Work Text:
Eye drooping, shoulders hunched, I had gone another night without sleep.
It wasn’t intentional. I wanted to sleep, desperately—but it was just…
I had issues.
My spiraling thoughts and near-doze were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Lieutenant. A word.”
I looked up to find my Vulcan friend standing nearby. Spock—who, out of everyone aboard the Enterprise, always seemed to notice when something was wrong. He masked it well behind professionalism, but I knew better.
I nodded and followed him to a quieter corner of the lab.
“What is troubling you?” he asked. “You have not been sleeping well. I can tell.”
I met his gaze for only a moment before looking down.
“It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing. Your REM cycle is disrupted, which could, in time, impair your performance.”
I stayed silent.
“I have an issue,” I admitted quietly. “With sleeping… alone.”
I closed my eyes, bracing myself. It felt childish—being an adult and still struggling with something so basic.
Instead, I felt a gentle hand settle on my shoulder.
“Is that the entirety of your concern?” he asked calmly.
“Y-yes. I know it’s stupid—”
“It is not,” he interrupted. “I could arrange a shared quarters assignment. From a medical standpoint, consistent rest would be beneficial.”
I looked up, stunned. “R-really?”
He nodded, hands folding neatly behind his back. “I am serious.”
“I was compiling a list of compatible candidates. We can review them together.”
Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.
“Could you?”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Could I what?”
Heat flooded my face. “Could you… Be my roommate?”
I rushed on before logic—or dignity—could catch up.
“I trust you. And I’d feel safer with someone I’m already close to.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then—something softened in his expression. Just barely.
“Very well,” he said. “I will have my belongings transferred before tonight.”
“Are you sure?” I asked quickly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I am certain,” he replied. “If this arrangement enables you to rest, it is… acceptable.”
Relief washed through me. I smiled faintly.
He nodded once, and we returned to our stations together.
The quarters were quiet in a way the ship rarely was—low hums of the Enterprise vibrating gently through the walls, lights dimmed to a Vulcan-approved minimum.
Spock stood just inside the doorway, already assessing.
Temperature: slightly too cool for optimal human comfort.
Lighting: acceptable, but adjustable.
My heart rate: elevated.
My breathing: shallow.
I hovered near the edge of the bed, hands twisting together.
“I can sleep on the floor,” I offered quickly. “Or—uh—request a divider—”
“That will not be necessary,” Spock said evenly. He crossed the room and adjusted the environmental controls without asking, raising the temperature by exactly three degrees. “The bed is designed to accommodate two occupants.”
My mouth opened, then closed. “…Right.”
I sat, stiff as a board.
Spock paused, watching me with careful attention before removing his boots and placing them precisely beside his side of the bed. He did not lie down. Instead, he remained standing.
“You are experiencing anticipatory anxiety,” he said. “Your muscles are tense.”
“Sorry,” I murmured automatically.
“That response is unnecessary,” he replied. “You have done nothing requiring apology.”
That made my chest ache a little.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling. Minutes passed. The hum of the ship grew louder in my ears. My thoughts began to spiral—the familiar edge of panic creeping in, subtle but persistent.
Spock noticed immediately.
My fingers clenched the blanket. My breathing stuttered.
Without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed—not touching me, but close enough that the mattress dipped slightly under his weight.
“Lieutenant,” he said softly. Softer than he ever spoke on the bridge. “I am here.”
My eyes burned. “I know. I just—my brain won’t shut up.”
“That is… understandable,” he replied. “If you permit, I can assist.”
I nodded.
Spock reached out slowly, deliberately, giving me time to pull away if I wished. When I didn’t, his fingers rested lightly over my wrist—two fingers, gentle pressure.
My pulse jumped under his touch.
“Your heart rate is elevated,” he observed. “Focus on my voice.”
I did.
“Breathe in,” he instructed. “Four counts.”
I inhaled.
“Hold.”
I did.
“Exhale.”
Again and again, he guided me—steady, patient, unshakable. His hand never moved, grounding me like an anchor.
Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased.
“I will remain awake,” Spock said matter-of-factly.
I turned my head toward him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I am aware,” he replied. “I am choosing to.”
