Chapter Text
There are four pieces of crumpled paper abandoned at the bottom of the waste bin in Kirk’s bedroom.
The fifth joins them with an anticlimactic rustle.
At first, he had been resolved. He had never known what to say, precisely, but that he must say something. To leave such an egregious assumption of someone’s character unaddressed will only make the ache in Jim’s stomach deepen the longer he allows it to fester. He had deserved an apology– but now, too, deserves to deliver one.
Even knowing this, he has not been able to make it past Mr. Spock on any attempt. He stares at the name for a minute, maybe a few, before the paper is crumpled again, and the length of his bedroom is paced upon sore legs.
He couldn’t possibly want to hear from me ever again. Does he even want an apology?
Mr. Spock had made it clear in his letter that he would make no attempt to contact Jim further. Surely, even if written to first, he would not break his silence again. After being embarrassed to such a degree, Jim couldn’t fathom the Vulcan ever wanting to see him again.
A sixth piece of paper lies on his desk. The tip of his pen hovers over its surface. Bird calls reach him through his window from a world that continues to spin in spite of his stillness.
When ink meets paper at last, it is to address Nyota, instead.
----
While the pit in his stomach has marginally lightened, any comfort is offset by the nerves that bubble to the surface immediately after dropping the letter in the mail.
Jim busies his hands while his thoughts continue to race around ruts a mile deep. In the kitchen, he forgoes the replicator, instead baking a loaf of bread, a batch of cupcakes, and a second, slightly burned loaf of bread before his mother shoos him away from the oven. In his bedroom, he reads for all of ten minutes before he is back on his feet again, taking to the fields until the sun sets.
The following day is much the same, with the exception of his nerves only heightening further with the knowledge that Nyota must have received his letter by now. Has she already spoken to him? Perhaps it had been a mistake to go through her– perhaps he should call her, let her know that he changed his mind–
But he does not.
Even in the comfort of his bed, he struggles to sleep. Does he know? How would he react? Would he accept the apology at all? Have I lost his good favor forever? The ruts in his mind dig deeper, and sleep remains just out of reach.
Come morning, Jim’s nerves are taut enough that they could snap.
In the kitchen again, he bakes another loaf of bread. This one, at least, is less burned.
He is still swatting flour off of his shirt when a knock at the door sounds. Winona’s request for him to answer it distantly reaches him from the second floor, and he sighs, giving up on tidying his appearance for the moment.
McCoy is his first guess at the visitor. One of his mother’s friends would also be likely, with boredom in Riverside a constant presence.
But standing on the Hey good lookin’ welcome mat is a Vulcan who is as put together as always, looking rather out of place on the farmhouse porch.
“Mr. Spock,” Jim greets him breathlessly.
“Mr. Kirk,” the Vulcan nods. “I apologize for my unannounced visit. I desired to speak with you, if that is acceptable.”
Kirk’s mouth parts dumbly. When dark eyes glance down towards the movement, he closes it, quickly glancing behind himself at the staircase. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggests, relieved at the immediate nod he receives. His mother has already eavesdropped on enough conversations with Vulcans.
For several minutes, neither man speaks. Jim pays no particular mind as to their direction, far too distracted by the Vulcan at his side; the redoubled buzzing of his hand.
Their aimless path comes to a stop at the creek. Kirk turns, watching as Mr. Spock observes the running water, helpless but to appreciate how the soft morning sun plays upon angular features.
Then, dark eyes turn from the water to him, and he misses a breath.
“Nyota informed me of your apology regarding your assumptions of my prior engagement,” the Vulcan speaks at last. “I accept it.”
Jim can only nod at first, too stunned for speech. Eventually, he manages, “I accept your apology, too.”
A hint of tension seems to bleed from Spock’s form.
Before he can think better of it, Jim asks, “Does your grandmother know of your proposal to me?”
Just barely, the Vulcan’s brows twitch upwards. “I made no mention of it to her.”
“She came here,” Kirk continues, watching as brown eyes widen slightly, “to ask if I was engaged to you. She was rather unhappy for a Vulcan.”
The tension returns to Mr. Spock’s form, more coiled than before. “Her manner of inquiry was highly inappropriate–”
“She said that you were only allowed to marry another Vulcan,” Jim blurts. “And that you were aware of the fact.”
Something passes through Spock’s gaze that is difficult to read. At his sides, his hands tense slightly, then relax.
