Keep Calm and Conceal Vulcans | STXI | PG-13 | 3/?
Title: Keep Calm and Conceal Vulcans (3/?)
Beta: rainbowstrlght
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5,000
Warnings: Spock is introduced to mainstream media. You'll never hear the end of this.
Summary: A 21st Century AU; In a time when alien life has yet to be discovered, Spock's ship crash-lands in Jim Kirk's cornfield. But, dammit, this is real life - not an episode of The X-Files!
A/N: Check out some fantastic Chapter 3 fanart by the talented is-teh-lurvs and MORE by the darling toraguru!
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
Chapters: I, II
There was nothing like a little Queen to keep a person company as they shovelled horse shit.
Jim flicked his iPod to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ and headed into the dewy morning. Aside from the tire tracks on his lawn, and the slap-happy edge of hysteria tickling the back of his brain, Jim could almost forget that he had an alien concealed on his humble family farm.
Saying ‘crazier things have happened’ was basically obsolete. Jim was fairly certain that nothing crazier could happen.
Oh great, now he probably jinxed it. There was no doubt now in his mind that things would grow even more insane. It was going to happen. Somehow. Jim was going to be hijacked with absurdity and madness.
“I wanna make a supersonic man outta you! Don’t - stop - me nooow!” Jim belted out with emphatic hip motions as he half danced, half swaggered towards the barn.
Spock might get to sleep, but a farm didn’t run itself. Jim tended to start work with the sun.
There had been a time in which Jim had spited this kind of manual labour - not that he was averse to the physical strain, or anything. It had been the implications of the Kirk farm itself that had rubbed Jim the wrong way.
Dad had invested his life in these fields, this soil, and the animals. Up until Jim’s birth and the crash, they’d made ends meet comfortably; but they hadn’t lived like kings. Their very existence had revolved around the next harvest.
When Dad died and Jim was born, and things went all soap opera dramatic and shit, life got real hard, real fast.
Jim had been pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into this land since he was old enough to pick up a shovel. Unfortunately, his active and easily distracted mind had constantly rebelled in tenfold, and had made it difficult for him to wholly enjoy farm work. He much preferred books and numbers and a challenge.
Oh well. Tough shit.
“Don’t - stop - me nooow! If you wanna have a good time, just gimme a caaall!”
Jim strutted past the chicken coop and screeched to a halt. Two figures clad in black camo were blatantly staring at him from the opposite side of the wire fence. They weren’t even checking him out in the good way, like: Oh man, his voice is awesome - why isn’t he on American Idol? Do you think he’s a model?
Not even the cool way. Just kind of appraising him with Spock-like robot faces.
Jim’s eyebrows slowly rose, as he plucked one bud from his ear and let it hang loosely over his flannel shirt. He hooked his thumbs in the loopholes of his jeans and rocked on his heels.
“Howdy,” he drawled. “What brings you here?”
The officers exchanged looks, as if wondering how stupid Jim could get, considering it was obvious why they were here.
Jim didn’t particularly care. These guys were on his property, and he could make them as unnecessarily uncomfortable as he pleased.
One of the officers - the younger of the two, with hair shaved down and his eyes huge - cocked his head. His accent was vaguely Slavic or something. He kind of sounded like Colossus from the X-Men, actually.
“We are on patrol.”
Jim looked doubtfully between the pair, then to the chickens and back. “Patrolling the... chickens? Did they have something to report to you? Is the sky falling?” He grinned. “Well, I guess, yeah, a piece of it did.”
Met with more silence, Jim’s grin sharpened. Holding onto the flimsy fence, Jim leaned forward and pretended to peer into the coop entrance.
“Or did you think that someone might be hiding in here? Looks pretty empty to me.” He stood straight and smiled broadly.
A good gauge of Jim’s level of Pissed Off tended to link with the amount he smiled.
“So, are you enjoying my farm?”
“We’re just doing our jobs, Mr. Kirk,” the older of the two replied calmly.
“Please, call me Jim. And you are...?”
“Private Sulu.”
“Sulu, huh?” Jim pursed his lips. “Well, I have a plan of action for you, Sulu. If you’re gonna hang around my farm, scaring my animals - or, y’know, interrogating them for information or whatever - why don’t you help out? Shovel some shit, feed some chickens. That kind of thing.”
The younger guy actually looked like he was going to jump on the opportunity. Kid must be bored as fuck just walking around the perimeter of a cornfield.
Sulu knocked the back of his hand lightly against his partner’s shoulder. “No thanks, Jim. I enjoy my job. So does Private Chekov.”
Jim shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He made as if he was going to leave, but then spun back around on his heel.
“Oh! So, what are you guys patrolling for, anyway? I mean, it was just a weather satellite that crashed, wasn’t it - and you removed it from the field? Your job should be done here, shouldn’t it? You’re not looking for someone, are you?”
Private Chekov almost squirmed. “We are not at liberty to discuss.”
Jim scratched his head and bit back a laugh. “Right. Okay. So, it’s not anything serious, but the Army’s just decided to chillax around my house for a while? That makes sense. It’s not like I’m required to know what you guys are up to, but I think the local news would definitely be interested.”
Chekov’s face grew red, and Sulu’s eyes narrowed. Jim rambled on. “Riverside doesn’t get much attention, y’know? This would be great for publicity. Oh!” Jim snapped his fingers, as if he’d just had a brilliant idea. “I could probably pass this off as like, I dunno, a UFO or something.”
Jim’s eyes widened and he leaned in an iota. His voice went to a mock whisper. “You don’t think it was aliens, do you?”
Chekov inhaled sharply. Sulu bumped Chekov’s arm with an elbow. “We need to be moving on now.”
“Of course, please go.” Jim gave a cocky salute as the two scuttled off - no doubt to report to their superiors that the crazy reclusive genius was threatening to bring the media into this if they didn’t get the fuck off his property.
“If you’re looking for any manual labour later, I’ve got plenty over here!” Jim called after them cheerfully. “You guys are real good with bullshit - horse shit’s not much different!”
Only when Jim was alone did he allow himself a moment to clench his fists, and forcefully bank down the flare of aggression that licked at his heart. Had he still been living with Sam - hell, had it been two years ago - Jim would’ve flailed a punch and hoped for the best. He wouldn’t have considered the consequences of his actions, as long as it had gotten those Army assholes off his property.
This was his home. This was his Fortress of Solitude, okay? His Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. No one was just going to tromp all over the only place that ever meant anything to him, in search of an alien they seemed unsure even existed.
