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Jim is looking forward to rolling into bed after a nice relaxing game of chess when Spock decides to conclude the evening by announcing, "There is a 71.936 percent chance that I will develop romantic regard for you during the period spanning ten months from the present moment and four years, two months and fifteen days from the present moment."
Well, he tries to conclude the evening with that. They've said their goodnights and Jim has one foot in the hall, so he clearly thinks he's about to get away with dropping that bomb and closing the door. Jim immediately reverses direction and reclaims his chair, because wow is that not gonna fly.
"Captain," Spock says, either confused or faking it. Vulcans may not lie, but Jim is pretty sure Spock exaggerates his judgy facial expressions. "Do you intend to initiate a second match? The hour is sufficiently advanced that I would not recommend delaying your repose to such an extent."
"Nope," says Jim. "I intend to ferret out more info about your crush on me. Have a seat."
Spock returns to the chair opposite Jim, still over-judging with his eyebrows. "The deceptive approach implied by your choice of terminology is not necessary to persuade me to elaborate on my statement, though I have little further detail to add. As I believe I have clearly communicated, I do not yet harbor such an attachment. I merely recognize in myself the potential to do so at some future juncture."
"In four years?" Jim prompts.
"I chose the most logical timeframe within which to present the odds. It is unlikely that such an emotional dynamic will evolve at any point prior to ten months from the present moment, and if the event does not occur before or during my next period of pon farr I consider it similarly unlikely to take place thereafter."
Jim nods encouragingly. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. So what are the chances you're gonna catch feelings within ten months?"
"Assuming the significance of the colloquialism you employ to be self-evident, the probability in question is 16.441 percent."
Jim is glad for the rule he made that Spock could only give probabilities to three decimal places unless it was necessary to a mission. So far Spock hasn't been great at determining what's necessary to a mission and what isn't, but at least it's working here. "What's the probability within the next week?" he asks, just to be obnoxious.
"That figure is sufficiently close to zero for further precision to be impractical."
Jim grins. "No chance. Got it, won't make my move."
After an uncharacteristically long pause, Spock says, "The extent of your own potential interest, were you to clarify it in a tone less ambiguous in sincerity, would induce an adjustment in my calculations."
"Uh," says Jim. He taps his knee. "Let's... let's put a pin in that. Wouldn't want to delay that repose too long, huh?"
"The language you recall was used in reference to the delay that would have been required to conclude a second game of chess," says Spock. "I would not immediately object to a continuation of this conversation on those grounds. However, if the impetus of your inclination to retire is instead your own discomfort with this topic, I will not press you to engage further."
Jim rubs his forehead. "Do me a favor, Spock," he says. "Let me get away with my shit once in a while, would you?"
"I am unsatisfied as to my comprehension of your request, but as I surmise it to generally indicate a desire to curtail our present interaction, I will not seek an explanation." Spock gets up and opens the door. "I wish you pleasant dreams, Captain."
Yeah, fat chance of getting any sleep after that revelation. Precisely fat point fat. Jim almost says that out loud, but at the last second he opts for "Thanks, you too" instead.
*
"Okay, so," Jim says, plopping down across from Spock in the mess hall ten days later. "If you do develop romantic regard for me, what happens then?"
Thankfully, Spock chooses not to nose into the question of why Jim is bringing this up now after a week and a half of pretending nothing happened. "My next steps would depend upon the presence and nature of your returned romantic regard, upon which you have declined to comment. Do you wish to remove the figurative 'pin' from that matter?"
"Nope," says Jim. He shakes his head a whole lot. "Pin's staying put. Just play out the scenarios for me, yeah?"
