Papers in the Roadside 3/5
Part 2/5 <<
--
As it turns out, ‘black tie’ means Jim will have to wear a tuxedo.
When Gaila enlightens him on the subject, Jim almost chickens out of going all together, because he doesn’t think he’s ever actually worn a suit, never mind a tux. He’s certainly never owned one and has never come close to a place where people were required to wear them.
If Spock were there, Jim would have probably apologized and bailed, but Spock is off planet for the whole week, working on some project on Tellar Prime. He sends Jim a short text message on Thursday confirming their plans and asking if Jim could pick him up on Friday.
Jim realizes he’s doomed, and sends Gaila to pick a suit for him. He has no idea how to even buy something like that, anyway.
“I was thinking about your eyes, sweetie,” she tells him as she hands him a rather bulky package. “Take it out now, let it hang.”
Jim carries the thing upstairs as if it’s prone to exploding. When he does pull it out, he freezes for a moment, staring. He gets what Gaila meant immediately, but it doesn’t make him any less nervous.
The tux isn’t traditional black or even green (which really isn’t the new black, but some people still try). No, Jim’s tux is navy blue, the darkest possible hue, and it’s so damn fancy that Jim is almost afraid to touch it. The dress shirt he finds in the box is so blindingly white that it’s almost painful to look at. Jim also finds a bowtie and a pair of shoes inside, and swears.
This must be what hell feels like.
Jim tries to concentrate on the fun part. He’ll get to hear passages from the new novel by his favorite author, after all. Maybe he’ll even manage to steal a copy.
But no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that Spock has invited him in the spirit of that BFF thing they have going on, it still feels disturbingly like a date, and Jim cannot imagine a worse setting. He knows the cutlery, thanks to his profession, but apart from that, there are so many ways he could screw things up that it’s absolutely terrifying.
Jim barely sleeps that night and has to drink nearly his weight in coffee the next morning, but then there’s an unexpected problem with the plumbing in the men’s room and Jim all but forgets about the party trying to fix it. There are irritated customers to placate and drinks to prepare, and Jim dives into the familiar whirlwind so readily that when Gaila tells him that it’s six o’clock, it comes as a shock.
Jim rushes upstairs and contemplates drowning in his shower.
He dresses with numb hands, and allows Gaila to style his hair. He’s almost afraid to look in the mirror.
“Well,” Gaila says thoughtfully. “If he doesn’t jump you after this, he’s probably dead.”
Jim swallows and tries to come to terms with the fact that the striking stranger with his eyes is really him. He feels awkward and uncomfortable and afraid to move.
Gaila looks at his face, sighs, and slaps him hard on the ass. “Don’t sweat it, princess. Remember who you are.”
“Thanks, Gaila,” Jim says dryly.
Because this is Jim’s life, Spock lives in a freaking mansion - a beautiful three-floor house with an honest to God front garden, small but still there - at the very end of the North State Parkway. Spock must have an amazing view of the lake from his upper balcony, and Jim doesn’t want to think how much money Spock is actually making to be able to maintain the building in such perfect state.
Feeling very much like a certain Bernard Shaw character, Jim takes a long route to Spock’s house that involves driving around in circles, but still manages to arrive half an hour early. Jim thinks briefly about sitting in the car the extra time, but eventually decides against it. He simply can’t stay immobile for another minute.
When he presses the chime, however, there’s no immediate answer.
Jim buzzes again, and then takes a couple of steps to the side, trying so see through the narrow windows if there’s anyone inside. It’s not like Spock to be late, but-
The door finally opens, and Jim sighs in relief and then he laughs.
It hasn’t occurred to him that he might actually wake Spock, but in a moment he remembers that Spock’s shuttle only landed about four hours ago, and Spock was probably trying to catch up on some sleep. Jim seems to remember him mentioning something about an early deadline and a tight schedule on Tellar. Knowing Spock, the chances are great that he had simply worked non-stop from the moment he left Earth on Sunday. Jim has already witnessed the way Spock loses all awareness of his surroundings, never mind physical needs, when he’s deeply into investigating or working things out. No wonder he decided to hit the sack the first chance he got.
Spock is wearing a grey t-shirt and sweatpants that hang incredibly low on his hips, teasingly exposing a line of skin. His hair is in much more disarray than usual, and his eyes look soft, unfocused. The drowsy expression makes the lines of Spock’s face turn gentler, smoothing the angles. He looks warm and boneless and Jim wants to snuggle him, kiss the relaxed, sleepy line of his mouth, and count his lashes.
Which, oh dear God, not helping.
“Jim.” Spock blinks, and then blinks again, and then he stares. “You are... early.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jim grins sheepishly.
“No.” Jim has never seen Spock quite so dazed. It’s cute. “I apologize.” Spock runs a hand over his face, in an endearingly human gesture. “I appear to have slept through my alarm. This is most inappropriate.”
He looks annoyed with himself, and Jim shrugs. “Oh, come on, no harm done. I’ll just wait till you shower or something.”
“Of course.” Spock nods, stepping back. “Please come in.”
Jim steps over the threshold, taking in his surroundings curiously. The house is obviously old, but it carries the traces of more or less recent renovation. Jim figures that Spock was aiming to preserve as much of the original interior as possible, because the living room looks a little antiquated, if impeccably neat, and not exactly like something Spock himself might have chosen.
Jim is enthralled by the wooden panels, though. The year he had spent working as a carpenter in Florida has always been one of his dearest memories, because, as it turned out, Jim liked working with wood. He turns around to ask Spock about the original decorator only to find Spock standing by the door, looking, for all intents and purposes, still sleepy as hell, with an odd, glassy expression in his eyes.
Jim’s heart immediately sinks.
“Spock? Is something wrong?”
Spock actually winces at the sound of Jim’s voice. “No,” he says hastily. “No, I was merely...” He swallows. “You look very handsome, Jim. That color suits you.”
“Really?”
Spock nods.
Jim can’t help a relieved smile. “Oh, thank God. I feel like an impostor in this monkey suit.” He tugs at his collar ineffectually. Then, because he’s Jim Kirk, he smirks. “Do you want to take a picture, or go get dressed?”
Spock nods again, ungluing himself from the door at last. “I will be with you shortly. Please make yourself at home.”
Grinning, Jim watches him climb the stairs and shakes his head before taking a real look around.
The living room looks neat, but somehow undisturbed. By the looks of it, Spock might enjoy watching the news while stretched on the sofa, but hasn’t had the time in awhile.
Taking Spock’s invitation to heart, Jim wanders into the dining room to find it carrying even less traces of being used sometime during this life of any of the house owners. It’s impeccably clean - Spock must have a squad of really advanced cleaning drones - but the delicate flowery design of the wallpaper and elaborate lacings of the tablecloth reminds Jim of a century old installation in a museum rather than an actual living space. Across the hall is another door, leading presumably to a study, but, although Jim is curious, he decides not to push it.
It suddenly strikes him that the house is enormously big for one person. There must be at least four bedrooms upstairs, and God only knows what the floor beyond that is for. Jim tries to imagine how it must feel to spend one’s days in these pristine rooms - gorgeous, but empty.
He’d have gotten a dog, he thinks. But then, Spock is frequently off-planet, so a dog probably isn’t an option.
Sighing, Jim drifts into the kitchen, and here, finally he finds a place that looks like someone might have actually used it during this century.
It’s big and bright, lots of crème and cocoa with a drop of terracotta every now and then. From the elaborate kitchenware, Jim concludes that Spock must cook, though, by the looks of it, not very often. At least he actually owns a stove and a fridge, unlike most people, in addition to a replicator.
Jim opens the fridge out of curiosity and grins to himself. Barely half-stocked, mostly with vegetables. A pack of lettuce looks like its better days are way behind it, and Jim drops it to the recycler, thinking that Spock’s mother must have despaired of him a lot.
He opens another chamber and stares for a moment in surprise at the battery of cans he finds there. A smirk stretches across Jim’s lips and he chuckles, picking one before closing the fridge.
Blueberry juice.
So that’s the elusive favorite drink Jim hasn’t been able to find yet. Judging by the number of cans, and the fact that they seem to come all the way from Finland, Spock is not only a fan but also a snob, and Jim’s got him good now.
He sets the can on the counter, shuffling cocktail recipes in his head in his quest for revenge, when a voice comes out of nowhere.
“I see you found the refreshments.”
Jim spins on his heel, startled because he hasn’t heard the sound of footsteps, and freezes, catching the sight of the man in the doorway.
Spock is stunning.
In his black, tailored tux, he seems to have come straight from a million credit Hennessey commercial, but with his would-be carelessly disheveled hair and a tantalizing glow spreading across his freshly shaven cheeks, he also looks like a star of a triple-X porno, and the insane mixture is doing horrible things to Jim’s blood pressure.
It’s not like he hasn’t known that Spock is hot. Spock is fucking smoking on any given day, and Jim knows that, down to his bones. But his friend’s sexuality has never before been such a tangible, aggressive presence in the room, seizing all attention and demanding acknowledgement.
The worst of it is that Spock apparently has no idea about what’s going on. He frowns slightly in obvious concern. The noble ivory of his shirt brings out his eyes like an ice cube dropped into a glass of an extra old whiskey, and the smooth black band that he’s wearing instead of a bowtie makes him look exquisite and one of a kind and for some reason makes Jim think about fallen priests, and that is just so wrong-
“Jim?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, sounding dazed to his own ears. He shakes his head forcefully and grins. “Yeah. Sorry, you startled me. You, um - you clean up nicely.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “I confess I have never understood that particular expression.” He reaches for a glass. “Would you like some juice?”
“What? Oh, um, no. No, thanks. Actually, you shouldn’t, either-”
But Spock is already raising the glass to his lips and taking a long swig. “Why not?” he asks, confused.
Because now you look like there’s dark purple gloss covering your lips and this is seriously more than I can take.
“Blueberry leaves stains on skin,” Jim explains lamely, trying to tear his eyes away from Spock’s lips. “You, uh, you might want to-”
“Oh.” Spock picks up a napkin and, after a barely detectable moment of hesitation, offers it to Jim. “Would you mind? I cannot see myself.”
Use a fucking mirror! God, I can’t do this…
“Sure, uh - c’mere.”
Trustingly, Spock steps closer to Jim, leaning against the counter and tilting his head to catch the light. Jim takes his chin gently with one hand to hold him still, and presses the napkin carefully to Spock’s bottom lip, progressing in slow, measured motions. Spock’s lips part to give him better access, and Jim holds his breath. He deserves some kind of medal for this.
