Chapter Text
Unraveling
Snow is falling and there is a fire in the old-fashioned fireplace. Mom is home, and Grandpa Tiberius is on his way. Sam is actually smiling. Frank is upstairs and probably won’t come down—he hates Grandpa. For a moment, everything is right and Jimmy hasn’t learned yet to distrust the moments that feel good. He’s at the window watching snowflakes dissolve against the glass, looking and looking and looking for the lights of Grandpa’s car. When they appear, Jimmy runs out into the snow, still in his slippers, no coat, yelling, “He’s here, he’s here!” and Mom is telling him to come inside before he freezes but she’s laughing, and Sam is right behind him, picking up excited handfuls of snow and throwing them at nothing.
Grandpa’s car drifts to the ground and shuts off. Grandpa comes out with his arms already outstretched and Jimmy and Sam go running. Jimmy holds on as tight as he can, burying his face in Grandpa’s sweater, breathing in that Grandpa smell that makes him feel sleepy. He won’t let go, so Grandpa picks him up and carries him inside, tossing him like a sack of potatoes onto the couch in front of the fire, and everyone is laughing.
“Jimmy boy!” he booms, “Sammy! You’ve grown again! Didn’t I tell you to stop that?”
The boys squeal and start chasing each other around the house. Winona laughs and shakes her head. “They’re excited to see you, Tiberius—they’ve been like this all day. You make them go crazy.”
Tiberius hugs her. They both know that Winona will last no more than four days before the presence of George’s father is too much, and she’ll run off to space again. But they don’t talk about that now.
Later, after everyone else is asleep, Jimmy and Grandpa are curled up on the couch, the light of the fire shivering against the wall. Jimmy has a cup of hot chocolate, and he is slowly falling asleep in Grandpa’s lap. He’s only six years old, and Grandpa seems like a wonderful giant.
“Grandpa Tiberius,” he asks, “Am I old enough yet to go fishing with you and Sam?”
Grandpa chuckles. “I think so. But we’ll have to wait until you come visit me in the summer.”
“But that’s so far away.”
“Oh, not so far. I’m sure the time will fly by.”
“No it won’t.”
Grandpa doesn’t answer. They both know Jimmy’s right.
“When will you take us hunting? We can go hunting in the winter. Can we do that tomorrow?”
Grandpa takes Jimmy’s cup, which has been slipping out of his hands as he drifts closer to sleep. “No, Jimmy, you’re both way too young for hunting. Maybe in a couple years I’ll start teaching you and Sammy to shoot, but that’s still a long time away.”
Jimmy sighs. He wants to be brave and strong and useful like Grandpa Tiberius. People like it when you’re useful. They need you because you know how to do things.
“Do you want an early Christmas present?” Grandpa asks.
Jimmy wakes up, sleep chased away. “Yes! Yes yes yes!”
Grandpa laughs and shushes him. He gets a present from under the tree and hands it to Jim, who tears it open even before Grandpa sits back down.
Jimmy knows he should hide his disappointment, but he can’t—it’s yarn and a big pair of knitting needles. He was hoping for something to make him useful, like a compass or one of the vests Grandpa wears when he goes fishing.
Grandpa smiles, like he expected Jimmy to react this way.
“I know you like doing things for yourself, Jimmy. This way, you can make yourself hats and scarves and things to wear when you’re old enough to come hunting with me.”
“But Grandpa, knitting is for girls.”
Grandpa scoffs. “It most certainly is not! Being able to make things with your own hands is a good skill for anybody. It’s a very useful skill.”
Jimmy does want to be useful, but he’s still not sure.
Grandpa gathers him back onto his lap. “Tomorrow, when it’s light out, I’ll teach you how to make a scarf, ok? You can practice knitting while you wait for the time to pass, and before you know it, it’ll be time to come visit me.”
Jimmy leans his head against Grandpa’s chest. “Do you know how to knit, Grandpa?”
“I sure do. If you can make your own clothes and cook your own food, Jimmy, then you can always take care of yourself. You never know when you won’t have a replicator to use. The only thing you can ever really rely on is yourself.”
Jimmy thinks about it. He thinks about Grandpa’s nice-smelling sweaters, his hats lined with soft felt, the mittens he sends Jim and Sam every year that keep their hands warm, even when Frank wakes them up to haul firewood when it’s still dark out. Did Grandpa make all of those things himself?
Jimmy is still holding the yarn. Even after he’s asleep, when Grandpa puts him in bed, he’s still holding it.
The next day Grandpa teaches him the knit stitch and how to use it to make a scarf. When Sam makes fun of him, Grandpa takes a beautiful blue sweater out of his suitcase, and starts knitting the unfinished sleeve. Sam shuts up and sits watching the two of them knit for an hour, eating a plateful of Christmas cookies and telling Grandpa jokes.
Frank comes down and complains that Grandpa is going to make the boys faggots. Grandpa ignores him, but Jimmy realizes this is why he’s never seen Grandpa knitting before. He tries harder to make his stitches even and neat, like Grandpa’s.
On the day after Christmas, Mom is back in space and Grandpa is packing up his things, but Jimmy has finished his scarf and is making another one. Grandpa taught him the purl stitch too, so now Jimmy can make clumsy copies of the little v-shaped stitches that Grandpa makes so effortlessly.
As Grandpa drives away, Sam and Frank get into a screaming fight. Jimmy slips up to his room and wraps himself in a blanket. He can still hear them, but he picks up his needles and works on the new scarf. Knit four stitches at both ends of the row so the work doesn’t curl, knit one row, purl one row, knit one row, purl one row, knit, purl, knit, purl. After a while, Jimmy can’t hear anything except the clicking of his needles.
-✭-
“Spock, if you don’t stop talking I am honestly going to throw my communicator at you.”
Spock looked up from his PADD, not even bothering to hide his exasperation.
“Captain, the admiralty has requested that our standard operating procedure consist of—”
“A detailed discussion of all major reports by both commanding officers before they are signed and submitted. Yes, I know that, Mr. Spock, they usually tell these things to the captain too, not just the first officer.”
“Then I fail to understand why you so frequently attempt to evade this duty.”
Jim put his head on the cold surface of his desk. It was 1:00 in the morning. “I write reports, you write reports. I’m a genius, you’re a bigger genius. We don’t need to read them to each other and have a heart-to-heart about every single one. We don’t need to follow every single rule, Spock. I trust you—don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you.”
