Spice - Chapter 47
Title: Spice
Author: eimeo
Beta: miloowen
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 47/54
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Kirk/Lori
Summary: It’s a question of biology. Vulcan biology.
The problem with falling in love with a member of an insanely private species is that it just might take you the best part of a five year mission to work out that the feelings are requited. And then you might discover that he’s already decided that the two of you can never be together.
And what are you supposed to do if he won’t tell you why?
~*~
Chapter 47
The kiss is soft and chaste, the faintest press of lips on lips. It lasts for no more than six seconds, during which neither he nor Spock moves or draws breath, and, when it's finished, Kirk does not move away, but instead lets his forehead drop forward to rest against Spock’s, and they stand like this for many minutes, unspeaking. They have never kissed this way before: undemanding, barely touching, sweet and slow; their kisses have always been combustive, like fuel on fire, hungry and without thought. This is how he knows that it's different now. They are different. This is entirely new.
His heart is skittering against his ribs; blood roars in his ears. The bottom drops out of the world, and only the touch of Spock's head against Kirk's anchors him to the room, to the moment. Yes, he thinks, he was right before. This is exactly like freefall.
Despite what he's told Spock, he knows that the logistics of this are going to take a little working out. Not so much, perhaps, as Spock seems to think, but allowances are going to have to be made and consideration taken; the feats of wild abandon are going to require a little bit of practice, a little bit of discussion. But all of that can wait. For now, just getting this far is enough, and he's going to hold onto it for a little while, for as long as Spock will let him. And this, too, is different, because Spock shows no signs right now of letting go.
Kirk lets himself be guided by instinct. Their hands hang loose at their sides, and some inner voice, something he trusts but doesn’t quite understand, tells him to reach forward, trail an index finger across the cool skin of Spock's knuckles, slide the back of his hands down the back of Spock's until their fingers mesh. The breath catches in his friend's throat, and it's a far cry from the sounds Kirk heard him make that long-ago day in his billet, but there's something more vulnerable, more exposed, so much more intimate in that sharp, small intake of air. Spock gives away much more of himself in silence than he ever does in words.
He could raise his lips to kiss him again, but he won't. This is enough for now. Kirk's mind is swimming with everything he's just learned, and he knows his friend well enough to understand what it has cost him to lay himself open like this, to say what he’s just said and then ask for what he wants as though it changes nothing. What he needs now is reassurance: he needs to know that Kirk has heard him, that he accepts the need for caution, and that nothing Spock could say would make a difference to what Kirk feels. Kirk is not necessarily an expert at this bit, but he flatters himself that he was, once upon a time, something of an expert at Spock, and he thinks he knows how to silence a little of the uncertainty that hangs between them. He thinks he knows how to say with actions what Spock won’t hear in words.
Quietly, moving nothing but his wrists, he twists his left hand in place against Spock's right, shifting them so that their palms are facing. Breath hitches again, and there’s a faint tremor now in Spock’s arms as Kirk curls his fourth and fifth fingers against their long, cool counterparts, until only the middle and index remain standing. Memories rush him, but he lets them come; they lost their power to bruise when Spock stepped into this house and looked Kirk in the eye and ended all possibility of doubt, and they’re almost welcome now, like old friends who quarrelled long ago. There’s a conversation or two still to have, logistics to negotiate, and a past to lay to rest, but this, for now, Kirk can do: he can let his friend know that there’s not a barrier that he can throw up that Kirk won’t willingly scale. Human or Vulcan, salt or spice, a kiss at the lips or fingers joined in the ozh'esta; these are no more than minor variations on an infinite tapestry. What connects them is far greater than what separates them; it always was.
There’s a gentle rush of breath, almost a sigh, and Kirk feels the tension leave Spock's shoulders. The smallest shift, head tilting upwards, and Kirk's head moves with Spock's, following the contours of his motion, so that their noses brush, their breath gathers, and Kirk's eyes close of their own accord as his mouth meets Spock's again. It’s exactly as he remembers: skin cool and pliant; lips pressing tightly together as they connect, and he wants to reach for more, he wants to hook his arms around that angular waist and pull Spock to him, find the taste of copper and spice that he remembers and never understood before, but he holds himself still, lets Spock lead, lets him choose how far to take this, how much to release. He pushed too hard once before and everything fell apart. Kirk has learned to wait.
The kiss deepens slowly, and still they’re joined only by their hands and by their lips. The dead air in front of Kirk’s body feels as though it has caught fire, and he can feel himself hardening, the tightness, the tension that wants to push forward, to touch. Spock’s mouth parts slightly and Kirk follows his lead, pressing a little closer, dragging his lips against his friend’s as they move, feeling warm breath ghost across his face, mingle with Kirk’s. And there it is: the faintest hint of heat, the sharp counterpoint to the scent that he remembers, traces of arousal that flavor the air between them. It’s like a secret code that Kirk alone can read; a language of desire that’s only for the two of them. It certainly casts some of their former interactions in an entirely different light.
He pulls back gently, disengaging before his good intentions lose their rapidly escalating fight with the rush of blood to his groin, but he keeps his fingers wrapped around Spock’s. They’re both breathing heavily and, head pointed down, Kirk can see that he’s not the only one engaged in a losing battle with biology. There’s a chance this could be a very uncomfortable afternoon for both of them; he guesses they’ll have to take a few long walks in the cold air if they’re going to manage to keep their hands to themselves.
“You are smiling,” says Spock quietly, and Kirk has to think about that one for a moment, because he had no idea that a huge, beatific grin had stretched itself across his face. Though he supposes he could have guessed as much, even without the tension in his cheeks.
“Yes,” he says. Their heads are pressed together again, but he lifts his now, finds Spock’s eyes. “You’ll have to forgive a little emotional compromise right now, I’m afraid.” A beat, and then some inner giddiness that he can’t manage to restrain makes him add, “I was just thinking of our old Suus Mahna sessions on the Enterprise.”
There’s a pause, not quite long enough to be pronounced, but enough to telegraph the Vulcan equivalent of blank consternation. “Indeed?” says Spock, with the barest hint of a suggestion in his tone that wrestling maneuvers are, perhaps, the furthest thing from his mind right now.
“Indeed,” says Kirk cheerfully, because there’s a bubble of laughter trying to work its way free from his chest, and he knows that Spock knows this, and that’s only making things worse. “If you remember, I always had to sling a towel around my waist as we left for the changing rooms.”
He can see the workings of an active mind beneath an imperiously arched eyebrow, but Spock’s not biting. He says, “It is my understanding that this practice is not uncommon among Humans following a strenuous period of exercise.”
He’s a liar, of course. They both knew what Kirk was hiding beneath the towel; it was one of the reasons it was so damned hard to hide it. He can’t help it; Kirk turns the smile upwards, lets it shine directly into Spock’s face.
“Spice, Mr. Spock,” he says. “I’m talking about the scent of spice on your skin when we sparred.”
And that-that right there. That’s an answering smile lighting Spock’s eyes. That’s about as open as Spock gets, and it’s too long since Kirk has seen it. “Perhaps,” he acknowledges, “you were not the only one so affected by our training sessions.”
The laugh breaks free. It’s extraordinarily difficult to maintain any semblance of control over this rampant, incorrigible happiness. “All that time,” says Kirk, “and you let me think it was just me.” A thought occurs to him. “The cell on Ekos….”