Blueberry being its usual bitchy self, Jim has to rub the cloth a little harder against the tender skin. He can’t hear Spock’s breath, but he can feel it from the point of contact all the way down to his toes. It’s excruciating, and as Jim leans back to observe his handiwork, he suppresses a groan. He’s taken most of the juice off, but now Spock’s lips look puffed and obscenely bright, firm lines smudged around the edges, and Jim can think of nothing but sucking on them until he can do considerably more damage.
“All set,” he manages, and makes himself step away.
“Thank you.” Spock straightens up and inclines his head politely, lifting his fingers instinctively to touch his lips. Jim looks away. “If you’re ready to go, then?”
“God, yes. Let’s hit the road.”
The cool air outside is a welcome change and Jim takes a deep breath, reveling in the richness of oxygen. Spock shoots him a concerned look but doesn’t comment, and Jim grins in gratitude and relief.
Once in the car, he asks Spock about his trip, and the conversation helps easing the suffocating tension a little bit as Jim adjusts to this new reality of Spock, who doesn’t even try to contain what he is. It does take some getting used to, but if Jim keeps his eyes on the road as he’s supposed to, he can almost get by.
--
The reception hall of the Galaxy Hotel is glowing with light and alive with soft music and beautiful people. For a few moments, Jim feels a little dazzled by the glimmer and shine, his stomach drifting up uncertainly as if someone has turned off the gravity. He glances at Spock again and is struck by how perfectly at ease his friend seems. Spock looks like he belongs here, as an integrated part of the world of rich and famous, and it makes Jim wonder, once again, what he is even doing here.
Spock walks through the crowd without paying much attention to those smiling at him. Jim doesn’t know what to make of it, so when he catches a glimpse of a particularly enthusiastic group waving at Spock and calling his name, he tugs at Spock’s sleeve.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your friends?”
Spock follows Jim’s gaze and inclines his head stiffly in response to the greetings, but says merely, “Perhaps later.” He signals a nearby server. “Champagne?”
Jim exhales. “Yes please.”
He downs his glass in one go, which might not be the brightest of ideas, but Jim needs something to carry him through this. Spock watches him with a bemused expression. When Jim merely grins wryly and reaches for Spock’s untouched glass, Spock gives it up without a word.
“Man, I am so going to embarrass you,” Jim mutters, sipping this glass of champagne at a more reasonable pace.
“Of course not,” Spock says disinterestedly, his eyes passively sweeping over the room.
“How do you even do this?” Jim blurts out, trying to return what looks like the fourth toothy smile of a tall dark-haired lady in a jaw-dropping red dress. “Being on display like this, it’s...” He trails off, unable to articulate his thoughts.
“I have a certain amount of experience,” Spock replies, frowning for some reason. Jim isn’t sure if Spock steps in front of him by accident or design. “Official Vulcan functions are considerably more formal and - invasive, for lack of a better term. I was forced to participate in them since I was six.”
Jim tries to imagine being scrutinized by two hundred of stiff-looking Vulcans who probably disapprove of breathing too loudly, never mind having fun, and has to admit that Spock has a point.
“Spock!” They both hear a loud shriek and Spock freezes. “You naughty, naughty boy, you - gotcha now!”
Jim turns to see a petite vividly blond woman heading for them at what looks like warp speed. She isn’t wearing a dress so much as an excuse for one, and anywhere else in the world she would have been arrested for public indecency. She seems vaguely familiar, but Jim doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, as the determined lady all but jumps at Spock, hands clenching behind his neck. Spock turns rigid as a statue, but the woman doesn’t seem perturbed.
“Long time no see, huh?” she purrs in Spock’s ear, but she’s staring at Jim. “Introduce me to your arm candy? Pretty, pretty please?”
She wiggles her hips suggestively, and Spock manages to stiffen another notch. Jim can see his fists curling and uncurling. If he brought on that reaction, he’d be nervous as hell, but the lady is obviously unaware that there are people on this planet who might find her unwanted.
“Aw, Spocky, he’s so gorgeous,” she coos, and then decides to finally talk to Jim. “You’re gorgeous. Any time you wanna do me, I’m wet and ready for you, baby, you got that?” She reaches with one hand to pat his cheek, and Jim only barely manages not to jerk back. “Spocky here has my number, though he’s such a dull boy, he never calls.” She pouts in disapproval, before beaming at Jim. “See ya later, hot stuff!”
She stalks away finally, swaying on her ridiculously high pumps.
Jim looks at Spock and sees a barely perceptible shiver running down his body. Jim grips Spock’s elbow without thinking. “You okay?”
“Indeed.” Spock nods, composing himself with a visible effort. “I am sorry about this, Jim.”
“Not your fault.” Jim shrugs, and peers over Spock’s shoulder. “Was that really Reese Carlton?”
“Yes,” Spock replies tightly. “And I assure you, I do not have her number.”
“Shame,” Jim says, grinning.
Spock stiffens and glances sharply at him. “If you wish, I could-”
“What? No! Sorry, Spock, it was just a joke. I guess this setting really freaks me out.”
Spock relaxes a little. “You do not need to worry, Jim. We’re here for the reading. And I will not leave your side.”
That brings Jim up short, because he might not be as worldly as Spock obviously is, but he doesn’t need anybody’s charity - least of all Spock’s.
“I don’t need you to babysit me. If you want to go chat with your friends, I’ll be fine.” Jim looks around for the nearest target, who happens to be a bright-eyed Deltan male in a malachite green tux, and leers at him. The Deltan looks surprised for a moment, then smiles encouragingly in return.
Spock observes the exchange calmly, straightens up, and steps back. “Very well,” he says. “If that is what you wish.”
He turns around and dives into the crowd faster than Jim can call after him.
“Well, that went well,” Jim mutters in frustration.
It’s this damn party, he thinks glumly. It’s spurred him into full defense mode, and he never had any illusions that his ‘fight or fight’ instincts are anything but ugly. Most people, after all, at least consider including the ‘flight’ option.
The Deltan is closing in on him now, and Jim groans mentally, looking for an escape route. Fortunately for him, the lights begin to dim at this moment, and an announcer asks everyone to take their places.
Jim looks around for Spock as he moves toward the back row of the seats, but the Vulcan is nowhere to be found. Jim curses under his breath and drops down to a chair, fuming and completely ignoring all the provocative smiles sent his way.
--
Ravoux Garan is a force of nature.
Jim has seen the holos of the man before, but he’s still somewhat surprised by how short he is. Bushy brown hair, mischievous eyes, a wrinkled tux that looks like Garan stole it from his older brother - Jim grins. He definitely likes the guy for a reason. It just beats him how so much energy and charisma could be secluded into such a compact form.
Garan talks about his upcoming novel and reads passages from several chapters. Jim is enthralled and dying to buy the damn thing, but he can’t fully concentrate on the reading. He keeps glancing along the rows of seats, trying to find Spock, but it’s pretty dark, and the audience is no small crowd. Jim shifts in his seat restlessly, torn between enjoying his once-in-a-lifetime moment and desperately missing Spock at his side.
The moment the lights are back on, Jim leaps to his feet, but even amidst all the applause, the thoughts of getting an autograph are the furthest thing from his mind.
The reception restarts with a fresh load of champagne and more delicious snacks, but Jim wanders over the crowded hall looking for one person only. He doesn’t care anymore about being scrutinized or about the ache in his spine from holding himself too stiffly.
“Norbert does come off as codependent and helpless, doesn’t he? Did you write him like that for a better contrast with Shelby?”
Jim looks around to see Garan standing in the middle of a small circle. Jim narrows his eyes at the man who asked the question and dislikes him immediately.
“Codependent - perhaps, to a degree,” Garan muses calmly, where Jim would have punched the arrogant bastard. “Helpless - hardly. He is on call for everyone he knows. It is merely his own issues that he is unwilling to settle, and that, my dear fellow, is a choice.”
The guy frowns. “That doesn’t sound at all like neo-utilitarianism at all.”
“That’s because it mostly applies to jerks,” Jim interjects before he can stop himself. “Norbert is practical. Doesn’t mean he’s selfish.”
Blood rushes to his cheeks as everyone turns to stare at him. Jim tilts his chin up defiantly. Norbert might be more messed up than any other fictional character Jim has ever known, but that doesn’t mean he’s worth dismissing.
“Quite right,” Garan says with a soft chuckle. “But if he’s so practical, why can’t he sort himself out?”
Jim shrugs. “I think he likes being messed up. It’s a convenient position to gain sympathy and not actually have to do anything about his life. Helping everyone else is just a bonus so that he can look noble in his own eyes and make people believe that he’s trying.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh yes, it does,” Garan says cheerfully. “In fact, it’s the most sense anyone has ever made of Norbert in my recollection - possibly myself included.” He winks at his audience. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I want to have a drink with my new friend.”
He walks toward a now very flustered Jim with his hand outstretched. Jim takes it automatically, ignoring the stink eye the rest of the group is giving him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Garan says, shaking Jim’s hand enthusiastically.
“Jim Kirk,” Jim responds, still trying to figure out what’s happening.
“I have a feeling you’re not a lit critic.”
“Hell no.” Jim snorts. “I’m here with a friend. I, um, I own a small bar downtown.”
“You actually sell alcohol?” Garan beams at him. “I like you more by the second.”
Jim grins. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Garan.”
“Oh, please, call me Roux. All my friends do, Jim - may I call you Jim? Excellent. So you like Norbert, eh?”
Which is how Jim finds himself talking animatedly to his favorite writer about the merits of characterization and its correlation with real life long enough for people to start sending them questioning looks. Garan seems completely unfazed by having his attention monopolized like that. He gesticulates wildly as he explains to Jim his reasoning at one point or other, like Jim has given him a royal treat.
“Spock!” Garan yells suddenly, startling Jim into jumping. “You made it, you son of a bitch!”
“How could I have missed your presentation, Roux?” Spock says politely. His eyes are smiling as he looks at Garan.
“Missed plenty of them in the past,” Garan points out, and then, much to Jim’s surprise, goes for a generous bear-hug, which Spock endures stoically and even returns, to a degree. “Saw you in the audience; you looked like you were chewing on a lemon. Was I that bad or what?”
“Certainly not. You forget that I am not immune to professional jealousy. The passage about the storm was simply astounding.”
Garan chuckles. “Believe it or not, I wrote it with you in mind. The ‘virgin bolt of anger’ and all that.”
“Indeed.” Spock’s lips curve into a small smile. “I am flattered.” He looks over Garan’s shoulder. “I see you have met Jim.”
Jim locks gazes with him, begging mutely for forgiveness, as Garan spins around and claps him on the shoulder hard. “That’s the friend you’ve come here with? You’re just full of awesome, aren’t you?”
Before Jim can say anything, Garan rushes on. “Well, if you’re his friend, then tell him to stop being an idiot and publish the damn book. He’ll tell you he’s not finished, but it’s bullshit. He’s been sitting on it for two years now.”
Jim looks at Spock in surprise. “You’ve written a book?”
