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Chapter Text

Prologue

James T. Kirk has been witness to a lot of shitty outcomes in his life. Take, for example, the day of his birth. He's well accustomed to the feeling that the universe is out to get him, a sentiment that when expressed to Bones just gets him a stern lecture on the disadvantages of persecution complexes. Jim doesn't feel persecuted; he just thinks the universe has a sick sense of humour. Either that, or sadistic tendencies. It used to be his own little inside joke, shared with nobody but the memories in his head; oh great, Sam runs away on the anniversary of Dad's death? Figures.

At least, that was the case until his first Christmas aboard the Enterprise.

He meets Spock in the turbolift, both of them having nominated themselves to run Alpha shift on Christmas Day because they're awesome like that. Spock bestows the slight incline of his head which is his way of saying 'hey man, what's up?' and took Jim about six freaking months to earn.

"Hey man, what's up?" he returns in kind, turning to stand shoulder to shoulder as the doors slide closed. He's expecting Spock to glance at the ceiling and raise an eyebrow before dismantling the illogical human idiom word by word. He kind of looks forward to those moments, actually, because the Spock will never admit it, but the stuffy bastard has an outstanding command of sarcasm.

Instead, Spock opens his mouth and pauses.

A frown begins to form on Jim's face.

Spock shuts his mouth and resumes staring at the interior of the turbolift.

Jim reaches out and slaps the emergency stop. The lift jerks to a halt. "Okay, seriously, now I mean it. What's up?"

Spock dutifully looks to the ceiling and says, "I fail to comprehend the ..."

"Yeah, you can forget that," Jim interrupts sternly, because Spock may be one scary motherfucker, but he's still the Captain. "Human expressions are ridiculous. Whatever. Now spit it out."

Spock looks tempted to attempt the same dissection upon the words 'spit it out' but takes a look at Jim's I'm-the-goddamn-Captain face and swallows instead. "I am merely distracted. There is no reason to be concerned."

"Uh huh," Jim nods. "Merry Christmas?"

Spock may actually wince. "Merry Christmas, Captain."

"Jim," he says. "Or else it's weird."

"Merry Christmas, Jim." Spock has himself under control now, but the effort it takes is evident in his flat tone and carefully blank expression.

"Merry Christmas, Spock. You seem illogically fucked up over a little human tradition; what gives?"

Spock gives the Vulcan equivalent of an exasperated sigh, which is to say he exhales slightly with his mouth closed. "With respect, your observation is subjective and irrelevant. I suggest that we continue to the bridge in order that Gamma shift may embark upon whatever seasonal celebrations they have planned."

"Okay, sure," Jim nods, restarting the lift. "But you can either talk to me at the end of the shift or I'll book you a psych session with Bones and put you on mandatory mental health leave."

"Captain," Spock actually sounds mildly scandalised, "there is no possible justification for such measures."

"You claim you're just distracted. Now, I don't buy that, but even if it's true, you haven't been distracted possibly ever, so I consider it relevant." Jim gives him a serious look. "You being distracted is like Chekov suddenly liking scotch instead of vodka, or Uhura having a gender identification crisis. Chekov loves vodka, Uhura is one helluva woman, and you don't get distracted. End of story."

A muscle in Spock's jaw clenches and Jim has a momentary strangulation flashback, but in the end, all Spock does is tug on the bottom of his shirt and say, "very well, Captain."

"It'll do you good to talk about it."

"I hold grave reservations."

"Fine by me."

Ten hours later, Jim wishes he'd kept his big mouth shut.

They're sitting in Jim's quarters, Spock on the other side of the desk and about as expressive as a stone, which makes Jim wonder why the hell his First Officer decided to tell the truth. Because it definitely is the truth.

"Motherfucker," Jim growls, hands tightening to fists on the table.

Spock remains silent but still somehow gives the sense that he is in complete agreement with the sentiment.

"So, let me get this straight," Jim screws his eyes shut and holds out a warning hand between them. "Not only is today your mother's birthday as well as Christmas Day, but your father called to tell you via a text comm that he's decided you can't officially be part of the family anymore due to the fact that the Vulcan High Council has their panties in a bunch over the gene pool?"

"Lacking in context, but essentially correct, yes."

Jim stares at him angrily. "What a shitty Christmas."

"Hence my distraction in the turbolift," Spock says, not exactly agreeing, but close. "Since today is almost over, I do not anticipate any further reductions in my efficiency."

"Screw your efficiency."

"Captain?"

"Did you celebrate Christmas?"

"Your question requires clarification. What point in my life are you referring to?"

"Any of it," Jim says tightly, "all of it. Today, for that matter."

Spock eyes him for a long moment and Jim fears he's pushed too far and Spock is over this whole honesty streak he's had going on so far. "Spock ..." he begins, warningly.

"I have engaged in some form of birthday and holiday tradition every year of my life for as long as I can remember," Spock interrupts him.

Jim takes a moment to grind his teeth together before he shoves his chair back angrily from the desk and pushes to his feet. "Right," he nods. "Right, then." He crosses to the replicator and snaps, "eggnog, two, warm." With a shimmer, two reindeer mugs appear and Jim snatches them up, slamming one in front of Spock with such vehemence that a little sloshes over the rim. "Cheers," he bites out, chinking the mugs together before raising his to his lips.

Spock tentatively lifts his own mug, avoiding the sticky overflow. His eyes are guarded and he does not drink from the mug. "While I appreciate the sentiment behind your intervention, this is unnecessary."

"No, Spock, it isn't." Jim licks his lips and holds his mug out challengingly. "My dad died on my birthday, Sam left on the tenth anniversary of his death, Frank put me in hospital on my sixteenth birthday, mom went missing on my twenty-first and four years ago I was too blind drunk to realise it was Christmas." He shrugs, arm still outstretched, reindeer prancing happily on the porcelain. "Apparently, the universe hates both of us, which has a weird kind of existential symmetry that we should definitely explore. Fuck Christmas, let's drink to getting shat on by karma."

Spock is hardly going to repeat such a toast, but he does finally lift his own mug and knock it carefully against Jim's before raising it to his lips.

-:-

Jim wakes the next day in a foul mood that has very little to do with the amount of eggnog he and Spock consumed the evening before. He downs two glasses of water and stares at his tongue in the mirror. A moment of self-pity never hurt anyone, especially when Spock is no doubt stalking around the ship completely unaffected. Bastard.

Still, he hasn't quite been able to assimilate the confessions of the night before. He doesn't tell anyone about his childhood, ever, and he doubts that Spock is particularly forthcoming about ... well, about anything really. It's possible he's told Uhura what's on his mind, but those two have some kind of bizarre on-again-off-again relationship that Jim has given up trying to figure out. The label that fits best is 'friends with benefits' but he has a hard time reconciling that concept with Spock's unfailing need to do everything properly.

He cleans his teeth vigorously and throws himself into the shower and into the day.

On the way to the bridge he bumps into Uhura who falls into step neatly, both of them adjusting their stride to suit the other. Jim can't help the awareness that he never has to do that with Spock; they just fit.

His Chief of Communications elbows him insubordinately in the ribs and asks, "so how many of the crew propositioned you yesterday?"

"About six," he answers, distractedly, "trying to cheer me up, or something, I don't know. Hey, did you get Spock anything for Christmas?"

"Spock?" she echoes, surprise etched all over her face. "Uh, no. Did you?"

"No," he confesses, suddenly feeling bad about it. Why Uhura alone should be obligated to discover whether the only Vulcan aboard celebrated Christmas, he had no idea. He was the goddamn Captain, after all.

"Oh my God, did he get something for you?" Uhura wants to know, strangely intense.

"No?" he replies, drawing out the single syllable cautiously. "We drank eggnog and played chess."

"Okay," she nods, ponytail swinging as she turns front and centre as they approach the turbolift.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

They step into the lift and turn, Jim unerringly entering their destination without looking. "Listen, I'm not a linguist, so if that 'okay' has layers upon layers of nuance I haven't gone there with you."

"I get that subtlety isn't your thing," she agrees, sounding a little irritated. "Couldn't hurt you to try a little harder, though."

He spreads his hands in a plea. "I am trying!"

"It's just ... someone should get Spock something for Christmas," she glares at him. "All I'm saying."

