endeavvor

[endeavvor]

what does your heart look like ?

a compass that doesn’t waver

You are someone who is certain of what you want. Maybe you always have been, or maybe you made a discovery that you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from. Your heart is set and certain. You fight endlessly for your goals. Above all else, you know who you are and what you are trying to achieve. Just be careful not to tear yourself or others apart in pursuit of your ideals.

tagged by: @he1msman

[endeavvor]

She was correct, he had foolishly taken a step forward, but the growl roots him to his spot. Reaching out would only prove what she already knows, that fear cuts him to the bone. Jim’s hands would tremble with it, but it is a multifaceted emotion —

— like shining a light on a perfectly cut gem, watching the way the rays spread outwards in multiple directions. All brilliantly eye catching, but never quite allowing you to rest in one spot.

He is afraid of her, of what could happen should she lose control, which has complexities of its own. She could hurt him, herself, or several others. It would add to the plate of guilt that he’s not entirely sure she feels anymore.

Jim is afraid for her.

An overly human emotion that Ly has had little patience for. The walls she keeps around herself so thick, that his presence has barely made a dent. Even if it not lost on him that her own resolve lessens.

Stay back turns into stay there. Turns into stay.

His humanity allows him to only hear what he wishes.

So Jim stays despite the danger to himself. Instead of stepping forward, he mirrors her movements by stepping back until his back meets the wall opposite of hers and sinks down towards the ground. His eyes never leave her face, but he’s not blind to the way her fingers elongate and sharpen into claws.

How easily those claws cleave into the dirt.

Jim does not let her see him flinch.

“If you bite me, I’m going to be pissed.” He says, equally as stupidly, but wracked with humor.

I'll keep you safe here with me.

Ha. He should save such sweet talk for a lover.

Ly forces a sound through grit teeth that, under other circumstances, might have been a loud, barking laugh. Half-caught in her throat, it sounds more broken and pained than humoured, the prideful attempt of a wounded animal forcing the illusion that it is fine, because to be anything other than fine is to become easy prey.

She growls lowly in warning. Stay back.

The line that divides the selves has started to dissolve, allowing deep-seated instinct to bleed into what would otherwise be ironclad control, stripping away that which allows her to jokingly call herself human. Like this, everything is a potential threat, something that will seize the opportunity to pounce without a second thought.

Protect yourself. Survive. She will bite the moment he steps too close—sever the hand that may truly only wish to help.

—Stupid man. Who keeps the damned human safe? That right there is exactly what gets people killed.

So this, this, is helping. Mitigating the disastrous potential effects of a foolish decision on her part the only way she knows how, absolving her of a debt to be owed.

Ly staggers backward aimlessly, putting more distance between them, continuing until her back meets a wall, solid and immovable against her pitifully shaky legs. The slide down to the ground feels like a blessing, one she doesn't fight.

At her side, her hand curls into a fist, her claws scoring deep grooves into the ground.

"Stay there. You⸺stay." She needs a moment—two, maybe, as she attempts to pull herself back together.

[endeavvor]

Despite his previous resolve to let Spock in, even he has to slump with relief when the meld that was offered is momentarily pushed away. Mentally, he does not think he can handle it, was just willing to do so for the sake of Spock's own peace of mind.

The pair are alike in this — consistently putting the needs of the others over their own.

Jim feared declining would ultimately push Spock away, and sensing this, Spock had not left him. Had not solidified his fear with cruelty, or vehemence, but kindness. Compassion.

Apparently affection.

His hands lack the sensitivity of a Vulcan's, but there's still something soothing in the way Spock brushes his palm with intent. Feels the ghost of the sensation traveling down his wrist, following the natural pathways of his veins, until it settles heavily in his heart.

It is a welcome distraction — and it has his attention.

I understand that you are taking advantage of the privacy I've been allotted with these very thin screens to kiss me in the middle of medbay.

Amusement radiates through their bond. The sun starting to cut through the darkened sky. Jim shifts, ignoring the sting of his injuries to press his forehead against Spock's jaw. It is a tired gesture, full of fatigue, and he seems to take the first true relaxed breath since his return.

Wants to sink beneath it.

The cool, and calming waters of their shared space.

He wants to go home.

Slowly, and rather clumsily, Jim mirrors the gesture with his own hand.

"Thank you."

