Chapter Text
Shouting. Far behind, though, and Jim's a fast runner. Just down the drive is the gate, and if they close the gate, he'll scale the wall. Easy.
Then Jim reaches the steps. First half's fine, but just beyond the landing—
Jim throws out his arms, eyes wide. A weird squishing noise, and his feet...he looks down.
"What the?" he whispers, even though he knows damn well what it is.
Pitch. Pitch on the fucking stairs. Dark enough not to be seen with only the braziers, and sticky enough to keep Jim in place until—
Jim whirls around as best he can.
The prince calmly stops at the top of the steps, hands folded behind his back. Knows he doesn't need to move, because Jim is stuck, stuck.
Checkmate.
No one asks why. That's what'll remain with Jim more than the lights and gowns. No one grabs his arm and demands, Why are you here? As he cautiously approaches the ballroom, not a single guard looks at him with disdain. Like he belongs.
He's never belonged anywhere. Yet the facial scan conducted at the door claims he does.
Jim clears his throat and walks through. He lands in a living kaleidoscope, framed by vaulted ceilings and high windows. He's never seen so many colors in one place. The shock's only dimmed by the Vulcans in the crowd—no less extravagant, but the palette's muted, dark. Their presence needlessly reminds him where he is.
A ball. An actual royal ball, where no one asks why.
Jim breathes stone, perfume and wine and wades in.
He really should've seen this coming. Honestly, Jim could laugh as much as yell.
The prince is smart. He has contingencies for contingencies, well-thought and logical. He analyzes patterns: Jim has run before; he will do it again. But Jim is smart too, so the element of surprise is paramount. Jim is human, doesn't see nearly as well as Vulcans can in the dark.
But Jim likes being unpredictable.
So. What to do now?
As much as Jim loves meeting new people, the ballroom is stifling, and everyone keeps asking where he's from, who his parents are. Before the hour's up, Jim's slipped out, glass of wine in hand.
He sneaks around the guards just in case they herd him back. Keeping stealthy with a cape is weird, but he manages by bunching it up. He hopes it won't wrinkle; Pike'll be disappointed.
Eventually, Jim finds a pair of doors that lead out to a stone terrace. No one's there.
Holy shit it smells nice. Flowers line the perimeter of what looks like a small garden, stretching up a fence of shrubbery. There's a pond in the far corner, a domed gazebo on the left at the end of the gravel path. Underneath this gazebo, to Jim's delighted interest, is a table bearing a 3D chessboard.
He glances over his shoulder. Then back at the board.
Well. He's here to have fun, right?
Solo matches aren't the best, but the pieces are clean and smooth, perfect under the gazebo's hanging lights. They probably cost more than the farm makes in a decade. Just touching them is a marvel.
"Chess—"
Jim nearly knocks the board over.
"—is a two-person game," says a tall, thin Vulcan in dark blue robes. "May I inquire as to how you came here?"
Again, not why. Jim's smile is unbidden. "Happy accident."
"The word 'accident' does not usually have positive connotations."
"Usually. I'm guessing you didn't come here by accident, though." Jim resets the board. "Do you play then, Your Highness?"
Prince Spock steps into the light, expression flat. "My prowess is known."
Jim shrugs. "Not to me. Wanna play?"
Spock stares at him.
"Or I could...go?" Jim half-rises from his seat. "I didn't mean to—"
"Sit. I will be your opponent."
Jim huffs a laugh. "Hope we can be a little friendlier than that. Your Highness." He almost holds out his hand before remembering, oh right, Vulcan. "Call me...call me Jim."
Spock raises an eyebrow. "Jim."
Jim turns the board so the white faces the prince. "Or James, if you like."
"Vulcans do not 'like.'"
Jim watches the pawn move. "Everyone likes something. Even a sentient rock probably likes a sunny day. I bet you like chess."
Spock scrutinizes him. Despite everything, his eyes are perfectly human, big and brown. "I play often."
"See?" Jim makes his move. "No shame in it."
He wins.
Spock stares at the board.
