#vulcan braiding

[purpleenma]

Yesterday the need to draw T'Pring struck me like lightning and here she is now in all her gorgeous glory 🖖💜✨

[self-made-purgatories]

"this unicorndog alien is about to die and your life is also in immediate danger, but you look so damn good in that special green shirt that I'm going to have to sneak in a brief but intense eyefuck gaze on my way across the room. don't mind me"

[autisticburnham]

Michael seemingly has Alice in Wonderland memorized, so I know in my heart and soul that during her year without Discovery and the Federation when she felt so alone and disconnected from everything she'd ever known, she recited it to Book and put her little anthropology hat on explaining all the old timey/Earth things he wouldn't understand about it

[poebrey]

love the disco writers actively remembering Michael is a xenoanthropologist- would love it even more if they remembered she grew up on Vulcan more than once every ten episodes and in any sort of substantial way like let’s say wearing Vulcan appropriate wedding clothing to a Ni’Varian/Kelpian wedding

[bumblingbabooshka]

Kissing Practice

[jelliedlimes]

I give my female Spock that ridiculously long hair for multiple reasons

Because I think she’d love keeping long hair to do a pretty Vulcan updo and braid

to break up the hairstyle monotony of Kirk and Bones…because Kirk will unfortunately always be short hair futch to me and I love bones with that dumbass flip bob…and the character designer in me is screaming for some variety in shape language there..also she's so pretty and long hair is my favourite thing to draw ♥️

I do sometimes draw her with a fuckass bob though….as a treat. ♥️

[cleevitus]

Read a fic where spock had long hair he kept in an elaborate vulcan braid and it made his hair wavy when he took it down 🫣

[sepdet]

Killing Time Excerpts #3

Kirk and Spock have a date take a walk in the ship's gardens (p 18-27)

(from a rare 1st edition Star Trek novel by Della van Hise that was yanked, censored and republished to remove excess Kirk/Spock vibes— this is the original version)

Context: The crew's been having nightmares. Kirk received a top secret transmission from Starfleet he had to decode by hand.

____

Kirk stared at the tri-level chessboard without really seeing it, and absently moved the white queen one level higher.

Eyebrow arching, Spock leaned back. "A most unwise move, Captain," he observed, easily detecting Kirk's uncharacteristic lack of concentration. Without trying, the Vulcan had won his third consecutive game.

Kirk shook his head with a sigh, remembering the slip of paper in the top drawer, the dreams. "Distracted, I guess," he ventured, meeting his first officer's eyes and forcing an unfelt smile.

He inhaled deeply, then leaned back in the chair and folded his hands neatly behind his head, stretching. "I don't mean to keep whipping a dead horse, Spock," he began, "but . . . from what I've found out— about the dreams— it's starting to give me the willies."

The Vulcan stared mutely at his captain. "What would it profit to administer punishment to a deceased lifeform, Captain?" he wondered, attempting to lighten the heavy mood which had settled on Kirk during the course of the day. "And precisely what are the . . . willies?"

Kirk's smile broadened. "The creeps, Mister Spock," he clarified. "The crawls. The shivers. The boogey-man blues."

The eyebrow slowly lowered. "Of course, Captain," Spock replied, as if the entire matter was suddenly explained.

With a shrug, Kirk rose from the chair, moving into the living area of his quarters. He looked at the dresser for a moment, then impulsively yanked open a drawer and seized a plaid flannel shirt. After hastily removing the gold command tunic and tossing it across the room into the laundry disposal, he slipped into the civilian attire and began buttoning the shirt. He had to put command temporarily aside, and the braid on his sleeve was a constant reminder that that was never easy to do.

"C'mon, Spock," he urged, walking toward the door and tipping the white chess king over onto its side. "Let's take a walk. Maybe I just need some distance from everything."

The Vulcan's head tilted in curiosity. The ship's patrol was so utterly routine that he wasn't particularly surprised to see Kirk's nature asserting itself. The captain was the type of man who was always on the move, always seeking new adventures—and usually involved in dangerous excitement. In a moment of admitted illogic, Spock questioned the mentality of Command for sending the Enterprise to patrol the Neutral Zone in the first place. Surely, he thought, it would have been more reasonable to assign such a mission to a Scout class vessel. The Enterprise was, after all, the most efficient ship in the Fleet; and the Vulcan couldn't help wondering if the reasoning behind their current patrol was more complicated than anyone had been led to believe.

And there was the matter of the manually coded transmission. But he rose from the chair and followed his friend. Kirk would tell him— when and if the time was right. But as he passed by the chessboard, he reached out and impulsively righted the white king.

"What's the matter, Spock?" Kirk asked, face suddenly alight with mischief as he stood waiting by the now open door. "Afraid I'll have you court-martialed for insubordination because you beat me in another game of chess?"

The Vulcan merely shook his head as he fell in step alongside his captain, and they ventured into the corridor. "Hardly," he replied. "I merely thought it inappropriate to abandon the match so early in the evening. Your unorthodox approach to chess will doubtlessly assert itself later and you will discover some method of defeating me with an illogical and unpredictable move." He squared broad shoulders, innocently looking straight ahead as they approached the lift. "I am merely offering you that opportunity, Captain."

Kirk grinned. "In other words, Spock," he surmised, "you're generously giving me one final chance to humiliate myself."

"Captain!" Spock replied indignantly.

Kirk suppressed a laugh as they reached the lift. He thumbed the button, waiting for the doors to open. "You know, Spock," he mused. "Sometimes I wonder about you. Sometimes I think you're the ship's resident guardian angel— and other times I'm convinced you're the devil in disguise."

The Vulcan stared straight ahead, face expressionless. "Folklore is sometimes based in fact, Captain," he replied enigmatically.

—•—

For a long time, they simply walked, visiting areas of the ship which were normally removed from the world of command. Finally as if by intuition, Kirk stopped in front of a large door, looked at it as if deciding whether or not to enter, then finally depressed the lock mechanism and urged the Vulcan along with a quick nod of his head. Spock followed, somewhat reticently.

"C'mon," Kirk prompted with a grin. "Stop acting like a cat who's afraid of getting his feet wet."

Spock remained stubbornly standing outside the door. "Captain," he protested, "it is a biological fact that Vulcans are sensitive to high humidity. The gardens—"

But before he could complete the sentence, Kirk seized him by one arm and dragged him forward with a laugh. "Live a little, Spock," he suggested. "And that's an order."

The Vulcan sighed, and slowly followed Kirk into the room. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, Spock felt uneasy—as if this area of the ship was suddenly alien, dangerous. He lifted both brows at the illogical consideration, and took a moment to look around. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet the feeling persisted—as if ghostly eyes followed them. He swept the thought away. Illogical. Unacceptable behavior—particularly for a Vulcan. Reality seemed unstable. The brows rose higher, and though Kirk seemed oblivious to the sudden ethereal change, Spock couldn't deny its existence. Somehow, he felt himself altered, alien even to his own mind. But he continued following, nonetheless. Kirk's instincts were always good, he told himself.