"And by someone, you mean ..."

She rolls her eyes and sighs, but there's a smile tugging at her lips. "Jim Kirk, you're a genius, so quit acting dumb."

"Christmas was yesterday, won't it be weird, like an afterthought?"

"It is an afterthought!" she snaps, grinning at him with that peculiar mixture of anger and amusement only she has mastered.

"Won't it be lame?"

"You're lame," she counters immediately.

"You're lamer."

"Noun not an adjective."

"Simmer down."

"Chief of Communications," she reminds him, both thumbs pointed at her chest. "Don't you forget it."

"So I have to get Spock an after-Christmas Christmas present," he clarifies. "For Christmas."

"I have an overwhelming desire to slap you," she tells him, still grinning, mostly because she's a terrifying piece of female awesomeness.

"Strange, that's pretty much what Spock said when I ..."

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" she orders, laughing outright now.

"But, I was only going to say that ...."

She claps a hand over his mouth to shut him up just as the turbolift opens to reveal the bridge. Chekov, Sulu and Spock all swivel in their seats to stare at their diminutive Communications Officer forcibly silencing their Captain. Spock slowly raises an eyebrow.

"Twelve days of Christmas," Uhura whispers, "just a suggestion. And how about you remember I'm the source of that brilliant idea and the reason you don't have your foot in your mouth right now." She releases him and steps back.

"Jesus," he frowns, licking his bruised lips. "You're scary as shit, you know that?"

"You can thank me later."

Jim waits for her to exit the lift first before following cautiously in her wake. He watches her smother a laugh with one hand and give Spock's shoulder a gentle squeeze with the other before she takes her station. The Vulcan glances between Uhura and Jim, his face completely expressionless.

"Commander Spock," Jim calls out, pouring himself into the centre seat and punching in his command codes. "Sensor sweep, if you please."

"Aye, Captain."

Jim waits a beat so he knows Spock will be bent over his scanner, then turns to engage in silent visual communication with Uhura. That deteriorates into an exchange of rude gestures and culminates with her slapping her ass in dismissal and studiously ignoring him for the rest of Alpha shift. She's smiling though, so he's not worried.

Jim's pretty resourceful, so it doesn't take him long to research the twelve days of Christmas. He pulls up every version of the old song he can find, as well as contextual documentation, research and modern adaptations of associated Terran traditions. Most of it is vague or conflicting. Sometimes, if he's especially lucky, it's vague and conflicting. Still, that yields a certain amount of flexibility to the planning stage, which is a good thing since he has less than six hours before the first day of Christmas is over and no idea what Spock's corresponding gift is going to be.

He is aware that the simplest approach is to scrap Uhura's idea and simply give Spock a pair of socks and a rousing speech about how the Enterprise will always be his home, and the crew, his family. There might even be back-slapping if Jim is feeling particularly adventurous, and definitely more eggnog, since Spock seemed to like it. However, what most people fail to take into account is that Jim Kirk truly is a genius, and for the most part, it doesn't take a genius to run a starship. Not unless a time-traveling Romulan mental case is trying to destroy the Federation, anyway. Then it comes in handy. In short; Jim is bored a lot of the time.

Therefore, he throws himself into his research with unrestrained glee, twisting and turning the lyrics and customs to suit his ends. If his yeoman eyes him warily from time to time, it's only because he's chuckling maniacally under his breath, so he doesn't blame her.

A Partridge In A Pear Tree

When their shift ends, Spock invites him for a game of chess in the rec room. Jim watches those expressive brows fly up when he declines, citing administrative pressures and a surplus of paperwork. It's all he can do to keep the smile from his face when he follows that up with an invitation of his own; a nightcap, his quarters, about twenty two hundred hours.

Spock accepts with a nod.

Jim waits until he gets to his quarters before indulging in a fist-pump.

By the time he's spent two hours on comm-calls with the Department of Immigration and Citizenship on Earth and another hour cursing out bureaucratic assholes, he gives up and hacks the system to find out who the right person to talk to might be. He hasn't got the time to navigate this endless abdication of responsibility and political insecurity; he needs this done.

When he gets T'Lar on the screen, he knows he's hit the jackpot. She is an older Vulcan female, mere tinges of grey at her temples attesting to at least a century of service in the Vulcan Diplomatic Council. He opens with a flawless greeting in High Vulcan and a perfect ta'al. The hard lines around her eyes soften almost immediately and Jim feels only a split second of remorse for taking advantage of the new emotional clout he has with Vulcans since Nero.

She listens to his terse, logical request in total silence, then nods. "This appears to be a mere formalisation of an existing known diplomatic state."

"Indeed," Jim agrees, somehow managing not to smile as he delivers one of Spock's patented lines.

"I shall ensure the relevant documentation is live on the network within the next few minutes, Captain Kirk," T'Lar promises.

"My thanks, Ambassador."

"None are necessary," she assures him, almost gently.

"All the same."

She inclines her head slightly, and Jim may be imagining the laughter in her eyes, but he doesn't think so. It's times like these that he understands Uhura's fascination with Spock and all-things-Vulcan; it's the subtlety that's so seductive, the feeling that you have to work for those hints of responsiveness. Jim's always been the kind of person who enjoys a high-stakes game. He and Uhura have that in common.

He spends so long in self-satisfied smirking that he barely has time to change out of his uniform and print off Spock's present before the door chime sounds.

"Enter."

Spock steps inside, still in uniform of course, and allows the doors to close behind him. His eyes sweep over Jim's characteristically cluttered desk and he clasps his hands in the small of his back. "I see your evening has been productive."

And that's sarcasm, Jim thinks, feeling a grin steal over his face. "Most productive, Mr. Spock," he agrees. "You have no idea."

Spock quirks an eyebrow, but Jim just waves him to a seat, clearing a space on the desk with a careless sweep of his arm that makes Spock give the impression of wincing, even though he doesn't.

"Did you know," Jim begins, his back to Spock as he fiddles with the replicator, "that in Terran mythology, the partridge symbolises many contradictory things?"

"I did not." Spock's voice is level, but there is the barest hint of confusion there, if you're a person who knows how to listen for it.

"The devil and the church," Jim says as he turns, "evil and goodness." He sets both mugs on the desk and takes his own seat, leaning back easily. "It's also used to indicate deceit or theft."

"Indeed?"

Spock's eyes are suddenly guarded, so Jim doesn't press any further, just raises his mug in salute and takes a sip. His first officer follows suit and for a time, silence reigns between them. Jim watches Spock watching him with a new sense of fragility. They've built a careful friendship over the last year or so; one that is based on mutual awareness of vulnerability and a tacit agreement not to push too far or too hard in those areas neither can tolerate. Jim begins to realise that by embarking upon this strange, festive show of goodwill, he's going to cross a line. Their unspoken agreement will have to bend a little, if not break entirely, breaching the safe familiarity of anger and loss. Jim watches Spock watching him and finds he's eager for it. It's time.

"The pear is an interesting fruit," Jim says, apropos of nothing.

"I find the taste satisfactory," Spock admits, perhaps wondering if Jim requires a visit to the sickbay.

"It's meaning is far less convoluted."

"I am familiar with some of the more common human symbolic associations."

"You are?"

"Yes."

Jim taps his fingers on the desk and says, "do you want to play chess?"

"That would be acceptable."

They play two games and win one each with very little conversation between moves. An unfamiliar tension fills the air, far from comfortable, with perhaps the slightest edge of apprehension thrown in. Neither suggests a third game, and Spock rises to leave as Jim fits the pieces into their slots with careless precision.

"I have something for you," he says, just as Spock tugs on his shirt preparatory to saying goodnight.

"Sir?"

"I'm not exactly giving it to you because it was yours to begin with," Jim explains, pulling the flimsy out of the drawer he'd stashed it in after his conversation with T'Lar. "So this is more a reminder than a gift."

Spock accepts the flimsy with a slight frown on his face. His expression softens and clears as he scans the certificate of Terran citizenship with quick flicks of his eyes. When he reaches the end of the page, he pauses, still staring at the print, for some reason unwilling or unable to look away.

Jim circles the table to stand beside him, feeling a little panicked and a lot proud of himself. For Spock, this is one hell of a reaction.

