Chapter Text
Jim couldn’t help his grin as he felt the slow burn of oxygen filling his tired lungs. Normally he’d feel a bit embarrassed to be so easily winded, but he didn’t seem to be fairing much differently from the rest of the landing party—with the exception of a certain science officer.
Gliese II was a mountainous and arid planet. It was temperate, by human standards, with its flora providing plenty of shade to protect the landing party from the solar radiation that permeated through its thin atmosphere. The radiation risk was considered minimal, with the most prevalent problem being the increased difficulty in breathing that came from lower oxygen levels. While it did provide Jim some discomfort, he mostly found it invigorating, and it was certainly more pleasant than a tri-ox compound.
The visit to the planet was purely scientific in nature, and the swath of blue uniforms and whirring tricorders around him reflected that. While it was not strictly necessary for the captain to be there, he couldn’t pass up the rare opportunity for a hike— or the much more thrilling experience of seeing Spock’s delight at taking part in scientific discovery.
Thus far, Kirk had heard a total of four ‘fascinating’s and two ‘most intriguing’s which meant his first officer was having a better time than either of them had anticipated. Waltzing around the rocky terrain, he took a few steps closer to his science officer who was focused on his readings.
“Find something unexpected, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked, a smile gracing his lips as he glanced at the tricorder.
“Yes, Captain. The readings are most interesting,” Spock answered as he stood, turning towards Jim to show him his findings. “As you can see, there’s significantly higher amounts of clay in the soil than sensor readings initially indicated.”
Moving closer, their arms lightly brushed as he looked at the screen. “That’s not entirely unusual is it?” While he wasn’t confident in what made that reading so strange, he did know it wasn’t uncommon for exact soil compositions to be compromised due to interference from the atmosphere and plants on the surface.
“No. It is not unheard of for initial surface scans to have inaccuracies.” Spock clarified, before his voice took on a slightly more eager edge, “what is interesting, is that the local flora have features that are typically associated with sandy soils. I’m curious about the root structures and their response to differing drainage conditions.”
“This specimen in particular,” Spock continued, gesturing towards a nearby tree, “has many similarities to the Terran fig tree as well as the pla-savas of Vulcan. Both plants require a sandy soil and significant drainage–“
Jim listened as Spock gave his explanation, moving to look at the tree in question. Without thinking, he took a step back, his foot landing on an unsteady and jagged rock.
Immediately, he felt a sweep of panic in his chest as the rock slid out from under him and the pull of gravity took over.
He may have sworn as he tumbled down the mountain, mixed somewhere between the alarmed shouts of his crew, the wooshes of air, and snaps of branches and twigs that were breaking his fall. A cacophony that finally ended with a loud grunt as the hard landing shoved the air out of his lungs.
Taking a moment to catch his breath —perhaps he should have taken that tri-ox compound—he got back up on his feet. Panting, he put his hands on his thighs, and glanced up at the long path of his descent.
Not wanting to meet the eyes of his distressed landing party he stood up and assessed his wellbeing.
Nothing felt particularly off, and against all odds he still had his communicator and phaser.
It wasn’t until he lifted his arm to wave off their concerns that he saw it.
Somehow the entire sleeve of his shirt was missing.
Looking up, he caught a glimpse of green fabric flapping in the wind from a branch of the very species of tree Spock had been explaining to him.
As he stared incredulously at the remnant of his shirt, only one thing crossed his mind.
Not Again.
***
After his unfortunate stumble and an unwanted visit to sickbay —it is protocol for those injured on away missions, Captain— Jim found himself on a journey to the quartermaster. A towel draped over his bare chest and shoulders, to at least give the illusion that it was an intentional choice.
For what he lacked in terms of a shirt, he was certainly making up for with the growing fear that his chief medical officer would be calling him ‘humpty dumpty’ for the foreseeable future. Did he have a fall? Yes. Was it great? Jim sure didn’t think so. It was more humiliating than anything else. Against all odds he’d only managed a single scrape and a few small bruises—the largest on his ego.
