Chapter Text
Chapter one
Jim could smell the notes of prunes and saddle leather in the finger or two of scotch he’d just downed in his breath bouncing back from Spock’s skin. He wondered, absentmindedly, if a single drink was enough to lower his inhibitions these days before Spock, in a lapse of judgement, bridged the gap and kissed him.
According to Star Fleet Regulation 87.2, fraternizing with your crewmates was not permitted. This was further endorsed in the Personal Relations handbook, which was included in the Interspecies Protocol, known as PRIP by those who’d had to have awkward round table talks with the human resources and anthropology departments.
This did not mean that relationships between crewmembers were all that uncommon, they just flew under the radar unless it got real ugly. Thrown in the hallway with your clothes in your arms ugly -ugly.
Sure, it was best to avoid getting involved with your crewmates, but the fleet was comprised of glorified soldiers living in close quarters, most in their twenties or early thirties. They were bound to get lonely or homesick or just plain bored. Maybe they were running on adrenaline and crashed into someone feeling the same.
It was convenient, animal, pre Surakian. Need based. And boy did Jim Kirk need. He was nothing if not bored, and homesick, and alone. And Spock, well, he had a warm body. And he was right there.
It wasn’t supposed to become a habit, but they fell into an easy pattern. Soon the smell of Spock’s sweat on an away mission or his dark eyes across the bridge sent sparks down Jim’s spine.
At they’d step into the other’s quarters and find the other waiting, wanting and willing. Jim made sure not to count of how often they fucked, though he was sure Spock was keeping count, automatically and without conscious effort, as came natural to him.
If Jim had asked Spock, he was sure Spock would have told him not only how many times they’d slept together, but he’d offer him statistics on who initiated sex, who came first and what exactly Spock needed to do to illicit a reaction from him, a gasp, a moan, a shake in his thighs.
He’d give Jim a graph of his own satisfaction, which Jim dreaded would have detailed pointers on what to improve. A report like that would have a page count far in the double digits.
Life continued as if nothing had happened despite of what happened between them. They did not talk about the way Jim’s breath hitched when Spock’s teeth grazed his neck or how he begged for Spock’s touch and whined when he finally caved in. How Jim’s name was on Spock’s lips when he came.
Afterwards they just zipped their trousers back up and Spock walked back to his quarters through the shared fresher. Jim listened as he washed his hands first. Then his teeth. He heard Spock’s door swish open and closed and it was like nothing at all had transpired between them just then.
Friends fuck each other sometimes. It’s not a big deal.
...
“Captain."
Jim lifted his head with a noncommittal little hum but let his eyes linger on the padd while he finished reading the page. He had gotten into the habit of reading his book out in public, so that he would seem like a normal person and the crew would see him outside the bridge and away missions.
Spock was standing so close to him where he was sitting in the rec room that once he finally lifted his gaze it hit the top of Spock’s thighs. Jim adjusted in his seat, now painfully aware of their crewmates just meters away.
“Yes, Mr. Spock?”
“Would you accompany me to the laboratories? I would appreciate your input.”
Jim followed the movement of Spock’s hands as he pulled down the hem of his pristine tunic, a tell of sorts. Jim didn’t often visit the labs. They were Spock’s territory, and he was confident Spock made sure the work was pristine. He didn’t need Jim sticking his grubby fingers in his sensitive experiments.
Jim nodded and pushed off his chair.
“Show me the way.”
His head was still swimming with the book as they navigated their way through the corridors of Enterprise. Though the crew filled the rec room and cafeteria towards the end of beta shift, the corridors emptied as towards the beginning of gamma and the lights lowered as the shift progressed.
Jim listened to the shuffle of their regulation boots against the carpeted floors and thought about how he would feel cutting through the woods on early evenings as a little boy, trying to get home before the streetlights went on.
“You don’t usually ask me for help, Spock.” He said to the back of Spock’s head as they stepped into the turbolift.
There were times when Spock’s hand would be on the crotch of Jim’s pants the second the turbolift doors had closed, but not tonight, not on the way to the natural science labs. Spock would never risk contaminating samples, no matter how unlikely that would be.
“Indeed, captain. This discovery, however, might have troubling diplomatic implications.”
The turbolift came to a halt and Jim followed him out.
...
“Shocking discovery indeed, Mr. Spock.” Jim said just a minute later, peering at a sample through Spock’s microscope. The goo on the little glass plate was shifting, it was as if his mind had difficulty placing it. “It’s definitely bio-mimetic.”
