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“Alright, you mutinous, disloyal, computerised halfbreed.”
Jim can’t sleep. The hum of his quarters lulls him into a monotonous, quiet state, but inside his mind whirls. One palm resting on his bare ribs, he exhales in a short, shallow burst.
The mission hadn’t failed.
That didn’t mean it had succeeded, though.
They’re on a course to Starbase Eleven, across the Rotera system. Away from those damned spores, that’s the main thing.
And you have the gall to make love to that girl.
He and Spock hadn’t fought like they had today in a very long time. Jim only did it because he had to, but… the words spin and prod at his mind as he lies on top of his mattress, jaw tight. The look on Spock’s face, the way his eyes hardened and he threw Jim halfway across the transporter room - it refuses to leave his mind.
Jim is - he realises this almost flatly - ashamed. Ashamed of the way he’d acted, even if it was strictly in line of duty. Those insults, bubbling up in his throat and spilling out in a torrent of pointed hate, left a bitter taste in his tongue, and now he scrapes a finger over his teeth; tries to spell out every painful thing he said. A part of him whispers traitorously, “what if they were real?”, and he doesn’t let that part gain purchase on his mental landscape. He holds Spock in the highest regard, higher perhaps than he does of himself.
An insult, then, to his own integrity.
The trickle of blood Spock had drew out of Jim’s filthy lips as he’d thrown his captain against the wall did not render them equals as Jim suggested, desperate to salvage the mission at any cost - even if that meant ignoring the few, precious emotions Spock had let leak through their bond.
Quick quips on the bridge didn’t make everything right, and Jim knows it. Yeah, they’d figured out the problem, but Jim had been too guilty to reach out his pointer and middle finger to Spock in the hallway for a quick kiss after, and Spock had kept his clasped firmly behind his back, lips pressed together tightly.
He’s not used to sleeping alone anymore. Spock is always there against his back, the comforting presence he’d always longed for. A hand wrapping around his stomach, one leg thrown over the other.
Tossing and turning to the other side of the bed, Jim tries to gently prod at the bond a little. It’s gone too far, and he won’t deny he’s ashamed, even if Spock’s integrity was challenged, not his own. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow night, but…
The whirl of repressed emotions he’s faced with are… complicated. Difficult to decipher, for Jim, but he lets them wash over him and breathes and decides quietly and firmly that he’s done too much damage this time, even if it was for the good of the mission. Spock is shielding, but evidently he’s doing it badly because Jim feels the shifts as he sorts through memories. There is no single overriding emotion in the Vulcan’s mind: rather, they loop and contradict in a confusing spiral that must be exhausting Spock mentally.
Jim prays Spock hasn’t been feeling his guilt, frowning and shifting up so he’s sitting propped against his pillow.
He doesn’t get to be the hurt one this time.
Their shared bathroom door is firmly closed, but, one hand on his thigh, Jim stands and leans against the doorframe for a moment, his bare side shivering at the cold metal wall. He hasn’t the heart to push right through, so he picks up the soft, cotton blanket on his desk before taking a shallow breath, rubbing his slightly watery eyes, and opening the bathroom door.
It’s quiet, a steady ticking of the sonic shower timer providing constant, low noise, not enough to disrupt the peace. Dim, automatic lights come on as he steps over the cold tile, illuminating a few discarded makeup wipes on the counter, stained purple. His side of the bathroom is nearly spotless too, apart from a toothbrush and toothpaste.
Spock’s door is shut too, though the latch is undone.
Jim knocks gently, blooming bruises on his knuckles sending tinges of pain up through shaking fingers. “Spock?” he asks quietly, trusting implicitly that the Vulcan will hear him. Whether he responds though, is a different matter.
He could say more; he could apologise through the thin metal or simply start rambling. But he doesn’t, because he knows Spock, and Spock knows him, and he knows he needs to wait.
Relief, red and lazy green, infiltrates his mind. There’s surprise too, and hurt, but mostly relief.
Spock’s voice calls out softly, evenly, “Come in.” It’s a little muffled, both by the door and - when Jim slides through and looks - the fact he’s got the side of his face pressed into his pillow.