"Did I break a law, beating the prince at chess?" Jim teases.
Spock merely says, "Again."
They start talking a little more during the next round. Apparently Jim's style is completely illogical, and Spock is dead set on figuring it out. Jim hasn't smiled this much in so long.
The city clock chimes midnight.
Jim hadn't even thought about the time. He always thinks about the time.
"Sorry, Your Highness," he says hurriedly, "I have to go."
Spock rises with him, brow furrowed. "Has something displeased you?"
"What? No!" Jim races to the steps. "It's been—amazing, actually." He throws open the door. "Be seeing you!"
Both of Jim's parents die in space. Frank, his stepfather, inherits the farm 'cause of Jim's mom. Jim wouldn't say his life had been picturesque, but it'd been a sight better than now, when he's been forced into the attic, a servant in his own damn home.
Frank's come close to hitting Jim countless times. For some reason, he never does, but he makes Jim feel so worn down he might as well knock him out.
It's the little things that cut deeper than the shouting matches, because Jim can handle shouting. Offhand comments, simple statements, those are the worst, and the way Frank says them—
Point is, Jim's 25 and walks like he's trying to make himself smaller. He knows he's intelligent and that his intellect is wasted on him. That his father's death forced his premature birth, which wore down his mother's health.
He's not depressed. Just aware of the facts. Frank's an asshole, but he's a terrible liar, and Jim's seen his mom's hospital records.
Forgive him, then, if he's a little skeptical when a random guy appears in the vegetable garden and tells him, "I'm your godfather. I want you to be happy."
He does look old enough to be somebody's father, gray at the temples and well-worn face. He's dressed in what looks like a uniform, form-fitting and monochrome, but Jim can't place it. There's no mark of rank, not even a symbol.
Jim snorts. "Okay, buddy. You got two seconds to leave."
The guy smiles. "Name's Pike. I helped your father a time or two."
Jim's gut clenches. "You knew my father?"
"You look just like him. He wanted me to look out for you."
Jim raises an eyebrow. "Well, you're doing a great job."
"I can only help you once."
"What kinda godfather are you?"
Pike pinches the air. A stick materializes in his fingers. Wait, not a stick.
Jim's mouth falls open.
"The fairy kind," Pike replies.
"...bullshit."
The second night, Jim has to keep stamping down the hope of seeing the prince again. Because, y'know, prince. The whole festival's for his birthday. Jim's meeting him at all had been a miracle and a half.
Yet he's barely leaned against a pillar when a voice says, "You Jim?"
He turns to see a man in a vivid blue tunic with silver clasps and black trousers. His hair's artfully styled like something out of a painting.
"Uh?" Jim says.
The man rolls his eyes. "Blond hair, blue eyes, dramatic as hell clothes. Spock won't shut up about yah."
Jim should. Really calm down.
"The prince?" he chokes.
"No, the other hobgoblin. Yes, the prince!" The man scoffs. "He said you were fascinating. Look like a dumbass to me."
Jim stops himself just in time from shriveling up. He smirks. "Fascinating, huh? You jealous?"
"I'm a doctor, not a damsel," the man snaps, "I'm here to ask you what your intentions are."
Doctor? Who talks to Spock?
Oh shit.
McCoy. Royal Physician, multiple degrees. Jim's read his work on neurosurgery. This guy's a legend.
"Intentions?" Jim asks, steadier than he feels.
"Everybody and their mama knows this whole thing's about gettin' Spock hitched," McCoy says, because this legend apparently talks like an angry Southern grandpa. "You just happen to be there, playin' chess?"
"I mean. Yeah."
McCoy crosses his arms. "Oh really? And is there a reason you didn't give 'im your whole name?"
Jim shrugs. "It's not like I have a chance, Bones."
"What the hell did you just call me?"
"Y'know, Sawbones? Doctor thing."
"I think I'd know doctor things, Jim."
"So you know it's clever."
"Stop avoiding the—"
"Doctor," Spock says, "I see you have met Jim."
He really needs to stop giving Jim heart attacks.
"That I have," McCoy says darkly.
