Half a Dream Away | STXI | PG-13 | Part 3/?
Title: Half a Dream Away III
Beta: rainbowstrlght ; special thanks to verizonhorizon
Series: STXI Academy AU
Rating: PG-13 [Eventual NC-17]
Length: ~2,700
Warnings: Enough fluff to stuff a mattress.
Summary: For lallyloo ’s prompt of lyrics: You know I dreamed about you / For twenty-nine years / Before I saw you / You know I dreamed about you / I missed you for twenty-nine years.
A/N: Okay, I know I promised I would heat up this chapter, but I imagine it would be better to have an entire chapter simply devoted to the yummy bits, so I’ll have to leave you hanging for just a bit longer. This is the last of the chapters that I would consider slow, and I’m working on the next instalment.
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
chapter I chapter II
As Bones would say, it’s been pissing down.
Rain hurtles to the earth in a thunderous drumbeat that lasts through the good part of a week. It floods everything: The water-logged earth, cracks in the pavement that burst with escaping worms, the basements of crazy cat ladies on the news - Jim’s shoes, his backpack.
The latter of which consequently fries his PADD, to an extent that even Jim cannot repair the water damage. (Okay, so he really needs to stop buying his PADDs from crummy, second-hand stores.)
His PADD, which happens to have - or had - a two-thirds completed paper on Romulan cloaking devices. With the notable anomalies said device could project into subspace. Which allowed Starfleet personnel to identify and expose the ship or fleet.
Yeah. It had taken over two months to compile -and Jim has a week to do it over.
This explains why Jim has currently cloistered himself within one of the library’s bland, windowless study rooms. Jim solemnly swears to back up his work forever and ever amen, from this point on. He still has a veritable cornucopia of shitty, lazy habits to rid himself of; if he’s ever going to be any kind of captain in the future.
One habit he needs to work on right now: diligence. The fucking application of appropriate study habits... and stuff. Whatever -he’s trying, anyway.
Several PADDS litter the vast length of table; along with a can of flat grape soda, a chewed-to-fuck stylus, and a media player that’s long forgotten at his elbow. Jim absently scoots his tortoiseshell reading glasses along the bridge of his nose, and blinks blearily at his notes.
Thank a deity of your choice for a rusty eidetic memory is all Jim can think, as he scrolls through a good chunk of the report, which he’s rewritten from pure, rote memorisation. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the bare bones of his outline; along with some extensive bits that he can recall slaving over, at the time. All that remains is the filler - and that should only take, oh, forever to finish.
Jim groans and lurches forward, crunching his forehead on the keyboard of the library computer. This room is a fucking black hole, Jim muses, and yawns with a stiff jaw. He’s been here for hours, but that generalisation aside, he couldn’t even begin to guess the current time. Some time-warp of boring and gray walls and humming ventilation and lemony disinfectant and more bor -
“Mr. Kirk?”
“Wah?!” Jim rockets back; with eyes wild and glasses precariously askew on the tip of his nose. He blinks at the vision before him, frantically wiping his mouth with the back of his hand -just in case he drooled in that mini-nap. Jim swallows, and his voice is thick and slurred with impromptu slumber. “Spock? What are you doing here?”
This definitely wasn’t a dream, or else Spock would be at least partially naked at this point - and Jim wouldn’t have a square key imprinted into his forehead.
The Vulcan looms in the doorway, with eyes dispassionately surveying the veritable train-wreck that is Jim Kirk. He also - of course - has a very familiar jacket slung neatly over his arm.
His baritone is still so new to Jim, who has been content with his silent lover for a decade. Every rich syllable is like a provocative, mental thrust against Jim’s mind. “I am returning your garment, as you requested. I apologise for the inordinate length of time it was in my possession.”
Seven days, some fifteen odd hours, and who-the-hell-knows how many minutes and seconds. But yeah, a week.
“It’s cool. No biggie,” Jim replies, with what he can only hope is nonchalance. He shoves his glasses atop his head, where they nestle in his dishevelled forest of dirty-blond hair. “Um,” Jim waves a hand in a vague gesture for Spock to sit. “Come in, sit down. Ignore the pig-sty. I’m a genius at work, or whatever other semi-pertinent excuse I can contrive.”
