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McCoy’s office door slid in after Jim pressed the call button. At the desk, McCoy was rummaging through a stack of PADD and barely spared Jim a glance. “In a minute,” McCoy told him, and then made a satisfied a-ha sound as he pulled out the PADD in a haystack he’d been searching for.
“Hey, Bones.”
McCoy dropped the PADD and a wary expression crossed his face. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Despite the weight pressing down on his chest and shoulders, Jim managed a smile. “At ease. I was just checking in to see how packing was going.”
McCoy relaxed and offered a mock-salute. “Aye aye, Captain. Toothbrush and PJs are ready for transport.” Jim chuckled and dropped into the empty chair on the opposite side of his desk.
“I’m sure I can’t convince you to leave your bag of tricks onboard…”
That riled up the doctor almost as quickly as he had relaxed. “I don’t care if they detain my tricorder and my bag, but I’m not getting off this ship without it. I’d feel better if I knew there was still a way to get my hands on it.”
“I agree,” Jim said, just to watch McCoy sputter.
“Then what’re you giving me a hard time for?” McCoy shook his head, aggrieved. “Oh, nevermind. Any chance you feel like having a nightcap with me before you head down?”
“Not this time.”
McCoy shrugged and leaned heavily into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and then his face. His hands slowed at his jaw and he dragged them off as though peeling back his skin. “Jim,” he said seriously. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine, doctor.”
McCoy gave him a look with layers, a rare talent the doctor possessed to display so many complex emotions at once. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Jim…about the Plutonians. I just wanted you to remind you I’m here, if you ever feel like talkin’. Or not talkin’, if you just want…company.”
Jim kept his gaze on the array of photos McCoy kept turned inwards on his desk. On the far left was a square frame of Joanna’s portrait. The rest were holopics that Uhura and Chapel added every so often to fill the empty space.
Addressing the desk Jim said, “I don’t need to talk about it. You were there.”
“That’s not what I meant.” McCoy spun his ring around his little finger, a clear indication he was hesitating over something. Jim didn’t have to wait long. “Have you had a chance to talk to Spock since…?”
Standing, Jim brushed off his tunic. “I will see you in the transporter room, doctor.”
He stopped at the doorway at the sound of McCoy clearing his throat. “A little break away from the ship would be good for all of us,” McCoy said at last. Jim turned away from the split-second of pity that crossed the doctor’s face.
Clearly the Vasyrians knew a thing or two about parties. The grand estate the landing party beamed down to was lush with glowing fig-like fruits hanging from the tree branches. The junior officers whispered and marveled around him. Uhura grinned as she
“God damn noose,” McCoy complained as he fidgeted in his uniform. Jim hadn’t the heart to remind him to mind his manners among their esteemed alien company. He was willing to put some faith on the chance that swearing had been low on the list of verbage the UT was programmed to translate from Federation Standard into Vasyrian.
The universal translator was only able to translate one word for every five; Uhura was hard at work bouncing between relaying intermittent translations and then running to her seat to pull out a tricorder and fiddle with the UT attached to her collar when a break presented itself. Jim didn’t envy her duties that evening, but Uhura was grinning despite the intensity of it all. She was clearly in her element and enjoying herself.
M’Ress bounced between the other half of their hosts and eagerly continued her attempts to teach the Vasyrians some rudimentary Caitian in the interests of cultural exchange. The Vasyrians appeared to be enjoying it as well, though from a Human’s perspective they would appear angry or disgruntled. Their reactions were the exact opposite of what Jim was prepared for, much like Tellerites, who argued to show their appreciation and respect.
Jim gave his best efforts to make conversation but the grunts and growling the UT attempted to translate made little headway for negotiations, so he stepped back to let his linguist experts handle the small talk. He’d rather not risk an interstellar war by accidentally mortally offending the Vasyrian politicians.
All of the food and fare their Vasyrian hosts prepared was beamed aboard and analyzed by their Life Sciences department to ensure everything was suitable for Human, Vulcan, and Caitian biology respectively. McCoy had pulled Jim aside to warn him off the delicious looking plates of fresh fruit out of concern for his allergies, which Jim definitely appreciated, but they were so very tempting…
At his side, McCoy caught him mournfully eyeing the buffet of fruit and said, “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m sure a little couldn’t hurt—”
“My medical bag is detained by those elf fellows in the front. If you go into anaphylaxis I’m just going to stand here and yell at you, which won’t help you, but it’ll definitely make me feel better.”
