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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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Spock has never known how to proceed in a rush. He has never known how it felt to truly catch and to be caught. He has never known the staggering moments, the momentum spun about the hands and the palms. He has known the initial stumble, the initial surge of want — but, Spock? Spock has rarely savored, rarely sought. And when he was? Was it not more the excitement in attaining something viewed as impossible, something viewed as difficult? Hard? For all that he dabbled, for all could tell himself he might have explored, he was often no more than a novelty. A casualty of a curiosity, more appealing at a distance than in the weight of his heart. And so, is it not logical to proceed with a caution? Is it not logical first to scan the veritable minefield, to ascertain what Human emotion might greet him at the start? Is is not reasonable, to suspect that there is only this part? This part, where the idea of him is more potent than the self that moves? The self that talks?
And yet, did not Jim contrast all that had allowed at the start? Recognized only for what he contributed, recognized less for all that he could be and more that he was — Spock had never been one to know the intricacies of a purely Human thought, purely Human emotion. Once, he might have understood it more. But, that was many years divided. That he stands now with the fragmentary motion of his own warmth, the indiscernible shape of his thoughts? It more than most may have garnered before. It is more than most might have garnered at all, the indefinable filament that holds Jim free from the bulk and heft of what it is that he is and what it was that he was. Could be, perhaps. Should be.
And yet, what judgment might he hold for Jim? None. His mind and his body hold what is molten and gold as though water cupped in the palms. What brushes against him even fleeting and temporary — it is more than he had ever dared to desire. It is more than he had ever had means to want. Those who have crossed before, those who have may have crossed once, they never held such a fondness. They had never held such an elation, to be within the shadow of his mind and the breadth of his thought. They had never looked upon him as Jim does now, the full of his lower lip caught between the glimmer of Human teeth. His eyes turned up to the dark of his own, his thoughts skimming about the confines of what is possible and what is not.
Illogically, he finds himself in envy of the canines that pin cut of Jim's lip, the words that wrap themselves about the pink of his mouth. He finds himself in envy of the hand that holds his, the realization that he (for a moment) must from him part if only to come again together. He finds himself reluctant, perhaps, for all he should not as his fingers grasp about the heat of his Human palm — squeeze.
Perhaps it is this that Shakespeare and Neruda mean, in the way they must come undone. The frisson of electricity, for a moment cut. Spock itches more than he might find himself admitting to as he detangles himself from the comfortable loop of Jim's arm, finds himself peculiarly bereft of the weight that kept him steady. At a distance, the flirtation that banks off Jim's suggestion is a gravity that seizes its mark. If Spock leans into its pull, the rule and its laws? Who might call him on it, but the only that seems to remain in the spaces he's just put between both himself and the tug of this new (old) binary star?
Spock finds his mind sharper than the way of his body as he rises from their secreted spot, the music an uncertain vibration that rolls through the dark of the floors. He might feel it in his feet, the dimmed walls shifting minutely as he cants his head.
Like this, Spock waits with his hand turned to grasp his again silently. Extended, almost tentative, to accept where his words trip up belated to his mouth. ]
A most agreeable course, [ he says, his voice pitched just so that Jim might hear it over the roll of the bass and the pound of the drums. For all that tone chances at something gentle and sweet, there is a sort of reciprocal tease that rests in the way the corners of his eyes seem ever darker, ever more sharp. ] Sir.
[ It is not a question, for all that it could be. For all that it should. ]
no subject
It's true there is a certain, unique pleasure to be found in the chase, and especially the pursuit of that which at first seems unattainable. Jim can't deny he's engaged in the practice himself; a tale as old as time. To want was fire, sweeping, electric passion; to want that which you cannot have was wildfire, raging and fierce - the sweetest kind of madness. For all of Spock's inexperience in this regard - the way of things, beyond the usual parameters of both their regular interactions or any other that Spock might have come to expect from someone engaged in the act of wanting - Jim does have the benefit of experience. This, he recognizes, lies outside of all of it; it's not about pursuing the unattainable, but rather that by virtue of appearing unattainable, the pursuit had been stopped before it began.
But that has never stopped the wanting, no matter how Jim might choose to blind himself to it.
And when the subterfuge is lifted, the line between what is attainable and what is not wavers - and how is he, a creature of emotion, supposed to have a prayer of stopping the flood? No, this is not the usual game, in any sense; this is something new, and for once, Jim is not entirely familiar with all of the rules that dictate fair play. Or maybe it's not so new; maybe it's been building all this time, hiding in the shadows, sneaking up on them. Maybe the bricks were fired over years, piece by piece, added one at a time to his pack - like a frog slowly being set to boil. Even so, Jim can't bring himself to set it down; not when Spock is daring to insinuate that the unattainable might actually be -
Jim has never been surprised by his own inclinations - not to the extent he's been, frankly, blindsided, tonight. It's the force of it, he thinks, deeper than he'd have thought to expect. The proverbial wool, being freed from his eyes - though perhaps it's more accurate to say that Jim is peeking from beneath the blindfold, because to take it off completely feels...too reckless.
What is stronger than the human heart, which shatters over and over; and still lives?
Look at him, he's drunk enough to be an over-dramatic loser. Spock releases him in order to comply with Jim's own suggestion, but still it feels like a loss, however temporary. He shifts himself, draining the last of the liquid courage from his glass (he has a feeling he'll need it) and swiping the notebook from the table to stick it in the waistband of his pants, beneath his thermal shirt. Eyes bright, Jim straightens, gaze flickering from Spock's extended hand - how long his fingers are, the careful composure of his stance, the magnetism that seems to exist, whether or not Jim is imagining it - up to his eyes, the dark quality of them that makes heat flush along the back of Jim's neck.
