Saudade | STXI | NC-17 | 2/9

[lalazee]

2.

The residents of Iowa enjoyed plaid.

This was Spock’s conclusion as he exited the first department store he had encountered. He had found himself facing busy aisles of plaid, jeans and boots. That was acceptable; Spock was not particular about his clothing. Although, there had been one accessory that puzzled him.

Duck-billed hats that made claims such as: ‘I Don’t Break for Hippies’ and ‘Your Girlfriend is Great in Bed’.

Spock was hopeful these opinions were not shared by the entire population of Sioux City. He did not know what a hippy was, but it seemed incredibly rude to insinuate they would be struck by an automobile or other form of transport.

Sioux City was a bustling town where the inhabitants and visitors appeared to mind their own business. Spock could appreciate this, as he was in town for that specific reason - to acclimate. He had arrived on Earth with only his Vulcan garments and, after one day, had quickly come to realise that the ethnocentric stares and whispers he received due to his style of dress caused more trouble than he was comfortable with.

So his aunt had given him directions to the nearest large town, and Spock had opted for a quick shuttle-ride over the use of his malfunctioning automobile. He did not find the vehicle trustworthy enough to operate until Jim Kirk repaired the extensive damage.

Shopping was an excessively frivolous and illogical pastime when the action revolved around purchasing useless items. In this scenario, Spock felt it necessary that he fit in with this half of his culture; he had done the same on Vulcan, and he would do so here.

He had, essentially, walked in and grabbed the first few garments that appeared as if they would fit him, purchased his items, and prepared to immediately head home.

As Spock approached the shuttle-bay, he puzzled over the reaction the cashier had expressed when he had purchased thick, long-sleeved flannel shirts in the summer of July. Had he bought something inappropriate? Well, that was of no concern to him; perhaps it had simply been his Vulcan features which caused her alarm.

The next shuttle was set to arrive in thirty-six minutes. Spock deliberated between waiting at the designated stop for the remainder of time, and venturing into the establishment behind him. He chose the latter, simply because the oncoming dusk brought a chill to his skin.

Spock’s arrival to the tiny bar was announced by the rusty creak of the swinging door upon its hinge. The lighting was dim, and a veil of smoke hung in the air like mist. Figures hunched over their drinks, both in groups and alone. No one spoke above a murmur.

With a slight nod to the bartender, Spock chose a stool at the long counter and settled his bags at his feet. He ordered a cranberry juice, which gleaned an imploring look from the proprietor. Spock’s raised eyebrow had been enough incentive to keep the man quiet and leave him in peace. Spock would be grateful to wear Human garments tomorrow; he attracted more attention than was necessary with both his clothing and his mannerisms.

Spock sat for approximately two minutes as he stared into the vibrant swirl of liquid within his glass and allowed his normally trained thoughts to drift. All too soon, however, a familiar lazy tenor pricked at his ears.

It caught Spock by surprise that a single utterance should cut so cleanly through his guard. One of the first practices a Vulcan mastered was muting the background noise of one’s environment - but this murmur was entirely distracting. It was the only voice on the entire planet that Spock could instantly recognise.

Jim Kirk.

Spock did not turn in his seat in search of the Human. What Jim had said yesterday about himself was accurate for Spock, as well. People spoke, and he listened. So, Spock shifted in his seat, his head cocked to the left, and did exactly that.

Jim’s voice did not carry the same warmth or levity of youth as with their first interaction. It was cool, level, practiced - and slightly amused.

“Sorry, ladies - my three kings totally molest your two-pair.”

There was a clatter and a scrape of several objects as they dragged across the table. Jim’s voice perked up once more. “’Nother round? Or do you wanna save some dough to feed your kids this week? I don’t give a flyin’ fuck either way.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ talk about me family, Kirk. You’re a kid yourself - still be suckin’ on your mama’s teat if she were around long enough.”

Jim’s voice was steely; a lytherette wire strung tight. “Yeah, well at least this kid’s mom wasn’t married to her cousin. Tell me, Rick - should we discuss the genetic origins of your extra toe, or should we just shut up and play?”

After twenty-seven seconds of silence, several grunts of assent followed.

Spock could no longer keep his curiosity at bay - his father had always told him that his insistent thirst for knowledge was both his greatest strength and weakness. Spock shifted in his seat, just enough to inconspicuously monitor the activity.