But since that wasn’t the case - Sam hadn’t visited home for five years, and Jim had long ceased fighting his responsibility when he’d emerged from the angsty, hormonal teenage years - Jim simply watched Chekov and Sulu walk away with gritted teeth.
The best he could hope for was that the Army became disinterested enough with Jim’s apparently boring life, and fucked right off.
But putting the situation out of his mind - this was a waiting game and nothing more - Jim set about his morning chores to the badass tunes of Freddie Mercury. Exhaustion dragged at Jim’s limbs, and his head felt like a concrete block. But getting his muscles moving, the blood flowing and the sweat dripping let him zone out for a time.
The sun was nearing its zenith when Jim finished up and headed back inside. He shivered as the thin sheen of sweat on his forearms went cold in the breeze. Autumn was coming, which was kind of awesome. Halloween, and candy, and girls in slutty (sluttier?) costumes, and candy, and Joanna dragging him trick-or-treating - and had he mentioned the candy?
Jim fed Gumby - who had some kind of epileptic fit on the kitchen floor in response to the sound of the can-opener - and then quietly padded upstairs. He didn’t want to wake up Spock. If the guy was experiencing anything similar to Jim, he felt like the living dead.
Actually, Spock kind of resembled a vampire in some ways. Going by Twilight standards: The paleness and brick-like personality.
Did that make Jim Bella?
Oh God, no.
And that was kind of unfair to Spock, anyway, because he did make Jim laugh - even if it clearly wasn’t Spock’s intention. That kind of made him all the more hilarious.
Jim stripped off his clothes in the guest bathroom and left them in a heap on the floor. He showered and came out, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dripping across the hallway, Jim approached his bedroom door and opened it just a crack.
He peeked in and found himself staring directly into Spock’s eyes. The Vulcan sat on the edge of the bed, still as a statue and unblinking.
Jim flung open the door and ambled in. “Wow, well that wasn’t terrifying or unnerving at all. Seriously, if you don’t make it home you could make millions in the horror movie industry. I can just picture you saying, ‘Come and play with us, Jimmy. Forever - and ever - and ever’.”
Spock didn’t reply, and Jim wasn’t expecting him to. Jim dug through his closet and unearthed a pair of slim black jeans and a gold t-shirt. He barely remembered to grab a pair of boxers before he turned to leave the room again.
A book on Spock’s lap caught his attention. Jim paused, frowning down at the open photo album. A picture of his mom, dad, and Sam smiled up at Spock. Jim’s gut clenched.
“Where did you find that?” Jim asked quietly, his speech unusually precise.
“I discovered it upon your shelving unit.” Spock’s thoughtful eyes reached Jim’s. “What is the purpose of such a book?”
Jim frowned. “What do you mean what’s its purpose? It’s a photo album. You put pictures in it.”
“That was not my query. What is the practical function?”
“To preserve memories, I guess. Vulcans don’t have photo albums?”
“They do not,” Spock replied definitively. “I cannot comprehend why one would be necessary.”
Jim stared at Spock for a long moment, before he sighed and sat beside him. Jim’s towel was going to soak through the comforter, but whatever. He pressed his arm against Spock’s as he leaned in and placed a fingertip above his dad’s head.
“That’s my dad. I never knew him, so it’s kind of nice to have pictures of him around.”
“Why?”
“Obviously it’s because we look alike, and I like to show off how genetically gifted my entire family is,” Jim replied automatically.
The crease in Spock’s forehead deepened, and Jim jerked a shoulder. “Just, it’s good to see him there. It’s a tangible aspect of my past that I can hold on to.”
“The nuances of human pathos escape me, unfortunately.”
Jim was fairly certain that this was Spock’s way of saying ‘What the hell are you talking about, silly Earthling’.
“Look,” Jim began impatiently, “if your mom died or whatever, wouldn’t you want something to remember her by besides your own memory?”
Spock was silent for a long moment. His thumb brushed over Sam’s face. “I concede to your paradigm of thought,” he replied soberly.
Jim rolled his eyes. “I don’t really care one way or another. You’re the one who was nosing around and asking questions.”
“Do you live alone?”
Well, that was from left field. “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?”
At Spock’s blank look, Jim couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, I live alone. Aside from my loyal boyfriend, Gumby. We’re very close.”
Spock’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You are having relations with your -“
“Oh my god - gross, Spock!” Jim grabbed the nearest object - the boxers on his lap - and flapped Spock in the face with them. “I’m not dating my dog, it was a joke! You’re a sick, sick Vulcan, do you know that? No - my answer is plain no!”
Spock batted Jim’s hands and boxers away, with his mouth pulling into a miniature scowl. “Once again I implore that you speak candidly. Your dialect remains unpleasant and perplexing.”
Jim bit back a grin. “I’ll pass, thanks. You’re on my planet. Get used to it.”
“Your manners leave much to be desired.”
“That’s what my mama always said.”
“Is your mother also deceased?”
Wow. The guy was straightforward. Jim would give him that. In fact, Jim welcomed it.
“She lives out of town,” Jim hedged. If Spock couldn’t compute the emotions behind a simple photo album, it was unlikely that he was going to be able to comprehend the reasons behind Mom’s condition. Jim would save Spock the headache.
Spock considered the photos upon his lap. “Why do you choose to reside in such a large facility when you are alone? Would it not be financially logical to sell this farm?”
Something clamped down in Jim. “How’s your ass?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “The wound is healing sufficiently.”
“Are you sure? I could look at it for you - and no, this is not an excuse to ogle your butt.”
“I would not assume as such. I do not require your assistance, Mr. Kirk.”
Jim laughed and stood. “We’re on a first name basis, Spock. I’ve seen you buck-naked.”
Spock didn’t look particularly pleased with this recollection, if the length of his silence had anything to say about it.
Jim peered down at the towel that hung precariously around his hips. He met Spock’s expressionless stare with a twinkle in his eye. “You wanna even the score?” Jim reached for the knot at his hip.
Spock shut the album with more force than necessary and stood.
“No,” he replied sharply and exited the room.
Jim could only laugh after him, and get dressed with a grin on his face.
Cute alien.
Fatigue gripped Jim’s mind in a slowly tightening vise; but it went ignored as Jim put in his contact lenses, and ran a dab of product through his hair to give him the ‘bed-head’ look.
Jim never knew why it was called that. Whenever he woke up in the morning, one side of his hair was flat as a pancake, and the other side stuck out like he’d been electrocuted in the night. Not really a look that screamed sexy beast.