It probably doesn't help the way Spock's voice rumbles on the word Sir, audible over thumping base to be sure but honestly, Jim's pretty sure he would have heard him say that from beyond the grave. It doesn't take more than a beat for Jim to accept the proffered hand - with a quick, hopefully unnoticed swipe of his own palm against his pants, illogical as it might be - to ensure he's not sweating from the sudden heat. He takes Spock's palm in his own, the contact sparking between them again, a bright point that tingles, all the way up his arm.
Jim links their fingers, folding them together, flush rising in his cheeks again, hot and pink - it should not feel as good as it did to be holding hands, like he's in 8th grade sharing a goddamn juice-box on the playground - but the pleasant, tangled emotions rise again in the pit of his stomach, threatening another wave of fondness. ] Come on.
[ Jim tugs - his turn to squeeze - thumb brushing up against Spock's knuckle, and begins to lead them out of the bar. It's gotten packed since they first arrived, and it takes some doing to weave their way to the front of the building; Jim doesn't make a habit of arriving to the bar early on his nights out, but getting Spock situated had been worth the dip in imaginary swag points. They're jostled a little, but Jim just keeps hold of Spock's hand, letting their arms brush and their sides press together - unwilling to be separated.
They make it out to the front, Jim giving a two-fingered salute to the bouncer at the door - the wash of cool, fresh air is welcome after the warmth of bodies pressed together in the bar. This is one thing Jim thinks he can definitively say he likes about Aldrip: the sea breeze, still moderately detectable even in the downtown area. A coastal desert in some ways, with the raging sands that pressed against it to the South. ]
How are you doing? [ Jim asks after a moment of peaceable silence - broken only by the ebb of fondprotectmildconcern that Jim can't hide with them holding hands - once they've drawn a pace or two away from the light and sound that spills out of the Last Drop. The atmosphere further down the street is more fitting for their particular dynamic at present
even if, in some ways, that just makes it all the more intense.] With the chocolate. Are you hungry at all?no subject
Spock had always thought himself the one that should blister, the one who should be as the ash that curled off the great fires that cut through the Vulcan nights. He had always thought himself a sufficient tinder, one who should be as the wick to keep others ensconced from the merciless, cutting storms. His own diminishment had seemed a natural course. It had seemed the only course, until he was told in softer tones that his Humanity was in its own way beautiful.
And Spock had almost believed it.
But, such wounds close if not allowed to fester. Such wounds limp another for the remainder of their days. Some wounds remain the same. The wounds that Spock carries are deep, have healed in ways both proper and wrong. They have been opened and closed, they have been pressed against sweetly as Jim does now and Spock lets him, the rabbit race of his own heart a staggered, blinded quarry. If it is Jim now that holds aloft the knife, it is Spock that fights the urge to bolt. It is Spock who bites down the reflex to make his excuses. It is Spock who tells himself it is only logical to seek an exit, that experience is a valuable teacher, that there is evidence that should support the contrary to his tentative expectation.
And then?
Jim reaches back for him. He takes his hand within his own, the contact both expected and not. It is anticipated and not, the bright way of Jim's eyes and the Human-hot flush of his skin. Before Spock might catch the errant thought, it has already cycled past their connection. It comes blurred and neon, the image of Jim under the cast of the light. The pink of his cheeks, the way his fingers lace between Spock's own. It is something that he might not put in word or name. It is something that sends his initial steps into something pleasant and artless as he beckons him on into the evening, weaves with him as though he were something too be precious to be lost to the press and sway of bodies. There is something ancient and fond that seizes in the dark of his lungs, escapes Spock's careful walls. It grows between them as though ivy, impossible to curtail it all. If he were able to tug free the roots, were able to detangle the knot of its dark body — what would then would be left of them? What would he then use, he thinks, to ensure Jim did not have to withstand all that he ever was and all that he is?
But, these are questions too to be saved for another night. Another night, when Jim does not lead Spock out into the cool of the open air. The static stars Aldrip burn dim above their head, the moon still and silent. Jim's arm and shoulder press against his own in a solid line and Spock finds himself... Comfortable, in the failure to disturb it.
He takes a steadying breath. The streets are quiet, the distant configuration of buildings smearing slightly as he tips his head. It is no more and no less than what he may have anticipated, certainly not the worst he has endured. No, if he recalls—
He pauses, the push of Jim's emotions calling him up from the lazier threading of thought. ]
It is a... [ He starts, attempting to taste the proper syllables upon the tongue before dispensing them. He is reminded of the difficulties he had drawing up the sounds as a child, knows that certain statuses have historically compounded it. He draws it as the residual glow of the bar fades behind them, his vision adjusting accordingly to the sparser lighting along the strip. ] Curious experience, though not a novel one.
[ No, it is not so new to him. He had once drank with Klingons, had experienced a rather intolerable headache in the aftermath. This? If he were to take a sort of internal stock of his current operations... The meat of his thumb rubs over the back of Jim's. It is as conscious as it is unconscious, as though he were attempting to commit its ridges and rises to some deeper memory. ]
Unlike times previous, [ he continues, his voice pitched just for Jim. His hearing is not so sensitive as his, something he had long grown accustomed to, and he finds himself almost too loud to his own ears. ] I find myself most relaxed.
