Trees Against The Sky - Chapter Three
Title: Trees Against the Sky
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewiselousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinficfor giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter 3-
“Well, Jim, he seems to be doing pretty well. Better than I would have expected, actually.” Bones is crouched at the bottom of the tree, a piece of grass hanging from between his lips. The bones and talons of his necklace clack against each other as he stands, cracking his neck absently. “That leg…I worry about it. I got it as straight as I could, but…who knows what his skeleton is like.” He looks distressed for a moment, his tufted tail twitching idly behind him, then shrugs. “Rest of him seems to be doing great, though. I would have thought a full season to recover, but it’s only been, what…” He scratches his bare chest.
“Fifteen days.”
Bones blinks at him, and Jim realizes suddenly he’s used the wrong language. He’s doing that more and more recently, and he can’t quite decide what to think of it.
“Sorry, fifteen days.”
Bones nods, eyeing him carefully. Jim schools his expression into nonchalance, letting the tension slide from his shoulders.
“Uh huh. And how are you holding up? Caring for an invalid is hard work. Are you taking care of yourself?” He cocks his head, his eyes far too shrewd for Jim’s peace of mind. “Any more nightmares?”
Jim turns away, lets his gaze roam off across the plain, examining the cloud of dust kicked up in the distance by a herd. He’ll need to go hunting soon. He’s nearly emptied his stores, feeding himself and the alien for this long without time for gathering. They’ll be ok - it’s early yet in the season, food is plentiful. And Spock is stronger every day; soon he’ll be strong enough to be left on his own.
“No, Bones. No nightmares.”
Bones makes that distinctive harrumphing noise that indicates his total disbelief, but he leaves it, and turns to head back to the village.
“Come and find me if you need me, Jim.”
Jim just nods, listening until the sound of Bones’ footsteps are lost in the constant rustle of the long grass.
Nightmares.
He clutches his head and slides down the tree, planting his rear on the packed dirt and leaning forward to press his forehead to the dust.
The smell, the scent of burning flesh, the screaming, the never-ending screaming. The faces that appear, one after another, eyes wide and mouths gaping in shock, in terror. The one face that supersedes all the others, dark eyes piercing him through.
It took months after he was found before he could sleep through the night, years after that before he could go long stretches of days without seeing, without remembering. Not that he ever truly remembered anyway, that was half the awfulness of the dreams - they were all image and sound and feeling, no names, no information, no actual memory of the scenes involved. Just unending terror and the sensation of falling.
Hunger, deep hunger, and the sight of dust blowing in from the fields. Weeping, first in the distance, then close at hand. Words echoing through a loud speaker, words he can’t make out, but can feel in his gut, feel turning him cold and sour and tight.
He scrubs his fists into the dirt, the repetitive motion soothing his nerves.
Bones is right. The dreams are back.
--
Spock is sitting up when he gets upstairs, leaning forward into a puddle of sunlight as he works strands of fibers carefully through his nearly healed fingers. He lifts his face to Jim, and Jim nearly shivers under his gaze. He shoves the sensation down, smiling broadly at the sight of his erstwhile roommate, the sun gleaming on the head of thick, dark, hair.
“I have made eighteen meters of…” he considers the length coiled at his feet, “…string today, in the manner which you showed me. I hope this is useful.” He blinks up at Jim, his face open and earnest, and Jim’s smile becomes a bit more sincere.
“That’s great, Spock. We’ll have you crocheting in no time!”
Spock looks skeptical, and Jim laughs, coming over to drop down next to him and examine the growing length. It is, as he expected, perfect in every regard. He’s beginning to doubt that there’s a skill this man doesn’t have, at least when it comes to small motor control. Every motion he makes is deliberate and graceful, which is no small feat while recovering from extensive injuries, and every small task Jim has set him has been completed assiduously and with minute attention to detail.
“Here. Let me just…” Jim reaches out, pulling the yarn through Spock’s fingers and settling it into his hands. “So, this is not enough to make a whole lot yet, but let me just show you the basics. Then, when you’ve made some more, you can start practicing.” He reaches up into a pouch hanging on the wall, fishes out a carved wooden stick with a hook on the end. He settles the hook in Spock’s right hand, the yarn in his left, wrapping an arm around Spock’s shoulders so that he can manipulate both Spock’s hands. There’s the small flinch Spock always makes when Jim touches him, but Jim ignores it. He may have only known Spock for a short time, but he’s never known Spock to have any trouble speaking his preferences. If he did not want to be touched, Jim’s quite certain he would say so.
“Take the yarn like this - see? Make a loop, and tie it off. That’s the beginning of what is going to make a chain - the foundation of what you’ll construct.” He laces his fingers into Spock’s without thinking, and when Spock shudders lightly, Jim suddenly realizes exactly how close he’s gotten.
Shit.