Something in his tone—quiet, resolute—made my throat tighten.
“What if I keep you up?” I asked. “I move around. Sometimes I—”
“I am a light sleeper,” he said. “And I do not require the same duration of rest.”
That wasn’t the whole truth—but I didn’t know that yet.
My eyes fluttered closed. Then opened again, panic flickering.
“Spock?”
“Yes.”
“Could you… Stay closer?”
There it was. The real ask.
He hesitated for half a second—long enough to consider protocol, propriety, logic.
Then he lay down beside me.
Not touching. Just there.
The bed was warm now. Safe.
“If you experience distress,” he said quietly, “you may alert me immediately.”
“…Okay.”
I shifted closer without fully realizing it, my shoulder brushing his arm. I froze.
“I’m sorry—”
“You are not causing discomfort,” Spock said at once.
Carefully—reverently—he adjusted the blanket so it covered me more fully. His arm did not move away.
Minutes passed.
My breathing evened out.
My thoughts slowed.
Spock watched me with an intensity he would later refuse to acknowledge—monitoring the rise and fall of my chest, the way my brow smoothed as sleep finally claimed me.
When I stirred, mumbling something incoherent, his hand came up instinctively, resting protectively over mine.
I slept.
Spock did not.
He remained awake the entire night, senses attuned to every shift, every breath, every quiet sound I made. When a distant system's fluctuation caused me to twitch, he subtly adjusted the noise dampeners. When my breathing hitched, his grip tightened—just enough to reassure.
Logical conclusion: My safety had become a priority.
Illogical consequence: He did not resent it.
As dawn-cycle lighting began to brighten the room, Spock realized something unsettling.
He did not mind the exhaustion.
The morning after, I woke to warmth.
Not the overheated, restless kind—but steady. Grounding. The low hum of the Enterprise vibrated beneath me, familiar and oddly comforting. For a moment, I didn’t move. I didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing this was.
Then I realized I wasn’t alone.
Spock sat beside me on the bed, already awake, posture straight despite the hours that must have passed. His presence was close—closer than I remembered falling asleep—but careful, like he’d calculated exactly how near he could be without crossing a line.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
“I slept,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
“Yes,” Spock replied immediately. “For six hours and fourteen minutes.”
I turned my head toward him. “You counted?”
“It was relevant.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it—soft, disbelieving. I pressed my hand over my mouth, afraid I’d wake up from this if I reacted too loudly.
“I didn’t wake up panicking,” I said. “Not once.”
“That is… encouraging.”
I sat up slowly, waiting for the familiar wave of dread that usually followed waking. It didn’t come. I just felt… tired. Normal tired.
I looked at him, suddenly unsure. “Did I keep you awake?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped. “Spock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It was not detrimental,” he said quickly. “The outcome justifies the method.”
I studied his face. Calm. Composed. But there was something different there—something softer around the eyes, like he hadn’t quite put all his walls back up yet.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For staying.”
“It was logical,” he replied.
This time, I didn’t argue.
Later, while on duty, the lab felt brighter than usual. Or maybe that was just me.
My thoughts were clearer. My hands didn’t shake when I keyed in data. When I yawned, it wasn’t sharp and panicked—it was normal. Human.
Spock noticed everything.
He always did, but now it felt… closer. Like his awareness of me had narrowed into something focused and intent.
That was when Ensign Carter spoke up.
“Well, look at you,” he said with a grin. “Finally got some sleep? Guess you just had to get over it.”
My shoulders tensed automatically.
Before I could respond, Spock did.
“That is an inaccurate assessment,” he said coolly.
Carter faltered. “I was just kidding.”
“Your remark implies that Lieutenant’s condition was a failure of discipline,” Spock continued. His tone remained level, but something in it made my spine straighten. “It was not.”
The lab went quiet.
“Sleep disruption of this nature is a documented neurological response,” Spock said. “Not a matter of willpower. Any suggestion otherwise is both incorrect and inappropriate.”
Carter swallowed. “I—sorry, sir.”
Spock turned back to his console as if the conversation were finished. “Apology acknowledged.”
I stared at him, heart pounding—not from anxiety this time, but from something warmer. Stronger.
