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Just outside the door, Kirk could hear the soft sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, shuffling cards, and beyond that, the gentle thrumming, ethereal twang of Spock’s lyre. That alone warmed him, pushed him forward in spite of the paperwork he still had to finish from their stint at Betazed. But he needed this. Well, he wanted it, at least. To bask in Spock’s quiet presence and watch him in moments of relaxation Kirk rarely saw.
Spock was doing better, at least. Better since the destruction of Vulcan, better since choosing to remain with Starfleet instead of returning to the colony. Better since Jim had been resurrected, and since Khan and his people were…taken care of. Whatever that meant. Kirk hadn’t asked, not yet. It had been exactly two years and twenty-six days since he’d woken up to the dark eyes of Spock looming over him, and the feeling of almost visceral relief pouring off him. The way his mouth turned up, if only just slightly, and the way he said, “You are welcome, Jim,” which Kirk was certain hid an unspoken novel of things between them.
And it was there now, between them, on the ship. Something tangible, but both seemingly afraid to reach out and take what was there in front of them. There were worse things, Kirk supposed. At least he had this—his girl, the Enterprise which had survived one of the worst things that could have happened to her. Every so often, Jim still stopped in the corridors, pressed an open palm to her walls to feel her humming, alive against his fingertips. A stark reminder of what else he might have lost—besides his life, besides his crew, besides Spock—more times than he wanted to think about, that last one. Spock, more stoic than Jim, but just as reckless with his life in the face of saving others.
What a pair they made. If only they let themselves.
Jim couldn’t deny, anymore, the looks Spock gave him. He couldn’t fall back on the excuse that he couldn’t read the face of Vulcans for the way they hid themselves behind emotional repression and logic. Because that was a lie. It had only been a handful of years, but it changed nothing. Jim could read Spock—knew his cues, his tells, his most subtle shifts as though they were screaming declarations. And everyone knew it.
It remained unspoken on the bridge, and for that Jim was grateful. They still had years to go on the mission, and more than anything—for how many choices had been made for him—this one he wanted to figure out on his own.
The door snicked open, and Jim strolled inside the leisure room, glancing around at the tables spread out. He hadn’t been wrong—Bones was drinking with most of the engineering crew. Sulu and Chekov were bent over a PADD talking animatedly about something. Uhura, Christine, and Mary from security were playing a game of cards.
Spock was near them—always near Uhura—like a safety blanket. He was sitting back in a chair, eyes half-lidded, his Vulcan lyre between his fingers which strummed across the strings in a lazy pattern. Though Jim didn’t understand Vulcan music, he couldn’t deny the way it captivated him. The eerie patterns were soothing in a way that most Terran music was not.
It drew him close, drew him to the chair near Spock, a chair which brought him so close that if he pushed further, their knees would brush. He didn’t dare, but he took note of the way that the very tips of Spock’s ears flushed a light green. He suppressed a smile as he sat, and nodded when Christine pushed a glass of Andorian Ale toward him. His fingers curled around the glass, but he didn’t feel like drinking. He just felt like existing here.
“Where to next, Captain? Any orders yet?” Uhura tapped the edge of her nail on her glass in a pattern matching Spock’s music.
“Gamma Two,” Kirk said, an almost lazy slur to his voice. He paused and listened to a flow of notes from the lyre before tilting his head to look over at Uhura. “Routine check on the communications and astrogation station. They’ve been dealing with outages, and I figured Carol can have a look.”
Uhura nodded. “Sounds…”
“Boring?” Jim offered with a grin.
She grinned back, shrugging. Her eyes flickered to Spock for a moment, then looked back at Jim and her gaze was full of purpose, urging him to say something. Do something.
He ignored her.
The final notes trickled off Spock’s fingers, then his gaze sharpened and landed on Jim. His mouth quirked up, the barest hint of a smile which would be lost on anyone who didn’t know him as well as Jim. “Captain.”
Jim rolled his eyes and didn’t correct the use of his title. “How does a game of chess sound? I need to get my mind off…”
“The paperwork you have been neglecting to submit, in spite of the repeated requests for mission logs?” Spock offered.
