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It is, as Spock’s mother would say, a ‘beautiful’ day. The sky is clear, devoid of clouds, the sun bright and pleasantly warm—too warm for Spock’s human counterparts, but just right for him. The cul-de-sac is largely human, yet close enough to Starfleet’s burgeoning space program to sport a Tellarite down the street and two Andorians across the park. As far as Spock knows, he’s the only Vulcan. It suits him just fine. He wasn’t particularly social on his home planet, and he isn’t on Earth either.
Arms full of fresh groceries, Spock civilly nods at any passing neighbours that look directly at him, but otherwise he stares straight forward and keeps a measured pace. It’s a long walk up the hill from the nearest grocery store, but given how much of his day job is now stationary, the exercise is welcome. The bus is out of the question. Humans sit too close and talk too much. He could afford an electric vehicle, but it seems unnecessary given the distance of the required amenities. Spock occasionally considers cycling and generally rejects the idea simply because there are no such machines on Vulcan and they feel too alien. He’s aware he’s half human. But as his father might say in the indulgent colloquialisms of his mother, he’s Vulcan at heart.
He nears the end of the curb, where two final houses are nestled amongst a healthy smattering of trees—his and one other. The neighbours have their sleek white car out in the driveway, dripping wet, spilling a steady stream down towards the gutter. One of the two men that drive it is leaning over a soap-laden bucket, and Spock’s steps falter despite himself.
Jim Kirk is turned away from Spock, bent nearly in two, perfectly sculpted rear thrust high in the air. The only thing covering his lean legs is a pair of golden swim trunks, so tiny that they barely hold in the round cheeks of his bottom. The rest of Jim is gloriously naked, utterly bare from head to foot, all rich, creamy peach skin flushed pink in the hot summer sun.
Spock, naturally, avoids swimming. Human swimwear is indecent. It’s even more indecent outside of a swimming pool. Spock can’t imagine why Jim’s wearing such immodest trunks. It must, naturally, correlate to the water he’s sloshing everywhere, but the more rational route would be to simply be careful with the water. Spock’s positive that it’s perfectly possible to wash one’s car without soaking one’s clothes. Jim has never struck Spock as particularly rational.
Jim is, unfortunately, devastatingly handsome. Objectively speaking, of course. Although science is his primary field, Spock likes to think he has a decent eye for beauty—as much as any respectable Vulcan. It would be absurd to consider Jim anything but beautiful. He straightens from his bucket, arms flexing as he wrings out a rag, and a clear liquid dribbles lazily down his spine, collecting at his tail bone, making his lower back shimmer. It could simply be sweat. Humans are terribly sweaty creatures, especially in summer. Spock finds himself numbly wondering what such fluids taste like, especially combined with the palette of human skin, which he tells himself is only scientific curiosity. He would never actually lick the sweat right off Jim’s back. He supposes it must be salty.
Or inedible, given how many suds cling to Jim’s arms when he turns around. Soap has also splashed across his stomach, stray droplets clinging to his abdomen, dotting his flat pectorals and slick along his clavicle. His chest is gleaming, pink-brown nipples lightly pebbled and glistening. Soap stains the front of the gold swim trunks, and the glossy fabric clings to Jim’s strong thighs, stretched taut over a bulge that Spock definitely doesn’t look at.
He forces his eyes up to Jim’s instead, because now Jim is facing him, and Spock has no choice but to be as courteous with him as all the other neighbours. Spock’s had a few ever-so slight not-quite altercations with Jim’s roommate, but Jim has always come out to jovially break them up.
Jim smiles at Spock in such an incredibly disarming way that Spock starts to feel his own cheeks heat. Which is terrible. He has a certain level of dignity to maintain, especially being the only representative of his species in the neighbourhood. Jim grins at Spock like he wants to shatter that dignity into a thousand pieces and make Spock break out in laughter.
Jim nods his head and greets, “Hey.” He keeps his eyes on Spock as he strolls to the front of the car, bending over it to press the rag against the hood. It thrusts his rear out again, chest arched forward, muscles dimpling as he starts to scrub. But he still directs Spock’s way: “How’s it going, neighbour?”
It took considerable time for Spock to understand that bizarre phrase. He knows ‘it’ is his life in general, and where it’s ‘going’ isn’t so much any important direction as just a general feeling—he’s supposed to respond something akin to ‘well.’ In the moment, his feeling is mixed—things are going excellently in the sense that he has a very aesthetically pleasing view, but things are also difficult, as he really shouldn’t be savouring that view as much as he is.
Forcing himself not to watch Jim’s pert buttocks thrusting against the hood with each full movement, Spock answers, “Acceptable. And you?”
“Other than Bones putting me on car-wash duty,” Jim chuckles, “I’m doing good.”
Well, Spock mentally corrects. He’s aware Jim is intelligent, though his mannerisms sometimes suggest otherwise. Spock doesn’t correct Jim aloud because words are difficult to coordinate whilst Jim is so efficiently and vivaciously scrubbing the car. Spock has never felt the need to hire a cleaner before, but he can’t help wondering what it would be like to have Jim inside his house, scrubbing his floor with the same impressive enthusiasm. In the same outfit. With that same all-consuming smile.
It will never actually happen—Spock never fraternizes with the neighbours. His occasional arguments with Leonard McCoy are quite enough interaction.
Jim is far more amiable than the man he lives with and muses over his shoulder, “Y’know, you should come for dinner sometime. We’ve been next-door neighbours for awhile now—no sense not getting to know each other better.”
The logic doesn’t track. Spock opens his mouth and is painfully aware that he should said no.
The front door of Jim’s house opens, McCoy poking out. He calls, “Hurry it up, the game’s about to start!” And then, spotting Spock, he grunts, “Hey, pointy.” And thankfully, that’s it—he doesn’t ask why Spock is standing in the middle of the street carrying numerous groceries, avidly watching his roommate.
At least, Spock assumes they’re merely roommates. Given their divergent surnames, it’s unlikely they’re related. He supposes it’s possible that they share an entirely different relationship. Possibly a more intimate one. McCoy doesn’t react to Jim’s brazen display, which either implies that he’s uninterested or he sees it all the time.
Something nasty prickles in Spock’s stomach. Sometimes he’s right on the verge of asking, but it’s none of his business, and maybe he doesn’t want to know. McCoy retreats back inside. Jim straightens up from the car and wipes his forearm across his forehead, streaking the sweat with suds.
Leaning his hip against the hood, he asks, “Seriously, Spock. Come to dinner. How ‘bout tomorrow? I’ll make some wicked salad. Say yes.”
‘Wicked’ salad doesn’t sound appetizing.
Jim is unfairly appetizing. Objectively speaking.
Spock is weak and begrudgingly says, “Yes.”