“Spock,” I murmured when the lab noise resumed, “you didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes,” he said without looking at me. “I did.”
That simple certainty stole my breath.
He paused, then added more quietly, “Your condition does not diminish your competence. Nor does it invite commentary.”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
For the rest of the shift, he stayed just a little closer. When voices rose, he angled his body subtly between me and the noise. When my focus wavered, he adjusted the workload without comment.
I worked better than I had in weeks.
And Spock—Vulcan, logical, reserved Spock—watched me like my well-being was a variable he refused to let destabilize.
Logical explanation: last night had been effective.
Unsettling realization: I felt safe with him in a way I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
And somewhere beneath the hum of the Enterprise, beneath the steady rhythm of my now-rested heartbeat, I wondered if Spock felt it too.
At lunch, the mess hall was louder than I expected.
I slid my tray onto the table across from Spock, who had already arranged his meal with precise efficiency. He barely glanced up, but I noticed the way his posture subtly adjusted when I sat—like he was recalibrating around my presence.
“You don’t usually eat here,” I said softly.
“Correct,” he replied. “However, Doctor McCoy has insisted that I adhere more closely to Starfleet’s nutritional schedule.”
I smiled. “That sounds like him.”
We ate in companionable quiet for a few moments. I felt… normal. Relaxed. The kind of calm I usually only managed after hours of forcing myself not to spiral.
Then someone laughed behind us.
I turned just in time to see Ensign Hale leaning against the counter, smiling in my direction.
“Lieutenant,” he said, friendly enough. “You look a lot better today.”
“Oh—thanks,” I replied, polite but wary.
“You should join us sometime,” he added, nodding toward a nearby table. “We’re usually here around this time.”
Before I could respond, Spock spoke.
“She already has plans.”
I froze.
Hale blinked. “Oh. Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” I said quickly, glancing at Spock.
Hale shrugged and moved on.
Silence settled between us.
“…Plans?” I asked carefully.
Spock’s fork paused mid-motion. “It seemed the most efficient way to end the interaction.”
I studied him. His expression was composed as ever, but his jaw was tight.
“You didn’t like that,” I said.
“I experienced… irritation,” he admitted after a moment. “Which is illogical.”
My heart skipped.
“I am not accustomed to that response,” he continued. “The notion of your attention being… redirected was unexpectedly disruptive.”
There it was.
Jealousy—carefully dissected, reluctantly acknowledged.
“I didn’t even say yes,” I said gently.
“I am aware,” he replied. Then, quieter, “That did not alleviate the reaction.”
I looked down at my tray, warmth spreading through my chest.
“Oh,” I said.
Spock resumed eating, but his movements were slightly less precise than usual.
Returning to the quarters felt different this time.
Easier.
I kicked off my boots without overthinking it. Spock did the same. There was no hesitation, no stiff formality—just a quiet understanding that this was no longer an experiment.
I changed, climbed into bed, and waited.
Spock lay down beside me without comment, close enough that our shoulders brushed naturally.
No awkwardness.
Just comfort.
After a moment, I spoke.
“Spock?”
“Yes.”
“You stayed up all night for me.”
“That is accurate.”
“You don’t have to do that again,” I said softly. “I mean—if I wake up, I’ll be okay. You deserve rest too.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I will attempt to sleep,” he said finally.
I turned toward him. “Really?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Your condition has improved. And… I believe it would be acceptable.”
I smiled, unable to help it. “Thank you.”
His breathing slowed as he settled, still alert but no longer rigid. I shifted closer without thinking, my hand brushing his sleeve.
“Spock?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “For yesterday. For today. For… seeing me.”
His hand moved—hesitant, then certain—resting lightly over mine.
“You are worthy of care,” he said quietly. “Your needs are valid.”
My throat tightened.
“I feel safe with you,” I admitted.
His fingers curled just slightly, protective even in rest.
“I will remain,” he said. “That is… sufficient.”
I closed my eyes.
This time, when sleep came, it was gentle. Unforced. And somewhere beside me, Spock allowed himself to rest too—sharing the quiet, unfamiliar warmth of something that was no longer merely logical.
The next day came.
I wasn’t supposed to overhear it.