“Don’t sass me, Mr. Spock,” Jim said with a lopsided grin. “Are you in or out.”
“I believe winning at chess would improve my moral by at least seven point six percent,” Spock said. He reached for the case he carried his lyre in, and snapped the instrument inside.
Jim looked over at Uhura and Christine and exchanged a quiet grin with them before he clapped Spock on the shoulder. “Come on. We’ll see if we can’t improve your morale.”
Jim set up the 3D board while Spock put his things away, and when his first officer walked in, Jim almost made a noise of surprise. Spock was dressed in casual clothes—a thick, cable-knit sweater and lounge pants. His feet were bare, and Jim made no protest when Spock ordered the temperature of the room to increase by one-point-six degrees.
The feeling between them grew heavier, the weight both comforting and oppressive, and Jim basked in it as he took his seat. “Who was white?”
“I believe that was you…” after some hesitation, “Jim.”
In a way, Jim understood why Spock often refrained from using his name like that. Because it didn’t sound like his name. It sounded like a thousand promises of a long future. It sounded like the caress of two Vulcan fingers against his own. Right now, in the privacy of his Ready Room, however, it was the only thing he wanted to hear.
He felt himself blush, and looked up to see matching green splotches of barely-there Vulcan blood on Spock’s cheeks, just below his eyes. Jim licked his lips, then bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid, something that would ruin this between them. In a way, the risk was almost worth it, because the reward would be beyond anything Jim could imagine. But he also knew that this was better than nothing, because nothing between himself and Spock would kill him.
“Want to make this interesting?”
Spock raised a brow. “I do find our chess games to be most intellectually stimulating. I am not sure how much more interesting we could make this.”
Jim shook his head. “It’s a figure of speech. Means do you want to bet on it.”
Spock looked considering. “While that is a fascinating suggestion, I have the upper hand, Jim, as I can calculate the exact odds of the outcome based on a single move.”
“That’s why it’s interesting,” Jim said with a half smile. “Anyway, we make the bet before either of us makes a move. And we can truss it up a bit, since we’re pretty evenly matched…”
“I have won exactly fifty-three point seven percent of our matches, Jim. We are not, as you say, evenly matched.”
“Close enough,” Jim said, waving his hand dismissively. “Anyway, how about this. I win if I can beat you in fifteen moves or less. With a three move margin on either side.”
Spock’s eyebrow climbed higher. “Not just the victor of the game, but in number of moves. Fascinating.”
Jim felt a little smug, because he could tell by Spock’s face, he was fascinated. “And you?”
Spock steepled his fingers under his chin as he considered the board, then considered Jim’s face. “Eighteen moves before check mate, one move margin.”
Jim gave a low whistle. “That’s some confidence.”
“It is not confidence, Jim, only logic. But I must ask, what is the prize for the victor?”
“What do you want?” Jim challenged, a little bit of a cheeky smile poking through.
Spock stared at him a long moment. “I will beam to the planetoid surface when we arrive at Gamma two, and you retain control of the conn.”
Jim grit his teeth, trying to ignore the disappointment in his chest, and was able to do it, because there was a sort of glint—something playful and deep—in Spock’s eyes. “And if I win…” Jim hesitated, then decided he could be playful right back. “I’ll let you know.”
“Is the secrecy of your winnings what is supposed to make it interesting, Captain?” Spock challenged. Definitely playful, now.
Jim grinned openly. “Just like keeping you on your toes, Number One.” He winked, then gestured for Spock to make his move before he could point out how Spock rarely, if ever, stood on his toes.
Jim won in nineteen moves. It was one of the most tense games he’d played in a long time, and he wanted this victory because he was just on the edge of brave enough to ask for what he wanted, and this could give him the push.
When Spock conceded, they both rose and Jim came around the side of the table, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“You are usually far more enthusiastic in your victories, Jim,” Spock said, his voice so low, Jim had to strain to hear it.
He stepped in even closer, knowing now he was invading Spock’s personal space, but the Vulcan seemed unbothered, made no move to step back. “Trust me, I’m enthused.”
“And your prize?” Spock asked, just as quiet. There was an unfamiliar tone to his voice, barely there, but there nonetheless.
“I…” Jim closed his mouth and breathed thought his nose. “You can say no.”