“I am aware that my family expects me to marry within my own kind,” he acknowledges.
Jim frowns. “But Humans are your kind, too.”
“I have been raised on the Vulcan path,” Mr. Spock contends, his deep voice lower, hardly audible over the creek. “Bonding with another Vulcan is an integral part of that path.”
Blonde brows draw closer to one another. “Then why propose to me?”
The Vulcan searches his gaze, seeming to almost hesitate. Then, he steps closer, bringing alien heat with him. The buzzing that skitters over Kirk’s skin grows stronger.
“Because we are t’hy’la,” he utters. “Whether or not you will have me, I could only have you, and no one else.”
Spock is close enough to touch. The mindless urge to reach out is almost overwhelming.
Kirk gives a slight shake of his head, the movement absent. “How can you be so sure?”
“I felt your mind when we touched,” the Vulcan answers. “I recognized you instantly.”
Jim’s brow furrows. “Recognized?”
Mr. Spock swallows.
“If you will allow me,” he states, “I will show you through a meld. It is a temporary joining of minds that enables the transference of thoughts and emotion.”
Curiosity and fear spur Jim’s heart on faster. Immediately, the worst imagery he can conjure comes to mind.
“You– I mean– would you be able to hear… everything?”
“Only that which you consciously recall,” Mr. Spock denies. “I would not be privy to anything but your active thoughts.”
A breeze rustles the leaves of the trees around them. For a moment, Kirk could swear it carries the scent of rotting grain.
“I’ve had… past experiences that I may unintentionally recall,” he admits. “Memories that would be disturbing for you to see. I can’t promise I would be able to hold them back.”
“You do not have to,” Spock asserts, his tone somewhat softened. “I would have all of you, or any which you should choose to give. You need not conceal anything” He pauses. “Moreover, if thoughts surface that you find unpleasant, I can assist with redirecting your mind from them.”
He has no particular reason to trust the Vulcan, really. Wasn’t even on speaking terms with him about half an hour ago.
But instead of the immediate no that should have left his lips, he asks instead, “And you think this will help me see that we’re… t’hy’la?” The word comes out uncertain, a struggle to pronounce.
“I do not ‘think’,” Mr. Spock corrects. “I know.”
Saying yes would be incredibly, unbelievably stupid, considering everything he stands to spill. And yet–
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
The Vulcan lifts his hand slowly, settling warm fingertips against Jim’s face, robbing him of his breath again.
“My mind to your mind,” Spock says.
My thoughts to your thoughts.
The universe dissolves without preamble, breaking down into smears of color and light, suddenly distant, unimportant. Atom by atom falls away, draining hues to darkness, each pinprick of light burning out until all that is left are two souls at the precipice of collapse into one another, and a golden thread that is stretched between them.
With a buzzing hand, Jim reaches out.
The thread erupts, loosing an impossible warmth that touches every part of him, leaves nothing unturned. The border between souls vanishes, and all at once, oneness is a foreign, inconceivable concept. Entire lifetimes fall into place together, an effortless dance. Rotting grain is replaced with incense and desert blooms; an empty stomach, full again.
A thousand iterations of Kirk click by in an instant– a young, headstrong girl, his mother’s daughter in both name and face; a teenager struggling to recover from famine and genocide, let alone begin to find himself; Jim as he is now, returning to a home he had not realized he had ever left, awash in relief and wonder.
And there is Spock: a stranger amongst peers, a scientist, a mama’s boy, a follower of Surak’s teachings, a Vulcan through and through, a Human only when he cannot help it.
But now, he is one half of a whole, neither Vulcan, nor Human, but t’hy’la.
Recognition. All it had taken was that single instant for Jim to realize that he would know Spock anywhere– and that his life, at times a weight almost too heavy to bear, had always been leading to this.
When the universe reassembles, Kirk opens his eyes to blurred vision, the sensation of tear tracks on his skin, and a hand that has moved to his jaw, still holding that familiar, intangible presence. He can produce nothing but a dumb, desperate, “Spock.”
Brown eyes are both reverent and solemn.
“Now that you understand,” he continues, “the decision is yours. If your opinion of me has not changed, you have my word that I will never disturb you again.” He pauses, swallowing. “...However–”
He is given no chance to complete the sentiment, any hope of speech lost when he is unceremoniously pulled downward by his collar and into a kiss.
