We Are Gonna Be Friends: year eight
2244 summer
It starts like this- Spock is on Vulcan for the summer, again, and Jim is bored. He sleeps till noon, eats bowl after bowl of heavily sugared cereal in front of the tv, and makes a point of being well away from the house by the time Frank comes back around six. So far he’s managed to only encounter Frank on the weekends, and from where he’s sitting, that’s only a good thing.
Frank doesn’t seem to mind either, as far as Jim can tell.
The problem is that somewhere around midnight, he runs out of things to do. The sun doesn’t go down until late, last light lingering well through nine o’clock, and even then Hikaru can usually still run around for a few hours, practicing fencing in the yellow circle of the pump house light, or throwing rocks at Uhura’s window until she swears at them in some obscure language that will give Jim something new to look up the next day. Christine and Jan are allowed out till ten, and with little Pavel from down the road, that’s enough for a few rounds of capture the flag or freeze tag or seeing if he can catch one of the girls and kiss her without them both getting caught by whoever’s it. But when he walks Hikaru regretfully home at quarter till twelve (seriously, that boy’s father? scary as hell), Jim finds himself at a loss. He can’t go home- Frank won’t pass out till at least two, but the only other person whose parents are not interested in their late-night whereabouts is Jimmy-Lynn Smith, and she’s too desperate even for his tastes.
So he wanders. Solitude does not really suit Jim- it’s not that he’s lonely, per se, or even unhappy with his own company. He is just by nature a social being, and without someone to include in his streaming monologue, he feels echo-y and unmoored. He likes to try to think at Spock, squinting his eyes and straining his face in an exerted attempt to somehow project his thoughts beyond the confines of his own rattling skull, but then he remembers exactly how large a light-year is, and just how many of them there are between him and his erstwhile best friend at the moment, and he hangs his head as he shuffles barefoot down the dirt road.
It’s some night in early July, later than the annual holiday, but before Iowa has truly hit the it’s-so-hot-please-kill-me-now end of the month, when Jim’s nightly wanderings take him further into the edges of civilization than usual, and he fetches up at the edge of the woods behind Lola’s, the dive bar at the far end of town.
In retrospect, he’s amazed it took him this long.
He can hear the music thumping inside, and see the sweaty-shirted bouncer leaning against the frame of the open door. Tiki torches protrude haphazardly from the grassy clearing that abuts the darkened gloom of the woods, clutching the ground unevenly. Smoke and shouts roll out in waves from the interior, but it’s in the gravel parking lot that Jim first lays eyes on some kids he knows. They’re all older, these boys, though none old enough to be inside the building itself, and they are holding forth raucously from the back of someone’s battered pick-up. Giotto and Olsen are wasted already, and shoving at each other in somewhat jest, somewhat seriousness, slipping and sliding in the loose gravel as they stagger back and forth in puerile displays of dominance. Riley and the exchange student two grades up, Scott, are trading ludicrous tales of hot girls and souped-up rides, their voices pushing through the humid night air. It’s the oldest one, the silent one, the truck’s owner, though, who catches sight of Jim’s filthy white t-shirt glowing faintly at the shadow’s edge. He raises a hand, the one not wrapped around the neck of a rather large and largely empty glass bottle, and beckons imperiously.
Jim knows Leonard McCoy, or at least has met him- McCoy was in Sam’s grade, and used to come over to the house in the fall sometimes to go hunting with him. Sam always said he was the best to go hunting with, because he had actually taken the trouble to learn the anatomy of the critters he shot so that the meat was still worth eating. He wouldn’t leave the animal in misery with a poor aim, or rupture the intestines during the disemboweling. He didn’t mind the stench of boiling a turkey to loosen the feathers, and he kept his knives razor sharp so as not to spoil the pelt. He also had a hell of a good family recipe for venison jerky.
Jim hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and saunters over to the side of the pick-up bed. He’s nervous, well aware that he is not-yet-thirteen and scrawny, but damned if he’s going to let them know he cares. He comes wordlessly to a stop, rocking back on his heels and favoring McCoy with a lazy and only slightly insolent grin.
Riley notices him and pauses in his narrative involving a minimum of three Orion dancing girls and at least one illegally obtained flitter to appraise the situation. He focuses blearily on Jim’s face, pale and moon-round in the dim glow of the bar lights. “Hey, it’s that little blond kid, th’ one who hangs around with that nerdy alien.” He whoops, and slaps his knee, jostling the keystone clutched in his other sweaty hand. “Hey, kid, where’s your pointy-eared fuck-buddy? Did he ditch you for someone with enough money for a calculator?” He guffaws loudly at his own wit, holding out a fist for Scott to tap.
Jim ignores him, gaze locked on McCoy. He’s no fool- Riley is a bit player, and Kirk’s acceptance hinges on the pack leader, who has yet to weigh in. McCoy’s eyes are invisible in the dark, his back to the streetlight and his irises hooded in the shadow of his sockets. Jim can feel his stare raking him over. He breathes slowly, his smile affixed to his teeth with the adherence of sheer determination. Apparently he passes muster, because McCoy wordlessly reaches out a lanky arm, proffering the glass bottle to Jim.