A sigh, as of dignity under duress. “Yes, Jim,” says Spock.
“The negotiations on Lance’s Planet….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“When the locals insisted I wore the….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Bones’ birthday celebrations on Vir….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Weren’t you bunking with him on that trip?”
“Yes, Jim.” A note of long-suffering patience has crept into the tone, but the eyes have not dimmed. “However, the majority of the night was spent in your presence, if you recall.”
“I do,” says Kirk, and he does: he remembers the way the fabric of Spock’s civilian slacks clung to the curve of his thigh; the way the thick Virian moonlight wove through his hair as they walked along the beach together, long after Bones and Scotty had gone to bed; the way their shoulders brushed together from time to time as they moved and talked, and the way they both pretended not to notice. He’d gone back to an empty bed that night and lain wakeful as the sky began to gray, until, close to dawn, he’d just given up, locked himself in the bathroom to muffle the wall-shattering snores of a contented Scotsman, and bought himself a wholly inadequate release with his hand and the scent of spice at the back of his throat. Yes, he remembers that one very well. He just didn’t realize that Spock was similarly stricken.
There are more, many more; too many to count, and Kirk suspects he’s going to spend the rest of his life seeking them out and cataloging them, adding them to a private playlist in the back of his head. It’s quite amazing, really, the difference that a little context can make. But for now, he guesses, there are things to do, arrangements to make, decisions to reach. The world doesn’t stop just because it’s been turned on its head and shaken until its ears ring. And his friend is tired, talked-out, and probably cold.
He places a quick, gentle kiss to Spock’s lips, because these things are possible now. “Mr. Spock,” he says, “I remember them all.” An eyebrow arches, and Kirk gives a quiet laugh. “Yes, no doubt that’s an illogical Human exaggeration,” he says. “I’m sure there have been more instances than I could possibly hope to determine. You have the advantage of me there, I’m afraid, Commander, given that your knowledge of Human anatomy far outstrips my knowledge of yours.” And he smiles, and turns his smile on his friend, whose eyes smile back, and he leaves just enough of pause to allow for maximum effect before he adds, “But just remember-I know what to look for now, Mister.”
“I am unlikely,” says Spock placidly, “to forget.”
~*~
The sleeping arrangements turn out to be surprisingly complicated, which is, Kirk thinks, something he really ought to have anticipated, had he but given it a little thought. He leads Spock to the guest bedroom, where the linens are fresh and the room is aired, but where there’s a vacancy and an unmistakable lack of signs of occupancy, and invites him to deposit his bags, freshen up if he chooses, while Kirk heads downstairs and attempts to persuade the replicator to conjure up something acceptable to Vulcan nutritional requirements. His logic, he thinks, is sound: his friend is tired, he’s travel-weary, and he’s bound to be hungry, and, most importantly of all, Kirk has no intention of assuming that they’ll be sharing a bed. Not now, not given the exigencies of Spock’s confession, and especially not after what happened in San Francisco; he’s going to give his friend a little space, a little privacy, a little room to breathe while he settles into his new skin. He’s going to be a goddamn monk about this, if he has to be, and he’s going to count himself lucky that he even has the choice.
But then Spock walks into the room and sets his bag on the floor, and the look on his face as he surveys his surroundings suggests that he thinks he’s just failed some kind of test, and Kirk realizes, abruptly, that this would be how he reads the gesture; of course it would. Never let anyone claim that the Vulcan race cannot entertain logical and hyper-critical self-flagellating masochism within the same experiential framework: Spock genuinely believes that he has done something wrong in seeking the connection that they both want so badly that it’s like an electrical charge in the air, and he’s read Kirk’s motion towards gentlemanly restraint as confirmation that Spock’s advances would be unwelcome.
Gods above and below. And there is nothing, literally nothing that Kirk can say to mitigate against this now, as far he can see, because he’s pretty sure that drawing further attention to the matter is only going to solidify it more firmly in Spock’s resolve. So, at a loss for any more reasonable options, he decides to improvise, and so, before he can change his mind, he makes himself cross the floor in three rapid strides, hooks a hand around the base of Spock’s neck, and crushes his lips once more against Spock’s. It has the advantage of being precisely what Kirk has been wanting to do for the entirety of the seven minutes since their last kiss ended, and there’s something quite gratifying about the way that the small noise of consternation that escapes in a startled puff of air as Kirk’s mouth closes on his friend’s is swallowed almost immediately in the sudden rush of hands and clashing teeth and-yes-a venturing tongue that finds its way hesitantly towards Kirk’s.
This is the last sound that either of them makes for several minutes.
It’s intoxicating. It feels alarmingly like breaking the surface of the water after a long submersion, lungs bursting, heartbeat thundering in his chest, and the last thing Kirk needs is to coin another colorful metaphor for what they’re doing that might go some way towards justifying the steady shuffle of feet across the floor and towards the guest bed. In a moment, the backs of his knees are going to connect with the oakwood frame, buckle against the mattress, and he’s going to find himself pinned against the comforter by the weight of one Vulcan body which, disturbingly wasted as it feels beneath Kirk’s fingers, unquestionably outweighs him by at least twenty pounds of solid muscle. He’s not sure he can be accountable for what happens at that point, and that worries him. It’s not as though Spock will protest if Kirk makes a serious effort to roll out from underneath him, it’s just that he has the strongest feeling that something will break if he lets this go much further, something that Kirk is not sure he can fix, and he’s genuinely not certain which would be worse for them: to carry on or to stop this now. And that’s not just because he’s rock hard against Spock’s thigh, erection straining the fabric of his pants and shorting out any effort towards higher thought every time Spock moves against it, and it’s not just because there’s a solid length of Vulcan cock pressed hard and tight against Kirk’s hip and the scent of spice fills his lungs with every breath. It’s not just because of these things, but they don’t exactly help, either.
And so it’s something of a blessed relief when his communicator chirps just as his calves begin to graze the soft down of the bedspread, though it’s a couple of disordered seconds before the sound filters down through layers of arousal to penetrate that part of his brain still capable of logical reasoning; a second more before he’s able to recognize it for what it is, and by this time it has stopped chirping and settled into a steady, impatient buzz against his left buttock. It doesn’t feel like relief, of course-it feels like murderous frustration and a barely governable impulse to rip the damn thing from his belt and throw it at a wall-but relief is probably on the way.
Probably.
He… might have to take care of a thing first, though. In private. And as soon as humanly possible.
Spock, damn him, pulls back with elegant composure, breaking their embrace as easily as if he were catching himself mid-stumble, and the only sign of any immediate distress is in the swelling of his lips, the faint flush to his cheeks, and the impressive tent of fabric at his groin. Not a hair on his head is so much as ruffled, not a labored breath agitates his chest as he folds his hands calmly at his waist and then, after a moment, thinks better of it and refolds them at his back. Kirk, for his part, is simply glad, as he flips the communicator open with unnecessary force, that it’s an audio-only line.
“This is Kirk,” he snaps into the speaker, and, goddamn it if even his voice doesn’t sound thick and hoarse with arousal. There’s a startled pause at the other end of the line.
