What Part of Forever: Interlude
So sorry to everyone who saw this post go up yesterday and then wondered where it went! It was giving me HTML trouble, and I didn't have time to fix it before I went to work, so I locked it. Still in the middle of moving, which is the reason for the slowness. Thanks for bearing with me!
Title: What Part of Forever (Interlude)
Author & Mixer: Kairi (feels_like_fire) Did my own mix for this, which you can find here.
Artist: kauniainen did a beautiful piece of artwork that you can see HERE, I will make sure she sees all of your comments!
Betas: This fic would not EXIST if it were not for the efforts of tmysha, rainjewel, and linzeestyle. I CAN NEVER THANK YOU ENOUGH.
Series: AOS/Reboot, pre-Academy slight AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Pike, Winona Kirk, Sarek, T'Pring, Harry Mudd, with cameos by Scotty and Number One
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: ~85k total; this part, 11,721.
Summary: Vulcan is considering seceding from the Federation; Spock decides now is a good time to catch up on being Human. So he hires Jim Kirk as his guide, with predictable results. Pretty Woman redux, now with more sex. In this chapter, Jim and Spock take a trip out of LA to go meet Spock's Human grandparents; revelations ensue. HERE THERE BE SEXYTIEMS.
Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. The art. The mix.
Spock stood at the edge of the curb outside the Beverly Wilshire hotel, staring down the street. He wore his traveling robes, and he had one small carrying case filled with everything he might need for the expected week-long trip to visit Amanda's parents. Somewhere in the haze of the night before, they'd decided to leave immediately for Washington, instead of waiting until the end of the week. Now the only thing missing was his traveling companion.
They had agreed on 1:00 pm. Spock glanced once more at his chronometer. It was now 1:14 pm.
Spock directed his eyes to the city streets in front of them again, noting how slowly the hovercrafts were moving. It was possible that Jim was simply held up in traffic... but that did not explain why he had not sent a message. Three times now, a taxi had pulled over to the curb, the driver peering expectantly at Spock, and three times Spock had had to wave the disappointed driver on. It was growing tiresome.
And Spock did not want to admit it, but he was starting to wonder if Jim had decided that the previous night was a mistake, and was simply going to disappear. He had done something of the sort before, or so Spock understood from their conversations, but the idea that he might have done so now was... was... Spock did not have words for it. But the thought twisted and turned inside him as though he had swallowed poison, black and toxic.
The sound of a mechanical engine backfiring up the street jerked him from his reflection, and when Spock looked for the source of the sound, he saw an old-fashioned Terran automobile that had been heavily modified, judging from the body. The vehicle was all sleek lines and smooth curves, a milky green-blue reminiscent of shallow ocean water, and appeared to be missing its top half. As it drew closer, Spock realized two things: the vehicle was not missing its top at all, but was instead a variation on the traditional car that allowed a flexible roof to simply fold back; and Jim was the one driving the vehicle. Jim, wearing a huge, ridiculous pair of sunglasses and a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his biceps.
Spock could only watch in amazement as the strange vehicle pulled to the side of the road, hovering a foot or two off the ground, and Jim turned in the driver's seat, flashing a wide grin at Spock. "Sorry to keep you waiting!" he yelled. "Get in, already."
"Jim," Spock said, feeling yet again like a character in a play whose lines he did not know. "I have arranged a transport to take us to Washington-"
"Nah, fuck that," said Jim, still unshakably cheerful. "Taking a transport is what you do on business trips. We're gonna take the long way and drive there ourselves."
The things wrong with this idea were so numerous that for a few moments Spock was at a complete loss for words. He could only stare at Jim, who was looking steadily back at him over the top of those sunglasses, which looked as though they were designed for a species whose eyes were at least five times larger than a Human's. "Jim," he tried again, "it is approximately 1,170 miles from here to Port Townsend-"
"That's if we take the 5," Jim cut in. "It'll be closer to 1,500 miles, since we're gonna take Highway 1 for part of the drive. Get in, Spock, we wanna get well north of LA before rush hour."
"Where did you even get this vehicle? It does not belong to you, does it?" Spock stared at the unusual vehicle, not certain he trusted himself to a three-century-old car that looked as though it were held together with little more than spit, paint, and love.
"Called in a favor," Jim said dismissively. "I fix up vehicles sometimes, not like a real job or anything, but I like old cars like this one. I helped a guy convert it from an internal-combustion engine to a functioning hovercraft, and he's owed me for awhile. Now are you-"
"Why do you wish to expend so much time and energy on this journey when it would be vastly more efficient to take the transport I have arranged?" Spock demanded.
At this, Jim reached down and put the car into park, though he did not stop the vehicle. "Because," Jim said evenly, "Part of being Human is understanding that the journey is as important as the goal, Spock. Besides." Jim smirked, an expression Spock found entirely too distracting. "I can't make the transport pull over by the side of the road so I can suck you off whenever I feel like it."
Heat flooded Spock's face, and he clasped his hands tighter for a moment, the knuckles cracking almost audibly under the skin. Jim was still watching him, waiting for him. This idea was preposterous. It would take them days to reach Port Townsend this way. It was illogical-
Spock swallowed. Illogical, his mind whispered. Spock bent down, reaching for his bag, and took the three steps to reach Jim's car. He leaned over and carefully deposited his traveling case in the back seat, tucking it into one of the footwells, and then opened the passenger-side door and climbed in.
"Fuck yeah," Jim said. The Los Angeles sun flashed off his bright, almost manic grin. Jim reached for the gearshift and put the car into first, and Spock's hand flew to the door-handle as they peeled out into traffic, someone honking furiously behind them as Jim cut off whoever it was.
"If you insist on driving, Jim," Spock said, "I must also insist that you take care that we reach our eventual destination."
"No worries," Jim said cheerfully. "We'll get there. You just trust me, Spock."
"Allow me to clarify. I wish to reach the house of my grandparents in one whole, uninjured piece."
"Picky, picky," Jim said, and leaned down to flick a switch on the dashboard. The console sprang to life, and music swelled up out of the speakers, a loud, obnoxious song with a chorus of guitars played with far more enthusiasm than talent. "But since it's you, I can make an exception."
"What is this?" Spock asked. A man with an extremely nasal manner of singing had joined the cacophony of guitars and drums. Spock was uncertain what he was being subjected to, but felt it might well qualify as auditory assault.
"It's the Ramones. Life isn't worth living without some Ramones in it, Spock. Rule number Thirty-Six of being Human."
"Are all the other rules in this list as arbitrary as the one you just quoted?" Spock raised an eyebrow at Jim.
"Yep," Jim said, deadpan. "Rule Seventeen, don't switch among beer, liquor, and wine unless you wanna spend the night puking. Rule Forty-Three, don't lick metal poles in the middle of winter. Rule Eight, anyone who doesn't like at least one Beatles song is not worth knowing."
"Beetles? I was unaware that there were Terran species of beetles that were capable of music."
"....yeah, good thing I brought the White Album with me," Jim said, more to himself than to Spock. "Don't worry, Spock. I'll get you straightened out."
Spock nodded, storing this information away for future reference, even though he was 98.76% certain that there were no such Rules of Being Human and Jim was simply being Jim. He looked out the window, watching the other hovercars maneuver around them, watching the buildings of Los Angeles fall away. But even the impressive skyline couldn't stop his thoughts from straying to the intoxicating feel of Jim's body from the night before, the shocking sweetness of his smile, the press of his lips against Spock's own. The memory sent a flush of warmth through Spock, as though he'd stepped into a patch of sunlight.
No, he did not think he would regret allowing Jim to persuade him to take this road trip in such a fashion, no matter how illogical.
* * * * *
They reached Monterey before sundown, which was Jim's goal. Highway One was considerably slower than the Five, since it went through various towns and cities as it snaked along the coast, at times little more than a two-lane country road, but it was an infinitely more interesting drive. Despite his initial protests, Spock seemed fascinated by everything, and once he'd sent messages to the appropriate parties about their change of plans, he seemed to relax into the trip, his anxiety easing inch by inch.
Jim played tour-guide, pointing out things of interest as they went. Spock asked question after question, wanting to know more about old buildings, the origin of the Spanish place-names, locations of historical battles, but nothing truly piqued his interest until Jim, remembering the Academy event he'd had to cancel on, mentioned that they should stop by the Monterey Bay Aquarium in the morning. Jim just sat back and listened as Spock went off on a ramble about the historical importance of this particular aquarium, the rare species it was home to, and the myriad research projects being conducted there. And all the while the blinding blue ocean fell away to their left, golden scrub-grass and California poppies bobbing their heads along the side of the road.
They stopped just after sundown, seeking out a nicer hotel at the edge of town with a view of the ocean that Spock insisted on paying for despite all of Jim's objections about sharing costs now that he wasn't technically Spock's employee anymore. Jim retaliated by pinning Spock against the wall when they got upstairs, kissing him in both the Human and Vulcan fashion until Spock was flushed green in the face, only to vanish into the bathroom for a shower, leaving a flustered Spock alone in the bedroom. It wasn't much of a punishment, though, as Spock only followed him and caught Jim naked in the instant before he could climb into the shower.
Jim found himself shoved up against the wall with a very determined Vulcan kneeling between his thighs, Spock's impossibly hot mouth swallowing him down, Jim's ability to think slowly leaking out his ears. What Spock lacked in experience, he seemed more than determined to make up for with diligence and enthusiasm, and it was good that Spock's hand pinned Jim's hip against the wall, or else Jim might have simply fallen over.
