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The turbolift doors sealed behind Spock, who did not allow himself the luxury of standing still. The bridge had relinquished him reluctantly, no damage reports scrolling across auxiliary screens, some long-range sensors still with static from the ion storm they had barely outrun; but Lieutenant Sulu had the conn, and for the first time in fourteen hours there was nothing more Spock could do from the center seat.
He had verified the course twice.
He had issued the final, necessary orders with a voice that remained level despite the fact that he wanted to be somewhere else.
Now he walked.
The corridor lights dimmed automatically to night cycle as he passed, throwing his shadow long and narrow against the walls. His boots struck the deck with clipped precision, each step controlled. He had served as captain often enough in Kirk’s absence to know the rhythm of command, the way it pressed itself into the spine and refused to let go even when the shift ended.
He keyed his personal log without breaking stride, then closed it again before a single word could be recorded. There was no useful analysis to be made yet. No conclusion he was prepared to formalize. What remained was… personal. Unsuited to record.
Spock turned the final corner and slowed, just perceptibly, as he reached the door to Kirk’s quarters.
Their quarters.
The designation had been officially changed, Starfleet forms were stubborn things, and the crew knew. The ship knew. Two rooms long ago converted into one, the seam hidden beneath a panel Scotty himself had rerouted, the space altered over time by small, shared decisions: a chair moved closer to a viewport, a Vulcan meditation mat folded away beside a Starfleet-issue desk, Kirk’s boots kicked off in a careless pile that Spock pretended not to notice and later set neatly in place.
The urgency that had driven him down the corridor had not lessened. If anything, it burned, a fine, uncomfortable pressure beneath his sternum. He exhaled slowly through his nose and pressed the panel.
“Spock.”
The door slid open.
The quarters were dim, illuminated only by the stars drifting past the viewport, distant and cold and uncaring. He entered.
Spock calls Jim’s name the moment the doors slide shut behind him.
“Jim?”
The sound of it still startles him sometimes; how easily it leaves his mouth now, stripped of rank, of formality. Still, he calls him ‘Captain,’ for… both intimate and personal reasons. He’s always been attracted to his captains, Jim Kirk is not an exception.
There is no answer.
The quiet presses in, heavy and wrong, and his steps slow despite the feeling, the unwelcome spike of alarm that follows immediately after.
Captain James T. Kirk was due on the bridge hours ago. Spock had noted the absence. Kirk left. He had not returned, and then had not returned for his next shift. Spock had processed it, contextualized it. He had not intervened. He took command instead.
That, perhaps, troubles him most.
“Computer,” he says, voice firm, “confirm Captain Kirk’s location.”
“Captain Kirk is in his assigned quarters,” the computer replies, maddeningly calm.
Spock inhales. Exhales. The quarters are dim, lights lowered to a twilight glow. No movement. No pacing stride, no half-zipped uniform tossed aside, no voice calling out to him from the sleeping alcove with some sultry comment.
Normally Jim is motion itself.
Normally Jim waits for him anywhere and everywhere; on the bridge, hands braced on the railing, body angled toward the turbolift as though willing it to deliver Spock faster. Or he waits here, already awake, already dressed, or undressed, already restless, burning through energy like a star desperate not to collapse in on itself.
Spock moves deeper into the room, each step measured, each second stretching longer than it has any right to. The bed comes into view, blankets heaped higher than usual, thick and pulled tight.
There, curled beneath them, drawn inward as though attempting to take up less space in the universe, lies his mate.
Spock stops.
Surprise registers first. Jim does not sleep like this. He sprawls. He tangles limbs. He radiates heat and presence, an unconscious insistence on keeping his cold Vulcan body warm and comfortable.
Spock crosses the room in three long strides and kneels beside the bed. He does not touch Jim yet. His hand hovers, restrained by a thousand rapid calculations that all collapse into a single, undeniable truth: something is wrong.
“Jim,” he says again, more quietly.
No response.
Spock places two fingers at Jim’s throat. The pulse is there, strong, steady. His breath is shallow but even, brushing faintly against the inside of the blankets. Alive. Asleep. Deeply asleep.
