?”

He hoped it didn’t have too many R’s. Jim was terrible at rolling them correctly for Caitian pronunciation.

“Oh, I’m H’Roran.” the boy said.

Jim sighed internally. Of course.

“Well, H’Roran,” he replied, mangling the pronunciation but making the newcomer smile at his attempt, “why don’t you pick something off the menu and tell me about yourself? You’re looking at a spring start, right?”

H’Roran perched on one stool and dropped his satchel on the next closest one, huffing when he caught the strap on one of his ears and flipped it inside out.

Jim pretended not to see, but turned instead to wave at the chalkboard wall scrawled with drink options.

It was a good thing that Gaila thought the aprons were cute and sometimes asked to work shifts, learning the drinks; she had much nicer hand writing than Jim. Bones was so bad that he wasn’t even allowed near the chalk. Gaila’s loops and swirls were still more legible than McCoy’s doctor scratch, and Jim only had to give it a very thorough proofread to make sure she hadn’t added any… inappropriate iconography to her swirls. Again.

“That’s a lot of options.” H’Roran said softly, eyes going wide as he stared at the literal wall of drink choices. “What’s a… ‘doctor’s orders’?”

Jim smiled and shook his head, “That, is the the side effect of the cafe being owned by an actual doctor. I make most of the drinks by hand so it doesn’t have the same nutrient benefits that using the replicator would. ‘Doctor’s orders’ is a flavorless shot we add in from the replicator that gets you a boost in vitamins, fiber, that sort of thing.”

“You make the drinks by hand?” H’Roran looked surprised. 

Jim beamed.

“It’s kind of my thing, yeah. Want to see how these lovelies work?” Jim asked, patting the machine closest to him, one of the grinders. If H’Roran was anything like every other engineering track hopeful…

Sure enough, the new cadet’s eyes lit up with interest, and Jim got to work. 

☕

An hour later, H’Roran left, tucked neatly under the arm of Cadet Mikael and chatting excitedly about the Warp Basics class syllabus. 

A third year engineering track student that was taking all of her auxiliary courses in command studies, Mikael was the head of the Engineering study group for the Lazy Daisy. Jim had debated whether she’d be too much for the shy seeming H’Roran, but when the Caitian had let slip that he was the youngest of five siblings…

Mikael was the perfect fit; she had younger siblings herself and tended to treat everyone in her study group like family, regardless of species or age. 

H’Roran would start at the academy with an established group of peers and study buddies, and taking the stress of fitting into a new social setting off of his mind means he’ll be able to focus solely on his studies.

That was one of Jim’s favorite parts of the job; taking like minded individuals and giving them something to belong to.

Speaking of which…

Pulling out his comm, Jim fired a message off to Gaila. This time of day, she should be at lunch, if she didn’t get caught up in a project and lose track of time.

Nice work with the Caitian kid, you scared him right to our doorstep.

Wiping down the counter to give his hands something to do while he waited, it was nearly two minutes before Gaila responded, and even then it was just a kissy emoji; indicating she probably had skipped lunch to work on something.

Pulling up the study group listing, Jim selected three other cadets he knew would be in the workshop for an afternoon session.

Somebody feed Gaila, please.

The responses were immediate from two of them, a simple Will do and Copy that left Jim satisfied that Gaila would be taken care of. 

Picking up his PADD and diving back into the article, Jim wondered if Spock had anyone to make sure he was eating…

☕

“What the hell do you mean, ‘he hasn’t been in for a check up’?” McCoy demanded. “In how long?”

Dr. Thornton rolled her eyes and set down her fork. 

“Dr. McCoy, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, Vulcans are incredibly self-sufficient with their health. They’re also very private about their health. So if my patient, who happens to be Vulcan, hasn’t made it to his last three check ups, I’m sure it’s because he’s deemed his physical condition well enough to not warrant the time of day it would take to come in.” she said dryly, very clearly more concerned about getting back to her salad than about her patient’s wellbeing.

Sure enough, she picked her fork up once more and began prodding at the crisp lettuce. 

“Besides, once you’ve had one as a patient yourself, you’ll understand. It’s not exactly a hardship to skip putting up with their holier-than-thou attitudes.” she muttered with clear disdain, picking up her PADD and taking a large and pointed bite from her salad.

“Unbelievable.” Leo cursed, turning and storming back to his office.

Idle curiosity had had him looking into Spock’s medical records that morning, after seeing the Vulcan the night before; not because he was making eyes at Jim, but because there was something that set off warning bells in Leo’s gut. But the man's records were half assed at best; Spock hadn’t been in for even a basic physical in over a year.

If he were active duty on a starship, that would never fly, not in a thousand years. But academy life wasn’t anywhere near as demanding, and as such was a lot more lax on the frequency of visits.

Something about Spock’s appearance the night before though had rubbed Leo the wrong way. He didn’t know what, but there was something off about that Vulcan; he was sure of it. 

And looking at labs from over a year ago wasn’t going to help him figure it out, either.

It took only a moment for Leo to dismiss the repercussions of potentially pissing off Dr. Thornton. She probably wouldn’t even care that he was hijacking one of her patients.

If she even noticed.

Snorting in derision, McCoy tapped out the commands onto his PADD and sent off the patient transfer request.

Chapter Text

Two hours after they leave the diner, the coffee gives up the ghost; the first time the hover truck offers to drive in automatic mode, Leo dismisses the alert with aggression.

The second time it pops up, Leo’s veered over the center line; he catches Jim’s weary, bloodshot eyes staring unseeing at the same notification, and he calls it quits.

Patting blindly at the seat between them, Leo finds his PADD and tosses it into the kids lap. 

Jim flinches, hard.

An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but the ensuing fierce look the kid throws at him nips it right in the bud.

“See if you can find us a place to crash.” he asks instead, voice gravelly from disuse.

Jim’s not one for small talk apparently, and Leo hasn’t been much for conversation anyway.

“Just keep going like you have been, you’ll find a crash soon enough.” Jim mutters, but he picks up the PADD and gets to work.

Leo would laugh if he weren’t so damned tired.

“-I met up with a gambler, we were both too tired to sleep-”

Snorting at the radio, Leo can’t help it; he misses his bed; misses the pillows, and the big quilt his Ma gave him as a graduation gift, and he misses Jocelyn’s soft definitely-not-a-snore…

The wheel twitches in his hands as Leo forcibly yanks his mind away from that train of thought.

“There’s a capsule hotel you can sleep at, on the next exit.” Jim pipes up, inadvertently pulling Leo from a depressing spiral of thought.

“We can sleep at.” Leo corrects.

Jim already looks like death walking, he doesn’t need sleep deprivation on top of all of… whatever the hell it is he has going on. 

The kid doesn’t protest out loud, but his shoulders take on a mulish set, and his lips purse so thin they’re nearly see through.

“We’re not gonna share.” Leo huffs. “Capsule hotel, I’ll get you your own cubby.”

“I don’t need one.” Jim insists. “I’ll-”

Even with his eyes on the road, Leo couldn’t possibly miss the way Jim’s gone nearly frantic, looking about the cabin of the truck like it’s hiding the secrets to the universe in its threadbare seatcovers.

“-you got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em-”

“I can sleep in the truck. You don’t have to pay for anything.”

“You know I’m a doctor, right? I got credits to spare kid, and it’ll make me feel better if-”

“I’m not sleeping in a hotel.” Jim interrupts, his voice going high and panicked. “You can let me out right here on the side of the freaking road, but you can’t make me-”

“Stars!” Leo cursed. “Fine! Sleep in the truck and sweat your ass off, see if I care!”

“-know when to walk away; and know when to run-”

What the hell was this kid’s problem?

☕

Coming out of the capsule hotel the next morning, Leo hardly counts himself as rested, but he feels a damn sight better than he did at ass o’clock that morning. Skipping down the exterior stairs of the hotel, he heads straight for the hovertruck.

Something pings like the prolonged whine of a heart monitor at the very edge of his consciousness, ringing in Leo’s mind before he makes it halfway there. He spares a moment to acknowledge that he’d probably have caught on quicker if he were sufficiently caffeinated, but his brain catches up to his gut instinct eventually.

The truck windows are clear, not a smear of condensation on them.

Which means no one in the cab is breathing.

With a curse, Leo rushes the truck, slapping into the side of the rig and yanking open the passengers side door.

No Jim.

There’s a moment, just the briefest second, where a part of him is relieved. If the kid pulled a runner, he’s no longer Leo’s problem.

The gut wrenching guilt that washes over him as the thought registers nearly drives Leo to tears. His Ma would be so ashamed of him right now, if she only knew.

There’s a shift of gravel nearby, and Leo nearly punches his ticket on the truck door when he whips his head around to find the source of the sound.

A flash of silver, followed by a faded canary yellow, catches Leo’s eye on the other side of the truck; Jim popping up like the world's most obstinate daisy. His baby blues are blinking awake still, clearly disoriented but ready to move anyway.

The shuddering sigh Leo lets out, as he drops his head in relief against the truck with a thump, comes from his very toes.

“What?” Jim demands with a croak; and how the kid can barely be standing and sound like he’s ready to throw hands is absolutely beyond Leo’s uncaffeinated comprehension. 

Leo shakes his head and pulls the truck door open again, getting inside and starting the damn thing up again.

Jim pulls his door open too, and clambers in. He drags an old space blanket in with him, the silver foil texture crinkling obnoxiously loud to Leo’s aggravated senses. The oversized yellow hoodie he’s practically swimming in has the sleeves tucked in like mittens, gripping the blanket like a sock puppets mouth.

“Where the hell did you even find that old thing? And what’s wrong with the blanket in the backseat?” 

The quilt in the backseat was small, sure, basically an old lap blanket. 

But hell, Jim was small; that blanket should’ve been plenty big enough for him.

“Glovebox. And it was itchy.” Jim mutters, and the way he’s refusing to look Leo in the eye, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out it was a lie.

“Whatever.” Leo huffs, throwing the truck in gear and heading back for the highway.

There's a drive through replicator coffee in his future, and for the sake of every living being in a quarter mile radius, it had better be the near future.

Frowning as something occurs to him, McCoy scowls over at the kid trying to tame his bedhead in the visor mirror.

“Were you sleeping under the truck?”

☕

“Y’know, we got two more days of driving ahead of us.” Leo throws out there, an hour and two large coffees later. “You plan to spend the whole ride brooding in awkward silence, or what?”

Jim’s eyelids are drooping for probably the hundredth time that morning, but the kid is stubborn as a mule and refuses to get any shut eye.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks, suddenly on edge and hiding it poorly. Bundled in that tent of a sweater as he is, it’s still blatantly obvious when he hikes his shoulders up about his ears and looks at Leo like he’s waiting for the driver to take a swing at him.

“We don’t have to talk about nothin’, not in particular. But it’s damn boring out here with only the radio for company.” Leo grouches, putting his eyes back on the road where they belong; they’re far from the only travellers on the I-80 at this point, even as early as it is. 

“Do you-” Jim’s face twists into an awkward grimace. “Uh. I guess, what are you going to California for?”

That’s… a start. At least.

“Starfleet.” Leo says with a shrug. “Though my Ma’s still hopin’ I come to my senses and come home.”

“Why would you wanna go to Starfleet?” Jim scoffs. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

Leo nearly laughs out loud; of course Jim wants to pick a fight.

“The hell do you have against Starfleet?” Leo asks instead, incredulous. “Kid your age oughta have recruitment posters and, what, a favorite ship or whatever.”

At least, Leo’s little cousins did. He was pretty sure he’d been too busy mooning over Jocelyn Leland and hoping her older brother didn’t find out to care too much about Starfleet himself as a teen.

“Yeah, no.” Jim huffed in disgust, in the way that only terribly misunderstood teenagers can. 

“Huh.” Leo grunted. “Well, you don’t like Starfleet. That’s fine. What do you like then? Sports? Cars? You don’t strike me as bein’ terribly keen on fashion sense.”

Jim almost smiled at that, and Leo was surprised at his own reaction to the look; like something warm, fuzzy, and possibly venomous was spreading through his chest.

“I don’t know what I like anymore.” Jim murmured in response, the not-smile slipping into a puzzled frown as he stared out the passengers side window. “I’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“So I’m goin’ to California for Starfleet, and you’re going there for Stars only know why.” Leo confirmed dryly. “We make quite the pair. You got any plans for where you’re gonna stay?”

Jim’s sullen silence was pretty damn telling that he did not.

“My family has an old building, somewhere in San Francisco, near the Academy.” Leo said, as much to fill the silence as to keep the conversation going. “Had a great-aunt that used to run a shopfront out there, long time ago. Ma figures I can stay there until the Academy gets me situated.”

Jim nodded belatedly, probably catching Leo’s reflection in the window.

“We’re supposed to be conversatin’.” Leo reminded him, tone gone waspish as the silence dragged on.

With a huff, Jim turned in his seat to face him. Another mile dragged by before he spoke.

“I don’t think you should join Starfleet.” Jim said, though his firm tone was made far less intimidating by the puppy eyes he was pinning Leo with. 

He couldn’t even look at the kid; just a quick glance had some hindbrain instinct scrambling to cave and give him whatever he wanted.

Those baby blues were lethal.

Leo swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the steering wheel, preparing to hear every argument his Ma had already made.

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“‘Cause you’d be wasted there!” Jim scoffed. “They’ll stick you on some starship and you’d spend the rest of your career patching up idiots that shot themselves with their own phaser, or ate something they were told not to, or fixing up some dumbass who checked if the warp drive was up and running by sticking a fork in it.”

Leo opened his mouth to protest, but apparently Jim wasn’t done.

“I looked you up, y’know.” he continued. “You graduated top of your class from college when you were seventeen, med school by the time you were twenty. You found cures for diseases I can’t even pronounce at summer camp when you were younger than me!”

“That was just dumb luck!” Leo snorted, making a mental note of Jim’s comment; he’d been thirteen the summer he’d gone to Fulton County’s Peach STEM camp.

“No, it was you, because you’re, like, super smart for a guy who can’t pop his own hood-”

Which was cruel, but probably meant that Jim had found the open tab on his PADD for the damn truck's operating manual.

“-and going off to play medic on a starship, instead of making a bunch of new discoveries in a lab and actually helping people, it’s a waste.” Tirade apparently finished, Jim collapsed back into his seat, breathing heavily and sending McCoy’s blood pressure soaring as he tried to assess the kid's health without actively staring.

Shifting uncomfortably behind the wheel, Leo avoided responding by changing lanes around a slow moving farm freighter.

“We’re supposed to be ‘conversatin’” Jim said acerbicly. 

“Ain’t nothin’ you’ve said that I haven’t already heard.” Leo replied with a frown. “And maybe you’ve got a point. But there’s plenty of people out there that can cure diseases, and I don’t exactly have a lot of reasons to stick around, dirtside.”

“But-” Jim protested, much weaker this time.

That last bout must’ve really taken it out of him.

“But what?” Leo prodded after a moment, when it seemed like Jim wasn’t going to continue.

Jim mumbled something, and Leo had to turn the volume down on the radio before he asked, “What was that?”

“You could help people.” Jim said quietly. “Like, really help people. Sick people who didn’t do anything to make themselves sick, or shoot themselves with a phaser. People who really need it.”

And the messed up thing was, Leo already knew without a doubt that as sick as Jim clearly was? He wasn’t just talking about himself.

Leo wasn’t much for manipulation; he had cousins that were real mean with it, though he himself had never picked up the knack. But maybe now was a good time to give it a shot.

“What kind of sicknesses you figure I could help with?” he asked slowly. “What’s out there that you know about and none of the medical journals have sussed out yet, hm?”

He’d barely finished the sentence before he knew Jim was onto him, those shoulders that had slumped down in defeat twitching back up just slightly.

“Maybe something like R-PIES.” Jim muttered. “Or-”

The kid took a deep breath in, before exhaling shakily.

“Maybe something… worse.”

“Like what?” Leo asked immediately, cursing himself for being too quick when Jim seemed to recoil back from the question like a physical threat.

“You know how transporters use quantum-level imaging to move people around, and replicators use molecular-level imaging? And that’s why you can’t recreate a living thing from a replicator?” Jim asked, sounding tentative for the first time since Leo had met him.

“Since I can proudly say I passed third grade engineering, yeah, I’m aware.” Leo said dryly.

He could practically hear Jim’s eyeroll.

“There’s… something in the resequencing process, the way that the atoms rematerialize; it can make people sick.” Jim said cautiously.

Leo’s knee jerk reaction was to dismiss the concern immediately. It sounded like some anti-tech rhetoric from centuries past.

But Jim was trying here, making an honest to goodness effort, and Leo could only at least attempt to match that sincerity.

“Say you’re on to somethin’. What kind of sick are we talkin’?” he asked, playing along.

“Like an allergic reaction. Anything from hives and itchy spots to full on anaphylactic shock.” Jim offered, apparently perking up since Leo hadn’t immediately shut him down.

“What’s the variable? If it causes a reaction at all, what’s changing the intensity of the response?” Leo shot back, gears in his mind rolling over as he truly considered it.

“Method of exposure.” Jim responded immediately. “Maybe a mild reaction for something that’s touching the skin, but a more intense one for something that’s imbibed, like food. And-”

He hesitated.

“Well, go on!” Leo urged, annoyed. “May as well spit it out.”

“Sometimes it’s a different response altogether.” Jim huffed, irritated but refusing to be intimidated. “Anaphylactic for some stuff and cytotoxic for others.”

Leo immediately protested.

“Different reactions to different triggers is one thing, but a different immuno response altogether?”

“It could happen! Studies have shown that airborne-”

“-and dermatitis reactions can vary in the same patient.” Leo agreed reluctantly.

Frowning as he tried to piece the information together, Leo let silence settle in the cab.

If the kid was right, and it was even possible to be allergic to something like that, it sure would be hellish. Almost everything came from a replicator, at least on a starship. Even dirtside, if you had a power supply that could handle it, replication was the way to go for most things.

But what kind of airborne-

“Life support systems.” Leo cursed, smacking the wheel and making Jim jump in his seat. “Almost every single air system in use these days.”

It was a win-win for everybody; nearly every heating, ventilation, and air conditioning unit in modern use was built to take in the air around it for processing. Air went in, was dematerialized down to its bare components, and remade as fresh oxygen to be disbursed in the system. The process ‘harvested’ any foreign contaminants, neutralizing them but also keeping their molecular structures for recycling. And as an added bonus, it kept pollutants out of the air.

But if you were allergic to the very process…

“Stars.” he breathed.

Staggered by the implications, Leo turned an incredulous look on Jim.

Only to be met with a grim stare from his ornery passenger.

Oh.

“Aw, hell.”

Chapter Text

Returning from his Friday morning run, Jim is surprised to catch sight of someone waiting at the front door of the Lazy Daisy. It’s just after four in the morning, and the cafe doesn’t even open for another hour, so Jim trots to the front of the building instead of heading for the back door to get inside.

Standing at parade rest and looking better than anyone really has a right to this early in the morning, Professor Spock watches Jim as he trots up to him.

“Hey.” Jim huffs, his breath coming out in little pants of steam. He can blame the racing heart and shortness of breath on his run, but the butterflies in his stomach are all Spock’s fault.

“Good morning.” Spock said politely, and Jim felt a burst of self consciousness about his outfit. The gray joggers and blue hoodie had seemed perfectly reasonable for a run in the gray and foggy morning, but he’d hardly expected to run into Spock before his first shower of the day. 

“You’re, uh-” Jim momentarily loses his train of thought as he registers what Spock is wearing. It’s the same gray uniform that the Vulcan has been in the last two times they’ve met, but now Spock is wearing a thick jacket over the top; a long and dark wool piece, double breasted and pulled tight to his body. “...early. Are you cold?”

It’s almost infinitesimal, the stiffening of Spock’s posture, but Jim is kind of staring at him so he catches it. 

“San Francisco is significantly colder than Shi’Kahr.” Spock stated, and Jim was reminded that Vulcans couldn’t lie; it did seem like a roundabout way to just say ‘yes’ though.

“Hang on, let me get the doors open, you can warm up inside.”

“I do not wish to impose, I only-”

“You’re not imposing.” Jim huffed, shaking his head with a smile.

As Spock stepped back from the door to make room, Jim jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Actually, you can’t open this door from the outside. I’ll have to go around the back.”

Jim hesitated for only a moment before adding, “You can, uh. You can just follow me?”

Saying nothing, Spock just nodded his acquiescence and followed Jim as he back-tracked around the empty shop that neighbored the Lazy Daisy and led the way to the rear of the building.

In the fashion of the tightly cramped blocks of San Francisco’s earlier years, the large brick building that housed the cafe and Jim’s home backed right up to the building behind it. There was just a narrow alleyway back here, and Jim moved down the ancient cobblestone walkway with practiced ease.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess, we uh, we don’t get company back here very often.” Jim apologized, pulling out a key to unlock the back door. Spock looked intrigued at the use of an archaic metal key, or maybe he thought it was weird that they locked their doors at all, but thankfully he didn’t ask.

The thick wooden door swung open, revealing a short and dark hallway that quickly illuminated once the sensors registered movement. Jim kicked at the pile of shoes by the back door, silently cursing himself for not using the shoe rack they’d replicated but never got around to assembling, despite Bones’s constant reminders.

He could practically hear Bones’s smug ‘I told you so’.

Leading the still silent Vulcan past the mountain of shoes, Jim passed the coat hooks that were overflowing with more hoodies, jackets, and scarves than any two men really needed. He reached to unzip his current hoodie, before remembering that he’d forgone an undershirt that morning, and it really wouldn’t do to flash an Academy instructor.

Coughing to hide his momentary embarrassment, Jim waved Spock after him; the Vulcan followed like a curious shadow, closing the door behind them and eyeing everything with interest.

The hall had two large arched doorways within it, one on either side; the left side leading into a storage room with a rollup door for deliveries through Scotty’s garage, and the right side into a modestly sized industrial kitchen.

Or at least, what had used to be a kitchen.

“Why does the cafe have a medical operating table?” Spock asked slowly, stopping as they passed the kitchen.

Jim winced, stepping back to join the Vulcan.

Waving an arm through the kitchen’s archway to activate the lights, Jim paused to give the curious Vulcan a chance to look. The original cabinets lined the walls, but they didn’t hold flour or cooking supplies; everything medical from suture thread, gauze, and tourniquets filled those drawers. The operating table and bio-bed took up most of the space in the kitchen, as well as an old recliner in the corner, but there was still plenty of space to walk around.

Or be hauled around, in Jim’s case.

“Bones does most of his work across the street at Starfleet medical, but this is his in-home clinic.” Jim said, with deliberate vagueness. If Spock knew that the only patient Bones ever saw here was him, because he couldn’t step foot into Starfleet medical without croaking, he’d probably run for the hills.

Or put Jim under a microscope; he was a science officer, after all.

“Bones?” Spock repeated, his semi-permanent neutral expression furrowing just the tiniest bit.

“Dr. Leonard McCoy.” Jim clarified, “My brother. We live upstairs.”

The furrow vanished and Spock’s eyes snapped away from the kitchen to lock onto Jim’s.

“Dr. McCoy is not your spouse?” he confirmed, pretty brown eyes shining with an almost predatory light.

Jim shiver had nothing to do with the chill that had followed them inside.

“Definitely not.” Jim snorted, cocking his head to lead Spock away from the kitchen.

“Is there not a conflict of interest in having a family member as your primary care physician?” Spock asked, and it was hard to tell if he was just being polite or if he was genuinely curious; his voice had slipped back into the careful monotone that Jim associated with most Vulcans.

“Maybe. But he knows my medical stuff best, and I don’t want anybody else.” Jim said firmly, leading the way out of the short hall and into the cafe proper. 

Even this early in the morning on a gray day, the Lazy Daisy was filled with natural light from the large windows along the back wall and the glass storefront that had been hell to get permits for. 

“Computer, lights to forty percent.” Jim called out, and the overhead lighting sparkled to life.

“You reside here as well?” Spock confirmed, still following Jim as he headed for the counter. Directing the Vulcan to take a seat at one of the stools, Jim filled a pitcher from the sink and topped off the stove top kettle. Pressing his thumbprint to the bio-scanner to activate the gas on the stovetop, Jim pulled down the matches for the pilot light.

Striking the match and turning back to face Spock while the water heated, Jim smiled.

“Yep.”

It felt good to be behind the countertop. Something about Spock made Jim feel off kilter, in a good way, sure; but the familiarity of being right in his element was a balm on Jim’s nerves.

“But I don’t think that’s why you were hanging out as ass o’clock in the morning in front of our cafe.” Jim said pointedly, leaning his elbows on the countertop to face the Vulcan.

Spock’s eyes dropped to stare at Jim's bare chest, revealed by the drooping hoodie, and he took a moment to curse himself for not thinking to hike the zipper up higher.

Too late now.

“On the contrary, I had hoped to catch you during your opening procedures once more in an effort to speak with you uninterrupted.” Spock said softly, blinking and dragging his gaze up to Jim’s to make proper eye contact. “I have questions, some of which have been answered now, only to be immediately replaced with more.”

“Well I’m an open book, Spock. Ask away.” Jim offered with a wink, before pressing on the countertop to stand. Pulling two ceramic mugs out from below the counter, Jim used the opportunity of being out of the Vulcan’s line of sight to surreptitiously zip his hoodie all the way. 

It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he was feeling a little exposed with Spock's intense staring.

Pulling down a jar of tea mix and preparing the cups for when the water was ready gave Jim’s hands something to do while Spock picked his brain.

“I had initially intended to ascertain your arrival time at the cafe each morning, and to seek clarification on the denotation of ‘whenever’ as the posted closing time.” Spock said, and Jim caught him closely watching the way Jim’s hands moved as he worked.

Jim froze momentarily; he hadn’t checked the store front when he’d left for his run. 

“Just how long were you out there? And how come you didn’t just stop by when we opened?” Jim asked, exasperated, holding his hands over the trickle of steam coming off of the kettle to warm them further. 

“The thought had occurred to me.” Spock admitted. “I found myself eager to compile this information though, and as I had no pressing engagements to occupy my time-”

“What about sleep?” Jim teased over his shoulder, pulling the kettle away from the heat as soon as it began to whistle.

“Vulcan’s require significantly less sleep than humans do.” Spock said, and maybe Jim was just imagining the disdainful sniff that followed.

Jim hummed in response as he carefully poured the water into their mugs.

“That’s not really a question though.” he pointed out.

Dropping the kettle back on the stovetop, Jim plucked two saucers from the lower cupboard and dropped them with a satisfying clink over the top of each mug. One of the cups was blue with the logo for Starfleet Medical on one side, while the other was a cheerful yellow  that read ‘Ray of Fucking Sunshine’ in bold black letters and had a smiling caricature of a sun wearing protective shades.

“I-” Spock hesitated, before seeming to gather his resolve and admitting “I wanted to see you again.”

Jim choked down the delighted squeal that was threatening to break free. 

Spock was adorable.

Ducking his head bashfully, Jim attempted to force himself not to jump to conclusions.

“Oh. Is this about Chekov’s grade?” 

When Spock didn’t immediately reply, Jim risked a peek up at him.

The Professor looked legitimately confused.

“Chekov?”

“Yeah? The cadet you thought was cheating, so you came down here to see what was going on?” Jim reminded him.

How had Spock already forgotten?

Something like mild horror flashed through Spock’s eyes for a moment before he finally responded.

“No. I do not need further clarification on the cadet’s tutoring. I wished to engage in further conversation with you.” he said.

“Me?” Jim asked innocently, pulling the saucers away and plucking the tea balls from the steaming drinks as he teased the Vulcan.

“Of course you.” Spock replied, monotone breaking ever so slightly on an indignant note. “You had mentioned, in passing, an admitted interest in a variety of topics; one of which includes Advanced Xenolinguistics. I wish to ascertain what those other interests are.”

“For tutoring purposes?” Jim asked, playing dumb as he slid a mug towards Spock. It might drive Bones up the wall, but he was still sleeping upstairs, utterly oblivious to Jim deliberately antagonizing the cute Vulcan in their shop.

Picking up his mug of tea and blowing lightly across the surface, Jim was pleased to see that Spock had wrapped his fingers around his own mug, stealing the warmth that seeped through.

“No, though I am curious to understand how it is that you came to be a tutor as well. I would like to know… everything.” Spock finished lamely, and, clearly unsatisfied with his own response, took a sip of his tea.

The Vulcan’s eyebrows shot for his hairline.

“Sbah bar-kas.” he exclaimed. 

Jim grinned.

“Vulcan Red Spice tea. Ayup.” Jim said proudly, popping the P smugly.

Spock stared at him.

“I find that the more time I spend with you, the more questions I have.” Spock admitted. “It is a most curious phenomenon.” 

Jim shrugged.

“It’s not really a phenomenon, it’s just how getting to know people goes.” he said.

The furrow reappeared on Spock’s brow, but he took another sip of his tea.

“So you want to talk, and you don’t want to do it during the cafe’s open hours?” Jim pressed. If Spock asked him out on a date right then and there, he’d probably faint.

Bones would not approve; at least, not of the fainting part.

“Precisely. I believe it would be much more satisfactory to engage in a conversation one on one, such as we are now, in order to gain further insight into your interests.” Spock explained.

“And why do you need ‘further insight’?” Jim asked, hoping Spock didn’t notice the tightening of his grip on his own mug. “Scientific curiosity?”

“Partially.” Spock allowed. “Though my predominant motivation lies in establishing whether our interests have any overlap between them.”

“If we have things in common, y’mean.” Jim smiled. “Like friends.”

“No.” Spock immediately denied.

Disappointment settled in Jim’s gut like a cold weight, and he took another pull at his tea to try and keep the expression from making it to his face.

“Not friends.” Spock continued. “Verifying common interests is a necessary step in order to establish grounds for pursuing a courtship.”

Pursuing a what-

“To be clear, I desire a romantic and monogamous relationship with you.” Spock added bluntly.

☕

The ensuing coughing fit that followed Spock’s declaration of intent was concerning, as Jim’s face flushed a disturbing red color and moisture leaked from his eyes.

“I did not mean to cause distress.” Spock offered weakly, as Jim struggled to catch his breath.

The hand not covering his mouth flapped uselessly at Spock, no doubt meant to convey some nonverbal response that the Vulcan could not interpret. 

“Just- gimme a second.” Jim croaked, wiping tears from his eyes and turning away when he caught Spock’s concerned stare. He pulled out his communicator and sent off a short message, if the limited keystrokes were any indication.

The band on Jim’s wrist was flashing an alternating green and yellow pattern again, drawing the Vulcan’s eye and his curiosity. The device appeared medical in nature, though why a human as physically fit as Jim would need such monitoring was beyond Spock’s comprehension.

Pocketing his communicator, Jim picked his cup back up from where he’d dropped it to the counter a moment before and took a sip of the very liquid that had apparently tried to choke him; this time though, the liquid appeared to sooth the reaction rather than exacerbate it. 

“Are you well?” Spock asked, unsure what the etiquette was for post-choking after receiving a proposal to initiate a lifelong commitment.

He was certain that it was not a subject he and his mother had covered when discussing his move to Earth.

“I’ll be fine.” Jim said with a final cough. “I uh. I just haven’t been asked out, like that, before.”

“But you have been ‘asked out’.” Spock said with emphasis, shoulders slumping slightly in disappointment. 

Having eliminated the mysterious ‘Dr. L.H. McCoy’ as a romantic partner, Spock had held on to the hope that Jim was as yet unmatched, romantically speaking. 

“Well, kind of.” Jim replied, his face twisting into a look of distaste. “Only once though, by somebody that actually meant it beyond just flirting. And he uh. Didn’t really ask.”

Jim shuddered.

“This is… much nicer.”

The tense feeling in Spock’s chest that had eased slightly at ‘only once’ locked up tight once more at the implication that Jim had been previously subjected to unwanted romantic attention.

“Choking on your drink is an improvement over previous overtures of romantic intent?” Spock asked, moderating his tone to light curiosity and resisting the strange urge to challenge this unknown person immediately.

The emotions that Jim evoked in him, even over the course of their short acquaintance, were so volatile. It was unlike anything Spock had endured before.

“Oh yeah.” Jim waved one hand in what Spock recognized now as a dismissive gesture. “Gary was a creep.”

Spock startled.

“I hope that I have not given-”

“No no, Spock.” Jim assured him. “You’re not being creepy. I just-”

He bit at his lip, and if Spock weren’t so laser focussed on Jim’s next words, the sight would have proven… incredibly distracting.

“Can we do the talking bit first? Get to know each other?” he asked, in an unexpectedly meek tone. The lip biting continued, and Spock found himself utterly enamored with the way that Jim’s impossibly blue eyes looked up at him through his dark eyelashes.

“Of course.” Spock replied, mentally berating himself for his delayed response. “There is no need to commit at this time, I simply wished to be forthright with my intentions.”

“Your intentions.” Jim echoed, teeth releasing his lip to allow it to spread into a small smile. “Well, thank you for being clear. I-”

Jim’s eyes flicked to the wall of clocks and he muttered a curse.

“Sorry, Spock, I have to get ready to open, and I need to catch a shower first or I’m gonna scare off all the customers-”

“Your body odor is not at all repulsive.” Spock interrupted, intent on assuring him and yet somehow this statement only caused the flush to return to Jim’s cheeks.

“And you can smell me, because of course you can.” he squeaked.

“Vulcan olfactory-”

“No no, Spock. Please don’t tell me about your superior sniffer right now, I’m already struggling as it is.” Jim stopped him with a nervous chuckle.

“I will leave you to your ablutions then.” Spock offered, downing the last of his tea and standing from the stool. 

“Thanks.” Jim croaked.

Slipping into parade rest, Spock faced Jim and stared unblinking into his hypnotizing eyes, cataloging every fleck and shade of blue.

“Jim, may I return at a later time to continue our original topic of conversation?” he asked politely.

The shy smile that Jim gave him in return was most gratifying.

“Of course. If you don’t have any plans tonight, we could go for a walk?” Jim offered.

Tonight. 

Spock’s heartbeat increased to a rate that he could not immediately calculate, such was his elation.

“That would be acceptable. I host open office hours until eighteen hundred hours, and will make my way here when they have concluded, if that is amenable.”

“Very amenable.” Jim assured him, still smiling.

“Very well.” Spock nodded sharply. 

They stood there staring at one another for an incalculable time before Spock remembered that he was meant to be leaving.

“I, that is, should I-” Spock found himself at a loss; re-entering the staff-only hallway seemed rude, but the doors were not unlocked for the front of the cafe.

Jim laughed.

“Come on, I’ll let you out the front. Save those superior olfactory senses from my shoe mountain of shame.”

☕

“I’m not insane!” Jim declares the moment Leo’s head has cleared the trapdoor, his grip on the spiraled iron railing tightening as he pulled the door shut above him.

“Oh good, you had me worried.” Leo snarked back, making his way down the stairs.

The cafe was currently empty, a small blessing as far as Leo was concerned, as he made grabby hands at the blond posted up behind the counter.

Jim already had a steaming mug resting on the butcher block because he was secretly an angel in disguise, as further evidenced by the sound of a bagel popping up out of a toaster behind him.

As a further act of mercy, Jim didn’t elaborate on his declaration until after Leo had downed half of his coffee and taken a big bite out of a bagel slathered thick with cream cheese. 

Cocking his eyebrow at the kid, who was clearly buzzing with excitement, Leo silently prompted Jim to begin.

“I’m not insane, that Vulcan from the other day-”

“Spock.” Leo nodded, waving his free hand to urge Jim on even as he took another bite from his breakfast.

“Right, Spock.” Jim beamed, “He really is into me. It’s not just ‘vibes’. He practically asked me out this morning. We’re going out for a ‘walk’ later.”

Leo stopped chewing. 

Huh.

“That sure escalated quickly.” he said a moment later, after finishing his mouthful.

“Right?” Jim seemed a little incredulous himself, stars only knew why. 

“Why do you sound surprised?” Leo asked, suspicious. 

“Well, I mean.” Jim waved, apparently indicating the entire cafe and then himself. “Not exactly Vulcan-wifey material here.”

Leo scowled.

“The hell do you mean by that? You re-did this place from the ground up, have a thriving business, and a loyal customer base. You’re smart as a whip, ‘cept when you’re bein’ an idiot, and you know you’re prettier’n a magnolia in May.”

Jim ducked his head at the barrage of compliments.

“That’s not what I meant.” Jim countered weakly. 

“Then what did you mean?” Leo grouched. “‘Cause it sounded an awful lot like you don’t think you’re a catch, and I thought you knew better than that.”

“I mean, why would a Vulcan be interested in me. I do run a cafe, and it’s a busy and noisy job. Also-” Jim’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m human.”