Somehow Jim knows instinctively that now is not the time to admit that he’s only ever snuck beer, and cheap beer at that. He takes the bottle from McCoy’s outstretched hand, clamps his lips around the sticky mouth, tips his head back, and swallows. He takes two long pulls, letting his lips pop wetly off the glass after the second, and hands it back to McCoy, whose eyebrow has gone up in surprise. Jim does not shudder- the taste is foul, pungent and sharp and fiery in his nostrils; but it burns down his throat like heaven, and the heat that pools in his belly when the whisky finally settles makes him feel better than anything has since Spock left.
He hooks an armpit over the side of the truck bed, leans his hip into the wheel well, and smiles.
2244 fall
Summer passes in a haze for Jim, late night fading into early morning without remark. He spends every night with the guys, drinking and fighting till dawn breaks on the horizon and he stumbles home. He mostly makes it at least to the barn before he passes out, and he only throws up twice before he learns how to pace himself well enough that he forgets everything, but keeps his pants clean. At some point someone passes him a joint, and when he holds the mellow smoke in his lungs and feels the universe spinning around him, he decides this is the best he’s ever felt. Booze makes him feel loose and dangerous, ready to fuck with anyone or anything, but pot, pot makes him feel blissful and comfortable in his own skin, connected to the stars and breathing with the universe.
He would have missed the first day of school, but Spock, for some unfathomable reason, shows up an hour before they’re supposed to leave. Spock barges into his room, takes one look at him lying bare-ass to the sun on his crumpled sheets, and frog marches him into the shower.
“This is unacceptable, Jim” Spock hisses as he turns the tap to hot and pushes Jim none-too-gently under the spray. “I only leave for three months, three months, and you devolve into a state that is sub-human”. Spock’s voice is tight, and his grip on the shampoo bottle that he shoves past the shower curtain makes the plastic bend alarmingly. “Wash your hair. Twice.” Jim is disinclined to argue.
When he steps out of the shower, there is a clean towel waiting for him on the sink. Spock is gone- he had heard the bathroom door slam hard enough to rattle, but hadn’t thought much about it. Now, though, with some of the steam having lessened the grip of his hangover, he begins to feel a bit of trepidation curling in the bottom of his spine. For Spock to show this much emotion so immediately after his return from Vulcan is unprecedented- it usually takes him at least a week to unbend enough to raise his voice at anyone, and at least another two before he will quirk that not-smile at Jim when they’re alone. If Spock is slamming doors the day after he’s come back, well…
Jim opens the door to his room, towel wrapped around his waist, hair sticking in damp quills all over his head. His bed has been stripped, the sheets adorning the top of what is a clearly a freshly piled mountain of laundry, which seems to comprise every piece of clothing he owns.
Spock turns, faces him, shoulders tense.
“Have you no clean clothing?”
Jim shrugs. He doesn’t honestly know. He’s not sure when the last time he did laundry was. Hasn’t seemed to matter much, since he’s been spending most of his time with the guys. Guys don’t mind the smell the way girls do, and dirt doesn’t show in the dark.
Spock’s eyes narrow. He stalks past Jim, returning after a minute and some distinct rustling from the other room with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that must have come from Sam’s old dresser. Spock shoves them at Jim.
“Get. Dressed.”
Jim considers protesting that they won’t fit, but then he does the math, realizes how long Sam’s been gone, and thinks they probably actually will. He also decides against mentioning that he doesn’t think he has clean underwear, either, and settles for just dropping the towel and shoving his legs into the jeans.
It’s late that night, when Spock has come over after dinner with his parents, when they are on the fifth load of Spock-mandated laundry and beginning to see floor in his room again, that Spock finds his stash. Admittedly, he hadn’t really bothered to hide it- Frank wouldn’t care, and his mom’s sure not going to be just “dropping in” any time soon, and fuck, he hadn’t really expected that Spock would waltz in and rearrange his whole life like this, though really, maybe he should have.
“Drugs, Jim?” Spock’s voice never wavers, and Jim takes a moment to appreciate that Spock is in fact at his scariest when he’s at his most flat affect. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Why?”
“Spock, geez, I dunno, just…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes. “Just… gimme a break, yeah?”
Spock’s eyebrow twitches infinitesimally, gallons of disapproval evident in that dark gaze, and finally Jim’s had it.
“Fuck, Spock, why the hell not? What the bloody hell did you expect me to do all summer, anyway?” Jim waves his arms, his eyes flashing in frustration, a line of sweat trickling down his temple in the heat of his upstairs room. “I’m not some fucking computer like you are, Spock, I just… I just wanted to have a good time for once!”
He knows the last one was a low blow, and feels guilty for it as soon as it leaves his lips. Spock doesn’t even bat an eye, just wordlessly holds out the sad little baggie. Jim sighs, and takes it. He pries himself off the floor, skin sticking to the freshly swept wood, and goes into the bathroom. A moment’s hesitation, and then he flushes it. He supposes he can always get more if it turns out he needs it. But really, with Spock back, he’s starting to feel better already.
