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expiationlogs2024-05-26 08:15 pm
conflictresolution) wrote in expiationlogs2024-05-26 08:15 pm
The Last Drop Grand Opening
Who: Whoever would like to attend the grand opening mingle at the Last Drop
Where: Entertainment District – The Last Drop
What: The grand opening of the night club / bar
Warnings: Alcohol and low-level drugs
The Last Drop opens big and loud with neon lights and music that booms from within to be heard from the streets. There are two large bouncers at the door, but they were allowing people in very freely on this night until the room was at capacity then there would be a line. The bouncers only stop those who are already three-sheets to the wind and could cause trouble, but otherwise, they are there to break up trouble as the night wears on.
Inside, there was smoke machines, flashing lights, loud music and the drinks were flowing to anyone that wanted. There was plenty of dancing, some dart boards along the walls, a jukebox, tables and booths for patrons to have drinks and discuss business.
There are stairs that lead up to a second floor to one side of the bar, lights on the stairs. There were people lounging on the stairs and it seemed to be ‘employees only’. Patrons were allowed the lounge there as well if they were tired of dancing or the tables or booths were occupied.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4aGrN9ZBg0
Where: Entertainment District – The Last Drop
What: The grand opening of the night club / bar
Warnings: Alcohol and low-level drugs
The Last Drop opens big and loud with neon lights and music that booms from within to be heard from the streets. There are two large bouncers at the door, but they were allowing people in very freely on this night until the room was at capacity then there would be a line. The bouncers only stop those who are already three-sheets to the wind and could cause trouble, but otherwise, they are there to break up trouble as the night wears on.
Inside, there was smoke machines, flashing lights, loud music and the drinks were flowing to anyone that wanted. There was plenty of dancing, some dart boards along the walls, a jukebox, tables and booths for patrons to have drinks and discuss business.
There are stairs that lead up to a second floor to one side of the bar, lights on the stairs. There were people lounging on the stairs and it seemed to be ‘employees only’. Patrons were allowed the lounge there as well if they were tired of dancing or the tables or booths were occupied.
no subject
And then Spock looks at him like that, and it makes it really damn hard to think at all, actually.
Jim always knew Spock was handsome - hot, even, that was never in question - but something about tonight's outfit is really making that fact impossible to ignore. Frankly, Jim's not sure how they haven't had more people stopping by their booth for a chat - or maybe Spock's literally so hot it's intimidating, hell, Jim wouldn't be surprised. The neon lights that bathe the place in purple and pink create interesting effects with the eyeshadow, catching the shimmer at just the right angle, creating a tractor beam that drags Jim's gaze right back to Spock's, to the smoky part of the eye effect, where the full strength of his attention lies.
If Jim's face is a little flush after meeting Spock's eyes, cheeks beginning to heat at the tops, well - maybe it's just the alcohol, and hopefully, the lights hide it.
His mouth is dry, so Jim takes another swig of his whiskey, tossing his head back in an effort to clear it. Don't even get him started on Spock's arms, the tight fit of the thermal shirt around his chest and biceps - see, being pansexual does have its disadvantages, and being able to fully appreciate every facet of the masculine, feminine, and everything else on the gender spectrum was certainly one of them. ]
You're such a comedian, you know that? [ Jim can't help the way his attention flickers to Spock's hand, elegant as ever in his motions. He'd always admired the fluidity, and shit, if he's indulging fully into the alcohol-induced horny voice in the back of his brain (what, it's not like Spock can hear it and if suppressing it wasn't working, maybe he should just stop fighting, at least on the inside - Christ, it's been too long since he's gotten laid, clearly that's the problem here - ) if he's indulging in the gremlin that lives in the back of his head, Jim thinks he can admit that he's a hands guy (longing sigh not included, thank you very much, he'd like to drown in his whiskey glass now, please).
Regardless, Jim tracks the motion as Spock plucks the glass from the table with slender fingers, following it right back up to his eyes and the playfulness that lurks over the rim of Spock's glass, directed at him with Spock's signature singular focus. His mouth is dry again, so Jim takes another mouthful of his own whiskey, fingers curling under his chin so his nails can subtly bite into his palm and remind him not to do anything too stupid.
Jim takes the out, inclining his head closer to Spock as he picks up his abandoned pen, reaching over to continue building the doodle. If he's drawing, he doesn't have to continue thirsting after his friend. Spock was a taken man, and even in a hypothetical where he wasn't - well, looking at it objectively, (threat to their friendship notwithstanding) there was no universe out there where this happened. Where Spock was into him, when he had the ability to pull amazingly hot and talented people like Uhura? Look, Jim knows his weight class, he's not embarrassed about it - and a tête-à-tête with Spock is decidedly above his paygrade.
Still. He's not doing anything wrong by having eyes. It's fine, everything's fine. He's just gonna...draw. ]
Not lifelike yet. He needs to look angrier. [ Jim squints at the paper; it's harder to see in the muted darkness of the club, and he's got bad enough vision as it is. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he sharpens the line of Bones' eyebrow. He rounds out the other side of his face with a sketchy line before he dares glance back up at Spock again - but whatever recovery he thought was sufficient was not, and Jim looks away quickly before Spock's cheekbones can suck him right back in. ] Should I draw you, instead?
[ Jim shifts the pen to a new blank area, shoulders brushing as his hand moves across the page, doodling out the diamond shape of Spock's face. It is, unfortunately, the perfect excuse to both stare at Spock, and not, and if Jim's cheeks heat further - whatever, shut up, no they don't. ]
no subject
Logic did not terminate baser instinct, did not deplete the innate drive of any individual who engaged in intimate relations. It made it easier, perhaps, to wheel themselves back from the precipice, but such things could always be let go. Such things could always be relinquished. Spock himself was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh, was no stranger to the thrall of what he would consider beauty. However, as grew older and as his focus shifted, he found it harder to wish to engage in both casual and passing connections. He found it more difficult still not to notice what was before him, what sparkled at the edges of his katra and asked to be heard.
Spock still notices. Human eyes and the slender curve of necks. The cut of a dress. The turn of a wrist. A laugh, as rich as the waters that never graced the deserts of his home. Squared shoulders, the cut of a jaw - Spock saw a sort of fascination in many. But -
So rare it was, to find another who would meet the needs of the mind. He'd touched few, enjoyed fewer. But, Jim's - it was no secret that such a mind was welcomed against his. It was no secret, that each meld had required an intense concentration not to proceed in places he was unwelcomed, to lean with the full weight of his consciousness into his. Even with T'Pring, such a connection had not been so easy.
But, Jim is speaking and Spock is pulling his focus back to the present. ]
As always, [ Spock starts with a dry amusement, his eyes touching upon the minor tensions in Jim's jaw, the firm curve of his fingers under his chin. He does not risk a glance at the pull of his shirt about his chest, his arms. ] I fail to see how I might be so.
[ He doesn't, of course. He knows as well as Jim this is part of their usual banter, their usual conversation. The usual comfort of the atmosphere aside, Spock feels the current that runs beneath. He does not dip his fingers into the energies that fizzle off body and tongue, but the temptation is profound enough that Spock finds himself having to speak to keep it back. ]
I hadn't wished to distract you from your artistic endeavors, [ he says, light on the syllables and lighter still on the recursive nature of their contact. Clothed shoulder to clothed shoulder, familiar and not. He recalls one such occasion in a bar, the cheeky smile that his Captain had cast both a means and a lure to scratch his name alongside his into the wooden surface. It had not been his proudest moment, but it is not one he is liable to soon forget. Spock reaches to pluck up his glass again, permits himself another sip. The chocolate is bitter on the tongue, the drink itself an inviting shade of earth. If there's a particular brightness in his gaze, a subtle sort of amusement aligned with the intensity of his typical observation? Spock doesn't make mention of it. ] But, it appears you've already committed yourself to this new course.
[ Not to say that Spock himself hasn't changed gears. Sensation and sound are both becoming warm and muffled, suffused with a hazier light. It makes it difficult for Spock to work through the typical methods and means of correction and recalibration, figures and numbers quick and elusive as he attempts to review them outright. Instead, he takes up his pen in his free hand and works through the rough schematic of the lower decks of a most familiar ship, his lines clear and sure.
Still, he's prone to a certain... Distractibility. The music pulses as the bodies on the dance floor do and Jim's eyes linger. They touch upon his face with a slowly ramping frequency, his desire to draw him aside. Spock tips his gaze upwards on the next pass of his glance, notes the warmth against the apples of his cheeks and the pinkened tip of his tongue. Surely, it is in part the effects of the alcohol, but - Spock flicks his attention back to his drink. The next sip is almost too quick, the residual chill of the liquid bringing with it a sharper discomfort for a beat or two. He has to focus to keep clear the results of possible vasodilation, his heart thrumming hot and fast within his side. ]
Were space not a consideration, what more would you have added?
[ It seems like a non-sequitur, but the meaning becomes quickly clear: the nib of his pen brushes back against the tooth of the notebook, the belly of the Enterprise reflected back up at them. Beyond what is needed for it to function, there is ample space to fill with the speculative and figurative. He himself might only think briefly of the Discovery before training his gaze back on Jim. ]
no subject
It's a sad fact of life aboard a starship that Jim was to be a terminal bachelor. Unless he wants to date one of the three Lieutenant Commanders on board, that is (and even that has about a million declaration forms attached to it that make Jim's eyes bleed just thinking about them). So: Bones (woefully straight), Spock (Uhura would kill him), and Scotty (just...no)?
Yeah. Add terminally celibate to the list, too.
All joking aside, relations between crew members were a highly sensitive matter. Rank was no small factor, even amongst enlisted personnel - and for Jim, as Captain? It's a non-starter. For all that Jim is known to spurn the rules where it suits him (when the rules are wrong, Jim would argue) - this is one area he's never pushed back. He'd never even dream of it. He understands why it's important, why this is the one area where he cannot step out of line, ever - nor would he want to.
The idea that anyone could feel unsafe on his ship because he - Jim doesn't even finish the thought, as unthinkable as it is.
Bad enough there was a slip of paper somewhere in the house with criminal negligence carelessly scrawled across it.It's not so dire, though. Contrary to popular belief (tales of his Academy exploits have been greatly exaggerated, alright), he is not a sex shark, and dying of blue balls is not a thing. Trust him, he checked. Yeah, it kind of sucks sometimes, but he also gets to fly through uncharted space, a new adventure around every corner. In the end, it's so unbelievably worth it.
But he's not on a starship right now, he hasn't gotten laid in a while, and he's only human.
The ridiculous part is, Jim doesn't even need the excuses: Spock just looks really fucking good. Not that he doesn't normally anyway - Jim would be the first to say Spock was a handsome son of a bitch, no question; with the classically handsome jaw, the chiseled angles of his cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes that almost seemed to have their own gravity...sorry, what was he saying? ]
How can you fail to see, Mr. Spock? [ Jim's tone is an approximation of innocence, ruined by the quirk at the edges of his mouth, gaze flicking up to Spock's. ] Your eyes look open to me.