The jukebox kicked over to another track, some deep thumpy beat with a base drum and chorus singers.

“-Uptown girl, she's been living in her uptown world-”

Leo feigned shock for a moment before flipping Jim his middle finger.

“Why does anybody like somebody? You’re sure askin’ the wrong guy about relationships here Jim.” he pointed out.

“Oh yeah? Should I be asking Gaila instead?” Jim shot back, because he’s an ass and Leo should never have thought he was an angel.

McCoy scowled, but his damnable cheeks were flushing with heat.

“You just leave Miss Vro out of it.”

“Miss Vro.” Jim echoed, dramatically drawling out the vowels. “I’m gonna tell her you called her that.”

“We were talkin’ about your love life, you varmint!” Leo growled, but the bell tinkled and Jim wandered off to go help the latest batch of ‘fleet suckers.

“-And now, she's looking for a downtown man, that's what I am-”

It was honestly about damn time someone appreciated the fine young man Jim had grown into and actually did something about it. The kid was a huge flirt, but it hardly ever went deeper than that.

And the one time it had gone way further than that had involved an awful lot of paperwork. Breaking a Cadet’s nose, even when they were both off duty and off campus, had its repercussions, after all; even if Gary was the biggest shit stain he’d ever met.

Leo would do it again in a heartbeat. 

Polishing off the last of his bagel and washing it down with the bottom half of his coffee mug, Leo barely has a chance to set his cup down before Jim is there, refilling it. None of that fancy espresso stuff either, just a good old cup of joe.

“What’re you butterin’ me up for?” he asked, feigning suspicion. 

In reality, this was kind of their routine. Jim had the cafe open and dishing out hot drinks hours before Leo rolled out of bed for his shift at the clinic, so coffee and something for breakfast were usually ready by the time he dragged himself downstairs.

Jim shrugged.

The cadets had wandered off with their drinks, clutching them like lifelines and chattering like a flock of birds.

“Just keeping you in the loop.” Jim said innocently, but they’d been living in each other's pockets for far too long for Jim’s evasions to work every time. 

“Why are you stressin’ this?” Leo asked softly, keeping his voice low and just between the two of them.

Jim’s eyes still darted nervously towards the cadets before he responded.

“Vulcans are big on logic.” he began, picking at the crumbs from Leo’s bagel that littered the countertop. “I’m not a telepath, or quiet, or anything like a Vulcan-”

“Which Spock already knows, and he still asked you out.” Leo interrupted pointedly.

Jim rolled his eyes.

“Well, kind of anyway. But even if you get past the illogic of all that…”

Jim’s hesitation was giving Leo the heeby jeebies.

“All of my uh, health issues.” Jim finished with a rush. “That’s a lot to deal with, and I’m just worried that its, well, I don’t want to come across as dishonest, or like I’m lying-”

And now Jim was babbling.

Stars above.

Releasing his coffee mug and rolling his wrist to catch Jim’s eye before moving in, Leo gripped at Jim’s forearm where it rested on the countertop.

“You’re over thinkin’ this. Go for your walk. Get to know each other. If he hasn’t run for the hills by next Friday, just tell him and let him decide for himself if there’s any logic in hitchin’ his horse to your wagon.” he said firmly, giving Jim’s arm a gentle squeeze as he did.

The tension slipped a bit from Jim’s shoulders, and Leo leaned back, smug.

“Yeah, okay Bones.” he sighed, dropping his free hand over Leo’s and squeezing tight in return. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Leo snorted.

“Oh now you’ve gone and jinxed it.”

Jim laughed.

Chapter Text

There is nothing wrong with the chronometer on Spock’s office computer. The sun is still proceeding across the sky, visible from the single window in his barren office. Time is, in fact, passing.

It just feels so very slow.

It is not a very logical thought to have, considering there are few known things in existence that can have an actual effect on the progression of time. Yet here Spock is, pacing his own office, waiting for the final hour of his workday to conclude.

Pacing.

Physical restlessness was a symptom of a weak willed or untrained mind for his people; a sign of an unsettled mindscape, which could prove quite dangerous to others, given Vulcan’s historically violent past.

As he circled his small office once more, taking in the blank walls, practical yet uncomfortable chairs, and his desk with its lone holoframe, Spock feels a slight tickle of resentment building in his thoughts.

Though he holds open office hours three days a week, Spock rarely has visitors; neither students nor fellow educators come to call. During the first week or so of each quarter, there will be one or two students, curious about meeting a Vulcan in person, that will stop by and attempt to initiate ‘small talk’. These visits are typically strained, as he himself has little desire to contribute to aimless conversation, and the students are put off by the monotone and expressionless facade that Vulcans project as a whole.

He rarely has repeat visitors.

So why he is stuck here, hosting open office hours for an office that has a ninety seven percent chance of being unvisited, when he could be spending this time with Jim, feels absurdly inane.

He typically makes use of the silence and the office space to grade coursework and prepare his future lesson plans. But with his erratic sleep schedule of late, he has spent many restless nights working ahead. 

Three more laps of his office and Spock checks the chronometer again, despite his internal time sense being in perfectly functioning order.

Two minutes have elapsed.

Determined to engage his mind in an attempt to pass the time before he did something rash, such as close up his office and leave eighteen minutes early, Spock moves to his desk and pulls up information on human courtship customs.

This at least feels like an acceptable way to pass the time, even if it is not strictly work related.

☕

The bell tinkled a welcome as the door swung open, and Jim passed off a carrier of iced lavender lattes to the cadet headed for a study group table before calling out a greeting.

“Hey! Welcome to-” Jim turned and corrected course, “Oh, hey Christine.”

“Hey yourself, trouble.” Christine Chappel snorted, reaching into her shoulder bag and pulling out a communicator. “Here, I’ll trade you. Gimme one of those pink lemonades of yours and you can have McCoy’s comm.”

Dropping the device onto the counter, it only took a glance for Jim to confirm that it was indeed Bones’s unit; the corners were dinged all to hell and back but he refused to upgrade or replace it.

At his confused look, since Bones rarely went anywhere without his comm, Christine rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say he left in a hurry. That Orion friend of yours practically kidnapped him, right as his shift ended.”

Ah.

“You sure you don’t want lavender?” Jim teased, already pulling out the strawberry puree he knew Christine preferred. “It’s the special this month.”

“You keep your soap syrup outta my drink.” she said, pointing a threatening finger at him. “And leave me a couple inches at the top; I’m putting vodka in that baby when I get home, I haven’t even started the book club read for this month and we’re meeting on Monday.”

“It’s a quick read.” Jim assured her, pulling out the thick ice that wouldn’t melt so fast and water down her drink before she got it home. “I thought it was cute.”

“You think every story with a dog is cute.” she pointed out.

“And you think every story without gratuitous sex scenes is a waste of your time, so which one of us is actually gonna finish this book?” he shot back.

“There’s no sex?” Christine whined, feigning devastation. “At all?”

“It’s rated T, weren’t you paying attention to the poll?” 

Shaking up the drink and ruining a perfectly layered pink sunrise but making it vodka-add-on ready, Jim poured the lemonade into a go cup and popped a lid on the top, sliding it over the counter.

“Just try it. If nothing else, you’ll get a kick judging the author for all their medical inaccuracies.” Jim offered as a consolation.

“Oh god, is the dog dying?” she asked, face twisting in horror.

“Do you honestly think anyone in our bookclub would suggest that kind of content?” Jim snorted. “Spoilers, the dog lives. And the little girl that he belongs to gets over being sick too.”

He wouldn’t usually spoil something like that for the book club, but Christine was a lot like Bones; spit and sass on the outside, but a total softy at heart. She’d never enjoy the book if she thought the patient wasn’t going to make it.

“Well, good.” she sniffed, snatching up her lemonade and tipping it towards Jim in a mock salute. “Catch ya Monday, trouble.”

Jim rolled his eyes.

“Bye, Christine.” he drolled, deliberately mimicking the intonation of an old earth movie he knew she liked and drawing her name out for three syllables. Sure enough, Chapel was still laughing as she backed towards the door, only for it to push open as she approached.

“Oops!” she chirped, dipping around the newcomer and leaving before he could reply.

Jim’s smile grew wider as the gray clad professor politely held the door until Christine had cleared it. Leaning on the countertop closest to the door, Jim propped one elbow up and wiggled his fingers in greeting at Spock as he turned around.

Apparently confused by the gesture, Spock’s own hand raised in a ta’al of greeting, movements jerky like he wasn’t sure that was the proper response.

Jim cooed internally; Spock was just so damn cute. 

“Hey stranger.” he said aloud, and watched with delight as that tiny furrow of confusion made an appearance on the Vulcan’s brow.

“Jim, we are not-” he began, pausing when Jim’s head dropped between his shoulders as he held back a laugh.

“No no, you’re right.” Jim agreed, rising up to slap at the countertop twice before circling towards the back. He swiped Bones’s comm and dropped it into his pocket, opposite his own unit. “It’s supposed to be funny, because we’re not strangers, and we just talked to each other this morning.”

Grabbing the brown knit cardigan he’d stashed under the counter earlier in anticipation for an evening walk, Jim paused to pull it on.

“Ah.” Spock said aloud, but he was clearly more focused on taking in what Jim was wearing than on continuing to evaluate human greetings. 

Jim resisted the urge to shift in place as Spock’s pretty brown eyes dropped to his laced up chucks. Eyes working their way up the tight fit of his blue jeans, skirting over the shortsleeved caramel button up Jim’d found stashed in the back of his closet, and staring as Jim awkwardly shoved at the stubborn sleeve that refused to slip over his elbow.

And then, in a move so entirely unlike every other Vulcan Jim had met, Spock stepped forward and deftly plucked at the sleeve until Jim’s arm could slide through uninhibited.

“Thanks.” Jim mumbled, tugging at the sleeve's edge until it rested halfway over his hands and trying to ignore the way his cheeks were beginning to warm under Spock’s looming presence.

Daring a peek up at Spock through his eyelashes, Jim is once again struck by how tall Spock feels; even with just a few inches of height on him, the Vulcan’s presence seems to take up so much more space, crowding large against his awareness. 

Jim wondered for a moment at how, instead of feeling trapped or cornered by the towering aura, it made him feel… safe. Like a comforting shield between himself and their surroundings.

Not that there was any kind of threat here, in the Daisy. 

But it was… nice.

Spock's eyes had settled on Jim’s face, and the eye contact with such a short distance between them felt oddly charged. 

Anticipatory.

“Walk?” Jim asked, even though breaking the momentary silence felt somehow sacrilegious.

After a brief pause, Spock gave a sharp nod and stepped back, gesturing towards the front door of the cafe.

Friday’s were slow for the Lazy Daisy, and the only patrons still present were one of the engineering study groups and a solo student off in one of the corners. Thoroughly ensconced in the book nook, Pavel had a mountain of PADDs, two empty espresso cups, and a third one that was half full of the decaf Jim had swapped him to after five o’ clock.

The kid’s leg was bouncing hard enough to cause his stack of PADD’s to lean precariously, but he studied on, completely oblivious.

“Let me just-”

Jim leaned over the counter and pressed the release on the wall, swinging the counterside replicator out to be accessible from the customer side. 

“Mikael, I’m taking off! You guys are on your own for a bit.” he called, and the study group chorused out a round of goodbyes as the lead cadet gave him a thumbs up. Pavel studied on, headphones clamped tight around his ears, completely engrossed in his work.

Spock was standing at the door and swung it open as Jim approached, the blond ducking through much like Christine had just a few minutes prior.

“Is it wise to leave your establishment without supervision?” Spock asked as they fell into step outside the cafe; Jim took the lead and turned left, heading towards the waterfront walkways.

“They’ll be fine.” Jim replied with a shrug, turning a wry smile up at the Vulcan. “They’re Starfleet cadets, so they're basically as goodie-two-shoes as it gets.”

Spock’s head cocked to the side slightly, and it was such a charming contrast to the way his arms were held neatly at his sides as they walked; well, Jim walked. Spock was practically marching. They managed to keep stride with each other likely because, as Bones put it, Jim was ‘all leg’.

“They’re trustworthy.” Jim explained with a smile. “I don’t exactly have to worry about Cadet Mikael hosting a kegger in the Daisy’s basement.”

“An informal drinking event aptly named for the consistent and judicious application of alcohol that was traditionally stored in the aforementioned containment device.” Spock stated, like he was proud he’d understood that human phrase. 

Jim laughed.

“Yeah, I guess that’s one way to describe it.”

They walked on in silence for a moment as they passed a group of cadets making their way back towards the Academy. There were nervous looks and a couple of half hearted salutes for Spock, and whispered hellos paired with curious looks between the two for Jim. 

Cadet Jacobson, who worshipped the very ground that Gaila walked, waggled his eyebrows suggestively; Jim flapped his hand irritably at the shameless gossip, careful to keep the motion out of Spock’s line of sight.

“So, tell me about yourself, Spock.” Jim prodded, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of the cardigan to keep them warm. His medical bracelet caught in the weave of the yarn and he had to reach across himself to unsnag it.

“I would rather hear more about yourself.” Spock gently protested. “I have a great deal of questions for you, regarding not just your interests, but your motivations and goals. I am keen to learn more of your background, and how you came about your current position at the cafe.”

Jim didn’t know if he was really ready to spill all of those beans, especially on their first-

“Wait, are we considering this a date?” Jim asked.

If Spock was thrown by the apparent subject change, he didn’t show it.

“I would like to consider it thus, yes.” Spock quickly replied. “Though I understand that you are keen to establish a stronger rapport between us before agreeing to engage in a more formal arrangement, my reading on the subject has assured me that not all dates are considered a precursor for commitment.”

Spock was so formal with how he talked. Jim idly wondered if it was a side effect of being a professor, or being Vulcan, or just something that was uniquely Spock. Based on his limited interactions with other Vulcans, Jim had to consider that it may be a regional thing again, like Spock’s facial expressions and Selek’s own expressive face.

Spock didn’t clear his throat, but when Jim went just a beat too long without responding, he caught the twitch of the Vulcan’s hands; fingers curling into an almost fist shape before deliberately relaxing.

Was Spock nervous?

“I think calling it a date, is, well.” Jim coughed to smother the nervous giggle that was trying to escape his throat. “Well, I think that’s reasonable. That is, a nice evening stroll does fall into the parameters of a human date, at least.”

Jim turned to watch Spock’s face as they walked, just barely catching a flicker of relief that passed through the Vulcan’s pretty brown eyes.

“That is most fortuitous.” Spock replied calmly, his voice giving no indication of the nerves that his body was secretly whispering hints of to Jim.

“How about we trade off?” Jim offered. “You ask me a question, and then I get to ask you one. We’ll take turns answering.”

At Spock's hurried nod, Jim quickly added, “But we can also pass on answering. Y’know, in case something's too private to talk about yet.”

“Agreed. Would you like to go first?” he offered graciously. 

It was sweet, since it was clear as day that the poor Vulcan was dying to ask his own questions.

“Sure.” Jim replied, trying to decide just what to ask first.

Spock wasn’t the only curious one, after all.

“Have you ever dated a human before?” he settled on asking, and caught Spock’s almost offended looking twitch at the question.

“I have not. You are the first human I have attempted to establish a romantic connection with, and, if you find yourself agreeable, also the last.” Spock replied smoothly.

There was that damnable heat again, rising in Jim’s cheeks like a beacon of embarrassment. 

“Oh.” he managed to reply. “Nice.”

“Have you been in a romantic relationship previously, with a Vulcan or otherwise?” Spock asked, though it sounded like he had to chew on the word Vulcan before it escaped his mouth.

Jim laughed, hoping Spock didn’t notice the high pitched, almost hysteric tinge to it.

“No, I uh. I haven’t dated anybody. Not really, anyway.” he swallowed around the bad taste in his mouth that thinking of Gary brought to mind. “Too busy with the cafe.”

Which wasn’t entirely untruthful. He was pretty busy with the cafe, between running the counter, managing the stock orders, and scheduling the various clubs and activities.

Not to mention the cleaning.

So much cleaning.

But it was honest work, and it kept his hands and mind busy. 

“I appreciate that you are willing to take the time to make an attempt with me.” Spock said. 

They were nearly to the park that ran along the bay here, a heavy marine layer scooching across the water and obscuring the iconic bridge so that only the barest tips of her orange spires peeked out. Far from being the only walkers out on a decent spring evening, Jim couldn’t help but notice that a majority of the other walkers were also in pairs. Maybe walks for dates were more popular than he’d thought.

“So you teach at the Academy.” Jim said, curiosity piqued. “What made you pick teaching, over being up there?”

With a vague wave at the skyline, Jim indicated the stars and space in general.

One of the few things he missed about Iowa was the view of the stars; you could never catch even a glimpse of the Milky Way in San Francisco.

“The previous ship I served on was retired after her last voyage. My Captain encouraged most of the senior officers to find other ships to serve aboard, but he requested that I take up a teaching position at the Academy. I believe it is his intention to, as you say, ‘call dibs’ on myself as his first officer on his next ship assignment.”

Jim sure hoped it was that, and not some xenophobic play at keeping a Vulcan out of Starfleet’s upper ranks.

He wouldn't put it past them, even these days.

“So, you’re going to ship back out then?” Jim asked, more than a little disappointed at the thought. 

Sure, long distance relationships could work. But Jim didn’t think he’d be able to handle being away from the person he loved for the extended time that missions could take.

He bit his lip, firmly reminding himself that he didn’t love Spock. They weren’t even dating.

Yet, whispered the hopeless romantic part of his mind that could shove right the hell off.

“It is a possibility.” Spock admitted. “Though the same could be said of any teacher of rank at the Academy.”

There was… something, laced in throughout Spock’s careful phrasing, that made Jim’s gut twinge in warning. 

“Your turn.” Jim said in reply, pausing to enjoy the view over the water, even if the cold salt air stung his face a little with its chill.

“I would know more of your academic interests.” Spock said, moving to stand next to Jim in such a way that he was blocking some of the chill breeze, but not the view.

Warmth, completely unrelated to the park's ambient temperature, began to spread in Jim’s chest.

It was… nice.

☕

They had neared the park's exit, and Spock, far from finding flaw and being deterred by the information that Jim had revealed throughout the course of their walk, found himself more deeply enamored than before. 

Jim was… fascinating.

His self proclaimed ‘dabbling’ in academic pursuits covered a variety of topics, from anything covered by Starfleet Academy’s course catalog to several smaller and more obscure niche interests. He had regular subscriptions to a variety of publications, many of which were produced not by his fellow humans, but by Andorian, Vulcan, Deltan, and other Federation members. 

“I have a lot of time to read.” Jim had demurred, before attempting to distract Spock by asking about his own down time.

Now approaching the cafe and its warmly glowing lights, Spock finds conversely that the time which had dragged on and on earlier that same evening, is now moving at entirely too rapid a pace. Returning Jim to his home and workplace would be the practical way to end the evening out, but Spock simply doesn’t want to.

They pause together when they reach the storefront, Jim peering inside curiously for a moment, no doubt taking stock of who is still present. The study group from before has apparently left, though the cadet that evoked the chain of events leading to Spock’s initial meeting with Jim, Chekov, is still locked into his studies.

Spock assesses this with a single glance, before turning his eyes to the much more favorable sight of Jim’s blond hair shining under the warm glow of the string lights. When Jim turns his face to look up at Spock, his teeth are worrying at his lower lip, flushing the soft flesh an endearing pink color.

“Would you-” Jim jabs his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the cafe. “-like to come in for a bit? Maybe warm up?”

Spock doesn’t even pause to consider the illogic of going inside to warm up when he has to walk through the evening chill to get himself home anyway, and immediately nods. Stepping to the door and swinging it open, he takes a moment to acknowledge that he may be developing a Pavlovian response of excitement and anticipation to the tinkle of the cafe's bell.

His train of thought is immediately derailed though, as Jim presses close to him and steps through the doorway with a teasing grin. 

The entrance, while not as wide as the Starfleet standard entryways that utilize two hydraulically powered doors, is still plenty wide enough for Jim to have cleared the portal without initiating physical contact. Nevertheless, Jim still brushes against Spock’s gray coat front, and even goes so far as to pat his hand in thanks against Spock’s chest.

Resisting the urge to close his arms around the fair haired human, Spock manages to suppress a physical shudder and follows Jim inside. 

“I’ll get us some tea.” Jim declares, circling the counter and rolling up the loose sleeves of his sweater. He completely bypasses the counterside replicator and goes for the ancient iron stovetop instead.

“-every time I thought I'd got it made-”

Spock takes a seat at the stool that he has claimed on his previous visits to the cafe while Jim works, his ears picking up the soft notes of music emanating from the cafe sound system.

“-it seemed the taste was not so sweet-”

“Given your studies of other planets and their cultural norms, have you ever considered visiting them?” Spock asks; he’s been to more than a dozen different planets in his time in the ‘fleet, but always in an official capacity. 

“I’ve thought about it.” Jim admits, but that line of tension that tightens his shoulders whenever Spock brings up Starfleet is starting to creep in. Spock would not consider himself an expert on human body language under any circumstances, but he instinctively understands that there is a sore point between Jim and the organization that Spock has selected for his career. Curious, given his apparent passion for helping students of the Academy for that same organization.

“Have you ever been off planet?” Spock asks, attempting to steer the conversation towards a less tense subject.

This question, however, appears to have the opposite effect.

“Uh. Yeah, once.” Jim frowns, and Spock has rarely felt such a strong desire to reel his words back in, to unsay something so very strongly. “It wasn’t great.”

When the kettle begins to whistle, Jim pours their two mugs, and drops the saucer lids on top once more.

“My turn.” Jim says, “And I get two in a row.”

The tension remains, but Spock is grateful that Jim is willing to continue their discussion and doesn’t press the matter.

Bowing his head in acquiescence, Spock indicates for Jim to continue.

“Are you happy, y’know, at the Academy?” Jim asks.

The route response on the tip of Spock’s tongue is that Vulcans do not ascribe emotions to things the way that humans do, but he cannot bring himself to evade Jim’s question in this manner.

“It is satisfactory.” he replies instead. A safe answer, and the same that he gives to his mother each week when she asks him the same question. “I find the work fulfilling.”

“Teaching? Or are you able to continue your own studies as well? I can’t imagine a brilliant scientist like you being content to wait out the days ‘til retirement in a stuffy classroom.” Jim winks as he says this, and Spock valiantly resists the urge to reach across the countertop and drag Jim into his lap. 

The desire to feel those long eyelashes tickling against his skin is a thrumming need that Spock has never longed for before, never even considered before he met Jim.

“The teaching aspects of my job are… enjoyable, to borrow a human turn of phrase.” Spock replies, briefly tonguing his lips to moisten them; the spring chill has left them feeling somewhat dry, despite the moisture heavy in the air.

“But yes, I do also have-” Spock pauses as he catches Jim staring at his lips. His eyes dart guiltily back up to Spock’s own, and the thrumming grows stronger even as he continues. “-scheduled lab time, where I am currently supervising multiple experiments.”

Jim must have an internal chronometer of his own, as he plucks the saucers from the cups precisely three minutes after settling them there, the same as he had this morning.

Pressing the blue mug at Spock and taking his yellow ‘ray of fucking sunshine’ mug with him, Jim circles the counter and summons Spock to follow him with a twitch of his head.

“Tell me about them.” he presses, dropping onto the bench that lines the clock wall and patting the cushioned space next to him. “Your experiments.”

Spock settles as directed, and Jim hooks his foot under a chair on the opposite side of the small table they’re seated at; dragging it out from under the table, he props his feet on it, knees bent, and turns his head to watch Spock.

Hesitating for only a moment, as his current experiments are fairly specific and may require a deeper understanding of the subject than Jim may possess, Spock proceeds to describe them.

Jim gives him his full attention, clutching his mug to his chest; smiling and so very soft looking.

☕

There’s a pretty decent chance that Leonard has somehow managed to lose his communicator, though he’s hopeful he just left it at work somewhere and he can go collect it in the morning. He hadn’t exactly had a chance to grab it before being kidnapped. 

Gaila was a real force of nature when she wanted to be, and he’d only just been able to convince her to let him go home; it was late and he was tired and she’d just laughed at his grumbling and sent him on his way.

The southern style dance hall she’d found to drag him to had been fun though.

Now, dragging his sore legs home and hoping Jim didn’t wait up for him, Leonard catches a damn odd sight.

He’d gotten off at the hoverbus stop closest to the Academy and been wandering home, intent on circling the building and heading in the back, since the cafe should be all closed up.

Except it’s not.

The lights are all still on, spilling warm golden light onto the sidewalk and shining like a beacon, calling Leonard home.

But it’s wrong, it’s all wrong and he hasn’t had anything to drink so he knows the cobwebs in his brain are just from being up too late. His feet sort themselves out first, beating on the pavement and carrying towards the front door.

It’s well after midnight, and the Daisy is never open this late, even on bookclub night. 

Shoving at the door and scowling at the glowing interior, Leonard stops short as his eyes adjust to the light. 

Jim is on the bench wall, fast asleep. 

And next to him, slightly under him really, is a shellshocked looking Vulcan, staring at Leonard with wide eyes.

The bell tinkles, and Jim twitches in his sleep, burrowing further into the professor's gray uniform and making a sleepy scrunched up face when he encounters his own drool stain.

“Well I’ll be.” he huffs. “Did you drug him?”

Spock, since there’s no denying that’s exactly who Jim’s snuggled up to, looks affronted at the teasing. He opens his mouth to reply, but Leonard waves him off. 

Needing a moment to process just what the hell he’s walked into, Leonard catches movement out of the corner of his eye and is shocked to see another person in the cafe. Storming over to the book nook, Leonard drops his hands to his hips and kicks the kids table.

“Hey, beanpole!” he grouches when the curly haired blond jolts out of his hyperfocus. “It’s tomorrow. Go home.”

Blinking to get his eyes back in focus, Chekov looks at the wall of clocks behind Leonard and yelps. “Izvinite! Sorry!”

Rapidly shoving his things into his school satchel, the kid scrams, the bell tinkling once more as he beats a hasty retreat.

That’s one issue handled. 

The cogs are starting to spin in Leonard’s mind; Spock being here this late might actually prove to be a blessing in disguise. Making his way back over to the pair, Spock clearly hasn’t budged an inch. Leonard wonders just how long he’s held that exact same position and smirks.

“So. You’re Spock.” he begins, and Spock nods once, sharp like.

“And you’re serious about dating Jim here?” Leonard asks, indicating his friend with a downward tip of his chin; as if there were any other Jims tucked into the cushions.

“Very.” Spock confirmed solemnly.

“Right.” Leonard nodded. “Any chance you’ve checked your comms today?”

Spock’s expression didn’t shift an iota, but Leonard saw without a shadow of a doubt that he knew where this conversation was heading.

“If you are referring to the Starfleet Medical summons that I received, I can assure you that I am in perfect-”

“In a pig’s eye.” Leonard snorted, cutting him off. “You haven’t been in for even a check up in too damn long, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll fix that right quick.”

The Vulcan’s shoulders tightened impossibly further.

“My primary care physician does not seem to think-”

“Yeah, full stop. If she were thinking, she’d have made you come by before now.” Leonard insisted, careful to keep his tone down to avoid waking Jim. “And by the by, she ain’t your PCP anymore.”

At Spock’s blank stare, Leonard clarified, “That dubious honor is mine now. So can I put you down for Monday? You’ll need a physical, and labs too.”

“That is entirely unnecessary.” Spock argued quietly. “I assure you, my health is within acceptable parameters."

Leonard sighed.

“You’re gonna make me do this the hard way, aren’t you?”

“I do not understand.”

“Oh, you will. I’ve got your number, mister.”

And with that, Leonard reached down and gently squeezed Jim’s calf. “Hey, Jim. Wake up.”

Grumbling, Jim just snuggled harder into Spock’s side.

This was… an interesting development. Even after years of a peaceful existence in San Francisco, Jim was a light sleeper. The fact that he’d stayed out for the entirety of the conversation taking place right over his head made Leonard wonder if Spock really had drugged Jim somehow.

“Come on darlin’, you can’t sleep here.” he urged softly, squeezing Jim’s leg again.

With an aborted sniff, Jim blinked awake, looking up at Leonard with those sleepy baby blues.

“Bones?” he croaked. “What’s goin’ on?”

“You gotta get yourself upstairs and into a proper bed, that’s what’s goin’ on.” Leonard said, amused. “Vulcans aren’t meant to be furniture.”

Brow scrunching in confusion, Jim sat up and rubbed at his eyes, clearing the crusties before looking at the Vulcan he was still holding captive.

“Spock!” Jim blurted out. “What’re- you’re still here?”

“He is, but he’s going now.” Leonard supplied pointedly, since Spock seemed frozen in place. Jim’s hand, which was now resting on top of Spock’s own, was probably a contributing factor.

“Actually, Jim, while I’ve got you both-” Leonard shot a smug look at Spock over Jim’s head. “I need your help in gettin’ Spock here in for an appointment.”

Jim, half awake and clearly disoriented, tore his gaze away from Spock to give Leonard a confused look.

“I do not require-”

Jim’s brain seemed to catch up though, and he whipped back around to stare the Vulcan down. “Are you sick?”

“No.” Spock said firmly, at the same time that Leonard said, “He might be. I need to get him in to check.”

And with that, Spock’s fate was sealed.

“Spock.” Jim said softly, squeezing the hand he still held captive and turning those lethal baby blues on the stunned Vulcan. “You should go in. Bones just wants to help. And it can’t hurt to check, right?”

Spock sat frozen, pinned beneath Jim’s puppy eyes, and Leonard saw the exact moment his resolve cracked.

“I-” Spock swallowed, nodding slightly. “Yes, Jim.”

“Good.” Jim nodded approvingly, moving his hand to brace himself against the back wall to stand on legs that wobbled like a newborn colt’s.

“Alright, now that that’s settled, you-” Leo jabbed a finger at Jim. “Upstairs and straight to bed, mister.”

Turning to Spock, he continued. “And you. Take a hike. And if you’re not in my office first thing Monday morning, I’ll make you regret it.”

Spock looked about ready to retort something sharp, but Jim started to honest-to-god giggle, and the sound stole the Vulcan’s entire attention.

“It’s been a week, you’re not allowed to moon over each other like this yet!” Leonard hollered, clapping his hands to break up the mood. “Get! Both of you!”

Jim turned for the stairs as Spock stood to leave, but paused when Spock called his name. “Jim, would it be acceptable for me to return, perhaps tomorrow?”

For some unknown reason, this made the kid blush pink and grin like a loon.

“Sure Spock. I’d like that.”

And then the Vulcan vamoosed, and Leonard was left to shuffle a still sleepy Jim towards the spiral stairs so that the doctor could close up the shop for him.

“You’ve got it pretty bad, huh kid?” he huffed, flapping his hands to make Jim move faster.

Jim just yawned and kept smiling that dopey looking smile of his.

☕

Spock spends the entirety of his walk home replaying the last several hours over again in his mind. Despite the chill of the midnight air, his chest feels suffused with warmth. Even the damp spot on his shoulder where Jim had inadvertently salivated on his uniform, now cool, registers as pleasant.

Proof that Jim had been there, leaning on Spock, soft puffs of breath tickling the Vulcan’s neck as he slipped unconscious.

They’d spoken for hours after returning to the cafe, and Spock already missed the easy camaraderie they’d shared over steaming mugs of tea. Already plotting when he might next return to the cafe, Spock steps neatly around the flowered hedge that lines the walkway around his apartment and is struck with inspiration.

He should take Jim flowers.

It’s a human custom, bringing dead plant matter as a sign of affection and good will, something to do with the sentiment behind the gift lasting long after the blooms will fade. But with the cafe’s strict no-smells policy…

By the time he’s reached his apartment, Spock is already mentally outlining how he might go about coding a hologram of a flower arrangement. If he begins work now, he may be able to complete a small, pocket sized projector by the time the cafe opens.

He does not stop to consider sleeping; as a Vulcan, he requires far less than humans might.

Stifling a yawn, Spock gets to work.

Chapter Text

At seven minutes past four in the morning, Spock enters one last line of code into the replicator, certain that this final iteration will be the best yet. The brown puck that materializes into view is fairly innocuous looking, until he picks it up and twists the apparatus, sliding the top disk around the bottom in a clockwise motion.

The design is simple, a shapely brown vase like one that resides in his mother’s living room back on Vulcan, and a mix of flowers. He’d chosen daisies and lavender, as he knew those to be familiar to Jim and fitting for the season. Given Jim’s interest in the planets that Spock had visited, he’d included a selection of blooms from his travels as well. If the gift was accepted, perhaps he could discuss the origin planets for those different flowers.

Just the thought of spending more time with Jim eases something strained in his chest; some of the publications he’d come across in his research of human dating norms indicated that a feeling of ‘butterflies’ in one's stomach was an indicator of attraction.

Lepidoptera in one’s chest cavity sounded like a horrifying medical emergency, and Spock did not understand the appeal at all.

Turning the hologram off and dropping the puck into his pocket with a deep sense of satisfaction, Spock moved to the small desk that he kept as part of his home office.

Though he did most of his work out of the office assigned to him by the academy, Spock used the one at home predominantly for communications with his mother and for personal research. It had already seen use today as the later, and now he settled in to utilize the former.

It would be earlier than usual, but Spock’s habit of calling his mother every Saturday had been a tradition since he’d arrived on Earth. Calculating the time of day on his home planet, Spock concluded that his mother was more than likely already awake as an ‘early riser’ and would be available for contact.

But when the call connected to his childhood home, some sixteen light years away, it was Sarek’s face that filled the view screen.

“Greetings my son.” Sarek intoned, holding aloft a ta’al.

“Greetings Father.” Spock replied.

Though their relationship had been strained for a time after Spock’s rebuttal to the VSA, the matter had settled after the pair had shared a meld following Sarek’s first visit to Earth. Though he’d been present for the final confrontation, Sarek had been unaware of the constant ridicule his son had received from the other ministers on the VSA’s council.

His Father’s trip to Earth had been cut short, as he’d returned to Vulcan to address a ‘pressing matter’.

Three council members had mysteriously resigned within a week.

The pair have not spoken of the incident since.

“Is mother available? I have an early engagement that I must leave for within the next thirty five minutes.” Spock asked. 

Sarek’s left brow raised ever so slightly, an action that gave Spock’s mother ‘the giggles’ when she caught father and son making the same expression in tandem.

She was a confounding and wonderful woman.

“Your mother is presently preparing for the day. I estimate she will conclude her morning ablutions within the next ten minutes.” Sarek replied. 

This was… a fortuitous opportunity then.

“May I have your thoughts on a personal matter, Father?” Spock asked.

Who better to ask for advice pertaining courtship to a human than the first Vulcan to marry one?

Rather than reply verbally, Sarek inclined his head, indicating that Spock should proceed.

“Since we last spoke, I have met and become familiar with a person that I wish to begin a courtship with.” Spock began. “Our minds have an unprecedented affinity for each other, and the other party has expressed an interest in the possibility of becoming romantically engaged; pending an interim to increase our familiarity with one another.”

Sarek nodded, and though his face gave no obvious indication of his thoughts on the matter, Spock was an expert on reading his own parents.

His father was curious.

“Go on.” Sarek said calmly.

Incredibly curious.

“How long were you and mother acquainted before you formalized your courtship and established definitive parameters for your relationship?” Spock asked. He had heard stories from his mother about the early days of their meeting, but her reminiscings were generally focussed on the emotions and not the now necessary details of an established timeline.

“As you know, your mother and I met while she was doing work at the embassy on her studies of the Vulcan language. Though we had met in passing, our first conversation was not an altogether pleasant one.”
Spock was aware; his mother often spoke of how far they'd come despite ‘getting off on the wrong foot’. 

“Counting the days between our initial introduction and the onset of our courtship, a total of thirty eight days had elapsed.” Sarek replied, eidetic memory recalling the dates with precision. “If we count the elapsed time between our first conversation and subsequent confrontation, the span was significantly shorter.”

Raising a single brow in silent query, Spock waited for his father to clarify.

“Approximately fifteen minutes and forty five seconds.” Sarek answered with the smallest hint of amusement ticking the corner of his mouth up.

This was reassuring news; proof that he had not inadvertently acted too soon on his interest in Jim. 

“I see.” he said aloud. “My research into human courtship rituals has led me to believe that I was too forward, moving too quickly for human taste.”

“Humans can be rather-”

“That sentence had better end with ‘wonderful’!” his Mother warned, weaving the end of her braid together as she stepped into view of the communicator. She smiled, adding “I thought that was you, Spock. This is a little early isn’t it? What’s the occasion?”

