Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours) 2/2
Continued from Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours) 1/2
--
The official name of the day is the anniversary of the ‘Battle of Vulcan.’ In his mind, Spock never refers to it as such, and, as far as he knows, no other surviving Vulcans do, either.
Humans believe in names. They are convinced that ‘what you call it’ matters almost as much as what it is. Vulcans cannot support this kind of self-deluding mind trick, even if it works for the rest of the universe.
There was no battle. There was a massacre. There were seven ships - for all that Starfleet claims to be a peacekeeping armada, they could only spare seven ships manned by cadets - seven ships that flew into a trap and were destroyed before they could take a single shot. The Enterprise was spared. There was no battle.
But this is what the day is called. In every governmental facility and on every Starfleet vessel, black banners hanging in the corridors and common rooms mark it. Voices are hushed and rare smiles are guilty. It’s an enforced reminder.
Spock does not begrudge his shipmates their right to grieve. Starfleet lost over four thousand people on Vulcan, including personnel stationed on the planet. Spock has nothing against the day being used to honor their memory. Unfortunately, for him, it doesn’t end quite there.
Everywhere he goes today, people keep sending him pitying looks, sometimes coming over to tell him how sorry they are for his loss. They stare at him for minutes at a time, as if it’s suddenly not rude somehow, because they wish to express their sympathy. They expect a reaction, and Spock has lived among humans long enough to know that not providing any, not acknowledging their efforts, would mean grave offense.
To assign one day a year for grieving or showing sympathy is illogical. The pain was no stronger yesterday; it will be no less tomorrow. Yet, for one day a year, Spock becomes the loss of Vulcan personified, and he doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, but he truly wishes they didn’t. It’s taxing beyond the actual agony of loss, somehow. Perhaps Spock is a bad person, but, on this day, it is his dearest wish to be left alone.
Spock buzzes and is instantly admitted into the captain’s quarters, interrupted in the middle of his shift by a summons from Kirk.
“You wished to see me, Captain?”
“Ah, Spock.” Kirk emerges from the bedroom alcove, wearing his thermal sweat suit. “Go change, we’re going out.”
“Out, sir?”
“Out.” Kirk points up. “Remember that hull damage we got from that little run-in with the Nausicans? We’re going to repair it.”
“Sir, I believe a maintenance crew is scheduled to effect those repairs tomorrow. Team beta, if I am not mistaken.”
“They can take a break.” Kirk shrugs, pulling on his boots. “You and I can stand to get our hands a little dirty every once in a while, don’t you think?”
Spock opens his mouth, then closes it. “Yes, sir.”
“Great. Get someone to cover for you on the bridge and meet me at airlock fifteen in ten minutes.”
When Spock does come to the airlock, Kirk is already there, clasping the clamps on the EV suit. The silver fabric reflects the light unpleasantly, and Spock cringes internally while reaching for his own. He keeps expecting (dreading) Kirk to acknowledge the date somehow - everyone he met today so far has - but Kirk merely waits till Spock finishes fastening his gear and starts the decompression sequence.
It’s stunningly quiet outside. Their progress toward the damaged square of the hull is painfully slow, what with magnetic seals in their boots and the trunk with tools they are carrying between them, but Spock doesn’t mind. They don’t talk. Once there, they set to work in silence, disturbed only by an occasional request for an instrument or during the times when a team effort is required to straighten the plates.
There’s nothing out here but work, the familiar vibration of the ship, stars blinking softly all around them, and the amazing, most wonderful silence. For the first time today, Spock feels the tension abate.
Neither of them is very adept at this kind of work. Spock is out of practice, as he hasn’t done anything of the sort since his first tour of duty with Pike, and Kirk’s knowledge is more theoretical, the computer simulations at the Academy being the limit of his experience in these matters. As a result, their progress is slow, but, somehow, it doesn’t seem important. Spock has forgotten the last time he had to concentrate on every single action so hard, and it feels unexpectedly good to have all of his attention wound up and focused on a single, manual task.
At some point, Kirk asks Spock if he would like to take a break, since it’s well past the end of Alpha shift, but Spock declines. He volunteers to finish the job if Kirk requires rest and nourishment, but the captain declines as well, and Spock feels disinclined to protest.
For the first time in a long time, Spock loses track of time. His body begins to ache with fatigue - working in zero-G could be deceptive when applied to normal nerve-endings-to-brain signals - and that’s the only indication he has of the time elapsed. They are finally done and ready - perhaps more than ready - to get back inside, but Kirk halts Spock with a clumsy gesture of a suit-protected arm.
They stand for a while in silence, simply watching the spin of the universe passing by. Spock thinks of nothing and that - that is precious.
Their motions are painfully slow when they change, gravity telling them in no uncertain terms that eighteen hours of external work without a break was perhaps a bit extreme. Spock finds that he doesn’t care. There are no black banners and no pitying stares as they make their way to the officers’ deck, and he realizes, with a mild start, that the day has passed.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Kirk mumbles tiredly, when they reach his quarters.
“Captain,” Spock calls, then stops suddenly. He isn’t sure what to say, because if he thanks Kirk they will both have to acknowledge it, to acknowledge something, and Spock doesn’t think that is what Kirk wants.
But it seems his dilemma is superfluous. Kirk looks back at him, smiles a tired, barely-there smile, and nods. “Get some rest, Spock,” he says, patting Spock’s shoulder.
Sometimes, Spock thinks, words are drastically overrated.
--
“Jesus Christ, does it have to be so cold?” McCoy grumbles, stretching his hands over the fire, while Kirk and Spock are wrestling with the tent. “I mean, I knew that getting on the same shuttle with you two was a bad idea, but couldn’t we have crashed on some nice homey planet?”
