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As Captain James T. Kirk downed his fourth Saurian brandy of the night, he launched into the seventh recounting of the climax of his most recent mission.
“So, there we were: me—priceless vase in one hand, detonator in the other—Scotty tied to the ship’s engine core, Sulu unconscious on the ground, five pirates in varying stages of completely-fried all lying around us. And right then, the guard walks back into the room, holding the tray, sees this scene of destruction, and he says, ‘this is the last time I ever make a Starfleet officer breakfast.’”
The crowd of half a dozen people around Jim laughed uproariously, their applause and knee-slapping effusive enough to be audible over the music in the bar. Jim grinned with delight and raised his drink to cheers the group as they moved on from the booth where Jim and his three companions sat.
The four of them were, at Jim’s insistence, spending their evening planet-side in an old-fashioned Earth-style bar. Ostensibly, they were celebrating yet another of Jim’s evasions of death. Technically, however, they were in traction. Although Jim would argue his mission had been a sparkling example of his intelligence and courage under fire, it had resulted in serious damage to the Enterprise. Docking on the nearest Federation planet, Jim had announced a day of leave for most of the crew, while the unfortunate engineers—led by a furious Scotty—were tasked with repairing the starship.
“Good god, Jim. Haven’t you done enough entertaining tonight?” grumbled McCoy next to him in the booth.
“Absolutely not,” Jim answered brightly. “Don’t you know that my success rate with that story is nearly one hundred percent?”
He pointed across the table to the Enterprise’s second in command. “I saw that face, Mr. Spock. You report the statistics to me later.”
Returning to address the group, he added, “People love this story. It’s a story that must be shared.”
“I think by this point everyone in the place has heard it, captain,” Uhura said with a wry smile directly across from him.
“We’ve certainly heard it enough,” added McCoy.
Jim feigned offense, laying a hand over his heart. “I suffer through the most daring and dangerous escape attempt in Starfleet history and I can’t even tell others of my pain?”
“To my understanding, you were unharmed. If you are experiencing mental or emotional pain as a result of the mission, I recommend seeking medical attention,” Spock replied.
Uhura snorted a laugh into her gin and tonic.
Jim leaned up out of his seat and brandished his now-empty glass out at Spock. “Oh, I am currently receiving the best medical care money can buy.”
“That is deeply false,” McCoy responded knowingly. “And will you sit down? If you finally hurt yourself now after going through all that, I’m going to eject you out of an airlock.”
“While I agree that Captain Kirk should refrain from injuring himself, I must observe that there are no airlocks in the vicinity,” Spock stated, “challenging the actionability of your threat.”
McCoy sighed sharply. “No one likes a pedant, Spock.”
Jim dramatically plopped down onto the aging pleather booth, causing McCoy to bounce slightly in his place beside him. “No, no, the commander makes an excellent point.” He gestured with his drink towards Spock in gratitude. “Besides—that’s a bit counterintuitive anyway, don’t you think, Bones?”
Another swooning jazz song boomed out from the speakers by the dance floor. Jim perked up at the sound.
“I believe it’s high time for a dance. Who’s with me? Lieutenant Uhura?”
Uhura nodded with mock solemnity.
“McCoy?” Jim asked.
When the man hesitated, Jim raised his brows.
“Fine,” McCoy said tersely. “But I’m bringing my drink.”
Jim heartily patted his friend on the back. Next, he turned to Spock and smiled widely.
“You’ll join me, won’t you?”
“I believe I would be a poor companion in this instance,” Spock said.
Jim shook his head, “Being good or bad at dancing doesn’t factor in here, Spock.” He leaned in, and in a stage-whisper added, “You see, McCoy’s even coming.”
McCoy scoffed and rolled his eyes.
“Regardless. I do not particularly understand this style of expression.”
Smile softening, Jim responded, “Think of it this way: you’re conducting an anthropological study of human culture and the fusion of rhythmic sound and movement.”
Spock looked at Jim but did not answer, remaining impassive.
“Do it once. If you hate it, you can sit down,” Jim said beseechingly.
Spock replied, “I object to your use of the word ‘hate’ to describe my potential response to partaking in this experience.”
“But…?”
Jim saw a glint of what he saw as curiosity flash on Spock’s face, but it was gone in an instant. Wishful thinking, Jim thought to himself.
After a moment, Spock answered: “I believe partaking in this behavior would be unbecoming of the First Officer of the Enterprise.”
Jim straightened in his seat and glanced away from Spock. If his smile faltered, it could’ve as easily been played off as a trick of the light. “That’s fair,” Jim shrugged gently. “If you do want to join, you know where we are.”
Turning then to McCoy and Uhura, Jim thumped his hands on the table and announced, “We're off!”
With that, Jim gracefully swung his limbs out of the booth. Uhura, stood up next to him and threw an arm around Jim’s neck. As a swearing McCoy haltingly scooted out, Uhura shot a questioning look at Spock, who merely blinked at her. Once McCoy had righted himself, the trio was complete.
“The music awaits,” Jim declared.
Jim was pleased—triumphant might’ve been more accurate, actually—that he had managed to get the Enterprise’s First Officer to join Bones, Uhura, and him. He had expected his friend merely to quietly drink club soda and snipe at Bones—which, granted, he had; despite his considerable charm, Jim had no illusions about his own inability to somehow drag Spock onto the dance floor. Well, not no illusions: the idea of convincing Spock to dance with him—even the words sounded childish—had gotten stuck in his head long ago. He had seen Spock listen to and play music on several occasions, but his appreciation had never extended into movement. Jim had seen nary a head bob nor a foot tap. Spock’s zither-playing, too, was always focused and precise. For someone like Jim, who couldn’t manage to sit still, the Vulcan’s never-yielding serenity was as incomprehensible as it was fascinating. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like, Spock shaken from his rigidity. But Jim tried to lure his friend from the booth, to see what would happen, and he had failed.