Opening his mouth to reply, Spock does not have the chance to explain before his father speaks.

“Spock is initiating a romantic relationship on Earth.” Sarek informed her.

Mother’s braid dropped to her shoulder, forgotten.

“You’re what?” In contrast to his father’s relative composure, at least externally, Amanda’s response was as emotive as one could expect from a human. “Spock that’s wonderful!”

“He has not agreed to a formal courtship yet.” Spock warned, attempting to rein in his mothers excitement. “We are attempting to get to know one another before establishing an arrangement.”

“But he likes you.” Amanda pointed out, still smiling wide. It accentuated the wrinkles growing deeper at the corners of her eyes, but Spock found her as lovely as always. “And you like him. That’s worth celebrating.”

“I do not know how long he will need before it would be appropriate to revisit the topic.” Spock admitted. “I had hoped to consult with you both on how best to proceed, given the precedent.”

His parents exchanged a glance, Amanda’s hand coming to drop on Sarek’s shoulder, even as his father raised his own to cover her much smaller appendage.

“Well, dear.” Amanda began, looking back into the communicator. “I think it depends on how often you’re able to see each other. Do you have any plans to see this mystery man this weekend?”

“I intend to meet with him at his place of employment this morning to offer aid as a recompense; we were out quite late last night.” Spock answered.

“Oh, I don’t know if going to their work is the right idea, Spock.” 

Both Sarek and Spock stared at her, and the ensuing facial expression they shared did indeed trigger a small titter to squeak past his mother’s lips.

“It seems only reasonable that Spock should offer assistance if he has somehow compromised his intended’s ability to perform their duties adequately.” Sarek rationalized; Spock felt a thrill run through him at his father’s easy acceptance of Jim as his hopefully-sooon-to-be intended..

“He is the owner of the business, and would therefore not suffer any undue reprimand from a supervisor.” Spock added, in case his mother was concerned for Jim’s work performance.

“Well, that does make it a little better.” she admitted. “But you just saw each other last night, are you sure you wouldn’t be crowding him by being there first thing?”

Sarek looked, in his own composed way, completely flummoxed by Amanda’s suggestion.

“My assistance at opening the business for the day has been appreciated in the past.” Spock defended weakly, but he was beginning to second guess himself.

Was he crowding Jim?

“I disagree.” Sarek declared softly. “And while he is human, and I cede the familiarity with your own people unequivocally, Spock has spoken of a significant rapport between their minds. If this potential mate is as compatible with Spock’s own psyche as he claims, it is highly likely that he too is eager to spend more time together.”

That… was quite logical.

The doting smile that Amanda had leveled at his father caused Spock to look away, feeling as if he were somehow intruding on a private moment.

“You Vulcans.” She chided with obvious fondness. “No patience at all when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Neither protested this emotional statement; indeed, logic reigned supreme in all facets of Vulcan life… unless it involved one's bondmate, intended or otherwise.

“Well, Spock. If you think he won’t mind seeing you again, maybe you should go for it.” Amanda ceded. Sarek’s head dipped in silent agreement. “And then maybe we can meet him when we’re on Earth next week.”

Spock blinked in surprise before recalling the date.

“Your quarterly visit.” he surmised.

“Of course.” Amanda chirped, before her face took on a more somber look and she squeezed Sarek’s hand where they were still held on his fathers shoulder. “Spock, I am so happy for you. I really hope this works out between you two.”

That tension was rising in his chest again, the one that had been previously eased by Jim’s presence, or just the thought of spending time with him.

“I have no doubt it would be a most gratifying venture.” Spock agreed. “I-”

Hesitation was hardly his strong suit, but Spock wanted to phrase this as delicately as he could. “I may call again, if you are amenable to further disclosure of the details and timeline of your own courtship. I have found that human relationship articles can be perilously conflicting."

“That is agreeable.” Sarek immediately replied.

“Anytime, honey.” Amanda confirmed.

The subject shifted to other topics, mainly the weekly recap that his mother requested when they spoke each Saturday. It was thrilling to think that the next time he saw his parents, they may very well be meeting Jim in person, as his intended.

“Spock. You must leave within the next five minutes if you are to make your aforementioned appointment." Sarek eventually interrupted. “You must make a good impression if you are to secure this human as your bondmate.”

Amanda stifled a snort that almost sounded like a laugh, but Spock nodded solemnly. “Of course, Father. I thank you both, and look forward to speaking with you soon.”

Holding aloft the ta’al in farewell, Spock ended the call.

It was time to go see Jim.

☕

Jim is finishing his first cup of tea and has almost convinced his brain that it was time to be awake when he hears an unfamiliar knocking sound. Blinking around the still dark cafe since he’d only ordered the lights directly over the stove to turn on so far, Jim sets his yellow mug down and tries to find the source.

The knocking comes again, three short raps.

… from the kitchen hallway?

The stool creaks as Jim shoves off of the counter and makes his way to the hall, curiosity officially piqued. Bones is the only other person to use the back door, and since he’s still definitely upstairs, Jim can’t fathom who else it could be in his sleep deprived state.

Deliveries come in through Scotty’s shop, and everyone else uses the front door. Though this early in the day, not even dawn at this point, means it’s not any of his regulars.

Putting his ear to the thick wooden door, Jim listens for any hints as to who’s out there.

When the knocking comes a third time, he startles; whoever they are, they’re knocking much harder now.

“Hello?” Jim asks.

“Jim?”

It’s Spock.

At four fifty in the morning.

Unlocking the door and throwing it open, the door sticks when it encounters the mountain of shoes still piled there in the entry, but it’s enough to admit one cute Vulcan.

“What’re you doing here?” Jim asks, incredulous. “Come inside, it’s freezing out there.”

Spock hesitates though, his shoulders squaring and his arms disappearing behind him into a parade rest.

“If I am intruding, I apologize. It seemed prudent to offer my assistance this morning, as it is partially my fault for keeping you up late last night.” Spock hurries to say, and the look in his eyes is so earnest, like he’s worried Jim’s upset about something.

That’s actually… very sweet of him.

“Spock.” Jim smiles, rolling his eyes at the nervous Vulcan. “Get inside.”

When he still doesn’t move, Jim takes the initiative; he leans against the doorframe with one hand and reaches out, snatching Spock’s arm and dragging him into the hall.

Spock just lets him, even though he’s easily three times stronger than Jim and could have resisted being moved with an embarrassingly small amount of effort.

Pulling him inside, Jim shoves the door shut and flips the lock; keeping his hold on Spock’s arm, he guides the Vulcan down the dark hallway, expertly maneuvering the treacherous path with ease.

“I need to get that damn shoe rack put together.” he mutters, hoping Spock can’t see the mess he’s being hauled through.

“I do not wish to impose-” Spock begins, but Jim cuts him off.

“You’re not, trust me.” he assures, “And if one late night was enough to put me on my ass, I’d still be in my old man bed like Bones.”

Ordering the lights on for the whole cafe, he herds Spock into one of the stools at the counter. “You sit. I’ll make you some tea and then we can open up.”

Jim steps back to round the counter and do precisely that, when he really gets a good look at the Vulcan.

Spock is in civilian clothes and Jim’s brain sort of short circuits at the sight.

He’s seen the professor's long coat before, but today it’s layered over a soft red sweater and dress slacks instead of the stiff material of the Academy’s uniform. He’s wearing dress shoes and looks like he’s ready for dinner at a five star restaurant.

Jim knows he’s staring, but it’s not until he registers the barest beginnings of a flush on the tip of Spock’s delicately pointed ears that he realizes he’s been caught. 

“You uh.” Jim swallows, “You look nice. Really nice.”

He curls his bare toes self consciously against the polished wood floors, suddenly wishing he’d put on something nicer than yesterday's jeans and the wrinkled long sleeve black and gray striped shirt that had been in the clean laundry pile.

“Your appearance is aesthetically pleasing as well.” Spock assures him, and Jim lets out a nervous chuckle before dipping behind the safety of the counter.

It’s a hell of a way to kick off a Saturday, that’s for sure.

☕

Jim’s laughing when Leo makes his way down the spiral staircase from their loft, but instead of being ensconced behind the counter as usual, he’s roosting on a barstool. And he’s not alone; even from behind, Leo recognizes that shiny black cap of hair and he gives in to the urge to roll his eyes.

Of course Spock is back.

Seated up on the stool next to Jim, the two are swapping moves on a chessboard of all things, the tall spindly kind that’s more complicated than it needs to be.

“-We'll put out to sea, and we'll perfect our chemistry-”

The jukebox is barely audible over the pleasant buzz of chatter that fills the cafe. There’s got to be nearly twenty people in here right now, and normally Jim’d be fluttering about like a hummingbird in a rose garden. The fact that he’s sitting still and not chomping at the bit to get up has Leo liking Spock just a teensy bit more than he did last night.

“-By and by we'll defy, a little bit of gravity-”

Making a mental note to remind Jim not to work so much, Leo heads for the backside of the counter and the blessed smell of roasting coffee.

Hell if he knows how Jim does it, but there’s always hot bean juice ready, just how Leo likes it. Kid probably programmed something into the floorboards for when his feet cleared the bed for all he knows.

“Bones!” Jim cries, slipping off of his perch and crowding Leo’s space behind the counter. “You’re never gonna guess who plays chess.”

He’s stealing the mug out of Leo's hands before the sleepy doctor can blink, fixing it up just the way he likes in about a quarter of the time it’d take Leo to do it himself.

“Hm, I wonder?” Leo said caustically, putting his hands on Jim’s hips to slide past him without knocking the kid over in the narrow galley of the drink prep workspace.

There’s a pointed cough of someone clearing their throat.

He blinks over at the counter’s occupant, surprised to find Spock’s eyes leveled like a laser scalpel on Leo’s hands. It’s some hind brain reaction to a predator that has him snatching his hands away like he’s been burned, and he scowls at the Vulcan, embarrassed at his own reaction.

“Oh cool it, pointy.” he grouches. 

Rounding the counter and pointedly ignoring everyone and everything except the steaming mug that Jim plops in front of him, Leo takes a deep breath of the delicious aroma and thanks his lucky stars that Jim decided to turn this old place into a cafe of all things.

He takes his time with the drink, eventually zoning in enough to watch the chess game unfold. Jim is giving the Vulcan a run for his money, between occasionally getting up to get drinks for people trickling in.

Not that Leo can tell this by the pieces moving; no, it’s the way Spock looks more and more like he’d like to have himself an emotion, or possibly a conniption, the longer the game drags on.

When Jim reaches across the countertop and scooches the little horse piece up a platform, chirping “Checkmate!” while pouring his purple flower syrup into a go cup, Leo’s almost certain he’s about to have a bloodbath on his hands.

Or maybe it’s a different bodily fluid altogether, given the way Spock’s gaze turns molten, staring at Jim’s back as he hands off the drink.

“Fascinating.” the Vulcan murmurs. 

This is disgusting. And right in front of his coffee, too.

“Alright, that’s it.” Leo declares.

Jim wipes the counter clean while Spock resets the board, but Leo jabs a finger at the off duty professor. “Put that thing away.”

“And you.” he turns on Jim. “It’s Saturday. You know what that means.”

“But Bones-” Jim begins to protest, but they’ve had this argument too many times already. 

“But nothin’. You work seven days a week keepin’ this place up and runnin’, and you don’t need to.” Leo says firmly. “So it’s Saturday and you’re gonna get the hell out of here.”

“We’ve got a full house.” Jim argues, waving an arm at the clearly only half full cafe. “I can’t just run off.”

Leo pauses, let’s Jim think he’s made a point for just a tick.

Time to see if this particular trick works both ways.

“Say, Spock, how many hours do you work in a week?” Leo asks, catching the Vulcan off guard by addressing him directly.

“I hold lectures and office hours three days a week, and spend two days in the academy labs on Starfleet research, for an average of forty hours of work per week.” Spock replies in that haughty monotone of his.

“Right.” Leo drawls, dragging out the R. “How many hours a week do you figure Jim’s puttin’ in, what with the cafe openin’ at five every morning; you can assume the place closes down at four for easy math.”

Spock looks like he’d like to say something insulting about Leo’s idea of ‘basic math’, but instead he turns to Jim. “How many other employees are there for the establishment?”

Bingo.

Jim shoots Leo a dirty look, like he’d said it aloud.

“Uh.” he starts folding the wash rag into neat squares and avoiding eye contact, like he does when he’s nervous or knows he’s busted. “Well, Gaila sometimes makes-”

“He’s the only one that does any real work around here, Spock.” Leo interrupts.

Those slanted brows twitch upwards and the look the Vulcan levels at Jim could almost give the kids puppy eyes a run for their money. 

“That is an excessive work load for a human.” Spock chides. 

“It’s not like it’s hard,” Jim argues. “And I like it, it keeps me busy-”

“Well be ‘busy’ somewhere else today. It’s Saturday, and you promised you’d try and get out on the weekends after that last incident.” Leo says pointedly. 

Spock looks like he’d very much like to know what incident, which is exactly why Leo phrased it that way.

Jim overworking himself into a burnout that left him bedridden for a week and half had been scary enough the first time. By the third time it happened, Leo had brow beaten the kid into setting some damned boundaries on his work load; and for the most part, Jim stuck to it.

He just needed a little motivation every now and then to remember.

Narrowing his eyes appraisingly at Spock, who’d stood up and was pulling on his jacket, Leo can’t help but think he might have a new ally in this.

“Are you taking off?” Jim asked Spock, feigning casual when it was clear to anyone with eyes that his little ol’ heart was breaking as he watched the Vulcan pack up.

“I am.” Spock said shortly. “And-”

For some horrifying reason, the hobgoblin looked at Leo for permission.

Waving his hand in a ‘be my guest’ manner, he held back a snort as Spock continued, “I am taking you with me.” he declared.

Jim blinked, his fingers going still in the dish rag.

“You heard the man.” Leo slapped at the counter. “Get goin’!”

Jim startled, grinning sheepishly when Leo gave him a look that the kid had dubbed ‘the eyebrow of doom’. Skirting around the counter, Jim pulled Leo into a one armed hug and dropped a kiss in his hair; utterly oblivious to Spock’s brief envious look at the motion.

“See ya Bones!” he sang, already heading for the front door.

“Hey, take a sweater!” Leo called after him.

He could spy the eyeroll through the back of the kids skull, but Jim pulled a one eighty and headed for the back door, hooking his pinky through Spock’s and dragging the bewildered Vulcan along with him.

Making a mental note to have that conversation with Jim at some point, and soon, Leo shook his head and downed the last of his coffee.

Chapter Text

Spock is so preoccupied with attempting to shield against Jim’s thoughts that are bombarding him through their linked fingers that he cannot honestly recall how he has arrived at his current location. The sensation is not unlike being transported aboard a starship while running full tilt across a distant planet.

He is fairly certain that Jim grabbed something from the cafe store room, and there was an open air hover trolley, and now they are simply… here. In a residential neighborhood of sorts, but there’s something off about the houses that Spock may require insight on from a more familiar source.

Emotions titillate across Spock’s mental shields as Jim finally ceases moving and looks up at the Vulcan, amusement and curiosity alike pressing like beams of sunlight against his defenses.

“You’re being awfully quiet.” Jim asks, flexing the pinky finger he is still holding Spock captive with in a short double squeeze. “Everything okay?”

“I cannot speak for the status of ‘everything’,” Spock began, finding it incredibly difficult to focus his attention back on the here and now, when the orbit of Jim’s emotions is so tempting. “But I am adequate.”

Taking in the nearest house, Spock identifies what it is that’s so strange in their appearance.

“Is it not standard practice to place one's belongings inside the house?” he asked. 

If so, these people had apparently not received the memorandum. Items ranging from furniture, clothing, kitchen utensils, and seasonal decor were laid out on tables, sprawled across blankets, and just generally put out for open perusal.

How curious.

Jim laughed, and Spock had his focus stolen once more; between the delighted amusement filtering in through their touch and the way Jim’s hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight, it was impossible to decide which he liked more.

“That’s the standard practice, sure. But it’s a nice weekend, so sometimes people have yard sales.” Jim explained. “Christine messaged me about this one earlier; she’s the gal you saw last night? She says it’s a community sale, so most of the neighborhood turned out for it.”

Christine must be the blonde medical staff member that had been in the cafe the night prior; he wondered what their relationship was. And also-

“They are selling things… in their yard?” Spock asked, terribly confused. Why wouldn’t people just recycle their unwanted things into the household replicator? Why would other people go out and peruse miscellaneous items when they, too, could simply utilize a replicator and get precisely what they need?

“It’s not very logical, is it?” Jim teased, leaning further into Spock’s personal space and pressing his weight down on their still-locked pinkies. 

Spock had zero intention of letting go anytime soon.

“Indeed.” Spock replied vaguely, thoughts coming to a stuttering stop once more as he was caught up in Jim’s stare. How many shades of blue was it possible for a single set of irises to contain?

“But this’ll be great, we can see if there’s anything here that’s interesting, and we’re out of Bones’s hair for a while.” Jim declared, moving towards the nearest house and relaxing his finger to slip free of Spock’s grasp.

The Vulcan tightened his grip in response, earning a victorious grin from Jim as he was tugged helplessly along.

☕

The first two houses held nothing of interest for Jim apparently, as he breezed through the yards, eyes darting about but never making a selection. Spock had no idea what he was after, and when he’d dared ask, Jim had simply replied, “Not sure yet, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

Spock had assigned himself the role of silent observer from that point forward. It was not exactly a hardship; Jim was an endlessly fascinating creature to observe in action, chatting with strangers and home owners as he perused their wares. He would ask questions, or reminisce on similar objects he’d owned before. 

The third house though, had cups.

“Spock!” Jim called, summoning the Vulcan from the sidewalk where he’d chosen to wait. This particular yard had many tables, tightly packed together, and there was barely enough room to walk in between. Rather than obstruct the other shoppers, of which there were three at this sale, Spock observed from afar.

The table Jim is at is covered in kitchen paraphernalia. Bowls, silverware, glassware, and, of particular interest to Jim, mugs.

At his summoning wave, Spock maneuvers the maze of tables carefully, and approaches his grinning friend.

“This is perfect. You need a mug of your own at the cafe.” Jim says excitedly, gesturing at the table full of different colored and shaped mugs. There’s one that looks suspiciously like a Klingon’s head, forehead ridges and all, where one would apparently sip their drink from the cranial cavity.

“The blue one that I have been using is sufficient.” he assures Jim. “There are disposable cups available as well, at the cafe.”

“Yeah, but that’s Bones’s cup.” Jim explained, shaking his head. “And I have the yellow one. But if you’re going to keep coming around, you need your own mug.”

Spock’s heart rate increased a noticeable amount at Jim’s implication; some outward cue must have been visible, as Jim’s looked turned teasing.

“Unless-” he feigned distress, lower lip protruding in a childish pout. “You don’t want to have your very own cup that’s yours and only yours at the cafe.”

Fully aware that he is being manipulated and yet utterly defenseless against those pleading blue eyes, Spock nods once in acquiescence.

Immediately dismissing the Klingon mug and attempting to not be entirely distracted by Jim’s excited victory bounce, Spock assesses the collection. There are many novelty cups here, different caricatures of heads, a few handthrown clay ones; some had cartoonish figures printed on them while others had phrases ranging from ‘World’s Best Boss’ to ‘#1 Dad’.

Jim’s gaze was unblinking as he watched Spock peruse the mugs; it felt as much like a test as the Kobayashi Maru trial that Spock had designed for the senior cadets at the academy.

Hopefully this test did not have the same deliberately fruitless outcome that the students would experience. 

Finally settling on a mug, Spock is surprised to find himself nervous at Jim’s reaction as he plucks his selection from the tabletop.

A glazed white mug with a wide top, the side is adorned with a clay relief of a megaptera novaeangliae, Earth’s humpback whale. The tail protruded from the mug, arching up to create a handle.

Jim’s smile was as bright as the late morning sunshine. 

“Good choice.” he approved. 

Turning the mug over in his hands for further inspection, Spock found an engraving on the bottom that read Cetacean Institute - Sausalito, California and the words ‘Save the whales!’ painted along the arch of the whale’s belly.

Passing the mug to Jim to look over, he is surprised to find Jim’s hands already occupied.

With a tricorder, of all things.

It is by no means a current model, the body a pocked and scuffed gray color, whereas the current units were a sleek white material. It had a strange brown wrap on it, an organic substance that Spock belatedly identifies as leather.

Scanning the mug with the reader, Jim gives another nod of approval. “That’s the real deal too, it’s not replicated.”

He sounds somehow relieved at this discovery.

An elderly woman squeezes past them, careful not to touch the Vulcan but steadying herself with a hand on Jim’s arm as she passes. He gives her a distracted smile, his eyes still on the reader, but Spock cannot identify which he finds more distasteful; the woman’s grasp, or the pungent perfume that she is wearing.

Thankfully she moves past quickly, and apparently satisfied at the readings, Jim drops the tricorder back into his bag and makes his way to the homeowner to claim the whale mug. Spock holds in his curiosity as Jim flashes his credit chip, his eyes catching on another observation.

Jim’s bracelet is flashing again, a sickly chartreuse color alternating with a pale yellow.

Clearing his throat and waving goodbye to the homeowner, Jim hurries from the yard and makes for the sidewalk.

“It is unusual that you have a tricorder.” he observes, attempting to lure Jim into conversation. 

The human's cheeks are tinted an enthralling pink, and he swallows twice before replying. “Well I’m a curious guy Spock, I like to know things about stuff.” he said, his voice tainted with a slight wheeze as he went on. “We better get this wrapped up, so it doesn’t break while we-”

Jim choked as a cough tore its way from his lips, his left elbow shooting up to cover his mouth.

Something uneasy is blooming in Spock’s chest as he takes in Jim’s appearance.

“Sorry.” he rasped. “I think-”

“Jim.” Spock reached out to hold his arm. “Are you experiencing respiratory distress?”

Because he does appear distressed. Initially distracted by the attractive flush of color to the human’s face, Spock sees it now for what it truly is; a medical reaction.

Another coughing fit takes Jim before he can reply verbally, and Spock watches helplessly as his pale throat moves, Adam’s apple bobbing fruitlessly.

“Jim.” Spock said firmly. “How can I assist you? Do you require medical attention?” 

Jim tucks the whale mug away in his satchel and reaches for Spock’s hand with a distressing tremble. His initial reaction, to avoid unnecessary touch at all costs, fails him entirely as he reaches out in return. Before Spock can decide if he needs to lower the defenses he’s built around his telepathy in order to get a deeper read on Jim, the human’s mind is dipping into his thoughts as though there were hardly any shields at all.

It should feel like a trespass, the way that Jim clumsily forces his thoughts on Spock; an assault that would, on Vulcan at least, have criminal consequences. But it’s Jim and while their current circumstances are less than ideal, Spock welcomes the intrusion as much as he had the simple gesture of holding hands earlier.

Spock swiftly sorts through the chaotic jumble of thought that Jim has pressed upon him; embarrassment is forefront, as well as a clumsily communicated desire to wait. Just wait.

:Is this-: Jim is interrupted by a wheezing inhalation of breath that sounds strained to Spock’s sensitive ears. :Can you hear me? Like this?:

:I hear you, Jim.: Spock hurriedly assures him, marveling at Jim’s swift adaptation to telepathic communication. Psi-null species like humans could generally broadcast their emotions through touch, but this exchange of words is a first for Spock; an anomaly outside of a mind meld.

:Okay. Just, give me a second?: Jim asks. 

Spock can’t help the burst of distress that he conveys to Jim at this request, but before he can prevent the unintentional communication, Jim is already responding.

:I’m alright, I just have to catch my breath. That perfume was strong.:

Utterly lost on how to proceed, Spock brings his other hand up to the one that Jim is currently clutching and covers them both. Patience has rarely been so difficult before as it is now. The desire to do something, anything at all to relieve some of Jim’s discomfort is a pull as strong as Earth’s tide.

It seems inane to him that less than twenty feet away, people are chatting and enjoying the sunny morning weather, while Jim stands here struggling to breathe.

Inspiration strikes as Spock recalls the words his mother used on him, when he was still prone to fits of emotional outbursts as a very small child.

“It is alright Jim.” Spock says calmly, rubbing the thumb of his covering hand over the back of Jim’s knuckles in an attempt to offer comfort. “Calm your mind, and your body will follow.”

He has no idea if the words are truly helpful or not; nevertheless, Spock begins to breathe slowly and deliberately, just as his mother did, in an attempt to lead by example.

The pulse of warm gratitude that Jim conveys through their interlocked hands is a balm on Spock’s own strained nerves; how curious, that Jim is the one to be offering comfort when he himself is the one experiencing physical distress. 

There is never even a moment of panic; Jim does not seem overly concerned with his plight, only embarrassed that Spock should be witness to it. Shocked at this realization, Spock recalls the moment that Jim was hurt, on the evening that they met; how quickly he’d compartmentalized his pain and with such ease.

Ease born of practice, Spock is horrified to realize.

Despite struggling with a body that is trying to strangle him, it is apparent when Jim reads this thought across their connection, as he begins to pull away. 

His attempt to wiggle free of Spock’s grasp is aborted as the Vulcan registers Jim’s knee jerk reaction to shield his own thoughts and promptly ignores it, clasping their hands tighter together. Jim’s inexperienced attempt to hide cannot disguise the bitter and utterly hopeless resignation he feels in response to Spock’s reaction.

:No, please-: Spock pleads, his fingers holding Jim hostage as he plucks at the fading connection that the human is attempting to sever. :Do not go.:

:You shouldn’t have to put up with this. I saw-: Jim presses an echo of Spock’s horror back at him, and Spock closes his eyes to concentrate, because if that is actually a tear rolling down Jim’s cheek, he will lose his composure entirely.

:You did.: Spock confirms, :But-: 

It is difficult to explain how one's thought process works, and the cultural differences between the processing of emotions between Vulcans and Humans cannot possibly be numbered, they are so numerous. But there is a very real chance that if Spock cannot clarify this miscommunication that he will lose any chance of obtaining Jim as his bondmate.

An absolutely unacceptable outcome.

So Spock pulls at the feeble connection between them, and finds that he cannot properly convey what he needs to in this manner. Still grasping Jim close with one hand, Spock moves his own fingers in a splayed pattern across the human’s cheek, falling to where Jim’s qui'lari would be if he were Vulcan.

:May I?: Spock asks. :I wish to explain.:

Jim is leaking confusion and wariness, but the slight nod he gives is nowhere near forceful enough to dislodge Spock’s fingers. 

“My mind to your mind-”

As Spock whispers the words of ritual, a single drop of moisture rolls from Jim’s cheek and onto the Vulcan’s sensitive fingertip.

☕

Jim’s skin is practically crawling with the desire to run away, to get as far away from Spock as he possibly can; there is no way the Vulcan is going to want anything to do with him now.

He’d felt Spock’s horror at the way Jim wasn’t even stressed about his allergic reaction and he wasn’t, because this was nothing really. He’d been a little wheezy for a second, but getting to clear air and letting the medications he took every four hours do their work had been enough to clear up his reaction.

His shortness of breath now was due entirely to the feeling of having a boulder pressing down on his chest; the terrifying ordeal of being found out, of being known. 

But Spock said he could explain, and Jim was just desperate enough to hope that maybe this wasn’t the end of what was shaping up to be a very promising relationship to let him.

“-your thoughts to my thoughts.”

It was the strangest feeling, a deja vu flashback to the first morning that Jim had met Spock at the cafe doors. Now, as he had then, Jim welcomed Spock inside.

:Jim: Spock breathed into this strange bubble of Vulcan telepathy, and it sounded reverent, like he’d seen something holy.

Dazed at the immense presence of the Vulcan in this weird liminal space, Jim waited.

:It… it is called a mindscape.: Spock eventually supplied, reining in his reaction. :I have never seen one such as this, though.:

Now that Spock wasn’t firing off blinding emotions like some kind of solar flare, Jim could take in the ‘mindscape’. It looked like the rooftop deck of the Lazy Daisy, but the sky was different; red and orange, with a massive planet looming on the horizon and a rocky terrain that stretched as far as he could see in every direction.

The plants, lawn chairs, and fairy lights that Jim had used to cozy up the deck space were still present, though the air was warmer and much drier than it could ever be in San Francisco.

:It’s my home.: Jim guessed. :And your home, too?:

Spock was silent, but Jim felt his confirmation as a distracted tendril of emotion.

:Spock?: he prodded, and maybe the Vulcan could read emotions clearer here, because Jim’s mental self was suddenly engulfed in Spock, hugging him and rolling him up in a blanket burrito of assurances.

:Forgive me.: Spock implored, and the feel of him was tinted pink with embarrassment. :I find myself quite overwhelmed. This was not what I had intended or anticipated would happen when forming the meld.:

:Is it because I’m human?: Jim asked, basking in the warm fuzzies that Spock had bundled him into. It suddenly felt miniscule and irrelevant, his fear and need to escape.

:It is because you are you.: Spock corrected, and the second ‘you’ was a rapidfire amalgamation of emotions and experiences and potentials that Jim’s human mind couldn’t possibly hope to comprehend or translate.

:Then why-: Jim struggled to recall what he’d been worried about before; something about a feeling? Of Spock’s?

The emotion in question was replayed at Spock’s behest, a sort of strange mental replay that Jim could observe without feeling or being actively part of. As he watched, Spock pulled on the impression of horror, breaking it apart.

Like firing an electron beam on a sample and reading the enlarged imprint of its atomic resolution, Spock showed him the core of it; a collection of other complex feelings that together comprised the single emotion.

Fear, that Jim had been through something like this so many times that it hardly registered as notable, leading Spock to the conclusion that Jim had been in life threatening situations many times. 

Alarm, that of course he would have been through many such experiences, if something as simple as a stranger's perfume could set off such a reaction. 

Helplessness, in the face of Jim’s plight, realizing that there was no way to protect him from future incidents; the best he could possibly hope to do in this regard was to be proactive in observing future potential triggers and steering Jim clear of them.

And over all of it, a desire to keep Jim happy and healthy; and being utterly distraught that he should be met with opposition to this goal in this particular manner.

Jim couldn’t wrap his head around what to address first. He’d seen emotions play across Spock's features before, subtle little tells that were nowhere near as grandiose as human emotions were. But it was becoming increasingly clear that while other species might have bigger and more obvious emotions on the outside, Vulcan’s had the monopoly on the size and complexity of emotion on the inside.

:It is why we so strictly adhere to logic.: Spock explained. :When Vulcans allow their emotions to dictate their actions, we slide precariously into the danger of losing ourselves to them completely. There is only the here and now with emotion, and we had to move beyond that to progress as a people.:

:Hmm.: Jim hummed, contemplating this new knowledge from the soft, floaty feeling of Spock’s mental embrace.

:We should end the meld.: Spock said reluctantly, and he could taste the Vulcan’s resistance to the idea. :We are not physically located in a place that is wise to be so mentally distant from our corporeal selves.:

There was something more, something that Spock wasn’t saying, but before he could get a grasp on it, the meld came to an end.

Like having the warm blankets ripped away on a school morning, or being shoved off a dock into freezing cold water, Jim came back to physical awareness with a gasp of shock.

Shuddering with the chill of sudden loneliness despite the warm spring sunshine pouring down on him, Jim feels Spock’s fingers pull away from his face; he can’t handle losing that contact too, so he does the first thing that feels right.

Closing the space separating the two, Jim steps into Spock’s personal bubble and slips his arms around the Vulcan, burying his face in the soft red material of his sweater through his open coat front.

Spock’s arms are around him in a heartbeat, holding him close and tight, like he could replicate the comforting sensation he’d been able to provide so easily in the meld.

“That was… intense.” Jim mumbled into Spock’s collar.

“It was inappropriate for me to request such a thing.” Spock admitted. “But I find that I do not regret it in the slightest.”

“Good.” 

“Are you well? Your breathing seems better.” Spock asked, and it felt easier than ever to read the concern in that cool monotone. A side effect of the meld?

Being so deeply entrenched in another person's mind had to have side effects, didn’t it?

“I’m okay.” Jim confirmed. He pressed his face harder to Spock’s front for just a moment, dropping a silent kiss on his chest before pulling away. Wiping at his cheek to clear away the dampness that remained, Jim withdrew before the deceptively soft material could cause another allergic reaction.

He didn’t want to break Spock’s brain any further.

“Bet that wasn’t on your agenda for today.” Jim said, chuckling self consciously. 

“Indeed not.” Spock agreed. “But as my agenda for today is to spend as much time with you as possible and I am not overly familiar with human socializing norms, much of what has transpired today was not ‘on my agenda’.”

Jim laughed.

“You mean you didn’t guess that we’d get kicked out of the cafe and have to go shopping together?” he asked. “And that you’d end up owning a coffee cup shaped like a whale as a result? How could you possibly not have seen that coming?” 

“You are teasing me.” Spock said confidently. “These questions are rhetorical.”

And even though he stated it like fact, Jim could read the teensiest trace of confusion on Spock’s brow.

“I am.” Jim admitted. He looped his pinky through Spock’s own, an easy feat considering they were still standing chest to chest. “Ready to keep looking?”

Spock nodded, looking down at Jim with his earnest brown eyes. “I will follow your lead.”

Chapter Text

They did not acquire any further goods that day, and though Spock was intensely curious about Jim’s allergies, he did not press for more information. Jim seemed sensitive to the subject, and Spock refused to risk alienating him or potentially bringing the day to a premature end.

He appeased his curiosity with the knowledge that if he is successful in obtaining Jim as a bondmate, he will have the rest of their lives to discover each and every one of the triggers that could potentially threaten his health.

And that is still his goal. Spock had been certain that Jim would be an acceptable match from the moment their skin touched at the cafe, but having been inside Jim’s mind… 

Feeling that welcoming mindscape and the ease with which their mental connection had settled, the way that Jim was able to communicate telepathically through simple touch, there was no room for even an iota of doubt. He must have Jim as his own; his to care for and tend to, a more than worthy beneficiary for the kind of devotion Spock wanted, needed to shower him with.

Speaking of which-

“Jim.” he said, pulling the humans attention away from observing the shops they trundled past on the open air hover trolley that would take them back towards the Lazy Daisy.

“Hm?” Jim replied, flexing his pinky and giving a squeeze to Spock’s own in acknowledgement.

“Do you require sustenance?”

He had no idea if Jim had even had breakfast, but they had left the cafe hours ago, and Spock was aware that humans needed to eat at regular intervals to maintain their health and dispositions.

“Oh.” Jim pulled his gaze away from the street to look at Spock. “Sorry, just thinking.” 

Spock is aware of this; the gentle press of Jim’s emotions lapped softly against the Vulcan’s mental shields from the light connection maintained by their physical contact. It was not enough to parse thoughts, not without Jim deliberately projecting as he had earlier; but the soft susurration of his mind radiated a contentment and low-level happiness that Spock luxuriated in being permitted to witness.

That was what Spock desired, in his mind, in a bond; permanently and always.

“I could eat.” Jim continued, staring up at Spock with those captivating blue eyes. “I brought lunch, if you wanna share?”

“I do not require sustenance at this time.” Spock assured him. “Though I would be happy to accompany you to an appropriate dining venue.”

Jim laughed.

Spock was quite certain that regardless of the stance of illogic in having a ‘favorite’ anything, Jim’s laughter was easily his new favorite sound.

“I don’t need a venue. We could just go to a park or something, since I packed my own.” he hefted his satchel, the contents of which were unknown to Spock beyond the whale mug. 

His whale mug.

They get off a few stops later, Jim leading the way to something called a ‘water park’ that he knew of nearby. Though it was a warm day for spring, it was still far too early in the season for the water fixtures to be active, and so there were few people about. Jim led the way to a picnic table, checking its cleanliness before unloading his meal.

“Vulcan’s are vegetarian, right?” he asked, pulling out a salad that had more toppings than greenery, with bright colored vegetables, shredded cheese, and small crunchy things that smelled strongly of onion.

“Yes, our dietary systems are not largely compatible with meat.” Spock confirmed.

Jim nodded, and conversation ceased for a while as he ate. Jim’s eyes roamed everywhere, taking in the park, watching the street and its occasional hover trolley or supply truck pass by. His gaze frequently landed on Spock, but this tended to result in a shy dipping of his head and an increase in the rate of his mastication.

Realizing he was staring, Spock attempted to locate something else to concentrate on that did not involve Jim.

It was… incredibly difficult.

Though there was something in his pants that was causing the fabric to pull tighter than necessary, and Spock realized with a start that he’d nearly forgotten his gift for Jim. Now seemed as good a time as any to present it to him. Pulling the puck from his pocket, Spock placed it on the table between them.

Jim’s attention immediately focussed on the device, no larger than the palm of his hand. Between bites, he asked, “What’s that?”

