Work Text:
Spock is laughing at him.
Oh, Jim knows the Vulcan truism about emotions. He has also served with Spock for long enough —been his friend long enough— to know when the stoic façade is just that. A façade. Had Baris stayed at the end of his tantrum, he would have been fooled by the arched eyebrow, tense shoulders and straight face. But Jim knows that Spock is having a grand old time at his Captain's expense.
There's a soft hiss over his head, and by the slight change in air flow he can tell that the storage compartment is finally closed, which means no more random tribbles falling on top of him. He wiggles experimentally, trying to mask the movement, but he's soon forced to concede. He can get out of the massive pile of fur covering him up to his armpits —but not while keeping what little is left of his dignity.
"Do you need assistance, Captain?" Spock asks. His voice is even, but there's a knowing look in his eyes. Bones doesn't bother to hide his laughter, and he also doesn't move to help, instead using his tricorder to start examining the tribble closest to him.
Jim is tempted to glare at them or respond with sarcasm. Though today is a day that has tested the limits of his patience like few others have done, he bites his tongue. It's one thing to tell Baris and Koloth exactly what he thinks of them. It's quite another to attack Spock, whose presence has been a constant comfort and a much needed anchor during this nightmare.
Besides… if there's one moment of this mess that he knows he'll treasure, it would be the one in the Mess Hall, when Uhura had shown them the first batch of vermin. Seeing Spock petting the furry little menace, seeing him let down his emotional walls a little, had also made something flutter in Jim's stomach. Spock so rarely allows himself to be happy, without masks or conditions; Jim sees each of those moments as a victory.
Even the shame of his current predicament seems to lessen, knowing that.
"Captain?" Spock repeats, and this time there's a note of worry in his voice. Bones looks up. Jim shakes himself out of his musings. He tries to move again, and only succeeds in dislodging one of the tribbles, who falls to the floor with a weak trill.
"I…" he takes a breath. He looks at these two men, his closest friends, the two beings who, out of everyone in this vast universe truly, unreservedly hold his trust. There's no reason to hold onto his pride and no indignity that he won't endure in front of them. "I... would appreciate the help."
Spock moves forward. Those thoughts keep circling Jim's head: their quiet laughter, his trust, their friendship. In a flash of inspiration, a wicked idea takes form in his mind.
Spock gently holds his left wrist, his fingers just over the fabric of the shirt. There's one second of opportunity as the Vulcan hesitates, quickly calculating the strength he will need to pull Jim out of the pile without painfully wretching the human's arm.
Jim uses that moment to pull Spock towards him instead.
He's certainly not strong enough to win a contest against a Vulcan, but Spock has long since trained himself to prevent harm when they are not in active combat. The surprise is enough to pull him out of balance and his instincts prevent him from jerking back while their arms are connected.
He falls on the pile of tribbles with a quiet exhalation of air. For a moment he vanishes from sight, swallowed by the fur. The hand still on Jim's wrist tenses and then he stands.
Jim stares.
Spock's hair is mussed and several strands stick out in odd directions. There's also a small, light brown tribble determinedly sticking to his shoulder. The picture is… rather surprising. He might even be tempted to use the word adorable.
Bones breaks out laughing. His tricorder falls from his hands and he has to hold his sides, gasping.
"Well, I'll be damned," he says between lungfuls of air, "Never thought I'd see that look on your face, Mr. Spock."
Spock lets go of Jim's arm and fastidiously straightens his hair. His hand bumps into the tribble. He goes to remove it, but stills when it lets out a pitiful trill. Spock hesitates, and then sighs, petting its head and letting it rest there.
"Was this truly necessary, Captain?" he asks. He still sounds stern, but the lines around his eyes soften with fondness.
"Probably not. But it did make me feel better," Jim admits easily. His stunt has shifted the pile so that it only covers him up to his waist. He feels like he should be able to stride out of it with less trouble now. "I apologize if it was too forward of me."
Spock lifts an eyebrow and easily frees himself from the furry trap. "Not at all," he says as he turns to face Jim again, offering his hand to him. "I'm gratified to be of assistance."
His tone is matter-of-fact, like he isn't honoring Jim with a friendship that at times still overwhelms him in its simple sincerity. The lingering shame and frustrations that have built up since they arrived at the station unravel. At the end of the day, he doesn't have to care about the opinion of ambassadors or admirals. It's enough to know he holds the respect of this man.
He takes the hand, and this time he lets Spock pull him from the tribble pile, until he can finally stand in open space again. He doubts his current mood will last; the issue of Cyrano Jones' smuggling is only the less annoying one in a long list of problems they still have to solve. Jim feels lighter anyway.
"I'm lucky to have you by my side, my friend," he says.
Spock looks at him, studying his expression, and nods.
"Always," he replies. Years of friendship let Jim see the hidden smile.
Jim returns the smile, fixes his uniform and straightens the sleeves. "Gentlemen, it's time get back to work."
Jim walks towards the door, with a new vigor in his stride, and his friends easily fall into step behind him. Time to get to the bottom of this mess.