Spock hesitates at the foot of the table; before he nods silently, and comes around to sit in the chair nearest to Jim’s right elbow. He holds out the jacket to Jim, who tosses it without a second look to the chair at his other side.
His eyes are all for Spock, anyway; like Earth rotating the Sun.
Jim props his elbow on the table, and cups his chin in his palm. Spock looks... flawless. No, literally. There is not an imperfection on this man’s body, and Jim knows it. Not a scar, not a blemish. Alabaster, porcelain, delicate bone china -a million other beautiful, breakable things; and smooth as sin.
“So, uh,” Jim gulps. “How did you find me?” Relevant question - under the circumstances that Jim is expunging himself from society, as he knew it, for the upcoming week.
The Vulcan appears to mull this over -in the way that he blinks twice. Very telling, that.
“You are a challenging man to pinpoint.” Jim just half-rolls his eyes and looks to the ceiling. People are always saying that, for some reason. But he remains silent, allowing Spock to continue. “I first ascertained your assigned dormitory...” Spock’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly; but since Jim is kind of staring at them, he picks up on the cue and snorts a laugh.
“Lemme guess -you had the distinct pleasure of meeting Bones.”
Spock is quick to reply this time; voice dry as dust. “’Pleasure’ is an exaggeration of even your imagination.” He angles his head slightly, and Jim has to thwart the mental imagine of nipping at the pale column of neck. “It was an... informational encounter. The individual you refer to as ‘Bones’ eventually relayed your location.”
Eventually, being the operative word. Jim has the sinking feeling he’ll have some bullets to dodge once he arrives home.
Jim purses his lips, and bobs his head in cognition. “Okay, but there’s like - two dozen study rooms in the library.” With a coy curve of lips, Jim slumps back into his seat; with his legs akimbo, and his knee brushing Spock’s. “Bet you’re awesome at hide and seek.”
“The screen beside each door indicates who has signed-off on the allotted room,” Spock replies pointedly.
“Well, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” Jim assures him, even though his gut is doing the polka with his heart - and all he wants to do is wish upon the entire Beta Quadrant of stars, that Spock will continue to go through trouble for him.
Jim anchors his gaze upon eyes that reminds him of the night sky. “Coulda just left the jacket with Bones and been on your way.”
Spock inclines his head with the air of royalty. “I was merely acting in accordance with the request that I should return your belongings to your person, not your roommate. It was not an inconvenience.” Spock stands swiftly, and gives a crisp tug to his uniform. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kirk.”
Jim clambers out of his seat; with his bony knees knocking beneath the table as he stands with too much force, and too little finesse. “Wait, hold up!” Jim grips the hem of Spock’s sleeve, and remembers to surrender his grasp as soon as he halts the Vulcan’s expeditious retreat.
When Spock casts a temperate look over his shoulder, Jim musters a smile. “Thanks. I mean, for finding me.”
The Vulcan turns, and regards Jim candidly. “For what other reason would you possibly express your gratitude to me?”
“Uh...” Jim doesn’t struggle beneath the weight of Spock’s stare - hell, he wants to be under him, if at all possible. Darting a quick look at the familiar mouth - would it truly taste of tart tea and golden honey? - Jim scrambles for explanation.
His lips part for a breath before he speaks. “I could be... thanking you for helping me with this report?” Jim’s voice tapers up hopefully, with his brows rising in expectation.
“Pardon?” Spock inquires, a bit sharply.
Jim swipes his tongue across his chapped lips, with his hands already beginning to gesticulate wildly with his speech. “Okay, well, see - the thing is this.” He indicates to the dishevelled desktop, and Spock’s eyes drop from Jim’s face to survey the damage. “I’ve got this report, right? And it’s on Romulans and cloaking devices, and whatever. But the point is that I kind of destroyed my only copy of the thing in the rain -and now I need to finish it in a week, or else it’s my head on a plate.”
Spock is cut from marble, and his expression just as inscrutable. This only spurs Jim further, until he’s tripping over his tongue. Under the circumstances, its lucky Jim has no shame. “I know you’re a professor and all, and have regulations and shit to follow. But it’s not like I need you - or anybody - to give me answers. I just need, er,” You. Here. With me. “Someone to keep me organised; maybe find the passages I need, while I type like a madman.”