As he, McCoy, Uhura danced together good-naturedly (well, Uhura and he were dancing; McCoy was technically just bobbing side to side), he stole glances back to the table where Spock sat. Spock was always looking attentively around the bar—watching the patrons, examining the colorful liquor bottles behind the bartenders, scrutinizing the dark ceiling. How dull can this be, Jim worried, that he’s staring at the ceiling?
Uhura and McCoy eventually tapped out. Jim, however, showed no signs of fatigue. He continued to dance song after song with an endless retinue, waving back at his crewmates whenever there was a break in the crowded dance floor. As the establishment neared last call, slower tempo songs came to dominate the once-jazzy bar, and the crowd around Jim thinned. No Uhura or McCoy and no pleasantly-buzzed momentary dance partners, Jim danced alone.
In between sips of whiskey, McCoy said, “Jesus, you’d think he’d be tired by now.”
Uhura raised an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you say that exact thing when he got back from the mission after he helped Scotty assess the ship’s damage, debriefed with Sulu, and still had the energy to argue with Pike?”
McCoy took another swig of his drink and pointed a finger at Uhura. “Shut it.”
“I’m just saying,” Uhura teased, “I’d think you wouldn’t be taken aback by his antics anymore.”
“I’m not ‘taken aback,’ damn it. I’m just—”
As the pair bickered amicably, Spock continued a silent vigil over the dance floor. It was a task which began when Jim, Uhura, and McCoy paraded onto the sticky floor, and had yet to cease. Jim was fairly good at most things, and dancing was no exception. He could dance a number of steps and styles with aplomb. And people flocked to him. All night, Jim had flirted with a coterie of beautiful partners. Some had flitted in and out for a single dance, but others rotated around, returning to be Jim’s dance partner several times. Some were more masterful dancers than others, and some were more personable than others. But now into the wee hours of the morning, the revelers had dwindled. Those remaining had paired off, slouching into each other’s arms. Now Jim was alone.
“You could go out there, you know?”
Spock finally broke his gaze away from the dance floor. Uhura, chin resting on one hand, was looking over at him.
“He loves having a dance partner.”
“I am uncertain I understand what is required.”
Uhura shrugged. “Nothing’s required, just like he said. You can just go stand next to him. Keep him company.”
Spock remained in his seat. One song passed, then two, then three. As the tango beats of the next song drifted across the room, Jim greeted it with a smile. Moving his feet in an approximation of the two-step, Jim swayed along with the tempo. The man closed his eyes and mouthed along with the lyrics.
“Excuse me,” Spock said. “I would like to stand, Uhura.”
Uhura acquiesced swiftly, making room for Spock to pull himself out of the booth. She minutely inclined her head at him before returning to her seat.
Looking up from his drink, McCoy blurted, “Did you see that, too?”
“Always,” Uhura told the doctor.
Spock walked in the direction of the dance floor. He was right in front of Jim before the other man noticed. Eyes fluttering open, Jim greeted his friend with a brightness that rivaled the disco ball above them.
“Mr. Spock, Dean Martin and I welcome you to Intro to Dance Floor Anthropology.”
“You have my thanks. Who is Dean Martin?”
Jim pointed at the speakers. “Old, old Earth singer. He’s singing this. This place is playing classics.”
Jim never lost the tempo, swaying along with the beat as he spoke. Spock, meanwhile, stood ram-rod straight, hands clasped behind his back.
“Why is this song considered an Earth ‘classic’?”
Jim cocked his head to one side and replied, “A good question, Mr. Spock. It’s catchy, it sounds pleasant. It has a universal theme.” He waved his hands in a circle to punctuate this final point.
Spock nodded slightly. “I see. Do you enjoy this song?”
“Of course. It’s a beautiful love song,” Jim replied on instinct.
This answer was greeted only by Spock’s unreadable gaze.
Jim cleared his throat and continued to dance along with the beat. “I’d imagine it’s quite boring for you to sit and do nothing all night, but thank you for coming with me.”
Spock’s eyebrows raised a little. “I appreciate your invitation and concern, Captain. I do not find it boring. On the contrary, this has been an illuminating experience.”
Jim grinned. “Oh?”
“The style of dance utilized in this establishment is one I believe to be common among many humanoids. For the vast majority of individuals here this evening, for example, I have seen little in the way of technique or formal choreography. Rather, their movements appear to be rooted in outward expressions of emotions fomented by music. Their dancing is improvisational and formless. You are moved by passion and inspiration. Vulcan dances, however, necessitate a high level of technical skill and control of bodily movement. These dance styles are different, but they are both art forms,” Spock said.
Nodding, Jim asked, “So… Vulcans like athletic dances with rules?”
“A simplification, perhaps, but that is one way of explaining it.”
“Vulcan ballet?” Jim smirked.
Spock thought for a moment before replying, “There are similarities, yes. However, only in principle.”
“Damn, I was hoping for a Vulcan rendition of Swan Lake.”
“Vulcans would not adapt such a story. Perhaps something regarding the teachings of Surak.”
Jim shrugged. “I’d see it.”
“I would not,” Spock said flatly.
