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Leonard’s hair has gotten out of hand, it’s gotten too long in both the back and the front, and it curls around his ears, and his hair then brown, now gray unfolds upon his forehead. Jim said he’d cut it himself, since the nearest hair-salon is a two-hours drive from their house and Spock interjected that he was a better fit for the job, knowing damn well that Leonard would never let the Vulcan, with scissors in hands, anywhere near his head. He’s been growing out his beard as well, and this one could also tie in with laziness and old age, and it’s an odd sight, he thinks, when he catches his reflection in the car’s rear-view mirror or the windows at night. He used to be so used, to shaving every morning after an artificial sun had been set to wake him up, and a few hundred more people, aboard a ship he’d never thought he could call home.
“Coffee Doctor?”
“The name’s Leonard, Spock.” Leonard emends, like he has for the past 5 years, “but yes.” He stretches as he enters the kitchen, leaving the hallway that separates the bathroom from their bedroom, an office they share, a living-room in which only stands a fireplace, for when it gets cold like it has already this year and three armchairs, separated. Spock will read the news in the morning, at night, Leonard will argue, and by the time the afternoon’s almost passed he will sit by.
Spock opens a cabinet’s door, takes out one of three matching mugs; blue and blue and yellow, their insignia engraved followed by their years in space, like a tombstone, another’s already out, “black?”
“Please.”
Spock pours in the liquid and he holds it for Leonard as Leonard pushes himself up onto the counter. His joints may be in pain, and his muscles tense, as if his body hadn’t been properly touched in years, and his jeans about to rip off but Leonard’s a creature of habit and one of his is to sit inappropriately, whether it’d be in chairs or places he shouldn’t sit upon, and in spite of a Vulcan judging which, in retrospection, might be enabling it.
“Where’s Jim?” He asks, though Kirk’s name is bit in a whine as Leonard burns his tongue, and smeared by a curse word whimpered.
“In the backyard.” Spock replies in his usual monotonous tone, though a smile tugs in the corner of his thin, folded lips, as Leonard’s bare feet pulls Spock’s pants up, knocks against Spock’s bare knees, and play with the hair around them, and rests against them, until his skin’s white and the green comes out.
Sometimes, Leonard will trace Spock’s bones, or his veins, or the stardust on his eyelids, the particles in his body that are different than his’ that for so long he loathed, or pushed himself to loathe and what remains of space that for so long he tried to detach himself from, and he’ll drag a finger across Spock’s too human-like body for an alien and sometimes, it is bones against bones but mostly it is clothes against clothes, and parcels of skin only Leonard or Jim could touch like that.
“What are you doing Doctor?” Spock asks, with his eyebrows and his mouth and usually he would be teasing Leonard, tilting his head and yet still his bangs would fall perfectly into place, putting his tongue in between his perfectly aligned teeth, pearly white teeth, and perhaps a smile tugs in the corner of his thin, folded lips, but he’s not playing with Leonard back, and he’s calling him Doctor.
“Leonard.” Leonard insists once more.
Spock traces a circle against his own mug with his thumb, and it’s tea unlike Leonard’s bitter coffee and it’s blue, the mug, just like Leonard’s, like the uniforms they used to wear every day.
These days they dress according to the times, what’s in store right now and perhaps a little bit of personal style – and some things remain, like turtlenecks and blue eyeshadow and yellow, though yellow’s everywhere right now and it’s odd but it looks good on Spock, yellow tee-shirts and yellow dress-shirts and yellow sweaters alike Jim’s old uniform. In the morning he’d often wear Jim’s uniform, and once Spock left Jim’s quarters with Leonard’s. “What are you doing, Leonard?”
Leonard shrugs, “dunno. Bored.”
Sometimes, Spock will ask and Leonard will answer like that. Sometimes, Leonard will answer like that and Spock will lean in and kiss in between Leonard’s sparse eyebrows, and the tip of Leonard’s nose, and he’ll kiss just before Leonard’s smile lines because just like Leonard, Spock has learnt to read in between the lines and if Leonard’s lucky Spock will kiss him on the lips and if he’s not Spock will press their foreheads together and he’ll share Leonard’s breath, it being morning or mint or coffee and that, to Leonard, although he wouldn’t tell Spock, is lucky even.
