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The diplomatic conference is over, and Jim couldn’t be happier. Sure, there are some things about these functions he actually likes—the cool new foods, for one, as well as the opportunities to learn about beliefs and cultures so very different from Earth’s own. All things considered—and despite his reputation—Jim actually finds diplomacy and political affairs one of the most rewarding parts of his job.
…That is, when they go right, and this particular mission certainly didn’t. In fact, after the very close assassination attempt on the Coruvite Prime Minister, Jim is pretty sure this mission is going straight into the category of Utterly FUBAR. He’s thinking of making it an official mission class, actually, Starfleet admin code and everything. Pike would probably laugh his ass off.
Naturally, the Coruvites hadn’t taken too well to their PM almost becoming extra-crispy. Also naturally, they’d blamed the newcomers. And considering Coruvi possesses one of the largest, most advanced fleets in the quadrant, the Enterprise had to scramble to forestall an all-out declaration of war.
They managed to identify the real culprit in the end—a disgruntled Coruvite lower diplomat seeking sympathy for an upcoming election—and the treaty is now signed, neatly stamped and on its way to Starfleet. But it came with a price: everyone on the ship has been working basically nonstop for the past week, and Jim knows measures will have to be taken before something bad happens.
As captain, he spent the majority of the past week down on Coruvi, so at least he, Uhura, and the rest of the negotiation team were given adequate time to rest. On board the Enterprise, though, it’s been a whole different story. And while Jim couldn’t be more proud of how his crew has handled this mission, the signs of fatigue are everywhere.
Bones, at least, has been running interference: he’s got everyone on rotating shifts, with medical staff infesting all decks checking up on folks and administering meds as needed. So even though Sulu is nodding off at the helm, and Chekov is talking everyone’s ears off at a rate bordering on manic, Jim is no longer worried about the Enterprise suddenly crashing into a moon or Lieutenant Hendorff losing his shit and ripping someone’s arms out of their sockets for looking at him the wrong way. So long as they each get some shut-eye, he’s not worried about the crew.
He is worried about the quiet, too-thin figure currently hunched over the Science station behind him, exhaustion evident in every fiber of his being.
Spock hasn’t slept the entire week; Jim is sure of that. Left in charge of the Enterprise in Jim’s absence, Spock was the one who weathered the accusations from the Coruvite government, who convinced their patrols and destroyers to return to the planet, who oversaw the whole on-board investigation into the assassination plot. And even though he could have obeyed Bones’s medical advice and rotated his shifts with his beta and gamma reliefs, Jim knows he didn’t do that. Spock is a leader, not in intuition like Jim but in sheer presence alone. Without even having to check the logs, Jim knows Spock has stayed on the bridge the entire time, giving orders in his calm, cool way, a strong beacon of order amidst the chaos of the past week. It’s what makes him such a good First Officer, a better friend, and so much more.
But it’s also what tells Jim the Vulcan is about half a shift away from utter collapse.
He’s always been good at reading Spock, even before…recent events. In fact, Jim can hardly keep from laughing outright whenever someone complains to him about Spock being cold or aloof—one look at his eyes alone will tell you everything you want to know about what Spock’s feeling. But maybe other people are put off by Spock’s heritage, or they just don’t know what to look for. Jim, though, has always known.
The slight slump of Spock’s shoulders: he’s tired. The way his hands pause every once in a while over his station: he’s not thinking clearly. The occasional sideways glances at the turbolift: he wants to rest. Jim can read all of it and more, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do everything he can to make sure Spock gets what he needs.
He signs the mission brief and sends it off to Uhura for review, then rises from the chair. His back twinges in protest and Jim takes a moment to stretch and suppress a yawn: he’s tired too, been on the bridge for over twelve hours now ever since he got back from Coruvi, but at least he snagged a quick nap down on the planet this morning. He’s good to go for at least a couple more hours. Spock really isn’t.
The Vulcan doesn’t look up as Jim approaches his station, and indeed he startles a bit when Jim places a hand on his shoulder, turning to blink up at him with brown eyes now dulled with fatigue. “Captain,” Spock says, voice rough.
Jim smiles, soft, and risks a soft brush of his thumb beneath the neckline of Spock’s shirt, feeling more than hearing the Vulcan’s quiet hum as Spock’s eyes flutter closed of their own accord. It tells Jim the extent of Spock’s exhaustion: he would never react this way if he were fully alert.
Jim prolongs the touch for one more second before reluctantly pulling back. Then he clears his throat and says, “I’d like you to review Datafile 17-B for the mission report. I need the draft by tomorrow morning.”
Spock blinks, brow knitting in confusion. “I am unaware—”
“It’s on my personal terminal,” Jim interrupts. “Please get started on it immediately, Commander.”
He sees it the instant Spock understands; the relief in those brown eyes is so palpable Jim can practically feel it. “Aye, sir,” Spock says, and rises from his seat. Jim’s heart twinges when he sees the slowness of Spock’s movements, how he has to deliberately calculate each step. Still, he only stumbles once on his way to the turbolift, so Jim allows that to bolster him as he returns to the captain’s chair.
He actually makes it through another four hours—a personal record—but by then he can feel the exhaustion hanging off him like a heavy cloak. No one objects when he transfers the conn at the start of gamma. He must look just as tired as he feels.
The room is dark when he finally enters his quarters, and Jim stands there for a moment, blinking in the black. Spock prefers lights at around twenty percent; could he have misunderstood Jim after all?
In the next instant, he spots the distinct lump in the middle of his bed, lying perfectly still, and the worry dissipates. Jim smiles and steps forward.
Spock doesn’t stir at his approach. He’s wearing Jim’s sweatpants and a soft grey sweater, and he’s stolen all Jim’s pillows too, hugging one to his chest like a teddy bear. His lips are slightly parted, breaths soft and even, and when Jim reaches out to brush fingers through his hair he only sighs and burrows further into the sheets with a soft murmur of contentment. The sight makes Jim’s heart expand in his chest like a balloon, so that all of a sudden it becomes very hard to breathe.
No one on the Enterprise knows about them yet. Spock isn’t ready, and Jim loves him too much to push. It’s why he used the story about the bullshit datafile in the first place: anyone who pings their locations and finds them in Jim’s quarters will just assume they’re working on the report through the night. Of course Jim hopes, someday, that they’ll be able to tell everyone; Bones deserves to know, and Uhura, and the rest of the crew. But it’s not happening today, and that’s okay. Right now he has Spock asleep and trusting in his bed, and Jim couldn’t ask for anything else.
Across the room his terminal beeps. It’s probably an incoming message, something else to worry about the mission, so Jim turns the terminal off with a wave of his hand and sets about undressing. “Computer, lock door, emergency override only,” he orders, waiting for the toneless reply of “Acknowledged” before tossing his clothes aside and sliding carefully under the covers.
He’s barely finished lying down before an armful of warm, pliant half-Vulcan flops into his space, and Jim can’t help but chuckle softly as he curls into Spock, tangling their legs together and pulling the covers up over them both. Spock, for his part, hasn’t even woken up, breaths puffing evenly over the skin of Jim’s bare neck. It’s a testament to how much he trusts Jim, reaching out for him even in sleep, and Jim welcomes the contact, pressing a kiss to Spock’s forehead and breathing in the scent of forest pine and desert sand.
They don’t have to come out to the crew right now. What they have, it’s hard-earned, precious, and it doesn’t have to be shared. They’ve found what they were looking for in each other, and the rest of the crew can wait. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, or next month, or next year. It doesn’t matter, as long as they’re both here now.
Closing his eyes, Jim pulls Spock closer and finally succumbs to sleep.