“You’ve made your point, Bones.”
The nearest Vasyrian in a red uniform offered to refill his goblet but Jim covered the top with his hand before they could pour any more punch in. “No, no, I’m good. Thank you.” The Vasyrian staff growled in acknowledgement and offered the same treatment to McCoy, who also declined, and then next to one of the yeomen from the Enterprise side of the delegation, who accepted the refill. He and McCoy bumped shoulders in silence, though McCoy muttered an apology after he stepped on Jim’s foot. Jim grimaced through his smile.
If the dinner and festivities went well, the Vasyrians would be on their way towards Federation membership. If their food and hospitality were any indication, there would be no incidents and they could pack themselves back onto the Enterprise when she returned from her detour to take some closer scans of a nearby nebula. Mr. Scott was probably using the opportunity to test out some warp drive modifications he’d been chomping at the bit to play around with.
Privately, Jim was hoping the festivities remained dull and uninteresting: if he could write this off as yet another uneventful night, then he’d have much less to worry about in his report. He could summarize it as the Vasyrians seemed an excellent fit to continue negotiations, and then Jim’s job would be blessedly over. He already had a headache the size of Jupiter and even though he took sips few and far between. Evidently the Vasyrian drinks packed a stronger punch than their scans on the Enterprise indicated. A treatise mission like this was infinitely preferable to being helpless at the mercy of the Plutonians.
There was a small band of singers perched above the row of tables, hanging from a complex series of cables and swings over the crowd. Something about the way their singer crooned, tender and somehow shy, forced the memory of their last disastrous mission to the forefront of Jim's mind, despite all of his efforts to push it away.
He glanced to his left, where his First Officer was making a valiant effort to communicate with the Vasyrian minister despite their evident communication problems.
Ever since the Platonians had played their games—with their minds, their free will, their desires—the song had not left his mind. Half of him was dying to know if the song belonged to Spock. If it was something their telepathic powers had drawn out of him, though unwillingly. Or if they put the words in his mouth as he sang.
Be watchful of young men in their velvet prime, deeply they'll swallow from your finest kegs…
The other half of him shuddered at the thought of asking Spock at all, should the answer be…unsatisfying.
Spock met his searching look from across the crowd but his eyes passed over him. Not at all like when he had sung for the Platonian’s entertainment. His eyes had seemed to really look at Jim then, piercing and tender, with some barely restrained emotion lurking there.
He was brought out of his musings as he accidentally bumped into McCoy again. “Well Jim,” McCoy drawled. “You’re lookin’ a little flushed.”
A beat after McCoy’s words translated, Jim realized he did feel hot. He pulled at the collar of his formalwear. “Strong punch,” he offered lamely.
“You’ve got that right. Here I was thinking I’d have to spend tonight night miserable and sober, and I am pleasantly surprised that’s not the case. For once. I think this is a definite point in their favor.”
“I will be sure to include that in my official recommendation to Starfleet.”
“Good.” McCoy raised his glass for a toast. Jim struggled to raise his and managed not to drop his glass or tangle the goblet step with McCoy’s. After he took a swallow McCoy sighed. “God, I really hate these things. But, while we’re here, might as well…” McCoy trailed off as he caught the eye of a server and went to chase her down for another refill.
Jim looked down at his glass, swirling it absentmindedly. If McCoy didn’t seem worried, then maybe he’d be alright with another glass. Maybe…
“I believe Doctor McCoy has overindulged.”
Jim tried not to jump; failed, and covered it up with an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, Spock, didn’t see you there. I was…uh, woolgathering I guess.”
Spock didn’t even attempt to goad him into debating the use of metaphor. Jim’s heart sank a little as Spock refused to even meet his eyes.
Jim attempted to follow his gaze but the lights from the chandeliers covered everything. It was a bit like trying to stare into the sun, and a thousand lightning bolts shot out into his eyes. “Bones wouldn’t do that on a…” Jim sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. The words slipped away from him. “...um.”
Right. Mission. He forced his eyes open and turned away from the partygoers and towards the balcony, where the lights were thankfully dimmer. “What was that about Bones?”
