We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Six
Title: I Just Don't Know What to Do (with myself)
Universe/Series: AU
Rating: R for language
Relationship status: First Time (eventually)
Word count: 6,840 (omg wth)
Genre: h/c, angst
Trope: kid!fic, family, friendship
Warnings: language for this part, slight violence and eventual underage sexual activity. also vomiting in this bit.
Pairing: k/s, no others.
Beta: the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious 13empress, object of my logical adoration.
Summary: written for this prompt on the kink-meme. which then ballooned like a motherfuc monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"
A/N: dedicated with much love and humble adoration to 13empress , who kicked my ass mercilessly with very large boots. You. Frikkin. Rock.
So,originally supposed to be brief, now it is a 12 parter to the original theme of the song "we are gonna be friends", with each chapter named for a white stripes song. honestly? i wasn't even that huge a ws fan before i wrote this, but they've definitely grown on me. i recommend listening to the songs for each chapter- i'll try to include a you-tube link to the songs at the end.
A/N pt 2: Sorry for the late posting. i got a JOB (well, ok, it's only pt-time, but it's PAYING), so i now have 20 less hours of writing time in my life. also, i have two, count them, TWO (cause i'm an overly ambitious nut-job) big bangs due in like, 20-some-odd days. And i'm going out of town next week for a wedding. SO. this is a long way of saying it might be a while till the next update.
I SWEAR TO YOU I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS. it skeeves me so much when wips get dropped. so, let us agree that, IF i do end up having to put off the next update, THERE WILL BE AN UPDATE BY NO LATER THAN SEPTEMBER 8TH. ( i really don't think it will be that long, but i'd rather buy myself some extra time than disappoint any readers i have out there.)
* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.
(approx. ages for this bit- 10/11 and 12/13)
2242 late summer
“Jim, listen to me.” Her voice is firm, steady, and cold. “This is about being responsible, and doing the right thing.”
He can feel the clench and twist of his guts, and wishes he could throw up. Maybe that would make him feel better. Maybe.
His mother is standing in front of him, her hand under his chin; her eyes are as blue as his, and just as wet, but her voice doesn’t waver a fraction. Dust motes dance in the rays of early morning light that pour through the windows of the spaceport, individual as snowflakes, but nowhere near as special.
“I made this decision because I thought, I think, that this is the best thing for me to do right now, for you, for me, for all of us.”
He can feel that his shirt front is getting soaked through from the tears that he can’t seem to keep from rolling down his face; fat, wet, silent drops of reproach, salty and warm and shameful in the tracks they leave on his cheeks. He hates this, hates her, hates himself for betraying himself like this. He’s such a baby, such a worthless child, and he would give anything, anything, to be someone else right now.
“I signed a contract, Jim. I can’t back out now. You have to stand by your word, you have to do the things you agree to do.”
Her voice is military in its precision, a tone he’s never heard from her before. He can hear that clipped intonation as it must sound echoing over comm channels; it’s like hearing it through a tin can, the way it sounds as it pushes past the rushing in his ears.
She sighs, traces her hand across his cheek, and he can’t help himself, he grabs her arm, clutching at her one last time.
“How would it look if I quit now? How could you ever respect me? Honor is carrying through, no matter what the cost. Doing what is asked of you without flinching. Jim…”
She looks at him, bites her lip. Her thin eyebrows are wrinkled into the lines of her forehead.
“…Jim. It’s not that long. Six months, then I’ll be back for Christmas.”
Stands up, pulls him into a tight, hard hug. He squeezes, burying his face into her chest, only letting go when she forcibly pulls away from him. She extracts herself, pushes him off by the shoulders, and meets his eyes one last time.
“Chin up, kiddo. Things’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
He can’t move. He knows this. If he moves, he’ll throw himself at her, make a scene.
No one wants that.
“Goodbye, Frank. Take care of my boys.”
She stands on tiptoe, kisses him perfunctorily.
“Goodbye, Winona. Comm me when you get in.”
Jim can hear the confusion in Frank’s voice, the barely restrained civility; Frank wants to make a scene too, Jim thinks, and feels a sudden stab of camaraderie with the man.
Too bad they both know better.
A blink and she’s gone, moving rapidly away down the causeway, hips narrow in her blue jumpsuit, blond hair freshwashed and shinier than Jim ever remembers seeing it.
They watch until she’s out of sight, and then another minute longer, before they head to the parking garage, and home.
--
Frank scrubs at his face with both hands as they pull up next to the farmhouse. It’s early still, not yet eight thirty, but he looks exhausted, and older than he did a week ago. They’d left to take her to the spaceport when the morning star still sat quiescent on the dark horizon, an hour at least before dawn broke over the prairie. Now the sun is well risen and boiling down on the flat tarmac, heat rippling in front of the truck, a mirage of hope in the middle of barren asphalt.
“Well, kid, I gotta go to work. Shit don’t stop just because you want it to.” He sounds tired, a little overwhelmed.
Jim nods silently, reaches for the door handle.
“Your brother’s around here somewhere, I’m sure. Stay outta trouble, you hear me?”
Jim nods again, climbing out of the car and letting the door thud shut behind him.
“Good boy.”
The house is hot and empty, the late summer torpidity draped across the fields and heating Jim’s upstairs bedroom to sauna-like levels. The pile of tissues near his trashcan is gargantuan, and he flops onto his bed facing away from the mess. He doesn’t want to remember this week, never wants to remember it, but knows that’s not an option.
“Please, mom, I’ll be good, I swear, I can do better…” He clutches at her arm, pulling at her, trying to get her to face him.
“Jimmy, no…” she shakes her arm free, turns back to the stove. He pushes up against her, sliding up under her arm, never mind that he’s too big now and has to duck a lot.
“Mom, just give me another chance, I can just…” He can hear the whine in his voice, but he doesn’t care; his pride is not at stake here.
“Jim, I said no. This isn’t about you.” She pulls her arm off from around him, elbowing him out of the way as she steps to the sink to drain the pasta.
“I’ll take out the trash every day, and I’ll do my homework on time, and…” He follows a step behind her, and yes, he knows he’s being a pest, but he’s worried, he doesn’t really believe what she said earlier, about leaving, but she sounded serious, like she might believe it, and that scares him. Finally she faces him, pushing him off of her and meeting his eyes, her gaze hard and annoyed.
“James, listen to me. This is not about what you want. This is about what is best for this family, and what is best for me.” She pokes a finger into the point of his shoulder, making him step back. “You need to grow up a little bit, and stop taking everything so personally.” She turns her back on him again, bustling away from him.
“Not everything in this life is about you.”
He rolls over, crumpling his pillow beneath him, before throwing it against the wall where it hits and slides down the plaster to the floor with a whump.
“Please, mom, don’t go, don’t leave me here, please, take me with you…” He shoves up against her where she sits on the sofa, pressing into her side. She scoots over, bending more closely to the crossword on her padd.
“Jimmy, I can’t, you know that.” He scoots over again, sitting hip to hip with her, leaning in to peer at her screen.
“14 Down is ‘Antares’. I wouldn’t take up much space, I’d be very quiet…”
She keys it in, frowning at the screen and scooting over until she’s sitting in the very corner of the couch. “Jim, this is not up for discussion. The decision is made.”
“Mom, please, I’ll do better, I’ll be good, always, always, I promise…” He scoots over again, pressing her into the corner, rubbing his head on her shoulder. He’s worried now. It’s been three days, and there’s not a single sign she’s going to cave. His stomach hurts all the time, and he just wants to hear her say she was kidding, or even that she was serious, but that she’s thought it over, and it’s obviously a terrible decision.
She pulls herself up from the couch, glaring heatedly at him as he grabs onto her sleeve.
“James, stop this nonsense right now. You are only making this harder on everyone. Let go of my arm, and go to your room.”
He pulls himself off his bed, skin sticking to the sheets, and pads barefoot into the master bedroom. It’s dim and stifling in here, full of the comforting smell of cigarettes and his mother’s perfume, combined with the still-strange smell of Frank’s deodorant and construction uniforms. The ceiling fan spins in weary circles overhead, doing its manufactured best to move the air in the still room.
He walks over to the tall bed Frank had bought when he moved in. Jim is grateful for that; the bed his parents slept in is broken down and stored in the barn, and Jim thinks Frank was right- no one should sleep in that bed anymore.
He walks over to the side, sits down heavily in the spot where his mother sleeps.
Slept.
Her nightstand is bare, the remaining personal detritus inconsequential; a couple batteries, a button from a purple blouse, a mostly used lip balm. He rifles the drawer, digging hopefully through receipts and pocket lint for something, for anything, for he doesn’t even know what, but there’s nothing there but useless bits of paper and string.
“Mom, why do you need to go? Why can’t you stay? What’s wrong with us, that you won’t stay?” He can’t help the tear that slides down his cheek and drips onto the shirt she’s folding, even if he is too old to cry in front of his mother.