2245 winter
The first time he gives a blow job, he finds himself wishing it were Spock. At least he knows Spock washes thoroughly. It’s late winter-the gravel is painful and cold beneath his skinny knees, and it’s all he can do to not roll his eyes at the noises coming out of Gary’s mouth. It’s not like he particularly wants to be doing this, and so it’s not like he’s actually putting any effort into it, but by the sounds coming out of this dumb shit’s mouth, you’d think he was the fucking prom queen of cocksucking.
It’s over when it’s over, and he spits the foul taste out of his mouth onto the dirt, digging a piece of lint covered gum out of his pocket and chewing it enthusiastically. Gary zips his pants, and nods approvingly, and Jim knows he’s good to hang out with the guys whenever he wants for the next few weeks. McCoy is gone off to college now, and he had never really gotten to know any of the other guys, so when Mitchell assumed the role of alpha male, Jim had pretty quickly figured out what was required of him if he still wanted pack rights.
He doesn’t actually spend that much time with them- he’d still rather be with Spock, really, but Spock’s away every so often these days, at this chess tournament or that scholarship meeting, and Jim gets lonely quick. He doesn’t really drink or smoke much during the week, because he knows Spock doesn’t like it, and he still somehow cares what Spock thinks, but well, when Spock’s gone… he likes to keep his options open.
He wipes the last of Mitchell’s jizz off his chin and hops on his bike to ride home, the cold air numbing his face and body to perfection.
Spock’s already in his room when he gets there, sitting straight backed at Jim’s desk like he belongs there, waiting. Jim glances at him once, then turns into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, once, twice, three times. Washes his hands, combs his hair, brushes his teeth again. Finally he goes back into his room, crosses his arms, waits.
Spock looks him over. Jim can feel his gaze linger on the dirt embedded in the knees of his jeans, sees his nostrils flare ever so slightly, then watches the faintest of expressions chase like clouds across Spock’s face. Curiosity, alarm, anger.
Spock unfolds from the chair, moving slowly and deliberately. It’s times like this that Jim remembers Spock’s half an alien. No full human could move with this predatory grace.
“Jim”, Spock’s voice is soft, gently querying, only the faintest hint of steel blade beneath. “What have you been doing?”
It’s a split-second decision, but Jim is worn out, and his knees ache, and he is just so tired of Spock’s endless questions, his eye-twitch of disapproval. He snaps his chin up, feels that charming grin spread itself across his face. He drops his hips and slinks, one foot in front of the other, running a hand down his hip as he shortens the distance between them.
“’m not gonna tell you, Spock.”
He can see the confusion in the other boy’s eyes as he reaches out, places his hands lightly on the curve of his friend’s waist. “but.. if you really wanna know,” he tips his chin down to gaze at Spock through his lashes, “ I’d be happy to show you.”
He can see the understanding beginning to dawn on Spock’s face, and drags himself lingeringly along his friend’s body as he sinks to his knees, fingers reaching for the black button of Spock’s slacks.
“No.”
Jim ignores him, pops the button free, and licks his lips. He hears a quick indrawn breath, then is hauled abruptly to his feet, Spock’s hands like hot vises on his arms. He always forgets this; that Spock could break him if he wanted to, that for all the fighting Jim’s done, Spock could bat him away like a fly. His eyes widen unconsciously, and he slides one hand across the heated expanse of skin in front of him to hook a finger in the elastic of Spock’s briefs. There is a noise that is something like a growl, and he is unceremoniously dropped onto the floor a foot away, staggering in surprise. Spock’s face is furious, his fists are flexing just in front of him, as though resisting a blow.
“Jim, I said no.”
He gets it, suddenly. How could he be so stupid? Of course Spock doesn’t want him. He’s nothing but a pretty little slut, anyway, dirty and smelling of fucking Gary Mitchell’s leavings, and he had the gall to come in here and put his contaminated hands on Spock, Spock who is clean and smart and upright. What the hell was he thinking? He pulls back and turns to leave, but something must show on his face before the sneer settles into place, because suddenly his chin is caught between iron fingers and he is hauled around to find Spock’s face inches from his own.
“Jim” Spock’s fingers are bruising, his eyes liquid and fearsome, “you are my best friend. I find your current behavior alarming, and insulting to the nature of our relationship.” He pauses, and Jim feels his belly hollow in fear. “If you desire us to pursue a more physical acquaintance, we shall discuss it. But Jim…” Spock looks away, takes a breath, then looks back with burning eyes. “Not like this.”
2245 spring
The expression on his face must be mutinous, because Spock’s lower lip tightens just a little in the way that it does when he’s getting ready to argue.
“You’re what?”
“I am leaving early tomorrow morning. To attend a workshop on the possibilities of eventual trans-warp beaming. I will return from there to Vulcan, and will not be coming back to Earth again until August.”
Jim’s mouth must be open to his chest, he thinks, because he could not possibly be more shocked and appalled.
Maybe this is just a nightmare. Spock wouldn’t really leave before the end of term to go away for four and a half months, right?
Right?
“You’re what??”
