1. Chapter 1

_"I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road."_

― Stephen Hawking

* * *

"Report!"

Red alert lights flood the ship halls, klaxons blaring on the offbeat. The sound's so loud and jarring it threatens to stop his heart in its tracks, vibrating straight through the soles of his feet to the tips of his teeth.

He can imagine the stampede of officers rushing back and forth as they run to their posts beyond the Bridge. Here, the air is stirred into chaos— a chaos that stretches between the alarms with urgency so tangible time shows its relativity. Every second is full.

It is as if Kirk can feel the exact moment when Spock's gaze falls upon him.

"Back to your station, Mr. Spock."

"Captain."

The ship slams forward on its axis. An ensign yells as she all but falls towards the navigations monitor, grabbing hold of the controls as soon as she's righted. Shields are dropping at exponential rate.

"It appears we are well and truly—"

Kirk's hand has grasped Spock's forearm to offer balance. The unexpected contact, however brief, is sufficient cause for Spock to pause before continuing with the appropriate vernacular;

"… trapped."

The Captain lets go.

One more second drags by and it appears as though a retort is on the Captain's mind or perhaps, a command. A retort, Spock has observed, is more likely. Suddenly, a conduit bursts from its connector above Lieutenant Uhura's console, spraying out writhing wires. The gush of noise drowns out her frustrated shouts until a pair of officers rush to cut the mains.

Whatever Kirk may have been thinking has been whisked away.

"Lieutenant, I need visual!"

"Sub-space communications are down, sir!" Uhura yells, slapping a palm against the newly deadened screen. "No visuals or audio of any kind."

"Uhura, reroute data feed to main screen." Kirk commands in one tight breath and Uhura immediately overtakes Spock's abandoned console.

Telemetry readings explode across the main view screen in bright electric blue. The bridge is bathed by sharp white equations, like the beginning projections of a hologram in a darkened room. There's a hush as Kirk's eyes fly back and forth, reading as fast as he possibly can.

"Leung!"

"Object bearing 180, mark 240," Ensign Leung rattles automatically.

"Ensign Azad, evasive manoeuvres."

"Port thrusters not responding," Azad replies without looking away from the helm. "Sir, if we lose auxiliary—"

"We're not losing anything." Kirk snaps.

"Captain," Spock says, almost gently.

Kirk looks up. The data flickers across his face in strangely intricate patterns, like snowflakes piling up with dangerous persistence; a prelude. Then Kirk drops his gaze to stare straight ahead, his expression blank, cold.

"_Back _to your station, Commander."

"Scanners indicate the gravitational field is expanding," Spock ascertains his voice is devoid of inflection as he reads from the science console's monitor. "The gravitational pull of the twin stars is immense. Currently, auxiliary power is holding. However, warp capability is offline and impulse power alone will result in engine burn out. The ship is not equipped with alternative propulsion methods."

"What about tractor beams?"

"Computer indicates eight cells are functional," Uhura reports.

"More than enough," Kirk is on the edge of his seat. "Transfer coordinates to a shuttlecraft—"

Spock spins in his chair. "There is a 93.7 percent probability tractor beams will not hold inside the ionic disturbance if we were to utilize our shuttlecrafts to perform a tow, which is what you have strategized, if I am not in error."

"Noted." Kirk rotates his jaw and his lips press together in a thin line. The ship veers.

"Bearing 090, mark 270!" Leung shouts.

"Uhura—"

"Comms are still useless, sir, and auxiliary failing!"

The klaxons are sounding faster now.

The computer rears to life and the entire bridge is washed in red glow.

"Hull breech in T-minus—"

The unavoidable vibrations have set his body thrumming, blood rushing. A pipe bursts from beneath the engineering station, wailing and hissing as acting environmental officer Renault rolls out of the way. Vaguely, it registers to Spock that he has stood up from his station.

"_Captain_."

When Kirk whirls in his seat, it is only then that Spock realizes he has spoken. "The ship is caught. Without magnitudinal propulsion we will not break free. Please advise."

A strange sort of laugh escapes Kirk, as if without permission. "Maybe I should get out and push."

"If you are attempting to joke, I do not share your amusement in the current situation."

The countdown enters its final seconds.

The constant barrage of sound grinds to a dull drone. The ship rocks and slams backward, throwing officers off their feet. The sharp scent of smoke fills the air and with a high-pitched hiss, steam gushes through the floor plates.

All the lights go out.

No one makes a move.

"End of Simulation." The computer intones.

"Jim." Spock says into the darkness.

"We're dead." Kirk answers dryly. "You call that a performance? This is the part where we all fall down."

Ensign Azad dramatically does just that.

* * *

San Francisco Bay appears almost untouched when embraced by its customary thick cover of fog.

The sky is painted a thin watery gray behind the clouds, a dreary canvas which only serves to make the city's devastation stand out in stark relief. Amongst the crumbling skyscrapers is the constant stream of response shuttles, tiny black silhouettes drawing dotted lines along the horizon. Excavation teams have been working tirelessly to clear the dangerous wreckage that has made an unfortunate home in the estuary and city.

Those first days in the fallout were the most frantic, emergency personnel and civilians joining officers on the ever growing list of causalities. Star ships weren't meant to break atmosphere, let alone impact. Even now, months later, there is debris stretching as far as the Ivory Coast. Occasionally, one can hear the dull thud of an explosion as a still-charged phaser bank detonates in the no-fly zone. Perhaps, it will be many years yet before all traces of _Vengeance_ have been removed.

Spock slips off his officer's hat and turns away from the window to take a seat.

"He wasn't ready," Uhura begins arbitrarily after they have taken the first tranquil sips of their tea.

Spock recognizes this fragment as a precursor to a deeper conversation about the morning's simulation involving Captain Kirk.

"It was my impression that no one is truly ready to fail, as is the designed purpose of the test."

Uhura blows out a breath, an action which has become customary in marking social cues Spock has missed. He controls a swell of apprehension.

"I understand the _Kobayashi Maru_, Spock. Though, just because I understand doesn't mean I agree."

"A delicate distinction," Spock commends.

It is disconcerting Lieutenant Uhura's first impression of his response is that he has intentionally implied unfamiliarity with a test she has participated in many times. However, it has become evident apologizing for behavioral missteps Uhura has already deemed unsatisfactory is the wrong course of action. After many categorical sighs, Spock has learned this much.

"Fear." Uhura says, tone curiously like a question with too many answers. She uses one long finger to spin her teacup around its saucer by the arm. It is a nervous trait.

"That's something our crew's got in spades. Every day we're earth-side is another I see people in the streets who look like their whole world's been destroyed. First, the Federation's right arm gets cut off and now Starfleet's the weakest it's ever been. Fear is everywhere, Spock—does anyone really need _more?_"

"No." Spock replies without pause. There is no need to revisit his own motivations to avoid such an experience, yet he is unsure of which statement she requires a response to first. In truth, he has made similar observations about the looming consequences that must be faced by Starfleet.

"You shouldn't have approved the session."

Uhura's true aim has come to light quicker than anticipated.

"I see." Spock straightens in his chair just a fraction. "It was the Captain's decision."

"Doesn't make it right."

Spock must concede the point. He, of all people, should know this better than any.

"Only an idiot would go back for more." Uhura allows a short puff of laughter to cushion the displeasure in her words. It is a behaviour Spock somewhat admires for its dual purpose of scorn and comfort.

"It was..." A breathy ironic chuckle intersects, "It was hard to watch."

"I wish to express gratitude for your attendance in spite of such."

"Well, you know me. Can't turn down the opportunity to enrich an ensign learning experience by slapping a few consoles. I'd even call it altruistic." Uhura replies candidly.

Spock, of course, does not laugh. Though he understands the human propensity to disparage oneself in order to create humour, he does not approve.

He realizes the source of Uhura's previous concern.

Her smile slips away before she takes another sip of tea, frowning as though conflicted.

"You have not yet spoken the extent of your troubles," Spock observes.

"You're right."

He nearly allows himself to be pleased for making the correct observation before it becomes apparent he has provided segue into a topic he would much rather not discuss. Uhura regards Spock for this uninterrupted moment and silence hangs between them long enough for his apprehension to return.

To this day, a large part of Spock's Starfleet interactions concerning human emotions have been mitigated by Uhura. While her compassion has, and always shall be, of great value to Spock, he regrets that no medium exists between himself and the Lieutenant where their own communication is concerned.

He takes a careful sip of tea, which turns into swallows as he drains the liquid and sets the cup back atop its saucer.

Uhura leans forward on her elbows, slowly reaches out, and gently pushes the set out of the way.

"You're not ready either, are you? To talk about it, I mean."

It is irrational to be weary of something he has been expecting. It is irrational and yet he has not been able to quell the strangely welcomed ignorance. He knows that ignoring something will not make it go away but self preservation seems to dictate the opposite.

It is irrational, and therefore a dilemma on which he can base no merit. It is illogical to expend time discussing subjects which have no merit.

"_Spock._"

He is certain that he has given no outward indication, but somehow, Uhura unerringly knows when he is ready to dismiss a topic. It would be imprudent not to answer, despite his unpreparedness. She is, of course, one of the few Spock cannot ignore.

"No, Nyota. I am not."

* * *

"You can't keep eating in here, you know." McCoy says grimly upon entering the lab office.

Kirk doesn't bother to answer since the fork's already halfway into his mouth. It's a simple fare of chicken, carrots, and peas. One of the fastest programs on the replicators, which means it's also one of the most tasteless. But mealtimes are just easier this way, to get in and get out.

"I have a good reason." Kirk replies once he's finished chewing deliberately slow, just to see that vein on the side of McCoy's neck start to bulge. "Been working on my speech!"

"Oh goodie," McCoy rolls his eyes.

The small desk in Research Library lab 3 is scattered with data sticks and PADDS. The glassy lights from their screens cast weak shadows across the stacks of archaic hard copy books in the dull overhead fluorescent. Kirk taps and enlarges a portion of the text file on a PADD nearly resting on his plate.

"_Revenge is a dish best served cold._ Klingon proverb I looked up. Witty _and_ relevant, considering section 31's got 73 super humans on ice."

"Yeah, _sure,_ Jim." McCoy replies, terse and disapproving, but takes a seat anyway. "If you think throwing Klingon party favours at the Admiralty during the service is a good idea then I should've left your mouth disconnected."

Kirk grins at the thought of the discomfort on Admiral Komack's face but then sobers when he realizes McCoy's gripping the table edge with white knuckles. Kirk feels cowed for momentarily forgetting; the more McCoy threatens the more he cares.

He mutters, "Always a new and creative way of saying 'shut up.' That's what I like about you, Bones."

"Pity you never listen."

Kirk double taps the screen and the file disappears.

"Too soon?" He asks lightly, stabbing at his food.

"You've been hiding in here for every meal since—" McCoy cuts himself off. Perhaps, out of respect for Kirk's feelings on the subject, but more likely because Kirk chooses that moment to loudly gnash on the slab of bland chicken.

Kirk chews perfunctorily and doesn't remove his eyes from the PADD, hoping McCoy won't call him out on the evasive manoeuvres. He can practically hear McCoy's lips tighten into an impressive surly line.

"Well, what do they say, Jim? The chain of command is often a noose for the guy on top."

"Finally, he admits to thinking of me on top!"

McCoy snorts and Kirk can't help the answering grin that spreads across his face.

He feels McCoy's warm hand touch his arm, squeeze once and then retreat. A lump forms in his throat. For some reason, he feels young. He hasn't felt young in a long time.

"Think about it. It's not healthy, staying cooped up alone like this –at least eat _one_ vegetable off your plate, Jim!—" McCoy's eyebrows are clashing madly on his face. "Even when you're off with the relief efforts, you go in alone." He holds up a hand when Kirk's mouth drops open to protest. "As your doctor, I've checked your logs."

They regard each other for a moment.

"You know, the crew doesn't bite." McCoy says lightly.

Kirk half-heartedly spears a single pea with the tip of one fork prong already loaded with chicken and presses it to his lips. "Maybe _I_ do."

"Well, what about Spock?"

Kirk nearly chokes. Actually lands himself in the middle of a coughing fit and McCoy is around the desk, pounding on his back in a flash.

"_What?_" Kirk wheezes out.

What _about_ Spock?

"My god, man, can't you even swallow like a normal human being?"

Kirk smirks behind watering eyes, pushing the food tray away.

"Oh, I give up." An extra hard wallop lands on Kirk's back at that with an exasperated grumble.

Kirk clears his throat and waves away the scanner that's pushed up against his jugular.

"I'm wearing you down, Bones."

"And I've got the gray hairs as proof." McCoy just sighs and there's the quick chirp of his communicator going off. Such was the life of a Starfleet officer.

Kirk tries to seem curious as McCoy checks the message but he's suddenly lost all appetite. The bottom of his stomach feels like it's been yanked down to his feet.

McCoy stands and straightens his uniform.

"I've gotta go to Emergency. They're calling in extra hands."

"More survivors?" Kirk asks, voice sounding vaguely hollow to his own ears.

"Yeah. And it's been what, 8 months?" McCoy shakes his head as if exasperated, but both of them aren't strangers to the utterly devastating crush of pride when someone's name is deleted off the list of presumed dead.

McCoy makes a face of long-suffering, "They've got _kids_ doing triage, Jim. It's like I'm running an after-school special."

Kirk pulls up a half smile, glad for the banter. He can tell McCoy is comforted by it too.

"I'd say that's perfect, for a great father figure like you—"

The look on McCoy's face makes him stop short.

"Jim," He says in a low, almost gravelly tone. It makes Kirk's stomach spike with a strange unpleasantness. "Promise me you'll think about it. God knows why, but I know you prefer being back up in the vacuum instead of down here."

In fact, Kirk has done little else than think. It's _all_ he thinks about these days. He's thought so much that he doesn't need to think about it anymore. He already knows what must be done.

Kirk eyes the PADD. "That's the problem, Bones. No one's getting grounded."

"Don't know that for sure, but they'd _love_ to make you the exception. Go to head with the Admiralty on this and you _know_ there'll be a tribunal. It'd eat up more time than looking for a needle in a haystack."

At the words 'eat up' McCoy roughly slides Kirk's tray back in front of him with one well-meaning, if not slightly protective shove. He pockets the still-chirping communicator and backs away, looking harassed when the lab's doors slide open and he's got no choice but to leave.