Spock opens his mouth, looking anything but comfortable, but Garan beats him to a punch. “What do you mean he’s written a book? He’s written a damn bestseller! I mean, sure, others tried to tell the truth about what happened on Belta, but none of them had actually been there, never mind been in the midst of it.” He grips Spock’s shoulder. “Here we have an actual honest-to-God first-hand account from a member of the Peace Corps, written in a language that would make Joyce eat his hat, and he wouldn’t - I mean, forget Joyce! This book will redefine our knowledge of literature - and he won’t have it published!”
Jim gapes at Spock, unable to believe what he is hearing. Spock, a member of the Peace Corps, stuck in the middle of the Belta disaster? Survived Belta, period? Jim can barely come to terms with all this, and Spock looks...
Spock looks more upset and troubled than Jim has ever seen him. Instinctively, Jim wants to reach out to him, but they’re still in public, and with highly enthusiastic company.
“That - seems like a… travesty,” Jim hears himself saying haltingly, and this time it’s Spock’s eyes that are pleading. “I’m sure we can - talk about it.”
“Great idea!” Garan exclaims, slapping both their shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. There’s Gina Weston, and is she spots me, I’m a dead man. I’ll be sure to swing by for a drink, Jim!”
Garan hurries away, leaving a loaded silence in his wake.
Jim eyes Spock carefully before stepping closer to him.
“I’m sorry about before,” he says softly. “I was being an ass.”
Spock sighs. “No, I apologize. I overreacted.”
Jim shakes his head, but doesn’t argue. Spock looks distressed, and Jim wants nothing more than to wipe that look off his face for good, but he’ll settle for as quickly as possible.
“Do you think we could maybe leave now?”
Spock looks at him gratefully. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Jim gives him a reassuring smile. “My dream came true, thanks to you.” He squeezes Spock’s arm for a moment. “Come on; let’s go home.”
They almost reach the parking lot when someone steps in their way, and Spock stops short.
It’s a Vulcan, dressed in formal Vulcan robes and looking better in them than anyone Jim has ever seen. He’s quite young, Spock’s age perhaps, and undeniably attractive. Not exactly Spock, of course, but someone Jim might have hit on, if the circumstances were different.
“Roven,” Spock exhales more than says, and the Vulcan bows gracefully.
“Spock. It has been a long time since our last meeting. You appear to be well.” Roven has a deep, pleasantly rough voice, Jim notes grudgingly, even as he stares at the guy with distrust.
“You as well,” Spock replies, and Jim has to fight down a sharp pang of jealousy, because Spock’s tone is gentler now than when he spoke to Nyota. “It is gratifying.”
Roven’s gaze drifts toward Jim in clear inquiry, and Spock jumps to make an introduction, as if only just remembering someone else is there.
“This is Jim Kirk, a friend. Jim, this is Roven of Vulcan-”
“His friend and lover,” Roven finishes for him.
Spock looks mildly scandalized, but mostly exasperated. “Roven...”
“To what do you take objection?” Roven asks innocently. “I am merely utilizing terms that are most clear to humans in order not to cause any confusion. I learned that from you.”
“Yet you are intentionally leaving Jim with a wrong impression regarding the current status of our relationship.”
Roven’s eyebrows arch gracefully. “Do you no longer consider me a friend, Spock?”
Spock shakes his head, but he is smiling softly. He glances at Jim apologetically. “Could you give us a moment?”
“Sure.” Jim nods. “Or I can just go if you want to catch up or something. I don’t mind.”
Spock’s hand closes around Jim’s wrist faster than Jim gets all the words out. “It will only take a moment,” Spock says, and there’s a definite pleading note to his voice. “Jim, I-”
“Okay.” Jim knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t really help it. He twists his wrist within Spock’s grip and catches his hand, twining their fingers. He makes certain Roven sees that. “I’ll wait by the car.”
The way Spock is looking at him - surprised, happy, and very, very grateful - almost makes the whole thing worth it.
Jim doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not watching. He’s too tired for that; the whole evening with its emotional rollercoaster has been too turbulent to leave any room for pretence.
Jim doesn’t like the way Roven steps into Spock’s personal space. Roven is talking and Spock is listening, staring at him without blinking, eyebrows knitting together tighter and tighter. Jim can’t hear the words, but he doesn’t like the way Spock’s face suddenly registers open alarm, and he glances at Jim with frightening urgency. He asks a question then, sharp, insistent, and Roven places a hand on Spock’s shoulder, as if bracing him before he answers.
Jim feels suddenly compelled to break the offending extremity. The fact that Spock simply lets Roven touch him doesn’t help matters.
Spock is staring at his feet now, his shoulders slumping. He says something so quietly that Roven leans closer to hear. He then takes Spock’s hand in both his own, making Spock glance up at him, and presses it presumably to his heart. His expression at that moment is so un-Vulcanly earnest that Jim feels the ground sway beneath his feet.
Jim finally turns away, because he really doesn’t want to know if they kiss.
He hears the sound of footsteps in a moment, and then Spock is standing at his side, silent. Jim turns to face him head-on to hear the verdict.
“Jim,” Spock says. “You have been a bartender for a long time, correct?”
“Yeah.” Jim frowns, unsure where this is headed.
“Do you know of any substances that affect Vulcans and could be obtained within this city?”
Jim looks at Spock. And looks. And looks. An ice-cold drop of sweat slides down his spine as it all sinks in.
“Yeah,” Jim breathes. “Yeah, no worries, man. I got you.”
Spock nods wearily and somewhat desperately, and all but falls into the passenger seat.
--
They make a short stop at a spot that Jim is loath to show Spock, but fortunately Spock expresses no desire to leave the car. After that, it’s just a straight and quiet drive to Spock’s house, which somehow seems even more dark and haunted now.
They crash in the living room. Both Jim and Spock get rid of their ties. Jim loses his jacket, too, opens the collar of his shirt with relief, and rolls up his sleeves.
Spock has yet to say anything, as he watches Jim open the first bottle. The odor is strong enough to knock out anyone inhaling too deeply, and the taste will be worse. Jim cringes at the bottle. There’s no way he’ll be able to drink this, and he doubts, somehow, that it’ll be much to Spock’s taste.
“Hold on a second,” he mumbles and dashes to the kitchen. He comes back with two old-fashioned glasses, several large cans of blueberry juice, and a shaker he discovers in one of the cupboards.
Spock leans back on the couch, unclasping his jacket, eyes following Jim’s hands diligently.
Two parts juice, one part terp’a. Jim shakes two liquids together violently, hoping it’ll be enough. He hands Spock his glass, brushing their fingers on purpose, but Spock seems distant and fails to notice.
Spock drinks half his glass in one go while Jim stares.
“Thank you, Jim,” Spock says, his voice raspy with the burn of alcohol. “I believe this will have the desired effect.”
“No kidding,” Jim mutters, choking on his first sip. “Just take it easy, okay?”
Spock nods. They sit in silence for a while, drinking.
“Tonight did not go the way I intended to,” Spock speaks at last.
Jim looks at him. “You didn’t want to go at all, did you? Because of Roux?”
“Indeed,” Spock says. “He is a good friend, and my mentor, if you please, when it comes to writing. But he is always very insistent about the book. I made the mistake of showing him the draft, and now he will not let it go.” He pauses. “I am not - ready - to publish it.”
Jim refills his glass and waits patiently. Spock is clearly working something out, and Jim is willing to give him time, even if he’s dying of curiosity.
Spock takes a long swig of the cocktail and sighs. “I believe I never told you about my family, Jim.”
It’s something of a non sequitur, admittedly, but Spock isn’t one for illogical leaps, so Jim doesn’t comment. He has a feeling that everything will add up in the end.
“My mother was Amanda Grayson of Earth, and my father is Sarek of Vulcan.” Spock pauses. “T’Pau of Vulcan is my grandmother.”
Jim all but drops his glass. “The T’Pau?”
“Indeed. She has been the cornerstone of the Vulcan society for approximately two hundred years now. Her level of involvement is unprecedented.”
“I’ll say,” Jim mutters under his breath, swallowing.
“Thirty years ago,” Spock continues, “T’Pau decided that Vulcan needed a visible token of commitment to the principles of IDIC and of the deepening bonds of friendship and camaraderie with humankind. She ordered her son to select a wife among the humans to achieve that goal. Her logic was sound.”
Spock leans deeper into the couch, freeing the first button of his shirt and inadvertently revealing more smooth, even skin. Jim leans forward in a not-so-unconscious desire to bend over and lick up the delicate curve of Spock’s throat, even as he listens to Spock’s words with growing trepidation.
“At the time, Sarek had already served as an ambassador to Earth for several years and was acquainted with a young woman called Amanda Grayson. He decided that she would make a logical choice for his wife.
“My mother did not know of his reasons.” Spock pauses to take another sip. “She fell in love with Sarek, and believed that he reciprocated her feelings, albeit silently.”
“So he - fooled her?” Jim asks cautiously.
“I do not believe so.” Spock frowns. “Vulcans rarely harbor intent to lie. I infer that he was quite intrigued by her, and so left her with the wrong impression. His actions spoke of affection and caring. My mother believed that he simply could not admit to his feelings, and she was willing to accept that.
“He married her, and they came to Vulcan. There, a Vulcan ceremony was held - the bonding. A mental bond was established that, in due time and with proper training, granted my mother access to Sarek’s mind and heart. Finally, she was able to see the truth.”
At this point, Jim can’t stop himself from reaching and squeezing Spock’s arm. Spock nods, without looking at him.
“But the realization did not arrive for the first three years, during which time the efforts of the best specialists in genetic engineering, both Vulcan and human, resulted in a successful pregnancy, and eventually - me.
“I was approximately two years old when my mother could not deny the truth any longer. Sarek cared for her and respected her because it was logical to care for and respect one’s spouse. He did not love her. And while he abstractly approved of the idea of having a child, his son… scared him.”
Spock’s voice turns sad, even as he fights to keep it even, and Jim moves closer to him on the couch without being aware.
“I was not like other Vulcan children. I was - unruly. Uncontrollable. I questioned my parents’ words. I wished to play instead of study. I was unpredictable. I was” - Spock bites his lip - “too human.”
Jim shakes his head. “I didn’t realize Vulcans could be so racist.”
“You misunderstand.” Spock purses his lips. “Or perhaps you are correct, but that was not the issue with me. Sarek had worked with humans for a long time. He was very familiar with their lack of logic or rationality. He did not, however, have much experience with human children. And it was - difficult - for him to accept that a being consisting of eighty percent of his own genome would use shiira jam to paint a sehlat on the living room wall.”
Jim has to smile at the image, but Spock shakes his head.
“Vulcan children don’t do that. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps Sarek was simply never meant to be a parent.”