Spock’s mouth tightens further, and Jim can feel the breath hitch in his chest. He’s not sure when he stood up, but he’s moving forward, stepping toward Spock with his hands in fists.
“There is nothing wrong with your ears, Jim.”
“Fuck my ears. There’s something wrong with you. What the hell, man?” He’s toe to toe with Spock now, breathing hard, eyes wide. His pulse is racing and he knows that toothy smile is starting to spread across his mouth. He brings his hands up and shoves at Spock’s chest hard. “You’re… you’re just going to fucking… leave me here?” He ignores the way his voice cracks on the last phrase to push at Spock again, hard.
Spock doesn’t move, and somehow that makes Jim snap.
“Fine. Leave. See if I fucking care!” He’s beating on Spock’s chest now, his fists falling on immobile flesh without eliciting so much as a twitch. “I don’t! I don’t care! And neither do you!” He gasps, blood humming in his ears. “You never… fucking… cared!”
He turns his back, but doesn’t make a full step before he is slammed against the wall, his skull cracking painfully against the plaster as his body is engulfed in heat.
“Do not” he shivers, Spock is growling now, “Do. Not. Trivialize what I feel for you.” Spock shakes him, hard, and Jim moans. “You know nothing. Nothing. About what I feel.”
He can barely breathe, but he can’t accept words, words are meaningless, vapid syllables of intent.
“Show me.”
There is a growl in his ear, then heated fingertips glue themselves to his face and he is thrown into the meld, spiraling out of control in a maelstrom of heat and lightning.
Spock is clutching at him, expression unguarded and fierce, and Jim can feel him, can feel the anger and lust and possessiveness radiating off him. He knows his shock is broadcasting, but he can’t help it, can only clutch back where his hands are twisted in Spock’s shirt.
Everywhere they touch blue sparks are fizzing, whether from him or from Spock, he’s not sure, but it makes him curious, so he leans in, pressing chest to chest and looking down to see the blue lightning dance between their sternums. He’s caught off guard by the press of Spock’s mouth on his, but Spock’s lips are warm and insistent, and he moves his mouth experimentally, tipping his head and sliding a hand up to press into the curve of Spock’s neck.
The rumble in Spock’s chest makes him feel funny, buzzed, like he’s had too much too drink, so he slides his tongue into Spock’s mouth to distract himself, licking past his lips to touch his tongue tip, tugging gently in invitation. He can feel past the meld; the dig of the wall into his shoulder blades, his arms, where Spock grips them, which will surely be bruised tomorrow. The heat of Spock’s hardness rubbing against his own as he presses forward, placing as much of himself in contact with Jim as he possibly can.
Spock is biting his bottom lip, and Jim quivers, lost in the sensation sweeping through him as he grasps Spock’s hips in his hands.
“Jim. Listen to me.” Spock does something with his hand down Jim’s back, and it’s all he can do to gasp out an “ok?”
“Jim. I have been worried about you. You…” Jim smiles as he slides a hand around the tip of Spock’s ear, and hears the catch and pause in Spock’s throaty whisper. “You have not been taking care of yourself. Do not think that I haven’t noticed.”
Jim floods with shame, begins to struggle to pull away, ducking his head down.
“No.” Spock’s fingers are iron on his chin, tipping his head to the side as he burns imprints of his mouth down the side of Jim’s neck. “Listen. While I am gone…” Jim squirms again, his strength useless in the face of Spock’s firm hand in the small of his back. “While I am gone, You. Will. Take care of yourself.” He pulls Jim’s head around, forcing him to meet his eyes.
Jim is lost. In the meld he can see everything in Spock’s gaze, the affection, the concern, the sheer determination that underlies every piece of Spock’s world. He nods, closing his eyes and pressing his mouth against Spock’s, letting his sincerity wash through them both. Spock wraps an arm around his waist, pushing into his open mouth, dragging his teeth across Jim’s lips and sliding a hot hand under the back of his shirt. Jim turns his head to catch an elusive breath, and is thrown out of the meld abruptly, his body shaking as Spock pulls away.
“…Spock?” He can’t quite help the way his hands reach out, and the anguish on Spock’s face is, for once, unmistakable.
“My parents are waiting in the car.” He stretches out a finger, stroking the length of Jim’s cheek, watching as he turns instinctively into the touch, biting his lip as he pulls away.
“Jim…" his eyes are wider and darker than Jim has ever seen them, black holes in his strangely lovely face. "Don’t forget me.”
The edge of his hand catchesat the collar of Jim’s shirt, and then he isgone, his footsteps disappearing down the stairs in a hurry. The bang of the front door, and the sound of a vehicle pulling away.
Jim slumps helplessly against the wall, sliding down in slow motion to bang his skinny knees against the hard wood of the floor.
Offend in Every Way
I'm patient of this plan
as humble as I can
I'll wait another day
before I turn away
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
offend in every way
I don't know what to say
I'm coming through the door
but they're expecting more
of an interesting man
sometimes I think I can
but how much can I fake
I'll speak until I break
with every word I say
offend in every way
You tell me to relax
and listen to these facts
that everyone's my friend
and will be till the end
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
no matter what I say
offend in every way
It starts like this- Spock is on Vulcan for the summer, again, and Jim is bored. He sleeps till noon, eats bowl after bowl of heavily sugared cereal in front of the tv, and makes a point of being well away from the house by the time Frank comes back around six. So far he’s managed to only encounter Frank on the weekends, and from where he’s sitting, that’s only a good thing.