"Very well." Spock sets down his spoon in whatever unpronounceable Vulcan crap he's eating. Jim makes a mental note to find out what it is later. "If you did not return my regard, I would take no action. If your regard for me was sexual but not romantic in nature, I would take no action. If you returned my romantic regard but nonetheless did not wish to engage in a romantic relationship for any reason, I would take no action. If you returned my romantic regard and wished to engage in a romantic relationship, I would instigate an exchange of our respective preferences surrounding the particulars of such a relationship, including but not limited to the amount and scheduling of time spent together, the specific parameters of verbal and physical intimacy both private and public, negotiation of monogamous or nonmonogamous arrangements, expectations surrounding holidays and gift-giving behaviors--"
"So the monogamy thing's not a dealbreaker?" Jim interrupts.
Spock examines him. "Captain, you appear distressed. I remind you that the discussion I describe is hypothetical, in the event that--"
Jim cuts him off again. "Right, got it, you're not in love with me yet. Where we at on that number, by the way? Has it moved?"
"The current probability that I will develop romantic regard for you within the previously defined period is 71.238 percent."
"That's less." Jim leans forward, elbows on the table. "Why is it less?"
"The probability has decreased due to the fact that prior to this conversation, you had not spoken to me exclusive of official Starfleet business in approximately nine days, fourteen hours, and twenty-one minutes."
Approximately. Right. "Sorry," mutters Jim.
"You have no obligation to socialize with me beyond the scope of our professional association," Spock says, like he's totally fine with being ignored for no good reason.
Like he doesn't care if the probability goes down.
Jim drums his fingers on the table. "What else goes into that number? Like, what could jack up those odds?"
"Your interest in 'jacking' 'up' the number indicates either a definitive answer to my implied inquiry as to your own regards, or a fixation upon quantitative results precipitated by your competitive personality. I find myself unable to determine which explanation is more likely to be correct." Spock doesn't do anything gauche like form a facial expression, but Jim can tell he's not thrilled to be unable to determine stuff.
"We're talking in hypotheticals here, remember?" Jim chews his lip for a second. "Hypothetically, if I wanted you to fall for me. What makes it happen?"
Spock takes an infuriatingly slow bite of whatever it is, swallows, and says, "I would be amenable to another game of chess."
*
Yeah, so Jim has no fucking clue if he returns Spock's hypothetical romantic regard or if he's just competitive. Jim is attracted to him for sure, but sexual regard without romantic regard gets him no action, and beyond that he's got nothing.
"Your scenarios rely on me knowing what the hell I'm doing," he says, most of the way through their next chess game. "What if I can't figure out what kind of regard I have for you?"
"Check," says Spock. "Perhaps your regard, as well as mine, will require time to develop."
"I definitely have some kind of regard, though," says Jim. He moves his queen to the neutral level. "Check back atcha. I got buckets of regard for you, I just don't really know... like, what is romance?"
"Though its definition is reasonably straightforward, the term seems to be somewhat nebulous in usage," says Spock. "My personal benchmarks of romantic regard consist of the following: involuntarily dwelling on thoughts of my object of interest, experiencing distinct and consistent improvements in mood when I am in the company of my object of interest versus when I am not, and disproportionate enjoyment of receiving even mundane communications from the object of my interest."
"Huh," says Jim.
"Checkmate," says Spock.
Jim starts resetting the pieces without verifying it. "So when you're talking probability, is that the odds of one of those happening, or all three?"
"In my experience, they do not occur independently," says Spock. "Historically, the time elapsing between my conscious awareness of the presence of one such phenomenon and the presence of all three is a maximum of one week, allowing sufficient encounters to satisfy the requirement of consistency."
Jim finishes resetting the board and stares at it. "So if you fall for me, you'll really fall for me. And if you don't, you really won't."
"Your statement is tautological," says Spock.
Jim shakes his head slowly. "No, it's not. Uh, is it cool if I ask you about that history you just mentioned? I mean, other times this has happened?"
Spock stands up. "I would prefer not to discuss specific details of my previous experiences unless and until the pattern applies to this relationship. I hope that is not objectionable to you."
"Yeah, no, of course." Jim stands up too, since Spock is obviously kicking him out. "You'll let me know if it does end up applying to this relationship, right? I mean, if you do catch feelings, I'll get a heads-up?"
