endeavvor

[endeavvor]

“Are the systems even compatible?” He asks, and perhaps it is the way Spock is openly reaching across him, invading his personal space, that makes the question feel like more than he intended. Unfortunately, there is no openly hidden agenda here, and his expression is open and earnest when he turns to face Spock.

Threat looming over their heads or not, Jim is completely captivated by the prospect of what they are going to try to do with this ship. He practically vibrates with the excitement he’s desperately trying to contain for the sake of the other.

His curiosity only stalls slightly in favor of noting their proximity, giving him a closer look at all of the Vulcan’s sharp and alien features. It’s Spock’s eyes and lips that soften them, even with the perpetual frown that seems to be a permanent staple. Disarmingly human and drawing Jim in. If he leans fractionally, he cannot be blamed —

— he can handle five days without being irrational, he thinks. Irritating, though, is a different story.

“I’ve sat through enough meetings over the last week to know our technology is fairly primitive in comparison to yours.” He is not as ashamed as the big wigs were to admit this. Despite his ego, he can at least admit when he’s been bested. “My government is trying to play it off, however, that you see us as a threat because of what we have, but I don’t think that’s correct. I think you see us as a threat for what we could have if we’re left unattended.”

The Vulcan’s feel obligated to direct them, by any means necessary. They will justify death and enslavement of humans because it is what is best for the universe. Catch the behavior early and dissuade it rather than turn to an intergalactic war.

It is logical.

“You wouldn’t have just come here and shown yourselves without watching us for a while first; but did you adapt your own technology to integrate with what we have so that we can make this work? Or are we going to be giving it the old college try here and hoping paperclips and rubber bands will do.”

@fasciinating

The human’s personal familiarity with violent rhetoric should not surprise him as much as it does. Despite his own frustrations with Kirk, Spock surmised that Kirk was, at the very least, a valuable asset to their cause for freedom from persecution.

Vulcans value intellect, bravery, and in their conquest for total control, there is something to be said for any individual demonstrative of the qualities of a warrior.

That Kirk is hardly viewed in this manner similarly by his own kind is both curious and cause for concern. Often confounded by their unpredictable, inexplicable emotionalism, Spock does not delude himself that he will somehow conjure the ability to understand them.

For the time being, Spock will not comment any further on his calculating thoughtfulness. He merely continues to consider him, watching peripherally as the human strips out of his outer clothing, and noting the quick flash of metals around Kirk’s neck.

An item of sentimental significance, no doubt, of which they are entirely in need of governance.

Not only that but Kirk is warm, radiating that heat when he rifles through flimsies and thinks closely — too close — to Spock, as if Kirk is either unaware or unwilling to accommodate the universal sense of personal space.

He will not roll his eyes. But the sensation emerges; a near thing.

Spock moves a fraction to his left.

“The ship still has flight capabilities,” he says, focusing on tangible objectives rather than the sudden possibilities fit to betray him. Spock leans forward, bending to inspect under the open paneling of the console, “Once the engine has been repaired, our primary objective should be converting the ship’s systems to Vulcan.”

If they are unable to mask their signature, they will be identified and captured the moment they breech the atmosphere. He unhooks a cable, then another, leaning across Kirk to the clips to uncouple the rest of the panel, working quickly through tense fingers.

As it is, he has no interest in being labeled a traitor so soon.

“It would be helpful if you could refrain from irrationalism over the next five days.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

Though it is brief and fleeting, it still feels like an eternity before realization settles across Spock’s features and Jim is released — left to crumple heavily to the ground. There is nothing left of his pride to be salvaged as he braces himself on his palms. Locking his arms to avoid relenting to press his forehead to the ground in a silent prayer.

Trying, and failing to catch his breath, Jim cannot even begin to know what Spock has gleaned from the contact. He’d never been taught proper shielding. Is psi-null despite the connection they share, well, shared. Jim’s mind is so silent, what once was, no longer is.

Between the rigidity of Spock’s form, the distress creeping into his features, and the contact with his skin, Jim can only assume that Spock knows. He may not remember, but he knows.

Spock will have to find it in himself to excuse Jim if he’s not entirely in the position to alleviate him from the burden of it when the statement, said as a whisper, only further cleaves him in two.

A pained sound escapes him, rattling through his chest and scraping raw against his throat. Excusable only because of the force that had just been exerted against his windpipe, but it is not the physicality that torments him. It is the severing of something he never should have been privy to in the first place. This ancient and Vulcan thing.

All of their stolen and borrowed time was up, and something had come to collect.

