Young Wine, Old Feeling 2/2
Title: Young Wine, Old Feeling 2/2
Author: kianspo
Beta: secret_chord25 who's got patience of a saint
Series: STXI
Rating: NC-17 (not really, but to be safe)
Length: ~10 400
Warnings: *facepalm* This thing is fluff and cliched like you wouldn't believe. I'm really very sorry!
Summary: Shooting Romulans is easier than confessing your feelings. That's about it.
Notes: written for ksadvent2009
1/2
Having skipped lunch, Jim decides to ignore the mess all together. There’ll be some food later at his place, he knows, so he might as well go straight to the bridge. Spock has most certainly gone to terrorize his own staff at the labs, though, after four years with him as their commanding officer, the Enterprise science division seems to be ready for inspection 24/7. Jim actually envies this ability of Spock’s a little. It’s not like Spock yells at people or disciplines them, either. His eyebrows do all the motivational magic all on their own.
The bridge greets him with the sounds of lazy conversation, and Jim waves at his people pleasantly, telling them with a simple gesture that he doesn’t actually need anything and hasn’t come to disturb the loose mood of the shift. He checks out several ‘urgent’ memos that the Denobulan government deemed necessary for him to see, then downloads the latest issue of Tactical Review and dives into his ready room for some quiet reading.
There’s a response article to the one he had submitted two issues ago, and Jim attacks it almost gleefully, taking notes of every weak spot his opponent shows. Honestly, some people just can’t accept that he knows his shit. Well, then, Lieutenant Commander Nigel Forest, we’ll see about using the Kumar maneuver against three cruiser-class vessels.
Jim becomes so engrossed in writing down his counterarguments and then even running small simulations on the computer that the whistle from the intercom makes him jump. He hasn’t noticed that he’s been here for three hours straight.
“Jim, so help me if you’re on the bridge-” Bones starts menacingly.
“I’m coming,” Jim cuts him off hastily. “No need to yell, Bones.”
“You better be,” McCoy states firmly, then closes the line.
For a moment, Jim looks at his PADD longingly, but then sets it aside with a sigh. If he manages to lose his vastly inspired train of thought before he gets back to it, he’ll reread Forest’s article again, and the condescending tone of it will undoubtedly put him back on his high horse. He taps the PADD off and walks out.
Private parties at his quarters are a tradition of sorts, too. The Christmas parties for the crew are work more than fun not only for Jim, but for his senior staff as well. The after-party gathering was initially an impromptu occasion, and that first year it was just him, Bones, Scotty and a bottle of a really old Saurian brandy. The next year, the whole bridge crew slipped into his quarters one by one, interrupting his quiet conversation with Spock. From then on, the ‘surprise party’ became an expected occurrence.
To say that Jim doesn’t mind would be an understatement. He loves watching his closest friends unwind. He loves unwinding with them. It’s such a rare occasion that they can all get together without the necessity to keep an eye for a red alert or some kind of disaster that Jim cherishes these moments. Bones once said that during those times they imitated normal human beings for a change, and Jim thinks that there’s too much truth in that to be dismissed as a mere joke. The lives they live leave little room for normalcy.
He enters his quarters, a wide grin plastered on his lips, and stops just inside the doorway, taking in the picture.
Scotty and Sulu are crouched over a makeshift stove, no doubt of Scotty’s creation. Jim is mildly apprehensive of the contents of the big pan, which emits slim streaks of steam like an Indian peace pipe, but he has to admit that it smells good. Sulu, from the looks of it, is making his trademark spiced-rice-with-wouldn’t-you-want-to-know-what, and the air of total concentration on his face makes Jim suspect he’s adding some incantations to the recipe as well. Jim watches Scotty add a generous amount of whiskey into his - chili? goulash? Jim exhales in relief. Nothing containing that much alcohol can be deadly anymore.
