Archive of Our Own

“Captain on the bridge.”

The rustle of uniforms and shuffle of feet marked the rise of the Enterprise crew. Jim didn’t stop on his trajectory from the turbolift, snapping off an “at ease,” and making a sharp gesture with his hand. 

They sat, fingers, drifting back to consoles, backs hunched over panels. But there was none of the usual chatter as they did so. The bridge was eerily silent.  

 It set Jim’s teeth on edge. Moreso because he knew the source of their uncharacteristic tension, and he shared it. 

The Enterprise was on approach to the designated rendezvous for an encoded message from Starfleet. But this was not an ordinary message. It would tell them whether or not they were going to war.

A subtle nuance to the bridge crew’s apparent concentration was the way that their attention had turned toward Uhura on the comm. It was evident in the flicker of gazes, the miniscule tilt of heads, and in the case of the lieutenant Syvas, the twitch of antennae. 

The subject of their thinly disguised attention seemed oblivious to it, poised as always, her dark eyes sharp and focused. As Jim looked at Uhura, she smoothed her uniform with a graceful hand and gave him the ghost of a smile. She gave no outward sign of stress, but her position over her controls was nevertheless reminiscent of a fox over the den of a mouse. 

Among them all, one person alone seemed impervious to the tension. 

As the bridge crew fell to their work, that one man remained standing, facing the captain as he strode across the deck. Spock, waiting for relief, and completely alone in his apparent unaffectedness. Yet it was visible in the relaxed slant of his shoulders, the mild expression on his face. He was either utterly unbothered by the tension that suffused the room or so in control of his emotions that he was not showing it. 

Jim met his gaze with a frown, the Vulcan’s imperviousness to the regular weaknesses of the rest of humanity somehow chafing against his own frayed nerves. Spock’s return stare was cool and neutral. If he thought anything of his captain’s sour expression, it likewise did not show. He was either oblivious to its significance or, more likely, ignoring his captain’s moodiness. 

“You are relieved, Mr. Spock,” Jim murmured as he brushed past him. His First tipped his head in acknowledgement, his hands folded neatly behind him, bending his body slightly so that Jim did not actually bump right into him. 

Jim watched him return to the science from under his eyelashes as he settled in the recently vacated chair, wondering what would ruffle Vulcan feathers if not the likely outbreak of war. 

In his need to project an air of relaxed authority that Spock seemed to exude so naturally, he overcompensated. He was aware of his failure, but could find no way to correct for it. His legs spread lazily, arms draped his arms over the rests, and he rested chin on one fist. He was aware that such posture was reminiscent of a brooding child rather than a professional starfleet captain, but after a moment of worrying about it he decided he didn’t care. He was entitled to moodiness at such a time. He would sit here and sulk until Starfleet messaged or the Klingons blasted them out of space or both. 

He wondered if Spock, in their brief exchange, had noticed that his captain wasn’t sleeping well. 

Admittedly, it was not a conclusion that would take much of Spock’s impressive brainpower to reach. No one on the Enterprise was sleeping well lately. 

For the past two weeks, the ship had sat languishing on the edges of Federation space while other people cocked up negotiations with the Klingons. His crew could have been out there doing something - reinforcing relations with the Vulcans, or taking supplies to border planets, or working on Klingon transmission codes. Instead they sat waiting for news, the arrow in a cocked bow, under tremendous pressure and yet without direction.  

This captain and this crew were accustomed to being in the thick of things. To be sidelined in this way was almost physically painful to them. Now the whole ship held its breath, waiting for crusty admirals at Starfleet to either fly or fail, and determine the fate of the Federation with the result. 

In truth, though, the result was a foregone conclusion. It was just a matter of which form the Federation’s inevitable failure took. 

Covertly, Jim eyed his first officer again. Spock was seated placidly at his station, fine brows drawn into an expression of concentration as he adjusted the instrumentation on a scanner. 

As irritating as the Vulcan’s utter imperviousness could be, he was obscurely grateful for Spock.

Pike had always told him that the captain of the Enterprise was a lonely job. The life or death decisions made from the centre seat were ones that he and he alone could make. Those decisions and his responsibility for them would separate him from the rest of the crew. 

For so long that knowledge had defined Jim’s expectations for his career on the Enterprise. At first, it had held true. And then somehow, mysteriously, Spock had worried at the edges of Jim’s belief until they frayed, proving Pike’s aphorism a flawed premise. 

Spock had served with Pike, of course. But it was clear, now, that the relationship they had enjoyed had been much different than what he had with Jim. Equally intimate, perhaps, but always defined by a kind of professional distance and respect. Those boundaries seemed to have broken down under Jim’s command.

It was probably Jim’s fault. He had always been more golden retriever than man, unable to help the way he latched onto people he loved and unable to hide his affection for them. 

Over the past few months, Jim had found in the stoic Vulcan a more-than-professional camaraderie he had never known possible between a captain and his First. There had been missions, lately, where Jim had begun to sense a different possibility for his future. In the heat of a phaser fight and in the icey cold of a diplomatic chamber, he had begun to sense that Spock had his back. Suddenly instead of a Captain and his First, Jim saw a complex system of checks and balances, of logic and intuition working in harmony, and of having someone he could rely on, no matter what, to make the right decisions – even when Jim himself was incapable. He had found a kind of companionship that was much deeper than professional camaraderie and different, too, than simple friendship. 

The blurring of the boundaries of their relationship should have alarmed him. Instead, Jim found he was desperate for it.   

The desperation stemmed, in part, from a sense that the camaraderie had had found with Spock was a fragile and precious thing. He couldn’t look too closely at it, let alone put a name to it, for fear it would disappear. It was an insecurity that Bones would probably say stemmed from his long history of fucked up relationships and the instability of his life before Starfleet. Jim would disagree, arguing instead that it was the result of having lost too many good people over the years and perhaps had something to do with getting older and getting tired of the way he habitually reached for the fire in moments of crisis, even though he knew he would burn. 

To have someone reach out and grab his hand in those moments of self-destructive impulsiveness had been a revelation. 

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he could admit that at least part of his anxiety about the possibility of war with the Klingons stemmed from the fragility of his newfound relationship with his First. Could whatever it was he had with Spock withstand the pressures of the conflicts that they would soon face, should they find themselves suddenly at war? There would be difficult decisions ahead, ones on which they would almost certainly disagree. And there would be violence, in which one or both of them would almost certainly be implicated. Spock could die, but Jim could lose him in any number of different ways - to injury, to professional disagreement, or to Starfleet orders that ripped them apart.

The thought was almost physically painful to Jim, and he shifted in his chair with the discomfort of it. 

The night before, they had played chess. Spock had sat opposite him in the dim light of Jim’s quarters – an intimate space, but one where the Vulcan had become comfortable. At Jim’s prompting, he had calculated that the odds of the Klingon-Starfleet negotiations breaking down was greater than seventy-five-point-three-three percent. He based his “estimate” on prior experience with the Klingons and his knowledge of human diplomatic efforts, among a collection of other obscure factors.

Jim, secretly impressed, had countered with a brash prediction that the Klingons would spring an attack in a disputed area of space without waiting for negotiations to fail. He’d based it on nothing. 

“Call it a feeling,” he’d said. Then Jim had moved his rook with an unnecessarily cocky flourish. Spock, without looking at the board, had declared “checkmate.” His tone, for a man who proclaimed no emotional attachment to winning or losing, had almost certainly been a bit smug. He hadn’t even bothered to move his queen into position, waiting patiently for his Captain to look down at the board and, disbelieving, discover his error through his own deduction. 

Jim knew himself well enough to know that the hurt he had felt in that moment had been less about losing the game and more about how his stupidity had ended the game prematurely. Jim valued that time with his first officer, and had been looking forward to another half hour or so of quiet speculation about the shape of their days to come. He’d wanted to languish in that fragile and precious thing that was what they had built together.

It had been a mistake.  

What injured him even more was that Spock seemed to harbour no such regrets about the game’s outcome. After satisfying himself that his captain had been appropriately humiliated, he had stood, stretched his lanky limbs (revealing, to Jim’s chagrin, the long enticing lines of his abdominal muscles), and declared himself ready for meditation. His voice had already been low and gravelled with sleepiness. 

His indifference had sent Jim into a spiral of self doubt. Was Spock merely humouring him in these off-duty games of chess which had become so regular in their lives? Was he indulging his captain because he felt he had to, or perhaps because some calculation of his suggested that doing so would optimise Jim’s performance by three-point-oh-six-percent? The thought, however illogical, made him feel needy and pathetic. He had gone to bed insecure and annoyed with himself. 

Back on the bridge, Jim wrenched his attention from his first officer with effort and glared out at the black of space. His insecurities were his own problem, not Spock’s. He would just have to find a way to deal with them.

In front of the ship he saw tiny pinpricks of light picking out a galaxy far from home, far from where the action was. Far from anything useful. 

The chime of the signal made everyone jump. 

Jim didn’t register standing to take the comm from Uhuru, but he must have done so because before he knew it he was in front of the decoder with the chip in his hand and everyone was looking at him. Every muscle in Jim’s body was tensed. This was the moment they had been waiting for. They would find out, now, if they were going to war. 

He found himself hoping desperately, and against all logic, that they would not.

There was movement over his shoulder and then Spock was there, close enough that the natural heat of his body radiated against Jim’s back. Jim took a breath, and pushed the chip into the decoder with steady hands. 

He read quickly, lips moving subtly as he took in the information, skipping through Starfleet’s bureaucratic language to get the heart of the message. 

“We both guessed right,” Jim murmured when he was finished.  He was referring to his conversation with Spock from the night before. “Negotiations with the Klingon Empire are on the verge of breaking down. Starfleet Command anticipates a surprise attack.”

So there would be war with the Klingons. Of course. Jim wished he could say he was surprised.  

Amidst the tumult of his feelings - anxiety, anticipation, frustration - Jim took a moment to appreciate his first officer’s complete calm. The news of war did not phase Spock. If Jim knew anything about the Klingons, the next few days (weeks? months? years? ) would bring violence, disturbance, and terror. 

For now at least, Spock would be there with him to face it. He focused on that fact. At that moment, he had Spock. He was grateful for that, even if his fear for the future could not be completely ignored, like a splinter in his mind. 

“We are to proceed to Organia and take whatever steps are necessary to prevent the Klingons from using it as a base,” he finished, and then turned to see his first officer’s reaction. Spock only inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then stepped back out of his space, as if suddenly aware of how close he had been. Jim immediately missed his warmth. 

“Strategically sound,” Spock observed neutrally. “Organia is the only Class M planet in the disputed area, ideally located for use by either side.”

Strategically sound? Really? Spock’s mild assessment of Starfleet’s “strategic” choices inexplicably irritated Jim. His gaze sharpened on the Vulcan’s face. Did he really support this decision from Starfleet? Didn’t he know what it meant?

But of course Spock would have - could have - no feelings about the coming war. Like the premature end of a game of chess, their potential separation meant less to him than it did to Jim. 

And it hurt. 

“Organia's description, Mister Spock,” he ordered. Spock, oblivious to the abruptness of his Captain’s tone, obliged him. 

“Inhabited by humanoids. A very peaceful, friendly people living on a primitive level. Little of intrinsic value. Approximately Class D minus on Richter's scale of cultures.”

Jim opened his mouth to make a sarcastic and probably unprofessional comment about Starfleet strategic operations, but Sulu interrupted him. 

“Captain, the automatic deflector screen just popped on. Body approaching.”

Kirk turned to ask for the configuration, but again didn’t get the chance. Impacts rocked the ship with sudden violence. Spock was thrown against him, pinning him to the rail behind the navigation console where they had stood with the decoder. Jim cried out in surprise and pain, but the sound was swallowed by the scream of the hull taking impact and the sudden blare of the ship’s alarms.

Jim felt nauseating weightlessness as the dampeners failed. Then all at once the emergency power kicked on and normal gravity returned. Regaining control over his body with superhuman quickness, Spock ripped himself away from where they had been thrown together on navigation, hurling himself at the science station. 