@fasciinating

A MIND MELD SEEMS A POOR CHOICE OF PEACE. He had only considered it out of positive intent, bone-weary in his desire to free Jim from the cloying hands of demons. But now, he realizes that peering into Jim’s mind would only be intrusive and borderline corruptive given the chaos that likely storms inside it.

“It can wait.” He replies.

It is a quiet acquiescence, and Spock is choosing to settle into the clasp of their hands instead. It helps to quell the tremor that vibrates between their touch before it can consume him.

“Though, if that is your desire, know that you need only ask it.” There is a brightness to Jim that Spock is keenly aware of. It has always been warm to him, burning gold and growing large, powerful, like a supernova.

Whatever occurred aboard the derelict ship has dampened it, poisoned it with shadows and death and blood.

And he would tear that ship apart to rectify even a fraction of the damage done.

“When you are ready.” He adds. Because the distinction is important. Entering a meld in Jim’s current state may provoke unintended consequences.

Spock is familiar with at least one.

He can distract Jim for now. Disrupt the corrosive balance of terror within Jim’s chest.

“Are you familiar with this gesture?” Spock squeezes Jim’s hand, thumb brushing boldly at the curve of Jim’s palm. There are fine hairs there, just as it connects to a wrist. It prickles the pad of his finger, inciting nerves and the sensitivity of Vulcan telepathy.

Having reinforced his mental shields, he draws nothing from it. But Spock leans, nearly imperceptibly closer.

“This,” he explains, pulling free to slot both his fore and middle fingers together. He glides the tips of them across the top of Jim’s hand, “Would be considered the equivalent of a human kiss.”

Do you understand?

The question blazes behind Spock’s eyes. Grief, regret, fear, simultaneously stymied by Jim’s determination and brazen loyalty — his goodness — they are the makings of a great and unforgettable captain, reiterating all the reasons Jim has possessed him in the way that Jim has.

“I feel you, here.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

Primitive was perhaps not the correct word — but it was an interesting topic to debate — had debated it with his first officer over a game of chess one evening. Jim always found it interesting that despite the distances between the civilizations they explored, the first steps towards modernization were eerily similar.

Hand tools and weaponry. Wheels. Methods of cleaning and storing water. Energy.

It was these things and the way the paths then diverge that always caught the Captain's attention. At what point did they take different steps, using Humanity as a threshold as that was the comfort for him. Watching L'Shara now, he wonders where her own mind wanders watching them. As he remembers the planet they collected her from, and the resourcefulness she'd shown in creating the emergency beacon that had caught their sensors.

Her decision to join Starfleet likely an interesting one — how difficult had her adjustment been?

Jim doesn't ask.

"As someone who has done a dumb thing or two for the sake of saying I could, I get it." Driving his father's cherry red corvette over the side of a cliff to avoid it being sold out of greed always the first thing that comes to mind.

"Either way." He stands, thankful when his knee doesn't betray him by cracking, and pocketing the arrowhead. "I've got a dead crew member they need to answer for, so determining if it was malicious intent or not is now the priority." He nods towards the village. "What did you see?"

She crouches beside him, peering out towards the village before them. Her eyes can see much further than any human's could, and whilst she listens to her Captain she's also scouting ahead to try and analyse some of their social structures and mannerisms. Her gaze transfers from the humanoids to the arrowhead in the Captain's hand and she feels a sense of nostalgia. It's not too dissimilar to what her own people use, and not for the first time she wonders at the marvel of how so many civilizations that have never met can share so many similarities.

L'Shara is still new to the Enterprise, and also to Starfleet so she is still unfamiliar with the way they do things. She's never heard of Hanlon's Razor but she understands the thought process behind it. Others might think her naive for it, but she always tries to see the best in the people around her; be they friend or stranger. Joining Starfleet had been a bit of a culture shock, she'd been so used to living harmoniously with her own people that the concept of hostility seemed strange to her.

But her people weren't perfect, there had been unrest and fighting especially recently. It was the whole reason she had left; using scraps of debris from passing ships to build something to send a distress signal. Her life had been in danger from a threat that simply hiding somewhere on her planet would suffice. The Enterprise shouldn't technically have answered her call, her planet wasn't considered 'First Contact' ready because they didn't have warp core capabilities. But as she had pointed out at the time, her people weren't primitive; far from it, they just chose to rely on nature instead of technology.