He’s a touchy guy, always has been, and the villagers here, they don’t seem to mind. Bones never has. But it’s more pronounced with Spock, and he can’t…it’s like his hands have a mind of their own with him, seeking him out and touching him, checking him, gravitating to him without thought or permission.
He’s no idiot, and he’s no child. He’s watched the young folks in the village court, and play, and mate. The villagers feel no shame in attraction, and no sense in hiding it, but Jim has never made the leap - something has always held him back, no matter the charms of the one offering. But now…
Nothing to do but bluff through it. He lifts his head from Spock’s shoulder, putting a little distance at least, then begins looping the thread, catching it with the hooked end of the stick and pulling it through.
“See? Like that. You try.”
He sits back, watching as Spock’s competent fingers catch on, swiftly equalizing the size and shape of each link in the chain. The look of concentration on his face is mesmerizing, and Jim bites his lip, forcing himself to look away.
“It is…similar to things I have seen my mother do, at home.”
“It is?” Jim supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - some form of fabric crafting must be a fairly common humanoid trait, or at least common where temperatures are not always tropical.
“Yes.” Spock frowns down at the string in his hands, fingers moving more quickly as he becomes more certain. “Vulcan clothing is almost entirely woven - we use the loom for construction of fabric, and embroidery for decorative purposes. However, my mother is human, and could frequently be found knitting.” He pauses and looks at Jim, his eyes wistful. “Before I was deployed, she was starting a knitting group of the neighbors. Vulcans always like to learn new skills, and she had sent off to Earth for more patterns.”
First he’s shocked - who knew Vulcans and humans had interbred? But then Jim can’t help himself - he begins to laugh, chuckles that rise in his belly and burst out his mouth, filling the room and startling the birds in the tree. The mental picture of a human woman, with Spock’s brown eyes, teaching a roomful of Vulcans how to hold needles is just too much.
Spock eyeballs him, the string abandoned in his hands. He never smiles, but his eyes are glinting in the way that Jim has quickly found means he’s laughing.
“I advise you not to laugh. She is a formidable teacher, my mother.”
Jim giggles, wiping his face with his hand.
“I can just imagine she is, Spock.” He grins. “She sounds great.”
Spock’s eyes soften, and he looks down, then up again to meet Jim’s eyes.
“What about your mother, Jim? Does she indulge in handicrafts?”
Jim freezes, his muscles locked tight.
Blond hair, whipping around his face. The scent of perfume, orange blossom and lavender, mixed with the scent of her skin. The sound of her voice in his ear, low and urgent. Run, Jimmy, run like hell, and whatever you do, don’t look back. Run. Run!
“Jim. Jim.”
There are fingers on his arm, and he startles back into awareness. Spock’s eyes are wide in front of him, the yarn abandoned at his side.
“I am sorry to have upset you.” Spock considers him for a moment. “Are you alright?”
Jim breathes for a moment, in and out, forcing his muscles to relax one by one.
“Yeah. Fine. Sorry.”
“It is of no concern.” Spock sure looks concerned, though, so Jim staggers to his feet, turns to the door panel and opens it.
“I’ll just…I’ll be back. I need some air.”
Spock nods seriously, his eyes never leaving Jim’s face as he walks out the door.
--
He’s alone, finally, and the darkness around him is complete. He knows he has his hands over his ears, but he peels them off, because he needs them to press the buttons. He’s seen Sam do this before, in the flight simulators, and he thinks it must be pretty much the same. It doesn’t matter anyway - they’re coming for him now, so he’ll die either way. At least the metal of the shuttlecraft keeps out the sounds of the screaming as he pushes the buttons to initiate the launch sequence. He’s fading in and out of consciousness - the gun the soldier had used to hit him over the head had been all too solid - but he stays awake through lift off, though, and through breaking orbit. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care. They’re dead, they’re all dead, and maybe he will be too.
He comes to when the chirping of alarms becomes too noisy to ignore. There’s a planet all across the view screen, a big one, and those big green areas sure look like water, and this is bad, because he never did see Sam land in the flight simulators. He pushes the buttons to try and make the lights flash green instead of red, hauls back on the throttle, and aims for something that’s not ocean. He remembers just in time to put on his seatbelt and relax his muscles, and then everything is loud and then black.
--
“What were you doing before you crashed?”
Spock pauses in his carving to look at Jim.
“We were conducting a routine survey to see if the planet was inhabited, and if so, by what sort of beings. To see what kinds of resources it has.”
“‘We’?”
“Myself, Ensign Glover, and Lieutenant Ajmani.” Spock’s face falls slightly at the names, and Jim feels a brief pang of guilt for bringing them up.
“What was your job?”
“I am in training to become a Science Officer.” Spock sits a little straighter, his shoulders lining up. “I graduated with highest honors from my school, and was admitted to Starfleet, where I am in training to become a bridge officer and a head scientist.”
Jim looks at him curiously.
“What does that mean?”
Spock looks briefly flummoxed, as though he can’t imagine not knowing what Starfleet is, or what being a Science Officer would mean. His face clears, and he peers more closely at Jim.
