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We’ve survived yet another scrape with death. It was the Klingons again, fighting for no other reason but to bring violence into the universe, for revenge. They’re an old species; Klingons don’t easily forget. But maybe they’re just highly misunderstood, maybe they think the same about us. Violent, brash, primitive. Commander Pike’s words describing me at my worst sound uncomfortably similar.
For once I’m actually looking forward to sleeping. I’m only one short word’s command away from my bed that’s calling my name and I honestly can’t think of a time I was more excited to shut myself off from the world for a few hours. Just close my eyes and bask in the dark peacefulness of unconsciousness. The only person I wouldn’t mind staying up for is already at my side, on his own way towards well needed rest. My Science Officer, Mr. Spock. We’d done it again, prospered, together, just as we always have.
I smile at him, sad to see him so exhausted but ecstatic to see him alive. He doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t show it. He’s probably thinking, conjuring up logarithms and theories based on how he had fought, how I had. I imagine his brain working at warp speed comparing what had happened in reality to what his statistics had predicted would happen. I hope what he finds isn’t so disconcerting.
My quarters are on the way to his. We walk together until our steps fall into a rhythm. It’s comforting, in some weird, musical way. Like we have a shared momentum, not separate from each other. I wonder if he notices.
When we reach my door, Spock slows. So he was been paying attention.
He bows his head slightly, looking me in the eyes. “Captain," he says before continuing down the corridor.
“Spock?”
I don’t know what makes me stop him. Maybe it was his tired, solemn face as he turned. Maybe it was the unusual slump to his shoulders. Maybe it was because I have a headache and my back has a tense pinch in it. I don’t know why I called out to him, but I did and how he's stopped.
“Yes, Captain?” His hands are clasped behind his back, so proper. I just want to ask him why? Why does he always have to be so strict with me? Is it too much to ask of him to just let his human side be friends with me?
I don’t even know what to say. “Care for a celebratory game? Calm the rush of the fight from our minds with logic?” If I know Spock, he couldn’t say no to logic, or proving he holds more capacity of it than I do.
He lick his lips. “Sure, Captain.”
.::.::.
Halfway through the game, I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes. Spock’s winning, but I don’t care. I knew he would; I’m in no fit state to play a competitive game of chess. It’s calming, though, like I said. He’s calming. Quiet. I can hear his breath, in and out. I close my eyes and try to feel what he’s feeling. Trouble is, I can never know what that is. I’m scared I’ll never truly know him because of the mask he constantly hides behind.
“You’re move, Captain.”
He’s looking at me when I open my eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about me or about the next move I’ll make. His eyes roam my face, reading me. I wonder which emotion he’s masking now.
I move my rook. It’s a foolish move, and he’ll win the game now. “Check,” I say despite it all.
"Foolish, foolish." Spock’s eyes look light, there’s a shine to them. That’s how he smiles when his mask is on. “Checkmate.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you say Spock.”
It’s over. I watch as he sets the pieces back where they belong. Now he has to leave for his quarters to rest like we’d been told, like we’d wanted. But now I don’t want him to leave. I like him here, in my room, sitting at my table. I like him here, calm and calculated. I want to see if his mask slips off when he sleeps. I want to ask him if he dreams.
Instead, out of foolishness, out of fatigue, out of care, I put my hand on his forearm and watch his face. He’s staring, wide-eyed at my hand. He doesn’t move; maybe he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know which step is the most logical one to take next. Well, ask anyone, Spock, Captain Kirk isn’t logical.
I walk my fingers down the sleeve of his dirtied Science Blue shirt. His back is stiff, his fist is clenched. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.
When my fingertips reach skin, he gasps and looks at me. His eyebrows are furrowed, like maybe he’s confused. He cocks his head to the left. But goddamn it, his mask is still there.
I trace his bones with my index finger, hoping to discover something new about him. It’s fascinating, really, his pale skin stretched over muscle, veins carrying green blood. I reach the nail on his index finger. It’s smooth, nicely cut, with dirt and dried blood under the edge. I like this kind of Spock. Dirty, slightly disheveled, shocked. Maybe he seems a bit more human this way, not so perfect.
My fingers gently press against his fingertips, pushing our hands up in a steeple. I follow the trail of his arm with my eyes. There’s a blush to his ears, he’s flushed green. I’ve never seen this mask before. I realize that maybe it’s because this is the first time he hasn’t pasted one on. This is him. This is Spock, and I'm amazed.
