Fic: Camera Obscura (Kirk/Spock genderswap)
Title: Camera Obscura
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: girl!Jim/girl!Spock
Word Count: ~1500
Prompt: For redshirt_roster, prompts "Inverses" and "Cameras"
Warnings: None (warning policy in profile)
Kinks: Genderswap, but this is less kinky than sort of a character piece.
Summary: Jamie swears she didn't take the camera just to take naked pictures of her crew. To prove it, she'll take some very nice, reasonable pictures of Spock. Absolutely nothing could ever go wrong. Except for a nasty little cultural misunderstanding...
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Note: I'd been wanting to do a genderswap fic for a while, so I'm glad that I had a prompt that fit so well!
This could have gone one of two ways.
One, Jamie could have let Spock take the old-style camera, like she wanted to anyway. Spock would have disassembled it, studied its intricate inner workings of cogs and brass, and carefully reconstructed it with the delicate precise touch that characterizes her experimentation in the lab. She might have then put it away, her curiosity satisfied, or she might have taken it with her on shore leave and photographed the horizon, soaring landscapes, that sort of thing. No doubt Vulcans were big on landscapes.
Or two, Jamie could have taken the camera. She could've made lewd jokes about taking pictures of Uhura in various states of undress, ignoring her communications officer's sighs and threats (which she did); then she could have spent three hours poring over a scan of an old manual from Rochester Camera Company circa old Earth date 1894 in an attempt to learn how to work the damn thing (which she also did); then she could have dismissed Bones' advice about harassing her science officer and talked Spock into modeling for her without really explaining what the task entailed (check and checkmate, thanks very much).
Jamie is glad she chose option two.
"I must admit, Captain, that I do not see the purpose of this activity," Spock says, lips pressed together and shoulders stiff, her way of conveying absolute irritation. "Surely there are more productive pastimes than this?"
"Probably," Jamie says, and adjusts the angle of the camera on the tripod, searching for the best and most dramatic shadowing possible. "But you agreed to help me without asking with what, and this is what you get. Lights to thirty-three percent, and a full spot on Commander Spock, please."
The ambient light abruptly darkens, and a circular beam flicks on, dousing Spock in bright white light. She shuts her eyes against the glare, and Jamie can swear she can see the shadowy filament of each eyelash against her cheek.
"It doubtlessly would have been more logical to enlist Doctor McCoy to help you with this...project," Spock says, clearly disdainful, but Jamie's not paying attention to what she's saying so much as to the movement of her mouth. For strictly artistic reasons, of course, and wouldn't her hair look gorgeous down and encircling her face? "I am certain that she would be a much more willing subject than I."
Jamie snorts. "Are you kidding me? I couldn't get Bones to sit still for a photo-shoot if I tried." She reconsiders, and adds, "Okay, I could, but it would involve a lot more bourbon than I'm willing to pay for."
"Indeed. Her predilection for such beverages seem to indicate an unhealthy level of reliance on intoxicants that is more extreme than would be expected from a medical officer."
"She's a doctor, not a drunk," Jamie defends, and glances through the viewfinder. The bright spotlight creates dark shadows in Spock's cheeks and jawline that are only emphasized by the black uniform she tends to wear off-duty; she looks like an ascetic, all skin and tendons and bones with dark gleaming eyes. The tight pull of her elaborate updo is the only thing destroying the image; it's far too carefully designed and has way too many little braided bits. It does make Jamie glad she wears her hair short, though.
"Can you let down your hair?" she asks from behind the camera. Through the lens, Spock shifts, and her posture becomes (if possible) even more rigid.
"No."
"Oh, come on. I'll help you mess with it afterward," Jamie coaxes. She glances up to toss Spock a cocky grin, but Spock's eyes are averted, as if she's staring at something in a dimension Jamie can't see, and her hands are fisted against her uniform trousers. Jamie's smile falters, and she carefully makes note of the exact position of the camera, stepping to the side to get a better view of her first officer.
