Chapter Text
In the morning, Spock was aware of Jim’s early departure, but allowed Jim to leave without rising to follow. He required the space and Spock was not averse to the same. They showered separately, although Jim did give Spock brief glimpses into his: flashes of pink skin and the little bruises from Spock’s fingers on his hips. Spock knew how Jim undressed and how he dressed again after.
Then, Jim severed the link in his clumsy fashion, shrouding his actions for reasons best known to himself.
Clean and calm and alone, Spock attended an important meeting of state, where he was presented with the evidence of a rogue Alliance fleet beginning to gather on the borders of the Hostile Zone. Though this renegade faction of the Alliance had the initiative on their side, they did not have the numbers or the resources, and therefore could not pose a true threat to the Vulcan and Terran Empires, not with the support of their Federation.
There would doubtless be casualties.
What came next could not be predicted, but it could be met and challenged, fought and even manipulated.
Spock and Jim had managed to force a schism in the Alliance that would likely result in its downfall. They had not done so by accident.
There was little opportunity to meditate on these new developments, as a transmission from the Terran Empire awaited Spock after the meeting. Empress Winona Kirk was a formidable woman; her request to speak with her eldest son was at no point anything less than a demand. Spock had no reason to defy her on the matter, and so let George Samuel confer with his mother, though he did not for a moment suspect it would be a satisfactory encounter for either of them.
He did not see Jim again until late that night, long after the necessary preparations for combat had been made and the terms of a new, wartime treaty had been drawn between the royal houses of Vulcan and Earth.
Jim was on Spock’s balcony. It was a windy night.
There would be storms in the desert, to break approximately fifty-eight minutes before dawn. Spock could already see them beginning to stir against the dark skies, horizon clouded by red sands. Jim’s hair, long at the top, remained undisturbed by the weather. He leaned on the railing, turning when he heard Spock’s approach.
He was favoring his left side, to what end Spock could only imagine. There had been no reports of assassination attempts throughout the day; Spock had felt no shared pain. The Alliance was busy straightening out its own affairs, and they would not risk sending forces outside the realm of the Hostile Zone while their house was still in disarray.
But Jim was not above finding new and creative ways of injuring himself, even in the absence of having any real threat against which to throw himself.
‘So,’ Jim said. Spock had noted before his interest in beginning a conversation without offering anything of his own first. ‘Sam talked to Mom. You’d know her as Empress. Anyway, we’ll be shipping off home soon. Gotta get Sam into rehab first thing. And I’ll have— I don’t know. A parade or something.’
‘No doubt arrangements will have been made by the time of your arrival,’ Spock replied.
Jim groaned. He dipped his head back to expose his throat, body slackening where his weight rested against the stone. It would not take him long to explain the source of his frustration and so it did not trouble Spock to wait for that explanation, rather than inquiring after the details of his latest offense.
‘You’re supposed to say you’re gonna miss me,’ Jim informed him, slack posture supported by his elbows on the railing. ‘Scratch that, you’re supposed to ask me if I wanna stay. That kinda thing.’
Spock raised a brow. ‘It would be illogical of me to expect you to stay in a place that is not your home,’ he said. ‘Furthermore, your place is at the center of the Terran Empire, and that has always been Earth.’
It was Jim’s turn to express disbelief. When he showed his back to Spock in favor of looking out toward the desert, Spock took that as a sign to approach.
‘We’ve done great things together, though.’ Jim folded his hands into one another, thumb digging into a scar on his opposite knuckle. ‘You and me. Our own little alliance. Seems kinda stupid to give it up, that’s all I’m saying.’
Spock was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps it falls upon me to remind you that we do not need to be together physically in order to share a connection.’
‘Now you’re just asking for me to tap you in every time I touch myself,’ Jim said.
That was not what Spock had requested. Yet, as he had no specific reason to refuse, he said nothing.
‘Guess you’re right about that,’ Jim continued, before spitting a mouthful of sand into the darkness below the balcony. ‘We don’t have to be together in order to be together. I’ve thought about it—how much we could change. On a more—’ Jim lifted one hand to the sky, tracing lines between the distant stars with his forefinger, ‘—cosmic scale. You ever think about the nightmare state we live in, Spock?’
‘I am aware of its parameters.’ Spock joined Jim at the edge of the railing, though he did not lean against it.
Jim glanced to him, then fixed his eyes on the reddening horizon. ‘Seems like it makes more sense to shake things up a little. I could do it on my own, of course, but like I said… We’ve done great things together.’
‘“Our own little alliance”,’ Spock quoted.
Jim chuckled. ‘Dynamic duo. You be the bishop, I’ll be the knight. We could make great music separately and together.’
‘Your final reference is lost on me,’ Spock said.
‘Trust me,’ Jim replied. ‘It was a compliment.’
Trust me, Jim had said, and it was more than a turn of phrase, a meaningless colloquialism. Spock trusted him. He put his hand against the back of Jim’s neck, which was warm and freckled and already showing signs of a fresh burn. He could have choked Jim or broken that neck, but neither of them thought of either possibility beyond the fact that it would not happen.
Spock was inclined to trust Jim. He had every reason to, which meant the choice was only logical. After the Alliance collapsed, it would leave a void—and that void would have to be filled.
Jim’s skin shivered beneath Spock’s palm at the promise.
‘Wanted to show you something,’ he added, ducking away from Spock’s touch a half-second later. It was uncharacteristically prim, but—as with most of Jim’s actions—it was a necessary surrender made for a future triumph. He tugged the waistband of his leather pants down and the hem of his vest up to reveal a raw patch of skin, fresh ink staining it, and the reason for favoring that side earlier. It was a red heart and a green sword piercing the center, reminiscent of the insignia favored by the Terran Empire and its fleet, but Jim had, as was his nature, personalized it. ‘To remember you by,’ Jim explained. ‘So you’ll always be under my clothes and in my skin.’
‘Do you intend that I should mark myself in a matching fashion?’ Spock asked.
Jim shrugged with one shoulder, daring Spock to touch the spot with his sensitive fingers. Spock did so for the knowledge, not for the challenge, and for the shape of Jim’s hip beneath his hand. ‘How about this: next time I see you, I’ll mount a thorough, hands-on search. It’ll happen whether you mark yourself or not—although if I find what I’m looking for, you’ll get a reward. I’ll be very determined.’
‘I am aware of your determination,’ Spock said.
Jim covered Spock’s fingers with his own. Spock covered Jim’s mouth with his.
And the storm broke over the desert.
END