“Yes, sir,” says Kaplan after a moment, and, despite everything, Kirk is able to find it in himself to be impressed at her ability to ignore, or at least sublimate, any hint of the extraordinary when communicating with her superior officers. It’s a useful skill for Starfleet. She’s likely to go far. “My apologies for disturbing you again this afternoon, Admiral; I know you’re busy.”
He hasn’t checked his communicator since he caught sight of it on the kitchen counter while he was making tea and clipped it, absent-mindedly, back onto his belt. If she’s been disturbing him regularly since he disappeared into the stables after lunch, Kirk has been blissfully unaware of the fact, and, he reasons, he probably ought to cut her a little slack. It can’t be a good week to be Deputy Head of Fleet Ops. Moreover, she has no idea what she’s just interrupted.
Probably.
No, definitely.
Well…. Almost certainly.
“Not at all, Commodore,” he says now, and he thinks he sounds a little less… afflicted. He hopes so. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s just a courtesy call, sir,” she says. “I won’t take up your time. It’s simply that a Commander Spock arrived at your office this morning and asked me to let you know that he was planning to visit you in Idaho. He already had the co-ordinates, sir, so I assumed you’d sanctioned the trip, but he was anxious that I pass on his intentions….”
“Yes, Commodore,” says Kirk quickly, because he can feel the first firings of something in his belly that feels very much as though it might turn into hysteria, and it’s important that he ends the call before his voice betrays him. “You were quite right. Thank you for your diligence.”
“Of course, sir,” she says. “I also sent a message to your terminal, but I wasn’t sure if you’d read it….”
“That’s fine, Commodore,” says Kirk. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. If there’s nothing else…?”
“Thank you, no,” says Kirk, and it’s a little abrupt, certainly, but he’s doing the best he can. “Kirk out,” he adds, and snaps the communicator shut in the last moment before he succumbs to an extremely undignified fit of laughter.
~*~
The synthesizer’s menu is an artifact of the Kirk family’s dietary preferences, with only the most rudimentary allowances made for the state of his father’s arteries at his last medical, and it cannot be persuaded to produce a balanced nutritional meal devoid of red meat products or their simulated equivalents. This is something, Kirk guesses, that they’re going to have to look at, if Spock’s going to be here for a while. Maybe they can take a trip into town, buy some eggs and home-grown vegetables, some herbs, some rice, some pasta, and he can try to remember a few of the old recipes that Grandma Davis tried to teach him, back when she used to spend the summers with them on the farm. The idea has a certain visceral appeal; it’s a long time since anybody has cooked an actual meal for Kirk, and longer still since he can remember cooking one for somebody else, and there’s an intimacy to the gesture, a symbol of care, that he finds he likes. For now, though, he can persuade the machine to produce a stack of silver dollar pancakes, drizzled with butter and syrup, and seek out a nest of blankets for them to burrow amongst on the porch swing while the sun slides behind the western peaks in a blaze of amber and gold, and call it a compromise of sorts.
Nothing about the endeavor is logical-not the food, not the location, and certainly not the temperature-and yet there is no complaint from his companion beyond the inevitable raised eyebrow when he recognizes the direction of travel. Kirk has found a couple of sweaters for his friend in his father’s closet, a spare hat and a scarf to add to McCoy’s borrowed waterproofs, and they sit close together on the swing, not quite near enough to touch, but enough to pool their body heat in a little pocket of warmer air beneath the quilts and, though their breath mists in front of their face as the shadows lengthen and the air begins to freeze, only an olive flush to Spock’s cheeks and nose speaks of any discomfort, and he makes no request to return indoors. Kirk watches him when he can, eyes sliding sideways when his companion is lost in thought or speech, and thinks that, of all the ways he could ever have imagined things going, this moment, this moment right here-framed by an icy mountain sunset, face pinched by cold but warmed by easy contentment, shoulders slackened by proximity and eyes lit from within, the way he remembers from simpler days-is both the strangest and, perversely, the most fitting.
They talk-hesitantly at first, because they’ve gotten out of practice at it, but it turns out that this is not something they’ve forgotten, just something they’ve temporarily misplaced. The sun sinks in the west and the air fills with the sound and scents of evening, and they talk: things meaningful and things inconsequential, and it’s old and familiar and so welcome, so warm, that it’s almost painful, in a strange sort of way that Kirk can’t define to his satisfaction. Spock tells him about the sanctuary in the desert, of days spent tilling soil and weaving cloth, of the stillness of srashiv and the emptiness, the sense of loss that hung around him like a shadow and kept him wakeful long into the moonless nights. He speaks of T’Kel and Master T’Sai, of the bond that would not break, and, though he doesn’t name it, Kirk can hear in the silences between words the frustration, the fear, and the anger, and understands that he’s not the only one who has passed these years encased in frozen resentment. He’s not the only one who spent hollow hours staring into the skies and wishing there was some way to un-know the ghost at his shoulder; to forget, just long enough to snatch a moment of peace. They’ve both got a lot to be thankful for, he knows, but, it seems, they’ve both got just as much to forgive.
Kirk tells him about the quiet, gray formality of Fleet Ops; the way the stars looked back at him from behind a frosted glass window on the Presidio as he tried not to search for his ship in the mobile vaults above. He tells him about Decker, about the first day he accompanied the new captain of the Enterprise back to his broken ship, and how they walked in EVA suits through airless halls while Kirk kept his diplomat’s smile fixed in place and managed to feel nothing at all; about how Decker insisted on buying him a drink afterwards at the Officers’ Lounge on the Centroplex; about how Kirk had found himself, three Scotches later, beaming back to San Francisco and comming the only person he could think of in communicator range who was likely to hear the word Enterprise and know why it had been a bad day to be James Kirk. He tells Spock about waking Lori from one of her irregular sleeps; about how she knew before he’d said three words that he’d been drinking, and why; about the long pause that followed his request to come over, the hesitation that whispered across the airwaves. About the softness in her voice as she agreed.
Spock does not move and he does not speak, but Kirk feels him go very, very still as he tells the tale of a blustery day in late November, of orange juice and canapés in Bozeman, of a band that played Pachelbel and Bach over the howl of the wind above the Bay. Of an evening three weeks before Christmas, of the wash of rain on dark windows, of low voices
and a bitterness so deep that there was no room left even for anger anymore. Of the hollowness of a loss without sadness. Of a marriage bookended by storms.
There’s nothing else to say after that. Kirk lets his words trail into silence, and they sit together, quiet and unmoving, eyes fixed on the snow-topped trees that fringe the yard as a layer of cloud frost the edges of the moonlight and draws the shadows out of the darkness below the canopy.
“Ah,” says his friend after a moment, and the word is soft, breathy: almost a sigh.
Kirk resists the urge to turn his head, to look at Spock, but, moving by memory and peripheral vision, he shifts his hand across the blanket to find Spock’s, grips it, laces gloved fingers through his friend’s. He’s expecting resistance, inaction at least, and so it’s something of a shock to feel Spock’s fingers fold around his without comment and without hesitation. Spock’s eyes are focused on the middle distance, and he does not drop his gaze, does not seek out Kirk’s, but it’s something at least. It’s an opening.