“We didn’t exactly have a choice, Bones,” Kirk replies through gritted teeth as he and Spock push the last anchor into place. The tent’s heat generator has been damaged beyond repair, but at least it will protect them from the wind. “Whew. Well, I guess that’s something.” The captain eyes the result of their work critically, then sighs. “I’ll get us some water.”
“Water,” McCoy mutters. “Fat lot of good that’ll do. We’re stuck on this frozen rock, nobody knows where we are, and we can’t call them because - why can’t we call them, again?”
Spock comes to kneel beside the fire, trying to suppress his shivers. “Something is interfering with the emergency beacon, Doctor,” he explains patiently for the fourth time. “Perhaps when we ascend further up this mountain, the interference will decrease-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll freeze to death first.”
“Well, think of it this way, Bones,” Kirk yells from where he’s gathering water from a virulent mountain stream. “At least this place is beautiful.”
It is beautiful, Spock thinks, glancing around. For an L-class world, this planet is truly spectacular. Tall trees, somewhat reminiscent of Earth pines; grey rocks covered in moss some of which was in bloom; mountains and rivers… If it wasn’t for the sub-zero temperatures, this world would have been a tourist attraction.
“Some consolation,” McCoy snorts.
“What do you want? I’m an optimist,” Kirk sends back with a laugh.
Spock, who happens to look at him at that moment, is momentarily frozen. Sitting on one knee beside a stream, his face glowing from the cold, hair catching the last rays of sunlight, Kirk looks almost unnaturally in tune with the fiercely beautiful landscape around him. Sunset makes his eyes seem translucent like the stream running at his feet, and Spock feels his breath catch at the sight of Kirk’s smile.
The illusion of campfire lasts for a few more minutes, but the moment the sun disappears behind the mountain top, the cold intensifies tenfold, and they are left with no choice but to retreat into the tent immediately. It’s a tight fit, considering it’s designed for two people, and they only have one blanket between the three of them.
“Right,” Kirk says with forced cheerfulness. “Everyone’s dream scenario - we’re sleeping together to share body heat.”
McCoy curses under his breath, yet again complaining about Kirk’s piloting skills. Spock doesn’t say anything, because McCoy is disconcerted enough as it is, but privately he disagrees. Yes, they have lost most of the equipment; they don’t even have a single working tricorder left. But at least the three of them are alive and unharmed, and that is truly saying something.
McCoy settles in the middle without any fuss, and they spread the blanket over the three of them, huddling close. Spock is certain that there is no way he could possibly fall asleep in this kind of temperature and this close to a very ‘loud’ human, but the accumulated stress and the desperate march up the mountain must have taken their toll. He falls asleep before McCoy stops whining.
Exhaustion can only get him so far, though, and Spock wakes up a few short hours later, shivering and reaching instinctively after the source of warmth... only to discover that it’s not there. Awake for real this time, he lifts himself up on his elbows and looks around. The reason for his discomfort becomes instantly obvious. McCoy has turned onto his side in his sleep, pulling away from Spock and slumping against Kirk, draping an arm around him with his head resting in the crook of Kirk’s neck.
Spock stares, suddenly feeling much colder than he did a moment ago. Something is wrong with that image, something so very not right. It is, perhaps, the ease with which two bodies fit together; the effortless fashion that speaks of familiarity and welcome. Or maybe the manifestation of their subconscious wish to exclude him - which, Spock has the grace to realize, is illogical to the highest degree, and yet he can’t help the feeling. The cold must be affecting him quite deeply. It’s like there is a visual reminder in front of him that he can never be as close to Kirk as McCoy is, nor as easily and readily accepted.
It’s at this moment exactly that Spock realizes that Kirk’s eyes are open and trained on him.
The shock almost makes Spock stop shivering. They stare at each other in the darkness for several endless moments, saying nothing. Spock doesn’t know what is happening, doesn’t know what he is seeing. It seems to him, suddenly, that Kirk’s gaze is challenging in the dark, mocking him, daring him to say something. The air is cotton-thick and harsh like sandpaper, and Spock’s throat constricts painfully, leaving him a choice between not breathing and gulping for air like a fish thrown ashore.
Suddenly, Spock wants nothing more than to escape. He tucks the blanket under McCoy and rolls out of the tent before he has to endure another second of that.
The moonlight outside is almost painfully harsh. Spock pulls the parka tighter around himself; if he thought he was cold in the tent, it’s nothing compared to the outside.
A noise startles him, coming from the inside, like a grunt and muffled voices. Spock tenses. He doesn’t want to stay around for this. He doesn’t want pity.
Motion is a key to regaining body heat, Spock reminds himself faintly, and starts walking in no definite direction. All he knows is that he wants to get as far away from the camp as he can, as quickly as possible. His logical reasoning is arrested somewhere on the way to the higher temperatures, and he doesn’t question his actions. He has never felt this cold in his life, but the planet is only partially responsible for it. Spock purses his lips tight and quickens his pace.
He doesn’t know if it’s an hour or two later when he stumbles upon the wreckage of a small craft. At first, he’s startled thinking that he has somehow managed to make a twenty-mile trek toward the remains of their shuttle, but he sees his mistake quickly enough. The vessel - what’s left of it - is of an unfamiliar design, and the way its walls are covered in moss seems to indicate that it has been there for quite some time.
Without hesitating, Spock climbs inside to discover two bodies and a working homing beacon that looks just alien enough to be the reason for the Enterprise’s stranded crew’s communication difficulties. Spock tries to deactivate it, but his freezing hands won’t comply. In the end, he picks up a heavy enough piece of the wreckage and smashes the transmitter to pieces. For a moment, he just stands over it, uncomprehending, and reflecting, inexplicably, about the laws of universal irony.