Spock said it so quietly and seriously that Jim raised his head. Spock’s face was blank, but Jim knew him well enough by now to read an emotion there, even if he couldn’t name it. A long, silent moment went by and they just looked at each other, something faintly electric thrumming between them.
Lately there had been a lot of moments like this. It was almost two years since Jim had died in the warp core, and they were nearing the end of their first year on the mission. Things between Jim and Spock had been… different. Jim didn’t really want to think about it beyond that. Working with Spock, arguing with Spock, hanging out with Spock—it all felt good, it felt right, and that meant it couldn’t be trusted. Something was sure to go wrong, Jim was sure to read meaning into something that meant nothing to Spock, he was sure to fuck things up somehow.
So Jim just broke the eye contact and said, “Cool, then we don’t need to stay up into the wee hours reading reports to each other.”
Spock blinked. Jim was pretty sure he was actually confused, not just pretending to be, which meant Spock was really, really tired. It was a rare occasion, but it did happen.
“Hours cannot be small or large, Captain—an hour is a measurement of time.”
Jim rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Yeah, I know Spock, I just mean it’s late. We’re getting those new orders tomorrow and if I don’t go to bed, I’m going to fall asleep in the middle of receiving them.”
Spock stood and gathered up his PADD and communicator. “Of course, Captain. My apologies. You must remind me earlier when your body is in need of sleep. I sometimes forget that humans require much more rest than Vulcans.”
Rolling his eyes, Jim shut off his computer and dragged himself into his bedroom, flopping face-first onto the comforter. He turned his head just enough so that Spock could hear him and called out, “Sure, Spock. You’re totally not tired at all—you could probably go for a ten-mile run right now!”
Spock came to stand in the bedroom doorway. “You have found me out, Captain. I am indeed fatigued. I could likely run only six miles in my current state.”
Jim picked up a pillow and threw it at him. Spock dodged it expertly.
“Captain,” Spock said, suddenly business-like again, “There is one matter on which I do require your sign-off.” His PADD flared to life again and lit up the dark room as he started walking toward Jim’s bed, staring at the screen.
“Spaaaaaack, I’m so tired! Leave me alone!”
Spock sat on the edge of Jim’s bed, ignoring him, and continued tapping at his PADD to pull up a form. The easy, thoughtless way he came into Jim’s private space made Jim’s head feel sort of light and floaty. He put the other pillow over his face.
Spock began rattling off a speech about how he wanted to promote one of his science officers who was performing at a much higher level than her previous experience had suggested she would, and she would need a higher-quality microscope and also some other things, blah blah blah blah blah. Jim stopped listening almost immediately. Spock could ask Jim to fork over his own personal salary to the science department and Jim would do it.
“That’s fine, Spock,” he finally interrupted, “You have my approval.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Captain. If you will just—oh. I see the type of oscilloscope I had planned to request for her is not available. I will have to find another and redo my calculations of expense.” And with that he settled in next to Jim, sitting at the head of the bed with his back against the bulkhead.
For a few moments, Jim couldn’t move, but Spock was barely aware of him, still tapping away. Finally not even Jim’s uncomfortable, unresolved emotions could outweigh his exhaustion, and he drifted to sleep to the sound of Spock’s fingers against the screen.
-✭-
That summer Grandpa teaches the boys to fish. In the evenings he shows them how to prepare and cook their catch, and it tastes like butter and no one is yelling. Jimmy has brought all of his scarves to show Grandpa, and Grandpa makes a fuss over them. Jimmy thinks they look pretty bad, but he’s still proud of them.
Grandpa teaches him more. How to decrease stitches, how to increase. They knit a hat, and Grandpa sews the seam. Sam tries to learn too but he gets bored. He doesn’t tease Jimmy, though, so Jimmy starts knitting another hat, this one for his brother. But he doesn’t finish it before they go home, and when he tries to sew the seam himself, it looks terrible. Sam is mad all the time at home, and Jimmy thinks the messed-up hat will just make him madder, so he doesn’t give it to him.
When Jimmy is nine, Grandpa teaches them how to shoot. He shows them how to use both a phaser and a gun, even though Sam thinks the gun is a piece of crap. They shoot at targets and miss most of them.
Grandpa teaches Jimmy how to knit with a circular needle, so he can make things without seams. Over the past four years, Jimmy thinks he’s gotten pretty good. He can make washcloths and hats and he even made a blanket for Mom. The circular needles make it easier, and his hats start looking really good. That Christmas he knits Grandpa a deerstalker and Grandpa says it’s one hell of a present.
-✭-
When Jim woke up the next morning, he was momentarily confused about being up before his alarm, which usually went off for five straight minutes before Jim was conscious enough to turn it off. But then he noticed the all-too familiar dip in his bed that meant someone else was sleeping in it. Turning over, he found Spock lying beside him at an awkward angle, shivering without any blankets over him. He had fallen asleep before he could finish his budget and make Jim sign off on it. His PADD was lying beside him, the screen dark.
For a few moments, Jim stared at his sleeping first officer, his tousled hair and slightly parted lips. Jesus, this Vulcan sure didn’t make it easy. He reached over and shook his shoulder gently. Spock came instantly awake, sitting up and looking around in confusion.
“It’s ok, you’re in my quarters,” said Jim. “I think you fell asleep last night when you were doing those calculations.”
Spock leapt out of the bed like the sheets were acidic. “Captain, please accept my sincere apology. I did not realize the true extent of my fatigue. In the future I will attempt—”
Jim held up his hand. “Spock, it’s ok! Don’t worry about it. Obviously we both need to get more sleep. All the more reason not to read each other’s reports.”
Spock was flushed an unfairly appealing shade of green. “Indeed, Captain,” he said haltingly, and without another word he turned and left Jim’s quarters through their shared bathroom.
Jim flopped back onto the bed and dug his fingernails into his scalp. He felt like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all.
-✭-
Grandpa decides they can start learning about hunting when Jim is ten, although he won’t actually let them try it. He takes the boys on a camping trip and starts teaching them the basics. Jim loves camping, and he can make his own campfires now. He likes to sit by the fire and read or knit, and he likes being able to fend for himself—cook his own food, brew coffee for Grandpa, navigate the winding trails with nothing but his own brain to keep him from getting lost.
