Fic: The Seasons Change [2/2], Kirk/Spock, PG-13
Fic: The Seasons Change [Part 2 of 2]
Author: le_culdesac
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set almost immediately after the film, something wakes up in Kirk as he and Spock eat together for the first time. The mess hall's a rather unremarkable backdrop but it sets the stage for the start of something grander. It takes an intimate linguistics lesson and a disastrous landing party mission that results in the two being stuck in a biotent with only one sleeping bag before they realise the obvious.
Author's notes: PLEASE DON'T STONE ME. I AM SORRY. I know this is unbelievably late. This isn't my usual writing style. I'm much more of an upbeat/humour writer so this contemplative tone was... Horrifically challenging. It gave me writer's block like you wouldn't believe and I ended up going a little crazy. Trust me when I say that my friends have not heard the end of my wanking. In real life. I have a lot of mixed feelings towards this fic. Thanks for all the feedback on Part One; I took a lot of it on board. As I said, this is rather new to me so any constructive criticism would really be appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading. Again, I AM SORRY.
Part 1
The Seasons Change [Part 2 of 2]
A few grey tendrils of smoke hover around Kirk before they diffuse into the air purifier. Rather than flicking the ash onto the landing, he carefully taps it into a recyclable ash tray.
When the Narada fiasco obliterated the original observation deck, he'd seized the opportunity to redesign it with a vengeance. Now an entirely glass dome suspended from the secondary hull, simply standing on it gave the impression that one was floating through space. Kirk was pretty proud of it. He'd drawn up the blueprints himself and paid the cost overrun out of his own salary. He’d tried to push for insulated glass, but it would’ve meant he’d go hungry for a few years.
“You never told me what you thought of this,” he grins, gesturing around them with his cigarette. “And you were bitching about it the whole time."
Spock regards him for a moment, his hands behind his back. "I shall admit that I was rather skeptical--"
Kirk scoffs. The first night he’d been hunched over at his desk, chewing on the end of his stylus and ruling up the supporting structures, Spock had offered a running commentary of broken regulations. It wasn’t until Kirk pulled rank and essentially told Spock to piss off that he’d managed to finish up.
"I shall admit that I am... Impressed. I was unaware you were interested in architecture."
"I'm not. Not really. I just wanted to be able to see the stars properly," he replies. "I mean, what’s the point of being in space if you’re only going to look at it from the bridge? I'm glad I held out for it." He reaches into his deck of Nautilus cigarettes and lights another, using an old-fashioned silver zippo. He passes it to Spock, who studies it quizzingly.
"A rather antiquated model," he remarks the flint wheel. He brushes his thumb across the inscription; George and Winona. "Am I to believe this too belonged your father?"
Kirk leans against the railings. "Mum gave it to me when I was fourteen. She probably didn't know I was going to take after my old man and start smoking," he smiles and takes another drag. "I spent months finding all the parts to restore it. I liked to think that that’s what my father would’ve wanted, you know?" He takes the lighter back, thumbing one of the scratches. "See this? I was in a pretty rough brawl a few years back and the guy pulled a knife on me. If I hadn't left it in my breast pocket, I reckon I'd have been a goner. It's my lucky charm."
"How illogical." Spock replies without a moment's hesitation.
"That's pretty insensitive, Spock," Kirk frowns. "Even for you."
This earns him the eyebrow. "Do you believe in luck?"
"If I say yes, are you going to think less of me?"
"I believe that answers my question," he replies, though his tone doesn't reflect the cynicism of his words. "Also, it is curious that your answer would be influenced by opinion."
"Is it?" Kirk looks away, stubbing out the last of his smoke. He doesn't expect an answer and Spock doesn't surprise him. "Maybe my old man's zippo isn't lucky--"
"It enables your self-destructive habit. To call it lucky would be the height of irony." Spock's lips are pursed into a thin line and he crosses his arms. He glares pointedly at Kirk’s cigarette.
Kirk laughs, facing him now. It's a rich, full sound that echoes off the glass dome. "Maybe, but I still believe in luck."
It’s Spock’s turn to look away. It must be the cold seeping through the glass that makes him shiver.
“It’s pretty rich of you to be mocking me about believing in luck,” Kirk continues. He smiles sideways at Spock, who raises his eyebrow again.
“I was merely expressing my curiosity as to why a man as learned as yourself would prescribe to such an illogical notion. I was not ridiculing those beliefs. Nonetheless, I am interested as to why you believe mockery would be an ill fitting intention on my behalf, were that my intention.”
“You believe in destiny. You said so yourself. It’s not like destiny’s a great deal more logical than luck.” He says it casually. “So why’s that?”
“Destiny and luck are not the same thing.”
“Aren’t they? I didn’t want to believe in destiny. Or luck. I wanted to think we were in control of what happens in our lives, that this isn’t just some big dice game.”
Spock turns to face him, frowning. “You speak in past tense.”
“It’s because I hate key lime martinis.”
Either the captain has become mentally unfit for duty or is having a dramatic moment. Past experience suggests the latter is slightly more probable, so Spock waits for Kirk to elaborate.
“I think they’re pretentious and taste like crap. But this one night, four years ago, I had this insane craving for them. I don’t know what came over me, but I knew something was seriously wrong if I didn’t have one. I can’t explain it better than that. Anyway, the only place that does them in Iowa is this joint called Celsius, near the riverside shipyard.” Spock nods as Kirk continues. “I drove down there after work--”
“I believe you are speaking of the evening you met Lieutenant Uhura.” Spock had heard the details the same night. Revolting, uncouth and Neanderthal were amongst the words she’d used to describe him.
“You know Admiral Pike’s car broke down just outside the joint that night? Like, what are the chances of a brand new, Starfleet-issue Quantum Lexus breaking down outside the bar on the one night I happen to be there?”