Spock finds his way back to the camp long after the sun has risen. McCoy is the first to see him and immediately starts yelling.
“Spock, where the hell have you been? We couldn’t exactly organize a search party with just the two of us - what the hell were you thinking? You could have frozen to death out there!”
“Good morning to you, too, Doctor,” Spock says, but his tone is flat rather than sarcastic. He stalks toward a log laid beside the fire and slumps onto in heavily. “Captain, you should try contacting the ship again. I believe this time you might succeed.”
Kirk, who has been silently watching Spock from where he’s leaning against a reclining tree, solemnly responds, “Already have. Caught them just before they were about to leave the star system. They’ll pick us up in an hour.”
Spock musters just enough energy for a nod and stares unseeingly into the fire. Vaguely, he hears McCoy retreating back into the tent, but he doesn’t react to it, nor to the blanket the doctor throws over his shoulders a few moments later before stomping off again. Spock spaces out, warmed up just enough to feel something, and the next thing he knows, Kirk is sitting beside him, pressed against his side. Spock can’t even say how long he’s been there.
“I never knew you could be such an idiot,” Kirk says quietly. “Did you mean to scare me?”
“No.”
“Because if you did, it worked.”
“No, Captain.” It’s an effort, but Spock manages to move away, sliding to the other end of the log.
Kirk stares at him accusingly, but doesn’t follow. “Then what? What was that little stunt about? Bones and I were worried sick-”
Spock winces, and Kirk shuts up at once. “Oh,” he breathes out. “Oh.”
Spock wishes the ground would swallow him. His eyes are watering after staring for so long into the flames, but he doesn’t look away.
After a while, Kirk speaks again. “You’re an idiot,” he repeats, sounding hollow. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Spock closes his eyes, and doesn’t reply.
--
Kirk turns up in Spock’s quarters with a box of chocolate in his hands.
“Hey, look what someone left at your door.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “That... seems unlikely.”
“Why? Can’t you have a secret admirer? There’s bound to be someone on this ship who likes you better than I do.”
Spock suppresses a sigh. “Jim. How many times do I have to apologize-”
“Yeah, well, you know, obviously some more.” Kirk scowls. “You suck at it, by the way. Apologies, I mean.”
That would probably be because Spock doesn’t truly feel remorse over stepping in front of Kirk and taking a bolt to the chest meant for him. Spock doesn’t think his feelings on the matter will change, so the only option is to wait it out. Kirk - Jim - is a highly emotional individual, but it is perhaps for that very reason that he doesn’t hold on to his offenses for long. Spock has noticed that about him for some time.
As if in answer to Spock’s thoughts, Jim sighs. “I can’t stay mad at you for long. I have no problems staying mad at Bones, but you - there’s just something about you.” He shakes his head with a rueful grin. “You’re my blind spot, Spock. And you’re abusing it.”
“I am not,” Spock objects. “You are merely displeased when someone else employs your own usual modus operandi.”
“No one else ‘employs’ it but you, and you’re not ‘someone else,’” Jim grumbles, then sighs. “Boy, that didn’t exactly sound like haiku, did it?”
“Perhaps you should ‘get points’ for effort.”
“And perhaps you should stop being such a smartass when someone is trying to-”
Spock raises an eyebrow in inquiry, and Jim stares at him for a moment, before shaking his head. “You know what - never mind.” He hauls himself up to his feet. “See you on shift.”
Spock watches him go, then glances briefly at the box sitting on his desk accusingly like a fifth column.
“Jim,” Spock calls softly, halting him at the door. “Thank you for the chocolate.”
Jim doesn’t turn around, but the sudden stiffness in his stance is telltale. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles at last before stepping out.
Spock doesn’t quite smile, but it’s a close thing.
--
It’s possible that, somewhere along the way, Spock has lost his grip on objectivity.
The Starfleet promotional booklets that he read at sixteen promised him that enlisting would challenge everything he knew of the universe and himself, and perhaps that promise is finally coming through. Or maybe it had something to do with the destruction of his homeplanet, for it is said that, after such a loss, the mind is prone to wander.
Spock doesn’t know, can’t be certain. He is not even particularly interested, truth be told. Perhaps he has, as his human colleagues would so inelegantly put it, lost it completely.
They beam the captain up when there is little to no hope left, and Spock doesn’t think the transporter room has ever seen so much blood before, which is downright remarkable. The surgery lasts for five hours, and Spock wishes, illogically, that he had some pressing command duties, but he doesn’t. They are at warp, and there’s nothing for him to do but stand motionless before the opaqued window of the operation unit, attempting to pray. He’s awkward at it, not knowing how. He tries anyway.
Later, when Jim is transferred into intensive care and is breathing on his own again, Spock realizes that his priorities will never be with Starfleet or the mission from now on. There are things he cannot allow to happen again and never will.
In the morning, Jim opens his eyes, his face still a swollen, broken mess of features that McCoy will spend weeks to come to restore. He opens his eyes as wide as he can, which isn’t much at all - two slits of bright blue on the dark purple with smidges of yellow that makes up his face. He focuses with difficulty, and when his gaze rests on Spock, his bruised lips twitch, striving to curl into a smile.
Spock stands there, thinking that this is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
It’s possible that he has completely lost perspective.
--
The geological survey is underway. Satisfied with his teams’ deployments, Spock walks toward the hill slope where the captain is sitting, his face lifted toward the tender caresses of the sun and mild breeze.