Frank doesn’t seem to mind either, as far as Jim can tell.
The problem is that somewhere around midnight, he runs out of things to do. The sun doesn’t go down until late, last light lingering well through nine o’clock, and even then Hikaru can usually still run around for a few hours, practicing fencing in the yellow circle of the pump house light, or throwing rocks at Uhura’s window until she swears at them in some obscure language that will give Jim something new to look up the next day. Christine and Jan are allowed out till ten, and with little Pavel from down the road, that’s enough for a few rounds of capture the flag or freeze tag or seeing if he can catch one of the girls and kiss her without them both getting caught by whoever’s it. But when he walks Hikaru regretfully home at quarter till twelve (seriously, that boy’s father? scary as hell), Jim finds himself at a loss. He can’t go home- Frank won’t pass out till at least two, but the only other person whose parents are not interested in their late-night whereabouts is Jimmy-Lynn Smith, and she’s too desperate even for his tastes.
So he wanders. Solitude does not really suit Jim- it’s not that he’s lonely, per se, or even unhappy with his own company. He is just by nature a social being, and without someone to include in his streaming monologue, he feels echo-y and unmoored. He likes to try to think at Spock, squinting his eyes and straining his face in an exerted attempt to somehow project his thoughts beyond the confines of his own rattling skull, but then he remembers exactly how large a light-year is, and just how many of them there are between him and his erstwhile best friend at the moment, and he hangs his head as he shuffles barefoot down the dirt road.
It’s some night in early July, later than the annual holiday, but before Iowa has truly hit the it’s-so-hot-please-kill-me-now end of the month, when Jim’s nightly wanderings take him further into the edges of civilization than usual, and he fetches up at the edge of the woods behind Lola’s, the dive bar at the far end of town.
In retrospect, he’s amazed it took him this long.
He can hear the music thumping inside, and see the sweaty-shirted bouncer leaning against the frame of the open door. Tiki torches protrude haphazardly from the grassy clearing that abuts the darkened gloom of the woods, clutching the ground unevenly. Smoke and shouts roll out in waves from the interior, but it’s in the gravel parking lot that Jim first lays eyes on some kids he knows. They’re all older, these boys, though none old enough to be inside the building itself, and they are holding forth raucously from the back of someone’s battered pick-up. Giotto and Olsen are wasted already, and shoving at each other in somewhat jest, somewhat seriousness, slipping and sliding in the loose gravel as they stagger back and forth in puerile displays of dominance. Riley and the exchange student two grades up, Scott, are trading ludicrous tales of hot girls and souped-up rides, their voices pushing through the humid night air. It’s the oldest one, the silent one, the truck’s owner, though, who catches sight of Jim’s filthy white t-shirt glowing faintly at the shadow’s edge. He raises a hand, the one not wrapped around the neck of a rather large and largely empty glass bottle, and beckons imperiously.
Jim knows Leonard McCoy, or at least has met him- McCoy was in Sam’s grade, and used to come over to the house in the fall sometimes to go hunting with him. Sam always said he was the best to go hunting with, because he had actually taken the trouble to learn the anatomy of the critters he shot so that the meat was still worth eating. He wouldn’t leave the animal in misery with a poor aim, or rupture the intestines during the disemboweling. He didn’t mind the stench of boiling a turkey to loosen the feathers, and he kept his knives razor sharp so as not to spoil the pelt. He also had a hell of a good family recipe for venison jerky.
Jim hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and saunters over to the side of the pick-up bed. He’s nervous, well aware that he is not-yet-thirteen and scrawny, but damned if he’s going to let them know he cares. He comes wordlessly to a stop, rocking back on his heels and favoring McCoy with a lazy and only slightly insolent grin.
Riley notices him and pauses in his narrative involving a minimum of three Orion dancing girls and at least one illegally obtained flitter to appraise the situation. He focuses blearily on Jim’s face, pale and moon-round in the dim glow of the bar lights. “Hey, it’s that little blond kid, th’ one who hangs around with that nerdy alien.” He whoops, and slaps his knee, jostling the keystone clutched in his other sweaty hand. “Hey, kid, where’s your pointy-eared fuck-buddy? Did he ditch you for someone with enough money for a calculator?” He guffaws loudly at his own wit, holding out a fist for Scott to tap.
Jim ignores him, gaze locked on McCoy. He’s no fool- Riley is a bit player, and Kirk’s acceptance hinges on the pack leader, who has yet to weigh in. McCoy’s eyes are invisible in the dark, his back to the streetlight and his irises hooded in the shadow of his sockets. Jim can feel his stare raking him over. He breathes slowly, his smile affixed to his teeth with the adherence of sheer determination. Apparently he passes muster, because McCoy wordlessly reaches out a lanky arm, proffering the glass bottle to Jim.