“That is a gift.” Spock declared, pushing the projector closer to Jim when he did not immediately take it. “For you.”

Curiosity apparently piqued, Jim wiped his face with a small knit cozy from his bag before picking the puck up.

“What is-” Jim began, but his fingers were already fiddling with the power control and the bouquet burst into existence, some of the largest blooms alighting on his face.

All in all, the arrangement was roughly eighteen inches tall, and a riot of different colors. Flowers and greenery from a multitude of planets that Spock had visited, plants that would never normally be seen together, sprung forth from the hologram that had taken him hours to program.

Seeing Jim’s wide eyed look of astonishment and delight, Spock reasoned that it was a more than adequate use of his time. 

“Spock!”

Jim set the puck down, and though the sunlight made the hologram less vibrant than it would appear in an interior room, Spock was proud of the work he had done.

“Look at all of these, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Jim’s voice, gone soft with wonder as he evaluated the blooms, sent a warm feeling spreading through Spock’s chest.

“Where did you even get something like this?” he asked, peeking through the flowers with a smile. “It’s super impressive.”

“I crafted it, using holos that I had previously recorded while on missions. As a science officer, I am regularly tasked with identifying unknown plant life and comparing it to species we already understand.” Spock explained. Pointing at a blue flower that vaguely resembled the interior of a split pomegranate, he continued “These mgunu pods are incredibly poisonous if imbibed. But they are quite aesthetically pleasing.”

Before he could lose his nerve, Spock added, “Much like yourself.”

Jim leaned around the flowers and leveled an amused look at the Vulcan.

“I’m incredibly poisonous?”

Realizing his error, or perhaps Jim misheard, Spock has a reply on the tip of his tongue when Jim laughs and reaches across the table to grab up his hand.

“I’m kidding Spock, thank you.”

Having been in regular contact with Jim for hours at this point, the overwhelm was significantly lessened by constant exposure; but Jim’s happy emotions were still rich and heady, a potent high that Spock very much wanted to indulge in.

“Tell me about the others.” Jim implored, releasing Spock’s fingers with a squeeze and brushing the back of his fingers along a furred bloom that looked like a multi-tailed whip, if the whip were covered in a thick coat of hair along each strand.

Pleased that his gift had been well received and that follow up conversation was apparently ‘on the table’, Spock began to explain the different flowers, and the fantastic places he’d been.

☕

“I can’t handle it.” Jim declared to the ceiling, dropping onto the couch next to McCoy. 

This particular couch didn’t get as much mileage as the one downstairs in the cafe’s book nook, partially because it was much shorter, and also because it was in their private living area. 

But it was big enough for one southern doctor and his I-think-you-technically-adopted-me friend. 

Unfortunately.

Sighing and swiping the command to send his PADD into rest mode, Leo patted his thigh. Like the rambunctious child he’d probably always be, at least to McCoy, Jim kicked his legs up on the back of the couch and put his head in the doctor's lap. Wriggling to get settled deep in the cushions of the worn couch, Jim turned those baby blues up at Leo.

“Can’t handle what?” McCoy asked, prompting Jim to continue.

“How… I don’t know, sweet he is?” Jim floundered, flapping his hands around in front of him like some kind of crazed seagull chasing cotton candy across a windy parking lot. 

Leo frowned; that was a stretch, even for him.

Tapping the display screen on his bracelet and noting the late hour, he let it slide.

“Spock? The Vulcan. Sweet?” Leo huffed. “Didn’t know Vulcans did sweet.”

“Well this one does.” Jim confirmed. “And we hung out all day. Nobody can put up with me all day.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Leo grouched, bouncing his leg under Jim’s head to let him know he was teasing.

“And he asked if he could come back tomorrow, too.” Jim went on. “He does this thing, every time he leaves, where he asks if he can come back.”

“Must be Vulcan manners.” Leo shrugged, dropping his head onto the back of the couch and letting Jim ramble on about his day, his super cute Vulcan friend, some flowers or-

“Wait, flowers?” he was comfy, so moving much wasn’t an option, but a quick pinch to the tender inside of Jim’s arm got his attention.

“Ow!” Jim yelped. “Yeah, flowers.” 

“What’d you do with ‘em?”

“I put them on the counter downstairs so I could show them off to every single person that comes into the cafe, because they’re not real flowers, if you’d been paying attention.” Jim accused, and Leo could hear the pout. “They’re brilliant, he coded them to look like all these other planet flowers, because-”

Jim finally paused for breath, but unfortunately for Leo, it was an eye roll inducing, utterly besotted kind of breathy sigh.

“He remembered the sign on the door about it being a fragrance-free space, and he wanted to get me flowers anyway, even if I couldn’t smell them.” Jim concluded, the smile evident in his voice, even as he snorted. “Of course, me having a reaction while we were out probably made him real glad he didn’t bring me actual flowers, or I’d have keeled over.”

“I saw that. Drugs work okay?” Leo asked, slapping at Jim’s medical bracelet. Even after hours, in his PJ’s, on the loveseat that was probably older than him and Jim combined, Leo couldn’t turn off being a doctor.

“Yeah. They took a minute to kick in, which I think freaked Spock out.” Jim admitted. “But I was fine, really.”

“Course you were. I’da known if you weren’t.” Leo scoffed, shaking his own bracelet. “I’m just askin’ in case you feel they aren’t bein’ as effective as they once were. Your system adapts to shit way too fast.”

At least they’d gotten, finally, to a point where Jim didn’t apologize for that.

“No complaints so far.” Jim assured him. “And look!”

Forcing his eyes open and his head upright, Leo zeroed in on the comm that Jim was holding aloft like some kind of trophy.

“A communicator. Wow. Now I can finally call you about your extended hovercraft warran-” Leo sassed, but Jim retaliated by pinching the sensitive flesh behind the doctor's knee. “Hey, quit that!”

Flipping his comm open, Jim shoved the thing at Leo again for a closer look.

“No, I mean look.” Jim commanded. “He gave me his personal number!”

Oh stars.

“You didn’t have it already?” Leo teased.

“Well, I mean-” the awkward wiggle that ensued told Leo that the kid probably had the professor's number already, because there wasn’t a computer powered on that Jim couldn’t get into if he wanted to.

“But now that he’s given it to you, you can actually use it to message him.” Leo concluded. “Don’t know why you’d bother.”

Jim scooched his head closer to Leo's knee and gave him a hurt look.

“Cause I like him, Bones. I really, really like him.”

Rolling his eyes and dropping a hand over Jim’s face to blot out the sight of those puppy eyes, Leo replied, “Put those things away before you hurt somebody. I only meant that your Vulcan beau seems to be blessin’ us with his presence every moment that he ain’t at the Academy teaching.”

“Beau?” Jim scoffed. “I didn’t exactly pick him up at my debutante ball here Bones.”

“Better’n callin’ him a stalker.” Leo shot back.

“That’s not fair! He’s-”

“Oh hush, I didn’t say I mind. I’m just sayin’, what’s the point of a comm conversation when you’d both rather he be here in person?”

“He’s probably got a life outside of me.” Jim said with feigned misery. “Maybe I’m just a fun side piece and he’s secretly got a wife out there and like, fourteen Vulcan babies.”

“He ain’t old enough for babies.” Leo muttered, distracted. He’d heard something about Vulcan culture marrying their kids off young, but maybe that’d been Andorians.

No, hang on, they were the ones with four-ples, or whatever.

“I bet he’d have cute babies.” Jim sighed.

“I bet you’d like to have his cute babies.” Leo snorted back. “And anyway, I’m not kidding, he really can’t have any kids yet.”

And now he had the brats attention.

“Humans reproduce younger than Vulcans, on account’a the difference in lifespans.” Leo reminded him. “Spock’ll live to be two hundred or older, like the rest of his people, no matter who his Mama is.”

Jim frowned.

“What’s his mom got to do with it?”

Leo stared in disbelief at the legitimately confused look on Jim’s face.

“How do you not know, you’ve been talkin’ with this guy for four days straight!” Leo huffed. “Spock’s half Vulcan. His Mama’s human.”

“Ah.” Jim nodded. “That actually makes sense.”

“Oh it does, hm?” Leo asked drily. “How do you figure?”

“He likes me, doesn’t he? Maybe it runs in the family.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous, y’know that?”

Jim grins up from Leo’s lap, where he realizes he’s accidentally been petting at his soft blond hair.

“Yeah, I can see how much you hate it too.”

“Aw, shut up.”

Chapter Text

One of the unexpected benefits of having a Vulcan decide they want to date you, is the extra set of hands. Opening was never really a hardship, exactly, but it sure went faster with two people than just one.

Turning over the last of the chairs and eyeing one of the clocks on the wall that kept local time, Jim grinned.

“I think we’re breaking records here, Spock.” Jim informed him. “I’m gonna have to get you in an apron if you keep helping out like this.”

The thought of Spock in one of the cute yellow aprons that one of the McCoy Aunties had sewn up was just adorable. Spock, all tall and silent with those moody dark eyes… in a bright yellow apron, daisies stitched all along the lower hem.

“As the purpose of an apron is to keep one’s clothes clean while working, and I am not presently dirty, I do not believe an apron will be necessary.” Spock replied with complete seriousness.

Jim laughed.

“That’s not why we wear aprons!”

Spock straightened and his hands fell behind him into a parade rest stance.

“I apologize, I am not familiar-”

Jim rolled his eyes.

“We wear aprons because they’re cute. And because they have pockets.”

Circling the counter and pulling his apron off the hook, Jim realizes it’s actually been a minute since he’s worn the thing. It’s not dusty; nothing in the cafe is with Jim's cleaning routine and lack of pretty much anything else to do, but it’s stiff to the touch.

Tossing the top loop over his head, Jim expertly ties the straps around the back as he walks back around the countertop to give Spock a look. The yellow pairs well with the plain black t-shirt and clean pale blue jeans he’d picked out that morning.

“See?” He asks, dipping his hands into the apron pockets and pushing down and out with them to show how much holding potential they had. 

When Spock doesn’t comment, Jim looks up to find the Vulcan’s eyes doing something soft and crinkly at the corners. 

“It is indeed cute.” He admits. “Though I am curious about the numerous signatures.”

Numerous is right; the number of people's signatures on Jim’s apron could probably fill the roster on a constitution class starship. 

“Oh, that’s a thing Gaila started. She gets all the new club members to sign it with a marker after they’ve made it to three meetings in a row.” Jim thumbs at the names that line the top of the pockets. Some of these people are ranked officers now; one of them is even a Commander. “It’s a fun tradition.”

“The cafe has its own clubs?” Spock asked, “Of what sort?”

Jim blinked up at him, the Vulcan having somehow made it into his personal space with Jim hardly noticing. Spock's in a thick cable knit sweater today, a pale creamy color that made him look like a sailor from Maine more than a Starfleet professor.

“Uh.” Jim’s mind blanked momentarily as Spock ran his fingers along the hem of the pockets too, not quite touching Jim’s own fingers, but pretty close. “Oh, uh. Book club?”

This is his cafe, and these clubs have been meeting here for literal years.

It’s Spock’s close proximity that has him forgetting every kind of club he’s ever even heard of.

The chill of Spock’s hands, when one brushes up against Jim’s, is so cold that the shock jolts him back to reality. Breaking away from staring at Spock’s suddenly-very-close face, he gasps. “Your hands!”

And Spock is already standing so close, it’s not much of an effort at all to reach out of his pockets and tuck the Vulcan’s chilled hands inside them. Curling his fingers around the cool appendages, Jim tries to will the poor things warmer through touch alone.

“You’re freezing!” he scolds, looking up into Spock’s now mildly shell-shocked face. “Are you cold?”

“Vulcan’s are able to moderate their body temperatures.” Spock explained eventually, apparently needing a moment. “The discomfort does not bother me.”

“But you are cold.” Jim pressed. 

Spock hesitated, and Jim pulled out the big guns; looking up at the Vulcan’s face with the slightest hint of a pout and letting his eyes work their magic. 

“Yes, mildly.” Spock admitted.

Apparently even Vulcan’s weren’t immune to puppy eyes.

“Well, here.”

Rather than wait for Spock to try and talk him out of it, or worse, insist he didn’t need any help at all, Jim went for it. Plucking the Vulcan’s hands from their apron pocket sanctuary, Jim tugged the freezing fingers behind him and under his t-shirt, pressing Spock’s palms flat to the bare skin of Jim’s lower back.

Smothering a squeak at how cold said hands were, Jim instead reached up and clasped the Vulcan’s upper arms, holding him in place.

Surprised at the lack of resistance or complaint, Jim checked Spock’s facial expression, only to see the Vulcan’s eyes squeezed shut, a furrow of confusion or maybe contemplation on his brow.

“Spock?” Jim asked softly. “You okay?” 

“I am-” Spock exhaled slowly through his nose. “I am quite adequate. This is much better. Thank you.”

Jim continued to stare, a little concerned, until Spock opened those pretty brown eyes of his. The pair were pressed together from thigh to chest at this point, but Jim couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. And the cafe didn’t even open for another fifteen minutes anyway.

“Chess.” Jim declared. “And dancing. Languages, engineering, first aid, swordplay-”

At Spock’s confused blink, Jim clarified with a mischievous grin, “Our clubs. The Lazy Daisy has a club for pretty much everything.”

“Ah.” Spock agreed wisely, and Jim felt a miniscule hint of pressure from the fingers at his back, drawing him in even closer.

“Perhaps you should tell me more.” 

“Perhaps I should.” Jim agreed with a smile.

☕

Leaving the Lazy Daisy, even after spending the entire morning with Jim, still felt too soon in Spock’s mind. If he did not have a standing lunch date with his once and possibly future Captain, he might have considered calling it off and spending the rest of the day with Jim.

That an Orion woman Spock vaguely recognized as Cadet Vro from the Academy had burst in, ushering Jim upstairs and demanding he ‘get changed already’ had apparently already had plans for Jim too did nothing to dissuade this desire. When his intended had sheepishly admitted that he’d completely forgotten about his plans with the Orion, Spock had been pleased to realize that Jim wanted to spend that time with him as well.

But Christopher Pike was his mentor as well as his friend, and would perhaps even be pleased to learn of his potential courtship with an intelligent person like Jim. This thought is immediately followed by an acknowledgment on Spock’s part that really, he would just like an opportunity to discuss Jim.

Perhaps Chris would have insight on securing a human partner though, advice that Spock felt he could not possibly get enough of. Though Jim seemed to take no issue with the progression of their friendship at this juncture, Spock refused to let the relationship stagnate, ill content with the thought of having Jim as anything less than his own bondmate.

His request to be allowed to return had been granted, though Jim had insisted he take a drink with him to go, despite being fully aware that he was en route to a luncheon. The comforting taste of Vulcan tea, combined with the warmth of the cup to ward off the chill spring air was incredibly welcome.

Though the sun is shining and he is wearing both a thermal undershirt, a sweater, and his coat, it is still too chill for Spock’s desert blood. It is with some dismay then, that he dismounts the hover trolley and approaches the restaurant that Pike had selected, only to see the man in question at an outside table.

“Sorry Spock, I know it’s a little cold for you. But the place was all full up inside and I hear they’ve got a killer vegetarian menu.” Chris says in lieu of greeting as Spock approaches. “Still, can’t beat the view, hm?”

“A ‘killer’ vegetarian menu is quite the ironic misnomer, Captain.” Spock replies, neatly avoiding the comment about the cold. It is not something either of them can change, and as long as Chris is not uncomfortable, Spock will manage. Sitting at the table, he can at least agree on the view being interesting.

Though he does not frequent them himself, Spock is aware that there are numerous street fairs and farmers markets littered throughout the city, and the park below is currently playing host to one. Their street level balcony looks down into the tiered levels of the park below, and from their current vantage point, Spock can see a multitude of colorful tents, booths, and people. The gentle sound of conversation from afar is a pleasing backdrop to the restaurant's ambiance.

“How has your week been?” Pike asked, pressing a menu across the table at the Vulcan. “Finals this next week, you think your Cadets are ready?”

Giving the menu a quick but thorough examination, Spock is pleased to see that there are indeed a number of vegetarian options available. He settles on the soup immediately, eager for the warmth.

“My students are adequately prepared.” Spock confirmed, clutching his tea tighter as a particularly willful breeze blew in off the coast and danced across his bare fingers. He had apparently packed the winter gloves away prematurely. “The only one that I had doubts about has recently acquired a tutor that was able to clarify the material for him, and should have no issues attaining a passing grade.”

“Good, is that the Chekov kid you mentioned last week?” Pike set his own menu down and flagged the waiter, no doubt aware that Spock needed no more than a moment to decide. “He’s smart as a whi-”

Peering at the Captain over the lip of his travel cup as he takes a sip, Spock blinks at the suddenly razor focussed look on his friend's face. “Is that from the Lazy Daisy? You’ve been to that damned Cafe too?”

And though Spock has only been frequenting the place for less than a week himself, he finds that he does not care for the accusatory tone in the Captain’s voice.

“The cafe makes an excellent Vulcan tea.” Spock replies cooly.

 He can identify that his defensiveness of the cafe likely stems from his association of the place with Jim; but even the imagined slight against his intended is enough to ‘get his hackles up’, as his mother would say.

“Yeah, and I’m sure that’s where your problem child found his better grades, too.” Pike huffed. 

The waiter appeared and took their order; though many restaurants allowed you to order digitally, this venue was one of growing number that were in a ‘customer service renaissance’, placing emphasis on person to person interaction.

The moment their orders are entered though, Pike returns to the previous discussion. “It is, right? Chekov went down to the Lazy Daisy, got himself a decent grade, and-”

The Captain is nothing if not observant, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a look of triumph. “And I bet you went right down there to figure out why.”

“That is not an inaccurate summary of events.” Spock replied carefully. “What is the source of your dislike for the cafe?”

Chris shrugged.

“I think it’s a great cafe, a great idea. Give the cadets a place off campus where they can relax and work on their studies?” Pike grew agitated, though it was possibly only apparent to Spock after years of working together. “A place of community that fosters friendship and acceptance, with a particular stress on working together to get things done? Even if ‘things’ in this case is homework?”

“After-hours self driven studies are an important part of the learning process.” Spock protested weakly. He knew that wasn’t what the Captain was truly taking issue with, but as an academic instructor, it felt necessary to defend the practice.

“I’m not saying it isn’t.” Pike assured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. His relaxed posture did not set Spock at ease; if anything, the Vulcan was aware that he was being scrutinized. 

This was the Captain’s ‘thinking’ face, as Number One had called it.

Spock found that being on the receiving end of this ‘face’ was… not something that he enjoyed.

“So.” Pike asked after nearly a full seventy-eight seconds of staring. “Vulcan tea. Does Gaila make it right? Or does she make it the human way?”

“Gaila does not make my drinks.” Spock hurried to correct the Captain, and the flash of triumph in his Captain’s eye did not bode well for the Vulcan.

Lunging forward and drumming his hands rapid fire against the tabletop, Pike cursed. “I knew it! That brat isn’t hiding from all Starfleet officers, he’s deliberately avoiding me.”

The context of the Captain’s statement led Spock to believe that he had not simply mis-pronounced the popular earth food, a sausage from the Eurpoean continent.

“Brat, sir?” Spock asked, uncertain what his friend was referring to as far as avoidance, but well aware that he could only be talking about Jim.

“The blond kid that works the counters, James McCoy.” Pike looked down at the market below, frowning. “Makes coffee and runs a tighter ship than half the ‘fleet Captains I know, and yet he chooses to waste his time stuck dirtside instead of being out there where he could make a real difference.”

Spock’s hackles are officially engaged.

“I disagree.” he said immediately. Pike’s look of surprise should not be so satisfying; though it had taken nearly their entire first tour together to get there, the Captain had always encouraged Spock to speak his mind.

“I do not believe that the Lazy Daisy is a waste of Jim’s potential.” Spock argued. “He has done an incredible job of making a place that all people feel welcome at. He fosters relationships between students that allow them to grow their cultural understandings of their fellow classmates, most especially those that do not originate from Earth.”

Pike stared. His eyes were widened slightly in either shock or surprise; Spock was uncertain and unwilling to interrupt speaking his piece to ask.

“This sense of community allows the students to focus on their course work, and by having access to a myriad of learning styles and resources to utilize in the event of any struggles, lessens the strain the cadets are under.” Spock paused only briefly to confirm that he still had the Captain's attention before continuing. “This is not simple conjecture or personal feeling on the matter.”

“Of course not.” Chris demurred with a wry smile teasing at the corner of his lips. “Your evidence?”

“The cafe opened in the summer of 2249. The first year that it was open, the cafe advertised ‘cram sessions’ to cadets; as evidenced by flyers that hang, framed, in the Lazy Daisy’s dining area. As early as the spring quarter, less than a year after opening, the cafe was having a positive effect on the student body.”

Spock knew he was over justifying this; but the cafe was Jim’s, and he’d done such good things with it.

“Starfleet medical records show a downward trend of stress related admissions to the hospital and Academy clinics over the course of the cafe’s existence.” Spock continued. “Surveys that students are given at regular check ups cite ‘strong social support network’ as their main reason for not seeking medical care; there simply isn’t a need for it, given that the Cadets are not reaching levels of stress that they may have before the Lazy Daisy opened.”

“You used a contraction.” Pike whispered, mildly horrified.

“The social benefits are clearly enormous, but the effect that the cafe has had on the academic-”

“Here’s lunch!” sang their waiter, setting a steaming bowl down in front of Spock and a seafood salad before the Captain.

“Thank you.” they said in unison, Spock with a sharp nod of his head; Chris, weakly, still staring at his former Science Officer. The waiter drops silverware off at their table and takes their leave.

“Shall I continue?” Spock asked, but Pike took a large bite of his lunch and shook his head in the negative.

“I don’t know how I managed to hit a nerve that sensitive, but point taken.” Chris finally said. “Let’s eat, and then we can talk about an exciting opportunity that’s come up for you.”

Spock nodded and turned his attention towards his soup. They ate together in silence, Pike used to having to rush his meals to get back to ship’s business, and Spock taking the opportunity to observe the people wandering through the market below.

“Any big plans for spring break?” The Captain eventually asked, wiping at his face with a towel and picking up his drink. It was iced, despite the chill of the afternoon, and Pike’s grin into his drink as the cubes clinked against the glass told Spock that he’d caught something of the thought on the Vulcan’s face.

“Negative.” Spock replied. Though he occasionally made visits back to Vulcan during the school's formal breaks, his parents would be visiting next week; therefore, there was no need to venture to his home planet to visit with them.

Privately, Spock thought he might not have gone even if his parents hadn’t been visiting; he could hardly risk losing the momentum he’d gained in convincing Jim that a courtship was the most logical path forward.

“Well, if you’re not too tied up with anything personal, Starfleet has a mission that you’d be uniquely suited for.” 

“How so?” Spock asked, curiosity admittedly piqued.

“It’s an escort mission. A prison transport, technically.” Pike explained quietly, keeping his voice down to avoid disturbing the other diners and knowing full well that Spock’s sensitive ears could hear him.

Spock kept his expression as neutral as he could, but the slight cock of his head was inevitable. “In what manner am I uniquely suited for such a task? My training in security is only from personal experience and the bare minimum required at the Academy.”

“You don’t need to worry about doing any kind of physical restraint on this, Spock.” The Captain hurried to assure him. “You’re uniquely suited because the person they need transported is on his way to Na’nam, the Gol province.”

Spock raised a brow at this.

“A Starfleet prisoner, going to Vulcan? Please elaborate.”

“He’s telepathic, and not very nice about it.” Pike replied with a frown. “There’s been a few incidents since his time at the Academy, but after he graduated and landed on a ship, he seemed to clean up his act.”

The Captain rubbed a hand over his face in a gesture of tiredness, or perhaps grief; Spock had seen it multiple times during their tours together.

“Turns out, he’d been…” Pike trailed off, his expression disturbed. “You might say ‘interfering’ with some of the crew. I don’t know the Vulcan word for it, but it was puppeteering at best and outright assault for the worst of them.”

Spock suppressed a shudder. 

It was anathema to consider doing such a thing to another living creature. There had been a time, in Vulcan’s distant past, where such things occurred; but even then, it was considered a terribly heinous act for the telepathic species.

“And this… prisoner, he is human?” Spock ventured, and Pike confirmed with a nod.

“They’ve got him sedated for now, but he needs to get to the Kolinahr Monastery on Vulcan. I guess they’ve got ways to help reform him, learn the error of his ways and what not.”

“My Vulcan heritage and Starfleet rank are the contributing factors for my selection for this mission then.” Spock realized. “I am able to shield against another telepath, in ways the predominantly psi-null crew could not.”

“Exactly.” Chris confirmed. “He’ll be put in a medical stasis for the duration of the transport, but we don’t want to take any risks with a vulnerable crew. The best we can offer on short notice is a small shuttle though.”

Pike sighed.

“You’ll have warp capabilities, but you’re still looking at three days there and three back. Unless there’s a ‘fleet ship passing by that could get you back sooner.”

Concern bubbles up in Spock’s mind at the time frame. 

If he is able to secure passage back on a ship with better warp capabilities, he could potentially return to Earth as soon as four days from his departure. But without a faster ship, he could potentially miss an entire week with Jim.

“What’s on your mind Spock?” his friend asked, not unkindly. “You don’t have to do this, y’know. We can get someone from the Vulcan embassy-”

“No.” Spock interrupted. “Though the timing is not ideal, I will not allow personal matters to interfere with my Starfleet duties.”

The words came out smoothly, but Spock found that they left an almost ashy sensation on his tongue as they went.

“Personal matters?” Pike asked, confused. “Are your parents visiting, or-”

A sharp whistle from below interrupted the Captain. It was a leering thing, something his mother might call a ‘wolf whistle’, though it had absolutely nothing to do with Earth’s canis lupus.

Pike chuckled as he apparently caught sight of the source of the sound from the market down below. Curious, Spock leaned to see what the fuss was.

In the arms of a very green woman in a pale pink dress, a man was being dipped backwards in a complicated dance move; he was also being very thoroughly kissed.

Laughing and apparently the source of the whistle, as their arm was pointed at the spectacle the two made, was a person in a mid length white dress. 

Even from behind, Spock would recognize that head of blond hair anywhere.

Jim.

The man extracted himself from the woman’s grasp and revealed his identity as Dr. Leonard McCoy. Sputtering and clearly redfaced, even from this distance, McCoy turned on Jim. Snatching a sun hat from the ground where it had apparently fallen when he’d been dipped, the man advanced on Jim, holding the hat up in a threatening manner.

As Gaila laughed, McCoy lunged, and Jim yelped before taking off like a shot; cackling in delight.

The white fabric of Jim’s dress fluttered behind him as he ran off into the green lawn area of the park that hosted the market, McCoy in quick pursuit.

“Jim!” Gaila cried. “You left your- Oh, fine. These boys.”

Grabbing Jim’s abandoned sandals, she took off after the pair.

Spock was still trying to process Jim. In a dress.

Not to mention his own rising need to get up from this table and go chase after Jim himself, to feel that laughter against his arms and chest as he caught the human up-

“Oh. My. God.”

Pike’s disbelieving tone snapped Spock back to reality.

The horrified look was back, magnified perhaps tenfold from before.

“You. And Jim McCoy?”

His control had slipped just enough that Spock could not possibly stop the ensuing blush that flushed his cheeks with color.

“Oh. Oh, no.”

Chapter Text

“You’ve got that dopey look on your face again.” Leo warned Jim in a low tone as Spock emerged from the storeroom hallway carrying a crate of lemonade cartons with ease. 

“Hm?” he replied, clearly distracted and still staring at the Vulcan that kept turning up like a bad penny.

“Nevermind.” Leo rolled his eyes. “You!”

Pointing at Spock with one finger while the rest remained curled around the cup of life-giving caffeine he cradled, McCoy asked pointedly. “I’ll be seeing you in about an hour, y’hear?”

“One hour and twenty-three minutes from now.” Spock confirmed, without checking the clock because he was a damned showoff. “Leaving me one hour and eighteen minutes to spend with Jim beforehand.”

The kid turned an alarming shade of pink, unloading the cartons from Spock’s carry crate. “That’s, uh. That’s true, Spock. Thank you? I think.”

“You are welcome.” came the monotone reply, and the barest crinkle of his eyes as he watched Jim work was like watching cartoon hearts throb out of his eye sockets.

Leo shook his head to clear the mental image.

“I’m going to work.” he declared, standing from his stool at the counter and quickly assessing that no, he really did not want to try and squeeze past the two lovebirds to put his mug in the sink. “You two have fun.”

“- You always have my unspoken passion, although I might not seem to care-”

Shoving off from the counter, Leo grabbed his coat from the hook behind the counter and tugged it on. “And for Pete’s sake, put something other than Billy Joel on the jukebox today. Heard this song abouta hundred times this week.”

“- I just want someone that I can talk to-”

“I’ve just been on a kick lately, it’ll pass. Oh, and don’t forget, book club is tomorrow.” Jim pointed out, hurriedly putting together a go-cup. “I know you usually stay late on Mondays, but if you’re gonna finish it-”

“I don’t think I can.” Leo huffed, grabbing his satchel and heading for the door. “The so-called ‘medical’ jargon in that book is pure drivel. Don’t think that writer ever even went for a damn check up themselves.”

The book really was a mess; medical inaccuracies abounded, like the writer cherry-picked symptoms and impressive sounding words and threw them in a blender. 

“Aw Bones.” Jim leaned on the counter and held out the go mug just as Leo hit the door. “If you don’t read all the way through til the end, who’s gonna yell about that stuff with Christine?”

“Chapel’s reading this nonsense? Even without the, uh-” Leo shot a furtive look at the Vulcan looming behind Jim, even as he reached out and took the proffered cup. “Well, you know what she likes.”

“She’s a reader with specific tastes, that’s all.” Jim grinned. “We’ll pick something more up her alley next time.”

“Up her alley.” Leo shook his head, amused. “Alright lovebirds, I’m gettin’ outta here. Spock-”

“One hour and twenty one minutes.”

“Damn straight.”

☕

Joe’s office always had a sort of exotic smell to it, something dry and smokey. Art hung from the walls, artifacts he’d collected during his Starfleet tours, and the window blinds had never once been shuttered on even the brightest days.

It was cozy, even if the chairs were a little too firm for Leo’s preference.

“Leo, good morning.” Joe said, not looking up from his PADD. “Give me just-”

Waving him off, Leo dropped into one of the too-firm chairs gingerly, careful not to bruise his tailbone on the damn thing.

With a cheerful beep, Dr. M’Benga set his PADD down and gave his full attention to his fellow doctor and long time friend.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, nodding pointedly at the go-cup still clutched in Leo’s hand. “Little early for espresso, isn’t it?”

“Pfft, hell no. I’d crash by noon if this had any of Jim’s bean juice in it.” Leo said dryly. “This is some herbal tea he wants to try out as a special next month. It’s not awful, but-”

“But it’s not coffee.” Joe guessed with a knowing grin.

Leo nodded once with a rueful smile.

“Sure ain’t.”

Taking a deep breath before releasing it slowly, Leo drummed his fingers on the cup before asking, “So. Vulcans.”

“Vulcans.” Joe agreed knowingly. “They are an interesting group.”

“Too interesting, in some ways.” Leo grouched. “I’m taking on Spock as a patient of mine. Don’t know why the hell he hasn’t been yours to begin with-”

“He used to be.” M’Benga clarified. “I did a stint with him and Pike, before.”

“Well good. Maybe you can give me some pointers.” 

“I’d be happy to go over his chart with you.” Joe offered, tapping his PADD awake again.

“Much as I’d like to, and probably will take you up on that, my question ain’t gonna find an answer in his medical file. Or his personnel file, either; I checked.”

“Oh?”

“What do you know about Vulcan dating?” Leo asked, squirming slightly.

It was these chairs, dammit.

“I don’t think it’s really appropriate for you to take on a patient that you’re interested in, Leo. It’s bad enough with you and Jim-”

The teasing glint in M’Benga’s dark eyes did nothing to alleviate Leo’s recoil at the thought.

“Stars, no.” 

Joe just laughed.

“Vulcan dating isn’t really a thing, at least not by our standards.” He continued, setting his PADD back down. “Most Vulcan’s are tested for mental compatibility and sort of betrothed to another Vulcan as kids.”

Leo’s face must’ve conveyed something of his thoughts on that, because Joe immediately started shaking his head. “You have to remember, they have an entirely different culture than ours. Vulcan’s reach the age of majority very young compared to humans.”

“It’s somethin’ like seven years old, ain’t it?” Leo asked. He’d been brushing up on his Vulcan knowledge, but predominantly in the medical sense.

“Around then, depending on the child.” Joe confirmed. “That’s about the time they’re paired off, too. But it’s not permanent; it’s more like a back up plan.”

“Like telling a childhood friend you’ll marry each other if you’re both single at thirty.” Leo said dryly. 

“Something like that.” M’Benga allowed with a smile. “But with Vulcans, due to the drastic and sudden change in biology that they’ve got to deal with upon reaching sexual maturity, it’s more like a death pact; I won’t let you die and you won’t let me die, if neither of us have found a better mate by then.”

“Die?” McCoy blinked. “Puberty’s awful for pretty much all sentient species, the hell kind of nonsense are Vulcans going through?”

“You’ll have to get special clearance from the Vulcan medical board to be privy to that; I’m sure it will come up during your appointment with Spock today, since he’ll have to put in the request.” Joe assured him. “I can’t tell you much beyond that, medically speaking, until you’ve got the clearance.”

“And non-medically speaking?” Leo pressed.

“Because of their physical need for a willing partner, Vulcan’s take pair-bonds incredibly seriously.” Joe’s face turned thoughtful. “I can’t say I recall ever seeing a Vulcan ‘courtship’ lasting longer than a week.” 

“That seems… fast.” Leo frowned. Reminding himself that it was a cultural thing, it did kind of explain why Spock clung tighter to Jim than a baby opossum to its Ma.

“For their people, a mental connection is more important than any kind of physical compatibility or social caste system.” Joe explained. “And since mental compatibility goes both ways, there’s very little logic in waiting to formalize things.”

“What if somebody comes along that’s a better match?” Leo argued. “Do Vulcan’s divorce?”

Joe shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. I don’t think they even have a word in their language for it. Separation after a pair is fully bonded, either through death or brain injury, is just as likely to take out both halves as the one.”

“Sounds like bad biology.” Leo pointed out.

“Perhaps to us. But it’s also why Vulcan’s aren’t terribly concerned with bloodlines; family lines, yes, because they pass their histories and familial knowledge down through mind-melds.”

With a questioning glance to make sure that Leo understood what melds were, and at the responding hand wave for so-so, M’Benga opened his computer and began downloading a data chip.

“Mind melds are telepathy, in the most basic sense of the word. Culturally, there’s a lot more significance to it, but that’s the layman’s term.” he continued. “Take this, should cover a bit more for you.”

Handing over the data chip, Leo took and stowed it away in his pocket.

“But, as I was saying, family lines are more important than blood ones. You would be hard pressed to find a Vulcan couple or family that wouldn’t immediately take in an orphaned child from a deceased pair-bond.” M’Benga went on. “With their fertility cycle only making conception possible on a very rare basis, children are considered a blessing at any age.”

“So they pair-bond if their brain waves sync up.” Leo summarized. “And if one of ‘em goes, they both die?”

This did not sound good at all for Jim; and if he were being honest, given the kids health record, it didn’t bode well for Spock either. “And how’s that work with humans then? Why would a Vulcan pick a human to get mind-noodly with?”

“Please, please use that term around Mr. Spock when I am somewhere nearby, I must see his reaction.” Joe said with mock seriousness. “As far as choosing a human mate, it’s not without precedence, as Spock himself is evidence of.”

Cocking his head and steepling his fingers together under his chin, Joe asked, “Why the sudden interest, if you’re not dating him yourself?”

“Spock’s decided that he and Jim would go swell together, and Jim’s-” Leo squirmed in his seat and swore to keep an eye out for some damned cushions for his friend's office. “Well, he doesn’t have a lot of romantic experience, so I’m worried about him, is all.”

Finally finding a relatively comfortable spot on the chair, Leo looked up and caught M’Benga staring, his mouth agape.

“What?” Leo demanded.

Shaking his head but grinning widely, Joe only laughed.

“Well my friend, I think you need to find yourself a nice suit and tie. When’s the wedding?”

“They aren’t even dating yet! Jim hasn’t agreed-” Leo protested weakly.

“That’s not how mental compatibility works, Leo.” M’Benga interrupted. “If Spock wants to be bonded with Jim, it’s not just because of some mental requirement on the Vulcan side of things. Jim would have to be just as interested and desiring of a match as Spock is, or the initial attraction would never have even happened for a Vulcan.”