[ It is true. He had never found himself enticed by such outings before. But, with Jim— well, what should matter is that there is nothing about his posture and surface considerations Jim might brush up against that state otherwise. ]
I too should ask that of you, [ he says, softer now. Almost unable to be heard, there is something that traces the outline of Jim's own concern and gilds it. An underscore of a sensation, a question poised at the tip of the tongue despite the words that come. ] I've come to understand meals lacking in substantial nutritional value are considered Human ritual when inebriated.
[ If there is a cast of something almost gentle in the dark of his eyes, but the truth of it lies in the vague humor that sizzles between their joined fingers, barest glimmer of a smile in the upward arch of a brow. ]
no subject
Despite the pride Spock exhibits for his human mother (and despite the fact that xenophobia seems an odd choice (to Jim, anyway) for a people who purport the philosophy of infinite diversity in infinite combinations - but let it not be said that Vulcans didn't have their own illogical traps, too) Jim knows it's something of a sensitive subject. That Spock is more human than his peers in some ways, obvious or not, and to acknowledge it can be taken as an insult.
Even though Jim might privately think it a compliment.
So Jim keeps it simple, and doesn't allow himself to expect more than whatever Spock might give him. Whatever he sees fit to share - how can it be anything other than a pleasant surprise? Sure, Jim's not always the best at practicing what he preaches, he's been frustrated by it in the past make no mistake...but he's only human. And if Spock is willing to put up with that - willing to take Jim as he is, for whatever that might be worth - it's no hardship to meet him halfway.
The pleasant thoughts and feelings he's getting from Spock are met with pure, unadulterated wonder. He tries not to read into it, but seeing himself through Spock's gaze is just - well, it does nothing to help calm the pink in his cheeks, that's for certain. Whatever it means or doesn't mean (now is not the time to pluck petals from the flower, he likes me, he likes me not style, Christ) - rumination is best saved for later. For the present moment, Spock is still holding his hand, and Jim will enjoy what he has while he has it. Living in the present, because the future was unlikely to do him any favors.
Jim has to say, though: he's very much enjoying his present.
The streets of Aldrip are quieter the further they get from the bar, more dimly lit away from the neon lights, circling out of the downtown district. Ambling towards home, though their destination isn't terribly specific. Home. He's taking Spock home, to their home, and the thought strikes him as odd in how not at all odd it is. Spock's thumb runs over the back of his own, and Jim squeezes lightly, a tacit confirmation that he's still there, tendrils of contentment brushing over the surface of his skin. ]
I'll take that as a glowing review. [ Jim laughs, ducking his head to soften the sound amidst the quiet of the street. Their shoulders bump again, and Jim lets their sides lean together for a moment before drifting, casual as anything (aside from the fact that his heartbeat kicks up a notch, but it's fine.) ] Good drinking buddy can make all the difference.
[ Limbs loose, Jim shrugs and shoots Spock a smile, feeling his underlying concern echoed back at him. It's honestly sweet, and the fondness unfolds within him, unabashedly warm (what, he's drunk, he can't be expected to control it) - though Spock probably doesn't need to be holding his hand to understand that, the way Jim's eyes soften at the corners, blue glimmering in the low light. His eyes had always had a brightness to them, slightly unnatural - the unshielded radiation was anyone's best guess. Unnatural, perhaps, but not altogether unpleasant. ] Been reading The Care & Keeping of Your Human, I see.
You would be correct. We'd certainly be remiss if we skipped it...I'd imagine you would want the full ritual experience. [ And it helps cut the hangover off at the knees, or at least, Jim's well-practiced at the placebo effect of it all. Though to be honest, he's not sure how bad-off he actually is, or if it's just Spock. Jim's smile turns into an outright grin, and when they come to the next turn street, he shifts their direction, sending them down along towards the water. There were usually late-night food carts along the short riverfront, before it dumped out into the sea, and the darkened area of the docks. ]
If you want the technical answer, it's more about regulating blood sugar drops. [ Jim offers him a wink, that curl of mischief and friendly teasing echoing wordlessly through another graze of sensation between them; it's one thing to understand Spock's humor, in a way that passes so many others by, but another to feel it. Jim's never heard Spock laugh, but the sensation holds the same mesmerizing quality to it. ] Not to spoil the magic.
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It is more than he once might have expected to accept, the Human parts of himself that vie and volley for the barest glimpse of the sun. Spock had always known them voracious and hungry, frail and starved things that bit at the hands that buried them as he could in the dark. The grit of sand beneath his fingernails, the copper stench of blood - he'd spent the whole of his life trying in ways he might. He'd spent the whole of his life relegating himself to holding the blade in his fist, in killing what made him different. And yet, what good was it? Fighting what is inborn, teetering along the edge. For all he might have looked the part, played the part - there was too much of his mother in him.
There is so much of his mother in him and it is these pieces that perhaps Jim glimpses in the softer parts of himself. It is these slivers of being, the turn of her dark head. It is her gentle teasing, the upward curve of her lips. It is her deep curiosities, the tenderness and sensitivity that underlies all that she'd come to endure. He'd once wondered if she understood that it was not her that held the root of his shame, that such conflicts went by an entirely certain and different name.
He'd wonder it now, but the answer lives in the heart that throbs as a bruise against the stretch of a lung. It lives in the way that Jim looks at him, leans up against him. The warm brush of Jim's shoulder settles like a brand against his and Spock finds himself in equal parts drawn and quieted. He finds himself equal parts ready to retreat and ready to withdraw, but there is a deliberate patience in Jim. There is an understanding. There is a trust, grown far beyond the resultant something that may have once been called as casual as it was defined.