"Fuck," Jim gasped, twisting his fingers harder in Spock's hair as Spock did something amazing with his tongue. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"
"Affirmative," Spock said. The hoarseness in his voice sent another thrill of lust up Jim's spine, and the hand on Jim's hip squeezed once before sliding back down along Jim's ass, long fingers teasing at Jim's entrance. Jim came a few minutes later, Spock's nose buried in the coarse thatch at the base of his cock as Jim emptied himself down Spock's throat, two of Spock's fingers twisting greedily inside Jim.
Jim dragged Spock with him into the shower, unable to resist that eagerness, and it was good that they weren't at Jim's apartment, because by the time they emerged from the spray, Jim had assured himself that every inch of Spock's body was clean, and he himself was having some difficulty walking. Apparently Vulcans were really, really into finger-banging. As Spock went to dress himself (however hilariously temporary that might turn out), Jim reflected on the futility of having taken a shower at all, considering he now looked more fucked-out and used than before he'd gone into the bathroom.
He'd planned to go out walking with Spock along the beach that night, but they never even made it out of the room. Dinner came in the form of call-in pizza, Jim shocking the hell out of the delivery boy when he answered the door in nothing but criminally low-slung sweatpants and a whole new set of bruises along his throat and collarbone. (Spock had a set of his own, one at each wrist, and the tight, aching noises that Jim had wrung out of Spock in the process of working those up had been almost more satisfying than the marks themselves.)
They managed to calm down enough after dinner to get a few hours of work done, though "work" consisted of sprawling on the bed next to each other with their various books, papers, and PADDs strewn across the covers next to them. Jim would have felt more self-conscious about his inability to stop touching Spock if Spock hadn't been just as bad. Jim would be reading through an article on the similarities of courtship rituals in Humanoid species and feel a hand creeping up his thigh, stopping to curl possessively around his hip, or Jim would look over for no reason and find himself mesmerized by the elegant line of Spock's jaw, which was quickly followed by checking to see if Spock still remembered how fun Human-style kissing was. They might not have been getting a hell of a lot of work done, but then, Jim thought, that wasn't really what this trip was about.
But that night, as he lay in bed with one of Spock's arms slung around his waist and Spock's warmth pressing against his back, Jim could not escape the nagging feeling that this was all too wonderful to last. Jim lay quietly, listening to Spock's steady, even breathing, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.
McCoy had asked him that this morning, as a matter of fact-once he'd managed to recover enough from the shock of watching both Spock and Jim emerge from Jim's bedroom, looking suspiciously tousled and grinning idiotically to boot. He'd waited until Spock had left before he'd made them both a cup of strong coffee and had what he referred to as a "come-to-Jesus prayer meetin'" with Jim.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" McCoy demanded.
Jim rolled his eyes, mixing enough milk and sugar into his coffee to qualify it as dessert. "I thought you liked Spock," he pointed out. "Why does it bother you so much that I slept with him?"
"If it was just sex, that'd be one thing," McCoy retorted. "But you brought him over here. Jim, you made him dinner and had him spend the night and now you're, what, taking some kind of goddamn trip with him to meet his family? Do you even hear yourself right now?"
"So fucking what?" Now Jim was getting angry, looking anywhere but at McCoy. He didn't have time for this right now; he ad too much to do. He had to pack, and he had to talk to Ericcson about the car-
But instead of yelling at him more, McCoy just shook his head and sighed. "I know you don't wanna listen to me, Jim," he said finally, "but this is not going to end well for you. Spock is a good ...person, and he means well, and I even think he likes you, a lot, but when this is all over and done with he's going to go back to Vulcan and you'll still be here."
"Just stay out of it, Bones," Jim said finally. "I know what I'm doing."
Spock didn't know how close Jim had come to listening to McCoy and backing out of the trip, to vanishing altogether from the situation. But in the end, Jim just couldn't say no. He'd tried, he really had; he'd gone into his room and sat on the bed and written himself a list of why going with Spock was a bad idea. And he'd sat there and stared at the list and tried to convince himself not to go, to be fucking rational. It went against all his self-preservation instincts, to participate in something so obviously fucking romantic and stupid and-and-
And he'd never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.
Behind him, Spock stirred, and the arm around Jim's waist tightened, pulling him closer. "Sleep, Jim," Spock murmured in his ear. "You must rest." Jim smiled, covering the hand lying on his stomach with his own and squeezing lightly.
"Yeah," he whispered, "sorry. Just having trouble shutting my brain down. You kinda wound me up." He'd intended it as a tease, and was dismayed to hear how much it came out sounding like he really meant it. At this, Jim felt Spock sit up behind him, propped on one elbow. Jim started to roll backwards, wanting to see the look on Spock's face, but instead Spock coaxed Jim the other direction, rolling him forward until he was lying flat on his stomach. Jim squirmed as Spock shifted behind him, wondering what was going on... and then strong hands smoothed across Jim's bare shoulders, before pressing down and digging into the muscle beneath skin. "Oof," Jim grunted. "Oh my God, Spock-"
"As I am the source of your discomfort, it is only just that I should be the one to aid you in falling asleep." Spock's soft voice washed over him like the moonlight coming in through the window, and Jim groaned as strong, clever hands worked him over, starting at his shoulders and moving down his back, grinding down against the knots of tension in his muscles. By the time Spock was done, Jim was only dimly conscious, and within five minutes of Spock settling down against him in bed again and gathering Jim up to his chest, Jim was fast asleep.
* * * * *
Over the next few days, Jim found his concerns grow dim in the back of his mind; he felt drunk, stupid with the effect of Spock's presence, more alive than he'd felt in years. They proceeded north at a leisurely pace, hardly noticing the scenery. It was shocking how much Spock enjoyed talking (and often arguing) with Jim, as though he'd found something he'd never known he needed. His bond with T'Pring, while entirely adequate, had never affected him half this much, and he found himself at a loss to describe what the missing component was.
The trip to the aquarium was a smashing success: even if Jim himself hadn't already been interested in seeing the various sea-creatures and exhibits, it would still have been worth every second for the sake of how much Spock enjoyed himself. They reached San Francisco the next day, stopping long enough for lunch but not wanting to linger; the city was filled with too much political tension to make either of them comfortable, and they still had a lot of driving left to do. More than once Jim pulled the car over by the side of the road and climbed into the back with Spock, the two of them fucking like teenagers in the cramped quarters.
That night they stopped at a tiny tourist town lost somewhere on the northern California coast, so sleepy and rural that they their comm-units wouldn't work properly and their PADDs would barely load. In typical fashion, Spock was dismayed, while Jim was delighted. Jim soon managed to distract Spock, locked inside their motel room. He retrieved one of the battered real-paper books from the canvas traveling bag he'd brought along and half-sprawled across Spock on the bed as he read aloud from it, whispering the words into Spock's naked skin. I sing the body electric, he murmured, fingers tracing the curvature of muscles and bone underneath Spock's skin, the armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them... The poetry flowed over Spock's mind, senseless and wild, as tangible as the brush of Jim's finger and mouth. Spock trembled hot and cold, shutting his eyes against the strength of the sensations, of the emotions that ran rampant inside him all because of Jim.
That was the night that Spock first dared to ask Jim for the thing he craved most of all: an opportunity to touch Jim's mind. ("Uh," Jim laughed, eyes wide, a half-smile on his face that Spock had come to learn meant I have no fucking idea how to answer your question, "sure, why not." Spock had spent another twenty minutes explaining the mechanics and reasons behind a meld before Jim was fully relaxed.) It went as well as their first physical encounter did-which is to say, an unqualified failure that was nevertheless more thrilling than anything Spock might have hoped for.
Jim laid himself out on the bed, Spock alongside him, their legs tangled loosely, covered in a light blanket to keep the evening cool off. Spock reached out his hand, fingers extended, and then sank into a light connection that was still deeper than the ones that linked them every time they lay skin-against-skin. Jim's mind pulsed like a nuclear reaction, a riot of color and images. Spock felt his control slipping from him even as he tried to go deeper, and then an avalanche crashed over him, fear/fight/anxiety and joy/need/desire and a white, hot heat that scalded even as it drank him in. The meld ended abruptly as Jim jerked back from Spock, Spock's fingers flexing convulsively against suddenly-empty space. Jim vaulted up off the mattress, stumbled into the bathroom, and lurched to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to bring up what remained of his dinner.
Spock lay on the bed in a daze, listening to the noise of Jim retching into the toilet bowl for several seconds before finally managing to wrench himself off the bed and totter towards the bathroom after him. He ended up not being able to do much except sit by and rub Jim's back as Jim heaved, but Jim seemed to appreciate it. They returned to the bed a few minutes later, Jim considerably paler than he'd been before, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. Spock sat down as Jim lowered himself gingerly to the edge of the mattress. "Well," Jim said, and managed a weak smile, "that was interesting."
"Indeed," said Spock. "I must admit, triggering your vomiting reflex was not what I had hoped for."
"Hey, at least I haven't managed to break either of my arms during sex yet," Jim said, sounding more cheerful than a man had any right to after heaving as hard as Spock heard just now.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "You are in the habit of breaking bones during coitus?" he inquired delicately.
"Well." Now Jim grinned outright, a smaller, wry smile that was directed as much at himself as anything else. "Not a habit. But I might've accidentally broken my arms while I was dating Jenny."
Spock paused. He did not know which to ask after first, the disturbing plural, or the news that one of Jim's current friends also happened to be a one-time romantic partner. "Arms?" he asked finally, the other eyebrow rising to join its fellow.
Jim wrinkled his nose, looking at once embarrassed and somehow proud. "We got in a pillow fight." He paused, then clarified, "We were drunk."
"You broke your arm during a pillow fight," Spock repeated. "With Janice Rand."
"No, I broke both my arms during that pillow fight." Jim flopped backwards on the bed, flinging an arm over his face. Spock took a moment to consider this statement, trying to picture how, exactly, one would manage to break both arms during something as innocuous as a pillow fight (something he had not even known of until eight days ago). "I fell off the damn bed, okay?" Jim sighed, muffled slightly by his arm, though as far as Spock could tell Jim not even see Spock's face and possessed no touch-telepathy of his own.