But Jim knew he was ridiculously sexy when he wasn’t lounging around the house in tortoiseshell glasses and holey sweatpants. By the way, he had no idea how his sweatpants always got holes in the crotch. What on Earth was going on down there when he wasn’t paying attention?
Pleased with his reflection in the mirror, Jim gave himself a roguish grin and headed downstairs. Much to Jim’s surprise, he found Spock sitting at the bottom step. He was tentatively stroking Gumby’s upturned stomach, while the dog’s left leg wiggled in ecstasy.
Spock paused and looked over his shoulder at Jim. The afternoon sun filtered through the window on the staircase landing, and poured over Spock in a way that should be reserved for Disney movies and crummy romance novels. His eyes were almost translucent amber in the light and very... well, human.
Jim inwardly shook himself off and smiled. “Didn’t figure you for the dog type.”
“This canine possesses a surprisingly likable disposition.”
“He takes after me like that.”
“Of this I am doubtful.”
Jim chuckled. “I forgot to ask. How did you sleep?”
“Adequately.” Spock turned back to Gumby and resumed his petting. “Vulcans require three point six Terran hours of repose for full rejuvenation.”
“Nifty,” Jim quipped, brushing against Spock as he sat down beside him. “You guys must have unbelievable sex drives. So,” Jim continued, reaching down to scratch Gumby’s ears. “I need to run some errands. Food. Maybe a pair of jeans for you, because you’re taller than me and look pretty goofy in my clothes.”
“I am not concerned with aesthetics.”
Jim scoffed. “Oh please. The world is concerned with aesthetics. That’s how we operate.”
“Vulcans do not operate in the same fashion as humans. To compare our cultures would be offensive.”
Jim raised his eyebrows and considered Spock. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow. Well, it’s comforting to know that there are still aspects of the human about you, Spock. Pride and vanity.”
Spock’s calmly shifted and met Jim’s amused expression. “Vulcans are neither prideful, nor vain.”
Jim snorted a laugh and slapped Spock’s knee. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take this conversation seriously. You’re totally delusional.”
Spock’s spine stiffened. “Pardon me, but do you regard any topic of conversation with sobriety?”
“Life is much too important a thing ever to talk seriously about.”
At Spock’s blank look, Jim cocked his head and grinned. “Oscar Wilde.”
“I am acquainted with the author,” Spock snapped.
“Oh, gasp! Are you trying to tell me that you’ve read the works of an inferior human? Scandalous. Did you forfeit an IQ point for every page your eyes doth lay upon?”
Spock’s nostrils flared. “You mock me?”
Jim smiled. “And if I am? Does that annoy you, Spock?” He leaned in and tilted his head, so that their mouths were aligned. “How... human of you.”
“You ridicule -”
Jim smiled unrepentantly and ripped the Dora band-aid from Spock’s forehead. The Vulcan didn’t flinch, but his eyes widened and he quieted. Jim pursed his lips as he inspected the wound. “Man, you guys really do heal quickly. Still, you should wash that and redress it. First-aid kit is upstairs in the bathroom, under the sink.”
“Jim -”
“What foods do you like?” Jim got to his feet and went to the front door to put on his boots.
“Pardon me?”
“Sustenance, Spock. How do you take it?”
“Vulcans are vegetarians.”
Jim looked at Spock mournfully. “I’m sorry. That’s unfortunate.”
Spock looked genuinely perplexed, before the emotion was erased. “Why?”
Jim shook his head and plucked a jacket from the closet. “Poor, sad grass-nommer.”
“May I point out that the majority of nourishment currently in your home is vegetarian?”
“Uh, duh. Hence the shopping.”
Jim turned and swung open the front door, preparing to leave. He paused and cast Spock a glance over his shoulder. Spock remained on the stairs, considering Jim in a way that would unnerve an average man. But Jim had never been mediocre on any level.
“I know this whole thing is really, really bizarre, but... I think it’s gonna be all right. It’s just a gut feeling, but if there’s anything in this world that I trust, it’s my instinct.”
Jim’s lips quirked. “Don’t forget - while I’m away, don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t talk to strangers, and don’t accept delicious-looking apples from old ladies, no matter how vegetarian you’re feeling. I might have to be the one to kiss you back to life.”
Before Spock could reply, Jim made his exit.
***
Jim nearly laughed at the scene he walked in on as he entered the living room with his hands filled with grocery bags.
“Um, are you watching Rachael Ray?”
Spock sat primly on the couch, with his posture perfect. His new forehead band-aid was green and sported Swiper the sneaky fox. Spock blinked up at Jim and nodded. “Her speech patterns are nearly as unusual as yours.”
Jim smiled to himself as he headed into the adjoining kitchen, and dropped the bags on the table. “I dunno about that. Like what?”
There was a long pause as Rachael instructed the viewer to ‘eyeball’ a cup of ricotta cheese.
“Hellooo, Spock? On Earth, when a person begins a line of conversation, they tend to finish it too. What does Rachael say?”
A hushed reply, almost tentative, came from the living room.
“Yummo?”
Jim was nearly forced to put his head between his legs to stop himself from hyperventilating with laughter. Tears blurred his vision as he weakly refilled the fridge. Every once in a while Spock’s voice echoed yummo in Jim’s head, and he was forced into renewed guffaws.
Once Jim had finished giving the kitchen the illusion that someone other than a thrifty bachelor lived there (he wasn’t getting rid of his precious Ramen though), he made his way back to the living room.
He bit back the smile that immediately threatened.
Spock’s expression was tight, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. He looked about as comfortable as Taylor Swift sharing a stage with Kanye West.
“Aw, Spock.” Jim went to Spock’s side and sat down, facing him. He had to press his lips together for a moment to keep from giggling. “I wasn’t... I wasn’t laughing at you. I just wasn’t expecting you to say... oh God.” Jim felt a gurgle of laughter bubbling in his throat. “I can’t, I can’t even think about it. Just, okay, I’m calm now. Calm. Breathing.”
If looks could kill, Jim would be gagging on his own tongue right about now. Jim counter-attacked with big puppy-dog eyes.
“I’m sorry?”
Spock’s stare became only minutely less withering.
Jim swallowed. “Um. Oh! I got you clothes. See how great I am?”
“I had not requested any garments, so your actions are unnecessary and unwelcome.”
“Oh, come on now. Don’t huff. I’d say it’s not attractive on you, but I’d be lying.”
“I am not, as you say, huffing.”
“Look, I babysit a four-year-old girl. I know pouting when I see it.”
