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In the hospital, after everything, the bridge crew comes to see their captain.
They come to watch the way he sleeps, the way he breathes, to look at the gentle rise and fall of his chest and give a slow, unsteady exhale, to cover their mouth, too-fast, as they stifle a relieved sob.
From his post by the window, Spock watches the steady stream of visitors silently – watches the way Nyota presses her forehead against Jim’s, breathing rapid, shaky breaths that are just this side of a sob. He watches the way McCoy sits at Jim’s bedside when he forgets Spock is there, the way he wraps both hands around one of Jim’s, tight, and presses all those intertwined fingers to his forehead in something like a prayer. Sees the way Chekov reaches out, covers half the distance, draws his hand back in an abortive motion but reaches, again, hand hovering over his arm, shoulder, hand, until McCoy half-snaps that “you’re not going to break him, son,” and Chekov gives in, allows himself to close the gap. Sulu doesn’t touch, but sits for a long time, hands clasped in his lap, calm by all outward indicators except the way his knuckles go white, except for the tight line of his shoulders as he keeps his gaze fixed on the captain’s chest and the faint evidence of breath it provides.
Scotty barely makes it in the door, and even that only after a furious whispered argument with McCoy, who reassures him it’s not his fault, that if Jim was boneheaded enough to come up with a plan like that he was damn well going to carry it out, that there was nothing he could have done, that Jim is fine, which is untrue, that he will be fine, which is uncertain. Scotty pushes back the curtain, face pale and eyes watery, stands frozen until Jim breathes, until his finger moves, and then there’s a sharp inhalation, a hitching breath, and he’s turned on a heel to make a rapid exit, McCoy shaking his head in his wake.
Which leaves Spock, who does none of these things. Spock, who watches, and wonders if it might calm him, if he felt proof of Kirk’s pulse fluttering beneath his fingers rather than just observing it on the monitors. Spock, who knows the doctor’s machines can tell him more than a hand pressed to Kirk’s wrist ever could and still, impossibly, longs to reach out and feel.
Spock does not move.
--
He remembers, of course, the last time he touched Jim – suspects he would remember it with or without his eidetic Vulcan memory.
Jim’s plan was reckless, and Jim could not see—
Or he could see, knew exactly what he was walking into and was choosing to do it anyways, which was worse—
Spock had thought, chasing him down the hallway, trying to convince him that if he was determined to follow through on this foolish, illogical plan the least he could do was allow Spock to stay by his side—
Oh, he had thought, I am angry, and that simmering rage had meant he grabbed Jim’s shoulder, hard, the only way he knew to get the captain to slow down, to breathe, Spock’s only chance to make him understand.
“Captain,” he had said, furious and pleading, “I cannot allow you to do this,” and Jim had stopped, had listened, but he had not understood.
--
The thing is that Spock has only ever had this depth of emotion provoked – because it is a provocation, always, whether Kirk means for it to be or not—
(Spock suspects he frequently means for it to be—)
He has only ever been so provoked by one person.
It is frightening, he can admit to himself only after many hours of meditation, how violently Jim makes him feel.
--
It’s almost anticlimactic, when Jim wakes up. He shifts in his sleep as Spock is standing to go, and McCoy tells him, “might want to stay, Spock, I reckon he’ll come around soon.”
Spock stays.
Jim wakes with a start, a sharp breath before his eyes flutter open.
“Don’t be so dramatic, you were barely dead,” McCoy mutters, as if he’s been put upon, and Spock cannot understand it – McCoy has spent long days and sleepless nights working to coax Jim back from the brink, to keep his heart pumping and his lungs breathing even as every cell in his body fought against the serum. He has seen McCoy’s normally steady hands shake as they ghost over Jim’s shoulders, these past weeks, has heard his unsteady breaths each time Jim’s readings took a turn for the worse.
He looks again at McCoy, who has turned towards the computer next to Jim’s bed, is making a show of evaluating some medical reading or another even though he had been looking at them just moments before Jim awoke and they almost certainly have not changed. He’s blinking very fast.
Spock does not have long to reflect on the human tendency to hide behind false bravado, to trust that unspoken words will be heard nonetheless, to act as if nothing has changed when in fact everything has – he finds himself stepping forward almost unconsciously, and the movement draws Jim’s attention.
He’d meant to say something, he thinks. But then Jim looks at him for the first time since the last time and Spock finds that he is frozen in place, unable to think of anything beyond the facts of Jim‘s icy blue eyes and the way they are locked on his and that he’d thought he would never see them again.
“You saved my life,” Jim says, and Spock cannot reconcile, for a moment, the warmth in the eyes of the man in front of him with the utter stillness of the past weeks, the image that’s still superimposed in his vision, the way he hears Jim’s voice but sees only a limp hand on the other side of the glass, inches away and wholly out of reach—
Jim is still speaking.
“Thank you,” Jim says, and Spock feels his fingers twitch, just the once. There’s a rush of things he wants to say, sudden and uncontrollable—
“You are welcome, Jim,” he says, and forces the rest of his unruly words to stay unspoken in his throat, although they form a lump so great it’s nearly impossible to speak around.
McCoy rolls his eyes at Spock’s overly formal posture, the way his hands are clasped firmly behind his back, but he has little choice in the matter – it is the only way to hide their trembling.
--
Even weeks later the crew of the Enterprise is in the news more often than not, the golden child of Starfleet the most of them all.
Jim holds the reports in low regard.
“Can you believe this shit?” he gripes to McCoy from his bed one afternoon, gesturing wildly with a spoon. “The last time I talked to Commodore Stone in person he told me I would be lucky to get a job scrubbing shuttlecraft, and now he’s saying he always saw greatness in me? That’s bullshit, Bones.”
His mouth twists unhappily and McCoy laughs. “You always were good at turnin’ a place into a circus, kid,” he says, and Jim rolls his eyes and changes the channel.
Still, despite his expressed disdain—
Spock accompanies his captain, giving reports on the Enterprise’s reconstruction as they walk slow, painstaking loops around the hospital. Jim is invariably recognized, and each time there is an almost imperceptible tightening as he turns to answer the call, goes to greet the cadet who broke his leg during the attack or the nurse who’s been pulling overtime for weeks or whoever it is who wants to meet Captain Kirk, the hero.
George Kirk’s legacy isn’t the only one weighing heavily on the captain’s shoulders, now, and Spock is by no means a master at reading human emotions, but even he can see that Jim’s smiles do not reach his eyes.