It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question but there’s no such thing when you’re with a Vulcan.
“Your presence there was not an exculpating factor to the equation,” Spock replies tersely. “Assuming the average approximation of 1 in 412000 Starfleet transportation vehicles displaying a manufacturing default, it was an unlikely though by no means impossible event. That it coincided with a rather peculiar craving of yours is hardly reason to believe in predetermination.”
He’s heard this story before. He hasn’t heard what comes next.
Kirk nods. “Ok, fine. Be the devil’s advocate. But now take that coincidence,” he raises his hands and makes finger quotes around the word, “And add it to the likelihood of Celsius’ bartender calling in sick fifteen minutes before his shift starts so the only guy available is some seedy casual. And that seedy casual only happens to know my name because he’s sold me a stolen motorcycle five years before that.”
Spock frowns.
“Pike wouldn’t have bothered checking out my file if he hadn’t known my last name was Kirk. He’d have waved me off as an angry farm hick and left it at that. That night could’ve happened a thousand different ways but...”
They turn and regard each other for a few moments.
“It wasn’t just lottery...” He trails off and locks his eyes on Spock’s. “I’m meant to be here.” With you, he thinks.
The thought doesn’t completely weird him out, even though it probably should. Because he’s Kirk and this is Spock. But it’s as if a deeper part of him had realised it a long time ago and the rest of him was only just beginning to catch on.
Spock turns to stare at a constellation to their left. “Are you aware that there are an estimated 125 billion galaxies in the universe?”
Kirk nods.
“Of those, 25 billion are estimated to be inhabited by intelligent, humanoid life forms, all theorised to have descended from a common ancestor--“
They watch the stars go past as they sail through the galaxy and even Spock loses track of the time. He eventually leans on the railing while Kirk sprawls across the floor, chain smoking and laughing as Spock explains the origins of some of the quirkier constellation names.
When they do realise it’s late-- in fact, it’s so late that it’s early-there doesn’t seem to be any point in going back to their rooms. They’re four hours away from the start of their next shift so instead, Spock suggests the captain go to the mess hall for coffee. After a little coaxing, Spock agrees to join him even though coffee does jack shit for Vulcans.
Kirk smiles as he brings over their mugs. Sitting at the table he now thinks of as “theirs”, he doesn’t feel as tired as he probably should be. Spock thanks him as he accepts the mug, not taking his eyes off his PADD of daily objectives.
“I have confirmed our appointment with the Andorian ambassador. As I am required to present my findings on--”
Kirk nods, not really paying attention yet. His mind is in a funny place at the moment, and he just kind of wants to look at Spock for a while. These morning breakfasts are slowly becoming a ritual for them, as much as brushing one’s teeth when getting out of bed in the morning.
Perhaps luck and destiny were wistful ideas, but sitting like this, Kirk feels like he’s getting a very real glimpse of truth.
***
“Have you heard?”
Jim’s not really eavesdropping. It’s not like he’s deliberately trying to listen in on Sulu and Scotty’s conversation. That’d be rude. And immoral. He just happens to be in hearing range.
“What’s that? ‘Bout Uhura and Spock?” Scotty scoffs. “Who hasn’t?”
Jim, apparently.
“He just dumped her. On her ass. No warning, no nothing. I saw her going back to her own room this morning, looking all cold and shit like she’d just been hyposprayed a dozen times.”
If Kirk’s stirring his coffee more than usual, it’s not because he’s stalling for time. What the hell?
“Did she say why?” Scotty asks, eyes alight.
Sulu rolls his eyes. “Yeah. We sat down over a box of chocolates and had a real heart to heart about it.”
“Chapel from medical was saying that they’d been in a rough patch... Had a fair bit to do with Spock spending too much time at work.”
“What the hell did she expect?” Sulu mutters. “Listen, from a friend to a friend, I’m telling you to steer clear of her for a while. She’s on the warpath so if you see her, run like you’re being chased by a goddamn Hengrauggi--”
Kirk leaves the mess hall with his coffee, thoughtful. Why hadn’t Spock mentioned this to him? He’s pretty sure something like this would’ve come up in conversation. The guy might be private, but he’s not stupid. It takes another second for him to realise that Spock hasn’t been spending too much time at work. He’s been clocking in the same kind of hours as he did when Pike was running the ship.
Spock’s been spending too much time with Kirk.
Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Spock had… Commitments? You did, a tiny voice at the back of his head says. You just chose to ignore it. A petulant voice angrily retorts, did not!
You wanted to be around him, the first voice wheedles. You didn’t want to share.
Damnit, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
The doors of the turbolift are coming to a close when a booted foot slices between them, forcing them to rapidly open. Kirk swallows.
I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. It becomes a mantra as Uhura strides into the lift and the doors close.
In one swift movement, she slams the stall key. “We’re going to talk.”
Fuck these turbolifts. Seriously, damn them. If they weren’t so goddamn essential to getting around between decks, he’d take a phaser and blow them up. He rearranges his facial features into what he hopes looks like concerned empathy. “Listen, I heard about--”
“Shut up.”
Obediently, he snaps his mouth closed and nods. Right now, rank is irrelevant. They both know it.
“Did he ask you for fewer shifts?”
Kirk isn’t sure if the ‘shut up’ has lifted yet but he’s not about to risk anything so he just shakes his head. As fierce as she is in this moment, he can’t help but think there’s a real sadness to her.
“He hasn’t eaten with me since you got your stripes,” she says, her voice more than just a little accusing. “You want to know the last time he kissed me?”
No.
“In the transporter room. Right before he took off with you.” And it’s like he never came back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Bull shit.”
What do you say to something like that? He’s always been a little intimidated by Uhura. Her sharp edge was what had attracted him in the first place, but right now, he’s more than just a little scared she’s going to beat the crap out of him. “Did he say why?”