“What do you propose we do, captain?”
Jim stepped back, pushing himself up from Spock’s shoulder. He saw the imprint of his own teeth peek over the collar of Spock’s uniform.
“Write a detailed report but don’t send it yet. We need to thread carefully. I’ll put out some feelers.” Spock lifted an eyebrow.
“Feelers, sir?”
“Yes, Spock. An idiomatic expression for asking around or investigating.” He let his eyes linger on the bite. “Maybe show a regenerator to that.”
...
That night Spock found Jim brushing his teeth in their shared fresher and pressed the front of his body flush against Jim’s back. Jim had to put down his padd.
“You are reading Burroughs, captain? Junky?”
It was so comfortable that it would have been domestic if the context was different.
“Mmm” he agreed around his toothbrush.
Spock pulled Jim’s head to the side by his hair, gently, to get his lips on Jim’s neck and to ask:
“Do you want me, Captain?” Just a breath against Jim’s skin. Jim had to swallow the toothpaste to answer just how much before Spock unzipped his trousers and slipped his hand past the waist band of Jim’s boxers to palm his growing erection.
Spock freed him out of the confines of his trousers eventually, slipping his cool hand up and down Jim’s cock, already glistening with precum as Spock rutted the line of himself against Jim’s ass. It was slow and lazy.
If they were someone else, if they weren’t two Star fleet officers reeling from almost being blown to bits every day, the praise Spock was mouthing into Jim’s tightly wound neck would have been sweet. Alas.
“Look at you…” Spock muttered, his chin on Jim’s shoulder, so Jim did. He’d been getting ready for bed, already shirtless and only in his regulation trousers that were now open to reveal not only his cock, but the fading marks Spock’s mouth had left on his lower stomach by his hipbone last week.
The cheeks of his reflection were flushed and lips red, hair a mess. He was holding the arm Spock had pinned across his chest for dear life with both hands, like the kitten in those antique “hang in there, baby” posters.
Spock’s right hand continued to pleasure him in a slow, unforgiving rhythm. Jim breathed out Spock’s name, to which Spock merely hummed, projecting serenity.
It would be impossible to tell how difficult and long Spock’s day was unless you paid attention to the details, like how he was fully dressed but only in his trousers and undershirt or how his hair stood up at the back where he’d fisted a hand in his hair while privately struggling with a difficult equation or something of the like.
Spock cradled Jim’s cheek with his left hand and pressed his thumb against the soft flesh of Jim’s bottom lip. Jim gasped, let out a little ah and let his tongue dart on the pad of Spock’s thumb. The green flush on Spock’s cheeks darkened a shade.
Jim slid his tongue down Spock’s thumb and bit the soft skin between the thumb and forefinger before pressing his tongue flat against the sensitive skin of his palm. It didn’t take long before Jim threw his head back and came with a silent cry, bucking into Spock’s hand on his cock.
He then turned around, freed Spock from his trousers and made him come in his fist with just a few flicks of his wrist while two of Spock’s fingers were pressed flat against Jim’s tongue.
His skin tasted bitter, like the disinfectant they use to wipe down the surfaces at the lab. Spock’s stifled moans bled into Jim’s open mouth.
Once they were done, they both stood by the sink and brushed their teeth in silence, looking into each other’s eyes through the mirror, pupils blown.
They never discussed it, never tried to give a name for it, or set rules. It was easy between them. They knew each other’s limits. Jim never asked Spock for the stats he no doubt had.
They didn’t bring work to bed, they never slept in each other’s quarters, never lingered at the doorway after they were done. If they had made it to bed, Jim changed the sheets before sleeping soundly through the night alone.
The morning after always arrived like it was any other simulated morning on the Enterprise.
Sometimes the artificiality of space travel, the simulated reality, was too much. Some of the star ships now in production would have holodecks, simulators that could recreate whatever they were programmed to using holograms and something called synthehol, synthetic alcohol, was in development. The thought made Jim cringe.
He was already constantly chasing for something real. A fight with an unfriendly alien, that was real. The tired muscles and small injuries from sparring, they were real. The sound of dirt under his booths, Uhura humming while she worked, the burn of Saurian brandy down his throat, the weight of Spock’s body – real.
What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette, a cup of real coffee, a real hungover and the damp morning breeze now. There is no rancid smell of algae drying on the beach in space.