For a moment, Jim simply stands there, and holds the blanket close to his chest, and tries to think what to say.
His Vulcan lies on his stomach, head turned to face Jim, though his eyes drift. Science blues have been discarded on the adjacent desk, leaving Spock’s back bare and his arms draping down either side of the slightly thin mattress. Oh, he’s always been tall; his toes just about reach the end of the bed but he doesn’t slide his knees up to his chest like he used to when Jim saw him emotionally compromised. The simple gesture is enough to make Jim crumble inside.
Soft, dim lantern light illuminates his hair, parted just so. It flays over his forehead in little messy curls, and those gentle brown eyes have been wiped free of makeup as they always are during the night.
“Hey, Spock,” Jim murmurs, crossing his ankles one over the other and letting his inflection dip, go quiet and mellow. So unlike his command voice, but he prefers this one.
A smooth pattern they follow, over and over again, of Jim making the first move. Just a nudge, not a fully formed idea. And Spock will read it and understand.
“Jim,” he says. The muscles in his back contract as he shifts, but he stays belly-down over the covers. It’s warm, nearly too warm for Jim, but over time he’s gotten used to the temperature. Comfort is all he associates with it now.
“Goodnight,” starts Jim. Because it’s not the end of a conversation, he just needs to say it, get it out there before everything else can come. He always says it. “Goodnight, Spock.”
“And to you,” Spock replies, “Jim.”
“Sweetheart,” he says. “I missed you, on the bridge.”
They’d been on the bridge together. But he’s floundering, words bubbling up in his throat once more. This time, he holds them close to his heart.
Spock looks like he’s contemplating getting up, but simply grasps for the edge of his sheet, tugging at it absentmindedly.
Jim hadn’t expected him to answer. He dips his head in acknowledgement and asks quietly, “Can I come in?” even though he’s technically over the threshold already.
“Yes,” Spock replies, still slightly muffled by his pillow.
Slowly, Jim comes to sit on the edge of Spock’s bed, lowering himself and adjusting his position until he’s against the Vulcan’s back, beneath the crook of his arm, feet planted on the floor. The hot skin of Spock’s back presses against Jim’s clothed thigh, and he just barely leans into the touch.
For a moment, he doesn’t try to speak, or move. Spock’s breathing is ever so slightly out of time with his finger’s tapping, ribcage rising and falling stiffly.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, and again Spock nods.
He traces a light path up Spock’s back, fingers trailing up his spine and over his vertebrae until his hand comes to rest on Spock’s left shoulder, one thumb rubbing back and forth over the soft skin. In sweeping strokes, he finds the notch right under Spock’s largest rib, where a pale scar sits. It’s almost as wide as Jim’s knuckle, a healed remainder from an old injury. Wordlessly, he leans forward and presses his lips to the white mark, lingering for a second.
Beneath him, he feels Spock shudder, untensing slightly. He’s beautiful - he’s always so goddamn beautiful.
“I’ve got some things I want to say to you,” says Jim, frowning slightly as he slides his knee further up Spock’s side and the Vulcan’s fingernails catch his shin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to feel the pressure. It sounds too formal, too orderly, so he remedies, “If you’ll hear them. You don’t have to, sweetheart.”
I know I said some pretty messed up things today.
I didn’t mean it. Spock, I didn’t mean it at all.
Spock’s eyes fall closed for a second. “If… if it is about our disagreement today–”
“Yeah.”
“It is of no consequence,” he murmurs, squeezing Jim’s leg in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring.
Jim shakes his head. “But it is,” he says, threading his fingers up through Spock’s hair and sweeping it gently out of his eyes. They’re large, and brown, and they betray more conflict than his words ever could. “It is of consequence. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder-” he kisses Spock’s shoulder blade, to indicate his lack of anger “-all day, and I don’t blame you.”
“Duty comes first, Jim, I am aware of that. Personal relations have no priority over the safety of the ship and crew.”
It would have sounded logical, had Spock’s cheek not been squashed into his pillow. Jim adores him for it.