She crosses her arms and studies him.
“I believe it is the most logical course of action.”
He pauses, hesitating. His voice takes on a softer note, “You must believe me when I say that it was never my intention to cause you grief. However, it is out of respect for your feelings that I am driven to end our... Involvement.”
“Why?” She says it evenly but inside, she’s shouting the word. Why are you leaving me? She wants to throw her fists against his chest and hurt him. Show me you’re hurting, you bastard. Show me this isn’t easy for you, she wants to yell. She doesn’t because she has self-control. Because there’s a finality in his expression that makes her realise there’s no more negotiating, no more compromising. Not on this.
“I am prioritising my commitment to the Enterprise,” he says slowly. “I am certain you understand this.”
She shakes her head. No, she doesn’t understand. Two months ago, he’d have chosen her unquestionably. When did their priorities change?
As she turns away, he reaches out and touches her arm.
“I am afraid I do not possess the skills to communicate the depth of my remorse.”
Goddamnit. His hand is warm. The feel of it on her skin makes her feel taut, like a violin string that’s been stretched to breaking point. She remembers those hands; awkward, gentle and shy, unlike other men she’s been with. One of the good ones, her mother would have said. She shudders inadvertently and Spock quickly withdraws. She knows it’s the last time she’ll feel his hands on her.
“He chose y-- the Enterprise.” What’s the difference? she thinks. Perhaps the pain will settle later.
Kirk looks at her, probing. “I really am sorry, you know.”
“So am I.” As the lift jerks into motion again, she turns to face him. “Don’t hurt him…” The threat goes unspoken.
Kirk nods.
***
That night, over a game of chess, Kirk brings it up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Spock purses his lips. Jim might not be a telepath, but he gets the feeling that Spock simply doesn’t know how to answer.
“Is this one of those personal things you have no comment on?” he frowns.
“It was logical,” Spock hears himself say. If only it were that simple. He chooses his next words carefully. “My obligations to you outweighed my commitments to the Lieutenant.”
Their eyes meet over the board. Studying that strictly neutral face, Kirk can’t help but feel like he’s seven years old again, at a desk, invigorated by the promise of a mathematical challenge. Crunching numbers lulls him into a state of calmness. What are you thinking? Kirk wonders, not for the first or even the hundredth time. I want to unravel you.
They continue their game, and they don’t mention Uhura again.
***
Delta-Vega
2200 hours
They clamber into the bio-tent. It’s taken all thirty seconds to set up and by any warm blooded creature’s standard, that’s thirty seconds too many. Delta Vega’s surface temperature during the thirty two hour winter solstice is legendary.
“Fuck,” Kirk swears, falling to the floor as Spock secures the door screen and holsters his phaser.
Wordlessly, Spock crouches down and knocks back the hood of Kirk’s jacket, shaking snow everywhere. It begins to thaw almost immediately, leaving wet patches. Normally Spock would mind, but in this moment, he doesn’t even see it. There’s a kind of wildness to him as he raises a hand to Kirk’s shoulder to steady him. With his free hand, he swiftly places two fingers over Kirk’s carotid.
“Your heart rate and adrenaline levels are highly elevated,” he says quickly, his voice tight. “I have only the most rudimentary medical supplies with me and you are in no condition to place strain on your body--”
“Just give me a minute,” Kirk says, closing his eyes. He takes two deep breaths through his nose, trying to dispel the crushing pain in his lungs. It’s only then that he realises Spock’s hand is shaking--actually shaking--against his neck. He almost reaches up and closes his hand over it. In fact, his hand’s halfway there before he realises what he’s doing and awkwardly drops it. Damn. It happened again.
“Spock,” the adrenaline in Kirk’s system beginning to ebb, “I’m all right. Just kind of shaken.”
Gently, Spock withdraws his hand, the chaos in his eyes settling somewhat. They stare at each other for another moment, the wind beating against the walls of the tent the only sound until Spock breaks the silence.
“As captain, your safety outranks that of all others aboard the Enterprise, yet you seem determined to needlessly jeopardise yourself at every possible opportunity. You are either self-destructive or foolishly reckless,” he says coldly. “In the future, you shall be neither. You will not risk your life like that again.”
“I wouldn’t say it was needless,” Kirk glares. “You were being shot at! I wasn’t just going to leave you there, was I? Like, what, you’re sitting here telling me I should’ve just saved my own skin and crossed my fingers that you’d be all right?”
“Yes,” Spock says, unhesitatingly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?! You know, by your logic, you realise you and Sulu would be kind of dead right now, yeah?”
“There is no negotiation on this matter.”
Kirk’s ready to start yelling at this point, but then he notices that Spock’s hands are balled into fists, still trembling. Spock meets his gaze defiantly, but his voice loses that cold edge. “You are my... Captain. Your safety is my highest priority.”
Kirk’s chest tightens when he finally gets it. Spock’s not citing regulation, he’s... freaked out. I’m not going to die, he thinks. Not on you. “Three weeks ago, I threw myself off a moving drill for a guy I hardly knew. What makes you think I’d do anything less for you?”
Spock’s expression scares Kirk because he’s never seen vulnerability on that face before. It's so detached from the Spock that he's used to. Why are you scared?
“I’m not going to promise you I won’t do something stupid,” he says carefully, “But I’ll try to be... safer.”
There’s another moment and something changes. The tension slowly dissolves.
“I’m sorry.” It sounds like the right thing to say. But I’m not sorry I threw myself in front of you. Spock nods awkwardly and looks away, as though he’s just become aware he’s had another painfully emotional episode.
While he busies himself by unpacking their landing packs for the rest of their supplies, Kirk studies the tent properly for the first time since they’d stumbled in. It’s a tight fit. The square tent’s barely six foot long and the ceiling is far from being high enough for them to stand.