And yet, Jim takes his hand. He holds it, as though Spock himself were sufficient as he is. He cradles it, as though it were something worth keeping in his. For Spock, who knows only the temporary fancies and fleeting interests of those who came to convince him before - Jim just smiles. He just laughs. Jim just squeezes Spock's hand, lets him linger in the aimless and restless motion - the cut of Jim's knuckles under the meat of his thumb.
Jim had always a manner of nesting beneath the cool of Spock's skin. At one time, it had unsettled him. At one time, it had threatened to unravel all that Spock had attempted reweave. Gossamer and gilded, it had been himself that he tried so surely to balance. If he could not be as a Human aboard a Human ship, if he could not express the emotions that he'd learned so surely to suppress - but, there is no such disgust for him. Jim cycles back what is wonderment and wonderful, what is bright and effervescent. A fondness, that lures as though the stroke of fingers through the surface of still ponds. Spock can never quite permit himself to touch it with the full of himself, but the conflict - there's a sense of home in the loyalty that Jim's evoked. There is a sense of home in the way that Aldrip's days and evenings start with Jim.
And that sweetness - what is guilty and embarrassed mutes against the deluge. It lessens, in the good natured quality of Jim's teasing. And yet, heat crawls up the steps of his spine. It burns, along the back of his neck. If it might color the skin of his cheeks, the tips of his ears? It matters little, as Spock's hand flexes about Jim's own.
It matters little, he finds, as Jim flashes a smile both unfiltered and without any such self-consciousness. ]
Indeed? [ Spock tips to him, not so much a question as it is a form of his usual repartee. He is aware most certainly of the manners and methods that Humans use to regulate the absorption of alcohol, but just as Jim - Spock cannot deny there is a certain pleasantness associated in listening to the way Jim talks. Spock affects a manner of consideration, for a moment. Nudges his shoulder back against Jim's own, almost directional. He knows well enough that proteins and more complex carbohydrates will assist with mitigating any such effects of alcohol. ] A spoiling of ritualistic magics aside, Captain, I believe you shall find it has done little to deter my admitted... [ He pauses, tongue tracing the contours of the word he wishes to use. The sweep of the ocean tide is coming clearer still, the dim haze of the city's lights fading gradually. There is the turn of his dark eyes to Jim's, the staccato of his heart a constant. ] Curiosity.
[ And surely, plainly - it has not. ]
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In the end, it doesn't really matter. It's Spock, all of it, as he is; and for all their teasing, Jim has never truly had a preference. If he was forced to choose, he'd probably say that Spock amongst friends - amongst the crew, that indelible camaraderie they all found together - was his favorite. Human or Vulcan? No one could rightly say. Free, to be...himself.
Perhaps there is one other thing he likes about Aldrip.
Jim is rapidly losing the probable deniability they've always employed, the longer they continue on as they are, with underlying intention. It's not so explicit, not even in the thoughts and feelings they pass back and forth like notes on a childhood datapad, but they're both - for lack of a better word - flagging something new. Something different, and the shape of it is sharpening, becoming clearer, outside of the pulsing lights of the bar. But the...mutual admiration is evident, easier than its ever been between them. New as it might feel, deep down, Jim knows the truth of it is far older than either of them would be willing to admit.
Spock seems reserved - which is kind of hilarious, considering how unreserved this entire experience really is in comparison with the usual - but it's more like he's waiting for something from Jim that hasn't arrived yet. Something other than the tacit acceptance he offers. Jim resolutely doesn't consider whether or not it's more or less enthusiasm that Spock's expecting - again, those are worries for sober Jim. A problem for future him, the mountain of which continues to grow, but it's fine. Do you see it, being totally fine?
It's fine for as long as Spock's thumb keeps stroking the back of his hand, that's for damn sure.
Jim truly is a monster unleashed, when his light teasing (with, admittedly, a flirtatious undercurrent) inspires a green-tinged blush from Spock. It's different here than under the colored lights from the bar, where the effects made the reaction seem apart from its verisimilitude. Here, Jim can see the true coloration in Spock's face, the way the flush spreads, viridescence rolling over his cheeks, the tips of his ears. It's as fascinatingly other as it is charming, gorgeous in a wholly unique way Jim's never had the pleasure to experience before, and so very Spock. If his appreciation is showing, well, Jim's the least likely to apologize for it.
Spock's hand remains in his, so he can't mind it too much, right? Besides...that was not the eyeshadow of a man who didn't invite at least a little flattering attention. ]
We wouldn't want your curiosity to remain unsated, would we? [ Jim's smile remains a permanent etch in his face (God, is his face going to hurt tomorrow or what? Worth it, though), as they amble down the side street to the water. Further down, there's the muted bustle of life - the food stalls, streetlamps offering warm pools of light to guide their way. Here, in the in between - Spock catches his eye, and fuck if it doesn't make his own heart leap. Their pace slows, whether intentionally of subconsciously - Jim couldn't say. ]
Are there any other curiosities I can...elucidate for you?
[ Their shoulders stay pressed together as they walk, hand in hand along the water. As pulse-pounding as it is (and Jesus, get a grip Jim, it would be embarrassing if he had any sense of shame left), it's also so - peaceful. The stillness of the water, the quiet of the night blanketing them, as if they're the only two on the planet. Peaceful is not a word he'd ever attributed to Spock - not because he didn't possess the quality, but because it wasn't a word Jim had much cause to use, generally. In fact, Spock was - well, he was the closest thing Jim had to peace aboard a starship. Late nights, early mornings, games of chess or sometimes just silent companionship, the two of them listening to music while they worked on their respective reports.
