Archive of Our Own

Hey.

Hey? Hey. Good God, is that the best he could come up with?

Hey. Jim Kirk, dazzler, player, ladies man, guys guy.

He should send another text. Not end it with such a bland faceless remark like Hey. ‘Hey is for horses,’ his mom always said.

Jim was pretty sure Hey wasn’t for half-Vulcans either.

What time was it on New Vulcan anyway? Jim did the math in his head briefly. If he calculated regular Vulcan sleeping patterns, and his first was dependably consistent, there was a chance Spock wouldn’t wake up and receive Jim’s pitiful text for another five hours. That gave Jim time to think of something mind blowing to make his Hey more digestible to the higher mind of his first officer.

So, what turned on Vulcan guys? Astrophysics? Blank emotionless stares? Freshly plucked eyebrows? Witty pick-up lines about science?

Maybe, possibly, in Jim’s wildest dreams, a sad sleep deprived human male who liked to hassle his first officer with lame texts in the middle of the night.

Dammit, he sounded worse than just ‘hey.’ But, there was a tiny bud of chance Spock might think the text was amusing, slightly titillating in a foreign human type of way. His first officer spent enough time with him, had even started seeking Jim out on purpose for chess games, lunches, random meetings on the observation deck. Well, the random meetings were all Jim, seeing as he’d gotten Spock’s movements around the ship down to an exact science. He didn’t like to call it stalking, more like noticing that Spock liked to sit and stare at the stars in silence and didn’t mind when his captain decided to join him most nights for some friendly conversation.

Some way to prevent Spock from doing the Vulcan equivalent of kicking Jim’s ass to the curb must exist. This wasn’t a no win scenario, they were friends now. And something else in those wildest dreams of Jim’s.

Hey, being amusing and human had caught Spock’s attention so far, so… Math? Physics? During their last lunch together before he left, Spock had explained the equations for the project he was planning with the VSA while on New Vulcan. Jim had spent the hour studying the infinite angles of Spock’s face.

Picking up his communicator, Jim typed in another text:

Are you a 45 degree angle? Because you’re acute-y.

He snorted, chuckling at his own joke. That was truly terrible. The cheese in that pick up line was so rotten he could practically smell it—Spock would get a kick out of that.

Or not.

Shit. Cringing, Jim tossed his comm onto the floor and slapped a hand against his eyes. Indigestion rolled in his stomach—oh, sweet regret. Spock was going to think he was a creepy pervert nutcase. He’d shun Jim for life. Their five year mission would be filled with Jim’s sexual tension and cold Vulcan stares.

‘Let it be known,’ Jim thought to himself, pulling a sheet over his head, and whacking his head into the pillow with a groan, ‘Texting the Vulcan first officer you have an obsessive crush on is never a good idea.’

*

“Hey, kid.” Arriving on the bridge the next morning, sleep-deprived after a night of tossing and turning around the misery of his humiliation, Jim slapped a hand on his navigator’s shoulder. “As a science nerd, would you find this pick-up line appealing?” In a lowered voice, Jim repeated the line he used on Spock via text last night.

Chekov’s eyes widened like he’d just caught wind of a Klingon warbird. For a very brief moment, Jim thought the kid had been petrified by his captain’s pick up line creating brilliance.

“Uh, no, very sorry, keptin.” He looked up a Jim sadly. “But, that is… not good.”

Sulu was snickering on Chekov’s left. “Where did you find that one, Captain? Pick up lines for dummies dot com?”

Chekov’s cheeks were turning beat red, his hand likely covering up a shit eating grin.

“Can it, Sulu. No one asked you.” Jim laughed it off, turning away toward his chair. He was doomed. Spock would despise him for utter lack of scientific sexiness.

*

No reply in the morning.

No reply mid-morning.

No reply before Jim sat down for lunch in the mess with Bones. Maybe Spock was busy. Maybe he forgot his comm at home before heading to the VSA. Spock never forgot anything.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Bones scowled. Bones’ eyebrow stunts could give Spock’s a run for their money. When the CMO was giving Jim a round of hypos, he would focus on Bones’ fuzzy caterpillars, watching them dance above his eyes. It helped distract Jim from the thought of being slice and diced by tiny needles.

“Nothing. My face is perfect, as usual.” He gave Bones the classic Kirk grin, known to send anyone with a pulse to their knees. Except Bones.

And Spock. Spock usually just stared and raised an eyebrow before returning his attention to the science station, his PADD, or anything that wasn’t Jim.

Bones’ frown deepened. “Your face’ll stay that way if you keep abusing it,” Jim answered.

“Yeah, and it’ll be your fault.” Bones’ lips turned down at the sides. “So, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Stop worrying about my face and concentrate on your own.” Jim reached to push a finger against the indent between his friend’s brows, but Bones slapped his hand away with a fork.

“You’ve been moping ever since Spock left on shore leave.” Bones swallowed around a bite of salad while Jim nursed his hand. “I’ve been telling the hobgoblin to take a vacation for years and he chooses to waste it at the VSA. Slaving for some Vulcan scientists is the opposite of a vacation.”

Jim nodded vehemently. “You’re telling me. I’m not even sure he sleeps.” The best way to stop Bones raging about Jim’s health was to get him raging about someone else’s. And it was true, technically Jim had never seen Spock sleep before. Only imagined what Spock would look like in bed—sometimes asleep, sometimes not so asleep.

The doctor’s gaze focused in on Jim again, hard and diagnostic. “Spock contact you since he left?”

Jim attempted to hold Bones’ stare. “Nope.” He resisted the urge to grab for his communicator for the hundredth time.

“Really?” Bones’ eyes widened fractionally. “Thought you two were all chatty.”

Jim pushed a carrot floating in his soup around the bowl with his spoon. “I’d never describe Spock as chatty.”

“Well, he’s friendlier with you than anyone else.” Bones waved his fork in Jim’s direction, a lettuce leaf speared on the end. “You miss him.” Each jab of the fork spattered salad dressing from the leaf into Jim’s soup. “God knows why. But that’s why you’re sulking.”

“He’s the best first officer in the fleet and a friend. Of course I miss him.” Jim attempted his most nonchalant look. Not easy when his communicator was burning a hole through his pocket. The heat of it against his hip reminding him of his pick-up text disgrace—he suppressed a shudder.

“Uh huh.” Bones finally shoved the messy lettuce leaf in his mouth and pierced a tomato slice to wave at Jim instead. “I’ve watched you go goo goo gaga over the weirdest of weird, but I never thought Spock’d be your type.”

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Bones. Give yourself a psych eval.”

Bones nodded, rubbing a hand against his chin, stroking his stubble like an arrogant wise man puffed up on his own insufferable insight. God help Jim if Bones ever decided to grow a beard—his aura of know-it-all would become unbearable.

“Green your favorite color?” Bones muttered. “Got a thing for pointy devil’s ears?”

“Shut up, Bones.” Jim scooped up his errant carrot. Devilish was the worst description for Spock’s ears Jim could conceive. If comparison to Terran mythology was required, he preferred elven. Spock’s delicate beautiful elven ears.

Resting his elbows on the table, Bones leaned forward. “Command’ll have your hide if you sleep with your first officer.”

“I’m not sleeping with Spock.”

“Yet.”

“Been sniffing Romulan ale in med bay again?”

“I hope his skinny Vulcan hide is worth your captain’s chair.”

“Shut up, Bones. Christ.” Jim didn’t want to think about what Spock’s ass was worth. He didn’t want to think about his first officer’s ass at all unless he was in his quarters alone, lights switched off, where no one could read what was in his eyes, emotion scrawled across his face like the text commands sent to his PADD from Starfleet control.

Jim’s communicator buzzed, reverberating against his skin. He jumped, spoon clattering into his soup, broth spilling over the sides. He fumbled at his pocket while Bones' eyes expanded and contracted.

He took a large gulp of coffee from the mug steaming at his elbow to steady his nerves. If Bones wasn’t such a self-riotous gossip, Jim would ask for a few drops from the flask he knew the doc kept tucked in his pocket.

Jim swallowed too fast and immediately choked, coffee spewing out of his mouth and onto Bones’ medical blues. Spock had responded.

Greetings, Captain.

