For all this Jim might make commentary and comparison to the Jim that Spock himself knows, there is a secreted frisson of comfort that lingers in the marrow and in the bones. His own Jim is one to fidget, mind and body always the kind of "busy" Spock's own mother once indicated he himself possessed in his youth. Woken often by night terrors and brought to endlessly pacing his room, his mother had given him a way to channel such disturbances. When not tasked to order his unsettled mind, to organize the illegibility of the world about him, she had always been there to offer him an unconventional "outlet."
And so, as "twitchy" as Spock himself might now be too, there is the vaguest chance of a smile in the dark of his eyes and the way he battles the perpetual upward curve of his lips. Humans had always had a way of infecting even the staunchest of Vulcans, of barreling headlong into the emotional and cultural walls of species both known and unknown. But, Spock wonders if he ever had a true chance. In many ways, the inevitability of James Kirk was like arguing entropy; if nothing else at all might be relied upon to be a constant, Jim could be. But, such musings are for those who wear a certain poeticism. For all that Spock claimed once to have no particular biases, there always would be.
"Presently, I have been detained in 'Aldrip' for the past 54.13 solar days."
The answer comes readily, smoothly. And yet, his mind seems to "protest" the order of his biological chronology. Being held captive does indeed have its effects, but Spock had (illogically) hoped to stave them off for the time being. As Jim tilts his head back to look at him, Spock mirrors with the tip of his chin.
"That too occurred to me," he says, accepting the tablet back without much thought of it. Their innate synchronicity returns to him with an easy automaticity. When Jim moves, Spock falls into step. "However, the absence of mortality and our subsequent environmental shifts has suggested other possibilities."
He has heard many whisperings of deaths that have no real permanency, had seen it, and it had only given further credence to his theories. That the individuals about them similarly appear to stutter and stagger with each new "update?" That too adds further data to consider.
Spock takes a moment to slide the tablet back into the bag slung about his shoulder, securing it neatly with minor modification to the strap that rests just below cut of his collar. He follows Jim's gaze out to the sea and thinks of San Francisco. There is no grand and sweeping architecture here, but Spock is able to readily call it to memory in perfect detail. He thinks of what it would have been like to meet Jim there.
He settles his hands at the small of his back, spine straightening.
"If one were to assume the motivations of the captor or captors, what would one hope to achieve through the detainment and 'sentencing' of disparate entities? How might they ensure their quarry would continue to exist when 'plucked' from their place of origin?"
To Spock, the possibility of being a "copy" had occurred to him early. It would be the most efficient and least complicated way to gather what they needed, without getting too far into the "weeds" as the Doctor would call it.
Still -
"Earlier, you called me Ambassador," Spock says, with some eventuality. His eyes drift back to Jim, as they most often do when seeking some form of answer he cannot quite place his hands upon. Behind his back, his fingers tighten about his opposing wrists. His pulse had once been likened to the speed of a Terran rabbit and he centers himself around its rapidity as he continues. "I have no such recollection of assuming such a posting. Before I had arrived here, w- I had been confined to Doctor McCoy's sickbay following a necessary procedure."
His father had nearly died and Spock had nearly let him. His responsibility lay with the crew and with Jim as injured as he was - there had been little time for him to meditate upon what had occurred since his arrival here. Even now, the lack of clarity and organization sits as though a burr against the skin.
"Even so, despite the many ways you vary from the Captain I serve, I find myself... Inexplicably able to recognize you."
And it is true. For all the differences in appearance, there is something in Spock that knows him. His face and figure may change, the color of his hair, but it mattered little.
As his mother might be prone to saying, the bearing is all the same.
Comparison is the thief of joy, but perhaps no one has ever bothered to say it in so many words to this version of Jim. He grew up in the shadow of his father, an unwelcome reminder to his mother - to know that there is, ostensibly, a better version of himself out there; one who could inspire the kind of loyalty and friendship he'd seen for fact in Spock Prime...how could he not compare himself? He's the cheap spacedock version, but that's nothing new. Curiously, this assessment does not apply to comparing his own Spock with Spock Prime - why would it? They're two different people, and he's never pretended otherwise. But is it really so surprising that Jim is blind to his own harsh self-criticism?
Jim likes to think he can read his own Spock well enough at this point, but the Ambassador, or this version of him, has different tells. They're still a close enough approximation - and Jim, having formed an acquaintanceship of his own with Spock Prime - for him to feel like he's not flying blind in uncharted space. Spock always was a cheeky bastard; just enough of one to be worth knowing, not that anyone asked Jim's opinion. He's pretty sure Spock thinks of him the same way, though the Vulcan would probably rather stomach a hamburger than admit it (they're not that antagonistic anymore, or the ship would be in chaos, but Jim knows he can be kind of an asshole).
"Well shit. And you haven't seen any other Starfleet personnel, I presume." That wasn't promising in the slightest. Jim turns his gaze to the sky, low clouds obscuring the sun. "What is the length of this planet's solar day? Similar to Earth, with a 24-hour cycle?"
Alone, stranded, or rather, taken for 54 days. How had no one from New Vulcan raised alarm? Jim feels like he definitely would have heard about it; Spock Prime was an essential part of the re-establishment of the Vulcan Science Academy on New Vulcan, and serving as one of the few remaining elders for their people.
"The absence of mortality?" The question is muttered, more a musing to himself than an actual query. If there's one thing he doesn't doubt in this world, it's Spock's assessments, of anything. Especially when he doesn't trust himself; it's part of what makes them such a good team (Effective team. 'Good' is not a quantifiable measure by which to judge our performance, he can already hear his own Spock correcting him in his head, arguments long gone by. Don't get your panties in a twist, Commander, just take the compliment, was his inevitable response.) "Just once, I kind of wish the possibilities would narrow themselves instead of continuing to broaden."
It's not a true statement, but Jim scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it back through his hair to the back of his neck. "You've lost me, Mr. Spock. Sentencing? Are you suggesting we're being held here...awaiting conviction, by unknown persons?"
Asking to what end is fruitless, but he definitely wants to know what that is supposed to mean. As an aside - not that he's noticed, with everything going on, but the edge of Jim's own piece of parchment flutters innocently in the salty sea breeze from where it's tucked into his phaser holster.
Now it's Jim's turn to side-eye the Commander, meeting his gaze with confusion. His memory is hazy at the moment of the events immediately proceeding his arrival to Aldrip, but he knows they weren't anywhere near the colony; and he would have noted the Ambassador's presence in the logs, for certain. The gears turning in his head are obvious, as they so often are - before Jim groans in apparent, frustrated understanding, shaking his head and turning away in an anxious circle. His hands drop to his hips, head tilting back at the sky as if to silently say, Whose idea was this?
If there is a God, Jim's pretty sure he's always been the punching bag.
Still - this is Spock. Doesn't really matter which one; and it doesn't seem like it matters to the Commander either, with the acceptance Spock offers him. He supposes it's much the same as his first meeting with Spock Prime in the cave; his first words, How did you find me? As though he hadn't even questioned that Jim would come for him.
"Let me guess - you know a different version of me. Older, wiser, probably . Didn't piss you off beyond belief in the immediate 30 seconds after you first met me." Jim looks up at him, meeting Spock's gaze with his own, glaringly divergent, bright blue. "I...know you, this variant of you, as Ambassador Spock. You served with the Enterprise crew for a number of years before retiring from active duty."
"There was...an incident," Jim's edit to his speech is not subtle, but there's no easy way to say a crazed Romulan time-traveled through a black hole and killed billions. Seems like something they need - or, at least, Jim needs - to be in the backroom of a bar for. "A disruption to the space-time continuum that manifested an alternate reality. You were marooned in my parallel universe."
"You recognized me the first time, too. Somehow." Jim offers a small, helpless smile then, gesturing vaguely to his person. "Ta-da."
There is no need for Spock to interrupt, not yet. Like in his own Jim, he finds an unspoken brilliance. It is easy for Spock to trace where he makes inferences, tosses about the information he piecemeals over as though his mother once sat upon the kitchen floor arranging tangibly the pages of a thesis. He thinks that any Jim at all tears through thought like an Iowa thunderstorm, the whipping sands of Vulcan. It should be impossible, the way he manages to order it. Just as any of his opening gambits, intuition bled into logic, it is… Fascinating to witness.
Spock offers confirmation in the subtle dip of a nod where asked for it, sees the overlay of Jim’s anxious movements. His Captain’s hands have always fluttered about as though the silvery birds of Vulcan. As a child, Spock would look skyward to catch their unlit feathers against the suffocating dark. These gestures, though grander in scope, are still reminiscent of the Jim he serves. They are still distinctly him.
But, then Jim smiles. A deflection for all the stubborn boy beneath shines through it. He knows him.
“Jim,” he says lightly, with the all the air of a Vulcan who has borne witness to such turbulence before and had just as patiently quelled it. “I am only 37.”
In this time and in this moment, Spock is still within the realm of his first five-year mission. He had only briefly engaged with his Jim before it. He was about his age then, he thinks. Working his way through the ranks, stationed aboard the Farragut. They had met by chance in the bar. Spock, upon a whim, had plucked up Jim’s empty glass and placed down an assessment. That Jim took easily to declaration that his elder brother was something of a frustration – well, it wasn’t wholly surprising to him. What was? It was his hand, extended out to him.
When Jim was later promoted to Captain of the Enterprise in the gulf of Pike’s absence, Spock found himself without protest. It seemed logical, deserved. And then –
Spock has not yet met with death. He has not yet communed with V’Ger. He has not yet realized in the last stretch of kolinahr that there is nothing that could compel him to relinquish the emotions that have begun to run riot. Alice Through the Looking Glass. Simple feelings. The first cleared games of chess. A chase across the board. Checkmated.
Spock, in an uncharacteristic moment of silence.
His respiration is normal, his eyes still dark, but there – the heart that pounds along in his side sets upon a race of its own realization. You recognized me. How? Across space and time, when all else is eliminated, what remains, however improbable—
Spock clears his throat, eyes jerking toward the horizon. He calculates the remaining moments of the day, the oxygenation of this pseudo-planet. He thinks of the moon, tidal locked, impossibly pulling the oceans with it.
Is true, some treacherous part of him hums. Legend, ideal, myth. He ignores it. There will be time to reckon with what this Jim has inadvertently drug to the surface, the sharpness of its teeth and the darkness of its maw. The crime has fit the man. And so, the man will have to face its consequences.
“What I am and what I shall be is not yet written.” An echo of a conversation he cannot return to. Michael, her head tilted upward in defiance. “I am not the Ambassador you have come to know, nor are you the James Kirk I met once during his service aboard the Farragut.”
The fingers about his wrists again tighten. A bid to keep himself talking, though his mind attempts to convince him his tongue feels both heavy and thick.
“For these reasons, we cannot hold ourselves against their metric.”
It is not a bid to make Jim feel better about this sudden bout of self-criticism, but rather an objective reality. How are they to compare to something that has already been? Are they not, in that manner, both different? Othered, a variant – Jim’s freckles are the same. His will and his tenacity are no strangers to him. Forced into the flood of his own making, Spock recalls the Fates and their golden threads. Distance, as they say, truly puts all into perspective.
The fluttering parchment catches Spock’s eye, only just. He finds he does not trust his hands, the possible flicker of transference. Instead, inevitably, he finds himself drawn back to looking at Jim. He thumbs through the pages his mother turns in his memory.
“No, indeed,” Alice said, a little anxiously.
“And yet I don’t know,” the Gnat went on in a careless tone: “only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it!”
He inclines his head, emits a little hum. The sound is purely for Jim’s benefit, but it’s an indication of where his “crime” lives. As though sat before a puzzle without edge pieces, it is better to sort first through the obvious.
Jim has always been quick - too quick, some might argue. Quick to anger, to fighting; to mouthing off, more often than not. It's gotten him out of as many situations as it's gotten him into, but his brain just doesn't work at a slower pace, no matter how much he's tried - always going, going, going. That instinct, to leap without looking? Well, the impulse to look just hadn't caught up with him yet.
By comparison, Spock is rigid. Orderly, precise; Jim chafes against it sometimes, (he certainly did when they first started out) but if he's being honest, he can admit that he admires it. Spock is reliable, steadfast; unflappable, save for the most extreme of circumstances. He is the rock against which Jim's churning water crashes. Some may worry for erosion, but over time Jim has come to know that Spock is someone he can brace his back against. Someone who can handle his turbulent waters - and maybe even prefers them.
Confirmation offers no comfort, leaving them both with more questions than answers. Maybe it should be a relief that no one else is here with them, but the concern for the well-being of the crew eats at him anyway. He knows better than to voice it, knows that it won't help the situation or either of their peace of mind - but still, it weighs. It always does, and Spock knows that better than anyone.
Spock's reaction is carefully measured; Jim wasn't expecting anything less, of course, but it does make it difficult to decipher what, precisely, is going on behind those dark eyes. He's spared him the gory details, and it makes it easier to distance himself from the reality; he has no doubt this iteration of Spock has seen tragedy, but the depth and scale of what had happened - that, he is unsure of.
"I'm 28." Jim offers, because he doesn't know how to say you are older than I've ever seen you and younger at the same time. His smile flickers a little, but he manages to keep it on his face; a honed skill. "I was 25 when I became Captain of the Enterprise."
Funny, how they're in such similar positions, where they've been plucked from. Jim was two years into his own mission, though without, of course, the benefit of a breadth of experience. Not...in quite the same manner, anyway. His entire crew was that way - he had taken everyone who had served with him during the battle against Nero out into the stars with him. All of them had requested the posting, from Communications through Engineering.
Jim had never served aboard the Farragut. He had indeed offered his hand to Spock once, and Spock had reached out in turn, both of them spreading their fingers in a ta'al - though they had not touched, through thick radiation-shielded glass.
Jim, for his part, has no idea what this information might have unlocked within his friend; Spock breaks the eye contact, clearly turning over the nugget of knowledge, and Jim lets it go. Far be it from him to press, when there's so much to say, and he barely even knows where to start. He's never known what he's supposed to do - that's why he has Spock. He only knows what he can do.
"No, you're not. Nor am I." Jim agrees, turning away from the bluff, the wind that's started to pick up over the water as the clouds dip low. Perhaps there's a storm somewhere out there, slowly rolling in. Maybe it's already here.
Jim can't help but snort, though, at the assertion that they should endeavor to avoid comparisons. He covers it with a cough, though he's sure Spock isn't fooled. He can't bring himself to disagree, out loud, and Jim certainly isn't going to lie to Spock's face. No, that's one thing he would never do, no matter what version of Jim Kirk stood in front of him. What he settles on is half-jest, half-painful truth, coated in enough teasing tone that it goes down easy. "Easy for you to say, living in the superior timeline."
Jim's eye is drawn back to Spock, at the hum, and he follows the clue down to the paper, tucked away neatly. A frown graces his lips, furrowing his brow, and he frees the slip, unfolding it to reveal the neat lettering:
James Tiberius Kirk: You are hereby charged with Criminal Negligence, with respect to your assumed Command Responsibility as Captain aboard the USS Enterprise.
Starfleet Code Violations: - Starfleet General Order 17 - Starfleet General Order 29
"What?" Jim's mouth drops open of its own accord, grip on the parchment tightening - not that it shows any sign of ripping, infuriatingly unruffled. "What the fuck-"
General Order 17 and 29, of course, are concurrent orders. Every member of Starfleet has them memorized: The commanding officers of Starfleet vessel and installations are to consider the lives of their crew members and/or civilian population as sacred; The primary responsibility of the commander of any Starfleet vessel or installation is the welfare and safety of his crew.
Like he said, quick to anger. Quick to fighting. Frankly, getting punched in the face would have shocked him less.
"They can't be serious. This is - I - " He's beyond words. He wants to fling the paper into the fucking ocean, but the words command responsibility and Starfleet code violations swim in front of him, burned into his eyeballs.
What's worse is the creeping, unavoidable itch of doubt under his skin. What did They from the department of Them think he'd done? What the hell was going on here? The last time he'd been this thrown for a loop, Spock had reported him to Pike. He'd been right to do it, even if Jim didn't want to admit it; but hadn't he learned that lesson? Fuck.
He's spiraling, and it takes considerable effort to pull himself out of it - because there's still Spock, next to him, and Jim just shoves the parchment at him, unable to look him in the eye - and equally unable to continue holding the paper, as though the very touch of it burned.
Jim had always been what Spock had never been permitted.
Quicker to the fight and quicker to the fist, he was a poet’s intuition and a knife in the ribs. He fought with the whole of himself, bled where others couldn’t. Passion sparked off the wick of him, in love with all but without tenderness for the skin that carried it. Spock had found him (still and still and still) at times both a marvel and a madness. Were he to have met him again at the age he is now, in the circumstances they are in now, he wonders if he might have been able to be lashed against so neatly. He wonders if he would have been filled with the fire that this Jim now exhibits, the light that vibrates through the whole of him unhampered as though smearing stars at warp, the stretch of solar winds.
When Spock was younger, younger still, he had felt at odds in the body that housed him. A stone displaced in the foundations of the universe; he never once had found a place to hold him. His eyes to the red of the sky, the sands beneath his fingertips – how long had he swallowed the hatred cast upon him? How long had he been left before those he loved before he might chance the hope to leave them? Too Human for Vulcan, too Vulcan for Humans. Logic was a comfort, truth? A weapon. And yet, when had Jim ever used it to truly harm him?
Little else matters, and little else might be attended to, once Jim realizes what Spock has given him. Apple in the orchard, knowledge bitter and weighted. It is not something that gratifies. The idea that a singular sentence might provide more insight than him – were Vulcans prone to emotionalism, it may have stung him. But, there is nothing to hurt in him.
But, in Jim?
He needn’t take much guess at it. The accusation is thrust toward him, the fissuring composure of any Jim enough to stir Spock into action. That all becomes honed and focused and calculated? A fury frissons along the density of bone, but it belongs not to him.
Spock unfurls his fingers. Tamping down the distrust of his own controls, he takes the paper extended to him. Careful not to touch, careful not to give way to the unsteadiness that swims in him, he reads.
When he was a boy, words did not come to him. They laid in uncertain configurations, time knotted and nonlinear as the tasks that splayed before him. While his methods and manner were unconventional, much like the whole of him, he had never once thought it a detriment until the concept was brought to him. His teachers, his father – he is reminded of it, as he does not immediately process what is placed in plain before him. But, the paper he now holds is not the issue of integration of the world about him. No, it is the issue of improbability. Like a skewed axis, an unsolved formula, it brings up in him a sense of defensiveness.
And yet, when his eyes lift from what he has been given, his words come clear and calm – wholly true and certain.
“Captain,” he begins. He does not flinch from Jim, his gaze upon him steady for all Jim cannot look at him. Spock takes a moment. He amends, with a quiet that ensures all others are forfeit. “Jim. Never once would I believe you to be capable of such a violation.”
Spock does not reach, but he starts. He weaves into Jim’s orbit, settles the lean stretch of his body near to the shoulder of his. Spock stands close enough to sway into, to steady up against, but never close enough to touch. Not at first. Never first. Not like this.
