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.
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expiationlogs2024-04-14 10:44 pm
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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"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."
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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?
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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?"
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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.
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