Jim laughed. Anyone who claimed Vulcans were humorless wasn’t paying any attention; Spock was always setting Jim up to walk right into these deadpan jokes. One day he’d ask his friend if he was doing it intentionally.
The buzzing looseness of the many brandies he’d imbibed had mostly worn off, but his inhibitions were still lowered enough to mumble along with Dean Martin. He really couldn’t help himself: the music, the lyrics had their hooks in him.
Closing his eyes, he sang in a barely audible whisper. “Other dancers may be on the floor. Dear, but my eyes will see only you. Only you have that magic technique. When we sway, I go weak.”
His eyes opened to see Spock looking at him. Jim shook himself slightly and opened his mouth to begin an apology—for what, though, he wasn’t sure.
Spock beat him to it. “My mother and father would, on occasion, waltz.”
This revelation jumped to the front of Jim’s meandering but persistent line of thoughts before colliding head-on with his Spock-dance mind project. “Really?”
Spock nodded. “My mother had a fondness for the waltz; indeed, she was a great proficient at the dance. She taught my father during their courtship.”
Jim struggled to contain how thoroughly charmed he was by this news. “Were they any good?”
“Their timing and rhythmic pattern were without exception consistent.”
“I hear that’s important for waltzing.”
“It is,” he paused before continuing. “However, my mother did explain to me that properly the dance necessitated a certain degree of emotionality. I am uncertain why she told me this. She gave no indication that she detected a lack of emotionality in their dancing.”
“Maybe,” Jim said slowly, “she wanted you to know that you could do both. Timing patterns and inspiration?”
“Perhaps,” Spock answered quickly.
I overstepped there, Jim chastised himself. “Did they teach you?”
“I was not interested; my priorities laid elsewhere.”
“I didn’t think much of ballroom dance when I was a kid, either. I was always more of a mambo man,” Jim said. Then, in a spirited but poor interpretation of a mambo step, Jim stepped to Spock’s left, back to center, then to his right, before returning.
Spock raised an eyebrow at the other man. “I see no evidence of that statement.”
Jim clicked his tongue. “It’s not my fault if my musical devotion outpaces my formal training.”
“That may be so. But there is no harm inflicted, as far as I am aware.”
That prompted a snort of a laugh from Jim. Dean Martin’s crooning voice had faded now, replaced by a nondescript but pleasant tune.
“The waltz is a good choice, though. Beautiful dance. It’d be great to learn it now.”
Spock inclined his head to Jim.
The human reached out above his head for a big stretch, then yawned deeply. “I think I’m all danced-out now, Mr. Spock. You ready to call it a night?”
“I am satisfied to return, yes.”
Jim smirked at him, then held out an arm. “After you.”
Spock nodded crisply, then exited the dance floor with Jim in toe. The pair rendezvoused with McCoy and Uhura before leaving the bar. The cool early morning air was a relief for Jim after dancing in the stifling bar for what seemed like hours. The planet’s red moon cast the bustling street in a rosy hue as they walked back to the Starfleet base. Although they had left the music of the bar behind, to Jim the rhythms seemed to linger. The buzzing of neon harmonized with the drunken laughter of passersby. Plodding footsteps echoing down an alley provided a drumbeat to a communicator rapidly scanning channels. Fizzling oil from street food carts accompanied the entreaties of their vendors. Almost subconsciously, Jim swayed to the symphony of the night.
Jim pondered the meager dessert selection in the Enterprise’s mess hall for almost a minute before settling on a small bowl of chocolate pudding. It never ceased to amaze him that despite having the ability to replicate nearly any food, the cafeteria offered the same handful of desserts that had been boring crewmembers for years. He regularly petitioned Starfleet Command for a greater breadth of options and, so far, had gotten nowhere. Well, better than nothing, he thought, and added it to his lunch tray.
Spotting Uhura and Spock at the usual table, Jim took a seat with them.
“Ambrosia?” Uhura said by way of greeting.
Jim shivered, “Never again.” He waggled the bowl in the air and clarified, “Pudding.”
Uhura shrugged over her soggy piece of cherry pie. “Could be worse.”
“What’d you get, Spock?” Jim asked.
His friend was sipping from a steaming mug. “Herbal tea.”
“Such a shame,” Jim playfully chided.
“There’s no accounting for taste, captain,” Uhura added with a smile.
After a bite of pudding, Jim turned to Spock, “Are we on for chess tonight?”
“I am sorry, Jim, but I am otherwise occupied.”
Although the pair had been playing chess in Recreation Hall C every Friday evening for years, this was the first time the engagement had been broken. Jim had started to think of their chess matches as a fact of life. Indeed, he had only asked as a matter of politeness.
“Oh?” Jim said lightly, trying to mask his disappointment.
“I have a project I must complete and minimal free time in which to do so. I apologize.”
“Oh, I see. Well. Yes, of course,” Jim stammered.
Uhura’s glance flitted between the two men, her lips pursed.
“If you will please excuse me.” Spock nodded to Jim and Uhura, picked up his tray and mug, and left.
Jim sighed in dismay the moment Spock was out of sight. “He must be upset with me for forcing him into that bar.”
“You know that’s not true,” Uhura said firmly. She took a thoughtful bite of pie, “But ‘a project’? He’s full of it.”
Peeking over at Uhura, he responded, “You don’t think he’s upset with me?”
Uhura snorted. “No. And definitely not for the bar.”
“Hm,” Jim rested his cheek on one fist. “He has a big report due soon.”
“Do you think that’s it, then?”