He bows his dark head, the outward sweep of tides like the bright of the anger that crests and wanes in him. The parchment, Jim’s parchment, sits secreted and scorned in the loose shade of his fist.
“Though I am thus far unable to determine what criteria are utilized to make these allegations, I do not believe to be concerned with how rule and law are interpreted.”
How could they be? His own may hold loose truth to it, but Jim’s – no, the only who would qualify under such poor faith extrapolation would be the man who carries it. Burnt to the edges, eyes strained against the night of the ship – Spock remembers it. Vividly, he holds the image of Jim surrounded by the endless PADDs that demanded his attention. How many times had Spock sat with him deep into those evenings? Taking what he could and where he could, easing whatever burden was handed to him? How many times had he reminded Jim, not unkindly, that a signature from the captain was not required on yet another request from his department? How many times had he set himself to summarize missives when Jim could no longer force his mind to focus?
How many times had Spock suggested, in the smallest hours before the break of their next shift, that he should leave the rest to him? How many times had they argued the capacity of the Human body, the need for sleep – how many times had he lured him into leave with the clever turn of phrases?
How many times, Spock thinks, had he been readily scolded for all that Jim would turn and do for him?
He does not vocalize these thoughts. Does he need to? Shame remains against him, a steadfast companion, but it feels a burden lessened. It no longer makes of him the prey in the calderas of Vulcan, startled by their own shadow. Instead, Spock seeks to harbor it. He breathes alongside it.
His own Spock is - he is more volatile than his composure suggests, despite all that he is indeed steadfast, resolute. Jim has stoked him to anger in the past, to rage - it was too easy, to hurl hurtful things, to strike at the deceptively soft underbelly beneath Spock's Vulcan armor (and it was armor, make no mistake; Jim has seen his First Officer's face shutter closed, he knows it is armor, in some respects). Guiltily, Jim also acknowledges it was easy because - he'd seen in Spock's head. Mere glimpses, flashes, but enough to know which buttons to press. The insults - those were a product of his own ingenuity.
His Spock is filled with fire, licking and spitting, consuming all in it's path like an exploding star - tightly bound, waiting to burst and then - supernova, huge and awesome and terrifying. Yes, he has fire - perhaps more than the Spock Jim currently stands next to - but he is as much a product of his alternate circumstances as Jim.
Jim, in turn, wonders what he could have been like, with this Spock at his side, in a universe unknown to him. A universe not so plagued with darkness; a kinder one, perhaps. It's been years since Jim has wished for kindness - he learned that lesson young, that the universe is cold and dark and unfeeling and empty, for the most part. To search out the spots of light, to carve out a piece of kindness, requires blood and sweat and pain - but Jim knows in his heart that the greatest act of defiance against the dark is to fight.
Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is survive.
The question of what could have been is something that Jim knows he'll always have to live with. Telling himself doesn't necessarily stop the wondering, but he tries. Having this version of Spock here with may yet provide insight - whether or not he'll regret having the knowledge, well. That's another matter entirely.
The point is - and there is a point, bear with him - this Jim in particular knows what it's like to have no place in the world, and to turn to the stars in the foolish hope that there's something better, waiting out there, if he's strong enough to soldier on and find it. Too Human for Vulcans, too Vulcan for Humans - but Spock has always been enough for Jim, in any incarnation.
For all this talk of differences, of what is/was/never was, some things remain constant. That this accusation, stated so plainly and indifferently, should have a profound effect on Jim is a foregone conclusion. It's an open secret that he cares - about his crew, about people - so much that it seems as though he may very well bleed to death with the pain of it. Lives are precious, and he's spent his defending them to the last.
And yet - and yet, perhaps whoever had written his slip had taken a page out of Jim's own playbook; slipped beneath his armor to find the soft, defenseless spot that they could cut into him, deep, and slide the knife right into his heart. Perhaps it's karma, in a sense; he would laugh, but it wouldn't sound particularly funny, hard and harsh, all the wrong notes.
Jim doesn't even realize how his body language has changed; the tension in his spine overcranked, his shoulders no longer squared but angled, as though he's anticipating reproach. Spock's words manage to quell an iota of the tension, and Jim finally does look back up at him, meeting Spock's unwavering gaze. Jim had asked Spock once, how he chose not to feel - Jim has never managed such a feat, and it's written plainly on his face, in his eyes, uncertain, worried. This Jim is young, having been disabused of his cocksure nature - but he has not yet grown into the full confidence that befits his station.
Criminal negligence. Who had he failed?
Spock doesn't recoil; in fact, he does the opposite, orbiting into Jim's personal space. It's never bothered him; in fact, right now, it makes it easier to breathe. Jim exhales, choking on a laugh and takes steadiness in the surety Spock exhibits - that Jim could never be guilty of such a thing, that Spock would never believe it. Here, as in every world, Jim's waves break against Spock's rock and equilibrium once again feels within his grasp.
"Seems pretty clear to me what their law is interpreting." Spock keeps the paper, and Jim is grateful he doesn't attempt to hand it back to him. Their uniforms brush as Jim raises his hands to his eyes, pressing the meat of his palms into the orbital sockets for a moment before scrubbing them over his face. "Though why they're letting me walk around free if they think that's what I did, who knows."
He thinks about asking what Spock's slip said, but it doesn't seem the right moment; not with the disquiet radiating off of his Vulcan companion, something Jim only clocks due to how much time they've shared together; late nights and early mornings, hours upon hours of chess, bonds forged in fire. As if adjoining quarters weren't enough, cups of tea shared in the bleary beginning hours of Delta shift - typically after Jim had awoken from a nightmare, something Spock had surely heard through the simple door separating them but had remained kind enough not to mention outright.
The first time it happened, Jim had stumbled into the bathroom, anxious sweat still clinging to his neck, intending on a brutal sonic shower to push the thoughts out of his head (AKA, futzing with the flow inhibitor until he could adjust the vibrations high enough to bruise) - and Spock had been standing ominously at the other end of the bathroom, fully dressed despite the fact that he did not need to report to the bridge for another seven hours. They'd stared at each other until it became uncomfortable, and then continued past that until Spock turned from the doorway.
When Jim finished with his shower, there was a cup of tea waiting for him on the counter.
In summary: Jim knows he should not have expected less than Spock's full trust, but it relieves him anyway to know for fact that he has it, and it steadies his own judgement - because he has always trusted Spock and his counsel.
"Is there someplace we can go? Where are you staying?" The sky has started to turn, giving way to the grey of the clouds, lights winking on in the town that lays beyond the bay. He taps Spock's covered elbow, a subconscious gesture. "You must be cold, and I could use a drink."
What else might he do for him, if not to hold for him the offending accusation?
There is no point in denying that Spock would be among the first to vouch for him. There is little point at all in refuting the prospect that Spock would be the first too to turn Jim in if he had left him no choice of it. Spock has no doubt that Jim would do the same without exception, but Spock never had cause to believe that Jim would betray them. He never had cause to believe that Jim would ever place himself before the lives on his ship, as much as Spock fumbled over his explanations when Jim called him on the same, stubborn methods.
It had not prevented him from doing so again, but it did make him more cautious. And so too it had made Jim, if Spock’s blatant indication he should lead by such an example.
Jim, this Jim, beside him settles in ways familiar to him. Increment by increment, though the tension lives within. He sees it lessen at the corners of his eyes, at the square of his jaw, and Spock almost finds himself leaning into the tap at his elbow. A part of him had missed the casual way Jim had circled him, the idle squeeze of his bicep and the grasp of a shoulder. That he cannot immediately rein in instinctive shift pulls him from his own tumult, his focus sharpening as Jim reels him in. He does not jerk back, does not act as though skittish quarry in the vast dunes of Vulcan, but he does seem to hold himself back. Just enough.
“I am adequate,” he says, after a moment. It is not a “no” to his suggestion he is getting cold, but he can tolerate it. Never mind the way his fingers shade a fainter olive against the brisk ocean winds. He moves, finally, to tuck the parchment into the pocket of his regulation dress pants. “But, I have been supplied living quarters for the duration.”
Hope is an emotion he had come to be plagued by, but there is no current suggestion that a “return” is impossible. As he steps gradually out of Jim’s orbit, he knows he’ll find himself falling back into pace with him. The walk is a short one, not long past docks and only just into the city that is allocated for residential units, but the alley that Spock guides neatly toward still has a plain view of the ocean. Shacks change into smaller houses and from there, townhouses. The one Spock eventually draws to a stop in front of is a quaint little thing, a buttery yellow against the run of greens and blues. The stairs up are a touch precarious, but no less charming for it.
For all the immediate interior is sparse and understated once Spock opens the door, there is evidence of the Vulcan that inhabits it. In the way the shoes are aligned in the stairwell, to the way his coat is neatly hung – it speaks of him. The scent of heady incense suffuses the heavy darkness as he makes his way up first, his palm instinctively finding the light switch. For all he might wander through without impediment, he knows that Human eyes lack the necessary adaptation. Jim is no child of the desert, of the nights that unfolded with nary a hint of the sun. Spock had never known how bright evening could be, barring the rare spill of liquid stars across the horizon, until he had arrived in San Francisco. There, the nights were short and the lighting brilliant. The bay flickered with the pulse of life in the dorms, solar fixtures and antique lamps glowing as Terran fireflies across the rippling distance.
He does not think to ask Jim if he should like the temperature lowered as he passes the old thermostat on the way to the landing. Instead, he instinctively kicks it down to long negotiated environmental baselines. Spock might always add layers, after all, should he need it.
“As I believe the saying goes,” Spock says as he finally reaches the top of the stairs, turning first to let Jim cross as he wishes into the apartment with the slight upward twitch of a brow, “you are welcome to make yourself at home.”
It is not the housing Starfleet provides planet side, but it is not by any means the worst either have stayed in. The square footage certainly beats out the rooms in Enterprise by a wide margin, the largely open floor plan lost to many accustomed to tighter prospects. For Spock, he has learned to ease into the space afforded. A woven area rug breaks the division from the small living room to the kitchen, the wooden floors halting and continuing past the old-world appliances. Two doors sit to the right, the one left ajar revealing the vague impression of a bedroom cast in a comforting grey of the dim. The wide window toward the front of the apartment is not wholly unadorned, the thin curtains pulled back to display the glittering roll of repurposed glassware. Young, green trimmings extend from their fine necks, their new roots growing slow and sure.
As he leaves Jim to explore at his leisure, Spock does not disguise his intent. He busies himself with procuring glasses from the wooden cabinets, filling a thrifted kettle he had found at the market. Any such drinks that Jim may have wanted are (unsurprisingly) absent, but Spock had never known Jim any teas he prepared for him. The caffeine would do neither any good this evening, and so Spock opts for a blend he himself preferred before meditation. (And if his mother may have once prepared for him the same blend on such trying occasions? Well, there’s little need to make mention of it.)
Spock will dip for a moment into the bedroom once he’s settled the kettle on the antiquated stove, but Jim might note in his wanderings a tidy pile of electronics. They rest at one end of a modest couch, the guts of one contraption strewn about the squat coffee table arranged before it. For all it looks like projects taken up and forgotten, the floor lamps in the unit are arranged just so to see with clarity the fine wiring and the outdated components. Underneath the sprawl, if Jim cares to be particularly attentive, is a stack of written correspondence. In varied, hurried script there are thanks and payments and the eager acceptance of some barter or another that Spock had offered in exchange for this apartment. And yet, only one note bears Spock’s penmanship. Neat rows of numbers march across the sheet he’s spared for himself in perfect, rigid sequence.
When the kettle begins its whistle high and sharp and tuneless, Spock has already emerged again. He knows Jim as one not to be taken off guard, so he makes no effort to announce himself as he draws up beside him. That is, if one discounts the way that Spock sees it fit to hold out a neat bundle of clothing to him.
“I assumed you may wish to change,” he says, by way of explanation. He looks softer than he did a scant few moments ago, dressed down in dark civilian clothes. The sea air makes the neat lay of his hair defiant, sends its ends curling about the pointed tips of his ears. He inclines his head, less indication than it is habit. “The shower runs parallel to the kitchen.” He doesn’t pause, as much as he gives further information. He had always known Jim to use water wherever possible instead of the sonics, but such a luxury was not often made accessible even to captains. Flagship or no, sensualism was not a concern of the resource budget. “You’ll need to give it time to warm.”
As much as Spock might indicate that it is illogical to have a preference such as this, it is not to say that he did not tend to use water himself when permitted. It was a minor perk amid the insult of the situation. And yet, in some respects, it too has not been the worst he’s endured. He calculates with a reasonable 99.7% certainty that the same might be said for this Jim. At least their captors provided a decent model of hospitality.
“The tea will be ready once you have finished.”
As if he anticipated the question (he did), he provides it.
He thinks it better to talk further once Jim has had a touch more time to process.
Edited (the worst when i squint and am like yes one extra word again) 2024-04-26 01:14 (UTC)
People liked to say that Vulcans were unfeeling, and perhaps Jim had fallen prey to believing that stereotype - at least in part - once upon a time. But he has since experienced Spock's kindness on numerous occasions - witnessed firsthand his surprisingly deep well of compassion, his intuition for what those around him need, given freely if it's within his power. In this, they are remarkably in tune with one another - when they're not throwing each other around the bridge, that is. They mesh well, and more than that - they're definitely not afraid to call each other out on their bullshit, which is a vital quality for any command team.
Case in point, Spock's report that had nearly ended in a court martial for Jim. He'd been angry at the time - less so because of the report and moreso because of Spock's lack of remorse, his lack of understanding. Still, with years of distance between then and now - Jim understands why he did it, and he wouldn't have Spock change his ways, no matter how pissed off he'd been in the moment.
"Adequate is not satisfactory to my personal requirements, Commander." Jim can't help but smile - even with everything, Spock was still Spock, and the relief of that immutable fact was something Jim sorely needed right now. The parchment disappears into Spock's pocket, and Jim pushes it out of his mind. Right. Back on track. It would cease to matter if they found a way home, right?
They wind their way back into town, Jim falling into step beside Spock, taking in the seaside city. They don't go far, not even getting near the streets that must lead to the town center; clustered buildings cozied against one another, smaller seaside shanties giving way to one-story houses, then the larger, built-up townhouses. No one seems to pay them any mind, the few souls that they pass, heads down as the temperature begins to change; atmospheric pressure drop from whatever is rolling in by the shore. The place Spock leads him to is...well, not quite the abode he would have expected, with weather-faded yellow and trim to match.
"Mi casa es su casa, I thank you kindly; though I must say, jail is cozier than I remember," Jim snorts, because he has no idea what the alternative is if he doesn't joke about their situation. The interior is just as quaint as the exterior, though it's clear Spock has moved in about as much as can be considered "moving in" for a Vulcan. The incense smells nice - not quite the same as what his Spock used on the Enterprise, but close enough in a pinch - if a bit strong, and Jim tries to suppress the sneeze it triggers. He fails, covering the choked off sound with the crook of his arm, body shuddering with the involuntary motion. "Sorry, you know. Allergic to everything under the sun, and then some."
The noticeable warmth of the place, no doubt calibrated to Spock's usual preferences, is not unpleasant after being out in the sea breeze for the duration of their conversation. Jim rubs his hands together to warm them while Spock moves about the space, taking everything in, gaze darting to the kitchen: squashy living room furniture that Jim very much doubts Spock had a hand in picking out, the peek of a duvet from the darkened doorway of what Jim would assume is the bedroom, wood-paneled cabinets to match the flooring that stops just before shifting into linoleum, tying the two rooms together. He can't help but be reminded of the farmhouse he spent his adolescence in, and he looks away, trying to remember the last time he was actually in a house; wondering if it was, indeed, the farmhouse.
"What horticulture are we experimenting with?" Jim can't help but ask - it's likely Spock hears him, even in the other room, but he won't be offended if the question is taken as rhetorical. He squats next to the window to examine the plants, wondering if Spock has identified them yet, and if they're at all similar to anything else they've encountered before. This place felt very akin to Earth, but that didn't mean that it actually was, necessarily.
Also - Jim would just like to say, for the record, that his green thumb jokes were entirely wasted on Spock, so he had learned to keep them to himself.
There's a pile of bits and bobs, as Scotty would say, sitting innocently on the low coffee table, and Jim cranes his neck to eye it surreptitiously. He's reasonably sure Spock wouldn't mind if he looked, but he also doesn't want to mess up whatever it is he's doing. There's a pile of notes, Spock's neat scrawl covering the sheaf of pages - and now he really is invading Spock's privacy, though he can't help the curiosity. Something about a payment - a receipt? Something to do with the electronics, maybe? - and numbers that Jim doesn't have enough time to make sense of. He can hear Spock moving closer, presumably to the bedroom from the kitchen, and Jim turns away, anxious, not wanting to get caught - er, snooping, even inadvertently.
He circles the room twice, cataloging the furnishings; the shelves, adorned with knick-knacks Jim can only assume came with the place, an armchair by the window with a knit pillow. A painting of a sailboat, braving roiling waters, perched on the wall. He spares a moment to reach out and touch it, unable to help his mild awe at the fact that it has texture. It's a real painting and not a duplication - oil, perhaps? - the brushstrokes visible as he moves closer to it, paint expertly fashioned in the crests of the waves.
That's how Spock will find him, stroking the painting on the wall, eyes alight. Jim turns, accepting the clothes with a blink, hands already moving to the thick sweater Spock's providing him with on instinct. It's not often than Jim's seen Spock out of uniform - very infrequently, actually, though they ostensibly share a bathroom (he says ostensibly because, generally, Spock is done by the time Jim returns at night, and equally as up and prepared by the time Jim stumbles out of bed in the morning) - though the same cannot be said for Jim's state of dress, most of the time.
Spock looks - different. The harshness of his stance muted, almost - nothing can mute Vulcan cheekbones, but the ramrod straightness of his posture is hidden when not highlighted by the planes of the Starfleet uniform. "Is that your way of telling me I smell like the bottom of a boat?"
His smile softens the jest, and he nods, stepping around the couch to head to the shower Spock had indicated. "Thanks. I'll be out in a jiff."
The bathroom is just as old-fashioned as the rest of the house; an antique mirror mounted over the sink, an actual shower with a tub lip Jim will have to step over to enter it. He does as bid, turning on the water and allowing it to heat; something he hasn't done, again, since his time in Iowa. He removes his uniform, taking the time to fold it while the water heats; in part because he doesn't have another, and also because he doubts Spock would care for it very much if he left his clothes crumpled, as is typical of his own quarters (he cleans up when Spock comes over for chess, mostly so he doesn't get the really-are-you-serious? eyebrow raise of doom, and by clean up he means kicks yesterday's uniform under his bed). His mama didn't really raise him, but contrary to popular belief, Jim does possess manners that he occasionally chooses to exercise.
The shower heats, and Spock will probably hear the muffled cursing that follows when Jim discovers he's accidentally set it too hot.
When he emerges, hair still damp, cheeks a ruddy pink, he feels suitably warmed again, having chased away the chill from earlier. He had let the rhythm of the water numb him, feeling slightly more equalized by the time he returns to Spock. Humans could be funny that way - it seems Spock's had practice hitting the reset-Jim-Kirk button. The sweater is comfortable, a light brown color, though he has the sleeves rolled up and a pad of fabric bunched near his waist; while they're close enough in height, Jim is not quite as built as his Vulcan friend, more wiry muscle than anything else. He pads into the kitchen, noting with interest the old-school appliances.
