Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

 It had been precisely two weeks, six days, five hours, and three minutes since Spock Grayson admitted he had a problem, and that the aforementioned problem was writer’s block. That wasn’t to say he had admitted it to anyone other than himself, however.

He stared at the screen of his computer, fingers frozen over the keyboard but never typing, mentally cursing the blinking black line that taunted him at the end of the next sentence. He could not simply put fingers to keyboard without the need to research the requisite details for said sentence, and it had bogged him down considerably. This unproductivity rankled, but so did inaccuracy, and Spock Grayson was nothing if not thorough.

He had been good at short stories. They got straight to the point and did not rely on fluff to fill the pages. But now he was trying to write a novel, and the words did not so much as flow but slowly trickle, like water out of a faulty faucet. He couldn’t get his inspiration to work like he used to, and it annoyed him to no end.

After a while, he closed his computer with a small sigh of exasperation, and went to make a cup of strong herbal tea.

Spock wasn’t sure why he still went to those creative writer meetups. He didn’t have much to contribute in terms of editing. But the group liked his input occasionally, so he obliged. Besides, even though his most recent ex, Nyota Uhura, was also in the group, there were no hard feelings between them. Aside from her usual translating work, Nyota was working on a play, a romance set between two queer black women in a washroom stall, and it was looking quite promising based on what he had read and critiqued.

That was the point of the group, though, to read and critique and enjoy the presence of other writers. Some of them had other jobs, primary jobs. Their chief editor, Leonard McCoy, for instance, was also the grouchiest doctor ever employed by a hospital. He never really wrote stories himself if he could help it (“Dammit, man, I’m a doctor, not a writer!”), but he could give good, hard feedback. It also tended to come with a Southern sized helping of dessert in the form of complaining about why the outward symptoms for your character’s sickness were completely and absolutely wrong.

“So, Len, who’s that behind you?” asked Nyota at their latest meeting as the doctor entered, hanging up his coat and taking a seat without much preamble. The man behind him, tall with blond hair and blue eyes, flashed a sunny grin at them in reply. Nyota smiled that thin smile that meant that she wasn’t strictly pleased about something, and Dr. McCoy shifted in his seat a bit, ostensibly so that the newcomer could join their group.

“This is my neighborly nuisance, James T. Kirk, also known as the reason for my early-onset alopecia,” he said. The new addition, James, grinned at the doctor with irrepressible mischief in his expression.

“C’mon, Bones! I’m not that bad. Besides, you were losing hair well before you met me.”

Across the coffee table already littered with mugs of tea and coffee (and bottles of bourbon, scotch, and vodka), Montgomery Scott’s eyes lit up in recognition.

“James T. Kirk, you say?” he asked in his thick Scottish brogue, the one that got thicker in his excitement or his drunkenness, and often made him incomprehensible when he was both. “You don’t happen to be the James T. Kirk, do ya?”

“First off, call me Jim. Secondly, how many other James T. Kirks do you know, Mr…?” asked Kirk, smiling in amusement as he helped himself to a shot of the doctor’s bourbon.

“Scott. Montgomery Scott. I write science fiction too.”

“He writes robot porn,” added Dr. McCoy.

“I do not!” snapped Scott. “I write speculative fiction about futuristic technologies!”

“Yeah, and then the human element gets completely buried in paragraphs of loving detail about your shiny new machines.” Dr. McCoy rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Hate to break it to you, son, but that Keenser character in your latest short story was the flattest thing alive.”

“Bones, don’t be so hard on him.” Kirk laughed, handing the doctor back his glass. “Your bourbon tastes like shit. Anyway, it’s Bones’s fault that my novel’s called Sixteen Light Years —”

“Wait, you mean the book that’s been on the New York Times bestseller list for three weeks already?” asked Hikaru Sulu, eyes wide.

“I dunno if there’s another one out there,” replied Kirk, shrugging.

“It’s that sci-fi romance novel about the young woman who writes love letters to an alien sixteen light years away, right?” asked Nyota. “I was disappointed that the alien was male.”

“Well, given that the Andorians have four genders, I think they upset the binary quite well,” said Kirk. “Besides, though it wasn’t really said in the book, I wrote Sorjei with a more fluid gender expression in mind. Their society is quite fascinating, actually — the two more masculine genders each carry only a fourth of the chromosomes, whereas one of the more feminine genders has half of the chromosomes, and the other one gestates the children. So basically to procreate, they have to have a foursome.”

“Only you would think of something so insane,” muttered Dr. McCoy.

Spock was fairly impressed by that, and he could understand how that particular detail might not have made it into the actual story. He had, in fact, been bombarded with Kirk’s book every time he entered a bookstore, and subsequently deterred from reading it by the sheer number of teenage girls trying to do the same.

“You have read the book too, Nyota?” Pavel Chekov, a Russian prodigy who was far too young to be drinking vodka, asked in his thick accent. “I read it also. It is giving SETI good publicity, no?”

Nyota laughed. “Well, from what I’ve seen, Jim, your book attracts sci-fi geeks like Scotty and Chekov here, hipsters who take pictures of them holding up the book because of the cover art —”

“That was not my decision, either,” muttered Kirk. “If I had it my way it’d have a blank white cover and the title ‘Love Me, I am Far Away Enough to Be Compatible With Your Commitment Issues’.”

“—And teenage girls who wished they had their own long-distance relationship with hot Andorian… somewhat males,” finished Nyota.

Kirk rolled his eyes. “How is Sorjei even hot? He’s blue with antennae on his head!”

“I think I saw some animation with Sulu about that once,” Chekov laughed into yet another glass of vodka. Sulu did not seem to have much to say on the matter as he attempted to keep from choking to death on his latest sip of coffee.

Spock leaned back in his own seat, raising an eyebrow. “It is intriguing that such a large fanbase will spring from the mere hint of forbidden love, as commonly used as the concept may be.” Kirk seemed to freeze for a moment before relaxing into amiability once more.

“Oh, really? Here I had thought that people were drawn in by the characters, human curiosity, and the belief in a lasting bond. My mistake.” Dr. McCoy rested his hand on Kirk’s arm, looking as if he was attempting to mollify him. Upon closer examination, however, the grip might have been strong enough to serve as more of a warning than anything else.

“Having not read your book, I would not presume to know why so many would choose to do so,” Spock responded. He bit back further commentary in his surprise. He was not this acerbic concerning most matters, so his attack on this author in such a manner was bewildering. From the conclusions he could derive from his friend’s expressions, they were just as shocked as he was, if not more so. Just as he was about to apologise, however, Kirk’s face took on a rigid cast.

“So I suppose that if you’re so scared of scarring your mind with something as trite as romance or — god forbid — friendship, it’s just better for you to never bother with checking for yourself, huh? Or is that just the case with certain sub-genres? Please, feel free to clarify.”

Spock clenched his teeth at the presumption that he was such an elitist that he would not dare to touch an entire section of fiction. Running his tongue over the back of his teeth, he seethed as he composed his response. “I only meant to state that I would not be able to imagine what reasons each individual would have for reading your book. Each person has a particular path that would lead them to read such a story.”

Kirk grinned once more, but this time it was more of a baring of his teeth. “I highly doubt that you have a hard time imagining anything. Come on, we’re all writers here — Bones, I know you’re a doctor, you don’t have to say it. Although,” Kirk considered Spock with a wide, mock-awestruck look, “you might not be one after all. Are you an author, Mister…?”

Spock tensed, his teeth combatting once more. “Grayson,” he managed, suppressing the waves of unmitigated frustration and anger that were arising. “My name is Spock Grayson, and I am indeed an author.”

For a strange moment, Kirk’s eyebrows knitted together and his eyes widened. Then, almost as if by sheer force of will, he neutralised his expression.“Oh?” he asked, arching an eyebrow in a strange parody of Spock’s expression. “And what exactly do you write? Trouser catalogues? Cereal packets? Guidebooks to tiny islands in the middle of nowhere?”

“I happened to have authored a short story about a man trapped in a closet.”

Kirk snorted. “You wrote a metaphor for being gay,” he deadpanned. “How original.”

“Contrary to your assumption, Mr. Kirk, the story focused on a character trapped in a cabinet full of political figures who was trying to determine whether or not such a scenario was a hell of their own creation or a product of society’s faults.”

Kirk rolled his eyes in what Spock interpreted to be an obvious dismissal. “How pretentious,” he sang in mock-praise, clapping his hands. “Gold star.”

He felt Nyota tense beside him. “Spock is a brilliant author, Jim. You might want to reconsider your attitude.”

Kirk grinned and raised his hands, palms open in a gesture of innocence. “I’m just kidding around, man; I swear I wasn’t trying to start anything! If anything, he was the one that started it.”

“No one’s going to start anything, Jim, come on,” snapped Dr. McCoy, fingers digging into the blond’s forearm. “Why don’t we introduce you to the rest of the group and you can pitch them your project idea?”

The introductions were carried out over more cups of coffee (or glasses of alcohol) and tea (which was just Spock, and he knew the others loved giving him hell for it). After finishing what appeared to be his seventh cup of coffee, Kirk leaned back with a grin and spoke up once more.

Spock tensed, almost as if he was expecting Kirk to continue their argument from earlier. But the man opened instead with, “do you know about the exquisite corpse?”

Five pairs of eyes turned to Dr. McCoy, who rolled his eyes.

“Don’t look at me, man, I’m a doctor, not a Surrealist.”

“That appears to indicate that you have more than a passing acquaintance with the term,” Spock pointed out. “It would be prudent for you to explain.”

Dr. McCoy heaved a sigh that Spock identified as Done With You sigh number 47. “I only know this because of some stupid party games Jim and I used to play back in college,” he grumbled, but in a louder voice, he said, “the exquisite corpse is basically a game of Consequences, where you either write part of a story or draw part of a person on a piece of paper and have someone else continue what you’ve started without looking at your section.”

“So it’s a round robin?” asked Sulu.

“You could put it that way, I guess.” Dr. McCoy reached for his bourbon once more. “Now, Jim here has this crazy idea of writing a collaborative novel using the exquisite corpse technique.”

Spock shook his head. “The readability of such a novel would be low,” he pointed out. “Each one of us has a different writing style. To combine all of them without editing and additional input would mean sacrificing consistency and a common, coherent style — “

“Ever heard of fun, Spock?” Kirk interrupted. “I don’t care about all of that. This is supposed to be a fun game, okay? I had the idea that we could each write a sixth of the book, since there’s six writers here, plus Bones the editor, and, say, each sixth of the book is about thirty pages, which means some of us can divide their parts into three ten-page chapters or something. You can do whatever you want, except after your bit’s done, you can only send the last ten pages of your work to the next person.”

“So there must be sufficient context to continue some semblance of continuity,” remarked Nyota.

Kirk nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s a thing.”

“Can I suggest that we add some other things?” asked Scott.

“What do you want?” asked Dr. McCoy.

“A list of characters and places previously used,” replied Scott, shrugging. “I don’t wanna write something completely different from the previous person’s bit. That wouldn’t make sense. Besides, then we can get a grasp of where the previous writers have taken our story.”

“Sure,” said Kirk, shrugging. “Are there any other suggestions?”

“A time limit might be useful,” Sulu mused, raising a hand, “I have a bit of an issue with getting stuff done if I don’t have a deadline.”

Kirk made a happy sound of agreement. “Me too, man! How does three weeks sound?”

Dr. McCoy snorted.“Someone’s feeling prolific. Well, if anything, it will provide a happy bit of practice for you guys so you might actually get things done in time.” The other members of the group made general noises to signal their agreement, although Scott seemed to have developed the mad gleam in his eye he had when he was at his most pressured and, incidentally, his most genius. Smiling, Kirk rubbed his hands together.  

“Sounds like a plan. So are you guys, with the exception of Sourpuss here,” he looked pointedly at Spock, “okay with writing this?”

There were nods and murmurs of assent. Nyota looked at Spock pointedly, encouragingly. With a begrudging sigh, Spock nodded as well.

“All right, then, I suppose we’ve gotta pick our order now. Who’s going first?”

By the time Spock stepped out into the wet winter evening, dark coat buttoned up and scarf wrapped tightly about his throat, they had determined the order of the writers. Scott would begin, followed by Nyota, then Kirk, then Spock, then Sulu, and then finally Chekov. Dr. McCoy, as the group’s editor, remained resolutely outside the entire sequence. Spock was too busy seething at being placed right after Kirk to care about that.

The winter wind stabbed at Spock’s face like knives as he muddled down the snow-paved sidewalk, the streetlamps glistening across the slush-wet street. Snow draped over otherwise bare branches in blankets of frost; it garnished evergreens and muffled cars and houses in fluffy white hats. Still, even more of the frozen condensation continued to dust Spock’s clothes and hair as he plodded along. His own house was down the street from Sulu’s, in a handsome old Brownstone that had once belonged to his mother. His father had moved back to Arizona after her death; Spock still remembered the other family house in Sedona, set against the red rocks of the American Southwest. Having grown up in the desert, Spock had not been accustomed to snow until he moved out.

As he walked, his mind invariably wandered back to Kirk. The man had no right to intrude on their weekly meetings. Even if he was successful, the slightly conceited air with which he talked about their project (Kirk had dubbed it ‘The Exquisite Corpse Novel’) rankled at Spock’s senses. And in a way, that justified his comments about Kirk’s novel. Granted, he had no right to critique a novel that he had never read, but the fanbase itself was indicative of its merits as far as Spock was concerned.

Still, a part of him remained jealous of Kirk’s ability to write a novel-length story. Spock was frozen with every sentence, every minor detail. Kirk seemed to be the sort who just sat down and poured everything onto a page, an ability that Spock wished that he could have especially on the days when nothing came to him.

There came the crunch of boots against the snow behind him, and, speaking of the devil, Kirk appeared at his elbow moments later, hunter-green parka drawn up around him as he grinned at Spock. Spock inclined his head in reply, continuing to walk. Kirk joined him.

“I’ve been shouting for you to wait up since you left Sulu’s place,” he said, panting slightly. Spock raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to go on. So Kirk did. “Look, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Spock found himself arching an eyebrow in disbelief. “You appear to have both of your feet on the ground, and if I were to look at my own, I imagine I would find them in a similar state.”

Kirk sighed, in a gesture Spock knew to be exasperation. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Spock. It’s just a figure of speech. I just… I just don’t want you to think badly of me, okay? Like I’ve sold my soul to the Young Adult supernatural romance Satan or something. I swear my book’s nothing like Twilight.”

“I can presume that the basic storyline would not involve a young woman who becomes involved in an abusive relationship with a sparkling vampire,” said Spock drily as his Brownstone drew closer and closer, “since you have stated that the premise is that of a young woman writing letters to an alien.”

“Eh, you never know. Some people tend to think any relationship that involves a girl and her ‘special in some overused trope’ love interest is an instant knock off of Twilight. Well, that, and people tend to judge the entire fanbase alongside the books just because of the primary demographic. Bones explained it to me very slowly once, and I probably wrecked a piece or two of his dishware because of it.” Alarmed, Kirk rapidly lifted his palms upward in a defensive posture. “I swear I’m not violent or anything, I just get kind of pissed when people make rapid judgements like that, y’know?”

“If that is indeed the case, and you believed that I was one of such people, why would you pursue me to convince me otherwise?”

Kirk kicked at a clump of ice, considering the question for a moment. “Well, contrary to what I said before, I have read a little bit of your stuff when Bones was overwhelmed with the whole editing for the entire group thing as well as dealing with the entire damn hospital. I just proofread a bit, but a lot of what you wrote was pretty damn awesome. I guess I just didn’t want to ruin any chance I might have had to work with you without sneaking treats from Bones’s beta pile. I’m sorry for, y’know, acting like I figured you only wrote pamphlets for dietary supplements.”

Spock paused, looking at Kirk with both eyebrows raised. “You have read my work,” he echoed, caught between satisfaction that Kirk thought him a good writer, and disdain that Kirk thought him a good writer.

“Uh, yeah, that’s kind of what I just said,” retorted Kirk. “Seriously, though, I haven’t seen anything from you in months. What’s up with that? Did you come down with writer’s block?”

Spock scowled at him, his expression largely obscured by his hat and scarf. “I am not suffering from that ailment known as writer’s block,” he ground out.

Kirk scoffed. “Spock, you spend at least one day every week in the company of Bones ‘I’m a Doctor, Not a Blank’ McCoy. Please tell me you know that writer’s block isn’t an actual disease.” He paused for a moment. “Though I’m pretty sure the cure is just to hug it out, so…” He held out his arms invitingly, but Spock in return merely crossed his own arms, backing towards the iron railing that framed his sparse townhome garden.

“I do not believe that would be a feasible cure for any disease,” he said stiffly, “as it would only facilitate contamination.”

There went another huff of frustration. “Oh my god, Spock,” complained the blond, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think you know full well that this isn’t a disease, and that you’re just being a little shit about it.”

Spock arched an eyebrow. “I am incapable of becoming a small specimen of faeces,” he stated, one foot on the steps up to his brownstone. “Mr. Kirk —”

“Jim —”

“As enlightening as such a comparison is, I am afraid that I will have to review your Ionian philosophy and their derivative misconceptions some other time. It is cold outside and I would like to retire.”

“Ah, yes, right.” Kirk’s jaw imperceptibly tensed, as if he wasn’t sure whether to stride away or ask if he could enter Spock’s house. Spock was not inclined to let him. “So I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

“You are Dr. McCoy’s neighbour. I and the others in the group live in the general vicinity. You will see me at least once a week if you deign to show up to future meetings.”

“Good, because I think I will.” There was a spark of defiance in Kirk’s electric blue eyes; Spock felt a bolt of something inexplicable shoot up and down his spine. “Bye, Spock.”

Spock nodded, turning his back on the other and striding up the steps to his apartment.

That night, he downloaded a copy of Sixteen Light Years to his Kindle, and settled down to read it with a cup of herbal tea. His cat, I’Chaya, curled up on his lap, purring in contentment as Spock absently stroked him.

He could not deny that James Kirk was a good writer, not when the proof of such lay in his hands. The novel was largely epistolary, but all of the segments — letters and prose alike — were emotionally stirring in their own respects. The very concept of spending three decades waiting for a reply from someone far off in the stars made heartbreak almost inevitable as Sorjei, blue skin turning grey with age, stepped off the spaceship at the spaceport in San Francisco only to find out that Janet Costello, his friend and lover from across the stars, had died at the age of a hundred and two. Despite Spock’s misgivings, he found himself drawn into the narrative, immersed in the world, and invested in its inhabitants.

Sitting across the room from him on his desk was his computer, the story flashing on its screen long forgotten.

Chapter Text

Contrary to the opinion of most, Montgomery Scott was not unreasonable when asked to do the impossible. Hell, Scotty thought he was downright charitable, if not up to the high standards of Lewis Carroll and his before-breakfast nonsense. Still, on this front he would not bend. He would not break the laws of physics just so that a fight scene could be better. It would be fine on its own, of course, but there was something absurd about an explosion with absolutely no sound.

It was no matter, of course. This wasn’t a movie. Besides, rules were rules, and Scotty did love technicalities — well, he did when they were applied to general principles and physics, at least. Still, he was tempted to dig out the scotch, moan to someone about the balance between aesthetics and functionality, and promptly pass out with half of his work drunkenly scrawled on a napkin. That would be fantastic.

Dragging a hand across his face, he tried to recall what he had decided about the USS Kelvin so far. He had a page limit, so he might have to cut out some of his elucidations on the fine balance of matter and antimatter in the warp core, but he was generally pleased with the picture he had woven.

Of course, the matter of blowing it up had to go and ruin everything. If there was one thing Scotty hated, it was blowing up his girls. The USS Kelvin was beautiful, but he knew he had to let her die so that the USS Enterprise could have her moment. It was just like how the acting captain of the USS Kelvin, John Taggart, had to die so that his newborn son Peter’s future could take shape — one in which he would strive simultaneously to fill his father’s shoes and escape his shadow.

Scotty paused for a moment, sipping his coffee, and then turned his attentions to the Romulan ship, the Narada. Since it came from the future, it would be more technologically advanced with photon torpedoes and a high-energy pulse drill, designed to cut through crust and mantle to get to the core of a planet, no matter how dense the material was. But how much energy would be required to cut through convecting silicate and molten iron to get to the heart of a planet similar to that of Earth’s?

The bell rang downstairs, shattering his musings. He had another customer. Saving his progress, Scotty clambered down the ladder from the loft and entered the garage, where most of his work took place.

Scotty’s primary job was in mechanics, fixing cars and other motor vehicles. He was good at what he did, which meant he was usually paid enough for his needs and his hobbies, which involved doing his own tinkering as well as writing about aforementioned tinkering in the future with robots and spaceships. He also was trying to pay for graduate school at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where, unsurprisingly, Pavel Chekov was an undergraduate student. His own creds weren’t terrible, either; he had come from the California Institute of Technology. It was just that jobs were scarce, even for someone of his level. So he got by — and besides, there was nothing like the joy of getting your hands dirty as you worked on those four-wheeled (and sometimes two-wheeled) beauties.

Jim Kirk was in his garage, a motorbike sitting next to him with its kickstand down. He was grinning, looking at the cars that Scotty had in his garage. “Is that a 1957 Ford Thunderbird?” he asked, pointing to one of them.

Scotty laughed, giving the blue classic convertible a gentle pat on the hood. “Yeah, just gotta fix the paint job and she’s good to go again. Owner brought her in for an oil change and some fresh paint.” He raised an eyebrow at Jim. “Didn’t know you were into cars.”

“I do a bit of everything,” said Jim, grinning. “Fixed up this bike by myself, actually.”

“Then if you’re looking for someone to patch her up, I dunno what I can do for you,” said Scotty, chuckling.

Jim grinned, blue eyes crinkling. “No, I was just wondering if you wanted to go out for a bit. But of course, if you’re busy, I can always just come back later. Or I can lend a hand, if you don’t mind me sticking around.”

“How much experience do you have with cars, then?” asked Scotty.

“I often worked on my dad’s 1965 Corvette Stingray,” said Jim, a slightly wistful expression on his face. “Grew up in the Midwest, you see, so there wasn’t much else for a boy to do for miles around. I loved that car. She was bright cherry red, and I was pretty damn happy the day I managed to fix the radio just in time to catch my favourite Beach Boys song being played on the local station.”

Scotty smiled, leaning against the significantly more recent Toyota Corolla sitting next to the Thunderbird. Jim stuck his hands in his pockets and scuffed at the ground.

“‘Course, then Frank shot it all to hell by threatening to sell that car.”

“Frank?” asked Scotty, raising an eyebrow.

“Ex-stepdad,” spat Jim, a grim sort of satisfaction in his tone as he said the prefix. “Mom married him after Dad died in Iraq. When he tried to sell Dad’s car in order to get more money for booze, I decided to hell with him and drove the old girl off a cliff. Almost drove myself off with her, but I guess the universe decided that it wasn’t done with me yet.”

“Prolly not,” agreed Scotty, tossing the blond a wrench. He then raised the hood of the Corolla, peering in. “If you lend me a hand or two, I’ll go out and help you do whatever mad idea you’ve got cookin’ in that head of yours.”

Jim laughed. “I’m all yours then, Scotty.”

“Ever thought about faster-than-light travel?” asked Scotty at the next meeting. As this particular one was set during Hanukkah, Spock had brought a platter of latkes for them to share. His mother had been Jewish; Scotty was fairly certain that if he visited the Brownstone today he’d see the blue and white decorations hung around several rooms and seven out of the eight Hanukkah candles (as well as the middle one) lit. However, whatever decorations Spock put up were always far too pristine to be called celebratory. Holidays called for haphazard attempts at cheer and copious amounts of booze, as well as attempting to confess one’s feelings for a certain pretty (and bloody brilliant) girl. Preferably near an excuse to kiss her.

Leonard groaned immediately as he helped himself to a pile of the potato pancakes. “Oh god, you’re writing spaceship porn for this novel, aren’t you?” he demanded.

“What’s it to you?” wondered Scotty. “It was just a question.”

“I think it is interesting,” offered Chekov. “At the current technology, we are not having light speed travel though. Faster than light would be extremely hard to think of.”

“Well, I thought that perhaps, one could theoretically travel faster than light by, say, warping space around one’s ship so that long distances seem shorter.” Scotty shrugged.

“Such a distortion would require substantial amounts of energy,” Spock pointed out, folding his hands in his lap. “How would you suggest generating such a quantity in a safe and frugal manner?”

Scotty chuckled for a moment, rubbing his chin as he did so. “I suppose it would be a bit daft to go into it without a safe energy source. I was thinking about creating a new element, shoving matter and antimatter together, and calculating the right balance so that it doesn’t go off in our faces.”

“You do know that we’re not actually building a spaceship, right?” Sulu ventured.

“Don’t give him ideas, Hikaru,” muttered Leonard.

Scotty laughed, leaning back. “So I like playing with hypotheticals,” he scoffed. “It’s how I came to be a writer, innit? Anyway, I was thinking of calling the new element dilithium, and it’d break into, say, hydrogen and antihydrogen, which are then both converted into energy in combustion. This’ll generate the force needed to distort the continuum around the ship, propelling it forward in space like if we had a black hole in front of the ship that still left space intact in the ship’s wake.”

“I’m assuming that this is relevant to the novel?” asked Nyota, raising an eyebrow.

Scotty threw his hands in the air. “Does everything always have to be related to the novel? Can’t a bloke talk space travel with his friends without justification?”

Nyota giggled. “Sure, but it’s just… actually, no, it’s not that weird. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you come up with an idea for faster than light space travel yet. It’s been robots for a couple months now.”

“What can I say? I love robots, and I understand them better. They’re machines that are easy to code and decipher. Whatever you input is sure to come out the way you want it to as long as you do it right. Humans, on the other hand, are complicated and emotional, and sometimes it’s like no matter how hard you try to get one to pay attention to you, they’re too busy with someone else. There’s no manual for any of ‘em, and each one is a different model. Anything you input that works for some causes others to splutter and refuse to work for you.”

Nyota laughed, her eyebrows arching in a way that Scotty had come to recognise as the ‘oh, I love a good debate’ look. “Yeah, but they haven’t come up with a processor as brilliant as the human brain just yet, have they?” she asked with a smirk. “If you want to get into the nitty-gritty of it, Scotty, you just have to realise that every emotion a human being feels is encoded into nerve impulses and neurochemicals. You feel happy because of dopamine. You feel love because of oxytocin. It’s all in the mind, and that mind, if you try to understand it, will help you understand people’s motivations.”

Scotty opened his mouth to rebuff, but instead considered her words for a moment. Perhaps humans and machines were all too similar in design. After all, machines were created largely by humans, and for human consumption. “So, you’re saying that it requires the high maintenance of an Audi, but it has to monitor and repair itself the entire time. Personally,” he rebuffed, waving a hand, “I’d hate to leave self-inventory to someone who had no idea what they were doing, so it’d be ridiculous to expect most people to fix themselves — much less leave the entire job up to their minds. If there were some method to keep track of whatever was going wrong, well, I’m sure psychiatrists would have an easier time with their patients. Hell, if someone had the knowledge, I’m sure they could break out the Sylar methodology of tinkering with brains. It’s just difficult to know what to do with your own mind when it breaks down.”

“Funny you should mention Sylar, since he was once a watchmaker who probably figured out exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you about the human brain,” remarked Nyota.

“What, you want me to crack open someone’s head to figure out how they tick? I thought that was Spock’s job,” retorted Scotty.

“Scotty, Spock is in the same boat as you. Well, in a way, I suppose.” Nyota shrugged.

“I observe and examine from a distance,” Spock interjected. “It adds to my intellectual understanding of human behavioral norms.”

“Yeah, we’re different in that Spock is actually pretty fascinated with humans, like he’s an alien from outer space who’s been assigned to study the Earth for a sixth grade science fair project,” scoffed Scotty. “I’m perfectly happy with my robots, thanks.”

“And I think it’s entirely possible to add a degree of humanity to them without sacrificing all of your mechanic… technobabble.” Nyota was grinning, nonetheless.

“Oh, don’t get all Blade Runner and Oswin Oswald and Caprica Six on me,” sighed Scotty. “That trope’s been done into the grave and back. It’s a zombie trope. You’ve gotta double-tap it the next time you see it. Shame J.J. Abrams didn’t get the memo.”

“I didn’t say you should turn them into humans with robotic physiologies. I didn’t even tell you to put a human inside the robots —” She stopped at the look on his face. Scotty wasn’t sure how widely he was grinning, but he was fairly certain it verged on ‘shit-eating’. “You didn’t. You went Power Rangers on us.” She started laughing, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god, how has Len not given you hell for this?”

“Not given Scotty hell for what?” asked Leonard, who had just returned to his seat with more pancakes and a snifter of brandy. “Scotty, what’d you do this time?”

“He is putting people inside of robots,” said Chekov immediately.

Leonard raised both eyebrows. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“It’s not for this novel, you bleedin’ idiots,” groused Scotty. “A while back, I thought it’d be interesting to come up with a kind of giant mecha robot that was piloted by two humans who had to share a mental connection in order to get it to work. Like, each pilot would take on one hemisphere of the neural load necessary to pilot the robot. Fostered bonding and stuff outside of their job of fighting giant Godzilla-like creatures.”

“They must have extremely compatible minds to manage that,” Nyota mused, “I know that if Gaila and I tried it we’d be spending half the time trying to figure out each other’s dirtiest secrets, whose emotions were whose, and where we had left that piece of mecha.”

Scotty raised an eyebrow. “Mental soulmates, huh? I’ll take note of that suggestion,” he said, winking. Nyota laughed, stealing a pancake from Leonard’s plate. Chuckling, Scotty poured himself another scotch and changed the subject. “Where’s Jim?”

“He’s at a book signing,” said Leonard. “Paramount wants to make a movie out of his book. Not sure why, because it’s mostly epistolary and that’s generally terrible to adapt.”

“Dracula was epistolary, and the Princess Diaries were mostly journal entries,” Nyota pointed out.

Leonard rolled his eyes. “And their movies weren’t exactly the strictest reconstructions of the book. I mean, you’ve gotta be desperate to try and turn Mina Harker into the resurrected love interest of Dracula. And don’t even get me started on the second Princess Diaries movie. That had nothing to do with the books.”

“But Chris Pine was so good to look at,” sighed Nyota. Everyone else sent her odd looks. “What? I’m not allowed to have guilty pleasures? Come on, Spock, you agreed with me that he was good-looking.”

Spock looked slightly shifty, even as Sulu and Chekov started laughing.

“Wait, what? You got Spock to admit he likes someone?” demanded Leonard, tossing back his brandy. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

“Because no one wants to watch movies with you,” retorted Nyota. “You ruin every scene with complaints about how all the movie injuries and illnesses are portrayed incorrectly. I think the last time you didn’t complain about the portrayal of medical science in a movie was Contagion, and that’s hardly a film I want to watch when all I want is ice-cream and snuggles.”

“Now you’re telling me you managed to convince Spock to snuggle with you,” said Leonard, looking over at Spock, who was sitting as if he would rather sink into the cushions of his chair and disappear completely. “Nyota, sometimes I don’t think we’re talking about the same Spock.”

Nyota laughed. “The rest of you just haven’t gotten to know the giant teddy bear that Spock secretly is. And don’t even give me that look, Len, I know you’re also secretly a giant teddy bear as well. It’s basically the same thing with you two. You just need alien cuddle pollen or something to bring it out.”

“You are giving Scotty ideas,” whispered Chekov, dissolving into giggles as Scotty raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m perfectly cuddly. I don’t need alien cuddle pollen to bring that out,” he retorted, winking at Nyota, who blushed into her cup of coffee.

He stared at the screen. He’d already written the initial destruction wreaked upon the Kelvin by the Narada, and the demands made by the Romulans for the captain of the Kelvin to show himself onboard their ship. But the next scene — the interrogation scene between Nero and the captain of the Kelvin — just wasn’t coming to him.

John Taggart had been promoted to acting captain, however. His wife, Winifred, was in medbay undergoing a third trimester checkup. Their son was supposed to be due in March, but his actual birth would come much earlier than that.

Scotty sighed, crossing his apartment to get to the fridge for something to eat. However, when he opened the fridge, all he saw were raw ingredients for dishes that he didn’t want to cook. Groaning, he scrubbed at his eyes and moved for his mobile to call for a pizza, but there was a ring at the door, and he scrambled down the ladder to answer.

Sulu stood on his doorstep, a casserole dish in his hand. Scotty could’ve kissed him.

“What’s that?” asked Sulu, pointing to a tablet lying on the coffee table after he had somehow managed to get the casserole dish up the ladder tucked under his arm. Scotty had taken it to the kitchen counter; it was still warm enough to eat without reheating.

“Blueprints,” said Scotty, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He raised an eyebrow as Sulu picked up the tablet, and the other had the grace to look at least somewhat sheepish as he set it down again. “Are you here to spy on my sixth of the novel?”

“I’m not even writing until most of the stuff’s happened,” retorted Sulu. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get to yank everyone out of danger just coming in from the climax or something. Jim and Spock got the best bits.”

“There’s always an opportunity for you to twist the plot,” Scotty remarked, crossing the room to take his tablet off the coffee table in order to set down two mismatched plates of eggplant casserole.

“And leave Pasha to pick up all the pieces? I’m not that cold.” Sulu rolled his eyes, walking across the apartment to grab a coke from the fridge. “Besides, I’m not going to piss him off. You saw what he did to your project last April.”

“Professor Lozano nearly had my head on a silver platter, I know,” muttered Scotty as he listened to Sulu open the can for a brief moment before opening his tablet and resuming his doodling. “And I was so close, too. Hey, do you think if I presented my warp drive idea to him, he’d —”

“Scotty,” said Sulu, taking a seat next to him with his coke and a fork. Scotty raised an eyebrow. “This is just a novel.”

“Well, it sure as hell could be inspiration for someone else,” retorted Scotty, poking Sulu with the stylus before resuming his work. “And the next time you try raining on my parade, need I mention the parking brake incident?”

Sulu glowered. “I went to this much trouble to make you a nice eggplant casserole—”

“For which, by the way, I thank you, even though I like your caprese sandwich more— ”

“And you repay me with threats of blackmail.” The dark-haired man sniffed. “I see how it is.”

“How’s that novel coming along?” asked Jim at the next meeting. Scotty shrugged.

“I’m working on it,” he said.

Jim snorted. “Yeah, well, you’ve got another week to work on it.”

“You’re impatient,” remarked Scotty drily. “How was the book signing?”

“Busy,” said Jim, yawning. “My hands hurt afterward, and I posed for way too many pictures, but hey. It was pretty cool to get to know the local fans. You know those girls at that one college?”

“We’re in an area saturated with colleges,” pointed out Sulu. “You’re going to have to specify.”

“I think it was called Wesley or something,” said Jim. “The town next to it had the cleanest streets I’ve ever seen.”

“I think you’re thinking of Wellesley,” said Nyota, rolling her eyes. “I went there.”

“Oh, you did?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “Bones’s best friend in med school went there too. Christine Chapel, do you know her?”

“She was my roommate,” replied Nyota calmly.

“And your girlfriend, once,” added Leonard. “I told her I knew you.”

“The world is small, nyet?” wondered Chekov. “What are the students at Wellesley saying about your book, Jim?”

“I gave a small talk there at their observatory about first contact and science fiction. They seemed to like the fact that Sorjei was only vaguely masculine.” Jim laughed. “Then again, I guess they’re all for upsetting the gender binary.”

“Yeah, that’s the Wellesley I remember,” agreed Nyota. “Chris was a real sweetie, though, even after our breakup. I think she figured that she was my exception. How was she in med school?”

“Apparently she stabbed someone with a hypodermic needle for trying to grope her in the lab,” said Leonard, chuckling. “Seems like an effective threat to me. I might have to copy her.”

“God save us,” muttered Jim. “Anyone write something interesting while waiting for their turn?”

“Well,” began Chekov, “I am starting this novella about Baba Yaga and supernatural hunters that are hunting her because she ate the adopted child of them, but I am unsure how to describe the demon sign she is using to summon the powers that give her house the feet of chickens.”

“To which demon are you referring?” asked Spock, causing Jim’s eyebrows to shoot up.

“Asmodeus, who is taking the guise of Koschei the Deathless. His lesser demons serve her as horsemen.”

Spock nodded and pursed his lips before reaching for a pad of paper and sketching out the demon sigil in question and handing it to Chekov. He then left his chair to head for Leonard’s kitchen, and moments later they could hear him filling the electric kettle, ostensibly to brew another cup of tea. Scotty’s eyes went wide as he watched him leave the room.

“Since when did he know about demon sigils?” he demanded, looking over at a madly giggling Nyota.

“Maybe he watched that one TV show?” wondered Jim, still looking a bit winded. “Y’know, the one about the supernatural hunters?”

Nyota snorted. “He did watch some, but not all of it. Found it too illogical or something. I think he just got scared of Bloody Mary crawling out of the mirror.”

“I’m not even surprised,” said Leonard. “So what got him so knowledgeable about demon summoning? Don’t tell me he’s secretly a Satanist or something.”

“No, there was just this one time,” giggled Nyota as she shot an amused glance at Scotty, “when he was researching demons for a short story.”

Spock reentered the room with a cup of tea, taking his seat once more with an innocent expression.

Scotty grinned down at what he had written, proud that he had managed to explore the relationships between the characters properly. In the end, it had been worth listening to Leonard’s critiques on human interaction, difficult to push through as they had been. If he thought of people as complex machines, then he could muster up enough interest in what made them tick to get them working through the pages.

There was another ring at the door. He descended into the garage to find Jim waiting by his bike. Scotty didn’t even need to ask; Jim picked up a wrench and crawled under one of his newer cars (a turquoise Dodge pickup, and quite pretty at that) to take a look.

It was only much later, after Jim had showered off the oil and grease, that Scotty saw fit to reward the man with a bottle of scotch and a couple rounds. Jim agreed — free alcohol was always welcome as far as he was concerned — and took a seat across from Scotty, watching him pour two snifters and enthusiastically shove one at Jim, causing it to tip.

He worked to correct his mistake by quickly grabbing the glass and handing it to Jim more sedately, pausing to watch his friend down its contents almost instantly.

“The thing,” Jim started, kickstarting the inevitable drunken discussion after barely a moment had passed, “about cars is that they tend to have similar facets that run right down to the minutiae — shit, I’m one of those assholes when I get the tiniest bit of alcohol in me. I should have warned you. If I barf a dictionary, you have my express permission to smack me. On the bright side, it tends to wear off once I get past tipsy.”

Scotty laughed, waving a hand. “You can ramble about kismet for all I care, lad. It takes all kinds to have an entertaining evening, and I write for fun. It won’t bother me any.” With that, he poured Jim another round. An easy grin spread across Jim’s face in response. He then proceeded to work at the alcohol with a greater amount of caution than he had previously.

“Alright, but you asked for it. Okay, where was I?”

“Similar facets.”

“Ha! Right. Okay, so cars can have similar makes and models, but they’ll never be exactly the same in temperament, and what works for one won’t necessarily work for the other.”

This garnered a quick nod of agreement from Scotty. He remembered his talk with Nyota and responded with, “Aye, they're like people in that. Take Aggie over there,” he announced, poking a thumb back in the general direction of the shop. “She’s a darling if she’s used to everything under her hood and behind her wheel, but if you dare to give her a new component or driver… Well, I suppose it’s best if you do it with supervision and in a controlled environment. She tends to stiffen up and refuse to work if she doesn’t like what you’re doing.” With a rich laugh, Scotty continued. “She’s quite a bit like Spock in that manner.”

Jim’s expression twisted into something like disappointment at this. “Well, I guess that confirms my suspicions, huh? He doesn’t seem to like me much at all.”

“What was your first clue?” Scotty asked on impulse, unable to stop himself before the words left his mouth. “Shite, I didn’t mean it that way. Basically, you’re a new brand of fuel, and Spock doesn’t want to switch from his name-brand import. He’ll warm up to you eventually. Hell, he might run better off of you than he did with his former stuff.”

“I think I get what you’re talking about, but the alcohol is making it harder than it should be to understand you. Where’d you get this sorta stuff?” wondered Jim. “It doesn’t take this long for me to loosen up.”

“I believe Nyota has a better answer to that, but I’m tempted to say it in her absence anyway,” replied Scotty.

“Oh, she’d call me loose. Brilliant, but loose. But hey, what can I say? Back at NYU my motto was to study hard and party harder.” Jim poured himself another glass, ginning. “I was the worst little shit that ever tried going to college.”

“Really? And here I thought you were a regular genius,” said Scotty, pretending to look hurt.

Jim snorted. “Genius, sure, but a real fuck-up. Some of my counselors thought I just lacked a father figure. Frank could hardly be counted as one, you know?” Scotty only gestured for Jim to go on, so the blond tipped back his glass and set it down with a satisfied sigh.

“I was born a fuck-up, you know,” he said. “Three months premature and all that. Mom went into labour at the news that my dad’s company had been attacked in Iraq. All over the news, that piece. She’d just barely gotten off the phone with him, where he told her he loved her. It was bound to shock and upset her, but I guess I got impatient and wanted out.”

Scotty nodded, pouring Jim another drink, but the man wouldn’t take it; he merely raised a sceptical eyebrow at the glass, chuckling.

“Hang on a sec, Scotty, are you trying to get me to blab about my past?”

“What, can’t a bloke care about another bloke?” demanded Scotty as he took a hearty swig of his scotch and raised an eyebrow at Jim. “If you’re gonna talk about your past while drunk as a skunk, I’ll sure as hell listen to you.”

Jim considered it, and then shrugged. “Well, after the war, my dad’s military bud, this guy named Pike, came by and told me what happened with my dad the day he died. Said he died a hero — when their base got attacked, he made sure nearby civilians got to safety while he took a grenade for the rest of the company. He thought it was his duty to, as acting captain of the company after the original one died in the first few minutes of the attack.” He snorted, taking a swig of the liquor. “The government paid Mom the insurance and death gratuities and stuff that she’s supposed to get if Dad dies in action, and gave her his Purple Heart. Dunno if that was ever enough to compensate for Dad’s death though. Sure as hell wasn’t enough for me, and Frank made it worse.”

Scotty patted Jim on the back. “Did I ever tell you this one time I almost got expelled from CalTech for performing physics experiments on my Mechanical Engineering professor’s dog?”

Scotty handed Nyota a sheaf of papers. “The third chapter,” he explained. She took them from him, her eyes skimming over the contents. Scotty fidgeted as she did so, checking her expression for any tells.

“There’s a lot more character in this than what Len gives you credit for,” she remarked.

“I had good inspiration,” said Scotty, shrugging.

“Yeah, I heard Jim’s helping out at your garage. Is he your new muse or something?”

Scotty snorted. “I guess you could say that. Kid’s got an interesting story to tell. I just tweaked it a bit.”

Nyota’s lips quirked at that. “He’s adept at bringing out other peoples’ stories as well, from the looks of it.” Flourishing the hand that was not holding the papers, she counted a finger off for each new statement. “He managed to get all of us to agree to this eccentric project of his, somehow got Spock to write again — he might just be writing about what an insufferable kink he believes Kirk is in the otherwise smooth road Spock thinks he has been traveling so far, but who cares — and he wove a complex storyline for different characters growing up with completely different cultural and societal norms.” Nyota looked down at the three outstretched fingers of her hand for a moment.

“All in all, I think he’s amicable behind the whole narcissistic genius front.”

Scotty groaned. “Nyota, can you not psychoanalyse my new drinking buddies all the time? It makes things a tad awkward. ‘Mate, do you want to share some scotch with me as I consider your deep trauma as diagnosed by Nyota Uhura?’ It just doesn’t mesh.”

“If I don’t talk about something and hear it out loud, I don’t have it down properly. I need to write it out or talk to someone about it, and if I can’t trust my beta, who can I trust?”

“You could trust Spock. He doesn’t want to breathe the same air as Jim, much less talk to him about your thoughts on how he could best remove his head from the beautiful world of his own arse.”

Nyota rolled her eyes and mock-shoved him. “That’s the exact reason I can’t talk to Spock about these things. Don’t get me wrong; I love the guy. It’s just that I’m afraid of being written into one of his works as a woman who inexplicably turns into a cockroach.”

“You’re giving me flashbacks to his Kafka days, and you need to fucking stop that.”

“Serves you right.” She flashed a grin at him, the grin that never failed to weaken his knees. Scotty watched her walk away, and caught himself staring at the spot where she had been long after she was gone.

Chapter Text

“What,” asked Nyota at their next meeting, “do you think of a species of alien that appears unemotional?”

“You could do the same with androids,” said Scotty almost immediately.

Len scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned our novel into a giant space robot orgy or something.”

“You know, I’m almost tempted to go back and change that now,” said Scotty with an expression of mock contemplation. “I even made the second chapter quite emotional for you.”

“Oh, this I gotta read,” snorted Len. It wasn’t as if he had it in for Scotty, Nyota knew; he just liked pressing the mechanic’s buttons. Len did that. He teased like no one else. If it wasn’t Scotty being picked on by the doctor, it was Spock. Len knew both of them were phenomenal writers, and he respected that and treasured their friendship. In addition, he, like most other members of their group, was one of the few people who could tease Spock. After all, Spock was hardly the sort to take teasing lightly.

“The third chapter’s not bad,” she said in a louder voice. “I’m not sure what Scotty stuck in the previous ones, but the third’s about some delinquent kid getting caught by a robotic policeman.”

“Sounds like me,” snorted Jim.

“Oh, I based Pete heavily off you,” said Scotty, raising his glass of whiskey.

“You’ve become his new muse,” added Nyota, grinning.

“I think I should be scared,” remarked Jim, “but I’m just flattered.” He flashed Scotty a grin and a wink. Nyota rolled her eyes.

“If you care to know, Leonard,” added Scotty, “the previous chapters were a prologue about a crazy alien attack in deep—”

“Cheating,” Jim exclaimed in a tone much too delighted to suggest he was upset about the matter. “You cheated, Scotty! We need to come up with a penalty of some sort, and I have some great ideas.”

“What exactly is the nature of this offense?” demanded Spock, springing to Scotty’s defence even before the man could open his mouth.

“He’s talking about what he’s written. That’s cheating.”

“It was never explicitly stated in the rules that one would be barred from discussing the previous chapters. One may not, perhaps, give a direct reading of the passage, but one was never explicitly banned from summarisation.”

Jim threw his hands in the air. “So it’s a technicality, Spock.”

“My father is an ambassador. I therefore embrace technicalities.”

“You could afford to embrace more than that,” Jim muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” demanded Spock, as Nyota hid a snort with a bout of suspicious-sounding coughing. “You merely do not wish for us to write a coherent storyline. This is only a game for you, since you are already successful enough with your farcical love story to disregard others.”

Jim coloured visibly, all traces of mock offence giving way to true indignation. “And I guess you’re just a stick in the mud who wants everything to be in a boring, logical progression!” he snapped. “Maybe that’s why you’re so blocked, Spock; you just can’t get your head out of your ass long enough to look for a new way of doing things.”

Nyota raised a hand. “Boys, stop bickering. You’re both pretty,” she said, even though she still looked amused.

Spock sent her a quizzical look. “I do not see how my outward aesthetic appeal has anything to do with the situation—”

“Spock,” repeated Nyota, in good-humoured exasperation. She had spent a great deal of her acquaintance with him teaching him the finer points of social interaction, and was, out of the entire group, the most well-equipped to handle his confusion. Besides, he looked adorable when he had no idea how to handle people trying to flirt with him. “What do you think about a race of aliens that seem to have no emotions?”

“They’d be boring,” said Jim immediately, before Spock could reply. “I bet they’d have no concept of fun, either.”

“Like Mr. Spock?” asked Pasha innocently, looking up from his problem set for advanced calculus. Spock raised an eyebrow.

“I am well aware of what the concept of ‘fun’ entails—” he began, but Nyota raised a hand.

“No, I meant that they only look emotionless because they’re bottling it all up inside them. Their emotions, that is. They’re like Freud’s theory of ego-versus-id taken to the extreme. Every last emotion is catalogued, analysed, and suppressed in favour of logic that…”

“So you are basing an entire alien species off of Spock!” exclaimed Len, almost laughing. “I’m not sure if I want to see that, given your past history—”

“I’d think that would be flattery, not deprecation,” interrupted Jim. “Of course, that would depend on whether or not these hypothetical aliens are the good guys or the bad guys.”

“I was thinking they’d be good guys,” replied Nyota, looking over at Spock, who said nothing. The man took poker face to an art form; the only vague expressions of emotionalism he ever had were conveyed through his thick eyebrows.

She smiled at him; he nodded in return, and turned his attention to Jim’s discussion of the short story he was writing while waiting for Nyota to finish her sixth of the novel.

“Nyota,” said Spock gently as they walked together down the snow-clad pavement after the meeting. Their breaths came up in puffs of condensation in the night air, illumined by the golden streetlamps. Spock was walking her home; in the chill of the night Nyota drew her coat closer and nudged herself a bit nearer to him.

“Yeah?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Is that for creating an entire alien species off of you or…?”

“I feel it necessary to express my gratitude for your intervention during my argument with James Kirk today.” He paused. “And for the creation of an alien species after myself, yes.”

“Vulcans seem like a lot of fun to write. Don’t listen to Jim about them being boring.” Nyota grinned toothily. “Besides, the character that I’m thinking of writing is only half-Vulcan. Scotty listed him twice in the character sheet, as an Ambassador and as a baby.”

“Fascinating,” said Spock, looking straight ahead. “What role will he serve in your segment of the story?”

“Spoilers,” she replied, winking at him. “Here’s my stop.”

Spock walked her up the steps to the front door and hugged her goodnight. She grinned up at him— their breakup had been amicable, owing to a difference in sexuality rather than to anything more damaging. He was, contrary to Jim’s belief, a good friend.

“Don’t let Jim get you down,” she offered. “We could always kick him out.”

“That would be unnecessary,” said Spock, “as we are writing with him. I do not appreciate his approach to the project, but he is right in that I do require novelty from time to time.”

“You don’t need to concede to his argument,” Nyota hugged him again.

“It has its logical merits,” he replied vaguely.

“Do you like him?” She had blurted it out before realising that it might be too personal a question. Spock paused, as if he was trying to find the right words. Nyota fumbled for her own, trying to assure him that she hadn’t meant for him to answer, but Spock affixed her with his quizzical gaze and spoke before she could.

“Why would it matter what I think of him?”

Nyota sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Spock, we just discussed outing him from the group if he makes you uncomfortable. Believe it or not, your ability to function matters, as does your emotional and mental wellbeing. Kapiche?”

“Is it necessary that I answer in the ‘call and response’ format that that question usually initiates, or may I make a pass this once?” Spock teased, avoiding the subject matter for as long as he could manage.

“That has nothing to do with what I’m asking you about,” Nyota responded. She was well used to Spock’s attempts to dissuade her from her primary goal. “Now, is there going to be a problem between you and Jim? I’m not asking you to attempt to find something good about him — you’d just tell me about his efficiency in parting the air around him. I just want you to tell me if you think you guys can get along.” Spock considered her for a long moment, a moment in which Nyota found herself a bit lost for breath as she anticipated his answer.

“I am uncertain,” he said quietly, eyes downcast, before turning, descending the front steps, and leaving her at the door.

The first time Nyota met Spock Grayson, it had been at an opera. They had been seated next to each other, listening to the dulcet tones of Nadine Sierra’s voice as she sang the part of Gilda in Verdi’s Rigoletto. After the performance, he had walked her to the bus stop, and their discussion of Verdi had mutated into a discussion about creative writing. Much to her delight, he then had offered to show her his own works in a subsequent meetup at the Café Mangal near her college.

Café Mangal became Lemon Thai, became him arriving regularly on campus after her classes and sitting with her in the campus centre, watching the sunset over Lake Waban. Their discussions by then had nothing to do with creative writing anymore; they were trading anecdotes about their childhoods. Spock talked about how he had once been bullied as a child, about how he used to get into fights at school before his father taught him to channel his emotions into reactions that were more socially acceptable.

He, as a child, had been shuttled frequently from country to country in the wake of his father, the ambassador, but there were still two family houses to go to — the one that belonged to his father in Arizona and the one that belonged to his mother here. He had been a child of two distinctly different heritages, a child of two disparate worlds. Despite her best efforts, she had never convinced him to tell her where the surname ‘S’chn T’gai’ came from, nor did she ever manage to pronounce it correctly according to him.

Now Nyota sat bundled up in her bed with a glass of wine and her laptop warming her legs, her fingers poised on the keys of her aging MacBook as she thought of the character Lazarus, the one that Scotty had called half-human, half-Vulcan.

From the moment of Lazarus’s conception, he had been a miracle.

Spock, too, had been a miracle for Nyota, in his own way. After Christine, he had been there. When his mother died, she had been there. That night had been the first time he allowed his hand to slip into hers, and it had sent tingles through her body as he held on.

She had thought, when he pressed his lips against hers a week later, that it had been a long time coming, that she had finally found The One. Served her right to think of it like that — he could not bring himself to go further, and she had watched him hesitate with the buttons of his shirt enough times to know that he loved her, but not in that way.

So she let that aspect of them go, but she retained their friendship. It was enough. It had always been enough, but she had been too blind to see how much more valuable his friendship had been than anything else he could have possibly offered.

Vulcans and humans were sexually compatible, but not completely — not enough to allow viable hybrid offspring to develop without medical assistance. It did, in fact, take a team of Vulcan and human scientists at the Vulcan Science Academy to create Lazarus, to ensure his survival in utero and throughout his developmental years.

But as Mary, wife of the Ambassador Jairus of Vulcan, would say, her boy was a miracle that was worth every credit spent in medical bills and gene therapy. She had uprooted herself from her life on Earth, from her friends and family and her job teaching inner-city kids in San Francisco, to be with him on Vulcan. The least she could have was a child to show that her sacrifices were not in vain. And Lazarus was brilliant; Lazarus was everything she had hoped for.

The boy himself thought differently.

“Ny!” an all-too cheerful voice said over the phone at 6 AM. Nyota growled in return.

“Who the hell is this?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

“Jim Kirk. Listen, I heard you do translation work. Could you look over this play for me, please? It’s in Italian, and I’m afraid that I do not parlo Italiano.”

“Your accent is the worst,” muttered Nyota, swinging out of her bed and walking over to the window to throw back the curtains. The bright winter sunlight streamed into the room. “Are you emailing the thing to me?”

“Can’t I take you out to lunch?” Jim’s voice was wheedling. She could almost see him pulling the puppy-dog expression over the phone. She almost hung up on him right then and there.

“I would agree, if I wasn’t certain that you had ulterior motives,” she said.

“Come on, it’s almost Christmas. Have a bit of spirit!”

“Bah, humbug,” she retorted.

“You doing anything cool? I heard Chekov’s gone back to Russia to visit his babushka and his cousin, Boris—”

“I would have thought that you could attempt at least one accent without sounding like you’re choking.”

“Shh, I’m not done. Sulu’s doing god-knows-what in San Fran, and Bones is off to visit his old man in Georgia. Might just be a cosy Christmas, with you and me and Scotty and Spock.”

“That’s comforting,” replied Nyota drily. “Look, I just crawled out of bed to answer this — why are you even up at six, anyway? — so you’re going to have to call back in about an hour or two, after I’ve taken a shower and stuff.”

“I’ll try not to think too hard about that,” said Jim.

“You’re terrible. I’m hanging up on you.” But Nyota didn’t. Jim joked too much for her to take any of his threats and suggestions seriously. Saving, of course, the insane novel project that he had come up with in the first place.

It was hard with Jim Kirk to figure out when he was joking and when he was serious. Unpredictability was simultaneously his greatest asset and worst liability.

It took her a couple more minutes to get the time and place for lunch, but eventually she hung up just in time to watch her current flatmate, Gaila, dart into the bathroom just before she could get there. The two girls shared a small two bedroom, one bath apartment in an old brick building on a block full of old townhomes that had been converted into fairly comfortable apartments. Spock, in his own Brownstone townhouse, was about a twenty-minute walk away. Gaila had just graduated from Olin College with a degree in electrical and computer engineering, and was entirely too optimistic about her prospects in the workforce.

“Gaila, you’re not going to take an hour in there, are you?” Nyota demanded through the door of the bathroom.

“Good morning to you, too,” retorted Gaila. “I’ve got an interview with the MIT Lincoln Laboratory in an hour. Breakfast is on the table.”

Nyota almost groaned. Almost. The last time she had allowed Gaila into their kitchen, the redhead had somehow managed to burn her orange juice. It took a certain level of culinary skill to be able to do that.

“Gaila, I love you, but the only thing you can cook is cereal with milk. Cold milk.”

“I can also scramble eggs,” her roommate retorted, with a hint of petulance.

“The last time you tried, we had to call the fire department.”

“That was not my fault. That was the stove’s. It just lit up all of a sudden!”

“Right, and I’m the queen of England.”

“God save you.” Gaila began to whistle ‘God Save the Queen’ as the shower was turned on. Since there would be no use in attempting to get into the bathroom at this rate, Nyota decided to retire to her room and write a bit more of the novel.

She had just finished the scene in which Lazarus had beaten up a bully that had insulted his mother by the time Gaila left the bathroom in a set of fluffy green towels.

“Don’t you have an interview soon?” asked Nyota as her roommate paused outside in the hallway between their rooms and the bathroom, grinning at her.

“You’re not usually up at this time,” replied the redhead, tilting her head to the side.

“I got woken up with a job offer,” said Nyota, scrubbing blearily at her face.

“Aw, some people have all the luck.” Gaila snickered. “I’m going on a date tonight. I’ll probably be bringing him around afterwards, so if you want to spend some time with Spock…”

“I spend plenty of time with Spock,” said Nyota, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, if he’s not busy, spend some more time with him.” Gaila grinned toothily. “Or… I dunno, go do something. Go dancing. Don’t you have that other writing friend who’s on the MIT ballroom dance team?”

“How did you know Scotty—” Nyota cut off, sighing. Gaila knew about everything; she didn’t even need to question it. “Chris mentioned the other day over lunch that Carol was in town.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” wondered Gaila, the glee evident in her eyes. “Wonder why she didn’t tell me; we had an arrangement—”

“I don’t want to know anything about your freaky sex life, Gaila. It’s already embarrassing enough that you have a tendency to hit on my friends—”

“Hey, it’s like a universal law of hotness that hot people will gravitate towards hot people. Your friends are smokin’,” Gaila winked. “Though I’m sure you’ve got more friends than those that you’ve introduced me to—”

“That’s the point,” muttered Nyota.

Gaila raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what? Are you implying that you have more hot friends and you are purposefully depriving me of their extremely attractive presences? I thought you liked me!” she added with a voice of fake petulance.

Nyota pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are incorrigible,” she muttered.

“I know I am,” chirped Gaila sweetly.

Nyota rolled her eyes, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. “Anyway, Carol’s up from DC to visit her father, so I’ll call her up and see if she wants to catch a movie.”

“You could call Scotty as well. Three geniuses should be able to find out a few ways to work out the kinks in their plans. You just might spend the night with your hands full.”

“Stop making everything an innuendo,” Nyota moaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“I will as soon as you get busy enough to make me balk, so go out and sow your wild oats.” Gaila beamed before waltzing off into her room to change. Nyota watched her go for a moment longer before closing her laptop and entering the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Jim Kirk was all smiles when Nyota showed up at the Uno Chicago Grill bundled up in her winter gear. All around them the streets were lit with holiday displays of all kinds; a festive tree stood in the entryway to the cosy-looking pizzeria.

As their coats dried off next to them, Jim pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to her. “So,” he said, “take a look.”

Nyota took out the contents of the envelope and raised an eyebrow at the title. “‘Damn Straight’?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Have you seen it?” he asked. “It’s apparently some collaboration piece between an old friend of mine, Gary Mitchell, and some Italian buddy of his—”

“You seem to know a lot of people,” remarked Nyota as she thumbed through the script.

“It’s just a small world.” Jim shrugged, ordering himself a lemonade when the waitress came by. Nyota asked for water. “Gary said this play was about the exploits of this one demon that wants to lure all the heterosexuals into hell.”

“Classy,” said Nyota drily. “And Gary couldn’t try and translate it himself?”