But here, in Aldrip, it had been true from the very first. Peaceful. A safe harbor. Spock had been there from the start. Jim's gaze traces his face, the dark in his eyes, the warmth tingling between their clasped hands. ] While we're on the subject.
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Fanged and featherless things, creatures left to trace through the dirt, are they not monsters to those who would not know their contours? Would not know their wrongs from their rights? Improbable as it might seem, Spock is no stranger to such wonderous and fabricated things. He holds no sense of mystery about the occult, the arcane, the unspeakable way of one's breath against what is sacred and secreted. Though such forms do not exist to him, do not exist to the Vulcan that asserts itself against the Human, there is the shape. There is the shape, carved into the foundation. And there too is Jim's, known in texture and color and name. If he should hold it with a kind of certainty, with a gentleness that he does not spare the one that exists between his own bone and marrow, the harrowed and hollowed parts of what soul that exists? It matters little to him.
This part of Jim is no stranger to him. The catch of his eye and the turn of his lips. The way that he moves through the night with Spock in his grip, as though he might need to hold on to keep him upright? No, he has witnessed it. He has seen it, spun toward those who might offer the same. And yet—
Jim presses the advantage.
And Spock? Spock finds himself in ways complicit. He slows in his paces with him, falls neat into the pause that Jim creates both natural and pointed. He feels the way his own heart skips, stutters as though one who has tripped — an echo and an answer to the Human hum of his. For all that Spock's expression betrays little on the surface, Jim has always known him. Has always read him, often better than he might have read himself.
But, to Vulcan eyes, all that is bright and golden pours through the fingertips. It filters through the absences, the spaces that Spock carves to keep his mind from the temptation of what is Jim's. Jim's, whose mind is abstract and liquid. Even touching as this, even joined as this — Spock can feel the way it trails along the eddies that he himself leaves behind. He can feel the way it scents his, imploring and hungry and curious. And for all that Spock watches the way of his eyes, the way that they trace him from both within and outside, he keeps for himself what is dark and sickly and nauseous. He keeps for himself the ugliness, the parts of himself that he cannot give.
But, he wonders it. Wonders it, like the half-moon of nails against the ridge of one's knuckles. Worries it, like the point of one's canines against the cut of a lip. Speaks, soft and low and questioning despite it. ]
I believe you shall find there are a great many things that I am curious about, Captain.
[ Spock is so often the one to blink first, to flinch first. When the nights are long and the tensions run heady, it is so often Spock who finds excuses. It is so often Spock, who shores up his defenses. It is so often him, who entices the conversation from what lies in the spaces between. Aboard the Enterprise, among the quiet mornings here — it is so often Spock, who finds himself in retreat. It is so often him, who establishes the division. For Jim, he thinks. For himself. For the prospect of losing something that has become otherwise— ]
However, at this moment, I am most interested in anything you are willing to tell me.
[ Irreplaceable. Unnamable. A heavy and weightless thing. It flutters and flees beneath the brush of Spock's thumb, the heat of Jim's fingers that thread between his own. And even so, the loop continues.
And even so, beyond them both, the waves tongue loose and lazy along the endless stretch of shore. ]
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The wind blows in off the water, rustling Jim's hair, already tousled from their time in the bar. The sea breeze adds a hint of salt to the air, tangy and fresh, invigorating. His mind is viscous and gold, shimmering where their edges meet and Spock's mind laps at his, like a rising tide. Jim has no defenses beyond the most basic of the mind's instinctual protections, but contrary to most, he does not shy away from the foreign presence. No, where their minds touch and crackle, Jim all but chases the sensation - not pressing inward, but brushing against the side, dancing along the razor's edge with swooping delight.
Perhaps it is true that Spock hides the harsher climate areas from him in this exchange, but it is also true that Jim is adaptable, that his light illuminates all that it touches, suffuses it with his warmth. It's possible that what Spock believes to be too dark and treacherous...might prove itself to simply be in need of a torch to light the way.
But Spock is proficient where Jim is not, and these accesses are hidden to him, as his mind maps the shape of Spock's, enveloping it in the same manner in which their palms meet, surface to surface, nerve endings aligned. It's a good thing they'd slowed their walk, because it is wholly enrapturing, and the last thing Jim should like to do is trip and fall flat on his face because his brain wasn't paying attention to where he was stepping. It's hard to pull his focus from it when Spock is so - Spock. When it feels so comfortable, despite the fact that as a member of a psi-null species, it probably shouldn't.
A far cry from his first encounter with Spock Prime, in that desolate cave. ]
Anything, huh?
[ Blue eyes sparkle with amusement, as is so common the case between them. The words are light but the undertone is - Jim resists the urge to name it. Their hands swing gently as they fall into step, ambling down the street. Jim squeezes lightly, the swell of emotion passing back as the loop resets. A tugging of the pigtail, as it were - as it always has been. Except neither of them is blinking, backing down and diverting. Spock allows him to press on, to toe the invisible bounds - to inch forward, with the tacit implication that the advancement is welcome.
And who is Jim to deny him? ]
I've always liked the ocean. I spent my life in crop fields before Starfleet, so I guess the novelty is probably part of the appeal. [ Voice soft, his gaze cuts from Spock to the darkened bluff, the edge of his thumb tracing along Spock's finger idly. ] There's something romantic about the sea. That's not an original thought, I know. For both are infinite, etc. But there's something - indelible.