Spock turned a beat after him to gaze at him with the closest look to open concern a Vulcan would allow. Jim was trying not to stare, really—but his eyes wandered. Spock’s blue hugged his waist and arms. He was so strong—though Spock hardly looked it, with his lithe and slight frame hiding sinewy muscle. Most times it slipped Jim’s mind as well, but he was always forcibly reminded of that fact when Spock ripped through sheet metal with his bare hands like it was little more than paper.
So strong and yet…Jim never thought of him as a physical force in that manner. He was Spock.
He had not seemed gentle on that planet. When he sat in those rooms, plotting how to dismantle the Plutonian’s power, the gentle and curious nature of Spock’s scientific mind was stripped away. He had only seen that kind of anger, that near-madness one other time before.
He lifted his gaze and Spock looked at him with an expectant brow. Jim shook his head. Not the time to be ogling his officers, and especially not Spock. With any luck his little faux pas went unnoticed by his somewhat oblivious Vulcan officer.
Spock offered, “He does appear to be socializing in a manner I have observed in a state of extreme intoxication.” He could practically feel Spock’s gaze analyzing him. “...and I do not intend to insult, but that applies to you as well, sir.”
Nevermind. He’d been caught out. “Sorry, Spock. We didn’t think there was any alcohol served down here. I think both of us may have overindulged. We didn’t realize…the punch would affect us. It didn’t come up on the scans.”
Spock peered into his own glass, which he had not consumed from. He raised it and took a delicate whiff. Outloud he analyzed, “You did not drink in excess. As for McCoy…” Spock didn’t finish that statement. “I observed you with one serving most of this evening.”
The threat of a headache was upon him in full force. Jim rubbed his forehead, for all the good it would do to banish the vague throbbing. “Yeah. That’s right. Really…uh, hitting me now.”He was about to suggest that it was time for himself to retire when a body rammed into him from behind. “What—?”
Oh, God. That was not a good feeling. Jim shut his eyes as the room spun with the movement.
It was McCoy’s voice that addressed him. “Anything look like it’s glowing to you?” McCoy demanded.
Jim dared to crack open one eye. The incidental bull who’d disrupted his focus was only his Chief Medical Officer. The room wasn’t spinning anymore, thankfully. Though it took an extra beat for him to parse McCoy’s meaning, squinting as he stared at McCoy’s…strangely glowing face. “Uh…yeah. You’ve got a halo.” A halo of fire, Jim thought.
“God, you too. My eyes are buggin’ me. This is starting to feel like that last trip to Risa,” said McCoy, who definitely seemed a little ill at the memory of it. “Is it the food? I did all those tests, hell, I ran a dozen more tests than I needed to. God…”
“I think,” Jim murmured faintly, with the full weight of a staggering epiphany probably several moments too late, “somebody definitely spiked that punch.”
Spock plucked the glass from between McCoy’s numb fingers and held it out for inspection. He pulled his tricorder out of—somewhere, from which Jim’s alcohol-addled brain was not going to speculate—and began scanning the contents of the glass. After a moment his eyebrow rose and he began scanning McCoy. McCoy was so stunned he hardly noticed his missing drink, or then the tricorder, but after a moment he pulled himself out of his stupor, waving his hands in an uncoordinated grab for both. Spock easily dodged his attempts and stared at his tricorder reader, evidently intrigued by the results. He lifted the tricorder again and scanned the red-violet pulsing glow around McCoy’s head.
The doctor was a beat slower than normal to realize what was happening but once he had, his familiar temper struck. He snapped, “Spock, get that thing out of my face.”
“Where did you even hide that?” Jim marveled. “They did full body checks on everyone before we walked in.” Spock ignored the question and turned to scan Jim instead.
McCoy held a hand up to his brow and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me if it's gonna kill me or not."
"Chances of death resulting from what you consumed in the drinks are negligible," Spock answered. "In your words, doctor, it would seem to be your ‘lucky day.’ The compound in your bloodstream is unfamiliar to Federation databases but it doesn't appear to unsafely impact your biology, anymore than alcohol would do."
McCoy didn’t look unappeased. "So far, you mean. I don't know if I trust those scans. Alcohol isn’t supposed to make me see glowing lights."
Spock sidestepped the bait, for now. “I believe that would be the substance in the drink. I do not see any ‘glowing’ lights on you or any other guests. You are welcome to scan yourself and come to your own conclusions. I anticipate the need to run more tests myself.”
