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“Jim.”
Jim blinks in shock, and pulls the comm away from his ear for a second to make sure he called the right person. Yeah, Spock’s name is blinking slowly on the comm screen. It is Spock. He never answers that quickly. Or that urgently.
Jim flatters himself briefly that Spock had been waiting by the phone like a love-sick teenager in those 20th century movies historians always raved about. However, Jim realized the reality was closer to Spock spending some couple time with Uhura now that they were finally on leave, and forgot to turn off his comm.
Jim’s mood sours considerably.
He had crawled up onto the roof of the McCullough Astronomy Complex, two six packs in one hand and his communicator in the other. He and Bones had done this a lot during their time at the Academy, due to the view of the campus and the city in the distance. The view was tainted by the devastation that had been wrought two months ago, and the skyline was blotted with construction modules. It was frankly depressing. He had a particular goal in mind for tonight, and four beers in, it had seemed like a good idea to call Spock and let him in on it.
“Hey, Spoooccckkk.” Jim draws the word out until it has to be at least four syllables? Five syllables? What are syllables again? He giggles, because it's a little funny. He swings his legs over the lip of the rooftop and kicks them back and forth, like a child.
“Captain.” Spock’s voice is now much closer to how Jim usually heard it—strict, empty. Jim frowns. He wants his gentle Spock back.
“It’s ‘Jim,’ Spock. I’d even take a cantankerous ‘James’ at this point, buddy.”
“Captain—“
“We’re not on duty, Spock.” Jim sighs. Why is he calling Spock again? He’s lonely for one thing, but Spock has the uncanny ability to make him feel lonelier than ever.
After Ambassador Spock had gone in and messed around with his head, Jim felt…empty. He knows what Spock means to him—what he was to him in the other universe and what he is supposed to be here—but Spock seems to resent him so much.
Every attempt to reach out had been rejected. Jim had tried to tempt Spock with museum trips on shore leave, chess games in the rec room, sparring matches in the gym. But Spock always has somewhere to be.
Jim almost suspects that Spock is onto him—that he knows what Jim’s lingering glances and brushing arms and wide smile mean. But Spock has never mentioned it, even to reprimand—and Spock loves to reprimand so he would not hesitate to remind Jim of the inappropriateness of his sentiments.
In some way, Jim, thinks, Spock must know.
When Jim had said “You have to know why I went back for you,” and Spock had interrupted, “Because you are my friend.” as if he couldn’t stand to hear the the confession primed on Jim’s blood-coated tongue. It's all as well, Jim supposed. Confessing your undying love to someone you would never touch again was kind of a dick move, but Jim is kind of a dick.
The moment had clearly passed.
Spock had apparently visited him in the hospital when Jim was unconscious, but made himself scarce when Jim was awake. He had seen him and Uhura sitting in a coffee shop near campus last week and knew it was over. Whatever…thing…had happened between them was left to the glass and their hands pressed together and the brightness around Spock’s lashes.
Jim would be alright with it.
But he couldn’t live with it. He couldn’t wake up every morning on the other side of Spock’s wall, patting him on the back as he walked off to meet Uhura for a date. Watch as the world kept him on a pedestal. The thing about a pedestal is that it's a mighty fall if you slip.
Jim is slipping.
There he goes, Jim had heard a cadet whisper last week to their friend as he passed, Did you hear he died that day? Yeah, Khan killed him.
Khan Khan Khan.
Jim couldn’t go back up there. What kind of captain can’t go into engineering without having a panic attack? What kind of captain can’t see a ta’al without tears coming to his eyes or feels like vomiting anytime he has to close a door behind him?
What captain wakes up and can’t breathe?
He failed the crew that day. If he had gotten to Khan faster or figured out his ploy or anything damnit anything—
Maybe he wouldn’t have lost so many. Maybe the ship wouldn’t have crashed into San Fransisco.
He did it, he saved us.
From what? From whom? Khan still killed millions. And Jim didn’t win anything. He died. He lost.
And like some macabre puppet, he was forced back into suspended animation, watching the aftermath of his alleged victory.
Jim had begged Bones to not tell him too much about the transfusion. He can feel Khan’s blood beneath his skin, bubbling and brewing and screaming to get out. He feels angry all of the time. He can’t stop crying.
He wakes up with someone’s name weighing down his tongue and no way to remember it.
He can’t pretend he is alright anymore. Scotty can’t look him in the eye. Sulu and Chekov seem so damn grateful that he's back that Kirk kind of wants to hit them. Bones looks at him as if he's going to explode any minute, and Jim feels the weight of being the one of the last people Bones has to lose. Uhura is so sweet that it makes Jim’s stomach roil with how much he hates himself. He wants to hate her, for being so perfect and understanding and kind, but he can’t. Spock could not love anyone more worthy.
And Spock. Rebuff after rebuff after rebuff.
Always with that same little divot in his brow. Jim knows that Vulcans can lie—intimately, even (damn you, old man Spock)—so he knows that Spock is spouting pure bullshit.
Sorry, Captain, I have to report to the lab. Excuse me, Captain, I must finish this report. We can continue this conversation later. Captain. Captain. Captain. Pardon me, Captain. I am attending a hearing on plans for reconstruction this afternoon. You need to rest.
Rest.
