Chapter Text
The alleyway reeked of stale beer and rotting garbage, a sour stench that clung to the damp brick walls and seeped into Jim’s cadet uniform, the red fabric wrinkled and damp from the puddle he’d collapsed into.
His knees ached from squatting on the uneven pavement, the coarse concrete biting through his trousers as he crouched in front of the rusted dumpster. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, carving tracks through the grime on his cheeks, smudging the Starfleet insignia on his chest.
His chest heaved with ragged sobs, each one tearing out of him. Jim Kirk, the golden boy, was reduced to a shivering mess in a San Francisco back alley, clutching a vodka bottle like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
He and Gary had been together for two years—two years of stolen kisses in the Academy’s library, late-night study sessions that turned into lazy mornings, and promises whispered in the dark. Jim had loved Gary with every fiber of his being, had poured his heart into the relationship, believing it was mutual.
He’d even thought, in those quiet moments when his guard was down, that he could share the deepest parts of himself—the scars that ran deeper than skin, the nightmares of Tarsus IV. He’d been so close to telling Gary to bear that raw, haunted piece of his soul, believing their love could hold it.
How stupid he’d been. It always ended the same way.
Gary’s eyes had lingered too long on Jim’s face, his hands had been too eager to explore his body, and their time together had shifted from coffee shop dates and holo-vid nights to hurried, desperate moments between the sheets.
When he had finally mustered the courage to confront him, Gary’s confusion had cut deeper than any knife. “Come on, Jim, we both know what this is. You’re hot, babe. But that’s about it.”
His words had been a slap, sharp and dismissive, but Gary’s tone had grown crueler as their argument escalated, his surprise morphing into disdain. “What did you expect? You’re a pretty face, and you like sex, don’t you? Don’t act like things were more than that.”
Jim had ended it then, walking away from Gary’s cruelty, but the rejection still felt like he’d been the one thrown out, left to rot in the dark.
Now, here he was, drunk and broken, with a bottle dangling from his trembling fingers, his jacket hanging open, its zipper glinting faintly in the dim alley light. He tipped the bottle back one last time, lips searching for a drop that wasn’t there.
Nothing.
“Damn,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and liquor.
With a surge of anger, he hurled the bottle overhead, hearing it clatter against the dumpster’s metal interior, a hollow sound that echoed his emptiness. The tears came harder now, a fresh wave of grief as he thought of himself like that, a dumpster—used, discarded, dumped.
His sobs were so loud, so all-consuming, that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, the crunch of shoes on the gritty pavement. Maybe it was the vodka dulling his senses, or maybe it was the way his cries drowned out the world, but the voice that broke through startled him like a phaser blast.
“Cadet.”
Jim jolted, nearly toppling over as he scrambled to steady himself, one hand grabbing the edge of the dumpster, the cold metal biting into his palm. His heart pounded as he looked up, squinting against the harsh glare of the streetlight behind the figure’s head, which cast their face into shadow.
The silhouette was tall, lean, and unmistakably composed, the kind of posture that screamed discipline. An arm extended toward him, and Jim flinched, bracing for a blow, his eyes squeezing shut as memories of bar fights and unwanted rough hands flooded his mind.
“Cadet,” the voice repeated, firm, cutting through his panic.
There was a rustle of fabric, and Jim cracked one eye open, expecting the worst. Instead, he saw a neatly folded handkerchief dangling from the stranger’s hand, its crisp linen stark against the grimy alley.
He let out a wet, incredulous laugh, half a snort, as he reached for it, his fingers brushing the soft fabric.
“Who still walks around with these?” he said, his voice slurring slightly as he took the cloth, its clean scent a sharp contrast to the alley’s stench.
“I am relieved your mood has improved, Cadet,” the voice said, dry and precise, with a faint undertone of something that might’ve been amusement.
Cadet?
A civilian wouldn’t have addressed him with that title.
Jim’s eyes flicked downward, catching the gleam of polished black shoes and the sharp creases of a black pantsuit, pristine despite the late hour.
Shit. An instructor from the Academy.
Of course, just his luck.
Drinking in public was illegal, and he reeked, his breath sharp enough to cut through the fog rolling in from the bay. His cadet uniform was a mess—damp, disheveled, and probably screaming “disciplinary action” to anyone with a rank. He was crouched in a filthy alley, drunk off his ass, and now he was about to get hauled in front of a board.
He scrubbed the handkerchief over his face, trying to wipe away the evidence of his breakdown. He struggled to straighten up, his legs wobbling under him, the alcohol making his knees feel like jelly.
“No, Professor,” he said quickly, voice hoarse, when the figure asked if he was injured. “I’m fine.”