Spock’s eyes darkened. “You equate me with a child.”
“I wouldn’t if you stopped acting like one.” Jim tried his most winning smile. “Seriously, what are we even arguing about anymore? Isn’t it illogical to hold a grudge?”
“I have no idea of what you are speaking.”
Jim beamed and clapped Spock on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. I’ll go get your clothes in a second. I just need to have a little sit-down.”
Even with two cans of Red Bull flowing in his veins, Jim could only run so long on a few meagre hours of rest. He’d been awake since well before dawn. It wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes for just a moment.
The quiet murmur of the television and the radiating warmth of Spock’s body beside him lulled Jim into a sense of comfort. With a loud, unbridled yawn, Jim’s cheek made contact with Spock’s shoulder, and sleep took a quick hold. Time was a black void. A pleasant nothingness that so rarely visited Jim, even in respite, cradled him into a deeper slumber than he’d experienced in months.
Upon his slow, dragging wakefulness, Jim was first aware of the smell of Christmas. Cinnamon and fresh, crisp snow and the crackling hearth.
Of course, when he cracked his grimy eyes open it became very clear that he was actually inhaling the crook of Spock’s neck.
Jim groaned and flopped back along the couch, with his head resting on the armrest. The room was dark, indicating the length of time in which Jim had been passed out. The television reflected an eerie blue glow upon Spock’s angular features. His eyes were black and unreadable in the shadows.
“How long’ve I been ‘sleep?” Jim mumbled and rubbed his eyes with his fists.
“Approximately seven point two Terran hours.”
“Jesus. You stayed sitting for seven hours while I slept on you?”
“I did not wish to wake you. I could sense your fatigue.”
Jim swallowed, feeling unusually unnerved. “I think I drooled on you.”
“Charming.”
“My back hurts.”
“That is truly unfortunate.”
Jim kicked off his shoes and rolled to his side. He curled his legs up so that Spock had room to sit at the end of the couch. “Whatcha watchin’?”
“Gone with the Wind.”
“Yeah?” Jim squinted at the screen and a yawn threatened his voice. “I like Scarlett.”
“Truly? I find her character illogical.”
“She’s selfish, but no one’s perfect. She’s independent and sharp. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“She is manipulative and immoral.”
“Well, if you don’t like Scarlett, then you’ll definitely enjoy the ending. Stay tuned.”
With that, Jim promptly fell into oblivion once more.
The next time he awoke, it was to the smells of home-cooking and morning light dancing across his eyelids. For a sleep-hazed moment, Jim thought Mom was in the kitchen. Then his brain rebooted, and everything came crashing back.
Jim sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. His body was still in that place where it was deciding whether or not he felt like shit, or if he felt refreshed. It would probably take an hour for him to figure it out. Despite the years of pre-dawn farm work, Jim was about as much of a morning person as Edward Cullen.
Stumbling into the brightly lit kitchen, Jim was confronted with the sight of Spock.
Spock, dressed crisply in his new clothing - dark blue jeans that clung in all the right places and a black, thermal Henley. His feet were bare on the cold tile, and it was the first time Jim had ever considered feet to be sexy.
“Honey, are you cooking breakfast for me?” was about the cleverest thing Jim could muster at this point.
Spock spared Jim the most unimpressed of glances, and continued frying up something that looked like chunky hash browns with peppers and onion and garlic.
Jim’s stomach actually might have done a Xena war-cry for that food.
He meandered up behind Spock and peered around his shoulder, yawning loudly.
Spock shifted away slightly. “Please refrain from yawning into my ear, Jim.”
“Mmm?” Jim was still intent on the concoction in the skillet. “Where’d you learn to make this?”
“I have watched four point four hours of cookery techniques and recipes. I am confident that I can handle a simple meal.”
Jim groaned in Spock’s ear. “Christ, you didn’t fall from space, did you? It was heaven. Marry me now. Put your little green babies in me.”
He held up a finger and took a breath. “Speaking of, are you guys born from eggs or what? What’s the average gestation period? Do all the women look as pretty as you - or are they like birds where they’re the ugly ones and the men get to be flashy and gay?”
“Sit down, Jim.”
Jim promptly skirted the stiff-backed Vulcan and sat. Spock didn’t even look up; he just continued playing the Stepford wife. Maybe they could switch off on making breakfast. Or Spock could always make it, because Jim’s culinary skills ranged from cereal to pancakes.
“So, uh, what are Vulcan women like?” Jim asked, once he noted the tension had eased from Spock’s shoulders. It looked like cooking relaxed the guy.
“That is a broad inquiry with several possible answers.”
Jim slouched back and propped his feet up on another chair. “Well, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Vulcans do not have girlfriends.”
“’Do not have girlfriends’ as in, you’re a race of men who’ve found some no doubt terrifying way to procreate, or ‘do not have girlfriends’ like, you don’t do dating?”
“As you say, we do not do dating.”
“Ah. So, are you married?”
Spock paused; staring into the skillet like it was going to start chatting away to him at any moment. Then he silently found two plates and piled the food atop. When he sat down with their dishes, and saw by Jim’s stubborn expression that he would not let the topic go, Spock flicked a brow.
“The issue is complicated.”
“If Vulcans are so logical, why would they make it complicated?”
Spock looked like he was going to frown. “It is complicated for a human’s comprehension.”
Jim rolled his eyes and dug into his food - which had to have MSG and LSD in it because it was just that delicious (and, somehow, vegetarian - who knew?).
“You need to shut up about the stupidity of humanity, or I’ll make you shut up. By the way, this is fantastic. Did you just lie about never having cooked so you could impress me?”
Spock was staring, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Vulcans do not lie, and I experience no wish to impress you.”
Jim grinned. “Lies, all of them.” He shoved a massive hunk of potato and pepper in his mouth.
They ate in companionable silence for the remainder of breakfast. Jim collected his wits enough to note that it was nine in the morning - he never slept that late. He’d been hibernating for like, half a day.
But Jim felt good. Dare he say... perky?
Spock finished first and pushed his plate away. Jim noted the leftovers, and scraped them on to his own dish.
“Hey, Spock?”
“Yes?”
“Are you gonna explain to me why Vulcans are stalking Earth in the first place? Considering how much I’m risking by concealing E.T. in my bed, I think I have the right to know.”
Spock’s face was devoid of reaction, but the air had gone still around them.
Jim held his breath -
And yelped when someone rapped at the front door.
Spock and Jim exchanged glances.
