The concept is an oddity. Experience without expectation, the stretch of the day lazy and filled with meandering purpose. He had never allowed himself to explore such things in earnest, mind alight with the possibilities that linger beyond and before him. He had never earned keep in the places that raised him, in the spaces that were bent to fit his impossible edges. He had never once known what it was, to feel as though “belonging” was a possibility. How might something upon the outskirts know the truth of a fire? How might they know, too, what it was to be warm?
Progress is slow. Time extends, loops about itself. And yet, no matter where it is that Spock goes, there is always this constant: an easy back-and-forth, an extension of a hand. A person who, beyond even himself, he might know and see the truth of. A steady light, where his does not seem to burn to begin.
The way Jim pulls him toward later, toward something else— he knows it for what it is. It’s a promise. A reassurance. Spock grants it, knowing that there will be in some manner or another. He grants it, more with the minute raise of a brow, the smoothing of the furrow that makes itself known beneath the blunt edge of his fringe. As always, as ever, Jim knows when to press, where to skirt the enormity of what Spock cannot say.
But, were he able to, what might he do with it? asks a quieter part of himself. What would he do with it, if given it hand over fist? All that is weak and dark and wounded, poured into the grip that welcomes him. Does he know what it is he is asking of him? Does he know what it is he lures to the surface with the surety of self, the surety of self that even Spock does not possess? The war that he carries on, the precarious balance – the exhaustion, of knowing what is true and what is reflection? His nails dig crescents into the skin. In the valleys between fingers, in the delicate webbing, what whitens cuts copper and olive. It does not hurt, not truly. It grounds.
You’ll always be cold and distant. Inevitably, eventually, Spock’s eyes find Jim’s. Like a moon somewhere. And eventually, inevitably, Spock takes him in.
Sincerity had once been a friend to him. Warmth, a companion. As with all that grows and presses against the boundaries of existence, he had come to learn what it was to be questioned. He had learned what it was he might have expected, piecemealed from the mouths who would see him instead as abomination. He had known what it was to love, to be loved. He had known, acutely, how it was to lose it. Family, a place of belonging, a sense of what comprised him – was it truly within the realm of surprise? He’d once felt ashamed to have grown so close to Jim so quickly. He had once felt ashamed, to hope such importance was felt in duplicate. And now, when Jim holds out such firm and unshakeable belief in the person before him, how can it surprise that Spock views it first as a knife? How can it surprise, when not struck soon after with both the weight of disappointment and the cast of despair, that something in him shifts? Hungry and heedless, it winds about his ribs somewhere. It climbs, no matter how ruthless his attempts to ignore it. It quiets, when Jim’s hand leaves the curve of his shoulder. It reaches, when Jim settles back.
“I once told you,” Spock starts, soft and sudden, “that you almost make me believe in luck.”
Their little raft rocks, sways under the movement of Jim’s body. Now, it too is disturbed under the movement of his. Jim had made it seem so simple, so obvious. And Spock, too, had known it. But, posed to him now and under such confidence, how might he ignore it? The offer is logical, practical. It is not without merit. And yet, because he is as he is, there are no ideal means to exercise it. Not as they are. Not at present.
But, for all Jim trusts him—
It is awkward, as it always is, attempting to fit into spaces that one believes are not theirs. It is a frisson of uncertainty, a scintilla of distrust. But, as Spock somehow manages to keep them afloat as he settles beneath the stretch of a golden arm, he finds it somehow isn’t. Close enough that he might feel the heat of an exhalation against the back of his neck, he finds himself unable to recall the last time he’d allowed himself any such closeness. Be it for necessity or otherwise, his mind cannot draw up a time before now that he’d not felt the thrum of failure, had felt the weight of missed expectations. Neither Human nor Vulcan, he’d learned not to want what could not be given. He’d learned what it was to take what was provided, to live with the paths he had chosen. He closes his eyes and thinks of hillsides, of ancient stone and bark. He thinks of the world, turned upside-down. He thinks of it righted, with great patience and persistence. He thinks of the sound of the wind, the grasses grown golden and long. He thinks of fields, freshly tilled. He thinks of all he has seen and has not seen, the impermanent slant of the sun.
“I had never thought it fair, to attribute your successes to it.” Not when, he does not say, I am witness to what you grapple with, to what you face to earn the loyalty of those who would serve you. But, he needn’t. He shouldn’t. His words are too lost upon his own tongue, cut over his teeth. Born anew, in ways that are both careful and precise, as he too must always remain. “You win them by your own merit. You still do.”
The water still washes up over the sides. Spock knows it to be settling, inertia still carrying what lingers beneath the surface.
“You must tell me,” he says after a long moment, “If it becomes too much.”
Trust. His own trust. Extended back to him. It is easier to speak, when his face is turned from Jim. It is easier to process, with his hands held still against his own chest. It is easier to remember what it is he must be doing.