"Is that a gas stove?" Not that Jim's ever had much mind for cooking, but he did like messing around in the scrapyard, when he was a boy. He resists the urge to poke at it, eyes trailing to the small fridge tucked into the wall. "Woah, a condenser fridge! Haven't seen one of these in years."
Any such conversation carried on the walk or about the apartment is a means to settle them both, it would seem. Spock had long grown accustomed to Jim’s method of processing, knowing the subtle tilt of his head or the cut of a glance would suffice by way of answering him. If pressed, Spock would find himself without cause to vocalize any distaste of the method. It was practical, logical even – it allowed Spock to understand him, the way his mind sparked thought and carried it through into action. He had never tired of it.
As Jim makes his way through typical routines, Spock finds a quiet gratification in steeping the tea for him. It has been quite some time since Spock has had access to fresh ingredients and its awakening profile as he pours the water over is a bright, sharp tang against the air of the apartment.
The subsequent mumblings and profanities that rise from the background do not surprise as he marks an internal count, moves to place the kettle back on the stove once he empties it. He had always known Jim to be one who stumbled about in the small hours, occasionally awoken by the impetuous to get a drink or stretch his legs. It was not uncommon to hear him trip over his own vestments, discarded as they are likely to be on the head’s floor. Spock would inevitably pick them up later – if he made a comment about it? It depended.
He's just strained the leaves from the cups as Jim emerges, dressed down as he is. The sweater and pants he had loaned him are among the most comfortable articles he’s acquired, though they are thin. Spock had found them to be not warm enough to be worn alone and thus, it made sense to supply them to him.
At Jim’s loosened posture, Spock suppresses the instinctive uptick at the corner of his lips. It does nothing for the way that something at the corners of his eyes soften.
“Affirmative,” Spock says, without missing a beat as Jim crosses his way into the kitchen. He places his own mug to the left of himself, holds Jim’s own with an unspoken patience. The sweeter smell is likely to indicate what it is before Jim ever tastes it, though it tempers itself against the lack of any additives. Chamomile, Spock remembers readily, had always been a shared preference.
“I recall your mention of a similar unit.” Spock watches as Jim eyes the upcycled refrigerator, not at all concerned for its state and meagre contents should Jim choose to explore it. No doubt Jim knows what to expect of him: vegetarian cuisine, simple liquids. Nary an item, too, that may be consumed without the requisite cutlery. Vulcans had never been a race to eat with their fingers, much less Spock who endeavored to keep his hands clean unless necessitated. “You had indicated its continual propensity to form a fine layer of hoar along its evaporator coil. Subsequently, you were left to defrost it often.”
Spock, in other words, doesn’t trust it. He had been mindful to move all produce up to the front and away from any notable intake fans or faulty components, no amount of “charm” endearing him to it. Jim might have once claimed that it was an adequate consolation prize for maintaining an outdated dwelling, but Spock could never quite grasp with both hands the idea that any such item or object could hold sway over one’s most visceral emotions. At least, not in full. He had seen his mother engage in sentimentality on occasion, hidden from immediate purview. He had only been a child when he happened upon documentation of the first time his mother had met Sarek, the pressed petals of a night-blooming orchid in the valley of a sweeping script. His mother had reminded him later that evening that he should keep to his own spaces, but Spock had been a boy of insatiable curiosities. It had been time and the contempt of his peers that had hastened him to rein it.
Still, the tea he holds will cool and bitter if Jim does not drink it. If he allows Jim a further few moments of study and indulgence? Spock doesn’t aim to clarify. Instead, he clears his throat as the shadows begin their long, lean shift across the wooden floors. The day is dying and soon enough the cold will settle in in earnest.
“Jim.”
As before, Spock holds out an offering to him. The handle of the mug is turned to face him, Spock’s palm neatly cupping the curve of the heated porcelain. Where Jim carries the residual warmth of the shower, Spock spares him the discomfort of shifting the mug about in his grip.
It is the least he might do, if one considers comparative tolerances of their skin.
"Well, it's an antique, you can't expect it to not have its quirks." Jim opens the doors on the fridge with apparent relish; there's not much within, but he wasn't expecting there to be. He, for one, does not suppress his grin at the veggies lining the front of the shelf, leafy greens spilling over the edge. Another sign that's so typically Spock, it sets something at ease in his chest. "That's part of the appeal! Gives it personality, you know?"
He very much doubts that Spock knows, though perhaps he's well familiar with Jim's tendency towards anthropomorphizing machines and items. He always refers to the Enterprise as their lady, though he's yet to catch his Spock accepting the pronoun (it's a matter of time, Jim will break him down). He'd won a particularly memorable chess game the night that he'd insisted on naming all of the pieces, much to Spock's consternation - not that Jim thinks his First Officer would admit it, but he's pretty sure playing up the "illogical" nature of his behavior had thrown someone off his groove. What? He couldn't let 'Chekov' be captured, pawn or not.
"And the freezer works! This thing is pristine." Nothing gets him like tinkering, opening and closing the freezer drawer with interest. "Vodka out of an ice chest, Mr. Spock, is one of life's rare, perfect pleasures."
Again, he doesn't expect Spock to agree with him (if Spock agrees with him more than three times a day, standing orders on the bridge are to assume he's been bodysnatched), but Jim's smile signals his friendly teasing. This is just what they do; they're both on the same page about that.
Jim's eye is drawn away from the appliance to his friend, holding out the tea, and the whole picture strikes him as wildly domestic. Spock, for all his inflexible edges, shouldn't conceivably fit in a rustic kitchen. Perhaps it's the absence of the Science blues, by virtue of being dressed down; but if Jim's being honest, that's an excuse. Something about - the way Spock's looking at him, the way he took such care to prepare the tea, the way he's made this place his home with touches that might not amount to much of an intrusion but that all scream Spock - something about this Spock is different. He...fits, here.
Jim's been staring a beat too long, processing this. He shakes himself out of it, accepting the handle of the mug, the fragrant tea within, remembering only at the last minute to be careful not to brush Spock's fingers. Jim passed his cultural sensitivity seminars twice - once for the requirement, and a second time to make sure it stuck - but with Spock, sometimes he's guilty of forgetting. Not forgetting really but - they spend so much time together, Jim supposes he's just gotten comfortable with him. Spock makes allowances for him, too, he knows; Jim's a tactile guy, and sometimes it's just an instinct.
But still - his hands. Jim tries his best not to forget that, unless it's life or death.
"Thank you, Spock." Jim says quietly, matching Spock's soft tone, meeting his gaze head on with clear blue. The freakout on the docks seems distant, more settled. Hard to imagine it was so dire when they're here, for lack of a better term, cozy.
"You've been keeping busy," He wraps his hands around the mug, one finger idly tapping against the side. Jim blows gently over the surface of the tea, steam rising up to his face before dissipating. He nods, over towards Spock's projects, dotting the living room on the other side of the rug divide. "Anything fascinating, as of late?"
Spock's favorite word; at least, that's what Jim called it. But it's clear from the shine in his eyes, as he takes a sip of the tea, that he's genuinely interested. Despite the banter between them, they both shared another passion - the unending thirst for knowledge. It's a large part of what sent them chasing stars in the first place.
It should not be the balm that it is, to have any such iteration of his captain held within the sparse rooms he had come to call “home” within recent weeks. It should not be considered any of the conflicting adjectives that bubbled up to the surface, effervescent. Spock had always relegated his lot to remaining alone, to being alone. He had always known himself as a singular, never a plural. No matter his bids to adhere and mold and practice, he would always be othered. And against the social structures and hierarchies that bound them as many, to want when on the fringe was not considered an option. He took what he had, for so long uncertain of the space he was permitted to occupy in the chatter of the halls and the mess. Spock was competent, knew himself to be as such, but it won as many disappointments as it did endearments.
Jim had never minded. He spoke to Spock as though he were a part, not apart. He listened to him, greeted him with the turn of his head and the bloom of a smile. It was once a matter of deep conflict, to find himself reaching out yet again. To find himself waiting on the other side of the threshold, waiting for an opportunity to show the breadth of what another had done to him.
Spock is aware of Jim’s care in moving about him as he remarks on the anticipated points of “charm” the otherwise understated appliances provide. Spock listens, quirks a brow incrementally at the mention of vodka from the freezing unit, and perhaps makes note to find an adequate handle from one of the trade ships. They had been providing any number of most peculiar artifacts and items since the switch. Notably, none of what Spock currently stowed in his apartment were among the newer selection. If he adds a note of “I would not know, Captain” among the commentary, and certainly in response to the supposition that such appliances have “personalities”? Spock won’t admit to falling into the familiarity of old habits.
The silence that eventually settles between them is natural, as it so often is. The quiet way he studies Spock as turns from his explorations is not uncomfortable, but rather a known. Often, Spock finds himself wondering what the captain is searching for when he scans his face in such a way, but he does not allow himself the luxury to think of what he might find there. Still – Spock meets his gaze readily, unflinchingly. He notes the way Jim makes concessions for his differences, though he finds the increased probability of idle pats on the shoulder and taps on the elbow not entirely… Unpleasant.
But the moment ends. And so, Spock turns to pick up his tea with some minor play at consideration.
"I should assume it depends upon your definition, Captain."
There is a faint glimmer of amusement in the dark of his eyes, the hint of something deeper just beyond the precipice. For all that he claims neither to hold nor possess emotion, he knows that Jim has always drawn them up as though loose sand in the fist. He had always carried them so lightly, letting the grains of his shame and his regard slip free without much more than casual comment. It had taken time for Spock to lean into the concept that the captain could be to him Jim. James, perhaps, in the quieter moments. On planets without name or precedent, beneath the cusp of an ion storm – he never pressed Spock for more than he might feasibly give to him. And Spock would give, readily, the foundations of what was and would be shifting minutely alongside the tenants of logic.
But then, Spock is tilting his head. He regards Jim for a moment, the warm vestiges of oceanic sun staining him ever more golden. There is much to miss about the curious facets that make up the hazel of Human eyes, but the blue is no longer a stranger to him. If Spock were prone to such admittances, the subtle greens that thread through makes base for familiarity – the quick wit and determination that strikes up from within, a constant.
The corners of his mouth twitch up, a ghost of what might be a smile, before he leads on into the narrow living space with the turn of his shoulder. He has always been sure of his footing, quieter than most on the ship, and he concerns himself first with clearing from the coffee table and the couch the abstracted mosaic of projects and electronics. His mug is placed upon one of the coasters he procures from a shallow bin beneath the low coffee table, the pieces and parts of his experiments and commissions soon occupying the spaces cleared within and behind them. When ample room is available now to them both, Spock idles amid the overstuffed furnishings and awaits Jim’s pick.
Whatever space Jim does deem satisfactory to occupy, thereafter, Spock will opt for himself. He does not curl his legs up under himself, but it is a near thing. After weeks spent in the heat of this apartment, he had grown accustomed to no longer wearing the thin thermal layers beneath his clothing.
“As you no doubt surmised, Aldrip’s computational devices are utilized as listening devices,” he starts. There was a reason he left his bag in the closet downstairs with the tablet muffled within it. “I have discovered several exploits over the course of my detainment, chiefly those which provide means to evade immediate and universal translation. However, I hypothesize there is nothing to prevent the construction of unique technologies. I intend to solicit volunteers who would be amenable to acquiring necessary components.”
He leaning forward, he picks up his mug. He does not blow on it as Jim did before he takes an idle sip of tea, the heat of it already turning the tips of his fingers a subtler shade of olive. Though his gaze lingers in the spaces beside Jim, his attention never wavers from what has been asked of him. He knows Jim is much like himself in this way, his devotion to the cause absolute and boundless. He blinks once, cat-like, as the last of the sunlight dips below the horizon.
The snow in Aldrip seems to have come to a standstill in recent weeks, but the weather had yet to turn into anything resembling pleasant. Like the nights on Vulcan, Aldrip’s evenings raced cold and long. But, never dark. Never truly, with the moon fixed and static. As though a single, silvery eye against the hole-punched heavens, Spock had watched it rise many a time in silence. But now?
Spock has always been an essential part of the team, in Jim's eyes. The bridge hadn't felt right without him, when Jim had first assumed command of the Enterprise, and after Spock had returned, it had clicked into place like the missing piece of the puzzle. Jim knew that others found their Vulcan crew member intimidating; in part because of the nature of his proclivity for blunt logic, but also because he was formerly their academy instructor. He'd tried explaining this to Spock once, but he'd received in return the Head Tilt of Puzzlement, and dropped it. Yes, it was illogical as he was no longer their instructor; no, that didn't actually make much of a difference.
Luckily, their senior officers didn't have this problem; Uhura certainly didn't, and anytime Jim might have worried about his friend, he'd reassured himself that Spock was fine; he might not need the extended social circle that a lot of people did, but he had Jim, Uhura; he ate with them in the mess and let himself be dragged along to Scotty's Warp Core Pub Quiz.
Intimidation was one thing, but Jim couldn't imagine anyone getting to know Spock and not liking him. He had his quirks, but don't they all? Like he said, it's all part of the appeal.
Spock meets his gaze so easily; Jim knows he's often the first one to look away. The same can be said here, with this Spock; he's not nearly so different, whatever their lived experiences may be. Steady, capable; solid, even when the world feels like it's crumbling. Jim looks away because he has to; because he knows Spock won't.
"I'm more interested in your definition." Jim hums quietly, savoring the tea. It's no surprise Spock remembered his preference, unable (though willing, as necessary) to stomach stronger flavors. Chamomile is a median between them; floral and mellow, a honey-like sweetness that's not too sweet for Vulcan tastebuds, but that Jim also doesn't have to dump spoonfuls of sweetener into. Balanced, between them.
Spock's eyeing him in a way that strikes up mild self-consciousness, but Jim quells it, as he's so used to doing. That's just the way Spock was, computations and evaluations always running, determining the next logical response. Faced with Jim's bold humanity, sometimes it's even fun to watch - though based on today, with the, frankly, gentle way Spock is handling him (and okay, Jim can't blame him - prison planet, chased-by-locals, mild anxiety attack on the beach, time travel parallel universe shenanigans - it's a lot), Jim wouldn't be surprised if the Commander was trying to determine how best to get him to agree to a nap.
Jim trails after him into the next room, dim sunlight filtering in through the curtains as the sun dips, presumably behind a building across the road. Spock tidies, and Jim doesn't bother telling him he doesn't need to; he takes up at one end of the couch, crossing his legs and folding them tailor-style, with his foot tucked up against his knee. He leans on it, still cradling the tea close, trying and failing not to smile when he sees Spock setting a coaster for himself.
"Have you swept the house?" Jim asks, eyes flitting to scan the room again in a new light. He presumes so, but then again, technology was relatively primitive here; if there were bugs in the living accommodations, they might need to be found manually. "Monitoring. Hm. Hope they're not looking for a confession."
Though again - why? Why let them have the appearance of freedom at all? Curiouser and curiouser.
"You want to build a dark web." At that, Jim can't help but grin, eyebrows rising up towards his hair. "After all the shit you gave me about cheating - that's fantastic. Were you able to crib the base operating system?"
Or maybe Spock hasn't gotten that far yet, Jim had intentionally not snooped too far into his notes, after all. He leans back against the arm of the couch, unable to sit still, swirling the tea idly in his mug. "Well, if you want any assistance with that, you know I'm good for it."
The sun continues to dip, lower and lower, the hazy orange light giving way to grey, then slowly, the inkiness of black and blue. He wonders if there are stars - or perhaps Aldrip has too much light pollution? If there are - perhaps they would recognize some of them.
Or maybe this quadrant of space is unrecognizable; Jim probably shouldn't be surprised, if that's the (likely) case.
Spock considers it in part the fault of his upbringing, the unique sequence of his being. Vulcans were not ones to shy away from direct observation, but Spock’s mind always worked two steps ahead of where it needed to be. Where he would consider and discard the evidence at hand, he would often weigh in the current presentation of the individual before him. Humans found it most unsettling. And so, Spock in part only curbed it enough to resemble the rest of his perceived kin. To Spock, rank and academics and species meant nothing against what was offered to others.
But, it did not mean that Spock was ignorant. It did not mean he did not expect prejudice, the heavier hand of some judgement cast upon a perceived failure by birth or experience. For all there was cruelty, there too was light.
As they both settle into their respective positions, Spock observes Jim loosely. His respiration has leveled, and his body has released any residual adrenaline. Spock finds the results satisfactory.
“By my estimations,” Spock begins, the gloaming cutting silvery and deep across the high points of his face, “if one discounts the provided portable devices, there are none.”
It should not be such a declaration, but there it is. Were it a typical scenario, Spock would have had the probability down to the nearest decimal. However, as Jim already suspects, there is nothing about their present circumstances that rests upon the familiar and the mundane. While such novelty was expected upon Starfleet’s designated flagship, there is a distinct otherness that pervades the bindings of the world that threads itself about them. Where there is often objectivity and logic, there is something that falls apart around the seams, never quite unknotting no matter how Spock approaches it. It does not deter him, of course. Not in the least. It is one thing to be wise, it is quite another to be persistent. Stubborn, as Jim once called him. But, when presented with an issue, who was he to rest when he could otherwise assist? Who was he to ignore what could feasibly be broken open, the occupants released (if they wanted to be, if they could be) from the depths of their entanglement?
It pleases him no more than any to think he may be a run at a game, a perfect synaptic copy. If this is so— well, Jim will know the details later. Spock is never one to leave him without the exacts at hand, the breadth and scope with which to make his own judgements. He often finds himself gratified to know that, in absence of agreement, Jim lays a path for further considerations. Jim’s empathy is a strength, his ability to forge connections across time and space – a virtue. And, quietly, Spock sometimes turns over within himself the buried seeds of sentimentality and superstition, thinks of himself as perhaps lucky to be faced with one who extends such undue gentleness to one who cannot ask at all.
Spock considers the phrasing Jim uses, though his mind hinges on any number of facts in the interim. He needn’t long to determine the best way to lay his statements, but there is the glimmer of movement beneath the impassivity. It comes first with the upward flick of his gaze, the minute tip of his chin. He rolls through the whole of the thought, shoulders dipping and fingers flexing about the body of the mug. He arches a brow, almost more to himself, the degree bordering on initial consternation before approaching something resembling clarity.
He leans forward, spine straight and feet resting neat against the floorboards. He places his mug upon the coaster that he’s left upon the coffee table, but never quite moves to settle back against his seat again. Instead, he opts to rest his arms across the bridge of his knees. He steeples his fingers, one shoulder dropping just so without true noticing. He nods once (or more, inclines his head) in acceptance of the offer and the company that is inevitably provided.
“That would be acceptable,” he says, not at all having to think Jim’s involvement over any further. He knows Jim is, as he says, good for it. He suspects that he may not have kept such an experiment from Jim if he wanted to. It is a fact of Jim that Spock has both come to admire and disdain. “And I suppose that is an adequate approximation. However,” Spock pauses, his gaze skimming back to Jim as he keeps stock of how much he drinks. Spock had learned early to make more of everything he expected he may desire, given its lack of immediacy. Aldrip was many things, but the 23rd century it was not (currently).