Slowly, and not so gently, Jim’s fingers curl into the dust and dirt on the ground. It rakes between his fingers, and grates beneath his nails.

“I thought so too.” The words are croaked, forcing their way through tendrils of flame. Still he pushes through. “But you continue to find it in yourself to prove me wrong.”

It’s starting to give him a complex. Jim is used to people leaving him, his history is tainted by their parting, but never thought Spock would be amongst the dead. It was his own fault, becoming comfortable in the connection they had forged. The promises whispered between their skin and down their bond.

So much he had taken for granted.

It is self deprecation that escapes through a harsh, exhaled laugh when he pushes himself upright into a sitting position. His head tilts back against the rock he’d previously been pinned to. Eyes stinging, he rolls his gaze towards the exit where the sky has darkened significantly.

If they linger any longer, they will lose all natural light.

Jim swallows thickly before speaking again. Continuing to avoid Spock’s gaze. “At least we’re on the same page now.”

Pressing the tips of his fingers to the side of his throat, Jim winces as he feels the promise of bruising. McCoy was going to have an absolutely field day with this when their meeting was unavoidable upon his return.

“Go,” The Captain says, waving the Commander off. “But Spock, if I so much as catch wind that you’ve even glanced at the brig over this, I’m going to be pissed. I need you out and working on this…and what happened here…it’s not your fault.”

I should have told you.

@fasciinating

Spock’s grip is stone. But the desert has never been immune to the effects of the waves. At the touch of his thumb to Kirk’s throat, the onslaught is immediate, cracking violently at Spock’s resolve until he’s snapped his hand back, suddenly burned by the ice of feeling that did not belong to him.

It is burgundy, velvet and blended with coal grays and blue masses rivaling the shock of cosmos in Kirk’s eyes.

Flinching backwards, Spock’s eyebrows are horizontal in distress, breathing heavily out of his mouth as his eyelids narrow in his confusion. He feels anger. And heartbreak. Disbelief and a gasp of despair bled into an illustrious, gilded tapestry of familiarity.

He knows this man.

And further confounding, this man knows him. Knows the taste and touch and texture of his skin, knows the felt surface of Spock’s beating, traitorous heart.

For a long time, minutes, perhaps, all he does is stare. There was an entire universe that he has forgotten, the words of an old fairytale, dust motes fluttering like glowing insects in the midst of weeping trees.

“And I would always be yours,” he whispers distantly to no one. Disembodied, he knew this man’s name within his breath and inside the cusp of his own mouth, two syllables made for him and him alone.

Taut about his shoulders, he inhales, slow and swift and certifiably unsteady, eyes low to the dais as he breathes out and loses his understanding of everything around him. With heat snapped into his face, Spock squeezes his eyes shut. Breathe.

It’s a beat. A rhythm of numbers.

Lehkuh, naukah, ohkuh, stehkuh…

He blinks, eyes never moving from the floor. The urge to flee is binding.

“I apologize,” his voice cracks, “Permission to return to the ship and alert medical of your location.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

[endeavvor]

Starfleet uniforms in Star Trek Into Darkness (inspired by x)

[endeavvor]

The pressure exuded by Spock’s hands is nothing compared to the replacement of his knee. There is nothing humorous in the way Jim hisses this time, or the way he reaches out automatically, as if to push Spock away. Instead, his fingers curl and tangle into the shoulders of Spock’s uniform. Crinkling the otherwise pristine in a way that he cannot help or care about in the moment as he bites back the urge to curse or protest.

“I thought you would have figured out by now that the jesting is a defense mechanism.” The Captain explains through gritted teeth. To anyone else, the gesture would be unnecessary, but as much as Spock understands colloquialisms, and is doing better with Jim’s quirks, he tries to avoid the confusion where he can.

Now is not the time for them to be at each other’s throats over a misunderstanding.

“Keeping things light tends to put the others at ease, and while you seem to be immune right now, I’m not. I know how bad this is, but I’m the one being exposed to infection and severe blood loss. When I stand, there is a high probability I momentarily black out and I’m going to need you to walk. So give me this one thing before my pride is totally stripped from me. Okay?”

The Captain’s gaze is searching, and pleading. In this proximity, he can just about make out the concern hidden beneath the depths of Spock’s eyes. The way his mouth tightens ever so slightly at the corners in a way that makes Jim want to lean forward and steal it. To smother it with his own. For a moment, consider it delirium, he almost gives in. But aside from leaning forward slightly, he refrains.

