Seperis (seperis) wrote,

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rebootfic: space pirates (war games snippet)

So my original supposition that a.) this would not be a novel and b.) I could finish it in a month is a dirty lie. Having reached fifty thousand words I no longer believe I will ever finish it. My life is hard, yo.

So, a snippet while I stare at the last three thousand words and wonder why in the name of God I didn't just write some goddamn porn.

This is from my master copy, not my beta/edited copy, so if my betas are looking at this, I am editing! Really! I just have only copied over half the edits! I love you all; please don't leave me now or I'll never finish this thing.

Space Pirates (snippet from War Games, incomplete and hates me)
Sequel to You'll Get There in the End (It Just Takes a While)
by Seperis
Kirk/Spock, Others
Cadet internships on the Enterprise: like anyone sane didn't see this coming.
Warnings: none

"That's because you don't appreciate genius," Jim says comfortably, dodging from the path of a multi-tentacled matron and her attached offspring. To his semi-experienced eye, the oldest looks ready to drop, waving cheerfully at him as they pass. Waving back, Jim falls back in step with his companion. "Don't tell me--you've never played video games."

Cadet T'Prina gives the expressionless equivalent of a frown; Jim tries not to find it adorable, but he can't help it. In loose civvies (she'd borrowed them from Uhura) and a cap pulled over the neatly coiled mass of braided black hair (and hiding her ears), she's still every inch the Starfleet cadet. "Video games," she says slowly, testing the words to compare against a memory that rivals a Federation computer. "Do you mean educational holo--"

"No," Jim answers patiently, directing her to a side street, if you could call the equivalent of a space-junkyard turned space emporium's twisted hallways a side street. Someone that Jim devoutly hopes was a truly inspired engineer had encased this entire section of the complex with a forcefield polarized to a strangely mesmerizing turquoise and established a complex series of environmental controls, creating the equivalent of an open-air market. "I mean, for enjoyment without any possible--and I do mean possible--academic or intellectual value."

"No, sir," T'Prina says. She's not quite as good as Spock at conveying utter contempt at the very idea with a single eyebrow, but she's getting there. "Is this a normal part of the dissolute lifestyle of human beings?"

"Very much," Jim answers, pleased. "Anyway, Cathis is a genius, and apparently, somewhere here is a man who has the pre-release. Which we are going to acquire."

"Did you not say that the game would not be released for another six months?"

Mind like a computer.

"That is correct." They slow their pace to allow a tall Andorian to pass, antenna moving erratically. If Jim knows his Andorians (he does), that one is very high, and he's on the right track. "And I'm going to be on the other side of the galaxy and won't get to see it for at least a year."

"Is that not illegal?"

He loves how she frames it like a question. "Yes. And it's wrong, so you shouldn't bootleg anything. And I'm buying a copy when it comes out, so that makes it okay."

T'Prina's eyebrow inches toward her hairline. "Your use of sophistry is unsophisticated but intriguing."

"I love Vulcans," Jim says; he does. Over her head, a Ferengi attempts to look casual. As T'Prina starts to answer, Jim shakes his head. "Hold on a sec. I found my guy. Remember--I'm a colonist from Alpha Centuria named Nogura and like to be called Admiral. And you?"

She gives the eyebrow equivalent of a sigh. "I am T'Prina," she says, "a former Starfleet engineer who assists you on your 'pirate ship'."

"I wish you'd say pirate more," Jim says a little wistfully. "All right, let's do this."

The Ferengi, calling himself by the unlikely moniker of "Mark", stops trying to be casual as they approach. Jim's always liked Ferengi; they're fairly straightforward about wanting to accumulate as much wealth as possible, and he respects a goal oriented people. With a significant look, Mark leads them down another, even narrower passage, and Jim fights T'Prina for the lead, because she's been listening to Spock way too much. With the faintest look of dissatisfaction, she plasters herself within an inch of his back.

A small, rounded door opens, once an airlock for a species that must have been very short; the Ferengi goes in, and Jim follows, feeling T'Prina radiating professional paranoia behind him.

The room has a vague resemblance to an auxiliary bridge gone wrong, hung with a variety of technology that Jim recognizes from certain missing shipments, boxes stacked without any regard for safety protocols or like, neatness, but he's not here to judge. Much. There's a narrow door in the back, half-hidden behind a pile of mimetic silk and replicators that he takes note of before turning his full attention to Mark.

