Chapter Text
Jim sighed and sank into one of the sleek gray couches surrounding the observation deck’s transparent floor. At least these chairs were designed for both style and comfort, unlike the captain’s chair, which cared only about striking fear into the hearts of its enemies.
Only here did he allow himself the long, quiet groan as the muscles in his back shifted and resettled. Unexpectedly, if unsurprisingly, the routine cultural survey on Alpha Eridani III turned into a race for their lives and a desperate attempt not to stomp all over the Prime Directive. Again. Just once Jim would like a routine mission to be, well, routine.
It didn’t help that, although the bridge crew had matured from ‘floundering cadets’ to ‘semi-cohesive unit,’ there was Spock, always citing regulations and always questioning Jim’s decision to join the landing party. No matter how many different ways he explained it (he even attempted once in Vulcan, which landed him in the next cultural sensitivity training seminar), Spock didn't get that if Jim beamed down a landing party that had the slightest risk of being killed and/or maimed, he would be leading that party, because he wasn’t about to send men off to do something he wouldn’t be willing to do himself.
“It is illogical for both of the highest ranking commanding officers to beam down to a potentially hostile planet,” Spock had said (in Vulcan once, after that one disastrous attempt. All that resulted in was Jim staring at him, half-flabbergasted and half-turned on--hence the cultural sensitivity training seminar).
“Noted,” Jim had replied, and went anyway.
In the end, Jim got stuck in sickbay for two nights. Spock had taken that opportunity to lecture Jim about unnecessary risks, which Bones had only put an end to so that he could start up his own lecture.
Not for the first time, Jim longed for a command team from another universe. Although the other Spock remained tight lipped to the point of paranoia about his life, the looks of devotion he sometimes sent Jim's way clearly indicated they had it all figured out. He doubted that Spock and Jim from the other universe wasted so much time cautiously circling around each other. Probably they worked together in perfect harmony from the start. It would be nice if he and his Spock had that same compatibility.
“I wish,” Jim sighed, leaning forward ever so slowly, his back protesting inch by painful inch.
“Do you now?” said a voice from Jim’s left.
Considering his aching back, the height and distance Jim achieved from his leap off the couch was impressive. He whirled around, phaser out by his hip, the stars he had been brooding over now under his feet.
Sitting on the opposite end Jim's couch was a tall man with a shock of short brown hair that stood nearly vertical from his head. He studied Jim with deceptively soft brown eyes, lips a serious, pensive line.
“Who the hell are you?” Jim demanded.
The man gave this the consideration that it was due and said, “You may call me Lucifer.”
“Lucifer?” Jim repeated, disbelieving.
“The devil you know,” Lucifer said and grinned, mercurial quick.
“How the hell did you get on my ship?” Jim demanded, raising the phaser an inch higher, over where he thought the man’s heart might be. He looked human, but Jim didn’t know many humans who could magically appear wherever they wanted. He frowned. This ‘Lucifer’s’ uniform was command gold, not unlike the one he was currently wearing.
“I have my ways. Put that thing down, it’s dangerous,” Lucifer said, frowning at the phaser.
“I think not,” Jim said.
"Fine," Lucifer sighed. He snapped two fingers. Jim dropped the bouquet of roses that had once been his phaser.
"What the--"
"Well, I asked you nicely," Lucifer said, petulantly.
"What are you?"
"Never mind that," Lucifer said, flapping a hand. "Tell me about your wish."
"So, what, you can grant it?"
"Perhaps. As long as you don’t wish for me to undo events that have happened in this universe. Even I have my limitations. But otherwise, sure. It would be my greatest pleasure. In fact," Lucifer smacked both his knees, as if coming to a sudden decision, "I'll even give you seven. Seven wishes for the price of one."
"What?" Jim asked, suspiciously. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"I mean, you're calling yourself Lucifer. It just seems like a phenomenally bad idea to make wishes to someone named Lucifer."
"I only said you may call me Lucifer."
“Do I have to sign a contract or something?”
“What?” Lucifer asked.
“Usually when the devil gives you something, he wants your soul in return.”
“I've never heard anything about contracts,” Lucifer said, frowning.
When Jim just gaped at him, not completely sold on the whole phaser-into-flowers trick, nor entirely willing to accept--well, anything, from some imposter referring to himself as the old scratch, Lucifer unfolded himself from the couch and strolled along the outside of the glass panes.
"Humor me, will you? Let's just say I'm curious. And bored," Lucifer sighed, toeing one of the roses that had scattered across the glass. It looked garish over the deep black. "Always bored."
"Well, I--" Jim turned a healthy shade of red, clearing his throat.
"Let me guess." Lucifer tapped his chin in a mockery of thoughtfulness. "You were wishing something about your esteemed first officer."
