Written for K/S Advent 2010 on Livejournal. Check it out - there's a lot of awesome stuff being posted!

Warnings: Drunkenness. Aaaangst. UST. In other words, a typical day in space.

While feeling flattered was most certainly an illogical state of mind, Spock didn't particularly care to suppress the emotion as the rec room burst into enthusiastic applause. He glanced toward a beaming Uhura in the chair beside his as she nodded gracefully at their audience. She leaned closer to speak into his ear over the shouts of 'encore.'

"Should we give the good people what they want?"

"I will defer to your judgment, lieutenant. Though I do have a suggestion." Spock shifted the lyre on his knees toward her, pressing it into her hands. She gaped at him, wide-eyed, and shook her head once.

"I couldn't."

"You have been doing extraordinarily well in practice. Perhaps it is time for a demonstration."

The crew had picked up on his intent by now, and started calling for Uhura to play. She both glared and grinned at Spock, murmured "I'll get you later" at a volume pitched just for his ears, and took the lyre onto her lap. Spock left her side to join Jim and Dr. McCoy at the table where the bridge crew was seated, the majority of them on their second or third drinks. Needless to say, their behavior had become progressively more intriguing as the party went on.

"Mr. Spock, I never dreamed you had it in you." Spock couldn't determine if Dr. McCoy was more amused or impressed.

"What Bones is trying to say," Jim shifted his chair a bit closer, "is that everyone thought you were remarkable." Spock was about to thank him for the complement, but was momentarily distracted by the unusual dilation of Jim's pupils, and the hand he had placed on Spock's knee.

"Yeah, you've been holding out on us." McCoy poked his arm, and Spock turned to acknowledge him, noting that Jim pulled away the moment the doctor spoke up. He now appeared absorbed in watching Uhura tune the lyre, and Spock almost missed McCoy's query while he pondered the abrupt shift in focus. "Since when have you been able to sing?"

"Since I was approximately two standard Terran years of age."

"Well, I'll have you know Good King Wenceslas is one of my favorites, and you really did it justice." McCoy clapped him on the shoulder in a manner much more reminiscent of Jim's typical gestures. Then again, Spock had noticed that imbibing even a fraction more alcohol than could be readily metabolized often caused unpredictable behavior in humans.

"Ye two did somethin' special with O Come Emmanuel, sir," Scotty chimed in from across the table. "That harmony gave me chills."

It was both pleasant and embarrassing to be the center of such positive attentions, and Spock was relieved when the opening notes of Uhura's song drew that attention elsewhere.

"Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me.

I've been an awful good girl."

Almost immediately after she began to sing, the crew whooped and whistled in a manner that indicated amorous excitement. Spock frowned, as this was not one of the songs they had rehearsed. Nor could he understand why Uhura was employing an obviously seductive style for a song about a figure out of children's myth. Regardless, her ability to improvise on the spot was impressive, especially with so difficult an instrument.

A giggling blonde ensign appeared from one of the other tables, and dragged Ensign Chekov out into the open floor to engage in the human custom known as slow dancing. Almost immediately they were joined by a host of others with their respective dates or friends. Spock was apprehensive when he saw Chapel approaching them, her eyes attempting to meet his the whole way, but she seemed to change her mind at the last second and asked an accommodating McCoy instead. Throughout the course of the song, he noted that three different women approached Jim only to be politely rebuffed.

"I don't suppose you'd like to dance?"

Spock had been occupied attempting to decipher the significance of the song; each new verse only served to amplify his bewilderment. He turned to find that Jim's gaze was trained on him. "I am sorry, captain. Did I mishear you?"

"I asked if you'd like to dance." Jim employed the faint, teasing grin that he seemed to reserve exclusively for women he found appealing and, on occasion, Spock.

The repetition of the question did nothing to dispel Spock's uncertainty. He glanced toward the improvised dance floor, and the couples entwined together there, laughing and flirting. Although Jim's tone suggested otherwise, he must have intended the question in a more general sense. "I am reluctant to consider the idea."

"Even with me?" That distinctive grin widened, and not for the first time, Spock found himself stunned into silence by his captain. His initial impression was the correct one after all, and he studied Jim doubtfully. "Relax, Spock. I'm kidding," Jim chuckled, and the unusual tension in his mannerisms snapped as he turned back toward the table.