A scan with his tricorder confirms elevated cortisol levels, suppressed REM cycling, metabolic irregularities consistent with prolonged exhaustion. The readings tighten something in Spock’s chest he has no proper name for.
“You should have awakened,” Spock murmurs, though Jim cannot hear him, “You should have summoned me.”
He straightens, mind racing backward through the day. The captain had been quiet at breakfast. Too quiet. He had smiled, but the smile had been thin, stretched over something brittle. He had deferred decisions he would normally seize with both hands. Spock had observed all of it.
He had done nothing.
For months, Spock had told himself there would be time later, time to ask, time to correct, time to intervene.
There is always time, until suddenly there is not.
“Captain,” Spock urges.
Jim stirs, a faint sound escaping him, more breath than voice. His brow furrows. He curls tighter, instinctively seeking warmth, and his fingers catch in the fabric of Spock’s sleeve.
The contact is like a current.
Spock stills, heart accelerating despite himself. Jim’s grip is weak but desperate, knuckles pale, as though he is afraid that if he lets go, something essential will be lost.
Spock swallows, “Wake,” he says, lowering his voice, modulating it to the precise frequency Jim responds to most readily, “Jim. Look at me.”
Another breath. Another small sound. Then Jim’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, dark with sleep and something close to anxiety, “Spock?” he whispers, “What… time is it? My uniform, I—“
Jim blinks, trying to orient himself. His grip tightens reflexively, and Spock allows it, even encourages it, shifting closer so Jim’s fingers can anchor more securely.
“You missed your duty shift,” Spock continues, gentler now, “By several hours.”
Jim exhales, a shaky sound, “I didn’t mean…” he says, “I just— I closed my eyes …for a minute.”
A minute. Humans say this when minutes have become oceans.
Spock brushes his thumb along Jim’s temple, a Vulcan touch meant to soothe, to ground. Jim leans into it without thinking, eyes sliding closed again.
“Captain,” Spock says, urgency threading through every syllable now, “You are unwell.”
Kirk’s mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile as he teases, “Don’t start quoting medical logs at me, Bones.”
Spock does not smile back, just observes his captain in the low light, allowing himself a moment longer than is strictly for romantic intent.
Jim does not look well. That helps make that urge to kiss him simply go away.
The angles of his face are too sharp, cheekbones standing out where there should be softness, fullness, colour. His uniform hangs looser across his shoulders, the fabric no longer pulled taut by a confident stance and muscle. Even at rest, even curled inward beneath layers of blankets, there is a hollowness to him that has not been there before.
The diet, Spock notes with a flash of cold precision, is exacerbating the issue.
Jim has been meticulous about it; reducing caloric intake with the same relentless discipline he applies to command decisions, to battlefield calculations. He eats enough to barely function, not enough to live. Not enough to sustain a body already strained by sleeplessness, adrenaline, and the unyielding pressure of being responsible for four hundred and thirty souls.
Spock’s brow tightens, “You have lost mass,” he says quietly.
His captain pushes off the rest of the blankets, pulling them to one side in invitation, a purr in his voice, “Mr. Spock.”
“Significant mass.”
“Thank you.”
“This is not a compliment.”
Jim huffs a soft, humorless laugh,“Wow. Good morning to you too.”
“This is not humor,” Spock replies,“Your metabolism is elevated. You are operating at a surprisingly sustained deficit. Combined with your current sleep deprivation, this behaviour is… dangerous.”
Jim turns his face away, gaze fixing on nothing, “I’m fine,” he says automatically, “Just need to get moving again. Burn it off.”
There it is.
Jim is always trying to burn calories, to outrun something only he can see, something that never quite loosens its grip.
Burn it off. As though exhaustion were a contaminant, as though hunger were a moral failing. As though rest were something to be earned rather than required.
Spock shifts closer, his voice lowering, “You are not a starship, Jim. You cannot simply divert power from nonessential systems indefinitely.”
Jim’s fingers tighten in the blankets.
Spock is aware, intellectually, that the sensation is metaphorical. Nevertheless, he thinks he can feel his heart breaking.
