Work Header


Work Text:

They could probably steal a third suit, but when Jim throws Bones that little smirk of victory, he sees the annoyance in those “baby blues.” Bones rolls his eyes, for once not so done with Jim but just clearly done with the whole planet, and Jim knows he can’t drag his good old country doctor into another den of outdated mobsters for another crazy scheme. Which is perfectly fine. Because that’s what he has Spock for. Spock would follow him everywhere even without the First Officer rank, and he won’t give Jim attitude for it, at least not out loud.

He’ll stare blankly at the fabric thrown at his feet, clearly unfamiliar with how the strange three-piece sets work, but he’s Spock—he’ll figure it out. And if not, he can watch Jim change with his usual rapt attention, just for a different reason. Bones keeps one of their pilfered guns steady on their hostages while the rest of the clothes come off—undershirt, belt, pants—Jim holds up a hand when one gangsters grabs a hold of his boxers, making the executive decision: “That’s enough, boys.” They can keep their own socks and shoes too—those, apparently, haven’t evolved much in the past several centuries.

Jim moves first so gets first pick—the blue pinstripe suit with a matching tie and hat. He has to admit, for primitive jerks, they’ve got decent style. Picking up a pair of deep brown pants, Jim passes them over, and Spock lets out an almost imperceptible sigh before accepting the burden.

Pretty much only because Bones is there, Jim doesn’t turn around and watch the black standard-issue Starfleet pants come off Spock’s long legs. He’s already memorized the motion—knows exactly how Spock undresses after a long, dull day, and maybe this might be a little different, quickly and publicly shuffling into someone else’s clothes in the midst of an on-going mission—but hopefully it’s not that different, not enough for Jim to miss any new details. He still has to stop himself from putting on a show when he shucks his own pants—something that’s become pure habit when he can feel Spock’s heated gaze on his backside. But then, Spock probably isn’t staring, because for all their bickering, Spock does respect Bones, and, of course, Spock generally doesn’t ogle Jim in public like Jim absolutely does with him.

Jim manages to zip up the old-fashioned fly and just barely manages to squeeze into the last belt-loop. It’s not a great fit, but it’ll do. The shirt comes next—his gold tunic over his head and then a stiff white button-up that takes uncomfortably long to do up. The room is silent save for rustling fabric, but between the glares of the undressed gangsters and Bones, it’s not exactly a receptive audience. Jim shrugs into the jacket quickly after that, buttoning it up too and then all but throwing on the tie. He hasn’t done one of those in ages, but his instincts win out and guide him through it. He leaves the lopsided pocket-square as it is and tosses the hat onto his head: complete.

Then he turns, finally able to justify looking where he wants to, and he finds Spock only halfway done his shirt, because of course Spock took the time do it right. His pants already look like they’ve been ironed. His belt’s snug at just the right height along his trim waist. His shirt’s tucked in, just not all the way buttoned up, which isn’t the right order at all, but Jim shouldn’t be surprised Spock still found a way to be different. Jim takes a split second to soak in the broad expanse of Spock’s pale chest before his hands reach out on their own accord, and then he’s brushing Spock’s fingers away and popping the third to last button. He does all the buttons up, even though a small part of his mind is crying to leave the top two open, because Spock looks so ridiculous and beautiful in off-duty clothes and even better when those clothes are hanging half off him.

But Jim’s a Starfleet officer on a mission so fixes Spock’s collar. Then he plucks the orange tie Spock’s already holding right out of his palm and throws it around his head, pulling it against his neck, seeing the spark in his eyes—Spock could do it himself. Of course he could. Ties might be far out of his Vulcan wheelhouse, but he’s Spock and it’s not rocket science. Which Spock could figure out too. But Jim’s in full control and keeps going, fastening Spock’s tie while their gazes stay glued together like their bodies almost are.

Seeing Spock in purely human clothes always gets to him. He pushes through. He straightens Spock’s tie and turns back to fetch the brown jacket, holding it out, not for Spock to take, but for Spock to climb into. Spock obediently turns to push his arm through one sleeve and lets Jim step around him to smooth it across his back. Jim does the buttons on the front, and fusses with the pocket-square, right up until Bones loudly clears his throat. Jim bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, even though they’re walking into a planet full of trigger-happy clichés by themselves.

They’ll be enough. Always are. Jim clasps Spock’s shoulder as if to say, “You look good,” because he does, always does. Except he looks particularly handsome in a suit. Hopefully they can keep the souvenirs when it’s all said and done and they’re safely back aboard the Enterprise, preferably after hours in Jim’s private quarters.

He steps away, ready to go, but Bones notes, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” When Spock merely crooks an eyebrow and Jim waits, Bones nods to the floor. A tan hat’s still lying there, just waiting to cover the very tips of Spock’s elegantly pointed ears.

He bends to collect it and sets it square atop his head. Jim gives the brim a light flick, because it looks more natural when it’s tilted. But Spock straightens again because he’s incapable of being imperfect like Jim’s imminently askew fedora. Jim’s tempted to interfere again, but Spock gives him that look that says, “Now is not the time for primping, Captain.”

With a nod, Jim concedes. He plucks his waiting “heater” off the desk and gets a move on, his number one hot on his heels.