While Jim often teased Spock, he rarely did so with that kind of intensity and subterfuge. Whatever the reason, Spock didn't have long to consider the captain's sense of humor, because the song ended 10.3 seconds later, and Jim stood up to survey the rec room as the applause died down. "Thank you, lieutenant. I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say Santa would be a fool not to get you every single thing on that list." Laughter and another round of cheers and whistles. "Who's up next? Anyone?"

"Why don't you sing us something, Jim?" McCoy tipped his glass toward the captain with mischievous smile. His suggestion was followed by a cheerful, insistent din as the crew rushed to express their agreement.

Jim's skin, already flushed from consuming more than a typical amount of alcohol, turned an even deeper shade of pink. For some strange, unexamined reason, Spock found that it was an interesting physiological response to observe. "No, I don't think so."

"C'mon, Jim-boy, be a good sport. Even the hobgoblin's done his fair share of caroling!"

Jim waved a dismissive hand. "I'll pass. I wouldn't want to inflict my voice on anyone."

Although it was clear that Jim was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this scenario, the crew continued to implore him. Various protests and pleads filled the room, and inexplicably, Spock wanted to reach for Jim's arm in a gesture of support.

"Now, now," Jim said, raising his voice to command the kind of attention usually reserved for the bridge. "Don't waste your time on me. Someone else take their turn. If I'm remembering right, we were promised traditional folk songs from a certain–"

"Yes, keptan!" Chekov leapt up from his chair, gave a crooked salute, and stumbled a bit to the right to be steadied by Sulu and Mr. Scott. "Zhe wery best Christmas songs in zhe world are from Russia!"

Jim sat back down with a smile that was obviously forced and reached for the bottle of champagne in the middle of the table. It would be his fourth drink of the evening at least, and Spock reached out for his wrist automatically. He was not surprised that McCoy had moved at the same time, and beaten him to his goal.

"That's enough for one night," the doctor said, voice gentle but firm. "You don't want to be hung over Christmas morning, do you?"

"Just one more, Bones. I'm fine." Jim managed to pull his hand free, but Spock was waiting to take over with a grip that Jim could not shake off so easily.

"Doctor McCoy is right. I estimate your blood alcohol content to be at–"

"All right, all right. I get the point." Jim raised his palms in surrender before crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. He remained in this position for the last half hour or so of the party, during which time the participants slowly filed out of the rec room in various states of intoxication. There wasn't a single one among them though, Spock noted, that wasn't in a positive mood. He suspected that soon he would be forced to concede to McCoy's dubious logic that Christmas parties were necessary because they benefited morale.

Fortunately, the doctor was too exhausted to bring up the topic by the time the festivities were over. "I must be getting old. I'm about to fall asleep in my chair," he grumbled as he prepared to leave with the last few stragglers. Before he did, he made a point of pretending to reach for one last truffle so that he leaned close to Spock. "Keep an eye on Jim for me, will you? Make sure he doesn't wallow all night?"

Spock wanted to ask for a clarification of the term 'wallow' and what, precisely, he could do to prevent it, but McCoy was out the door by the time he could react to the request. Uhura was the last to leave after she had seen all the others off, and Spock followed her to the doorway to complement her playing. She insisted that he stop making her blush, and thanked him for putting up with illogical human music.

"G'night, captain, honey." She waggled playful fingers at Jim. He waved back, but his smile was half-hearted. She placed a hand on Spock's arm, and stood on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "G'night Mr. Spock, sugar." She peered over his shoulder briefly, dragging her eyes from what was most likely Jim back to his face. "Don't stay up too late now, boys." There was something odd in her voice and smile that Spock couldn't interpret.

Then she was gone, and the room was empty except for himself, the captain, and the various scattered decorations and dishes that everyone had agreed could wait until morning. The silence was a shock after having acclimatized to such a high volume of ambient noise. Many of the coniferous wreaths and garlands on the walls were knocked askew, and the formerly neat arrangements of food were in disarray. The room felt inexplicably emptier for the sudden lack of people than it ever had before, on the numerous occasions when Spock had walked in to find it unoccupied.

Spock moved to put his lyre back in its case, but paused when he noticed that Jim was staring at nothing of discernable interest, leaning over his knees, clutching a half-empty glass between his hands. He must have gotten more champagne when his unwanted chaperones were distracted.

"Captain?" Spock said, and Jim jolted as if he had forgotten Spock was there. "Are you well?"

"I was just thinking," Jim murmured.

Spock took a seat next to him and waited for a response, an indication that Jim didn't mind his presence. Typically the captain avoided companionship when he was experiencing some kind of emotional distress, which Spock had come to find increasingly troubling the longer they worked together. There had been numerous times when he caught Jim red-eyed, or exhausted from sleepless nights, and been faced with casual and transparent denials.