That's another thing.
Jim is going to tear his goddamn hair out. Bones had discharged him after weeks of bitching and arguing, and Jim would rather die (ha) than admit Bones was right. Jim can’t walk more than a half mile without his breath coming in short gasps. He has a persistent metallic tang in the back of his throat, and his head would start to pound if he reads anything longer than a page.
But he cannot sit still.
The idea of being idle—of sitting down and doing nothing—when nine weeks ago he had literally been dead makes his skin itch. He has to prove to himself that he's still a living person. The other night, he had tried falling asleep, but his eyes had opened in a snap when he tried turning over and his body had reacted a second later than he thought it should.
He had barely managed to clear the bed before he emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet. The panic attack had lasted an hour. Jim had rolled the carpet up and dumped it the next day. Some things didn’t require a reminder.
“Yes, I know, Jim.” Spock’s voice jolts him from his thoughts, and the tangible exhaustion in his voice makes him pause.
Jim is suddenly furious. Spock’s tired? Spock has avoided him for weeks—dodging his PADD messages, ignoring his comms, giving short, succinct replies whenever Jim had managed to corner him for more than a second.
“What’re you even doing?”
“I am currently submitting a report.”
Jim snorts. Damn him.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Jim adjusts his perch on the edge of the roof, but he must pull something, because a lancing pain shoots up his abdomen.
“Ah, fuck!” Jim’s hand flies to his stomach, but comes away dry, so he must not be too busted up. Tears prick at the back of his eyes.
“Captain?” Spock’s voice is suddenly much closer than it was before, and Jim’s addled brain urges him to look up, as if Spock had transported to the spot next to him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I might have twinged my side.” Jim gasps around another dull ache.
“Doctor McCoy reported that you were healing remarkably fast. Did something—“
“Bones?” Jim interrupts. He tries to process this.“You’ve been talking to Bones?”
“Yes, I—“
“About me?” Jim’s simmering anger turns into an inferno. Spock had been asking about him. He had been concerned. But not enough to fucking ask. Had whatever happened between them in engineering been that repulsive? That one moment so charged with emotion and fear and regret that Spock had decided to wash his hands of the whole mess? Of Jim? “You’ve been sneaking around behind my back instead of actually fucking talking to me? Jesus, Spock! You can’t even look at me—How long have you been talking to B—I just—“
Jim cuts himself off abruptly, rubbing a hand across his mouth. The bite of metal had gotten stronger. He is too drunk for this. His chest is hurting and his stomach is aching, and his head is roaring.
Please be disappointment, he tells the uncomfortable tightness in his chest, if this is heartbreak, I’m fucked.
“Jim.”
That’s all Spock says. Jim desperately wishes he could see his face. The little twitch of his brow, the shift of his mouth.
Jim wishes he hadn’t said anything. He didn’t want Spock to hate him. He clearly cares enough to ask at least. For whatever that is worth.
It's hard to remember that only ten minutes earlier Jim had been swearing to abide by professional camaraderie. Repair. Fix it fix it.
“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t—Fuck. I’m so drunk, ignore me please.”
Jim goes to grab another drink, but his hand misses, and the bottle goes spinning off of the roof.
“Woah!” Jim leans forward, watching it spin wildly through the air before shattering on the ground in a spray of glass.
“Captain?” Spock’s voice is tinny in his ear. Jim hums noncommittally, eyes glazing over as he watches the light from the streetlamp below light the glass like stars. Jim’s head spins, and he leans back from the edge. “What was that?”
“My drink,” Jim mourns, throwing his hand up in frustration. “My damnable drink.”
“You dropped your drink?” Spock asks, and he sounds a little more peeved than an everyday Spock.
“Yeah…on the…on the…” What is that word again? Not the floor, not the ceiling. “Ceiling thing.”
“You dropped your drink on the ceiling.” It’s not a question—just pure, unfiltered derision. Jim realizes now that calling Spock when he’s even a braincell lower than his peak was a mistake. Spock, despite the contradictory evidence, really did despise him.
Jim’s blood boils.
“No, it’s not on the ceiling—I am.”
A pause.
“Captain, I find your current state of drunkenness untenable to future attempts at communication. Furthermore—“
“Roof!” Jim smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. In fact, a little bit too hard. His vision spins. He’s so triumphant in his word-related victory, however, that he doesn’t mind too much. “That’s the word!”
Silence.
Jim pulls back the comm to look at the little screen.
They’re still connected.
“Spock?” He asks. Nothing.
Hmph. So he’s ignoring him, now? Jim is about to snap the comm closed in frustration, when he hears a ragged inhale.
“You’re on a roof?” Spock’s voice is deadly soft, flat and hard and…something else that Jim’s brain won’t process. Jim rolls his eyes. He grabs another drink and wrestles it open, taking three large swigs before he bothers responding.
“Uh, yeah. That’s what I just said.”
“You’re inebriated on a roof at…” Spock’s voice gets a little fainter as if he’s leaning away from the comm. “0212 hours?”
Jim blinks, surprised.
“Huh, I didn’t know it was that late. Early? Learly? How come that isn’t a word, huh? It would fit perfectly between the hours of—“
“For what purpose are you on the roof, Captain?” Spock cuts him off, and Jim can only gape in surprise. The last time Spock cut him off, it was because someone had snuck up behind him with a phaser. He puzzles Spock’s words out.