“Jim, how did you get here? I was under the impression that you were not an infant, but you seem to have very little knowledge of life off-planet.” His face is earnest, and Jim squashes the instinctive desire to get up and run, to flee from even the thought of his previous life.
“I don’t really know, Spock.” He looks at his hands, at the rough places on his fingers, the calluses on his palms from building his house, from wielding a bow. “I wasn’t an infant, but I was a child. I’ve been here for almost ten of their…years, and Bones says I was somewhere around the age of seven or eight when he found me.” His hands are shaking slightly, so he reaches out and grabs a hide and the scraper, settling himself into the rhythmic motion to settle his nerves.
“I was unconscious when they found my body.” He quirks a grin at Spock, who is silently watching. “Like you.” He looks back at his work, turning the hide to scrape the far edge. “I was alone in the remains of a small ship, some sort of shuttle craft. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t remember what I was doing.” He pauses. “I don’t know why I was alone.” Spock is silent, waiting. “I remember flashes, here and there. Faces of people I must have known, places I should recognize.” He puts down the scraper and closes his eyes, massaging his temples as if the action would bring it all back. “I know something must have gone wrong, at the place where I was. I know there was…not enough food. I know there was violence. I know I escaped, but that’s all. I can’t remember, Spock. I just…I can’t remember!”
He looks up, eyes wild to meet Spock’s calm gaze.
“But you dream.”
Jim goes still, and Spock reaches out to gently lay a hand on his. Jim lets him, closing his eyes to let the adrenaline pass through his body, letting his heart calm from its racing pace.
“Yes. I dream.”
--
A tall man with a stern face stands at a podium. Soldiers ring the crowd. Jim is standing outside the fence, watching even though he’s not supposed to. His mother will come find him any minute, but he wants to know, wants to see what’s going to happen. He’s heard a rumor that there might be food, and he’s so hungry, he just had to make sure.
“James Kirk, get back here!”
He turns to look at her, then back to the crown. The man is speaking, but Jim can’t hear what he says. Then the guards raise their rifles and begin to shoot, the people in the crowd screaming and falling and his mother’s hand on his arm is hurting him and he can’t stop watching even as he’s being pulled away, even as he feels the tears begin to stain his cheeks, he can’t stop listening to the screams.
“Jim. Jim!”
He wakes with a jerk, sitting bolt upright and clutching at the hands on his arms. His face is wet and his eyes are running, but all he can do is grasp Spock’s forearms and gasp.
“Jim. It is all right. You are in your house. You have had a bad dream.”
Jim nods, trying vaguely to calm his breathing. He knows what Spock is saying is true. He can hear the night insects, smell the river on the wind. His body is shuddering as his heart pounds in his chest, the amount of adrenaline in his system making him vaguely nauseous.
“Come over here, Jim.”
Strong hands are pulling him off the pallet where he has slept for the past three weeks and onto the mats with Spock. He goes willingly, too exhausted and strung out to argue on principle or propriety.
Spock settles Jim next to him, close in the warm night, tucking him against his body, the touch of his skin a reassurance that breaks Jim down all over again. He begins to cry, trying desperately to hide it in his sleeve.
Spock ignores it, running his hands methodically up and down Jim’s arms and back until it, too, passes, and Jim is limp and wan beside him.
The silence stretches, lengthens in the dark, and Jim is nearly asleep when he hears Spock’s calm tones.
“Will you tell me?”
Jim waits, considering, but the solid bulk of Spock at his back has lessened the urgency of the fear that gripped him. He presses back into him, and Spock wraps a careful arm around his chest.
“He murdered them. The old man. He trapped them in a courtyard, and shot them all down.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Spock’s arm tightens infinitesimally. “My mother pulled me away. I was watching, I thought…I thought there might be food, so I had run away from her to see, but instead he had his soldiers shoot them, and then she found me, and dragged me away.”
Spock is silent, though Jim can hear his mind ticking. He covers Spock’s hand with his own, interlacing their fingers in an instinctive need for comfort, stubbornly ignoring the way his heart begins to race again at the sensation of Spock’s fingers on his own.
“Did you learn anything else?”
Jim pauses, then rolls to press his face into Spock’s shoulder, inhaling the warm strange scent of the body next to him before pulling his face away to speak.
“My name, Spock.” He turns it over in his mind, his mouth. “My name is Jim Kirk.”
--
They left before dawn, Jim hauling on the pulley ropes to lower Spock in a sling to the ground, basket of food clutched in his lap. He’s been hobbling around the place for days now with a cane Bones brought over, his broken leg still splinted and painful, but sturdy enough to begin bearing small amounts of weight. His arms and ribs are entirely healed now, and he has developed a raging case of cabin fever. Not that he’ll admit to it, Jim thinks, but he’s starting to make Jim crazy with his slip-sliding circuits of the small room, his fidgety glances out the curtains.
