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The lights in the rec room are set to thirty-five percent for this evening’s events. But it is lit low enough for the breadth of space to shine on the other side of the viewport.
The accommodations are agreeable, Spock thinks. Even the view is enjoyable, with its streaming stars, the cloud-like formation of morphing nebulas, and the flash of comets as they hurl themselves far from the silver hull of the ship.
What is not to Spock’s liking, however, is the incessant chatter of the party behind him; this gathering of so many people, and with it, the expectation to mingle.
“It’s supposed to be fun, Spock,” he’s told again and again, by different voices, different faces—the Doctor, or Lieutenant Sulu, Mister Scott, Nyota, too, in their own ways. Though, Spock refuses to be upended from where he’s rooted himself since the start of the party.
To every one of them, there was a nod, a polite acknowledgement of their desire to include him; the downcast of his eyes when he gestures his thanks. It is not necessary.
Spock stays where he is.
Behind him, the party is in full swing. The entire room smells like exertion and joy blended together, stirred with various concoctions of alcohol and a hint of perfume. It’s fleeting—almost vague—that he realizes he recognizes a specific scent amidst so many bodies, rising through a bubble of laughter from somewhere in the crowd before it’s swallowed again.
Spock stares through the glass and waits.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long. Two minutes and thirty-five seconds later, it’s there again, and then some. A press of fingers, light like a breeze. Yet somehow sharp enough to leave a mark of warmth—the cut of a name at the small of Spock’s back.
Jim.
He stiffens, so still and tense before the stars, like a animal about to spring. A surge of thrill runs through the clutch of his hands.
Spock turns briefly to look, a glint in his eyes, and finds Jim is staring back, boldly, daring him, come on—this, into his ear without words at all.
The breath he takes is instantaneous, slight and imperceptible. He should stay where he is. He has denied everyone else.
But despite that—despite himself—Spock is shifting from the stars just outside the window, promise, weighing on the Captain’s back.