Work Text:
This is not how Jim had intended to spend his Christmas Eve.
- - -
“Captain, I believe I should come with you on this mission –”
“They’re friendly aliens, Spock. And it’s a routine check-in. What are you so worried about?”
“I simply think that –”
“Has Bones given you the okay to leave the ship yet?”
“He – not in those exact words –”
“Wow, Spock. With hedging like that, we’ll make a regular liar out of you in no time.”
“Captain –”
“Let it go, alright? You stay up here and heal that nasty little injury of yours. I’m quite okay to handle some diplomatic negotiations on my own.”
- - -
That had been seventeen days ago. Jim knows, because he’s been using a pebble to scratch lines into the dungeon floor, one scratch for every time the aliens have dragged him off to work him over. It’s the same way he knows that it’s the twenty-fourth of December, and he hates to think that the festivities that would normally be taking place on his ship have undoubtedly been put on hold in favour of attempting to get the captain back.
God, Jim hates that he was even captured in the first place. It doesn’t exactly reflect well on his leadership capabilities. And Bones will be wearing a hole through the Bridge floor by now – seeing as the guy never actually seems to stay in his own sickbay – while Spock’s probably scaring the shit out of everyone around him, and making the entire crew work at 150% efficiency.
It’s enough to bring a small smile for a second, but when even the tiny movement splits his lip anew, the taste of blood chases away whatever moment of happiness he may have grasped at.
- - -
“Jamieson! Franklin! Report – dammit, I can’t make my communicator work – Johnson, you circle back around –”
That’s when the Earth splits underneath them, and Jim barely manages a yell before he’s tumbling downwards, dirt and rock choking the air around them. He just manages to process the fact that there’s been an explosion before he’s hitting the ground, hard enough to drive the oxygen from his lungs, and then there’s a sickening crack and a spike of pain down his arm that has him emptying his stomach onto the ground beside him.
When he manages to open his eyes again, nearly biting through his lip at the waves of pain, it’s to the sight of Johnson’s open, sightless eyes, his neck twisted at an odd angle, his body spread out under a pile of dirt, and Jim slams his eyes shut and rolls away, hating himself with a passion that steals away what little breath he had managed to get back into his lungs.
He doesn’t get to wallow for long, though, because about five seconds later the sound of feet manages to pierce through the ringing in his ears, and he’s on his feet with his left hand clenched into a fist, his right dangling uselessly beside him, the wrist bent in a direction that it really shouldn’t be. The sight of at least ten aliens – none of them friendly looking, and whatever bastard designated this planet a safe zone is never going to be allowed back in Starfleet again – has Jim backing up and looking for some kind of weapon, eyes desperately searching out his phaser in all the mess.
“Resisting us is pointless. You are outnumbered.”
“Fuck you. You killed one of my crew. Where are the others?”
“They have also been dispatched of.”
“Slimy motherfucking monsters –”
Jim’s hissed out words are cut off when the aliens all move to encircle him, and a heavy fist smashes down against the top of his head, sending the world into a painful swirl of darkness.
- - -
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas… everywhere you go…”
It’s morbid, even by Jim’s standards. Curled up on the floor of his prison, body aching from being worked over time and time again, and his wrist so badly swollen he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to use the hand again. Fighting the urge to give in to panic, Jim swallows hard and steadfastly keeps his eyes closed, filling his head with images of Christmas trees and warm fireplaces as he takes a deep breath, moving from song to song as the minutes slip by.
“I’ll be home for Christmas… you can count on me…”
- - -
“How do you even speak English?”
The aliens say nothing in response, as they methodically strap Jim back against the table, tightening the bindings around his wrists until Jim has to choke back a yell. He slams his eyes shut and curses them to hell and back, fighting the urge to struggle, knowing it’ll do no good.
“Just tell me this,” he manages to gasp. “Has Starfleet ever been here before? We have – shit – this planet recorded as safe –”
There’s a gurgling sound, and Jim’s eyes snap open again when he realizes that it’s what passes for laughter with these creatures. One of the aliens is baring its pointy teeth at him, a terrifying parody of a grin that makes Jim fight back a shudder.
“Your – what do you call it? Starfleet. It has never come here before.”
“Then why do we have this planet on record?”
“That seems to have been your mistake. How nicely that has worked to our benefit.”
“If you don’t let me go –”
“Your ship has already been terminated, Captain. There is nobody coming to rescue you.”
For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, a wave of nausea so strong it threatens to overpower him, and Jim slams his eyes shut again, his lungs stripped of oxygen, his vision tinting white around the edges.