Uhura’s melodic laughter draws Jim’s attention to his bed where his communication’s officer and - screw that - sister-in-arms is trying to coax Chekov into giving her the music console. She’s laughing so hard that it’s hindering her coordination, while Chekov, grinning from ear to ear, threatens her with badly performed lines from Klingon operas. It’s like watching a panther playing with a cub, the comparison complete with Nyota’s skin-tight black jumpsuit. They’re all out of uniform tonight, but her outfit is, as always, the most stunning.
Grinning, Jim walks over toward the office area, finding an ostensibly unlikely pair of companions there. He heads for the small bar, which he had always found a wonderfully thoughtful addition to the captain’s quarters, and starts making cocktails - his usual self-imposed task during such gatherings - as he listens to his two friends banter.
“I will hazard a guess,” Spock is saying, staring at the drawing in his hand pensively, “that this is some kind of humanoid. The body is blue, which suggests an Andorian. However, the face is rather red and there is no sign of antennae. The ears do look like old earth radio locators, though. I do not believe I have met a representative of such aesthetically disagreeable species before.” Spock looks up at McCoy curiously. “Who is it?”
“Me,” McCoy snaps icily, almost as red faced as his pencil-colored counterpart.
“Indeed?” Spock asks, while Jim bursts out laughing. “I rescind my answer, Doctor; I must compliment your daughter’s acute observation skills. There is a truly striking resemblance, which I should have noticed earlier. This narrow forehead, for one-”
“Narrow forehead?” McCoy yelps indignantly. “Why, you pointy-eared-”
“Indeed, Doctor, I have always wondered what makes you cling to your beads and rattles as opposed to advances of modern medicine. The necessity to economize the - limited brain resources would certainly explain that.”
“I swear to God, Spock, next time you have your guts sprawled all over my Med Bay, I’ll show you beads and rattles-”
“Bones.” Jim winces, the pestle slipping from his grip momentarily. “Could you please not go there? I have a vivid imagination.”
“Don’t worry, Jim - Spock’s resilient like a stock of Andorian shingles,” McCoy says, glaring at the Vulcan. “And about as pleasant.”
“The virus does indeed possess an advantage over homo sapiens,” Spock notes casually, but there’s a dangerous glint in his eye.
“Really? What’s that?”
“It does not hide behind a medical license when attacking people.”
“Bones, Spock,” Jim intervenes before they can start in earnest. “There must be a piece of mistletoe left somewhere on this ship. You want me to go find it so that you could literally kiss and make up or will the two of you shut up already?”
“I’d pay real money to see that,” Sulu pipes in from across the room.
“How much?” Jim asks immediately, because the expression on Spock’s face is priceless.
“I’ll add some,” Scotty promises.
“See? I’ll be rich before you know it,” Jim tells Bones and Spock pointedly, handing McCoy a glass with something bright green and leafy.
“What’s that?” McCoy asks, distracted.
“Mojito.”
“Really?” The doctor looks immediately suspicious. “Where’d you get the mint?”
Jim bats his lashes at him innocently. “The greenhouse?”
“That better not be what I grow for medical purposes,” Bones warns.
“Of course not, Doctor,” Spock cuts in, taking the glass from his hand. “The captain would never intrude into your plantation. The crew has been known to develop hallucinations after walking through there. Excuse me.”
“Hey!” McCoy protests as Spock wanders off to give his cocktail to Uhura.
“Here.” Jim gives Bones another mojito, sipping his own. “Not too sweet?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” McCoy says, shaking his head and looking pensive. “So” - he fixes Jim with a pointed stare - “what’d you do this time?”
“Who, me?” Jim looks away, swallowing a larger portion of his cocktail. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
McCoy tilts his head in Spock’s direction subtly. “He doesn’t usually get this vicious, unless he’s really pissed at you.”
“It’s nothing,” Jim mutters, watching Uhura plant a soft kiss on Spock’s cheek, probably for rescuing the music console from Chekov’s mischievous hands. The young navigator has wandered off to Sulu and Scotty, leaving Spock and Uhura alone on the bed and talking quietly.