"Stupidity is universal amongst all species no?" She asks, a small smile on the corner of her lips. "My cousin once thought it be a good idea to tame and ride a Byól'nx, despite us all telling him he was more likely to end up impaled." She shrugged her shoulders. "He still tried and he was lucky to get away with one piece." The Captain wouldn't have the full context of her story, but hopefully he would still understand. "I always feel it best to give people the benefit of the doubt, no one attacks another for no reason. It may simply be we don't understand that reason yet."

[endeavvor]

Where Sulu's nerves threaten to get the better of him, Jim has years of practice keeping his expression light and neutral. The news Admiral Barnett shares cuts through him, but he had the decency not to show it.

Others around him do not share the sentiment.

He sees looks exchanged between peers, paled expressions, overly large eyes. To an extent, the revelation has sucked the air from the room, but it doesn't stop the low buzz of chatter from rising again. Admiral Barnett continues speaking — promising to forward evidence to those present with high enough clearances, and is cautioning for the utmost level of discretion on this matter.

Beside him, Jim sees Sulu's open expression as he turns and questions Jim; but Jim keeps his own face forward, and hunches his shoulders to mask the movement of his hand. He grasps Sulu's wrist, squeezing once, the sentiment clear: not here.

Not until they are dismissed, and Jim meanders, taking his time to let the room and halls mostly clear before taking his leave. Not until he finds an alcove out of the way that he deems satisfactory to duck into and bring Sulu to heel.

"I don't think it's a test." Jim answers finally, and continues with elaboration. "It's not a secret that Starfleet has been littered with deceit and dark secrets for a while now. They claimed to have disbanded Section Thirty-one after we exposed Alexander Marcus, but it's always been hard to prove the followers were truly rooted out." Jim pauses to nod at two other captains walking by just then. They nod towards each other, and it is evident by the hushed tones that they are also speaking of their own theories.

"However, I also don't think command has gone about this in the best way. They claim those of us invited are clean, but I have doubts. Were they smart, their suspects would have been in that room, and this meeting was just a warning."

SMILES, UNHINDERED BY RESTRAINT is something years in the making. The stretch of his mouth, the flash of pearly whites, and the mirth sparkling in brown eyes. Expressions were so grim when growing up. A sign of weakness. Or maybe it was a lack of facial motor function. Hikaru believes both can be true. But the joy and freedom that comes, grinning at Jim when he grips his shoulder, is uplifting. He squeezes his former captain's forearm in return.

Voices buzz through the air, an angry swarm of wasps. Some buzz louder than the others, stealing the attention of several in their vicinity. Sulu doesn't listen to them, more inclined to take Kirk's assessment under advisement. But there is no mistaking the swirl of anxiety in his gut at the unknown. He's never been a fan of it, despite all of the situations he's put himself in. How ironic.

"Maybe they just want to put the fear of God in us that they are still the leaders of Starfleet," he muses, coy smile on his lips. Hikaru wouldn't put it past some of the Brass in their organization.

Seconds stretch, speculations grow. A chair or shoe scuffs against the ground before one of the Admiralty steps up to a podium, tapping the mic. It screeches in protest, causing HIkaru to wince, shoulders jerking before settling.

Formalities take only five minutes, congratulating the best captains in the 'fleet on a job well done. Of record discoveries and treaties established. HIkaru notes that work he and Kirk have done are mentioned, though not by name. He flashes a quick grin before resettling his focus.

"I know you're not all hear to have smoke blown up your ass so I'll get to the point."

Crude but effective.

"We have reason to believe that there are high and low ranking traitors in our midst in both the Academy and starships. You," he points to the assembled masses, which now that Hikaru does a head count, isn't the full fleet. But that's to be expected. So many are far into their respective missions. "Show now signs of betrayal to the foundation of Starfleet or the Federation. You all," another sweep of his finger. "Will be responsible for rooting out those in Starfleet who are traitors."

Color drains from bronze skin, eyes darting to Kirk. "Do you think he's serious? Or is this some kind of test?"

[endeavvor]

Spock’s hand is a contrast to his own. Pale and slender, but it’s the softness that truly holds his attention.

Sarek had sent him medical data he should not have been privy to as a human. All in the name of proving a point of the care his son would need after he’d experienced unspeakable trauma. There was fear beneath it. Fear that it would be irrevocable, and with it, Spock would lose his telepathic abilities.

Not only were there no longer traces of the initials that had been carved into his palms, but Spock’s abilities remained blissfully in tact.