He cups his hands and breathes on them, his breath coming out as white puffs. The wind’s roaring outside and not even three layers of thermo wear can keep out of the cold. He’s surprised he hasn’t remarked it until now. “When do you expect we’ll be able to beam up?” He thinks longingly of his climate controlled ship.
“The ionisation in the atmosphere is scattering all transmissions. It is unlikely that we will be able to contact the ship before the end of the solstice.” He turns to look at Kirk, whose lips are visibly blue. “It appears that we are short of a thermobag--”
Kirk cusses internally. When he gets back to the ship, he’s going to kill the stupid sunovabitch who packed their bags. He’s going to cut them into little pieces and jump on them. And yell at each piece. Then he’s going to glue them back together so he can fire their sorry ass.
“-You will use it,” Spock continues. “I shall be comfortable in the outerwear.”
Kirk rolls his eyes. “Unless you’d rather freeze to death than share a bag with me, I reckon you should shut up and just agree that it’s going to be a bit of a tight fit tonight.”
Spock stiffens; his way of being downright alarmed in this case. “It is unnecessary-“
“Last time I checked the xenophysiology manual, not many humanoids can survive negative two-eighty without a thermobag. If you wanna test the theory, do it in your own time,” Kirk’s already pulling off his outer layers and climbing into the bag, rustling.
Spock hesitates, “It is not in the nature of a Vulcan to sleep in such… close proximity to another being. As touch-telepaths, emotional transference is--”
“Listen, you’re face is going green and I don’t really fancy waking up to find my first officer lying dead next to me. This is logical, Spock,” he settles into the bag, wriggling.
Spock nods slowly and begins to take off his wet jacket. Kirk pretends to be fascinated by the opposite wall while this happens and a moment later, he feels the Vulcan climbing in alongside him and zipping the bag shut.
They lie side by side. The only parts of them that touch are the sides of their arms and legs.
They stay like this, silent. Even Kirk doesn’t want to say anything. This whole situation is beyond weird, but there’s a deep stillness settling into the small space that’s become so exclusively theirs. He lets out a long breath and turns on his side to face Spock.
Spock’s eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. The profile of his face is all angles and sharp features but the line of his lips is soft. Gentle. Eventually, he gives up pretending to sleep and turns over to meet Jim.
They’re unbearably close now. The tips of their noses are barely two inches apart. Kirk can feel Spock’s breath on his lips and he can smell… Apples. Rain. The standard issue soap in all the ship’s bathrooms. And something stronger.
“You are cold. May I?” Spock suddenly says.
Without waiting for a response, he draws closer and reaches for Kirk’s hands. He slides them beneath his black undershirt, across his waist and to the small hollow of his back. Gently, he presses Kirk’s palms flat against his spine. “Vulcans have a higher core temperature than humans. Our thermoregulation centres are located in the lumbar region, in proximity to our hearts. This should sufficiently warm your hands.”
Kirk’s head is swimming. The feel of Spock’s body thawing his hands and the firmness of muscle rippling under skin is addictive. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.
“What are we doing?” he whispers into the small space between their lips. He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or to Spock.
“These are basic survival tactics. We are conserving heat and minimising the possibility of your developing hypothermia during the course of the night.”
Of course.
“If you are uncomfortable, it would not be within my nature to take offence if you were to remove yourself.”
He probably should, but that’s not going to happen. A line’s being crossed and they both know it.
“What are we really doing, Spock?” he finally asks.
Spock’s gaze flickers but he doesn’t move away. “This is illogical,” he whispers.
“No, it’s not.” With that, Kirk pulls Spock forward from the waist and crushes their lips together. When the Vulcan’s hands splay across his face, he can hear a familiar phrase echoing in his thoughts. Kashkau wuhkuh eh teretuhr. Our minds are joined, together and as one.
Like a mathematical equation, their symmetry is too perfect to be an accident. It’s as if they’re the product of something greater. As if they were deliberately made for each other.
“T’hy’la,” Spock murmurs into Kirk’s mouth as they rise for air.
When they kiss again and Kirk presses in closer, fitting into all the curves and shallows of his body, Spock knows that Kirk’s right. This is all the logic he needs.
***
The snow crunches underneath Spock’s boots. In the morning light, it’s almost blinding in its whiteness. Having awoken before James, he’d quietly slipped out of the tent. Their bodies had become entwined during the night and gently extracting himself from that warm tangle of limbs had been a slow process.
He’s a good fifteen paces away from the tent when Kirk frantically rips through the door, stumbling into the open. His clothes and hair are askew, his cheeks are flushed and his face is contorted with some raw emotion as his eyes fall on Spock.
So much for his intention of returning before the captain woke. Spock frowns as he approaches. Against the white backdrop, Kirk is all he really sees.
Beautiful, he thinks before he can stop himself.
“I woke up and…” Kirk says, slightly breathless. He hates how desperate and needy he sounds. It reminds him of the stupid ones he’s slept with, the ones who don’t understand the meaning of ‘one-night stand’ and corner him, begging to know why he hasn't called.
“I thought--“
Raising an eyebrow, Spock indicates the communicator in his hand. “I was seeking higher ground to re-establish contact with the ship. Lieutenant Scott informs me that atmospheric scattering levels are approaching acceptable limits; we should be able to return within the hour.”
A minute passes. Then another.
Spock raises his eyebrow again. “You believed that I had left with no intention of returning.”
Kirk nods, rubbing his hands across his face. “I know, I know, I know.”
“That would be illogical.”
Now what?
“Look, I’m really shit at this kind of stuff and I don’t really know what I’m doing but… I reckon I’m a little in love with you,” he says awkwardly. I’m only half a person without you.
When the Vulcan reaches out and takes his hand, he hears Spock’s voice in his mind. Come, t'hy'la.