Jim groaned and thumped his forehead to the tabletop. “Oh, come on!”
Chapter Four
Beta: rainbowstrlght
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5,000
Warnings: Spock is introduced to mainstream media. You'll never hear the end of this.
Summary: A 21st Century AU; In a time when alien life has yet to be discovered, Spock's ship crash-lands in Jim Kirk's cornfield. But, dammit, this is real life - not an episode of The X-Files!
A/N: Check out some fantastic Chapter 3 fanart by the talented is-teh-lurvs and MORE by the darling toraguru!
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
Chapters: I, II
There was nothing like a little Queen to keep a person company as they shovelled horse shit.
Jim flicked his iPod to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ and headed into the dewy morning. Aside from the tire tracks on his lawn, and the slap-happy edge of hysteria tickling the back of his brain, Jim could almost forget that he had an alien concealed on his humble family farm.
Saying ‘crazier things have happened’ was basically obsolete. Jim was fairly certain that nothing crazier could happen.
Oh great, now he probably jinxed it. There was no doubt now in his mind that things would grow even more insane. It was going to happen. Somehow. Jim was going to be hijacked with absurdity and madness.
“I wanna make a supersonic man outta you! Don’t - stop - me nooow!” Jim belted out with emphatic hip motions as he half danced, half swaggered towards the barn.
Spock might get to sleep, but a farm didn’t run itself. Jim tended to start work with the sun.
There had been a time in which Jim had spited this kind of manual labour - not that he was averse to the physical strain, or anything. It had been the implications of the Kirk farm itself that had rubbed Jim the wrong way.
Dad had invested his life in these fields, this soil, and the animals. Up until Jim’s birth and the crash, they’d made ends meet comfortably; but they hadn’t lived like kings. Their very existence had revolved around the next harvest.
When Dad died and Jim was born, and things went all soap opera dramatic and shit, life got real hard, real fast.
Jim had been pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into this land since he was old enough to pick up a shovel. Unfortunately, his active and easily distracted mind had constantly rebelled in tenfold, and had made it difficult for him to wholly enjoy farm work. He much preferred books and numbers and a challenge.
Oh well. Tough shit.
“Don’t - stop - me nooow! If you wanna have a good time, just gimme a caaall!”
Jim strutted past the chicken coop and screeched to a halt. Two figures clad in black camo were blatantly staring at him from the opposite side of the wire fence. They weren’t even checking him out in the good way, like: Oh man, his voice is awesome - why isn’t he on American Idol? Do you think he’s a model?
Not even the cool way. Just kind of appraising him with Spock-like robot faces.
Jim’s eyebrows slowly rose, as he plucked one bud from his ear and let it hang loosely over his flannel shirt. He hooked his thumbs in the loopholes of his jeans and rocked on his heels.
“Howdy,” he drawled. “What brings you here?”
The officers exchanged looks, as if wondering how stupid Jim could get, considering it was obvious why they were here.
Jim didn’t particularly care. These guys were on his property, and he could make them as unnecessarily uncomfortable as he pleased.
One of the officers - the younger of the two, with hair shaved down and his eyes huge - cocked his head. His accent was vaguely Slavic or something. He kind of sounded like Colossus from the X-Men, actually.
“We are on patrol.”
Jim looked doubtfully between the pair, then to the chickens and back. “Patrolling the... chickens? Did they have something to report to you? Is the sky falling?” He grinned. “Well, I guess, yeah, a piece of it did.”
Met with more silence, Jim’s grin sharpened. Holding onto the flimsy fence, Jim leaned forward and pretended to peer into the coop entrance.
“Or did you think that someone might be hiding in here? Looks pretty empty to me.” He stood straight and smiled broadly.
A good gauge of Jim’s level of Pissed Off tended to link with the amount he smiled.
“So, are you enjoying my farm?”
“We’re just doing our jobs, Mr. Kirk,” the older of the two replied calmly.
“Please, call me Jim. And you are...?”
“Private Sulu.”
“Sulu, huh?” Jim pursed his lips. “Well, I have a plan of action for you, Sulu. If you’re gonna hang around my farm, scaring my animals - or, y’know, interrogating them for information or whatever - why don’t you help out? Shovel some shit, feed some chickens. That kind of thing.”
The younger guy actually looked like he was going to jump on the opportunity. Kid must be bored as fuck just walking around the perimeter of a cornfield.
Sulu knocked the back of his hand lightly against his partner’s shoulder. “No thanks, Jim. I enjoy my job. So does Private Chekov.”
Jim shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He made as if he was going to leave, but then spun back around on his heel.
“Oh! So, what are you guys patrolling for, anyway? I mean, it was just a weather satellite that crashed, wasn’t it - and you removed it from the field? Your job should be done here, shouldn’t it? You’re not looking for someone, are you?”
Private Chekov almost squirmed. “We are not at liberty to discuss.”
Jim scratched his head and bit back a laugh. “Right. Okay. So, it’s not anything serious, but the Army’s just decided to chillax around my house for a while? That makes sense. It’s not like I’m required to know what you guys are up to, but I think the local news would definitely be interested.”
Chekov’s face grew red, and Sulu’s eyes narrowed. Jim rambled on. “Riverside doesn’t get much attention, y’know? This would be great for publicity. Oh!” Jim snapped his fingers, as if he’d just had a brilliant idea. “I could probably pass this off as like, I dunno, a UFO or something.”
Jim’s eyes widened and he leaned in an iota. His voice went to a mock whisper. “You don’t think it was aliens, do you?”
Chekov inhaled sharply. Sulu bumped Chekov’s arm with an elbow. “We need to be moving on now.”
“Of course, please go.” Jim gave a cocky salute as the two scuttled off - no doubt to report to their superiors that the crazy reclusive genius was threatening to bring the media into this if they didn’t get the fuck off his property.
“If you’re looking for any manual labour later, I’ve got plenty over here!” Jim called after them cheerfully. “You guys are real good with bullshit - horse shit’s not much different!”
Only when Jim was alone did he allow himself a moment to clench his fists, and forcefully bank down the flare of aggression that licked at his heart. Had he still been living with Sam - hell, had it been two years ago - Jim would’ve flailed a punch and hoped for the best. He wouldn’t have considered the consequences of his actions, as long as it had gotten those Army assholes off his property.
This was his home. This was his Fortress of Solitude, okay? His Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. No one was just going to tromp all over the only place that ever meant anything to him, in search of an alien they seemed unsure even existed.