I’d only stopped by Sickbay to drop off a padd McCoy had asked for earlier. I was just outside the biobed area when I heard his voice—low, sharp, and unmistakably irritated.
“Spock, don’t insult my intelligence.”
I froze.
“You voluntarily skipped your rest cycle,” McCoy continued. “Stayed awake all night. Twice. And now you’re snapping at people in the mess hall?”
“That is a mischaracterization,” Spock replied coolly.
“The hell it is,” McCoy shot back. “I’ve known you too long. This isn’t about sleep hygiene or ship efficiency.”
There was a pause.
“…Doctor,” Spock said carefully.
“You’re jealous,” McCoy said flatly.
My breath caught.
“That is an emotional response,” Spock replied. “And therefore unlikely.”
McCoy snorted. “You’re glarin’ at any ensign who looks at her like they’re considering conversation. You told one of my nurses her comment was ‘statistically irrelevant.’ You never do that.”
Silence.
I pressed my hand to my chest, heart hammering.
“This isn’t logical concern,” McCoy went on. “This is attachment. You’re protectin’ her like she’s already yours.”
“That implication is—”
“Accurate,” McCoy cut in. “And you know it.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I am… aware of an increased emotional response,” Spock admitted at last. “It is unfamiliar. And inconvenient.”
McCoy’s voice softened, just a bit. “Son, emotions usually are. Question is—are you gonna keep pretendin’ this is just science, or are you gonna face what’s actually happenin’?”
“I will not act inappropriately,” Spock said.
McCoy sighed. “Caring about someone ain’t inappropriate, Spock. Avoidin’ it might be.”
I stepped back quietly before they could see me, pulse racing.
That night, the quarters were dim and peaceful when I returned. Spock was already there, seated on the edge of the bed, hands folded, gaze distant.
He looked up the moment I entered.
“You are unsettled,” he observed.
“I overheard something,” I admitted.
His posture stiffened. “I see.”
I moved closer, sitting beside him. Not touching. Not yet.
“McCoy was right,” I said gently. “About what he said.”
Spock exhaled slowly. “I am aware.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to protect me because you owe me something.”
“I do not,” he replied immediately.
“Then why do you?” I asked softly.
He met my eyes. Really met them.
“Because the prospect of harm—emotional or physical—directed toward you is… unacceptable to me.”
My chest tightened.
I took a breath, steadying myself, then did something terrifying.
I reached for him.
My hand found his, tentative but sure. He tensed—just for a moment—then stilled, allowing it.
“You don’t have to stay awake tonight,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to monitor me or guard me.”
His fingers curled around mine on instinct.
“But,” I added, heart pounding, “I want you here.”
Spock’s voice was barely above a whisper. “That distinction is… significant.”
I smiled faintly. “Then stay. With me. Not for me.”
He considered that for a long moment.
Then he lay down beside me.
This time, when I shifted closer, he didn’t hesitate. His arm came around me—careful, protective, but warm. I rested my head against his shoulder, my hand splayed over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath.
His heartbeat was faster than I expected.
“Spock,” I murmured, already half-asleep.
“Yes.”
“You’re allowed to want things too.”
His arm tightened slightly.
“That is… a concept I am still evaluating,” he said.
I smiled against him, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his uniform.
“I’ll help,” I whispered.
He did not pull away.
Spock let himself accept not just the responsibility of care, but the comfort of being wanted in return.
It starts without either of us acknowledging it.
At first, it’s just at night—my fingers finding his in the dark as sleep pulls me under. He never initiates, but he never pulls away either. His grip is steady, warm, grounding.
Then it happens during the day.
I’m reaching for a padd in the lab when his little finger hooks around mine. Barely noticeable. Entirely intentional.
No one comments.
But I notice.
I notice how he adjusts his stride so our hands brush in the corridor. How he positions himself so we stand close enough that contact is inevitable. How his thumb presses once against my knuckles whenever voices get too loud.
It becomes routine.
Necessary.
And then—inevitably—someone notices.
We’re in the corridor outside engineering when Ensign Hale falls into step beside me again.
“Lieutenant,” he says easily. “You free later? A few of us are heading to the rec deck.”
I open my mouth to decline—
But Spock’s hand tightens around mine.