“Phaser banks, lock on. Return fire!” Jim snarled, his knuckles white on the aluminium of the rail he had just been pinned to.Then their enemies fired again, and he was forced to brace himself hard as the dampeners cut out again.

The second barrage did not last so long, but it brought a cresting of Jim’s anger, the frustration in him finally building to a peak.

“Maintain firing rate. One hundred percent dispersal pattern.” Kill them, his mind screamed, finding relief and release in the violence unleashed by his words. Finally, something primal and ugly in him exalted, something to do. 

Moments later, Spock confirmed the hit, the level tone of his voice at odds with Jim’s hammering heart. 

The knowledge of victory should have given Jim satisfaction, but it didn’t. It felt too easy, and was over too quickly. 

“All hands, maintain general alert. Hold battle stations. Damage report, Mister Spock.” He pushed away from navigation and strode to his chair, throwing himself down hard and fighting against the adrenaline spike that coursed through him, making his blood tingle. 

“Minor, Captain. We were most fortunate. Blast damage in decks ten and eleven, minor buckling in the antimatter pods, casualties very light.”

Jim’s hand curled into a fist over the controls before him. The first casualties of a spreading war would be very light. How nice. 

He met Spock’s cool stare over the bridge rail.

“Well, we've been anticipating an attack,” he said evenly. “I'd say what we've just experienced very nearly qualifies.”

“Yes,” his First replied dryly, “it would seem to be an unfriendly act.”

Jim wondered if Spock knew he was being funny. And at a time like this.

He was about to make a smart reply, but Uhura interrupted him. She had just received confirmation of the outbreak of war on her console. She relayed it to the bridge, and any amusement Jim had felt immediately evaporated.

“Well, there it is. War.” Jim said. “We didn't want it, but we've got it.” It was an unprofessional thing to say. Too close to criticising Starfleet in front of his whole crew. To his right he saw Spock tilt his head, a look of mild interest raising his angular brows as if Jim’s betrayal of his superiors were a phenomenon to be studied, as intriguing as the migration pattern of a rare bird on Riza. 

“Curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want,” he observed. Jim detected the jibe in it, and felt his annoyance swell with the realisation that he had no good response. The Vulcan was right. 

“War or not, we've still got a job to do. Denying Organia to the Klingons.”

“With the outbreak of hostilities, that might not be easy.”

Yes, thank you Spock. So helpful. Jim chose not to respond. “Sulu, lay in a course for Organia.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” 

But if he had hoped Spock would take a hint, he was sorely mistaken.

“Negotiating with the Organians will be time-consuming, Captain,” Spock pushed, as if with a finger on a bruise, “and time is one thing we'll have the least of.”

“We won't get it by talking about it,” Jim growled. “The trigger's been pulled. We have to get there before the hammer falls.” He frowned at his own mixed metaphors, a sure sign that was flustered, and braced for another comment from Spock. He could almost hear it now: A curious turn of phrase, Captain. On Earth, are hammers traditionally wielded with the use of a trigger? 

But Spock said nothing. Instead, the fine brow just raised another millimetre. Jim turned his full attention to Sulu.

“Ahead warp factor seven.”

The ship jumped.

~*~

“You think you’re coming with me, do you?” Jim stuffed a phaser into its holster with more force than necessary. Behind him, Spock was picking up a tricorder and loading it into its sling. The Vulcan watched him calmly, long fingers pausing momentarily over the device. 

“Captain, it is only logical -”

“Yeah, yeah, save it.” Jim stalked away from the weapons locker, frown deepening. He knew it was only logical, but he didn’t have to like it. He wanted to be alone for a bit, to stew in his despair without irritating Vulcan logic to talk him out of it. 

But it was no use voicing these desires. Spock would come regardless, and if Jim said anything about his insecurities, he would almost certainly have to listen to a lecture about irrational thoughts. 

If Jim was honest with himself, the knowledge that Spock would be with him down there was a relief. The news of Starfleet’s failure at the negotiation table and the pressures of an impending war were getting to him.  A kind of restless rage simmered under his skin, seeking release. 

It was not the kind of attitude that had traditionally served him well in matters of diplomacy. Admittedly, the snapping whip of his temper was the wrong ally to bring to a planet full of terrified yokels facing imminent Klingon invasion. 

Spock would have the words when Jim didn’t. He would be the cool rational voice to counterbalance Jim’s passionate entreaty. That was the way they worked, their personalities blending and weaving around each other, like bright paint poured in clear water. 

Jim needed him, whether he liked it or not. 

“Captain,” Uhura greeted him as he stepped onto the bridge, “Unit XY-75847 report a fleet of Klingon ships in their sector, sir.”

“What bearing?”

“Unable to ascertain, sir,” she said without looking at her controls. If she had been able to find the bearing, she would have done so already, her cool eyes told him.

“Mister Sulu, have the phaser crews stand by their positions. Full power to the deflector screens.”

The young man’s deft hands were already moving. “Yes, sir.”

Jim watched him for a moment, a grim appreciation for his helmsman warming him. In that moment, he made a decision. Sulu would take good care of the Enterprise while he was gone. Sulu would follow his orders.

Spock wouldn’t. 

A brief unease punctuated the thought. It was something he had come to know about his First, and it was disconcerting. 

But it was true: He no longer felt that he could leave Spock behind. If something happened - if the Klingons showed up and started firing on the planet, Spock would risk hell to pull Jim off the planet’s surface, no matter what Jim’s orders had been. It wasn’t logical - it couldn’t possibly be - and yet Jim knew that it was true just as sure as he knew that space was black. 

He knew because it had happened already, many times before. Most recently, with that creepy sleeper ship with all the augments, but before that on the ice planet where Sulu had almost frozen to death and before that on the desert planet with Bones’ ex-girlfriend.

It should have been a problem but…it wasn’t.

The realisation sent a little involuntary shiver through him. What was that about anyway? Spock would always justify it, of course. The chances of your survival if we intervened outweighed the potential benefits of doing nothing. But what were the chances, and what were the benefits? Did Spock even know himself? 

And so now when Jim went down to a planet, Spock went with him. Better to have that man at your back than at the helm of an armed starship when shit hit the fan.  

Troubled, Jim straightened, suddenly hyper aware of his First officer’s presence behind him on the bridge, standing just over his left shoulder. 

Where he always was, these days. Where Jim liked him.

“Mister Spock and I are going to the planet's surface,” he told Sulu. “You will be in command. Your responsibility is to the Enterprise, not to us. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

Jim looked into Sulu’s wide, dark eyes and knew that it wasn’t clear. Not yet. 

“The Klingon fleet is in this quadrant,” he said deliberately, “we know that Organia will be a target. If they should emerge –”

“We'll handle them, sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim watched Spock shift. 

“You will evaluate the situation,” Jim corrected, firmly. “If there is a fleet of them, you'll get out of here, Mister Sulu.”

The young man frowned, his brow creasing. “But, Captain – “

“No buts. You'll get to safety and alert the fleet. You will not attack alone. We will be alright on the surface until the fleet arrives. Is that understood?” 

Sulu looked deeply unhappy, but he nodded grudgingly. His mouth had become a hard line.

Satisfied, Jim turned and graced his First officer with a thin smile. Spock returned the expression with the tiny twitch of a brow.

 “Well, mister Spock. Let's you and I pay the Organians a visit.”

~*~

Spock watched the line of his captain’s shoulders soften incrementally as they materialised on the planet, as if melting in the soft, dry heat that characterised Organia’s atmosphere.

There was dust under their feet and a light breeze on the back of Spock’s bare neck and the smell of citrus in the air and Kirk finally had direction for his energy.  

Spock noticed the sensation of relief this knowledge caused in him. Catalogued it. Considered the reason. Was he becoming more sensitive to Kirk’s emotional state? And was that a reflection of a growing telepathic connection between them, or Spock’s growing skill at reading human body language?

One thing was sure: Enterprise’s captain had been growing restless, and he was most dangerous when he was restless. 

He watched Kirk assess their surroundings with his hand on his phaser and appreciated him. Although it was illogical, he disliked being left in control of the bridge while his captain risked his life on planet surfaces. He had found, over their time working together, that such an arrangement helped avoid incidents like M-113. Or Alfa 177. Or, most recently, the whole mess with the S.S. Botany Bay. And if Spock was honest with himself, which he always endeavoured to be for reasons of maintaining his hold on reality, he had been feeling his own kind of restlessness lately. 

And so now when Jim went down to a planet, Spock went with him. Better to have that man in front of him, where Spock could see him and protect him when mission conditions became suboptimal, than alone and vulnerable among unfriendly people. 

“You'd think they had people beaming down every day,” Kirk observed blithely. They had materialised in a smoothly cobbled courtyard, pleasantly warm with the heat of midday. Spock ceased musing on his relationship with his Captain and looked around. Indeed, there were no unfriendly people to worry about today. 

They had chosen to arrive at the centre of the city where Starfleet records indicated the centre of Organian economic and political life lay. But Spock’s immediate impression was that it didn’t look like the centre of anything. The buildings were simple and unadorned, the walls of the structures smooth and featureless adobe. Tall trees edged the yard – some kind of citrus, which accounted for the scent in the air. They had wild, unkempt canopies and curving trunks. The only architectural feature of note was the high, dark stone of a turret that loomed above them, casting shadow over half of the courtyard. 

Organians relaxed in the great wall’s shade, and the shade of the citrus trees. They were, to a person, dressed in loose, colourful linen, chatting quietly and gesturing as they spoke with each other. As Jim had so opaquely observed, they had taken no special notice of the strangers who had just appeared in their midst. 

It hardly looked like a society on the brink of war. 

The neat clockwork of Spock’s mind stuttered slightly at the realisation. This is not the context he had expected, based on available data. The discrepancy was…interesting.

They had come to the planet to discuss how best to utilise Starfleet resources to protect the planet. But, as was standard in these situations, they had been preceded by missives and a large collection of Starfleet intelligence, containing everything they knew about Klingon tactics. 

People should be seeking shelter, preparing arms, reinforcing their defences. Instead, they relaxed. It was like a tableau in a painting from Earth’s Renaissance era. Peter Paul Rubens, Spock thought, and then reconsidered as he took in the huge stone wall which would have been distinctly out of place in the seventeenth century Dutch countryside. George Mullins, then. But if he’d been born on Vulcan instead of Earth’s Scotland.

He articulated his observations aloud to his captain, but Kirk just nodded, uninterested in either Renaissance art or in the minor discrepancies between reality and Starfleet databases. He was in the mood for neither. 

Spock saw that an Organian had drawn his attention. A dark woman of indeterminate age was approaching them across the courtyard, loose purple robes fluttering around her ankles and kicking up red dust. As she drew closer, she spread long fingers in a sign of greeting, exposing delicate wrists and rings on her fingers that flashed in the sun. Her smile, benevolent and tranquil, made her dimple prettily, and made her dark eyes glitter. She was distinct enough from the other Organians around them that she immediately read as some kind of leader. 

Smooth as always, the captain imitated her gesture of greeting. Spock followed suit, slower than his captain and still distracted by their surroundings. 

It did remind him subtly of Vulcan. The red stone was certainly evocative. 

Kirk introduced them both, covering for his First officer’s lack of attention with his usual social aptitude. The woman listened politely, and then said,

“I am Ayelborne. We have been expecting you.”

Kirk nodded curtly.

“I would speak with your authorities, Ayelborne. I have come to discuss a matter of urgency. Your people are in grave danger.”

Ayelborne would know this of course, but it was important to be clear about Starfleet's mission. Alien species did not always interpret the appearance of armed strangers in their space kindly, regardless of their stated intentions.

But Ayelborne seemed utterly unthreatened. She dimpled at Kirk, and Spock watched his captain be charmed. He thought: Starfleet records said humanoid, but this humanoid? It was unexpected to see such a familiar expression, so far from earth. 

“It is so kind of you to worry for us, Captain. We have no authorities, but there is a local council chamber nearby. We may go there.” 

