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“You mean you’re not gonna stop him? Goin’ that way’s gonna be doin’ his back some damage.”
“You know as well as I do, Bones, that logic hasn’t got anything to do with this.” Jim remarked, letting his aching frame soak up the Georgian sun as he and McCoy reclined in their layback chairs, overseeing Spock have a heated non-verbal argument with the doctor’s overgrown garden. “I’ve already tried. Usually he listens to me, but this time…” The blond trailed off, adjusting his sunglasses and pensively swirling his sweet tea.
Usually, Spock would listen to him. But family was always complicated. And as he watched his aging partner kneel in the soil, uncharacteristically uncaring of how his deep tan robe was picking up the dirt, Jim mused that even half-Vulcans with supposed mastery of their emotions were liable to pitch a fit.
Whatever strange arboreal permutation it was to take.
“I’m sure Sarek wasn’t intendin’ this level of upset.”
“By giving up his seat on the council, retiring with Amanda to the Canadian forest and naming Spock his successor in all things? Including as an incipient to T’Pau’s post?” The blonde raised a haughty eyebrow over his glasses that made McCoy snort into his drink. The doctor was all too aware the co-dependent fools were going to be the death of him.
“It’s not every day you find out you’re effectively going to inherit all of Vulcan.” Jim mused, folding his bookmark into the forgotten paperback atop his lap and creaking his way out of the chair. He was going to have to remind his husband that four hours of angry gardening was unlikely to help his already sore body. At least with the southern sun beating on Spock’s back, he would absorb some of the warmth.
“Doesn’t that make you clan consort, princess?” Bones chimed as he followed suit, stretching out of his chair with a whine. Jim cocked a hand on his hip, the other sliding through greying gold hair. “That’s Queen to you, thank you very much.”
“Why is Uncle Jim a queen?” Joanna called from just inside the old-fashioned house, the soft susurration of her knife slicing the watermelons they’d retrieved from the market a homey sound.
“Same reason he always is, darlin’.” McCoy called back. “He’s petty, precocious, and married way above his station.”
“Charming.” But past a little ribbing, Jim couldn’t contain his concern. Between Ambassadorial missions, the likes of which Spock had been stepping into his father’s shoes to perform for years, and Fleet requirements, his husband had been inundated with busy work. And Jim himself was no slouch; being re-promoted to Admiral, still maintaining his position as a pseudo-captain amongst a crew of half-captains and attempting to run Klingon peace negotiations, he had barely seen Spock in the previous three months.
They vid-called each night, and were in regular telepathic contact, but it was no substitute for the real thing.
And the past six months had not been kind to his husband – Spock was the one person that Jim counted on to be physically indominable, his hybrid strength and discipline were immutable. But he could see the strain in the way Spock’s shoulders were rounded as he crouched, the flatness in his feet as he sat back; the way his form had been reduced to a slimmer sinew than before.
It was one of the reasons why he had scheduled the impromptu holiday to McCoy’s home. When Spock had stepped off the latest shuttle, Jim had taken one good look at him and called the doctor immediately.
“You’re taking time off.”
“K’diwa, there is much work to be done. I cannot afford—” Spock’s usually warm, dark eyes were wan, near overwhelmed by what was required of him. But it was easy enough to silence him with a soft press of lips amid the busy spaceport.
“T’hy’la, if you don’t take time now, you won’t at all. Trust me – a week with Bones bothering you will do you good. It’ll do both of us good.” Jim was still so unbearably charmed by the green flush in his partner’s cheeks at such open affection, no longer embarrassed— instead suffused with love and longing. “Please? For me?”
Spock placed his bag down on the floor, capturing Jim’s hand between his own and kissing his knuckles with the greatest of care. “Yes Captain,” he murmured, watching through veiled lashes. “You know well that I have long since lost the ability to deny you anything. And I will not start now.”
That had been before Sarek’s sombre call.
It had meant to be good news, from what Jim had gathered. Three minutes after the Vulcan pair had connected, he had speed-dialled his mother-in-law to get the human scoop; there was no threat to Sarek’s or her health, he was handing the torch to Spock because Sarek felt his accomplished son was ready.
But as ever, Sarek had neglected to include Spock in his machinations.
“Uncle Jim, do you want to take this to Uncle Spock? I made his own fruit salad without the kiwis.” Joanna’s slim form bustled out onto the patio, her pale blue eyes as shrewd and cutting as her fathers as she read Jim’s pause. Without ceremony she shoved a tray at him containing the salad and some mint tea.