Equally as the hand at his jaw, the mouth against Jim’s is warm, amplifying the buzzing that courses through him, sends him alight. There is a relief tangible through skin that joins his own, cresting on a wave of affection that leaves his knees weak. Spock deepens the kiss, brushing his thumb along Jim’s cheekbone, and it’s all Kirk can do to stay on his feet through the head-spinning, heart-pounding, unbelievable reality that he has been thrust into.
When the kiss breaks at last, he answers, breathless, “I accept.”
And for the first time, he sees the smallest hint of a smile above.
----
If there ever existed a perfect test for a partner’s true desire to be by Jim’s side, it would be enduring the trial of sitting in a room with Mrs. Kirk.
Mr. Spock, somehow, is not only holding steady in the face of the fierce storm of conversation, but even being polite. He patiently answers every excited question Winona throws at him, and does not show fatigue when she diverts to tangent after tangent. Even more, he frequently glances at Jim, his gaze bearing nothing but a steady, tiny spark of affection.
Throughout the remainder of their time together that day, he does not keep his eyes away from the Human for more than a handful of minutes, and Kirk hardly fares any better. The hours go on, but nothing feels any less surreal. He looks at a Vulcan he had hardly spoken with before today, and cannot help but wonder how the mere touch of a hand on his face was all it had taken to know Spock better than he knows himself.
Before the Vulcan’s departure for the evening, Jim lingers on the porch with him.
“While I’m rather content with how today has gone,” he smiles somewhat, “I do worry that your family may not have quite the same reaction as mine.”
Mr. Spock nods. “I am prepared for their disapproval.”
“Are you?” Kirk asks, his tone softer.
The Vulcan pauses.
“I feel no shame regarding my decision,” he elaborates. “Regardless of the fact that you are Human, it is both illogical and a matter of cruelty to deny t’hy’la the opportunity to solidify their bond in ceremony. As their disapproval would be irrational, I will not take personal offense to it.”
“Irrational or not,” Jim presses, “would they stop speaking with you?”
“It is likely,” Spock acknowledges.
Kirk sighs. “I don’t like this.”
“In time, they may come to see the logic in my decision,” Mr. Spock observes. “However, I will not wait for them to do so. I do not desire to spend another day apart from you.”
He had felt the sentiment as clear as day through the meld, and upon every brush of skin, and the words still make him miss a breath.
“Is romanticism logical now, too?”
Brown eyes just barely crinkle. “If it is the truth.”
Kirk huffs softly, a smile present on his lips.
“Good luck with your family.”
Spock nods.
“Good night, Jim.”
Ah. He hadn’t anticipated how nice his name would sound on that deep voice. If Mr. Spock notices just how much it gets to him, he does not comment on it.
Long after the Vulcan has left Riverside, Kirk could swear he still feels that buzzing presence, louder now, a constant, tangible warmth nestled at the back of his mind.
Any hope of sleep, it seems, should remain abandoned for some time.
----
No more than a week passes before Jim is already being fitted for his ceremonial robes.
In the flurry of announcements, and travel, and planning, he has hardly had any time to catch up to the fact that he is to imminently be married. When he does have a chance to acknowledge the fact, he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Jim Kirk, the flirt of every gala, engaged to someone at all, let alone someone he had hardly even been courted by? If he had been told of such a fate a year ago, he would have found it no more than a joke.
And yet, he stands before a mirror, draped in silks of white and gold, both hardly recognizable to himself and exactly right.
In the heat of the Vulcan afternoon, he is forced to sit only minutes after donning the fabric, even breathable as it is. With his head down, he does not process the approaching presence until movement beside him draws his gaze to Mrs. Grayson, who has settled onto a neighboring cushion in the fitting room.
“How are you holding up, dear?”
“Barely hanging on by a thread,” he admits with an exhausted smile, drawing a conspiratorial grin from his soon to be mother-in-law.
“As was I, in your position,” she relates. “Before bonding with Sarek, I nearly got cold feet, which is quite an accomplishment on a desert planet.”
Jim cannot contain the laugh that escapes him.
“What got you off the ledge?”
“Sarek, really,” Amanda replies. “We melded shortly before our wedding. It was a much-needed reminder of how well we fit together.” She smiles. “Vulcans don’t always understand us Humans and our struggle with decisions. They’re absolutely certain in any path they take. Nonetheless, they– or, at least, the ones that matter– will accommodate our need for reassurance.”