Scowling, McCoy stuck his finger into Spock’s chest and growled, “Don’t make it sound like a science experiment. And don't say it's a fascinating reaction on the Human metabolism—”
“Merely surprising," proposed Spock. Jim sighed as McCoy sputtered. Spock continued, "At the very least, it will prove an interesting exercise by the response of the local government when the evidence is presented that someone tampered with the fare."
Jim shook his head and closed his eyes as the movement made the room rock like he was on an ancient sea ship. "Interesting isn't the word I'd use."
"I'll say," McCoy muttered. “Who’s to say it was tampered with? They could’ve done it themselves to laugh at us getting drunker than a bunch of skunks.”
“I fail to see what—”
“Nevermind,” Jim interrupted before Spock could finish his rally. The last thing he needed was the two of them volleying insults while they dealt with a potentially inclement political situation. “We need to…uh.” Damn. Jim shook his head and shot a helpless look at his First Officer. He wasn’t in any shape to form a plan for himself.
Spock thankfully picked up the dropped gauntlet. “The Enterprise will remain out of communications range for another 7.26 hours. I advise we gather the crew and request rooms, until the effects have worn off. Once the crew are accounted for, I suggest we reconvene with the Vasyrian Council and make inquiries about the…‘punch.’”
Jim nodded, regretted it, and smiled weakly. “I think I’m gonna…sit down.”
“Me too,” McCoy agreed quickly, and the two of them attempted to sit on the step together without making fools of themselves. They mostly succeeded. Sort of. McCoy’s bright violet halo burned his eyes so he closed his eyes and gave his best effort not to fall asleep right there on the floor.
Spock successfully scooped up the crew who weren’t experiencing the effects of the punch and dispatched them to handle the rest. Uhura and M’Ress, who had somehow avoided drinking the entire night—probably, Jim realized, because they had been so busy running translations—were each in command of a group. Even though they hadn’t had a drop to drink they were also covered in halos of their own. The Vasyrians all had gold and silver halos, but his two communications officers had halos of blue and green.
With Spock’s assistance, Jim and McCoy managed to make it to their guest rooms. Everything was red to a nauseating degree: the floors, ceilings, even the bedspreads. McCoy stumbled over to his bed and Spock closed the door behind him, and then helped Jim to his own room. There was a mirror beside the door as he entered, distracting Jim as he realized what a mess he was. His hair was in disarray and his face had a red flush spreading from his face and ears down to his neck and disappearing under his gold collar. The degree of dichotomy of pins and medals decorating his chest while he stood there was rather unflattering. He looked more like a child wearing his father's old uniform than a fully grown man.
Meanwhile Spock was polished and as prim and perfect looking as ever. Jim was momentarily so jealous of him at that moment that he was nauseous with it. Or maybe that was the alcohol.
Jim swore as he misjudged the distance between the bed and his next step. Spock caught him under the arms, which was like rubbing salt in the wound, and gently deposited him on the bed. Jim closed his eyes and focused on ignoring the sensation of swinging his mind had concocted.
Water ran for a moment in the bathroom. Spock’s footsteps returned and Jim cracked open an eye to look at him as his dutiful First Officer placed a glass of water for him on the table beside his bed.
“Everyone else was glowing,” Jim murmured under his breath before he could stop himself.
Spock froze and turned in increments like his spine was rotating on a rusted wheel. “Sir?”
“Everyone was glowing,” Jim repeated. “Except you. Why is that?”
“Ah. I understand.” Spock straightened. From the bed, he was still crooked in Jim’s perspective, but he decided not to alarm Spock. “For the moment I do not have enough evidence to speculate. Though it is likely you are experiencing a visual hallucination from the contents in—”
“It’s just you, though. Even Uhura…M’Ress had one. They all…everyone else had this…glow around them.” With only Spock in his room, there was nothing else to distract from him. He was, in Jim’s probably biased opinion, rather distracting even without a glowing halo around him. The solemn slope of his brow. The curve of his high cheeks…
Spock inclined an eyebrow, catching his eye. “Do you require anything, Captain?”
“Just admiring the view,” Jim answered earnestly and then wished he could swiftly kick himself in the head. “Sorry, I’m still…”
“No apologies are necessary. You are recovering from an unknown intoxicant.”
“It’s not the punch, I mean—” Jim sighed. There was no good way to finish that sentence. “—nevermind.”
Spock watched him expectantly. “Sir?”
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“As a Vulcan, that would not be possible.”