Once inside the lush green gardens, Kirk felt some of the uneasiness leave him. He thought for a brief instant that he detected a hesitation in Spock, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, it was to see the Vulcan standing close at his side. He dismissed the sensation, passing it off to mundane distractions and tedium as his eyes settled on the "world" before him.

The maze paths which ran throughout this Earthlike area of the ship gave the illusion of five miles of hiking trails in a natural environment. Kirk attempted to divorce himself from the fact that it was merely an impression--carefully designed by the builders of the Enterprise to promote a feeling of "home." The room itself was approximately a hundred yards deep and seventy-five yards wide, almost overgrown with thousands of plants—flowers and small trees from a thousand different worlds. It was always spring here, the air fresh and clean. Even the air-conditioning vents had been designed to provide the illusion of a gentle breeze; and the domed ceiling spoke of a clear blue Terran sky, complete with clouds and occasional rainbows. When ship's night began to fall, a pseudo-sunset adorned the high ceiling, its purples, pinks and oranges all but obliterating the reality that one was still aboard a starship at least five light-years from the nearest Class M planet.

Forcing himself to ignore his own tensions, Kirk slipped into the Earth fantasy as he began walking along the central maze path—which would, he recalled, eventually lead to the deepest portion of the garden. As he looked up to see the Vulcan at his side, he couldn't help noticing that the gardens were having their effect even on Spock. The first officer seemed so much more relaxed and at peace here—even if somewhat distracted, Kirk noticed. For a moment, the human could almost envision his second in command swinging from a tree limb as he'd done once before—but not without the influence of spores to erase the normal Vulcan restraints. It was a soothing image, despite the fact that it was impossible. For an instant, Kirk wondered what would eventually become of his friend—of the two of them, where they would be in another twenty years. For himself, he suspected he'd still find some way of manipulating the stars,chasing adventure through the dark regions of time and space. But for Spock . . . His mind traveled back in time—to Vulcan. To a day when Spock had been prepared to marry . . . and disaster had resulted. Unbonded now, the Vulcan was walking a tightrope between life and death; for without the deep mental rapport necessary to establish a bonding, Spock would die in the blood fever of pon farr.

Despite the heat of the gardens, Kirk shivered, walking a little faster toward the central portion of the room. Surely, he told himself, Spock wouldn't die. Surely, he told himself, there would be someone with whom the Vulcan could bond, someone who could walk the path with him, balance him, love him.

For a long time, Kirk considered that. He wondered if the Vulcan knew what he was thinking, decided that it didn't matter. He would have said it aloud—had said it aloud countless times. He smiled to himself. No secrets, he'd once told Spock. And the Vulcan had agreed. He closed his eyes, and attempted to put the frightening thought of the future in the back of his mind. It would take care of itself—somehow.

At last reaching the central portion of the gardens, Kirk took a moment to study his surroundings. Six large trees which vaguely resembled weeping willows grew in a circle approximately thirty yards in diameter. Branches like arms hung to the ground, sweeping against the grassy floor of the gardens.

Entering the circle of trees, Kirk took a deep breath of fresh air, and moved to one of the old stone benches which had begun to sport a healthy growth of mildew. He sat down slowly, then leaned back until he felt the cold moisture of the stone seep through his shirt and onto his shoulder blades. It was good in a way he couldn't describe—good in the same way a memory of childhood was good. It brought back recollections of sneaking off to the park on a warm May afternoon when he should have been in school. He closed his eyes, enjoying the fantasy, the memories . . . the illusions which existed only in the past. But when he opened his eyes again, it was to see Spock still standing, looking down at him questioningly. There was concern—and possibly Vulcan worry—written in the black eyes. Kirk held the penetrating gaze for a moment, then managed a smile when he saw the Vulcan soften. "Live a little, Spock," he said again, indicating a nearby bench with a nod of his head. "Didn't you ever go out and roll in the grass when you were a kid?"

The arched brow spoke volumes for the Vulcan's childhood. "No . . ." Kirk decided. "I guess not." He rolled into a sitting position, feeling the nervousness and depression return despite the momentary external facade. He knew the Vulcan could see through his masks. "Sit down," he said more seriously. "I need a wailing wall, Spock."

The Vulcan might have considered responding in the customary, teasing way, but the idea left him as he observed the unusual tension in the familiar hazel eyes. Perhaps Kirk had felt the difference, the ghostly quality of their surroundings. He settled for a neutral approach. "This mission should not last much longer, Jim," he ventured, feeling suddenly inadequate to deal with Kirk's frustrations as he searched for something positive to say. "We are scheduled for shore leave in less than a month." He paused as if hearing the clipped tone of his own voice; perhaps teasing with this human was the only solution. "And I believe Altair has always been one of your favorites, has it not?"

Kirk shook his head, then felt angry butterflies warring in his stomach again. "Altair . . ." he mused. He looked closely at the Vulcan, then impulsively reached into the pocket of the plaid shirt to withdraw the crumpled piece of paper he'd hidden there earlier. He unfolded it, handing it to the Vulcan. "The transcript," he explained. "All leaves have been indefinitely postponed."

The Vulcan studied the paper carefully, committing its sparse contents to memory.

KIRK: YOUR CURRENT MISSION EXTENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTIFICATION. THREE EAGLES LANDING ON THE BORDER MIGHT NEED FLIGHT INFORMATION. A TIMELY CONSIDERATION FOR ENTERPRISE—EAGLES FLY BY NIGHT.

Spock looked up, handed the paper back to Kirk. "Romulan activity," he surmised.

Kirk nodded. "Romulan activity, Mister Spock." Then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he rose and began to pace back and forth in the confines of the circle of trees. "From the sounds of that transmission, the upper echelons are getting more than a little worried," he continued. "But no one seems to be able to pinpoint what the Romulans are up to this time." He shrugged. "Command suspects it has something to do with an attempt to invade Federation planets bordering the Neutral Zone, but . . ." He stopped pacing long enough to rub his forehead as he sensed the prelude to another headache. "But that's nothing new," he realized, resuming the nervous pacing. "Besides, that's what battle cruisers were designed for. Starships are supposed to be for exploration and contact; battle cruisers were built to deal with invasions and attacks." He managed a smile, an uneasy laugh. "General rumor also has it that three additional starships are being sent to this sector as a precautionary measure. And if that doesn't mean somebody's got their rocks in a grinder, then I don't know what to think." He took a deep breath. "But as usual with Command, they aren't being very generous with their information."

Spock was silent for a long moment. "And you stated that Starfleet has no precise knowledge of what the Romulans are planning?"

