Jim wasn’t sure really, whether he should even mention it. In fact he was pretty sure he shouldn’t. He was wiped out, tired and sore, dejected, maybe, from getting his ass kicked, from losing two good crewmembers down on the surface of the planet. And they had families and lives separate from service to Starfleet, and one of the tasks Jim would have would be to write those families. He never knew what to say.
Spock looked wrecked too.
They’d been checked out by Bones, both of them, and they were fine, also, both of them. A few minor bruises and sore muscles. They’d refused further treatment and Bones hadn’t even yelled at them for it. Proof that his friend was feeling pretty crappy about everything too.
And why wouldn’t he? One of those dead was a medic from his own department. Jim saw the wateriness in Bones’ eyes before he tried to hide it.
So Jim stumbled a little as he stopped outside the door of Spock’s quarters, which came up first. Spock stopped too, because, of course, they had reached his rooms.
Jim turned to face his first officer, the words torn between being stuck in his throat and on the tip of his tongue.
“I dreamed of us last night,” he blurted out, before he could lose his nerve.
And he was greeted with that annoying head tilt and that blank expression that had made him want to rip those bangs off his forehead more than once.
Yeah, Kirk, doing what?
And just what was he going to say? Kissing and tearing each other’s clothes off? Breathing for each other?
“Nothing, Spock,” Jim replied.
“I do not understand.”
He forced a smile, tired and maybe sad, but a smile. “Never mind. It was just a dream. It’s nothing.”
Spock turned toward the door, stopped, turned back and looked at him. “Captain…”
“You did everything you could. No one could have done more. And the crew—”
“Yeah.” Jim nodded.
Spock returned the nod. “Goodnight, Jim.”
“I hope you sleep well.” Spock turned then and went into his quarters and Jim continued onto his, alone.