No, I am not a 45 degree angle. And I believe you mean acute, not acutey if we are indeed discussing angles that are less than ninety degrees.

Why are we discussing 45 degree angles?

Another text flashed across Jim’s screen.

Perhaps you are sleep deprived. My communicator has indicated that your text was sent at 3:07am aboard the Enterprise, which is nine hours and seven minutes after the conclusion of alpha shift and only five hours and fifty three minutes before the beginning of your shift today. Medical evaluations have deduced that humans require eight hours of sleep per twenty four hour day in order to be fully functional.

Another flash a few seconds later.

If you continue to experience insomnia, I recommend you visit Doctor McCoy for a medical evaluation, despite believing him to be what you described during our chess game twelve days ago as a ‘sick hypo fetishist.’

Bones was raging, mopping his chest with a napkin. All Jim could hear was the ringing from his comm echoing in his ears over and over again like a hymn. Whether it was exhaustion, euphoria, relief or a mix of both—

His comm pinged again.

Although he is overly emotional for a medical professional, I believe you have misjudged the doctor’s intentions.

Spock was somewhere on New Vulcan text spamming him. Jim had expected silence, perhaps a brief stoic acknowledgment, maybe a single question mark of perfectly logical confusion against Jim’s idiocy. He had to be dreaming.

Bones slapped Jim on the back and Jim jumped in his seat. Not dreaming.

“Hey! Whatever’s going on better be worth the spit that’s covering my shirt.” Bones leaned over Jim’s shoulder.

Flipping his comm closed, Jim shoved it in his pocket. “It’s nothing. Coffee just went down the wrong way. Sorry about your shirt.”

Bones peered at Jim skeptically. “Yeah, that’s not suspicious.” Jim titled his head away, the smell of hot coffee, wet fabric and Bones’ pissiness permeating his personal space.

Jim shrugged. “Got a text, that’s all.” His fingers were having trouble unwrapping from their grip on the warm metal in his pocket. He was itching to text Spock back, get him all chatty again.

“A text from Spock,” Bones replied, his air of superiority returned. This is why Jim preferred to think of Spock exclusively in private. Because too many face reading smart asses were watching Jim’s every move.

“Yeah.” Jim sniffed, grabbing his cup of coffee to distract his needy hands.

“You’re a goddamn open book, Jim.” Bones slapped Jim on the back again, none too gently.

“If my pages are too explicit for you, stop reading.” Jim winked and Bones cringed.

“If you wanna waste your time sexting a Vulcan, it’s your funeral.” Bones stepped back, grabbing his empty plate. “Don’t come crying to sickbay when he breaks your heart.”

“We’re not sexting!” Jim yelled at Bones’ back then grinned sheepishly and shrugged as several of his crew turned their heads.

Besides, Jim was too far gone for broken heart cures, anyway.

Before heading back to the bridge, Jim sneaked into the bathroom, ducked into an empty stall and locked the door. Pulling out his comm, he swiped open Spock’s last text and began typing.

I have a thing for sharp angles. And don’t worry, I’ll force myself to sleep somehow if it means one less hypo from Bones.

He snapped his comm shut with a smile—it pinged as he left the cubicle. A grin spread across his face. Not playing hard to get, then.

I believe this is a reference to aesthetics rather than geometric equations, as you have never shown great interest in mathematics beyond the basics.

Vulcans do not worry, Captain.

Jim’s mouth felt like it was about to leap off his face.

Tell that to Bones. After I got beat up on Vheta IV, he told me you were watching over me as I slept in med bay, al a worried Vulcan.

Jim didn’t even bother closing his comm—Spock’s reply came a few seconds later. Fast fingers. Long fingers, slightly tinged with green along the knuckles. Fingernails always clipped severely above the skin. Endless nights of chess had given Jim a full acquaintance with all the little details covering Spock’s hands. He’d spent hours looking at hands he’d never even touched.

As your first officer, it is my duty to be assured of your safety.

watching to make sure bones doesn’t impale me on a bed of hypos? tks I really appreciate it. :)

That was not my primary concern, Captain.

Jim glanced at the time; he still had a few minutes before shift started. His fingers darted across the screen.

yea ur primary concern was watching me sleep <3

A breath. Jim began counting the seconds, staring at the glare of his comm screen.

Are you well, Captain? Your textual speech appears to be deteriorating.

vulcans dont worry huh?

I hope you are more diligent when proofreading your text communications to Starfleet Command, sir. Perhaps this is why Admiral Komack treats you, as you once stated in my presence, “like a child.”

stop all the sirs and captains and komacks. ur not on duty.

I am not. However, you are. It is currently 13:06 on the Enterprise. Should you be engaged in social activities during alpha shift?

Shit. He flipped his comm shut.

“Looks like sexting to me,” Sulu’s voice chided from a sink in the corner.

“Depends on how you define sexting.” Jim blushed and rushed out the door.

*

Hey.

It worked the last time, no use messing with perfection. Jim was about to fire off another zinger when his comm pinged.

Greetings, Captain.

Jim snorted then peered at the clock.

Why you still awake?

It would be logical to ask the same question of you, sir.

I asked first.

Waiting one minute and then another, Jim shuffled the PADDs on his desk. Then flicked the singing Santa doll Rand had left beside them. One of her sinister jokes, likely. Every time he dumped it in the recycler, another would appear on his desk the next day. He’d had “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” stuck in his head for the past week.

I am overseeing an experiment at the VSA with a delicate time frame.

You got stuck with the red eye shift? Nice, seeing as you’re helping them out on your free time.

As I have repeatedly informed you, Vulcans require less sleep than humans.

Jim frowned. He kicked the table leg of his desk, which set off the Santa again, butt jiggling, lights flashing.

Less sleep doesn’t mean no sleep. Your buddies at the VSA better not be taking advantage.

It is no inconvenience.

It is to me.

Shit. Double shit. 'Play it cool, Kirk.' Jim chided himself. No one likes needy little humans. Especially not attractive half-Vulcans.

I apologize if my absence has created additional strain on your work load. I advise you to leave any paperwork that is not urgent for my return, so you may acquire an adequate amount of rest.

Groaning, Jim shoved the pile of PADDs to the side of his desk, leaning his elbows on the counter-top.

That’s not what I meant.

You are not awake at 01:00 completing paperwork?

Jim pushed the stack of PADDs farther to the edge. One tumbled to the floor—he left it there.

Yeah maybe but that’s not why I don’t like you not being here. That’s what I really meant.

What the ever-loving... Jim read the words back to himself. This was gonna end up worse than the stupid angle text. Sure, that ended up having awesome results, but at least he was kinda coherent last night.

No answer. Spock was right, intense text editing was probably an asset. His comm pinged.

Clarify.

Jim typed some text into his communicator then backspaced, his thumb banging manically against the touchscreen. Oh, screw it. He re-typed the words.

I miss you.

Slamming his comm face down on the desk, Jim swiveled in his chair, whacking the dancing Santa doll as he passed, its asinine tune drowning out the thoughts he didn’t want to be thinking. He hummed along, staring out his window, counting as many stars he could catch flitting past at warp two, until the doll finished its performance. Jim swung back to his abandoned comm.

Although Vulcans do not express regret over necessary absence, particularly when the absent figure will be seen again in 3.6 weeks, I have noticed your lack of proximity to me over the past 4.3 days, Captain, as much of our professional and leisurely time has been spent together amicably over the past 1.37 years. Therefore your sentiment is, essentially, reciprocated.

If Jim wasn’t sitting he might swoon, a lightheadedness that would require him to rest a hand against his desk, a palm to his chest. When Spock got wordy like this, it melted Jim’s heart. Spock was covering, closeting emotion behind analytical script. Maybe he actually missed Jim, or maybe Spock felt sorry for his ridiculous overly emotional captain. But Spock actually feeling something for him, even if it was pity, was a step in the right direction.

Be still, my beating heart.

Spock’s answer came three seconds later. Imagining those clever fingers removed from a keyboard and replaced on Jim’s skin was not assisting with his higher mental functions. Jim shifted is his chair.

You expressed a similar complaint last week. I believe you are experiencing heart palpitations. An expedient visit to med bay is advisable.