“I…I wanted to see Starfleet. Y’know. Before it ended. But this isn’t helping. The construction modules are all over, and you can’t see—“
There’s shuffling on the other side of the phone, as if Spock had stuck his hand in an old-school filing cabinet and is waving his hand wildly, smacking every piece of paper.
“Spock? You still there?”
“I’m here.” Spock says immediately, much closer to the speaker. He’s slightly out of breath. “Which building are you on?”
Jim casts a look around him.
The skyline is marred by the construction vehicles, and the ground—so far away suddenly—is barely visible. That’s probably not good. Jim wonders if he’s passing out. Jim takes another swig.
“Which building—“ Spock sounds almost angry, but Jim’s on a roll.
“Y’know what, ‘pock?” Jim leans back. He wishes that he could see the stars. The light pollution from the city blots the endless sky into dull patches of grey. Jim feels unmoored by it, untethered from the sky he loves to roam.
Jim Kirk, born in space. Died in space. Can’t stand to go back. Can’t bear to live on the ground.
Like father like son. Jim had heard it growing up on playgrounds and in hallways. Teachers would laugh about it with parents, it was a joke that rang through the tinny speakers of the beat-up holovids. Jim always wondered if it applied to him, but he would never know.
You look so much like your father. Every time someone said it, his mother’s eyes would get tight and she would stop on the liquor store on the way home. When she was still around, anyways. You are nothing like your fucking father, Frank would say, spitting venom whenever Jim would act out. You look too much like your father, his mother said once, with flat, dead eyes before ending the comm link.
Like father, like son.
Both had died in space, officially. Protecting a ship. Protecting the people they loved.
Jim giggles. It applies to him, now.
“‘m my father’s son.” Jim tracks the slow movement of a transporter across the sky. “I’m dead.”
There is such a long silence on the other end of the line, that Jim is sure that Spock had hung up on him. Jim would let him go this time.
“You are not dead.” Spock’s voice is deadly calm. Soft.
Jim makes a dismissive noise. “Might as well be.” The stars. Jim wants the stars back. Jim can never go back. “You should see the way people look at me now. When I walk by, they—wait! Dead man walking!”
Whatever Jim is going to say is lost to his mirth. He laughs until his stomach is in pure agony, and even then, he doesn’t mind. It feels good to laugh and to mean it. Jim casts a look over to the beer next to him. He’s only had six drinks—on a good night, that wouldn’t make him this drunk.
Jim wonders if Khan’s blood made him a lightweight again. An alcohol virgin. The thought makes him giggle again. For a dead man, he’s still got a sense of humor. If only Spock would appreciate it more—from the dead (ha!) silence on the other end, he’s not finding this very amusing at all.
“Why are there so many idioms for being alive-dead anyway? That’s what I am, I’ve decided. By the way.”
“Captain—“
“Dead man’s journal, dead man’s locker—or is it Davy Jones’s locker? Who is that guy anyhow? Dead man walking—“
“Jim, I am begging you to cease.” It’s the use of his first name, not the desperation in Spock’s voice that gets him to stop. Something is happening, but Jim is not sure what. “Where are you?”
“I’m on campus, Spock, I told you. I wanted to see it again. It’s not the same, obviously. I failed big time at that. But I wanted to see it one last time.”
One last time. Something in Jim might have been sad about that once, but this new Jim—the Jim wearing his skin and whose blood isn’t even his own—can’t be assed to care.
He is resigning from Starfleet. He hasn’t told anyone.
The thought had popped into his head in the middle of them pinning that stupid medal on his chest.
Congratulations on the death—here’s one on us.
I could just leave. Once the thought had entered, there was no chasing it away. He could resign his commission, head to Georgia with Bones or China to see that wall that everybody loved or—hell—even New Vulcan, see what Old Spock is up to.
But he couldn’t stay here. Not one second longer. Not a millisecond more could he stare at the rift in the earth that Khan’s ship had carved, the demolished buildings and flooded streets.
What is even left? The people who couldn’t look him in the eye? The ones who could, and Jim wished they wouldn’t? Spock?
Jim sighs.
“I’m just tired. I’m so tired, Spock. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You did not fail. We…I failed you. And I don’t intend to do so again. So I ask you once more, which building are you on?”
Spock’s intensity frightens him. Jim has heard Spock’s get tense around the edges only a few times in their years together. When he relayed the events of Vulcan, told Jim that his mother had died screaming. When he pressed his hand as close to Jim’s as it could get across glass, eyes wide and confused and hurt, as if Jim were breaking his heart.
Jim feels unaccountably guilty. He’s ruined what peace Spock has been able to find, at least for tonight. Maybe Uhura is getting pissed. Or maybe, damn her—not fair, not fair—she’s being super reasonable and accepting and encouraging Spock to talk Jim off of whatever cliff he’s on.
Oof. Goddamn. Bad idiom.
“I think I’m gonna hang up, now. I’m sorry to mess up your night.” Jim looks up at the ashy sky again. “G’night Spock—“
“Jim!”
“Love you.”
