Work Text:
The uniform skirt was too short, not that Spock particularly minded. On a typical day on the Enterprise, the cut fell just right, as it was tailored to do, and offered ease of movement and unrestricted legs. The shorts underneath, as well as the optional stockings, presented something of a trade-off, though the garments posed little issue in her daily routine. But today, sprinting through the jungle on whatever uncharted planet her Captain had landed them on-- well, Spock could have made other choices.
Kirk, Spock considered, chose the pants. Thinking of her legs in or out of uniform, however, was something of a sticking point and they really did not have the time. Sarek would not approve of this particular line of thought. Neither, Spock considered, would the giant animal kicking up dirt half a klick back. Well, maybe it was too late for logic.
Hurdling herself over a tangle of knotted roots pulling up from the ground, Spock decided she’d had enough. She reached her hand out and caught the nearest tree, using the momentum of her run to swing herself around the other side. Closing her eyes, she listened for the creature behind her: it crashed on something just behind them, possibly the roots Spock had avoided, and stumbled a few paces before continuing past her tree.
Her eyes flew open as the creature passed. It was smaller than Spock had thought, roughly the size of a sehlat, with deep orange fur and no tail. She watched it hop into the distance, bounding in great strides that launched it from forest floor to ceiling at great speed. It didn’t belong in this forest, Spock realized. Well, neither did she.
Letting her eyes fall closed again, she took a deep breath and moved to sort out her mind. This planet was humid, and although she was not particularly hot sweat beaded everywhere against her skin. Her uniform shorts had ridden up. Spock adjusted them. She tried again. This was turning out to be a longer day than anticipated.
She had lost her communicator a distance back, but her tricorder was a heavy comfort by her hip. Pushing off the tree, she looked back at where she’d come from. The creature had left a trail in its wake. She would follow it back to the clearing, she decided, and take readings of the flora along the way.
A cover panel was stuck; she slipped a fingernail underneath to pry it open. The buttons were stuck from a humidity Spock hadn’t noticed during her escape. Nothing happened. She tried all the bypasses she knew, but the tricorder only groaned, then faded. It appeared that the instrument, designed and field-tested by dozens of highly proficient Starfleet engineers and scientists for this very situation, had failed.
Illogical.
Spock exhaled with a small huff, and started walking.
The planet was remarkably different from Vulcan. Loamy soil squished unpleasantly beneath her boots as she walked, leaving behind thin metal residues that shimmered in the light. In the rich soil, however, the planet’s environment thrived. Vines of a rich green twisted up around smooth tree trunks without choking them. Across the forest floor, flowers knotted closely together, as if weaving a mat of bright color. Further along the creature’s trail.
Even the river sparkled. It was somewhat removed from Spock’s path, but she decided to investigate nonetheless. The patterns were inconsistent with water reflecting the planet’s sunlight--perhaps a solute was present and concentrated, or the substance flowing so naturally was not water at all. Were she to need water, she would first need to test it with her tricorder, which was broken. The planet’s ecosystem seemed to be designed around posing obstacles, Spock mused.
In some places the vines were so thick light struggled to pass through. Fascinatingly, some plants appeared to be thriving in the limited conditions, climbing and flowering as if they were in direct sun. One flower’s petals were thin, pale white, and stretched to the sky like a marble column. In its delicate state it communicated nothing but strength. Spock regretted the loss of the tricorder.
A spot of yellow flashed through the brush--Kirk’s shirt. Finding a gap in the branches, Spock pushed through until she could see the clearing they had beamed into, and a smiling woman running her way.
“Spock!” Kirk yelled, waving her arms wildly above her head with a grin. “Over here! It’s good to see you!”
The Captain had evidently been through an ordeal of her own: the bright yellow uniform was ripped in several places, with the largest hole just below the collarbone cutting clean through the blacks and exposing scraped skin underneath. The sight surprised Spock enough that she looked down at her own uniform. It was undamaged, save a little dirt, and Spock surveyed the Captain once more.
“You are injured,” Spock said in greeting, stopping a few paces in front of her Captain with her hands folded behind her back.