"To withhold the information would be illogical."
"Well, not if you thought I wasn't into you and decided to go with the take-no-action plan." Jim hesitates at the door, feeling like he should say more but not really knowing what it is he wants to say.
"I would tell you, Jim," Spock says, quiet but firm.
Jim's pretty sure some specificity got cut out of that sentence for the sake of emotional impact. He appreciates it.
*
"What's the magic number?" Jim asks, the next time they play.
"The probability that I will develop romantic regard for you within the previously defined period is 72.012 percent," reports Spock.
Jim raises his fists. "Hey, trending up!"
When the game is over, Spock doesn't get up and usher Jim out of his room like he usually does as soon as they're done. "May I inquire as to the status of your regard for me?"
Jim cringes. "Working on it."
"May I request assurance that if you come to a conclusion in this matter, I will be informed?"
Jim's not sure how to answer that. It's probably not the best idea to make promises he's not sure he can keep to a Vulcan. "I guess that would be fair," he deflects.
Spock looks like the stick he stores up his ass is growing like Pinocchio's nose. "I do not wish my request to instill a sense of obligation in you."
Jim sighs. "Look," he says. "I wanna get you in bed, I'm positive on that. The romance stuff I haven't figured out, and I honestly don't know how I'm gonna react if I do. I'll try to keep you posted, but don't be mad if I flake, okay?"
Spock nods once. "I understand. You may wish to be aware that there has been a change in my estimation of the probability that I will develop romantic regard for you within the previously defined time period, incorporating the information you have imparted regarding your sexual attraction to me."
"Wait, what?" Jim sits up straight, bonking his elbow on the edge of the table. "I didn't mean my regard is only sexual, I just haven't figured it out entirely, don't go deciding to take no action already! I could be madly in love with you! We don't know!"
"The probability in question is currently 84.563 percent," Spock informs him.
"Oh," says Jim. He slumps back down and rubs his bruised elbow. "Seriously? 85 percent? Just because I'm into the idea of boning you?"
"I wish to conclude our social engagement at this time," Spock says, which is weirdly abrupt even for him.
"Uh, okay." Jim heads for the door and then hesitates. "Hey, what would be the change in probability if I did have romantic regard for you?"
Spock doesn't answer for a long time. Jim thinks he must be crunching the numbers, but then he says, "I believe it would be prudent to withhold that information."
What.
*
The answer's got to be 100 percent. Spock has been totally forthcoming about this whole thing, as far as Jim can tell, so it doesn't make any sense for him to get weird now. The only reason for him to withhold information is if the information is unexpected. So Jim's hypothetical (hypothetical!) crush either knocks down the probability, which can't be it, or cranks it up all the way.
Which means the ball is in Jim's court.
He misses a chess date, then remembers what happened to the numbers when he stopped talking to Spock and immediately tries to schedule two more chess dates in a row. Spock looks like he's engaged in a deathmatch with his own biology over whether to bust up laughing, and declines the makeup date.
At their regular date, Spock observes, "You are agitated."
"No I'm not," says Jim. He stops jiggling his leg.
Spock does the judgy eyebrow thing, and Jim just... explodes.
"You're in my goddamn head! I don't even know if it's you I'm obsessed with or if it's just my fucking score. How am I supposed to figure out whether I'm in love with you when I can't even think straight?"
Spock minutely increases the eyebrow thing.
Jim buries his face in his hands. "I can't keep this up," he says, muffled and miserable. "I can't just... be like this for four years, two months, and fifteen days."
"It has been over five weeks since the commencement of the timeframe in question, therefore the time remaining--"
"You're the absolute fucking worst," says Jim, and ditches the game they've barely started to go hide out in his quarters.
*
After another missed chess date and a whole lot of awkwardness on the bridge, Spock shows up at Jim's door.
