the perception, it is wrong
First of my apologies-this-took-so-long drabbles! perseid requested jealous!Kirk from the Stars and Planets 'verse, since we've had jealous Spock already. So, this is that night in the bar when Nyota confronts Spock, from Kirk's point of view. Not a particularly happy jealousy, folks--more along the maudlin drunk side of jealousy, so consider that your warning for angst. PG-13, ~600 words; title and cut-text taken from "The Bleeding Heart Show" by The New Pornographers.
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It's not like he shouldn't have seen it coming.
The signs were there in flashing neon lights, he taunts himself, eyes tracing the grain in the table. Brighter'n fucking Broadway. You just didn't wanna see 'em, huh? Mr. Oblivious?
They were, too. It's so clear; the way she tucks herself into his side without even thinking about it, because she just fits there, and the way he slides his arm around her like instinct--the way his eyes find her first in a room, every single time, like that's where they naturally belong. All those little looks between them, how they talk without a single word; how his hands loosen when she's with him, how she laughs so brightly you have to smile, too.
He'd thought, maybe--the way Spock stared at Hikaru and Pavel that day, like he was watching something he didn't think had been possible--tinged with a little wisp of wistfulness or confusion or something, goddammit, Jim had thought that maybe--
But you thought wrong, says that sharp part inside him, breathing a laugh that jars through his whole body and makes his fists curl. Stupid, weren'tcha?
Jim screws his eyes shut and slams back his shot of vodka, waving for another without even thinking about it. He feels huge and wild and electric with energy and the need to do something crazy; fucking yell it all out at the goddamn muggy midnight summer sky, or get on a Greyhound bus and just be anywhere else, just get the hell outta dodge before this horrible thing swallows him up whole. Be away, be something else. Somewhere not shoved into this miserable body, wanting something it can't have. But Bones would kill him if he went anywhere, because that breaks their pact, so instead, Jim looks to vodka to blur it all a little.
After another two shots, he's forced to admit that it doesn't help too much, though; his thoughts whirl and twist restlessly under the sheen of alcohol, knotting over his mind and making his skin feel too tight. Pictures and words and things he didn't wanna pay attention to are clicking back now, in the space of minutes, and making it hard to breathe. He feels made of jealousy; burning, animal thoughts he wishes he could shame himself out of, but hasn't the will to.
He doesn't think he'd hate it so much if they didn't look so fucking perfect together--if her hand, curled absently in the hair at the nape of his neck with its glossy polished nails, didn't look beautiful enough to make angels sing. If Spock didn't smile more around her, that tiny amused quirk of his lips that makes Jim's stomach flutter fiercely. If she wasn't so smart and sharp and sweet that Jim thinks she might actually be his soulmate--he wouldn't hate this so much if he could hate her at all, and if Spock hadn't looked better than he had in days, sheltered in her arms across the bar--
So he stops with the shots and just shoves that all down as much as he can, eyes closed. He sits there with the sensation of something writhing, painful and slick and mortifying, through his gut, till Bones comes back. And Bones--good old Bones, he takes one look at Jim and pulls him out of the bar without a word, hand tight on Jim's shoulder.
They take a taxi back in silence; Jim knows they'll talk about it in the morning. For now, he watches the city lights through the window and thinks again and again and again: the signs were there. You just didn't wanna see 'em, huh?
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It's not like he shouldn't have seen it coming.
The signs were there in flashing neon lights, he taunts himself, eyes tracing the grain in the table. Brighter'n fucking Broadway. You just didn't wanna see 'em, huh? Mr. Oblivious?
They were, too. It's so clear; the way she tucks herself into his side without even thinking about it, because she just fits there, and the way he slides his arm around her like instinct--the way his eyes find her first in a room, every single time, like that's where they naturally belong. All those little looks between them, how they talk without a single word; how his hands loosen when she's with him, how she laughs so brightly you have to smile, too.
He'd thought, maybe--the way Spock stared at Hikaru and Pavel that day, like he was watching something he didn't think had been possible--tinged with a little wisp of wistfulness or confusion or something, goddammit, Jim had thought that maybe--
But you thought wrong, says that sharp part inside him, breathing a laugh that jars through his whole body and makes his fists curl. Stupid, weren'tcha?
Jim screws his eyes shut and slams back his shot of vodka, waving for another without even thinking about it. He feels huge and wild and electric with energy and the need to do something crazy; fucking yell it all out at the goddamn muggy midnight summer sky, or get on a Greyhound bus and just be anywhere else, just get the hell outta dodge before this horrible thing swallows him up whole. Be away, be something else. Somewhere not shoved into this miserable body, wanting something it can't have. But Bones would kill him if he went anywhere, because that breaks their pact, so instead, Jim looks to vodka to blur it all a little.
After another two shots, he's forced to admit that it doesn't help too much, though; his thoughts whirl and twist restlessly under the sheen of alcohol, knotting over his mind and making his skin feel too tight. Pictures and words and things he didn't wanna pay attention to are clicking back now, in the space of minutes, and making it hard to breathe. He feels made of jealousy; burning, animal thoughts he wishes he could shame himself out of, but hasn't the will to.
He doesn't think he'd hate it so much if they didn't look so fucking perfect together--if her hand, curled absently in the hair at the nape of his neck with its glossy polished nails, didn't look beautiful enough to make angels sing. If Spock didn't smile more around her, that tiny amused quirk of his lips that makes Jim's stomach flutter fiercely. If she wasn't so smart and sharp and sweet that Jim thinks she might actually be his soulmate--he wouldn't hate this so much if he could hate her at all, and if Spock hadn't looked better than he had in days, sheltered in her arms across the bar--
So he stops with the shots and just shoves that all down as much as he can, eyes closed. He sits there with the sensation of something writhing, painful and slick and mortifying, through his gut, till Bones comes back. And Bones--good old Bones, he takes one look at Jim and pulls him out of the bar without a word, hand tight on Jim's shoulder.
They take a taxi back in silence; Jim knows they'll talk about it in the morning. For now, he watches the city lights through the window and thinks again and again and again: the signs were there. You just didn't wanna see 'em, huh?
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