Prompt: Kirk is pregnant with Spock's baby! Now Spock is making a nest! Could be in their room or someplace weird! Bonus points for moody Kirk or Spock talking to SpockPrime about nesting stuff!

Jim walked into his quarters already in a foul mood. His back ached bitterly, his feet were throbbing and his ankles so swollen he wasn't even sure he could pry his boots off, and he felt like a fucking whale. Okay, yes, he was pregnant and he was thrilled to be pregnant, really he was. Most days. Except now he was into his sixth month, he was definitely starting to show big time, and the aches and pains of pregnancy were plaguing him with a vengeance. He was still happy about the baby, he just didn't want to deal with the side effects of bearing it.

Of course, the mood swings meant he was taking it out on half the bridge crew, and thank God Uhura had thrown herself behind him one hundred percent or they'd probably be threatening mutiny right about now. But everyone was afraid of Uhura, and she could quell grumbles with one icy stare and pointed reminder, in the mother tongue of the disparager, that women had endured such things for millennia and perhaps it was good that they'd get a taste of it themselves.

He loved Uhura. He'd have to give her a commendation, because she was definitely going above and beyond, and even better, she took his side over Spock's because he was the pregnant one. It was great.

Jim frowned at his resoundingly empty quarters. Occasionally he got sick of Spock's hovering—or Spock removed himself from the line of fire—but usually he or his First scheduled their shifts to coincide so they could spend their off duty time together. He knew Spock was off, so where was his t'hy'la?

"Spock?" he called, rubbing absently at his back as he peered around the room. The very empty room, he realized abruptly, and not just because Spock wasn't here. The holos were up on the highest shelf, there was a pile of cloth in one corner, and his chess set had vanished entirely.

"I'm on a starship, there's no way I was robbed," he muttered to himself, wandering over for a closer look only to find that not only was the chess set gone, so was his small collection of antique books. Furthermore, the shelf which he hadn't cleaned since taking possession of his quarters was surprisingly clean. Completely clean, in fact, he discovered when he swiped a finger across it. Huh. Either Yeoman Rand was on a cleaning spree, or his robber had cleaned up behind himself.

Frowning, Jim decided to check on the cloth. He prodded it with a cautious toe before leaning awkwardly around his belly to snag a corner and drag it up. A blanket. Okay. He wasn't even sure he'd known there were blankets this particularly ugly shade of puke green scattered across his ship, because he was pretty sure he'd have banned them if he had. Then he realized his hands were itching and dropped the damn thing with a passionate oath.

"Jim?"

Spock had snuck up on him again and he jumped, twisting to glare at his husband. "Wool," he bit out, pointing an accusing finger at the fabric. Spock's brow arched.

"Indeed."

"I'm allergic to wool, Spock!"

His mate blinked, undoubtedly cataloging it away with the long, long list of things Jim was allergic to. "Fascinating," he offered, and Jim glared harder.

"No, it's not fascinating!" His lip wobbled as his mood shifted, and Spock actually took a step back in the face of rampant, hormone-driven mood swings . "I'm gross and I'm fat, and now I'm itchy!"

"…I shall summon Doctor McCoy," Spock decided, and fled into his own quarters through the connected bathroom.

Jim glared after him. "And you'd better bring back my books and my chess set, dammit!"

********

Jim waddled into his quarters and sank onto his bed with a groan. The baby was doing somersaults in his belly, and Spock was driving him insane. Personally his Vulcan had always reminded him of a big cat, especially given how much he loved heat, but right now the man was nesting, dammit. Everything got compulsively cleaned and then stored in its "logical place" regardless of whether or not Jim was actually finished with it. Their quarters had been scoured for anything that might possibly be detrimental to an infant.

And right now, Spock was taking the nesting bit literally. His first attempt, a pile of wool blankets, had been summarily banned by Bones, who hadn't been sure if he was amused or horrified from the look on his face. He'd taken the precaution of handing over a list of every textile Jim was allergic to before he'd left again that first time. Since then, Spock had thoroughly browsed every market they ran across on each new world for suitable fabrics and colors, run them by Jim, and kept the ones that didn't set him off. Even worse, he'd gotten Spock Prime in on it, and the older Vulcan kept suggesting materials practically guaranteed to make Jim itch in new and interesting ways.

The new nest was located in Spock's quarters, a safe distance from his pregnant mate and his tendency to break into hives at the drop of a hat. So far, Jim hadn't seen it all, just the fabric of the day that Spock ran by him before adding it or discarding it. He had to admit, he was pretty damn curious at this point, but he'd respect Spock's privacy enough not to go poking his nose in; his t'hy'la wanted it to be perfect before he let his mate anywhere near it, and Jim was willing to wait. Impatiently, but hell, Spock had put up with mood swings, Uhura ganging up on him, and the cravings. Even the one for everything and anything dipped in chocolate, or laced with cinnamon.

Jim let his head fall back, eyes drifting shut. He'd hit the stage where he was exhausted all the time, and this was no exception. The baby was quiet for once, and he'd just fallen into a doze when a throat cleared in front of him. Dazed eyes snapped open again and he blinked up at Spock.

"Whazzut?"

"My apologies," his husband said softly, eyes warm and mouth curved slightly. "There is something I wish you to see." He held out his hands and Jim latched on, resigned to the fact that he needed help hauling his ungainly ass out of everything. The third trimester sucked, and he didn't care what Bones said about it. He pitied the poor women who didn't have super-strong husbands to haul them up.

Spock led him into their bathroom, then ushered him ceremoniously into his quarters, heat turned down to their compromise level. He led his mate into the center of the room and then stepped aside, and Jim's eyes went wide and wondering.

It was, in theory, a nest. Spock had woven a giant hammock, and then piled the center with pillows and fabric to create a soft, welcoming bowl that looked sinfully inviting. But it was beautiful. It should've looked odd given the variety of materials Spock had chosen, but instead it was a glorious collage of colors, from swirling greens and dazzling blues to rusty reds and deep, soothing browns. Even the cloth that changed color to meet the owner's moods harmonized, falling into the cycles of its resting stage. And the uppermost portion made Jim's smile widen into a grin; Starfleet science blues, golds, and a smattering of red to round it all out. Spock had either raided the bridge crew's tunics or he'd wheedled them into donating spares, which explained where Jim's tops had vanished to, not that he could fit into any of them at this point.

"It's wonderful," he said quietly and meant it. It was beautiful, peaceful, and just big enough for the two of them. "Thank you, t'hy'la."

Apparently there were benefits to a nesting Vulcan after all.