Jim flicks his comm closed, and it immediately starts ringing. The noise makes his head pound, so he silences it. Geez. He flops against the roof, trying to guess whether the star he's looking at is actually a shuttle. It jerks into motion after a few minutes, puttering away towards the horizon.
Jim sighs again.
Figures.
The roar in his ears grows. Khan’s blood in his ears. …Jim…Jim…Jim…
Jim smiles. It sounds a little like Spock, if Jim strains his ears. He can’t even be mad that he is being haunted by a little Spock ghost.
Jim giggles slightly. A little Spock ghost.
Time passes oddly. Jim wonders if he should go home, but getting up and moving probably wouldn’t be a good idea. What’s the worst that could happen?
A rouge security guard checks the roof and finds out a passed-out war hero sprawled over the concrete? At least he could get paid for the incredible press storm after that. He would be doing the security guard a favor.
The thought makes Jim laugh again, but moving his chest hurts. The sky, whatever is left of it, anyway—around the encroaching night—is spinning lazily. Maybe that’s not the right word for it. It’s…undulating. Jim flinches a little when the wind dips down to him, caressing his flaming cheekbones and bruising ribs.
He’s hurting. His whole body hurts.
He wants to go to sleep. He is terrified of closing his eyes.
Jim closes his eyes anyway, to fight the coming tears. It’s amazing he has enough water in his body left to cry—he’s tried to survive off of whiskey alone for days.
But if you can count on Jim for anything two things, they are a) to be a medical miracle and b) a complete disappointment.
Everything happens very quickly, then.
Rough hands pry into the space under his arms, and jerk him—quickly and with so much strength that it makes Jim dizzy—away from his perch on the ledge. Jim tries to get his feet underneath him, but the drink and the absolute speed at which everything is happening dulls him enough to make it impossible. And like that, he is tossed—no, not tossed. Slid. Away from the edge of the roof, the concrete scraping his skin raw. Jim rolls, trying again to get his feet under him, and this time it works. He lands in a crouch, arms aching and skin tingling, and looks up through blurry vision.
A figure is advancing on him quickly, silhouetted by the light coming from the street.
But Jim would know him anywhere. Jim had looked at him through sand and sweat and snow and grit and fear and love and the glass doors of a radiation chamber.
“Spock?”
But Spock is senseless to the question, walking forward with a frightening purpose. Jim hadn’t registered how much distance his body had cleared when Spock had dragged him. But Spock is still stalking forward, so it must have been substantial. He’s dressed in his usual off-duty outfit, a regulation black undershirt and dark slacks. He is barely an outline against the sky, black on a deep, ashy charcoal.
As he gets nearer, Spock stops suddenly a foot away from Jim, so that Jim has to crane his neck to look up into Spock’s face. His chest is heaving, as if he had been running for miles. His posture is tenser than Jim has ever seen it, and his hands are curled into fists at his sides.
“I demand to know your reasoning.” Spock states. Jim can see his arms shaking and realizes, startlingly, that it is because he is clenching his fists so tightly. Tremors wrack up his arms. His eyes are blazing. "I wish to refute it so thoroughly and humiliatingly that you never even…consider anything like this again.”
Jim, getting more sober by the second, can only open and close his mouth lamely.
“What…What are you even talking about?” Jim sputters, but Spock plows on.
“I do not know, how after I almost beat a man to death with my bare hands in your name, and the weeks Leonard has spent in agony, you still believe yourself disposable.”
Jim blinks in surprise, trying to process…Spock had done what? And Bones?
“You have accomplished so much in your short life, and to rid the world of your future is not only—it’s not—“
Spock is stumbling over his words. Jim knows that this must be a dream now, or a figment of his imagination. Spock’s eyes, as they stare Jim down, become hazy, filmy. Jim knows this expression. He sees it behind his eyelids—wakes up screaming for it to disappear.
“Spock, I—“
But Jim never gets to finish, because Spock makes a noise then, broken and empty and ruinous.
“Jim."
It’s an invocation.
And Spock begins to cry.
Jim scrambles to get up, and Spock is falling into him. They hit the roof, hard, and Jim’s still aching ribs scream in agony. He cannot even register the feeling, though, because Spock is scrabbling at Jim’s shoulders, desperate to get purchase, as if he could never get close enough, as if he is trying to crawl into the spaces between Jim’s ribs. Jim returns the hug with equal ferocity, the suddenness and intensity of Spock’s emotions making Jim’s own eyes water.
Spock has Jim pressed to him so tightly that Jim’s rib ache. He can feel his rapid, thumping heart beating into his own skin. Spock’s grip on his back is so secure that Jim can hear the fabric of his shirt rip in Spock’s grip.
Spock is cursing…or praying…or reciting a poem. Jim can’t tell. But strings of Vulcan fall from Spock’s lips, over and over, into Jim’s hair. The heat of his breath makes Jim’s body melt into him—an unresistant and eager offering to a demanding, desperate predator.
“Jim—James—k’diwa—Jim…”
Jim is helpless to do anything but press his face into Spock’s neck. The nearness of him is addicting, and the smell of his skin—something close and spicy and warm—makes Jim warm down to his toes. Jim hasn’t been this close to another person in…he doesn’t want to think about it.