Jim slides back along the couch to prepare another portion of the cocktail. “You don’t blame him?”
Spock tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “No. Not for that. As a child, I craved my father’s love and approval, as any child would. As an adult, I can understand.”
Jim refills his glass and watches Spock drinking the thick, viscous liquid down like water. Spock’s eyes glow brighter, a dangerous light giving away what his even voice and flowing words don’t.
“Upon discovering Sarek’s true reasons for marrying her, my mother was understandably upset, but she decided to remain on Vulcan for the sake of her child. Sarek and T’Pau claimed that there was no other place for me to be trained to control my telepathy, as I was, physically, almost completely Vulcan. My mother stayed. But her relationship with Sarek grew more distant and cold. Essentially, they had no common subjects except for me, and I was not Sarek’s favorite topic.
“My mother opposed some of the more archaic Vulcan traditions. I was not bonded to another at the age of seven, though I do not know what it cost her to defend my right to choose. But she could not prevent me from taking the kahs-wan.”
“That’s when Vulcans send their kids without food, water, or weapons to the mountains full of wild animal life?” Jim asks. “I have to tell you, Spock - I never could see much logic in that.”
“Neither did my mother. And you are correct regarding the test. The difference for me, however, was that I was supposed to demonstrate the triumph of IDIC as a superior philosophy, and thus had to survive in the Forge for a month rather than ten days.”
Jim stares at him, aghast. “You’re kidding. They threw you out there for a month? What kind of parent-”
Spock sighs and looks away. “My mother was powerless to prevent the ordeal; she had to be locked up for the duration.”
Jim watches Spock’s fists clench and shudders.
“She appealed to Sarek in every way she could, but he preferred to bow to T’Pau’s will in the end. The Forge...” Spock’s eyes turn misty. He takes another sip before continuing, his hands firm but his cheeks inflamed. “The Forge has received its name for a reason. I was injured, but I survived. My pet sehlat died, however, trying to protect me.”
Jim throws his head back, taking a generous helping of his homemade cocktail. The vile concoction scalds his throat, but he welcomes the burn. He has no idea how Spock manages to remain so articulate right now. If Jim drank at the rate Spock has been, he would have passed out awhile ago.
“My mother realized that she had had enough. She divorced Sarek by human laws and announced that she was returning to Earth, whether he was willing to break the bond or not. As I passed my test, I was legally of age by Vulcan standards. I was free to choose my way of living, and I chose to go with her.”
“Must have been quite a decision,” Jim mutters softly.
“That,” Spock says significantly, “is an understatement. T’Pau discovered that I was not the symbol of unity between the two species that she had been grooming me to be. And my mother was called many words I would not care to repeat.
“We settled on Earth, and not a month went by without someone from Vulcan coming over and trying to convince both or either of us to return. The visits gradually became rare, but we always felt like we were under observation. Yet, despite everything, we were happy.”
Spock swirls the drink in his glass thoughtfully. “Several years later, my mother acquired a - companion. Stephen was a teacher, like her, and he was a good man. He never… understood me, but he treated me well, and, most importantly, he loved my mother unconditionally. He moved in when I left for Oxford.”
Spock stills, obviously readying himself for something, and Jim has a sinking, gut feeling that he doesn’t want to hear what comes next.
“They were going home from a theatre late one night. The car was moving at high speed when they were pushed off the road. Stephen died instantly. My mother was taken to a hospital and died there without regaining consciousness.”
“Spock...” Jim’s mouth turns dry.
“They never found the second car,” Spock says, and the amount of venom in his tone makes Jim flinch. For the first time, he realizes that Spock is actually beyond drunk. “There were no witnesses; no surveillance data; no traceable evidence. The investigation was closed after one month. I spent five more trying to uncover something - anything. I did not succeed. But T’Pau’s emissary was on my doorstep the day after the crash - almost as if he had been waiting for it to happen.”
Jim feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “Spock,” he pushes out hoarsely, “you don’t really think your grandmother ordered-”
“My mother insulted Sarek and his family when she left,” Spock says evenly. “When she demanded formally for the bond to be broken so that she could marry another man, she insulted all of Vulcan.”
Jim says nothing, trying to assimilate the impossible truth.
“I searched everything, Jim,” Spock says in a smaller, almost plaintive tone. “Road accidents leave traces. Road accidents are - accidents. There is always something. No ordinary criminal, let alone another frightened driver, is capable of wiping everything clean to such an extent. I did not wish to believe it. But my logic leads me to no other conclusion.”
They sit quietly for a while. Spock’s eyes wander all over the room aimlessly. Jim is staring into space. Finally, he makes himself move and reloads the shaker. They both definitely need more.
“What about Roven?” Jim asks at last.
He really doesn’t like the happy sigh Spock emits at the name, but, almost instantly, Spock frowns. “He said that T’Pau is gathering current information about me.” He bites his lip. “I made a mistake - though it’s one I can’t bring myself to regret.”
“Gaila,” Jim deduces.
Spock nods. “For many years, I have been ‘flying under the radar,’ if you please. My whereabouts and occupation were known, of course, but I gave no signs of being overly invested in those. However, to obtain the citizenship for Gaila, I had to contact the High Council - and now they know of her existence. Of your existence.”
Jim opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but Spock shakes his head. “This is not good, Jim. If T’Pau is as determined as she once was to have me return to Vulcan permanently, those close to me might be in danger.”
Instinctively, Jim reaches to rub Spock’s shoulder gently. “Hey, there’s no need to get paranoid yet. It’s going to be fine.”
“That is what Roven said,” Spock admits with a sigh.
Jim retracts his hand. “What is he to you - really?”
Spock relaxes slightly. “A friend. Before my mother’s decision that I was not to be bonded as a child, Roven was intended to become my betrothed. We became friends, in spite of that. He was my playmate and my study partner. We enjoyed each other’s company, even though neither he nor I approved of the idea of an arranged marriage.
“He came to Earth on T’Pau’s orders after my mother’s death. I returned to Oxford to finish my degree because I could not comprehend the reality of what had happened, and I did not wish to think of it further.” He closes his eyes. “Colloquially put, it was driving me insane.
“Roven admitted to his agenda, even knowing that it would anger me. But he, too, was in a difficult position. T’Pau holds too much power over his family. He could not disobey her.”
“How noble of him to tell you, then,” Jim grumbles.
Spock doesn’t seem to notice his tone. “Indeed. He was ready to return home. However, seeing the state I was in, he applied for a position at the Vulcan consulate and stayed with me. We-” Spock clears his throat, blushing. “We became… intimate.”
Spock turns toward Jim, all wide eyes and earnest expression. “Jim, you have to understand, I was all alone. He was there and he was - he cared about me. I never realized that he had been attracted to me ever since we were children.”
“Well.” Jim scoffs. “If everything was so lovely, why aren’t you two living happily ever after now?”
Spock looks at his empty glass pointedly, but Jim ignores him. Spock sighs.
“Roven did - does care about me, but his life is on Vulcan. His work, his projects, his family - everything. If I agreed to bond with him-”
“He asked you?” Jim blurts.
Spock stares at him, focusing his attention on Jim for the first time since the conversation has started. “That surprises you. You do not believe that anyone would want to-”
“God, Spock, no!” Jim slides toward him and grabs his shoulders, shaking him. Spock observes him with mild curiosity, without trying to dislodge him. “That’s not what I - it wasn’t surprise, I just-” He forces his hands to still. In for a penny… “I was startled, okay? Afraid that you might have said yes.”
“Afraid,” Spock repeats with drunken thoughtfulness. “You were afraid, Jim?” A slow smile stretches Spock’s lips, and Jim groans.
“I hate you so much right now.”
“No, you do not,” Spock says slowly and pushes Jim back, reaching for the shaker. “I believe you are jealous.”
Jim falls against the back of the couch, shielding his eyes with his hand. “God, go on, Spock. Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you.”
“I was jealous, too,” Spock says, missing the sarcasm completely, focused on pouring the terp’a into the shaker. “Tonight. When I left you, I - Jim, why does it not taste the same?”
Jim opens one eye to see Spock drinking from the shaker and laughs helplessly. “Because you were supposed to add juice to it, genius.”
Spock blinks. “I was?”
“Okay, buddy, that’s it.” Jim pushes himself upright, fighting to find his balance. “Up.”
Spock looks at him in offended confusion. “But I did not tell you about-”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
“But-”
“You’re drunk off your ass, Spock. I don’t want you to keep telling me things while you’re like that.”
Spock honest-to-God pouts. “You don’t want to know-”
Jim slaps his hand over Spock’s mouth, startling him into silence. “I do want to know, you idiot. I want to know how you ended up on Belta, and what that guy Roven told you to have you this freaked, but I don’t” - he presses his hand harder - “want you to hate me in the morning. So we’re going upstairs now, and you will sleep it off. Okay?”
Cautiously, he releases Spock, who’s been staring at him the whole time without blinking.
“You are very attractive when you are in charge, Jim,” Spock tells him conversationally.
“Oh my God,” Jim mutters; he’s not nearly drunk enough not to respond to that, and it is so not what Spock needs right now. He grabs Spock’s arm and pulls forcefully. “Move, for fuck’s sake, before I do something stupid.”
Spock seems uncharacteristically compliant for once, allowing Jim to steer him up the stairs and into his bedroom.
“I wished to distance myself from everything,” Spock mumbles as Jim makes him sit on the bed while working on his shoes. “Earth, Vulcan. Everything. I did not know what to do with myself and I wished to get away.”
Jim sighs. “So you joined the Peace Corps?”
“Seemed logical at the time.”
“I bet.” Jim guides Spock to lie down and rolls him onto his side. “Tough luck you ended up on Belta.”
“Several years later, yes. That colony is... Jim, you could not imagine the way these people were living. I have seen things that do not compute with anything remotely civilized or normal. The conditions were hideous, and that was before the Klingons imposed the blockade. After that, there was chaos.”
Jim knows he should leave, but he can’t. And Spock keeps on talking.
“Can you imagine a world where young enthusiasts from the Peace Corps would be the most competent source of administrative governing? And then there was the occupation. Two months only, but they were the longest two months of my life, Jim.”
Spock shudders, and Jim sighs, giving up. He kicks his own shoes off and slides into bed next to him, using his hand as a reassuring weight on Spock’s shoulder.
“Sleep now, Spock, please.” He shifts closer to whisper. “You’re safe now. It’s over. Sleep.”
Spock falls onto his back and looks at Jim, eyes wide and deceivingly sober.
“You are the best friend I have ever had, Jim.”
Jim snorts softly and leans in to kiss his forehead. “No, sweetheart; I’m just a very good bartender.”
Spock grunts in what sounds like approval, and, mercifully, closes his eyes.