“‘Nothing’ doesn’t turn him into a viper,” McCoy remarks. “Not usually, that is.” His eyes follow the captain’s knowingly. “Jim. When are you gonna tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, kid; you know perfectly well what. You think he’ll wait for you forever?”
Jim presses his lips together stubbornly. “Bones, Spock and Uhura broke up four years ago or something. They’re best friends. I’m not awfully concerned with a little PDA on their part, to tell you the truth.”
“I’m not worried about Uhura,” McCoy says calmly. “Unlike you, she knows when to quit.”
Jim exhales wearily, his resolve weakening. “Look, what if... What if he doesn’t-”
McCoy clasps Jim’s shoulder firmly. “Then he doesn’t. But at least you’ll know, Jim. It’s not healthy to bottle up your emotions inside for so long.”
Jim grins at him in a fit of gallows humor. “Ever the doctor, Bones?”
Bones smiles back. “With you, what else could a guy be?”
He ruffles Jim’s hair affectionately, and Jim allows it for once without protest. Having him for a friend does put a man through a lot, he knows that much. And Bones had never wavered, never backed off, and never let him down.
“Food’s ready!” Scotty calls. “Grab your plates!”
“Grab your glasses first!” Jim laughs. “I have a toast.”
They all gather round him, elbowing each other to get the drinks he’s made for them. Jim passes Spock his favorite Altair water over Chekov’s head and earns himself an appreciative glance in return.
“To Enterprise,” Jim announces, beaming at them all. “And her crew.”
“Not good enough,” Uhura says, eyeing him with a peculiar expression Jim can’t read. “We drank to that last night.”
“Well...” Jim halts, thinking.
Surprisingly, it’s Spock who breaks the pause, speaking quietly and very distinctly.
“To family.”
And it’s blatantly clear from the way he makes eye contact with everyone just who he means. It’s a little eerie, this epiphany that catches Jim off guard all of a sudden, but they really are a family - all of them, even Spock, who is so profoundly different from them, and yet so undeniably one of them.
“To family,” Jim repeats, swinging an arm around Bones’ neck.
“God help me, having you lot for relatives,” McCoy grumbles. Everyone but Spock laughs, but there’s a telling twinkle in his eye revealing that the mirth is mutual.
Jim feels a warm, suspiciously fuzzy something curling up in his stomach, and he has to dig his heels in the carpet in order not to jump Spock right there and then, in front of everyone, and with decidedly less than innocent intentions.
They eat, and talk, and laugh a lot, and Jim doesn’t believe in any kind of Christmas spirit or the magic of the season, but he can’t help stealing a glance at Spock every now and then and can’t shoo away a wave of treacherously sweet dizziness that ambushes him every time their eyes meet. Which has been happening kind of a lot lately, and how come he hasn’t noticed?
It’s something of a mystery from where Chekov manages to produce a Twister set, but they all go at it gleefully like little children. It’s all conventional fun, until some truly misguided soul allows Spock to spin, and Jim, Bones, Chekov, and Uhura quickly find themselves tied in knots that should not be possible for human bodies to achieve. Vulcan precision with anything is not to be underestimated.
“Nyota,” Spock says with infuriating calm. “Left foot, yellow.”
She grunts with effort, but manages to reach it.
“Jim - right hand, blue.”
Scotty falls down from his chair, laughing, as Jim complies with Spock’s command, swearing and stretching.
“Doctor” - Spock pauses, and nobody likes that pause very much - “Right foot, green.”
“Spock!” all four of them shout at once.
“I swear to God, he does that on purpose,” McCoy mutters, red-faced and panting. “Spock, you evil, evil son of a gun, you wait till it’s your turn, I’ll - Jim, stop laughing, for fuck’s sake, I can hardly stand without you shaking-”
But Jim can’t stop laughing at this moment to save his life, and the more he fights it, the harder it becomes, until finally he loses it completely, along with his balance; and as his co-players are all pretty much wrapped up around him by that point, they all collapse with a lot of yelps, shouts, and giggles. They all hit or kick him as they disentangle themselves from him and each other.