“Can you stand?” the instructor asked.
“I… need some help,” Jim admitted, hating how small he sounded, his hands fumbling with the hem of his jacket.
A hum of acknowledgment, and then an arm appeared in front of him, the sleeve of the black suit jacket pulling back to reveal a pale wrist, offered for support. Jim, drunk and uncoordinated, flailed for the hand instead, his fingers clumsily grasping the instructor’s.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed like the professor's grip faltered, a subtle twitch as their skin made contact, as if the touch had caught him off guard. But then the instructor tightened his hold, hauling Jim to his feet with a strength that surprised him.
Jim’s heart raced, a sudden jolt he chalked up to the cheap vodka coursing through his veins, though something about the steadiness of that grip lingered in his mind.
He swayed on his feet, the world tilting like a shuttle in a nosedive, but he was standing, barely, his boots scuffing the pavement.
Now on his feet, he squinted through the haze of tears and alcohol, trying to make out the instructor’s face. The streetlight still obscured most of it, but the sharp jawline and pointed ears were unmistakable.
Vulcan.
Jim had heard of the Vulcan professor at the Academy, surrounded by rumors of his brilliance and tough grading, but he didn’t know his name—never needed to, since he’d never have to take any of his classes.
And he had ignored the gossip, too busy dodging his own reputation as George Kirk’s son, the reckless playboy with a chip on his shoulder.
But one rumor was certainly true: The Vulcan professor was hot.
All sharp angles and cool intensity, his dark eyes glinting even in the dim alley light, framed by the severe lines of his doofy haircut.
“Your name, Cadet?” the Vulcan asked, his voice level but carrying an edge of expectation.
Jim bit back a groan. He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to be known.
“Cadet Kirk, James Kirk,” he said, the words gritted out through clenched teeth.
He saw it, even through the Vulcan’s carefully schooled features—the flicker of recognition.
Of course. Everyone knew George Kirk’s son. Times like this, his father’s legacy felt like a chain around his neck.
“Cadet Kirk, I will escort you home,” the Vulcan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“I can make it home myself, Professor,” Jim protested, gesturing vaguely toward his apartment building, the motion making his jacket flap open. “It’s only ten minutes—”
“Then it will be a short walk,” the Vulcan countered smoothly. “As an instructor at Starfleet, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of all students.”
Jim wasn’t going to win this one. He sighed, offering a weak, lopsided smile, and started trudging out of the alley, the instructor’s steady presence at his side.
The night air was cool, sharp against his tear-streaked face, the fog curling around the streetlights like ghostly fingers. The silence between them was a small mercy. The Vulcan wasn’t much for small talk, and Jim was grateful for it.
He fumbled with his communicator, the screen blurring as he typed out a sloppy message to Bones: Meet me in courtyard. Plz 🙏🏻
The string of red question marks that pinged back told him Bones was already en route, no doubt grumbling the entire way.
They walked on, the city’s hum a distant backdrop to the sound of their footsteps—Jim’s uneven and scuffing, his boots dragging slightly, the instructor’s precise and measured, like a metronome.
When the Vulcan spoke again, his voice was careful, deliberate. “Are you sure you are uninjured, Cadet Kirk? The medical clinic is up ahead, and we can stop if you require—”
“I’m not injured, Professor,” Jim cut in, his voice softer now, the weight of the night settling back into his chest.
Just heartbroken
“My roommate’s a doctor. If anything’s wrong, he’ll look me over.” He added, and the Vulcan seemed to accept this, and they fell back into silence.
The walk felt endless, each step stretching time into a sluggish crawl, the fog making the streetlights halo like distant stars. When they finally reached the edge of his apartment courtyard, the professor broke the silence once more.
“Are you well, Cadet?” He asked again and Jim would have given him the World’s Best Mother Hen award if it hadn’t already been awarded to Bones.
“I’m fine, my roommate’s—”
“You have already mentioned your roommate’s profession. I refer to your emotional state.”
Jim blinked, caught off guard by the concern in the instructor’s tone, so unexpected that he felt it from a Vulcan. He opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond to this strange, awkward empathy.
“Cadet,” the Vulcan continued, his dark eyes steady, piercing through the fog, “while I understand I may not appear the most approachable, I am aware that a high percentage of cadets exhibiting signs of emotional distress are often affected by the termination of romantic relationships. Is this what has occurred?”