They neither of them mention it – there is a silence between them, now, and while it’s not uncomfortable Spock cannot say if it is one borne of understanding or uncertainty – but Jim always turns to him, after, and the line in his shoulder loosens as he sighs and says, “I’m sorry about that – you were telling me about—”
--
When Jim is finally released from the hospital, Spock picks him up at dawn. He grins tiredly when Spock enters the room, waves off McCoy’s last list of instructions.
McCoy had griped about the earliness of the hour, the accelerated departure, anything he could think of – but he watches Jim walk out on his own two feet and smiles, broad and relieved, before he realizes Spock is watching him.
"And what exactly do you want?” His tone tries for accusing, but it’s as if he can’t force his face to comply – his eyes are still on Jim, who’s hurrying ahead of them as if he can speed up his discharge paperwork just by getting to it sooner.
“I—” McCoy turns to really look at him at the pause, raising an eyebrow. Spock allows himself a minute frown at his own loss of words. “Thank you,” is all he can manage.
McCoy’s face does a complicated sort of twitch at that, and he blinks, surprised. “I thought thanks were illogical, Mr. Spock.”
Spock cannot look at him – he turns back to watch Jim, instead, although it does not do much to help the growing fracture in his control. “Perhaps. Yet I find we all owe you a great deal of them, nonetheless.”
Out of the corner of his eye watches as McCoy follows his line of sight, draws a slow breath and exhales through his nose in a long sigh.
“Yeah, Spock,” he says, voice rough. “You, too.”
They are both of them spared from any further honesty when Jim returns, throwing an arm over McCoy’s shoulder and almost instantly provoking another round of complaints – but Spock does not miss the assessing look the doctor gives him, nor the way something in his expression has softened when he nods to Spock as they leave.
--
Jim’s request, when it comes, is slid smoothly within the rest of his chatter, inserted casually enough that it would be easy to dismiss as one of the captain’s jokes, should he want to. But Spock has spent a great deal of time attempting to decipher Jim’s normally well-disguised tells; he sees the way Jim’s eyes slide to him, careful and assessing, when he says:
“I don’t know, Spock, can’t we just. Go somewhere? Rent a car? I can’t—“
I can’t stay here, he doesn’t say, but Spock hears it all the same.
It is an illogical, emotional suggestion made by an illogical, emotional man. And yet—
(There is always an ‘and yet,’ with Jim—)
Spock rents them a car.
--
“I didn’t really think you’d do it, Spock,” Jim says. “I can’t wait to tell Bones.”
Were Spock more prone to emotions, he might describe his reaction as a brief spike of entirely logical fear.
He must show something on his face, because Jim grins as if he’s making a joke that only the two of them are in on.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wait until we’re out of the city limits. You can even tell him it was my idea. Oh, look—” he’s quickly distracted as they reach the car. It’s not quite old enough to have real wheels, but there is no automatic steering mechanism, nothing resembling the expansive set of controls Spock has grown used to on the Enterprise.
(“I’m feeling nostalgic,” Jim had said at Spock’s enquiring look when he chose it, and that had been that.)
Jim is still talking, unconcerned with whether Spock is paying attention.
“I haven’t driven in ages, I’ve missed it. There’s nothing like space, that’s true, but there’s something to be said for flying down the highway with the windows open, the music blaring, and the wind in your hair.” They’ve finally reached the car and Jim stands in front of it with his hands on his hips, satisfied.
“I will take your word for it,” Spock says. It does not sound especially pleasant. “But perhaps in this instance, it would be preferable for me to drive.”
He is unsurprised when Jim frowns.
“What, you don’t trust me? Relax, Spock, I’ve been driving for years! Since I was eleven — I’m a pro.”
Spock allows himself a single raised eyebrow. “That is significantly below this planet’s legal age of vehicle operation.”
“Oh?” Jim says cheerily, feigning innocence, then — “well, I suppose my first attempt did end up with the car at the bottom of a cliff.”
Spock stiffens, a second eyebrow joining the first at his hairline, and realizes that he is being teased when Jim grins, clearly gratified at the reaction.
“Still, Captain,” he says firmly, ignoring the pointed scowl directed his way at the title, “your medication indicates you are not to operate heavy machinery. Please allow me to take command of the vehicle.”
Jim looks like he wants to resist, but something in Spock’s face must give him pause because he just smiles faintly and switches direction so fast it’s like he meant to be headed to the passenger seat all along.
“Alright, Spock, you have the conn,” he says mildly. Spock recognizes the tone – the same one Jim uses with aliens and ambassadors alike - and tries not to take too much offense at being humored.
--
Later, when he’s had a chance to consider the subject at some length, Spock decides Jim was not just teasing him about the cliff.
He has wondered, sometimes, if the way he knows Jim to be is the way Jim has always been – this too-fast man, racing headlong towards whatever comes, be it a space jump or the edge of a cliff, running on adrenaline and instinct and snap decisions, surviving on impossible odds and improbabilities and miracles.
It does not comfort him the way he’d thought it might, to learn he was correct.
--
Jim is quiet as he fiddles with the radio, flicking through channels until he settles on something he likes, old Terran music that he proclaims is “a classic, Spock, what do you mean you’ve never heard it?”
It does not sound particularly different from other Terran music with which Spock is familiar, other than the fact that it is louder, the admission of which gets him a huff of either indignation or amusement, or possibly both.
Jim does not seem interested in speaking. In the early days of his captaincy this would have made Spock uncomfortable – would have left him wondering if he was meant to fill the silence, if Jim was dissatisfied that he did not. But now he has seen the way something in Jim loosens as they sit across a chessboard in the quiet of his quarters, has heard Jim say “thanks, Spock, I needed that,” after an evening spent in silence, and trusted that the sentiment was true.
Still—something has shifted between them, since Jim woke up. They still sit in silence and it is not tense, as it once was, but it is—charged, somehow, as if each of them is waiting for the other to do something, say something.
Spock does not know exactly what he is waiting for Jim to say—does not know what Jim would have him do.
They have misunderstood each other enough, Spock thinks; have spent enough time talking past each other without listening. There is nothing to gain from haste but error. He will wait, so that they might get it right.
So they sit in silence, Jim looking out the window and tapping his finger on his leg along with his Terran classics, and the longer they drive the more the quiet seems to settle around them, inching closer to the comfortable normalcy of before. The concept of a road trip had been foreign to Spock, but if this is what it will be – he thinks he might enjoy it.
--
They’ve made it well out of the city limits when something catches Jim’s eye.
“Spock, we should stop – you haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? I know I haven’t.” He gestures to a billboard as they pass by.
Spock spares the image a look. The meal being advertised does not look particularly appropriate for someone just out of the hospital.