It does not stop him from trying to tend to Spock in another way. In a way he safely can without rebuke. By shifting his weight slightly to pull the gold tunic over his head, leaving him in nothing but the black thermal beneath. It’s tighter to his form, flexing across each of his muscles as he moves; but gives Spock ample ability to see the way his torso flexes with each breath.

Life. It screams. I am alive.

“Keep your knee on the wound, but give me your hands.” Jim’s order is soft, but firm. He waits for compliance and uses his uniform to attempt to wipe away the blood. At first, it only seems to spread the crimson liquid, even more stark now in contrast to the color of the fabric; but persistence wins out. The worst of it is cleared, but the stains linger.

The shirt is then tossed to the side and his hands fit between them until they find the clasp of his belt. Undoing it, Jim pulls it free. “We’re too exposed here. Tourniquet and shelter now. Figuring out how to get back to the Enterprise later.”

@fasciinating

He is defiant even now.

Staring down the streaks of blood between the deltas of his fingers, Spock has learned never to expect anything less.

Jim wears a crown of sunlight, gold flecks at the corners of his mouth; against even the darkest shadows, he knows no opposition of occlusion or violent night. It has confounded Spock on several occasions, this one included, when Jim could look at a statistically unwinnable scenario and utterly refuse it.

He has come to appreciate these qualities to some degree. And perhaps, they played a more integral role in capturing Spock’s attention in the first place than he cares to admit. He will not deny it. Jim’s record to these untenable circumstances is exceptional.

But even still, his Captain should consider his own life with greater seriousness than this.

Spock certainly does.

“You jest.” It is indignant of Spock to reply the way he does, utilizing two simple words that lack any relation to their meaning when his tone is curt. An expression of his inevitable judgment toward Jim’s response at a time like this.

Spock exchanges his hand for a knee, conscious of his greater strength when he applies pressure despite Jim’s flinted accusations.

“And you are not fine, Captain.” He is bleeding, in fact, and staining the lengths of Spock’s fingers on his thigh. The picture is unsettling — choking — for several reasons he will not explain.

But red is the color of the desert that lives within him, dunes in rose and copper tones. Spock had long associated the shade with home, with safety, still longing for the crimson dust that clung to the hem of his robes.

Now, right now, Spock disdains it, confronting that landscape with the fragility of human life — of Jim’s life — and chooses to focus on the aberrant hue of Jim’s eyes instead.

“We must return you to the Enterprise as soon as possible.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

The initial response is a chagrined exhale. It is heavily expelled through his nose as he has yet to move away or straighten from where his forehead still rests against Spock’s jaw. His eyes are shut, and quietly, he hums.

Jim has little choice but to be completely visible when skin to skin contact has been initiated. The depths of Spock’s telepathy has yet to be tested, and yet, it is understood enough to know it is powerful. Jim may lack the same luxury, but he knows Spock well enough to know his offer is drenched in possession. A need to be away from the potential of prying eyes to thoroughly assure himself of the Captain’s vitality.

Still, he poses the rhetorical. “Am I that obvious?”

Reluctantly, he straightens and pulls his hand free from the safety of the grasp it finds itself in. It will be temporary, their parting, but necessary for Jim to slip off of the biobed — because hell yes, he wants to go back to his quarters.

Their CMO will have an absolute conniption when he realizes Jim has departed without being treated, but what had he truly expected when he allowed Spock to barrel his way through to the examination room? Let alone, when he’d left them alone?

Knowing the Captain’s quarters were outfitted with enough medical equipment that he could treat himself, and he was to be left to the mercy of someone as diligent as his First Officer will be comfort to only the pair themselves. Spock was the Chief Science Officer, not a trained medical professional. There was an offense to be had here that Jim had neither the time nor the energy to consider. For once, he was putting his needs over that of the others.

There is an obvious favoring of Jim’s left side as he shuffles forward, and his arm is wrapped around his torso to minimize its movement. Spock will not see the way his knuckles turn white as they wrap themselves inside the golden fabric; but he cannot hide the wince with each step, or the perspiration that beads at his temples. It’s what gives him slight pause beside a tray of neatly arranged hypos: one is an antibiotic, one is a pain reliever, and the third is a sedative.

Jim collects and pockets all three.

Then, he peeks around the curtain. The only thing worse than McCoy being visible was when he was no where to be seen. His uncanny ability to appear when you did not want him to rivaled that of Spock’s looming. It made the doctor a hypocrite for wanting to adorn Spock with bells.

He can make it to the door, but just in case.

