Chapter Text
Starfleet gives him Enterprise, gives him his crew. He only hesitates for a moment before asking Spock to be his first officer.
“You wish to have me continue as your first officer.” Spock’s voice betrays only the slightest hint of surprise. They never talk about—it, but Jim is sure that’s why he’s hesitant.
“You’re the best, Spock, and I need the best.” And he finds that the thought of Spock on another ship makes his throat close a little, like he’s having an allergic reaction. It’s not that Jim can’t do this without him—he knows he’ll have to do this without him someday—but he doesn’t want to.
“You are—aware that T’Pring did not perish on Vulcan?”
Jim’s whole body feels numb. He thinks he prefers not talking about it. “Yes. I’m happy for you. I wouldn’t have expected anything to change if she had,” he says, and his tongue feels thick but he hopes his voice sounds normal. “I mean, I would’ve been sorry for you. You told me, not the same significance. No big—” He can’t quite make himself say no big deal. Jim clears his throat. “Anyway, I want you to be my first officer. As long as you promise not to strangle me again,” and what an unfortunate time for a certain thrum to go through his body at the idea of Spock’s hands on him again. “Besides, if you don’t, it’ll just be me and Chekov in the chess club together, and that’s pretty pathetic.”
“Very well,” Spock says gravely. “I assure you that your person is safe from me.”
Yeah, that was never really in doubt.
* * * * *
The first few months of the mission are great, fantastic even—the crew is happy to be out exploring, no one tries to shoot at them, they make first contact on three different beach planets and everyone gets to have shore leave. Jim has sex with five different people, six if you count the Corvian, but Jim isn’t entirely sure if that was sex or just a ceremonial dance. They’re fascinated by the human marks—every species seems to have them, or some version of them, Jim discovers. Some consider them sacred and treat soulmate pairs like some higher form of life (when Jim discovers this, he sends down negotiators who are fully bonded); others see them as little more than just another physical attribute and are stunned by the human obsession with them. Some have more than one mark, naturally-occurring—triads and quadrangles of soulmates. Some tattoo their marks on their foreheads or cheeks when they find their soulmates so that everyone will know.
Spock always pretends to be impassive during these discussions, but sometimes Jim thinks he can feel Spock looking, can feel Spock’s eyes on the back of his neck. His mark is unobtrusive because of the emptiness of the circle, easy to overlook—the old one was large and dark and fully filled, and Jim looks at every mark he’s shown to see if maybe one of them matches who he used to be. He doesn’t tell Spock this. Vulcan marks don’t change, so why would Spock wonder about things like this?
Jim had kind of been joking about the three-dimensional chess club, but when he realizes that there’s an awful lot of downtime in space, he goes ahead and establishes it, announces it via a shipwide comm and invites other crew members to create their own clubs. Even with 400-plus crew, he’s a little surprised at how many are started. There’s the chess club, four different book clubs, a host of clubs devoted to archaic arts and crafts from a variety of cultures (Jim politely declines an invitation to the Tellarite quilting club), language clubs—
“I suspect that some of the enthusiasm will not last,” Spock says from across the table. It’s Jim’s move, but he keeps getting distracted when new requests ping in on his padd. “Captain, if you do not move in the next ten seconds—”
“What?” Jim grabs a pawn and moves it, apparently at random. He’s been planning this move, but he knows it will look hasty, careless, to Spock. “Did you ever play speed chess?”
Spock raises an eyebrow and takes Jim’s pawn. “I am unfamiliar with the game. Check.”
“What?” Jim stares at the board again. He needs Spock to take the bait once more. “I played it, as a kid—with my mom, when she was earthside. You each have a clock counting down—you start the clock when it’s your turn and stop it as soon as you’ve moved, and if your time runs out you lose. But it was just two-dimensional chess. A lot less to keep in your head.” He moves another pawn. It’ll look like a frantic last gasp.
“And did you win frequently?” Spock moves—yes, his bishop, perfect. “Check.”
“Maybe one out of three,” Jim says. “I got distracted too easily. Checkmate.”
That startles Spock. “What?”
Jim can feel the grin spreading across his face, and he doesn’t fight it. “Checkmate. See, I have your king—”
“I am familiar with the term,” Spock says. There is actual surprise on his face. “Your strategy must have been very unorthodox. I admit, I did not see the danger.”
“Oh, you can say it, you underestimated me.” Jim is gloating a little because he’s so right. “You’re too used to playing Vulcans.”
Spock considers. “I am—more accustomed to a logical style of play. You appeared distressed and confused at several points in our game.”
“Chess is a lot like poker that way,” Jim says. “You have to know your opponent, play off the signals they give you. And I happen to know you think much higher of your own intellect than any Human’s.”
“That is inaccurate,” Spock protests, though you wouldn’t know it from his voice. “Statistically, Vulcans are more adept at games of logic and strategy.”
“We can trade off playing chess and kal-toh,” Jim offers. “I never quite got the hang of it.”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “I suspect you are attempting to—hustle me, Jim.”
“It’s only hustling if money changes hands,” he says, and is that humor in Spock’s eyes? He thinks it is. “An Earth game? Monopoly, that’s a great one. My mom had an antique set up in the attic, half the pieces were missing.”
“What—pieces would be involved in seeking capitalistic good fortune?”
“Well, there’s a little shoe, and a thimble, and a dog,” Jim says. He’s enjoying the look on Spock’s face. “Sam always liked to play as the top hat.”
“And these are of economic significance?”
Jim finally loses it and cracks up. “It’s a board game. It’s just named after the economic gaming. You buy fake real estate using fake money and you have to pay rent to people if you land on real estate that they own.”
Spock frowns. “This does not sound like a game of logic.”
“Sure it is, the same kind of logic I used to win the chess game. If you watch someone and see how they react to you, you can figure out how they’ll react to other stuff. I knew Sam really liked to own all four railroads, so I would sell them to him for inflated prices, but anyone else wouldn’t have done it.” He suspects that about half of what he’s saying sounds incomprehensible to Spock. “People logic.”
“I see. Perhaps—” Spock is clearly unwilling to even pretend that he’d like to play Monopoly.
“Relax, Spock.” Jim laughs. “Kal-toh next time. Or just another round of chess. I don’t want to play Monopoly with you.”
“I am certain that after reviewing the rules—”
If they were friends—a different kind of friends, at least—Jim would nudge his ankle affectionately under the table. Whatever they are, he doesn’t think they’re there. “I bet Scotty knows all kinds of weird traditional games that neither of us has ever heard of.”
“You have quite the penchant for novelty, Captain.”
Jim shifts a little in his chair. “I’m just kidding, Spock. It’s a chess club, we’ll play chess. Why don’t we play another game now?” He begins to re-set the pieces, careful not to let his fingertips brush Spock’s.
Spock re-sets them as well. “You appear unsettled by my statement.”
“Oh, no.” Jim stretches. He tends to hunch when he plays and squint at the board. “I guess—I like new problems. Once I figure something out, it’s not as interesting. Like a mathematical proof, you know?”
“An intriguing way to describe it. I suppose the same could be applied to a person—once you ‘figure them out,’ they are less interesting.”
“What?” Jim didn’t mean it that way. “No, the more you figure out about a person, the more you realize there’s left to figure out. A proof is—complete. Whole. Finished. People are messy and never quite make sense.” He smiles. “That’s what makes people so fun. Mostly.”
“If you say so, Captain.” Spock places the final piece. “Which color would you prefer?”
“You choose,” Jim says. “I won last time.”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “Are you attempting to—discern information about me?”
Jim grins with all his teeth. “Yes.”
Spock beats him soundly in the next three games.