“Don’t make that face, have you really never done this before?” He continues before Spock can argue that he was not, in fact, making a face. “You gotta make at least one stop at a drive-through, Spock, it’s tradition. And the replicators never get their egg sandwich quite right.”
There is a not-insignificant chance that Jim has made up this particular “tradition,” but Jim’s voice is one that indicates he will not be swayed. Still—
“I do not think,” Spock tries, “that Doctor McCoy included that in your meal plan.”
Jim huffs. “Well, what Bones doesn’t know won’t hurt him. C’mon, Spock, you’ve seen what they made me eat in there. I’m dying for some real food, I haven’t gotten to choose my own food for a month.”
Spock does not sigh, but it’s a near thing. Against his better judgement, he pulls onto the exit and refuses to admit that it is gratifying to hear Jim’s excitement at this small act of rebellion, the way he claps Spock on the shoulder and says, “I knew I could count on you – d’you want anything?”
Spock eyes the menu warily for a moment. “I do not.”
“Suit yourself,” Jim says, and Spock gets the distinct sense that he is being laughed at.
Jim waves him back onto the highway rather than sitting to eat in the small parking lot – eager, Spock suspects, to put as much distance between them and the city as possible. He keeps his eyes on the road as Jim wolfs down the meal next to him.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, Spock.” He sounds eminently self-satisfied, and while it’s not enough to stop him entirely, it does give Spock pause before the comment he is obligated to make.
“Captain,” Spock starts uncertainly, “perhaps it would be wise to slow your intake slightly – eating so much so quickly after your controlled meals in the hospital may be inadvisable.”
“Eating this much is the point, Spock,” he says around his sandwich. “When was the last time you had hospital food? Another day and I would’ve been reprogramming the replicator; I would’ve sworn there was something wrong with it if I didn’t know the blandness was the point. I need to get the taste out of my mouth.”
Spock can find no adequate response to that. He too has experienced McCoy’s regimented programming of the replicator – he was, after all, a frequent guest in Jim’s hospital room.
Jim seems to take his silence as agreement. “That’s what I thought,” he says, grinning. As it would be illogical to expend energy on an unwinnable argument, Spock says nothing.
--
He wishes he had when, twenty minutes later, Jim shifts in his seat abruptly.
“Spock, pull over.” His voice is tight and concerned.
Spock glances sideways. Jim has gone suddenly pale, and looks to be sweating. Spock’s stomach lurches uncomfortably. Every potential danger to Jim’s health is abruptly at the top of his mind, every possible complication ordering itself into a list based on probability.
“Jim, we are on the highway—”
He has not yet recovered fully, this endeavor has been unwise from the start but Spock convinced himself not to see, they—he never should have allowed it—
“Well then get off the highway and pull over, unless you want me to hurl all over this car—”
Spock only realizes he’s been holding his breath when he breathes again. He gets off the highway.
--
Jim straightens from the tree he’s been supporting himself against, spits once, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. From his place besides the car – he’d had a thought that he could offer Jim some semblance of privacy – Spock shifts down from red alert.
He has determined that there is a 98.6 percent likelihood that the captain’s illness is simply a result of overeating or motion sickness or some combination of the two, but his heart is still fluttering unsteadily in his side and he cannot deny the concern he’d felt, watching Jim lean against the tree as he retched.
Jim, who is coming back towards him, expression utterly unreadable. Spock tries to school his features into something appropriately bland. Judging by the look it gets him, he does not succeed.
“Alright, Spock, no need to say I told you so.” He reaches through the car’s open window for his soft drink. Grimacing, he takes a sip and swishes it around his mouth, spits on the ground, wipes a hand over his mouth, hard.
“I said no such thing,” Spock starts, uncertain how to proceed.
“You didn’t have to,” he snaps. There’s a bitter twist to Jim’s mouth, one Spock has not had directed at him for some time. Being on the receiving end of it is exactly as unpleasant as he remembers.
Spock watches wordlessly, waits for Jim to compose himself, wracks his brain for a way to solve a problem he can only ever seem to see half of.
After a moment, Jim sighs. “I’m sorry, Spock. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to snap at you. That wasn’t fair, you didn’t do anything. I’m just. Embarrassed, I guess. For being so childish.”
Spock watches him for a moment, takes his time before responding. Jim is leaned against the car, looking out over the field Spock had hastily pulled over into. He is blinking at a rate that is significantly more rapid than usual and his shoulders rise and fall with erratic breaths.
“It is unnecessary for you to apologize,” he says, soft and careful. “I take no offense. Fortunately, I have come to expect you to make illogical decisions regardless of my counsel.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth – not right, too honest, not yet – but Jim laughs weakly, after a moment, and the slant of his mouth isn’t quite so bitter. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I just—I thought leaving would make it better. I can’t stand it, the way everyone looks at me now. Like I might keel over at any time. Like I’m some kind of hero.”
Spock remains silent as Jim paces in front of the car, irritated.
“Can you believe I actually managed to convince myself that acting like nothing had changed would make it true? Stupid of me, I know – it’s never worked before. Repeating something you know won’t work, how illogical is that?”
“Hoping that a change in your position would also result in a change in your outlook – an invalid assumption, perhaps,” Spock murmurs, “but a very human one.” He is on unsteady conversational grounds, now, off-balance. It is more than Jim has said about his feelings in all this since he woke up and as grateful as he is to be so trusted Spock knows himself to be eminently unqualified to be having this discussion.
Jim huffs out a breath and continues as if Spock hasn’t spoken. “Is it horribly fucked up if arguing with you makes me feel better? I thought I was never going to hear you call me illogical again. God, Spock—”
He breaks off with a strangled noise and looks away, eyes bright and unseeing as he blinks, hard. His shoulders are shaking and he lets out a weak cough that could be a sob and Spock does not know what to do; the unsteady ground has fallen away and he is plummeting over a ledge he had not seen coming even moments ago.
Uhura would run a comforting hand across Jim’s back, McCoy would offer up a wry line before pulling him into a hug, and Spock—
Spock just—stands there, frozen with uncertainty over whether attempting to replicate either gesture would help or frustrate. Utterly useless.
An arms-length away, he stares at Jim’s fists, which are clenched tight by his side as if he could hold himself together with sheer willpower alone, watches the way Jim’s shoulders rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. He cannot see Jim’s face but he can hear him, which might be worse, because he can deduce that Jim is crying and it is illogical to hate oneself because of circumstances that are out of one’s control but Spock finds that he is managing to do so regardless.
