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“Are you going to tell Jim?” Nyota asks. “Now that you’re staying in Starfleet, are you going to tell him?”
In his peripheral vision, Spock notes Nyota sliding the Vokaya pendant he gave her back and forth on the silver chain. It is a motion she initiated two months ago, after the discussion that ended their romantic partnership, yet it was not until their arrival at Yorktown that she offered to give it back to him. He refused. He wonders now if he should have accepted; if she was asking him to remove a tangible reminder of them from her hands.
Much has occurred since their initial arrival at Yorktown - Altamid, Krall, the destruction of the Enterprise, and their extended stasis while crew await for the ship to be rebuilt - and yet there will be no reconciliation for them.
That should, perhaps, give him pause. His relationship with Nyota was long-standing and, for many years, a fulfilling experience. So much of his life has been in consideration since they returned to Yorktown, so a reconsideration of them would not be inappropriate.
That both of them have concluded it is an inalterable decision reinforces the incomplete nature of the decisions Spock has yet to make.
He takes his focus off the gyroscopic streets of Yorktown and places it on Nyota, standing next to him at the windows of his temporary living quarters. She is undeniably lovely - in heart and soul. Despite their parting, he values the years they spent together. He is grateful she wishes to remain his friend.
“I do not believe that would be wise,” he finally answers.
“For you or for him?”
“Nyota -”
“Don’t even try, Spock. I know you.”
“For both of us,” he says. His tone carries a hesitation he would only allow with her. “What occurred in the past cannot be changed.”
“But Jim doesn’t know that anything changed. And you… Spock. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but you can be honest with me. Is it really only in the past?”
His controls ripple, shame seeping through. “Nyota. I never -”
She waves the rest of that sentence away. “You’re not a cheater, Spock - in mind, body, or action. It isn’t you. I know that when you were committed to me that you were committed.”
He was.
In the years before Khan, he treasured her as he had no other. In the year after Khan, he would not have survived without her.
Then, he could not envision a life without him at her side. Now, he still cannot envision a life without her. But it’s not her side he is standing at.
It is the same for her, and yet…
“I regret that I could not give you all of what you desired from a relationship.”
“Regret is illogical,” she points out. “Both of us knew what we were doing, and both of us made our own choices. I would say that I regret not admitting to myself that we needed to end things years ago, but…”
“Regret is illogical.”
“Exactly,” she says with a smile - one that is freed, flickers, then is gone again. Her fingers return to the pendant, and her gaze returns to the streets of Yorktown, to a view beyond them that he cannot share. “Talk to Jim. He needs to know.”
Spock does not suppress his sigh.
She is correct.
Since he has decided to remain in Starfleet, Jim must know.
***
There’s something that Jim’s missing.
Spock is just about as Spock as usual, but his gaze flicks to Jim’s then away. His lips are thinned and his throat moves as if he’s trapping words in and swallowing them down.
It can’t be that Jim almost accepted that vice admiral role; they hashed that out hours ago. Or, in actuality, Jim confessed everything and Spock gave a hint of a nod and said he understood. Then Spock told him about his consideration to leave Starfleet to assist his people on New Vulcan, and that wasn’t any kind of a surprise because Bones had already dropped that bomb on Jim the night of his motherfucking birthday.
So it can’t be that either, because Jim handled Spock’s confession with complete calm.
The night of his birthday, not so much. There was a second bottle of whiskey, and shouting, and maybe a few tears on Bones’ shoulder - or a lot. But tonight? Complete and utter captain-worthy calm.
The thought of Spock leaving him still sends a jolt of panic through his sternum, but he’s not freaking out anymore. Spock did choose to stay, after all.
He sits back in his chair and studies his first officer.
So. If it’s not either of those, what is he missing?
The table in his temporary quarters is strewn with padds, emptied cups, and the plates from the working dinner they just finished. That his fastidious XO hasn’t already cleared the table is a pink-ish flag, but not entirely out of character either.
They’ve been working for the better part of twelve hours - surveying schematics, approving changes, making their own changes, and slicing through Starfleet red tape to push through the rebuild faster. They haven’t moved farther than the dining room, bathroom, or kitchen all day and Jim is exhausted.
Spock doesn’t make it easy to pick up the signs of when he’s surpassed his limits, but Jim’s got it down by now - a droop in his shoulders, his head tilted at a specific angle, his hands held close to his body as if he’s protecting the gates to his telepathic center. Not “as if;” he is. When Spock is really, actually tired his shields begin to falter, his controls.
It’s a lesson Jim learned through trial and (too much) error, and it hits him suddenly - maybe that’s what he’s missing. Spock isn’t tied up in knots about anything, he’s tired and doesn’t want to admit to it.
Stubborn ass.
“I know we have more to cover, but I can’t think anymore.” The yawn that follows is exaggerated for effect, but not by much. “I think we should call it quits for the day.”
“As you wish, Jim.”
Yep. Definitely tired. He didn’t even have to remind Spock not to call him “Captain.”
“Leave the padds,” he says as he stands and starts gathering their dishes. “I have them in the order I want them, and I don’t want to reorganize it all tomorrow.”
Spock eyes the jumbled mess dubiously. “If you say so.”
Jim smiles, can’t help it.
He heads into the kitchen and is halfway through stacking the dishes into the recycler when he hears Spock call his name.
“What’s up?” he says over his shoulder.