[ Yeah yeah, Spock's better at those jokes than he is, but whatever, he's buzzed enough to get away with it, surely. It's really not helping his distraction either, as Spock so succinctly puts it - that the only thing sharper than Spock's eyeliner is his wit, and the careful delineation Jim normally draws with their banter is starting to blur the further into the night they get.
Drawing gives him something to do other than stare at Spock, and Jim commits to it, sketching out the foundation of his companion. When he glances up again (which proves to be a mistake), Spock is taking a sip of his drink - it means Jim gets to witness the long line of Spock's throat, the way his fingers play on the glass, the shine in his eyes when he meets Jim's gaze again. Jesus Christ. He roughs in the outline of Spock's nose on the paper, quick dashes of the pen providing a guiding line for the severe eyebrows that were to follow. ] My pen simply goes wherever the muse takes me.
You strike an impressive figure. [ His mouth is dry again, and Jim reaches to take another sip of his own drink, amber liquid disappearing between his lips as he pauses for a beat before adding a simple line in place of drawing!Spock's mouth. To some, it might seem an odd choice, but Jim's pretty pleased with the result that's shaping up. No, he's not staring at the paper to avoid seeing how Spock took the compliment, shut up.
Spock takes over part of the page with technical drawing, and Jim just continues his doodle, filling in Spock's hair, crafting the pointed tip of his ear, visible from the perspective he's chosen to draw in. He sketches out the simplest version of a uniform he can before he starts on a second bust, beginning with Spock's eyes.
He takes it back - as their arms brush when they move in tandem on the page - the drawing is not, in fact, helping. Luckily, Spock offers further distraction, drawing Jim's attention to the whole of what he's sketched out - he'd recognize the old girl anywhere. It gets an easy smile out of him, eyes half-lidded as Jim takes another sip of his drink (that one didn't last long, lord almighty, he's down to about a fourth in his glass now) and taps the capped end of his pen in some of the negative space. ] Definitely a swimming pool.
no subject
That most aboard a starship abstain regularly is no surprise. Spock is one among the many, more reserved than even those he knows. It is not to say that he does not occasionally tarry, does not linger in the prospect of a fleeting affection, but such things are by nature temporary. Most were classed as a minor disruption, oft a compulsion brought on by external variables. Those that remained apart, Spock found, were hardly more fulfilling. There had been none before the start of their current mission, none that Spock would choose to rekindle. All that had ended had ended. There is no need for recounting.
Regulations aside, it was a rarity that those in their careers might have found the time to court and encourage. Alone in an ocean of stars, bobbing along as though the singular light against a distant shore, it once brought to mind the rambling accounts of Terran sailors. While some longed for the piers and the sights of Humankind, others embraced what they could not see. The velvet dark, the weight of the salt on the air like a brand -- there was a sort of innate Romanticism in those who chased the vastness. He sees such things in Jim, sees such things in two he now knows, and knows it to be a reflection of the home found in the absences. A place carved, Spock thinks, in the perfect liminality of what could and could not be.
Jim speaks to him easily, his attention like a warmer sun against the colder moon somewhere. That Spock should not turn to his attentions seems somehow an impossibility, his mind a sparking of embers against one so unaccustomed to being shown such measures of interest, such kindness.
And so, when Jim meets his eyes even briefly, it is all that Spock might do to remark on the absolute Humanity. Where once was the warm soils of Earth were now the waters of some unknown origin, clear enough that Spock thinks he might see through to the bottom. ]
I should find myself hoping, Captain. [ A playful tit-for-tat, an easy repartee. In the curve of his syllables lies another meaning, caught behind the banks of his teeth and stuck to the tip of his tongue. He should hope he would be here with him, he thinks, instead of entangled in some manner of imaginings. Still, there is a kind of... Curious charm, in how Jim attempts his manner of humor. It stirs something in him, both warm and somehow enduring, and Spock does not name it as he watches Jim's throat bob around the sting of his drink.
If Spock takes a moment to glance away, to place down his own and push over his heretofore untouched water glass with tips of his fingers? It is more for the realization that this rate (as well as his own) is likely to end poorly for him without appropriate countermeasures.
He is only so fortunate, however, to have timed it before Jim's offhand compliment. As otherwise engrossing as their mutual sketching might be, his fine hearing seizes on it. It seizes upon the way he turns the syllables over his tongue, the way he does not look at him whilst saying so. Spock finds himself for a moment quieted, the heavy thump of the music going on for a stretch uncounted. Jim's profile in the cut of this light shows both focus and fixation, a softness at the round of his cheek -- the curve of his nose. Juxtaposed with the firmer lines of his throat and his jaw, he thinks to argue the comment. To turn it about to him instead, but: ]
No more than usual, sir. [ For all usual tactics remain, there is something that goes soft and unchecked at the corners of his expression. His gaze dips back to the notebook -- for the sake of observing, of course --, and takes in the sketches that Jim pours himself into with such vigor. They are a deal more detailed than Spock might have thought and he feels a peculiar heat crawl up the back of his neck no matter his attempts to stifle it. ] You are an artist and flatterer both.
[ It is another moment before he might continue upon his own schematics, the nib of his pen having pulled off track in the wake of such comment. He clears his throat gently, his attention losing its typical single-minded edge as he steers his pen back into the confines of the Enterprise. ]
Ah. Yes, [ he starts, feeling the familiar weight of Jim's eyes against him. He tamps down on the desire to confirm visually that he's smiling, but there remains the allure. ] I do so recall your preference for water over sonics. A true impracticality.
[ And yet, he is obliging. His pen moves, his lines confident and measured. Resources were carefully balanced upon any starship, even those such as the Enterprise, but he had known Jim to always like such small allowances when given to him. Spock had never quite explored the differences, but much of the crew waxed on about it. And he was beginning to think, in his experiences here, that perhaps there was an increased sense of relaxation associated. ]
no subject
Most humans were psi-null, this was true. Not all, but most. They felt things, deeply, loudly, and unapologetically; ruled with their emotions as often (or sometimes more often) than their logic. Unsurprisingly, this had a tendency to create conflict or offense where none was intended, especially among species that were not psi-null, and who utilized other forms of body language and information in their communication. And yet - Starfleet was originally founded by humanity, predating the Federation.
Despite the war and strife of the 21st-22nd century, one of the first things humans had done when they turned to the stars was send out aid, a friendly hand.
One of the most curious things that had happened in the wake of the destruction of Vulcan (or maybe, in deference to their not-so-secret similarities, it is not curious at all, but rather, expected), was the uptick in Vulcan enlistment in Starfleet. It had not happened immediately, as one might assume; not the way humans would have flocked to join up, in the wake of a tragedy - no, it was not a response born of revenge.
I don't understand, Jim had said, frowning over the comm to New Vulcan, Spock Prime staring placidly back at him, his fingers steepled in quiet contemplation.
Are you aware that the majority of the relief workers currently present at the colony are human?
Necessarily, as it turns out, in part due to their psi-null status. Two Betazoid workers had gone apeshit after thirty-six hours on the new planet - surrounded by the all-consuming, psionically-charged grief of the Vulcan survivors. And when the uncharacteristic outbursts had begun, a week into the aftermath - primarily with the Vulcan children but not solely confined to the youth, with the unprecedented loss affecting everyone - the humans hadn't flinched away. Their rampant emotionalism, so frequently looked down upon, proved itself an unforeseen boon.
No, the uptick in Vulcan interest in enlistment was not a means to seek out retribution. It was, put simply, inspired.
But perhaps they were just catching up to what Spock already knew, what he had so admired in his mother.He digresses. Funny that Jim should be barred from relations when his parents were a prime example of love found aboard a starship - which, alright, they were both Lieutenant Commanders in their own right and they'd been dating before they were assigned to the Kelvin together, but the point still stood. Who else could ever understand the irresistible l'appel du vide than a fellow crew member? Those who left loved ones dirtside didn't always have them waiting for them when they came back (Sulu and his shockingly well-adjusted husband aside - Ben was an outstanding outlier and should not be counted). But it's not something Jim's sure he could ever properly explain, even with all the words in the universe at his infinite disposal - it's nameless and hungry and necessary, to the core of his being, in a way that Jim think he's always known, deep down. He was born to the stars, quite literally, and he's been trying to get back ever since.
Perhaps this sounds like a lonely life to some, but Jim's known true loneliness; he doesn't mind his choices. Besides, with Spock at his side, he is surely not starved for companionship. It wouldn't even cross his mind, if not for the fact that he's slightly inebriated and the weight of Spock's gaze is starting to feel like a physical touch. He's just - Jim's not sure what he is. If he dares to name the emotion that's blooming in his chest, this wild and wheeling thing that almost feels like - he needs to be drunker for this.
Of course, Spock pushes the water at him after teasing him so effortlessly, and Jim dutifully accepts it, cheeks burning in earnest (don't stare at his hands). Girlfriend, Spock has a girlfriend and even if he didn't - what the hell is going on with him, anyway? It must just be the strange confluence of the situation - Spock, leaning into their banter more than usual due to lowered inhibitions courtesy of the chocolate, and Jim, being a horny dumbass because Spock was, objectively, hot, and if you didn't have a little crush, deep down, on all of your friends, were you even friends? He knows how to flirt, and he knows his part in this little dance Spock likes to do - marrying the two together should not be this much of a problem. It didn't even mean anything, and that's what Jim needed to remember - because why was he even passingly worried about anything, when the conclusion was forgone?
God, he really must be drunk. Horny loser drunk, at that; thank God Bones wasn't here to witness it.
And fuck you for calling him sir, good lord. Jim's glad he's not looking up, instead choosing to clear his throat quietly, the sound (hopefully) lost to the thumping bass behind them, as feet shuffle rhythmically on the dance floor. Where before Jim was laying out the sketch prior to adding details, it seems the second one is quickly just becoming a portrait of Spock's eyes - softened at the edges, despite Jim's blunt cartooning style. That he put so much care into it becomes mildly embarrassing a moment later, but Jim just forces his pen to move on to the contours of Spock's mouth, partially open as if in the middle of some dry comment. ]
Oh, I'd say this look is atypical. [ Jim finally glances up, the second Spock partially-finished, pen caught in the shadow of his jawline. His gaze sharpens into a teasing smirk, pushing aside his, frankly ridiculous, drunken anxieties. Over what? Nothing. Just relax, Jim, maybe address the elephant and you'll feel better. Right? Sure. ] Unless you've been saving the pretty makeup for when I'm out of the room, all this time. I'm hurt, Spock, truly.
It's not flattery if it's true. [ Jim points out, as nonchalant as he can manage. He idly sketches Spock's ear, glancing up at him in obvious appraisal, as if to use the real life example to inform his artistry, before he fits Spock with an honest-to-God wink.
See? He's totally chill and normal and not at all going to let himself be weird about anything. Yup. Situation Normal: don't worry about the rest of this acronym. ] But I'm glad you approve of my artistic rendition.