“I dunno if he can,” said Jim. “He and his girlfriend Lizzie were in a rather nasty accident—”

“I see.” Nyota nodded, returning her full attention to the script. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jim grinned. “I look forward to seeing what you can do with that talented tongue of yours,” he said, winking, and Nyota swatted at him half-heartedly in reply.

“Even with my knowledge of languages, I don’t seem to talk with half as many people as you do. How do you end up on such good terms with all of these people, anyway? I know the world may be small, but usually you can count on the people who inhabit it to ignore you.” Nyota squinted at Jim, flourishing her as-of-yet unused fork at him. “Unless you shove your elbow into their stomach or something, that is. However, that would contribute more to your list of enemies than friends.”

Jim rubbed his palms together. “Well, there are a couple of methods I use that extend but are not limited to: the tried-and-true ‘get raging drunk with a stranger’ method; the ‘talk about current events in an interesting fashion’ procedure; the ‘long rambling anecdote about interesting acquaintances and bathrooms’ technique; and my personal favourite, the ‘so, what do you like to read?’ stratagem.”

Nyota hummed in thought. “So, what if they don’t read?”

Jim grinned, teeth flashing for the barest instant before he downed a mouthful of his lemonade. “In that case,” he announced after swallowing, “I ask them if they’d like to pick up the habit with a wonderful book called Sixteen Light Years.”

Nyota laughed and smacked him with her napkin. “You shameless self-promoter!”

“I know, I’m incorrigible. However, I can get away with it without being scolded by Bones, and it does tend to help move a conversation along.”

“I would have thought that Len would smack you for being so blatant,” Nyota said, arching an eyebrow at him. Jim waggled a finger in response.

“Nah, I give him a bit of the cut for being an epic nitpick, so anything that increases sales is safe from his wrath.” He paused. “Well, most things.”

Before Nyota could ask for more detail as to what was out of bounds and what was fair game, the waitress had returned to take their orders. They decided to split a pizza and some breadsticks, and then Jim insisted on ordering one of the white chocolate chip cookie sundaes, one that was sweet enough to make Nyota question her levels of blood sugar.

“You know,” said Jim after the pizza and breadsticks had come and gone and they were working on the sundae, “one time I pulled that move on this girl I was standing behind in a line for the movie theatre. She nearly fainted when she found out I wrote the book.”

“I find that hard to believe,” retorted Nyota as she watched Jim stab himself a slice of the cookie baked into the bottom of the dish. “And yet I wouldn’t put it past you to use ‘hey, I wrote Sixteen Light Years’ as a pick-up line.”

Jim snorted, shoving the cookie and some vanilla ice cream into his mouth. “I’m not that blatant,” he protested. “I told her my name was Jim Kirk. She made the connection by herself.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She tried eating a bit of the sundae too, but her taste buds protested at the barrage of sugar. Jim continued to chip away at the cookie at the bottom, apparently oblivious to her plight.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “the only person I’ve ever seen have such a negative reaction to that book is Spock.”

“He can’t be the only one,” Nyota pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but mostly I knew that from angry posts on the Internet and Mary Sue fanfictions posted on Fanfiction.Net,” replied Jim, causing Nyota to raise an eyebrow.

“You think that fanfiction for your book—”

“Mary Sue fanfiction,” repeated Jim. “Call me a terrible person, but I think anyone who wants to write themselves into Janet’s place has completely failed to grasp the point of the novel.”

“Ha, Spock was just talking the other day about how Janet had some Mary Sue tendencies,” Nyota giggled. Jim raised an eyebrow at her.

“He did, did he?”

“Yeah, he was wondering why Sorjei chose to write to her, of all people.”

“What, not because she wrote a reply to him when she was interning at SETI?”

“I told him that that was probably the case. He still looked a bit mystified.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “It’s weird that Spock’s characters are dynamic at all, since he doesn’t seem to be a fan of giving them significant traits,” he remarked. “I mean, every character’s gotta have something special about them, right? Everyone on this planet is special, so it only makes sense that every character has to have something special. It doesn’t even matter what it is — whether they like eating toast with the butter side down, or if they can stop a freight train with their bare hands, or that they can whistle the entire Carmen overture — but it’s gotta be there, or else they’ll be flat. And, ironically, that’s what some Mary Sues tend to be like. They’ve got so many clichés about them that they’re just… flat.”

Nyota shook her head and smiled in a way that seemed almost maternal. “Well, Spock certainly has a way with characters that isn’t ‘normal’, per se. They aren’t static, though.”

The waiter came with the bill moments later. Nyota tried to pay for her half of lunch, but Jim insistently shoved the card back at her.

“You’re helping me translate this play. That’s good enough for me.” He grinned. “I’ll see you around; I’ve gotta go help Scotty with something at the garage.”

She watched him leave, thinking for a moment that he wasn’t as bad as Spock would like to believe, and then turned her attentions to the tale of a supposedly heterophobic demon.

Nyota had managed to get a couple pages out that afternoon, in between translating “Damn Straight” and watching the YouTube videos of Grumpy Cat that Pasha had sent her. By the time she left the house to catch a movie with Carol Marcus, Lazarus had grown up and rejected the Vulcan Science Academy in favour of Starfleet Academy.

Once, after watching Clueless, Spock had told her that his father had wished for him to study at UC Berkeley. Of course Spock had gotten into most of the schools he had applied to, but he had chosen Pomona over Berkeley just to spite his father. Or at least, that was what she had gotten out of his explanation of his alma mater’s consortium-style campus and the logic in fostering a liberal arts education, as well as the quality of education found at Pomona. Spock had gone to some small liberal arts college as a ‘fuck you’ to the old man, and it had driven a rift between the two that had only healed with the death of Spock’s mother.

In that same vein, Lazarus chose to attend Starfleet Academy because it was accepting of all species, and because it would offer him a similarly rigorous courseload and a future in serving the Federation on a starship. The fact that rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy was also a ‘fuck you’ to the xenophobia of the academy board (and by extent, his father’s alma mater and culture) was an added bonus.

Carol met her on the doorstep of her apartment, bundled in a bright blue coat. “Ny!” she exclaimed, reaching out to hug her. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s only been three months,” replied Nyota, grinning. “How’s your father been?”

“Remember that ergonomic chair you tried buying for him?”

“Oh yeah, I thought that he could have a nice chair to sit in while polishing his Navy medals and his favourite shotguns or something,” agreed Nyota as they headed for Carol’s car.

“He somehow managed to turn the thing into firewood. Thought you were implying that he was old.” Carol laughed as they got into her car and buckled up.

“What? Now I’m heartbroken,” retorted Nyota, melodramatically clutching at her heart. Carol giggled in response as she started up the car and turned up the heat.

“Daddy’s got his quirks. I think he’s just sore over the Navy’s decision to replace him with some man named Khan.”

“Khan?” echoed Nyota, raising an eyebrow.

“Daddy thinks he’s a terrorist,” whispered Carol, almost conspiratorially. “I think that’s why the Navy’s insisting he retire this year. He’s gotten a bit… nutty.”

“Oh yeah,” snorted Nyota. “I don’t even know the man, but if he’s made it that high up on chain of command without making the FBI’s Most Wanted, he’s probably not about to commit some huge act of treason. But then again, you’re probably more qualified to determine these sorts of things.”

“I think the government’s more paranoid than a bird,” replied Carol. “Have you seen the security sweeps at my workplace? It’s more of a nightmare than JFK at Christmastime.”

“Damn,” whistled Nyota. “Speaking of Christmastime, though, are you planning anything exciting?”

“Nothing much,” admitted Carol as they stopped at a red light. “Daddy’s being grumpier than usual. Probably something about not nabbing as many animals as he’d hoped over hunting season, but then again he hasn’t exactly been in good shape, you know? So we’re not exactly going to have a holly-jolly lusher with spiked eggnog and a DJ. He’ll probably sit there by the fireplace in silence, open his gift, thank me for it, and go to bed. After that, I’ll have a good five hours to kill. Happy holidays to me.”

“Christine’s not far away; I bet she’d try to kidnap you before the night’s over,” pointed out Nyota.

“Sure, but if Daddy catches her, I’m not so sure that he wouldn’t reach for that antique Colt pistol of his. Or that Winchester shotgun he’s got over his mantelpiece. Daddy’s never been quite thrilled about the two of us, you know.”

“I guess that’s what you get for designing phallus-shaped weapons of mass destruction,” snickered Nyota. “I’ve got a writer’s meeting on Christmas, but for New Year’s I think we’re having a party and you’re invited.”

“Is Spock also invited?” asked Carol, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“Yes, but his cat isn’t,” said Nyota. “And it’s I’Chaya you should probably be more worried about, isn’t it? I mean, it was the cat who attacked you the last time you were anywhere near Spock.”

“I think Spock ordered the cat to attack me,” retorted Carol. “He’s got it in for me, just because my family goes hunting once in a while.”

“Well, I’m not entirely surprised. The guy’s a staunch vegetarian who helps out at no-kill animal shelters. I bet if there was enough room in the Brownstone, he’d start his own shelter and become a crazy cat man or something,” Nyota chuckled. “Seriously, though, I’ll make sure Len’s on hand again, in case Spock sneaks I’Chaya to the party. But he’s my friend, and I’d feel bad not inviting him.”

“It’s your party,” agreed Carol with a shrug. “I just hope you can get him to behave.”

“He does listen to me more than he listens to most people,” said Nyota, and then changed the subject. “What’s the movie about?”

“Zombie apocalypse,” replied Carol cheerily. “Plenty of shooting and running and looting.”

“Or in other words, your idea of a perfect movie,” concluded Nyota as they parked the car in front of the movie theatre.

“Ny?” asked Carol, jolting Nyota out of her reverie. The movie was now over, and Carol was driving her home.

She looked at Carol. “Yeah?” she asked

“You were quiet,” said the blonde. “I was asking you what you thought of the movie.”

Nyota paused, considering the statement. The movie had been scary enough to keep Carol’s fingernails digging into her forearm for most of it, though she herself hadn’t paid that much attention — there was more blood and gore than she had expected, even within the first few minutes, and it would have had Len questioning if a human really had that much brain matter to explode. “I thought it was good,” she said after a moment, even though that was kind of stretching it. The movie had been a gorefest. It had been the sort of thing that people watched to satisfy their Freudian cravings for violence. Nyota preferred calling it a ‘goreboner’, though she was sure if she ever said that aloud, Jim would never let her live it down.

“I thought it was okay, but that was most definitely not the sound a sawn-off shotgun makes when it gets fired,” said Carol thoughtfully as she tapped at the wheel. “And I don’t think the entry and exit wounds for the Sig Sauer were realistic, either, not even on zombies.”

“I wasn’t really paying attention to that,” admitted Nyota.

Carol laughed. “No, I didn’t think you’d catch that. Also, what was that bit about the girl in her underwear? Surely you saw that part.”

Nyota frowned, remembering the scene. “Did that even have anything to do with the plot?” she asked.

“I don’t… think so…” said Carol, pursing her lips. “It came totally out of left field. There were so many other ways that could have been shot.”

“I wouldn’t protest the actors trading places,” said Nyota.

Carol snorted. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She pulled up to the curb outside Nyota’s apartment. “Well, here’s your stop, I guess.”

“We should catch another movie sometime,” suggested Nyota as she stepped out of the car.

Carol’s expression lit up. “You know, I’ve been meaning to marathon that one TV show with the demon hunters… what was it, Supernatural? Have you seen it?”

“A bit,” admitted Nyota. “It was pretty good. Seems like your kinda stuff, shootings and rock music and road trips and all that.” She grinned at the blonde. “It’s on Netflix, if you have that.”

“Oh, that’s good; I was wondering if I should try and borrow the DVDs off someone I knew,” said Carol. “Call me up and we’ll marathon it together, okay? Gaila might even want in on it,” she added thoughtfully.

“Gaila is always up to watch hot guys chanting in Latin,” Nyota laughed. “We’d probably end up falling asleep at one point, and when we wake up she’ll be past the fifth season.”

“We could hide the remote,” Carol suggested, grinning. “So, we’re on for the marathon?”

“Totally fine by me.” Nyota shrugged, and slammed the door. Waving as Carol drove off, she mounted the steps to the front door, unlocked it, and entered. Once inside, she headed down the hall to the stairs leading to the second-floor apartment that she and Gaila shared, unlocked the door, and —

“Jim!”

Nyota stopped dead in her tracks, purse almost dropping from her hands.

“I’m just going to get a drink of water, Gaila, give me a sec,” said Jim Kirk’s voice from the direction of Gaila’s room.

“Get back here, you idiot, I wasn’t done with you yet!”

“I’ll be back before you even knew I was gone!” There came the shuffling of steps into the main living space, and Nyota backed towards the door as Jim emerged from Gaila’s room, dressed in a pair of obscenely tight white briefs. His blond hair was mussed, and as he fetched a glass from the counter, Nyota silently stole out into the hall and down the stairs once again.

She fumbled in her purse for her phone and called Spock.

“So,” said Nyota as she sat uncomfortably between Jim and Spock at the next meeting on Christmas Eve. “I finished a couple days ahead of schedule.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” said Jim, thumbing through his ten pages. Within it, Pete Taggart had, in his third and graduating year of Starfleet Academy, been called to an academic hearing by Commander Lazarus for cheating on the supposedly unbeatable Kobayashi Maru test, and was arguing with Lazarus over the test’s very nature. Lazarus insisted that the test was meant to be unwinnable to evaluate how a future starship captain would act in face of certain death; Pete considered that a cheat and claimed not to believe in no-win scenarios. Then the distress call from Vulcan came. “Thanks for that.”

Spock said nothing. However, if looks could kill, Jim would’ve been six feet under already.

“Sorry about the whole sexiling thing,” said Jim after a moment, clearing his throat as if the noise would clear up some of the tension. It wasn’t that helpful. Pasha, Sulu, and Len were all gone, and Scotty was pouring them freshly-bought eggnog in the kitchen. It smelt faintly of alcohol, and Nyota could see that the formerly topped-off bottle of rum was now half empty.

They were all squeezed into Spock’s Brownstone, which had been decorated for both Christmas and Hanukkah, the latter in memory of his mother. Since Hanukkah had already passed, the decorations for the holiday were just the blue and white twinkle lights wrapped around the Christmas tree and draped across the mantle. The mantle also housed a picture of Amanda Grayson, a beautiful brunette woman with doe-like eyes. Her smile was like the Mona Lisa’s.

“It’s no problem,” said Nyota, a little too hastily. “Spock solved the situation. There’s nothing that can’t be remedied with chocolate ice-cream and Mean Girls.”

“I believe that such measures could have been averted earlier if you had not made them necessary,” Spock enunciated, glaring at Jim all the while. Jim gaped in disbelief.

“Are you seriously saying that I should have passed up on sex when I had all of my own plans in place already?”

“No, I am stating that perhaps you could have provided Nyota with more forewarning, or that you might have refrained from prancing around her living area naked.”

Jim huffed. “Gaila said that she had told Nyota about her plans for the night, so I don’t know what you would have had me do. Should I have put on my clothes and left the house?”

“Since you were acquainted with Nyota, it would have not taken excessive effort to you to inform her —”

“Yeah, because I always tell the roommates of the girls I fuck that I’m going to fuck their roommate,” snapped Jim. “Exactly what kind of stick do you have up your ass anyway, Spock? I swear, every time we’ve even so much as breathed each other’s air you’ve been berating me for something. I bet you just need to get laid.”

“I do not need to lie supine at this moment,” retorted Spock, the twitch near his left eye the only indicator that Jim was getting to him.

“Is that what you do, Spock? Pretend not to know what the hell I’m saying? Misinterpret everything I’ve said to you? I’m telling you that I bet you’re jealous that I’m having sex and you’re just stuck in the friendzone with Nyota!”

Nyota sprang to her feet at that. “That’s enough, Jim,” she snapped.

Jim stared at her, defiance bright in his eyes, before deflating. Spock remained seated, one hand reaching to grasp Nyota’s wrist. Jim’s eyes flickered down to the contact, and then back up.

“Oh,” he said softly, exhaling, sinking hard against the pillows. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me,” said Nyota. Jim’s gaze flickered to Spock and then back, but just as he opened his mouth to reply, Scotty came walking in with a policeman at his elbow and a tray of eggnog in his arms.

“So much for Christmas, aye?” asked Scotty. He gestured to Spock. “He’s here for you, Spock.”

Spock’s eyes widened as he took in this new information. He clambered to his feet with stiff, slow movements, as the officer took off his hat. “Mr Grayson?” he asked quietly. Spock nodded, so the policeman continued. “Your father has been in an accident. The doctors are not sure whether or not he can be saved. Please, come with me to the hospital.”

Spock opened his mouth to speak only to close it seconds later. His forehead wrinkled and he nodded. Then, he nodded once more as he began to rapidly press his middle and index fingers to his thumb in a repetitive but innocuous motion, before walking to the entryway where his coat and hat hung on pegs on the wall. He shrugged it on, but his hand motions increased, rather than stopped. Spock turned, nodding at them. Nyota wouldn’t have known what to do if she hadn’t known those tells, and she found herself searching for Spock’s Rubik's cube out of habit. As it was, she knew that he would be bracing for a fall in his own manner, but he would want some control.

She moved about the room, looking for the tell tale flash of white numbers on an otherwise black cube, but she couldn’t seem to spot it.

“I shall return soon. You are welcome to remain here,” Spock said, before heading for the door with the policeman in tow. This jarred Nyota from her search, and she moved to follow him, but Scotty drunkenly pressed a glass of eggnog into her hand.

“I like this house,” he declared. “It’s exciting!”

“Scotty, this isn’t the time,” she sighed, setting the eggnog down and ignoring the coasters that were so pointedly emblazoned with targets. “Spock,” she called after the retreating figure, “do you have your cube?”

Spock turned to look at her. Another curt nod. “I…” He swallowed, shaping words, but was unable to communicate them properly. “Nyota, I must leave now.”

Nyota softened. She wanted to hug him, but that would probably make things much worse. He needed space, quiet, and reassurance for now, and he would find none of that in tactile interaction.

“Go on, then. We’ll be fine.”

Chapter Text

By the time his taxi pulled up to the hospital, the snow was falling fast and thick on the ground in bright white flurries, dusting lightly at the bouquet that Jim had nabbed from the local grocery store en route to the hospital. Although, Spock didn’t seem the type to enjoy flowers while he was bedridden, so Jim mused that he might end up with a restraining order if Spock had inherited that particular trait from his father.

The snow, thick as it was, looked like confectionary sugar layered upon itself in order to frost the buildings to look like contemporary gingerbread houses. However, Jim doubted such creations would sell well. After all, it was a given that most people would feel a bit conflicted about ingesting a hospital. He began to ponder whether there was a story there, just waiting to be written.

Still, that was beside the point. For the time being he’d shelve the idea of a traditional ceremony to cleanse sickness by eating a facsimile of one’s own weakened body. Damn, that would be cool, though.

As soon as Jim could actually focus on the task before him, he took in a breath of frosty air, held it, released it in a puff of steam, and walked towards the door, nearly running into a family of cold and anxious-looking people. Next to the door stood an old man dressed like an elf, swaying on the spot with a bottle-shaped paper bag in his hand.

“Hey, hey, happy Christmas, man,” slurred the elf, swaying towards Jim. “What year is it?”

“How much did you drink?” demanded Jim, grinning at the man as the doors slid open to admit him. He strode up to the receptionist, who bore a strong resemblance to the robot sidekick in that one futuristic cop show that Jim could’ve sworn had kidnapped Bones to be its star. Plastering his most charming smile on his face, Jim rested an arm on the counter and noted that the guy had a bookmarked copy of Sixteen Light Years on the desk next to a stack of outpatient forms. This was probably going to be easier than he thought.

He cleared his throat. The receptionist looked up at him, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes?” he asked. Jim’s smile grew wider.

“Did a Spock Grayson just come in?” he asked.

“He came to visit his father, Sarek S… I’m not even going to try and mangle that,” said the receptionist. “Why do you care?”

“I’m actually here to visit Sarek, too,” said Jim, gesturing to the snow-covered flowers in his hand.

The receptionist, whose nametag said ‘Geoffrey J. M’Benga’, raised the other eyebrow. “Mr. Sarek is only seeing family members at this time,” he said drily. “He was in critical condition about an hour ago; he had a ruptured appendix and some superficial head wounds. But everything’s fine now; we’ve taken care of the worst and he’s just resting up. If you want that brought to his room—”

“I’ve gotta go see him, man,” said Jim. “He means a lot to me.”

“Like I said, only family members—”

Jim sighed, before sending his best set of bedroom eyes at M’Benga. “I’m Jim Kirk,” he said, smirking at him. M’Benga’s eyes drifted over to the book lying next to his forms, and then back to Jim.

“Was that supposed to impress me, Mr. Kirk?” he asked. “Look, I don’t have the time for flirting right now; it’s Christmas and people are trying to visit their loved ones and you’re just gonna hold up the line the longer you stand here.” He looked past Jim at the small line starting to form. “Besides,” he added in a lower voice, “I don’t swing that way.”

Jim laughed, spying an opening. “Aw, bummer, because I do,” he said, batting his lashes at M’Benga, “and Spock and his father mean so much to me, you know what I mean?”

The look he received was perhaps forty percent pitying and sixty percent bemused exasperation. “No, and I don’t think I want to, Mr. Kirk. So, if you’d please…?” He gestured to the expanding line.

“Okay, I didn’t know how to say this earlier, but I really just want to visit my future father-in-law to make sure he’s okay. He’s not as strong as he used to be, you know? Why, I remember the day I saw him wrestle another ambassador to the ground to protect this country. I’ll never forget the sight. He reached for the other—”

“Look, Mr. Kirk, I honestly don’t care if he somehow defused six bombs in under three minutes. The truth is that I don’t believe you would have any trouble knowing how to say something, your ‘future in-law’ is in as stable a condition as we could hope for at the moment, and I should be shocked that you’re flirting with a hospital receptionist when you’re engaged. Therefore, I am going to toss you up to your ‘fiancé’ so that he can deal with you, while I sit here and pity the poor man. You savvy?”

“Much obliged to you,” Jim hummed, a grin spreading across his face.

M’Benga rolled his eyes and gave him the room number. “Just remember your flowers; I don’t want them taking up room in my workspace.”

Of course the ambassador would have his own room. Jim had almost forgotten about that. He was already halfway in the room before both father and son noticed him, and he was left standing in the doorway with sodden flowers in his fist and a sheepish grin on his face.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, deciding to make the best of what could potentially be an awkward situation and striding into the room as if he had every right to be there (which he didn’t). “There’s the ephemeral vision that, uh, descends upon the barren expanse of my heart to, uh,” he presented the flowers to the older man on the bed, who (judging by his severe expression and the horrific bowl cut which was partially obscured by bandages) could only be Spock’s father, “warm! To warm the frozen winter of my emotions into joy.”

Spock’s brows furrowed. “Mr. Kirk, how did you manage to access this part of the hospital?”

Sarek raised an eyebrow as well, not taking the flowers from Jim’s hand. Jim sighed, and set them down on the nightstand. He smoothed over his coat and brushed imaginary dust off his shoulders, calling back into full force a semester of actor training classes at NYU.

“I’m visiting my fiancé’s injured father,” he declared, slinging an arm around Spock as he did so and pressing a kiss to the other man’s cheek.

“Fiancé?” demanded Sarek and Spock at the same time, both equally incredulous.

“Mr Kirk, I do not believe you have—”

“Oh, did I forget the important part?” asked Jim, plopping to his knee in front of a flabbergasted Spock. “Marry me?”

Spock closed his eyes and inhaled. “You cannot be serious, Mr Kirk. You are courting Gaila.”

“Courting—” Jim snorted, rising to his feet. “My god, what century are you from? Gaila and I aren’t in a relationship.”

“Nyota distinctly said that Gaila viewed you as her date—”

“Your girlfriend—"

“Nyota is my ex-girlfriend, but a good friend nonetheless —”

“Your good friend doesn’t seem to understand her roommate very well, does she? Gaila’s definition of ‘dating’ isn’t most people’s definition of ‘dating’,” retorted Jim, tamping down the inexplicable lightness he had felt when Spock informed him that he wasn’t dating Nyota after all, despite their obvious physical closeness. “It’s more of a euphemism for ‘wham bam thank you ma’am’ with her, you know what I mean?” Upon remembering that Spock wasn’t the only inhabitant of the room, Jim had to fight not to wince. Sarek did not appear to be ancient by any means; however, he did raise Spock, so it was likely that he wasn’t the most open individual. His expression remained impassive, though that might have just been his whole ambassador schtick coming across.

After a moment, Sarek spoke up. “I am not entirely sure if I fully understand the situation,” he said, causing Spock to spring into action.

“Mr Kirk is not behaving in a logical manner, father; normally he cannot stand the sight of me —”

“What? No, that’s bullshit, Spock; you’re the one who can’t stand the sight of me. If it were the other way around, I wouldn’t be in this situation—”

“You lied to the hospital authorities in order to obtain access to this room,” stated Spock, looking like he would like to pinch the bridge of his nose and punch Jim in the face, and not necessarily in that order. “I must therefore remove your person from the premises, as you have no right to be here but are, in fact, intruding upon the wishes of my father—”

“I cannot recall ever stating that I wished to be alone at this time, Spock,” Sarek interjected. If Jim could place any emotion in the older man’s stoic mask, he might have believed that he was amused.

“Indeed not, father, but I do not believe that Jim Kirk is a suitable visitor at this hour,” replied Spock coldly. Jim felt a bit bemused by the statement. It wasn’t as if he came for the express purpose of recounting innuendo-laden anecdotes to Spock’s father, nor did he have any intention of doing anything that would be deemed inappropriate by Spock’s anti-fun standards.

“I don’t think you’d find me a suitable visitor even at one in the afternoon,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “And I was actually coming here to make sure you were okay, but since you seem to be okay enough to have kept that goddamn stick up your –” he paused, looking at Sarek, “sorry. You seem to be okay.”

Spock’s expression seemed to soften, but that momentary lapse was quickly frozen over, and the usual mask was back in full force in about 0.4 seconds. “I am fine,” said Spock, that now-familiar tone of polite frostiness evident in each word.

“Fine’s got a lot of connotations, Spock—"

“Leave.”

“Make me,” retorted Jim, puffing up. Maybe it was a given that the whole posturing shit was stupid, but he had only come to check in on Spock and his dad. It shouldn’t have been a criminal offence to care.

Of course, Spock seemed determined to make it so, because he buzzed for a nurse to kick Jim out. And Jim, half-shocked that Spock would actually do that and half-disappointed at exactly how little Spock seemed to value his thoughtful and caring gestures, let himself be led away by an extremely burly set of nurses.

Outside, the snow fell faster than even before; coupled with the wind, it was shaping up to be a huge snowstorm, if not a small blizzard. The old elf was still loitering near the hospital entrance; Jim pulled his coat tighter around himself and ventured into the cold, hoping to find suitable shelter — or, in the best-case scenario, a taxi willing to take him home at this hour in these conditions.

“You look like you could use a drink,” a voice observed, emanating from somewhere behind Jim.

“No thanks, I’ve had enough lapses in judgement to fill today’s quota.” Nonetheless, he turned towards whoever had offered.

Of course, it should have come as no surprise to Jim that the guy making the offer was the only kind of person who would dare imbibe inhibitive fluids outside a hospital. He was made up of sturdy stuff too, if his stature while wearing such a flimsy elf costume in sub-zero temperatures was any measuring stick. There was a twisted sort of sense to drinking so close to the ER, Jim supposed. After all, you wouldn’t have far to travel in the case of alcohol poisoning. Stumble right through those doors, and you’d have a bevy of excited med students trying to figure out exactly what was wrong with you as you lay dying on the hospital floor. Or something. Well, it would make sense if the hospital had a high tolerance for loiterers. In Jim’s recent experience, this did not seem to be the case.

“You’re a real optimist, you know that?” demanded the drunken elf, who was probably the poster child (elf? old man?) for a holiday-themed pub somewhere in the world. “Lapses in judgement aren’t always so horrible. But then again I guess you haven’t lived long enough to figure that out.”

“And you seem to like tempting fate,” replied Jim, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat as he peered at the man.

“What’s another year, give or take?” wondered the drunken elf. “I’ve made my mistakes. You, on the other hand, seem to have made enough faulty assumptions to screw yourself over, so stopping yourself from judging in the first place might be a good thing.” The firm, hard set to his shoulders barely softened, in contrast to his softer tone.

Jim swallowed, and tried so hard not to think of Spock.

“How in the hell would you know that?” he wondered, voice almost breathless.

The drunken elf would’ve rolled his eyes if he had enough reliable control over his motor skills, Jim reckoned. “Son,” he said as he took another swig from his paper bag-covered bottle, “everyone makes at least a few judgements in such a way that they end up dead and-or damned wrong.”

After a beat of silence, the elf chuckled. “Besides, you’ve got the look of someone who was just told they were wrong.” A guileless smile crossed his face. “I’ve seen that look enough times to know what it means.”

Jim shook his head. “I think I’ll never quite forgive myself for being preached to by Santa’s drunken helper.”

The elderly elf glared at him. “What Santa doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Jim took in the elf once more, this time paying attention to each detail. “Why are you dressed like this, anyway?”

The man shrugged in response. “I was recently ordered to take medical leave, but I’m too much of a workaholic to quit moving completely. Therefore, I chose to spread holiday cheer while I’m off. Undocumented volunteer work is fascinating, and an old friend of mine would appreciate the notion.” Jim cocked his head.

“So, you’re just spending Christmas alone?” he asked.

The elf smiled, shaking his head. “Not at all. You see, I am surrounded by my shit network at any given time.”

Jim didn’t believe that he had heard that correctly, so he fumbled a bit. “A shit network?”

“Of course,” the elf answered. “You see,” he continued, tugging at his costume, “everyone has done shit they are not proud of. Your shit network is comprised of the people who have not only seen you as a shitstain, but have also rented the tools to fix you up and make you smell pretty. They themselves may be pretty shitty, but they accept you and help you. In return, you help clean them up. It’s some circular trap, just moving through different shit every day, but your network makes it less awful and more fascinating. New ensigns may replace some veterans, but you always have a solid crew who are willing to shovel through all the crap you bury them in. They man the deck when you’re in trouble, and they call for backup when you’re too damn proud to do it yourself.”

The elf took another swig of whatever he had in that bag, and continued, “I used to know someone who appreciated the hell out of his own crew, but he never really learned to rely on those outside of it. He was a bit too independent to recognise that he had a way of drawing everyone into extensions of his crew — his family, really.” He stared Jim down for a long moment. “You remind me of him, a bit. So remember, people want you to rely on them,” he rose an eyebrow pointedly, “even if it’s just listening to a piece of advice.”

Jim fidgeted, taking in his words. “Thanks for that… I think.”

“You’re welcome, nameless stranger.”

“I do have a name,” Jim protested. The elf looked unimpressed.

“Oh, what is it then?” he enquired, taking another swig from his bottle.

“Jim. Jim Kirk.” There was a sound of spluttering and coughing near his ear, and Jim had to turn quickly to catch the old man regaining his composure.

“Small world,” he croaked. Jim was about to ask what he meant by that, and perhaps request the services of the nearby hospital staff to assist the elf; however, the other man waved it off. “It’s nothing large. Just a bit of a holiday happenstance.”

After a bit of silence wherein they both returned to near homeostatic emotional states, Jim began to shift from side to side in an attempt to warm himself. “How are you not cold?” he whined. The other man shrugged.

“Alcohol and experience with some frigid times.” The elf chuckled as if this were an inside joke, before saying, “speaking of which, I better visit Frosty himself before visiting hours end.”

“Frosty?” Jim grinned. “Is he dressed up as well?”

This earned him an indulgent smile. “No, I’m afraid he’s never been one for costumes. I might be able to dress my great-nephew up this year, however. Fingers crossed.”

“And who’s your great-nephew? Is he a patient at this hospital?” Which could, potentially, explain the drinking, Jim thought. Despite the elf’s insistence that he was just spreading holiday cheer, there was probably a lot of bullshit in that heartwarming pep talk.

Which, of course, made it heartwarming in the first place.

The elf grinned and quirked an eyebrow at Jim in a strikingly familiar way. “No, Frosty’s the patient. My great-nephew’s visiting him; I saw him go in and he hasn’t come out since. You know, they named him after me, my great-nephew.”

“So what’s your name, then?” asked Jim, just as a vacant taxi drove up. Jim hailed it and quickly scrambled to claim it, fearing that it would drive off without him. He hoped the other guy understood his need to get out of the cold before his lower extremities froze off.

“Spock!” the old elf shouted after him as he clambered into the cab; Jim whirled around in surprise to see the elf still loitering by the hospital entrance.

“Sorry, what?” he hollered back, rolling down the taxi windows. As it drove away, Jim could hear the old elf shouting after him:

“My name’s Spock!”

By the time he finished the scene in which Pete Taggart, with the help of his erstwhile friend Dr. Alexander Dane, had managed to get onboard the USS Enterprise despite his academic suspension, he’d been invited to a New Year’s Eve party at Nyota and Gaila’s apartment. Since Gaila invited him, Jim wasn’t too surprised to find out that Nyota would be inviting Spock.

Bones showed up to his own apartment the day before the party with a bottle of whiskey, which Jim quickly stole a couple drinks from as the doctor fell heavily onto his couch.

“You look like hell warmed over,” remarked Bones.

“Yeah, well, you look as fresh as a daisy too,” replied Jim sarcastically. “What’s up now? When’s your shift?”

“Soon,” said Bones vaguely.

“Which is code for what, five minutes ago? An hour from now? When?”

“Half an hour. Jeez, Jim, give me a break, my flight came in a day ago and I’m still worn out from travelling, dealing with Jo’s antics, and getting yelled at by Joce.” Bones flipped him the finger. “What kind of welcome is this, man? At least tell me you’re glad I came back in one piece.”

“Bones, we’ve been through this. An airplane is not designed to kill you.”

“Well, neither is the human body, but that didn’t help my old man much, did it?” snapped Bones. Jim bit his lip, saved his work, and walked over to the doctor’s side, taking a seat on the ground.

“In my defence,” he began, taking a swig of the doctor’s whiskey, “I spent most of Christmas at a hospital.”

The doctor cuffed him about the head. “In case you ever forget, kid, I spend most of my life in a hospital.”

“How could I ever forget?” demanded Jim, turning around to lightly punch Bones’s forearm. “Are you not even going to ask how I got there in the first place?”

“Knowing you, you probably choked on one of Spock’s vegan spinach puffs or something.”

Jim snorted. “Incidentally, Spock did get me into the hospital,” he said. “His dad was in an accident, ruptured his appendix and stuff. I tried to show Spock I cared by showing up at the hospital with flowers, but the bastard just kicked me out.”

Bones paused, and then laughed loud enough for Jim to grab a nearby cushion and attempt to smother him with it.

“I wasn’t done yet, though,” continued the blond as he applied more pressure to the cushion on his friend’s face. “I met this drunk old guy with a bunch of Navy analogies who was dressed as an elf outside the hospital, and — you’ll never believe me, but — it turns out that the guy was Spock’s great-uncle.”

“Jim,” said Bones with all seriousness as he prised the pillow away from Jim’s hands and threw it in his face, “please tell me your life hasn’t suddenly become a bad holiday movie or something. I might have to pretend I don’t know you.”

“Trust me, if my life were a bad holiday movie, I’d fire the screenwriters.” Jim took another swig of whiskey before Bones reclaimed it, scrubbing a hand through his brown hair blearily.

“Yeah, if your life were a bad holiday movie, you and Spock would’ve gotten your heads out of your asses by now and kissed or something,” he grumbled, stumbling to his feet and peering at the clock on his smartphone. Jim leapt up with him, seizing the whiskey from Bones and setting it on his desk.

“No, you know how heteronormative Hollywood is. I’d be with Nyota or something if they were aiming for ABC Family.” He thumped Bones’s back. “Gotta run?”

“Yeah,” grumbled the doctor, staggering slightly towards the door. Jim reached out, trying to steady his friend, but Bones shrugged his arm out of Jim’s grasp, his other hand already on the door handle.

“For what it’s worth,” said Jim, his voice soft and somewhat guilty-sounding, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Bones looked at him, nodding. “It’s good to be back,” he replied, before leaving.

It was only when the door closed that Jim resumed his usual seat in front of his computer, scrubbed at his eyes, and muttered “shit” at the screen.

Obviously, the screen didn’t answer.

Gaila and Nyota’s apartment was festively decorated in gold and black, ready to herald in the new year with champagne and cheap noisemakers. Spock was helping Nyota with the baking as Jim entered the apartment, hanging his hat and coat on the nearby stand as Gaila came rushing over, hugging him tight and squealing about how happy she was that he could come.

“I thought you wouldn’t, because I figured you might be busy, or somebody might’ve invited you to some party in Times Square or something because you’re a hotshot bestselling author and all that — oh, by the way, did you sign that movie deal with Paramount?” gushed the computer engineer, pulling him by the hand towards the kitchen island, where Nyota and Spock had set out several dishes laden with baked goods.

“Those look good,” said Jim, grinning at Nyota as he poked lightly at a tray of s’more tarts. “Where’d you learn to make them?”

“A basement at Wellesley,” replied Nyota with a completely straight face. “That school has some sort of love affair with s’mores.” She paused. “And with Hillary Clinton, totebags, acronyms, and stairs.”

“No room for Harvard students, then?” asked Sulu as he arrived with a beautifully-crafted eggplant casserole. Trotting behind him was Chekov, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, a tupperware full of of tiny finger sandwiches secure in his hands.

Nyota scoffed. “Harvard kids are stuck-up rich ninnies whose only pick-up line is ‘I go to Harvard’,” she retorted. Her eyes flickered over to the door as Scotty entered the apartment. “MIT’s where it’s at.”

“I’ll drink to that,” agreed Scotty as he stepped into the kitchen area with an inordinate amount of alcohol in his arms. Setting the bottles down on the kitchen counter, the Scotsman walked over to Nyota and planted a firm kiss on her lips. Jim raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not midnight yet,” he pointed out, “or maybe I’m missing something.”

“Well, uh…” Scotty trailed off, a bit pink in the cheeks as Nyota kissed his cheek and pushed him away lightly so that she could help Spock arrange his infamous spinach puffs. “After you went after Spock on Christmas Eve, we had some spiked eggnog and… uh… things happened…”

Maybe Jim was just getting better at reading Spock, because he could’ve sworn the other guy’s expression had hardened at that. “Please tell me you did not utilise my living room for coitus,” the man said, his tone slightly cooler than normal, which was impressive given its usual frostiness.

The two of them looked shifty. “You did say we were welcome to stay,” Scotty pointed out sheepishly.

Spock’s expression screamed ‘I am going to disinfect my house after this party’, causing Jim to hide a grin. What goes around comes around, after all.

“And where, precisely, in my living room did you perform this act?” Spock demanded, his knuckles white on the tray in which the puffs had previously resided.

“The couch,” said Nyota quickly, her expression apologetic as she reached out to take his hand. “Spock, I’m so sorry; I should’ve remembered that… you know… there was lots of eggnog and rum involved…”

“I understand,” said Spock, albeit a bit hastily and all too briefly as he stepped away from Nyota. “I can finish the rest of the preparations,” he added, nodding towards Scotty. Nyota took the hint and left the room.

Bones arrived moments later, providing a necessary distraction for Jim, since he had been torn between reaching out to comfort Spock about this sudden development and rubbing it in the other guy’s face about karma being a bitch on wheels. Hot on the doctor’s heels were Christine Chapel and Carol Marcus; Nyota squealed at the sight of Christine (it seemed that the fact that the girls were exes in many variations did not equate into hard feelings) and ran over to hug her; Spock stiffened even more at the sight of Carol, who looked equally wary of him.

Jim had heard the stories of how Spock’s cat had attacked Carol once; he now realised that Nyota was a genius in choosing the party’s venue. Spock’s house may have been bigger and more architecturally interesting, but Nyota’s didn’t have giant cats with sharp fangs and claws lurking around each corner.

Slowly, the clock ticked onward towards midnight. Jim found himself making small talk with the other guests, not giving away any plot details of his sixth of the novel if he could help it. Gaila asked him the question about the possible Sixteen Light Years movie again, and Jim replied that the only way he’d agree to a movie of the book was if Guillermo Del Toro directed it.

“But from what I hear, J.J. Abrams is interested in it for some reason,” he added. “I’m not entirely sure if I want him near my book, man, I bet he’d turn it into a Star Wars-meets-Twilight thing or something.”

“The only problem with your logic, Jim, is that you’d have to get Guillermo Del Toro to read the book in the first place,” Bones pointed out as he sprawled out on the couch with one arm loosely draped over Carol Marcus’s shoulders.

“I bet he has; it’s only a New York Times bestseller,” replied Jim.

“You’re modest,” remarked Carol, grinning as Christine took a seat next to her with two flutes of champagne. “Thank you, darling.” Christine smiled, taking Carol’s hand and leaning against the cushion with one eyebrow arched challengingly at Jim. He put his hands up, palms outward in a gesture of surrender.

Gaila returned from the front door at last, a young man in tow that Jim recognised with a jolt to be the hospital receptionist that he had flirted with on Christmas Eve. The guy — M’Benga, wasn’t it? — looked over at Jim, raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth to speak. Jim didn’t let him get a word out before closing in.

“Hey, I didn’t think I’d see you again. What are you doing here, M’Benga? Could you not stay away?” Jim joked, provoking laughter from himself and no one else.

M’Benga rolled his eyes. “Of course. I always make sure to track down the most irritating visitors to the hospital. It brings me joy to see their faces as they realise that the asshole they thought they would only have to deal with once is actually a member of society. Inversely, I get that exact same feeling. It’s magical, truly.”

“So, you’re saying that we share an emotional bond,” Jim proposed, laughing.

M’Benga snorted. “You’re a real piece of work, Kirk.” He inclined his head. “However, I will admit to your writing being exceptional. It was a good read, once I was able to separate the work from the author.”

Jim mock-pouted. “And here I thought my personality was sparkling and charismatic.”

“It’s sparkling in that it’s mercurial,” M’Benga observed before catching sight of Christine. Jim was promptly forgotten. “Chris! Oh, thank goodness, for a moment I thought I’d gotten the wrong place.”

“You were escorted up the stairs; of course you’re at the right place,” Christine pointed out. “This is my colleague from across the bridge, Leonard McCoy.” She pointed to Bones, who gave a small wave. “Len, this is Geoff. He’s doing training at Cambridge Hospital for Harvard’s med school.”

“Oh, good, I’m not the only one who’s gone there, then,” said Sulu from across the room.

“To Harvard Medical School?” echoed M’Benga — or rather, Geoff — as he took a seat on the armrest of the couch.

“No, just Harvard in general,” replied Sulu as he walked over with a platter of finger sandwiches. “I went to the college for a double concentration in Chemical and Physical Biology and East Asian Studies.”

“Really? I was under the impression that double concentrations there are practically death sentences,” said Geoff. “Or at least, death sentences for your sleep and your social life, which usually means the rest of you anyway.” He laughed a little. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Hikaru Sulu,” said Sulu, grinning. Geoff raised an eyebrow.

“Wait a sec, you don’t mean the star of the Harvard fencing team Hikaru Sulu, right?”

“At your service.” Sulu bowed, before extending his platter. “Egg salad or cucumber?”

“I’ll take some egg salad, thanks,” said Christine, grinning at Sulu as she pressed a kiss to the side of Carol’s head. The blonde snuggled in a little more. “I’m glad you could escape your dad for a couple hours for this, Carol.”

“Daddy’s got some Navy friends over,” said Carol, rolling her eyes. “All they ever talk about are the ‘good ol’ days’ over beer and football.” She looked over at Spock. “I think someone related to Spock got invited this year. I heard his name being discussed in the living room.”

“Really?” asked Gaila, resting her head on Geoff’s head as he nibbled at a cucumber sandwich. “What were they talking about?”

Carol shrugged. “Conspiracy theories, when I was putting on my coat and leaving. Like I said, Daddy’s nutty, and he’s got equally nutty friends.”

As they continued to talk, Jim took a seat in one of the armchairs by the empty fireplace, pulling out his tablet to continue his segment of the novel. He was currently in the middle of the scene in which Pete, Helmsman Lt. Theodore Kwan, and Chief Engineer Olson made a spacejump through the Vulcan atmosphere onto the Romulan mining drill that was boring into the heart of the planet. Olson, a bit of an adrenaline junkie, didn’t quite make it onto the drill; he was instead incinerated by the drill’s high energy beam which simultaneously disrupted all transport and communication abilities.

A fight scene with some Romulans ensued, of course, but Pete and Kwan were triumphant and disabled the drill — but by then it had already reached the planet’s core. The Romulans then fired a substance called Red Matter into the heart of Vulcan, generating a singularity in the core which would then consume the planet à la Death Star.

As he wrote, Jim looked up at where Spock was talking to Chekov. The Russian whiz kid was animatedly talking, waving his hands around in excited gestures while Spock stood back with his hands folded behind his back, sedate and graceful —

Graceful? When had that become part of Jim’s vocabulary to describe Spock? The man hated him. He swallowed down another sip of champagne and continued to type.

The drill platform began to creak ominously, swaying from side to side as it began to retract back into the gaping maw of the Narada. Pete turned to Kwan, to tell him to hold onto something. To his horror, he saw the golden-suited man fall off the drilling platform.

I can’t lock onto you. Don’t move — don’t move! shouted the technician over the comm unit. But Pete knew he couldn’t stay and let Kwan fall to his death; in one swift motion he raced towards the edge of the platform and launched himself off it after the other man.

“You look like you’re having fun,” said Nyota, peering over Jim’s shoulder. He promptly shut off the tablet, turning around to look at her.

“Stop spying on the novel. You might tell Spock,” he said, but there wasn't any malice in his tone. She rolled her eyes at him.

“I don’t think he’s going to talk to me for a while,” she sighed, perching on the armrest of his armchair and crossing her arms. “I get the feeling that he thinks I betrayed him.”

“What for? He told me you two aren’t together,” said Jim, frowning. “Though you two are close. Maybe he’s jealous?”

“Spock doesn’t go that way,” Nyota told him, and Jim tried really hard to deny the fact that his insides were doing the conga line at that new tidbit of information.

“Really,” he deadpanned, mentally congratulating himself on keeping his expression neutral. Spock and his dad would’ve been proud.

“We tried it. It didn’t work.” Nyota shrugged. “At the time, I was so disappointed.”

Jim snorted. “Disappointed that Spock couldn’t get it up for you? I’m not too surprised. Sex is probably too emotional for him to deal with.”

Nyota shoved him. “Hey. Watch it. He means a lot to me even though we’re not like that. And you’d be surprised how loving he is when you don’t piss him off so much.”

“What, does he turn you turn you into a cockroach in his story and then say he did it because his love for you can never be killed off, not even by radiation?” Jim asked, grinning. “Does he try to write sappy love poetry but only end up with ‘roses reflect red light, violets reflect blue’?”

“I’ll have you know that he knows exactly what I like,” retorted Nyota, “and he rarely ever forgets the little details. Sometimes it’s like he knows exactly what I’m feeling without me having to say anything.”

“Oh, so now he’s psychic. Wow, that’s great. I don’t know why you’re telling me this.” Jim almost regretted the words as they tumbled out of his mouth, but he swallowed hard and moved on. James T. Kirk did not regret or look back (or at least, that was what he’d like to say he never did). “Are you, like, trying to set us up or something?”

“Do you really think I’d set my sensitive best friend up with some asshole like you?” demanded Nyota, despite the grin on her face. “I just want the two of you not to be such pricks to each other, okay? If you don’t stop, we might have to try and set you up just so we’d get some peace.”

“Oh god, I think I remember this,” intoned Jim drily. “Didn’t Shakespeare write an entire play about it? You know, I never quite understood how easily Benedick and Beatrice fell for those lies. Seriously — the two of them hated each other’s guts. You can’t just drop an ‘oh, I think Beatrice likes Benedick’ his way and a ‘gee, I think Benedick likes Beatrice’ her way and expect the two of them not to try and fact-check with each other.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “I think you’re missing the implication that the two of them actually did like each other; they just hid it by bickering incessantly because they’re assholes like that,” she said, and then grinned evilly at him. “And you know what, I think you’ve been looking at Spock more than you’re willing to admit. Maybe Shakespeare might work for you two after all.”

And then she rose to her feet and strode over to Scotty, taking a sip from his glass of scotch before kissing his cheek again. Jim stuck his tongue out at her, but his eyes flickered back to Spock all the same. The man was still talking to Chekov, who had stopped gesticulating wildly and was whispering something in Spock’s ear.

Jim returned to his writing soon after that.

“Taggart to Enterprise: we’re falling without a chute; beam us out!”

I can’t lock onto your signal; you’re moving too fast! the technician shouted, only to be pushed aside by an eager Ensign Laredo as he began to work the transporter.

Hold on, gimme a sec, I can do that! he shouted over the comm unit. Compensating gravitational pull —

“Now, now, now, beam us out now!”

Gotcha!

And the bright golden light suffused them, and Pete had the vague sense of dematerialisation before he returned, fully formed, onto the transporter pad.

“Thanks,” muttered Lt. Kwan.

“Don’t mention it,” gasped Pete as he tried to catch his breath. He’d barely crawled onto his hands and knees before Lazarus was there, clipping on a phaser belt and ordering them to clear the transporter pad so he could beam to the surface.

“The surface of what?” demanded Pete. Lazarus sent him a withering look. “What, are you going down there? Are you nuts? Lazarus, you can’t —”

“Energize!” snapped Lazarus, before becoming consumed by the light —

Jim was startled from his writing by the cheers of the various doctors and nurses (and Carol Marcus, who had a doctorate in applied physics, not medicine) gathered on the nearby couch.

“Almost midnight!” Bones was shouting; they were watching the New Year’s Eve celebration in Times Square. Jim didn’t want to know how they’d all procured party hats and noisemakers. Even Spock had one; he looked quite comical with a gold party hat on his head and an obnoxiously loud noisemaker dangling from his lips.

Jim licked his own, caught himself doing it, and internally groaned. He slumped back against the armchair, just as Gaila strapped a party hat to his head with a giggle.

“How much champagne did you have?” wondered Jim, leaning up to pat her cheek. The redhead giggled louder, plopping a sloppy kiss to his nose. Jim noticed Spock’s posture stiffening.

“You can’t have enough bubbly, stupid,” said Gaila. “Besides, I thought you were going to bartend tonight, and it’s almost midnight.”

“I’m working,” said Jim, gesturing to his tablet.

“Pooh, only people like Spock work on New Year’s Eve, and you can see that he isn’t working right now.” Gaila turfed him out of his seat and sprawled across it, stretching like a cat. “Go on, talk to him.”

“Are all of you girls secretly in on some evil plan to set me up with Stick-up-his-ass?” asked Jim, but he obliged Gaila nonetheless, walking across to the kitchen to where Spock was standing. The other man nodded at him in greeting, but said nothing (most likely because there was a noisemaker in his mouth).

“Did Chekov ditch you?” Jim asked.

“He and Sulu…” Spock trailed off, shifting from one foot to the other as he removed the noisemaker from his mouth.

“Ah.” Jim nodded. “I getcha. Nudge-nudge-wink-wink?”

Spock sent him a withering look. It was probably the same sort of expression that Lazarus had aimed at Pete in the novel. Jim felt his ears turning red.

“Sorry,” he said, scuffing at the wooden floor. “I… well. How’s your dad?”

“He is recovering at my house,” said Spock.

“Didn’t think to bring him to the party?”

“My father does not enjoy parties, outside of work.”

“Your dad’s a barrel of laughs.”

“My father is most definitely not a cylindrical container,” retorted Spock, “ and such containers are not capable of storing laughter.”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, but when he opened them again he saw that Spock’s lips were just barely upturned in amusement.

“Fine,” Jim blurted, not being able to process much other than the fact that Spock had a sense of humour after all. “Obviously I had missed the, er, visual aspects of our confrontation. Maybe if I had more time to actually talk to him and send him my best wishes, I would have been able to figure that out,” he blustered, crossing his arms across his chest.

Spock inclined his head. “I apologise, but your intrusion at the time was not the most… opportune.” He bit his lip slightly, drumming his fingers on the kitchen counter. “Even then, it was discorteous of me to treat you in such a way when you meant only goodwill towards my father.”

“Damn right,” muttered Jim.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Jim took a spinach puff and stuffed it into his mouth. It was surprisingly delicious. “Bones thought I’d choke on one of these,” he said through a mouthful of puff.

“You are referring to Dr. McCoy, are you not?” Spock tilted his head to the side, surveying Jim. “The nickname is somewhat incongruous, as, to my knowledge, he has never expressed any interest in osteology.”

“He got it at our first meeting,” said Jim, stealing another puff. “I was rushed into the Tisch Hospital after breaking my arm, and he was the med school guy who fixed me up. Unfortunately, I got a bit of a hard-on while he was doing it, and he noticed, raised an eyebrow at me, and said he wasn’t fixing that.”

Spock eyed him with no small amount of disconcertion. “You were aroused by a medical arrangement?”

Jim shrugged. “Doctor kink. It’s a damn shame that too much exposure to Bones and his fascination with vaccinations has rid me of it. When I first met him though, damn, he was hot. So, I tried to chat him up. He did his whole tough love schtick wherein he threatened to leave me broken on the table with my boner unattended. I told him that it was part of his job to fix bones; he said that my penis was not one of the two hundred and six bones he was allowed to fix, nor did he want to. I called him a bones elitist, and later I just shortened it to Bones.” Spock was wide-eyed, shifting uncomfortably.

“You and Dr. McCoy have a very... complex relationship,” he hedged.

Jim beamed. “Yeah, it’s great.” He paused, taking a third puff. “Oh man, you need to give me the recipe for these things. They’re fucking delicious.”

“They were a favourite of my mother’s,” replied Spock, as yet another cheer rose from the crowd gathered around the screen. Spock looked over at them, arching an eyebrow. “I believe they are now commencing a countdown,” he said.

“Yeah, to a whole new year. Isn’t it great, the idea of starting over?” asked Jim, quirking a smile. “Think we could?”

“That would be improbable, as we cannot simply undo the actions we have performed, or unsay the words we have said, or forget the memories we have —”

“I get it.” Jim rolled his eyes. “But what about resolutions? I, for one, resolve to be less of an asshole to you this upcoming year.”

“I believe it is tradition to make resolutions one does not intend to keep,” said Spock, “so I will not expect you to behave any differently towards me.” He paused. “Nor would I want you to.”

“Really?” Jim raised both eyebrows, as the countdown reached five.

Spock nodded. “I have become accustomed to your behaviours, however unorthodox they may be. To change such manners would be unsettling to myself.”

“How sweet. You just want me to be myself.” Jim couldn’t help the teasing smile as he moved closer to Spock, stepping into his personal space until they were practically breathing the same air, and looking up — just slightly, though — at the dark-haired man.

“I believe that is the gist of what I mean to say,” agreed Spock, his voice barely a whisper as the countdown hit one, as the ball dropped in Times Square, and as the others started blowing noisemakers. Jim was pretty sure if he looked, Scotty and Nyota would be making out, as would Carol and Christine, and —

He looked over at Spock, licked his lips uneasily, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to the other man’s lips.

Spock stiffened beneath him momentarily, but then relaxed into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup Jim’s cheek gently. Jim wasn’t sure why his insides felt so warm, why everything felt so right — it was as if the entire universe made sense in this moment, as if Spock had been the answer to a question he hadn’t ever dared to say aloud. One of his own hands moved to encircle Spock’s waist, drawing the other closer as he deepened the kiss, his mouth opening against Spock’s and — oh god, Spock was kissing him back, and Jim really couldn’t suppress the sigh he uttered against the other’s lips, because this was perfect —

And then his back collided hard against the kitchen counter as Spock pushed him away; the other’s eyes were wide; in the kitchen lighting Jim could see that the other guy’s pupils were blown wide in arousal, that his breathing was hard and ragged. Spock stumbled back, putting even more distance between them. Jim could only watch him, disappointment strangling whatever arousal he felt for Spock at this moment.

“It’s a New Year’s tradition —” he began, but Spock shook his head.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Kirk,” he said, and Jim had never felt so gutted at the usage of his last name. “As it is midnight, I believe it is now socially acceptable to take my leave.”

“But Spock—” Jim reached out for him, trying to grasp for him, but the other was already striding away, heading for the coat rack and the door, pulling on his scarf and gloves and hat and nodding at Nyota, telling her to have a happy new year as he stepped out of the apartment —

Jim ran after Spock, ignoring his own coat and hat as he stumbled into his shoes and followed the smart thump of the other man’s boots down the stairs. “Spock, come back; I’m sorry for kissing you—”

“Your regret is unnecessary,” said Spock as he reached the front door to the building. Jim hopped down the last couple of steps and grabbed at Spock’s wrist, but the dark-haired man was pulling his arm out of Jim’s grasp and opening the door, blasting cold air right into Jim’s face. He recoiled, giving Spock the opportunity to step out into the bitter January air.

“Well, I wasn’t going to regret it until you fucking walked out on it, Spock!” he shouted after the man’s retreating form. “You liked it! You kissed me back!”

Spock turned, halfway on the steps. It was cold, but there was no wind, so Jim could hear every last word:

“Yes, a mistake I do not intend to repeat.”

And then he was gone. Jim slammed the door closed, kicking viciously at it. All that really did was give him a sore toe, which served to worsen his mood.

“Of all the —” he muttered to himself as he ascended the stairs once more, but even now he couldn’t bring himself to finish that statement.

He left the party soon after that.

“Happy birthday,” Bones drawled as Jim downed yet another shot of bourbon. They were sitting side by side at a bar lit up with far too many neon signs and whose walls were covered in bottles of alcohol. Jim liked this place; the drinks list was several pages long and had an astounding variety of beers to choose from, although he was searching for something stronger tonight.

It was a Friday night, so the place was bustling and packed; most of the tables were filled and the waiters and waitresses were rushing to and fro with orders and notebooks. People were talking loudly, which was usually something Jim enjoyed due to his love of the busy atmosphere; it was reminiscent of the obnoxious neon signs on the walls.

“Can I get you boys another drink?” asked the bartender, a lanky dark-skinned man with glasses and an expression that clearly suggested that he had better things to do than mix drinks for idiots who were trying to escape their troubles. It wasn’t Jim’s fault that his trouble came in the form of a dark-haired, emotionally unavailable writer.

“Lemme try that Ridgeway Bad Elf,” suggested Bones. The bartender nodded and then turned to Jim.

“What about you?” he asked.

“More bourbon, John,” said Jim, looking at the name badge on the bartender’s uniform.

John nodded, going to pour their drinks. Jim turned to Bones and stole some more of his nachos. “Well, then, here’s to hoping that your elf actually does you some good,” he intoned, raising the nacho in a mock toast before popping it into his mouth.

Bones snorted. “What crawled up your ass and died?” he demanded.

Jim shrugged. “Nothing, really,” he lied.

“Tch, sure, if ‘nothing’ really means ‘having goddamned feelings about a cold-blooded catty writer by the name of Spock Grayson’,” scoffed Bones. “What was that again about not being interested in him?”

“I never said anything about not being interested in Spock.”

“You sure could’ve fooled me, kid. Actions speak louder than words. Up ‘til New Year’s all you two ever did was argue, and then suddenly you’re all over each other like a bunch of horny teenagers —”

“That was so not a ‘horny teenager’ kiss,” grumbled Jim. “It was almost barely even a normal kiss, whatever those are —”

“Listen, man, just forget about it,” Bones interrupted, leaning in a bit closer. “I’ve known Spock longer than you. That guy’s got the emotional capacity of a rock when it comes to real people. You’ve got about as much luck with him as you’ve got with getting a cat to curl up with a dog as a pillow. Offer him your hand, and he’s got absolutely no idea what to do with it. Rub him the wrong way, and he’ll scratch you before retreating to some goddamn corner.”

Jim shook his head, looking away. “Can we change the topic?” he demanded. “It’s my birthday. All I care about is the booze.”

“You care about booze even when it isn’t your birthday,” the doctor pointed out.

“Yeah, but my birthday’s an excellent excuse. Do me a favour, Bones, and stop talking about Spock. You could also lay off the metaphors while you’re at it; my brain’s not in writer mode.”

