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“Ashaya, if you keep sitting like that you will strain your back again.”
It was twenty past seven on a Sunday, and somehow Spock had yet to leave his study. He had risen early, as was his want to do, and set out for his usual morning stroll well before Kirk had even stirred. The bed had been cold when Jim awoke, and he took it upon himself to make their standard breakfasts – porridge (reluctantly, doctors’ orders) and plomeek with kreylah respectively. When Spock had returned, the wind having ruffled his scarf out of place and brighter eyes, they had eaten together. Then the Vulcan had disappeared into his study, apparently never to surface again.
When Spock hadn’t emerged for lunch, Jim had assumed he was just engrossed in his work, another typical trait of his partner. Instead, he had left him some sandwiches on the side of his office desk, pressed a kiss to the now warm cheek and left the Vulcan to it; there was no harm in catching up with Bones over a real coffee on his days off.
When the study door was still closed upon his return, Jim began to worry. He knew Spock’s work with the embassy was causing him grief. He had only officially assumed the position of Ambassador last year, and the gravity of such an important role had taken its toll. The lines around his eyes had deepened, both smiles and frowns etched on his skin firmly, his eyesight had begun to wane to the point that he begun to purloined Jim’s glasses (Bones had yet to purchase Spock a passive aggressive pair, but Jim imagined they weren’t far off). Where Spock’s previously sleek black hair had remained lacquered and in place, it had started to become peppered with grey streaks; the Vulcan had been less than amused when Jim had suggested Spock try some of his hair dye, instead haughtily stating that Vulcans had no use for such vanities.
Spock’s own wardrobe, filled with silver filagree embroidered onto every sleeve and more cloaks than Kirk knew what to do with, begged to differ. After all, he was Sarek’s son, and the man had never attended an event with less than four rubies on an outfit in his entire adult life.
The Vulcan’s focus came from the sincerity with which he performed his job, no task too small and no conflict too insignificant. Spock had never quite forgotten their dealings with the Klingons, and Kirk’s own poor behaviour; he had channelled his hard-won lessons into uniting Vulcan and Romulus and the negotiations were starting to bear fruit.
But privately, Jim’s concern for his partner intensified. There were more sleepless nights in their sixties than there had ever been in their thirties. Spock was continuously ready for intergalactic war despite the fact it had not once come to pass in their entire careers, much less in the short year Spock had deemed himself wholly responsible. He was running himself into the ground, and the insomnia became cyclical, as such fears were difficult for one single person to manage. The responsibility weighed heavily on his husband’s soul, and he could not convince him that the fate of the galaxy was not his burden to bear alone.
“I am fine, k’diwa.” Spock murmured, the scratch of his pen and the tick of their study clock the only sounds audible. The Vulcan had defaulted to Kirk’s own antiquated use of pen and paper when he was sounding out his thoughts, finding the act of scribing to an actual page soothing. “Just an hour or so more.”
“Spock,” Jim wheedled, placing his hands at the base of the Vulcan’s slender neck, bowed as it was over his etchings. “You have been at this all day. The world won’t end if you take a break.”
Spock’s only response was to hum, leaning into simple touches that soothed from the moment their skin met. Jim smiled, pressing a kiss to just below the Vulcan’s hairline, hoping that gentle caresses would tempt Spock to rest, however briefly.
When the pen continued to scrape against parchment, Kirk had an idea.
“Tell you what.” He said lightly, causing Spock to start as though he had forgotten his husband was stood beside him. “Let me give you a neck rub, just for a bit. Five minutes tops, to ease the strain; then I’ll let you get back to work.”
Another hum; not dissent nor agreement. Kirk waited a few moments more, watching languidly as their cat (Bins, named after both where they had found him, and in deference to his grumpy doctor friend) jumped easily onto the Vulcan’s lap, settling himself atop Spock’s knees ready to be stroked.
“Spock. Ashayam. Please. You need to give yourself a break. “Jim tried again, crouching down to scratch Bins’ slightly chewed left ear and rest his other hand on his partners’ knee. He knew the battle was halfway won when Spock breathed deeply (not a sigh, of course), taking off Kirk’s narrow frames and placing them directly on top of his work. “I suppose it is prudent to rest one’s mind when there is an extended workday.”
Kirk just about bit his tongue, having to actively prevent himself from reminding the Vulcan that he was not technically due to be in work for another 16 hours after having worked the three weekends prior.
Spock scooped the cat up with one hand, and stood with difficulty, using Kirk for support as his joints groaned in protest from being static for so long. Jim entwined their fingers and drew him into the living room, seating his Vulcan in front of the fire, at the head of one of their plush, brown sofas. “Sit. Just relax a moment, hm?”
The slump in Spock’s posture truly described just how fatigued he was. Bins re-nestled into the Vulcan’s left arm as he leant back against the comfy chair, allowing the warmth to lick at his feet. Jim circled behind the chair, and gently leaned Spock’s head forward, taking his time to lightly trace sensitive ears. “Still just as beautiful as the day I met you.” He murmured more to himself than anyone else, relishing the graceful curve of thin lips that he could see from the side.
Every day that Spock truly let himself smile, Kirk fell more hopelessly in love.
When Spock and Bins were both settled, Jim covered his fingers in Vulcan spiced moisturiser, and started to gently loop them up and down the muscles of Spock’s neck; he started just behind the Vulcan’s ears and rubbed downwards, aiming to gently smooth out all the kinks in the muscle. He relished the small sighs of relief that his partner let loose as each knot was worked on, Spock’s head slowly sinking closer and closer to his chest.
Once he had made his way down to the base of the Vulcan’s neck, Jim rubbed his hands together enough to generate heat, and placed them firmly on the Vulcan’s shoulders— he had managed to keep Spock still for ten minutes, and at this rate, he would keep him for the full twenty he was hoping for. Jim peered his head round Spock’s left shoulder, opening his mouth to ask the Vulcan how he was feeling, but instead was met with the sight of thick, dark lashes pressed against sallow cheeks and the soft sound of light snoring mingling with deep purrs.
Spock had completely fallen asleep.
Although Jim had planned on helping the Vulcan relax, sleep had not solely been his intention; but he couldn’t quite hide his delight that his partner for once just allowed himself to rest. Loath to wake him, Kirk sourced some blankets and a pillow— although sleeping on the sofa was not as comfortable as it could be, if Spock stirred now and remained awake long enough to re-locate to their bedroom, he would end up back in his study.
As carefully as he could, Jim manoeuvred Spock’s exhausted body to lie flat, surprised when the Vulcan did not stir. Even Bins barely readjusted his position, save a short stretch and a yawn with a tiny pink tongue briefly protruding. Jim watched the pair fondly as Spock burrowed into the cover, and Bins followed his lead, gentle kneading at the heavy knit blanket before turning his face into the crook of Spock’s elbow.
Jim grinned. He would never betray his husband’s trust by taking a picture, but it was certainly an image he would mentally cherish (and maybe broadcast across the link to remind Spock that even half-Vulcans needed sleep). The man retrieved his book, settling down on the floor next to the pair; his muscles would equally not thank him in the morning, but for the moment the pulse of contentment combined with the fire was comfortable enough.
“Sleep well, Spock.” He whispered, pressing a light kiss to his forehead, and opening up to the first page once again.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.