“If you are amenable to it, I will remain here and meditate while you sleep. Therefore, we can commence, and complete, our work at an earlier hour tomorrow.”
Jim freezes.
The ache in his chest throbs to life, deepens.
He’s been so good today. For months, really. No. Years. He doesn’t let his gaze linger, or his hand. He doesn’t flirt - much. He flirts with everyone though, so it would draw more attention if he didn’t throw Spock a bad pickup line every once and awhile, right?
Then there are moments like this, simple acknowledgments of the trust they literally fought to build, and Jim thinks maybe. Maybe Spock is asking him to read between the lines. Maybe friendship is the foundation, not the final design. Maybe their partnership can be more than rank and role. Maybe he can have space, his ship, and Spock too.
But he’s fucking selfish and an asshole for even thinking it. Because even though Spock and Nyota are done, it doesn’t mean Spock is available. Because having Spock’s trust is something to be valued, not violated. Because no matter how many times he reminds Spock that he’s allowed to call him Jim, he is the captain.
There aren’t any lines to read between, just the lines he’ll never cross.
He forces himself to take a deep breath.
They’ve shared quarters dozens of times on missions, during conferences or treaty negotiations, out of necessity and logical convenience. And this request is eminently logical since Jim decided to claim quarters that were two transport hops and a train away from the rest of his crew. After everything - Altamid, Krall, the Kelvin pods, and thinking he’d lost Spock - he needed the breathing room, and maybe his crew needed him, but he couldn’t. Just absolutely could not.
Because he’s a fucking selfish asshole and Spock deserves better.
“Of course I don’t mind,” he finally says. The ache in his chest eases, but it’s still there. Always there. “I’ve got that second bedroom if you want to sleep, but the nighttime view of Yorktown is pretty spectacular from the living room.” He takes another deep breath and finishes up in the kitchen. “I know you don’t meditate with your eyes open, but -”
He stops cold in the doorway to the dining room.
Spock is hunched over a padd, his hands braced on the table. The cut of his jaw, cheekbones, and brow is pained.
“Spock…?”
Spock comes to standing one vertebrae at a time. He clasps his hands together behind his back slowly, in a grip so tight his knuckles blanch.
Barring the gates to his telepathic center.
“My apologies, Captain. It appears I am more fatigued than I originally believed. I will retire now.”
Jim doesn’t say anything, can’t. The nod he manages is weak.
As soon as the door to the guest bedroom closes behind Spock, Jim is on the move. He picks up the padd, his confusion slithering into dread between one thundering heartbeat and the next.
It’s the schematic of the warp core. More specifically, the new configuration - designed to allow repairs to be completed by robotic arms so no sentient being ever has to enter it. It was Scotty’s idea and while sweat beaded at the back of Jim’s neck when they talked about it, he agreed wholeheartedly with this improvement. But he’s been holding off on talking to Spock about it because, well, they’ve never talked about that day.
It’s a memory burned deeper into Jim than the radiation ever went. Spock on the other side of that glass, cheeks wet with tears, and Jim terrified of what came next - terrified of following his dad into another unknown void - yet grateful that he wasn’t alone. Grateful that when he was gone Spock would still have Nyota. Scotty, Bones, Sulu, Chekov.
Turns out, he didn’t need to be terrified because Spock tore him out of that void.
Bones gave Spock shit about him and Nyota having something to do with it too - and they did, he absolutely wouldn’t be alive without them too - but Spock…
Jim’s seen the security footage from that day. He forced himself to watch Spock’s despair and loss of control, his rage. He read all the reports, talked to Bones, and he heard Nyota when she told him that Spock wouldn’t have reacted that way if it had been anyone else (“Only you,” she says and he feels like she’s trying to tell him something important, but he doesn’t get it, he really doesn’t, because the Spock he knows would’ve gone after Khan for any of them, and getting to that answer would mean talking to Spock about it, and that’s just not something they seem capable of doing).
So yeah, okay, it would be healthier if they did, but him baiting Spock into attacking him on the bridge kind of set the standard and while they’ve learned to trust each other there’s no good way of recovering completely from that.
Jim grips the padd tighter, trying to tease apart Spock’s reaction.
The need for this specific improvement has definite emotional connotations to it, but - at its heart - it’s a logical decision. It’s something that should’ve been baked into warp core configurations from the start. Spock would see that at first glance.
And it’s been four years since Khan. He and Spock have discussed and worked around the warp core for four years without any hesitations or issues. So why now?
Jim glances at the door to the guest bedroom, wishing he wasn’t psi-null.
There’s something he’s missing.
***
Meditation is, unsurprisingly, impossible.
It is 0322 hours when Spock cedes to that fact and rises from the floor of Jim’s guest room. Jim’s apartment is quiet, so he takes to the living area in hopes that the “pretty spectacular view” affords his mind some measure of peace.
Jim is asleep on the couch.
Light cuts through the windows from streetlights hanging from the ring above them, highlighting the arch of a rounded ear, the slope of Jim’s neck. Jim sleeps sitting up with his head resting on the back of the couch, his legs sprawled out in front of him, and just below the open vee of Jim’s flannel shirt, the top three buttons undone, Jim clutches a padd to his chest.
Spock does not need to see the screen of the padd to know what schematic it contains. He stills, evens out his heartbeat.
He should have spoken with Jim last night. Each second that passes holds an importance that Jim does not understand, and each second pushes Spock further into discomfort. He should not have delayed. And yet, as he surveys Jim sleeping peacefully, the weight of captaincy absent in his lax sprawl, he does not wish to wake Jim up.