“Jimmy, honey, this is not about you. This is bigger, this is important.” She looks almost sympathetic for a moment, then turns back to her suitcase on the bed, half full already. He resists the urge to upend it onto the floor.
“What’s bigger? What’s more important? Don’t you love us enough?” He pushes the suitcase aside, sits on the bed in front of her. She frowns, and steps over so that she stands in front of it again.
“Of course I love you enough, Jim. I just… I need… I’ve never had a life, sweetie, and it’s not good for me to live like this.” She adds the last folded sweater to the small orderly pile in the suitcase and turns to reach for her socks. “And it’s not good for you guys for me to be around when I’m like this. It’s time for things to change.”
He gets up and stands between her and the suitcase, pulling on the hem of her t-shirt. He feels jittery with panic, trapped in fear.
“But why can’t we all change? Why can’t we come with you? Aren’t we good enough to come with you?” She frowns, taking his face in her hands, examining his features. There’s an expression on her face as she looks at him, he’s seen it all his life. He knows when she looks like this that she’s not seeing him at all, that she sees only his father’s ghost, his infamous progenitor stamped into every freckle, every molecule of his face, of his blue eyes.
“James… someday you’ll understand. I have to live my life, so you can live yours. You don’t know what you’re asking, right now, when you ask me to stay.” She holds his face for a second longer, then releases it, and pushes him out of the way. “Someday you’ll know. Someday you’ll look back on this, and it’ll all make sense.” She gives him a shove toward the door. “Now go get me my boots, baby, mommy’s gotta pack.”
He hauls her pillow off the bed, burying his face in the impression where her head lay until five hours ago. He can smell her shampoo, the scent of her body oil, the faint fragrance of how her skin smells, just there, in the fold of her neck.
He wraps his arms around it, inhaling deeply. Suddenly he is tired, exhausted, wearied to an atomic level. He wants to cry and cry for days, but he’s done that already, and what has it got him? Nothing but pity, and that’s the thing he wanted least of all.
He’s on his feet and walking, pulling open the closet door before he knows what he’s doing, and crawling into the cool dark beneath her dresses. Her scent is everywhere here, and in the dark he can close his eyes, relaxing into the starbursts that float through his field of vision.
He draws one deep, shuddering breath, holds it, and decides he’s done. Crying and pleading have gotten him nowhere. This is the last time he will allow himself to indulge in such childish behavior. It’s time to be a grown-up now, to take charge of himself and his own life.
To not let everything show on his face.
To do the honorable thing.
He clutches the pillow closer, leaning back against the wall and hiding his head in the hem of his mother’s coat.
No need for a coat in space, he thinks, sleepily watching the stars as they spiral behind his eyelids. His exhaustion is complete, his body releasing the last of the adrenaline, his heart slowing in the heat.
Space, the final frontier… no need for coats, for mothers, or for crying, ever…
He is still sleeping when Sam finds him hours later, curled into a ball in the bottom of the closet.
Sam stands, looks. Closes the door, and goes back downstairs.
2242 fall
The first day of school dawns early and hot, the rising sun promising sweltering heat by mid-day. Jim wakes at the insistent blaring of his alarm, struggling upright in the tangled nest of sheets and yawning till his jaw cracks. He scratches his chest and staggers out of bed, snagging a stiffened towel off the bed post on his way to the bathroom, feet pounding heavy with sleep on the wood floor.
One shower later he is mostly dressed, sitting on his bed to pull on a second sock, when he notices the aroma wafting up the stairs. It smells like… food? Maybe? That’s strange, he thinks. Frank doesn’t cook.
He ties both shoes securely, pulls his padd out from under his bed, and heads down to the kitchen.
In the two weeks since Winona left, they’ve all behaved pretty much independently. Left to their own devices, Sam is always gone and Jim is over at Spock’s. Frank goes to work and then watches tv and drinks beer until he staggers to bed after the 11 o’clock news. It’s been summer, and Frank has seemed uninterested in continuing the unacknowledged farce that the three of them had any desire to spend time in one another’s company.
Jim is fine with that.
Downstairs the smell of something cooking is stronger, if not any more appetizing, and he wanders into the kitchen curiously, sniffing warily at the air. Sam is nowhere to be found, as per usual, but what is less usual is Frank, standing before the stove, spatula in hand and skillet on the heat, flipping something in the pan as steam rises.
Jim slides into a chair, the feet scraping in their familiar grooves across the floor as he scoots back in, and the noise makes Frank turn.
He smiles at Jim as he pulls a slice of slightly burned bread from the toaster.
“Hey, kiddo. Thought I’d make you boys some breakfast for the first day of school.” He smiles again, the expression only a little bit forced. He’s trying, Jim decides, and nods in acknowledgement. Frank’s face darkens slightly. “Your brother hasn’t turned up yet, but what the hell, that means more for us, right, kid?” He grins again, showing his uneven teeth.
Jim nods obligingly, then gets up and pours a glass of water. He would have preferred juice, but when he’d checked the fridge two days ago, the last of the orange juice had swollen the bottle to nearly bursting, so he’d thrown it out. He’d heard it pop later, safe in the confines of the trash can, super-accelerated gaseous decay aided by the August heat and the metal enclosure.
He slides back into his chair just as Frank deposits a plate in front of him, whistling tunelessly under his breath as he turns back to the stove to load his own.
“Eat up, kid. Nothing like a little old fashioned spam and eggs to start the day off right!”
Jim eyeballs the plate suspiciously.
He’s seen that can of spam in the pantry for as long as he can remember, but it’s one of those things that can be ok forever, right? He’s not sure. He pokes it with his fork, then realizes that Frank is watching him, waiting for him to take his first bite with an expression that says he actually wants Jim to like something he’s done for once.
This is about doing what you’ve got to do when others are counting on you.
He stabs his fork into the vaguely gelatinous patty and puts it in his mouth, chews quickly, then swallows. The gag reflex hits him a second later, but he forces it down, smiling as his eyes water.
“’s good, Frank, thanks!”
Frank smiles, pleased with himself for doing something right, and digs in.
The roiling in his gut hits him as he pushes away from the table to put his plate in the sink, but he manages to hold it off until just as he’s heading down the stairs from brushing his teeth to catch the bus.
He knows, in that moment, with the certainty that spasms in the back of his throat, that he’s going to throw up, and that he’s got about 15 seconds to find an appropriate place to do it.
It’s long enough to race to the upstairs bathroom, crouch over the toilet bowl, and be grateful that Frank has already left for work, before he’s retching helplessly into the water, gagging again and again as the taste of breakfast rushes back through his mouth, splashing into the porcelain tunnel as he coughs and heaves.
After a time he is finished, for the moment anyway. His gut is still sour and rolling, and his head is foggy with spots and the noise roaring in his ears. He staggers up to the sink, rinses his mouth, and settles down in front of the bathtub.
Somehow staying right near a receptacle for the next little while seems like a good idea.
He’s not sure how many hours it is before he hears the inevitable knock on the bathroom door- he’s thrown up and fallen asleep and thrown up again several times in however long it’s been, and is just beginning to wrap his mind around the idea that he should really go to his room, or Frank’s gonna know something’s up when the sound startles him.
The knock comes again, and he manages to moan in response, which cues the door to open and Spock’s worried face to peer around the door frame. He’s gotten taller this summer, Jim notices absently. His head is level with the latch on the door now, his shoulders wider where they’re framed in the doorway as he stares down at Jim.
“Jim? Are you unwell?”
Jim moans again, beginning to push himself upright, then slumping back down as the nausea reasserts itself upon his movement.
Spock has made it over to his side and is kneeling on the orange bathmat at Jim’s side. His warm fingers press at Jim’s neck, checking his pulse and temperature.
“Are you ill?”
His eyes are dark in the dimly lit room, and Jim can only nod carefully, groaning in distress when Spock’s careful fingers palpitate his abdomen, pushing his shirt up to examine his stomach walls.
Jim licks his lips.
“Was food. Frank cooked. Think something was…”
Spock pushes something funny, and he is awfully pleased that he manages to sit up and lean forward before he heaves again into the bowl, bringing up nothing but bitter yellowish gall, his stomach muscles protesting at the repeated abuse.
Spock waits unblinkingly until his throat has stopped making the dreadful hacking noises and his spine has relaxed from its imperative thrust forward, then reaches over and begins to rub the constricted muscles in the back of his neck.
“Jim…” he sounds hesitant, and Jim thinks idly that if he had more energy, he’d wonder why.
“Jim… if you like, I can alleviate some of the symptoms.” He pauses, his fingers stuttering to a stop, then starting to stroke again. “I would have to meld with you.”
It’s by far the best idea Jim’s heard all day. He nods as vigorously as he dares, turning his face to Spock and tipping dangerously forward, wanting to bring those slim fingers into contact with his face as quickly as possible.