"I understand you require my assistance, Nogura?" Mark says coyly. Jim nods as seriously as he can with T'Prina breathing down his neck. "A game, you said?"

"Battlestations III," Jim answers, eyeing the chair that Mark indicates before slouching into it. "I was told you have it."

"Indeed." Going a carefully sanded standard Federation cargo box in the corner, Mark keys in the combination; Jim cranes his neck, noting the data solids piled inside. "Very difficult to get, that one."

"Should be. Cathis' company keeps better security than Starfleet." And Jim would know. "So you have it?"

"Let me see…" Making a dramatic production of sorting through the solids, Mark casually shifts his balance, and Jim watches him press the ball of his foot securely on a scuffed section of the metal floor. "Ah, here it is." Closing the box, he returns, holding it out. "This you were looking for?"

What do you know--he actually has the damn game. "I'm almost feeling guilty about this now," Jim says, turning it over to look at the label with a pang. "Dar, I thought we had an understanding."

"Mr. Noruga?"

Standing up, Jim pushes past him, looking down at the cargo box. "Code?"

"Sir! I can't--"

Yes, stupid to ask. "T'Prina, watch him?" Pocketing Battlestations III, Jim kneels, pulling out his codepicker and attaching it to the side. It warms beneath his hand for a moment as it comes online. When he turns around, Mark aka Dar is perching uncomfortably in the chair under T'Prina's watchful eye with a phaser pointed at his head. "All right. Who are they?"

"Sir," Dar protests with almost-convincing hurt, "I would never--"

"Dar." Crossing his arms, Jim leans against the remains of the auxiliary bridge. "I feel our relationship has suffered a setback. See, I came to buy an illegal game, and you sold me out. Possibly the same people giving you high-security Federation cargo boxes, suitable for transporting a warp core or a dozen teddy bears to kids during epidemics. Five seconds, then we just shoot. One, two, three--okay, I'm bored--"

"No!" Throwing an arm up, Dar's eyes narrow. "It's only to talk. I was asked to arrange a meeting."

"I don't really do meetings."

"Captain Kirk is always willing to listen," Dar says cleverly. "That is what is said. Was he wrong?"

"Please tell me this is a joke." Jim glances at T'Prina, who gives an infinitesimal shrug. She'd probably have to touch him to get more, and Jim really doesn't want her to have to do that if they can help it. "Dar, really--"

"You are willing to listen if it involves Romulans, aren't you?" Dar asks, smiling slightly, and there we go. T'Prina stiffens but gives no further sign of interest. "The border has become a dangerous place for the Federation. Many ships have been lost…but perhaps not destroyed."

"That would explain a crate from Bella," Jim answers, kicking it lightly. "What else do you know?"

Dar shrugs elaborately. "I don't. But the one who asked me to arrange this meeting does."

The codepicker gives a single chirp, and Jim crouches, opening the lid, taking a careful breath before picking up the first solid. Neatly labeled, perfectly organized, the entire contents of four Federation ships' memory banks fill padded layers of the interior. Accessing the data is probably up to the customer; good luck with that. Starship security is a whole different barrel of laughs during the decryption process. Turning the solid over, Jim reads Einstein and thinks of the tiny science ship that did, of all things, space weather analysis.

"There's someone coming," T'Prina says softly, not looking away from Dar. "Four sets of bipedal footsteps, humanoid…" She cocks her head slightly. "They have a telepath."

"Then they don't want to talk." Closing the box, Jim takes out his phaser. "Dar, I'm disappointed. T'Prina--"

"There are four more that have joined them," she says with a frown. "Captain--"

Jim flicks the phaser onto stun, firing at Dar before he tries to be reassuring again, as that's just not working. As Dar slumps to the floor, Jim looks around the room. "Move him to the wall so he doesn't get stepped on."

T'Prina hefts up the Ferengi effortlessly; nothing like a Vulcan to screw with your self-image, Jim thinks, locking the front door. "Captain," T'Prina says, not even short of breath as she places Dar near the wall, "should we--"

"Run very fast? Yeah, I think so." The footsteps are audible to him now, which means they're very much running out of time. "Come on; we're getting out of here."