"You are a singular individual, Jim," Spock said gravely.
"God, shut up. I mean-look, all I wanted to say is that by that yardstick, the mind-meld-thing is-we're good, is what I'm saying."
"I shudder to think what an actual success would look like," Spock observed, and Jim's hand flew up to swat Spock across the arm even as he started to laugh. "I will be sure to let Doctor McCoy know that you are not to be trusted with anything more complicated than brushing your teeth."
"Spock! Shut up!"
* * * * *
Spock and Jim finally reached Port Townsend shortly after noon on the fourth day after leaving Los Angeles. The town could not have held more than 7,000 souls, and consisted equally of antisocial old sailors, antisocial hippies, and antisocial eccentrics, all of whom had migrated as far north as they could without actually crossing the Sound into Canada. "The fruit and nut brigade," as Jim declared them while driving down the main street, peering out at the people milling around on the town's sidewalks. Spock asked for a clarification, but Jim just shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Spock," he said.
"Vulcans do not experience the emotion of worry," Spock said mildly.
"Sure they don't. You're totally calm and serene about meeting your grandparents, right?" Despite the weight of Jim's eyes on his neck, Spock did not answer.
In truth, Spock was experiencing far more trepidation at the idea of meeting Dr. and Mr. Grayson than he had any right to be, considering the seeming sincerity of their invitation to have him come visit. Spock was still not certain how they had come to know Spock was on Earth at all, though he suspected Christopher Pike had something to do with it-Pike was a family friend of the Graysons, after all. But Spock had had very little contact with his grandparents since the time of Amanda's death, a fact that he now found himself illogically anxious about.
The Graysons' house was nestled on the side of one of the central hills of Port Townsend, overlooking the marina and "downtown" as well as offering a clear view across the sound to the Canadian shoreline on the far side. Jim guided the car carefully up the narrow drive, and even as he slowed and put the car in park, two grey-haired figures had already appeared in the doorway to the house, one of whom was hurrying down the stairs to the driveway.
"You made it!" exclaimed Dr. Charlotte Grayson as Spock climbed out of the passenger seat. Spock was swept into a tight hug almost before he'd exited the car, despite the fact that his grandmother was 11 inches shorter than him. Joy and affection washed over him as soft hands cupped his cheeks and two uncannily familiar brown eyes gazed up at him from his grandmother's beaming face. Charlotte was a small woman, silver hair piled in an intricate bun at the back of her head, but age had not diminished any of her considerable energy. "Oh, I'm so glad you came to see us, Spock!"
Charlotte turned her attention to Jim as he got out of the car, much to Spock's relief. Spock watched in bemusement as his grandmother greeted Jim with the same enthusiasm she'd just given her own grandson. "We've been waiting for you all morning," said the second figure, who by now had reached the driveway as well. Spock turned to find his grandfather's warm regard focused on him. Alan Grayson was roughly Spock's height, bearded and still retaining most of his hair, gone silver now with age. And though Spock knew him to be approaching ninety, he was impressed at the man's vigor-like his wife, he might have passed for twenty-five years younger.
"I apologize for the length of time it took us to reach you," Spock began, but Alan shook his head.
"You needed to see some of the countryside," Charlotte said easily. "It's okay, we totally understand. Gave us some time to get ready for you." Get ready? Spock wondered, with some trepidation. What exactly had they done to prepare for his visit? It was embarrassing how much he'd let himself be distracted by Jim on the drive up here, and how very little he'd thought about what might be waiting for him. His mother's family deserved better.
But Alan and Charlotte left him with no time for contemplation. Jim insisted dragging their luggage upstairs himself, but that was about the only concession that the Graysons made. As soon as they got into the front door, Alan vanished with their bags, and Jim and Spock were ushered into the kitchen and seated at the impeccably clean-and-polished wood table, where Charlotte promptly served them lunch. Lunch, turned out to be tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, in cheerful observation of Spock's vegetarianism. Spock sat in increasing bewilderment as they talked of inconsequentials for nearly two hours, surrounded by the friendly decor of a long lived-in home, the scent of pine needles and cedars filtering in through the open windows.
Because his grandparents wanted to hear about everything. They seemed delighted to hear about all the details of their miniature road-trip from Los Angeles (though of course Jim and Spock made a point to censor the bulk of their activities), the projects Spock was currently working on at the VSA, even some of Jim's bar-tending stories. Spock found himself quite glad that Jim had come, more than content to let Jim take the brunt of the conversation for awhile, talking animatedly to their attentive audience.
Finally, Charlotte rose, sweeping up the dirty dishes and depositing them in the sink to be cleaned later. Spock noted the old-fashioned dishwasher and the distinct lack of a number of other modern amenities. "You do not have a replicator," he noted, hands cupped around a mug of tea that Alan had brought out.
Alan laughed. "Don't need it," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "It's just the two of us here, and we like to cook. Replicators can't do anything very fancy, anyway, and food tastes better when you make it yourself."
"See?" Jim said, turning to Spock with a wide grin. Spock cocked his head, glancing from Jim to his ....grandfather. The realization that he was related to both of these people, these virtual strangers, was starting to sink in, and it made Spock's already-overwhelmed head hurt. But before Spock could formulate an answer, Jim was rising to his feet, summoning one of his most charming smiles for Alan and Charlotte. "God, that was amazing. Do you mind showing me around? This house looks like it was practically hand-made."
Spock rose quickly, tea still held in one hand. "I believe I will take the tour later this afternoon," he said apologetically. "I... find I am rather tired, and wish to meditate for a short while."
Alan and Charlotte exchanged a glance, and Spock braced himself for the protest, but all Charlotte said was, "Of course, dear. Let me show you to your room." Spock stole one last look at Jim, who shrugged and gave him a smile that could've meant anything, and then Spock followed his grandmother out of the sunny kitchen and down the wood-paneled hallway. "Here you are, Spock," Charlotte said, and opened the door, gesturing Spock inside. Spock went in ahead, took three steps into the room, and froze.
It was Amanda's old room.
* * * * *
"Where the he-the heck did Spock get to?"
Charlotte snorted as she heard Jim censor himself. "He's just slipped off to the bedroom for a few minutes," she said smoothly. "I think he might need to lie down for a little while."
They'd just finished giving Jim the "grand" tour of the house, Charlotte having re-joined Alan and Jim in the bottom level in the playroom, where they kept the piano. Jim did not seem particularly uncomfortable without Spock around as a buffer, which Charlotte approved of, considering even a blind man could tell how smitten they were with each other. She was glad Spock's young man was so likable.
Jim glanced at Alan, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Jim glanced back at Charlotte. "Maybe I should go check on Spock," Jim began, trailing off at the way Charlotte was shaking her head.
"No, I think he was laying down for a nap, and I need someone to go downtown to Gus's and pick up some things for dinner tonight." If Spock was anything like Sarek, he would want to deal with Amanda on his own terms.
Alan sighed theatrically. "You heard the woman," he said to Jim. "Let's get going before she thinks of more errands for us to run while we're gone." Jim opened his mouth, probably to lodge a protest, but Alan had already grabbed him by the bicep and was steering him towards the door.
"You don't even know what I want you to pick up!" Charlotte yelled after him, laughing as she followed her husband to the front door. Alan was already down by the transport, having grabbed Jim's jacket and his own on the way out the door; he waved cheerfully up at her before climbing into the car. Charlotte shook her head, walking back into the kitchen and picking up her PADD to send the list on to Alan, as he'd known she would.
She hadn't been lying-she really did need some groceries for dinner that night-but there was no reason that Jim had to go with him, save for Charlotte's hunch about Spock's needs. Charlotte glanced at the clock above the fridge. Already 2:30; she probably had an hour, maybe hour and a half before Alan and Jim got back with the groceries.
Charlotte did the dishes and put them away, chopped tomatoes for dinner, and then went downstairs to start a load of laundry. By 3:00, Charlotte figured it was just about time to go check on Spock. Padding quietly down the hallway, she pushed the door open and poked her head inside.
The room was just as Charlotte always kept it: neat as a pin and chock-full of Amanda's things. High, double-frame windows at one end of the room looked northeast, facing the marina and gazing across to Canada. Shades of honey, gold, and brown warmed everything, and two walls were devoted to the bookshelves Alan installed into the walls when Amanda was six, full of books of all shapes and sizes: dusty leather tomes that looked even older than the house itself, glossy hardcover binders that might have been photo albums, and Amanda's leather-bound journals.
A queen-size bed was set against the wall not filled with books or windows, next to the desk, and while the bed had previously held Spock and Jim's bags, deposited there by Alan when Spock and Jim first arrived, it now held Spock-a Spock who was surrounded by what looked like every picture and knick-knack from the hope chest against the wall and half the books off one of the shelves.
Spock straightened as Charlotte entered, his eyes flickering up to Charlotte's before sliding away again, and Charlotte felt an immediate pang, unable to miss the raw look to his eyes. She came inside and shut the door carefully behind her, then crossed the room to sit next to Spock on the bed. "Hey, there, hope I'm not interrupting," she said, wishing she knew what to say or do. Spock was her grandson, her flesh and blood, but he was also a virtual stranger and raised in an alien culture, and she knew enough about Vulcans to not want to push him in a way he wasn't comfortable with.
Spock beat her to it, however. "Please explain this photograph," he said, voice suspiciously hoarse, and handed her a framed picture. Charlotte took it, examining it more closely for a few moments before she burst out laughing. Spock merely watched her, hands folded in his lap.