“We talked once about regret,” Kirk says quietly. “Do you remember? In the imaging suite of the Marin County observatory, just before you… before I had no reason to go there anymore. There are so many things I’ve done that I’d do differently if I had the chance, my friend-but this? This is another order of fault altogether.” He drops his eyes to his lap, to their hands, joined above an appliqué peony rose. “We’ve made our mistakes, you and I,” he says, “but they were always our mistakes. I never meant to involve Lori in what happened between us. But, then again, I’ve done a lot of things, these past few years, that I never meant to do.”
Spock’s spine is stiff and Vulcan-straight, as though he’s engaged in a perpendicularity contest with the earth itself. He’s so preternaturally still and pale, skin bleached beneath the moonlight, that he could be carved from stone or ice, but for the fact that his breath dances wisps of vapor on the cold air in a regular, even rhythm. At last, he says, “She must have been a remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” says Kirk. His voice is gruff, hollow; Spock’s use of the past tense has not escaped him. “She was.”
A beat. And then the fingers twined through Kirk’s contract, tightening their grip, and Kirk feels his chest constrict, even as a little of the tension leaches from his shoulders. This is as much of an answer, an absolution, as he’s likely to get, and he brings his free hand up, out of the warmth of the blankets, to cup it over the back of Spock’s, fingers closing on the rough wool from either side, as though Kirk is marking the skin beneath it as his own. He hears the breath catch in his friend’s throat, but he says nothing, just grips his hand and holds on tightly, as though he’s anchoring himself against an unseen storm.
Quietly, Spock says, “Tushah nash-veh k’du.”
Kirk nods. “Thank you,” he says, though in the end, he thinks, the loss was not his to mourn. He saw to that one rain-swept December night a year ago, and, no matter what has happened between then and now, there will never be any part of him that will stop being sorry for that.
They sit like this for many minutes, unspeaking, watching the stillness of the mountain trees as they pale beneath the low moon. Spock lifts his head, but he does not turn his eyes to Kirk, instead letting his gaze drift out over the trees and into the darkening vaults above. Eridanus is rising, Kirk knows, somewhere on the eastern horizon, but it’s too early yet to see it clearly; it’s lost, for now, among the haze of light and smoke and industry that clings to the lower skies. Spock’s face is blank, perfectly composed, but his jaw is tight, his brow furrowed, and it is some moments before he speaks.
“I remember the day we talked of regret,” he says quietly. “We spoke also of cthia, and of that which cannot be changed.”
“Yes,” says Kirk, who can remember the conversation word for word, touch for touch, and who has replayed it many times in the years that separate that moment from this. “I told you I wished I had your forbearance.” Gentle laughter mists the air in front of his face. “I still do.”
“My forbearance,” says Spock, “is lacking.” A deep breath raises and drops his shoulders. “This has been true, now, for some time.”
Kirk’s eyes slide sideways. “You have regrets?” he asks.
“Many,” says Spock, and his eyes meet Kirk’s. “You must know that.”
The hand beneath Kirk’s is trembling, though he’s not sure if it’s the cold or the effort of holding himself still. Or something else entirely. Kirk says, “We are neither of us very good at this, are we?”
An eyebrow arches, in the manner of a man disarmed by staggering understatement. “No,” says Spock.
“We’re going to have to get better at it in a hurry.”
A beat, and then Spock nods. He says, “I see little alternative.”
Something unfamiliar, something unexpected, twists in Kirk’s side, piercing the tender place just below his ribs. It feels a little bit like unbridled joy, but he doesn’t want to leap to any conclusions.
“That’s good,” he says. “Because I, for one, am through with regrets.”
An elegant eyebrow arches. “I concur.”
“I guess that means you’ll be staying for a few days, then?” says Kirk as evenly as he can, though he’s aware, as Spock must be, that a matching tremor has set up in his hands, his thighs. It’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside his skull. “Because I think we could use some practice at this.”
“Among the faculty at Starfleet Academy,” says Spock, “the philosophy was propounded that proficiency at any given task is only to be achieved after 10,000 hours of study.”
An inelegant snort of startled laughter escapes Kirk in a cloud of frozen air. “I suspect that may be a tall order for this week, Mr. Spock,” he says. “We’re expected back in San Francisco by Sunday.”
“Perhaps,” says Spock. “However, it is possible that a useful beginning might be made.”
Kirk feels a wide grin spread slowly across his face. He makes no effort to stop it; he couldn’t if he tried.
“I bow, as ever, to your superior logic, Mr. Spock,” he says. “Ri vath kau eh ri vath rok nam-tor na’etek hi etek kau-tor, after all.”
Spock inclines his head, and, Kirk is gratified to note, not the ghost of linguistic surprise so much as agitates either brow. “Indeed,” he says. “The teachings of Surak are, as ever, apposite.”
There is no other wisdom and no other hope for us but that we grow wise. It’s not only apposite; it could have been damn well written for them, Kirk thinks. And he wants to laugh-to laugh or to punch something until it falls apart, but he thinks he’ll go with laughter right now-because everything is so much simpler than it ever seemed to be, and all it took was three wasted years and the lives of three good officers to see it. There is no other hope for them, he guesses; wisdom is pretty much the only shot they have left. It had better be. Seems like they’ve tried just about everything else.
“I’m glad you agree,” he says, and his head feels light, buoyant, filled with gossamer and air. “Because I believe….” But he stops, words lost on a breath of laughter, and his lips twist upwards into a wry smile, because there remains, after all, and regardless of everything, something incredibly surreal about saying these words, when it comes to it, let alone saying these words to a Vulcan. “Mr. Spock,” he says, and he lets the smile spread easily over his face, feels it catch behind his eyes. “I believe you may be the love of my life.”
Spock considers this with a raised eyebrow and a sideways nod. “As you are mine,” he says.
And, really, there is nothing else to do at this point, no other possible response than to reach out with the hand that’s not currently holding Spock’s; to trace the angular curve of his friend’s jaw with his thumb as his fingers curl around the back of Spock’s neck and draw him in once again for a kiss that feels, even as their lips connect, as though it sucks the oxygen from the air and the gravity from the ground beneath their feet. And, when it’s finished, before the world can resolve itself into black and white, Vulcan and Human, salt and spice; while his thoughts still rattle and spin like a shuttlecraft on orbital re-entry, Kirk gets to his feet, struggling upwards out of layers of wool and quilted cotton, and, without a word, reaches a hand down to Spock. His friend’s eyes are dark, hooded by his downward gaze, and Kirk knows by the long scrutiny he offers those wool-covered fingers that he has understood Kirk’s meaning very well. But, in the end, he hesitates for no more than ten seconds-long enough to have considered carefully, not long enough for doubts-before he reaches up and takes the hand that’s offered, allows himself to be pulled to his feet. There’s not enough weight, not enough tension in that grip to speak of any level of struggle, and Kirk feels his breath hitch in his throat as that fact registers amongst his wildly reverberating thoughts. Here and now, for the first time, there is no hesitation and no misgiving. This is trust: in Kirk, and in Spock himself.
Yes. Freefall. Always freefall.
Kirk links his fingers through Spock’s, and leads them indoors and towards the stairs.
~*~A/N:
Tushah nash-veh k’du: "I grieve with thee" (source: VLD)
Also - sorry sorry sorry for doing another disappearing act! This chapter gave me all kinds of grief when I was trying to write it, so it took way longer than expected. Huge thanks to miloowen for helping me work out the issues.