“Spock?”
His name comes on a rasp, before movement and before true consciousness.
He should apologize for awakening his captain.
He says, “I am here, Jim.”
“I was having the most bizarre -”
Jim’s voice cuts off as he moves a hand to swipe the sleep away from his eyes; as he realizes what he holds in his grasp. Spock resigns himself to what will come next. He does not wish to add to the weight Jim carries, yet there are decisions that must be made.
“You have questions for me,” he says.
Jim tosses the padd on the couch and sits up, eyes struggling to open as he nods. “I do. The first one being - why did you really ask to stay here?”
It is an inopportune time to realize that James T. Kirk is the only being in the galaxy with the power to render him speechless.
Jim responds as he always does - silence held, a question not retracted, and the deployment of one arched, demanding brow.
“We should discuss my reaction to the schematic first,” he finally says.
“That’s what I thought too. Now that I’ve had some time to sleep on it? Not so much.” Jim scrubs his hands over his face then through his hair. When he leans back against the couch, it is with the full awareness of a captain called suddenly to the bridge. “You made yourself at home, I see.”
The accommodations in Yorktown are just as modern and well-equipped as its ostentatious exterior implies, therefore each room contains its own private replicator. As he did not arrive at Jim’s quarters with the intention of staying, yes, he utilized what was available to him.
He suppresses the urge to straighten his black Starfleet thermal or rethink his choice for the accompanying black Starfleet fleece pants. Neither are worthy of note.
“Jim.”
“I’ll discuss your topic if you discuss mine, but I’m getting the feeling we can simplify it down.”
Spock’s exhale borders too closely to a sigh. “You are correct. The reasons for my request and my reaction are one and the same.”
Jim’s features harden. “Me.”
“Yes.”
“And the day I died.”
“Yes.”
“So what is this, Spock? It’s been four years. Are you and Bones suddenly afraid that I’m going to go genocidal? That instead of taking down Krall, I was picking up tips?”
“A defensive posture is unnecessary, Jim.”
“Is it? God, Spock. You were cagey yesterday, studying me but refusing to really look at me. And now? You won’t even answer a basic question of why you deemed it necessary to stay here.” Jim grimaces, then he’s on his feet, stepping past the boundaries of Spock’s personal space, ice blue eyes lock onto him - pinning their target. “So let me tell you why I think a defensive posture is the only one I can take - you saw the schematic and your ‘reaction’ wasn’t about what happened in the warp core, it was about what came after.”
Khan’s blood.
Because Spock could not speak yesterday, Jim believes those closest to him have begun to detect signs of Jim’s greatest fear - that Khan’s blood changed him. That his inherent compassion would be eradicated cell by cell. That he would become like Khan. Like Kodos.
Regret is illogical; Spock feels it nonetheless.
“You are correct that it was what came after,” he says. His controls falter with remembered pain, agony. Rage. “However, it is not because of Khan’s blood. Jim. The day you died, I lost my bondmate.”
Jim searches his features. “What? But Nyota -”
“Not Nyota, Jim. You.”
Jim pales. Shame threatens to overwhelm Spock’s controls.
“You must understand that I, too, did not know. There were signs I actively dismissed and considerations I neglected to take into account. I denied a mental link between us until the moment the warp engines came back online. I was not aware of the bond until Scott called me down to engineering, and by then…”
“You knew I was dying.”
“Before I stepped into engineering, I knew.”
Jim shakes his head. “I’ve seen the video, Spock. You didn’t walk in there - you ran.”
He has been told he did.
He remembers none of it.
When he forces himself to confront his memories of that day, they are fractured, erratic. Only pieces remain because the whole of him had been crushed under the weight of imminent loss.
Spock buries the memories under the rubble again and takes a measured breath.
“After your revival by Dr. McCoy’s serum, the bond did not regenerate. As it was a connection that you had not chosen, I made the decision not to inform you of its former presence. Your recovery took precedence.”
The anger rises on Jim’s face again, a heartbeat before he stalks away. Spock does not move. In this, he must give Jim space.
“Does Nyota know?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Spock. How did this happen? You were with Nyota for years. And, okay, yeah, the two of you had fights, but what couple doesn’t?” Jim whirls to face Spock again. “I mean, how?”
This moment.
This is the moment Spock has avoided for four years. It is the moment that was the underlying drive in his choice for leaving Starfleet and joining his people on New Vulcan. It is the moment that flooded him with illogical regret when he first viewed the Ambassador’s picture of his Enterprise crew. It is the moment he can no longer delay.
If they are to continue functioning as a command team, he must take full responsibility.
“As you are neither a telepath, nor Vulcan, the logical conclusion is that I initiated the bond without your consent.”
“That you…?” Jim’s eyes narrow. “But you’ve never… You were with Nyota. Are you saying that you…?”
“The type of bond we shared is one that can be considered fraternal.” Shame heats his blood, tinges his cheeks. He is powerless to suppress it, but he will not cower from his responsibility. “Regardless, I perpetrated an unconscionable violation on your mind and -”
“Stop. Just…stop. Look, Spock. I get that you have a thing with blunt honesty, but it’s been four years. Why are you telling me any of this now?”
Spock has to consider that he was wrong - that this is the moment he’s been avoiding.
