Archive of Our Own

The situation is, by all accounts, a complete accident. A misunderstanding. The Olaie are a fluid people, to put it mildly. Jim (being Jim) was more than happy to lean into that aspect of their culture. He even went so far as to offer himself as a willing participant in what was essentially a drag performance. And it was fun — really, it was — for Jim to do, and for his crew to witness. A bonding experience.

It seems that, somewhere along the way, a few wires got crossed.

Jim hadn't intended for any of this to happen. Still, though, it is his fault. He's the one who should've known, after reading the briefing, that some boundaries need to be stated out loud. Explicitly. Some things can't be left to chance.

Things like 'don't alter my first officer's biology without his permission.'

And the worst part? Jim is the one who handed Spock the drink. "It's harmless, see?" he'd insisted seconds after finishing his third or fourth glass (because it was harmless — to humans).

So Spock drank it. Downed the whole thing in one singular sip. And then, after allowing himself a moment to bask in the glory of his Captain's undivided attention, he ordered another.

At first, Jim thinks Spock must've fallen ill. Maybe even been poisoned. He jumps out of his chair in an instant, all but throwing himself across the long, glass table, and kneels before Spock where he's seated.

Jim cups his bondmate's face in two shaky hands. "Spock, what's happening?" he asks, not caring who might be watching at this particular moment. Not when his Vulcan's got that awful look in his eye. "Spock. Are you hurt?"

Spock instantly shakes his head. The movement feels somehow wrong — like it's not entirely true. Like Spock himself can't be sure of the answer. Which is insane, of course, because Jim is pretty certain he's never known Spock to be unsure about, well... anything.

Jim can feel the faintest hint of stubble on Spock's chin, brushing up against his own human palms, scratchy in that satisfying, manly sort of way — until, suddenly, he can't. Jim stares, wide-eyed and frozen, as the man he loves shifts before his eyes. As that angular face rounds, just slightly, where it still lays cupped in his palms. Broad shoulders shrink in stature. "Captain, I believe I am —" the Vulcan starts, only to be interrupted by an ensign (whose name Jim can't recall at the moment) speaking out of turn.

"Is he... turning into a woman?" what's-his-name asks, and Jim nearly laughs. Nearly.

But then, as he pulls back slightly — as he puts a bit more space between himself and the Commander — Jim realizes the ensign is right. "What...?" he wonders aloud. "Spock, what —"

Before Jim can get his answer, though, the Vulcan jumps to his feet and runs.

"I happen to think you make a very pretty lady, Mr. Spock."

Jim isn't trying to be disrespectful. He's not even trying to be flirtatious, really — he's just stating a fact. Because it's objectively true. Spock does make a pretty lady (and Jim, of all people, would know; he's more-or-less an expert on the topic). The Captain is currently leaning against a column in an otherwise empty hallway, eyeing his Vulcan's altered form where he sits, slumped, beside another identical column. All Jim wants to do is reach out to Spock. To do something — anything — that will convince him that they're on the same damn side.

Despite the Captain's altruistic intentions, his bondmate is clearly unimpressed. Spock's sour expression says it all. "Captain," he says, voice clipped — only, it comes out sounding much higher than what either of them are expecting to hear. There's a moment when both men freeze, genuinely shocked by the sound. Then Spock clears his throat. When the Vulcan speaks again, it sounds like he's purposefully altering his voice to sound lower. "Need I remind you of the numerous Starfleet regulations surrounding the topic of sexual harassment?"

And Jim has to laugh at that. He has to. After all, the two of them have broken at least a dozen of those very regulations just within the confines of the Captain's quarters (hell, they broke three and a half of them this morning). "I don't mean it like that," Jim insists, which is (mostly) true. "But, objectively speaking, I am looking at a beautiful woman. Am I not allowed to say that?"

The Vulcan's posture stiffens. Jim takes a second to appreciate the view. This is still undoubtedly Spock — still sporting that same stupidly endearing haircut. Face still framed by those same slanted brows. He still has that spotless 'fleet tunic, plus the posture of a damn statue.