Chapter 46
Chapter 48
Author: eimeo
Beta: miloowen
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 47/54
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Kirk/Lori
Summary: It’s a question of biology. Vulcan biology.
The problem with falling in love with a member of an insanely private species is that it just might take you the best part of a five year mission to work out that the feelings are requited. And then you might discover that he’s already decided that the two of you can never be together.
And what are you supposed to do if he won’t tell you why?
~*~
Chapter 47
The kiss is soft and chaste, the faintest press of lips on lips. It lasts for no more than six seconds, during which neither he nor Spock moves or draws breath, and, when it's finished, Kirk does not move away, but instead lets his forehead drop forward to rest against Spock’s, and they stand like this for many minutes, unspeaking. They have never kissed this way before: undemanding, barely touching, sweet and slow; their kisses have always been combustive, like fuel on fire, hungry and without thought. This is how he knows that it's different now. They are different. This is entirely new.
His heart is skittering against his ribs; blood roars in his ears. The bottom drops out of the world, and only the touch of Spock's head against Kirk's anchors him to the room, to the moment. Yes, he thinks, he was right before. This is exactly like freefall.
Despite what he's told Spock, he knows that the logistics of this are going to take a little working out. Not so much, perhaps, as Spock seems to think, but allowances are going to have to be made and consideration taken; the feats of wild abandon are going to require a little bit of practice, a little bit of discussion. But all of that can wait. For now, just getting this far is enough, and he's going to hold onto it for a little while, for as long as Spock will let him. And this, too, is different, because Spock shows no signs right now of letting go.
Kirk lets himself be guided by instinct. Their hands hang loose at their sides, and some inner voice, something he trusts but doesn’t quite understand, tells him to reach forward, trail an index finger across the cool skin of Spock's knuckles, slide the back of his hands down the back of Spock's until their fingers mesh. The breath catches in his friend's throat, and it's a far cry from the sounds Kirk heard him make that long-ago day in his billet, but there's something more vulnerable, more exposed, so much more intimate in that sharp, small intake of air. Spock gives away much more of himself in silence than he ever does in words.
He could raise his lips to kiss him again, but he won't. This is enough for now. Kirk's mind is swimming with everything he's just learned, and he knows his friend well enough to understand what it has cost him to lay himself open like this, to say what he’s just said and then ask for what he wants as though it changes nothing. What he needs now is reassurance: he needs to know that Kirk has heard him, that he accepts the need for caution, and that nothing Spock could say would make a difference to what Kirk feels. Kirk is not necessarily an expert at this bit, but he flatters himself that he was, once upon a time, something of an expert at Spock, and he thinks he knows how to silence a little of the uncertainty that hangs between them. He thinks he knows how to say with actions what Spock won’t hear in words.
Quietly, moving nothing but his wrists, he twists his left hand in place against Spock's right, shifting them so that their palms are facing. Breath hitches again, and there’s a faint tremor now in Spock’s arms as Kirk curls his fourth and fifth fingers against their long, cool counterparts, until only the middle and index remain standing. Memories rush him, but he lets them come; they lost their power to bruise when Spock stepped into this house and looked Kirk in the eye and ended all possibility of doubt, and they’re almost welcome now, like old friends who quarrelled long ago. There’s a conversation or two still to have, logistics to negotiate, and a past to lay to rest, but this, for now, Kirk can do: he can let his friend know that there’s not a barrier that he can throw up that Kirk won’t willingly scale. Human or Vulcan, salt or spice, a kiss at the lips or fingers joined in the ozh'esta; these are no more than minor variations on an infinite tapestry. What connects them is far greater than what separates them; it always was.
There’s a gentle rush of breath, almost a sigh, and Kirk feels the tension leave Spock's shoulders. The smallest shift, head tilting upwards, and Kirk's head moves with Spock's, following the contours of his motion, so that their noses brush, their breath gathers, and Kirk's eyes close of their own accord as his mouth meets Spock's again. It’s exactly as he remembers: skin cool and pliant; lips pressing tightly together as they connect, and he wants to reach for more, he wants to hook his arms around that angular waist and pull Spock to him, find the taste of copper and spice that he remembers and never understood before, but he holds himself still, lets Spock lead, lets him choose how far to take this, how much to release. He pushed too hard once before and everything fell apart. Kirk has learned to wait.
The kiss deepens slowly, and still they’re joined only by their hands and by their lips. The dead air in front of Kirk’s body feels as though it has caught fire, and he can feel himself hardening, the tightness, the tension that wants to push forward, to touch. Spock’s mouth parts slightly and Kirk follows his lead, pressing a little closer, dragging his lips against his friend’s as they move, feeling warm breath ghost across his face, mingle with Kirk’s. And there it is: the faintest hint of heat, the sharp counterpoint to the scent that he remembers, traces of arousal that flavor the air between them. It’s like a secret code that Kirk alone can read; a language of desire that’s only for the two of them. It certainly casts some of their former interactions in an entirely different light.
He pulls back gently, disengaging before his good intentions lose their rapidly escalating fight with the rush of blood to his groin, but he keeps his fingers wrapped around Spock’s. They’re both breathing heavily and, head pointed down, Kirk can see that he’s not the only one engaged in a losing battle with biology. There’s a chance this could be a very uncomfortable afternoon for both of them; he guesses they’ll have to take a few long walks in the cold air if they’re going to manage to keep their hands to themselves.
“You are smiling,” says Spock quietly, and Kirk has to think about that one for a moment, because he had no idea that a huge, beatific grin had stretched itself across his face. Though he supposes he could have guessed as much, even without the tension in his cheeks.
“Yes,” he says. Their heads are pressed together again, but he lifts his now, finds Spock’s eyes. “You’ll have to forgive a little emotional compromise right now, I’m afraid.” A beat, and then some inner giddiness that he can’t manage to restrain makes him add, “I was just thinking of our old Suus Mahna sessions on the Enterprise.”
There’s a pause, not quite long enough to be pronounced, but enough to telegraph the Vulcan equivalent of blank consternation. “Indeed?” says Spock, with the barest hint of a suggestion in his tone that wrestling maneuvers are, perhaps, the furthest thing from his mind right now.
“Indeed,” says Kirk cheerfully, because there’s a bubble of laughter trying to work its way free from his chest, and he knows that Spock knows this, and that’s only making things worse. “If you remember, I always had to sling a towel around my waist as we left for the changing rooms.”
He can see the workings of an active mind beneath an imperiously arched eyebrow, but Spock’s not biting. He says, “It is my understanding that this practice is not uncommon among Humans following a strenuous period of exercise.”
He’s a liar, of course. They both knew what Kirk was hiding beneath the towel; it was one of the reasons it was so damned hard to hide it. He can’t help it; Kirk turns the smile upwards, lets it shine directly into Spock’s face.
“Spice, Mr. Spock,” he says. “I’m talking about the scent of spice on your skin when we sparred.”
And that-that right there. That’s an answering smile lighting Spock’s eyes. That’s about as open as Spock gets, and it’s too long since Kirk has seen it. “Perhaps,” he acknowledges, “you were not the only one so affected by our training sessions.”
The laugh breaks free. It’s extraordinarily difficult to maintain any semblance of control over this rampant, incorrigible happiness. “All that time,” says Kirk, “and you let me think it was just me.” A thought occurs to him. “The cell on Ekos….”