"Oh, boy," she said finally, handing the frame back to Spock. The picture it contained was old, a good ten years older than Spock, and it showed a young, stony-faced Sarek in a ridiculously ugly green sweater standing in the midst of the extended Grayson family. "That was taken at the first Christmas I met your father at. He and Amanda had just started seeing each other, and I was sort of surprised he even came up at all. But one of my nieces spilled wine all over Sarek's shirt, while we were out on the boat, and that was the only sweater we could find that would fit Sarek and keep him warm. And he just looked so awful in it, Amanda insisted we take a picture."
Spock stared down at the photo, not saying anything for several seconds, stroking his thumb idly along the gold frame. He set the photo back down on the bed and started to fold his hands in his lap, only to pick the photo back up again moments later. "I have not seen this before," he said, and then reached for a faded golden plaque that was sitting next to his hip. "Or this-what was this prize for? And what about this-" His hand fluttered from the plaque to another book, as if unable to pick which one to grab, or by picking the wrong one they'd all disappear.
"Here, now," Charlotte said, eyebrows going up at the near-frantic edge to Spock. "Calm down, honey. It's okay, you can ask me anything you want."
Spock froze at Charlotte's words, eyes fixed to the bed. He swallowed, sitting back and folding his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead at the wall. Charlotte just watched, nearly having to sit on her hands as she let Spock struggle to find his words. He took a deep breath and let it out, and then said finally, "I did not... I did not realize how much about her I did not know."
Charlotte sighed, a familiar lump forming in the back of her throat which she quickly pushed away. "Okay, Spock." He looked over at her, dark eyes glassy, and she offered him a small smile. "I know where you were raised, a lot of touching is strictly not okay, but in this family, we like to hug. So I am going to hug you now." Spock's brow furrowed, and he nodded, and Charlotte reached over and did what she'd been wanting to do since she came in the room and pulled her grandson against her chest in a fierce hug. Spock was very stiff for several seconds, about as yielding as a piece of driftwood, but just as Charlotte was going to let him go, Spock turned his face and buried it in her shoulder. Charlotte found it suddenly difficult to swallow.
They broke apart after a few more moments, Spock looking anywhere but at Charlotte, Charlotte folding her hands in her lap for lack of anything better to do. "Alright," she said brusquely, when the silence was edging towards "uncomfortable," "that's enough of that." She picked up another photo at random from the bedspread, and then smiled at Spock, who was still suspiciously bright-eyed but seemed more composed. "Would you like to hear about your mother, Spock?"
"I would like that very much," Spock said. He lifted his eyes to Charlotte's, straightening and clasping his hands in his lap. Charlotte smiled.
* * * * *
They got a whole week before the news reached them, isolated as they were up at the tip of the Olympic Peninsula, deliberately out of easy contact. But they had been at the Grayson's house for four days when they found the bike.
Despite some awkwardness on that first day, Jim had found Spock's grandparents immediately and completely likable. They didn't ask much of either Jim or Spock, seeming completely happy at just having them to visit for a few days. Jim had worried it would be strange, since even Spock didn't really even know these people, and he'd been prepared to run interference or produce an excuse to leave early if need be, but to be honest Jim didn't think he'd ever met such an amiable, sweet couple.
They were undoubtably related to Spock-he had Alan's eyes (Amanda's eyes, Spock told him softly), and Charlotte's mouth, Alan's height but Charlotte's long, clever fingers. And though Spock's essential Vulcan-ness subdued a great deal of the Human traits he might otherwise exhibit, Jim thought he detected other hints of Spock's relatives in his demeanor. Spock shared Alan's skepticism for easy answers, his insistence at seeking out the most complete and thorough explanation of any situation, but it was Charlotte who had the knack for numbers and random facts.
Or at least, Jim liked to think he saw those things. If he was being completely honest with himself, he would have to admit those traits were more likely just Spock being Vulcan. Then again, most Vulcans would never have dragged Jim up to Port Townsend in the first place, or pushed Jim up against the outside wall of the house to kiss him till he was red in the face and breathless.
But the Graysons were delightful in and of themselves. Charlotte had a wicked sense of humor, shocking her grandson with some of her bawdier jokes and sending Jim into gales of laughter when she'd trotted out a particularly off-color story featuring an Andorian and a Tellarite. It was she who'd filled Amanda's bedroom with books and journals and photo albums, and she was the one who dragged Jim and Spock out to dinner at their favorite fusion restaurant down on the little main street that ran through town.
Alan was a woodworker, apparently, or had become one in his retirement; he'd built all the furniture in the house, something Jim was thoroughly impressed by. It was Alan who got Jim talking about all the mechanical work he did back home with his own mother (though Jim took pains to keep his mother's entirely-too-famous-name out of the discussion), Alan's eyes glinting with pleasure when Spock had jumped into the discussion, arguing with Jim over the limits of what a terrestrial hovercar could be customized to do. And it was Alan who took Jim and Spock out to the shed behind their house and showed them an old russet-colored bike with two honest-to-God tires and a converted internal combustion engine.
Jim lit up like a Christmas tree as soon as he laid eyes on the bike, crouching to examine the nest of pipes and gears that made up the back end of the bike. The bike leaned against the wall, glinting silver and red and black, remarkably pristine considering it was nearly 300 years old. "How the hell did you get a 20th-century bike like this?" he demanded, looking up at Alan as Spock looked on in bemusement. "A 1950 Indian Scout? And a two-seater, even. I didn't think they ever made two-seaters."
"They didn't. I had the second seat added after-market." Alan folded his arms across his chest, his plaid flannel rolled up to the elbows, not bothering to hide his pleasure at finding someone who could appreciate what he was showing off. "Amanda tracked it down for me, actually," he said. "I think one of her associates used to collect bikes, and she bought it off him for me as an anniversary gift."
"And it still runs?" Jim looked up at Alan from where he crouched on the floor, looking as if he was barely restraining himself from taking the bike apart to see how it worked.
"Sort of. Well, I was good about keeping up on its maintenance, but the tires are probably ruined and the engine needs some attention. The care got away from me a little, since I took a spill off it a few years ago."
It was Spock's turn to be impressed, raising an eyebrow at his grandfather's resilience. "At your age, the fact that you do not seem to have suffered any lasting injuries from such an accident is impressive."
"No, what's impressive is Doctor Ginsberg's talent at surgery, but thank you, Spock." Alan grinned at Spock, both of them watching a thoroughly distracted Jim, who by now was examining the back tire, tugging at the loose chain. "You look like you know your way around motorcycles," Alan said casually. "If you can get the bike running, you're welcome to take her out for a spin." He paused, and perhaps he caught something in Jim's eye too, because he added, "Just be careful."
Jim looked over at Spock, and if Spock were given to such flights of fancy, he would have sworn he could already see himself and Jim on the bike's back in Jim's eyes. "Awesome. Show me where the tool kit is?"
It was the work of a few hours to get the bike in working order. Jim took off both tires, since it turned out the front was as rotten as the back, and Spock helped him replace the chain, since the tire was already off. Spock watched Jim as he siphoned out the remaining old diesel-gasoline and checked the oil, listening in mute admiration as Jim told him all about the history of this bike model and the company that made it, as well as the customizations that had been made over the years to keep the antique engine usable. In light of everything else that Jim was knowledgable about, Spock should not have been surprised at his ability with this old vehicle, and yet he could not quite stifle his own astonishment at how Jim's skill.
"Query," Spock said, handing Jim a wrench as Jim methodically tightened all the bolts and checked the tension of the new chain. "From whence does the bike acquire its name? I understand that Humans are fond of naming most of their vehicles and vessels, and that such names are often derived from mythology or commonly-held Human ideals. But I do not understand the reference of this bike's title."
Jim paused, wiping his dirty hands on the coveralls Alan had lent him. "'Indian' is an old, uh... an old Terran name for the indigenous people who lived on this continent. Old like the usage of it fell out of favor two, three hundred years ago. It was still in popular use when this bike was a current model, but after the second world war, the term started to become unacceptable." Jim grinned, and Spock got the sense it was not a completely humorous smile, a concept he was still struggling to understand amongst Humans. "They weren't too careful about being politically correct back then."
"I see," Spock said, although he didn't, particularly. But most of his attention was taken by watching the care with which Jim serviced the bike. If Spock had not wanted to avoid getting engine oil and grease all over his robes, he might have interrupted Jim's maintenance then and there with something much more physical, but he managed to keep his hands to himself.
Barely.
Jim took the bike out for a ride the evening of that same day, and even managed to persuade Spock to come out with him the following morning. The streets around Port Townsend were as winding and lovely at this time of year as Jim could possibly have asked for, and he thought that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the feeling of Spock pressed against his back, Spock's face in his hair, the wind rushing past him as the scents of pine and cedar and Western bleeding hearts filling his nose.
They drove all the way up to the tip of the peninsula, stopping briefly at the lighthouse still flung up against the barest outcropping of rock before retreating back into the protected woodlands. Jim pulled off the road at the edge of a grove of madrone trees, dragging Spock up under the cover of their red branches and settling in among the wild roses blooming at the base of their trunks. They didn't dare to take off their clothes, but Jim was sprawled across Spock's lap when another couple went by on bicycles, Spock's hands shoved up the back of Jim's shirt. Jim jerked back, laughing as he turned to watch the passers-by, but Spock's eyes were stuck on Jim's kiss-swollen lips.
"Perhaps we should seek somewhere more secluded," Spock murmured. He withdrew one hand from Jim's shirt, raising it briefly to touch his face instead. After nearly a week of semi-constant skin contact, he was becoming steadily more adept at controlling himself in spite of the influx of Jim's thoughts and impulses. But Jim just shook his head, leaning forward till his forehead bumped against Spock's.