"Don't worry. I understand." Kirk dutifully picks up his fork instead of the stylus he actually wants. It's reassuring to see some of the tension in the doctor's shoulders disappear. "Catch you after your shift?"

"Yeah," McCoy smiles and blows out a breathy laugh. "A lot can happen in a year. We get five. Damned well better give yourself every minute."

* * *

"Fancy meeting you here," Kirk greets warmly as he jogs up the wide stone steps to Cochrane House.

Its high windows are gleaming in the morning sun, the ancient brick glittering and giving off the faint, almost sweet, baked aroma that traditional aluminum structures lack. Ironically, the prestigious building named for Zefram Cochrane is one of the only unaffected structures from the crash. Kirk is starting to see there's something to be said about relics.

He squints against the glare.

Spock is a tall figure in gray amongst the loitering cadet reds, a lone lock of black hair wafting in the breeze from under his officer hat.

"Captain, as we had previously arranged to meet at this time, there is no reason to—"

"Yeah, no reason." Kirk interrupts, quickly hauling open one of the classical wooden doors by its antique handle and ushering him inside. "Call it a piece of my humanity at work, Mr. Spock."

Spock tilts his head and follows Kirk's lead.

"The order has been issued." Admiral Komack informs them once they've been seated in his office.

"So, it's official." Kirk says first, the sinking feeling that's been growing in the pit of his stomach suddenly deepens, as if he's been walking through the shallows and just dropped off into the deep end of the pool.

Komack nods, but his chin stays lowered and he examines his folded hands for a moment. Whether it's out of reflection, respect, or sanctimonious glee over the fact that his off-the-wall order has gotten the go ahead, it's hard to tell.

"You are referring to the reverse activation clause," Spock clarifies the rumours that have been coming down the pipeline.

The little-known clause, to Kirk's knowledge, is outdated and supposed to be gathering dust in the fine print of Starfleet regulations. More and more frequently, a sharp spike of unease at how militarized things have become stabs him in the gut. The feeling twists and Kirk grinds his teeth together.

Admiral Marcus was just the beginning.

Komack smiles, thick crow's feet framing his eyes, "Met with overwhelming approval. The _Enterprise_'s new roster is complete, just in time for the rechristening. I have high hopes for your speech."

Kirk knows he shouldn't fight it, but can't help bristling, "With all due respect, the Admiralty is wrong. You can't just—"

"Captain," Spock interjects but Kirk doesn't back down.

"—Sir, it's effectively a draft! The emergency is _over. _Starfleet doesn't need—"

"The emergency is _permanent._"

Komack's statement rams the words right back down Kirk's throat.

"Vulcan is gone, as you are well aware." Komack looks askance, slightly oversized neck straining against a too-tall uniform collar. "Our strongest allies, devastated. Earth may be the heart of the Federation, but Vulcan was the mind."

Kirk can practically feel the air around Spock turn frosty just before he speaks.

"Earth has incurred great loss as well, Admiral, including brilliant officers, many of whom were to serve on the _Enterprise _in her 5-year mission." Spock stares ahead unblinkingly, "Or has the results of the most recent tragedy and restoration efforts caused by Admiral Marcus and one, Khan Noonien Singh, gone unnoticed?"

Even though Spock's face stays carefully blank, Kirk's got a pretty good handle on reading him by now. There's pride there, and a touch of rebellion. It feels good to be on the same page.

It'll hurt, when things change.

"People are angry. People are _dead._" Kirk adds, conveniently ignoring as Spock's head swings to look at him. Kirk grips the thick wool at his knees. "Forcing first year cadets and veterans in their _Emeritus_ years into service isn't going to help."

"Relax, Kirk. You're not getting invalids onboard, if that's what's bothering you." Komack isn't so much as ruffled, falling easily back into the bureaucratic tug of war. Kirk's teeth clack together tightly as the Admiral continues.

"I'd count myself lucky if I were you. Christopher always preached about you having something special, but frankly, no one else believes it."

Surprisingly, it is Spock who rises to his feet. "Captain Kirk's merits are—"

"_Understood._ Sir," Kirk says over Spock and rotates his jaw to keep from saying anything more. Resistance at this point will only be futile. Their side of the rope's been pulled tight.

Spock looks down and his gaze is a hot pour of confused indignation against Kirk's cheek.

"Good. Great." Komack pushes their contracts towards the edge of his desk, silky light from the file screens running down his face as eerie streaks.

"In a few hours, Starfleet will have given you two your own ship, gentlemen. Don't be late."

* * *

This speech had sounded _so_ much better in his head.

"There will always be those who mean to do us harm. To stop them, we risk awakening the same evil in ourselves."

As Kirk addresses the waves of hopeful officers before the dais, he notices the main crew in the first row. The Admiralty is an overbearing presence to his back which is only tempered by knowing Spock's standing just off to the side. Not for long.

Kirk licks his lips and presses them together for a moment.

"Our first instinct is to seek revenge when those we love are taken from us. But that's not who we are."

Out the corner of his eye, the new official rank badges are shining in their velvet boxes, displayed by a proud row of cadets. Looking at their young faces Kirk knows they're better than revenge. That's what this mission is about. To show the universe that the Federation isn't crumbling, that moving forward still means something.

"We are here today to rechristen the _USS Enterprise_, and honour those who lost their lives nearly one year ago."

He grips the sides of the podium, stealing against the feeling that hooks into him tightly, pulling him farther and farther down into the pool of dread that's been steadily filling up.

Kirk is terrified.

And he is, if nothing else, _just_ capricious enough to appreciate the emotional freefall he's plunged into in front of everyone.

The symptoms wash over like a tidal wave and he feels hot, nearly numb with it. His heart is slamming against his ribcage, wildly out of control, like his fear is a monster that's been caged and wants to get out. It tears at him, makes his knees freeze even though sweat has slicked his palms so that his hands slip away from the podium. He's locked to the spot and yet feels like he's running. Running far, far away.

The only consolation is that all these signs are so acutely familiar, so precise in their return, that by now covering it up with conviction has become simple.

"When Christopher Pike first gave me his ship, he had me recite the Captain's Oath."

Kirk swallows behind the tight collar of his uniform, squinting against the noon light.

"It's only fitting that I ask the same of her new captain."

There's sun in his eyes so Kirk takes a short step backwards into the shade, and oddly enough, in this moment, looking just past his shoulder, he finds a smile.

"Mr. Spock?"


	2. Chapter 2

"I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that we are currently in cautionary standing with Starfleet Command."

It is with displeasure, certainly mild enough as to not be indicative of an emotional motivator, Spock discovers the most opportune moment to speak privately on the _Enterprise _always seems to be in the least convenient location.

In effect, the turbolift, during a mass crew boarding protocol. As such, it has taken four separate attempts to intercept Captain Kirk's unrelenting route towards deck 14. A grave detour, as Spock is expected for a private debriefing before joining the primary crew on the bridge. It is imperative to correct this mistake now.

Kirk does not respond with words, merely tips his head and taps a foot.

Spock continues, "You realize, of course, a prank of this magnitude can be expected to cause sanctioned investigations, mainly, concerning the professional conduct aboard this ship."

Kirk clutches his PADD close to his chest and then lifts a hand. He inspects his wrist as though looking at an invisible chronometer, then begins to hum.

There is a spike in Spock's displeasure. Slight a change it may be, he is thorough in determining this has negligible effect on his carefully cultivated argument.

"Cap—"

"Okay. Firstly? It's not a joke." Kirk interrupts.

It has been in Spock's experience that unlike many, if not most officers of Starfleet, Kirk lacks the kind of politeness in command which allows for miscommunication in favour of sparing one's feelings. The Captain is direct and intuitive, yet without making use of the convenient facade which selective words and projected emotion can imply. However, that is not to say he is unskilled at this precise form of diversion as well. On these occasions, Kirk just so happens to make Spock the exemption.

It is merely one of the reasons why Spock believes Kirk to be a highly capable captain and well-suited to leading a command team in which a Vulcan comprises. For such a reason, there is little question as to the nature of Spock's displeasure, however small, at being wrongly announced Captain of the _USS Enterprise_ without prior warning.

Thus, Spock awaits the information he knows is forthcoming.

"Secondly," Kirk counts off by way of fingers, "_They_ know it's not a joke. So, please, keep up. We're not gonna get sanctioned. Our tickets are non-refundable."

Another spike, though not as disconcerting as before.

"May I correctly assume you have used the reverse activation clause as a safe situation in which to confuse, and possibly, dispense your disapproval to the Admiralty by—"

"It's not a _joke._" Kirk repeats crisply, a distinct contrast to his otherwise humorous demeanour.

Spock raises an eyebrow.

"It was under my impression," Spock replies delicately, attempting to fit this point into a pre-conceived argument in which there is no correct space, "the contract I signed, in no way indicated the loss of your captaincy."

"Spock." Kirk says blandly and a strange sort of smile pulls one side of his mouth wide, "You're getting really slow. I switched our contracts."

Both eyebrows up.

He wishes to ask _'_how' but more importantly is the;

"Why?"

Kirk ignores this. "We're friends, right?"

Spock attempts to remain undeterred by the arbitrary nature of human deflection.

"I do not understand the context of the question."

"Yes or no?"

It appears Kirk intends to provide the necessary information depending on his answer and Spock cannot logically perceive why, except to force him to confront Kirk on an emotional level rather than intellectual. At such a junction, it would be important to note Vulcans do not have friends. It would be prudent to distance himself from the subjective nature of the interaction. Spock knows this, and has done so with numerous others, and yet...

"...Affirmative. However, you are attempting to change the subject."

Kirk looks contrite, an expression for which Spock immediately feels complete accountability when he says, "Spock, I know you have no reason to believe me. But just _trust_ me, okay?"

Spock is dismayed at the timely arrival of the turbolift on deck 14. The doors hiss open to a picture of two Operations ensigns, heavily burdened by their personal effects. It is with even more apprehension Spock watches as the officers drop their belongings to break off sharp salutes, still facing him.

"Captain, sir!"

Kirk is safely out the doors and on deck before Spock may say more.

As the turbolift has not regained function without a designated destination, it is within Spock's narrow parameters to allow reluctance to enter his countenance before he steps aside, allowing the ensigns aboard.

"At ease, ladies," Kirk's forehead wrinkles as he cocks his head standing alone in the middle of the narrow corridor. The ship is dimly lit to stimulate a circadian rhythm, long shadows of the walls stretching into darkness behind him in the light of the lift.

"The Captain doesn't bite."

Spock's eyebrows draw together and he regards Kirk with silent disapproval before a piece of luggage is mistakenly dragged onto his toe.

"But I could be wrong!" Kirk amends with a smile and waves, PADD glowing in one hand.

The doors slide closed.

* * *

"Everything checks out here..." Kirk makes a mark on his file. "We're warping out soon. Keep all comms open for the order."

"Excuse me, sir! But everything's _not _awright!"

The recognizable brogue explodes before his face in the predictable form of saliva. Kirk scrunches his nose and then smiles lightly.

"Did it perhaps escape yer notice that my complement's been reduced to a _maximum _of 110?"

"No." Kirk replies blandly.

"You call tha' wee number a maximum? It's a bloody cut of 30 percent!" Scott blusters.

The distinct steaming and whirring sounds of Engineering are almost pleasing to the ear. If it weren't for Lieutenant Commander Scott's shouting on the tail end of a twenty hour work day, Kirk would be finding it wondrously easy to fall asleep here.

"Sorry, Scotty, but that's all I can do. I need to be on the bridge." He stifles a grimace at Scott's unimpressed face and starts climbing up from the main computer bay towards the upper level deck.

Alas, he's followed quickly. The two walk briskly past a milling line of security officers still stuck in phase 3 orientation. At the rate launch prep is going, the _Enterprise_ will be lucky to warp out by sunrise.

"You've gotta give me some more crew, sir! I cannae run Engineering with one arm tied behind my back."

"Yes, you can," Kirk replies.

Scott gets caught by that, preening a little at the compliment. Unfortunately, he's much too good at working up a lather to let the issue go. Kirk rolls his head to thud against the side of the turbolift as Scott jumps in after him.

"Not even Chekov? Now, don't get me wrong, he did a might fine job chewin' up the engines but beggars cannae be choosers."

"I'm keeping Chekov," Kirk counters as the decks fly by. "What about Riley?"

Scott blows out a breath. "I'd get _more_ work done without puttin' up with his idea of singing on gamma shift."

Kirk cocks a hip. "You should have led in with this criteria, Scotty. Specifics. Who could you possibly want?" He leans forward, tone slightly disbelieving, "Uhura?"

Horrifyingly, Scott has started to— No way.

"Are you _blushing?_"

"No, sir!"

Scott shakes himself.

"Now, that's not a 'no' to the lass, mind you. Lieutenant's got a lovely voice but it pales in comparison to the minor in electrical! You should see her wire work. M'lady the _Enterprise_ could always use more hands with a gentle touch."

"Mmhm," Kirk can't help smiling indulgently.

"Why," Scott looks to the side and rocks back on his heels, "If you weren't already taken Jim, I'd ask for you."

That's just weird enough to startle a laugh straight out of Kirk.

"You get Riley."

Scott deflates and amazingly the lift doors slide open. Kirk practically springs into the corridor but Scott is fast on his heels with stubborn determination.

"Warp 5 is the best you'll do then! Factor 6.5, tops. The nacelles won't always purr like kittens, sir, especially for five years in deep space!" Scott pulls up to Kirk's side just shy of the bridge's entryway, "I need teams of at _least_ 42 at each station during peak levels."

"Ugh!" Kirk groans and grinds to a halt. He whirls on his heel, then chews the inside of his cheek and scowls. "You're killing me, Scotty!"

At that, the engineer freezes.

Kirk nearly swears, but they've already stepped onto the bridge.

"Commander Kirk," Sulu acknowledges, vacating the captain's chair. Kirk nods, feeling a bit self-conscious as most of the crew have turned to look his way.

"Jim!"

Kirk's head snaps up and—uh oh.

McCoy is standing next to Sulu and there's definitely a distinctly pinched look on the doctor's face. Kirk spins and gestures quickly to avoid _that_ particular brand of trouble.

"Officer Jodi!" He barks, startling a few officers with his urgency. "The head of Engineering is _personally_ requesting your immediately transfer to his department. Is that acceptable?"