She indicated an arching wooden gate carved in simple, curling shapes which stood open at the end of the courtyard. Low marble steps could be seen leading up into some kind of political building from there. Kirk was already turning to go, but Spock stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

His captain could handle the diplomacy without him for a moment. It had become clear to Spock that this place did not align with Starfleet’s expectations for Organia. He needed to investigate further, in case the discrepancies had relevance for the planet’s defence.

“Captain, if you don't mind, I should like to wander about the village and make some studies.”

Kirk assented easily and Ayelborne nodded in confirmation, before gesturing Jim to continue toward the council building. As they turned to walk away, she graced the Captain with another of her glittering smiles and Spock watched it curl the corners of her mouth. Kirk returned it, but with a tight professionalism that belied his greater purpose. Spock decided based on that smile that he could probably trust Jim to be politic. For a while, at least. 

And Ayelborne certainly was a born diplomat who could handle his Captain’s mercurial nature, should it emerge in Spock’s absence. She was admittedly intriguing. She seemed completely calm, despite the danger. There was a quiet competence to her that the human part of Spock instinctively trusted.

She stepped easily into Kirk’s wake, flowing across the dusty yard after him like dark water in a dry streambed.

Spock had little time to consider her further. Anyway, Jim would form an impression based on his human intuition that would be more accurate than Spock could hope to. Now, he needed to get a sense of how inaccurate their planetary data was. He pulled out his Tricorder and immediately frowned at the readings he saw there.

Fascinating.

~*~

Leaving Captain Kirk alone to do diplomacy turned out to be a mistake. 

Spock realised this in hindsight, and equally realised that the error had been entirely his. He had known his captain to be in a fragile emotional state, and had let his curiosity about the strange planet override his duty. 

To be fair to the Enterprise’s captain, things had degenerated rather quickly, and had largely been out of his control. 

“Sulu is gone,” Kirk hissed. They were alone in a small antechamber of the main political buildings and he was stripping off his uniform with a violence that suggested the gold fabric had personally offended him. 

“And now we’re stuck with eight ships worth of hostile Klingons and a planet full of arrogant imbeciles.”

Spock did not bother correcting his captain’s degrading judgement. He did not have sufficient data to mount a convincing counterargument. His exploration of the small city had revealed abnormal readings in colour wave-lengths, but nothing that he could clearly pinpoint. 

His own eyes had been equally unhelpful. His brief exploration of the small Organian city had revealed little in the way of industrial, scientific, or cultural activity. People moved quietly through the baked red clay streets, smiling benevolently at the uniformed stranger in their midst. Through doorways, he had glimpsed idyllic scenes of urban life – women in colourful dresses milling flour, men carrying water, youths reading aloud to each other from brightly bound texts while seated among the roots of the citrus. It was something out of an idealised version of the Vulcan science academy, or out of earth’s Socratic dialogues.

He might have told Jim that his lack of data was not an indictment of the Organians themselves, as far as Spock could tell, but a failure of his own measurements. If anything, greater study was needed to understand the subtleties that Starfleet had clearly missed in its initial study. But to correct Kirk at this juncture would be pointless. 

If Kirk’s assessment of the Organians was incomplete at best, his captain was certainly right about the Klingons. They had appeared in orbit less than fifteen minutes and twenty-five seconds ago, and would undoubtedly target Organia’s political structures early in their operations. It was quite likely that they had the same intelligence Starfleet did, and would come here, to this supposed centre of political life, as a first foray. 

Kirk was also correct to state that Sulu was gone, hopefully to return with reinforcements but by no means guaranteed and certainly not quickly. It would take time to muster a counterforce to the Klingon invasion. 

In the meantime they were indeed facing an unpleasant prospect, caught between a violent conquering army and its underprepared and apparently peaceful victims. Spock was in control of the emotion, but he could not deny that he worried, both for the Organians and for themselves. 

“The Organians have offered us shelter, at great personal risk,” Spock reminded his captain gently. The Organians had given him the papers of a trader, and loose robes that approximated the customary dress of a Vulcan merchant. Jim would fit right in, if he could control his un-organian temper. The ruse would likely be sufficient to fool the Klingons, who, despite knowing that the Vulcans were Federation members, were not especially detail-oriented as a species. 

Spock had already pulled the borrowed robes on. Kirk moved more slowly, interrupted from his task by his pacing. He had peeled off his uniform shirt and now stood in the warm room bare chested. Spock watched his Captain’s shoulders in an attempt to gauge his mental state. The tension had undoubtedly taken up its residence in him again, and Spock longed to run his hands over the roll of the muscles that ran parallel to Kirk’s spine, to smooth them as one might smooth the hackles of a big blonde wolf – for this was the earthly creature his captain most resembled now, wild and pacing in the tranquil dusk light streaming in from the room’s single arched window. 

“Our phasers are gone,” Spock observed, mildly, and realised as he said it that it was true. Kirk spun, the linen shirt he’d been given by Ayelborne’s servants half over his head.

Spock observed his own alarm as it passed through him. He had seen no one enter the room, nor had much time elapsed since they had removed their holsters. The theft, if it had been a theft, had been almost impossibly covert. 

“What?” Kirk snapped, as he finally jerked the garment hard over his chest and strode over to where they had left their uniforms. 

Their phasers would do them no good now, anyway, Spock told himself. What good were two phasers against an entire Klingon army? 

But Kirk, swearing, had begun to rifle uselessly through their discarded clothing. He was interrupted when the door to the ante chamber opened and a young Organian entered. 

“Your presence is requested by the visitors of the council,” he said mildly. He must mean the Klingons, Spock surmised with renewed alarm. Kirk straightened, and took two long strides toward the youth, who, to his credit, did not flinch. 

“Did you take our weapons?” he asked, accusingly, but the boy just looked mildly confused and said nothing. 

“It would do us no good to be caught with federation issue weapons,” Spock reminded him, quietly. They needed to focus on getting off of this planet alive. Living to be rescued depended almost entirely on the Klingons failing to identify them as Starfleet officers. It was true that phasers would only give them away.

Anyway it didn’t take any emotional intelligence whatsoever to know that a phaser in Kirk’s hand right now was a bad idea. He looked good in the relaxed garb of the Organian people, but he was no Organian. The loose shirt left his arms bare, and the trousers accented the shape of his muscular legs. Kirk was a fighter, and he looked like one. He had none of Ayelborne’s smooth grace, and he was likely to be targeted by the Klingons anyway, even without a phaser.

Kirk shot him a betrayed glance, but apparently saw the logic in Spock’s comment because he said nothing more, setting his jaw and striding out of the room after the Oganian messenger. 

Spock took a deep breath and followed. He wondered what awaited them in the political chambers of the Organians. Execution? Imprisonment? Slavery? 

Certainly, their disguises would do little if Kirk could not set aside his temper and blend in with their pacifist hosts. 

As he watched the stiff line of Kirk’s back retreat down the hallway toward their Klingon enemies he noted, with some distress, that his odds against them being discovered were quite low. 

~*~

The hall below was filled with the quiet murmuring or the Organians, punctuated by the sharp bark of Klingon orders. 

It was those sharp sounds that made Spock’s blood run cold - the effect of his blood vessels narrowing, and a normal physiological response to danger, and yet nonetheless disconcerning. 

The Klingons had gathered the occupants of the political buildings together in the main council chambers. Here they had the various arms of Organian bureaucracy, Spock surmised. There were fewer of them than Spock had anticipated, based on what he had learned about the size of Organia. The city they (and the Klingons) now occupied was not a large one, but it was the largest on the entire planet, and was documented by Starfleet as being the centre of global administration. Surely it would take more than the approximately fifty-seven Organians he saw gathered here to accomplish such an organisational feat?

And yet…the Organians were a singularly peaceful people. Perhaps they required a light administrative hand, being naturally inclined to order and somewhat lethargic in matters of economic and cultural progress.

Indeed, those who had gathered below seemed unworried, standing or sitting calmly against the smooth stone walls of the council chambers. Spock spotted Ayelborne immediately, leaning with one hip against the polished wooden council table where she had received the captain with her fellow governors just a few hours before. Her purple robes were folded carefully over her left leg, and her hands clasped loosely in her lap. Her expression, Spock realised with fascination, was vaguely annoyed. 

It was the first negative emotion he had seen on her face and indeed, the first he had seen on any Organian. As the Klingons circled the room, he watched her cross her arms defensively over her chest and her brows draw into a frown, while the corners of her mouth turned down at the edges. Her fellow Organians exhibited no such emotion, their faces placid under Klingon questioning, even when rough hands grabbed shoulders or pushed their bodies. The bureaucrats took the abuse with eyes downcast and murmured responses, no fear or anger at their treatment apparent in them. 

Ayelborne, though, was different. And yet the expression she wore was not one of concern for her people or fear at the sudden presence of several dozen Klingon warriors in their midst. She looked, Spock thought, much like a disapproving mother with a misbehaving child. 

A most curious reaction to the invasion of one’s planet.

He had observed the Organians to be startlingly humanoid – so close to their earth relatives so as to be indistinguishable. Such closeless could be scientifically explained. But in their mild placidity, they were decidedly inhuman. 

He wondered if his Captain, more sensitive to the normal emotional and psychological state of those he interacted with than his First, had observed the same thing. 

He opened his mouth to ask, but one of the Klingons had noticed them and was striding towards them with a knife in his hand, teeth bared. Spock stopped, but Kirk kept going, so that he was between Spock and the advancing Klingon, his arms and legs spread slightly in what might have been an imploring gesture – or the beginnings of a fighting stance. 

“A Vulcan,” the Klingon hissed through sharpened teeth. His small eyes were narrowed and glittering with suspicion. Kirk opened his mouth, body stiff with barely suppressed rage, and Spock automatically placed a quelling hand against the small of his Captain’s back. 

“Be still,” he murmured, and watched with relief as his blonde wolf temporarily subsided, his mouth snapped shut.

“A trader,” Ayelborne said before either of them could respond. She had left her place at the council table and was walking toward the Klingon, who spun to face her. All trace of the annoyance Spock had observed had been wiped from her expression, and she once again radiated benevolent subservience.

“He deals in Kevas and Trillium. Vulcan traders are quite common here.”

“You will address me as Military Governor Kor, Organian peon!” the Klingon snarled, taking two quick steps toward her, teeth bared and knife held before him threateningly. Ayelborne blinked. 

“Of course, Military Governor Kor,” she said mildly. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

“And his bodyguard?” Kor asked. He had turned back toward Spock and Jim now, pale glittering eyes sweeping up and down the Enterprise's poorly disguised captain.

Spock felt his eyebrows draw together of their own accord, disliking the undisguised interest he saw in Kor’s alien expression. 

“Baroner, our economic minister,” Ayelborne lied smoothly, and Spock was momentarily surprised by the ease of it. Lying was a surprising skill to find among peace-loving people. 

“And has he no tongue?” The Klingon asked. He stalked back toward them now, and Spock felt his captain stiffen under the Vulan fingertips that still lay, restraining, at the small of his back. 

Spock did not like the way that the creature looked at his captain, and now he also disliked the way he walked with a slight roll, and the way his mouth had curled into a cruel leer as his eyes took in Kirk’s well-muscled body and fair face, so well complimented, as Spock himself had observed, by his Organian garb.

Even as Spock stiffened, Kirk did not see the danger. Through the faint connection to his mind gained by the brush of his fingertips over his captain’s spine, he sensed only fury.

“I have a tongue,” Kirk said coldly. Kor stopped before him, his leer widening.

“Good. You will be taught how to use it. Where is your smile?”

Through his fingers, Spock sensed his captain’s sudden confusion, momentarily defanging his rage.

“My what?”

“The stupid, idiotic smile everyone else seems to be wearing.” Kor spit the words, the frustration under them evident.

It occurred to Spock in a flash of insight that the Organians, as tranquil as he had observed them to be, did not make very satisfying conquests for an invading Klingon army. They were unlikely to fight back, providing few opportunities for honour. And there were so very few of them. The rapidity with which this Kor had taken the city seemed evidence of a victory easily won. 