“Ow!” Jim protests after Bones shoves him in the ribs. “That wasn’t my fault, you guys!”
“Was, too.” Uhura sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re clumsy like a bear.”
He glares at her. Then Spock is there to lift him up, and Jim doesn’t release his clasp on Spock’s arm even when he’s already standing again.
“You totally did that on purpose,” Jim breathes out, grinning.
Spock reaches to brush something off of Jim’s shoulder. He meets Jim’s eyes, unrepentant.
“As a matter of fact, Jim... Yes, I did.”
Jim throws his head back and laughs at this fit of deviousness, and Spock’s grip tightens momentarily before releasing Jim.
Two hours later, his guests bid goodnight to him one by one, tired and happy instead of tired and grim for once. Uhura kisses Jim gently, the same way she usually kisses Spock, and this unexpected gift makes him start and blink. She smirks at him, waves at Spock, and leaves, leaning on McCoy’s arm and listening to Scotty’s babble.
The door closes and it’s just him and Spock left now. Jim smiles at his friend fondly.
“Give me a hand?”
“Certainly.”
They start cleaning up the mess left after the party in perfect synch, as they have done many times before. Somehow, Jim has never noticed that it was always Spock who stayed behind to help him - not Bones or Uhura or anyone else. Spock stayed without being asked, and it became one of the natural things around Jim - one he takes for granted.
They don’t talk as they work, but it’s a pleasant kind of silence. Jim’s humming with content and warmth, and just a tiny note of anticipation. From time to time one of them would catch the other watching him. Jim would smile. Spock would act as if nothing has happened.
“I think we’re done,” Jim announces half an hour later, looking around with satisfaction. “Wasn’t as wild as it was the last time.”
“Indeed.”
Suddenly, without anything else to do, Jim feels extremely nervous. “Well,” he starts, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I guess this is it then.”
“It would seem so,” Spock says, looking strangely hesitant. “I-”
“Did you have a good time?” Jim blurts out, strangely desperate to cut off whatever it is Spock was about to say. “I had a blast.”
Spock closes his mouth, looks at Jim thoughtfully and nods, as if answering his own question.
“Indeed, it was most agreeable,” he says evenly. “Goodnight, Jim.”
“Goodnight,” Jim calls after him, but Spock’s already out the door.
Jim groans. What is wrong with him? They were about to have a moment, for fuck’s sake, one of those few he would treasure in years to come, guarding them fervently like a dragon guards his gold. Instead he all but told Spock to leave, and now he’ll never know what it was Spock was about to tell him. It might have been nothing. Then again...
With another self-loathing groan, Jim flings himself over onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow and wishing he could smack himself to let go of some of his frustration. James T. Kirk is nobody’s paragon, that much is certain - he’s made his share of mistakes, but never out of panic. Spock’s the only one who gets him all jittery and anxious, and just plain stupid beyond belief.
He opens his eyes, musing on the various ways he should probably kill himself to spare himself the trouble of dealing with it, before a bright package sitting on his nightstand catches his attention. Jim sits up in his bed abruptly, staring at it.
Did someone leave him a present?
There is only one way to find out, and Jim snatches the package, ripping the paper off impatiently. His eyes widen in wonder as a brightly colored bottle slips into his hands.
“No way,” Jim breathes out, even as a grin threatens to split his face in two. “No way in hell.”
But it’s undeniably there, cool and heavy in his hands: the bottle of this year’s Beaujolais nouveau, its unmistakable pink-purple color calling to him teasingly from behind the glass.
Immediately Jim’s mind springs back to his time at the Academy, him and Bones locating a bottle as it was released every year, traditionally on the last Thursday of November, and saving it till New Year’s Eve to celebrate the ‘spirit of renewal’ or some shit like that. He used to tease Bones about ‘all the French crap’ he picked up at Sorbonne, but Bones was impervious, and Jim, who normally preferred beer to just about anything, couldn’t deny that he liked the taste.