He could swear that Spock quirks that lower left corner of his mouth, and then he’s there, sliding through Jim’s mind like a current through water, a weft through the warp, lightning through a cloud, sliver and flashing and sliding his chilled mental fingers into every aching slot until Jim feels like something that might be approaching normal again.
Spock pulls his fingers away, and Jim’s face follows them for a second before he realizes, and stops short, blinking at Spock, who bites his lip and looks away.
“Thanks. I feel… better.” He runs his hand through his hair, and pulls a face at the taste of the inside of his mouth. “Think I’m gonna take a shower.”
Spock nods and stands, holding down a hand to help Jim up from the floor.
“Do not take long. I have removed the symptoms, but your body is still weakened and dehydrated.”
Jim nods, taking a towel from the cabinet behind the door and pulling his shirt off as Spock leaves the small room.
Spock is right; he feels better, but his body is weak, and he feels floaty, with the detached sort of spinny feeling he gets after being in the sun too long. He dries off, noticing without surprise that Spock has set a pile of clean clothes on the counter.
He dresses slowly, taking the time to lean on the sink and brush his teeth twice, then makes his way to his room, weaving lightly but managing not to knock into the doorframe. Spock is sitting on his bed waiting for him, and Jim flops down beside him with relief, sighing as his muscles relax into the mattress.
“Here. Drink.”
Spock hands him a glass of water, which Jim downs in short order before scooting up the bed to set the empty vessel on the nightstand and sink back down.
“Jim.”
Spock’s voice is restrained in the dim heat. It must be late afternoon, Jim thinks.
It’s beastly hot, but the sun is no longer shining through the slats of the blinds. He feels himself beginning to slide into a doze, the space between awake and truly asleep so nearby in the heat.
“Why did you not tell me that your mother had left?”
His stomach begins to hurt again, and he rolls over to face down into the pillow. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. He sighs into the pillow. He can hear Spock waiting, his giant brain ticking over like a well-loved automaton, a perfect piece of exquisite clockwork.
“I… dunno? I mean…” he buries his face more deeply, “I just…” He thinks for a minute. “It’s just like… Spock, your mom is so awesome, and my mom…well, she’s just…” He stills himself, lying straight and quiet on the bed. “I did something wrong, Spock, and now she’s left. And she’s not coming back for a long time. And… I just… didn’t know what to say?” He bites his lip to muffle the sob which pushes at his throat. He won’t cry. Not in front of Spock, not in front of anyone. Not over something as childish as his mother leaving.
He feels the mattress shift, and turns his head, opening his eyes.
Spock’s face is inches from his own, and his eyes hold a look of guilty surprise, his hand hovering in mid-air. He breathes in, completes the gesture, pushing a stray lock of Jim’s sandy hair off his forehand, his fingers skimming past the meld point on Jim’s temple and sparking a tiny flash of electricity that Jim can feel in the sides of his neurons.
Jim bites his cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of the tiny amount of space between them, of the exact shade of the coffee-lit low-lights of Spock’s eyes, of the way the skin of his lip splits in the middle, the way his tongue slides out hesitantly to wet it as he breathes.
There is not a decision, simply an act, and Jim is pressing his mouth to Spock’s, feeling the strangely firm softness of lips against his, different than Chrissy’s, warmer and smoother and with a different taste. He pushes closer, letting his mouth open to taste the odd heated spice of his friend, bumping his nose to the side. Spock inhales, a tiny gasp of surprise, but he doesn’t pull away, moves his head slightly to accommodate Jim’s exploring mouth as it pushes into the corners of his lips, moving gingerly against its companion. Jim licks along the swell of Spock’s bottom lip, tracing the split with his tongue as he slips his hand into Spock’s, stroking his fingers over knuckle and thumb and squirming forward until they’re pressed together at mouth and hand and hip.
The door slams downstairs and they spring apart, Jim rolling onto his back and Spock sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, leaving Jim to contemplate his ramrod straight spine as they listen to the sounds of adults arguing downstairs. The voices of a man and a woman, and for one transcendent second Jim thinks that his mom has come back early before he recognizes the tones of Amanda’s voice lifted in exasperation, and his heart drops again.
“Spock says Jimmy has food poisoning. Food poisoning, Frank. What did you do?”
“What did I do? I tried to cook breakfast, like a normal parent would.”
Amanda’s voice is rising in both pitch and volume.
“What did you make?” She pauses for a second. “You do know how to cook, right?”
“Of course I know how to cook, what kind of retard do you think I am?” Frank sounds offended and defensive, a bad combination, Jim knows from experience.
“I don’t think you’re a retard, Frank.” Amanda has moved from irate into pacifying. “I think you’ve been left with a couple of kids that you don’t know how to deal with, and I want to know what you’ve done to make one of them sick enough to spend all day vomiting.”
“What I’ve done? What I’ve done?” Frank is yelling now, and Jim can see Spock’s hands fisting in the bed spread. “What about what you’ve done, you meddling bitch? I was happily married for all of a fucking year, a year that you spent sticking your goddamn big nose in where it doesn’t belong, giving Winona ideas about ‘bettering herself’” his voice simpers, “and ‘owning her life’, and what did she do? She up and fucking left, and it’s all because you don’t know your place.”
“Frank.” Amanda’s voice is icy enough that Jim shudders involuntarily. “This is unbecoming of you. I think you had better leave until you calm down a bit.”
“You goddamn bet I will. And you had better not fucking well be in my house when I get back. You take your goddamn freaky son” the sound of a fist slamming against a table, “and get the hell out of my house.”
The door slams again, and Jim can hear Spock exhale slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the bed, wrinkles creasing the fabric as though they’d been ironed in.
Footsteps up the stairs, then Amanda is sitting next to him, hand on his forehead.
“Spock helped you with your symptoms?”
Jim nods silently, body still tense against the mattress.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, baby.” She turns her head to the side. “You too, Spock. That was inappropriate behavior on both our parts, and I’m sorry.” She sighs heavily, stroking Jim’s forehead and replacing the empty glass with a full one she’s brought from downstairs.
“Jim. What he said. About your mother.” She sighs again. “I suppose it’s true, in a way. I did encourage her. I thought she needed to do something for herself, but I had thought… a hobby, or some classes, or…” She takes Jim’s chin her hand, and forces his head around so he’s looking her in the eye.
“Jim. Please believe me, I never thought she’d leave.”
Her expression is anguished, and Jim has to look away as his lip trembles. He’s done with crying, even if Amanda is sad, it’s too late now. She’s gone, and he’s not going to cry about it anymore.
She runs a last hand through his hair, then stands.
“I’m going to run to the store, hon. Pick up some groceries.” She frowns down at him. “Drink a lot, ok? And comm me if you feel bad again, you hear?”
He nods.
“Good boy.”
She leans down, kisses his cheek in a swirl of perfume and hair, then heads for the door. Spock rises and begins to follow her, but Jim stretches out a hand, catching at his sleeve before he even knows why.
Spock’s eyes are surprised, but he comes back, examining Jim’s face with a questioning gaze.
What he sees, Jim’s not sure, but he lies down on the bed, pushing at Jim’s shoulder until he rolls over. Jim goes over obediently, and Spock curls himself in behind him, chest to back, knee to knee, draping an arm over his chest and pulling him close.
It’s little too warm, but Jim can’t bring himself to care, and for the first time in two weeks lets himself relax and just breathe.
2243 early spring
It’s cold outside, and Jim hugs his coat tight around him as his breath puffs out in little clouds into the night air, steaming nebulas of water vapor that drift and vanish.
He’s sitting on the porch swing, pushing back and forth with a toe on the porch rail to listen to the creak of the chains in the cold, watching as the stars twinkle one by one into existence over the purpling horizon.
The sounds of Sam and Frank’s latest altercation echo from the inside, and Jim wraps his arms more tightly around his skinny frame.
He’s cold, and he knows that’s at least in part because he’s lost some weight- there’s not too much now between him and the night air besides skin and cloth, but he doesn’t shiver. He likes the cold; it’s clean, and still, and pure in a way that appeals to him, freezing out any sticky imperfections, leaving him frozen stiff and sterile in the deep twilight.
This must be what deep space is like, he thinks, only more so. Cold and black and clear and safe.
The door bangs loudly, echoing with a crack around the silent yard, and Sam storms out onto the porch, stomping his boots on the wooden planks. He’s red in the face, and steam pours from his nostrils as he huffs angry breaths out his nose. Jim can see an eye beginning to swell, a crescent of split skin along his cheekbone. He turns his face back to the yard and waits.
Sam’s breaths eventually begin to even out, coming more slowly from where he sits on the steps. He puts his face in his hands and rubs roughly at his scalp, blunt fingers scratching through his hair in an exasperated repetitive motion.
“Leave.”
Sam raises his head. “Huh?”