Thus this trip. If it goes well, then next week Jim will take him out hunting, and they will go as far as the crash scene.
Spock has been on Jim to take him back to the site, and Jim understands, he does. Any hopes that Spock might ever have had of getting rescued by his own kind are fading fast as each day passes. Jim has no idea how feasible it is, but Spock has this idea that if he can examine the wreckage, he may be able to scavenge enough pieces to build some sort of communicator. He’s been telling Jim about it, describing the pieces and their functions, the ways he would fit them together, depending on which pieces are left. How he could power it, how he could boost the signal. He’d wanted to send Jim alone a week ago, but Jim had refused - it was too far, he’d be gone too long for Spock to be alone, and besides, he wouldn’t know what he was looking for, not really. Even if he memorized the diagrams Spock drew with charcoal, what if he saw something valuable, but didn’t know its worth?
Spock had barely spoken to him for two days after his flat refusal, but then Jim had hit upon a trip to the river as a trial, and Spock had been so pleased that Jim kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. The river is close enough to be gotten to and back in a day, but far enough to be a real test of Spock’s stamina. Also, Jim can gather food while they’re there - fishing is plentiful, and there are always marsh birds, not to mention the roots and tubers of the delta plants.
He’ll never forget the look on Spock’s face when he had finished creating his first substantial piece of cloth. He had held it up, so proud, and Jim had praised him unabashedly, genuinely impressed at his ability to pick up the skill so quickly. But then he had tipped his head, looked at Jim, and asked the wrong question.
“Jim, you do not wear cloth. I have known you over a month now, and I have only ever seen you in varying amounts of hides. Why are you having me construct fabric?”
Jim had shrugged, not thinking about his answer.
“For the cold season. You’ll need your own clothes for the cold season.”
He saw the moment it hit Spock, that casual assumption that he was here to stay, that he would never be found, never leave, and wished suddenly and heartily that he could take it all back, but it was too late.
The next day Spock had begun to talk about the wreck, about making contact, building a beacon, and Jim had resolved within himself to do everything he could to help. He had no idea if it would work, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stand to see Spock’s face like that ever again. He would help, even if it left him feeling sore and achy in his own guts to imagine his house empty again but for him.
They’d left before dawn, the stars high and bright in the sky, the second moon just dipping below the horizon. Jim had settled Spock onto the travois, sitting this time, and not strapped down. He’d pointed them in the right direction and set off walking, his breathing measured and his stride long and even.
He could see the sky lightening as the moon sank and the sun began to rise, the building color chasing the last of the stars from the morning sky.
What was it like out there, up there? To be among the stars, floating above a world looking down? He must know, somehow, but he can’t remember it. He feels bound, now, in a way he never did before, stuck to the planet with a force he can’t name and desperately wishes to resist. He wants to know, to see, to experience more than just this life, this place, these people. He wants to lose himself in the spaces between the stars, beyond the planet. He wants to chart the undiscovered places, to see sights unseen.
Before him was the river, behind him, the only home he could remember, and all he could think of was the strange man with him and the stars above.
--
The river stretches before them, broad and flat and sluggish in the mid-day sun. A flock of birds takes flight with a sudden explosion of underbrush as Jim hauls the travois to a small mound a short distance from the water’s edge. He stretches, pulling the muscles across his back and shoulders. He’s already sore- it’s been too many weeks since he exerted himself like this, and he glories in the burn of fresh muscle fatigue.
Spock has levered himself up off the sledge, depositing the basket nearby and making his way to within a body’s length of the water. The look on his face is one part terrified and two parts insatiable curiosity, and Jim laughs out loud to see it.
“Never been swimming?”
Spock blinks at him, folding his hands behind his back.
“I have been swimming. Basic aquatic skill is required of all Starfleet personnel in case of emergency. However…” He aims a baleful look at the over-full river, “I have never swum in anything other than an Academy pool.”
The look on Spock’s face is priceless, and Jim can barely stop chuckling long enough to peel the travois straps off his hands. The sun is warm on his skin and he stretches gloriously, yanking off his leather wrap and stepping up to the edge of the hillock. He reaches up, arching his back, then runs forward, flinging himself in a messy pile into the water with a yell.
The water is marvelous, cool and deep, and Jim surfaces happily, shaking the water from his head with a shiver, treading steadily in the middle of the current. He squints, holding a hand over his eyes, but he can’t see Spock anywhere. He blinks, wipes the water from his eyes, scans the bank.
The grip on his foot makes him jump with a shout, sinking as he is pulled under the water in surprise. He’s laughing before he surfaces, swallowing water and giggling as a dripping black head pokes out of the water near him. It’s not the water that traps breath in his throat as his vision clears, though.
Spock is smiling.
It’s only for a moment, then his expression settles, his eyes still warm and smug while his mouth falls back to neutral, but for that one moment Jim thinks his world has shifted just slightly, slipping on its axis to slot him into a world where all he can think of is making that smile appear again.