Today, Spock nods and he hums a Vulcan lullaby in his mug, for the both of them.
Leonard listens until it ends.
“Gonna go and bother Jim now.” He grumbles as he stands, and almost falls – his ankles give out but Spock leans forward, grabs his by the waist, holds him into place. “Thanks, darlin’.” He spits out, and grins as the tip of Spock’s pointy ears turn a pale, almost puke shade of green, and chuckles, remembering every damn time the Vulcan has ever demonstrated embarrassment without even having to speak it, and coughs, because he’s old and laughter hurts now.
The backyard isn’t much of anything; built in fences painted blue that weren’t here when they first moved in, but then again nothing really was – the house barely stood up, anymore, its wall had been torn by a storm, its structure was falling apart and its foundation would have never been regulated if inspected by professionals.
They stumbled across it on a road-trip, after their last mission in space with a new mission in mind, because for the first time in a long time, if not forever, all three of them shared the same intrusive, intricate, personal yet universal feeling of homesickness. Spock, whose life-long dilemma had consisted of choosing in between his father’s and his mother’s heritage, had found a place in space for them to co-exist on the same plane and now, well, now, his home had been taken away and his dilemma brought back.
Jim saw it upon the hill from the backseat’s window whilst Leonard were driving, and arguing about the quickest way to get to New York, and Spock was telling Leonard how illogical he was considering his calculations, and although it’d be a lie if Leonard said he doesn’t find Spock’s Vulcan manners hot, he would prefer starting a fight than admitting, and giving in.
It wasn’t exactly what they were looking for – they weren’t even looking for a house to begin with, more of an excuse to wander a little bit longer, throughout the states, in an old car they’d borrowed from a friend at Starfleet who smelled like feet and sweat and sex, though it weren’t them – it was what one could call a happy coincidence, to stumble upon this house that was barely a house anymore back then, in the beginning of spring when the snow starts to melt, with weeks and even months ahead to plan, to build something there.
They drove to the city near to ask about the land, ask if they could take out a loan with their bank and make a purchase. Inspectors came to visit during the week whilst they stayed in a cheap, alcohol-filled motel, chocolate bars in vending machines outdoors, drunken thoughts and drunken sex, this time theirs and the land was sold to them.
Spock built furniture and Jim painted on empty canvases places he thought he’d forgotten but hadn’t, they’d only been buried somewhere, and Leonard helped the construction worker they’d employ for the summer.
“Watcha doing?”
Jim is sitting on the porch, in an old kitchen chair, splatters of old paint still resting upon its back and legs, in his pyjama pants still, in one of Leonard’s sweater, “reading.” he says, looking up from his novel, reading glasses sliding down his nose, an eyebrow lifted and god, oh god, sometimes Kirk looks like Spock.
Leonard shudders as the wind rises above, “its cold as hell out.” he spits out. Jim pushes his lower lip out, and through a pout he nods, and it soon turns to a smile and a chuckle awakes in his throat, mouth shut, “you should come inside.”
“Maybe after this chapter.” Jim happily retorts. His curls, then blond, then brown, now grey and turning white are blown away from his forehead, revealing his ever so deepening baldness along his temples.
“Alright, I’ll get blankets. Can’t let ya freeze to death.”
Spock is reading the news at the kitchen table, in one hand a tablet, in the other a fork and in front a bowl, lettuce and cucumber pieces cut in 4 and cherry tomatoes cut in halves. Leonard passes by empty-handed, passes by again with their bed’s bedding in hand, except the pillowcases. Spock looks-up, and though his eyebrows narrow, he looks back down in the blink of an eye and turns the electronic newspaper page.
“There.” Leonard grunts as he envelops Kirk and his paint splattered chair in their bedspread, keeping a fuzzy blanket for himself, pulling a chair aside Jim’s, whispering you goddamn mad man and swallowing back the words he before said; death, trying to not think of the implication of death, and how he can feel it there, and here, here, here, and there, in his lungs when he runs from the office to their bedroom, in his legs when he jumps in between Jim and Spock, in his arms when he doesn’t want to let go just yet.