In the past year, Jamie thinks she's come a long way with Spock; they play chess, now, and discuss science, and sometimes Spock makes snide comments about Jamie's many conquests and doesn't clam up when Jamie snipes back - that means Spock is comfortable enough around her to tease. But right now, her friend is stiff and cold like she was the first few months of their acquaintance, and Jamie hates that. Hates that she caused it, and she'd like nothing better than to go to Spock and hug her, because hey, she's a physical person, but she has enough brains to know that won't exactly help the situation now, even if she doesn't actually know what the situation is.
"Uh," she says, and pauses, and then gives a weak grin and, in an attempt to break the tension, says one of the stupidest things she thinks she's ever said. "C'mon, don't be a tightass. It's not like that hairstyle's going to make or break the existence of the universe."
Spock actually bristles, like an angry cat - it's amazing how much emotion her eyes can convey when she doesn't twitch a single muscle - and rises in a fluid gesture. She tugs at her already-starched shirt in an attempt to straighten it, and says in a forebodingly calm tone, "I do not believe this project of yours will come to a successful end. In addition, I have no interest in discovering the validity of that estimation. Should you wish to continue, I suggest you find someone else, as I will no longer be available."
She spins on her boot heel and strides out of the room. Jamie dithers for a moment - she despises the fact that she's even capable of dithering - and jogs to catch up.
"Hey, Spock!" she calls, ignoring the curious stares of her crew as she tries to catch up with her first officer, who's thankfully stopped walking and is instead standing dead still in the center of a corridor. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, you know, be a bitch."
Spock says nothing. Jamie waits for a response, and doesn't get one.
"Uh, yeah. Anyway." She makes a motion in the general direction of her makeshift studio with one hand. "I get it if you don't want to come back, but I wish you would. You make a great model. Uh. You've got an...interesting face."
"Traditionally, Vulcan women wear their hair in styles and with ornamentation meant to indicate their relative position within Vulcan society," Spock says abruptly.
Jamie blinks, and nods. "Okay?"
"It is considered improper to take one's hair out of the customary style in the company of any but family."
So basically Jamie just asked Spock to throw away her heritage in exchange for having a nice photograph. Great. Another great diplomatic success by James T. Kirk.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know."
"I am aware."
Jamie's really glad Spock isn't looking at her, because she raises her hand to punch Spock in the shoulder, and remembers that's not okay with a Vulcan, and her hand kind of hovers there indecisively for a moment before she curses at herself and just claps her friend on the back, hard.
"Glad that's all cleared up, then," she says cheerfully, voice masking her inner turbulence, and strides jauntily down the corridor back to her studio. She fusses with the camera for a minute, and keeps her eyes on the door.
It slides open with a soft swish, and Spock enters. She paces three steps into the room, and stops. It's probably the most uncomfortable and tentative Jamie's ever seen her; she's just usually so focused, controlled, prissy even. Jamie waits for her to say something, but she just starts to take her hair out of its complex mess of a style.
"What - " Jamie begins, but Spock interrupts her.
"I shall be on this ship for five years," she says, tone crisp and clear. "While I intend to keep the practices of Vulcan culture extant, it would be entirely illogical to allow them to interfere with the formations of my relationships with the crew, who will be the primary individuals I shall interact with over my assignment to this ship." Her fingers are quick and sure; Jamie has no idea how she manages to do all this without a mirror. "You are the person with whom I am most comfortable, and therefore, by the dictums of my own cultural rules, letting my hair down is permitted."
She sits in the chair she'd been in before, her back straight and her arms folded like she's posing for a military portrait, and levels a stare at the camera that may be a challenge. Jamie bends down and peers through the viewfinder.
Through the lens, she is harsh and unyielding, her hair a thick black halo around her stern face; her eyes, though, are like sparks. Jamie makes a few minute adjustments, and presses the shutter. In the moments after the flash, she stands and looks directly at Spock.