Kirk shrugged, threw up his hands, then forced himself to sit by the Vulcan's side. "All they know is that the Romulan Fleet appears to be converging near the border of the Zone. Our intelligence forces inside the Empire got wind of something concerning a time travel experiment which has been going on over there for quite a while; but according to Admiral Komack's last general transmission, we lost contact with the agents before they could relay the specifics." He grimaced. "I don't think we have to ask what happened to them."

Spock glanced away, confirming Kirk's suspicions; but the Vulcan changed the subject. "Do you believe the dreams could have something to do with events inside the Romulan Empire?" he asked.

Kirk felt something stir in his stomach.

"Since certain Romulans are telepathic," Spock continued, "do you believe it possible that your dreams could have resulted from a temporary psychic link to someone inside the Empire?"

Kirk's brows narrowed thoughtfully. A possibility, sure. But random speculation—rom Spock? "I dunno," he admitted. "Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age." He laughed gently, trying to chase away the cold, black thing which seemed to be lingering at his shoulder. It had his own eyes, his features, his mind. But it felt alien.

As if sensing the thought, the Vulcan reached out tentatively, placing one hand on his captain's shoulder. Kirk was the only person on board to whom Spock could open up, and he valued that freedom. "If there are answers, we will find them, Jim," he ventured, eyeing Kirk more closely. "But . . . I believe it can wait until morning. You appear somewhat . . . fatigued?"

Kirk sighed and reached out to cover the Vulcan's hand with his own. Men like Spock weren't standard issue. "Thanks, Spock," he murmured. "I don't know what the hell I'd do without you." He stood slowly, and turned to go.

The Vulcan rose to follow his captain, taking a moment to appreciate the easy rapport which was always there between them. "No doubt you would win at chess, Captain," he suggested as they began walking back toward the entrance of the gardens.

Kirk laughed, then turned to glance at the "sky" when he noticed that nightfall had begun. Muted colors melted into the domed sky, and he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling the cool fresh air into his lungs and holding it there.

"It's almost like being home, Spock," he said. "No Romulans except in Dad's exaggerated space-gtales; no nightmares other than algebra . . ." He gave in to the fantasy for just a moment, then, recognizing the lethal danger of homesickness and melancholy, opened his eyes once again. "You know," he continued, "my father used to tell me that childhood itself was the only home a man could ever have." He laughed— somewhat nervously—and continued to look at the domed ceiling. For the briefest instant, he could almost envision cloudy dragons and white-fluffed unicorns.

Spock's eyes closed for just a moment. "Your father was, no doubt, a remarkable man, Captain," he replied after a long silence. His own father had rarely spoken of such matters— and never of the stars. He started to speak again, but stopped abruptly when Kirk shook his head with a smile.

"Don't worry, Spock," the human replied. "I don't expect an answer." He took one last look at the dome; it was almost "night" now, and soon the stars would be visible through the transparent ceiling. He turned toward the door, determined to leave the melancholy behind. "I don't regret any of it," he said. "And who knows? Maybe we'll be laughing about this whole thing in some Altairian cafe in another month." He turned to look at the impassive expression on his friend's face as the double doors opened into the main corridor of the ship. "Well, at least I'll be laughing," he corrected.

An eyebrow climbed under sleek black bangs as they stepped into the hall and resumed the correct routine. The masks of captain and first officer fell into place.

"I would not be adverse to spending some time on Altair, Captain," Spock said unexpectedly. "I am told that the museums and library facilities are excellent."

Kirk laughed as he drew up to a halt in front of the turbolift doors. "I didn't know Altair had museums and libraries, Mister Spock!"

–•–

Next time:

Our star-crossed lovers totally just friends are separated across time and space, oh noes!

See tag Killing Time Excerpts for more!

[purpleenma]

Sketched a Mirror Spock 🔥🖖

[worldcatlas]

Star Trek: The Motion Picture (part 2)

We’re back to the big screen to finish up Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and discover even more exciting shades of beige.

In part one, I skipped over a brief appearance by the Klingons because you can barely see them, but with a bit of photo editing, we can take a closer look.

Why are their bridges so dark? Do targs have sensitive eyes?

Interestingly, they wear a style of uniform we would later see in TNG and beyond – all grey leather and metal studs – rather than the “sparkly sweater vest” uniforms Klingons usually wore in the original series. Although it’s a significant and unexplained departure from their small-screen appearance, I have to say, it’s a lot easier to take these Klingons seriously.

Remember these guys? Star Trek wants you to forget.

I also skipped over a brief appearance by a lil’ guy in a space suit, but we’ll get back to this costume later.

You just float there for now.

Picking up where we left off, Kirk steps off a shuttle sporting a handsome new uniform in slimming charcoal grey and white. It maintains the gold rank braids on the cuffs from the original series uniforms, but adds a futuristic belt, military-style shoulder marks, and a solid metal Starfleet badge. A stiff, quilted collar adds a touch of “space suit,” as well. All in all, a very sleek space-age outfit that feels like a solid upgrade to the brightly-coloured sweaters of TOS.

I can’t wait to see how everyone else looks in this cool new uniform! 

We also get a momentary, blurry glimpse of some excellent-looking Vulcan robes in black and gold, but once again, this beautiful costume barely gets a moment of screentime before being whisked away.

He had to hurry off to fix his eyebrows, I get it.

So… as it turns out, only admirals get the cool new penguin uniform, and everyone else is stuck with space scrubs. They don’t even get a metal badge (not even hard-working Scotty!), just an embroidered patch with a silver Starfleet delta against a coloured circle indicating the wearer’s department.

At least he gets the cool belt.

Up on the bridge of the Enterprise, It’s a full-on Situation Beige. Crewmen buzz around the bridge in every imaginable shade of white, off-white, tan, taupe, and ecru, blending in nicely with the bulkheads.

Fashion crimes notwithstanding, I think there’s also an OSHA violation or two going on here…

Not even Uhura is immune to unflattering shades of khaki, although she does give us a quick glimpse at the Apple Watch-like wrist communicator worn throughout the film. It’s a great accessory that would unfortunately be rendered obsolete by the comm badge as the franchise moved on.

This woman deserves fashion, dammit!

Chekov, Sulu, and other crewmen model a few interesting variations on the theme, including a tight-fitting polo, a standard crew neck, and an awkwardly-tailored sport coat that can’t possibly be regulation.

You know, for uniforms, they’re not very… uniform.

While others, like Commander Decker, enjoy tight-fitting jumpsuits in the beige-est possible shade of blue. Somehow, I just don’t get a sense of authority from a man who looks like he’s been vacuum-sealed inside his footie pajamas.

Oh boy, you can see Commander Decker’s whole entire Commander Decker.

Next, we are treated to a great crowd shot that really shows off the scope of the costume department’s efforts, with dozens of varied uniforms packed into the scene. It makes me feel a little bad for going after the colour palette so hard, considering the difficulty of coordinating so many pieces.

Then again, it really is giving “thermal underwear in space.”