As soon as he was able, Jim had spent every birthday getting drunk. After all, what sort of birthday celebration involved visiting graveyards and knowing that the tears that Mom cried weren’t happy tears, but sad ones? What sort of birthday celebration involved laying flowers at Dad’s gravestone and trying not to cry? Each year on this day he was reminded that his father was some big damn hero who gave his life for his comrades and his country. How could Jim even begin to fill those big, empty boots? He hated what the military was doing in the Middle East.

John set their drinks down. “I sure hope the two of you aren’t driving home,” he said.

“We’re somewhat close,” said Bones. “Hardly an issue.”

“Really?” John’s eyebrow arched. “You from the area?”

“Well, on the other side of the river, but yeah.” Bones grinned. “It’s this guy’s birthday.”

Jim growled. “Bones —”

“It’s payback for all the times you’ve told waiters that it’s my birthday, even when it isn’t. Just so happens that this time around, I’m not lying.” Bones grinned cheekily in response.

“Happy birthday anyway. Next drink’s on the house,” said John, a small smile tugging at his lips even as he turned his attention to the woman who had taken a seat at the bar next to Jim. Jim turned to look at her; she had short black hair cropped in a bob and a white knit beret over a black cape. Her eyes were an eerily familiar shade of brown.

Bones seemed to have noticed his stare, because Jim could hear him groaning into his drink.

“What, Bones? I can’t appreciate someone for looking amazing?”

“I just hope you use protection,” retorted Bones.

“I love how much confidence you have in me, despite never having seen first hand my —”

“Our first meeting,” Bones interrupted. Jim made a small ‘ah’ of recognition. “I don’t need any more proof than that.”

“Right, right,” agreed Jim, slightly distracted by the burning sensation of the bourbon as it went down his throat. He set down the shot glass, contemplating whether or not to ask for more.

The woman ordered a sour apple martini before turning to flash a smile at Jim and Bones. Jim grinned back at her; she tilted her head to look at him appraisingly, eyes raking up and down his body.

Jim could hear Bones groan from behind him.

“Could I possibly buy you a drink?” Jim asked anyway, and her smile broadened a bit.

“That would be smashing, Mr…”

“Kirk, but call me Jim.”

“Yes.” She nodded, extending a hand. “Edith Keeler.”

“You from around here?” Jim asked, with a slight grin as he informed John that Edith’s next drink was on him.

“Not really. I’m just up here visiting a friend of mine.”

“And where might your friend be? I bet Bones here could use some company.” Jim grinned, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at Bones, who rolled his eyes and slapped down his card for John.

“Leave me out of this, Jim. I’m buying the bourbon that you’ve had so far because it’s your birthday, but I’m not going to sit here while you ignore me for Ms. Cape here.”

Jim grinned broadly. “Bones, her name’s Edith.”

“And mine’s actually Leonard,” added Bones. “Leonard McCoy. Excuse me, ma’am.” And, having signed the receipt for their tab, the doctor left the bar. Edith raised an eyebrow as he left.

“He from the South?” she asked, sipping her martini.

“Georgia, actually.” Jim grinned. “But what about you, huh?”

“New York City. I own a soup kitchen and homeless shelter in the Bronx called the Twenty-First Street Mission.”

“Taking a break, are we?”

“My friend had some personal issues. I was merely helping her get through it. She’s feeling better; I’ll be going back to New York soon.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Jim ordered himself another shot of bourbon. “And we were just getting to know each other.”

Edith’s smile was brilliant at that as she downed her martini. “Can’t see why we can’t make the best of what little time we have left.”

“I can drink to that,” he agreed, as she ordered a pomegranate margarita and raised the glass in toast. “So, you do anything other than run a soup kitchen?”

“I also volunteer for Habitat for Humanity,” said Edith, looking at him appraisingly from the rim of her glass, “and I’m working on a doctorate in sociology. I want to create my own advocacy group for peace. It’s often the grassroots campaigns that effect the most change in the end, because they come straight from the people.”

“Well, that is how our president got his first term, I’ll give you that,” said Jim with a wink. She laughed.

“Yeah, but a lot of the big-message groups — the peace ones, the inequality ones — they’re all muddled in their messages nowadays. Occupy Wall Street? Good intentions, but no clear message other than camping around and something about the 99%. Stop Kony? Clear message, sure, but a bit muddled in the research and way, way oversimplifying things.”

“So you want to make a non-profit that’ll have a clear message for peace.”

“I think peace and justice are linked. By giving workers a living wage, you begin to reduce the inequality gap between classes. By supporting home-grown businesses in developing nations — instead of, you know, chucking free shoes at them from TOMS — you begin to reduce the inequality gap between countries. Inequality not only causes wars, but makes them worse. Inequality gave us aerial bombardment and nuclear weapons, because the more powerful countries are always the ones who want to come up with ways to kill more of the enemy and less of themselves.”

Jim raised both eyebrows. “Do you tell this to all the guys who buy you drinks at bars? Because that’s a lot to think about.”

“You are so privileged to have the luxury of not thinking about it,” Edith retorted, but she was smiling.

“I think you’d really hit it off with my friend Nyota,” replied Jim. “She’s busy translating a play and writing another one about… I think it was something about two queer black women in a washroom stall — really good stuff, I bet the Lyric Stage in Back Bay would love it — anyway, I could probably give you her cell, if you want to hit her up and chat equality.”

“Why, are you deflecting me?” she asked, a joking tone in her voice.

Jim laughed. “No, I’ve just decided that someone with ideas like yours should really meet someone their calibre of genius. And Nyota’s utterly brilliant, I think.” He took out his phone, scrolled down his contacts, and began transcribing Nyota’s number onto a napkin. “She was just asking me the other day about how I’m capable of finding cool people to talk to.”

“Your friend’s a playwright?”

“Well,” said Jim, biting his lip, “she’s more of just an all-around genius writer and translator. I’ve only known her personally for a couple months, but boy, her writing is emotionally stirring. Wish someone’d get their head out of their ass long enough to publish her, or her friend Spock —”

He cut off. Thinking about Spock was the last thing he needed.

“Are you a writer, too?” Edith asked, her brilliant smile dimming into a smaller, more sultry one as she sipped at her margarita.

“Yeah,” said Jim. “I got published, but I’m not entirely sure… I mean, the more I get to know these other writer friends of mine, the more I wonder why the publishers wanted me, not them.”

“Why, what’d you write?”

Jim laughed shortly. “Sixteen Light Years.”

Edith’s eyes widened. “You’re that Jim Kirk, then?”

“What, do you know another one?” Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well…” she trailed off, shrugging. “Might’ve encountered one while on vacation in Inverness with my ailing mother. I guess the name’s fairly common, though.”

“You took your mom to Scotland while she was sick?”

“It was more or less her dying wish, bless her heart,” sighed Edith, looking into her glass. She paused. “I really shouldn’t be thinking of upsetting things like that.”

“Perhaps another drink will help you forget?” suggested Jim.

“Why don’t we go back to my place for a coffee instead?”

Overall, he has had worse birthdays. Edith’s hotel room had decent coffee, but Edith herself was infinitely better; her lips were soft and pliant beneath his, and the darkened gaze that she turned on him as he set down the coffee cup on the nightstand suggested that he should look forward to staying a bit longer.

But for some reason, trying not to think of Spock only made the man invade more and more of his mind. This was hardly the moment to, not when Edith was close, and it was her lips upon his and her body against his, not Spock’s. Not when he could clearly feel curves beneath his hands instead of the hard planes of Spock’s body that had plagued most of his sleepless nights. It was like trying not to think of pink elephants; with each ounce of determination that he expended in not thinking about Spock fucking Grayson, that goddamned dark-haired writer invaded another inch of his thoughts.

Edith held him close afterwards, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he nuzzled against her breasts sleepily. “Who’s Spock?” she asked after a moment, and he turned to look into her eyes in the half-light of the moonlit window.

“Why do you want to know about him?” he asked.

“You mentioned him earlier at the bar, but you cut off immediately. You also said his name just a couple minutes ago.”

Jim was grateful for the dark, because it meant that she wouldn’t be able to tell he was blushing.

“He seems to mean a lot to you,” Edith remarked, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” said Jim, with a sigh. “I messed up. I tend to do that.”

“Well, aside from that misstep I don’t think you messed up at all,” replied Edith with a light chuckle. “You were pretty good, sir.”

“Glad to be of service, ma’am,” he replied, grinning against the swell of one of her breasts. “Still, I’m sorry about that. It’s unfair to you.”

“Well, if you can think of a man while sleeping with a woman, I guess that man must mean more to you than you know. Maybe you belong more at his side than mine.” She laughed lightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Jim resisted the urge to ask her if she carried cigarettes for these sorts of conversations.

“I wish,” he admitted. “But he said it was a mistake. Said we were a mistake.”

There was a temporary silence, as if Edith was considering that new nugget of information. “You know,” she said after a moment, “I get the feeling that this Spock of yours doesn’t know much about relationships, but knows a lot about your dating habits.”

“And how did you ever guess about my dating habits?” he asked, laughing.

“You appear to have had ample experience,” she retorted. “If a guy’s only practiced his technique on one girl, he’s still fairly bad when it comes to others. You were exceptionally good, which implies you’ve had many opportunities with different partners.”

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting to end up in bed with Sherlock Holmes,” joked Jim. “What else did you deduce about me, hm?”

“Not sure, but I do have this feeling that your Spock’s simply unwilling to trust your ability to commit to something serious with him. He’s trying to tell himself not to fall in love, because he knows you’ll just keep on moving, even past him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” grumbled Jim.

“I agree.” Edith giggled. “I just received proof a couple minutes ago.”

And even though she took it all in stride and gave him her contact details just in case he visited New York again, even though he admitted that this particular birthday had not been a complete waste of time — it was still just pouring lemon juice on the wound Spock had left in his heart.

Edith was brilliant. At first glance, she looked like a female-bodied Spock. At first contact, she appeared to have a personality completely opposite of the man. And yet the two were similar, too — both were compassionate and willing to discuss the things which interested them. They were both brilliant minds that the world had yet to discover, and they were both deserving of love.

And yet, Jim found himself terrifyingly infatuated with Spock, without much hope for reciprocation. The devastation of that fact left him near bereft.

Jim wrote the last of his ten pages in a feverish fury, detailing in great, vicious detail the death of Vulcan, the screaming agony of the severed telepathic bonds felt that day, the look of pure devastation on Lazarus’s face as he helplessly watched his mother fall off a cliff that had crumbled below her feet.

After that, he checked his clock. It was two in the morning; he had to go to bed. So he saved his progress, closed his laptop, and clambered into bed.

But sleep wouldn’t come to him — for several long, painful moments all his brain wanted to do (for the umpteenth time) was play back the events of the New Year’s party: how right Spock felt against him, his lips against his, his hand tracing Jim’s face. How Spock had looked at Jim before and after the kiss, how Spock had pushed him away and stormed out, trying to get rid of something that Jim knew that Spock had felt for him. The man had been frightened — he’d just gotten used to Jim, and Jim, like the fuck-up he had always been destined to be, pushed for more like the needy little thing he was. If he had been Spock, he would’ve walked out, too.

He considered calling up Edith Keeler once more, but he remembered her words to him. She knew she could not compete with Spock, even though barely anything amiable ever happened between them. It was a mystery he could not solve for himself; Edith had given him her theories, but Jim still remained uncertain of the reasons behind Spock’s rejection. It was childish, being so hung up over such an event; he usually bounced back from rejection. But then again, Jim was quickly finding out that Spock was more often than not the exception to everything Jim had ever believed in.

In the end, he barely got enough sleep, and Bones seemed to have noticed it at the next meeting a couple days into the new year. No one seemed willing to bring up what had happened at the party, something for which Jim was infinitely thankful for.

“Where’d you go to bed last night, Jim, the fiery depths of Hell?” Bones hissed after Jim excused himself to go get a drink in the kitchen of Scotty’s loft apartment. The doctor must’ve followed him; Jim made a mental note not to make his intentions clear so that Bones wouldn’t do this to him. Or perhaps he should put a bell on the doctor, because Bones sure knew how to sneak up on people. Maybe they offered stealth training as a class in med school.

“Sure felt like it,” Jim deadpanned, pouring himself a glass of tapwater. The kitchen was filled with the remnants of birthday cake, but this one had been ordered for Spock’s birthday. Granted, the guy’s birthday had been yesterday, but Spock had also protested their celebrations because he viewed the celebration of birthdays to be unnecessary.

(The exact phrasing was “I find it illogical to commemorate the day I managed to inflict intense pain upon my mother by exiting her body through a certain orifice,” but Jim liked to think that his Spock-to-English translation device was getting better.)

“What happened with Edith, after I left?” Bones raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, she was willing and I used protection,” replied Jim.

Bones groaned. “Oh yeah, that’s a real comfort. How you’ve managed to avoid an STI for so long is completely beyond me.”

“Magic and an extremely good doctor,” retorted Jim, winking as he took another slice of cake.

“You know, someday all of that’s gonna catch up to you,” Bones pointed out. Jim nodded absently, toying with his glass of water. The doctor raised an eyebrow. “You’re not hung up about what happened at the party, right?” he asked, voicing at last the question that Jim knew he had been sitting on since New Year’s evening.

Jim snorted. “I’m not hung up. Do you see me hanging from anything? No? There’s your answer.”

“Don’t get morbid on me, kid. If you threaten something like that again I’ll drag you to a psychiatrist myself.”

“You can’t do it yourself?” asked Jim, raising an eyebrow. “Give me a psych eval, poke around in my head?”

“Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor, not a psychiatrist!” hissed Bones, seizing Jim just below the armpit when he tried to walk past him. “But even I can tell what happened between the two of you has been shit on both of you. Nyota’s told me about how Spock’s not sleeping well either. Now I think the best way for you two to get better is to confront each other about it, because something more than just a kiss happened that night, and both of you know it. You both are just stubborn jackasses who’d rather swim up the Nile than deal with it together.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing to deal with, Bones. He said it was a mistake, I said I was sorry for doing it. Cased closed, end of story, good bye—”

“Like hell it is.” Bones fixed him with that steely ‘I could make your death look like an accident if you don’t comply’ look. “You better fix it, or else this project is over.”

“Bones—”

“It’d be as good as over if you don’t, since Spock’s next up to write.” Bones shoved lightly at Jim, gesturing for him to return to the others. “Fix it, for the rest of us at least.”

So Jim squared his shoulders and returned to the group, just in time to catch Spock talking about his most recent short story. Jim perked up a bit at that. Despite what happened, he was still allowed to like Spock's work, after all.

“The story is about a man,” said Spock, “who is the embodiment of universal energy. He has a limited amount of time to learn and comprehend Earth cultures, and in his studies he falls in love with a mortal.”

The man’s eyes locked onto his, and Jim felt a strange twist in his gut, a strange twinge in his chest like his heart had skipped a beat. Spock continued. “However, when he falls in love with the mortal, it is too late for them, as his mind and body are degenerating. It is ironic, in a way, that he has all the time in the world, but he did not have the foresight to allot himself enough to truly live. The mortal, unaware of his fate, lives in confusion at the disappearance of the man they had been growing to know. However, it might be for the best that the man had never revealed his origins to the object of his affection, for he realises that mortals are most content with what they know, and even a supposed rejection would hurt less than knowing that the universe itself is incapable of keeping two people together.”

“That’s deep,” said Scotty over a swig of whiskey.

“And very sad,” added Chekov. “It is not like the stories you usually write, Mr. Spock.”

“No, it is not,” agreed Spock quietly, looking down at the pages in his hand. “It was written because of something that has happened to me recently.” He looked over at Jim again, his eyes unfathomable. “You have probably heard about it by now.”

Chekov grinned. “I should not have left you alone,” he mused.

“It was not your fault.” Spock did a rough approximation of a shrug. “It was not an unpleasant event, in any case.” Except the fallout, Jim wanted to add, but the look on Spock’s face was enough to keep him silent.

He managed to get Spock aside at the end of the meeting, passing the man the final pages of his section of the novel. Spock took it accordingly, and turned to leave, but Jim seized his wrist.

“We should talk about what happened,” he said.

“We discussed it after it happened,” retorted Spock.

“No, we didn’t,” snapped Jim, his fingers closing tighter around Spock’s wrist. “You walked out on me and called what happened between us, and I quote, a ‘mistake’ which you did not ‘intend to repeat’, despite physical evidence to the contrary.”

“And what evidence would you utilise to support your claim?” asked Spock, his eyes narrowing.

Jim snorted. “What, do you want MLA citations with that, too?”

“If you are capable of producing citations at all, I would be astounded,” Spock deadpanned.

Jim chuckled. “You were so totally attracted to me,” he teased.

“That is a rather narcissistic observation.” Spock arched an eyebrow.

“You can’t argue against dilated pupils and elevated breathing. You were aroused.”

“Even though I may have been physically aroused, or possibly even attracted to you, what would give you the indication that I would like to pursue a romantic liaison with you?” Spock’s other eyebrow went up. “I do not believe you are — nor am I — emotionally prepared to handle a romantic relationship, and I do not derive emotional satisfaction from ‘flings’, which appear to be your current mode of operation.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest that he could do long-term relationships, considered it, and then closed his mouth again. When was the last time he was in a long-term relationship? He’d had a string of flings in college which had led to his reputation, a reputation he was fairly certain that Spock had been made aware of by others if not by the evidence of his own eyes.

No, the last time he had been in a long-term relationship, it had ended badly — as most high school relationships were wont to do. And he wasn’t entirely sure himself if pursuing something of a similar sort with Spock, who still never failed to wind him up and piss him off on a regular basis, was going to be the wisest choice.

Then again, since when did Jim Kirk ever make wise choices?

“You’re right,” he said after a moment. “You’re not prepared, I’m not prepared — no one’s ever prepared for long-term committed shit like that.”

Was it just him, or did Spock look a bit crestfallen? Jim chalked it up to his overactive, fantasising imagination. How could someone who clearly expressed such dislike for Jim’s very existence be crestfallen at Jim’s admission that he didn’t do relationships?

“I should depart,” said Spock after a moment, looking down at where Jim was still gripping his hand. “We are most likely making Mr. Scott uncomfortable.”

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stepping closer to Spock. To his delight when he opened his eyes, the other had not stepped away and was looking at him with those unfathomable dark eyes once more, breathing slightly hitched.

“I’m not prepared, but I would like to try,” he said quietly. “Could be fun. The last time I went steady was in, what, junior year of high school? Maybe things change when you get older.”

“Fun,” repeated Spock, that wry tone of amusement seeping back into his voice. “And here I was believing that your concept of fun did not extend to long-term monogamous romantic relationships.”

Jim could’ve smiled bright enough to outshine the sun. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Mr. Spock,” he said easily, stepping even closer into Spock’s personal space. Spock did not pull away.

“I am beginning to understand that, yes,” he said, eyes flickering to Jim’s lips, and Jim’s heart was beating fast again, like he was some goddamn teenager facing his first crush or something. He took a couple deep breaths to steady himself.

“Well then?” he asked, quietly, expectantly. Spock pursed his lips for a moment before leaning in and kissing Jim’s cheek.

“Do not interpret that as a promise,” Spock warned. “However, I shall consider your offer.” He then extricated his hand from Jim’s grasp, and stepped down the ladder out of sight.

Chapter Text

Once again, Spock found himself staring at the screen of his laptop, carefully suppressing the urge to throw it against the nearby wall. Kirk’s segment of the novel lay on the desk next to him, and the clock on the wall indicated that it was nearing midnight.

His father was asleep in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs, still recuperating from his ordeal. The healing process, however, was strong; Sarek intended to return to work in a couple of days, and Spock was to drive him to the airport so he could fly his private jet to Tokyo to resume his post.

Sighing, he leaned back, his muscles protesting after being compressed for so long. In one fluid movement, he leaned over to pause the quiet music he had hoped would inspire him — classical, in respect for his father’s presence, though he doubted Sarek would hear even if he was awake. Usually he would have preferred something with a more modern spin. Disconnecting his phone from the speaker, he flicked it on. He had several new messages from Nyota, but they were not urgent. He slipped it onto the flat surface of the desk.

With a wide yawn, Spock slipped his palms across his face. By all rights he should have been sleeping. He just could not seem to get the characters to cooperate. Any charitable feelings Spock may have held for Kirk had all but vanished in the light of what he now had to work with. The Vulcans, the only characters with which he could deal with confidence beyond all doubt, had been massacred in what could be constituted in-universe as an act of genocide. Spock did not know if Jim had done this in order to make Spock’s life more difficult, or if he was making some passive-aggressive statement. Whatever the intent may be, it had succeeded. Not only did Spock feel thwarted at being denied the opportunity to work with the Vulcans as a species and a culture, but he also felt frustrated at the current power issues that he would have to mitigate aboard the Enterprise.

More than anything, however, he felt dismissed. It was as if Jim had marked away any trace of advantage that Spock might have gained, and now Spock’s control was limited to how he could manipulate the events that followed. At least Jim no longer had anything to add until the editing process; all that remained was to run damage control for his reckless actions.

Similarly, Lazarus would never relinquish any command decision now that the ship was his last vestige of control. Taggart, likewise, would not cease in his persistent attempts to force the bridge crew to see things his way. It was a stalemate, and one that could not continue. If all matters were taken into account, Taggart would be punished for mutiny. However, Lazarus would continue to need him without knowing such a thing. There was an unknown missing element. Spock just couldn’t place what it might be.

He felt that he was on the precipice of something, but he didn’t know what. Or rather, he did not know until he was startled off the metaphorical ledge by the unfortunately authentic sound of the doorbell ringing throughout the house.

Spock clambered to his feet to answer the door. To his surprise, the old man he had noted outside the hospital where Sarek had stayed for Christmas was on his doorstep with a pair of fuzzy electric blue earmuffs on his head and a bright red scarf around his neck.

“What can I do for you?” he asked the man, who did not seem to be concealing alcohol about his person.

“You don’t recognise me, Spock?” asked the man.

“I am afraid that your visage is escaping my recall at this moment,” replied Spock.

The man snorted. “Brilliant. Weren’t you supposed to have an eidetic memory? It was all your grandma T’Pau would ever blab about. She kept going on and on about how you were going to be the smartest person in the world and win a Nobel Prize for something.”

Spock stiffened. “You were acquainted with my grandmother.”

“I was her goddamn brother,” snapped the old man. “Can I come in before I die of hypothermia out here?”

Spock’s eyes widened as he undid the chain and opened the door to admit the man. As he closed it, he turned to face the other, who was taking off his coat and scarf and earmuffs. He had a haircut that was at least five decades out of style and a sweater knitted in a style that was at least two decades obsolete, but there was no mistaking him now, not with him examining the photographs of the S’chn T’gai-Grayson family lining the walls.

“You are Great-Uncle Spock, the man I was named after,” he said.

“Howdy,” replied the other Spock, in an eerily accurate impression of Dr. McCoy. Spock was impressed.

“I saw you outside the hospital with alcohol on Christmas Eve.” Spock’s eyes narrowed. “What business did you have with the hospital, and why were you dressed like one of Santa’s elves?”

“Was trying to figure out whether or not to pay your old man a visit,” retorted Great-Uncle Spock. “Obviously, I didn’t while you were still there. Is Sarek in?”

“He is asleep upstairs. To disturb him would be inadvisable.”

“I figured.” Great-Uncle Spock shrugged and took a seat on the couch. Spock made to protest — that couch was, after all, tainted by the activities of Montgomery Scott and Nyota Uhura — but then he reasoned that the discomfort that came with having to tell his great-uncle about his friends’ sex lives was not worth informing him why no one was ever allowed to sit on that couch again, ever.

Perhaps next time he should wrap the couch in caution tape and place a sign indicating the presence of biohazards upon its surface.

As he contemplated this, he found he was doing an adept job at neglecting to acknowledge Spock the elder. He might have continued to do so, but neither Spock was the type to go for long without expressing the pertinent facts of a situation.

“Your father managed to get into a car accident for the first time in thirty years, and instead of coming out of it with a dent in his oh-so-efficient vehicle, he nearly gets himself killed. I’m sure there’s quite a bit we could take from that, but for now I’d like to know how you feel about the situation.” The older Spock looked up at his great-nephew expectantly, brow raised and mouth set.

Spock hesitated. “I do not believe that my physical or mental state is relevant at this time,” he stated, the distant and uncomfortable words enunciated as if to emphasise the awkward tension.

“Of course it is. Your emotions and thoughts are always relevant. If they were not, I would not ask you about them.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I thank you for your concern, but I am fine.”

“Which has variable meanings, as you’re well aware,” replied old Spock. He paused, twiddling his thumbs for a moment. “I did manage to see your father after you left. He told me about a man who came into the hospital room on Christmas Eve and proposed to you.”

“Mr. Kirk,” said Spock with a curt nod.

“I encountered the man later that same night outside the hospital. He was fascinating company. Reminded me of my younger years, back when the dinosaurs roamed the Earth —”

“That would be illogical, as the modern human being did not exist during the era in which the dinosaurs proliferated on the Earth’s surface —”

“It’s just a saying. God, what has my nephew been teaching you?” demanded old Spock. “When I was young, I knew this man who reminded me of your Jim. Same kind of smile. Same sort of eyes, except his were brown. And the way he looked at me often made me feel like there was no one else around us.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Great-Uncle Spock, are you implying that you were gay?”

Old Spock’s vaguely-dreamy expression slipped. “‘Were’ is hardly the tense I’d use to describe it,” he retorted.

“Nevertheless, you are telling me —”

“I am also telling you that I like slapping people with dead haddocks,” deadpanned old Spock, “and I don’t have any scruples about doing that to you if you won’t stop blowing up a fact about me that isn’t representative of my entire being. Did you expect me to walk into your living room with a rainbow flag tied to me like a cape? Or are you more comfortable with me telling you that I liked a girl?”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “But then you would be lying.”

“Yeah, and the family motto is something like ‘always tell the truth’ in some dead language, I know,” Old Spock rolled his eyes. “Thing is, this man and I were best friends. We served in the Navy together, and back then it wasn’t even legal for someone like me to serve the nation — if people found out, I’d be discharged. So I did nothing. Even after he got his own ship and made me his second in command and there was practically no one onboard the ship who cared about what I got up to during my downtime, I did nothing. You seeing a pattern here?”

“Your repeated emphasis on your inactivity would suggest that now you are regretting never informing your commanding officer of your feelings towards him.”

“He made it pretty damn clear sometimes that he liked me,” said old Spock, “and we had the sort of friendship that people mistook for something else, even back then. But I was too cautious, Spock, too worried about being dishonourably discharged to actually enjoy what I had with him. And by the time I’d found the guts to confess, it was too late. He disappeared one day, during a joint exercise with the Royal Navy near Scotland. I never saw him again.”

Spock nodded, looking at his great-uncle for a moment longer before disappearing into the kitchen. He returned moments later with a cup of tea, having recently boiled water for his own cooling mug on the desk nearby. Handing the mug to old Spock, he took a seat in his usual armchair again, folding his hands in his lap.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

Old Spock sipped his tea, and waved his hand at him. “Just don’t make my mistakes, and you should be fine,” he replied, clambering to his feet and heading for the stairs with his mug of tea in his hand. “Sarek’s in which of these rooms?”

“Third on the left,” said Spock, before returning to his desk to continue the novel.

He set up a schedule for his writing, and plotted out the rest of his segment. After Lazarus marooned Taggart for mutiny on an ice planet called Delta Vega, Taggart then encountered a familiar old man in a cave, another man with the name of Lazarus. The older Lazarus then called Taggart his old friend and explained how this entire timeline came about.

Spock also found himself searching the internet for Commander Spock, his great-uncle. The internet was surprisingly sparse about him, saying that he had served as executive officer on the Navy aircraft carrier USS Enterprise under two captains: Captain Christopher Pike and Captain James Kirk. Both captains had more information about themselves — Pike was retired, wheelchair-bound, and a distinguished member of a military family. Kirk, on the other hand, must have been the man his great-uncle was talking about, as his Wikipedia article stated that he was missing in action and now presumed dead by the government.

And that was where the traditional avenues of the internet ceased to be useful, since there were far too many James Kirks in the world; that simile about needles and haystacks seemed highly relevant. In fact, Spock knew a James Kirk himself. Wikipedia had a disambiguation page for that name, including not only the Jameses that he and his great-uncle knew, but also a colonel for the Union army during the Civil War and the deceased mayor of a town in New Jersey. As intriguing as the research was, it began to try on Spock’s nerves that such a search was bearing so little fruit.

He returned to the Google search page and typed in “USS Enterprise Captain James Kirk disappearance”, bypassing the Wikipedia page on the man and heading straight for what looked like news articles and academic papers.

Within a couple minutes of reading them, he felt like throwing his laptop across the room once more. Willing himself to breathe calmly, Spock settled back into his seat and checked the time.

He then switched on his phone and called Sulu.

“Spock, it’s midnight,” Sulu drawled sleepily over the line.

“I surmised that you would only be in a light state of sleep,” replied Spock.

“How did you even… do you watch me sleep? Because that’s not cool, man.”

“No,” said Spock, “I merely noted that, based on your internet presence, your usual bedtime is shortly before midnight, so you would still be awake around this time.”

“That’s really creepy,” repeated Sulu. “Anyway, since you’ve got my attention — what do you want?”

“I have a query.”

“Is it about the novel or something? I thought that was against the rules or something. You stuck?”

Spock looked to his word processor, where he was in the middle of old Lazarus’s — Lazarus Prime, perhaps, since Lazarus Alpha sounded ridiculous, and Lazarus One was just plain awful — explanation of how he and Nero had ended up in Taggart’s timeline. A black hole-creating substance known as decalithium, or Red Matter, was responsible for the holes in space-time that allowed the Narada and Lazarus Prime’s ship to traverse into the past and create an alternate reality.

“No, the novel is progressing at its expected rate,” Spock murmured. “I require your help with a more personal matter. Perhaps you and I can discuss it in person tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow as in tomorrow, or tomorrow as in later today?”

“Later today,” amended Spock, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I will therefore require your presence at the park near the public library.”

“What’s with all the secrecy, Spock?” wondered Sulu, yawning widely over the phone. “Did you kill someone and need me to dispose of the body?”

Spock rolled his eyes before catching himself and ceasing the action. After all, it was a waste of gesture; Sulu would be unable to see his facial expression. “Rest assured, I would not implicate you in such an illegal action, should I manage to go against my stringent moral code.”

“Well, they’d probably catch you if Jim Kirk’s the victim.” Sulu chuckled. “Should I get Pasha involved, too? I heard he’s got ties to the Russian mob.”

“I believe that was a lie designed to impress you,” retorted Spock.

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“No one with ties to a crime syndicate anywhere in the world would make it a boasting point.” Spock allowed himself a small grin. “Nevertheless, his assistance would be helpful, as my request does not involve disposing a body, but rather locating one. Preferably alive.”

There was a pause. “What time do you need me?” asked Sulu.

It was the third time he checked his watch since he had arrived on the snow-covered lawn outside of the half-castle, half-cage-like structure known as the local public library. Spock looked about him, drawing his scarf closer to his face as the bleak January winds blew at him. Couples walked past, huddling close for warmth. He watched some of them fade out of sight before returning his attentions to the scenery around him. People watching, as much it intrigued him, held little allure today.

He was struck out of his reverie by a tap on the shoulder. Sulu and Chekov were there, the young Russian looking fairly miserable in a grey newsboy cap and his Asian boyfriend looking absolutely gleeful in a —

“Is that a deerstalker on your head?” demanded Spock, raising an eyebrow at Sulu.

Sulu’s expression brightened even further, if possible. “Why yes, it is. You’re sending us on the hunt for someone, aren’t you? There’s a mystery to be solved. In short, Spock, the game is afoot, and adventure is out there!”

“Hiki, that is not something Sherlock Holmes said,” complained Chekov.

“He totally said ‘the game is afoot’,” retorted Sulu.

“But not ‘adventure is out there’,” said Chekov. “I am knowing my Sherlock Holmes very well. He is Russian, after all.”

Sulu opened his mouth to protest that, and then closed his mouth again. “In one adaptation, sure,” he muttered, before turning to Spock. “So, who are we looking for?”

Spock pulled up the Wikipedia article in question. “James Kirk, captain of the aircraft carrier Enterprise.”

“Wasn’t that decommissioned a while ago?” asked Sulu, looking at the article.

“My great-uncle served as his second in command,” said Spock. “As you can tell from his article, he disappeared in 2001 during a series of naval exercises with the Royal Navy off the coast of Scotland.”

“That is a while back,” remarked Chekov. “We were all children then.”

“Ah, I was not aware that you were alive at the time,” Spock remarked, feigning surprise. Chekov made a sound of protest while Sulu stifled a laugh.

“I am seventeen; of course I was alive,” retorted Chekov. “So you are wanting us to find out where he is living now?”

“If he is still alive enough to have an address, that is,” added Sulu.

“I myself will also be searching,” replied Spock. “I simply required additional help. Therefore, I have chosen to utilise those who have additional knowledge of how to obtain information from online and offline sources.”

“Why are you not using the others?” asked Chekov. “Scotty and Nyota and Mr. Kirk and Dr. McCoy?”

Spock pursed his lips. “I am sure Scott and Nyota are otherwise preoccupied,” he began.

“Well, you could put it that way,” agreed Sulu, rolling his eyes.

“I do not know if I can trust Kirk in this capacity, and Dr. McCoy has his patients.” Spock looked towards the library building. “Shall we enter the building and, in common terms ‘escape the cold’?” he asked, gesturing towards it.

“I’m not quite sure that that’s possible, but sure,” Sulu responded, shrugging.

Chekov beamed. “It is easy for me to pass the time out here, but I am understanding this weakness of yours and embrace it.”

“I assure you, the temperature is hardly one that is conducive to life, since it has rendered water into a solid form,” replied Spock drily as he led the way into the library.

Sulu’s hat drew appreciative looks as they entered. “Perhaps we could begin by searching the books?” asked Sulu.

“I have looked through all the accessible academic papers have been written on the disappearance,” said Spock. “I also managed to utilise the database account my father uses to access papers published in the field of International Relations, to no avail.”

“But those are all online, da?” Chekov cocked his head. “The best-kept secrets are being the ones that one has to hold in their hands.” Sulu studied him apprehensively before mouthing ‘I told you’ at Spock. Spock stifled a huff. The Russian boy had never been in the mob; he had merely seen too many mafia-centric films.

He quirked an eyebrow at Sulu, but turned towards the nonfiction section. “Mr. Chekov, are you implying that the disappearance of the captain of the first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier off the northwestern coast of Scotland was a government conspiracy?”

“Well, if it was not, it must have been a country trying to get after the nuclear vessels,” reasoned Chekov.

“If they required the nuclear capabilities of a warship, then they would do more than just take the captain of the ship,” Spock pointed out. “Perhaps we should look into the history of the ship he served on,” he added, heading in the direction of the books on naval warships.

“We should be having ice-cream,” declared Chekov a while later as he looked up from a thick book on the exploits of the USS Enterprise, though not the one described within their novel.

“What, in this weather?” scoffed Sulu. Spock raised an eyebrow at them both.

“Have either of you unearthed something of import?” he enquired.

“Not much,” admitted Sulu, holding up a book entitled The Elusive Captain. “Says here that Kirk was posted to a small, secret US naval base called Camp Tarsus in a small, largely uninhabited island off the coast of Corfu Island, Greece, which has since then been demolished.”

“Something happen there?” asked Chekov, his expression curious. Spock leaned in as well.

“This was quoted in several of the papers I read,” he remarked. “Are you implying this has a connection to his disappearance?”

“It doesn’t say anything about what happened at Tarsus,” said Sulu. “Just said that after Kirk left, the base was destroyed. I think there’s been a bit of a cover-up.”

“Once again, I reiterate my inquiry as to whether or not you believe that Captain Kirk’s disappearance was the result of a government conspiracy,” said Spock, steepling his fingers and pressing the index pair to his lips.

Sulu flipped a couple more pages. “Nah, I bet the guy just wanted a quiet life free of those people trying to write romance novels about him.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. Sulu showed him a couple pages of photographs. Spock exhaled. No wonder his great-uncle did not act; the good captain did give off the sense of being painfully straight, based off those pictures.

“Would he be desperate enough to try and escape the ship in the middle of the training with the Royal Navy?” asked Chekov. “Why, is the Ensign Mary Sue frightening him very much?”

“You read those bodice-rippers?” demanded Sulu incredulously.

Chekov gestured to the pile of luridly-coloured books on the table in front of them. “We are asking for all books about Captain Kirk, nyet?”

“You found time enough to read the fictional texts alongside the factual ones,” Spock questioned.

“They could have been factual accounts,” Sulu defended, grinning.

“Da, I am not knowing Captain Kirk liked the television show I Love Lucy,” agreed Chekov. Spock scoffed lightly, taking the topmost book (entitled Taming the Wild Captain, with a drawing of a burly blond man in something that was clearly not a navy regulation uniform, holding a swooning humanoid female with pointed ears and orange tinged skin in his arms) from the stack.

After opening to a random page, his eyebrow travelled an equivalent distance to how much he managed to read before shutting the book in question. “I can promise you that such… positions are evidence enough to the contrary,” he declared, setting the book down. “Back to work.”

“We should still have something to eat,” protested Chekov. “It is getting quite tedious. Perhaps since you two complain that it is cold, we should have something warm.”

“Tea,” said Spock almost immediately.

“Coffee,” retorted Sulu.

Chekov looked at the two of them with narrowed eyes. “I am wanting soup,” he rebutted.

How on Earth was Pete going to get back onboard? Even with Lazarus Prime confirming that he belonged on the Enterprise, there was no way he could get back. They were travelling at warp to the Laurentian system; the next time they dropped out of it, they’d probably be too far for the transporter signal. And getting beamed into space was hardly on his to-do list.

Spock bit his lip and stared at his screen. After a moment, he heard a small noise, which signified to him that someone was talking to him on Skype.

Spock turned his attention to the chat client, to see Sulu’s message:

d’artagnan: They’ve got an entire tumblr blog about this guy, check it out

d’artagnan: http://www.fyeahcaptainjameskirk.tumblr.com

Spock clicked the link, keeping it in a new tab as he returned to the novel. Moments later, the noise repeated itself, except this time, the message was from Chekov:

Сделано в России: i have talked to the guys on the conspiracy forum. they said that theres a theory index.

Where is this theory index? Spock typed in a reply.

Сделано в России: the one on the forum is private. members only.

Live Long and Prosper: Are there any other copies?

Сделано в России: http://www.thecaptainconspiracy.tumblr.com/theoryindex

Spock put that into a separate tab as well. Are there any prominent theories? he enquired.

In the novel, Lazarus Prime was reminding Taggart that there was a Starfleet outpost on this icy world, and the two then set off in that direction, braving the harsh and cold winds of Delta Vega as they trekked through ice and snow.

Сделано в России: there is someone who has a good theory. her names stella

Live Long and Prosper: You cannot be certain that that is her real name, or that she is female.

Сделано в России: she uses her picture as an icon, like on the facebook.

Spock raised an eyebrow. Continue.

Сделано в России: stella says what sulu read aloud in the library is connected to kirks disappearance. two years before he went missing the enterprise went to the adriatic sea because of the wars in yugoslavia.

Live Long and Prosper: This ‘stella’ person believes that the Captain’s disappearance is linked to his past experience in Greece?

Сделано в России: da, she thinks its really linked. she says that something happened in greece that haunted kirk for ages. he was still pretty young when he was in greece and had been for a while in the navy. something really bad happened because camp tarsus was destroyed. stella doesnt know what but she thinks she has a lead from all the wikileaks articles about the us military covering up what happened at camp tarsus.

Live Long and Prosper: How can we keep up to date on ‘stella’s’ investigation?

Сделано в России: i promised her a signed copy of sixteen light years by our own jim kirk. she is a big fan of his book. says its funny that two of the most interesting men in her life have the same name.

Spock was about to reply, when his phone rang. He picked it up, to hear the younger Jim Kirk on the other side.

“How can I help?” he enquired, raising an eyebrow as he looked through the theory index on Chekov’s link.

“Spock, you free for dinner?” asked Jim on the other end.

“I have several pressing matters which require my immediate attention,” replied Spock.

“Oh, good; I wasn’t hungry.”

Spock’s other eyebrow arched. “Why would you request my presence at dinner if you yourself are not hungry?”

There was a long pause. He could hear Jim sigh on the other end.

“Spock, I just wanted to talk,” the other man said. “You know, about what happened at the last meeting.”

“Our next meeting is tomorrow. We may very well discuss it then.”

“Everyone else is going to be there.”

“It will be at your apartment. You could merely request for me to linger longer.”

There was a pause. Jim sighed again.

“Spock, I just… I want this to work out between us, okay? I’m interested in you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” replied Spock drily. Jim could have better served his point by making Spock’s life easier via novel manuscript.

“I’m not just some reckless writer with loose morals,” retorted Jim.

“Your use of ‘just’ as an adjective would imply that it remains an integral facet of your being nonetheless.” Spock was glad in some small part that Jim could not see his wince through the phone. He did not enjoy sounding as stiff as he did at the moment, but his control was limited.

“I wouldn’t say integral, Spock. Writing, yeah, I’m incapable of taking that part out. Loose morals aren’t necessarily a bad thing, seeing as they’re subjective, but I swear that this isn’t something I’d be… well, loose with. With which I’d be loose, I guess?” A sigh emanated from the phone. “Seriously, I’ll stop ending sentences with prepositions if it’ll make you consider this. I just wish you’d meet me halfway.”

Spock shifted in his chair, tapping the fingers of his unoccupied hand against his desk. Whatever part of his mind that was not occupied with the current situation or the task at hand toyed with a few note transitions. His fingers echoed the attempts at composition by mirroring chords. He may have had the hand-eye coordination of a concussed squirrel when it came to most things, but he could at least pluck out his music with a high degree of skill.

“Jim,” he said, “I believe that some aspects of our situation are unclear to you. Thus far you have pushed your way into settings in which you were not invited and taken charge. I am not stating that there were no favourable outcomes to these events, but in the end you have been very…” Spock trailed off for a moment, staring down at his laptop screen. Chekov was beginning to rattle off non-sequiturs following Spock’s lapse in attention. “You have been fairly manipulative, and as I myself am an author, I enjoy a modicum of control. Please try to respect that.”

“Not invited?” echoed Jim. “Spock, Bones invited me to the group. He’d been meaning to ever since I moved into this town, but then my book became a success and I got whirled away by all that publicity shit, and —” he broke off; Spock could hear the man trying to regain some semblance of calm over his voice. “Look, the only thing I could do for you guys was help Bones proofread, since I was so busy before. And when I read your work, Spock, I fell in love with your style, with the succinct way you carried out the dialogue and the narrative alike. I’ve loved your words from the very beginning, even if our first meeting came as a bit of a shock to me.”

“Mr. Kirk —”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you, Spock. I don’t want to do that. I’m not that kind of person.” Jim’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Spock gripped his desk for a moment, feeling the whorls of the wood beneath his fingers. Slowly he brought his hand towards the trackpad of his computer, maximising the window for his word processor. He couldn’t think of the situation at hand. It was too close, too new.

“I will take your plea into consideration, Mr. Kirk, but I find that I feel too unwell at the present time to give you a fair judgement of the proposal overall. I may be absent from the next meeting. Good night.”

“Is there something wrong?” asked Jim. “You were calling me ‘Jim’ at the start of the call but now it’s ‘Mr. Kirk’ again. Did I offend you or something? I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Spock, just —”

“It is not your fault, Jim. Good night.”

Spock hung up with trembling fingers, setting down the phone with a slight tap to the casing. He returned his attentions to the laptop, where Sulu and Chekov were both vying for his attention. Swallowing, he told them both that he was going to try and write more of his segment of the novel, and signed out of Skype.

“Well, it was about time!” declared the man sitting at the desk, all four legs of his chair slamming back into the concrete ground with a decisive ‘thud’. Pete looked at Lazarus Prime, who arched one eyebrow at the newcomer, who was bundled in a heavy jacket and layers of scarves and hats, as if he valued his head more than the rest of him. “I don’t suppose you two understand just how unacceptable it is to let a fellow Starfleet officer starve to death on this godforsaken ice ball, do you?”

Lazarus Prime peered more closely at the man, who had dark hair and almond-shaped eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“I would recognise that Singaporean accent from anywhere,” he declared after a moment. “You must be Richard Chen.”

“Most people call me Ricky, yeah,” agreed the man grouchily, waving a hip flask at them. “And I know exactly what got me here. It was that Thermian girl, wasn’t it? Just because I didn’t consult my bloody doctor before letting her get her tentacles all over me. Or was it because of that disagreement I had with that professor back at the Academy? Either way, you’ve come now, so I’m expecting more food. Where is it, anyway?”

Spock did not show up to the meeting. Instead, he elected to consult with I’Chaya about the very important plot developments that he was trying to work out in his segment of the novel. Preferably within the safe cocoon of a pile of blankets and pillows, arranged in the configuration of a bird’s nest. After a suitable amount of time, however, he realised that he needed to expend some energy to produce a facsimile of actual work at least. The illusion of productivity did wonders for one's mental state.

Therefore, it came as no surprise that after thirty minutes of drawing out diagrams and testing out different support mechanisms, he began to build a roof for his soft fortress. Once said roof had been erected, he curled up inside with a protesting I’Chaya and started scrolling idly on his Kindle, summoning the chat logs for his conversations with Chekov and Sulu.

He investigated the sites more thoroughly. Some of the theories in the index were clearly outlandish (he was disinclined to believe the good captain to have been vaporised by a British missile, or abducted and subsequently seduced by extraterrestrials). He snorted at those, which was echoed by I’Chaya’s own sound of derision. However, some of the other theories held merit, such as the one referencing blackmail by terrorist organisations. And still others were clearly untrue, as his great-uncle did not murder Captain Kirk, nor did he (despite his inclinations and obvious attraction) marry him.

He looked back at Chekov’s blurb on ‘stella’s’ theory. Hers — if she was a ‘her’, that is; in this day and age appearances were deceiving, especially on the Internet — seemed quite plausible, and tied in with the blackmail theory. The terrorist cell could very well have been linked to whatever occurred at Tarsus long ago. Camp Tarsus, according to the documents on Wikileaks, had been the site of some extremely sensitive military operations in the Adriatic even prior to the Yugoslav Wars. It was the fourth base of its kind, and it specialised in the development of biological warfare, especially in the use of agriculture and GMOs as a weapon or line of defence.

I’Chaya mewled in irritation at him, paws batting at his arms as if the feline wished to procure its freedom from the cage that was Spock’s limbs. To avoid claws in his sweater (one of the festive ‘snowflake-patterned’ ones that his mother had knitted for him; the snowflakes looked more like mutant marshmallows, but it came with good memories and was quite warm), Spock released the cat and it darted out of the fort, collapsing some of the walls in the process.

The dark warmth of the collapsed blankets and pillows encircled him, welcomed him. It was a rather womb-like environment, minus the amniotic fluid, and he was more than content to lie there for a moment and ponder his life choices. Logic dictated that he needed to rebuild his fort, yet the warmth of the materials was making him feel lethargic; within this cocoon he was safe from harm and disappointment.

He had worked hard on this fort. He had designed it himself and constructed it with the greatest of care. Yet, like each of his carefully sculpted stories, it fell to pieces before barely any time had passed beyond its conception. He wished he could summon a stronger emotion than disappointment, but everything felt a bit numb. Everything he did went fell apart eventually; he was too resigned to it to care much. He had neither the will nor the ability to keep an idea burning in his mind, brilliant until the last word. It was too often doused in cool logic, smothered by endless hours of research. Each additional word had an alarming tendency to paralyse him.

And yet his most recent short story had been churned out in a couple of days. Emotion had seized him; the conflicting sensations of arousal and doubt at Jim’s very presence had spurred his hand to write. Jim compromised him like no other, and yet Jim also inspired like no other. Perhaps this was due to the sheer amount of emotion he invoked. Spock found he did not know what to do with it all, once he was driven beyond the familiar realm of logic and into the confusing colours of sentiment.

He did not want to face this truth. He had never wanted to face it, not since the day Jim Kirk stepped into his space and kissed his lips as a promise of other things to come. Things would be so much easier if he could understand the man and his conflicting actions.

He needed a catalyst. In terms of fatal flaws, he was guilty of stooping to Hamlet’s nadir of inaction. All he needed was for the ghost of his mother to appear and accuse someone else in the family of murder. Perhaps Cousin Stonn…

Ah, Stonn was getting married in a few weeks. He had nearly forgotten. He took a moment to attempt to remember whether he had ticked the box for attending with a guest or not. Now that Nyota was busy with Scott, he would need to make other arrangements. Taking a moment to toy with the idea of feigning sickness, he eventually discarded that option as one that would go against the infamous S’chn T’gai family motto.

It was with great reluctance that Spock emerged from his cocoon to make himself a cup of tea. Padding to the kitchen, he had just set the kettle to boil when the idea struck him. Setting down his favourite mug, he dashed upstairs to the room next to the guest bedroom that Nyota had nicknamed ‘The Whiteboard Room’, because it was a perfectly empty space where the walls and ceiling, save for the lights and windows, had all been covered in whiteboard paint.

(How the Whiteboard Room came about involved one sweltering summer afternoon, several cans of whiteboard paint, two ladders, numerous brushes, and Dr. McCoy insisting they try not to instigate a paint war because he “didn’t want to be doodled on, dammit”.)

Spock grabbed a fresh black marker off the windowsill where all the supplies were kept, stepped in front of a blank stretch of wall (he had recently cleaned most of the room and redid his calendar in the corner for January), and began to write.

First of all, he needed a hard copy of ‘stella’s’ theory before him. He needed to write it out in his own words, if only to make sure that he understood it himself. A long moment was needed in order for him to decide on which form the organisation of his data should take, but once he had decided to follow his usual modus operandi, he went to work.

The theory depended on the existence of Camp Tarsus, which was intrinsically linked to the systematic murders of the majority of those stationed there during the three weeks of 1984 in which it was under the rule of the anti-US Greek terrorist cell the Revolutionary People’s Struggle. Although over half of such veterans were killed, one notable exception continued on to have a rather spectacular military career: Captain James Kirk. Spock eyed this name for a moment before underlining the ‘Captain’ segment twice. Once he had drawn the appropriate arrows to connect the captain and Camp Tarsus, he continued to write down the facts:

• 1984 — Lieutenant J. Kirk at Camp Tarsus on Vido Island, Greece

• 1984 — Camp Tarsus site of a terrorist occupation.

• Terrorist group called Revolutionary People’s Struggle of Greece

• Eugenics employed during the occupation scaled-down tactics used during the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia.

• Camp Tarsus occupation => Serbians who committed the genocide in Bosnia.

• Many escaped justice even after Yugoslav Wars and criminal trials

• January 15, 1999 — Račak Massacre

• March 18, 1999 — the Rambouillet Agreement failed

• March 1999 — Enterprise returns to the Adriatic

• April 20, 2001 —  James Kirk, Captain of the USS Enterprise, disappears.

After Spock connected the base with the Serbian terrorists, he added details to the connections. Then, with the help of his phone, he began to take research into his own hands. One article — distastefully titled “Ghost Stories at Camp Tarsus: Veterans Eat Free”— described the transition from a scientific naval base to a terrorist run eugenics experiment, and the American government’s successful cover-up that had lasted nearly three decades until Wikileaks happened. Another such source cited a representative's statement that, “We were protecting the men that deserved better lives. They needed to move on and rebuild.”

Another blurb went to the board. ‘Cover-up’ went to Camp Tarsus, whereas ‘rebuild’ went to the captain. It was erased just as quickly, however, once Spock took into account that James had vanished a whole decade and a half later. What could the connection be, then, he wondered.

I’Chaya, undaunted by Spock’s frustration, nudged his side. Spock drew his hand down the cat’s spine for a moment before returning his attentions to research. It was several minutes later that he struck upon a previously ignored facet of the matter — the fact that eight known victims of Camp Tarsus had been killed prior to the disappearance of Captain Kirk:

• January 12, 1999 — Dr. Thomas Leighton

• May 28, 1999 — Dr. Helena Mallory

• November 7, 1999 — retired officer and former Naval Commander Bruce Kaplan

• February 25, 2000 — Lieutenant Commander Daniel Carlisle and Ensign Brian Hendorff

• Hendorff accompanied his mother to Camp Tarsus when he was six.

• May 14, 2000 — Petty Officer (first class) Kerri Marple

• October 13, 2000 — Lieutenant Robert Daiken

• On March 14, 2001 — Lieutenant (junior grade) Kevin Riley

• Riley accompanied his father to Camp Tarsus at the age of seven.

• Also served on the Enterprise.

• All of the named victims so far have shared at least one thing with Kirk: Tarsus.

• Kirk himself disappeared a couple months after his lieutenant.

His lips drawn into a firm line, Spock reached up and scrawled ‘possible assassination’ between Captain Kirk and the Serbian terrorists. Nodding, he stepped back to survey his work just as the doorbell rang.

Spock was at the door before the person outside could press the button a second time, opening it to see his father on the doorstep, coat drawn in around him and brows furrowed intensely against the cold.

“I was under the impression that you were in Japan,” said Spock as he closed the door and bolted it again.

“The State Department requested that I be in New York for a conference at the UN Headquarters,” said Sarek, now removing his gloves. “I therefore thought it prudent to visit you again. Do you not have your weekly meeting?”

“I am feeling unwell,” replied Spock. It had some element of truth to it, after all.

Sarek nodded, raising an eyebrow at the blankets and pillows on the living room floor, and The Couch covered in plastic wrap. He opened his mouth as if to comment, but then closed it, striding into the kitchen instead.

“Were you in the process of making tea?” he asked, gesturing to the still-full electric kettle, the water within now lukewarm and hardly optimal for tea.

Spock blinked. “It escaped my mind,” he admitted, which was true — he had completely forgotten about the tea. His mug was still on the counter, though, so Spock pressed the lever to boil the water again, taking out another mug for his father.

“Darjeeling,” said Sarek, but Spock already had his hand on the tin of darjeeling tea sitting in his collection.

Moments later, after the water had boiled again, Spock poured them both mugs of tea. Sarek sat down at the counter, nodding in gratitude as Spock pushed the mug of darjeeling towards him. His eyebrows rose again as he looked at what was printed on the mug.

“‘I get off on technicalities’?” he asked.

Spock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Christmas present from the writing group,” he said.

Sarek nodded. “I apologise for having kept you away from your presents that day.”

“They could be opened at any time. Apologies are unnecessary.” Spock sipped at his tea, noting how Sarek’s eyebrows twitched at the design on his own. His mother had bought him this mug the minute he graduated from Pomona, and he had only started considering it his favourite and using it in earnest after her death.

They drank their tea in silence for a long while before Spock spoke up again:

“I trust that you are recovering well?”

“At an acceptable rate, yes,” agreed Sarek. He raised an eyebrow at his son. “However, I did not come here to discuss my health.”

Spock raised an eyebrow as well, but said nothing. Sarek stifled a cough and continued.

“The night he came to visit us, your great-uncle informed me that he told you about his past in the Navy.”

Spock merely sipped his tea in response. Sarek seemed a bit uncomfortable; he was drilling his fingers on the counter and his expression had become even more closed off than usual.

“Your writing… associates —”

“Friends,” said Spock almost immediately, and then snapped his mouth shut and began mirroring his father’s rhythmic tapping on the tiled counter. His mind began running through the rules of second species counterpoint as a welcome mental distraction.

Sarek nodded. “Yes, friends. They have expressed concern over your absence. Apparently I was listed as your primary contact outside the group in the phone of one Dr. Leonard McCoy.”

Trust Dr. McCoy to have emergency contacts for all of the people in the group. He returned his attentions to his counterpoint. Was it permissible to begin on an upbeat?

“He merely enquired after your well-being. Naturally, since you say that you are unwell, I will have to inform him of that.” Sarek sipped his tea, his hands having long since stilled on the countertop. Yet Spock’s fingers continued their unknown rhythm, measuring out in common time the melodies he was attempting to harmonise. Did Lazarus ever play an instrument? What sort of instruments did they have on Vulcan, ere it was destroyed?

“That will not be necessary; I can contact him myself,” Spock said, finishing his mental counterpoint exercise with a mental flourish. “You must have other reasons for your visit, father.”

Sarek pursed his lips and looked at Spock’s mug once more. “I will be back in Japan when the Anniversary comes again, so I will be unable to speak to you in person then.”

At that observation, Spock stiffened. He had almost forgotten that next week was the anniversary of his mother’s death — searching for his great-uncle’s friend had driven those thoughts out of his mind.

More than anything, he associated the date with apologies. His mother’s death had not been real, had not been tangible, until long after the funeral service. The customs of her people dictated a swift burial after death; the funeral had only been delayed by a day due to the number of family members flying in from across the country and abroad. A day was hardly enough time for the truth to settle in; by the time he had grasped that she was dead, he was carrying her casket to the gravesite and pouring the earth upon it after the prayers were read. Perhaps it would have been better if his father had been out of the country at the time. Maybe then Spock could have broken down when everyone else had.

The day of her death, however, was never repeated. He had seen shows, watched movies, and read books where the protagonist would greet an anniversary with joy or sorrow. Spock could not help but notice that the weather was different each year. Even the rocks at each gravesite changed, even the bright red ones — high in iron, Spock noticed — that the late Mr. Rizzo received each year.

The grave visits, rather than the date, made Spock emotional. He hated the bile that clogged his throat. He hated the twist in his stomach that seized whenever he thought about how he would never see her again. He hated looking down at the slab of engraved rock that was certainly not his mother. No matter how he tried, he could not find a trace of any living person within that place.

He used to like graveyards, he recalled. They were quiet. He never did believe that anyone was there. Now, however, that belief ripped whatever solace he might have felt at the prospect away. It was empty. That was the sad part, he believed. The date did not make him feel melancholy, nor did any thought of the interim in which she was gone. Amanda was gone throughout the year, but it was that day when it became socially acceptable to mourn her. On such a date Spock was marched up to her grave by friends or family, and confronted by her absence in the form of memorial words and prayers in a language he barely understood. It was as if they expected him to do well enough without her everyday, then collapse at the mere suggestion of an upcoming date.

With no small amount of dismay, Spock realised that he was pleased that Sarek would not be by his side on this occasion. Spock wanted the day for himself. If he had to face his mother’s lack of presence on a specified date, he wanted to do so on his own terms.

“Spock.” His father’s voice disturbed Spock from his musings. “Speak your mind.”

“That would be unwise,” replied Spock, noticing at last that his drumming fingers had stopped their previously-ceaseless rhythm.

“What is necessary is never unwise,” said Sarek, expression graver than usual.

Spock hesitated, fingers brushing against the tiled countertop. The material felt cool and smooth against the pads of his fingertips, but it was not enough. He returned to his counterpoint.

If he were to speak his mind he would still have no idea what he would say in order to appease Sarek. He could divulge knowledge of his efforts in searching for Captain Kirk, but it seemed a breach beyond personal matters. He could chalk it up to romantic troubles, but that might result in a follow-up line of inquiry. And of the Anniversary… Well, what could he possibly say? Any words that might cross his lips would come across as caustic, unemotional, and insensitive at worst, and inappropriate at best. Perhaps it would be better to keep his piece.

“I feel… conflicted about a great many things,” he said at last. “I do not know what to feel.”

Sarek’s face softened, no longer the hardened mask of an ambassador but still an unrivalled poker face. Spock, unable to read the more inscrutable expressions of his friends, could not derive any sort of accurate reading from it.

“Spock, I will not dispute that your mother was better at talking you through emotions. I have never been quite comfortable with such conversations, nor have I been the best at expressing myself in previous occasions. However, I feel that I have been amiss in informing you of a very important fact.” Sarek did not force himself into Spock’s line of sight, as he so often did when he was younger. Instead he shifted so that he would be heard more easily.

“Emotions are not wrong, Spock. They can make one do illogical and stupid things, but the emotions themselves are not inherently despicable. You should not feel guilty for being conflicted about a seemingly straightforward issue, nor should you harbour such discontent for your emotions differing from those around you. However, it serves everyone’s best interest for you to monitor the responses of yourself and those around you in order to respond as is best suitable.”