“It’s just a scratch,” Kirk argued, rolling her eyes. Taking a step forward, she put a hand on Spock’s shoulder, pulling her gently so they could walk side by side. Her other hand fussed with the hem of her tunic.
“Good thing I didn’t wear the green one, huh?” Kirk laughed, and Spock watched her, considering. “I doubt Komack would let me sneak in a new one of those.”
“Indeed,” she agreed, and Kirk’s smile grew wider.
“C’mon, we were looking for you. I assume you’ve met the locals by now?” She began walking further into the clearing, with Spock following closely behind. Spock nodded, knowing Kirk would continue regardless. “Well, we managed to get in contact with Enterprise, but they can’t pick us up for another rotation. Sulu thinks there’s some ion imbalance here that’s been messing with our scanners.”
“The soil,” Spock realized. Kirk glanced back, raising an eyebrow. “Though my tricorder is nonfunctional, I took note of this planet’s soil composition,” she continued. “I suspect heavy metal deposits are common, though irregular. In high enough concentration, these elements are able to lower the resolution of our scans, potentially to the level of misinterpreting key data.”
“In other words,” Jim said, “the dirt’s so shiny our computers got confused.”
Spock raised an eyebrow of her own. “Your crude explanation is, essentially, correct.”
“Alright then,” she replied.
The camp set by Uhura and Nurse Chapel was on the edge of the forest a klick and a half from the place Spock had left it from. It was temporary and sparse, with little more than a small campfire and a few logs dragged around it. All of their electronics-- scanners, communicators, tricorders--lay silent and dark on the edge of one.
The Nurse and the Lieutenant sta close together, laughing as they sorted through a small pile of fruit piled neatly by their feet.
“You have foraged for food,” Spock noted as they drew close enough to the site for everyone to hear.
“These all seem edible,” Chapel said, holding a pair of large red fruits in the air. “Our scanners aren’t working properly, but I didn’t find anything around us that would poison a human.”
“What about a Vulcan?” Kirk asked, moving her hands in front of her torso in preparation. Chapel threw one of the fruits to her. The toss was short, and Kirk bent over to catch it, and her pants fit well, and what good was logic to a dead woman, anyways? Spock furrowed her brow, mimicking Kirk’s gesture before making eye contact with Chapel.
“Or Vulcans,” Chapel said with a chuckle. She tossed the fruit to Spock, who caught it easily. “Tell me how it is.”
“They’re good,” Uhura answered. She’d been watching them approach, but turned back to the small fire in front of her as Kirk and Spock began to get settled. “Sweet, and not as juicy as you’d think.”
“You tried it?” Chapel asked.
“Of course, you said it was safe,” Uhura replied. “Why?”
“I was hoping Jim would try it first,” Chapel said ruefully.
Kirk laughed, sitting on the ground by the fire. “That’s probably a good idea, Uhura,” he said. And if Spock’s heart clenched at the thought of putting Kirk in harm’s way unnecessarily she didn’t mention it. And if her heart raced when Kirk took a bite of the fruit and immediately fell backwards onto the ground, she’d ignored it.
“Captain--” Spock exclaimed, falling quickly into a squat by Kirk’s face. Her eyes widened in surprised as Spock peered over, and she licked the fruit off her lips.
“You’re right, Uhura,” Kirk said with a grin, “it’s not as juicy as I thought.”
It was illogical to think this way. It was illogical to be thinking about Kirk, or the way hey eyes sparkled with the unfiltered starlight, or her natural abilities as a leader, or the way a drop of juice still managed to find its way off the side of her chin, or the rips in her shirt, or the differences in their chosen uniforms, or how fortunate it was that they were assigned to the same starship. There was known danger on this planet--the soil, the unreliable data, the creature they had yet to meet again--and therefore no time remained for Kirk in any capacity more than professional.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to try any without utensils, huh?” Kirk asked, snapping Spock out of her musings.
“That is correct, Captain,” she said with a small nod. “However, the Vulcan physiology--”
“Does not require nourishment as frequently as a human’s, don’t worry, we won’t force you to eat yet,” Kirk interrupted with a wink. “I just thought you might be curious how it tastes.”