At the time, Jim hadn’t known what to expect, and due to Sarek’s insistence, leaned towards pessimism. He’d never been happier to be wrong, and his gaze softens significantly beneath Spock’s own scrutiny. Whatever it is that is going through his own mind as he tests the pull of their hands before dropping it completely.

Leaving him ready to catch the weight as it is shifted — bracing a hand against Spock’s neck — claiming the column of flesh between the softened collar of his stolen shirt and the severe cut of a Vulcan jaw line. Their shared space is greedy, and full of need.

Each radiates a different sense of warmth. One wistful. One devoted. The first few drops of rain don’t even register when they get lost in the mass of golden hair at his crown. The same could not be said for Spock, who draws away despite the disappointment overtaking Jim’s features at the loss of connection.

Jim follows his gaze to notice the previously clear night sky has turned overcast. The clouds themselves have a mean, but pregnant look to them. Worse when lightning cuts through them like an omen.

“I’d say we’ve got a minute or two before we’re drenched.” He speaks from experience, but there’s a layer of mischievousness as he catches Spock’s true intent. It causes the corner of his lips to tilt upwards.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The blanket is collected as Jim stands, wrestled beneath an arm to leave his hand open to catch Spock’s and pull him along. Vulcan propriety be damned, he hopes Spock allows himself to feel the intimacy of the gesture. To feel the anticipation thrumming through Jim’s veins, and the heat that flushes his own skin.

They make it to the bottom step when the few spattering of drops quickens. Falling thickly and turning to a downpour as they just manage to make it under the eaves of the porch. Jim’s grin is the I told you, before he continues to lead them inside.

He lets them make it as far as the threshold, pushing the door shut with his weight as he falls back against it, tossing the blanket aside to be dealt with later. Refusing to allow Spock to draw away despite his incessant need to clean up after the illogical human. There’s a lazy tilt to his head, finding it harder to study Spock in the darkness of the house, and his mind supplements what his eyes fail to see.

“About the other thing,” Jim says softly, having never dropped the hold on Spock’s hand, it is easier to pull him in now, tucked close, between his already parted legs. Nipping and catching that pouted bottom lip between his teeth. “I think it’s your turn to elaborate.”

@fasciinating

This — such an achingly human, innocent gesture — was not what Spock had expected when probing Jim for what he meant to suggest. With crossed brows, he stares at the hold, studying where Jim has connected them.

Objectively, he finds it curious and surprisingly youthful, recognizing that there is nothing inherently disturbing, or wrong, about the offer beyond Vulcan propriety.

He has heard of it.

But Spock has had little interest in discovering its meaning until this very moment. He pulls lightly, applying liquid strength, testing and observing the lock of their fingers almost clinically. In truth, it never mattered before. The comparison is not lost on him.

He traces their hands, the center point of Jim’s chest, plaid lines that take him up and up and up, until he’s staring squarely in Jim’s eyes. The angle of Jim’s head looking down at him has shaved into the moonlight, cutting the shape of Jim’s eyelashes into crescent blades.

It mutes their luminance somewhat and Spock cannot help but chide the last remark of such an innocent promise.

He does not tell him: he would hope for the opposite to be true. Were the universe in Spock’s control, Jim would live forever, thriving for all eternity with Spock at his side. The thought is illogical. Wishful.

Human.

He does not care.

But you had. Spock lets go to push his weight off the grass, seeking the warmth of Jim’s mouth when no words are adequate enough, you bound me before I knew it.

Jim did it in the form of the rain.

I was always yours.

Pulling back, Spock does not believe in coincidence. However, that judgement is difficult when a drop of rain lands on the top of his head. Momentarily stunned, he looks up, just catching the darker shapes of the clouds as they roll in over the Iowan plains. Thunder rumbles in the distance and Spock levels a knowing stare at Jim before rising.

“We should retreat inside.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

The look he shoots over his shoulder can be described in one of two ways — boredom or disdain. Truthfully, it falls somewhere in the middle as he refuses to allow her to see the offense. Irulan's attempts to get to know him, and his continued reluctance to share, has caused her to get creative.

If continuing to be presumptuous was creative.

He does not tell her that his mother used to sing before his father died and left her alone to raise two boys she didn't know how to deal with. That he always wondered if she started singing again after she'd traded them away.

Instead, he turns cheeky. "And what type of assistance are you offering?"