“Captain,” he starts again, with a barely disguised tinge of curiosity. To another ear, it would slip by without consequence. But here, the word rounds at the corners. It becomes softer in the mouth and on the tongue. “I don’t recall your ever having cheated me in such a fashion.”
He doesn’t and wouldn’t, he thinks. Since he might have formed the capacity to remember at all, Spock had never been one to forget something he wished to hold onto. Most often, it became burdensome when he couldn’t. And so, perhaps this too is another difference. Minor on the surface, but wholly important enough that Jim cannot help but indicate the possibility of hypocrisy.
"Well, there's some good news. We've got enough problems without the surveillance state," Accurate percentages or not, Jim is content to take the win where he can get it. He sighs, propping his chin in his free hand, fingers extended to rub at his temple. Spock is caught in a ray of fading light from the gap in the curtains, and Jim is trying his best not to acknowledge how striking a picture it makes. He blames the stress - why else would his brain glom onto the details? Spock's fingers faintly tinged green from the warmth of his cup, the way his hair fluffs up around the points of his ears, where the wind and sea air has forced it out of its usual neat style. It feels almost too private, seeing him so dressed down and...relaxed, honestly, is the best approximation of a word Jim can akin it to.
The notion that this place is a simulation is both worrisome and relieving, in a number of ways. Worrisome that it's such an effective sim; the seams, so to speak, are well hidden, the world around them tangible - so if it's a sim, it's an advanced one, and that's the trouble. Could they break out, if it had something to do with an upload of their consciousness? Where were their bodies - unless they were simply copies, being toyed with? Problems to set aside, once they had an actual way to determine what they were dealing with - hence the dark web project. He's following Spock's train of thought, and this is where the relief comes in - if it's a sim, it's run by a computer, and there's no computer in the world that can't be hacked. Certainly no computer that can withstand the both of them.
Jim's mind is already running, wishing he'd taken a closer look at the papers. Of course, an unmonitored line of communication had other uses in the interim, too, while they tried to divine the true nature of Aldrip - a privilege that might prove too dangerous, he thinks, considering again what Spock told him about the bombing attempt. Hm. Another angle to consider. Real or not (and there was the possibility that it still was real), pain and suffering should be minimized or avoided wherever possible.
Spock shifts, setting down his tea to adopt his Thinker pose - yes, that's what Jim was going to call it, no, he would not admit it, even though it pulled a small smile out of him that he dutifully hid against the rim of his glass, sipping his own beverage as cover. The way Spock says Captain is almost enough to set him blushing, though any such changes in his complexion he will, inevitably, blame on the warmth of the tea - but again, it feels gentle, private; as it always does, perhaps, but the intimate, cozy setting has given it a new undertone. Jim once again, ignores it - just his human mind playing tricks on him, ascribing tenor where there is none, he's sure.
"Ah, Spock," Jim runs a hand over the top of his head, messing his damp hair. He peers up at him, equally as curious, though there is the lingering apprehension that it may be better not to know. Still - Jim never was good at quelling those impulses. "We met later for you, didn't we? I keep forgetting."
"You were an instructor at the Academy when we met," Jim gesticulates while he talks, motioning between them with one hand and reaching over to set aside the tea with the other - he doesn't set it on the coffee table, or the side table, but rather balances it on the squashy arm of the couch. "You programmed a Command training exercise called the Kobayashi Maru, and I installed a subroutine in the program to change the parameters."
"In my defense, I'd already taken it twice as intended and passed," Jim raises a hand jokingly, as if he expects Spock to take the same position his counterpart had and react with the stern disapproval that amounted to Vulcan outrage. "So this was more about proving a point than 'cheating', but I don't think you cared much for my distinction."
"Called an entire academic tribunal," At this, Jim laughs and shakes his head, adjusting his position on the couch to sit up more. The tea wavers, but does not spill. "That's how I know you were pissed, then I was pissed...probably would have decked you for the comment you made about my dad, if I wasn't staring down the admiralty."
"And if it wouldn't have broken my hand," Jim allows, still snickering to himself. It's clear he considers the incident in the past, able to look back on it with a different lens and move past any offense that was given, by either of them. He swipes the tea off the arm of the couch again, cradling it between his hands. "Just strikes me as ironic, Commander, that such a point of contention is proving to be a boon, now."
"Indeed," Spock intones, dry in the way that Jim would recognize as his manner of play. It is a game, as much as Spock would never admit it. White or black, pawn or king - Jim never calls him on it, so Spock keeps on continuing. Around and around they go.
But, for the moment, there is time and (ample) daylight in the coming hours to consider the ramifications of their strategy. He knows they will both argue the finer points of it, later smooth over the disagreements. He knows that one or the other will come to another conclusion. He knows, too - Spock watches Jim, watches the way Jim watches him. Humans had a most curious quirk of biology, one that they had never quite mastered as most Vulcans did. For all the moons that sluiced through the nights, it never seemed to dampen Jim. All that is washed away in others is highlighted. Jim pinkens and Spock finds himself absently tracing the way it stains along his skin before he realizes what it is Jim is saying to him.
"I am not made of stone, Captain." It is a deflection, quick on its feet. His fingers twitch, an involuntary tap at the tips. Catching himself, he folds them primly.
That moment gives time to Spock to manage the tension of what remarkably resembles dread. Dread, at the concept that he would have ever said something like that to Jim. It pulls along his lungs acutely, prickles up the nape of his neck. He soldiers on ahead, Jim's gaze at once both hesitant and open. Never thereafter, he thinks. He thinks he would never have touched upon it again.
"Moreover, at that age, I do not believe you would have succeeded upon your intended warpath. I was not..." A glancing self-criticism. He was not... Reined in? Logical? Made to be reasoned with?
He was looser then, freer. Angry. He remembers himself as he was: bright in the eyes of the academy, awash with their acknowledgements and praise. And yet, at the end of the day, what good was it anyway? It had been years since he'd last spoke to his father. Each disappointment Spock brought to his door, it seemed only to multiply. And so too, did Spock's distaste for him. It had been one slight too many and his mother - there was no use in thinking of things that could not be undone. Shame might be as it is, but he lets it slide along muscle and bone. If it trips along the eaves of his ribs, he lets it. Whatever branch had been extended before his detainment, it had not yet borne fruit.
"If it is as you say, I would have indeed known myself to be less open to..." His mouth downturns, almost imperceptibly. Upon another, it might be called a minor twitch of the lip, but upon Spock? It looks almost sullen. Abashed, maybe. "More creative methods."
Philosophies, even. He knows now that despite all of his more logical constructions and protestations, Jim plays fast and loose with the probable and the possible. If no one else could break free of the perceived realities that ensnared them, it would be Jim at the end that held aloft the proverbial key.
It would have infuriated him, back then. It would have been enough to send him, most certainly, to calling a tribunal. It surprises him very little, sitting here and now, that Jim Kirk was able to rile him so. It would have been as though sand in the wounds left by his father, a proof that those who taunted him were right in their say. Spock would not have viewed it as an unconventional solution, though it was. He would not have considered the occasional (and reluctant) admittance that forays into intuition and empathy could have their advantages.
And yet, Jim knew the spirit of the practice. Fear was in his vocabulary, but so too was unerring persistence. He found it curious that he had programmed such a penultimate test, never had once having taken it himself. But, he too supposes he can see where he might have. If placed up to it, he would have done so without complaint.
Even so, it is difficult to remain in any such state (and which? Spock discards any such emotional implication) when Jim flits within the spaces he occupies. In this way, Spock is again reminded of the stars at warp and the stretch of silvered wings in Vulcan's black nights. The turn of his laughter knocks free any remaining sense of guilt, the injury molded and mended in turn. Spock (that Spock) was young then, as was he. He knows any such further admissions would be discarded and forgiven.
Lightening, Spock allows himself to again take up his tea. If it has cooled past his preferences, Spock takes no notice. He is warmed by the taste of it, eased by the way Jim fits within Aldrip's walls with his usual spirit. Hair mussed and eyes bright, it is had been some time since Spock had last seen anyone share such emotions so openly with him. It startles the rabbit-run that his heartbeat, makes it tumble over itself despite his say-so
Ah, there's the Spock sass he knows so well. Jim settles into a smirk, eyeing Spock over the rim of his cup. Yes, numerous problems - starting with the fact that they had each been seemingly plucked out of separate timelines, if they were, indeed, the versions of themselves they purported to be. Jim's going to focus on what he can fix, though, and obstinately ignore what he can't.
"No," Jim agrees, fingers tapping idly against the side of his mug, a nonsensical rhythm, fidgeting as he is so prone to doing. His eyes are alight with mirth, unnaturally blue, as he tilts his head at the Commander. "But your skull's thicker than my fist, trust me on that one."
It's clear it's a joke, that he doesn't mean physically, though he's sure Spock has some fact about Vulcan bone density and gravity effects he'll pull out of his ass, because he was just a bit persnickety that way. Jim watches him take in the information, gaze fixed on Spock's expression - which doesn't change so much as his aura changes. Despite the fact that Vulcans were supposed to have this profound emotional control, Jim often found that the best - and sometimes the only - way to read his First Officer was to watch, and to use his gut feeling, as opposed to rationalizing it. Not that he would ever tell Spock this - that he reads his human emotion first, and backs it up with logical observations later - but this methodology hasn't steered him wrong yet.
Case in point, he's pretty sure Spock is mildly unsettled by the information something that morphs into...embarrassment? Disapproval? A discontent, for sure, at his counterpart's actions. Hey, Jim can't pretend he was that proud of himself either - well, okay, he still thinks the test was bullshit and he stands by his so-called "cheating", but his other behavior...
Neither of them are so far removed from their youth as to disavow culpability, but Jim's 28 now - like, a whole 3 years older, would you look at that? In all seriousness, he's grown, as a person and as a Captain - he can admit when he was wrong.
His thoughts inadvertently return to the paper, evidence of his wrongdoing. Criminal negligence. He banishes it from his mind, watching Spock frown.
"It's all in the past. I wasn't exactly making it easy for you, either." Even within the farce of a test, Jim had flaunted the rules, mocked them. The reality of the threats they'd faced together on the Enterprise was rarely so cut and dry - there was a time for rules, for order, and a time for creativity and unconventional solutions.
Jim blows out a breath, settling back against the couch cushions, draining the last of his tea. "I understand what you were trying to teach me. I think maybe I always did, I just didn't want to admit it."
He did, of course he did. How could he not? His entire life had been people reminding him how his father had laid down on the wire and let 800 people crawl over him. When there's no other option - of course, you do what you must. The lives of the many outweigh the lives of the few - Jim's already lived this lesson, irradiating himself to the brink of death for his crew and the lives of those on the planet below. But if there's another option to consider, no matter how unconventional, they owe it to themselves to try.
"And I think you understand what I was trying to teach you." He smiles again, soft, encouraging. A promise that his universe's Spock had grown, too. The smile dims a little, a flicker that Jim doesn't pause to explain - but there was a reason Spock had grown, so fast and so early. My mother was Human, which makes Earth the only home I have left.
Jim shrugs it off, though perhaps his next question isn't quite as subtle as he'd have liked it to be; his gaze cuts down to his empty cup, which he busies himself with setting aside. "Enough about my universe. Tell me about - your Enterprise crew or...your planet, Vulcan."
There are many times that Spock would choose to pick up jests, to indulge in quips. It is part of what makes his interactions with Jim easy, that makes their teamwork so effective. He knows where to play into Jim’s whims, knows where to step back. He knows now, even though the retort about bone density is ready on the lips as Jim so likely expects, that it is time to hem himself in. The laughter and the ease fizzles, kicking cinders that follow the blackening smoke. Jim is deflecting, drawing away from the cusp of a greater conversation – and Spock lets him.
For all he is Vulcan, Spock might draw a bright line between the said and the unsaid, the division between the self and the soul. They both know more than the other lets on, both know less than what the other reveals. Were he one to indulge the fantastic and the ephemeral, Spock might suppose Jim houses the answers behind the cut of his teeth, the lessening curve of his smile.
“I do,” he tells him. It comes softer, like a prayer. It almost loses itself under the motion he undertakes, standing to collect Jim’s cup in the aftermath of his diversion. His long fingers settle as a net across the smooth lip, his own tea forgotten in favor of refilling his.
For all that Jim is never idle, Spock too never is. Jim may move through thought as one moves through music, as though a wave broke open across rockier shores, but he too carries it. He holds concept and question in the bob of a foot, the curl of arm. Spock had been as that once, motion for the sake of it, but how long ago had that been subsumed by expectation? How long had Spock learned to inundate intention with the prospect of purpose?
Spock does not let himself ruminate on it. Instead, he considers the pieces that Jim has parceled over to him as he busies himself in the kitchen. He knows Jim asks not for topography, statistics. He knows his request for information about the Enterprise is secondary to his request for information on Vulcan. To Spock, Jim affects the demeanor of one sifting their hands through the death of a fire, the ashes drawn up about their fingertips. Something precious has been knocked free about it, about Vulcan, and Jim is seeking where he otherwise cannot.
As Spock touches the backs of his knuckles to kettle to determine if the tea it holds is still hot, he thinks of how best to place it. He thinks of Jim as he knows him, as he knows him now, and draws his hand back from the kettle only to lift it.
“Without a moon, the nights on Vulcan are long and dark.”
He pitches his voice, just enough to be heard from Jim’s spot upon the couch. He pours from the kettle, refilling Jim’s cup, watching the liquid settle again against the rim. There is no sense in saving what remains for himself, half-drunk as his own cup is.
“When it is at its hottest, most return inside.” If Spock takes longer than necessary to tidy up, Spock does not a show of it. All items return to their designated places, his muted footfalls nearly masked by the faint clatter of dishes. “Shades are drawn, and curtains are loosened. If the season is right, the scent of the gardens will rise as the winds shift. Very little moves, until the stars begin to appear along the horizon.”
And then, and at once, Spock is back at Jim’s side as though he’d never left him. A shadow at the elbow, something to place a hand upon – he again holds out the mug to him, dark eyes darker under the weight of the settling night. He does not press Jim, knows better than to chase what Jim does not want to be found, but he wonders. He wonders, but then:
“I once told you of the birds that would sing then.” Once upon a time. In a city that never would be and never had been. Gentler, his gaze sliding off Jim’s shoulder and resting in the shadows that curve against the couch’s back, he appends: “It brought you peace.”
Why do you ask me about Vulcan, he thinks. Why do you ask, unless there is nothing to know?
This is where they understand each other, on a level unspoken. When to push and when to pull; Spock knows him better than anyone save Bones, which is not something Jim would have ever thought possible when they first met. And he, too, likes to think that he knows Spock in the same way; though there is always a part of Jim that wonders if he truly does know what goes on behind dark eyes, or if there are certain things that will always remain a mystery.
But it doesn't matter, really, the things they do or don't keep from each other. Jim knows Spock has his back, in the same way he would have Spock's - across dimensions, at this point. He trusts him, and moreover - he accepts Spock as he is, mysteries or not. Spock is his friend, and to Jim, his friends, his crew, are his family.
Still; Spock knows all of this, and lets Jim ease the way, no questions asked. He does not press at the bruise, if only to save them both the ache. Spock stands and collects his mug, to which Jim murmurs a thank you, shifting to fold his other leg underneath him instead.
What is he thanking him for? Maybe a bit of everything.
It's no surprise that Spock can suss out his true thoughts, though the circumstances behind them remain shrouded. Jim is good at a decent bluff, sure, but not like this. Not to him, and certainly not here, in the quiet comfort of Spock's living room, warm and weary from the day.
Yet, Spock is kind enough to let him have it anyway, the appearance that he's gotten away with it; he neatly cuts to the core of what Jim wanted to know, as if the question could ever be that simple. Guiltily, Jim knows this is a question he's not brave enough to ask his own Spock, and perhaps he's taking advantage by asking it of this Spock; there's a reason they don't talk about it, of course, Jim isn't suffering from lack of clarity. For all that Spock knows when not to push - it's a two-way street, and where Spock avoids a bruise, Jim avoids breaking a ribcage. To sate mere curiosity?
It's as unforgivable as to be unthinkable.
Perhaps it's deeper than curiosity, though, as Jim is so quick to write it off - perhaps it's a desire for connection, to know Spock more deeply; and maybe that's too human of him as to be acceptable in the context of their friendship, but he can't help it. Where Spock may have a choice to lean upon his Vulcan ancestry, Jim is only human. Spock has never rebuffed him for it, but Jim does his best not to press his luck.
Spock is quiet enough in the kitchen that Jim almost retracts the request, guilt washing over him, but the description captures his attention instantly. Perhaps, too, there is yet another layered reason; all he knows of Vulcan is its end, and that is no way to remember. It was beautiful, what he saw outside the window of the ship - or he thinks it would have been, had they not been dodging destroyed starship dishes, had adrenaline and horror not been overloading his nervous system. And then - falling, diving, fighting. Sulu and him, spinning thousands of feet above the surface, towards certain death - all he saw were the red rocks, the hot plasma in the bottom of the hole Nero had blasted.
He had never set foot on the planet, and then it was gone, all of...everything.
The Vulcan Spock describes is the one Jim wants to share, because he knows it deserves a better remembrance. Spock paints it so eloquently, too, cutting to the heart of the matter: an inky night sky covered in constellations of a different sector of the universe, no moon to interrupt the tableau. That was one of Jim's favorite things, whenever they had the chance to indulge; looking at a foreign night sky, tracing the familiar constellations, and mapping out the new ones. Where they'd head next, if he had any say in it - further, farther, faster.
The Vulcan botanical gardens had been purported to be some of the most beautiful in that quadrant of the galaxy, if Jim is recalling correctly, housed in an encased, glass greenhouse on the grounds of the Vulcan Science Academy. He can't say it's any surprise, given Spock's affinity for plants; he can easily imagine Spock tending to a small garden at his family home, gathering fresh K'rhtha for his tea.
Jim bows his head, simply listening, and doesn't move again until he senses Spock at his side, tension he didn't realize he was holding bleeding out of his shoulders as he straightens, accepting the mug with mild surprise; he hadn't realized he'd been refilling it, and soft gratitude spawns in his chest, warming him more than the drink.
"Thank you," Jim says quietly, meeting Spock's gaze. He holds it, so many swirling emotions in his expression it may be hard to read just one, and reaches out to accept the offering, cradling the mug in his hands. "It sounds..."
Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Mesmerizing. Jim doesn't have the right words, in the right order. "It sounds restful."
"I've never been." While not technically a lie, Jim amends almost immediately, thumb pressing against the lip of the mug absently. "I mean, I went once, but we - couldn't stay long."
Again, not technically a lie, but it burns a little on the way out, anyway. He's definitely learned a thing or two about talking like a Vulcan, at least. "Where's your favorite spot, if you had to pick one?"
There will always be more, it seems. That is a constant.