“I was under the impression,” Spock said slowly, “that the one who fails to claim victory in a bet must concede to the winning party, regardless of the request.”
Jim shook his head. “No. Not you. I would never…”
“Jim,” Spock said very, very soft now. His hand lifted, hesitated, then landed on Jim’s shoulder, just in the crook of his neck. “Ask me.”
Jim nodded. “Dinner. With me.”
Spock looked mildly surprised, his eyes widening just a fraction, then he nodded his head once. “Of course, Jim.”
“Not,” Jim said, then cleared his throat and let his hand come up, bold and certain, falling to Spock’s waist. He felt more than heard the way Spock sucked in a sharp breath. “Not just a regular dinner.”
“Your meaning is plain,” Spock said.
“You can say no. You can always say no if…”
“I would not,” Spock said, and used his hand on Jim’s shoulder to tug him so close, they were almost chest-to-chest. “I would not wish to say no.”
“Okay,” Jim said with a heavy, relieved breath, and then he smiled. “Okay. Good.”
Spock nodded again, and didn’t let go. “Would you allow me the courtesy of a second game? The chance to perhaps win back my own prize?”
“And give up what I won?” Jim asked, his eyes twinkling. “Not on your life.”
~*~
“Miss Marcus, Mr. Chekov, and I will beam down to the surface,” Jim said from the doorway to the bridge. “It should take us less than one standard hour, but keep communications open just in case.”
“Aye, Captain,” Sulu said with a nod.
“Mr. Spock, you have the conn.” He made eye contact with Spock before saying, “We’ll be back well before dinner.”
“Aye, Captain,” Spock said, and gave Jim a heated, meaningful look before Jim turned, headed for the transporter room.
Scotty was ready and waiting, and Jim gave him a quick nod. “If you need any assistance, I’ll be happy to beam down with you.”
Jim shook his head. “I think Miss Marcus can handle it from here, but I’ll let you know. Three to beam down, Mr. Scott.”
“Aye, Captain.” Scotty’s hand hovered over the console as the three of them took their place.
Jim closed his eyes. “Energize.” The word slipped from his mouth, and there was a tug, almost violent, like his very essence was being ripped apart and flung through space. He came to with hard ground under his back, and a strange sky overhead. It took him several moments to orient himself, and snapped to when he heard Carol and Pavel groaning on either side of him. “Are you two alright?”
“That was a rough landing,” Pavel said.
Carol brushed her arms off as she stood, a little shaky on her feet but getting steadier as whatever had gone wrong started to wear off. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Jim said, running a hand through his hair. “Transporter malfunction, maybe?” He glanced at the sky again, something dropping in the pit of his stomach. “This isn’t Gamma Two, though.”
Carol made a noise, and Jim looked over at her. “How do you know?”
“Look at the sky,” Jim said, pointing up. “And whatever this is…” He swept his hand at the symbol beneath their feet. He saw the high fences around them, and something in his gut shifted. This was…not good. “This isn’t the planetoid.”
“Captain,” came Chekov’s voice, and Jim turned in time to see two large, masculine looking humanoids walking from behind a rock wall. The taller was broad, covered in a light fur, protruding fangs from his lower jaw. The second looked far more humanoid than the first, his hair swept back, though his eyes looked almost dead. They wore primitive clothing—a leather-like material, and both carried sharp blads in their hands.
They advanced with a slowness that told Jim his landing party was no threat.
He signaled for his team to reach for their phasers. “Set to kill,” Jim ordered.
“Aye,” Carol said quietly.
Jim thumbed the control, and kept his back pressed to Pavel’s side as he eyed the bigger humanoid. They both wore strange collars around their necks, with red markings at the edges, and Jim shuddered. The last thing he wanted to do was engage in some sort of conflict with these creatures. He carefully brought his comm to his mouth. “Kirk to Enterprise. Enterprise come in.”
Nothing.
“It’s dead, Captain,” Pavel said, sounding resigned.
A noise from their left, and Kirk looked over to see two feminine-looking humanoids approaching. The shorter had skin like his own, but a wild shock of lavender hair, though carried the same collar. The second had skin in a deep chartreuse, with waves of pink atop her head. They both carried large spears, sharp and dangerous.