Every press of Spock’s bare skin on his is blazing, so warm in the cool night that Jim wants to weep with it. Spock has slipped back into prayer, and Jim can hear his name interspersed with verse. Spock’s fingers are in Jim’s hair, and the pads of his fingers where they make contact with his scalp send tingles almost directly into his brain.
Jim shivers with it, and Spock makes a strange petting motion on his scalp to soothe him. It should feel infantilizing but instead it makes Jim want to cry.
“What happened, Spock?” Jim says, throat tight and thick with tears. “Is everything okay?”
Spock doesn’t react, and Jim thinks for a second that he must not have heard him. Spock pulls back a little, but his grip on Jim’s shirt is so tight that he doesn’t go far. Spock’s chest is still heaving, and Jim moves his hand slightly so he can feel Spock’s heart beating in his side. His eyes—(“My childhood tormentors always told me I have human eyes, instead of Vulcan ones. They betray too much of my inner thoughts.” “I don’t think that at all, Spock. I love your eyes—they’re beautiful.”)—are torn asunder by thoughts and emotions that Jim is not privy to.
“It is unacceptable,” Spock says through a ragged breath, “the number of times I have been unable to touch you in the past two months.”
He weaves another hand through Jim’s hair as if to prove a point. Jim tilts his head into the contact like a sun-warm cat.
“What do you mean?”
“Every time you are in distress, I am…separated from you. I have found it to be a profound agony.”
Jim shakes his head.
“Spock…you have to help me out here. I have no idea what’s happening.”
Spock’s eyes harden. “Making me the helpless witness to your death for the second time in as many months is unaccountably cruel.”
Jim startles, pulling back.
“My death?”
This is the first time they’re talking about it, officially. Spock had chased him down to this roof, in the middle of the night, on the brink of an emotional come-apart, to talk about his death?
Wait, speaking of—
“Wait, Spock. What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
Spock raises a brow, and Jim has to bite down a burst of hysterical laughter. Some things, even when Spock’s hand is melting a hole between Jim’s shoulder blades, never change.
“After you ended our communication, I knew only that you were at the Academy on a roof. My quarters are in the faculty dorms, so you were closer than I had thought. I started near the underclassman dorms and went west. You had dropped a bottle of beer, presumably, so I looked for broken glass with a wide enough shatter radius to be from the roof.”
Spock delivers the speech with a flat affect, a raised brow, and a methodical manner that warms Jim up to his very core. His Vulcan is ridiculous. And odd. And so, so dear.
“This is a ten-story building. How did you get up here so fast? Did you take the stairs?”
Spock’s eyebrow twitches.
“Ha! Of course you did.” Jim can’t help reaching up to hold the spot where Spock’s neck met his shoulder. He's always warmest here, and a brief pat here has been some of the only contact Jim is allowed. “I’m going to miss you, Spock.”
Spock’s entire face shuts down, yanking himself away from Jim’s touch as if it burned. His eyes drain of their vulnerability, leaving only dark, flat rage. Jim is bereft in the sudden cold left behind. They sit near each other on the roof, but Spock has thoroughly rid himself of all of the closeness of before. Jim’s head spins.
“You are still—Captain. You cannot—“ Spock’s mouth is barely moving, and his eyes are…strange. They are far away and pained, as if Spock is already trying to escape this situation, as if he is living another life just inches away. Jim hurries to explain.
“I’m no one’s captain, anymore. That’s actually what I wanted to tell you, but things got a little confused over the com.”
Jim fiddles with his hands. It’s the best choice—at least for now—and he knows it is, but the strangeness of the evening and the intensity of Spock’s gaze makes his hands shake.
“I’m leaving Starfleet.”
Spock studies Jim’s face for a few moments, gaze flicking between his eyes. Then, as if a balloon of tension had been popped, sags back against Jim’s chest.
“Oh. Oh, Jim.”
Jim’s arms automatically wrap around Spock’s middle. They must both be drunk. Or dead. Or crazy. Jim is following absolutely none of this conversation.
Why is Spock so relieved? Jim thinks he should be hurt by that—that Spock is so calmed by Jim quitting—but the rapidity of both of their emotions is making his head spin.
“You’re really going to have to walk me through this, Spock. I’m fuckin’ lost.” Spock still doesn’t look up at him, but Jim can feel the humor through his skin. How can he do that? “Will you finally tell me why you ran all the way here?”
“Jim. Oh, ashayam.” Spock looks up then, pressing a hand to the side of Jim’s face, and oh isn’t that a revelation. His fingers are colder than Jim expected, cooled by the wind ruffling his hair and the chill of the night—and entirely juxtaposing the sheer heat of the rest of his body. But the sensation is so intense it makes Jim’s breath stutter.
When Ambassador Spock had touched his face in the cave, his hands were similarly cold. Maybe all Spocks had poor circulation? The thought filled Jim with an inexplicable tenderness. It was done in the context of a mind meld, and Jim—removed from the experience by a couple of years—still doesn’t think he’s recovered. The emotional transference was so severe, and the memories of Other Jim—golden and glowing and intense—still slept at the back of his mind. Ambassador Spock had…loved him. So violently that it made Jim feel thin, almost. Translucent. When Ambassador Spock looked at him, sometimes, it felt as if he were looking through him. Or only looking at his outline, trying to find the spot where Jim was colored in.