The first morning after the first drunken rendezvous Jim had been afraid that something would change between them, that the fraught fragile alive thing between them would sour, but when he’d gotten to the bridge with what was the simulator’s estimation of coffee in hand Spock had lifted his neutral gaze a few beats before Chekov called “Captain on the bridge!”, and it was clear to Jim that they wouldn’t fall out of step just because they had had sex.
Now, months later the thought had long since been forgotten. They say you should not shit where you eat, but Jim didn’t eat here. He was still waiting to get hungry.
They had been drifting in space for a week now, waiting for new orders. They did that a lot, just floated, waiting, but after Spock’s discovery there had been a strange tension in the air.
Something was going on in this section of space and their new orders were to investigate, though the official story was a different one – the federation wanted to send a bunch of people on the planet they were orbiting now to start a colony, to ensure the future of the federation and to show the resilience of its people.
Sure, they were to determine if the planet was livable because they suspected it was used as a base for a smuggling ring. And it wouldn’t hurt if the planet had other resources they could exploit, like solid copper. The circuit boards needed that.
“Approaching Urdina Kappa three, captain. Class M. No life signs detected.”
...
They lost a crewmember down on Urdina Kappa III. Lieutenant Jan Jansson, quite the skilled helmsman and cartographer. They hadn’t expected it, the planet read empty with no life signs because the life down on the surface wasn’t exactly alive.
Space was fucked up like that. The realization that hard sciences are just as subjective as soft sciences once you add the variables of all time and space is headache inducing to say the very least.
They would need to replace Jansson with another cartographer and the crew roster needed to be updated. Jansson’s family needed contacting and Jim needed to order a yeoman to box up his belongings. They would need to figure out where to ship them or how to divide them amongst his peers.
It's odd, he thought later, how we stop resembling ourselves the second we die. They managed to beam the body that used to be Jansson on board and Jim added a burial to his running tally; he would need to ask human resources if Jansson had been religious.
For now, the body lay covered with a sheet in the sick bay. A morbid reminder to those who had been injured planetside and had to lay next to him. The crew didn’t have to mourn now, though.
All of this had to wait until they pulled away from the planet’s orbit. According to Scotty they’d need a few more minutes to redirect some power to the thrusters and then all they’d need was the word from Kirk.
The adrenaline of a mission gone bad was still coursing through Jim’s body when he pulled Spock into the supply closet around the corner from the transporter room and immediately sank to his knees in front of him, hands already on Spock’s zipper, waiting for the go ahead.
He looked up at Spock, into Spock’s wild dark eyes, listened for the hitch in his breath, smelled the want on his body and waited Spock to whisper,
“Carry on, sir.”
Jim didn’t need to be told again. He unzipped Spock and swallowed his half hard cock to the hilt.
“Fuck.” Spock’s hand dropped to the back of Jim’s head. The feeling of Spock growing hard in his mouth was more intoxicating than any drug he’d had the pleasure and displeasure to taste.
Spock’s marble skin was a thousand times sweeter than the Orion opium he’d sampled on a deep undercover mission, but he was starting to fear the withdrawals would be much worse, something Bones couldn’t just hypo away.
Spock started fucking himself in and out of Jim as if he couldn’t help himself, or rather, couldn’t deny Jim what he wanted. Slow and steady, like Spock always was. In control of himself, of his surroundings, of Jim.
Spock let his hand slip from the back of Jim’s head and held him by his cheek, thumb pressed to Jim’s lower lip as if he was coaxing Jim’s mouth further open, as if Jim didn’t offer himself to Spock freely at every chance he got.
The care Spock showed him whenever they did anything like this was enough to make Jim slip into madness. The slow slide of Spock’s dick on Jim’s tongue as spit dripped down his chin was making Jim feel even more depraved than if Spock had taken him quick and raw.
He fantasized, sometimes, that his mouth was a wet cunt and that by offering Spock his mouth he could offer him what Spock no doubt wanted more, what he couldn’t give.
The wet spot in Jim’s own briefs was growing by the minute, but Spock didn’t hurry even when Jim started to moan around his dick, started to chase him back when he pulled away.
When Jim started to lose his patience and got even more brazen in his attempts to get more of Spock, have all of him all the time, Spock pulled back.
“Patience, captain.” He said calmly, the only hints of the depth of his desire the green flush on his cheeks, the width of his pupils and the strained hard cock against his stomach. He could step out now and give a lecture on quantum physics or brain surgery or whatever smart people talked about and no one would be the wiser.
Jim struggled against Spock’s hand holding him by his face, his right hand now squeezing both his cheeks and left limp at his side. Again, as if his cock didn’t make Jim’s world shift on its axis.
