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The human propensity for celebrating the day of one's birth with an exchange of gifts had always perplexed Spock. His mother had insisted on celebrating his birth when he was a child on Vulcan, despite Sarek's disapproval. She would prepare his favorite meal and bestow upon him items such as clothing or trinkets she had collected while accompanying his father off-world. Spock had accepted his mother's offerings in an effort to placate her.
When on his sixth birthday he announced that the continued celebration of an event for which he was not responsible was illogical, she went still for a prolonged moment, then touched his cheek. She wiped her eyes, and Spock was glad that as a Vulcan, he did not cry. She sat in the garden all afternoon. He regretted that his words had upset her, and his human half wished to go to her, to beg forgiveness, but he did not. The following year, that of his kahs-wan, she presented him with nothing, for which he was grateful.
Despite a career spent among humans, he still had no wish to observe such a trite tradition, and yet an urgency he could not explain brought Spock to the antiques store not quite one point five miles from headquarters. It was not often he presented Jim with gifts. Uhura had offered to walk with him and offer guidance, but he preferred to perform this task on his own. He had accompanied Jim here before, Spock's breath catching as he watched Jim touch each book in the approximation of a Vulcan kiss along its spine.
It was a pleasant morning, sunny though quite cool. He rose from bed and dressed before Jim stirred. He did not meditate. The chronometer read 0630. There was enough time to walk to the store, select a gift, and proceed directly to campus for Saavik's exam at 0800. The book he would leave on Jim's desk. If possible, he would then meditate in the privacy of his office prior to the exam's start. Though the desire made no sense, Spock wished they need not be present for it, so he and Jim might spend the morning alone before leaving with the Enterprise for the training mission. There was much preparation to be done; he would not have Jim to himself until after their return to Earth. He would stay on board the ship tonight; Jim would join him tomorrow.
He traced a kiss over Jim's palm and left the apartment. His pace was brisk, and Spock reached the store in twenty-one minutes, glad for his thermal layer beneath his uniform when the breeze picked up off of the bay.
He scowled when a bell above the door chimed as he entered the store. He did not wish to be disturbed by the proprietor. The shop was littered with items which Terrans deem valuable, and yet Spock knew to be nothing more than old technology overlain with nostalgia. The interior was poorly lit. His nose prickled when he inhaled the dusty air, though he softened, as the scent of old books and paper reminded him of Jim. Illogical, as Jim smelled like most Terrans do; it was his study which smelled of books. Still, the scent memory tugged at the corners of Spock's mouth. He recalled Jim's relaxed posture upon entering this store the last time, how his shoulders had rounded just slightly, and he appeared to release tension Spock had not realized he held as he lost himself among the bound tomes. It was as if Jim had, to use a Terran phrase, come home.
Spock did not have such a physical reaction to his surroundings. His back was stiff, his arms locked at his sides. Inhaling only as necessary, he stood before a shelf of books and felt impotent. Gol had not bested him; surely selecting a gift for Jim would not.
"May I help you?"
The voice belonged to the shopkeeper, a slight Terran woman with reddened cheeks.
"I mean to procure a gift," Spock said crisply.
"What is the occasion?" she inquired.
"It is my captain's birthday," he replied.
It sounded absurd leaving his mouth. Jim was no longer his captain; he was an admiral, but Spock was not buying a gift for an admiral. He intended it for Jim, who was his in ways he did not wish to share with her; indeed, in ways that staggered him still. Carefully, he felt for Jim through the warm spot in his mind. Its presence never failed to enthrall him, but it was not her business. Captain would do. He straightened.
"Are you thinking of a book?" she asked, motioning to the shelves.
"I—" Spock began. "Yes."
"Do you know his preferences?"
"Clarify."
"Fiction or nonfiction? Is there a genre he prefers?"
"Ah," Spock said, uncurling the fists he had unknowingly clenched. "I know him to possess a fondness for the works of William Shakespeare."
"Perhaps a collection of sonnets?" she suggested, pointing to the shelf nearest the wall.
"Negative," he said, shaking his head. "I have seen him read from such a book."
"I see," she said. "One of his dramatic works, perhaps?"
"He is in possession of eighteen Shakespearean dramas," Spock replied. "Given his predilection for such works, he collects them. Based upon this information, is there another author you can recommend?"
"Hmm," she said, tapping a finger against her lips. "He enjoys the classics, would you say?"
"That is accurate."
"What is your price point?"
"Price is no obstacle," Spock said.
"Very good," she said. "Is he fond of Dickens?"
"He has read Great Expectations," Spock answered.
"I believe I have something," she said and indicated that he should follow her. "I've been keeping it in the back," she called over her shoulder as she walked deeper into the store. "I had half a mind to keep it, but I can't deny a fellow collector. The condition is quite good, and the book itself rare. This is the first time I've ever laid eyes on a copy."
