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The officers' mess on the Enterprise is the thrumming heart of the ship, a gorgeous, sleek bar lifted straight out of the trendiest nightlife centre of the last century, but there is always a charm to Starfleet’s dedication to being decades behind the times. It is a step above its equivalent on the Farragut, of course, and Jim would never show disloyalty to the old girl, but the Enterprise as a whole is the ship you'd have on your hall pass. If Jim subscribed to such outdated things, of course, he thought hastily, in case any judgemental telepaths were passing by.
Ships night had long since fallen, and that meant that the lighting had changed to the kind of uplit gloom designed to show off the great and good of the Federation in a flattering light. Jim orders and drinks another whisky, swills it around his glass and the chunk of ice they served it with, weighing the heft of the safety glass and considers taking a souvenir.
There are a few people around even though the alpha shift is long over, the beta shift are still at work and it is likely that gamma will be in their beds for another hour. A magical time, if you make a habit of tracking the comings and goings of the ship.
It had been a long day. He should go and arrange transport back to his ship, but his skin has a prickly, too small feeling. An old friend of a feeling. One he usually keeps locked away while he is climbing up the steep slope that is the command ladder. He tells himself it will be worth it. One day he will relax.
"Are you well, Lieutenant Kirk?" someone says, and he turns to find that Uhura's handsome Vulcan friend has appeared at his shoulder. Spock. He also looks somewhat out of sorts; his posture still perfect but there’s a tension there, his shirt looking a bit more stuffed than tailored. Jim notices that the pretty blonde Spock had been playing chess against earlier was nowhere to be seen.
“Fancy a game?” Jim asks, ignoring the question, gesturing at the chessboard that lay abandoned on the side. “I'm not ready to call it a night just yet.”
“I would enjoy that,” Spock says, “but I came over to communicate that the mess will be closing for cleaning in ten minutes," Spock says, with a regretful tilt to his head.
“I should probably get to the transporter,” Jim sighs, but he doesn’t get up. That old mischief is still creeping its way down his spine.
“I would be happy to escort you,” Spock says, which is…interesting.
Jim perks up, and nods his agreement, gesturing for Spock to lead on.
“I just can’t help myself, I guess,” Jim says to himself, glancing apologetically at the seat Uhura had long since vacated, before downing his drink and striding to catch up with Spock.
“My congratulations on your promotion,” Spock says, “and gratitude for your handling of the crisis of the day.”
“A good first officer makes everyone on the crew’s business their business,” Jim says. “I learned from the best. Despite what my brother says, I am good at my job. There’s no shame in that.”
“I agree.” Spock says. “We have worked hard to get where we are. There is a tendency to forget the harder aspects of rising through the ranks.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to teach the next phaser jockey the ropes first,” Jim says. “So it's still theoretical. I’m just Ell-Tee Kirk for another few months, getting my brother’s weird xeno mags because no one knows which Kirk brother is which. Who knows, they might bust me back down to Ensign once they realise that I am not my father.” He shrugs.
“I share the pressures of living up to a legacy,” Spock demurs. “My father was furious when I joined Starfleet. He came round for a while, but ultimately, there is little he is not furious about where I am concerned. We are currently not talking.”
“He sounds like an emotional man, for a Vulcan,” Jim sympathises.
“My mother calls me V’tahk, sometimes, when she is annoyed with me,” Spock says, and raises his eyebrows when a genuine laugh bubbles out of Jim.
“A test of logic! Wow, that is harsh, for a Vulcan. My father did call me and Sam Gremlins. Old human engineering joke, but we definitely were more often than not found in the works, getting crumbs in the relays.”
“My mother is, in fact, human.” Spock says. “I am aware of the reference. It was one of her favourite books.”
“Well, that explains it,” Jim says, as they round a corner, but rather than expound on that sentence, his face cracks into a huge smile. “Oh! Well, this is a treat.”
They have arrived at the ship's gardens. The lights are dimmed to simulate night, allowing for the plants to catch their breath after a hard day of photosynthesis. The pathways between the hydroponic tunnels are lit according to Starfleet regulation, but the oxygen level is pleasant, the air fresh and delicately perfumed.
“The captain insisted that we have access to fresh produce on our deep-space missions,” Spock explains as Jim picks his way through the plants, fascinated. “While he is a man of science, he does not truly believe that matter synthesisers are as good, as he puts it, as a carrot that has smelled the earth. So he had one of the cargo bays converted into a, quote, ‘kitchen garden’. He likes to cook for the crew.”