He wanted Spock. He needed Spock in his mouth, down his throat. He needed to taste Spock, feel the length of Spock, hear Spock utter his name.
“Ah– “, his gasp sounded pathetic even in his own ears. “Please, Spock.”
At his request Spock maneuvered Kirk’s mouth back on his cock and stilled. A still, heavy weight in his mouth, against the back of his throat. Jim could be like this forever. Filled by Spock.
It was just a few drawn out seconds before his throat started constricting but he sat there, dripping, model of the patience Spock wanted him to be.
“Do you trust me?” Spock asked. When Jim struggled to nod against his hold, it looked like Spock could have come right there and then.
Spock pulled Jim back by his hair to let him catch his breath and plunged him back again, now settling into a faster rhythm of shorter movements.
Spock was remarkably silent, just breathing loud but Jim made sound for the both of them. Letting out pearls of moans with every thrust, sometimes sputtering against the pressure. If he’d had a moment of sanity, he’d be worried about people hearing when they walked past, but he was long gone.
At once Spock stilled with a gasp and pulled out. Jim waited with his hands on Spock’s thighs, having all the patience in the world now, and intently watched Spock jerk himself off until he came in a string half on Jim’s tongue, half on his face.
“Fuck, Spock.” He uttered after swallowing. Spock was pressed against the shelves trying to catch his breath, his eyes roaming across Jim’s face sticky with his own spend. He reached to Jim and carefully circled his eyes with a gentle thumb to make sure none of it got in Jim’s eyes.
“Pretty,” he said. Matter of fact, mirroring exactly what Jim had been thinking about Spock, before reaching for some paper towels stacked somewhere behind him.
Jim cleaned his face off, his cock straining against the zipper of his trousers. Spock hoisted him on his feet.
“Let me help, sir.” he unzipped Jim, trying to get his hand around Jim’s cock but Jim grabbed his wrist. They were needed on the bridge.
“As you were, commander. I’ll finish up here and follow you in five. Take the conn.”
Spock nodded, zipped himself up and left the warm cramped space.
Jim came alone with the taste of Spock on his tongue.
...
In the end they gave Jansson a traditional Swedish Christian burial. Jim doubted anyone believed in god at this point, given how many of those they’d met, but it was requested on Jansson’s file.
He was washed by nurse Chapel and dressed in a white robe, the importance of which Jim failed to understand. He was placed in a wooden coffin, closed casket as was traditional – thank god – which would later be carried into the ship’s incerator.
They sang a few hymns, the universal translator struggling through their Swedish. Jim gave a eulogy. A short one. If he thought about the deaths too long, he’d crumble. Afterwards they had cake and coffee, but Jim really needed something stronger.
True to habit, Bones got really involved in Jim’s personal life after two drinks. This really didn’t feel like the time, but the way McCoy refused to read the room would make you think he is illiterate.
“Sex isn’t a necessity, Bones. I won’t die.”
“Ever heard of Maslow? Humans are no Vulcans–“, Jim hid his grimace in a sip of brandy “–We’re social animals. We need touch and I don’t have a hypo for that.”
“I’m pretty sure the role of sex in Maslow’s hierarchy of need has been contested a handful of times during the past century.” He paused to let McCoy roll his eyes so hard it almost made noise. “And I get touched all right.”
“When Jim? It’s not like you could have sex on the last mission. Them creatures didn’t exactly have anything to touch you with.”
Jim wasn’t as comfortable with this conversation as he would have been before. Spock’s personal life wasn’t his to talk about. He was wildly private.
“Close minded much?”
“Oh, come on, boy!” McCoy was getting animated, the ice was clinking in his glass as he threw his hands around, the last dregs of watered brandy threatening to slosh over the top.
“It’s not like I’m an island. There are 430 crewmembers aboard this ship.” Bones gaze was boring into him. “You know. The three Cs of danger in PRIP. Close quarters. Close proximity. Convenience.”
Jim shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling Doctor McCoy’s searching gaze on him.
“Not your Yeoman, Jim… She’s a pretty little thing, sure, but–“
“Ew, no. I way outrank her, that would be a gross misuse of power.” He poured himself another drink.
“And what is she anyway, nineteen? I’m seven years older than her and I feel like I’ve aged at least twenty in the past two.”
“You outrank everyone. Who is it then– Uhura? Scott? I know it’s not me and the list of senior officers isn’t that long, Jim.” A heavy pause. “It’s not Spock, right?”