“So, what?” Leo scoffed. “You tryna tell me that Vulcans believe in love at first sight?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘love’ necessarily, not immediately at least.” M’Benda disagreed. “And it’s less ‘sight’ and more touch. Since they’re touch telepaths, it’s likely that their compatibility would have been established the first time they made physical contact with bare skin.”

Leo cursed.

Jim falling off of that damn ladder and right into Spock’s arms was probably what did it. 

“You said courtship lasts one week?” Leo demanded. “Before they go makin’ things permanent?”

“Usually less.” Joe corrected.

“Aw hell.”

☕

“Right this way, sir.” The nurse led Spock to an examination room hidden in a maze of hallways that seemed incredibly inefficient in their design.

“Thank you.” Spock said politely as he was left alone in the room to wait for the Doctor.

In the silence that followed the nurses departure, Spock acknowledged the feelings of discomfort and agitation that hospitals and medical facilities engendered in him. Picking them apart and dispersing the concerns with logic was easier in theory than in practice, unfortunately.

His experience with Dr. Thornton had been unpleasant enough, but at least fell into the scope of familiarity. Vulcan doctors had been fascinated by his physiology to the point where he’d been made to feel like a lab experiment more than a patient; Dr. Thornton had firmly categorized him as close enough to Vulcan that she hadn’t even taken his human genetics into consideration for his treatment.

Spock had no idea what to expect from Dr. McCoy.

The man seemed brash and loud in his personal interactions, but clearly cared deeply for Jim, and that alone was enough to make Spock at least give the doctor the opportunity to try. 

A quick knock at the door preceded the man’s appearance, though he didn’t look up from his PADD for longer than a moment to acknowledge that he’d walked in on the right patient.

“Spock.” he said in greeting. 

“Hello, Doctor.” he replied politely.

Flapping his hand dismissively, McCoy said, “Just Leo’s fine.”

Uncertain what verbal response would be appropriate, Spock remained silent as McCoy continued to frown at his PADD.

“Did you not have sufficient time to review my file prior to this appointment?” Spock asked. He did not want to stay at medical any longer than absolutely necessary and was mildly irked at the doctor's inefficiency. 

Blinking up from the PADD, Leo focussed on Spock for the first time since entering the room. “What? No. I’ve already gone through that, I’m just tryin’ to wrap my head around this meld stuff.”

Spock stiffened on the biobed he’d been directed to sit on.

“For what purpose are you researching mind melds?” he asked, careful to keep any nerves from his tone; surely the doctor didn’t expect to meld with his new patient?

“Because it involves your mind silly, which means it affects your brainwaves, right?” Leo challenged, tipping the PADD in his direction. “And as your doctor, I oughta familiarize myself with anything that could throw it out of whack.”

“I am not ‘out of whack’, Leo.” Spock immediately replied.

“Maybe you don’t think so.” he mumbled in response. Highlighting a passage on the PADD, Leo finally closed the screen out and tucked the device away in the pocket of his white lab coat. As he did so, Spock caught sight of a medical bracelet that matched Jim’s own on the doctor's wrist.

It was currently a steady green color, the same shade that Jim’s usually was.

“So. Plan for today is to get a full screen of labs done up, and go over your current vitamin regiment, then see if you have any issues you want to address. So the sooner you start talkin’ the sooner you can get out of here, seein’ as how you look as happy to be here as a cat in a room fulla rockin’ chairs.” Leo pointed out.

Correlating the imagery of that statement with any relevance to his current situation was something Spock would have to address later in meditation.

“My vitamin regiment is available in my file, and I have no issues I wish to address.” Spock said, electing to ignore the cat comment for now.

“Your vitamin regiment is available in your file, and I’d like to know why the hell you’re on it, for starters.” Leo said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning his hip into the small countertop of the exam room. “That line up is for Vulcans, and doesn’t take into account your human heritage at all.”

“The contribution to my genetic makeup is minimal enough to have slim to no effect on my medical standing as a Vulcan, as it is less than fifteen point four percent of my-”

“That’s a whole ass crock of bullshit.” Leo cut in. “Who told you that?”

Spock blinked.

“I have been repeatedly told by my previous doctors, both Vulcan and human, that this is so.” he explained. Spock may not be a doctor himself, but science was science; he’d seen his own information, spread out on lab equipment just as advanced as what Starfleet medical had available.

“Stars above.” Leo huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Well, they’re wrong. All of ‘em.”

An inkling of concern began to grow in Spock’s mind at this statement.

“Are you saying that you believe yourself to be a more knowledgeable medical professional than any of the other doctors that I have encountered, some of whom have been practicing medicine for over a century?” Spock argued.

“Yes!” Leo shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Look, I can see why they would think that about you, looking at the data. But we have to take into account that you’re the first of your kind, as a hybrid. The data on a screen isn’t the only thing that should be taken into consideration with a patient.”

“Elaborate.” Spock demanded.

Leo sputtered, staring at the Vulcan in disbelief.

“What, you want me to try and explain gut feeling, experience, and faith in your allotted appointment time?” he scoffed.

Spock stood from the biobed.

“If you are going to be insulting, I must request that my primary care be transferred to a doctor that will practice medicine based on facts and actual information.” he said coolly.

“You listen here, Mister.” Leo scowled, stepping forward and jabbing a finger into Spock’s chest. “It’s a violation of my patient's privacy, but I know for a damn fact that he won’t mind if it means takin’ care of your stubborn ass.”

Spock reined in the desire to smack the doctor's hand away and continued to stare impassively at the red faced man.

“If I went by the book, and I only ever considered the data and ‘hard facts’ of a patient, Jim would be dead. A hundred times over, maybe more.”

Indignation fled as Spock processed the doctor's statement.

Apparently taking the silence as a request to continue, the doctor did so.

“Jim’s got more issues than a medical journal subscription. On paper, that boy should’ve died at birth, and how he made it all the way to adulthood ain’t nothin’ less than a miracle born of his own damn stubbornness. Sometimes, you just gotta throw out the book on what you know, and work with what you’ve got.”

“Jim is well, though? Now?” Spock asked, latching on to the most important aspect of the doctor's revelation.

“For now.” Leo allowed ominously. “But it’s a constant struggle between what worked last month and what’ll make him sicker’n a dog next time. The data is skewed because of the way his body started out, and what was done to it for years after as a result.”

Spock dropped heavily down on the biobed.

“So while I respect the data that’s in your chart, I’m not using it as route for how to treat you going forward. I have some suspicions about what’s goin’ on with you, and if we can get ‘em under control, I think you’ll be happier and healthier for it.”

Almost as an after thought, Leo added pointedly, “Taking good care of your health’ll help Jim too, keep him from overly frettin’.”

Perfectly aware that he was being manipulated, and yet unable to fault the doctor’s logic, Spock bowed his head in acceptance.

“How would you like to proceed?”

Chapter Text

For the first time in his academic teaching career, Spock is not the first person into his own classroom; in fact, by the time he arrives from his appointment at Starfleet Medical, half of the seats are full. Moving to the podium and desk at the front of the room to set up, he has just gotten his PADD connected to the room’s system when there’s a pointed cough behind him.

“Professor Spock?” asks a soft voice, and Spock has to turn to see who it is, because none of his students talk to him; at least, not unless specifically called upon. It is difficult to learn individuals voices when they are rarely heard talking specifically to you.

“Yes, Cadet Naom?” he asks politely, belatedly realizing that she’s holding a very recognizable go mug out to him. It shakes ever so slightly as she presses it forward, familiar red tea staining the rim where the lid stopper has become dislodged.

“Uhm, well, Jim asked me to make sure you got this.” she continued quickly, her voice still so airy and light that even his sensitive Vulcan hearing had to work to hear her. “He said you might n-need it, after this morning?”

Spock took the cup as the shaking increased. The sleeve slipped slightly during the exchange, and he could read something scrawled there in marker before he caught the cup up, concealing the message once more.

“Thank you, Cadet.” he said curtly, and then, remembering that this was likely one of Jim’s many friends, he added, “Your kindness is appreciated, as is the tea.”

The wobbling smile he received in return was clearly a little forced, but the cadets shoulders lost some of their tension.

“Of course, Professor. I’ll just, uhm-” she pointed over her shoulder with her now free hand. “Sit. For class.”

And then she was gone, darting off to a seat in the middle of the room, receiving hearty pats on the back of encouragement and praise from her peers as she went. Unlike the small group clustered around Cadet Naom, the rest of the classroom was staring, in complete silence… At Spock.

Or more specifically, the to-go mug, with ‘The Lazy Daisy’ scrawled along the side in the artistic calligraphy style that had been designed by Cadet Vro, according to JIm.

Clearing his throat, Spock pointedly turned back to set up his lecture for the day, a relatively quick process, made all the quicker by his desire to peek at Jim’s message before the class got under way.

Taking a sip of the still hot tea, realizing that Jim must’ve made it extra hot to keep for the journey here from the cafe, Spock slips the sleeve down. The message he finds below warms his chest in a fashion quite similar to the hot beverage.

Have a good day! Looking forward to your ‘return’ <3

This is no doubt a reference to the request that he has made to Jim upon going their separate ways, since that very first day; Spock asking each time if he may return the next day, or even sooner sometimes. The scribbled shape after the word eludes recognition for the span of three heartbeats before Spock realizes that’s exactly what it is.

Jim has drawn a heart on his gifted drink.

Now more eager than ever for the work day to end so that he can make good on his request to return to the Lazy Daisy, to Jim, Spock launches into his lecture for the day with renewed vigor and the barest suggestion of a smile on his face.

☕

“Oh goodie, look who’s here.” Leo drawls, hauling himself out of his chair in the circle that they’ve made up for the book club as the bell over the door tinkles in greeting.

“Spock!” Jim calls, waving at him like he wasn’t the first thing the hobgoblin locked eyes on, the second he entered. Shoving on Jim’s shoulder to keep him in his chair, Leo gives him a pointed look, cocking his head at the group of about a dozen people that have gathered for the book club.

“You stay here. I need a word with Spock; shop talk.” he says, ruffling Jim’s hair just to hear that indignant squawk. He’d spent close to ten minutes working on his ‘look’ in anticipation of the Vulcan’s return that evening, and Leo took particular glee in mangling it.

“Bones!” Jim hissed, pinching at Leo’s arm but returning his attention to the club, one hand desperately trying to smooth out his hair as the gathered group watched on, amused.

Snickering at Jim’s vanity, Leo met Spock halfway to the door, before pivoting hard and beckoning him to follow. Like a good little Starfleet officer, Spock did as he was told; though his gaze lingered on Jim the entire walk away.

“Yes, doctor?” Spock asked when Leo had triggered the privacy shield on the kitchen turned medical clinic.

“Thought I told you to call me Leo?” he huffed, keying the kitchen’s heavily modified replicator open, fingers jabbing at the screen to make it give him the bits he’d had coded earlier.

“Apologies, Leo. What is the purpose of this meeting?” Spock asked, and maybe it would even have sounded polite, if not for the very obvious desire the Vulcan had to be out there, with Jim, instead of stuck in another medical space with Leo.

“Hold your horses, I got somethin’ for you.” he replied as the replicator materialized the items he’d requested.

Palming both of the items and feeling just a little contrary at Spock’s attitude, Leo turned to face the Vulcan and held out his hands, curled into fists.

“Pick a hand.” he instructed.

Spock blinked.

“I do not understand.”

“It ain’t exactly rocket science, Spock. Each hand has an item. You get one of ‘em. Pick a hand.”

Somehow radiating pure bitchy energy without his face moving an iota, Spock nodded at Leo’s left hand, both of his own still folded neatly behind his back in a parade rest.

Unable to resist antagonizing the Vulcan just a teensy bit more, payback for having to listen to Jim wax poetic about his damn eyebrows for hours, Leo flipped open his right hand and said, “Ta-da.”

This was the one he wanted to give Spock today, anyway. The other one could wait til he was leaving on his mission; the one he’d oh-so conveniently forgot to mention he was departing for.

“That is not the hand that I selected.” Spock protested, as Leo stealthily slipped the bracelet into his pants pocket. 

“Cry me a river, Spock. Then build yourself a bridge and get over it.” he said cheerfully, tossing the data chip at the practically scowling Vulcan. “That’s your new vitamin regiment. Already coded to your user profile, so the ‘fleet replicators should have you set to go. Take that for the shuttle you're ridin’ out on.”

Spock froze, his already still demeanor locking in place, fingers clutching the datachip in a pale knuckled grip.

“You are aware of my upcoming assignment?” Spock asked softly, eyes darting to the privacy shield on the doorway.

“I’m your doctor, Spock. ‘Course I’m aware.” Leo frowned, crossing his arms. “Though it woulda been nice to hear about it from you instead of seeing the request for medical clearance come through about an hour after your appointment. You’re lucky I was so thorough in the initial go, or you’da had to come back for more proddin’.”

When Spock didn’t reply, Leo cleared his throat before biting the bullet. “So. When are you gonna tell Jim?”

Whipping his head up so fast it made Leo’s neck twinge in sympathy, Spock demanded, “You have not told him?”

Leo snorted.

“Hell no, you can break his poor fool heart; I’ve just got the glue ready for the pieces.”

“It is only a short mission, potentially less than an entire week.” Spock said softly, turning the data chip over in his hands.

“This time.” Leo couldn’t help but point out. “I know you think you’re serious about him-”

“I am.” Spock interrupted firmly, and Leo marveled at the fire behind his eyes at that statement.

“But he needs somebody here, not off in the sky.” he finished, gentler this time. “And I know you haven’t asked him out formally, or started yourself a Vulcan courtship or whatever. But it’s something you have to consider before you do. You two need to talk about whether or not he’s gonna be okay with you bein’ gone for long stretches. Hell, there’s no way you haven’t heard the brass talking about five year missions.”

Spock’s lack of response was telling.

“And scuttlebutt has you tapped as Pike’s new First when the Enterprise is finished.” Leo pressed on. “Maybe Vulcan’s are used to goin’ without their loved ones for long periods, but Spock-”

“I am aware of the implications, the potential issues.” he interrupted softly. “And I am taking measures to address them.” 

“How?”

Spock’s shoulders drew up slightly, and it had the effect of making him look like a sullen cadet being dressed down.

“This mission is a short one, ranging from between three to seven days.” Spock recited. “I intend to use this as a test of my own abilities to function as a Starfleet officer, given the potential distraction a romantic liaison might offer.” 

Spock paused, but since he seemed to be on a roll, Leo let the silence stretch for a moment.

“Vulcan’s do not like to be separated from their mates, either.” he finished softly, shoulders slumping.

Leo hummed consideringly. “So this is a test run, and what? You’ll come back and either ask Jim out and decline recommisioning, or you come back and tell Jim to kick rocks so you can go fly off into the stars without him?”

The flash of emotion across the Vulcan’s face was there and gone too quick for Leo to properly name; it sure as hell looked a lot like horror and anger though, if he were any judge of character. 

“Your concern on Jim’s behalf is moving, doctor, but if lecturing me is the only thing still holding us here, I would prefer to depart.” Spock said, voice about as stiff as his backbone now.

“Aw, hell Spock.” Leo groaned. “Listen, I’m not tryin’ to read you the riot act here. I’ll be the first to admit that I get a mite bit mulish when it comes to Jim.”

Spock looked like he was about to bolt, forcefield or no, so Leo came clean.

“It’s just-” he frowned, dropped his arms out of their crossed position and picking at the band of his bracelet. “I heard Vulcan’s were real serious about their partners, and I want that for Jim. I was hopin’ to have a little back up lookin’ out for him, because stars know the kid needs it.”

“Regardless of whether or not Jim agrees to become my intended, it is my intention to remain his friend.” Spock replied, his voice softening. “Of course I would assist with ‘looking out’ for him, as his friend or as his partner.”

“Well, that’s nice.” Leo said, lips twisting. “Doesn’t do a lot of good from space-”

Holding up a hand to stop Spock’s immediate protest, Leo continued, “But I have to admit that havin’ you around does seem to help. I can’t remember the last time he’s had a week as easy as this one’s been.”

Leo wouldn’t call himself superstitious, but he would say he was a little ‘stitious; reaching back towards the wooden wall, he gave it three short knocks, much to Spock’s obvious confusion.

“He has nearly broken his ankle and suffered from an allergic reaction that severely complicated his breathing.” Spock said quickly, a little furrow appearing on his brow that Leo was thinking might just become a permanent fixture when they talked. “I do not see how this could be quantified as an ‘easy’ week.”

Leo snorted.

“That’s ‘cause you’re not working’ with all the data,” he pointed out. “you’re drawing a conclusion from a limited sample of time, when I’ve been puttin’ up with Jim’s immune system for years. And let me tell you Spock-”

He leaned forward and jabbed his finger down on the biobed for emphasis.

“It’s been an easy week.”

Spock at least seemed to consider this; like trying to catch a glimpse of the wizard behind his curtain though, Leo had no idea what was running through that analytical mind of his.

“You speak of data points.” Spock asked, and Leo just knew that the hobgoblin had put on his thinking hat. “If you consider two incidents in less than a week to be ‘easy’, then what do you define as a normal week, or a difficult one?”

“Four incidents,” Leo corrected. “You probably didn’t catch the third and the fourth was yesterday while we were out and about.”

As Spock’s eyebrows shot for his hairline, despite his expression remaining carefully neutral, he added, “Now don’t feel too bad. Jim’s just real sly at hidin’ reactions from folks so they don’t worry.”

Spock finally slipped out of that parade rest and gestured for Leo to continue.

“As he’s gotten older, he’s also gotten better about avoiding the things that trigger his issues, but sometimes they sneak up on him. The cafe is about the only place that he’s got solid control of the environment, so when he stays home, he’s safer.”

Leo sighed. 

“Which ain’t fair, because he’s a smart kid and he should be out doin’ things idiots in their twenties are wont to do. But other than bootin’ him out on the weekends, or the Wednesday farmers market, I think the only time he regularly leaves the cafe is for runs in the morning.”

Realizing he’d ended up on a rant about the wrong issue he had with Jim’s current lifestyle, Leo tried to get back on track. “Anyway. Four incidents, one week, easy week. Average week? Seven or more.”

“And a bad week?” Spock asked, sounding about as fearful as a Vulcan can get.

“There’s a reason the replicator swings out down there.” Leo said grimly. “A bad week has Jim laid up in bed, too sick to move and too damn stubborn to let the cafe close.”

Beyond the slight paling of his features that Leo likely only caught due to medical training, Spock didn’t outwardly react. 

“I can see why you would be inclined to have additional supervision for his wellbeing then.” the Vulcan finally murmured.

“Someday, if he gives me the okay, I’ll even give you a PADD with his allergies and conditions listed. Should make for some fun bedtime reading.” Leo joked, but Spock just looked alarmed, eyes gone just faintly wider on his face.

“But think about what I said, Spock.” he concluded, circling the bio bed and heading for the control on the door to drop the protective shield. “Jim doesn’t just need a partner that can be nearby and look out for him-”

“-he deserves one.” Spock finished, nodding sharply before striding down the short hall in a beeline for Jim.

“Yeah, that went about as well as expected.” Leo huffed, turning off the lights and following the Vulcan out.

Chapter Text

Door’s unlocked, see you soon!

When he had received the message ten minutes prior, Spock had been sitting in his apartment, waiting for the appropriate hour in which he could proceed to the cafe and spend some time with Jim before heading to the labs for the day. Seeing the message as an explicit welcome to arrive sooner, Spock availed himself of the opportunity, ignoring the fact that it is just past four in the morning.

Now having arrived at the cafe and entered through the back door, he is perplexed. The lights are off. Jim is not in the storage room, the kitchen-turned-clinic, or the cafe itself. If not for the unlocked door and the day's timestamp on the earlier message, he might have believed that he had received the invite in error. 

Eyeing the spiral stairs that led to the mysterious living space above, Spock considers whether it would be worth facing Leo’s wrath if his knock should wake the doctor, in his quest for Jim. But as he weighs the pros and cons, he hears a clank of metal from behind him.

The darkened hallway that is usually gated off is currently open, if only wide enough to permit a single slight male body; Spock investigates.

He is able to slip through the metal gate on;ly after widening the gap slightly, and after heading down a short hallway, finds himself at another doorway; this one more modern than the rest of the building’s entries, in that it is hydraulically powered and sealed like the typical doors of Starfleet. At his approach, the doors whoosh open, the sound lost in the loud music playing in the room beyond.

There are no words to the strange music, but it has a heavy baseline and a rapid beat, and likely covers the sound of Spock’s startled exclamation as well.

The room beyond, while from the outside of the building very obviously makes up nearly a third of the brick structure’s square footage, is so much larger than even that; the floor in the center of the room completely displaced by what appears to be a functioning warp core. All matter of metal detritus litter the floor of the room, machines and twisted pieces of scrap, and nearly half of them have concerning scorch marks littered profusely about.

Eyes growing wide as he takes all of this in, Spock catches movement at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Part of the floor has been cleared in the corner to make room for various exercise equipment. Benches for weights, an elliptical machine, and a running pad of the quality that could be found in every ‘fleet gymnasium sat neatly arranged in the cordoned off area. The machines are obviously well maintained, Spock can see from even a distance of some twenty feet away.

When his mind registers the next sight, it goes completely blank, all thought driven from him and replaced with a high pitched buzzing sound.

Jim is utilizing the equipment for lifting, and if the sheen of sweat on his bare chest is any indicator, he has been for some time.

Arms pumping the weights in a slow but steady rhythm, Jim’s skin is flushed pink in places with evidence of his effort, his hairline darkened by sweat. He has apparently not noticed Spock's arrival, but as his arms have just the slightest tremor to their lift, he is likely nearing the end of his workout.

Rational thought makes a valiant effort to intrude on Spock’s consciousness as he stands there staring at how vibrant and beautiful Jim is, a distant whisper urging him to leave, that he’s clearly intruding here. A much more primal voice in his mind notes with interest that the flush of Jim’s cheeks is redder than the pale rosy color of his nipples, and that is what yanks the Vulcan out of his staring.

Beating a hasty retreat back into the cafe, Spock pauses to catch his breath in the hall, surprised to find it coming faster than usual; as if he had been the one working out, and not Jim. It is surprisingly difficult to master the urge to storm back into the makeshift gym and press his fingers to Jim’s face, his mind to Jim’s mind, and to bind them-

A physical shudder works its way up Spock’s spine as another clank sounds from the room beyond. Legitimately concerned about how he might act if Jim comes upon him in his current state, Spock moves swiftly for the door at the back of the cafe, the one that will take him out into the chill of the early spring morning.

As he steps out into the cold his mind replays on a constant loop the visual of Jim, smart, kind, gorgeous Jim, with his soft hair and his easy smile-

Spock can only hope that the chill will alleviate the flush to his own skin; if not calm the needy clawing of his mind for Jim’s own.

☕

Jim is putting the finishing touches on a latte, carefully pouring the foam out and only showing off a little bit with the flourishes, when Spock walks into the cafe. Looking up and catching sight of the Vulcan almost a full two hours before he was supposed to finish up in the labs, Jim completely fumbles the delicate foam art.

“Spock!” 

He doesn’t know why he calls Spock’s name; he’d clearly spotted Jim the second he walked in the door. But his heart starts beating faster and he can’t contain the smile that that carefully neutral face brings out in him.

“Sorry Joe.” Jim belatedly apologizes to an amused M’Benga. 

“That’s alright. I can see you’ve got other things to attend to.” the doctor winks, taking his drink and heading back to the table that Bones and a couple of his friends from the hospital have claimed.

“You’re early.” he says to the approaching Vulcan, fully aware that he’s smiling like a loon and utterly incapable of stopping himself. “I didn’t think you’d be by til after six.”

“My experiments have been concluded for the term.” Spock explained, moving to his customary stool, eyes never leaving Jim’s own. 

“Wrapping up before spring break?”

Spock seems to hesitate before replying with a sharp nod, and there’s something in those pretty brown eyes that Jim is only half sure he’s imagining.

“Tea or lemonade?” he asks, before immediately shaking his head. “Lemonade, duh.”

If Spock looks surprised at Jim knowing what he wants to drink before he can verbalize it, Jim misses it; dropping into a crouch to grab out some of the lemonade mix, he frowns as he remembers using the last of it an hour ago. 

“I need to get more lemonade, hang on.” he slaps a hand on the counter and hauls himself upright.

“I can bring out-”

“Pfft, Spock.” Jim interrupts. “You just got off work. I can carry the lemonade myself.”

For some reason, Spock’s eyes drop to Jim’s chest before he quickly looks away, and Jim could swear the tips of his ears were blushing a faint green. “Of course.”

“Kay, be right back.”

Circling the counter and heading for the storage room, Jim debates the merits of adding another fridge to the front counter to minimize the number of trips in a day. It just doesn’t seem like the amount of work that it would take to make the renovations could really be justified, not when making two extra trips to the storage, which isn’t even that far, accomplishes the same thing. Especially with Spock helping out-

Lost in thought and distracted by the memory of Spock’s forearms flexing when he’d carried out the lemonade last, Jim misses the sheen of liquid on the store room floor.

He gets a pretty close look at it in the next minute though, as his shoes slip out from underneath him and he goes down hard, head cracking against the unforgiving stone floor.

Jim recognizes the chemical smell of the bad floor cleaner in the same second his skull reverberates with a dull thunk, and then he doesn’t register anything but the darkness swooping in.

☕

Jim has been out of Spock’s line of sight for precisely fifteen seconds when an alarming high pitched tone begins to beep an alert from behind him; the sound of four chairs scraping on the wooden floor precedes a panicked curse from Leo.

“Jim!” Leo yells, throwing himself out of the bench seat he’d been at and rushing for the storage room.

The feeling of something cold and hard stutters in Spock’s chest as he immediately moves to follow the panicked doctor.

“Spock, wait!” calls Dr. M’Benga, but Spock is already in motion; between one blink and the next, he’s in the doorway to the storeroom and staring at a large puddle of blood and Jim’s too-still body.

“What the hell is this stuff?” Leo growls, and his hands are feeling along Jim’s neck and head before he rolls backwards, pulling the unconscious body of Spock’s intended with him.

“Get me a sample of that shit, I need to get him cleaned up.” Leo orders, and Spock can hardly breathe past the unfamiliar panic welling in his throat, but he nods and moves to obey.

The sight of Jim’s body, rag doll limp in the doctor’s hold, nearly robs him of the ability to move. But figuring out what this chemical is will help Jim, or Leo wouldn’t have asked, and Spock will not stand by uselessly while Jim needs him.

A sample turns out to be unnecessary, as Spock finds the source of the spill hidden behind a rack, beyond an appalling amount of blood on the floor. A bottle of floor cleaner, tipped over and caught between the wheeled storage rack in the wall and likely pinched to a cracking point, is quickly snatched up. 

It is a clear fluid, the smell pungent and vile against Spock’s sensitive nose; he is fully aware that any future encounters with this scent will remind him of the horribly helpless feeling he is currently experiencing now.

Kaiidth.

Carrying the bottle quickly to the makeshift clinic, Spock is surprised to find that Leo has stripped away most of Jim’s clothing, and that his intended is now hanging from a strange looped harness in the corner of the clinic. Water pours down on him, Leo’s hands quickly scrubbing suds of soap into his skin.

He desperately wants to know why Leo didn’t just put Jim under a sonic, which would clear the foreign contaminants away much more expeditiously than simple water, but he trusts the doctors judgement, at least when it comes to Jim, implicitly.

“Alkaline fortified sodium hydroxide.” Spock informs the doctor, holding the now empty bottle aloft for the doctor to see.

“I thought we got rid of all that stuff.” Leo grouches after a quick glance, still aggressively sudsing Jim’s prone body.

“How can I be of assistance?” Spock asks, aware that his voice has taken on a pleading tone and utterly incapable of reining the emotion in right now.

Jim is hurt and there is nothing that Spock can do, and that is anathema to him.

Leo snorts as if he has heard Spock’s internal struggle, but whatever he was going to say cuts off when he turns and looks at the Vulcan.

“You can, uh.” Leo waves at the wall on the far side of the room. “Check for blankets and sheets, he’s gonna be on that bed overnight at least.”

Clenching his fists tight enough that the bones creak in protest, Spock moves to obey, dropping the crumpled container into the waste disposal as he goes.

This is at least something.

“Hey Leo,” comes a soft voice from the doorway, and Spock freezes, instinctively shifting to place himself between the stranger and Jim’s helpless body. “we got the kids cleared out and the doors closed up. Gonna mop up the store room and get out of your hair. Need anything?”

She’s just trying to help but her presence, even on the edge of the small room where Spock can still smell the iron tang of Jim’s blood, is pressing his emotional control to the limits. He wants her gone, away from his wounded-

“Sochya.” comes the soft spoken Vulcan word, and M’Benga steps into view, carefully shuffling the woman behind him and back down the hallway. “Michelle, can you please help Tony in the storage room?”

Peace.

As if he could possibly feel peaceful when Jim was still slumped in that strange harness and the infernal beeping, like a red alert, pulses from Leo’s wrist, bracelet flashing red in alarm.

The cupboard door suffers from his inability to control his temper, the thing coming completely off of the hinges as he opens it in search of blankets for Jim. That he cannot even control his physical self enough to open a cupboard only adds to his frustration and warring emotions.

“How the hell am I supposed to wrangle Jim and the hobgoblin over there?” Leo hisses at M’Benga, the older doctor still lingering in the doorway, likely aware how tenuous and lacking Spock’s control is at the moment.

“You’re already doing it.” M’Benga assures him quietly as Spock sets the damaged door down against the wall and pulls out the three softest blankets he can find. “Let him help. Vulcan’s don’t do well with feeling helpless on a good day, and they’re utterly impossible when their bondmates are involved.”

“They aren’t even-” Leo begins to protest, but the soft susurrus of tearing fabric interrupts him. 

Spock barely registers the feeling of shred blanket in his hands as he tries to extinguish the tidal wave of rage that threatens to overwhelm him at the implied challenge to his claim on Jim. A buoy of thought rides the wave, insisting with the fading grasp of reason that Spock has left that Leo is not a challenger.

“Try telling him that.” M’Benga snorted. “Spock, Jim needs those blankets on the bed. And Jim needs a towel, can you bring over the towels, for Jim?”

It was humiliating and disturbing how easily the Vulcan trained doctor manipulated him into gaining control over himself once more; being given a clear goal, and insistence that it was for Jim, immediately overriding the feeling of aggression towards Leo.

Carefully laying the blankets out on the bed, tucking the ruined one into a makeshift pillow, Spock tries to focus on breathing exercises to regain some semblance of control over himself. Folding the edges of the blanket just so, he attempts to pinpoint the exact trigger that is unsettling him so deeply; it would likely take a long and deep meditation to address the issue and prevent it from happening again, but he needs to be grounded now.

He can’t help Jim if he can't help himself.

Therein lies the issue, he realized, moving back towards the cabinet and tugging out towels for Jim and Leo. Jim had been hurt, and twenty feet away, Spock had been completely unaware. 

It sparked a sense of wrong/bad in his Vulcan mind, to be so unaware of his mate’s distress, despite the illogic of it in their particular scenario; they were neither bonded nor even formally dating yet, but convincing a hundred generations of deepseated and hard wired belief of this irrationality was impossible.

Rationalizing his plight and yet still thoroughly in the midst of it, Spock clung to that sense of understanding, centering himself on it temporarily.
Bringing the towels to Leo, Spock notes that M’Benga has left as he holds them out towards the remaining doctor. As Leo unhooks the leather strap supporting Jim from the wall, he concedes the practicality of it; if the doctor frequently has to treat Jim on his own, it makes sense that he would need supportive aids to maneuver his patient when working alone.

Thinking of Jim in such clinical terms scratches like bloodied nails at the back of Spock’s skull, but the effort to distance himself from the situation is out of necessity, not desire.

These efforts are immediately wasted as Leo grunts, “Here. Take him.” and unceremoniously dumps Jim into Spock’s outstretched arms.

He is less able now than he was even that first day to let Jim fall to the ground, and so Spock carefully scoops his intended up with ease, dropping the towel into a loose hammock shape to encapsulate Jim’s damp form. A slight shiver wracks the pale body in his arms, and Spock’s mind draws a comparison to the flushed and healthy tone it had glowed with even just that very morning, even as he pulls Jim in tighter to his chest for warmth. 

Drying his hands on the second towel that had been tossed away to catch Jim, Leo throws the rough fabric over his shoulder, holding on to a corner of it and stepping into Spock’s personal bubble. It is closer than the Vulcan would like anyone to be to himself and his injured… friend. 

But Leo is only trying to help, a mantra that Spock has to remind himself of on repeat as the smell of Jim’s blood assaults his sensitive nose. With one hand parting Jim’s short shorn hair and the other dabbing at the head wound with the towel, Leo makes a considering noise.

“Not the worst he’s had.” he murmurs. “Damn head wounds, always bleed like a stuck pig.”

“His respiration is abnormal.” Spock points out. 

Leo moves to the counter and grabs a handheld regenerator. “Yeah, big surprise, he’s allergic to that cleaner. He didn’t use to be, but when that changed last summer we swapped it out for another. I gave him a booster to help his regular meds get it under control, just give ‘em a minute to kick in.”

Looking down at Jim’s lax expression, face curled into the dark gray of Spock’s uniform, he is struck with a bone deep sense of rightness; this is where Jim belongs, in his arms.

The quiet hum of a regenerator clicks on, startling Spock with its proximity. The hand wielding the machine is the one with McCoy’s medical bracelet, and he notes that the color has shifted to a yellow alternating with green. It is a testament to his distraction that Spock cannot recall when the shrieking alert had ceased.

“Still think you wanna hitch your horse to this wagon?” Leo asks, his voice clearly attempting to tease but the worried look in his eyes conveying his concern that Spock will not, in fact, choose Jim.

Rolling his shoulder slightly to give Leo better access to the back of Jim’s skull, Spock braces a hand on his intended’s pale neck; he is rising to consciousness, mental presence reaching for Spock like a sehlat cub seeking warmth.

“I do.” 

☕

Jim’s first thought on waking is how low the ceiling is; the lights are so bright they’re practically on top of him, and he turns his face into the firm pillow beneath his cheek. 

“Get the towel between his face and your uniform, or he’ll end up with a rash.” Bones directs from somewhere nearby, which is good, because he doesn’t feel great but if Bones is there then that’ll go away soon.

His face is dislodged momentarily from its dark refuge by a cool hand tucking fabric under his cheek. There’s a sparky feeling, like the kind he gets when he touches Spock, but it’s gone too quickly for him to get to enjoy it. 

“Spock.” he mumbles, frowning into the towel and missing that touch already.

The hammock shifts beneath him, and his brain tries to equate why it kind of feels like arms, when it talks. “I am here.”

If his hammock is talking, then it’s definitely a good thing Bones is here, because that means the slight achey feeling in the back of his head is probably worse than it feels.

It takes Jim a full five seconds before his brain triumphantly solves the riddle of arms, touch, and voice; his whole body startles as he blinks his eyes open to find Spock staring at him with the concerned furrow on his brow that Jim thinks might just be for him.

There’s something in his system that's making him sluggish, and not just in the brain department, but Jim reaches up to press his thumb to that little wrinkle and tries to soothe it away. Spock trembles, and presses his cheek into Jim’s palm.

“S’ok.” he murmurs, trying to console him. Spock is clearly upset about something, but as soon as Jim can get his feet on the ground, he’ll help fix it.

A soft puff of air ghosts over his palm, and he can feel through the connection of their skin that Spock is sort of forlornly amused about something, but he can’t quite puzzle out what it is.

“Alright you two.” Bones drawls. “Spock, put him on the biobed so I can get a good look at him. And Jim, stop fondling the Vulcan where I can see you.”

“S’not fondling.” Jim protests, but his tongue feels swollen in his mouth and the words slur slightly. 

“May as well be.” Bones grouches, pointedly thumping the bed.

Spock hesitates, and Jim can feel how badly he doesn’t want to let Jim go, and it makes his whole chest feel warm and fuzzy. He tries to push the feeling at Spock, to share it with him and let him know it’s okay, and from this close he can see the moment that the Vulcan 'receives’ him. 

Spock’s eyes close and his shoulders lose some of their tension. As he steps to the biobed and lowers Jim down, he could almost swear he felt the slightest brush of lips against his palm before Spock releases him.

The biobed is almost comfortable for once, the cold but easily cleaned material of it covered in a soft blanket that feels much nicer. It’s still chilly in the clinic though, so he pulls the towel closer around himself; when he realizes he’s wearing only a towel and his boxer briefs, his cheeks burn hot with embarrassment.