"Perfect shot," she says, and smiles.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: girl!Jim/girl!Spock
Word Count: ~1500
Prompt: For redshirt_roster, prompts "Inverses" and "Cameras"
Warnings: None (warning policy in profile)
Kinks: Genderswap, but this is less kinky than sort of a character piece.
Summary: Jamie swears she didn't take the camera just to take naked pictures of her crew. To prove it, she'll take some very nice, reasonable pictures of Spock. Absolutely nothing could ever go wrong. Except for a nasty little cultural misunderstanding...
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Note: I'd been wanting to do a genderswap fic for a while, so I'm glad that I had a prompt that fit so well!
This could have gone one of two ways.
One, Jamie could have let Spock take the old-style camera, like she wanted to anyway. Spock would have disassembled it, studied its intricate inner workings of cogs and brass, and carefully reconstructed it with the delicate precise touch that characterizes her experimentation in the lab. She might have then put it away, her curiosity satisfied, or she might have taken it with her on shore leave and photographed the horizon, soaring landscapes, that sort of thing. No doubt Vulcans were big on landscapes.
Or two, Jamie could have taken the camera. She could've made lewd jokes about taking pictures of Uhura in various states of undress, ignoring her communications officer's sighs and threats (which she did); then she could have spent three hours poring over a scan of an old manual from Rochester Camera Company circa old Earth date 1894 in an attempt to learn how to work the damn thing (which she also did); then she could have dismissed Bones' advice about harassing her science officer and talked Spock into modeling for her without really explaining what the task entailed (check and checkmate, thanks very much).
Jamie is glad she chose option two.
"I must admit, Captain, that I do not see the purpose of this activity," Spock says, lips pressed together and shoulders stiff, her way of conveying absolute irritation. "Surely there are more productive pastimes than this?"
"Probably," Jamie says, and adjusts the angle of the camera on the tripod, searching for the best and most dramatic shadowing possible. "But you agreed to help me without asking with what, and this is what you get. Lights to thirty-three percent, and a full spot on Commander Spock, please."
The ambient light abruptly darkens, and a circular beam flicks on, dousing Spock in bright white light. She shuts her eyes against the glare, and Jamie can swear she can see the shadowy filament of each eyelash against her cheek.
"It doubtlessly would have been more logical to enlist Doctor McCoy to help you with this...project," Spock says, clearly disdainful, but Jamie's not paying attention to what she's saying so much as to the movement of her mouth. For strictly artistic reasons, of course, and wouldn't her hair look gorgeous down and encircling her face? "I am certain that she would be a much more willing subject than I."
Jamie snorts. "Are you kidding me? I couldn't get Bones to sit still for a photo-shoot if I tried." She reconsiders, and adds, "Okay, I could, but it would involve a lot more bourbon than I'm willing to pay for."
"Indeed. Her predilection for such beverages seem to indicate an unhealthy level of reliance on intoxicants that is more extreme than would be expected from a medical officer."
"She's a doctor, not a drunk," Jamie defends, and glances through the viewfinder. The bright spotlight creates dark shadows in Spock's cheeks and jawline that are only emphasized by the black uniform she tends to wear off-duty; she looks like an ascetic, all skin and tendons and bones with dark gleaming eyes. The tight pull of her elaborate updo is the only thing destroying the image; it's far too carefully designed and has way too many little braided bits. It does make Jamie glad she wears her hair short, though.
"Can you let down your hair?" she asks from behind the camera. Through the lens, Spock shifts, and her posture becomes (if possible) even more rigid.
"No."
"Oh, come on. I'll help you mess with it afterward," Jamie coaxes. She glances up to toss Spock a cocky grin, but Spock's eyes are averted, as if she's staring at something in a dimension Jamie can't see, and her hands are fisted against her uniform trousers. Jamie's smile falters, and she carefully makes note of the exact position of the camera, stepping to the side to get a better view of her first officer.