Somehow Jim knows instinctively that now is not the time to admit that he’s only ever snuck beer, and cheap beer at that. He takes the bottle from McCoy’s outstretched hand, clamps his lips around the sticky mouth, tips his head back, and swallows. He takes two long pulls, letting his lips pop wetly off the glass after the second, and hands it back to McCoy, whose eyebrow has gone up in surprise. Jim does not shudder- the taste is foul, pungent and sharp and fiery in his nostrils; but it burns down his throat like heaven, and the heat that pools in his belly when the whisky finally settles makes him feel better than anything has since Spock left.
He hooks an armpit over the side of the truck bed, leans his hip into the wheel well, and smiles.
2244 fall
Summer passes in a haze for Jim, late night fading into early morning without remark. He spends every night with the guys, drinking and fighting till dawn breaks on the horizon and he stumbles home. He mostly makes it at least to the barn before he passes out, and he only throws up twice before he learns how to pace himself well enough that he forgets everything, but keeps his pants clean. At some point someone passes him a joint, and when he holds the mellow smoke in his lungs and feels the universe spinning around him, he decides this is the best he’s ever felt. Booze makes him feel loose and dangerous, ready to fuck with anyone or anything, but pot, pot makes him feel blissful and comfortable in his own skin, connected to the stars and breathing with the universe.
He would have missed the first day of school, but Spock, for some unfathomable reason, shows up an hour before they’re supposed to leave. Spock barges into his room, takes one look at him lying bare-ass to the sun on his crumpled sheets, and frog marches him into the shower.
“This is unacceptable, Jim” Spock hisses as he turns the tap to hot and pushes Jim none-too-gently under the spray. “I only leave for three months, three months, and you devolve into a state that is sub-human”. Spock’s voice is tight, and his grip on the shampoo bottle that he shoves past the shower curtain makes the plastic bend alarmingly. “Wash your hair. Twice.” Jim is disinclined to argue.
When he steps out of the shower, there is a clean towel waiting for him on the sink. Spock is gone- he had heard the bathroom door slam hard enough to rattle, but hadn’t thought much about it. Now, though, with some of the steam having lessened the grip of his hangover, he begins to feel a bit of trepidation curling in the bottom of his spine. For Spock to show this much emotion so immediately after his return from Vulcan is unprecedented- it usually takes him at least a week to unbend enough to raise his voice at anyone, and at least another two before he will quirk that not-smile at Jim when they’re alone. If Spock is slamming doors the day after he’s come back, well…
Jim opens the door to his room, towel wrapped around his waist, hair sticking in damp quills all over his head. His bed has been stripped, the sheets adorning the top of what is a clearly a freshly piled mountain of laundry, which seems to comprise every piece of clothing he owns.
Spock turns, faces him, shoulders tense.
“Have you no clean clothing?”
Jim shrugs. He doesn’t honestly know. He’s not sure when the last time he did laundry was. Hasn’t seemed to matter much, since he’s been spending most of his time with the guys. Guys don’t mind the smell the way girls do, and dirt doesn’t show in the dark.
Spock’s eyes narrow. He stalks past Jim, returning after a minute and some distinct rustling from the other room with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that must have come from Sam’s old dresser. Spock shoves them at Jim.
“Get. Dressed.”
Jim considers protesting that they won’t fit, but then he does the math, realizes how long Sam’s been gone, and thinks they probably actually will. He also decides against mentioning that he doesn’t think he has clean underwear, either, and settles for just dropping the towel and shoving his legs into the jeans.
It’s late that night, when Spock has come over after dinner with his parents, when they are on the fifth load of Spock-mandated laundry and beginning to see floor in his room again, that Spock finds his stash. Admittedly, he hadn’t really bothered to hide it- Frank wouldn’t care, and his mom’s sure not going to be just “dropping in” any time soon, and fuck, he hadn’t really expected that Spock would waltz in and rearrange his whole life like this, though really, maybe he should have.
“Drugs, Jim?” Spock’s voice never wavers, and Jim takes a moment to appreciate that Spock is in fact at his scariest when he’s at his most flat affect. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Why?”
“Spock, geez, I dunno, just…” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rolls his eyes. “Just… gimme a break, yeah?”
Spock’s eyebrow twitches infinitesimally, gallons of disapproval evident in that dark gaze, and finally Jim’s had it.
“Fuck, Spock, why the hell not? What the bloody hell did you expect me to do all summer, anyway?” Jim waves his arms, his eyes flashing in frustration, a line of sweat trickling down his temple in the heat of his upstairs room. “I’m not some fucking computer like you are, Spock, I just… I just wanted to have a good time for once!”
He knows the last one was a low blow, and feels guilty for it as soon as it leaves his lips. Spock doesn’t even bat an eye, just wordlessly holds out the sad little baggie. Jim sighs, and takes it. He pries himself off the floor, skin sticking to the freshly swept wood, and goes into the bathroom. A moment’s hesitation, and then he flushes it. He supposes he can always get more if it turns out he needs it. But really, with Spock back, he’s starting to feel better already.