She was. She ran a finger carefully across the rind, feeling the rough texture of the skin. Spock was curious about a great number of things she would never know the answer to. A great number of them involved the woman lying beside her.
“Do you plan to catalogue it?” she asked Kirk.
“I plan to describe it to you, if that’s what you mean. It’s sour and starchy on the first bite. Gets sweeter when you chew it.”
Spock considered this as she relaxed her back slightly against the log behind her.
“There is a similar fruit on Vulcan,” she said. “The fruit is remarkably bitter and tough. The rind is commonly used to brew sweet tea.”
“Do you like it?
“It is illogical to have such an opinion for something that provides sustenance and nutrients,” Spock answers.
In truth, the fact that Kirk does not know is answer enough-- when they are near her home planet, or docked at a spaceport with a reputable Vulcan shop, Spock purchases the tea. The spices warm her in the cold of her very human ship, and despite their efforts herself and Uhura had not managed to create a passable replicator duplicate. Over the years Kirk has tried almost everything Spock has made for her without verbal complaint, even when her face scrunches with displeasure or she leaves the rest of the cup on the table to cool.
Kirk would like the tea. Kirk would like the tea because she liked starcharts and whiskey and cool river waters and fistfighting aliens when she couldn’t get her way.
“Ha!” she laughs, punching Spock lightly in the shoulder. Her nerves sparkle at the point of contact. “I knew it.”
The creature did not reappear that night, even after Spock offered to take watch so the humans could sleep. It had not belonged in the forest, but perhaps, in their native habitat, its kind were peaceful. That would be a sustainable way to live, Spock thought.
At daybreak Kirk shifted against the log the two of them were sharing, and her hand fell from its perch over the scratch she’d sustained. It slipped onto the ground, falling palm-up, and Spock stared at it.
Hands were a delicate subject for Vulcans, and an even more questionable one for Spock. Some of her crewmates, she noticed, believed that Vulcan touch telepathy was significantly more powerful than Spock had ever learned. At any rate, Spock was only half-Vulcan, and though that fact did not split her physiological traits cleanly in half, some aspects of her being were more human.
James T. Kirk had beautiful hands. They stayed rough, even when she was forced to be no more than Captain for weeks on end: Kirk had worker’s hands, she always had, and Spock supposed she always would.
It would be so easy for Spock to take everything she wanted whenever she pleased. It would be so easy to brush her fingers against Kirk’s and steal an ozh’esta without the other woman ever knowing. It would be so easy, if it were hers to take.
Spock moved her hands to brace herself against the ground. Her palms dug heavy into the metallic soil beneath them. Her fingers were centimeters from Kirk’s.
When the sun rose high into the sky and the three women woke, Spock had already made it to the clearing’s center. She turned her eyes to the sky and, holding a hand up to block the strongest of this sun’s rays from her eyes, searched for their starship. It flew in a low orbit, barely visible. Spock signalled as the clouds cleared and their ship came into range.
“Kirk to Enterprise, four to beam up,” Kirk said, snapping her communicator shut.
--
Spock’s life did not change after the away mission in any way that mattered. She reported to the bridge for her shift, made her rounds in the science wing, and delivered her reports to the ever-more disgruntled Dr. McCoy in sickbay. At 1347 ship’s time the Captain called her up to brief her on the course change ordered by the admiralty. She took command of the ship as it lept to warp and would take her leave just when Kirk did.
“Dinner, Mister Spock?” Kirk asked, spinning her chair around to face Spock’s station. She folded her leg over her knee and rested her cheek in her palm, looking every bit the calm and commanding presence Spock knew her to be. A chill fell down Spock’s spine. She liked it when Jim called her Mister.
“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock replied, growing warm as she watched Kirk grin.
Later, in the turbolift after their shift, Kirk sighed, rolling a shoulder back slowly so they could both hear the cracks.
“All these regulations kinda make a girl miss that planet, huh Spock?” she asked with a chuckle.