He's still Spock. But he's also... not Spock. 

Soft curves have replaced sharp lines. The once straight-fitting science blues now hug at the Vulcan's altered body in (arguably) all the right places, and it's hard not to stare at the outline of his newly rounded chest when it's out there on full display. Jim's a man, all right? And this is his bondmate — albeit not in his usual form. Still, though. Shouldn't that count for something?

"You are not looking at a 'beautiful woman,'" Spock counters, pausing for a moment to meet Jim's gaze coolly before he adds, "'Objectively.'"

His tone is stern. Unwavering.

It should be enough for Jim to realize the gravity of Spock's feelings.

Perhaps it's the fact that he's had a few drinks — or perhaps Jim is just distracted by his own desire. Whatever the cause may be, the end result is this: Kirk miscalculates. Doesn't realize just how serious the situation is until he's gone and made it even worse.

"Yeah?" the Captain counters. He can't help but smirk, just as charmed as he always is whenever Spock starts getting indignant (and it's not his fault his bondmate is adorable; that's on Spock). "How's that?"

When Spock meets Jim's gaze again, the human's stomach drops. He looks... broken, almost. Looks wrong. Even ignoring the obvious, Jim can tell that something is terribly amiss. "You are looking at the man with whom you have chosen to bond in both body and mind," Spock says, voice slow and patient. Jim doesn't miss the way it wavers, just slightly, towards the end. "Any shift in physical appearance does not alter that which you and I know to be true."

"Oh, Spock," Jim whispers, suddenly aware of just how horribly he's fucked this up. "That's not — I was just trying to lighten the mood, honey. This is all temporary. They said it usually lasts around six days — although, with your metabolism, it could be even sooner than that. Who knows?"

"That is precisely the point," Spock snaps, and Jim's pretty sure he has never heard his bondmate sound quite so defeated. "No one knows. It is not statistically impossible, Captain, that this change could be... irreversible."

Jim reaches for Spock, sighing when the Vulcan shrinks away from his touch. "It's not statistically probable, either," he says softly. Spock's slanted brows furrow together in clear frustration. He looks Jim in the eye again.

"Jim — please. I do not wish to engage in coitus at this time."

The sound of those words stings — but not for the reason Spock seems to think it will. Damn, Jim thinks, because this incident really did a number on his t'hy'la. He (silently) curses the Olaie. He curses their deceptively dangerous drinks. Curses himself for encouraging the Vulcan to try one. Curses Starfleet, even, for sending them to the damn planet in the first place.

"Spock," the human coos, allowing his hands to clasp together behind his back. "I'm not trying to 'engage in coitus.' I'm trying to comfort my bondmate, who is clearly struggling, by way of non-sexual touch."

A pause hangs between them for several, seemingly never-ending moments. When Spock finally speaks (still putting on that deeper voice of his, which Jim would find adorable if the man didn't look so damn sad), he sounds almost like a scolded child. "My apologies, ashaya. I believe this incident is affecting my perception of reality."

Jim smiles — something Spock can't see, from this angle — and murmurs, "That's understandable."

"I shall request a beam-up, at which point I will retire to my quarters for meditation," he says, offering Jim a swift, steady nod. Jim watches him in silence. Hears the familiar chirp of a communicator, as well as the low rumble of Spock's voice. And then, just like that, the Vulcan is gone — completely out of the picture, even — before Jim can think to say 'see you later.'

It doesn't escape the Captain that Spock said 'my quarters,' though. Not 'our quarters.' He can only imagine what that distinction might mean.

(The distinction, as it turns out, means Jim brushes his teeth alone for the first time in a long, long time. It also means that, when he moves to settle down for bed, he finds Spock's side completely empty.)

Jim hails Sulu the next morning. He doesn't even look at the clock before he does so — knowing it wouldn't change his mind. Not even if he knew for a fact the man might still be asleep. 

When Hikaru picks up, sounding groggy as all hell, Jim sort of gets his answer. "Kirk...?"

