Chapter Text
The captain has been exhibiting uncharacteristic behavior for the past five days, six hours, twenty five minutes, and ten point four seconds.
Approximately.
Spock has taken note of this solely because it is his responsibility as a first officer to be apprised of any changes in his captain’s health, regardless of whether those changes are physical or mental. His degree of concern regarding this behavior is at an appropriate professional level, and nothing more.
His decrease in efficiency at his science station and in his xenobiology lab over the past several days is unrelated to the matter, as is his increased need for meditation.
He had first noticed something amiss shortly after Jim had left the bridge upon Uhura’s notification that he had an urgent personal call incoming. When 28.2 minutes elapsed and he still had not returned, Spock had passed the conn over to Sulu in order to ascertain his status. The computer had identified his location as Ready Room IV, and upon approaching the door, he had nearly knocked into the captain in his sudden departure from the room. Kirk had stumbled back a step, not quite making eye contact, his breathing rate faster than normal. He had dodged any query regarding his status, and did not return with him to the bridge, citing paperwork and an uneventful shift as his reasoning for leaving his first officer in charge for the remaining duration of alpha.
Upon visiting the captain’s quarters at the end of shift to report on the bridge’s status, he had found Jim at his desk with a glass of whiskey and a notable lack of paperwork in progress. In the 6.2 months that had passed since the beginning of their assignment to the Enterprise together, he had not yet witnessed Kirk drink outside of social settings.
And so began his first night of extended meditation, requiring the additional time to orient himself with constant nagging questions surrounding that urgent personal call impeding his focus.
As each day passed, the captain’s change in behavior only worsened. The rest of the crew seemed to overlook these changes, but Spock noticed, as was his job to.
Jim did not withdraw from socialization or work, but something remained consistently off. In the mess hall, he pushed his food around his tray instead of eating; on the bridge, he took an average of 2.5 seconds longer to respond to his title and made only an approximate 29.1% of the amount of jokes and sarcastic comments that he usually would have. Furthermore, every time Spock stopped by his quarters in the evening to deliver a report, or merely check his status under the guise of delivering a report, Kirk had a glass of whiskey in hand.
It is not until the present evening– and the final evening before the Enterprise’s scheduled shore leave begins on Earth– that he gains additional information regarding the nature of the personal call Jim had received.
Eavesdropping is not in Spock’s nature. His sensitive Vulcan hearing, however, makes the practice difficult to avoid at times.
“ – not fucking fair, and you know it,” Jim’s agitated tone reaches him through their shared bathroom as soon as he steps into his own quarters, causing him to freeze. “We were in the Combian star system. How the hell was I supposed to–”
They had arrived at the Combian star system approximately 8.6 hours after the urgent call that had taken Jim from the bridge, Spock’s memory helpfully supplies.
“Sam was on Deneva, and he got here in time,” a female voice is just barely discernible, tinny through a speaker.
“Sammy isn’t running a starship!”
“Starship captains don’t have to go to funerals now?”
Which is the precise moment that Spock, stiffened and wide-eyed, leaves his quarters to check on a lab experiment he had already assessed 1.2 hours ago.
When he returns approximately 31.5 minutes later, the quarters on the opposite side of the bathroom are silent. Spock hesitates, uncertain of the prudence in engaging a Human in conversation so soon after an emotionally charged exchange. At the same time, he is equally aware that the longer he possesses knowledge of something he has not been permitted to know and is silent on the matter, the worse the inevitable disclosure will become.
The Vulcan knocks before entering. Upon stepping through the threshold, the first thing he notices is that cyan eyes are puffy from recent tears. Jim is sitting at the edge of his bed, and his communicator lying on the sheets beside him.
The guilt in his gut digs deeper.
“...Captain, I apologize for intruding–”
“What do you want, Spock?” Kirk cuts him off, his tone flat.
The Vulcan swallows.
“I desired to inform you that I unintentionally overheard a brief portion of your earlier conversation with an unknown individual,” Spock carefully states. “When I became aware of the sensitive nature of the conversation, I departed from my quarters to avoid further eavesdropping. I apologize–”
“What did you hear?”
For someone who is usually excessive in his displays of emotion, it is particularly difficult to read Jim in the present moment.
The Vulcan glances away, exhales a slow breath, looks back again. “I heard reference to your absence from a funeral.”