"He wants to know what my intentions are," Jim says, smiling, "I was about to tell him I just like chess, and that you're fun to play against." He claps McCoy's shoulder. "Don't pop a vein, Bones, it's bad for your health."
McCoy stares at him.
Says, "Good God, you deserve each other," and walks off.
Jim turns his smile to Spock. "I think he thinks I'm trying to seduce you."
"Are you not?" Spock asks.
"Wh—no, Your Highness, I promise."
"In that case, you would not be opposed to a dance? My Queen Mother insists upon my participation in the festivities."
Jim tucks away bright excitement. It won't do him any good. "I don't dance."
"According to my mother, neither do I."
"...you're really set on this. Not in the mood for suck-ups?"
"I am not familiar with the term." Spock holds out a gloved hand. "Do you accept?"
The answer should be no. Jim's not a nobleman. He has no money, no prospects, unlike the other guests.
But it's just one dance, right? Where's the harm?
Jim takes Spock's hand. "I'll tell you all about it."
"Why the hell would I wanna go to a ball?"
Pike looks amused. "Don't trust a fairy's wisdom?"
"No!"
"Smart. But like I said, I'm your godfather. If nothing else, you can trust that I'm contractually obligated to help you." Pike tilts his head. "Even though I do genuinely want to help you, Jim. You've grown into a good man, but you could be better. I'm here to help you realize that."
Jim waves him off. "I don't need you, man."
He's hit with heat.
By the time he's blinked the stars from his eyes, gold positively covers him. Seamless black gloves fit comfortably to his hands, shocking against the ensemble. And on his feet are gorgeous gold shoes, glittering like a nebula. It's as if someone carved them from a gem, but they're not heavy at all.
There's one problem, though.
"Heels?" Jim squawks, "I suck at walking in heels!"
"Practice makes perfect," Pike says dryly, "They're important."
"Important."
"Very. Now then, you need a carriage."
"Uh, no. If I'm really doing this—" and yes, Jim really, really wants to, holy shit what is happening, "—I'm getting a decent getaway."
Pike taps his chin with his wand. "Flighty one, aren't you? Alright, fine. Where's a mouse?"
"...a what?"
The heels are easy to dance with. No one's more surprised than Jim.
It's a waltz. Spock's perfectly in time, and Jim just tries to follow while explaining what a suck-up is. It gets a little easier as the song goes on, talking and not tripping. That's when Jim starts to notice just how close they are.
Spock smells like spice and cleanliness. He'd fit into Jim's like about as well as Jim would fit in his.
"Something troubles you."
Jim smiles. "Just trying not to fall. Would hate to step on a prince's foot."
"You are doing well for one who claims not to dance."
"You said the same thing. Pot, kettle."
"Is this another colloquialism?"
So Jim starts explaining all sorts of human expressions. He barely notices when the songs change; one second he's explaining 'are you kidding me' right in Spock's face, and the next he's talking about 'you're welcome' at arm's length.
"By the way," he says, "your mom—Her Majesty looks beautiful."
Spock spins him neatly. "An interesting non sequitur."
"Humans tend to do that. It's just that we keep passing the thrones."
"You do not remark on my father."
Jim glances over Spock's shoulder. "No offense, but." Another spin. "He kinda creeps me out."
When they face each other again, Spock's eyes have hardened.
"I fail to see your meaning," Spock asks tightly.
"I didn't mean it like that," Jim replies hastily, "You and Her Majesty, you're—he just doesn't look like he wants to be here."
"He looks as a Vulcan should."
Jim's lips quirk. "I like how you look better."
There: honest surprise. It's gone just as fast. "My half-human nature is—"
"Amazing."
"...are you certain Doctor McCoy was incorrect?"
Jim laughs. "Interesting non sequitur."
"You are flattering me unnecessarily."
"Flattering implies lying. And I already told you, I'm not here to seduce you. Trust me, Your Highness, you wouldn't wanna marry me."
Spock's eyes flick over Jim's face. "Fascinating."