[ Jim reaches instead for the water, setting down the remains of his whiskey - Spock did push it at him, and he was probably right, neither of them were going to want to deal with the hangover in the morning (without a relief hypo to save them, rest in pieces). He leans forward to get a better look at Spock's sketch, and maybe it's the looseness of his limbs from the alcohol - maybe it's the friendly teasing and very enjoyable flirting (now that he's not over-analyzing it like an idiot) - or maybe it's just to see what Spock will do - but Jim lists slightly, propping his chin in his hand again, and allowing his temple to rest lightly against Spock's clothed shoulder. ]
Pleasure is often an impractical pursuit, Mr. Spock. [ Jim murmurs, the hand with the pen looping from beneath Spock's arm, from this position - not impeding him, but doodling idly in the corner of his Enterprise sketch, two faceless crewman standing in the approximate location of the shuttlebay. ]
no subject
But, for now Jim colors. He accepts from him the drink. He watches him, as Spock has been watching him. A cycle that has no defined meaning, but yet they persist. ]
It was my understanding that one's appearance should suit the nature of the venue, [ he says, a feint where there needn't be. It is only a recognition, Spock thinks, of the efforts he's placed into the theme of the evening. He had been on such ventures with Jim once before. Perhaps not this one, but in another time. Another place. Shunned from the entry of some renowned afterparty, they'd sated themselves on each other's company. Bundled together in some far-flung bar, they'd spent the evening perched at the corner of the run, passing time with talk of both everything and nothing. Nothing, Spock thinks, but it'd meant most of all.
Even now, he sees its reflection. Caught in the way Jim always catches him, a scintilla of mirth in the fanning of something overwhelming else. His teases land more crucially, lick the parched landscapes that make up the whole of himself. How can one man be so engaging? How can one man cause him to speak, Spock thinks, in spite of himself? ] Was I in error?
[ It's a tease, an inevitable parry, weakened as it is in the wake of Jim's upturning lips, the curious pink of his self-assured smile. A wink, on the backfoot of well-worn conversational patterning. It oughtn't have struck him. It oughtn't have pierced through the slats of his ribs so swift and so sure, but Jim had always a way of succeeding. Like his head against his shoulder, like his arm under his — Spock wonders if a knife should be kinder, should be sweeter. Should be more merciful, perhaps, than the Human heat of him.
That he does not move is less testament to his remaining control and lowered inhibitions, but more testament to Jim. For all that Spock maintains that the boundary between remains, he reminds himself that Jim is tactile. He is consistent. He has always been both vivacious and desirable, had always played such games with others beyond him. He should not take it as it is. And yet— his own skin warms. No matter his protestations, the way works through each centering thought, olive stains the points of his ears. That it spares his face is only by mercy of struggle, but even then — his eyes flee from his, move from his. It is no less a coward's gambit, here they once again trade.
Focus diverted, Spock's hand upon the page moves once more, slower though not tentative. It fills the spaces that Jim's does not occupy, brings their arms to brush with each adjustment of the pen. He works through the details of the mess, the medical bay. He pauses, hearing tuned to the rate of Jim's breathing. If dares to look now, he knows he might see the way the neon makes a riot of his hair, its pale shade a remarkable conduit. Light carried down to his face, it makes a starker memory of features now familiarized. Spock minds himself, eyes fixed to the spaces between. His heart stumbles, bruising. It batters itself against the cage of his ribs. ]
A fact to which I've become entirely aware, [ he tips solely to him, his words less sound than they are substance. He wonders, pressed so near, if Jim might feel their outlines. If he might know their composition, the way they part from him. Again, he reminds himself it is only Jim. Jim, who plays with others without intention of cruelty. Jim, with whom he holds no illusions that he is sole recipient this one dynamic. ] And yet, its ensnarement so often leads only to disappointment.
[ To want, after all, is different than to have. How often had one come to seize and so soon be sated? How frequent did it appear that that which is remote is only so appealing until seen up close? Spock knows the fate of a temporary pleasure. He has been as such to some, has sought some too in others. For all of its illogic, it is an impetus, a draw. It is something that motivates, that rarely comes to the table of one's self to negotiate. It is selfish, and powerful, but it too is not always ungiving. It too does not always leave those in its throes without meaning, surely and entirely raw.
Sometimes, Spock thinks —
No, there is no purpose in finishing the thought. Instead, he focuses upon the task that Jim's laid out for him. A pool. An architectural addition that led only to increased maintenance and heating. Something, he thinks as he delineates its borders, that Jim would take no end to comfort in using. Pressure off the joints, the stillness of water both welcome and soothing. For a Human, drawn so innately as they are to the sea, it should seem a paradise within the belly of their chosen purgatory. It should seem a good place to rest, the unfathomable weave of space and time forgotten in the unending blanket about them. ]
no subject
So now, Jim's here, in the now, and he doesn't really know how not to be. Thoughts of the future are always cut short; though lately, he's had the time he never had before, and it's...become harder to ignore. But whatever is passing between them - the known and the unknown, the spoken and the unspeakable - the one thing Jim is particularly good at is managing his expectations - not expecting more. Therein lay only disappointment, in his experience.
Jim eyes him openly now, admiring the way the lights play off the glittering sheen Spock has so expertly applied to his lids. Where did he learn to do such a thing? Where did he even get the material? Had he practiced? Or was he just naturally a genius at anything he turned his impossibly brilliant mind to
and why was that so attractive?His pause is notable, as Jim cocks his head to the side, taking in the sweeping, sharp cut of Spock's eyeliner, oh-so-intentionally. The lights that splash across them are purple and red, making Spock's eyes ever darker, the green undertone of his skin complementary to the effect. Almost like the fucker planned it, chrissakes. Finally, it seems, Jim's finished his deliberations, eyes landing squarely on Spock's, something weightier flickering in his gaze, though his tone matches Spock's without issue. ] ...No. Error is not the word I'd use.
[ Spock doesn't react to Jim's friendly invasion into his personal space, and after a moment, Jim relaxes into it. He was waiting for the polite disengagement, but in the absence of rejection, some unseen level of reticence seems to dissolve from him. Their arms brush as Spock works - still with the barrier of Jim's sleeve, at least - and Jim's side relaxes into Spock's a little more, a steady line of warmth between them as they huddle over the notebook in the booth. It's then that Jim can feel Spock's heart, a fluttering vibration (and not at all unpleasant) between them. Maybe he should be the one encouraging Spock to swap to water...
Jim laughs warmly at the uniquely jovial-yet-dry quality of Spock's tone, the shake of his shoulders rattling him against the solidity of Spock at his side. His gaze is absently fixated on the way Spock's pen moves over the paper - the way his fingers work the pen; long, elegant, poised. So deliberate, each stroke appearing, at least to his human eyes, perfect along the arc of the page. Spock has nice hands - and Jim shouldn't let that thought go any further, pulling himself out of it with a slight shiver down his spine that might be imperceptible, if not for the fact that they're pressed together. ]
Oh, come on, I'm too drunk for your nihilism. [ Jim nudges him playfully, the hand with the pen shifting to add stars along the border of the page; they have an almost wistful quality to them, the way he sketches the swirling nebulae they've seen. ] Call me a romantic, but I believe it only takes that one special person to make all the disappointment worth it. You'll never find them if you don't try, right?
[ Spock lays out the groundwork for the pool, and Jim's pen pauses as he watches for a long moment. He snorts, shaking his head again to snap out of it, and swapping the water for whiskey once more. ] I don't know why I'm telling you this - I'm the perennially single one here! You know, human drinking custom dictates I get first dibs on playing the cynic.
[ A beat, Jim quieting to deeper thought once more, before his gaze flickers from the page to Spock again, as if gauging how welcome his next thought will be.
But he wouldn't be Jim Kirk if he wasn't brave enough to press on, regardless. ]
I know you miss your girlfriend, [ Jim adds; his voice is quieter, the joke from before ebbing away into something genuinely earnest. He taps Spock's elbow in what must be an attempt at a comforting motion. ] But we'll get you back to her, even if it's the last damn thing I do.
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To Spock, it seemed an impossibility that Jim might not see himself as able to achieve anything he'd wanted for himself. He had grappled through the rankings, had endured injury dearer than death. He had pulled Spock from the depths of his own madness, had had Spock pull him from his own in return. How might he not see that such impossibilities were all possible for him? How might he not look upon the breadth of his achievements in the wake of what has happened and not see the indomitable of his own spirit? Perhaps that is where Spock sees him as something both within and beyond a sort of Humanity, an exemplar of something both ancient and new. Few should have reached these peaks in any lifetime, but it seems that Spock has encountered it twice over.
Should he have believed in fortune, he thinks, he would have thought himself as truly lucky.
And yet, such thoughts dissipate under the heady thump of the bass and the cut of the lighting. Spock, for all he is both alert and aware of decreasing proximity (and odd, that such calculations slip through his fingers as though a sieve), does not fully anticipate the way in which Jim studies him now. With the full of his attention, the heavy press of its weight against his skin, it is a task near insurmountable for Spock not to flinch. On other such occasions, it had been as natural as it might have been to meet Jim where he is. To hold his gaze for as long as they might have been permitted, a sort of gravity that so often came to interruption. But, there is something here.
There is something, and Spock feels the way his skin burns under the weight of his open appraisal. No matter the tumult of shame and something darker and without name, Spock cannot successfully keep such a tell from his face. That it is lesser than what might have been expected under such circumstance — his mind seeks distraction. This close, he might identify the shades of blue and green that comprise the bright of Jim's eyes. He might trace their complexity, the way they contrast and settle against the rounded dark of his pupils (interest?). He might find himself comparing the impossible qualities that extend across both time and space, the absolute sincerity unmistakable to any, but—
And then, the moment lapses. His words are lost under the continual roar of his heart in his ears, in the sudden dryness that overtakes his mouth. He should think he has opportunity for a response, a repartee, but then Jim is nudging him. He leans further into his side, makes no comment upon the increased rate of his heartbeat, and is laughing, the movement like the ruffling of a hand through the hair — the wind against one's back. If Spock should have thought to look away, it is a fruitless effort in the aftermath. Any such focus he might have placed upon the page beneath their linked arms, upon the beauty and the patterning of the nebulae Jim draws, is met only with the utter incomprehension that he pulls up in the next breath.
Since when— ]
Jim, [ he starts, somehow and impossibly, both searching and slow. He's tilted his gaze back up to him, the deep furrow of his brow impossible to miss. It's as plain as bafflement might be upon a Vulcan countenance, his mouth parting around the aborted words that he thinks to say, but then thinks the better of. He closes his mouth again, swallowing against the tenderness of Jim's convictions. And yet, and yet— ] Since you became the Enterprise's captain, I've engaged in no such entanglements.
[ He knows not at all where he might have gleaned such an impression; it is possible that the self that Jim knows may have crossed paths with such an individual, but it is difficult thing to conjure who it might be at all. There are few he might have looked to on the bridge, fewer who might have taken the time to understand him. A most fascinating creature, certainly, to withstand the explosive grief and emotionalism of a people displaced. A most curious creature still, to supposedly remain despite an impossible conflict. He should not think it fair to her, but he might see its possible origin. A relationship born of desperation, the need to hold fast to something when what keeps him upon Enterprise had not yet come to suit him.