The white-haired woman looks extremely alarmed but stands, "Yes, sir."

"Good. You are now reporting to—Mr. Scott!" Kirk claps his hands together and Chekov jumps in his chair. "Surprise! You get to fill out the necessary transfer forms. Darwin, take Jo's place. Your new department head is, uh," he flounders for a second, "...me. And Scotty?"

"Aye?"

"Please don't forget Riley when you pass by Communications."

"Fine, that's— thank you, sir."

The weak, utterly distracted response throws Kirk for a loop. The engineer is, for once, not bearing him down.

"Sorry to ask, but... But what is _that?_" Scott flings one dramatic hand out to point.

"Science Officer 0718," The officer in question responds with a noticeably toneless speech pattern.

Scott looks flabbergasted. "The thing's got a network processor in its head! Connected to my ship!"

"Dammit man, just because you don't understand something doesn't make it a thing!"

Red Alert. Kirk can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Trouble has just closed in.

Scott rounds on Kirk and McCoy, a crazed look in his eyes. "I know exactly what it is, and let me tell you—"

"Bones!" Kirk smiles disarmingly, walking backwards until he's somehow hilariously—embarrassedly— sandwiched between the doctor and engineer. "Ready for deep space? Sulu told me it's lovely this time of year on Risa."

"Already put in my request for shore leave," Sulu chimes.

"Oh, no you don't," McCoy is leaning in much too close for comfort. It puts that menacing scowl right into Kirk's face.

"A state of the art AI officer!" Scott bursts, looking like he's about to drop everything and fall into a jig. "Was just reading 'bout it in my journals!"

Kirk easily dodges around McCoy and swings an arm across Scott's shoulders so he can be pulled to safety by the engineer's thrilled pace.

"He's completely upgraded," Kirk says encouragingly, ushering them around the science modules with McCoy in hot pursuit. "No more of those pesky bugs from last year's model. Smoothest OS to ship network sync you'll find this side of Andromeda."

Scott's grin suddenly snaps shut in offense. "Why d'you get one an' I don't? Look, yer not even using it, really. It's just pushing buttons! You know how many humans it takes to reroute a Jeffries tube?"

Kirk smirks, "One, but he has to be able to fit inside it."

"Very funny!" Scotty nudges him in the side, and then pats his own stomach. "I'll have you know I've been making up for lost time. One AI can lift a near metric ton!"

"_Jim_," McCoy's voice rises to a volume that bounces between cross and genuinely disturbed. "I want a word—!"

It's at this moment Uhura marches onto the scene and Kirk, well; he wouldn't say he _leaps_ behind her while still using Scott as a shield, but it could be described as such. If things were to get technical.

"Kirk!" She yelps, glaring at him even though, really, it's McCoy's oversized shoulder that's bumped her. And Scott's too busy drooling over the android officer to notice a vein is standing out on Uhura's neck.

"All of you! Out of my station! Spock's—"

"Captain on the bridge!" Chekov practically sings out and all the chaotic conversation slams to a halt.

Kirk blows some of Uhura's ponytail out of his mouth.

Spock's stoic countenance holds the crew in its orbit for one long, painfully quiet moment. He takes a single step forward.

"Please attend to your posts so that we may begin our mission in a timely manner."

With two well-placed shoves, Uhura unfolds McCoy, Kirk, and Scott from their human accordion quartet. As they tumble out from the stations, bridge officers spring into action so fast it's like the first day of school and they've got Klingons for show and tell. Consoles light up instantly, data screens zipping into life to display ship vitals. Sulu and Chekov activate the main screen and the insulated room suddenly expands as if they've stretched into the seconds just before warp.

The dark vision of space pulls everyone's eyes to look far, far out.

One eyebrow pushes up underneath Spock's severe bangs. "Lieutenant Uhura, please open all lines of ship-wide communication."

Uhura straightens her skirt. "Yes, sir."

Something crushes deep inside Kirk's chest when Spock takes five last calculated steps and sits in the captain's chair.

"I am Spock." He says without fanfare, staring straight ahead.

It hurts, physically _hurts_ Kirk to walk away from that center seat, but he is careful not to let it show. He reminds himself he can't go back. That this is what must be done, for them to go on. This is the only way things will work.

And once he's taken position at Defense, it is painfully obvious the main science station at his side, is empty.

But Spock looks so unperturbed, so confident.

This is who they _need._

The United Federation of Planets had been a dream, once. And it has always been Starfleet's goal to realize that dream, to spread it throughout the stars.

It's hard not to recognize the sharp touch of envy as pride crawls its way into Kirk's heart.

He can think no better man for the job.

"As captain of this vessel, my first act of Starfleet command is to inform you the _Enterprise_ will begin its course with a rendezvous at Starbase 11 to receive additional personnel. Also note, incomplete orientation phases will resume at 0700 hours. Please ensure your schedules do not conflict and strive to perform every duty to the best of your ability, as all officers onboard are a representation of the Federation and," Spock tilts his head, "all humankind. Today marks the start of our 5 year mission. We go boldly where no one has gone before. Captain out."

His message is met with silence.

Spock turns and for one, blindingly panicked moment, his eyes pass over Kirk.

"Mr. Scott, why are you not at your post?"

Scott throws his hands up in surrender, "Was just on my way, Captain."

Spock merely faces forward once more, allowing it all to fall in place. "All hands on deck."

* * *

The bridge is absent of the destruction it had incurred since the last time Spock sat in this same chair. The screens are flawless, every surface newly polished. A fine example of the fleet's flagship, the _Enterprise _is impossible not to take pride in. A foolish behaviour, indeed, for the measure of the ship's beauty is weighed down equally by responsibility.

Spock does not permit himself the time to reflect on this. The _Enterprise_ will disembark in short order.

"Have we received confirmation from Luna?" Spock asks primly.

"Luna confirmed, airway 15C primed for warp activity. Sir." Uhura replies with clipped inflection, one for which Spock has no immediate meaning assigned. However, she is no doubt depicting her attentiveness to the situation in the same way her brevity with Captain Kirk applied.

"Overrun area has been extended by 19.1km."

The data appears almost instantly on the chair's console. It is frustratingly small a screen compared to the science station, but Spock is not affected by limitations. He is challenged by them.

Command module receives the information next, thankfully rousing Chekov from whatever arbitrary muttering to Sulu he has deemed relevant.

"We are clear for plotted trajectory."

"Relay your navigation co-ordinates to Lieutenant Sulu."

"Yes, Captain, already done, sir," Chekov replies though it becomes clear to Spock that Sulu already has plotted the course and has begun disengaging dampeners 1 through 18.

"Recommended gravitational swing input bearing 048, mark 200," Sulu says, retrieving the simulated flight plan to play across the navigational module screen.

"Insufficient," Spock quickly corrects this mistake. "Negative 26 marks away from the Copernicus shipyards."

"Sir," Sulu does not turn, though his voice is noticeably more formal when he responds. "It's more than enough to drop us under."

"Luna confirms," Uhura reiterates.

"Inform Lieutenant Commander Scott, engines require preparation for warp factor 5."

Even as he issues this command there is the sound of engines humming to life.

"Already done, sir." Uhura says again.

Spock understands his face has formed a slight frown, yet it cannot be removed. "Regulation dictates the senior engineer on staff must have authorization directly fro—"

"Captain," Kirk calls from the Defense station.

Peculiar.

Despite engaging in no forethought on the topic, Spock realizes he desires this particular interruption very much. For what purpose, he is unsure, as Kirk merely needs to monitor shields at this point in time.

"All inventory has been accounted for. All officers are signed into registry. I have already taken the initiative to issue the preliminary launch regulations to all personnel." Kirk looks away for a brief yet mesmerizing moment before finishing with, "Sir."

Spock tilts his head.

As do many others on the bridge, not discounting Ensign Chekov's remarkable ability to self-inflict whiplash.

"Noted, Commander Kirk."

The fact that a professional discourse between the captain and an officer involving proper vernacular should not distract their fellow officers enough to cause stares and yet, humans are a highly illogical species.

"Also—" Kirk continues, disrupting Spock's thought process.

"I'm detecting signs of _extremely_ intelligent life in this little thing called the _Enterprise_. I think we'd better go."

The crew bursts into laughter. Curiously, the charge of unease is a presence Spock had not noted until it was dispersed. It is foreign for Spock, to suddenly be overcome with the urge to say thank you. Thanks are not necessary.

Yet there is something gratuitously pleasant about eliciting a positive emotional change in Kirk.

"Thank you, Commander."

In front of him, Spock witnesses Chekov and Sulu sharing an unfamiliar expression.

Primary source confirms. Highly illogical.

"They'll light it up for us on your mark," Kirk says, smiles mildly, and then turns back to his console.

Twin rows of bright blue xenon lights curl across the surface of the moon, pulsing like neon signs, enticingly pointing the way into the unknown.

* * *

"When were you planning to tell me?"

Uhura has waited until Spock's duties have trickled down into a stream consisting of necessities which can be carried out his quarters. It is not only the most professionally considerate approach, but also the most personal.

"As it became relevant only a short time ago, it was not in my ability to do so."

It is immediately apparent Uhura can parse through Vulcan specifics with great speed.

"You mean you just found out. You didn't know." She stares at him. "So, what? Kirk just decided to throw the captaincy in your lap without saying anything?"

As the question is rhetorical, Spock does not answer.

She snorts. "That's one hell of a joke."

Spock is momentarily pleased his own observations have been corroborated by a secondary source, though the initial displeasure at Kirk's action returns when Spock recalls: _it's not a joke._

"Commander Kirk has shared with me his reasoning," inadequately, however true, "And I am no longer labouring under the element of surprise."

He returns to unpacking his sparse belongings.

With a sigh of exasperation, Uhura joins him at the foot of the bed and attempts to help by refolding his clothes as he lays them out. Illogical.

"So he asked you to play along," Uhura suggests. "Will you do it?"

'Will,' not 'can.'

An important difference.

Uhura has known him the longest.

The duration of acquaintance is of great value to humans in attributing capacity for understanding. Along with this knowledge, Spock finds a warring piece of himself which desires to subscribe to the practice, yet cannot. For Vulcans, the sharing of oneself, one's mind, occurs in mere moments through the use of a mind meld. It is therefore, unreasonable to assign the same qualities of duration versus depth. There is condolence, however, in knowing both mind melds and long lasting relationships are rare occurrences and thus not necessary to consider at this time.

It is also important to remember, as the highest ranking officer on the ship and most educated, Spock must consult his own expertise prior to engaging other sources.

Uhura has inferred he is capable of captaining the ship by simply choosing to ask if he will.

He desires to correct her.

"I have taken the oath," Spock says instead.

Uhura nods and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, her dangling earring catching a bit of light. "Who's got Sciences now?"

"A highly trained officer who has been reactivated to the _Enterprise's_ roster. Lieutenant Carol Marcus will board at Starbase 11."

"Kirk's in charge of rosters now."

"Affirmative."

The corner of Uhura's mouth hooks up in reply at this information. Though he considers possible reasons for such humour, Spock finds no greater understanding.

They continue unpacking in silence. The captain's quarters are now located on deck 5 after the refit configuration. Amongst the subtle differences in his new living arrangement is the addition of a porthole. The streaks of stars at warp glow beyond the aluminum, tiny gems in an otherwise vast sea of darkness.

"You _do_ know how this will look, right?" Her cadence is airy, light. A human sign for the arrival of a topic with substantially more weight.

He does not.

"What time is it, Captain Spock?"

"2300 hours, 43 minutes, 11 seconds." He looks to her for explanation.

A sigh.

"I better go."

It is Spock's opinion that removing oneself from an unfavourable situation is the most efficient and effective prevention of emotional dissonance. If he were emotional, that is.

He frowns, "Have I erred in some manner?"

"I'm fine." Uhura shakes her head and then her lips press together, brows drawn slightly closer. It is not an expression that precursors a simplistic thought. This indicates whatever she has to say— is complicated.

"_Kadiith._"

The acceptance of that which is unavoidable. What has been done is done.

A fascinating development.

Perhaps the simplest ideas are also the most complex.

* * *

The _Enterprise_ is pristine. Too pristine. Every nook and cranny is sparkling clean, every Jeffries tube swept out and shining. It's like a showroom home waiting to get broken in and oddly enough, every new scuff or ding Kirk spots on otherwise gleaming surfaces appear to him like markings on a cave wall. Gives him hope for the signs of life, of what's to come.

Not to say he doesn't make note of it. The duties of First Officer require a vigilance Kirk is rusty in employing. He speeds through the rosters as fast as they keep piling up, checking and double checking reports. And when he gets a chance while surveying the labs, he takes a moment to peer out a porthole.

It's dark, out there. But the cold vacuum of space holding all of its wonders—and dangers— seems to tug something in him just the right way.

He quickly stamps it down.

Realistically? He's been living in a fantasy.

The universe is not singular.

There are many universes in existence, multiverse, and these multiple maps mark the flow of time and space in parallel. This simple way of looking at the world, in hindsight, allows even simpler beings to believe in the illusion. One Kirk has bought into, until now.

The illusion is that the movement between time and space, in addition to being parallel, is _linear._

Not true.

Really, if Kirk continued allowing himself to believe he's moving along a mapped path, a linear transition towards an eventual targeted end—some greater _destiny_— He'd eat his boot, and he's pretty sure there's something in the sole that makes him allergic.

Kirk steps from shadow to shadow, pockets of dark cast by bulkhead-mounted floodlights. He moves briskly as he can to examine along the slanted tubing rafters in Environmental lab 4.

The thing is— the thing easy to forget is that destiny has no physical location.

Destiny is the supposed unavoidable outcome based on a series of events in one's existence, which means destiny is a _state of mind_; the illusion whose existence can no more be verified by quantitative data as it can by belief.

Then there is, of course, Spock.

The older Spock, the one who had claimed to be from the future, had presented his case with the most careful of logic. Here is my knowledge of a mysterious hostile Romulan. Here's my spaceship brimming with technology not yet invented. Oh yeah, and check out this nifty equation for _transwarp beaming, _a statement which operates under the assumption where space is the thing that's moving.

Space is the thing that moves.

And it _works._

Even then, it had made Kirk wonder. If he stands still, will this supposed destiny find him anyway? And since he knows too much already, about another life and another him, maybe moving fast enough in another direction can make things change.