“But it’s not true for you.”
For once he found it impossible to read anything from Spock’s face. His Vulcan officer was inscrutable to most, but over the years he learned how to pick up even the smallest microexpression. Now, Spock’s face gave absolutely nothing away.
Spock looked away first. “If that is all, sir, I will leave you to rest.”
“No. Please—you don’t have to go. And I know you…remember how this works. It’s Jim.”
Spock said dryly, “I believe it would be wise if I made use of my own accommodations this evening, Jim.”
“Wise to who?” Jim wondered aloud. “It’s not like…anyone would notice. Or care. They’re all asleep. Just…stay a while. Talk.”
“It would be better if we converse at a later time, when your body has finished purging the intoxicant.” Maybe it was the alcohol affecting his judgment, but Spock’s voice had an edge of defensiveness.
Jim pouted. Then remembered he was an adult, and more importantly, the Captain of Starfleet’s flagship and pouting was definitely beneath him. “I want to talk now. If I—I’ve got to say things. To you. I won’t be brave enough tomorrow.”
Stiffly, Spock turned slightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Unless what you have to share will change the status of our mission, I would advise…waiting.”
“I can’t. Spock…I want to know. When you sang, what you sang down there…was that song yours? Was it theirs?”
The look on Spock’s face was bordering on exasperated and vulnerable at the same time. He said, “You can be almost cruel at times, Captain.”
Titles again. “I’m not trying to be. I just…want…”
That was the problem with it all, wasn’t it? He wanted; he yearned. He wasn’t even entirely sure what for. All he knew was that Spock had the other half of it. The last missing piece of a puzzle.
“I just want you to sit,” Jim finally managed, “and I want you to talk to me.”
Spock sat. His spine was made of rigid steel, unflappable, and yet…his shoulders seemed to sag under the weight. “Jim,” Spock addressed him softly. Jim murmured something sleep-heavy and incomprehensible. For a moment Spock wore a halo as well, but the halo was muted and brown, with traces of blue fraying at the edges. “I am sorry. But I cannot.”
He watched the blue shimmer of Spock’s halo vanished, and then the blue of the back of Spock’s shirt as he stood and exited, and then Jim was alone with his dreams of a Greek chorus, and Spock’s voice with those dark, accusing eyes watching him.
With smiling words and tender touch,
Man offers little and asks for so much,
He loves in the breathless excitement of night,
Then leaves with your treasure in cold morning light…
The Vasyrians were thankfully not offended when a (still rather hungover) band of Enterprise crew requested an audience with their council after the second Vasyrian sun had just crested the horizon.
“My God, you look like…” McCoy said in greeting as Jim approached and then clammed up. He nodded as Spock fell into line with him. “Morning, Mr. Spock. How’d you sleep?”
“I did not require rest. I meditated.” McCoy seemed to hold some opinion as to what he thought of that answer but for once he was quiet. If his hangover was anything like Jim’s, yelling was probably out of the cards.
Uhura and M’Ress handled explaining the situation to the Vasyrian council. “They just don’t seem to understand,” Uhura offered apologetically. “Though I would assume it wasn’t done with ill-intent. Hostility is not a concept they seem to have in their language at all.”
“What are they saying?” Jim asked quietly. He was grateful for Uhura to keep her voice low, though the sounds of snapping teeth from the council was only serving to aggravate his headache.
“Something about…” Uhura listened as the UT hissed in her ear. “...truth? I’m not sure, sir,” she said apologetically, “whatever it is, they consider the drinks they offered an important sign of trust. The fact you drank it has earned their respect.”
The council snapped and snarled from the round table and chairs. M’Ress trilled and growled something in return. A Vasyrian member grunted in return.
“We think it has to do with the age,” M’Ress explained as Uhura and her seamlessly swapped positions as head translator. “The samples we were given for the Enterprise were several hours older; the composition must break down faster, so our scans wouldn’t have picked anything up.”
Jim rubbed his forehead and sighed. He wasn’t the only one: the rest of the crew who had imbibed the punch were sitting or leaning with their eyes closed like the most miserable bunch of people he’d ever seen.
Uhura signed a gesture to the council to thank them. McCoy said, “I guess the mystery is solved.” M’Ress nodded, purring happily in agreement.