Part 4/5 >>
Back to masterpost <<
--
As it turns out, ‘black tie’ means Jim will have to wear a tuxedo.
When Gaila enlightens him on the subject, Jim almost chickens out of going all together, because he doesn’t think he’s ever actually worn a suit, never mind a tux. He’s certainly never owned one and has never come close to a place where people were required to wear them.
If Spock were there, Jim would have probably apologized and bailed, but Spock is off planet for the whole week, working on some project on Tellar Prime. He sends Jim a short text message on Thursday confirming their plans and asking if Jim could pick him up on Friday.
Jim realizes he’s doomed, and sends Gaila to pick a suit for him. He has no idea how to even buy something like that, anyway.
“I was thinking about your eyes, sweetie,” she tells him as she hands him a rather bulky package. “Take it out now, let it hang.”
Jim carries the thing upstairs as if it’s prone to exploding. When he does pull it out, he freezes for a moment, staring. He gets what Gaila meant immediately, but it doesn’t make him any less nervous.
The tux isn’t traditional black or even green (which really isn’t the new black, but some people still try). No, Jim’s tux is navy blue, the darkest possible hue, and it’s so damn fancy that Jim is almost afraid to touch it. The dress shirt he finds in the box is so blindingly white that it’s almost painful to look at. Jim also finds a bowtie and a pair of shoes inside, and swears.
This must be what hell feels like.
Jim tries to concentrate on the fun part. He’ll get to hear passages from the new novel by his favorite author, after all. Maybe he’ll even manage to steal a copy.
But no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that Spock has invited him in the spirit of that BFF thing they have going on, it still feels disturbingly like a date, and Jim cannot imagine a worse setting. He knows the cutlery, thanks to his profession, but apart from that, there are so many ways he could screw things up that it’s absolutely terrifying.
Jim barely sleeps that night and has to drink nearly his weight in coffee the next morning, but then there’s an unexpected problem with the plumbing in the men’s room and Jim all but forgets about the party trying to fix it. There are irritated customers to placate and drinks to prepare, and Jim dives into the familiar whirlwind so readily that when Gaila tells him that it’s six o’clock, it comes as a shock.
Jim rushes upstairs and contemplates drowning in his shower.
He dresses with numb hands, and allows Gaila to style his hair. He’s almost afraid to look in the mirror.
“Well,” Gaila says thoughtfully. “If he doesn’t jump you after this, he’s probably dead.”
Jim swallows and tries to come to terms with the fact that the striking stranger with his eyes is really him. He feels awkward and uncomfortable and afraid to move.
Gaila looks at his face, sighs, and slaps him hard on the ass. “Don’t sweat it, princess. Remember who you are.”
“Thanks, Gaila,” Jim says dryly.
Because this is Jim’s life, Spock lives in a freaking mansion - a beautiful three-floor house with an honest to God front garden, small but still there - at the very end of the North State Parkway. Spock must have an amazing view of the lake from his upper balcony, and Jim doesn’t want to think how much money Spock is actually making to be able to maintain the building in such perfect state.
Feeling very much like a certain Bernard Shaw character, Jim takes a long route to Spock’s house that involves driving around in circles, but still manages to arrive half an hour early. Jim thinks briefly about sitting in the car the extra time, but eventually decides against it. He simply can’t stay immobile for another minute.
When he presses the chime, however, there’s no immediate answer.
Jim buzzes again, and then takes a couple of steps to the side, trying so see through the narrow windows if there’s anyone inside. It’s not like Spock to be late, but-
The door finally opens, and Jim sighs in relief and then he laughs.
It hasn’t occurred to him that he might actually wake Spock, but in a moment he remembers that Spock’s shuttle only landed about four hours ago, and Spock was probably trying to catch up on some sleep. Jim seems to remember him mentioning something about an early deadline and a tight schedule on Tellar. Knowing Spock, the chances are great that he had simply worked non-stop from the moment he left Earth on Sunday. Jim has already witnessed the way Spock loses all awareness of his surroundings, never mind physical needs, when he’s deeply into investigating or working things out. No wonder he decided to hit the sack the first chance he got.
Spock is wearing a grey t-shirt and sweatpants that hang incredibly low on his hips, teasingly exposing a line of skin. His hair is in much more disarray than usual, and his eyes look soft, unfocused. The drowsy expression makes the lines of Spock’s face turn gentler, smoothing the angles. He looks warm and boneless and Jim wants to snuggle him, kiss the relaxed, sleepy line of his mouth, and count his lashes.
Which, oh dear God, not helping.
“Jim.” Spock blinks, and then blinks again, and then he stares. “You are... early.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jim grins sheepishly.
“No.” Jim has never seen Spock quite so dazed. It’s cute. “I apologize.” Spock runs a hand over his face, in an endearingly human gesture. “I appear to have slept through my alarm. This is most inappropriate.”
He looks annoyed with himself, and Jim shrugs. “Oh, come on, no harm done. I’ll just wait till you shower or something.”
“Of course.” Spock nods, stepping back. “Please come in.”
Jim steps over the threshold, taking in his surroundings curiously. The house is obviously old, but it carries the traces of more or less recent renovation. Jim figures that Spock was aiming to preserve as much of the original interior as possible, because the living room looks a little antiquated, if impeccably neat, and not exactly like something Spock himself might have chosen.
Jim is enthralled by the wooden panels, though. The year he had spent working as a carpenter in Florida has always been one of his dearest memories, because, as it turned out, Jim liked working with wood. He turns around to ask Spock about the original decorator only to find Spock standing by the door, looking, for all intents and purposes, still sleepy as hell, with an odd, glassy expression in his eyes.
Jim’s heart immediately sinks.
“Spock? Is something wrong?”
Spock actually winces at the sound of Jim’s voice. “No,” he says hastily. “No, I was merely...” He swallows. “You look very handsome, Jim. That color suits you.”
“Really?”
Spock nods.
Jim can’t help a relieved smile. “Oh, thank God. I feel like an impostor in this monkey suit.” He tugs at his collar ineffectually. Then, because he’s Jim Kirk, he smirks. “Do you want to take a picture, or go get dressed?”
Spock nods again, ungluing himself from the door at last. “I will be with you shortly. Please make yourself at home.”
Grinning, Jim watches him climb the stairs and shakes his head before taking a real look around.
The living room looks neat, but somehow undisturbed. By the looks of it, Spock might enjoy watching the news while stretched on the sofa, but hasn’t had the time in awhile.
Taking Spock’s invitation to heart, Jim wanders into the dining room to find it carrying even less traces of being used sometime during this life of any of the house owners. It’s impeccably clean - Spock must have a squad of really advanced cleaning drones - but the delicate flowery design of the wallpaper and elaborate lacings of the tablecloth reminds Jim of a century old installation in a museum rather than an actual living space. Across the hall is another door, leading presumably to a study, but, although Jim is curious, he decides not to push it.
It suddenly strikes him that the house is enormously big for one person. There must be at least four bedrooms upstairs, and God only knows what the floor beyond that is for. Jim tries to imagine how it must feel to spend one’s days in these pristine rooms - gorgeous, but empty.
He’d have gotten a dog, he thinks. But then, Spock is frequently off-planet, so a dog probably isn’t an option.
Sighing, Jim drifts into the kitchen, and here, finally he finds a place that looks like someone might have actually used it during this century.
It’s big and bright, lots of crème and cocoa with a drop of terracotta every now and then. From the elaborate kitchenware, Jim concludes that Spock must cook, though, by the looks of it, not very often. At least he actually owns a stove and a fridge, unlike most people, in addition to a replicator.
Jim opens the fridge out of curiosity and grins to himself. Barely half-stocked, mostly with vegetables. A pack of lettuce looks like its better days are way behind it, and Jim drops it to the recycler, thinking that Spock’s mother must have despaired of him a lot.
He opens another chamber and stares for a moment in surprise at the battery of cans he finds there. A smirk stretches across Jim’s lips and he chuckles, picking one before closing the fridge.
Blueberry juice.
So that’s the elusive favorite drink Jim hasn’t been able to find yet. Judging by the number of cans, and the fact that they seem to come all the way from Finland, Spock is not only a fan but also a snob, and Jim’s got him good now.
He sets the can on the counter, shuffling cocktail recipes in his head in his quest for revenge, when a voice comes out of nowhere.
“I see you found the refreshments.”
Jim spins on his heel, startled because he hasn’t heard the sound of footsteps, and freezes, catching the sight of the man in the doorway.
Spock is stunning.
In his black, tailored tux, he seems to have come straight from a million credit Hennessey commercial, but with his would-be carelessly disheveled hair and a tantalizing glow spreading across his freshly shaven cheeks, he also looks like a star of a triple-X porno, and the insane mixture is doing horrible things to Jim’s blood pressure.
It’s not like he hasn’t known that Spock is hot. Spock is fucking smoking on any given day, and Jim knows that, down to his bones. But his friend’s sexuality has never before been such a tangible, aggressive presence in the room, seizing all attention and demanding acknowledgement.
The worst of it is that Spock apparently has no idea about what’s going on. He frowns slightly in obvious concern. The noble ivory of his shirt brings out his eyes like an ice cube dropped into a glass of an extra old whiskey, and the smooth black band that he’s wearing instead of a bowtie makes him look exquisite and one of a kind and for some reason makes Jim think about fallen priests, and that is just so wrong-
“Jim?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, sounding dazed to his own ears. He shakes his head forcefully and grins. “Yeah. Sorry, you startled me. You, um - you clean up nicely.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “I confess I have never understood that particular expression.” He reaches for a glass. “Would you like some juice?”
“What? Oh, um, no. No, thanks. Actually, you shouldn’t, either-”
But Spock is already raising the glass to his lips and taking a long swig. “Why not?” he asks, confused.
Because now you look like there’s dark purple gloss covering your lips and this is seriously more than I can take.
“Blueberry leaves stains on skin,” Jim explains lamely, trying to tear his eyes away from Spock’s lips. “You, uh, you might want to-”
“Oh.” Spock picks up a napkin and, after a barely detectable moment of hesitation, offers it to Jim. “Would you mind? I cannot see myself.”
Use a fucking mirror! God, I can’t do this…
“Sure, uh - c’mere.”
Trustingly, Spock steps closer to Jim, leaning against the counter and tilting his head to catch the light. Jim takes his chin gently with one hand to hold him still, and presses the napkin carefully to Spock’s bottom lip, progressing in slow, measured motions. Spock’s lips part to give him better access, and Jim holds his breath. He deserves some kind of medal for this.
Blueberry being its usual bitchy self, Jim has to rub the cloth a little harder against the tender skin. He can’t hear Spock’s breath, but he can feel it from the point of contact all the way down to his toes. It’s excruciating, and as Jim leans back to observe his handiwork, he suppresses a groan. He’s taken most of the juice off, but now Spock’s lips look puffed and obscenely bright, firm lines smudged around the edges, and Jim can think of nothing but sucking on them until he can do considerably more damage.