Sighing, Jim replied, “He always finishes them early.”
“Maybe he didn’t this time. Maybe that was 'stressed Spock.'”
“Maybe,” Jim said dubiously. “I haven’t seen him like that before.”
Uhura gestured with her fork, “Emotionless Vulcan, my foot.”
Over the next few days, Jim saw little of Spock outside of the bridge, where Spock seemed (only to Jim, of course) distracted. They typically ate meals together, but Spock had entirely disappeared from the group’s mess hall table. Spock responded to communicator messages with his usual brevity, only repeating apologies for his absence. Even when a concerned Jim knocked on Spock’s door, there was no answer.
With Spock’s sudden disappearance, Jim had a stockpile of stories he couldn’t share, and his second favorite pastime of dog-piling on McCoy was rendered impossible. No one had needled him about his bad habits or corrected his math to the fourth decimal point. He hadn’t proof-read any science reports (as if they ever needed editing) or heard a half-decent joke in days. To make matters worse, Jim couldn’t shake the worry that his friend was upset with him. It was like a split lip, the pain never fully fading into the background.
As Friday evening rolled around again, Spock was still missing in action. Jim had declined Uhura’s invitation to join her in an evening of board games and brushed off McCoy’s request to discuss the results of a new medical study; he wanted to mope. He had resigned himself to a night of talking to himself while playing chess against the all-too-predictable computer when he was stopped short by a note on his door.
In crisp print, the note read: “Captain, I apologize for failing to contact you sooner. Please join me in the recreation hall, time permitting. Sincerely, Commander Spock.”
Jim blinked at the note in confusion. The formality was normal for Spock, but sending a handwritten note rather than hailing him on the comm was baffling. He struggled to see the logic in any of this. Unless, Jim thought queasily, Spock is upset with me and didn’t want to speak to me. As Jim’s relief at finally hearing from his friend wrestled with his rising sense of impending doom, he pocketed the note from the door and promptly headed to the rec hall.
Recreation Hall C was an airy semi-circle space. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around most of the room, giving it a sense of intimacy with the infinite cosmos outside. The swirling galaxies always made for a dramatic background to Jim and Spock’s chess battles. Another advantage of Rec Hall C was that it was typically empty on Friday nights—the room lacked the pool tables and bowling alleys of the ship’s other rec halls, instead offering rickety tables and uncomfortable metal chairs. When the automatic door to the room slid open, Jim was not surprised to see the room devoid of people; what threw him for a loop was the absence of furniture. The normally scattered tables and chair had been neatly arranged against the wall, clearing almost the entire room.
“Er, Mr. Spock? Hello?”
The lights were dimmer than usual, too, making it difficult to see the edges of the room. However, the muted interior highlighted the brilliance of the space outside. The Enterprise was passing through a remarkably colorful and star-dense region, shining lustrous reds, purples, blues, yellows, and whites into the rec hall. Jim was halted by its beauty. He was still amazed by it, inspired by it, despite seeing it each day.
“Greetings, Captain,” Spock had been standing up against the window, staring out of it himself, nearly camouflaged by the brilliant, riotous horizon. Upon Jim’s entrance, he extricated himself from the stars outside and crossed the open floor to meet the human.
“Hi… uh, what’s all that?” Jim gestured at the furniture behind him.
“I re-arranged the room,” Spock answered.
Jim nodded and, in a deadpan tone, replied, “Might make chess a bit difficult.”
“Indeed. However, the extra floor space would be advantageous for an alternative activity.”
“That would be?” Jim asked, dumbfounded.
“The waltz.”
Jim was thankful the shadows hid his blush. “The waltz?” One side of his mouth curled up into a lopsided, goofy grin.
Spock’s face was as impassive as always. “Yes. Though, if you would prefer chess, I could easily retrieve my set and place a table—”
“No!” Jim cut in abruptly. He cleared his throat before continuing hurriedly, “I mean, chess is great; we both like chess. But the waltz is—the waltz is also great. And the room’s already cleared, so the waltz is perfect and we should do that.”
Spock nodded, allowing Jim’s rambling to pass by un-commented upon. “Very well. We may begin whenever you would like.”
Jim didn’t try to chase the confusion off his face. “I thought you didn’t know how to waltz.”
“I did not know how to waltz when you asked that of me previously. Now, however, I do know how to waltz.”
Two puzzle pieces in Jim’s mind clicked together, causing him clap his hands together in success. “Ha! Your report’s not late!”
“I beg your pardon?”
His smile edging towards manic, Jim leaned in toward his friend. “How long has it taken you to learn the waltz?”
“Seven days.”
Jim let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding in for a week. Spock raised an eyebrow at him in response. He righted himself and smiled at Spock.
“You’re not upset at me?”
Spock tilted his head to one side. “I am certainly not upset with you. Why did you come to this conclusion?”
“Well, uh. I haven’t seen you in some time. And after we went—I mean, I did drag you out to the bar that night—which you were very polite about—but…” he winced, “I was worried you were avoiding me.”
“I see,” Spock paused. “I apologize for causing you concern. That was not my intention. I sought to facilitate what appeared to be a mutual interest in the waltz by learning the dance myself first. I had a limited number of leisure hours in which to learn and I do regret withdrawing from our social activities.”
Jim swallowed. “That’s all right. I’m just glad you’re a fast learner.”
The pair stood silently for a moment before Jim channeled his nervous energy into action. “Well!” he called out as he bounced back on his heels. “Dance floor?”
Jim almost ran to the center of the cleared rec hall—what Spock clearly intended to serve as a makeshift ballroom. “Check.”