T'Prina follows him to the back door; it's locked, but Jim takes out his phaser, melting down the lock, pushing it open and arriving in what must have once been engineering, a dead warp-core assembly in the far center, and….

"Oh wow," Jim breathes, looking around. "I'm in the wrong line of work."

"Smuggling?" T'Prina says, closing the door behind them and sealing it shut with her phaser. Practical girl. Then she turns around, coming to a stop beside him. "Fascinating."

Not just Federation cargo boxes: Jim recognizes only about half of what he's seeing, but he figures if he threw his crew in here, they'd could set up their own government and start conquering a good portion of medium-industrialized planets. "Want to be a pirate instead?" Jim says slowly. "I think we could make it."

To her credit, T'Prina does think about it. "It would be unethical," she says, subtly managing to get ahead of him to test the catwalk. Below them, there are two more levels of storage. Maybe a highly industrialized world or two could be added to the roster. "It is safe."

Jim sighs. He's got to talk to Spock. "We need stairs," he says, following her along the swaying catwalk, ignoring the faint sense of vertigo. "There--ladder to the left. Go all the way to the bottom."

T'Prina swings easily down to the ladder; Jim watches the door until she's ten meters down, then follows, tucking his phaser into his shirt. "Hear anything?" he asks.

T'Prina hesitates, head cocked. "No."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Closing his eyes, Jim pulls up his memory of the schematics of this part of the station; the files in the stationmaster's computer had been badly out of date, but this part at least had been very well documented. There are only three exits, and they have at least eight people and a goddamn telepath. He doesn't need algebra to work this one out.

At the bottom, Jim sights the doors, studying the reinforced metal walls, probably impenetrable to scanner or transporter under normal circumstances. "T'Prina, watch the doors." Reaching into his boot, Jim pulls out an extra phaser, flipping the cover and setting the overload. "Support beam, support beam, now where--here we go. T'Prina, five seconds." Setting it for a five second detonation, Jim pushes it against the wall and jogs back to a pile of cargo boxes. Four Mississippi, three Mississippi, two Mississippi….


"Oh for fuck's sake," Jim mutters just as the entire room seems to explode. Faintly, he's aware of something hard against his head, a hand knotted in his shirt, and a sudden rush of air; when he looks up, the cargo boxes are no longer a barrier and T'Prina is kneeling beside him.

"Did it work?" Jim asks, sitting up, reaching up to touch his aching forehead. Well, fuck. Staring at the tumbled boxes in betrayal, Jim tries to remember which pocket Bones had made him put a travel medkit in. "Federation cargo boxes don't fall over when stacked correctly," he says, offended by shoddy workmanship. "They're balanced and certified for space travel and at least ten kinds of fire fights."

"I doubt they were stacked correctly, Captain," T'Prina says coolly, hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. The wide brown eyes study him for a minute, and it's only the fact Jim's spent the better part of two years figuring out how to interpret Spock's eyebrows that he gets the wound may be more than a scrape. "There is access to one of the outer corridors."

"Excellent." Before he can stop her, T'Prina wipes away the blood and places an adhesive bandage removed from an interior pocket over the wound. "You know, I can do that myself."

"Of course, Captain." Getting to her feet, she reaches for his elbow, the cloth a safe barrier between them as she helps him to his feet. "Do you feel any dizziness or nausea--" she starts, then stops short, because it's pretty damn obvious he does.

"No," Jim lies. His vision doesn't really want to clear, but that's really not a problem; he knows where he's going. T'Prina keeps hold of his elbow as they approach the ragged opening in the wall. Pushing her behind him, Jim steps through it, feeling the jagged edges tear through his shirt; Bones is never going to let him live this down.

"Clear." Stepping away from the opening, Jim leans against the cool metal wall, noting the lights are lowering with a certain sense of inevitability. Faintly, Jim thinks he hears the roar of many people yelling before the heavy sound of a large door--say, the main door to the market--being sealed. "Market's closing early. At least they're letting people evacuate first."

"The forcefield is lowered at the end of each market day," T'Prina observes, unsubtly shoving a hand under his elbow. It's getting embarrassing. "All doors are timelocked and the atmosphere is evacuated--"

"I know." Turning, they hit a main thoroughfare; trying a door, Jim's unsurprised to find it locked. Abruptly, the lights vanish. "Huh."