Grandpa leads them deep into the woods and teaches them to sit still and just watch. He says this is one of the most important things about hunting. Sam hates it and storms off on the second day, scaring trees full of birds into the air.
But Jimmy is good at sitting still. Knitting is sitting still and being patient. Walking back to camp, Grandpa shoves him fondly and says, “See, Jimmy boy? I told you knitting would come in handy.”
The next day Grandpa takes them out boating. Sam likes this a lot better than sitting still waiting for animals to creep across their path, but Jimmy thinks it’s kind of boring and sits in the bottom of the boat knitting the cuff of a mitten.
-✭-
Spock didn’t bring up falling asleep in Jim’s bed, but he was awkward for the rest of the day. Jim decided to be mad at him and tried to ignore him, but he failed on both counts.
As soon as Jim arrived on the bridge, Chekov and Sulu descended on him to discuss their plans for holiday celebrations on the Enterprise. It was mid-December, but they had started pestering Jim about Christmas early last month. Finally he had given up and made them the ship’s official Christmas committee.
“Ve are considering four parties, Kepten,” Chekov said. “Ve vill need your approwal, obwiously, but—”
“Four parties?” Jim interrupted him.
“It’s good for the crew, Captain,” said Sulu.
Jim rubbed his forehead. “Okay, listen. Commander Spock is officially your commanding officer for this Christmas stuff. You can get all your answers and approvals from him. And please make sure that there are as few things I have to participate in as possible.”
“But Kepten,” said Chekov, looking confused, “you love parties.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t love Christmas parties, ok? I’m not a big fan of Christmas.”
Sulu and Chekov exchanged a look and tactfully let the subject drop. When Spock passed by his chair a few minutes later, Jim flagged him over.
“I just made you the senior officer in charge of corralling Sulu and Chekov with this whole Christmas on the Enterprise thing. Sorry. I probably should have asked you first but—to be honest, I hate Christmas. Do you mind?”
Spock regarded him for a moment. Jim felt like he was trying to figure him out, but maybe he was just reading that into Spock’s raised eyebrow. “I do not mind, Captain.”
“Thanks, Spock. I appreciate it.”
-✭-
Grandpa finally takes them hunting for real when Jim is twelve. Grandpa has come for another Christmas visit, and they go into the woods behind the farmhouse. Jim wears a scarf he made two years ago. He hasn’t knitted anything since the car and the cliff and what Frank did to him after. Grandpa hasn’t said anything, but Jim notices he’s wearing the deerstalker.
In the past two years, Sam has already run away from home and been dragged back three times. In the woods, he shoots hard and fast into the trees like if he tries hard enough he’ll turn into the bullet. He doesn’t hit anything. Jim waits, and he kills three squirrels his first try. Sam shoves him and Jim’s gun goes off, shooting harmlessly into the treeline. It’s the first time Jim has ever seen Grandpa Tiberius get mad. He grabs Sam by the arm and pulls him back toward the farmhouse. Sam is shouting that he never wanted to use an old-fashioned gun anyway, and Grandpa shouts back that if they had been using phasers, one of them would probably be dead.
Jim collects his squirrels and slowly strings them up like Grandpa taught him. Grandpa and Sam are on the couch when Jim gets back to the house. Sam is hanging his head and Grandpa’s hand is on Sam’s back.
The next day, Grandpa asks if Jim wants to do some knitting with him. Jim does want to. He misses it—the clicking needles, the quiet rhythm of stitch after stitch. Grandpa shows Jim how to knit socks, but Jim gets so frustrated when he tries to turn the heel that he throws the unfinished sock across the room and storms out of the house.
When he gets back, Frank says he’s glad Jim decided not to start again with the goddamn crafting. He doesn’t want a faggot for a stepson. Grandpa Tiberius usually ignores Frank, but this time he tells him he’s as backward as a redneck raised by wolves. Frank smashes a plate and goes out drinking.
Jim doesn’t tell anyone that Lucas Jones kissed him behind a broken-down hover truck on the last day of school before winter break. Or that Jim kissed him back, with tongue.
-✭-
At noon, their assignment came in from Starfleet. Jim asked Uhura to read the orders aloud as usual. He only read them in private if they were marked high-security-clearance; he thought everyone on the ship had a right to know what they were doing and why.
“Captain James Kirk,” Uhura read, “the Enterprise is ordered to proceed to Federation Starbase 18 and take aboard Colonel Masters and her convoy of Federation personnel. You are further ordered to transport them to Tarsus IV in the Tarsus system. An away team must escort Colonel Masters and her convoy on any and all away missions they conduct on the planet’s surface. Colonel Masters and her team are investigating the Tarsus IV famine and massacre, and there is a perceived threat to their safety based on political disagreements. A complete mission assignment has been sent. Admiral Komack, Starfleet Headquarters.”
Sulu was entering the coordinates. “Proceed to Starbase 18, Captain?”
The Captain didn’t answer. Sulu spun around to get a confirmation, but Jim was sitting frozen in his seat, staring straight ahead, the color gone from his face. At Jim’s silence, Spock also turned from his station and was momentarily taken aback by the sight of him. He could see the clenched muscles of Jim’s hands on the arms of the captain’s chair, the tightness of his jaw, the quickening of his breath. Spock rose and crossed the bridge, laying a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder. He jumped and looked up at Spock in surprise. His eyes were glassy and hollow.
“Are you well, Captain?”
Jim stood too quickly, knocking Spock’s hand away and nearly falling over.
“No. No, I’m not, Mr. Spock. You have the con.”
Jim walked stiffly to the turbolift and disappeared from the bridge, the flash of his electric blue eyes momentarily visible, staring at nothing, before the doors whispered shut.
-✭-
Jim visits Grandpa Tiberius a week before he’s supposed to leave for Tarsus IV. Sam has left home for good, so it’s just the two of them. Jim is fourteen. They go hunting and fishing and Grandpa never brings up the bruise Jim has on his eye from fighting, or the month he spent in the Iowa Juvenile Correction Center.
Grandpa talks about Tarsus like it’s something thrilling that Jim earned, not like the punishment it really is. Jim starts to get almost excited about living on the colony. He and Grandpa make up wild stories about what Jim can do on the little faraway planet, what books he can read, what the girls will look like.