Spock sits beside him quietly, knowing that Jim is aware of his presence. The planet around them is spectacularly lovely - a good place for a colony, should all tests reveal no hidden danger. Somehow, Spock believes this will be the case. There’s a definite, tangible sensation of tranquility floating in the sweet-smelling air, and this time, he feels, it can be trusted.
Jim easily diverts Spock’s attention away from the picturesque scenery. Jim’s expression is blissful, at peace, and Spock is grateful to whichever gods are watching over them, because it was very much ‘touch and go’ just two months ago. But McCoy is a genius, and Jim is not only back to full health, but carries no trace of his ordeal on the outside. His face is infinitely young and ostensibly innocent, seemingly untarnished by pain and grief.
Spock sees people being fooled by that face every day and that, more than anything, gets to him. He sticks close to Jim’s side, not caring about what people might think. His pride fell casualty to what Jim means to him a long time ago. Spock knows he’s being pathetic, but, strangely, it no longer bothers him as much as it used to.
Jim wrinkles his nose as a playful blow of wind makes a rogue lock of hair fall across his forehead, tickling the skin. Spock can’t help himself - he reaches out and pushes the rebellious strands out of the way. Jim looks at him and smiles, slow and soft. Gentle. Spock looks away.
“You’re in love with me,” Jim states quietly.
Spock winces. Briefly, the possibilities of deflection or a flat-out denial flash across his mind, but he takes a deep breath and chases them away.
“You know.”
It’s not quite a question, but Jim answers anyway. “I do. I’ve known for a while, Spock. Probably knew before you did.” He grins fleetingly. “You’re really terrible at this whole emotions-handling thing.” He nudges Spock lightly with his elbow. “Jealous of Bones? Really?”
Spock doesn’t comment. They sit in silence for a moment.
“If you knew,” Spock starts finally, “why did you never-”
“Confront you? Spock, every time I came even remotely close to mentioning something like that, you snapped closed like an Aldebaran shellmouth. I didn’t want to make you run for the hills.” Jim pauses, picking at a stem of grass absently. “I didn’t know how to let you know that it’s okay.”
“It is?”
Jim peers at him for a while, before shaking his head slightly, staring at the distant horizon. “I should really fire you,” he mutters, “for complete incompetence. For a science officer, you’re incredibly unobservant. And you’re a Vulcan. How tough can it be to make logical connections between someone’s actions and their meanings?”
Spock straightens up defensively. “Humans are a confusing race,” he almost snaps. “And I am not-”
“A mind reader?” Jim supplies with a grin. “No. I never would have thought that.”
“You are always laughing at me.”
Jim chuckles and shrugs. “Well, you’re funny. It’s not my fault I have a sense of humor.”
Spock sits quietly, not knowing where the conversation leaves him. He is relieved that Jim is not angry, but, apart from that, Spock has no idea what Jim is thinking. Some telepath he is, indeed, Spock muses with a bitter tinge of irony. Jim is right about him. Jim is...
...leaning over to Spock and kissing him.
Spock’s lips part in surprise, and Jim smiles briefly against his mouth before giving the kiss his full attention. It’s smooth, warm, and gentle, but with no trace of uncertainty or doubt. One of Jim’s hands slides to the nape of Spock’s neck, while the other braces him against the slope of the hill, fighting off gravity.
Pulling away briefly, Jim breathes, “Is this okay?”
Dazed, Spock nods faintly. “Yes.”
“Then kiss me back, Spock,” Jim asks softly. “Please?”
Their lips meet again, and this time, it’s less tentative, and Spock feels something inside him give, as if the permission to touch has finally sunk in. His hands fly up to hold Jim, pulling him close, and Spock feels dizzy, intoxicated on the feel of him, the smell of him. His every sense is being overloaded by Jim’s impossible proximity, and Spock revels in it, accepting his lack of control over it for the first time.
He succumbs to gravity, pulling Jim down with him and swallowing his surprised grunt. It feels overwhelming and yet not enough, and Spock rolls them over, pinning Jim down to the ground and kissing him within an inch of his life - deep, sharp, unexpectedly possessive. Jim’s hands drift down Spock’s back until they reach his ass and squeeze, and Spock’s teeth sink into Jim’s lower lip in retaliation, just hard enough to make a point.
Jim laughs, breaking the kiss. “Why, Spock, you’ve been holding out on me,” he teases, fingers tracing the shell of Spock’s ear. “If I’d known you’re such a wild cat, I’d have seduced you long ago, objections or no.”
“But you knew,” Spock says, mouthing at his jaw. “You knew.”
Jim sighs happily, tilting his head to give Spock better access. “I did,” he admits. “That’s why I wanted you so badly. God, do that again.”
Spock complies, pausing briefly to ask, “Only because of that?”
Jim smirks, hands cupping Spock’s face to let their eyes meet, and, just for a moment, his expression turns serious through all the mischief. “No, Mr. Spock. Not only.”
Jim pulls him down into another kiss, and Spock loses himself in the whirlpool of sensations completely. He opens his eyes at last with no idea of how much time has passed since he closed them to find himself lying flat on his back, Jim’s face hovering above him and smiling an extremely drunken smile.
“Jim,” Spock murmurs as Jim takes his hand and lifts it to his lips. “What are you-”
Jim kisses his knuckles gently, the touch of his lips a smooth, velvet slide that never ends, and Spock’s world explodes with colors and stray notes of music, as if a powerful drug has been injected into his system.
“I take it - you allowed yourself to feel it?” Jim whispers, watching his face, mesmerized.
His head spinning, barely coming down from the high for a moment, Spock manages to nod feebly.
Jim’s smile turns positively wicked. “Good.”
And if that is the extent of intelligent conversation between them for quite a few more hours to come, Spock finds that, for once, he does not mind in the slightest.