Not exactly how he would have liked for Spock to see him nearly nude the first time, but sadly, statistically the most likely.

The shiver that shakes him is immediately muffled by another super soft blanket being draped around his shoulders, cool hands that are only slightly shaking tucking the edges in close.

“Thanks Spock.” he tries to say, but the swelling of his tongue seems to be getting worse, not better. 

Bones is staring at the readouts from the biobed, but he looks up when Jim tugs at his damp sleeve; it’s probably wet for the same reason Jim’s hair is, but he has bigger fish to fry at the moment. Tapping his chin with his index finger, Jim tries to open his mouth to tell Bones about his tongue, but the words won’t come out.

“Jim?” the doctor frowns, dropping his PADD and reaching unerringly for the medicorder on the counter behind him. “Open up, lemme see.”

He tries, but his jaw refuses to cooperate, panic beginning to seep in as his airways constrict. He’s no stranger to allergic reactions, but this feels different, wrong the way it hasn’t since-

Oh no.

His face feels like it’s swelling like a balloon, the pressure behind his nose blooming and making his ears ring and strain against the growing sensation of pain.

Bones curses as his bracelet starts to chirp a warning, the medicorder in his hands rapidly scrolling information across the screen.

“What is happening?” Spock asks, voice tight with what Jim thinks might be fear, and he bitterly wishes he wasn’t the source of that feeling.

“He’s having a reaction to something, but I can’t pinpoint it.” Bones growls, dropping the medicorder and yanking on drawers to pull out needles and vials and other things Jim hates. “Might be a delayed reaction to the initial chemical spill, or to the medication I gave him for that-”

“He is allergic to allergy medication?” Spock asks, and Jim would laugh at the obvious incredulity in his voice if he weren’t currently struggling to breathe.

“He’s allergic to everything.” Bones fumes, which isn’t completely accurate, but-

With his eyes beginning to swell shut, Jim has to use feeling to find Spock, freeing one swaddled hand and waving behind him in the general vicinity of where he thinks the Vulcan’s voice is coming from.

Spock, obligingly, snatches Jim’s hand as soon as he begins to reach.

:Bees.: he thinks, as hard as he can. Spock’s squeeze of his hand silently conveys that he doesn’t need to shout, but Jim is starting to panic as the black spots creep in on his vision. :Tell Bones it feels like that beesting when we first moved in. It’s not the drugs-:

“Bees, doctor.” Spock immediately says aloud. “Jim wishes to inform you that it feels similar to the reaction he had after you first arrived in San Francisco, wherein-”

Bones curses again as he drops something to the counter and yanks open another drawer.

“It wasn’t a reaction to the drugs, it was the god damned stinger.” he growls, but as mad as he sounds, the touch to the back of his head is gentle as he presses Jim’s face forward. 

It would make it harder to breathe like this, if he could breathe at all.

Spock is still holding his hand, and he squeezes it; Jim’s not sure which of them he’s trying to reassure, but he likes the feel of it and it gives him something to try and focus on besides the panic.

“Where the hell is it.” Bones is so close that Jim can feel his breath on the back of his neck, but the whole back of his head feels tender, so he can’t help pinpoint where the pain is.

A pulse of understanding, heavily coated with a fear that Spock had apparently been hiding from Jim through their contact, skitters across Jim’s fading consciousness.

:Jim, allow me to initiate a meld.: Spock pleads. :I may be able to locate the source of the issue.:

Nearly drowning in the black spots now, Jim can only tug insistently on their shallow connection, the implied of course lost in the hubbub as Spock rushes in.

It’s too disorienting to try and keeps his mental eyes open on the view of the rooftop and its desert sunset around him, so even in the meld Jim tries to block out the visual. He can feel Spock prodding around, his mental touch frantic but oh so delicate as he sorts through the various nerve impulses his haywire body is spouting.

“Here!” Spock gasps, and there’s the weirdest sensation of Bones being there on the rooftop with them for the length of a heartbeat when the Vulcan grabs his hand to direct it to the physical location on the back of Jim’s head.

Despite Spock’s mental protests and urging to stay, Jim can’t hold on anymore. He looks out at the pretty planet hanging low on the horizon in the distance, and watches it disappear into a wave of darkness, like an eclipse; then the shadow swallows him too.

☕

“Got it!” Leo cries, fishing the tiniest fleck of debris from Jim’s scalp. 

It must’ve been healed up when he’d applied the regen unit, but with it stained in that blasted cleaning chemical, it had worked a number on Jim that even the booster shot hadn’t been able to combat. Like the remnants of the stinger Jim had broken off in his arm years ago, lost in the inflammation and sabotaging his healing from the inside.

He debates giving the drugs a moment to work, but when Jim collapses forward and Spock is the one that makes a sound like a dying thing, he corrects course.

Dropping his scalpel and wiping the mix of blood and sliver off on the towel still slung over his shoulder, Leo snatches up one of the many vials he’s prepared and loads a syringe. Flicking the bubbles clear of the needle and bemoaning the fact that Jim couldn’t just be hypo’d like a normal person for the thousandth time since he’s met the brat, Leo presses the needle to Jim’s skin, easing the medicine in.

The infernal shrieking of the bracelet on his arm hasn’t let up yet, and someday he’s going to have to have Jim set a damn silencer option on it; but he also can’t beat the sense of relief he gets when, ten seconds later, the audible alert fades. The bracelet is flashing orange and red now, so they aren’t scott free yet, but Jim’s at least out of the weeds for now.

Spock, on the other hand-

The Vulcan is visibly distressed, and Leo recalls from his reading that abruptly breaking a meld can be damaging to the hobgoblin psyche, so he picks up his medicorder and scans him. Spock is so caught up in clutching Jim’s hand and petting his swollen face that he apparently doesn’t even notice, which is concerning enough on its own.

Sure enough, the read out for Spock’s own system is in an uproar, his body having a physical reaction to the stress of the current situation. Leo’s been through scares worse than this before with Jim, and it still leaves him shaky and worn out when the worst of it passes.

This is Spock’s first time with a bad brush for Jim. Of course the poor fool is a hot mess over it.

Shaking his head at the star crossed lovers scene playing out in his home clinic, Leo pulls out another drawer, this one loaded with standard hypo’s. He gauges the medicorder’s readout, programs the hypo, and drops it to the Vulcan’s arm with a hiss as the compound releases.

“I do not require treatment at this time.” Spock snaps, but he doesn’t look away from Jim’s prone form.

“You jus’ keep tellin’ yourself that buddy.” Leo sighs, putting away the hypo and checking Jim’s readings again on the biobed’s PADD.

He’s stabilizing, as confirmed by the flashing pale yellow color on both their bracelets, and Leo lets out a sigh of relief. Cleaning up the mess from his impromptu slicing and dicing, Leo runs the regenerator over the back of Jim’s skull once more, scowling at the blood staining his makeshift pillow until he realizes it’s the blanket that Spock tore up and is going in the recycler after this anyway.

By the time he’s gotten the mess cleared away, both of his patients' vitals have settled, though the effect on Spock is more obvious since Jim is already passed out. He’s leaning into the kid’s personal space now, elbow propped on the biobed and very nearly slumping over.

Rolling his eyes, Leo pops out to the cafe and grabs a wooden chair, bringing it back to the kitchen and pressing it to the back of the Vulcan’s knees. When Spock immediately collapses and doesn’t even sass him about it, just uses his new lowered position to lean even closer to Jim, Leo knows that nobody’s going home tonight.

It’s not the first time he’s pulled an all-nighter in this little clinic of theirs, but he wonders how Spock will handle being told he has to stay.

Pulling two more blankets from the wreckage of the linen cabinet, Leo throws one onto the recliner he’d added for just this purpose and turns to put the other over Spock’s shoulders.

Considering the strength of the dose he’d given the Vulcan, he isn’t terribly surprised to find Spock out cold too, slumped in his chair and top half resting on the biobed. He’s got one armed draped over Jim’s middle and the other still clutching the kid's hand, but they’re both blissfully asleep and will hopefully stay that way until the morning.

Taking care not to touch any bare skin, Leo settles the blanket over his new Vulcan patient, looks over Jim’s vitals once more, and drops into his recliner.

Snapping open his own blanket and picking up his PADD, Leo settles in for a long vigil.

Chapter Text

The first thing Spock becomes aware of as he resurfaces to consciousness is an unfamiliar rumbling sound in his own chest, and the soft touch of someone petting his hair. Between the comforting physical sensations and the warm mental presence that is practically cuddled up next to his shields, slipping back into sleep is a very tempting idea.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead.” comes a hoarse voice, and Spock startles to full awareness, sitting upright and blinking. His secondary eyelids are slow to open, but he is able to recognize his surroundings through the haze. 

This is the kitchen turned clinic at the Lazy Daisy.

That is Leo, snoring in the strange padded chair in the corner.

And it is Jim that was petting him, before he’d so abruptly sat up.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think he did any illegal operations on you in your sleep.” Jim said softly, with a chuckle that sounded more like a malfunctioning exhaust system than a person. “And I thought that was a myth, that Vulcan’s pu-”

The rumbling sensation in his chest cuts off immediately as Spock recognizes what he’s doing and hurriedly interrupts Jim. “They do not.”

He’s still holding onto Jim’s hand from the night before and can therefore feel first hand just how adorable the human thinks he’s being. Jim’s mental presence is still leaning into Spock’s defenses, like a cat rubbing against a friendly leg, and he can’t help himself from basking in that warm glow.

Shaking his wrist to make his bracelet spin around, the miniscule display showing an alternating green and chartreuse color again, Jim checks the time. 

“We better get up, I gotta get the cafe ready to-”

“You had best better rethink that, mister.” 

As reluctant as he is to agree with Leo, the doctor is correct; Jim is in no condition to be moving about just yet. A flash of amused betrayal pulses in the shallow connection between their hands, and Spock immediately regrets the thought.

“Spock’ll help.” Jim protests, and the crackle in his voice is more prominent now that he is speaking above a whisper. “Right?”

Leo groans theatrically as he stands from his strange chair, throwing the blanket from the night before behind him. 

“You still in a helper elf kinda mindset?” McCoy grunts, waving his hand to gesture at all of Spock.

“I will assist Jim in whatever way-”

“Good.” Leo cuts him off, and the doctor seems legitimately surly this morning, worse than his usually brusque demeanor.

:He’s just not a morning person.: Jim silently assures him. :He’ll be better after we get some coffee in him.:

Spock found that he very much approved of Jim’s repeated use of the word ‘we’, both aloud and telepathically; not to mention his delight at how quickly Jim was learning to communicate, even with just a shallow connection of touch to bridge the gap.

:I think you’re just a good listener, that’s all.: Jim demurred with a flirtatious tug at the tenuous link.

“Whatever you’re grinnin’ about, knock it off.” Leo demanded. “Spock, if you wanna help Jim get out of that biobed today, you best grab him a drink from under the counter out there.”

It was a sound request; perhaps that would help Jim’s throat, and return his voice to its pleasant tone.

Theoretically, Jim should not be able to pick up his thoughts; not with his mental shields still intact, if slightly shaken. But Jim blushes pink when Spock silently recalls the regular sound of his voice with fondness. Instead of speaking again, Jim sends him a mental image in the form of a memory, showing him the drink that the doctor has prescribed and silently insisting on the ones marked ‘sweet’.

“I believe I can handle that level of responsibility.” Spock says primly, standing from the wooden chair that he’s apparently been dozing in.

“Oh yeah?” Leo asks, scanning Jim with a medicorder and smirking at the read out. 

Indignation flares in his chest at the insinuation that he cannot carry out this simple task, but Spock is distracted by the amusement rolling off of Jim even as his intended stifles an audible reaction.

It is at this point that Spock realizes he is still holding Jim’s hand; as if he expected to take Jim along with him to the cafe, when that is clearly not the intent of having him bring something to Jim.

He can feel his own cheeks flush with mild embarrassment, but Jim gives him a reassuring squeeze before tugging his hand free. 

Spock flees to the relative safety of the empty cafe.

☕

By the time he’s finally gotten some coffee in him, made to Jim’s exacting standards by Spock’s own hands, Leo is starting to have second thoughts about having a Vulcan around.

Turns out, they can be damn handy when they want something.

And since Spock is broadcasting on just about every frequency there is that he very much wants Jim, it’s easy as pie to get him to bend over backwards to help the kid. 

From the occasional glare Jim is sending his way, he’s clearly caught on that Leo has noticed this and is already planning to take full advantage of it.

“Y’know, Jim’s been meanin’ to dust the clock wall for a while now.” he says, ignoring Jim’s huff of dismay.

“I was gonna do it after I hung up Leslie’s clock last week, but I got distracted.” Jim protests, and there’s an honest-to-goodness pout forming on the kid’s lips.

“As it was the lack of foresight on my part to make you aware of my encroaching presence, thus causing you to fall from the ladder and be unable to complete your task, it is not unreasonable to request my aid in completing it.” Spock said, smooth as silk and sounding way too damn dapper for a man in a too-short apron.

“I don’t need help.” Jim says, trying to toss his hands up in despair and apparently forgetting that he’s currently wrapped in a blanket cocoon.

At least they’d been able to get him into some pants and a back up tee shirt before Spock had returned with his pickle juice. The pants were a faded flannel, but the shirt was bright red and had the words OFF DUTY stamped on the front and back, courtesy of Gaila and some machine she’d found in the basement. 

Jim had tried to put up a fuss about it, claiming not to be an invalid, which was wrong. But then Spock had come back and complimented Jim on how the color brought out his eyes, and Jim’s teeth had clacked, he shut his mouth so fast; and Spock wasn’t wrong, per se, but that wasn’t why Leo liked sticking the kid in it when he should be down for the count.

“Perhaps we could compromise. I will assist you with the cleaning when you are feeling better.” Spock offered. 

And if it had been Leo’s suggestion, the kid would’ve kept up his side of the fight; but since it was Spock, Jim just got all gooey eyed, turned pink, and mumbled an affirmative.

Witchcraft.

“I’m headed up to change. Spock, you oughta clear out too, you got classes today.” Leo pointed out, then frowned as he realized he’d shown his hand by actually listening to Jim’s ramblings about the Vulcan and his schedule.

“I do not believe we should leave Jim-” the hobgoblin started to argue, but Jim cut him off by groaning and dropping his head on the counter.

“I don’t actually need a babysitter you guys.” he grouched, face in his elbow. “I’m fine.”

“Fine has variable-”

“Like hell!”

When the two made eye contact over Jim’s hunched form, Spock bowed his head as if ceding the floor to Leo, which he knew for a fact was only because the Vulcan thought the kid might be more likely to listen to him.

Fat chance.

“You’re not as bad as you have been, but you still ain’t up to snuff Jim.” Leo said, gentling his tone so the kid wouldn’t feel so ganged up on. “So we’re gonna kick Spock out, and I’ll head upstairs to get changed and ready for my shift later. I’ll bring you back down some of your PADDs and you can hang out down here-”

Jim turned his head and gave Leo a suspicious look.

“-but no making drinks today. Stay away from the counter and let people use the replicator. You can socialize, you damn butterfly, but no working. I’ll stop back by at lunch to check on you.”

Jim rolled his eyes at this, but must’ve realized Spock was still standing there on the other side of the counter and staring heart-shaped holes into the side of the kid's head. “That’s, yeah, okay.”

But now that Jim was apparently going to abide by the rules, which Leo would believe when he’d actually seen it, Spock went back to being his charming self.

“Doctor, I fail to see how you could mistake Jim for a lepidopteran specimen when he is clearly human.” Spock said primly.

“Oh don’t even start Mister.”

When Jim snickered, Spock looked like he’d won the biggest plush at the state fair, or whatever the Vulcan equivalent was.

“If the cafe is indeed ready for opening, then I must depart.” Spock said, talking softly to Jim and Jim alone, even though Leo was right there. “I will require a change of clothing and time to meditate before my morning class begins.”

“Oh, sure.” Jim replied quickly, turning so fast he nearly wobbled off his bar stool. “Sorry we messed with your schedule.”

And now he was being bashful.

Stars above.
“It is of no consequence.” Spock replied. “I only regret the means that made my stay necessary.”

“Regret’s an awful emotional response.” Leo teased with a smirk, taking a deep drink from his still steaming coffee.

Jim kicked at him, or he would’ve if his legs weren’t trapped in the swaddle of the blanket Spock had made him wear out into the cafe proper; Leo beamed at him, all teeth.

“If you will allow me to do so, I would request that I be able to return, perhaps this evening?” Spock asked, and Leo turned to give him a considering look; it seemed like an awfully formal sounding request. 

And maybe it was just a Vulcan thing, but Spock’s stare had turned serious as he watched Jim and waited for a response.

There’s no way he didn’t see it coming, but Spock made no move to evade Jim’s hand when it crept out of the blanket and grabbed his own. “Of course, Spock. You’re always welcome here, you don’t have to ask every time.”

When Jim ran his thumb over the back of Spock’s hand in what would be a reassuring move from a human, Leo realized he should probably have That Talk with the kid, sooner rather than later.

Lucky him.

Pushing away from the counter with a sigh, Leo abandoned his now empty coffee mug and made for the stairs.

“And on that note, I’m out. Jim, comm me any PADD’s you want in particular.” shuffling the kids hair as he made his goo-goo eyes at the doting Vulcan, Leo fled for the comparatively peaceful loft.

☕

With the halls utterly empty of students and staff alike and a full two hours left before the end of his open office hours, Spock is not looking forward to the seemingly overlarge gap of time between now and when he will get to see Jim again. 

He had taken the time to meditate on this feeling after his second trip to the Lazy Daisy, the nearly overwhelming desire to return to Jim and be near him. The pull of this fascinating human was unlike any he’d experienced previously. Being away from Jim felt like leaving his coat behind on a cold day; illogical and uncomfortable. 

But as the feeling of being uncomfortable about the distance between them was also illogical, given that he had thus far lived his entire life up until this point without Jim and done just fine, Spock had struggled with the unfamiliar feeling.

Like any scholar, he’d immediately attempted research on the phenomenon, and been relieved to find in both Vulcan texts and human behavioural studies that this was completely natural in a new relationship. Especially for Vulcans, with the incredible importance that they placed on pair bonds.

It was almost comical that the greatest upheaval he’d ever had to his routine and mental peace was due predominantly to his Vulcan nature for once, not his human one.

Footsteps in the corridor outside drew Spock from his shallow meditative state, and he identified three adults approaching; from the soft murmur of their voices, he immediately recognized two of them and deduced who the third was with a ninety eight point seven percent certainty.

Sure enough, the footsteps arrived at his open door and a smiling Pike ushered Spock’s parents into his office, the Vulcan rising to meet his unexpected guests.

“Look who I found in the courtyard, Professor."

“Mother, Father.” He acknowledged, raising the ta'al in salute. “I was not aware that you intended to arrive early for your quarterly visit.”

When he nodded to Pike in greeting, his former Captain cocked an eyebrow back at him in silent conveyance of shared surprise for the visit.

“Well, after our last conversation, your father and I thought it would be prudent to make all haste.” Amanda smiled, a small curl of her lips that was as familiar to him as her voice and just as welcome.

“Oh?” Pike asked, “Did Spock tell you about the mission he’s leaving for on Saturday?”

“What?” Amanda asked, clearly surprised, even as Sarek demanded, “A mission? Is that wise at this juncture?”

Fascinating.

“The particulars of my upcoming mission were not disclosed, Captain.” Spock answered his ranking officer first. “My parent’s premature arrival is likely due to a recent development in my… personal life.”

Pike’s minute frown at the reminder that Jim McCoy was, if Spock had his way, likely to become a permanent fixture in his friend's life made Spock’s heart beat slightly faster in his side. He did not want to disappoint Christopher, and did not at all understand the man’s apparent frustration with the cafe owner, but he did not like to let his Captain down.

“Well, don’t let me keep you then. Just wanted to make sure they found your office okay and that you didn’t think you need to wait til six to take off.” Pike said, no evidence of his feelings on the matter present in his pleasant tone.

“My posted hours-” Spock began to protest, but the Captain held up a silencing hand.

“Your class tested their finals already, you’re not likely to get any visitors this close to break anyway. And besides, your parents aren’t just in from out of town, Spock, they left their home planet to come visit. The least you could do is take ‘em out for dinner.” Pike said with a friendly but distinctly final sounding tone to his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

With a wave at Spock and a polite farewell to the Vulcan’s parents, Chris left.

“What mission are you taking at this delicate time?” Sarek repeated immediately after the Captain departed.

Before Spock could answer, Amanda elbowed his father with a light nudge. “Spock’s a grown man dear, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Turning to Spock, she added, “What kind of mission is it? Will you be away for very long?”

“That was the assurance I wished to offer.” Spock explained, circling his desk and lessening the distance between the trio. “Depending on return transportation options, this mission may only take three Earth days, and is one that I am uniquely suited to due to my Vulcan heritage.”

Sarek raised a questioning brow at this, but his mother just smiled.

“Well, I hope it’s nothing too dangerous.”

Deciding that a change in subject was due before his parents began to ask further questions about the nature of this mission, Spock reached for his coat.

“If you are amenable, given that the hour is too early yet for dinner, I will escort you to a nearby cafe where there is someone I would like for you both to meet.” 

His mother’s responding grin and the sharp glint of curiosity in his father’s eyes made it clear that they knew the significance of this meeting, if not the specifics.

Mimicking his Captain's earlier move, Spock gestured for his parents to precede him out the door with a wave of his arm.

☕

Having checked in at lunch and deemed Jim well enough to at least get himself upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes, if not back to work entirely, Leo had still taken off right at the end of his shift to come home. 

Sure enough, Jim was behind the counter and mixing up something when he got back to the cafe, chatting with a cadet that clearly needed whatever caffeine they’d begged off Jim. He’d lost the red shirt and flanel pants from earlier and was now sporting blue jeans and a white cotton tee with I ❤ NY in bold letters on the front.

Leveling a mock glare at his former ward, Leo stabbed two fingers towards his own eyes before jabbing them at Jim, mouthing the words ‘I’m watching you’ for added emphasis.

The kid just beamed back, all smile and sparkling eyes; but Leo’s bullshit meter was finely tuned to Jim’s shenanigans, and he didn’t like the tired lean the kid was trying to hide.

Dropping his satchel at the end of the counter and flinging his jacket on the wall hook, Leo pulled his medicorder from the bag and stepped behind the counter to scan Jim while he worked.

After the reaction he’d had yesterday, Leo would’ve preferred the kid stay strapped to his old hammock and take a full day of bedrest. Though they’d gotten beds shortly after moving in, Jim had kept the hammock he’d first slept in for a reading nest of sorts. Leo didn’t mind, mostly because half the time the kid would pass out in the damn thing anyway. 

Any sleep for Jim was good in Leo’s eyes.

The scan read out didn’t have more to say than it had earlier. Vitals were okay, though Jim was clearly still dealing with the aftermath of his body’s reaction to the chemicals from yesterday. Pickle juice might help with his electrolytes after a regen session, but it couldn’t replace good old fashioned rest.

“How’s your breathing?” he asked quietly when Jim leaned over to peer at the screen too, tilting it to make it easier for him to see when the cadet wandered off to join his group.

“It’s fine. Throat’s a little rough, but we didn’t do a regen on it.” Jim replied, and the bullshit meter stayed silent, even when he hurriedly added, “Not that I want to.”

“It looks like some leftover inflammation, no abrasions or anything, so you shouldn’t need it. But if it’s still sore tomorrow, I want you to tell me, so I can get a deeper scan on it.” he insisted.

“Sure thing, doc.” Jim said, rolling his eyes and yelping when Leo snuck a pinch in on the tender skin behind his elbow.

“Quit it!” Jim huffed, batting Leo’s hand away and heading for the storage room. “I need more cups, then I can warm something up for dinner.”

“You’re not doing yoga tonight.” Leo said firmly, pointing at Jim’s retreating back. “I mean it!”

Brat that he was, Jim just kept walking.

“And be careful back there! Watch your step!”

The current handful of patrons didn’t pay them any mind, but then, they were likely used to it by now. Leo dipped below the counter and began to dig in the fridge for leftover options when the doorbell chimed a new entry.

“Replicators over there, help yourself.” he called absently, pulling out the rice from Monday and digging for vegetables in the freezer box.

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me find someone?” came a soft voice, and when Leo popped up from his crouch, knees popping in protest, he found the pretty human woman that always showed up flanked by Vulcans. She only stopped by a few times a year, but she loved Jim’s take on Vulcan tea and kept him in regular supply.

“Whatcha after, ma’am?” he asked politely, setting down the rice and frozen peas he’d scrounged up.

“Is Jim here? I wanted to say hello, since we’re meeting someone here at his cafe.” she asked hopefully, and Leo paused. There was suddenly something awfully familiar about this woman’s eyes.

“Well he’s here all right, but don’t get your hopes up too high.” he teased. “Jim’s in a committed relationship; he’s not lookin’ for anybody new, even somebody as pretty as you.”

It was worth the cheap line to see her eyes crinkle with humor.

There’s a sort of cracking sound from behind her, and Leo belatedly sees that Spock has once again managed to turn up; like a bad penny, he is.

“Is that so?” she asked. “He’s a nice young man, I’m surprised he’s stayed single as long as he has.”

“It’s more’n a little gross.” Leo bemoaned. “Watch this.”

Gesturing back towards the storage room, he calls out, “Jim! Counter!”

And, people pleaser that he is, Jim appears a second later in the doorway. “What’s-”

The moment he spots Spock is obvious, because it looks like the damn sun coming out from behind a cloud the way he brightens and shines that happy smile that took Leo months to tease out of him, way back when.

“Spock!” he cries, and the counter’s forgotten along with the pretty lady and Leo, as Jim’s focus hones in on the hobgoblin.

“See?” he snorts at the woman, but she’s still staring at the love birds.

Leo looks up to see if Spock is looking just as dopey as he had that morning, but he looks as impassive as ever. 

To him, at least.

Jim though, must see something in the Vulcan’s posture that he’s missed, because he steps forward and asks, “Spock? What’s wrong?”

Leo blinks, eyes darting back over for another look. 

Spock’s paused in the process of pulling out a chair, but the back of it is now lopsided, like the wood’s been split right down the middle. He’s completely frozen, and for once, doesn’t react when Jim moves closer; the two usually gravitate toward each other like magnets when they’re in the same room.

“Dr. McCoy has just informed my mother that you are in a committed relationship.” he says, and by golly, he sounds as stiff as the plank he’s just apparently snapped with his bare hands. “I was unaware of any former arrangements you had-”

“Spock.” Jim interrupts, moving into the Vulcan’s personal space and eyes flashing with hurt when Spock steps away from him. 

He’s apparently not used to just how stubborn Jim can be though, because the kid doesn’t let him off that easy; dipping his chin ever so slightly in determination, Jim steps into the Vulcan’s space again and grabs the exposed part of his wrist where it peeks out of that gray uniform.

“I am not in a committed relationship.” Jim says, quiet but firm. It’s the ‘shut up and listen’ tone that he sometimes has to break out when the Engineering club gets too rowdy. 

From ten feet away, Leo cringes back from the force of the puppy eyes Jim turns on the poor hobgoblin.

“But I’d like to be.” he says, soft as down feathers.

Leo’s cheeks flushed as he felt a bit like a voyeur, watching what should’ve been a private moment between the two. Beside him, Jim’s tea dealer isn’t even breathing, she’s so hung up on Spock’s response.

Spock might not be breathing either, matter of fact. 

He’s just staring at Jim.

“Spock?”

And maybe it’s the slight waver in the kids voice, either from the spill yesterday or emotion, Leo isn’t sure; but it shakes the Vulcan out of his trance.

“I too would like, th-that is, yes. Yes, Jim.” Spock blurts out, and Leo wishes like hell he had a camera, because if he’s going to be stuck with the pointy eared bastard for the long term he’s going to need blackmail material.

The woman lets out a shuddering exhale, and Leo’s not too surprised to see tears in her eyes. They look like happy ones though, so he doesn’t turn his medicorder on her.

“See?” he says instead. “Disgusting.”

☕

Jim finds himself deposited in a chair and draped in Spock’s fancy coat a moment later, though he’s not really sure how he got here. One second he’d been terrified that Spock was going to leave, just step out the cafe doors and never return because he somehow thought Jim would pick dating anybody over him.

And then Spock had said yes, and they should probably talk more about what ‘yes’ means, but Jim had been so thankful that the resulting relief flooding his body proved to be just a bit too much. His knees had barely wobbled before Spock was there, hands snapping out to grip Jim’s arms like a delicate thing and settling him in a chair.

“Is he well?” asks a deep and monotonous voice, like how Spock sounds when he’s being super formal, or doesn’t understand something.

“I am uncertain.” Spock replies without looking away from Jim.

“I’m fine-” Jim protests.

“Fine has variable definitions-”

“Fine has variable def-”

“For Pete’s sake.”

Smothered laughter makes Jim drag his gaze away from Spock’s pretty brown eyes, creased at the corners with worry as they are, and he’s surprised to see Mandy at the counter.

“Hey!” he greets her with a smile that’s only kind of wobbly. “Long time no see.”

“Oh, Jim.” she sighs, stepping away from the counter and approaching. When she gets up next to him and places her hand on Spock’s shoulder, he hopes like hell his face isn’t broadcasting his feelings at the moment. Something between ‘Ooh, awkward, don’t touch the Vulcans’ and ‘excuse me, that’s mine’; neither of which feel entirely appropriate and the latter making his cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment.

Something distantly smug and pleased rolls through him a moment later, and it’s then that he remembers that Spock? Is still touching him.

:Oh no.:

:I find your possessiveness both gratifying and entirely reciprocated.: Spock assures him, mental tone painted sky blue with happiness.

The other Vulcan, one he doesn’t recognize as one of Mandy’s usual companions, steps closer too. He’s staring at Jim with an intensity that makes him wish he were wearing pretty much any other shirt in his wardrobe but this cheesy tourist gimmick.

:Jim.: Spock whispers in his mind, hand tightening in a reassuring squeeze at his elbow. :He is not concerned with your state of dress. These are my parents, and they are curious about you, as my intended.:

He can’t muster up a mental response to that in the wake of the blast of anxiety that rockets through him at that statement. He’s only just gotten Spock to agree to date him when the cute Professor hadn’t mentioned it even in passing since since he’d initially asked, and Jim had started to wonder if he wasn’t really interested after all-

“Jim.” Spock chides him aloud. “There has not been a single moment that has passed since our initial meeting that I have not had you close in my thoughts. Do not doubt that my lack of insistence on cementing a formal arrangement between us was anything more than a consideration for human cultural differences.”

Spock dropped down to his knees so that he was crouched at eye level with Jim instead of looming over him. “I have desired to make you my intended from the very first day. That has not, and will not change.”

:This is… a lot.: Jim admitted, pressing some of his concern at Spock through the shallow connection they shared and hoping he wasn’t ‘yelling’ again.

:You are communicating quite well Jim, I hear you.: came Spock’s immediate assurance.

Jim closed his eyes and took a moment to bask in the warm fuzzy feelings Spock was pumping into his mind, when something occurred to him.

“Mandy is your Mom?” His eyes flew open as he gave his tea dealer a betrayed look. “You’re not old enough to be somebody’s mom!”

Clearly smothering a broad grin, Mandy turned back to the older Vulcan, Spock’s Dad, and said, “You see now why I like this particular cafe? Such nice boys here.”

And yeah, Jim could see what Bones saw in her, Mandy was super pretty and funny too-

Spock’s mental cooing cut off abruptly at this thought, replaced by immediate concern and revulsion that had Jim snorting in laughter.

“Spock, hang on, I didn’t-” he couldn’t even finish the weak defense he had for Bones, because his Vulcan’s face was almost a comical echo of the same feeling of disgust his mind was radiating.

“You are able to communicate telepathically?” Spock’s Dad said.

:Sarek. His name is Sarek.:

“Uhm, yes Mr. Sarek.” Jim answered,biting back an inappropriate fit of giggles that was trying to break free in his chest. “Sir.”

“Only when we are in physical contact.” Spock clarified calmly, standing again but moving his hand up to rest on Jim’s shoulder. “For now.”

And didn’t that sound ominous?

“Alright you, take that jacket off before you break out in hives.” Bones said, pressing past Mandy and being careful not to touch her. Whipping out his medicorder, he frowned at the readout and gave Jim a significant look.

“Yeah, okay.” Jim sighed, pulling the jacket off and handing it back to Spock.

“The material is offensive?” Sarek asked, and oh look- his eyebrow did the same thing as Spock’s when presented with some kind of puzzle.

“Jim has many allergies.” Spock said smoothly, taking the jacket back and folding it neatly before immediately returning his hand to Jim’s shoulder.

“That’s one way to put it.” Bones grouched. “Look kid, you’ve had a pretty excitin’ day, I think you oughta tell the yoga folks to skip this week.”

“Bones!” Jim immediately protested. “We can’t cancel hot yoga just because I don’t feel good.”

At this statement, Mandy’s hand flew to her mouth, and both of the Vulcan’s tensed; Jim felt the subtle shift in Spock, even without seeing him.

“If you are unwell, we should depart and allow you to rest.” Sarek intoned.

“Do you need us to bring you anything? I can make a mean tofu noodle soup.” She said it with a smile, but her eyes had that same concerned look that Bones got whenever Jim didn’t clear his plate at dinner.

“He’s got fried rice comin’ for dinner tonight, but thanks.” Bones replied before Jim could.

“But thank you.” Jim added.

“Well we’ll leave you three to it.” She said, turning towards her husband and looping her arm through his. “We should get breakfast this weekend if you’re feeling up to it, Jim!”

“That will not be possible, adun’a. Spock’s depar-” Sarek began before Spock cut him off, a brief flash of his panic zinging through Jim’s consciousness like a static shock. When he tried to pursue the feeling, Spock had already tucked it neatly away, like flipping over a stained cushion when company was coming over.

Jim frowned.

“Perhaps we may adjourn for another meeting tomorrow afternoon, if Jim is feeling better.” Spock interrupted.

“I’m telling you guys, you’re way over reacting to this.” Jim tried to point out, but Mandy and Sarek were already moving towards the front door. “Bones, tell ‘em!”

“Not happenin’.” Bones snorted, tucking his medicorder away and putting his hands on his hips. “You still want hot yoga to happen, we can make that work. But you gotta be upstairs and outta the way. No way you’re stayin’ down here when Gaila cranks up the heat. Not in your condition.”

He sighed. He didn’t want to miss yoga, but Bones had a point; with the heat and the lingering feeling of dizziness in the back of his head, he didn’t want to faint in front of all of his friends, either.

“Alright fine.” he caved.

“Good choice. Spock, you take him upstairs while I rustle up some grub.”

Spock definitely liked this plan, Jim could practically taste his Vulcan’s curiosity about the living quarters upstairs.

Conversely, Jim was desperately trying to remember if he’d left any underwear laying around in plain sight.

When he made to stand up and maybe get up the stairs before Spock to check, the dizzy feeling grew and tried to take his knees out from under him. Jim found himself, once more, in a bridal carry in Spock’s arms.

“I think you secretly like scooping me up.” Jim grumbled.

“I believe you secretly enjoy being scooped up.” Spock said calmly, bearing Jim with absolute ease towards the spiral stairs.

Bones just laughs, the bastard.

Chapter Text

“So.” Jim says, when Spock sets him down upstairs. Jim grabs up a blanket off of the couch that appears to only have room for two people to sit on, draping it around his body like a cape before dropping on the furniture. Spock joins him; it’s a tight fit, but he finds that he does not mind as long as it is Jim pressed up against him. “You said ‘yes’.”

As he attempts to make himself comfortable before replying, Jim apparently tires of waiting; with his body too tired to physically maneuver the Vulcan to his desired position, Jim resorts to grasping at Spock’s hand and essentially punts an image of how he would like to be sitting directly into his mind.

Immediately moving to comply, Spock tries to rein in the warm burst of excitement in his chest. Jim has taken to telepathic communication beautifully and Spock cannot even speculate on how it will feel to be bonded to someone with whom he can share thoughts with such ease. 

Leaning down to remove his boots, he swiftly unlaces Jim’s shoes as well. Bracing his back to the couch arm and folding one leg up against the rear cushions, one foot planted firmly on them while the other draped down to the floor, Spock tucks Jim’s back neatly to his front. With his blond hair tickling the bottom of the Vulcan’s chin and his knees folded up to wriggle his toes under the cushion of the opposite arm, Jim grabs at Spock’s arms and settles them around his torso. 