Kirk reaches the end of the rafters where a ladder travels down the wall a few metres. Ignoring it, he jumps using the beam of an overhead truss to swing down. His foot accidently catches on the large fronds of a plant and Kirk gives a bit of a yelp as it topples over, spilling blue soil across the floor.

"Shit," He mutters, but no one is around to hear him. It's late, real late. Beta shift ended hours ago and the majority of crew are dreaming to the soft drone of warp activity thrumming throughout the ship.

But he needs to get these surveys complete faster than Spock's old turnaround.

That familiar tugging sensation in his gut becomes a sharp, distinct pull. He's starting to sweat, heartbeat picking up. Kirk closes his eyes quickly and takes a deep breath. The terrifying press of powerlessness eventually fades like a message in the sand, washed over with many coats of resolve.

Kirk quickly inserts documentation into the Environmental sector report, cataloguing a plant whose size is against code for this particular lab storage.

It's his duty, as First Officer.

He's good. He's good, but he has to be better. Be like Spock. Tear this universe a new one and find his way.

The idea that somewhere out there, in the great uncharted spaces between stars, lived a James T. Kirk who had once been a beloved captain...Well, it all grazes a mighty fine line between the idea of destiny and an unflatteringly bad science fiction.

Kirk supposes it isn't his fault— that he has kind of a thing, for fiction. Except that thing is something he likes to call deconstruction,or even more simply: _ripping it apart._

And maybe...

Just maybe, in this universe, being second-best won't turn out that bad.


	3. Chapter 3

"We need a brain in the seat, not a heart."

The piece of unsolicited conversation catches Spock's ear halfway down the corridor leading to the bridge. He pauses.

"Spock's not heartless. You saw his face, what he did—"

"Yeah, and he's trying his damndest to forget."

"So that makes him better?"

Spock does not wish to deprive the crew of their privacy, but being Vulcan he cannot negate the superiority in hearing unless he walks away. It would be a redundant action, as he is required on the bridge.

However, Spock reminds himself quickly, it is logical to exercise caution when dealing with the impressions he has unwillingly made.

He is all too aware of his indecorous conduct.

He has only been fortunate enough to not be sanctioned and trialled for such blatant and mindless violence carried out against another being. In fact, he had been quite ready to turn himself in, completely accepting of the fate that would follow, once he made Khan sleep for good.

He is a pacifist. Past events are irrelevant at the moment, for although he has put aside that fleeting desire for revenge, its mark is still there, a scar in his mind left from being cut wide open. As such, his style of captaincy will be diplomatic and guidance-driven; the prime directive not merely a principle, but a promise.

Spock resumes his path.

"—Kirk's no open book, you know that. But can you imagine the embarrassment? No way are they gonna say anything!" Someone crows as Spock steps onto the bridge and he can imagine the look of laughter bubbling up in human eyes he has come to catalogue with some ease.

"Not when every single Admiral had to struggle ze way through a Wulcan salute before handing over za keys. I swear Komack sprained his— Keptin on the bridge!" Chekov shouts.

Sulu quickly vacates the chair while Spock mentally runs through the rosters, surveying the room with one sweep of his eyes.

He sits down and immediately punches the keypad on the armrest.

"Computer, captain authorization code Spock-sigma-4: Locate Commander Kirk."

"James Kirk, located in Communications, network server room 2."

"Kirk and Uhura went down there to calibrate the subspace relay antenna," Sulu adds, his voice a strange break in the pocket of silence which Spock slips from.

"What is the cause of malfunction?" He asks.

Chekov quickly answers, "Ve vere preparing docking protocols with Starbase 11 and ze signal crashed."

Spock engages the comm once more.

"Commander Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura, please report."

"Hey, Spock!" Kirk's voice erupts from the speakers. "Sorry we're not up there yet, just doing some debugging."

"I require all scheduled personnel on the bridge," Spock orders.

"Can't," Kirk replies, garbled, like he's speaking from far away at the same time Uhura says over him, "Kirk's got a recursive search algorithm running, sir."

"Another officer can perform the duties," Spock suggests.

"As department head, I have to supervise. Relax, Captain," Uhura replies. "You'll get him back in one piece."

"I see." Spock sits back in the captain's chair and resolutely ignores the looks tangling between the crew around him like a net. Darwin, in particular, has an alarmingly cheerful expression.

"Spock out."

Without provocation, Sulu's arm whips across the console to strike Ensign Chekov in the shoulder.

Spock blinks. "Lieutenant Sulu, please explain your actions."

The helmsman and navigator sit so rigidly, it is almost as if they have frozen.

Chekov lets out a small laugh. "Uh, Lieutenant Sulu has a twi—" his accent catches on the syllable in haste, "a twitch—"

Sulu's whaps Chekov with his arm in demonstration.

"An uncontrolled muscle spasm, sir."

Spock endeavours to sound concerned, much as a Vulcan can, at any rate. It would be what Kirk would do. "Does it hinder your duties at all?"

"No, sir," Sulu replies gravely, and this time his elbow goes straight into Chekov's side. The ensign winces. "Actually I think it's starting to enhance my experience at the console."

Chekov nods vigorously. "It gives him sweeter character. I am hoping it will fade in time."

Sulu smiles showing teeth.

The whole exchange seems wildly sentimental so Spock allows it to pass without further comment.

Starbase 11 is a Federation outpost located on the surface of a planetoid.

Commodor Mendez had assured Spock very soundly, using the words 'unlike those _orbital platforms_' in a distinctly proud voice. He had talked fondly of the base's hospitality during the briefing, a very thorough presentation complete with slide show and advertisements for popular restaurants.

Such embellishments are unnecessary. However it is likely, docked for more than one standard Earth day, many of the crew will take the time to admire the facility and make use of its amenities.

He takes this moment to temporarily entertain the idea of serving on a ship where efficiency is not broken by the need for frivolous social interaction.

"Permission to come aboard," Dr. McCoy announces as the turbolift doors connected to the bridge hiss open.

"Permission granted."

Spock observes the doctor's good spirits dissolve upon realizing Kirk's chair is empty.

Left without the distraction he so obviously intended, McCoy immediately swipes a cup of coffee off of a passing yeoman's tray and beelines towards Spock. The universe has the workings of a cruel plan, indeed.

"Best coffee on the ship," McCoy grumbles, and obstinately takes a sip of the still steaming liquid. He rocks back and forth on his heels. "So... we're picking up Starfleet's stragglers on some base in some unnecessarily faraway star system, huh?"

"6 and a half days away from Talos star system by maximum warp factor, Doctor." Chekov supplies happily.

"6.4 days, ensign, barring factors of error," Spock corrects, though is somewhat pleased by the specific nature of his contribution.

"Beautiful. Another week!" McCoy rolls his eyes as though seeking guidance from above despite there being no such thing as 'up' in space. "You know where that puts us, right? Well, maybe you don't, considering your history."

Spock raises an eyebrow but McCoy does not elaborate on the allusion.

"Another week and the honeymoon phase will be over. _I'll_ be dealing with a continuous stream of people who're suffering from insomnia, nausea— irritable bowel syndrome. Your standard symptoms of long term space travel for first time goers. Not to mention the madness!"

It appears McCoy has already succumbed to the aforementioned illness.

"You speak as though you are the sole medical officer on this ship," Spock says.

"Oh sure. Of course I am! Unless you mean the _cadets_ in Medbay who don't know Andorian shingles from _pox_."

"Indeed," Spock contemplates this. "As you are well aware, the Federation's official position is that every citizen and officer who enjoys the protection of Starfleet owes a personal service to the defence of it. In this event, I offer an apology you find your current personnel, lacking."

"That's great, isn't it!" McCoy complains under his breath.

"I recognize your abundant use of sarcasm—"

"And how!" McCoy gripes.

"...However, my response is unchanged."

McCoy has a barely disguised look of betrayal on his face. He has, in fact, not looked at Spock any other way since setting foot on the newly refit _Enterprise._ Most likely this flagrant emotionalism is on Commander Kirk's behalf.

Spock is very much interested in any insight McCoy can provide on the topic. However, to be forced to show his lack of knowledge is a prospect most dissatisfying.

"At least tell me we're picking up more medical! Base 11 has a prominent intensive care facility, if I remember correctly."

A most opportune segue.

"All administrative matters pertaining to crew is the First Officer's duty. You may, of course, direct this question to the proper avenue."

McCoy aborts a long sip of his caffeinated beverage to stare at Spock sourly.

"Yeah, well, it's a little convenient his _duties_ seem to avoid _my _general area."

So Kirk has been purposely removing himself from the doctor's presence. Curious.

Spock picks up his PADD, flicking through the network.

He would assume Kirk had, at the very least, shared his rather meagre reasoning on certain _significant_ topics with the doctor. The logical choice, considering their longer history of acquaintance and disturbingly strong emotional attachment.

However, Spock thinks, it is prudent to remind himself of Kirk's behaviour when faced with a fork in the road and near-irritating penchant for doubling back to go a completely different way.

McCoy frowns as Spock does not answer, merely takes the time to finish typing, fingers travelling rapidly over the PADD's thin screen.

"Doctor, I have observed the First Officer is in need of a physical."

Out the corner of his eye, Sulu's muscle spasm catches Chekov in the ear.

At McCoy's confused and— bizarrely— amused expression, Spock continues undeterred.

"Or perhaps a counselling evaluation? As all phases of orientation have been completed, I believe there is time in your schedule to see him."

Spock holds out the PADD.

McCoy steps back as he takes the PADD, his brows furrowed as he reads the short yet inclusive order Spock has composed. At the end of the note, flashing in red, is a line awaiting the CMO's authorization code. McCoy licks his bottom lip and the side of his mouth quirks up as he enters a series of taps and then scribbles a quick signature.

Despite the oxymoronic nature, McCoy seems pleased to regain his perpetual surly look.

"You know you're just warming that chair," He warns.

Spock offers no opinion on the subject.

Agreeing would be much too out of character.

* * *

Successful docking with Starbase 11 includes the security protocol of syncing into geosynchronous orbit. Spock stands as Mr. Scott contacts the bridge to confirm the _Enterprise's_ new personnel have arrived in one piece on the transporter pad.

"Attention all crew," Kirk addresses the ship at his station on the bridge. "The _Enterprise_ will remain at port for 26 hours. Please use this time to pick up any necessities you may have forgotten to pack on Earth! I repeat! This is the last time for weeks or _months_ you will see a Cardassian sunrise."

At this, Kirk makes an odd hand motion, gesturing from his eyes with two fingers then pointing towards Uhura, mouthing what clearly looks like 'I'm talking to you.' She grins and waves an abortive hand in his direction which makes Kirk throw his head back, a silent laugh stretching his mouth wide, before he gets this strange form of delight under control enough to conclude with:

"In short? Shoreleave until further notice. Kirk out."

Spock raises an eyebrow but says nothing except, "Commander?"

Kirk jumps up and together they enter the turbolift.

Several Operations officers are carrying luggage out of the transporter room when they arrive and immediately join Mr. Scott in the customary formation.

Four engineers, three medical, and one science. Eight new officers in total. Spock observes them individually, matching specifics and impressive curriculum vitae to the simple names he already knows.

"I am Spock." He says formally, "As Captain of this ship, I officially welcome you aboard and thank you for joining our most auspicious mission on behalf of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets."

"Thank you, sir," Dr. M'Benga replies, and immediately offers the Vulcan salute.

"Welcome to the _Enterprise_, everyone. James T. Kirk, First Officer." Kirk clears his throat and turns a PADD around in his hands. "Schedules and orientation information has been transferred to the personal computers and comm devices in each of your quarters."

"Montgomery Scott! Chief Engineer," Scott informs.

After introductions, the new officers file off the platform and Spock experiences an odd hooking sensation in his abdomen when Dr. Carol Marcus walks straight towards Kirk with a smile.

However, Kirk does not appear to share the doctor's pleasure because he is staring at the tall woman standing to her right. Spock tilts his head, studying the medical officer named Chapel.

"You know Christine, don't you?" Marcus asks Kirk, smile sweet and eyes wide.

Spock believes he has missed a piece of information regardless of careful observation. It is obvious Marcus has communicated something without words to Kirk, who barely contains a nervous laugh and says:

"How could I forget?"

Chapel is noticeably annoyed but when she speaks her voice is impersonal, stoic, calm. A fascinating dichotomy Spock has witnessed before.

"Coming, Carol?"

She walks past without another word, Marcus following close behind.

Scotty lets out a long whistle and looks at Kirk.

"Dish best served cold, eh?"

Kirk shakes his head and groans, pointing, "Don't even start."

* * *

As the old saying goes, there's always a calm before the storm.

But in Kirk's experience, calms on a starship don't last very long. He gets as far as finishing a simple dinner and is in the middle of putting away the tray when the thunder rolls back in.

"Jim!"

McCoy appears personally vindicated when he rounds on Kirk, sleeves pushed up to his elbows and chin covered in shadows.

A lukewarm 'hey' is all Kirk gets out before McCoy lands a hand on his arm and he's being dragged out of the empty mess and down the hall.

"Start walkin'."

"Where are we going?" Kirk nearly yells as McCoy's claws pinch.

"Medbay."

"What?! But why? I passed all your tests— with, I might add, flying colours!"

"Privacy," McCoy dispenses with any pleasantries, marching Kirk faster and faster past the streams of crew heading towards the transporter rooms. Officers have been beaming down every hour to catch whatever moments of reprieve they can.

"We're having the conversation you've avoided 'til now, and I promise it's going to hurt, but you _need_ to talk about it." The stiffness is McCoy's upper lip wavers enough to cause Kirk alarm.

Kirk gulps, blinking rapidly. "Not necessary—"

"Captain's orders." McCoy's voice cracks and this is the most ill-tempered Kirk has ever seen him. "And fair warning. If it turns out _you're_ not fine then _I'm_ not fine, okay?"

"I'm fine." Kirk breathes out, heart speeding up with dread pushing him on. "There's nothing to—"

"Dammit, Jim!"

Kirk digs his feet in so McCoy's forced to stop.

"Fine," Kirk exhales roughly around the word. "But not like this."

"Fine," McCoy grunts. "Come on."

"And get that thing off my face—_erkkgh!_"

Kirk's unceremoniously yanked the opposite away.

* * *

The only constant observed by the known universe is that bars are the same no matter where you go.

And the good thing about _Starbases_ is there's no such thing as last call.