No, he thinks. It too is a possibility it is simply a relationship mischaracterized. So often, Humans leap to conclusions without gathering necessary evidence. Even Jim, who Spock most oft trusts without question, is not always without error. And himself? No, he himself is not infallible too. ]
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But it didn't stop the wanting, whatever he might have pretended. His enlistment in Starfleet was proof enough of that; if not the way his gaze roams over Spock now, blatant and brazen as ever. There is, however, a difference between the tendrils of wanting taking root, making themselves at home in his body (a sensation Jim is all too familiar with), and acting on it, reaching beyond what he is allowed.
It is true that seeing oneself clearly is an exercise in futility, and perhaps that's the issue here, for both of them. For Jim, he views his so-called achievements as survival; doing what needed to be done, at any cost. That he is a survivor is a bleeding, raw fact, and due, in no small part, to a healthy amount of luck. But he is not invincible; he never has been and he's always known this, despite the Devil-may-care attitude he'd shielded himself with in the early days of his captaincy. The more people tell you something about themselves, the more they are trying to convince you it's the truth. Well, that was obvious - how often had Spock claimed Vulcans do not joke?
And Spock...Jim can't imagine a door that's not open to him should he want it to be, save the xenophobia he had been victim to. Devastatingly handsome, wickedly smart, bitingly funny when he wanted to be. All the ingredients for charm, God forbid the hazard Spock would present, should he ever master it intentionally. But moving forward - space racism was not a comfort afforded to a world shattered, especially after Spock had single-handedly saved the very essence of Vulcan culture. There were simply too few Vulcans for the assholes on the council to ignore him. ]
You're getting the Vulcan glow. [ Jim doesn't know if Vulcans rightly glow or not when under the influence, but he has no other baseline to judge the green flush that's started to make itself known; so instead, he offers his water, nudging the glass gently against the back of Spock's right hand. ] Drink up, Commander.
[ There is definitely something - for all that they are edging beyond the boundaries of their normal wordplay, Jim knows how to read this kind of energy - which is charged, in what little space remains between them. But Jim is not nearly delusional enough to imagine that it is reciprocated. Spock is a friend and Jim is a self-acknowledged incorrigible flirt; if there is more that lies there, tucked in the cut of Jim's smile, the steady, fixed point of his gaze - well, Spock's probably polite enough not to call him out on it.
Besides, Spock had invited Jim's attentions, so clearly he must not mind them that badly. Jim didn't begrudge him it, either; to want was dangerous, but to be wanted? If he was half as handsome as Spock was, Jim would certainly indulge in it way more often.
He's not sure how he's expecting it to go, by poking at the homesickness he knows they're both feeling. As much as it is a comfort to have each other here, as much as they might make the best of it, neither of them are a replacement for all they left behind. Least of all Jim, hailing from the shittier, low-rent timeline; Jim would be missed, maybe, but not in the same way Spock would be, he's sure. Still, he digresses: he's not sure what he's expecting - honestly, nothing, as is so typical when he offers his empathy. That's kind of the point, offering it without anticipating reciprocity; that is the way of things, with them.
What he's not expecting is the confusion that passes over Spock's expression, and Jim shifts to look at Spock's face in full, searching it for - what, he doesn't fully know. Astounding drunkenness? But Spock's countenance is simply befuddled, bewildered, and in no way disoriented. Jim's own brow furrows in response, mouth hanging open for a second as he tries to find the words that will make this make sense. It's just - been an infallible fact of his universe, he can't rightly conceive that it might not be...
That it might not be.
Jim abandons his pen, his hand rising to brace against Spock's shoulder; a hearty motion, as if to confirm - what, that this is real? Maybe he's the drunk one, because this doesn't make sense. Earth's sky is blue, his middle name is Tiberius, and Spock is dating Uhura. ]
Nyota. She's your girlfriend. [ Jim repeats, equally as slow. He doesn't often use her first name - has been granted the privilege sparingly, though the ongoing joke remains between them - but this isn't a moment for humor. ] You two haven't...?
[ Jim stares at him for another long second, leaning back as if that will help him assess the truth of this, giving Spock a double-take before he relents and slumps back into position against his side, still trying to come to terms with the new world order. ] You haven't?
[ He hasn't. This Spock is single. Jim is very much not analyzing that information, still slightly off-kilter and unable to fully believe it. So far, the differences in their universes have been with events not...basic facts that they might know of each other. Something about the interpersonal nature of this divergence is hitting him oddly...and he's drunk, so surely some of it can be excused. ]
Aw, man, [ The hand on Spock's shoulder squeezes absently, as if it might be distressing news that his counterpart is in a relationship. ] Look at it this way: something to look forward to.
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And yet, here they circle foundational misinterpretations of their own being. Where much overlaps and aligns, there too is the failure to recognize upon Jim's end that even his timeline is not without its share of tragedy and devastation. It is not so brutal, not so swift — but, there are characteristics and settings and events that must occur. That have always occurred. That they are spaced or simultaneously makes little difference in the scheme of all things, Jim is still Jim. Jim is still Jim, no matter his presentation and standing.
Still: Vulcan glow, he tells him. As if it is not his proximity that serves as antecedent, the sudden and direct commentary upon his person? He should like to follow up upon what he'd meant, but for now Jim is insisting. He's pushing water along to him, water that he takes absently with the full wrap of his palm to place to his side. He does not trust the stability of his own fingers, the bubbling confusion only reflecting in kind as Jim too openly gapes at the prospect that he has no relationship to speak of. None.
That he has dabbled hither and thither notwithstanding, there has simply been as he has said: no one. There had been none since his academy years, none since the messy fumbling he'd committed to under Pike. T'Pring had gone with Stonn, which he had no objection to. Their courtship had been long and complicated, but it was necessity only after a time. It had been an expectation. Her parents had never approved, neither of him nor his mother. And this, among lesser slights and negative polarities, was not what he could abide. ]
No, sir. [ It is as firm a denial as any, a sincerity written in the way his brow still remains furrowed. He has no negative relationship with Lieutenant Uhura. Were he not Vulcan, he might classify their rapport as amiable. However, he has never so much as made interludes toward her person. She was witty and charming, but she and Spock had vastly differing opinions on what they would have needed from such a relationship. It is something he can readily observe, as surely as she might. He tilts his head, mind working through what may have changed such a stable interaction, sleek bangs falling askew. ] While Lieutenant Uhura is indeed a beautiful and capable woman, I have never found myself wishing to pursue anything beyond our professional relationship.
[ There might have been a time once. But, it had been many years since Pike's Enterprise and the tumultuous relations he'd explored there. That he works among those who might recall, who might remember? It is testament to the strength of their working environment and their individual tact. Barring the one incident with Miss Chapel, there had been no such difficulties since. It is not to say, of course, that Spock does not acknowledge or recognize the complicated dynamics that persist most regularly among those in the lower decks, but there is an understanding of what is deemed appropriate. In particular, there is understanding of what is deemed appropriate among the senior crew. And, even if there was an allowance for such entanglements with those upon the bridge, Spock cannot conceive of desiring to disrupt it. At least, not with their Communications Officer. Not after all these years.
Perhaps it was the events that transpired within his timeline? He might see it, he supposes. In the wake of all that they had lost, his footing not yet established — yes, she would have understood him in some capacity, but he cannot see how it should ever be fair to her. Not after a time. No, once he became enmeshed in the heartbeat of the Enterprise under Jim, how might he have been able to maintain such a thing long-term? It seems... Unfathomable. ]
I suppose, [ he says after a time, his hand coming to settle gently upon the bridge of Jim's forearm. It is reciprocal, a closed loop. As they always had been, he thinks. As they always will be. ] That in the wake of his grief under the circumstances revealed to me, he may have sought to establish a connection. [ It was enough, to suffer the agonies of another Vulcan's death. It was wholly another to suffer another Vulcan's devastation, the enormity of an ache. A cultural wound, so deep and profound that any Vulcan might be driven to uncharacteristic practices, any impulsive actions to cope. ] However, I am not inclined to believe... [ Even without intoxicants, Spock struggles to articulate his own thoughts upon emotional matters. That he speaks of it now is perhaps more a wish to clarify, to provide a correction — but, Spock knows too that it is rooted in his respect for them both. A truth. ] He may yet realize it, one way or another.
[ In the end, he cannot find himself further specifying. To do so is to admit that he is not capable of meeting the intimacy that he has seen her need. He has always been so subdued, so private in his dealings where strictly necessary, but she — she would wish for someone who would meet her in the ways that she desired and deserved. He cannot see himself being such a person for her long-term. Not with the strength of his loyalties, the absolute attention upon matters elsewhere. ]
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The fact of the matter was, Jim had meant it, body and soul, when he had begged Marcus for the lives of his crew. Please, sir. I'll do anything you want. Just let them live. That he should risk everything - and lose - for Spock? His right hand, his brother in arms, his friend?
The fact that it's a question is borderline insulting.
And sure, they would look for him - the dazzlingly stellar crew that they were, of course they would, to the absolute ends of their abilities - but when they did not find him, life would move on. Perhaps Bones would pour one out for him, on occasion, and that would be that. Like his father before him, continuing the worst part of the family legacy - yeah, that sounded about right.
Jeez, alright, he's switching to water after this drink - no more maudlin bullshit for him.
Spock accepts the water, the green flush in his cheeks indicating to Jim the need for it, and his smile softens from the sharp cat-and-mouse game they've been playing to something fonder. As if Spock needed help looking even better under the lights, the purple making the green stain darker, in the apples of his cheeks. ]
Seriously? [ If Jim's tone is doubtful, well, he's seen the way his Spock and Uhura look at each other. Even if they're not prone to public displays of affection, there have been displays. Unmistakable displays. Uhura's certainly satisfied with things, and Spock is...whatever the Vulcan equivalent of happy as a clam is. Vulcan mollusk in Rhombolian butter, perhaps? Jim knows this (or...he thought he did?!) to be true. ] You two are hands down the hottest and most intelligent people on the ship, and you're telling me you've never even thought about it?
Which is totally unfair, by the way. Save something for the rest of us mere mortals, would you? [ Jim nudges Spock again in the side, still reeling slightly; covering it up with humor - even humor that was blatantly and almost painfully true - was the best defense he had, paper thin or not.
Jim is already shaking his head by the time Spock finishes his thought, hand still warm against Spock's shoulder; he doesn't seem inclined to move it, even less so when Spock moves to grasp his forearm in return. Solid together, as they always are, and oddly comfortable in this new configuration that the libations have brought them to. Not that Jim's complaining - but at least the surprise topic hasn't injected any discomfort to their night. ]
No, Spock, I mean - there's a chance you could be right, I guess, but I'm...pretty sure this started at the Academy. [ Jim's tapped into the rumor mill via his yeoman, and though he's not stupid enough to bring it up in front of either of his officers - yeah, the timeline is a little...suspect. Alright, more than a little. The fact that Spock had submitted all the necessary paperwork (and Jim does mean all, he's the one who had to read the entire packet and give his signature) less than 48 hours after their return to Earth was - well, let it not be said Spock didn't cross his T's and dot his I's. ]
I don't know. You both - you've made it work. [ Jim shrugs noncommittally, the motion brushing up against Spock's side as it has been. Hyping up this Spock to go back home and make adorable Vulcan babies with his universe's Uhura was not on his bingo card for the night, and something about it just - Jim brushes past it, an emotion he doesn't name, doesn't want to pay more attention than he ought. He's pleasantly drunk and things are fuzzy at the edges; if the feeling persists in the morning? Then he should worry. But it won't, of course, so pay it no mind.