Jim’s throat tightened, and he felt a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. The Vulcan’s halting sincerity hit harder than Jim expected. He sniffled, wiping at his face with the borrowed handkerchief, the fabric now damp and crumpled.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice breaking, as tears started flowing from his eyes. “I really loved Gary. But he… he was just like everyone else.” He slurred, “Only wanted me for—” He choked on the words, the hurt too raw to articulate. “I’m not just some stupid slut!” he burst out, sobs wracking his frame again, his cadet jacket sagging off one shoulder. “I’m not some fucktoy! I just… I’m done with love, I quit. Every time I try, it’s the same damn thing.”
“Jim!”
Bones’ voice cut through, thankfully stopping him from saying something further embarrassing.
“My roommate, Professor. Leonard McCoy.” Jim said between sniffles, as he wiped at his face.
He couldn’t even look the Vulcan in the face after that outburst. He was sure he had given him more than enough uncontrolled emotion to last his lifetime.
He caught sight of Bones emerging from the courtyard’s shadows, dressed in faded plaid pajama pants and a worn grey t-shirt, his hair mussed from sleep. And the worry etched into Bones’ face made Jim’s chest ache with a different kind of pain.
“I can take him from here, Professor,” Bones said, his voice gruff but softened with concern. “Thank you for making sure he was safe. I’ll make sure he gets to bed.”
Jim watched as the Vulcan gave Bones a once over then a curt nod, his posture as precise as ever, before turning his attention back to Jim.
“Goodnight, Cadet Kirk,” the instructor said, his dark eyes flashing a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.
“G-goodnight, Professor,” Jim managed, his voice cracking as the Vulcan turned, his suit blending into the night as he walked away, his steps measured and silent.
Bones stepped closer, his expression softening further as he placed a gentle, steadying hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Jim, what happened?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
Jim’s face crumpled, fresh tears spilling over as he choked out, “Gary,” the name barely intelligible through his sobs.
“That fucker, I’m gonna kill him,” Bones grumbled as he wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders, hauling him toward their building.
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The door to their apartment hissed open, swallowing them into the familiar, if slightly cluttered, warmth of their living space. Bones didn't waste a second. He steered Jim towards their couch, its cushions molding to Jim’s trembling frame.
“Sit down,” he muttered, more out of concern than anger, already bustling toward their small kitchen. The clatter of ice in a glass, the splash of water. “Here,” Bones said, thrusting a tumbler of cold water into Jim’s shaking hand. “Drink this. All of it.”
Jim took a shaky gulp, the icy liquid a jolt to his system, chasing away some of the vodka’s fuzzy edges.
He swallowed, the lump in his throat still massive. Bones, meanwhile, was already peeling off Jim’s reeking, damp uniform jacket.
“Good Lord, Jim, you smell like a distillery and a dumpster had a baby,” he grumbled, but his movements were gentle, his fingers deft as he unzipped his cadet top. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes before you catch a case of the interstellar plague.”
Jim leaned into the touch, too exhausted to hide his need for it. He felt Bones guiding him up, helping him shed the rest of the uniform. He stumbled into the bathroom, Bones right behind him, pushing a towel into his hands. “Wash the grime from ya’.”
Hot water pours over Jim’s shoulders, steam swirling in heavy clouds around him as he steps into the shower at Bones’ urging. The heat seeps into his tense muscles, easing their knots, but it can’t touch the dull ache lodged in his chest. He presses his forehead against the cool tile, eyes shut, the water hammering his back.
His mind drifts to Gary—those cutting words, the cold glint in his eyes, dismissing Jim like he was nothing but a passing whim. Tears prick, hot and sharp, blending with the water streaming down his face.
Then his thoughts shift to the Vulcan professor, and a fresh wave of sobs rises, this time laced with shame and embarrassment. The memory of his drunken outburst—slurred, drunk-fueled words spilling out in a haze of pain—twists his gut.
He just hopes he hasn’t been written up. Disappointing Pike would sting worse than the rest.
After the shower, Jim towels off, slips into Starfleet-issued skivvies, and collapses onto his bed. Bones is already there, sprawled out, waiting.
“I should just go back to letting guys fuck me,” Jim mutters, the words bitter, heavy with self-loathing.
It always left him feeling like shit - a scraped-out shell, but at least it was honest. No promises, no illusions of love—just bodies, transactions, and the familiar ache that followed.
At least he knew his place.
“Oh, Jim,” Bones says, his voice soft, cutting through the haze. His hands move to Jim’s damp hair, smoothing it gently, a steady anchor. Jim’s sobs break loose again, louder, his shoulders trembling as he leans into the touch.
“Sleep, darlin’,” Bones murmurs. “I’ll make you hotcakes in the morning. Might even toss in some bacon if you’re good.”
Jim lets out a choked, bitter laugh. “You sure you don’t like guys, even just a little?”