“And that’s not what I want to talk about. We both know it was necessary.”
“Then…”
Jim lets out a sigh. “I want to apologise to you, Spock. The things I said today, I need you to know - I believe absolutely none of it.” He pauses, and waits for confirmation that Spock is ready to listen. When he receives it, he continues, “I shouldn’t have let you leave that room without telling you. And backhanding me into the wall-” he smirks down at his knuckles sadly “-doesn’t cancel those things out. You’re allowed to still be mad. I’m really sorry.”
Spock’s eyebrows cinch together just the tiniest bit. He doesn’t pull away from JIm’s touch though, and Jim rubs his back gently while he waits for a response. When he finally gets one, Spock’s voice is stifled and quiet. “I appreciate your apology. And I am not ‘mad’, ashaya.”
“But you are conflicted.”
He’s met with silence.
Jim takes matters into his own hands. “Can I still touch you?” He knows Spock gets overwhelmed and can’t process touch well sometimes.
“Yes,” Spock whispers.
The blanket he’d brought isn’t his. It’s Spock’s, left there after a cold night in his quarters. The first time Spock had admitted he needed it, a green-pink blush had spread from the tips of his ears all across his cheeks, blotchy and sweet. He’d shook his head and given a woeful eyebrow raise when Jim started to laugh, but the bond filled with nothing but fondness when Jim slipped through the bathroom door and came back with one of Spock’s own, warm blankets in his arms. Now, it’s a routine. He has blankets scattered all over his room in different patterns; some cotton, some cable-knit; even a few tucked behind the closet shelves.
He picks it up from beside him and unfolds the fabric. It’s stitched and it has soft, black embroidery on the blue background. Draping it over Spock’s legs and thighs, he tucks it in gently. “I’m gonna - I’m just…”
Pulling out of Spock’s grip and standing, Jim trails a fingertip down his bondmate’s side while he skirts the bed, getting on his hands and knees between Spock’s legs. In other circumstances he might have stayed there, put his fingers to work just how Spock liked. But the thought of sex doesn’t even cross his mind this time. Instead, he crawls up the bed and begins to touch light, barely-there kisses up Spock’s back: the merest graze of his tailbone, up his spine, running over the bump of each vertebrae again. His hands creep over Spock’s forearms as he settles on the Vulcan’s back, rubbing gently in an effort to calm him.
Physical pressure usually calms him - even now Jim can feel Spock’s breathing begin to even, ribcage expanding against his own, skin touching skin. It’s exactly the kind of intimacy he’s craved all day, and, brushing a thumb over his psi points, avoiding his sensitive ears, he does his best to send a messy wave of love through their bond. A huffed breath tells him Spock has received it, though to what extent he’s not sure.
“I love you,” he murmurs, nosing into the vulnerable gap between Spock’s neck and shoulder, inhaling his soapy, metallic smell. “Spock, I really do. Nothing’s gonna change that; not Bones, not a mission, not where you come from or who other people think you are. Alright? You’re stuck with me, for as long as you want to be. I love you to the damn stars and back.”
“I am aware,” Spock says, and it’s even this time, heady underneath Jim’s warm weight. He twists the smallest bit to take hold of Jim’s hand, squeezing it gently in his own. Just as Jim comes to ease with that being the end of their conversation, he continues, “and I… love - I have love for you too. Of that, I am in complete certainty.”
“We’re okay?”
Spock nods. “We are okay, ashaya. I promise. I just… need time to regulate myself. My body, my mind. Not of you,” he assures, “but of that which I have learned to let go.”
“I can go,” Jim whispers. “Just give the word.”
The word Spock graces him with is “stay.”
And he does, shuffling to rest his head on Spock’s shoulder blade, arms wrapping loosely around the Vulcan’s sides and knocking one knee between his two spread legs in an effort to hold himself as close as he can to the man who stole his heart and flat out refuses to give it back. Spock’s skin is hot against his unshaven cheek, but he would not move for anything, would not say any of those poisonous words again because he’s got a million more chances to tell Spock I love you.
And it’s a whole lot better than sleeping alone.