“If Bones pops up, you have my expressed permission to agitate him to the point he would rather kick us both out than wrestle me back in there — and don’t play coy and pretend you don’t know what I mean. Your pettiness is our best line of defense.”

@fasciinating

It seems they have come into contact with each other in every way but this.

It makes this moment more poignant, now, significant, as if Spock had been reticent to express such a movement so completely Vulcan when the space between them has been largely human in all the days prior.

It is not precisely true, he knows.

And yet Spock finds himself lamenting the lessons he never taught Jim as he watches, eyes fixed on the brush of Jim’s hand. Heat coils under his skin, but the flames are nothing more than appreciation when he curls his own upward, capturing that touch into his grip.

“Do you wish to return to your quarters?” The light of the stars streams over their heads. Their movement is imperceptible. Though, Spock is transfixed in observing their caress along the crown of Jim’s head, dappled in white-dotted starlight.

Perhaps, prompting the Captain is ill-advised given the circumstances. The observation deck is quiet. But not vacant of total privacy. At any point, a crew member might enter; a locked door, giving way to concern. Spock does not think the overt potential for scrutiny would benefit either of them at this time.

These instances, these flashes of intimacy: they belong to them and them alone. Spock is possessive in this way, carefully guarding what is his to the best of his abilities. Selfishly or instinctively, the difference is albeit negligible at this juncture.

Spock lightly squeezes Jim’s hand.

“I am amenable to whichever is preferable.” He tells him, “Beyond leaving you myself.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

There had been a time when Jim would have found the idea of arguing the ease with which they could exist here — that he could exist here — impossible. The walls of this farmhouse were haunted with grief and pain that transcended the traditional plane of existence.

For a long time, he had tried to convince himself it hadn’t been all bad with the same vigor as a child that squeezed their eyes shut and covered their ears to block out the possible existence of monsters. Illogical. Irrational. But as successful as the belief in fairies saving Tinkerbell in Neverland.

Now, there was a refusal to give it power, and effort being made to rectify — the contrast of Spock existing here amongst the items he grew up with. Unable to find shame in the stark contrasts of their upbringing due to the sheer fascination shown by the outdated, but still effective technology.

Spock, curiously pressing his hands to surfaces as if he could draw out the memories himself, silently, without asking. Gaze lingering over unrepaired dents and stains, and the door jamb that had once been used to mark his and Sam’s heights — forever frozen when Jim turned eight and it no longer mattered.

Jim, just patient and watching before the need to move and do something wins out. Seeking fresh air and sunlight. Leaving Spock to his own devices.

Taking time off, coming here, it had been successful. It did not matter if he’d submitted the request or if McCoy had kicked them off the Enterprise with exceedingly colorful euphemisms. The more affection Spock splays across the taut skin of his knuckles, the more he can admit they needed it. This.

The warmth that takes hold of his features as he watches with intent of his own is soft and quiet, contrasting the storm beginning to rage outside and between them. It is not uncharacteristic, just reserved, saved only for Spock.

And yet —

“Then I guess you’re in luck. I’ve always preferred hands on demonstrations.”

@fasciinating

He did not mean to part of him so soon. But the smell of the rain is potent and crisp, tainted with the scent of ozone and the earth. It eclipses Spock’s senses, nearly drawing his attention to the sky despite the tug of insistence on Jim’s face that he stay.

The curve of Jim’s smile is infectious in that way, hooking into Spock’s vision and luring him in without complaint of their joined hands as he inevitably follows. In the privacy of the Kirk farm, there is no reason to succumb to the stiff evasion of Vulcan propriety.

He squeezes Jim’s palm to signal Jim of his own sureness. He wants this, wants Jim, and corralled by the rolling thunder, Spock is compelled by the universe to make certain of what has been so hard-won. If Jim presumed that Spock would be distracted by the lack of care to his things, he is mistaken.

The sheet of sudden, pouring rain has managed to wet Jim’s hair, darkening gold strands, honey-touched and exuding Jim’s eyes with further brilliance. The stare is penetrating, luminous and phosphorus — beautiful — across the small space between them until none of it survives.

It pales in comparison to the swell of desire that floods their link. Spock can feel it through their hands, tucking into the same sensation when it flows in from the sea in his mind. A wind of amusement breezes through the desert, meeting the waves.

It hits the sand in tune with the nip of Jim’s teeth on his lips.

“Is it?” The question flows out from deep within Spock’s chest and steps forward into Jim’s mouth, crowding Jim against the door. Pulling their hands up, he lays a kiss to the knuckles of each of Jim’s fingers, his eyes narrowed while he watches Jim’s responses, dark in his face.