So when Jim failed to object or make excuses, Spock hypothesized that on this occasion, curiosity was permitted. "I believe the human expression is, 'a penny for your thoughts.'"

"Do you have a penny?" Jim said wryly.

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that the sentiment was not literal. However, I can investigate the synthesizer options if possessing one would persuade you."

He was gratified that Jim's mood brightened, if only for a moment. "No, I don't need to be bribed." Then he fell silent for over a minute, but Spock had been around him long enough to know when he was ordering his thoughts to speak. "This will be my nephew's first Christmas without..." he hesitated, and glanced down at the floor. "I sent him a present, but I really should be there for him. God knows Sam was always there for me." Before Spock could protest, he drained the rest of his glass in a few quick gulps.

The reemergence of grief, then, and compounded by guilt. Spock understood guilt far better than he wished, both from his own experiences and his observations of Jim after deadly away missions. "While I am certain Peter would appreciate a visit, you have done all that you can," he said. "We are half a quadrant away from Deneva, on explicit orders."

"I know."

"You are not responsible for his life, but you are responsible for the lives of this crew."

"Trust me, Spock, I know all of this. That doesn't make it any easier," Jim said sharply, then heaved a sigh and shook his head. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

"Your anxiety is understandable."

"Just not by you, right?" Jim shot him another one of those incomprehensible, momentary looks that had been perplexing Spock all evening. "This time of the year always clutters up my head. It makes me think about the things I don't have." He tilted his glass and peered into the bottom, as if he were expecting more drink to appear. "Can't have."

"If you are referring to a family," Spock said cautiously, "you know that there are no Starfleet regulations regarding such matters."

"Sure there aren't regulations, but common sense still applies. My father couldn't drag my mother and I all around the galaxy in good conscience, could he? It was either take us into harm's way, or leave us for months at a time." Jim sat his glass down on the table and deliberately pushed it away.

Spock considered this for a moment. He wanted to suggest that the logical thing to do was to find a partner within Starfleet who accepted the dangers, and shared the same ambitions and wanderlust. But he suspected that Jim would simply invoke the tyranny of the Enterprise as he had before, the demands of his station, the fear that his judgment would be compromised. Spock did not want to tread that close to the volatile ground of the Psi 2000 disease if he could avoid it.

Instead he made one last attempt to put an end to the forewarned wallowing. "I do not doubt that his absence created difficulties for your family. Yet your father was still a positive role model in your life, was he not?"

"He was." Jim conceded after a moment's pause.

"And he and your mother remain in a satisfying relationship?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you misjudge your own ability to achieve a similar situation," Spock said. "And perhaps you can nurture a relationship with Peter much like the one you share with your father."

"Maybe."

The truncated answers and fixed, somber expression seemed to indicate that Jim was unwilling to talk further, so Spock decided that it was time to admit defeat in his doctor-appointed task. He unlatched the lyre case and thought about how best to persuade the captain to retire.

"Wait." Jim's voice halted Spock mid-motion before he could place the lyre inside. Spock looked up to find Jim rubbing at his jaw in apprehension. "Could you play something for me?"

"Certainly."

With an abrupt explosion of movement, Jim stood and hastened toward one of the computer terminals. He punched a few buttons, interfaced with an abandoned PADD on the nearest table, and brought the file in question to Spock.

"It was Aurelan's favorite." He said, before sitting back down and averting his eyes.

Spock nodded and proceeded to study the music for several minutes. He propped the PADD up against a salad bowl on the table and checked the lyre's tuning. Then he glanced at Jim, waiting for some kind of signal to begin, but Jim had returned to his previous posturing, minus the glass this time. Spock gave the lyre a final test strum and began.

"All hail to the days that merit more praise

Than all the rest of the year.

And welcome the nights that double delights

As well for the poor as the peer."

The melodies of more ancient Terran songs like this often reminded him of Vulcan musical sensibilities, with their minor keys and precise, predictable structures. As was typical of human songs, the lyrics extolled the virtues of emotion. Yet there was something about the metaphorical sentiment of repelling an unpleasant season with the company of others that seemed almost rational. Regardless, the furrows in Jim's brow smoothed out as Spock sang, and some of the tension in his shoulders visibly released. Spock had to remind himself to focus on the music, rather than the effect it was having on the captain.

