igrab
in
grabi_hands
Sanctuary [Spock/Kirk, PG]
Title: Sanctuary
Author: igrab
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,163
Summary: Spock's and Kirk's dreams accidentally knit together.
Notes: i'm feeling shitty and tired today. have some fluff.
Stranded. Again.
Spock was finding himself hoping this wasn't going to become the status quo of their planetside missions, because it was wildly unprofessional - but mostly, annoying.
At least he didn't mind the company.
Kirk was less of a... jackass, to use a human word, when they were on a mission together. He sank into a serious, direct sort of focus that Spock felt pulled into like gravity, drawn to his captain's pure force of personality. They made an exceptionally good team.
He surveyed the small cavelike room that they would be sharing for the night. It would have to do.
He did, however, wish that Kirk's professional attitude extended farther than his duty shifts - though, he supposed it was the other's right to be whatever he wanted to be in his time off.
So it was a personal wish, not a professional one, that made him wish that Kirk the jackass didn't exist.
He folded the blanket they had and lay on top of it, his hands woven over his stomach. He was waiting for the captain to return from scouting the area, and perhaps they would discuss details of the mission, or bitch about how long Scotty was taking to fix the transporters, or...
He hadn't thought he would sleep tonight, but his body had other plans.
~
When Kirk got back, he had his overshirt off and was drinking from his water bottle when he noticed that Spock hadn't greeted him.
Huh.
He leaned closer, and when he saw the way he was lying, he wondered if he was dead or something, but he was breathing, with the steady, even rhythm of... sleep.
Wow.
He leaned closer, down on his knees. Spock looked so peaceful, so innocent and sweet and otherworldly that Kirk had a sudden rush of gratitude, of feeling like nothing in the world would ever express how lucky he was to know this beautiful, special, totally endearing person.
Then he sighed, and pulled away. Stop being such a sap, he told himself, and ran his hands through his hair. Grateful is one thing. Lovesick's another.
He shivered, as a cold wind swept through the cave.
Well damn. The sun was going down, and the temperature was dropping. Spock was too asleep to notice, but he hadn't taken that into consideration - or, more probably, he hadn't even expected to fall asleep like that.
Kirk sighed, and shrugged, and pulled his own blanket out to spread over the both of them as he huddled close for warmth.
It wasn't long before he drifted off himself.
~
Blue. Spock dreamed in colors, and this time it was blue, with green undertones, cool and logical and practiced. He usually meditated before sleep, and thus, his dreams often followed his logical thought processes, but this was completely on accident and thus, illogical.
It was the blue of Jim's eyes, and there was something in the color of the motion, the way his lips tipped up when he was happy and the green-yellow of old bruises mottling his neck, taking so long to fade. They were gone now, but had been branded into his memory, and surfaced in his thoughts with an annoying frequency.
Cold. Kirk dreamed in temperatures. Cold was the look in Spock's eyes, the chill in his voice. Cold was how he seemed to everyone else, which was a tangible, real thing in dreams like these, that seemed to gather together and walk about his mind, with a life of its own. Spock's reputation. Spock the commander. Spock that was untouchable as mist and as clear and pure as glass.
Heat.
He was back on Vulcan, as 90% of his coherent dreams took place. It was hot and dry and wonderful, and he could feel the roughness in the air - rough against his skin, rough and dragging and heat, and his back pressed to the wall and heat, everything was scorching.
Copper. Copper like warmth and sunsets and liquid fire and the taste of Spock's blood, green and buzzing in the back of his throat. He'd never tasted it but he knew, somehow he knew how it would be, like dry winds splitting lips and a green trickle that tasted of copper.
The ship felt just a touch too cold for comfort, but Vulcan now was too hot. He did not sweat but humans did, and Spock could see the sweat sheen on his shoulders, and the line of his neck, the dip of his clavicles.
He wanted to touch his mouth to the pulse point and suck at that sluggish, iron-based bloodstream until it pulsed with life.
He wanted to feel the impossible dry heat bend and curve and shudder under his fingers, his hummingbird's heart fluttering faster out of control.
He was Spock and he wanted Kirk, wanted him like air and water and hard, fast, everything and nothing and he wanted the way Kirk wanted, with fire in his soul. He wanted him like pon farr. He wanted him in the messy awkwardness, and in the dark velvet nights in his bed as they mapped out their skin with delicate fingers.
He was Kirk and he wanted Spock like a drug, like wine, like the claw of Romulan ale, the weight of gravity and he wanted the way Spock wanted, with logic hardened into purpose. He wanted him like a lifepartner. He wanted him with laughter, and with tears, and with eternity.
Spock woke up gasping, shudders crawling down his body like lizards. Kirk seemed so serene, so still, and with his face relaxed in sleep he could almost believe he was as young as he was supposed to be.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he hadn't meant to twine his way into the captain's dreams, threaded through with his passion and his color and his secret longing. He wonder if Kirk even knew it was possible, for Vulcans to do that, but on reflection he probably did. Attempting to pretend like it didn't happen was... illogical.
He rested his fingers at Kirk's forehead, and felt the lazy pulse of his honest emotions, whirling in a spiral of love and devotion that was breathtaking to behold. He saw himself, saw a million faces that he didn't know he had, a million times that Jim wished the same thing he did - that he could be what he was meant to be, always. And what he was meant to be wasn't the face he showed the world. It was what they had, together.
Spock curled on his side, his fingers never leaving Kirk's face, and slipped back into his dreams with the ease of a practiced mindmelder.