Around them, the snow is already thawing. The winter is approaching its end and their spring will soon be here.
Author: le_culdesac
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set almost immediately after the film, something wakes up in Kirk as he and Spock eat together for the first time. The mess hall's a rather unremarkable backdrop but it sets the stage for the start of something grander. It takes an intimate linguistics lesson and a disastrous landing party mission that results in the two being stuck in a biotent with only one sleeping bag before they realise the obvious.
Author's notes: PLEASE DON'T STONE ME. I AM SORRY. I know this is unbelievably late. This isn't my usual writing style. I'm much more of an upbeat/humour writer so this contemplative tone was... Horrifically challenging. It gave me writer's block like you wouldn't believe and I ended up going a little crazy. Trust me when I say that my friends have not heard the end of my wanking. In real life. I have a lot of mixed feelings towards this fic. Thanks for all the feedback on Part One; I took a lot of it on board. As I said, this is rather new to me so any constructive criticism would really be appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading. Again, I AM SORRY.
Part 1
The Seasons Change [Part 2 of 2]
A few grey tendrils of smoke hover around Kirk before they diffuse into the air purifier. Rather than flicking the ash onto the landing, he carefully taps it into a recyclable ash tray.
When the Narada fiasco obliterated the original observation deck, he'd seized the opportunity to redesign it with a vengeance. Now an entirely glass dome suspended from the secondary hull, simply standing on it gave the impression that one was floating through space. Kirk was pretty proud of it. He'd drawn up the blueprints himself and paid the cost overrun out of his own salary. He’d tried to push for insulated glass, but it would’ve meant he’d go hungry for a few years.
“You never told me what you thought of this,” he grins, gesturing around them with his cigarette. “And you were bitching about it the whole time."
Spock regards him for a moment, his hands behind his back. "I shall admit that I was rather skeptical--"
Kirk scoffs. The first night he’d been hunched over at his desk, chewing on the end of his stylus and ruling up the supporting structures, Spock had offered a running commentary of broken regulations. It wasn’t until Kirk pulled rank and essentially told Spock to piss off that he’d managed to finish up.
"I shall admit that I am... Impressed. I was unaware you were interested in architecture."
"I'm not. Not really. I just wanted to be able to see the stars properly," he replies. "I mean, what’s the point of being in space if you’re only going to look at it from the bridge? I'm glad I held out for it." He reaches into his deck of Nautilus cigarettes and lights another, using an old-fashioned silver zippo. He passes it to Spock, who studies it quizzingly.
"A rather antiquated model," he remarks the flint wheel. He brushes his thumb across the inscription; George and Winona. "Am I to believe this too belonged your father?"
Kirk leans against the railings. "Mum gave it to me when I was fourteen. She probably didn't know I was going to take after my old man and start smoking," he smiles and takes another drag. "I spent months finding all the parts to restore it. I liked to think that that’s what my father would’ve wanted, you know?" He takes the lighter back, thumbing one of the scratches. "See this? I was in a pretty rough brawl a few years back and the guy pulled a knife on me. If I hadn't left it in my breast pocket, I reckon I'd have been a goner. It's my lucky charm."
"How illogical." Spock replies without a moment's hesitation.
"That's pretty insensitive, Spock," Kirk frowns. "Even for you."
This earns him the eyebrow. "Do you believe in luck?"
"If I say yes, are you going to think less of me?"
"I believe that answers my question," he replies, though his tone doesn't reflect the cynicism of his words. "Also, it is curious that your answer would be influenced by opinion."
"Is it?" Kirk looks away, stubbing out the last of his smoke. He doesn't expect an answer and Spock doesn't surprise him. "Maybe my old man's zippo isn't lucky--"
"It enables your self-destructive habit. To call it lucky would be the height of irony." Spock's lips are pursed into a thin line and he crosses his arms. He glares pointedly at Kirk’s cigarette.
Kirk laughs, facing him now. It's a rich, full sound that echoes off the glass dome. "Maybe, but I still believe in luck."
It’s Spock’s turn to look away. It must be the cold seeping through the glass that makes him shiver.
“It’s pretty rich of you to be mocking me about believing in luck,” Kirk continues. He smiles sideways at Spock, who raises his eyebrow again.
“I was merely expressing my curiosity as to why a man as learned as yourself would prescribe to such an illogical notion. I was not ridiculing those beliefs. Nonetheless, I am interested as to why you believe mockery would be an ill fitting intention on my behalf, were that my intention.”
“You believe in destiny. You said so yourself. It’s not like destiny’s a great deal more logical than luck.” He says it casually. “So why’s that?”
“Destiny and luck are not the same thing.”
“Aren’t they? I didn’t want to believe in destiny. Or luck. I wanted to think we were in control of what happens in our lives, that this isn’t just some big dice game.”
Spock turns to face him, frowning. “You speak in past tense.”
“It’s because I hate key lime martinis.”
Either the captain has become mentally unfit for duty or is having a dramatic moment. Past experience suggests the latter is slightly more probable, so Spock waits for Kirk to elaborate.
“I think they’re pretentious and taste like crap. But this one night, four years ago, I had this insane craving for them. I don’t know what came over me, but I knew something was seriously wrong if I didn’t have one. I can’t explain it better than that. Anyway, the only place that does them in Iowa is this joint called Celsius, near the riverside shipyard.” Spock nods as Kirk continues. “I drove down there after work--”
“I believe you are speaking of the evening you met Lieutenant Uhura.” Spock had heard the details the same night. Revolting, uncouth and Neanderthal were amongst the words she’d used to describe him.
“You know Admiral Pike’s car broke down just outside the joint that night? Like, what are the chances of a brand new, Starfleet-issue Quantum Lexus breaking down outside the bar on the one night I happen to be there?”
It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question but there’s no such thing when you’re with a Vulcan.