He began the second verse, and nearly came to a halt out of sheer surprise when he realized that there was another voice layering beneath his own. He quickly skimmed ahead to memorize his next lines, then glanced up to confirm that Jim was, indeed, singing the counterpoint to his melody. The captain's voice was shy but practiced, and despite the relative difficulty of the song, he didn't miss a note. He still wasn't looking at Spock, but rather at the floor, wearing the same expression he used when gazing out into the deepest reaches of space.

Spock could not help but notice how pleasantly their voices resonated together. Two people may sing well enough by themselves, but he knew from experience that combining their efforts did not guarantee an agreeable result. Yet in this case there was a synergistic effect, a natural complement in tonal qualities. The harmony added an entirely new dimension to the music so that it sounded richer than before, reverberating off the walls with conviction.

By the third verse, Spock's fingers were familiar with the patterns of the song, and the flow of music became effortless. Jim's voice grew stronger, and Spock found that he could not cease studying the captain. At some point Jim had closed his eyes, and during the pauses between lines, a small, contented smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As irrational as it was, he appeared so unguarded that Spock half expected to sense his nostalgia and enjoyment, even from a distance.

All too soon, the song was over, and somehow they broke off the fermata at the same instant without any conscious communication. The last echoes of sound faded within a few seconds, but neither of them spoke right away.

"Thank you, Spock," Jim said at last. "That was a good present."

Spock was about to point out that the crew's exchange of gifts was tomorrow, but then he recognized that Jim was referring to something less tangible. "The pleasure was mine, captain." He tucked the lyre into its case and shut the lid. "May I ask why you did not wish to share your talent with the crew?"

"Talent, hmm? That's quite the exaggeration, Mr. Spock. Smooth talk will get you nowhere." Jim's grin faded, and he shifted in his chair. "Besides, I don't like singing in front of other people."

"My presence here would appear to contradict that statement."

"Well, you're not other people then, are you?"

Spock paused before he snapped the second latch into place. "Captain?"

"It's hard to explain." Much to Spock's disappointment, a flicker of Jim's earlier solemnity returned. "I might get preoccupied with the grass on the other side of the fence from time to time, but you and Bones and everyone here are the closest thing I have to a family. Especially you. I hope you know that."

Indeed, it was disconcerting how many times Jim had placed his career or his health in danger for Spock's sake. "I am aware."

"I don't think you are. I've never told you," he continued earnestly, and a hazy sense of foreboding began to skim across the surface of Spock's mind. "Sometimes it's frightening. Like when you smile at me across the bridge – don't give me that look, you do with your eyes – and just for a second, I forget everything. The responsibility, the stress, the loneliness."

A strange and uncomfortable knot of warmth gathered in Spock's chest and made it more difficult to breathe. He intended to express simple gratitude or support, but instead he voiced one of the sentimental thoughts that was fighting its way up from a place he preferred not to acknowledge. "You mean a great deal to me as well."

Jim gazed at him for a long moment. "I wonder, sometimes."

"Wonder what, precisely?"

Jim shrugged. "A lot of things." Then he abruptly stood and stretched out his arms and back. "Never mind me. I just need some sleep."

"As do I."

They both moved at the same time, Spock standing to pick up the PADD on the table, Jim headed for the door through the narrow space between two chairs. Consequently, they almost collided, and ended up toe-to-toe. Whenever one of them attempted to pick a direction, the other invariably picked the same. The scenario struck Spock as ironic, considering their excellent coordination mere minutes ago.

Spock stopped his attempts to move altogether and waited for Jim to navigate around him. The captain must have had the same idea, because he came to a standstill as well. They looked at one another, and Spock raised an eyebrow almost automatically, knowing it would draw a smile out of Jim.

But then a fundamental change that Spock found difficult to quantify came over the captain, and while his smile stayed the same, his eyes grew melancholy. "Why, Mr. Spock. You've caught me under the mistletoe."

Spock glanced up only to find an empty ceiling overhead. A single sprig of the plant in question hung from the doorway at the other end of the room, which he scrutinized in his growing confusion. "Captain, we are approximately 6.3 meters–"

"Close enough," Jim murmured, and suddenly there was a hand pressed along his cheek, and the brush of soft, human lips against his own.

It all happened too fast for Spock to react, even if he could have determined an acceptable course of action. There was no chance of that now, as his mind simply failed him in the surrealism of it all. Being kissed by the captain was not a variable that had occurred to him before in any serious capacity, and Spock was at a loss to explain the distracting spike in his heart rate and body temperature.