In the past year, Jamie thinks she's come a long way with Spock; they play chess, now, and discuss science, and sometimes Spock makes snide comments about Jamie's many conquests and doesn't clam up when Jamie snipes back - that means Spock is comfortable enough around her to tease. But right now, her friend is stiff and cold like she was the first few months of their acquaintance, and Jamie hates that. Hates that she caused it, and she'd like nothing better than to go to Spock and hug her, because hey, she's a physical person, but she has enough brains to know that won't exactly help the situation now, even if she doesn't actually know what the situation is.
"Uh," she says, and pauses, and then gives a weak grin and, in an attempt to break the tension, says one of the stupidest things she thinks she's ever said. "C'mon, don't be a tightass. It's not like that hairstyle's going to make or break the existence of the universe."
Spock actually bristles, like an angry cat - it's amazing how much emotion her eyes can convey when she doesn't twitch a single muscle - and rises in a fluid gesture. She tugs at her already-starched shirt in an attempt to straighten it, and says in a forebodingly calm tone, "I do not believe this project of yours will come to a successful end. In addition, I have no interest in discovering the validity of that estimation. Should you wish to continue, I suggest you find someone else, as I will no longer be available."
She spins on her boot heel and strides out of the room. Jamie dithers for a moment - she despises the fact that she's even capable of dithering - and jogs to catch up.
"Hey, Spock!" she calls, ignoring the curious stares of her crew as she tries to catch up with her first officer, who's thankfully stopped walking and is instead standing dead still in the center of a corridor. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, you know, be a bitch."
Spock says nothing. Jamie waits for a response, and doesn't get one.
"Uh, yeah. Anyway." She makes a motion in the general direction of her makeshift studio with one hand. "I get it if you don't want to come back, but I wish you would. You make a great model. Uh. You've got an...interesting face."
"Traditionally, Vulcan women wear their hair in styles and with ornamentation meant to indicate their relative position within Vulcan society," Spock says abruptly.
Jamie blinks, and nods. "Okay?"
"It is considered improper to take one's hair out of the customary style in the company of any but family."
So basically Jamie just asked Spock to throw away her heritage in exchange for having a nice photograph. Great. Another great diplomatic success by James T. Kirk.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know."
"I am aware."
Jamie's really glad Spock isn't looking at her, because she raises her hand to punch Spock in the shoulder, and remembers that's not okay with a Vulcan, and her hand kind of hovers there indecisively for a moment before she curses at herself and just claps her friend on the back, hard.
"Glad that's all cleared up, then," she says cheerfully, voice masking her inner turbulence, and strides jauntily down the corridor back to her studio. She fusses with the camera for a minute, and keeps her eyes on the door.
It slides open with a soft swish, and Spock enters. She paces three steps into the room, and stops. It's probably the most uncomfortable and tentative Jamie's ever seen her; she's just usually so focused, controlled, prissy even. Jamie waits for her to say something, but she just starts to take her hair out of its complex mess of a style.
"What - " Jamie begins, but Spock interrupts her.
"I shall be on this ship for five years," she says, tone crisp and clear. "While I intend to keep the practices of Vulcan culture extant, it would be entirely illogical to allow them to interfere with the formations of my relationships with the crew, who will be the primary individuals I shall interact with over my assignment to this ship." Her fingers are quick and sure; Jamie has no idea how she manages to do all this without a mirror. "You are the person with whom I am most comfortable, and therefore, by the dictums of my own cultural rules, letting my hair down is permitted."
She sits in the chair she'd been in before, her back straight and her arms folded like she's posing for a military portrait, and levels a stare at the camera that may be a challenge. Jamie bends down and peers through the viewfinder.
Through the lens, she is harsh and unyielding, her hair a thick black halo around her stern face; her eyes, though, are like sparks. Jamie makes a few minute adjustments, and presses the shutter. In the moments after the flash, she stands and looks directly at Spock.
"Perfect shot," she says, and smiles.