Jim was seated at a circular table in the far corner of the room, where three hunched men completed the ring of play. They were, indeed, engaging in some Terran game. One man swiftly shuffled a deck of cards and dealt them out with a practiced hand.

All the while, Jim made a display of counting his large pile of coloured plastic discs. He appeared to be in position of seventy-one percent of the discs at the table - the remainder was spread between the three older Humans.

When each man was dealt five cards, the game began. Jim slouched back in his chair - his spine arced as skinny legs spread akimbo beneath the table - and his head lolled to the side in apparent disregard for the game. He did not appear overtly concerned whether he won or lost.

Spock watched as sharply as he could from his awkward position. Discs were thrown into the centre of the table and cards were exchanged from the slightly tattered deck.

It did not take long for Spock to puzzle out the most basic regulations of the recreation. This was a game of wagers, entirely dependent on the configuration and rank of cards which a player was dealt. The play proceeded to the left, and each player made a bet with their discs.

While the outcome was greatly weighted on what humans called luck, the final victory revolved around probability and psychology.

The only problem was Jim. He won every round.

Logically that should not be possible, unless under the most unusual of circumstances. To win so often and so confidently, one would either have to possess powerful psychic skills to anticipate the coming cards - or possess a distinctly numerical, genius-level intellect, keenly adjusted to counting and recalling cards as they exchanged hands.

Once Spock arrived to that conclusion, a new realisation dawned on him: not only was Jim cognisant of every card at the table, but he appeared to watch the players’ expressions as keenly as he did the deck.

From beneath his hooded gaze, Jim’s eyes flickered from one man’s face to the next, and then landed on the deck as further cards were dealt. He made no undue movements and gave away nothing but indifference.

But behind that veil of ignorance, Spock perceived a carefully crafted plan of action. Jim was a tactician of cards. Of this, there was no doubt.

A safe hypothesis - however personally unbelievable - was that Jim Kirk was some sort of prodigy.

Peculiar.

“You little cheat,” hissed the man called Rick, with whom Jim had previously been verbally sparring.

“How so?” Jim said glibly, as he scraped a few more discs towards him.

“I don’t know, but no kid can win this many times in a row. Not even a whiz-kid.”

“Useful information - if you were playing a kid.”

“Please, I got underwear older’n you.”

“Now that’s a visual I didn’t need, but thanks anyway.”

Rick leaned in, his lip curled in disgust. “You think you’re real clever, dontcha, Kirk?”

Jim jerked a shoulder and began neatly stacking his discs in order of colour. “Don’t really think I am. Know I am would probably be a more accurate statement.”

Spock frowned and turned completely in his seat. He was curious why Jim appeared to be purposely evoking an emotional response from the man. There was a clear height, weight and muscle difference between the two of them. If an altercation were to occur, Jim’s chances of victory were low.

All three men at the table appeared tense. They laid down their cards, and their chairs squealed against the scarred floor as they scooted back and stood.

Jim merely stared up with large, guileless eyes, as Rick cracked his knuckles.

“Then you should know that we don’t take kindly to cheaters ‘round these parts.”

Jim’s smile was wide and sharp. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, ladies. There’s no need to be sore losers. Just suck it up and pay.”

When Rick dove for Jim, Spock was mildly impressed at the speed which Jim flung himself from his chair. Discs coloured the air like confetti, then scattered across the floor like causalities of the oncoming war.

“You little sonofabitch - I’ll wipe that shit-eating grin right off your face!”

The scene unfolded almost faster than Spock’s heightened senses could acknowledge. Jim evaded several lunges at his person, and interspersed his deflections with several short jabs, kicks to the stomach and wily thrown elbows. But, as Spock had previously concluded, his shorter stature and sly manoeuvres were not enough to claim victory in this altercation.

Rick yanked Jim by the hair and planted a solid fist to his temple. The weight of the impact was enough to send Jim spinning on his heel - the momentum turned him and sent his face slamming into a mute jukebox.

The crack brought Spock to his feet. He was across the room in four seconds - and in twelve seconds more, the first man collapsed under the pressure of an icily executed nerve-pinch. Sixteen seconds further and the second assailant slumped across a table.

Rick had little time to defend himself when Spock bunched his fingers into his hair in a mirror of what he had done to Jim, and slammed his forehead against the table with a resounding thud. It was only logical that the man experience the same pain he had inflicted on Jim.

Jim.