Jim kind of loves Ambassador Spock for it, really. How could anyone resent someone who loved them—any version of them—like that? Jim had wanted to preen under his gaze when he looked at him. Yes, it’s me. Not the me you love but I’m good enough, right? I’m special enough, right?
But now, Spock—Jim’s own Spock—is looking at Jim. The entirety of Jim. Not golden or glowing or intense. Just Jim.
Spock’s thumb brushes over Jim’s cheekbone, the coolness of his skin making Jim’s cheeks heat. His eyes are dark, and so human in that moment it that Jim’s breath catches. “I believed you had intended to take your own life tonight.”
“What?”
Spock is deadly serious, still moving his thumb gently against Jim’s face. Jim can’t even comprehend this. Spock thought he was going to kill himself?
“Spock.” Jim says, completely baffled, utterly heartbroken, and almost—a little—indignant. Spock’s mouth flattens into a line, in that way he does when Jim says something particularly obtuse. Jim would not be charmed right now. He wouldn’t.
“You call me at two in the morning from a rooftop, blindingly intoxicated and talking about seeing the Academy ‘before it ends.’ What am I suppose to imply from that information?”
Jim blinks. Once. Twice.
Oh.
Oh.
Okay. Yeah.
Huh.
“You expressed…a sentiment that you had previously withheld. It felt like a goodbye. You were bidding me goodbye for the second time in two months and while Vulcans have more mental fortitude than our human counterparts…I…I am only so strong.”
Jim, in spite of himself and almost automatically, rubs a hand down Spock’s back in comfort. Spock arches into the touch a little bit, like an overly large feline. Spock’s next blink is a touch longer than the one before it. When his eyes open next, his pupils are dark. His eyes flick between Jim’s own, his brilliant analytical mind cataloguing everything happening on Jim’s face, as if he can read his thoughts.
“You told me you loved me.” Spock speaks suddenly. Jim’s stomach falls off of the roof.
Deny, deny, deny. He had just gotten Spock back—this is the most they had talked since before Khan. Jim isn’t ready to lose him again—couldn’t stand to let him go. Jim leans back from Spock’s embrace a little, needing the distance to analyze every look on his friend’s face. He needs to play this very precisely. Spock’s hands twitch against his sides.
“When did that happen?”
“Before you disconnected, you said “Love you.’” Spock stiffens. “Unless you meant platonically.”
Spock shifts away then, their connection only held by the tips of their fingers. His eyes are wide. “Platonically,” He repeats, his face falling. It is only demarcated by the slight widening of his eyes, a hard set of his mouth, but Jim is a degree-holding master of the language of Spock. Jim is a little startled by this. Why would Spock be disappointed? Maybe even platonic love is too much. Spock must read something on Jim’s face, because Spock—unfortunately a degree-holding master of the language of Jim as well—hurries to continue.
“I…I did not communicate that properly. I highly value you as a companion as well.” His fingers twitch once more against Jim’s side, and he pulls away fully. He moves to a full sitting position, getting settled outside of Jim’s reach. They still sit so closely, like children playing a game.
That thought gives Jim pause. Spock looks startling young in that moment, knees folded and hands resting in his lap, a confused look in his eyes. Vulnerable. He looks vulnerable.
Jim takes a deep bracing breath. He needs to. He needs to. Jim’s feelings for Spock are a weight in his chest. They’ll change things. They’ll change his relationship with Spock forever.
But maybe that won’t be the end of the world. Spock can’t even look at Jim now without that harrowed look in his eyes. He’s been avoiding Jim like there’ll be a brilliant scientific discovery in it for him if he does.
And Jim’s tired. At the end of the day, he’s always been a selfish man. Maybe Spock won’t want to see him after this, and maybe Jim deserves it. But he’s just too tired, right now, in this moment, to lie.
“I value you as a companion, too, Spock.” Jim says, and can’t keep the smile out of his voice at the formal phrasing. “You’re one of my best friends, you know that.”
Spock looks up then. It’s not surprise that paints his face but something else. His chin is tilted up. Pride, maybe. Or disappointment. Two emotions that Spock swears he cannot feel.
“While we’re on the subject,” Jim starts, and cringes. He’s treating this like a diplomatic meeting, like a negotiation. “I…” Jim clears his throat and braces himself. His whole life has been a series of bracing himself: for Frank to come home, for Sam to leave, to run when Kodos’s men started shooting, to die in that radiation chamber.
“I’m in love with you, Spock.” Jim doesn’t know how he expected the words to feel, but they feel strange in his mouth. He had only tried to say them once before, and the emotional echo of that moment (pressed behind the glass, can’t breathe, don’t want to breathe, can’t think, Spock) make Jim’s breathing hitch. He cannot meet Spock’s gaze.
“Romantically and platonically, actually. But,” Jim cuts off Spock with a hand, feeling the man about to interrupt, “I understand your involvement with Uhura, and I’m not here to threaten that. I just…You should know, before I leave.”
Spock has fallen deadly silent across from him. Deadly still.
Jim knows that despite the fact he feels as sober as a priest right now doesn’t mean he’s not still inebriated—alcohol doesn’t work like that. Jim would know—he’s had enough alcohol tonight to send a first-year cadet to the medical wing. He wonders if he passed out an hour ago and this is all a dream. He wonders if he’ll regret this in the morning. In the light of day, will Jim see what he’s done to one of his best friends and hate himself for it?