Resisting the urge to shuffle his feet, Jim mimics Spock’s neutral stare. To his credit, Jim’s voice is even. “If you can make the time for me, of course.”
The Vulcan finally nods, and Jim releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Spock picks up a PADD at random, and skims through whatever text he finds there. “I hypothesise our schedules will be difficult to synchronise,” he tells the PADD.
Jim wants to pull Spock onto his lap and nuzzle him to death, but he only allows himself a shrug. “I’ll make time for you. Just say the word.”
There’s an unnatural beat of silence; a heart murmur.
Spock carefully sets the PADD down, and straightens to his full height. His gaze is narrowed, as it arrows towards Jim. The air is pregnant with something Spock won’t say; and instead, all that breaks the silence is, “I will contact you with my availability tonight.”
Jim’s lips curve gently. “You’re on.” He moves to scratch his head, and nudges his forgotten glasses to the floor. “Augh. Every time.” Jim crouches, and gropes beneath the table for his frames.
When he comes up - solidly knocking the back of his head on the underside of the table for good measure - Jim blinks at the empty room.
With a frown, Jim lifts his arm and sniffs his armpit, then shrugs. Well - at least it wasn’t his I’ve-been-marinating-in-this-room-for-a-century smell that had scared off Spock. He’d be back, anyway.
Score one for Team Kirk.
***
“Mr. Kirk.”
“Hhhnnng...” Jim nuzzles his face into his arm. His glasses are jamming crookedly into his eye socket, but it doesn’t matter.
“Cadet Kirk.”
That voice. Firm and sensual; like dark chocolate. Melts under every long lave of his tongue, and leaves a kick at the back of his throat; making Jim want more.
“Jim. This is a highly inappropriate time for repose.”
“Mmmm, Spock,” Jim hums; and then flops back in his chair, with the dead weight of a man who’s been working for nigh-on eighteen hours. These are the final minutes, of the final day, before the report is due at 0800 hours. It takes several late nights - hunched together over PADDS, and original texts, and equations -but they are finally nearing the finish line.
If there were times Jim was distracted by Spock’s heady scent - or brushing an eyelash off the Vulcan’s cheek - or mooning over the delectable curve of his lips; well, that couldn’t be helped. Jim was no monk.
The fact that Spock now rarely commented or shied from said touches had Jim’s hopes dashing ahead at warp speed.
Jim cracks one eye open; and when he reasons that the fluorescent lighting won’t assault his precious retinas, opens the other. He drags a wary look over Spock.
The Vulcan looks fresh as a fucking daisy, of course - aside from the mild dismay in his eyes. “Have you, by any chance, been tested for narcolepsy in the past?” he inquires in a deadpan.
Jim scoffs, and lightly whacks the Vulcan’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Bite me,” he counters, because he can’t think of anything clever to say at this point and time. He is too tired, it’s too late - or too early, however you look at it - and Jim has ceased deliberately attempting to be clever, if he doesn’t have to.
Especially since this report is a vampire of clever; it’s just viciously slurping brilliance right out of him.
So, Jim doesn’t bother verbally impressing Spock, right now. He lets his hot body do most of the talking, anyway.
In the past week of their fledgling relationship, Jim has grown more comfortable around Spock than he has with anyone else in his life. Beside the fact that Jim feels like he’s essentially grown up with this man, there is more. More, now, than dreams could ever provide.
Spock is almost comically obstinate; truly on par with Jim, himself. They’d spent a good hour nit-picking the semantics of Jim’s equations, even when Jim had known they were right. Well, up to the point that Spock had proved them minutely wrong.
No, the Vulcan never gives an inch with him; doesn’t let Jim walk all over Spock, like he does with everyone else -sans Bones, of course.
But there are moments between the bickering, banter and absorbed debates that pulse with an unidentifiable awareness; something that surpasses conventional intelligence. Like feeling someone’s eyes trailing your back - a casual glance that holds too long - a guiding hand to a willing elbow - simply existing in each other’s space without express permission.