Humanity knots itself into infinite complexities, in ways that Spock cannot quite grasp with both hands despite being part. He had once had greater understanding of it, had worn it for those that he loved, but such openness had been stifled young. In the wake of all that would come to be, he would learn to reject it. He would learn to repress it, to carry the sting of disappointment. He would learn that, in order to be or exist—it matters little. What he knows now of the conversation is that he is indulging Jim. He is indulging him, as much as Jim indulges his evasion of his ship. It is a mutual benefit, a logical choice when all paths would lead to further exhaustion. He knows that Jim is fatigued. Humans require more rest than he ever did, but he knows too that Jim would readily refuse the prospect if posed so directly.
And so, he doesn’t.
Instead, he observes. He settles, this time at the other end of the couch that Jim occupies, his own tea forgotten in favor of sorting through what is laid before him.
“It is illogical to choose favorites,” he says, the lift of his voice a chancing at lightness. Though for himself it holds no benefit, playing the part is no true hardship. In Jim, he sees the unsaid. He hears it in the absences, as though the words he so often held were balled up in the chest like a fist. For all that he tells himself that Vulcans do not intuit, he can read the signs in the way Jim’s body. He can see the tension, each flow and seize and ebb. He can see the flicker of something sacred and savored, his eyes so clear that Spock is reminded of glass. And yet, they dart from him as much as they seek him.
Spock considers the weight of Jim’s pauses, sifts them as though the rivers of sand that spill from the high dunes of Vulcan. He thinks of the color red.
“There was a window, that overlooked a forest,” he says, eventually. He crosses one leg over the other, watches the loose fall of the fabric as it shifts to bell about an ankle. He fixes his gaze on it, the way the moon gilds its edge. Spock thinks of a weapon, the wicked curve of a lirpa. “When viewed from above, one could follow the progression of the roots and limbs down the hillside.”
He pauses, laces his fingers together. Even now, he can still see it. He can still walk the halls, hear his mother down the many flights of stairs. He still sees himself, can still feel the bubble of shame that rises within. How many days had he spent within that room, body alight with the ache of burgeoning bruises? How many times had he taken up his tablet—he runs one thumb over the joint of the other, the dark of his brow smoothing through the stitch he had not realized had formed there.
He does not think of laughter, the bright of a smile that no longer exists.
“I would spend many hours there, as a child.” The shadows the moon casts move across the floor, slow and liquid. Spock continues, quiet and fixed. “The light of the room and view beyond it were… Ideal. For meditation.”
He blinks once, drawing back to himself. It’s a slow process, made less apparent by the dim. He censors himself carefully, excising the emotion that lives within the heart of the memory. As though destoning the soft bodies of overripe fruits, he turns the tartness of being over his tongue— and is reminded, that there are places and times he might never return to. There are sights that will never be seen again. There is only himself in this moment. Himself and Jim.
Spock tips his gaze up. He knows there is no point in chasing what cannot be pinned, but he watches. He waits for the opening, the opportunity to confirm what it is Jim circles, but does not give. But then—he looks at him, without reservation. And softly, he says:
“What are you seeking, Jim?”
There is no demand in the question. It is only observation. He knows there is more that he wants, more that he is not articulating. But the opening is now his to use or discard. It is his now to do with as he wishes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
expiationmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
expiationlogs2024-04-14 10:44 pm
awyisssss
And so, as "twitchy" as Spock himself might now be too, there is the vaguest chance of a smile in the dark of his eyes and the way he battles the perpetual upward curve of his lips. Humans had always had a way of infecting even the staunchest of Vulcans, of barreling headlong into the emotional and cultural walls of species both known and unknown. But, Spock wonders if he ever had a true chance. In many ways, the inevitability of James Kirk was like arguing entropy; if nothing else at all might be relied upon to be a constant, Jim could be. But, such musings are for those who wear a certain poeticism. For all that Spock claimed once to have no particular biases, there always would be.
"Presently, I have been detained in 'Aldrip' for the past 54.13 solar days."
The answer comes readily, smoothly. And yet, his mind seems to "protest" the order of his biological chronology. Being held captive does indeed have its effects, but Spock had (illogically) hoped to stave them off for the time being. As Jim tilts his head back to look at him, Spock mirrors with the tip of his chin.
"That too occurred to me," he says, accepting the tablet back without much thought of it. Their innate synchronicity returns to him with an easy automaticity. When Jim moves, Spock falls into step. "However, the absence of mortality and our subsequent environmental shifts has suggested other possibilities."
He has heard many whisperings of deaths that have no real permanency, had seen it, and it had only given further credence to his theories. That the individuals about them similarly appear to stutter and stagger with each new "update?" That too adds further data to consider.
Spock takes a moment to slide the tablet back into the bag slung about his shoulder, securing it neatly with minor modification to the strap that rests just below cut of his collar. He follows Jim's gaze out to the sea and thinks of San Francisco. There is no grand and sweeping architecture here, but Spock is able to readily call it to memory in perfect detail. He thinks of what it would have been like to meet Jim there.
He settles his hands at the small of his back, spine straightening.
"If one were to assume the motivations of the captor or captors, what would one hope to achieve through the detainment and 'sentencing' of disparate entities? How might they ensure their quarry would continue to exist when 'plucked' from their place of origin?"
To Spock, the possibility of being a "copy" had occurred to him early. It would be the most efficient and least complicated way to gather what they needed, without getting too far into the "weeds" as the Doctor would call it.
Still -
"Earlier, you called me Ambassador," Spock says, with some eventuality. His eyes drift back to Jim, as they most often do when seeking some form of answer he cannot quite place his hands upon. Behind his back, his fingers tighten about his opposing wrists. His pulse had once been likened to the speed of a Terran rabbit and he centers himself around its rapidity as he continues. "I have no such recollection of assuming such a posting. Before I had arrived here, w- I had been confined to Doctor McCoy's sickbay following a necessary procedure."
His father had nearly died and Spock had nearly let him. His responsibility lay with the crew and with Jim as injured as he was - there had been little time for him to meditate upon what had occurred since his arrival here. Even now, the lack of clarity and organization sits as though a burr against the skin.
"Even so, despite the many ways you vary from the Captain I serve, I find myself... Inexplicably able to recognize you."
And it is true. For all the differences in appearance, there is something in Spock that knows him. His face and figure may change, the color of his hair, but it mattered little.
As his mother might be prone to saying, the bearing is all the same.
no subject
Curiously, this assessment does not apply to comparing his own Spock with Spock Prime - why would it? They're two different people, and he's never pretended otherwise. But is it really so surprising that Jim is blind to his own harsh self-criticism?Jim likes to think he can read his own Spock well enough at this point, but the Ambassador, or this version of him, has different tells. They're still a close enough approximation - and Jim, having formed an acquaintanceship of his own with Spock Prime - for him to feel like he's not flying blind in uncharted space. Spock always was a cheeky bastard; just enough of one to be worth knowing, not that anyone asked Jim's opinion. He's pretty sure Spock thinks of him the same way, though the Vulcan would probably rather stomach a hamburger than admit it (they're not that antagonistic anymore, or the ship would be in chaos, but Jim knows he can be kind of an asshole).
"Well shit. And you haven't seen any other Starfleet personnel, I presume." That wasn't promising in the slightest. Jim turns his gaze to the sky, low clouds obscuring the sun. "What is the length of this planet's solar day? Similar to Earth, with a 24-hour cycle?"
Alone, stranded, or rather, taken for 54 days. How had no one from New Vulcan raised alarm? Jim feels like he definitely would have heard about it; Spock Prime was an essential part of the re-establishment of the Vulcan Science Academy on New Vulcan, and serving as one of the few remaining elders for their people.
"The absence of mortality?" The question is muttered, more a musing to himself than an actual query. If there's one thing he doesn't doubt in this world, it's Spock's assessments, of anything. Especially when he doesn't trust himself; it's part of what makes them such a good team (Effective team. 'Good' is not a quantifiable measure by which to judge our performance, he can already hear his own Spock correcting him in his head, arguments long gone by. Don't get your panties in a twist, Commander, just take the compliment, was his inevitable response.) "Just once, I kind of wish the possibilities would narrow themselves instead of continuing to broaden."
It's not a true statement, but Jim scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it back through his hair to the back of his neck. "You've lost me, Mr. Spock. Sentencing? Are you suggesting we're being held here...awaiting conviction, by unknown persons?"
Asking to what end is fruitless, but he definitely wants to know what that is supposed to mean. As an aside - not that he's noticed, with everything going on, but the edge of Jim's own piece of parchment flutters innocently in the salty sea breeze from where it's tucked into his phaser holster.
Now it's Jim's turn to side-eye the Commander, meeting his gaze with confusion. His memory is hazy at the moment of the events immediately proceeding his arrival to Aldrip, but he knows they weren't anywhere near the colony; and he would have noted the Ambassador's presence in the logs, for certain. The gears turning in his head are obvious, as they so often are - before Jim groans in apparent, frustrated understanding, shaking his head and turning away in an anxious circle. His hands drop to his hips, head tilting back at the sky as if to silently say, Whose idea was this?
If there is a God, Jim's pretty sure he's always been the punching bag.
Still - this is Spock. Doesn't really matter which one; and it doesn't seem like it matters to the Commander either, with the acceptance Spock offers him. He supposes it's much the same as his first meeting with Spock Prime in the cave; his first words, How did you find me? As though he hadn't even questioned that Jim would come for him.
"Let me guess - you know a different version of me. Older, wiser, probably . Didn't piss you off beyond belief in the immediate 30 seconds after you first met me." Jim looks up at him, meeting Spock's gaze with his own, glaringly divergent, bright blue. "I...know you, this variant of you, as Ambassador Spock. You served with the Enterprise crew for a number of years before retiring from active duty."
"There was...an incident," Jim's edit to his speech is not subtle, but there's no easy way to say a crazed Romulan time-traveled through a black hole and killed billions. Seems like something they need - or, at least, Jim needs - to be in the backroom of a bar for. "A disruption to the space-time continuum that manifested an alternate reality. You were marooned in my parallel universe."
"You recognized me the first time, too. Somehow." Jim offers a small, helpless smile then, gesturing vaguely to his person. "Ta-da."
no subject
There is no need for Spock to interrupt, not yet. Like in his own Jim, he finds an unspoken brilliance. It is easy for Spock to trace where he makes inferences, tosses about the information he piecemeals over as though his mother once sat upon the kitchen floor arranging tangibly the pages of a thesis. He thinks that any Jim at all tears through thought like an Iowa thunderstorm, the whipping sands of Vulcan. It should be impossible, the way he manages to order it. Just as any of his opening gambits, intuition bled into logic, it is… Fascinating to witness.
Spock offers confirmation in the subtle dip of a nod where asked for it, sees the overlay of Jim’s anxious movements. His Captain’s hands have always fluttered about as though the silvery birds of Vulcan. As a child, Spock would look skyward to catch their unlit feathers against the suffocating dark. These gestures, though grander in scope, are still reminiscent of the Jim he serves. They are still distinctly him.
But, then Jim smiles. A deflection for all the stubborn boy beneath shines through it. He knows him.
“Jim,” he says lightly, with the all the air of a Vulcan who has borne witness to such turbulence before and had just as patiently quelled it. “I am only 37.”
In this time and in this moment, Spock is still within the realm of his first five-year mission. He had only briefly engaged with his Jim before it. He was about his age then, he thinks. Working his way through the ranks, stationed aboard the Farragut. They had met by chance in the bar. Spock, upon a whim, had plucked up Jim’s empty glass and placed down an assessment. That Jim took easily to declaration that his elder brother was something of a frustration – well, it wasn’t wholly surprising to him. What was? It was his hand, extended out to him.
When Jim was later promoted to Captain of the Enterprise in the gulf of Pike’s absence, Spock found himself without protest. It seemed logical, deserved. And then –
Spock has not yet met with death. He has not yet communed with V’Ger. He has not yet realized in the last stretch of kolinahr that there is nothing that could compel him to relinquish the emotions that have begun to run riot. Alice Through the Looking Glass. Simple feelings. The first cleared games of chess. A chase across the board. Checkmated.
Spock, in an uncharacteristic moment of silence.
His respiration is normal, his eyes still dark, but there – the heart that pounds along in his side sets upon a race of its own realization. You recognized me. How? Across space and time, when all else is eliminated, what remains, however improbable—
Spock clears his throat, eyes jerking toward the horizon. He calculates the remaining moments of the day, the oxygenation of this pseudo-planet. He thinks of the moon, tidal locked, impossibly pulling the oceans with it.
Is true, some treacherous part of him hums. Legend, ideal, myth. He ignores it. There will be time to reckon with what this Jim has inadvertently drug to the surface, the sharpness of its teeth and the darkness of its maw. The crime has fit the man. And so, the man will have to face its consequences.
“What I am and what I shall be is not yet written.” An echo of a conversation he cannot return to. Michael, her head tilted upward in defiance. “I am not the Ambassador you have come to know, nor are you the James Kirk I met once during his service aboard the Farragut.”
The fingers about his wrists again tighten. A bid to keep himself talking, though his mind attempts to convince him his tongue feels both heavy and thick.
“For these reasons, we cannot hold ourselves against their metric.”
It is not a bid to make Jim feel better about this sudden bout of self-criticism, but rather an objective reality. How are they to compare to something that has already been? Are they not, in that manner, both different? Othered, a variant – Jim’s freckles are the same. His will and his tenacity are no strangers to him. Forced into the flood of his own making, Spock recalls the Fates and their golden threads. Distance, as they say, truly puts all into perspective.
The fluttering parchment catches Spock’s eye, only just. He finds he does not trust his hands, the possible flicker of transference. Instead, inevitably, he finds himself drawn back to looking at Jim. He thumbs through the pages his mother turns in his memory.
“No, indeed,” Alice said, a little anxiously.
“And yet I don’t know,” the Gnat went on in a careless tone: “only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it!”
He inclines his head, emits a little hum. The sound is purely for Jim’s benefit, but it’s an indication of where his “crime” lives. As though sat before a puzzle without edge pieces, it is better to sort first through the obvious.
no subject
By comparison, Spock is rigid. Orderly, precise; Jim chafes against it sometimes, (he certainly did when they first started out) but if he's being honest, he can admit that he admires it. Spock is reliable, steadfast; unflappable, save for the most extreme of circumstances. He is the rock against which Jim's churning water crashes. Some may worry for erosion, but over time Jim has come to know that Spock is someone he can brace his back against. Someone who can handle his turbulent waters - and maybe even prefers them.
Confirmation offers no comfort, leaving them both with more questions than answers. Maybe it should be a relief that no one else is here with them, but the concern for the well-being of the crew eats at him anyway. He knows better than to voice it, knows that it won't help the situation or either of their peace of mind - but still, it weighs. It always does, and Spock knows that better than anyone.
Spock's reaction is carefully measured; Jim wasn't expecting anything less, of course, but it does make it difficult to decipher what, precisely, is going on behind those dark eyes. He's spared him the gory details, and it makes it easier to distance himself from the reality; he has no doubt this iteration of Spock has seen tragedy, but the depth and scale of what had happened - that, he is unsure of.
"I'm 28." Jim offers, because he doesn't know how to say you are older than I've ever seen you and younger at the same time. His smile flickers a little, but he manages to keep it on his face; a honed skill. "I was 25 when I became Captain of the Enterprise."
Funny, how they're in such similar positions, where they've been plucked from. Jim was two years into his own mission, though without, of course, the benefit of a breadth of experience. Not...in quite the same manner, anyway. His entire crew was that way - he had taken everyone who had served with him during the battle against Nero out into the stars with him. All of them had requested the posting, from Communications through Engineering.
Jim had never served aboard the Farragut. He had indeed offered his hand to Spock once, and Spock had reached out in turn, both of them spreading their fingers in a ta'al - though they had not touched, through thick radiation-shielded glass.
Jim, for his part, has no idea what this information might have unlocked within his friend; Spock breaks the eye contact, clearly turning over the nugget of knowledge, and Jim lets it go. Far be it from him to press, when there's so much to say, and he barely even knows where to start. He's never known what he's supposed to do - that's why he has Spock. He only knows what he can do.
"No, you're not. Nor am I." Jim agrees, turning away from the bluff, the wind that's started to pick up over the water as the clouds dip low. Perhaps there's a storm somewhere out there, slowly rolling in.
Maybe it's already here.Jim can't help but snort, though, at the assertion that they should endeavor to avoid comparisons. He covers it with a cough, though he's sure Spock isn't fooled. He can't bring himself to disagree, out loud, and Jim certainly isn't going to lie to Spock's face. No, that's one thing he would never do, no matter what version of Jim Kirk stood in front of him. What he settles on is half-jest, half-painful truth, coated in enough teasing tone that it goes down easy. "Easy for you to say, living in the superior timeline."
Jim's eye is drawn back to Spock, at the hum, and he follows the clue down to the paper, tucked away neatly. A frown graces his lips, furrowing his brow, and he frees the slip, unfolding it to reveal the neat lettering:
Starfleet Code Violations:
- Starfleet General Order 17
- Starfleet General Order 29
"What?" Jim's mouth drops open of its own accord, grip on the parchment tightening - not that it shows any sign of ripping, infuriatingly unruffled. "What the fuck-"
General Order 17 and 29, of course, are concurrent orders. Every member of Starfleet has them memorized: The commanding officers of Starfleet vessel and installations are to consider the lives of their crew members and/or civilian population as sacred; The primary responsibility of the commander of any Starfleet vessel or installation is the welfare and safety of his crew.
Like he said, quick to anger. Quick to fighting. Frankly, getting punched in the face would have shocked him less.
"They can't be serious. This is - I - " He's beyond words. He wants to fling the paper into the fucking ocean, but the words command responsibility and Starfleet code violations swim in front of him, burned into his eyeballs.
What's worse is the creeping, unavoidable itch of doubt under his skin. What did They from the department of Them think he'd done? What the hell was going on here? The last time he'd been this thrown for a loop, Spock had reported him to Pike. He'd been right to do it, even if Jim didn't want to admit it; but hadn't he learned that lesson? Fuck.
He's spiraling, and it takes considerable effort to pull himself out of it - because there's still Spock, next to him, and Jim just shoves the parchment at him, unable to look him in the eye - and equally unable to continue holding the paper, as though the very touch of it burned.
no subject
Quicker to the fight and quicker to the fist, he was a poet’s intuition and a knife in the ribs. He fought with the whole of himself, bled where others couldn’t. Passion sparked off the wick of him, in love with all but without tenderness for the skin that carried it. Spock had found him (still and still and still) at times both a marvel and a madness. Were he to have met him again at the age he is now, in the circumstances they are in now, he wonders if he might have been able to be lashed against so neatly. He wonders if he would have been filled with the fire that this Jim now exhibits, the light that vibrates through the whole of him unhampered as though smearing stars at warp, the stretch of solar winds.
When Spock was younger, younger still, he had felt at odds in the body that housed him. A stone displaced in the foundations of the universe; he never once had found a place to hold him. His eyes to the red of the sky, the sands beneath his fingertips – how long had he swallowed the hatred cast upon him? How long had he been left before those he loved before he might chance the hope to leave them? Too Human for Vulcan, too Vulcan for Humans. Logic was a comfort, truth? A weapon. And yet, when had Jim ever used it to truly harm him?