Finally, after what Spock knows to have been under a minute but feels like hours, he watches Jim pull himself back together. Watches him roll his shoulders, wipe both hands roughly across his face, take one last deep breath.
He turns to Spock with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Spock finds he is unexpectedly upset by the gesture – that Jim would try to comfort him with something so obviously false, that Jim would think he is the one in need of reassurance.
“Sorry about that,” Jim says again, another unnecessary apology. “I know it’s a lot of—emotion for one day. Thanks for waiting.”
There’s a moment of silence where Spock wonders if he’s meant to respond – wonders what he could possibly say – then Jim is talking again.
“You know, it’s almost a relief,” he starts without context. “Everyone—they’re still expecting a captain. But you’ve always seen straight through me – always known I was a mess, since day one.”
Spock wants to protest, wants to do something—
Before he can say anything, Jim gets back into the car, closes his eyes, and pretends, quite unconvincingly, to fall asleep. Spock does not call him on it.
--
It occurs to Spock much later, some time after Jim has shifted into actual sleep, that he does not know where he’s meant to be driving them. They’re well out of San Francisco now – nearly to Los Angeles, and for all Spock knows they should stay close to the city he can’t help but remember how keen Jim had been to get away, how it hadn’t been until the skyline was fully out of sight that Jim’s shoulders start to creep down, that the tightness around his eyes began to fade and his smiles started to look a little more real.
At the next interchange, Spock heads east. Jim can tell him where to turn when he wakes up.
--
They’re just crossing over into Arizona when McCoy calls, irate.
“Spock, when I said he was free to go I meant he could go back to his apartment, not— not skip town! I thought you were going to keep an eye on him!”
“I am,” Spock replies calmly. “I am with the captain now. He is asleep.”
McCoy splutters into the phone, and Spock takes the opportunity to survey his passenger.
Jim’s breathing has shifted, indicating that he is awake, or soon will be. The doctor’s irate scolding is almost certainly loud enough for him to overhear.
“Oh, great,” McCoy says, and though it should not be possible Spock imagines he can hear the accompanying eye roll. “So, what, you just—let him go? I thought I could trust you, at least, to make good decisions. I should’ve known better, you can’t say no to him these days.”
Spock stiffens at that, and there’s a tiny hitched breath next to him. Definitely awake, then, but there’s no time to analyze the reaction – regardless of any truce he and McCoy may have come to during Jim’s recovery, it would be illogical to, as Jim would say, “press his luck.” He considers his words carefully.
“You are operating under the assumption that it was the captain who initiated this plan, when in fact I too see the merits of it. Perhaps I felt it would be… good for him, to have some time away from the city.”
McCoy pauses on the other end of the line, then huffs into the comm. “All right,” he mutters, “I won’t argue with you – I know exactly how far that would get me, anyways, you’re as stubborn as he is. But if he has even a single new scratch when he gets back—”
Spock elects not to acknowledge the unspoken threat hanging in the air. “I will ensure no harm comes to the captain.”
“You say that like it’s easy – but alright.” Something in his voice is softer. “You kids have fun.”
“We are neither of us children, doctor,” Spock reminds him, remaining straight-faced even when Jim stifles a snort next to him.
He can hear McCoy’s scowl. “It’s a figure of—you know what, fine, have a miserable time then, for all I care. McCoy out.”
He hangs up before Spock has a chance to respond. Jim’s eyes blink open gradually as he abandons the pretense of sleep.
“You covered for me,” he murmurs, a sleepy grin spreading across his features.
“I said nothing that I did not consider true.”
Jim goes quiet at that, for long enough that Spock thinks he might have fallen back asleep, then—
“Thanks, Spock.” Another lengthy pause. Jim is staring out the window; Spock cannot make out his expression in the reflection. “You’re so—I’m always saying thanks to you, these days. I’m sorry, you must hate it.”
It’s so soft Spock would not be able to make out the words were it not for his hearing. He wonders if perhaps he was not intended to.
“There is no offense where none is taken,” he says in response. It is not enough, the words too rote and formal to convey the enormity of what he wants to say. He pauses. He has spent a lifetime learning Standard, knows it nearly as well as his own language, yet in this instant it fails him entirely. Hundreds of thousands of words, yet none of them right, none of them enough. “I find that I am… glad to hear it. That you are here to say it.”
It’s easier, somehow, to say it with his eyes on the road – he can’t look at Jim, and Jim can look out the window, and somewhere in all that not-looking they can speak honestly after so much hesitation.
There’s a noisy rush of air where Jim lets out a breath next to him, and Spock wonders if he’s said the wrong thing, has come too close to broaching what they still have yet to speak of.
Finally: “Yeah,” Jim says softly. “Me too.”
They drive in silence for a long time, Jim staring at some unseen faraway point out the window until his eyes flutter shut again, but this time when he falls asleep there’s a smile at the corner of his mouth.
--
When they finally stop they’ve driven for long enough that Spock isn’t entirely certain where they are anymore. Jim has been fiddling with his PADD, giving the occasional direction so casually that Spock still cannot figure out if he has a destination in mind or is just picking signs to follow at random. The scenery along the highway has gradually transitioned from rolling hills to flat, endless expanses of cracked red land, dusty and dotted with scruffy desert vegetation and twisted trees, low to the ground. There are mountains just visible in the distance, but Spock can see so far in the clear, dry air that he thinks they must be hours away, despite how close they look. Even the highway is red, blending in with the earth around it.
“We should stop here,” Jim says, gesturing at a sign alongside the highway that promises a ‘point of geological interest.’ “I think you’ll enjoy it – sorry, you’ll find it interesting. And I need to stretch my legs, anyways.”
Spock can find no reason to deny him.
It’s logical to stop, he tries to tell himself as he pulls off and navigates the car up a dusty two-track – they have been driving for a long time. It will do them both good to stand and walk, and the weather is nice enough that Jim won’t be too cold. They have no set agenda; there is no reason their driving need be only that.
Excuses, all of them, and he is painfully aware of the peculiar leaps in logic that have allowed him to draw the conclusion, once again, that what Jim wants to do is the logical choice as well. Painfully aware of the poor influence sitting next to him who has surely led to those leaps.
McCoy’s voice, muttering about his being unable to say no these days, rings uncomfortably in his mind.
Spock keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on the road and does not allow his them to flick to the passenger seat, where Jim has rolled down the window and lets his arm hang casually out of the window as he squints into the sun, breeze ruffling his hair.