But why didn’t Bones say anything? Getting a bottle out here in space was probably nothing short of a miracle. Jim has no idea how his friend could have possibly managed that. He notices a note suddenly, and his heart leaps in a somersault because the precise, elegant writing has nothing at all in common with Bones’ professional ‘doctor-style’ scribbling.
Jim,
It has come to my attention that you might require this for a proper celebration of the New Year. I hope it is to your liking.
Spock
Jim exhales loudly, noticing that his hands are shaking. He steadies them before carefully putting the note away, as if it is made of glass. He takes a couple of deep breaths, letting the surge of vertigo pass, then stands up, picks up the bottle, and walks over to his desk. He fishes a couple of tall glasses from the bar and a bottle opener and leaves his cabin determinedly, because if he needed some kind of sign that would have told him that enough is enough, this definitely qualifies.
His resolve and determination crumbles notably as he enters Spock’s cabin to discover that the Vulcan isn’t there. But right before his newly found and somewhat vulnerable courage wavers, he hears the sound of water, and realizes with a sweep of relief that Spock’s in the shower.
Well.
Jim walks over to Spock’s desk, completes his preparations, and waits. In just a few moments, it begins to seem to him that Spock would never come out. He knows that the Vulcan is maybe slightly more than a bit of a closet sensualist, and there is certain logic in someone coming from a desert planet to consider water a luxury, but still, this waiting is-
-entirely too short to prepare him for the moment when Spock actually does come out, clad in black silk of his pajamas, hair still slightly damp and tousled. Black silk, for crying out loud. Jim totally doesn’t need that image in front of him when he’s about to be at his best behavior, and he stifles his gaping reaction as best he can.
It’s almost funny - the way Spock halts in his tracks abruptly at the sight of his captain, leaning against Spock’s desk with his legs crossed casually in front of him. Spock definitely wasn’t expecting him.
“J-Jim,” Spock uncharacteristically stutters. “What are you - Is something wrong?”
Instead of an immediate answer, Jim swallows and smiles slowly as he reaches to take two wine-filled glasses from the desk, handing one to Spock.
“I didn’t want to start without you,” he says lightly, as if it somehow answers Spock’s question.
It’s almost sweet, this feeling of revenge that washes over Jim as he watches extreme puzzlement transforming Spock’s features. Spock takes the glass automatically, bewildered and alarmed. Jim’s blood starts to sing.
“How did you get it?” Jim asks softly, his emotions threatening to blow him up if he doesn’t release them soon. “I can’t believe you went all the way back to Earth.”
“I-” Spock pauses. “I became aware that a small shipment has been delivered to Alpha Centauri.”
Jim can’t help an upsurge of amazement. “But that’s still weeks away from New Vulcan!”
Spock looks away, his cheeks attaining a mild greenish hue all of a sudden. “The transport that I boarded - I offered its captain to modify the engines slightly if he agreed to divert there.”
Jim shakes his head. “It’s a challenging course at such speed for a civilian pilot.”
Spock glances at him, obviously having given up on controlling his blush.
Jim gapes. “You piloted the ship?” There’s almost no sense in making it a question.
Spock sighs, almost inaudibly. “I’m a Starfleet officer. He had no reason not to trust me.”
A slow smile crawls up on Jim’s lips, and he doesn’t fight it. “If memory serves,” he drawls deliberately, “this kind of ‘operation’ is illegal.”
Spock stares at his feet. “Not… exactly. There is a rarely invoked clause involving requisition of provisions...” He trails off as Jim begins to laugh softly.
“I have a toast,” Jim tells him warmly, already drunk of the knowledge that Spock has gone out of his way to get him this present, because he thought it would make Jim happy. Jim waits till Spock looks up at him and says simply, “To you.”
Spock watches their glasses meet with a gentle clink; watches Jim taste the wine and smile, feeling the liquid linger on his lips. Spock gazes at him, transfixed, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t miss when he lifts his own glass to his mouth.