It’s only November, but Grandpa and Jim decorate the whole house like it’s Christmas, since Jim will be away for the holidays. They cut down a tree together and sing stupid carols while they decorate it. They have a feast, complete with a turkey Jim shot himself. Grandpa even lets Jim have a cup of eggnog, which makes him sleepy and sad. After he drinks it, he tells Grandpa that he’s sorry about the knitting. His plan had been to never tell anyone how guilty he feels that he stopped knitting, how it makes him feel like he let Grandpa down.
He even tells Grandpa that he likes boys just as much as girls. He starts to cry and feels like the biggest idiot in the world, but he’s been fucking up ever since Sam started running away, and he just got out of juvie, and now he’s being exiled to some random colony on a speck of a distant world. And it turns out that he is a faggot after all.
Grandpa puts his arm around Jim and says there’s no shame in crying, and there’s no shame in liking boys, either.
“Nobody thinks like that anymore, Jim. You just had the misfortune of growing up with one of the few dinosaurs who does.”
Jim puts his head on Grandpa’s shoulder like he did when he was a little kid. Grandpa still smells the same.
“And as for the knitting,” Grandpa says, “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you never picked it up again. But just because you’ve stopped for a while doesn’t mean you can’t start again. Good, honest skills—things you can make with your own two hands—those are always there for you, waiting until you need them.”
They have a pretend Christmas morning. One of the presents Grandpa wraps in green paper is a bagful of yarn, a beautiful set of silver needles, and a sweater pattern. He winks at Jim and says, “If you don’t need it, don’t you worry none. But if you get bored on Tarsus, if the boys are ugly or something, you can dig this out. I never did teach you sweaters.”
Jim hugs him. He’s on a ship to Tarsus IV the next day.
-✭-
Jim distantly heard the doors to his quarters open, and he wasn’t surprised, but it did occur to him that Spock had probably buzzed several times before overriding Jim’s code. He hadn’t heard that at all.
Jim was sitting frozen in his desk chair. He hadn’t moved his head since he sat down, and he thought maybe his neck was starting to hurt, but everything hurt and his head felt detached, like a balloon on a string, so he wasn’t sure.
Spock stepped into Jim’s line of vision and took a seat across from him.
“Captain? I would like you to explain your behavior so that I may understand. Are you currently capable of doing that?”
Jim was quiet for a long moment. By the time he realized he had said, “I was on Tarsus IV during the famine,” ten seconds had gone by and Spock had already looked confused and then checked himself, erasing the emotion from his face.
“Jim, that statement is not correct. I have read your file in its entirety. It makes no mention of the Tarsus disaster.”
Jim laughed and then covered his mouth. He had forgotten that laughing was a thing people did.
He started to talk into his hand and for a moment couldn’t figure out why the words sounded wrong. He dropped his hand and tried again.
“I hacked into my file and made all the Tarsus stuff inaccessible. The day I started at the Academy. I couldn’t delete it; it just couldn’t be done without the highest level of clearance. But I made it so that no one can see it. No one can see it. No one can ever see those pictures of me.”
Jim’s eyes were too wide and had drifted away again. He wasn’t blinking. Spock was beginning to think he wasn’t going to say anything else when the words began pouring out, jumbling over each other.
“My stepfather convinced my mom to send me there when I was fourteen, after I got arrested the first time. Everybody thought I needed a kick in the ass, and there was a Starfleet school program on Tarsus they wanted me to do. There was nowhere to run—if I was stuck on the colony the teachers could make me go to school, keep me out of trouble.
I was there for a month before the grain started dying and the food started running low. At first nobody was worried, because Kodos said we had plenty of food in storage and the best replicators. But then the food just started disappearing for good. When we realized that Kodos had lied, people started panicking, started fighting, started… killing each other. Even before the massacre, things were out of control. People were hiding food and letting their own families starve, kids my age were trading sex for food, bodies were just lying in the street.
A bunch of little kids, their parents died. I took them outside of the colony and we lived in the woods for a while, and I hunted these little rodents for food, but then the animals started dying, too. By the time we heard about the massacre, we had almost nothing. We had all been chosen for the slaughter—we should have been dead. So going back into town was a huge risk, but we were going to starve, and the only food left was in the colony. So I took the two oldest kids and we snuck in, trying to find something to eat. We were in this little empty house, looking in the cupboards, when—when he came in. Kodos and some of his people. I—I saw his face, Spock. I saw it clear as day. We went running, but—but the two kids got killed. I don’t know if Kodos himself did it, but somebody killed them. But I got away. I got back to the camp where the little kids were and I gave them the very last of the food we had. Starfleet came the next day.”
After a minute, maybe two, maybe a thousand, Jim realized he had just told Spock everything. He raised his eyes warily. Spock’s face was completely blank, a caricature of indifference, a sure sign that the emotions he was feeling were the hardest to control.
“You cannot be expected to take on this mission,” he said quietly.
Jim laughed, a brittle, humorless bark, and said, “Well, that’s what I get for hacking into my own record, isn’t it? Hacking always does seem to bite me in the ass. You wanna do an I-told-you-so dance? I can totally remember your smug face at the Kobyashi Maru hearing—you should break that out right now, it’s perfect.”
Spock took Jim’s hand. He had never done that, not once. “Jim, I am grateful that you cheated on the Kobyashi Maru. That act set in motion the events that allowed us to serve together.”
The string connecting Jim’s head to his body broke, and he felt like he was drifting away. “I need to lay down,” he said, and dropped Spock’s hand, wandering into the bedroom like a ghost. Spock rose and followed him, hovering in the doorway. “Would you like me to stay?”
Jim was sprawled on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes. “No, that’s ok, Spock. I just need to rest for a while.”
Spock hesitated, but finally he offered a quiet, “Yes, Captain,” and slipped out of Jim’s quarters.
-✭-
When the Starfleet shuttle drops Jim off at Fleet headquarters to be debriefed, his mom is there, and so is Grandpa Tiberius. Mom starts to cry as soon as she sees him, his bones sticking out, his t-shirt hanging off him. But Grandpa just wraps an arm around him and says, “I’m so glad you’re home, son,” and he doesn’t let go even while Starfleet personnel herd Jim into the main building. Mom can’t take it after a while and leaves, but Grandpa stays while they are dragged from office to office so the Starfleet people can get Jim’s testimony. They take holos of his naked, emaciated body, and his eyes burn holes in the pictures they put in his file.