He suppresses a reflexive swallow. “Two months ago, it became impossible for me to dismiss the signs of a nascent bond forming between us again.”
“Two months ago,” Jim repeats, his voice strained.
“The bond should not have regenerated,” he insists. “It should not have been possible for it to. I -”
Jim holds up his hand, stills.
Spock’s psionic field prickles a warning.
“You said ‘can be.’ That it can be considered fraternal. Can it be considered something else?”
Spock is aware that his silence is an answer unto itself; Jim flinches.
“Two months ago is when I applied for the vice admiral position here,” Jim says. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spock.”
Spock furrows his brow. He does not understand how the two seemingly disparate topics are connected.
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I sent in that application… No, scratch that. I wasn’t thinking. I jumped, and as soon as I sent off the comm, all I could think about was…you. Leaving you. And that’s when I realized -” Jim’s jaw tightens, closing off whatever he was about to say. “It doesn’t matter. You reached out to me in friendship and my…response has been completely inappropriate. It wasn’t your fault four years ago and it isn’t your fault that it happened again. It was me.”
He parses Jim’s words once, then again, examining their entire conversation under the light of newly discovered context.
Two months ago, while Jim was impulsively pursuing Yorktown, Nyota came to Spock to say that it was time for them to consider ending their relationship. He had been talking more and more about New Vulcan then, so her approach was not unexpected. Her reasoning was.
She contended that they hadn’t grown apart, but they hadn’t grown together either. That she desired a partner who could push her forward and challenge her, while also holding her steady. And while, for a time, that person had been him, she understood now that the greatest part of him was owned by exploration, by a destiny in the stars, and it wasn’t her call he would answer first. (“But I am going to New Vulcan,” he says to her. She shakes her head. “Spock. You’re not leaving this ship.” And it feels as if she’s trying to tell him something important, but he does not understand. He does not want to.)
They parted on amicable terms, the door to his quarters closed behind her, and he thought of…Jim.
While he could not have conceived of any other type of connection to Jim outside of friendship four years ago, the end of his relationship with Nyota forced him to consider possibilities he had not explored before. He came to one definitive and defining conclusion through time and meditation.
Then, if there had been any indication that Jim viewed him as something other than a first officer and a friend, then that is the connection his mind would have sought. When he sensed the bond regenerating, he believed that is precisely what his mind did, and he could only feel shame that he had twisted Jim’s offer of friendship into something his captain did not desire.
Now, however…
His shame recedes under the illumination, shadows chased away, uncovering the nascent bond he has refused to acknowledge, let alone study, and he finds…Jim.
He grasps hold of the tendrils seeking connection and, yes, before Khan their bond was fraternal - brothers in arms - but this one shines with the possibility for a manifestation that is entirely different.
He cedes to the truth of what Nyota was saying to him. He understands why the Ambassador bequeathed him that particular photo.
He faces his captain, his friend, and makes his final decision - for Starfleet, for Jim.
“No, Jim. It was us.”
***
“Us?” Jim asks.
It’s impossible to get more than that one word out of his throat.
Spock can’t be saying that -
That’s it. End of sentence. Spock can’t be saying that.
“Yes,” Spock says softly.
Us? Yes. It’s two words, two syllables - in practice, the simplest form of a conversation. In this moment, it’s expansive.
And Jim remembers: him at twelve, laying in a neglected patch of cornfield in Iowa, looking up at the sky, the first time he really, truly understood how big the universe is. He was desperate for escape, for something better - or at least different, more - and out there, the possibilities were limitless. He imagined himself being catapulted into the void, jumping between planets, swimming in the dark between stars.
Dizzied by the rush of adrenaline, he closed his eyes and fisted his hands in the dirt. He couldn’t be swept up in a fantasy. He was one boy in the detritus of a place that had never really been home. If he was going to find his way through the universe, he had to start there.
Jim fights back the adrenaline now, anchors himself to here. That Spock doesn’t move - that he holds the space around him, certain of himself and his words - is the only thing keeping Jim grounded. It’s always been Spock who did that, even when they were at odds. Always. But he can’t be swept away by the possibilities; he has to put his fists in the dirt and start here.
He swallows against the constricting of his throat. “How much pain were you in?”
It takes Spock a second. When Spock’s fingers twitch and he clasps his hands behind his back - barring the gates - Jim knows he gets it.
“You have viewed the footage of that day, Jim.”
“I’m going to need an actual answer on that one.”
“There is no adequate way to measure or quantify it. However, eleven months and two days elapsed before the Vulcan healers deemed me recovered.”
Jim winces.
Eleven months. Longer than his recovery from death.
A half-mad laugh sticks in his chest, and that ache - fuck, that ache - it’s even worse now. If Spock’s saying what Jim thinks he’s saying (and he’s never been more certain of anything in his life), then he could have space, his ship, and Spock.
But…
God. But.
That ache is never going away.
“I can’t,” he says. The pressure in his chest threatens to crush his lungs, his stomach roils. “I don’t know if you’re even asking anything of me, but that doesn’t matter. I’m your captain, Spock. It’s my job to protect you. And even if it wasn’t - even if we could ignore that I’m the captain and you’re my first officer - you’re my friend. Spock… There’s no one in this universe who’s as important to me as you are. I can’t choose something that has the potential to hurt you like that again. I can’t.”
Spock’s features don’t shift. His spine straightens.
Jim’s heart breaks.