It’s half a joke, but there’s a raw edge to it, a desperate reach for something solid. He’d asked Bones this before, half-drunk and half-hoping, already knowing the answer. Of course, the one person who treats him like he’s worth something, who sees beyond the conquests and mistakes, is straight as they come.
Typical.
Bones chuckles, a low, gravelly sound. “Trust me, Jim, my ex-wife could fill a book with how I’m no walk in the park. And you’re just talkin’ ’cause your heart’s in pieces. Besides, I’m too damn old for you—practically got one foot in the grave.”
Jim manages a real laugh this time, brief but genuine, before it fades into the familiar ache. “Why does this keep happening, Bones? I loved Gary. And I thought he loved me back.”
He's left wondering why his relationships always end with him heartbroken and feeling like nothing more than a pretty face. He tries so hard, yet the outcome is always the same.
“I just… I tried , Bones. I really did. And he just… he just wanted a warm body. Like everyone else.” His voice cracked on the last words, another fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm him. “Why am I so stupid? Why do I keep falling for it?”
“You’re not stupid, Jim,” he said, a balm to Jim’s nerves. “You’re just… you’re a goddamn fool for letting that worthless piece of space trash get to you. And that’s his problem, not yours.
A choked laugh escaped him. Bones hated Gary, and he never hesitated to make that known. Even though Jim knew Bones cared about him and hated seeing him curled up in such a pathetic state, he also knew Bones was probably preening over Gary finally being gone.
“You wanted something real. There ain’t nothing stupid about that. And if he was too much of a jackass to appreciate it, then he ain’t worth a single one of these tears, you hear me?”
He’s back to crying, his eyes are starting to hurt, and he just hopes they’re not blown red shot by the time the weekend’s over.
“I know, Jim. It hurts like hell. But listen—you’re worth more than these guys who keep tearing you up. Someone’s out there who’ll see you, really see you, and give you everything you deserve and more.”
Jim’s laugh is hollow, his fingers digging into his pillow. “I don’t know, Bones. I don’t think that person’s out there. Not for someone like me.”
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Monday morning finds Jim in the mess hall, the weekend a haze of fitful sleep and too many cups of coffee. Despite campus rumors painting him as a charismatic socialite with a long list of friends, the truth is far quieter. Without Bones, Jim often sits alone during these gaps between classes, isolated in the crowd.
He’s toying with a tomato in his salad, nudging it aimlessly with his fork, when measured footsteps approach—deliberate, unhurried. Glossy black shoes catch the light. His gaze lifts, meeting the deep, unyielding eyes of the Vulcan instructor.
Jim swallows, his throat turning dry. A strange heat prickles under his skin, unbidden and unfamiliar, and he chalks it up to embarrassment from their last encounter.
He’d hoped to steer clear of him. Starfleet’s sprawling campus seemed vast enough to avoid him, especially since he was certain their paths had never crossed before. And no disciplinary summons had appeared in his student inbox, so he figured the professor had not reported his drunken antics from the other night.
“Professor,” Jim greets, forcing his voice to stay steady despite the odd flutter in his chest.
“You are feeling improved, I trust?” He asks, his tone calm but probing, his dark eyes holding Jim’s with an intensity that makes his pulse jump.
Jim forces a laid-back shrug, though his gut churns at the memory of his intoxicated outburst. “Yeah, a good night’s rest works miracles,” he says, shoving the tomato aside and clearing his throat. “Thanks for getting me home. Sorry if I said anything… out of line. It’s all a bit blurry.”
He leans hard into the persona of a careless, charming drunk, the reckless blond who can’t handle his drinks. It’s simpler than owning up to how much he’d revealed, his heart split open in a moment of weakness.
But the way the Vulcan's gaze lingers sends a shiver through him he can’t quite place.
“It is irrelevant,” He replies, his voice even, almost gentle, yet it carries a weight that seems to press against Jim’s skin.
The professor stands just beyond the table’s edge, his posture stiff yet radiating a presence that pulls at the space between them. Jim notices it then—the intensity of the Vulcan's gaze, unwavering and piercing, as if seeing straight through his facade.
A flush creeps up his neck, and he dismisses it as a Vulcan trait, though the instinct to stand, to meet that stare head-on, tugs at him. He stays put, fingers tightening around his fork.
“I sought to confirm your well-being,” The professor adds, stepping closer.
Jim’s eyes catch the sharp creases of his instructor's uniform, the way his hands are clasped behind his back, and suddenly Jim recalls the firm strength of the professor's grip from that night, stirring a warmth low in his stomach he refuses to name.
The air hums with an electric undercurrent, and Jim can’t tell if it’s his own nerves or something in that piercing gaze.