“All set,” he manages, and makes himself step away.
“Thank you.” Spock straightens up and inclines his head politely, lifting his fingers instinctively to touch his lips. Jim looks away. “If you’re ready to go, then?”
“God, yes. Let’s hit the road.”
The cool air outside is a welcome change and Jim takes a deep breath, reveling in the richness of oxygen. Spock shoots him a concerned look but doesn’t comment, and Jim grins in gratitude and relief.
Once in the car, he asks Spock about his trip, and the conversation helps easing the suffocating tension a little bit as Jim adjusts to this new reality of Spock, who doesn’t even try to contain what he is. It does take some getting used to, but if Jim keeps his eyes on the road as he’s supposed to, he can almost get by.
--
The reception hall of the Galaxy Hotel is glowing with light and alive with soft music and beautiful people. For a few moments, Jim feels a little dazzled by the glimmer and shine, his stomach drifting up uncertainly as if someone has turned off the gravity. He glances at Spock again and is struck by how perfectly at ease his friend seems. Spock looks like he belongs here, as an integrated part of the world of rich and famous, and it makes Jim wonder, once again, what he is even doing here.
Spock walks through the crowd without paying much attention to those smiling at him. Jim doesn’t know what to make of it, so when he catches a glimpse of a particularly enthusiastic group waving at Spock and calling his name, he tugs at Spock’s sleeve.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your friends?”
Spock follows Jim’s gaze and inclines his head stiffly in response to the greetings, but says merely, “Perhaps later.” He signals a nearby server. “Champagne?”
Jim exhales. “Yes please.”
He downs his glass in one go, which might not be the brightest of ideas, but Jim needs something to carry him through this. Spock watches him with a bemused expression. When Jim merely grins wryly and reaches for Spock’s untouched glass, Spock gives it up without a word.
“Man, I am so going to embarrass you,” Jim mutters, sipping this glass of champagne at a more reasonable pace.
“Of course not,” Spock says disinterestedly, his eyes passively sweeping over the room.
“How do you even do this?” Jim blurts out, trying to return what looks like the fourth toothy smile of a tall dark-haired lady in a jaw-dropping red dress. “Being on display like this, it’s...” He trails off, unable to articulate his thoughts.
“I have a certain amount of experience,” Spock replies, frowning for some reason. Jim isn’t sure if Spock steps in front of him by accident or design. “Official Vulcan functions are considerably more formal and - invasive, for lack of a better term. I was forced to participate in them since I was six.”
Jim tries to imagine being scrutinized by two hundred of stiff-looking Vulcans who probably disapprove of breathing too loudly, never mind having fun, and has to admit that Spock has a point.
“Spock!” They both hear a loud shriek and Spock freezes. “You naughty, naughty boy, you - gotcha now!”
Jim turns to see a petite vividly blond woman heading for them at what looks like warp speed. She isn’t wearing a dress so much as an excuse for one, and anywhere else in the world she would have been arrested for public indecency. She seems vaguely familiar, but Jim doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, as the determined lady all but jumps at Spock, hands clenching behind his neck. Spock turns rigid as a statue, but the woman doesn’t seem perturbed.
“Long time no see, huh?” she purrs in Spock’s ear, but she’s staring at Jim. “Introduce me to your arm candy? Pretty, pretty please?”
She wiggles her hips suggestively, and Spock manages to stiffen another notch. Jim can see his fists curling and uncurling. If he brought on that reaction, he’d be nervous as hell, but the lady is obviously unaware that there are people on this planet who might find her unwanted.
“Aw, Spocky, he’s so gorgeous,” she coos, and then decides to finally talk to Jim. “You’re gorgeous. Any time you wanna do me, I’m wet and ready for you, baby, you got that?” She reaches with one hand to pat his cheek, and Jim only barely manages not to jerk back. “Spocky here has my number, though he’s such a dull boy, he never calls.” She pouts in disapproval, before beaming at Jim. “See ya later, hot stuff!”
She stalks away finally, swaying on her ridiculously high pumps.
Jim looks at Spock and sees a barely perceptible shiver running down his body. Jim grips Spock’s elbow without thinking. “You okay?”
“Indeed.” Spock nods, composing himself with a visible effort. “I am sorry about this, Jim.”
“Not your fault.” Jim shrugs, and peers over Spock’s shoulder. “Was that really Reese Carlton?”
“Yes,” Spock replies tightly. “And I assure you, I do not have her number.”
“Shame,” Jim says, grinning.
Spock stiffens and glances sharply at him. “If you wish, I could-”
“What? No! Sorry, Spock, it was just a joke. I guess this setting really freaks me out.”
Spock relaxes a little. “You do not need to worry, Jim. We’re here for the reading. And I will not leave your side.”
That brings Jim up short, because he might not be as worldly as Spock obviously is, but he doesn’t need anybody’s charity - least of all Spock’s.
“I don’t need you to babysit me. If you want to go chat with your friends, I’ll be fine.” Jim looks around for the nearest target, who happens to be a bright-eyed Deltan male in a malachite green tux, and leers at him. The Deltan looks surprised for a moment, then smiles encouragingly in return.
Spock observes the exchange calmly, straightens up, and steps back. “Very well,” he says. “If that is what you wish.”
He turns around and dives into the crowd faster than Jim can call after him.
“Well, that went well,” Jim mutters in frustration.
It’s this damn party, he thinks glumly. It’s spurred him into full defense mode, and he never had any illusions that his ‘fight or fight’ instincts are anything but ugly. Most people, after all, at least consider including the ‘flight’ option.
The Deltan is closing in on him now, and Jim groans mentally, looking for an escape route. Fortunately for him, the lights begin to dim at this moment, and an announcer asks everyone to take their places.
Jim looks around for Spock as he moves toward the back row of the seats, but the Vulcan is nowhere to be found. Jim curses under his breath and drops down to a chair, fuming and completely ignoring all the provocative smiles sent his way.
--
Ravoux Garan is a force of nature.
Jim has seen the holos of the man before, but he’s still somewhat surprised by how short he is. Bushy brown hair, mischievous eyes, a wrinkled tux that looks like Garan stole it from his older brother - Jim grins. He definitely likes the guy for a reason. It just beats him how so much energy and charisma could be secluded into such a compact form.
Garan talks about his upcoming novel and reads passages from several chapters. Jim is enthralled and dying to buy the damn thing, but he can’t fully concentrate on the reading. He keeps glancing along the rows of seats, trying to find Spock, but it’s pretty dark, and the audience is no small crowd. Jim shifts in his seat restlessly, torn between enjoying his once-in-a-lifetime moment and desperately missing Spock at his side.
The moment the lights are back on, Jim leaps to his feet, but even amidst all the applause, the thoughts of getting an autograph are the furthest thing from his mind.
The reception restarts with a fresh load of champagne and more delicious snacks, but Jim wanders over the crowded hall looking for one person only. He doesn’t care anymore about being scrutinized or about the ache in his spine from holding himself too stiffly.
“Norbert does come off as codependent and helpless, doesn’t he? Did you write him like that for a better contrast with Shelby?”
Jim looks around to see Garan standing in the middle of a small circle. Jim narrows his eyes at the man who asked the question and dislikes him immediately.
“Codependent - perhaps, to a degree,” Garan muses calmly, where Jim would have punched the arrogant bastard. “Helpless - hardly. He is on call for everyone he knows. It is merely his own issues that he is unwilling to settle, and that, my dear fellow, is a choice.”
The guy frowns. “That doesn’t sound at all like neo-utilitarianism at all.”
“That’s because it mostly applies to jerks,” Jim interjects before he can stop himself. “Norbert is practical. Doesn’t mean he’s selfish.”
Blood rushes to his cheeks as everyone turns to stare at him. Jim tilts his chin up defiantly. Norbert might be more messed up than any other fictional character Jim has ever known, but that doesn’t mean he’s worth dismissing.
“Quite right,” Garan says with a soft chuckle. “But if he’s so practical, why can’t he sort himself out?”
Jim shrugs. “I think he likes being messed up. It’s a convenient position to gain sympathy and not actually have to do anything about his life. Helping everyone else is just a bonus so that he can look noble in his own eyes and make people believe that he’s trying.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Oh yes, it does,” Garan says cheerfully. “In fact, it’s the most sense anyone has ever made of Norbert in my recollection - possibly myself included.” He winks at his audience. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I want to have a drink with my new friend.”
He walks toward a now very flustered Jim with his hand outstretched. Jim takes it automatically, ignoring the stink eye the rest of the group is giving him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Garan says, shaking Jim’s hand enthusiastically.
“Jim Kirk,” Jim responds, still trying to figure out what’s happening.
“I have a feeling you’re not a lit critic.”
“Hell no.” Jim snorts. “I’m here with a friend. I, um, I own a small bar downtown.”
“You actually sell alcohol?” Garan beams at him. “I like you more by the second.”
Jim grins. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Garan.”
“Oh, please, call me Roux. All my friends do, Jim - may I call you Jim? Excellent. So you like Norbert, eh?”
Which is how Jim finds himself talking animatedly to his favorite writer about the merits of characterization and its correlation with real life long enough for people to start sending them questioning looks. Garan seems completely unfazed by having his attention monopolized like that. He gesticulates wildly as he explains to Jim his reasoning at one point or other, like Jim has given him a royal treat.
“Spock!” Garan yells suddenly, startling Jim into jumping. “You made it, you son of a bitch!”
“How could I have missed your presentation, Roux?” Spock says politely. His eyes are smiling as he looks at Garan.
“Missed plenty of them in the past,” Garan points out, and then, much to Jim’s surprise, goes for a generous bear-hug, which Spock endures stoically and even returns, to a degree. “Saw you in the audience; you looked like you were chewing on a lemon. Was I that bad or what?”
“Certainly not. You forget that I am not immune to professional jealousy. The passage about the storm was simply astounding.”
Garan chuckles. “Believe it or not, I wrote it with you in mind. The ‘virgin bolt of anger’ and all that.”
“Indeed.” Spock’s lips curve into a small smile. “I am flattered.” He looks over Garan’s shoulder. “I see you have met Jim.”
Jim locks gazes with him, begging mutely for forgiveness, as Garan spins around and claps him on the shoulder hard. “That’s the friend you’ve come here with? You’re just full of awesome, aren’t you?”
Before Jim can say anything, Garan rushes on. “Well, if you’re his friend, then tell him to stop being an idiot and publish the damn book. He’ll tell you he’s not finished, but it’s bullshit. He’s been sitting on it for two years now.”
Jim looks at Spock in surprise. “You’ve written a book?”
