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Kirk had returned from the Nexus on Picard’s Enterprise six days ago. Between the fanfare and the paperwork and the medical clearances, he had not had a free moment until tonight--and this freedom was stolen as it was. Spock had slipped them both out of a press junket early, feigning business elsewhere, and now the road before them narrowed invitingly as they left the city.
Jim did not ask where Spock was headed, but as the speed limit slowed he rolled his window down to catch the evening air heavy with pine and damp. The fog that had settled over the bay all week was thinning at last, and its lingering tendrils glowed around them as the sun neared the horizon.
They climbed slowly upwards into the hills, where the trees thickened and the fog cleared, until Spock turned out into an informal viewing area, just a half-moon of gravel off one side of the road.
“Come here often?” Jim quipped, crunching over to join Spock at the safety railing.
The earth dropped steeply before them, and through the treetops they could see the city glittering in the distance, a mass of purpling gold under the final rays of sunlight.
“I do,” Spock replied. He pulled his robe closer around himself and tucked his hands into its folds, never appreciative of Earth’s propensity for chill and damp.
Jim smiled at the motion before turning to look at the view before them, leaning one hip against the rail and hooking the opposite hand in his belt.
“I can see why. They don’t make views like this in space.”
“Nor this quiet, in the city.”
“No, indeed,” Jim sighed, heartfelt. “Thanks for getting me out of the hornet’s nest, by the way.”
“You’re welcome. Although, it was as much for my own sake.”
“You didn’t have to come, you know.”
“That is true.” Spock straightened minutely, gathering his dignity. “Logic, however, dictated that I would be wrong to let you face the hornets alone.”
“Logic, of course.” Jim’s eyes grew wide and a teasing grin spread slowly across his face. “You know, I think your logic is one of my favorite things about this universe. It always seems to land in my favor.”
Spock shot him a stern look, though it softened by degrees until the sternness had entirely melted out of it. One hand emerged to brush Jim’s shoulder.
“May I kiss you?”
Jim--surprised, bemused, affectionate--extended his fingers for the ozh’esta.
Amusement touched Spock's face, real and warm, and he returned the gesture before repeating his question with more emphasis.
“Jim. May I kiss you?”
“Here?”
Spock spared a glance at their surroundings, empty save for the creeping darkness, and raised an eyebrow in pointed question.
“Yes.” The answer came in a whisper. “Of course.”
When they parted, Spock turned back to the bay and Jim stepped in close beside him; one hand slid down Spock’s back and settled at his waist.
“May I ask where that came from?”
Spock raised an eyebrow at the few nascent stars shining bravely in a sky still lit by the absent sun and the city below.
“You may ask,” he said, and let the silence hang after it.
Jim picked at the peeling paint on the railing and waited, letting his head fall against the strong shoulder. Every habit, every movement, every touch, was so familiar he ached with it, yet so foreign he could cry. It was the strangest sensation, he thought, to have lived nearly a lifetime as someone else, and then to be suddenly returned to yourself. He wondered if this was how Spock had felt, after the fal-tor-pan.
“I did not want to be with anyone else,” Spock offered into the silence. “But--I did not want to die, either.”
He paused, then amended: “I was not permitted to die.”
The arm around his waist tightened, and Spock covered the hand there with his own.
“I’m sorry, Spock. I said I would be there with you.”
“Kaiidth. It is a promise no one can keep forever.” His thumb brushed the back of Jim’s hand, one stroke. “But I have missed you.”
From there, Spock took his arm from between them and found a place for it around Jim, who tucked into the familiar warmth, feeling the Vulcan heartbeat thrum against his side. Spock pressed his cheek against Jim’s hair and held him close. Together they watched the city lights waver over the bay, the city silent and small, the woods dark, pungent, and full of life. The night settled softly around them, crystallizing into a memory, and they clung to it for a long time, unwilling to let present become past.
Finally, Jim straightened, stifling a yawn. “You’re cold. We should go back.”
Spock did not reply, instead turning Jim’s fingers over in his own, finding the el’ru’esta and moving fluidly around it until Jim stopped him with a press of his lips to Spock’s fingers.
“Spock. I don’t want you to be cold when I undress you.”
An eyebrow up. A thumb on Jim’s cheek.
They turned then to the car, Jim with a grin on his face, Spock with measured, precise haste. The drive home seemed much faster than the drive there, and Spock kept his hand warm on the back of Jim’s neck, and Jim kept his hand on Spock’s thigh, and they listened only to the soft murmur of the radio between them.
They had not been used to sleeping together--their different environmental preferences and their easy access to each other’s quarters aboard Enterprise had resulted in the very comfortable arrangement of simply going back to their own beds when they were done for the night, and they had kept that pattern in their term on Earth, sleeping in separate rooms in their apartment.
But here, tonight, Jim did not leave for the guest room, and Spock did not take his hand from Jim’s chest even in sleep, craving some reassurance that Jim was real and whole.