He does not disagree with the point of elaboration.

“I believe,” he says, traveling between the third and fourth knuckle, “I would prefer to show you.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

This lab is a sanctuary of sorts for his Chief Science Officer, and a space that he has not existed in before now. To some extent, he is aware of how he is ruining it now through the attention he is demanding, but Spock is the one allowing him to do so.

What he is obviously to is how his presence will permeate through the pores of every space — like the sun casting out shadow, once he is known, he cannot be unknown. Pride would not leave room for remorse, not because Jim is incapable, but because there is comfort in knowing he is not alone in his suffering.

Not wholly — even if he’s unable to look beyond their current positioning.

At the catch of teeth on flesh, Jim’s fingers curl. The pads of his fingers digging almost painfully into the skin of Spock’s sides. It is possessive, this hold, unable to be pried away easily as his mind wars with arguing he no longer cares about results or experiments.

To push work aside despite the impossibility of their schedules. To admit following Spock here was a mistake.

But part of the appeal has always been their inability to back down. To meet each other, raise the stakes, take the bait.

His chosen response is to tilt his head, freeing his ear from the hold and staring down the length of his nose. “Inconclusive? That’s not like you, Commander. Not when you know I significantly prefer the irrefutable.” Jim pauses to lick at the seam of his lips, tongue lingering near a sharp canine in amusement. “Perhaps I should leave you to your work.”

@fasciinating

Shoulder to hip, the sound of a heartbeat heightens against the empty space in Spock’s chest. A human instrument, thrumming and thrumming, a vibrato at the edges of Spock’s mind seeking focus.

Pay attention, it says.

And Spock is, even if it doesn’t appear so. Jim’s blinking has slowed by one sixteenths of a second, his hands confident and warm — expectantly human in that regard — teasing. But more importantly, Spock takes note of the excess spacing between Jim’s fore and middle fingers; how uneven they are on his skin.

It is no place that Jim has not mapped or been before. And yet, this, seems undefined despite that knowledge, explorative even, fingertips filling the grooves of Spock’s ribs as if Jim were seeking to remember them.

“Among other, less relevant things, yes.” He affirms lowly, calm resonating through his chest with deeper timbre. He will not confess that anything he has done here may have also been a part of his testing, pushing time and thought between them out of curiosity more than anything else.

His teeth catch on the flesh of Jim’s earlobe in passing, “Previous results were inconclusive.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

James Tiberius Kirk

[endeavvor]

When Jim smiles, crinkles form at the corners of his eyes. It is not the first betrayal of his aging, nor will it be the last, but it marks him as utterly human among the more obvious differences in his features.

Little time is wasted by reiterating he felt the dress uniform was distasteful. It was just among the many things he and Spock had become adept at not speaking of — high on the list with certain anniversaries that instead of hashing out, they’d formed the habit of throwing themselves into mindless projects to pass the time.

Simply, it did not need to be stated to be known.

“I see you did as well.” The Captain remarks, instead. “But I must say, your choice suits you.”

The comment is openly appreciative and more forward than Jim had been prone to recently. Truth be told, his eye continues to be drawn towards the impossible angles that accentuate Spock’s more alien features. Features Jim takes for granted beneath the softness of Spock’s eyes, the curve of his nose, and the fullness of his lips.

Though it’s not the points of Spock’s ears, severity of his brow, high cheekbones, or preciseness of his haircut that draws Jim’s eye now — it’s the higher collar and column of Spock’s throat that gives rise to a strong wave of lust. Leaning automatically closer until he can see the faint beating of Spock’s pulse.

His body gives him the decency not to blush, but when he tears his gaze away, he forces himself to finally take a sip of the drink that has gone forgotten in his hand. Expecting bitterness, or even something remotely bland given Vulcan’s strict dietary measures, there is a surprise when a faint sweetness spreads across his tongue.

It only turns slightly ashen when he catches Sarek, a head taller than the rest, watching them closely. The gaze makes him feel especially vulnerable, and seen in his yearning.

Jim can’t call his time here a true visit. The planet was still mostly locked down to outsiders and this was the most freedom he’d been given to roam — it was a fraction of what he’d hoped to see, but he’d learned a few things.

“I’ve come to realize something.” He starts to say, pivoting the topic of conversation and charting it for territories he’d once avoided.

