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Jim watches Spock’s sorry attempt at roasting the ‘marsh melon’ for as long as he can possibly stand it. He slaps his hands to his knees and groans as he pushes himself up to his feet—a simple task that’s becoming irritatingly strenuous as the passage of time flows past him.
Spock quirks a brow as he watches Jim round the campfire before dropping down on the log next to him.
“Give me that,” Jim huffs as he snatches the stick from Spock’s hands. “The thing’s going to go stale before it roasts if you keep holding it that far away.”
Ever true to his unbothered Vulcan disposition, Spock allows the transference of power without protest and simply observes the task being performed.
How a guy goes through his entire life not knowing how to roast a damn marshmallow is beyond him. It’s downright criminal, is what it is. Poor guy’s never had a single normal childhood memory, as far as Jim can tell. He blames the parents.
A snicker emanates from the nearby log, currently occupied by Jim’s other pain in his neck.
“And what’re you laughing at over there?” Jim asks as he slowly rotates the stick for a nice, even roast.
Leonard McCoy is stretched out on his bedroll, boots kicked off, hands folded behind his head, looking entirely at home. He doesn’t so much as crack an eye open when he answers. “I was just thinkin’ how funny it is that you can’t help yourself.”
“Can’t help myself from what? Helping?” Jim asks, intentionally exaggerating his tone, unable to resist the urge to poke the bear.
Bones snorts as he clarifies, “from taking over, Commander.”
“Oh, please,” Jim murmurs. He elbows Spock and gives him a ‘can you believe this guy’ expression. The corners of Spock’s mouth turn down in a smile you’d only catch if you knew what to look for.
“It’s true.” McCoy shrugs and continues smoothly, as if he were simply stating a fact, “You’re a bossy son of a bitch. So what? It’s what makes you a half decent Captain.”
“Half decent?” Jim mutters, “gee, don’t strain yourself, Bones.”
“You asked, I answered!” McCoy barks, not shifting a muscle.
Jim waves a dismissive hand towards Bones and turns his attention back to the marshmallow at hand—and the Vulcan beside him, sitting in a comfortable silence, his hands neatly folded in front of him.
Jim sighs. “Well, I’m sorry if I over-stepped, Spock. I should have just let you struggle and fail and be forced to eat a cold, unmelted s’more. Would that have made you happy, Bones?”
“Ecstatic,” McCoy answers dryly.
Jim lets out an exaggerated guffaw into the otherwise silent night. The peepers stop their song for a few beats before resuming.
“Do not apologize,” comes the low, baritone rumble from his first officer, “I welcome the expertise.”
He sits up a little straighter, glancing over at Bones. “There. Y’see? He welcomes my expertise.”
“Yeah, well, he would…” mutters McCoy.
Jim makes a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Jim, the marsh melon has caught fire,” Spock says flatly.
Jim curses as he pulls the now flaming mound of sugary confection from the pit, blowing it out immediately. Steam streams from its scorched black skin. The whole thing sends Bones into a fit of giggles. The man always was an annoyingly happy drunk…
“It’s still good,” Jim attempts to reassure Spock, “it’s just… flambé’d.”
Spock cocks a single brow. “Flambé’d?”
Jim nods, “Yes, exactly. Now get a pair of graham crackers and some of that chocolate. Quick, before it cools off; this is all about timing, Spock. The chocolate goes on the bottom….”
With steady, precise movements, Spock follows Jim’s orders. “Alright now, pinch it together and I’ll slide the stick out. Aaaaand, that’s it! You’re done. Easy as that.”
Spock takes a long moment to examine what he’s left with, eyeing the s’more with an unreasonable amount of suspicion.
“It appears structurally unstable…” Spock looks from the s’more to Jim.
“It’s supposed to be. Hurry up and eat it, it’s only good while it’s still melty.”
Spock presses his lips together into a thin line and Jim can practically hear the wheels turning in that computer-like Vulcan brain of his.
But, to his credit, he trusts Jim enough to lean forward and take a bite. The pressure from the crackers makes the marshmallow bulge out the sides, the burnt shell giving way to the stark white of its insides.
