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They’re two days out of spacedock and the anomaly of the week has the earth gardens section of the Botany lab producing fifty times the amount of cucumbers it’s supposed to all at once and quickly.
Jim’s hopes that the month of shore leave and routine maintenance would give the universe enough time to revise the Enterprise out of danger had, of course, been naive at best. Spock had pointed out as such no fewer than five times since their departure. He’s sick of hearing it, honestly, but he’s barely seen the man since June.
It’s the end of alpha shift and they’re going warp five through open space and so Jim drops the inventory report on his armrest with half a signature and sighs, passing temporary command over to Sulu in the same breath. Most of the bridge crew won’t rotate off for another few hours, but Spock is also working the alpha schedule today. When he pushes himself out of his chair and pauses to stretch his arms out in front of him, he makes eye contact with the vulcan, who briefly regards him with curiosity before quickly turning towards the door.
The idea hits him as he follows Spock into the turbolift. The second the doors hiss closed, Jim calls, “Deck Nine,” then turns to Spock with a grin.
“Do you want to make pickles?” he asks, propping his hands casually on his hips.
Spock turns to him, utterly unimpressed. “Pickles, Jim?”
“Well, refrigerator pickles,” Kirk replies, tilting his head to see him better.
“I do not know how,” Spock says.
“I don’t expect you to! I’ll show you how,” Jim says as the doors open. “C’mon, Spock, it’s the first phenomenon of this new voyage and nobody got hurt. We should celebrate, and pickles are the perfect solution.”
Spock sighs in what Jim expects is confusion and resignation. With a chuckle, Jim leads them into the botany lab.
A few minutes later they emerge from the Botany wing with a bag full of cucumbers. The inventory log had been less than descriptive, and even Spock was surprised by the sheer number of fruits strewn across the lab’s floor. Taking their harvest to dinner earns them a few odd looks, but Dr. McCoy is so thrilled at the prospect of Jim eating anything salad-adjacent that the looks don’t even matter.
The Enterprise is a small ship, and even the partially-combined captain’s-slash-first-officer’s quarters lack a kitchen. It is fortunate, then, that Kirk had the foresight to request a small personal refrigeration unit “for sustenance during confidential missions.”
“We can’t properly seal anything without the right equipment,” Jim explains, pulling out a container of vinegar from some concealed cabinet, “so we’ll have to make refrigerator pickles.”
“I do not understand the distinction,” Spock says, grabbing a cucumber from the bag. They rinsed them in the big sinks down in Botany, but he wipes a few lingering droplets of water off with a towel before preparing to cut it. “Should the cucumbers be cut in a particular way?”
“Nope!” Jim says, leaning over Spock’s shoulder to watch. “Just spears, small enough to fit in the jars. I’ll make the pickling mix now, then we can pour it over the cucumbers into the jars.”
Nodding to himself, Spock gets to work. This is what Jim missed-- quiet moments together, making something, making a life.
“I love you,” he whispers, tapping his forehead into the back of Spock’s head before moving to grab the pickling spices he’d replicated in the mess hall.
“And I, you,” Spock replies, making eye contact with Jim as he moves across the room. “These will not take long to cut and jar. I suggest you begin mixing your solution.”
“Alright, Spock, I hear you,” Jim laughs. “Let’s get pickling.”
Making the pickles is a quick enough process, and Jim relishes the time spent working with Spock. Soon, they’re sealing the jars for storage in the refrigerator, and getting ready for bed.
“When will they be ready?” Spock asks, settling into bed next to him. He’s pulled on a clean thermal shirt, as was his habit for sleeping beside his human partner, and touches Jim’s fingers with his own in a clumsy ozh’esta. Jim turns over, curling so he can link their ankles together, as Spock turns on a PADD he’d brought with him.
“Are you putting it into your schedule?” Jim asks with a fond chuckle. “The vinegar just needs to make its way into the cucumbers, we can try them tomorrow if you want.”
“It is my understanding that the flavors develop over time,” Spock replies, glancing down at Jim. “The next time we are scheduled to take simultaneous shifts is in seventy-two hours.”
“Let’s try them then,” Kirk suggests. He closes his eyes as Spock types it into his schedule, listening to the quiet scratch of his pen against the screen. “We can bring a jar down to the mess hall and try them with dinner.”
Satisfied, Spock places the PADD on the little table beside him and turns off the lights, relaxing against Jim in the darkness.
“I look forward to it, ashayam,” he says.
“Me too, Spock,” Jim replies with a smile, “always.”