“Partner?” Jim asked cheerfully. With a genteel swing of one arm, he gave a deep bow to his friend. “Check.”
“Music?” he twirled a wrist in Spock’s direction.
Without missing a beat, Spock pulled a controller from his pocket and pressed a button. A simple, repetitive melody in three-quarter time piped in over the speakers. “Check,” he replied as he joined Jim.
“All right, maestro,” Jim said with a chuckle. “What’re the steps?”
“The waltz is, in its most basic form, a so-called ‘box step.’ This step consists of a forward half box and a backward half box. Each half box involves a step forward or backward, side step, and a step to close the feet together. The leader typically begins with their left foot and the follower mirrors their steps, beginning with their right foot.”
“And that looks like?”
Obliging to Jim’s request, Spock, arms clasped behind his back, demonstrated a basic waltz. Jim stared at the Vulcan’s feet, trying to memorize the movement.
Hands together resting in the small of his back, mimicking Spock’s posture, Jim said. “I think I got it.”
Spock hesitated before saying, “I have neglected to describe the arm positioning. The right arm is placed on the partner’s upper back, while the left arm may be rested on the partner’s shoulder. We could adapt this, however.”
“We’ll have to leave room for Jesus,” Jim replied.
Spock cocked his head in confusion.
“Sorry, bad ancient joke,” Jim amended. “No adaptations needed, as long as you’re comfortable.”
Jim gently arranged his hands as per his friend’s instructions and tried to avoid flinching when Spock’s arms barely rested on his back and shoulder. He had pressed bandages to Spock’s wounded side, wrenched him down by the shoulder to get him out of the line of fire, tapped his bicep to get his attention while they were on the conn, carried his unconscious frame to the medical room—so, why did this feel like the first touch? This thought was only superseded by the fizzling realization that Spock was holding him, too.
“May be begin?”
“Fire away.”
Well-adjusted to the human’s turns of phrase, Spock nodded. He slowly led Jim through the steps, counting out the beats. Jim began by staring at his feet, but was soon able to memorize the movements, for which he sent out a silent thank you to his well-honed spatial awareness. Who knew dodging phaser blasts and weaving through crowded diplomacy events would be so useful for this? While Jim rapidly learned a box step, Spock patiently carried on leading the pair. The Vulcan’s posture was without reproach: back straight as an arrow, arms out and rounded, head held up. Jim, on the other hand, quickly decided to forgo mimicking Spock’s form—instead, he focused entirely on the rhythm. Slouching into the tempo, it felt as though the music was materializing from his footsteps rather than the speakers above.
“How do you add in the spinning?” he asked Spock.
His partner, never breaking his form, responded, “To perform a left box turn, one turns a quarter to the left with each half box.”
“Let’s see it, fearless leader,” Jim teased.
With that, Spock seamlessly integrated a turn into the pattern. Jim followed, relishing the sight of the room twirling around them. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh; the spins, the music, the closeness—it made him feel giddy. It was a feeling he wanted to chase.
“How does double-time sound, Mr. Spock?”
“I believe that can be arranged.”
The pair’s waltz quickened to a gallop, the room around them transforming into an unintelligible smear. The downbeat piping in from on high guided Jim’s footsteps. The song—all strings and harmonies—hadn’t gripped him at first, but now he felt like a conduit for the music. He was at once the conductor and the orchestra. One foot summoned the lilting beat, the other followed along. He bobbed his head side to side, cueing in the violas, cellos, and the basses at their turns while his mouth mumbled the melody along with the violins. Drifting though he was, Jim felt secure. His newfound muscle memory was helpful, of course, but it was really the presence of his partner. Spock would be in lock-step with him. And if need be, Spock would help him back from the ledge.
His softened gaze was sharpened back into focus by a tensing of Spock’s hands on his back, jolting the song’s vibrato through his skin. Jim looked into the Vulcan’s face then. Spock’s cheeks were tinged with green, mouth firmly set, and brown eyes staring curiously back at him.
Jim wasn’t sure who lost his footing first, but the pair suddenly stumbled. For a second, everything was feet stepping on feet and legs bumping into legs. Jim, however, regained his balance just in time to flash out a hand and pluck Spock from his downward trajectory. Jim righted them both, one hand on Spock’s shoulder and the other clasping Spock’s hand.
“Wow! You okay?” Jim asked, letting out a breath.
Spock jerked his own hands away, prompting Jim to take a step backward. “I am fine, Captain.”
The music continued to blare, but now Spock had returned his hands to their usual position behind his back. He stood rigidly, making no move to resume the dance. The trip seemed to have broken something.
“Well,” Jim began slowly, “maybe we should call it a night.”
“A fine idea,” Spock said.
Remembering the chairs and tables exiled against the walls, Jim gestured feebly around the room. “Can I offer you help putting all this back?”
“Not at all. I will be fine,” Spock replied with a nod.
Jim returned the stiff nod and headed for the door. At the threshold he paused and turned back toward his partner. “You’re a great teacher, Spock. Thank you.”
With that, he exited the room, leaving Spock still anchored to the center of the dance floor.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how chess went last night?”
Jim leaned against one of the med bay cots, watching as McCoy plodded through filing medical reports.
“I thought he stood you up again,” McCoy intoned, eyes fixed on his PADD.
Jim clicked his tongue. “First: he didn’t ‘stand me up,’” he mimed quotation marks around McCoy’s words, “second: we didn’t play chess.”
