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It wasn’t that Jim didn’t enjoy parties. He did. The energy of people coming together felt intoxicating even without the brandy that Bones had slipped him under the table. He loved to see his crew happy. The music. The joyful energy. The platters of sweet-smelling parcels of fried dough. But it was different as a Captain. In some ways it was better, knowing that he had been a part of what made this celebration possible, and seeing the smiles on his crew's faces. But he could still never fully be there. He had been standing near the center of the room, talking to the Pslatarn delegate when Scotty and Uhura caught his eye. They were standing with the minister’s son, clearly part way through some tall tale. He couldn’t hear what they were saying amongst the noise, but they were seamless. Synchronized. When Scotty paused to take a sip of his drink Uhura took over. When Uhura began to laugh, Scotty would begin again. It made Jim smile, at first, and then it stoked an ache in his chest, a flaring want he was usually able to ignore.
Jim had been sidling his way out of the banquet hall for an hour before he managed to actually reach the exit, the cacophony of voices - Standard weaving in and out of the alien trills that the UT couldn’t quite catch - softened immediately by the heavy door that clicked into place behind him.
His footfalls felt loud in the sudden quiet of the hallway. The large windows were open, and the planet's cool night swept in and across Jim’s face. He sighed, and loosened the collar of his dress uniform.
He meant to go back to his assigned quarters, or maybe out to the garden the delegate had mentioned, but he kept walking past the doors leading out of the hall, a restless tension in the muscles of his legs that he couldn’t quite dispel. The end of the hall ran into a staircase, softly lit and curving, and inviting in a way Jim couldn't resist. It looked like a passageway in a storybook castle, and Jim was an explorer afterall.
The stairs, it turned out, just led to a heavy wooden door, but Jim could smell the scent of old paper and glue even before he pushed it open, using the weight of his body to get it to budge. Inside, the scent hit him hard, and he inhaled deeply. The room was filled with tall shelves of neatly ordered shelves, stacks of bound books with alien script running down their spines. Jim smiled at the sight, and his smile only grew as he turned again to see his first officer sitting on a bench in the middle of the room, his long legs folded underneath him, his fingers running over the surface of a page. He looked like the picture of serenity, still and engrossed, all long lines and fingers, his brow canted in concentration. Jim wished he could see inside his mind - see the way he was untangling the alien language with the gentle tenacity he applied to every problem.
“If you are going to stay, Jim, shut the door. The humidity and temperature of the room are strictly controlled to ensure no degradation of the volumes.”
Jim smiled. It wasn’t explicit, but he knew it was an invitation to stay. He heaved the door shut, and walked to sit beside Spock, something inside him loosening and relaxing in the Vulcan’s presence. He inhaled again as he sat. Spock’s scent now mixed with the smell of old books.
“I love that smell,” Jim said.
Spock raised an eyebrow, but did not look up from the book in his lap.
“Of books. At the academy, I used to study down in the book preservation lab. Something about the smell, being surrounded by all that knowledge and history - it was the only reason I passed molecular xenobiology.”
Spock looked up at him at that. “You scored exceptionally well in your molecular xenobiology class,” he said. “You forget your academic records are included in your personnel file.”
Jim shrugged. “That only proves my point.”
“Additionally, I believe that the book preservation laboratory was off limits students outside the program.”
Jim grinned and winked at Spock. “I had a special dispensation.”
Spock raised his eyebrows higher. “On what grounds did you obtain that?”
“I can be very charming, Spock,” Jim said with a teasing smile. He saw the light of amusement flick across Spock’s face.
“I am aware.”
Jim’s chuckle turned into a contented hum, and Spock turned back to the pages of the book before he spoke again. “I admit, I understand your affinity for ink and paper books,” Spock began. “My mother has an extensive collection. My father considers her library sentimental and illogical. But as a child, I often completed my school work there beside her. The olfactory experience here brings back recollections of those times.”
Jim smiled at the thought of a small Spock, sitting beside his mother surrounded by sentimental relics of the past. “I’d love to see her collection.”
“I am sure she would enjoy showing it to you,” Spock said. “I can ask her the next time we are on Vulcan.”
Spock’s words sparked a heat in Jim’s chest - we, as if it were some kind of promise that they would have more journeys together, more adventures, more time even after this mission was over. He bumped his shoulder against his first officer’s, unsure how or if he should convey the rising tide of affection and emotion that Spock’s words had brought about. He swallowed it down, repeating, “I’d love that.”
They fell into silence; Jim was content to watch Spock - the flow of his long fingers across the paper, his eyes dancing along the page, alight with concentration.
“Can you read it to me?” Jim asked.
Spock opened his mouth, perhaps to remind Jim that he couldn’t understand the Pslatarn language, but he faltered as he looked at Jim carefully. Something curious passed over his face, and it made Jim’s heart leap, but it was gone too fast for him to identify it, and Spock turned back to the book and began to read, slowly, his voice soft and lilting with the alien words. Jim sighed, and closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. It was this, he realized. This was what he was missing at the party. He didn’t quite have a word for it yet, but it was undeniable. Spock at his side and the promise of a future in front of them. It felt like something latching into place inside him, content and sure.