“I am aware, Father, of your beliefs in the necessity of right mindfulness and right speech,” replied Spock quietly. “There is no need to reiterate knowledge known to both of us.”

Sarek nodded. “But it is important that you listen to this now, Spock,” he said quietly. “I am grateful that you are my son. I have not always been like this, as you are aware.”

Spock looked down at his hands. His father had not always been aware of the fact that he had been bullied; Sarek saw only his son being involved in fights at school. The S’chn T’gai family, he once said, did not value violence and killing. No child of S’chn T’gai would stoop to something so primitive as mindless schoolyard brawling.

Logic was a family sanctuary, for the most part. And Spock had not always known that his father had simply failed to see both sides of the equation.

“You once asked me why I expected so much of you,” continued Sarek. Spock remembered that day quite clearly, when the school principal had left them to talk and Sarek had launched into another lecture on what a disappointment Spock was to the family for fighting (off his bullies).

“You said that I was disadvantaged, and so I needed to work harder —” as you can best fit in by working to match your peers. Those were the words his father had told him then, words of taking advantage of the opportunities afforded to him as someone born into affluence. But not the words that Spock had, as a child, wanted to hear from his father.

“No, Spock.” Sarek shook his head. “I expected more from you because you are capable of so much more. Your grandmother T’Pau had always been right. It was I who did not see your true potential.”

Spock opened his mouth to reply, but then his phone rang, with Scott appearing as the caller ID. Spock answered, mouthing an apology to his father, who merely sipped his tea in reply.

“Spock, you’re okay!” exclaimed Scott on the other end. “McCoy sent your dad off to look after you, since he was real worried about you, mate. How’re you holding up?”

“I am acceptable,” replied Spock. “How is the rest of the group? What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing really, just listening to Jim pining over you like usual. Nyota says hi, by the way.”

“Hello, Nyota,” said Spock, trying to quash the fluttering sensation in his stomach which came at the juxtaposition of the words ‘Jim’ and ‘pining’.

Scott laughed. “It’s not on speakerphone. Do you want it to be?”

“This is fine,” said Spock, a little more quickly than necessary. “Is there a particular reason for this call?”

Scott paused for a moment, and then replied, “well, Sulu and Chekov seem to reckon you’d like to meet me ol’ grandad.”

“And why would that be so?” asked Spock.

“He lives in the Hebrides now, out on Lewis. Always going on about looking for peace and quiet and good salmon, you know? Edinburgh got too loud for him, so as soon as Granny passed on he struck out for the Hebrides —”

“While your tale is no doubt a fascinating one, I still would like to know how it pertains to me.”

“Turns out he met this bloke out there, some old fisherman, ex-Navy fella by the looks of him. Came by and bought a house down the road from me grandad’s one afternoon ten years or so ago, and has been there ever since.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “And the man’s name?”

“Jonathan Kirkland. A common name, aye, but the feel of it seemed to mean something to those two. They thought you’d want to know.”

Spock rose to his feet. He saw Sarek rising to his feet across from him and shook his head; Sarek sat back down.

“Is your grandfather here?” asked Spock, still standing.

“No, but you reckon Chekov and Sulu are right about you needing to contact him?”

“I have my suspicions,” replied Spock. “Inform Mr. Chekov and Mr. Sulu to meet me after the meeting.”

“You’re feeling better?”

“Presumably, yes.”

“Good to hear, laddie.” Scott laughed. “I’ll tell them what you said. Bye.”

Spock hung up right after that. Sarek raised his eyebrows, fingers drumming idly against the countertop.

“Are you planning a trip?” he asked.

“To Scotland,” replied Spock.

“Borrow my jet,” said Sarek immediately.

“Father —”

“Just be careful with it.”

Chapter Text

Hikaru watched Scotty hang up with bated breath and anticipation curling tightly in his gut. “Well?” he asked as the man set down his mobile and grinned at them.

“Spock’s feeling better,” said Scotty.

“And?” asked Pavel from his chair next to Hikaru. The two were in a set of high wood and steel barstool chairs dragged over from the kitchen counter, where the remnants of a box of pizza lay cooling on the tiles.

“He said the two of you should meet him at his house after the meeting.”

Pavel grinned. “Well, we are almost done, nyet?”

“Trying to run out on us, Chekov?” asked Jim from where he sat in his desk chair, idly flipping through several pages. “This is fantastic, Nyota.”

“I merely translated,” replied Nyota. She and Scotty were sitting on the sofa with Dr. McCoy, and the doctor looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Still brilliant.” Jim raised a mug of coffee in salute. “I think translation’s twice as hard as creation, since in creation you simply come up with something. In translation you’ve gotta interpret its meaning, translate the words, and make your version as true to the original as possible.”

“An accurate assessment,” agreed Nyota, raising a glass of wine. “I’ll drink to that.”

A shadow seemed to pass over Jim’s expression at her words, but he swiftly shrugged it off and took a sip of coffee before setting it down on his desk.

Jim’s apartment was a studio-sized one, with the bedroom separated from the rest of the living space with a walled partition. The design was sleek and modern, with lots of wood, glass, and posters of space and minimalist superheroes. Jim kept a surprisingly tidy house. Shame Spock wasn’t here to admire it.

“Any other pieces?” asked McCoy after a moment, looking over at Jim, who had deliberately busied himself with scribbling on a notepad.

“My supernatural piece will be done soon,” said Pavel in reply. “But I am thinking Hiki wrote a poem —”

“No, I didn’t —” protested Hikaru.

“Da, you did,” Pavel grinned. “It is a good poem, I think, but I do not know English as well as the rest of you.”

“Give yourself a break, Pav,” said Nyota kindly, grinning at him. “You’re at MIT, aren’t you? Means your grasp of English is pretty good. Better than most native speakers, I bet.”

“But I am making grammar mistakes all the time,” protested Pavel.

“We all do that,” scoffed Jim.

“Yeah, there’re native speakers of English who seem incapable of writing in anything but chatspeak,” added McCoy, looking pointedly at Jim, who raised both hands in protest.

“I don’t always write like I text!” he exclaimed.

McCoy turned to the rest of them and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Most of Sixteen Light Years was written by me because I had to translate his abbreviations into actual English.”

“You’re just a big fat liar,” said Jim with a pout. “I don’t even know why we’re friends.”

“Because I’m the only person on this goddamned planet who can put up with your bullshit.” McCoy grinned nonetheless, which Hikaru took to mean he was largely joking about Jim writing Sixteen Light Years in emoticons and acronyms.

“I bet Spock could also put up with my bullshit,” complained Jim, causing McCoy to groan.

“Oh, there he goes again, mooning over Spock. Scotty, why didn’t you let him talk to the guy?”

“Because then Spock’d hang up on us,” retorted Scotty. “Although, from the last time I saw them in the same room, it wasn’t as terrible as it was the first time they met.”

“‘Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet,” remarked Hikaru.

“Hikaru, what have we said about quoting Shakespeare?” muttered McCoy. “Incidentally, who’d be Beatrice in this?”

“Spock’s Beatrice, obviously,” said Nyota, “since Scotty and I are Claudio and Hero.”

“Oh, but that means someone’ll make me think you’re cheating on me with someone else!” protested Scotty. He paused. “You aren’t doing that, are you?”

“That’s the part that doesn’t happen with us,” replied Nyota with a grin, looping an arm around Scotty’s shoulders. Pavel mimed vomiting into his glass of vodka. Hikaru laughed.

“Oh, get a cage, lovebirds,” sneered McCoy.

“Stop raining on our parade, Len,” retorted Scotty. “Incidentally, when’s Jo coming up to visit?”

Hikaru had heard stories of Joanna McCoy, the doctor’s six year old daughter. McCoy and his wife back in Georgia had divorced; according to him she had taken the entire state in the settlement. The only thing that he got out of the entire debacle was the occasional visit by his daughter, who, according to Jim, once excused herself by pleading her state of being ‘praycoshus’ after rigging a series of pranks for her unsuspecting father. McCoy often called Jim a ‘corrupting influence’ on his poor baby girl.

“Whenever the Wicked Witch of the West decides air travel is safe for Jo. I thank my lucky stars that she trusts those winged monkey devil-traps more than I do.”

“Didn’t you drive yourself across the country?” Hikaru enquired, laughing to himself at the thought of McCoy clinging onto a flying monkey from Oz. Said doctor sniffed.

“For your information, there were no direct flights in my price range at the time.” McCoy crossed his arms, secure in his impenetrable defence.

“Yeah, sure, and Pash’s a ballerina for the Moscow Ballet,” joked Hikaru.

“Need I mention the parking brake incident?” asked McCoy. Hikaru groaned.

“None of you are ever going to let me live it down, are you?” he demanded.

“Nope,” said Scotty, grinning.

“I hate you all.”

“What’s the parking brake incident?” asked Jim, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

“It was this really funny time when Hiki —” Pavel began, but Hikaru slapped a hand to his mouth before the Russian could continue.

“Et tu, Brute?” he demanded, releasing Pavel after a moment and collapsing back against his chair with a muffled sob and his head in his hands. “It was just that one time!”

“Laddie, you’re a pilot,” Scotty pointed out. “You fly aeroplanes, for godssakes. How can someone with such skill at piloting a Cessna 350 Corvalis be such a bloody awful driver?”

“Hey, there aren’t buildings and trees in the sky,” protested Hikaru, peering at them through his fingers, “and you can’t just go higher to avoid obstacles in a car, you know?”

“One word: Skyscrapers. They’re called that for a reason,” the doctor pointed out.

Hikaru flapped his hand at him. “Again, evasive maneuvers and route planning are things. Besides, it’s not like there are that many of them. Normal sized buildings are everywhere.”

“Yeah, but you can’t go higher forever. Sooner or later you’ll either end up in space, or have the cabin depressurise like a crushed tin can or something and kill us all.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not inviting you on my next flight,” sniffed Hikaru as he rose to his feet. “Pash, we’ve gotta go see Spock.”

“Tell him —” began Jim, but the doctor quickly smothered him with a pillow.

“Run now, before this lovesick idiot tries to get you two to play messenger,” he hissed.

“Aye, aye!” agreed Hikaru, saluting the doctor as he backed towards the door. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow —”

“Should’ve never taken you to a 24-Hour Shakespeare reading,” muttered Nyota as she let them out.

After greeting them at the steps leading to the Brownstone, Spock ushered them into the Whiteboard Room. There, he scrawled a gigantic arrow pointing to the pertinent information. He was about to retrieve some tea before seeming to remember to ask whether Hikaru and Pavel wanted anything to drink. Hikaru had to reassure Spock that Pasha was kidding when he asked for vodka, but after that, things established themselves soon enough over a steaming mug of tea and two cups of coffee.

“So,” said Hikaru. “Our Jim Kirk’s looking a bit pale with love today, isn’t he, Pash?”

Pavel grinned. “He was talking about you, Spock. Always talking.”

“That information is not pertinent to the matter at hand,” Spock muttered into his drink, his cheeks a light shade of pink.

“It’s funny, I could’ve sworn he was the sort who just slept around. Maybe we should do as the Bard says and stick some horns on Jim’s head, and hang a sign from his neck that says —”

“Here is sleeping Jim Kirk, the boyfriend man!” giggled Pavel.

“I think ‘here lies Jim Kirk, going steady’ has a better ring to it, don’t you?” asked Hikaru, winking. Spock scoffed at the two of them.

“Perhaps we should divert our attentions to another James Kirk,” he said, gesturing to the whiteboard that bore all of the pertinent information. “Based on what I have discovered, Captain James Kirk’s disappearance was either because he had to hide from the Serbian terrorists out to kill him for surviving Camp Tarsus, or because he was killed by said terrorists. Based on Mr. Scott’s call, I believe that we may have a lead for the first theory.”

“You want us to go to Scotland to meet this Jonathan Kirkland,” stated Hikaru.

“Precisely,” said Spock.

Hikaru laughed. “I suppose we could all fit into my plane. It’d be a bit cosy, though, since it’s only meant to hold four people —”

“No need,” said Spock immediately. “I have a jet.”

Hikaru arched an eyebrow. “You have a —”

“It is my father’s,” amended Spock,” but he has lent it to me. Have you ever flown in a Learjet 40, Mr. Sulu?”

Hikaru’s eyes went wide. “What, you mean one of those luxury jets? Are you kidding me? Let’s go right now!”

“That would be impractical, as we have not packed —”

“You do realise there are times when I love having rich friends, right?” asked Hikaru, taking a gulp of coffee — and almost spitting it back out as well, due to the heat.

“I am fairly certain that you have considered the benefits of having friends who possess considerable amounts of money,” agreed Spock, looking up at the ceiling. “Most humans tend to do such things.”

“You don’t even know, man. I’m pretty sure my mom sent me to Harvard just so that I could rub elbows with enough rich people that I’d somehow establish a network of people willing to pay for her three future vacation homes.”

Spock’s eyes widened. “Does she truly require such an extravagant number of lodgings?”

Hikaru snorted in response. “I might have been the slightest bit hyperbolic there, Spock. She’s fine with a house in Newport and another in the Bahamas. Just so she can fly south in the winter.”

“That does appear to be an extreme case of filial obligation,” remarked Spock drily.

Hikaru laughed, though it was a bit hollow. “Well, my sisters seem to be doing better than me, at any case. You must’ve heard of my younger sister Yuki, right?”

“I have,” said Pavel, with a certain degree of resentment. “She is competitor in my classes.”

“She works at the Large Hadron Collider during her vacations,” said Hikaru, rolling his eyes. “My older sister, Aiko, recently performed at Carnegie Hall. Full house.”

“I am aware that your father is a poet,” said Spock, “as I have both of his collections. I was not aware that the rest of your family were also quite talented.”

“We’ve all got the whips of my mom on our backs.” Hikaru sighed, pausing a moment to get his breathing under control. “Why am I even talking about these things again? We should be talking about Scotland. Let’s talk about Scotland. I hear the moors are particularly desolate this time of year.”

“We would not be going to the moors,” Spock pointed out. “Mr. Kirkland lives on Lewis, in the Hebrides.”

“No, no, there’s moors on the Hebrides. I’m sure there’s moors out there,” retorted Hikaru, whipping out his phone. After a moment, he waved it with its results at Spock. “Wikipedia god says there’s moors on the Hebrides.”

“Then I was mistaken,” replied Spock.

Hikaru grinned. “Everything I know about Scotland I know because of Macbeth and bad romance novels featuring objectified Scotsmen.”

“And Scotty,” added Pavel.

“Counts with the objectified Scotsmen, if you ask me,” replied Hikaru.

“Precisely how is that possible?” wondered Spock. “He does not wear kilts or play the bagpipes or perform any of the things that are stereotypical actions of Scottish people.”

“Wrong on all counts — Pash has actually caught him in a kilt, playing the bagpipes at ass o’ clock in the morning. And how much more stereotypical does it get with being called Scotty the Scotsman who drinks scotch?”

Spock exhaled, long and slow. “Point,” he conceded. “Nevertheless, we should decide on a plan of action. I only have until the end of the United Nations Conference on Sustainable Economic Development in New York to utilise my father’s jet, so our window of opportunity is limited.”

“We can always use my plane,” Hikaru pointed out.

Spock raised an eyebrow in a way that clearly said ‘I hate to break it to you, man, but I’d actually like a bit more legroom on a six-hour flight’. Hikaru sighed, and muttered assent to using the Learjet instead. Rich friends could be such a hassle.

“Where does your father keep that jet of his?” he asked.

The next morning found Hikaru practically vibrating with excitement over being able to explore a Learjet. The other two men were more subdued, if amused at Hikaru’s antics.

“You are realising that we do not need to be there in the next hour, da?” Pavel had practically inhaled his cup of coffee as he eyed the bag Hikaru had just checked for the third time.  “We have much time to look through and make sure your underwear is all in order. Sit down for a minute.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no acknowledgement of such practices. Hikaru had seen him checking the individual subsections of his suitcase enough times to know that he had no room to judge.

“I’m just making sure, Pasha.” This garnered him an incredulous expression that would make Spock proud.

“If sure is not made by now, I am certain that it is far too difficult a thing to finish,” Pavel responded drily.

“Har, har, you’re funny,” muttered Hikaru as they all piled into his car at long last. Spock had, earlier this morning, rolled his suitcase down to Hikaru’s house all the way from his Brownstone, like some little kid with a wheeled backpack toddling off to school. Pavel was still on winter break from school, and was staying at Hikaru’s house during the interim with most of his belongings. None of them were expecting to stay overlong in Scotland — just manage to contact Scotty’s grandfather, get directions to his neighbour's house, and find out if said neighbour was an escaped Navy captain who had once survived a terrorist attack in Greece in the ‘80s. No big deal.

A couple of jolts and one terrifying moment when they realised that Hikaru had left his mug of coffee on the roof of the car later, they were on the road with Hikaru clutching the wheel in one hand and his mug in the other, which really did not do anything to improve his nerves.

Or his driving ability, according to the others, but Hikaru just reckoned that all of the other people on the street were shitty drivers. After all, he himself had learnt to drive on the dangerous streets of San Francisco, and the roads there were hella steep.

However, once they were out of city limits, Pavel gestured for Hikaru to pull over to the side just before they got on the interstate highway. “Look, Hiki,” he said. “I am sure you are a good pilot, but I am not sure if I will live to see us getting to the airport as long as you are driving the car.”

Hikaru raised an eyebrow. “You know we don’t have any other choice,” he pointed out.

“We are having Mr. Spock,” said Pavel.

Spock grimaced from where he sat in the back seat. “Mr. Chekov, do you not have a driver’s license?” he enquired.

“Da, I do, but it is from Russia.”

The grimace deepened. “I will drive,” Spock sighed.

“Are you sure you can do it, Spock? It’ll be a three-hour drive on a highway for the most part,” said Hikaru. “You don’t even drive to the grocery store.”

“I believe I am more qualified to operate a motor vehicle than you, Mr. Sulu,” said Spock quietly as he exited the car and tapped at the driver’s side window. “I understand that you have learnt your skills in a completely different and arguably more dangerous environment. Logically this should have made you a better driver, yet somehow you have allowed your complacency to pose a danger to the rest of us.”

Hikaru sighed, unbuckled, and relinquished the driver’s seat to Spock, who swiftly adjusted the seat and windows for his height before taking off down the highway and onto the turnpike. Since they had a pass, they did not have to stop and pay the varying tolls that it took to get onto the highway.

Much to Hikaru’s chagrin, the drive to the airport was largely quite smooth. The airport in question was a public one in Connecticut which catered to charter air companies and private jets; other flights were usually redirected to other airports in the area. The three of them were to meet the crew there and take off; Spock claimed that he had already verified their flight plans and notified customs in the United Kingdom of their plans to arrive at Stornoway Airport. Hikaru wasn’t sure if he trusted the pilots, even though Spock pointed out that they had worked for his father since his first posting, and were quite trustworthy.

“Hiki, you can’t be flying every plane,” Pavel sighed as the crew took their bags to the storage compartment on the jet. The Russian boy dropped his backpack onto one of the vacant giant leather seats (more legroom, indeed), grinning as the pretty flight attendant handed him a pillow.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Hikaru responded in a huff, miffed both at Pavel’s remark and at the attendant’s interested glance towards him. As if in retaliation, he slid an arm around Pavel’s shoulder; the flight attendant raised an eyebrow but at least had the decency to look apologetic.

Spock had already raced off to his own corner of the cabin, ready to alternate between enjoying (in his own Spock-like way) the trip and writing whatever things he had planned for the novel. Hikaru was betting on him spending the majority of his time typing away at something.

Hikaru’s plans had extended to maybe convincing Spock to let him co-pilot, but logic and a firm stance against all things fun and meaningful in life had conspired against him. He supposed that he could alternate between working on a few non-Mr. Potato Head Novel writing projects of his own, texting his coworkers at the arboretum to make sure the bonsais were being checked for water as previously scheduled, and cuddling with Pasha, but the Russian seemed to be determined to muddle through at least four large texts by the time they spotted the North Sea. Hikaru himself had to thank Spock’s father for having Wi-Fi on his plane. If he couldn’t fly this baby himself, he could at least enjoy her amenities.

The flight attendant, whose nametag read ‘Thea’, was demonstrating flight safety procedures while sending suggestive glances towards Spock. Hikaru almost laughed at the poker face Spock had on in response. Or perhaps the guy was just that oblivious.

Pretty soon, they were taxiing down the runway and taking off into the air. This was Sulu’s favourite part. His own plane, the Musketeer, always soared into the air like a bird, like the clouds were her second home. They were also his, too, and the swooping sensation of altitude change was always something he found quite welcome.

Once the jet had found a cruising altitude, the pilots turned off the seatbelt sign and Thea asked them if they would like something to drink. Spock requested tea, Hikaru reminded Pavel that there were certain protocols to be followed while flying, which extended to not drinking everything on the menu — no, he didn’t care that they were the only people on the plane, Pasha was seventeen, for god’s sake, and Thea might report to Spock’s father about his underage drinking and consequently Daddy Warbucks (Hikaru often entertained the mental image of Spock’s father as basically a larger Spock, with fingers dripping in gold rings and a cigar made out of dollar bills) might never let them anywhere near this gorgeous jet ever again.

“You are sounding like Scotty,” giggled Pavel as he sedately requested tonic water instead (obviously resisting the urge to ask for gin to go with it). “Remember that one time we took him to the auto museum? He wanted to live there afterwards.”

Hikaru ordered a coffee — after all, one couldn’t go wrong with a staple of American society unless it was something like capitalism, fear of the unknown, manifest destiny, prejudice, or, well, really anything besides coffee. At least it was good coffee.

“Are you having the time of your life in the ‘no fun allowed’ section of the plane, Spock?” he asked, nearly scalding his tongue on his coffee after Thea had brought it to him.

“That statement is self-contradictory; however, I find that I am actually being quite productive,” replied Spock as Thea lovingly bestowed a cup of tea upon him. “I thank you,” he added, nodding at her.

“Anytime, sweetie,” she said with a wink. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

The expression on Spock’s face clearly said ‘yes, I am aware that when people find themselves in need of something, they will ask for it or obtain it themselves’, but before he could open his mouth to tell her that, the plane’s intercom crackled into life with a distinctly unamused feminine voice:

This is pilot Number One speaking. Thea, we’ve been over this before. Stop flirting with Mr. Sarek’s son.

Thea pouted. “I was just being friendly!” she exclaimed. “It’s in the job description, isn’t it?”

We can hear the innuendo from up here in the cockpit, another female voice added. Kindly cease and desist.

“Is that pilot one of your cousins or something, Spock? She sounds a lot like you,” Hikaru remarked.

“No, but she is engaged to my cousin, Stonn,” Spock replied primly, not bothering to look up from the screen of his laptop. “Therefore she is not yet a relation of mine, and any similarities between us are coincidental in nature.”

Hikaru let loose a low whistle. “Way to keep it in the family, Spock. Are you going to pass down the plane as a treasured family relic?” A grin spread across his face. “Is it really okay for us to encroach on such sacred ground?”

Pavel looked up from his first tome (looked suspiciously like The Count of Monte Cristo) to swat at Hikaru’s leg. “Hiki, you should be honoured that he is letting us meet the plane before Jim was given the chance.”

“Oh, yeah, meeting the family is always a very important step in the relationship. Does that mean we’re both your boyfriends now?” Hikaru gave Spock a stern look. “I hope you’re going to make honest men out of us both. I won’t approve the relationship otherwise.”

Pavel giggled, before adding in a stage whisper, “Hiki, I am thinking we are the test subjects of Mr. Spock.”

Hikaru raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, this plane seems quite new, actually. Good point, Pasha.” He paused, before letting a wicked grin cross his face. “Perhaps he needs to make certain that cuddling can be comfortable in these seats? In which case, I’d have to answer in the affirmative.”

“Perhaps if Jim is lucky, Spock will be allowing him to share that seat of solitude of his with him,” added Pavel. “Although, I am believing that would be followed by the obligatory initiation into the ‘Mile High Club’ for Spock,” he continued.

“Ew, that’s a bit more imagery than I needed. There’s no shame in holding back sometimes. Not everyone needs to be treated to erotic speculation on Spock and Jim’s initiation to that particular club.” Hikaru paused, though, his curiosity piqued by Pavel’s comment. Rising to his feet, he strode down the aisle to the bathroom, opened the door, and stepped inside.

Moments later, he reemerged from the lavatory with a suggestive grin. “You know what, Pasha, you’re right again.”

“I frequently am,” replied Pavel smugly. “What is it this time?”

Hikaru swatted him lightly. “You really could join the Mile High Club in that bathroom. It is quite comfortable in there, if you know what I mean.”

Pavel grinned. Hikaru waggled his eyebrows suggestively. From his corner, Spock looked up from his laptop once more, eyes narrowed.

“You two are not engaging in intercourse on this plane,” he snapped.

Hikaru turned his grin on Spock. “Aw, that’s adorable, Spock, you want to save it for Jim.”

“I think he is just jealous, since we are not inviting him,” said Pavel with a smirk as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Well, it’s pretty admirable of him to try to save the virginity of his airplane bathroom.”

Pavel rolled his eyes. “Sure, but the value of the bathroom is not being diminished by our use of it.”

“You do have to admit, Pash, that there is less appeal in boldly coming where someone else has already come before,” Hikaru pointed out with a wink. Spock glowered at them both.

“You two are incorrigible,” he declared. “I am merely requesting you desist from sexual activity because I do not wish for more biological fluids than the expected excretions to be released in that chamber.”

“Well, I suppose that if your dad uses it all the time, then it would get a bit awkward, yeah,” Hikaru responded, cocking his head in thought. “And I can understand if you want to keep it family only. Still, I don’t really want to live my life thinking about how I could have had crazy kinky ambassador-style sex in a Learjet and didn’t. That would be a weight that I would have to bear for the majority of my life.”

Spock stared at him with all of the stunned horror of a deer caught in the headlights of a giant truck for a venison factory. “I can assure you,” he started, before lowering his voice so that Thea, who was reading Machiavelli in her seat nearby, couldn’t hear them, “that my father has never engaged in ‘crazy, kinky’ anything within the bounds of this plane.”

“You do have to admit,” pointed out Pavel, “that this is the baba of Spock we are discussing.”

Hikaru snorted. “Yeah, but you know how it’s always the quiet ones? I bet Spock here’s a stuffy tightwad in the streets and a total freak in the sheets. Who knows, maybe it runs in the family.”

Spock, whose face had coloured bright red, promptly took out a set of noise-cancelling headphones and slipped them on, returning his attention to his typing.

Hikaru laughed, as Pavel began tugging him towards the lavatory. “I feel so special, man, he’s using his super duper fancy headphones to ignore us,” he remarked.

“That means we can be as loud as we like, da?” asked Pasha as he shoved Hikaru into the surprisingly spacious bathroom and closed the door behind them.

“Hey, Spock,” said Pavel much later, after Thea had served them lunch. The meals on this jet were significantly better than standard airplane food — in fact, comparing the two would be like comparing the results of a chimpanzee with a typewriter and William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Although there were some people who had theories about bored primates and Hamlet…

“Mr. Chekov,” said Spock stiffly from over his gourmet vegetarian pasta, obviously still sore over not getting any. Hikaru was feeling rather pleased with himself, which was pretty understandable.

“When Hiki and I were in the washroom —”

“I do not require details into your sordid encounter, Mr. Chekov; kindly keep such matters to yourself —”

“We found condoms and lube,” announced Pavel before Spock could finish his sentence. The other man’s fork clattered to his table rather loudly in response. Hikaru stifled a snigger.

“So, Spock, what was that about your father never getting freaky on his plane?”

Spock looked as if he would like to sink into his comfortable leather seat and disappear completely, but after a moment he managed to get the blushing under control and said, with a certain degree of sniffiness, “It must have been one of my father’s associates. He sometimes travels with other ambassadors.”

“But it is the plane of your baba,” pointed out Pavel. “If he is keeping his own plane stocked, then that must mean —”

“It means that he is an accommodating host, and is mindful of the needs of others,” retorted Spock.

“Sure,” said Hikaru, grinning smugly. “He’d stock the bathroom, but never utilise such resources himself? I find that somewhat hard to believe —”

“Mr. Sulu, if you care to check your email, you will discover that I have sent you the requisite pages of the novel,” interrupted Spock as he finished his pasta, put his headphones back on, and proceeded to ignore all of them.

“Imagine trying to go on a road trip with him,” remarked Pavel with a grin.

“We will have to tomorrow, after we land,” Hikaru pointed out.

“No, Google lord is informing me that tomorrow we only need to drive for fifty minutes to get to the inn where Spock has reserved us rooms,” said Pavel, waving his phone at Hikaru.

“That’s still an hour in a car with Mr. Grumpyguts,” said Hikaru, finishing up his own pasta and coffee. Thea took his empty plate and cup with a knowing smile. Hikaru found himself liking her a little more.

“Might be more if we have traffic,” added Pavel.

“Add on more time for figuring out how British roads work,” agreed Hikaru.

“Perhaps we will be dying in a fiery car wreck as expected,” said Pavel. “Except this time, I am more okay with such a fate.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because at least I did not die without having sex first.”

Hikaru snorted, before opening the attachment to Spock’s email. His eyes widened as he began reading the section. Within ten pages, Pete Taggart had emotionally compromised Acting Captain Lazarus and thereby assumed command of the Enterprise. He then ordered the ship to chase Nero to Earth, while Lazarus had a heart-to-heart with his father Jairus about feelings and his mother Mary’s death. The bridge crew then began planning their invasion of the Narada, utilising Saturn’s moon, Titan, to mask themselves from Romulan sensors.

The only response Hikaru had to all of that was, “well, shit.”

He could have sworn he saw Spock smirk out of the corner of his eye, but that would negate Spock’s efforts to ignore Pavel and him thus far.

“Spock is writing something hard for you to continue?” asked Pavel.

Hikaru sighed. “Sorry I can’t complain about anything to you, Pasha, but once you’re finished we can talk all we want.”

Pavel eyed him, unimpressed. “I can complain about the pages you are writing all I want. There is no one after me, and all shall know my wrath if you give me nothing to work with. I don’t have to wait for myself, Hiki.”

“Or you could make things fair and go by the standards everyone else has set,” Hikaru suggested. “It might actually be fun to try following the set procedure for once.”

Pavel rolled his eyes.“There is no fun to be had there, and if there is leeway to be had, I shall have it. The end.”

“Spock,” Hikaru pleaded, “help me out here. Aren’t there rules or regulations to be cited?” Spock remained a figure of oblivion, trapped as he was in his bubble of ‘leave me the hell alone, you idiots’ and dubstepped Tchaikovsky. So with a sigh (the one he called the ‘Spock is being hella annoying’ sigh), he opened another document and began to write.

When he looked up once more, it was already evening, and the land below, lit with sporadic clusters of light, was getting closer and closer.

“We will be arriving at the airport in less than an hour,” said Thea. Hikaru looked at the plate of food set next to his laptop —  a forgotten dinner, it seemed — and dug in, eating it before safety regulations dictated they fold up the tables for landing. Next to him, Pavel was sleeping, snoring lightly against his shoulder.

The airplane landed at approximately nine in the evening, when Hikaru finally shook Pavel awake. Spock thanked the crew and told them to enjoy their stay on the Isle of Lewis; they would be returning to the States in a couple of days. After getting themselves and their baggage through customs, the three writers left the airport and headed straight for the car rental, where Spock had placed a reservation.

Hikaru had to admire Spock’s planning as the other began to list their itinerary. They would stay the night in Stornoway, since the inn up near where Scotty’s grandfather lived was closed for this night, and make their way up north in the morning.

However —

“Oh,” muttered Spock. Hikaru was fairly certain Spock would’ve cursed, if he ever indulged in such lewd manners. “European streets. Icy European streets.”

“Too scared?” asked Hikaru. “Perhaps I should drive.”

“That would make the situation doubly dangerous,” retorted Spock. “I shall drive.”

Somehow they managed to make it to the bed and breakfast in Stornoway in one piece, and checked into their rooms without any further incidents. Spock took the twin room while Hikaru and Pavel took the double room, and without further ado they all decided to sleep off the jetlag.

Ever considerate, Spock arranged the next morning to have the owners of the bed and breakfast pack them all bagged lunches to take with them. Before noon, the three of them had piled once more into the car with three sack lunches next to Hikaru in the back, absolutely not ready for the harrowing hour of driving in a different country that lay ahead of them.

“Bagged lunches,” snickered Hikaru as he leaned against the window of the car and watched the snow-covered landscape roll by. The Isle of Lewis was mostly moorland and heath, smothered by snow and punctuated by a house here and there. Up above, the blue sky rolled onward, going slightly grey in places but mostly a constant, steady blue dotted with fluffy white clouds. “I feel like some kid on a fourth grade outing.”

“What sort of sandwiches do you think the lady packed for us?” wondered Pavel from his spot in the navigator’s seat. “We know Spock’s is the vegetarian one, because it says V on the bag, but Hiki and I have meat of some sort.”

“Turkey and ham, I believe,” said Spock, his eyes resolutely glued to the road ahead.

Hikaru squinted at him before peeking into one of the bags. “How could you possibly hazard a guess like that?”

“Statistically speaking, they are the most popular types of sandwich meats,” replied Spock coolly.

The road up to the inn took more than an hour, since Spock was driving the car (which thankfully had snow tires) a little slower than usual because of icy conditions. They did, however, eventually end up at the inn long enough to check in and throw down their bags in their respective rooms before getting bundled up and put back in the car once more. Spock had added to their food stockpile with a couple extra boxes of takeaway from the nearby restaurant.

“Okay, so we just have to go a couple miles past patchy green but mostly white field number three, wind around the edge of pure white field number six, chug along past cool grey field number eight, and then we should be close enough to the field where the old man who has information on a missing naval captain lives to look for a white house that is second on the left from who the hell knows,” Hikaru stated, looking over the shoulder of Pavel’s seat as they started heading for the road that the grandfather in question claimed would lead them to the house.

“Hiki, you know I am hating it when you do that,” Pavel whined, swatting in his general direction. “If you are wanting to be the navigator, you can, but you will have to figure out my notes.” Hikaru slumped back into his chair. Pasha’s codes always used ridiculous combinations of equations.

“I’m telling you, Scotty’s grandpa has no idea how to give directions,” he grumbled after a moment. “Are you sure we even managed to contact him?”

“I called the number that Mr. Scott gave us,” replied Spock from the driver’s seat. Hikaru was never going to get used to seeing him driving on the right side of the car instead of the left, like it should be.

“Maybe all Scottish men share a hivemind and we just contacted someone whose network connection went a bit wonky,” offered Hikaru, “or maybe his number was just reassigned to a random nutter.”

“The nutter may be a serial killer,” Pavel added. “We are driving into a trap as we speak. Soon we shall be soup for the consumption of cannibals.”

“Roast mutton and haggis,” Hikaru corrected, shaking his head. Memories of Scotty’s leftovers haunted him like tiny ghosts that played the bagpipes. “I’m going to end up as a poor rendition of Scottish food. I’m not even going to be made into food that I enjoy, much less food made for human consumption.”

“You do realise that the definition of mutton implies that the dish consists of sheep, don’t you?” Spock nearly took a hand off the steering wheel to help show what new degree of ‘entirely fed up’ he had reached with them, but seemed to think better of it.

“That does not negate the fact that we are drifting ever closer to the lair of Baba Yaga,” Pavel muttered darkly. “She will feast on our bones and let her dwelling carry away our remains. No one will ever find us, and Jim will be haunted by the sexually frustrated ghost of Spock for eternity. No one shall win.”

“You know, there are some bodice-rippers out there that imply that mediums can have sex with ghosts. So even if Spock’s sexually frustrated ghost starts humping Jim’s leg, Jim could just try to contact him like a medium would, or something,” mused Hikaru.

“Like with an Ouija board?” asked Pavel, grinning. “I am thinking you could find a hole in that board somewhere, spell out ‘would you like to have sex with me’, watch the indicator drift to ‘yes’ and then make sweet sweet love to the board —”

“That is enough supernatural demon-summoning from you, Mr. Chekov,” snapped Spock.

“Fine, I will go back to doing the only thing anyone in this car appreciates me for —”

“I don’t think Spock would appreciate that, Pasha.”

“Shut up, Hikaru. I am examining my notes.” Pavel scrutinised the printouts and notations he had assembled thus far, flipping between them with the practiced ease of a college student, while taking a few moments to peer out the window and compare streetviews. After several long minutes, he came to his conclusion.

“This is stupid and inconclusive. I am ready to turn on my data roaming to end the mind numbing torture,” he said. “If I do not, we shall forever be lost in the land of snow and gigantic rocks.”

Spock grimaced. “Pavel, you are still a student. It is less than feasible to assume that you would be capable of paying such exorbitant fees simply to escape another reiteration of fifty shades of white.”

“It is being less than feasible to assume I would go on vacation to Scotland in the middle of January,” retorted Pavel, “and yet here I am.”

Spock paused to look at him before sighing for the umpteenth time that day. “My trouser pocket holds my phone,” he said. “It has an international data plan. Utilise it to find the house.”

Pavel shifted in unease. “Perhaps it would be better if you pulled to the side. I am sure the sheep would not judge you.”

“I am more inclined to be wary of the angry Scotsmen that are sure to follow the sheep,” Spock replied. “They are known to defy the laws of physics, and it is possible that they evolve following harsh winters.”

“Did Spock just crack a joke?” Hikaru called from the back seat.

“Allow me to consult my instruments,” replied Pavel, looking over at Spock and pointing his temporarily-defunct phone at him. “I am receiving extremely strong signals from the sass-o-meter, Hiki. I believe that was a joke.”

“Shall I drive onwards until we are eventually buried in snow for eternity, or would you prefer to retrieve a device that is actually conducive to our efforts?” Spock snipped.

Pavel pretended to think it over for a moment. “That depends on whether or not you pull over.”

Spock glared as well as he could without taking his eyes off the road before him. “I do not know if you have noticed, but the temperatures outside of this car are subzero in nature,” he said.

Pavel looked at him, eyebrow raised quizzically in a mimicry of Spock’s own oft-used expression. “You are knowing that we would not have to get out of the car, da? You are only needing to remove the phone from your trouser pocket.”

Spock opened his mouth to respond before promptly shutting it once more. No further objection was offered as he pulled over to the left. “I swear, it gets a little cold and Americans become very strange,” Pavel huffed.

Once Spock had handed over his phone, Pavel began tapping away in search of a feature that would enable him to locate their destination. “Spock,” he began, disgruntled, “why is it that you have no amusing apps? These are not entertaining at all.”

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed in all of their caterpillar emulating glory. “They allow me to accomplish any tasks I need to complete, and they pertain to my interests. I do not see what the problem is.”

“Hiki has the game with running and ruins,” Pavel harangued, “and I have the very frustrated birds, but you do not seem to have any stress relieving games.” Hikaru tapped his finger against the back of the chair in a subtle message to drop it.

“I thought you were searching for a map function?” Spock prodded.

“Fine,” Pavel said, back on task once more.

“I think I have a chess game on there somewhere,” Spock added after a moment. “And Sudoku, and Words with Friends, which I play with Nyota and Dr. McCoy —”

“I get it, I get it, you have fun in ways that do not involve slicing fruit,” said Pavel, rolling his eyes. “Though I’d think you would also have very frustrated bird game. Scotty and I have fun with the physics, or the lack thereof.”

“Mr. Chekov, what does the maps function tell us?” Spock said, a little more loudly than usual.

Pavel held up the route detailed by the map function. “That we’re going the wrong way.”

“This was the route that you had determined from Mr. Scott’s grandfather’s instructions,” Spock pointed out sourly as he turned the car around.

“Perhaps the dedushka of Scotty is not knowing his directions as well as he used to.” Pavel mused as they retraced their steps back to the inn and drove out along the A857 once more.

“Or it’s a trap,” added Hikaru helpfully.

“Do not be so ridiculous,” muttered Spock as he attempted to correct his grip on the steering wheel. “If it is indeed a trap, you will receive the dubious honour of being able to say that you were right, but we are currently driving under the assumption that he gave us the instructions in good faith.”

Pavel considered him for a moment. “We can raise the stakes and make a wager,” he suggested, looking back down at the phone. “We can even give you a handicap, as Hiki and I will be making it two against one.”

Hikaru decided he liked Spock being in the driver’s seat. It limited how often the man could send each of them death glares. As they continued down the road, past snow-covered fields and houses, Hikaru leaned back and simply enjoyed the scenery. The sky was now overcast with grey clouds; a snow storm seemed to be approaching this particular part of the island. Hikaru only hoped that they would find their destination before it hit. By the sounds their navigator was making, it didn’t seem likely.

“So, since we’re heading in the exact opposite direction of the way we were going before, how long do you think it’s going to take to get there?” Hikaru enquired, draping over Pasha’s chair once more. Pavel hummed.

“Are you wanting the accurate answer or the answer that will make you happy?”

Hikaru winced before requesting both.

“The traffic is practically nonexistent except for the many sheep — it is winter, so I am wondering why they are still out — and whoever is in charge of their fluffy beings. It will still take a bit more time than you would like,” Pavel finished.

Hikaru slumped back into his seat. “Do I have enough time to take a nap?” He pointedly did not look towards the front seats, where the two men were sure to be communicating telepathically about something annoying.

Finally, Pavel broke in with an amused, “Hiki, how come you were not so restless on the plane?”

Hikaru sighed. “I had something to do on the plane. You’re occupied with navigating, Spock’s busy with making sure we don’t crash into a snowdrift, and I’m back here twiddling my thumbs.”

“You could work on the novel,” Spock suggested.

Hikaru shook his head. “My bag is in the trunk, along with my computer. I’d read one of Pasha’s books, but I’m pretty sure that if they were back here they’d have crushed some internal organ of mine by now.”

“This is kind of a road trip,” Pavel mused, “perhaps we should be partaking in games. We could play yellow car, or I-Spy.”

“Mr. Chekov,” Spock began, “you do realise that the absence of cars, much less those of a yellow shade, would make the former suggestion difficult, don’t you?”  

The words barely left his mouth before a bright yellow automobile trundled into sight. Hikaru bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Pavel had no such qualms. At nearly the same instant they called out, “yellow car!”

Spock tilted his head upward, as if he was pleading for the powers that be to end his misery.

“So, it looks like I-Spy’s the more difficult option after all,” Hikaru snorted once his laughter had abated, and he had finished squabbling with Pavel about whomever had said the magic phrase first.

“Indeed,” deadpanned Spock. “I therefore spy with my little eye something slate grey, cool grey, blue grey number 406, tempered steel, and whatever other shade of grey we happen to find appealing.” He paused, just as Hikaru opened his mouth. “And no comments about there being fifty shades of them.”

“Oh my, how kinky,” retorted Hikaru.

“Your inclination to turn everything into a Freudian slip or insinuation of some sort is vaguely disconcerting and a bit frightening,” Spock interjected over the sound of Pavel’s snickering. After a moment, he paused, turned the car down a small dirt road towards a light grey house with a grey-blue roof half-covered in snow. A giant snow-topped SUV sat in the driveway, as well as a family of snowmen.

“We have arrived,” he said. “This was the address Mr. Scott’s grandfather gave us.”

“Either Mr. Kirkland has relatives of which he did not think to inform Scotty’s grandfather, or this is not his house,” Hikaru remarked after a beat of silence. “Well, that, or he likes building a family out of snowmen each year, only to watch them melt away into nonexistence. That’s horrifically sad to contemplate, though.”

“We could always knock on the door and check,” Pavel suggested. “It is being the quickest way to determine the truth.”

“I don’t want to leave the car,” complained Hikaru, but Spock had killed the engine and was unbuckling, with Pavel following suit.

“Sissy,” the Russian teased as he left the car after Spock. With a grumbled curse, Hikaru scrambled to catch up with them as they tramped through the snow to the little grey house. Once there, Spock rang the doorbell, raising an eyebrow at the stereotypical Christmas wreath which engulfed the front door even after the holidays were over.

The voice from inside was distinctly female, and Hikaru instantly began to regret not starting a betting pool on the inhabitants of the house before announcing their arrival. The door swung open with an ease belied by its worn appearance to reveal a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway. She stared up at them, a bemused quirk to her lips.

“May I help you?” She asked in an accent that managed to be less overwhelming than Scotty’s own. A small Scottish terrier scrambled across the wood behind her, barking loudly and attempting to escape and greet the new arrivals.

After an increasingly pregnant pause that only served to grow more awkward as time passed, Hikaru spoke up, since Spock seemed disinclined to do so.

“Uh, you do know your wreath’s still on the door, right?” he asked.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Thank you for telling me,” she said, turning away from the door to shout for someone called ‘Bernie’ to get ‘Tod’ to take the wreath down from the door.

Spock seemed a bit spurred into action at that. “You do not happen to know of someone called Jonathan Kirkland?” he enquired.

“Never heard of him,” said the woman. “Maybe you should try Madge up the street? She knows everyone in this part of town.”

Pavel whispered something about being surprised anyone lived in this town, but the woman (thankfully) did not seem to hear him. Hikaru stepped on his foot, just in case.

“I thank you,” said Spock, stepping away from the door.

“You’re welcome,” she said, half of her attention still on keeping her dog inside of the house. “Take care.”

The march back to the car was silent and cold. Once settled in their seats, however, they all began to speak at once.

“Not the house,” said Pavel. “The address is wrong.”

“But she suggested we try ‘Madge’. That could be a clue,” said Hikaru.

“Perhaps we should partake of our meals before we rush off to pursue this next lead,” Spock interjected. The solemnity of his expression seemed at odds with his words, but Hikaru supposed that even Spock had to get hungry sometimes.

“I do not think that nice lady would appreciate us parking for so long on her lawn,” Pavel remarked. “It would seem very odd.”

Hikaru hummed in agreement. “So I suppose we should just drive down the road a ways and pull over to eat?”

Spock pursed his lips but offered no objections. “I do not understand why it is socially acceptable to sit on the side of a road and do nothing, but offensive to do so on another’s estate.”

“Public versus private property, man. You have to respect other people’s right to keep their stuff to themselves,” Hikaru said, shrugging. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Spock let out his long-suffering sigh — the one Hikaru lovingly referred to as his ‘you stupid mortals and your stupid customs will be the death of me’ sigh — and began to pull out of the driveway. After a good two minutes or so of driving onwards, they pulled off to the side to consume their perishables.

Pavel had a habit that was both endearing and infuriating in that he would work while he ate. Therefore it came as no surprise when he broke out a few sheets of paper and the maps application on Spock’s phone.

“Are you not afraid of spilling something on your work?” Hikaru poked Pavel in the arm. He swatted at him in return.

“I will not, so stop distracting me.” Pavel took a bite of his sandwich and scribbled something in the margins of his paper. “I think I am finding the reason behind our inability to find the house.”

“Do tell,” Spock said through a bite of his vegetarian wrap.

“We are currently sitting on the B8015,” said Pavel, pointing to the scribbled map on the paper. “The B8015 is crossing with the road we were on earlier, the Rathad Chros-Sgiogarstaigh.”

“Bless you,” muttered Hikaru. Pavel rolled his eyes, before continuing.

“I am believing the dedushka of Scotty was correct in his directions,” he said. “He says we are to go down the Rathad Chros-Sgiogarstaigh until we come to a crossroads and then continue until we see the second house on the left, which will be the house of Jonathan Kirkland.”

Spock leaned forward. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “You are implying that the B8015 which intersects with the prior road is the aforementioned crossroads that will take us to the house.”

“Well, if we are not finding the house, we could possibly call Mr. Scott and see if he can help,” said Pavel.

“That would be unnecessary, as he is too far to help us,” said Spock, finishing his wrap swiftly before pulling back onto the road and driving off.

“You will probably see the sign to the other road at the intersection,” said Pavel as he tucked into his sandwich, which, Hikaru noted, was turkey. His own was ham. Spock seemed a little smug about that.

At the intersection, Spock turned left at Pavel’s instructions and continued down the road, past snow-covered fields and fences and a low stone wall. There were some houses to the right, one house to the left, wide arrays of fields and telephone lines and what seemed to be the glistening surface of an icy lake in the distance.

At the fork leading to what seemed to be an extremely long driveway, Spock stopped the car for a moment to consider what lay ahead. At the end of the driveway was a brown-coloured house with a grey roof, which did not look like anything in the description that Scotty’s grandfather gave of the house.

“It could be another dead end,” said Hikaru helpfully. “Then we’ll have to go talk to Madge.”

“Or Mr. Kirkland could have just decided that the nice colour of his house was boring and chose to replace it with the colour of poop,” Pavel countered. “We will not know until we go to ask.”

Hikaru groaned at having to leave the car again. “You just want to play in the snow.” Pavel snorted at him.

“I do not understand. It is being very cold in San Francisco, nyet? And yet you complain of the cold here. It is not as cold as it is in Russia. You would freeze into Hiki-popsicle.”

“Hey, a fall on the East Coast is a winter on the West,” retorted Hikaru as Spock drove up the extended driveway and parked. Pavel took the opportunity to spring out of his side of the car and race around to the other side, opening the door to let the frosty air hit Hikaru full on the face. Spock primly exited the car, the expression on his face carefully schooled into a subtle ‘done with you’ expression which Hikaru was sure he stole from Dr. McCoy.

The snow in the driveway seemed fairly well-shovelled, but the sides of the house were host to tall snowbanks. The eaves of the house sported icicles; even as they rang the doorbell the first flakes of the oncoming snowstorm began to fall.

A young woman greeted them at the door. “Hello,” she said, looking at them through the screen door. She had blonde hair in a messy bun and brown eyes, and was dressed in red. Hikaru mused that she kind of looked like a young Mrs. Claus. Spock pursed his lips, nervously wringing his hands behind his back.

“Do you know Mr. Jonathan Kirkland?” he asked after a moment, rocking back and forth slightly. Hikaru was fairly certain the man was nervous, though Spock was likely to deny any association with such an emotion.

“Yes, of course,” said the woman. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want from him? You’re not friends, since I can count the number of friends he has on one hand; you’re not family, since most of his likes to ignore him. Which makes me think you’re most likely not welcome here.” She paused. “Do you sell biscuits?”

“No,” said Spock.

“Do you sell some fancy gimmick that no one cares to use after they buy it because it’s absolute rubbish?”

“No,” said Spock.

She raised an eyebrow. Hikaru was already striking the ‘young Mrs. Claus’ title from his first impression of the woman. She was more terrifying than Pasha’s babushka and his own mother combined. Mostly because he could see the faint outline of a gun concealed beneath her bright red jumper.

“Are you a member of a religious faction attempting to convert me or Mr. Kirkland?”

“No.”

“Are you a member of a political party attempting to do the same?”

“Do you repeat this interrogation with everyone who comes knocking at your door?” demanded Spock.

“I repeat it when it comes to three strange Americans —”

“I am actually Russian,” Pavel added helpfully.

“Three foreigners,” amended the young woman, “who arrive out of nowhere claiming a desire to see Mr. Kirkland in the midst of January and evidently have nothing better to do.”

“There is actually nothing to do,” muttered Pavel. Hikaru stepped on his foot again.

The woman rested a hand on her hip, over the holster which contained her gun. “You will explain yourselves.”

“Hikaru, I think Spock was right about the Scottish,” Pavel whispered.

The woman seemed to have heard him. “Spock?” she echoed.

“Yes?” asked Spock.

“You are acquainted with Spock?” the woman asked.

“I am Spock,” said Spock.

She scoffed. “Nice try.”

“I am Spock Grayson,” he amended. “The Spock you may have heard of is Spock S’chn T’gai. Admittedly, had I taken the surname of my father, that would also be my name, but as it is, the Spock you may have heard of is my great-uncle.”

There were noises from within the house. “Janice?” a male voice called. “Did I hear the name ‘Spock’, or is my hearing going as well?”

“No, you haven’t gotten that senile yet, sir,” Janice shouted over her shoulder. She turned to them, eyes narrowing in continued suspicion. “You may come in,” she said, opening the screen door for them, “but if I see any suspicious activity —”

The three men raised their hands, palms forward, in gestures of appeasement. She nodded, letting them into the house.

They found themselves in a hallway, lined with aged photographs. Most were of a large ship, but some showed a variety of people, mostly in uniform. One in particular seemed to catch Spock’s attention. Two individuals, one with lighter hair than the other, were deep in discussion about something. Another person was vaguely out of focus, but any viewer could see the hand of this third person in the motion of dumping a glass of ice water over the two others. Hikaru presumed they were crew members, as they had appeared in several of the previous photos. Spock’s expression seemed to soften as he looked at the picture; his hand went up to lightly brush some dust off the glass. Hikaru wondered what significance Spock was attributing to the photograph, but didn’t ask anything.

“What is your name, scary lady?” asked Pavel sweetly from up ahead, darting out of the the reach of Hikaru’s foot as he did so.

“Rand,” said the woman. “Janice Rand. I work for Mr. Kirkland.”

Spock seemed to startle at that. “You are his employee,” he stated.

“His caretaker,” amended Janice. “Mr. Kirkland has seen better days.”

“If I could still see,” retorted the male voice from the open door leading into a lounge. He did not sound too melancholy about this, judging by the humour in his voice. As they entered the room where the man sat, he stood in attention. “Now, to what do I owe this visit? You don’t seem to be crying in pain, so Ms. Rand must like you.”

Hikaru noticed immediately that a variety of slender white canes were hung on the wall near the door; he recalled a similar arrangement near the front door where they had entered as well. He also noticed that the man’s eyes were a warm shade of brown, although when they looked in his general direction they did not seem to focus on him. The man was old, likely to be in his late sixties or early seventies, and slightly rotund from hours of sitting in an armchair, but he had a certain sense of humour about him that was inherent in a man who was determined to enjoy life even when deprived of one of his senses.

Spock seemed to be goggling at the man; he took a step forward. “Captain Kirk?” he asked quietly.

“I haven’t heard that one in ages,” said the man, turning towards where Spock’s voice was coming from. “Who are you?”

“I am…” Spock paused, as if trying to consider what to say next. “I am the great-nephew of an old friend of yours,” he offered, shifting from one foot to the other. Hikaru by now was definitely sure the guy was nervous. Heck, he was a bit nervous himself, too. This was Captain Kirk? The lost sailor whose mystery launched a thousand bad romance novels and at least two science fiction movies?

“Really?” Kirk wondered. “Which one? Although I do have to admit, I’m fairly certain most of my old friends are dead. You don’t happen to be related to my old ship surgeon McCoy, do you?”

Hikaru’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. It seemed as if one of the fundamental laws of the universe dictated that if there were ever Spocks, James Kirks, and McCoys in the same generation, they would gravitate to each other. Maybe the universe was just that clever, or perhaps sadistic. It might just be bored enough to run subroutines of the mnemonic sort.

“No, your first officer Spock, sir,” said Spock. “My name is Spock Grayson.”

“Ah, nice name.” Kirk grinned a little. “Good name, too. How is he doing?”

“He has taken to dressing up at Christmastime and drinking alcoholic beverages outside of hospitals,” replied Spock drily.

As more of a reflex than anything, the elderly man blinked in mild surprise. “Oh, so he’s let himself go, then,” he said, with a slight chuckle.

Spock nodded, although that was a waste of gesture considering the other man could not see it. “Captain Kirk, my great-uncle is not aware that I have come here to find you. As far as he is concerned you have merely disappeared, and he has lost a dear friend. I merely wish to restore you to him, if you are willing to come with me.” He paused. “Also, I would like to know how you managed to vanish off the USS Enterprise in the middle of a training exercise.”

A smile quirked across the older man’s lips as he resumed his seat. “Indeed, the rumours of my death have been… greatly exaggerated,” he said. “I suppose I’m old enough to fit the prerequisites to be the mouthpiece of storytime. Janice says there’s a storm coming, so… if you want to pull up a chair or two, I’d be glad to solve the mystery for you.”

Hikaru looked at the word document in front of him. The snow had stopped in the early evening, at which time they bid Captain Kirk farewell and returned to the inn. Now he was staring at his laptop, trying to figure out what to do next.

“The captain can really tell a good story,” said Pavel from the bed, looking up from his tome. “That was a clever escape.”

Hikaru hummed in agreement. “Yet by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnished tale deliver.”

He could almost hear Pavel rolling his eyes. “Not totally unvarnished, I am thinking. He does make himself sound more clever and handsome than he was in the photographs.”

“Really, Pash? Cut the guy some slack. He’s had to impress the bored villagers on this tiny little island.” Hikaru grinned. “I think it was much more truthful than the novelisations of all of those theories, at any rate. He did attribute most of his success to luck.”

“It is true that if I were left for so long with tiny amounts of people I would want to entertain them. Still, the lady from before did not know of him, so maybe we were the only ones he has told,” Pavel insinuated.

“Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you?” Hikaru huffed a laugh before turning to his laptop. “Hey, Pasha?”

“What?”

“How do you feel about jellyfish?” Hikaru grinned at Pavel as he turned to look at him in confusion.

“What does that even mean, Hiki?”

“Just tell me how you feel about them.”

“They are fascinating, but not really connected to any conversation we have had so far. I am thinking their beauty and defense mechanisms make them admirable, but I am otherwise without feeling for them,” Pavel settled. Hikaru hummed in agreement.

“Thanks. I just wanted to know if it would fit with the image I have of this scene,” he said.

“Why, is it set in the dangerous waters of the Great Barrier Reef in Australia?” wondered Pavel.

“No, it’s in space,” Hikaru responded blandly.

“Space jellyfish?” echoed Pavel. “That sounds terrifying. Make the ship fly through a minefield of space jellyfish with sex pollen stingers.”

“Pasha, what kinds of literature do they have in Russia that the word ‘space’ immediately invokes the image of sex pollen?”

“Well, Sputnik was looking like a giant metal jellyfish,” Pavel replied innocently.

Hikaru decided it was best not to ask how that related to sex; however, he thought, it would not be the strangest story told that day. That would probably be a prize reserved for the captain’s tale, since he had spent that afternoon telling them about his escape from Camp Tarsus and also from the Enterprise, the latter having been achieved by installing a subroutine during the military exercise to create the appearance of system malfunctions, and then using the mayhem to fashion a disguise that would allow him to masquerade as a lower-ranked crew member and then make his escape when the Enterprise and the Royal Navy ships docked at the Isle of Lewis.

With a sigh, Hikaru keyed the appropriate phrases and paragraphs into his document before yawning.

“Do you know when we are leaving, and if we will be leaving with the captain?” asked Pavel.

“Did Kirk even agree to go with us?” wondered Hikaru, scowling at the fight scene in the ‘cargo bay’ that he was attempting to write. The Romulans seemed to have their bridge close to whatever passed for their cargo bay or something. Evidently the Narada hadn’t been designed with any sort of common sense in mind.“I don’t remember if he agreed to going anywhere with us.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he refused,” said Pavel. “That is, he would not go in the car with us, but he could go on the plane with us. We are to be taking the private jet back to America, da?”

“Yup.”

“Hiki.”

“What?”

“You are making the face again. Just accept that you cannot fly the plane.”

Hikaru rolled his eyes and deleted a sentence in his word processor. “I totally could.”

“Then accept that Spock’s not letting you anywhere near the cockpit. I am thinking that since there are very serious professionals flying the plane, they may have a cute little sign that says ‘don’t be a cock in the cockpit’ on the door.”

“You sound a bit too certain of that, Pash.” Hikaru narrowed his eyes. “Did you go inside the cockpit without me?”

Pavel widened his eyes, attempting to look innocent. “The blame is not mine. They offered me snacks. They were having a cheese tray.”

“Did you not just say the sign said ‘don’t be a cock’ on it?” Hikaru pushed back his hair in exasperation.

“I do not act like one, so I was allowed,” Pavel remarked, still attempting to play off his transgression.

“You went into the cockpit without me,” Hikaru reiterated. He may have been pouting, but he was well justified. It was a Learjet 40; he could pout at not being able to see the cockpit.

“I am thinking that you are wanting to make me sleep on the couch,” said Pavel.

Hikaru toyed with the idea, but it seemed like a double edged punishment. If he made Pasha sleep on the couch, then that sneaky Russian would just sneak back into the cockpit one more time to spite him. Pasha was a little shit sometimes.