--
The official name of the day is the anniversary of the ‘Battle of Vulcan.’ In his mind, Spock never refers to it as such, and, as far as he knows, no other surviving Vulcans do, either.
Humans believe in names. They are convinced that ‘what you call it’ matters almost as much as what it is. Vulcans cannot support this kind of self-deluding mind trick, even if it works for the rest of the universe.
There was no battle. There was a massacre. There were seven ships - for all that Starfleet claims to be a peacekeeping armada, they could only spare seven ships manned by cadets - seven ships that flew into a trap and were destroyed before they could take a single shot. The Enterprise was spared. There was no battle.
But this is what the day is called. In every governmental facility and on every Starfleet vessel, black banners hanging in the corridors and common rooms mark it. Voices are hushed and rare smiles are guilty. It’s an enforced reminder.
Spock does not begrudge his shipmates their right to grieve. Starfleet lost over four thousand people on Vulcan, including personnel stationed on the planet. Spock has nothing against the day being used to honor their memory. Unfortunately, for him, it doesn’t end quite there.
Everywhere he goes today, people keep sending him pitying looks, sometimes coming over to tell him how sorry they are for his loss. They stare at him for minutes at a time, as if it’s suddenly not rude somehow, because they wish to express their sympathy. They expect a reaction, and Spock has lived among humans long enough to know that not providing any, not acknowledging their efforts, would mean grave offense.
To assign one day a year for grieving or showing sympathy is illogical. The pain was no stronger yesterday; it will be no less tomorrow. Yet, for one day a year, Spock becomes the loss of Vulcan personified, and he doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, but he truly wishes they didn’t. It’s taxing beyond the actual agony of loss, somehow. Perhaps Spock is a bad person, but, on this day, it is his dearest wish to be left alone.
Spock buzzes and is instantly admitted into the captain’s quarters, interrupted in the middle of his shift by a summons from Kirk.
“You wished to see me, Captain?”
“Ah, Spock.” Kirk emerges from the bedroom alcove, wearing his thermal sweat suit. “Go change, we’re going out.”
“Out, sir?”
“Out.” Kirk points up. “Remember that hull damage we got from that little run-in with the Nausicans? We’re going to repair it.”
“Sir, I believe a maintenance crew is scheduled to effect those repairs tomorrow. Team beta, if I am not mistaken.”
“They can take a break.” Kirk shrugs, pulling on his boots. “You and I can stand to get our hands a little dirty every once in a while, don’t you think?”
Spock opens his mouth, then closes it. “Yes, sir.”
“Great. Get someone to cover for you on the bridge and meet me at airlock fifteen in ten minutes.”
When Spock does come to the airlock, Kirk is already there, clasping the clamps on the EV suit. The silver fabric reflects the light unpleasantly, and Spock cringes internally while reaching for his own. He keeps expecting (dreading) Kirk to acknowledge the date somehow - everyone he met today so far has - but Kirk merely waits till Spock finishes fastening his gear and starts the decompression sequence.
It’s stunningly quiet outside. Their progress toward the damaged square of the hull is painfully slow, what with magnetic seals in their boots and the trunk with tools they are carrying between them, but Spock doesn’t mind. They don’t talk. Once there, they set to work in silence, disturbed only by an occasional request for an instrument or during the times when a team effort is required to straighten the plates.
There’s nothing out here but work, the familiar vibration of the ship, stars blinking softly all around them, and the amazing, most wonderful silence. For the first time today, Spock feels the tension abate.
Neither of them is very adept at this kind of work. Spock is out of practice, as he hasn’t done anything of the sort since his first tour of duty with Pike, and Kirk’s knowledge is more theoretical, the computer simulations at the Academy being the limit of his experience in these matters. As a result, their progress is slow, but, somehow, it doesn’t seem important. Spock has forgotten the last time he had to concentrate on every single action so hard, and it feels unexpectedly good to have all of his attention wound up and focused on a single, manual task.
At some point, Kirk asks Spock if he would like to take a break, since it’s well past the end of Alpha shift, but Spock declines. He volunteers to finish the job if Kirk requires rest and nourishment, but the captain declines as well, and Spock feels disinclined to protest.
For the first time in a long time, Spock loses track of time. His body begins to ache with fatigue - working in zero-G could be deceptive when applied to normal nerve-endings-to-brain signals - and that’s the only indication he has of the time elapsed. They are finally done and ready - perhaps more than ready - to get back inside, but Kirk halts Spock with a clumsy gesture of a suit-protected arm.
They stand for a while in silence, simply watching the spin of the universe passing by. Spock thinks of nothing and that - that is precious.
Their motions are painfully slow when they change, gravity telling them in no uncertain terms that eighteen hours of external work without a break was perhaps a bit extreme. Spock finds that he doesn’t care. There are no black banners and no pitying stares as they make their way to the officers’ deck, and he realizes, with a mild start, that the day has passed.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Kirk mumbles tiredly, when they reach his quarters.
“Captain,” Spock calls, then stops suddenly. He isn’t sure what to say, because if he thanks Kirk they will both have to acknowledge it, to acknowledge something, and Spock doesn’t think that is what Kirk wants.
But it seems his dilemma is superfluous. Kirk looks back at him, smiles a tired, barely-there smile, and nods. “Get some rest, Spock,” he says, patting Spock’s shoulder.
Sometimes, Spock thinks, words are drastically overrated.
--
“Jesus Christ, does it have to be so cold?” McCoy grumbles, stretching his hands over the fire, while Kirk and Spock are wrestling with the tent. “I mean, I knew that getting on the same shuttle with you two was a bad idea, but couldn’t we have crashed on some nice homey planet?”