"Nah," he mumbled, brushing his mouth over Spock's in a faint, teasing kiss. "This is fine. Just like this." And Spock found he had no wish to argue.
* * * * *
Second half of Interlude here.
Title: What Part of Forever (Interlude)
Author & Mixer: Kairi (feels_like_fire) Did my own mix for this, which you can find here.
Artist: kauniainen did a beautiful piece of artwork that you can see HERE, I will make sure she sees all of your comments!
Betas: This fic would not EXIST if it were not for the efforts of tmysha, rainjewel, and linzeestyle. I CAN NEVER THANK YOU ENOUGH.
Series: AOS/Reboot, pre-Academy slight AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Pike, Winona Kirk, Sarek, T'Pring, Harry Mudd, with cameos by Scotty and Number One
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: ~85k total; this part, 11,721.
Summary: Vulcan is considering seceding from the Federation; Spock decides now is a good time to catch up on being Human. So he hires Jim Kirk as his guide, with predictable results. Pretty Woman redux, now with more sex. In this chapter, Jim and Spock take a trip out of LA to go meet Spock's Human grandparents; revelations ensue. HERE THERE BE SEXYTIEMS.
Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. The art. The mix.
Spock stood at the edge of the curb outside the Beverly Wilshire hotel, staring down the street. He wore his traveling robes, and he had one small carrying case filled with everything he might need for the expected week-long trip to visit Amanda's parents. Somewhere in the haze of the night before, they'd decided to leave immediately for Washington, instead of waiting until the end of the week. Now the only thing missing was his traveling companion.
They had agreed on 1:00 pm. Spock glanced once more at his chronometer. It was now 1:14 pm.
Spock directed his eyes to the city streets in front of them again, noting how slowly the hovercrafts were moving. It was possible that Jim was simply held up in traffic... but that did not explain why he had not sent a message. Three times now, a taxi had pulled over to the curb, the driver peering expectantly at Spock, and three times Spock had had to wave the disappointed driver on. It was growing tiresome.
And Spock did not want to admit it, but he was starting to wonder if Jim had decided that the previous night was a mistake, and was simply going to disappear. He had done something of the sort before, or so Spock understood from their conversations, but the idea that he might have done so now was... was... Spock did not have words for it. But the thought twisted and turned inside him as though he had swallowed poison, black and toxic.
The sound of a mechanical engine backfiring up the street jerked him from his reflection, and when Spock looked for the source of the sound, he saw an old-fashioned Terran automobile that had been heavily modified, judging from the body. The vehicle was all sleek lines and smooth curves, a milky green-blue reminiscent of shallow ocean water, and appeared to be missing its top half. As it drew closer, Spock realized two things: the vehicle was not missing its top at all, but was instead a variation on the traditional car that allowed a flexible roof to simply fold back; and Jim was the one driving the vehicle. Jim, wearing a huge, ridiculous pair of sunglasses and a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his biceps.
Spock could only watch in amazement as the strange vehicle pulled to the side of the road, hovering a foot or two off the ground, and Jim turned in the driver's seat, flashing a wide grin at Spock. "Sorry to keep you waiting!" he yelled. "Get in, already."
"Jim," Spock said, feeling yet again like a character in a play whose lines he did not know. "I have arranged a transport to take us to Washington-"
"Nah, fuck that," said Jim, still unshakably cheerful. "Taking a transport is what you do on business trips. We're gonna take the long way and drive there ourselves."
The things wrong with this idea were so numerous that for a few moments Spock was at a complete loss for words. He could only stare at Jim, who was looking steadily back at him over the top of those sunglasses, which looked as though they were designed for a species whose eyes were at least five times larger than a Human's. "Jim," he tried again, "it is approximately 1,170 miles from here to Port Townsend-"
"That's if we take the 5," Jim cut in. "It'll be closer to 1,500 miles, since we're gonna take Highway 1 for part of the drive. Get in, Spock, we wanna get well north of LA before rush hour."
"Where did you even get this vehicle? It does not belong to you, does it?" Spock stared at the unusual vehicle, not certain he trusted himself to a three-century-old car that looked as though it were held together with little more than spit, paint, and love.
"Called in a favor," Jim said dismissively. "I fix up vehicles sometimes, not like a real job or anything, but I like old cars like this one. I helped a guy convert it from an internal-combustion engine to a functioning hovercraft, and he's owed me for awhile. Now are you-"
"Why do you wish to expend so much time and energy on this journey when it would be vastly more efficient to take the transport I have arranged?" Spock demanded.
At this, Jim reached down and put the car into park, though he did not stop the vehicle. "Because," Jim said evenly, "Part of being Human is understanding that the journey is as important as the goal, Spock. Besides." Jim smirked, an expression Spock found entirely too distracting. "I can't make the transport pull over by the side of the road so I can suck you off whenever I feel like it."
Heat flooded Spock's face, and he clasped his hands tighter for a moment, the knuckles cracking almost audibly under the skin. Jim was still watching him, waiting for him. This idea was preposterous. It would take them days to reach Port Townsend this way. It was illogical-
Spock swallowed. Illogical, his mind whispered. Spock bent down, reaching for his bag, and took the three steps to reach Jim's car. He leaned over and carefully deposited his traveling case in the back seat, tucking it into one of the footwells, and then opened the passenger-side door and climbed in.
"Fuck yeah," Jim said. The Los Angeles sun flashed off his bright, almost manic grin. Jim reached for the gearshift and put the car into first, and Spock's hand flew to the door-handle as they peeled out into traffic, someone honking furiously behind them as Jim cut off whoever it was.
"If you insist on driving, Jim," Spock said, "I must also insist that you take care that we reach our eventual destination."
"No worries," Jim said cheerfully. "We'll get there. You just trust me, Spock."
"Allow me to clarify. I wish to reach the house of my grandparents in one whole, uninjured piece."
"Picky, picky," Jim said, and leaned down to flick a switch on the dashboard. The console sprang to life, and music swelled up out of the speakers, a loud, obnoxious song with a chorus of guitars played with far more enthusiasm than talent. "But since it's you, I can make an exception."
"What is this?" Spock asked. A man with an extremely nasal manner of singing had joined the cacophony of guitars and drums. Spock was uncertain what he was being subjected to, but felt it might well qualify as auditory assault.
"It's the Ramones. Life isn't worth living without some Ramones in it, Spock. Rule number Thirty-Six of being Human."
"Are all the other rules in this list as arbitrary as the one you just quoted?" Spock raised an eyebrow at Jim.
"Yep," Jim said, deadpan. "Rule Seventeen, don't switch among beer, liquor, and wine unless you wanna spend the night puking. Rule Forty-Three, don't lick metal poles in the middle of winter. Rule Eight, anyone who doesn't like at least one Beatles song is not worth knowing."
"Beetles? I was unaware that there were Terran species of beetles that were capable of music."
"....yeah, good thing I brought the White Album with me," Jim said, more to himself than to Spock. "Don't worry, Spock. I'll get you straightened out."
Spock nodded, storing this information away for future reference, even though he was 98.76% certain that there were no such Rules of Being Human and Jim was simply being Jim. He looked out the window, watching the other hovercars maneuver around them, watching the buildings of Los Angeles fall away. But even the impressive skyline couldn't stop his thoughts from straying to the intoxicating feel of Jim's body from the night before, the shocking sweetness of his smile, the press of his lips against Spock's own. The memory sent a flush of warmth through Spock, as though he'd stepped into a patch of sunlight.
No, he did not think he would regret allowing Jim to persuade him to take this road trip in such a fashion, no matter how illogical.
* * * * *
They reached Monterey before sundown, which was Jim's goal. Highway One was considerably slower than the Five, since it went through various towns and cities as it snaked along the coast, at times little more than a two-lane country road, but it was an infinitely more interesting drive. Despite his initial protests, Spock seemed fascinated by everything, and once he'd sent messages to the appropriate parties about their change of plans, he seemed to relax into the trip, his anxiety easing inch by inch.
Jim played tour-guide, pointing out things of interest as they went. Spock asked question after question, wanting to know more about old buildings, the origin of the Spanish place-names, locations of historical battles, but nothing truly piqued his interest until Jim, remembering the Academy event he'd had to cancel on, mentioned that they should stop by the Monterey Bay Aquarium in the morning. Jim just sat back and listened as Spock went off on a ramble about the historical importance of this particular aquarium, the rare species it was home to, and the myriad research projects being conducted there. And all the while the blinding blue ocean fell away to their left, golden scrub-grass and California poppies bobbing their heads along the side of the road.
They stopped just after sundown, seeking out a nicer hotel at the edge of town with a view of the ocean that Spock insisted on paying for despite all of Jim's objections about sharing costs now that he wasn't technically Spock's employee anymore. Jim retaliated by pinning Spock against the wall when they got upstairs, kissing him in both the Human and Vulcan fashion until Spock was flushed green in the face, only to vanish into the bathroom for a shower, leaving a flustered Spock alone in the bedroom. It wasn't much of a punishment, though, as Spock only followed him and caught Jim naked in the instant before he could climb into the shower.
Jim found himself shoved up against the wall with a very determined Vulcan kneeling between his thighs, Spock's impossibly hot mouth swallowing him down, Jim's ability to think slowly leaking out his ears. What Spock lacked in experience, he seemed more than determined to make up for with diligence and enthusiasm, and it was good that Spock's hand pinned Jim's hip against the wall, or else Jim might have simply fallen over.
"Fuck," Jim gasped, twisting his fingers harder in Spock's hair as Spock did something amazing with his tongue. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"
"Affirmative," Spock said. The hoarseness in his voice sent another thrill of lust up Jim's spine, and the hand on Jim's hip squeezed once before sliding back down along Jim's ass, long fingers teasing at Jim's entrance. Jim came a few minutes later, Spock's nose buried in the coarse thatch at the base of his cock as Jim emptied himself down Spock's throat, two of Spock's fingers twisting greedily inside Jim.