Sure, it helps that Jim has negligible personal boundaries in the first place -but the fact that Spock rarely voices his discomfort to the fact is painfully telling; a tease to Jim’s raw emotions. And hell, he knows that Spock is probably humouring him or something -but getting a Vulcan to humour anyone? No small feat.
So, Jim has no qualms with looking like a fool in front of the man he covertly, and illogically adores. If you can’t let everything go around that one person, where else can you?
Spock almost grunts, but it ends up more like a gruff exhale. He hands over a PADD, in which he has compiled several equations necessary for the tail-end explanation of the report. “I would rather not.”
“Lies,” Jim counters without missing a beat, and takes the PADD from the Vulcan’s fingers. He is certain to scrape his blunt nails lightly across Spock’s pale knuckles. For Jim, this dance is less a seduction, and more of a comfort.
Solace that Spock is real and viable. Heart and mind - breath and pulse and bone.
“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock replies soberly.
Jim just raises his eyes to the heavens, and chuckles. “Right. You omit.”
Spock cocks his head, with his posture as relaxed as it can be -for a Vulcan. “You speak as if this is a character flaw. It is merely logic. If one voices every truth and idle thought, there leaves no room for privacy.”
Fuck, if Jim hasn’t been as discreet as possible about his prevailing thoughts, for the past gruelling week. “What if I don’t want privacy?” Tossing the PADD to the table with a resounding clatter, Jim twists in his seat to fully face the Vulcan.
Their gazes collide and lock; with both beings frozen in a space of no gravity or sound.
“I do not understand,” Spock murmurs. “Privacy is an integral element of both Vulcan and Human culture. Why do you wish to revoke the privilege for yourself?”
Report forgotten, Jim leans forward; and feels his heart hammer against his ribs. “Unlike some people,” With deceptive apathy, he slips off his glasses with a thumb and forefinger; and chucks them aside. “I want to let someone in.”
The Vulcan blinks so slowly that it’s not a blink, and more of a moment to break the chain between them. He takes a slow breath, his chest rising silently.
Jim jerks that chain hard and hastily.
“Spock, I dreamt of you last night. Let me fill you in.”
Spock stops breathing.
***
chapter iv.
Beta: rainbowstrlght ; special thanks to verizonhorizon
Series: STXI Academy AU
Rating: PG-13 [Eventual NC-17]
Length: ~2,700
Warnings: Enough fluff to stuff a mattress.
Summary: For lallyloo ’s prompt of lyrics: You know I dreamed about you / For twenty-nine years / Before I saw you / You know I dreamed about you / I missed you for twenty-nine years.
A/N: Okay, I know I promised I would heat up this chapter, but I imagine it would be better to have an entire chapter simply devoted to the yummy bits, so I’ll have to leave you hanging for just a bit longer. This is the last of the chapters that I would consider slow, and I’m working on the next instalment.
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
chapter I chapter II
As Bones would say, it’s been pissing down.
Rain hurtles to the earth in a thunderous drumbeat that lasts through the good part of a week. It floods everything: The water-logged earth, cracks in the pavement that burst with escaping worms, the basements of crazy cat ladies on the news - Jim’s shoes, his backpack.
The latter of which consequently fries his PADD, to an extent that even Jim cannot repair the water damage. (Okay, so he really needs to stop buying his PADDs from crummy, second-hand stores.)
His PADD, which happens to have - or had - a two-thirds completed paper on Romulan cloaking devices. With the notable anomalies said device could project into subspace. Which allowed Starfleet personnel to identify and expose the ship or fleet.
Yeah. It had taken over two months to compile -and Jim has a week to do it over.
This explains why Jim has currently cloistered himself within one of the library’s bland, windowless study rooms. Jim solemnly swears to back up his work forever and ever amen, from this point on. He still has a veritable cornucopia of shitty, lazy habits to rid himself of; if he’s ever going to be any kind of captain in the future.
One habit he needs to work on right now: diligence. The fucking application of appropriate study habits... and stuff. Whatever -he’s trying, anyway.
Several PADDS litter the vast length of table; along with a can of flat grape soda, a chewed-to-fuck stylus, and a media player that’s long forgotten at his elbow. Jim absently scoots his tortoiseshell reading glasses along the bridge of his nose, and blinks blearily at his notes.