"Thank you, Captain," the Commander manages finally, voice so devoid of emotion that Jim wonders if that's what the pause was for.

"Jim, or it's weird."

Spock just nods.

"What about that pear?"

"The pear or pear tree symbolises a bond, especially a familial bond or one of love."

"If the Vulcans don't want you, we do," Jim paraphrases. "Your mother did."

"The significance of the partridge and the pear?" Spock wants to know, ever the scientist even if his hands clutch the flimsy a little too tightly when he finally looks up.

"You're the genius," Jim says gently, laying a firm hand on his shoulder, "you figure it out."

Spock stares at him for a very long time, his dark eyes measuring, not pulling away from the heat of Jim's hand. When he does move, it is almost apologetic, as though he longs for the assurance or the social experience to rest longer in the midst of whatever the hell it is they're sharing, but regretfully doesn't possess it.

"Goodnight, Jim."

"See you."

The Captain nods at the doors when they close behind his first officer.

Two Turtle Doves

The minute Jim starts researching the cultural connotations of turtledoves he knows he's in trouble. The damn things are universally linked to lovers and loving pairs. Apparently the ridiculous birds mate for life and spend their time plaintively calling to one another across forest floors the world over. God damn it, what is he supposed to do with that?

He toys with the notion of conspiring with Uhura and arranging a romantic dinner for the two of them, but comes to the insurmountable obstacle of honestly not knowing what kind of relationship they actually share with each other. He's seen them kiss only once, on the transporter pad before beaming onto the Narada. Spock hadn't seemed all that into it. Then again, since Jim has never seen Spock kiss anyone else, ever, what the hell does he know?

It's late and he's stumped, so he turns to the paperwork he'd claimed to be doing earlier as a means of distracting himself. He doesn't expect it to work, and he certainly doesn't expect to be handed a solution to his problem in the form of a medical order from Bones. He zooms in on the relevant portion of the latest psych-evals with glee. He may or may not grin at his screen.

There are many different kinds of love, after all, and many different bonds that people share. Rather than abdicating responsibility for the second day of Christmas, why not try to make that point himself? Spock has come a long way since their first mission together, but Jim can count on one hand the number of times the Commander has offered up personal information or shared anything for the sake of sharing, and still have fingers to spare. Jim has had his fair share of lovers, but very few friends, and he absolutely counts Spock amongst the latter. Perhaps he can satisfy his CMO and give Spock his second gift, all tied up in one tidy show of Captainly concern. Perfect.

-:-

Spock blinks at Dr. McCoy. "Trust exercises?"

"You heard me," Bones harrumphs. "Latest crew evaluations show that although we work well together, we could benefit from some further team-building scenarios and strengthening of command team dynamics."

"What, precisely, do you suggest?"

"I've drawn up a rotational roster. We can probably cover the whole crew in three days, or nine shifts depending on how you look at it, provided nothing untoward happens while we're en route to Delta Gamma Taurus. Everyone will work half shifts, relieving a skeleton crew by turn until the whole crew has participated."

"I see."

"Research shows that it's most beneficial to include a mix of existing professional relationships and new networking opportunities, so I've tried to keep command pairs intact whilst still mixing it up a little." Bones does his best not to look shifty.

Spock scans the PADD. "This undertaking has the Captain's approval?"

"Of course it does."

"Thank you, Doctor."

-:-

"Spock, quit stalling, I'm not going to drop you!" Jim's voice is filled with fond exasperation.

The Commander glances over his shoulder, staring placidly down at his Captain from the piled crash mats in the gym. "I fail to comprehend the purpose of this exercise."

"Like I've already said," Jim sighs, "it's designed to illustrate the fact that you can rely on me."

"As I know this to be true, the exercise is pointless."

"Maybe so, but everyone else has to do it, dammit, so shut your eyes and fall already!"

"Very well." Spock crosses his arms over his chest and gives the impression that he might have sighed if he were the sort of person who indulged such impulses.

Jim grunts a little under Spock's denser-than-human mass but manages to ease his First Officer to the padded deck without mishap. Spock opens his eyes and rises lithely to his feet; all fluid movement and impossible angles, like not even his bones and ligaments comply with human regulation. It's entirely possible they don't, Jim is forced to reflect.

"I caught you."

"As I anticipated."

"You really don't feel any different?"

"Is it now your turn to demonstrate your reliance upon me?" Spock asks conversationally.

"Forget it, let's just get a soda."

"I do not ..."

"Fine, tea then."

-:-

"I beg your pardon?"

Jim thinks Spock might actually be blushing, but it's difficult to tell in the dim observation deck lighting. "First kiss," he repeats himself. "How old?"

"Such information has no bearing on any facet of my role as either First Officer or Chief Science Officer aboard this ship," Spock enunciates clearly, his gaze stern, perhaps a little disapproving.

"This is still about trust," Jim presses, his motivation equal parts puerile curiosity and genuine hope that Spock will eventually engage in the whole process. "It's not something you'd normally tell me, so I want to know."

"I find your question ... offensive," Spock says after some consideration. "Vulcans do not share such information with one another except under extremely intimate circumstances."

"And what's more intimate than me holding your guts in on Sigma Ortega?" Jim demands, finding righteous indignation somewhere inside himself and digging in deep, "or you mind melding with me after that nasty business on that Romulan moon?"

Spock doesn't even blink.

Jim flails a little. "Why is this such a big deal? I'll tell you all about my first kiss."

"No."

"Spock!" he pleads.

"No, I do not wish to know about your first kiss," the Commander clarifies. "Instead, you will tell me one thing you regret."

"I'm beginning to regret this conversation." Jim tries for wry, but ends up with something in between bitchy and surprised. "Besides, apples for apples, Spock."

The Commander leans back into the seat and shrugs with one eyebrow. "Those are my terms."

"Are you shitting me?"

"I most certainly am not."

Linguistic barrier or no, Spock seems adamant and really, Jim's got a whole world full of regret he can exchange, so he gives in pretty quickly. "You first."

"I was seventeen."

"And?"

Spock blinks at him, nonplussed. "That is the answer to your question."

"I want more than just your age, dammit, that was just a suggestion to get the ball rolling."

"What further information do you require?"

"A name, for one thing, and oh, I don't know ... some details?" Jim huffs, glowering at him.

"Sokor was his name. He was two years older than I, and a student of the arts, not sciences. His family were also from Shi'Khar, but moved in different circles. I had not met him prior, nor have I seen him since."

This is totally not what Jim is expecting to hear. "Your first kiss was a guy?"

"You are surprised," he observes.

It is a statement, not a question, but Jim answers it anyway. "Uh, yeah. You've only had your tongue down Uhura's throat the entire first fifth of our five year mission."

"And from this erroneous assumption, you have made inferences regarding my sexuality."

"Trust me," Jim chuckles, "when it comes to your sexuality, I have nothing besides inferences, and what do you mean, ‘erroneous?’"

"This information is hardly relevant to our working relationship," says Spock, disapproving again. "Nevertheless, I have fulfilled my half of our bargain. I believe it is your turn."

"We'll get to that," Jim waves that aside. "Did you enjoy it?"

Spock does not pretend to misunderstand. "I found it ... intriguing."

"So are you gay? Bisexual? What?"

"I do not identify with either of those labels," Spock shifts slightly to look Jim in the eye, "and that is the limit of our discussion on the matter."

Jim holds up his hands in surrender, still off balance after the initial revelation. "Okay, sure."

"You will now answer my question," Spock tells him, and it's almost an order.

Jim considers fobbing him off with one of the hundreds of fucked up things he's lived to think better of, but something about the tension in Spock's shoulders makes him feel like an asshole for even considering an easy out. He's pushed Spock pretty hard and got a heck of a lot more than he bargained for. The Vulcan looks uncomfortably exposed and slightly angry about it.

"I wish I'd told Carol to keep the baby," Jim blurts out, face heating instantly with remorse and self-recrimination. "But I was a coward; too fucking self absorbed to be a father, too scared to imagine that I might be capable of that kind of responsibility for another human life."

Spock is suddenly very still; his eyes twin points of intensity, capturing Jim's and holding them relentlessly. "And yet, you are currently responsible for over five hundred human and non-human lives," he says, voice quietly intense.