Although to help with whose nerves, Jim was uncertain.
“Well, that’s our cue to leave, Jojo. They’ll sort it out.” Bones assured. “They always do.”
“Wait, you guys aren’t fighting, are you?” Joanna queried; her shock riding high on her raised brow as she collected the various glasses of tea left scattered on each man’s side table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fight.”
Jim opened his mouth to deny such a wild claim, but McCoy beat him to it with a vitriolic “You weren’t having to share a wall with these morons on the Enterprise circa 2246,”.
Joanna, ever her father’s mimic, rolled her eyes so high that Jim could practically hear his own mom chiding “they’ll get stuck like that!’ from the ether.
“Yeah, I didn’t have to share to get it. ‘cos I ain’t Fleet, I value my dignity and I’m not a dinosaur like y’all.”
The blonde mock gasped, clutching at his chest in faux horror. “Did you just use y’all? In a sentence?” He rounded on the doctor, tray raised aloft threateningly. “Bones! Stop ruining your daughter’s education!”
McCoy just tutted, unpeturbed. “She’ll do that all her damn fool self.”
There was a clink of irked cutlery as Joanna folded her arms, rounding on her father as her next victim. “Do you mind. She is stood right the hell here!”
“Sorry Jojo.” McCoy duly replied, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Y’know he’s just stallin’.” Joanna immediately softened, resuming her clean-up and giving McCoy a peck on the cheek as she passed. “I know, Daddy. C’mon. Let’s go play cards. I’ve got a julep callin’ my name.”
As the pair retreated, Jim turned back to his spouse with a sigh. Currently, Spock was entangled with some tall looking brambles, secateurs viciously lashing out in any ever direction. As Jim edged closer, he could hear the frustrated huff of air from his husband’s nose, each plant laid waste adding to the furore.
The eggshells Jim had yet to step on were so clear in his mind’s eye he could practically see a precarious cream bridge between each side of the bond. Jim set the tray down next to Spock’s gardening cushion, laying a hand on his shoulder carefully lest he get sheared himself.
“Sweetheart. Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at this for hours.” Spock’s shoulder tensed beneath his touch as the rip of the shears didn’t cease their endless motion.
“Vulcans do not require rest, Jim.” Spock responded curtly, resolutely fixed on his task. “As you are well aware.”
“Ouch.” Jim laughed uneasily, flumping down next to the cushion on the plush grass, running the thick strands through his fingers. “We’re back to ‘Vulcans do not’ are we? It’s been a while.” The twinge of hurt that he tried to suppress lanced through the bond like a bullet, and immediately Spock faltered, placing his tools down at the side and turning to sit next to Jim on the cushion. Without looking at his partner, he began to primly pull the gardening gloves off each finger and placed them down with care.
“My apologies, ashayam. It has been a trying week.” Jim set Spock’s fruit bowl next to him with a fork, and passed him a steaming mug of mint tea, handle first, which the Vulcan took gratefully to sip at. “I suppose I have been working for a while.”
“I’ll say.” Jim murmured, inspecting his forearms. “I’ve been starting to get sunburnt just watching you work.”
The knot twisting in Jim’s torso loosed as Spock cracked a minuscule smile as he sipped. “That is logistically impossible.”
The pair sat in comfortable silence, cross-legged on the ground in an informality that belied their age and rank. The sizzle of the Georgian afternoon flooded the air, various flying bugs joining in a euphony of sound around them. Ever couple of minutes a small-winged creature would zip past Jim’s peripheral vision and he would turn to Spock to remark on it, only to watch entranced as his husband tracked the movement. Even now, the Vulcan was entirely enamoured of all living things; his scientific curiosity likely piqued by a tiny detail that everyone else had overlooked. Jim could tell in the way that Spock’s dark eyes focused intently on a gossamer wing that he was pondering scientific minutiae and was almost saddened to see the bubble burst as his stormy anxiety shattered the moment.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The blond prompted, enjoying the brush of grass between his fingertips as he wove a hand through the ground.
“Not particularly,” Spock responded resolutely, drawing warm liquid between his lips. But Jim was undeterred, used to his partner’s obstinacy.
“Logically, it’s beneficial to externalise complex problems to seek a different viewpoint, right sweetheart?”