Thank a deity of your choice for a rusty eidetic memory is all Jim can think, as he scrolls through a good chunk of the report, which he’s rewritten from pure, rote memorisation. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the bare bones of his outline; along with some extensive bits that he can recall slaving over, at the time. All that remains is the filler - and that should only take, oh, forever to finish.
Jim groans and lurches forward, crunching his forehead on the keyboard of the library computer. This room is a fucking black hole, Jim muses, and yawns with a stiff jaw. He’s been here for hours, but that generalisation aside, he couldn’t even begin to guess the current time. Some time-warp of boring and gray walls and humming ventilation and lemony disinfectant and more bor -
“Mr. Kirk?”
“Wah?!” Jim rockets back; with eyes wild and glasses precariously askew on the tip of his nose. He blinks at the vision before him, frantically wiping his mouth with the back of his hand -just in case he drooled in that mini-nap. Jim swallows, and his voice is thick and slurred with impromptu slumber. “Spock? What are you doing here?”
This definitely wasn’t a dream, or else Spock would be at least partially naked at this point - and Jim wouldn’t have a square key imprinted into his forehead.
The Vulcan looms in the doorway, with eyes dispassionately surveying the veritable train-wreck that is Jim Kirk. He also - of course - has a very familiar jacket slung neatly over his arm.
His baritone is still so new to Jim, who has been content with his silent lover for a decade. Every rich syllable is like a provocative, mental thrust against Jim’s mind. “I am returning your garment, as you requested. I apologise for the inordinate length of time it was in my possession.”
Seven days, some fifteen odd hours, and who-the-hell-knows how many minutes and seconds. But yeah, a week.
“It’s cool. No biggie,” Jim replies, with what he can only hope is nonchalance. He shoves his glasses atop his head, where they nestle in his dishevelled forest of dirty-blond hair. “Um,” Jim waves a hand in a vague gesture for Spock to sit. “Come in, sit down. Ignore the pig-sty. I’m a genius at work, or whatever other semi-pertinent excuse I can contrive.”
Spock hesitates at the foot of the table; before he nods silently, and comes around to sit in the chair nearest to Jim’s right elbow. He holds out the jacket to Jim, who tosses it without a second look to the chair at his other side.
His eyes are all for Spock, anyway; like Earth rotating the Sun.
Jim props his elbow on the table, and cups his chin in his palm. Spock looks... flawless. No, literally. There is not an imperfection on this man’s body, and Jim knows it. Not a scar, not a blemish. Alabaster, porcelain, delicate bone china -a million other beautiful, breakable things; and smooth as sin.
“So, uh,” Jim gulps. “How did you find me?” Relevant question - under the circumstances that Jim is expunging himself from society, as he knew it, for the upcoming week.
The Vulcan appears to mull this over -in the way that he blinks twice. Very telling, that.
“You are a challenging man to pinpoint.” Jim just half-rolls his eyes and looks to the ceiling. People are always saying that, for some reason. But he remains silent, allowing Spock to continue. “I first ascertained your assigned dormitory...” Spock’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly; but since Jim is kind of staring at them, he picks up on the cue and snorts a laugh.
“Lemme guess -you had the distinct pleasure of meeting Bones.”
Spock is quick to reply this time; voice dry as dust. “’Pleasure’ is an exaggeration of even your imagination.” He angles his head slightly, and Jim has to thwart the mental imagine of nipping at the pale column of neck. “It was an... informational encounter. The individual you refer to as ‘Bones’ eventually relayed your location.”
Eventually, being the operative word. Jim has the sinking feeling he’ll have some bullets to dodge once he arrives home.
Jim purses his lips, and bobs his head in cognition. “Okay, but there’s like - two dozen study rooms in the library.” With a coy curve of lips, Jim slumps back into his seat; with his legs akimbo, and his knee brushing Spock’s. “Bet you’re awesome at hide and seek.”
“The screen beside each door indicates who has signed-off on the allotted room,” Spock replies pointedly.
“Well, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” Jim assures him, even though his gut is doing the polka with his heart - and all he wants to do is wish upon the entire Beta Quadrant of stars, that Spock will continue to go through trouble for him.