"See? We can compliment each other without a motive. People do it all the time."
"Quite illogical."
Jim's spun out once more. He's reeled in, back against Spock's chest.
"Yes," he says, "Yes it is."
No, the real question is: what does Jim want?
Scratch that. He knows the answer, and it's not a good one. Not for Spock. Jim's been lying to him from the start, and if he lets himself get caught, what'll happen?
He can see it. Spock's betrayed face. How the hell can he tell a prince he's a farmboy?
...unless he doesn't tell him.
They finally leave the dance floor.
Spock might be smiling, and it's beautiful.
Jim catches his breath. "One dance?"
"As we did not pause, we did indeed dance only once," Spock replies.
Jim snorts. "Sure, Your Highness." He grabs a glass of wine from a traveling waiter. "I need some air. See you."
He heads into the corridor, then out onto the steps. The air is dry and sweet with all the flowers around the palace. Jim closes his eyes and fills his lungs with it, basking in the moonlight.
Pike's right. Jim Kirk is, if only for a little while, happy.
Footsteps.
Jim turns. His shock blurts, "Spock?" Then he shakes his head. "I mean, Your Highness."
"As I have not called you by a title, reciprocation is logical," Spock replies.
Jim's grip tightens on his glass. Title. "Aren't you leaving some lovely eligibles in there?"
Spock comes to his side. "I find their conversation lacking."
"You can say boring. I won't tell." Jim takes another deep breath. "Can't find this view lacking though. It's like you're on top of the world. An expression," he adds.
"I see." Spock clearly does not see. Vulcans don't lie, Jim's ass. "I know of another place that provides a more expansive view."
"Really?"
"Follow me."
Jim hesitates. "Shouldn't you go back to the ball?"
"Yes. Come, it is not far."
Jim bites his lip. Takes a gulp of wine and jogs after him.
After a lot of stairs, Jim's on a balcony attached to the tallest tower. He feels so small and so large, staring at the city and the hills around it. Even the mountains are visible, just on the horizon.
"Thank you," Jim whispers.
The clock strikes him out of his daze.
"Thank you," he repeats as he shoves off the railing, "I'll be going."
Spock calling his name haunts him the rest of the night.
"There's a catch," Pike says.
"Always is," Jim replies.
"On the last stroke of midnight, the spell will come undone until the next night."
"That late, huh?"
"You'd be surprised."
Jim rolls his eyes and mounts his shiny new silver horse. "I'm prob'ly not gonna stay more than an hour, anyway." After a beat, he murmurs, "Thanks."
Pike smiles. Jim thinks that's how his father would smile at him, if he were here.
"Be happy, son."
Jim makes a point to be fashionably late so he doesn't bump into too many incoming guests. He's already buzzing as he mounts the steps.
He stops short of the door.
Spock is waiting for him.
"Hey," Jim says quietly.
"Good evening, Jim," Spock replies. "It is customary for a carriage to convey guests to the steps."
"Ah, who doesn't like a good walk?" The words taste awful. "I think I'm the last one, though. They'll be expecting you."
Spock turns and holds up his hand, palm down. Jim swallows and places his hand on top.
"I was not waiting for the others," Spock says, "I was waiting for you."
Jim honest to God blushes. "How's Bones?"
"If you are referring to Doctor McCoy, he is well."
"Didn't see him after the dance last night."
"He is in attendance tonight as well. He expressed a wish to speak to you again."
Jim smiles. "Another shovel talk?"
"Jim!"
Wow, they're barely two steps into the ballroom.
Bones should really drink some tea or something. He looks pissed again. "Where the hell do you keep runnin' off to?"
Jim barely keeps from recoiling. "Home, Bones. Where else?"
"You're in such a hurry. This one," gesturing to Spock, "mopes so much he brings the whole party down!"
"Vulcans do not mope," Spock replies primly.
"And yet."
Jim follows Bones' pointed stare.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Spock's not wearing gloves. Jim's not wearing gloves. He could've sworn he'd arrived with them. Aren't they part of the magic?
Jim snatches his hand back. "Sorry, I—didn't see."