“As is your right, Captain. However, an expedient decision will be necessary as each second we spend in each other’s presence strengthens the bond. At this time, since the bond has not been fully realized, there are healers who would be able to excise it.”
Captain.
Jim forces himself to take a breath. Nods. “Okay. How painful would that be?”
“Significantly less painful than a bondmate’s death.”
“Good,” he says on a relieved exhale. He’d rather go back to dying in the warp core than give up Spock, but he can’t be the source of that much pain for Spock again. Not again. “Then how -”
“However,” Spock cuts in, “as your first officer, I would advise you that there are considerations you have not taken into account.”
Spock moves then, one step closer. Two. Then three. Jim lists as if someone just dialed down the gravity.
“And what are those?” he scrapes out.
Another step.
“While we were each unaware of the bond at the time, we operated as a command team for a significant length of time while bonded, and it neither interfered with nor lessened our ability to command. In fact, I would posit that the bond strengthened that ability.”
True.
Before Khan, they were in sync in a way that freaked out the rest of their bridge staff - anticipating orders, finishing each other’s sentences, coming to swift agreement even when they started a discussion at odds. Standing side-by-side on missions and ensuring that it was always their crew, then the both of them, who made it back.
Fuck. Nibiru. That’s why every cell in his body screamed that he couldn’t leave Spock to die in that volcano.
Jim waves that away, refuses to back down. “That’s not the point, and -”
“Adhering to regulation has never been your greatest strength and you are often flirtatious, yet I see no circumstance in which you would ever permit yourself to fraternize with a member of your crew. While there are regulations that bar the service of married couples in a direct reporting line, Starfleet does not prohibit those with a Vulcan bond from doing the same. It is, most likely, an oversight due to the Earth-centric view of Starfleet, nonetheless it is not regulation.” Spock takes another step closer, gaze intent. “Captain.”
Jim clenches his jaw. “Spock -”
“I have not finished,” Spock says. He’s so close that the scent of the pomade he uses to slick down every perfectly straight hair on his unfairly perfect, beautiful head washes over Jim. Jim doesn’t inhale deeper. He just doesn’t. “You stated that you were unaware if I was asking anything of you. I assure you, I am not. Instead, it is myself I am asking questions of: Why am I experiencing confusion and conflicted emotion when I am neither confused nor conflicted? Why is there restraint when I understand there is no longer a reason to hold back? Why does it feel as if my desire has been exponentially multiplied - an ache that can only be released one way?” Spock tips his head, studying Jim. “The only logical conclusion is that I am feeling you. Your conflict and your restraint. Your desire. If you were not shutting me out, you could feel me too.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck.
“Jim.” The depth in Spock’s voice is like a physical touch, drawing him in. “I have made my choice - for Starfleet and you - and I will not be diverted from either path. The pain of standing at your side without fully knowing you would eclipse that of your death. However, it is a pain I will endure if your decision is that you cannot keep the bond.”
Jim gapes.
What the hell is he supposed to say to that?
But really? There’s nothing he can say; so, he kisses Spock.
He gives himself over to being swept away, of lips opening for him, tongue demanding, and hot hands sliding under shirt and against his skin. Spock is meticulous at everything he does, and - god - he is just as meticulous at this.
Spock drags Jim into him with just the right amount of force, tilts his head and consumes. Jim sucks in a desperate breath when Spock’s lips move to his jaw then his neck, unerringly hitting the spot on Jim’s neck that makes his knees go weak. Dizzied by the rush of adrenaline, he closes his eyes and fists his hands in Spock’s shirt.
He doesn’t have to coax Spock’s lips back to his, a half-second after the need flares in his thoughts, Spock is there again, stealing Jim’s breath and his sanity, and oh - oh.
“You fucking cheater,” he gasps out when he pulls back. “How deep are you in my head?”
“Your thoughts are not quiet, Jim.”
They’re definitely not quiet on an ordinary day. Tonight, they’re really not.
It has to be maddening for someone as ordered and logical as Spock, and yet… Spock’s still here. Spock’s. Still. Here. And he wants more from Jim. He wants that bond that’s flickered to life between them again.
Jim has no clue what it feels like for Spock, no frame of reference for anything telepathic, but he’s nothing if not a little reckless and a lot motivated by a challenge. He thinks of Spock and pushes.
For one stomach-lurching second it’s like his head first dive off the drill platform, then he’s gathered, enveloped, and there’s warmth that’s sleek and powerful holding him fast. It tastes like Spock. It feels like laughter.
“Shit,” he breathes out. “This is real.”
Spock lifts one sardonic brow. “Quite.”
He may have admitted to himself that he’d fallen ass over heels for Spock two months ago, but he’d pushed off that epiphany for years. Now, though? He can look and doesn’t have to avert his eyes when Spock turns because he feels the weight of Jim’s gaze. He can touch because that touch is wanted, desired. He doesn’t have to hold back anymore.
This is real.
Okay.
So.
He needs to slow it down. He needs to breathe.
He lifts his hand and runs his fingers through Spock’s hair. It’s just as soft, just as silken, as he thought it would be. He traces along the shell of Spock’s ear and Spock closes his eyes on an exhale of breath. The slash of his brows, the cut of his cheekbone, the curve of those damning, skillful lips… Jim catalogs and treasures each of them, piece by piece. He cradles Spock’s jaw and looks at Spock. Really looks. Spock’s hands flatten against his back, holding him in place, steadying him.