Where he succeeds in tamping down one thought, however, Jim fails in silencing another. Curiosity has killed his cat many a time, but the damn thing always seems to find more lives somewhere. So his mouth opens, the question passing his lips before he can think better of it. ] You haven't...pursued anyone else either, then? Or have you? I promise I won't laugh if it's Scotty.
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He wills his heart to settle, but still it trips over its beats as though a cascade of stones along a hillside, a line of Terran firecrackers. He must wrestle his tongue to get it from sticking in the next beat, the foot of the water glass finally settling upon the table with a hollower thunk than before. ]
A most subjective remark, Captain. I do not believe you would find that a universally held sentiment. [ The same rumor mills feed information about Jim, never mind. He has no issues indicating that Jim is an attractive member of his species, that his masculine form is perfectly complemented with a sort of youthful gentleness that he retains well into his later years. Spock clears his throat, not near as soundlessly as he would have liked, but: ] Moreover, I have difficulty envisioning such a scenario where I would be inclined to court a Cadet.
[ Possible scenarios that would have permitted it notwithstanding. Spock is not some sister in a Terran seminary offering her flesh as a form of ritualistic worship. He knows full well what he may and may not get away with and what he can? He often has. However, there were no such scenarios that had occurred for him in his timeline. And, as much as the idea is generally not upon his radar at his age, he cannot necessarily discard that his other self would not have found such an opening. He had been angry and embittered in his years at the Academy. He cannot say he would not have seen the appeal. ]
I came to know her during your days aboard the Farragut, [ he begins, sure and slow. Light and sound smears at the corners, time moving as though fingers through the quieted seas of his home. Jim remains close, his Human heartbeat a relative unknown through the fabric of his shirt. He smells of the bite of whiskey, a subtle and Human sweat. He tucks his thumb idly into the shadows that play off the rise of his wrist bone. ] She had yet to graduate from the Academy, but her talent for communications was most obvious. After some consideration, she completed her studies and joined the Enterprise as an Ensign. [ She had been such a bright presence, he thinks. Sharp on the uptake, quick with her words. She had never viewed him as apart, but rather a part. She had been among the first. Even Chris, he thinks, occasionally struggled in his own right at the beginning. He and Number One had groomed him so readily for command positions that they had, at times, forgotten Spock had been so conflicted and so young. He considers Jim, considers the minute movements of his body. He does not lean further into the closed divide, but he does nudge Jim's arm. It is not to move it off him, no. But, rather to encourage it to less awkward place to rest. Across the bank of his shoulder, perhaps? ] I had yet to move to my current position, but remained aboard as a Lieutenant and Science Officer.
[ His time under Pike had been messy, complicated. He had struggled to find his footing, struggled in the wake of Michael's departure, struggled in the silence imposed by his father — he'd sought others, clumsily and with regret. Were he to use a Human turn of phrase, he might say he had many more doors closed upon him than opened. But, here he stayed. And here, he came to be recognized. ]
It was Nyota, [ he says, softly, ] that introduced us.
[ A memorable night. His hand had remained warm with the impression of Jim's during the hours that followed, their talks somehow easy. Simple, as nothing ever had been before. When they finally were made to part, Spock found himself wishing for further time to get to know him. Even though, Spock thinks, even though— ] She was most pleased with herself, I recall. [ And for not the first time this evening, Spock's eyes lower to the table before them. He watches the reds and blues play off the faceted glasses, the amber liquid left within Jim's. It's quite pretty, if he were to be honest with himself. The noise in the background, the music — it all fades into a muted mess. Here, Spock focuses upon him. ] You had made quite an impression.
[ There's the minute lift of a dark brow, the faint upward curve of his lips. Permissive, in all ways that Jim so often inspires in him. Permissive, in some ways, that he continues to be. ]
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A most subjective remark. Jim can feel the wash of pink start to ebb into his cheeks, but it wasn't like Spock was unaware of Jim's compliments by this point. What was the point in feeling shame, anyhow? Life was too short to not tell the people you loved that you admired them; trust him, he knows. And if Spock invited the wanting, well, far be it from Jim to deny him, surely. The fact that the blush stains him anyway is another matter entirely. ] Universally, perhaps not, but I think you'll find it's a majority consensus aboard my Enterprise.
[ Jim's eyebrows fly up towards his hair at the indication that this Spock can't imagine courting a Cadet. It's as close to a lambasting of his counterpart as Spock is likely to get, and frankly, the dissonance is going to give Jim whiplash if he thinks about it for too long. That the relationship had become public on the neatest timeline possible while still being above board (technically) was simply a testament to Spock's ability to, as Jim would say, 'cover his tracks'.
The fact that he'd gotten away with it - well, overwhelmingly extenuating circumstances aside, if Jim had to hazard a guess, it was probably a combination of a number of factors. That the humans of Starfleet considered Vulcans beyond reproach in certain areas - and that Spock was willing to take advantage of those misconceptions, when it suited him - was an open secret; that Spock was similar in age to the young crew of the Enterprise, and despite the differential in experience and rank, many, again, could not help but measure him against human-centric ideas of maturity; and perhaps the biggest and most obvious of all: that if Nyota Uhura, woman that she was, had not welcomed the attention wholly and completely, Spock's balls would absolutely be hanging from the memorial statue in the quad. ] Not a one, Professor?
[ Jim falls silent as Spock paints a picture of another life, another time entirely. There is both an ache to know and an ache to never find out that war within him, constantly; yet still he sometimes asks, and always, Spock offers. Perhaps it says something Jim is not willing to admit that he always cherishes the bits of knowledge, even if they hurt, on occasion.
But somehow tonight - with Spock pressed close, something loosened between them, Jim's admiration on tacit (alright, not exactly tacit, it's fairly explicit, he thinks) display - it does not hurt. He isn't forced to think of what was lost, as has been his constancy since arriving here - he considers what is right in front of him, what Spock shares willingly with him. A gift, one of Spock's gestures, and Jim finds he can accept it. His hand moves without question, or even thought, at the gentle prodding; for all that Jim might lead them in some instances, you would be hard pressed to find a place where he would not follow Spock. ]
A better impression, I hope, than the one I gave. [ He thinks it must be, for both of them, Spock and Uhura; for her to be pleased at introducing him, with no eyeroll to accompany a saccharine smile. There was a reason his Uhura didn't like him at first, why he was relegated to last name status only, and Jim's not exactly proud of it. Something to be said of low points, really; at least the only way left was up. Speaking of balls, actually, he's kind of surprised she let him keep his.
From the amusement evident on Spock's face, Jim knows it to be true. He is, however, distracted by effect that follows; the way the pull of Spock's eyebrow makes the shadow sparkle on his lid shimmer, the lights that play off their cups and cast sharp shadows on sharper cheekbones. His fingers brush idly against Spock's bicep, where they dangle so casually from the arm looped at his shoulder, a nonsensical, subconscious pattern. Unless Spock is saying - no, of course not. Preposterous and foolish, Jim doesn't bother letting the thought finish. He is wishing for more water due to the sudden dryness that makes itself apparent, but instead he moves his other hand for the whiskey glass, swirling a sip in his mouth before continuing. ] Let me guess - did I dazzle you with bar magic?
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But it is Jim, Jim in ways that matter most to the Human and Vulcan in him. Jim, he thinks, should not intentionally move to injure or wound him without reason or cause. And this Jim, he thinks, watches him take a longer draught without the shuttered affair of others he's sat with before. He is not ignorant, knows Jim leans toward what is tangible and sensual, but knows too the loneliness of those who commit themselves to what lies indefinite, beyond. ]
As I've said, [ Spock murmurs, not calling him upon the observation of his person, but rather leaning into the incredulity that Jim displays in spite of it all. That he calls him professor and presses the obvious omission — it brings again an impossible warmth. No manner of tamping or protestation drives it back from the apples of his cheeks, from the fine points of his ears. And yet, his gaze remains upon Jim. As always, and as ever, his attentions return as though they had never left him. It had been a source of guilt profound, a shameful outline of frustration. But, now? Now — ] A flatterer and artist both.
[ Another life indeed. Any such flights of fancy might emerge for the Human mind, but Spock looks to what he may feel with the palms of his hands, might know with the brush of his fingers. Figures and facts, the solid and explainable. But, there had always been such peculiar exceptions. Such exceptions, Spock thinks, like Jim. ]
No, [ he says, the denial light upon the tongue. Jim's eyes are both bright and dark. Spock finds the contrast intriguing, finds himself watching the interplay of color and context. Spock finds himself wondering how he must look at that Spock across the Enterprise's bridge, how Jim must find him — mouth crooked into a smile —, across a crowded room. He thinks that one day, Jim would discover for himself how readily he might call Spock across any distance, how easily Spock might fall as though a shadow against his golden edge. ] You... Spoke with me. Our acquaintance at that time was short, but I found myself... [ He pauses, the wash of his words tangled within his throat. It reminds him of when he was a child, sentences and sentiments caught at the banks of his teeth. The impossibility of his loyalty is both tender and sweet, an unavoidable agony. ] Wishing, to speak with you more.
[ He does not make mention of the more embarrassing details. He needn't, not tonight. If such facts were true, like had always recognized like. Spock, floundering with his then relationship with Nurse Chapel. Jim? His complications — Spock cannot say that he misses it. He cannot say that he misses how snarled it had been, how raw the young emotions. Their time spent as Lieutenants had been anything, but the image that Spock should like to project. But, is that not how life is? He recalls his mother's fingers through his hair, Michael's last pieces of advice. Strewn across the stars to him, he'd seen the red of her flare. It was the last time he'd known her whole, but he had known that she had made it there. There, past a time he should ever behold.
Perhaps it is why he finds in this motion a comfort, bone deep and ancient. Jim answers the hand that reaches for him, moves through its tacit permission with an acknowledged tactility. Through the thin fabric of his thermal, Spock might feel how the meat of his fingers catch at the thread. Callouses, Spock recognizes, familiar and strange to him.
His fingers push toward the line of Jim's exposed wrist. Slow enough to rebuff, Spock weaves through his next sentence as though one threading the light of some distant star. ] As contentious as your initial meetings may have been, I believe it is possible he too has come to form a similar impression of you. [ He cannot conceive of a reality in which Jim was not integral to his typical day-to-day. He cannot conceive of a place where he would not seek him, would not find him in the quiet moments where all was fragile and fleeting. ] Illogical, perhaps, but no less true.
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But here, wrapped in the colored shadows of the bar, it feels - dangerously close to the edge. Water threatens to lap at his feet, the waves being made in the pool they contemplate growing larger than simple pebbles, thrown to disrupt the glass-like stillness. They should stop, as they always have previously, before the ripple grows too large to contain and Jim finds himself with his head below the water.