"Didn't see, huh?" Bones drawls.
"I didn't!"
After a moment, confusion peeks through the anger. "How the hell didn't you?"
Spock cuts off Jim's reply. "If you insist on making a nuisance of yourself, Doctor, I suggest you take yourself elsewhere."
Bones scowls. "Excuse me for lookin' out for you, Highness."
Jim pounces on it. "Y'know, you're pretty informal with a prince."
"Doctor McCoy and I grew up together," Spock replies.
"Unfortunately," Bones gripes, "But we're gettin' off topic." He zeroes back on Jim. "Again."
Right. One of McCoy's degrees is psychology.
"I simply wished to introduce Jim to Their Majesties," Spock says.
Jim starts. "Shouldn't you save that for your fiancé?"
Bones looks at him. Looks at Spock.
"Is he serious?" he asks.
"I believe so," Spock replies.
Jim's brow furrows. "What does that mean?"
"Do you object to meeting them?" Spock asks.
"It's not that, Your Highness. In fact, it's—it's really nice of you. I just don't wanna confuse them. Or anyone else."
Bones pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something. Then raises his head and says, "Come with me."
He takes Spock and Jim back to that garden. The chessboard is still pristine.
"Sit," Bones orders.
"But—"
"No buts, Jim. Spock, use your words, damn it. I'll leave you alone and everything, just. Do it."
He storms off.
"Is he always like that?" Jim asks.
Spock stares at the slammed door. "With other patients, he has remarkable bedside manner. But our conversations are debates of logic versus emotion."
"I'd pay to see that."
Spock looks back at him. "You do not have to pay."
Jim smiles and shakes his head. "White or black?"
Spock considers the board. "You may take white."
"As you wish, Your Highness."
After declaring checkmate, Jim says, "I'm sorry if I offended you. About your parents, I mean."
"You caused no harm. Though I do not understand your reasoning."
Jim leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "It's like I said. Didn't wanna cause confusion."
"Your answer suggests there would be confusion."
Jim's eyes wander to the table. "I'm not saying your parents wouldn't understand. It's just the impression on other people. They'd insist you picked me."
Silence.
Jim jumps to his feet. "Do you have any fish in that pond? Haven't gotten a chance to look."
"Jim."
Jim turns. Spock's right behind him, and he—honestly looks baffled. The Vulcan equivalent, anyway.
"Are my intentions not clear?"
Jim's throat closes.
"Intentions?"
Spock inclines his head. "I have paid singular attention to you and your interests, as well as taken you to a secluded location. I was told that humans enjoy this behavior in a significant other."
Signi...
"You were not wearing gloves, as you have the previous nights," Spock continues, "Clearly you are aware of the significance of uncovered hands."
Gloves...
"Jim?"
Jim staggers a couple steps back. "There's no way."
"I have yet to hear a rejection. Speak plainly."
Spock's hands are behind his back again. He's standing too still. Nervous.
Jim scrubs a hand down his face. "Spock, you can't marry me. There are so many other—"
"I do not care for the others."
They stare at each other. And Jim wants to tell him. He has to, at this point, or—Spock kisses him.
Just. Kisses him. Insistent, before calming as Jim, fuck it all, responds. Can't help it. It feels amazing. Fucking otherworldly. Then Spock's entwining their fingers, opening his mouth, and Jim's skin seems to hum like in the stories. No way this is real. But nothing's ever felt so real.
The sounds Jim's making are embarrassing as hell. But damn, he's kissing a prince. He's allowed some leeway.
Kissing a prince.
A prince.
Oh no.
Jim tears himself away, panting. His eyes sting.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and runs.
Runs right into the blackened stairs.
Why tell when you can show?
The world comes rushing back.
Jim pries himself off—sacrificing his too-long cape—and sprints down the uncovered part of the stairs. In the pitch, he leaves a shining gold slipper. The shoes are the only things that survive the night. Pike said they're important.
He probably hadn't meant this.
Oh well. Spock wants Jim? He'll have to see everything.
Your move.