With a pleased sigh, his intended melts back into him, and the contentment radiating off of him threatens to draw a responding rumble from his own chest. He resists, pulling his wayward leg up and tangling it with Jim’s own, and receives an approving squeeze on his hands for his efforts. Spock takes a moment to be grateful that Jim cannot see the flush this action brings to his cheeks, from the direction he is currently facing.

“That’s better.” Jim declares. “So, ‘yes’?”

“Yes.” Spock confirms, clarifying. “I would indeed like to be in a committed relationship with you.”

“Good.” Jim yawns, rolling his shoulders back into Spock’s chest as if to test the give of his grasp; he tightens his arms in response and earns a pleased hum. “So, boyfriends? What did you call it earlier, intended?”

“Yes.” Spock replies, a tension that has been growing in his chest for over a week easing as he finally gets the words out. “As my intended, we would partake in many of the same behaviors as a human couple engaged to be married, though the commitment is significantly more convoluted and serious than my research has led me to believe ‘boyfriends’ are.”

“Vulcans get right to the point then, hm?” Jim asked, stifling another yawn and drawing incredibly distracting patterns on the back of Spock’s hands with his fingertips. The soft and warm emotions emanating from the delicate link formed by the occasional touch are dangerously close to luring Spock into a sleepy haze as well.

Fascinating.

“There is no logic in waiting when both parties are eager to proceed to the end result.” he admitted.

“Which is? Marriage?” Jim asked, and embarrassment at his apparent ignorance teased at the edge of Spock’s mental shields. He reached out and smothered the doubt with growing ease, soothing the emotion away by delighting in Jim’s curiosity on the matter.

“Bonding.” he corrected. “It is similar to human marriage in that it is intended to be a permanent commitment to another, though far more personal in that it would mean the merging of our minds.”

Taking a steadying breath, Spock recited, “Parted from me, and never parted. Never and always touching and touched.”

The words of ritual felt sacred, even in a cluttered living space, lightyears away from the desert sands of his home planet.

“S’very romantic.” Jim whispered. “So it’s like a meld, that, what? Just doesn’t end?”

“Very similar. The connection will be present much like this-”

With negligible effort, Spock rolled one of his hands in Jim’s grasp and touched the points of their fingers together, his own bending to match placement against Jim’s shorter digits. Then he pressed a mental image at Jim, similarly to how his intended had done so for their arrangement on the couch, but this time in the form of a memory; Jim, smiling at him over a chessboard downstairs, blue eyes sparkling with victory.

The accompanying admiration and sense of awe Spock had felt, not just in being bested at a game that he rarely lost, but in how beautiful Jim was in both mind and body, had Jim pulsing bashful embarrassment back along the connection.

:-in that nonverbal communication would be possible, even from a distance.:

There is a shadow of doubt that Spock quickly tries to smother, but Jim is as observant in this limited mental space as he is in the physical world, and he latches onto the concern immediately.

:What? What’s wrong?: he asks, tugging at the thread of doubt and urging it to unravel. He has pressed his palm flat to Spock’s own in an effort to strengthen their connection and aid his pursuit of an answer.

:I have doubts.: Spock admitted, and much like he would in meditation, he attempted to separate out the strands of the emotion, examining them individually for their causes and sources, putting them on display for Jim. 

:That’s-: Jim huffs before resorting to verbal communication. “I can’t see that right. I can tell you’re doing something, but it’s like trying to watch through a foggy window.”

His frustration is both evident and entirely unwarranted. Jim drops their hands back into his lap and pulls Spock’s arms snug against his person once more.

“Jim, this is not a failing on your part.” Spock murmurs into the top of his head. Pressing a cheek to Jim’s soft hair and inhaling the scent that was quickly developing into a similar conditioned response as the bell of the cafe’s front door, Spock continues.

“I believe my doubts stem from a concern that, as a human, you may find the closeness of a mental bond to be overly invasive.” he explained. “Similarly, I fear that the very act of explaining the depth of the connection may drive you to no longer desire it, causing you to withdraw from our new arrangement.”

It was incredibly difficult to get the words out. To parse through his emotions like this, outside the privacy of personal meditation, felt extremely taboo; he could recognize the inherent shame from such a display came from his Vulcan upbringing, but identifying the source of an emotion and being exempted from it were not the same thing.

“I could see that.” Jim agreed, and fear welled up fast and sharp in Spock’s chest. “But, your logic is flawed.”

Confused, but reading through their touch that Jim was still perfectly content in Spock’s arms if just slightly amused, he waited for further explanation. Bumping his nose into Jim’s head to urge him on, it took valiant effort on his part to keep from tightening his arms around his captive human.

“Maybe it would scare some folks off.” Jim allowed. “But the fact that you want me to know about this stuff beforehand, so I can make an informed decision, tells me that you care about my input.”

“Of course.” Spock startles, and this time his arms do tighten, though Jim does not seem to mind. “I desire all of you, and I would have it freely given. To set a foundation of mistrust and half truths this early in our relationship would be a grave transgression against you.”

“But that’s what I’m saying, Spock.” Jim insisted, “You care about whether I like what you’re doing. So why wouldn’t that apply in a bond, too?”

Spock pauses to consider this.

“You wouldn’t do something to hurt me or that I didn’t want, and if that applies now, wouldn’t that only get stronger when a bond forms?” Jim contends. “If it’s privacy you think I’m worried about, then just stay out of the memories I tell you to stay away from.”

“And if I cannot?” Spock argues. “If my control slips, and I take something from you that is not freely given?”

“You won’t.” Jim declares. “You wouldn’t.”

“But I-”

:Stop touching my hands!: Jim commands, harsh and immediate in Spock’s mind.

Spock wrenches back, withdrawing his hands from Jim’s touch and horribly confused about what he’s done wrong. With his arms awkwardly held high in surrender, he holds his breath and stares at Jim, fear sending his heart racing.

Jim rolls his head back and looks up at Spock, that same triumphant gleam in his eye as when he declares ‘checkmate’.

“See?” he presses, “I said stop, and you stopped. That’s good enough for me.”

The fear begins to abate as he recognizes Jim’s logic, but he is unclear how to proceed. Does bringing his arms back down around Jim constitute a violation of the very test he just seemingly passed? Or does he leave his arms high until Jim commands he lower them?

“You look silly like this.” Jim huffs with a smile, rubbing his cheek into the blanket that’s now partially draped over Spock’s shoulder; a protective barricade between his uniform and Jim’s sensitive skin. “Better put those things back where they belong, before you wear yourself out.”

“Where do you estimate they belong?” he asks softly, anticipation building in his chest as he awaits Jim’s reply.

“Right here.” Jim immediately responds, tugging the arms back tight around him as if they’d always been there, and always would be.

Spock wraps himself around his intended, and this time, the purring is inevitable.

☕

Jim wakes up when the familiar thunk of the trapdoor closing reaches his ears. Blinking bleary eyes open, it takes him a moment to orient himself. He’s in the living room, and there’s a warm body beneath him on the loveseat, but since Bones is currently walking towards him, then-

Heat flushes his cheeks as he realizes he’s fallen asleep on Spock, again, and he can only hope that he didn’t drool on him this time.

“Hey sleepyhead.” Leo says softly, hands on his hips as he stands over the pair on the couch. “How’re you feelin’?”

Closing his eyes and taking a moment to catalog any physical symptoms, he opens them again and gives Bones a sleepy smile. “M’good.”

Bones snorts, but doesn’t immediately reach for his medicorder, so he must believe Jim at least a little. He grabs up another nearby throw blanket and drapes it carefully over the bent and tangled mess that is Jim and Spock’s legs, tucking it carefully around him.

“Thanks, Bones.” he yawns, and stifles a laugh when Bones makes a face at his breath. 

“Y’know, if he’s gonna make it a habit to sleep over, he needs to get himself some PJ’s to keep around.” Bones grouches, but he keeps his voice low out of deference for the sleeping Vulcan.

“That mean y’don’t mind?” Jim asks, avoiding looking at Bones by burying his nose in the hollow of Spock’s throat. He’s delighted when this drags a reappearance of the rumbling that’s not purring from his Vulcan’s chest.

“Mind?” Bones snorts. “Kid, I’m over the moon. ‘Bout time I had some help keepin’ an eye on you.”

Jim rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the burst of happiness in his chest. Bones is the only close family he’s ever really had, and that approval means the world to him.

“Good.” he mumbles, sleep creeping back up on him. 

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the mornin’.” Bones says, and Jim misses the ruffling of his hair, even as he recognizes that it’s not logistically viable, what with him tucked up under Spock’s chin.

Bones settles for a squeeze of his calf, through the blankets, and Jim hums in approval.

The familiar sounds of Bones putzing about the apartment in preparation for sleep lulls Jim back into his own slumber, the soft rumbling sound beneath his cheek immediately becoming his new favorite addition to the mix.

Burrowing into the warmth of the body beneath him, Jim slips into an easy sleep.

Chapter Text

Jim wakes up the next morning and finds himself curled up in the loveseat with a still deeply asleep Vulcan pressed against his back. Blinking his eyes at the dark room, he tries to identify what woke him when his eyes catch a flashing yellow light on his wrist; then the pain registers as he comes to full consciousness, and he winces.

At some point in the night, his shirt had ridden up while the blankets had unfortunately ridden down, and now the comforting weight of Spock’s arm around him is a source of tingling pain. Pulling away proves futile on his first attempt, as Spock tightens his grip and snuffles into the back of Jim’s neck; a totally adorable move that Jim can’t appreciate right now.

He’s missed his morning dose of allergy medicine; not that it would help much with extended contact with anything that would set off a reaction, and the burning feeling is getting worse the longer he lays here.

With a quick roll of his shoulders, Jim slips free from the Vulcan-turned-snuggle-octopus and drops to the ground beside the loveseat. Springing to his feet, he watches Spock for any signs that he’s coming to. Other than a brief appearance of the little wrinkle of concern on his forehead, he seems down for the count.

Exhaling a breath he’d inadvertently held in expectation, Jim heads for the loft’s bathroom, pulling his shirt off as he goes and wincing as it scrapes across the inflamed skin.

Lights kicking on as soon as he enters the room, the full length mirror doesn’t paint a pretty picture; which is probably why Bones insisted they have one. Peering over his shoulder at the damage, Jim eyes the red and splotchy skin assessingly; all across his lower back and in a wide band across his hip, stopping abruptly around his navel, the skin is pebbled and burning, an itchy sensation that he knows from experience only gets worse if he touches it.

Pulling open a cabinet drawer and taking out his pill sorter, he takes the ones for the morning. Checking his bracelet, he’s relieved to see that he’s only an hour or so late. No time for the gym today, though Bones probably wouldn’t let him anyway. Now he’s just got to get this rash taken care of before he can get the cafe open; or worse, before Spock sees it.

“Jim?” 

…and there goes that plan.

He briefly considers closing the bathroom door, but since it’s the only source of light into the living room at this point, it would be super obvious that he was avoiding Spock if he closed it now.

“In here. Gimme just a-”

Bending down to fetch the regenerator from the bottom drawer of the sink’s vanity, Jim’s words are cut off by a pained hiss as the skin of his lower back stretches and burns with the movement.

There’s hurried footsteps, and then a very sleep rumpled Vulcan appears in the doorway. 

Jim jumps to his feet, ignoring the protest of his aching torso, and belatedly tucks the regenerator behind his back.

“Hey.” he says awkwardly, acutely aware that he’s half naked and his breath probably smells like socks.

Spock’s eyelids are weird; sometimes, when he blinks, there’s a second membranous set visible, and they make an appearance now as he clearly tries to adjust to the bright light of the bathroom.

“Are you well?” he asks, before his eyes clear and he spots the evidence that no, Jim’s probably not ‘well’. Jim can’t even get a word out before Spock’s eyes adjust, and he croaks out, “You are not.”

“It’s fin- It’s alright.” Jim insists. “Just a minor reaction. It’ll go away in a minute.”

But Spock has clearly shifted from ‘sleepy boyfriend’ to ‘commanding officer at yellow alert’, because he strides across the distance between them and drops to his knees on the bathroom floor. His hands hover over the damaged area, no doubt feeling the heat rising from the angry skin, before he puts his hands on Jim’s hips and gently turns him to see the worst of the damage.

Unfortunately, his back had borne the brunt of the contact and probably spent the longest amount of time exposed; that, combined with Jim’s ill-advised movements, have caused some of the blisters to crack. Spock’s movements stir the air, shifting it over the cooling trails of blood on his back, and Jim hisses at the sensation.

“What happened?” Spock demands, plucking the regenerator from Jim’s hands and activating the device. He moves it in practiced motions, each stroke overlapping the previous one in a pattern Bones would probably approve of.

“It’s just a minor reaction, it happens sometimes when I touch stuff I’m allergic to.” Jim admits, shoulders slumping as the pain eases up. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is hurting you, and is therefore an unacceptable ‘deal’, no matter the size.” Spock argues, but the slightest wobble in his otherwise monotone voice shows the concern he’s clearly trying to disguise for Jim’s sake.

He has no argument for that, so Jim just stands there and lets Spock treat his rash, trying not to keel over from embarrassment.

“You don’t have to do this, y’know. I can reach it.” he points out when Spock grabs his hips to shift him once more, turning him to the side and addressing the swath of pink flesh; he’s still kneeling on the floor, keeping the affected area at eye height. 

“I do not.” Spock agrees easily. “But as your intended, I never ‘have’ to take care of you.”

Tilting his head to the side and catching Jim’s eyes, he continues, “I get to take care of you. It is my privilege.”

“Oh.” Jim chokes out.

Spock is nearly to his navel now, the path of the rash ending in a blunt line just below the hollowed dip; the beam pauses in its careful movements as Spock inhales sharply.

“What?” Jim startles. “What’s wrong?”

The hand that isn’t holding the regenerator comes up and a single finger trails along his unblemished skin in a parallel line to the edge of the rash. 

It’s a barely-there sensation, but it still sends sparks zipping up Jim’s spine.

“This is-”

Spock cuts himself off, and Jim watches a whole slew of emotions flash in his pretty brown eyes as they widen ever so slightly. 

“I did this.” he whispers, sounding wrecked, eyes flicking up to meet Jim’s own for confirmation. “My uniform-”

“It’s nothing.” Jim insists, grabbing at Spock’s free hand and giving it a squeeze. He tries to push comfort through the contact, but it’s impossible to tell if it gets through; the emotions that he can read from Spock are so whirlwind fast and confusing that he can’t parse any single one apart from the others.

“It is not.” Spock insists, kicking the regenerator on and moving it forward once more. “Even inadvertently, it is never acceptable to me to cause you harm.”

“That’s not very logical.” Jim grumbles. “Accidents happen.”

“I will take measures to ensure it does not happen again.” Spock replies firmly, and Jim can’t help the feeling of disappointment that wells up in his chest. He liked cuddling with Spock.

The hand he’s still holding grips back suddenly, a tight pressure as Spock rises from the ground and stands to his full height; he clicks off the regenerator and sets it on the counter before pinning Jim with a serious expression.

Most of Spock’s expressions are serious, but for his eyes. And right now, his eyes are soft and earnest.

“It is not my intention to cease all physical contact, Jim.” he assured him quietly. “I only meant that in future encounters, I will simply remove my uniform or any offensive material first.”

Jim’s cheeks flush with warmth at the implication.

“So cuddling is out, but naked cuddling is in?” he teases, even as his shoulders loosen in relief. Spock isn’t bailing on him, he’s just… adapting.

Now it’s Spock’s turn to blush, the tips of his pretty pointed ears darkening. “Precisely.”

Making a mental note to find some pajamas for him later so that Spock doesn’t have to parade around cold and naked; though he wouldn’t mind checking out the later, he wouldn’t want Spock to be made uncomfortable by the former. For now though, he just leans up on his bare toes and presses a barely-there kiss to the corner of the Vulcan’s mouth.

“Thanks, Spock.”

☕

The lingering sensation of Jim’s lips pressed against his own follows Spock throughout the day. After assisting Jim with opening the cafe and securing permission to return that afternoon, Spock makes his way to his own apartment for a change of clothes before heading to the embassy to meet with his parents.

The memory of Jim’s kiss is having the strangest effect on his system, making the scientist in him wonder if he shouldn’t check if there have been any changes to Earth’s gravitational pull, as he currently feels lighter than air; a beaming, soaring sensation in his chest making every stride feel as if it will sweep him off the ground and carry him away on the wind.

Most illogical.

Stepping through the embassy’s lobby and making his way towards the diplomats quarters in the far wing, Spock does not nod at the Vulcan’s he passes as he would have done in a more human setting. The difference in social etiquettes came to him naturally; a child of two worlds, as his father had once said, he has had to carefully moderate his behavior depending on his predominant culture for most of his life.

When he keys for entry at his parents suite, he is not surprised to find his Father on the other side of the door to greet him. It is early yet for his mother to be up and about, but like most Vulcans, Sarek required far less sleep than his human mate.

Spock himself had noticed a marked improvement in his own sleep the last two nights, despite the physically uncomfortable settings for each; a bedside chair and a short couch were hardly ideal sleeping surfaces. It was, perhaps, the company that made the experience restful. 

With Jim close at hand, Spock’s mind settled in a way that very closely mirrored a meditative state, no longer straining to reach for someone that was right there. With a mild start, Spock realizes that he has not done a full meditation in nearly two full days; short stints of inner reflection notwithstanding. 

It is the longest he has ever gone without it.

Fascinating.

“I have prepared tea.” his father says in lieu of a greeting, and Spock bows his head in silent thanks. They settle together at the dining room table and, skipping the human practice of small talk, Spock speaks his mind.

“May I make a personal query?” Spock begins, realizing with a start that he has at his disposal a wealth of knowledge, indeed, likely the most knowledgeable person in regards to bonding with humans, at his disposal.

“As I intend to ask questions of my own, you may.” Sarek replies dryly; his emotions are as tightly concealed as any Vulcans, but Spock has had a lifetime of practice in discerning his particular tells.

“I have found that being in close proximity to Jim, my mind is able to reach an unprecedented state of calm; conversely, when we are parted, I am consumed with thoughts of him. There is a sense of urgency to this need to be near him that I have not previously experienced.” Spock admits. Discussing emotions as a Vulcan feels wrong, much as it had the night before when attempting to convey his thoughts to Jim in a verbal fashion. 

But Sarek had been insistent, from a very young age, that Spock should feel no shame in such discussions with his father. It was in fact an anticipated side effect of having a half human son, that Spock may require additional guidance in both logic and emotional control.

Now, as before, Sarek does not outwardly react to what would be considered a flagrantly emotional admission on their home planet. If anything, he seems surprised.

“You understand that Vulcan’s consider pair bonds and their mates to be the utmost priority in life, over everything, including logic.” Sarek states, not needing confirmation as he taught this edict to Spock himself. “Why do you think this is?”

“We do not speak of it.” Spock replied, confused but striving to keep his tone level. If he even had to endure the trials of Pon Farr, he was much too young for that to be the cause of his mild obsession with Jim. He had displayed no other symptoms, either, as Dr. McCoy would surely have noted them during his incredibly thorough examination.

“That is a factor.” Sarek allowed, sipping at his tea. His eyes bore into Spock’s own, a much darker set, creased slightly with age. “But it is not the entirety of it.”

Feeling on the brink of a great discovery, Spock waits for his father to continue.

“Vulcans hold their bonds in such high regard because of the peace that you speak of.” Sarek explained. “A mated pair experiences a balance within their minds that cannot be obtained through any other means; not even the disciples at Gol can pass a day without meditation to calm their minds. It has been speculated that their solitary nature may in fact be a detriment that requires the rite of Kolinahr to make life liveable in such conditions.”

“But we are not bonded.” Spock can not resist pointing out, despite how he would very much like to be. “Our relationship, such as it is, had not been secured in any real sense until yesterday, as you saw.”

“The right person will offer a taste of that balance even prior to bonding.” Sarek argued. “You have touched his mind, correct? You were clearly communicating through touch alone yesterday.”

“He and I share an incredible affinity.” Spock agrees, sitting up straighter as a surge of pride makes his chest feel hot and full, a curious sensation. Paired with the feeling of weightlessness brought on by Jim’s chaste show of affection earlier, Spock has the strangest thought that he is turning into a Vulcan shaped balloon.

“Jim shows a remarkable aptitude for telepathic communication as well, though I do not know if it is due to any latent psychic ability on his part or due to our compatibility.” Spock elaborates.

“Have you shared a mind meld with him?” Sarek asks, acting on his previous commitment to ask personal queries of his own. 

“Brief ones.” Spock attempts to hide the flush he can feel building in his cheeks by taking a sip of his tea. It is the same tea that he has been drinking his entire life, made precisely the way that Sarek has been making it for his entire life; Spock is mildly surprised to find it lacking. 

He prefers the way that Jim prepares it.

“I do not mean this to insinuate doubt in your judgement.” Sarek continues. “But have you taken into consideration that a lack of experiencing the mind of another in this way may have over inflated your estimation of the connection?”

Spock considers this.

“It is not an unreasonable query.” he assures his father, too used to the need of humans in his acquaintance to allow silence to drag on while he thinks. “However, I can offer evidence to the contrary.”

A single brow raises on Sarek’s face, and he nods as an indication to continue.

“When we first touched, the intensity of his emotions, the clarity with which they transmitted through our skin, was unlike any previous touches I have experienced. A Vulcan shields their mind against potential touch; most humans, I have found, do not. They use touch to communicate feeling in a non-telepathic way, and this tends, as I am certain you have experienced, to feel as if they are shouting into one’s mind on the off chance that a human does makes intentional physical contact.”

Remembering the first time he’d touched Jim’s skin fills him with an aching hunger to feel it again; holding Jim in his arms the night previous had been an indulgent buffet of pleasant sensation.

“Jim does not need to ‘shout’ in this manner to make himself understood. His mind is as easy to communicate with as my own, and though more convoluted emotions are still difficult to convey, his ability has grown in just the short while that we have known one another. I have no doubt that he will continue to improve.”

It was a curious feeling, being able to talk about Jim. He is aware of the human colloquilism of ‘shouting from the rooftops’ when experiencing a new relationship, but just being able to talk about Jim is making his heart race.

“The strongest evidence I have of our compatibility stems from our first meld.” Spock continues, intentionally pacing his speech to not sound as over excited as he feels. “As he was in physical distress and I did not wish to overwhelm him further, I initiated a shallow meld.”

Sarek nodded approvingly.

“Jim was able, even as a psi-null human, to deepen the meld on his own. Where I would have skimmed the outer reaches of his consciousness to clarify our misunderstanding, he immediately welcomed me further, deepening the connection and creating a shared mindscape with ease.”

“A shared mindscape?” On his plain ceramic mug, Sarek’s fingers twitched. “Elaborate.”

“There was no darkness, no neutral intermediary space for us to meet. Jim opened his mind to me, and we stood in a place known to him with Vulcan’s sky above us.” Spock continued. “He constructed a place born of both our experiences of pleasant memories and locations, and pulled my consciousness to it.”

“And he has no previous experience with melds?”

“He appears to be aware of them in the scholarly sense. Certainly his doctor, now mine as well, has done his due diligence on the practice. But I do not believe Jim has shared his mind with another Vulcan.”

And he would not, if Spock had any say in the matter. A healer to seal their eventual bond, perhaps, but with a human bondmate, Spock had no intention of letting others root around his intended’s potentially defenseless mind.

“Then this is indeed a fortuitous match.” Sarek concluded. “When do you anticipate bonding?”

Spock blinked in surprise.

“I would have the ritual completed as soon as a healer is available.” Spock admitted. “But I do not know Jim’s thoughts on a timeline. It may very well be that he desires a period of reflection before proceeding.”

After their conversation the night before, Spock is certain that Jim will agree to bond with him. But he had requested time to know one another before agreeing to a courtship, and Spock would not commit him to a potentially invasive ceremony without first securing his willing consent.

“How does your upcoming mission play into this scenario?” Sarek asks. “Having experienced a taste of the benefits a bond can offer your mind, will you be able to perform your duties to the fullest extent by leaving him behind?”

The very thought was anathema to him. Had been since he’d considered taking on the mission, and somehow more so now that he’d held Jim, actually held him in his arms.

“I have made a commitment.” Spock replied quietly. “It is why I came here today, to seek input on the matter from yourself and mother.”

“I would urge you to break the commitment.” Sarek said calmly.

Spock’s eyes, having wandered to his tea mug to avoid meeting his fathers gaze, snapped back to meet Sarek’s. “To Starfleet?”

“To whomever assigned you the mission.” Sarek confirmed. “It is a delicate time in your new relationship, and an implied abandonment of your new mate may cost you greatly.”

It was Spock’s worst fear, coming from his father’s lips. 

With Jim having finally agreed to a relationship, Spock could not find the logic in going on even a short mission, despite his previous commitment to Starfleet.

“Your mother is waking, and will require caffeine shortly.” Sarek says, and his grip tightens on his cup before he continues. “I would offer you a piece of advice that I have meditated on many times over the years that I have shared with your mother.”

This is the purpose of his visit, to glean what insight his parents might offer on the matter in regards to a mixed species bond. Spock intends to ask his mother as well, but his father’s input is just as valued; a Vulcan perspective that may set his mind to ease with logic and a familiarity of the telepathic needs he may have.

“There have been occasions when the Vulcan counsel has requested I visit more distant planets, as a diplomatic agent. Places that the Federation has deemed ready for potential initiation due to previous missions, some of which you yourself were involved in, to establish relations.”

Sarek does not fidget, nor does he appear to be struggling with the desire to do so as Spock is.

“These missions would either pose a potential danger to your mother, should she accompany me, or in some cases, she would not be permitted to join me at all.”

Spock had heard of some of these instances, as the aftermath of his parent’s discussions of them often left his mother in an agitated state for days afterward.

“As you know, I have turned them down at every pass.” Sarek said, verbally confirming Spock’s train of thought. “Though it has displeased your mother at times, I can not in good faith leave her for any extended length of time. My reasoning for this decision has less to do with the benefits our bond offers, and everything to do with the logistics of time.”

“Time?” Spock asks, keeping his expression carefully controlled. Time for what? Travel at lightspeed would have his father gone and returned from any diplomatic excursions in a negligible amount of time.

“Humans do not share the same lifespan as Vulcans.” Sarek explains softly. The pain is embarrassingly visible in his eyes as he speaks, though his expression does not shift. “Though I did not meet and begin courting your mother until later in my life than you are now, even if she lives to the unlikely age of one hundred years, there will be decades left in my life without her.”

The unspoken admission that those decades may not even come to pass, if Sarek did not survive Amanda’s passing, hung heavy in the air between them like a physical thing.

“I acknowledged this prior to bonding with your mother. It gives me greater cause to cherish every moment that we do share, knowing that we will have fewer together than a Vulcan pair would.” Sarek concludes, giving Spock a significant look. “Do you understand why?”

Immediately recalling the sense memory of holding JIm close in his arms the night before, the pleasant hum of his mind against Spock’s own, he finds that he does indeed understand. 

Nodding sharply, Spock replies, “I do.”

☕

Fifty seven minutes after his arrival to the embassy suite and a full thirty two minutes after his mother had stumbled in, attention honed on the replicator like a seeking missile, Spock made his farewells. He has discussed, at length, the interactions and various events of his life that have occurred since they last spoke. 

Curious, how adding Jim into the mix increased the amount of events he had to report on, quite exponentially. His mother is clearly pleased, his father equally so, if less outwardly obvious about it.

As Sarek receives a call from a council member, taking it into the suite's office, Amanda walks Spock to the door. 

“I do have one last question for you, Mother.” Spock asks, pausing in the suite's foyer. “I have secured Father’s thoughts on the matter, and wish to pose a query that you may be able to offer human insight to.”

“Of course, Spock.” she replied, the familiar laughter lines around her eyes making themselves evident. “You know I’m always happy to help.”

It is statistically likely that his mother will have a varying opinion on the matter, given the way that she has reacted to being a considering factor in his fathers decisions regarding his work. However, he will not make this assumption outright; he has been caught ‘out of left field’ by his mother’s human opinions before.

“The mission that embarks Saturday,” Spock began. “I am concerned that Jim may see my acceptance of it as a rejection of sorts, and I wish to avoid this outcome.”

Amanda’s smile faded, but did not disappear entirely as she listened.

“And you’re worried that he might think you’re choosing your job over him.” she finished, intuiting Spock’s conundrum with ease.

“Precisely.”

“Well, dear.” she paused, making a thoughtful hum low in her throat. “If you’re asking whether I think you should call off the mission, I don’t. I think you should go, and that you’ll be glad that you did.”

Spock blinks in confusion, his left brow twitching towards his hairline.

“I do not understand.”

“I know.” she acknowledged with a ghost of her former smile. “I think you need to see what it’s like, maybe take a breather and get some distance and perspective on the matter. Now, Spock-”

As he had been about to protest that he did not need distance from Jim, his mother silenced the outburst before he could express it.

“-I’m not saying I think you’ll choose Starfleet over Jim. I just think you’ll make a more confident decision if you know how it feels to be away for a while; making an informed decision. But, I think that’s not what you're after.”

She reached out with both hands and gripped his upper arms in her delicate grasp.

“I think you want me to tell you what the best course of action is, and that’s not something I can do.” she continued, her voice gentling. “But I do know someone who can help you figure it out.”

“I have considered asking Captain Pike for his input as well.” Spock admits, to which Amanda laughs.

“Not him, silly. Jim.” she tightens her grip. “You need to talk it over with him, and see how he feels about you leaving. Because it’s not fair to him or of him to assume that you’re going to remain grounded for the rest of your career. You’re a smart man, Spock; and I’m not just saying that as your mother. You’ve already made a name for yourself among the stars, and you are by no means done with that yet.”

Spock nods, considering her words.

Of course he had planned to discuss the matter with Jim. He would have to, for both of their sakes, and he had to make a decision by the following afternoon. The last of the criminal charges were being handled, ones that needed his passenger physically present for, and then they would be away at first light on Saturday.

“I will meditate on the wisdom you have shared.” he tells his mother. And then, because he knows it will make her happy, and because he is becoming more practiced in the art, he hugs her.

“Oh!” she gasps, surprised, before squeezing him tight and murmuring against his ear. “I’m so happy for you Spock, I really am. I’m glad you’ve found somebody special.”

“Thank you.” he replies, releasing her and stepping towards the door. “I find myself immeasurably grateful as well.”

Chapter Text

“Why is Doctor McCoy inquiring after the name of my mother’s personal physician?” Spock asks in lieu of greeting, scaring Jim out of his wits and nearly making him drop the sacks of coffee beans he’s carrying. He yelps, scrambling to adjust his grip and watches helplessly as the top bag tips towards the floor-

-only to be plucked from the air by Spock, who palms the bag with ease, communicator still flipped open in his other hand. He resettles the wayward bag onto Jim’s stack.

“I apologize.” he says, eyes wide, “It was not my intention to startle you.”

Jim snorts before turning to carry the rest of his stack over to the appropriate shelf. He’s already finished stocking up the walk-in fridge, but he’s still got two pallets of dry supplies from the mass replicator to put away. The beans only come in once a month and have to be flown in special on a shuttle. Losing even a single bag of his carefully managed inventory could throw things off for a week.

“It’s okay. You can make it up to me by helping with the rest of this.” Jim replies, setting the bags down on their shelf and pushing them to the back, tugging the older bags back into place at the fore. “And Bones is just nosy.”

“I am uncertain how he obtained my personal number, as he appears to be messaging me directly instead of utilizing Starfleet’s medical channels.” Spock sounds almost amused at this, and Jim stands up to face him.

He’s dressed down today, instructors grays left at home in exchange for the soft red sweater he’d worn last week and dress slacks again. Knowing he had the truck shipment to put away today, Jim feels suddenly self conscious about his torn up gray jeans and worn out muscle shirt that used to say ‘I flexed and the sleeves fell off’ that Gaila had whipped up for him. 

Spock doesn’t seem to mind the look though, and in fact is currently eyeing the skin revealed by a large hole in the left thigh of his pants with obvious interest.

“Oh, uh.” Jim scratches at the back of his head in embarrassment, realizing he probably should have asked first. “I gave Bones your contact info. In case anything, uh.”

Jim blushes as he realizes how sappy this sounds now that he's actually going to say it aloud. “Just, if something happens to me. He could let you know.” he finished lamely, before attempting to skirt past the Vulcan to get back to the pallets as a distraction.

Spock catches his arm as he passes though, and the pleased hum of satisfaction that buzzes through the brief touch is enough to stop Jim in his tracks. Staring up at Spock, he’s surprised to see his eyes sparkling with warmth.

:That is more than agreeable to me, ashaya.: Spock says directly into his mind, and Jim doesn’t even have to ask what the word means because it’s wrapped in so much affection and adoration that it makes his breath catch.

“Oh. Good.” he replies aloud, deliberately blinking so that Spock doesn’t think he’s trying to stare him down, even though he’s just nearly lost himself in cataloging the different shades of brown in the Vulcan’s dark eyes.

His Vulcan. His Vulcan boyfriend.

And Spock must catch some of the resultant giddyness that the thought launches through Jim’s entire being, because his lips twitch into an honest to goodness smile, and he pulls Jim in closer.

“I should warn you though,” Jim cautions as he settles his hands on the soft material of Spock’s sleeves, pressing to feel the firm muscles underneath. “Bones is probably going to give you homework now. I gave him the okay to send you my allergy list.”

Between standing chest to chest and the tight grip that Jim has on the Vulcan’s arms, there’s no missing the sudden tenseness that locks him up.

Dread immediately replaces the happy fuzzy feelings he usually gets when he’s around Spock, but before he can mutter out an apology or slip away, Spock is smoothing his hands down Jim’s own bare arms and broadcasting his feelings loud and clear.

Delight, and… excitement?

“What’s- what are you so excited about?” Jim huffs, relieved and melting forward into Spock’s chest, where he is immediately welcomed and squeezed in a tight embrace.

“I relish the opportunity to know you better in this way.” Spock admits. “It will also allow me to care for you in a greater sense, as having a comprehensive understanding of your triggers will allow me to assist in mitigating encounters with them.”

“I don’t need to be mollycoddled.” Jim protests weakly, pressing his face into Spock’s chest and inhaling a deep breath of the Vulcan’s unique scent. Like incense or something smokey, but without the usual resulting tightness in his throat.

“The incense that I use is directly imported from Vulcan, in a monastery that has been producing the same incense for one thousand thirty seven years.” Spock answers the silent question, and Jim has the fleeting impression that he’s never going to have a private thought again.

Strangely, the idea doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.

From his grip on Jim’s bare arms, Spock palms warm feelings and wordless murmurs of assurance.

No, he doesn’t mind at all.

“While I do not understand the meaning of ‘mollycoddled’, I would assure you that it is much the same as it was this morning.” Spock pauses and resettles himself so that his chin is resting on top of Jim’s head. “It is not a hardship to care for you, it is my right and desire to do so.”

“Weirdo.” Jim mumbles into the red sweater. Pressing a quick kiss to the chest in front of him, Jim pushes back. “I gotta get back to putting this stuff away. As for your mom’s doctor, I have no clue what Bones wants with that, but it’s probably not blackmail material.”

Spock nods in assent before declaring. “I will assist you. I also have something I wish to discuss with you, when you are amenable.”

Stepping away reluctantly, Jim skims his hands down the sleeves of Spock’s long arms and gives his hands a squeeze before turning back to the pallets.

“Shoot.” he says, grabbing up the next stack of beans and checking that they’re all the right type before moving back towards the shelf. Spock steps to the second pallet, with the dry goods, and starts to put those away.

“You are aware that I am a professor at the Academy.” Spock begins, and even without touching him Jim can tell that he’s reluctant to broach whatever conversation they’re about to have. Wrangling his nerves and firmly reminding himself that Spock can’t have changed his mind about liking him already, he grunts out an affirmative as he shoves the heavy bean sacks onto the shelf.

“I am also still a commissioned officer with Starfleet.” Spock continues, which, obviously. He still wears his rank pips on his uniform. “And as such, if a mission becomes available, I may be assigned to it.”

“Okay?” Jim says, frowning as he grabs up the next item to shelve. He’s more concerned that Spock’s acting so cagey than he is about the reminder that his boyfriend could get shipped out at a moment’s notice.

“One such mission has been assigned to me.” Spock admits, pausing in stacking the wrapped tubes of go cups to face Jim. “It is a short mission, but leaves Saturday morning.”

Oh.

Jim considers this as he places the last of the beans on the shelf, taking longer than necessary to shuffle the oldest ones forward. 

“So, you’ll be gone for a bit.” he finally ventures, still not turning to face Spock. He recognizes that the sacks don’t all need to be exactly one inch from the lip of the shelf, but there’s too many emotions running the gamut in his chest right now, and he can’t quite bring himself to turn around.