Grandpa never looks away. Jim sees the way the officers keep glancing nervously at old Tiberius, like they know that he’s going to look and look and look, he’s going to see everything, hear everything—he’s going to know every detail of what happened to Jim on Tarsus IV. Starfleet knows who Grandpa is, who his son was.
Grandpa doesn’t say anything at first, he just listens and stares. They try to make Jim eat some food and he can’t bring himself to do it—he wants to take it home. Food is for saving, not for eating. Someone else, someone younger, weaker, will need it later. Grandpa leans forward in his chair and puts his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Eat what you can, Jim. There’s plenty more where that came from.” It’s the first time he’s spoken since they entered the building. Jim eats an apple but nothing else.
After four hours, they start asking Jim more questions about the two kids that died. Jim breaks down and all of a sudden he can’t get control of himself, he’s crying so hard that he starts choking, so hard that he has to run to the bathroom to throw up the apple.
Grandpa comes to get him and when the Starfleet people try to take him back to the conference room, Grandpa says, “That’s enough for today,” and walks Jim right out of Headquarters.
Mom is waiting outside drinking coffee. She’s shaking and won’t look at Jim at all now. She says, “Why does space keep taking my boys?” and Jim is pretty sure she spiked her coffee because she never says stuff like that sober.
Grandpa just says, “Let’s get back to the hotel.”
Once Mom is asleep, Jim gets out the sweater. He had started knitting it his first day on Tarsus, and it all came back, just like Grandpa said it would. After everything went to hell, he kept it the whole time. Even if he died, he wanted them to find it on his body so Grandpa Tiberius would know he finished it.
Jim holds it up. It’s a little dirty now, but he thinks Grandpa can probably get the stains out.
“Here,” he says, “I sized up the pattern so it would fit you.”
Grandpa takes it and is quiet, just for a moment.
“Thank you, Jimmy. That’s one hell of a present.”
Jim shrugs and says, “No problem. Thanks for the yarn and the needles.” It’s like it’s normal, this exchange of presents, like it didn’t happen on either side of a horror show.
-✭-
Spock immediately hacked into Jim’s record himself and accessed the hidden files, saving them to his computer with heavy encryption.
He forced himself to control the anxiety—and, if he was honest, the guilt—he felt about reading this information. It was relevant, and it was necessary for Spock to have it so that he could make informed decisions about their current assignment. He opened the file.
A teenage Jim stared out at Spock from the computer screen. They had taken photographs of his naked body to document the full extent of his malnourishment, and his bones were sharp, the skin stretched over them almost translucent. His lips were cracked, his skin dry, his hair thin and dull. The blue of his eyes was dark and angry, his dilated pupils two howling black holes.
Spock deleted the pictures. He did not want to look at them again.
The file fleshed out Jim’s Tarsus account only a little, filling in some logistical details. This was followed by information about how Starfleet handled Jim’s situation once he was back on Earth. The file mentioned Tiberius Kirk, Jim’s paternal grandfather, several times. Spock knew the identities of Jim’s relatives, of course, but he could not recall Jim ever mentioning this grandfather in any specific context. The report, however, indicated that Tiberius had been present for the entirety of Jim’s debriefing and had not only advocated for him in several instances, but also made medical decisions for him, and dictated his schedule and treatment throughout Starfleet’s inquiry into Tarsus.
It appeared that Starfleet had followed Jim’s progress for nine months. His medical records indicated an extreme decline in Jim’s overall health following his stay on the colony, particularly a decline in mental wellness. Trauma-related diagnoses were considered, but the files repeatedly referenced Jim’s refusal to cooperate with Starfleet-mandated therapy, and his increasingly volatile and illegal behavior. After Jim was arrested again, Starfleet concluded that he was too difficult to monitor and closed his Tarsus file.
Spock shut his computer off and steepled his fingers, processing what he had just read. He logically considered his options for 37.64 minutes. Finally he transferred the files to a PADD and proceeded to the medical bay.
-✭-
“You don’t have any right! Goddamn you—you don’t have any RIGHT!”
Bones crossed his arms and watched Jim pace back and forth across his quarters.
“I’m not allowed to have a few minutes of freaking out after being blindsided by a Tarsus mission? Are all starship captains supposed to be Vulcans now? Sure, I’m not thrilled that I got assigned to go to Tarsus with no warning, on the bridge, in front of everyone, but I’m fine! I freaked out and now I’m fine!” Jim ground to a halt. “Where the fuck is Spock? Get him in here, this is his fault too!”
Bones stared him down, immovable as a mountain range. “You have to unshield your Tarsus files. You can lie about how they got hidden and Spock and I’ll vouch for you. But Starfleet needs to know. I’m not medically clearing you for this mission because you can’t handle it and you’re putting the entire crew at risk. You’ve been avoiding this since you were fourteen. You need to face it and deal with it, but not like this.”
Jim was shivering with anger, his hands in tight fists. Bones wondered if he was going to punch him. It wouldn’t be the first time Jim had punched him for talking about Tarsus IV.
“I’m not clearing you for this mission, Jim. Either I can tell the admiralty or you can.”
Jim swung violently sideways and punched the hull. He punched it over and over until Bones grabbed him and pinned his arms down. He held Jim there until the live-wire tension bled out of him.
Spock came in several minutes later to find Jim sitting on the couch, Dr. McCoy using a bone regenerator on his hand. There was blood all over Jim’s shirt.
Jim looked up at him, his eyes empty. “Remember that time you stabbed me in the back before? I kinda thought you might have learned a lesson there.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jim, leave him alone. He’s trying to help you. He’s right and I’m right. This isn’t safe for anybody.”
Jim stood up and walked over to his computer, his movements as stiff as wood. “I’m comming Starfleet,” he said.
Spock took a step forward. “Captain, I believe it would be prudent to change your uniform shirt.”
Jim glanced down at his blood-soaked tunic. He tore it off and, in just his black undershirt, hailed Starfleet. As they waited for the connection he asked, “Gonna back me up on this, Spock?”
Spock had already come to stand beside him. “Of course, Captain.” Bones took his place at Jim’s other side and they waited.
When Starfleet answered, Jim gave an impressively convincing performance of being righteously angry—he had just discovered that all mentions of Tarsus IV had been removed from his file. He was furious that he had been serving Starfleet for three years without any awareness of what he had already given them on Tarsus IV when he was fourteen.