Like this, he turns his own thoughts and energies toward the regulation of his own body – his own blood. He does it not only for himself, but for Jim. After all, he reminds himself, after all, against the continual press of tides and the enduring chill, it will bring Jim stability too.
no subject
The concept is an oddity. Experience without expectation, the stretch of the day lazy and filled with meandering purpose. He had never allowed himself to explore such things in earnest, mind alight with the possibilities that linger beyond and before him. He had never earned keep in the places that raised him, in the spaces that were bent to fit his impossible edges. He had never once known what it was, to feel as though “belonging” was a possibility. How might something upon the outskirts know the truth of a fire? How might they know, too, what it was to be warm?
Progress is slow. Time extends, loops about itself. And yet, no matter where it is that Spock goes, there is always this constant: an easy back-and-forth, an extension of a hand. A person who, beyond even himself, he might know and see the truth of. A steady light, where his does not seem to burn to begin.
The way Jim pulls him toward later, toward something else— he knows it for what it is. It’s a promise. A reassurance. Spock grants it, knowing that there will be in some manner or another. He grants it, more with the minute raise of a brow, the smoothing of the furrow that makes itself known beneath the blunt edge of his fringe. As always, as ever, Jim knows when to press, where to skirt the enormity of what Spock cannot say.
But, were he able to, what might he do with it? asks a quieter part of himself. What would he do with it, if given it hand over fist? All that is weak and dark and wounded, poured into the grip that welcomes him. Does he know what it is he is asking of him? Does he know what it is he lures to the surface with the surety of self, the surety of self that even Spock does not possess? The war that he carries on, the precarious balance – the exhaustion, of knowing what is true and what is reflection? His nails dig crescents into the skin. In the valleys between fingers, in the delicate webbing, what whitens cuts copper and olive. It does not hurt, not truly. It grounds.
You’ll always be cold and distant. Inevitably, eventually, Spock’s eyes find Jim’s. Like a moon somewhere. And eventually, inevitably, Spock takes him in.
Sincerity had once been a friend to him. Warmth, a companion. As with all that grows and presses against the boundaries of existence, he had come to learn what it was to be questioned. He had learned what it was he might have expected, piecemealed from the mouths who would see him instead as abomination. He had known what it was to love, to be loved. He had known, acutely, how it was to lose it. Family, a place of belonging, a sense of what comprised him – was it truly within the realm of surprise? He’d once felt ashamed to have grown so close to Jim so quickly. He had once felt ashamed, to hope such importance was felt in duplicate. And now, when Jim holds out such firm and unshakeable belief in the person before him, how can it surprise that Spock views it first as a knife? How can it surprise, when not struck soon after with both the weight of disappointment and the cast of despair, that something in him shifts? Hungry and heedless, it winds about his ribs somewhere. It climbs, no matter how ruthless his attempts to ignore it. It quiets, when Jim’s hand leaves the curve of his shoulder. It reaches, when Jim settles back.
“I once told you,” Spock starts, soft and sudden, “that you almost make me believe in luck.”
Their little raft rocks, sways under the movement of Jim’s body. Now, it too is disturbed under the movement of his. Jim had made it seem so simple, so obvious. And Spock, too, had known it. But, posed to him now and under such confidence, how might he ignore it? The offer is logical, practical. It is not without merit. And yet, because he is as he is, there are no ideal means to exercise it. Not as they are. Not at present.
But, for all Jim trusts him—
It is awkward, as it always is, attempting to fit into spaces that one believes are not theirs. It is a frisson of uncertainty, a scintilla of distrust. But, as Spock somehow manages to keep them afloat as he settles beneath the stretch of a golden arm, he finds it somehow isn’t. Close enough that he might feel the heat of an exhalation against the back of his neck, he finds himself unable to recall the last time he’d allowed himself any such closeness. Be it for necessity or otherwise, his mind cannot draw up a time before now that he’d not felt the thrum of failure, had felt the weight of missed expectations. Neither Human nor Vulcan, he’d learned not to want what could not be given. He’d learned what it was to take what was provided, to live with the paths he had chosen. He closes his eyes and thinks of hillsides, of ancient stone and bark. He thinks of the world, turned upside-down. He thinks of it righted, with great patience and persistence. He thinks of the sound of the wind, the grasses grown golden and long. He thinks of fields, freshly tilled. He thinks of all he has seen and has not seen, the impermanent slant of the sun.
“I had never thought it fair, to attribute your successes to it.” Not when, he does not say, I am witness to what you grapple with, to what you face to earn the loyalty of those who would serve you. But, he needn’t. He shouldn’t. His words are too lost upon his own tongue, cut over his teeth. Born anew, in ways that are both careful and precise, as he too must always remain. “You win them by your own merit. You still do.”
The water still washes up over the sides. Spock knows it to be settling, inertia still carrying what lingers beneath the surface.
“You must tell me,” he says after a long moment, “If it becomes too much.”
Trust. His own trust. Extended back to him. It is easier to speak, when his face is turned from Jim. It is easier to process, with his hands held still against his own chest. It is easier to remember what it is he must be doing.
Like this, he turns his own thoughts and energies toward the regulation of his own body – his own blood. He does it not only for himself, but for Jim. After all, he reminds himself, after all, against the continual press of tides and the enduring chill, it will bring Jim stability too.