McCoy’s typing stuttered briefly and then resumed unabated. “Checkers, then?”
“Nope,” Jim smirked coyly.
“Shuffleboard.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Pool.”
“Nyet.”
“Damn it, Jim,” McCoy plopped the PADD on the table, ran a hand over this forehead, and turned to his friend. “Don’t make me actually guess what I’m thinking.”
“Huh?” Jim’s smirk froze in confusion.
“Never mind, never mind,” McCoy waved a hand at him. “Just tell me.”
Jim cleared his throat performatively. “Mr. Spock taught me how to waltz.”
The immediate look of bewilderment on McCoy’s face was overtaken by laughter. In between chuckles, McCoy managed, “And he taught me cake decorating. Now, out with it.”
Jim smiled triumphantly, “I’m serious.”
McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “You know, I’m not as gullible as you seem to think.”
“I’m not fooling you,” Jim insisted with a laugh of his own.
“Oh, yeah?” McCoy stood and gestured smugly with one hand. “Prove it.”
Grinning mischievously, Jim scooped up the doctor in the form Spock taught him. He briskly revolved McCoy around for a few box turns, and was surprised when his quick pace failed to trip up the other man. Releasing McCoy, Jim crossed his arms, somewhat dejected.
“Since when did you know the waltz?” he pouted.
McCoy barked out a laugh. “I’m enough of a gentleman to know how to dance, Jim. And how to predict your nonsense.”
Jim shrugged.
“But what’s the matter with your form?” McCoy asked.
“What do you mean?”
McCoy held out his left arm on the upper back of an imaginary partner, and his right arm out and high. “You hold one arm up and take the partner’s hand.”
The doctor stood in his position for a second or so as Jim stared dumbly. Something seemed to click in McCoy’s face, and choked laughter bubbled up.
“Your selective knowledge of Vulcans is comical, Jim.”
When Jim returned to Rec Hall C the next evening, he did not do so empty-handed. He wasn’t yet sure how to best rationalize the gift—no, tool—to Spock, but Jim knew he always did his best when improvising. So, improvise he would.
After tapping a musical knock on the door, Jim entered. The cleared dance floor remained, but his friend was not waiting for him there as he’d hoped. Instead, at a table rescued from the morass against the wall, he found Spock setting up a tri-dimensional chess board. Jim realized with surprise that, for the first time, the sight of the chess board disappointed him. Maybe he wouldn’t even have the chance to share the present—accessory?—with Spock.
He watched as Spock, hand moving with the same controlled grace as last evening’s waltz, plucked a king piece from the box. Spock rolled the chess piece across his palm until it reached his fingertips. His index finger and thumb cradled the piece’s crown, while his ring finger came to rest to steady the base. He guided the king through the air to its starting position on one of the lower boards with barely a glance, knowing its proper place by instinct now. The king glided into position, nestled between the already-placed queen and bishop. Spock lowered one edge of the bottom of the chess piece with a gentle but firm tack, then slid the other edge to silently meet with the board. His hand hovered just above the king’s cross, regarding his handiwork, before whisking away to continue with his task. Spock had said that Vulcans didn’t dance, not really. But here was Spock, absorbed in his movements with confidence and ease and satisfaction—and all focused through his hands. And yet, when they had waltzed Spock’s hands had been frozen in place.
McCoy must be right then, Jim thought. The doctor, after much pestering, had explained that Vulcans’ hands were extremely fragile. He muttered something about touching things being uncomfortable, even painful for Vulcans. Jim had startled at that, and nearly marched straight to Spock’s quarters to apologize. McCoy, with some sudden frenzy, had restrained Jim, stating unequivocally that this was a deeply private medical matter for Vulcans. He confessed that he himself knew little beyond that, specifically because Vulcans were reticent to share more.
Spock had gone through so much trouble to indulge Jim’s interest in dancing. The least Jim could do was offer something that could protect his friend and apologize for his own ignorance. And maybe, Spock will feel safe enough to move himself, move his hands, like he does a chess piece.
Jim cleared his throat to announce himself and then said, “Feeling like chess tonight, Mr. Spock?”
His friend nodded by way of greeting. “I felt it would be… prudent to offer an alternative.”
“Prudent, certainly. Thank you, Spock,” Jim grinned. “Though not necessary. Unless you would prefer it.” He put the lift of a question into his words.
Spock, tilting his head to one side, promptly replied, “Either option is amenable to myself.”
Ball’s in my court now. The fact that Spock was still in the process of arranging the chess set at their usual meeting time made Jim suspect that the impeccably prompt Vulcan had brought the game along as an afterthought. If he’s already set up the music like last time, Jim thought, that’s what he was hoping for. The chess was for my sake.
“Well, I was looking forward to another dance lesson, clumsy though I may be. Do we still have accompaniment?”
“Indeed, captain,” his friend answered.
Spock picked up a remote from the table and pressed a button. Just as yesterday, graceful orchestral music sounded from the room’s speakers. Jim applauded himself on containing a triumphant smirk. Instead, he let out a whistle of appreciation.
“And McCoy says you have no style.”
“Doctor McCoy is perhaps a poor judge in that matter.” Jim wondered if he imagined the playful glint in Spock’s brown eyes.
“I admit you’re right, Mr. Spock. But he did give me the idea for some more appropriate waltz attire.”
In response to Spock’s quizzical expression, Jim presented two pairs of formal evening gloves, one black and the other white.
“Pick your poison. Good thing the Federation kits us up so well for all those soirees, huh?”