I’m not having a heart attack. But I might if you keep talking that sweet talk to me.

We are not talking, Captain, we are exchanging text through our communication devices. Nor should said text be stimulating your taste buds. However, if it is, I suggest you remove your device from your mouth, as Starfleet issued communicators are not edible, sir.

lmfao literally spock you’re killing me

Captain, the quality of your writing has deteriorated again. If I indeed wished to kill you, which I assuredly do not, I am, if the Enterprise’s course heading has not changed since my departure, 8.2 light years from your current location and therefore am not within sufficient range to deploy any weapon that could harm you.

stop plz too funny

Vulcan’s are not funny, Captain.

you’re the funniest guy i know spock :D

I am not.

Are so.

Captain.

spock

You should obtain REM sleep in order to be fully functional for alpha shift at 09:00.

are you pissed off? sorry I called you funny <3

I am not, as you say, pissed off. My mental shields would be at a critical state if you calling me “funny” were enough to send me into an illogical rage.

there I go pissing you off again by implying you were in an illogical rage

Captain, as I just stated, I am not pissed off. I do not understand the human compulsion to disbelieve what has already been specified.

ok good I don’t like it when you’re angry at me <3

Fully functional Vulcans do not experience anger.

"Fully functional Vulcans," Jim muttered under his breath, repeating the words over and over in his head. His fully functional Vulcan. "Shut up, Jim." He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. "He’s not your fully functional Vulcan."

tell that to khan after i irradiated my brains out

A pause. That wait it--Jim went too far. But he’d been going too far ever since he met Spock; Spock was that big red button Jim wasn’t supposed to press, but god help him he wanted to press it until his fingers were raw.

Those were extenuating circumstances. I would rather not speak of it.

ok sorry but can’t help it you’re my hero <3

What is the significance of <3. I have deduced that the < and the 3 keys are not close enough to the letters preceding them on a standard communicator to be considered a typing error from negligent proofreading.

it’s a text heart see: <3

looks like a heart kinda right? it’s a sign of my affection.

It does not look like a human heart or any cardiac organ from any documented species within our charted galaxy.

However, I believe it is ‘the thought that counts.’ The thought is noted, and appreciated.

Jim was grinning and blinking at the screen and although he was exhausted, he never wanted this to stop.

nice save

Go to sleep, Captain.

i’d rather read your sweet nothings all night

btw call me jim im not on duty youre not on duty and were texting in the middle of the night

Captain, I am having difficulty deciphering your sentences. You are experiencing memory lapses and have forgotten the proper placement of apostrophes and periods.

I know how to use a period smart ass. call me jim. my name is jim.

My brain is not located in my posterior, Captain.

jimmmmm!!   

If I call you by the abbreviated form of your first name, will you go to sleep?

i swear to god spock ill be your slave for life and do anything you say if you call me jim

That is not necessary and highly illogical.

call me jim and I’ll have sweet dreams

Jim stared at the blinking cursor on his comm. His heart was beating so fast—Spock was right, completely illogical, Jim’s whole body was irrational to the core. The anticipation of his first officer about to use his fingers to press the keys that would spell his captain’s name should not be this extreme. He shouldn’t feel like he was on the verge of spitting out stars and rainbows.

Jim, go to bed.

I love you. Jim typed out the words just to see them, then back spaced before his sleep deprived mind could get him into trouble.

goodnight spock.

*

Uhura and Sulu are planning some xmas celebration extravaganza. Come save me.

As you have made the effort to attend every social event organized by the ship’s entertainment committee, I was under the impression you enjoyed such activities.

Not when I don’t have my first officer around to be my +1.

You survived the first 25.3 years of your existence without a first office to attend social gatherings with, time said first officer most assuredly would rather spend in quiet meditation. I do not understand why you are in need of rescue.

Not big on xmas stuff. All that red and green burns my eyes.

Color sensitivity was not on your list of allergies issued to me by Doctor McCoy.

you have a list of my allergies?? what happened to doctor patient confidentiality??

Affirmative. I requested your medical history from Doctor McCoy, so I could be sufficiently prepared if any harmful substances came in contact with your person, as you seem inclined to disregard your own safety at the most inopportune moments.

you’re really intense sometimes spock

I take my duties seriously, Captain. Your safety is one of them.

Duty, duty, duty. Always calling it duty. Kirk would prefer a different description for Spock’s obsessiveness about the inner workings of his captain’s body.

don’t add red & green to the list btw. don’t need you lording if over me while we’re around forests or red stuff…

like maple trees

or apples

i’d say human blood but last time I got all bloodied u flipped

I did not flip, Captain. Flipping would not have been productive at the time.

not literally flip

If you do not experience color sensitivity, then I believe your aversion to the colors red and green commonly displayed in abundance during the Terran holiday season of Christmas is a metaphor you are using to hide an internal negative emotional response to the holiday.

fuck spock

That is an abrupt proposal, even for you, Captain.

aha no not literally.

'Yes literally. Please, literally,' Jim silently begged to whatever deistic force might be listening in and feeling pity for his internal bubble of sexual frustration. Get back to the ship pronto and let’s get fucking literal.

I mean, you don’t beat around the bush.

Affirmative. I have never beaten a bush. I do not understand what cause there would be to assault a plant.

again not literally

I see.

Do you wish to talk about your aversion to Christmas, Jim?

Now, he was using his name. Damn, Spock sure knew how to mess with Jim’s head. And it never failed to turn him on, even when he didn’t want to be turned on, not while they were having this conversation, beginning to talk about the serious shit he didn’t talk to anyone about, not even Bones. But the thought of Spock getting in Jim’s head, getting real, made Jim imagine Spock literally getting into his captain’s head. Long fingers, flushed green, resting against his jaw line, up against his cheek, pressing into the points along his temple.

When Jim first learned about Vulcans in his elective xenobiology class at the academy, telepathy, mind melds, knowing things buried deep, embarrassing memories, shameful things he wanted to forget he’d done, things done to him he didn’t want to remember, it creeped Jim out. A total turn off.

Until he met Spock, started seeing Spock and thinking about Spock more than he should. Feeling a burn at the back of his mind as he sat in the captain’s chair and thought of Spock working at the science station behind him, always there, always being a smart ass, diligent, reliable, and dammit so fucking beautiful. What would it feel like? Jim imagined it at night, his head buried in his pillow his hand buried between his thighs, trying hard to forget that his first was sleeping, meditating, something, in the quarters next to his. What it would feel like to have Spock inside him in more ways than one.

He was getting a hard on. The man of his desires wasn’t even in the same room with him, they weren’t even sexting, and still he was turned on like the blinding string of flashing lights Rand had recently added to his room's décor. What would be next, a fully trimmed Christmas tree? Jim cringed and focused on the lights.

Do you celebrate xmas, Spock?

You are deferring the topic of discussion.

Yes.

There was a pause and Jim dared to hope two things at the same time: that Spock would give in and ignore the topic completely, and that Spock would convince his captain to spill his metaphorical beans. After all, Jim brought up the topic of Christmas in the first place, stupid egotistical confused idiot that he was.

That’s right—Jim wanted Spock in his head. His shiny new kink. His comm pinged.

As I child, yes. My mother was fond of the holiday.

Jim was a bastard. He’d put his foot in it, brought up Spock’s shit in order to distract from his own. But Spock was talking about himself, to Jim. Sharing conversation that wasn’t his first officer asking for clarification on a human saying or bridge reports, or “your move, captain” after Jim had spent a few too many seconds staring at his first’s hands during a chess game.

A rare insight into Spock’s mind. Jim getting into Spock’s head.

That’s nice.

It was, indeed, nice.

That was an invitation, right? As much of an invitation Jim was ever gonna get from Spock. No going back now.

So did you do the whole shebang? Presents, tree trimming, cookies?

There was an exchange of gifts between my family members. Coniferous trees did not exist on Vulcan-that-was and ordering one from Earth would have been a superfluous expense. Although human, my mother was sensible. So, we did not ‘trim a tree.’ My mother and I, after much persuasion on her part, hung traditional Christmas decorations around our home in a tasteful fashion. I was exclusively responsible for handling the tinsel.