And yet. Fear has never been enough to stop him. Then again, in the choice between which to raise above the water - his own emotions, or Spock's regard - Jim knows which one he'd choose to save. Let him drown, every single time, and he'd be glad for it.
It's not flattery if it's true, Jim repeats with his eyes, the steady quality of his gaze, where all else feels like it's gone wibbly at the edges, shapeless smoke he can't focus on. The bar could be on fire, and Jim's not sure he would notice, caught as he is in the pull of Spock's darkened eye. Besides, there is already warmth here, how is he to tell the difference between this and the flame? No, not warmth - there is a heat, searing in his stomach, tingling up into his chest. It vices his lungs, his breath sharp and short in the interval. Is it the alcohol, or something stronger?
Another question Jim doesn't answer, though the water swirls as though to nip and catch at his ankles.
How long has he been staring Spock down? Humans, they fidget - Jim sometimes more than most, he'll admit - but like this, drunk and cozy, his attention captured so wholly, he simply can't move. For fear of breaking the illusion, of sending the boulder down the hill - no matter the direction, it would surely hit the water. In the pause between Spock's words, the edges of them rounded and deep, Jim takes a breath. If he is to dive beneath the waves, he might as well do it with as much air as he can get. ]
Wishing for something so easily attainable seems...illogical. [ Jim's lips quirk at the edges - not the glib, flirty ease of before, nor the bright brilliancy of his usual smiles - but something softer, self-effacing...sweet. It's not an expression he's ever employed before, and one, he thinks, no one else has ever inspired. It, put simply, belongs to Spock. ] I'm sure you made quite the impression on him, in return.
[ You did on me, Jim permits himself to think, his thumb catching on the fabric of Spock's thermals, and he's not thinking of his Spock, but isn't he? This Spock, Spock, who brought him home and made him tea. His gaze flits away from Spock's eyes, human nature finally winning out, the pink as evident in his complexion as the green of his companion. His head tilts, blue eyes flickering to the table, but unable to stray further beyond that - they've moved closer than casual conversation dictates, even in a place as loud and chaotic as a bar, but if they're getting any stares, Jim fails to notice. No - he fails to notice anything that isn't Spock, drawn back in like a starship slinging around a planet, awareness flickering to Spock's slow-moving, slender fingers.
Lips dry, Jim wets them absently, but meets Spock's gaze without flinching. Spock did not take the out in their verbal conversation - and Jim does not take it here, in the nonverbal one, staying still and allowing Spock to make contact, should he choose to close the distance.
They should stop, but as is so often with them, they do not. As with all things, having Spock at his side makes treading the unknown...enticing. ]
And what's your impression, Mr. Spock?
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Loneliness lives in the bones of those who traverse it. It houses itself in marrow, makes of itself a companion where there are none to be found. Spock had relegated himself to the sidelines, to the fine gilding of a distant moon. He had placed his hands upon logic, had lost its foundations. He'd turned to time, turned to his sister — and the vacancies they'd carved within his person, they stung as though a mortal brand.
He holds no illusions. Loosened as his inhibitions may be, this calculated sacrifice is no more for his benefit than Jim's own. This Jim, who is permissive of his wandering mind in the early mornings. This Jim, who views himself as taking the spaces Spock silently leaves for him. This Jim, who is young and injured in ways he has yet to fully comprehend. And yet, how might Spock begrudge the man he'd come to know the shape of anywhere? Differences, similarities — they blur under the certainty, the firmness of being with which Jim treats him. Jim has always caught along all the boundaries of Spock's existence. He catches Spock now in the aimless patterns he draws along his bicep, in the way he sees prospect rise and recede with the same, animal circling that Spock himself commits to. He sees it too, in the tender and self-effacing way that marks to Spock the qualities he'd mapped one evening at the bar. That he'd mapped, in turn, upon the docks no matter the chaos and clamor that unfolded about them.
Full of people who will reach for you.
And isn't it always that there's too much to say, too little he might place the words to? Wrapped about the vicious thrum of his heart, caught at the teeth of his loyalty, Jim raises challenge. With the cut of his eyes and the tilt of his head, it is he who holds the knife. It is Jim, who keeps it to the twine of Spock's tethering. How long had it been, since Spock had last tasted that clarity? A curious hand at the lip of a rabbit hole, the infinite expanse of the wandering stars? All that is tender and fearful in him riots for want of self-preservation. All that is wounded and limping, all that bruises itself against the ache of what cannot allow himself to want — you have to let them, she'd told him. A figure in that illuminated dark, a beginning and an end to all things. Find that person who seems farthest from you and reach for them.
His fingertips move, a sort of finality. They gentle about the fine bone of Jim's wrist. What he cannot find with his tongue, he finds with impression. Impression, Spock thinks, immeasurable and sure.
I recognize you. A touch that isn't touching, but rather calls to be a part. Pushed along what comprises all that Spock is, the dip of hand beneath the surface of thought. There is no wish to read, the intention set only to give: the silvery stretch of night-spun birds, the fleeting contentment that belongs only in fragments to him. Golden fields. The smear of stars at warp. Jim, alight with laughter. I know you.
And then, with the passing of pieces and turn of the board, it vanishes. It's gone, and there lies only silence in the wake of Spock's fingertips. But, there is a solidity there. In the cool pass of his skin, the pads of his fingers linger at the shadowy bone of Jim's wrist.
His mouth does not bow, but there is something solemn and sacred in the way his eyes touch upon a now familiar brow, the greyed hollow of a temple. His mouth parts about the untasted syllables of a confirmation, the umbers of a Human pulse. ]
I find myself drawn, [ he says, the words a woven cast of something old and new. Time trails about his fingers, scatters under the warmth of Jim's skin and the blanketing scent of him, something he knows and does not. His eyes upon Spock are so blue, awash in the comprehension of a nameless thing, a concept that's set in motion. ] To speak more with you, too.
[ An inevitability pulled taut. A ripple that spans across a pond, the hands that cast a stone wrapped against a certainty that speaks of some assurance. Red sands, red blood — an understanding. A trust, that Spock would not hurt him. A trust, that such exposure to the raw and unfiltered parts of himself would not harm.
Curiosity had always been Spock's most Human trait. What could be stopped, what might be — he leaves it to Jim's discretion in the aftermath of motion that he has given, had burned at the seams to touch off. ]
no subject
Hard, but not impossible. And there, haloed in the light of the stars, lie Spock.
They are different, they are not the same. Reconciling the whole of his relationship with Spock was an exercise in confundity. That Jim should try to separate them in his mind was a human instinct, a way to make sense of the world, but that he should fail to do so in his heart - well, that too was the way of humanity. Wherever Spock was, whichever - Jim finds he can't ignore the pull. Can't even find within himself the will to wish that he could.
Jim is aware that the something passing between them is being given shape, growing long teeth in its shadow, the longer they sit there with neither of them backing down. But is it fear, as he had diagnosed so acutely before, or something much more exhilarating pumping through his veins, stealing his breath, dilating his pupils? Spock's gaze holds his in endless dominion, even as his fingertips trail down to Jim's wrist - and if he weren't already turning into a tomato, the burst of color would be even more noticeable, thrown into contrast under the pulsing red of the club lights. It has always been thus, in the measurements of their interactions - Jim offers, Spock accepts what he will allow himself to. Spock offers, Jim accepts, insofar as Spock trusts him not to take more than what he can give. But - this? Even Jim, enchantingly blind human that he is most of the time, is aware they're shooting past normal parameters.
The presence in his mind is gentle and warm, familiar in its ease. It feels so quintessentially Spock, like a cat bumping its head against his hand times a thousand (though perhaps, that is the alcohol?) The impression only skims the surface, suffused with everything that Spock is - dizzyingly complex, wholly enrapturing. Jim can barely comprehend it, that Spock should view him so favorably. He knew, in the intellectual sense, perhaps - but this is decidedly new. In all the times they've had cause to touch minds, Spock has never invited him in, even fleetingly, beyond mapping the shape of Spock's outer defenses, the flavor of his mind; Jim is always the imposition. Not that this feels like an imposition - no, Jim would definitely not define it as such.
Still, even though he was anticipating it to a certain extent, it's no less of a jolt - Jim jumps, nearly banging his knee against the table. It's not an unpleasant surprise, however; no, the awe that spreads over Jim's expression is proof enough of that. It lights up his visage, shining, bursting; that spark of life in him, brought to the surface, an authentic reaction he has no hope of diminishing. Though Spock is not digging deeper, the radiant joy is too much to contain; it crackles on his skin, jumps freely to the cool brush of Spock's hand. As he said before, he is the imposition; he has never been able to control that which rises in him so swiftly and completely.
His own hand briefly stutters against Spock's shoulder, though his fingers lay warm against the cloth separating them; tingling with the after-effects of his emotion, no doubt, strong and gripping as it is. Where Spock's hand might choose to linger or not, Jim gives him no direction; implicit permission, to do as he will. The boundaries they have worked so carefully to cultivate have been laid aside - for once, not by external force.
It's a heady thing to acknowledge. ]
That can be arranged. [ Jim murmurs, casting about for a grip of some kind on himself. It's a futile effort, however, with his worldview in shambles, when Spock keeps looking at him like that. It's moments like this where everything seems both possible, and impossible. A human illogicality for the ages. ] You are...easy to talk to.
[ And then, because truth is often the easiest path, and for all their dancing and regular jocularity, Jim can't face Spock's earnestness without offering his own unimpeded honesty: ] There's no one's company I enjoy more.
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How is it, that they should find the dark and hungry things that nest down against the ache of their own bodies, that should refuse to raise their heads? How is it that Jim might pull from him the innate and ancient mysticisms, the poetry of Humans? Spock thinks of the verses oft repeated, the legends and lore that carry even into the parched valleys of Vulcan. For all that logic is foundation, for all that they should claim themselves unbiased - there is a romanticism that works even beneath their skin. Once, they too had been so passionate. Once, they too had worn it as Humans did. Once, he thinks, he might have been more ready and able to name what now ignites between them. As though cut off the embers of the Forge, as though sung as though bells upon the ritual hills - Spock might only just manage to bring himself to heel.
It is perhaps testament, to the way of his own teachings that the startle and burn of emotion that he finds within himself too surging, paired and coupled though it is, bleeds back as though a dampened echo. The sharper spark off flint, a hand through the ashes - Jim's warmth and Jim's joy suffuses the fissured parts of him. It promises, quiets. It tells him all he might not permit himself to believe, but must relent. In the dimmed corner of this establishment, beneath the garish lights that make more vivid the reddened flush that spreads across Jim's skin - Spock finds himself inexplicably drawn as he always is to what Jim extends without question. That accepts Spock, for all he might be and all he might give.
Time loops about itself, a thin and gossamer thread. No matter how he might untangle it, might pull through to its ends, there still lies the peculiar favoritism that the universe brings again and again and again. There still lies the repetition of them, of Jim and Spock and Spock and Jim. No matter the ages, the times, the events - no matter the cut of a smile or the shape of their lips -, he thinks it somehow possible that Jim might always find him. Stranded, detained - without the knowledge of his own name -, he thinks perhaps there are some things that must stay as though a constant despite improbability, impossibility. He thinks some things, like the slow thrum of Jim's pulse at the brush of his fingertips, are held only as fact.