Chapter 4
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewiselousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinficfor giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter 3-
“Well, Jim, he seems to be doing pretty well. Better than I would have expected, actually.” Bones is crouched at the bottom of the tree, a piece of grass hanging from between his lips. The bones and talons of his necklace clack against each other as he stands, cracking his neck absently. “That leg…I worry about it. I got it as straight as I could, but…who knows what his skeleton is like.” He looks distressed for a moment, his tufted tail twitching idly behind him, then shrugs. “Rest of him seems to be doing great, though. I would have thought a full season to recover, but it’s only been, what…” He scratches his bare chest.
“Fifteen days.”
Bones blinks at him, and Jim realizes suddenly he’s used the wrong language. He’s doing that more and more recently, and he can’t quite decide what to think of it.
“Sorry, fifteen days.”
Bones nods, eyeing him carefully. Jim schools his expression into nonchalance, letting the tension slide from his shoulders.
“Uh huh. And how are you holding up? Caring for an invalid is hard work. Are you taking care of yourself?” He cocks his head, his eyes far too shrewd for Jim’s peace of mind. “Any more nightmares?”
Jim turns away, lets his gaze roam off across the plain, examining the cloud of dust kicked up in the distance by a herd. He’ll need to go hunting soon. He’s nearly emptied his stores, feeding himself and the alien for this long without time for gathering. They’ll be ok - it’s early yet in the season, food is plentiful. And Spock is stronger every day; soon he’ll be strong enough to be left on his own.
“No, Bones. No nightmares.”
Bones makes that distinctive harrumphing noise that indicates his total disbelief, but he leaves it, and turns to head back to the village.
“Come and find me if you need me, Jim.”
Jim just nods, listening until the sound of Bones’ footsteps are lost in the constant rustle of the long grass.
Nightmares.
He clutches his head and slides down the tree, planting his rear on the packed dirt and leaning forward to press his forehead to the dust.
The smell, the scent of burning flesh, the screaming, the never-ending screaming. The faces that appear, one after another, eyes wide and mouths gaping in shock, in terror. The one face that supersedes all the others, dark eyes piercing him through.
It took months after he was found before he could sleep through the night, years after that before he could go long stretches of days without seeing, without remembering. Not that he ever truly remembered anyway, that was half the awfulness of the dreams - they were all image and sound and feeling, no names, no information, no actual memory of the scenes involved. Just unending terror and the sensation of falling.
Hunger, deep hunger, and the sight of dust blowing in from the fields. Weeping, first in the distance, then close at hand. Words echoing through a loud speaker, words he can’t make out, but can feel in his gut, feel turning him cold and sour and tight.
He scrubs his fists into the dirt, the repetitive motion soothing his nerves.
Bones is right. The dreams are back.
--
Spock is sitting up when he gets upstairs, leaning forward into a puddle of sunlight as he works strands of fibers carefully through his nearly healed fingers. He lifts his face to Jim, and Jim nearly shivers under his gaze. He shoves the sensation down, smiling broadly at the sight of his erstwhile roommate, the sun gleaming on the head of thick, dark, hair.
“I have made eighteen meters of…” he considers the length coiled at his feet, “…string today, in the manner which you showed me. I hope this is useful.” He blinks up at Jim, his face open and earnest, and Jim’s smile becomes a bit more sincere.
“That’s great, Spock. We’ll have you crocheting in no time!”
Spock looks skeptical, and Jim laughs, coming over to drop down next to him and examine the growing length. It is, as he expected, perfect in every regard. He’s beginning to doubt that there’s a skill this man doesn’t have, at least when it comes to small motor control. Every motion he makes is deliberate and graceful, which is no small feat while recovering from extensive injuries, and every small task Jim has set him has been completed assiduously and with minute attention to detail.
“Here. Let me just…” Jim reaches out, pulling the yarn through Spock’s fingers and settling it into his hands. “So, this is not enough to make a whole lot yet, but let me just show you the basics. Then, when you’ve made some more, you can start practicing.” He reaches up into a pouch hanging on the wall, fishes out a carved wooden stick with a hook on the end. He settles the hook in Spock’s right hand, the yarn in his left, wrapping an arm around Spock’s shoulders so that he can manipulate both Spock’s hands. There’s the small flinch Spock always makes when Jim touches him, but Jim ignores it. He may have only known Spock for a short time, but he’s never known Spock to have any trouble speaking his preferences. If he did not want to be touched, Jim’s quite certain he would say so.
“Take the yarn like this - see? Make a loop, and tie it off. That’s the beginning of what is going to make a chain - the foundation of what you’ll construct.” He laces his fingers into Spock’s without thinking, and when Spock shudders lightly, Jim suddenly realizes exactly how close he’s gotten.
Shit.
He’s a touchy guy, always has been, and the villagers here, they don’t seem to mind. Bones never has. But it’s more pronounced with Spock, and he can’t…it’s like his hands have a mind of their own with him, seeking him out and touching him, checking him, gravitating to him without thought or permission.
