Work Text:
He waits until it’s dark outside and most have retired to their homes, but even then, he’s careful to stick to the shadows. This won’t be easy to explain. It will be obvious at first glance what he plans to do, because there’s no other reason to go shirtless in the autumn’s cool evenings than to leave his wings free to fly.
But most sprites don’t have wings, and there is no reason to look up when all they need is on the ground. Spock’s wings are too long, the tips conspicuously spilling over the backs of his thighs even when the rest is hidden under a sweater, and he never forgets that he has them. That this is a possibility. A needless, illogical, taboo possibility. It nags at him nonetheless until he finds the perfect night to slip away, and then he’s off, high into the canopy of trees, where none of his own people could find him.
His own people aren’t the only sentient creatures on this earth. The big people—the humans, they’re called, and he’s sure their sentient like him, not just towering, lumbering, destructive animals—aren’t just legends any more. There’s a human home now in the meadow that his people would see if only they’d look, but Spock’s will for exploration must come from his mother’s side. His father and the rest of them think it best to stay put and deal with their own affairs.
When Spock clears the forest’s edge, it hits him again how very different he is, because this small glimpse of the world beyond the forest is worth all the risk of their scorn.
The hut isn’t difficult to spot. It’s a giant eyesore of a thing that sticks out amongst the rolling plains—all its wood is smoothed to perfection, its angles too precise to be natural. There’s a glow in the windows that doesn’t flicker like fire. Some of the plants in front of it are tucked into containers, separated from the grass all around, and a few stone carvings that can’t be for anything more than ornamental reasons litter the yard. It’s a strange, eerie sight.
And it calls to Spock in a way that only he could answer. His narrow wings spread wide, and he sets off across the open air, the uncanny lights gleaming in his eyes.
There aren’t any humans out and about—they’re easy to spot, easy to hear, even easy to smell. He’s more cautious the closer he gets, just in case. He’s heard all the stories. But the place is clear, the scene still, right until he makes it up to the giant paving stones set before the side. He thinks the entrance must be here—he can see the cutout lines of a rectangle that he thinks must open and close to allow admittance. He wouldn’t actually go in of course; that would be unacceptably rude as well as dangerous. But that needn’t stop him from examining the outside and conducting his own research. Even if his people have little need for other creatures, it seems wrong not to learn what he can of other cultures.
He’s just flown up to the wall, carefully avoiding the shiny surface that looks inside the structure, when the glow in that window flickers out. Spock tenses and flattens against the wood, ready to hide. Another light suddenly blazes overhead, and he reels back to look at an orange sphere mounted in the overhang of the roof.
It looks like the sun. But it’s reachable, and he can feel its heat, and beyond that, he wouldn’t know, because no one knows much about the thing that gives them all light.
This one tugs at him, draws him in more than the want to explore the house ever did—the luminous aura fills his gaze and consumes him—it’s mesmerizing—the closer he gets, the warmer he feels—he can see the haze of light around the center—he gets close, closer, enough to reach out, and soon he’ll touch it—
“NO!”
Spock whirls on the spot, jerking back in surprise, but that proves a mistake—his back hits the source of light, and it burns. It sears the skin right between his wings, all down his spine, and for that single moment, he’s frozen there in a rush of pain, and it seems to short out his nerves—his wings quiver and give way. He drops, spiraling down.
Someone catches him mid-fall. He’s scooped right up under his knees and shoulders, cradled close to a broad chest in strong arms. Spock’s still dizzy from the shock, but he’s conscious of being flown away from the hot glow, back into the safer haze of evening starlight. His vision’s swimming.
“First rule of flight,” the stranger tells him, “don’t touch the light.”
No one ever told Spock that. But then, there were no rules of flight. Even his mother doesn’t fly, and she’s a proper fairy.
Spock’s a half-breed that shouldn’t have come here, and if he had the strength, he’d push away and fly home right now to apologize. He needs treatment. It still hurts, though not as sharply as before. The cool wind is a help. The stranger takes him up into the branches of a nearby tree, still within easy sight of the human structure. Spock feels like he should be much, much farther—he didn’t know the things they made were quite that dangerous, even just to touch. But he’s not sure he can fly on his own. The stranger sets him down on one of the lower branches, thick and gnarled and safely shrouded in green-orange leaves. Spock stumbles to his feet but finds he can’t keep himself straight. He has to stifle a whimper when he tries, but the stranger’s quickly at his side to loop an arm under his shoulders and half carry him forward. Spock’s cheeks flare emerald from the continued contact and the brush of soft fabric that makes up the stranger’s golden shirt. It reminds him of his own bare chest and how inappropriate that is. He hadn’t meant to be seen by anyone.