Kirk exhales a soft breath. “Spock has been so steady on this. I’m glad I’m not the only one that’s been anxious.”
“Oh, honey, I was terrified.”
Another laugh, and the tension eases further, and the robes feel just a little less heavy.
“A marriage bond will be an adjustment for a psi-null,” Mrs. Grayson continues, “but you will adjust. And once you do, it’s the most beautiful thing in the universe.”
That warmth at the back of his mind resurfaces, comforting, calling.
“I hope so,” he murmurs.
----
No meld, and no conversation, and no planning could have prepared Jim for the way dark eyes hold him when he kneels opposite to Spock at the altar.
Throughout his years of entertaining advances from other men, he has received more than a few looks of intrigue and attraction. While not vain, those looks had always felt nice to receive, regardless– a steady boost to the confidence he had carefully cultivated for some time.
Now, though, the gaze on him is far from any he’s been leveled with before. It is something he had once thought Mr. Spock, devout on his Vulcan path, must surely have been incapable of– but Vulcan or not, the only description Kirk can produce is unmistakable, reverent love.
And before the bonding has even begun, he’s melted.
A priestess kneels between them, placing one hand at each of their faces, her slender fingers immediately finding their psi points.
“T’hy’la,” she vocalizes, her steady monotone almost wavering for a moment. “It is truth.”
Jim receives no further warning before the golden thread shoots forward to bind them both.
The warmth at the back of his mind grows exponentially, now a fully-fledged presence at the forefront of his thoughts, sharper, suddenly in perfect clarity. Spock. For a moment, the sensation is almost incomprehensible, overwhelming. With each breath, and each beat of his heart, he is aware not only of his own, but the Vulcan’s, too. It is a consciousness running parallel with his own, a constant, subtle awareness of his husband’s emotions and health, an ever-humming feedback loop.
Ashayam, a deep voice shakes him from his brief stupor, cutting through his thoughts rather than the air between them. Reassurance curls through the words, gentle and soothing. Take a deeper breath.
It is only then, Jim realizes, that he is hardly getting in any air.
With a soft, surprised laugh, he slowly levels out his breathing again. As the dizzying edge lessens, the priestess withdraws from them, declaring the bonding complete.
This feels like a dream, he cannot help but think. Unreal.
Kirk is helped to his feet by his bondmate, slightly too wobbly to remain upright on his own. He laughs again, baffled, and shocked, and terrified, and delighted.
You are well? rumbles along the link, honey-warm.
Kirk squeezes the hand that steadies him. I’m perfect.
----
“Why is your mother not called Mrs. S’chn T’gai?”
“She desired to keep her maiden name for ease of pronunciation with other Humans,” Spock supplies. He rubs his thumb over the back of Kirk’s hand, the movement seeming almost absent, thoughtless. In his evening robes, he looks more relaxed than Jim has ever seen him before, the sight warming him from the inside out. “Moreover, considering it is uncommon for Vulcans to refer to one another by surname alone, keeping Grayson was logical for the purpose of a surname title, as it would indeed only be used by other Humans. Her full name, however, is Amanda S’chn T’gai Grayson.”
Jim hums. “I suppose I’m James S’chn T’gai Kirk now, then?”
“If it pleases you,” Spock says.
“It does please me.”
“How do you desire I refer to you?” the Vulcan asks, the softest hint of a smile in his eyes.
“Mr. Kirk is alright with other Humans,” Jim muses. “Perhaps Mr. S’chn T’gai Kirk, if you feel like flaunting me.” He tilts his head, a playful smile at his lips. “Jim is a fine default.”
“And James?”
“Oh, call me that when you’re unhappy with me. I’ve only ever heard that when I’m in trouble.”
“Very well,” Spock nods. “As for terms of endearment?”
Jim hums thoughtfully.
“Ashayam for everyday use,” he declares. “Ashal-veh when you’re feeling particularly sweet. And k’diwa only when you are absolutely, maddeningly in love with me.”
The Vulcan’s affection is just as visible in dark eyes as it is audible over the bond. The sight pulls an automatic smile from Jim, and the eyes above him crinkle further.
Spock leans forward, catching his husband in a Human kiss, slow and savoring. At length, he pulls back just enough to murmur, “K’diwa.”