"Hey, man," Jim starts, feeling suddenly sheepish and out-of-place, "Sorry to, uh — sorry if I woke you. It's just — well. I'd really like to talk. If you're, y'know, available..."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Commander's sudden shift in appearance, would it?"

Jim doesn't bother responding. His silence is probably answer enough.

A dramatic sigh comes from Sulu's end of the comm. Jim almost starts to feel guilty, but then Sulu says, "Fine. Come by whenever."

Jim's at the helmsman's door within five minutes. The door slides open before he can even think to knock — revealing a kind-eyed man in a two-piece pajama set. "Someone's eager," Sulu mumbles, assessing his captain with tired, wary eyes.

Then he steps aside for Jim to enter.

"How about we get right to it?" Hikaru prods, and Jim can't blame the guy — it's far too early to be having any conversation, much less one of this nature. Still, though. He'd've liked a bit more build-up.

"Yeah. Let's, uh... Yeah."

Sulu clears his throat, holding Jim's gaze with those kind eyes of his, and asks, "How is he?"

Jim decides it's not worth it to lie, so he says, "Not great. He's... he didn't sleep in our bed last night. I made a few jokes at first, and I think — no. I know. I know it made him uncomfortable. And I'm not sure how to fix that, much less how to help with... everything else."

"Well," Sulu says then, reaching out to squeeze his captain's shoulder comfortingly, "You came to the right place. I've got lots of experience when it comes to handling dysphoria..."

In the end, Jim leaves Sulu's quarters with two arms full of supplies and a head full of thoughts. Thank god for replicators, he thinks, eyeing the assortment of garments and other items in his possession, And for Gaila's ability to hack them.

It's still early when Jim returns to his and Spock's quarters. He's surprised to find the Vulcan seated at the foot of their bed — eyes closed, legs crossed — and nearly loses control of the (many) items in his arms as a result. Jim just barely manages to catch himself with a quiet squeal.

Despite the Vulcan's recent change in facial structure, Spock's brows furrow in that same adorable way when he's confused. Jim knows this because Spock's doing it now. When the Vulcan opens his eyes, meeting Jim's hesitant gaze, he looks almost... ashamed. "I apologize, ashaya," Spock says, hardly taking note of the human's assortment of supplies, "I fear I overreacted —"

"Nope," Jim interrupts. He places the supplies atop Spock's desk, trying (and failing) not to relish in the feeling of sullying such a perpetually-spotless surface. "You've got nothing to be sorry about, Spock. You hear me?"

"You are perfectly audible," the Vulcan confirms, tone far too sincere, and Jim melts.

"Spock," he says then, reaching for one of the items before coming to kneel at his bondmate's feet. He carefully places the item atop Spock's lap — just a small, black garment. Then he sits back on his heels and continues, "Do you know what this is?"

The Vulcan takes the garment in hand, inspecting it for a moment, and then murmurs, "Yes."

His tone betrays nothing, but Jim feels his appreciation through their touch. "How about you put it on, then? Go get dressed, and I'll wait here."

Spock eyes Jim for a moment, as if not entirely sure his mate isn't joking. When Jim's kind smile doesn't falter, the Vulcan slowly stands. He holds onto the garment, reaching for a few others in his drawers, and then disappears into their shared bathroom.

By the time Spock returns, wearing a binder underneath his Starfleet uniform, he already looks more like the Vulcan Jim knows. The Vulcan he loves. "Look at you," the human murmurs, unable to keep his thoughts to himself.

Spock approaches their full-length mirror, turning sideways to note the compression on his chest.

Their eyes meet through the reflection, just for a moment. Jim sees the faintest flicker of what could almost be mistaken for happiness in the Vulcan's brown eyes. 

(It is, at the very least, contentment.)

"You look amazing," the human murmurs, entirely sincere. He stands then, approaching his Vulcan, and comes to look at the reflection over his shoulder. "That's the guy I love, right there."

But Spock shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from his reflection, and opts to stare only at Jim's. "It is not," he insists. Jim sighs.

"Listen, Spock. I'm about to hit you with some cold, hard logic. You ready?"

"Indeed."