There are a few noteworthy variations in the crowd, including the guy with an uncovered electrical socket in the front row, but my favourite is probably this Native American officer with cool beaded accessories.

Chakotay could learn a thing or two.

The next character to make their big screen debut is the ship’s doctor, Leisure Suit Larry Dr. McCoy, in a fly as hell, disco-ready outfit, complete with gold chain, oversized belt buckle, and a frankly criminal amount of chest hair. And let’s not even talk about the beard. Thankfully, the good doctor soon cleans up and changes into uniform.

Still too much chest hair.

Next, we pay a visit to engineering to see Scotty, who has gotten a significant costume upgrade. Along with his fellow warp core enthusiasts, Mr. Scott sports a heavy-duty, protective-looking white suit with a strange socket (or antennae?) on the chest, surrounded by concentric circles of padded fabric that really make you wanna plug something in there. Oddly, the costumes also feature black rubber collars that presumably attach to their matching helmets, but do not appear at all sealed to the body of the suit.

They’re air-tight…ish.

Fortunately, the suits also include a handy, built-in to-do list.

Memory aids can be helpful for a… mature crew.

Last but not least, the old gang is finally back together as Spock joins the crew, feeling absolutely no emotion about how slick he looks in these long-sleeved Vulcan robes. I love the matching grey tones between the high-collared shirt underneath and the embroidered Vulcan script on the outer garment (though I’m sure this was a purely logical choice).

It says “zip up here.”

Sadly, Spock is quick to follow protocol and changes into a Starfleet uniform as well. However, he does keep the collared undershirt, creating an ensemble that – in a nice nod to TOS – closely resembles his old uniform.

Spock appreciates consistency.

Uhura has also gotten a costume change, and although they still won’t let her out of Beige Hell, she has at least gotten a smart two-piece pant suit that looks a little more comfortable. In addition to being more flattering, this uniform also includes the gold rank braids at the wrists.

Maybe the replicators in the 2270s only have one colour of ink.

Some plot happens, and the ship’s navigator, Ilia, gets hijacked by an alien entity. After briefly experimenting with no costume, she manifests this wild sci-fi bath robe with a huge Dracula collar. The asymmetrical hemline is super cute, but the belt at the waist could be a bit higher and more fitted. I do like how the pink lining inside the collar complements the robo-transmitter implanted in her collarbone.

The bad news: an alien has taken over your body. The good news: they put on a cute fit~

The back of the collar is a nice touch as well, tapering into a heart shape that flatters the actress’ perfectly-shaped head.

So smooth.

On the other hand, I cannot agree with V’ger’s choice of psychically-manifested footwear for this outfit. Clear plastic high heels might look futuristic, but they’re completely impractical for walking through a ship with perforated deck plating, running through sandy-floored caves, or standing near a warp core without melting.

At the other end of practicality, we are introduced to some members of the ship’s security team, who are inexplicably dressed like old-timey football players. They sport shiny helmets, phaser holsters, and crotch-protecting armour in a lovely chocolate brown. While it does break up the beige, it feels a bit silly to see combat guys ready to rumble on a Starfleet vessel.

I think they saw what the Klingons were wearing and got jealous.

Deciding to accessorize, V’ger tries on a headband belonging to her host. It’s a lovely beaded and sequined piece, with a gold charm dangling at one side, and very nearly reminds the navigator who she used to be.

Does this accessory clash with my parasitic control of another sentient being?

Things are getting intense story-wise, and Spock suits up in a shiny red “thruster suit” to take care of business – that is, an EV suit painted safety orange and strapped onto a rocket that looks like it was built with spare kitchen utensils. The whole ensemble is incredibly bulky, but believably looks like a rocket-belt-type contraption that might’ve existed in the 1970s.

Do what you have to do, Spock, but I’ll need my colander back before dinner.

We’re treated to a close-up on the suit’s gloves as Spock pilots the contraption, revealing plenty of details, including more structural quilting. I like the raised details along each finger on the gloves, implying some kind of built-in system, perhaps heating or robotic assistance. The frame of the thruster suit (painted beige) contains a control panel, with buttons on every surface. This segment detaches from the suit itself, so there are also buttons built into the left sleeve.

One for lemonade, one for ice, and one for diet Romulan ale.

We also get a good look at the back of the suit without the rocket attachment when Spock mind melds with V’ger, revealing more quilted details, including some hilarious concentric squares on the butt. From this angle, the suit is mostly the work of the prop department, who have done an excellent job making the hardware look both hi-tech and capable of playing Betamax tapes.

I think my Grandma had one of those on top the TV.

Kirk comes thrusting to the rescue in his own suit, and soon Spock is whisked away to Sick Bay for another costume change. I think this is meant to be a futuristic hospital gown, but it really looks like they’ve just wrapped the sheets around his legs and pinned them in place with binder clips.

In case the doctors need quick access to his thighs.

On the other hand, the sleeveless top is a whole look, and I love the hood with contrasting orange lining.

Not gonna lie, I’d wear it.

As a bonus, Doctors McCoy and Chapel have evolved into their final form: an all-white medical uniform with an oddly rounded collar, shoulder marks, and – notably – a rod of Asclepius embroidered on the left breast, in lieu of a Starfleet delta.

Missing a couple buttons there, Doc?

In the climactic finale, our brave crew suits up for one last away mission in suede jackets, taking advantage of the material’s natural beige hue. Unusual for Trek, they appear to have several large, prominent pockets – but any unease is quickly dispelled by the reassuring presence of decorative quilting along the arms. Speaking of which, the left arm of each jacket bears a reflective stripe that, curiously, does not seem to indicate rank or department, as Spock alone has a red armband.

Fascinating.

With little to differentiate their outfits, Decker decides to accessorize with dramatic lighting and sparkles. Lots of sparkles. Met-Gala-rolled-in-a-Michaels level of sparkles, a.k.a. the correct amount for any outfit. And with that, the Earth is saved.

What was the point of the film again?

[ensignsimp]

Love Languages TOS HCs: Kirk, Spock, McCoy

Prompts: How do the TOS Kirk, Spock, and McCoy show their love and what are some things they love to do with their partner.

James T. Kirk

Words of Affirmation

He loves to give pep talks, and enjoys receiving them when he needs them.

When you call him "Captain or Sir" in the gentlest tones he practically melts.

If you run your fingers through his hair and call him a "Good Boy or Good Captain.", he feels completely renewed and invigorated.

He'll call you all sorts of cute pet names; "Sunshine, Honey-Bun, Sweetie."

But he needs you when he calls you; "My Sunshine, My Star, My Ensign."

He'll lay in your lap while you stroke his hair and remind him of how great of a leader he is, and how much you love him.

"Ensign, I need you. I need my sunshine."

Physical Touch

He feels so lonely when he can't hold your hand.

While on the bridge he gives you firm pats on the back, ruffles your hair, kisses your hand, or even sneaky hugs from behind.