Jim walks through the garden, plucking a leaf from a plant seemingly at random and chewing it. “Spearmint. Wow, this is a full herb garden. Potatoes over there, Devonian yams there, and is that an apple tree?” He neatly steps over a low bush and examines a gnarled tree, heavy with fruit. His eyes are huge with glee. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing at a specific apple.
“Of course,” Spock says, and watches as Jim plucks the apple and bites into it with an audible crunch and unsuppressed moan of pleasure.
“No wonder you can't seduce people on this ship with treats. They're already seduced by their captain’s dedication to good food,” Jim says, and once again Spock goes to ask what he means, but the lights suddenly come on with a chime indicating that it is almost time for shift change.
“I think it's pumpkin time, Mister Spock,” Jim says, taking a final bite from the apple. He pockets the core and hops over the beds back out into the hall, wiping his boots off meticulously before stepping out onto the carpeted halls.
It's a brisk walk down the main corridor before they’re back at the main stretch, and then they follow the lights towards the thrum of crew heading their way back to their quarters.
“This is me,” Jim says, as the door to transporter ops swishes open.
Jim offers his hand, but pulls back for a moment, a beguilingly arch climbing up his brow. “You know, it's only just coming to the end of alpha shift on the Farragut, if you want a tour?” Jim asks. “She may not be as shiny as the flagship, but the old girl has a few secrets she's let me learn. I'd be happy to show you them, as thanks for showing me yours.”
Spock is moderately sure that one of those secrets is kept in the interior of Jim Kirk’s private quarters. Perhaps it is the effect of recent sexual intercourse and his recent human experience, but he finds the idea of giving in to being seduced…intriguing. He is aware he is attractive. He is aware that Jim is also attractive. He is aware that if he let this situation progress, it could go somewhere fascinating.
Spock is a consummate Starfleet officer, however, and he doubts no one has gone before into Jim Kirk’s bed.
“I have alpha shift tomorrow”, he says, and he surprises himself that it isn't an outright no. He belatedly remembers that he has Christine waiting for him in his bed. He had promised he would only be a few minutes behind her. That was now at least an hour ago.
“Another time, perhaps”, Jim says, and holds his hand out for Spock to shake.
Spock hesitates for a moment before taking his hand firmly. Jim’s eyes are inscrutable, and unlike their brief contact back in the mess, this handshake goes on far longer.
He should be desensitised to it by now, the taboo of hand-contact faded into mere cultural tolerance and banal normalcy, but for some reason this time it hits him as hard as it did that first week at the academy. That first time feeling of another man's hand on his, of feeling an unshielded mind, one so well meaning, golden, open; waiting and yearning for connection, in that impossible way humans just are like. There but for the teachings of Surak humanity were not conquered and used for their infinite capacity for pleasure, a quirk of their minds developed despite any history of psionics. Their minds moan for it, calling like kittens for their mother.
Touching T’Pring's mind and then Christine's had been overwhelming enough, even though both are well trained in shielding, but Spock’s mind is spoiled by the novelty of touching so many minds so close together. He chastises himself. He is still recovering from his genetic shock. None of this means anything.
(And yet, his lizard brain swoons, the warmth of this man's mind! The secrets within! The promise!)
Spock lets go, and Jim turns and gives his request to the transporter chief and goes to stand on the platform.
“A handshake in Vulcan culture is akin to what humans call first base,” Spock says, despite himself.
Jim smiles enigmatically. "Oh, I know," he says, and then nods to Chief Kyle, who dematerialises him with perfect timing.
The swirl of Jim’s cocky smile and handsome brow is the last thing that Spock sees of him as he disappears into stardust.
Spock's hand still feels the warmth of Jim’s hand like he has been imprinted with it. He looks at his treacherous limb, curious.
“Is that true?” Kyle asks.
“Hm?” Spock replies, miles away.
“That Vulcans kiss with their hands?” Kyle sounds genuinely interested, which somehow is worse than mockery or prurience.
Nevertheless, Spock does not dignify that with an answer. It is well past the time he should be asleep if he means to be an effective member of the crew for tomorrow’s shift. He leaves, hoping that Kyle will extrapolate from his silence that he had overstepped the mark.
Christine is asleep when he gets back to his quarters, and Spock undresses quietly so as not to wake her.
He climbs into a bed, immediately calmed by her human body heat and the soft sounds of her snoring and the pillow of her shielded thoughts. He falls asleep almost instantly, his last thoughts being ones of surprise at how, even now, his hand is still so very aware of the aftermath of Jim Kirk's touch.