Jim dragged Spock with him into the shower, unable to resist that eagerness, and it was good that they weren't at Jim's apartment, because by the time they emerged from the spray, Jim had assured himself that every inch of Spock's body was clean, and he himself was having some difficulty walking. Apparently Vulcans were really, really into finger-banging. As Spock went to dress himself (however hilariously temporary that might turn out), Jim reflected on the futility of having taken a shower at all, considering he now looked more fucked-out and used than before he'd gone into the bathroom.
He'd planned to go out walking with Spock along the beach that night, but they never even made it out of the room. Dinner came in the form of call-in pizza, Jim shocking the hell out of the delivery boy when he answered the door in nothing but criminally low-slung sweatpants and a whole new set of bruises along his throat and collarbone. (Spock had a set of his own, one at each wrist, and the tight, aching noises that Jim had wrung out of Spock in the process of working those up had been almost more satisfying than the marks themselves.)
They managed to calm down enough after dinner to get a few hours of work done, though "work" consisted of sprawling on the bed next to each other with their various books, papers, and PADDs strewn across the covers next to them. Jim would have felt more self-conscious about his inability to stop touching Spock if Spock hadn't been just as bad. Jim would be reading through an article on the similarities of courtship rituals in Humanoid species and feel a hand creeping up his thigh, stopping to curl possessively around his hip, or Jim would look over for no reason and find himself mesmerized by the elegant line of Spock's jaw, which was quickly followed by checking to see if Spock still remembered how fun Human-style kissing was. They might not have been getting a hell of a lot of work done, but then, Jim thought, that wasn't really what this trip was about.
But that night, as he lay in bed with one of Spock's arms slung around his waist and Spock's warmth pressing against his back, Jim could not escape the nagging feeling that this was all too wonderful to last. Jim lay quietly, listening to Spock's steady, even breathing, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing.
McCoy had asked him that this morning, as a matter of fact-once he'd managed to recover enough from the shock of watching both Spock and Jim emerge from Jim's bedroom, looking suspiciously tousled and grinning idiotically to boot. He'd waited until Spock had left before he'd made them both a cup of strong coffee and had what he referred to as a "come-to-Jesus prayer meetin'" with Jim.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" McCoy demanded.
Jim rolled his eyes, mixing enough milk and sugar into his coffee to qualify it as dessert. "I thought you liked Spock," he pointed out. "Why does it bother you so much that I slept with him?"
"If it was just sex, that'd be one thing," McCoy retorted. "But you brought him over here. Jim, you made him dinner and had him spend the night and now you're, what, taking some kind of goddamn trip with him to meet his family? Do you even hear yourself right now?"
"So fucking what?" Now Jim was getting angry, looking anywhere but at McCoy. He didn't have time for this right now; he ad too much to do. He had to pack, and he had to talk to Ericcson about the car-
But instead of yelling at him more, McCoy just shook his head and sighed. "I know you don't wanna listen to me, Jim," he said finally, "but this is not going to end well for you. Spock is a good ...person, and he means well, and I even think he likes you, a lot, but when this is all over and done with he's going to go back to Vulcan and you'll still be here."
"Just stay out of it, Bones," Jim said finally. "I know what I'm doing."
Spock didn't know how close Jim had come to listening to McCoy and backing out of the trip, to vanishing altogether from the situation. But in the end, Jim just couldn't say no. He'd tried, he really had; he'd gone into his room and sat on the bed and written himself a list of why going with Spock was a bad idea. And he'd sat there and stared at the list and tried to convince himself not to go, to be fucking rational. It went against all his self-preservation instincts, to participate in something so obviously fucking romantic and stupid and-and-
And he'd never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.
Behind him, Spock stirred, and the arm around Jim's waist tightened, pulling him closer. "Sleep, Jim," Spock murmured in his ear. "You must rest." Jim smiled, covering the hand lying on his stomach with his own and squeezing lightly.
"Yeah," he whispered, "sorry. Just having trouble shutting my brain down. You kinda wound me up." He'd intended it as a tease, and was dismayed to hear how much it came out sounding like he really meant it. At this, Jim felt Spock sit up behind him, propped on one elbow. Jim started to roll backwards, wanting to see the look on Spock's face, but instead Spock coaxed Jim the other direction, rolling him forward until he was lying flat on his stomach. Jim squirmed as Spock shifted behind him, wondering what was going on... and then strong hands smoothed across Jim's bare shoulders, before pressing down and digging into the muscle beneath skin. "Oof," Jim grunted. "Oh my God, Spock-"
"As I am the source of your discomfort, it is only just that I should be the one to aid you in falling asleep." Spock's soft voice washed over him like the moonlight coming in through the window, and Jim groaned as strong, clever hands worked him over, starting at his shoulders and moving down his back, grinding down against the knots of tension in his muscles. By the time Spock was done, Jim was only dimly conscious, and within five minutes of Spock settling down against him in bed again and gathering Jim up to his chest, Jim was fast asleep.
* * * * *
Over the next few days, Jim found his concerns grow dim in the back of his mind; he felt drunk, stupid with the effect of Spock's presence, more alive than he'd felt in years. They proceeded north at a leisurely pace, hardly noticing the scenery. It was shocking how much Spock enjoyed talking (and often arguing) with Jim, as though he'd found something he'd never known he needed. His bond with T'Pring, while entirely adequate, had never affected him half this much, and he found himself at a loss to describe what the missing component was.
The trip to the aquarium was a smashing success: even if Jim himself hadn't already been interested in seeing the various sea-creatures and exhibits, it would still have been worth every second for the sake of how much Spock enjoyed himself. They reached San Francisco the next day, stopping long enough for lunch but not wanting to linger; the city was filled with too much political tension to make either of them comfortable, and they still had a lot of driving left to do. More than once Jim pulled the car over by the side of the road and climbed into the back with Spock, the two of them fucking like teenagers in the cramped quarters.
That night they stopped at a tiny tourist town lost somewhere on the northern California coast, so sleepy and rural that they their comm-units wouldn't work properly and their PADDs would barely load. In typical fashion, Spock was dismayed, while Jim was delighted. Jim soon managed to distract Spock, locked inside their motel room. He retrieved one of the battered real-paper books from the canvas traveling bag he'd brought along and half-sprawled across Spock on the bed as he read aloud from it, whispering the words into Spock's naked skin. I sing the body electric, he murmured, fingers tracing the curvature of muscles and bone underneath Spock's skin, the armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them... The poetry flowed over Spock's mind, senseless and wild, as tangible as the brush of Jim's finger and mouth. Spock trembled hot and cold, shutting his eyes against the strength of the sensations, of the emotions that ran rampant inside him all because of Jim.
That was the night that Spock first dared to ask Jim for the thing he craved most of all: an opportunity to touch Jim's mind. ("Uh," Jim laughed, eyes wide, a half-smile on his face that Spock had come to learn meant I have no fucking idea how to answer your question, "sure, why not." Spock had spent another twenty minutes explaining the mechanics and reasons behind a meld before Jim was fully relaxed.) It went as well as their first physical encounter did-which is to say, an unqualified failure that was nevertheless more thrilling than anything Spock might have hoped for.
Jim laid himself out on the bed, Spock alongside him, their legs tangled loosely, covered in a light blanket to keep the evening cool off. Spock reached out his hand, fingers extended, and then sank into a light connection that was still deeper than the ones that linked them every time they lay skin-against-skin. Jim's mind pulsed like a nuclear reaction, a riot of color and images. Spock felt his control slipping from him even as he tried to go deeper, and then an avalanche crashed over him, fear/fight/anxiety and joy/need/desire and a white, hot heat that scalded even as it drank him in. The meld ended abruptly as Jim jerked back from Spock, Spock's fingers flexing convulsively against suddenly-empty space. Jim vaulted up off the mattress, stumbled into the bathroom, and lurched to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to bring up what remained of his dinner.
Spock lay on the bed in a daze, listening to the noise of Jim retching into the toilet bowl for several seconds before finally managing to wrench himself off the bed and totter towards the bathroom after him. He ended up not being able to do much except sit by and rub Jim's back as Jim heaved, but Jim seemed to appreciate it. They returned to the bed a few minutes later, Jim considerably paler than he'd been before, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. Spock sat down as Jim lowered himself gingerly to the edge of the mattress. "Well," Jim said, and managed a weak smile, "that was interesting."
"Indeed," said Spock. "I must admit, triggering your vomiting reflex was not what I had hoped for."
"Hey, at least I haven't managed to break either of my arms during sex yet," Jim said, sounding more cheerful than a man had any right to after heaving as hard as Spock heard just now.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "You are in the habit of breaking bones during coitus?" he inquired delicately.
"Well." Now Jim grinned outright, a smaller, wry smile that was directed as much at himself as anything else. "Not a habit. But I might've accidentally broken my arms while I was dating Jenny."
Spock paused. He did not know which to ask after first, the disturbing plural, or the news that one of Jim's current friends also happened to be a one-time romantic partner. "Arms?" he asked finally, the other eyebrow rising to join its fellow.
Jim wrinkled his nose, looking at once embarrassed and somehow proud. "We got in a pillow fight." He paused, then clarified, "We were drunk."
"You broke your arm during a pillow fight," Spock repeated. "With Janice Rand."
"No, I broke both my arms during that pillow fight." Jim flopped backwards on the bed, flinging an arm over his face. Spock took a moment to consider this statement, trying to picture how, exactly, one would manage to break both arms during something as innocuous as a pillow fight (something he had not even known of until eight days ago). "I fell off the damn bed, okay?" Jim sighed, muffled slightly by his arm, though as far as Spock could tell Jim not even see Spock's face and possessed no touch-telepathy of his own.