Jim pats Leonard’s shoulder as a thank.
Leonard, there isn’t much Leonard has wanted to do these days, he smiles, one of those that Jim knows holds melancholy, and some days they overflow in a wail, and perhaps today is just an understanding of homesickness, Jim reads a fiction novel about the world of today has seen through the eyes of someone who could’ve never seen it, from a few centuries ago, and words somehow are similar although the patterns have evolved, and a few expressions, and a few species whose languages aren’t spoken in tongues, and perhaps today is an understanding of yearning and Spock, too, he wouldn’t say but he feels the soreness in his limbs, or feels Leonard’s and Jim’s and today, is not the end, and tomorrow probably won’t be, and perhaps not within the next 5 years or 10, but their body won’t stand for twenty more.
Jim scratches his beard – him too, has grown it, mostly to cover a nasty scar he got whilst helping Spock build the yard’s fences, painted blue, half-way built, and dark sunspots that just won’t lighten, no matter the creams his dermatologist prescribes him.
He turns a paper page, says he wants to feel its texture against his skin even if he often cuts his fingertips with them, and Leonard reads a few words over his shoulder, waits for him to finish his chapter and perhaps another, and perhaps another, and perhaps another.
The sun isn’t out, today. It’s not raining, and the snow hasn’t started to fall, and the wind rises but then it calms, but it’s still cold. Leonard rubs the palm of his hands together. Jim shudders under the bedspread. Leonard looks away, into the kitchen’s window from which Spock is watching them. A smile tugs in the corner of his thin, folded lips, and his hands, though Leonard can’t see them, are tucked behind his shirt. The waves, down, are crashing against the shore and although Leonard cannot see them, and his eardrums have been damaged from all of the fights, and explosions, and fire hazards, he can hear them, and the ice that has started to form, crackles.
“Do you…” Jim’s voice turns Leonard’s head again. He trails off, rests his novel upon his thigh, still opened, as to not lose the page, and he stares ahead. Searches for the stars in the sky, forgetting for a moment that from the Earth they aren’t visible during daytime. “Do you ever miss space, Bones?” he asks, and Leonard chuckles, because of course he goddamn does, and of course James Kirk would know that he does, because he calls him Bones and it’s a laugh but it comes out a bit muffled, and it comes out as a cry.
“In all the years we’ve spent there, I dreamt everyday of being back home, sleeping in ‘till the sun’s already set on the weekend, drinking cheap coffee I’d left on my nightstand from the night before, reading ‘bout new ways to heal the body and mind on the porch, like now.” He’s breathing hard. “I don’t know, Jim, it’s like now that I have it, m’not sure I want it, m’not sure that’s really what’s home.”
Jim nods in agreement, and he eyes a trail of smoke in the sky, and he asks a question again, “do you remember when we first got here? The house up the hill–”
“me and Spock arguing for the millionth time, sure, how could I forget that, s’not like we argue all the damn time.”
Jim laughs, “yeah, that – but do you remember the following days?”
“Oh, you mean slippery shower sex and post-sex sex and too much to choose from, speaking of both alcohol and cock? God, I’m too old to say cock. Forgive me, oh thy Lord. But yeah, I do, at least my hip sure does.”
“I– right, I see where your priorities’ at.”
Leonard holds an empty hand up as if it were a glass, “can’t deny.”
“Can’t say it wasn’t memorable.” Jim adds, and they shake their heads in unison, and as Jim is about to speak again Spock knocks on the kitchen’s window, capturing their eyes, to point out a rabbit hiding in bushes by the blue fences whose immediate reaction is to run away as they look back, as if it knew and perhaps, somehow, Spock knew too, about their growing nostalgia – he probably heard them, actually, through the window, though shut, since all of the house’s windows are terribly insulated, and thin, and cold.
Jim sends a flying kiss instead to Spock that Spock catches and keeps in his pant’s pocket. Leonard grimaces. “D’you think he misses the old days too?” he asks, like he doesn’t know the answer already.