Approximately two seconds later, Jim brought the gesture to an end. His fingers dropped from Spock's face, slid off of his shoulder, and curled into a fist against his chest. He inhaled a sharp breath and appeared to stare at Spock's command badge until he closed his eyes and said, breathlessly, "Well. I guess you were right about the champagne."

"Jim…"

That was all Spock managed to say before Jim looked up again, and his face morphed from despair to desperation with astonishing swiftness. "Oh, hell," He muttered, and then there were two hands cupping Spock's face, drawing him down.

The second kiss was different than the first. It was determined, almost forceful, more mechanically complex than before. Somehow warmer than Spock expected, despite knowing the average human body temperature.

And just as Jim had automatically sung the counterpoint to Spock's melody, Spock allowed his mouth to shape itself to Jim's, even as those subtle movements coaxed his lips to part. While he did not participate, he did permit. He noticed vaguely that Jim tasted like cinnamon and alcohol, and that while the overall sensations he was experiencing were unfamiliar, they were not disagreeable. He closed his eyes to eliminate distractions, and was pondering all of this information when a novel idea occurred to him.

If this was how the captain's emotional needs could be sated, if this was a way to prevent further undesired 'wallowing,' perhaps it was only logical to indulge him. Spock had hardly examined this line of reasoning before he tilted his neck to better accommodate Jim, and yes, that improved their degree of contact significantly. Jim's hand cupped the back of his head, massaging light, tactile patterns into his scalp, and Spock debated what to do with his own hands.

It was only when he decided to rest them on Jim's waist, and Jim responded with a low, fascinating sound in the back of his throat, that two things occurred to Spock almost simultaneously.

The first was that the experience was not merely tolerable, but pleasurable. Now that he was accustomed to the physical element, the idea of what he was doing and with whom was taking on its own appeal. He could sense Jim's mind on the edge of his telepathic reach, completely unshielded, and the notion of reaching out for a meld was seductive.

The second was that their situation was entirely unethical. Jim was inebriated, and lacking his full capacity for judgment. The captain Spock knew was a man who needed control to feel safe. A man who hated vulnerability so much that whenever he was truly upset, he would rather keep silent than speak a single word of complaint, even to his friends. Thus Spock came to the conclusion, with shameful reluctance, that what they were doing was not consensual.

As gently as he could, Spock grasped Jim's shoulders and pushed him away to hold him at arm's length. He was about to say something reassuring, but words failed him with the curious sense of loss as they parted, and he could only stare at Jim's horror-struck face.

Jim voice and body trembled as he tried to speak. "Oh, God. Oh my God. I'm sorry, Spock. I… I don't know what's–" He spun around, yanking free of Spock's grasp to take several hasty steps away. "I'm so sorry."

"Captain, it's quite–"

"I'm feeling a little lonely again, that's all. It'll pass," he said, then added in a murmur. "It always does."

Spock noted that his heart rate was still elevated, and he focused to correct the irregularity. On an instinct he summoned up his most rigid Surakian mindset that he reserved for times of crisis, forcing his thoughts into order, subsuming any potential emotions that could cloud his better judgment. "I believe you are in need of rest, captain."

"You're right. I can't think. I just… I have to go sleep this off."

Spock did not trust himself to speak, so he nodded once.

"It's been a nice evening." Jim glanced at the clock over Spock's shoulder. "A nice morning, actually. I'm sorry I had to spoil it with my special brand of madness."

"I assure you, captain, it was no trouble."

"Maybe we could do this again sometime. The music, I mean." He didn't appear to want a reply, as he started for the door at a brisk and slightly unsteady pace the moment the statement left his mouth. Spock decided to give him one anyway.

"Captain," he said. Jim stopped just as the door opened, and rested his hand on the frame, and it occurred to Spock that he was not certain why he had spoken up at all. "Perhaps we could discuss it in the morning."

Jim didn't turn around. "Merry Christmas, Spock."

Spock wanted to say at least a dozen things at once, most of them tainted with the same emotionalism that had threatened his composure since he first realized that he cared for Jim beyond the bounds of duty. Consequently, none of them were spoken, and the door hissed shut behind the captain.

"Merry Christmas." Spock repeated to the empty room.

Spock was not easily frustrated. Scientific mysteries, equipment malfunctions, even entire alien cultures based around illogical beliefs more often intrigued or inspired him rather than tempted him to release the suppressed stirrings of so petty an emotion. Yet by the end of the alpha shift on the bridge, there was simply no other way to sum up his state of mind.