“Do it. Leave.” Jim shrugs. “I know you want to.”
A series of expressions flicker across Sam’s face, denial prominent among them.
“Don’t pretend, Sam. I know about the money you keep hidden under the floorboard, and I know about the food you’ve been hiding in the barn.” Jim can hear his voice, flat and bored in the cold air. “Just do it. Go.”
Sam blinks at him incredulously. “But…”
“What?” Jim laughs once, a brittle sound. “You think Mom’s gonna come down and spank your butt for running off?” he kicks at the porch railing. “Hell, by the time she finds out, you can be long gone.”
Sam stares at him, considering. Nods once.
“Yeah. You’re right. I could.” He pauses. “But, Jim… what about you?”
Jim snorts, pushing down the hard knot in his stomach.
“What are you, my knight in shining armor?” He snorts again, looking out into the yard. “Go on. I don’t need you. Get out of here, go do whatever it is you’re going to do. Get a life.”
He stands up, leaving the swing to jolt and lurch behind him, bereft of his slight weight. He can feel Sam’s eyes watching him as he walks inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
It’s no real surprise to him in the morning when he wakes to a message flashing on his padd, the insistent light callous in its repetitive flicker.
Jimbo- Gone. If you need to get ahold of me, try Bones- I’ll leave info w him. Don’t tell Ma. Stay outta trouble. -S
He reads the message twice, then deletes it. Sets his padd down, pulls on his shoes, and heads out into the chill morning sun.
2243 late spring
It’s one of those days that they wrote that old rhyme about March being like a lion for, Jim thinks, except that it’s late April, and the smell of daffodils is fading, soon to be replaced with the scent of honeysuckle hot on the breeze. It’s warm out, but the breeze is brisk, scudding the clouds across the sky like ships before a strong wind, big puffy marshmallow poofs of white foam, breaking across the horizon.
Shapes in these clouds are momentary, artful collages of mist formed into racing horses and archers firing and canons blasting one second, then morphed into something new, something different, something changed the next. Impermanent, Jim thinks, like everything else.
A shadow crosses between him and the sun-drenched sky, and he blinks up, staring up the interminable length of Spock from where Jim lays on his back in the grass. He smiles involuntarily, the sight of Spock’s vaguely disapproving default expression enough to make his chest warm, even if Spock is wearing the look that says he’s not entirely sure what Jim’s doing, but is sure it’s somehow inappropriate.
“Hey, Spock.” He raises a hand to shade his eyes. “Hey, come sit down here, you’re blocking my view.”
Spock raises his face to the sky, scanning the heavens for something of note. He lowers his eyes to look down at Jim again, his expression puzzled.
“Your view of what?”
Jim grins. “The pirates, silly.” He looks again. “Or maybe they’ve changed into ninjas. Look!” he points to a small cluster of cloudlets in the northeast quadrant of blue sky. He can see the second that Spock gets it, and he laughs as Spock sinks to the grass beside him, folding his long legs up like a grasshopper so they poke out to either side of his narrow body. He holds out a small plate, quirking his slight smile at Jim while still managing to express his utter disdain for the illogical activity of cloud watching.
“You missed dessert.”
Jim takes the plate, eyeballing the slice with delight. Cherry, it looks like. His favorite.
“Thankth, Thpockh.” He tries to enunciate carefully around the forkful he’s already shoved into his mouth, but it’s hard; there are still a few crumbs that fall, Spock brushing them unobtrusively from his pant legs.
“What do you see?” He chews and swallows, looking at his friend as he cuts another bite and shoves it into his mouth. Spock quirks an eyebrow at him, and Jim gestures skyward, spreading his fingers to indicate the clouds.
He lies back down onto the grass, watching as Spock gazes intently heavenward.
“I see a moving mass of water vapors following wind currents according to chaotic quantum predictions of air flow, taking into account such factors as ground surface temperature, barometric pressure, and the approaching low pressure system.” His dark eyes twinkle as he looks seriously back at Jim.
Jim sucks another bite off the fork and rolls his eyes.
“Jerkh. C’mon. What do you thee?”
Spock lets his eyebrows knit slightly with concentration.
“I see a boy with cherry pie filling halfway to his ear.”
Jim scowls and shoves the last bite into his mouth, shoving at Spock with his shoulder.
“Oh, c’mon, Thpock.” He swallows, swipes at his face with his shirtsleeve. “Can’t you be at least a little bit fun anymore?”
Spock sighs, and turns his face to the sky, studying the moving cloudforms with academic intensity.
“I see… a great bird of some kind.” He raises a finger and points, shadowing his face and casting him into stark silhouette against the sea of grass to his side. “See, left wing tip dips down just there, and the right…” He sighs. “It’s gone.”
Jim rolls up against him, pulling on Spock’s arm where it’s propping him up, pushing at his elbow to make it give. “Hey, come down here. Watch clouds with me. You can’t see them like that, it’ll crick your neck.” He pushes again at Spock’s arm, frowning in confusion when Spock picks up his arm, sitting up and hugging his knees.
“No.”
“Spock?” Jim feels confused, and his shoulder is cold where Spock’s body heat has been taken away. Did he do something wrong? He checks his hands for crumbs. He’d brushed them off pretty carefully…
“Jim…” Spock sighs and looks away, mumbling something into his knees.
“Huh?” He sits up and pushes up to Spock’s shoulder, resting his chin on Spock’s arm. “What’d you say?”
The flash of annoyance in Spock’s eyes is sudden, and it catches Jim off guard, making him inhale sharply and pull back. He feels a sudden chasm open in the bottom of his stomach. What’s wrong? What has he done?
Spock’s expression changes to one of remorse tempered with irritation, but he doesn’t reach out to touch Jim the way he usually would.
“Spock?” Jim hears his voice crack on the name, and coughs once to clear the sudden lump from his throat. “Spock? What’s wrong?”
“Jim…” Spock glances quickly at him, then away. “We’re too old for this.”
“Too old for what?” Jim is just getting more confused. “Too old for cloud watching? Who cares?”
“No.” Spock shakes his head and gestures at the space between them, and at Jim’s hand already reaching out toward him. “This.”
“This?” Jim repeats dumbly. He knows he sounds like a broken record, but he’s really not getting whatever it is that Spock is trying to tell him.
“This. This…” Spock looks away. “Jim… I’m Vulcan.”
Jim nods. “Uh-huh….” Finally, something he can agree with.
“Vulcans don’t…” He looks over at Jim again, and something unidentifiable crosses his face. “Vulcans don’t touch. Only family members touch, and only in private.” Spock’s eyes are nearly sad, Jim thinks, but he’s still not getting whatever it is Spock’s trying to say.
“But… Spock” he gestures to the back yard, “this is private. Besides, you’re the only Vulcan here. ‘Cept your dad, and he doesn’t care.” He narrows his eyes as he begins to process the rest of the statement. “And we’re family. Aren’t we?” He reaches his hand out again, wanting to scoot close, but Spock slides out of reach.
“Jim…” his voice is gentle, but his tone is firm. “We aren’t little kids anymore. You can’t just go around hanging on me like you do. It’s…” He refuses to meet Jim’s gaze. “It’s inappropriate.”
Jim suddenly flashes on the momentary finger brushes he’s seen Sarek and Amanda share, the only contact they ever make in anyone’s presence, and he suddenly feels his cheeks flush hot as the pieces fall into place. He pulls his arm back, and can see that Spock knows he gets it now. Well. Ok. That’s fine. He wasn’t thinking about Spock like that anyway. Was he? No. He wasn’t. Definitely not. And Spock definitely wasn’t thinking about him like that either, he’s sure. Was he? No. He wouldn’t.
“Jim…it’s just… I’m going to Vulcan soon, for the summer, and…” Spock’s looking at him again, but Jim’s cheeks are still hot, and he can’t meet those clear eyes. “… and I need to be used to not touching anyone…” His voice trails off, and Jim can tell that he knows it’s a lame excuse.
He doesn’t care suddenly. He just wants out. He stands, gathers his plate.
“Jim…”
“Don’t worry, Spock. I won’t touch you…” Jim turns around and leers “…inappropriately anymore.” He turns his back, heading for the house. “See you around.”
The stricken look on Spock’s face is seared into his mind, but he doesn’t care. All he can think of is how soon it will be before Spock is leaving, again, and how all he wants, for once, just once, is to be the one who leaves first.
I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself
I just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself
planning everything for two
doing everything with you
and now that we're through
I just don't know what to do
I just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself
movies only make me sad
parties make me feel as bad
cause I'm not with you
I just don't know what to do
like a summer rose
needs the sun and rain
I need your sweet love
to beat love away
well I don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
planning everything for two
doing everything with you
and now that we're through
I just don't know what to do
like a summer rose
needs the sun and rain
I need your sweet love
to beat love away
I just don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself
Universe/Series: AU
Rating: R for language
Relationship status: First Time (eventually)
Word count: 6,840 (omg wth)
Genre: h/c, angst
Trope: kid!fic, family, friendship
Warnings: language for this part, slight violence and eventual underage sexual activity. also vomiting in this bit.