He nods, throat tight. “Appreciate it. I’m doing fine now.”
He expects the exchange to end there, his eyes drifting back to the tomato, now mashed under his fork. But then—
“Have you abandoned the pursuit of love?”
The question lands like a shock, and Jim’s head jerks up, meeting those dark eyes again. His mind flashes to his drunken confessions about Gary, about his heartbreak, and a flush of heat surges through him—part embarrassment, part something else he pushes away.
Why would he ask him that? For a moment, he thinks it’s a joke—a bad one—but the instructor's gaze doesn’t falter, steady and searching.
A dry chuckle escaped Jim, his plan to play dumb forgotten as he answered honestly. "I think it's best I focus on my studies." He genuinely meant it.
He'd pile on coursework, pick up extra shifts at the library, volunteer at the clinic—anything to drown out the ache in his chest. Maybe if he kept moving, he could outrun the emptiness Gary left behind.
He was done with dating, too. After a long talk with Bones, he'd just stick to his right hand for now; it came with less trouble and heartache.
The professor remains still, his gaze holding Jim in place, and Jim’s skin prickles under it, his heart beating just a fraction too fast.
“You authored a thesis on mitigating food disparity through regenerative agricultural technology,” He says, his precise tone slicing through the tension, unexpected and sharp.
Jim blinks, thrown off. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve written a lot of papers,” he says, not bragging, just scrambling to keep up with the shift in conversation.
“It addressed regions facing abrupt climate shifts, exploring adaptive food cultivation in changing atmospheres.”
Jim nods, the memory clicking into place. “Right, that one. Put it together for an environmental systems seminar last term. I’ve been into food scarcity and cultivation tech for a while.”
He doesn’t mention Tarsus IV, though its shadow looms behind every line of that thesis. The memories of hunger, of crops failing as hope faded—they’re what fueled his drive for sustainable solutions. But those scars are his alone, buried deep where no one, not even Gary, could reach.
The professor tilts his head, a faint motion, but his gaze—steady, penetrating—makes Jim’s face flush hotter.
“You are a prolific writer. Your analysis of molecular nutrient recycling paired with automated cultivation was thorough and persuasive, reflecting a keen grasp of both technological and societal dimensions of food disparity.”
Jim registers the praise, but the professor’s intense stare makes it hard to think straight. He ducks his head, mumbling, “Thanks. It was a bit of a personal project.”
“I encountered your paper while reviewing materials for a project I am supporting,” He continues, his voice steady yet hinting at something unsaid, his eyes never leaving Jim’s. “It involves scalable regenerative technologies to combat food insecurity in off-world colonies. Your insights could prove valuable. Would you consider contributing to the research?”
Jim’s breath hitches—a chance to immerse himself in data and purpose, a distraction from his pain. But there’s something else, too, in the way the professor's voice lingers on “valuable,” in the way his presence seems to fill the space between them, making Jim’s skin hum with an awareness he can’t quite shake.
The bell chimes, and the mess hall bursts into motion as students scramble with trays and bags. Jim lingers a moment, caught in the Vulcan's presence, then pushes himself to stand, grabbing his tray.
“I’ve got class now,” he says, meeting those eyes again, his voice steadier than he feels. “But we can talk about your project after it finishes.”
He places his tray back down, realizing he hadn’t grabbed his bag yet. His cheeks burn—why is he so rattled? Picking his tray up again, he feels the Vulcan's gaze follow every clumsy movement, and that strange warmth flares in his chest again.
“My office location is listed on the student portal,” He replies, his gaze unflinching. “I will be available.”
Jim hesitates, then blurts out, “What’s your name, Professor?”
The Vulcan’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes hold steady.
“I mean, I won’t be able to find you in the portal... if I don’t know your name,” Jim stutters, his voice betraying the jittery energy he can’t explain. It’s not the usual nerves he gets around instructors, so why is his pulse racing?
Those dark eyes stay locked on him, and though only seconds pass, under that stare, it feels like hours.
“Spock,” the Vulcan finally says, his voice low, almost resonant.
“Spock,” Jim repeats, testing the name on his tongue. For a moment, he could swear Spock’s eyes darken, their focus sharpening on his lips, and a jolt runs through him—electric, confusing. He brushes it off—probably reading too much into things.
“Catch you later, Professor.” Jim offers a quick, hesitant smile and heads for the trash can, tray in hand. A prickle at his back makes him glance over his shoulder.
Spock stands there, still watching, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp, as if mapping every detail of him.
Jim’s pulse skips again, but he shakes it off—probably just a Vulcan thing—and steps into the bustling hallway, the strange heat lingering in his chest.