--
The trail they follow is old, leading across flat, scrubby land until suddenly the horizon drops out from in front of them to reveal they’ve been standing atop a mesa that drops off into a sprawling valley. The sun is low in the sky and in the light it casts the stripes are especially distinct; thick lines of blue, purple, and white that are a sharp contrast to the red soil they’re hidden under.
Almost thoughtlessly, Spock finds himself drawing closer to the edge, eyes flicking rapidly over the landscape. Behind him, Jim hums, satisfied.
“I hoped you’d like it. I mean – I saw pictures on the PADD, of course, but—well. It’s different in person. Come on, let’s go down the trail a ways.”
They walk in silence, the only sound the crunch of the gravelly trail beneath their feet and the occasional call of a raven.
“Beautiful,” Jim says, turning slowly to absorb the view from the bottom. “All those planets, and still there are parts of this one that are like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
They’ve been on enough away missions by now that Spock knows he is not expecting a response, or even affirmation, just delights in expressing his delight.
He is correct, the mesas around them are aesthetically pleasing – but Spock finds he can only look at Jim.
His hair has grown out longer than he usually keeps it; it glows golden in the setting sun. There’s a healthy color in his cheeks, and a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from the effort of the climb down.
He looks alive, Spock thinks, mouth suddenly dry. He is alive.
Jim has always had a good sense of when someone is watching him, Spock remembers too late, when he turns and meets Spock’s gaze and holds it with a faint question in his eyes. Spock does not look away.
“It is—gratifying, to see you well,” Spock says, because it is true.
Something softens in Jim’s face.
“Good.” He steps closer, just into Spock’s space. “I’ve been worried about you, you know.”
Spock frowns. “Quite illogical, as I am not the one who—”
“I know, I know, just—Uhura told me what happened, after. And I know you’ve had to take on a lot while I’ve been out of commission, and with the amount of time you’ve spent keeping me company, I don’t know how you ever rested—” he seems to catch himself rambling – “It’s just. I know it’s been a lot.”
Jim is not near enough that Spock would be able to feel the heat off his skin, but somehow he can still sense the closeness of him, is suddenly too-aware of the mere steps between them.
“Perhaps,” Spock allows with a slight incline of his head. “But do to so is my duty as your first officer, and—” he continues pointedly even as Jim tenses - “my privilege, as your friend.”
“As my—right.” Jim is still smiling, but there’s a tightness to it that was not present before.
Jim looks at him for another long moment, then turns abruptly to continue along the trail. “We’d better keep going, if we want to make it out of here in a reasonable time,” he calls over his shoulder, and although walking in silence is no change, the air is different. Spock cannot shake the entirely illogical feeling that he has given an answer to a question he did not hear, and that it had been wrong.
--
The town they stop in is tiny, covered in the same red dust as the rest of the landscape.
“Let’s go here – they should have something vegetarian for you, at least. I won’t even hurl this time, promise,” he says, only grimacing slightly as he opens the door of a small café, old and a little grubby but clearly well-loved by the locals. Jim stiffens as a roomful of faces turns towards them when they enter, and Spock tenses, too – perhaps they are not quite far enough from San Francisco – but the patrons turn back to their meals, more interested in the fact of unfamiliar faces than who those faces actually are.
Jim looks at Spock over his shoulder, relief evident in his eyes, and shrugs as if to laugh at himself for being worried, By the time their meal arrives it is entirely forgotten, and if there is any lingering tension from the hike Jim is doing an excellent job of masking it.
“It’s a known law of road trips,” he says, pointing at Spock with the end of his fork, “if there’s a breakfast burrito on the menu, you have to order it.”
“I have never seen such a code,” Spock informs him mildly, expression carefully blank. As expected, Jim rolls his eyes.
“It’s not written down—” Spock raises an eyebrow, which gives him away. “Oh, alright, now I know you’re fucking with me. Just try it, Spock, it’s vegetarian.”
He leans across the table, fork in hand, before Spock realizes what he’s doing – ridiculous, but Jim’s easy smile has returned and so Spock allows himself to be fed, although he makes a half-hearted attempt at conveying his total disapproval with a quiet exhalation. It has no effect in stopping him, which was expected; Jim’s cheeks turn suddenly pink, which was not.
It’s a small table and Jim’s knees knock against his own as he talks. Even when they are not touching Spock can feel the heat of them, is aware of their presence – uncomfortably close, comfortingly near. He wonders at what Jim’s reaction might be, if he were to press back.
“I’ve already got us a place,” Jim says cheerily, unaware of Spock’s train of thought. “I had a feeling this would be a good place to stop.”
This brings Spock back to attention; he becomes suddenly aware that Jim is watching him, as if expecting to be shut down.
“Yes, a feeling, I know – don’t make that face at me, I can’t explain it any better than that. But be honest, Spock, we both know you could use a break,” Jim continues. It’s the most he has said since their hike; Spock hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the terse silence had grown until it was broken. The realization distracts him long enough that by the time he realizes what Jim has said the time to argue the point has come and gone. “Anyways, it’s a whole little house, nothing else around, it looks great – we should stay here for a few days. You can go back and check out the rest of those trails, I’ll—” he gestures vaguely – “figure out something to do with myself. Sleep, probably, so Bones stays off your case. Somehow I doubt I’ll be able to keep up.”
It’s a promising idea – Spock thinks of the trail leading down into the gulch, the promise of warm desert sun at midday, a place for Jim to rest – he’s been outmaneuvered, as usual, and says as much.
Jim laughs, bright and open and genuine for the first time in days, and there’s a satisfied glint in his eyes when he says, “planning my vacations doesn’t usually require so much strategy – you’re something of a special case, Mr. Spock.”
--
It’s a small house. Barely two rooms and a kitchen, a single bed and a foldout in the couch. Jim looks at their options with his hands on his hips.
“I’ll take the couch, of course,” he starts, holding up a finger when Spock opens his mouth to argue.
“Vulcans require—”
“Significantly less sleep than we do, yes, Spock, I don’t think you’ll ever let me forget that, but you’ve been driving all day, and I did pick this place – it’s my fault for not looking closely enough.”
Spock frowns. “I only plan to meditate – it would be highly illogical for you to give up the bed on my behalf when I do not plan to use it.”
There’s a spark of something determined in his gaze when Jim looks up at him, like he’s going to argue, but instead he just sighs. “Your argument is as sound as ever – I don’t know what I expected. Alright, Spock, you win this one.”
He excuses himself to take advantage of the shower – “real water, Spock, it’s a miracle,” he exclaims, undeterred by Spock’s reminder that it is, in fact, quite standard for Terran homes to have indoor plumbing – leaving Spock to his thoughts.