Jim swallows. "And it scares the everloving shit out of me."

Spock holds the stare for a few moments longer and then releases him, turning to gaze at the passing stars once again. Jim wipes the unexpected perspiration from his brow with the gold fabric of his sleeve ... his Captain's sleeve. He swallows heavily.

"I am beginning to see the virtue of these so-called 'trust exercises,'" Spock says quietly.

"That's a pity, because I'm cancelling the rest of the day."

"I had anticipated as much."

"Really?"

Spock nods, once, to the viewport. "Indeed."

Three French Hens

The twenty eighth of December is relatively straight forward. Three French hens. Bugger the French, thinks Jim, it's the hens that hold the meaning in that verse. Hens are about family, about mothering and connections. He knows exactly what to do.

By midday he has Spock seated in front of the comm screen in the Captain's ready room, hands folded neatly in his lap, a slightly concerned frown perched between his upswept brows.

"Ta da!" Jim says with a flourish, as the connection to New Vulcan forms and Sarek's face materialises.

Spock somehow manages to sit even taller in his seat, his posture reaching new heights of perfect.

"Father."

"Spock."

The silence holds for a few moments, which is when Jim feels the first stirrings of dread in the pit of his stomach.

"I trust you are well," the Vulcan Ambassador says flatly.

"I am in adequate health."

"That is fortunate."

"Indeed."

Spock waits a few seconds then asks, "was there a reason for your communication?"

Sarek's eyes flick to Jim and then back to his son. "Captain Kirk thought it would benefit your mental and emotional stability if we were to engage in conversation at this time."

"Did he?"

"He did."

Spock turns his head slowly until his unreadable eyes are boring into Jim's. "How fascinating."

The Captain swallows heavily. "I'll just leave you guys to it, shall I?" he asks, then beats a hasty retreat.

Spock waits until the doors are fully closed before turning back to his father.

"Spock," Sarek sighs, his tone instantly warmer and perhaps slightly amused. "Why do you persist in punishing James Kirk for his humanity?"

"It is not punishment, Father."

"What would you call it, if not punishment?"

Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Education?"

-:-

Jim spends the remainder of Alpha shift living in fear of his First's response to the little family reunion he'd organised without so much as a by your leave from Spock himself. However, when the shift concludes, the Commander falls into step with him as usual and even suggests a game of chess in the rec room. It's not a game in one of their quarters, but it feels like an olive leaf to Jim and he accepts with alacrity.

They play three games and Spock wins all of them. Jim is beginning to suspect that Spock can beat him any time he likes and only lets him win now and again under suffrage. Jim wants to tell him his ego can take the punishment, but after the debacle in the ready room, he's not entirely sure that's true anymore. It had been a classic example of one of his wilder schemes gone awry; the kind that Spock usually saves him from before they happen.

When he tips his king to Spock for the third time, he mutters a hasty excuse and escapes to his quarters. Spock blinks in surprise, but says nothing. Jim takes that as a good sign.

The Captain gets very little sleep that night, alternately wracking his brains for something to suit the fourth day of Christmas and laughing at himself for taking the whole thing so seriously. What had started as a simple desire to give Spock a sense of seasonal celebration has morphed into something simultaneously subtle and yet so blatant that Jim doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the vision of Spock kissing some bohemian Vulcan peer and the need to repair any damage he did with that comm call earlier in the day are warring behind his eyes, making sleep an impossible dream.

He hums a lyric to himself, then laughs into the darkness and flings an arm over the bridge of his nose. He has the sensation of being somehow utterly screwed, but can't identify why.

Four Calling Birds

Jim is almost one hundred percent certain that Spock will shoot him down instantly, so it's somewhat of a surprise when the Commander steeples his fingers and raises them to his lips instead.

"What do you hope to gain by attempting Vulcan meditation?"

"I don't know," Jim flounders, "whatever you get out of it?"

Spock raises both his eyebrows. "A greater comprehension of the complexity of your katra?" he asks dubiously.

"Yeah, exactly."

Spock blinks. "It is a worthy goal, but I am curious about the timing of your request. We are en route to the Klingon Neutral Zone and your particular skills will be much in demand. I am given to understand that a select few crewmembers from the Enterprise will spearhead a search and rescue team on Rua Penthe. Would your time not be better spent formulating an insertion and exit strategy?"

"Perhaps this will help me focus."

Spock's eyes narrow. "Perhaps."

"Is that a yes?"

The Commander gestures towards his sleeping alcove. "Remove your boots and sit facing the wall."

"We're doing this now?"

"You have a pre-existing appointment?"

"No," Jim rises hastily to his feet, "no, not at all, I just kind of thought you'd refuse."

"Then you must let go of such assumptions and the practices that generate them if you hope to achieve even the first level of Vulcan meditation."

"Okay, sure," Jim nods, tugging off his second boot and padding over to the plain scarlet mat Spock often has spread out beside his bed. He hunkers down and crosses his legs easily. "What now?"

"Cease your questions and await further instructions."

"Wow, you're a bit of a control freak, you know that?"

"Control is paramount."

"I gathered."

"Close your eyes and rest your hands on your knees," Spock instructs, folding gracefully into a matching pose at the other end of the mat, facing Jim. "Allow your breathing to become easy and regular, with your focus lightly resting on the exhalation."

Jim finds it difficult to shift his concentration from the rush of success he's feeling at getting Spock to acquiesce to this request, but he manages, because like hell is he going to fail at this and ruin Spock's present. He listens to Spock's level baritone as it guides him through the process of withdrawing his external perception to exist purely in a state of anticipatory stillness. It's remarkably challenging for someone with a mind like Jim's; accustomed to dealing with multiple inputs simultaneously and navigating through them in the shortest possible time. Spock seems to understand, because every time Jim's mind wanders, the Commander's words guide him gently and inexorably back to the exhalation, to the still point.

Time after time, Jim ruins his successes by experiencing either frustration or triumph, depending on how well he's doing. Still, there is always Spock's guidance, his frighteningly accurate assessment of Jim's progress, to help him deal with either outcome. Do not punish yourself for thinking, thinking is a natural process; it is illogical to experience anger at oneself for acting according to one's nature. Or alternatively; there is no winner or loser, no right or wrong, no cause to celebrate what has always been inside you, unrecognised; it simply exists, with or without your notice.

Spock's hand closes lightly around his sleeve and Jim startles, wondering if he'd ruined everything by falling asleep. By the slightly puzzled look on his First Officer's face, it's a distinct possibility.

Spock releases him and leans back into his full lotus. "You are remarkably adept for someone so poorly versed in meditative techniques."

"I think that was a compliment?"

"Merely an observation."

Jim goes to uncross his legs and several muscles protest all at once, causing him to gasp and clutch at them in surprise. "Son of a bitch! How long have we been doing this?"

Without needing to glance at the chrono, Spock answers confidently, "three hours, twenty seven minutes and four seconds, Captain."

"Three hours?"

"You did spend the first forty minutes adjusting to the technique," Spock reveals, sounding almost as shell-shocked as Jim feels. "I judged it prudent to interrupt your meditative state, despite your success, as it is approaching the hour at which you customarily eat dinner."

"You're saying I actually got it?"

"For two hours, forty seven minutes and fourteen seconds, yes."

"That's good, right?" Jim wants to know, massaging his knotted left calf muscle with a hiss of discomfort.

"It is most ... unexpected."

That is a strange thing for Spock to say, so it's hardly surprising that Jim feels the urge to prod and poke. "Can we do it again some time?"

Spock stares at him with the interest of a scientist with a new specimen locked into his microscope. "I am amenable to your suggestion."

"Great!" Jim pushes to his feet with a few clicks and pops. "We can alternate chess and meditation. Will I see you in the mess?"

"Negative," Spock says, still seated. "I believe I will remain here and continue to meditate."

"Suit yourself."

The Captain almost makes it to the door.

"Captain?"

"Commander?"

Spock is still glaring at him, wearing something like the bastard child of a frown and a blank look of shock. "I am gratified that of all the practitioners of meditative techniques aboard the Enterprise, you sought instruction from me."

Jim grins. "I trust you not to laugh at me when I screw it up."

"That is statistically unlikely," he replies.