2245 winter
The first time he gives a blow job, he finds himself wishing it were Spock. At least he knows Spock washes thoroughly. It’s late winter-the gravel is painful and cold beneath his skinny knees, and it’s all he can do to not roll his eyes at the noises coming out of Gary’s mouth. It’s not like he particularly wants to be doing this, and so it’s not like he’s actually putting any effort into it, but by the sounds coming out of this dumb shit’s mouth, you’d think he was the fucking prom queen of cocksucking.
It’s over when it’s over, and he spits the foul taste out of his mouth onto the dirt, digging a piece of lint covered gum out of his pocket and chewing it enthusiastically. Gary zips his pants, and nods approvingly, and Jim knows he’s good to hang out with the guys whenever he wants for the next few weeks. McCoy is gone off to college now, and he had never really gotten to know any of the other guys, so when Mitchell assumed the role of alpha male, Jim had pretty quickly figured out what was required of him if he still wanted pack rights.
He doesn’t actually spend that much time with them- he’d still rather be with Spock, really, but Spock’s away every so often these days, at this chess tournament or that scholarship meeting, and Jim gets lonely quick. He doesn’t really drink or smoke much during the week, because he knows Spock doesn’t like it, and he still somehow cares what Spock thinks, but well, when Spock’s gone… he likes to keep his options open.
He wipes the last of Mitchell’s jizz off his chin and hops on his bike to ride home, the cold air numbing his face and body to perfection.
Spock’s already in his room when he gets there, sitting straight backed at Jim’s desk like he belongs there, waiting. Jim glances at him once, then turns into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, once, twice, three times. Washes his hands, combs his hair, brushes his teeth again. Finally he goes back into his room, crosses his arms, waits.
Spock looks him over. Jim can feel his gaze linger on the dirt embedded in the knees of his jeans, sees his nostrils flare ever so slightly, then watches the faintest of expressions chase like clouds across Spock’s face. Curiosity, alarm, anger.
Spock unfolds from the chair, moving slowly and deliberately. It’s times like this that Jim remembers Spock’s half an alien. No full human could move with this predatory grace.
“Jim”, Spock’s voice is soft, gently querying, only the faintest hint of steel blade beneath. “What have you been doing?”
It’s a split-second decision, but Jim is worn out, and his knees ache, and he is just so tired of Spock’s endless questions, his eye-twitch of disapproval. He snaps his chin up, feels that charming grin spread itself across his face. He drops his hips and slinks, one foot in front of the other, running a hand down his hip as he shortens the distance between them.
“’m not gonna tell you, Spock.”
He can see the confusion in the other boy’s eyes as he reaches out, places his hands lightly on the curve of his friend’s waist. “but.. if you really wanna know,” he tips his chin down to gaze at Spock through his lashes, “ I’d be happy to show you.”
He can see the understanding beginning to dawn on Spock’s face, and drags himself lingeringly along his friend’s body as he sinks to his knees, fingers reaching for the black button of Spock’s slacks.
“No.”
Jim ignores him, pops the button free, and licks his lips. He hears a quick indrawn breath, then is hauled abruptly to his feet, Spock’s hands like hot vises on his arms. He always forgets this; that Spock could break him if he wanted to, that for all the fighting Jim’s done, Spock could bat him away like a fly. His eyes widen unconsciously, and he slides one hand across the heated expanse of skin in front of him to hook a finger in the elastic of Spock’s briefs. There is a noise that is something like a growl, and he is unceremoniously dropped onto the floor a foot away, staggering in surprise. Spock’s face is furious, his fists are flexing just in front of him, as though resisting a blow.
“Jim, I said no.”
He gets it, suddenly. How could he be so stupid? Of course Spock doesn’t want him. He’s nothing but a pretty little slut, anyway, dirty and smelling of fucking Gary Mitchell’s leavings, and he had the gall to come in here and put his contaminated hands on Spock, Spock who is clean and smart and upright. What the hell was he thinking? He pulls back and turns to leave, but something must show on his face before the sneer settles into place, because suddenly his chin is caught between iron fingers and he is hauled around to find Spock’s face inches from his own.
“Jim” Spock’s fingers are bruising, his eyes liquid and fearsome, “you are my best friend. I find your current behavior alarming, and insulting to the nature of our relationship.” He pauses, and Jim feels his belly hollow in fear. “If you desire us to pursue a more physical acquaintance, we shall discuss it. But Jim…” Spock looks away, takes a breath, then looks back with burning eyes. “Not like this.”
2245 spring
The expression on his face must be mutinous, because Spock’s lower lip tightens just a little in the way that it does when he’s getting ready to argue.
“You’re what?”
“I am leaving early tomorrow morning. To attend a workshop on the possibilities of eventual trans-warp beaming. I will return from there to Vulcan, and will not be coming back to Earth again until August.”
Jim’s mouth must be open to his chest, he thinks, because he could not possibly be more shocked and appalled.
Maybe this is just a nightmare. Spock wouldn’t really leave before the end of term to go away for four and a half months, right?
Right?
“You’re what??”
Spock’s mouth tightens further, and Jim can feel the breath hitch in his chest. He’s not sure when he stood up, but he’s moving forward, stepping toward Spock with his hands in fists.