“I knew Sarek was important. He has to be in order to maintain his status as an ambassador, but I think I took for granted the depth of what that could mean. The respect for him, his position, it’s not new. It’s not circumstantial to everything your people have lost. It’s old, established, almost reverent.”

Which means he also took Spock’s minimalism for granted. Before he asks the question that’s been plaguing his mind, he has to beat down the image of Uhura’s eyes rolling towards the ceiling. His ignorance on the matter had been a choice — wanting to give Spock the freedom to navigate his narrative. To share only what he wished to share. Only what he wanted Jim to know.

It opened for Jim to do the same with little remorse.

“Your family. Your bloodline. You’re the equivalent of royalty here. Aren’t you?”

@fasciinating

@endeavvor, cont'd from here.

Whether he was aware of its meaning is of little significance at this moment.

Spock takes to watching Jim rather than comment any further, allowing himself a reprieve from the polarizing conversations he had the misfortune of carrying in the time before the Captain arrived.

To his credit, Spock has maintained relative calm, nonetheless, sufficiently shielded from the less than obvious purpose for their presence here as they stand together.

“I see that you have elected to forgo your dress uniform.” He says. A reductive observation. But one that Spock makes, and still does, when he turns in his shoulders to face him. The outfit is stark in its permanent void of color, unforgiving with its black angles and unrelenting sharpness, contrasting the crown of Jim’s hair.

It is, objectively speaking, a pointed choice.

“Has your visit been satisfactory, Captain?” He tilts his chin, eyes bright against the dying sun.

It cascades through the tall windows, yellow-orange glow only a fraction of the might of Vulcan-that-was. But it is warm in its casting touch, throwing Jim’s features into acute relief, and while Spock is rather certain that Sarek is watching them from his position several feet away, he pays his father no mind.

So be it, Spock thinks, let him see.

It supplants his decision to refuse the proposals surrounding him.

“I trust your treatment has been accommodating in my absence.”

[endeavvor]

Spock’s hands were as intimately familiar to Jim as his own. He knew the exact shape of each slender finger. Had memorized the lines that slanted across his palms. Could imagine the exact tint of green that would rise if Spock was exposed to cold for too long, or simply fisted his hands too tightly in an emotion he tried, and failed, to suppress.

More, Jim was intimately aware of how they felt mapping his own skin. How they lingered over every scar, silently asking questions Jim never supplied the answers to. Dotting every freckle and imperfection. Touching the places only the sun had ever graced as if he were worthy of such revere.

It had made him complacent, and he had forgotten the brutality they were capable of too. Had forgotten how easily they could take his life until he was suddenly being forced backwards — leg giving out against the sudden pressure as he can only suck in a quick, stuttered, breath as Spock’s hands found their way around his throat.

Jim had provoked him — had started this — had slipped in the cracks of his own anger to allow the moment of contact. It did not matter how brief it had been, only that Spock’s telepathy remained strong.

What he is gleaning from Jim now, he didn’t know. His emotions were a beacon that he could not shut down quick enough, and despite the way his eyes widened, and he automatically grasped Spock’s wrists as if to alleviate the pressure, he refused to be afraid.

Was this his fault? Beyond the obvious inability to control himself, they had equally refused to return to New Vulcan after Augaur. Spock had his reasons, and Jim’s pettiness towards Sarek’s insistences had won out.

Was this lapse in Spock’s memory because he’d never properly healed?

As the edges of his vision darken, Jim forces his own grip to loosen. Manages to allow what could pass for a choked laugh, or maybe a sob, escape.

Jim wastes the rest of his reserved oxygen with an incessant need to have the last word, “It was always going to be me.”

@fasciinating

There.

A splinter of panic, and anger, this abundance of feeling shot between the glance of their skin; a crack in that icy fortification that tells Spock he was correct to postulate Kirk knows.

On the exterior, Spock is working to remain cool and controlled, staring Kirk down with a narrowed vision of inspection until Kirk’s hands are reaching, becoming tangled into his uniform and spewing more lies, more secrets, snarling—

—because I am your friend.

And he should take that word for what it is: a familiar acquaintance, a compatriot; someone to ally with under the divisible safety of command — he wants to — but there’s a touch, so brief, knuckles grazing skin and with an ache too cuttingly sharp, it cleaves him in half.

Breath sweeps into Spock’s lungs like a terrible vacuum, mind blanking then filling, swirling with an undeniable and intolerable spring of darkness and fury and greed.

His nostrils flare; did you ever think of what it would do to me?

He should be affronted; what it would do to us?