Pairing: k/s, no others.
Beta: the magnificent, the glorious, the loquacious 13empress, object of my logical adoration.
Summary: written for this prompt on the kink-meme. which then ballooned like a motherfuc monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"
A/N: dedicated with much love and humble adoration to 13empress , who kicked my ass mercilessly with very large boots. You. Frikkin. Rock.
So,originally supposed to be brief, now it is a 12 parter to the original theme of the song "we are gonna be friends", with each chapter named for a white stripes song. honestly? i wasn't even that huge a ws fan before i wrote this, but they've definitely grown on me. i recommend listening to the songs for each chapter- i'll try to include a you-tube link to the songs at the end.
A/N pt 2: Sorry for the late posting. i got a JOB (well, ok, it's only pt-time, but it's PAYING), so i now have 20 less hours of writing time in my life. also, i have two, count them, TWO (cause i'm an overly ambitious nut-job) big bangs due in like, 20-some-odd days. And i'm going out of town next week for a wedding. SO. this is a long way of saying it might be a while till the next update.
I SWEAR TO YOU I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS. it skeeves me so much when wips get dropped. so, let us agree that, IF i do end up having to put off the next update, THERE WILL BE AN UPDATE BY NO LATER THAN SEPTEMBER 8TH. ( i really don't think it will be that long, but i'd rather buy myself some extra time than disappoint any readers i have out there.)
* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.
(approx. ages for this bit- 10/11 and 12/13)
2242 late summer
“Jim, listen to me.” Her voice is firm, steady, and cold. “This is about being responsible, and doing the right thing.”
He can feel the clench and twist of his guts, and wishes he could throw up. Maybe that would make him feel better. Maybe.
His mother is standing in front of him, her hand under his chin; her eyes are as blue as his, and just as wet, but her voice doesn’t waver a fraction. Dust motes dance in the rays of early morning light that pour through the windows of the spaceport, individual as snowflakes, but nowhere near as special.
“I made this decision because I thought, I think, that this is the best thing for me to do right now, for you, for me, for all of us.”
He can feel that his shirt front is getting soaked through from the tears that he can’t seem to keep from rolling down his face; fat, wet, silent drops of reproach, salty and warm and shameful in the tracks they leave on his cheeks. He hates this, hates her, hates himself for betraying himself like this. He’s such a baby, such a worthless child, and he would give anything, anything, to be someone else right now.
“I signed a contract, Jim. I can’t back out now. You have to stand by your word, you have to do the things you agree to do.”
Her voice is military in its precision, a tone he’s never heard from her before. He can hear that clipped intonation as it must sound echoing over comm channels; it’s like hearing it through a tin can, the way it sounds as it pushes past the rushing in his ears.
She sighs, traces her hand across his cheek, and he can’t help himself, he grabs her arm, clutching at her one last time.
“How would it look if I quit now? How could you ever respect me? Honor is carrying through, no matter what the cost. Doing what is asked of you without flinching. Jim…”
She looks at him, bites her lip. Her thin eyebrows are wrinkled into the lines of her forehead.
“…Jim. It’s not that long. Six months, then I’ll be back for Christmas.”
Stands up, pulls him into a tight, hard hug. He squeezes, burying his face into her chest, only letting go when she forcibly pulls away from him. She extracts herself, pushes him off by the shoulders, and meets his eyes one last time.
“Chin up, kiddo. Things’ll be fine, you’ll see.”
He can’t move. He knows this. If he moves, he’ll throw himself at her, make a scene.
No one wants that.
“Goodbye, Frank. Take care of my boys.”
She stands on tiptoe, kisses him perfunctorily.
“Goodbye, Winona. Comm me when you get in.”
Jim can hear the confusion in Frank’s voice, the barely restrained civility; Frank wants to make a scene too, Jim thinks, and feels a sudden stab of camaraderie with the man.
Too bad they both know better.
A blink and she’s gone, moving rapidly away down the causeway, hips narrow in her blue jumpsuit, blond hair freshwashed and shinier than Jim ever remembers seeing it.
They watch until she’s out of sight, and then another minute longer, before they head to the parking garage, and home.
--
Frank scrubs at his face with both hands as they pull up next to the farmhouse. It’s early still, not yet eight thirty, but he looks exhausted, and older than he did a week ago. They’d left to take her to the spaceport when the morning star still sat quiescent on the dark horizon, an hour at least before dawn broke over the prairie. Now the sun is well risen and boiling down on the flat tarmac, heat rippling in front of the truck, a mirage of hope in the middle of barren asphalt.
“Well, kid, I gotta go to work. Shit don’t stop just because you want it to.” He sounds tired, a little overwhelmed.
Jim nods silently, reaches for the door handle.
“Your brother’s around here somewhere, I’m sure. Stay outta trouble, you hear me?”
Jim nods again, climbing out of the car and letting the door thud shut behind him.
“Good boy.”
The house is hot and empty, the late summer torpidity draped across the fields and heating Jim’s upstairs bedroom to sauna-like levels. The pile of tissues near his trashcan is gargantuan, and he flops onto his bed facing away from the mess. He doesn’t want to remember this week, never wants to remember it, but knows that’s not an option.
“Please, mom, I’ll be good, I swear, I can do better…” He clutches at her arm, pulling at her, trying to get her to face him.
“Jimmy, no…” she shakes her arm free, turns back to the stove. He pushes up against her, sliding up under her arm, never mind that he’s too big now and has to duck a lot.
“Mom, just give me another chance, I can just…” He can hear the whine in his voice, but he doesn’t care; his pride is not at stake here.
“Jim, I said no. This isn’t about you.” She pulls her arm off from around him, elbowing him out of the way as she steps to the sink to drain the pasta.
“I’ll take out the trash every day, and I’ll do my homework on time, and…” He follows a step behind her, and yes, he knows he’s being a pest, but he’s worried, he doesn’t really believe what she said earlier, about leaving, but she sounded serious, like she might believe it, and that scares him. Finally she faces him, pushing him off of her and meeting his eyes, her gaze hard and annoyed.
“James, listen to me. This is not about what you want. This is about what is best for this family, and what is best for me.” She pokes a finger into the point of his shoulder, making him step back. “You need to grow up a little bit, and stop taking everything so personally.” She turns her back on him again, bustling away from him.
“Not everything in this life is about you.”
He rolls over, crumpling his pillow beneath him, before throwing it against the wall where it hits and slides down the plaster to the floor with a whump.
“Please, mom, don’t go, don’t leave me here, please, take me with you…” He shoves up against her where she sits on the sofa, pressing into her side. She scoots over, bending more closely to the crossword on her padd.
“Jimmy, I can’t, you know that.” He scoots over again, sitting hip to hip with her, leaning in to peer at her screen.
“14 Down is ‘Antares’. I wouldn’t take up much space, I’d be very quiet…”
She keys it in, frowning at the screen and scooting over until she’s sitting in the very corner of the couch. “Jim, this is not up for discussion. The decision is made.”
“Mom, please, I’ll do better, I’ll be good, always, always, I promise…” He scoots over again, pressing her into the corner, rubbing his head on her shoulder. He’s worried now. It’s been three days, and there’s not a single sign she’s going to cave. His stomach hurts all the time, and he just wants to hear her say she was kidding, or even that she was serious, but that she’s thought it over, and it’s obviously a terrible decision.
She pulls herself up from the couch, glaring heatedly at him as he grabs onto her sleeve.
“James, stop this nonsense right now. You are only making this harder on everyone. Let go of my arm, and go to your room.”
He pulls himself off his bed, skin sticking to the sheets, and pads barefoot into the master bedroom. It’s dim and stifling in here, full of the comforting smell of cigarettes and his mother’s perfume, combined with the still-strange smell of Frank’s deodorant and construction uniforms. The ceiling fan spins in weary circles overhead, doing its manufactured best to move the air in the still room.
He walks over to the tall bed Frank had bought when he moved in. Jim is grateful for that; the bed his parents slept in is broken down and stored in the barn, and Jim thinks Frank was right- no one should sleep in that bed anymore.
He walks over to the side, sits down heavily in the spot where his mother sleeps.
Slept.
Her nightstand is bare, the remaining personal detritus inconsequential; a couple batteries, a button from a purple blouse, a mostly used lip balm. He rifles the drawer, digging hopefully through receipts and pocket lint for something, for anything, for he doesn’t even know what, but there’s nothing there but useless bits of paper and string.
“Mom, why do you need to go? Why can’t you stay? What’s wrong with us, that you won’t stay?” He can’t help the tear that slides down his cheek and drips onto the shirt she’s folding, even if he is too old to cry in front of his mother.