Little else matters, and little else might be attended to, once Jim realizes what Spock has given him. Apple in the orchard, knowledge bitter and weighted. It is not something that gratifies. The idea that a singular sentence might provide more insight than him – were Vulcans prone to emotionalism, it may have stung him. But, there is nothing to hurt in him.
But, in Jim?
He needn’t take much guess at it. The accusation is thrust toward him, the fissuring composure of any Jim enough to stir Spock into action. That all becomes honed and focused and calculated? A fury frissons along the density of bone, but it belongs not to him.
Spock unfurls his fingers. Tamping down the distrust of his own controls, he takes the paper extended to him. Careful not to touch, careful not to give way to the unsteadiness that swims in him, he reads.
When he was a boy, words did not come to him. They laid in uncertain configurations, time knotted and nonlinear as the tasks that splayed before him. While his methods and manner were unconventional, much like the whole of him, he had never once thought it a detriment until the concept was brought to him. His teachers, his father – he is reminded of it, as he does not immediately process what is placed in plain before him. But, the paper he now holds is not the issue of integration of the world about him. No, it is the issue of improbability. Like a skewed axis, an unsolved formula, it brings up in him a sense of defensiveness.
And yet, when his eyes lift from what he has been given, his words come clear and calm – wholly true and certain.
“Captain,” he begins. He does not flinch from Jim, his gaze upon him steady for all Jim cannot look at him. Spock takes a moment. He amends, with a quiet that ensures all others are forfeit. “Jim. Never once would I believe you to be capable of such a violation.”
Spock does not reach, but he starts. He weaves into Jim’s orbit, settles the lean stretch of his body near to the shoulder of his. Spock stands close enough to sway into, to steady up against, but never close enough to touch. Not at first. Never first. Not like this.
He bows his dark head, the outward sweep of tides like the bright of the anger that crests and wanes in him. The parchment, Jim’s parchment, sits secreted and scorned in the loose shade of his fist.
“Though I am thus far unable to determine what criteria are utilized to make these allegations, I do not believe to be concerned with how rule and law are interpreted.”
How could they be? His own may hold loose truth to it, but Jim’s – no, the only who would qualify under such poor faith extrapolation would be the man who carries it. Burnt to the edges, eyes strained against the night of the ship – Spock remembers it. Vividly, he holds the image of Jim surrounded by the endless PADDs that demanded his attention. How many times had Spock sat with him deep into those evenings? Taking what he could and where he could, easing whatever burden was handed to him? How many times had he reminded Jim, not unkindly, that a signature from the captain was not required on yet another request from his department? How many times had he set himself to summarize missives when Jim could no longer force his mind to focus?
How many times had Spock suggested, in the smallest hours before the break of their next shift, that he should leave the rest to him? How many times had they argued the capacity of the Human body, the need for sleep – how many times had he lured him into leave with the clever turn of phrases?
How many times, Spock thinks, had he been readily scolded for all that Jim would turn and do for him?
He does not vocalize these thoughts. Does he need to? Shame remains against him, a steadfast companion, but it feels a burden lessened. It no longer makes of him the prey in the calderas of Vulcan, startled by their own shadow. Instead, Spock seeks to harbor it. He breathes alongside it.
He wonders if there is sense in letting it go.
no subject
His Spock is filled with fire, licking and spitting, consuming all in it's path like an exploding star - tightly bound, waiting to burst and then - supernova, huge and awesome and terrifying. Yes, he has fire - perhaps more than the Spock Jim currently stands next to - but he is as much a product of his alternate circumstances as Jim.
Jim, in turn, wonders what he could have been like, with this Spock at his side, in a universe unknown to him. A universe not so plagued with darkness; a kinder one, perhaps. It's been years since Jim has wished for kindness - he learned that lesson young, that the universe is cold and dark and unfeeling and empty, for the most part. To search out the spots of light, to carve out a piece of kindness, requires blood and sweat and pain - but Jim knows in his heart that the greatest act of defiance against the dark is to fight.
Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is survive.
The question of what could have been is something that Jim knows he'll always have to live with. Telling himself doesn't necessarily stop the wondering, but he tries. Having this version of Spock here with may yet provide insight - whether or not he'll regret having the knowledge, well. That's another matter entirely.
The point is - and there is a point, bear with him - this Jim in particular knows what it's like to have no place in the world, and to turn to the stars in the foolish hope that there's something better, waiting out there, if he's strong enough to soldier on and find it. Too Human for Vulcans, too Vulcan for Humans - but Spock has always been enough for Jim, in any incarnation.
For all this talk of differences, of what is/was/never was, some things remain constant. That this accusation, stated so plainly and indifferently, should have a profound effect on Jim is a foregone conclusion. It's an open secret that he cares - about his crew, about people - so much that it seems as though he may very well bleed to death with the pain of it. Lives are precious, and he's spent his defending them to the last.
And yet - and yet, perhaps whoever had written his slip had taken a page out of Jim's own playbook; slipped beneath his armor to find the soft, defenseless spot that they could cut into him, deep, and slide the knife right into his heart. Perhaps it's karma, in a sense; he would laugh, but it wouldn't sound particularly funny, hard and harsh, all the wrong notes.
Jim doesn't even realize how his body language has changed; the tension in his spine overcranked, his shoulders no longer squared but angled, as though he's anticipating reproach. Spock's words manage to quell an iota of the tension, and Jim finally does look back up at him, meeting Spock's unwavering gaze. Jim had asked Spock once, how he chose not to feel - Jim has never managed such a feat, and it's written plainly on his face, in his eyes, uncertain, worried. This Jim is young, having been disabused of his cocksure nature - but he has not yet grown into the full confidence that befits his station.
Criminal negligence. Who had he failed?
Spock doesn't recoil; in fact, he does the opposite, orbiting into Jim's personal space. It's never bothered him; in fact, right now, it makes it easier to breathe. Jim exhales, choking on a laugh and takes steadiness in the surety Spock exhibits - that Jim could never be guilty of such a thing, that Spock would never believe it. Here, as in every world, Jim's waves break against Spock's rock and equilibrium once again feels within his grasp.
"Seems pretty clear to me what their law is interpreting." Spock keeps the paper, and Jim is grateful he doesn't attempt to hand it back to him. Their uniforms brush as Jim raises his hands to his eyes, pressing the meat of his palms into the orbital sockets for a moment before scrubbing them over his face. "Though why they're letting me walk around free if they think that's what I did, who knows."
He thinks about asking what Spock's slip said, but it doesn't seem the right moment; not with the disquiet radiating off of his Vulcan companion, something Jim only clocks due to how much time they've shared together; late nights and early mornings, hours upon hours of chess, bonds forged in fire. As if adjoining quarters weren't enough, cups of tea shared in the bleary beginning hours of Delta shift - typically after Jim had awoken from a nightmare, something Spock had surely heard through the simple door separating them but had remained kind enough not to mention outright.
The first time it happened, Jim had stumbled into the bathroom, anxious sweat still clinging to his neck, intending on a brutal sonic shower to push the thoughts out of his head (AKA, futzing with the flow inhibitor until he could adjust the vibrations high enough to bruise) - and Spock had been standing ominously at the other end of the bathroom, fully dressed despite the fact that he did not need to report to the bridge for another seven hours. They'd stared at each other until it became uncomfortable, and then continued past that until Spock turned from the doorway.
When Jim finished with his shower, there was a cup of tea waiting for him on the counter.
In summary: Jim knows he should not have expected less than Spock's full trust, but it relieves him anyway to know for fact that he has it, and it steadies his own judgement - because he has always trusted Spock and his counsel.
"Is there someplace we can go? Where are you staying?" The sky has started to turn, giving way to the grey of the clouds, lights winking on in the town that lays beyond the bay. He taps Spock's covered elbow, a subconscious gesture. "You must be cold, and I could use a drink."
no subject
There is no point in denying that Spock would be among the first to vouch for him. There is little point at all in refuting the prospect that Spock would be the first too to turn Jim in if he had left him no choice of it. Spock has no doubt that Jim would do the same without exception, but Spock never had cause to believe that Jim would betray them. He never had cause to believe that Jim would ever place himself before the lives on his ship, as much as Spock fumbled over his explanations when Jim called him on the same, stubborn methods.
It had not prevented him from doing so again, but it did make him more cautious. And so too it had made Jim, if Spock’s blatant indication he should lead by such an example.
Jim, this Jim, beside him settles in ways familiar to him. Increment by increment, though the tension lives within. He sees it lessen at the corners of his eyes, at the square of his jaw, and Spock almost finds himself leaning into the tap at his elbow. A part of him had missed the casual way Jim had circled him, the idle squeeze of his bicep and the grasp of a shoulder. That he cannot immediately rein in instinctive shift pulls him from his own tumult, his focus sharpening as Jim reels him in. He does not jerk back, does not act as though skittish quarry in the vast dunes of Vulcan, but he does seem to hold himself back. Just enough.
“I am adequate,” he says, after a moment. It is not a “no” to his suggestion he is getting cold, but he can tolerate it. Never mind the way his fingers shade a fainter olive against the brisk ocean winds. He moves, finally, to tuck the parchment into the pocket of his regulation dress pants. “But, I have been supplied living quarters for the duration.”
Hope is an emotion he had come to be plagued by, but there is no current suggestion that a “return” is impossible. As he steps gradually out of Jim’s orbit, he knows he’ll find himself falling back into pace with him. The walk is a short one, not long past docks and only just into the city that is allocated for residential units, but the alley that Spock guides neatly toward still has a plain view of the ocean. Shacks change into smaller houses and from there, townhouses. The one Spock eventually draws to a stop in front of is a quaint little thing, a buttery yellow against the run of greens and blues. The stairs up are a touch precarious, but no less charming for it.
For all the immediate interior is sparse and understated once Spock opens the door, there is evidence of the Vulcan that inhabits it. In the way the shoes are aligned in the stairwell, to the way his coat is neatly hung – it speaks of him. The scent of heady incense suffuses the heavy darkness as he makes his way up first, his palm instinctively finding the light switch. For all he might wander through without impediment, he knows that Human eyes lack the necessary adaptation. Jim is no child of the desert, of the nights that unfolded with nary a hint of the sun. Spock had never known how bright evening could be, barring the rare spill of liquid stars across the horizon, until he had arrived in San Francisco. There, the nights were short and the lighting brilliant. The bay flickered with the pulse of life in the dorms, solar fixtures and antique lamps glowing as Terran fireflies across the rippling distance.
He does not think to ask Jim if he should like the temperature lowered as he passes the old thermostat on the way to the landing. Instead, he instinctively kicks it down to long negotiated environmental baselines. Spock might always add layers, after all, should he need it.
“As I believe the saying goes,” Spock says as he finally reaches the top of the stairs, turning first to let Jim cross as he wishes into the apartment with the slight upward twitch of a brow, “you are welcome to make yourself at home.”
It is not the housing Starfleet provides planet side, but it is not by any means the worst either have stayed in. The square footage certainly beats out the rooms in Enterprise by a wide margin, the largely open floor plan lost to many accustomed to tighter prospects. For Spock, he has learned to ease into the space afforded. A woven area rug breaks the division from the small living room to the kitchen, the wooden floors halting and continuing past the old-world appliances. Two doors sit to the right, the one left ajar revealing the vague impression of a bedroom cast in a comforting grey of the dim. The wide window toward the front of the apartment is not wholly unadorned, the thin curtains pulled back to display the glittering roll of repurposed glassware. Young, green trimmings extend from their fine necks, their new roots growing slow and sure.
As he leaves Jim to explore at his leisure, Spock does not disguise his intent. He busies himself with procuring glasses from the wooden cabinets, filling a thrifted kettle he had found at the market. Any such drinks that Jim may have wanted are (unsurprisingly) absent, but Spock had never known Jim any teas he prepared for him. The caffeine would do neither any good this evening, and so Spock opts for a blend he himself preferred before meditation. (And if his mother may have once prepared for him the same blend on such trying occasions? Well, there’s little need to make mention of it.)
Spock will dip for a moment into the bedroom once he’s settled the kettle on the antiquated stove, but Jim might note in his wanderings a tidy pile of electronics. They rest at one end of a modest couch, the guts of one contraption strewn about the squat coffee table arranged before it. For all it looks like projects taken up and forgotten, the floor lamps in the unit are arranged just so to see with clarity the fine wiring and the outdated components. Underneath the sprawl, if Jim cares to be particularly attentive, is a stack of written correspondence. In varied, hurried script there are thanks and payments and the eager acceptance of some barter or another that Spock had offered in exchange for this apartment. And yet, only one note bears Spock’s penmanship. Neat rows of numbers march across the sheet he’s spared for himself in perfect, rigid sequence.
When the kettle begins its whistle high and sharp and tuneless, Spock has already emerged again. He knows Jim as one not to be taken off guard, so he makes no effort to announce himself as he draws up beside him. That is, if one discounts the way that Spock sees it fit to hold out a neat bundle of clothing to him.
“I assumed you may wish to change,” he says, by way of explanation. He looks softer than he did a scant few moments ago, dressed down in dark civilian clothes. The sea air makes the neat lay of his hair defiant, sends its ends curling about the pointed tips of his ears. He inclines his head, less indication than it is habit. “The shower runs parallel to the kitchen.” He doesn’t pause, as much as he gives further information. He had always known Jim to use water wherever possible instead of the sonics, but such a luxury was not often made accessible even to captains. Flagship or no, sensualism was not a concern of the resource budget. “You’ll need to give it time to warm.”
As much as Spock might indicate that it is illogical to have a preference such as this, it is not to say that he did not tend to use water himself when permitted. It was a minor perk amid the insult of the situation. And yet, in some respects, it too has not been the worst he’s endured. He calculates with a reasonable 99.7% certainty that the same might be said for this Jim. At least their captors provided a decent model of hospitality.
“The tea will be ready once you have finished.”
As if he anticipated the question (he did), he provides it.
He thinks it better to talk further once Jim has had a touch more time to process.
no subject
Case in point, Spock's report that had nearly ended in a court martial for Jim. He'd been angry at the time - less so because of the report and moreso because of Spock's lack of remorse, his lack of understanding. Still, with years of distance between then and now - Jim understands why he did it, and he wouldn't have Spock change his ways, no matter how pissed off he'd been in the moment.
"Adequate is not satisfactory to my personal requirements, Commander." Jim can't help but smile - even with everything, Spock was still Spock, and the relief of that immutable fact was something Jim sorely needed right now. The parchment disappears into Spock's pocket, and Jim pushes it out of his mind. Right. Back on track. It would cease to matter if they found a way home, right?
They wind their way back into town, Jim falling into step beside Spock, taking in the seaside city. They don't go far, not even getting near the streets that must lead to the town center; clustered buildings cozied against one another, smaller seaside shanties giving way to one-story houses, then the larger, built-up townhouses. No one seems to pay them any mind, the few souls that they pass, heads down as the temperature begins to change; atmospheric pressure drop from whatever is rolling in by the shore. The place Spock leads him to is...well, not quite the abode he would have expected, with weather-faded yellow and trim to match.
"Mi casa es su casa, I thank you kindly; though I must say, jail is cozier than I remember," Jim snorts, because he has no idea what the alternative is if he doesn't joke about their situation. The interior is just as quaint as the exterior, though it's clear Spock has moved in about as much as can be considered "moving in" for a Vulcan. The incense smells nice - not quite the same as what his Spock used on the Enterprise, but close enough in a pinch - if a bit strong, and Jim tries to suppress the sneeze it triggers. He fails, covering the choked off sound with the crook of his arm, body shuddering with the involuntary motion. "Sorry, you know. Allergic to everything under the sun, and then some."
The noticeable warmth of the place, no doubt calibrated to Spock's usual preferences, is not unpleasant after being out in the sea breeze for the duration of their conversation. Jim rubs his hands together to warm them while Spock moves about the space, taking everything in, gaze darting to the kitchen: squashy living room furniture that Jim very much doubts Spock had a hand in picking out, the peek of a duvet from the darkened doorway of what Jim would assume is the bedroom, wood-paneled cabinets to match the flooring that stops just before shifting into linoleum, tying the two rooms together. He can't help but be reminded of the farmhouse he spent his adolescence in, and he looks away, trying to remember the last time he was actually in a house; wondering if it was, indeed, the farmhouse.
"What horticulture are we experimenting with?" Jim can't help but ask - it's likely Spock hears him, even in the other room, but he won't be offended if the question is taken as rhetorical. He squats next to the window to examine the plants, wondering if Spock has identified them yet, and if they're at all similar to anything else they've encountered before. This place felt very akin to Earth, but that didn't mean that it actually was, necessarily.
Also - Jim would just like to say, for the record, that his green thumb jokes were entirely wasted on Spock, so he had learned to keep them to himself.
There's a pile of bits and bobs, as Scotty would say, sitting innocently on the low coffee table, and Jim cranes his neck to eye it surreptitiously. He's reasonably sure Spock wouldn't mind if he looked, but he also doesn't want to mess up whatever it is he's doing. There's a pile of notes, Spock's neat scrawl covering the sheaf of pages - and now he really is invading Spock's privacy, though he can't help the curiosity. Something about a payment - a receipt? Something to do with the electronics, maybe? - and numbers that Jim doesn't have enough time to make sense of. He can hear Spock moving closer, presumably to the bedroom from the kitchen, and Jim turns away, anxious, not wanting to get caught - er, snooping, even inadvertently.
He circles the room twice, cataloging the furnishings; the shelves, adorned with knick-knacks Jim can only assume came with the place, an armchair by the window with a knit pillow. A painting of a sailboat, braving roiling waters, perched on the wall. He spares a moment to reach out and touch it, unable to help his mild awe at the fact that it has texture. It's a real painting and not a duplication - oil, perhaps? - the brushstrokes visible as he moves closer to it, paint expertly fashioned in the crests of the waves.
That's how Spock will find him, stroking the painting on the wall, eyes alight. Jim turns, accepting the clothes with a blink, hands already moving to the thick sweater Spock's providing him with on instinct. It's not often than Jim's seen Spock out of uniform - very infrequently, actually, though they ostensibly share a bathroom (he says ostensibly because, generally, Spock is done by the time Jim returns at night, and equally as up and prepared by the time Jim stumbles out of bed in the morning) - though the same cannot be said for Jim's state of dress, most of the time.
Spock looks - different. The harshness of his stance muted, almost - nothing can mute Vulcan cheekbones, but the ramrod straightness of his posture is hidden when not highlighted by the planes of the Starfleet uniform. "Is that your way of telling me I smell like the bottom of a boat?"
His smile softens the jest, and he nods, stepping around the couch to head to the shower Spock had indicated. "Thanks. I'll be out in a jiff."
The bathroom is just as old-fashioned as the rest of the house; an antique mirror mounted over the sink, an actual shower with a tub lip Jim will have to step over to enter it. He does as bid, turning on the water and allowing it to heat; something he hasn't done, again, since his time in Iowa. He removes his uniform, taking the time to fold it while the water heats; in part because he doesn't have another, and also because he doubts Spock would care for it very much if he left his clothes crumpled, as is typical of his own quarters (he cleans up when Spock comes over for chess, mostly so he doesn't get the really-are-you-serious? eyebrow raise of doom, and by clean up he means kicks yesterday's uniform under his bed). His mama didn't really raise him, but contrary to popular belief, Jim does possess manners that he occasionally chooses to exercise.