“There is nothing wrong with your ears, Jim.”
“Fuck my ears. There’s something wrong with you. What the hell, man?” He’s toe to toe with Spock now, breathing hard, eyes wide. His pulse is racing and he knows that toothy smile is starting to spread across his mouth. He brings his hands up and shoves at Spock’s chest hard. “You’re… you’re just going to fucking… leave me here?” He ignores the way his voice cracks on the last phrase to push at Spock again, hard.
Spock doesn’t move, and somehow that makes Jim snap.
“Fine. Leave. See if I fucking care!” He’s beating on Spock’s chest now, his fists falling on immobile flesh without eliciting so much as a twitch. “I don’t! I don’t care! And neither do you!” He gasps, blood humming in his ears. “You never… fucking… cared!”
He turns his back, but doesn’t make a full step before he is slammed against the wall, his skull cracking painfully against the plaster as his body is engulfed in heat.
“Do not” he shivers, Spock is growling now, “Do. Not. Trivialize what I feel for you.” Spock shakes him, hard, and Jim moans. “You know nothing. Nothing. About what I feel.”
He can barely breathe, but he can’t accept words, words are meaningless, vapid syllables of intent.
“Show me.”
There is a growl in his ear, then heated fingertips glue themselves to his face and he is thrown into the meld, spiraling out of control in a maelstrom of heat and lightning.
Spock is clutching at him, expression unguarded and fierce, and Jim can feel him, can feel the anger and lust and possessiveness radiating off him. He knows his shock is broadcasting, but he can’t help it, can only clutch back where his hands are twisted in Spock’s shirt.
Everywhere they touch blue sparks are fizzing, whether from him or from Spock, he’s not sure, but it makes him curious, so he leans in, pressing chest to chest and looking down to see the blue lightning dance between their sternums. He’s caught off guard by the press of Spock’s mouth on his, but Spock’s lips are warm and insistent, and he moves his mouth experimentally, tipping his head and sliding a hand up to press into the curve of Spock’s neck.
The rumble in Spock’s chest makes him feel funny, buzzed, like he’s had too much too drink, so he slides his tongue into Spock’s mouth to distract himself, licking past his lips to touch his tongue tip, tugging gently in invitation. He can feel past the meld; the dig of the wall into his shoulder blades, his arms, where Spock grips them, which will surely be bruised tomorrow. The heat of Spock’s hardness rubbing against his own as he presses forward, placing as much of himself in contact with Jim as he possibly can.
Spock is biting his bottom lip, and Jim quivers, lost in the sensation sweeping through him as he grasps Spock’s hips in his hands.
“Jim. Listen to me.” Spock does something with his hand down Jim’s back, and it’s all he can do to gasp out an “ok?”
“Jim. I have been worried about you. You…” Jim smiles as he slides a hand around the tip of Spock’s ear, and hears the catch and pause in Spock’s throaty whisper. “You have not been taking care of yourself. Do not think that I haven’t noticed.”
Jim floods with shame, begins to struggle to pull away, ducking his head down.
“No.” Spock’s fingers are iron on his chin, tipping his head to the side as he burns imprints of his mouth down the side of Jim’s neck. “Listen. While I am gone…” Jim squirms again, his strength useless in the face of Spock’s firm hand in the small of his back. “While I am gone, You. Will. Take care of yourself.” He pulls Jim’s head around, forcing him to meet his eyes.
Jim is lost. In the meld he can see everything in Spock’s gaze, the affection, the concern, the sheer determination that underlies every piece of Spock’s world. He nods, closing his eyes and pressing his mouth against Spock’s, letting his sincerity wash through them both. Spock wraps an arm around his waist, pushing into his open mouth, dragging his teeth across Jim’s lips and sliding a hot hand under the back of his shirt. Jim turns his head to catch an elusive breath, and is thrown out of the meld abruptly, his body shaking as Spock pulls away.
“…Spock?” He can’t quite help the way his hands reach out, and the anguish on Spock’s face is, for once, unmistakable.
“My parents are waiting in the car.” He stretches out a finger, stroking the length of Jim’s cheek, watching as he turns instinctively into the touch, biting his lip as he pulls away.
“Jim…" his eyes are wider and darker than Jim has ever seen them, black holes in his strangely lovely face. "Don’t forget me.”
The edge of his hand catchesat the collar of Jim’s shirt, and then he isgone, his footsteps disappearing down the stairs in a hurry. The bang of the front door, and the sound of a vehicle pulling away.
Jim slumps helplessly against the wall, sliding down in slow motion to bang his skinny knees against the hard wood of the floor.
Offend in Every Way
I'm patient of this plan
as humble as I can
I'll wait another day
before I turn away
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
offend in every way
I don't know what to say
I'm coming through the door
but they're expecting more
of an interesting man
sometimes I think I can
but how much can I fake
I'll speak until I break
with every word I say
offend in every way
You tell me to relax
and listen to these facts
that everyone's my friend
and will be till the end
but know this much is true
no matter what I do
no matter what I say
offend in every way