“I would only wish to return to collect data on the native geochemistry and biology,” Spock responded, folding her hands behind her. She felt her brow furrow as she remembered the great diversity of life they had encountered. Leaving no record of such a discovery was not the Vulcan way. “It is unfortunate that our equipment was rendered nonfunctional. Even a simple pictorial representation would have be considered valuable scientific data.”
“Well, we didn’t have anything to take readings or log data with,” Kirk mused, kicking the log in front of her idly, as if Spock had not just made that very point.
“It is a great loss of information, Captain,” Spock replied,
“Not so fast, Mister Spock,” Kirk said. “Your memory is quite strong, is it not?”
“Indeed.”
“Many years ago, before photography became widespread, humans communicated by drawing pictures,” Kirk continued. The turbolift doors opened, and Kirk exited, Spock following closely behind as they entered the mess hall.
“I am familiar with the practice,” Spock said.
“Then you are also familiar with the art of scientific diagrams, including those of detailed plant biologies?” Kirk asked, turning back to look at Spock with a smirk across her lips. Spock paused--she hadn’t considered that option.
“It is an antiquated art form,” Spock said.
Kirk rolled her eyes. “I’ll replicate you some pencils. You can paint, too, I’m sure Uhura would lend you her set.”
“I do not know how to paint,” Spock replied, ordering her meal. “The exercise would prove futile.”
“I’ve seen the sketches you put on your departmental reports, I’m sure you’ll be great at painting them,” Kirk said, waving a hand idly as she chose a replicator chip.
“You misunderstand, Captain. I do not know how to paint,” Spock tried again, reaching just past Kirk to take her soup from the alcove. Kirk frowned.
“You mean… you’ve just never painted before?” she asked.
“That is correct,” Spock replied.
“Well then, Mister Spock,” Kirk said with a smirk, grabbing her own meal from the replicator, “that is something I can help you with.”
--
It was arranged, upon Kirk’s instruction, for Spock to cross through their common doors thirty-five minutes after alpha shift with two cups of tea and a sweater. She was certain that Kirk would prefer almost any drink to Spock’s Vulcan blend, but she carried them both anyway as she crossed through the common bathroom.
When the door slid open Kirk was waiting for her, perched against the edge of her desk with her arms folded into her chest. She pushed off with her foot by way of greeting and let her arms fall as she stood. The ambient temperature of the room had been raised, and to accommodate the difference Kirk had rolled the bottoms of her uniform slacks and stripped to the sleeveless turtleneck all officers wore beneath their colorful tunics. The room was still too cold for Vulcans, but Spock was grateful that
“They’re both for you,” Kirk said, gesturing at the mugs in Spock’s hands, “I’m afraid this might get a little uncomfortable. I thought the tea might help ground you.”
“I do not understand your meaning,” Spock said, setting the steaming cups on Kirk’s desk. “Is the art of painting unpleasant?”
“Ah-- no,” Kirk started. She sighed, waving Spock over to her small table instead. The chessboard they usually played on had been moved, Spock noted. In its place were several small glass jars and a few pieces of tissue Spock recognized from their fresher. “I’d suggest brandy if it did anything for Vulcans. I won’t do anything you’re not okay with, but, well, the only thing I know how to paint is fingernails.”
“You paint your fingernails?”
“I used to,” Kirk said, wiggling her fingers in the air between them. “Then I was assigned to this ship, and met you, and I haven’t really found the time to maintain them.”
“Captain, if you would prefer to spend less of your personal time with me, I would--”
“No,” Kirk interrupts, gesturing for Spock to sit. “Spending time with you is far more important to me than pretty fingernails.”
The reassurance is more of a balm than it should be.
“So, I know how sensitive your hands are, with your telepathy and all,” Kirk said. “I’ll paint my nails first, then you can copy on your own if you want.”
“Would it not be easier for you to paint my fingernails?” Spock asked, watching the way her hands spread across the tabletop.
“I-- well, yes,” Kirk replied. “That wouldn’t make you uncomfortable?”
