the best of the vanished marvels
title: the best of the vanished marvels
wordcount: ~750
rating: PG
summary: Jim and Spock talk about heroes and happily ever after.
notes: For coeurdesoleil for help_haiti! ♥ I hope you like it! Cut text and title from Adventures in Solitude by the New Pornographers.
--
The sun is a making a riot of orange and purple in the sky, turning the water into a sheet of pale gold beneath the clouds. Jim watches the flash of a bird's wing cut through the water and breathes in deep--salt air washing through him like clarity, smoothing out the vestiges of dreamy restlessness from his mind. It's beautiful here, he thinks. Space is beautiful, too, of course--nebulae blooming green and purple before your eyes, stars being born in bursts of light--but something ancient in his bones and blood likes the way the planet curves under him, solid and magnetic. Something in his body feels peace here.
He's tired, still, but finally starting to get his bearings. Being planetside again is an adjustment, but not one he thinks he can't make for a while. He's wearing pajamas-real pajamas, worn out plaid pants and a tshirt--and he's barefoot, grass prickling the bottoms of his feet, so some things are pretty good.
More than some, maybe.
He turns back after a moment, back towards the house, eyes searching. He doesn't have to look long. Spock's on the balcony, a cup of tea curled in one and a book in another--The Morphology of Terran Folktales, Jim determines after peering at the front cover. On impulse, he comes closer. Or maybe, he thinks ruefully, I just can't stay away.
He tosses the thought aside--what does it matter is it's true?--and hops lightly over the balcony rail. He comes up behind Spock, winding his arms around his waist and tucking his chin into Spock's shoulder.
"Learning anything?" he asks into Spock's skin, clearing hoarseness from his throat and pressing a kiss into his collarbone.
"Yes," Spock says. Jim drinks in the vibrations of his voice.
"Yeah? Tell me," he offers. He shifts around so he's kneeling on the porch, hand draped over Spock's shoulder. He ignores the twinge in his back, though he notes that Spock waits courteously until Jim settles fully before setting down his book and looking up.
They watch each other for a moment, and then Spock strokes his fingers through Jim's hair, eyes solemn as always, deep and endless like the wide bowl of space. "There is always a prince of sorts," he tells Jim finally, fingers lingering at the nape of Jim's neck.
"Yeah?" Jim murmurs, tilting his head back into Spock's hand, shiver rippling warm down his spine to pool bright in the bottom of his stomach. Such a familiar touch, now---skin and mind--but Spock never loses his newness, not to Jim. He never stops being a miracle.
"Yes," Spock says. "A young man of an age for marriage and love. It ties into ancient fertility myths, the author asserts."
"Mmhmm," Jim says, pulling himself back to earth. "And he always slays a dragon, right? Happily ever after?"
Spock quirks an eyebrow. "A simplistic assertion, Jim," he admonishes. "There are many models of story, and a fair few end in tragedy." He pauses, considering. "However, in most models, one could say he does slay a metaphorical dragon of some sort. A magician, a troll, a curse. A war. He conquers whatever forces are between him and his desire, and returns home a hero."
Jim makes a noise--agreement, triumph, he's not quite sure--and shifts up to curl on the arm of Spock's chair, hip pressed into Spock's side. He lets his eyes drift out over the inlet and breathes the smell of the air in deeply again, batting back memories that want to sweep up and engulf him, till he can find the words he wants. He can feel Spock's patience like a solid presence at his back.
"Does he ever go back?" he asks quietly. "To the adventure, I mean." He swallows at the raw, young sound of his voice; but it's Spock, it's Spock--Jim's been laid bare before him so many times before, and he can't count even one where he's regretted it. Never going to regret it, he thinks fiercely.
Spock's fingers trace lightly over the brace on Jim's back. "We will," he says, simply. He turns to look at Jim again, touching their fingers lightly together. "We will return."
Jim feels a smile stretching over his face at the certainty woven into Spock's voice, the calm conviction. The way his thoughts are echoing his words; mind twining with Jim's solidly, leaving no room for doubt. Some of the tension in his body bleeds out, and he takes another clear breath. "Okay," he says. "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Expertise."
"A wise move," Spock replies, teasing creeping in at the edges of his words, "as your own conclusions are often drawn without the benefit of logic or reason."
Jim grins more widely and slides closer, settling in so their sides are tight and warm together. "You like me that way," he accuses comfortably.
Spock doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to; the smile curving into the skin of Jim's cheek says more than enough.