If you initiate the physical touch that is even better, he can practically feel the love flowing from your fingers.

During your off-hours, he will constantly be looking for cuddles and snuggles.

He even whines and groans if he has to get up or if you have to get up. He's so cute when he's pouty.

He loves to lay in your lap and have you run your fingers through his hair while you read to him.

Jim: "I feel so lost without you, take me in your arms, and promise to never let go."

Ensign (L/N): "Jim, we're working and you're standing five feet away from me."

Jim: "That's too far!"

Quality Time

He wants to spend as much time with you as possible, but he wants to make it meaningful.

The two of you read to each other, as well as play games, dance, and do a variety of other things.

He likes to have "in-quarters" dates because he feels like he can be more of himself around you.

He loves to have movie dates where you take turns picking movies and making snacks.

He will totally do your nails and braid your hair.

You two will most definitely hold the best slumber parties in Star Fleet history.

"I think this shade suits you better don't you think? After this, we can watch that new rom-com that just came out on Vulcan."

S'Chn T'Gai Spock

Acts of Service

In Vulcan Culture what you do for each other is more than what you say.

While he loves to help you and ensure you're well taken care of, when you do the same for him he knows that you care.

If you notice that he may be overwhelmed and step in to assist him you can practically hear his heart pounding.

He always appreciates it if you help him with the task and work on it together.

If you forgot to finish a report don't worry he'll help you finish.

If he is struggling on the bridge, you're there to take orders and provide additional aid!

Spock: "Thank you for your help, Ensign. I appreciate the assistance."

McCoy: "Get a room!"

Quality Time

He loves it when you spend time together, even if it's some mindless task or chore.

He does try to find more interesting ways of spending time together.

He may teach you things about his culture; how to read, write, and speak Vulcan, how to play the Vulcan Harp, and how to cook Vulcan meals.

He may ask you to show him things you enjoy; your favorite books, your favorite meals, your favorite activities, etc.

He may even propose trying new things together; such as taking a class or workshop.

Anything and everything he can do with you is always greatly appreciated by him.

"If you are interested in further study might I recommend this. I think you may enjoy it."

Physical Touch

He is so touch-starved, and all he wants to do is hold hands.

When you first hold hands it was a bit of a shock to feel your minds link.

Soon the two of you could barely keep your hands off of each other.

He's always reaching out for an ozh'esta (* finger embrace). (Just like his father. *cough**cough*)

When the two of you are alone in your quarters he enjoys sitting across from you, pressing his forehead against yours and holding your hands.

He feels so comforted by your touch. You ease his mind bringing him so much warmth and comfort.

" When I am with you, it is as if I have found another part of myself I did not know I was missing."

Leonard McCoy

Quality Time

McCoy values time with you above all else.

He prefers to spend his off hours wrapped up in a large fluffy blanket cuddled with you.

He does like to do fun things like take you dancing or going for moonlit shore walks.

But because he spends most of his time in sickbay he prefers to sit and not move as much as possible.

He feels bad that he can't do what a younger partner might.

But you always reassure him by greeting him in your pajamas and a fuzzy robe.

Ensign L/N: *wearing an old fuzzy bathrobe and slippers* "You want to stay in tonight? I found an old western movie and picked up some ice cream from the commissary."

McCoy: *trying not to cry* "That's the best idea I've heard all day. I love you so much damn it."

Acts of Service

He hates to see you get hurt but always loves it when you visit him.

When you get sick or hurt he stops everything he's doing to help you.

When he gets sick or hurt and you stop everything you're doing to help him, he's a mess.

He kind of likes it when you're bossy with him, making sure he's drinking water and eating.

You always make sure he's well looked after and you always visit him regularly.

A doctor's favorite patient may be one he doesn't see but he'd prefer if you stop by now and again.

"Stop your belly-achin' and relax. I'll check on you again soon. You're lucky I love you so much."

Words of Affirmation

He doesn't show it often but he can get insecure about your relationship.

He doesn't feel like he's up to the task like he used to be when it comes to romance.

You'll sometimes see him looking in the mirror longer or running his hands over his stomach.

But when you compliment him or tell him how much you love him all of his worries disappear.

He gets all grumpy at first until you coax out the truth.

He will let you know what is bothering him and you'll make sure to help him through it one step at a time.

"Some days I don't even know why you'd want to spend time with an old man like me. But I always appreciate that you do."

[schn-tgai-saavik]

Saavik drawings I want to do:

Saavik in formal Vulcan wear and updo (bangs, curls, bubble braids and stuff)

Saavik in baseball outfit

Saavik graduation from the Academy with Kirk and Spock

Captain Saavik (TOS movies uniform)

Captain Saavik (TNG uniform)

Saavik and Joanna in a TOS redraw

Lady Saavik in her violet-blue Unification robes

[candyswirls]

Sanguinius and Vulkan giving Corvus some much needed cuddling and love. Can be either romantic or platonic.

“…and perhaps we’ll find that Nocturne’s temperatures are extremely close to Baal’s,” Sanguinius chuckled.

Vulcan laughed but looked distracted.

He put an arm on Sanguinius’s shoulder and subtly pointed.

Corvus slinked along the edge of the dining room and slipped out.

“He didn’t look very well,” Sanguinius commented. “I believe something is bothering him about this last campaign.”

“Come,” Vulkan said as he stood, “Let us go cheer him up.”

Sanguinius smiled as he followed his brother after the other.

“I can’t see where he went,” The Angel commented.

Vulkan pressed forward, “He would have gone to his room. He can be solitary when upset. It’s this way.”

Vulkan stopped before Corvus’s door, waiting for Sanguinius to be ready.

They knocked gently.

No reply.

“Corvus?” Vulkan asked.

“Brother it is us,” Sanguinius added.

The door cracked open, “What is it?”

“Mind if we join you?” Sanguinius smiled.

The door pulled back further and the other two Primarch’s entered.

Vulkan placed his hands on Corvus’ shoulders.

“You are weary.”

The Raven Lord rubbed his forehead, “It has been a long campaign.”

He moved away and flopped onto the couch. The others moved to sit near him.

Sanguinius offered, “Might I braid your hair?”

Corvus nodded numbly. As the Angel began taking dark strands, Vulkan scooted closer, rubbing his brothers back.

The Raven Lord ever remained stoic, even as his brothers eventually pulled him into embraces. The ever warm Vulkan and Sanguinius’ soft wings engulfing them.

He eventually sighed, “Thank you. I needed this.”

[purple-iris]

My mom and step-dad fusing their family recipes of banana bread together.

Vs

Me writing of Amanda and Sarek fusing their family recipes of challah bread and Tsamah tanoor (vulcan braided bread) in my fic.

Art imitating life or whatever

[jennelikejennay]

Needing Vulcan vocab help, and I found your blog. If you're willing to help, I'd appreciate it.

For fic purposes, I'm looking for a word that means token or war prize. The idea is that these tokens, taken from bested opponents, are tied to braids and displayed as status symbols.