Jim couldn’t help his laugh at Spock’s flat expression, mouth downturned in a thin line. Five months ago, prior to his promotion, Jim had been caught between a dishonoured Klingon and an irate Fleet captain; in his bid to search for a solution that had satisfied both Klingon blood-lust and his own need for peace, Spock had come up with that axiom. And Jim had dually responded with an affectionate "I hate it when you're right". Which made it all the more enjoyable now, when utilising his husband’s sage words against him.
“I too, am aggrieved when you are right. Moreso when you use my own words verbatim, with the addition of ‘sweetheart’ to soften the blow.”
The blond chuckled lightly as he scooted closer, pressing their thighs together. “Did it work though?”
“Perhaps.” Came the mumbled capitulation as the Vulcan ran a slim finger round the rim of his cup before setting it down next to the mat’s frayed edge. Jim knew that his husband wouldn’t exactly be forthcoming but something in the silence crackled with the weight of Spock’s cogitations, and all Jim had to do was wait.
And true to form, a few minutes and idle brushings of the grass later, Spock spoke.
“I have been granted a gift.”
“Oh?” Jim feigned, grumbling as he pulled himself to kneel before his partner head on. “A gift?” Dark chocolate eyes glittered in knowing at his masquerade, what would have been a slightest twitch of lips in his younger years pulling into a soft smile.
“Ashayam,” Spock reprimanded gently. “I heard you conversing with my mother.”
“Ah, the jig is up then.” Jim said lightly, turning to reach the small set of Hydrangeas just behind Spock’s elbow and smell them deeply. “You’ve found out about my very secret relationship with your mother.”
“Jim.” The blond couldn’t help his laughter this time. His friendship with Amanda had been all but subtle over the years. Starting with their connection on the way to Babel, they had had an informal correspondence for many moons; mostly literary discussion speckled with anecdotes about Spock’s successes, or concerns about him. Amanda was always careful to respect her son’s privacy and did not ever discuss personal problems in depth, but was a skilled hand at directing her son in law more precisely towards his woes (not that it took much directing, even then).
“She was worried, Spock. And wanted to give me the heads up.” Jim chose to ignore the sharp huff of breath which was absolutely not his partner’s infinitely frustrated sigh. “Sarek’s choices aren’t hers. She seemed rattled by the sudden change, for him and for you.”
“What do you know thus far? I shall endeavour to fill the gaps.”
“I know that Sarek ceded the head of the clan to you. And his seat on the council.” Jim murmured, picking up the bowl of fruit idling between them and passing it across to Spock in encouragement. The Vulcan was notorious in his habit of forgetting food when it came to scenarios that caused anxiety, and Jim was patient in his reminders, happy for once that his Tarsus habits benefited his partner.
Spock dipped his head in gratitude and began to slowly turn the fruit over with his fork, spearing a lush piece of watermelon. “Indeed, he wishes me to take over his seat. And to serve with T’Pau.” In the halting explanation, Jim heard his reticence. Seated at the head of a society that for half of his professional life had thought of him as lesser seemed like a unique purgatory. “But critically, he wishes for me to investigate the possibility of a Ni’var treaty”.
“Ni’var?”
“Romulan and Vulcan have been at odds for too long, Jim. We have similar ancestry and culture, but political divergence. With Starfleet so close to Klingon treaty, it would be logical to seek further peace and prosperity where there is opportunity.” Spock placed another fruit piece in his mouth and chewed slowly as Jim parsed the information. Logical, it might be, but such a tremendous undertaking seemed like an unnecessary burden to bequeath to your son without his knowledge or consent.
Then again, Sarek’s forte had never been openness in his problems.
Jim could feel an undertone of gentle amusement at his internal grumbles directed at his father-in-clan. No matter how positive their relationship was now, the blond had never quite forgiven the years of alienation and pseudo-exile, nor the trouble Sarek had caused on Jim’s own ship.
“I appreciate the opportunity,” Jim said slowly, “But that’s a huge, unfinished legacy to inherit. And you’ve served a long time, sweetheart.” The blond took a sip of his hot tea, letting the warmth seep through him and add to the oppressive humidity as watched his husband’s face over the mug. “Is it something you actually want?”
Spock hummed thoughtfully, considering. Over Jim’s shoulder, he noted the light eyes of two McCoys watching them both ‘inconspicuously’ through the window. “I am uncertain my want is the priority in this circumstance. My duty—”
“Spock.” Jim stopped him, pressing his mug back into the grass. “There will always be a different duty. Another battle to fight, another treaty to negotiate. There hasn’t been complete peace across the galaxy in aeons, possibly ever. That burden doesn’t sit on your shoulders alone.”