Too easily, for Klingons who pursued battle like other people chased their gods. 

Spock realised the danger this circumstance posed even as he watched it flower before him. 

Kirk was no Organian. He would not roll over. Kor badly wanted a fight, and Kirk, against all logic and sense, would give him one.

Spock stepped smoothly around his captain, blocking him from Kor’s view and was relieved when the general’s focus switched to him. 

“You refer to the hospitality of the Organians,” he said stiffly, and then worked hard to modulate his tone. He had been affected by the wild roll of Kirk’s emotions. 

“I too have found them singularly pleasant to deal with as a people.” His lie, delivered out of fear for his captain, did not come so easily as it had for Ayelborne. Over the Klingon’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of her face. But no approval or disapproval was registered there. She simply watched. 

“You do not talk like a trader,” Kor said, and his voice was low and dangerous. Over his shoulder, Spock watched Ayelborne’s expressionless face and tried to channel her placidity.

 “Vulcans are members of the Federation,” Kor continued. “You are a spy.”

There it was. At the Klingon’s words Ayelborne frowned, a shadow passing over her pleasing face. Spock mirrored it unconsciously, his own brows drawing together in puzzlement. Why was she so concerned for the safety of two aliens and yet so blase about her own? It was incredibly gracious, but not at all logical. He was so distracted by her slip that he missed his Captain’s quick intake of breath. 

“He's no spy.”

Kirk was at Spock’s shoulder in a moment, drawing level with the Klingon again, hazel eyes flashing. Kor looked suddenly delighted.

“Well, have we a wolf among the sheep?” the Klingon, and Spock watched in horror as he extended a clawed hand to grip his captain’s face. That Kor had landed upon his own metaphor for Kirk bothered him, but not nearly so much as the way the Klingon tipped his captain’s chin up roughly, to better see it in the light. Jim said nothing at the violation, but his proximity to Spock allowed the Vulcan to sense the rise in the rate of his breath even as his fists clenched at his side and he fought the urge to lash out.

Spock hoped desperately that he would restrain himself.  

“Coming from an Organian, yours is practically an act of rebellion,” the Klingon purred. “Very good. Organia has welcomed me. Do you also welcome me?”

“You're here.” Kirk said, and his voice had edges on it. “There's nothing I can do about it.”

“Good honest hatred. Very refreshing,” Kor said approvingly, and the sight of the single clawed finger sliding down his Captain’s throat to his collar made something in Spock deeply uncomfortable. He sucked in a breath and said coldly:

“You have no need of welcome, governor. That much is clear.” Kor’s eyes flicked briefly to Spock’s face and away again, captivated by Kirk and no longer as distractible as he had been a moment ago. 

“I need your obedience,” he purred, addressing the Captain rather than Spock. “Will I have it?” 

He would not, and Spock did not like the way he had stepped into his Captain’s space, or the way his hand lingered there, at the place where the column of Kirk’s neck joined the sharp line of his trapezoid. Or the way he said obedience. 

Or anything about this at all. He felt his jaw tighten and his eyes narrow involuntarily. 

Spock could see the way the Klingon’s rough hand rose and fell with Kirk’s quick, excited breaths and he did not like it. 

Jim, meanwhile, was moments from snapping, from throwing his fists in the Klingon’s face, nevermind that they were outnumbered by a factor of twenty to one in this council chamber alone.

They walked the thinnest of lines, now, between survival and violence. Spock fought for control of the situations, and the emotions that battered at the edges of his consciousness.

“We are not interested in offering resistance,” Spock lied again, and was aware of the tightness in his voice. He willed his Captain to hear it, and take the implied message. Now is not the time to fight, Jim. Save your strength.

This time when Kor looked at Spock, his gaze lingered there. He seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he said,

“Take the Vulcan to be questioned.”

“No!” Spock flinched as Kirk swung his fist, but Kor had anticipated the attack and was faster. He deflected the blow easily and then hit Kirk hard across the face with the back of his hand. Spock caught him as he stumbled backward, and then held him. 

He was correct to do so. Kirk did not hesitate in launching toward Kor a second time, attempting to push off Spock’s body with no moment for thought between the blow he had received and its instinctive answer (to be hit is to create an opening, he had told Sulu once in Spock’s hearing). But Spock had superior strength and held the wild, twisting body easily against his chest. He felt, as he did, the wild rage cresting in his captain.

“Be still,” he said quietly into Kirk’s ear, and his captain, against all Spock’s expectation, obeyed. Spock felt him leash his anger, box it away, compartmentalise it. For later. 

He wondered at it. 

 Kor watched them, the leer still firmly in place.

“Do you object to my taking him, then?” He addressed Kirk, not Spock.

“He’s done nothing,” Kirk spit from his place, held hard against his First Officer’s chest. “Nothing at all.”

“You are concerned for him.”

“He is my friend.”

Kor laughed at this, and then motioned to two Klingon guards, who had been waiting with the Organian prisoners. 

“You do not like to be pushed. I like that about you. I may have a use for you. You will come to my office and I will familiarise you with some new…duties under Klingon rule.”

Kirk lunged forward again, but Spock anticipated the move and still had his grip tight, his fingers digging hard into his Captain’s bicep. Kirk looked at him, dismayed and confused, and the expression made something deep inside Spock twist. 

“Save your strength,” he said to his Captain. “Do not fear for me.” And as he said it, he willed it, sending reassurance and strength along the telepathic link between them, unsure if it would be received or not.

And then he let go, and let his faint ephemeral connection to his captain’s mind shred like smoke on the wind. 

The two Klingons reached them and seized Spock roughly. There was so much more he wanted to say. Don’t die, Jim. Just do as he says. I will come for you. I can protect you. But he did not, because there was no time and it would not help either of them. He let his body go slack, offering his captors no resistance, pliable as an Organian. 

The Klingon Kor already knew he could use Spock against Kirk.  Spock would not add ammunition to his stockpile. 

But oh how he disliked the way Kor looked at his Captain. It reminded him too much of how a Sehlat watches an injured bird. The creature would play with its pretty prey, batting it about and taking great pleasure in the way it fluttered and attempted to escape or defend itself – until it inevitably tired of the game and killed it. Spock watched the Klingon’s face as he was pulled away, and saw the way the corners of his thin lips curled up in pleasure as he devoured Spock's captain with his eyes. 

“Finally, something on this planet to do.” 

No, what he was feeling was stronger than dislike. 

Hatred. 

~*~

"You'll have a drink with me, little wolf?" The Klingon indicated a chair. Jim did not sit. 

They were away from the council chambers now, in the grandest of the Organian government’s former officers. That wasn’t saying much. Like the rest of the compound, this room was spartan, with a few simple pieces of furniture and a large window overlooking the treed courtyard. The space was now empty of Organians.  

"No, thank you.”

Kor did not sit either, pacing to the other side of his appropriated office and turning to face his guest. 

"I assure you it isn't drugged.” 

“What do you want from me?” Jim was not afraid of Kor. He knew he probably should be, but somehow he could not muster fear from under the hard edge of his anger. 

He was pretty sure he could take the Klingon in a fight, if it came to that. Kor was armed, but Jim was quick, and had been more badly mismatched before. He thought he could get the knife out of the Klingon’s hand if he had to. Kor was overconfident. He had left his cronies outside. 

But fighting appeared not to be on Kor’s mind. He turned to Jim with his cruel mouth turned up in an abbreviation of a smile. 

“Oh, I want a very great deal,” he growled. “But first I want to talk. Just talk.”

“Why should I talk to an enemy?” Jim’s impetuousness was automatic.

“You'll talk. Either here, voluntarily, or later, with the mind ripper.” 

Jim frowned at the unfamiliar and unexpected term. “The what?” 

Kor’s small smile widened into a grin, exposing a long row of glittering teeth. Jim had played right into his trap. He had wanted him to ask.  

“For the purposes of war, we obtained a mental device which can extract thoughts from the organic brain. It has unfortunate side effects, however. And I prefer you mentally whole, for now.”

Spock. Dread suffused him. He must have given some outward sign, because Kor said, a smile his voice: 

“Your companion will be finding out about it now.”

For a wild moment, Jim wanted to throw himself at Kor and kill him. But Spock’s words came to him: Do not fear for me. 

Spock was a trained telepath. One of the strongest in the known universe. Stronger than any Klingon device, surely. Jim had seen evidence of his mental strength with his own eyes on several occasions. There were…defences, he knew, that Spock could deploy.

Still, the idea of his First officer being subjected unwillingly to mental torture made him desperately afraid and unreasonably angry in a way that Kor’s threat to his own body had not.

Spock had always been secretive about his abilities. Jim had come to understand that this was because telepathy was an intimate act. To force it on Spock would be akin to violation. 

Kor must have seen something deadly rise in Jim’s expression because his hand shifted close to the hilt of his long knife. 

“You are unlike your peers, Barona,” he said softly. “Where they cringe and retire, you bristle and snap. Among them all, you alone show courage. You alone have the capacity for honour.”

“There is no honour to be had or Organia,” said Jim. He watched Kor through narrowed eyes as the Klingon ran a hand over the smooth hilt of his knife.

“Perhaps,” said Kor, and drew it, examining the blade carefully.

For the first time since arriving on Organia, and as he watched the knife glitter in the planet’s strong sunlight, Jim experienced self doubt. 

Perhaps he had made a mistake in challenging Kor. It was clear that the Klingon had not completely bought Ayelborne’s story. He knew that his prisoners were not ordinary Organian diplomats, and now he circled them like an eagle over a sparrow’s nest, looking for their weak point. He suspected that he had found something juicy, something important for his war. He was reluctant to kill them before he knew what it was. Now he sought a slip in their thin disguise, or a confession.  

The Klingon began to walk toward him, his knife drawn but held idly. Jim eyed him warily.

“I admire men like you. You have courage. You would…challenge me.”

Jim watched the knife hand covertly, keeping his eye on it even as Kor stepped into his personal space, his breath ruffling Jim’s hair, his armoured body making Jim feel suddenly small and soft. He forced himself not to move, even though his instincts screamed at him to step backwards. Something told him that a show of weakness would not do here. 

There was a growl building in Kor’s throat, and Jim thought now comes that fight you’ve been looking for. Are you sure you can take him?

With the huge Klingon in his face, armour glinting in the afternoon sun, and a snarl on his lips, the odds seemed a little more tenuous than they had a moment ago. 

The klingon struck without warning. 

Kor grabbed his wrist and Jim twisted instinctively, turning out of the snaking grip. Kor roared and followed. The sound was so loud and close that Jim was momentarily disoriented. Kor’s bigger body slammed into him, and he felt himself connect with stone hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

No, his odds in this fight were not good at all.

Kor had a fist tangled in the collar of Jim’s shirt and twisted it, forcing Jim to his feet. His face was inches from Jim’s own, looking down at his victim, and Jim could feel his hot breath on his face. He scrabbled to get his hands on Kor’s. He must find that knife, control it before it ended up in his belly.

“On Kronos we take the things we like,” Kor growled, his voice low. 

“I like you, little wolf. I would take you.”

Jim’s fumbling fingers managed to find the rough flesh of Kor’s knife arm, but the Klingon twisted before he could get a grip.

“I do you great honour by engaging you in courtship,” Kor said, “but your body is poorly suited to it. I will show you some mercy.”

“Courtship?” Jim gasped, and then Kor bit him. 

Jim felt his cheek split under sharp teeth. He yelled, part in surprise and part in terror, throwing all his strength toward shoving his attacker from him. 

Kor stumbled back, but to Jim’s horror he didn’t look surprised or even angry. He just grinned. 

There was blood on his teeth. Jim’s blood. 

“You catch on quickly,” he growled, and his voice was husky. Before Jim could make sense of what was happening Kor lunged again, and this time the knife was in his hand. Jim dodged and grabbed at the Klingon’s thick wrist as he moved. A quick twist saw the knife drop to the floor and Jim kicked at it desperately. As it clattered across the floor, Jim dove after it. But Kor was quicker. He stepped back, forcing Jim to come up short and then stood between Jim and the knife without reaching for it, still grinning, hands spread in a combat stance.   