"I believe the computer system has been compromised," T'Prina says with a fine talent for stating the obvious in a way that doesn't sound nearly as terrifying as it is. "It seems the stationmaster's security is indeed faulty."

"Anything that can be hacked from a rec room terminal is not secure. Cadets hide their diaries better than this." Jim considers; they can go back into the warehouse and try to get into an inner room, but he's going to guess the only one available will be filled with telepathic people who want to talk to him. That just can't end well. "Okay, thoughts?"

He can't see her face, but her fingers tighten minutely as she considers and discards options. Blowing a hole into a secure room will kind of defeat the purpose of the room, and the secure rooms aren't going to be off any of the main streets anyway. That would also assume they could see where they were going. Reaching up, Jim rubs his forehead while she can't see it; this headache, he can tell, is going to be a doozy.

Abruptly, they're bathed in light; Jim winces, covering his eyes; yeah, that helped the headache. Beside him, T'Prina tenses. "Captain Kirk," a voice says smoothly. "It is a pleasure."

"God, I hate it when they're polite," Jim murmurs, squinting until he can make out that the light stops only a few feet away all around them. It's starting to feel a little stuffy, which is either the concussion or the atmosphere is being evacuated. Tilting his head in the general direction of the speakers, Jim says, "Can you just get on with it?"

"I have some information that you might find of interest. I'd be willing to trade," the voice says. Jim glances at T'Prina, who leans into him enough for her knee to activate the tricorder in his right pocket. "Regarding the missing Federation ships."

"That Romulans took them? Huge surprise, but thanks for confirming," Jim answers. T'Prina's grip on his elbow and his own pride are basically the only things that are going to keep him on his feet for much longer. "Can we go?"

"I thought perhaps you would be interested in the fate of their crews," the voice says lightly. Jim stills, feeling T'Prina's hand tighten again. "If you think you will wait until your ship comes for you, it is currently occupied with more--immediate matters. I suggest you accept my generous offer. I think we can come to an arrangement."

"Probably," Jim answers a little breathlessly, hoping they can't see that T'Prina is pretty much the only thing keeping him on his feet. "But not interested. So we'll just be going, if you'd unlock the door."

"Captain Kirk," the voice says; less smooth. Interesting. "I do not think you understand the gravity of your situation. The atmosphere will be depleted in one minute." Yeah, and boy does it feel like it. "If you refuse, I will merely wait until you are both unconscious. It will be easier for you to agree; in return, I will allow your companion to be returned to your ship, as a gesture of good faith."

"I am not permitted to leave Captain Kirks' side," T'Prina says in a stunning display of how very much Spock isn't allowed to instruct their cadets anymore. "Your threats are of no consequence." Stepping closer, she puts an arm awkwardly around his shoulders in some insane gesture of solidarity that someone really clueless at the Academy must have taught her for integration with the population purposes. "We will not surrender."

There's a general sense of confusion from above them, and Jim hears her breathing hiss as the air thins even more. "I liked that last bit," Jim whispers, then closes his eyes, chest tight. "Very. Coup de grace."

T'Prina makes a virtue of necessity and makes them sitting down look casual and not the result of suffocation. "Captain," the voice says, sounding unhappy; well good. It's not like Jim's having a party down here. "I will ask one more time--"

Abruptly, the klaxons announcing the forcefield drop cut through the voice; distantly, Jim hears shouting and orders to get to the airlock, but T'Prina is curling up around him like she can block vacuum by sheer will--which, well, she's Vulcan. It's possible. It's okay, he wants to tell her as the pressure suddenly starts to drop. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi….

The Academy had a simulation of vacuum. It had not been all that great. Jim's pretty sure the real thing is a hell of a lot worse, but on the bright side--

Abruptly, Jim gasps, air surrounding him, just as T'Prina tips them both over in a sprawl on the transporter pad. This could be more humiliating, but Jim can't quite see how.

--on the bright side, it won't last long.

"Captain!" McCoy's voice is unmistakable. As T'Prina levers herself up, radiating cool embarrassment, Jim opens his eyes on the ceiling of his own transporter room and immediately closes them when he sees Bones hovering over him with a scowl. "Captain, what--"

"Lock onto the codepicker," Jim wheezes. "T'Prina--"

"I will enter the correct codes, Captain," she says, sounding nothing like they hadn't been able to breathe for a minute. Goddamn Vulcan lungs. "He has a mild concussion, Dr. McCoy, and suffers from oxygen deprivation, but otherwise he is uninjured. Please excuse me, crewman. You do not know what you are doing."