It is strange, he reflects, looking out over the scruffy brush scattered across the wide-open grounds. This was not how he had imagined the day would go, walking to the hospital through the chilly fog of a San Francisco morning. But then, days rarely go as he expects them to, with Jim.
But he had not intended to stay with Jim, this morning – had felt it would even be unwise. He had only meant to escort Jim to his temporary lodgings, ensure that his needs were met, and leave him to some privacy that was, Spock was certain, long overdue.
Instead they are states away, in the middle of the desert, with no particular reason for being there other than Jim’s passing suggestion.
The absurdity of it hits Spock in a rush, then, and he has the sudden and irrational urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
It is unacceptable, that he is here – it highlights in bright, unyielding detail just how swayed he is by Jim Kirk, how swayed he has always been, past logic and good judgement and reason. The fault is not Jim’s, he cannot help being the light to which Spock finds himself consistently drawn.
No, the problem is Spock – Spock, and his quiet wanting and giving in to provocation, Spock and his feeling, Spock and the fact that he should not be here but could not bear to be anywhere else.
“Care to join me for a match?”
Jim has emerged from the shower while Spock was deep in thought – he is only half-dressed, damp hair dripping onto his bare shoulders as he waves the chess set in one hand and Spock has to look away, he must decline, must meditate on his failures until he can regain some semblance of the control he has lacked since Jim’s eyes fluttered closed—
“That would be agreeable,” he says instead, and follows Jim to his room.
--
“Because you are my friend,” he had said, hand pressed against glass, all of his anger draining away to be replaced with a vast emptiness. It was true, it had made Jim smile, but it was not—is not—enough.
--
They are both of them lingering, neither quite willing to separate even if it is only to other rooms, but with the game ended they have no excuses left.
As Spock pushes up from where he is seated on the bed to leave Jim takes a breath like he’s going to say something. Spock pauses in the doorway.
“You could—stay, if you wanted,” Jim says, not meeting Spock’s eyes. “Meditate in here, I mean. I wouldn’t mind.”
Spock pauses, and Jim looks up at him suddenly. “As long as it—I mean, if it won’t disturb you. I guess I don’t really know.”
Spock is suddenly, unspeakably grateful for Jim’s boldness, for his asking – he should not stay, but he wants to, which is an even greater indication that he should go, should immerse himself even further in meditation. Jim has asked him to stay, Jim has made it easy.
When Jim’s face begins to redden Spock realizes he has not said a word, just stared at Jim for longer than is likely appropriate even by Vulcan standards.
“It would not disturb me,” Spock says, inclining his head in the slightest nod. “I will stay.”
“Good,” all the tension leaves Jim’s body in a relieved rush, “that’s—I’m glad. I don’t think I’d like being in the quiet.”
Spock nods, goes to retrieve his mat. He pauses for a moment at the sliding door that opens onto the vast flat land around them, looking into the faint light. It is very quiet – there is no wind, very few animals. Restful, Spock would say, but then he is not Jim, who is always in motion, who leans his head back against the wall of the ship when he is tired to better hear the hum.
But here, inside, it is quiet – enough so that he can hear the way Jim pads across the floor to turn the light off before sitting back down on the bed, which creaks; can hear the rustle of him sliding under the sheets and turning until he stills. Spock takes a steadying breath as he walks back into the room, although he cannot say why he finds it necessary.
Jim is quiet as he sets down his mat, watching as Spock folds his limbs into the loshirak. The light is low, but not so low that Jim cannot see Spock’s raised eyebrow, nor that Spock cannot see the way Jim grins.
“Sorry, sorry, I won’t stare at you the whole time,” he says, yawning. “I’m sure I’ll be asleep soon, anyways. I’ve just never really seen you do this before. It’s—”
He pauses, like he’s catching himself. “Very elegant.”
Spock doesn’t know quite what to say at that – especially if this is the filtered version of whatever Jim was thinking.
“I am… gratified that you think so,” he settles on, and Jim snorts.
“Yeah, alright, I’ll leave you alone. Night, Spock,” he says, then, after a pause – “I’m glad you’re here.”
It must be something about the dark, the way Jim’s face is hard to see in the shadow but Spock can tell that his eyes are closed – it must be that, that compels Spock to speak honestly before he can think better of it. Easier, again, when he is not looking at him. “I would not be anywhere else,” Spock admits, and when he hears Jim’s hitched breath forces himself to carry on. “Goodnight, Jim.”
--
He truly had intended to meditate, at the beginning – but in the end Spock just listens to Jim breathe, slow and even as he falls asleep. When it is clear his mind is too restless for serious meditation at this juncture, Spock allows his eyes to open.
He has spent a long time, now, watching Jim Kirk sleep — or rather, watching over Jim Kirk, unconscious. Because his too-still, prone form in the hospital bed was nothing like the way he lays now, limbs going in all directions, tangled in the sheets, face mashed into the pillow. His fingers are curled loosely against the mattress, and Spock can see the faint rise and fall of the blankets where he breathes, the way it shifts the dim light slipping in through the shutters. Utterly human, utterly alive, full of motion even in rest. The way he ought to be.
His eidetic memory will not allow him to forget the stillness of the hospital, but Spock watches Jim for a long time, as if he could overwrite the image if he only looked long enough.
The curtains are shut, but pale light still creeps in, spilling across Jim’s sleeping form in narrow beams. Beautiful, Spock’s mind offers up unprompted, and that, finally, is enough for Spock to turn away, to close his eyes and let his breathing deepen as he slips into the first level of kohl-tor.
--
Jim makes a pained noise in his sleep, a frightened little whine, then—
“Spock,” he gasps, once, then lurches up to his elbows, breathing hard and looking unseeing at the ceiling.
“Jim.” His eyes are wide open but he does not react to Spock’s voice – he rises, goes to the side of the bed and presses a careful hand to Jim’s elbow. “You are safe, Jim. It is stardate 2260.219 and we are on Earth. I do not know the precise coordinates of our location but road signs along our way indicate that we are in the Terran state of New Mexico. Shall I continue?”
“Oh,” Jim says, blinking his eyes open, rubbing a fist across them as he slowly sits up. His voice is rough. “You’re really here.”
Illogical, Spock’s brain helpfully supplies, for Jim to call for him if he did not already know he was there.
“Do you wish to—”
“Talk about it? No, not really,” Jim says, and Spock can see the way he forces his breathing to slow as he presses his hands to his face.
“If you would prefer that I leave,” Spock starts to back away, withdrawing his hand from Jim’s elbow, and it’s that more than anything that seems to spark Jim into motion.
