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He notices it first in the lift. Jim stands a little too close, shoulders angled toward him like a plant finding light. He talks about duty rosters and fuel margins, but his eyes keep landing on Spock’s mouth. The doors open to Deck Five and Jim doesn’t move. His breath warms the narrow space between them. The lift chimes again. Jim flashes a quick smile and steps out. Spock remains inside, watching the doors slide shut on the shape of a grin that stays in his mind longer than it should.
Fatigue shows in Jim’s face during the next briefing: faint shadows beneath his eyes, a restless tap of his boot under the table. He’s animated, sharp, everything a captain should be, yet there are moments when his attention hooks on Spock and stays there like a needle. The tap stops whenever Spock meets his gaze. It resumes only after Spock looks away.
McCoy corners Spock outside the conference room. “He’s not sleeping,” the doctor mutters. “He’ll tell me it’s nothing, but I know better. Do something about the schedule or talk to him. You know how he listens to you.” McCoy’s eyes are concerned, not unkind. He pats Spock’s shoulder, a brief, grounding contact, and then he’s gone.
Spock carries McCoy’s words through the day, cataloging the small disruptions Jim leaves in his path. Coffee abandoned half full. A report opened and closed three times. A laugh that arrives a beat late. None of these are sufficient evidence by themselves. Together they describe a vector he cannot ignore.
He waits until beta shift quiets the ship. Duty lights dim. The corridor outside the observation deck is empty. Jim stands at the glass, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. Starlight spills over his hair. He does not turn when Spock stops beside him.
“You should be asleep,” Spock says.
“I know.” Jim’s reflection gives him away; his mouth tries on a joke and discards it. “I keep getting close. Then I don’t.”
Spock weighs words, testing for structural integrity. Speaking plainly risks damage. Speaking in riddles risks misunderstanding. He chooses the narrow bridge between them. “There is an observable change in your behavior toward me. Increased proximity. Prolonged eye contact. Interrupted circadian rest following interactions we share. I am… uncertain how to proceed.”
Jim huffs a breath that is not laughter. “You noticed.”
“It is difficult not to.”
Jim shifts his weight until his sleeve brushes Spock’s. The contact is light, almost accidental. His voice drops. “And what do you think it means?”
“I have hypotheses,” Spock replies. “I lack confirmation.”
Silence gathers. Jim’s shoulders drop a fraction, the soldier easing his pack off his spine. “I’m tired of pretending the deck isn’t tilted,” he says. “When you walk into a room, it tilts. When you talk, I feel tuned—like a string you pluck without touching.” He shakes his head, embarrassed by his own honesty. “I’m not sleeping because every time I close my eyes, my brain rewrites tomorrow with you in it. And it’s a good day. That’s the problem.”
Heat pricks Spock’s palms. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep them steady. “If you are requesting that we define an arrangement,” he says carefully, “I do not oppose the idea. I only fear the consequences to our work if we misjudge ourselves.”
“I don’t want to be reckless,” Jim says. “I just don’t want to lie to my own body anymore.”
A pause stretches thin, bright, fragile. Spock hears the ventilation, the pulse in his ears, the faint fabric rustle when Jim breathes. He looks at Jim fully. The color of his irises appears brighter in the low light, blue edged with steel. Confidence is still there, but something raw lives under it.
“May I ask a direct question?” Spock says.
“Please.”
“Your feelings toward me—are they temporary, born of proximity and command dynamics, or are they of a more persistent nature?”
“They’re persistent,” Jim answers without hesitation. “It started slow. Then it was everywhere. I tried to wait it out. It didn’t leave.”
Relief arrives like a pressure door opening. Spock had prepared for ambiguity, for humor that deflects. He had not prepared for a clean, steady yes. “Acknowledged,” he says, and the word carries more weight than any confession he has made in years.
Jim turns from the window. He stands close enough that Spock can count the faint stubble along his jaw. “What about you?” Jim asks. “No Starfleet answer.”
Spock lets restraint shift, not vanish. “When you lean near, I experience a measurable decrease in processing efficiency unrelated to stress or fatigue. My heart rate alters when your name appears on the comm. I have been composing messages to you that I never send. I recalibrate the lab schedule to coincide with your free hours. These are not optimal behaviors.” His voice softens. “I do not wish to optimize them.”
Jim’s breath catches. He smiles, small and a little incredulous, like the first moment after a near miss. “Okay.”
Spock uncurls one hand. The back of his fingers touch Jim’s knuckles, a contact soft enough to deny intent if observed, sincere enough to claim it if invited. Jim does not move away. He rotates his wrist and threads their fingers together. Skin to skin is a simple circuit; heat flows, steadies, finds level.
“I will propose parameters,” Spock says. “We proceed slowly. We maintain transparency with McCoy and Uhura. We prioritize the safety of the crew over personal preference. If our judgment wavers, we pause.”
“Deal,” Jim whispers. “But one parameter for tonight.”
“State it.”
“Stay with me until I fall asleep. No more revising tomorrow alone.”
Spock considers ethics, appearance, the part of him that has lived on rules like air. He thinks of the tilt Jim described, gravity reassigning itself, truth aligning under it. “Agreed,” he says.
They walk together through the dim corridors. Their hands separate near the corner by silent agreement. In Jim’s quarters, the lights dial low. Boots drop, jackets slide from shoulders. The bed is warm from the ship’s systems and Jim’s restless body. He lies on his side, facing Spock, like a man who trusts the night again.
“Tell me something good,” Jim murmurs, eyes already heavy.
“You are not alone in this,” Spock says. “You have never been.”
Sleep takes Jim within minutes, deep and even, the first real rest in days. Spock watches the slow rise of his chest, the way tension loosens from his mouth. The ship hums steady around them. He reaches out and touches the edge of Jim’s sleeve, a small anchor against the dark, and lets time move without rushing it.