“We didn’t exactly have a choice, Bones,” Kirk replies through gritted teeth as he and Spock push the last anchor into place. The tent’s heat generator has been damaged beyond repair, but at least it will protect them from the wind. “Whew. Well, I guess that’s something.” The captain eyes the result of their work critically, then sighs. “I’ll get us some water.”
“Water,” McCoy mutters. “Fat lot of good that’ll do. We’re stuck on this frozen rock, nobody knows where we are, and we can’t call them because - why can’t we call them, again?”
Spock comes to kneel beside the fire, trying to suppress his shivers. “Something is interfering with the emergency beacon, Doctor,” he explains patiently for the fourth time. “Perhaps when we ascend further up this mountain, the interference will decrease-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ll freeze to death first.”
“Well, think of it this way, Bones,” Kirk yells from where he’s gathering water from a virulent mountain stream. “At least this place is beautiful.”
It is beautiful, Spock thinks, glancing around. For an L-class world, this planet is truly spectacular. Tall trees, somewhat reminiscent of Earth pines; grey rocks covered in moss some of which was in bloom; mountains and rivers… If it wasn’t for the sub-zero temperatures, this world would have been a tourist attraction.
“Some consolation,” McCoy snorts.
“What do you want? I’m an optimist,” Kirk sends back with a laugh.
Spock, who happens to look at him at that moment, is momentarily frozen. Sitting on one knee beside a stream, his face glowing from the cold, hair catching the last rays of sunlight, Kirk looks almost unnaturally in tune with the fiercely beautiful landscape around him. Sunset makes his eyes seem translucent like the stream running at his feet, and Spock feels his breath catch at the sight of Kirk’s smile.
The illusion of campfire lasts for a few more minutes, but the moment the sun disappears behind the mountain top, the cold intensifies tenfold, and they are left with no choice but to retreat into the tent immediately. It’s a tight fit, considering it’s designed for two people, and they only have one blanket between the three of them.
“Right,” Kirk says with forced cheerfulness. “Everyone’s dream scenario - we’re sleeping together to share body heat.”
McCoy curses under his breath, yet again complaining about Kirk’s piloting skills. Spock doesn’t say anything, because McCoy is disconcerted enough as it is, but privately he disagrees. Yes, they have lost most of the equipment; they don’t even have a single working tricorder left. But at least the three of them are alive and unharmed, and that is truly saying something.
McCoy settles in the middle without any fuss, and they spread the blanket over the three of them, huddling close. Spock is certain that there is no way he could possibly fall asleep in this kind of temperature and this close to a very ‘loud’ human, but the accumulated stress and the desperate march up the mountain must have taken their toll. He falls asleep before McCoy stops whining.
Exhaustion can only get him so far, though, and Spock wakes up a few short hours later, shivering and reaching instinctively after the source of warmth... only to discover that it’s not there. Awake for real this time, he lifts himself up on his elbows and looks around. The reason for his discomfort becomes instantly obvious. McCoy has turned onto his side in his sleep, pulling away from Spock and slumping against Kirk, draping an arm around him with his head resting in the crook of Kirk’s neck.
Spock stares, suddenly feeling much colder than he did a moment ago. Something is wrong with that image, something so very not right. It is, perhaps, the ease with which two bodies fit together; the effortless fashion that speaks of familiarity and welcome. Or maybe the manifestation of their subconscious wish to exclude him - which, Spock has the grace to realize, is illogical to the highest degree, and yet he can’t help the feeling. The cold must be affecting him quite deeply. It’s like there is a visual reminder in front of him that he can never be as close to Kirk as McCoy is, nor as easily and readily accepted.
It’s at this moment exactly that Spock realizes that Kirk’s eyes are open and trained on him.
The shock almost makes Spock stop shivering. They stare at each other in the darkness for several endless moments, saying nothing. Spock doesn’t know what is happening, doesn’t know what he is seeing. It seems to him, suddenly, that Kirk’s gaze is challenging in the dark, mocking him, daring him to say something. The air is cotton-thick and harsh like sandpaper, and Spock’s throat constricts painfully, leaving him a choice between not breathing and gulping for air like a fish thrown ashore.
Suddenly, Spock wants nothing more than to escape. He tucks the blanket under McCoy and rolls out of the tent before he has to endure another second of that.
The moonlight outside is almost painfully harsh. Spock pulls the parka tighter around himself; if he thought he was cold in the tent, it’s nothing compared to the outside.
A noise startles him, coming from the inside, like a grunt and muffled voices. Spock tenses. He doesn’t want to stay around for this. He doesn’t want pity.
Motion is a key to regaining body heat, Spock reminds himself faintly, and starts walking in no definite direction. All he knows is that he wants to get as far away from the camp as he can, as quickly as possible. His logical reasoning is arrested somewhere on the way to the higher temperatures, and he doesn’t question his actions. He has never felt this cold in his life, but the planet is only partially responsible for it. Spock purses his lips tight and quickens his pace.
He doesn’t know if it’s an hour or two later when he stumbles upon the wreckage of a small craft. At first, he’s startled thinking that he has somehow managed to make a twenty-mile trek toward the remains of their shuttle, but he sees his mistake quickly enough. The vessel - what’s left of it - is of an unfamiliar design, and the way its walls are covered in moss seems to indicate that it has been there for quite some time.
Without hesitating, Spock climbs inside to discover two bodies and a working homing beacon that looks just alien enough to be the reason for the Enterprise’s stranded crew’s communication difficulties. Spock tries to deactivate it, but his freezing hands won’t comply. In the end, he picks up a heavy enough piece of the wreckage and smashes the transmitter to pieces. For a moment, he just stands over it, uncomprehending, and reflecting, inexplicably, about the laws of universal irony.