He’s no idiot, and he’s no child. He’s watched the young folks in the village court, and play, and mate. The villagers feel no shame in attraction, and no sense in hiding it, but Jim has never made the leap - something has always held him back, no matter the charms of the one offering. But now…
Nothing to do but bluff through it. He lifts his head from Spock’s shoulder, putting a little distance at least, then begins looping the thread, catching it with the hooked end of the stick and pulling it through.
“See? Like that. You try.”
He sits back, watching as Spock’s competent fingers catch on, swiftly equalizing the size and shape of each link in the chain. The look of concentration on his face is mesmerizing, and Jim bites his lip, forcing himself to look away.
“It is…similar to things I have seen my mother do, at home.”
“It is?” Jim supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - some form of fabric crafting must be a fairly common humanoid trait, or at least common where temperatures are not always tropical.
“Yes.” Spock frowns down at the string in his hands, fingers moving more quickly as he becomes more certain. “Vulcan clothing is almost entirely woven - we use the loom for construction of fabric, and embroidery for decorative purposes. However, my mother is human, and could frequently be found knitting.” He pauses and looks at Jim, his eyes wistful. “Before I was deployed, she was starting a knitting group of the neighbors. Vulcans always like to learn new skills, and she had sent off to Earth for more patterns.”
First he’s shocked - who knew Vulcans and humans had interbred? But then Jim can’t help himself - he begins to laugh, chuckles that rise in his belly and burst out his mouth, filling the room and startling the birds in the tree. The mental picture of a human woman, with Spock’s brown eyes, teaching a roomful of Vulcans how to hold needles is just too much.
Spock eyeballs him, the string abandoned in his hands. He never smiles, but his eyes are glinting in the way that Jim has quickly found means he’s laughing.
“I advise you not to laugh. She is a formidable teacher, my mother.”
Jim giggles, wiping his face with his hand.
“I can just imagine she is, Spock.” He grins. “She sounds great.”
Spock’s eyes soften, and he looks down, then up again to meet Jim’s eyes.
“What about your mother, Jim? Does she indulge in handicrafts?”
Jim freezes, his muscles locked tight.
Blond hair, whipping around his face. The scent of perfume, orange blossom and lavender, mixed with the scent of her skin. The sound of her voice in his ear, low and urgent. Run, Jimmy, run like hell, and whatever you do, don’t look back. Run. Run!
“Jim. Jim.”
There are fingers on his arm, and he startles back into awareness. Spock’s eyes are wide in front of him, the yarn abandoned at his side.
“I am sorry to have upset you.” Spock considers him for a moment. “Are you alright?”
Jim breathes for a moment, in and out, forcing his muscles to relax one by one.
“Yeah. Fine. Sorry.”
“It is of no concern.” Spock sure looks concerned, though, so Jim staggers to his feet, turns to the door panel and opens it.
“I’ll just…I’ll be back. I need some air.”
Spock nods seriously, his eyes never leaving Jim’s face as he walks out the door.
--
He’s alone, finally, and the darkness around him is complete. He knows he has his hands over his ears, but he peels them off, because he needs them to press the buttons. He’s seen Sam do this before, in the flight simulators, and he thinks it must be pretty much the same. It doesn’t matter anyway - they’re coming for him now, so he’ll die either way. At least the metal of the shuttlecraft keeps out the sounds of the screaming as he pushes the buttons to initiate the launch sequence. He’s fading in and out of consciousness - the gun the soldier had used to hit him over the head had been all too solid - but he stays awake through lift off, though, and through breaking orbit. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care. They’re dead, they’re all dead, and maybe he will be too.
He comes to when the chirping of alarms becomes too noisy to ignore. There’s a planet all across the view screen, a big one, and those big green areas sure look like water, and this is bad, because he never did see Sam land in the flight simulators. He pushes the buttons to try and make the lights flash green instead of red, hauls back on the throttle, and aims for something that’s not ocean. He remembers just in time to put on his seatbelt and relax his muscles, and then everything is loud and then black.
--
“What were you doing before you crashed?”
Spock pauses in his carving to look at Jim.
“We were conducting a routine survey to see if the planet was inhabited, and if so, by what sort of beings. To see what kinds of resources it has.”
“‘We’?”
“Myself, Ensign Glover, and Lieutenant Ajmani.” Spock’s face falls slightly at the names, and Jim feels a brief pang of guilt for bringing them up.
“What was your job?”
“I am in training to become a Science Officer.” Spock sits a little straighter, his shoulders lining up. “I graduated with highest honors from my school, and was admitted to Starfleet, where I am in training to become a bridge officer and a head scientist.”
Jim looks at him curiously.
“What does that mean?”
Spock looks briefly flummoxed, as though he can’t imagine not knowing what Starfleet is, or what being a Science Officer would mean. His face clears, and he peers more closely at Jim.