This has been ongoing for an unacceptable length of time. Months, by his calculations. Perhaps longer. Dr. McCoy has exhausted every reasonable avenue within his medical intervention, adjusting supplements, modifying schedules, issuing increasingly intense medical orders that Jim acknowledges with a grin and then quietly circumvents. The data does not improve. The trend line remains stubbornly, alarmingly downward.
Fascinatingly, Jim remains upright.
On the bridge, he stands with his customary confidence, spine straight, voice steady, issuing commands that are as decisive and intelligent as ever. During away missions he moves at the head of the team, phaser in hand, alert and lethal, leaping and dodging hostile fire as though his body were not slowly betraying him. He smiles at his crew, claps men on the shoulder, then goes and flirts with danger itself.
It is a masterful performance.
Spock has watched it too closely not to see the cost.
Micro-delays in reaction time. A slight tremor in Jim’s hands when he believes no one is looking. The way he leans just a fraction too long against the captain’s chair before straightening, as though borrowing strength from it.
He is holding himself together through will alone.
Spock’s fingers curl at his side, nails biting into his palm. Vulcans do not break. They bend, they endure, they master themselves. Spock is not fully Vulcan, and even if he were, logic alone cannot account for this tight, aching fracture in his chest.
“This is illogical,” he says, fiercely,“This is unsustainable.”
He considers the probability curves. The margin for error narrows with each passing day. One misstep on an unstable surface. One delayed reaction under fire. One moment where Jim’s body simply refuses to obey him.
The statistical likelihood of catastrophic failure climbs.
Spock, his first officer, his science officer, his mate, has permitted this to continue. That realization lands with devastating clarity.
Spock looks down at Jim again, at the gaunt lines of his face, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the uniform he’d put on before falling asleep. Awake or asleep, standing or curled up, Jim is always trying to be strong enough, fast enough, worthy enough.
If Jim cannot stop himself, then Spock will stop him from destroying himself.
Logically. Decisively.
If necessary, by force.
“I should get to the bridge,” Jim says.
There is a hitch beneath the words, a thin thread of worry he does not quite manage to hide. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the movement careful, measured, and Spock sees the way his feet find the floor and stay there for a fraction of a second too long. Jim braces himself, shoulders squared, as though preparing for impact rather than simply standing.
“Jim—” Spock begins.
Jim pauses.
He looks up at Spock then, really looks at him, and lifts a hand to Spock’s face. His palm cups Spock’s cheek with habitual intimacy, thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. The touch is gentle, loving, but Spock feels the difference immediately. His fingers are bony now, the pads thinned, the familiar softness diminished.
“I’m fine,” Jim says quietly, insistently, as though the words themselves might make it true.
He leans in and kisses Spock, sweet and brief and achingly normal. Not desperate. Not pleading. Just Jim Kirk, his affectionate, reassuring self, leaving comfort behind like a parting gift.
Then he stands.
The room seems to hold its breath.
Spock does, too.
For one terrifying instant, Jim sways. His hand twitches, reaching for balance that is not there, and Spock moves without conscious thought, rising to his feet, one hand hovering just behind Jim’s back, ready to catch him.
Jim steadies. Straightens. Smiles… “I’m okay,” he repeats, a little more firmly this time, already reaching for his uniform boots.
Spock does not respond at once. His gaze remains fixed on Jim’s face, on the determined set of his mouth, the stubborn light in his eyes, the same light that has carried him through impossible odds and brought him back alive, again and again.
Logic tells him to let Jim go. To trust the captain’s assessment of his own limits.
Everything else in him rebels.
“Captain,” Spock says at last, and the title lands heavier than it ever has between them, “You are experiencing orthostatic instability and muscular weakness. Proceeding to duty in your current condition presents a nontrivial risk.”
Jim’s smile flickers, “Spock.”
“I am not requesting,” Spock continues, voice low, controlled but concerned, “I am advising.”
Jim meets his eyes, something unreadable passing between them… maybe gratitude, mixed with frustration, but affection, and defiance. He reaches out again, squeezes Spock’s hand once, and then turns toward the door.
Spock moves before the doors can close.
His hand comes out, firm and unyielding, closing around Jim’s wrist and pulling him back. The motion is not gentle, but it is precise; controlled. Jim turns with a soft sound of surprise, balance wavering just enough that Spock’s other hand comes up instinctively, steadying him by the arm.