“I didn’t presume a man with your sort of repugnance for the universe even knew what singing was. Yet now I’m intrigued when was singing checked off your list? And, tell me, when did you become so insufferable?”

Quietly the princess moves closer to him, though keeps enough distance not to send the man into murderous frenzy. It was always better to approach wild animals slowly- though it wasn’t ever recommended to approach them at all.

“You look like you haven’t slept in months…which is a more polite way of saying you look terrible. I can’t imagine you feel any better, and still i know you aren’t likely to take any help I mean to offer, are you?”

[endeavvor]

The word choice Spock selects in his acknowledgement of Jim’s words could be dissected in ways that are unhealthy. Knowing how precise he is — not due to a confusion over standard — but being selective in how much he reveals. The intent behind the message.

Indeed is a downright praise —

— Spock is teasing him beyond the way he cleaves a space between Jim’s legs. Forcing them apart to accommodate narrow hips. The response is automatic, forever pushing impossibly close as if it would cause Spock to cease ignoring him.

Jim much prefers this game when it is him relishing in the anticipation. Pushing the boundaries of Spock’s patience versus his own. The return is a revenge, and he is almost vibrating with agitation.

His hands push further beneath the layers of clothing, fingers fanning out across the spaces between ribs and his palms find themselves flat against cooler skin. It radiates his insistence, and the repeated prayer of: pay attention to me.

“I assume your report will also include exactly why you are testing this element against plant life. What you’re hoping to find and how to further utilize it?”

Even this close, they are reflections of one another. One maps with his hands, and the other mapping along complex vectors and the bell curve of cellular mitosis.

Watching the screen over Jim’s shoulder, Spock simply tilts his head into Jim’s temple. It is the only acknowledgment that he will give him while simultaneously scanning the changes in his experiments. A third of the cell samples have deteriorated, he reads, while the remaining seven are — evidently — mutating, reacting positively as Jim posits himself.

However, he is hardly ignorant of their physical exchange despite this revelation. The touch to his skin is expectantly warm, explorative, and Jim’s words are impressively observant if alternatively distracted—

—distracting, more like.

“Indeed.” In feint reward for Jim’s conclusion, Spock leans forward further, shifting his knees to cleave himself between Jim’s legs and grab at a stylus. Powering on his padd, he quickly notates the new data with his left hand.

“An additional four may be a sufficient place to begin. I intended to influence the Captain’s approval in my report.”

[endeavvor]

Counterproductive is a word that comes to mind when their positioning shifts and he is caged between the very desk Spock had been trying to protect from him, and the Commander’s lithe, but firm, form.

No complaints will be found, but were Spock trying to avoid an incident with cell disruption, this wasn’t the way. Jim would be more likely to truly accidentally jostle things by merely shifting his weight with the way the desk cuts in to his lower back.

Lips draw back into a grin that will be felt as teeth graze sharply — Spock may not overtly react to the taunting, but what he has done speaks volumes.

In caging, he is forcing Jim to stay.

His own reaction then can only be considered favorable.

The Captain’s hands snake out within the confines of the hold. Trailing down, gently grazing ribs in turn to seek belt loops to hook his fingers in and tug. Pulling them flush, making it almost impossible to break apart quickly were they to find themselves interrupted.

Not for a lack of trying.

Jim can already imagine the exact way Spock will consciously tug the blue tunic down when he turns to address an intruder — while he does not appear shamed at all.

��Running on the assumption that these plants are from different planets, then the element must react favorable towards the environments themselves. How they affect the genetic make up of the plant structures.” The verbal pause is thoughtful, while his thumbs fit beneath both uniform and thermal, grazing the skin just above the band of Spock’s fatigues.

“I assume to investigate this further, you will be broadening the specimen pool?”

If Spock has tilted his chin into that touch, it was more out of thoughtfulness than any surprise, calculating even, as he contemplates a measure of brevity in his response over any physical reaction to Jim’s lips on his skin.

The latter is proving difficult. But admittedly, he had drawn out their separation more than necessary. It was only natural for Jim to be curious, or challenging, questioning Spock on this deviance from routine when it is all Spock has displayed since it began.

The rest was to be expected.

Not quite impatient, but insistent, nonetheless.

“Some have responded positively to repeated exposure,” he explains, pushing one foot beside Jim’s to turn and pivot them, pressing the Captain’s back into the edge of the desk. It puts Jim directly in the path of his work, partially obscuring screens and test tubes.