Spock opens his mouth, looking anything but comfortable, but Garan beats him to a punch. “What do you mean he’s written a book? He’s written a damn bestseller! I mean, sure, others tried to tell the truth about what happened on Belta, but none of them had actually been there, never mind been in the midst of it.” He grips Spock’s shoulder. “Here we have an actual honest-to-God first-hand account from a member of the Peace Corps, written in a language that would make Joyce eat his hat, and he wouldn’t - I mean, forget Joyce! This book will redefine our knowledge of literature - and he won’t have it published!”
Jim gapes at Spock, unable to believe what he is hearing. Spock, a member of the Peace Corps, stuck in the middle of the Belta disaster? Survived Belta, period? Jim can barely come to terms with all this, and Spock looks...
Spock looks more upset and troubled than Jim has ever seen him. Instinctively, Jim wants to reach out to him, but they’re still in public, and with highly enthusiastic company.
“That - seems like a… travesty,” Jim hears himself saying haltingly, and this time it’s Spock’s eyes that are pleading. “I’m sure we can - talk about it.”
“Great idea!” Garan exclaims, slapping both their shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash. There’s Gina Weston, and is she spots me, I’m a dead man. I’ll be sure to swing by for a drink, Jim!”
Garan hurries away, leaving a loaded silence in his wake.
Jim eyes Spock carefully before stepping closer to him.
“I’m sorry about before,” he says softly. “I was being an ass.”
Spock sighs. “No, I apologize. I overreacted.”
Jim shakes his head, but doesn’t argue. Spock looks distressed, and Jim wants nothing more than to wipe that look off his face for good, but he’ll settle for as quickly as possible.
“Do you think we could maybe leave now?”
Spock looks at him gratefully. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Jim gives him a reassuring smile. “My dream came true, thanks to you.” He squeezes Spock’s arm for a moment. “Come on; let’s go home.”
They almost reach the parking lot when someone steps in their way, and Spock stops short.
It’s a Vulcan, dressed in formal Vulcan robes and looking better in them than anyone Jim has ever seen. He’s quite young, Spock’s age perhaps, and undeniably attractive. Not exactly Spock, of course, but someone Jim might have hit on, if the circumstances were different.
“Roven,” Spock exhales more than says, and the Vulcan bows gracefully.
“Spock. It has been a long time since our last meeting. You appear to be well.” Roven has a deep, pleasantly rough voice, Jim notes grudgingly, even as he stares at the guy with distrust.
“You as well,” Spock replies, and Jim has to fight down a sharp pang of jealousy, because Spock’s tone is gentler now than when he spoke to Nyota. “It is gratifying.”
Roven’s gaze drifts toward Jim in clear inquiry, and Spock jumps to make an introduction, as if only just remembering someone else is there.
“This is Jim Kirk, a friend. Jim, this is Roven of Vulcan-”
“His friend and lover,” Roven finishes for him.
Spock looks mildly scandalized, but mostly exasperated. “Roven...”
“To what do you take objection?” Roven asks innocently. “I am merely utilizing terms that are most clear to humans in order not to cause any confusion. I learned that from you.”
“Yet you are intentionally leaving Jim with a wrong impression regarding the current status of our relationship.”
Roven’s eyebrows arch gracefully. “Do you no longer consider me a friend, Spock?”
Spock shakes his head, but he is smiling softly. He glances at Jim apologetically. “Could you give us a moment?”
“Sure.” Jim nods. “Or I can just go if you want to catch up or something. I don’t mind.”
Spock’s hand closes around Jim’s wrist faster than Jim gets all the words out. “It will only take a moment,” Spock says, and there’s a definite pleading note to his voice. “Jim, I-”
“Okay.” Jim knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t really help it. He twists his wrist within Spock’s grip and catches his hand, twining their fingers. He makes certain Roven sees that. “I’ll wait by the car.”
The way Spock is looking at him - surprised, happy, and very, very grateful - almost makes the whole thing worth it.
Jim doesn’t even try to pretend he’s not watching. He’s too tired for that; the whole evening with its emotional rollercoaster has been too turbulent to leave any room for pretence.
Jim doesn’t like the way Roven steps into Spock’s personal space. Roven is talking and Spock is listening, staring at him without blinking, eyebrows knitting together tighter and tighter. Jim can’t hear the words, but he doesn’t like the way Spock’s face suddenly registers open alarm, and he glances at Jim with frightening urgency. He asks a question then, sharp, insistent, and Roven places a hand on Spock’s shoulder, as if bracing him before he answers.
Jim feels suddenly compelled to break the offending extremity. The fact that Spock simply lets Roven touch him doesn’t help matters.
Spock is staring at his feet now, his shoulders slumping. He says something so quietly that Roven leans closer to hear. He then takes Spock’s hand in both his own, making Spock glance up at him, and presses it presumably to his heart. His expression at that moment is so un-Vulcanly earnest that Jim feels the ground sway beneath his feet.
Jim finally turns away, because he really doesn’t want to know if they kiss.
He hears the sound of footsteps in a moment, and then Spock is standing at his side, silent. Jim turns to face him head-on to hear the verdict.
“Jim,” Spock says. “You have been a bartender for a long time, correct?”
“Yeah.” Jim frowns, unsure where this is headed.
“Do you know of any substances that affect Vulcans and could be obtained within this city?”
Jim looks at Spock. And looks. And looks. An ice-cold drop of sweat slides down his spine as it all sinks in.
“Yeah,” Jim breathes. “Yeah, no worries, man. I got you.”
Spock nods wearily and somewhat desperately, and all but falls into the passenger seat.
--
They make a short stop at a spot that Jim is loath to show Spock, but fortunately Spock expresses no desire to leave the car. After that, it’s just a straight and quiet drive to Spock’s house, which somehow seems even more dark and haunted now.
They crash in the living room. Both Jim and Spock get rid of their ties. Jim loses his jacket, too, opens the collar of his shirt with relief, and rolls up his sleeves.
Spock has yet to say anything, as he watches Jim open the first bottle. The odor is strong enough to knock out anyone inhaling too deeply, and the taste will be worse. Jim cringes at the bottle. There’s no way he’ll be able to drink this, and he doubts, somehow, that it’ll be much to Spock’s taste.
“Hold on a second,” he mumbles and dashes to the kitchen. He comes back with two old-fashioned glasses, several large cans of blueberry juice, and a shaker he discovers in one of the cupboards.
Spock leans back on the couch, unclasping his jacket, eyes following Jim’s hands diligently.
Two parts juice, one part terp’a. Jim shakes two liquids together violently, hoping it’ll be enough. He hands Spock his glass, brushing their fingers on purpose, but Spock seems distant and fails to notice.
Spock drinks half his glass in one go while Jim stares.
“Thank you, Jim,” Spock says, his voice raspy with the burn of alcohol. “I believe this will have the desired effect.”
“No kidding,” Jim mutters, choking on his first sip. “Just take it easy, okay?”
Spock nods. They sit in silence for a while, drinking.
“Tonight did not go the way I intended to,” Spock speaks at last.
Jim looks at him. “You didn’t want to go at all, did you? Because of Roux?”
“Indeed,” Spock says. “He is a good friend, and my mentor, if you please, when it comes to writing. But he is always very insistent about the book. I made the mistake of showing him the draft, and now he will not let it go.” He pauses. “I am not - ready - to publish it.”
Jim refills his glass and waits patiently. Spock is clearly working something out, and Jim is willing to give him time, even if he’s dying of curiosity.
Spock takes a long swig of the cocktail and sighs. “I believe I never told you about my family, Jim.”
It’s something of a non sequitur, admittedly, but Spock isn’t one for illogical leaps, so Jim doesn’t comment. He has a feeling that everything will add up in the end.
“My mother was Amanda Grayson of Earth, and my father is Sarek of Vulcan.” Spock pauses. “T’Pau of Vulcan is my grandmother.”
Jim all but drops his glass. “The T’Pau?”
“Indeed. She has been the cornerstone of the Vulcan society for approximately two hundred years now. Her level of involvement is unprecedented.”
“I’ll say,” Jim mutters under his breath, swallowing.
“Thirty years ago,” Spock continues, “T’Pau decided that Vulcan needed a visible token of commitment to the principles of IDIC and of the deepening bonds of friendship and camaraderie with humankind. She ordered her son to select a wife among the humans to achieve that goal. Her logic was sound.”
Spock leans deeper into the couch, freeing the first button of his shirt and inadvertently revealing more smooth, even skin. Jim leans forward in a not-so-unconscious desire to bend over and lick up the delicate curve of Spock’s throat, even as he listens to Spock’s words with growing trepidation.
“At the time, Sarek had already served as an ambassador to Earth for several years and was acquainted with a young woman called Amanda Grayson. He decided that she would make a logical choice for his wife.
“My mother did not know of his reasons.” Spock pauses to take another sip. “She fell in love with Sarek, and believed that he reciprocated her feelings, albeit silently.”
“So he - fooled her?” Jim asks cautiously.
“I do not believe so.” Spock frowns. “Vulcans rarely harbor intent to lie. I infer that he was quite intrigued by her, and so left her with the wrong impression. His actions spoke of affection and caring. My mother believed that he simply could not admit to his feelings, and she was willing to accept that.
“He married her, and they came to Vulcan. There, a Vulcan ceremony was held - the bonding. A mental bond was established that, in due time and with proper training, granted my mother access to Sarek’s mind and heart. Finally, she was able to see the truth.”
At this point, Jim can’t stop himself from reaching and squeezing Spock’s arm. Spock nods, without looking at him.
“But the realization did not arrive for the first three years, during which time the efforts of the best specialists in genetic engineering, both Vulcan and human, resulted in a successful pregnancy, and eventually - me.
“I was approximately two years old when my mother could not deny the truth any longer. Sarek cared for her and respected her because it was logical to care for and respect one’s spouse. He did not love her. And while he abstractly approved of the idea of having a child, his son… scared him.”
Spock’s voice turns sad, even as he fights to keep it even, and Jim moves closer to him on the couch without being aware.
“I was not like other Vulcan children. I was - unruly. Uncontrollable. I questioned my parents’ words. I wished to play instead of study. I was unpredictable. I was” - Spock bites his lip - “too human.”
Jim shakes his head. “I didn’t realize Vulcans could be so racist.”
“You misunderstand.” Spock purses his lips. “Or perhaps you are correct, but that was not the issue with me. Sarek had worked with humans for a long time. He was very familiar with their lack of logic or rationality. He did not, however, have much experience with human children. And it was - difficult - for him to accept that a being consisting of eighty percent of his own genome would use shiira jam to paint a sehlat on the living room wall.”
Jim has to smile at the image, but Spock shakes his head.
“Vulcan children don’t do that. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps Sarek was simply never meant to be a parent.”