The officers looked like someone had just accused them of misplacing an entire starship, and began scrambling around, looking in Jim’s file and calling admirals. Jim could tell the moment when they realized he was right, that the files were encrypted, and watched as they methodically unshielded the missing part of his record. The knowledge that a roomful of Starfleet officials was rifling through his most fiercely held secrets made Jim want to start punching the bulkhead again, but he clenched his fist and kept silent. Eventually Spock said, “We would like to be removed from this assignment.”
The officials on the screen all froze as one. For a few beats they stared silently at the Enterprise command team, before exchanging several anxious glances.
Finally Commander Ortez, the most senior officer present, reluctantly spoke up. “That– that isn’t possible, I’m afraid.”
Spock felt Jim’s body go rigid beside him.
“Well, you’re gonna have to make it possible,” said Dr. McCoy. “I’m not medically clearing Captain Kirk for this mission.”
More nervous glances. “Captain Kirk and the Enterprise were specifically requested by the Federation investigative team,” said Commander Ortez. “This mission is… delicate, politically. The Federation is… concerned… with how Starfleet originally handled the Tarsus IV disaster. They consider your ship to be the most objective, based on Captain Kirk’s reputation for… for questioning authority.”
Jim huffed an incredulous, humorless laugh.
McCoy was clearly putting an excessive amount of effort into keeping his voice above a growl. “Well, tell the Federation they’ll have to choose somebody else. They’ll probably change their minds in light of this new information anway.”
A young ensign in the back of the conference room raised her hand shyly, as if she were still a cadet attending a lecture. “Um, sorry, Commander Ortez? I’ve already contacted the Federation to inform them of the change in Captain Kirk’s files? They just answered and, um, it seems that they are actually… even more insistent on the Enterprise’s involvement?”
McCoy took a step forward. “Look here,” he said, “I’m the chief medical officer on this vessel, and I have the authority to forbid Captain Kirk from taking on this mission, and I’m exerting it.”
“Bones–” Jim started, but McCoy held up his hand.
Commander Ortez took a deep breath. “There’s nothing I can do, Doctor. I have orders here directly from Admiral Komack that supercede your authority. I contacted him in a text communication two minutes ago about the missing files. He told me the orders were to remain the same.”
McCoy opened his mouth to speak again, but Spock cut him off. “Understood, Commander. Please forward all updated orders and communications to the Captain and myself.” He reached out and cut the connection.
“Goddamn it, Spock! Do you care about Jim at all? This is—”
Spock rounded on him, “Of course I care, Doctor. Which is why I will not dispute the admiralty when it is obvious that they will not be persuaded. Rather I will spend my time determining the best way to accommodate the Captain during—”
Jim slammed his hand on the desk, interrupting Spock with a bang that echoed against the hull. “Get out, both of you,” he said, and disappeared into the bedroom.
-✭-
Grandpa Tiberius dies less than a year later, on December 22. Mom says that a neighbor found him dead from a stroke in his backyard, and that he was wearing the sweater Jim knitted him. Mom holds out the sweater and asks if Jim wants to keep it. Grandpa had obviously cleaned it up and it looks crisp and new. Jim takes it and it has that Grandpa sweater smell.
He wears it to the funeral. It’s not black—it was a fair isle pattern with red on a white background—so people give him weird looks and Mom yells at him. But he leaves it on and he won’t take it off for days and days. On Christmas he sits on the couch by the cold fireplace, huddled down in the sweater, and drinks cup after cup of eggnog. Mom doesn’t even notice.
Ten years later, when Jim gets on a shuttle to Starfleet—this time by choice—he has the sweater stuffed in a pocket, hidden under his leather jacket. He doesn’t bring needles or yarn though. He doesn’t knit anymore.
-✭-
Spock was drawn out of meditation at 7.325 minutes past midnight by a clumsy sort of banging coming from his living quarters. He rose and left his bedroom, not surprised to find Jim standing awkwardly by Spock’s display of Vulcan weapons, swaying slightly. Even from across the room, Spock could smell the whiskey Jim had undoubtedly consumed in an irresponsible quantity.
Jim didn’t look up when Spock came in, but he said, “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I know you’ve been trying to help– to help me. I don’t like talking about this.”
Spock crossed to Jim and took his elbow, leading him to the sofa and sitting down with him. “There is no need to apologize.”
Jim shivered and curled into himself, drawing his knees against his chest. “I know you thought you could get us reassigned. I know you didn’t expect them to dig– to dig in their heels like that. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole.”
“I understand your reaction. I grieve with thee for what you experienced on Tarsus IV.”
Jim smiled sadly. “You’re so hot when you talk all Vulcan. How come you don’t think I’m hot?”
“I do, Jim. I have always found you to be exceptionally aesthetically pleasing.”
Jim looked up, and Spock held his gaze. Neither of them was surprised when Jim leaned in and kissed Spock, his mouth sharp with the taste of whiskey. Jim wrapped a hand around Spock’s head and Spock could already feel desperation at every point where their skin touched, as tangible to his telepathy as beads of water.
Gently he pulled away and pried Jim’s hand from behind his head.
“Jim, you are extremely intoxicated. You cannot consent to any kind of sexual activity. I think it best if you sleep for now.”
Jim stared at him like he didn’t quite understand. “Spock, I’ve wanted you since the fucking beginning. You can take the last three fucking years as my consent.”
Spock took both of Jim’s hands and stroked them slowly with his long fingers. “There is time for us, Jim. You are currently traumatized and impulsive.”
Jim jerked his hands away. “Don’t tell me what I am, Spock. Fuck you. Don’t do that.”
Spock turned his palms up, placating. “I apologize. If you would like, we can share a bed tonight. Perhaps proximity could bring you a small amount of comfort.”
Jim stood up unsteadily, backing away. “I’ll tell you what would bring me comfort. You pounding my ass until I can’t think anymore and all these thoughts go the fuck away.”
Spock flushed green, but Jim barely noticed. Black dots were popping in the corners of his vision and the room was slowly being reduced to a pinprick at the center of a tunnel.
“I will not take advantage of you in this state. We can revisit this discussion at a later time.”
Jim fumbled toward the door of the adjoining bathroom. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Spock. You can just say you don’t want me, it’s not that fucking hard. Do you think I can’t take it? You’re not the first pretty asshole and you won’t be the last. Don’t fucking worry about me.”