“Your presence there was not an exculpating factor to the equation,” Spock replies tersely. “Assuming the average approximation of 1 in 412000 Starfleet transportation vehicles displaying a manufacturing default, it was an unlikely though by no means impossible event. That it coincided with a rather peculiar craving of yours is hardly reason to believe in predetermination.”
He’s heard this story before. He hasn’t heard what comes next.
Kirk nods. “Ok, fine. Be the devil’s advocate. But now take that coincidence,” he raises his hands and makes finger quotes around the word, “And add it to the likelihood of Celsius’ bartender calling in sick fifteen minutes before his shift starts so the only guy available is some seedy casual. And that seedy casual only happens to know my name because he’s sold me a stolen motorcycle five years before that.”
Spock frowns.
“Pike wouldn’t have bothered checking out my file if he hadn’t known my last name was Kirk. He’d have waved me off as an angry farm hick and left it at that. That night could’ve happened a thousand different ways but...”
They turn and regard each other for a few moments.
“It wasn’t just lottery...” He trails off and locks his eyes on Spock’s. “I’m meant to be here.” With you, he thinks.
The thought doesn’t completely weird him out, even though it probably should. Because he’s Kirk and this is Spock. But it’s as if a deeper part of him had realised it a long time ago and the rest of him was only just beginning to catch on.
Spock turns to stare at a constellation to their left. “Are you aware that there are an estimated 125 billion galaxies in the universe?”
Kirk nods.
“Of those, 25 billion are estimated to be inhabited by intelligent, humanoid life forms, all theorised to have descended from a common ancestor--“
They watch the stars go past as they sail through the galaxy and even Spock loses track of the time. He eventually leans on the railing while Kirk sprawls across the floor, chain smoking and laughing as Spock explains the origins of some of the quirkier constellation names.
When they do realise it’s late-- in fact, it’s so late that it’s early-there doesn’t seem to be any point in going back to their rooms. They’re four hours away from the start of their next shift so instead, Spock suggests the captain go to the mess hall for coffee. After a little coaxing, Spock agrees to join him even though coffee does jack shit for Vulcans.
Kirk smiles as he brings over their mugs. Sitting at the table he now thinks of as “theirs”, he doesn’t feel as tired as he probably should be. Spock thanks him as he accepts the mug, not taking his eyes off his PADD of daily objectives.
“I have confirmed our appointment with the Andorian ambassador. As I am required to present my findings on--”
Kirk nods, not really paying attention yet. His mind is in a funny place at the moment, and he just kind of wants to look at Spock for a while. These morning breakfasts are slowly becoming a ritual for them, as much as brushing one’s teeth when getting out of bed in the morning.
Perhaps luck and destiny were wistful ideas, but sitting like this, Kirk feels like he’s getting a very real glimpse of truth.
***
“Have you heard?”
Jim’s not really eavesdropping. It’s not like he’s deliberately trying to listen in on Sulu and Scotty’s conversation. That’d be rude. And immoral. He just happens to be in hearing range.
“What’s that? ‘Bout Uhura and Spock?” Scotty scoffs. “Who hasn’t?”
Jim, apparently.
“He just dumped her. On her ass. No warning, no nothing. I saw her going back to her own room this morning, looking all cold and shit like she’d just been hyposprayed a dozen times.”
If Kirk’s stirring his coffee more than usual, it’s not because he’s stalling for time. What the hell?
“Did she say why?” Scotty asks, eyes alight.
Sulu rolls his eyes. “Yeah. We sat down over a box of chocolates and had a real heart to heart about it.”
“Chapel from medical was saying that they’d been in a rough patch... Had a fair bit to do with Spock spending too much time at work.”
“What the hell did she expect?” Sulu mutters. “Listen, from a friend to a friend, I’m telling you to steer clear of her for a while. She’s on the warpath so if you see her, run like you’re being chased by a goddamn Hengrauggi--”
Kirk leaves the mess hall with his coffee, thoughtful. Why hadn’t Spock mentioned this to him? He’s pretty sure something like this would’ve come up in conversation. The guy might be private, but he’s not stupid. It takes another second for him to realise that Spock hasn’t been spending too much time at work. He’s been clocking in the same kind of hours as he did when Pike was running the ship.
Spock’s been spending too much time with Kirk.
Why hadn’t it occurred to him that Spock had… Commitments? You did, a tiny voice at the back of his head says. You just chose to ignore it. A petulant voice angrily retorts, did not!
You wanted to be around him, the first voice wheedles. You didn’t want to share.
Damnit, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
The doors of the turbolift are coming to a close when a booted foot slices between them, forcing them to rapidly open. Kirk swallows.
I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. It becomes a mantra as Uhura strides into the lift and the doors close.
In one swift movement, she slams the stall key. “We’re going to talk.”
Fuck these turbolifts. Seriously, damn them. If they weren’t so goddamn essential to getting around between decks, he’d take a phaser and blow them up. He rearranges his facial features into what he hopes looks like concerned empathy. “Listen, I heard about--”
“Shut up.”
Obediently, he snaps his mouth closed and nods. Right now, rank is irrelevant. They both know it.
“Did he ask you for fewer shifts?”
Kirk isn’t sure if the ‘shut up’ has lifted yet but he’s not about to risk anything so he just shakes his head. As fierce as she is in this moment, he can’t help but think there’s a real sadness to her.
“He hasn’t eaten with me since you got your stripes,” she says, her voice more than just a little accusing. “You want to know the last time he kissed me?”
No.
“In the transporter room. Right before he took off with you.” And it’s like he never came back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Bull shit.”
What do you say to something like that? He’s always been a little intimidated by Uhura. Her sharp edge was what had attracted him in the first place, but right now, he’s more than just a little scared she’s going to beat the crap out of him. “Did he say why?”
She crosses her arms and studies him.