What he expects is anger, or annoyance, or offense, but what he gets instead is an immediate: “I’m still fit for command. I’m fine.”
A tiny crease appears in Spock’s brow before he forcibly smooths it. “I do not–”
“Frank wasn’t– it’s not like– what happened with you. I’m not compromised.”
The empty transporter pad ripples through the Vulcan’s mind. He carefully compartmentalizes the memory. In the process, he does not notice the furrow that has returned to his brow.
“Who is ‘Frank’?”
Jim is silent for a long minute. Long enough that Spock nearly begins to retract the question before he finally receives the answer, “My stepdad.”
The furrow grows deeper. He notices it at last, and smooths it again.
Subjects like these are particularly uncertain waters to tread with any Human, most of all someone as unpredictable as his captain. With a slight nod, he settles for a gentle, “I grieve with thee.”
Kirk’s expression is odd, unreadable. Every display of grief is different from one being to the next, but even still, something feels inexplicably wrong.
The captain opens his mouth, closes it. He nods, breaking eye contact. With finality, he states, “Good night, Spock.”
If Jim had been any other Human, the Vulcan would have desired to leave from the moment he had spotted dried tears at the doorway.
It takes effort for Spock to force himself back through their shared bathroom.
----
The following morning, approximately 2.3 hours prior to the Enterprise’s docking for shore leave, Spock is called to sickbay.
Considering that he completed his regular physical examination only weeks prior, the call is both a curiosity and an annoyance. He is fully aware of every aspect of his physiology at all times, and is consequently confident that he presently has no health concerns. Either Dr. McCoy is assuming issues with his health based on faulty comparisons to a Human baseline, which has occurred previously, or he requires the Vulcan for something else, which Spock finds unlikely.
However, the moment he crosses the threshold into sickbay, he is ushered not to a biobed, but into the doctor’s office.
“Want a drink?” McCoy asks, pulling out an unlabeled bottle of what is presumably alcohol from a drawer in his desk. Spock’s brow lifts.
“Negative,” he declines. “Vulcans do not experience the intoxicating effects of alcohol that Humans do. Furthermore, as I find it unlikely you summoned me here for the sole purpose of consuming alcohol, I must ask your reasoning for calling me away from the bridge while I am on duty.”
The doctor rolls his eyes, returning the bottle to its drawer. “We’re both on duty until we get to Earth, and this can’t wait until then.” His expression sobers somewhat. “I need you to stay with Jim while we’re on shore leave.”
Before he can control the reaction, the Vulcan’s brows shoot towards his bangs. He forcibly smooths his expression again. “I have already committed to attending a conference–”
“Then call them and tell them you won’t be there,” the doctor interrupts gruffly. “This is more important than some fancy science party.”
Spock only just restrains the urge to correct his wording.
“Why would Jim require my presence while ashore?”
“Because he’s going to Riverside,” Bones elaborates, “and I can’t go with him. He shouldn’t be alone like this.”
Spock pauses. A frown threatens to twitch at the corners of his lips. “You are referring to the recent death of his stepfather?”
McCoy nods. “He’s never spoken much about his family with me, but I do know he’s estranged from them. He never went home during semester breaks, and I never saw him contact them, either. Whatever he’s going home to, I don’t want him doing it alone.” He sighs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I already made plans to see my daughter across the country. I can’t bail on her, but you can bail on your conference.”
The Vulcan opens his mouth, then closes it again, hesitating. “You believe he will be in danger in Riverside?”
“I don’t know,” Bones admits. “But at the very least, he’ll probably make some really stupid decisions if he’s left to his own devices there. He’s a goddamn savant when it comes to picking fights.” He pauses. “But I guess you already know that.”
Spock does know that.
“I am not certain that my presence will prevent him from engaging in reckless behavior.”
“Are you kidding me?” McCoy scoffs. “You could literally pick him up and haul him out of a bar if you wanted to. He weighs nothing to you.”
So far in their time together, Spock has carried Jim on two occasions due to injuries on away missions. Both times, the captain had turned a peculiar shade of red after being lifted.
“While your statement is factually correct,” the Vulcan allows, “I do not believe he would desire me to do so.”
“What he wants and what he needs are two different things,” the doctor counters. “What he needs is someone to keep him out of trouble, and he listens to you more than anyone else.”