Humans like to make wishes on it. A practice that runs back further than anyone can remember, you see it everywhere in folklore. Maybe it's just ingrained in us, I don't know. Sand wishes, cairns - doesn't matter how, people make 'em. Dreams, carried away on the water. [ Jim refocuses on Spock, tracing the contours of his face with contemplation, apprising. The coquetry in his tone - both spoken and unspoken, as his mind ripples against Spock's - is gentle, playful but earnest. ] Do you dream, Mr. Spock?
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To know more is to desire more. It is something that Spock hand known from the beginning. Perched upon the wall of his father's estate, overlooking the hillsides that sprawled on and on, he knew himself as one who could never permit himself the habit of wanting. What was given was what was given. He might have only controlled what was taken from him — him, in the heart of himself. Humans so ascribed their souls the seat there, had lodged the whole of their being in the muscle that beat rhythmic and slow. Spock would not know, tracing the boundary of wondering: were such fabrics afforded to him?
Still, to know the answer now makes it no wiser for him to lean into the brush of black and fertile earth, the turn of the Terran sun over the lip of the horizon. Though Jim's mind is eager, nests down into the silences Spock presents as though his affordances were more than the steadying pour of smoke off of incense, Spock reminds himself that there is no returning were he to press ever forward instead of just holding back. There would be no unburning the intrusion, the permissive shape of all that might have been.
Were Spock weaker than he is, how far back might have he crossed the trenches of his own doing to him? To Jim, who looks upon him with a tenderness like the press of fingers through warmed wax, like the suppleness of resins in the cracks of broken roots? Like all who read of and breathe of Humans, he knows that to covet the sun is a folly.
But, what does one do when it is pressed in the hands?
He cannot look at it, but the knowledge fizzles like a brand at the base of the skull. ]
“Being in night, all this is but a dream.”
[ It tips from his tongue, pine straw and chamomile. He knows the shape of the verse, its sectioning. Jim pools knowledge into the unfilled cup of his mind, the memory of idle dreams and swimming laps upon the Enterprise slotting into rank and file line. It matches, a lovely patterning. It pairs the flat and endless seas of cornstalks, the silks within their husks.
Jim traces the contours of his face with the blue of his eyes. Dimmed under the hold of night, they appear as though the shadow of lara-kushel. Spock cants his head. The angle is not accidental, the line of his throat exposed to curious flittering, the assessment that lies behind the upturn of Jim's syllables.
It is not flattery, Jim had said, if it was truth.
Something warm sparks at the corners of Spock's dark eyes. ]
Vulcans are not immune to aspirations. There are wants, goals. Pursuits.
[ Logical, certainly, but no less weighted in its veracity. Spock turns his wrist, bringing closer to him the hands that Jim swings. A tightening orbit, in the way that Spock curls his index finger about the blunt end of Jim's restless thumb. Loose enough to escape if he wishes, but along the boundary he sends the fluttering plumes of smoke and ash, the columns of wind-blown creatures described only in books. ]
There are those, too, who move in defiance of what others hold as the logical path.
[ Himself. The stretch of stars at the lip of Vulcan. Endless, yawning nothingness between what burned and died and lit as candles in the dark.
A refrain: all such creatures do. ]
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For once, Jim is comfortable. It's a strange thought to have, amidst all the unknowns of their situation here in Aldrip, but it's true. Not something he ever would have guessed at, either, after his the first meld on Delta Vega - like an ice pick to the frontal cortex - despite the echoes of something else that seemed to haunt the experience. Jim hadn't gone digging to find it, the mind's self-preservation preventing him from doing so.
But here, now, he thinks he might understand what he was sensing. A calling, some enigmatic likeness between their two minds that felt - relieved, in the other's presence. A salve to a wound Jim hadn't known was there. Should it be so surprising, when Jim knows he could equate the feeling by the human standard, by having Spock at his side, always the two of them, taking on the universe? Perhaps it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, then; or maybe its just a fantasy constructed from his human consciousness as a way of framing their connection in the emotional language that he understands - but if Spock doesn't mind, Jim sure as hell isn't going to say anything. ]
All nights are days to see till I see thee, [ Jim quirks a brow, something tender shining in his eyes - the way they've been exchanging lines since the Tower is a language in and of itself; perhaps one they're more comfortable speaking in, like the way Spock's hand fits into his. ] And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
[ Spock tilts his head, acute angles thrown into sharp relief with the shadows that catch on his cheekbones, and pool down the side of his neck from the halo of the streetlights above them. They lead Jim down the long line of Spock's throat, coming to rest at the hollow there, where his Adam's apple sits - actually, what do they call that, on Vulcan? Jim's never thought to ask, and the thought of a Vulcan named Adam is so fanciful it strikes him funny, a wisp of fondness threading through his surface thoughts - fondadmirationcontentheat - skimming along the connection between them.
Spock pulls them closer, sides brushing as they walk, down towards the warm light the late night food stalls are giving off. There aren't many people here, one or two dotting the barstools lined up at the counters for each stall - the herds will come later, when the bars close. Spock's mind sends pulses of warmth suffused with the heady incense Jim is so familiar with - he's been considerate to light it when Jim isn't home, or with the windows open in the cozy house they share - but it reminds him of Spock, inextricable from the whole. It reminds him of home, spiced and warm. ]
The logical path. [ Jim smiles to himself, cutting his gaze away as his heel drags, bumping the texture of the cobblestone path beneath his shoe. Sometimes this place just didn't seem real - the folksy charm of it (at least, to Jim - a seaside city with 21st century allure. Physical money, paper books, vintage appliances), the brief moments of calm (Spock and Bones in a dapple of sunlight while they picnic at the library, a shared pot of tea in the evenings, Spock's soft breathing next to him as Jim passed over the divide between waking and dreaming), the warmth that they had found here. Despite everything they had endured here
and everything that was to come,sometimes it still felt...well, like a strange dream. ] What's a logical path for one to walk may not be the same as another.[ And Spock has always seemed the type to carve his own, as daring a man as any Jim had ever known. His fortitude, his compassion - to list all the qualities Jim appreciated about Spock would take more time than the evening they had left. ] Defiance looks good on you.