Spock selected the black pair of gloves and donned them carefully, smoothing out imperceptible wrinkles in the dark cloth. Jim felt his friend’s gaze as he clumsily wrestled his way into the white pair of gloves.
Spock cleared his throat. “Doctor McCoy suggested these gloves?”
“In a way,” Jim said as he arranged his own pair. The sudden restriction of his hands made him wonder if the gloves were too small now. Or maybe he was too much of an oaf for them. “He said something about Vulcans’ hands being easily hurt.”
There was a brief pause before Spock replied coolly, “Is that entirely how the good doctor described it?”
Jim gave one of his own gloves a tug to get it into place. “Well, he said he couldn’t tell me much more than that, really—fragile, delicate.”
“I understand there are a number of Vulcan attributes that humans find unusual.” There was a tenseness in Spock’s voice.
With a shrug, Jim replied, “And a number of human attributes Vulcans find unusual. Rightfully so.” He tried to focus on Spock while wrestling with a bunched-up bit of fabric around the base of his pinky. “I know I have a tendency to step in it at times. I can’t say how sorry I am if I made you uncomfortable.”
Spock peered at the man, eyes flickering to Jim’s hands before returning to his face and answering flatly, “You did not ‘step in it.’ No harm was caused.” His friend’s usual warm amusement with Jim’s human turns-of-phrase was suspiciously absent. Instead, there was something heavy in Spock’s voice that Jim couldn’t place.
“Good… good,” Jim said, unconvinced. “Well, I thought gloves might help.”
Gloves on properly now—or as properly as possible—Jim turned to Spock. “Do they help?”
Spock, eyes now fixed firmly on Jim’s face, answered, “I thank you for your consideration. Shall we begin?”
At Jim’s nod, Spock stalked off to the center of the dance floor. Jim followed, flexing his hands in the uncomfortable gloves. Spock positioned himself a few steps away from Jim and inclined his head in a minuscule bow. Jim returned the gesture. As the first strains of a new song played around them, Jim readied himself to assume the modified posture Spock has taught him yesterday: one arm on the upper back and the other resting on the shoulder. Instead, Spock stepped forward, arms open wide. That’s the posture McCoy showed me. Jim didn’t allow his surprise to trip him up. As Spock’s right hand came to rest on Jim’s upper back, Jim allowed his left hand to fall to Spock’s shoulder. Spock then offered his gloved left hand to Jim, brow furrowed curiously. Jim flashed a smile to his friend, and then clasped his hand.
How many times had he touched Spock’s shoulder to greet him? Or tapped him to get his attention? Or grazed his fingertips in the process of handing him a report? In all those years? But he’d never held his hand.
Spock’s movements, initiating a smooth box-step, pulled Jim from his reverie. He fell easily into the dance, his feet joining Spock’s. They spun in wide circles around the room, reacting seamlessly to each other’s adjustments—a little left, a little right. With each step together, Jim knew to take into account Spock’s taller frame, his longer limbs. Jim was alight on his toes, following after Spock’s gentle lead and sway to the music. Spock stepped and he knew Jim would be there; Jim stepped and he knew Spock would be there. It was like when they moved together in the heat of a battle, or when they outsmarted a rival, or when they sparred: two parts of a whole working as one, understanding instinctively the mind and body of the other. Only now, Jim thought, he could feel Spock’s warm touch.
As they twirled, Jim dipped his head back. Spock shifted closer to support Jim’s weight, and the space separating their torsos disappeared. He couldn’t help but shut his eyes for a moment, soaking in the music and the movement and the closeness. What had Spock said about his mother? She ‘never detected a lack of emotionality’ in dancing with her Vulcan husband. When Jim opened his eyes, Spock was studying him intently. Amanda is a smart woman, he thought.
As Jim straightened, he found himself nearly collapsing into Spock’s chest. His grip on Spock’s gloved hand had loosened, and his fingertips were now curled into Spock’s palm and twisting around his wrist. Jim moved to fix his hand placement, sliding his hand back around Spock’s. Jim felt Spock press into his grasp, holding him a little firmer. After a moment, he noticed that Spock was raising and lowering their outstretched hands in time with the music, further breaking proper waltz form. Spock also began flicking their clasped palms to and fro, conducting the symphony in the air around them. And though they still executed their crisp box turns, Spock fell into the sort of relaxed confidence Jim recognized in their chess games, Spock’s focus pulled in to the pleasure of mastering a challenge—with me, perhaps, Jim thought wistfully. With that spark of hope in mind, Jim couldn’t help but give his partner’s hand a tender squeeze.
In an instant, Jim felt Spock’s hands release him. Jim took another step, only to find his partner gone. He caught his next step and brought himself to a halt, before turning back to Spock. His friend’s face had gone a concerning green color.
“Spock,” Jim started, “are you alright? Do you want to take a break?”
Spock, busy stripping his gloves off his hands, didn’t answer.
Jim took a step toward his friend. “I guess the gloves are no good? I’m sorry, Spock.”
His friend held the black gloves in one hand and answered thickly, “You have no reason to be sorry. It is myself who has taken advantage of your kindness. And for that, I beg your forgiveness, though it should not be granted.”
“And yet I give you my apology without reservation. But, please, Spock:” Jim said softly. “Explain.”
“Doctor McCoy does not truly understand Vulcan… biology, as no outsider does. He is partially correct about Vulcans’ hands being sensitive; however, they are not fragile in the sense that Doctor McCoy understands,” Spock replied tersely.
After a beat with no further elaboration, Jim gently asked, “Specify? Please?”