Vulcans do not eat cookies. However, my mother created a recipe that could be called a cookie, but was more appetizing to the Vulcan palate. She baked them during Christmas and before we hung the decorations.

I’m imagining a young Spock getting caught in a tangle of tinsel with a fistful of Vulcan cookies and it’s great.

I assure you, Captain, I never entangled myself in the tinsel.

You had a fist full a cookies though.

‘A fist full’ is an extremely imprecise measurement.

However, it would have been irrational to let them go to waste. My mother often baked at least 8 dozen.

I’m adding ‘Spock likes cookies’ to the top of my ‘intel on Spock’ list.

You found the fact that I have a list on your health issues disturbing when you own a list containing useless facts about my person? That is rather contrary, Captain.

Let’s not talk about my list.

As a matter of principle, I wish to know what you have added to your ‘intel on Spock’ list.

Forget about the list.

Vulcans have eidetic memories. I cannot forget that the list exists.

sooooo what kind of presents do 2 vulcans and a human give each other?

Your ability to change our topics of discussion so frequently and efficiently is impressive.

sooo vulcan presents??

Very well, Captain. My mother often knitted sweaters for me and socks for my father. My father generally gifted antique paper bound books to my mother or sheet music as my mother was fond of reading and she played the piano with skill. My gifts varied. One year, I gave my mother seeds from a plant native to Earth’s north western hemisphere that I believed would flourish in her garden. As I was too young to obtain the gifts for myself at the time, my father would facilitate the purchases for me.

You can tell a lot about a person from the kind of gifts they give and receive. For example, your mom sounds like a really warm hearted person and super smart. No wonder you’re such a brain.

And such a sweet guy.

Throwing a compliment at Spock always felt like he was tossing a grenade with a blindfold on.

Do you have a sweet tooth, Captain? This is the second time you have referenced the sensation of sweetness in regard to my person.

Yeah I like sweet things. Sweet people. Can’t get enough.

However, when Jim imagined tasting Spock’s skin, he never tasted sugar against his tongue. If he was feeling less creative, a human saltiness filled his mouth. When he was feeling experimental, Jim sensed something more exotic, spicy. His first officer never smelled like anything other than soap and the laundry detergent from his freshly pressed uniform. His scent was another question mark on Jim’s list of Spock's mysteries.

I shall note your attachment to sharp angles and saccharinity to my list of ‘Captain Kirk’s oddities.’

Always so sassy.

I do not believe you have always found me ‘sweet,’ Jim.

Ha! More like bitter with a dash of sour.

I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual though.

Affirmative.

But opinions can change, right?

Indeed.

Jim’s new favorite word. Indeed. Indeed.

So are you keeping up the tradition? Celebrating xmas with your dad while you’re on New Vulcan?

Never mind Jim would rather be cozying up with Spock on December twenty fifth, wrapping the commander’s bits and pieces in tinsel. 'Yeah, I'm a jealous bastard,' Jim agreed with himself.

We have not celebrated Christmas since I was eight years of age.

Why not?

There was a longer pause. Jim was learning these either meant Spock was about to blow Jim’s mind with a long text filled with deliciously revealing information specific to his first’s character. Or, Spock felt iffy about answering Jim’s insolent questions.

I refused to participate in the ritual after the age of six.

Why? Your Christmas sounds awesome.

Although I am not a full Vulcan biologically, I believed I could become one in mind by embracing logic unequivocally. Participating in a human holiday because of an emotional attachment to my mother was not conductive to my study of logic.

Damn.

Did someone say something to you? Your dad?

Negative. Christmas was the only time I witnessed my father engaging in unVulcan behavior. He never argued against my mother’s insistence on honoring the holiday. Although, as a child, I did not understand his acceptance of such frivolous traditions, I believe I do now.

Because he loved her.

Yes.

So what made you suddenly choose logic over tinsel and Vulcan cookies?

Actually, choosing logic over tinsel and cookies, and an awesome mom willing to deal with a planet full of Vulcans twenty four seven for her family seemed really illogical to Jim.

My peers made remarks on my unusual heritage in relation to my value as a Vulcan that had an undue effect upon my self-estimation.

You got bullied by some Vulcan kids?! Thought Vulcans were supposed to be above that.

I have, unfortunately, met notable exceptions among my species.

Assholes! Sounds like they all deserved a fist in the face.

No answer.

OMG you totally punched them in the face.

I was young and let my unchecked emotions control me.

hell no! it would’ve been illogical not to smash their faces.

Violence is never logical.

ok but I bet they never bullied you again.

Affirmative.

fucking grinches

I do not understand this reference.

means they ruined xmas

Perhaps. Yet, it was I that ultimately made the decision to put the opinions of my peers above my mother and her human feelings. It was I that decided logic was more valuable than my mother’s happiness. I knew that the celebration and my participation in it meant much to her while requiring little from me.  

Jim blinked at the screen, his lips, teeth pressed together uncomfortably, holding something in.

Although it is illogical as circumstance cannot be changed, I feel regret at having deprived my mother of the contentment I knew the holiday gave her. I now know it was not logical.

I’m sure she understood. She sounds like the kind of person that would. Marrying a Vulcan, raising a Vulcan son, she must’ve been used to all that obsessive logic.

Indeed. Unfortunately, this fact does not negate my selfish behavior in the past.

Regret is a piece of shit.

Although I would not have phrased it so colloquially, I am in agreement.

Jim rubbed a thumb against the edge of his communicator, a tumble of opposing emotions battling it out halfway between his chest and his gut. Hiding behind a screen had advantages, but infuriating limitations. If Spock were sitting beside him right now, telling his story, his quiet tenor drowning out the ringing in Jim’s ears, Jim could offer a hand on a shoulder, a press of a knee, an understanding smile or frown, express his camaraderie the way he did best, not in words, but in action.

However, Spock had always shied away from physicality. Although Jim might offer these gestures to another friend, a human one, Spock would more likely be insulted than comforted. Jim constantly wanted to touch Spock, a desire that was growing into need. He worried even a simple graze against Spock’s shoulder would be his downfall—he’d want more, more, always more and at some point Spock would tell Jim to stop.

As I have imparted my childhood experiences of Christmas, I believe the common procedures for small talk, even in text form, dictate that you reciprocate in a similar fashion.

Is that what we’re doing right now? Talking small?

It is a human saying, Jim.

Smart ass.

Did you celebrate Christmas as a child?

No. Not really. Sometimes.

Clarify.

It’s a boring story.

I doubt this is a factual statement.

my dad’s dead and my mom was never around much. we didn’t really do xmas.

You had no other family you spent the season with?

There was that one perfect Christmas with his aunt and uncle on Tarsus. But a few months later shit hit the fan, so everything good that came before just made the bad that much worse, and Jim didn’t want to think about that even though he thought about it all the time.

He wondered if Spock knew. Tarsus must be in Jim’s personal records, open access to academy professors back at Starfleet, records that Spock likely peeked at after the ridiculous and maybe kinda justified academic charge Spock accused him of. But Spock was Spock, nosy, not in your face nosy like Jim was, but curious, scientific, always wanting to know more, to understand every new thing he came across, storing away information for later just in case it proved useful like his list of Jim’s allergies. Spock wouldn’t say anything about Tarsus unless Jim said something first. And Jim wasn’t ready for that talk.

Me and Sam, my brother, lived with my stepdad while mom was off planet. But he was definitely not the cookies and tinsel kinda guy.

I see.

Spock probably did. He never used to be this perceptive—he used to downright logic his subordinates to tears. Insensitivity was Spock’s middle name when the Enterprise first set out on her five year mission. But now the guy was discerning for someone who shunned emotion on a regular basis. Too much time spent in a tin can with a load of projecting humans had messed with Spock’s mental veneer. Too much time spent around Jim who grinned and laughed, and said a load of nothing while trying to mean a lot of something.

Yeah.

Poetic.

This will be the first December the crew has spent together on the Enterprise. Perhaps the events Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura are planning could be emotionally pleasant experiences to counteract the unpleasant Christmases you previously endured.

You’re putting a lot of faith in the crew’s party skills.

I am not an expert in the field, however, they do appear to know how to make creative use of their leisure time.

It’s too bad you aren’t here. First enterprise xmas, like you said.