Jim jumped guiltily, which was somewhat unnerving considering he was standing over open space. Prudently, he stepped off the glass panel. "How did you know?"
Lucifer stood at the opposite side of the circle of windows, shoving his hands in his pockets in a way no one in command would ever do, at least not while in their golds. "Experience. You're not as unpredictable as you'd like to think, Captain Kirk. Come on, come on. I haven't got all day, you know. What was your wish?"
"I don't know," Jim said, raking his fingers through his hair. Why he was humoring this nut? Maybe because he was having trouble accept this dreamlike experience as reality. What he should really do is throw this character in the brig and deal with him in the morning. "I was just wishing he would--cut loose, or something."
"That's your wish," Lucifer said, eyes gleaming.
"Sure. Why not."
Later, when Jim was older and wiser, he would wonder what he would have wished for if "Lucifer" hadn't found him on that exact evening, at that exact time, when he had been mulling over Spock. He never wanted riches, he had glory, and what he truly wanted--before he even knew he wanted her--he already had, thanks to a cherished friend who had been killed far too early.
In retrospect, probably it was for the best that Lucifer found him when he did. They would have never found his remains otherwise.
"Catch," Lucifer said, tossing him a red comm. “Use this if your wish isn’t going exactly how you want it to.”
Jim caught the comm, blinking. “Why wouldn’t my wish go the way I want--”
“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Lucifer interrupted, waving a hand. “Are you ready?”
“I--”
“Great! Let's begin,” Lucifer said, with that unnerving smile, and snapped.
The wind was hot and arid, and battered against the unexpected in a way that was not unlike having an oven thrown at your face. Jim, who had been unconsciously enjoying the pleasant controlled temperature of the Enterprise, stumbled forward, tripped over a jagged red rock, and went down hard on one knee.
"What the--"
The red sands that kicked up around him were oddly familiar, but Jim didn't recognize the tall, spiky mountains that rose up like giant's fingers in the distance. The land was barren, dead, and yet when Jim looked over his shoulder, there was a city on the horizon--or the beginnings of one, at least.
Most importantly, this was not the Enterprise. It was almost as if he were on--
A quiet shhhk whispered by the side of his head and Jim suddenly knew, without a doubt, that if he turned his head a fraction of an inch he would be missing an ear. Jim shoved the comm in his pocket, not wanting to lose his only means of communication, and dove to the side.
The blade crashed down, sending a wave of red sand up and Jim rolled, just as it swung back up and over his head. He tried to scramble to his feet, only to immediately fall back to avoid losing his nose, landing hard on his tailbone.
"Wait, wait," Jim yelped and scrambled backwards, gaping at his attacker's face. "Spock?!"
The blade drew away, slicing across Jim’s cheek, what the fuck. Jim flinched back and grabbed the cut, and Spock came around to tower in front of him.
Only, it wasn't Spock. Or rather, it was, but it wasn't his Spock. For one thing, although Jim had caught a glimpse (or two) of Spock half dressed, he had certainly never seen Spock so--bronzed. He would remember if he had. And good lord, who knew Spock was so stacked? He was such a skinny dude--strong, but still scrawny looking. Certainly not this lithe and ripped, like some jungle cat. Or maybe he was. Jim would have to sneak a longer look next time. That is, if this Spock didn’t make him dead.
For another thing, the Spock he knew had a cap of shiny black hair, not this long tangle that hung mid-back.
Also, Jim was pretty sure he'd run screaming if he ever saw his Spock scowling at anyone like that, one half-step away from beheading someone and mounting his prize on a stake.
"How do you know my name?" Spock demanded, resting the rounded head of his truly wicked looking blade against the sand. "Who are you? You are not of these parts."
"Uh," Jim said, smartly.
"Are you afflicted?"
Man, this Spock was a mean bastard.
"I'm not afflicted," Jim snapped, scrambling to his feet. His pants--decidedly not the regulation black Starfleet pants--was covered with a fine layer of red dust. Jim would have peered down at the brown trousers curiously if the blade hadn't immediately come back up, just centimeters from his throat. He brought his hands up in what he hoped was a universal sign for, 'hey, I'm harmless, nothing to see here.'
"I will ask you one final time: what is your name."
"Jim," Jim said, swallowing. The blade nicked his skin, and he felt the blood trickle down between his collarbones. "Captain James T. Kirk. Look, my craft crashed about two kilometers from here--"
Jim didn't need the additional pressure from the blade to stop his flow of words. He could fib like the best of them, but he was 100% certain this was the truth, and that was--startling. The last he remembered, he had been on the Enterprise, not some personal craft.
"You are trespassing on the S'chn T'gai property," Spock said, voice deadly cool. "You should be relieved that I did not kill you on sight."