“No—” he reaches out and grabs Spock’s wrist, tight, for just a moment before he lets go as if burned. There’s something desperate in his eyes that seems to ease as Spock kneels slowly on the bed.
It is good that they have grown so accustomed to one another’s silence, Spock thinks distantly as he watches Jim staring straight ahead, because this one stretches long into the night. It’s just as quiet as it had been before, and Spock can hear every shaking breath Jim takes, knows each time he opens his mouth as if to speak before snapping it shut again.
“I keep waking up back—there,” Jim finally admits. He does not look from the point on the wall on which his eyes are fixed.
“It was a traumatic event,” Spock says, ignoring the way his chest has gone suddenly tight, the way Jim’s face, still and lifeless, flashes momentarily before him when he blinks. “It is not unexpected that there would be an ongoing impact even after its conclusion.”
Jim makes a noise of vague acknowledgement, as if he’s heard Spock but was not really listening.
“I was glad you were there—Christ, that sounds horrible—I’m not glad you had to watch it happen. But—you being there—it helped. Do you understand?”
Spock does not, and although he says nothing Jim seems to know all the same. He smiles, and Spock is no master at reading his emotions but he can see something sad in his eyes all the same.
“No, I guess not.”
“I was glad that—that you were not alone.”
“Not just that I wasn’t alone, Spock,” Jim says softly, reaching out, hesitant, until his hand is resting, gently, over the top of Spock’s own. “That it was you.”
“Oh,” Spock says, eloquently, distracted by the warm heat over his hand and the quiet, jittery emotions coming faintly through the connection.
“What I said then – the reason I went back for you. I don’t think you understood, after all.”
Jim is looking at him intently, trying to say something without saying it, and Spock reflects, for just a moment, that it is unfortunate that Jim’s awakening had interrupted his meditation. He would not have had it any other way, but he is forced to admit he is unbalanced, wholly unprepared for this conversation.
Something must show on his face, because Jim picks up their joined hands and presses them against his own chest. Spock can feel the steady beat there – it is, as he had suspected, infinitely and illogically more reassuring than the readout on any of McCoy’s monitors had ever been.
Jim’s heartbeat is strong, steady, just barely too-fast – the remnants of his nightmare, Spock tells himself and nearly believes.
They are so close to one another he can feel Jim’s breath hot against his cheek, and something about the proximity and the charged air between them keeps him frozen, hand over Jim’s heart long past the point it would have been appropriate to pull away – but then, they are long past that point, have been since Jim jerked awake with Spock’s name on his lips, since Jim invited him to stay, since their knees bumped beneath the table or since Spock rented a car and turned east on the basis of a carefully casual question and a half-articulated reason. Since, perhaps, Jim woke up and said thank you and Spock said nothing of duty or obligation because they had never applied, not really.
Even in the dim lighting he can follow the line of Jim’s throat as he swallows, hard.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by saying I’m alright,” Jim says, voice low, “you’ve seen enough to know that’s—not true yet. But—I’m here, Spock. We both are.”
Jim’s gaze is heavy where it lands on him. Spock does not know what his face might be showing right now, isn’t sure he wants to. He wants—
Jim leans into him, presses his forehead against Spock’s, and he’s so distracted by the movement, unexpected and exactly what he knew would happen all at once, that he’s unprepared for the wave of emotion that bleeds through, all the nervouscarefulcaringlongingyesyesyeswantedthis—
Spock pulls away with a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut, wrenches his hand from where it has found its way to Jim’s face. Jim is breathing hard in front of him, and when Spock opens his eyes again his brows are furrowing into a slow question. Spock cannot stay. He cannot pull away. He forces himself to stand, sees the hurt on Jim’s face as he does, but he has to leave, claw back something resembling control, has to catch his breath, has to—
He doesn’t put shoes on, doesn’t pull his sweater on over his head as he stumbles into the night and the change in temperature shocks his brain out of its freefall.
A deep breath. Then another.
It is very, very quiet.
Spock clasps his hands behind his back and tries to focus his mind, recalls the limited facts he knows about the local flora.
Larrea tridentata: an evergreen scrub common in this part of the country. It grows low to the earth, and is able to survive based on its ability to draw water from the ground more efficiently than its neighbors.
An additional fact of which Spock has been previously unaware, which he has now learned: their lingering sunwarmed scent in the cool dry air is similar, although not identical, to that of the hla’meth of his home world. His father used to drink a single cup of tea brewed from the leaves of that plant prior to his meditation each night; his mother’s garden, as a result, was filled with the small bushes. He does not know if any of the plants remain; if any samples survived the journey to New Vulcan and subsequent replanting.
The grip on his wrist is bordering on painful; there will likely be bruises there if he does not loosen it.
He does not loosen it.
The desert is cool at night, the sands red and cold between his toes, the wind warm and smelling as he remembers — but Spock looks up and the stars are wrong and there is something aching, suddenly, in his chest. He can read the stars well enough to know exactly where he is but is lost nonetheless.
He cannot trust his hands, not when they had moved so automatically, not when he had nearly—
Even without a meld, Jim’s emotions were loud and messy on the surface, scattered and disorganized like he hadn’t had a chance to sort through them yet. But underneath, solid and warm and all-encompassing, quiet and accepted—
An ocean, so deep it threatened to drown.
Spock cannot look at the stars, they are too jarring in their difference—the stars are the only thing he can look at, the only thing he can be certain of.
He has been dishonest, with both himself and Jim. The dishonesty is disrespectful to his captain (his friend, his—)
His fingers on Jim’s face, soft, careful, dangerously close to his meld points, it would have been so easy—
But it would be unfair to Jim, to show him the truth of Spock’s ugly, angry, unruly emotions when Jim offers nothing but calm clear certain—
Standing in the cool fragrant air that both is and is not like that of his home planet, Spock breathes deeply and forces his mind to steady.
--
There had been a rushing in his ears as he ran from the bridge, drowning out everything – his footsteps, his ragged breaths.
“It was only logical,” Jim had said, and Spock had wanted so desperately to tell him no, but it had been logical, and he couldn’t – wouldn’t – spend these last precious moments arguing.
“I’m scared,” Jim had said, but he had still tried to smile, at the end.
--
That clarity he’d seen in Jim’s mind – had he known even then? Surely he had, nothing so steady could be new.
“I want you to know why I couldn’t let you die,” Jim had said—
It should not be shocking, for he has known, somewhere, for a long time, but Spock finds the breath punched from his lungs all the same.