Not painful. Just firm.
Possessive.
“She is otherwise engaged,” Spock says calmly.
Hale glances down.
At our hands.
“Oh,” he says. “Didn’t realize.”
Spock does not release me.
Hale clears his throat and moves on quickly.
My pulse is racing—not from fear, but from the unmistakable heat of being chosen so openly.
When the corridor clears, I turn to Spock.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
“I am… displeased,” he admits.
“With him?”
“With the frequency of such interactions,” he corrects. “They are inefficient.”
I smile. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
He stops walking.
Actually stops.
I do too, turning to face him.
“Spock,” I say gently, “you’re jealous.”
His jaw tightens.
“Yes,” he says.
The admission is immediate this time—no deflection, no hedging.
“I find the emotion… intrusive,” he continues. “However, it persists.”
My heart stutters.
“I do not object to your autonomy,” he adds carefully. “Yet the notion of your attention being claimed by another produces… distress.”
I squeeze his hand.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” I say. “I already know.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
“Then it is illogical to delay further,” he says.
That night, the quarters feel charged—quiet but heavy with anticipation.
We sit side by side on the bed, hands already linked like it’s the most natural thing in the universe.
Spock inhales slowly.
“I have reached a conclusion,” he says.
I don’t interrupt.
“My initial concern for your sleep was based on medical necessity,” he continues. “That concern has since evolved into… personal attachment.”
I feel my chest tighten.
“I experience a marked preference for your presence,” he says. “Your absence causes distraction. Your distress causes agitation. Your safety has become… a priority beyond logic.”
His grip tightens around my hand.
“These reactions are consistent with what humans identify as romantic attachment.”
I swallow. “Spock—”
“I am not finished,” he says gently.
“I will not claim that this bond is without risk,” he continues. “Nor will I pretend it does not compromise my objectivity. However—”
He meets my eyes, dark and unwavering.
“I choose it.”
The words land like a promise.
“I choose you,” he says simply. “If you will accept the consequences of that choice.”
Tears sting my eyes.
“I already have,” I whisper.
He lifts our joined hands, pressing his fingers against mine—a Vulcan touch, grounding and reverent.
“Then this is… acceptable,” he says.
I lean in, resting my forehead against his.
And when his thumb strokes over my knuckles—slow, deliberate—I know this isn’t just habit anymore.
It’s devotion.
We stay like that for a long moment.
Forehead to forehead. Our hands still linked between us. I can feel the warmth of him, the steady breath against my skin. Every part of me is aware—too aware—yet completely calm.
Spock’s breathing changes first.
Not faster. Deeper.
“This proximity,” he says softly, “is… significant.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He hesitates—not from uncertainty, but from respect. From the weight of what this means to him.
“There is a human custom,” he continues, voice low and careful, “that signifies mutual affection and intent.”
My heart stutters. “Yes.”
“I wish to proceed,” he says. Not may I—I wish. “If you consent.”
I don’t pull away. I tilt my head just enough to brush my nose against his.
“I do.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself.
Then—deliberately—Spock closes the remaining distance.
It isn’t hurried. Or clumsy. Or overwhelming.
It’s a brush of lips at first—soft, exploratory, almost reverent. Like he’s memorizing the sensation rather than taking it. His lips are warm, gentler than I expected, lingering just long enough for my breath to hitch.
When he pulls back slightly, our foreheads remain pressed together.
“Fascinating,” he murmurs.
I let out a quiet laugh that turns into something softer. “Good fascinating?”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. “Extremely.”
His thumb strokes once over my knuckles—seeking, grounding.
He kisses me again.
This time, it lasts a little longer. Still gentle. Still careful. But more certain. His lips fit against mine like he’s already learned the shape of me. Like this, too, has become something necessary.
I melt into it, heart full, hand tightening around his.
When we part, he rests his forehead back against mine, eyes half-lidded.
“I find,” he says quietly, “that I have no desire to withdraw.”
I smile, brushing my nose against his. “Then don’t.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he leans in just enough to let our breaths mingle, his hand warm and steady in mine—protective, chosen, and entirely his.
I don’t wonder if sleep will come.
Because I already know.
I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.