“No,” he said after a moment. “That’d just make you go back to the cockpit.” He paused. “That didn’t come out right.”

Pavel snorted, just as someone knocked at their door. Hikaru went to get it, just as Spock entered with his mobile still out.

“How now, what news?” Hikaru asked the man, who stared at him sidelong for a moment before speaking.

“The captain will meet us for our flight at Stornoway tomorrow evening. He will bring Ms. Rand with him.”

“He’s coming back with us?” asked Pavel.

“He wishes to meet my great-uncle again,” replied Spock. “I can lodge them at the Brownstone.”

“Well, at least they’re sensible enough not to get in a car with us,” Hikaru noted wryly.

Spock arched an eyebrow. “I at least do not drive as if I have no care for preservation for life and limb,” he snapped.

“Hey, I learnt to drive in San Fran. Land of the hella steep hills and everything,” grumbled Hikaru. “Give me a break for driving crazy; every other place in the United States is basically flatlands compared to those hills.” He paused. “Also, have you seen driving in China? Because I can assure you, I drive perfectly safely when we go visit my great-uncle in Hangzhou.”

“Which leads me to doubt the safety of driving in China,” replied Spock calmly. “My father says that they try to squeeze seven cars into a three-car lane.”

Hikaru snorted. “That’s on a good day. There’s so many cars in the country that the government actually puts restrictions on when you can or cannot drive based on your license plate number.”

“A policy that might help reduce the carbon footprint in the United States, I am sure,” muttered Spock.

“Not of all of us can afford eco-friendly Priuses,” replied Hikaru. He nudged Pavel. “Pash, you’re being surprisingly quiet.”

“I am thinking,” said Pavel, “of the fact that we just solved one of the biggest mysteries of the 21st century.”

“Was it really that big?” wondered Hikaru. “Seems a bit small, if Spock could come up with the right theory in one night with a giant whiteboard and some tea.”

“I am having no doubt that there are others, like Stella, who have also come up with the answer, but we have actually found him,” pointed out Pavel. “If the news are getting out about us finding him, we would be famous.”

“Which is why I do not intend on having the news ‘get out’,” replied Spock. “People have not seen him in ages; they will not recognise him. We take him to the Brownstone, reintroduce him to my great-uncle, and allow them to decide where to go from there.”

Hikaru watched Spock as he settled into his spoiled child mode. He very rarely decided that he would not budge on an issue, but when he did his actions were much akin to a kindergartener refusing to move from a specific spot.

“Cool your jets,” he suggested. Spock raised an eyebrow. “We weren’t going to broadcast his location to the world, and our intentions aren’t likely to change.”

“Still,” Pavel interjected, “it is amazing to think that mysteries like his could go unsolved for so long. Many others might have similar stories.”

Hikaru snorted. “Because everyone has that one crazy uncle who had the hots for someone who had to fake his own death to escape Serbian terrorist cells. Remind me to introduce you to my old roommate, Hamish, whose cousin John fell in love with a detective who fell off a hospital building but turned out to have faked his death. And my great-uncle Hikaru, who discovered time travel via spaceships and wormholes.” He then shot a pointed look at Spock. “Don’t even pretend you didn’t base Lazarus Prime off your own great-uncle, Spock.”

Spock raised the other eyebrow. “I believe the adage is ‘write what you know’,” he said. “And it does seem strange that we were the first ones to properly solve it. After all, judging by the presence of the conspiracy on the forums, surely there were people who were searching for the captain who lived in a more immediate locale than us.”

“Perhaps the steps to solving the mystery could be broken down into parts,” suggested Pavel. “After all, we were finding first the most plausible theory, and we found Camp Tarsus and the terrorist link. Then we were finding where he was, which we could not have found out without the dedushka of Scotty. And finally, we were knocking on the door to see Janice, who could have sent us away or shot us if we did not say Spock’s name.”

“So we were lucky,” said Hikaru. “Spock was our codeword.”

The look Spock levelled him looked exasperated, as if Spock wanted him to stop watching so many Bond movies. Hikaru stuck his tongue out at him, but then sobered.

“Guys, do you realise that we know the truth now? We’re like the only people on this planet besides Janice who know how he really did it. That’s pretty amazing.”

“It is gratifying to have ‘solved the mystery’,” Spock admitted. “However, I cannot help but feel that we cheated in being unable to figure out the in and outs of the Captain’s disappearance before he informed us of the facts of the matter.”

“Well, there is only so much you could have done with Windows ‘98,” Pavel pointed out. “Given what he had to work with, I am finding his feat more impressive. An entire simulated malfunction subroutine! Gaila is working on something like that, I think, but she is using modern technology to create it.”

“I find it difficult to believe that anything out of the ordinary beyond the scheduled testing managed to go without being documented. It is strange enough that no one noticed their captain in an ensign’s uniform, much less that both he and aforementioned uniform vanished within the time it took to refuel the Enterprise at the local port.”

“He did say he had a lot of luck,” Hikaru said, shrugging.

“A lot of luck, or a lot of coincidental oversight?” wondered Spock, suppressing a yawn. “Still, there are substantial reasons not to reveal the Captain’s presence to the world. He may have to face disciplinary measures for being absent without leave.”

“Like I said before, we’re not about to tell everyone,” promised Hikaru. Pavel made a motion as if to differ, but Hikaru raised an eyebrow, and the young Russian sighed and pouted at him.

“It is not a bad thing to be famous for solving the mystery,” he pointed out.

“No, but then you’d give my mom the mad idea to bully me into being a consulting detective.” Hikaru rolled his eyes, and Spock headed for the door. “Leaving for bed again, Spock?”

“Tomorrow we will be travelling,” said Spock bluntly as he left. “I therefore bid you good night.”

Hikaru watched the other man leave, before turning his attention back to his work. Now he just needed to figure out how to write about the Jellyfish without thinking of sex pollen.

They were home the next day. Well, they were at the Brownstone the next day, but Hikaru didn’t really care about the technicalities. Spock had picked up a couple rounded pebbles from the banks of the lake near Captain Kirk’s house, and had seemed determined to erode them a little more with each mile closer to home he got. During the flight,  Hikaru had watched him rub the pebbles together and tap at his knees, noise-cancelling headphones jammed on his ears and a thoughtful expression plastered over his face.

Now they were here, and Janice was whispering a description of the living room of Spock’s Brownstone into the captain’s ear as Spock paced the entry with his phone in hand. Hikaru offered to make coffee. Janice retorted that she preferred tea.

The doorbell rang, Spock pounced upon it, and almost slammed the door shut again before taking a breath and opening the door to admit Jim, followed by the older Spock.

“What are you doing here?” Hikaru asked the younger Jim, who shrugged and grinned.

“The dude was at my flat when we got Spock’s text,” he replied. “Not sure how he managed to track me down, but —”

“You’re looking at a guy whose best friend faked his death via computer subroutine when Windows ‘98 was still a thing,” whispered Hikaru. “Surely he must’ve picked up some tricks along the way.”

However, he suddenly noticed the stunned expression on the older Spock’s face as he saw exactly who was standing in the living room. Janice had let go of the older Kirk, who looked around him in mild confusion.

“Jim,” said older Spock after a moment. Older Jim turned at the voice, reaching out in its general direction.

“Is that you, Spock?” Older Jim asked, extending his hand for the older Spock, whose own eyes widened even further.

Older Spock stepped forward, walking close enough for the captain to touch. Reaching out again, the captain’s hands trailed along the contours of his friend’s face. “You seem to be similar, although older.”

“Time does do that to you,” said older Spock drily. “I could say that you have changed much more than I have, old friend, seeing as I have not yet come back from the dead.”

“It is a funny little trick.” The captain grinned. “I’m glad that I’ve finally come up with something that you couldn’t figure out.”

A more solemn expression traced its way over the older Spock’s face. “Yes, well, it’s harder to determine one’s plan when they disappear completely.”

The corners of Captain Kirk’s mouth twitched down, but he could not wipe his smile away in its entirety. “I should have known that if anyone could find me, it would be a Spock. It just happened in such a way that it was a different Spock than expected.”

The older Spock’s eyebrow lift left nothing to the imagination in terms of where the younger one inherited his expressive facial hair. “So it was you that brought this shirker back,” he directed towards his great-nephew.

Spock inclined his head. “I did have help,” he admitted, gesturing to Pavel and Hikaru. The younger Jim seemed bewildered, but inclined to let things play out in their entirety.

“Now,” the part-time elf began sternly, “why is it that you did not come to visit when you could tease me about my appearance based off of optic evidence? It would be so much more convenient than having to feel my face to make sure that my skin was wrinkled enough to meet your standards.”

“I was a bit busy hiding from extremist groups,” the captain responded, chastened.

“Ah, so those theories were right,” remarked the first officer.

“Janice reads the conspiracy website contents to me occasionally,” said Captain Kirk. “We find ourselves laughing at some of the sillier ones.” He paused. “Oh, by the way — Janice, this is my dear friend, Commander Spock — well, you wouldn’t be a Commander anymore, would you? Not with those wrinkles. I’d think they’d have at least sat you down at a desk job, although based on what I hear about you becoming an elf…”

“I’m a bit out of the loop here,” Jim — the younger one, at any rate — whispered. Pavel leaned towards him and started whispering an explanation into his ear. With each additional tidbit of information given, Jim’s eyebrows climbed higher upon his forehead.

“So you’re telling me that I was named after a badass and I never knew until now,” Jim intoned, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s pretty damn cool.”

“Scotty told me that you were named after your grandfathers,” said Hikaru.

“Lies. Obviously I was named after this James Kirk.”

“You do act a lot like him,” said Pavel. “He is in many photographs as someone who… uh, likes all the pretty ladies.”

“Forget photographs,” interjected Hikaru, “you should try Taming the Wild Captain by… who was it again, Pash?”

“I am thinking it is Sandra Hill,” said Pavel. “She also wrote about the man with a horse abdomen.”

“What the hell is that even about?” whispered Jim.

“That James Kirk,” said Hikaru, jabbing a thumb towards the older Kirk, “getting beamed onto a spaceship run by some aliens called the Ocampans and being taught the proper decorum of an ‘advanced’ society. Which, according to the author, means a lot of kinky sex.”

Jim snorted. “Sounds like my type of first contact,” he said, grinning.

“Yes, we’re aware of your tendencies to boldly go where no one has gone before,” said Hikaru. Pavel eyed him thoughtfully, making a note in his phone even as Jim rolled his eyes, patted him on the shoulder, and wandered off towards the younger Spock. Hikaru could hear them talking about scheduling some time to have dinner together; he turned his attention back to their older counterparts and heard old Spock suggest that he introduce old Jim to the rest of town through ample description.

Hikaru grinned, looking over at Pavel, who was watching their Spock and Jim quietly whisper to each other. Jim took Spock’s hand for a moment, tracing the shape of his fingers before pressing a kiss to the back of the other’s hand.

“Watching these four is rather nauseating,” said Pavel, looking over at Janice, who also looked like she was third-wheeling and hating every moment of it. “I am thinking the only acceptable coping mechanism for such a situation is to get drunk.”

“Good idea,” said Hikaru, taking Pavel’s hand. He then turned to address the blonde assistant. “Wanna come along, Janice?”

Hikaru ran into Scotty at the grocery store on Saturday. Pavel was accompanying Spock to the local Jewish cemetery; Spock was off to pay his respects to his mother. It was, after all, the Anniversary. Spock’s inflection of the A left no doubts as to its capitalisation.

“How was the trip?” Scotty asked. He had a basket on his arm and was looking pitifully lost. The guy could manoeuvre his way around auto parts shops even better than the employees, and he knew Home Depot like the back of his hand, but stick him in an ordinary grocery store and he was more lost than an inexperienced hiker attempting to scale Mount Everest.

“I think Spock’s one car ride away from killing me and making it look like an accident,” replied Hikaru as he put a bottle of conditioner into his basket, and then consulted his list again. Pavel wanted gel for his hair, though Hikaru personally believed that Pavel looked terrifying with slicked hair. Ah well, what the kid did with his curls was none of his business, but Hikaru was free to think what he liked about the results.

“Well, let’s hope you don’t get in a car with him any time soon, aye?” replied Scotty. “I’m surprised you didn’t talk my grandad into shuttling you around. He likes to feel useful.”

Hikaru hummed. “He probably would have, but the trip was pretty short, all things considered. Besides, when we called him up he was well on his way into a bottle. He talks some mean shop when he’s tipsy. I can see where you get your mechanic’s jargon.”

“Aye, you have me there. He loves his fusion and fission more than life itself, but he’s always had his soft spot for cars.”

“It’s a good thing he has too much respect for the things to shuttle people around while he’s intoxicated. If not, I might be splattered on the road somewhere in the Outer Hebrides,” Hikaru mused.

“Oi, I need you alive, mate. Who’d make me my sandwiches then?”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend now?” asked Hikaru.

Scotty’s eyes widened. “Hiki, I don’t think you understand,” he hissed. “Nyota’s a Wellesley alumna. You can’t ask them to make you sandwiches. They’ll give you brass-plated knuckle sandwiches in return, and then leave you for dead at the bottom of the lake.”

Hikaru considered it. “You have a point,” he conceded with a sigh. “I’ll try not to get into a car with Spock.”

“Good,” said Scotty, still looking around him shiftily. “How was Scotland? Bollocks-freezing cold?”

“Basically,” agreed Hikaru.

“And did ‘Jonathan Kirkland’ help Spock with his soul-searching? Or whatever it was that he needed the initials for; I can’t quite remember it right now.”

“Oh yeah, quite,” agreed Hikaru, frowning. “We might’ve just solved one of the more interesting disappearances of the 21st Century, but apparently Spock doesn’t want that being broadcasted. I kinda agree with him; if word gets to my mom, she’ll try to make me set up shop on Baker Street or something.”

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing,” remarked Scotty.

“No, but my mom has this talent for making me not want to do the things I love,” retorted Hikaru.

Scotty snorted. “All right, but who did you find out there in Scotland, anyway?”

“Captain James Kirk.”

Scotty’s eyes almost bugged out of his head. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”

Hikaru scoffed. “It sounds insane, I know, but apparently Captain Kirk’s the long-lost true love of Spock’s great-uncle.”

“And since when was your life a badly-written romance novel?” demanded Scotty.

“Dunno,” replied Hikaru, looking appraisingly at the grocery store’s small collection of romance paperbacks. “Might’ve started the moment I got acquainted with you, as my objectified hunk of Scottish man-meat.”

“I’ll have your head for that, mark my words.”

“Is that a dagger I see before me?”

Scotty swatted at him. “You and your bloody Shakespeare. How’s our happy couple doing now?”

Hikaru shrugged. “Last I heard from them, Spock’s great-uncle was planning to go back to the Hebrides with Captain Kirk and his young blonde assistant.”

Scotty grinned, pretending to wipe at his eyes. “Oh, I love happily ever afters,” he said in a falsetto, causing Hikaru to shove him into a shelf of hosiery. “Though, seriously, you’re not having me on, are you?” he added as he picked himself up, put some of the boxes of pantyhose back onto their racks, and stumbled off into another segment of the store.

Hikaru raised an eyebrow as he followed him. “You don’t believe me? Corroborate it with Spock and Pasha. Anyway, you looking for something?”

Scotty whirled to look back at him. “Och, aye,” he agreed. He squinted over Hikaru’s shoulder, looking at the signs overhead that proclaimed the wares sold in each section. Sighing, he looked back to face Hikaru. “Do you know where the gourmet foods and drinks are?”

Hikaru snorted. “Can’t you read the signs?”

“Aye, but none of them say ‘fancy hipster shite’.”

“They’re in ‘gourmet foods’,” said Hikaru, “you know, the exact phrasing you just used.” He rolled his eyes. “What gives, Scotty? You’ve never much seemed to like that ‘fancy hipster shite’ anyway.”

“Nyota once got a special brand of hot chocolate from Spock for a birthday or something, and now it’s her cure for all ills. I may have accidentally depleted her supply.”

Hikaru winced. “So, is this a rush to resupply before she finds out, or is it more of a last ditch attempt to appease her?”

Scotty looked uncomfortable. “Well, she does deserve it, what with the bloody polar vortex and an unexpected…” he looked at Hikaru with an arched eyebrow and a significant look. “You know.”

Hikaru was about to open his mouth to say that he didn’t, but at the vaguely discomfited expression on Scotty’s face he decided that he might as well spare his friend. Besides, he had a good idea of exactly what was ailing Nyota, and it probably required an entire mountain of chocolate. “I know,” he replied.

The two men shuffled into the ‘gourmet foods’ section. Scotty took one look at the array of healthy and overpriced foods on the shelves, and almost collapsed on the spot.

“Ah, bugger it all; none of these seem to be it!”

“Do you remember what the tin looks like?” asked Hikaru, frowning a little from over Scotty’s shoulder.

“No, I don’t,” admitted Scotty with a sigh. “Or at least I don’t right now, but I did before you came by.”

“Maybe you should call her and ask for the brand?” suggested Hikaru.

“What, and confess to her that I drank the last of the hot chocolate?” demanded Scotty. “Maybe you should have more concern for my life, laddie!”

“Why, does she have blood fever or something?”

Scotty sent him an odd look. “Is that even a medical ailment?”

“Don’t tell Dr. McCoy I said that.”

Scotty snorted. “Sure. Cross my heart,” he replied, making the ‘x’ over his chest. “Anyway, no, she’s not raving and feverish. She does have a nasty cold, though. Stuffy nose and everything. It’s this damn weather, I say. I think I deserve some sort of medal for going out into the bitter cold to get her hot chocolate and marshmallows.”

“Ah yes, that elusive Oscar for Most Considerate Boyfriend,” deadpanned Hikaru as he pondered the designs on three different boxes of hot chocolate. “Do you know if it was dark or milk?”

“I think it was dark. I bet it was also ground from Costa Rican chocolate or something, and it probably passed through the bowels of a cat before it became hot chocolate.”

“I thought cat-shit beverages were just coffee,” replied Hikaru.

“I’m sure it’s been considered somewhere,” said Scotty. “I wonder if Spock —” His eyes lit up. “Spock! He gave her the hot chocolate; he’d know what brand it was!”

“I’m not sure if that’s such a good —” began Hikaru, but Scotty was already taking out his phone and dialling the number.

“Spock?” he asked. “I have a huge favour to ask of you. You remember the hot chocolate you bought for Nyota a couple months ago?”

There was a pause, as Spock most likely said something sarcastic in an irritated voice. Hikaru couldn’t blame him; Spock was probably in the middle of a stirring series of memories about his mom, and he wouldn’t want distractions from his friends occurring in the midst of his recollections.

“Yeah. That one. What brand was it again, and what kind of chocolate was it? Because I need to help her restock, but I can’t — what do you mean ‘you don’t know’, Spock, you’re the one who gave it to her! You’re her best friend!”

Hikaru reckoned that Spock’s rejoinder to that would be ‘but you are her boyfriend’, and some things about the duties of a boyfriend, because everyone knew Spock had been practically Nyota’s boyfriend in all but name, even after their breakup.

“No, I can’t just call her. She’ll chew me out for drinking the last of it. She’ll turn my entire house into a crime scene.” A pause. “What? Where?” Another pause. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Hikaru’s eyes drifted to a particular box of gourmet hot chocolate, and suddenly he was remembering a particular ski trip with his family. They’d gone to Tahoe, and Aiko had brought along a box of that same brand of hot chocolate that she’d gotten from her friends for Christmas. This particular trip involved all three Sulu siblings sitting around in their hotel room surrounded by mugs of hot chocolate and piles of marshmallows, with the wind howling wildly outside the window as a storm blew through. Yuki had chugged five mugs as well as half a bag of marshmallows before running off into the ensuite bathroom and not emerging for an hour. No one except them knew, and Mom didn’t think it was a bad thing, since Yuki always managed to stay so skinny.

Hikaru was glad his baby sister didn’t do that anymore. He was glad she decided to go to school on his side of the country, in the same town where he could occasionally check up on her. It was only then, really, that he could stop feeling the consequences of her success redirected at him. Especially since this last Christmas all he got were socks, another ugly sweater, and a hearty helping of familial disapproval.

“Oh, Hiki, you wrote another short story. That’s so wonderfully productive. You know, your sister converted matter into energy today. Her job is being God. What do you have to say for yourself now?”

“What do you mean it’s only available at Whole Foods? Spock, I have student loans!” Scotty’s indignant voice broke through Hikaru’s contemplations. There was a pause as Spock said something else, and then Scotty’s face turned into stunned disbelief. He held up his phone in front of him, gaping at it.

“Stop trying to sabotage my attempts to become a decent boyfriend, you mad bastard!” he shouted, before turning to Hikaru, who was trying to stifle a snigger.

“Did he hang up on you?”

“Damn right he did,” grumbled Scotty as he pocketed his phone. “Not all of us can afford to shop at Hipster McOverpriced Mart like he does. I know he worships that one Wellesley alum with the completely organic farm who supplies the place, but —”

“He was visiting his mother’s grave. Serves you right for distracting him.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that he wanted quality time with his mum?” Scotty threw his hands up in frustration. “I don’t know anything about these things, Hikaru, and Ny’s going to find the empty tin and kill me. It was nice knowing you.”

“Nyota is not going to kill you,” said Hikaru, chuckling. “She is too level-headed for something like that.”

“Can’t you let a man panic in peace?” hissed Scotty. “What if I just got her something here? The nicest brand they have here? She won’t care, would she?”

“I’m sure she won’t for now, but eventually she’ll start craving that specific type of hot chocolate. Worst case scenario, she’ll start comparing the two. And then you’ll feel more inadequate than ever before.”

Scotty groaned. “I’ll get my sorry arse to Whole Foods, then,” he grumbled. “The things I do for love…”

Hikaru laughed, clapping Scotty on the back. “That’s my boy,” he declared.

“I need a drink,” muttered the Scotsman.

“I’ll bring you an eggplant casserole,” said Hikaru comfortingly.

“When are you going to get a real job?”

Hikaru winced, holding the phone away from his ear. The biting edge to his mom’s tone seemed to endure whetting that was directly proportional to the amount of time he spent away from home. Then again, it could be that she was always as critical as she sounded now, but he had spent so much time away from her that his memory had dulled the sting of her words.

“Mom, I do have a real job, and it is one that I love and take pride in. I am a botanist,” he reiterated, attempting to soothe her. He rocked on his heels, switching the phone from his left to his right ear. Holding it in place with his shoulder, Hikaru attempted to type some more of the chapter he was working on, but all he got was one word. Maybe they’d let him get away with just typing ‘fuck’ down the page until he had thirty pages?

“You take care of plants and play in the dirt, Hikaru. What ever became of that Harvard education or the flight schooling that I provided for? How will you support your mother in her old age?” Hikaru turned the phone away to sigh before holding it up once more.

“I’m doing what makes me happy. I’m sure that your other children will provide for you well enough on their own.”

“You are the man of the family, Hikaru!” snapped Yoshiko Sulu over the phone. “It is your duty to provide for your father and me. I cannot believe that you would throw away such an integral part of your heritage.”

Hikaru groaned. They had been through this. “I am not —”

“You see your peers with their parents. Never visiting, never paying attention. Their mothers and fathers can just die and they wouldn’t know. They put them in the nursing homes and let other people care for them until they die. I will not be treated with such disrespect.”

“Mom, I’m sure Yuki and Aiko will have more money to spare in the long run. I don’t care about money, myself. I just want to do what I love.”

“Hikaru, I know you want to just write and fly your plane and work in a garden for the rest of your life, but you need to think of the future. You are going to carry on the Sulu family name. You should have a family and a good job by now. All of your friends back here are getting married, even that funny boy with the moustache who likes other boys.”

Hikaru contemplated telling his mother that he, too, was dating someone of the same gender. He decided not to, because he’d consequently be responsible for her sudden death due to cardiac arrest. Or an aneurysm. Or something.

“I don’t want to get married,” he grumbled. “You might have some sort of vision of me as a successful private jet pilot who lives in a nice picket-fenced house in Oxford, Connecticut with a pretty blonde wife, two children, and a dog, but that’s a life I don’t want right now.”

“It’s a life that’d be secure. It’s the best life for you.”

“No, it’s not, because I don’t want it.” Hikaru stabbed out a couple sentences on the keyboard. He could hear Mom on the other end taking a deep breath, as if preparing to drop a bombshell.

And it came. “Aiko’s engaged.”

Hikaru almost dropped the phone. “She what?”

“The Black scientist you met at Christmas? Samuel Boma, the big thug-like man?”

“Mom,” warned Hikaru. “If he’s going to be your son-in-law, you shouldn’t be calling him that.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Aiko does. They played a nice duet together. He’s good on the piano.”

“He scares me.”

“That’s because everyone’s intimidated by you,” Hikaru pinched the bridge of his nose, “and need to put on tough fronts. He was actually pretty cool when you weren’t in the room.”

“You make it seem as if people hate me.”

Hikaru sighed. “Mom. Dr. Boma is an astrophysicist. Aiko could have done worse.”

“I’ve told Aiko numerous times that she doesn’t have the mentality that goes well with scientists. I told her again and again not to date engineers and scientists because it would be like making a cat marry a dog — their worldviews are too different. Aiko is an artist; she wouldn’t be able to handle someone so logical for so long.”

Hikaru looked at the half-finished chapter in front of him. “Is this because of your bad experience with dating that engineer in college?”

“No, it’s simply a fact!”

“Then I’ll see you that and raise you my friend Nyota and her boyfriend Scotty. Who, by the way, is a mechanical engineer.”

“Do they both write little stories?”

“Nyota primarily writes plays, and Scotty writes robot manuals or something.”

“Then they at least have that in common. Aiko and Samuel? Nothing.”

“They have music.”

“But their temperaments are so different.”

Hikaru rubbed his temples. “Look, Mom, I really should be going.” He had, after all, just heard the door unlocking — it was most likely Pavel and the rest of the writing group, since it was Tuesday and the meeting was at Hikaru’s place.

“What’s made you so busy all of a sudden?” demanded Mom, even as Pavel entered the room, raising an eyebrow at Hikaru’s slouched posture at the desk.

“The others are here, Hiki,” the Russian chirped. “If you are leaving your room, then you will be finding them in the kitchen.”

“Who is that speaking?!” demanded Yoshiko from the other end.

“That’s my friend, Pavel Chekov,” snapped Hikaru.

“Yuki’s Russian classmate Pavel? What are you doing with him?”

“Pavel is also a writer.” At that, Pavel came over and placed his hands on Hikaru’s shoulders.

“Who are you talking to?” Pavel asked sweetly, and Hikaru could have socked him right then and there, if just to punch that smug smile off the boy’s face. He settled for removing his phone from his ear and glaring up at the Russian.

“My mom, Pasha, and it’s really not a good time to —” Hikaru growled as Pavel swiped the phone from him.

“Hello? Hello? This is Hikaru’s matushka, da? This is Pavel Chekov. I am hearing about your evil plans to ruin my boyfriend’s life, and I will not be allowing you to do so. I have ties to the Russian mafia.” He paused. “Also, please tell Yuki not to be bragging about her job in Switzerland in the middle of class. It is very annoying.” With a click, he hung up.

Hikaru gaped at him. “You do realise that the next time I’m obliged to meet up with her, I’m going to be shipped back here in a matchbox, right?”

Pavel considered him for a moment before grinning widely. “I will only be using you to light very expensive cigars, then.”

“You’re not even legal enough to buy cigarettes here, much less cigars.”

“Come, Hiki, we have people to talk to,” retorted Pavel. “I am wanting to show them the supernatural hunter story with Baba Yaga.”

“You do that,” agreed Hikaru. “I’ve got the poetry that you told them about last meeting to share.”

“Will you be having trouble with the group wanting you to finish your part of the novel early?” Pavel peered at the notebook in which Hikaru had scribbled his poems on his lunch break at the arboretum. “If you want, I can be a distraction.”

Rubbing at his temple, Hikaru waved him off. “Trust me when I say you’ve already taken care of my most stressful encounter today. I can handle the rest myself.”

“One day you will be as tough as me,” the slight teenager proclaimed. Hikaru had to stifle his laughter.

“Sure, Pasha. Maybe one day. For now, however, we have to hurry if we’re going to make it to the meeting in time.”

“It’s in your living room, silly,” said Pavel as he pressed a kiss to Hikaru’s cheek and bounced out of Hikaru’s bedroom.

Chapter Text

“Where’s Jim?” wondered Pavel as he took a seat in the living room of his boyfriend Hikaru’s house.

“He had a prior engagement,” said Spock, reentering the living room from the kitchen with a batch of sugar cookies. “Paramount is hoping to come to an agreement with him regarding the movie rights to Sixteen Light Years.”

“And where did the cookies come from?” wondered Pavel as he took one from the other man. Spock set the platter on the coffee table, where they were immediately attacked by Scotty and Hikaru, who had emerged from the cocoon of his bedroom with his notebook tucked under his arm.

“I had the opportunity to bake them at Nyota’s apartment this afternoon,” said Spock. “Her roommate called, with a request for me to bring my mother’s cookie recipes.” A shadow seemed to pass over his features at the mention of his mother, but after a moment it vanished, and he took a seat on the sofa.

Pavel remembered the past weekend, when he had accompanied Spock to the quiet Jewish cemetery a couple streets away from the harbour. It was a small, historic cemetery with one of the oldest Jewish chapels in the state; many members of the Grayson family were interred there. They had also spotted Gaila there as well, setting stones at someone’s grave with a sombre expression that looked out of place on her.

Spock hadn’t said anything when he set the Scottish stones on Amanda’s headstone; he had merely looked down at the headstone, blinked a couple times, nodded, and left. There were no tears, no happy reminiscing. Spock wasn’t the sort to grieve openly and for long; death and life were both inevitabilities. Yet Pavel knew the man cared deeply for his mother, if keeping her pictures and recipes and celebrating her holidays were of any indication.

“That explains why Carol came over with salted caramel dark chocolate cookies today,” noted Nyota with a raised eyebrow, “and said they were from Gaila. I know that girl can’t cook to save her life.”

“She did not give off the impression of being woefully incompetent at baking,” said Spock thoughtfully.

“No, no, she’s perfect at prep work. She just forgets that the stove needs to get turned off after a while.” Nyota laughed. “She’s easily distracted by shiny things — kind of like you when you’re talking to people about anything you have no interest in. And if there aren’t shiny things near her when she’s cooking, it’s probably because her latest conquest stuck around and wanted to get frisky.”

Leonard snickered. “Christine did mention something about her agreement with Carol about Gaila being their mutual exception, or something. I guess I’ve figured out the meaning of that.”

Spock shook his head, even though his cheeks were light pink. Pavel was fairly certain he knew what briefly ran through the other’s mind, and it probably involved Jim. He giggled.

Nyota sighed and sipped her coffee. “Either way, I’d bet good money that Gaila must’ve done something shitty to warrant calling up Spock to help her bake apology cookies.” She paused. “You know, on top of sexiling me for the third time this month, handing me a can of chicken soup and not much else when I was sick, and making my period sync with hers.”

Next to her, Scotty shook his head. “Why that ever happens is a total mystery to me,” he muttered. Hikaru stifled a snigger; even Spock looked amused.

“I think it’s an evolutionary thing,” said Nyota thoughtfully as she took a cookie. “Her pheromones help mine along or something. I can’t see what it would be good for besides getting multiple people pregnant at once. Or getting an entire res hall at Wellesley cranky, although I might be mistaking that for finals week stress. I wouldn’t be surprised of some of the old primal screamers were venting their frustrations with their own bodies, though.”

“I hear there’s a lot of screaming at Wellesley even when it’s not finals week,” remarked Hikaru blandly, causing Nyota to reach over and cuff him.

“You’re just sore because none of the girls in the Scream Tunnel wanted to kiss you that one time you ran the Boston Marathon,” she said with a wink. “But I guess I can see why syncing periods was favoured by natural selection. If you get more pregnancies without too much birth control, then you get lots of babies and disgruntled mothers. Community child rearing would be an acceptable excuse, I suppose.”

“That sounds terrifying,” said Scotty. “An army of mums with strollers. God save us all.”

“Watch your mouth before I have Pasha sic his legion of cousins on you,” Nyota warned lightly. “They’re much scarier than the strollers they might hide in.”

“You are giving me war flashbacks, Ny,” complained Pavel. “You try spending time with  small battalion of Russian children. They do not fear the cold like you do.”

“I’m picturing hundreds of toddlers lurching towards me in the snow,” muttered Scotty. “Come to think of it, they’re your relatives, so they’d probably be carrying astrophysics textbooks. Enough potential blunt force to leave me for dead in the Eurasian snowdrifts.”

Pavel laughed. “At least Cousin Boris was good company. He reminds me of Spock, except instead of the urge to research, Boris has the urge to compose.”

“So you’ve got a bunch of astrophysicists and a tiny Tchaikovsky in the family?” wondered Leonard.

“Don’t call Boris Tchaikovsky. We were doing it too many times when he was being obsessed with him. Now he cringes or punches you for it. It is depending on how much he likes you.”

“Is he always that violent?” Leonard wondered.

“He is working on it,” Pavel mused. “I am thinking it should involve more hugging. Like with Spock.”

Spock raised both eyebrows but said nothing to disprove the comparison.

Leonard laughed. “You’re saying that Spock’s violent?”

The remainder of the group eyed him in varying degrees of solemnity and discomfort.

Finally, Spock spoke up. “You were not with the group at a time when I had a momentary lapse of control. It is of no consequence.”

“Did you clock someone?” Leonard enquired, bewildered.

Nyota snorted a little, but looked immediately repentant. Still, she continued with, “It was more like incoherent roaring, followed by a shove into a table. He did apologise,” she concluded.

Shrinking into his chair, Spock looked as if he wanted to vanish at that very instant. Pavel reached out and patted him gingerly on the shoulder.

“Just remember, Spock,” he said, “no matter how bad it is getting, at least you did not forget to disengage the —”

“We are not talking about that,” interrupted Hikaru. “Pasha, didn’t you have a piece you wanted to share?”

“You are wanting me to change the subject when only one embarrassing story has been told. It is no fun without everyone joining in,” Pavel pouted.

“This isn’t a sleepover,” Leonard deadpanned.

“Have we ever had a group sleepover?” Nyota pondered the idea for a moment. “On one hand, Spock could make omelettes to order in the morning. On the other, I know that at least three of you snore, and Jim would probably stay up to draw dicks on everyone else’s faces in Sharpie while they slept.”

“I think dick doodles on the face are worth the omelettes, just saying,” Hikaru said, grinning.

“He wouldn’t doodle them in Sharpie,” Leonard defended, “he isn’t that vindictive. I’m not saying he wouldn’t do it, but he’d use something a bit more washable. He might even go eco friendly in respect for Spock’s wish to not be doodled on with non-recyclable products.”

“One day you will be able to speak without remarking on my predilection for respect in regards of the natural balance of ecosystems,” Spock huffed.

“Yeah, says the guy who obsessively checks every single product he ever buys to ensure that they’re fair-trade, organic, and eco-friendly.” Leonard rolled his eyes. “I mean, the rest of us have to actually worry about the price of the things we buy at the grocery store, but hey. Money’s not an issue for you, is it?”

“Arguing over my family’s socioeconomic status is counterproductive to maintaining the cohesion of this group,” Spock warned. “It is not a factor of my life that I could change, and if I chose to do such a thing, you would only further degrade my choices as being naïve in the face of other’s financial straits.”

“Yeah, let’s not piss off the guy who can send us to places at no cost to us with his Dad’s Learjet. I’d rather like another trip on that baby,” Hikaru agreed.

Scotty suddenly looked up from where he’d been browsing the internet on Spock’s Kindle. “Speaking of Spock,” he said, “he’s on the internet.”

Spock squinted at him in bewilderment. “No, if I were currently utilising such an interface, my Kindle would be visible in my hand, not yours.”

Scotty rolled his eyes at him, shoving the device into his hands. “Look for yourself, you damn literal man.”

Spock took the tablet from him and began scrolling, raising his eyebrows. “Where did they capture these pictures?”

“Aren’t you in them?” wondered Scotty.

“Yes, but I was not aware that we were being photographed,” replied Spock. “This past weekend, after my visit to my mother, I met with Jim for dinner in the Back Bay and we walked to the Opera House to watch the musical Once.”

“I like the music from that film. Did the performers do it justice?” wondered Nyota.

Spock nodded, as Scotty interjected with, “that’s not the point, Nyota, the point is that Jim’s mad fandom’s caught notice of Spock and him.”

“It was only a matter of time,” pointed out Hikaru. “We all know he has fans who live here.”

“Yeah, but ones who take paparazzi shots?” demanded Scotty. “Jim’s well-known, but he’s not that famous. Otherwise we’d all be on the front pages of supermarket tabloids.”

“Well, if Jim’s fans keep this up, we might be,” retorted Nyota.

“I don’t want to be on the front page of People because of Jim,” complained Hikaru. “I can hear my relatives berating me for ‘piggybacking on someone else’s talent’ already.”

“We all know you’d rather get there yourself,” agreed Nyota. “Although I fear you might get there for your horrendous driving before you get there for your writing.”

“Hey!” Hikaru scowled, but Nyota was laughing at him.

“I am picturing it now,” Pavel mused, “‘Couple Killed Due to Man’s Sheer Inability to Acknowledge Existence of Parking Brakes’. It will be a great tragedy.”

“I wouldn’t kill someone,” Hikaru gaped, the indignance in his voice palpable.

“No, you misunderstand. We would be the ones killed,” Pavel reassured him.

“I’m too young to die,” reiterated Hikaru, eyes wide. Pavel laughed, patting his shoulder. Hikaru had a talent for pretending to be offended about everything.

“I’m surprised there are this many photos,” Nyota commented, her brow furrowed. “Normally people tend to leave authors alone.”

“I get the feeling that it’s because he’s with Spock. You know how fans are with their speculations,” Scotty pointed out.

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “What are they insinuating?”

“I am thinking that they think you are dating Jim,” Pavel said as he took the tablet from Spock and scrolled down the page a bit more.

“We did go on a ‘date’, I believe, but that does not necessarily indicate a longer romantic attachment —”

“No, but the fans don’t know that, do they?” wondered Pavel. He then raised an eyebrow and held up the tablet again. “Isn’t this the doctor?”

“Hey, McCoy, you’re on here,” remarked Hikaru, peering over.

Leonard, who had been taking a drink of coffee, nearly spat it out. “What?” he demanded. He leaned forward, and then groaned. “They think I’m hot,” he grumbled.

“You are saying it like it is a bad thing,” Pavel noted.

“You realise that Jim’s fans are mostly teenage girls, right?” Leonard dragged a hand down his face blearily, as if he couldn’t believe that this was his life. “Heaven help me if Joanna goes through puberty and decides men twice her age are hot stuff.”

“Then she would merely be following in the footsteps of many other teenage girls,” replied Spock calmly. “I note that Jim has several professional photoshoots which have been displayed on this blog.”

“You do have to admit that he looks good in them,” agreed Nyota, tilting her head at the pictures. “I might have to call him what the fans call him.”

“What are they calling Jim?” asked Pavel, raising an eyebrow.

“They call him ‘the Jirk’,” said Nyota, causing Leonard to throw his head back and roar with laughter.

“That must be the most accurate nickname ever,” chortled the doctor. “Did they come up with cute nicknames for Spock and me as well?”

“No, but some of the crazier fans who like shipping real-life people are calling the pairing of Spock and Jim ‘Spirk’,” said Nyota as she scrolled down a little more. “Though there are factions that want the name to be ‘Kock’, and still others ‘Spork’. They seem to hold very spirited debates in the comments about these things.”

“It’s like Brangelina gone terribly, terribly wrong,” giggled Hikaru. “I wonder if Jim’s seen this.”

“He probably follows the blog on Tumblr,” retorted Nyota. “It’d be the sort of thing he’d do.”

Pavel took the Kindle from Nyota and pursed his lips at the contents. “I am thinking most of the fandom are very sweet about Jim and Spock. They think they are cute together.”

Collectively, the group turned to grin evilly at Spock, who merely sank back further into the cushions of the sofa.

Taking pity on him, Pavel waved the hand not holding the e-reader. “You should not be paying attention to us if you find the idea so unlikeable. If you are not wanting Jim like that, then we are happy to leave you alone.”

“You have a point,” conceded Nyota. “The rest of us just think it’s exciting that you’re finally seeing someone, Spock, but if you feel pressured in any way, then you seriously don’t have to continue.”

“Ny!” chided Leonard. “You know that Spock’s one of the few reasons why Jim isn’t being such a huge shit all the time, right?”

“He was always a small specimen of faeces,” Spock noted. Pavel and the others stared at him oddly; Spock merely shrugged and reached for a cookie.

Booming music emanated from where Pavel’s headphones lay on the kitchen counter. He frowned down at them, having thought that he had turned off his music player before leaving for the grocery store. “Hiki, are you home?”

When he was only met with silence, he shrugged. One day Hikaru would be able to keep a cohesive schedule that Pavel could follow. As it was, his scribblings on a pad of paper did little in the way of efficient communication.

Pavel hummed and went back to putting the groceries away. On one hand, he wanted borsch in this cold weather. On the other, it was cold, and he did not want to go through the trouble. He supposed that he could pop a frozen pizza in the oven. However, he preferred to imagine Hikaru coming home at a reasonable hour. That way, he could cook the borsch instead.

Once finished with the grocery sorting, he meandered through the hallway. He made as if to throw his computer case onto the bed, but stopped just in time at the sight of his boyfriend curled up on top of the comforter.

A smile quirked at Pavel’s lips, even as his nose wrinkled. Hikaru had not even taken his shoes off. With a sigh, Pavel crossed over to the bed and gently removed Hikaru’s footwear. It only took a few nudges to get the man to roll over enough so that Pavel could tuck him in. It was a good thing he was such a sound sleeper.

He sat for a while at the edge of the bed, absently stroking Hikaru’s hair. For a moment, his mind wandered back to the first time he met Hikaru. He had been in the middle of an argument with Hikaru’s sister, Yuki, on whether or not space and time could be intrinsically linked to the point of one affecting the other if time was concluded to be an abstract measurement of growth instead of a force in its own right. Hikaru, who had come to get his sister so they could go celebrate one of Yuki’s various contrived accomplishments, had looked at Pavel for much longer than necessary, and hunted him down within a week with an invitation to a talk on time-domain astrophysics at the Harvard-Smithsonian Centre for Astrophysics. The rest, as they said, was history.  

That being said, Yuki’s accomplishments weren’t always contrived. They were sometimes rather impressive. It was just that Pavel couldn’t stand the melancholic look that drifted around Hikaru’s face whenever people mentioned his brilliant younger sister. He couldn’t stand the fact that her genius only served to make Hikaru’s family view him as lesser. Yuki Sulu was a good person, generally, but Pavel disliked her on principle because of Hikaru, mostly because he just cared about her brother more than he cared about her. It wasn’t her fault.

Well, there was also the academic competition, and her beating him on every other test (on the other tests, he had beat her), and her constantly talking in class as if she was some insufferable know-it-all, just because she interned at CERN in her downtime or something.

Was this what people thought of him when they talked to him?

Pavel leaned down and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead before taking his laptop out of its sleeve and opening it.

He returned to the fyeah16lightyears blog on Tumblr which the group had discovered at the last meeting, and began scrolling through the ‘Spock Grayson’ tag on it. On the whole the pictures in there were charitable and friendly, expressing excitement over Spock’s projects as well as Jim’s, as well as remarks over how cute the two were as a couple.

But a couple pages in, things got nasty.

“Oh no,” Pavel muttered, “this is getting very very bad.”

The blog displayed on his monitor displayed both a chastening post about invasive photos and a follow-up about undeserved hatred and gross misrepresentation of character. After scrolling through the notes, Pavel could see why.

He felt sick, looking at the cruel comments directed towards Spock, Jim’s sexuality, and their appearances in each other’s company. This wasn’t at all what he had seen on the blog earlier. This was a more vitriolic side to Jim’s fans, and Pavel found that he was not inclined to like it one bit.

As he scrolled, he bit his lip. If he were to show Spock, he might take it as a personal attack on him. It was a personal attack, really. However, both he and Jim had a right to know that something was rotten in the state of Sixteen’s fanbase.

Pavel groaned. Hikaru was a terrible influence on him. Perhaps he should consult Nyota.

Striding out of the bedroom, Pavel picked up his phone, dialled Nyota’s number, and took a seat on the couch with his laptop on the coffee table while he waited for her to pick up.

“Pasha?” she asked a moment later. “What’s up?”

“Are you seeing the blog?” he asked. “The one we found at the last meeting?”

“Is there something wrong?” asked Nyota immediately. Pavel let go of a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Sometimes he loved having a friend who seemed to get the situation even before he did.

“The blog. Perhaps if you are delving deeper into Spock’s tag on the blog, you will be finding some unsettling things being said about Spock.”

“On the blog?” asked Nyota. Pavel could almost hear her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Nyet, in the notes on the posts made by the blog. The blog itself doesn’t like posting negative opinions.”

“Understandable, since they would want to show the non-shitty side of their fandom,” agreed Nyota. There was a pause, in which Pasha could’ve sworn he could hear the gears spinning in Nyota’s head as she noted the disparaging comments about Spock and Jim in the notes of some of the blog posts.

“Well, that certainly changes things,” Nyota enunciated, tone flat. Pavel gulped. His friends could be scary when they were angry, but Nyota was almost certainly the one to do something as a result.

“Nyota, you are not going to be hunting these people down, are you?” Pavel tapped his fingers against the back of his phone, the small thumps barely registering in the interim of the call. “Nyota?” he repeated after a moment, construing her silence to be the sort in which she silently plotted her evil plans to take over the world, start an interstellar space exploration team, and get rid of James T. Kirk’s more homophobic and problematic fans.

“Sorry, Pasha. I was thinking.” Pavel could practically hear her lips thinning into a line.

Another moment passed before she communicated any semblance of whatever she had been ruminating on. “I think that I need to have a little chat with Jim. They are his fans, after all, and I’ll want his word as collateral.”

“I am not understanding,” Pavel responded, his brow wrinkling in thought. “Collateral for what?”

“I intend on contacting the moderators,” replied Nyota, “of the main blog. They appear to be decent people, and would understand the gravity of my request. I believe quotes from Jim will make my call more relevant and heartfelt.”

Pavel stifled the relieved sigh that begged to be released. “So I will not be having to hide bodies,” he confirmed.

“No, Pasha. That is plan C.”

“I would have been a great asset,” he remarked. “If the need had come, my connections to the mob would have aided us exponentially.”

Nyota laughed, not bothering to hide it as Spock and Hiki did. Pavel pouted.

“It is true. The mob members are being very large and very handy,” he muttered.

“I’m sure of it, Pasha. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I need to talk to Jim for a bit, or at least long enough to judge whether he deserves dessert privileges for the next couple of meetings.”

“Is that a euphemism for something? I do not always understand American idioms,” said Pavel.

“No, this time it was actually me considering barring him from any kind of chocolate or baked good Spock deigns to bring,” Nyota explained. She paused for a moment. “However, it could be a euphemism soon enough. If he hurts Spock, even indirectly, he and I will have words.” Her tone suggested less conversation and more defenestration.

Pavel considered it, and thought it better to leave well enough alone, or at least for now. “Oh, okay. We are still going to be having our shopping trip on Saturday, right? I am not wanting to keep you from your plans for world domination and fangirl assassination.”

“We’re still on,” agreed Nyota. “I’m inviting Gaila and Carol along as well. They jumped at the chance to dress you up, actually.”

“I am not a doll.”

“No, but you’re still a lot of fun to dress up. Just like Spock.”

Pavel pouted, even though that was a waste of gesture. “Tell me what Jim says, then,” he said.

“When I get back to you, I will.” Nyota giggled lightly. “Bye.”

He hung up, setting the phone down next to his laptop. For a moment, he paused and simply stared at the messages, as if the increased intensity of his glare would be sufficient to expunge such hatred from the fandom altogether.

After a while, he sighed again, and entered the kitchen to make some borsch.

“How was your discussion with Jim?” asked Pavel as he and Nyota sat at a small window table at Au Bon Pain after a tiring morning of shopping for suitable summer clothing with Gaila and Carol. Nyota had finished a small cup of coffee and was now working her way through a lemon drop cupcake. Gaila and Carol were eating lunch at the small table right next to them. Pavel was eating a caprese sandwich; he had to admit that Hikaru’s were better.

Nyota paused, pursing his lips. “I may have threatened to chop off his balls, put them in a blender, and make him a smoothie of his unborn children if he didn’t comply with my requests.”

Pavel shuddered. “Is that not being too excessive?” he wondered.

“If it gets Jim to tell his fangirls to back down, I’m all for it,” replied Nyota as she whipped out her phone. “I’ve also contacted the mods; they should be replying to me soon.”

“I am not understanding why people would not like Spock,” wondered Pavel as Nyota finished off her cupcake and checked her phone for new texts. “He is a very good friend and writer, even if he is acting like my cousin Boris in his cynical teddy bear ways. However, Jim’s fans are saying disparaging things about his appearance, which is being unfair as he cannot help what he looks like,” agreed Pavel.

“Especially seeing as they haven’t seen him on his more ‘unf’ days,” Gaila butted in. “Of course it’s the emotionally unavailable gay hottie who is impervious to my charms.”

“Why am I not even surprised that you’ve hit on him?” wondered Nyota, looking up at the ceiling.

“Because you’re secretly in love with me, and you watch in self-inflicted pain and jealousy as I continue to fling myself at others. Soon you’ll reveal your deep lust for me, and the threesomes shall beg —”

“Gaila, do you get your version of reality from pornography or something?” Nyota demanded. “Next thing you know I’ll be the pizza delivery girl that you seduce by trying to pay for your pizza with sexual favours.”

“Hun, you know that if roleplay’s your thing I am totally down with it,” retorted Gaila with a salacious wink as she licked suggestively at her salad fork.

“I should probably remind you that we’re in public,” muttered Nyota as she looked gloomily at the paper that had once contained a delicious lemon drop cupcake.

“You just did, but since you reminded me in a way that doesn’t make me want to stop, I’m not going to.” Gaila blew Nyota a kiss, and winked at Pavel. Pavel shook his head in response and continued eating.

“You little shit,” retorted Nyota, but she was grinning nonetheless. “Anyway, Carol, when are you returning to DC?”

“Couple of weeks,” said the blonde, looking up from her wrap. “Daddy’s hip is bothering him again, and I’m on a bit of a holiday leave from work.”

“And you’re not using your me-time, why?” Gaila shook her head, speaking through a mouthful of salad. “Holiday leave is practically code for ‘live long and get some’. What you’re doing, my dear, is catering to Ny and me while we search for poor Pavel’s clothes. Marginally fun, yes, because I’m a joy to be around and Nyota’s a real treasure, but you’re still helping people when it’s time to pamper yourself.” She swatted Carol with a napkin. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I do happen to enjoy shopping, thanks,” said Carol, “since I find it to be a welcome distraction from designing missiles.”

“Oh yeah, how is that coming along?” wondered Nyota. “I mean, it must be a source of contention between you and Chris sometimes. When they said opposites attract, I don’t think they meant for it to go that far.”

“Yeah, the pew pew pew business and bandaids kind of clash,” Gaila tacked on thoughtfully, shooting a couple of finger guns in Carol’s direction.

“It makes for entertaining discussions,” replied Carol vaguely, looking down at her wrap again. “I’m not the biggest fan of mass destruction, but the work on a purely scientific and technical level is quite fascinating. However, I’m not here to bore you with work.”

“Right,” Gaila redirected, smiling brightly, “We came here to buy clothes for that cutie,” she said, pointing at Pavel before continuing, “though we seem to be staying for Ny’s sparkling lecture on the dangers of fans.” She looked down at what was left of her water before amending, “The human ones, anyway. Metal fans are a bit shitty with their hazards as well, but they’re not really relevant to the discussion.” After taking a swig of her drink, she added one last footnote. “I knew a classmate at Olin who lost half of his pinky finger because of an electric fan once.”

Nyota stared at her quizzically, opening her mouth to say something before deciding against it. “I’ve really done most of what I can do at this point in regards to that front, but I’m still astounded that a community like that would take up arms just because of Jim showing interest in Spock.”

Pavel, who had been watching the rapidfire spectacle in bemusement, jumped in. “It is being very strange in that the attention paid to Jim was very small in comparison to how many pictures appeared after his date. Maybe he has become controversial.”

“There were a lot of pictures before,” pointed out Nyota. “The increase only happened in candid pictures. Jim seems to do a lot of photoshoots, though.”

“Why not?” wondered Gaila. “He’s hot. I bet the magazines are all getting their kicks out of photographing him and touting him as some hot nerd writer in their articles and interviews with him.”

“It just seems kind of incongruous to present a writer through something that isn’t their chosen medium, I guess,” Nyota mused. “Although that would invalidate all the articles penned about music artists or actors. In this case, though, the exposure might lead to an increase in sales, which would lead to a rise in literate fan culture.”

Gaila leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her hair with a grin. “Hun, this is why you’re going to let me and Len work on marketing if you ever publish your novels.”

“Like hell that’ll happen,” scoffed Nyota. “You’d probably put a nice pair of tits right over the title of my book and call it a day.”

“Why, is your book called The Boob Book?” asked Gaila sweetly as she finished her salad. “Are we heading back into the great wilderness that is the mall, or are we calling it a day?”

“I am fine with calling it a day,” admitted Pavel, “though I am thinking you did not show me one or two of the stores that you said you would.”

Gaila’s eyes widened. “Oh, right, yes! There were those things, and I forgot. Once more unto the breach it’ll be, then.”

“Everyone is quoting Shakespeare around here. I am not understanding why,” grumbled Pavel.

After Pavel found the post about him and Hikaru, which was tacked onto a candid picture someone got of Jim in Hikaru’s apartment (Gertrude the algae was quite obviously there in the background), he contacted Spock.

“This is becoming creepy,” Pavel whined into his mobile phone. “It was being strange before, but now it is involving me and my boyfriend’s pet plants.” He could practically feel Spock’s eyebrow inching upwards.

“Yet you do not find the phrase ‘pet plants’ strange,” Spock murmured rhetorically. “I do, however, understand what you mean. It is… disconcerting to find oneself vilified by those who have never met oneself.”

Pasha sighed. “You are having it worse than I am in that area, but I am not understanding why they would want pictures of Hiki and me.”

There was a pause as Spock looked at the post in question. “They wanted to prove that you and Mr. Sulu are a couple, to correlate with a previous post about Mr. Sulu allowing you to stay at his house.”

Pavel groaned. “That isn’t what I meant. Why would they even be wanting to confirm that? We are people who write. What more is there for them to want?”

There was a beat of silence on Spock’s end. “I am unsure of their motives, Mr. Chekov. I apologise for being uninformative.”

Pavel palmed his forehead, kneading at it in amusement. “I must introduce you to Boris someday. You will discuss things in a bubble of logic.”

“Excuse me?”

“My cousin, Boris. He is having Asperger’s syndrome, so he is very intent on answering questions that are not posed as needing an answer.”

Spock grew quiet once more. There was a beat of silence that stretched into a hesitant breath. “Indeed, it appears that he and I have more in common than I had first supposed.”

“By that, do you mean—?”

“Yes, Mr. Chekov, I do possess the mental faculties and limits that are collectively recognised as Asperger’s syndrome,” Spock remarked flatly. “I do not attempt to keep it secret.”

Pavel brightened. “So I am not making you uncomfortable by having you tell me?”

“I assure you that the revelation was entirely of my own free will,” Spock said in his ‘I am raising my eyebrow of unholy horror at you, but it is because I am amused’ voice.

“Oh, good,” said Pavel, “because some of the vilifying statements from those fans have also speculated on that. It is being strange that they have gathered so much information, but they are thinking that you would not be fit for being with Jim if you are being ‘robotic’…” he trailed off, because Spock seemed to have gone quite silent on the other end. “I am not sure of what is making them think Jim is over-sensitive enough to mind your words, and I am not believing that of you, Spock. You and Jim are a good match, but this is only my opinion.”

“I thank you for your opinion,” replied Spock, “and I do not believe that you would think that of me. I can only wonder if Jim would act similarly.”

“I am glad we are being…” Pavel cocked his head, pausing mid sentence. “I am feeling that there is no doubt of how Jim would react. Jim is liking you as you are.” Pavel considered him before moving on. “Who else knows? In our group, that is. You often do not give the impression that you have Asperger’s.”

Spock paused, as if contemplating it. “Nyota knows,” he said.

“Of course,” muttered Pavel. “She is knowing you better than any other in our group.”

“Dr. McCoy has voiced his suspicions, but I believe he thinks he is too polite to press the matter.” Spock grew silent for a moment, but the sound of his hard shoes clacking on his floor suggested that he was moving throughout his house.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “My parents,” he started, his voice a bit strained. “My father encouraged me to learn how to assimilate properly. That is likely why I am adept at concealing my habits.” Hesitantly, he added, “In addition, Nyota has often worked with me on expressing things in a more socially acceptable manner.”

Pavel bit his lip. “Ah, I see. My family is not as firm with Boris, but sometimes he does not remember that it is not good to steal the food of others with his bow, or he wanders off when we are in public spaces with many distractions. When we take him to airports we used to have the child leash things. His way of interacting with the world seems to work for him.”

Spock made a small sound of acknowledgement. “Has Boris ever—”

He was cut off by the sound of insistent knocking on his part. “Who is it?”

Pavel heard a muted voice, followed by Spock muttering about increasingly apt metaphors about devils. “Wait one moment, Mr. Chekov.”

Again the sound of Spock moving throughout the house was heard, implying that the other had taken the phone with him to the door. Pavel could hear, dimly, the sound of the door opening and Spock greeting Jim, only for the other to exclaim quite clearly and excitedly that Sixteen Light Years was going to be a movie at long last.

Pavel chuckled as Spock raised the phone to his ear again. “I am afraid that our conversation will have to continue at a later time, Mr. Chekov,” he said.

“It is no problem,” replied Pavel cheerily. “You will be having fun with Jim, nyet?”

Spock paused. “No comment,” he remarked, before hanging up.

Jim’s face at the next meeting did not portray any kind of excitement. In fact, he seemed despondent. Lying supine on the couch with his head in Spock’s lap, the writer dangled listlessly and complained about Hikaru taking forever on his section of the novel.

Pavel looked upon the scene with a mix of bemusement and satisfaction. It appeared strange compared to their earlier interactions, but Pavel was pleased that Jim’s fans had not affected their relationship unduly. However, he couldn’t help it when his face slackened at the sight of Spock running his fingers through Jim’s hair, as the other man rambled.

“It’s not fair to Pavel either.” Jim turned his head to look at him. “I mean, you probably want to work on the project, right?”

Pavel laughed, waving a hand. “I am understanding Hikaru’s time usage. You and the others are like machines in your ability to write for so long. Some of us need time.”

Jim pouted and turned his head back towards Spock. “Things keep happening,” he grumbled.

“Indeed?” asked Spock, arching an eyebrow as he ruffled Jim’s hair. Pavel was tempted to make gagging noises at the two of them, but Hikaru and Scotty were already doing that, and Nyota was sending them both exasperatedly amused glances.

“Looks like it’s only me without someone to make sheep’s eyes at,” remarked Leonard drily. “Whoopity doo.”

“Aw, Bones, you should join us,” retorted Jim, grinning up at the doctor.

“No, Jim.” Leonard shook his head. “Even if I went that way, I wouldn’t go for you.”

“You could go for Spock,” said Jim, grinning cheekily.

“I rather fancy keeping my balls intact, thanks,” snapped Leonard.

“Going gay for Spock isn’t going to castrate you, stupid,” giggled Jim. Moments later, his expression slipped again. “Though seriously, things just keep happening.”

“You might clarify as to what continues to occur,” Spock prompted.

“You know how my deal with Paramount ended with me becoming a producer in order to get more control over the thing?”

“Looks like Spock’s control-freak tendencies have gotten to you,” snickered Leonard.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Sure, Bones. Anyway, since I’m helping to produce the damn movie, I got the script for it today.”

Pavel could almost hear everyone leaning in with bated breath. “And?” he asked.

Jim groaned loudly. “I’m going to hunt down Orci and Kurtzman and kill them.”

“That bad?” wondered Nyota.