A challenge. an invitation. 

Behind Jim’s back, the office door slammed open so hard it hit the opposite wall. Jim flinched, jumping back and out of reach until he could assess the new threat.

As he did he observed how Kor’s eyes never left his face. That kind of focus was terrifying. 

Jim kept Kor in his peripheral as he dragged his gaze to the door. At first he didn’t see Spock between the bodies of the Klingon guards, but then he was there and had to swallow the impulse to say his name in his relief. 

“General, we have concluded our interrogation.”

Spock looked whole,  and he met Jim’s eyes with his serious dark ones that looked no less sharp than usual. Then his eyes flicked over Jim’s body, searching for signs of injury, and lingered on the bloody gash on Jim’s cheek. 

Jim put his hand to it, self conscious, and felt his fingers slip in fresh blood. 

Abrupt humiliation burned in him. He had thought himself a match for Kor. But the Klingon had been merely toying with him. 

“Well?” Kor snarled. 

“He is as he claims to be. We sensed only apprehension. A suitable emotion, connected only to his economic prospects.”

Kor said nothing. His teeth were still bared, and still red with Jim’s blood, announcing to the world what he had done, and what he intended to do.

“Are you all right?” Jim asked Spock, unable to take his eyes from him. 

“I am unharmed, Barona.” He sounded like himself, too. Calm, but with a clipped tone that betrayed his concern. Jim briefly considered the odds of the two of them taking on the three Klingons in the room, and then discarded it. There would be more enemies in the hallway, and an army outside. Untenable numbers. He did not need a percentage from Spock.  

“Then you must test this one,” Kor said, and indicated Jim. Jim’s head snapped around to the Klingon, surprised. 

“Regrettable,” Kor continued, “We were just getting to know each other.” The leer on his face was more ominous coloured red. 

Spock’s expression hardened.

“We have told you everything,” the Vulcan said. “You will gain nothing from using the device on Barona.” 

“So you say,” said Kor, and motioned to his guards. Jim backed up instinctively.

“They used the device on you Spock,” said Jim nervously, “and you said you are unharmed.”

“My mind is different from yours.” Different meant weaker. Defenceless. Bones had always said that Jim had the psychic abilities of a stick. Although Spock had never articulated his agreement he hadn’t disagreed, either.

The Klingons left Spock and seized Jim, gripping his biceps. Jim did not fight, his gaze on his first officer as if looking for some hint, some sign, of what they might do. He was at a loss. Spock had told him not to fear for him, but should he now fear for himself? Should he allow himself to be subjected to the Klingon device and die slowly, or to test himself against the Klingon army and die now? 

Briefly, and with a sour twist of irony, Jim realised that his anxieties back on Enterprise about the future of his relationship with Spock under the Klingon war had been for nothing. He would not live to see it.  

“Wait,” Spock said. He was standing alone now, framed in the door alone, concern drawn on his face. 

“I will tell you what you want to know.”

Jim tried to convey what the fuck vibes to his First officer without saying anything, but the Vulcan wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Kor. And he looked…angry.

Kor had stopped smiling, all of the games and mocking gone from him.

“Who is he?” the Klingon asked directly, and pointed a scaled finger directly at Jim. “Who is he really?”

“Captain James T. Kirk, of the U.S.S. Enterprise,” said Spock without hesitation, and Jim felt a spike of betrayal in his gut. There. The thing Kor had wanted to know. Gifted to him on a platter, and seemingly without effort.

Spock had changed the nature of the equation now, throwing in a new variable. Jim knew he should trust his First officer’s calculus, but could not help but feel dismayed as surprise and then pleasure registered on Kor’s face as Jim’s secret was revealed. 

“A starship commander,” he said, and there was an undertone of sudden understanding in his voice. “And his Vulcan first officer…”

He turned to look at Jim again, finally, and his gaze was victorious. 

“I have heard of you. I had hoped to beat you in battle. To find you here…” A grin spread across his face. He approached Jim again, where he now stood between the two Klingon guards. Jim straightened and did not back away, although his instincts screamed at him to run. 

“And to find you so…appealing.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Spock shift minutely at the words, tension finding its way into his long limbs. He looked to his First accusingly. 

Had Spock thought that telling Kor who he was would make things better? This didn’t seem better. 

“You will tell me how many ships Starfleet is bringing, and their frequencies,” said Kor. Jim choked out a laugh. 

“Even if I knew, I would not.” he said, truthfully. Spock might be all for divulging state secrets, but Jim wasn’t about to. 

“I will get the information one way or another,” said Kor. “Either here or with the mind ripper.” Jim said nothing, and Kor tilted his head, thoughtfully.

“You of the Federation, you are much like us,” he mused.

“We're nothing like you,” Jim snapped. “We're a democratic body.”

“A minor ideological difference,” Kor countered.

“How can you say that we are not alike when we are here, together, on a planet full of sheep? Two wolves, predators, hunters, killers, out to take the universe.”

“We are not here to take the universe, Commander, but to explore it.”

Kor gave him a condescending look. “And yet here we are, in this battle of wills. The winner will be a test of power. Survival must be earned, Captain.”

“Every being has the right to survive,” said Spock, calmly. Kor turned to him. 

“A weak sentiment,” he said dismissively. “And one of the many reasons why you will lose this test of will and power. Will lose your precious Starfleet Captain. I play to win, Vulcan. It is something you will discover.”

Kor turned abruptly and walked to his abandoned blade, where it had spun into the dust of the sandstone floor. 

Jim’s mouth went dry. 

“I like you, Captain. I have made that clear. I would still take you for my own, should you prove useful to me. So I will give you twelve hours to reconsider your position,” Kor said. 

“Then I expect you to provide me with the information on Starfleet’s attack. If you do not, the Vulcan dies and you become a mental vegetable. Not a pleasant prospect.”

“It will take a lot longer than twelve hours to change my mind, Commander.”

“Longer than that I will not wait. I respect you, Captain, but my patience has limits.” He gestured to his guards.

“Lock them up.”

~*~

Spock had a moment to wonder why a civilization like the Ogranians would have any reason to build prison cells.

Then he was thrown roughly into one. 

He stumbled, and was able to right himself just in time to catch Kirk, who was thrown in after him, and whose smaller body proved easier to propel by muscular Klingons. He caught his captain and, for the second time in just a few short hours, held him tight as he turned to throw himself into a fight he couldn't possibly win.

The sensation of frustrated rage that washed over him through the touch had begun to feel familiar. 

The cell door slammed with a bang as Jim wrenched out of Spock’s grip. 

“It's no use, Jim. There are at least fifteen guards in this section of the structure alone.” His captain stood, breathing hard and glaring through the steel bars at the armoured backs of the two burly Klingon guards as they retreated down the long stone corridor. His fists were clenched at his sides, and Spock was aware of the way his rage had left echoes in his own mind. 

With some difficulty, Spock turned his attention to their new surroundings. The room was large and deeply shadowed. They were deep underground, and surrounded on three sides by stone. The front of the room was closed off by iron bars, latched with a heavy bolt. The room appeared to have been carved out of the sandstone that made the building blocks of the rest of the Organian capital. The air in the underground space was cool, but at least dry, and there was clean straw and wool blankets piled on low stone benches against the wall. 

It was the platonic ideal of a cell, Spock thought with some astonishment. It was as if someone had heard the concept of imprisonment described to them but had not completely understood its purpose. 

“Why did you tell him?” Jim was uninterested in their new surroundings and lacking an outlet for his anger. He turned it on Spock. He was flushed, and his breath was coming high in his chest, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, from resisting his captors. Spock turned his full attention on his captain, aware that he was owed some kind of explanation and unsure how to give it in a way that would not produce an explosion. 

“He would have killed you,” he said simply. Jim’s emotions were running high, and Spock realised with faint alarm that he could still feel them, ever so faintly. He wondered if it was a lingering effect of the Klingon’s psychological device, which had not harmed him but had frayed the edges of his defences. 

“I could not allow them to take you.”

He probed carefully along the link he felt with his Captain, attempting to ascertain its nature. It felt raw and bloody, like a thing newly born, and he shied away from it instinctively. 

Given its presence, he wondered how much of the pain he sensed was himself and how much of it was his captain. 

“You don’t know that,” Jim spat.

“I do. I was subjected to this device they call the mind ripper. It is a powerful and evil machine. I was only able to withstand it because of my training. Even so I was…affected.”

This was a vague thing to say, and Spock wondered if he owed Kirk some explanation. Should he alert his captain to the connection that had apparently formed between them? Kirk’s glare didn’t slacken, but there was something else in the bond: A yawning, screaming, desperate pain. How had he never noticed that before? 

“You told me not to worry about you,” he said, each word dropping like a chip of ice on the stone.

“Neither of us could have predicted that the Klingons would have obtained such a device,” Spock said reasonably, and sought equilibrium. He continued, with difficulty: 

“It is most uncharacteristic for a race that values physical tests of strength so highly.”

Unable to bear the pain coming from his captain any longer, he crossed the cell with quick steps and lifted a hand to gently touch his cheek.

Where Kor had bitten him. 

The sight of the mark made him unspeakably angry. And that rage did not come from Jim at all. It was cold and deadly and all Spock. He breathed and remembered that such feelings would do him little good now.

“He hurt you.”

“It's nothing.” Kirk brushed Spock’s hand away and the Vulcan let it fall to his side. But those striking eyes were cast down and away, and the anger had gone out of them entirely. In its place, humiliation rose. Mixed with the pain, it tasted like bile in the back of Spock’s throat. 

Spock felt like he had been punched in the gut, and the emotion was not one that he could easily dismiss.

“It is not nothing,” he said fiercely. Kor had been instigating a courtship. The bite had been foreplay. Even if Kirk hadn’t studied up on his Klingon customs and behaviour, he must have gleaned Kor’s intent. And in this sense, it was more than a cut – it was a violation. That he knew so, and experienced it as such, could be read in the emotions that curled from him as they faced each other. 

“It could become infected. It should be cleaned immediately,” Spock said in a clipped tone.  

Kirk sighed. “With what, Spock?” There was no water in the cell. 

“Sit,” said Spock stubbornly. “I will do the best with what I have.”

Kirk obeyed, and Spock sat next to him, tearing a strip of fabric from his Organian robe as he did and trying not to think about the way that Kirk’s emotions ebbed through his mind like a tide: shamepaindesperation. He brushed the dried blood from his Captain’s face as best he could. The wound, when it was cleaned, was not as bad as it had first looked.

“You will not scar,” Spock observed, and Jim made a face.

“Ah, my good looks will not be compromised then. Bones will be pleased.” 

Spock made a noncommitted noise. In his opinion, very little could compromise his Captain’s good looks. But he was not about to say so. 

“What are we going to do Spock?” The question was asked softly, and Spock looked up in surprise into his Captain’s shadowed eyes. There was real uncertainty there.

“Logically, Captain, we wait. Twelve hours may just be enough time for Starfleet to arrive and rout the Klingons.”

“May just be? That’s not very precise of you, Spock.”

Spock eyed his captain. In truth, he had not calculated the odds. There were too many variables. 

 “Why did you tell the Klingons?” Kirk asked again, softly. Spock stayed close to him, although he had finished cleaning the wound. His proximity had inexplicably made the rolling tides of Jim’s emotions ebb a little. It was a relief to both of them. 

“I have told you already, Jim. They would have killed you. You must admit that our situation is improved as a result. Where you once had mere minutes to live, you now have eleven-point-five-eight hours.”

“We could have talked our way out.”

“No,” said Spock simply, voicing facts they both already knew. “Kor might not have known the extent of our deception, but he knew he was being deceived. He would not hesitate to use his device to get what he wanted from you, his apparent affection for ‘Barona’ notwithstanding. I predicted that his respect for a Starfleet captain is a somewhat greater lever for us to use in this battle of wills. I was, as I noted, correct.”

Kirk watched Spock silently, dark eyes boring into him.