An angled brow raises. “He frequently disagrees with my perspective on many matters.”
“But he asks for it,” McCoy points out. “And he asks you before anyone else.”
Spock had not stopped to consider this aspect of his captain’s behavior before. A quick glance back at his eidetic memory verifies the point with several examples.
He experiences an odd physiological reaction to this information, and quickly regulates his heart back to its normal resting rate. He declines to analyze this reaction further.
“Very well,” the Vulcan acquiesces. “I will travel with him to Riverside. However, if he expressly refuses my presence, I will not force him to tolerate it.”
“Trust me,” Bones assures, “he’s gonna get a talking-to before I head to Georgia. He won’t say no.”
Spock wonders what a talking-to means.
Considering that Jim reenters the bridge after his call to sickbay in a noticeably more grumpy mood, he theorizes that a talking-to has a negative connotation.
----
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Kirk insists, not quite making eye contact again. He shifts his weight between his feet where he stands on the platform of the train station, one hand fidgeting absently with the hem of his t-shirt. Spock is briefly distracted by the movement.
“I am aware of this, and have chosen to accompany you, regardless.”
Jim’s expression remains difficult to parse, but in the present moment, it doesn’t appear negative, precisely.
Those unsolved variables frustrate Spock more than he would care to admit.
For the duration of their 3.1-hour train ride to Iowa, the Human struggles to remain still in his seat. He frequently readjusts his position, jiggles his leg, and fidgets again with the hem of his shirt. Approximately 1.2 hours into the trip, he withdraws an antique paperback novel from his bag, though his eyes frequently trail off into space, and he reads hardly five pages during the 36.9 minutes that he has the book in hand. After returning it to his bag, he is back to fidgeting with his shirt.
Following a transfer at Des Moines, the remaining ride is brief. Although Kirk continues watching the passing scenery through the window for some time, as soon as they approach Riverside’s town limits, he stares only at the seat in front of him.
Spock refrains from asking about his well being, but only just. He suspects the question is redundant.
“The house is about fifteen minutes out,” Jim speaks suddenly as the train pulls into the station, his voice slightly hoarse from hours of disuse. He clears his throat. “I’ll get a rental and drive us.”
Unexpectedly, Kirk is a relatively safe driver, though Spock is not certain whether this is his typical behavior or merely the result of having a passenger with him. He follows traffic laws, does not speed, and brings them safely to their destination: a white farmhouse that looks as though it has been neglected for some time.
The siding of the home is chipping off in several places, riddling its surface with brown scabs. The stability of the porch looks questionable at best, its boards uneven and sagging. Surrounding the house is unkempt grass and overgrown bushes, some of which sprout flowers that droop in the heat of the late afternoon, listless. Punctuating the long gravel driveway is a detached garage that stands mostly upright in a sea of weeds.
After observing all of this, his attention returns to Jim, whose gaze is on the house, but distant. His posture is stiffer than before, and his breaths shallow.
“Captain?” Spock prompts. Kirk jumps slightly, glancing at him, then quickly looking away.
“We’re not on duty,” he corrects shortly, stepping ahead towards the front door. The Vulcan opens his mouth, then closes it.
Jim stoops down, retrieving an antiquated metal key from beneath the mat. By the lack of knocking and the utter silence the pair step into, Spock assumes that nobody else is home.
“Do you anticipate other family members staying here?”
“No. They’re already offworld again. It’s just us.”
He walks ahead towards the back of the house, and Spock follows.
They pass through a hall that is painted in a faded blue and adorned with a wealth of picture frames. The majority of the photographs are of a boy and girl, strikingly similar in appearance, the boy perhaps three or four years older. In a later photograph, the girl, then a preteen, has her hair cut short. There appears to be no further pictures of either child.
“Do you have a sister?” Spock inquires, stopping beside one of the frames. Jim glances back at him.
“No,” he answers. “That’s me.”
The Vulcan’s brows raise slightly. When he looks back at the photographs, he notices Jim’s features that he had missed in the girl’s face on his first glance. More freckled and softer with baby fat– but undeniably him.
“I apologize for my assumption,” he amends.
“Don’t,” Kirk dismisses, continuing onward. “You didn’t know.”