“Jim, how did you get here? I was under the impression that you were not an infant, but you seem to have very little knowledge of life off-planet.” His face is earnest, and Jim squashes the instinctive desire to get up and run, to flee from even the thought of his previous life.
“I don’t really know, Spock.” He looks at his hands, at the rough places on his fingers, the calluses on his palms from building his house, from wielding a bow. “I wasn’t an infant, but I was a child. I’ve been here for almost ten of their…years, and Bones says I was somewhere around the age of seven or eight when he found me.” His hands are shaking slightly, so he reaches out and grabs a hide and the scraper, settling himself into the rhythmic motion to settle his nerves.
“I was unconscious when they found my body.” He quirks a grin at Spock, who is silently watching. “Like you.” He looks back at his work, turning the hide to scrape the far edge. “I was alone in the remains of a small ship, some sort of shuttle craft. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t remember what I was doing.” He pauses. “I don’t know why I was alone.” Spock is silent, waiting. “I remember flashes, here and there. Faces of people I must have known, places I should recognize.” He puts down the scraper and closes his eyes, massaging his temples as if the action would bring it all back. “I know something must have gone wrong, at the place where I was. I know there was…not enough food. I know there was violence. I know I escaped, but that’s all. I can’t remember, Spock. I just…I can’t remember!”
He looks up, eyes wild to meet Spock’s calm gaze.
“But you dream.”
Jim goes still, and Spock reaches out to gently lay a hand on his. Jim lets him, closing his eyes to let the adrenaline pass through his body, letting his heart calm from its racing pace.
“Yes. I dream.”
--
A tall man with a stern face stands at a podium. Soldiers ring the crowd. Jim is standing outside the fence, watching even though he’s not supposed to. His mother will come find him any minute, but he wants to know, wants to see what’s going to happen. He’s heard a rumor that there might be food, and he’s so hungry, he just had to make sure.
“James Kirk, get back here!”
He turns to look at her, then back to the crown. The man is speaking, but Jim can’t hear what he says. Then the guards raise their rifles and begin to shoot, the people in the crowd screaming and falling and his mother’s hand on his arm is hurting him and he can’t stop watching even as he’s being pulled away, even as he feels the tears begin to stain his cheeks, he can’t stop listening to the screams.
“Jim. Jim!”
He wakes with a jerk, sitting bolt upright and clutching at the hands on his arms. His face is wet and his eyes are running, but all he can do is grasp Spock’s forearms and gasp.
“Jim. It is all right. You are in your house. You have had a bad dream.”
Jim nods, trying vaguely to calm his breathing. He knows what Spock is saying is true. He can hear the night insects, smell the river on the wind. His body is shuddering as his heart pounds in his chest, the amount of adrenaline in his system making him vaguely nauseous.
“Come over here, Jim.”
Strong hands are pulling him off the pallet where he has slept for the past three weeks and onto the mats with Spock. He goes willingly, too exhausted and strung out to argue on principle or propriety.
Spock settles Jim next to him, close in the warm night, tucking him against his body, the touch of his skin a reassurance that breaks Jim down all over again. He begins to cry, trying desperately to hide it in his sleeve.
Spock ignores it, running his hands methodically up and down Jim’s arms and back until it, too, passes, and Jim is limp and wan beside him.
The silence stretches, lengthens in the dark, and Jim is nearly asleep when he hears Spock’s calm tones.
“Will you tell me?”
Jim waits, considering, but the solid bulk of Spock at his back has lessened the urgency of the fear that gripped him. He presses back into him, and Spock wraps a careful arm around his chest.
“He murdered them. The old man. He trapped them in a courtyard, and shot them all down.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Spock’s arm tightens infinitesimally. “My mother pulled me away. I was watching, I thought…I thought there might be food, so I had run away from her to see, but instead he had his soldiers shoot them, and then she found me, and dragged me away.”
Spock is silent, though Jim can hear his mind ticking. He covers Spock’s hand with his own, interlacing their fingers in an instinctive need for comfort, stubbornly ignoring the way his heart begins to race again at the sensation of Spock’s fingers on his own.
“Did you learn anything else?”
Jim pauses, then rolls to press his face into Spock’s shoulder, inhaling the warm strange scent of the body next to him before pulling his face away to speak.
“My name, Spock.” He turns it over in his mind, his mouth. “My name is Jim Kirk.”
--
They left before dawn, Jim hauling on the pulley ropes to lower Spock in a sling to the ground, basket of food clutched in his lap. He’s been hobbling around the place for days now with a cane Bones brought over, his broken leg still splinted and painful, but sturdy enough to begin bearing small amounts of weight. His arms and ribs are entirely healed now, and he has developed a raging case of cabin fever. Not that he’ll admit to it, Jim thinks, but he’s starting to make Jim crazy with his slip-sliding circuits of the small room, his fidgety glances out the curtains.