But since that wasn’t the case - Sam hadn’t visited home for five years, and Jim had long ceased fighting his responsibility when he’d emerged from the angsty, hormonal teenage years - Jim simply watched Chekov and Sulu walk away with gritted teeth.
The best he could hope for was that the Army became disinterested enough with Jim’s apparently boring life, and fucked right off.
But putting the situation out of his mind - this was a waiting game and nothing more - Jim set about his morning chores to the badass tunes of Freddie Mercury. Exhaustion dragged at Jim’s limbs, and his head felt like a concrete block. But getting his muscles moving, the blood flowing and the sweat dripping let him zone out for a time.
The sun was nearing its zenith when Jim finished up and headed back inside. He shivered as the thin sheen of sweat on his forearms went cold in the breeze. Autumn was coming, which was kind of awesome. Halloween, and candy, and girls in slutty (sluttier?) costumes, and candy, and Joanna dragging him trick-or-treating - and had he mentioned the candy?
Jim fed Gumby - who had some kind of epileptic fit on the kitchen floor in response to the sound of the can-opener - and then quietly padded upstairs. He didn’t want to wake up Spock. If the guy was experiencing anything similar to Jim, he felt like the living dead.
Actually, Spock kind of resembled a vampire in some ways. Going by Twilight standards: The paleness and brick-like personality.
Did that make Jim Bella?
Oh God, no.
And that was kind of unfair to Spock, anyway, because he did make Jim laugh - even if it clearly wasn’t Spock’s intention. That kind of made him all the more hilarious.
Jim stripped off his clothes in the guest bathroom and left them in a heap on the floor. He showered and came out, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Dripping across the hallway, Jim approached his bedroom door and opened it just a crack.
He peeked in and found himself staring directly into Spock’s eyes. The Vulcan sat on the edge of the bed, still as a statue and unblinking.
Jim flung open the door and ambled in. “Wow, well that wasn’t terrifying or unnerving at all. Seriously, if you don’t make it home you could make millions in the horror movie industry. I can just picture you saying, ‘Come and play with us, Jimmy. Forever - and ever - and ever’.”
Spock didn’t reply, and Jim wasn’t expecting him to. Jim dug through his closet and unearthed a pair of slim black jeans and a gold t-shirt. He barely remembered to grab a pair of boxers before he turned to leave the room again.
A book on Spock’s lap caught his attention. Jim paused, frowning down at the open photo album. A picture of his mom, dad, and Sam smiled up at Spock. Jim’s gut clenched.
“Where did you find that?” Jim asked quietly, his speech unusually precise.
“I discovered it upon your shelving unit.” Spock’s thoughtful eyes reached Jim’s. “What is the purpose of such a book?”
Jim frowned. “What do you mean what’s its purpose? It’s a photo album. You put pictures in it.”
“That was not my query. What is the practical function?”
“To preserve memories, I guess. Vulcans don’t have photo albums?”
“They do not,” Spock replied definitively. “I cannot comprehend why one would be necessary.”
Jim stared at Spock for a long moment, before he sighed and sat beside him. Jim’s towel was going to soak through the comforter, but whatever. He pressed his arm against Spock’s as he leaned in and placed a fingertip above his dad’s head.
“That’s my dad. I never knew him, so it’s kind of nice to have pictures of him around.”
“Why?”
“Obviously it’s because we look alike, and I like to show off how genetically gifted my entire family is,” Jim replied automatically.
The crease in Spock’s forehead deepened, and Jim jerked a shoulder. “Just, it’s good to see him there. It’s a tangible aspect of my past that I can hold on to.”
“The nuances of human pathos escape me, unfortunately.”
Jim was fairly certain that this was Spock’s way of saying ‘What the hell are you talking about, silly Earthling’.
“Look,” Jim began impatiently, “if your mom died or whatever, wouldn’t you want something to remember her by besides your own memory?”
Spock was silent for a long moment. His thumb brushed over Sam’s face. “I concede to your paradigm of thought,” he replied soberly.
Jim rolled his eyes. “I don’t really care one way or another. You’re the one who was nosing around and asking questions.”
“Do you live alone?”
Well, that was from left field. “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?”
At Spock’s blank look, Jim couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, I live alone. Aside from my loyal boyfriend, Gumby. We’re very close.”
Spock’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You are having relations with your -“
“Oh my god - gross, Spock!” Jim grabbed the nearest object - the boxers on his lap - and flapped Spock in the face with them. “I’m not dating my dog, it was a joke! You’re a sick, sick Vulcan, do you know that? No - my answer is plain no!”
Spock batted Jim’s hands and boxers away, with his mouth pulling into a miniature scowl. “Once again I implore that you speak candidly. Your dialect remains unpleasant and perplexing.”
Jim bit back a grin. “I’ll pass, thanks. You’re on my planet. Get used to it.”
“Your manners leave much to be desired.”
“That’s what my mama always said.”
“Is your mother also deceased?”
Wow. The guy was straightforward. Jim would give him that. In fact, Jim welcomed it.
“She lives out of town,” Jim hedged. If Spock couldn’t compute the emotions behind a simple photo album, it was unlikely that he was going to be able to comprehend the reasons behind Mom’s condition. Jim would save Spock the headache.
Spock considered the photos upon his lap. “Why do you choose to reside in such a large facility when you are alone? Would it not be financially logical to sell this farm?”
Something clamped down in Jim. “How’s your ass?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “The wound is healing sufficiently.”
“Are you sure? I could look at it for you - and no, this is not an excuse to ogle your butt.”
“I would not assume as such. I do not require your assistance, Mr. Kirk.”
Jim laughed and stood. “We’re on a first name basis, Spock. I’ve seen you buck-naked.”
Spock didn’t look particularly pleased with this recollection, if the length of his silence had anything to say about it.
Jim peered down at the towel that hung precariously around his hips. He met Spock’s expressionless stare with a twinkle in his eye. “You wanna even the score?” Jim reached for the knot at his hip.
Spock shut the album with more force than necessary and stood.
“No,” he replied sharply and exited the room.
Jim could only laugh after him, and get dressed with a grin on his face.
Cute alien.
Fatigue gripped Jim’s mind in a slowly tightening vise; but it went ignored as Jim put in his contact lenses, and ran a dab of product through his hair to give him the ‘bed-head’ look.
Jim never knew why it was called that. Whenever he woke up in the morning, one side of his hair was flat as a pancake, and the other side stuck out like he’d been electrocuted in the night. Not really a look that screamed sexy beast.