Another painful pause. Jim whacked his foot against his desk, ignoring the sharp twinge through his big toe.

It is indeed, unfortunate.

*

What are you wearing?

Black robes, a wrapped collar shirt, black trousers, and a knit undershirt. The temperature is low for this time of year.

Why did the thought of so many layers covering Spock’s skin sound so hot?

Which means it’s basically burn my skin raw hot.

If you stepped outdoors without proper protection, it is likely you would sustain a serious sun burn.

Hey send a photo. I haven’t seen you in civvies before.

Jim promised himself not to use any photo Spock would likely not agree to send for nefarious behind closed doors, lights off purposes. His comm pinged and an image of Spock standing at parade rest in his civilian clothing appeared on his screen.

Shit, he did look hot. Not literally, despite the thickness of his clothing. But, figuratively smoking hot.

‘I will not use this image for nefarious purposes,’ Jim reminded himself. He set the photo as his new comm background.

Is this a long distance communication custom among humans? If so, I believe it would be appropriate to ask for a photo of you in return, Captain.

Spock wanted a selfie of Jim. Spock was asking for a selfie of Jim even if the request was hidden behind the ruse of indulgent politeness.

Okay, just a sec.

Raising his comm in front of him, Jim snapped a photo and sent it off. Spock replied within seconds.

I do not believe that hat is regulation.

It probably wasn’t regulation to be sending his first officer a picture of himself half naked. But it was the middle of the night and he was dressed for bed, and Jim never wore anything except pajama bottoms or else he got too warm and tore off his covers. He was half naked for logical reasons.

As for the Santa hat, Rand had plopped that on Jim’s head earlier in the evening after leaving a stack of PADDs on top of the pile already covering his desk. Her stash of Christmas decorations was truly endless.

After Rand left, Jim tore off his shirt, getting comfortable for a night of texting with his favorite first officer. Jim was unsure why he kept the itchy red Santa hat on. Until Spock asked for that selfie—the hat gave the photo a festive sexiness.

Just getting in the merry mood. Rand already decked out my whole quarters. You’d like it. Lots of tinsel.

Lots of tinsel Spock could get entangled in if he was here.

You were adamant about the unaesthetically pleasing qualities of the colors red and green together during our last conversation. I did not think such décor would be to your taste.

Didn’t wanna be a scrooge. And Rand is an unstoppable force. I scrap 1 xmas thing, and 10 more appear in its place.

As captain of the Enterprise, you could order your yeoman to cease such activities if they are not to your liking.

Aw hell, I wouldn’t be me if I shut down a good time.

That is a fact I cannot dispute.

Besides, the holiday décor is starting to grow on me. Especially the tinsel. You kinda turned me on to tinsel.

If indeed traditional Christmas decorations have begun to emerge from your skin, this is a matter you should not be so nonchalant about. Yeoman Rand has perhaps been too excessive with her decorating.

NOT literally spock NOT LITERALLY

You have left your communicator’s caps lock key on, Captain.

I KNOW I DID IT ON PURPOSE MR. SASSYPANTS.

By leaving the caps locks on, your text is given the appearance of shouting. You have been angered unnecessarily by my comments. I advise emotional restraint though from past experience I have doubts you will listen to such sensible advice.

Additionally, my pants are not a sentient being and therefore contain no sass.

LMFAO SPOCK

I do not understand.

Laughing my fucking ass off spock LMFAO.

I see, a human abbreviation. I assume your gluteus maximus is not literally being laughed off, as I am positive the bones in said area of the human body, although more fragile than Vulcan bone structure, contain enough density to endure even one of your more excessive laughing fits.

Yea my ass can handle some tough loving.

I am gratified to hear this.

Jim’s fingers froze above the keyboard, his laughter literally struck dumb.

Are you?

That is what I just assured you of in my previous text.

Why?

You believe I wish to see your posterior removed from your body by laughter?

Depends what you think of my ass.

I have no objections to that part of your body, Jim.

You think I have a nice ass.

If you are feeling self-conscious about your gluteus maximus, I assure you it is quite aesthetically pleasing. Has Doctor McCoy been commenting on your diet again? I have observed that you tend to make derogatory references to your appearance ninety three percent of the time after the doctor has remarked about your escalating weight gain.

Jim stared at his comm screen until his eyes began to water. Holy shit. Spock did like his ass.

Honestly, this is just me trying to get you to say I have a nice ass.

Vanity is not a virtue, Jim.

Oh really? But if I wasn’t vain, then I wouldn’t be keeping my ass in top condition for you to admire.

There are surely more pressing concerns for you to distract yourself with than my admiration of your buttocks.

Nothing is more important than that, Spock.

I did not think you placed such value in my judgment seeing as how frequently you disregard it.

Bull shit.

I do not understand how bull feces are relevant to this discussion.

I don’t disregard your judgment, Spock. What you think is very important. I just don’t like to admit it.

You have contradicted yourself as you just admitted the worth of my judgment to you in the same text you denied your wish to declare your estimation.

You caught me smart ass.

Although Vulcan anatomy differs from humans in many respects, our brains are located in our skulls, not in our buttocks.

You are overly occupied with that area of one’s anatomy, Jim.

Shit, you’ve noticed me looking then.

I have noticed your admiration of the posterior of many aesthetically pleasing individuals we have encountered during our mission.

Oh jealous much?

Vulcans do not get jealous much. Vulcans do not experience jealousy, at all.

Your non-existent Vulcan jealousy has clouded your judgment, Spock. You haven’t noticed me admiring one particular aesthetically pleasing ass more than all the aesthetically pleasing asses.

This is a strange course of conversation, Captain.

Jim rolled his eyes to himself, rubbing a hand messily through his hair. Sometimes it felt like Spock was flirting with him, and sometimes he thought Spock was shutting him down. But most of the time, Spock was probably just plain confused.

What d’you wanna talk about then? Ears? Noses? Hands?

I have no particular preference.

Hmm I wonder.

Wonder what, Captain?

If you do have any preference, at all.

I said I did not. Clarify.

Like, you had a preference for Uhura before she dumped you. But what about now, do you have a preference for anyone else?

He was getting brazen now. Pushing the big shiny Vulcan button till it broke down.

I am engaged in no romantic relationships at this time. If I was, as my superior officer, I would notify you if such an occurrence should take place, per Starfleet regulations concerning the compromise of judgment with romantically involved crew members.

Yea I know.

Then why do you ask, Jim?

Because asking stupid questions is my specialty.

Your conversation often does confuse me. Even more so than other humans.

Thanks, Spock.

If you wish to take such a comment as a compliment, you may do so.

Thanks, Spock. <3

You are welcome, Jim. <3

Holy shit.

*

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3

We have not engaged in communication for 3.7 hours. I do not understand how I have suddenly gained such profuse textual examples of your affection.

I was just thinking about that time you told me I was illogical for the hundredth time when we were dealing with that tribble problem last month. Then I felt this sudden surge of emotion for your person and I needed to let it out.

Should I be disturbed by this sudden revelation?

Didn’t think Vulcans get disturbed.

An astute observation. I will not be disturbed by your sudden surge of emotion for my person, then. Such surges of emotion seem common to your personality rather than signifying altered mental health.

Sounds about right.

Hey, check this out.

You have sent me a photo of a tribble wearing a hat similar to the one you donned during out conversation two nights ago.

Yeah it’s Uhura’s bff. She dressed it up. Almost looks as cute as me.

Its aesthetic qualities are not within even a tenth percentile of your own, Captain.

OMG spock, there you go again with the sweet talk. Flattery will get you everywhere with my vain ass.

I was not engaging in flattery. Vulcans do not flatter, especially in regards to gaining favors with human posteriors.

That’s even worse.

Or better, I should say. Cause it means you really think I’m cute, cuter than a tribble. And you’re not saying it just to get a piece of your favorite ass.

When did I remark that your ‘ass’ was my favorite ‘ass,’ Captain?

Don’t be coy with me, Mr. Spock. Do you really like someone else’s ass better than mine?

Vulcans do not engage in favoritism, sir.

AKA Vulcans like to play hard to get.

I am not playing, hard or otherwise.      

Jim, what do you hope to get from me that you believe is hard.