Open ports tend to reel in people from many walks of life, all moving to their own rhythm. Tonight's the kind of night where Kirk and McCoy are going to do their best to slow down time.

Starbase 11's bar is all sleek lines and purple hues which mirror the planetoid's nightfall. It's not crowded. Many patrons are actually stragglers from the_ Enterprise_, but the tables are scattered with other Starfleet personnel stuck in that strange kind of limbo between assignments. The rest, Kirk can't place, but they're all human. A distinct lack of the multispecies crowd he's used to on Earth.

Sometimes while dirt-side it's easy to forget that despite Earth being the capital of the Federation, Starfleet chooses humans as its representative explorers almost exclusively. It's why most Federation outposts and colonized planets house humans more than any other species. It's wildly uneven since Kirk is pretty sure he knows _way_ more San Fran-natives who happen to be Andorian compared to the humans he can count on one hand. Sulu's one.

Out here though, the prejudice is so obvious it's like being in a chokehold, forced to observe Earth culture in this condensed pinprick demographic. It's boring. Not to mention, _infuriatingly parochial,_ when Kirk knows humanity is so much more.

And okay, yeah, Spock _had_ been right. Just a little, when he'd suggested Kirk used the reactivation clause to a personal advantage. The thing about a draft is that it has the nasty consequence of showing one's hand, and hey, who was he to pass up the chance to gamble?

It's almost sobering to note that's pretty much the reason why he and McCoy are here.

Kirk hadn't been thinking of himself personally, when he'd told the crew to catch their last Cardassian sunrise, but he figures if he has to have this talk then it might as well begin the same way his talks with McCoy usually do.

Why break with tradition?

Kirk holds his glass aloft for a second in a toast that he's sure McCoy will understand before slinging back a gulp of something blue and frothy.

It's when his throat is tickling as the suds go down McCoy turns to look at him. Kirk's heart stops dead in his chest. Anxiety floods in as McCoy's lips part and the initial panicky thought of _I'm not ready _screams through his brain like a runaway car without brakes going over the edge.

But on the next beat nothing is said, McCoy's voice suddenly whispering off to somewhere else, making room in his mouth for something that looks suspiciously like Romulan ale.

There's an awkwardness between the two of them, eked into existence ever since Kirk woke up that day in that hospital ward. Not the first day, when he'd swam through the darkness and woke to McCoy's ridiculously high iron-creased pants, an almost comedic explanation, and Spock's gentle voice saying '_Jim._'

He craves the melodrama too much to let that faze him.

No, this came after.

His pulse had been a slow blip, like a signal from the deep space of his consciousness, announcing a simple existence and nothing more. It was on the steady metronome throb he'd breathed in the conditioned air and breathed out sharply. He'd blinked himself awake, the too-bright fluorescents racing into his eyes and contracting the pupils so fast he could feel the sharp pain of it, the urgency, as if the darkness of sleep was less benevolent than it let on.

It was in that quiet moment when he'd heard it.

Crying.

Kirk runs a hand through his thick hair, fingernails catching on the persistent itch he gets whenever the lines drawn around him start closing in and he's desperate to make a break. He wants to push the memory away, wants to forget it. He thinks McCoy wants to forget too, but there are so few moments between them _not_ wrapped up in playful mockery that whatever's left stands raw, untouchable.

Because how can they ever joke about _that?_

They can't.

So it's not unexpected, when McCoy begins with gravel in his voice which speaks volumes of the weight his thoughts have carried the past few months. But Kirk's found it's the things one expects which incite the most dread.

"This just ain't you, Jim."

"I know."

Kirk exhales, the rush of air burning away the last tingling traces of the drink on his tongue. He's more than happy to talk about someone else.

"Doesn't matter," He says, ignoring the pursed look on McCoy's face. "It's not _about_ me, not anymore. See, I'm trying this new thing where I'm not so egocentric. Spock's the best person for the job. He knows exactly what to do—"

"_Spock?_" The heavy glass in McCoy's hand lands loudly against the bar. "You think he knows what to do? Where do you think he learnt it?"

"Maybe he's born with it," Kirk laughs only to receive a glare. "He's Vulcan. Can shut things off, function better."

"Oh, that's nice. So, he's a machine, huh?" They both know that's not true but it's one of those things that's so much easier to keep believing. "Start flicking switches next time on the bridge and see how far that gets you. _Everything_ works better with some screws loose!"

Hypos notwithstanding, McCoy's deadliest aim has always been in the form of sarcasm. Kirk can tell from the tone that McCoy expects the worst, as he usually does.

But this time it's different.

Kirk idly watches the remnants of his drink disintegrate in soft pops. He signals for another round to the bartender, a pretty woman with dark hair done up in knots.

Over the past five years, McCoy has started equating Kirk's questionable life choices with the number of gray hairs on his head. Normally, Kirk'd just laugh it off, maybe slap McCoy on the shoulder and grin out an apology phrased carefully to exclude the word 'sorry' since that would seem too much like taking responsibility. But what they're skirting around now has nothing to do with his supposed overzealous xenophilia, penchant for challenges, and reckless disregard for rules in the face of danger.

And he can see why McCoy thinks it's unfair, this charade Kirk plays. Because, really, _he's_ the one with the problem here: the collapsing identity, the messed up career. A tight, painful twisting of fear when the sick swerve of his mind feels like destiny edging too close.

The issue is it's so much simpler to be the one who's happy. Even pretending is better, because it's the people who are happy who don't have to consider there might be someone who's not.

But he can't do that now.

The truth is there's a part of him _fighting_ to detach from the sound, of the sight of McCoy's face crumpled into his hands as he cried openly, thinking Kirk was still asleep. And there's an even bigger part of him that's _clawing_ against the glass, where Spock's carefully placed hand left a print.

It's gotten to the point where he's removed just enough of himself, like throwing cargo off a sinking life raft to lighten the load. The real Jim Kirk is out there, somewhere still on Earth chasing something amongst the wreckage floating in the sea— A captain and his ship.

"Bones..." Kirk begins stoically, pushing through the cold panic, "I stand by my decision. Spock will do great. He's already _done _great. Captaining a crashing ship, singlehandedly bringing down a superhuman? That's the kind of guy everyone loves, who deserves respect."

"But _you_ saved us."

"I've only done anything worth mentioning because there was no one else for the job." Kirk sniffs his refreshed drink, the alcohol burning his nostrils and eyes. "I believed I was special, patted myself on the back for it. Never once thought about how expendable I was until I was... expended."

"An unfortunate side-effect." McCoy jokes terribly.

"Pike made me First Officer." Kirk looks away, because here's where he can't help the hoarseness of his voice. Just saying the name is like pushing words past a shredder. Everything's getting cut up. "He was going to teach me, make me into something real."

"_Real?_" McCoy repeats the word in a sort of helpless whisper, like he's just come across one of those raw, untouchable moments and can do little else but watch. "God dammit, don't tell me you believe the mudslinging from Command. You're not a fake."

Kirk swallows against the odd mix of emotions welling up, "What did I do, Bones, first thing after he died? Go to Admiral Marcus. Go and ask him for _exactly_ what Pike told me I wasn't ready for. How much stupider could I have been? He _used_ me, and look what happened. "

"Why do you believe everything's your fault?" McCoy asks, sounding so uncertain it tears at Kirk's heart, "In my professional opinion, that still classifies as egocentric."

Kirk laughs and the sound bounces back and forth in the space between them. "I demoted myself, Bones, I think that counts as a damn good start."

"Jim," McCoy leans closer, imploring as he lays a careful hand on Kirk's arm, "I know you've got ghosts, but what's done is done. We can shine you up, get you back in the Captain's chair."

"No." Kirk answers simply, pausing to keep his next words from running into each other in their urgency, "I want to do it Pike's way— even if he's not here. He expected me to be better, and I'm... I... I want to try."

McCoy breathes out slow and when he smiles encouragingly, forehead wrinkling up and the corners of his eyes folding in, Kirk tastes a relief so startling he's momentarily dizzy. It feels good— terrifyingly good— to finally say out loud.

"'Suppose I can agree with that."

See, the thing about destiny, the thing no one tells you is: it's a lie.

The idea of destiny makes everything sound so _final_ and nothing could ever be farther from the truth.

Things don't happen like that. You shut a book and the ideas don't disappear. Endings don't exist, because that would mean stories have beginnings and, really, that's just a little _too_ _exact_ considering it's been billions and billions of years and they _still_ don't know how the whole universe started or how it's gonna stop.

Life's more like a scattering of moments; a pattern of chess pieces, lined up against some unknown opponent, layered across many dimensions. It's up to him to choose what to move and he can either look back or look ahead and that's how the game gets played.

Right now it feels like he's playing that other self, the Captain Kirk he isn't. His queen's already sacrificed but there's gotta be some way out of this, some way not to lose.

"Jim, if it's what you really want, well, I'll help in any way I can. You've got me, okay? You know that." McCoy starts, and then stops pensively, "But what if somewhere down the road you find out you still want it? Which, by the way, is a _given._ What if you turn around and realize Spock's there permanently?"

McCoy is trying so hard to get him back on track, back on that path he's avoiding on purpose, it almost hurts to deny.

"You'll end up regretting it."

_I already do,_ Kirk thinks, but can't bear to disappoint McCoy again by being anything other than fine.

After all, these are questions he's already asked himself, said 'no' to a thousand times in a thousand little different ways. But he can't back down despite the fear that's floating just deep enough it's become like a distant unfocussed tightness, tying him to the spot.

He's already decided.

"I won't," He says instead.

McCoy sits back, a long sigh escaping his lungs like a weight has been eased down on him and he's bearing it with all the strength he's got. Maybe it's too accurate and assessment. Kirk knows he's gotten pretty heavy.

McCoy looks at his drink, swirls it slowly in its glass as if there's something in the bottom of that miniature cyclone he's looking for.

"I understand." McCoy finally says, though his voice lacks conviction. Suddenly, he snorts. "Can't tell who I want to smack some sense into more; you, for punishing yourself. Or Spock, for being so loyal."

"Me," Kirk votes matter-of-factly.

"See, I'm not so sure about that," McCoy says, the side of his mouth slanting up, "Seems to me you're _always_ punishing yourself. Just figured by now you'd've realized learning and punishment don't have to coincide."

"There's only one type of person, Bones." Kirk tells him, stomach clenching in resolve against the impending panic. He's had too much to drink. "You either believe in yourself or don't."

"Maybe, maybe not." McCoy replies. "In this galaxy, there's some astronomical mathematical probability of uniqueness that's supposed to apply— proof there's only one of each of us. Considering what we've been through, you know it's not true."

After one last thick swallow of ale the hand on his glass goes slack and there's a hooded look to his face Kirk hasn't seen since they first met. It makes Kirk want to believe him, because he can't believe in himself, not yet. Not when his eyes feel wet and McCoy's voice becomes soft and low.

"But don't destroy the one named Captain. Least of all for _him._"


	4. Chapter 4

With all crew accounted for the starship _Enterprise_ sets off into deep space.

Now, the thing about the United Federation of Planets is that it's _big._

So big, in fact, that sometimes it's easy to forget just shy of three hundred years ago humans were puttering around in a tiny space station, taking nearly two years to do a round trip to Mars, and sending out probes which couldn't even breach the beta quadrant. Well, that was before everything changed with warp drive.

As Admiral Komack had so eloquently announced first thing on the_ Enterprise's_ departure of Starbase 11, the problem with the Federation is that it's not big _enough. _

That's counting 8000 light years of space, almost 1000 planets, and it seems Starfleet Command thinks it might as well be empty.

Everything about Starfleet's agenda boils down to the fact out of all that territory there are barely 120 official members of distinctly different species who make up the functioning cogs of the machine. The rest of the UFP is made up of colonies which, by Starfleet's standards, are mostly useless because they're _unarmed._

_ "We're building our resources." _Komack had said after ordering them towards the edge of Federation space, "_We need valuable, powerful members more than ever."_

While the primary goal of the 5-year mission is to explore, it's not exactly coupled with the same optimistic intent. Anyone who steps foot onto a ship heading into deep space learns this pretty quick.

Your everyday citizen of any core united planet will tell you they live in a paradise. A place where society is built on the ideals of universal liberty—equality and rights for all!— cemented with trade and education agreements for shared resources and knowledge.

The average person will tell you the Federation means peace.

All this is true, on a certain level. Apparently, no one's supposed to mention the discord in governments, the prejudice, the complete implosion of entire planets due to personal vendettas and the secret warmongering side of Starfleet that's rapidly eating them alive.

Kirk keeps from scowling as he remembers the way Komack's thick head had taken up most of the main screen.

In reality, while the crew is prepared to spread the message and secure favour on new worlds – they're ironically securing more cannon fodder in a race against inevitable conflict with whoever decides they want to pick on the weak. It's only a matter of time before Federation borders are tested and now the _Enterprise_ crew is on the front line.

Hence, his decision to recruit Dr. Carol Marcus. Not that it was _easy_, but Kirk still liked a challenge best of all.

A soft beep and flashing red message from his console shakes Kirk from his bleary, early shift musing. It's a file forwarded from Spock.

To Kirk's right, Dr. Marcus lets out a long whistle, obviously already scrolling through whatever it is. Kirk quickly confirms senior officer clearance. Then he promptly groans as 200 pages worth of jingoistic documentation on mission details straight from Starfleet Command come through.

The bridge is mostly quiet, punctuated only with the soft telltale sounds of the computer system as officers read through their briefings. Out the corner of Kirk's eye, Spock rises from his chair, tugs his blue shirt down to free any wrinkles and then sets upon a path around the railing through the different stations. His hands are folded behind his back and expression serene. Kirk watches as Spock bends, just enough to indicate his question is directed to Lieutenant Darwin, and her hands move swiftly on the console to bring up the correlated data. He looks almost like a professor proctoring an exam.

It's just so patently _Spock _that Kirk can't help but smile to himself while toggling through view features to read another tedious paragraph.

Without highly dangerous extenuating circumstances to impede ship functions the crew has learned Spock prefers to supply thorough mission details. _Very _thorough.

At first, Spock had begun by dispensing orders prior to shifts, but Kirk figures that fizzled out once he'd realized he was dealing with humans; meaning no one reads _anything_ until seated at their station and two coffees in.

The turbolift doors hiss open.

"Permission to come aboard!" Scott all but barks before striding onto the bridge.