I've tried whatever dictionaries I can find, including modified versions of those available from the Vulcan Language Institute, but have yet to find what I'm looking for.

Thanks.

Hmm, the dictionary indeed is pretty scanty.

What about tumek, counter? The dictionary gives " a calculator that keeps a record of the number of times something happens; (computer science) a register whose contents go through a regular series of states (usually states indicating consecutive integers) (device)" but since it's just the noun form of tum-tor, count, it seems like it could be used for anything that keeps track of things.

Another possibility is vipladayek, recorder, something that makes a record.

Trying to find something that means a trophy or award, I looked for "win." That doesn't exist, but "skilsu" means winner. That implies a verb skil-tor or skilau meaning "to win."

Now the passive participle is a matter of some uncertainty and debate, because it is not in the grammar lessons. We have to guess based on pairs of words in the dictionary.

Looking at torai, deed, from tor, do, I think skilai might be "something that has been won," i.e. a trophy. And in fact this is the simplest and best way to make a passive form that I've seen, though not really attested anywhere but here.

Or we could go based on the regular derivation of nouns from verbs and go "skilau —> skilaya." My only caveat is that these pairs of words generally work more like a gerund form—not so much a thing that is won as the concept of winning, so we might translate skilaya as victory instead. That said, some of the pairs do act like passive participles used as nouns: zhipenau, to abbreviate, to zhipenaya, the act or product of shortening, a shortened form of a word or phrase. In which case skilaya as "a thing that you have won" would work fine.

The analysis I've seen also suggests either skil or skilal as passive forms (depending on what the original verb is). There is a long explanation why but I can't find it at the moment.

I'll add more ideas if I find any.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Part I

We Don't Fit in Well ('Cause We Are Just Ourselves)

James T. Kirk (AOS) x Reader

Description: Riverside, Iowa. You've been here once before. Back then, everything was different. Now, you're not sure you're even in the same universe anymore. The man you might love? He's disappeared into thin air. The job you love? It might just disappear too. When everything hinges on one person, what lengths will you go to in order to save him? Can you save him while following the harsh demands you've been ordered to fulfill?

Warnings: Arguments, Mentions of Drunken Behavior, Injuries, Rough language

These will change from chapter-to-chapter. I will do my best to denote all happening as faithfully as I can. If any of these items bothers you, please do not read. One chapter of this fic includes non-graphic descriptions of Torture. All trigger warnings will be clearly demarcated in this fic.

Author’s Note: Hello my lovelies! This is my first Star Trek fic (ever), and I've been agonizing over how I could write it for so so long. This fic has been in the works since late-November 2023 and I think it's finally ready to share with you all!

I of course have to thank my faithful beta readers (and biggest cheerleaders) @desert-fern, @horseshoegirl and @sarahsmi13s for reading bits and pieces of this fic and making sure I was doing it justice. I also want to thank @a-reader-and-a-writer! Vee sent me this ask around then and nearly a year and a half later, we have this fic!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Word Count: 3770

AO3: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

Series Masterlist | Next Part

The last time it snowed, the world was a very different place. Vulcan was still one of the biggest influences in the Federation, still orbiting its sun and still home to billions of souls, which were now snuffed out. Starfleet was thriving, with thousands of cadets and personnel boldly going into the unknown on peacekeeping and exploratory missions. What you have now is a world spinning on a different, tilted, off-kilter axis. It's like there is a hush over the grounds of Starfleet Academy still, cadets flinching, fighting their laughter when before it used to ring through the central square, melding with hundreds of conversations. The ghosts of everyone who walked the halls and never got the chance to graduate, to live, encroach on the spirits of those who remain.

It's no wonder the Admiralty have pushed for accelerated courses, aching to balloon the skeleton complement staffing the vessels still operational after the Battle of Vulcan. But the appetite to join Starfleet isn't present anymore. You've been riding a recruitment desk since graduation; you know what you're talking about. It’s like Starfleet had been inexplicably linked with the disaster on Vulcan and been found culpable for it. 

Nobody wants to be affiliated with the paramilitary organization responsible for the violent death of an entire planet. The Admirals have given countless interviews on the resettlement of the surviving Vulcan people. Ambassador Sarek himself has spoken about the loss of his wife, a prominent Terran herself, and the path to healing for the Vulcan people as a whole. Time and again, he's stressed how, without Starfleet, nothing of Vulcan-that-was would have been saved. But it doesn't seem to have worked. Every day, public sentiment on Starfleet has waned, the mercury dipping lower and lower and sinking into the red until you're not sure anything will bring it back out.

Well, there is one thing that could possibly save Starfleet. But nobody’s sure if he'd agree to do it.

It's why you're in Riverside, Iowa, of all places. The last time you were here, it was in 2255, and the summer sun shone golden from a blue sky over the shafts of fragrant wheat swaying in the hot breeze. You can still recall how your uniform had stuck to the small of your back, how wisps of your hair had been snatched from your braid only to get plastered against your face and neck. Back then, only a little over three years and yet a lifetime ago, you'd been awed at the mechanisms of the Riverside Shipyard, awed at the skeleton of the Enterprise as she was built piece by piece and paid little attention to the town in the shipyard's shadow. One bar fight and a pair of new cadets on board your shuttle later, you'd forgotten all about the place. 

Until now.

Your communicator trills loudly in the cold air, the tinny sound hushed between buildings blanketed in snow drifts.

“You find him yet, kid?”

“I'm 28, Doctor McCoy! I'm far from a kid.”

“You’re all kids to me.” You can hear the irascible doctor in the background, grumbling and growling. “So, did you find him yet?”

“No, and before you ask, I'm trying to remember whether I ever knew how to walk in this much snow and if the Riverside transporter station had Eskimo dogs and sleds for rent,” you snark back.

“Touchy, touchy, kid.” You don’t have to see McCoy's face to know he's smirking at you. The man may be a southern gentleman - most of the time - but a friend still amuses him in a tough situation of their own making. “Anyone would think you didn't want to see him anymore.”

“Len …” You sigh noisily, pretending your fingers aren't trembling, like snow isn’t seeping into your boots. “This was a bad idea. There’s a reason I've been riding a booth in recruitment instead of working with Scotty on his ‘wee lass’.”

“Give him a chance to explain, kid. And if he breaks your heart, tell me, and I'll come right over and getcha. Even if I have to brave a transporter to do it.”

“You're one of the good ones, Dr. McCoy.”

His laugh makes the bile roiling in your stomach ease a little.

“I hope you know you're one of the good ones too, kid. Now bring him home.”

The comm goes dead with a sharp click, and suddenly, you're alone again, looking at the small farmhouse in front of you. It’s two-storied and quaint, with a wrap-around porch surrounding the ground floor and dark windows peering out onto the street. Snow-covered fields surround it on either side, and you think you can see bushes buried under the relentless snow.