It was a shame to lose his favorite shirt though. It had been his consistent go to when all his standard gold shirts had been, well, compromised. Until today he’d done a remarkable job of keeping it intact when all else had failed.
With a quick inhale in preparation, Kirk approached the office of the crewmember that —perhaps reasonably— disliked him the most.
Lieutenant Miller was taking stock of and assessing the linens, uniforms, and other accoutrements in his purview. Back turned to the captain, he was mumbling to himself as he jotted down notes on a PADD. Despite being standard regulation, Miller’s shirts always seemed to be pristine and more vibrant than any other crewman. Though that could perhaps be expected from an expert in textile maintenance, manufacturing, and history.
Not wanting to put off the conversation any longer, Kirk cleared his throat. “Good evening, Lieutenant Miller.”
At the sound, Miller’s head quickly turned towards the captain, eyes quickly looking over his shirtless form. A judgmental look crossed his face before settling into something vaguely neutral, though the judgement didn’t leave his voice, “good evening, Captain. Is there something you need?”
Kirk was hit with the overwhelming feeling that he should have tried during a different shift.
If nothing else, an ensign could have potentially been eager to help the captain. Unfortunately, by the time one becomes a lieutenant, they know better. How was he supposed to explain himself this time? While he never lied about what happened to his uniforms, he was fully aware of how preposterous the situations were.
“Yes, Lieutenant. I’m afraid that on the planetary survey there was an incident where, well–“ he briefly paused, preparing for the admission, “my wrap shirt was destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” Miller asked tonelessly, clearly unimpressed by another ruined uniform. Lifting his stylus he quickly moved through some pages on his PADD, preparing to write. “So what happened to your shirt this time, Captain?”
Rubbing his hand on the back of his neck he answered with an awkward smile, “well, the landing party was doing a scientific assessment of the planet. Some of the initial readings were off—sometimes sensors get interference, you know?” Kirk said with a shrug that did nothing to change the cool look the quartermaster was giving him, “The soil on the planet was a different composition and, uh, gave out during the expedition.”
“So you fell off the mountain?” Miller asked with a pointed tone as he wrote something down on his PADD. “Did anyone else damage their uniforms or just you, captain?”
“I wouldn’t say off, so much as I fell down it a bit,” Jim said, holding back his defensiveness. A report for damaged uniforms was standard. He certainly knew that by now. “When I returned to the ship there hadn’t been any other incidents with the landing party.”
“So…just you?”
“…Yes, lieutenant…”
An awkward beat of silence passed as Miller continued to write in his PADD. Jim just wanted this —unfortunately common—interaction to be over with. He just wanted to get his new shirts and keep going through his day.
“So can you get me those new shirts and I’ll be out of your hair?” He asked, trying to play up his charm so Miller would hopefully send him on his way until their next unfortunate encounter.
“Yeah..sorry, Captain,” Miller replied sucking in a breath through his teeth, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Can’t? What did that mean?
Furrowing his brows, Kirk gave him a serious look as he tried to grasp what he meant by that. “You can’t get me a new uniform?”
“No, sir, we’re fresh out of command shirts,” he answered sounding a bit apologetic.
“…Fresh out of command shirts?” He mumbled as he processed the information. “How are we out of shirts? They’re standard. A significant amount of the crew requires them.”
“Well, Captain,” Miller began with a sigh, “the issue is that ships are issued significantly fewer command shirts and materials for making them than science and operations. Command crew makes up the smallest portion of ship members, so we always have a smaller supply. Additionally, command crew statistically lose fewer uniforms —due to a lack of science experiments, engineering mishaps, security issues, etc.— so we’re given fewer materials to replace our limited numbers. No other ships have ever had an issue, we just happen to go through command shirts at an unprecedented rate.”