“Four days minimum.” Spock confirms, and Jim can tell from the lack of movement sounds that the Vulcan has stopped working too. “If I am unable to secure swift passage back from Vulcan, then the mission may last as long as seven days, assuming it takes an entire day to complete the… delivery, I have been assigned.”

Bummed.

That’s what Jim decides he is. Out of all the feelings rushing around inside him, ranging from fear that he’s being ditched, to disappointment that it has to be now, of all times, that Spock has to go. There’s sadness too, because he’s really going to miss Spock, but also pride, that his boyfriend is desired enough as an officer to be given special missions.

He’s distantly aware that identifying each emotion like this is one of the methods Bones had suggested for warding off panic attacks, and is mildly annoyed that it appears to be working.

“That’s not very long at all.” He says, rising from his crouch and giving Spock a smile that he hopes doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “We’ll have to set up a date or something when you get back, to celebrate.”

“You are not displeased?” Spock asks, and why does he look disappointed?

“Do-” Jim pauses, folding his arms and pulling them tight to his chest like he’s cold. “Do you want me to be?”

Spock stands as he clearly considers it.

“I had assumed you would be upset at my leaving so soon after confirming our mutual desire to enter a relationship.” Spock admits. “I find myself concerned that leaving may give you the wrong impression, and have been giving serious consideration to the idea of withdrawing from the mission.”

Momentarily shocked that Spock was able to put his thumb on Jim’s biggest fear without even touching him, it’s swiftly followed by a spark of annoyance that skitters up Jim’s spine, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Don’t do that.” he says firmly. “Don’t let me, or us, get in the way of your work. You’re a brilliant officer Spock. I’ve seen your service record, and you don’t need me keeping you grounded from a career that’s fulfilling to you.”

“You are incorrect.” Spock immediately replies. “I do need you.”

“Not as an excuse to keep from going off-planet, though.” Jim protests, squeezing his arms tighter. “I don’t want to be the reason you give up on the opportunity to go places.”

Spock has slipped into parade rest again, but for some reason it puts Jim more on edge than him just standing there. He’s not trying to put Spock on the spot, but he has to make this clear to him.

“I have already been to many ‘places’.” Spock argues. “And I find none of them as appealing as being by your side.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Jim counters. “We barely know each other, Spock. Where’s the logic in picking being stuck dirtside, with a human you just met, over exploring the stars and being out there!”

“I do not know you as well as I would like.” Spock says, stepping closer to Jim with eyes wide and earnest. “But I would like to. I wish to know everything about you. I do not need to explore the stars when the greatest discovery I could make in my lifetime is here, in this cafe.”

That’s… almost enough to take the wind right out of Jim’s sails. But he’s already grounded one brilliant Starfleet officer, and he’s not sure he could stomach the guilt of doing it to another.

“You don’t mean that.” he insists. “I’m one person Spock. That can’t hold a candle to the kinds of things you could be finding in unexplored space.”

“It is all of the candles!” Spock defends, blinking in apparent confusion as what he’d said registered before hurriedly continuing. “Jim, it is my intention to complete this mission and then resign my officer’s commission. I will stay on as a teacher at the Academy, and begin the only exploration that I desire at this time; building a relationship and a life with you.”

“Spock.” Jim sighed. “That seems kind of premature, doesn’t it?”

He hates that he’s even considering what he’s about to say, but if Spock isn’t thinking clearly, then one of them has to say it.

“In what way?”

“In every way!” Jim cries, flinging his hands up and stalking to the corner of the storage room. Grasping one of the racks in a white knuckled grip with one hand, he gestures at the pallets and shelves with the other. “What if this isn’t enough? Spending your days teaching at the academy and your nights at the cafe? How long will it take before you resent me for tethering you to something so- so mundane? I care about you Spock, I really, really do, and I don’t want you to come to hate me for it.” 

“I could never hate you.” Spock replies, soft in the face of Jim’s harsh ranting. “Nor do I find your life mundane.”

The silence grows between them for nearly a full minute, the sounds of the cafe beyond the hallway chattering on; the jukebox is playing something inappropriately cheery for the tense situation unfolding here in the storage room, though it’s impossible to make out the words to whatever’s playing out there. 

“Sometimes I do.” Jim admits quietly, all the anger he’d been gripping so tight leaving him in a flood; the resulting shocky feeling of having played his hand too soon and too hard rolling in to take its place. He’s not upset with Spock, he’s-

A pang of hurt jabs him in the chest as he identifies it.

He’s jealous. And he’s taking it out on Spock, who’s probably the last person on the planet to deserve it. Shame heats Jim’s cheeks, and he can’t bring himself to look Spock in the eye.

“Jim.” Spock says, taking a step closer but halting immediately when Jim extends a staying hand. “I did not mean to upset you. I only wished to keep you informed, to assure you that taking this mission does not reflect in any way on our burgeoning courtship.”

“I know.” Jim replies, taking a deep breath and staring resolutely at the floor and his oldest pair of shoes. “You should, uh. You should probably go see Bones, at the hospital. He’s got some information for you.”

And while this morning it had seemed like the smart thing to do, to make sure Spock was aware of his different allergies so he didn’t try to, say, bake Jim a cake with replicated materials, now it was something entirely different. Maybe Spock would see reason after he saw what a wreck Jim’s health was, how finely he walked the knife’s edge of life and death. 

It wasn’t a show of trust, of keeping Spock, anymore. With a heavy heart, Jim has to hope it may even scare the Vulcan away, back to reason; and far from Jim, who’s still lashing out like a child.

“You wish for me to leave?" Spock asked carefully.

And no, not really, he could admit to himself. Especially since now Spock was going to be gone for a while and he’d have to go without the help in the morning and the feeling of belonging that he got when he stood at Spock’s side. But that wasn’t fair to Spock; it wasn't right to keep him in the dark about what he was really signing up for.

Still, Jim couldn’t muster the words, and he just nodded.

There wasn’t any slamming or cursing, not a peep out of the Vulcan. When Jim looked up a minute later to see if he’d even moved, he found himself alone in the storage room.

Spock was gone, without a word.

Chapter Text

Still reeling from his conversation with Jim, which had not gone at all as he had anticipated, Spock made his way out of the cafe and across the street to Starfleet’s medical center. Either his rank or his expression must’ve cleared the way, as he remained unchallenged until he stood outside the doctor’s office door.

Pressing the control panel to request admittance, he is granted entry far too soon for his own liking.

“The hell happened to you?” McCoy asks, startled into standing when Spock steps into the room, doors sliding closed behind him.

“I am physically well.” Spock said tonelessly. Refraining from immediately returning to the cafe and begging for Jim’s forgiveness was proving more difficult than he thought; he had to keep reasoning with himself that he did not know what he was apologizing for, though he would do it in a heartbeat if he did.

“What happened then?” Leo checks his bracelet; though the colors are alternating shades of green and a pale yellow, he seems unconcerned. “Jim’s fine, so what’s got you lookin’ like a gutted fish?”

“I cannot speak for Jim’s state of mind.” Spock replied truthfully. “Only that he instructed that I should seek you out for information.” 

“Oh, that.” Leo dropped back into his seat, seemingly unconcerned. “Yeah, I got that here for you. Somethin’ else too, while I’ve got you. Didn’t think I’d be able to squeeze a spare minute from you after yesterday’s display, not with you leavin’ on Saturday.”

Yesterday, when Jim had agreed to a relationship; when Spock had fallen asleep with his entire future held close in his arms. 

Despite his assurances to the doctor a moment before, Spock feels an aching pain growing in his heart and his mind.

“This is for you to read, and pay very close attention to.” Leo said, producing a PADD and sliding it across his desk. “And this is a little something I think you’ve earned.”

Hips hiking up in his chair to reach into his pocket, the doctor transfers something into his left hand and curls it into a fist, shaking it at Spock when he does not immediately comprehend.

“Well, take it.” Leo huffs. “I ain’t got all day.”

“I do not wish to keep you from other patients.” Spock replies, stepping to the desk and reluctantly reaching for the doctor's hand. With his mind in an uproar and looping a constant staccato of Jim, Jim, Jim, he is all too aware that his mental shields are not up to any kind of skin to skin contact at this time. 

“No patients on Thursdays, that’s my research time.” Leo assured him, and thankfully, dropped the skin warmed item into Spock’s open hand.

It is… a bracelet. 

An identical match to the set that Jim and Leo wear.

With a sharp inhale that he would normally have suppressed with ease, Spock steps back and assesses the item. The band is made of interlocked links, allowing it to remain supple while aesthetically pleasing. Most importantly though, there is a tiny display, the size of a thumbprint; it is currently pulsing in sync with the doctor’s, yellow and green alternating.

“You’ll get the hang of what the colors mean eventually.” McCoy explained. “It’s a monitor for Jim. Pretty basic stuff. Green, all’s good. Yellow means somethin’ might be bad, or could just be a spike of adrenaline, emotion, or a mild allergic reaction. Any colors in between that, even if it’s flashing, means Jim’s fine.”

Spock marvels at the gift he has just been given. While it cannot possibly replace the kind of feel he will have for Jim when they are bonded, this piece of medical equipment is the closest he can come to it from a distance.

If Jim still wants to bond with him, he reminds himself with growing despair.

“Orange is bad, either an allergic reaction his meds aren’t kickin’, or he’s been hurt but he’s still conscious.” Leo went on, oblivious to Spock’s internal flagellation. “Red’s bad. Drop what you’re doin’ and find him bad. If it starts screamin’ at you, haul ass.”

“The alarm from the other night.” Spock recalls, and Leo nods in confirmation.

“If he’s conscious and he’s havin’ a bad reaction, he’s got ways to maybe treat himself. Epi-pen, or gettin’ clear of what’s got him reacting. But if he’s unconscious and it’s a bad one, that alarm tells us that he needs help.”

“Fascinating.” he breathes, turning the bracelet over and deftly clasping it to his wrist. It settles there, the weight of it a reassurance he did not know he needed until he had it.

“It ain’t much, and stars know that with the way you two have been joined at the hip, you’ll hardly need it.” Leo scoffs, leaning back in his chair and gesturing for Spock to take a seat. “But I figured it might buy you some peace of mind while you’re out in the black.”

Sitting as directed, Spock finds he cannot meet the doctor’s eyes following that pronouncement, and so he takes up the proffered PADD and keys it open instead. It’s locked, but responds to Spock’s biometrics, and he can appreciate Leo’s efforts at keeping Jim’s information private.

“Now, I’m goin’ out on a limb here and trustin’ that you’ll keep what you learn in there to yourself.” Leo says firmly. “Spock. Look at me.”

Though he would much rather be perusing the information treasure trove he’s just received, Spock reluctantly turns his eyes on the doctor.

“You’ll notice that’s not a ‘fleet PADD.” he points out, dipping his chin to indicate the unit in Spock’s hand. “Because what’s in there is none of Starfleet’s business.”

“But-” Spock immediately objects. Starfleet may have issues in some circles, but what purpose could keeping Jim’s medical information a secret possibly serve?

“I mean it, Spock.” McCoy continues. “That’s between you, me, and the fence post.”

Ignoring the idiom and nodding in acceptance of the doctor’s demands, Spock turns his attention back to the PADD.

He has read through less than ten percent of the information within when he has to set the PADD down in his lap. Looking up at Leo, he is unsurprised to find the doctor staring intently at him.

“This is… not possible.” he says slowly.

“And yet Jim’s livin’ proof that it is.” Leo replies dryly. “Keep readin’. Wait til you get to his genetics.”

The data file itself is not overly long; it is the implications of the material contained within that he takes issue with.

“If this information is accurate-”

Leo glares at him.

“-how has he not been in a constant state of reaction?” Spock demands. “He touches replicated materials constantly. If- if he is allergic to the stabilizing enzyme present in all replicated and transported materials, he could not function in a modern environment.”

“Soap.” Leo says proudly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest with a smug twist to his lips.

Spock cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Elaborate.”

“He’s hated wearin’ gloves since he was a kid, but prolonged contact, like you said, gives him trouble.” Leo explained. “We designed a highly comedogenic hand soap for him that lets him handle the stuff for short periods of time. He’s not just washing his hands for food safety at the cafe; he’s essentially reapplying the protective barrier that lets him do his job in the first place.”

“He wears clothing that is in constant contact with his skin, and blocking his pores with artificial-”

“All natural materials.” Leo corrects. “The stuff growin’ in the rooftop garden ain’t just there for looks.”

“-blocking the pores on his entire body is not a sustainable option.” Spock insists.

“No, it’s not.” McCoy shrugs. “He wears non-replicated clothes, old stuff he’s found in the damn basement, or out at garage sales. There’s an old textile plant down south that my Ma hits up for the fabric to make him bedding and basic clothes. He gets bedsheets and quilts for his birthday, every year.”

Spock immediately recalls Jim’s leather-bound tricorder, the one he’d used to scan materials at the yard sales.

“What does he eat?” Spock asks, forlorn; replicators are the source of nearly every food item in existence at this point.

“Farm fresh produce, grass fed meat when we can get it.” Leo replies with ease. “He’s got a few friends at the farmers market that grow a patch just for him, no pesticides, no soil enrichers, nothin’. Got another friend that cans goods in jars older’n the stars.”

“Shampoo, grooming products.” Spock continues, mind racing at the sheer amount of things that a person uses on a day to day basis. He has swiftly come to the realization of just how much he has taken for granted the ease with which things may be replicated. If he has need of anything at all, he can have it in an instant with a replicator; if he does not have the code for any one particular item, it can be acquired.

Jim not only cannot utilize this process, but the older he gets, the fewer remnants of the past that remain… the fewer options he will have at his disposal. 

“Essential oils distilled from chemical clean plants, lye, and coconut oil.” Leo replies, his expression a mix of amused and grim. “You key onto the breathin’ part yet?”

His meaning registers almost immediately, and Spock feels a tight cramping sensation in his stomach at the realization.

“Air is processed through replication in indoor spaces.” he whispers, horror evident in his voice and completely at a loss to stop it.

He recalls the hurt that had flashed through Jim’s eyes the day they had first met, when Spock had assured Jim that he was not an Academy cadet and therefore did not need to address him as professor. How Jim had politely turned down Spock’s attempts to invite him to the aquarium, the observatory, even lunch at a restaurant.

“Yep.” McCoy scowls, popping the P.

Suddenly, Pike’s frustrations with Jim’s ‘wasted potential’ and Jim’s own reaction to Spock’s mission make more sense; if the Starfleet medical database does not reflect Jim’s limitations, if it were not for those limitations, Jim would make an excellent addition to the ‘fleet.

But due to his health restrictions, his intended could never step foot in an airship hangar, let alone board a vessel. 

Jim’s apparent frustration with his ‘mundane’ life makes infinitely more sense now; trapped in a body that will never let his brilliant mind travel amongst the stars.

This realization is followed immediately by another, and Spock feels a sensation similar to cold water running down his spine.

Bonding with Jim, with his fragile health, would lock Spock into being truly earth bound; he would not travel so far as even his home planet, could not leave Jim behind in that manner. It would no longer be a matter of wanting to resign his commission to Starfleet; it becomes an immediate necessity, if he cannot leave the atmosphere. 

Slumping in his chair for perhaps the first time in his life, Spock recalls his conversation with his father from that morning.

The logistics of time.

If he bonds with Jim, Spock has no doubt that he would fall firmly in the category of Vulcans that cannot survive the death of their bondmate. Already his mind cannot bear to be separated from Jim for more than a few short hours at a time; he could not fathom decades of a life alone. And with Jim’s myriad of health issues…

A heavy sigh comes from Leo, and Spock focuses on the doctor. He is still in the prime of his youth, for a human, but at the moment he looks incredibly tired and aged.

“Judgin’ by the way you look like someone just stabbed your puppy to death, I’m guessin’ you cottoned on to what a bond between you two might mean for your own lifespan.” Leo says wearily. “And I can’t blame you for thinkin’ twice now.”

But Spock is a scientist, a decorated Starfleet officer; he is able to maintain multiple trains of thought at once, balancing and weighing the outcomes of decisions on the fly and acting accordingly.

“This changes nothing.” he says firmly.

Spock had told his father that he understood that morning, why it was that Sarek made the choices he had made, in regards to his mother. And he had understood at the time, knew then that Jim was worth it, so incredibly worth the sacrifices he would have to make. 

His understanding has not changed.

Jim’s medical concerns may offer challenges in a life built together, but they were obstacles that they could face together. The lessening of his own potential lifespan was negligible when weighed against the potential that he could have a positive effect of the length of Jim’s own, via the benefits of a bond.

“Oh really?” Leo asks, but his relief is palpable, even from across the desk.

Glancing at the bracelet on his wrist, still flashing an alternating green and yellow color, Spock nods sharply.

“Affirmative.”

“Well, good.” McCoy slaps at his desk top and the noise is so sudden that Spock startles in his seat. “Then we’ve just got one last thing to cover and you can get outta my hair.”

Cocking his head in curiosity, Spock gives the doctor his undivided attention.

“How much do you know about transporters?” the doctor asks. “Actually, scratch that. I’ll give it to you straight.”

With a look like something foul has reached his olfactory senses, Leo continues,”Put it plainly, avoid transporters if you can. You get transported, you end up with those stabilizing enzymes in your system-”

Spock inhaled sharply at the implication.

“-and it takes about three days for that to clear out of a human system. No idea how long it’d take to flush out of yours. We can test that at some point, if you like. But suffice it to say, you use a transporter?” Leo leveled a grave expression at him. “No touching Jim til you’re free and clear. No skin to skin, no kisses, and god-for-fucking-bid exchanging any bodily fluids, y’hear?”

Spock flushed to his eartips at the obvious insinuation the doctor was making.

“Understood.” he croaked out. 

“Good. Now get out, so I can try and pretend this conversation never happened.”

☕

The doors have barely closed behind Spock when Leo’s grabbing for his communicator and sending a message off to Jim.

You good?

There’s no immediate response, but if Jim’s busy with the cafe, it can take him a few minutes to get back at messages. Leo pulls up his current pet project and sends a message off to the Vulcan doctor that Spock had finally messaged him the name of earlier.

When five minutes have passed with no response, Leo feels a little uneasy, debates sending Jim a follow up. He doesn’t want to give him any more reasons to call him a mother hen, but he’s also usually better at replies than this.

It’s nearly eight minutes after his initial message when Leo’s comm chirps with an incoming call. Snorting with a combination of relief and embarrassment that he’d been worried in the first place, he flips the comm open.

“Bout time you-”

“Leo?” comes a quiet female voice.

Pulling back to look at the comm, McCoy realizes it’s Gaila’s sweet face on the screen, not Jim’s. And she looks worried.

“What’s wrong?” he demands, already standing from his desk and grabbing his satchel.

“I don’t know.” Gaila admits, one finger tangling in her curls like she does when she’s nervous. “I think something’s up with Jim. He looks fine, but he came out of the storage room and went right upstairs without saying hi to anybody, and he-”

“What, hun? What’d you see?” he asks softly, stepping out of his office and moving at a fast clip down the hall towards the exit.

“He’s really unhappy about something Leo.” she says softly. “I went to see if there was something in the storage room that might’ve triggered one of his reactions? And the air in there is just-”

“Was there another chemical spill?” he asks, aghast. There shouldn’t be anything left in the cafe that could possibly set Jim off. But then again, with the way his system could fluctuate, new allergies taking the place of things that he’d been fine with for years…

“No no, nothing tangible.” she assures him. “But it’s the pheromones? All I could tell was that Spock had been there, and they were both hurting. They fade pretty quick though.”

As sensitive as most Orions were to pheromones, Gaila still put them all to shame with her senses; that she could catch anything at all when the people weren’t even in the room anymore was impressive, and she was pretty damned attuned to Jim’s especially.

“I’m on my way.” he assured her. “I just saw Spock and he’ll be fine once he’s had a tick to go over everything I offloaded on him ‘bout Jim.”

“I have to get to my final, but you’ll let me know?” she asked, and Leo didn’t have to be looking at his comm to just know she was pouting something fierce at him.

“Of course darlin’. I’ll keep you posted.” he assured her, and she made smooching noises into the comm before ending the call.

It was a matter of minutes to get from the medical building and cross the courtyard to the cafe; experience says he could make it in forty five seconds at a sprint, but he’s not looking to raise a fuss today. 

Yellow dags flapping in the stiff spring breeze coming in off the coast, the cafe looked as welcoming as ever; a throng of cadets in civilian dress poured out of the front door, holding it open for Leo as he slipped inside.

The cafe was far from empty, despite the herd that just left. With a curse, Leo spies that the replicator hasn’t been swung out to the counter for people to use. He was less concerned with people being able to get drinks and more about what it said for Jim’s current state of mind, that he hadn’t swung it out before heading upstairs.

Hauling the thing out on its arm to be accessible at the counter, Leo locks the replicator in place and hurries up to the loft; he takes the spiral stairs so fast his head is spinning by the time he gets to the trapdoor.

“Jim?” he calls, dropping the door back shut behind him.

There’s no reply, and other than the meager sunlight coming in from the windows, the apartment’s dark and quiet. 

It’s not a huge loft space though, so it doesn’t take Leo long to establish that Jim’s not in the living room or the bathroom. Jim’s bedroom door is open, but he’s not in there either, though Leo has to go prod at the mountain of blankets and pillows the kid hoards like gold just to be sure. 

The hammock is empty too, so Leo heads for his own bedroom, concern growing in his chest like a wild thing.

Sure enough, there’s a telltale Jim shaped lump under the blankets of Leo’s bed.

“Aw hell, kid.” he sighs.

Relieved that he’s at least found him, Leo drops his satchel on the chair covered with laundry and drops himself onto the bed, bouncing the mattress enough that Jim can’t possibly miss his arrival.

“Hey Bones.” comes a sad mumble from under the blankets.

“What’re you doin’ in there?” Leo asks, grabbing at the blanket and trying to ruck it up enough to see Jim’s face; it’s not easy, since Jim’s rolled the one side underneath him.

“Sulking.” Jim sighs, and while he doesn’t come out, he does grab Leo’s hand and gives it a firm squeeze, refusing to let go. “I- I think I messed things up with Spock.”

Leo rolls his eyes and wonders for the hundredth time what wild hair made him pick this kid up off the side of the road in Iowa instead of leaving him to his corn fed misery.

“And you’re in my bed because…?” he drawls, mock glaring at the blankets even though Jim can’t see him.

“Feels safer.” comes Jim’s whisper of a response, plucking at Leo’s heartstrings like a master guitar player.

Ah. That’s why. 

“Come on Jim, come out here and tell me what happened. Let’s talk through it.” he says, kicking off his boots with a sigh and settling higher on the bed.

Jim emerges from his cocoon with his hair mussed beyond belief and his eyes rimmed red from crying, and Leo winces in sympathy.

“For the record, I don’t think you’ve blown it with the hobgoblin.” he offers, batting at Jim’s hand when he tries to pinch his wrist for name calling. Jim writhes like a snake shedding its skin, wiggling until he’s leaning against the headboard too, head resting on Leo’s shoulder.

Plucking a few tissues from the box on his nightstand, he drops them in Jim’s lap and flings an arm around the kid’s shoulders.

“He came in and got your records. As good as called me a liar when he saw your allergy list, but I talked him ‘round.” He explained as Jim blew his nose. “And he wasn’t scared off, Jim.”

“Maybe not by that.” Jim murmurs, stuffing the used tissue in his pants pocket before hauling the blanket over the both of them. It was a damn good thing that Leo stuck to the non-replicated as much as he possibly could, or the kid would be covered in hives at this point.

“Then what?” he urged, rocking his shoulder into Jim’s own. “What makes you think you scared him off?”

“Do you-” Jim hesitates, and it’s so reminiscent of the insecure little spitfire that fixed his truck on the side of the road all those years ago that Leo has to squeeze him to make sure he’s the grown thing. “Do you ever feel… stuck? Here? Because of me?”

Leo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This came up, every now and again, and it always drove him batty when Jim got like this. But it was also kind of hard to blame him, given what he’d been through as a kid.

“No. Same answer as last time, same answer every time, Jim.” he sighed. “I don’t even know how you got that fool idea in your head. I don’t want to be trapped on a tin death trap in the sky. Starfleet woulda been an awful option for me, just like you said.”

“To be fair, I was really pissed at the ‘fleet back then.” Jim snorts.

“You were mad at the whole damn world.” Leo agrees. “And while I’m glad I joined up anyway, I’m even more glad that I get to do what I do without havin’ to- how’d you put it? ‘patch up idiots that shot themselves with their own phaser’?”

That got the barest hint of a smile out of the kid, even if Leo couldn’t see; Jim ducking his head just so he wouldn’t see was telling enough.

“So you’re worried about holdin’ Spock back?” he asked, trying to piece together the picture Jim had painted for himself. “Him stayin’ dirtside on accounta you?”

A miserable nod was Jim’s only reply, and he burrowed into Leo’s side with a shuddering exhale.

“Well, that’s just dumb.” Leo declared, ignoring the way Jim tensed beneath him. “You gonna listen when I tell you why, or you gonna be stubborn about it?”

“M’always stubborn.” came the muffled reply.

“I know. That’s why you make an excellent McCoy.” he snorted, ruffling Jim’s hair.

Leo waited, letting the silence drag on for almost a full minute before Jim jabbed him in the ribs with his index finger. “Well?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you need somethin’?” he asked, feigning surprise.

“Bones!” Jim groaned. 

“You said you wanted to be stubborn!”

“Tell me!” he urged.

“Alright, fine. How much have you read up on Vulcan culture?” he asked, “Specifically, dating stuff?”

“There’s hardly anything to read.” Jim grouched, sitting upright once more and twisting the hem of the blanket between his fingers.

“Fair enough.” Leo agreed. “Has Spock talked to you very much about bonding?”

“Not really. It’s… new.” Jim admitted. “I could probably ask him, if you think he’s still-”

“I would not be surprised in the slightest if that Vulcan is picking napkin arrangements and color schemes for your wedding at this moment. Jim, Spock is crazy about you.”

The hopeful look in Jim’s eyes was going to give Leo cavities if he kept having to look at it.

“Anyway.” he continued pointedly. “You can get the nitty gritty from him, but the bones of it is- stop laughing!”

Jim buried his snicker in the fold of his elbow and nudged Leo to continue.

“Brat. Anywho, Vulcans. Bonds. They’re not particular about class or social prestige or any of that ilk when it comes to who they’ll bond with. Mental compatibility is a must, bar nothin’, and most of ‘em are paired off when they’re kids. Like a betrothal, but they can break it off at any time if they find someone that rubs their brain better.”

“Like promising your best friend you’ll get married if you’re both still single at thirty.” Jim mused, utterly oblivious to Leo’s surprise at the echo of his own comparison.

“Pretty much. But Vulcans-”

Jim shot up in the bed and whirled to face Leo, clearly horrified. “Does Spock already have a fiance?”

“No!” Leo scoffed, throwing his head back to beg patience from the sky. Already sensing Jim’s doubt, he adds “I checked.”

Muttering incomprehensible fool things, Jim flopped back into the reasonable number of pillows that Leo kept on his bed.

“So most Vulcans have a back up plan.” Leo continued once Jim had settled. “But Spock doesn’t.”

“That’s… not reassuring.” Jim says slowly. “If he doesn’t have a back up plan, what’s to say he isn’t picking me as some kind of ‘settling for what he can get’ option?”

Scowling, Leo pinched at the sensitive skin over Jim’s ribs. Ignoring his pained yelp, he scolds, “That ain’t fair nor kind to him or you, Jim. And it was a right ugly thought besides.”

“Sorry.” Jim mumbled. “You’re right.”

“I only brought up the fact that he ain’t in a situation-ship like that because I want you to consider his alternatives. I’ve skimmed through some of the texts that they have for medical, what little they’re willin’ to give an offworlder even with the patients permission-”

It was damned annoying, reading through a half redacted document; come to think of it-

“Actually, I may have you take a stab at it, see if you can’t wiggle past the security on the things they sent and get me a broader picture.”

“Now who’s thinkin’ ugly thoughts.” Jim grumbles, but he’s nodding yes too, and that’s good enough for Leo.  

“So. Vulcan’s bond, or have an IOU for a bond. And if they don’t-” he bumped his shoulder into Jim’s again to make sure he’s actually listening. “-they get called home, after a certain age.”

Jim frowns.

“Like a punishment, for being single?” he protests.

“No.” Leo answers slowly. “More like… salmon.”

The furrow on Jim’s brow deepens with confusion even as he smiles. “Like a fish?”

“More like, if he doesn’t have a mate by a certain age, he goes home and either gets assigned one, or-”

Leo quickly debates if this counts as pressuring Jim into accepting Spock’s courtship or not; forcing his hand either way doesn’t sit well with him, but he’s trying to reassure Jim, dammit.

“Or?” Jim asks, turning to stare at Leo with wide eyes.

“Or… bad stuff happens. That’s not important.” he hurries to move past the whole ‘heat and boiling blood’ aspect of Vulcan biology that he had been made privy to. “What matters here is, maybe he’s stuck on Earth if he hitches his horse to your buggy-”

Jim waggles his eyebrows, the pervert.
“Quit that. As I was sayin’, he might be stuck dirtside, but he still gets to do what he wants to be doin’. He left Vulcan for a reason, and if he’s happier here, then he won’t wanna be called home for any fishy business.”

Jim rolls his eyes at this, because he has no sense of comedic relief.

“So maybe he’s stuck dirtside with me, but at least he can do the kind of work that he loves. It’s science, by the way.” Jim informs him, like Leo at all wanted to know. “And teaching. He’s really good at it too.”

“Your beanpole friend didn’t think so.” Leo snorts.

“Pav just needed a hand to get on the same wavelength, he’s totally got it now.” Jim defends. 

Now it’s Leo’s turn to roll his eyes.

“So you don’t think he’ll… mind?” Jim asks, gesturing to all of himself.

“I think it scares the ever livin’ daylights out of him.” Leo says plainly. “He can join the club. We’ll get Gaila to whip up some-”

Leo curses, digging into his pocket for his communicator.

“What?” Jim asks.

“I told Gaila I’d let her know you’re okay.” he explains, punching out a message and sending it off.

Boy problems. He’ll be fine.

It chirps a reply a heartbeat later.

I could totally kick Spock’s ass for him. Let me know. 💋

“Gaila says she hopes you feel better soon.” Leo translates, but Jim’s leaning into his space and reads the message with a snort.

“You are okay, right? Now?” Leo asks, dropping his comm on the nightstand next to the tissues. 

“Yeah. I guess.” Jim replies, but Leo catches him whipping his fingers away from his mouth when he turns back.

He frowns and gives Jim the stink eye.

“Mostly.” Jim admits, hiding his hands under the blankets again when Leo tries to peep his nails to see how bad he’s been chewing at them.

“But?”

“Spock… does this thing.” Jim squirms, and Leo feels horror flood his chest at the thought that Jim’s gonna wanna talk kissy stuff with him. “Where he always asks if he can come back?”

Oh, thank the stars.

Grunting in acknowledgement that he does in fact recall the hobgoblin asking every single time he left if he would be ‘allowed to return’.

“He didn’t ask this time.” Jim says quietly, and the bunching of the blankets in his lap is telling Leo that he’s wringing the fabric from the underside. “He always asks.”

“Well. You got three options there.” Leo muses. “First, you’re dating now. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t have to ask.”

Jim nods, but it wobbles to the side like he’s not sure that’s it.

“Second, you told him to git and he got. And maybe there’s some Vulcan cultural hoodoo around the gettin’ that makes it so he can’t ask.”

Jim clearly doesn’t like that option, hands stilling in the blankets as his brow furrows in thought.

“Third. You could, oh, I don’t know… Call him and ask.” he says, exasperated.

At least Jim seems to consider that option.

“So you don’t think he’s gonna call the whole thing off, even though I kind of kicked him out?” Jim asks, and it’s less insecure and more puzzled.

Leo sighs. 

The number of people in Jim’s youth that caused him to ever doubt he was worth a damn was, one for one, the same number of people who were very, very lucky that Leo McCoy had taken the Hippocratic Oath.

“Yeah kid. That’s what normal people do when they love somebody. Sometimes you say some shit, and you gotta talk it out, and then you get on with life. Hopefully together.”

His own failed marriage hung in the silence between them, but Jim chased it away by slinging an arm across Leo’s waist and hugging him sideways.

“Thanks Bones.”

“Anytime, kid.”

Chapter Text

Spock leaves the medical building and heads straight home with the PADD of Jim’s information clutched tight in his hand. Though it is only two in the afternoon, he finds himself in desperate need of restorative meditation; the sheer influx of both emotions and information of the morning have left him feeling unbalanced and distressingly unfocussed.

Further evidence of this disorientation makes itself known as Spock finds that, while his mind has been focussed on said influx, his feet have taken on a course of their own; the gentle flap of canvas rustling jolts him from his thoughts and Spock finds himself standing outside of the Lazy Daisy once more. 

Despite how right it feels to seek Jim out when he feels out of sorts, Spock clenches the hand not holding the precious data PADD into a tight fist and forces himself to turn and walk away. He must settle himself before approaching Jim again; he will not risk miscommunicating the depth of his devotion and potentially endangering their continued relationship.

To do so, he must meditate.

Allocating more mental effort to navigate his way home than he has needed to use since he first arrived on Earth, Spock makes his way to his apartment once more. Tomorrow will be filled with preparations for the mission, finalizing any documentation he will need for the ‘passenger’ and performing flight checks of the shuttle he has been assigned. 

Trying to turn his focus away from Jim and towards the mission is… incredibly difficult.

He has nearly mentally calculated the fastest route to Vulcan, despite distracting thoughts of how Jim’s skin had glowed under the projected light of the false Eridani in their shared mindscape, when he finally arrives at his apartment.

The hot and dark interior of his home for the last several years is oddly… disappointing.

There is no warm smile beneath sparkling blue eyes, pleased to see him; no bell tinkles overhead when he enters, and the smell of his preferred incense, so very different from the rich scent of espresso beans, does not offer the sense of comfort and homecoming that he has previously associated with the smell.

Stopping as the door closes behind him, Spock attributes the depth of his disappointment to the tumultuous state of his mind. Further evidence that he needs meditation, immediately, comes in the form of a sharp pain in his chest.

This is his home.

Jim will never step foot in this space.

How could he? The air is circulated through the building’s filtration systems; the carpet is synthetic, the furniture replicated, even the water from the sink is-

Taking a deep breath, Spock attempts to rein in his spiraling thoughts and growing despair.

His communicator buzzes in his pocket, but Spock cannot possibly endure any further input, sensory or informational. Even the vibration against his fingertips as he hastily silences the device sparks something concerningly hot and angry in his chest. 

Dropping his communicator on the side table by the door and carefully placing the PADD down next to it, Spock flees to his meditation mat.

☕

Deciding that Bones is probably right but absolutely refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing so, Jim waits until after his favorite worry wart leaves to go back to work before he gives Spock a call. It’s not easy, because Bones refuses to leave until after he’s seen Jim eat something, and it’s hard enough to eat when he’s feeling antsy without someone staring him down over it.

But Bones is finally gone, and Jim selects Spock’s frequency with leftover fried rice feeling oddly brick-like in his belly.

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

“This is Spock. I am presently unavailable.” comes the comm’s voicemail, and the short and abrupt recording makes Jim smile, despite the disappointment he feels. It’s almost a relief, snapping his communicator closed without leaving a message; he can’t think of anything he wants to say in a voicemail anyway, and Spock will see that he’s called in the comm’s call log.

Having at least tried to reach out to his maybe-boyfriend, Jim slumps back against the loveseat and tries to convince himself that Spock’s actually busy, and not just avoiding him. He does have his mission coming up, he’s probably getting ready for that.

It bothers him, that he doesn’t know what Spock’s pre-mission routine is, despite the absurdity of it. He’s really only known the Vulcan for- 

An incredulous snort escapes him, as he realizes it’s been… ten days.

He’s known Spock for less than two weeks, and already it feels like he’s become such a constant in Jim’s life and daily routine that he misses him. Actually misses him, and he just saw the guy a few hours ago.

The part of his mind that never has anything nice to say insists that he better get used to missing Spock, since he was so rude that morning and there’s no way Spock is going to pick his scraggly ass over getting to explore the stars.

But he’s well versed in handling these intrusive thoughts, thanks in part to Bones’s constant assurances that Jim is a dummy and shouldn’t listen to himself. Or something else positive like that.

So he allows himself to wallow in the dark thoughts for a moment longer, before getting up and doing what he always does when he doesn’t want to listen to his own brain anymore.