You think it used to be white once upon a time, when it was new, with white siding, cheerful blue shutters and a dark red shingled roof - the mid-1950s American dream. The blues have faded and blended with dust, the roof browned with age. As you walk, forcing yourself to lift each foot, you catalog the way the grass has grown up through the wooden planks of the porch over long hot summers, how there is a carving which might just spell out the words “JTK was here” hidden to the side of the door.

Because, well, if you can see the jagged lines of a pen knife on aged wood, then you're definitely too close to your goals to go home. The only part of the house which doesn't look aged is the doorbell and you press it with fingers trembling with both the cold and your nerves. But you don’t hear a bell ringing. A camera unshutters, the movements well-oiled and precise. You stand still and let it scan you, holding your Starfleet identification up when prompted. But the door doesn't open.

It feels anticlimactic. All the stress, the well-meaning, gruff pep talk from the Doc, the trembling in your fingers. Who is to say he's even home? Who is to say he'd even open the door for anyone? Why did Len think he'd open the door for you? The thought of someone you adore, and yeah, you've gone way past denial to even delude yourself into thinking you like him any less than pure adoration, seeing you standing on his doorstep and refusing to open the door, hurts like a kick to the chest.

You can’t breathe as you knock gently on the wood, ignoring the splinters as they catch on your skin.

“J-Jim?” His name leaves your chapped lips like a prayer, echoing through the cold stillness around you. “Open the door, please. It's me.”

You knock until your knuckles ache, and when you pull away, there's a rusty smudge of blood on the wood. One of the splinters has done more than catch on your skin, ripping a jagged hole against the ridged bone of your hand, embedded there like the man you're trying to find is in your heart.

“I know I'm the last person you want to see out here. B-but Len suggested to Admiral Barnett that you wouldn't come back for anyone else. I tried to tell them otherwise, but nobody listened. We're worried about you, Jim. Please. Worried sick.”

You wait with bated breath for any sign of life. But none comes. You turn, fumbling for your communicator with aching fingers because at least you can tell the Admiralty you tried, right?

“If you were worried sick, why didn't you come sooner? Took ya six months to come out here … to see the famous Captain Kirk for yourself.”

Your knees go weak at the sound of his voice, but when you whirl around, your concern doesn't fade. Because you've never seen James Tiberius Kirk in such a bad state of disrepair. The just-been-fucked state of his hair is par for the course. Bloody bar fights might very well have been normal - after all, you've seen the results on his face far too many times. But drunk, so drunk you can smell the cheap alcohol seeping from his pores, hair greasy and blue eyes dull? You've never seen James T. Kirk fall so far from the pedestal he's set himself on.

“Jay…” He snorts crudely at the pet name on your tongue like he knows you don't deserve to call him that, wheeling around and back into the yawning doorway with little grace.

“Don't haveta like ya to keep you from freezin’.”

He's slurring, and your heart cracks at the rudely dismissive tone in his voice.

“Get in ‘ere, call Bones and get out.”

Jame T. Kirk is a lot of things, you know. He's smart - smarter than anyone has rights to be - and works endlessly for his crew like he'd never work for himself. But he's not a sloppy drunk. He likes alcohol as much as the next man, preferring a light buzz to quell the jitters of a perfectionist attitude without stifling his ridiculously brilliant brain. This is so far past buzzed you're not sure he even remembers what a buzz is.

Empty bottles clank and clatter against the toes of your boots as you walk in, closing the door gently. You're hit with a cloud of dust, the musty smell coating your mouth without it even being open, the fine particulate sinking into your clothing with each step. It smells like dust and rot and spilled alcohol in the enclosed space. The pungent bouquet makes your nose wrinkle, hand rising to cover your mouth and nose in a futile effort to stave the smells away. You follow Jim through the trail he's making, circumnavigating the towering piles of bottles, avoiding the puddles on the floor that may have once been bile.

The kitchen is mostly clean, even if it does smell just as bad. But at least here, there is room to move and sit. The glare you're given as you perch on the very edge of one of the cracked vinyl chairs pushed up against a small table is vitriolic enough that you can feel your resolve, cracked and patched together with string and duct tape, begin to burn.

“I told ya. Get in. Get warm. Call Bones. And get out. I don’t care what you're doing here. I just want you off my property.”

He stares at you for several moments, warm blue eyes now flinty and cold, before turning around and walking further into the house. You can hear the clattering as he knocks into things, the hushed expletives as he no doubt bashes his elbows and knees into the sides of furniture and door jambs. Once upon a time, you would have laughed, trailing after him to ask if he needed a kiss on a fresh bruise or two marring his skin. Now you’re left paralyzed between your need to make sure he is okay and your fear of overstepping.

You’re not sure how it went so wrong. One night, you’d been curled up against his side on his ratty old couch in San Francisco, warm and comfortable, soaking in the scent of his cologne. It had been a perfect night, with friends hanging out, eating good food, and drinking good alcohol. But it didn’t stay a hangout between friends. Jim was just as distracting as usual, with his pretty blue eyes and wide grin. You’d woken up the next morning, bare and aching in the best way, in his empty bed to a cold, deserted apartment. 

You weren’t sure what you’d done to make him leave. Was giving into the sexual tension with your commanding officer why he disappeared? It was a shot to your confidence and ego. He was just gone, with no note, all the clothes still in his closet, and everything untouched. You couldn’t even tell when in the middle of the night he left or where he went. It’s taken you six months to track him down. You’re not sure how long he’s been in Riverside or if he was alone the entire time, but you’ve finally found him.

It’s probably time to make some decisions. How do you convince him to come back to San Francisco? You’re not charismatic or particularly charming. Most of the time, you’re being charmed, not doing the charming. You’re yanked viciously out of your musing by the sharp thud of a body colliding with the floor. Jim’s lying at the foot of the stairs, blood seeping sluggishly from a slice on his forehead.

“Shit, Jimmy.” You soften your voice to a whisper as you lever him up. “What have you done to yourself?”

He’s sluggish and barely responsive as you sling his heavy arm over your shoulder and stagger upright. He’s completely unresponsive as you maneuver him to the living room and lay him down on the mostly clean sofa. The wound isn’t too bad, already scabbing over, but you’re more worried by how he’s been knocked out. He’s motionless, almost lifeless, were it not for the imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. You call Len three times that night - first to make sure you’re doing the right thing, second to treat the swelling, and third to get Mama McCoy’s recipe for chicken noodle soup and her award-winning pancakes.

He'll be fine, kiddo. If he's got a bump on his noggin and was as drunk as you say, he'll sleep through the night. You'll want to get some coffee in him in the morning. He'll have a bear of a hangover, but he'll be fine. Call me if you need anything, kid.