And perhaps that is why, that Spock takes the path less tread. Perhaps that is why, that Spock leans up against the edge. Perhaps that is why, that Spock follows the joy that burns against the skin. Like curtains parted, a chessboard set - the opening gambit has given him no poor reception. It waits for his next step. It waits, for all that Spock might find himself at first cautious. Might himself not unsure, but tentative. ]
Somehow, [ Spock finds himself starting, soft and sweet and slow, ] I too cannot say another's should suit me more.
[ And perhaps that too is why, it is Spock that is turning his hand just so. Just so, as to brush the meat of his thumb over the heel of Jim's palm. Just so, as to permit it to linger in the warmer hollow, cupped as it is about the shape of his own shoulder. And that too, he thinks, that too -
How peculiar it is. How peculiar it is, that he should find himself against Jim within this context, that he might be subject to the intensity of his focus. And yet - against his shields, Jim's wonder flutters.
It takes what little restraint remains to withhold the depth of which he does not name and does not bring himself to ponder that batters at its opposite. ]
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Human or Vulcan, Vulcan or Human - at a certain threshold, perhaps it is impossible to tell the difference. Jim, voracious reader that he is, has not restricted himself to the classics of one planet; amidst the Plath and Keats and Silverstein was Rorak, Aryraohr Ch'eshilrok, and yes, even the obscure works of Skavus. O Beloved! Thy scent still perfumes our bed. Pre-reformation was a wild time indeed.
In the end, some things transcend all known divides. The sensation of Spock brushing against his mind - the sparkling edge of it, like a blacksmith's hammer against a red-hot blade, kicking off a crackle of sparks in its wake - proves it to be so. Jim's wonder is uncontrollable, a wildfire that rolls across the landscape, flames licking at the trees that dot the hillside. That he might feel an echo of it reflected back at him from Spock is - the boundless awe doesn’t seem to cover it. Despite how humans seem to encompass multitudes, how they overload on emotion and still have room for more - Jim is almost overwhelmed himself.
It’s impossible to know what to make of it, beyond the certainty that sinks itself into his bones, fusing with the marrow. Spock has told him before, so tongue-in-cheek, that Vulcans do not lie - and Jim can feel the truth of this as solidly as he can Spock’s fingers upon his skin. In this moment, the distinction between the respective thems has been narrowed to Them, this Jim and this Spock, and Jim can’t find within himself an ounce of concern. Good things are few and far between in this world, and Jim’s experience has led him to grab the good with both hands. Worrying about the future does the present no favors - besides, that's a pastime best left to sober musings.
Jim knows their way, and that of the basic language of flirtation - but this is something new. Something breakable, like if he looks at it too closely, it will dissipate, a startled bird taking off on silvering wings. Spock's thumb comes to press just so over his palm, sweeping over the edge of his life line, worn as it is into him, a crag in the valley of his hand. Jim doesn't think he's ever been so thoroughly charmed before, so hot under the collar from the barely-there contact of his skin upon another's. It's becoming harder to blame the alcohol; it has more to do with who is doing the touching.
Jim clears his throat, which is no longer a subtle noise, not with how in tune with one another they are at the moment. It needn't be said, given what they can sense from one another, but Jim finds himself saying it anyway: ] You know...I don't mind your way of company, either.
[ His hand shifts beneath Spock's thumb, letting the side of it turn, brushing lightly against the juncture between Spock's thumb, and his forefinger. Deliberate, a frisson of the great and terrible Something passing again between them. Jim, too, leans against the edge of the precipice, as though to gauge the dark and depth of it. L'appel du vide.
Some humans may find it off-putting - it was nature to be wary of that which you did not understand, and it's no surprise this was a common hesitation amongst psi-null species. But Spock? It's as much a part of him as anything else, and Jim's reticence has never been about letting him in, so much as it was preserving Spock's comfort. ]
no subject
And yet, for all that they might claim the difference, Spock stands at the line. Neither, both — it matters not at all. At the end of all things, Vulcans obscure and Vulcans imply. With the turn of the wrist or the cut of an eye, it is their tongue that can excise the technical from the accurate. It is a statement that Spock himself might stand by, the exercise a point of survival rather than a point of pride. As a child, he had to learn to weave intention and intent. He had to learn to let those he encountered manage their own expectations, their own perspectives. Interpretation and bias would always color the conclusion of those who held him in their eyes and that bias and interpretation would steer him through the obstacles that should snare him all his life.
That he finds he does not allow himself to obfuscate, does permit himself to misguide — the subtle edge of some internal perspective, the hint of what Jim occupies like the rasping of a match? It should disturb more than it might. It should unsettle him, should bring shame to climb about eaves of his spine. It should bring him to restrain and contain, but there is nothing Jim that might ostracize. What greets him at the surface is the scintilla of delight, the hungry lick of flame — a Human, if by any other name, he would recognize Jim in the brightened way of eyes and the turn of his head. Like the rarer rains against the reddened skies, Jim's mind seeks to gain its fill of his. And Spock —
It is him and it is Jim. Neither meld nor an opening of the boundary, Spock holds himself behind his shields and gives in turn what he feels he might. A glimmer of an answer, a glimmer of a give — what Jim might feel is an echo of what Jim himself hands to him. The hue and heft are different, but no less pronounced or earnest. They are no less than what it is that Jim reflects and finds reflected back at him. End over end, tangled up against an indefinable and inexplicable edge, he should wonder if Jim understands what it is he is telling him. And —
He should wonder too, if Jim understands the enormity of his actions. He should wonder if the scrape of Jim's warm skin over his and the blunt edge of his thumb should be enough to narrow the world down to a precipice. Again, Spock finds himself with his hand upon the turning pages. He finds himself at the cusp of some unspoken evening, silver songbirds in the golden fields, sand beneath his fingernails. If he should attempt to divide it, should attempt to let it blend — Jim supplies an answer for him.
It is no longer the press of any such intoxicants. It is only them. It is only the lucidity brought as though waking up from a rest that one has needed, as though black tea hot upon the tongue. Spock hears the dry of Jim's mouth, feels the stutter-step of his heart in his. If he might shiver in the wake of it, if he might further lean into the line of Jim's body pressed so flush against his? He makes no comment on it.
He makes no comment, as he feels his lungs vise with all that is indescribable and unnamed. Instead, his fingers flex against the shape of Jim's wrist. His thumb presses in, mapping bone and callouses. It strays, a brush at the mount beneath the joints. ]
Jim. [ And it is only his name, but Spock holds it his mouth. He tastes it, at the backs of his teeth. At the copper of his blood, the idle shift in respiration — his eyes are at once so Human and so dark. ] You are aware, [ he pauses, quiets. Attempts, albeit uselessly, to redirect the flush that threatens to color the curve of his neck. ] Have you been made aware?
[ It is a leading question, but the meaning is there. It crackles at each point of contact, the brush of skin on naked skin. ]
no subject
Humans did seem to have a knack for pressing on the button Vulcans liked to pretend didn't exist. They had a penchant for sniffing out emotion like sharks scenting blood in briny water, and when they couldn't, it only provoked their curiosity. Yes, there were those humans that held wariness for that which was other - but there were others, like Jim and the other officers of the Enterprise crew - who held fascination in its stead.
Something has crumbled between them, that indivisible line blurred, and Spock, surprisingly, does not pull away. Jim keeps expecting him to; he dances at the edge, to see where exactly it is he is invited to step before he does so, tentative in his tread. Waiting with bated breath to see if he might trip on some unseen root, poking up from beneath the soil. Each pace brings them closer, yet still, neither of them balk from the circling that ensues. Spock's hand wanders against his, and Jim's totally lost control of the pleasant flush that rises in the apples of his cheeks, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He holds still, gaze locked on Spock - mesmerized by the intensity in the deliberate motion of his touch. They press closer together, as though drawn tighter by the contact, the long line of Spock's side fused to his own - Jim, hyper-aware of the lack of space where there is usually a carefully held measure. His touch tingles, pleasantly so, the feedback between them blending together until it is difficult - at least for Jim - to tell just who the emotions are coming from.
And still, they do not balk. They shimmer, together, and hold the line.
Spock's hand moves against his, tracing over roughness honed from a life spent building - be it the bloody work of peace, or the gentler work within a Jeffries tube - and he inhales quietly as Spock's thumb climbs higher, skimming the top of his palm. They're practically holding hands - which sounds so seventh grade when he thinks about it like that, jeez - and it has no right to be as hot as it is, if he's being totally transparent.
Jim's gaze flickers from their joined hands to Spock, the green that plays in purple shadow on his visage, the dark enticement of his eyes. The question is a valid one, and Jim pauses for a beat, goosebumps rising at the feeling that passes between them. Understanding, in some sense, though Jim has to admit, it's not explicit. ]
Not...in so many words. [ He settles on the answer that holds the most truth, because cultural sensitivity seminars only went so far, and it wasn't like they'd ever talked about it - not this Spock, or any other. Still, Jim turns his hand again slowly, intent clear, and allows his fingers to fold gently over the back of Spock's hand. The pad of his finger rests against a knuckle, and Jim lets his touch ghost there, whisper-soft. ] Why don't I tell you what I know?
I know...your hands are sensitive. [ Jim's hand shifts, sliding his blunt fingers lightly against Spock's, the drag of his calluses brushing against the slender length of his index finger. The glimmer of sensation the motion leaves in its wake is distracting, but no less gut-punching with the wash of awe that pours over him. And Jim, to his credit, persists. ] I know your touch-telepathy is most powerful in these nerve endings.
And I know, [ Jim's own thumb skims up the breadth of Spock's palm, his nail tracing lightly against Spock's fate line. If Jim wasn't a hands guy before (he was), he certainly is now. ] I've never seen you do this with anyone you weren't...fond of.
[ Never seen him do this regardless, not like they are now. What Jim has witnessed previously, he'd only observed in fleeting glimpses; two fingers, swiped against Uhura's as they parted from the turbolift. Save one exception, on a bar night not unlike tonight's, celebrating the commencement of their five year mission. Jim had been thoroughly drunk, clapping along with Scotty's bawdy bar songs - but Spock and Uhura had been in the shadowed corner, Spock's palms up and open on the table, Uhura's hovering over his while they - something. Jim had been intruding, he knew, in some gut-check part of himself, and he'd looked away.
He's guessing this is the something. ]
Did I miss anything? [ Jim asks quietly, the teasing edge softened by the fact that it's a genuine question. Spock, of course, can feel that it is, as Jim stills his hand, still pressed warmly against Spock's. ]
no subject
It is some point of wonderment now, that Jim does not rebuff him. In the cyclical lap of some grander contentment, in the current of something darker and unnamable that lingers just beneath, Spock might only divide which emotion belongs to each through the way of his teachings. The shields still hold, but the boundary is thinning. That he keeps grasp on them now is testament to the truth and his own understanding. For all that those like Jim might find themselves curious, the weight of Vulcan emotion is often too much to bear. It is often too much carry, to contain - to restrain, once the barriers open and there is nothing there to allow one to discern what is themselves and what is them.