Jim anchors his gaze upon eyes that reminds him of the night sky. “Coulda just left the jacket with Bones and been on your way.”
Spock inclines his head with the air of royalty. “I was merely acting in accordance with the request that I should return your belongings to your person, not your roommate. It was not an inconvenience.” Spock stands swiftly, and gives a crisp tug to his uniform. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Kirk.”
Jim clambers out of his seat; with his bony knees knocking beneath the table as he stands with too much force, and too little finesse. “Wait, hold up!” Jim grips the hem of Spock’s sleeve, and remembers to surrender his grasp as soon as he halts the Vulcan’s expeditious retreat.
When Spock casts a temperate look over his shoulder, Jim musters a smile. “Thanks. I mean, for finding me.”
The Vulcan turns, and regards Jim candidly. “For what other reason would you possibly express your gratitude to me?”
“Uh...” Jim doesn’t struggle beneath the weight of Spock’s stare - hell, he wants to be under him, if at all possible. Darting a quick look at the familiar mouth - would it truly taste of tart tea and golden honey? - Jim scrambles for explanation.
His lips part for a breath before he speaks. “I could be... thanking you for helping me with this report?” Jim’s voice tapers up hopefully, with his brows rising in expectation.
“Pardon?” Spock inquires, a bit sharply.
Jim swipes his tongue across his chapped lips, with his hands already beginning to gesticulate wildly with his speech. “Okay, well, see - the thing is this.” He indicates to the dishevelled desktop, and Spock’s eyes drop from Jim’s face to survey the damage. “I’ve got this report, right? And it’s on Romulans and cloaking devices, and whatever. But the point is that I kind of destroyed my only copy of the thing in the rain -and now I need to finish it in a week, or else it’s my head on a plate.”
Spock is cut from marble, and his expression just as inscrutable. This only spurs Jim further, until he’s tripping over his tongue. Under the circumstances, its lucky Jim has no shame. “I know you’re a professor and all, and have regulations and shit to follow. But it’s not like I need you - or anybody - to give me answers. I just need, er,” You. Here. With me. “Someone to keep me organised; maybe find the passages I need, while I type like a madman.”
Resisting the urge to shuffle his feet, Jim mimics Spock’s neutral stare. To his credit, Jim’s voice is even. “If you can make the time for me, of course.”
The Vulcan finally nods, and Jim releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Spock picks up a PADD at random, and skims through whatever text he finds there. “I hypothesise our schedules will be difficult to synchronise,” he tells the PADD.
Jim wants to pull Spock onto his lap and nuzzle him to death, but he only allows himself a shrug. “I’ll make time for you. Just say the word.”
There’s an unnatural beat of silence; a heart murmur.
Spock carefully sets the PADD down, and straightens to his full height. His gaze is narrowed, as it arrows towards Jim. The air is pregnant with something Spock won’t say; and instead, all that breaks the silence is, “I will contact you with my availability tonight.”
Jim’s lips curve gently. “You’re on.” He moves to scratch his head, and nudges his forgotten glasses to the floor. “Augh. Every time.” Jim crouches, and gropes beneath the table for his frames.
When he comes up - solidly knocking the back of his head on the underside of the table for good measure - Jim blinks at the empty room.
With a frown, Jim lifts his arm and sniffs his armpit, then shrugs. Well - at least it wasn’t his I’ve-been-marinating-in-this-room-for-a-century smell that had scared off Spock. He’d be back, anyway.
Score one for Team Kirk.
***
“Mr. Kirk.”
“Hhhnnng...” Jim nuzzles his face into his arm. His glasses are jamming crookedly into his eye socket, but it doesn’t matter.
“Cadet Kirk.”
That voice. Firm and sensual; like dark chocolate. Melts under every long lave of his tongue, and leaves a kick at the back of his throat; making Jim want more.
“Jim. This is a highly inappropriate time for repose.”
“Mmmm, Spock,” Jim hums; and then flops back in his chair, with the dead weight of a man who’s been working for nigh-on eighteen hours. These are the final minutes, of the final day, before the report is due at 0800 hours. It takes several late nights - hunched together over PADDS, and original texts, and equations -but they are finally nearing the finish line.