But Jim knew he was ridiculously sexy when he wasn’t lounging around the house in tortoiseshell glasses and holey sweatpants. By the way, he had no idea how his sweatpants always got holes in the crotch. What on Earth was going on down there when he wasn’t paying attention?
Pleased with his reflection in the mirror, Jim gave himself a roguish grin and headed downstairs. Much to Jim’s surprise, he found Spock sitting at the bottom step. He was tentatively stroking Gumby’s upturned stomach, while the dog’s left leg wiggled in ecstasy.
Spock paused and looked over his shoulder at Jim. The afternoon sun filtered through the window on the staircase landing, and poured over Spock in a way that should be reserved for Disney movies and crummy romance novels. His eyes were almost translucent amber in the light and very... well, human.
Jim inwardly shook himself off and smiled. “Didn’t figure you for the dog type.”
“This canine possesses a surprisingly likable disposition.”
“He takes after me like that.”
“Of this I am doubtful.”
Jim chuckled. “I forgot to ask. How did you sleep?”
“Adequately.” Spock turned back to Gumby and resumed his petting. “Vulcans require three point six Terran hours of repose for full rejuvenation.”
“Nifty,” Jim quipped, brushing against Spock as he sat down beside him. “You guys must have unbelievable sex drives. So,” Jim continued, reaching down to scratch Gumby’s ears. “I need to run some errands. Food. Maybe a pair of jeans for you, because you’re taller than me and look pretty goofy in my clothes.”
“I am not concerned with aesthetics.”
Jim scoffed. “Oh please. The world is concerned with aesthetics. That’s how we operate.”
“Vulcans do not operate in the same fashion as humans. To compare our cultures would be offensive.”
Jim raised his eyebrows and considered Spock. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow. Well, it’s comforting to know that there are still aspects of the human about you, Spock. Pride and vanity.”
Spock’s calmly shifted and met Jim’s amused expression. “Vulcans are neither prideful, nor vain.”
Jim snorted a laugh and slapped Spock’s knee. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take this conversation seriously. You’re totally delusional.”
Spock’s spine stiffened. “Pardon me, but do you regard any topic of conversation with sobriety?”
“Life is much too important a thing ever to talk seriously about.”
At Spock’s blank look, Jim cocked his head and grinned. “Oscar Wilde.”
“I am acquainted with the author,” Spock snapped.
“Oh, gasp! Are you trying to tell me that you’ve read the works of an inferior human? Scandalous. Did you forfeit an IQ point for every page your eyes doth lay upon?”
Spock’s nostrils flared. “You mock me?”
Jim smiled. “And if I am? Does that annoy you, Spock?” He leaned in and tilted his head, so that their mouths were aligned. “How... human of you.”
“You ridicule -”
Jim smiled unrepentantly and ripped the Dora band-aid from Spock’s forehead. The Vulcan didn’t flinch, but his eyes widened and he quieted. Jim pursed his lips as he inspected the wound. “Man, you guys really do heal quickly. Still, you should wash that and redress it. First-aid kit is upstairs in the bathroom, under the sink.”
“Jim -”
“What foods do you like?” Jim got to his feet and went to the front door to put on his boots.
“Pardon me?”
“Sustenance, Spock. How do you take it?”
“Vulcans are vegetarians.”
Jim looked at Spock mournfully. “I’m sorry. That’s unfortunate.”
Spock looked genuinely perplexed, before the emotion was erased. “Why?”
Jim shook his head and plucked a jacket from the closet. “Poor, sad grass-nommer.”
“May I point out that the majority of nourishment currently in your home is vegetarian?”
“Uh, duh. Hence the shopping.”
Jim turned and swung open the front door, preparing to leave. He paused and cast Spock a glance over his shoulder. Spock remained on the stairs, considering Jim in a way that would unnerve an average man. But Jim had never been mediocre on any level.
“I know this whole thing is really, really bizarre, but... I think it’s gonna be all right. It’s just a gut feeling, but if there’s anything in this world that I trust, it’s my instinct.”
Jim’s lips quirked. “Don’t forget - while I’m away, don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t talk to strangers, and don’t accept delicious-looking apples from old ladies, no matter how vegetarian you’re feeling. I might have to be the one to kiss you back to life.”
Before Spock could reply, Jim made his exit.
***
Jim nearly laughed at the scene he walked in on as he entered the living room with his hands filled with grocery bags.
“Um, are you watching Rachael Ray?”
Spock sat primly on the couch, with his posture perfect. His new forehead band-aid was green and sported Swiper the sneaky fox. Spock blinked up at Jim and nodded. “Her speech patterns are nearly as unusual as yours.”
Jim smiled to himself as he headed into the adjoining kitchen, and dropped the bags on the table. “I dunno about that. Like what?”
There was a long pause as Rachael instructed the viewer to ‘eyeball’ a cup of ricotta cheese.
“Hellooo, Spock? On Earth, when a person begins a line of conversation, they tend to finish it too. What does Rachael say?”
A hushed reply, almost tentative, came from the living room.
“Yummo?”
Jim was nearly forced to put his head between his legs to stop himself from hyperventilating with laughter. Tears blurred his vision as he weakly refilled the fridge. Every once in a while Spock’s voice echoed yummo in Jim’s head, and he was forced into renewed guffaws.
Once Jim had finished giving the kitchen the illusion that someone other than a thrifty bachelor lived there (he wasn’t getting rid of his precious Ramen though), he made his way back to the living room.
He bit back the smile that immediately threatened.
Spock’s expression was tight, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. He looked about as comfortable as Taylor Swift sharing a stage with Kanye West.
“Aw, Spock.” Jim went to Spock’s side and sat down, facing him. He had to press his lips together for a moment to keep from giggling. “I wasn’t... I wasn’t laughing at you. I just wasn’t expecting you to say... oh God.” Jim felt a gurgle of laughter bubbling in his throat. “I can’t, I can’t even think about it. Just, okay, I’m calm now. Calm. Breathing.”
If looks could kill, Jim would be gagging on his own tongue right about now. Jim counter-attacked with big puppy-dog eyes.
“I’m sorry?”
Spock’s stare became only minutely less withering.
Jim swallowed. “Um. Oh! I got you clothes. See how great I am?”
“I had not requested any garments, so your actions are unnecessary and unwelcome.”
“Oh, come on now. Don’t huff. I’d say it’s not attractive on you, but I’d be lying.”
“I am not, as you say, huffing.”
“Look, I babysit a four-year-old girl. I know pouting when I see it.”
Spock’s eyes darkened. “You equate me with a child.”