Spock tucked the book under his arm as he left the shop. The outside temperature had risen by four degrees, and he reached headquarters in twenty-six minutes. The shopkeeper had offered to wrap the book for him in parchment, but Spock did not see the practicality in concealing the gift in paper, only to have Jim tear it away immediately. Doing so would not increase his regard.
He entered his access code for Jim's office door, closing it behind him before he moved to the desk, sliding the chair out so he could sit comfortably. He placed the book before him, attempting to determine the most logical position for it among the stacks of PADDs. In the end, he rearranged the piles to accommodate the book in the center of the desk; surely Jim could not overlook it. He touched his fingers to the blue cover as Jim might do, then left.
It pleased Spock immensely when Jim entered the simulator with the book tucked beneath his arm; it pleased him yet again when he boarded the Enterprise the next morning, still holding it.
***
Spock remained several paces behind Jim, watching as he fussed with the door lock.
"We need to replace this thing," Jim muttered. "It sticks."
After a shove of Jim's shoulder, the door gave way. It swung open to reveal a spacious apartment, well appointed, with a view of the Pacific. Spock peered at it from the hallway.
"This is it," Jim said, holding the door open. It became clear to Spock that Jim was waiting for him to enter first. He ducked his head and went inside, pausing to study the grouping of chairs beside an unlit fireplace. The arrangement sparked something in his memory: the clink of a glass placed on the side table, the rustle of book pages.
"That's where you spend most of your time, as I'm sure you can imagine," Jim said with a chuckle, motioning to the chair on the right. "Along with a blanket or two."
"You sit with me?" Spock asked, indicating the adjacent chair.
"I do."
Nodding slowly, Spock proceeded further into the room, past a half wall on which Jim laid his coat before coming to stand beside Spock at the window. He stood closer than Spock was comfortable, his shoulder only four inches away from Spock's own, but Spock reminded himself what his father had told him: he and Jim were telsu. Spock kept that part of his mind carefully shielded, but he remained where he stood. It was not Jim's fault he could not remember. Spock would not dishonor him.
"It's quite a view," Jim commented.
"Indeed."
"It cost more than I could afford on a captain's salary, when I first acquired it, but it was worth it." He turned around and gestured to the room. "Does anything seem familiar?"
"Somewhat." It was an imprecise answer. He frowned.
"I don't know about you," Jim said through a yawn, "but I'm exhausted. I think I'll turn in early."
"I, too, require sleep."
"If it would make you more comfortable," Jim lowered his voice, "I'm happy to sleep out here for a while."
"Unnecessary," Spock said, shaking his head. "I imagine we have shared a bed before."
"Are you certain? It won't offend me if you can't, just yet."
On Vulcan, the healers said it was best that Spock resume his normal activities. Doing so, they said, might stimulate his memory stores. Jim had immediately suggested chess, which they played daily for the three months during Spock's re-education. Spock knew the healers had meant intimacy, but he did not tell this to Jim. Jim never shared his bed on Vulcan, for which Spock had been grateful.
He nodded once.
"Well," Jim said, "it's just through here."
The bedroom was simple, the bed not overly large. Jim switched on the light and sat on the edge of the mattress to remove his shoes; Spock remained standing, clasping his hands before him. He identified a Vulcan lute on the wall above the bed. On the nightstand lay a book with a blue cover. Spock touched his fingers to the spine. The words came to him, and he spoke them, though he did not know the context.
"It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done."
Jim's head shot up, and he locked eyes with Spock, his own wide. "Yes," he said.
Spock furrowed his brow, something flickering in his mind, something he could almost—
Yes, the memory was there. He felt himself walking, felt the cool bay air. If he only reached mental hands far enough, perhaps he could—
He saw Jim's face, the broad smile as he opened the cover. It was so close and then— nothing.
He blinked and dropped his head to his chest.
"It'll come to you," Jim said kindly.
Spock glanced at him, sock footed and folding his uniform. Strangely, Jim's state of undress did not make him uneasy. His hands itched to rest on Jim's shoulders. He concealed them behind his back.
"I'm going to grab a shower," Jim announced, moving past him and closing the door to what must be the bathroom. Spock had showered earlier at the Vulcan Embassy, before the trial. He removed his uniform and sank to the floor in his underclothes, crossing his legs beneath him. He must remember.
Jim's hand on his shoulder roused him from his meditative state. He offered that same hand to help Spock in rising, but Spock steadied himself and stood without assistance. He regretted the emotions which flitted across Jim's face: hope, hurt, regret.
Spock angled his face away, turning the covers down.