“Spock—”
“You are not required on the bridge,” Spock says, and there is no mistaking him now. His voice is calm, but it carries the weight of a decision already made.
Jim blinks at him, brow furrowed, “…What?”
“I have already transferred command,” Spock continues, guiding him a step back from the door, placing himself squarely in Jim’s line of sight, “Lieutenant Sulu has the conn. I reviewed his readiness personally. He is more than capable.”
“You… you can’t just—”
“I can,” Spock replies evenly, “And I did, Captain…” He does not release Jim’s wrist, not yet. He needs Jim to listen, “I have checked every relevant system reading,” Spock says, each word deliberate,“Environmental controls. Structural integrity. Long-range scans. Our plotted course and all necessary adjustments. I have reviewed potential threats and contingency responses. More than once.”
Jim’s mouth opens, then closes again. His protest falters, caught on the sheer thoroughness of it all.
Vulcans…
“Sulu is in control,” Spock finishes,“The Enterprise is not at risk.”
Jim exhales, running a hand through his fragile hair, “Spock… it’s my ship.”
“Yes,” Spock says softly, nodding once, “And you chose your officers well.”
That lands.
Jim looks away, mind working, the fight in him dimming by noticeable degrees. He knows Sulu. He trusts him. He has always trusted him, with the helm, with his life, with the ship when it mattered most. Spock can see the moment the truth settles in, the reluctant acceptance threading through the worry.
His shoulders sag, the tension draining out of him now that he no longer has to hold it all together by force. He sways again, and this time Spock does not merely hover, he steps in, hands firm at Jim’s sides, grounding him by his body, grounding his feet so they’re firmly planted on the floor.
“Just… for a little while,” Jim says, quieter now, “Until I feel steady.”
Spock inclines his head, “That is sufficient.”
Jim lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief. He leans, just slightly, into Spock’s space, trusting him to hold the line. Spock tightens his grip a fraction, anchoring him there.
“The ship is safe,” Spock says again, for both of them, “And so are you.”
Jim closes his eyes for a moment, then nods. Reluctant. Resigned.
Trusting.
Spock does not let him go.
“I’m alright,” Jim says.
Hopefully, and maybe he is, for now. He straightens, deliberately easing out of Spock’s hold, testing his balance, then standing on his own two feet. It costs him something, Spock can see that, but he manages it, pride and sheer will knitting him upright.
Spock studies him for a beat longer, then shifts tactics, “Coffee?” he suggests, as though it is the most ordinary thing in the universe. Maybe it is, under normal circumstances.
Jim’s eyes narrow at once. He is many things, but he is not stupid,“And what?” he asks dryly, “Another intervention?”
Spock shakes his head, “Dr. McCoy is not waiting for us.”
That gives Jim pause, “No medbay,” Jim says slowly.
“No medbay,” Spock confirms.
Jim searches his face, looking for the trap, for the hidden calculation. He finds only truth. A choice. An offered step instead of a forced march, “Huh…” Jim snorts, some of the tension easing out of him, “You sure this isn’t a trick?”
“If it were,” Spock says calmly, “you would already be most disagreeable.”
Jim laughs then, short and genuine, and Spock feels the sound settle something precarious inside his chest.
“Coffee,” Jim concedes, “But just coffee.”
They walk together toward the officers’ mess, side by side. Jim’s stride is mostly normal, perhaps a fraction slower than usual, but even, balanced. He is upright, present. Fine, at least by outward measure. Spock does not comment. He simply matches the pace, an unspoken accord.
The corridors are quieter at this hour, the ship settled into its nighttime routine.
“Where is Bones, tonight, Spock?” Jim asks, glancing over at him.
Spock considers this for a moment, and when he answers there is the faintest hint of something almost like amusement in both his expression and voice, “I believe Mr. Scott has convinced him on a date,” he says. He pauses, just long enough to be deliberate, “Why he would want to subject himself to such a thing is beyond my comprehension.”
Jim barks a laugh, loud and hearty, the sound echoing briefly down the corridor, “You’re… kidding.”