Spock still hasn’t moved. Jim wishes for a moment that he had Spock’s touch telepathy. To be able to reach over and brush Spock’s fingers and know what emotions lie beneath would be relieving. Or devastating.
What is Spock feeling? Jim knows for a fact that Spock does feel, despite his repeated and obstinate arguments to the negative.
Betrayed? Is he going over every interaction they’ve had, looking on it in a new light? He had revealed parts of his inner thoughts to someone who had not been transparent—someone who had indirectly lied for years of friendship. Spock shifts back, putting some space between him and Jim.
“I had…considered this possibility, but had deemed the odds negligible and therefore find myself now at a loss.” He says at last, and it tears Jim’s insides up like shrapnel.
“I will of course need to submit my leave of absence papers as soon as possible.” Spock is lost in his head, running through a scenario Jim can’t see.
“No, you don’t. I’m leaving, remember? So you don’t have to see me anymore.” Jim’s heart clenches in his chest. Is it truly that awful that Spock's willing to leave his career over it? Is Jim’s love that heavy? That oppressive?
“It is precisely to avoid that circumstance that I mention it.”
“What are you talking about? Uhura—“
“Why do you continuously reengage the subject of the Lieutenant?” A beat passes. Jim wants to say something, but Spock raises an eyebrow, effectively cutting him off. “Ah. I see. In light of recent circumstances I had neglected to inform you of a recent development.” A pause. “The lieutenant and I are no longer engaged in a romantic relationship.”
Jim blinks. Once. Twice.
Jim is pretty smart. You would never get him to admit it, but he is. It shouldn’t be this hard to grasp Spock’s meaning, but Jim’s brain is struggling to capture the information.
“What…What are you saying, Spock?”
“We terminated our romantic relationship upon your release from the hospital. She…did not wish to maintain a relationship when the other party had their affections engaged elsewhere.”
Engaged elsewhere. Engaged elsewhere.
“Ah…Okay.” Jim stares down at his hands for a second. Hope burns, wild and untamed and goddamn terrifying in his chest. It could be anyone, he tries, but his heart is beating wildly. It’s me, Spock wants me, it has to be me or I’ll die.
“I am not proficient at this,” Spock shifts forward, and Jim realizes that he’s nervous. Spock’s hands are twitching at his sides, like he can’t quite decide what to do with them. He’s looking at Jim searchingly, like he does sometimes during a negotiation—as if Jim is about to do something risky, putting the entire mission at risk.
He’s bracing himself, Jim realizes. For Jim to do something that is going to hurt.
Jim feels himself leaning into Spock, as if Spock has a thin string pulling him forward from the very center of him.
“The…regard I have for you is not platonic in nature. The depth of this regard alone would reveal its truth, but it has taken me a long time to understand.”
Jim’s voice when he speaks next is a croak. “Are…are you saying that you love me, Spock?”
“Yes.” Spock’s lip twitches. “Yes, Jim. Taluhk nash-veh k’dular.”
Jim’s mind reels. He tries to reconcile this. Any of this. Spock loves him. Spock loves him. Non-platonically.
Suddenly, Jim’s a little angry.
“Since when?”
Spock tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been in love with you for two years. I don’t…I don’t understand. Since when? How long have you—“ Jim cuts himself off, biting viciously down on his bottom lip. “You act like you can barely tolerate me most days. You’ve been avoiding me for two months.”
Spock breaks his gaze. “I have not been wise.”
Jim snorts, and Spock winces.
What is he doing? Spock loves him. Spock loves him. This is enough. It’s more than enough—stop messing this up, shut the fuck up!!
“Your death.” Spock’s throat makes a strange noise, and he clears it. “Your death—witnessing such a profound horror—pulled things from me I was not proud to see unearthed.”
Spock seems to struggle with himself. “This was not spurred from nothing. I admire you a great deal, and have always done so. I had neglected to relate to you of the depth of my regard due to my own cowardice.
“I had decided that to lose you would hurt more than never having you. Once I had known what loving you would do to me…I became afraid. I am afraid.” His eyes are large and dark, vulnerable and desperately hopeful.
Jim kisses him, then.
It feels inevitable—like they were always going to end up here, like Jim’s bottom lip is meant for this moment, that’s Spock’s side is perfectly shaped to fit the curve of his palm.
The first coherent thought Jim has is this feels nothing like what Jim thought it would. He had imagined, of course, what Spock would feel like against him—in guilty moments in the shower, in the dark of his quarters, in the moments Spock stands so close to him that Jim can feel his radiant heat. He had imagined Spock’s kiss would be forceful, shredding his walls like paper, demanding entrance to his mouth, breath hot and heavy and devastating in Jim’s own mouth.
But Spock’s lips barely touch his, at first.
When Jim presses forward, Spock’s lips part over a shocked inhale. Jim can feel the brush of air from his mouth being sucked into Spock’s and fuck. Jim has to back away a little, just to get his thoughts together again.