He didn’t know there were any fairies this close to his own home. This stranger must be a fairy, even though the house he brings Spock too is nothing like the usual tree-caves he’s heard of. It’s a large rectangle with a triangular roof, reminiscent of the human’s hut, and made of who-knows-what. Spock’s never seen anything like it before. The colour—bright pink—doesn’t look like a natural stain. The odd structure is wedged between the branch and trunk. The stranger takes Spock through the perfectly sized hole at the bottom, and then Spock’s looking around at the most exactingly carved room he’s ever seen. The walls are completely smooth, the angles sharp and in absolute ninety-degree configurations. The furniture is similarly stunning—Spock’s never heard of anything like it. He can’t identify any of the materials. He looks about in awe, and the stranger tightens his hold and says, “’Bed’s on the second floor—you’d better lie down.”
All the two-story homes that Spock knows have ramps or ladders, but this one just has a hole. The stranger flies them up through it, supporting Spock’s weight too, which forces Spock to latch on tight to the stranger’s neck. He quickly pulls away as soon as they’re on the second floor. There’s only one thing in the room resembling a bed, but it’s raised off the floor higher than he’s used to and has strange wooden slabs at two of the sides. Spock’s ushered over to it. He sits down tentatively and finds, to his surprise, that it’s incredibly soft.
He only manages to tear himself away from the confusing house because his rescuer is even more note-worthy. The man stands before the bed, looking down at Spock with bright blue eyes and a broad, warm smile. His dirty-blond hair catches the moonlight coming in through the round window. Somehow, he’s wearing a shirt, despite the great wings that stem from his back, fully spread in all their glory.
They are glorious. Beautiful. A colourful mash of intricate designs, they resemble a butterfly, but more magnificent than any such insect Spock’s ever seen. He’s seen fairy wings before, albeit only his mother’s, but they aren’t like this. It makes Spock even more self-conscious. His own wings, more like a dragonfly, distorted and distinctly strange on his body, try to tuck further behind his back. This isn’t what he thought exploring would be like.
“Jim,” the stranger says, breaking the silence. “Jim Kirk. And you are...?”
“Spock,” Spock answers, assuming ‘Jim’ to be a name.
“Spock,” Jim repeats. Spock braces for the rest—the questions—what is he, where did he come from—but Jim skips right to, “Are you alright?” His overtly handsome face drops into a sudden frown, and he gestures at the bed. “You should lie down. You got burned, didn’t you? I’ll take a look at you and see if there’s anything I can do...”
Spock’s tempted to just say he’s fine in the interest of not imposing any further, but he tries not to lie. And at least lying down will hide his shamefully bare chest. He still hesitates to move, but does slowly turn down to lie across the bed, which seems almost to have a sort of spring to it. He can’t imagine what’s under the blankets. As he straightens out, he asks, “What is this place...?”
“A dollhouse,” Jim tells him, which gives Spock further pause. “Uhura—uh, the human that lives in that cabin you were just looking at—put it up here for me. She’s really nice.”
“You... you talk to humans?” Shock doesn’t begin to cover Spock’s reaction. He gapes up at the fairy that found him, but Jim just laughs.
“I know, I know; I’m too curious for my own good. Trust me, I’ve heard it before. But obviously, I’m not the only curious one around here.”
Spock’s cheeks flush, but he doesn’t argue. Even though he wouldn’t have been that curious. He still has common sense.
Jim’s smile drops again as he peers over Spock’s back. His eyes catch momentarily on Spock’s wings, but he still makes no comment on them. Instead, he drops one hand to tentatively draw around Spock’s wound, and Spock hisses, gritting his teeth. Jim draws his hand back and says, “I think this is more than I can do on my own. Hold on—I know someone who can help.”
Spock just nods. It isn’t until Jim’s already flown over to the hole that disappears into the first floor that Spock thinks to hope Jim doesn’t mean the human.
While Jim’s gone, Spock looks about the room, taking in more details. The style is very odd to him, and there’s more pink than he’s used to seeing—his people prefer the more common colours of the world—green and brown. But this place is mostly in floral tones with hardly any basic shades. Humans are...
Jim returns before Spock’s finished his final analysis. Jim brings someone with him—an older looking fairy with darker hair, less ornate wings, and a bag slung over one shoulder. He’s grumbling to Jim as they fly up, “—Told you not to go back there; you’ll get yourself killed!”
Jim ignores the complaint and guides the newcomer over, who stops mid-flight when he spots Spock lying on the bed. His eyes go straight to Spock’s wings, and he continues to stare as Jim introduces. “This is Bones. He’s good with healing. Bones, this is—”
“Tell me what first,” ‘Bones’ says, landing on his feet to march right over. Jim hurriedly follows. Spock moves to try and sit up, but Jim lays a hand on his arm, stilling him. Bones leans in over Spock’s back and mutters, “The wound looks green.”
“I am a sprite,” Spock fills in. “Our blood is iron-based.”
“Sprites don’t have wings.”
“And fairies don’t have wings like this...” Jim notes. His hand slides from Spock’s arm, fingers delicately brushing down the length of Spock’s wing, and it sends a shiver right up his spine. Jim gives him a wide smile that makes his throat tighten.