He knows this face better than his own. He’s learned to read the tiniest of shifts, to search for the truth in Spock’s so-Human eyes. He nudges Spock’s chin to the side and the lights of Yorktown spill over a profile he’s stolen more glances at than he’d like to admit.
He inhales shakily.
He’s never quite been good with savoring anything, too afraid that it would disappear in the next breath, but this… He can have this, right?
They both wobbled out of alignment for a bit, but the force that pulled them together six years ago was too strong for either of them to deny. They are stronger when they’re together, in sync.
It’s not a pipe dream to think that he can hold onto this, right?
Jim’s hand slides down the curve of Spock’s neck as Spock turns to face him again. “Please attempt not to question yourself this way. I am, and shall always be, yours.”
Jim’s breath catches.
“That easy, Spock? That fast?”
“It has been neither easy nor fast between us.”
“Us?” he asks.
“Yes, Jim. Us.”
Jim swears that his heart stops beating; that it restarts at a new rhythm. This time, when he kisses Spock, it’s slow and sweet.
He lingers on the softness of Spock’s lips, the warmth. Luxuriates in the sweep of Spock’s tongue, just a touch rougher than his. The skin under his hands is hot, and he knew it would be - he knows it is from every time he’s reached out and set a hand on Spock’s shoulder or around his wrist - but he didn’t expect that heat to seep under his skin, get caught up in his veins, each beat of his heart diluting the ache of unfulfilled need. Of loneliness.
God, he’s been so lonely for so long.
No longer, flits through his head. Never again.
Then Spock’s sliding his hands out from under Jim’s shirt, and taking Jim’s hands between his, and oh fuck, okay. Vulcans have a thing with hands - gates to their telepathic centers and all - he gets it. But he’s never really gotten it until now.
Spock’s longer fingers curl around his and there’s a tangible pulse, a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. Words flit through his head, unintelligible yet lyrical, like distant music. Jim follows the cadence of words he doesn’t know and presses his palm to Spock’s. The warmth grows, the pulse. Spock slides his hand down Jim’s then up, breath quickening, fingertips tracing the lines of Jim’s palm then the length of his fingers. Each touch is like Spock is removing a piece of clothing, stripping him bare.
Jim exhales shakily. He rests his cheek against Spock’s.
“Take me to bed, Spock.”
“If we do so, the bond may be completed - irreversible.”
“I’ve been advised by my first officer that that’s the best course of action. He gave me a list of reasons and I found it pretty persuasive.”
“You do not wish to provide a counter argument?”
“It was flawlessly logical,” Jim says. “And, well, really fucking hot. I think it was the second part that won me over.”
The corner of Spock’s lips twitches. “Very well, then.”
Jim tugs on Spock’s hand and begins to lead him toward the bedroom. He decides to keep it slow, tamping down the overwhelming urge to strip Spock here and get as much of his skin against as much of Spock’s skin as he possibly can as fast as possible. He doesn’t think he’d get any argument from Spock if that’s the way he wanted to go, but his gut is telling him that so much of their shared existence has been fast and messy so this shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be.
Or, hell, maybe that’s just his selfishness kicking in. He hasn’t actually asked Spock what he wants.
Spock comes to a stop just outside the bedroom, his brows furrowing together deeply. “To want is not inherently selfish, Jim.”
Telepathy. Right.
This is going to take some getting used to.
“You’re right that it’s not,” he agrees. “But I haven’t asked you.”
“You have been asking me since the bond began to regenerate, and I answered by strengthening it.” Either the look on Jim’s face says something Jim’s not aware of, or something in his thoughts does - maybe both - because every inch of Spock softens. “Consent is not in question - I consent to a physical and mental joining just as you have. What I do object to, however, is your belief that you must sacrifice in order to be of value.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Is it truly not? You grew up in the shadow of a father who was canonized in his death. You were mentored by a man who eschewed personal connections in favor of his career, then you witnessed his death in sacrifice to Starfleet ideals. You gave your own life for your crew and were lauded for taking that extreme step. Your life has been defined for you by the supposedly heroic act of sacrificing it. I will not ask the same of you - for you to prove your inherent value by giving your life, or by refusing your own wants or needs because you have been taught that deprivation is more noble.”
Tears prickle at Jim’s eyes, his throat tightens. There’s too much truth in that to swallow - too much to acknowledge out loud. At the warm brush of Spock’s thumb over his, he knows Spock’s heard it nonetheless.
Yet there remains something that must be said.
“We lost our mentor. Pike was a mentor to both of us.”
“He was,” Spock says softly. “And I will not deny that I am…tainted by loss in a way I was not before we met.” Vulcan, Spock’s mother, Pike. Jim himself. Memories flit through Jim’s head and he hurts with Spock, holds on tighter. “However, I am also aware that you will attempt to reassure me, not negate my history or who I have become because of it. Jim. You would have me as I am, and I will have you as you are.”
Since he joined Starfleet, there have been plenty of people who have known him and seen him for who he really is. But Spock… Spock is the only one who took the time to learn who Jim is at his core, then didn’t try to change him.
“Fuck,” Jim breathes out. “Maybe warn a guy before you drop devastatingly romantic lines like that?”
“It is the truth.”
“I know. That’s the devastating part.”
“Jim -”
“In a good way, Spock. I promise.”
The tilt of Spock’s eyebrow says, You are an illogical Human. The warmth of Spock’s mind says, I understand.