“Now, Captain. About those security codes to the defense systems around Earth…”
He won’t believe it. He can’t believe it. If he does – if there’s nobody coming for him, if Spock and Bones and the rest of the crew are dead – then he’s lost what he needs to keep fighting.
- - -
“What is that noise you are making?”
Jim cracks open his weary eyes and glares up at the alien standing outside his cell. He refuses to give him the satisfaction of any other reaction, not moving from his position on the floor.
“I suppose your race isn’t sophisticated enough to understand music.”
“We were sophisticated enough to blow your ship out of the sky.”
Every time they mention it, it’s like knives are being scraped across every inch of his body. Jim takes a second to dig deep for the courage he needs to keep glaring, not wanting to let this creature see how terrified he really is.
“My ship’s scans aren’t infallible, especially when we’re this deep underground. My crew will find me eventually. If you want to make up stories to break me, you’re gonna have to get more creative.”
“Would you believe that we slaughtered a landing party before we destroyed your ship?”
Jim bites down hard against his own tongue, managing to keep in the noise that wants to escape, but if the way the alien’s lips are curling at the edges is any indication, then there’s probably a world of fear painted across Jim’s expression.
“Oh, yes. The one with the pointy ears put up a good fight, but we got them all in the end.”
“I’m going to rip you apart when I get out of here.”
The alien simply gurgles out a laugh and spits on the floor in front of Jim’s cell, before turning away to slowly saunter down the hallway. As soon as he’s out of sight, Jim squeezes his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing, reminding himself that he can’t believe a word these monsters say – because if he, for even a moment, considers the possibility of Spock being dead – especially when Jim never had the courage to tell him just how much he meant to him – it’s going to be more than enough to crack that unbreakable spirit he’s always prided himself on.
“I’ll be home for Christmas… if only in my dreams…”
- - -
The night passes slowly.
Jim, his mind carefully blank of thoughts involving Spock or Bones or the Enterprise, spends an hour scratching an evergreen tree into the floor using his good hand, his lips giving voice to every Christmas song he’s ever learned. The aliens seem to have chosen to leave him alone for awhile, and Jim silently counts his blessings, even as he begins to scratch an image of a present into the ground beneath the scratchy image of a Christmas tree.
“Captain.”
That one single world – spoken with that voice – shoots down Jim’s spine like a streak of fire. He’s on his feet with noise he barely recognizes, stumbling slightly from hunger and pain, and then he finds himself blinking frantically, his mind unable to process the sight of Spock standing outside his cell door.
“Spock,” he hears his ragged voice croak out, the single word barely making it past his lips, “Spock, you –”
“Captain,” Spock says again, and swallows hard, staring at Jim as though he’s the only thing in the entire universe. “Would you please step back, for a moment, so I can remove the door.”
Barely able to breathe for the relief that’s attempting to choke him, Jim manages a shaky nod and moves to the side of the cell while Spock raises his phaser and blows the door clean off. Then, he methodically lowers the phaser, tuck it into the holder on his belt, and steps into the grungy cell.
“Jim,” he begins, his voice less steady than Jim’s ever heard it, but Jim doesn’t even let him finish his sentence – because fuck propriety, and because fuck how a captain is supposed to behave. Crossing the cell in less than a half second, he wraps his arms around Spock’s body and buries his face into the warmth of his shoulder, clinging on so tightly he’s distantly aware that he might be leaving bruises.
“Fuck, Spock – they told me you were dead – that you were all dead –”
“I would never leave you trapped here.”
And shit, Jim is not going to cry, he is not going to cry, but it’s really hard to be tough when Spock is actually freaking returning the hug, the movement awkward but achingly sincere as he holds Jim close for a few blissful seconds.
Then, he steps back, but Jim’s disappointment is short-lived because Spock doesn’t go far, one hand on Jim’s shoulder and the other still curled against the side of his waist as his eyes scan the length of Jim’s body.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“Just some nasty bruises and cuts – nothing some sleep and food won’t hurt. And, uh –” Jim holds up his injured wrist, trying to not be distracted by the feeling of Spock’s hands still resting against his body. “And this. Fucked up my wrist when they first got me.”
Spock makes a noise that, from anyone else, would be a growl. He raises his hand as if to touch Jim’s wrist, and then seems to think better of it, minutely shaking his head and putting a hint of extra pressure on Jim’s shoulder instead.