“Fire,” Jim said. He engaged his phaser, but it was dead. Resigned, he slapped it back to his side. “Hand-to-hand. You got this?”
“Aye,” Pavel and Carol chorused.
The four humanoids attacked. Jim went for the largest, hoping to draw it away from the others, but he was fixated on making sure his team wasn’t hurt, and he was taken over all-too quickly. Before he could blink, he was on his back, the lavender-haired being with a spear to his throat.
It was only moments as he closed his eyes, waiting for the end of the spear to pierce and artery when a voice spoke. “Well done, James Kirk. The Providers are much impressed.”
~*~
And then they were chained to the wall. Jim felt panic, fear, and defeat when the “obedience” collars were placed around their necks. The moment he mouthed off and the pain set in—the feeling of every single nerve on fire, the inability to draw in breath, the blackness closing in—Kirk knew this was no ordinary situation. He wasn’t going to be able to muscle his way out.
Not in spite of, but because of, the last few years with his crew, he held on to his staunch beliefs that no-win scenarios wouldn’t defeat him. Carol and Pavel were depending on him. The feeling of helplessness continued, however, when he could hear Carol in her cell, screaming and fighting, and he could do nothing.
The feeling got worse when Kirk was standing in the center of the ring with his hands tied behind his back, because he wasn’t about to watch Carol or Pavel whipped and unable to free their hands to defend himself.
The feeling abated as he stood there with blood dripping down his arms and back, with his flesh flayed from his back, but with the humanoid lying under his foot—defeated.
He lay in his cell that night, his eyes squeezed closed, knowing they couldn’t keep up like this. They’d been marked, and given to a Provider, and Kirk didn’t know who they were or what they looked like, or how he was going to get them out of this. They were further from Gamma Two than he could possibly imagine, and all he could think about was the crew. They’d exhaust every resource looking for them, but when they didn’t find them?
How long would Spock search before he deemed it logical to abandon the mission and declare Kirk, Marcus, and Chekov MIA? How long before they were declared dead, left to rot on this planet until they were, ultimately, defeated by whatever other monsters were here?
And I missed dinner, Kirk thought absurdly, and started laughing, covering his face. If I ever see Spock again, I’ll have to remember to apologize. He laughed once more, and decided maybe it was the infection kicking in. His skin felt flayed, raw, swollen as it burned along the whip slashes. His body ached with the strain of it, and he thought if he was going to die, well, this was definitely one way to go out.
~*~
“I have a proposition,” Kirk said, fighting off the delirious fever threatening to take him over. He swallowed, swiped his hand over his sweating brow as he stared down at the fragile, soft tissue under the dome. Rage filled him for a moment, the desire to punch through, to feel the give under his hands as he crushed them into oblivion. He closed his eyes and thought of the last bet he’d made, and he ached inside. “A wager, since you like gambling so much.”
“We are listening,” the Providers said.
“Pit me against your strongest thralls. If I win, you cease this betting and you teach them to care for themselves, you give them freedom. And if I lose, you keep me. No more disobedience. I will be yours.”
It wasn’t until the Providers then linked the ship that Jim felt victory within his grasp. Not just freedom for the other Thralls, and for Carol and Chekov who had both suffered in this place, but the chance to go home. To be free. Knowing that his crew—that Spock —was listening to them now, was almost too much, and also not enough.
His body was in pain—more pain than he felt after having returned to life after radiation ravaged his body. He knew there was a chance he would not survive this, that even if he won, the battle wasn’t over. But he fought. Not just for his life, but for the lives of others—like he’d been doing for his entire career in Starfleet.
The winning felt less victorious as he collapsed to his knees, his body no longer wanting to bear his weight. He clenched his hands into fists and bowed his head. “I won.”
“We are disappointed, but we shall honor the bet. You are free.”
“And the other Thralls?” he challenged, refusing to move until he knew the others would be granted their own freedom.
“To be taught self-sufficiency.”
The moment the collars were removed, Jim felt like he could breathe for the first time since they’d been brought into the Triskelion. He glanced over at Chekov, who was shaking slightly, and Carol who was staring resolutely ahead. His legs were barely holding his own weight, but all the same, he pulled out his communicator and saw that it was, finally, working.