“Terrible.”

Nyota snorted. “At least it wasn’t Steven Moffat.”

“I’m not exactly seeing how that is any worse,” retorted Jim, scrubbing at his eyes blearily as Spock idly toyed with a couple strands of his hair.

“At least Orci and Kurtzman’s Sleepy Hollow had representation of people of colour,” said Nyota blandly.

“You haven’t even read the script.”

“No, but I can tell you that Moffat’s shit at writing women and people of colour, much less women of colour like Janet Costello.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he’s a writer for British television and not American movies, then,” Jim pointed out, amused.

“Don’t tempt fate,” Nyota muttered darkly. “You’re already in a hole with the two devils you have. But then again, better the devils that give you representation than the devil that doesn’t.”

Jim snorted. “Sure, but wait until you get ahold of the script,” he said, rolling over and grabbing the offending papers from his satchel. “You see, Orci and Kurtzman have this amazing ability to take a progressive story and toss it back a couple steps.”

Nyota raised her eyebrows as she took the script from him and leafed through it. “Oh no, they didn’t,” she said, her gaze landing on a certain page.

“Oh yes, they did,” replied Jim. Pavel reckoned that he must have read the script over and over again in silent horror to be able to gauge where Nyota was despite being seated away from her.

“What are they doing?” he asked, causing the two to look at him.

“They broke up the mating quartet of Sorjei, Miren, Talla, and Shres into two heterosexual couples,” said Jim, “and then they created a love triangle between Sorjei, Miren, and Janet.”

Pavel cringed. He, too, had read the book, and he knew how important it was that the Andorians mated in foursomes. He knew how much Jim had stressed Miren’s complete acceptance of Sorjei’s love for Janet. He chanced a glance at Spock, who was also looking slightly put off by this new revelation.

“How did they manage to screw up something as integral to the book as the facets of a culture’s rituals and basic biology?” Nyota ground out, continuing to flip through the script with an expression of resigned horror on her face. “That doesn’t make any semblance of sense! Half of the advancements in the development of the novel are dependent on Andorian society, and much of the rest is due to Miren. Did they just slap something completely different together and scrawl the book’s title on the cover?”

Jim blinked at her in pleased surprise. “So you did read it,” he said. She huffed.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t lie about something like that just to stroke your ego.” She flung the script onto the table in disgust. “I don’t want to look at that anymore. It took out anything more diverse than an alien planet just so that it could pull a ‘no homo’. How did all of those readers and editors and development execs not notice how this script is completely contrary to the spirit of the book?”

“Yeah, I don’t even want to know why I’m the first one in the pecking order to notice all of these fairly obvious problems with their script,” grumbled Jim.

Spock picked the script up with an air of resignation; Jim eyed it with disdain from below, in his lap. After a moment of thumbing through the pages, Spock rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What reason could they possibly have for modifying Talla’s place of work? In addition, they appear to have neglected to inform casting that Janet is Black, that Miren has features that would be considered Asian on Earth, and that Robert is a transgender male.”

Nyota groaned loudly. “That’s really going to bug me, isn’t it?”

“They’re probably going to cast a cis man to play Robert if this trainwreck isn’t stopped, so, yes, it will bug you,” replied Jim.

“Oh, I know,” snapped Nyota. “It’s like opening the door wide open for Emma Watson to play Janet. I saw the fyeah16lightyears blog throw a hissy fit over that one photomanipulation.”

“I am not thinking that was the blog,” said Pavel.

“No, it was the fandom, but the blog posted it with its commentary,” amended Nyota.

Jim, who had been looking between them with an expression of surprise, looked back up at Spock again. “You also read my book?” he asked, eyes alight.

“I read it the night we were first acquainted,” replied Spock, to a barely-concealed ‘awww’ from Scotty. The dark-haired man levelled him a glare. Scotty raised both hands in defence and backed away.

“If so many of those Correspondent kiddos understand Jim’s characters that well, maybe they should be writing the script,” Leonard grumbled. “Lord knows it’d be a sight better than anything pumped out with a misconstrued culture.”

“Would you really trust the fans to do something like that?” wondered Scotty. “Even after all the hurtful things they’ve said about people in Jim’s life?”

“It’s not the entire fandom,” pointed out Hikaru. “It’s just a bunch of crazy people. They’re not the entire fandom, even if they’re the most noticeable because they’re simply obnoxious.”

“Yeah, the moderators of the blog at least are decent people,” agreed Nyota. “They said they’d notify their followers about the photos.”

“I am hoping that post is coming soon,” said Pavel as Jim swung up and away from Spock’s lap and rested his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled below his chin.

“I don’t want this script to be the final film,” he said after a moment, “and I know there are some excellent writers in the Correspondents… yeah, why not?”

“Why not what?” wondered Nyota.

“I’m going to contact the mods, too,” replied Jim. “Get them to open up a contest for adapting the book and have the contestants send their scripts to me. Best one gets sent to the rest of the producers.”

“Bit of a leap of faith, there,” remarked Scotty. “Most fandoms are comprised of inexperienced writers.”

“Inexperienced, but talented,” Nyota pointed out. “There’s been brilliant literary analysis from the Correspondent fandom. I don’t even think Jim thought of half of the things they pointed out.”

Jim snorted, taking out his mobile to tap out a message. “My point exactly. I’m fine with seeing what the Correspondents can do with my book. They’d do it better than Orci and Kurtzman, at any rate.”

“You trust your fangirls to write you an adaptation of your book,” repeated Scotty.

Jim grinned at him before sprawling back out on Spock’s lap. “Have you read ‘Cosmos’? It’s a fanfic for my own book, and I cried reading it. So there; your argument’s invalid.” And for good measure, he stuck out his tongue. Pavel giggled.

Nyota rolled her eyes. “You say that, yes, but I also distinctly remember you saying that there are fanfics out there that completely fail to grasp the point of the novel.”

“Sturgeon’s law, duh,” replied Jim. “The good 1% of Sixteen Light Years fanfiction are almost like reviews of the book, in a way. Very nice analysis through a transformative work.” He paused, grinning. “Also, it’s fun to mention in interviews how I’ve read fanfiction for SLY, and then watch the Correspondents freak out and scramble to hide the porn.”

“You’re a horrible person,” said Nyota, her lips twitching slightly upwards.

“I know I am,” replied Jim with a smirk.

Pavel moved back into his double at Maseeh Hall at the beginning of the new term. Hikaru helped him carry his bags all the way up to his room; they had taken the stairs since the elevators were congested with returning students.

The first thing he noticed was that his roommate Dave still hadn’t made his presence known. Dave Bailey had gone abroad over the winter break; Pavel occasionally saw Facebook statuses that indicated that he was somewhere on that giant landmass known as Europe.

As a whole, Pavel preferred not to get too involved in his roommate’s affairs. His moods were volatile and stunning in their intensity, and Pavel’s efforts to cheer him up were often fruitless. If anything, they exacerbated the issue. So it really wasn’t Pavel’s business to worry about Dave; the guy would stumble in of his own accord. Eventually.

“I’m never going to get over the fact that you managed to be placed in the dorm that’s secretly a palace,” Hikaru muttered. “Honestly, I should be the one that spends all my time at your place, not the reverse.”

“I am not believing that you would want to spend so much of your time with students here,” replied Pavel as he hung his shirts and sweaters up in his wardrobe. “As a practical joke they once hacked the elevators to say funny things when you are trying to get places. And I am sure Scotty is responsible for the moving TARDIS pranks and that one message on the Green building.”

“Are you kidding? That makes me want to spend more time with these students,” retorted Hikaru, taking a seat on Pavel’s bed. “I have the pages done,” he added, taking out the aforementioned sheet of papers and setting it down on Pavel’s desk.

Pavel turned and raised an eyebrow at Hikaru. “Now?” he demanded. “You hold the pages for longer than anyone else, you work and work, and you are still waiting until I am attacked by the evil forces of coursework and furniture arrangement before giving me the pages. I am thinking you hate me.”

Hikaru huffed. “It wasn’t my fault that everything went crazy just before I got my pages. Besides, you know very well that if I hated you I wouldn’t be ruining my eligibility as a hot grandpa thirty years from now when your furniture has killed my spine. I’ll be hunched up like a shrimp, and it will be all your fault.”

“Not true,” Pavel corrected, “my furniture is hurting you in preemptive karma. It was knowing that you would betray me with your horrible sense of timing, but it would not do anything to make you less attractive.”

“I knew you only loved me for my rockin’ bod,” Hikaru harumphed.

Pavel grinned. “This may be true if you do not stop being a baby.” He snorted, and walking over to Hikaru, patted him on the back. “I will forgive you for your betrayal, but only if my things are not broken. I heard a box drop on our way up.”

“It’s not betrayal,” Hikaru groaned. “Besides, that was your pillow box.”

“Then I hope my pillows are not being broken.”

“Pillows can’t be broken, Pasha.”

“Lies. You made one explode yesterday.” Pavel took one of the pillows from the box in question and smacked Hikaru with it. “I am only hoping you did not put a twist in the story. That would be a real betrayal.”

“Why does everyone think that I’d be a big enough jerk to do that?” demanded Hikaru. Pavel responded by seizing the papers in question and briefly flipping through them. After a moment, he looked up, raising an eyebrow at Hikaru.

“You are ending with them about to be sucked into a black hole. What else is there? There is nothing I can do from there.”

Hikaru snorted. “You could try to save them from the black hole,” he pointed out.

“Hiki.” Pavel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Black holes suck everything into them. Everything. Including light. It is trapped in a euclidean disk— a line — that doubles back into itself for ever and ever. Nothing escapes.”

“Pasha, I know I’m not an engineer, but I do happen to know about the general principles behind black holes. Your job is to use whatever knowledge you can to work around the laws of physics so that things will work out how you want them to. Playing god is what writers do, so go wild.”

Pavel glared at him. “If you are wanting me to use fake science, you have another thing coming.”

Hikaru held up a finger. “Not fake science — just, well, modified science. Advancements have to be made at some point, you know. In fact, it’s already well-established in this novel somewhere, thanks to that one discussion we had back in November, that this ship travels faster than the speed of light because of some matter-antimatter pods which fuel something called a ‘warp drive’. And don’t even get me started on decalithium or that drill thing. We’ve all fucked with science in this novel.”

“Yes, but…” Pavel shook his head. “Scotty will kill me if I somehow manage to find a way for the ship to escape this black hole. You are knowing how he is —”

“Ye cannae change the laws of physics,” agreed Hikaru, mimicking Scotty’s accent as he did so. “But don’t you want Taggart and the crew of the Enterprise to live?”

“I am not even knowing these characters yet!” Pavel exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “I would not be wishing to kill them straight away, but I would also like to keep the black hole happy and untampered with.”

“I get the distinct sense that you’re going to kill them off just to spite the rest of us,” muttered Hikaru. Pavel, in response, consulted the list of characters and locations.

“What is giving you that idea?” he wondered innocently. “I am thinking that turning an entire ship and its inhabitants into spaghetti would be an interesting story to write.”

“Speaking of spaghetti, perhaps we should go have some lunch instead,” Hikaru suggested.

“You are distracting me with food,” accused Pavel.

“That would be the last thing on my mind,” retorted Hikaru, winking as he rose from the bed and backed out to the door. “Come on, show me what sort of food they serve at this palace.”

“It is not a palace,” insisted Pavel, “it is a structured place of learning that is only looking like a Russian palace.” As Hikaru was unlikely to turn back, he followed him in order to instill a proper appreciation for Russian architecture into his boyfriend.

“These are considerably better,” murmured Jim as he leaned against Spock’s legs at the next meeting, leafing through scripts. “Though one of them tries a little too hard to include every last word from the book into it.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s the one the book lovers really want,” replied Nyota as she filched some of Scotty’s whiskey. They were at Spock’s Brownstone again, and Nyota and Scotty basically had the couch to themselves because Spock refused to maintain bodily contact with it.

“It goes on for…” Jim gestured to what looked like the long-lost sibling of Tolstoy’s War and Peace in terms of length. “I have to admit, there are parts in the book that aren’t really cinematic. Heck, most of the book isn’t that cinematic if you think about it. But Paramount wants a franchise, so…”

“The contest isn’t even officially over,” Hikaru mused. “You could still get a really good script in your inbox tomorrow. Shouldn’t be trying to make any decisions.”

“How was Cousin Stonn’s wedding?” Nyota asked, looking at Spock, who was running his fingers through Jim’s hair once more, though Pavel noticed that Spock was sitting a bit stiffly — or more stiff than usual, at any rate.

“It was boring for the most part,” Jim said, even as Spock opened his mouth to answer. “Everyone was super uptight about everything until the chocolate fountain started pouring. I swear, in Spock’s family, chocolate gets people crazier than alcohol can.”

“Chocolate does have several qualities that create chemical reactions in the brain,” Nyota pointed out. “Maybe Spock’s family just has a genetic thing that makes them react in a different manner than most people do.”

Leonard groaned. “Please, Ny, leave the pseudo-medical stuff to Gray’s Anatomy. I don’t want to hear it.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “One day you’re going to contribute something besides complaints to the conversation.”

“I am a charming ray of sunshine,” Leonard intoned, “and you would all be lost without my cheerful words of inspiration.”

“To be honest, I thought you were going to be happier today,” Jim said. “After all, Jo is dropping by soon, right?”

“Early March,” replied Leonard. “Which is still too far away for me to be suitably happy about. Besides, if I’m too pleased about it, it’s just an excuse for Joce to hold Jo back a little more. Heck, if she found out you were my neighbour, she’d never let Jo come over.”

“So you’re going to pretend you don’t know me?” demanded Jim, looking hurt. “My heart’s breaking, here!”

“Sometimes I’m not sure whether or not Spock’s your rebound over the fact that I’m just not that interested in you,” retorted Leonard. “In that way, that is. I already spend too much time trying to make sure you don’t do stupid things.”

“Aw, Bones, I didn’t know you cared,” said Jim, winking at him before starting on another sheaf of papers.

“In the event that anyone in this group was curious,” Spock chimed in, “It is a common family trait on my father’s side to be able to metabolise alcohol more efficiently than sugar. My grandmother T’Pau is capable of drinking males twice her size under the table, but her reaction to candies is akin to I’Chaya and catnip. It is a fascinating trait.”

“I want to meet your granny,” declared Scotty.

“She would best you in a drinking competition,” warned Spock.

“Which is why I wanna meet her. I’ve been dying to meet a little old lady who could stab me with her knitting needles and then drink me under the table.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised that that’s on your bucket list?”

“Because you know how much of a thing I have for ladies who can hurt me?” wondered Scotty, winking at her. Nyota shook her head, but grinned nonetheless.

“I didn’t need to know about your secret submissive kinks,” Leonard complained. “Now there’s one more thing I can’t unsee.”

“Stop fantasising about me, then,” retorted Scotty.

“I dunno, I think most of us are fantasising about Nyota dominating us,” said Jim, causing Nyota to lean over and smack him.

“I don’t think Spock appreciates you thinking about me instead of him,” she said, “and since Spock himself is about as straight as overcooked pasta, I don’t think he’d find it fair.”

Spock sat up a little straighter, looking away. “I suppose, then, that you would rather stay at her house tonight than mine?”

At that, Jim promptly dropped the scripts and insinuated himself in Spock’s lap, wrapping around the other man. Pavel stifled a snigger.

“Spock, I meant that in a complementary way. I wasn’t actually thinking about Nyota. I totally wasn’t,” he wheedled, as Spock raised an eyebrow at the blond who was nuzzling at him like an overgrown puppy trying to ingratiate himself. “Spock,” he added, drawing out the man’s name so that it sounded as if he were saying ‘Spahk’. “Spock, please.”

Spock hesitated before relaxing into the tactile interactions. Leonard bent over double with laughter. Pavel considered that if there had to be a way for the doctor to go, death by laughter wasn’t the worst option. Especially since the doctor didn’t seem to smile that often.

Pavel supposed that he didn’t blame him. The doctor was constantly surrounded by idiots who tempted death, and yet his patients often remained surprised when he had to wrench them from its jaws.

“Len, if you don’t want to asphyxiate yourself, you might want to calm down,” Nyota observed, amused.

“Hey, you haven’t had to listen to Jim bitching and moaning in college about relationships and how long-term couples that expressed public displays of affection made him sick. I’m allowed to laugh my ass off at his hypocrisy,” Leonard defended.

“But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head?” quoted Hikaru, winking at Jim, who groaned aloud.

“Stop with the Shakespeare, already. You’re making me wonder if my life’s not only just a bad holiday movie, but also a bad adaptation of Much Ado.”

“At least you can tell what he’s quoting, much less what he’s talking about,” Scotty grumbled.

“Hiki is asking Jim and Spock whether we should be measuring their ring fingers now, or if we need to schedule it in,” Pavel translated, with a sly grin.

“I thought the line was referring to cuckoldry,” remarked Nyota as Jim returned to thumbing through scripts while still half-wrapped around Spock. It was probably a more comfortable situation than it looked, Pavel considered, since Spock seemed to be making no indication that he was uncomfortable with having to share Jim with the scripts of Sixteen Light Years.

“I am translating it from Hiki’s words, not Shakespeare’s,” Pavel clarified, ignoring that the quote remained unmodified.

“Either way, they’re more likely to buy something more practical for each other than wedding rings,” Hikaru said, sniggering. “Jim’s a downright cynic about his personal life, and Spock’s about as sentimental as an old tin can. Diamond rings and rose petals hardly seem their sort of thing, you know?”

“I’m not that big of a cynic about my personal life,” whined Jim.

Leonard snorted. “I remember you telling me once that if you ever ended up in a relationship, I’d have every right to try and convince you that you’ve probably been drugged.”

“I assure you, Dr. McCoy, that I did not put inhibitive chemical mixtures into anything Jim has ever ingested in my presence,” Spock piped up helpfully.

“Of course you didn’t. Past Jim was just being his usual idiotic self,” replied Leonard, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“And technically, we’re not actually in a relationship,” Jim added, his expression somewhat wistful. “We just… hang. And go out.”

“And cuddle with each other in front of everyone else, yes, we can see that,” remarked Leonard drily. “Last time I checked, Jim, that was just about the definition of a ‘relationship’. Is it just not Facebook official enough yet? Since I definitely haven’t seen any of that being changed on there.”

“Spock is never on Facebook,” retorted Jim. “And I’m too busy to deal with my page.” He flipped a couple pages, before raising an eyebrow at the current script. “I like this bit here,” he added, gesturing for Spock to look at the script as well.

Spock murmured in agreement, brushing his hand against the text to which Jim was alluding. “It does suit the thematic elements of the work, and it develops Miren’s character well.”

Hikaru squinted at the way they bent over the script, molding around each other as if constant contact was normal. Then, slowly, he turned to Pavel and stuck out his tongue as if he were gagging.

Nyota stifled a giggle as Hikaru continued to act as if he was dying. Pavel had no such qualms, and he audibly snorted.

“Such fluff. Very couple. Wow,” deadpanned Hikaru in between his gagging, causing Pavel to laugh louder, and Nyota to thwack Hikaru lightly with the set of scripts in her hand. Jim and Spock, however, remained blissfully unaware of the the rest of the group’s antics.

“How are we getting from Shakespeare to Doge memes?” Pavel wondered, grinning.

“They’re both highly overrated,” Leonard grouched. Hikaru almost fell out of his chair in shock.

“Take that back,” he demanded. Pavel mused that his boyfriend was close to swooning in sheer indignation.

Pavel reached over to pat him. “It is fine,” he soothed.

“He called my Willy overrated,” Hikaru whined, crossing his arms and prompting Scotty to burst into guffaws.

Leonard shook his head at Scotty’s antics. “I swear, sometimes you’re worse than Jim,” he grumbled, causing Hikaru to look innocent.

Jim’s head jerked up at the sound of his name. “Sorry, what’s that?”

“None of your concern, go back to nesting with Spock or something,” Hikaru declared airily.

“While I do find it relaxing to create configurations of blankets and pillows that somewhat resemble nests, I do not see how that is relevant to the topic at hand,” Spock interjected.

“Wait, you mean you actually like building blanket forts and stuff?” demanded Jim.

“I find that such environments are more secure locales for me to practice my meditation,” said Spock, and the expression on Jim’s face was as if he had just seen a zhar-ptitsa.

Leonard groaned audibly at that. “Get a cage, lovebirds,” he snapped. Pavel wondered if the doctor could somehow read his mind.

Jim pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness. “Well, we are at Spock’s house already, and Valentine’s Day is this Friday,” he began, a wicked grin appearing on his lips. “Dibs on the Whiteboard Room.”

Leonard groaned. “Are you out of your hipster mind? If y’all think you’re just going to go run off and do everything but get hitched while the rest of us are still in this house, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

Almost immediately Spock stiffened, his expression closing off. Jim cast him a sidelong glance, and Pavel could’ve cut the sexual tension coming from those two with a knife. Hikaru seemed highly tempted to put his hands on top of each other and rotate his thumbs, though how that configuration ever resembled a turtle was completely beyond Pavel’s imagination.

Jim sighed after a moment. “Sorry, just… forget everything I said before that little rant of yours, Bones,” he said, before extricating himself from Spock and moving away. Pavel raised an eyebrow at him; clearly there was something going on between these two that no amount of cuddling could rectify. He was surprised, though, that it appeared to be a lack of intimacy. The two certainly gave off the impression of being physically close.

Spock glared at the doctor, who raised both eyebrows amusedly in return.

Dave Bailey was still missing from their room, and spring semester was already well underway.

“How was your winter break, Pavel?” wondered Yuki Sulu as she took a seat across from him in the dining hall, a plate of freshly-assembled salad and some sweet potato and greens macaroni in her hands. Pavel shrugged in response, tucking into his bowl of soup.

“It was good,” he said vaguely. “Yours?”

“Well, I was very busy in Switzerland,” began Yuki, and Pavel found himself drowning out most of her story; the bowl of soup he was consuming was just that much more interesting, after all. He made the appropriate nods and noises of agreement at the right pauses, but Yuki was talking about particle accelerators like she’d been given one for Christmas, which meant that most of the time the speed of her mouth was greater than the speed at which he was processing her words.

Settling back into the rhythm of school was by now familiar to Pavel, though; his professors certainly wasted no time in loading him with homework. He already had three different problem sets and an essay to work on, not to mention the Frankenstein writing project (it was more apt than ‘exquisite corpse’, at any rate). Not for the first time, he wondered why he was the one who had to finish the entire thing.

Still, it was finally his turn, and he had already planned out how all of it would end. If Hiki was so adamant that Taggart and his friends survive, then Pavel was not above pulling some stunts on physics to achieve such a thing. Perhaps if they shot the warp core which powered their starship into the black hole and created a bunch of explosions that would propel them away from the singularity…

Oh, Scotty was going to kill him.

“— and that was about the time I leapt from the roof of the Bundeshaus, covered in blood from my latest kill. Although cannibalism may have been frowned upon, it wasn’t too large a slight to disqualify me from eligibility in the program,” Yuki deadpanned.

Blinking back into awareness, Pavel eyed Yuki in bemusement. “What?”

She sighed, looking upwards at the ceiling. “Yeah, I figured as much. You do know that if you aren’t that interested in what I have to say, you can tell me as much. A, ‘Yuki, I’m trying to eat here,’ would have sufficed.”

Pavel sank into his seat, chastened. “I was not trying to be rude,” he said.

Yuki rolled her eyes. “As long as you weren’t fantasising about my brother in the nude while I was talking, I’m cool with it.”

“So your matushka told you about that phone call of mine,” he mused. “I was wondering about that.”

“Yeah, thanks for making sure that I get Mom whining in both of my ears about my siblings’ choice in romantic partners. If I have to hear that I’m the last hope of carrying on the lineage one more time, I swear to science that I’m going to orchestrate an explosion.”

Pavel gaped at her. “You would kill one of your ‘babies’?”

Yuki grinned at him. “No, but I would have no qualms about one of yours solving all of my problems by sacrificing itself to the cause. Your stuff is usually more volatile, anyway.”

“You monster,” Pavel gasped.

“I’m kidding,” she conceded, “as if I’d sabotage an otherwise efficient project just to numb my blistered ears. Do you know what you’ve unleashed, though?”

“The Bagienniks?” wondered Pavel innocently.

Yuki looked at him oddly. “Come again?”

“Monsters of water?”

She considered it. “Close enough.” Pavel snickered, so she continued. “You’ve created a never-ending cycle of expectations and judgement. This, in turn, traps everyone in the immediate vicinity within variations of the same cycle. Basically, you’ve drawn me into the damn expectation whirlpool that I only just managed to escape.” She pointed at him with her fork. “The synopsis is thus: Shit’s fucked, and you’re the cause. If you intended to do this, well, mazel tov.”

Pavel’s eyebrows shot up. “What is your matushka bothering you about?”

“Oh, you know. She wants to see me with a boyfriend, now that my dearest sister and brother have both gotten them. I mean, what more does she want from us? All I ever want to do in life is run off into the sunset with a particle accelerator.” She frowned down at her food, stabbing it with a vicious thrust. “She even had the nerve to tell me I should lose weight to lure in a guy. At least my accelerator only cares if I’m healthy enough to take care of it.”

“You are sounding like my friend Scotty,” remarked Pavel. “He is graduate student here. Though he is having a girlfriend, so you should not talk too much science with him, lest he fall irrevocably in love with your ability to blow him up with nuclear fission.”

“I’m not into the whole dating thing, so he’s got nothing to worry about,” scoffed Yuki. “Though now I’m going to have to come up with a way to tell Mom about my intent to elope with the Large Hadron Collider.”

“Is Hikaru not invited?” Pavel snickered at the thought of the collider dressed in either a tuxedo or a frilly white dress. Or perhaps a dress with a bowtie and cummerbund.

“I remember what happened last time Hikaru was at a wedding, so no, he is not.”

Within a moment, Pavel had leaned forward in interest. “What are you meaning by that?”

Yuki snickered. “It was his first wedding after turning twenty-one, so he was actually allowed to touch the champagne — I mean, it isn’t as if he hadn’t had it before, but his fear of being arrested was pretty damn prevalent before then. Anyway, he drank just a tad too much.” She laughed pre-emptively, evidently remembering what happened next. “He stripped off his shirt, started quoting Dumas, and tried challenging the groom to a fencing match.”

Pavel chortled, a grin spreading across his face. “That is sounding very much like what he would do.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t seen the evidence for yourself,” Yuki said, snickering. “Our cousin Kiku put it on YouTube almost right after he took the video.”

“And Hiki hasn’t tried to get it taken off?” wondered Pavel. “He has been declining every invitation given by the rest of our friends to get a drink with them. I am thinking he is embarrassed about drinking too much.”

“He got Kiku to switch it to private, but trust me, everyone in our family with an internet connection and isn’t Mom has it saved to their computer.” She cocked her head for a moment before adding, “I think Mom has just blocked that night from her memory altogether, really.”

“Would you mind sending me a copy of this video?” Pavel asked hopefully.

Yuki grinned. “How much are you willing to shell out for it?”

Pavel pouted. “I am a student who is having bills to pay.” Yuki raised one unimpressed eyebrow in a manner befitting Spock.

“As am I. Now, what's the video worth to you?”

Pavel considered it. “Sexual favours?” he suggested.

Yuki snorted. “Isn’t having sex with one Sulu enough for you? Besides, I’m ace and in a fulfilling relationship with my work. And the LHC.”

“Fine,” sniffed Pavel. “It was being a long shot anyway. But I can get you cookies.”

She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward in interest. “What kind of cookies?” she purred.

“The best kind of cookies,” replied Pavel, hoping that Spock would forgive him.

“Well, in my opinion the best kind of cookies are snickerdoodles; you got any of those?”

Oh, those were easy. Spock knew perfectly well how to make those. “Plenty,” he boasted, puffing out his chest a little. “I will be getting you all the snickerdoodles.”

She grinned evilly. “You got your blackmail material, then. I haven’t had cookies in ages.” Her smile softened a bit, even as some kind of glint flashed in her eye. “I think it’s about time that I had a few.”

Pavel snorted. “I am having plenty of blackmail material on Hiki already,” he replied. “This is for my personal enjoyment. It is good to know he can embarrass himself in more ways than just driving.”

“And that,” concluded Pavel as he watched Spock crack open and add the yolks of what was at least four eggs to the electric mixer, “is how I am now being conflicted.”

Spock hummed, most of his attention devoted to the task at hand. “I fail to understand why you would not simply ask her to stop making you feel inferior,” he disclosed.

Groaning, Pavel went back to putting away the sack of flour. Trust Spock to buy only unbleached, organic flour. “I am not the one who is being made to feel bad,” he huffed, “It is Hiki who is, and I am upset about that.”

Spock made a noise of understanding. “I recall a prior conversation in which Mr. Sulu informed us of his family’s high expectations for him.”

“Da, expectations which have been created because his sister is so…” Pavel slammed the door of the pantry on the flour, glowering at the doorknob.

“Have you considered that Ms. Sulu has not harboured the intentions to make her brother feel substandard?” Spock began to stir in… whatever that substance was. Pavel was certain tartar sauce was meant to go on fish, and yet Spock insisted this cream was integral to the cookies’ composition.

“How could she not be knowing that when she talks so much about her accomplishments that it is difficult for others to be happy?”

This garnered an eyebrow raise from Spock. “Did it not occur to you that, perhaps, she simply enjoys her work, is proud of her developments, and is eager to share them with someone who might understand,” at this he gestured to Pavel, “or someone she respects, such as her older brother?”

Pavel threw up his hands. “And that is why I am being conflicted, Spock,” he pointed out, as the front door to the Brownstone opened and Nyota came walking in, a bag of groceries under her arm.

“I got the stuff you wanted, Spock —” she began, stopping at the sight of Pavel before raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have homework? Or a novel you should be working on?”

“How are you getting in the house, Ny?” wondered Pavel.

“Spock gave me the keys ages ago,” said Nyota. She turned to Spock. “Speaking of which, weren’t you going to get Jim a set? You were talking about it a couple days ago.”

Spock pursed his lips. “They were tentative suggestions,” he said.

“Well, if you think you trust him enough —”

“That is the point. I am not certain,” said Spock quietly, looking down at the cookie batter churning in the mixer bowl. He paused it for a moment, looking over at Nyota. “He appears to be committed, but I have my reservations about his integrity and motivations, of which you are well aware.”

Pavel cocked his head. “I am thinking you are being unfair to Jim,” he stated, plotting to steal a bit of the cookie dough as soon as Spock was distracted enough for him to be able to reach in under the electric mixer’s blades.

“In much the same manner that you are being unfair to Ms. Sulu, I believe,” Spock rebutted, pre-emptively turning the mixer back on. Pavel had to stifle his disappointed groan with a cough.

“It is not the same,” he said. “You are in a relationship with Jim, nyet? It is not the same with me and Yuki. I have every right to be wary of her intentions.”

“Jim and I have not defined the parameters of our conduct regarding this… relationship,” said Spock stiffly. “As it is, what we have shared so far are three dates, two movie-watching marathons, and seven games of chess, in which I have beaten him soundly.”

“And a lot of cuddling,” Pavel added.

“And extended periods of tactile contact,” agreed Spock.

“The ‘tactile contact’ could be lasting longer if you let him stay in the house,” Pavel pointed out.

“And what is to stop Jim’s fans-turned-paparazzi from photographing every trace of the scene?” Spock grumbled. “And making inane speculations about the shallowness of our relationship, not to mention how unsuitable I am for him and how our relationship is doomed for failure?” He glanced away. “It is also highly unlikely that either of us would find such an arrangement suitable. Prolonged exposure to certain elements can be exhausting.”

Nyota and Pavel made near simultaneous noises of comprehension.

“That is what you are being worried about?” Pavel demanded, though he had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to the story that Spock wasn’t saying aloud. “Jim is not being a radioactive substance, and he is being very severe with the people who are invading your privacy. In comparison to how he is acting normally, I mean.” He paused. “I saw a post he made to his fandom’s blog, along with Nyota’s admonishment. It was a very passionate letter in your defence.”

Nyota worried her top lip for a moment before concurring with, “Although I understand why you would be worried about that, Spock, Jim’s been working pretty damn hard to prove himself to you. Your feelings will always be the most important to me, but you need to take his feelings into consideration, too.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at her. Nyota chuckled, and formulated an analogy.

“Even if he were a pushy golden retriever drooling on your lap,” she began, to the rise of his other eyebrow, “by the twentieth time you pushed that dog away and told him to play somewhere else, he would slink off and pout in the park for a while before making his way over to someone who might actually pet him now and again.”

“I doubt I shall ever hear a more apt descriptor for Jim than that of an overeager golden retriever,” Spock hedged.

“No changing the subject,” Nyota exclaimed. “Seriously, just talk to each other about your feelings on the matter!”

Pavel barked out a laugh. “Who is being told to tell others how they feel now?”

Nyota turned to pierce Pavel with her steady gaze. “What are you talking about, Pasha?”

Within the space of a moment, Pavel found himself swallowing air in order for it to pass the lump forming in his throat. “Well, you see, I am conflicted about dealing with Hiki’s sister, as she is constantly making Hikaru feel bad. Her boasting —”

“Just hold up for a second,” Nyota snapped, her open palm formed into the universal sign for stop. “You are telling me that Hikaru’s sister, a woman who worked damn hard for her position, is under your scrutiny because she has the nerve to talk about her accomplishments?”

“Well —” began Pavel, gesturing helplessly to the giant batch of snickerdoodles that Spock was currently whipping up. His mouth worked uselessly for a couple of moments, before his hands dropped to his side and he slumped slightly. “It is sometimes irritating, that is all.”

“No, no, you said something about her making Hikaru feel bad.” Nyota arched an eyebrow. Spock stopped the mixer at that moment, having rendered its contents into something kneadable. As he removed the bowl of dough from underneath the blades, Nyota reached over and nabbed some of the dough, popping it into her mouth. Spock sent her a look that clearly said, ‘really?’

“Yuki’s accomplishments are making their mother make Hiki feel bad. No matter what he is doing, she is never seeing him as enough because of her.”

“So you think it’s your duty to put Yuki down in, what, revenge?” demanded Nyota. “She’s probably one of the youngest employees at CERN. She deserves her laurels. And here you are, telling her she doesn’t deserve her accomplishments and has no right to talk about them.”

“She does deserve them, Nyota, you mistake me —”

“Really? I am? Because I could’ve sworn you were trying to shut her down based on what you were telling me about her being annoying.”

Pavel groaned. “It is Hiki I am being worried about. His mother is not giving him any credit for his own accomplishments and is only putting him down!”

“Hikaru might’ve gotten through Harvard with a double concentration and his fencing, but he hasn’t done as well as Yuki has.” Nyota shrugged. “It’s the truth. And while Mrs. Sulu’s criticisms are a bit excessive, it’s useless to try and solve the situation by criticising Yuki instead.”

“But what else —”

“Perhaps you should stop coddling your boyfriend. I know he’s our friend and he’s a great writer, but you making excuses for him is hardly going to help him get his life in order. You can also ask Yuki to consider his feelings sometimes, but I wouldn’t advise it. She’s the youngest, right?”

Pavel nodded. Nyota shrugged.

“See, she’s had a lot of expectations set out before her. Now she’s exceeded them, so it’s only natural that the maternal finger of disapproval would shift to someone else. You’re not doing Hiki any favours by excusing him, Pasha.”

Pasha groaned. “I was beginning to understand, Ny, because these cookies are meant for her.” Nyota raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue. “She offered to show me something funny about Hiki. I am paying her in cookies. She has a very good sense of humour.”

Nyota snorted. “Oh, so you just figured out she was a person, huh?”

“It is considerably difficult to neglect the knowledge that someone who is clearly human in physicality and intelligence is human,” Spock pointed out as he kneaded at the dough before starting to fashion the cookies out on parchment paper-lined baking trays. Pavel tried to reach for some of the dough, but Spock sent him a glare, and he retracted his hand sheepishly.

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Yes, because we haven’t gotten to where Scotty is in terms of robotic advancements, nor have we been contacted by extraterrestrials,” she muttered. “That wasn’t the point.”

“Then what was your point?” wondered Spock, rolling out a couple more cookies-to-be.

“The point is that Pasha’s finally gotten his head around the concept that Yuki is more than just an annoying classmate whose brother he happens to be bumping uglies with.” Nyota massaged the bridge of her nose. “Now, can the two of you both suffer through your grueling emotional talks without me holding your hand all the way? Or will I have to make you notecards?”

The glare she levelled at the pair of them was nothing short of terrifying. Pavel could’ve sworn he was trembling, but just a little. Spock also seemed a bit cowed, judging by his wide eyes.

“I do not believe that will be necessary,” he said after a moment.

“Ny, you are being the best therapist,” Pavel added, in a voice that seemed a little too high even for him.

She looked at the two of them. “I should be charging,” she grumbled.

“But we are your friends,” protested Pavel.

“You can pay me in cookie dough,” said Nyota, reaching for one of the cookies-to-be. Spock swatted her hand away with a glower.

“Unbaked cookie dough contains raw egg, which places you at risk of contracting salmonella —”

“Spock, no one cares about salmonella when it involves cookie dough,” Nyota groaned, swiping another one of the cookies-to-be before he could react. “It’s the food of the gods.”

Spock stared on with narrowed eyes as Nyota popped the cookie dough in her mouth. Pavel looked wistfully at the baking trays, but Spock glared at him, so he held up his hands in a pacifying gesture instead.

He was going to have to ask Nyota how she managed to steal Spock’s cookie dough so effortlessly.

Pavel was happily churning out pages in the novel in this easygoing silence of Barker Library, his textbooks forgotten on the desk next to him. Scotty was rifling through the nearby shelves; the Russian could hear him cursing softly under his breath as he did so.

He had to handle the denouement of the novel. After having Taggart order the new Chief Engineer Chen to eject the warp core, generating an explosion that managed to propel the Enterprise to safety (Pavel covered his screen as Scotty passed so that the Scotsman would not kill him for that flagrant abuse of physics, even if he could not read Russian), the ship was towed back to the recently-saved Earth in triumph. Taggart was then duly promoted to captain of the Enterprise and given a commendation, which had to have broken a record or two somewhere in the history of any sort of navy, ever.

But from there?

Pavel consulted the list of places and names. Spock had amended ‘Ambassador Lazarus’ with ‘Lazarus Prime’, and Nyota had crossed out the ‘baby’ for ‘Baby Lazarus’ and tacked on ‘commander’ instead. Pavel was not entirely sure whether this translated into cloning or time travel within the little context he had been given, but either way, it was going to be confusing to write about in-depth.

After due consideration, Pavel chalked it up to every vegetable having its time. He would deal with Lazarus Prime later — for now he would have to tie up whatever loose ends there seemed to be left.

“Scotty,” he entreated, calling the man forth from his stacks of books, “if you were building something, and someone was destroying it, what would you be doing?”

Scotty considered him for a long moment, finally answering with, “I’d cure their hide and fix what they broke.”

His face crumpled in thought, Pavel tapped his keyboard. “Thank you.”

Scotty waved it off. “It was no problem. It wasn’t too hard to imagine,” he drawled, eyeing Pavel accusingly.

Pavel grinned. “It was teaching you a lesson, da?”

“Sure thing, lad, just keep thinking that,” he grumbled. Catching a glimpse of the screen, he peered over Pavel’s shoulder, causing the teenager to stiffen. “Isn’t getting Nyota to translate your piece cheating?”

“I will be translating it myself,” Pavel retorted, slumping slightly in relief when Scotty moved away, “it is just easier to get things out this way first.”

“I see,” Scotty murmured, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Once he was sure Scotty’s attention had been diverted back to his books, Pavel began to consider how he could deter Lazarus from leaving the Enterprise. After all, if he wanted to make reparations to his world, helping his people would come first and foremost. He needed something to appeal to his sense of adventure, something that would cause Lazarus to think that staying with his crew would be worth it.

Scrubbing at his eyes in frustration, Pavel almost didn’t hear another person approaching until he looked up again to see Yuki standing there, a pile of books in her arms.

“That is all being for one class?” he asked.

“Two, actually,” she replied, setting them down on the table. “I’ve got essays for both Robinson and Taylor.” She paused. “Yes, that Professor Taylor, in case you were wondering.”

“The one who gave you your job?” wondered Pavel.

“Yup.” Yuki shrugged, opening the topmost book and flipping through it. After a moment, she looked at him again. “You’re not working on homework, are you?”

“Guilty as charged, as they are saying,” said Pavel.

“Okay, if you’re going to answer ambiguously, I’d like to know whether you’re giving the affirmative or not,” Yuki responded wryly.

“I am not, no,” Pavel clarified. “But it is not fair of you to be nitpicky.” He furrowed his eyebrows and attempted to look stern.

“Them’s the breaks.” She laughed, eyeing his expression. “You can’t be mad at me forever. Your face will freeze that way, and you will look like a Russian version of Grumpy Cat until the end of time.”

Pavel’s response was to scowl deeper. “If you are wanting to know, though, I am working on a novel.”

“Ooh, does it involve murder mysteries? I liked that noir piece of yours in Rune. Very… Dostoyevsky.”

“He was being an inspiration, yes, “ agreed Pavel. “What about the cookies?"

“They were fantastic. I get the feeling you didn’t bake them yourself.”

“What would be giving you that idea?”

“It didn’t taste like the cookies you get from premade cookie dough,” she replied sweetly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Which means they were made from scratch, and I’m fairly certain Maseeh doesn’t have kitchens that are accessible to students.”

“You know I am living there?”

“Hiki won’t shut up about his boyfriend that lives in a Russian-styled palace. Which, you know, is bullshit, since Maseeh started its life as a hotel instead.”

“I will tell you, I did nothing to encourage such things,” deadpanned Pavel. Yuki rolled her eyes.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said, and Pavel shrugged, tapping out a couple more plot points in Russian before looking at her again.

“If you went back in time to see your past self, what would you tell them?” he asked.

“Nothing that would make me change the path that led to where I am now,” she responded without hesitation. “I mean, I’d probably just tell myself that this is what makes me happiest, so I should be more confident in my decisions. However, I can see that screwing myself over in that I might make different decisions because of my newfound confidence.” She cocked her head and pondered the question for a moment. “I mean, yeah, if past me was about to make a shit decision, I’d probably make it easier on myself by telling her that she was making a mistake or something. Hell, I could have used it a few times.” She looked down at the floor before directing her gaze back up. “Flame tempers steel and all of that.”

“What, have you been making bad decisions?”

A shadow seemed to pass over her features for a moment, before quickly vanishing. “We all do,” she replied, looking down at her hands. “I’m not entirely sure if it was a decision on my behalf or just something pressured onto me by my environment.”

Pavel frowned. “If you are not being comfortable discussing it —”

“It’s the past,” Yuki said abruptly. “I used to have a lot of pressure from Mom before I got in here, before I got my job. It was like she wasn’t ever sure if I was…” she paused, wrinkling her nose. “Pretty enough,” she finished after a moment.

“I am not aware that you have considered that an issue,” said Pavel.

“Was that an extremely roundabout compliment?” Yuki wondered, tilting her head to the side. “It’s just that, well, back before I got a grip on myself, I did some shitty things.”

“Ah.” Pavel nodded.

“Let’s just say that I came to realise that my brain was worth more to me than my weight,” agreed Yuki.

“That is good,” agreed Pavel. “I would not be having a good competitor otherwise.”

She laughed. “Hopefully you can get Hikaru to work a bit harder as well.”

“He is a hard worker,” protested Pavel. “He has been working hard on this novel of ours, and he has other shorter pieces and poems, too.”

She grinned at him. “In that case, I might have to admit that you’re better than me at something. Science knows that I’ve been trying to instill some motivation into him for years.”

“He is only being motivated for what he is thinking are the right things,” agreed Pavel. “On other things, he is not even caring for them.”

Yuki hummed in agreement. “He does care quite a bit when he thinks his work will make you proud. It’s kind of cute.”

Pavel snorted. “He once wrote a sonnet about zombies for me.”

“That’s adorable,” retorted Yuki. “He does take more after our dad in that respect.” She seemed to consider it for a moment, resting her chin on her stack of books and looking at Pavel with pursed lips. “You know, I think you might be good for him. He’s selectively motivated, sure, but at least he’s selectively motivated in your favour.”

Pavel nodded at her, supposing that out of all the sisters in the world, Yuki wasn’t exactly the worst. She was, at least, a peer that he could talk to; she was someone who could keep up with him, if not surpass him completely. “I am supposing that this is you giving us your blessing?” he wondered.

Yuki’s face screwed up in thoughtfulness again. “Sure,” she said. “But if he starts getting lazy on you, I have every right to retract that blessing.”

“That is being quite the incentive,” remarked Pavel. Yuki laughed, extending her hand for him to shake. Pavel took it, already brewing up a meeting between Lazarus and Lazarus Prime which would keep Lazarus serving in Starfleet, on the Enterprise, and with Captain Peter Taggart. 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t as if Leonard expected Jim to be on time for every meeting — hell, the kid didn’t show up to half of them because the film industry had him trapped in endless negotiations about the rights to his book — but he hoped that whenever he did show up, he would have some kind of reason for showing up fifteen minutes late, with or without Starbucks.

“Will Jim be absent from today’s meeting?” Spock questioned, as if reading his mind. Leonard nearly smiled at the way Spock was deliberately looking at him, building the facade that there was nothing out of the ordinary in his concern. However, Leonard remembered the meetings where Spock had outright ignored Jim’s absences. Whether or not Spock wanted to pretend things hadn’t changed between the two of them, they definitely had.

“If he is, he’s in trouble for not telling me,” Leonard sniffed. “After all, we’ve finished writing the damn book that was his idea to start with.” He gestured to the stack of papers in his hand that was the manuscript for the Exquisite Corpse Novel. Pavel had turned in his pages the other day, leading to Leonard calling for everyone else to email their pages to him as well. Now the novel was resting, for the first time, in one piece on Nyota’s coffee table.

Nyota’s cell phone rang at that moment; she picked up to answer it, made a couple noises of agreement, and left the apartment to walk downstairs. Moments later, she resurfaced with Jim, who had following behind him a young woman in a golden parka, shivering in the February air and grinning at them.

Leonard sensed more than saw Spock’s eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

Nyota shot Jim a look, as if urging him to explain. The blond responded by taking off his coat and hat and asking if the newcomer wanted to do the same. She laughed and said that she’d rather keep hers on, since it was cold. Jim nodded, gesturing for her to take a seat. He himself moved to where Spock sat, but the other man merely moved aside and did not shift back towards Jim once he had sat down.

Leonard had to pity Spock. The guy probably felt like steamrollered shit after seeing Jim arrive late with some girl in a gold parka.

“So, I hear the book’s finally finished!” Jim said by way of greeting, putting an arm around Spock. The dark-haired man shrugged it off; undeterred, Jim replaced it. Spock glowered at him.

“It did come out faster than expected, I think,” said Nyota, her expression clearly displeased. “Len has the finished manuscript.”

Jim reached for it, but Leonard snatched it away before the blond’s hand was even within grabbing distance. “I think you owe us an explanation first,” he said.

“I concur.” Spock inched away from Jim on the loveseat, which was an astounding feat given the size of the couch. “Who is this new addition to our group?”

Jim looked over at the girl with a grin. “It’s not what you think it is, Spock,” he began.

“I am intrigued. Do go on,” said Spock in a voice that indicated the exact opposite.

Jim leapt to his feet. “Guys, meet Natalie Tucker.”

There was a pause. Natalie Tucker looked exceedingly like Leonard’s mental image of Janet Costello. She was tanned, with dark hair, dark eyes (smartly outlined in eyeliner), and a sweet smile that shone with pale pink lipgloss. She was practically drowning in her parka, yet still shivering. “Hey,” she offered, waving at them. “Glad to meet you guys.”

“She’s from Florida,” added Jim, “so she’s not used to the cold.”

“What purpose does she serve?” Spock asked. Leonard disguised his snort with a bout of coughing. Spock truly was a charmer.

“She’s just here for this week. I’m consulting her for some things,” replied Jim.

“How long have you been in contact with her?” demanded Spock. Natalie’s eyes had gotten a bit wide, as if she was wondering if there was some sort of mistake.

“Since we decided on her script for Sixteen Light Years,” answered Jim, brows furrowed slightly. “Spock, are you —”

Spock raised an eyebrow in response. “She is the writer whose script Jim and I selected for the film of Sixteen Light Years?”

“Yeah.” Jim grinned. Spock looked at Natalie again.

“You are implying that you have been seeing one of your own fans — “ he began, but was interrupted by Natalie.

“I think you guys are functioning under a bit of a misconception,” Natalie said, grinning. “Hi, I’m andorablecreature from Tumblr, and I’m just here to work on the script.”

Jim chuckled. “In case you cared to know, she wrote that really sad Sixteen Light Years fanfic called ‘Cosmos’.”

“That’s me,” agreed Natalie with a grin. “It’s so good to meet you all in person. Mr. Kirk was picking me up from Logan; that’s why he’s late. And like I said earlier, I’m up here for this week because Mr. Kirk wanted to work with me on some things with the script.”

Spock looked at Jim, tilting his head to the side. “And Skype was not a sufficient tool?” he asked drily. “After all, you are requesting she dress for temperatures to which she is unsuited, and I am also fairly certain that she is currently skipping school —”

“That’s fine; this is one of the more productive reasons to skip class,” Natalie interjected.

“There are just some script bits that don’t work so well over Skype,” retorted Jim.

Natalie laughed. “Look, Mr. Grayson — you are Mr. Grayson, right?” Spock nodded, so she continued. “You don’t have anything to fear from leaving me in a room with Mr. Kirk. On the way over from Logan, all he would ever do was talk about you. It was very sweet.”

Leonard had to stifle a laugh, as Jim flapped his hands in some semblance of a signal for Natalie to stop talking. Her laughter increased in intensity, and Spock looked away in the way that he did only when he was pleased.

“I talked about other things,” Jim protested.

Grinning, Natalie shook her head. “You went straight from ‘you must not be used to the cold’ to ‘Spock must have taken so long to adjust to the cold here, since he’s from Arizona’,” she quoted, amused. Jim covered his face.

“Nat, please, help me preserve some shred of my ego.”

“No, no,” Nyota objected, an equally mischievous grin stretching across her face, “please, go on until there’s only a normal sized ego in its place.”

“Bones, help me out here,” Jim pleaded.

Leonard laughed, waving Jim's protests away. “I'm enjoying myself just fine, kid. You dug your own grave, you might as well lay in it.” Saying that, the doctor turned his attentions to the finished manuscript of the novel.

“Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal,” muttered Jim, in a mixture of hurt and amusement which was just the typical Jim Kirk response to any sort of teasing from Leonard McCoy.

Leonard hummed, appeased at the evidence that Jim would be fine. He’d tune back in when the conversation turned away from Jim mooning after Spock and towards the more finalised aspects of the Sixteen Light Years screenplay. Though, judging by the laughter from the rest of the group, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

After a while, he took a look at Spock, who seemed to be tentatively leaning against Jim, as if he was leaning against a pole which might or might not topple at the slightest touch.  It was hardly the sort of confidence needed in a solid relationship, as far as Leonard was concerned, but then again, he was hardly an expert in these sort of things. He was a doctor, dammit. No matter what Jim said, that did not qualify him to be the group's personal counselor.

He turned back towards the task at hand, flipping through the pages of the Exquisite Corpse manuscript and marking each transition from one author to the next. In all honesty, the transitions were the bits he had the least to worry about. After all, they bridged the few pages each new author had to work with to whatever events they added in order to further the plot. It was what came after the transition, when they were given slack, that Leonard worried about.

Strangely enough, he found few confusing points as he skimmed. Sure, some ranks mysteriously appeared for formerly unranked individuals, but overall, a quick flip through found it to be suspiciously cohesive.

“Did you all cheat or something?” Leonard asked, brandishing the manuscript as if it were a far more intimidating object. All of those gathered on the other side of the room turned to look at him simultaneously. Within moments, he was bombarded with denials.

“You know we wouldn’t cheat,” protested Hikaru. “Not after that entire argument between Jim and Spock.”

“We might have had some conversations about elements of the novel,” conceded Nyota, “like the faster than light discussion and the talk about Vulcans, but other than that, I don’t think we ever purposefully told anyone our parts.”

“That is being contrary to the spirit of the project,” agreed Pavel.

Leonard snorted. “Maybe you’re all secretly brain twins or something,” he remarked drily, “because this is remarkably cohesive for something in which each part is written independent of one another.”

“Really?” asked Scotty, eyes lighting up. “How cohesive are we looking at?”

“Each bit has a distinct writing style,” said Leonard, flipping through the pages again, “but overall, one story is being told. Pavel even managed to figure out that the old Lazarus was a time traveller from an alternate future.”

“It just seemed cooler than being the dedushka of Commander Lazarus,” replied Pavel, shrugging.

Scotty was beaming, and Leonard could have sworn he heard him mutter something about a group piloting something. He decided to ignore it for the time being, since Nat seemed to have finished with her stories, and was now bent over a series of printed pages with Jim and Spock, talking in hushed voices.

He set down the Exquisite Corpse manuscript, leaning over to look at the papers. They seemed to be the Sixteen Light Years screenplay, and from what he could see of it, it was fairly good. “How are we doing with that?” he asked.

Nat beamed at him. “Uhura and Spock are going to go over some bits that don’t translate to the screen so well with me, and Jim is going to hover around like an anxious mom until we finish.”

“Well, take your sweet time with that; I don’t think Jim wants a half-assed thing to present to the other producers in lieu of the original script,” replied Leonard sweetly. “But in the meantime, how’re you liking it here? Aside from the cold, obviously.”

“It is a change of pace from Florida,” agreed Nat, smiling in thanks as Nyota handed her a cup of coffee. “I’m just super excited about working with Jim. I’ve been a huge Correspondent for a while, and I’ve written several fanfics. But to know that he likes what I’m doing is just… it’s so amazing, you know?”

“I’m sure it must be very special for you,” agreed Leonard as he grinned at her, and she grinned back.

It was a bit later when Scotty unveiled the second surprise of the evening. “So, I’ve recently been working on a small project of mine,” he began, taking out yet another stack of papers.

Nyota nudged him, laughing. “By that, he means a full length screenplay for a feature film.”

Sheepishly, Scotty shrugged. “I may have downplayed it a wee bit,” he said through a widening grin. “I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but then it was picked up.”

Leonard groaned. “Great, the adult film industry is finally moving on to mechanics and engineering porn.”

“Hey,” snapped Nyota. “Don’t be like that, Len.”

“Yeah, he’s not always writing robot porn,” laughed Jim. “Otherwise we’d have had a much different novel to work with, don’t you think?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, it is simple to overlook his other works if you are consistently believing him capable of writing only one genre,” he emphasised, joining the conversation, “but it would be a grave mistake to neglect acknowledging the development of his works.”

Scotty shook his head, smiling at their defense. “It just means I have to prove myself to impress the old sawbones. Besides, he hasn’t heard the name of the director yet.”

Leonard arched an eyebrow as he reached for his bourbon. “And who might that be, then?” he wondered.

“It’s the director Jim wanted for his movie,” replied Nyota, causing Leonard to raise an eyebrow.

“Ah,” he said simply, his hand pausing mid-reach. “Him.”

Well, who would’ve thought that Guillermo Del Toro would be interested in Scotty’s screenplay? Leonard was a bit floored, really.

“Well done,” he said to Scotty, raising his glass in salute. “Well played, in fact.”

“I think he means to say he’s impressed,” added Nyota in a stage whisper. Leonard shook his head at her.

“I feel like I should be apologising for something,” he grumbled as he downed his bourbon.

“Maybe to Scotty,” Nyota replied sweetly as she took the glass from him, “for doubting him.”

“I never did that,” snorted Leonard, winking at the Scotsman. “I’ve always believed in Scotty’s writing ability.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it sometimes,” Hikaru pointed out.

“I mock because I care,” retorted Leonard with a sniff. He turned to Jim, who was once more conferring with Nat over the screenplay for Sixteen Light Years. “Just take Jim, for instance. If I didn’t keep him from running into trouble like an excited puppy, he’d be dying alone in a ditch. Sometimes that requires a bit of tough love.”

“He calls me an infant,” Jim sniffed. “I’m a grown man.”

“Then act like it before I decide you need to come and get your immunisation record reviewed.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jim fired back, slapping a hand over the major veins in his arm.

“You’re due for a check up soon, anyway,” Leonard announced. “Then we can see if we need to do anything about your allergies.”

“Word of advice, everyone. Don’t get Bones for a doctor if you don’t like shots,” Jim said in a stage whisper. Pavel snickered.

“I am not believing that anyone likes getting shots,” he pointed out.

“I don’t know,” Leonard responded, “I’ve had a few patients with rather concerning habits that enjoyed the experience. I much prefer Jim’s griping.” He paused. “Speaking of which, Jim, did you need me to edit the screenplay after you and Nat are done with it?”

“You’ve already got all of that on your plate,” said Jim, gesturing to the Exquisite Corpse manuscript. “No one has any clue how you manage to stay alive, between the editing and the doctoring.”

“Believe it or not, editing keeps me sane,” retorted Leonard.

“Sure doesn’t seem that way,” muttered Scotty. Leonard opened his mouth to protest, but just as quickly closed it. Nyota giggled.

“Well,” Leonard declared after a moment, “I think I’ll go do what keeps me sane and edit this novel, then.” It wasn’t long until he managed to tune out their voices enough to do so.

Leonard rubbed at his tired eyes in the hope that he could somehow keep them from fluttering closed every few seconds. His eyelids felt as if they had been weighted, and he was running out of red pens.

It had been a tiring shift at the hospital; there had been six cases of broken bones, two cases of the flu, and an embarrassing incident involving a couple mistaking Dermabond surgical glue for lubricant. That one had not been pretty.

Sighing, Leonard set down his pen and the stack of papers that was his manuscript just in time to hear his phone ring.

He picked up.

“Daddy?”

That was just the voice Leonard’s sleep-craving mind needed to stay awake a bit longer. “Jo-Jo!” he exclaimed. “How are you, sweetie?”

“Good,” said Joanna McCoy. “When are you coming to take me away?”

“Soon,” promised Leonard. “Did Mommy let you use the phone all by yourself?”

“Of course. I am praycoshus after all,” said the six-year-old on the line. “Mommy trusts me more than she trusts you. But don’t tell her I told you that.”

“I am not surprised,” Leonard admitted, grinning despite the fact that Jo couldn’t see him. “March 6th, baby girl, that’s when I’ll come take you up to Boston with me, okay?”

“I know, Daddy. It says that on the calendar.” Leonard could practically hear the eyeroll in his daughter’s voice. She had her Mommy’s brains and looks, for sure, but there was also a bit of him in her too, in the way she took to sarcasm like a duck to water and in her exasperated expressions. He loved teasing those out of her; it was like seeing proof that she wasn’t just her mother’s daughter.

“I was just making sure. I didn’t want to show up just to find out that you haven’t packed your stuff yet.” Joce refused to take Joanna over to Boston, so Leonard tended to rack up miles whenever he had a chance to see his baby-girl.

“I don’t have it packed yet,” Joanna said. “But my bag will be all packed by the time you’re here.”

“So you’re gonna help Mommy when she’s packing, right?”

There was a low whine from Jo’s end as she formulated a response. “Right. Why have fun when I can help Mommy?”

“Turn it into an experiment, kiddo,” Leonard encouraged. “You can figure out how to best fit everything together without taking up as much space.”

“Alright,” she responded, sounding marginally happier about the prospect. After a moment, she began to hum. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I miss you a lot.”

“I do too, hun. I do too.”

Jo made a humming noise of agreement. “Daddy?” she asked again after a moment.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Will Uncle Jim be there?”

“Will Mommy not let you come if I say yes?”

She seemed to consider it. “Prolly,” she agreed after a moment.

“Then no, he’s not.” Leonard’s lips twisted into an ironic smirk. Jocelyn Treadway didn’t have that high of an opinion of Jim, not after she found out he attracted trouble like a metal to a magnet. However, as with any other mother’s seal of disapproval, being blacklisted by Joce only made Jim even more appealing of a playmate in Jo’s eyes. According to her, Jim was the clever uncle with the cool motorbike (Leonard almost had an aneurysm once when he heard that Jim had taken her joyriding on it in New York, and he was supposed to like the kid) and the silly ideas like making booger milkshakes (which didn’t consist of boogers but did have a great deal of pistachio ice cream) and mixing mentos with coke.