“Jimmy, honey, this is not about you. This is bigger, this is important.” She looks almost sympathetic for a moment, then turns back to her suitcase on the bed, half full already. He resists the urge to upend it onto the floor.
“What’s bigger? What’s more important? Don’t you love us enough?” He pushes the suitcase aside, sits on the bed in front of her. She frowns, and steps over so that she stands in front of it again.
“Of course I love you enough, Jim. I just… I need… I’ve never had a life, sweetie, and it’s not good for me to live like this.” She adds the last folded sweater to the small orderly pile in the suitcase and turns to reach for her socks. “And it’s not good for you guys for me to be around when I’m like this. It’s time for things to change.”
He gets up and stands between her and the suitcase, pulling on the hem of her t-shirt. He feels jittery with panic, trapped in fear.
“But why can’t we all change? Why can’t we come with you? Aren’t we good enough to come with you?” She frowns, taking his face in her hands, examining his features. There’s an expression on her face as she looks at him, he’s seen it all his life. He knows when she looks like this that she’s not seeing him at all, that she sees only his father’s ghost, his infamous progenitor stamped into every freckle, every molecule of his face, of his blue eyes.
“James… someday you’ll understand. I have to live my life, so you can live yours. You don’t know what you’re asking, right now, when you ask me to stay.” She holds his face for a second longer, then releases it, and pushes him out of the way. “Someday you’ll know. Someday you’ll look back on this, and it’ll all make sense.” She gives him a shove toward the door. “Now go get me my boots, baby, mommy’s gotta pack.”
He hauls her pillow off the bed, burying his face in the impression where her head lay until five hours ago. He can smell her shampoo, the scent of her body oil, the faint fragrance of how her skin smells, just there, in the fold of her neck.
He wraps his arms around it, inhaling deeply. Suddenly he is tired, exhausted, wearied to an atomic level. He wants to cry and cry for days, but he’s done that already, and what has it got him? Nothing but pity, and that’s the thing he wanted least of all.
He’s on his feet and walking, pulling open the closet door before he knows what he’s doing, and crawling into the cool dark beneath her dresses. Her scent is everywhere here, and in the dark he can close his eyes, relaxing into the starbursts that float through his field of vision.
He draws one deep, shuddering breath, holds it, and decides he’s done. Crying and pleading have gotten him nowhere. This is the last time he will allow himself to indulge in such childish behavior. It’s time to be a grown-up now, to take charge of himself and his own life.
To not let everything show on his face.
To do the honorable thing.
He clutches the pillow closer, leaning back against the wall and hiding his head in the hem of his mother’s coat.
No need for a coat in space, he thinks, sleepily watching the stars as they spiral behind his eyelids. His exhaustion is complete, his body releasing the last of the adrenaline, his heart slowing in the heat.
Space, the final frontier… no need for coats, for mothers, or for crying, ever…
He is still sleeping when Sam finds him hours later, curled into a ball in the bottom of the closet.
Sam stands, looks. Closes the door, and goes back downstairs.
2242 fall
The first day of school dawns early and hot, the rising sun promising sweltering heat by mid-day. Jim wakes at the insistent blaring of his alarm, struggling upright in the tangled nest of sheets and yawning till his jaw cracks. He scratches his chest and staggers out of bed, snagging a stiffened towel off the bed post on his way to the bathroom, feet pounding heavy with sleep on the wood floor.
One shower later he is mostly dressed, sitting on his bed to pull on a second sock, when he notices the aroma wafting up the stairs. It smells like… food? Maybe? That’s strange, he thinks. Frank doesn’t cook.
He ties both shoes securely, pulls his padd out from under his bed, and heads down to the kitchen.
In the two weeks since Winona left, they’ve all behaved pretty much independently. Left to their own devices, Sam is always gone and Jim is over at Spock’s. Frank goes to work and then watches tv and drinks beer until he staggers to bed after the 11 o’clock news. It’s been summer, and Frank has seemed uninterested in continuing the unacknowledged farce that the three of them had any desire to spend time in one another’s company.
Jim is fine with that.
Downstairs the smell of something cooking is stronger, if not any more appetizing, and he wanders into the kitchen curiously, sniffing warily at the air. Sam is nowhere to be found, as per usual, but what is less usual is Frank, standing before the stove, spatula in hand and skillet on the heat, flipping something in the pan as steam rises.
Jim slides into a chair, the feet scraping in their familiar grooves across the floor as he scoots back in, and the noise makes Frank turn.
He smiles at Jim as he pulls a slice of slightly burned bread from the toaster.
“Hey, kiddo. Thought I’d make you boys some breakfast for the first day of school.” He smiles again, the expression only a little bit forced. He’s trying, Jim decides, and nods in acknowledgement. Frank’s face darkens slightly. “Your brother hasn’t turned up yet, but what the hell, that means more for us, right, kid?” He grins again, showing his uneven teeth.
Jim nods obligingly, then gets up and pours a glass of water. He would have preferred juice, but when he’d checked the fridge two days ago, the last of the orange juice had swollen the bottle to nearly bursting, so he’d thrown it out. He’d heard it pop later, safe in the confines of the trash can, super-accelerated gaseous decay aided by the August heat and the metal enclosure.
He slides back into his chair just as Frank deposits a plate in front of him, whistling tunelessly under his breath as he turns back to the stove to load his own.
“Eat up, kid. Nothing like a little old fashioned spam and eggs to start the day off right!”
Jim eyeballs the plate suspiciously.
He’s seen that can of spam in the pantry for as long as he can remember, but it’s one of those things that can be ok forever, right? He’s not sure. He pokes it with his fork, then realizes that Frank is watching him, waiting for him to take his first bite with an expression that says he actually wants Jim to like something he’s done for once.
This is about doing what you’ve got to do when others are counting on you.
He stabs his fork into the vaguely gelatinous patty and puts it in his mouth, chews quickly, then swallows. The gag reflex hits him a second later, but he forces it down, smiling as his eyes water.
“’s good, Frank, thanks!”
Frank smiles, pleased with himself for doing something right, and digs in.
The roiling in his gut hits him as he pushes away from the table to put his plate in the sink, but he manages to hold it off until just as he’s heading down the stairs from brushing his teeth to catch the bus.
He knows, in that moment, with the certainty that spasms in the back of his throat, that he’s going to throw up, and that he’s got about 15 seconds to find an appropriate place to do it.
It’s long enough to race to the upstairs bathroom, crouch over the toilet bowl, and be grateful that Frank has already left for work, before he’s retching helplessly into the water, gagging again and again as the taste of breakfast rushes back through his mouth, splashing into the porcelain tunnel as he coughs and heaves.
After a time he is finished, for the moment anyway. His gut is still sour and rolling, and his head is foggy with spots and the noise roaring in his ears. He staggers up to the sink, rinses his mouth, and settles down in front of the bathtub.
Somehow staying right near a receptacle for the next little while seems like a good idea.
He’s not sure how many hours it is before he hears the inevitable knock on the bathroom door- he’s thrown up and fallen asleep and thrown up again several times in however long it’s been, and is just beginning to wrap his mind around the idea that he should really go to his room, or Frank’s gonna know something’s up when the sound startles him.
The knock comes again, and he manages to moan in response, which cues the door to open and Spock’s worried face to peer around the door frame. He’s gotten taller this summer, Jim notices absently. His head is level with the latch on the door now, his shoulders wider where they’re framed in the doorway as he stares down at Jim.
“Jim? Are you unwell?”
Jim moans again, beginning to push himself upright, then slumping back down as the nausea reasserts itself upon his movement.
Spock has made it over to his side and is kneeling on the orange bathmat at Jim’s side. His warm fingers press at Jim’s neck, checking his pulse and temperature.
“Are you ill?”
His eyes are dark in the dimly lit room, and Jim can only nod carefully, groaning in distress when Spock’s careful fingers palpitate his abdomen, pushing his shirt up to examine his stomach walls.
Jim licks his lips.
“Was food. Frank cooked. Think something was…”
Spock pushes something funny, and he is awfully pleased that he manages to sit up and lean forward before he heaves again into the bowl, bringing up nothing but bitter yellowish gall, his stomach muscles protesting at the repeated abuse.
Spock waits unblinkingly until his throat has stopped making the dreadful hacking noises and his spine has relaxed from its imperative thrust forward, then reaches over and begins to rub the constricted muscles in the back of his neck.
“Jim…” he sounds hesitant, and Jim thinks idly that if he had more energy, he’d wonder why.
“Jim… if you like, I can alleviate some of the symptoms.” He pauses, his fingers stuttering to a stop, then starting to stroke again. “I would have to meld with you.”
It’s by far the best idea Jim’s heard all day. He nods as vigorously as he dares, turning his face to Spock and tipping dangerously forward, wanting to bring those slim fingers into contact with his face as quickly as possible.
