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There are two people living inside of Mister Spock. He wondered, while lying on his bed in his quarters, does everyone exist in duplicates, or is it only him?
Wouldn’t it be logical that they did? It certainly would align with duality found in nature. Oil and water are opposites, but both vital to most humanoid species’ bodies. Electricity needs a positive and negative charge. The heart wants, and the brain calculates. The vehicle needs gas as well as brakes. So if this was true, why, then, did he never think himself balanced?
For a Vulcan, he was prone to his own whims, and for a human, he was prudish and tightly-wound. Even when he was trying to sleep, it was a constant waltz of conflicting thoughts.
Although impossible, he often felt anxious that a misplaced dream could telepathically travel, wayward, to another person on the ship. Therefore, Spock vacillated between indulgent fantasies and linear algebra in an attempt to lull himself to sleep. However, he was unable to ever fully commit to one or the other, and both were equally unsuccessful at combating his insomnia.
He stirred, unsure of the hour but positive it was the alpha shift on the bridge. If his internal clock could be trusted, the Enterprise would be orbiting its present planetoid just as the moon crossed its sun. This planet was notable for near daily eclipses, marking the early morning.
Spock lazily dressed. He pulled a blue regulation fleece over his torso and left his black pajama pants on, practically indistinguishable from his uniform. Per the pamphlet Doctor McCoy gave him, when one can’t sleep, it can be helpful to go on a walk. The doctor spoke of it like it had no real benefit, but Spock found it a logical solution. Activity releases endorphins, and being cold necessitates a want for warmth, subsequently reminding one how much they desire sleep. A last resort, but an effective one.
The corridor was quiet, most of the staff sound asleep save the night crew. The lights were dimmed to remind them all that time still existed, even in the dead of space. At this hour it felt as though the ship became a different place; liminal, like a dream, like walking on an empty market street in the morning or a docking station with no departures.
As he walked, Spock breathed in the sterile air with deep and controlled gasps. It was always a little harsh on the Vulcan lungs. His fragile bronchi were built for a thin atmosphere, and sometimes he could feel them scraping against heavy particles of O2 when he inhaled. If that made it difficult to breathe, though, there was something that always made it harder.
Spock paused two yards away from one of the many viewing windows on the ship, a regular stop on his nighttime strolls, a breath caught in his throat.
“Is that Mister Spock, walking around in his pajamas?” Kirk teased from the window, no less underdressed himself.
“It indicates that I am off duty, captain.” Spock replied, “Although I must say, I am surprised you are observant enough to recognize that this is not merely my cold-weather uniform.”
“It has wrinkles, Spock.” Kirk grinned, “You press your uniforms.”
Spock swallowed. Such a simple thing to say, but it set off a million different processes in his brain. That meant Jim noticed, and if Jim notices, Jim sees him. What does it mean to be seen? Does Jim see both Spocks, or just the one that walks on the outside? It was like a firework shot off inside him, dynamite igniting. As always, he snuffed it out before it began to explode.
“Very perceptive of you, captain.” Spock approached him, every step threatening to light the fire again, until he was next to him looking out the window, “I do prefer to give my uniform a certain respect, unlike some of the crew.”
“So backhanded, Mister Spock!” Kirk laughed, and shrugged, “I do iron it, you know. Most of the time.”
“Mhm.” Spock raised an eyebrow, then looked outside.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Jim mused, his attention turned to the planetoid, “I never get used to it.”
“Beauty is subjective,” Spock replied, “But I do find it aesthetically pleasing.”
Across the curvature of the planet, light spilled a nostalgic shade of red across half the landscape. It had already begun, a celestial spectacle that for the civilizations on the planet was a near daily and mundane event.
“The species on this world,” Spock explained, “Have eyes that evolved to be desensitized to eclipses.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Kirk replied, squinting at the light, slowly being surmounted by the planet’s slower setting moon. “It’d be funny then, how amazing it seems to me and boring to them?”
“I fail to find the humor in that,” Spock tilted his head, “But yes, they must have a very different perspective on the matter.”
“Extraordinary.” Jim observed, clasping his hands behind him, “It looks like half the planet is painted black.”
“So it does.” Spock agreed. It almost blended into the obscurity of the backdrop of space, “The planet doesn’t orbit, the satellites do. Nobody lives on the darker side.”
“So there are things there that nobody has ever seen.” Kirk replied, his eyes lighting with something more intense than mere passion.
“That is likely.” Spock said, “It would be too cold to survive there for the native species.”
“I wonder what’s there.” Kirk smiled, “Amazing things, I bet.”