"Oh, I'm glad all right, believe me, you have no idea how glad I am--” Jim paused, eyebrows going up. “Wait, did you just say, Suchin--"
"I certainly did not."
"Schin--"
"S'chn."
"Is that your full name? Schkin--"
"If you continue to brutalize my family name, I will slice your throat," Spock said, but lowered the blade. His lips were twitching, as if he were fighting a smile, which was baffling enough that Jim actually did stop.
"Where are we, Spock?" Jim asked, perhaps too familiarly for this Spock, considering the odd look he shot him.
"'We' are at the Forge, just outside of ShiKahr. You are lucky you were not killed by a shelat."
Jim opened and closed his mouth. The red sands swam beneath his feet. He needed to sit down. ShiKahr was--impossible. "We're--we're on Vulcan?"
Now Spock really was looking at Jim as if he were two cans short of a six pack, to borrow one of Bones' more colorful phrases. Jim was too busy reeling to care. They were on--this was Vulcan.
Spock sheathed the spear-thing on his back, blade towering over his head, and grabbed Jim roughly by the arm. "Come with me."
“What? Why?” Jim tried to pull his arm out of Spock’s grip, but the bastard was fucking strong. “Hey, let me go!”
“You are fortunate it was I who found you,” Spock growled. “Had it been the N’ero clan who had found you, you would already be dead.”
Jim’s knees turned to jelly and he would have collapsed if Spock wasn't ruthlessly dragging him about. Of course. This Vulcan had never conformed to the teachings of Surak, so Romulans never left. There was no Romulus, but apparently, Nero was still kicking about to make trouble.
Jim wondered how much more his brain could take before it took pity on him and shut down.
“This is not what I meant about wanting him to cut loose!”
Spock ignored Jim’s shout to the heavens and dragged him all the way back to his home, which Jim estimated was five kilometers from where Spock found him. By the time the arrived, Jim was dragging his feet and panting. His shirt was drenched all the way through, clinging uncomfortably to his skin and a flush started from the back of his neck and spread over his entire face, both from a sunburn and from exhaustion.
“You are weak,” Spock said disdainfully, pushing Jim inside.
“Hey, fuck you. Even training in 5g can’t prepare a guy for heat like this,” Jim grumbled, staggering forward. It took more will than physical effort to keep himself upright; he found a wall to sag casually against before he collapsed.
Then he gaped.
Spock’s home was a mess. Not that it was particularly dirty, but nothing seemed to have a proper place. Discarded clothes, except one pair of pants, were strewn over most the furniture. Interestingly, the pants were laid flat on the ground, as if Spock had sat down and risen again without them. Stacks of dishes were piled in a tub, washed, but with no home. And there were weapons everywhere. Blades in every imaginable blade-shape, daggers, hatchets, swords, more of those spear things, all sprawled out across the ground as if Spock had just tossed it to the side after practice.
“I do not comprehend what you’re saying,” Spock said dismissively, either ignoring Jim’s slack-jawed amazement or oblivious to it. “You are barely able to walk the short distance from the Forge to ShiKahr. Therefore, you are weak.”
“Man, I’m already starting to miss the real Spock,” Jim grumbled.
“You speak nonsense. There is no other Spock but me.” Spock surveyed the room with his hands on his hips, looking oddly human, though that was highly unlikely in this universe. “I will keep you as a servant.”
“What!”
“I am in needed of an assistant to tidy my dwelling.” He frowned reprovingly at Jim. “You should be honored to accept such an offer.”
“Honored!” Jim repeated, scathingly. “Uh uh. No way. I’m no servant, Spock.”
“You will either serve me or I will kill you.” Spock said, with a shrug.
“You can’t just threaten me!”
“Why not?” Spock asked, sounding genuinely curious. “You are weak.”
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to pick on the weak?” Jim grumbled.
It was the wrong thing to say. Apparently, Spock had mother issues here, too. Must be one of those universal constants.
Jim winced when his back slammed up against the wall. The tips of his toes just barely brushed the ground. Spock’s hands twisted in his shirt, fabric tearing under his fingers.
“Do not,” he hissed, and it was interesting how Spock’s eyes were still brown, even though Jim thought full Vulcans had black eyes, “speak so casually of my mother.”
“Y-yes,” Jim wheezed. Spock’s knuckles were pressed against his throat, cutting off his airway, because apparently Spock’s favorite method of killing Jim was through strangulation, no matter what universe they were in. “S-sorry--”
Spock released him and Jim slid to the ground, bracing himself with his palms flat on the wall. He wouldn’t sink to his knees and give Spock the satisfaction. Spock stared down at Jim, lip curled in distaste.
“Clean my bedchamber first,” Spock said. “Then you may clean my den.”
Jim scowled at him. Spock grinned. Jim immediately stopped scowling to gape in horrified fascination. Spock snorted at his flabbergasted expression and ducked out of the house.