“I’m terrified all of the time,” Jim says, instead of kissing him properly this time, like a fucking idiot. But he can’t stop the words pouring from his mouth, as if he’s trying to warn Spock away. You don’t actually want to kiss me, look at me.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t go back up into space, Spock. Spock. God, Spock. Every time I hear a door close behind me I almost throw up. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Every day I wake up and I remember. I can feel his blood in me.” Jim’s babbling, and Spock pulls him close, thumb coming up to rest on Jim’s cheekbone.
“You are so loved, ashayam. If you never want to go into space again, we won’t.”
Jim laughs, barely.
“We? You’re not giving up your career, Commander."
Spock leans back a little, and it is punishment enough. Jim desperately reaches forward, winding a hand into the hem of Spock’s regulation black shirt.
“I belong at your side. I do not wish to end my career. You seem to forget that I am also a professor.” A little eyebrow lift. “I can instruct from anywhere with a secure comm link signal.”
Jim can’t not kiss him.
When they crash together this time, it’s desperate. The shyness of Spock not moments earlier has vanished into the heat of his body against Jim’s. His lips are dry, and Jim opens himself up, lips parting around a desperate bid for air.
But instead of Spock taking control, Spock coaxes Jim’s tongue into his own mouth, whimpering when Jim presses closer.
Jim already knows that this is it: this is the kiss he’ll compare every other kiss to. If Spock pulls away now and tells Jim he’ll never want to kiss him again, this will still be at the back of his mind. For every faceless kiss from here on out, it’ll be Spock’s mouth he thinks of.
Spock’s mouth is liquid fire against Jim’s, so hot in the cool night that Jim is wild with it, pressing farther, going deeper. Spock’s tongue is rough against his, the texture so unlike a human tongue that Jim can’t help the broken whimper that breaks from his lips. Spock’s hands comes up to hold Jim’s head, keeping him close as if Jim would ever pull away again, even to breathe. This is it, this is it.
Jim’s fingers are shaking when he untangles his fingers from Spock’s shirt, pressing them to the strip of skin under his hem. Spock hiccups a breath in, surprised, and Jim is startled to feel the wild pulse of his heart. Jim presses up a little farther, and Spock’s heart beats frantically against Jim’s palm, trying to break through Spock’s skin and be held by him.
Spock pushes forward, leaning ever so slightly into Jim’s arms. They part, briefly, panting into each other’s mouths. They can barely be separate for a second—after finally, gloriously being whole, complete—and they exchange, short, desperate presses of lips to chins, corners of mouths, bottom lips. Finally, they kiss again, properly, deeply, and Jim—humiliatingly—whimpers around Spock’s tongue. The resulting rumble, deep in Spock’s chest, sets Jim’s body alight.
Spock leans back, and Jim moves with him, desperate to keep their lips together. But Spock is still pulling back, even as Jim presses one, two, three lingering kisses to his lips.
Their chests are heaving when they part, and they only stare at each other for a few beats. His thumb twitches against Jim’s face, and the movement almost makes Jim smile.
“Beer. You taste like beer. You’ve been drinking tonight.”
Jim blinks up at him, his brain looping on the words you taste, you taste, you taste.
“Um…Yeah.” Jim clears his throat, leaning back a little, hoping that Spock doesn’t look down and see the hard press of Jim’s dick against his zipper. “Sorry.”
Spock raises an eyebrow, and Jim has to bite down on a whine. Not fair.
“We should not be engaging in amorous activities. I got…carried away. You are not able to fully consent at this time.”
A small part of Jim melts. A larger, hornier part is pissed.
“My body post-radiation has been so fucked up that I don’t feel even tipsy. Khan’s blood is better at this alcohol thing than mine is. I get drunk faster, but now,” Jim shrugs. ”Nothing.” Jim looks up at Spock through his lashes, hoping to affect his most enticing look. “Is there any chance we could continue this?”
“No,” Spock says simply. “I want to ensure that you are entirely sober. This is too…precious to me to risk. I will have you entirely present, or not at all.”
Jim sighs—a great, big, dramatic thing—and falls back onto his back. “God, I love you for it, too. This is so goddamn frustrating.”
When he tilts his head to the side, Spock is flushed darker than Jim has ever seen him, cheeks almost emerald in the dim light.
“Spock?” Jim sits up again, a little concerned.
“I am not used to hearing it.” Spock says, quietly. “Could—” He clears his throat. “Could you repeat it?”
Jim smiles, his dull, useless heart throbbing warmly in his chest.
“I love you,” He presses a kiss to Spock’s left cheek, delighting in the heat of his skin, warmed further by the blood heating his cheeks.
“I love you,” He whispers, almost directly into Spock’s ear, and he feels his body shudder against his. Jim can’t help the smile that blooms, and presses his face into the crook of Spock’s shoulder. He relishes in the closeness, the permission to be so close. He can do this now. He is allowed to want this, and the freedom in that is almost enough to make him start crying.
Spock exhales shakily, maneuvering Jim away so he can stand on unsteady legs. He helps Jim to his feet, and presses a light kiss to his forehead. The gesture is so saccharine, so tender and simple, that Jim cannot help the teary laugh that bubbles from his throat.
“I request that we vacate this roof immediately.” Spock says finally, and Jim laughs fully then, a joyful, hysterical effervescent laugh that makes his bones feel light.
Jim feels Spock’s mouth tilt where it is pressed to his hairline, and this, Jim thinks, is enough. This is everything.