The positioning is inconvenient; a hindrance no doubt.

Though, Spock does nothing to correct it.

“While others have either had no response at all, or lost integrity,” one hand brushes against Jim’s ribs, slotting past warmth and bone to press at a key. The display above it flickers to life, providing Spock a magnified view of the cultures. “The outcome has been rather puzzling.”

[endeavvor]

Spock would never outwardly say something as mundane or rude as calling Jim annoying, but it doesn’t mean it cannot be read in the subtle nuances marring his otherwise placid expression.

It amuses Jim greatly to be the pebble dropped beneath the surface of a lake, causing ripples that disrupt the surface — always pushing. Always tormenting. Always seeking a reaction, however childish.

The reaction Jim gets is what he wanted. The brush of their chests as Spock tries to put his physical form as a barrier between what he considers to be a destructive force, and the delicate nature of his work.

A close proximity in a private space despite the professional nature of the visit.

It is Thursday.

A fact Jim will reiterate until the day officially ends as if it justifies his actions.

As if he needs a reason when Spock reaches around him to scold and correct. The first attempt completed the task, the second was simply for the sake of an excuse to remain in his orbit. Jim leans forward and presses his lips just beneath Spock’s jaw; against his pulse, and the thrill of its beat as a reminder of the vitality beneath it.

Arguably, he’s not disturbing those cells, he’s disturbing his Chief Science Officer — and that makes all the difference.

“And how,” The Captain’s mouth continues to graze and drag, “Is particle element seventeen effecting these various plant’s lives?”

He had incentive to invite.

No matter his business with the ship or his experiments, there will always be a part of him that wants Jim here, with him, where Spock can follow beside, or just behind, striding two point three centimeters to the Captain’s left, where he belongs—

—dust trails at the end of a speeding comet.

But watching Jim adjust a label, unprompted, uninvited now, he is beginning to question his own motives in that regard.

Movement automatic, Spock takes a sharp step forward, cleaving between the table and the Captain’s chest, and readjusting, tilting the rectangular label back one degree into its rightful place, just as he likes.

If it brings them face to face, that is incidental.

“The cell cultures should not be disturbed, Captain.” Spock eyes him, stretching a hand behind Jim to move the tray further away from the potential danger of Jim’s elbows. His tone is flat despite this; if the Captain is requesting information, then a report is what Spock will give.

“I am researching the effects of particle element seventeen on various plant life. At the moment.”

[endeavvor]

It would appear so, it is thought with the flicker of pure amusement. Not lost on either of them that this was how it was always going to end. Because Jim is not the only one of the pair that is insatiable, and Spock had been effective in his luring.

Yet, for the moment, the Captain allows his own attention to be divided. To study their meticulous surroundings and determining the obvious of this being Spock's preferred workspace.

Everything has its place, and where one rights a wrong, the other wrongs a right; gently reaching out to nudge a petri dish slightly off center from its label. Not overly dramatic, but just enough that it will catch the scientific eye.

Jim's expression is mock the mock innocence of an honest mistake by a clumsy man who does not know better, but what travels down the bond is the challenge of a dare.

"It is within my duties as the commanding officer of this ship to be kept apprised of what my senior staff are working on, is it not?" He pauses, only long enough to inch closer to where Spock stands. "So, inform me."

Entering the lab, the lights activate as Jim’s voice echoes throughout the empty space. Lab four is Spock’s personal arena for scientific endeavor, and scanning the room, he is assured little disturbance barring the Captain’s presence when the door closes behind them.

“If the latter were true, then it would appear I was successful.” He comments smoothly, flicking on monitors and already reviewing the experiments left to fester during alpha. There are two that require his attention first. The purple azaleas from Litari and the batch of cell samples currently undergoing mitosis.

But as the Captain has reiterated for him, Spock is capable of more than one task at once.

Reaching out, he adjusts a beaker point three inches to the left.

“I am aware your schedule may have allowed for some flexibility at the completion of alpha shift.”

[endeavvor]

During his first year of captaincy, Jim made it a personal mission to reclaim a single holiday for himself. Valentine's Day, while being a perfect excuse for flirtatious banter, was not an option due to the standard he set for himself of not canoodling with subordinates.

Halloween, while having immense potential, tended to lose its charm among adults. Costumes pushed the boundaries of professionalism, though he does turn a blind eye to parties for those off duty.

Thanksgiving was simply a nightmare between general food avoidance and logistics with the replicators.