"I changed the sheets earlier, when I stopped by to get changed," Jim said as he mimicked Spock's actions on the other side of the bed. He shook out his pillow, propped it against the headboard, and lay back against it. He looked to Spock, then to the space on the bed beside him, and visibly swallowed.
Spock steeled himself against the part of him which desired to leave this room. He switched off the bedside lamp and sank onto the mattress. It provided adequate support, he assessed. His exploration of the pillow revealed the same. He slipped his legs beneath the sheet and pulled it high on his chest. There was a rustle of fabric as Jim sat up and tugged heavy blankets over Spock's legs.
"You always get cold," Jim explained, and again sat back. Spock detected a blip of emotion within himself. It was minor, like a blip on the medical scanners in sickbay. Sickbay. He recalled lying on a biobed, the feeling of Jim's hand within his. He had not been ashamed, he realized.
Jim's breathing was steady. It was, Spock found, a peaceful sound. He listened to Jim exhale and counted his breaths; he took in air fifteen times per minute. Spock wondered how many times he had lain with Jim as he lay now, how many nights he counted his breaths. The thought was pleasing to him. He turned on his side to face Jim in the dark.
"May I make an inquiry?" he began.
"Anything," Jim said immediately, giving Spock's arm a light squeeze. He retracted his hand almost as quickly as he had extended it, and Spock noted his skin felt cold where Jim had briefly touched him.
"Am I very different?" he asked.
Jim held his breath. The hand returned to Spock's arm. This time, Jim squeezed and let his hand linger.
"In some ways," he said, exhaling. "And in others, you're quite familiar. You remind me of the Spock I first met."
"Before I accepted my humanity," Spock deduced.
"Yes."
"I find the concept of my humanity staggering," he confessed. "The notion is..."
"Shameful?" Jim offered.
Spock stilled. "Yes," he said.
"Are you...are you thinking of severing..."
"No." The force of his own voice surprised him. "I would not do such a thing to you."
"I don't want you to keep it out of obligation."
"I keep it," Spock answered, "because you are mine, and I am yours—by law and by choice. I will not break the bond unless you request it be done."
"If you change your mind—"
"I shall not."
"Well, whatever you say, Mr. Spock," Jim conceded, and Spock could detect a smile in his tone of voice. Though he could not see Jim's face well, he could picture the exact smile in perfect detail. Fascinating.
Jim shifted closer to him and brushed the hair from Spock's forehead. Spock had not expected the action, but he did not pull back from it. It was a pleasant sensation, to feel Jim's fingertips against his skin. Jim radiated affection.
"I never thought I'd have the chance to do this again," he murmured.
"I regret that I have caused you pain," Spock offered, uncertain if this was the correct thing to say.
Jim laughed and swiped at his eyes. "I'm just glad to have you back."
They fell quiet. Spock realized he was leaning, just barely, into Jim's hand, which continued to stroke his hair. That he desired Jim to continue touching him surprised Spock. He wondered what it would be like to touch Jim in return. Perhaps it would be beneficial, as the healers had hypothesized. He accessed his controls to stop the shaking in his extremities.
"Does it disappoint you, that I am not as I once was?" Spock asked hesitantly, daring to press the tips of his fingers to Jim's other hand, which lay between them on the sheet. The sensation caused a warmth low in his belly which coiled and became hot. He shivered but began to stroke along his veins, his prominent knuckles, the rounded edges of Jim's fingernails.
"You're alive," Jim said, and he pulled Spock against his chest. "That's all that matters."
Spock froze in the embrace, his Vulcan sensibilities telling him to push away, but he did not. This was familiar. He inhaled deeply against Jim's shoulder, his scent easing tension Spock had felt within his chest. He was aware of Jim's warm palms smoothing circles across his back. They were bonded. There was no shame in this. He buried his face in Jim's neck.
"The book," Jim whispered next to Spock's ear as he rocked them slowly, "you gave it to me for my birthday, just before we left Earth."
How odd that he had done so, and yet the act had clearly made Jim happy. Knowing this caused a thrill in Spock which he did not tamp down. He thought, briefly, of his mother, of a steaming bowl of soup and the smell of freshly baking bread. Jim's arms tightened around him. Within them, Spock felt cherished and secure. His shields trembled and cracked. A bright place in his mind called to him as if a siren, and he turned toward it. He brought his hands to Jim's arms and gripped them.
"The store…" he said, "was dusty."
Jim's laughter was beautiful like music as his lips brushed Spock's cheek and meld points and the tip of his ear. His lips were warm. Spock knew them, knew this. He lifted his chin to feel Jim's mouth press against his. The last of the tension eased, and he boldly kissed Jim in return. The universe shrunk to the two of them. Spock lost all sense of time, but he found it did not matter with Jim curled around him.
From the corner of his eye, Spock felt something wet slip down his cheek.