Jim nodded along to the lecture in thinly veiled dismay. Sure, he knew he went through shirts faster than the average crew member, but he didn’t know he went through them faster than the entire department, if not the entire fleet. He didn’t even know how it happened so much as the uniforms seemed to turn to shreds as soon as they were on him. What he didn’t understand was how this didn’t seem to happen to anyone else in the crew.
“I still need a uniform, Lieutenant.”
“I understand that, Captain, but I can’t give you something I don’t have.” Miller explained with some exasperation. “We won’t be able to get any new command shirts until we can stop at the next Starbase for supplies.”
“The next Starbase is a week out,” Kirk said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I supposed to wear until then?”
“Our records say that you still have two uniforms in your possession, captain.” Miller said, turning his PADD to show him the numbers, “you’ll have to wear those.”
“…Two uniforms?” Kirk mumbled to himself, feeling quite confident that that was not the case, but if the numbers were wrong then it meant he’d failed to report them. Tightening his grip on his towel in frustration he gave a quick thank you before turning to return to his quarters.
There was no way that he had two uniforms.
Of that he was confident.
He always kept a careful count on his shirts. Gold shirts were his first choice and when his supply had been depleted, he would wear his green shirt as a backup. While he was never upset to wear the green shirts —he preferred them actually, they were very comfortable—he typically opted to wear the gold to not separate himself from his crew, so they could see him as being one of them instead of someone above them.
Today he’d ruined his wrap shirt, and if he was wearing that, then he had certainly run out of his gold ones.
Walking into his quarters with a sigh, Jim walked over to his wardrobe. Time to find the two uniforms that allegedly existed. As he pulled out his drawers he saw an abundance of pants, several untouched undershirts, and plenty of socks and underwear. What he didn’t see were any gold or green shirts.
He was confident that these alleged uniforms simply didn’t exist. But if there was a chance then he had to find them. Not wearing a uniform was against regulations and none of his civies could possibly be passable.
After dramatically throwing himself onto his bed, Jim considered his options. He was pretty confident that he hadn’t ever lied about or failed to report a destroyed shirt, and he certainly hadn’t done it twice. So if nothing else, there had to be one uniform that existed somewhere.
Glancing around his room, his eyes landed on a drawer he hadn’t opened yet. One that he typically dreaded having to open. The one where he stored his formal dress uniform..
Uniform!
While he dreaded the idea of having to wear an uncomfortable outfit for a whole week, it was something he could wear. Hopping off the bed he ran over to the drawer to pull out his outfit for tomorrow. As his hands grabbed the shirt he frowned as he felt the scratchy fabric rubbing against his hands, not looking forward to feeling that texture on his entire torso.
Setting the shirt on the counter, he started to lift the accompanying pants when a flash of gold caught his eye. A thrill went up his spine and his chest tightened in excitement as he tossed the pants aside.
There was another uniform!
Grabbing the gold fabric he lifted it up, feeling delighted at the soft feeling of the material. As it unfolded, he noticed that it seemed to be a bit longer than usual. That was strange.
Looking closer at it, it was definitely longer, the neckline seemed a bit larger as well. Was this an outdated design? It wasn’t until he noticed the seam down the front side that his eyes went wide in understanding.
This wasn’t a shirt.
This was a dress.
Glancing back in the drawer he spotted the tights and panty that were part of the ensemble. It looked like he really did have two uniforms.
He’d completely forgotten that he had this.
When crew members were assigned to ships they were given one of every uniform option with the ability to order more of their preferences. Most people traded for their preferences early on, but higher ranking officers were granted more uniforms, and with his focus having been on running the ship it was on the backburner until he’d forgotten all about it.
Setting the dress next to his formals, he tapped his fingers as he considered his options.
On one hand, he’d never worn a dress before, so he wasn’t sure if he’d like it or if it would even be comfortable. On the other hand, he already knew that his formals weren’t his favorite thing to wear.
As he stared at the two uniforms in front of him, Kirk knew he had a decision to make.
Did he wear something that was out of his comfort zone, or did he wear something that was familiar but uncomfortable?