Thus this trip. If it goes well, then next week Jim will take him out hunting, and they will go as far as the crash scene.
Spock has been on Jim to take him back to the site, and Jim understands, he does. Any hopes that Spock might ever have had of getting rescued by his own kind are fading fast as each day passes. Jim has no idea how feasible it is, but Spock has this idea that if he can examine the wreckage, he may be able to scavenge enough pieces to build some sort of communicator. He’s been telling Jim about it, describing the pieces and their functions, the ways he would fit them together, depending on which pieces are left. How he could power it, how he could boost the signal. He’d wanted to send Jim alone a week ago, but Jim had refused - it was too far, he’d be gone too long for Spock to be alone, and besides, he wouldn’t know what he was looking for, not really. Even if he memorized the diagrams Spock drew with charcoal, what if he saw something valuable, but didn’t know its worth?
Spock had barely spoken to him for two days after his flat refusal, but then Jim had hit upon a trip to the river as a trial, and Spock had been so pleased that Jim kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. The river is close enough to be gotten to and back in a day, but far enough to be a real test of Spock’s stamina. Also, Jim can gather food while they’re there - fishing is plentiful, and there are always marsh birds, not to mention the roots and tubers of the delta plants.
He’ll never forget the look on Spock’s face when he had finished creating his first substantial piece of cloth. He had held it up, so proud, and Jim had praised him unabashedly, genuinely impressed at his ability to pick up the skill so quickly. But then he had tipped his head, looked at Jim, and asked the wrong question.
“Jim, you do not wear cloth. I have known you over a month now, and I have only ever seen you in varying amounts of hides. Why are you having me construct fabric?”
Jim had shrugged, not thinking about his answer.
“For the cold season. You’ll need your own clothes for the cold season.”
He saw the moment it hit Spock, that casual assumption that he was here to stay, that he would never be found, never leave, and wished suddenly and heartily that he could take it all back, but it was too late.
The next day Spock had begun to talk about the wreck, about making contact, building a beacon, and Jim had resolved within himself to do everything he could to help. He had no idea if it would work, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stand to see Spock’s face like that ever again. He would help, even if it left him feeling sore and achy in his own guts to imagine his house empty again but for him.
They’d left before dawn, the stars high and bright in the sky, the second moon just dipping below the horizon. Jim had settled Spock onto the travois, sitting this time, and not strapped down. He’d pointed them in the right direction and set off walking, his breathing measured and his stride long and even.
He could see the sky lightening as the moon sank and the sun began to rise, the building color chasing the last of the stars from the morning sky.
What was it like out there, up there? To be among the stars, floating above a world looking down? He must know, somehow, but he can’t remember it. He feels bound, now, in a way he never did before, stuck to the planet with a force he can’t name and desperately wishes to resist. He wants to know, to see, to experience more than just this life, this place, these people. He wants to lose himself in the spaces between the stars, beyond the planet. He wants to chart the undiscovered places, to see sights unseen.
Before him was the river, behind him, the only home he could remember, and all he could think of was the strange man with him and the stars above.
--
The river stretches before them, broad and flat and sluggish in the mid-day sun. A flock of birds takes flight with a sudden explosion of underbrush as Jim hauls the travois to a small mound a short distance from the water’s edge. He stretches, pulling the muscles across his back and shoulders. He’s already sore- it’s been too many weeks since he exerted himself like this, and he glories in the burn of fresh muscle fatigue.
Spock has levered himself up off the sledge, depositing the basket nearby and making his way to within a body’s length of the water. The look on his face is one part terrified and two parts insatiable curiosity, and Jim laughs out loud to see it.
“Never been swimming?”
Spock blinks at him, folding his hands behind his back.
“I have been swimming. Basic aquatic skill is required of all Starfleet personnel in case of emergency. However…” He aims a baleful look at the over-full river, “I have never swum in anything other than an Academy pool.”
The look on Spock’s face is priceless, and Jim can barely stop chuckling long enough to peel the travois straps off his hands. The sun is warm on his skin and he stretches gloriously, yanking off his leather wrap and stepping up to the edge of the hillock. He reaches up, arching his back, then runs forward, flinging himself in a messy pile into the water with a yell.
The water is marvelous, cool and deep, and Jim surfaces happily, shaking the water from his head with a shiver, treading steadily in the middle of the current. He squints, holding a hand over his eyes, but he can’t see Spock anywhere. He blinks, wipes the water from his eyes, scans the bank.
The grip on his foot makes him jump with a shout, sinking as he is pulled under the water in surprise. He’s laughing before he surfaces, swallowing water and giggling as a dripping black head pokes out of the water near him. It’s not the water that traps breath in his throat as his vision clears, though.
Spock is smiling.
It’s only for a moment, then his expression settles, his eyes still warm and smug while his mouth falls back to neutral, but for that one moment Jim thinks his world has shifted just slightly, slipping on its axis to slot him into a world where all he can think of is making that smile appear again.
Chapter 4