Jim only realizes that he’s leaning forward along with Spock when his back begins to ache, so he straightens up.
Spock eats as politely as he can, but the s’more is a different sort of beast than what he’s used to. Crumbs inevitably fall onto the front of his jacket, the tops of his thighs.
By the time he’s finished with his slow bites and deliberate chewing, he’s even got a bit of marshmallow stuck to the side of his cheek, near the corner of his mouth. A warm feeling of undeniable affection bubbles up in Jim’s chest over it.
Prim and proper Mr. Spock, slumming it like the rest of ‘em, covered in the remains of his first s’more.
“Well, Spock? Was it all you hoped it would be?” Bones drawls from his side of the fire.
Spock nods, still trying in vain to rid himself of the lingering stickiness on his hands by rubbing them together. “Quite good. Preferable even to your beans, doctor.”
McCoy snorts before he returns to pretending to nap, humming some old country tune Jim almost recognizes.
The exchange has Jim grinning a grin that doesn’t seem to want to leave. This trip really was exactly what he needed—maybe what all three of them needed. Just to get away. Though, not from each other. Sure, the three of them spend most of their time bickering back and forth but it was like Bones said, there’s a mystery that seems to draw them together. Why fight against it?
Jim, being the good friend he is, knocks his elbow against Spock’s, garnering his attention. He points toward his own cheek, in the same spot where the smudge of marshmallow rested on Spock’s.
For a long moment, Spock doesn’t respond. A crease slowly forms between those sharp brows of his.
So Jim raises his brows and points again, patting his cheek with his index finger a few times in an effort to drive the point home.
Maybe he’s embarrassed, Jim thinks as Spock takes another moment to consider, head tilting to the side.
Now, there isn’t much that could surprise James T. Kirk. He’s been around the proverbial block in more ways than one, and had things go sideways for most of those times.
But, when instead of lifting his hand to scrub away the bit of marshmallow from his face like Jim expects him to, Spock does a thing that surprises even him:
he kisses him.
Right in the spot Jim had been pointing to on his cheek.
It’s a small, closed-mouth thing. Like the kind of kiss you’d give your grandma. It lasts for no longer than a second, maybe two but…
As Spock pulls away Jim feels himself go the way of the lobster: red and steaming.
He hears his heart thundering in his ears, distorting the sounds of nature he’d previously been enjoying, his breath stuck somewhere between his mouth and lungs. All he can do is blink.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for his brain to catch up with what just happened. A misunderstanding of substantial proportions. One he doesn’t know how to correct without making a complete ass of himself and humiliating Spock in the process.
And, maybe… Jim rolls the thought around his head, mulling it over before he can look at it squarely in the eye.
Maybe he doesn’t entirely want to correct it.
In the corner of his vision, he catches the tail-end of what looks like some sort of silent exchange between Spock and Bones. But, like the traitor he is, Bones rolls over in his makeshift bed without even so much as a goodnight before he can hope to get an answer out of him.
Spock, meanwhile, busies himself with skewering another marshmallow onto his roasting stick. He proceeds to hold it at the ideal height from the fire, slowly rotating it. Exactly as Jim had shown him.
“Shall I flambé it this time as well, Jim?” Spock asks, voice even. Pleasant.
Jim opens his mouth, his brain hasn't quite recovered enough to formulate much of anything. A few strange noises spring forth before something nearing the English language follows.
“I… I suppose we could do it again,” Jim fumbles along, shrugging, “if you liked it.”
Spock takes his eye off the marshmallow and looks over at Jim. They maintain eye contact for a beat too long for it to be entirely casual.
Finally, the Vulcan nods. “I liked it very much.”
Jim’s face breaks into a wide grin entirely beyond his control. He doesn’t fight it—he doubts it would do any good even if he tried.
They carry on into the night, speaking in hushed voices as to not disturb the good Doctor’s apparent sleep. Their knees knock together on occasion, their shoulders brushing.
A few burnt marshmallows later and Jim even risks inching closer to Spock on the log they share, closing the small distance between them. And Spock… Well, Spock doesn’t pull away.
Yes, he thinks. This is exactly what he needed.