Len's advice, while comforting from a medical standpoint, only partially alleviates your worry. You spend the night in a sleepless, manic haze, focused on only two things: making sure Jim is alright and cleaning up his house, at least the kitchen and the stairs. You venture out into the cold multiple times, hauling bag after bag of trash to the big cans in the side yard, stamping the snow off your boots and shivering as you try futilely to warm up.

By the time the sun's risen, the kitchen is spotless, smelling softly of lemon cleaner, and you're no less scared than you were walking into Riverside the day before. You're terrified. Terrified at the thought of seeing censure in those blue, blue eyes. Terrified to hear James Tiberius Kirk tell you that you were only a passing flame, a quick, convenient fuck. Terrified that you’ll never be able to make him realize how much Starfleet needs him, how much you do.

The fear settles in your veins as you make an early morning trek to the grocery store. You pick up all the essentials: coffee and enough food for at least a few days more, and accept the offer of a ride back to the Kirk farmhouse. By the time the soup is bubbling away on the stove, following Mama McCoy’s exacting recipe, your nerves have soothed a little. 

Jim rockets awake at 9 o’clock on the dot, retching into the bucket you'd set by the side of the couch. Hearing him cough wretchedly into the bucket makes you feel worse than you did before. It’s a relief, knowing he’s okay, that he isn’t hurt. But he’s awake now, and you’re paralyzed. The gentle scents of coffee and buttery pancakes waft through the bright kitchen. You take comfort in it as you suck in greedy breaths to keep your rampaging heartbeat under control.

“The hell is this?” His voice is rough, deeper than usual, and just a little wondering as he takes in the magic you've wrought on his kitchen.

“Breakfast and coffee.”

He huffs, drawing his arms up across his chest, blue eyes squinting your way.

“I can see that.” 

He's stoic. Stiff-lipped and tense as he stands in the corner of the kitchen. You can feel the weight of his gaze as you flip the last few pancakes and pour the fresh coffee into a pair of mugs. You're not sure why you do it, but you step forward gingerly and press the mug into his hands. You back away slowly, like you're dealing with a spooked animal. 

His lips twitch as he looks down at the mug, his expression warring between exhaustion and anger. It's your turn to hide a grin when he takes a long sip, a grumble rather akin to a domesticated cat leaving his mouth as the rich, dark, slightly bitter liquid hits his tongue.

“What are you doing?”

You should have been expecting the question. You've had a day, a night, and months of searching to think of why. Ultimately, you stick with the simplest answer you can give him.

“I'm making breakfast. I got hungry.”

You shrug and hold out your hands, palms up to the feast laid out on the sparkling counters: buttery pancakes, golden-brown and fluffy, out-of-season blueberries piled high in a bowl, crispy strips of bacon glistening with fat in the sunlight, and the pot of coffee steaming on a trivet.

“Bullshit.” 

He yanks one of the bacon strips off the platter and crams it in his mouth. It disappears in two quick bites before his tongue darts out and laps at the grease on his fingers. You're a little weak-kneed at the motion because, unlike him, you can clearly remember what those fingers, what that tongue, can do.

“You're not here just to make me breakfast. You're here because they sent you. The Admirals. Starfleet. They want Captain Kirk as their poster boy, their golden goose. They want to parade me around, drum up more recruits and ‘boldly go’ again. They could care less about how the Federation was handicapped mere months ago - how an entire people was destroyed. Because they didn't see it coming.”

His voice is ragged, chest heaving as he sets the mug down with a sharp clack, the liquid sloshing over the sides.

“That's right.” Your voice is barely a whisper as you mop up the spill. “The Admiralty sent me. But they're not why I agreed to come to Riverside. I came to Riverside to make sure you were okay. Nobody's heard from you, Jim. We were all worried - Bones, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, Admiral Pike - I, well, I was worried. We all wanted to make sure you were okay. The Admirals just allowed me to do so without taking leave.”

“So what are you going to do?”

You grab two plates from the cabinet and start serving up some food. You mull over your response as you set the table, giving him a wide berth as you circle him to retrieve the coffee in a second trip. You settle into one of the chairs with a sigh, your aching bones relaxing into the cushioned seat, and sip the coffee doctored how you like.

“Well, for the next few days at least, I'm going to make sure you're eating and sleeping and not drinking yourself to death. Then I'm going to ask if you would ever want to come back to Starfleet if you'd ever want to be my Captain again. Regardless of your answer, I'd head back to San Francisco.”

He sits gracelessly, long limbs splayed out until his foot collides with yours, icy against your ankle. You push his mug of coffee, the expensive, real coffee you’d spent way too many credits to purchase, his way. You’re gratified at the small smile on his face when he cuts a piece of pancake, dredges it through the frankly ridiculous pool of blueberry syrup on his plate (the only syrup Len said he wasn't allergic to) and shoves it into his mouth. It’s good to see him looking a little more relaxed, to see him eat, even if he is too thin for comfort.

“So if I tell you to leave and never look back, to forget I was ever your Captain, you'd do it?”

Your heart lurches at the thought of forgetting James T. Kirk and what he means to you. But you're sure this is a test, that he's expecting you to say you can't forget him, that you won't. You're just as sure he'll never forgive you if you say those words. Because he'll take them as a betrayal and you'll lose any ground you've gained over Eleanora McCoy's pancakes and blueberry syrup.

“I promise. But only if, after I leave, you promise you'll take care of yourself. No more drinking yourself to death.”

He quirks an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging his lips up.

“Fine. Okay. I promise I'll take care of myself. Now, will you leave me to eat all this food by myself, or will you help me?” 

Your response is to oh-so-maturely launch a blueberry at his face, a blueberry he catches on his tongue.

The shaky truce you’ve brokered extends until mid-afternoon when the doorbell rings, and Jim comes back with more boxes of food than you thought you'd ordered.

“This has to be a mistake,” you groan as you set vegetables in the crisper and load the freezer with meat.

“It's not a mistake.” Your eyes are wide with something starting to feel a lot like hope as you look at him. He'd showered after breakfast, and clean-shaven and sober, he looks a lot like the Jim you remember. You’re hoping he ordered the extra supplies and wants you to stay longer. But your hopes are shattered when he gestures out the kitchen window.

“Take a look outside.” 

The sky is dark, the clouds heavy and gray as they blot out the sun. Fat snowflakes spiral heavily down, and you have a sudden lurch in your chest as it accumulates far more quickly than you'd expect on the ground.

“You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd suspect you'd planned this.” 

He's hovering just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin. Your fingers clutch at the counter because that accusation means he might not trust you even so much to take your words at face value. 

“This is a blizzard in Iowa. It'll snow for days on end, and we'll be snowed in for longer than a few days. So buckle up, buttercup. Looks like you're stuck with me!”

You stick your tongue out at him in a state of childish pique because if one day was enough to have you in a cold sweat, weeks might just kill you. The Admirals will probably be glad when you tell them. After all, it gives you more time to convince Jim Kirk to return to Starfleet. If only you were so sure it's what he wants in the same way they are.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.