But Spock never had that conversation with Kirk; he is having that conversation, now, differently, the same, never and always and again, because he is simply not enough for anyone—

“Cease this.” He should admonish this invasion, and quickly. He should have left when Kirk ordered him to go. He should tear off this man’s hands because what he feels, now, and just then, in that brief glance of skin, is not simply a matter of proprietary, it's terror at the strength of feeling in his chest.

Spock’s hand fires around Kirk’s throat — sudden and unexpected even to himself — pushing Kirk back into the stone dais with a foot planted firmly between Kirk’s.

“What will you not tell me?” His voice sounds worn, hoarse from the abrupt upswing of fire fanning from the red depths of his katra, half of something, half of everything, burning through Spock’s nerves like a fearless fire. Because you are my friend.

“Why must it be you?”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

[endeavvor]

what does your heart look like ?

a compass that doesn’t waver

You are someone who is certain of what you want. Maybe you always have been, or maybe you made a discovery that you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from. Your heart is set and certain. You fight endlessly for your goals. Above all else, you know who you are and what you are trying to achieve. Just be careful not to tear yourself or others apart in pursuit of your ideals.

tagged by: @he1msman

[endeavvor]

She was correct, he had foolishly taken a step forward, but the growl roots him to his spot. Reaching out would only prove what she already knows, that fear cuts him to the bone. Jim’s hands would tremble with it, but it is a multifaceted emotion —

— like shining a light on a perfectly cut gem, watching the way the rays spread outwards in multiple directions. All brilliantly eye catching, but never quite allowing you to rest in one spot.

He is afraid of her, of what could happen should she lose control, which has complexities of its own. She could hurt him, herself, or several others. It would add to the plate of guilt that he’s not entirely sure she feels anymore.

Jim is afraid for her.

An overly human emotion that Ly has had little patience for. The walls she keeps around herself so thick, that his presence has barely made a dent. Even if it not lost on him that her own resolve lessens.

Stay back turns into stay there. Turns into stay.

His humanity allows him to only hear what he wishes.

So Jim stays despite the danger to himself. Instead of stepping forward, he mirrors her movements by stepping back until his back meets the wall opposite of hers and sinks down towards the ground. His eyes never leave her face, but he’s not blind to the way her fingers elongate and sharpen into claws.

How easily those claws cleave into the dirt.

Jim does not let her see him flinch.

“If you bite me, I’m going to be pissed.” He says, equally as stupidly, but wracked with humor.

I'll keep you safe here with me.

Ha. He should save such sweet talk for a lover.

Ly forces a sound through grit teeth that, under other circumstances, might have been a loud, barking laugh. Half-caught in her throat, it sounds more broken and pained than humoured, the prideful attempt of a wounded animal forcing the illusion that it is fine, because to be anything other than fine is to become easy prey.

She growls lowly in warning. Stay back.

The line that divides the selves has started to dissolve, allowing deep-seated instinct to bleed into what would otherwise be ironclad control, stripping away that which allows her to jokingly call herself human. Like this, everything is a potential threat, something that will seize the opportunity to pounce without a second thought.

Protect yourself. Survive. She will bite the moment he steps too close—sever the hand that may truly only wish to help.

—Stupid man. Who keeps the damned human safe? That right there is exactly what gets people killed.

So this, this, is helping. Mitigating the disastrous potential effects of a foolish decision on her part the only way she knows how, absolving her of a debt to be owed.

Ly staggers backward aimlessly, putting more distance between them, continuing until her back meets a wall, solid and immovable against her pitifully shaky legs. The slide down to the ground feels like a blessing, one she doesn't fight.

At her side, her hand curls into a fist, her claws scoring deep grooves into the ground.

"Stay there. You⸺stay." She needs a moment—two, maybe, as she attempts to pull herself back together.

[endeavvor]

Despite his previous resolve to let Spock in, even he has to slump with relief when the meld that was offered is momentarily pushed away. Mentally, he does not think he can handle it, was just willing to do so for the sake of Spock's own peace of mind.

The pair are alike in this — consistently putting the needs of the others over their own.

Jim feared declining would ultimately push Spock away, and sensing this, Spock had not left him. Had not solidified his fear with cruelty, or vehemence, but kindness. Compassion.

Apparently affection.

His hands lack the sensitivity of a Vulcan's, but there's still something soothing in the way Spock brushes his palm with intent. Feels the ghost of the sensation traveling down his wrist, following the natural pathways of his veins, until it settles heavily in his heart.

It is a welcome distraction — and it has his attention.

I understand that you are taking advantage of the privacy I've been allotted with these very thin screens to kiss me in the middle of medbay.