“I am not,” Spock replies gravely, “The probability of Dr. McCoy spending the evening vocally criticizing his quarters, the menu, and Mr. Scott himself is extremely high.”
Jim laughs again, even fuller this time, shoulders loosening, “Poor Scotty. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“On the contrary,” Spock says, “Mr. Scott appears to find the experience… invigorating.”
Jim shakes his head, still smiling, and for the first time in days the tension seems to ease from his face. The laughter warms him, brings colour back to his cheeks, and Spock finds himself noting the change with quiet relief.
They reach the doors to the officers’ mess. Spock slows just enough to let Jim enter first, watching carefully, unnecessarily.
Jim doesn’t falter.
Spock guides Jim to a chair with a light but unmistakable pressure at his elbow, waiting until he is seated before turning away. He retrieves two cups of coffee from the dispenser, one precisely as Jim prefers it, one untouched by cream or sweetener for himself, and returns to the table without comment.
“I think I’d rather have water,” Jim says, almost hopefully.
Spock sets the hot cup in front of him anyway, sliding it across the table with quiet finality. He does not comment. He does not argue. He simply leaves it there, steam curling upward between them.
Jim watches it for a moment, then looks away.
“What do you want to eat?” Spock asks. There is no demand or severity in the words, but there is also no space in them for refusal. The question is structured, deliberate, the way Spock structures orders when lives depend on compliance.
“I’m not hungry,” Jim tries.
Spock’s expression shifts, just briefly. Something soft and unguarded passes through his brown eyes, something that looks perilously close to sorrow. He reins it in almost at once, posture straightening, features settling back into composure, “I know,” he says, quietly, “But try. For me?” The words hang between them, heavier than any command. Spock relies on weaponizing Kirk’s love for him.
Jim exhales, long and slow. He stares down into his coffee as though he has been led into a trap he recognizes too late; cornered not by force or numbers, but by care. His fingers curl around the cup, not lifting it, just holding on. The warmth feels nice on his skin, “…You play dirty, Mr. Spock,” he mutters.
Spock inclines his head a fraction,“Only when necessary.”
Jim sighs again, defeated in the gentlest possible way, eyes fixed on the dark surface of the coffee as it reflects the mess hall lights, “All right,” he says at last, voice low, “Just… don’t make it a whole thing.”
Spock gives a curt nod.
“Plomeek broth?” His captain suggests.
It takes everything in Spock not to sigh loudly enough for the entire ship to hear. Of course he would choose the least calorically dense, least nutritionally sufficient option available to him aside from water; something warm, mild, and utterly inadequate. It is a compromise that only appears generous on the surface, carefully designed to give the impression of cooperation while conceding as little as possible.
Spock schools his expression with effort, “Plomeek broth alone would be insufficient,” he says evenly, “Its primary benefit is hydration and thermal comfort, not sustenance.”
Green eyes glance up at him, already bracing, “It’s easy,” he says, “It’ll stay down.”
Which seems to imply he won’t purge.
Spock’s fingers curl at his side. He lowers his voice, not wanting to turn this into a fight, “Jim,” he says, “Your current intake is not meeting even minimal requirements. You are not being asked to consume a full meal. You are being asked to begin.”
Jim studies him for a long moment, then looks back at his coffee, jaw tight, like he doesn’t even want to speak anymore, “You’re not letting this go.”
“No,” Spock replies simply.
Silence stretches between them, taut but not hostile. Finally, Jim exhales through his nose, a reluctant sound of surrender.
“…Fine,” he says, “Plomeek broth. And—” he hesitates, then adds, “maybe …something with it.”
Spock’s own shoulders ease by a fraction, “Acceptable.”
He steps away and issues the order with careful specificity: plomeek broth, enriched; a small portion of toasted grain bread because the necessity for a carbohydrate is desperate. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing that will feel like punishment.
He returns and sets the tray in front of his commander, arranging it neatly.
“This is not a test,” Spock says quietly, “Nor a trap.”
Jim snorts softly, “Feels like one.”
Spock meets his gaze, “It is for me.”
Kirk picks up the spoon, hesitates, then dips it into the broth. The movement is small. Tentative.
Spock watches without comment.
For now, the beginning is enough.