“The landing party is a few rooms over, and the aliens have all been subdued. We should return to the ship, so Doctor McCoy can examine you, and you can get some rest.”
Jim tries to find the words he needs to respond, but with Spock still staring at him as though he never expected to see him again, all Jim can do is manage an unsteady nod, leaving the silence to hang between them for a moment longer. When Spock finally steps backward and gently nudges Jim towards the hole in the prison bars, Jim feels a smile curve at his lips, and they walk out of the cell together, their arms brushing between them, leaving nothing behind but the scratched out image of a Christmas tree.
- - -
“Jim!”
Jim has probably been on the transporter pad for less than a second before Bones is suddenly right there, arms firmly wrapped around him, somehow managing to hold on tight without aggravating a single injury on his body.
“Jesus christ, kid, if you ever scare me like that again –”
Jim can’t help but start to laugh, a sound of pure happiness that he can feel throughout his entire body, and he’s careful of his bad wrist as he starts to return the hug – but Bones is already stepping back and running a scanner along his body, careful to not meet his eyes as he starts muttering about starvation and bruising and malnutrition and sleep deprivation and –
“Bones,” Jim says softly, quirking a smile at his friend, and Bones finally closes his eyes on a sigh before opening them to look Jim square in the face – and yeah, Jim completely understands the need for the scanner and the rambling, because god, his friend hasn’t looked this bad since the first day Jim met him.
“Bones. I’m okay.”
“Jesus, Jim,” Bones mutters, a hand coming up to hold onto Jim’s shoulder, his bloodshot eyes lined with dark smudges, and they really shouldn’t be having this reunion in the transporter room, but Jim simply can’t bring himself to care. “You scared the hell out of us. I don’t think I’ve slept more than a couple hours every night since – since those bastards caught you. Spock damn near tore apart the planet looking for you. And I – just, don’t you ever dare –”
Jim cuts him off with another hug, because this is getting to be way too much for both of them, and he suddenly can’t stand to look into Bones’ face and see weeks’ worth of terror piled up there.
“It’s alright, Bones. I’m here now. Let’s get me down to sickbay and fix me up, alright?”
When his friend nods against his shoulder and silently steps off the transporter, Jim follows with a slightly uneven step, only just noticing that Spock is still in the room, and has been watching the entire exchange. Quirking a smile in the Vulcan’s direction, he swears he sees the corners of Spock’s mouth soften slightly as Spock nods back in response, and then Jim is snagging hold of Bones’ arm and pulling him out the transporter room, his entire body aching with relief at being back on his ship and with his friends again.
- - -
When Jim finally walks into his room – his hand nicely bandaged, with a shot of something that must be magic, because the swelling’s already going down, and the pain doesn’t even register anymore – he nearly falls over.
Christmas lights. And a little tree, with a couple of presents under it. For a moment, he wonders if he hit his head somewhere along the way, and this is just some elaborate trick his concussed mind has come up with.
But no. When he closes his eyes and pinches himself, the tree doesn’t leave, and the lights don’t fade away. Someone’s gone to the trouble of decorating his quarters, and when he glances at the clock on the bedside table, he’s struck with the realization that 23:47 is dangerously close to midnight –
Which means that he made it back to the Enterprise in time for Christmas. His crew found him, Spock dragged his ass out of that hellhole, and Bones patched him up – all in time to get him back to his little room for the clock to hit midnight.
With a grin that feels like it will split his entire face, Jim tilts his head back and starts to laugh, and he’s still grinning and brushing his good hand across the tree’s decorations when there’s a knock on the door.
“Captain?”
“Come on in, Spock.”
He twirls around to grin at Spock as the door slides open, and even the Vulcan looks a little less stern than usual as Jim raises his hands in the air, spinning in a circle and sweeping his arms around in an all-encompassing gesture.
“A couple of hours ago, I thought we were all dead. This doesn’t even feel real.”
“I wished to have your room decorated for when we found you.”
Jim goes still, something tightening in his chest as Spock momentarily glances away, his gaze moving to the little Christmas tree, and – if Jim’s not mistaken – the tiniest hint of a green tinge to his cheeks.
“You did this?”
“I understand that Christmas is important to most humans. And I did not wish for you to come back to an undecorated room.”
If Jim gets any happier, his heart is going to actually explode. “You never once gave up on me, did ya?”
“No. I did not. Neither did McCoy, or any of your crew. At the risk of speaking on behalf of everyone aboard this ship, you mean much more to this crew than I think even you realize.”