“I believe it is the most logical course of action.”
He pauses, hesitating. His voice takes on a softer note, “You must believe me when I say that it was never my intention to cause you grief. However, it is out of respect for your feelings that I am driven to end our... Involvement.”
“Why?” She says it evenly but inside, she’s shouting the word. Why are you leaving me? She wants to throw her fists against his chest and hurt him. Show me you’re hurting, you bastard. Show me this isn’t easy for you, she wants to yell. She doesn’t because she has self-control. Because there’s a finality in his expression that makes her realise there’s no more negotiating, no more compromising. Not on this.
“I am prioritising my commitment to the Enterprise,” he says slowly. “I am certain you understand this.”
She shakes her head. No, she doesn’t understand. Two months ago, he’d have chosen her unquestionably. When did their priorities change?
As she turns away, he reaches out and touches her arm.
“I am afraid I do not possess the skills to communicate the depth of my remorse.”
Goddamnit. His hand is warm. The feel of it on her skin makes her feel taut, like a violin string that’s been stretched to breaking point. She remembers those hands; awkward, gentle and shy, unlike other men she’s been with. One of the good ones, her mother would have said. She shudders inadvertently and Spock quickly withdraws. She knows it’s the last time she’ll feel his hands on her.
“He chose y-- the Enterprise.” What’s the difference? she thinks. Perhaps the pain will settle later.
Kirk looks at her, probing. “I really am sorry, you know.”
“So am I.” As the lift jerks into motion again, she turns to face him. “Don’t hurt him…” The threat goes unspoken.
Kirk nods.
***
That night, over a game of chess, Kirk brings it up.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Spock purses his lips. Jim might not be a telepath, but he gets the feeling that Spock simply doesn’t know how to answer.
“Is this one of those personal things you have no comment on?” he frowns.
“It was logical,” Spock hears himself say. If only it were that simple. He chooses his next words carefully. “My obligations to you outweighed my commitments to the Lieutenant.”
Their eyes meet over the board. Studying that strictly neutral face, Kirk can’t help but feel like he’s seven years old again, at a desk, invigorated by the promise of a mathematical challenge. Crunching numbers lulls him into a state of calmness. What are you thinking? Kirk wonders, not for the first or even the hundredth time. I want to unravel you.
They continue their game, and they don’t mention Uhura again.
***
Delta-Vega
2200 hours
They clamber into the bio-tent. It’s taken all thirty seconds to set up and by any warm blooded creature’s standard, that’s thirty seconds too many. Delta Vega’s surface temperature during the thirty two hour winter solstice is legendary.
“Fuck,” Kirk swears, falling to the floor as Spock secures the door screen and holsters his phaser.
Wordlessly, Spock crouches down and knocks back the hood of Kirk’s jacket, shaking snow everywhere. It begins to thaw almost immediately, leaving wet patches. Normally Spock would mind, but in this moment, he doesn’t even see it. There’s a kind of wildness to him as he raises a hand to Kirk’s shoulder to steady him. With his free hand, he swiftly places two fingers over Kirk’s carotid.
“Your heart rate and adrenaline levels are highly elevated,” he says quickly, his voice tight. “I have only the most rudimentary medical supplies with me and you are in no condition to place strain on your body--”
“Just give me a minute,” Kirk says, closing his eyes. He takes two deep breaths through his nose, trying to dispel the crushing pain in his lungs. It’s only then that he realises Spock’s hand is shaking--actually shaking--against his neck. He almost reaches up and closes his hand over it. In fact, his hand’s halfway there before he realises what he’s doing and awkwardly drops it. Damn. It happened again.
“Spock,” the adrenaline in Kirk’s system beginning to ebb, “I’m all right. Just kind of shaken.”
Gently, Spock withdraws his hand, the chaos in his eyes settling somewhat. They stare at each other for another moment, the wind beating against the walls of the tent the only sound until Spock breaks the silence.
“As captain, your safety outranks that of all others aboard the Enterprise, yet you seem determined to needlessly jeopardise yourself at every possible opportunity. You are either self-destructive or foolishly reckless,” he says coldly. “In the future, you shall be neither. You will not risk your life like that again.”
“I wouldn’t say it was needless,” Kirk glares. “You were being shot at! I wasn’t just going to leave you there, was I? Like, what, you’re sitting here telling me I should’ve just saved my own skin and crossed my fingers that you’d be all right?”
“Yes,” Spock says, unhesitatingly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?! You know, by your logic, you realise you and Sulu would be kind of dead right now, yeah?”
“There is no negotiation on this matter.”
Kirk’s ready to start yelling at this point, but then he notices that Spock’s hands are balled into fists, still trembling. Spock meets his gaze defiantly, but his voice loses that cold edge. “You are my... Captain. Your safety is my highest priority.”
Kirk’s chest tightens when he finally gets it. Spock’s not citing regulation, he’s... freaked out. I’m not going to die, he thinks. Not on you. “Three weeks ago, I threw myself off a moving drill for a guy I hardly knew. What makes you think I’d do anything less for you?”
Spock’s expression scares Kirk because he’s never seen vulnerability on that face before. It's so detached from the Spock that he's used to. Why are you scared?
“I’m not going to promise you I won’t do something stupid,” he says carefully, “But I’ll try to be... safer.”
There’s another moment and something changes. The tension slowly dissolves.
“I’m sorry.” It sounds like the right thing to say. But I’m not sorry I threw myself in front of you. Spock nods awkwardly and looks away, as though he’s just become aware he’s had another painfully emotional episode.
While he busies himself by unpacking their landing packs for the rest of their supplies, Kirk studies the tent properly for the first time since they’d stumbled in. It’s a tight fit. The square tent’s barely six foot long and the ceiling is far from being high enough for them to stand.