“Jim, you misunderstand me,” Spock said, striding toward the bathroom in a vain attempt to keep Jim out of his own quarters. But Jim was already gone and had locked his doors. Spock stood impotently in the bathroom trying to decide if he should override Jim’s codes, but calculated that Jim could only remain conscious for a maximum of twenty-two minutes and that letting him sleep was the kindest course of action.
-✭-
When Jim woke up the next day, he was immediately hit with fragmentary memories of his disastrous encounter with Spock. He groaned and tried to sit up, but instantly regretted it. He rested his head on the cool side of his pillow for a few minutes, trying hard not to think. When he managed to sit up, he found a detox hypo and a Christmas present sitting on the end of his bed.
Confused—but relieved—he gave himself the hypo and felt his hangover beginning to dissipate as he picked up the present. It was haphazardly wrapped in Christmas paper, tied with a ribbon and a gift tag. Written on the tag in Bones’s familiar scrawl was a note that read, “Congratulations, I put you on two days of medical leave.”
Jim growled in exasperation. In two days they would be at Starbase 18 to pick up the investigative crew. Jim wasn’t sure why Bones thought it would be better for him to knock around his quarters just thinking and thinking instead of distracting himself with work. He considered throwing the present across the room, but instead he pulled off the ribbon and tore the paper.
It was yarn. And a set of needles. Jim sat and stared at it for a full minute. Then he threw it across the room after all.
-✭-
Jim lay in bed reading for as long as possible, which was about half an hour. He couldn’t focus—all he could think about was Spock, and the knitting supplies burning a hole in the corner of his quarters.
He let his book fall onto the blankets and scrubbed his hands over his head and face. What was the right thing to do when you kissed your first officer and then got mad at him? Should he go apologize? Should he give Spock time and let him come to Jim?
Finally Jim went and picked up the yarn. At this point, anything was better than thinking about Spock. How the hell did Bones even know about the knitting? It wasn’t like Jim ever talked about it. Hell, he barely talked about Grandpa Tiberius at all. Emotions that ran deep like that—those weren’t topics of conversation for Jim Kirk.
Jim wandered out into his living quarters, rubbing a strand of the yarn between his fingers. There were four skeins, three light grey and one dark, all with a faint silver thread woven in among the wool.
Jim sat down and searched for patterns on his PADD, just to see—he wasn’t committing to anything yet. But he hesitated at a pattern for a loose cardigan with no buttons. It called for a darker-colored front panel, open and intentionally rolled at the neck and chest, crossing itself at the bottom of the sweater to serve as a closure. It was an old man sweater, but it was kind of an old country doctor sweater too.
“Fine, Bones,” he said out loud. “I’ll make you a sweater, asshole.”
Casting on took only five minutes, and then he started in on the stockinette stitch at the beginning of the pattern. Just like the last time he tried to knit—Grandpa’s sweater all those years ago—it came back to him with no effort. His hands remembered, and for a little while, Jim didn’t think about Spock, or about unshielding his Tarsus files, or about Tarsus at all.
By the time Jim realized he was hungry, an hour-and-a-half had gone by. Jim hadn’t even noticed. He let the knitting fall onto the couch and he blinked for a few seconds, drifting up from his laser-sharp knitting focus. He stood and stretched, making his way to his replicator, and ordered a coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. Just as he sat down at his desk to eat, someone buzzed at the door. Jim’s stomach fell; since he was off-duty, it was probably Bones come to yell at him, or worse, Spock.
He took a deep breath and muttered, “Come,” just loud enough for the computer to hear. As feared, the doors parted to reveal his first officer, who took a few steps inside and stood at parade rest. His face was unreadable, and Jim took a long sip of coffee to hide his anxiety.
“Good morning, Captain. I wish to ascertain your physical status.”
“I’m fine, Spock. Bones gave me a detox hypo. Thanks for checking, though.”
He ran a hand through his hair and pushed his oatmeal aside. His appetite was suddenly gone.
“So, listen. I obviously owe you an apology, like, the biggest apology of all time. I’m really sorry, Spock. I can’t say I remember everything that went down, but I know that I made a pass at you, that I… kissed you, and that I got really unfairly angry at you. You have every right to file a report against me, and if you want to, I promise I won’t be mad. I just want you to know that I’m really, really sorry.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Spock gave a small not-sigh and came to sit down across from Jim. “The idea of filing a report against you is absurd.”
Jim glanced up. Spock was still pretty stone-faced, but Jim thought maybe he could detect a little bit of fond exasperation around his eyebrows.
“I am not angry, or violated, and you do not need to apologize. I am your first officer and your friend. It is expected that I will see you at your worst. What you experienced yesterday and the effect it had upon you was far from your worst. Your reaction was logical.”
Jim laughed. “Logical? Are you serious?”
Spock shrugged one of his shoulders, just a little. “For a human.”
Jim smiled reluctantly and shook his head. “Uh, ok. Thanks? And I’m sorry again, even if you think I shouldn’t be. Any chance you can just forget the whole… kissing thing?”
“I cannot, no.” Spock’s blunt reply cut through Jim and he almost winced, but held himself back.
“Well, fuck. This is gonna be awkward for a while. Listen, I can promise that I won’t bring it up again, and now that I know it’s not, like, a mutual thing, maybe I can—“
Spock interrupted him by offering his hand to Jim, resting it on the desk with his palm up. Automatically Jim put his hand in Spock’s, the touch like a reflex, like his hands remembering how to knit.
“I cannot forget because I do not want to. Your interpretation of my actions last night was inaccurate. I did not wish to take advantage of you in a vulnerable state. But I was not averse to your advances.”
Jim opened his mouth and then closed it. For a few moments they stared at each other in that charged and insistent way. Slowly Jim stood up, a hesitating, questioning look in his eyes. Spock reached out both hands this time and Jim took them, allowing himself to be pulled close. Spock’s cool fingers came up to cradle the base of Jim’s skull, drawing their mouths together, and that electric shiver flared to a fire between them, sparking and hot.
Jim pulled away to strip off his shirt. Spock’s eyes trailed down his chest, a faint green flush beginning on his cheeks, and as Jim started undoing his pants, Spock’s eyes followed. Jim drew in a sharp breath as he took off his black briefs and Spock’s eyes locked like a pistol on his already-hard cock.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Jim hissed.
Spock slipped slowly off the desk chair and knelt at Jim’s feet.
“Oh, Jesus,” Jim said, his knees going suddenly weak.