“Fought, then. There were two of us.”

“And fifteen of them. No, Jim, we would have died. Perhaps even faster than if you had remained ‘Barona.’”

The way Jim set his jaw and stared at the wall over Spock’s shoulder told him he knew his First officer was right. 

“What do you think of what he said, Spock?” he asked finally, changing the subject. 

“Are we really two sides of the same coin? Exploration and conquest? Human and Klingon?”

Spock looked at his blonde wolf and said nothing. Kirk met his eyes, mouth twisting into a bitter smile, and Spock sensed self-hatred like a sharp spice on the air.

“How hypocritical I must seem to you.” 

Spock shook his head and denied both the words and the sentiment.

“No, Captain. Humanity, much like the Vulcan race, is driven by its curiosity. You do not explore in order to subjugate, as the Klingons do, but to understand, with mutual respect. It is that very characteristic – curiosity and mutual respect – that has drawn our people together, over time. It is what draws me to you.”

Kirk was silent. Then, 

“Drawn to me, are you?” he asked, finally, in a playful drawl that Spock recognised from many games of chess. Spock felt relief, and cautiously allowed it to suffuse him. They were through it then, and back on familiar ground. 

“Of course,” he said. “I am constantly curious about what disaster you will find yourself in next.”

Kirk’s flashing grin made something Spock had been holding tight suddenly loosen.

“Captain,” he began, and Kirk growled,

“For the love of all that is holy, Spock, call me Jim. We are quite possibly twelve hours from death.”

“Eleven point four nine,” Spock corrected, and Jim rolled his eyes.

“Jim,” Spock began again, “I apologise for betraying your secret to Kor. I acted impulsively, and without your permission.”

Kirk sighed, and leaned toward Spock, so that the Vulcan could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes and the faint freckles that dotted his cheekbones. 

“It's alright.” 

They were very close together now. So close that it took hardly any movement at all for Jim to tip his face upwards and brush his lips over Spock’s, gentle and fleeting, like a caress. 

It was a gesture of his affection. Spock knew this because he could feel it in him, strengthened when their mouths touched. It was possible Jim had made the gesture without thinking, drawn to Spock’s warmer body by the cool air in the cells, grateful to be with rather than without. Humans craved closeness and physical contact, they showed their appreciation for each other through physical touch. Spock had often observed such behaviour. He often observed it in his captain.

Spock desperately sought logic in the gesture as he felt the brush of Jim’s lips, roughed slightly from the dry Organian air. 

But there was no logic at all in the yearning that Spock felt from Jim like an outstretched hand. No logic in the carefully leashed desire. None, certainly, in the answering flare of Spock’s arousal. 

Jim froze and pulled back an inch, his eyes wide, and Spock was certain that he had felt it too. Somehow, Jim’s mind had opened to him and now sensation flowed both ways. 

Spock brought his hands to his Captain’s face, buried his fingers in blonde hair, and pulled their mouths together roughly. 

Jim’s lips parted pleasingly under his own and Spock felt his fingers tighten involuntarily, holding desperately, letting him feel how he had feared for him. He was rewarded with answering emotion from Jim, bright and hot and streaking across his emotional awareness like a comet.

“Spock…” Jim gasped and pulled back, but only a millimetre and Spock let go, dropping his hands. The intensity of the transference between them lessened as physical touch was broken, and Spock felt like a man coming up for air from deep beneath water. 

“Jim,” he said, and was surprised at the desire apparent in it. 

“What are you doing?” It was a whisper, and Jim’s eyes were huge and dark in the shadows, like the surface of the earth’s sea. 

What was he doing? In truth he had no good answer. But he knew what he wanted. And he knew what Jim wanted. He could give that to them both. 

Spock reached for the collar of his Organian regalia. A moment later, it was on the floor, leaving him naked to the waist. Jim just stared. Those generous lips were slightly parted, and his hair mussed where Spock’s fingers had tangled in it. 

He was, Spock thought, perfection. 

“I do not know, captain.”

Something in his mental landscape had changed without his notice or permission. Perhaps, as he had hypothesised, it was an aftereffect of the Klingon device.  Perhaps it was something else. Something longer, and with deeper roots. 

He found that he did not care. 

Jim closed the distance between them in two quick steps, hands finding Spock’s bare torso and running down over Spock’s ribs. Spock suppressed the feeling of easy pleasure this gave him, and reached for the buckle of Jim’s trousers. 

Not about to yield control of the situation to Spock entirely, Jim pulled back from him abruptly and ripped his shirt over his own head, dropping it to the stone floor without looking at it. He was shaking as he stepped out of his trousers. 

Spock could feel the tremors of his muscles under his hands, and realised that he had seized Kirk by his naked waist without meaning to. Jim did not object, and when Spock kissed him again he gasped into his mouth. 

The sound of it went straight to the primal parts of Spock’s brain. He was momentarily shocked by the strength of his own desire, but did not have time to consider it completely because Jim was arching into him and Spock could feel what he had not had a chance to see in his urgency. Jim was hard. Ready for him. 

Spock wrapped his hands around Jim’s bare back, feeling the ripple of tensed muscles under the pads of his fingers. He moved his mouth from Jim’s lips to his jaw, and then down the column of his neck. Jim’s head lolled to the side, giving him better access even as he pressed into Spock, seeking the contact of bare skin. 

Spock found the place where Kor’s hand had lain, at the junction between Jim’s neck and his shoulder and sucked a careful bruise there. Jim made a low, pleased noise and Spock was again shocked at its effect on him. 

Jim, every move he made, every sound that passed his lips, seemed to bypass Spock’s brain and go straight to his body, making pleasure curl in his stomach and desire flash through his capillaries, white hot. 

Spock dropped to his knees before his Captain, his only thought to elicit more of what Kirk was already giving him. 

“Hey,” Jim was surprised but slow. His strong fingers were already pushing into Spock’s hair, and the feeling of his nails scraping across Spock’s scalp made him lean into the touch. But he could not afford to wait for Jim to come up with a suitable protest, some logical objection that would stop him from doing what he wanted to do, now. 

He met Jim’s eyes as he took his cock in his hands and guided him to his mouth, so that he did not miss the way they widened and then closed in pleasure as his head fell back. The fingers in Spock’s hair tightened as he took the head gently between his lips and then pressed his tongue against the base before sliding Kirk fully into his mouth.

“Spock,” Jim breathed. Spock wanted to curl up in the way Jim said his name and stay there for the rest of his life. 

He turned his attention to his work, using his hands to help deal with Jim’s length and feeling the way Jim tensed and quivered under him, his fingers alternately tightening and stroking Spock’s hair, running over the points of his ears, Spock’s name falling from his lips like a prayer, all thought of protest gone. 

It took no time at all for Spock to find what Jim needed from him. He came with a series of stuttering breaths, his hips bucking. Spock wrapped one hand around Jim’s hip to steady himself, gripping hard enough to bruise, focused on swallowing what Jim gave him. He was certain Jim could feel the triumph that coursed through him. 

Jim fell to his knees, bringing their faces level, and then wrapped his arms around Spock’s shoulders and pulled their mouths together. He must have tasted himself on Spock’s tongue because he made another pleased noise and pushed hungrily into Spock’s mouth, as if to taste all of it and know again how Spock had swallowed him, willing and eager. 

Spock allowed himself to be guided to the floor, where they lay, facing each other in the semi-darkness. Spock kept his eyes lowered, but their faces were close together and Jim’s hand was on his jaw. His thumb stroked down over Spock’s bottom lip, and the movement made Spock look at him. 

“Spock.” 

The thing between them no longer felt so tenuous or so raw. It felt solid and heavy. And Spock had better control of it now. He found he could filter the emotions that coursed along it, as one could do with the bond of a family member or mate.

The thought was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

He quested along it carefully now, reaching toward Jim. He was not sure what he expected to find there. Perhaps fear, or judgement, or possibly relief. He was not prepared for the undisguised desire that greeted him. He looked at Jim, surprised, and was equally unprepared to find Jim’s pupils blown out, the irises shrunk to a thin hazel line, and his gaze hooded. He would not meet Spock’s eyes at all but focused on his mouth, which was no doubt swollen and red with the work he had done, and perhaps still slick with saliva, and he wanted. 

“Yes,” he said, and was surprised at the way his own voice sounded thick with his own arousal, which still burned in him, unresolved. 

“Fuck me,” Jim said, and it was little more than a whisper but it was still a command. Then he ruined all his authority by begging.

“Please, Spock.”

Spock had to close his eyes against that wave of want as it crashed over him, and even so felt the way his hands tightened on Kirk’s body, sinking into his flesh. Jim’s hiss of mixed pain and pleasure was what snapped him back to reality, allowing his fingers to relax, to stroke rather than hold. 

He would not. Could not. Not here. It was not what either of them wanted, really. 

As if sensing Spock’s refusal even before it was voiced, Jim let out a little sigh and twisted his body against Spock’s. He was still naked, and now covered in a fine sheen of sweat that made him glow like gold in the darkness. Spock realised with alarm that his Captain had considerable power over him like this. He gasped as Jim’s bare thigh pushed against his straining cock through the soft linen of his trousers and saw how the sound elicited a curling smile on Jim’s generous lips.

Such power was incredibly dangerous in those hands.

“Jim, I cannot,” he said, but his voice sounded strained.

“You can,” Jim growled, and his hands slid over Spock’s hips, finding the waist of his trousers and pushing under them, insistent. Spock caught Jim’s hands in his own, pulled them gently to his mouth, and kissed their palms, one after the other.

“I will not, then,” Spock amended, gently. 

“Now is not that time. I will not cause you pain.”

The frustrated noise Jim made caused the corner of Spock’s lips to turn up involuntarily. 

“When we get out of here –” Jim started, and Spock interrupted him.

“Yes, Jim.” 

Jim pulled his hands out of Spock’s grip and threw his arms around his First’s neck, pulling him into a rough embrace. Spock returned the gesture,  threading his arms around Jim’s bare waist and pulling their bodies together so that they fit, like two pieces in a very simple puzzle. 

“You should dress,” he murmured into Kirk’s shoulder. “Before you become cold.” 

Kirk sighed and rolled away long enough to fetch his abandoned clothing and pull it on resentfully. Spock observed his petulance with a certain fondness, and took his own shirt obediently when Jim proffered it. When they were both fully clothed again, Jim returned to Spock’s side, pressing their shoulders together. Spock wrapped his arms around his captain and pulled him down to the rough blankets with his back against Spock’s chest. He could feel Jim’s heart beating, slow and steady, comfortingly alive and vital in Spock’s arms. He smoothed blonde hair out of his face and placed his mouth by his Captain’s ear.

“Sleep now,” he said. 

Jim sighed and obeyed, slipping easily into unconsciousness. Spock lay still beside him, feeling how his breath slowed and deepened. He envied his captain for his seeming ability to sleep anywhere, regardless of the great personal and professional danger that faced them or the physical discomfort of their circumstances. Spock should sleep as well, he thought, or meditate. But he knew even as he thought it that either would be impossible now. 

He had stepped suddenly into the unknown with Kirk, and this strange new world that they found themselves in was one he was not at all sure he could navigate.

~*~ 

 When Spock woke, several hours later, it took him a moment to remember that the warmth in his arms was Jim, and that he was laying there of his own volition, and that he had begged Spock to take him, there on the floor an Organian cell, against all logic and self-preservation.

He wondered for a moment if it had been a dream, some kind of hallucination induced by the Klingon’s mind device or – 

And he realised, suddenly, what had bothered him about Organia. What his human instincts had been telling him all along, but his logical Vulcan mind had belligerently ignored. 

Organia looked like Vulcan because it was Vulcan. It looked like earth because it was. Their cell looked like it had been built by someone who didn’t fully understand the purpose of imprisonment because it had been. 

This world had been created. And it had been created specifically for them. Humans. Vulcans. Klingons. I represented a weird mix of what they expected from a planet, just familiar enough to be comfortable to him, just unfamiliar enough to keep him from seeing the truth.