Jim choked a bit on his own saliva as his thoughts went to a dark and dirty place.

The subtext is so thick right now, I’m gonna need a sharp knife to get through this one alive.

I am not well versed in human innuendo, Jim. Please do not handle sharp objects unnecessarily. You will injure yourself.

I think you know more about innuendo than you let on.

You have not answered my question.

The answer to your question is stuff I shouldn’t be hoping for, that’s what.

Stuff is an overly generalized term. Clarification would be beneficial to my understanding.

For the break in my heart to be healed!

As I’ve stated before, human subtly in the form of wordplay often escapes me. Perhaps you are the one playing, Jim.

No, not playing.

I see.

Jim glared at the screen.

"Do you?" he thought aloud to his comm.

*

“You know there’s an actual person here, sitting in front of you.”

“Sorry, Bones. Just a sec.” Jim tapped off another text and hit send.

“Sitting here watching you sext your damn hobgoblin is worse than watching the two of you moon over each other in person.” Jim watched the frantic movements of his friend's hands as he spoke. Bones’ grip better be sure on that fork or Jim was gonna lose an eye one day.

“He’s not my damn hobgoblin.” Placing his comm down, Jim grabbed his sandwich, keeping his peripheral vision on the screen. “And pretty sure Spock has never mooned over anyone in his life, let alone little ol’ me.”

Bones harrumphed. “You sure about that?”

*

I have captured a photo using my communicator that I believe you may find amusing.

I wanna see!

Building up the suspense, huh?

Patience, Captain. Only 18 seconds have transpired since my last text.

Are you in the photo, Spock? It feels like eons since my eyes hath laid themselves upon your face.

Incorrect. Your eyes have never removed themselves from your skull and laid themselves upon my face.

I was trying to be poetic but should’ve known it’d be a waste of time. I suppose, I miss seeing you, would be a literal translation.

It has been 15.2 days since you last saw me. You are indeed an emotional creature if such a minimal time-frame of absence between us has reduced you to poetic outbursts.

ur gonna make me cry Spock. im gonna need a quart of ice cream and 10 hamburgers to help sooth my broken heart

Ice cream and hamburgers are not a cure for cardiac problems. In fact, I believe they are more likely to ‘break your heart,’ as you insist on describing your ailment.

hey spock where’s my pic??

spock spock spock!!??

you still there?

Doctor McCoy has just informed me via text that you are suffering from ‘no heart trouble he can cure,’ and refused to elaborate due to patient doctor confidentiality regulations.

Too bad he didn’t listen to those fancy regs when he leaked my list of allergies to you.

Jim, are you suffering from an incurable ailment of the heart? As your first officer, I should be notified of the specifics, so I may be better able to assist you if required.

no no no honestly nothing is wrong.

Humans are not known for their truth telling. And you in particular, Jim, often refuse to acknowledge any limitations your body is experiencing.

seriously spock if my heart can survive you it can survive anything.

I was not aware of any injuries I had inflicted on your heart. Is this another metaphor for human emotion in relation to that organ? It is a highly illogical description, as emotion does not originate within the heart but through hormones issued by the brain.

The scars upon my heart are not physical but emotional.

Although you insist you are not playing, I have the distinct suspicion that you are. Your text messages constantly hint at subtext. I wish you would be more frank when communicating, so I might better understand your meaning and respond appropriately.

Just having fun.

Fun denotes play.

I can be playful while being dead serious.

Are you texting me beyond the grave, Captain? I highly doubt that is possible.

Talk about playful, sassy. Hey where’s my photo?

You have succeeded in distracting me. I will send the photograph now.

OMG.

OMFG!

nice tinsel

nice spock

wow

my mind has been blown

I suspect by the amount of nonsensical abbreviations and errors in your text that the photograph is to your liking.

YES.

Jim set the photo as his new comm wallpaper.

Only in Jim’s perverted dreams would Spock take photographic evidence of himself entangled in tinsel for his captain’s amusement, but here it was, actual Spock with actual tinsel.

It really wasn’t that provocative, at least to anyone who didn’t admire the stoic look on Spock’s face and his heavy Vulcan clothing, contrasted by the multicolored bits of string he had wrapped in his hands--hands Jim had decided he was obsessed with. And technically, Spock wasn’t entangled. But, what was imagination for if not to take an innocent photo of one's desire and morph it into something titillating.

Why are you surrounded by tinsel? Where did you even get tinsel on new Vulcan?

My father kept my mother’s Christmas decorations in storage. When I suggested recreating the tradition as a homage to my mother’s memory, my father agreed.

Spock’s bringing back Christmas!

Affirmative. In regards to my father’s household, that is. Additionally, I found my mother’s recipe for her Christmas cookies.

You’re hanging tinsel and baking cookies. Spock you truly are my dream guy.

I am not a dream, Jim.

You’re my real life flesh and blood guy.

Affirmative.

Okay, there were several ways Jim could comprehend that simple word, and only one way he wanted to. But only one way he should—that Spock was being literal and factual as always.

My real life flesh and blood guy whose tinsel wrapped hands and baking skills are light years away from me.

It is unfortunate that our distance prevents us from sharing the experiences spoken of together, as you seem fond of tinsel and cookies in proximity to myself.

Just having you around would make my Christmas awesome. The tinsel and cookies would be a bonus.

Your presence would also make my celebration of the day more eventful.

*

Attached is the requested photograph of my attempt at my mother’s cookie recipe.

They look uhhhh almost edible.

I believe there is room for improvement.

Don’t quit your day job.

I have no intention to.

*

So your adventures with tinsel inspired me. Check this out:

Jim snapped a photo of his quarters and sent it to Spock.

That is an excessive amount of tinsel, Jim. As the time stamps on your texts have alerted me to the frequency of your late nights, I suspect the chance of you tripping over a piece of tinsel while you are fatigued is 87.4%. I believe ‘less is more’ would be an appropriate saying in regards to your decorating skills.

However, the aesthetic quality, although disputable, is enthralling.

How about this for aesthetically pleasing?

Jim fired off another selfie.

If you leave the tinsel draped around your neck and happen to fall asleep at your desk, which has occurred during eight of our textual communications, the possibility of strangulation is 78.2%.

I think it makes me look pretty.

Although the decorations do draw attention to yourself, you are more ‘pretty’ unadorned. As I said, ‘less is more.’

How about this for ‘less is more?’

Jim was becoming the king of selfies.

In nine of the twelve photographs you have sent me in the past eighteen days, you are wearing minimal clothing. If you are overly warm, you should lower the temperature in your quarters to conserve ship resources.

Temperature is fine. I’m just getting comfortable after a long day stuck in a uniform.

I hope you are restricting your undress to your own quarters.

Yeah, and your communicator. ;)

Is there a textual symbol for exasperation?

Ooooo my shirtlessness is getting you all hot and exasperated.

I rescind my previous question. Searching for the appropriate symbol on the internet was a more expedient process than waiting for you to answer my question accurately.

Hey look, I’m a human xmas tree—

Captain, you will strangle and electrocute yourself. A web resource dedicated to the listing of textual symbols in relation to emotional expressions has informed me the letter D combined with a colon will present a form of shock that would be relevant at this moment. D:

Look, I’ve gotten over my red & green phobia—

It would be logical to cover your legs with trousers rather than wrapping paper. I believe this symbol would be most suitable in relation to your photograph: >_>

Come home and unwrap me then :D

@_@

You just expressed more emotion with some little emoticons than I’ve seen you express in over a year.

I have discovered a symbol I percieve as an accurate representation of Vulcan facial expressions: -_-

No! Bring back the emotion! Roll your virtual eyes at me again, what about a smiley face?

-_-

T_T

*

Guess whose name I pulled for secret santa?

It would be more efficient for you to simply inform me.

That’s not how you play the guessing game.

You repeatedly inform me that you are not playing games, but now you wish to play?

This has nothing to do with what we were talking about before. Just guess.

Lieutenant Meirs.

Nope. Bones.

I’m gonna give him a giant bag filled with candy as pay back for all those salads he made me eat this year.

I believe the purpose of gift giving is to choose a present that will please a particular individual.

I like to think outside the box.

Wonder who pulled my name.