By the planet’s late morning the Enterprise had arrived and they bid their farewells to the Vasyrians, with the treaty clutched in M’Ress’ paw. Their tricorders and belongings the Vasyrian guards had confiscated were returned without fanfare. A mission well done, Jim thought, and mentally shoved down the urge within him to go and punch something.
His quarters chimed in the evening. McCoy had treated them all in Sickbay to remove the worst of the hangovers but they were all left with a lingering halo-vision that distracted throughout the day. McCoy offered them each to take sick leave, but when Kirk asked if he planned to use any, McCoy looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
Rubbing his forehead and still trying to dispel the headache he’d awoken with, Jim called out: “Come.”
He could tell from the hesitation after the door opened who his visitor was. Jim wearily lifted his head. “Mr. Spock,” he said, forcing a smile. “What brings you to my quarters?”
Spock didn’t answer. Jim tried, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of an opponent for chess but I’d be happy to reschedule—”
“The song was mine.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He started to say, “Spock…”
Spock held himself like he was preparing for a firing squad. “I did not intend to tell them,” he said, like that confession weighed on him more than a tower of stone. “I did not want to say them. But the words, the inspiration…the song was mine. I had never sung it; nor had I ever thought to put them into words as I did then. They forced it out of me.”
JIm caught a glimpse of Spock’s hands at his sides, the only visible one was clenched in tight fists before they relaxed. The other remained tucked behind his back. Softly, Jim began to say, “It’s alright, Spock. You don’t need to—”
“It is an unpleasant necessity,” Spock corrected, “as the words were for you. They were about you. A warning—a reminder to myself.”
Young men in their velvet prime…
“You know I’d never…” Jim tried, before abandoning that sentence before the words came to him. His throat was tight, swallowing stones made of shame.
“I have watched how you love,” Spock said slowly, “and I did not wish…”
Jim tried to smile, though he was sure the expression he made was more of a grimace. “You don’t want to be left with the bitter dregs, Mr. Spock?”
Something inside of Spock wavered. He saw it in his face. Then he blinked, as a halo appeared around the crown of Spock’s hair and down his ears, his cheeks, until he was bathed in a rusted brown glow, bronze, with flickers of blue.
“Spock—?”
“I had reflected on your question, as to why the rest of the crew and Vasyrians seemed to glow and I did not. Their answers revealed something, and I have decided to test it. From your reaction I assume I was successful.”
What?
Jim stared at him. “...What did you determine?”
“I estimated the substance our tricorders were unable to identify had a slight psi-empathic ability. The Vasyrians are empathic beings; their words indicated that by partaking we had gained their trust.”
“I see.” Jim had officially lost the handle on this conversation. He wondered if McCoy had slipped something into that hangover remedy, because this had to be the weirdest dream he’d had in a while. “And…this has to do with…?”
Spock retrieved the hand behind his back with a small closed tube they used when cataloging samples on away missions. “With your permission, sir, I would like to propose another test.”
Jim stared at him blankly, then at the tube, and back to Spock’s face. “Testing for…?”
“Trust,” Spock answered, which really explained absolutely nothing. “You have seen mine, have you not? I believe it is time to return the favor.”
“Spock—” Jim protested, but by that point Spock had already opened it and taken a sip. Jim wasn’t sure to be more surprised by the fact Spock had willingly ingested alcohol or the small expression of disgust that covered his First Officer’s face as it went down.
Spock blinked several times. “Fascinating,” he remarked, which Jim had expected from him. His gaze unfocused over Jim’s head and his eyebrows rose with the movement of his eyes. “Very…fascinating.”
Jim was trying very hard not to scream or throw things as Spock dissected his heart that he’d set on a platter before him. He jerked as Spock took a sudden step forward.
“What do you see?” Jim asked as Spock approached, then crouched to sit eye-level with Jim. He no longer had to strain his neck to meet Spock’s eyes. The closer they were the more Spock seemed to hesitate, as though he were a timid creature approaching a lion’s den.
When he received no answer Jim asked again, “Spock, what do you see?”
“I see you,” Spock answered, who was far more brave than Jim gave him credit for, as he leaned in and kissed him. The Human way, which Jim really hadn’t expected.
“Oh,” Jim managed, which sounded far too much like a sigh. “I see you too.”
Spock lifted his hand; two fingers held out in greeting. Jim smiled then, genuine and bright. Spock’s eyes fluttered closed as Jim extended his own and met Spock somewhere in the middle.