The shower heats, and Spock will probably hear the muffled cursing that follows when Jim discovers he's accidentally set it too hot.
When he emerges, hair still damp, cheeks a ruddy pink, he feels suitably warmed again, having chased away the chill from earlier. He had let the rhythm of the water numb him, feeling slightly more equalized by the time he returns to Spock. Humans could be funny that way - it seems Spock's had practice hitting the reset-Jim-Kirk button. The sweater is comfortable, a light brown color, though he has the sleeves rolled up and a pad of fabric bunched near his waist; while they're close enough in height, Jim is not quite as built as his Vulcan friend, more wiry muscle than anything else. He pads into the kitchen, noting with interest the old-school appliances.
"Is that a gas stove?" Not that Jim's ever had much mind for cooking, but he did like messing around in the scrapyard, when he was a boy. He resists the urge to poke at it, eyes trailing to the small fridge tucked into the wall. "Woah, a condenser fridge! Haven't seen one of these in years."
no subject
He had never tired of it.
As Jim makes his way through typical routines, Spock finds a quiet gratification in steeping the tea for him. It has been quite some time since Spock has had access to fresh ingredients and its awakening profile as he pours the water over is a bright, sharp tang against the air of the apartment.
The subsequent mumblings and profanities that rise from the background do not surprise as he marks an internal count, moves to place the kettle back on the stove once he empties it. He had always known Jim to be one who stumbled about in the small hours, occasionally awoken by the impetuous to get a drink or stretch his legs. It was not uncommon to hear him trip over his own vestments, discarded as they are likely to be on the head’s floor. Spock would inevitably pick them up later – if he made a comment about it? It depended.
He's just strained the leaves from the cups as Jim emerges, dressed down as he is. The sweater and pants he had loaned him are among the most comfortable articles he’s acquired, though they are thin. Spock had found them to be not warm enough to be worn alone and thus, it made sense to supply them to him.
At Jim’s loosened posture, Spock suppresses the instinctive uptick at the corner of his lips. It does nothing for the way that something at the corners of his eyes soften.
“Affirmative,” Spock says, without missing a beat as Jim crosses his way into the kitchen. He places his own mug to the left of himself, holds Jim’s own with an unspoken patience. The sweeter smell is likely to indicate what it is before Jim ever tastes it, though it tempers itself against the lack of any additives. Chamomile, Spock remembers readily, had always been a shared preference.
“I recall your mention of a similar unit.” Spock watches as Jim eyes the upcycled refrigerator, not at all concerned for its state and meagre contents should Jim choose to explore it. No doubt Jim knows what to expect of him: vegetarian cuisine, simple liquids. Nary an item, too, that may be consumed without the requisite cutlery. Vulcans had never been a race to eat with their fingers, much less Spock who endeavored to keep his hands clean unless necessitated. “You had indicated its continual propensity to form a fine layer of hoar along its evaporator coil. Subsequently, you were left to defrost it often.”
Spock, in other words, doesn’t trust it. He had been mindful to move all produce up to the front and away from any notable intake fans or faulty components, no amount of “charm” endearing him to it. Jim might have once claimed that it was an adequate consolation prize for maintaining an outdated dwelling, but Spock could never quite grasp with both hands the idea that any such item or object could hold sway over one’s most visceral emotions. At least, not in full. He had seen his mother engage in sentimentality on occasion, hidden from immediate purview. He had only been a child when he happened upon documentation of the first time his mother had met Sarek, the pressed petals of a night-blooming orchid in the valley of a sweeping script. His mother had reminded him later that evening that he should keep to his own spaces, but Spock had been a boy of insatiable curiosities. It had been time and the contempt of his peers that had hastened him to rein it.
Still, the tea he holds will cool and bitter if Jim does not drink it. If he allows Jim a further few moments of study and indulgence? Spock doesn’t aim to clarify. Instead, he clears his throat as the shadows begin their long, lean shift across the wooden floors. The day is dying and soon enough the cold will settle in in earnest.
“Jim.”
As before, Spock holds out an offering to him. The handle of the mug is turned to face him, Spock’s palm neatly cupping the curve of the heated porcelain. Where Jim carries the residual warmth of the shower, Spock spares him the discomfort of shifting the mug about in his grip.
It is the least he might do, if one considers comparative tolerances of their skin.
no subject
He very much doubts that Spock knows, though perhaps he's well familiar with Jim's tendency towards anthropomorphizing machines and items. He always refers to the Enterprise as their lady, though he's yet to catch his Spock accepting the pronoun (it's a matter of time, Jim will break him down). He'd won a particularly memorable chess game the night that he'd insisted on naming all of the pieces, much to Spock's consternation - not that Jim thinks his First Officer would admit it, but he's pretty sure playing up the "illogical" nature of his behavior had thrown someone off his groove. What? He couldn't let 'Chekov' be captured, pawn or not.
"And the freezer works! This thing is pristine." Nothing gets him like tinkering, opening and closing the freezer drawer with interest. "Vodka out of an ice chest, Mr. Spock, is one of life's rare, perfect pleasures."
Again, he doesn't expect Spock to agree with him (if Spock agrees with him more than three times a day, standing orders on the bridge are to assume he's been bodysnatched), but Jim's smile signals his friendly teasing. This is just what they do; they're both on the same page about that.
Jim's eye is drawn away from the appliance to his friend, holding out the tea, and the whole picture strikes him as wildly domestic. Spock, for all his inflexible edges, shouldn't conceivably fit in a rustic kitchen. Perhaps it's the absence of the Science blues, by virtue of being dressed down; but if Jim's being honest, that's an excuse. Something about - the way Spock's looking at him, the way he took such care to prepare the tea, the way he's made this place his home with touches that might not amount to much of an intrusion but that all scream Spock - something about this Spock is different. He...fits, here.
Jim's been staring a beat too long, processing this. He shakes himself out of it, accepting the handle of the mug, the fragrant tea within, remembering only at the last minute to be careful not to brush Spock's fingers. Jim passed his cultural sensitivity seminars twice - once for the requirement, and a second time to make sure it stuck - but with Spock, sometimes he's guilty of forgetting. Not forgetting really but - they spend so much time together, Jim supposes he's just gotten comfortable with him. Spock makes allowances for him, too, he knows; Jim's a tactile guy, and sometimes it's just an instinct.
But still - his hands. Jim tries his best not to forget that, unless it's life or death.
"Thank you, Spock." Jim says quietly, matching Spock's soft tone, meeting his gaze head on with clear blue. The freakout on the docks seems distant, more settled. Hard to imagine it was so dire when they're here, for lack of a better term, cozy.
"You've been keeping busy," He wraps his hands around the mug, one finger idly tapping against the side. Jim blows gently over the surface of the tea, steam rising up to his face before dissipating. He nods, over towards Spock's projects, dotting the living room on the other side of the rug divide. "Anything fascinating, as of late?"
Spock's favorite word; at least, that's what Jim called it. But it's clear from the shine in his eyes, as he takes a sip of the tea, that he's genuinely interested. Despite the banter between them, they both shared another passion - the unending thirst for knowledge. It's a large part of what sent them chasing stars in the first place.
no subject
Jim had never minded. He spoke to Spock as though he were a part, not apart. He listened to him, greeted him with the turn of his head and the bloom of a smile. It was once a matter of deep conflict, to find himself reaching out yet again. To find himself waiting on the other side of the threshold, waiting for an opportunity to show the breadth of what another had done to him.
Spock is aware of Jim’s care in moving about him as he remarks on the anticipated points of “charm” the otherwise understated appliances provide. Spock listens, quirks a brow incrementally at the mention of vodka from the freezing unit, and perhaps makes note to find an adequate handle from one of the trade ships. They had been providing any number of most peculiar artifacts and items since the switch. Notably, none of what Spock currently stowed in his apartment were among the newer selection. If he adds a note of “I would not know, Captain” among the commentary, and certainly in response to the supposition that such appliances have “personalities”? Spock won’t admit to falling into the familiarity of old habits.
The silence that eventually settles between them is natural, as it so often is. The quiet way he studies Spock as turns from his explorations is not uncomfortable, but rather a known. Often, Spock finds himself wondering what the captain is searching for when he scans his face in such a way, but he does not allow himself the luxury to think of what he might find there. Still – Spock meets his gaze readily, unflinchingly. He notes the way Jim makes concessions for his differences, though he finds the increased probability of idle pats on the shoulder and taps on the elbow not entirely… Unpleasant.
But the moment ends. And so, Spock turns to pick up his tea with some minor play at consideration.
"I should assume it depends upon your definition, Captain."
There is a faint glimmer of amusement in the dark of his eyes, the hint of something deeper just beyond the precipice. For all that he claims neither to hold nor possess emotion, he knows that Jim has always drawn them up as though loose sand in the fist. He had always carried them so lightly, letting the grains of his shame and his regard slip free without much more than casual comment. It had taken time for Spock to lean into the concept that the captain could be to him Jim. James, perhaps, in the quieter moments. On planets without name or precedent, beneath the cusp of an ion storm – he never pressed Spock for more than he might feasibly give to him. And Spock would give, readily, the foundations of what was and would be shifting minutely alongside the tenants of logic.
But then, Spock is tilting his head. He regards Jim for a moment, the warm vestiges of oceanic sun staining him ever more golden. There is much to miss about the curious facets that make up the hazel of Human eyes, but the blue is no longer a stranger to him. If Spock were prone to such admittances, the subtle greens that thread through makes base for familiarity – the quick wit and determination that strikes up from within, a constant.
The corners of his mouth twitch up, a ghost of what might be a smile, before he leads on into the narrow living space with the turn of his shoulder. He has always been sure of his footing, quieter than most on the ship, and he concerns himself first with clearing from the coffee table and the couch the abstracted mosaic of projects and electronics. His mug is placed upon one of the coasters he procures from a shallow bin beneath the low coffee table, the pieces and parts of his experiments and commissions soon occupying the spaces cleared within and behind them. When ample room is available now to them both, Spock idles amid the overstuffed furnishings and awaits Jim’s pick.
Whatever space Jim does deem satisfactory to occupy, thereafter, Spock will opt for himself. He does not curl his legs up under himself, but it is a near thing. After weeks spent in the heat of this apartment, he had grown accustomed to no longer wearing the thin thermal layers beneath his clothing.
“As you no doubt surmised, Aldrip’s computational devices are utilized as listening devices,” he starts. There was a reason he left his bag in the closet downstairs with the tablet muffled within it. “I have discovered several exploits over the course of my detainment, chiefly those which provide means to evade immediate and universal translation. However, I hypothesize there is nothing to prevent the construction of unique technologies. I intend to solicit volunteers who would be amenable to acquiring necessary components.”
He leaning forward, he picks up his mug. He does not blow on it as Jim did before he takes an idle sip of tea, the heat of it already turning the tips of his fingers a subtler shade of olive. Though his gaze lingers in the spaces beside Jim, his attention never wavers from what has been asked of him. He knows Jim is much like himself in this way, his devotion to the cause absolute and boundless. He blinks once, cat-like, as the last of the sunlight dips below the horizon.
The snow in Aldrip seems to have come to a standstill in recent weeks, but the weather had yet to turn into anything resembling pleasant. Like the nights on Vulcan, Aldrip’s evenings raced cold and long. But, never dark. Never truly, with the moon fixed and static. As though a single, silvery eye against the hole-punched heavens, Spock had watched it rise many a time in silence. But now?
Now, there was little need for it.
no subject
Luckily, their senior officers didn't have this problem; Uhura certainly didn't, and anytime Jim might have worried about his friend, he'd reassured himself that Spock was fine; he might not need the extended social circle that a lot of people did, but he had Jim, Uhura; he ate with them in the mess and let himself be dragged along to Scotty's Warp Core Pub Quiz.
Intimidation was one thing, but Jim couldn't imagine anyone getting to know Spock and not liking him. He had his quirks, but don't they all? Like he said, it's all part of the appeal.
Spock meets his gaze so easily; Jim knows he's often the first one to look away. The same can be said here, with this Spock; he's not nearly so different, whatever their lived experiences may be. Steady, capable; solid, even when the world feels like it's crumbling. Jim looks away because he has to; because he knows Spock won't.
"I'm more interested in your definition." Jim hums quietly, savoring the tea. It's no surprise Spock remembered his preference, unable (though willing, as necessary) to stomach stronger flavors. Chamomile is a median between them; floral and mellow, a honey-like sweetness that's not too sweet for Vulcan tastebuds, but that Jim also doesn't have to dump spoonfuls of sweetener into. Balanced, between them.
Spock's eyeing him in a way that strikes up mild self-consciousness, but Jim quells it, as he's so used to doing. That's just the way Spock was, computations and evaluations always running, determining the next logical response. Faced with Jim's bold humanity, sometimes it's even fun to watch - though based on today, with the, frankly, gentle way Spock is handling him (and okay, Jim can't blame him - prison planet, chased-by-locals, mild anxiety attack on the beach, time travel parallel universe shenanigans - it's a lot), Jim wouldn't be surprised if the Commander was trying to determine how best to get him to agree to a nap.
Jim trails after him into the next room, dim sunlight filtering in through the curtains as the sun dips, presumably behind a building across the road. Spock tidies, and Jim doesn't bother telling him he doesn't need to; he takes up at one end of the couch, crossing his legs and folding them tailor-style, with his foot tucked up against his knee. He leans on it, still cradling the tea close, trying and failing not to smile when he sees Spock setting a coaster for himself.
"Have you swept the house?" Jim asks, eyes flitting to scan the room again in a new light. He presumes so, but then again, technology was relatively primitive here; if there were bugs in the living accommodations, they might need to be found manually. "Monitoring. Hm. Hope they're not looking for a confession."
Though again - why? Why let them have the appearance of freedom at all? Curiouser and curiouser.
"You want to build a dark web." At that, Jim can't help but grin, eyebrows rising up towards his hair. "After all the shit you gave me about cheating - that's fantastic. Were you able to crib the base operating system?"
Or maybe Spock hasn't gotten that far yet, Jim had intentionally not snooped too far into his notes, after all. He leans back against the arm of the couch, unable to sit still, swirling the tea idly in his mug. "Well, if you want any assistance with that, you know I'm good for it."
The sun continues to dip, lower and lower, the hazy orange light giving way to grey, then slowly, the inkiness of black and blue. He wonders if there are stars - or perhaps Aldrip has too much light pollution? If there are - perhaps they would recognize some of them.
Or maybe this quadrant of space is unrecognizable; Jim probably shouldn't be surprised, if that's the (likely) case.
no subject
Spock considers it in part the fault of his upbringing, the unique sequence of his being. Vulcans were not ones to shy away from direct observation, but Spock’s mind always worked two steps ahead of where it needed to be. Where he would consider and discard the evidence at hand, he would often weigh in the current presentation of the individual before him. Humans found it most unsettling. And so, Spock in part only curbed it enough to resemble the rest of his perceived kin. To Spock, rank and academics and species meant nothing against what was offered to others.
But, it did not mean that Spock was ignorant. It did not mean he did not expect prejudice, the heavier hand of some judgement cast upon a perceived failure by birth or experience. For all there was cruelty, there too was light.
As they both settle into their respective positions, Spock observes Jim loosely. His respiration has leveled, and his body has released any residual adrenaline. Spock finds the results satisfactory.
“By my estimations,” Spock begins, the gloaming cutting silvery and deep across the high points of his face, “if one discounts the provided portable devices, there are none.”
It should not be such a declaration, but there it is. Were it a typical scenario, Spock would have had the probability down to the nearest decimal. However, as Jim already suspects, there is nothing about their present circumstances that rests upon the familiar and the mundane. While such novelty was expected upon Starfleet’s designated flagship, there is a distinct otherness that pervades the bindings of the world that threads itself about them. Where there is often objectivity and logic, there is something that falls apart around the seams, never quite unknotting no matter how Spock approaches it. It does not deter him, of course. Not in the least. It is one thing to be wise, it is quite another to be persistent. Stubborn, as Jim once called him. But, when presented with an issue, who was he to rest when he could otherwise assist? Who was he to ignore what could feasibly be broken open, the occupants released (if they wanted to be, if they could be) from the depths of their entanglement?
It pleases him no more than any to think he may be a run at a game, a perfect synaptic copy. If this is so— well, Jim will know the details later. Spock is never one to leave him without the exacts at hand, the breadth and scope with which to make his own judgements. He often finds himself gratified to know that, in absence of agreement, Jim lays a path for further considerations. Jim’s empathy is a strength, his ability to forge connections across time and space – a virtue. And, quietly, Spock sometimes turns over within himself the buried seeds of sentimentality and superstition, thinks of himself as perhaps lucky to be faced with one who extends such undue gentleness to one who cannot ask at all.
Spock considers the phrasing Jim uses, though his mind hinges on any number of facts in the interim. He needn’t long to determine the best way to lay his statements, but there is the glimmer of movement beneath the impassivity. It comes first with the upward flick of his gaze, the minute tip of his chin. He rolls through the whole of the thought, shoulders dipping and fingers flexing about the body of the mug. He arches a brow, almost more to himself, the degree bordering on initial consternation before approaching something resembling clarity.
He leans forward, spine straight and feet resting neat against the floorboards. He places his mug upon the coaster that he’s left upon the coffee table, but never quite moves to settle back against his seat again. Instead, he opts to rest his arms across the bridge of his knees. He steeples his fingers, one shoulder dropping just so without true noticing. He nods once (or more, inclines his head) in acceptance of the offer and the company that is inevitably provided.
“That would be acceptable,” he says, not at all having to think Jim’s involvement over any further. He knows Jim is, as he says, good for it. He suspects that he may not have kept such an experiment from Jim if he wanted to. It is a fact of Jim that Spock has both come to admire and disdain. “And I suppose that is an adequate approximation. However,” Spock pauses, his gaze skimming back to Jim as he keeps stock of how much he drinks. Spock had learned early to make more of everything he expected he may desire, given its lack of immediacy. Aldrip was many things, but the 23rd century it was not (currently).
“Captain,” he starts again, with a barely disguised tinge of curiosity. To another ear, it would slip by without consequence. But here, the word rounds at the corners. It becomes softer in the mouth and on the tongue. “I don’t recall your ever having cheated me in such a fashion.”
He doesn’t and wouldn’t, he thinks. Since he might have formed the capacity to remember at all, Spock had never been one to forget something he wished to hold onto. Most often, it became burdensome when he couldn’t. And so, perhaps this too is another difference. Minor on the surface, but wholly important enough that Jim cannot help but indicate the possibility of hypocrisy.
Fascinating.
no subject
The notion that this place is a simulation is both worrisome and relieving, in a number of ways. Worrisome that it's such an effective sim; the seams, so to speak, are well hidden, the world around them tangible - so if it's a sim, it's an advanced one, and that's the trouble. Could they break out, if it had something to do with an upload of their consciousness? Where were their bodies - unless they were simply copies, being toyed with? Problems to set aside, once they had an actual way to determine what they were dealing with - hence the dark web project. He's following Spock's train of thought, and this is where the relief comes in - if it's a sim, it's run by a computer, and there's no computer in the world that can't be hacked. Certainly no computer that can withstand the both of them.