What Spock does though is step forward. He trails his fingertips over the hint of exposed skin on Jim’s chest, then tugs softly, pointedly, at the first of a line of buttons still done up. “May I?”
“God. Please. Yes.”
Spock slips each button free, and a fluttering picks up low in Jim’s belly in anticipation and want.
He can’t help but think about how many times he’s done this, but it was always in a desperate bid to forget, to hide, or to conceal. Most times it was fun, sure, ridiculously satisfying certain times too. But it was never a connection beyond the physical, never enough for him to shed layer upon layer of facades.
It was never real.
Spock’s palms flatten on Jim’s abdomen, stroke up his chest then to his shoulders, pushing Jim’s shirt off, down his arms, to the floor. Jim shivers at the intentionality of each touch, the deliberate care.
The touch of Spock’s mind to his is just as intentional and careful. Just as soft.
Jim isn’t built the same way, never has been, so his rush to pull off Spock’s thermal is wholly intentional but isn’t half as careful and not at all graceful. Getting his hands on Spock’s skin just became mandatory though, and as soon as Spock’s shirt is gone - flung somewhere into the shadows of Jim’s bedroom - he pulls Spock into him, one hand braced on Spock’s back to slot them together, and the other slipping easily beneath the back of Spock’s waistband.
The heat of Spock’s skin isn’t solely physical - it never was, never could’ve been - and Jim’s mind is enveloped again, held protectively, gently.
For the first time in his life, Jim feels…safe.
Tears of relief threaten, and an apology is nearly through his lips before he swallows it down. There’s no apology necessary, nothing to forget, hide, or conceal. Spock gets it, gets him. He holds on tighter to Spock instead, and Spock’s there like he always is, like he has been since they forged their own peace after Nero.
Spock coaxes Jim’s chin up with lips, then teeth. He works his way down Jim’s throat, and Jim digs his fingernails in as his knees begin to give out.
“I don’t care what we do. Fuck me, let me fuck you… Spock. I just need you as close as you can get.”
“Take me,” Spock says, his breath hot against Jim’s neck, “then I will show you what it is to be taken by the bond.”
It’s a matter of seconds - of clasps undone and clothes abandoned on the floor, of languid kisses and the liquid grace of Spock falling onto the bed and pulling Jim after him - then Jim hovers over a body that he’s done his fair share of fantasizing about, yet he doesn’t touch. Not yet. Spock’s right - it’s the totality of this Vulcan-Human he wants. It’s the connection between them he needs.
He looks at Spock and his heart aches.
Are you sure?, he wants to ask. Or, Seriously? Me? Any logical explanation for the gut deep certainty that what he was seeking was never about space or his ship, it’s always been Spock - always - and somehow, miraculously, it’s the same for Spock.
The logic isn’t hard to follow - to a point. He knows “why” and “how” as they’ve lived it for the last six years, and tonight they’ve pieced together “when.” “Who” was, seemingly, inevitable - a revelation, yes, but not really a surprise. “Where” is obviously wherever they are, together. As to “what”…
He lifts his hand, sets it on the long line of Spock’s neck, and brushes his thumb over Spock’s throat.
What he feels for Spock cannot be contained by logic.
Spock looks up at him, features placidly neutral, but there’s sheen on his lips and a flush on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. He’s splayed out on Jim’s bed, naked, vulnerable, his legs bracketing Jim’s hips. Jim has his hand at Spock’s throat this time, and while he thought that they’d never quite recover from the first time, he was missing the point all along.
It hasn’t been easy or fast between them, but they could not have become this in any other way.
Individually, they’ve had to fight for everything in their lives - different battles, but the same war for acceptance; trust the first casualty… Until they faced off against each other, found an equal, a challenger of worth, then learned to fight in sync with each other.
Jim leans down and places a soft kiss on Spock’s Adam’s apple.
Spock’s intake of breath is audible, just as soft. He doesn’t say a word as he lifts Jim’s hand, slides their fingers together, then guides Jim’s hand down to his sheath.
At the press of their fingers into Spock’s slick heat, a moan catches in Jim’s chest, he ruts helplessly against the inside of Spock’s thigh like it’s his first time. And, oh god, it is. Every other time meant nothing, and this…? Well, this is a series of moments that will define the rest of his life.
Their joined hands pump Spock’s lok to hardness and the sleek warmth in Jim’s mind surges hotter, brighter, a desperate cry for more. Spock’s eyes slip closed, his back bows. How Jim ever thought that having sex with Spock would just be sex is beyond his understanding. He struggles to breathe around the overload of physical and mental stimulation.
Another tug of Spock’s hand, and Jim’s fingers, wet with Spock’s natural lubrication, are pushed down, down, past smooth skin, inside. There’s none of the tentative buildup needed, Vulcan control - Vulcan want, Vulcan desire - in full effect, two of Jim’s fingers shoved deep with two of Spock’s fingers, sliding together, filthy Vulcan kisses opening Spock wider.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jim pants out. Fuck.
He’s so close to coming like this, and it wouldn’t be untouched since Spock’s there in his mind too, but it’s light touches, teasing at the edges, testing, questioning, driving Jim to the edges of sanity. He needs Spock deep.
Spock slips his fingers out, gathers slick from his sheath, then he’s fisting Jim’s cock, fever hot hands lubing Jim up. Jim’s hips buck, Spock's moan comes low and feral. Jim falls forward, braces himself with palms planted next to Spock’s sides. Spock cants his hips up, then his hands are digging into Jim’s hips and pulling him in.