"Granted," Spock greets, turning smoothly on his heel. Everyone knows what to expect when the Chief Engineer actually tears himself away from the engineering decks. "Commander Kirk?"

Kirk jumps up and crosses the bridge quickly, ecstatic to have a reason to break from reading.

"I assume your presence indicates you have received the most recently transmitted message." Spock continues addressing Scott once Kirk steps beside him.

"Aye, sirs! N'with all due respect, swinging around that sector of space will extend travel time enough to affect optimal performance. I cannae push my poor bairns for that long!"

Spock's head tilts curiously at Scott's colourful expression.

"Noted, Mr. Scott. However, the order is non-negotiable. Also, your continuing penchant for designating ship components as your offspring is, in a word, concerning."

"That's the beauty of humans, Spock," Kirk says and slaps him on the shoulder. "We can assign attachment to anything, _especially_ inanimate objects."

"Illogical."

"Maybe," Kirk grins and elbows Scott in the side, "But it'd explain why I like _you_ so much."

Spock raises one eyebrow as if innocent and defiant all at once. Kirk's ready for the impending cheeky comment except what Spock says next is frosty enough to strip the humour out of Kirk's warm joke.

"Commander, it is clear I do not possess sufficient emotional understanding. I leave our Chief Engineer's concerns to you."

Kirk can feel the moment his mouth drops open. This seems to offend Spock further because he visibly tenses, drawing up that extra inch in height before he turns on his heel and most of the crew's heads whip back down to look at their screens.

"Laddie," Scott hedges underneath his breath and Kirk becomes uncomfortably aware he's been staring after Spock for a bit too long. He blinks then grabs Scott by the elbow yanking him towards the Defense console.

"You know I don't like this situation with Command as much as you do, Scotty. If it were me I'd—" And he_ really_ needs to stop thinking like that. Immediately. He frowns and swallows back the loudness in his voice, "We're just gonna have to try. Besides, Spock says it's either that or potential crosshairs."

"Lot good that would do," Scott nods gravely though he doesn't look happy to agree. "Admiral Marcus cut our legs out from under us to get what he wanted and militarization's the only thing we've got left to stand on!" He catches himself and then gulps, returning to their hushed tones to add, "Ah, sorry, doctor. I meant nothin' personal."

"No offense taken. It's true." Marcus replies quietly from the next console over, though she stands abruptly to better scrutinize something in her scanner. "But I do object to your _shameless_ ogling of Officer 0718. Has Mr. Kirk been rubbing off on you?"

"Right, I'm sorry!" Scott gestures largely as if to make up for the fact he can't shout. His adoring gaze isn't curbed so easily. The android in question does not pay them any mind, staring blankly ahead, hands racing across his console.

Kirk cringes. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"After careful consideration, I've decided I like to watch you keep trying." Marcus doesn't even bother to look away from her scanner's viewfinder as she says this, but a smile blossoms along her lips anyway. Obviously there's some riveting information about empty space in there.

Marcus tilts her head and fine silky hairs skim her chin, "When 0718 plugs into the bridge network via his cerebral processor he's got direct computer access to every program on the ship— right down to those pesky little bots you've got on your personal consoles. He's a major resource and put to better use up here where you can't turn him into a paperweight."

"I resent that remark. A heavyweight, more like." Scott replies blithely. "It'd save my skin when it comes to running sims. I'll trade you back Riley."

"Riley is a _gift_, Scotty. No returns! And wait a minute," Kirk grins and waves a hand in the air, "What _would_ happen if we took 0718's brain out?"

"Maybe he'd act a bit like you," Marcus finally looks up from the scanner to smirk at him.

"Ouch," Kirk smiles back. "Score another one for the blue shirts. Looks like I'm getting in the way of science today."

Farther down the conduit Uhura snorts to cover up a laugh.

The camaraderie comes to a halt as they realize Spock's standing right behind her chair. Spock calmly walks around Uhura's chair and then stops by the Science console to survey Marcus's setup with a critical eye.

"Doctor," Spock prompts blandly, "The array?"

"Ah, yes, sir." Marcus steps away from the scanner and makes an abortive face at Kirk when Spock's eyes are firmly planted in the viewfinder.

Scott's gaze ping pongs between Kirk, Marcus, and Spock before he whispers, "So... is that a yes on the android then?"

All three of them answer as one:

"No."

* * *

"Is it just me or is Spock... how do I put this without sounding horribly _specist_..."

"Acting more Vulcan than usual?" Uhura suggests under her breath.

Sulu snaps his fingers. "Yeah, that."

"It's not just you," Uhura replies with an air which suggests long-term familiarity on the subject matter. "But don't let him hear you say that."

It is regrettable Spock hears this all the same.

The mess hall is buzzing with activity, has been, ever since a vigilante had used alpha shift to reprogram the replicators to include an array of most certainly non-regulation dishes. Several Science officers had volunteered to document and test the foreign supplements during beta shift. Spock reflects that this should have been a clue.

Those altruistic few had ended up posting photos of the foods on various department message boards, destroying the precision tagging system with ridiculous grammatically incorrect vernacular. Evidently, sugar inspired like-mindedness and now all of Operations had taken over the mess, conducting reports over chocolate cake.

Spock blankly observes as Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov take seats next to Lieutenant Uhura, breaking up the red monochrome of a long table with their off-duty clothing. Uhura adjusts a thin tanktop strap on her shoulder and, accommodating as always, slides a dessert plate between herself and Sulu.

Chekov makes a small sound of impatience. He's holding a personal PADD, arm outstretched above the three of them, squishing his face against Sulu, who in turn falls into Uhura, who makes a face and brandishes a threatening fork. There's the telltale _'shcchkk'_ as the PADD snaps a photo, capturing the momentous occasion of blueberry pie.

Illogical.

Spock takes a seat as far away from the absurd festivities as the facilities allow.

He wishes to eat efficiently and undisturbed. There is still much work to complete regarding the latest communications with Command. Getting involved with his cohorts would only delay him, and possible spoil their fun.

It is of simple coincidence, that his seat should provide a direct view of Jim Kirk.

And Dr. Carol Marcus. Or, rather, her back.

Spock neatly folds up the hems of his sleeves, pausing to examine the stripes on the cuffs. He pushes them up all the way and then stirs the broth in his bowl once, twice, thrice before taking a spoonful and blowing perfunctorily.

Kirk and Marcus are conversing in sotto tones.

"Okay, look, I didn't mean to be rude. It's just... I _want_ to thank you, I do. Being grounded because of— it's not what I wanted." Marcus's voice goes soft, imploring for understanding as Kirk scratches at the low v neckline of his shirt. "You did me a favour, Kirk, but I don't want to _owe_ you anything."

"We're getting off on the wrong foot again."

Marcus snorts at that.

"_Don't_ thank me. Don't do anything." Kirk continues, a sheepish smile spreading across his lips. The effect is ruined when he sticks a spoon laden with something looking terribly like chocolate into his mouth. "No obligations—_slurp_— except where the ship's concerned. Deal?"

"Deal," Marcus replies, and Spock watches as she nudges Kirk in the shin with her toes. Sandals are highly impractical.

"Ow, hey!"

Marcus slumps in her chair and takes a large bite of her own dessert, heaving a sigh.

"It's not my fault Medical's against approving thetest results— which were _conclusive_, might I add. Nogura was all for it! Bloody mandates. Everyone knows they don't give starship positions to officers more suited to _sitting_."

What she says makes little sense to Spock and he cannot help but frown in curiosity. Carol Marcus appears in perfect health.

This is made inescapably evident as Kirk's index and middle fingers reach out to graze her knee.

"We're far off base now, your numbers are in. No one cares." Kirk leans in, voice going low, "It's unlikely Command's gonna go poking around where you don't want them."

The doctor's hair swishes from side to side as if she's looking for threats. Spock cannot accurately ascertain her suspects, however when she replies her voice sounds less defensive, more teasing. "Other than you, you mean."

Kirk laughs at that, eyes crinkling at the corners until he's squinting. His head cants to the side and just when it seems like he's about to fall over, he catches his chin with his palm, elbow planted dangerously close to the half-eaten bowl of chocolate ice cream.

"I won't tell if you don't." Kirk's voice is pitched low, inviting. Head tilted forward, blue eyes wide.

It is an unnatural sensation, as if every molecule in Spock's body has quite suddenly developed an urgent desire to be elsewhere.

Protectiveness is not the right word for what Spock reminds himself he does not feel, but it is the first word that comes to mind.

He is overcome with an unexpected... frustration with his solitude.

And yet, it is not self-imposed, not initially at any rate. Captaincy is a double-edged sword.

The farther out they fly the more his social circle shrinks, bubble of personal space beginning to expand. The Captain's universe, moving at an exponential rate.

The problem is this feeling is not fleeting. It is a growing, unsettling sensation of static along his senses, prickling until he faintly remembers the feeling of another person's skin. No, the feeling is at saturation point, coating him from head to toe and even farther outwards so that those who would encounter his orbit give him space.

So much space he is at a loss on what to do with it all.

Spock breathes deeply, staving off the sharp prickle in his throat. He stares down at the soup on his tray. How irrational it is, to realize he has come to depend on human companionship.

Isolation has, in a too-brief span of time, become slightly maddening. If only he were so foolish to believe this to be space madness. That would be a respectable excuse, at least.

It is a common occurrence to those who travel on ships. Stars, everywhere, so many stars that sometimes it becomes difficult to believe they are constantly living in the black.

It truly feels like it. Feels as though conversations cut off short as he arrives on the scene. His very presence demands a myriad of behaviours from subordinates. So much so that Spock cannot help but acknowledge it cancels out smiles and laughter, lost bits of fun being forced to hang in mid-air. He wishes he could pluck them off their dangling stems, but the connections to his crewmates are far, far away. He would not know where to begin, at any rate. Forbidden fruit he can never reach.

And he is so _hungry._

Across the tables, Kirk licks at another clump of ice cream, the spoon lying flat atop the broad side of his tongue comes away shining and clean. The skin around his mouth is chocolate-smeared. He looks young.

Perhaps this is the true basis for why Kirk gave up captaincy. Within its confines, he could not pursue a relationship with Dr. Marcus.

These are circumstances he cannot begrudge Kirk, despite the position Spock now finds himself in. He sees the necessity of forging close bonds. More than ever he understands. As Vulcan, he will prosper. He will persevere and carry on as captain to the best of his abilities. Happiness is what Kirk deserves.

Death, he supposes, can put the finer things of life into perspective. The situation is obvious now, Spock concedes, slowly stirring his soup. Jim Kirk has simply changed.

It is just... inconvenient, that Spock has changed as well.

* * *

"I've been pretty good about not mentioning it, I think, very patient." Uhura tells him several days later, when the echoes of his thoughts regarding the crew have long since dissipated. "But you're shutting down, Spock."

"I am not a robot," Spock deflects.

Uhura gives him a strange look. Her hands still along the piano keys, at rest. "I know that."

Of the many recreational facilities comprising the _Enterprise_, Spock and Uhura have always enjoyed the music room best. Spock continues playing the duet, perhaps expecting her to retreat from conversation and help complete the piece. There is a certain irony in the action he does not necessarily wish to consider. After all, he requested Uhura's company because there is something they need to discuss.

Uhura reaches out and presses a hand atop his own. He produces a sour note.

Unfortunately, a melody changes drastically when simple positions are switched.

There is something akin to shame in Spock's thoughts even as he tries to speak around the strange lump which has formed in his throat. It pushes down on all the words trying to surface.

"After much consideration, I have found I cannot continue performing as your significant other while holding captaincy of this vessel and remain responsible for upholding the ideals of the Federation and Starfleet."

He receives a flat stare in reply.

"Huh," Uhura rarely stutters without cause for effect. "I'm sorry. I must have heard wrong. Care to repeat that?"

Spock blinks then frowns. "Our ranks have put us in a delicate arrangement, one where my position of power ultimately allows a type of exploitation—"

"Nuh uh. No." Uhura cuts in. "Try again."

Spock's frown deepens, "I do not wish to abuse you. Also, while regulations do not precisely dictate—"

"I knew it." Uhura smacks the keys and there's a clatter of notes like an exclamation point, punctuating her shout. She swivels on the piano bench they share, long hair whipping behind her shoulder in one straight wave. _"Finally!_"

Spock is not so much startled as he is expectant. Uhura is... a fiercely proud individual and the widened gap between their ranks can only magnify the issues which come with having a private relationship with one's superior officer. She will protest.

"Stop thinking what I know you're thinking." Uhura says crisply. "If you're going to terminate our relationship, which is what I'm getting from all that..." Here she cocks her head, raising an eyebrow to make it is clear she chooses her next word carefully: "_Nonsense_. Do me the favour of _terminating our relationship_ instead of pretending it's because you're the _Captain_."

Spock allows the request to sink in.

"Noted," He answers and folds his hands in his lap. Uhura takes over his half of the keys, playing the strong beginning chords of a song he does not know.

"Believe it or not, I've been expecting this." Uhura continues, "Even tried to bring it up a couple times. But for future reference, _please_ don't try to sugarcoat things. It's not your forte."

Spock's lips press together, once again pondering on Uhura's esper ratings considering her uncanny talent at reading minds. Then again, it has been in his experience humans quite enjoy being contrary.

"I understand."

Uhura shakes her head but does not stop playing. "Good."

Spock stays silent.

"The thing is, I agree with you." Uhura adds after a pause just long enough for Spock to form doubts. "Not the part where you try to justify decisions by saying it's for _my own good_—since that's really shitty— But the termination itself. I know you, Spock." Her voice goes soft, "You've changed. So have I, if you hadn't noticed. If anything, I want you to know you don't have to hide the real reason behind some misplaced sense of duty."

"To what are you referring?"

Uhura frowns incredulously, skipping a beat to examine him from the corner of her eye before her fingers drop back down onto the keys.

"Don't tell me you won't even..." Uhura groans suddenly, and then blows out a breath that transforms into a laugh, like a bird falling just before taking off into flight. "Seriously? Okay. FYI, I'm going to say something very human right now."

The statement reminds Spock strongly of Kirk. He is quietly alarmed.

"You are wholly human and therefore expecting you to speak differently would be careless on my part."

"Uh huh." Uhura dismisses this response, obviously finding it lacking. "And you don't happen to think anything remotely human, right?"