But if the world was created, what of the people? What of the Organians themselves? Spock sucked in a breath to wake his captain. 

He was interrupted by the sound of Aleyborne clearing her throat. 

He was on his feet so quickly he barely registered the movement, and at his side Jim came into consciousness reaching for his stolen phaser instinctively and cursing when he came up empty. 

“Gentlemen,” said Ayelborne, and indicated the open door of the cell. The annoyed expression Spock had observed on her face the last time he had seen her in the Organian council chambers seemed to have taken up permanent residence.

Had it been Ayelborne who made this place?

“The Klingons –” Kirk started to say, pulling himself to his feet. 

“I have gathered them already,” she replied, snippily. Indeed, there were no guards in the hall. 

Of course there are not, Spock thought. But before he could say anything, Ayelborne repeated her gesture, more sharply this time. She made reality as she wished it. 

“If you please, gentlemen. My patience grows thinner by the second.” 

Suddenly aware of the power discrepancy between them, Spock snapped his mouth closed. 

It was best, Spock had found, not to ask too many questions when talking with a creature as powerful as Ayelborne. He turned smartly on his heel, and led the way out. 

~*~

The council chambers were empty when they arrived, with the exception of Kor and two guards, who stood when Kirk and Spock entered.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kor bellowed, and started across the chamber in long strides, the knife at his hip drawn and pointed straight at Ayelborne. The fear that Jim had felt when he had been alone with Kor came rushing back to him. But this time he was not alone, and he was not the target of the Klingon’s rage. 

His relief turned abruptly into shock, as he realised that Kor was not slowing, that he meant to kill Ayelborne, right there, before them all. 

Jim started to step between Ayeborne and Kor, legs wide and arms spread for a fight. But before Kor reached them, Spock had grabbed his shoulders and pulled him aside.

Jim watched in horror as Ayelborne stepped calmly into the spot where Jim had been about to move, and directly onto Kor’s blade. 

There was a flash, and the knife clattered to the floor. Kor jumped back as if stung. His guards, who had hung back, moved to draw their weapons. But Ayelborne made a gesture and suddenly they, too, had dropped their blades and were stepping back, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Gentlemen,” said Ayelborne calmly, as if she had not just been stabbed. Jim stared in shock.

“What’s happening?” he hissed, and Spock hushed him, his hand tight on his wrist. 

“We have begun to find your war game tiresome,” she continued, ignoring Jim completely. “Here on Organia, we have lived a peaceful existence for hundreds of thousands of years. We were aware, of course, that our location on the border land of several habitable systems meant that one day, we would be contacted by other species.”

She turned to look at Jim and he realised, then, that there was something strange about her eyes. They were black, from the iris in, and studded with stars. How had he not noticed that before?

“We had hoped,” she said, indicating Jim, “that by providing your Earth’s ‘Federation’ with standard data about a fictional species and providing a familiar reality –” she indicated around herself at the council chambers with its smooth sandstone walls – “where you would feel at home when you visited would suffice to encourage friendly, but preferably limited interspecies relations. We have a policy, you see, a kind of code of ethics not dissimilar to your own, a principal tenant of which is non-interference.” She paused briefly before continuing, breathing in through her nose like a woman who is reaching the very end of her tolerance. 

“We are an advanced species,” she said without a trace of ego, “we wanted to avoid undue influence on the natural evolution of human society.”

“The prime directive,” Jim whispered, and was unsure how he felt about being the subject of such a philosophy, rather than its administrator. Ayelborne ignored him, and turned now to Kor, and her lips thinned into an irritated line.

“When it became clear that humans were not the only species with an interest in our planet, I was nominated among our people to facilitate relations. We were not aware, when we made this decision, that the humans and the Klingons were at war.”

“The nature of your species is of no interest to me,” Kor spat. “You will serve on your knees, regardless.”

Ayelborne raised a thin eyebrow and said, simply, 

“I think not. And indeed it has become clear to us that the task of facilitating relations between our three peoples is no longer desirable. You will leave. All of you. At the earliest possible opportunity. And you will not return.”

She turned now to look at Jim with those strange black eyes. 

“I trust you will be able to resolve your differences…elsewhere.”

“The Federation would be honoured to have the opportunity to learn more about your people,” Jim said, cautiously, his mind putting together the pieces even as he spoke, “if you would allow us. Perhaps we could learn from each other.” 

Ayelborne appeared to consider, her head tilted to one side. “I think not,” she said, for the second time, and there was a finality in it. 

“We will respect your decision,” Spock cut in before Jim could protest. “But you should know that we are unable to leave Organia until our ship returns.”

“You will find,” she said primly, “that your vessels await you now.” She held out her hand. In her palm, their communicators glistened. 

Jim reached out and took them both, silent. Her hand was cool where his fingertips brushed it, but he had a sudden sensation of depth when he did. It was as if he had brushed his fingers over the surface of the ocean, rather than the flesh of a woman. He passed Spock’s communicator back, clipping his own to the front of his Organian garb.

“You will find that Klingons do not acquiesce so easily,” Kor growled.

Ayelborne sighed. 

“The Klingons do not have a choice,” she said. 

“Goodbye, Kor. You have been ever so charming. Please feel free to continue your war with the Federation literally anywhere else.”

Kor opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything he abruptly disappeared. Ayelborne had made no movement or gesture. She stared at the space where he had been for a few moments and then turned to Jim and Spock.

“We Organians have many talents, Mr. Kirk. Transporting living creatures through our atmosphere and into small metal vessels hundreds of thousands of kilometres away is not our strongest. Kor’s journey will not have been especially comfortable.” She paused pointedly. 

“He is alive. I think.”

As a threat, Jim had to admit that this was effective. Spock was already activating his communicator.

“Sulu?”

“Spock! Is the Captain with you?”

“Yes. We would like to beam up now, please.”

Ayelborne smiled. It was not an especially friendly smile.

“Well, er, if you ever change your mind…” Jim started.

“We will not,” she said coolly.

“Do you have our positions?” Spock asked Sulu. He sounded a little desperate.

“Yes sir. Initiating transport, sir.”

The council chamber began to fade. 

As it did, Jim had the sensation of reality breaking down around him, of blackness creeping in around the edges of things, of Sandstone melting. Sandstone didn’t melt, as far as he knew.

Ayelborne herself was the last thing he saw, not human anymore but a mere impression of a thing, swirling and formless and so black she was almost purple.

And then she was gone.

~*~

“You've been most restrained since we left Organia,” Spock observed.

“I'm embarrassed,” Jim admitted, and pointedly avoided his First officer’s eyes. 

They were back on the Enterprise. Back in their uniforms. Back to chess in Jim’s quarters. 

Jim was grateful. He had been humiliated on three fronts in the last twelve hours. 

First, he had been beaten by Kor in hand to hand combat. 

Most recently, he had seen a demonstration of his own insignificance at the hands of a species thousands of times more powerful than humanity. 

And then right in the middle there was the whole business with Spock. Spock, on his knees in the dim light of the Organian prison cell, looking up at him with those dark eyes as he took Jim in his mouth because he had known that Jim wanted him. 

Jim had lost control in that moment. He had taken what Spock offered because he had been weak, and a bit desperate, and out of his element enough to forget himself.

In his defence, he’d thought they were going to die. All he had been able to think was that this was war, and he was going to lose Spock, and so he might as well, right?

In hindsight, it had been wildly unprofessional. 

The Vulcan seemed content to pretend that it simply had not happened. Jim did not know how that logical brain justified it, only that somehow it did. In the chaos of the retreat, and filing their reports with starfleet, and the disappearance of Organia from their sensors (all their sensors. It was still unclear how that had happened), Jim had let the matter of his personal and professional failure go unmentioned.

But they were going to have to talk about it eventually, and Jim was going to have to apologise. He could not put it off any longer. 

Spock moved his pawn, pensive.  

“It is unsettling to discover power beyond our comprehension,” he said in answer to Jim’s admission. “Particularly for a species that thinks of itself as intelligent and powerful, as humans do.”

“And Vulcans,” Kirk said, unable to let the dig slide. 

Spock nodded once. “Indeed, Vulcans too. Yet the Organians have evolved over millions of years. They did not spring into being overnight. Embarrassment is an illogical response for which we have no need, under the circumstances.”

Jim frowned, and moved his own pawn, threatening Spock’s rook. 

“That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

“You refer to the matter with Kor,” said Spock. “Although the situation was different, the reasons are the same. You think of yourself as adept at hand to hand combat. You lost the fight because of factors outside of your control. Being beaten by Kor does not diminish your ability, Captain.”

Spock moved another pawn, leaving his rook exposed. 

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” said Jim. “Your confidence in me is appreciated. But it was not that incident that I was referring to either.”

He took Spock’s rook, removing it from the board. 

“I was defeated, when they imprisoned us,” Jim acknowledged. 

“You saw me at my worst. You saw what I wanted, and you gave it to me. I accepted because…I was weak. But such behaviour is not befitting of a Captain, Spock. Not ever.”

He was talking around the issue, but could not find the words to say exactly what he meant. If a blow job in a prison cell improves our chances of survival by point-seven-three-percent, it's still a violation of Starfleet HR regulations. 

He was aware of Spock watching him, but could not meet that dark gaze. He braced himself for the response, for the logical reason that escaped him, but that he knew had motivated his First.   

Spock reached up and moved his queen.

“Check,” he said softly. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Jim said, and stood abruptly, pacing away from the table.

Spock stood with him but did not follow. Jim stood with his back to Spock and tried to figure out what to say.

“Captain,” said Spock after a moment, and Jim turned to look at him. He expression was minutely worried, brows drawn slightly together in concern. Jim felt his lips twist in an ugly expression. 

“Considering I came in your mouth less than twelve hours ago,” he said bitterly, “I think you can call me Jim.” 

It was Spock’s turn to look at the floor now, and Jim thought he could detect the faint green tinge of a blush on his cheeks. He was feeling bitter, and a bit catty, so he paced back to the table, his long stride eating up the distance and moved his queen without sitting down.

Spock had been playing poorly. 

“Checkmate,” he said. Spock’s eyes flew to the board in surprise. When Spock looked at him next, the blush was gone, and was replaced with disbelief.

“Now let me fucking apologise,” Jim said.

“A most astonishing gambit,” Spock responded, ignoring him completely 

“I did not anticipate you would....” And then suddenly he was in Jim’s space, stepping around the table with ease. He caught Jim’s shoulder in one hand. Jim could feel the heat of it through his uniform, feel the Vulcan’s breath stir his hair.  

And feel…something else. The echo of another mind – of Spock’s mind. Like he had in the Organian cell before – 

“There is no need for you to apologise,” Spock said quietly, and Jim’s breath caught. Because yes, it was the same heat, the same connectivity as before. He wondered if it was triggered through touch, and if Spock could feel it echoing through the sensitive fingers that wrapped around his bicep. 

“Everything I did on Organia, I did for myself as much as for you.”

Jim swallowed, and tried to apologise anyway because despite everything Spock was missing the point. 

“I’m sorry, Spock. I shouldn’t have – you shouldn’t feel like – “

“Do you regret my actions?” Spock asked, interrupting him. There was a tension there, evident in his voice and also in the mental connection that lay between them like a spider’s web. A fragility that Jim simultaneously did not know what to do with and also was completely terrified of.

“No,” he said truthfully. It was his own that he regretted. Spock’s actions had been…great. More than great. Mind blowing. 

“I admit to a certain…weakness,” Spock told him. “An embarrassment of my own.”

“You?” Jim asked, incredulous.

“I seem to have little control over myself when it comes to you, Jim.” Spock said. “Something had changed between us. I do not yet understand it myself, but I think you feel it too. I confess that when I saw the Klingon mark you, when I saw his desire for you, it created in me something ugly. Something I would not normally have indulged.”

As he told Jim this, he lifted his hand to his Captain’s cheek, where the bite Kor had inflicted had healed without a mark under McCoy’s tricorder. There was no sign of it now. The bruises on his neck, on the other hand…

And Jim thought, that makes two of us then. 