He cups his hands and breathes on them, his breath coming out as white puffs. The wind’s roaring outside and not even three layers of thermo wear can keep out of the cold. He’s surprised he hasn’t remarked it until now. “When do you expect we’ll be able to beam up?” He thinks longingly of his climate controlled ship.
“The ionisation in the atmosphere is scattering all transmissions. It is unlikely that we will be able to contact the ship before the end of the solstice.” He turns to look at Kirk, whose lips are visibly blue. “It appears that we are short of a thermobag--”
Kirk cusses internally. When he gets back to the ship, he’s going to kill the stupid sunovabitch who packed their bags. He’s going to cut them into little pieces and jump on them. And yell at each piece. Then he’s going to glue them back together so he can fire their sorry ass.
“-You will use it,” Spock continues. “I shall be comfortable in the outerwear.”
Kirk rolls his eyes. “Unless you’d rather freeze to death than share a bag with me, I reckon you should shut up and just agree that it’s going to be a bit of a tight fit tonight.”
Spock stiffens; his way of being downright alarmed in this case. “It is unnecessary-“
“Last time I checked the xenophysiology manual, not many humanoids can survive negative two-eighty without a thermobag. If you wanna test the theory, do it in your own time,” Kirk’s already pulling off his outer layers and climbing into the bag, rustling.
Spock hesitates, “It is not in the nature of a Vulcan to sleep in such… close proximity to another being. As touch-telepaths, emotional transference is--”
“Listen, you’re face is going green and I don’t really fancy waking up to find my first officer lying dead next to me. This is logical, Spock,” he settles into the bag, wriggling.
Spock nods slowly and begins to take off his wet jacket. Kirk pretends to be fascinated by the opposite wall while this happens and a moment later, he feels the Vulcan climbing in alongside him and zipping the bag shut.
They lie side by side. The only parts of them that touch are the sides of their arms and legs.
They stay like this, silent. Even Kirk doesn’t want to say anything. This whole situation is beyond weird, but there’s a deep stillness settling into the small space that’s become so exclusively theirs. He lets out a long breath and turns on his side to face Spock.
Spock’s eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. The profile of his face is all angles and sharp features but the line of his lips is soft. Gentle. Eventually, he gives up pretending to sleep and turns over to meet Jim.
They’re unbearably close now. The tips of their noses are barely two inches apart. Kirk can feel Spock’s breath on his lips and he can smell… Apples. Rain. The standard issue soap in all the ship’s bathrooms. And something stronger.
“You are cold. May I?” Spock suddenly says.
Without waiting for a response, he draws closer and reaches for Kirk’s hands. He slides them beneath his black undershirt, across his waist and to the small hollow of his back. Gently, he presses Kirk’s palms flat against his spine. “Vulcans have a higher core temperature than humans. Our thermoregulation centres are located in the lumbar region, in proximity to our hearts. This should sufficiently warm your hands.”
Kirk’s head is swimming. The feel of Spock’s body thawing his hands and the firmness of muscle rippling under skin is addictive. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.
“What are we doing?” he whispers into the small space between their lips. He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or to Spock.
“These are basic survival tactics. We are conserving heat and minimising the possibility of your developing hypothermia during the course of the night.”
Of course.
“If you are uncomfortable, it would not be within my nature to take offence if you were to remove yourself.”
He probably should, but that’s not going to happen. A line’s being crossed and they both know it.
“What are we really doing, Spock?” he finally asks.
Spock’s gaze flickers but he doesn’t move away. “This is illogical,” he whispers.
“No, it’s not.” With that, Kirk pulls Spock forward from the waist and crushes their lips together. When the Vulcan’s hands splay across his face, he can hear a familiar phrase echoing in his thoughts. Kashkau wuhkuh eh teretuhr. Our minds are joined, together and as one.
Like a mathematical equation, their symmetry is too perfect to be an accident. It’s as if they’re the product of something greater. As if they were deliberately made for each other.
“T’hy’la,” Spock murmurs into Kirk’s mouth as they rise for air.
When they kiss again and Kirk presses in closer, fitting into all the curves and shallows of his body, Spock knows that Kirk’s right. This is all the logic he needs.
***
The snow crunches underneath Spock’s boots. In the morning light, it’s almost blinding in its whiteness. Having awoken before James, he’d quietly slipped out of the tent. Their bodies had become entwined during the night and gently extracting himself from that warm tangle of limbs had been a slow process.
He’s a good fifteen paces away from the tent when Kirk frantically rips through the door, stumbling into the open. His clothes and hair are askew, his cheeks are flushed and his face is contorted with some raw emotion as his eyes fall on Spock.
So much for his intention of returning before the captain woke. Spock frowns as he approaches. Against the white backdrop, Kirk is all he really sees.
Beautiful, he thinks before he can stop himself.
“I woke up and…” Kirk says, slightly breathless. He hates how desperate and needy he sounds. It reminds him of the stupid ones he’s slept with, the ones who don’t understand the meaning of ‘one-night stand’ and corner him, begging to know why he hasn't called.
“I thought--“
Raising an eyebrow, Spock indicates the communicator in his hand. “I was seeking higher ground to re-establish contact with the ship. Lieutenant Scott informs me that atmospheric scattering levels are approaching acceptable limits; we should be able to return within the hour.”
A minute passes. Then another.
Spock raises his eyebrow again. “You believed that I had left with no intention of returning.”
Kirk nods, rubbing his hands across his face. “I know, I know, I know.”
“That would be illogical.”
Now what?
“Look, I’m really shit at this kind of stuff and I don’t really know what I’m doing but… I reckon I’m a little in love with you,” he says awkwardly. I’m only half a person without you.
When the Vulcan reaches out and takes his hand, he hears Spock’s voice in his mind. Come, t'hy'la.
Around them, the snow is already thawing. The winter is approaching its end and their spring will soon be here.