Lieutenant Uhura.

what?!! how’d you know that??

She informed me via text.

you’re texting uhura? i thought texting was our thing?

As both Lieutenant Uhura and I own communicators with text functions, as does every member of Starfleet, texting being ‘our thing’ is a vast statement of arrogance.

so you’re texting every member of starfleet then?

Although it is difficult to perceive the nuances of human emotion through written words alone, I sense you are jealous.

of course I am. I want you all to myself duh.

You are using sarcasm.

Nope.

Fascinating.

I fascinate you.

Affirmative.

More sweet sweet talkin.

If it will help ease your envy, although unfounded, my communications with Lieutenant Uhura are strictly friendly and of an entirely different nature than ours.

So she hasn’t been sending you any half-naked selfies?

Indeed not.

ok cool.

And you haven’t sent her any half-naked selfies?

Captain, that is an inane question and irrelevant to this particular comparison as I have not sent you any photographs of myself in which I was unclothed.

If you wanted to send me unclothed photos of yourself though I’d be totally cool with that.

I do not want to send you any unclothed photographs of myself.

'There goes my next comm wallpaper,' Jim moped at his screen.

I believe the act of disrobing can be better appreciated in person within private quarters.

Jim gaped, dropping the string of Christmas lights he’d been unwrapping from his shoulders. Was that a proposition? An invitation? A suggestion of possibility?

Alone, you mean? Or with someone else?

I do not share your vanity, Jim. Staring at my naked body alone in my quarters is not an extracurricular activity I involve myself with.

Too bad. Because imagining Spock naked in his quarters next door, watching himself, touching himself, sounded like a really hot hobby. Though imagining it wasn’t the same as participating.

So, with someone else then.

Yes, Jim.

Anyone is particular?

Such activities are generally shared with a person one is sexually attracted to.

Thanks, Commander Obvious.

Was Spock teasing him—being purposefully obtuse? Spock had sass, but calling him mischievous might be a stretch.

I am gratified my observations could be of use to you.

Jim plopped his comm onto his desk and ripped the wrapping paper from his body. It was getting restricting and Spock was right. Such activities were more fun when he had someone to get frisky with in person.

*

At this point, Jim had to unplug several power sources in order to sleep at night. With all the lights and sparkling Christmas decorations tossed around his quarters, first by his exuberant yeoman, and then by Jim in his sudden appreciation for the qualities of tinsel, it looked like a star had exploded in his room

“Illogical,” Jim thought in Spock’s voice.

He didn’t want to hurt Rand’s feelings. She’d put a lot of effort into restoring all the decorations Jim had discarded, and the tinsel was a reminder of his weird Spock being wrapped up in sparkly stuff fetish. So Jim decided it could all stay until December twenty sixth rolled around.

Bones had visited his quarters last night for a drink and literally gagged.

“Good God, man! You trying to blind me?” Holding a hand up against the flashing lights tacked above Jim’s doorway, Bones had consequently tripped over a string of tinsel as long as the stream of curses that followed from the doctor’s mouth.

“More,” Bones complained as Jim poured his friend a glass of whiskey. “I’m gonna need a full tumbler to dull the headache I’ve already got sitting in this light show.”

“It’s festive,” Jim argued with a pout.

“It’s manic.” Bones took a swig. “The hell’s gotten into you? You busted my balls when I put up that stupid fake tree in our room back at the academy. Thought you hated Christmas.”

“I don’t hate Christmas.”

“You actually said, ‘I hate Christmas,’ and then went into a rant about commercialization when I tried to bring some good ol’ cheer into that ugly room.” Bones crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, giving Jim a look.

“Okay, maybe I did,” Jim replied, “but it’s our first Christmas in deep space, and everyone’s getting in the mood. Being a scrooge would be bad for morale.”

“So you traded one extreme for another?” Bones tapped a finger against his glass.

“Spock likes it.” Jim waved his comm at Bones. “Sent him a photo.”

Snorting, Bones took another drink. “Spock must be in love with you if he admitted to liking this mess. Blinded by love.”

“Yeah, right. He’s just being nice.” Jim took a sip of his own drink.

“Vulcan’s don’t do nice.”

*

Hey, Spock?

Yes, Jim.

How do you feel about office romances?

I cannot offer an opinion on the subject without further clarification.

yknow when 2 people who work together get together.

Get together?

Begin a romantic relationship.

I see.       

There would be risk of emotional compromise or favoritism.

Maybe. But it depends on the individuals, right? It’s possible they could keep work and romance separate.

It is, indeed, possible. I have met several bonded couples who work in the same departments at the VSA without complication.

Oh yeah I bet Vulcans would be good at office romances.

Jim, I believe you are trying to hide your true meaning behind innuendo again. It is advisable that you speak frankly with me.

I was just thinking about Starfleet regs. And us.

As commanding officers aboard a federation vessel, Starfleet regulations do pertain to us. Is there a specific regulation you were considering?

The one that says captains shouldn’t have relationships with their first officers.

I see. Our relationship has expanded from that of coworkers into a close friendship. If you are concerned our association may be emotionally compromising, I assure you it is not.

It’s not the present state of our relationship I’m concerned about. That’s good, great in fact. It’s great that we’re friends. It’s the future state I’m thinking about, or the evolution of our relationship into something else. At least in my case—the way I think about you has changed.

Clarify.

Yeah. Okay. If that’s really what Spock wanted—no more playing. No more subtext. Jim typed and hit send before he could read the words too closely.

I have feelings for you, Spock.

I am aware.

Not only friendship.

Perhaps you could be more specific.

Feelings of a romantic nature.

A cold pause. The temperature hadn’t changed, but Jim’s head was always good at playing tricks.

You are sexually attracted to me.

God, Spock.

Yes.Yeah, I am.

But not just that. If it was just sex I wouldn’t feel like this. Like I want more from you.

If that makes any sense.

If I am interpreting your meaning correctly, you are, I believe the human saying is, in love with me.

His heart slamming against his chest, Jim gripped his communicator, fiddling with the top, flipping it open and closed three times. No use preventing the inevitable. It’s not like he could keep a lid on this burning, painful, beautiful thing he had for Spock forever.

Yeah. That’s it.

I see.

Jim stared at the screen, waiting a few seconds, and then an additional thirty for a more elaborate text, negative or positive, reciprocation or a complete shutdown.

You see?

You see what?

Instead, nothing.

*

I totally freaked you out didn’t I?

Even if Vulcan’s don’t get freaked out.

ignore my last text, delete it. pretend it never happened.

No response the whole day. Maybe Spock’s communicator was broken. Yeah, maybe it broke just when Spock was about to reciprocate Jim’s feelings with a heartfelt confession.

Jim buried his head under a pillow, shoving his communicator between his mattress. Out of sight out of mind.

If only.

*

I’m sorry, Spock. Forgive me.

Please don’t do anything hasty like transferring onto another ship because I can’t keep my stupid feelings to myself.

I’d miss you.

Not in a weird sexual way or anything.

Because we haven’t done any weird sexual stuff.

But as a friend. As the best first officer a captain could ask for.

Sorry. I’m so sorry.

“Hobgoblin got sick of your clinging?” Bones said with a rough laugh and a jerkish grin.

“Shut up, Bones.” Jim shoved his comm in his pocket.

*

Hey Spock? You’re okay right?

You didn’t burn the kitchen down did you?

Get caught in some tinsel?

Should I send a rescue team???

Should I bury myself in a hole with my stupid feelings never to be heard from again?

*

Jim flicked his communicator closed for the one millionth time and sipped the glass of punch Uhura had handed him with a small smile and lowered eyes that read pity all over.

“Haven’t heard from Spock lately, have you?” she asked.

“Uh, no,” Jim replied, eyes swerving out of her range. What had Spock told her? Oh, God, he wouldn’t tell her about that? “Thanks for the boozy chocolates, by the way.”

“No problem. They might come in useful later.” As she wandered off with a wink, Jim wondered what the hell boozy chocolates could be good for later other than drowning himself in a drunken sugar rushed blaze of heart broken misery.

Bones shimmied up to him—the guy must be plastered—and poured a generous splash of something that smelled distinctly alcoholic into Jim’s punch. “Cheer up, Romeo.”