Jim's mind is already running, wishing he'd taken a closer look at the papers. Of course, an unmonitored line of communication had other uses in the interim, too, while they tried to divine the true nature of Aldrip - a privilege that might prove too dangerous, he thinks, considering again what Spock told him about the bombing attempt. Hm. Another angle to consider. Real or not (and there was the possibility that it still was real), pain and suffering should be minimized or avoided wherever possible.
Spock shifts, setting down his tea to adopt his Thinker pose - yes, that's what Jim was going to call it, no, he would not admit it, even though it pulled a small smile out of him that he dutifully hid against the rim of his glass, sipping his own beverage as cover. The way Spock says Captain is almost enough to set him blushing, though any such changes in his complexion he will, inevitably, blame on the warmth of the tea - but again, it feels gentle, private; as it always does, perhaps, but the intimate, cozy setting has given it a new undertone. Jim once again, ignores it - just his human mind playing tricks on him, ascribing tenor where there is none, he's sure.
"Ah, Spock," Jim runs a hand over the top of his head, messing his damp hair. He peers up at him, equally as curious, though there is the lingering apprehension that it may be better not to know. Still - Jim never was good at quelling those impulses. "We met later for you, didn't we? I keep forgetting."
"You were an instructor at the Academy when we met," Jim gesticulates while he talks, motioning between them with one hand and reaching over to set aside the tea with the other - he doesn't set it on the coffee table, or the side table, but rather balances it on the squashy arm of the couch. "You programmed a Command training exercise called the Kobayashi Maru, and I installed a subroutine in the program to change the parameters."
"In my defense, I'd already taken it twice as intended and passed," Jim raises a hand jokingly, as if he expects Spock to take the same position his counterpart had and react with the stern disapproval that amounted to Vulcan outrage. "So this was more about proving a point than 'cheating', but I don't think you cared much for my distinction."
"Called an entire academic tribunal," At this, Jim laughs and shakes his head, adjusting his position on the couch to sit up more. The tea wavers, but does not spill. "That's how I know you were pissed, then I was pissed...probably would have decked you for the comment you made about my dad, if I wasn't staring down the admiralty."
"And if it wouldn't have broken my hand," Jim allows, still snickering to himself. It's clear he considers the incident in the past, able to look back on it with a different lens and move past any offense that was given, by either of them. He swipes the tea off the arm of the couch again, cradling it between his hands. "Just strikes me as ironic, Commander, that such a point of contention is proving to be a boon, now."
no subject
But, for the moment, there is time and (ample) daylight in the coming hours to consider the ramifications of their strategy. He knows they will both argue the finer points of it, later smooth over the disagreements. He knows that one or the other will come to another conclusion. He knows, too - Spock watches Jim, watches the way Jim watches him. Humans had a most curious quirk of biology, one that they had never quite mastered as most Vulcans did. For all the moons that sluiced through the nights, it never seemed to dampen Jim. All that is washed away in others is highlighted. Jim pinkens and Spock finds himself absently tracing the way it stains along his skin before he realizes what it is Jim is saying to him.
"I am not made of stone, Captain." It is a deflection, quick on its feet. His fingers twitch, an involuntary tap at the tips. Catching himself, he folds them primly.
That moment gives time to Spock to manage the tension of what remarkably resembles dread. Dread, at the concept that he would have ever said something like that to Jim. It pulls along his lungs acutely, prickles up the nape of his neck. He soldiers on ahead, Jim's gaze at once both hesitant and open. Never thereafter, he thinks. He thinks he would never have touched upon it again.
"Moreover, at that age, I do not believe you would have succeeded upon your intended warpath. I was not..." A glancing self-criticism. He was not... Reined in? Logical? Made to be reasoned with?
He was looser then, freer. Angry. He remembers himself as he was: bright in the eyes of the academy, awash with their acknowledgements and praise. And yet, at the end of the day, what good was it anyway? It had been years since he'd last spoke to his father. Each disappointment Spock brought to his door, it seemed only to multiply. And so too, did Spock's distaste for him. It had been one slight too many and his mother - there was no use in thinking of things that could not be undone. Shame might be as it is, but he lets it slide along muscle and bone. If it trips along the eaves of his ribs, he lets it. Whatever branch had been extended before his detainment, it had not yet borne fruit.
"If it is as you say, I would have indeed known myself to be less open to..." His mouth downturns, almost imperceptibly. Upon another, it might be called a minor twitch of the lip, but upon Spock? It looks almost sullen. Abashed, maybe. "More creative methods."
Philosophies, even. He knows now that despite all of his more logical constructions and protestations, Jim plays fast and loose with the probable and the possible. If no one else could break free of the perceived realities that ensnared them, it would be Jim at the end that held aloft the proverbial key.
It would have infuriated him, back then. It would have been enough to send him, most certainly, to calling a tribunal. It surprises him very little, sitting here and now, that Jim Kirk was able to rile him so. It would have been as though sand in the wounds left by his father, a proof that those who taunted him were right in their say. Spock would not have viewed it as an unconventional solution, though it was. He would not have considered the occasional (and reluctant) admittance that forays into intuition and empathy could have their advantages.
And yet, Jim knew the spirit of the practice. Fear was in his vocabulary, but so too was unerring persistence. He found it curious that he had programmed such a penultimate test, never had once having taken it himself. But, he too supposes he can see where he might have. If placed up to it, he would have done so without complaint.
Even so, it is difficult to remain in any such state (and which? Spock discards any such emotional implication) when Jim flits within the spaces he occupies. In this way, Spock is again reminded of the stars at warp and the stretch of silvered wings in Vulcan's black nights. The turn of his laughter knocks free any remaining sense of guilt, the injury molded and mended in turn. Spock (that Spock) was young then, as was he. He knows any such further admissions would be discarded and forgiven.
Lightening, Spock allows himself to again take up his tea. If it has cooled past his preferences, Spock takes no notice. He is warmed by the taste of it, eased by the way Jim fits within Aldrip's walls with his usual spirit. Hair mussed and eyes bright, it is had been some time since Spock had last seen anyone share such emotions so openly with him. It startles the rabbit-run that his heartbeat, makes it tumble over itself despite his say-so
Spock takes another sip of his tea.
no subject
"No," Jim agrees, fingers tapping idly against the side of his mug, a nonsensical rhythm, fidgeting as he is so prone to doing. His eyes are alight with mirth, unnaturally blue, as he tilts his head at the Commander. "But your skull's thicker than my fist, trust me on that one."
It's clear it's a joke, that he doesn't mean physically, though he's sure Spock has some fact about Vulcan bone density and gravity effects he'll pull out of his ass, because he was just a bit persnickety that way. Jim watches him take in the information, gaze fixed on Spock's expression - which doesn't change so much as his aura changes. Despite the fact that Vulcans were supposed to have this profound emotional control, Jim often found that the best - and sometimes the only - way to read his First Officer was to watch, and to use his gut feeling, as opposed to rationalizing it. Not that he would ever tell Spock this - that he reads his human emotion first, and backs it up with logical observations later - but this methodology hasn't steered him wrong yet.
Case in point, he's pretty sure Spock is mildly unsettled by the information something that morphs into...embarrassment? Disapproval? A discontent, for sure, at his counterpart's actions. Hey, Jim can't pretend he was that proud of himself either - well, okay, he still thinks the test was bullshit and he stands by his so-called "cheating", but his other behavior...
Neither of them are so far removed from their youth as to disavow culpability, but Jim's 28 now - like, a whole 3 years older, would you look at that? In all seriousness, he's grown, as a person and as a Captain - he can admit when he was wrong.
His thoughts inadvertently return to the paper, evidence of his wrongdoing. Criminal negligence. He banishes it from his mind, watching Spock frown.
"It's all in the past. I wasn't exactly making it easy for you, either." Even within the farce of a test, Jim had flaunted the rules, mocked them. The reality of the threats they'd faced together on the Enterprise was rarely so cut and dry - there was a time for rules, for order, and a time for creativity and unconventional solutions.
Jim blows out a breath, settling back against the couch cushions, draining the last of his tea. "I understand what you were trying to teach me. I think maybe I always did, I just didn't want to admit it."
He did, of course he did. How could he not? His entire life had been people reminding him how his father had laid down on the wire and let 800 people crawl over him. When there's no other option - of course, you do what you must. The lives of the many outweigh the lives of the few - Jim's already lived this lesson, irradiating himself to the brink of death for his crew and the lives of those on the planet below. But if there's another option to consider, no matter how unconventional, they owe it to themselves to try.
"And I think you understand what I was trying to teach you." He smiles again, soft, encouraging. A promise that his universe's Spock had grown, too. The smile dims a little, a flicker that Jim doesn't pause to explain - but there was a reason Spock had grown, so fast and so early. My mother was Human, which makes Earth the only home I have left.
Jim shrugs it off, though perhaps his next question isn't quite as subtle as he'd have liked it to be; his gaze cuts down to his empty cup, which he busies himself with setting aside. "Enough about my universe. Tell me about - your Enterprise crew or...your planet, Vulcan."
no subject
For all he is Vulcan, Spock might draw a bright line between the said and the unsaid, the division between the self and the soul. They both know more than the other lets on, both know less than what the other reveals. Were he one to indulge the fantastic and the ephemeral, Spock might suppose Jim houses the answers behind the cut of his teeth, the lessening curve of his smile.
“I do,” he tells him. It comes softer, like a prayer. It almost loses itself under the motion he undertakes, standing to collect Jim’s cup in the aftermath of his diversion. His long fingers settle as a net across the smooth lip, his own tea forgotten in favor of refilling his.
For all that Jim is never idle, Spock too never is. Jim may move through thought as one moves through music, as though a wave broke open across rockier shores, but he too carries it. He holds concept and question in the bob of a foot, the curl of arm. Spock had been as that once, motion for the sake of it, but how long ago had that been subsumed by expectation? How long had Spock learned to inundate intention with the prospect of purpose?
Spock does not let himself ruminate on it. Instead, he considers the pieces that Jim has parceled over to him as he busies himself in the kitchen. He knows Jim asks not for topography, statistics. He knows his request for information about the Enterprise is secondary to his request for information on Vulcan. To Spock, Jim affects the demeanor of one sifting their hands through the death of a fire, the ashes drawn up about their fingertips. Something precious has been knocked free about it, about Vulcan, and Jim is seeking where he otherwise cannot.
As Spock touches the backs of his knuckles to kettle to determine if the tea it holds is still hot, he thinks of how best to place it. He thinks of Jim as he knows him, as he knows him now, and draws his hand back from the kettle only to lift it.
“Without a moon, the nights on Vulcan are long and dark.”
He pitches his voice, just enough to be heard from Jim’s spot upon the couch. He pours from the kettle, refilling Jim’s cup, watching the liquid settle again against the rim. There is no sense in saving what remains for himself, half-drunk as his own cup is.
“When it is at its hottest, most return inside.” If Spock takes longer than necessary to tidy up, Spock does not a show of it. All items return to their designated places, his muted footfalls nearly masked by the faint clatter of dishes. “Shades are drawn, and curtains are loosened. If the season is right, the scent of the gardens will rise as the winds shift. Very little moves, until the stars begin to appear along the horizon.”
And then, and at once, Spock is back at Jim’s side as though he’d never left him. A shadow at the elbow, something to place a hand upon – he again holds out the mug to him, dark eyes darker under the weight of the settling night. He does not press Jim, knows better than to chase what Jim does not want to be found, but he wonders. He wonders, but then:
“I once told you of the birds that would sing then.” Once upon a time. In a city that never would be and never had been. Gentler, his gaze sliding off Jim’s shoulder and resting in the shadows that curve against the couch’s back, he appends: “It brought you peace.”
Why do you ask me about Vulcan, he thinks. Why do you ask, unless there is nothing to know?
no subject
But it doesn't matter, really, the things they do or don't keep from each other. Jim knows Spock has his back, in the same way he would have Spock's - across dimensions, at this point. He trusts him, and moreover - he accepts Spock as he is, mysteries or not. Spock is his friend, and to Jim, his friends, his crew, are his family.
Still; Spock knows all of this, and lets Jim ease the way, no questions asked. He does not press at the bruise, if only to save them both the ache. Spock stands and collects his mug, to which Jim murmurs a thank you, shifting to fold his other leg underneath him instead.
What is he thanking him for? Maybe a bit of everything.
It's no surprise that Spock can suss out his true thoughts, though the circumstances behind them remain shrouded. Jim is good at a decent bluff, sure, but not like this. Not to him, and certainly not here, in the quiet comfort of Spock's living room, warm and weary from the day.
Yet, Spock is kind enough to let him have it anyway, the appearance that he's gotten away with it; he neatly cuts to the core of what Jim wanted to know, as if the question could ever be that simple. Guiltily, Jim knows this is a question he's not brave enough to ask his own Spock, and perhaps he's taking advantage by asking it of this Spock; there's a reason they don't talk about it, of course, Jim isn't suffering from lack of clarity. For all that Spock knows when not to push - it's a two-way street, and where Spock avoids a bruise, Jim avoids breaking a ribcage. To sate mere curiosity?
It's as unforgivable as to be unthinkable.
Perhaps it's deeper than curiosity, though, as Jim is so quick to write it off - perhaps it's a desire for connection, to know Spock more deeply; and maybe that's too human of him as to be acceptable in the context of their friendship, but he can't help it. Where Spock may have a choice to lean upon his Vulcan ancestry, Jim is only human. Spock has never rebuffed him for it, but Jim does his best not to press his luck.
Spock is quiet enough in the kitchen that Jim almost retracts the request, guilt washing over him, but the description captures his attention instantly. Perhaps, too, there is yet another layered reason; all he knows of Vulcan is its end, and that is no way to remember. It was beautiful, what he saw outside the window of the ship - or he thinks it would have been, had they not been dodging destroyed starship dishes, had adrenaline and horror not been overloading his nervous system. And then - falling, diving, fighting. Sulu and him, spinning thousands of feet above the surface, towards certain death - all he saw were the red rocks, the hot plasma in the bottom of the hole Nero had blasted.
He had never set foot on the planet, and then it was gone, all of...everything.
The Vulcan Spock describes is the one Jim wants to share, because he knows it deserves a better remembrance. Spock paints it so eloquently, too, cutting to the heart of the matter: an inky night sky covered in constellations of a different sector of the universe, no moon to interrupt the tableau. That was one of Jim's favorite things, whenever they had the chance to indulge; looking at a foreign night sky, tracing the familiar constellations, and mapping out the new ones. Where they'd head next, if he had any say in it - further, farther, faster.
The Vulcan botanical gardens had been purported to be some of the most beautiful in that quadrant of the galaxy, if Jim is recalling correctly, housed in an encased, glass greenhouse on the grounds of the Vulcan Science Academy. He can't say it's any surprise, given Spock's affinity for plants; he can easily imagine Spock tending to a small garden at his family home, gathering fresh K'rhtha for his tea.
Jim bows his head, simply listening, and doesn't move again until he senses Spock at his side, tension he didn't realize he was holding bleeding out of his shoulders as he straightens, accepting the mug with mild surprise; he hadn't realized he'd been refilling it, and soft gratitude spawns in his chest, warming him more than the drink.
"Thank you," Jim says quietly, meeting Spock's gaze. He holds it, so many swirling emotions in his expression it may be hard to read just one, and reaches out to accept the offering, cradling the mug in his hands. "It sounds..."
Beautiful. Heartbreaking. Mesmerizing. Jim doesn't have the right words, in the right order. "It sounds restful."
"I've never been." While not technically a lie, Jim amends almost immediately, thumb pressing against the lip of the mug absently. "I mean, I went once, but we - couldn't stay long."
Again, not technically a lie, but it burns a little on the way out, anyway. He's definitely learned a thing or two about talking like a Vulcan, at least. "Where's your favorite spot, if you had to pick one?"
no subject
Humanity knots itself into infinite complexities, in ways that Spock cannot quite grasp with both hands despite being part. He had once had greater understanding of it, had worn it for those that he loved, but such openness had been stifled young. In the wake of all that would come to be, he would learn to reject it. He would learn to repress it, to carry the sting of disappointment. He would learn that, in order to be or exist—it matters little. What he knows now of the conversation is that he is indulging Jim. He is indulging him, as much as Jim indulges his evasion of his ship. It is a mutual benefit, a logical choice when all paths would lead to further exhaustion. He knows that Jim is fatigued. Humans require more rest than he ever did, but he knows too that Jim would readily refuse the prospect if posed so directly.
And so, he doesn’t.
Instead, he observes. He settles, this time at the other end of the couch that Jim occupies, his own tea forgotten in favor of sorting through what is laid before him.
“It is illogical to choose favorites,” he says, the lift of his voice a chancing at lightness. Though for himself it holds no benefit, playing the part is no true hardship. In Jim, he sees the unsaid. He hears it in the absences, as though the words he so often held were balled up in the chest like a fist. For all that he tells himself that Vulcans do not intuit, he can read the signs in the way Jim’s body. He can see the tension, each flow and seize and ebb. He can see the flicker of something sacred and savored, his eyes so clear that Spock is reminded of glass. And yet, they dart from him as much as they seek him.
Spock considers the weight of Jim’s pauses, sifts them as though the rivers of sand that spill from the high dunes of Vulcan. He thinks of the color red.
“There was a window, that overlooked a forest,” he says, eventually. He crosses one leg over the other, watches the loose fall of the fabric as it shifts to bell about an ankle. He fixes his gaze on it, the way the moon gilds its edge. Spock thinks of a weapon, the wicked curve of a lirpa. “When viewed from above, one could follow the progression of the roots and limbs down the hillside.”
He pauses, laces his fingers together. Even now, he can still see it. He can still walk the halls, hear his mother down the many flights of stairs. He still sees himself, can still feel the bubble of shame that rises within. How many days had he spent within that room, body alight with the ache of burgeoning bruises? How many times had he taken up his tablet—he runs one thumb over the joint of the other, the dark of his brow smoothing through the stitch he had not realized had formed there.
He does not think of laughter, the bright of a smile that no longer exists.
“I would spend many hours there, as a child.” The shadows the moon casts move across the floor, slow and liquid. Spock continues, quiet and fixed. “The light of the room and view beyond it were… Ideal. For meditation.”
He blinks once, drawing back to himself. It’s a slow process, made less apparent by the dim. He censors himself carefully, excising the emotion that lives within the heart of the memory. As though destoning the soft bodies of overripe fruits, he turns the tartness of being over his tongue— and is reminded, that there are places and times he might never return to. There are sights that will never be seen again. There is only himself in this moment. Himself and Jim.
Spock tips his gaze up. He knows there is no point in chasing what cannot be pinned, but he watches. He waits for the opening, the opportunity to confirm what it is Jim circles, but does not give. But then—he looks at him, without reservation. And softly, he says:
“What are you seeking, Jim?”
There is no demand in the question. It is only observation. He knows there is more that he wants, more that he is not articulating. But the opening is now his to use or discard. It is his now to do with as he wishes.
no subject