He could swear that Spock quirks that lower left corner of his mouth, and then he’s there, sliding through Jim’s mind like a current through water, a weft through the warp, lightning through a cloud, sliver and flashing and sliding his chilled mental fingers into every aching slot until Jim feels like something that might be approaching normal again.
Spock pulls his fingers away, and Jim’s face follows them for a second before he realizes, and stops short, blinking at Spock, who bites his lip and looks away.
“Thanks. I feel… better.” He runs his hand through his hair, and pulls a face at the taste of the inside of his mouth. “Think I’m gonna take a shower.”
Spock nods and stands, holding down a hand to help Jim up from the floor.
“Do not take long. I have removed the symptoms, but your body is still weakened and dehydrated.”
Jim nods, taking a towel from the cabinet behind the door and pulling his shirt off as Spock leaves the small room.
Spock is right; he feels better, but his body is weak, and he feels floaty, with the detached sort of spinny feeling he gets after being in the sun too long. He dries off, noticing without surprise that Spock has set a pile of clean clothes on the counter.
He dresses slowly, taking the time to lean on the sink and brush his teeth twice, then makes his way to his room, weaving lightly but managing not to knock into the doorframe. Spock is sitting on his bed waiting for him, and Jim flops down beside him with relief, sighing as his muscles relax into the mattress.
“Here. Drink.”
Spock hands him a glass of water, which Jim downs in short order before scooting up the bed to set the empty vessel on the nightstand and sink back down.
“Jim.”
Spock’s voice is restrained in the dim heat. It must be late afternoon, Jim thinks.
It’s beastly hot, but the sun is no longer shining through the slats of the blinds. He feels himself beginning to slide into a doze, the space between awake and truly asleep so nearby in the heat.
“Why did you not tell me that your mother had left?”
His stomach begins to hurt again, and he rolls over to face down into the pillow. He really, really doesn’t want to talk about this. He sighs into the pillow. He can hear Spock waiting, his giant brain ticking over like a well-loved automaton, a perfect piece of exquisite clockwork.
“I… dunno? I mean…” he buries his face more deeply, “I just…” He thinks for a minute. “It’s just like… Spock, your mom is so awesome, and my mom…well, she’s just…” He stills himself, lying straight and quiet on the bed. “I did something wrong, Spock, and now she’s left. And she’s not coming back for a long time. And… I just… didn’t know what to say?” He bites his lip to muffle the sob which pushes at his throat. He won’t cry. Not in front of Spock, not in front of anyone. Not over something as childish as his mother leaving.
He feels the mattress shift, and turns his head, opening his eyes.
Spock’s face is inches from his own, and his eyes hold a look of guilty surprise, his hand hovering in mid-air. He breathes in, completes the gesture, pushing a stray lock of Jim’s sandy hair off his forehand, his fingers skimming past the meld point on Jim’s temple and sparking a tiny flash of electricity that Jim can feel in the sides of his neurons.
Jim bites his cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of the tiny amount of space between them, of the exact shade of the coffee-lit low-lights of Spock’s eyes, of the way the skin of his lip splits in the middle, the way his tongue slides out hesitantly to wet it as he breathes.
There is not a decision, simply an act, and Jim is pressing his mouth to Spock’s, feeling the strangely firm softness of lips against his, different than Chrissy’s, warmer and smoother and with a different taste. He pushes closer, letting his mouth open to taste the odd heated spice of his friend, bumping his nose to the side. Spock inhales, a tiny gasp of surprise, but he doesn’t pull away, moves his head slightly to accommodate Jim’s exploring mouth as it pushes into the corners of his lips, moving gingerly against its companion. Jim licks along the swell of Spock’s bottom lip, tracing the split with his tongue as he slips his hand into Spock’s, stroking his fingers over knuckle and thumb and squirming forward until they’re pressed together at mouth and hand and hip.
The door slams downstairs and they spring apart, Jim rolling onto his back and Spock sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, leaving Jim to contemplate his ramrod straight spine as they listen to the sounds of adults arguing downstairs. The voices of a man and a woman, and for one transcendent second Jim thinks that his mom has come back early before he recognizes the tones of Amanda’s voice lifted in exasperation, and his heart drops again.
“Spock says Jimmy has food poisoning. Food poisoning, Frank. What did you do?”
“What did I do? I tried to cook breakfast, like a normal parent would.”
Amanda’s voice is rising in both pitch and volume.
“What did you make?” She pauses for a second. “You do know how to cook, right?”
“Of course I know how to cook, what kind of retard do you think I am?” Frank sounds offended and defensive, a bad combination, Jim knows from experience.
“I don’t think you’re a retard, Frank.” Amanda has moved from irate into pacifying. “I think you’ve been left with a couple of kids that you don’t know how to deal with, and I want to know what you’ve done to make one of them sick enough to spend all day vomiting.”
“What I’ve done? What I’ve done?” Frank is yelling now, and Jim can see Spock’s hands fisting in the bed spread. “What about what you’ve done, you meddling bitch? I was happily married for all of a fucking year, a year that you spent sticking your goddamn big nose in where it doesn’t belong, giving Winona ideas about ‘bettering herself’” his voice simpers, “and ‘owning her life’, and what did she do? She up and fucking left, and it’s all because you don’t know your place.”
“Frank.” Amanda’s voice is icy enough that Jim shudders involuntarily. “This is unbecoming of you. I think you had better leave until you calm down a bit.”
“You goddamn bet I will. And you had better not fucking well be in my house when I get back. You take your goddamn freaky son” the sound of a fist slamming against a table, “and get the hell out of my house.”
The door slams again, and Jim can hear Spock exhale slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the bed, wrinkles creasing the fabric as though they’d been ironed in.
Footsteps up the stairs, then Amanda is sitting next to him, hand on his forehead.
“Spock helped you with your symptoms?”
Jim nods silently, body still tense against the mattress.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, baby.” She turns her head to the side. “You too, Spock. That was inappropriate behavior on both our parts, and I’m sorry.” She sighs heavily, stroking Jim’s forehead and replacing the empty glass with a full one she’s brought from downstairs.
“Jim. What he said. About your mother.” She sighs again. “I suppose it’s true, in a way. I did encourage her. I thought she needed to do something for herself, but I had thought… a hobby, or some classes, or…” She takes Jim’s chin her hand, and forces his head around so he’s looking her in the eye.
“Jim. Please believe me, I never thought she’d leave.”
Her expression is anguished, and Jim has to look away as his lip trembles. He’s done with crying, even if Amanda is sad, it’s too late now. She’s gone, and he’s not going to cry about it anymore.
She runs a last hand through his hair, then stands.
“I’m going to run to the store, hon. Pick up some groceries.” She frowns down at him. “Drink a lot, ok? And comm me if you feel bad again, you hear?”
He nods.
“Good boy.”
She leans down, kisses his cheek in a swirl of perfume and hair, then heads for the door. Spock rises and begins to follow her, but Jim stretches out a hand, catching at his sleeve before he even knows why.
Spock’s eyes are surprised, but he comes back, examining Jim’s face with a questioning gaze.
What he sees, Jim’s not sure, but he lies down on the bed, pushing at Jim’s shoulder until he rolls over. Jim goes over obediently, and Spock curls himself in behind him, chest to back, knee to knee, draping an arm over his chest and pulling him close.
It’s little too warm, but Jim can’t bring himself to care, and for the first time in two weeks lets himself relax and just breathe.
2243 early spring
It’s cold outside, and Jim hugs his coat tight around him as his breath puffs out in little clouds into the night air, steaming nebulas of water vapor that drift and vanish.
He’s sitting on the porch swing, pushing back and forth with a toe on the porch rail to listen to the creak of the chains in the cold, watching as the stars twinkle one by one into existence over the purpling horizon.
The sounds of Sam and Frank’s latest altercation echo from the inside, and Jim wraps his arms more tightly around his skinny frame.
He’s cold, and he knows that’s at least in part because he’s lost some weight- there’s not too much now between him and the night air besides skin and cloth, but he doesn’t shiver. He likes the cold; it’s clean, and still, and pure in a way that appeals to him, freezing out any sticky imperfections, leaving him frozen stiff and sterile in the deep twilight.
This must be what deep space is like, he thinks, only more so. Cold and black and clear and safe.
The door bangs loudly, echoing with a crack around the silent yard, and Sam storms out onto the porch, stomping his boots on the wooden planks. He’s red in the face, and steam pours from his nostrils as he huffs angry breaths out his nose. Jim can see an eye beginning to swell, a crescent of split skin along his cheekbone. He turns his face back to the yard and waits.
Sam’s breaths eventually begin to even out, coming more slowly from where he sits on the steps. He puts his face in his hands and rubs roughly at his scalp, blunt fingers scratching through his hair in an exasperated repetitive motion.
“Leave.”
Sam raises his head. “Huh?”