"You are a singular individual, Jim," Spock said gravely.
"God, shut up. I mean-look, all I wanted to say is that by that yardstick, the mind-meld-thing is-we're good, is what I'm saying."
"I shudder to think what an actual success would look like," Spock observed, and Jim's hand flew up to swat Spock across the arm even as he started to laugh. "I will be sure to let Doctor McCoy know that you are not to be trusted with anything more complicated than brushing your teeth."
"Spock! Shut up!"
* * * * *
Spock and Jim finally reached Port Townsend shortly after noon on the fourth day after leaving Los Angeles. The town could not have held more than 7,000 souls, and consisted equally of antisocial old sailors, antisocial hippies, and antisocial eccentrics, all of whom had migrated as far north as they could without actually crossing the Sound into Canada. "The fruit and nut brigade," as Jim declared them while driving down the main street, peering out at the people milling around on the town's sidewalks. Spock asked for a clarification, but Jim just shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Spock," he said.
"Vulcans do not experience the emotion of worry," Spock said mildly.
"Sure they don't. You're totally calm and serene about meeting your grandparents, right?" Despite the weight of Jim's eyes on his neck, Spock did not answer.
In truth, Spock was experiencing far more trepidation at the idea of meeting Dr. and Mr. Grayson than he had any right to be, considering the seeming sincerity of their invitation to have him come visit. Spock was still not certain how they had come to know Spock was on Earth at all, though he suspected Christopher Pike had something to do with it-Pike was a family friend of the Graysons, after all. But Spock had had very little contact with his grandparents since the time of Amanda's death, a fact that he now found himself illogically anxious about.
The Graysons' house was nestled on the side of one of the central hills of Port Townsend, overlooking the marina and "downtown" as well as offering a clear view across the sound to the Canadian shoreline on the far side. Jim guided the car carefully up the narrow drive, and even as he slowed and put the car in park, two grey-haired figures had already appeared in the doorway to the house, one of whom was hurrying down the stairs to the driveway.
"You made it!" exclaimed Dr. Charlotte Grayson as Spock climbed out of the passenger seat. Spock was swept into a tight hug almost before he'd exited the car, despite the fact that his grandmother was 11 inches shorter than him. Joy and affection washed over him as soft hands cupped his cheeks and two uncannily familiar brown eyes gazed up at him from his grandmother's beaming face. Charlotte was a small woman, silver hair piled in an intricate bun at the back of her head, but age had not diminished any of her considerable energy. "Oh, I'm so glad you came to see us, Spock!"
Charlotte turned her attention to Jim as he got out of the car, much to Spock's relief. Spock watched in bemusement as his grandmother greeted Jim with the same enthusiasm she'd just given her own grandson. "We've been waiting for you all morning," said the second figure, who by now had reached the driveway as well. Spock turned to find his grandfather's warm regard focused on him. Alan Grayson was roughly Spock's height, bearded and still retaining most of his hair, gone silver now with age. And though Spock knew him to be approaching ninety, he was impressed at the man's vigor-like his wife, he might have passed for twenty-five years younger.
"I apologize for the length of time it took us to reach you," Spock began, but Alan shook his head.
"You needed to see some of the countryside," Charlotte said easily. "It's okay, we totally understand. Gave us some time to get ready for you." Get ready? Spock wondered, with some trepidation. What exactly had they done to prepare for his visit? It was embarrassing how much he'd let himself be distracted by Jim on the drive up here, and how very little he'd thought about what might be waiting for him. His mother's family deserved better.
But Alan and Charlotte left him with no time for contemplation. Jim insisted dragging their luggage upstairs himself, but that was about the only concession that the Graysons made. As soon as they got into the front door, Alan vanished with their bags, and Jim and Spock were ushered into the kitchen and seated at the impeccably clean-and-polished wood table, where Charlotte promptly served them lunch. Lunch, turned out to be tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, in cheerful observation of Spock's vegetarianism. Spock sat in increasing bewilderment as they talked of inconsequentials for nearly two hours, surrounded by the friendly decor of a long lived-in home, the scent of pine needles and cedars filtering in through the open windows.
Because his grandparents wanted to hear about everything. They seemed delighted to hear about all the details of their miniature road-trip from Los Angeles (though of course Jim and Spock made a point to censor the bulk of their activities), the projects Spock was currently working on at the VSA, even some of Jim's bar-tending stories. Spock found himself quite glad that Jim had come, more than content to let Jim take the brunt of the conversation for awhile, talking animatedly to their attentive audience.
Finally, Charlotte rose, sweeping up the dirty dishes and depositing them in the sink to be cleaned later. Spock noted the old-fashioned dishwasher and the distinct lack of a number of other modern amenities. "You do not have a replicator," he noted, hands cupped around a mug of tea that Alan had brought out.
Alan laughed. "Don't need it," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "It's just the two of us here, and we like to cook. Replicators can't do anything very fancy, anyway, and food tastes better when you make it yourself."
"See?" Jim said, turning to Spock with a wide grin. Spock cocked his head, glancing from Jim to his ....grandfather. The realization that he was related to both of these people, these virtual strangers, was starting to sink in, and it made Spock's already-overwhelmed head hurt. But before Spock could formulate an answer, Jim was rising to his feet, summoning one of his most charming smiles for Alan and Charlotte. "God, that was amazing. Do you mind showing me around? This house looks like it was practically hand-made."
Spock rose quickly, tea still held in one hand. "I believe I will take the tour later this afternoon," he said apologetically. "I... find I am rather tired, and wish to meditate for a short while."
Alan and Charlotte exchanged a glance, and Spock braced himself for the protest, but all Charlotte said was, "Of course, dear. Let me show you to your room." Spock stole one last look at Jim, who shrugged and gave him a smile that could've meant anything, and then Spock followed his grandmother out of the sunny kitchen and down the wood-paneled hallway. "Here you are, Spock," Charlotte said, and opened the door, gesturing Spock inside. Spock went in ahead, took three steps into the room, and froze.
It was Amanda's old room.
* * * * *
"Where the he-the heck did Spock get to?"
Charlotte snorted as she heard Jim censor himself. "He's just slipped off to the bedroom for a few minutes," she said smoothly. "I think he might need to lie down for a little while."
They'd just finished giving Jim the "grand" tour of the house, Charlotte having re-joined Alan and Jim in the bottom level in the playroom, where they kept the piano. Jim did not seem particularly uncomfortable without Spock around as a buffer, which Charlotte approved of, considering even a blind man could tell how smitten they were with each other. She was glad Spock's young man was so likable.
Jim glanced at Alan, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Jim glanced back at Charlotte. "Maybe I should go check on Spock," Jim began, trailing off at the way Charlotte was shaking her head.
"No, I think he was laying down for a nap, and I need someone to go downtown to Gus's and pick up some things for dinner tonight." If Spock was anything like Sarek, he would want to deal with Amanda on his own terms.
Alan sighed theatrically. "You heard the woman," he said to Jim. "Let's get going before she thinks of more errands for us to run while we're gone." Jim opened his mouth, probably to lodge a protest, but Alan had already grabbed him by the bicep and was steering him towards the door.
"You don't even know what I want you to pick up!" Charlotte yelled after him, laughing as she followed her husband to the front door. Alan was already down by the transport, having grabbed Jim's jacket and his own on the way out the door; he waved cheerfully up at her before climbing into the car. Charlotte shook her head, walking back into the kitchen and picking up her PADD to send the list on to Alan, as he'd known she would.
She hadn't been lying-she really did need some groceries for dinner that night-but there was no reason that Jim had to go with him, save for Charlotte's hunch about Spock's needs. Charlotte glanced at the clock above the fridge. Already 2:30; she probably had an hour, maybe hour and a half before Alan and Jim got back with the groceries.
Charlotte did the dishes and put them away, chopped tomatoes for dinner, and then went downstairs to start a load of laundry. By 3:00, Charlotte figured it was just about time to go check on Spock. Padding quietly down the hallway, she pushed the door open and poked her head inside.
The room was just as Charlotte always kept it: neat as a pin and chock-full of Amanda's things. High, double-frame windows at one end of the room looked northeast, facing the marina and gazing across to Canada. Shades of honey, gold, and brown warmed everything, and two walls were devoted to the bookshelves Alan installed into the walls when Amanda was six, full of books of all shapes and sizes: dusty leather tomes that looked even older than the house itself, glossy hardcover binders that might have been photo albums, and Amanda's leather-bound journals.
A queen-size bed was set against the wall not filled with books or windows, next to the desk, and while the bed had previously held Spock and Jim's bags, deposited there by Alan when Spock and Jim first arrived, it now held Spock-a Spock who was surrounded by what looked like every picture and knick-knack from the hope chest against the wall and half the books off one of the shelves.
Spock straightened as Charlotte entered, his eyes flickering up to Charlotte's before sliding away again, and Charlotte felt an immediate pang, unable to miss the raw look to his eyes. She came inside and shut the door carefully behind her, then crossed the room to sit next to Spock on the bed. "Hey, there, hope I'm not interrupting," she said, wishing she knew what to say or do. Spock was her grandson, her flesh and blood, but he was also a virtual stranger and raised in an alien culture, and she knew enough about Vulcans to not want to push him in a way he wasn't comfortable with.
Spock beat her to it, however. "Please explain this photograph," he said, voice suspiciously hoarse, and handed her a framed picture. Charlotte took it, examining it more closely for a few moments before she burst out laughing. Spock merely watched her, hands folded in his lap.