“Three to beam up, Mr. Scott.”
“Aye, Captain,” came Scotty’s shaking voice, filled with relief.
Jim closed his eyes, and only let himself breathe properly again when he felt the humming life of the ship beneath his feet.
~*~
With a groan, Jim shifted onto his side and smelled the sterile, recycled air of the medbay. He sensed someone nearby, but the effort of opening his eyes was far too great. “How long have I been out?”
“Three point seven days.” Spock, in his dulcet tones, was like music to Jim’s ears. “Your infections were numerous, but Dr. McCoy insisted they were curable. I must admit to some hesitance in believing him capable and may owe him an apology or two.”
Jim smiled and forced one eye open. Everything was blurry, but the sight of Spock near his bed was distinct enough. He raised a shaking hand, and was rewarded with Spock’s warm palm against his own. “I owe you one, too.”
Spock raised a brow. “Indeed?”
Jim licked his lips with a dry tongue, grimacing at the tug of what felt like newly grown skin at the corner of his mouth. “I ah. I missed our dinner date.”
“Jim,” Spock breathed out, and a rush of emotion flooded into Jim from the touch. Fear, relief, exasperation, affection. Spock’s grip tightened on Jim, and he leaned closer. “You can make it up to me.”
Jim’s smile went wider, the ache more fierce, but it was a welcome one—an ache of healing, and of home. “Yeah. I think I can do that.”
Spock’s hand released his, but didn’t go far, instead pushing up into his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. “For now, rest. You require several more hours of sleep for your body to fully recover.”
Jim nodded. “What about the others? Carol…she…”
“Both Ensign Chekov and Dr. Marcus have been treated for their external wounds and internal trauma. I will give credit to Dr. McCoy for his prompt attention, and they will have returned to their duties before you, Jim. Now rest. The situation is past.”
Jim let his eyes flutter closed, and the welcoming darkness of sleep enveloped him.
~*~
Stepping out of the shower, enjoying the way the water felt against his skin, he stood in front of the mirror. Bones had been able to use the dermal regenerator on most of his skin, but his back and the backs of his arms, well… the wounds had been left untreated too long, and the tearing had been too deep. Scars littered his pale skin in broad, bright-pink stripes. A forever reminder of what he’d endured, and what he’d fought for.
He heard an alert at his door, and he quickly struggled into his t-shirt before entering his sitting room. He ordered the door open, and he was unsurprised to see Spock there, though he was vaguely startled to see Spock holding a food tray in his hands.
“Dr. McCoy informed me you were cleared to resume your former eating habits. And while I do question your former eating habits,” Spock said, quirking a brow and taking on a slightly amused expression, “I admit having you here to partake in them brings me some measure of satisfaction.”
Jim just gave him a crooked smile and waved his hand at the unoccupied chair. “How about a game? Uh…maybe without the betting. I think I’m going to be done with gambling for a long while. Like just this side of forever.”
“Understandable,” Spock said, his voice quieter this time as he set the food aside. “A chess match with you sounds most agreeable, Jim.”
Jim grinned and tossed his damn towel on the bed before turning to fetch his board. He was halfway to his cabinet when he heard Spock draw in a sharp breath, and before he could turn, there was a presence at his back. He froze, unable to make himself turn, and he felt warm fingers touching the backs of his arms.
“Bones wasn’t uh…” Jim cleared his throat. “The infection was pretty bad—but you know that. Anyway it set in too far and I guess the wounds were too deep for the regenerator to repair it all without scarring. It’s…whatever. It’s fine.”
“If I had won the wager,” Spock said, but didn’t finish his sentence, because Jim had spent too long in that place trying not to think of that. Because Jim, too, would have honored Spock’s request, had he won the game.