A sigh, as of dignity under duress. “Yes, Jim,” says Spock.
“The negotiations on Lance’s Planet….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“When the locals insisted I wore the….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Bones’ birthday celebrations on Vir….”
“Yes, Jim.”
“Weren’t you bunking with him on that trip?”
“Yes, Jim.” A note of long-suffering patience has crept into the tone, but the eyes have not dimmed. “However, the majority of the night was spent in your presence, if you recall.”
“I do,” says Kirk, and he does: he remembers the way the fabric of Spock’s civilian slacks clung to the curve of his thigh; the way the thick Virian moonlight wove through his hair as they walked along the beach together, long after Bones and Scotty had gone to bed; the way their shoulders brushed together from time to time as they moved and talked, and the way they both pretended not to notice. He’d gone back to an empty bed that night and lain wakeful as the sky began to gray, until, close to dawn, he’d just given up, locked himself in the bathroom to muffle the wall-shattering snores of a contented Scotsman, and bought himself a wholly inadequate release with his hand and the scent of spice at the back of his throat. Yes, he remembers that one very well. He just didn’t realize that Spock was similarly stricken.
There are more, many more; too many to count, and Kirk suspects he’s going to spend the rest of his life seeking them out and cataloging them, adding them to a private playlist in the back of his head. It’s quite amazing, really, the difference that a little context can make. But for now, he guesses, there are things to do, arrangements to make, decisions to reach. The world doesn’t stop just because it’s been turned on its head and shaken until its ears ring. And his friend is tired, talked-out, and probably cold.
He places a quick, gentle kiss to Spock’s lips, because these things are possible now. “Mr. Spock,” he says, “I remember them all.” An eyebrow arches, and Kirk gives a quiet laugh. “Yes, no doubt that’s an illogical Human exaggeration,” he says. “I’m sure there have been more instances than I could possibly hope to determine. You have the advantage of me there, I’m afraid, Commander, given that your knowledge of Human anatomy far outstrips my knowledge of yours.” And he smiles, and turns his smile on his friend, whose eyes smile back, and he leaves just enough of pause to allow for maximum effect before he adds, “But just remember-I know what to look for now, Mister.”
“I am unlikely,” says Spock placidly, “to forget.”
~*~
The sleeping arrangements turn out to be surprisingly complicated, which is, Kirk thinks, something he really ought to have anticipated, had he but given it a little thought. He leads Spock to the guest bedroom, where the linens are fresh and the room is aired, but where there’s a vacancy and an unmistakable lack of signs of occupancy, and invites him to deposit his bags, freshen up if he chooses, while Kirk heads downstairs and attempts to persuade the replicator to conjure up something acceptable to Vulcan nutritional requirements. His logic, he thinks, is sound: his friend is tired, he’s travel-weary, and he’s bound to be hungry, and, most importantly of all, Kirk has no intention of assuming that they’ll be sharing a bed. Not now, not given the exigencies of Spock’s confession, and especially not after what happened in San Francisco; he’s going to give his friend a little space, a little privacy, a little room to breathe while he settles into his new skin. He’s going to be a goddamn monk about this, if he has to be, and he’s going to count himself lucky that he even has the choice.
But then Spock walks into the room and sets his bag on the floor, and the look on his face as he surveys his surroundings suggests that he thinks he’s just failed some kind of test, and Kirk realizes, abruptly, that this would be how he reads the gesture; of course it would. Never let anyone claim that the Vulcan race cannot entertain logical and hyper-critical self-flagellating masochism within the same experiential framework: Spock genuinely believes that he has done something wrong in seeking the connection that they both want so badly that it’s like an electrical charge in the air, and he’s read Kirk’s motion towards gentlemanly restraint as confirmation that Spock’s advances would be unwelcome.
Gods above and below. And there is nothing, literally nothing that Kirk can say to mitigate against this now, as far he can see, because he’s pretty sure that drawing further attention to the matter is only going to solidify it more firmly in Spock’s resolve. So, at a loss for any more reasonable options, he decides to improvise, and so, before he can change his mind, he makes himself cross the floor in three rapid strides, hooks a hand around the base of Spock’s neck, and crushes his lips once more against Spock’s. It has the advantage of being precisely what Kirk has been wanting to do for the entirety of the seven minutes since their last kiss ended, and there’s something quite gratifying about the way that the small noise of consternation that escapes in a startled puff of air as Kirk’s mouth closes on his friend’s is swallowed almost immediately in the sudden rush of hands and clashing teeth and-yes-a venturing tongue that finds its way hesitantly towards Kirk’s.
This is the last sound that either of them makes for several minutes.
It’s intoxicating. It feels alarmingly like breaking the surface of the water after a long submersion, lungs bursting, heartbeat thundering in his chest, and the last thing Kirk needs is to coin another colorful metaphor for what they’re doing that might go some way towards justifying the steady shuffle of feet across the floor and towards the guest bed. In a moment, the backs of his knees are going to connect with the oakwood frame, buckle against the mattress, and he’s going to find himself pinned against the comforter by the weight of one Vulcan body which, disturbingly wasted as it feels beneath Kirk’s fingers, unquestionably outweighs him by at least twenty pounds of solid muscle. He’s not sure he can be accountable for what happens at that point, and that worries him. It’s not as though Spock will protest if Kirk makes a serious effort to roll out from underneath him, it’s just that he has the strongest feeling that something will break if he lets this go much further, something that Kirk is not sure he can fix, and he’s genuinely not certain which would be worse for them: to carry on or to stop this now. And that’s not just because he’s rock hard against Spock’s thigh, erection straining the fabric of his pants and shorting out any effort towards higher thought every time Spock moves against it, and it’s not just because there’s a solid length of Vulcan cock pressed hard and tight against Kirk’s hip and the scent of spice fills his lungs with every breath. It’s not just because of these things, but they don’t exactly help, either.
And so it’s something of a blessed relief when his communicator chirps just as his calves begin to graze the soft down of the bedspread, though it’s a couple of disordered seconds before the sound filters down through layers of arousal to penetrate that part of his brain still capable of logical reasoning; a second more before he’s able to recognize it for what it is, and by this time it has stopped chirping and settled into a steady, impatient buzz against his left buttock. It doesn’t feel like relief, of course-it feels like murderous frustration and a barely governable impulse to rip the damn thing from his belt and throw it at a wall-but relief is probably on the way.
Probably.
He… might have to take care of a thing first, though. In private. And as soon as humanly possible.
Spock, damn him, pulls back with elegant composure, breaking their embrace as easily as if he were catching himself mid-stumble, and the only sign of any immediate distress is in the swelling of his lips, the faint flush to his cheeks, and the impressive tent of fabric at his groin. Not a hair on his head is so much as ruffled, not a labored breath agitates his chest as he folds his hands calmly at his waist and then, after a moment, thinks better of it and refolds them at his back. Kirk, for his part, is simply glad, as he flips the communicator open with unnecessary force, that it’s an audio-only line.
“This is Kirk,” he snaps into the speaker, and, goddamn it if even his voice doesn’t sound thick and hoarse with arousal. There’s a startled pause at the other end of the line.