The Vulcan continued to work his way slowly through the fresh bowl of fruit, clearly enjoying the tart and sweet flavours of real fruit. “T’hy’la, peace. I know this. I wish to help.”
The blond felt his insides twist warmly; his humble, gentle husband, always wanting to do his best and more. Willing to sacrifice his skills, his time, his life even to ensure that people survived. It just wasn’t his job anymore – it shouldn’t have to be. And the small spike of resentment rose again in a quick swell. Sarek shouldn’t have left him with this. It didn’t seem fair.
“It would be an honour to mend the relationship, to be granted access as a broker to harmony. It is not the mission, nor the Romulans that concern me most.”
Jim frowned in consternation. “It isn’t?”
Spock set his bowl down, taking Jim’s right hand in its own two to clasp, running the pads of his fingers over the calloused knuckles.
“There would be many adjustments – our lives would be uprooted. We would have to relocate to Vulcan for several months for negotiations, travel to Romulus a multitude of times, our lives would constantly be under threat—”
“That’s nothing new, Spock. What’s the real bit you’re worried about?”
Spock sighed, casting his eyes around the garden to soak in the lush greenery, enjoying the sight of his goddaughter ducking, cowed, beneath the windowsill and her father just staring resolutely back. They locked eyes firmly, before McCoy’s patented eyeroll broke the contact and he skulked further into the house. Even such dramatics Spock now experienced with affection: this was the closest to peace the Vulcan had ever achieved. He had family, friends, purpose. A home with his partner. Standing amongst Starfleet and appreciation of his talents. The luxury of a holiday when it was needed.
Why on Earth would he give that up?
But the lure of what was possible, of new adventures and challenges, away from the traditional diplomacy was like a siren song.
“I am tired, Jim, of having to prove my standing on Vulcan. There is still an excess of xenophobia when it comes to hybrid creatures, let alone Romulans. The number of humans who live there is still perilously low.” Spock turned Jim’s hand over, tracing the veins in the back with care. “We are not as young as we were. I am loathe to put you in danger where we do not need to.”
I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Rang loud and clear in Jim’s head, jerking painfully at his heart strings. He knew better than to give Spock false assurances. There had been too many near misses in their combined careers to not be acutely aware of the consequences. And Jim had already lost his Vulcan once before.
As though the Georgian summer heard their discomfort, the oppressive heat swelled, and the clouds began to crack open. The start of light drops began to litter Spock’s robes in small brushes of deep brown.
Jim squeezed the hands that held his. “I know. But do you want to do this?”
“I do.” The Vulcan affirmed quietly. “Everything in my career lends itself to this. I have the chance to truly make an impact. But I am afraid.”
“Sweetheart.” Jim cupped Spock’s cheek with care, running his thumb over the noble arch of his cheekbone. “You’ve made an impact enough. But if you want to do this, I’m with you. For all of it.”
“What of your duties here?” The rain started to fall in thick lashes, permeating their clothes, soaking through their hair. “What of the admiralty?”
“Semantics.” The blond brushed off easily, unwilling to move. “My career has come first for most of our collective commissions. If this is something you need to do, we’ll do it together.”
Spock’s eyes screwed shut as the swell of emotion threatened to bowl him over, pressing his lips against Jim’s own for reassurance. The blond’s hands looped around his neck with ease, each peck deepening until they were interlocked in a passionate embrace, wet, but clinging to each other as they always had.
“Hey lovebirds! Are y’all off your rocker? Come inside before you catch your death!” Joanna’s voice rang out over the crackle of thunder as the pair sprung apart, flushed. Jim grinned unapologetically, stealing one more kiss before pulling Spock to his feet. The Vulcan relished in the feeling cooling rain streaming down his face as Jim collected the crockery.
“So, we’re doing this?” He asked once the tray was loaded, pleased to see his husband’s face relax in the inclement weather.
“Yes, Jim. We are doing this.” Spock affirmed as they made their way back to the main house, quickly shucking their shoes on the outdoor mat and passing Joanna the remnants of their drinks. As her irate huff retreated into the kitchen, ponytail swinging behind her, the Vulcan lowered his voice. “But perhaps it would be wise not to tell Doctor McCoy until morning.”
Jim’s smile was entirely unrepentant as he threaded his fingers through Spock’s, pressing his torso close to the Vulcan’s own. “No fear. I’m not telling Bones until he’s at least halfway through a bottle of Talisker.” He tugged his husband further into the house, towards the guest room. “Now. Let’s get out of these wet clothes, shall we?”