Spock appeared to compose his face into a mask of neutrality before answering, “Vulcans’ hands are similar in some ways to erogenous zones.”
A flash of heat and horror ran through Jim’s bones at once. “Oh god, Spock. I’m reiterating my apology to the maximum degree. Whether I knew or not, I should’ve paid more attention. And I never should’ve pressured you into this foolishness. I can’t say how sorry I am. When you file your report, please know that I will corroborate your testimony and accept whatever is decid—”
Spock held up a hand, cutting Jim off. “I will be filing a report, but against myself. You are wholly innocent in my misconduct, captain.”
“Your misconduct?” Jim asked, incredulous. “I practically ordered you to take my hand!”
“Untrue, captain. I engineered this scenario, knowing full well what the outcome would be. Yet I was too cowardly to inform you of how your actions could be interpreted. You were merely dancing. I was… harming.”
“You did not harm me,” Jim replied fiercely. “What I gave, I wanted to give. If you had only asked me, I would have given it to you.”
Spock, brows raised, slowly shook his head. “Regardless. My actions—”
“Are forgiven,” Jim breathed. “Are desired.”
Spock’s face flushed a somehow deeper shade of green. “I do not understand.”
“Spock, I’ve—” Jim let out a choked laugh, “I have always wondered what it would look like when you lost your cool. Just never thought I’d be the one to do it. Please, I—I’ve been hoping you’d ‘interpret my actions’ as more than for ages.”
Spock’s expression shifted from rigor mortis to perplexion. “The sheer number of idioms and obfuscations you can fit into a mere three sentences is remarkable, captain.”
“How about this, then?” Jim held out his open, gloved palm to Spock. “May I?”
There was no hesitation in Spock’s proffered hand. Jim accepted Spock’s now bare fingers with the same delicate touch he witnessed Spock use to place the chess piece. Gradually, giving his friend ample time to pull away, Jim brought Spock’s hand to hover by his lips. He paused deliberately, looking to Spock for permission. Spock, mouth minutely agape, studied Jim through half-closed eyes. As he had when beginning their dance, Spock again inclined his head in a prim bow. Spock’s intent gaze sent a wave of shimmering heat through Jim and swiftly pooled in his groin. He let out a shaky exhale, to which Spock responded by cocking his head to one side and continuing to patiently wait.
With his partner’s approval, Jim finally bridged the centimeters of space between them, placing a chaste kiss on the back of Spock hand. Spock inhaled sharply, but his slender hand relaxed into Jim’s. Feeling the dissipation of Spock’s tension, Jim brushed his lips feather-light across Spock’s knuckles. Jim flicked his gaze back to Spock’s face. He recognized in Spock’s expression the same light of fascination and intrigue he had seen and cherished countless times on the bridge. Now, though, Spock wasn’t examining an anomalous reading on the console, but probing Jim’s face. And there was something new in Spock’s expression, something heavy and wistful. Jim realized faintly that his own desire was surely written transparently on his face. Still absorbed in Spock’s eyes, Jim carefully took one of his partner’s knuckles between his lips, and gave it a gentle, experimental kiss. He was rewarded with a rough gasp that sent an unmistakable spike of lust through his body. Steady, he thought to himself.
Jim, still holding his partner’s hand, pulled his mouth away and straightened. “Is that more clear?”
“Yes, Jim.” Was Spock’s velvet reply. “I believe it is.”
Spock accepted Jim’s gloved hands in his. He loosened the fingertips of Jim’s gloves before smoothly stripping them off. Both men’s pairs of evening gloves were now unceremoniously discarded onto the floor. Spock took Jim’s right hand, turning it palm-up. With his thumb, he ran circles around Jim’s palm. Jim let out a shaky breath and watched Spock methodically trace the mounds and ridges of his skin. Spock’s gaze was fixed upon Jim’s palm. The focused look reminded him of when Spock became fascinated by a unique scientific phenomenon, though it was paired with what Jim now recognized as lust. What does this feel like to him? Jim wondered faintly. After what seemed to Jim like both a millennium and a millisecond, Spock brought Jim’s hand up to his lips and placed a brief, burning kiss on the center of his palm. He straightened and pulled away, but remained holding Jim’s hand.
“Would you care to dance?” Spock asked.
Jim gave Spock’s hand a light squeeze. “Yes, if you please, Mr. Spock.”
Hand on his shoulder, hand in his hand—off they went. Stepping and turning together, allowing the space between them to narrow into nothing. Jim was hyper-aware of his hand in Spock’s, and tried to project both eagerness and stillness at once. He fidgeted nonetheless. He felt Spock’s hand now: strong and callused from sparring matches, long fingers, somewhat bony, and blazingly warm. There, too, was a fine, dark hair reaching just onto the back of Spock’s hand, and on his knuckles. Jim let his hand on Spock’s shoulder drop to rest on his partner’s right side, over his heart. For a moment, Jim could fool himself into thinking Spock’s heart thrummed along with the tempo of their dance. Besides, it was Spock who orchestrated this. Well, in part, at least. Jim laughed lightly at himself.
“Is something humorous?” Spock inquired.
“It takes two to tango,” Jim said slyly.
“We are waltzing, Jim,” Spock replied in a tone Jim knew to be one of fondness.
They continued their dance with the dazzling swirl of space through the windows as their backdrop. Jim leaned in to nestle his head on Spock’s shoulder and, in turn, felt Spock’s chin come to rest on his shoulder, all without missing a step. What a privilege to be here, in this symphony of stars, together.