The captain had appeared exactly on time. He greeted everyone and wished them a merry Christmas, and nodded to Spock as per usual. He took to his chair for 10.56 minutes before becoming restless and pacing the bridge, talking to various crew members about the party and extolling the virtues of Dr. McCoy's hangover remedy.

The depression from the night before appeared entirely absent. So was any sign of recognition of what had transpired between them. On one level, this was comforting, because it promoted a return to normalcy and efficiency after an awkward and ill-advised encounter. On another, less rational level, what Jim was doing seemed discourteous by the standards of human etiquette.

After charting a few of the closest star systems, alpha shift broke for lunch, and true to their typical routine, Jim approached the science station.

"Mr. Spock. Walk with me?"

Spock nodded and ignored the jolt to his autonomic nervous system that appeared to stem from the captain's nonchalant smile. Almost immediately he began to visualize the night before, the look in Jim's eyes before the second kiss. It was an image that had plagued Spock's meditation through most of the early morning hours, and he had actually resorted to needless sleep to dispel it from his mind.

For the time being, he mentally calculated the probabilities that the recently discovered planets would harbor advanced life. He had discovered that whenever the captain's behavior proved distracting, intense focus on work helped him maintain a suitably logical outlook.

Without warning, Jim's pace slowed when they were halfway to the mess, and he glanced up and down the empty hallway as they walked. "So I'd like to talk to you about something, if you don't mind."

"Of course, captain."

"It's a… personal concern."

He stopped mid-step and touched Spock's elbow to get him to do the same. He proceed to guide Spock aside to a vacant maintenance alcove along the corridor, which placed them in close proximity. For a brief, puzzling moment, Spock was convinced that Jim was going to kiss him again. For an equally puzzling moment, he thought he would welcome it.

Then the captain lowered his voice to a nervous murmur. "I didn't do anything untoward at the party last night, did I?"

"Captain?"

Jim looked away and kneaded a palm into his forehead. "I can't remember a thing past when Chekov started caroling in Russian. That was Russian, right?" Spock stated the affirmative, and Jim shook his head with a faint, self-depreciating smile. "That's what I get for putting Scotty in charge of the eggnog."

"I see." Spock said. His mouth felt dry, and his entire body was tense, so that he had to consciously relax his throat to speak. "You appeared quite coherent the entire time."

"Really? Thank God." Jim sighed and leaned back against the bulkhead. "I tend to get maudlin when I'm drunk. Make a fool of myself. Say things I don't mean."

Spock shifted his weight and pretended to take interest in a nearby energy conduit. "Your behavior was within acceptable parameters."

"I guess I dodged the bullet this time. Do me a favor, Spock, and remind me not to do that again. Ever." It took Spock 0.3 seconds longer than it should have to realize the captain was referring to intoxication. Then Jim slipped into a faint frown and crossed his arms. "That still doesn't explain why Uhura's been smirking at me all morning..."

"Perhaps the lieutenant is playing a practical joke." Spock suggested, as he forced the stream of his calculations to start again. Distraction from distraction.

"Uhura? Trick me into thinking I didn't behave myself?" Jim thought about this for a few seconds. "You're probably right." He led the way out of the alcove and tugged his command shirt perfectly even. "Well, that's a weight off my shoulders. I think my appetite's coming back."

Thirty-two point six percent, Spock thought. Factor in the moons with Preshgar's constant. Estimate water to land ratio. When Jim moved to continue on their previous route, Spock didn't follow.

"If you'll excuse me, captain. I have several articles awaiting my review." Technically true, although he could easily complete them at another time.

Jim gave him a skeptical look, and Spock wondered if he would see through the ruse in that very second. But then he shrugged, and the creases in his brow vanished. "All right. Just make sure you eat something in your quarters, then. I know how you get."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you on the bridge, Spock."

Jim strode away down the corridor with a noticeably more relaxed stance than before. As he walked, he started to whistle a tune, the sound light and fragile as it drifted back toward Spock, as though there were a far greater distance between them. Spock's mind abandoned its scientific task to supply the words, clinging to the familiar patterns of sound.

The popular guise is then to devise

All manner of holiday play.

Both women and men do best that they can

To drive the cold winter away.

He watched the captain's retreating form until he turned down another hall and vanished from sight.

A/N: For those of you who are curious about the song ("To Drive the Cold Winter Away"), look up Jim Keyes' version on YouTube. That's closest to the tempo/sound I had in mind. Also, like any true golden oldie, there's about 50 million versions of the lyrics. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!