Heat envelops Jim’s cock, pressure, a silken slide. He drives in hard, and the Jim that falls from Spock’s lips is indecent. Spock’s desire crystallizes in Jim’s mind, the need to be claimed, reassured, possessed, adored, and, god, Jim gets it.
He curls over Spock, gathers Spock in his arms, chest to chest, skin to skin, fucking into him deep and slow. Spock arches up to meet him at every thrust, his nails digging into Jim’s back, whispered Vulcan words slipping past his lips that Jim consumes in a bruising kiss. He draws back just enough to take Spock’s lok in hand, to stroke it root to tip and pull a moan from Spock’s throat. Desperation itches under his skin - they’re completely entwined, breathing each other’s air, and it’s so close. Not close enough.
“I feel hints of you there.” His voice is broken, ragged. “Please, Spock. I need all of you there.”
This time, Jim doesn’t push into Spock’s mind; he pulls.
Spock’s hips snap up, his fingertips find Jim’s psi-points unerringly, and Jim isn’t enveloped, cradled, or swept away; for one long, achingly devastating moment he is Spock. He’s a boy with fists raised, a teenager turning his back on his father, a man watching his mother fall. He is the hurricane instead of the eye, and, for a time, anger, grief, and sorrow overwhelm every moment of joy. He reaches for Nyota and denies it’s too late - that he hasn’t allowed himself to drift too far away.
He falls into logic, fortifies himself behind its walls, closing himself off to all. But no matter how much he distances himself, there is a hand on his shoulder, a synchronized stride into battle, a voice he cannot deny. Then a hand pressed to glass in a final goodbye. The walls crumble.
I’m here I’m here I’m here, Jim says, and I’m yours, and it’s a call with an immediate answer, Vulcan strength pulling him into the eye, but it is no longer anger, grief, or sorrow that coalesces around him - it is hope. It is worry and it is adoration. It is an ache and acceptance, and, somedays, yes, it is annoyance at the voice he cannot deny. It is laughter that will never be heard aloud, yet exists nonetheless because there, too, is joy.
They stand on their rubble in the calm Spock forged for himself and Jim understands.
What Spock feels for him cannot be contained by logic, and despite the tenets that will define the remainder of Spock’s days, between them, Spock does not wish for it to be limited or constrained - as it is them.
“Yes,” Jim says, his voice just as broken, just as ragged. But this time it’s a promise, not a plea. “Us.”
Spock’s fingers are sliding off his psi-points but the connection persists, a bond no longer nascent. Jim revels in the heat surrounding them, mind and body. He thrusts into Spock and it’s him being filled. He strokes Spock’s lok and it’s a firm, hot hand around his cock. Spock grips the back of Jim’s neck and kisses him hard, commandeering every molecule of oxygen in his lungs. The bond flares brighter.
He takes in the parting of Spock’s lips, the quickening of breath, the coiling of muscles, and there’s no reading between the lines needed. He plucks the word out of Spock’s head without effort, then leans down and whispers in Spock’s ear, “T’hy’la.”
Spock’s lok seizes in Jim’s hand, he clutches desperately at Jim’s back.
A heartbeat later Jim is taken by their bond too.
***
The Enterprise-A hums at a different frequency.
It’s a subtle shift - slightly higher pitch, a rhythmic warbling absent before - and nearly indecipherable for all except those with Vulcan hearing and one Lieutenant Montgomery Scott.
Spock watches Scott across the officer’s mess, his hand silently tapping out the new rhythm on the table in front of him, Nyota seated across from him, her eyes closed. Unlike most Humans, her features aren’t fixed with the typical mien of concentration; her natural state is to listen, analyze, interpret.
She sits straight-backed in her chair, palms resting on her legs, and despite the low chatter and laughter of the other officers, Nyota’s fingers twitch then pick up the same rhythm as Scott’s hand on the table. Scott beams, launches himself out of his seat, and grips her shoulders.
“That’s it, lassie! Ye got it!”
Nyota’s laughter carries easily across the din of the packed room as she playfully swats him away. Spock turns back toward the chess set at his table, content in their joy.
It has been one month and twelve days since they departed from Yorktown; nearly a year since Nyota last wore the Vokaya pendant around her neck. Spock is content in that decision as well, regardless of where it now resides. She is there on the bridge of the Enterprise in the Ambassador’s photo after all. As are McCoy, Scott, Chekov, Sulu. Jim, in the captain’s chair, and the Ambassador at his side. All of them aged, gray. Content.
This new voyage of the Enterprise is, quite simply, another volume in a collective story.
The light of a distant solar system streaks past the transparent aluminum, camaraderie presses warm against his shields, and just as Spock settles the final piece on the board, a much cooler hand rests on his shoulder.
“Fancy a game, Mr. Spock?”
Spock looks up at his captain, to his bondmate. His features remain impassive, but he does not suppress his affection. Nyota was correct - the greatest part of him is owned by exploration, a destiny in the stars. He is accepted as he is by the man who embodies both.
“I am amenable, Captain.”
Jim drops into the seat across from Spock, a grin inching up his lips as he slides a pawn forward, then Spock does the same - a contented silence falling between them.
The Enterprise hums at a different frequency, and Jim unconsciously taps out a matching rhythm on the table.
A new chapter begins.