“I wouldn’t if you stopped acting like one.” Jim tried his most winning smile. “Seriously, what are we even arguing about anymore? Isn’t it illogical to hold a grudge?”
“I have no idea of what you are speaking.”
Jim beamed and clapped Spock on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. I’ll go get your clothes in a second. I just need to have a little sit-down.”
Even with two cans of Red Bull flowing in his veins, Jim could only run so long on a few meagre hours of rest. He’d been awake since well before dawn. It wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes for just a moment.
The quiet murmur of the television and the radiating warmth of Spock’s body beside him lulled Jim into a sense of comfort. With a loud, unbridled yawn, Jim’s cheek made contact with Spock’s shoulder, and sleep took a quick hold. Time was a black void. A pleasant nothingness that so rarely visited Jim, even in respite, cradled him into a deeper slumber than he’d experienced in months.
Upon his slow, dragging wakefulness, Jim was first aware of the smell of Christmas. Cinnamon and fresh, crisp snow and the crackling hearth.
Of course, when he cracked his grimy eyes open it became very clear that he was actually inhaling the crook of Spock’s neck.
Jim groaned and flopped back along the couch, with his head resting on the armrest. The room was dark, indicating the length of time in which Jim had been passed out. The television reflected an eerie blue glow upon Spock’s angular features. His eyes were black and unreadable in the shadows.
“How long’ve I been ‘sleep?” Jim mumbled and rubbed his eyes with his fists.
“Approximately seven point two Terran hours.”
“Jesus. You stayed sitting for seven hours while I slept on you?”
“I did not wish to wake you. I could sense your fatigue.”
Jim swallowed, feeling unusually unnerved. “I think I drooled on you.”
“Charming.”
“My back hurts.”
“That is truly unfortunate.”
Jim kicked off his shoes and rolled to his side. He curled his legs up so that Spock had room to sit at the end of the couch. “Whatcha watchin’?”
“Gone with the Wind.”
“Yeah?” Jim squinted at the screen and a yawn threatened his voice. “I like Scarlett.”
“Truly? I find her character illogical.”
“She’s selfish, but no one’s perfect. She’s independent and sharp. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“She is manipulative and immoral.”
“Well, if you don’t like Scarlett, then you’ll definitely enjoy the ending. Stay tuned.”
With that, Jim promptly fell into oblivion once more.
The next time he awoke, it was to the smells of home-cooking and morning light dancing across his eyelids. For a sleep-hazed moment, Jim thought Mom was in the kitchen. Then his brain rebooted, and everything came crashing back.
Jim sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. His body was still in that place where it was deciding whether or not he felt like shit, or if he felt refreshed. It would probably take an hour for him to figure it out. Despite the years of pre-dawn farm work, Jim was about as much of a morning person as Edward Cullen.
Stumbling into the brightly lit kitchen, Jim was confronted with the sight of Spock.
Spock, dressed crisply in his new clothing - dark blue jeans that clung in all the right places and a black, thermal Henley. His feet were bare on the cold tile, and it was the first time Jim had ever considered feet to be sexy.
“Honey, are you cooking breakfast for me?” was about the cleverest thing Jim could muster at this point.
Spock spared Jim the most unimpressed of glances, and continued frying up something that looked like chunky hash browns with peppers and onion and garlic.
Jim’s stomach actually might have done a Xena war-cry for that food.
He meandered up behind Spock and peered around his shoulder, yawning loudly.
Spock shifted away slightly. “Please refrain from yawning into my ear, Jim.”
“Mmm?” Jim was still intent on the concoction in the skillet. “Where’d you learn to make this?”
“I have watched four point four hours of cookery techniques and recipes. I am confident that I can handle a simple meal.”
Jim groaned in Spock’s ear. “Christ, you didn’t fall from space, did you? It was heaven. Marry me now. Put your little green babies in me.”
He held up a finger and took a breath. “Speaking of, are you guys born from eggs or what? What’s the average gestation period? Do all the women look as pretty as you - or are they like birds where they’re the ugly ones and the men get to be flashy and gay?”
“Sit down, Jim.”
Jim promptly skirted the stiff-backed Vulcan and sat. Spock didn’t even look up; he just continued playing the Stepford wife. Maybe they could switch off on making breakfast. Or Spock could always make it, because Jim’s culinary skills ranged from cereal to pancakes.
“So, uh, what are Vulcan women like?” Jim asked, once he noted the tension had eased from Spock’s shoulders. It looked like cooking relaxed the guy.
“That is a broad inquiry with several possible answers.”
Jim slouched back and propped his feet up on another chair. “Well, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Vulcans do not have girlfriends.”
“’Do not have girlfriends’ as in, you’re a race of men who’ve found some no doubt terrifying way to procreate, or ‘do not have girlfriends’ like, you don’t do dating?”
“As you say, we do not do dating.”
“Ah. So, are you married?”
Spock paused; staring into the skillet like it was going to start chatting away to him at any moment. Then he silently found two plates and piled the food atop. When he sat down with their dishes, and saw by Jim’s stubborn expression that he would not let the topic go, Spock flicked a brow.
“The issue is complicated.”
“If Vulcans are so logical, why would they make it complicated?”
Spock looked like he was going to frown. “It is complicated for a human’s comprehension.”
Jim rolled his eyes and dug into his food - which had to have MSG and LSD in it because it was just that delicious (and, somehow, vegetarian - who knew?).
“You need to shut up about the stupidity of humanity, or I’ll make you shut up. By the way, this is fantastic. Did you just lie about never having cooked so you could impress me?”
Spock was staring, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Vulcans do not lie, and I experience no wish to impress you.”
Jim grinned. “Lies, all of them.” He shoved a massive hunk of potato and pepper in his mouth.
They ate in companionable silence for the remainder of breakfast. Jim collected his wits enough to note that it was nine in the morning - he never slept that late. He’d been hibernating for like, half a day.
But Jim felt good. Dare he say... perky?
Spock finished first and pushed his plate away. Jim noted the leftovers, and scraped them on to his own dish.
“Hey, Spock?”
“Yes?”
“Are you gonna explain to me why Vulcans are stalking Earth in the first place? Considering how much I’m risking by concealing E.T. in my bed, I think I have the right to know.”
Spock’s face was devoid of reaction, but the air had gone still around them.
Jim held his breath -
And yelped when someone rapped at the front door.
Spock and Jim exchanged glances.
Jim groaned and thumped his forehead to the tabletop. “Oh, come on!”
Chapter Four