Jim didn’t know if avoiding McCoy’s gaze was be more incriminating than meeting it would be, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop studying the ice in his glass.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” he said weakly, knowing the synapses in McCoy’s brain had started firing. When he lifted his gaze the look on McCoy’s face told him he was done for.
The glass nearly flew off the table when McCoy buried his head in his hands.
“James Tiberius Fucking Kirk, is there anything going on in that ugly fat head of yours?”
“It’s not serious or anything! Friends just fuck sometimes.” He disliked the defensive tone his voice took but he really didn’t need McCoy butting his head in this.
Bones stared at him wordlessly and repeated the sentence Jim had just said without making a sound, trying the words on his lips.
“So, it’s just casual, then? Friends with benefits, huh? How is anything to do with Spock casual for you, Jim?”
Jim let himself wonder that too.
“I mean, we haven’t exactly talked about what we are. But yeah, something like that. Casual.” The colour of the brandy reminded Jim of dark roast coffee. Of Spock’s eyes when the sun hit them just right. Spock, who would be enjoying his experiments in the lab now. In a flow state so deep Jim would have to shake his shoulder to get his attention.
Then again, the groan McCoy just let out would be enough.
“God.”
Leonard was right though. Nothing between him and Spock was short of intense, so the casualty with which they approached sex was surprising. Refreshing.
“I don’t know, Doc. It just works for us.” He said, rolling the glass between his hands. Was that not enough?
“I hope you’ve thought long and hard about it.” McCoy said, stern. “Friends just fuck sometimes, my ass. You’re lucky I demand everyone onboard gets tested every three months or I’d have to invite you both in and then how would you keep that gossip from spreading? The command team gets tested for STDs together?”
...
Dirt squelched under Jim’s boots as he stepped around to address the landing party.
“Now, remember that the Caroteneans will be addressing you by your profession or rank, and will be expecting you do to do the same. They value labor here over all so please act accordingly.”
The landing party broke into scattered yes-sirs and yes-captains.
In fact, on Carotene II the citizen’s value was determined solely by their labor. There was no social security for the unemployed and free time outside work scant if not nonexistent.
Not far from earth’s past – but on Carotene II you were allowed no identity outside your work and were named according to your profession. No eight hours for work, eight hours for free time and eight hours for sleep. You were your work. On the planet Jim wasn’t James Tiberius
Kirk, he was just Captain. It wasn’t terribly difficult for him to adjust to, if not a little confusing but every working-class person was simply named Laborer, which made Jim feel uncomfortable.
If you were unemployed on Carotene II, you officially had no name in the eyes of the state and there was no reason to address you. Once you fell off the workforce, you were gone for good.
Their mission was to gather information. Due to being a strictly wage based society with a rigid hierarchy, innovation wasn’t exactly encouraged and thus the Carotenes reached warp remarkably late.
Intelligent life had existed on the planet when the first fish had just crawled out of the water on earth, but The Federation had just made first contact during the last five years.
The federation had been closely observing the planet due to a type of mushroom (mucorale fungi, as insisted by Spock) being native to Carotene II, rich in a chemical compound that was an important ingredient for the strictly controlled bio-mimetic gel.
The same goop Spock had discovered earlier, the very goop that caused the admirals shift uncomfortably in their seats before sending out a general code yellow to every ship in the sector.
They remained tight lipped, but they clearly suspected the fungi was being smuggled and trafficked to just about anyone who wanted to create biogenic weapons, organic explosives and unethical clones.
That wouldn’t do, of course. No one else could commit war crimes but the federation.
The Enterprise was ordered to collect information under the guise of friendship, by any means necessary but avoiding casualties.
Now hypnotized by the sway of the emperor’s advisor’s hips as she was touring them in the damp fruiting chamber the fungi were grown in, Jim was fleshing out his plan to get her to slip up during pillow talk. He had a feeling that getting their heads on a pillow wouldn’t be too difficult.
As if on que Advisor turned around and gave him an easy smile while addressing a question of Spock’s.
Jim wasn’t really following what she had to say at this point. He was too distracted. You couldn’t blame him. She was very beautiful, with big doe eyes, soft pink lips and silky brown hair that reached down to her waist.
Jim hoped that Spock was immune to her charms and able to focus, but he didn’t worry. The girl of Spock’s dreams would most likely have a shiny helmet of hair and pointy ears. Advisor’s ears were round, like a human’s, even if tinted a shade of pink that was just off enough to not be human skin.
