You found him sitting on a fire escape in downtown San Francisco, arms folded tightly across his chest, boots polished to regulation shine, sunglasses perched awkwardly over his unmistakably Vulcan brows.

Black trench coat. Crisp slacks. The same haircut that screamed, “I’m not from around here.”

You crossed your arms, tilted your head, and let out a slow sigh.

“Spock.”

“Lieutenant.” He greeted.

“This is your disguise?”

He turned his head, utterly deadpan. “It is statistically the most inconspicuous human attire based on current urban surveillance analysis.”

You stared at him.

“All black. Sunglasses. Sitting on a fire escape in broad daylight. You look like a vampire about to drop a SoundCloud mixtape.”

“I do not understand the reference. Nor do I understand why this attire fails to disguise me. I am wearing civilian clothing.”

“Your ears, Spock.”

He blinked behind the glasses. “Ah.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the coat and produced a knitted beanie. You watched in increasing horror as he tugged it over his head, completely flattening his hair, ears still peeking out on both sides like stubborn satellite dishes.

He looked at you expectantly. “Better?”

You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Spock… I say this with all due respect - you’re the worst undercover agent Starfleet has ever fielded.”

He didn’t flinch. “Then it is fortunate that logic, not stealth, is my area of expertise.”

“…Come on, Agent 00-Pointy. Let’s go before someone calls the cops on your ‘vampire hacker from the future’ look.”

You swore his lip twitched - just slightly - as he followed you down the fire escape.