Jim finds himself fighting the urge to hug Spock again, and he lets himself take a single step closer, quirking out another grin and reminding himself to keep his hands to himself, trying to pretend that there’s not a sentimental wave of warmth spreading across his entire body.
“Why, Mr. Spock. That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time. Talking from personal experience?”
It’s meant as a joke – a gentle dig at how far they’ve come, starting from hating each other’s guts and finally ending up at being willing to lay down their lives for each other – but Spock simply stares at him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, before he swallows hard and drops his gaze again, studying the carpet as though there’s something particularly fascinating there.
“Yes.”
Brought up short by the naked honesty in that one word, Jim can only stare at Spock for a long moment, taking in the tense line of his shoulders and back, until he feels his feet move him a step closer, still fighting the need to wrap his arms around the Vulcan.
“Spock, I –”
“You were gone for eighteen days. It provided me with the opportunity to think. I wish to apologize for any wrongs I have committed against you in the past, and to inform you that – while Vulcans normally do not place value in emotional relationships – and while I do not know if it is appropriate for a relationship between a commanding officer and his subordinate –”
“Spock –”
“I consider you a good friend, Jim. After almost losing you, and in light of our convoluted past… I just wished for you to know.”
As the unexpected declaration gently settles into the space between them, the words sending tendrils of happiness across Jim’s body as the meaning behind them actually begins to process, he distantly wonders how many times in one day he can be rendered speechless. Then, he finds himself moving forward to hesitantly pull Spock into another hug, intending to keep it brief this time, because they have so surpassed their yearly hug quota – but when Spock does that awkward thing again where he seems to try to hug back, Jim finds he has absolutely no desire to let go.
“Thanks, Spock,” he murmurs softly, trying to not breathe the words right against Spock’s neck, not wanting to overstep a new boundary and make things uncomfortable. “You’re a damn good friend, too. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
Spock says nothing, but Jim feels him nod against his body, and god, this should be the moment when he steps back – Spock is inhumanly warm, and so wonderfully solid against him, his arms the safest shelter Jim has felt in a long time, and the fact that he never wants to let go is probably just more of a sign that Jim needs to move the hell away as soon as he can.
But Spock’s not letting go, either, and as the long seconds slowly tick by, Jim squeezes his eyes shut and tries to figure out what the hell is going on.
This is not at all like their moment in the prison cell – now they’re in Jim’s room, and there’s a freaking Christmas tree, and the only light is from the Christmas lights, and Spock still isn’t freaking moving away from him, and their bodies are pressed much too closely together – then, Spock shifts slightly, and Jim bites down a disappointed exhale, because this is it –
But instead of pulling away, Spock simply slides his hands a little further along Jim’s back, his fingers warm even through the material of Jim’s shirt, as he tightens his grip just the tiniest amount. Jim is pretty sure his heart actually comes to a stuttering halt behind his ribcage.
“Spock,” he manages to whisper, terrified of getting something wrong here, “Is this – are you –”
When Spock nods against his shoulder and doesn’t pull away, somehow shifting his body even closer, Jim hears himself make a rather unmanly noise as he gathers up every iota of courage he has and turns his head ever so slightly, letting his lips hover against the skin of Spock’s neck, barely touching, but enough for them to be there if Spock wants them to be there –
Spock nods again, the movement gentle against Jim’s shoulder, and something inside Jim finally seems to break.
He presses his lips down, gently, and inhales sharply as he drags his mouth across Spock’s neck, loving the way Spock jerks towards him and tightens his grip around Jim, his fingers curling into the sensitive skin of Jim’s back. Struggling to breathe over the suffocating pace of his own heart, Jim closes his eyes and kisses his way across Spock’s cheek, then somehow finds the courage he needs to slide their lips together, his entire body lighting up when Spock kisses him back without hesitation, pressing forwards against Jim as though he wants to meld them into one person.
It’s over almost as quickly as it began, a few seconds of absolute bliss before Jim pulls back with a reluctant groan, his eyes searching out Spock’s for some kind of explanation. It turns out that he doesn’t actually need to say anything, because from the way Spock is staring at him, his dark eyes blown wide with disbelief but the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips, Jim can’t stop his own grin from nearly splitting his face in half.
“You’re kidding. All this time I’ve been trying to keep my hands to myself –”
“I would have said something, but I was unsure if you returned my regard.”
And damn if Spock’s voice doesn’t sound just the tiniest bit shaky. It’s enough to make Jim kiss him again, a kiss that he feels clear down to his toes, and when he pulls away again there’s a wonderful green tint to Spock’s skin, and Jim is pretty sure he’s never seen his first officer look this happy before. On a whim, he glances over at the clock, and isn’t surprised to see they’ve long since passed over the midnight mark.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Spock.”