“Yes, sir,” says Kaplan after a moment, and, despite everything, Kirk is able to find it in himself to be impressed at her ability to ignore, or at least sublimate, any hint of the extraordinary when communicating with her superior officers. It’s a useful skill for Starfleet. She’s likely to go far. “My apologies for disturbing you again this afternoon, Admiral; I know you’re busy.”
He hasn’t checked his communicator since he caught sight of it on the kitchen counter while he was making tea and clipped it, absent-mindedly, back onto his belt. If she’s been disturbing him regularly since he disappeared into the stables after lunch, Kirk has been blissfully unaware of the fact, and, he reasons, he probably ought to cut her a little slack. It can’t be a good week to be Deputy Head of Fleet Ops. Moreover, she has no idea what she’s just interrupted.
Probably.
No, definitely.
Well…. Almost certainly.
“Not at all, Commodore,” he says now, and he thinks he sounds a little less… afflicted. He hopes so. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s just a courtesy call, sir,” she says. “I won’t take up your time. It’s simply that a Commander Spock arrived at your office this morning and asked me to let you know that he was planning to visit you in Idaho. He already had the co-ordinates, sir, so I assumed you’d sanctioned the trip, but he was anxious that I pass on his intentions….”
“Yes, Commodore,” says Kirk quickly, because he can feel the first firings of something in his belly that feels very much as though it might turn into hysteria, and it’s important that he ends the call before his voice betrays him. “You were quite right. Thank you for your diligence.”
“Of course, sir,” she says. “I also sent a message to your terminal, but I wasn’t sure if you’d read it….”
“That’s fine, Commodore,” says Kirk. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. If there’s nothing else…?”
“Thank you, no,” says Kirk, and it’s a little abrupt, certainly, but he’s doing the best he can. “Kirk out,” he adds, and snaps the communicator shut in the last moment before he succumbs to an extremely undignified fit of laughter.
~*~
The synthesizer’s menu is an artifact of the Kirk family’s dietary preferences, with only the most rudimentary allowances made for the state of his father’s arteries at his last medical, and it cannot be persuaded to produce a balanced nutritional meal devoid of red meat products or their simulated equivalents. This is something, Kirk guesses, that they’re going to have to look at, if Spock’s going to be here for a while. Maybe they can take a trip into town, buy some eggs and home-grown vegetables, some herbs, some rice, some pasta, and he can try to remember a few of the old recipes that Grandma Davis tried to teach him, back when she used to spend the summers with them on the farm. The idea has a certain visceral appeal; it’s a long time since anybody has cooked an actual meal for Kirk, and longer still since he can remember cooking one for somebody else, and there’s an intimacy to the gesture, a symbol of care, that he finds he likes. For now, though, he can persuade the machine to produce a stack of silver dollar pancakes, drizzled with butter and syrup, and seek out a nest of blankets for them to burrow amongst on the porch swing while the sun slides behind the western peaks in a blaze of amber and gold, and call it a compromise of sorts.
Nothing about the endeavor is logical-not the food, not the location, and certainly not the temperature-and yet there is no complaint from his companion beyond the inevitable raised eyebrow when he recognizes the direction of travel. Kirk has found a couple of sweaters for his friend in his father’s closet, a spare hat and a scarf to add to McCoy’s borrowed waterproofs, and they sit close together on the swing, not quite near enough to touch, but enough to pool their body heat in a little pocket of warmer air beneath the quilts and, though their breath mists in front of their face as the shadows lengthen and the air begins to freeze, only an olive flush to Spock’s cheeks and nose speaks of any discomfort, and he makes no request to return indoors. Kirk watches him when he can, eyes sliding sideways when his companion is lost in thought or speech, and thinks that, of all the ways he could ever have imagined things going, this moment, this moment right here-framed by an icy mountain sunset, face pinched by cold but warmed by easy contentment, shoulders slackened by proximity and eyes lit from within, the way he remembers from simpler days-is both the strangest and, perversely, the most fitting.
They talk-hesitantly at first, because they’ve gotten out of practice at it, but it turns out that this is not something they’ve forgotten, just something they’ve temporarily misplaced. The sun sinks in the west and the air fills with the sound and scents of evening, and they talk: things meaningful and things inconsequential, and it’s old and familiar and so welcome, so warm, that it’s almost painful, in a strange sort of way that Kirk can’t define to his satisfaction. Spock tells him about the sanctuary in the desert, of days spent tilling soil and weaving cloth, of the stillness of srashiv and the emptiness, the sense of loss that hung around him like a shadow and kept him wakeful long into the moonless nights. He speaks of T’Kel and Master T’Sai, of the bond that would not break, and, though he doesn’t name it, Kirk can hear in the silences between words the frustration, the fear, and the anger, and understands that he’s not the only one who has passed these years encased in frozen resentment. He’s not the only one who spent hollow hours staring into the skies and wishing there was some way to un-know the ghost at his shoulder; to forget, just long enough to snatch a moment of peace. They’ve both got a lot to be thankful for, he knows, but, it seems, they’ve both got just as much to forgive.
Kirk tells him about the quiet, gray formality of Fleet Ops; the way the stars looked back at him from behind a frosted glass window on the Presidio as he tried not to search for his ship in the mobile vaults above. He tells him about Decker, about the first day he accompanied the new captain of the Enterprise back to his broken ship, and how they walked in EVA suits through airless halls while Kirk kept his diplomat’s smile fixed in place and managed to feel nothing at all; about how Decker insisted on buying him a drink afterwards at the Officers’ Lounge on the Centroplex; about how Kirk had found himself, three Scotches later, beaming back to San Francisco and comming the only person he could think of in communicator range who was likely to hear the word Enterprise and know why it had been a bad day to be James Kirk. He tells Spock about waking Lori from one of her irregular sleeps; about how she knew before he’d said three words that he’d been drinking, and why; about the long pause that followed his request to come over, the hesitation that whispered across the airwaves. About the softness in her voice as she agreed.
Spock does not move and he does not speak, but Kirk feels him go very, very still as he tells the tale of a blustery day in late November, of orange juice and canapés in Bozeman, of a band that played Pachelbel and Bach over the howl of the wind above the Bay. Of an evening three weeks before Christmas, of the wash of rain on dark windows, of low voices
and a bitterness so deep that there was no room left even for anger anymore. Of the hollowness of a loss without sadness. Of a marriage bookended by storms.
There’s nothing else to say after that. Kirk lets his words trail into silence, and they sit together, quiet and unmoving, eyes fixed on the snow-topped trees that fringe the yard as a layer of cloud frost the edges of the moonlight and draws the shadows out of the darkness below the canopy.
“Ah,” says his friend after a moment, and the word is soft, breathy: almost a sigh.
Kirk resists the urge to turn his head, to look at Spock, but, moving by memory and peripheral vision, he shifts his hand across the blanket to find Spock’s, grips it, laces gloved fingers through his friend’s. He’s expecting resistance, inaction at least, and so it’s something of a shock to feel Spock’s fingers fold around his without comment and without hesitation. Spock’s eyes are focused on the middle distance, and he does not drop his gaze, does not seek out Kirk’s, but it’s something at least. It’s an opening.