Jim's smile morphs into something gentler as he turns away, cherishing the barest hint of amusement in Spock's voice as he exits the Commander's quarters. Four Calling Birds, he thinks to himself, colly birds, blackbirds, symbols of a shift in consciousness or awareness. It had gone better than he expected.

Chapter Text

Five Gold Rings

At eighteen hundred hours and fourteen point two minutes on the fifth day of Christmas, Jim works side-by-side with Scotty to stabilise two barely-there transporter signatures, his fingertips digging into the touch display as though physical force could will the patterns into manifesting beyond the buffer. Slowly, painfully, as the Enterprise continues to take her licks, the deck shuddering beneath the onslaught of Klingon photon torpedoes, sliver sparks swirl and gather over the pads.

"Come on!" he snarls, boosting power from the auxiliary supply even as Scotty gasps with relief.

"We've got them, Captain! We've got them!"

Jim's fingers slip from the controls as Bones rushes forwards, zeroing in on Sulu's crumpled form, tricorder blipping and whirling. The pilot stirs, groans, and Jim feels like he can breathe again. "Chekov," he snaps into his communicator. "Get us the hell out of here."

Aye, sir! Right away, sir!

The faint vibration of damaged warp coils tickles the soles of his feet, but the magnificent ship makes the shift to warp without blowing up, even if Scotty does curse a lot and make a run for Engineering. Jim, in turn, makes a beeline for his previously imprisoned crew.

He kneels next to Sulu first, taking him into a one-armed hug, the guy's snow-covered head against his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Never thought you'd make it," Sulu confesses, teeth chattering from exposure. "Spock kept saying, got to keep moving, got to get out from under the shield so you could pick up our transponders. Still," he blinks bloodshot eyes, "didn't think you'd come."

"Of course we came," Jim soothes, giving his pilot a squeeze. "What kind of half-assed operation do you think this is?"

Sulu chuckles weakly and fist-bumps Jim's shoulder. "Stupid to worry about half the Klingon fleet and an energy field that prevents beaming," he chuckles, gasping. "I'm an idiot for doubting you."

"That's more like it."

Bones leans over to whisper in his ear. "Got to move him to sickbay, Jim. He needs warmth and something for the shock."

"Go," Jim waves them away, rising from his crouch. "Spock and I will follow."

"Good," the doctor growls, "because that green blooded bastard needs a physical, too."

"I am fully functional," Spock informs them, speaking for the first time.

"Let me be the judge of that," Bones mutters, gathering Sulu up between him and Chapel, eschewing the stretcher and its bearers for a more old-fashioned approach. Sulu seems pathetically grateful.

With the initial tumult over and some of the adrenaline of the crisis beginning to bleed away, Jim finally turns to Spock. "How okay are you, really?"

Spock's face is white and green with cold, his long eyelashes frosted with ice, painful-looking chilblains manifesting on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Nevertheless, he makes his customary nod. "I am adequate, considering the circumstances."

"Good," says Jim, grateful. "That's good."

They stare at each other for a few moments, Spock still poised on the transporter pad, and Jim in a split stance, feet perched on steps of different levels. After a moment, Spock looks away, letting his feet follow his gaze towards the exit. Jim watches him walk, saying nothing, but still the Commander pauses in the doorway, half-turning, even though his eyes only make it to the deck at Jim's feet.

"The statistical likelihood of effecting a successful rescue of two unarmed, unprepared Starfleet officers from the surface of Rura Penthe was approximately ..."

"Don't tell me the odds," Jim says gently, coaxingly. "They don't apply."

Spock does raise his eyes at that. "Perhaps you are correct."

-:-

Later that night, Jim calls together the other two command crew in his ready room; all excepting Sulu who is tucked away in sickbay and Spock who refused to remain an inpatient, but reluctantly accepted medical leave and has holed up in his quarters instead. Jim glances between Chekov and Uhura, then pulls two packages from his pocket and wordlessly hands them over.

"Jim," Uhura whispers, "it's beautiful."

"Functional, too," he replies, "so Command can't bitch about misappropriation of funds."

She one-arm hugs him, still clutching the package in her other hand. “This is your version of five gold rings?" she laughs softly into his ear. "Does this mean we're literally married to our work, now?"

Chekov slaps him on the back oblivious to the subtext, grinning.

-:-

Spock buzzes him in without hesitation though Jim is unsurprised to see him dressed in his meditation robe. The different cut of the cloth exposes the harsh line of burns where Rura Penthe bit into the less resistant and more exposed skin on his hands, his face and his ears.

"Captain."

"Spock," Jim replies, breaking the formality. "I won't keep you, I just wanted to give you this." He presses the slender black box into Spock's surprised hands, watching as the long fingers grip the package reflexively.

"Sir?"

"Just open it."

Spock does, revealing the simple, matte, unadorned pendant and chain. Dark eyes flick upwards, seeking clarification. "An IDIC emblem?"

"Didn't think you fancied a class ring," Jim shrugs, slipping said item of jewellery out of his own pocket and presenting it on his palm for Spock to examine. "They're made of veridium, which should make transporter locks a hell of a lot easier regardless of surface conditions or planetary shields."

Spock plucks the pendant from its box and over his head. As Jim suspected, the length of the chain means it will be perfectly concealed inside just about anything the Commander chooses to wear, regulation or otherwise. He'd deemed that necessary, since Spock hardly seems the type to wear adornments of any kind.

"Sulu, Chekov and Uhura have something similar, but not similar enough that it will rouse suspicion," Jim continues. "I'm going to get strips sewn into the Security undershirts, but for some reason it's always one of us that gets the raw end of the deal on away missions."

"I have often said that neither the Captain of a starship, nor his command crew should lead away missions. Whilst not strictly against regulations, past experience indicates the outcome is rarely devoid of complications."

"And how many of those 'complications' did we overcome simply because of who we are, and how we think? No," Jim shakes his head, "I'm not about to pull us off the diplomatic and exploratory front line, but if I can make it safer for us, then I'd be stupid not to."

Spock's eyes crinkle at the corners slightly; a smile that isn't a smile. "Would you be offended if I observe that over the last ten point two months, you have matured admirably in your role as Captain of this ship?"

"I'm flattered, not offended," Jim grins, feeling his face warm stupidly, because that might be the first outright compliment Spock has ever paid him. Jim slips his ring onto his left thumb, mostly because if you punch with your thumb, you're doing it wrong.

Six Geese A-Laying

Jim slumps across from Spock in the rear of the shuttle, confident in Chekov's piloting skills and twisting the veridium ring on his left thumb absently.

"You are troubled," Spock observes.

"I probably just violated the Prime Directive," he mutters, staring out the viewport.

"The Merquins are no pre-warp society."

Jim's eyes snap as they zero in on Spock's. "Could have fooled me."

Silence reigns for a few minutes as the crew on their security detail do a convincing job of being deaf to Jim's self-doubt and anger. Spock leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, creating a situation where he can drop his voice to increase their privacy.

"Jim, whilst I agree with your ethical assessment of the situation, I am forced to question the timing and mode of delivery of your message." The Commander's eyebrows draw together in a slight frown. "The Diplomatic Corps will require the abolition of slavery prior to the Merquins' acceptance to the Federation."

"Are you familiar with Emerson?" Jim asks with focus, leaning forward to match Spock's posture.

"The Taiwanese astrophysicist?"

"The American poet."

Spock nods. "Ralph Waldo Emerson, born May twenty fifth, eighteen hundred and three."

"You could not educate him, you could not get any poetry, any wisdom, any beauty in woman, any strong and commanding character in man, but these absurdities would still come flashing out, these absurdities of a demand for justice, a generosity for the weak and oppressed," Jim quotes, his voice hushed but intense. "Perhaps Emerson and the diplomats phrase it better but I saw the look on your face when they dragged that kid away; I know you agree with me. It needed to be said then and there."

Spock leans back, away from Jim's tightly leashed fury. In his mind's eye, the scene replays; a small girl, low caste, her anklets marking her a slave, tears streaming down her face as she is towed by a fistful of hair, careless like a ragdoll, a less-than-prized possession. He remembers the way her eyes turned up to the sky, tracking a flock of birds flying south for the winter, perhaps wishing she too had the power of flight.

