Work Text:
It took some time, after everything was settled, for Enterprise to be deemed ready for duty. There were funerals, memorials, rituals—and then there were celebrations, commendations, promotions. Spock bore them all as best he could, declined to speak to cadets, crowds, or journalists on the subject of his planets' destruction, and waited with gritted teeth to be allowed his escape.
When the day finally arrived, he was ready. First Officer and Science Officer of the Enterprise—all he had ever wanted or aspired to be. It was different, yes, to how he had imagined it, but so much of the universe was different now. Pike was an admiral, so Spock would serve a different captain. The fleet had been devastated, so Spock would serve with fresh graduates.
Vulcans were an endangered species.
Spock would choose carefully when and where and how to risk his life.
Spock had known, intellectually, that he would be the most experienced member of the Enterprise crew. It was the selling point, the slogan they were plastering over recruitment posters: a new crew for a new age. The youngest captain, the youngest crew, in the 'fleet's history.
What he had not known, had not realised, was that he would find himself as a dispenser of advice.
Even as a lecturer, there had been very few cadets who purposely sought out his experience. He was—as he'd been told—abrasive, irritating, and intimidating. Intelligent, yes. But not welcoming.
His personality had not changed in the slightest since he came aboard the Enterprise. And yet, he suddenly found himself more approachable.
It started with the Science Departments. It made sense; they were his responsibility. He had told them on the first day aboard that he would assist with anything they required, and he was gratified that they had taken him at his word. He assisted all of them—ensigns, lieutenants, hobbyists—with anything they required. Paperwork was the most common issue, since it differed slightly from the forms at the Academy, but they came with other problems, too. Sometimes experiments that weren't working as expected, sometimes equipment that was temperamental. It did not matter. He did what he could without complaint. That was his duty.
He was surprised when other departments sought him out, but it was still his duty, and he did what he could. It was no real hardship to reassure Ensign Chekov that, yes, his measurements were accurate, and no, he would not cause the ship to run into a galactic anomaly. Equally, it was almost pleasant to speak with Commander Scott on the matter of the engines; his equations were fascinating and terrifying in turn, and his fervour was enough to burn any awkwardness to ash.
Somehow, without quite anticipating, Spock became… necessary. No, not that—the First Officer had always been necessary. Wanted. Despite everything, everything about him, they chose to come to Spock. Continued choosing to.
His personality had not changed. Enterprise simply learned to like it.
It was late when his door chimed. Spock didn't startle, but he looked up a tad sharply.
"Spock. It's me. Let me in."
He didn't announce himself, but Spock would know the captain's voice from anywhere. "Enter."
Kirk entered. He stood at the entryway with his arms stiff at his side, staring around at Spock's room. There was little to see. After T'Khasi…
Spock had sent most of his personal belongings to his home on Earth. They were artefacts now, relics of an at-risk culture. It was too risky to keep them aboard a Starship.
"They said you were the one to go to for advice," he said.
"They?"
Some of the awkwardness dissolved into a laugh. "Everyone. Everyone says you're the one to go to."
After a beat, Spock nodded, allowing the vagueness. Kirk didn't want to be specific—perhaps it had been McCoy who recommended Spock. That would explain the secrecy.
"You have a problem?"
With a great sigh, Kirk presented him with a PADD. Spock looked it over. "It is a form."
Kirk rolled his eyes. "No shit."
Spock raised his eyebrow and he relented.
"It was sent to me for approval," he said. "We hadn't…"
He quickly grasped the issue. "You had not covered it before deployment." A common issue on this ship, one the Academy should have anticipated. "I will assist. Sit."
Kirk sat. He didn't thank Spock, but he smiled, small and real for once, and that was close enough.
***
"Nibiru," said Jim, thrilled. "Nibiru."
Spock cast his eyes over the briefing again. "M-Class. Pre-industrial. The Prime Directive will be in effect."
"I don't care!" Jim said, only to sigh and relent at Spock's look. "Alright, I know, I do. It's just—a real mission. Finally."
It wasn't something Spock would ever have expected, but he could sympathise with Jim's elation. The first months of Enterprise's mission had been characterised by low-stakes missions. Meetings to long-established allies. Drop-offs for important ambassadors—not including Sarek, and Spock thanked Shariel for small mercies. Star mapping, visits to know anomalies. In short, 'fleet command had, as Spock had heard his ensigns grumble, the "training wheels" on them.
Nibiru, however, was entirely different. A planet surveyed only from a distance. They would be the first members of the Federation to come within orbit.
Spock smiled, slightly, and Jim pointed dramatically at it.
"Yes! I knew you'd be excited!"
"I am Vulcan," said Spock.
"And I am Human," said Jim, mimicking him. Then he gave up teasing for the sake of joy. "Any advice?"
Ah.
Spock froze. Very few people would have noticed it—he was still by nature—but he suspected Jim might be one of the few.
"Spock?"
Confirmation: he was.
The thing was, Spock liked giving Jim advice. He truly did. It was the wobbly foundation which had allowed awkward conversations to begin, which had allowed chess matches to begin, which had allowed comfortable conversations to begin, which had allowed a friendship formed. But a simple fact remained.
"If you wish for 'fleet command to take you seriously as a captain, you cannot be seen to be reliant on me."
Jim looked stricken. Spock rushed to soften the blow.
"I am your first officer. I will ensure you have the information you require to make a decision. I will offer counsel. But you are the youngest captain. They will be watching."