The captain leads them into a kitchen that smells of dust and stale alcohol. There are empty beer bottles scattered over the countertops and dishes still remaining in the sink. Jim swears under his breath and mutters something that sounds like not my fucking job to clean up after him anymore.
Then, he turns back to Spock, a humorless smile on his face. “Still want to spend your shore leave here?”
The Vulcan’s brow lifts. “I am prepared to assist with cleaning,” he states in lieu of an answer.
“Guess I’ll need it.” Kirk scrubs his face with his hand, placing his other on his hip. “When my mom asked me to tidy up the house while I’m here, this wasn’t what I pictured.”
“She is unable to clean her own living space?” Spock asks, somewhat dryly.
“She’s selling the farm,” Jim corrects. “And she’s back on another assignment now. I didn’t help with the funeral, so apparently it’s my job to pick up the mess here.”
“That does not appear to be an equivalent exchange of labor,” the Vulcan points out.
“No shit, Spock,” the captain snaps. Then, with a slight grimace, he amends, “Sorry.”
Up the creaking stairs, there are three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a narrow door to what Spock assumes is a hall closet. Kirk passes by the first bedroom and continues on to two smaller ones that lie opposite one another. He gestures to one of the doorways. “You can take Sammy’s room. I’ll look for clean sheets in a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, Jim steps into the opposite bedroom, leaving the door cracked behind him. On its surface are large pastel stickers that spell out Winnie, the name surrounded by stars.
There is little to be unpacked in Sammy’s room. The Vulcan had brought only his PADD, his communicator, a few toiletries, and just enough clothes for the duration of the trip. He utilizes the brief downtime to check his messages, which contain two pictures from Uhura of stray cats and an inquiry from the doctor regarding Jim’s status.
He appears to be at a heightened level of stress, but otherwise well, Spock replies.
Only seconds pass before his screen lights up with another message. Ok. Keep an eye on him.
It is nonsensical to suggest physical placement of my eye on his person and I am clearly already monitoring him are both potential replies that come to mind.
He sets his communicator down onto the nightstand.
If it weren’t for the thin layer of dust coating every surface, Spock would have assumed that a teenaged Human boy still lived in the room. The dresser drawers and closet contain what looks to be almost a full wardrobe, and various possessions remain scattered about the room, including sports trophies, a baseball bat and glove, a note scrawled about a school project due soon, a can of antiperspirant, and a letterman jacket slung over a desk chair. By the statement he had overheard from Jim’s call, however, Sammy now lives on Deneva, and considering his older age in the photographs, is certainly no longer a child.
As brown eyes sweep the space, angular brows twitch closer to one another.
“Hey,” Jim draws him from his thoughts, holding a stack of sheets in his arms at the doorway. “I’ll get the bed changed, and we can go out for dinner after. The replicator here doesn’t work.”
Somehow, Spock is not surprised by the fact.
“I am able to make the bed,” the commander offers, extending his hands for the pile. Surprise and confusion flick through Kirk’s features before he passes the sheets to him, nodding somewhat awkwardly.
The entire time the Vulcan spends putting the sheets on the mattress, he cannot cease his wandering trains of thought, curiosity and frustration tapping at his mental shields with equal force.
----
The car ride back into town is accompanied by a radio station playing classic rock. Spock initially studies the passing buildings, but is distracted by the rhythmic tapping of the Human’s fingers against the steering wheel. He does not take note of his staring until Jim glances at him and appears suddenly self conscious. The Vulcan quickly averts his gaze back to the window.
“Ever been to a diner?” the captain asks once they’ve parked, standing before a building with a sign that reads The Buttered Biscuit. The light of the setting sun glints off of the shiny silver exterior.
“Negative.”
Spock had anticipated limited options in such a small establishment, but finds a menu that is ten pages long, one of which is entirely dedicated to various types of pancakes.
“These are consumed for dinner?” the Vulcan asks, brow furrowing as he scans many repeated mentions of whipped cream, caramel, chocolate, and marshmallows.
“The whole menu is offered all day. You can have anything you want. Pancakes, whatever.”
“These do not appear suitable in nutritional value as a meal,” Spock observes, a tiny, troubled frown twitching at his lips.
“There’s probably a salad in here somewhere,” Jim suggests.
There is not. Spock settles for the soup of the day instead– some sort of tomato mixture.
He does not comment on his captain’s order of pancakes.