He also was largely responsible for getting Jo interested in experiments, which drove Grandma Treadway up the wall (last Christmas, she had tried sending Jo a doll, only to have Jo take advantage of the gift receipt to buy herself a marble coaster) and caused hours of entertainment (followed by hours of annoyance during particularly messy ones, like when she mixed in an entire bottle of vinegar with an entire box of baking soda) for the rest of the family. Jim had crazy ideas, but that was part of his charm. There were worse people for Jo to play with.

There were also worse people for Spock to be in a relationship with, since Leonard and everyone else with eyes knew Jim and Spock had gone beyond just dating; they were merely in denial about it. Even if he was no relationship counsellor, Leonard knew it was time they got their heads out of their asses — again — and admitted it.

“Daddy?” Jo asked again.

“Uh-huh?”

“What am I going to do over at your house?”

Leonard’s ‘house’ was actually an apartment, but any kid Joanna’s age knew that you had to call wherever you lived a house. Bones had tried to explain the distinction before, but she had simply looked at him with a solemn expression  and said that it was home, so it must be a house.

“You’re going to help Daddy edit his latest projects.”

“Does that mean I can go to the hospital?” The excitement was palpable in her voice.

“If you’re good,” conceded Leonard with an indulgent sigh. “But your English is good, right? You can help Daddy edit some books, right?”

“Will it be a big long chapter book with lots of characters and not many pictures?”

“It can have as many pictures as you like.”

“Did Uncle Jim write the book?”

“He wrote some of it. In fact, he and the rest of Daddy’s friends wrote it.  You remember Daddy’s friends, right?”

“They’re weird,” she answered delightedly. “Mr. Spock is the one with the big fuzzy cat and the fun room in his house, right? The one where you can write on the walls?”

“Mr. Spock is a fun guy, Jo,” replied Leonard. “He makes cookies and pillow nests.”

“I know, Daddy,” said Jo, dragging out the word ‘know’ in the petulant way that only a six-year-old knew how to do.

“Do you remember Ms. Nyota?”

“I remember Ny! She was the pretty lady who taught me how to ask where the bathroom was in different countries, right?”

“And Mr. Scott?”

“Scotty taught me how to fix cars!” Jo was getting more excited. “He said he’d let me help!”

“Mr. Scott was joking,” said Leonard, hoping to God that was the case.

“He better not have been,” Joanna muttered. Sometimes she was a bit too much like both of her parents for Leonard’s comfort. The general populace would be much safer if she were a bit less ‘praycoshus’, but then again, her intelligence would get her further in life than most traits.

“You’re going to stay out of trouble while you’re here, right?”

Joanna sighed. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Promise?” He prompted, unconsciously gesturing for a pinkie swear, although Joanna could not possibly see him.

“I promise.”

Spock and Nyota were bent over a pile of cookies and an equally thick stack of papers in the Brownstone’s kitchen when Leonard entered, having been invited inside by Pavel.

“So, Pavel, why are you over here?” Leonard questioned as he pulled up a stool to the kitchen counter. As far as he knew, the kid had homework to finish.

“I am helping them make cookies, and then they are telling me how to stop being a dick,” the teenager replied, grabbing one of the treats himself.

“He’s done very well at following our advice, too,” Nyota volunteered.

“Really?” Leonard arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that Pavel was a dick. He seems too innocent for it.”

“Hey!” protested said innocent Russian.

“You yourself could do with some not-being-a-dick lessons,” Nyota added, with a pointed stare at Leonard.

“Since when was I a dick?” the doctor wondered, pulling an innocent expression.

“You are always being a dick,” Pavel replied.

“Great, Pavel, thanks a lot. Just when I was defending you, too.”

“We are all being dicks occasionally,” Pavel elaborated. “You are doing it often, especially to Spock.”

“And Scotty,” added Nyota helpfully. She then turned to Spock. “Are you sure that action should be in parentheses? Actors tend to ignore things in parentheses.”

“But he is saying the line sceptically,” Spock pointed out, one hand reaching for a raisin cookie. “It would preserve space on the page when formatted like so.”

“Have him actually show his scepticism. Body language or something.” Nyota made a couple notes in the margin of the script.

Leonard took a cookie, chewing thoughtfully. “Did Nat write most of that, or...?” he asked, looking over at the script.

“We’re just reformatting a couple things,” said Nyota, not looking at him.

“Ah.” Leonard looked over at Pavel, who was standing at the counter with a textbook propped on the cookbook stand and a notebook on the counter in front of him. “Doesn’t look like cookie-making to me, Pav,” he remarked.

“They are baking in the oven,” said the Russian, wriggling his fingers as if he was counting with them. Leonard sighed.

“Look, I’m just over here to check up on that script, see if there’s editing that needs doing —”

“And we’ve mentioned that we’re fine as we are,” said Nyota. She turned to him. “Incidentally, it’s good that you’re here, Len, since I just wanted to let you know that Spock’s getting published.”

Leonard’s eyebrows flew up. First Scotty getting picked up, now Spock? He had some reason to suspect that Jim had a hand in all of this. Though if there were two people who deserved it, it would be them.

“What’s he publishing?” he asked.

“Collection of short stories,” Spock said almost immediately.

“I should have guessed,” Leonard huffed, amused. “In any case, that just proves that you’d prove me wrong even if I did have such little faith that you’d pull through.”

“Oh stop being an emotionally stunted southern gentleman and admit that you actually think Spock’s pretty great,” Nyota entreated, slumping against the counter in exasperation.

“You are being a very effective translator in double-speak,” Pavel pointed out.

“Just don’t ask me to be a full-time relationship counselor,” she stated before grabbing another cookie. “You all have enough problems to keep me busy, even when we split the loads between us.” Nyota narrowed her eyes at Leonard and Spock, shifting her position so that she was disengaged from the line of fire. “Speaking of which: chop chop. We don’t have all day to wait for you two to make up.”

Leonard deflated, rubbing the back of his head in defeat. “I apologise if I’ve made some comments that went too far, Spock.”

If anything, Spock looked a bit uncomfortable with the apology. “Your expression of regret is acknowledged, but it is unneeded. Although I am gratified by the admission, I have come to realise that you do not mean a great deal of what you say literally. I would, however, appreciate you marking the distinction between those statements that I am meant to take at face value and those I am meant to disregard.”

Leonard managed to refrain from making an acerbic statement about how that would ruin the verbal irony of it all. “I’ll try, Spock. It might not last long, but I’ll make the effort.”

Spock inclined his head. “That is all I ask,” he replied.

Nyota clapped. “Brilliant. Now that you have earned your ‘not as big of a dick as you could have been’ award, we can officially share our cookies with you.”

“You let me have a cookie earlier,” Leonard protested.

“Yes, but now you’re allowed to enjoy them in full.”

Pavel nodded in agreement, while Spock went back to reviewing the script. As the Russian jotted down a couple more answers to whatever sort of homework he was working on (looked like a problem set to Leonard, and boy was he glad he had left those behind at Ole Miss), Leonard snatched another cookie and watched Spock and Nyota write.

“So what did Pavel need to accomplish before being allowed access to the cookies?” the doctor asked, causing Pavel to look over at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Were you there for the Yuki Sulu thing?” wondered Nyota. Leonard shook his head, so she continued. “Pavel was being an ass to Hikaru’s sister, so I told him to cut it out.”

“Why in the sam hell would you be rude to a woman who could throw you into a particle accelerator?” Leonard demanded once he recalled Hikaru’s remarks regarding his sister’s recent work.

“He is overprotective and proud,” Spock remarked, not taking his eyes off of the pages in his hand.

“I thought you were being on my side,” Pavel objected.

“And we thought you’d finally gotten on ours,” retorted Nyota. “Maybe I should revoke your cookie privileges again.”

“I am being good,” Pavel said, swiping a cookie while he still could.

Leonard chuckled. “We should have more interventions staged around cookies, as effective as they are.”

“I concur,” Spock replied, taking one for himself. “What flavour should we attempt next?” he added, gesturing to the dwindling pile.

“Chocolate peanut butter no-bake cookies,” suggested Pavel, holding up a recipe card.

“Those sound delicious,” Leonard remarked. “But Jim’s allergic to nuts, and he should be here soon.”

“We just have to eat it all before he gets here,” replied Nyota.

“Jim is coming over?” asked Pavel as Spock took the card from him.

“It’s the script for his movie,” Spock answered, still looking at the card as he moved around the kitchen, grabbing things off the shelf without even looking at what he had taken. Leonard’s brows furrowed; of course Spock would know the exact locations of everything in his house.

He turned his attention back to the script that Nyota was scribbling on, crossing out things and adding other notations in the margins. Spock was putting sugar, cocoa, butter, and milk in a saucepan, carefully measuring out their volumes to the meniscus.

“What’s a way to describe someone when they’re angry without mentioning ‘angrily’?” wondered Nyota.

“Andorian or human?” asked Spock as he lit a fire for the saucepan.

“Andorian. Shres. He’s mad about Sorjei and Janet’s correspondence.”

“Because it is putting a barrier between Sorjei and the rest of the unit, nyet?” wondered Pavel. “I am hoping that is the scene we are discussing.”

“Yeah,” agreed Nyota, biting her lip. “I don’t want to mention the word ‘angrily’, though. Shres and Sorjei are arguing and the word’s already been mentioned in Sorjei’s part.”

“Set features and twitching antennae might signify enough frustration on his part,” Spock suggested.

“Sounds good,” said Nyota, humming as she made a couple more notes in the margins.

Pavel walked over to the stove, fingers reaching out to swipe some of the cookie brew before it got too hot. Spock raised the wooden spoon threateningly. Pavel slunk back to his spot, the expression on his face reminding Leonard of a dog with its tail between its hind legs (or a suitably chastened Jim). Satisfied, Spock returned his attention back to stirring the cookie batter.

Leonard chuckled at the Russian. “So, what was that about you and Yuki, then?” he asked. “You said you were being good, and Nyota seems a bit busy to follow up on that, so I thought I’d ask.”

“She is being pestered by her matushka about getting a boyfriend who will conform with the family’s preconceived standards of an acceptable suitor,” replied Pavel.

“Poor girl,” added Nyota, exhibiting that remarkable multitasking ability of hers. “I mean, her siblings are all romantically involved with people, so there’s all of that extra pressure —”

“That is not being the worst,” Pavel said, with a shrug. “She is not even interested. Her matushka is wanting it, da, but not her.”

“Mothers can sometimes be the most overbearing of creatures,” remarked Leonard.

“I’m sure Mrs. Sulu just wants grandchildren,” replied Nyota, as Spock started dripping the cookies out onto wax paper.

“It is nice to have kids running amok,” Leonard pointed out. “You can’t really blame the woman for wanting that experience back. Heaven knows I have a foot out the door every time Jocelyn says I can have some time with Jo.”

Nyota smiled, humming. “I remember Joanna. Sweet girl. When’s she coming up again?”

“Early March.”

“Ooh, looking forward to it.” Nyota tried to swipe a cookie, only for half of it to remain melted on the wax paper. Hastily, she returned the cookie to its original place as Spock raised an eyebrow at her. “You don’t usually bring her up with you, though. Joce going out of the country?”

“Business meeting in China. She doesn’t trust Jo not to get lost in Beijing or something.”

“Rush hour trains in China are particularly distressing for young children,” Spock added helpfully.

Leonard rolled his eyes. “Well, there’s that, and there’s the mess that is trying to drive in the place. And the smog. I heard they closed the airports in Beijing and cancelled like a million flights because the smog was so bad.”

“Well, I’d take a polar vortex or two over getting bogged down in a thick layer of smog,” said Nyota with a hint of cheer as she swiped a fully-cooled cookie from the wax paper, popping it into her mouth.

Leonard then heard the footfalls echo through the living room. Moments later, Jim was there in the doorway to the kitchen; the blond winked at him before focusing his attention on Spock once more.

“You know,” the blond said a moment later, “the good thing about a polar vortex is that you have more excuses to cuddle.”

“This is hardly the moment,” replied Spock drily.

Jim laughed, stepping into the kitchen and walking up to Spock from behind. “Look at you, Spock,” he cooed. “You’ve got flour and cocoa all over you again. You look nice.”

Leonard snorted, as Spock raised an eyebrow and turned to face Jim. “You are not concerned about getting flour on your clothes?” he asked. Jim merely laughed, and responded by wrapping his arms around Spock’s waist and kissing him deeply —

“Jim, no!” Leonard shouted, but it had been a bit too late; Jim pulled away from Spock, his eyes wide as he turned to ask the doctor what was wrong. “Goddammit, Jim, at least let me get my EpiPen out before you go kissing your boyfriend who just ate peanut butter —”

Jim tried to ask why Spock was eating peanut butter, but Spock was already retreating to a safe distance while Leonard shooed Jim out of the allergen-strewn area. “Nyota, can you get my bag for me? Jim, don’t touch anything.”

“I’m not going to touch anything when I’m already beginning to feel sick,” Jim fired back, hunching in on himself. He was beginning to redden.

“Where the hell is your Epi, anyway?” Leonard glared down at him.

“Probably in my apartment.”

“What’s the use of you having one if you never take it outside your damn home?”

While Jim shifted uncomfortably, Spock crept forward a bit from the corner he had retreated to. “I am extremely sorry, Jim,” Spock apologised, his face blank but pale.

“It’s okay, I was the one who kissed you like an idiot.”

“Still, I believe it would be prudent of me to refrain from indulging in legume inclusive products.”

Leonard nodded. “That’d be prudent. Hell knows I’m used to refusing hummus thanks to this biohazard.” He took his bag from Nyota, quickly withdrawing an EpiPen and readying it before injecting the adrenaline into Jim’s thigh.

“Goddamn it, Bones. You could stand to be a bit more gentle.”

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Nyota professed. “If I hadn’t suggested that we just finish up the cookies before you got here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s not like you were trying to assassinate me, Ny. It’s no big deal. I could do without the numb tongue though.”

“When you’re on your death bed and making ‘tis but a scratch’ jokes, I will far too happily administer all your damn medication through needles,” Leonard grumbled.

“You just hate the idea of me adding levity to the situation,” Jim accused, wheezing. “Why is my tongue numb?”

“Yep. That’s exactly it, kid,” Leonard answered, ignoring the tongue remark. Out of the corner of his eye, Leonard spied Spock retrieving his computer. It took some careful maneuvering, but he was finally able to glimpse what the man was working on — Spock was formatting a service announcement for nut allergies for print.

Leonard shook his head. His friends had some strange ways of showing they cared.

The weekend after Jim’s uncomfortable encounter with peanut butter and the group’s subsequent vow to purge any and all legumes from their midst, Leonard was on a coffee run. Jim grew even more cantankerous than usual without his complex caffeinated monstrosities, and even Leonard could admit to being more than a little addicted to undiluted black coffee. As it was, he was enjoying the warmth radiating from the two cups in his hands while he waited for the pedestrian crossing light to blink on.

The validity of Murphy’s law was reinforced when Leonard’s phone began to ring just as the sign lit up. Fumbling for a moment, he stepped with the rest of the crowd into the walkway while juggling two steaming cups of coffee and his mobile phone, which, thankfully, was in the jacket pocket on his left side. He grabbed it once he had nestled the second coffee cup in the crook of his arm.

“Doctor McCoy,” Leonard snapped, waiting for the caller to identify themselves.

“Hi, there. This is Natalie Tucker. We met at one of the meetings for your writing group. I was the popsicle clutching a sheaf of paper,” the caller prompted.

“Oh, right. The fanwriter-turned-screenwriter.” Leonard paused. “How’d you get my number, again?”

“Jim gave it to me,” replied Nat. “I tried calling him, but he wasn’t picking up —”

“Video call with the producers for the movie,” said Leonard, rolling his eyes as he stepped into the crosswalk. “I’m out on a coffee run for him, actually. And why the hell did Jim give you my private number?”

Nat laughed. “I don’t know, to be honest. Apparently you’re backup for when I can’t get through to him. Sorry about that.”

“I’m a doctor, not a call girl,” grumbled Leonard. “I’m not constantly on call for the rest of the goddamned world. Contrary to popular opinion, I do need some time without idiots pestering me on the phone.” He paused for a second before adding hastily, “though, you aren’t an idiot.”

She huffed in laughter again, her breath staticky over the phone. “Oh, thank god,” she said drily.

Leonard chuckled as well. His feet hit the pavement once more, and he started moving with the throng of people around him.

“Is this a bad time?” Nat enquired. “It sounds like you’re in the middle of something. I can try Jim again, if you want.”

Leonard looked down at the objects he had juggled into separate places in order to answer the phone. He grimaced at the thought of readjusting it all again. “No, it’s really not that much trouble at all. Just getting Jim his coffee. Speaking of which, you were trying to contact him…?”

“Yeah, he emailed me a couple minutes ago with ticket confirmations.”

“You flying back up again?”

“More like flying across,” corrected Nat. “Jim and I have to meet with some members of the production team in LA. He paid for my tickets because it was on such short notice.”

Leonard snorted. “Sounds like fun,” he observed.

“It’s only fun if you’re not paying,” she agreed.

Leonard snorted again. “So, you and Jim get to hang about a bunch of producers until the script gets okayed?”

Nat giggled. “Pretty much. I have the dubious honour of being glared at and prodded for a couple of days while Jim meets with some directors. I think the name ‘Peter Jackson’ got tossed around in there, but I’m not entirely sure. It’s all I’ve got from his email, anyway. I would have liked a more in-depth explanation, but...” She trailed off into silence.

“So you wanted clarification, but couldn’t get to him over the phone.”

“Exactly.”

Leonard hummed. “Tell you what. Jim might go into detail later once he’s out of that meeting. But if you manage to work everything out, I’ll treat you to dinner the next time you’re in Boston.”

There was a pause. “Do you all want something from me? First plane tickets, now dinner —”

“No, no!” insisted Leonard, chuckling. “I just like your company.”

“I only hung out with you for one meeting,” she pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want another go,” he retorted, grinning.

“Are you trying to flirt with me, Dr. McCoy?”

“Do you want me to?” he asked. It had been a while since he last purposefully charmed someone. He wasn’t sure if he could still pull it off without looking like Grumpy Cat.

Nat laughed. “Might actually help me take my mind off things.”

Leonard raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asked. There was a long moment of silence there, in which he could only hear the static of the call.

Nat spoke up again after a moment. “I just hope they like the script,” she confessed. “I’m kinda panicking over here. Spock and Ny have been a huge help, and Jim’s been super supportive, but I’m still terrified about everything, you know?”

“There’s at least one good thing,” Leonard pointed out as he turned onto the block where his and Jim’s apartment building resided. “It won’t be so cold in California.”

“Small comfort, that,” she said, but she was at least giggling again. Leonard found himself smiling as well.

“You’ll do fine, kiddo,” he said. “Just remember, dinner hangs in the balance.”

“Free food is a good incentive for any starving college student,” agreed Nat. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’ve got class in a couple minutes.”

“Sure thing,” said Leonard as he entered the apartment building. Moments later, he heard the click of her hanging up, and set the coffees down on a nearby counter in the foyer so that he could put his phone away. It had been nothing short of a bloody miracle that he’d managed to walk all the way back to the apartment without spilling either cup.

After making his way up to Jim’s apartment, Leonard opened the door to see the blond just signing off from his video call. Jim waved at him; Leonard raised an eyebrow before setting a cup down on Jim’s desk.

“So, when were you going to tell me about the unexpected trip to LA, huh?” he asked.

Spock had shadows under his eyes at the next meeting. Leonard wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Did you not get much sleep last night, lad?” Scotty questioned, leaning back in his chair. Nyota cast a worried look towards Spock, crossing her ankles as she did so.

“I simply have not restocked my supply of melatonin,” Spock answered, measuredly. “As of late I have not needed a sleep aid quite so often, and I neglected to resupply.”

“I figured you would be sleeping more, what with Jim being gone for a few days,” Leonard remarked over his usual glass of bourbon. “He does have this irritating tendency to keep people up at night.”

Scotty chuckled. “Jim’s staying nights at your place, Spock?”

“That’s adorable,” added Hikaru. Spock looked up to the ceiling in evident exasperation.

“Jim has been my sleeping aid in lieu of medications,” he said.

“What, does he tire you out?” asked Hikaru, grinning lasciviously. Pavel cuffed him about the head, but the Russian was also grinning. Spock directed his exasperated look at them in return.

“He seems to have an inexhaustible collection of anecdotes, remarks on political and social affairs, and media in which he insists I partake, and I have thus far managed to avoid being ‘tired out’ by them.”

Hikaru squinted at him. “You’re being evasive.”

“As you are being invasive,” Spock responded placidly, folding his hands in front of him.

“Knowing how sickeningly touch-starved these two are, they probably just cuddle until they fall asleep,” Leonard grumbled, watching the liquid in his glass swirl around.

Judging by the deer-caught-in-headlights look Spock was sporting, however, he seemed to have hit the nail right on the head. Leonard coughed uncomfortably.

“Well, then,” he said, with a grin he didn’t really feel. “Jo’s coming over at the end of the week.”

“Ooh!” Nyota cooed in excitement, eyes lighting up. “When are you going to go get her?”

“Thursday morning,” said Leonard. “Though there’s talk of the flight being rescheduled to tomorrow evening instead. Joce’s leaving for Beijing on Friday; she wants Jo out of the house before then.”

“When will Jim be back?” wondered Scotty. “I’m sure he’d like to meet Jo.”

“He’s met her,” said Leonard, rolling his eyes. “In all honesty, she probably knows him better than she knows you. No offence, of course.”

“None taken,” replied Scotty easily, leaning back on the loveseat and putting an arm around Nyota.

“Why would offence be taken in this instance?” Spock enquired, curious.

Nyota hummed. “People like to be thought of as important and loved by others, Spock.”

“I see.” Spock’s expression was thoughtful, as if he was filing away this new information in the vast repository of his mind. “Do they usually require verbal or physical assurances of this information?”

“Both are preferred in most cases,” Leonard said, nodding.

Spock said nothing, only sipped his tea. Leonard looked into his glass of bourbon and noted that its levels were rapidly dwindling; he reached for the bottle to pour some more.

“Hiki and I are going to be volunteering in New York,” said Pavel abruptly, causing Leonard to retract his hand and raise an eyebrow.

“Volunteering?” echoed Nyota, her eyes lighting up. “Where in New York?”

“The Bronx. There’s this one soup kitchen-slash-homeless shelter called the Twenty-First Street Mission that was looking for volunteers,” elucidated Hikaru, “so we signed up for Pasha’s spring break, since it’s coming up at the end of March.”

“That sounds like fun.” Nyota grinned. “I bet one of you will end up using that experience in a novel or two. Speaking of which, Len, where are you on ours?”

“Almost done with the first edit,” said Leonard, shrugging. “It’s coming along, despite my never-ending line of patients.”

“Your effort is appreciated,” Spock remarked, looking as if he had put effort into utilising his newfound knowledge.

Leonard stifled any outward signs of amusement. “Thanks.”

“I was simply stating a fact,” Spock clarified, sinking back. He’d probably used his emotional quota for the week, Leonard mused. Or at least, the emotional quota for everyone else who wasn’t named Jim Kirk.

“I should have the first edit finished for your perusal at the next meeting,” the doctor continued in a much louder tone than necessary. “That is to say, all of you will have to read the damn thing and figure out what you want to do with it.”

Nyota grinned. “Actually getting to read the finished product of this entire collaboration? I look forward to it.”

“It is surprisingly coherent,” agreed Leonard.

“So you keep saying,” Hikaru laughed. “I’d like to see how coherent it actually is when we actually have it in front of us.”

“I’d like to know how we’re all going to read it in a manageable amount of time. We’re all at different comprehension levels, and English isn’t even Pasha’s first language,” Nyota pointed out.

“Well, if we all have personal copies of the manuscript, we should be able to take them home,” Scotty reasoned.

“But then we are not having the opportunity to see each other’s faces when we get to certain parts,” Pavel objected.

Leonard shrugged. “We could stave off from reading it outside of meetings.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Hikaru agreed.

Spock tapped his fingers against his Sudoku-Rubik’s cube thing. Hell knows when he had taken it out — Leonard certainly didn’t. “Perhaps we should wait until everyone has gathered before we make a final decision,” Spock suggested.

Leonard raised his near-empty glass, foregoing teasing the man. “We have a couple of days. Why not?”

The group made varying sounds of agreement. “Alright then. Now, does anyone else have a blockbuster in the making this week, or is it going to be a quiet meeting for once?”

Hikaru shifted a bit while Pavel beamed at him. However, the two kept quiet for the moment, and no one else was speaking up.

Leonard grinned. “At least next week will be interesting, then.” Everything did tend to come up at once.

It was Thursday evening when the group gathered at Leonard’s abode. Once Jim had returned and unlocked the place, he began to unpack a bag full of junk from various airports, handing out mugs with the names of states plastered across them, a plastic miniature of a cow that dispensed chocolate from its anus, and a few bags of yogurt covered pretzels.

Or at least, that’s what Leonard was told had precipitated his entry into the house and his subsequent encounter with the verbal assaults of the word “surprise”. Even Spock seemed to have added a relatively enthusiastic tone into his voice for the occasion.

Joanna shrieked in delight, laughing as Jim stepped forward to lift her up, hefting her. “Why, this can’t be the Jo-Jo I ordered!” Jim proclaimed, grinning down at her. “She’s much too big.”

“I grew, Uncle Jim!” Joanna swatted at him, smiling. “I’m going to be taller than you soon.”

“Oh? It’ll be harder for you to find a comfortable seat on an airplane once you get taller.”

Sobering, Joanna wrinkled her nose, still clinging on to her Uncle Jim. “I don’t care. Airplane rides aren’t fun anyway. It was really long,” she elaborated, leaning into him for emphasis. “I fell asleep,” she looked to her father for confirmation, for which he had no definite answer, “lots and lots of times.”

“Something like that,” Leonard answered, amused. “That sounds about right for the amount of drool on my shirt.”

“I do not drool in my sleep,” Jo insisted, darting a glance up to Jim. “Tell him, Uncle Jim!”

“I don’t know,” Jim chuckled, “If I remember correctly, your naps leave a bit of a puddle on my good pillows.”

“How did you end up promoted to uncle, lad?” Scotty questioned from his seat next to Nyota, likely recalling his own stint as a babysitter last summer, when Jo had come over because her mother was going to a business summit in New Delhi.

“My valiant efforts as captain of the good ship Vaseline to rid the Filament Empire of the gum residue menace, of course,” Jim announced, puffing out his chest slightly.

Joanna rapped him on the arm. “You just applied goop to my hair until the gum fell out. I let you be my uncle because if I didn’t, you would whine.”

Jim’s expression contorted into one of mock injury. “You mean I’m not really your most favourite uncle ever?”

“Is it hard to imagine a world where you’re not the best?” Nyota teased him. In response, Jim stuck his tongue out at her. Prolonged exposure to kids seemed to make him even more childlike than usual.

Joanna cocked her head thoughtfully before answering Jim. “You can be my favourite uncle if you help me with my experiments.”

Leonard grinned. “Lately she’s been into building Rube Goldberg type contraptions. She’s getting pretty good at it, too.”

A grin spread across Scotty’s face, and Nyota nudged him out of his seat. “If you’d like, I’m a fair hand at building things like that, lassie,” he offered.

Joanna beamed. “Good! You and Jim can be my helpers.” She grabbed both of their hands and turned to Leonard. “Daddy, do you have a whiteboard?”

“You’ll be good for Mr. Spock, won’t you?” asked Leonard a couple days later as he pulled into a parking spot a couple meters away from the Brownstone. Joanna pursed her lips.

“Will he let me use the fun room with the whiteboards?” she asked innocently. “And will he let me play with I’Chaya?”

“I’m sure if you asked nicely, he will,” replied Leonard drily as they got out of the car, Jo bouncing along the pavement up to the Brownstone.

“Daddy, what are you doing dressed up so nicely?” she asked after a moment, her expression quizzical. “You don’t normally wear a tie to see Mr. Spock.”

“Daddy’s going to dinner with someone,” replied Leonard.

“With Mr. Spock?” asked Jo.

“Oh, no, Mr. Spock goes to dinner with Uncle Jim,” said Leonard.

“But he’s not going to dinner with Uncle Jim right now, is he?”

Leonard snorted. “No, otherwise I’d leave you with Nyota.”

“I like Ny,” said Jo, as if that decided everything. “I want to be just like her when I grow up. Except with more experiments.”

“I’m sure she’ll like to hear that,” said Leonard as he rang the doorbell. Jo hopped from one leg to the other, grinning from ear to ear.

“So, who are you going to dinner with, if you’re not going with Mr. Spock?” she asked.

“Daddy is going with a lady called Nat,” replied Leonard. The fanwriter-turned-screenwriter had texted him yesterday, when she had arrived at Logan, telling him to make good on his promise to take her to dinner. “He promised her he’d take her to dinner before you came over here, and Daddy always keeps his promises.”

(However, Nat wasn’t necessarily an obligation. She was pleasant enough company.)

Joanna stuck her tongue out at that statement. “Nuh-uh, you didn’t get me the microscope I wanted for Christmas.”

“I got you a kiddy microscope.”

“But I want a big scientific one.”

“You can get a big scientific one when you get bigger, honey,” said Leonard, rolling his eyes. The door opened to reveal Spock, raising an eyebrow in his usual greeting. “Howdy, Spock,” Leonard greeted, putting a hand on Jo’s shoulder to stop her from bouncing around too much.

“Hello, Dr. McCoy,” said Spock, looking down at Jo with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Hello, Joanna.”

“I wanna use the Whiteboard Room!” Jo declared with all the tact of a six-year-old. Luckily, Spock took it in stride and stepped aside to let her in.

“Of course you may,” he said, shooting an amused glance at Leonard. “Do you remember its location?”

“Yup!” declared Jo as she dashed inside the Brownstone. “Is I’Chaya here?”

“He is currently hiding under my bed.”

“Is Uncle Jim here?”

“He will be back in fifteen minutes,” said Spock. “He went to pick up some groceries.”

“What’s for dinner?” Jo tilted her head and looked at him with wide doe-like eyes; her stomach growled to accentuate her point.

“I have pizza baking in the oven,” said Spock.

“I like cheese pizza,” replied Jo, making Spock raise an eyebrow in response.

“I am aware of that.”

Leonard chuckled. “You’ll be alright handling her for tonight, Spock?”

“I believe I am prepared for this challenge, yes,” said the other man, folding his hands behind his back as the sounds of Jo trampling through the house could be heard behind him.

“You’ve got my cell. Call me if something happens.”

“There is only a 24.3% chance that something will happen that will warrant such a call in the middle of your dinner.”

“I think you just made that statistic up,” retorted Leonard. “Don’t underestimate Jo. She loves experimenting on anything and everything. You may find yourself calling because she’s caused the toilets to overflow for science.”

“Has this incident occurred in the past?”

“First time for everything,” replied Leonard, grinning, as he stepped back from the door. “Tell Jim I said hi.”

And with that he was heading back to his car and driving off to the first floor restaurant in the hotel near his work, where Nat was waiting for him.

“Should he be doing that?” Joanna pointed to the shapeless mass that was once known as Pavel Chekov that lay crumpled on Hikaru’s couch. It was Tuesday, the night of another meeting, and Leonard was taking Joanna because Hikaru had promised to show her his plants anyway.

After a long, solemn moment in which the doctor took in the abject misery and over-emotional suffering his friend was emitting, Leonard herded his daughter over to the kitchen. Spock was waiting with spinach puffs. Joanna wrinkled her nose at the puffs, but took one anyway after Leonard explained to her that Spock’s spinach puffs were nothing like Grandma Treadway’s.

Jim came sauntering out of the powder room nearby moments later. “Spinach puffs!” he exclaimed in delight, swooping down on the tray and snatching several, before pressing a sloppy kiss to Spock’s cheek. “They’re delicious, Jo, give ‘em a try.”

“Why are we not having cookies?” a new voice cut in, and Leonard turned towards the entrance to the kitchen to see Pavel standing in the doorway, looking despondent. “Spock is always baking cookies. Why not today?”

“Would you like some cheese with that whine, Pavel?” asked Leonard, rolling his eyes. Pavel squinted at him.

“I am not understanding your reference,” he said. “I drink vodka.”

“It’s just a saying,” explained Jim. “Besides, spinach puffs are good for you. And Spock’s in particular are delicious.”

“You are being one of the few in this world who likes spinach puffs,” said Pavel, wrinkling his nose as he took a seat at the kitchen counter, staring gloomily at the platter of puffs. “I am needing a drink, but Hikaru forgot to buy the vodka when he went shopping.”

“It is unlawful for you to consume alcohol, as the legal drinking age here is twenty-one,” Spock pointed out.

“You’re just getting around to telling him that?” demanded Leonard incredulously.

“I have informed him of such things before,” said Spock drily.

“Ah, Pav just wants something to distract him, doesn’t he? Why the long face?” wondered Jim, draping an arm loosely around the Russian’s shoulders.

“He was trying to get the Baba Yaga piece published in an anthology of supernatural fiction,” said Hikaru as he came sauntering into the kitchen as well, Nat following behind him with a bottle of vodka. “The piece got rejected.”

“Bummer!” exclaimed Jim as Nat set the bottle of vodka down on the counter in front of the despondent Russian, before beaming at Leonard and Jo.

“You must be the infamous Joanna,” she said, kneeling down in front of Jo to look at her properly. “How are you?”

“You must be the lady named Nat that Daddy had dinner with,” said Jo, shoving the spinach puff into her mouth as she said so.

“Jo-Jo, we don’t talk with our mouths full, remember?” said Leonard. He looked at Nat and smiled again. “Still on spring break, then?”

“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” she replied, smiling at him.

“I should see you off,” he replied. Their dinner together had been nothing but amicable, something that Leonard had genuinely missed. They had discussed their respective families, Nat’s coursework, Leonard’s work, and languages, and had managed to keep awkward pauses to a minimum. It was a far cry from the last time he sat down to dinner with a woman, when she had announced that they were getting divorced.

“No need,” said Nat, dragging Leonard out of his musings. “Unless, of course, you could give me a ride.”

“I could —” Hikaru began, but was shot down almost immediately by Pavel (who had pounced on the bottle and was pouring himself a glass) and Spock, both attesting to the near-death experiences that they had suffered while trying to get to the airport in Connecticut to go to Scotland. Hikaru groaned at that, muttered something that sounded like “you have one parking brake incident, and no one ever trusts you ever again”.

Leonard had to pity the guy; Hikaru was probably dying for someone else in the group to have a driving mishap so that they could forget about his. No one would ever admit it if such an incident occurred, but the sentiment remained.

In a thinly-veiled attempt to change the subject, Hikaru turned his attentions to Pavel, who was slouching in his chair and brooding over his glass of vodka. “It’s okay, Pasha,” he said, putting an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “We’ll be doing something fun in a couple of weeks. We’re going to go help people and make a difference in their lives. Isn’t that great? We’re going to be productive!”

“Writing is being productive,” grumbled Pavel.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna make a tangible difference when you go help out at a soup kitchen,” Hikaru pointed out, causing Jim’s eyebrows to rise.

“Soup kitchen?” he echoed. “Where?”

“The Bronx. Didn’t we mention this before?” wondered Hikaru.

“He wasn’t there,” Leonard interjected helpfully.

“I am not seeing the long-term effects of taking soup out of a pot and putting it in a bowl,” Pavel grumped.

“It was your idea,” Hikaru retorted.

“Do you know who’s running the kitchen?” asked Jim.

“Some lady named Edith Keeler,” Pavel said, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of vodka. “She seems nice.”

Jim gaped at the pair, fumbling for a response. “I guess the whole small world thing rings true,” he said after a moment.

Hikaru raised an eyebrow. “So you know her?”

“We’re acquainted,” Jim remarked, attempting a casual air. Leonard snorted.

“More like ‘picked her up at a bar’,” he said. Jim groaned.

“She was actually good company, I’ll have you know,” he snapped. Spock raised an eyebrow, as if to question what had happened, and when it had happened. Leonard couldn’t help but think that Spock would continue to be over-sensitive about Jim’s romantic entanglements for a while yet, even if his thing with Edith Keeler had happened before Spock deigned to accept Jim’s advances.

“Really? What were you two talking about, then?” wondered Pavel.

“Activism. After I found out she owned a soup kitchen, I googled her —”

Hikaru laughed weakly at that. “You googled her, too?” he asked.

“No, I googled the Twenty-First Street Mission. Though I haven’t texted her in a while,” replied Jim.

“Do you not know who she is?” wondered Hikaru. Leonard raised an eyebrow. Hikaru recognised Edith as well? This was odd.

“A remarkable woman?” wondered Jim.

Hikaru’s mouth opened and closed. “Well, yes,” he began. “She is, but I meant the parking brake incident.” He seemed to be resigning himself to allowing this incident to remain seared in their collective memories for a while longer. Leonard reckoned it was only a matter of time before he gave in to that particular inevitability.

“She was the one you almost hit?” demanded Pavel.

“I’m lost,” Jim added.

“He wasn’t in the group around the time,” added Leonard.

Spock, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, chose that moment to add, “it is an event that Hikaru would rather have us forget, as you may recall from our previous discussions.”

“Yeah, but what happened?” wondered Jim.

As the others informed him of the parametres of the incident — with Hikaru looking on in undisguised horror with a dash of resignation — Leonard returned his attentions to Joanna, who was talking animatedly with Nat.

“So you can organise money and write at the same time?” Joanna was asking, as if such an example of multitasking had never occurred to her before, and it was obviously a feat of magic.

“It’s more like I do one for a grade and the other for fun. I can’t really do them both in the same instant.”

“Is it like being an accountant?” Joanna cocked her head. “My friend’s mom is an accountant, and she always have tons of papers with numbers on them all over the house.”

Nat grimaced. “I suppose it’s a bit like being an accountant. Kind of.”

“I don’t think I’d write for fun,” Joanna announced, her forehead wrinkling. “I’m not as good with stories as Uncle Jim, or Spock, or Scotty, or Ny, or Hiki, or Check, or even Daddy.”

Leonard was about to object, only to see Nat draw closer to Jo. “Wanna know a secret?” She said, looking Joanna straight in the eye.

“What kind of secret?”

“One about stories.”

Joanna paused before nodding. “Sure.”

“I’m not as good as them at a lot of things. I wrote a movie with the help of Ny and Spock, since they have had a lot more practice. You don’t have to be good; you just have to be willing to practice.” Nat grinned. “Besides, it all depends on whether you actually want to write or not.”

“I don’t know if I do,” Joanna admitted, looking a bit more cheerful.

“Then it’s all a matter of what you try out.” Nat shrugged. “You have a couple of decades. There’s no rush.”

Nyota made a noise to signal her entrance into the conversation before doing so. “That reminded me to tell you, Natalie. I felt it was only fair to compose a thank-you message to the Sixteen Light Years community and inform them all that your script was approved. Your friend, Adayit, offers her congratulations. Quite effusively, too,” she added, an amused smile quirking at her mouth.

Nat ducked her head, biting her bottom lip as a smile lit across her face. “Yeah. She’s supportive like that.”

Nyota’s eyes widened for a moment, but she only took a moment to shoot Leonard the obligatory (and likely patented) look of pity that clearly suggested that he would be forever alone, before changing her expression to one that suggested they go commiserate over his forever-alone status with a couple drinks.

Leonard had a bad feeling that this moment would be used as a writing reference for years to come.

Jim chose that moment to poke his head out from the portion of the group that had been relating Hikaru's tale of woe. “Did I miss something?” he asked, looking over at Nyota.

“Nope,” said Leonard, a little hastily. “I brought the first draft for the book though.” He paused, raising an eyebrow at Jim’s confused expression, before remembering that the guy had at least ten things on his mind at any given moment, and at least six of them had to do with writing books of some sort. Three of the rest were usually devoted to something related to Spock, and the last was to devising ingenious plans to coax a certain Dr. Leonard McCoy into an early grave.

Leonard coughed and started the sentence again. “First draft of the Exquisite Corpse novel,” he said, moving to the briefcase he had deposited on the kitchen counter and removing a stack of papers. “Where’s Scotty?”

“Here.” Scotty came in moments later, clapping a hand to Pavel’s back in a show of solidarity as he went by. “What’ve you got for us today, Len?”

“The first draft,” repeated Leonard as he set the papers down on the counter. “Go wild.”

"Is that being one copy?" Pavel asked apprehensively, eyeing the volume of paper.

"No chance. If I counted correctly, there should be a copy for each of us," Leonard replied.

"Oh, so you didn’t get your fill of it all when you were editing?" Nyota teased.

"I can follow along without getting bored out of my skull," Leonard sniffed. Besides, their reactions would constitute the best parts of the experience. The others each took copies of the manuscript, and Jim suggested they move to the living room so they could all sit down and read. Hikaru gestured for Joanna to follow him so that he could introduce her to his plants in the segment of the house that he called the ‘greenhouse’. Nat followed her, evidently sensing that the agenda had turned to a project that she wasn’t involved in.

Taking seats in the living room, the group began to read. Leonard leaned back in his armchair, watching their facial expressions. Hikaru joined the group a moment later, raising his eyebrows at Leonard as he sat down next to Pavel. Leonard flashed him a sunny smile.

“It’s not like we really started without you,” Jim defended, barely raising his gaze from the pages in his hand.

“Uh-huh,” Hikaru acknowledged, rolling his eyes. “Just don’t spoil it for me.”

“Or you could read faster.”

Nyota leaned over to swat at Jim with the manuscript. “Be nice.”

He sunk into Spock’s side, attempting to look downtrodden. “I didn’t mean it.” Unfortunately for him, Spock barely spared him a pat on the head. Jim sighed, returning to the pages.

As closely assembled as they were, it was a cozy gathering. The silence was comfortable enough, and Leonard skimmed the pages in peace, his eyes flickering over the group members every few moments. It wasn’t long before the silence was broken once more.

“Montgomery Scott, you destroyed a spaceship.” The sheer amount of surprise in Spock’s voice was enough to prompt a bark of laughter out of Jim. Pavel and Hikaru, however, groaned.

“Spock, not everyone can read as quickly as you,” Hikaru objected.

Nyota smiled indulgently. “Perhaps we should take turns reading aloud?”

“Oh, please don’t let this turn into a flashback to high school,” Jim groaned.

“No one hates most of the people here, so it’s hardly in the same ballpark,” Leonard observed.

“Okay, let’s vote before we get too far off topic,” Nyota suggested. “All in favour of reading aloud?” Four hands were thrust into the air at varying speeds.

“Scotty!” Jim glared at him, betrayed. His glum expression sank further as Spock added his hand to the mix. “Oh, come on. Spock, please, don’t do this to me.”

“It is only logical that we set a pace that can be managed by all involved parties,” Spock redressed.

“You say that, but you’re still going to sigh and look off into the distance whenever us mere mortals take too long to read a passage you covered in a second.” Jim poked him in the side.

“It is not my fault that the rest of you have not attained my level of reading comprehension,” replied Spock stiffly.

“Why don’t we just read aloud some of the passages that we want to discuss?” asked Leonard. “I personally wouldn’t want a dramatic reading of the entire thing. This isn’t the Satellite of Love, you know.”

“What is that?” asked Pavel. Jim laughed.

“A long story,” he replied cheerily, before continuing to read the manuscript. “Though I do have to agree, Scotty, what possessed you to blow up the Kelvin?”

“It alters the future of the protagonist, doesn’t it?” asked Scotty. “He’s gotta grow up with no father figure. Might’ve done a number on him.”

“I dunno, I lost my dad at a young age, and I turned out —” Jim paused, before squinting at Scotty. “When I heard that I was your new muse, I didn’t know you were going to take it this far. I hope Nyota will forgive me.”

“I think we all agreed that Taggart was you,” said Nyota, “and therefore spent most of our time writing this novel asking ourselves what Jim Kirk would do in these situations.”

“I’m not that awful,” scoffed Jim. “I wouldn’t sleep with a pair of cat-eared twins.” He paused, surveying the mixture of incredulous and sceptical expressions. “Okay, I would, but not together. And I’m pretty sure they’re perfectly respectable women with their own lives and careers. Heck, can’t we make them fraternal twins, and one of them male?”

“Yeah, Taggart does seem too straight to be a fictional version of Jim,” agreed Nyota as she thumbed through the pages.

“You’re responsible for the cat-eared twins,” Jim pointed out.

“Gaila was talking about Siamese twins at the time,” protested Nyota, but she seemed to capitulate as she said it. “We can revise it so that they’re not related and that one of them is male, if you want. It’s your fictional dick that they’re touching, anyway.”

“Great mental image, Ny, thanks so much.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Y’all should get my pansexuality right, if nothing else.”

“And for the record,” added Nyota, “the female one, M’Ress, is a skilled computer scientist. It’s because of her that Taggart managed to hack the Kobayashi Maru at all. She gave him the base codes.”

“Duly noted,” agreed Jim, making notes in the margin of his copy. “Moving on, then.”

“Why did you destroy Vulcan?” Spock asked after a moment, looking at Jim.

Jim groaned. “Stop reading ahead,” he said.

“It is a perfectly legitimate question, as you told us to move on. Nyota created the Vulcans to mimic my own mental processes. Why did you commit genocide against them?”

Jim shifted uncomfortably against Spock’s side, as rigid as it had become. If Leonard remembered correctly, Jim had been knocking out his part of the story around the time he had been dragging Leonard to a bar to knock out any thoughts concerning Spock. The blond sank back into his chair. He had made his bed; now he had to lay down in it.

Jim mumbled unintelligibly.

“That is not reasonable justification,” Spock responded, using his miraculous abilities to understand only the things most inconvenient to those around him.

Meanwhile, it looked as if Pavel felt he was missing out on something. Having only looked up when he heard the cadence of Spock’s voice change, he was blissfully unaware of the reason for their argument. “What is he saying?”

“Jim was frustrated at me, and he destroyed Vulcan as a result.”

Hikaru and Pavel groaned, practically in tandem. “If I had known that, I would have been able to add more emotional impact,” Hikaru whined. “No one just hops aboard a mission all hunky-dory when their planet’s been destroyed.”

“Genocide is being very influential in matters of money and development,” Pavel added. “It would be affecting people all over the Federation, but especially the crew.” He shook his head. “We will be needing to revise.”

“What’s gee-no-sides?” Joanna popped her head into the room, closely followed by Nat. Leonard felt the blood drain from his face until he felt like a goddamned vampire.

Nat groaned. “Your dad’ll answer that when he’s not so busy, Jo. I’m not taking this one.” She shook her head. “For now, the spinach puffs await. Come on.”

Leonard drooped with relief. He’d have another hour or so before he’d have to explain mass state-sponsored murder. He wasn’t so relieved, however, when he turned back to find Spock and Jim with a cushion wall between them.

“Is that necessary?”

Spock responded to Leonard’s inquiry with a cold look. “If Jim wishes to make a statement concerning whether or not I should share the same space as he does, then I might as well acquiesce, and allow him the room he so clearly desires.”

“He’s being overdramatic and deliberately misinterpreting everything,” Jim insisted. “Tell him he’s being overdramatic.”

“He has ears. He heard you,” Nyota pointed out, rolling her eyes.

“But he’s cold-shouldering me.”

“You shouldn’t have done something as shitty as blow up his planet,” replied Nyota. “Especially seeing as it was a species I created for him. You not only disregarded a potential goldmine of plot points, you disregarded how Spock and I might feel about that. Don’t set fire to my house and expect me to save you when you get locked in.”

“I said I was sorry!” exclaimed Jim. “I mean, if you want to edit all of it out, be my guest. I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote the scenes, but it wasn’t exactly a good time for me and I regret it.”

“Like how J.K Rowling regrets pairing Ron and Hermione?” asked Hikaru. Jim groaned.

“Are we really going to go there?” he demanded. “Look, if any of you can find some way to —”

“What’s written is written,” Scotty declared. “I’m not any more pleased about destroying Vulcan as the rest of you, but we gotta live with the consequences of our actions.”

“Otherwise, we’re just as bad as Steven Moffat,” agreed Nyota. “If we’re going to take out a significant portion of a species, we’ve gotta make the consequences evident.”

“We’re going to make the destruction of the planet more about the political ramifications this has on the Federation and its relations with Romulus and less about Lazarus’s personal loss,” declared Nyota as she made several notes in the margins of her copy of the novel. “Since I did most of the worldbuilding for the Vulcans, I can tell you that they form deep emotional connections to their loved ones, and would therefore suffer exponentially at the death of all of their loved ones. I imagine several would even take their own lives.” Her eyes flashed. “Or, we could disregard all that in favour of ignoring their potential,” she stated flatly.

“And we could be having the old Lazarus Prime leading the movement to rebuild the Vulcan culture on a new planet,” agreed Pavel. “It is being one of the ways the survivors would seek to move on from the destruction. I am imagining that they do not speak of its anniversary, as the emotional scars of the loss are running deep within all of them.”

“Right, and what about the mission?” asked Hikaru. “I mean, I got that Lazarus was emotionally compromised into relinquishing the captaincy so that Taggart could go after Nero, but since I thought he just lost his mother instead of losing his mother and his planet, I had him fight the good fight in her memory.”

“That’s not a bad beginning,” Nyota pointed out. “As much as I hate that Jim’s fridged one of the few female characters in the novel —”

“Lieutenant Madison is a bamf, though,” Jim pointed out, but Leonard noted that most of the group seemed determined not to pay that much attention to his comments. He felt a bit sorry for the kid in that respect.

“As I was saying, I don’t like fridging one of the few female characters in the novel, but it would be a logical motivator for Lazarus to embark on a mission despite being emotionally compromised.”

“Speaking of female characters, though, there should be more communication between Lieutenant Madison and M’Ress,” Hikaru said. “And since we’ve mentioned Nurse Tonia Barrows and Ensign Aisha Darwin at least twice, we might as well give them a couple lines with each other, or with Madison and M’Ress.”

“This is told primarily through Taggart’s perspective, though,” Scotty pointed out. “That’s not going to be terribly easy.”

“Is it?” wondered Nyota. “You listen in on me and Gaila chatting all the time. Having Madison and Darwin talking about subspace channels and navigation isn’t that hard of a stretch.”

Spock cleared his throat. “So in conclusion, we are keeping Jim’s actions but adding more repercussions for them, as well as inserting more lines for the female characters mentioned in the narrative?”

“Sounds like a plan,” offered Jim, but once again the entire group ignored him. Leonard sent Jim a pitying stare; the blond shrugged as if to say he probably deserved it.

Leonard sighed, but the group had fallen into silence again in order to continue reading. So when he cleared his throat, the sound was louder than he would’ve liked. Six heads turned towards him almost immediately.

“Guys, I love how you all are coming up with great ideas and filling plotholes and stuff, but are you all really going to ignore Jim just because he did something stupid with the narrative? The kid does stupid things on a regular basis. He practically lives for bad decisions. It’s not fair to ignore him just because he made a bad decision — which, I may add, he actually regrets now.”

Spock merely sent him a frosty look. “I find myself disinclined to forgive —”

“Spock,” interrupted Leonard. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful boyfriend, but you’ve really got to stop kicking the damn puppy when it’s already down. I swear to god if you continue this you’re gonna send the poor kid home in tears.” He gestured to Jim, who determinedly looked away from them as the doctor said that.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “We have not discussed the nature of our relationship, and so in all technicalities, Jim is not my boyfriend.”

Leonard groaned, especially as Jim took that as his cue to rise and leave the room. “Where were you when we were all trying not to be dicks to each other, Spock?” demanded the doctor as he set down his copy of the manuscript and rose to his feet, running after Jim before he could hear Spock give his reply.

But Jim was nowhere to be found, and his car was missing from its spot on Hikaru’s driveway. Leonard stood there for a minute or two before cursing under his breath and pulling out his mobile to call him.

Answering machine. He texted Jim. Where the hell are you?

The snow was still falling, powdering his hair and clothes. Leonard stared at the spot where Jim’s car had been parked for the meeting, and returned to the house with a heavy heart.

Chapter Text

Where the hell are you?

none of ur bsns. need time 2 cool off -j

We’re all concerned about you. You just stormed out of there with no warning

ur probbly th only 1 who cares actually -j

i was nvr actully part of th group -j

u saw how quick they were 2 ignore me -j

Jim, in the time you’ve gotten to know that group you’ve become important to them

They were mad at you for pulling a dick literary move, sure, but they’re also willing to forgive

They didn’t edit out your contribution. They made it better

they can do whtevr they like w/ it i dont care nemore -j

i blew my chances of bein part of th group i get it -j

Stop beating yourself up about it, Jim. You’re not out of the group

but i cant go back there now -j

not with spock hating me -j

i cant live with spock hating me -j

i mean hes always been standoffish but i won in the end didnt i? i got to be with him -j

but now he hates me -j

and its worse this time b/c i love him -j

bones im in love with spock ive never felt more like shit in my life -j

bones? -j

Leonard went to see Jim after the meeting that night, armed with most of the contents of his minibar. They drank cheap beer, ate ice-cream, and watched bad movies late into the night, and if the sleeves of Leonard’s Ole Miss t-shirt felt more than just a little soggy after Jim had rested his head on them, neither man said anything about it.

Both Nat and Joanna flew south as the week drew to a close, Joanna to Georgia and Nat to Florida. Life continued, although Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling that Jim and Spock’s sudden distance was causing his life to become askew. The couple that had spent past meetings practically in each other’s laps like a bunch of touch-starved cats were now treating each other as if the other was made of ice. Outside the hour and a half in which the business part of their weekly meetings were conducted — all the group editing and reading over each of the drafts for the novel, as well as sharing individual works — Spock and Jim were rarely seen in each other’s company.

Leonard could’ve sworn Spock had a sixth sense for determining when Jim would be at events outside of the meetings, because the last dinner outing to the fondue restaurant in the Back Bay had coincided with a so-called ‘extremely important’ meeting with the publishers of Spock’s collection of short stories. The trip to the botanical gardens where Hikaru worked happened to be the day Spock needed to decide on a cover for his book. The day of the movie marathon at Scotty’s loft was also the day Spock needed to go finalise some decisions about the book, and, apparently, to water the fish. Leonard knew Spock didn’t own fish. He also knew that book had already gone to print and there was hardly anything Spock could do about it at this stage.

To make matters worse, Jim seemed to be of the mind that there was nothing he could do about the situation.

“Spock's made his feelings pretty clear, Bones. He doesn't want me anywhere near him. I basically hounded him until he let me in, and he's tired of it. I... Well, I get it, okay.” The kid then had the nerve to shrug at him, as if some noncommittal bullshit gesture would invalidate the fact that he was hurting.

Leonard was about ready to hit the both of them about the head and shoulders. However, he did have to concede that Pavel's puppy dog eyes might prove more effective in that regard.

By the time the fourth meeting like this came around, and Spock had retreated into the kitchen of Leonard’s apartment (with the express order for no one to follow him), Pavel opened his notebook and showed everyone a very elaborate chart listing exactly what Jim and Spock would get from their ‘divorce’.

Hikaru squinted at the chart. "Why does Jim get custody of me?"

"Spock is already having custody of Nyota and me. Jim is needing you to balance out Leonard's grumpy cat days."

"Yeah, right," Hikaru snorted. "You just want Spock's cookies to yourself."

Scotty scoffed. "Spock hasn't made cookies in a month. You're off your top."

Leonard buried his head in his hands, prompting Nyota to pat him on the back. "Sorry, Len. We're all uncomfortable with the situation. They're just coping."

"Coping with what?" Jim wandered back from the restroom to plop back into his chair. If that meeting followed the others in pattern, he would invariably remain there until Spock left, then proceed to move about the house like an especially active breed of headless chicken.

Pavel flipped his chart so that it was no longer visible, as Hikaru looked at Jim assessingly.

"I'm gonna tell him."

Pavel elbowed him, hissing, "Don't you dare," loudly enough for Leonard to hear him on the other side of the room.

Jim's brow wrinkled. "What are you guys talking about?"

Leonard pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger, sinking deeper into the abused furniture. "The infantile habits of the endangered Autho sapian."

“Oh, really?” asked Jim, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”

Leonard groaned audibly, sending baleful looks at the rest of the group. Jim continued to stare at him pointedly until the doctor sighed, and turned to Pavel and Hikaru.

“Tell me more about your spring break in New York,” he suggested in a voice too loud to be casual. “Weren’t you two helping out at a soup kitchen?”

“Da, we were,” said Pavel. “It was being very enlightening, serving soup to homeless people. I am being a better person because of it.”

“That was bullshit, and you know it,” Jim muttered. Hikaru pretended to look affronted.

“Well, if you’re going to be that way, then we won’t tell you about how Edith Keeler was hoping you’d — mmf!” He was silenced by the expedient route of Pavel’s hand over his mouth.

“Hoping I’d what?” asked Jim. Hikaru mimed calling on the phone, only for Pavel to seize his hands as well. With some degree of difficulty — and an extra hand which Pavel couldn’t match — Hikaru somehow managed to convince the Russian to free his mouth (in order to grab his hands instead).

“She’s lookin for more outreach volunteers. There’s a girl named Amara Karim who works there who does most of the outreach efforts, and Edith didn’t want to overtax her,” said Hikaru. “She was excited to have us onboard after she found out we were your friends. That was probably a lot more enlightening than whatever Pavel was going to tell you.”

Jim did seem to perk up slightly at the fact that Edith still thought well of him. Leonard wasn’t sure what to think of it. On one hand, he wanted his friend to be happy. On the other, given Spock’s reactions to previous mentions of Edith Keeler, this was only going to deepen the freeze between the two.

“I think I still have her contact info,” Jim remarked thoughtfully. “We could talk about how to get word out so that people are more informed about their options, for one thing. For another, she’s fun to talk to.”

“She was being very nice,” Pavel agreed.

“She’d have to be to deal with Jim.” Leonard received a betrayed glare for that observation.

“It’s not that much of a trial to deal with me,” Jim defended. “You all manage it well enough. Besides, she and I have already met. It’s not like she wouldn’t know how to handle me.”

Leonard kept his thoughts to himself regarding how recently Jim’s lack of confidence in his friends’ ability and will to stand his company had reared its head. That was a wound they would only revisit after the liberal application of alcoholic beverages and bad movies.

“If you say so. I’ve known you for years, and I’m still not sure how to deal with you,” he said instead.

“That remains a question to which I believe there is no answer, doctor.”

Jim nearly flinched at the cutting edge to Spock’s voice as he re-entered the room. It was only a moment before his shields came up, however, and he raised his eyes with a challenge set in his jaw. “Who knows. Maybe I’m not meant to be something that people have to deal with.”

Spock did not meet Jim’s eyes. “Indeed.” His hand went to his pocket, and Leonard could swear his Rubik’s cube thing was in there somewhere. However, Spock didn’t take it out.

That was a problem.

“I believe, if all of the business matters for the day have been settled, that I shall take my leave.” The first two meetings he did that, Nyota had spent a good ten minutes trying to convince him to stick around. After that, she just started leaving with him. No wonder no one had argued with Pavel about that portion of the ‘divorce arrangements’.

As Nyota went around the room to bid them all her farewells, she stopped at Leonard to mutter, “Get Jim to talk to Spock, or so help me, we’ll all need group therapy.”

Leonard looked up at her. “I’ll try my best, ma’am,” he said, saluting her. As soon as Nyota and Spock left, with Scotty promising he’ll call Nyota later, Jim leapt up from his seat and started pacing the length of the room, the rest of the group watching him bemusedly.

“Where are we on the edits?” he asked suddenly, turning to Leonard. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make the screening of I'm Obsessed With You at the film festival this weekend, though. I’ve got a business meeting —”

“Yes, it is being about the movie of your book; we are understanding that well,” Pavel grumbled. Jim raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more about it, turning away so he could start wandering through other parts of the house, evidently walking out his restlessness from the earlier portions of the meeting.

Scotty took the opportunity of Jim heading off to the guest room where Joanna had stayed to jab a thumb in the guy’s general direction. “This is bleedin’ unacceptable,” he hissed.

“What, are you on cookie withdrawal?” asked Hikaru.