"Great. So, here's the thing: I talked to Hikaru. And before you freak out, let me say, I barely told him anything. Other than that you were having a tough time. Mostly, I just... listened. He had a lot of good insight."

Spock nods, allowing his eyelids to flutter closed. Then he says, "I do not doubt that fact. Lieutenant Sulu is a most impressive individual."

"He really is," Jim agrees, stretching his neck so that his chin can rest on Spock's (temporarily narrower-than-usual) shoulder, "And you know what else he is? A man. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course, Jim —"

"And what about Lieutenant Liu in Engineering? What are they?"

"You are not —"

"Spock. Look at me," Jim says, whirling the Vulcan to face him. He grabs Spock by the shoulders, staring into those gorgeous brown eyes, and says, "Never in a million years would you look at anybody — anybody — and say that they aren't man enough, or woman enough. Or whatever-the-hell-else enough — doesn't matter. You would hear them say 'this is who I am' and act accordingly. Would you not?"

A pause, and then: "I would."

"That's right, Spock — because you know, just as well as I do, that it's about the person. And if I woke up tomorrow looking different, I know you'd look at me and feel just like I do, looking at you now. Like the person behind those eyes is the same man I fell in love with. Like I'm the luckiest man in the goddamn galaxy to stand beside him. Him, Spock. You. Don't you see?"

With a sigh, Spock murmurs, "Your logic is sound, ashaya."

"Of course it is," Jim agrees, stepping back to get a better look at Spock's face. "By the way. I've got some other things I think you might like. Have you ever heard of packing...?"

A raised brow is all the response Jim needs before he begins to introduce his bondmate to the wonders of the prosthetic penis.

That evening, after a long day of experimenting with ways to alleviate Spock's gender dysphoria (and, sure; maybe med leave is good for something after all), the pair collapse into a puddle of exhaustion on their bed. It's only once Jim has pulled Spock close, tucking his chin into the Vulcan's shoulder, that he realizes Spock is still wearing the binder.

"Gotta take this off, honey," he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the garment. He both feels and hears Spock's distaste at the idea.

"I do not wish to do so," the Vulcan murmurs, sounding almost petulant.

Jim sighs, breath ghosting behind Spock's ear, and says, "I know, baby, but you have to. Sulu said not to let you sleep in it." 

Spock grunts, turning around in Jim's embrace, and presses a quick kiss to the human's stunned mouth. "You are a wonderful bondmate, James," he breathes, as if this isn't the first time they've engaged in any type of intimacy since the whole mishap began in the first place. As if it's any other night. Then Spock adds, "And an incredibly empathetic individual. I am most gratified for your presence during this ordeal."

At which point Jim smiles, chest feeling a little tight all of a sudden, and then releases Spock from his grip.

When they come back together — Spock now sans-binder, but wearing one of Jim's oversized t-shirts and a pair of Jim's pajama pants — the Vulcan's voice is almost too quiet for Jim to hear. The human does hear him, though, and it makes his chest feel even tighter. "I do not wish for you to touch my chest this evening."

"Oh. Do you want me to —"

"No, Jim. I still wish for you to 'spoon' me. I simply ask that you place your hands... elsewhere."

Jim smiles toothily now, pulling Spock in close, and murmurs, "No problem, handsome."

Spock's stubble starts to grow back on day three. The pair of them spend several minutes leaned forward at the mirror — inspecting the new, coarse hairs just barely poking through Spock's once-smooth chin.

"My calculations suggest that I will be 'back to normal' by this evening, Jim."

The human nods, humming once in agreement, and says, "That's great news, honey."

Through the mirror, Spock holds Jim's soft gaze. He breathes in audibly, considering his words, then says, "I am quite eager to make love to you upon the return of my penis."

Jim sputters, completely (and somewhat uncharacteristically) at a loss for words. All he can think as he finishes his morning routine, pointedly not returning his gaze to the mirror, is Silly, greedy Vulcan.

"Greed is illogical, Jim, Moreover, it is not 'greedy' for one to desire that which surely belongs to him. Do you not belong to me?"

And, god help him, Jim does.