Spock rubbed his cheek against Jim’s cock in a gesture so simultaneously depraved and tender that Jim swayed dizzily as the blood rushed from his head. Spock looked up again and met Jim’s eyes. “I too have long desired this,” he said softly, and took Jim’s cock into the heat of his mouth.
“Fuck, oh fuck,” Jim said, grabbing the back of Spock’s head. “Oh god, Spock, oh my god.”
Just when he thought his knees couldn’t hold out, Spock pulled away and stood, his mouth swollen almost lime with desire. “Proceed to the bedroom, please.”
Jim was quick to comply. Once there, he dropped onto the bed and watched Spock strip with neat, calculated movements, a dark well of hunger blooming in his belly as Spock’s slick alien cock came free. Spock crawled over Jim’s body, a ferocious heat in his eyes, and took Jim’s cock in his hand, rubbing it slowly as he ran his tongue over the flat, tight muscles of Jim’s stomach, then up to his neck and face. His kiss against Jim’s mouth was a brand, so hot Jim felt like he had almost been burned clean.
“Faster,” Jim commanded almost immediately, and Spock increased his speed. Jim was clinging to Spock’s shoulders, the press of his fingers strong enough to bruise another human, although not Spock. His kisses were anxious, needy.
“Faster!” he gasped again.
Truthfully, the emotions pouring off Jim’s skin were hardly different from his drunken desperation of the previous night, and Spock sat back on his haunches, looking down at Jim sprawled naked on the bed. He was every bit as beautiful in this state as Spock had imagined he would be.
“What’s wrong?” Jim panted.
“Your emotional distress is still quite palpable. I do not—”
Jim scrambled out from under him and bent over on all fours, swallowing Spock’s entire cock without preamble.
“Jim!”
Jim broke away momentarily, pumping Spock with his fist and glaring up at him. “You’re not stopping me this time. You’re not responsible for my emotions. If you want to stop for you, say so. But if you’re trying to protect my delicate sensibilities, shut up and fuck me.” He took Spock in his mouth again, reaching back to press two fingers inside himself, stretching the tight ring of muscle.
Spock gasped at the sight of him, so flagrantly depraved, his throat tight around Spock’s not-insignificant girth. He did not altogether believe that Jim’s emotions were stable enough for this activity—he still seemed so utterly raw and vulnerable. But Jim had given him lucid and enthusiastic consent, and Spock was rapidly losing the ability to put up any kind of logical resistance.
Jim pushed Spock deep into his throat once more before pulling away. He turned around, hand still shoved up between his legs, fingers scissoring and thrusting. Spock reached out and ran his hands over Jim’s full gluteus muscles, the brush of golden hair there much softer than Spock had expected.
Jim slipped out of himself, leaving the puckered, winking tightness visibly relaxed, wanting.
“Fuck me, ok?” Jim whispered from the edge of the bed. Rising shakily onto his knees, Spock rubbed himself against Jim for a moment, coating him in the musky oil produced by the Vulcan penis during arousal, before slipping easily inside him.
Jim let out a strangled cry. Spock curled over him, one arm holding himself up and preventing his full weight from landing on the fragile human, the other wrapped securely around Jim’s waist, keeping him still in what Spock hoped was a reassuring gesture.
Spock started slow and gentle, which in his experience was preferable for the recipient of anal intercourse, and was indeed what his previous male partners had requested when taking the submissive role. But Jim slammed back toward him, rotating his hips desperately.
“More, Spock, please,” he begged. Spock increased his speed slightly but Jim whined in frustration. “Harder, harder, please, Spock! Please, I want it really hard.”
Spock hesitated, but Jim’s moaning was quickly becoming hysterical, and the desperation wailing at the juncture of their skin was now indistinguishable from desire. So Spock sped up to a punishing pace, slamming the sensitive head of his cock into Jim’s prostate again and again.
Jim screamed, a wild howl, and his hands flew out in an aborted attempt to find something to hold onto. He settled for resting on his elbows and clinging to the sheets.
At this frenzied pace they were both climbing quickly and steadily to their inevitable orgasms, and Jim’s hips began to buck uncontrollably as he twisted and jerked, trying to find the deepest angle of penetration.
“I would like to see you touch yourself,” Spock said into his ear, and Jim moaned, rising off his elbows, wrapping a hand around his cock and rubbing it with little coordination.
Jim came 1.34 minutes later, his chest falling forward onto the bed. Spock thrust insistently through the protracted period of Jim’s orgasm, and Jim’s primordial cries were so needy, so perfect, that Spock quickly fell hard into the waves of his own climax, gripping Jim’s hips without regard for his preternatural strength. The weak human body in his hands went limp and heavy, and Spock was forced to hold Jim up until he was entirely finished himself.
Breathing heavily, a fuzzy sort of contentment in his head, Spock extracted himself and lowered Jim gently onto the mattress. Foggy as he was, it took a moment to notice Jim trembling, and several more to hear his almost-silent crying.
“Jim?” he whispered, dizzied by the sudden swing from post-coital satisfaction to anxiety, “Are you well?”
He leaned over Jim’s body, muscular but now, naked and no longer flushed with desire, surprisingly small. He put two gentle hands on the Captain’s back, but Jim jerked away and sat up, scurrying back against the bulkhead. His knees came up to his chest and he wrapped his arms around himself, eyes darting helplessly around the floor, trying to land as far from Spock as possible.
“Jim? Did I hurt you?” Spock tried to reach for Jim again, but Jim held up his hands as if he was protecting his face from a blow.
“No! No, you didn’t hurt me. Don’t touch me!”
Spock felt utterly confused and slightly panicked. “Jim—”
“Don’t look at me! Stop looking at me!”
For 5.781 minutes, they sat in silence on the bed, Jim’s head buried in his arms.
Finally he mumbled, almost too quietly to be heard, “Sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Spock reached out a tentative hand and put it on Jim’s arm, and this time Jim allowed it.
“You do not need to apologize, but if you could explain this to me, so that I may understand—”
Jim looked up—though still not at Spock—and ran a hand through his hair. “I just get emotional after sex sometimes, ok?” he said defensively. “Sorry.” His eyes were that watery sort of sad that Spock had often observed in humans.
“Again, there is no need to—”
Jim shot up from the bed and into the living quarters. “You can have the first shower, ok?” he called over his shoulder, and Spock took the hint.