“I... I am a half-breed,” he explains. Jim doesn’t look particularly surprised, but Bones does. Spock’s grateful when neither of them linger on it.
Bones diverts right to his bag and starts pulling out herbs, grunting, “Right. Well, these should work regardless of blood type. You’re lucky it’s just your flesh that’s burnt though, and it looks shallow. I can ease that right up, good as new. Wings are a lot harder to fix.”
“I burnt myself a few times before Uhura caught and scolded me,” Jim says in a conciliatory tone. Bones winces like the very mention of the incident bothers him.
He pulls a wooden bowl out of his bag next and starts to mix herbs into it, mashing them with the heel of his palm into a paste. Spock’s seen similar treatments at home, but his people usually don’t growl while they work. Bones chides both of them, “No one should be flying near that thing! Humans are dangerous—they could crush you with one hand! And plenty would, too.”
Spock doesn’t argue. Jim roles his eyes but patiently listens. There isn’t much more Spock can do. When Bones is finished forming his paste, he reaches out to spread it across Spock’s back. It’s cool but dulls the remainder of the pain instantly, and Bones’ touch is careful. He massages it in until there’s nothing left of that pain at all. Then he asks, “How’s that?”
“Much better, thank you.” He flexes one wing, just in case, testing how it feels when his muscles shift around it, but the paste holds and works. Bones gives a curt nod.
“Good. Now, get some rest and let it settle. And don’t be following this one into any trouble.” He jabs a thumb at Jim, which Jim meets with an indulgent grin.
Apparently, Bones shares none of their curiosity, because he leaves right after. Jim sees him down to the first floor, but Spock remains where he is, obeying the command to rest. He doubts it would be smart to fly home now anyway, and... he would be reluctant to leave. There may not be much to learn of humans, but fairies...
When Jim comes back, he says, “I’ll find you something to wear so you don’t catch a cold.”
Sure enough, Jim fishes a blue sweater out of a violet set of drawers and flies it over to Spock. He sits up to take it, says, “Thank you,” and pulls it over his head with extra care for his back. His wings at least keep it off the surface.
As he pulls the hem down, pleased to have the warmth back and this token from Jim, Jim laughs, “What are you doing?”
Spock’s head jerks up. “Putting it on...?”
“Over your wings? How are you going to fly like that?” He wasn’t. Spock can feel his cheeks heating again, and Jim surmises on his own, “Oh, right. Sprites don’t do that... and that’s why you were shirtless... well, fairies do, so we cut holes for it.” Before Spock can remark at how fascinating all this is, Jim comes over to help, crawling onto the bed and around Spock. He lifts the shirt out and helps slip Spock’s wings through the holes that Spock hadn’t seen. Jim does it so easily, but each brush of contact across his wings catches Spock’s breath—he isn’t used to anyone touching such a delicate, intimate part of himself. As Jim finishes shifting the sweater into place, he notes quietly, “I can’t imagine not flying.”
“My people have no need to,” Spock provides. “We have everything we need to survive on the ground.”
“And that’s enough?”
Spock looks at Jim curiously. There’s a depth in his eyes that Spock understands. It wasn’t enough, not really.
When Spock doesn’t answer, Jim asks, “Are you hungry?”
“No, just tired.”
Jim nods. “You should stay the night. Bones said to rest, and he knows what he’s talking about. ...And I can tell you all about humans in the morning. We can go exploring together.”
As much as Spock wants that, he knows he should go home. His parents will be worried. He says only, “Perhaps.” Jim nods and graces him with another dazzling smile.
With at least the matter of sleep decided, Jim shuffles to the head of the bed and lifts up the covers to slip underneath. His wings flutter out the sides, flaring to fullness before settling, and Spock watches the movement in a trance. Jim’s wings are truly spectacular, more beautiful than anything else Spock’s ever seen. In that moment, he finally understands how his father was attracted to a fairy.
But the moment passes swiftly, and Spock moves before he’s caught staring. He has to face Jim to make room for his own wings to trail over his side, the blanket a little heavy but not too strenuous against them, and the warmth atop Jim’s sweater is more than welcome. Sprites, Spock knows, prefer it hotter than fairies, perhaps because they aren’t so accustomed to a breeze. Jim keeps his clothes on, perhaps for Spock’s sake. Through the relative darkness of the starlight, Jim murmurs, “Your wings are gorgeous, by the way.”
Spock doesn’t know if he’s more shocked or pleased. Both sensations paint his cheeks. His mouth is too dry and won’t seem to work fast enough for him to return the compliment.
Jim’s eyes close, and he snuggles into the pillow, making a contented noise. Spock hopes he’s a fast sleeper.
Spock thinks of leaving. He really does. He could slide out of bed now, remove Jim’s sweater, and return home to tell his parents everything he’s found and apologize for his foolishness.
Then he thinks they might not even notice until tomorrow morning. If he gets up early, he’ll have time to fly back.
And so he can stay here, with Jim, and continue the adventure.