Our hands are flat against each other now, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip. I know how Vulcans show affection, however little that may be, with their hands. I know that. I made the first move, now I just have to wait for him to make his, to push against his comfort zone, to open up. Checkmate me again.
I thought I’d feel it when he did, but I don’t notice it until he closes his eyes. He lets out a breath and the tension leaves his face, drains out through the air from his lungs. I don’t notice it much, even then, just that something’s different. There’s a warm glow of a feeling emanating from where both of our middle and index fingers rest against each other. It steadily grows and Spock’s shoulders relax. His neck isn’t strained, his eyebrows return to normal. It’s the closest thing to sleeping I’ve ever seen him. He’s--
“Beautiful,” I say aloud.
He looks at me like he’s never seen me before. He watches, he searches, he analyzes. The warmth in my hand travels up my arm and spreads out across my back. Slowly it trickles along my spine until I can feel him in every part of my body. Every limb, every cell, every nerve ending is him. He's a part of me, somehow. I can feel what he’s feeling: awe, excitement, intimacy, fear, beauty. I finally know. I see who he is. I know he is fearful of his lack of empathy, but also of his overwhelming need to be loved. He’s surprised that I knew about what touching our fingertips meant and glad for the same reason. He’s shocked I’ve felt this way about him for as long as I have, longer than he has, I realize. I know he feels it, my smugness that I’d yearned for him first. Not because I’m competitive, though, but because I had the chance to notice things, watch him, when he wasn’t aware.
“I was aware,” Spock says. “I was merely misinterpreting your interest in me.”
“Misinterpreting how?” I intertwine our fingers.
“I came to the conclusion, rather early on, that you absolutely, irrevocably despised me.”
“I don’t think you could have been any more wrong,” I say, smiling at his stupid proper speech patterns and pull him up to sit with me on my bed.
He makes a small agreeing sound and hums quietly as his thumb rubs mine. His connection to my mind gives me a vague understanding of what he’s about to say before he says it, yet he continues aloud anyway. I think he knows how badly I need to hear it, how badly I need his voice in my ears.
“Love is something unattainable for Vulcans, an unreachable summit, a planet orbiting a dying sun. In the end, it merely isn't reasonable. Not for me.”
“You’re wrong, Spock. I think you're forgetting a vital aspect of your DNA."
“Am I? There is Vulcan blood in my veins, Captain, it is not red as yours is. It flows green. I am not wrong, and I am not human.”
I lay his fingers out flat to draw patterns on his palm. My fingertips are light, soft on his skin. I feel his mind racing, thinking, conjuring as usual, but not statistics or theories. He isn’t thinking of mathematical outcomes or whether or not this is the logical thing to do. He is thinking of my touch, of our hands, of our proximity, my bed. Of me. I realize he isn’t hiding, he isn’t masking this emotion. He has the power, the choice, yet he isn’t masking it.
I grip the back of his neck and pull our faces together. My lips feel hot, Spock’s mind melding into mine from our mouths while our hands are apart. He’s more commanding than I thought he’d be, his tongue demanding the taste of mine, the feel of my mouth. His hand on my neck as well, we both press to each other, needing the pressure of our bodies. His free hand fiddles with the ripped hem of my shirt. I know he wants to pull it off but can’t seem to stop kissing me to do it.
I rest a hand on his side. Pulling away, I can’t find my breath. I vaguely wonder if it's some secret Vulcan defense mechanism, stealing the air from another’s lungs. Before Spock can tell me I’m wrong, I say, “You see that, Spock? That is emotion. That is real. That is human.”
His eyes bore into mine. I think he may finally understand.
I continue, “You’re overestimating what love is. It’s not foreign. It’s not some mountain you can’t climb. It’s not a dying sun. Spock, when you do it right, it’s easy. It just happens.”
“It just happens,” he repeats, thinking. “There are so many variable factors. I can’t put trust in such an unreliable, abstract thing that just happens.”
“But you don’t have to.” I feel like I’m pleading for my life. “Put trust in me, have faith in me. I love you. I’m in love with you.”
He rests his forehead against mine. We close our eyes.
“Jim…”
My name... It’s the best and closest thing to I love you, too I could have ever hoped for.