“I’m glad it was me,” Jim eventually said. He stepped away from Spock’s arm, but instead of reaching for the chess set, he turned and put his back against the cabinet. He felt a desire to cross his arms over his chest, to put a barrier between himself and the intense way Spock was staring at him, but he didn’t. He felt a second desire just under the first, to allow himself to be consumed by Spock’s intensity. “If you had been down there, if I couldn’t find you…”
“I am aware,” Spock said, his voice low and a little dark. “I was not willing to give up until we found you. Mr. Scott was most displeased that I was, as he put it, following my gut. He did not trust my logic, and I confess there were moments I was afraid I was too emotionally compromised to trust my logic. But…”
“But you found me,” Jim said.
“The creatures on that planet made it so. The ones who also allowed this.” Spock reached out, brushing down Jim’s arm.
Jim watched the trail of Spock’s fingers with a hungry gaze, but didn’t move closer. Not yet. “You would have, though. Spock, I know you. You defeated a man genetically engineered to be stronger and more powerful than any being we’ve met, and because of that you brought me back to life. I don’t think there’s a universe I could end up in where you won’t find me.”
Spock’s mouth twitched up into the barest smile, and his hand trailed down, down, down until it linked with Jim’s. “I…find I cannot deny that, Jim.”
Jim hesitated, then reached up and let his palm press to Spock’s cheek. Instead of pulling away, Spock nuzzled into it slightly, eyes closed, a moment of hurt flashing across his face. Jim got echoes of the emotions which were too strong for Spock to shield—relief again, fear, desire. Jim bit his lip, then said, “Dinner wasn’t what I intended on asking for, if I’d won.”
Spock’s eyes opened, slow and lazy. “I had suspected as much. You hesitated long enough I knew there must have been something else.”
“I wanted a kiss,” Jim said. “But I couldn’t ask for it.”
“I would have granted such a request,” Spock said quietly.
“I know,” Jim said. He let his thumb brush along Spock’s cheek, watching the green flush bloom underneath the path the pad of his thumb took. “I know, because that’s the sort of Vulcan you are, Spock. Honorable, loyal…beautiful.” Jim swallowed thickly and couldn’t meet Spock’s eyes. “I couldn’t let it be that way, not our first kiss. Not out of obligation.”
“I…understand, Jim.” Spock stepped in close then, letting his other hand fall to Jim’s waist like it had done that night, just after the game. He tugged them together, pressed from groin to chest this time, not a centimeter of space between them. “Would you be opposed to a kiss with multiple motivations behind it?”
Jim blinked at him, then chuckled. “Multiple motivations?”
“I find myself eager to express affection in that manner brought on by relief that you are back,” Spock said, and removed his hand from Jim’s only to drag it along the back of his arm, teasing at the puckered scarring there. “That you are relatively unharmed. That you return my regard for you, and my affection, and that you return my desire to kiss—and to be kissed.”
It was so much. God, it was everything he’d wanted, and Jim found himself unable to answer outside of pressing his palm harder against Spock’s cheek, and urging his head to tilt just so, for the angle Jim knew would be perfect. “I would not be opposed,” he said, so close to Spock’s mouth now that their lips brushed when he spoke.
Spock shuddered under Jim’s grasp, and then suddenly there was no space between them. There was only the soft, push of warmth as they touched, mouth-to-mouth, and then the gentle swipe of a tongue before Spock’s slid into Jim’s mouth, soft as velvet, slick, and so hot. Jim groaned, wrapping his other arm around Spock’s waist and he pressed them together harder, like if he pulled hard enough, he might be able to fuse together with Spock, and never be apart.
“As illogical as it is, I find myself feeling the same sensation,” Spock murmured, and twisted his fingers into Jim’s still-wet hair.
“I knew I’d come home to you,” Jim said, when they broke apart from yet another heated kiss. “I wasn’t going to leave you.”
“I trusted that our goodbye was not our final one, ashayam,” Spock murmured, his eyes closed now. He pushed his face into the crook of Jim’s neck and breathed there for a moment before resting his forehead against Jim’s collarbone. “The emotional distress was great, but there is on every important lesson you have given me.”
Jim let his fingers gently brush through the shorn edges of Spock’s hair. “What’s that?”
He could feel Spock smiling against his skin. “Hope, Jim. You have taught me that while illogical, it is not useless.” He pulled back and looked him in the eye. “I had hoped, and I was not let down.”
Jim leaned in to kiss him one more time, and when he pulled back, he was smiling.