He had kept the collar of his Organian garb high during his post-mission medical examination. When McCoy had asked if he’d suffered any other damage besides the scrape on his cheek, he’d just said ‘a few minor bruises. Nothing worth firing up the Tricorder.’ McCoy had eyed him suspiciously, but there had been crewmen injured in the skirmish with the Klingons in Organan space, and he had been content to let his captain walk out, uninterrogated. 

He hadn’t wanted McCoy’s questions, but there was another reason he hadn’t said anything. If he was honest with himself, he liked those little bruises. The memory of Spock marking him there was bright with his protectiveness, his dismay Kor’s actions, and the way he had thrown everything away for him, for Jim. 

Spock had his back. Spock would always have his back. Jim mirrored the intensity of that devotion right back at his first officer. 

And it was, he realised with a sudden flash of warmth, mutual. 

Now Jim reached for the collar of his uniform, peeling back the buttons carefully. Spock watched him, still standing close and apparently fascinated by the slow movement of Jim’s fingers. He pushed aside the fabric and bared his shoulder, where Spock had sucked his own mark into his Captain’s flesh.

He had turned his face away to reveal his shoulder, but he heard Spock’s quick intake of breath and then, moments later, felt the heat of his mouth pressed against the spot, gentle this time, and soothing.

“You should have had this healed,” Spock said, but his voice was warm and pleased, and the sound of it made Jim desperately glad that he had not. 

Spock’s hands slipped around the small of his back, pulling their bodies together gently so that the few centimetres that had separated them disappeared. His mouth moved from Jim’s throat to the lobe of his ear, which he took gently between his teeth and then said, quietly,

“Take off your uniform.”

Jim could not help the shudder of pleasure that went through him then. He covered it by pulling out of Spock’s grip and turning away, stepping briskly towards his bedroom even as he pulled his uniform shirt over his head. He discarded it in a heap by the doorframe and then began kicking off his boots. Spock followed him as if hypnotised, his eyes never leaving him.

That kind of attention was…thrilling, actually.  

When Jim stepped out of his trousers and turned, he was right there, inches from him, and pushing him down to sit on the edge of his bed, sliding his clothed knees on either side of Jim’s naked hips and bending down to kiss his mouth. 

Jim opened under him, lips parting in invitation, for Spock had an urgency to him that Jim had not expected. He fit badly in Jim’s lap, his lanky body bent awkwardly. Jim wrapped his hands around his hips and dug his fingers into the flesh of Spock’s ass, and then felt pleasure and arousal curl in him as Spock responded by rolling their hips together. Spock was hard under his uniform, and the friction against Jim’s equally erect but bare and sensitive cock made him gasp into Spock’s mouth.

Spock pushed him gently back, until he was on all fours over his Captain. He looked down at him, neat hair delightfully mussed and falling down over his eyes, uniform wrinkled, lips slightly parted, dark eyes warm and assessing. Jim let his hands slide up over Spock’s back, pushing the shirt of his uniform up over bare skin. 

“Off,” he said, with all of the impetuous command he could muster. It was less than he had hoped for, since he was slightly out of breath and it came out partially gasped. Spock nevertheless complied, pulling himself off of Jim and standing. Jim sat up to watch him, and was delighted to see the slight tremble in Spock’s limbs, the way he fumbled slightly at the buttons of his trousers. 

He liked seeing his First officer affected. 

The hard planes of Spock’s lithe body fully revealed, Jim allowed himself a moment to appreciate what he saw. Aware of Jim’s regard, Spock paused in his movements, frozen like a deer. Jim flicked his eyes over Spock, taking in muscular legs, the sharp V of his hips, and the faint green tinge that coloured his cheeks. 

He let a clever smile curve his mouth into a half smile and registered with delight the way that this made Spock’s tongue dart out over his own lips in anticipation or nervousness or possibly both. Human emotions, in either case. Jim thought, I did that, and loved it. 

Spock came back to the bed as he did, crossing the floor with quick strides and pulling back the blanket. Jim preferred his quarters cold for sleeping, and he realised suddenly that the temperature was likely uncomfortable for his Vulcan. 

“You’re cold,” he said, but Spock shook his head in silent denial, and then reached out to pull Jim in next to him. And indeed, his body was hot to the touch. Jim pressed into him, delighted in the smooth slide of skin-to-skin contact. He remembered as he did the tight heat of Spock’s mouth and felt his cock twitch against the curve of Spock’s thigh in response to the memory. Spock responded by rolling their hips together again, so that Jim felt the hot length of the Vulcan’s own member press hard against his stomach. 

Their faces were already close, and Jim pulled their mouths together roughly, suddenly unable to bear being separated from Spock. Spock made a low, pleased noise and kissed him back, content to let his Captain take the lead for now. When he pulled back again, Spock’s eyes stayed on his mouth, glazed and slightly hooded. His long fingers came up to touch the bruise as Jim’s shoulder again, and Jim tipped his head to the side in open invitation, loving the possessive way Spock’s hand slid around the back of his neck as he leaned in to kiss the spot a second time.

There were more places where Spock had bruised him, Jim knew. And as he pulled the blanket back to show him the light purple spots below his ribs and over his hip.

“Hey,” he said, “you’d better kiss these ones, too.” 

Spock’s expression was simultaneously horrified and pleased, and the confusion in it made Jim laugh in delight. Spock obeyed him, dark head moving over Jim’s body, warm mouth brushing the damaged skin. When he was finished he returned to face Jim, his expression serious. 

“I did not mean to hurt you,” he said. Jim felt the wicked smile he had worn earlier return to him.

“You didn’t” he said simply, and then reached to palm Spock’s cock, still hard and leaking slightly now as Jim ran his thumb over the slit at its head. Spock’s breathing became immediately harsher and he tensed slightly, chin tilting up. 

“On Organia, you promised me something,” he said, and Spock’s eyes locked onto his, huge and dark, the pupils fully dilated.

“Yes,” said Spock, but he sounded strained as Jim moved his hands over him. 

“I think I want that now.” 

“Yes,” said Spock again, and his hand strayed to Jim’s face, resting lightly on his jaw. Jim turned and took those wandering fingers into his mouth, sucking lightly on them, and running his tongue along the underside. Spock’s gasp of surprise and pleasure made Jim smile, and he kissed the pads gently before pulling away from Spock, rolling over, and reaching for his bedside drawer.

But Spock was faster. He gripped Jim’s hips and pressed him down into the bed on his stomach. Spock reached for the lube himself, and Jim watched with his head turned against the sheets as he opened it carefully and dipped his fingers in. 

Spock leaned over him, capturing his captain’s wrists where they lay, palm down, on the mattress in one of his own hands and placing his mouth next to Jim’s ear. 

“On Organia,” he said, his voice husky, “You begged me.”

Jim laughed lightly and pushed his hips up into Spock, the small of his back arching. He felt Spock’s other hand there, slick with lubrication, and heard his little noise of surprise he elicited.

“I don’t think I need to, now,” he said, a little breathless. Spock was silent for a moment, and Jim felt the rise and fall of his breath on the bare skin of his spine. 

“We will see,” Spock said, finally, and then Jim felt the hot slickness of his fingers slide between his legs and press against the tight muscles of his entrance. Jim bit his lip over the moan that threatened to escape him as Spock slid his finger into him, but he could do nothing about the way his hips rocked onto his hand, needy and desperate for more.

Spock worked him open slowly, keeping his unoccupied hand over Jim’s wrists and brushing his lips over the curved expanse of his Captain’s shoulders and spine. When he added a second finger Jim could no longer suppress the sounds of his pleasure, and felt Spock’s mouth curve subtly against the flesh of his back.  

“Please, Spock,” he said before he could stop himself, and Spock released his wrists to tip his face toward him, kissing the corner of Jim’s mouth as he did.

“That’s better,” he murmured, and Jim felt him lining himself up behind him, the slickened length of his warm member resting hot and heavy along his ass. He could hardly help the way he pushed back into the Vulcan, craving the feeling of Spock inside him, wanting him closer than his own flesh.

Spock did not deny him the sensation long, pushing into Jim carefully at the same time as he captured his mouth with his own, hot tongue pushing into him. Jim’s whole body shuddered at the double invasion, overwhelmed with the sensation of being filled with Spock, in all his carefully leashed power. 

Spock paused when he was fully inside him, and then drew Jim up on his haunches so that his Captain was nearly in his lap. Jim pressed backwards, pushing his shoulders into Spock’s chest, seeking warmth and contact. Spock obliged him, running his hands firmly over Jim’s ribs and belly, which rose and fell rapidly with his excited breaths, pressing their bodies together. Spock was buried deep in Jim, and Jim ground down on him relishing the mixed pain and pleasure of his positon, drawn like a bow against the Vulcan’s strong chest. 

He gasped when Spock’s hand wrapped around his cock and bucked into it, unintentionally tightening on Spock. The noise this elicited from Spock made him do it again, intentionally this time, fucking Spock’s hand even as he moved on Spock’s cock. Spock let him move like this for a few strokes and then pushed him gently down onto his hands and knees, where he could take Jim more easily. He cried out as Spock began to move inside him with intention, the rhythm of his thrusts matching the strokes of his fist on Jim’s sensitive cock. 

Jim lost himself then, body shuddering with the sensation of Spock inside him Spock all around him, Spock everywhere. It took him no time at all to come, spilling into Spock’s fist and collapsing onto his elbows. He was dimly aware that Spock was calling his name softly, repeating it over and over like a mantra. 

“Spock,” he gasped, “Please, Spock.”

Spock came then, hot and slick in Jim, his rhythm slowing as he rode out his orgasm, Jim’s name on his lips and Jim could not help the satisfaction that the sensation gave him, of Spock losing control over him, fingers digging into his hips, leaving new marks over the old.

“Jim.” Spock’s voice was rough as he leaned over his Captain’s prone body, pressing his lips into Jim’s shoulder and spine, fingers running over him protectively. 

“You do not know what you do to me.”

Jim was beginning to have some idea. He turned his face on the pillow and found Spock there, close enough to kiss. He tangled his fingers in silky black hair and did so, open mouthed. Spock let himself be kissed, pushing himself deeper into Jim even as he softened, his chest sticky with sweat against Jim’s back. Jim turned against him, threading his arms around Spock’s neck and rolling them both over so that they lay face to face.

Spock’s eyes were dark, his skin flushed, and his lips slightly parted. He looked beautiful like this, Jim thought, on the other side of control.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Spock rested a heavy hand on his cheek, cupping Jim’s jaw in his palm. He said nothing, but Jim could feel the warmth radiating from him like a stoked fire.

“At several times,” Spock said carefully, after a short silence, “I thought I would lose you on Organia.” 

“And I, you,” Jim confessed. “And before that, too. I thought I would lose you to the war.” There fear was still there in him, he realised. Tensions with the Klingons had been momentarily forestalled, but there would be difficult waters to navigate ahead. 

“I still might.”

But Spock shook his head, black hair tousled against the pillows of Jim’s bed. “I will never leave your side, Jim.”

~*~

Afterwards, Jim slept. Spock watched him, felt the rise and fall of his chest, his steady heartbeat, the small movements in his limbs and face.

His fingers no longer rested on Jim’s cheek, but had curled around the back of his head, the better to hold him against his own body. 

And so the strong and vibrant thread that passed between their minds could not be explained by his connection to Jim’s psypoints. 

His fingers had brushed those places, of course, in the natural progression of things. He had better control of it now. His emotions did not bleed through as they had on Organia. Nevertheless, he had felt Jim’s pleasure through that bond, as if it was his own, and he had passed it back to him in turn, the sensations of their actions doubled. 

Such bonds characterised relationships much closer than the one he ostensibly shared with Jim. Relations built of mutual trust, regard, and love. Relations between close family members and bond mates. 

Spock did not know the meaning of its appearance in Jim, or of its strength. But there were no answers to be had here, so far from Vulcan. It was illogical to worry about a thing over which he had no control.

And so Spock closed his eyes and listened to Jim breathe and appreciated the quiet simplicity of the moment.

The future would work itself out.