“Vulcan telepathy is not so simple that it can be overridden by a simple touch,” Spock said, knowing it was not quite so easy. In truth, there was something about the contact she was so infrequently granted that Spock found enticing, though she quickly dismissed the thoughts as human illogic. Or she would have, if she was not still slightly out-of-breath from the chase on the planet’s surface, or if she was not so dedicated to an accurate portrayal of the alien flora, or if the person sitting across from her was anyone else besides James T. Kirk. She took a deep breath: “Do you have any chocolate, Captain?”
Kirk was studying her face as she thought. Spock looked her in the eyes, raising an eyebrow.
“Jim,” Jim corrected carefully. Spock watched her features tense, then relax, as if she was trying very hard to repress something and decided it was not worth the effort. It was a familiar feeling to her. Slowly, she pushed back from the table and stood, never breaking eye contact with Spock. After a few seconds, she appeared to find what she needed, and she sighed, a small but strained smile gracing her face. “Okay, Spock,” she said, turning to open a nearby cabinet, “okay.”
Kirk had increased the temperature in her quarters to accommodate Spock and while the Vulcan in her was pleased by this action the chocolate bar was melting in its wrapper before Spock could take a bite. When she did, it was more sweet than flavor, coating her mouth and tongue. She licked her lips carefully, as she had watched Kirk do on the surface. Jim swallowed, her eyes darkening with something Spock couldn’t identify, until she looked away to throw her drink down the back of her throat. Spock took another bite before placing down the candy.
“When you are ready, Jim, we may begin,” Spock announced, placing her hands on the table.
“What color do you want?” Jim asked, quickly laying out the supplies she had. There was a bottle for each regulation color, plus gold and black; she expected Kirk to match her nails to her uniform, but the others were unexpected.
“I am unsure of what the customs are,” Spock answered.
“Black it is,” Jim said, chuckling nervously. She gripped the little bottle between her hands. “Okay, Spock, to get the best angle on a curved surface like this I’m going to have to touch you.”
“Your physicality is always welcome, Jim,” Spock said, making Jim’s eyes widen. She pushed her hands closer to Jim’s. “Please, begin.”
Jim removed the brush from the bottle, carefully removing the excess paint against the container’s neck. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hand under Spock’s, holding her fingers steady as she began to paint.
The feelings Spock had from the contact were not what she expected. Jim was warm, but that Spock had already known; instead of a rush of emotions and cluttered thoughts, Spock was able to focus on the lightness she felt being around Jim and the cool paint against her fingernails.
“Are you okay?” Jim asked as she painted Spock’s thumb, completing one hand.
“Yes,” Spock answered, though her chest had tightened with fondness, and she could not breathe as steadily as she would like. “Jim, please show me how you completed the edges of the nail again.”
“Of course,” Jim chuckled, and maybe her voice sounded a little breathless too.
She was gentle with Spock’s hands, as if they were something fragile, and her hold is practically a caress by the time she pulls her painting hand back to examine her handiwork.
“They’ll need another coat,” Jim said, running her thumb across her own first fingernail absentmindedly. “We need to wait for this one to dry first. You might need to do the same with your plants if you want a lot of detail.”
“It would be inefficient to wait for my paint to dry while your nails remain unpainted,” she replied, pulling her hands away from Jim’s. It was a shallow excuse, and one that she could only hope the Captain understood, because for all her Vulcan stoicism Spock did not want the moment to end. She wanted to hold Jim’s hand, so she did, pulling the woman’s fingernails close so Spock could focus, painting steady even while she basked in Jim’s mind’s light. “What color would you prefer, Jim?” she asked, surveying the bottles she had pulled out for her visit. Jim, however, simply smiled and cocked her head to the side, and said:
“Y’know, I’ve always been partial to blue.”
Painting one’s fingernails was not as daunting a prospect as Spock had once believed, and as the paint dried a few minutes later it settled into cleaner lines than what Spock had painted, which pleased her. Humming softly to herself, Kirk tapped her fingers against Spock’s palm.
“You have nice hands, Spock,” Kirk said. “On Earth, there was once a whole tradition about palm reading.” Spock watched as she tapped her own nail lightly, testing the tack. Seemingly satisfied, she reached out again, laying her hand palm up in the center of the table as an invitation. Spock rested her own hand in it so their palms touched, feeling the faint brush of warmth she--or the chocolate she had consumed earlier--could not bar from her mind at the contact. Kirk tapped her nail lightly, as she had her own.