“Do it. Leave.” Jim shrugs. “I know you want to.”
A series of expressions flicker across Sam’s face, denial prominent among them.
“Don’t pretend, Sam. I know about the money you keep hidden under the floorboard, and I know about the food you’ve been hiding in the barn.” Jim can hear his voice, flat and bored in the cold air. “Just do it. Go.”
Sam blinks at him incredulously. “But…”
“What?” Jim laughs once, a brittle sound. “You think Mom’s gonna come down and spank your butt for running off?” he kicks at the porch railing. “Hell, by the time she finds out, you can be long gone.”
Sam stares at him, considering. Nods once.
“Yeah. You’re right. I could.” He pauses. “But, Jim… what about you?”
Jim snorts, pushing down the hard knot in his stomach.
“What are you, my knight in shining armor?” He snorts again, looking out into the yard. “Go on. I don’t need you. Get out of here, go do whatever it is you’re going to do. Get a life.”
He stands up, leaving the swing to jolt and lurch behind him, bereft of his slight weight. He can feel Sam’s eyes watching him as he walks inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
It’s no real surprise to him in the morning when he wakes to a message flashing on his padd, the insistent light callous in its repetitive flicker.
Jimbo- Gone. If you need to get ahold of me, try Bones- I’ll leave info w him. Don’t tell Ma. Stay outta trouble. -S
He reads the message twice, then deletes it. Sets his padd down, pulls on his shoes, and heads out into the chill morning sun.
2243 late spring
It’s one of those days that they wrote that old rhyme about March being like a lion for, Jim thinks, except that it’s late April, and the smell of daffodils is fading, soon to be replaced with the scent of honeysuckle hot on the breeze. It’s warm out, but the breeze is brisk, scudding the clouds across the sky like ships before a strong wind, big puffy marshmallow poofs of white foam, breaking across the horizon.
Shapes in these clouds are momentary, artful collages of mist formed into racing horses and archers firing and canons blasting one second, then morphed into something new, something different, something changed the next. Impermanent, Jim thinks, like everything else.
A shadow crosses between him and the sun-drenched sky, and he blinks up, staring up the interminable length of Spock from where Jim lays on his back in the grass. He smiles involuntarily, the sight of Spock’s vaguely disapproving default expression enough to make his chest warm, even if Spock is wearing the look that says he’s not entirely sure what Jim’s doing, but is sure it’s somehow inappropriate.
“Hey, Spock.” He raises a hand to shade his eyes. “Hey, come sit down here, you’re blocking my view.”
Spock raises his face to the sky, scanning the heavens for something of note. He lowers his eyes to look down at Jim again, his expression puzzled.
“Your view of what?”
Jim grins. “The pirates, silly.” He looks again. “Or maybe they’ve changed into ninjas. Look!” he points to a small cluster of cloudlets in the northeast quadrant of blue sky. He can see the second that Spock gets it, and he laughs as Spock sinks to the grass beside him, folding his long legs up like a grasshopper so they poke out to either side of his narrow body. He holds out a small plate, quirking his slight smile at Jim while still managing to express his utter disdain for the illogical activity of cloud watching.
“You missed dessert.”
Jim takes the plate, eyeballing the slice with delight. Cherry, it looks like. His favorite.
“Thankth, Thpockh.” He tries to enunciate carefully around the forkful he’s already shoved into his mouth, but it’s hard; there are still a few crumbs that fall, Spock brushing them unobtrusively from his pant legs.
“What do you see?” He chews and swallows, looking at his friend as he cuts another bite and shoves it into his mouth. Spock quirks an eyebrow at him, and Jim gestures skyward, spreading his fingers to indicate the clouds.
He lies back down onto the grass, watching as Spock gazes intently heavenward.
“I see a moving mass of water vapors following wind currents according to chaotic quantum predictions of air flow, taking into account such factors as ground surface temperature, barometric pressure, and the approaching low pressure system.” His dark eyes twinkle as he looks seriously back at Jim.
Jim sucks another bite off the fork and rolls his eyes.
“Jerkh. C’mon. What do you thee?”
Spock lets his eyebrows knit slightly with concentration.
“I see a boy with cherry pie filling halfway to his ear.”
Jim scowls and shoves the last bite into his mouth, shoving at Spock with his shoulder.
“Oh, c’mon, Thpock.” He swallows, swipes at his face with his shirtsleeve. “Can’t you be at least a little bit fun anymore?”
Spock sighs, and turns his face to the sky, studying the moving cloudforms with academic intensity.
“I see… a great bird of some kind.” He raises a finger and points, shadowing his face and casting him into stark silhouette against the sea of grass to his side. “See, left wing tip dips down just there, and the right…” He sighs. “It’s gone.”
Jim rolls up against him, pulling on Spock’s arm where it’s propping him up, pushing at his elbow to make it give. “Hey, come down here. Watch clouds with me. You can’t see them like that, it’ll crick your neck.” He pushes again at Spock’s arm, frowning in confusion when Spock picks up his arm, sitting up and hugging his knees.
“No.”
“Spock?” Jim feels confused, and his shoulder is cold where Spock’s body heat has been taken away. Did he do something wrong? He checks his hands for crumbs. He’d brushed them off pretty carefully…
“Jim…” Spock sighs and looks away, mumbling something into his knees.
“Huh?” He sits up and pushes up to Spock’s shoulder, resting his chin on Spock’s arm. “What’d you say?”
The flash of annoyance in Spock’s eyes is sudden, and it catches Jim off guard, making him inhale sharply and pull back. He feels a sudden chasm open in the bottom of his stomach. What’s wrong? What has he done?
Spock’s expression changes to one of remorse tempered with irritation, but he doesn’t reach out to touch Jim the way he usually would.
“Spock?” Jim hears his voice crack on the name, and coughs once to clear the sudden lump from his throat. “Spock? What’s wrong?”
“Jim…” Spock glances quickly at him, then away. “We’re too old for this.”
“Too old for what?” Jim is just getting more confused. “Too old for cloud watching? Who cares?”
“No.” Spock shakes his head and gestures at the space between them, and at Jim’s hand already reaching out toward him. “This.”
“This?” Jim repeats dumbly. He knows he sounds like a broken record, but he’s really not getting whatever it is that Spock is trying to tell him.
“This. This…” Spock looks away. “Jim… I’m Vulcan.”
Jim nods. “Uh-huh….” Finally, something he can agree with.
“Vulcans don’t…” He looks over at Jim again, and something unidentifiable crosses his face. “Vulcans don’t touch. Only family members touch, and only in private.” Spock’s eyes are nearly sad, Jim thinks, but he’s still not getting whatever it is Spock’s trying to say.
“But… Spock” he gestures to the back yard, “this is private. Besides, you’re the only Vulcan here. ‘Cept your dad, and he doesn’t care.” He narrows his eyes as he begins to process the rest of the statement. “And we’re family. Aren’t we?” He reaches his hand out again, wanting to scoot close, but Spock slides out of reach.
“Jim…” his voice is gentle, but his tone is firm. “We aren’t little kids anymore. You can’t just go around hanging on me like you do. It’s…” He refuses to meet Jim’s gaze. “It’s inappropriate.”
Jim suddenly flashes on the momentary finger brushes he’s seen Sarek and Amanda share, the only contact they ever make in anyone’s presence, and he suddenly feels his cheeks flush hot as the pieces fall into place. He pulls his arm back, and can see that Spock knows he gets it now. Well. Ok. That’s fine. He wasn’t thinking about Spock like that anyway. Was he? No. He wasn’t. Definitely not. And Spock definitely wasn’t thinking about him like that either, he’s sure. Was he? No. He wouldn’t.
“Jim…it’s just… I’m going to Vulcan soon, for the summer, and…” Spock’s looking at him again, but Jim’s cheeks are still hot, and he can’t meet those clear eyes. “… and I need to be used to not touching anyone…” His voice trails off, and Jim can tell that he knows it’s a lame excuse.
He doesn’t care suddenly. He just wants out. He stands, gathers his plate.
“Jim…”
“Don’t worry, Spock. I won’t touch you…” Jim turns around and leers “…inappropriately anymore.” He turns his back, heading for the house. “See you around.”
The stricken look on Spock’s face is seared into his mind, but he doesn’t care. All he can think of is how soon it will be before Spock is leaving, again, and how all he wants, for once, just once, is to be the one who leaves first.
I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself
I just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself
planning everything for two
doing everything with you
and now that we're through
I just don't know what to do
I just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself
movies only make me sad
parties make me feel as bad
cause I'm not with you
I just don't know what to do
like a summer rose
needs the sun and rain
I need your sweet love
to beat love away
well I don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
planning everything for two
doing everything with you
and now that we're through
I just don't know what to do
like a summer rose
needs the sun and rain
I need your sweet love
to beat love away
I just don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
just don't know what to do with myself
I don't know what to do with myself