If there were times Jim was distracted by Spock’s heady scent - or brushing an eyelash off the Vulcan’s cheek - or mooning over the delectable curve of his lips; well, that couldn’t be helped. Jim was no monk.
The fact that Spock now rarely commented or shied from said touches had Jim’s hopes dashing ahead at warp speed.
Jim cracks one eye open; and when he reasons that the fluorescent lighting won’t assault his precious retinas, opens the other. He drags a wary look over Spock.
The Vulcan looks fresh as a fucking daisy, of course - aside from the mild dismay in his eyes. “Have you, by any chance, been tested for narcolepsy in the past?” he inquires in a deadpan.
Jim scoffs, and lightly whacks the Vulcan’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Bite me,” he counters, because he can’t think of anything clever to say at this point and time. He is too tired, it’s too late - or too early, however you look at it - and Jim has ceased deliberately attempting to be clever, if he doesn’t have to.
Especially since this report is a vampire of clever; it’s just viciously slurping brilliance right out of him.
So, Jim doesn’t bother verbally impressing Spock, right now. He lets his hot body do most of the talking, anyway.
In the past week of their fledgling relationship, Jim has grown more comfortable around Spock than he has with anyone else in his life. Beside the fact that Jim feels like he’s essentially grown up with this man, there is more. More, now, than dreams could ever provide.
Spock is almost comically obstinate; truly on par with Jim, himself. They’d spent a good hour nit-picking the semantics of Jim’s equations, even when Jim had known they were right. Well, up to the point that Spock had proved them minutely wrong.
No, the Vulcan never gives an inch with him; doesn’t let Jim walk all over Spock, like he does with everyone else -sans Bones, of course.
But there are moments between the bickering, banter and absorbed debates that pulse with an unidentifiable awareness; something that surpasses conventional intelligence. Like feeling someone’s eyes trailing your back - a casual glance that holds too long - a guiding hand to a willing elbow - simply existing in each other’s space without express permission.
Sure, it helps that Jim has negligible personal boundaries in the first place -but the fact that Spock rarely voices his discomfort to the fact is painfully telling; a tease to Jim’s raw emotions. And hell, he knows that Spock is probably humouring him or something -but getting a Vulcan to humour anyone? No small feat.
So, Jim has no qualms with looking like a fool in front of the man he covertly, and illogically adores. If you can’t let everything go around that one person, where else can you?
Spock almost grunts, but it ends up more like a gruff exhale. He hands over a PADD, in which he has compiled several equations necessary for the tail-end explanation of the report. “I would rather not.”
“Lies,” Jim counters without missing a beat, and takes the PADD from the Vulcan’s fingers. He is certain to scrape his blunt nails lightly across Spock’s pale knuckles. For Jim, this dance is less a seduction, and more of a comfort.
Solace that Spock is real and viable. Heart and mind - breath and pulse and bone.
“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock replies soberly.
Jim just raises his eyes to the heavens, and chuckles. “Right. You omit.”
Spock cocks his head, with his posture as relaxed as it can be -for a Vulcan. “You speak as if this is a character flaw. It is merely logic. If one voices every truth and idle thought, there leaves no room for privacy.”
Fuck, if Jim hasn’t been as discreet as possible about his prevailing thoughts, for the past gruelling week. “What if I don’t want privacy?” Tossing the PADD to the table with a resounding clatter, Jim twists in his seat to fully face the Vulcan.
Their gazes collide and lock; with both beings frozen in a space of no gravity or sound.
“I do not understand,” Spock murmurs. “Privacy is an integral element of both Vulcan and Human culture. Why do you wish to revoke the privilege for yourself?”
Report forgotten, Jim leans forward; and feels his heart hammer against his ribs. “Unlike some people,” With deceptive apathy, he slips off his glasses with a thumb and forefinger; and chucks them aside. “I want to let someone in.”
The Vulcan blinks so slowly that it’s not a blink, and more of a moment to break the chain between them. He takes a slow breath, his chest rising silently.
Jim jerks that chain hard and hastily.
“Spock, I dreamt of you last night. Let me fill you in.”
Spock stops breathing.
***
chapter iv.