LAST CHAPTER! Wow. Technically, this isn't based on a song. Just a final story to wrap up the fic. But, for the sake of continuity, we'll say it comes from Team Gina's song "Mixtape," which is where the the title for the fic comes from.

And of course, we had to end with fluffy, schmoopy happiness. And crack.

"So let me get this straight. You're… Making Spock a mix tape."

Jim nods, blushing just slightly. "Yeah, pretty much."

Bones runs a hand through his hair, sighing in exasperation. "First of all, I'm not even going to ask how you got a CD, because it was probably illegal considering they stopped producing them centuries ago. And I really don't want to be held responsible when Starfleet court martials you." It's hyperbole, of course, and anyway it wasn't completely illegal…

"And second," Bones continues, "A mixtape, Jim? What is this, middle school?"

Jim tosses the nearest solid object he can find—a datapad, brilliant—at Bones's head. "Oh shut up."

"Witty," Bones says, looking through the track list. When he laughs, it's loud and derisive. Jim starts searching for something else to hit him with.

"Me and Bobby McGee?"

"Shut up, it's a classic."

Bones waves off his comment, continuing to scroll down the list. "Whatever," he murmurs. "It's your fucking mother is what it is."

And Jim's got nothing to say to that, really, because Winona has a deep and abiding love for Janis Joplin that is only matched by that she harbors for Joan Jett. She likes old music. A lot. It's probably Dad's fault, actually. And—Well, it isn't like Jim can say much about that. He doesn't push when it comes to Dad stuff.

"Yeah, well… He's going to fucking love it, okay?"

He sounds a bit like he's trying to convince himself.

Jim gives Spock the CD in the officer's mess the next day. Uhura's holding court with her girlfriends and her—well, her girlfriend—across the room, and Scotty's totally absorbed in a discussion about something with Chekov, so nobody's really paying attention. Except for Bones, but he's figured out that his presence is the equivalent to white noise when it comes to them being demonstrative in public. Which, to be fair, doesn't happen all that often. But still. It's the principle of the thing, is all.

And the thing—which is going to be important in a second—is this. They have this… This kind of system when it comes to what they call each other. They're strictly professional—even though sometimes the way Jim says Mr. Spock can be downright pornographic—but off-duty it basically follows a system. An easily-remembered rule necessary to know for anyone who wants to deal with them on a daily basis without going insane. One simple rule.

And that rule is this: if it's Standard, it's fine; if it's Vulcan, it's some heavy, heavy shit.

For example: "Sweetheart" isn't a big deal. Jim's always been an affectionate person; endearments are just another way of showing it. "Sweetheart" is something Jim calls Spock without even thinking about it—which has caused some very interesting (and hilarious) situations, but that's neither here nor there.

But Vulcan?

Bones doesn't hear t'hy'la very often. It's the only one he's got a vague idea what it means, which is fine by him. Besides, it isn't something they break out very often. But when they do? Well, one of them is probably dying. Again.

So, okay, there was a point. And it is this.

"Ashayam," Spock breathes, fingers tracing the sides of the disk. And Bones has no fucking idea what that means, but it's got Jim's face lighting up like a fuckin' Christmas tree, so it must be good.

And then they just look at each other for a good, solid two minutes, and it's kind of creepy. Like they're having a whole conversation that nobody else is in on. Like they're in their own little world.

Then, "Captain, a word?" Jim nods, eyes big like a fucking puppy, and gets up from the table. "If you would excuse us, Doctor."

Bones will never fucking understand them.

Yes, I've decided that all the songs used in this fic are on that CD. And yes, I am also a hopeless romantic. Shut up, it's the last chapter. I'm allowed to get sentimental.

P.S. To everyone who read/reviewed: I LOVE YOU.