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Perhaps it is his service with Humans that have stained his perspective with such fantastical things. Perhaps they were always destined to pollute the orderly line of his thinking, bring such concepts of hope and luck to his metaphorical door. Yet, for all that Spock may have thus far resisted the full depth of their influence, there was always something further to uproot. There was always something further to let his fingers card through, the fabric of his being both flexible and inflexible. Diaphanous, Spock thinks, and steeled.
But, with Jim —
There is no drag of the self against the other. There is no grit or grain, no scale or tooth. Where it is Jim touches is both steady and smooth, honeyed on the tongue and in sweet within the stomach. It curls against the line of consciousness, nectarine and copper. Fingers across the still of ponds, the circumference of bruise — Spock does not press, despite the gentled encouragement. He does not submit, though Jim's thoughts become as the weaving birds amid the hottest parts of Terran days. For all that they might sing and ruffle and flit, Spock might only watch them.
He might only remain grounded. ]
And, thou away, the very birds are mute, [ Spock answers, the fairest brush of a reciprocal heat and the glimmering note of satisfaction caught just so upon the teeth. What Jim might grasp is secondary, hints beneath the surface of what is fonder, softer things.
He too has not found himself opposed to the steady way of their routine, to the particular comfort that such habit brings. To work alongside him is no less agreeable than living alongside him, but there is an unnamable quality. There is something in the way Jim looks upon him, studies him — eyes upon his hands as he is cooking. The tuck of his smile when it is he laughs. The sleep-warm brush of waking consciousness against the backs of his knuckles, Jim taking from him his coffee without much complaint.
Now, such transfer is deliberate. What he might feel, what Jim might feel. The shield remains, but there is something in the way of its consistency, its quality. There is an underlying—
It matters not. It is not something to look upon this evening, close as they are now. It is not something to examine in his current state, despite the way there is no absence of mirth at the corners of his mouth. ]
You would ascribe that particular emotion, [ he says, the cobble evening again beneath their feet as Spock idly aims them toward a suitable stall. It had been banked for such occasions, though he had oft not factored himself in. Beneath the dimmer lighting, Jim's skin makes itself a show of something warmer, golden. His dark follow the gilt that it brings, touching upon the dip of a temple. The bridge of his nose. Freckles, Spock thinks, that so dot across his cheeks like the artful streak of stars. ] And yet, logic does not preclude the possibility of deviation.
[ It doesn't, of course. And yet, it is that particular uniqueness that Spock too had admired in Jim. That sense of being, the possession of a formed and forming surety. His logic, balanced against the cradle of his empathy.
He clears his throat, softly. ]
Do these offerings meet ritual qualifications?
[ He knows they do, but even still. He plays at his games as well as Jim does too. ]
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Maybe that's contagious, or maybe Spock's just using that as an excuse for what already lurks beneath his own skin; if so, Jim won't call him out on it. Maybe it's a bit of both, or maybe they just feed off each other - back and forth, an endless, golden loop. Jim settles into the push and pull of the mental landscape, how easy it feels to rest there with Spock. The longer it goes, actually, the easier it seems. Maybe he's just projecting - but hey, he's most definitely had worse nights.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow. The answer is thought, not spoken, almost involuntarily so in the wake of the sensation that pours from Spock's mind to his. Jim nearly blushes, heat rising in his neck, just barely tinging the tops of his cheeks - but he stifles the urge, determined not to blink first. Not to inject doubt into their evening, to let it anything impugn everything they've been exchanging tonight - especially not when Spock would likely be able to feel it. ]
No. But it sure likes to try. [ Jim chuckles to himself as they make their way down the street and towards the stalls. Spock was one of the most bullheaded, steady, defiant people he'd ever met - and Jim means that as a compliment, honestly. Sure, when the obstinance was aimed in Jim's direction, it was a pain in the ass - but no less admirable, truth be told. That Spock had the resilience to carve his own path in a world that did not recognize the value of it - Jim had no shortage of regard for the man beside him.
They stop astride a small booth, tucked between two others, offering up a variety of french fries. Sweet potato, golden, something fancy involving a truffle. Jim's lips slide into a smirk to hide his growing grin and he nods, slipping a hand in his pocket to free the requisite currency from the confines of his pants. He had been the designated treasurer, since he'd arrived; the coins were something Spock seemed to have zero interest in, beyond the strangeness of their shape and the composition of their metal. ] Greasy and salty, you've hit the nail on the head, Commander. Someone been studying up?
[ Jim's also going to hazard a guess that these fries aren't made with peanut oil, given that Spock's the one who stopped them there, and he quite possibly had the entirety of Aldrip catalogued for Jim's allergies. He orders a big batch for them to share, sliding the coins across to the shopkeep, before moving to lean against the pickup window. ]
Did you ever do the Sophomore Slaughter crawl? [ Jim's presuming the tradition was shared across their universes, but who knows, it wouldn't be the first difference. Even if it was, he's not sure he can picture Spock participating - a bar crawl through San Francisco, while sophomore cadets waited nervously for their track acceptance emails to Command, Engineering, etc. Or maybe he did participate, downing shots impassively to fuck with the humans around him. The image makes Jim smile, as he draws Spock's hand between both of his own, covering it completely with the warmth of his palms. ] I think that was the last time I had a night out like this one.