Jim lifted his eyes to the ceiling and downed the punch.

He should be enjoying the ship wide Christmas party; over the past week he had started looking forward to it. But the general source of his high spirits had been silent for three days, and Jim didn’t know whether to be worried, or if he should be getting some kind of unspoken message through his thick skull.

“He’s just not that into me,” Jim sulked, wincing around the clash of alcohol mixed with the overly sweet drink.

“Is Spock all you think about?” Bones said, too loudly, and Jim thanked the stars music was drowning out their voices. “If he wasn’t into you, he wouldn’t have put up with your awkward texts and gross selfies.”

“My selfies are very tasteful.”

“They ain’t, Jimbo.”

“Spock had no problem with them.”

“Yeah, and what was I just saying about the hobgoblin?” Bones grabbed a candy cane from a bowl on the snack table. He was definitely drunk. “Oh yeah, all red in the face like a southern bell in June. Except green.” Bones snorted. “Green in the face like he’s got the plague. The love plague.”

Jim’s communicator suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He made a grab for it while Bones poured himself another spiked cup of punch.

Merry Christmas, Jim.

spock!! you ok??

I am performing optimally.

what’s going on? where’ve you been?

I have been traveling on a transport from New Vulcan to the Enterprise’s present coordinates for the past 3.2 days. Communication reception was not ideal. I apologize for any concern my silence may have caused you. I was attempting to generate the human emotion of surprise.

Jim grabbed Bones’ arm to support himself. The doctor struck Jim’s hand with a half-eaten candy cane.

whaattt??!!

Are communications on the Enterprise also faulty? I will resend a verbatim of my previous text:

I have been traveling on a transport from New Vulcan to the Enterprise’s present coordinates for the past 3.2 days. Communication reception was not ideal. I apologize for any concern my silence may have caused you. I was attempting to generate the human emotion of surprise.

no no no where r u?

“Jim.”

Jim swiveled around on the spot, the punch, which Bones had refilled his cup with while Jim was preoccupied, spilled across his shirt. Spock, flesh and blood Spock, was standing before him, hands clasped behind his freshly donned science blues. His first officer’s eyes darted from Jim’s face to the red smear across the green civilian sweater he’d dug out of his closet for the party.

Smooth, Jim, smooth.

“Your allergy to the colors red and green appear to be cured,” Spock said in his cool Vulcan voice, no sign of amusement other than the bright flash and upturning in his eyes that Jim noticed despite the haze Bones’ booze was causing. Jim always noticed these secret things Spock did. One of his favorite things was to watch out for the little hints Spock gave--a Vulcan puzzle.

“Goddamn it, the hobgoblin is back.” Bones yelled, the ridiculous grin on his face belying his frustration. “Now, Jim can stop pining over his communicator like a twelve year old.”

Jim glared at Bones, which had zero affect at all, and turned back to Spock. “What are you doing here?”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “After our last text communication, I was under the impression you would be pleased to see me.”

Smug Vulcan. He couldn’t be playing. Spock was cold, smooth, hard as ice, but not cruel. “Of course I am. You know I am. But you’re not supposed to be here for another eight days,” Jim answered.

“I was able to sufficiently conclude my work at the VSA and leave unfinished tasks in capable hands, so that I would be able to return early.”

“Well.” Jim had started grinning, his face cracking at the seams. “Well. I’m glad you’re here. Really glad.”

Spock’s eyes bored into Jim’s for several endless seconds. That look made Jim want to do things inadvisable in front of his crew; even if most of them were too drunk to remember the events of tonight tomorrow. Things he might not be allowed to do since Spock had left Jim hanging by the noose of his own stunted love confession. Jim took an unconscious step forward and Spock’s eyes fell, returning to the soaking patch on Jim’s sweater.

“I have something which I believe can remedy the mess you have created upon your clothing,” Spock said. Jim blinked.

“Are you going to put me out of my misery, Spock?”

“A state of misery is not a feeling I would wish to inflict, especially upon you, Jim.” Spock pulled a package wrapped in plain brown paper from behind his back. “As gift giving is a common practice between those who share a relationship, I have brought you one.”

Jim took it, stared at the weight of it in his hands. He couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “I didn’t get you anything.”

“That is of no consequence. Please,” Spock gestured, his slender fingers spread wide, “open it.”

Because there was nothing else sensible he could do, and Spock was being ambiguous, Jim pulled the tape apart from the paper. Inside was a sweater—it looked Vulcan in style, similar to the civilian clothes in Spock’s photos. Jim unfolded it, holding the cloth out in front of him.

“As you appeared shirtless in many of the photographic images of yourself exchanged during our separation, I suspected clothing for your upper body would be a useful and thoughtful gift.”

Jim smiled, a faint tilt of his lips to the right, a small sigh escaping from between them. He noticed Spock’s eyes leveling with his mouth and wondered.

“Thanks, Spock.”

“You are welcome, Jim.”

“Get a room!” Bones grumbled over Jim’s shoulder making him jump back a step. “If you two start making out in front of me, you’ll ruin my Christmas.”

Spock’s eyes remained on Jim’s mouth where his tongue had darted out to lick his lips nervously. His whole mouth felt hot and dry and Spock looking at him, pupils wide, was making him feel a variety of temperatures in different parts of his body.

“If you are in agreement, I believe a discussion in private would be wise at this time,” Spock said and Jim nodded quickly, stepping toward the door. He clutched Spock’s gift to his chest, the fabric a comforting warmth against his fingers. Walking to his quarters, Jim felt a pointed heat of presence between his shoulders. Spock’s footsteps followed behind.

After entering his security code, Jim stepped through the door to his room. In the space of the breath it took to take that step into privacy, Spock’s shadow fell across Jim, cool fingers gripping his shoulders a sudden press of warm lips against his own.

Spock was kissing him.

Holy, shit, Spock was kissing him. And not just a peck. Not just a simple caress of lips.

Spock was kissing him and he wasn’t stopping. Jim opened his mouth and Spock accepted the invitation, tongue darting forward, one hand pressing Jim back against the bulkhead, another moving into Jim’s hair. Spock’s body, his whole body, was cool, firm, insistent, and yes, damn hard.

The thing was, although Spock was paying a zealous amount of attention to Jim’s mouth while his hard on pressed against Jim’s hip, Spock still hadn’t really responded to Jim’s awkward declaration. And pulling the zip down on Jim’s pants was only a partial answer. One that could end with a “that was nice but never again,” answer in the morning.

When Spock moved his mouth to Jim’s neck, Jim took a breath. “So, does this mean you like me too?” he asked, his voice harsh, cracking at the seams.

Spock paused, lifting his head to stare at Jim, pupils blown wide, cheeks tinted green. Jim bit his lip, forcing himself to remain still.

“Yes, Jim. I like you, too.” And if Jim wasn’t in a delirium of lust, he might have believed he saw Spock’s lips tilt upward for a bare second. “I assumed that was obvious.” Spock shifted his hips to the left, and Jim groaned at the added friction. “I wished to make my intentions known sooner, yet I was unsure whether my partiality toward you would be reciprocated.”

“What?” Jim lifted his chin upward. “I thought I was the one being obvious. Too obvious.”

“I suspected.” Spock hummed, his voice lowered, sending a chill down Jim’s spine. “Yet, each time I attempted to construe your feelings on the matter, you responded with witty or inane rejoinders.”

“Uhh yeah. I didn’t want to freak you out with my overwhelming emotional lust.”

“I am not freaked out, Jim.”

When Spock said his name like that…

“Well, I just wasted a load of time we could’ve spent doing this.” As Jim followed the roll of Spock’s hips, he felt a breath of hot air waft against his check where Spock had applied his mouth.

“Nonetheless, the, ah, textual foreplay was,” Spock laced his right hand with Jim’s left, red against green, the final addition to Jim’s holiday décor, “amusing.”

Surging forward, Spock, despite his superior Vulcan strength, let Jim push him back, back toward the bed, avoiding the tangle of tinsel stretched between his desk and bedpost because, although wrapping his first up like a Christmas present would be lots of fun, Jim wasn’t letting anything get between his hands and Spock’s skin for the foreseeable future.

***