"Captain," he says. "I wish to apologize for my correction of your statement regarding the timeframe of the development of my romantic regard for you. Though the correction was accurate, and your reaction thereto highly irrational, your avoidant behavior since that exchange leads me to conclude that I should not have prioritized said correction above my response to the substance of the statement. I am sorry."
Jim leans the side of his face against the doorjamb and says, "I'm in love with you."
Calmly, Spock says, "I am aware of that fact."
Jim shuts his eyes. "Oh my fucking god, you asshole."
"Please do not seal this aperture," Spock requests.
"Huh?" Jim keeps his eyes closed. "What are you talking about?"
"The last time you directed profanity toward me in such a manner, you subsequently removed yourself from my presence. Please do not do so again."
Jim squeezes his eyes tight enough to see stars. "What's my score?" he asks. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to keep asking. He can't not ask.
"The current probability that I will develop romantic regard for you within the previously defined period is 84.561 percent."
That gets Jim to stop trying to fuse his eyelids shut. "That's the same as last time."
"It is lower than the previously quoted figure by .002 percent due to your usage of the slang term 'boning,' which I found unappealing."
"You said it would change if I told you I had romantic regard. That's what 'in love' means, Spock." Jim stares at him helplessly. "I have romantic regard for you, okay? I'm head over heels in romantic regard."
"The nature of your regard became apparent when you acquired the misapprehension that I had decided, on the basis of your sexual attraction to me, that I would not take action to initiate a romantic relationship. I believed it would not be advisable to inform you of my conclusion at that time."
Jim huffs an almost-laugh. "Yeah, that wouldn't've gone over well." He shakes his head. "85 percent in the previously defined period, huh? What's the number for within ten months?"
"26.893 percent," Spock answers promptly.
"Not bad," Jim says, smiling. "How about within a week?"
"That figure is close enough to zero--"
"Gimme the odds," Jim says. "It's okay, you can break the decimal rule."
"0.00004 percent, rounding to the nearest non-zero digit."
"How 'bout the next three seconds?"
"That timeframe is illogical on a number of levels," Spock notes. "Rather than articulate them each, I will assume you intend this nonsensical inquiry to serve the function of communicating your impatience. I regret I must assure you that I am unable to consciously alter the developmental pace of my emotional attachments."
Jim looks down at the floor. "Right. Sorry. I thought... I mean, take your time. I'll wait."
"I confess myself uneasy at the prospect that your regard may diminish in the time necessary for mine to progress," says Spock.
Chances: fat point fat. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see." Jim meets Spock's eyes. "In the meantime, you wanna play chess?"
*
fourteen months and six days later
"Checkmate," says Jim. "You fell for that one a month ago, I can't believe it worked again. You feeling okay, buddy?"
Spock starts resetting his pieces. "It has been over five months since you last inquired as to the probability which had previously consumed your attention," he says, fussing with a bishop. "For approximately the past four days, six hours, and three minutes, with the exception of time spent unconscious or engaged in matters of immediate import, I have been preoccupied by various potential interpretations of this fact."
Jim can feel the grin threatening to break out across his face. "Yeah?" he says. "Would you say you've been... involuntarily dwelling on that?"
"I would appreciate clarification regarding your perspective on the matter I have brought to your attention," Spock bitches.
"You worried you took too long and I moved on?" Jim shakes his head. "Nah. I don't give up that easy."
Spock's jaw is like granite. "Your nonchalant behavior is at odds with your claim."
"Your paranoid obsessive behavior is at odds with your promise to let me know if you developed romantic regard for me," counters Jim.
"The phenomena I described to you have not yet fulfilled the criterion of consistency. I will not be certain for another nineteen hours, forty-eight minutes."
"Mhmm," says Jim. "What's the number?"
"The appropriate margin of error cannot be conveyed within three decimal places," Spock stalls.
"Three decimal places is plenty." Jim twirls his finger insistently. "C'mon, I want my number. Gimme."
"When constrained to the parameters of precision you demand, the figure rounds up to one hundred percent," Spock admits.
"I love you too," Jim says, and knocks over the chess board.