[ Jim doesn't think it'll end quite the same, with the Command track hazing ritual - streaking into the Pacific Ocean - but that's probably for the best. ]
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And hundreds of years from and since, the stars dying and dead and reborn again — there is much about all that there is that Spock does not know too. There had always been more than the Vulcan suns, the Terran moon. There had always been another constellation, another destination. Another bead upon a foreign tapestry, woven in thread and yarn.
Spock has seen a great deal, experienced a great deal more. He has touched the fathomless and inconsistent, tasted with his hands and mind and mouth. He has known the bend of space, the loop of time. He has traced its contours, the sinuous curve of tomorrows yet to come. And yet, there is always more. There is always more, in the tilt of the head and the cut of a mouth. A grin. The way the light pools warm and orange off the seams of an affected contrapposto. Citrus on the tongue, Spock thinks, as Jim holds any part of himself so close and secreted. A hand, cupped in the nest of Jim's own.
Spock's fingers curl, smoke and fire and ash. Sand through the throat of a glass. Perfumed and feathered, the dark spill of earth. His eyes flicker upward, focus upon the solid and the present. The tangible and the sure. Jim's bright eyes, met with the steady shadow of his own. ]
No more than usual, sir. [ Spock murmurs, the syllables stained with the weight of a breath. And yet, there is something coy that plucks about the boundary. There is something humored, in the way it toes against the edge. He had made a gamble, it seems. A guess, built upon the foundation of preference and allergy. The knowledge of Human metabolism.
Experience.
Against the backdrop of the sea and the clattering of the cooks behind the counter, Spock considers. He considers — ]
Not as such, [ Spock says, soft to the ear. His other hand rises, shadows the curve of the gentled net Jim's cast. ] However, I was informed my attendance would "strengthen rapport" among my cohort. [ His thumb tucks into the curve of a wrist. He feels the Human thrum of his heart beat, a slow staccato.
He lays his palm flush to the back of Jim's, the corners of his eyes crinkling only just so. A hint, perhaps, to what stories lie beneath. ] In retrospect, I cannot say it did not serve its purpose.
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How badly did you beat them? [ Jim can't help his smile, warm with affection and amusement in equal measure. The mental image of a Spock as a cadet, resplendent in red, completely deadpan and tossing back Irish Carbombs like they were water - what Jim would give to see that. They would have gotten into so much trouble, if they were students at the same time - whether Spock would have wanted to, or not.
He knows Spock finds it equally as amusing, even if he'd never admit it in so many words, and another slight shiver runs up Jim's spine as Spock's thumb finds the soft skin of his wrist, resting just over his pulse. Jim's hands curl around Spock's, aligning their knuckles as the pads of his fingers brush slowly over the back of Spock's hand, the drag of his calluses light. ] I'm not saying it's right, but Command's been using drinking ability as a fortitude metric for years. I can see where that would have worked in your favor.
[ Jim hums quietly at the back of his throat, one hand releasing Spock's, since the Vulcan seems to have that area covered. It seems only fair Jim's newly freed hand should come to rest against Spock's side, mimicking his seeking of Jim's pulse - finding the rabbit-quick heartbeat that resided there, fluttering against his hand. It had the added benefit of allowing Jim to spread his palm, to settle comfortably with Spock, decidedly, pulled into his personal space. ]
no subject
Indeed, [ he says, smoother than his heartbeat would suggest. Jim's proximity, the heat of his palm — it rests against him as a brand, the stutter-step of his heart a hummingbird beat within the chest. He knows that Jim might feel it, but there too is an excess of stimulus that must be caged and cornered and corralled. What is physiological falls lower upon the metaphorical "totem pole" when faced with the sweeter curiosities that brush along his shields. ] I believe they had implied I had "drunk them under the table."
[ Spock pauses, almost as though in thought. It is a guise more than not, a secondary action tucked within the first. The meat of his thumb rubs against the curve of Jim's wrist, nipping into the shadow the fine bone casts beneath it. ]
Despite its colloquial usage, I found it be quite literal.
[ And if there is a humor that rests within it? There is something that shimmers soap-slick and quick against the division that defines himself from Jim. A pull of smoke off fire. A sizzling candle, the dampness of fingers choking off the flame that keeps close the wick. ]
no subject
You took no prisoners. [ Jim laughs warmly, able to picture it easily in his head - probably at that one bar, closest to campus that was always packed with a sea of red, everyone drunkenly bemoaning Spock's abilities, getting completely trashed themselves. His fingers curl against Spock's side, feeling his heartbeat thrum like a humming bird beneath his palm. ] Just confirms to me that I didn't need to take your penalty shots during trivia, you sly bastard.
[ It's clear from the amusement in his eyes, the tang of it bright and fresh where their skin touches, that Jim doesn't mind. His fingers skim against the side of Spock's hand, more than content to stay, just like this.
The arrival of their food interrupts, however, passed to them through the window, and Jim has to release Spock's side in favor of accepting the small paper receptacle. They seem fresh, at least, hot enough to scald if they eat too fast. Jim groans appreciatively, holding it up between them. ] Perfect drunk food. Soaks the ethanol right up.
[ Whether or not that holds any scientific merit, Jim snags a fry hanging off the edge with his teeth, grinning playfully. ]