He's pulled upright by two of Bones' crazy medics--Sickbay is like a goddamn cult--and someone shoves a tricorder toward his head. Behind him, the transporter hums at a decibel more appropriate for a rock concert. The headache sharpens so suddenly that he feels himself start to black out, but a warmth follows almost immediately, distancing him from it enough to think.

I'm fine, Jim answers, because he is and everyone just needs to calm down already. Got it. Nice timing, by the way.

"The cargo box is secured, Captain," T'Prina says from very close. Jim squints at her, then motions with one captured arm toward his pocket. "Captain?"

"Bridge, warp eight; we may make our rendezvous on time for once. T'Prina, take the tricorder to Uhura and see what she can find out from that voice," Jim says just as a stretcher shows up. T'Prina nods, waiting until Bones has him lying down like a trauma victim, then acquires the tricorder, ignoring the medics staring at them both. "Report to Commander Spock and--"

"Oh, for God's sake," Bones says, abruptly pushing T'Prina out of the way. "Shut up, Jim."

And there's the hypospray. Typical.


T'Prina waits patiently as Bones clucks over Jim, muttering about vacuum exposure ("Five seconds! T'Prina was blocking me from it!" "For God's sake, it's not a phaser, she can't block vacuum.") and much bitterness over his head wound ("Of course a bunch of crates almost fell on you; how could anything else happen? This is you.") and fuss over the fine line between a mild concussion and brain death which Jim so does not want to hear again. After a hypospray for the headache, armed with a bottle of painkillers he won't use, and a lecture that seems to be more aimed at T'Prina ("And if he tries to go to the bridge, do that Vulcan pinch thing,"), Bones let him go with a glare that the nurses and medics echo with really disturbing effectiveness.

"I don't need an escort," he tells her as she redirects him from walking into the wall by the turbolift. "Was there always a wall there?"

"Dr. McCoy gave you a powerful analgesic," T'Prina says calmly, herding him into the turbolift. "I am to make sure you go to bed and do not try to--Lieutenant Uhura said 'backseat captain' the ship."

"Uhura is trying to lead a mutiny," Jim says bitterly, leaning back with a sigh. The lack of headache is great, and he can't say getting Bones' very best drugs is ever a bad thing, but-- "The cargo box--"

"Lieutenant Commander Scott has taken possession of it for further analysis," T'Prina says calmly. "We are proceeding at Warp Eight to our rendezvous with the Fortune. Lieutenant Uhura says she will begin analysis immediately. Commander Spock will have his report complete by morning. And Lieutenant Sulu is unhappy he was not permitted to be a pirate and wishes to discuss the issue at length." The turbolift signals they've come to a stop, and a strong hand hooks beneath his elbow. "If you will, Captain."

"Fine," because really, why fight it? Jim ignores the indulgent smiles of the few crewmembers that pass them, letting T'Prina walk him into his quarters and wait patiently until he retreats to the bathroom.

"You can use my terminal," Jim shouts through the door, steadying himself against the sink. Stripping off his uniform, Jim steps into the sonic shower, leaning against the wall while it does its job; he's always preferred water, but that would require moving and the bed idea is sounding really good.

When he gets out, there's a neat stack of folded clothes waiting. Jim stares at them for a minute, then decides not to think of T'Prina logically going through his clothes, getting dressed and stumbling toward the bed.

"Rest well, Captain," is the last thing Jim hears before curling up on the right side of the bed, pillow soft beneath his head, and silently hating Bones' hypos as he falls asleep.


Jim's had a pretty good sense of time since early childhood--growing up on a farm will do that to you--and the ship feels like gamma, which means he slept nine hours straight through. Opening his eyes lazily, he watches Spock through the open doorway for a few seconds, soberly working at his terminal instead of waking Jim up for sex. Jim's almost sure that's a rule. Hell, he might have made it a regulation.

"Did I say you had to sleep on the couch?" Jim asks, not bothering to raise his voice. Spock finishes typing before looking up. "Because I'm over whatever it was."