Silence settles as they await their food, though it is not uncomfortable. Jim rests his cheek on his palm, looking out the window beside their booth. The sun catches cyan eyes, an aesthetically pleasing sight.
Then, blue turn towards him with a question:
“Why did you say yes?”
Spock blinks. “Excuse me?”
“To coming here,” he clarifies. “I know Bones harassed you into it, but I also know you don’t do anything just because someone tells you to.”
Truthfully, Spock had not stopped to examine all of his options, as he would have for any other crew member. He did not analyze the request in depth, nor did he develop a sound argument for accompanying him.
With Jim, there is only ever one choice.
“I believed my presence may be beneficial to you,” is what he settles for. “If you do not find it so, you may request that I depart at any time, and I will take no offense.”
Initially, the captain does not respond, and Spock assumes the answer has satisfied his curiosity. At length, however, he voices, quieter than before, “Thanks.”
The remainder of the meal passes without conversation. Though the captain seems to marginally relax while consuming his questionable dinner, a stray glance over Spock’s shoulder causes him to stiffen again, his fork frozen over his plate. In spite of this reaction, a forced smile quickly appears.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a Human woman comes to stand in front of their table, hands on her hips. She smells strongly of floral perfume, which is matched in equal volume with her brightly colored dress. By the slight graying of her hair and beginnings of wrinkles on her features, Spock judges her to be middle aged. “If it isn’t Captain Kirk himself!”
“Hey, Ms. Patty,” Kirk greets her, his tone perfectly breezy, betraying no hint of discomfort. His gaze flicks back towards the Vulcan, and he sets his fork down to gesture across the table. “This is my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Spock.”
“Nice to meet you, Commander,” Ms. Patty chirps. Spock merely nods, having no time to offer any returned sentiment before her attention is already back on Jim.
“How long has it been since you left? Four years?”
“Something like that,” the captain affirms.
“Wish the circumstances were different,” she offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry about your old man.”
Beneath the veneer of ease, that strange variable passes through Kirk’s gaze again. It’s gone as soon as it came.
“Thanks, Ms. Patty.”
“I heard your mama’s selling the farm. That right?”
“Yeah.” Jim is fidgeting with his napkin now. “She will soon. I’m just here to help get it ready.”
“Well, if you need any extra help, give us a holler.”
“Sure,” Kirk smiles. “Thanks.”
She gently squeezes his shoulder, then walks back to her booth on the opposite side of the diner. Jim seems to sag slightly in his seat. With an exhale, he declares, “I’m full. You ready to go?”
Spock’s bowl still contains approximately 15.1% of the soup he had been served– but blue eyes are back on him again, almost pleading.
“Indeed.”
Overhead, the first pinpricks of starlight are beginning to shine. The sky is mostly dark, save for a band of orange and indigo on the horizon. With the heat of day quickly dissipating, the Vulcan is beginning to grow uncomfortable in only his long-sleeved shirt.
Jim starts the car, but does not immediately pull out of the lot. He chews on his lip briefly, the movement attracting Spock’s gaze.
“Do you mind if we stop somewhere?” the captain asks at length. “I just– don’t feel like going back to the house yet. It’s still early.”
The present time is 20:49. It is not, in fact, ‘early’.
“Where do you desire to stop?”
Jim rubs the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “There’s a bar between here and the house. I used to go there, uh– a lot. It won’t be crowded on a weeknight.”
Spock can practically hear the smug told you so McCoy would deliver if he were present. He sighs under his breath.
“I am not certain of the prudence in–”
“It won’t be long,” Kirk insists. “Seriously. And if you decide you don’t want to stay, we can leave.”
The Vulcan is aware that there is no rational response for him to give save for a resounding no. Although Jim has been surprisingly restrained in his alcohol intake so far in his captaincy– excluding the last few days aboard the ship– he is also aware of his previous history of bar fights. In an emotionally unstable state, a Human is more likely to exhibit poor judgment and reckless behavior, which is the precise reason he is here to keep an eye on him in the first place.
But in the fading light, the captain’s gaze is another silent plea, and Spock’s side aches.
“Alright,” he cautiously allows. “So long as the visit is brief.”
In the face of the brightened smile he receives, the Vulcan experiences another physiological reaction that he fails to immediately control.
Spock may not have been the optimal choice for keeping James Kirk out of trouble.