He was on the floor, slumped against the side of the jukebox. His head was in his palms as he groaned quietly. Red, alien blood trickled between the fingers of one hand, and travelled in thin streams down his wrist.

Spock crouched before him and placed a tentative hand on Kirk’s knee. Spock was cognisant of the bartender approaching, as well as the small crowd which had gathered around them during the altercation.

“Jim.” Spock sought out his attention in a monotone. “I believe it is within our best interests to vacate the premises with haste.”

Jim’s hands flopped listlessly to his lap. He blinked owlishly at Spock, as if meeting him for the first time. Spock dispassionately reviewed the damage inflicted to Jim’s face.

The corner of his lip was split, as was the tip of his eyebrow, which streamed blood. Spock was not particularly alarmed, as head-wounds bled profusely, even with minor injuries.

Jim nodded vaguely and huffed out a shaky breath. “Good plan.” He reached out and placed a hand on Spock’s shoulder, using him for leverage as he hefted himself up with surprising dexterity for someone in his condition.

The proprietor of the establishment was already bellowing, “That’s the last straw, Kirk - get the fuck out of here! I don’t wanna see hide nor hair of you again. More trouble’n you’re worth kid - more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Relax,” Jim said, and brushed off the helping arm that Spock offered. “Take my winnings as compensation, okay? I’m sick of this dump, anyway.”

Jim turned on his heel - although he may have wavered for a moment - and strode out of the bar. Spock pondered leaving him to his own devices, but quickly decided that his mechanic might need some assistance in getting home safely. Spock ignored the groans of the awakening assailants, as he grabbed his shopping bag and made his exit.

Spock frowned against the bloody, russet rays of the setting sun. Jim was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot or at the bus stop. Spock surveyed the area and finally, a bizarre spark of static sounded from his left. He looked over his shoulder and immediately recognised the pair of over-sized, ill-fitted Starfleet boots peeking out from beneath the bumper of an antiquated vehicle.

Once more, inquisitiveness tugged at him like a leash. Spock approached slowly, as another sizzle of electricity crackled from beneath the automobile, followed by a muted grunt of pain.

Spock cleared his throat. “May I inquire as to the purpose of your current actions?”

He would have liked to further inquire into the entire scene which had played out moments before, but it was not his business.

Jim’s feet twitched in apparent surprise at the company, but he did not reply. Instead, he slipped out from beneath the bumper and swept past Spock without a second look. Jim rounded the driver’s side and shoved his arm in the dubiously thin gap of the partially open window. His tongue idly swept across his swollen lip as he stretched his fingers further - and finally caught the nub of the lock, pulling it up with a victorious click.

Spock canted his head slightly, as both brows gravitated sky-high out of their own volition. Jim opened the car door with a look of triumph on his bloodied face.

He finally turned to Spock and raised his eyebrows in a similar fashion - only his expression was rather expectant. “Coming? I don’t feel like the shuttle.”

“Is this your vehicle?” Spock did not know why he formed the inquiry. Perhaps this was what desperate hope felt like.

Jim laughed airily, his bright eyes dragging towards the establishment entrance. “Rick’s. It’s fine - he needs to shake off a few pounds with a walk. You gettin’ in or not? I don’t have all day.”

Spock was somewhat taken aback by the abrupt manner in which he was being addressed. It was most unbecoming, but not entirely surprising, considering the source.

“Theft is a morally reprehensible act.”

“Sing it to the choir.”

Spock was certainly not going to sing anything to anyone. That aside, it appeared that Jim would be utilising his newly acquired vehicle with or without him.

“Perhaps I should drive.” Spock inwardly gaped at his suggestion. “You are not well.”

Jim opened his mouth and wiggled his jaw. He shrugged and swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. Crimson smeared across his temple and into his dishevelled hair. “I’ve had worse.”

Spock flicked a brow. “Doubtless. Blood is running into your eye. It would be prudent to remain as safe as possible.”

A long-winded sigh was Jim’s reply. “Whatever you say, Safety Spock.”

Jim swung open the driver’s door and launched himself through it and onto the passenger’s seat. Spock followed and closed the door behind him. He immediately buckled his seatbelt.

“How do I -”

Jim was already leaning over Spock’s lap, where he cracked open the dashboard with the expertise that Spock had utilised a nerve pinch. A panel of wires were exposed, and Jim’s lips thinned in concentration as he fiddled with the webbing of colour.

He smelled like iron and sun and something indefinably sweet.

