HIS ONLY RESPONSE is a hum, a noise vacant of his interest or disapproval in that regard. There are many of whom that do not survive his instruction, unable to match even the lowest—comparatively speaking of his own highest bar—of Spock’s competitive expectations. Eyes bright, he turns away, fingers tented at his waist while he makes his journey to the desk in Leonard’s quarters. He’s sat in this chair before. But at the moment, it suffuses him for greater purpose, taking on new shape and deeper meaning—whatever the end result of Spock’s ever evolving mind. This is all still foreign, unidentifiable territory. The foundation of the Doctor’s core desires remain the same: to be supplanted of strength, to be stripped of control—taken, claimed, and other colorful similes of the same, ever-present thought. Spock’s hands find the backrest of the chair and he swivels it to fold into the seat. It squeaks in protest as his knees part, eyeing Leonard almost curiously. A spark of challenge ignites at his mouth. “We will see.”

                  NEED ECHOS IN A DELICATE TREMOR he often wonders if the Doctor is aware of. It begins like it always does. In a hum churned into a minute vibration at the nape of Leonard’s neck, shuddering outward, tiny peaks of goose flesh Spock knows well beneath his hands, can see now, with keen eyes that voice his hunger to lick them roughly from Leonard’s skin.   But Spock’s intentions have become masked by anticipation, want, and these thoughts three steps ahead and belonging of someone else. The sensation bleeds in a rush, drowning out all else but this sharp pang of pleasure along his palm and down Spock’s wrist. And it’s bold, he thinks, as Leonard consumes him. So eager and greedy— Abruptly, Spock pushes his fingers against the draw of Leonard’s mouth, splitting the digits across a curling tongue and shoving his fingertips into either side of a cheek. The pressure is just enough, then slightly more—a reminder of the play at hand, quite literally, that Leonard is not the one in control. Spock is. Spock always is. The Doctor would do well to remember. “This,” the hand on the Doctor’s back is quick to snap at the one crawled to it, and molding himself against Leonard’s spine, Spock claps it to the wall, slippery in his retreat. He speaks calmly to Leonard’s ear, “—stays here.”

                    OVERHEAD THE SUN SHINES brightly over the span of the market. There are less canopies and tents, more tables and perishable foods for purchase, and leading the Doctor through the rows, Spock shifts his concentration to every one as they pass. For other species, Vulcan cuisine is difficult to grow accustomed. But perhaps, it was always that way given their delicate palette. Now, he considers it may be exceedingly difficult without the capability to do so in the first place. Spock walks slowly through a section of vegetables from nearby planets. He will have to consider substitutions. It is a disappointing thought. However, he is determined to avoid the use of the replicator in favor of Leonard’s tastes. “As you are aware, a Vulcan’s diet is comparative to the human equivalent of a vegetarian.” He thinks back to one particular evening that makes that quite clear. Spock stops at a stall and eyes a selection of breads. “Additionally,” he leans to inspect the consistency of a specific piece, touchless and scrutinizing, “You may find it,” Spock looks up at Leonard and takes into account the Doctor’s choice in foods, “—bland.”

     “If I’m lucky,” she parrots back, deadpan, but lets herself be moved in the right direction. Carefully, she picks her steps to the closet, where a military-neat row of replicated clothes hangs over a small dresser. Most of her wardrobe is standard issue, plain and simple, but there are a couple items of creature comfort there, and she decides that she can probably use that right now. Normally she wouldn’t indulge, but she’s at least vaguely trying not to give in to self-loathing, so it seems for the best that she let herself be soothed in whatever way she can.  Whether it’s by Leonard’s company or by her choice of clothes or both, at least it’s better than sitting alone in her fatigues until she passes out in her chair, right?

     Natasha takes her softest shirt and some leggings over to the adjoining bathroom and changes on autopilot. She considers snapping into mission mode — it would be so much more efficient — but then considers the look on Len’s face the very first (and only) time he saw her like that. She doesn’t want to worry him any more than she already has.

     Me, worrying about someone else? At least I’ve changed a little from who I used to be, right? She muses to herself as she emerges again. Washing her face has made her feel marginally less like a worn out robot, and she moves to sit on the bed. On impulse, she reaches for him as if to drag him over to her, and then drops her hand again. Nat curls her legs under her and waits wordlessly for Leonard to… well, to do anything. She doesn’t care what. She’s just grateful not to be alone.

“No. Martin will be thirteen and a half soon, and Samy skipped two grades, but she’s still thirteen,” Elliot said. Crap. It wasn’t a face filter was it? It was just a guy who was really confused as to why Elliot was calling him out of the blue and accusing him at being bad at social media.

Crap.

Elliot groaned, hanging his head low from his shoulders down towards the crew lunch table. This was bad. This was so bad, wasn’t it?. “We have the AI but, you know, she’s an AI. And she’s not working right.”

     “I thought this was some extreme sightseeing! Now this is embarrassing.” Now probably wasn’t the best time for jokes and sarcasm, but what better way was there to make light of an unfortunate situation? She has enough air in her lungs to spare for a joke or two.

     While he takes up his newly appointed post, she turns her back on him, fixated on the task at hand. First door—rattles—locked. The second, same result. There was a saying for situations like this, wasn’t there? Once is a mistake, two is a pattern? Something like that; it wasn’t too important at the moment. She didn’t have to try the third door to have an idea of how that would end up. 

     “I was trying to be quiet about it, but—” She takes a step back from the door she’s standing in front of and with a slight growl, throws all the strength she can muster into a hard kick aimed right beside the handle. The sound of the door cracking echoes down the hall—that was a dead giveaway to their location—but they had a new path out of there and she could think on the go. 

     “Quick enough for you? I’m sure someone heard that. Go on, go first. Got your back.”

    “Then we’re both lucky.” He gets to see something rare and she gets the pleasant experience of being appreciated without it coming by way of endless insincere compliments.

     Her eyes linger on his face, watching as he tries on each name,

    “No? And here I thought I was right on the mark.” She swirls her drink in her glass, clicks her tongue in faux disappointment, but the sound sits in contrast to the amusement on her face, the fun she’s having with such a simple game. He’s a willing participant, doesn’t seem offended by her choices, and that’s really all she could’ve asked for.

    And now it’s her turn. What does she look like to someone else? To him?

    “Gwen.” She sips once at her drink, turning the name over in her head. There’s something about Gwen that feels wrong, ill-fitting, like being stuck in a half-shift after finally coming of age. Even trying to pretend to be someone she’s not, she could never imagine settling on Gwen as a name for herself. “Not that one. Definitely not. Do you actually know someone named that?”

    For the few he gave, there are two she does like—or at the very least doesn’t mind. Lena immediately jumps out at her. If someone decided to call her Lena instead of Lyla, she wouldn’t give it a second thought. Maybe it was because it was close enough to the name given to her by the Auriga’s crew and that automatically created some kind of unconscious bias in favour of it. Julia takes a little bit more work, but the name itself isn’t bad and she could possibly see it working.

    “Lena. I like that. Julia, maybe. Thea—don’t know about that one.” Either way, she’s pleased—her game was a success. She tips her glass slightly toward him with a smile, a thanks of sorts for humouring her.

     “—Oh, just out of curiosity: I was hoping to find food at some point. You hungry? It’s on me.”