"Oh, boy," she said finally, handing the frame back to Spock. The picture it contained was old, a good ten years older than Spock, and it showed a young, stony-faced Sarek in a ridiculously ugly green sweater standing in the midst of the extended Grayson family. "That was taken at the first Christmas I met your father at. He and Amanda had just started seeing each other, and I was sort of surprised he even came up at all. But one of my nieces spilled wine all over Sarek's shirt, while we were out on the boat, and that was the only sweater we could find that would fit Sarek and keep him warm. And he just looked so awful in it, Amanda insisted we take a picture."
Spock stared down at the photo, not saying anything for several seconds, stroking his thumb idly along the gold frame. He set the photo back down on the bed and started to fold his hands in his lap, only to pick the photo back up again moments later. "I have not seen this before," he said, and then reached for a faded golden plaque that was sitting next to his hip. "Or this-what was this prize for? And what about this-" His hand fluttered from the plaque to another book, as if unable to pick which one to grab, or by picking the wrong one they'd all disappear.
"Here, now," Charlotte said, eyebrows going up at the near-frantic edge to Spock. "Calm down, honey. It's okay, you can ask me anything you want."
Spock froze at Charlotte's words, eyes fixed to the bed. He swallowed, sitting back and folding his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead at the wall. Charlotte just watched, nearly having to sit on her hands as she let Spock struggle to find his words. He took a deep breath and let it out, and then said finally, "I did not... I did not realize how much about her I did not know."
Charlotte sighed, a familiar lump forming in the back of her throat which she quickly pushed away. "Okay, Spock." He looked over at her, dark eyes glassy, and she offered him a small smile. "I know where you were raised, a lot of touching is strictly not okay, but in this family, we like to hug. So I am going to hug you now." Spock's brow furrowed, and he nodded, and Charlotte reached over and did what she'd been wanting to do since she came in the room and pulled her grandson against her chest in a fierce hug. Spock was very stiff for several seconds, about as yielding as a piece of driftwood, but just as Charlotte was going to let him go, Spock turned his face and buried it in her shoulder. Charlotte found it suddenly difficult to swallow.
They broke apart after a few more moments, Spock looking anywhere but at Charlotte, Charlotte folding her hands in her lap for lack of anything better to do. "Alright," she said brusquely, when the silence was edging towards "uncomfortable," "that's enough of that." She picked up another photo at random from the bedspread, and then smiled at Spock, who was still suspiciously bright-eyed but seemed more composed. "Would you like to hear about your mother, Spock?"
"I would like that very much," Spock said. He lifted his eyes to Charlotte's, straightening and clasping his hands in his lap. Charlotte smiled.
* * * * *
They got a whole week before the news reached them, isolated as they were up at the tip of the Olympic Peninsula, deliberately out of easy contact. But they had been at the Grayson's house for four days when they found the bike.
Despite some awkwardness on that first day, Jim had found Spock's grandparents immediately and completely likable. They didn't ask much of either Jim or Spock, seeming completely happy at just having them to visit for a few days. Jim had worried it would be strange, since even Spock didn't really even know these people, and he'd been prepared to run interference or produce an excuse to leave early if need be, but to be honest Jim didn't think he'd ever met such an amiable, sweet couple.
They were undoubtably related to Spock-he had Alan's eyes (Amanda's eyes, Spock told him softly), and Charlotte's mouth, Alan's height but Charlotte's long, clever fingers. And though Spock's essential Vulcan-ness subdued a great deal of the Human traits he might otherwise exhibit, Jim thought he detected other hints of Spock's relatives in his demeanor. Spock shared Alan's skepticism for easy answers, his insistence at seeking out the most complete and thorough explanation of any situation, but it was Charlotte who had the knack for numbers and random facts.
Or at least, Jim liked to think he saw those things. If he was being completely honest with himself, he would have to admit those traits were more likely just Spock being Vulcan. Then again, most Vulcans would never have dragged Jim up to Port Townsend in the first place, or pushed Jim up against the outside wall of the house to kiss him till he was red in the face and breathless.
But the Graysons were delightful in and of themselves. Charlotte had a wicked sense of humor, shocking her grandson with some of her bawdier jokes and sending Jim into gales of laughter when she'd trotted out a particularly off-color story featuring an Andorian and a Tellarite. It was she who'd filled Amanda's bedroom with books and journals and photo albums, and she was the one who dragged Jim and Spock out to dinner at their favorite fusion restaurant down on the little main street that ran through town.
Alan was a woodworker, apparently, or had become one in his retirement; he'd built all the furniture in the house, something Jim was thoroughly impressed by. It was Alan who got Jim talking about all the mechanical work he did back home with his own mother (though Jim took pains to keep his mother's entirely-too-famous-name out of the discussion), Alan's eyes glinting with pleasure when Spock had jumped into the discussion, arguing with Jim over the limits of what a terrestrial hovercar could be customized to do. And it was Alan who took Jim and Spock out to the shed behind their house and showed them an old russet-colored bike with two honest-to-God tires and a converted internal combustion engine.
Jim lit up like a Christmas tree as soon as he laid eyes on the bike, crouching to examine the nest of pipes and gears that made up the back end of the bike. The bike leaned against the wall, glinting silver and red and black, remarkably pristine considering it was nearly 300 years old. "How the hell did you get a 20th-century bike like this?" he demanded, looking up at Alan as Spock looked on in bemusement. "A 1950 Indian Scout? And a two-seater, even. I didn't think they ever made two-seaters."
"They didn't. I had the second seat added after-market." Alan folded his arms across his chest, his plaid flannel rolled up to the elbows, not bothering to hide his pleasure at finding someone who could appreciate what he was showing off. "Amanda tracked it down for me, actually," he said. "I think one of her associates used to collect bikes, and she bought it off him for me as an anniversary gift."
"And it still runs?" Jim looked up at Alan from where he crouched on the floor, looking as if he was barely restraining himself from taking the bike apart to see how it worked.
"Sort of. Well, I was good about keeping up on its maintenance, but the tires are probably ruined and the engine needs some attention. The care got away from me a little, since I took a spill off it a few years ago."
It was Spock's turn to be impressed, raising an eyebrow at his grandfather's resilience. "At your age, the fact that you do not seem to have suffered any lasting injuries from such an accident is impressive."
"No, what's impressive is Doctor Ginsberg's talent at surgery, but thank you, Spock." Alan grinned at Spock, both of them watching a thoroughly distracted Jim, who by now was examining the back tire, tugging at the loose chain. "You look like you know your way around motorcycles," Alan said casually. "If you can get the bike running, you're welcome to take her out for a spin." He paused, and perhaps he caught something in Jim's eye too, because he added, "Just be careful."
Jim looked over at Spock, and if Spock were given to such flights of fancy, he would have sworn he could already see himself and Jim on the bike's back in Jim's eyes. "Awesome. Show me where the tool kit is?"
It was the work of a few hours to get the bike in working order. Jim took off both tires, since it turned out the front was as rotten as the back, and Spock helped him replace the chain, since the tire was already off. Spock watched Jim as he siphoned out the remaining old diesel-gasoline and checked the oil, listening in mute admiration as Jim told him all about the history of this bike model and the company that made it, as well as the customizations that had been made over the years to keep the antique engine usable. In light of everything else that Jim was knowledgable about, Spock should not have been surprised at his ability with this old vehicle, and yet he could not quite stifle his own astonishment at how Jim's skill.
"Query," Spock said, handing Jim a wrench as Jim methodically tightened all the bolts and checked the tension of the new chain. "From whence does the bike acquire its name? I understand that Humans are fond of naming most of their vehicles and vessels, and that such names are often derived from mythology or commonly-held Human ideals. But I do not understand the reference of this bike's title."
Jim paused, wiping his dirty hands on the coveralls Alan had lent him. "'Indian' is an old, uh... an old Terran name for the indigenous people who lived on this continent. Old like the usage of it fell out of favor two, three hundred years ago. It was still in popular use when this bike was a current model, but after the second world war, the term started to become unacceptable." Jim grinned, and Spock got the sense it was not a completely humorous smile, a concept he was still struggling to understand amongst Humans. "They weren't too careful about being politically correct back then."
"I see," Spock said, although he didn't, particularly. But most of his attention was taken by watching the care with which Jim serviced the bike. If Spock had not wanted to avoid getting engine oil and grease all over his robes, he might have interrupted Jim's maintenance then and there with something much more physical, but he managed to keep his hands to himself.
Barely.
Jim took the bike out for a ride the evening of that same day, and even managed to persuade Spock to come out with him the following morning. The streets around Port Townsend were as winding and lovely at this time of year as Jim could possibly have asked for, and he thought that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the feeling of Spock pressed against his back, Spock's face in his hair, the wind rushing past him as the scents of pine and cedar and Western bleeding hearts filling his nose.
They drove all the way up to the tip of the peninsula, stopping briefly at the lighthouse still flung up against the barest outcropping of rock before retreating back into the protected woodlands. Jim pulled off the road at the edge of a grove of madrone trees, dragging Spock up under the cover of their red branches and settling in among the wild roses blooming at the base of their trunks. They didn't dare to take off their clothes, but Jim was sprawled across Spock's lap when another couple went by on bicycles, Spock's hands shoved up the back of Jim's shirt. Jim jerked back, laughing as he turned to watch the passers-by, but Spock's eyes were stuck on Jim's kiss-swollen lips.
"Perhaps we should seek somewhere more secluded," Spock murmured. He withdrew one hand from Jim's shirt, raising it briefly to touch his face instead. After nearly a week of semi-constant skin contact, he was becoming steadily more adept at controlling himself in spite of the influx of Jim's thoughts and impulses. But Jim just shook his head, leaning forward till his forehead bumped against Spock's.
"Nah," he mumbled, brushing his mouth over Spock's in a faint, teasing kiss. "This is fine. Just like this." And Spock found he had no wish to argue.
* * * * *
Second half of Interlude here.