Jim slides back along the couch to prepare another portion of the cocktail. “You don’t blame him?”
Spock tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “No. Not for that. As a child, I craved my father’s love and approval, as any child would. As an adult, I can understand.”
Jim refills his glass and watches Spock drinking the thick, viscous liquid down like water. Spock’s eyes glow brighter, a dangerous light giving away what his even voice and flowing words don’t.
“Upon discovering Sarek’s true reasons for marrying her, my mother was understandably upset, but she decided to remain on Vulcan for the sake of her child. Sarek and T’Pau claimed that there was no other place for me to be trained to control my telepathy, as I was, physically, almost completely Vulcan. My mother stayed. But her relationship with Sarek grew more distant and cold. Essentially, they had no common subjects except for me, and I was not Sarek’s favorite topic.
“My mother opposed some of the more archaic Vulcan traditions. I was not bonded to another at the age of seven, though I do not know what it cost her to defend my right to choose. But she could not prevent me from taking the kahs-wan.”
“That’s when Vulcans send their kids without food, water, or weapons to the mountains full of wild animal life?” Jim asks. “I have to tell you, Spock - I never could see much logic in that.”
“Neither did my mother. And you are correct regarding the test. The difference for me, however, was that I was supposed to demonstrate the triumph of IDIC as a superior philosophy, and thus had to survive in the Forge for a month rather than ten days.”
Jim stares at him, aghast. “You’re kidding. They threw you out there for a month? What kind of parent-”
Spock sighs and looks away. “My mother was powerless to prevent the ordeal; she had to be locked up for the duration.”
Jim watches Spock’s fists clench and shudders.
“She appealed to Sarek in every way she could, but he preferred to bow to T’Pau’s will in the end. The Forge...” Spock’s eyes turn misty. He takes another sip before continuing, his hands firm but his cheeks inflamed. “The Forge has received its name for a reason. I was injured, but I survived. My pet sehlat died, however, trying to protect me.”
Jim throws his head back, taking a generous helping of his homemade cocktail. The vile concoction scalds his throat, but he welcomes the burn. He has no idea how Spock manages to remain so articulate right now. If Jim drank at the rate Spock has been, he would have passed out awhile ago.
“My mother realized that she had had enough. She divorced Sarek by human laws and announced that she was returning to Earth, whether he was willing to break the bond or not. As I passed my test, I was legally of age by Vulcan standards. I was free to choose my way of living, and I chose to go with her.”
“Must have been quite a decision,” Jim mutters softly.
“That,” Spock says significantly, “is an understatement. T’Pau discovered that I was not the symbol of unity between the two species that she had been grooming me to be. And my mother was called many words I would not care to repeat.
“We settled on Earth, and not a month went by without someone from Vulcan coming over and trying to convince both or either of us to return. The visits gradually became rare, but we always felt like we were under observation. Yet, despite everything, we were happy.”
Spock swirls the drink in his glass thoughtfully. “Several years later, my mother acquired a - companion. Stephen was a teacher, like her, and he was a good man. He never… understood me, but he treated me well, and, most importantly, he loved my mother unconditionally. He moved in when I left for Oxford.”
Spock stills, obviously readying himself for something, and Jim has a sinking, gut feeling that he doesn’t want to hear what comes next.
“They were going home from a theatre late one night. The car was moving at high speed when they were pushed off the road. Stephen died instantly. My mother was taken to a hospital and died there without regaining consciousness.”
“Spock...” Jim’s mouth turns dry.
“They never found the second car,” Spock says, and the amount of venom in his tone makes Jim flinch. For the first time, he realizes that Spock is actually beyond drunk. “There were no witnesses; no surveillance data; no traceable evidence. The investigation was closed after one month. I spent five more trying to uncover something - anything. I did not succeed. But T’Pau’s emissary was on my doorstep the day after the crash - almost as if he had been waiting for it to happen.”
Jim feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “Spock,” he pushes out hoarsely, “you don’t really think your grandmother ordered-”
“My mother insulted Sarek and his family when she left,” Spock says evenly. “When she demanded formally for the bond to be broken so that she could marry another man, she insulted all of Vulcan.”
Jim says nothing, trying to assimilate the impossible truth.
“I searched everything, Jim,” Spock says in a smaller, almost plaintive tone. “Road accidents leave traces. Road accidents are - accidents. There is always something. No ordinary criminal, let alone another frightened driver, is capable of wiping everything clean to such an extent. I did not wish to believe it. But my logic leads me to no other conclusion.”
They sit quietly for a while. Spock’s eyes wander all over the room aimlessly. Jim is staring into space. Finally, he makes himself move and reloads the shaker. They both definitely need more.
“What about Roven?” Jim asks at last.
He really doesn’t like the happy sigh Spock emits at the name, but, almost instantly, Spock frowns. “He said that T’Pau is gathering current information about me.” He bites his lip. “I made a mistake - though it’s one I can’t bring myself to regret.”
“Gaila,” Jim deduces.
Spock nods. “For many years, I have been ‘flying under the radar,’ if you please. My whereabouts and occupation were known, of course, but I gave no signs of being overly invested in those. However, to obtain the citizenship for Gaila, I had to contact the High Council - and now they know of her existence. Of your existence.”
Jim opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but Spock shakes his head. “This is not good, Jim. If T’Pau is as determined as she once was to have me return to Vulcan permanently, those close to me might be in danger.”
Instinctively, Jim reaches to rub Spock’s shoulder gently. “Hey, there’s no need to get paranoid yet. It’s going to be fine.”
“That is what Roven said,” Spock admits with a sigh.
Jim retracts his hand. “What is he to you - really?”
Spock relaxes slightly. “A friend. Before my mother’s decision that I was not to be bonded as a child, Roven was intended to become my betrothed. We became friends, in spite of that. He was my playmate and my study partner. We enjoyed each other’s company, even though neither he nor I approved of the idea of an arranged marriage.
“He came to Earth on T’Pau’s orders after my mother’s death. I returned to Oxford to finish my degree because I could not comprehend the reality of what had happened, and I did not wish to think of it further.” He closes his eyes. “Colloquially put, it was driving me insane.
“Roven admitted to his agenda, even knowing that it would anger me. But he, too, was in a difficult position. T’Pau holds too much power over his family. He could not disobey her.”
“How noble of him to tell you, then,” Jim grumbles.
Spock doesn’t seem to notice his tone. “Indeed. He was ready to return home. However, seeing the state I was in, he applied for a position at the Vulcan consulate and stayed with me. We-” Spock clears his throat, blushing. “We became… intimate.”
Spock turns toward Jim, all wide eyes and earnest expression. “Jim, you have to understand, I was all alone. He was there and he was - he cared about me. I never realized that he had been attracted to me ever since we were children.”
“Well.” Jim scoffs. “If everything was so lovely, why aren’t you two living happily ever after now?”
Spock looks at his empty glass pointedly, but Jim ignores him. Spock sighs.
“Roven did - does care about me, but his life is on Vulcan. His work, his projects, his family - everything. If I agreed to bond with him-”
“He asked you?” Jim blurts.
Spock stares at him, focusing his attention on Jim for the first time since the conversation has started. “That surprises you. You do not believe that anyone would want to-”
“God, Spock, no!” Jim slides toward him and grabs his shoulders, shaking him. Spock observes him with mild curiosity, without trying to dislodge him. “That’s not what I - it wasn’t surprise, I just-” He forces his hands to still. In for a penny… “I was startled, okay? Afraid that you might have said yes.”
“Afraid,” Spock repeats with drunken thoughtfulness. “You were afraid, Jim?” A slow smile stretches Spock’s lips, and Jim groans.
“I hate you so much right now.”
“No, you do not,” Spock says slowly and pushes Jim back, reaching for the shaker. “I believe you are jealous.”
Jim falls against the back of the couch, shielding his eyes with his hand. “God, go on, Spock. Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you.”
“I was jealous, too,” Spock says, missing the sarcasm completely, focused on pouring the terp’a into the shaker. “Tonight. When I left you, I - Jim, why does it not taste the same?”
Jim opens one eye to see Spock drinking from the shaker and laughs helplessly. “Because you were supposed to add juice to it, genius.”
Spock blinks. “I was?”
“Okay, buddy, that’s it.” Jim pushes himself upright, fighting to find his balance. “Up.”
Spock looks at him in offended confusion. “But I did not tell you about-”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
“But-”
“You’re drunk off your ass, Spock. I don’t want you to keep telling me things while you’re like that.”
Spock honest-to-God pouts. “You don’t want to know-”
Jim slaps his hand over Spock’s mouth, startling him into silence. “I do want to know, you idiot. I want to know how you ended up on Belta, and what that guy Roven told you to have you this freaked, but I don’t” - he presses his hand harder - “want you to hate me in the morning. So we’re going upstairs now, and you will sleep it off. Okay?”
Cautiously, he releases Spock, who’s been staring at him the whole time without blinking.
“You are very attractive when you are in charge, Jim,” Spock tells him conversationally.
“Oh my God,” Jim mutters; he’s not nearly drunk enough not to respond to that, and it is so not what Spock needs right now. He grabs Spock’s arm and pulls forcefully. “Move, for fuck’s sake, before I do something stupid.”
Spock seems uncharacteristically compliant for once, allowing Jim to steer him up the stairs and into his bedroom.
“I wished to distance myself from everything,” Spock mumbles as Jim makes him sit on the bed while working on his shoes. “Earth, Vulcan. Everything. I did not know what to do with myself and I wished to get away.”
Jim sighs. “So you joined the Peace Corps?”
“Seemed logical at the time.”
“I bet.” Jim guides Spock to lie down and rolls him onto his side. “Tough luck you ended up on Belta.”
“Several years later, yes. That colony is... Jim, you could not imagine the way these people were living. I have seen things that do not compute with anything remotely civilized or normal. The conditions were hideous, and that was before the Klingons imposed the blockade. After that, there was chaos.”
Jim knows he should leave, but he can’t. And Spock keeps on talking.
“Can you imagine a world where young enthusiasts from the Peace Corps would be the most competent source of administrative governing? And then there was the occupation. Two months only, but they were the longest two months of my life, Jim.”
Spock shudders, and Jim sighs, giving up. He kicks his own shoes off and slides into bed next to him, using his hand as a reassuring weight on Spock’s shoulder.
“Sleep now, Spock, please.” He shifts closer to whisper. “You’re safe now. It’s over. Sleep.”
Spock falls onto his back and looks at Jim, eyes wide and deceivingly sober.
“You are the best friend I have ever had, Jim.”
Jim snorts softly and leans in to kiss his forehead. “No, sweetheart; I’m just a very good bartender.”
Spock grunts in what sounds like approval, and, mercifully, closes his eyes.
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