“I am not an expert in the art,” Spock replied quietly. Kirk chuckled.
“I wouldn’t expect you to be,” she said. She flipped their hands so Spock’s was laying against the table. Her fingers, freshly painted their amateurish blue, held Spock’s flat as she traced lines across her palm.
Kirk’s conscience fell against Spock’s like the fine silks her mother once brought from Earth, slipping across her awareness like it was something precious and delicate and warm. A fingernail fell softly into a crease in her palm. Spock’s breath caught. She looked up: Kirk’s jaw had fallen slightly, and her eyes were wide with focus and surprise.
“You have a star,” she said quietly. She was strikingly beautiful like this, Spock thought, with the dimmed light of Enterprise’s night cycle glowing against her shoulders. “That’s very like you.”
“What does it mean?” Spock asked, curious. She leaned forward over the table, crowding closer to Kirk as if it would help her hear. Illogical, and yet--
“Prosperity and belonging, I think,” Jim answered, drawing her eyes up from their hands to Spock’s face. Spock followed her gaze; Jim’s pupils were blown wide with something. “Does that mean anything to you, Spock?”
“Jim,” Spock replied.
Her head swam. It could have been the chocolate or it could have just been Kirk; neither would allow her to think clearly.
“You can ask for what you want sometimes, you know,” Kirk had told her once. So Spock does.
Grabbing Jim’s hand again, she folded down her thumb and smallest fingers, leaving two extended. Carefully, she folded her own hand so as not to disturb the polish, and pressed her fingertips to Jim’s.
The gesture was not quite as Spock had imagined it on the planet.
Jim gasped audibly, face falling wide open. Spock stiffened on instinct, pulling back and folding her hands into her laps. It was wrong, it was wrong and she should have known better, but she took what she wanted anyway. She stood, pushing back away from the table more roughly than she had intended.
“Spock,” Jim protested, reaching out to grab her wrist. Spock pulled it out of reach quickly, nodded goodnight, and stalked quickly back through the door, leaving two mugs of untouched Vulcan tea forgotten in her place.
--
She was going to have to transfer.
Transferring would be an effective solution to her mishap, Spock supposed. She ran her hands under the cool water of her sink. As she turned them over to scrub she noticed her fingernails again, cleanly painted black.
Spock would miss the visual reminders of Jim when she left. The next bunkmate likely would not keep bobblehead figurines in her vanity, nor would the sets of empty and untouched pill bottles be nearly so expansive.
She was still considering all of Kirk’s many quirks when the common door slammed open.
The Captain of the Enterprise practically threw herself into the bathroom, though for the first time she did not look like she fit her station. With her tangled hair and threadbare shirt Jim looked more like a storm of emotion than she did a human, and Spock could not hold back the pang of anguish she felt from knowing she was the reason Jim looked so hurt.
But Jim didn’t stop moving, and maybe Spock didn’t understand her Captain’s emotions as well as she thought. She keeps moving, walking quickly until she almost crashes into Spock, taking her face in her hands and asking:
“Did you mean it?”
Spock felt herself flush even as she and nodded and leaned into Jim’s hands. But before she could move, Jim pulled her in closer navigating her face like a starship on a collision course and Spock was drowning. Kirk pressed her lips against Spock’s and held them there, an anchor against the flood of messy hair and love and starlight that came crashing against Spock through their contact. And it was too much, really, and Spock had never trained to be a fighter. Kirk was fire and strength and sunlight and every neuron screamed to not mess this up and Spock ignored everything she had ever been taught and kissed Kirk back.
“Oh,” Kirk muttered when Spock finally pulled back--not pushed, and not far, but just enough for the woman to catch her breath and see her eyes. “Hey, Spock,” she said, giving the small smile only Spock knew.
“Jim,” Spock replied simply, resting their foreheads together. The emotions were quieter now that their contact had lessened, but Spock would not move away any quicker than slowly, untangling their minds in the process. “It will take some time before I am able to do that again.”