"Yes," Spock acknowledges finally, "I do believe you are correct."

Jim's tricorder blips to acknowledge the beginning of a new day, ship's time. He glances at it and his face falls. "Dammit."

"Captain?"

"Happy New Year, Spock," Jim smiles wanly.

"And to you, Jim," he replies, wondering if his commanding officer caught sight of the birds; if his knowledge of Emerson's America extends to their use as signposts and symbols to guide the enslaved African population to freedom. He wonders when he began thinking in such metaphorical, sentimental terms.

Seven Swans A-Swimming

Jim enters the private sickbay cubicle a little hesitantly. Spock looks up at the sound, his angles more pronounced beneath the bland blue patient scrubs.

"Captain."

Jim exhales in relief. "You remember me."

Up goes Spock's eyebrow. "Naturally. Is there some reason I should not?"

"Do you know why you're here?" he asks, circling the biobed to heft himself up and perch beside his first officer. He swings his legs absently, mostly because he knows it is something Spock would never do.

"I presume I am unwell."

"That's logical," Kirk nods. "How do you feel?"

"Confused," Spock confesses after a beat.

"How's the head?"

"Aching," he frowns, then his eyes widen. "I was injured?"

"Minor," Jim assures him, "minor, Spock. Nothing more than a decent bump on the skull."

"I do not recall the incident."

"And that's why you're in sickbay."

"Ah," says Spock, turning away again to frown at the opposite wall. "What is my prognosis?"

"Excellent," Jim grins. "You should be back on duty before the end of the week. Just need to give those neurons a few days to un-jumble."

Spock turns back to him, the frown firmly in place. "There were no away missions scheduled after Merquin III; how did I sustain head trauma aboard the Enterprise?"

"It may have had something to do with Scotty," Jim holds his gaze seriously, "Scotty and a few modifications he made to the warp core access tunnels."

His first officer raises an eyebrow.

"Fine, all right," Jim huffs. "I tripped over a grill and pitched you right into a support beam that shouldn't have been there. Who knew routine inspections could be so dangerous?"

"I trust Mr. Scott has been appropriately disciplined?"

"Spock, you never struck me as the vindictive type!"

"He endangered your wellbeing and thus, the wellbeing of the ship," the Commander says repressively. "No structural modifications should be made to any starship without the appropriate plans being logged an approval being granted."

"He's improved thermodynamic venting the primary warp core by a factor of zero point two," Jim wheedles, "and you'll have your memory back in no time."

Spock's frown doesn't shift.

Jim clears his throat and looks down at the prompts McCoy has given him. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Spock continues to stare at him as he runs through the basic questions; what's your name, rank, serial number? What year did you enlist? Do you know where you are? What day it is? Who I am? Then Jim shifts to more convoluted questions; basic astronomy, math and physics; testing for the limits of any potential impairment.

"Listen to these numbers and remember them," Jim requests, finally. "Four, seven, two, three, nine, two, one."

"What is the significance of this sequence?"

"It's my old college comm number," Jim confesses. "Don't ring it; god knows who'll you'll get now."

"I have no intention of placing a call to that number."

"Excellent," Jim nods, "moving right along; recite the first twenty five numbers in a Fibonacci Sequence, starting with the number seventeen."

Spock does so reflexively, without a hint of hesitation.

"Right, now what was my old comm number again?"

Spock opens his mouth ... and shuts it again.

Jim nods. "Basic short term memory theory; Miller's Law states that a human with functional short term memory should have a memory span sufficient to recall seven discrete data 'chunks.'" He shrugs apologetically. "You failed."

"Obviously."

Jim swallows at the slightest hint of acid in Spock's tone. "Do you remember why you're in sickbay?" he asks meekly.

"I do not," Spock scowls. "However, from the expression on your face, I extrapolate that we have already had this conversation, therefore my admission to sickbay must have something to do with my memory."

"You know," Jim taps the stylus against his teeth. "I don't think Bones has factored in how goddamn smart you are. Promise me you won't con us into believing you're cured."

"What value would my promise be when I am unable to recall making it?" Spock's eyebrows arch high, hitting his bangs.

Jim laughs and hangs his head. "Okay, okay, I have a better idea. Instead of my old comm number, let's pretend we have seven swans."

"If you wish to test my memory span and retention, I will require some means of differentiating between the swans," Spock points out, reasonably.

"You're going to name them."

Spock blinks. "You wish me to assign given names to a flock of imaginary waterfowl?"

"Yes," Jim nods firmly, clamping down hard on his amusement. "For the sake of your mental health."

"I feel compelled to enquire whether or not you are cognisant of how ridiculous that sounds?"

"Oh, totally," Jim grins. "So, these swans, what are their names?"

Spock looks mutinous for a second; the muscles in his jaw bunching ominously, but then he takes a deep breath. "Socrates," he says, a glint of humour blossoming in his eyes, "T'Paal, Einstein, Cochrane ..."

As Spock's bevy of swans progresses to include many of the great names of the last few centuries, Jim's smile continues to grow. Spock might not remember the seventh day of Christmas, but Jim will enjoy recounting this portion of it for a long time to come.

Eight Maids A-Milking

The whole eight maids thing really stumps Jim, especially since Spock is still in sickbay. He comes up with wild notions of getting a few of the nurses into costumes, but realises that would be more for his own gratification than Spock's. Plus, it isn't particularly in keeping with the less than literal interpretations he's employed to date.

In the end, he settles for possibly the loosest adaptation so far; choosing to view the eighth day as an opportunity to be a bit domestic and maybe convince Spock to finally laugh at him. Until he lost his short term memory, Jim could swear his first officer had been building up to it with every consecutive gift.

He bends regulations a little, citing the standing medical directive of helping Spock regain his memory, and opts out of the tail end of his uneventful alpha shift to cook. Three hours, two sliced thumbs, one burned wrist and a lot of swearing later, Jim bustles into sickbay with his arms full of containers.

"Okay," he says, littering every available surface with the products of his labours. "It's been just about forever since I've actually cooked anything, and catering are going to hunt me ship-wide for the mess I've made, but I'm pretty sure most of this is edible."

Spock tactfully stops a pound cake from sliding off his biobed and looks up at Jim with wide eyes. "You wish me to sample all of these dishes? For what purpose?"

"We're going to have our own personal feast," Jim grins. "I asked, but Bones won't let us use the displays to watch a movie, so I brought the folding chess board."

Spock casts around him for a spare inch of space upon which to place the board. His blanket-covered legs are covered by a plate of Amish cookies, vegetarian Maid-Rites, corn salad and a basket of mushroom bierocks.

"Here, I've got it," Jim steps in, disconnecting medical equipment and clearing a space on the side table.

McCoy rushes in mere seconds after the board is unfolded. "Spock, what the hell ...?"

"Sorry, Bones," Jim says, not looking up as he begins to arrange the pieces. "Pretty sure I'll remember to buzz you if Spock stops breathing while I'm here, and I needed the space."

The doctor's eyes bug out as he sees all the food perched on and around his expensive instrumentation. "Just, I don't even ..." he flails, covering his eyes. "You break it, you bought it!" he settles for in the end, scowling at both of them equally, even though it's plain Spock would never have anything to do with something so illogical.

"Bill me," Jim calls after his retreating back. "You better take white, Spock. You deserve a head start considering you're likely to forget what your last move was."

"Jim," Spock says, sounding a little bemused. "Why have you prepared eight different meals?"

"It's not, look," he huffs, reordering the plates. "These are starters, then mains, then desserts."

"The desserts outnumber the other courses by a ratio of two to one," Spock observes.

"Welcome to Iowa. Your move."

Nine Drummers Drumming

Jim wishes he hadn't logged onto his account. It's his day off, and he'd planned to collect Spock from sickbay. The Commander's memory seems to be fully functional again, but McCoy is being wary and wants him on a further twenty four hours medical leave. Spock, being Spock, rather than resting, chose to enquire whether Jim would be free to bring him up to speed on current ship's business. Knowing that if he didn't do it, Spock would simply gather the information himself in a far more laborious manner, Jim agreed.