--
He hears Jim coming before he sees him, hears the way the footsteps falter half a pace behind him for just a moment, then Jim is standing next to him, offering a mug of something warm, drapes a blanket over Spock’s shoulders.
“I thought you might be cold,” he says, “the temperature really drops at night.”
Spock accepts the mug slowly, notices the way Jim is careful their fingers do not touch.
“I’m sorry, Spock, I don’t—” he runs a hand through his hair, already tousled and now more so. “If I misread, or made you uncomfortable—I won’t do it again.”
“No—” Spock’s voice is too-loud in the empty night around them, urgent as he is to cut Jim off. “No. It is I who should apologize.”
There is a long pause in which Jim just looks at him, waiting with a careful, uncertain patience he has not always possessed.
For the second time that day Spock’s words desert him. “I—”
The silence is so complete that Spock is quite certain Jim is not breathing.
“What I said, then – that you are my friend. I have told you before that Vulcans do not bluff,” Spock says, haltingly, “but—they have, on occasion, been known to say something less than the truth.”
“Oh?” Jim is looking at him cautiously, unsure where Spock is headed but – so utterly human, Spock cannot stop the rush of affection – something like hope warring with the uncertainty in his features.
“Yes.” Spock looks down at his hands, clenched tight around the mug. “Particularly when—when they are afraid.”
“Spock,” his voice is so soft, so gentle, so careful — Spock doesn’t deserve it. He squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed. “Are you alright?”
It is easier, safer to say these truths from a distance – driving, or in the dark, with the false privacies of looking away. He forces himself to turn and face Jim, to look him in the eyes.
“I have already lost a great many things which were precious to me, Jim,” Spock says. He feels lightheaded, ears rushing with the hope of what he’s about to say, the desperation for Jim to understand it, what he can and cannot admit, even in all this empty space of the two of them and the desert. Jim’s eyes are wide. Spock’s hands are trembling; the tea will certainly spill. “It would be... unacceptable, for you to become one of them.”
It is done; he cannot take it back.
There’s a sharp breath, then Jim ducks his head down abruptly, breath growing ragged. Spock cannot see his face. A current of something – Spock will be honest, now, can admit if only to himself that it is fear – runs through his core, cold and unpleasant. He has not understood, or, worse, he has, but Spock has already hurt him too deeply—
Spock’s hands tighten further around the mug, which is surely on the verge of cracking by now, and he focuses all of his energy on remaining perfectly still, on staying, on seeing.
When Jim looks up and his eyes are dark Spock is suddenly certain they see right through to the core of him.
“Unacceptable, hm?” There’s something rough in his voice.
“Yes.” Spock’s voice cracks as he says it, and that, more than anything, seems to prompt something in Jim, who surges forward then stops, suddenly, with his hands tight in the blanket around Spock’s shoulders, a breath apart.
“Is this—”
The hesitation is too much for Spock to bear. “Yes,” he says again, barely a breath, and presses forward until Jim’s lips are on his, soft and careful, like he still doesn’t quite believe it.
Spock wants him to believe it, wants to show him—
He brings a hand up to run through Jim’s hair, pulls them closer together. Jim’s hands have migrated up from the blanket to cup Spock’s face, and he leaves them there even as he pulls away to breathe. The sand at Spock’s feet is damp where the contents of his forgotten mug soak into the ground.
“Spock,” he gasps, letting his head fall to Spock’s shoulder so that his voice is muffled when he says, “Jesus, Spock, I thought—thought I’d ruined it.”
“You could not,” Spock says, aware of the roughness of his own voice only as the words leave his mouth. He tilts Jim’s head up with careful fingers against his jaw and gives in to the impulse to kiss his forehead, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw, lingers at the point on his throat where his pulse flutters, fast and steady. When he pulls back Jim looks dazed, eyes wide with wonder.
“We should—” his voice is high and just this side of breathless, he makes an abortive gesture towards the house and clears his throat to very little effect, “go inside.”
--
It’s awkward — the small, creaking bed is not quite large enough to accommodate two fully grown men, and Spock finds his neck is at an uncomfortable angle that will surely ache in the morning but it’s alright because Jim lets himself be maneuvered, doesn’t hit his head on anything, will remain unbruised even if he smiles indulgently – irritatingly knowingly – at Spock, as if he knows exactly what he’s up to. But it’s alright, even when Spock has to contain a hiss when the wall is closer than he thinks and his head collided with it, hard, it’s alright when Jim is just this side of too-close, alright when their teeth clack together and Jim’s nose presses too-hard into his cheek and they left the door open in their haste so the air is cold and Spock’s gasp is ragged enough that it’s dangerously close to being a sob, because Jim is there, his body a solid, grounding weight above him, his fingers guiding Spock’s carefully to his face, Jim is with him, Jim is alive, alive, alive.
“You’re always looking at me like I’m—breakable, these days,” he says, after.
“No,” Spock tells him seriously, “not breakable – very dear,” and Jim’s mouth forms a silent, surprised little ‘oh,’ like he doesn’t know quite how to respond.
--
Afterwards the air is truly cold, and though they press together beneath the blanket neither makes a move to close the door, instead watching as the sun slowly creeps above the horizon and bathes the room in a pale rosy pink.
“I do not believe Doctor McCoy would approve of your sleeping in such an exposed situation,” Spock admits. Jim snorts.
“Well, Bones can shove it. He doesn’t approve of anything I do. Besides, it’s only for one night – what are you making that face for?”
Spock had been fairly certain he was not making a face, but realizes he’s frowning now despite himself. “I have come to the realization that perhaps the doctor was correct.”
“Oh?” Jim is laughing, just barely.
“Indeed. I cannot, it seems, say no to you. Most troubling.”
There’s something soft in Jim’s voice when he replies. “Don’t worry,” he says, bringing a thumb up to stroke across Spock’s cheek. “I won’t tell him. And I promise not to misuse my power,” he finishes, “at least not too much.” The face he makes indicates that this is a lie.
Spock sighs, just barely, but it’s enough to set Jim off again. “I highly doubt that.”
They lapse into easy silence, long enough that he thinks Jim might be falling asleep, then: “Hey, Spock?”
Spock says nothing, just raises an eyebrow so Jim will know he’s listening.
“Why’d you come with me, anyways? Wasn’t this whole trip pretty illogical?”
There’s a smile flirting with Jim’s lips, like he knows he’s got Spock cornered but doesn’t want to give away the game just yet. Spock allows for another sigh, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Jim tries to smother a laugh.
“I find your best plans usually are,” he finally allows, and turns to look, so that he might see when Jim’s smile fills the room with light.