A spark brought the car sputtering to life and crashed Spock’s thoughts back to reality. His mouth weighted in a frown as he watched Jim replace the dashboard, and lean back with a lopsided grin on his bruised lips.

“You know how to drive this thing?”

Spock might have been insulted had he not known better. “It cannot be difficult.”

And it was not.

Spock needed little instruction to reach Jim’s home. There were few roads, and even fewer farms and houses along this stretch of town. It appeared that Spock lived no more than four point two miles from the Kirk Farm; although that was the hypotenuse of space, and it would take longer to reach his current residence by road.

The sunset was a pleasant gold and rust that reminded Spock of Vulcan. He pulled up the gravel driveway to the main house and parked the car. Jim had been mostly quiet throughout the trip, and Spock was content with that. He postulated that he would never grow accustomed to the Human imperative to fill silence.

The moment Spock turned off the engine, Jim’s voice cut through the stillness. “Okay, well thanks for the ride and stuff. You’re really gonna have to teach me how to drop dudes like flies sometime. Very cool trick. Oh, and don’t worry about the car - I’ll take care of it. You just drive it home and it’ll be gone by morning.” Jim paused. “See ya.”

Jim was nearly out the door, when Spock found himself calling out. “You will need first aid.”

Jim sat back in his seat, one leg out the door, as he twisted Spock’s way. Those curiously-blue eyes peered at him with what Spock could only categorise as suspicion and disbelief.

“Yeah? Well,” Jim ran his palm gingerly along the line of his jaw, “I can do it on my own.”

“It would be more efficient if you allowed me to help. I am trained in advanced first aid if you are concer-”

“Spock.” Jim’s lips curved, and it looked like a painful and unnecessary action. “Does it look like I’m worried? I appreciate the offer and all, but I can take care of myself.”

Spock could not understand why he was forcing himself upon Jim. He only knew that when he saw the fresh injuries on Jim’s face, his stomach tightened in a fist. But he remained silent as Jim exited the vehicle.

The moment Jim swayed and leaned upon the hood, Spock was out of his seat and rounding the front of the automobile. He firmly clasped Jim’s forearms and frowned down at him.

“You are unable to walk without support.”

“Fuck if I can’t,” Jim said, futilely attempting to jerk away from Spock’s grasp.

Spock’s gaze sharpened on Jim’s face. One of Jim’s pupils was slightly larger than the other.

“You have a minor concussion,” Spock said flatly.

“Shit happens.”

“Apparently. Come inside.” Spock was already leading Jim by the arm to the front door. This person was particularly careless with himself, even for a Human. Not only did he seem to enjoy placing himself in harmful situations, but refused aid when it was offered. It was as if he crafted dangerous scenarios for himself.

Jim did not argue as he pinched the bridge of his nose and allowed himself to be led. “You’re a bossy bastard, know that?”

“You are entitled to your opinion.”

Jim snorted a laugh and leaned on the front door, where it swung inward without the use of a key. The darkened hall echoed with clumsy footsteps.

“Frank’s not home,” Jim said, as he kicked off his boots in the middle of the corridor.

Spock followed Jim’s wavering lead to the kitchen. “Who is Frank?”

“Cocksucker.”

Spock blinked back his surprise at the use of profanity. From what he gathered of Jim Kirk thus far, he littered his sentences with obscenities, and clouded his intelligence with colloquialisms and a stubborn spark in his eyes. It was most perplexing.

“I beg your pardon?”

“First aid box is above the sink, Nurse Spock.” Jim dragged a chair out and flopped down, his legs splayed wide as he slouched back.

Spock flicked a glance at the bronzed skin of Jim’s knee that peeked out from his ripped jeans. He turned on his heel and searched out said box with efficiency, and placed it on the scarred kitchen table. He sat down across from Jim and inspected his wounds with a discerning eye.

Jim stared back. Spock cleared his throat. “We must first clean your wounds if we are to disinfect them.”

“Yeah, I know the drill. Washcloth is over there.” Jim gestured vaguely to the sink.

Spock got up once more, wet a towel beneath the antiquated sink and returned to his place before Jim. Without conversation, he reached forward and placed the tip of the soaked cloth to Jim’s mouth. Jim flinched, but made no sound as his gaze remained fixed on Spock’s face. Spock concentrated on that blood-stained bottom lip, rather than those disconcerting eyes.