"I was completing my report of the day's events," Spock answers, standing up. There's a faint mental brush, and Jim thinks vaguely that he should be used to that, but he never is. Mostly because he likes how it feels. "There is a tablet and a glass of water beside you," Spock says, pulling off his tunic. "Please take it."

Jim has the vague idea that Spock uses undressing as some kind of bizarre positive-reinforcement for good behavior; it works extremely well. Watching the long fingers reach for the hem of the black cotton undershirt, Jim picks up the tablet and drinks the water. "I don't like painkillers," Jim tells Spock, craning his neck to watch for the pants. This is possibly the best part of his day.

"It is illogical to continue to experience unnecessary pain, which will interrupt your sleep and make you extremely volatile," which is like the nicest way possible to say he doesn't want to deal with a sleep-deprived James Kirk. Jim can't blame him; he doesn't like to deal with himself. "Cadet T'Prina reports you did not argue with her."

Jim shrugs. "Maybe I'm taking advice for once."

Spock gives him a sharp look, projecting an insulting amount of disbelief, but Jim kind of doesn't care because Spock's sorting efficiently through the drawer and the domesticity of it all is kind of flooring.

"The analysis on the crate come back yet?" Jim asks; it's been nine hours. He knows his crew.

"Preliminary analysis is complete. The databases of the missing ships are accounted for, as well as a variety of companies associated with both Starfleet and the Orion Syndicate."

"The Orion Syndicate." Jim pulls his knees up. Huh. "Was it encrypted?"

Spock pauses to pull on a long sleeve shirt--Jim squints, recognizing the threadbare cotton as one of his--before coming to bed. "Yes." Appended with of course; Jim's not sure where that thought was going. Setting it aside for later, Jim indulges himself in one of his favorite pastimes--Spock watching.

Maybe it's the concussion, but it's come to Jim's attention he's been mostly-married for about a year now and has a kid--well, a cadet, anyway, which is kind of the same thing. He's discussing ship's business in bed. There's a better than average chance they will go to sleep like sensible adults really soon.

"Yeah, no," Jim says, grabbing for the collar of the shirt when Spock's close enough and pulling until he can get to Spock's mouth. Are we really at the work in bed place? Really?

Is there a problem-- A mental self-check, always an odd feeling, and Jim licks over Spock's lower lip, pushing him back into the mattress. I see. You feel that--the romance is dead.

It's still funny when you use the word romance. Jim can feel Spock unsubtly checking him for further injury--you can't hide that when you're in someone's head--before he responds, and this, this is the best part of his day, bar none. You should have come with. It was fun. I think I saw a Vulcan meditation stone in their warehouse and you need a new one.

"I was occupied," Spock says, abruptly rolling him onto his back, having picked up on Jim's dizziness before Jim's aware he's even dizzy. "I completed analysis of the worm that was inserted into our systems."

Computer Maintenance hadn't cried when Jim had told them to ignore the unsubtle attempt to infect their computer system, but it had been a very close thing. "I'm surprised they thought that would work," Jim admits, stretching comfortably as Spock breathes against his neck. It's stupidly hot. "Was it Orion?"

Jim can feel Spock's sudden attention. "Not in compilation, but the algorithms were similar in construction," Spock answers; Jim thinks it says a lot about the Vulcan species that curiosity and lust are pretty much interchangeable. With a sigh, Jim reaches for his hand, pulling it against his face until Spock gets the idea, fingers sliding into place. Right. This is what happened.

Verbal debriefings were never this thorough; they also weren't this fun. Jim relives the two hours in the station in seconds, aware of Spock studying it both as observer and living it along with him. Yeah, that was a mistake. They're back to work and that goddamn pill is hitting Jim like a drunk Gorn.

God, they are going to go to sleep at a decent hour.

Planting a hand on Spock's shoulder, Jim twists onto one hip, depositing Spock on the bed and rolling onto his side. The hazy edge of the drugs are far more noticeable now, and Jim tries not to consider a known side effect of a powerful painkiller as a personal failure. It's just not helping.

"I'm going to sleep," Jim tells the wall loudly. For a second, Jim senses rueful amusement before Spock remembers he's not mostly-married to a fucking Vulcan and shuts that down, but it's enough.


Jim falls asleep with a faint sense of warmth anyway.
Tags: fandom: star trek reboot, fic: other fandoms
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