“Why did you come here, Jim?” he asks quietly, setting his barely touched wine on the desk. “Doctor McCoy told me that this” - Spock nods at the bottle - “was something he and you shared at New Year’s Eve. I thought you would want to - he said-”
Jim sighs and places his glass on the desk, the reckless, untamed taste of the young wine still tingling pleasantly on his tongue. He looks up at Spock with a slow grin.
“Bones was playing matchmaker.”
Spock frowns slightly in confusion. “I do not understand.”
“Spock.” Jim takes a deep breath and shakes his head suddenly. “Oh, to hell with it. Spock, I don’t have a gift for you, so I’m going to tell you something - something about me, now. I’m not sure you’ll enjoy knowing this, but I can’t in all honesty carry on like this, and Bones is right - it’s not healthy, and I’m not thirteen, for fuck’s sake.”
Spock’s frown deepens. “Jim, I do not-”
“Earlier today when I said I missed you?”
“You said: ‘We missed you.’”
Jim grins sheepishly. “So I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to you, nothing new there.” He sighs and forces himself to hold Spock’s gaze. “I missed you. You don’t have to be away for two weeks for this to happen, Spock.” Jim smiles indulging himself in a touch of self-irony. “I start missing you whenever you walk out the room. You’re greedy, Spock, and selfish - you know that?”
“Selfish?” Spock whispers.
“Very selfish,” Jim affirms. “You walk out and take half of everything with you. Half the colors, half the light... half of me, too. And if I sound pathetic to you now - well, that’s exactly how I feel whenever you’re not around.”
Spock’s eyes are smoldering black, but he’s silent for a small eternity, and Jim can’t take it one second longer.
“Please say something,” he all but begs. “Or choke me, or-”
Spock kisses him. Light and chaste and all too short - just a brush of his lips against Jim’s. Jim stills, too scared to believe this is happening to even breathe. Spock pulls back slightly.
“If I have read you wrong-” He hesitates.
Jim groans and cuts him off the way he’s always wanted to.
He wanted to make it gentle, wanted to move steadily, but discovers quickly that this is out of his control. They’ve been taking too long a time to arrive to this moment, dancing around each other for years, longing and yearning - craving one another, and being scared of taking the final step. It’s all pouring into the kiss right now, making their hands clumsy and desperate as they grab each other, making their lips firm and insistent, making them both moan with the unleashed agony of raw need.
It’s impossible to separate, to pull away even for a moment. Jim’s awareness of his surroundings narrows down to the hot body pressed against him, and he feels like he’s floating, groundless, with Spock being the only thing that anchors him, the only gravitational force that still exists. Jim discovers himself trapped between the wall and the desk an indefinite amount of time later. He’s lightheaded from oxygen deprivation, but keeps clinging to Spock with bruising force, as if afraid that the moment he lets go the magic would dissipate and the Vulcan would disappear.
“Jim,” Spock rasps, holding him tighter. “Jim.”
“Let’s...” Jim swallows, breathing in Spock’s air. “Let’s move this... to the bed. I...” Spock catches Jim’s lower lip between his teeth, and Jim exhales sharply. “I need you.” He kisses Spock again, messily, never minding his lousy aim. “Please, Spock, I-” he gasps “-I want you, so badly.”
Spock presses their foreheads together and asks in a husky, low voice, cutting in just the right side of teasing, “Do you yield?”
And it’s just that much. Jim laughs out loud - the sound of unrestrained happiness - and throws both his arms around Spock’s neck, hugging him with all the impressive force he possesses.
“Yes,” he sings into the pointed ear. “God, Spock, of all the things to ask. Yes.”
They are a clumsy, feverish ball of awkward movements, elbows and knees hitting all the wrong places, hands and lips desperate and greedy and missing constantly, the urgency building up like a forest fire - and they are fast, but they’re not that fast, and it’s a moment of sheer insanity, because neither of them remembers what it’s like to be sane. Jim is pulled to Spock’s body irrevocably like it’s a black hole, and it’s a sweet pain to try and resist, and he can’t, and he’s falling - they are falling, and neither can catch the other because there’s no firm ground anywhere and they cling desperately to each other, pierced by panic and delight, and slowly breaking down from the suspense that just doesn’t end.