If only he hadn't logged onto his comm stream, he might have simply been able to introduce Spock to a game of chance involving nine-sided die and called it a gift. Instead, he sits chewing on a hangnail, staring at StarFleet Command's request to transfer his First Officer to the USS Reliant for a nine week tour of the Gamma Quadrant studying quasar flux matrices. Obviously, Jim does not want Spock to accept. Since the request came directly to him, as the Captain, it signifies his ability to block the transfer; it's headquarters' opaque way of checking Jim is cool with this. He's not cool with it, but dammit, it's a great opportunity for Spock and Jim knows the bastard is crazy about plasma matrices and anything involving astrophysics or thermodynamics.

Jim looks at the duration of the secondment and snorts bitterly. Nine weeks. Ninth day of Christmas. It's official; the universe rides his ass whenever he indulges in grand gestures. Although not generally superstitious, Jim knows he's simply got to tell Spock about this opportunity, no matter how much it will suck trying to run the ship without him.

It surprises the hell out of him when Spock nods along to Jim's description of what a fantastic scientific opportunity the Reliant will be, and then promptly declines on the spot.

"Hang on, what?" Jim squints, feeling off balance.

"I do not wish to transfer, temporarily or otherwise," Spock reiterates. "However, if you would prefer that I reconsider ..."

"No," Jim says quickly, "no, not at all. I just thought you might like a change of scenery."

Spock's eyes do that little crinkly thing Jim is starting to notice more often. "I find the 'scenery' aboard the Enterprise sufficiently varied."

"Oh, good." Jim nods and feels himself relax muscles he didn't know he'd been tensing. "You do?"

"You find that surprising?" Spock raises an eyebrow. "As the flagship, Enterprise encounters more alien cultures, more astronomical phenomena, more languages, cultures and scientific breakthroughs than any other vessel. In addition, it has become like a home to me and I would prefer not to absent myself for such a prolonged period of time."

Jim nods at first, not trusting his voice until he's swallowed. "I had to ask."

"No, you did not," Spock corrects him, "but I am gratified that you would offer me such an opportunity despite the inconvenience to your command."

"No problem," Jim waves him away, face just a little too flushed to blame on the higher temperature in Spock's quarters.

Ten Pipers Piping

Jim runs through the ruins of the Carvais II colony, hardly noticing the bodies collected in corners, in doorways, slumped against or holding one another. His thighs burn and his breath fogs the face-plate of his biohazard suit, but he ignores it and maintains the pace. His tricorder bleeps consistently, but it is far from reassuring. Spock always answers calls, never ignores them. Bones swore hybrid Vulcan physiology would offer protection from the plague. If he was wrong …

Jim has to put his shoulder to the door in order to open it. The power outage has left it ajar, like a half-finished thought, like so much else. Spock sits perched at a bench, his back to the door, ramrod straight. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react, as Jim squeezes noisily into the room to take him by the shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Spock! Why weren’t you answering hails?”

“It was …” he blinks like it’s the first time he’s felt the need, eyeing the carefully arranged apparatus on the bench as though it were foreign to him, “I was … Captain?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jim exhales heavily, turning to rest against the bench and catch his breath. “Way to scare the crap out of me.”

“Are there any survivors?” Spock asks quickly, directly and with some urgency.

Jim winces. “No, none. I’m sorry. You did everything you could.”

“Not even amongst the children?”

“They were too weak by the time we synthesised the antiviral,” he apologises, feeling helpless. “We know it works, we just ran out of time.”

“I see.”

“StarFleet Medical are really impressed with the report on the iso-strain Bones has forwarded to them. It should get to the other fringe colonies before the virus itself reaches that far.” Jim thinks of the queue building up in his own inbox and then doubles it for what’s likely to be awaiting Spock when they beam up. “The Director of Medical Services wants to speak to you and Bones. What you’ve achieved is all over the news channels. They’ll want a statement.”

“What price, fame?” Spock wonders softly, turning to look at his bare hands where they rest next to slides and petri dishes. “I do not wish to talk to them. Let doctor McCoy speak on my behalf.”

“You worked just as hard on this as he did, risked your life …”

Spock’s eyes are hollowed-out and cold when he looks up. “Jim, please, do not ask this of me.”

Jim hears the catch in that voice and his stomach drops away. “Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here, please don’t choke me.”

With that the only warning, Jim shifts his grip and hugs Spock to him. He covers both pointed ears with his chest and his gloved hand, hoping that it shuts out the silence in the laboratory. Slowly, almost numbly, Spock’s arms return the gesture. Their grip is light, tentative even, but nobody is being pushed away. Jim uncovers one of those ears.

“You know I was on Tarsus IV, right?” he asks, then plows on when Spock says nothing, because he knows Spock knows. “All I’m saying is that I know there’s a difference between watching people die like this and watching them die at the business end of a phaser. A slow death is brutal, it’s gut-wrenching. You can see the fear in their eyes as the fight leaves their body and it’s … well, yeah.”

Still, Spock says nothing.

“I just want you to know that you’ll walk away from this with something I’ll never have - the knowledge that by witnessing this, you’ve created something that will save just as many lives in the future. This many lives to the power of ten, uncountable lives. Just by being here, you’ll change the future, give it meaning.”

Spock disengages himself then straightens his shirt but not his hair. “Thank you, Jim.”

“Bah,” he waves away any gratitude or obligation between them; they don’t need it. He refuses to analyse the symbolism of the tenth day of Christmas, with Spock as the pied piper, or Bones as a fisher of souls.

Eleven Ladies Dancing

Jim stares at the report he’s been handed in utter disbelief. Conduct unbecoming an officer. Violation of privacy. Harrassment, even.

“What the fucking fuck?” he exclaims aloud.

“And that’s what I thought you’d say,” Bones drawls.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m not the hobgoblin’s biggest fan, but I’m not a total ass,” the doctor grouches. “Give me a little credit.”

“Who the hell is this bitch and what is she doing on my ship?” Jim demands, his white-knuckled grip making the PADD’s case squeal in plastic protest.

Bones frowns heavily. “I know you two are close, but you're the Captain, so if you’re not capable of investigating this impartially, then assign someone who can.”

“You can’t believe she’s telling the truth!”

“Kid, it doesn’t matter what either of us believe. All that counts is what you can prove or disprove, and just how far Ensign Sarah Weaver from Stellar Cartography is willing to take her accusations. This could end Spock’s career, so you better start taking it seriously.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Jim snarls through gritted teeth. “You know Spock is a stickler for ethics, can you even imagine him doing any of this?”

McCoy shrugs, playing devil’s advocate. “He’s an alien, Jim, and he’s just been through one hell of a trauma. It looks believable on paper and you know how much superstition remains about Vulcan telepathy.”

“Superstition my ass,” Jim snaps. “I’m putting an end to this right now.”

McCoy calls after him, but he doesn’t look back.

He finds Ensign Weaver in the junction between the main corridor on D deck and the adjunct passage to Engineering. She flushes red when she sees him and ducks her head when he calls her into a meeting room.

“Take a seat, Ensign,” he offers, cool and calm as you like.

“Thank you, sir,” she mumbles, taking a seat opposite, her rigid posture at odds with his customary sprawl.

“Would you like any witnesses or support people here for this? I’ll put it on record, but I’m hoping for a simple informal chat.”

“No, that’s okay, sir.”

“Right then,” Jim nods. “Computer, begin recording conversation regarding formal report number six four five dash beta, note the only people present are James T. Kirk, Captain and Weaver, Sarah, Ensign First Class.”

Recording commenced.

“Okay, so why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” he offers, leaning back even further, the PADD resting on his knee.

She opens easily enough with a concise tale of a proposal she made for a research grant in one of Spock’s many areas of expertise. When she gets to the part about Spock stealing her idea, he has to bite his tongue, because a scientist of Spock’s calibre doesn’t need to encroach on other people’s intellectual property. When she accuses Spock of essentially raping her mind for the superstring equation that validates her entire thesis, Jim has had enough.

“You’re saying he literally reached into your head and pulled out the math?”

“Yes, sir,” she nods, blushing furiously. “It was terrifying.”

“Must have been physically confronting, too,” Jim nods, fighting the urge to grind his teeth.

“Sir?” she asks, showing her first signs of hesitation.