Spock finds his way back to the camp long after the sun has risen. McCoy is the first to see him and immediately starts yelling.
“Spock, where the hell have you been? We couldn’t exactly organize a search party with just the two of us - what the hell were you thinking? You could have frozen to death out there!”
“Good morning to you, too, Doctor,” Spock says, but his tone is flat rather than sarcastic. He stalks toward a log laid beside the fire and slumps onto in heavily. “Captain, you should try contacting the ship again. I believe this time you might succeed.”
Kirk, who has been silently watching Spock from where he’s leaning against a reclining tree, solemnly responds, “Already have. Caught them just before they were about to leave the star system. They’ll pick us up in an hour.”
Spock musters just enough energy for a nod and stares unseeingly into the fire. Vaguely, he hears McCoy retreating back into the tent, but he doesn’t react to it, nor to the blanket the doctor throws over his shoulders a few moments later before stomping off again. Spock spaces out, warmed up just enough to feel something, and the next thing he knows, Kirk is sitting beside him, pressed against his side. Spock can’t even say how long he’s been there.
“I never knew you could be such an idiot,” Kirk says quietly. “Did you mean to scare me?”
“No.”
“Because if you did, it worked.”
“No, Captain.” It’s an effort, but Spock manages to move away, sliding to the other end of the log.
Kirk stares at him accusingly, but doesn’t follow. “Then what? What was that little stunt about? Bones and I were worried sick-”
Spock winces, and Kirk shuts up at once. “Oh,” he breathes out. “Oh.”
Spock wishes the ground would swallow him. His eyes are watering after staring for so long into the flames, but he doesn’t look away.
After a while, Kirk speaks again. “You’re an idiot,” he repeats, sounding hollow. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Spock closes his eyes, and doesn’t reply.
--
Kirk turns up in Spock’s quarters with a box of chocolate in his hands.
“Hey, look what someone left at your door.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “That... seems unlikely.”
“Why? Can’t you have a secret admirer? There’s bound to be someone on this ship who likes you better than I do.”
Spock suppresses a sigh. “Jim. How many times do I have to apologize-”
“Yeah, well, you know, obviously some more.” Kirk scowls. “You suck at it, by the way. Apologies, I mean.”
That would probably be because Spock doesn’t truly feel remorse over stepping in front of Kirk and taking a bolt to the chest meant for him. Spock doesn’t think his feelings on the matter will change, so the only option is to wait it out. Kirk - Jim - is a highly emotional individual, but it is perhaps for that very reason that he doesn’t hold on to his offenses for long. Spock has noticed that about him for some time.
As if in answer to Spock’s thoughts, Jim sighs. “I can’t stay mad at you for long. I have no problems staying mad at Bones, but you - there’s just something about you.” He shakes his head with a rueful grin. “You’re my blind spot, Spock. And you’re abusing it.”
“I am not,” Spock objects. “You are merely displeased when someone else employs your own usual modus operandi.”
“No one else ‘employs’ it but you, and you’re not ‘someone else,’” Jim grumbles, then sighs. “Boy, that didn’t exactly sound like haiku, did it?”
“Perhaps you should ‘get points’ for effort.”
“And perhaps you should stop being such a smartass when someone is trying to-”
Spock raises an eyebrow in inquiry, and Jim stares at him for a moment, before shaking his head. “You know what - never mind.” He hauls himself up to his feet. “See you on shift.”
Spock watches him go, then glances briefly at the box sitting on his desk accusingly like a fifth column.
“Jim,” Spock calls softly, halting him at the door. “Thank you for the chocolate.”
Jim doesn’t turn around, but the sudden stiffness in his stance is telltale. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles at last before stepping out.
Spock doesn’t quite smile, but it’s a close thing.
--
It’s possible that, somewhere along the way, Spock has lost his grip on objectivity.
The Starfleet promotional booklets that he read at sixteen promised him that enlisting would challenge everything he knew of the universe and himself, and perhaps that promise is finally coming through. Or maybe it had something to do with the destruction of his homeplanet, for it is said that, after such a loss, the mind is prone to wander.
Spock doesn’t know, can’t be certain. He is not even particularly interested, truth be told. Perhaps he has, as his human colleagues would so inelegantly put it, lost it completely.
They beam the captain up when there is little to no hope left, and Spock doesn’t think the transporter room has ever seen so much blood before, which is downright remarkable. The surgery lasts for five hours, and Spock wishes, illogically, that he had some pressing command duties, but he doesn’t. They are at warp, and there’s nothing for him to do but stand motionless before the opaqued window of the operation unit, attempting to pray. He’s awkward at it, not knowing how. He tries anyway.
Later, when Jim is transferred into intensive care and is breathing on his own again, Spock realizes that his priorities will never be with Starfleet or the mission from now on. There are things he cannot allow to happen again and never will.
In the morning, Jim opens his eyes, his face still a swollen, broken mess of features that McCoy will spend weeks to come to restore. He opens his eyes as wide as he can, which isn’t much at all - two slits of bright blue on the dark purple with smidges of yellow that makes up his face. He focuses with difficulty, and when his gaze rests on Spock, his bruised lips twitch, striving to curl into a smile.
Spock stands there, thinking that this is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
It’s possible that he has completely lost perspective.
--
The geological survey is underway. Satisfied with his teams’ deployments, Spock walks toward the hill slope where the captain is sitting, his face lifted toward the tender caresses of the sun and mild breeze.