They mingled and laughed and loved, and this time, it was like dancing in the stars.
Author: igrab
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,163
Summary: Spock's and Kirk's dreams accidentally knit together.
Notes: i'm feeling shitty and tired today. have some fluff.
Stranded. Again.
Spock was finding himself hoping this wasn't going to become the status quo of their planetside missions, because it was wildly unprofessional - but mostly, annoying.
At least he didn't mind the company.
Kirk was less of a... jackass, to use a human word, when they were on a mission together. He sank into a serious, direct sort of focus that Spock felt pulled into like gravity, drawn to his captain's pure force of personality. They made an exceptionally good team.
He surveyed the small cavelike room that they would be sharing for the night. It would have to do.
He did, however, wish that Kirk's professional attitude extended farther than his duty shifts - though, he supposed it was the other's right to be whatever he wanted to be in his time off.
So it was a personal wish, not a professional one, that made him wish that Kirk the jackass didn't exist.
He folded the blanket they had and lay on top of it, his hands woven over his stomach. He was waiting for the captain to return from scouting the area, and perhaps they would discuss details of the mission, or bitch about how long Scotty was taking to fix the transporters, or...
He hadn't thought he would sleep tonight, but his body had other plans.
~
When Kirk got back, he had his overshirt off and was drinking from his water bottle when he noticed that Spock hadn't greeted him.
Huh.
He leaned closer, and when he saw the way he was lying, he wondered if he was dead or something, but he was breathing, with the steady, even rhythm of... sleep.
Wow.
He leaned closer, down on his knees. Spock looked so peaceful, so innocent and sweet and otherworldly that Kirk had a sudden rush of gratitude, of feeling like nothing in the world would ever express how lucky he was to know this beautiful, special, totally endearing person.
Then he sighed, and pulled away. Stop being such a sap, he told himself, and ran his hands through his hair. Grateful is one thing. Lovesick's another.
He shivered, as a cold wind swept through the cave.
Well damn. The sun was going down, and the temperature was dropping. Spock was too asleep to notice, but he hadn't taken that into consideration - or, more probably, he hadn't even expected to fall asleep like that.
Kirk sighed, and shrugged, and pulled his own blanket out to spread over the both of them as he huddled close for warmth.
It wasn't long before he drifted off himself.
~
Blue. Spock dreamed in colors, and this time it was blue, with green undertones, cool and logical and practiced. He usually meditated before sleep, and thus, his dreams often followed his logical thought processes, but this was completely on accident and thus, illogical.
It was the blue of Jim's eyes, and there was something in the color of the motion, the way his lips tipped up when he was happy and the green-yellow of old bruises mottling his neck, taking so long to fade. They were gone now, but had been branded into his memory, and surfaced in his thoughts with an annoying frequency.
Cold. Kirk dreamed in temperatures. Cold was the look in Spock's eyes, the chill in his voice. Cold was how he seemed to everyone else, which was a tangible, real thing in dreams like these, that seemed to gather together and walk about his mind, with a life of its own. Spock's reputation. Spock the commander. Spock that was untouchable as mist and as clear and pure as glass.
Heat.
He was back on Vulcan, as 90% of his coherent dreams took place. It was hot and dry and wonderful, and he could feel the roughness in the air - rough against his skin, rough and dragging and heat, and his back pressed to the wall and heat, everything was scorching.
Copper. Copper like warmth and sunsets and liquid fire and the taste of Spock's blood, green and buzzing in the back of his throat. He'd never tasted it but he knew, somehow he knew how it would be, like dry winds splitting lips and a green trickle that tasted of copper.
The ship felt just a touch too cold for comfort, but Vulcan now was too hot. He did not sweat but humans did, and Spock could see the sweat sheen on his shoulders, and the line of his neck, the dip of his clavicles.
He wanted to touch his mouth to the pulse point and suck at that sluggish, iron-based bloodstream until it pulsed with life.
He wanted to feel the impossible dry heat bend and curve and shudder under his fingers, his hummingbird's heart fluttering faster out of control.
He was Spock and he wanted Kirk, wanted him like air and water and hard, fast, everything and nothing and he wanted the way Kirk wanted, with fire in his soul. He wanted him like pon farr. He wanted him in the messy awkwardness, and in the dark velvet nights in his bed as they mapped out their skin with delicate fingers.
He was Kirk and he wanted Spock like a drug, like wine, like the claw of Romulan ale, the weight of gravity and he wanted the way Spock wanted, with logic hardened into purpose. He wanted him like a lifepartner. He wanted him with laughter, and with tears, and with eternity.
Spock woke up gasping, shudders crawling down his body like lizards. Kirk seemed so serene, so still, and with his face relaxed in sleep he could almost believe he was as young as he was supposed to be.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he hadn't meant to twine his way into the captain's dreams, threaded through with his passion and his color and his secret longing. He wonder if Kirk even knew it was possible, for Vulcans to do that, but on reflection he probably did. Attempting to pretend like it didn't happen was... illogical.
He rested his fingers at Kirk's forehead, and felt the lazy pulse of his honest emotions, whirling in a spiral of love and devotion that was breathtaking to behold. He saw himself, saw a million faces that he didn't know he had, a million times that Jim wished the same thing he did - that he could be what he was meant to be, always. And what he was meant to be wasn't the face he showed the world. It was what they had, together.
Spock curled on his side, his fingers never leaving Kirk's face, and slipped back into his dreams with the ease of a practiced mindmelder.
They mingled and laughed and loved, and this time, it was like dancing in the stars.