And so, it is all that Spock might do to shore them up further as Jim turns his hand about his. It is all Spock might do swallow the sounds that threaten to wrench themselves free from the dark of his body, that threaten to make themselves clearest to him. It is all he might do too just to listen - to catch what it is that Jim says against the staccato beat of his heart in his ears. It is all he might do against the tide of Jim's sincerity, the genuine shape of his question. He feels it glimmer across the backs of his knuckles, along the length of his fingers. He feels it, in the drag of Jim's thumb against the meat of his palm.
And yet, it is moments as these that make Spock wonder if there were ever boundaries to begin with; if there were ever boundaries between the understandings shared, the insensible and nameless things between them. With the vastness of space and time bent about the certainty that there should always be them in some form or some aspect, how one might have not been drawn to the question? How could one not seek a conclusion? How could Spock, against the heat of Jim's hand all along the back of his, not find the curious and repeated images?
Spock does not sigh and Spock does not gasp, but there is something that catches in the way of his breath. As though one waking from a dream, the stretch of limbs and the opening of eyes - Spock's gaze drags to where their hands are connected. What filters through the dim haze of the surroundings seems wholly irrelevant as Spock hums an affirmative, more sensation than sound as close as he is. ]
A thorough assessment, [ Spock murmurs, words turned over from the unspeakable and tender in him. He does not examine the shape of it, though he might feel the bruise of its outline. It aches in ways welcome and intolerable. Were it ever named, Spock thinks, it should ache all the same. ] While not wholly inaccurate, there is indeed a gesture you have missed.
[ What comes breaks across the spaces they touch with more impression than distinction. Pale hair and pale eyes, her scent both soft and antiseptic. The pad of her fingertips pressing firm to the pads of his own, the resultant touch sharp and electric. Delight. Curiosity. Temporary, it seems. Temporary, as it - a shuffled deck. Dark hair, dark eyes. Perfectly Vulcan. There is nothing so clear here, but there too is the gesture. There too it dissolves.
And there too, does it silence. All that hums and flickers along the skin, it mutes before it rises. It comes with the telegraphed curl of his index finger up and over the back of Jim's. It presses no further against the possibility, but allows Jim to remain with it. To stay with it, should he so choose. ]
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There is a wavering line that even Jim can sense, as the blend borders on seamless. He does not attempt to stretch it, does not attempt to do anything more than set the fluttering touch of his mind against it, gently, as if afraid it might shy away. That it doesn't suffuses him with warmth, just basking in the closeness, on multiple levels. So too, it seems, is Spock, and the loop continues, unimpeded.
Spock almost seems beyond words for a moment, the sense of something deep and ancient stirring, unknowable but no less awesome. It unfurls giant leathery wings, a sleeping dragon, casting shadow over the whole of him that Jim simply observes, blue eyes alight with interest - but not fear. Never fear. There is much Jim does not understand; indeed, much he may never fully have the capacity to - but it does not sending him running away. Instead, he quiets, and holds steadfast.
He takes back what he said before. The bar could be full of Klingons dancing the flamenco nude, and he doesn't think he'd have the strength to turn his attention away from Spock's intense gaze.
There is more here, beneath the surface, but Spock does not send it his way and Jim does not push for it to enter their loop. He's already used up his luck for the entire century getting to this point, and they've had a number of...revelations tonight. And yet, still more to come, all of which they will have need to untangle in the morning. For now, however, it is allowed to just simply - be.
Jim does gasp. It's involuntary and soft, a sharp inhale between barely parted lips, but it is there all the same. Punched out of him by wonder, the delighted burn of curiosity that comes with new discovery, and a frisson of true heat he does not dare put a name to. Yes, this Vulcan-hand-touch territory is far hotter than it has any right to be, and if Jim combusts, it is 100% Spock's fault.
They pause, Spock's finger curled against his own, inviting his courage. This, Jim can sense, is the point at which he either backs down from the precipice, or lets himself fall over the edge. It's not a question, really, no matter how deep and dark the fall seems - Spock is the one beckoning him. He would never let him fall.
Jim turns his hand, mimicking the gesture Spock had shown him. He lines up the pads of their fingertips, letting the sensation zing between their nerve endings. It does feel more intense - he's guessing in part due to the nerves, and also because the intention is clear. Have you been made aware? Well, he has now, and he very specifically did it anyway.
Jim's gaze flickers from their fingers, locked in the Vulcan embrace, to Spock's expression, studying it for an endless moment. Looking for any sign that this might be unwelcome, though he can - well, he can feel it's the opposite. Still, if this looseness is just an effect of the pair of them being inebriated...
He doesn't let the doubt cloud him over - no, those are sobering thoughts best left to a sober Jim and the light of the morning. ]
...can I ask, then, [ Jim starts slowly, leaning in just a little further - the way they're curled together, it's not a far distance to close. ] What's this gesture?
[ He punctuates his sentence by pressing a light kiss to the pad of Spock's thumb, where it rests over the back of Jim's hand. He doesn't linger or intuit anything overtly lewd in the human way of things - it's a quick touch, a brush against sensitive nerves, before he leans back, fond smile curling the edges of his mouth. ]
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And yet, as though one might see how life plays through the lamplit windows, there is an implication there is more yet to capture. There is the insinuation, that this loop is merely surface. For all that Jim does not push Spock, Spock too will not push Jim. He will not push him, though he waits to see what it is he will do with the information that Spock has fed over to him in pieces. Memories of a life that the other never lived. Impressions, scents, and coloration — spice and earth and acid.
Revelation blooms through Jim. It too weaves through the bright cord of their contact, fizzles at its edge as though sparks off a Roman Candle, a molten and smoldering expanse. He knows there is much to say on some other morning or some other evening. There is much to detangle, too delicate for the clumsy way of their rifling, too precious and sacred lose. And yet.
Jim leans into the spaces that Spock affords him. A blind leap, a knife cut through the tether — he picks up the imagery. Jim uses it, with all the tenacity and tender ferocity that he has come to know exists within the skin. It should not surprise him, should not take off-guard to know that he should dare it — but, there it is. There he is, pressing their hands fingertip to fingertip. That Jim should ever doubt that he should catch him, that he might leave him to drown when he himself should do so first?
What greets Jim is the inevitable glow, the mounting of static. A zing, as Jim should so put it, that seeps into the absences. Drenching sinew and marrow, lighting up from within — it feels as though the first breath after the dive, the rain that chases the thunder in. It feels to Spock as though the isolation that surrounds himself is not so vast, that there is something...
Spock leaves it. He leaves it, as Jim curves in closer to him. He leaves it, as his eyes flit up to meet Jim's. As Jim catches the pad of his thumb against curve of his lips, the gesture at once filled with the typical creativity of Humans and at once unspeakably — Spock's fingers flex up against Jim's. An involuntary spasm, a minute twitch, but no less notable than the hitch of one's breath might be. That he struggles himself to ensure his respiration stays even — ]
I believe you will find, [ Spock starts, his words caught low in the throat. The syllables tangle up about their boundaries, blur into their kin. All he might convey to Jim is pahz-kwul, the sharper tongue of lightning. It sizzles off the edge of the skin, burns against the boundary of what makes Spock Spock and what makes Jim Jim. And yet, if Spock focuses — ] There is no Standard equivalent.
[ — If Spock focuses, he might find the possibility of language. Cut at the backs of his teeth and bittersweet upon the tongue, his mind flounders at the weight of their connection. For all he cannot say, for all he does not let himself convey, there is a fondness that bleeds through the foundation. There is a curiosity, a sincerity.
A question.
Formless and aimless, pointed and formed, it provides to Jim's questing mind a pier to lash itself to. A surety, a security. A silvery throughline, so long as he remains there. Stays there.
And wanderingly, slowly, Spock's curves his hand. And it is no less familiar, he thinks as somehow, inexplicably, it fits within Jim's. ]
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They're moving slowly, treading lightly, and Jim can't remember another time it's been like this. No - never like this, not with Spock or anybody else. It's never mattered, not as deeply as it does, right now. Jim's most serious something (he can't think the word, thinking it would make it real; he's worried if he does, it will reveal itself to be smoke, intangible and untouchable) was four months with Gary fucking Mitchell, of all people. Kind of dick, but in that way that was as fun as it was irritating - and the irritating was part of his flirting ritual. That's the closest thing Jim's gotten to a functional something, and it was limping along far before Jim dumped Gary on his ass in the quad (literally, twisting his wrist out of Gary's grip and sweeping his legs out from under him - they always were two seconds from fucking or fighting) and poured a box of his crap onto his head (three textbooks and a ball of clothes; the thump of the textbooks on his head was very satisfying).
But that's when he was young and stupid and not yet grown - okay, he's still young and sometimes-stupid, but Jim would like to believe he's grown, since then. And Spock is - his friend, in so many ways, both the enumerated and the immeasurable. Jim doesn't have many of those - friends, he means - not like this (is there anyone like Spock?), and he really is an idiot for getting as close to risking it all as he is right now but - it's Spock. What more does he need?
So yes, there's much to discuss (insofar that they actually talk about anything, because even for as emotional as Jim is in comparison, perhaps there's a reason they get on as well as they do, couching great and terrible truths in their banter), and much more to ruminate on (re: panic about later), but for now, while they're both amenable and not overthinking it - fuck, Jim's only human. He can be convinced to be a gambling man. Spock makes a very convincing argument (not surprising).
His eyes flutter shut for a moment against the wave of contentment that follows, the thrill of it, like a dip on a rollercoaster, stomach left behind in the aftermath. Jim's heartbeat is in his ears, pumping away like a runaway train, and he idly wishes, in some small, unacknowledged part of himself, that he was brave enough to signal more strongly - the human way, as they've been dancing around it. But there is a limit to how far he's willing to push his luck, and his lips against Spock's fingertips is surely of some similitude.
It certainly seems like Spock liked it, at least, twitching against his hand. Jim actually shivers a little, the shake imperceptible save for the wavering against Spock's side as it shoots up his spine, gooseflesh pebbling on his arm as the sensation crackles, electricity dancing between them. Yes, he's sure that's accurate - Jim doesn't think he could find the words either. Probably a very embarrassing noise, though, so he doesn't try to speak for a moment, too engrossed in absorbing the low, gravelly quality of Spock's tone. ]
We should get out of here. [ Jim finally says, quiet and low, biting his lip absently as Spock's hand curls around his own, the warmth and sizzle of their palms fitting together distracting. He carefully completes the grasp, folding his thumb over Spock's fingers, the pad of it brushing against his knuckles. The elation that flows between them - Jim's sure he's not the only one feeding it. ] Do you concur, Mr. Spock?
[ The flirtatious weight to his words is cut with something soft, something - something that belongs only to Spock. An answer, however indirect, to his question, another rotation in their dance - though Jim can't help but feel pleasantly light-headed from all the spinning. ]
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