“Doesn’t matter! Those two are giving each other shoulders so cold that it might as well be snowing in any bleedin’ room that they share!” Scotty looked at Leonard. “Something’s gotta be done before we are plunged once more into a frozen winter.”

Hikaru snickered. “Yeah, might as well tell one of the two to just let it go.”

“I am thinking you would be warmer in hugging a snowman than in spending any time with those two,” lamented Pavel.

Leonard groaned. “I get the point, you guys,” he snapped, mentally resolving to make sure Jim told him if and when he would be meeting Edith again.

But he didn’t have to worry about that as much as he had originally expected, as a couple days later he walked on the man in the middle of a video chat with Edith Keeler. Jim was leaning back in his chair and laughing, an expression Leonard now rarely saw on his face.

“Okay, no, there is no way anyone can get that tangled up in a blanket just by walking with it in their hands,” Jim was saying through his laughter.

Edith’s picture froze for a second before pixelating back into action, her laughter emanating from the computer all the while. “If you think that’s difficult, you would be amazed by what your friends managed to do with a couple of bowls.”

“I’d ask you for the story, but Hikaru still resents me for learning of the parking brake incident.”

“It wasn’t so bad that you constantly need to remind him!” Edith’s laughter betrayed her scandalised words. “That poor man.”

“He’ll survive.”

“Not happily, I imagine.” Edith shook her head. “I’m just happy that your constant guilt tripping means that he’s eager to volunteer whenever possible.”

“I’m sure he’d do that anyway,” Jim protested. “I mean, most of us would.”

“Ah, the illustrious writer’s group. It does seem to come in handy. I might try to steal your doctor so I can squeeze out a few examinations on some of the kiddos more prone to sickness.”

“He might actually like that,” Jim answered thoughtfully, “I mean, he’d grump about it, but he really does love kids. You’ve met him before, at the bar where we met.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Edith, grinning. “Any chance he’s single?” She paused. “And I swear that question is less than thirty percent motivated by the live-in doctor thing.”

“I have no idea. He had this weird half-dating thing going on with the writer for the Sixteen Light Years movie. Not sure how that panned out, but apparently she might be, you know, on the other bus.” Jim hummed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that one.”

“Yes, go out and fight my worthy fight.”

“Is this how you get your outreach workers to go out and throw blankets at people?”

“Amara does that of her own free will, thank you very much.” Edith sniffed. “She’s a good kid, and she wants to help.”

Leonard edged off, having heard all that he needed to. First of all, if Jim was scouting out potential dates for Edith, he was not likely to be dating her. Secondly, Jim talked about Leonard to  other people, and he even bothered to be nice about it.

He began whistling as he helped himself to some beer in Jim’s fridge, before setting the third draft of the Exquisite Corpse Novel on Jim’s table and leaving the kid to his video chats. Sometimes things worked out.

Nat called him again a couple days later, halfway through a round of video games at Jim’s apartment. Jim had just set fire to everything in the game for the umpteenth time, and sang that irritating and nonsensical song by Adele as he did so. Leonard had, after the third time Jim attempted to put his hands on the doctor’s face, threatened to bite off Jim’s thumb. After that, Jim kept his hands to himself but sang louder to make up for it.

The kid was talented in many areas, but singing in tune was not one of them.

“Nat, thank god,” said Leonard as he hovered by the entrance to Jim’s bedroom area, watching the guy continue to kill a couple on-screen mooks from his position. “Jim was trying to sing ‘Set Fire to the Rain’ before your call. I barely got away.”

He could hear Nat giggling, though the noise was partially distorted by wind. But Nat said something again, and that was distorted as well.

“Could you move out of the direction of the wind?” asked Leonard. “It’s hard to hear.”

There was a pause, punctuated by static on the line. Moments later, Nat’s voice rang through much clearer.

“This better?”

“Yeah, loads. Thanks.” Leonard paused. “How have you been?”

“Good,” said Nat, her tone neutral. “I’ve got to meet with my academic advisor in a couple of minutes, but I just wanted to make sure that everything’s okay.”

Leonard paused. “Of course they are. What gave you the idea that they weren’t?”

“I heard things,” said Nat. “Both during that meeting, when I came by with Jo to go find the spinach puffs, and online.”

Leonard groaned. “It’s reached the fanbase, then?”

“They’ve actually separated?” There was a barely-contained groan on the other end.

“According to Spock’s logic, they weren’t together in the first place.”

There was a long moment where Nat didn’t respond, and Leonard wondered for a moment if she had hung up or if the call had been dropped. His worries dissipated, however, when her voice sounded over the line, rife with disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Leonard huffed. “No, he’s pretty firm on that front.”

“He realises that he and Jim were wrapped around each other tighter than a chicken wrap, right?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be good with metaphors?” Leonard laughed, shifting the phone to his other ear. “I thought that writing meant you would be a fair hand at literary devices.”

“I haven’t eaten for a few hours,” Nat defended, chuckling. “Seriously though, I was under the impression that they’d been dating for a while.”

“So were the rest of us,” Leonard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just wish they’d get over themselves and stop treating each other like barely visible pools of acid.”

“Yikes. Well, it seems like Jim wants to try, at least,” she murmured after a moment.

Leonard straightened even as his brow furrowed. “Why do you say that?”

“He submitted a thing to the blog defending Spock and telling the fandom to, and I quote, ‘leave Mr. Grayson’s private life alone’.”

Leonard spun around, glaring in Jim’s general direction before sighing. “He would, wouldn’t he.” In front of the couch, Jim was whooping and laughing as he set a couple more mooks on fire.

“He’s a decent guy,” agreed Nat. “The way he talked about Spock on that first car ride over! The guy was besotted, I swear.” She began adapting a lower voice, as if trying to mimic Jim’s voice. “It was all ‘oh, you’re going to love Spock; he has an entire room of whiteboards’ and ‘oh, Spock makes the best cookies in this sector of the galaxy’ and ‘that’s funny; Spock’s favourite colour is blue, too’. I swear, I think I learnt more about Spock than him during that ride.”

“Must’ve been a bit of a shock for you when you actually met the guy,” said Leonard, remembering how Spock had appeared a bit cold to Jim until Nat explained everything.

“He’s a good writer,” said Nat.

“Oh, that’s almost a neutral phrase, when it’s from one writer to another,” scoffed Leonard.

“His book is out, you know?” Nat laughed. “Scattered. Adayit had a post about it.”

“What did you all think? I’m not to blame if it sucks, you know. I barely touched that manuscript, though I edited most of the stories individually when they were still rough drafts.”

“It was pretty good,” agreed Nat. “Evocative prose and compelling characters. Some stories were considerably better than the others, though. The jury’s still out on the celestial sphere demons one, but I have seen that story crossed over with Supernatural already.”

“That’s always the case,” Leonard pointed out, rolling his eyes. He could hear her huffing in laughter at the thought.

“Yes, fair enough,” she said, and then paused. “Sorry, Dr. McCoy —”

“Leonard,” interjected Leonard. “You don’t have dinner with someone so you can continue holding them at a professional distance. Just don’t call me some terrible nickname.”

“Yeah, alright,” said Nat. “Sorry.”

“What’re you apologising for?” asked Leonard.

“There’s another reason why I called.”

Leonard remembered Nyota’s expression at the last meeting where Nat had been present. “It’s about your friend in the fandom, isn’t it?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yeah, actually. I, uh, just wanted to let you know that she’s moving in with me at the end of the semester.”

“Really,” said Leonard.

“Yeah. We’re… kinda in a relationship now.”

Leonard paused, mulling over her words for a moment. “Congrats,” he said after a moment.

“It was nice, going to dinner with you.” Nat giggled briefly. “I just wanted to let you know that you were better than most of my dinner dates.”

“It was a friendly one,” replied Leonard, because it was true. Now that he really thought about it, he had asked her to dinner because it had been a long time since he did something like that. It had been a while since he dressed up and sat down to a nice meal with a pretty lady and had pleasant conversation. He was just trying to fill some sort of deep-seated Southern gentlemanly urge, and Nat had obliged.

“Oh, good, I was a bit terrified for a while there that it was… you know.”

Leonard chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. We could go grab dinner in a more casual manner whenever you’re up here again, if you want.”

“That would be fantastic,” she agreed. There was a pause. “Oh, I’m sorry, Len, I have to go to the meeting.”

“All right,” he said.

“Bye,” she rejoined, and hung up.

Leonard stared down at his phone for a longer time than necessary. Just as he pocketed it, the video game was paused on some extremely ominous music, and Jim came sauntering over, one eyebrow raised.

“Something happen, Bones?” he asked.

Leonard shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, a little too abruptly. “Let’s get back to the game. I’m going to kick your ass.”

Jim laughed. “In your dreams, old man,” he retorted, as Leonard followed him back towards the TV.

“Who brings their work to the bar?” wondered Nyota idly as she and Leonard sat at the bar of the same establishment that Leonard had taken Jim to on his birthday. Except now, Leonard had brought the fourth draft for the Exquisite Corpse Novel with him, and the barkeep behind the counter looked much more androgynous than John from last time.

“Someone whose other job leaves precious little time for editing,” retorted Leonard, “especially since spring allergies are on the rise.”

The most inconvenient thing about this corner of the world was that its idea of a great thaw was ‘excessive rain’. Outside the downpour raged on, but inside the bright neon lights never flickered or faltered. The music and chatter was just loud enough to obscure private conversations, yet quiet enough to let Leonard relegate it to white noise for his work.

Nyota idly stirred her cocktail. “The Correspondents seem to like Spock’s novel,” she said after a moment.

“Really,” stated Leonard, his red pen pausing for a moment. “It’s a collection of short stories, though.”

“Each of which has a vaguely space-like theme. It’s right up their alley.” Nyota chuckled. “There’s been a lot of talk about the titular story.”

“The one he wrote while coping with his feelings for Jim?” asked Leonard.

“The same,” agreed Nyota. “Most of Spock’s new fans — still not sure what they’re calling themselves — have been analysing that particular story. I guess they like a good star-crossed romance, and given that most of them are Correspondents, I’m imagining several Scattered and Sixteen Light Years crossovers in the making.”

Leonard hummed thoughtfully. He had bought a copy of Scattered a couple days after the release and kept it in his locker to read during breaks. He’d seen most of the stories in their early drafts, but there was something lovely about reading a final draft of something he’d edited. He could see all the moments where Spock had chosen to follow or disregard his suggestions. The entire experience felt a lot more personal than it would be for most readers.

“It’s tragic, I’ll give it that,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “Could give Jim’s ‘write me back’ scene a run for its money. I can see why they’d want to write about Sorjei being the embodiment of universal energy and falling in love with the mortal Janet.”

Nyota snorted. “In a happier time, I’m sure the two would’ve loved to try to one-up the other in making the rest of us cry.” She paused, biting her lower lip before trailing the stirring rod along the rim of her glass. “He misses Jim, you know.”

“Sure has an odd way of showing it,” groused Leonard.

“Can you blame him?” wondered Nyota. “This may be one of the first times where he’s experienced such a level of emotional compromise. You know what he has. Emotions are as indescribable to him as colours. It’s difficult for him to pinpoint exactly what he feels for Jim.”

“Those feelings look a bit negative from over here, though,” Leonard pointed out.

“Trust me when I say that I have learnt the hard way not to operate under the assumption that I know how Spock feels. If you want a relationship that lasts with anyone, you shouldn’t make assumptions like that, really, but the consequences are more immediate with Spock.” Nyota shook her head.

“If that's true, what makes you so sure that he misses Jim?”

“He writes about him,” she responded, knowing full well that her implications far outweighed the simplicity of the words themselves. Leonard could see it in the smug glint in her expression.

He sighed. “One day you’re going to be wrong about something.”

“But not today,” she rejoined.

“Well, when the day comes, I’ll make sure to let you know.”

She smirked, taking a sip of her martini. “I know Spock better than you,” she pointed out. “Any assumptions that you may have about him are usually wrong.”

“And I know Jim better than you,” retorted Leonard, “so the sentiments are similar in that regard.”

“How’s Jim dealing with it?” she asked.

“He’s done nothing but play video games and watch bad movies, but whenever I suggest naming one of the bad guys ‘Spock’, he disagrees. Plus, Nat’s informed me that he’s made a couple posts on the Sixteen Light Years blog defending Spock.”

“A bit redundant,” murmured Nyota. “The fandom’s not as negative about Spock as we thought before; it was just a vocal minority.”

“It was a purely symbolic gesture,” agreed Leonard. “Still says a lot, though.”

Nyota chuckled. “Yeah, well, when I went to go comfort Spock with ice-cream and movies, I brought some Reese’s ice-cream for him, and he said he didn’t want any of it. What that says about Spock’s feelings, I’m not entirely sure. I suppose it’s a good sign that he’s still laying off any peanut butter.”

Leonard snorted. “You know, for a couple that technically wasn’t even together in the first place, they really are taking this development like an actual breakup.”

“Tell me about it.” Nyota snorted. “I didn’t consume that much ice-cream after Spock and I agreed to be friends.”

“Huh, is he starting to fall in love with Ben and Jerry?”

“Didn’t Ben and Jerry split up?”

“Bah.” Leonard took a swig of his beer and rolled his eyes at her. “How’s Scotty’s movie going along?”

“We just cast the leads. I’m not telling you who, but I’m excited about them. They work really well together.” Nyota grinned. “Scotty’s more excited about the preliminary Jaeger designs, though.”

“Of course he is.” Leonard chuckled. “Speaking of movies, though, Jim’s been saying stuff about wanting Freema Agyeman to play Janet. Nat gave him the idea, of course, by suggesting it on the blog, but I’d be pretty impressed if he did get her to sign on for the film.”

“Well, as long as it’s not a white chick I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Nyota pointed out, looking over at Leonard’s scribbles on the fourth draft. “Where are we now?”

“I’m checking for grammar and flow,” said Leonard. “Good job on managing to integrate the consequences of the destruction of Vulcan into the ending, though. And I liked the new snippets between Nurse Barrows and Lieutenant M’Ress about the deaths of their fellow students.”

“Given that Jim’s scenes not only destroyed Vulcan but a portion of the Fleet as well, it seemed natural that some of those who served on the other starships that weren’t the Enterprise would be dead,” agreed Nyota.

Leonard snorted.“You can say that, but I heard that you’re the reason Madison’s alien roommate made an appearance at the end after the second revision. I gave Jim hell for that, you know.”

“Diora reminded me of Gaila. I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.”

“Or let Jim kill her, apparently. He put her on the USS Farragut, which was destroyed by Nero,” Leonard pointed out as he gestured to the passage. “How did she survive?”

“Evacuation pod,” said Nyota. “That’s why she shows up at the end.”

Leonard frowned. “Hm, well. Make sure you clarify at the end. She kinda just shows up again for another conversation with Madison about transferring onto the Enterprise. It feels like she disappeared into a plothole and resurfaced after everything was through.”

“Will do, boss,” replied Nyota, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “You know, you could actually profit from offering your editing skills to people who might pay you for them.”

Leonard waved a hand. “I do it to relieve stress. Telling someone else what they’ve done wrong in explicit detail tends to stop me from riding my own ass about small stuff. Besides, I couldn’t take it on as a second job.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” Nyota arched an eyebrow at him, and it took all Leonard had not to shudder at how much her expression resembled Spock’s.

“You guys will forgive me if I’m late with edits because I was called in to work. Someone who’s paying me wouldn’t.”

Nyota grimaced in sympathy. “True. How is that draft coming, anyway?”

Leonard looked down at the manuscript, leaning into the bar as he did so. “It’s coming along. After you add your explanation for why Diora pops up out of the blue, and after Pavel works out the wording for Lazarus’s train of thought — now that he knows all the involved factors, I mean — I should have everything I need for the final draft.”

Nyota shook her head, a small smile quirking at her lips. “It’s just kind of unreal to think that it’s almost finished. Seeing it grow from what I had to a full-length novel is just…” She hummed. “It’s different.”

Leonard smiled, picking up the manuscript and fanning himself with it. “I know what you mean. It’s certainly been an experience, seeing Jim get you all working on his harebrained scheme.”

“We’ll have to thank him one day,” Nyota said. “The experience was worth that much. Of course, it’ll have to be in a couple of years when his head isn’t nearly as large,” she amended.

“In a couple of years, then,” Leonard agreed, lifting his glass to bump against Nyota’s.

Bestselling Author James T. Kirk Announces New Novel

James T. Kirk, author of the bestselling novel Sixteen Light Years, announced on April 30 at a book signing at the Brookline Booksmith in Brookline, MA that he is currently working on a collaborative work with a group of Boston-based writers. The novel, tentatively titled The Exquisite Corpse Novel, is in its final editing stages.

“It’s going to be a good read, I think, once [Dr. Leonard McCoy] finishes editing it,” says Kirk. “I’m really excited about what we’ve come up with.”

The group itself comprises of not only Kirk and McCoy, but also the new author Spock Grayson (his collection of short stories, Scattered, has a space and star-crossed love theme similar to that of Sixteen Light Years), playwright Nyota Uhura, screenwriter Montgomery Scott, poet Hikaru Sulu, and MIT student Pavel Chekov.

“I only wrote a sixth of the novel, of course, and it was a fairly controversial sixth amongst our group,” says Kirk, “but I’m grateful that they decided, in the editing process, to run with my stuff instead of completely editing it out.”

“One of the greatest parts about this novel,” agrees Uhura, “is that it manages to combine six different sets of writing styles and creative approaches into one cohesive whole. It’s kind of beautiful.”

The concept behind the novel is to make each writer write a sixth of the book knowing very little about the contents of the previous sections. What Kirk and his group of friends have come up with as a result is a thrilling science-fiction action story set in the 23rd century, after Earth has established first contact with several alien species, one of which are called the Vulcans.

“I can’t tell you more about it,” says Uhura, “but I can tell you it’s a lot better than it sounds right now.”

“It’s been hard, the editing process,” says McCoy, “but I believe that it’ll be worth it in the long run. These guys are talented writers, and what I’ve got to work with here is solid material.”

The Exquisite Corpse Novel, the name of which will be changed between now and its release, has a tentative release date for May 8th with Simon & Schuster.

“You’ve all seen the article, I’m guessing,” Jim said at the next meeting, which was at his house. “Thing is, as much as I’d like to keep the title of the novel as it is, it really feels misleading given the contents of the story. We’re gonna have to come up with another title.”

“Star Trek,” suggested Nyota immediately.

“Galaxy Quest,” offered Hikaru.

“Galaxy Trek, or Star Quest,” suggested Pavel. Both Hikaru and Nyota glared at him. “That was a joke,” the Russian amended, shrugging.

“Boldly Going,” said Scotty after a moment. The others raised their eyebrows at him. “What? It said at the end that Taggart’s oath of captaincy involved the phrase ‘to boldly go where no one has gone before’.”

“Isn’t that a split infinitive?” wondered Spock, casting a glance at the nearby clock. “The phrase ‘to boldly go’, that is?”

“It sounds cooler as it is,” retorted Jim. “We could even title the book To Boldly Go.”

“That sounds like a good compromise,” agreed Scotty, “since there’s no way we’re calling this baby Galaxy Trek.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, before his gaze darted back to the clock again like a kid trapped in school on a Friday afternoon. “Once again, I am unsurprised that you would side with Jim.”

“No one’s taking any sides, laddie,” Scotty pointed out. “Jim’s title suggestion was a good one.”

“It is merely justification for allowing Jim to decide yet another aspect of this project,” retorted Spock.

“I haven’t decided every part of this thing,” snapped Jim defensively.

Spock, if he had had less self-control, would probably have snorted. “You have, as the term goes, ‘gotten your way’ with everything else in this novel,” he sneered, “including the idea of writing it in the first place. This is no exception.”

Jim laughed harshly. “What, having second thoughts about letting this go to print, Spock?”

“That would be illogical, as we have already finished the novel and are currently in the process of editing it.” Spock’s voice seemed less calm than usual, and he was looking impatiently at the clock once more.

“Illogical, huh?” wondered Jim, expression mocking. “Well, you obviously seem to be thinking that anything I have a hand in is doomed from the start, so please, do tell us what you would rather do.”

Spock opened his mouth again, but Leonard took that moment to run damage control and shout, “Shut up, both of you!” loud enough startle them into looking at him.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Dr. McCoy, perhaps you should calm down,” he said, with no trace of irony in his voice.

“I am calm. I’m always calm,” retorted Leonard, though he could have laughed at the other man for hypocrisy at that moment. Or maybe throttled him. “I’m probably calmer than you at this moment.”

“I would beg to differ,” said Spock coolly, even though his hands were fumbling for the Rubik’s cube in his pocket. “The emotionalism is evident in your voice and your stance. From what I can deduce, you are tense about something.”

“Well, if I am, it’s partly your fault,” grumbled Leonard. “Do you and Jim have any idea what you’re doing to the rest of us with this lover’s quarrel?”

“Bones, it’s not —” began Jim, but Leonard shook his head.

“If you two are going to break up, at least be civil to each other afterwards. Stop treating this like it’s a stupid middle school drama, and if you’re going to be juvenile about it, don’t do it in public. The Correspondents are having a field day, and they don’t even know the whole story.”

Nyota blinked. “Len, what —”

“Bones,” repeated Jim, “we weren’t —”

Leonard held up his hand. “Look, Spock, I know you said he wasn’t your boyfriend, and we certainly never got a clarification about the entire non-relationship that’s been happening, but for a pair that was never together in the first place, you two are really taking this like it’s an actual breakup. It would be cute if it wasn’t actually irritating.”

“It was about time someone mentioned this,” Hikaru muttered. Scotty and Pavel both nodded, and Nyota rolled her eyes at all three of them.

Leonard continued, spurred by that comment. “I’ve had just about enough of you two and this entire month of cold-shouldering. At least figure out what the hell is keeping the two of you from being civil about the entire ordeal, because I don’t think any of us can spend the rest of our time in this bloody writing group dealing with passive-aggressive exes.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I understand,” he said coldly, and rose to leave. Leonard growled.

“Sit your ass back down, Spock, I’m not done yet!” he snapped, causing Spock to resume his seat, eyes wide. “From what I can observe, and from what Nyota’s told me, neither of you are actually over each other, and all this ignoring is just going to do a disservice to the cohesiveness of the group as a whole. So Jim did something shitty. You all made the collective decision to run with his ideas. You all agreed to writing this story, and you all agreed to keep his decision of destroying Vulcan.”

“We had to work with the consequences,” Hikaru noted drily. “It would be irresponsible not to.”

“From what I understand, you and Pavel chose to edit your pieces to include Vulcan’s destruction, as opposed to editing Jim’s to take out Vulcan’s destruction.” Leonard looked back towards Spock, though, who seemed fidgety and ready to leave at the first opportunity. “That problem has been resolved. All that’s left of the argument that split the two of you in the first place is some sort of petty juvenile grudge about some dumb-ass choice Jim made when he was hung up over you in the first place.”

“Bones, is this necessary?” demanded Jim, finally getting a word in edgewise. Leonard glared at him.

“Dammit guys, I’m a doctor, not a relationship counselor! I’ve no bleedin’ clue what to do. All I’m asking is for you two to get your heads out of your asses and do something about it!”

“Len, I think that’s enough,” said Nyota. Leonard paused, looking around the room. Jim was looking pale, gripping the arm of his chair with white knuckles. Scotty, Pavel, and Hikaru were all looking uncomfortable. Spock seemed like he was on the verge of some sort of breakdown, and barely holding it in.

Leonard sighed. “I’m going to just… show myself out,” he said, rising to his feet and staggering to the door. “I’ve said what needed to be said. You two figure something out by the time the novel’s released, or I swear to God I’m going to sign the two of you up for couples’ counselling so the rest of us can get some peace.”

No one said anything as he retreated out the door of Jim’s flat.

Live Long and Prosper: Dr. McCoy, I apologize.

The Skype message flashed as a notification on Leonard’s laptop later that night. Rubbing his temples in exasperation, Leonard sighed and opened up the chat client to respond.

Dammit Jim: No, Spock, I’m the one who should be doing that

Live Long and Prosper: No, I believe I owe you and the rest of the group an explanation.

Live Long and Prosper: Emotions are not easy for me to define, but I have taken a closer look at what is driving my reactions.

Live Long and Prosper: After extensive meditation I have arrived at a conclusion.

Dammit Jim: How lovely. What’s your conclusion, Spock?

Dammit Jim: Sorry, shouldn’t be sarcastic with that first bit

Live Long and Prosper: I was not aware that that had been sarcasm.

Live Long and Prosper: No offense was taken.

Live Long and Prosper: Nyota had created the Vulcans out of affection for me, as she and I love each other in a familial aspect. She wanted to create a set of characters that reflected my own mental processes, so that I may have representation and characters that I could relate to.

Live Long and Prosper: I am, of course, referring to my Asperger’s.

Dammit Jim: Yeah, I’d figured you were, what’s the term, neurodivergent

Dammit Jim: Didn’t want to say something about it, though

Dammit Jim: I’m trying this new thing where I don’t act like a complete asshole about everything and everyone

Live Long and Prosper: I believe I have been resentful towards Jim for his actions because he destroyed a species that Nyota created specifically for me.

Live Long and Prosper: Suddenly I didn't have the opportunity to work with the characters that I understood best.

Live Long and Prosper: I had only Lazarus and his father, and they had to be altered to reflect how the destruction of Vulcan and the death of Lazarus’s mother would affect them.

Live Long and Prosper: I blamed Jim for taking away my opportunity to work with the Vulcans as a whole.

Dammit Jim: I see where you’re coming from

Dammit Jim: You thought it wasn’t fair that Jim took away the characters meant for you

Dammit Jim : Still, that’s not exactly a good excuse to be a dick to Jim, just sayin. The kid did apologize

Live Long and Prosper: I understand.

Live Long and Prosper: However, I cannot help but feel that he must have had a deeper reason for destroying Vulcan.

Live Long and Prosper: I am concerned that he eliminated the Vulcans because he had a problem with my personality or my mental capabilities and limits.

Live Long and Prosper: I have tried to forgive him.

Live Long and Prosper: I do not believe I have succeeded, even when we were ‘together’.

Dammit Jim: Wait

Dammit Jim: Wait what

Dammit Jim: You’ve been bottling this up since you first got the pages?

Dammit Jim: Spock that’s not healthy

Live Long and Prosper: I am aware.

Live Long and Prosper: It is why I have not been able to trust Jim enough to give him a key to my house.

Live Long and Prosper: I had thought, based on his behavior and his habits and what he did in the novel, that I could not

Leonard stared at his monitor, where the text indicating that Spock was typing continued to flash. After a long while, only one sentence appeared.

Live Long and Prosper: I did not think that I could trust him.

Leonard sighed, scrubbing at his eyes before typing out his response.

Dammit Jim: Jim loves you.

There was a long pause there, before Spock started typing again.

Live Long and Prosper: I was not aware of it.

Dammit Jim: Really?

Dammit Jim: Pretty obvious to the rest of us

Live Long and Prosper: Sometimes determining the nuances of social interaction is, for me, a daunting task.

Live Long and Prosper: Jim expresses physical affection towards almost everyone.

Live Long and Prosper: I was not aware that his affection towards me was any different, or that any distinctions between his treatment of others and his treatment towards me might be indicative of deeper regard.

Dammit Jim: Believe me, Spock, there are differences between his ‘for everyone else’ sort of physical affection and his ‘for Spock’ sort of physical affection

Dammit Jim: I know the kid. He has never looked at anyone else the way he looks at you

Dammit Jim: I’m not saying this to urge you to get back together with him

Dammit Jim: If you think you’ll be better off without him that’s your thing

Dammit Jim: I just thought you’d like to know that he loves you a lot

Dammit Jim: And I’m sure he’ll be okay with whatever you decide even if it doesn’t seem that way

Dammit Jim: He’s a good kid.

There was a pause.

Live Long and Prosper: Thank you, Leonard.

The green dot next to Spock’s username flickered out. Leonard stared at it for a moment longer, shrugged, and turned off his computer. Chances were, Spock had signed off to give himself space to think. He didn’t blame the guy; emotional connections of a romantic nature were confusing even to people without a social disorder, and adding Jim Kirk into the mix was bound to confuse anyone.

He just hoped that the two would actually take his advice more seriously this time.

The Exquisite Corpse Novel —  or rather, To Boldly Go — was released on May 8th to general excitement from the press and the fan communities. To celebrate their success, the group held a party at Spock’s Brownstone, inviting only their friends and colleagues.

“Everyone on Tumblr is jealous of us,” Nat was saying cheerily as she posed for yet another picture with Jim as Leonard entered the Brownstone, Joanna trailing behind him. Jocelyn had allowed her to fly up for this occasion, in a rare gesture of magnanimousness. Leonard sure hoped she wasn’t going to hold this trip against him as a favour.

“They’ll be extremely jealous of our selfies,” agreed Jim, turning to the attractive Black woman standing next to the short and stout red-haired teenager with thick-rimmed glasses who was holding up an iPhone to take the aforementioned pictures. “And you two are?”

“Adayit Marcus and Beatrice Kingsley, the mods of the Sixteen Light Years fanblog,” offered the woman, extending her hand for Jim to shake. She had a star-patterned bow in her hair. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“No relation to a certain Carol Marcus from DARPA, am I right?” asked Jim, winking. “She’s at this party, somewhere.” He gestured vaguely behind him.

“No,” said Adayit, “though if her career centers around designing weapons of mass destruction, I’ll bet she’d be interesting to talk to.” Nat took that opportunity to sidle up to Adayit’s side and press a kiss to her girlfriend’s cheek. Jim grinned.

“So you’re the one who stole Nat from my friend Bones,” he noted, raising an eyebrow at Adayit. “Congrats on that, by the way. I hope you two can cosplay your OTPs together.” He paused. “That’s what you say to online-based couples, right?”

Adayit blinked slowly at him before muttering something that sounded like, “I can’t believe you weren’t kidding,” in Nat’s ear. Jim, bemused, looked as if he was about to enquire as to what exactly Adayit was referring, but Beatrice — who had been otherwise examining her surroundings with barely-concealed glee — shook her head at him in a universal gesture of ‘you don’t want to know’.

Nat grinned, pressing a bit closer to Adayit. “Thanks, Jim.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes even as a small smile softened her expression. “Alright, you two, take your proof that love is ever constant away to where the rest of us don’t have to see it.” The two sent her vaguely exasperated looks, but detached themselves from the group and sidled off into the crowd. Beatrice grinned at Jim. “I’ve been trying to pick Nat’s brain about Sixteen Light Years and To Boldly Go for forever, but she insisted that I had to wait and ask the authors.” She cleared her throat. “Therefore, I submit my request to bombard you with questions.”

Adayit, having overheard the question, poked her head back into the conversation. “I’m sorry,” she said, directing her apologies to Jim. “She’s intent on her goals. And before you ask, yes, she is always like this.”

Jim laughed, waving a hand as Adayit disappeared again. “Oh, it’s fine. What kind of questions do you have?”

“When Janet referred to time as an abstract concept that still managed to have more control than she did, it was a markedly philosophical notion mixed with scientific thoughts regarding forces versus the measurements of such forces. Since this kind of statement appears throughout the book, would you say that philosophy and science are easily blended?”

Leonard resisted the urge to gape. It sounded as if the kid had memorised a list of questions in preparation for the party. The sad thing was that Jim looked like he was actually excited about answering them, once he got over the shock.

Leonard decided he needed a drink if he was going to cope with that nonsense. While he had been fixated on Beatrice’s interrogation on the finer points of Jim’s first novel, Joanna had run off into the house somewhere. She was most likely out to find the Whiteboard Room and sequester herself in it for the rest of the party, preferably with I’Chaya as company. With a sigh, the doctor headed towards the kitchen.

For the first time in months, the kitchen at Spock’s Brownstone was open for all. Nyota was there, making sure Pavel and Hikaru didn’t make off with the entire platter of cookies on the counter. Pavel and Hikaru were, indeed, eying said platter hungrily.

“What’s this? Spock’s finally baking again?” asked Leonard as he slid up to the cookies and stole one. Spock’s cowboy cookies were to die for (alongside most of his other cookies, but that was a minor detail).

“Da, he is, and it is glorious,” agreed Pavel, who already had the evidence of several cookies lingering around his lips.

“Look at the two of you, scheming,” added Yuki Sulu’s voice from the direction of the powder room as she emerged and sauntered to the counter, nabbing a giant selection of snickerdoodles. “They’re too well-guarded. Maybe you’re just not the right people for the job.”

Leonard raised an eyebrow as Yuki returned to the party. “She has a point, you know,” he said.

“You’re just saying that because she can throw you into a particle accelerator if you disagree,” Hikaru pointed out.

“No, I’m saying it because Nyota knows that Pavel has a reputation for eating all the cookies,” Leonard replied. “You’re going to have to find someone else to do your work for you, and then you’ll have to give them a cut of the booty.”

“I hate contracting people,” grumbled Hikaru. Leonard turned to Nyota, who raised an eyebrow at him in a ‘I just heard everything you said and I’m not amused’ sort of way. He laughed, nabbed another cowboy cookie, poured himself a glass of bourbon, and left.

However, he didn’t get very far before Gaila crossed into his line of sight, waving an arm to get his attention. “Hey, I need a doctor over here.”

“What are your symptoms?” Leonard asked automatically.

Gaila rolled her eyes. “An inability to find whole grain butterscotch chip cookies.”

Leonard shook his head. “That sounds pretty specific,” he said.

“I think I’m having a craving,” replied Gaila, shrugging.

Leonard chuckled. “Take a couple plain butterscotch cookies from that tray over there and call me if your symptoms persist.” He paused. “Maybe Spock didn’t make any, or those two,” he gestured to Pavel and Hikaru, “ate them all.”

“Bah.” Gaila shrugged, “you can’t blame me for trying.” She hummed, giving him an evaluating once over in the process.

“What?” Leonard crossed his arms, eyeing her in suspicion.

A grin split her face. “Nothing. You just seem to be a little less mopey. It’s a good look for you.”

“I don’t mope,” protested Leonard as he followed Gaila back to the living room, where Christine and Geoff were sitting on the recently-unwrapped couch, already deep in conversation with a blonde with a Scottish accent.

“Where’s Carol?” Gaila asked Christine, causing the nurse to look up at her with a raised eyebrow.

“She couldn’t make it. Something about a new torpedo commission from the Navy,” said Christine, shrugging.

“I heard her dad’s replacement is the guy who commissioned them. How’s that boiling over?”

Christine laughed. “He’s practically foaming at the mouth, last time I checked,” she replied, before nodding at the unfamiliar blonde. At that moment, Scotty came wandering over, a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Janice!” he exclaimed as he clapped a hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “Been a while since I last saw you!”

“I don’t leave the Hebrides much, no,” agreed Janice. “Though it’s good Jim reckoned this to be a worthwhile trip. Plane still wasn’t as good as Junior’s private one, though.”

“Jim?” echoed Leonard.

“Jim Kirk,” said the blonde. “Well, not your Jim Kirk, at any rate.”

“I figured,” replied Leonard, sipping his bourbon. “Who’s this one?”

“Captain James Kirk of the USS Enterprise, or so I hear,” said Scotty.

Leonard almost spat out his drink. “The conspiracy theory one?”

“The very same,” replied Janice.

“How’d he get here? I thought he was busy being AWOL,” said Leonard.

Scotty snorted as he finished off his scotch. “Funny story, that. Hikaru mentioned bits of it to me. Apparently this Jim Kirk’s true love is Spock’s great-uncle, who also happens to be named Spock.”

“Huh,” scoffed Leonard. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Scotty, looking back towards the kitchen. “I think Ny wants me to go help her defend the cookies. Besides, I need to go refill my scotch. Catch you later.” And with that, he toddled off. Leonard wasn’t sure how effective this additional security was going to be; as long as Scotty was in the same room as Nyota, the cookies would remain undefended.

“So then!” exclaimed Christine as Gaila deposited herself into the nurse’s lap. “Any other projects we should be looking forward to, Len?”

Leonard laughed. “Well, I’ve got this patient who’s —”

“I meant writing,” said Christine, though she looked fairly amused nonetheless. Or at least it seemed that way, given that most of her face was obscured by a grinning Gaila.

“There’s the Sixteen Light Years movie,” replied Leonard. “Natalie Tucker wrote that; she’s probably still out in the crowd somewhere.”

“Natalie?” echoed Geoff. “You don’t mean Natira Tucker, do you?”

“Natira?” Leonard blinked. “Is that her real name? I didn’t even know that.”

“I was just talking to her girlfriend’s cousin, who came here with a social worker friend.”

“Edith Keeler,” added Christine. “You know, the one Hikaru —”

“Yup, I know about that,” interjected Leonard a little hastily.

“She’s looking for you,” added Geoff. “Anyway, Amara called her Natira Tucker, so I was just wondering if we were talking about the same person. I guess it’s a cultural name of some sort.”

“It’s a lovely name,” said Leonard vaguely, looking through the small crowd for Edith. Pavel had invited several classmates and mutual friends of his and Scotty’s, Nyota had invited some Wellesley alumnae (as well as two or three wide-eyed students), and Hikaru had brought in a couple colleagues as well. The party was just social enough to be considered a party, but not rowdy enough for someone to break out the beer pong just yet.

And of course, the ubiquitous copies of Scattered, Sixteen Light Years, and To Boldly Go were situated on a table in the hallway, as well as a can of Sharpies so that partygoers could hunt down the authors and demand their signatures.

“She’s over there,” Christine offered, pointing to a dark-haired woman standing near the punch bowl. She was talking to another woman who wore a hijab and a well-worn, faded jacket, and seemed fairly excited to be here.

Leonard nodded, rose to his feet, and headed for the punch bowl with his glass of bourbon in hand.

“Edith Keeler, right?” he asked once he was there. The dark-haired woman turned, smiling.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are?”

He held out his hand to shake hers. “Leonard McCoy. I’m Jim’s friend and the group’s editor.”

Edith’s eyes lit up. “So you’re the doctor-slash-editor that Jim’s always saying such good things about. I remember meeting you at the bar with Jim! You walked out fairly quickly.”

“That’d be me, ma’am,” Leonard chuckled sheepishly. “And I’m probably a whole lot worse than what Jim makes me out to be. Either he’s more inclined to praise me from a distance, or he has another friend that fills that role.”

“Why, does he only say bad things to your face?” Edith laughed. “I hear you’re good with kids and even better at your job.”

Leonard could feel his cheeks heating up. “That does sound a little more like me, I suppose,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He turned and nodded at the other woman. “Leonard McCoy. Who are you?”

“Amara Karim,” said the woman, smiling at him. “I work for Edith.”

“No, you don’t; we work together,” said Edith, sipping her glass of punch. She smiled at Leonard. “Amara is head of outreach efforts at my kitchen. She is simply an amazing person and an extremely hard worker; I had to force her to take a break and come up here for this party.”

“I was invited by my cousin’s girlfriend,” Amara added in a stage whisper, rolling her eyes.

Leonard suddenly remembered what Geoff had mentioned earlier. “You don’t mean to say that your cousin is Adayit?” he asked.

Amara nodded. “The very same,” she said. “And I take it that you’re a friend of Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov?”

“Small world,” agreed Leonard. He looked at Edith. “So, what sort of tales have you heard about my job and skills with kids? How can these legendary hands help you?”

Amara snorted at that. “I think that’s my cue to bow out of this conversation,” she said in a louder voice than necessary, before shuffling away. Edith laughed, her cheeks now pinker than before.

“I could probably respond to that with several unorthodox responses, Dr. McCoy, but since I’m keen on developing a professional relationship here —”

“Doesn’t mean there’s no room for a personal one —”

She laughed out loud at that. “True! But let’s start with a more professional need. There are some kids at the shelter who need shots for things like the flu, or who can’t get proper health care. I had originally been working with a Dr. Korby —”

“Rose Korby?” echoed Leonard.

“Actually, he’s called Roger now.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. I remember the guy from med school. That must’ve been a new development; I lost contact with Dr. Korby a while back.” Leonard run a hand through his hair. “What’s happened to, uh, him?”

“Nothing bad; he just got a better offer elsewhere. A more full-time job, you know.”

“I see,” replied Leonard. “So you’re wondering if I could drop in once in a while and do some check-ups on the kids at the shelter, give ‘em their shots and stuff?”

Edith nodded. “It’ll be paid, of course, and I can get the supplies that you might need. I’m sure you’re extremely busy with your job here, though, and it does take quite some time to get from here to New York, so I know it’s not the most practical —”

“I’m fine with coming in once in a while,” said Leonard almost immediately. “I’d be happy to do that for you. Of course, if you can, I’d suggest getting someone who lives closer to the shelter to take care of the occupants on a more regular basis. I’ll just drop by and help them out when I can.”

“Duly noted,” said Edith. “I’m just happy for a shot at working with you.” She paused. “Pun not intended, of course.”

“Of course not,” agreed Leonard, chuckling. “I’ll give you my number, and you can call me up with more details once this party’s —”

“Daddy!” exclaimed another voice. Moments later, Joanna came pelting out of nowhere, a squirming I’Chaya in her arms. “Daddy, Mr. Spock and Uncle Jim were arguing in the kitchen when I came downstairs for cookies. Does that mean they don’t go to dinner any —” she cut off, looking wide-eyed at Edith. “Hello.”

“Hello,” agreed Edith. “I’m Edith Keeler. Who are you?”

“Joanna McCoy.” Joanna let go of I’Chaya now and clung onto her daddy’s hand.

“My daughter,” added Leonard, though the clarification felt a bit unnecessary even to him.

“I’m praycoshus,” declared Joanna.

“I’m sure of it,” agreed Edith, smiling kindly at her. Joanna frowned slightly.

“Are you going to go to dinner with my daddy?” she asked with the brutal honesty that only a six-year-old could muster. “Daddy went to dinner once with a nice lady named Nat, but Nat is taking another girl to dinner now, so I think Daddy is very lonely and maybe a little hungry, too.”

Leonard resisted the urge to facepalm. Tact, for children, usually meant a tiny box of delicious orange-flavoured mint candies. Joanna, for all her intelligence, tended to believe that as well.

“Perhaps in the future,” offered Edith. Joanna beamed, before turning back to Leonard.

“They’re still fighting in the kitchen, Daddy. I can’t get to my cookies,” she said, with the pout and the chin wobble that always proved a deadly combination to Leonard’s resolve.

He groaned, mentally blaming Joce for Joanna’s manipulativeness. “Alright, Daddy will go run damage control. Stay here with Edith; I’ll get you some cowboy cookies.” He paused. “I’ll be back,” he added, nodding at Edith as he headed back into the kitchen.

Nyota had deserted her post at the counter in order to go ‘converse’ with Scotty in the backyard (Leonard was pretty sure there actually wasn’t that much talking involved), and Pavel and Hikaru had taken the opportunity to steal the platter of cookies that they had been eying. However, the current occupants of the kitchen — Spock and Jim — were evidently in the middle of another argument, and this time it was Jim who was heading for the doorway first.

“It’s fine, Spock, we don’t have to talk about this if it’s making you uncomfortable,” the blond was saying when Leonard got close enough to hear what they were talking about. The doctor tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as he swiped a couple cowboy cookies from the platter that hadn’t been pilfered by Pavel and Hikaru.

“My comfort is not the only thing that matters in this situation,” Spock retorted, his hand darting out to grab Jim’s wrist. “I have caused you undue emotional turmoil, and for that I apologise.”

“You know that apology’s accepted, Spock,” said Jim, even though there wasn’t much emotion behind his words or in his expression, and he wasn’t turning to face Spock. “It was shitty of you to have kept that objection to yourself for so long, but now I know why I never felt like you trusted me.”

“I am sorry,” said Spock, his voice quieter.

Jim looked up, and Leonard quickly pretended to be extremely interested in his bourbon. “It’s fine,” the blond said.

Spock’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Do not lie to me.”

Jim wrenched his wrist from Spock’s grasp. “It’s the truth. It’s fine. Now I know why you treated me the way you did. I’m not happy about it, but I’ll survive. It’s good to know I can do that, isn’t it?”

“You still misunderstand,” Spock insisted.

Jim turned around at that, and though Leonard wasn’t sure what his expression was, he had a feeling it was caught between anger and defensiveness.

“What am I not getting here, Spock? Enlighten me.”

Swallowing audibly, Spock took a step closer to Jim, and Leonard wasn’t sure if he should avert his gaze. There was so much undisguised affection in the minutiae of Spock’s expression, and Leonard was pretty sure he just heard Jim’s breath catch at the sight of it.

“You do not seem to have realised how much influence you hold over my emotions, Jim. I would not have reacted so strongly to what I deemed to be a rejection if I did not..." He trailed off, faltering, but gathered himself once more. "Your actions have only hurt me to such a degree because I allowed them to. I now find myself in love with someone whom I had misunderstood, whose actions I had taken as a preemptive rejection."

Jim gradually unfroze, deflating as the tension left him. Leonard was pretty sure something akin to hope was plastered all over the kid’s face. He had a tendency to do that whole ‘hope springs eternal’ thing, after all.

After a moment, he coughed. “So you…” he said, trailing off.

“So I…?” echoed Spock.

“Love… me?”

Spock bit his lip. “I believe that is the most accurate descriptor, yes.”

“Really?”

“Affirmative.”

“Seriously, though, I’m not sure I’m hearing this right. You love me.”

“Is it necessary to repeat this fact?”

“Yes, it is, Spock. Just a couple minutes ago you were telling me about all the shitty things that I had done to you and how they have led to you not trusting me. I think I’m allowed a little incredulity.”

“You seem to be implying that you do not believe my confession. I do protest, Jim, that it is the truth and that I —”

“Oh, Spock.” Jim laughed, cutting him off and shaking his head. “I swear to god if you don’t stop talking right now...” he trailed off, chuckling as he stepped forward again, pressing their bodies together.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning to do?” he enquired.

“Stop your mouth,” replied Jim as he wrapped his arms around Spock and kissed him.

There was a loud clatter as a cookie platter fell to the floor. Moments later, Hikaru and Pavel emerged from the pantry where they had clearly been eavesdropping, Hikaru looking suitably excited.

“He said the thing, Pasha, he said the thing!” exclaimed Hikaru, even as the happy couple ignored them. Though not entirely — Jim’s arm moved in their direction, ostensibly to flip them off.

“I am not being sure of how I became surrounded by the biggest fans of Shakespeare,” Pavel complained. “You can not even make up without quoting something.”

“Well, man is a giddy thing, you know,” Hikaru joked, attempting to direct Pavel out of the room to leave the two to their snogging. “Knowing you, you’re just upset that he didn’t quote Tolstoy.”

“Given the cold, Russian context for Tolstoy, I am not believing he is a good substitute.” Pavel shuffled out of the kitchen accordingly, raising an eyebrow at Leonard as they passed him.

“What’s going on in there?” asked another voice, and suddenly the older Spock was at Leonard’s side as well, trying to peer into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if you should be looking,” replied Leonard. As if to make a point, he turned his back to the kitchen doorway.

“Am I not?” wondered the older Spock. There was a pause, before the older man retreated as well. “Hm, well, good on my great-nephew,” he said, nodding at Leonard. “Janice and I have to get our Jimmy back to the hotel; it’s far past his bedtime. You tell Junior in there that it was about bloody time, all right?”

Leonard could only gape as the older Spock toddled back to the stairwell to fetch his own James Kirk. As the two of them headed for the door with Janice in tow, the doctor felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see Joanna, recently reconciled with I’Chaya, by his side.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?” asked Joanna, looking up at him.

Leonard laughed, thinking about what Joanna would say if he told her she had missed everything. “Everything is okay, Jo-Jo,” he replied, ruffling her hair and handing her the cowboy cookies. “Everything.”

Chapter Text

Pavel and Hikaru had been two of the last guests to leave, and even then it had taken Spock’s bribery to convince them that it was high time they left. Jim had absolutely no qualms about heaving a sigh of relief once they had toddled off, clutching cookies to their chest. They were harder to get rid of than agoraphobic ghosts.

That was a thought. Jim considered grabbing one of Spock’s various Expo markers and writing the idea down in the whiteboard room, but he figured it would be a shame to mar Joanna’s scrawlings. He’d probably remember it later.

“Spock?” he called, looking around. “Where are you?”

“Cleaning,” a disgruntled voice arose from downstairs. Jim rolled his eyes, a smile flitting across his face.

“You’re only supposed to clean after the night of depravity and general indecency is over,” he pointed out, wandering downstairs.

Spock was in the kitchen, shoving abandoned plastic cups into the recycling bin. He stopped to aim his incredulous expression at Jim. “The party did not seem overly depraved, nor did it merit a label of indecent. If it had, Joanna would not have been allowed to attend.”

“That’s not the point,” Jim said, laughing as he stepped closer to Spock again and started helping him clear up the kitchen. “The point is that for us, the party isn’t over yet. Well, not unless you want it to be.”

Spock paused, an unreadable expression on his face as he looked at Jim. After a moment, he asked, “Was that supposed to be an attempt at flirting?”

Jim laughed again, drawing Spock closer to him and reaching up to cup his face. Spock had the most wonderful-looking eyes; they were dark and usually enigmatic, though currently there was a certain hint of warmth to them as they gazed at him. He felt his heart race, heard Spock’s breath catch, and a light blush tint his cheeks.

“From your actions, I must assume that I am, once more, correct,” said Spock, voice slightly hoarse with what Jim hoped was emotion and not the symptoms of a cold. God, Bones was rubbing off on him, and not even in the way he’d have liked him to.

Jim quickly quashed that thought before leaning in to bump his nose against Spock’s, their lips only breaths apart. “Come to bed with me,” he suggested.

“Are you tired?” Spock asked.

Jim snorted. “Nope,” he said.

“Then what is the purpose — oh.” Spock swallowed. Jim watched the graceful bob of his Adam’s apple and noted that his trousers felt a bit tighter than usual. “You wish to engage in coitus.”

“Only you could make that term sound sexy,” Jim remarked, grinning. “But yeah. I’d like to. Is that a thing you’d like to… you know…” he trailed off hopelessly for a moment, before recovering his wits. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with, and it does seem to be a bit sudden, given that we just spent the past months barely talking to each other, but —” He was cut off suddenly by the press of Spock’s lips against his, insistent and demanding, and all he could do in response was open his mouth with an embarrassingly wanton moan.

After a moment, Spock broke away, leaving Jim with his face upturned like an idiot for a couple seconds longer than what was considered dignified. The briefest of smiles hinted about the man’s lips, and Jim couldn’t help but grin like a fool as well.

“I would be amenable to such activities,” said Spock quietly, before taking Jim’s hand and leading him upstairs.

Jim woke up in a soft bed, in the middle of an even softer nest of blankets and pillows. The warm spring sunshine shone in from the curtained windows, and Spock was moving about in the ensuite bathroom.

For a moment, the blond was content to think back to the previous night, to the absolute joy and pleasure of finally having Spock in his arms. Spock was considerably less experienced than Jim, but there was something extremely arousing about his intent gaze and the way he paid so much attention to Jim’s reactions, as if he was getting off on helping Jim get off. Jim had also discovered, to his excitement, that Spock’s fingertips were extremely sensitive. He had definitely used that to his advantage last night.

All in all, it felt like rediscovering Spock all over again. Before, when Spock was still holding him at an emotional distance, he had eagerly taken whatever Spock had deigned to reveal to him. Now the man was wholly vulnerable, completely open, and it felt like even more of a leap of faith than all the times Jim had been with other partners.

After a moment, Spock re-entered the bedroom, and Jim noted that the dark-haired man was wearing an old faded t-shirt that said “Save the Fucking Earth” on it. His hair was damp from the shower, and he had a roughened look about him that made Jim’s heart beat faster and his blood travel southward at what felt like warp speed.

“Has anyone ever told you how hot you look in the morning, Spock?” he asked, and he didn’t even care that his voice sounded strained and that he had to grab the nearest pillow to hide exactly how awkward the situation was rapidly getting for him. “Just… wearing that shirt and nothing else.” He paused. “Sorry, my brain still hasn’t recovered from last night.”

“That is evident,” replied Spock, amusement lacing his voice. “Shall I make omelettes?”

Jim was pretty sure he’d won the significant other lottery. “I’m… that sounds lovely, Spock, but I don’t know if I want you leaving this room for the foreseeable future, you know?”

“That would be illogical, as we do require sustenance.”

“And sustenance can come later,” rejoined Jim, grinning as he gestured for Spock to come closer. The other obliged, taking a seat next to Jim on the bed, looking at him expectantly. Jim opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it, reaching out to take Spock’s hand as he did so and entwining their fingers.

“You appear to have something on your mind,” said Spock quietly.

“Yeah. I think we’re kinda overdue for a conversation about… this. About us.” He gestured to the space between their bodies, determinedly shoving the fact that he was extremely aroused off to the back of his mental to-do list. More important things came first. “Shall we talk?”

Spock hummed in acquiescence. “What do you wish to discuss?”

“Us being a thing,” said Jim. “You know, a relationship.” He paused. “I want to be able to introduce you to people as my boyfriend.”

The faint hint of a smile tugged at Spock’s face. “You are once more enquiring into the possibility of beginning a romantic relationship with me,” he stated.

“Yeah, well, third time’s the charm.” Jim grinned.

Spock hummed. “The last time, I agreed to have dinner with you and spend considerable time in your company, but I did not ever define what came between us as a ‘relationship’. This time, you wish to rectify that aspect.”

“Well, it would be about time,” replied Jim. “Given what happened last night and all.”

“True.” Spock nodded. After a moment, he said, “Jim, perhaps there are some other things that you need to know about me before you pursue a relationship.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Such as?” he prompted. They had more or less confessed their romantic feelings towards one another last night, but was there still one last obstacle to overcome? He was curious, yet part of him dreaded to know what it would be. What if Spock was dying? What if Spock —

The other man took a breath, as if steeling himself for saying something devastating. “I have Asperger’s Syndrome,” he said quietly.

Jim blinked at him for a couple minutes, before smiling softly and squeezing Spock’s hand. “Was that supposed to deter me, Spock? I kinda figured you had something like that a long time ago,” he said quietly. He wanted to reassure Spock, to do anything that would stop him from looking like he expected Jim to kick his cat any second. “I mean you’re incredibly smart, and you have some quirks and some degree of inability to handle social situations, but I love you for that. It isn’t like you had to have something like that to act as you do, but it kind of fit, y’know?”

“Jim —” Spock began, but Jim cut him off.

“You’re more to me than just someone with Asperger’s, Spock. I’m sure you’re aware of that. I don’t care if you can’t really empathise with what I’m saying. I’d still love and support you anyway.”

“Nonetheless, Jim, that is a facet of my identity,” Spock pointed out. “It does not define me, but it is an integral part of who I am.”

“Good,” declared Jim. “You are the most amazing person I have ever met, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Spock nodded at that, something unreadable in his expression as he reached for the nightstand and pulled out from its drawer a silver key, handing it to Jim. Jim didn’t even need clarification to know that it was a key to the Brownstone. Looking down at it, he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.

Spock nodded again, as Jim reached over to where he had discarded his jacket so that he could slip the key into his pocket.

“There will be times when you will think poorly of me, and believe me to be robotic and unfeeling,” he warned. “In turn, I might resent your inability to understand. It will be...” He pursed his lips, a thoughtful glint in his expression, as if he was searching for the right words. “It will be frustrating,” he said after a moment, “and I need to know that you will accept that there are certain things we cannot understand about each other.”

Jim watched him look around the room, as if trying not to meet his gaze. He himself remained still, watching the sunlight play across Spock’s features.

“No matter how much we may try,” Spock finished, before chancing a glance towards Jim once more.

Jim smiled, chuckling softly and leaning back towards Spock again. “Sure, but there will be also times where I’ll prove to you that I’m there for you,” he replied. “Besides, my cuddling comes highly recommended, should you ever require my services.” He eyed Spock, smiling as he drew him closer, pressing a kiss to the other man’s nose. “Care to come over here and see for yourself?”

Spock nodded. Jim opened his arms, and Spock fell into them without hesitation. As Jim pressed a kiss to the side of Spock’s head and tried to send him all of the love swelling within him through his touch, he couldn’t help but feel like he had, at last, come home.

To Boldly Go — A Review by Adayit Marcus and Natalie Tucker

WARNING: This review may contain spoilers for those who haven’t read the book. Proceed at your own risk.

To Boldly Go, a collaboratively-written science fiction adventure novel, hit the shelves last month and became an almost-instantaneous success. Book critics wiser and wittier than ourselves have hailed it as “one of the most accessible and entertaining novels of the year”, “a compelling peek into a possible and progressive future”, and “the latest triumph of modern science fiction”. Co-authored by six Boston-based writers, To Boldly Go follows the journeys of Peter Taggart and Lazarus of Vulcan as they save the Earth from an attack by an insane Romulan commander from the future.

What struck us the most about the novel was the clear chemistry between the two men as well as their compelling backstories. Both are damaged yet brilliant; they come from disparate cultures and viewpoints and clash several times throughout the novel, but despite their differences, they are capable of relying on one another and loving each other as best as they can. The writers are not ashamed to back down from the assertion that Taggart and Lazarus are attracted to one another, though any potential romantic relationship is definitely not the focus of the plot. To Boldly Go is proof of how characters can be queer, but not have their sexuality be the focus of the story. After all, in the 23rd century setting of the novel, things are more progressive as they are now.

The novel also showcases a couple compelling female characters. The ratio of male to female characters is skewed in favor of males, yes, but the few female characters that are named in the novel are just as complex as the male ones. The crowning jewels are Lieutenant Tawny Madison and Lieutenant M’Ress, who are more than competent at their their jobs and frequently carry the plot forward while the male characters are too busy angsting in the corner. Lieutenant Madison’s deep romantic friendship with Lazarus is one of the more touching highlights of the novel.

As for the plot, there are definitely some plotholes and leaps in logic, which may come from the unique way in which the collaboration was written, but one thing the writers took care to edit in at the end were consequences for the events of the plot that happened outside the range of pages that they could read during the writing process. The most obvious example is, for example, the destruction of the planet Vulcan and the subsequent implied genocide of the Vulcan people. The plot showcases not only Lazarus’s personal grief, but also the grief of all the refugees who must live with the pain of their communities shattering and their loved ones dying. This is easily one of the most emotional moments of the novel, and one of the most beautifully written. It makes the subsequent action have that much more significance, as Lazarus is fighting not only in memory of the loved ones he has lost, but also in the memory of a people that he must avenge.

All in all, the novel was solid and entertaining, and somehow managed to weave together six distinct writing styles into one cohesive whole. The emotional aspects are truly heartwrenching, the action sequences have the readers gripping the edge of their seats, and the conclusion opens the tale up for future instalments and reams of fanfiction. It is clear that with critical acclaim, commercial success, and a growing fanbase on the Internet, these six writers are sure to be boldly going where no one has gone before.

Rating: 4.5/5

More on the authors:

Montgomery Scott is the author of several short stories and the screenplay for a blockbuster film coming out in the summer of 2015 and directed by Guillermo Del Toro.

Nyota Uhura is an award-winning playwright whose second play, “Washing Up”, is being performed by the Lyric Stage Company in Boston. It is directed by Scott Edmiston.

James T. Kirk is the author of the bestselling novel Sixteen Light Years. Its movie, adapted by yours truly, stars Freema Agyeman and Benedict Cumberbatch as literally star-crossed lovers Janet Costello and Sorjei of Andoria. It is scheduled for release in December 2015 and is directed by Peter Jackson.

Spock Grayson is the author of Scattered, an anthology of heartbreaking short stories.

Hikaru Sulu is a pilot, a poet, and a horticulturist working for the Arnold Arboretum at Harvard. He frequently helps out at the Twenty-First Street Mission, a homeless shelter and soup kitchen, in the Bronx.

Pavel Chekov is a physics major at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He has frequently contributed to MIT’s art and literature magazine Rune.

And we would be remiss to mention Dr. Leonard McCoy, the chief editor of To Boldly Go, who is currently employed at Massachusetts General Hospital and also volunteers at the Twenty-First Street Mission during its annual flu clinic.

End.

gnossienne 

 n. a moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private and mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of the house that you’ve never fully explored—an unfinished attic that will remain maddeningly unknowable to you, because ultimately neither of you has a map, or a master key, or any way of knowing exactly where you stand.