He can hear the bone-deep contentment in his own voice, knows that his eyes are probably shining with a bunch of emotions he’s got no chance of hiding, and although Spock doesn’t say anything in response, his lips curve upwards again as he gently pulls Jim back against his body, and this time Jim doesn’t have to worry about how long he can hold on before he has to let go.
- - -
Christmas morning finds Jim happier than he’s been in years.
He wakes up with Spock’s long body curled around him, the Vulcan’s arms snuggly wrapped around his waist, and his face pressed into the back of Jim’s neck. Not bothering to stop the stupid grin that sneaks across his face, Jim wiggles a bit until he can turn to look at Spock, whose eyes are beginning to blearily blink open, an adorable expression that Jim would give just about anything to see on a regular basis.
“Hey.”
He can hear the sleepy cobwebs in his own voice, and Spock’s eyes soften slightly in response. They’re still in the same clothes as last night – as exhausted as Jim had been, they had simply curled up and gone to sleep, bringing in Christmas with a kiss followed by some much needed rest – and Jim slowly drags his finger across the blue material of Spock’s shirt, watching the tip of it trail across Spock’s chest.
“Good morning, Jim.”
And oh god, if that’s how Spock always sounds in the morning – his voice deeper than normal, with a hint of sleep still clinging to the words – then Jim is in so much trouble, because he can feel that rumble clear through every inch of his body.
“Morning.”
As a slow wave of heat crawls across his skin, Jim grins out the word and stretches a bit, just to enjoy the feeling of Spock’s arms still wrapped around him. Then, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Spock’s mouth – and loving the way Spock tries to follow when Jim pulls back – he squirms backwards enough to see around Spock to the Christmas tree.
“Any of those for me?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Spock slides from Jim’s arms and gently pulls Jim up onto his knees, wrapping the bed’s warm comforter around him, and just about melting Jim’s heart as he presses a more forceful kiss to his mouth. Then, Spock slowly pulls back and crosses the room to gather up the handful of presents, and Jim settles back down into the bed – still wrapped in the comforter – as Spock gently deposits the presents on the bed.
“I believe you will find that several of these have your name written on them.”
Jim has a moment of desperately hoping that all of this isn’t just some wonderful dream, brought on by starvation and sleep deprivation and pain, but when Spock reaches out to gently squeeze his uninjured hand, it feels real like little ever has, and Jim distantly realizes that if his heart gets any happier it’s probably going to beat out of his chest.
That’s when he sees Spock’s name written on one of the presents, and Jim settles back into a seated position with a shaky exhale, watching as Spock sits down across the pile from him, staring at him with that adorable tint of green back on his cheeks.
“You got me a gift?”
“It is the Christmas tradition, is it not?”
“Yeah, but –”
“Relax, Jim. It will not, as you humans say, bite.”
Jim can’t even muster up the energy to mock scowl in Spock’s direction, his body too busy dealing with the waves of contentment that are flowing across it. Instead, he braces the present with his knees, tears off the wrapping paper with his good hand, and then bites down against his lip when a copy of The Essential Calvin and Hobbes slides out onto his lap.
“I once heard you mention to the doctor that you would appreciate a copy of this book.”
“But – they haven’t been in production for over a century, how did you –”
“You may have noticed that I can be quite dedicated when I decide to do something.”
“But –”
And then Jim stops trying to talk, overwhelmed by the whole thing, and hating himself for getting this worked up over a damn book – but the fact that Spock had even known how much he wanted this book, and must have gone through hell trying to find it for him –
“Jim?”
“I don’t have anything for you.”
His voice sounds a little smaller than he meant it to, and Spock simply shakes his head and moves forward on the bed, nudging the Christmas presents to the side and taking Jim’s good hand in his own as they sit with their knees touching.
“You spent the last seventeen days imprisoned in an underground cell. I hardly expect you to have acquired a present for me during that period.”
“Yeah, but –”
“Jim, the fact that you are here alive is all the present I need.”
And that’s when Jim just gives up on arguing, because he seems to be having a bit of trouble breathing properly – and when Spock leans in to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth, gently sliding their fingers together on the sheets beneath them, Jim closes his eyes and simply enjoys the feeling of Spock’s body pressed against his own, wondering what he ever did to get this lucky, and silently vowing to spend every single future Christmas exactly like this.