Spock sits beside him quietly, knowing that Jim is aware of his presence. The planet around them is spectacularly lovely - a good place for a colony, should all tests reveal no hidden danger. Somehow, Spock believes this will be the case. There’s a definite, tangible sensation of tranquility floating in the sweet-smelling air, and this time, he feels, it can be trusted.
Jim easily diverts Spock’s attention away from the picturesque scenery. Jim’s expression is blissful, at peace, and Spock is grateful to whichever gods are watching over them, because it was very much ‘touch and go’ just two months ago. But McCoy is a genius, and Jim is not only back to full health, but carries no trace of his ordeal on the outside. His face is infinitely young and ostensibly innocent, seemingly untarnished by pain and grief.
Spock sees people being fooled by that face every day and that, more than anything, gets to him. He sticks close to Jim’s side, not caring about what people might think. His pride fell casualty to what Jim means to him a long time ago. Spock knows he’s being pathetic, but, strangely, it no longer bothers him as much as it used to.
Jim wrinkles his nose as a playful blow of wind makes a rogue lock of hair fall across his forehead, tickling the skin. Spock can’t help himself - he reaches out and pushes the rebellious strands out of the way. Jim looks at him and smiles, slow and soft. Gentle. Spock looks away.
“You’re in love with me,” Jim states quietly.
Spock winces. Briefly, the possibilities of deflection or a flat-out denial flash across his mind, but he takes a deep breath and chases them away.
“You know.”
It’s not quite a question, but Jim answers anyway. “I do. I’ve known for a while, Spock. Probably knew before you did.” He grins fleetingly. “You’re really terrible at this whole emotions-handling thing.” He nudges Spock lightly with his elbow. “Jealous of Bones? Really?”
Spock doesn’t comment. They sit in silence for a moment.
“If you knew,” Spock starts finally, “why did you never-”
“Confront you? Spock, every time I came even remotely close to mentioning something like that, you snapped closed like an Aldebaran shellmouth. I didn’t want to make you run for the hills.” Jim pauses, picking at a stem of grass absently. “I didn’t know how to let you know that it’s okay.”
“It is?”
Jim peers at him for a while, before shaking his head slightly, staring at the distant horizon. “I should really fire you,” he mutters, “for complete incompetence. For a science officer, you’re incredibly unobservant. And you’re a Vulcan. How tough can it be to make logical connections between someone’s actions and their meanings?”
Spock straightens up defensively. “Humans are a confusing race,” he almost snaps. “And I am not-”
“A mind reader?” Jim supplies with a grin. “No. I never would have thought that.”
“You are always laughing at me.”
Jim chuckles and shrugs. “Well, you’re funny. It’s not my fault I have a sense of humor.”
Spock sits quietly, not knowing where the conversation leaves him. He is relieved that Jim is not angry, but, apart from that, Spock has no idea what Jim is thinking. Some telepath he is, indeed, Spock muses with a bitter tinge of irony. Jim is right about him. Jim is...
...leaning over to Spock and kissing him.
Spock’s lips part in surprise, and Jim smiles briefly against his mouth before giving the kiss his full attention. It’s smooth, warm, and gentle, but with no trace of uncertainty or doubt. One of Jim’s hands slides to the nape of Spock’s neck, while the other braces him against the slope of the hill, fighting off gravity.
Pulling away briefly, Jim breathes, “Is this okay?”
Dazed, Spock nods faintly. “Yes.”
“Then kiss me back, Spock,” Jim asks softly. “Please?”
Their lips meet again, and this time, it’s less tentative, and Spock feels something inside him give, as if the permission to touch has finally sunk in. His hands fly up to hold Jim, pulling him close, and Spock feels dizzy, intoxicated on the feel of him, the smell of him. His every sense is being overloaded by Jim’s impossible proximity, and Spock revels in it, accepting his lack of control over it for the first time.
He succumbs to gravity, pulling Jim down with him and swallowing his surprised grunt. It feels overwhelming and yet not enough, and Spock rolls them over, pinning Jim down to the ground and kissing him within an inch of his life - deep, sharp, unexpectedly possessive. Jim’s hands drift down Spock’s back until they reach his ass and squeeze, and Spock’s teeth sink into Jim’s lower lip in retaliation, just hard enough to make a point.
Jim laughs, breaking the kiss. “Why, Spock, you’ve been holding out on me,” he teases, fingers tracing the shell of Spock’s ear. “If I’d known you’re such a wild cat, I’d have seduced you long ago, objections or no.”
“But you knew,” Spock says, mouthing at his jaw. “You knew.”
Jim sighs happily, tilting his head to give Spock better access. “I did,” he admits. “That’s why I wanted you so badly. God, do that again.”
Spock complies, pausing briefly to ask, “Only because of that?”
Jim smirks, hands cupping Spock’s face to let their eyes meet, and, just for a moment, his expression turns serious through all the mischief. “No, Mr. Spock. Not only.”
Jim pulls him down into another kiss, and Spock loses himself in the whirlpool of sensations completely. He opens his eyes at last with no idea of how much time has passed since he closed them to find himself lying flat on his back, Jim’s face hovering above him and smiling an extremely drunken smile.
“Jim,” Spock murmurs as Jim takes his hand and lifts it to his lips. “What are you-”
Jim kisses his knuckles gently, the touch of his lips a smooth, velvet slide that never ends, and Spock’s world explodes with colors and stray notes of music, as if a powerful drug has been injected into his system.
“I take it - you allowed yourself to feel it?” Jim whispers, watching his face, mesmerized.
His head spinning, barely coming down from the high for a moment, Spock manages to nod feebly.
Jim’s smile turns positively wicked. “Good.”
And if that is the extent of intelligent conversation between them for quite a few more hours to come, Spock finds that, for once, he does not mind in the slightest.