“We talked once about regret,” Kirk says quietly. “Do you remember? In the imaging suite of the Marin County observatory, just before you… before I had no reason to go there anymore. There are so many things I’ve done that I’d do differently if I had the chance, my friend-but this? This is another order of fault altogether.” He drops his eyes to his lap, to their hands, joined above an appliqué peony rose. “We’ve made our mistakes, you and I,” he says, “but they were always our mistakes. I never meant to involve Lori in what happened between us. But, then again, I’ve done a lot of things, these past few years, that I never meant to do.”
Spock’s spine is stiff and Vulcan-straight, as though he’s engaged in a perpendicularity contest with the earth itself. He’s so preternaturally still and pale, skin bleached beneath the moonlight, that he could be carved from stone or ice, but for the fact that his breath dances wisps of vapor on the cold air in a regular, even rhythm. At last, he says, “She must have been a remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” says Kirk. His voice is gruff, hollow; Spock’s use of the past tense has not escaped him. “She was.”
A beat. And then the fingers twined through Kirk’s contract, tightening their grip, and Kirk feels his chest constrict, even as a little of the tension leaches from his shoulders. This is as much of an answer, an absolution, as he’s likely to get, and he brings his free hand up, out of the warmth of the blankets, to cup it over the back of Spock’s, fingers closing on the rough wool from either side, as though Kirk is marking the skin beneath it as his own. He hears the breath catch in his friend’s throat, but he says nothing, just grips his hand and holds on tightly, as though he’s anchoring himself against an unseen storm.
Quietly, Spock says, “Tushah nash-veh k’du.”
Kirk nods. “Thank you,” he says, though in the end, he thinks, the loss was not his to mourn. He saw to that one rain-swept December night a year ago, and, no matter what has happened between then and now, there will never be any part of him that will stop being sorry for that.
They sit like this for many minutes, unspeaking, watching the stillness of the mountain trees as they pale beneath the low moon. Spock lifts his head, but he does not turn his eyes to Kirk, instead letting his gaze drift out over the trees and into the darkening vaults above. Eridanus is rising, Kirk knows, somewhere on the eastern horizon, but it’s too early yet to see it clearly; it’s lost, for now, among the haze of light and smoke and industry that clings to the lower skies. Spock’s face is blank, perfectly composed, but his jaw is tight, his brow furrowed, and it is some moments before he speaks.
“I remember the day we talked of regret,” he says quietly. “We spoke also of cthia, and of that which cannot be changed.”
“Yes,” says Kirk, who can remember the conversation word for word, touch for touch, and who has replayed it many times in the years that separate that moment from this. “I told you I wished I had your forbearance.” Gentle laughter mists the air in front of his face. “I still do.”
“My forbearance,” says Spock, “is lacking.” A deep breath raises and drops his shoulders. “This has been true, now, for some time.”
Kirk’s eyes slide sideways. “You have regrets?” he asks.
“Many,” says Spock, and his eyes meet Kirk’s. “You must know that.”
The hand beneath Kirk’s is trembling, though he’s not sure if it’s the cold or the effort of holding himself still. Or something else entirely. Kirk says, “We are neither of us very good at this, are we?”
An eyebrow arches, in the manner of a man disarmed by staggering understatement. “No,” says Spock.
“We’re going to have to get better at it in a hurry.”
A beat, and then Spock nods. He says, “I see little alternative.”
Something unfamiliar, something unexpected, twists in Kirk’s side, piercing the tender place just below his ribs. It feels a little bit like unbridled joy, but he doesn’t want to leap to any conclusions.
“That’s good,” he says. “Because I, for one, am through with regrets.”
An elegant eyebrow arches. “I concur.”
“I guess that means you’ll be staying for a few days, then?” says Kirk as evenly as he can, though he’s aware, as Spock must be, that a matching tremor has set up in his hands, his thighs. It’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside his skull. “Because I think we could use some practice at this.”
“Among the faculty at Starfleet Academy,” says Spock, “the philosophy was propounded that proficiency at any given task is only to be achieved after 10,000 hours of study.”
An inelegant snort of startled laughter escapes Kirk in a cloud of frozen air. “I suspect that may be a tall order for this week, Mr. Spock,” he says. “We’re expected back in San Francisco by Sunday.”
“Perhaps,” says Spock. “However, it is possible that a useful beginning might be made.”
Kirk feels a wide grin spread slowly across his face. He makes no effort to stop it; he couldn’t if he tried.
“I bow, as ever, to your superior logic, Mr. Spock,” he says. “Ri vath kau eh ri vath rok nam-tor na’etek hi etek kau-tor, after all.”
Spock inclines his head, and, Kirk is gratified to note, not the ghost of linguistic surprise so much as agitates either brow. “Indeed,” he says. “The teachings of Surak are, as ever, apposite.”
There is no other wisdom and no other hope for us but that we grow wise. It’s not only apposite; it could have been damn well written for them, Kirk thinks. And he wants to laugh-to laugh or to punch something until it falls apart, but he thinks he’ll go with laughter right now-because everything is so much simpler than it ever seemed to be, and all it took was three wasted years and the lives of three good officers to see it. There is no other hope for them, he guesses; wisdom is pretty much the only shot they have left. It had better be. Seems like they’ve tried just about everything else.
“I’m glad you agree,” he says, and his head feels light, buoyant, filled with gossamer and air. “Because I believe….” But he stops, words lost on a breath of laughter, and his lips twist upwards into a wry smile, because there remains, after all, and regardless of everything, something incredibly surreal about saying these words, when it comes to it, let alone saying these words to a Vulcan. “Mr. Spock,” he says, and he lets the smile spread easily over his face, feels it catch behind his eyes. “I believe you may be the love of my life.”
Spock considers this with a raised eyebrow and a sideways nod. “As you are mine,” he says.
And, really, there is nothing else to do at this point, no other possible response than to reach out with the hand that’s not currently holding Spock’s; to trace the angular curve of his friend’s jaw with his thumb as his fingers curl around the back of Spock’s neck and draw him in once again for a kiss that feels, even as their lips connect, as though it sucks the oxygen from the air and the gravity from the ground beneath their feet. And, when it’s finished, before the world can resolve itself into black and white, Vulcan and Human, salt and spice; while his thoughts still rattle and spin like a shuttlecraft on orbital re-entry, Kirk gets to his feet, struggling upwards out of layers of wool and quilted cotton, and, without a word, reaches a hand down to Spock. His friend’s eyes are dark, hooded by his downward gaze, and Kirk knows by the long scrutiny he offers those wool-covered fingers that he has understood Kirk’s meaning very well. But, in the end, he hesitates for no more than ten seconds-long enough to have considered carefully, not long enough for doubts-before he reaches up and takes the hand that’s offered, allows himself to be pulled to his feet. There’s not enough weight, not enough tension in that grip to speak of any level of struggle, and Kirk feels his breath hitch in his throat as that fact registers amongst his wildly reverberating thoughts. Here and now, for the first time, there is no hesitation and no misgiving. This is trust: in Kirk, and in Spock himself.
Yes. Freefall. Always freefall.
Kirk links his fingers through Spock’s, and leads them indoors and towards the stairs.
~*~A/N:
Tushah nash-veh k’du: "I grieve with thee" (source: VLD)
Also - sorry sorry sorry for doing another disappearing act! This chapter gave me all kinds of grief when I was trying to write it, so it took way longer than expected. Huge thanks to miloowen for helping me work out the issues.
Chapter 46
Chapter 48