Which truly only left Christmas. It is a perfect opportunity to show his appreciation for those that have become family to him. Jim goes out of his way to buy small trinkets for all crew members, and more extravagant effects for his senior staff.

Though he shows a stubborn refusal at outwardly accepting gifts from others.

It leaves the crew to get creative in hiding things for him to find in plain view. Taking it upon themselves to fill his quarters with knickknacks - or in the case of Spock - appropriate objects that are equally useful.

He allows them to decorate trees in the mess, as well as lights strewn about the halls.

And who is he to argue getting caught beneath the mistletoe.

twelve days of kirkmas ⸻ twleve / twelve

[endeavvor]

What Jim remembers of the events of the warp core is minimal.

The moment of contemplation and how readily Scotty was willing to follow him. A different time, different man, and the agony of losing what was on the other side. A feeling of inevitability that if it was not him, it would be another.

Two hands pressed against the glass. Always, but never touching.

The rest is pain.

He did not wake screaming, his body was incapable; but he remembers the unending cold, even when placed in the warmth of the late San Francisco sun. His teeth chattered, his nerves were damaged, but healing, and unbearable. He begged and pleaded for an end, and continually succumbed to the press of a hypo against his neck. Inevitably, it subsided.

At night, there is the warmth of a hand against his own, a gentle breeze around his mind begging him to stay. But in the morning, it is replaced by the gruff mutterings of a stress response. Somehow, he knows the two are not the same.

McCoy jokes of homicidal ideations with a strain that is foreign to Jim. A wise crack, and a pointed glance over his shoulder to Spock, who is pristine in his dress uniform, chin held high.

No one tells Jim what happened, and Jim never asks.

Nor has he ever quite faced the consequences of his actions as uniquely again.

twelve days of kirkmas ⸻ eleven / twelve

[endeavvor]

There are things he'd almost managed to forget — like the way the grass smells at night and the way vindication can appear like flames beneath a gaze. Irulan has that look now as she stares down where he's settled in.

"If you start singing, I'm going to throw up."

spotify wrapped — the good i'll do — zac bryan

@inn0cencestrained

[endeavvor]

Not all fears are rational, but it does not make them any less consuming. There is nothing Jim fears more in the world than silence.

It was not always the case. Jim grew up learning to keep his head down and stay as small and quiet as possible to avoid bringing unnecessary attention to himself. Until he turned twelve and was sent to live with his Aunt and Uncle on another planet. A planet that had been colonized, but slowly began to decay and die. He copes with this fear with restlessness. The shifting of fabric against his body. The clicking of his teeth as his jaw sets. And the tapping of his fingers, three times, against any hard surface.

Visually, and on the surface, unnecessary; but few recognize it as an attempt to ground himself.

twelve days of kirkmas ⸻ ten / twelve

[endeavvor]

He shouldn't dignify her with a response — not really — but he'd started it, and he was never really one to walk away without finishing it. That and the opening she'd left for him to be equally rude was a gaping maw he intended to dive head first through.

Especially when her denial came in the weaponized form of moving closer.

Amelia is predictable.

"Maybe I'm just shocked you can count that high."

❝ Special ? ❞ She says the word thoughtfully, seeing how it tastes before her nose wrinkles. If he wanted to cut her, then she would cut right back. ❝ I wouldn't say it was special ⸻ I wouldn't even say it made my top 10. ❞

Amelia says that, but she's crowding closer anyway, still chasing him. ❝ You're still thinking about how I feel though, aren't you ? ❞

[endeavvor]

Ask Jim about his brother, and he will speak of Leonard McCoy. While the name Sam Kirk is intertwined with his own throughout his public record, it is of little consequence to him.

He assumes Sam is alive, given his mother has not mentioned otherwise in the few forced conversations they have had over the years, but he does not know where.

He does not know Sam equally followed in one of their parent's footsteps, becoming a scientist. Does not know Sam lives on one of the colonies the Federation has scattered across the galaxy where he met his wife.

Jim does not know that he's an uncle.

He also does not know that for the longest time, Sam aimed his own grief at Jim. Finding it easier to hate the fact Jim's face was everywhere. A hero. Always smiling, always looking so arrogantly proud. Jim has it easy being Starfleet's golden boy.

But it doesn't stop Sam from saving clippings and video recordings in a box at the back of his closet either.

twelve days of kirkmas ⸻ nine / twelve