Now that he stopped to think about it Jim wasn’t sure if Spock already had a girl back home. The thought made his mouth go dry.
He decided he needed to focus again.
“What about the childcare? Where are the children of all these hardworking laborers?” Jim looked around, watching as the adults worked through a well-rehearsed choreography of lifting and carrying crates, shoveling soil and picking fungi.
“We have a nursery,” The advisor blinked at Jim standing with his back against the sun, counter lit.
The advisor let them to a room on the side, not much different in content from the one they just left.
“So they are baby laborers? The profession is set at birth?” Toddlers at their feet were sticking their hands in dirt and picking little plastic reproductions of mushrooms from raised beds while the Nurses made sure the small hands stayed out of their mouths, and nothing was dislodged in their throats.
“Absolutely. If they do not orient well, they’re sent to be re-educated. This often happens when they reach puberty.” Advisor led them to a classroom where kids in their late teens were learning about what seemed like logistics.
“What do you mean by re-education?” Spock asked, his voice lowered as not to bother the class. Some of the older kids in the back row glanced back at them over their shoulders. Advisor turned around and led them out before answering.
“They are sent to residential reform schools where they will learn a new trade.”
Jim felt himself getting very hot and it took a lot of effort to focus on keeping his body language open.
“And how long does that usually last?”
Advisor was on the move again, her shiny hair swinging with her hips.
“Oh, well, until they’ve learned. Or until they are of age and are sent to be with the unnameables.”
Jim was very thankful for Spock when he asked another very boring science-y question and changed the subject. He glanced back at the children over his shoulder, dirt clinging to the snot running from their noses and tried not to worry.
They stalled at the exit.
“Lunch, gentlemen?” The advisor looked between them, her smile only a smidge brighter as she looked at Kirk. Jim turned to Spock studying his tricorder. His team had been collecting data and samples all day and would be beaming up by now. He felt a surge of fondness towards the vulcan.
“I’m sure Mr. Spock desires nothing more than beaming back up to his lab.”
Spock lifted his gaze.
“Indeed. I must thank you for the kind invitation, but I must decline.” Now those studious eyes of his found Jim’s face. “However, I believe the captain would find lunch amenable.”
The advisor laughed and Jim thought she sounded like a pearl necklace.
“I apologize. I’ve heard that a command team should work like a single entity, but I never met one that could read each other’s minds!” She threw her petite hand on the sleeve of Spock’s shirt.
“I am so sorry to see you go, Science Officer.” Her smile was genuine, but her tone was conspiratorial, “But I must admit that I am excited to have your Captain all for myself. I’ve heard quite the stories of the man you call Jim Kirk!”
Jim let out a bright laugh despite worrying that Spock felt uncomfortable by her touch. He thought Spock lets women get away with touching him more, though. Or so he had noticed.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Ms. Advisor.”
He eyed Spock who showed no sign of how peeved the flirting surely made him, standing in an easy parade rest.
“Indeed,” he said silently before bidding goodbye and requesting beam up.
“Shall we?” Jim offered his arm to Advisor, who smiled up at him.
Lunch would have been lovely had they not cut it short and slipped back to Advisor’s apartment. And dinner, had they not been too busy.
Breakfast was fruit and a tart fermented tea Advisor poured into his cup while Jim caught up his messages. It felt like a bright moment of domestic bliss that Jim could only catch flashes of, here and there.
All the hard work was not in vain. He'd learned about the troubles in Carotene II, but beyond that he’d learned that Advisor preferred to be called Bunny in private and loved being kissed behind the knees.
...
It turned out that Carotene II was indeed doing business on the black market, but the issue was much larger than a breach of contract. The planet was gearing up for a civil war.
The rebellious workers had intercepted all levels of production, stealing and selling what they could to procure weapons and prepare for the worst. Their strikes and civil disobedience were cutting into the cash flow of the government that itself started selling the fungi to the highest bidder to supplement what they lost. So a total and utter mess, then.
Spock’s team had done the math, but Jim had collected the most valuable intel. Advisor was careful with her words, she herself conflicted between her loyalty for the Emperor and the unnamed family members she didn’t know how to talk about. And then there were the children, out of reach.
It also turned out that a walk of shame was a little more embarrassing when everyone who saw you do it worked under you. Thankfully it was Scotty who was manning the transporter when Jim beamed up and helpfully mimed flattening his hair.
Luckily Spock did not see him. In fact he was nowhere to be found, always a step ahead of Jim.