In the two hours Jim spent obsessively tidying up (he was a captain, they drilled this sort of shit into you), Jim learned three things:
ONE: Spock held some sort of highly important rank within his clan. Jim had seen Spock around other Vulcans in their universe, he would have noticed if they started genuflecting and calling Spock ‘Lord Spock.’
TWO: Jim really fucking hated cleaning. He would need to see about getting his yeoman a raise, if this is what she had to deal with on a daily basis.
THREE: Spock was a relentless master. He barely looked away in the two hours Jim cleaned, an odd glint in his eyes, even with the steady flow of Vulcans bowing and scraping before him.
“What’s with all the bowing?” Jim finally asked when a Vulcan lady twice Spock’s age prostrated herself at his feet.
The lady looked up for long enough to shoot Jim a withering glare before quickly casting her eyes back down.
“My apologies, T’Meni,” Spock said, not even bothering to look at Jim. Jim didn’t miss the way his jaw flexed. “He will be properly punished for his insubordination.”
Jim straightened, tightly twisting the rag he had been using for dusting between his two fists. Here he was, slaving away in the oven Spock called a house, probably suffering from second degree burns and heat exhaustion, desperate for more than the two swallows of water Spock allowed him, and he was being accused of insubordination?
“It is not my place to dictate how you manage your staff, my lord,” T’Meni demured, gaze firmly fixed on Spock’s feet.
Spock’s icy gaze drifted to Jim, before fixing back on T’Meni. “Of course. Let us continue our conversation outside, yes? It is a lovely evening.”
Jim waited until the door shut behind Spock and T’Meni before dropping the rag and pulling the red comm from his pocket. Enough of this shit.
“Lucifer,” Jim said into the comm. “Get me the hell out of here.”
The shock of being completely submerged after spending so many hours in the overwhelming heat was enough to make Jim nearly gasp in a lungful of cold water. In a strange reversal of how he snuck Scotty aboard the Enterprise, Jim was in one of the same water pipes Scotty had materialized in. He floated, staring through the glass pipe at Lucifer, who peered up at him curiously.
Jim gestured at himself.
Lucifer rubbed his chin.
Jim gestured at himself, a little more frantically.
Lucifer heaved a sigh and snapped, and Jim stumbled a couple steps forward at the sudden change in density, coughing out a mouthful of water. He shook his head, flinging water droplets everywhere.
“Thank you for that,” Lucifer said, brushing water off his cheek.
“You did that on purpose!”
“Come now,” Lucifer said, widening his eyes. “Moi? Do something so cruel? Never.”
Jim pressed his lips in a thin line, then gave up and turned on his heel, sloshing towards his cabin.
“Did the wish not go like you wanted it?” Lucifer asked, innocently.
“What do you think,” Jim snapped.
“Tut, tut. Anything worth fighting for is never easy, Captain. Don’t you want that perfect command team from the other universe?”
Jim squished to a halt, not turning around.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Captain,” Lucifer said. Jim could hear the grin in his voice. When Jim glanced over his shoulder, he was gone.
Jim sloshed tiredly towards his quarters. His skin still felt tight from sunburn, but when he looked down at his hands, they were no longer the vibrant pink they'd been on Vulcan.
Vulcan. Although Jim wanted nothing more than to get off the planet, he couldn’t help but to feel a melancholy pang at the thought of it. It wasn’t the Vulcan Jim had learned about growing up, but it was still a Vulcan, and that was more than this universe had.
“Captain.” The calm voice, so different from the wrathful one from the other universe, held a faint note of surprise. “Why are you wet?”
“I was thirsty,” Jim sighed, turning to face Spock. He was still dressed in his science blues despite the late hour.
Spock raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, there are more efficient ways to consume liquids, Captain.”
Jim’s lips quirked. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Spock had made a joke. He huffed a small laugh, then shivered as the fans oscillated towards them. Spock didn’t seem affected, but Jim eyed him thoughtfully. “Hey, Spock. Do you ever get cold on board the ship?”
Spock blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “Vulcans are able to regulate their temperatures to comfortable levels no matter the external conditions, provided they are not too extreme.”
“Ah,” Jim said, clapping Spock on the shoulder in a friendly manner, before quickly removing his hand when he realized it was still wet. He cleared his throat, hoping Spock wouldn’t notice the handprint he left behind. “Yes, yes, of course. Carry on then, Commander.”
“Yes, Captain,” Spock said, sounding like he did when confronted by a particularly confusing human characteristic. He looked like he wanted to ask Jim about five thousand questions, but checked himself. “Goodnight, Captain.”
“Goodnight, S’chn T’gai Spock,” Jim said, and squished off to his quarters, leaving a gobsmacked Spock in his wake.