-
wordcount: ~750
rating: PG
summary: Jim and Spock talk about heroes and happily ever after.
notes: For coeurdesoleil for help_haiti! ♥ I hope you like it! Cut text and title from Adventures in Solitude by the New Pornographers.
--
The sun is a making a riot of orange and purple in the sky, turning the water into a sheet of pale gold beneath the clouds. Jim watches the flash of a bird's wing cut through the water and breathes in deep--salt air washing through him like clarity, smoothing out the vestiges of dreamy restlessness from his mind. It's beautiful here, he thinks. Space is beautiful, too, of course--nebulae blooming green and purple before your eyes, stars being born in bursts of light--but something ancient in his bones and blood likes the way the planet curves under him, solid and magnetic. Something in his body feels peace here.
He's tired, still, but finally starting to get his bearings. Being planetside again is an adjustment, but not one he thinks he can't make for a while. He's wearing pajamas-real pajamas, worn out plaid pants and a tshirt--and he's barefoot, grass prickling the bottoms of his feet, so some things are pretty good.
More than some, maybe.
He turns back after a moment, back towards the house, eyes searching. He doesn't have to look long. Spock's on the balcony, a cup of tea curled in one and a book in another--The Morphology of Terran Folktales, Jim determines after peering at the front cover. On impulse, he comes closer. Or maybe, he thinks ruefully, I just can't stay away.
He tosses the thought aside--what does it matter is it's true?--and hops lightly over the balcony rail. He comes up behind Spock, winding his arms around his waist and tucking his chin into Spock's shoulder.
"Learning anything?" he asks into Spock's skin, clearing hoarseness from his throat and pressing a kiss into his collarbone.
"Yes," Spock says. Jim drinks in the vibrations of his voice.
"Yeah? Tell me," he offers. He shifts around so he's kneeling on the porch, hand draped over Spock's shoulder. He ignores the twinge in his back, though he notes that Spock waits courteously until Jim settles fully before setting down his book and looking up.
They watch each other for a moment, and then Spock strokes his fingers through Jim's hair, eyes solemn as always, deep and endless like the wide bowl of space. "There is always a prince of sorts," he tells Jim finally, fingers lingering at the nape of Jim's neck.
"Yeah?" Jim murmurs, tilting his head back into Spock's hand, shiver rippling warm down his spine to pool bright in the bottom of his stomach. Such a familiar touch, now---skin and mind--but Spock never loses his newness, not to Jim. He never stops being a miracle.
"Yes," Spock says. "A young man of an age for marriage and love. It ties into ancient fertility myths, the author asserts."
"Mmhmm," Jim says, pulling himself back to earth. "And he always slays a dragon, right? Happily ever after?"
Spock quirks an eyebrow. "A simplistic assertion, Jim," he admonishes. "There are many models of story, and a fair few end in tragedy." He pauses, considering. "However, in most models, one could say he does slay a metaphorical dragon of some sort. A magician, a troll, a curse. A war. He conquers whatever forces are between him and his desire, and returns home a hero."
Jim makes a noise--agreement, triumph, he's not quite sure--and shifts up to curl on the arm of Spock's chair, hip pressed into Spock's side. He lets his eyes drift out over the inlet and breathes the smell of the air in deeply again, batting back memories that want to sweep up and engulf him, till he can find the words he wants. He can feel Spock's patience like a solid presence at his back.
"Does he ever go back?" he asks quietly. "To the adventure, I mean." He swallows at the raw, young sound of his voice; but it's Spock, it's Spock--Jim's been laid bare before him so many times before, and he can't count even one where he's regretted it. Never going to regret it, he thinks fiercely.
Spock's fingers trace lightly over the brace on Jim's back. "We will," he says, simply. He turns to look at Jim again, touching their fingers lightly together. "We will return."
Jim feels a smile stretching over his face at the certainty woven into Spock's voice, the calm conviction. The way his thoughts are echoing his words; mind twining with Jim's solidly, leaving no room for doubt. Some of the tension in his body bleeds out, and he takes another clear breath. "Okay," he says. "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Expertise."
"A wise move," Spock replies, teasing creeping in at the edges of his words, "as your own conclusions are often drawn without the benefit of logic or reason."
Jim grins more widely and slides closer, settling in so their sides are tight and warm together. "You like me that way," he accuses comfortably.
Spock doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to; the smile curving into the skin of Jim's cheek says more than enough.
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