Spock suspects this is a rhetorical question but feels compelled to deny the matter all the same. In truth, he does not know what he thinks, because some thoughts... some thoughts he has been finding in his mind, must surely not be his own.

He keeps his mouth closed.

"Just because you don't know what you feel doesn't mean you don't. Feelings aren't ideas. You don't have to speak about them for others to know they exist. Spock, I _know_ what you haven't said. I've known for a year."

A fine line appears between Uhura's brows and the cords of her throat get tight, the way they usually do when she is feeling increased concern. She has been thinking about this for a long time. Spock's stomach rolls in guilt. He should have spoken with her sooner.

"Ever since Pike died and then..." Uhura visible reigns in her emotion, "I get it, I really do. You're not the only one who has re-evaluated things." The side of her mouth hooks up. "We're responsible adults now, right?"

"Indeed," Spock replies rigidly.

"But we haven't been responsible for each other in a very long time."

"Nyota— I am sorry," Spock's chin drops. He cannot say more. Does not know how.

"Don't." Uhura says easily, determinedly, "I'm not— this isn't supposed to be a lecture. What I'm trying to say is, I'm relieved. We're... friends again. That means we can skip the whole fighting part. Deal?"

Uhura finishes up the music with deft fingers, nodding to herself with that certain personal confidence Spock has always admired. The sharp smile and self-satisfied air she has as the final note lingers between them.

He swallows and notes, with some surprise, the lump is gone. For him, it is always as if small endeavours are never quite enough. How extraordinary, that the sum parts of his human cohorts' kindness always leave him grateful beyond measure.

"Affirmative."

* * *

Kirk whistles, observing the landscape through squinty eyes once he re-materializes. The glare of this planet's sun is positively cutting on his pale eyes, even with the extra shade from a visor. He squints some more and the walled off entrance to the Tellarite mining town ghosts into existence across the horizon.

He's still pissed their first string of missions have been glorified milk runs. Command's effectively sent them all the way out to the corner of Federation space just to pick up a few extra things from the store. In this case, a renewed trade agreement.

Still, business aside, the purple hills of the quarry glitter in the distance and he doesn't bother to quell a growing sense of excitement he gets as Lieutenant Darwin pulls readings from every pebble within reach. Enthusiasm is catching.

Kirk grins, "You guys've been down here for nearly an entire shift!— Is that Ensign Azad shouting? Who put him in that hole?"

Spock had made judicial use of each planetary excursion, deploying highly skilled teams to take samplings with a level of detail Kirk hadn't seen since Starfleet Acadamy's first year practical. With the amount of 'sensitive material' the teams brought back on board Kirk figures the science department must be finding some amazing things.

He uses a hand to shield his eyes further, scanning the impressive team spread across the site. Darwin doesn't answer.

Kirk kneels to examine the patch of shiny gravel she's already got sectioned off between two glistening mineral pillars, dark indigo swirling up through the formations like painted designs.

"So, er, you like rocks then, huh?"

Darwin pauses in her passionate looking analysis and flips her visor up to sit on her forehead. There's a bit of colour coming into her cheeks as she examines his knee in the dirt and then looks up at Kirk with an expression that suggests he's trespassing.

"_Minerals_, sir. Mind your pressure."

Kirk wisely leaves her to it.

He jogs across the site, dirt crunching underfoot. A gust of wind sweeps through the valley clearing. The stream of air isn't smooth like how he's used to – it's almost bubbly, but hot, like a rush of air through water on a particularly deep dive. He shivers.

Uhura appears beside him, balances a PADD in one hand before reaching out and plucking at a valve on his hip. "Turn up your pressure levels."

"Right, right," Kirk replies, batting at her hand. She sighs loudly. "Where's Spock? Meeting time's coming up."

Command's orders were to meet with the mining's project head, a particularly argumentative Tellarite (though weren't they all?) in the rickety windblown office on stilts that was apparently wedged somewhere in the hills.

Uhura ignores the question. "You're gonna look Andorian in a couple minutes if you don't fix this."

"Something's different," Kirk tells Uhura as he lifts an arm to let her fiddle with the suit dials. They're not clunky at least, a little tight though. The human miners who work here amongst the Tellarites don't need to wear them but Spock had enforced the extra protection gear into away team protocols anyway.

Kirk and Uhura head for the perimeter where he spots Spock standing at the head of the clearing. He's a tall figure in blue with a pair of security officers who look particularly unhappy about the dullness of the mission. That, or being shrink-wrapped into their red suits. Kirk scratches at his stomach.

"You guys fighting again?" He asks under his breath, side-eyeing Uhura.

"There's actually nothing to fight about." Uhura replies deftly, voice loud and clear as her long hair swings underneath the visor strap with every purposeful step. "Our bright yet stubborn Captain is _an_ **_ex_**asperated individual, you see. He thinks we're not **_ex_**perienced enough with regulations."

"Lieutenant Uhura, epithets are very unbecoming." Spock interjects without inflection. He nods at Kirk.

"And yet **_ex_**citingly descriptive!" Uhura all but sings.

"Indeed. **_Ex_**cuse me," Spock plays along shockingly, then walks past, most likely to collect the overzealous geological survey team. At this point Darwin may or may not have chained herself to a particularly sparkly deposit.

"He's going to be annoyed about that," Uhura bites back a chuckle as they file behind the security contingent and head up the incline, "I might have exaggerated my point."

Kirk can't help but snort, "Better not exacerbate it."

She grins and looks anything but contrite though softens when Kirk puts a hand on her elbow. They slow pace leaving the two red-clad officers to continue trudging up the brittle ground.

Kirk shifts his weight. "Okay, I'm not sure if this is one of those moments where I'm authorized to laugh with you or not, so I'm just gonna skip ahead. You okay?"

"Yeah," Uhura bumps into him and sticks that boney elbow into his ribs. She looks up and squints against the sun, her eyes turning golden in its light, "Permission to laugh granted. Thanks."

A burst of something that feels dangerously like pride puffs up his chest. He hopes it's the suit pressure kicking in.

There was a time when Uhura had despised him at worst, tolerated him at best.

At the academy, they'd shared most core classes, tested through the same simulations, headed up the Xenolinguistics club. They practically Starfleet-grew up together. They might as well be _related._

It was only natural to be at odds like siblings, he assumed. (_Assuming_, because he didn't remember much of his brother.)

But he'd left a bad first impression on her, something he was used to, anyway. And it'd stuck but he'd worked with it, their bantering dynamic becoming a _whole lot _of fun until a Spock-sized wrench got stuck between them. Also, her roommate.

Kirk grits his teeth as welt of frustration spreads hot in his gut. Uhura hadn't cried at that first service for the fleet, not until later when the remaining cadets were having drinks in the campus bar and he'd mentioned Gaila and the furious tears poured. It was the first time they'd really connected.

So, he understood, in a way, when things went back to the tolerating hate-to-love-you act as before. She didn't want to give up their banter either. There were so many points of connection already gone that it would probably hurt too much to sever one more.

The point is, now he knows the nuances of her voice better than the back of his hand (because, let's be honest, Uhura's a lot nicer to look at) and hearing her unimpressed voice on the line always makes him feel safe. He's always been on the cusp of hoping he made her feel the same.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kirk offers.

"Here?" Uhura makes a face as though she's accidently just said yes.

Something must show on his face because Uhura flick the shaded polymer of his visor with a painted fingernail. They both flip their visors up.

Down the slope they have a clear view of the various sectioned off sampling fields and the smattering of blue and gold officers, like chess pieces on a board. Uhura holds up her PADD and snaps a photo. Kirk photo-bombs the next one.

She laughs wildly, "Oh my god, your big head took up the entire screen!"

"Shit, really?" Kirk takes a look and laughs at the terrible kissy-face and all. "Delete that!"

"Hell no! I'm sticking it in my report." Uhura elbows him again and Kirk groans though it's not like he really cares. This is their banter, after all. He smiles and they fall silent for a moment.

"Not that I _want_ to talk about it," Uhura says under her breath, "But strange enough— you're the _only_ one I ever talk with about Spock. So..."

Kirk laughs uncertainly, "I thought that was more me bitching and you nodding sympathetically."

"Shhsh, I'm going to say something."

"Yes, your highness."

Uhura rolls her eyes and they climb higher up the hill. In the distance is the echo of someone shouting. Probably Azad trying to climb out of his hole.

"Spock's determined to be perfect. Not like that's a _new_ thing, but..." She frowns.

"What?" Kirk asks, evading her suddenly hawk-like stare.

"He's alone now."

"I'm sure he can handle it."

Uhura smirks, "Watch yourself. That's positively flattering to a Vulcan."

Kirk throws his hands up. "I've been **_ex_**posed!"

Uhura just shrugs. "Good luck."

At his confused expression, Uhura continues. "That's what I'd say. I mean... if someone else wanted a crack at him, that is. I'd say good luck."

It's such a weird thing to hear, Kirk laughs and blinks crazily, "Uh. You're the expert."

Uhura doesn't laugh with him.

She's half-way de-materialized, shock in her eyes and voice knocked out from the pull. Kirk whirls against the yanking of his atoms to see Spock's almost all the way up the hill in a dead sprint, bellowing into a communicator—

"MR. CHEKOV, BEAM US OUT!"

Kirk has no chance to shout back before he's ripped through space and finishes spinning on the transport platform in the _Enterprise_ with Uhura gasping next to him. He grabs her hand and they've cleared the pad before Chekov can tell them to move.

Spock reappears clutching both security guards, one in each arm. They all look singed.

"Ack! Sorry, sir!" Chekov stumbles, "The wector on re-entry—it was wery tight!"

"**_Ex_**tremely," Spock agrees, and then lets out one delicate cough of smoke. "The mission is aborted. Please report to your posts, senior personnel to the bridge, now."

"Spock!" Kirk runs forward, "What the hell was tha—"

Spock regains his composure as if it never left and looks up at Kirk, then just past his shoulder, at Uhura. "You did not have your comms on," is all he says.

It feels like an accusation, but Kirk doesn't have time to consider it more before Spock's powering off the platform, face blank as a stone and a thin cloud of smoke rising from his body.

"_Spock!_" Kirk just barely holds back the volume in his voice, racing after Spock and leaving everyone else in the dust, sliding into the lift just as the door shuts. He catches Spock by the elbow.

"Release me," Spock commands, flat and devoid of emotion.

There's the unbalanced lurch of the lift rocketing upwards and Kirk shakes his head, feeling dizzy, heart slamming fast— damn those pressure levels— and grabs Spock's upper arms in both hands. Maybe Spock understands. He doesn't push Kirk away.

"We have been intercepted."

Kirk nods and he looks Spock right in the eyes.

"Klingons."


	5. Chapter 5

_"Klingons,"_ Kirk says again and swallows thickly.

"You are experiencing an amplified sensitivity to ship atmosphere. The symptoms would be lessened if you had remained stationary in order to readjust like the rest of our team."

"What about you?" Kirk pants, taking in the protective blue suit stretched across Spock's shoulders.

"I am Vulcan," Spock replies, and Kirk supposes that answers everything. Spock's eyes flick down along his torso for the briefest of examinations, "Do you require sickbay?" His thumb is already poised to select the correct deck on the lift console.

"No!" Kirk shakes his head and then he blinks, realizing there's sweat in his eyes which, on second blink, are dancing oddly. He blinks a third time, slower. "Gotta meet our new neighbours."

"With the proverbial fruit basket." Spock is horribly confusing when he plays along. Kirk nearly laughs, a smile tearing back through the edge of wooziness.

Spock's voice is gentle, calm. "Reduce your pressures."

Kirk nods quickly, an action that screws with his balance and he gasps, hands refusing to unclench from their grip on Spock's arms. If he's hurting Spock, Kirk can't tell. Spock's expression does not change and for one long moment they just look at each other. Kirk short of breath and panting through his mouth, Spock sucking in air through his kind of big nose—

Kirk feels Spock's fingers brush his hip and then Spock quickly grabs the valve, jerking it open. The relief is immediate and Kirk catches himself before he sags all over Spock like putty. Or, wait, no. That's Spock's hand holding him up, pressing tenderly against his chest, back, back, back, until Kirk is leaning on the railing.

The turbolift doors hiss open.

"Report," Spock strides out quickly and slides into the chair Sulu vacates.

Kirk follows closely but gets hooked by a strong arm.

"Bones, let go—"

"Glad you're back in one piece," McCoy scowls up and down at his tight suit with a keen eye. "Have you gained weight?"

Kirk stops struggling to stare at him with indignation.

"Situation unchanged, Captain." Sulu replies to Spock gravely, "Glesh sent a message detailing the cancellation of our rendezvous. Reason cited was the weather. We confirmed a storm on the lower hemisphere that'll swing upwards, but then an hour later he asks us to leave orbit. We did a standard safety scan of the surface and a _Klingon_ signature bounced back."

There are murmurs of affirmation all throughout the bridge.

Sulu's face goes hard, "That's when I called you and locked down all frequencies. Chekov beamed the team out and now we're wondering what the _hell_ is going on." Sulu pauses slightly in apology, "Sir."

"I see," Spock replies, thoughtful.

A nearly painful realization zips down Kirk's spine like a jolt of electricity. He rushes forward but is nearly blindsided by McCoy who yanks his arm, looking frazzled. "What's the matter with you?" He veers closer to Kirk, blocking his view of Spock, glowering, "Why do you look slightly blue?"

"Sci-Science!?" Kirk evades nonsensically, trying to skirt around McCoy without much avail. He bites the inside of his cheek and then _thinks_ really loudly at Spock, hoping that might work.

"Commander Kirk," Spock calls and with a quick pat on the shoulder to McCoy, Kirk falls into place beside the captain's chair where the doctor can't follow. He gives a thankful smile to Spock who is frowning at him.

"Zero warp signatures were detected, Captain." Dr. Marcus informs them, wearing an annoyed expression, "We did a full subspace sweep. There's nothing out there."

"Then immediate danger is currently absent." Spock surmises.

Kirk's stomach churns. "With Klingons around? I beg to differ."

"Nevertheless, we will engage in further discussion. Open frequencies."

The communications station explodes into life, startling Ensign Leung enough she falls off her chair.

"H-Hail from the surface just c-came through." She climbs back up and punches in operations codes that send information flying to everyone's consoles. "This guy's gotten impatient."

"On screen," Spock orders.