Jim wraps his arms and legs around Spock so fiercely - there’s no room for anything between them, and he can’t let go, ever, it’s a physical impossibility, and it’s not kissing - that what he’s doing, and he can’t get enough, can’t stop, and Spock is right there with him, all the way, hands twisted in Jim’s hair, and he’s pressing, pulling, pushing, doing everything at once, as if he can’t decide if he seeks resolution or is fleeing from it. Just before the exquisite agony turns into pain from too much suspense, their shared breath catches and they are knocked over and swept away by the same gigantic tsunami wave, crushing living tissue and possibly halting the spin of the universe, shaking the very core of its axis.
When Jim knows anything again, the first thing he hears is the sound of laughter. It takes him a moment to realize he’s the one producing it. He laughs again, helplessly, just as sensations begin to seep back into his body. They made it to the bed, he gives them that. But there’s little more to be proud of, really.
Spock lifts his head, just barely, watching Jim in amusement. His hair is tousled, his pajama shirt unbuttoned but still there, as are his pants, pushed down to his hips. Jim is mostly naked but for his t-shirt and one boot, and he can’t help finding the sight hilarious. He’s laughing till there’re tears standing in his eyes - it’s hysterical. The whole… everything is hysterical.
Spock grabs him (not before Jim notices his lips twitch in a very telling way) and smashes their mouths together, letting Jim’s laughter ripple through them both. Jim’s grinning like a madman when Spock releases him and sits up to finish undressing. It seems, however, that even half a meter distance is unbearable, and Jim pushes up into a sitting position, too, helping Spock as much as hindering his motions, stealing kisses and being utterly unable to control his hands.
“Beautiful,” Jim murmurs, sliding his hands around Spock from behind and trailing soft kisses along the line of his shoulders. “You deserve more finesse than this.”
Spock turns within his arms, leaving the clasps on Jim’s boot for a moment in favor of kissing Jim. “I don’t want finesse,” he breathes, his long fingers stroking Jim’s cheek. “I only want you.”
Jim groans. “When you say things like that...”
Spock bends down to finally get rid of his pants, while Jim yanks his t-shirt off and throws it away carelessly.
“Does that count as foreplay?”
Jim chuckles, lying back down and pulling Spock along with him. “We’ve had four years of foreplay,” he informs Spock, watching with hungry eyes as the Vulcan straddles him. “Way too much, if you ask me.”
“I concur,” Spock purrs, stretching on top of him carefully, kissing and nibbling his way up Jim’s throat. “That does not - seem consistent - with your profile.”
Jim moans, arching his neck to give Spock more access, as Spock’s hands start their own devious game. “You have no idea - God, Spock - how hard it was - oh, fuck, I - oh - hahh! - not to - not to just - fuck - grab you and - and - Spock-”
Spock pulls away for a moment. “Yes, Jim?”
“Spock, I - I’m -”
Spock presses a quick kiss to his forehead. “You do not have to say it.”
Jim shakes his head, defiant as always. “I love you.” He reaches to run his fingers through Spock’s hair. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, I - I just need to say it.”
There is aching tenderness in the way Spock kisses him now, like Jim is the most precious thing Spock has ever beheld, ever. Jim doesn’t know when they have slipped into a meld or even if it’s a meld at all, or if Spock’s presence has somehow crept inside him so completely that he can hear him within himself without trying.
T’hy’la, you are my all.
Jim nearly gasps because it’s dangerously close to the sharp side of too much, and offers his body to the man who already owns the rest of him, from the first coherent thought of every day to the very last beat of his heart.
They don’t quite make up for four years of waiting on that first night together. But even considering Spock’s ever-present zeal for perfectionism, they make a very decent effort.
~ Fin