A slow, reluctant nod. "I get it."
"I am your friend," Spock assured him. "But you are my captain. You must show them that.
"Meaning…?"
Spock considered it. "Order me to assist you. Practice."
Jim considered it. Then he smiled. "Alright. Practice."
The first was on the Bridge: "Science Officer, report."
Spock replied immediately, "Yes, Captain."
The second was on the Bridge, too: "Mr Spock, opinion."
Immediate: "Yes, sir."
It felt entirely natural, like slipping into a role predestined. Perhaps it was—the Other had been his Jim's first officer, too, after all.
Jim quickly seemed to get used to it himself. Within a few days, the orders were natural, almost casual.
That was when the problem started.
"Mr Spock," said Jim as he walked into the lab. "A report, if you please."
It took Spock a moment to reply. He could not, for the life of him, explain why. Something about the way he'd spoken—expectant, knowing wholeheartedly that he would receive the obedience he demanded—made Spock… warm. Warm in the pit of his stomach.
"Captain," he said, after the too-long pause. Hopefully they would presume he had been engrossed in his experiment. His throat was dry and he swallowed. "It is Lieutenant C'Tira's experiment—I am assisting."
Lieutenant C'Tira shot him a betrayed look (she did not appreciate pausing her work to answer layman's questions) but stepped forward to explain. The barest flicker of a frown passed over Jim's face, but Spock paid it no mind. He could not afford to pay it any mind.
Far more crucial was understanding why he felt so warm.
It continued to happen. Jim ordered him to comment on an obscure weather pattern and Spock felt the back of his neck flush green. He demanded an opinion on McCoy's assertion that he was overdue for a hypo and Spock's knees felt weak.
It wasn't until his lok twitched when Jim ordered him to brief the crew on what they knew about Nibiru that he understood what was going on.
He reminded himself—forcefully—that he was part of an endangered species. He could not make use of the airlock.
Self-preservation had him secluding himself in the labs, on inspections of the ship, wherever Jim was least likely to be. It was all technically within his purview, all technically part of his job, all technically unnecessary at this juncture. Jim would have been entirely within his rights to order him to the Bridge—Spock wasn't sure if he was thankful or devastated that he didn't.
***
Jim lasted four days. Spock definitely startled at the sound of the door.
"Spock. Let me in."
He sounded—defeated. Spock hated it.
"Enter."
He came in raring for a fight.
"What the Hell is with you?"
Spock blinked, affronted, though he could hardly argue. "I—"
"You're the one who said I needed to order you around, and now you're mad about it?" Jim was flushed red with anger. It made his blue eyes shine. "Why the fuck do you want to be first officer if you don't want to respect my authority?"
"I respect your authority," said Spock. His voice was nowhere near as firm as he would have wanted it to be.
"Then why are you avoiding me? Why are you hiding? I thought we were friends."
"Jim—"
Anger flashed. Spite. "I order you to tell me."
He felt the colour in his cheeks and squeezed his eyes shut. This close, with Jim this close, there was no chance of hiding it.
"Spock?" The fury was gone. Only confusion remained.
He opened his eyes. Jim deserved that at least.
"Forgive me," he said quietly. "It is—unprofessional." Undignified.
"What, that you're—" Jim shook his head, seemingly unable to believe it. "Spock, are you turned on?"
Damn him. He could not speak. He could not say it.
"Spock," Jim said slowly. He seemed to be savouring the feel of the name in his mouth. "I order you to tell me if you're turned on."
Fuck him.
"Yes," he said stiffly.
"By—the orders. By me giving you orders."
"Yes," he said again.
"You have a fucking… authority kink."
"I was unaware of this," said Spock, which was the truth.
Jim grinned. "Spock."
"Jim."
"Would you suck my dick if I asked you to?"
Spock maintained a dignified silence.
"What if I told you to?"
Spock swallowed. Jim looked thrilled.
"Spock," he said. "Suck my dick."
He could refuse. Spock knew he could refuse. Jim knew he could refuse. If he said the word, Jim would apologise profusely and never mention it again. If he hesitated too long, Jim would would apologise profusely and never mention it again.
Slowly, so they both knew he meant it, he walked forward and knelt in front of Jim.
"Fuck," gasped Jim.
"Captain," said Spock.
"Commander." He threaded his hand into Spock's hair. "Do you want this?"
Standard issue 'fleet trousers opened with a clasp. Spock made short work of Jim's as answer, and Jim let out a rough breath. Spock took a moment to inspect him, half-hard already, before he looked up to his face, awaiting instructions.
Jim realised what he was waiting for, and he seemed to like it.
"Fuck," he said again. His grip on Spock tightened. "Ok. Take it."
Spock took it. He flattened his tongue and took as much of Jim's lok as he could in one smooth movement, and then he stayed absolutely still.
"You fucker," said Jim. He sounded more fond than irritated. "Move."
Spock moved. He bobbed his head, slow to start, faster when Jim tugged his hair. He savoured—all of it. The feel, the taste. The way Jim stared down at him, eyes wide, breath coming faster.
"Stop—" he said suddenly. "Stop."
Spock did. He pulled off. "Jim?"
"I'm alright," he said. "Just—too much. Didn't want…"
Ah. He couldn't help a little smugness.
Jim pinched his ear, and he surprised them both by moaning.
"Ha," Jim said. Then: "Bed."
Spock could not resist. "Is that an order, Captain?"
"That's an order, Commander."