The curve of Jim’s mouth was fascinating. It looked soft and pink, even with the swollen cut in the right corner. The classically feminine vulnerability of Jim’s lips was so at odds with the sharp line of his jaw and the jutting chin. Such an intriguing combination of features - Spock had seen Vulcan women less beautiful than Jim.

Spock inwardly shook himself out of his uncharacteristically disordered thoughts. Schooling his face, he fixed upon Jim’s eyes once more. One pupil remained point five of a millimetre larger than the other, but the intensity of the stare was not lacking. Spock swallowed and silently finished cleaning Jim’s wounds without further delay.

Jim was the first to crack the silence, as Spock took out the antibiotic. “So, why are you really doing this?”

“Would you clarify your meaning?” Spock squeezed some salve onto a cotton ball and dabbed at Jim’s brow.

“Playing nurse. You get off on that kinda stuff?”

Spock did not know how to reply to that, so he did not. He diverted his attention to placing a square of gauze upon the gash on Jim’s forehead. Humouring the illogical assumptions of his mechanic was irrelevant to the situation at hand.

The soft, white edge of the bandage was stark against Jim’s tan skin. As Spock smoothed a corner down, the pad of his middle finger brushed Jim’s temple.

Curiosity - comfort - craving - caution.

Craving - lust. Again, Spock experienced the foreign emotion from a distance, and peered at it like an object crunched beneath a microscope. He felt an urge to dissect it, prod it - question it.

That was twice Spock had encountered the curious rise of pleasure in his gut from the Human before him. Was Jim constantly in a state of lust? Spock had studied the Human reproductive system while on Vulcan; perhaps puberty was akin to a diluted, constant version of Pon farr for Human adolescents.

The second possibility was that Jim Kirk felt a basic attraction for him. Spock calculated the probability to be low.

Either way, Spock filed away the memory and sensory perceptions for further meditation.

“Without the aid of a regenerator, you are mended to the best of my abilities.”

Jim touched a few fingertips tentatively to his forehead. “You’re pretty handy. I should keep you around more often.”

Spock felt his cheeks heat as he marvelled at how casually Humans conversed. They utilised their words with such abandon that they never meant anything, and it became their actions that took on extensive significance.

On Vulcan, Spock’s experience had been that the spoken word expressed volumes, whereas actions were to be reserved and restrained unless necessary.

Spock acknowledged that he would have to learn to take Humans with less gravity than his Vulcan peers, but he was unsure about his ability to effectively do so in the future.

“I shall take my leave for the night.”

Jim lurched from his seat, with that excess energy buzzing around him like an electric current. He shrugged and offered a miniscule smile, his swollen lip stretching slightly. “Sure. I’ll walk you out.”

Spock could only nod as he was led from the kitchen. He stepped onto the front porch and turned towards the doorway.

Jim leaned against the frame, with arms folded across his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. His quiet amusement was evident beneath the sharp relief of shadow and light across his features. Spock was clueless as to the cause of noted mirth, but that seemed to be a constant confusion for him at this point.

A chorus of chirping song blanketed them in twilight melody. Spock frowned. “What is that noise?”

Jim cocked his head to listen, as if he had not noticed.

“It’s the year of the cicada. Annoying little bastards. Hundreds of ‘em appear every thirteen years -sometimes seventeen, but always a prime number. They sing and fuck and sing some more, and that lasts a couple of weeks until they croak.” Jim coughed a rough laugh. “Actually, that sounds pretty sweet.”

Jim inhaled deeply, seeming to take in the pollen-dappled evening air. “Y’know, my mom used to tell me this story every time I got lazy in the summers -The Cicada and the Ant. It’s a story about a cicada that spends the entire summer singing while his friend, the ant, works diligently to collect food for the winter. Winter comes, and the cicada dies because he never prepared himself. He just thought he could mooch off the ant, but no dice.”

Jim’s flash of teeth was dim in the growing shadows. “My mom always said I’d be that cicada.” Jim held up one hand and wiggled his fingers in a curiously playful version of a Human wave goodbye. “Well, enjoy the music while it lasts, Spock. G’night.”

“Goodnight, Jim,” Spock said automatically, although a portion of his thoughts lingered on Jim’s open palm, and the memory of their first sloppy kiss.

Then the door was shut quietly in his face, and Jim was gone.

Spock remained standing beneath the light of the moon, pondering the thirteen-year cycle of music, mating, and death.

CHAPTER 3