“Perhaps.” Spock shrugged one shoulder, gazing at the slow light that sunk further down the planet.
Kirk seemed to be watching, too, and they stood for some amount of time that Spock didn’t care to compute, shoulders touching. His mission to calm himself with a walk seemed to have ultimately failed, as every motion Kirk made alerted him, and caused his pulse to quicken.
But he remained focused, resisting the urge to turn his head and compulsively glance at his companion. The event only lasted about as long as a sunrise on Earth— that is, not long enough. Soon, over a third of the planet was bathed in light, and the moon recessed beneath the Enterprise, further out of view.
“I never want to stop seeing this.” Spock heard Kirk say.
“All good things must come to an end,” He replied, and when he looked away from the waning eclipse, he found Kirk had stopped paying attention to it a while ago.
The captain was looking at him.
Their eyes met, both of them aware of what Kirk meant, but neither saying it. With the sun risen, the hallway got substantially brighter, illuminating Jim in a swath of gold. Spock stared at him, his outer-self not indicating even a hint of emotion, while his inside flared, gas turned all the way up, threatening to tear its way out.
He wanted to run, to dance, to scream, to be hidden and be seen and to kiss the man in front of him and to be kissed back. How frivolous. A mixture of shame and elation settled inside Spock, burning low again.
“If it has to end,” Kirk finally said, “I hope it at least lasts a long time.”
Kirk placed a warm, heavy hand on Spock’s shoulder, friendly and familiar and something else altogether. He was both the most comforting thing in the universe, and the most frightening, and Spock had no idea what to do with that information. A miscalculation, irrelevant data, or perhaps another mere example of duality in nature.
“I,” Spock began, his mouth dry, “As do I.”
That was that. Spock could only resist himself so long. He raised his hand to his shoulder and covered Jim’s with his own. The skin-to-skin contact provided a much desired shock to his nervous system, a telepathic residue from his previous melds with Kirk rushing straight up his spine and into his brain. Did Jim even know what it did to him? Non-Vulcans had no such experiences of intimacy, but it was like he couldn’t prevent letting Kirk’s emotions in, as if the other man were telepathic himself.
First Kirk’s feelings flooded him, then settled like sediment in water, mingling with his own as if they always belonged there. It was a strange sensation, to feel for yourself how someone feels for you, like looking into a mirror that reflected only your best qualities.
“You know, if you couldn’t sleep,” Kirk squeezed Spock’s shoulder, “I would’ve kept you company.”
“It would be unethical to deprive our captain of sleep,” Spock replied, unsure why they were even talking aloud at this point, “You would be working inefficiently while on duty.”
“I can sleep and keep you company, Spock. We can just sleep in the same room.”
Or the same bed, Spock thought, feeling an intense desire to be under a blanket and to be held, his sleep deficit hitting him all at once.
“Or that, if you want.” Kirk grinned, and Spock’s eyes widened. He quickly withdrew his hand, their telepathic bond melting away to nothing.
“I apologize, captain, it is getting quite late.” Spock said, the barest hint of nervousness in his voice, “Or early, rather. I must get some rest before my shift.”
Before Spock got a chance to flee, Kirk caught his hand.
“Won’t you— at least consider it?” Kirk laughed, “I can’t have my senior staff working sleep deprived, not when I could be of help.”
It was obvious to both of them that Kirk wouldn’t offer this to any of the other staff. He was merely trying to appeal to Spock’s sense of logic and tendency to deny himself pleasure, and Spock was reluctant to admit that it was working.
“My guest cot is very comfortable. It is the captain’s quarters, after all.” Kirk boasted, and gestured in that direction.
“I… suppose.” Spock swallowed hard, hesitant, but couldn’t stand to see Jim be let down, “The guest cot.”
“If you think it will help you.” Spock nodded, and Kirk led him back to his quarters.
They did not exchange any more words that night. Kirk entered his quarters and decidedly did not set up the guest cot. It wasn’t worth talking about, because they both already knew he wasn’t going to set it up in the first place. Maybe they would talk in the morning, or maybe not until much later, because the understanding was so intrinsic, and talking about it seemed to spoil what was so special about it.
And for the first time in what seemed like years, Spock thought not of his own abstinence, but instead, of what he could offer. Where he should place his hands to be the most comfortable, and how to mold to fit someone else’s shape.
Their bodies fit unexpectedly well, given how different they were in just about every aspect. It occurred to Spock in a dreamy haze, before he got his first good sleep in months, that there were no opposites, no duality, no halves and wholes.
There were only things that worked in tandem; reciprocity. Needs that had to be fulfilled, and the things that fulfilled them.