“Well, he still calls me Captain.”
“Still calls me Doctor and I haven’t practiced in years.”
“Don’t think he’d ever so, though.” Jim says, actually answering Leonard’s question this time. “I think he still doesn’t really know where he fits, in all this, sometimes I’m afraid he never will.”
Leonard approaches his hands, cupped, to his face and he blows in the opening he creates, agrees through a sound that escapes from his chest, and his nose, a long sigh like he’s lost all hope. Jim turns both his upper body and his book around, scans the page he’d left off to find that one paragraph, but when he’s about to pick it up from there he speaks again.
“You know, for a while it was also sort of like that, for me, and I’m sure it were for you too – going back to what I saying, about the house.”
“Yeah?”
“Like, I remember, and I– I guess maybe that’s just how I remember it, and maybe it’s because I’m the first who saw it, but then again it-it didn’t exactly struck me, instantly, so I don’t- I don’t know.”
“Huh, less cryptic, maybe?”
“Right, alright.” He pauses, and draws a breath, and draws Leonard an image. “I remember thinking that it wasn’t all that bad, being back – home, and we lying on that dirty ass bed and I was thinking like, you’d tell me when I was young that not only would I fall in love with a man, but two, and well, one and a half – but two who used to hate each other’s gut or pretended to, at least” he grins, Leonard rolls his eyes until there’s only white, “but anyway. I just remember thinking I could actually enjoy myself here, and maybe, and that was just a maybe but still, maybe I could feel at home here, ‘cause I’d brought, and had, a part of home with me.”
Leonard raises an eyebrow, and God does he look like Spock sometimes, “not exactly less cryptic but I guess I’ll take it?”
“I mean that I fell in love with two idiots, idiot.” Jim sighs, “and that, maybe the clichés aren’t wrong and all, ‘cause they feel like home.”
“Oh.” Leonard’s cheek feels warm, and yes he knows it’s from the blush that is creeping, ravaging his old, wrinkly skin, and his fingers feel tingly though that could be from the wind, “that’s – certainly a way to put it.” he murmurs, choking on his words, words with thorns passing through his throat, “aren’t we too old to say those things, Jim?”
Jim shrugs, “possibly, but that’s not gonna stop me.”
“Great.” Leonard groans, “on that note I am: out.” though the still very apparent redness in his cheeks tell another story. He stands, stumbles his way through to the door, avoids stomping on his blanket though it falls to his ankles and with every step, slides down his shirt, “have fun alone in the cold.”
Jim bends his neck back and it cracks, and he smiles through the pain, and Leonard maybe, just maybe, leans forward and kisses Kirk before getting indoors.
“Is Jim still out?” Spock asks, as Leonard passes by.
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.” Spock replies, though the lines crossing his forehead speaks louder than his answer.
“Don’t worry, he’s got blankets. He’s a tough guy anyway, he’s lived through it all.”
Spock nods, and his lips frown, and he goes back to reading more of the world’s news, and new scientific break-throughs, and sometimes in this room, from their bedroom, when Leonard can’t seem to come across slumber, around Christmas, though they don’t really celebrate that anymore, he’ll hear Spock sing old carols that he learned from his mother.
Leonard puts back the blanket on their bed, he changes into appropriate clothes – and by appropriate he means something else than the ones he slept in, because they’re still joggings and one of Spock’s sweaters, and he walks to the bathroom, brushes through his too long hair that Jim hasn’t yet cut, and he tries to pull his skin back, see what his face would look like without all of the lines.
He’s old, now. They’re all old. Spock might be younger in Vulcan years, but a part of him is human, and a part of him sees the clock ticking, and a part of him must know it ticks faster for Leonard and Jim.
Their bodies are fragile, and less agile, and less indulgent. Their love is slow, and steady, and calm, but it’s there. Their home is vacant.
In the living-room, Spock reads, and on the porch, Jim reads, and Leonard walks to Spock and he sits by him, empty-handed, and he reads the lines crossing the Vulcan’s face, because some things never change.
Do you miss home, Leonard?
Yes.
Spock looks up from his tablet.
But this can do, too.