* * *

The mining project head is named Glesh. A stout old Tellarite, he possesses dark eyes and a rather gnarled beard that tangles its way from underneath his snout to fall somewhere beyond the screen. Unfortunately, under all the loose skin rolls and hair he looks displeased.

"Captain Spock," Glesh snorts, beady eyes swinging from Spock to land suspiciously on Kirk standing at his side, "Your frequencies were closed."

"Mr. Glesh," Spock inclines his head, taking control of the conversation while silently appraising the man. "It is our policy to screen all incoming transmissions and as I was previously detained, I apologize for not responding until now. I regret our meeting has not gone according to plan."

"Yes, yes, but it's no matter." Glesh agrees hurriedly. "Best be on your way."

"Unfortunately, as per protocol, I must insist we reschedule." Spock suggests. "Our systems indicate the weather anomalies will likely conclude before nightfall. We can postpone until tomorrow, or, if you provide your current coordinates, arrangements can be made to beam you aboard the _Ente_—"

"N-No! I've changed my mind, is all! I just want you to get out!"

It is... slightly unnerving how Glesh is staring at Kirk.

Spock doesn't even raise an eyebrow. "If you wish to dispense with pleasantries then please, Mr. Glesh, inform me of your reasoning for neglecting protocol so that I may relay a proper message to Starfleet Command and the rest of the Federation about your conduct, which, under regulation num—"

"Cut the shit!" Glesh stands abruptly, revealing the twisted wefts of his beard tucked into an intricately woven belt. "I'm not going to ask you people again! Get out of here or things will get nasty!"

"Gee, that's diplomatic," McCoy gripes sarcastically, standing in the shadow cast off screen with the rest of the crew.

Glesh's snout twitches. "Excuse me?"

"Oh," Spock tilts his head, "Are pleasantries reinstated?"

"Why you little—!" Glesh gathers himself up, shimmying on the spot so fast that his beard makes an impressive knot around his belt buckle. He yanks angrily at the frayed hairs and then promptly ignores Spock completely, glaring at Kirk, "Turn your ship around."

Spock feels his lips thin.

"No can do, Mr. Glesh," Kirk replies, his voice is steady and smooth, reverberating in Spock's ears unlike the shaky composure from before. "See, what we're really curious about is why you've signed over your quarry to the Klingon Empire instead of us."

"WHAT!?" Glesh reels.

"I mean, that _is_ what you've done, right?" Kirk continues easily, smiling that coy smile he reserves for opponents he's three moves away from putting into checkmate. Kirk never waits until the last move to start gloating, Spock recalls; it makes victories seem less pyrrhic.

"And what's even more curious is the Klingon ship you've got hidden in your mines." Kirk's mouth forms curious shadows in the light of the screen, "We both know you're not top dog here, so why don't you let your _real_ boss talk now."

Glesh sputters in outrage and Spock considers matters for a moment.

"Excuse us," and he flicks off the connection.

"You just gave away our hand!" McCoy shouts the moment the screen goes dark.

Kirk's mouth falls open, "N—"

"Preposterous!" Unexpectedly, it is Dr. Carol Marcus who explodes with disbelief and cuts Kirk off. "There _can't_ be a ship in—"

"Was the quarry scanned?" Spock asks without missing a beat.

"Yes. Not completely conclusive," Marcus begrudgingly concedes, "Due to the nature of the mineral deposits we did receive a percentage of distortion."

Spock nods and raises his head to look Kirk in the eye. "Where there is reasonable doubt there is possibility. It is a viable hypothesis."

McCoy marches forward, "But we can't target the mines! That's what we came here for—"

"That will not be necessary." Spock stands up.

"I bluffed." Kirk confirms, "I'm willing to bet everyone wants a piece of Glesh's precious mines, not just the Federation. So when I put an enemy ship right in the middle of them, whether or not it's _real_—"

"—He is forced to defend." Spock concludes, "The likelihood the quarry is harbouring ships of any kind is quite low."

"'Quite low?' You're rounding up now," Kirk jokes unnecessarily.

"I would cite the number of decimals places but that would take more time than we currently have." Spock replies wisely.

Kirk snorts and hikes a thumb towards the default screen display of the starry backdrop which embraces the curve of the planet.

"But there _is_ a ship out there."

"Indeed."

Marcus has been tapping her foot, hard enough that Spock can hear the tangy metallic clang of the floor each time she does. "Subspace scans indicate—"

"They've got a ship, I'm positive," Kirk continues, ignoring Marcus. Spock would almost call it rude if it weren't for the urgency in Kirk's tone. "A small one, probably not a warbird otherwise we'd've been attacked the moment we entered the zone. They weren't expecting us."

"Then why didn't sensors detect the incoming ship?" Sulu asks, frustratingly running through the previous results.

Pride is illogical when applied to emotionally-driven events. Spock has always believed this where humans are concerned. Vulcan pride, on the contrary, is rooted deeply in academic achievement. Spock takes the opportunity to fully indulge in satisfaction when the crew, his very intelligent crew, finally understands what he and Kirk have worked out.

Realization dawns on Dr. Marcus's face, "Because it was here before us. Cloaked and locked in orbit. It'd look like any typical satellite to a scanner that way!" She's already curled around the Science station in a frenzy, "Oh, _there!_ There, a spacial anomaly on starboard orbit."

"So what do we even do?!" McCoy explodes in exasperation from somewhere behind.

"Locking onto coordinates," Sulu announces. The whole bridge bursts into action.

"Spock?"

Kirk hooks a finger. Spock immediately recognizes this as a request for more private conversation and yet he watches the movement for an arresting moment. That it should cause him pause is bizarre yet he is inexplicably drawn in. The bright lights of the bridge are a pulsing blur behind Kirk's head, setting the bits of gold in his hair aflame.

Spock's eyebrows knit together in a sudden sense of frustration. He may or may not detect a migraine forming. To circumvent this, he neatly severs his mental connections to the twinge of pain.

Kirk leans close until his chin is nearly touching Spock's shoulder. "_He's_ not bluffing about 'things getting nasty.'"

Spock considers this phrase for longer than strictly necessary.

"Spock, I called them out." Kirk appears troubled, or more specifically, cornered in. His eyes are flicking fast between ideas only he can see. "My bet is when we open the frequency again it's gonna be a Klingon staring back at us."

"Agreed," Spock replies, somehow unable to focus on anything more than the sharp look in Kirk's eyes. "However, the question remains whether we engage or not."

"Forget it! You two can keep your secret club!" McCoy gripes in the background.

Leung jumps from her seat at the communications console. "Sir— he's hailing again!"

Spock tilts his head, refocusing on the matters at hand.

Kirk leans back and there's determination etched into every line of his face, "How much do you like the element of surprise?"

"Not at all," Spock answers grimly. "Message on screen."

When the video channel reopens Kirk's prediction comes to life as the menacing picture of a Klingon officer, sharp teeth gleaming through his dark features crowned by a high pointed forehead and wild impressive hair cascading down to his shoulders.

"Greetings, Federation scum!" His spiked gauntlet-clad hand falls to perch heavily atop Glesh's small shoulder. "I am Kolorf, new ambassador to this planet and chief manager to all its assets." He smiles indulgently, "You are currently trespassing in Klingon space."

"Understood," Spock responds plaintively.

"They were just leaving," Glesh suggests with a baleful huff.

Sulu's hand creeps toward the helm's weapons controls.

"Yes," Spock agrees. "We were just leaving."

* * *

Kirk storms into the captain's ready room.

"What was that?"

Spock quickly types the time and stardate onto the incident report before lifting his head to address the interruption. "I will return to the bridge shortly, please wait for me there."

"We _ran_ **away!**"

It seems as though Kirk is averse to waiting. Or, perhaps, appearing cowardly. Spock folds his hands with calm precision atop the blackened screen of the PADD.

"I correctly deduced the location of the Klingon ship! We could have done something!"

"A commendable aspect of your role today," Spock looks up with a dull sort of apprehension, "Do you require thanks?"

This is apparently too blunt of a question. Kirk bristles with an agitation so palpable it fizzles across Spock's senses like a wave of voltage, an emotional crescendo which hits squarely against his mental shields.

Spock attempts to amend the confrontation by saying: "Jim," the use of Kirk's first name, he has observed, frequently serves as an emotional balm. There is a minute reduction of tension in Kirk's frame.

"Please state the nature of your objection."

"It's my fault, isn't it?" Kirk says thoughtfully, taking another route to the argument. I thought I'd done everything I could, but I must've missed something." His mouth forms a thin line and then when he continues his lips are flushed red, "I'm not the most diligent when it comes to regulations but I haven't broken any— I... guess if you want me to keep up the formal titles then I can do that."

"You believe my decision to withdraw from the conflict is in direct correlation to your work ethic." Spock tilts his head at Kirk's expression which says this should have been obvious. It was not at first, to Spock. "I assure you this is not the case."

Spock also desires to ask Kirk to refrain from addressing him as captain but that is what Spock is now. Ultimately, there is no logic to the request.

"Then why? If it wasn't me—" Kirk scowls, trudging closer, "We failed our mission— and not just failed. We lost the mining contract to _Klingons!_"

"I am aware of the results." Spock looks at the abandoned PADD and quells the itch he occasionally develops when he is unable to complete a report. "The fault is on no one."

"We could've had them, Spock."

Spock's line of vision is abruptly cut off as Kirk slumps to sit on the corner of the desk. Spock raises his chin and folds his hands in his lap, "I will propose a scenario for your consideration."

Kirk perks up.

"Suppose we had attacked the other ship. Suppose Kolorf surrendered instead of engaging in the more likely action of killing Mr. Glesh—" Kirk's expression goes sour. "How would Command propose we attain agency with a man who has already made up his mind?"

At Kirk's silence, Spock continues, watching the way Kirk's knees bend as he swings his legs. "Politics? Perhaps by saying please?"

"Force," Kirk says after an uncomfortable moment of reflection. "It's what Command recommended in the missive."

"And do you understand how the rest of the Federation views us?"

"Hostile," Kirk pulls a leg up to put a boot atop the desk and crosses his arms across the raised knee in frustration.

Spock nods.

Kirk blows out a breath, "Doesn't mean I agree."

In truth, Spock is not certain if it is wise to share in Kirk's optimism. In the past three years, the Klingons have been subject to the destruction of approximately 50 ships, first at the hands of Nero and then Khan. For a race most known for extreme pride in their fierce militia, it is a devastating hit. However, it would be prudent to rebuild forces before making drastic moves into Federation space. The only conclusion Spock can draw, is the destruction of several Starfleet headquarters have spurred an escalation in activity. In short, the empire now has a set goal.

_"We're building our resources."_ Komack's voice helpfully adds to Spock's ruminations.

The Klingons are collecting assets for war.

"While I do believe Command will no doubt send suggestions on how to rectify this upset, I suspect will not encourage conflict with a potentially dangerous foe." At the moment, Spock omits. "Nevertheless, as I am Captain, onus pertaining to the ultimate command decisions will fall on me. You need not trouble yourself in this regard."

He watches Kirk deflate somewhat, eyes hooded staring unfocussed across the office, and is hit with the sudden hope he has properly assuaged Kirk's fears.

_This is what you gave me_, Spock thinks with urgency. _A way to make you happy. I will do the best I can._

"In the interim, the _Enterprise_ will continue on route to the next scheduled destination," Spock decides.

It is the safest course of action. He is certain the crew is intelligent enough to piece together the ramifications of pursuing conflict. One seemingly insignificant factor can become the tipping point in the delicate balance they have found themselves and Spock is not amenable to engaging combat until there is no alternative.

"Still, I hate to lose." Kirk finally replies, with a tone that suggests he enjoys the challenge all the same. "We should find us another source of those mining goods. There's got to be lots of places in this big old universe where the Klingons won't look, right?"

"Something tells me the universe might find itself too small for you."

The skin at the corner of Kirk's eyes wrinkles as he laughs, rolling his cheek to rest against his arm.

"Thanks, Spock." Kirk smiles, and his forehead wrinkles as his brows turn up, giving him a look of contriteness that is somewhat endearing in its sincerity. The tiny quirk of his mouth and eyebrows strike a sense of optimism into Spock despite the odds. "I came in here ready to fight and you turned it around. You... remind me of Pike."

Spock freezes. He opens his mouth to reply but finds no words. At Kirk's expectant look, he shuts his mouth and picks up the PADD with his unfinished report.

"Uhm, it's a good thing, don't worry." Kirk slides off the desk and then fidgets uncharacteristically, pointing to the report, "I guess I should send my version to you before we file it?"

"I trust your judgement." Spock murmurs quietly.

"Okay." Kirk shrugs with one shoulder and turns. "See you on the bridge."

* * *

The doors shut with a soft swish and Spock inhales, the air feeling sharp and prickling his throat like frost. He carefully places the PADD atop the desk.

To be compared to the late admiral is...

Brutal shock comes flooding in.

To be compared with Pike is an unimaginable weight that sits heavy upon his shoulders, pinning him to the spot like a specimen. He replays the previous events of the day, wondering where he had slipped.

The truth is his mental shields have become akin to a large puzzle, one which he continues to piece together. He has been trying for some time.

At first he did not notice.

The difference had been negligible.

Then, when Spock _did_ begin to observe a shadow of change to his thoughts, he assumed there was a certain sense to it— the increased protectiveness, the increased concern and the urge to act on such motivations— The empathy. It was indicative of a strengthening friendship with James Kirk.

Now he is not so sure.

After Admiral Pike's sudden death, Kirk had been in a bad place.

When Spock had looked at him, he had known. Known how simple it was for Kirk to fall into the traps laid by the spotlight. How, before Kirk had become a captain, the days before he'd enlisted were like days he didn't exist. Like the space between stars, not real because people would look right through him in order to find something better.

Genius-level repeat offender Jim, crawling around in the dark because everyone saw his flaws in the light.

But Spock saw. He saw everything that made Kirk bright, everything that made him worth tolerating all the annoying habits, pushing to be better, worth the fighting... worth saving.

Then Spock had actively tried _not_ to notice.

But then, to be so boldly compared... Sitting alone with these troublesome thoughts, it is difficult for Spock to not acknowledge the conclusion any longer.

After he had _mind-melded _with the late admiral, he had begun to see Kirk differently.

And therein is the problem.

Because Spock does not know whether this new-found perception is his own... or Christopher Pike's.


End file.