Kirk flinched and a panicked noise came from the back of her throat. She tried to pull away, but Spock quickly caught her hands, pinning them against her cheeks. “Jim,” she said again, content to look her in the eyes until she understood. Gently, she folded all but her first two fingers under her palm, pressing her fingertips gently to the back of Jim’s hand.
“Oh,” Kirk muttered again, this time with wonder in her voice. “You felt it too?”
“Yes, Jim, I did,” she replied, then paused. “There is a saying among Vulcan scientists, though lack of cultural context renders any translation meaningless. Roughly, it means, ‘there is much that I know, and even more I do not.’”
“What don’t you know today?”
“Today, I am questioning where I belong,” Spock answered truthfully. Jim gave a hum; Spock raised an eyebrow, hoping it would inspire her to elaborate on her reaction.
“That’s quite the question to tackle alone,” Kirk said. “Can I ask what your working hypothesis is?”
Spock turned to face the countertops. She looked down at the sink, then up into the mirror, not daring to face Jim, and it really was all so illogical, and logically that implied it wouldn’t matter anyway.
“I find myself drawn to our time with Miss Keeler,” Spock said, resting her hands on the edge of the countertop. Black fingernails dotted the edge of her vision even as she watched Jim’s reaction in the mirror. “She was a perceptive woman.”
“We asked where she thought we belonged,” Jim realized, eyes widening in surprise.
“She told me I belonged by your side,” Spock finished, letting the words fall out like a sigh. She closed her eyes, and continued, “as if I always have been, and always will be. Since that day, I have found the sentiment to be… puzzling.”
Beside her, Jim took a step back, away from the counter and away from Spock. “Do you find it troubling?” she asked, slow and careful.
“The only matter I find troubling is how I feel,” Spock replied, opening her eyes. She took a breath, and shivered; the air in their common space was still several degrees cooler than she would prefer, or it was Kirk. Turning away from the mirror, she caught Jim’s fluttering gaze and held it. “Jim,” she whispered, voice breaking. She lifted her hands from the countertop and offered her palm to the woman face-up. “I feel.”
Something snapped.
“Okay, Spock,” Jim whispered, stepping quickly to close the space between them and clutch Spock’s hand between hers. They were warm, and Jim was warm, and Spock could not remember what it was like in between knowing Jim and the Vulcan sun. “Okay,” Kirk said, gently touching Spock’s palm and wrist and forearm and cheek.
“Jim,” Spock pleaded again, curling her fingers around Jim’s as Jim’s hand tangled in her hair. “Jim--”
“You’re here, Spock,” Jim said, drawing their foreheads together, “you’re home.”
They stayed close through alpha shift, letting their minds tangle together the way their bodies had, and it was illogical but it was pleasant. There was a certain looseness, Spock realized, that describing her feelings had offered her. She could watch Kirk work and let her pride float over to the Captain openly across the little connection they shared. She could walk to the science wing and be assured that when she returned she would not find Jim halfway in love with another woman she met on shore leave. She could admire the Starfleet issue uniform pants, and the way Jim wore them.
They fell together again on the Observation Deck after shift, watching the stars as was their habit. Jim took her typical place by the window. Spock stood two inches closer to her back than normal. She watched the stars slip by, and she watched the way Jim’s body moved as she breathed, and she took stock of her emotions and stored them for later. It was warmer here than in most of the ship.
Lightning cracked across the sky of the J-Class planet they were passing.
“Let me see your palms,” Kirk asked suddenly, pushing away from the window to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Spock. Confused, Spock obliged. “I was reading up on palmistry today,” she said.
“I find it highly unlikely that you had the time,” Spock accused, watching Kirk trace patterns across her palms.
“Oh, I didn’t,” Kirk told her with a smirk.
Spock looked back at the planet--Trilon XII, she remembered--
“It was most fortunate that you had the materials for painting,” she said. “The Science department constructed sketches today. Once I had explained the basic principles you demonstrated, the process was quite simple.”
“See? I told you,” Kirk said, folding their hands together with a grin, “prosperity and belonging.”
Knowing Jim, Spock thinks, is the most logical thing she has ever done.