“The mind-meld,” he clarifies. “I’ve heard it can be painful.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” she nods, then holds out her hands for inspection. “I couldn’t type for weeks.”

Jim stares down at her hands, at the pale skin mottled by fading bruises, and can’t believe she’s made it that easy for him. “Hmm,” is all he trusts himself to say.

She’s on a roll now, though and flips her hands so he can see the impression of fingertips on her palms. “He grabbed my hands so hard and it felt like burning during the meld. I thought I was going to die. It was very traumatic. I’m lucky that an equation was all he wanted.”

“So you’re saying Commander Spock grabbed your hands against your will and then, via that physical contact, forcibly removed information from your mind using his telepathy?

“Yes, sir,” she nods, eyes teary.

“Okay,” Jim nods. “I think that’s everything. Someone from Legal will be in touch. In the meantime, I’m taking you off active duty and putting you on mandatory sick leave. Report to Doctor McCoy for treatment of those bruises.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you, sir,” Weaver says tremulously.

“Sure,” says Jim, fists so tight the PADD case actually does crack.

When the doors close behind Weaver, he stabs the intercom button viciously. “Commander Spock, report to meeting room two on D-deck.”

Acknowledged, Captain.

Jim can remain still no longer, the fury within him coiling into a tight, dense knot deep in his gut. He’s pacing by the time Spock arrives, bare minutes later.

“Captain?”

Jim crosses the room in four quick strides and unceremoniously grabs both of Spock’s hands in his own. The Commander visibly flinches and Jim can see the exact moment his mental shields slam down, cutting off the onslaught of human emotion.

“Can you read my mind?” Jim snarls.

Spock shakes his head. “Only your emotions, and that, no longer.”

“How am I feeling?”

“You are extremely angry.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Jim nods, holding fast. “But I do need to know, is there any way you or any other Vulcan could forcibly extract information from my mind by touching me like this?”

Spock’s eyes flash. “Who has attempted to violate your mind in this manner?”

“Answer the damn question.”

The Commander looks quietly furious in his own way, which is to say his lips thin slightly and his eyes narrow. “The answer is unequivocally negative, Captain.”

“Good, that’s what I thought.” Jim releases him and stalks back over to his busted PADD, flicking through a few folders before finding what he needs. He holds down the comm button again. “Uhura, file this with Command, will you? Highest priority.”

Aye, Captain. Which department?

“Human Resources, and cc it to the Disciplinary Tribunal with a full report to follow.”

Acknowledged.

“What has happened?” Spock asks, taking an uncertain step forwards.

Jim releases the comm and turns, feeling triumphant and vicious. “You’ll need to find a new senior ensign for Stellar Cartography,” he grins with a flash of teeth. “I just fired your last one.”

“For what reason?”

“Conduct unbecoming an officer, libel and perjury,” he replies, feeling a wave of righteous contentment beginning to edge out all the anger. “Do yourself a favour and don’t read the complaint; I doubt it will make it to a Tribunal.”

Spock, of course, has to know. He speed reads Weaver’s statement, his shoulder blades drawing closer with every flick of his eyes, his lips pressed together in a miniscule tell. He lets the PADD fall and stares at Jim almost defiantly. “You were testing me.”

“I knew you didn’t do it.”

“What if I had?” Spock returns. “You are the Captain and should not expose yourself to such risks. Also, you are privy to information of a higher classification level than I.”

“Anything they tell me, I tell you,” Jim shrugs, “you know that.”

“However, your privacy …”

“You know more about me than any other person alive,” Jim says seriously. “If you were going to use any of it against me, I’d know by now.”

“I would never betray your confidence in such a manner,” Spock replies stiffly.

“I know.” Jim locks their eyes and holds it. “I know that.”

After a few uncomfortably intense seconds, Spock clears his throat and wanders over to the table. “What will become of Ensign Weaver?”

“That’s got more to do with you than me,” Jim points out reasonably. “It was you that was falsely accused. If it were me, however,” he muses, a nasty glint in his eye, “I’d sit back and watch her dance.”

Spock nods slowly, even though Jim can see his natural compassion warring with his innate need for discipline, and Jim’s not even thinking about the days of Christmas anymore.

Twelve Lords A-Leaping

Uhura trades him a wink and a nod in the turbolift and Jim is strangely disturbed to think she might be hitting on him before she leans in and whispers, “it’s the sixth of January, Captain.”

This leaves Jim brooding in his chair for the first few hours of Alpha shift, strangely silent and internalised. It’s the final day of Christmas and Jim is quietly amazed at the incredible synergy between his gift-giving goals and the trials shipboard life has offered up the past couple of weeks. He has absolutely no idea what to do for the twelfth and final day, only certain that it won’t involve any leaping lords.

He does a quick word association search and discovers that twelve is traditionally the number associated with great wisdom and revelation. He laughs once through his nose, because what the hell kind of wisdom can he impart to Spock? Don’t cheat, you’ll be expelled? Never light fireworks in enclosed spaces? Don’t venture into space without the most awesome crew in existence?

Spock might catch Jim smiling to himself now and again, but strangely, he does not enquire as to the cause. In fact, Jim frowns at the back of his first officer’s head, Spock looks kind of shifty over there. He wonders, briefly, if his grabby hands from the night before have freaked his first officer out. But no, Spock never seems to mind being touched by Jim, it’s just other people that … oh.

Oh.

Jim is kind of glad Spock is not looking at him just then because it takes him a moment to metaphorically pick himself up and dust himself off. Uhura, however, is watching, and he observes her rising from her console and walking over to his chair with some trepidation.

“Feeling okay?” she asks in an undertone.

“I … uh …”

“You look like you’ve finally been hit with the clue bat.”

“What?” he whispers, screwing his eyes shut. “How long have you known?”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and stalks back to her seat, giving him another shake of her head for good measure as she stuffs the receiver back into her ear.

Later that night, Jim is immensely grateful for the bathroom he shares with Spock. It means he doesn’t have to stand in the corridor like some awkward first date prospect before he pours his heart out to a guy who has demonstrated both a desire and the ability to crush him like a bug.

Spock buzzes him through and then stands there, looking wary in his science blues.

“So I realised something today,” Jim opens comfortably, because as freaked out as he is, never let it be said that James Kirk is anything but smooth.

“Is that so?”

Jim feels a little more of the tension in him uncoil at Spock’s gently teasing tone. “Yeah, actually,” he grins, propping himself against the wall.

“I, too, have come to a realisation,” Spock confesses.

“Oh, well in that case, you first.”

“I think not.”

“Captain’s prerogative.”

Spock shoots him a quelling stare, but acquiesces. “You have been adhering to an old Terran custom of festive gift-giving.”

“Guilty as charged.” He raises his hands in surrender. “My turn, now.”

“I am not yet finished,” Spock corrects.

“Oh, really?” Jim feels the smile on his face grow steadily wider and warmer, because Spock never talks over him like that, not even when they’re arguing life and death situations.

“You have only followed this custom as it applies to me,” Spock finishes, a challenge in his eye. “To me, personally.”

Perhaps there is a little too much emphasis on that last word, or maybe Jim is just bold as well as smooth, but either way, he finds himself holding Spock’s hands again, just with an entirely different emotion than that of the previous evening.

“I didn’t realise what I was doing until today,” he confesses. “But I meant it, every bit of it.”

“I know.”

“Is that okay? That I was oblivious the whole time?”

“Your conscious self may have been unaware, but I do not believe the same can be said of your entire mind.”

“No?”

“Last night in the meeting room, I sensed your anger,” Spock reminds him, “but I also sensed another emotion.”

“Are you going to say it?”

“You love me.”

Spock replies easily, more easily than he could possibly have formed the words. Jim’s got years and years of bullshit to sort through before those words will roll off his tongue with the same ease as Spock’s, with the artless assurance of someone who knows what it feels like to be loved and love in return.

“Well, that’s true,” he says, instead. “That okay?”

“I find it most satisfactory.”

Jim smirks and gives Spock’s fingers one final squeeze before moving his hands to frame his first officer’s face and pull him closer. “My turn,” he says, claiming a kiss of a distinctly more human variety. It’s definite and unapologetic, which is exactly the kind of goodness Jim has never had at Christmas.

And there is the great realisation Jim couldn’t put a bow on.