Amusement radiates through their bond. The sun starting to cut through the darkened sky. Jim shifts, ignoring the sting of his injuries to press his forehead against Spock's jaw. It is a tired gesture, full of fatigue, and he seems to take the first true relaxed breath since his return.

Wants to sink beneath it.

The cool, and calming waters of their shared space.

He wants to go home.

Slowly, and rather clumsily, Jim mirrors the gesture with his own hand.

"Thank you."

@fasciinating

A MIND MELD SEEMS A POOR CHOICE OF PEACE. He had only considered it out of positive intent, bone-weary in his desire to free Jim from the cloying hands of demons. But now, he realizes that peering into Jim’s mind would only be intrusive and borderline corruptive given the chaos that likely storms inside it.

“It can wait.” He replies.

It is a quiet acquiescence, and Spock is choosing to settle into the clasp of their hands instead. It helps to quell the tremor that vibrates between their touch before it can consume him.

“Though, if that is your desire, know that you need only ask it.” There is a brightness to Jim that Spock is keenly aware of. It has always been warm to him, burning gold and growing large, powerful, like a supernova.

Whatever occurred aboard the derelict ship has dampened it, poisoned it with shadows and death and blood.

And he would tear that ship apart to rectify even a fraction of the damage done.

“When you are ready.” He adds. Because the distinction is important. Entering a meld in Jim’s current state may provoke unintended consequences.

Spock is familiar with at least one.

He can distract Jim for now. Disrupt the corrosive balance of terror within Jim’s chest.

“Are you familiar with this gesture?” Spock squeezes Jim’s hand, thumb brushing boldly at the curve of Jim’s palm. There are fine hairs there, just as it connects to a wrist. It prickles the pad of his finger, inciting nerves and the sensitivity of Vulcan telepathy.

Having reinforced his mental shields, he draws nothing from it. But Spock leans, nearly imperceptibly closer.

“This,” he explains, pulling free to slot both his fore and middle fingers together. He glides the tips of them across the top of Jim’s hand, “Would be considered the equivalent of a human kiss.”

Do you understand?

The question blazes behind Spock’s eyes. Grief, regret, fear, simultaneously stymied by Jim’s determination and brazen loyalty — his goodness — they are the makings of a great and unforgettable captain, reiterating all the reasons Jim has possessed him in the way that Jim has.

“I feel you, here.”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

Primitive was perhaps not the correct word — but it was an interesting topic to debate — had debated it with his first officer over a game of chess one evening. Jim always found it interesting that despite the distances between the civilizations they explored, the first steps towards modernization were eerily similar.

Hand tools and weaponry. Wheels. Methods of cleaning and storing water. Energy.

It was these things and the way the paths then diverge that always caught the Captain's attention. At what point did they take different steps, using Humanity as a threshold as that was the comfort for him. Watching L'Shara now, he wonders where her own mind wanders watching them. As he remembers the planet they collected her from, and the resourcefulness she'd shown in creating the emergency beacon that had caught their sensors.

Her decision to join Starfleet likely an interesting one — how difficult had her adjustment been?

Jim doesn't ask.

"As someone who has done a dumb thing or two for the sake of saying I could, I get it." Driving his father's cherry red corvette over the side of a cliff to avoid it being sold out of greed always the first thing that comes to mind.

"Either way." He stands, thankful when his knee doesn't betray him by cracking, and pocketing the arrowhead. "I've got a dead crew member they need to answer for, so determining if it was malicious intent or not is now the priority." He nods towards the village. "What did you see?"

She crouches beside him, peering out towards the village before them. Her eyes can see much further than any human's could, and whilst she listens to her Captain she's also scouting ahead to try and analyse some of their social structures and mannerisms. Her gaze transfers from the humanoids to the arrowhead in the Captain's hand and she feels a sense of nostalgia. It's not too dissimilar to what her own people use, and not for the first time she wonders at the marvel of how so many civilizations that have never met can share so many similarities.

L'Shara is still new to the Enterprise, and also to Starfleet so she is still unfamiliar with the way they do things. She's never heard of Hanlon's Razor but she understands the thought process behind it. Others might think her naive for it, but she always tries to see the best in the people around her; be they friend or stranger. Joining Starfleet had been a bit of a culture shock, she'd been so used to living harmoniously with her own people that the concept of hostility seemed strange to her.

But her people weren't perfect, there had been unrest and fighting especially recently. It was the whole reason she had left; using scraps of debris from passing ships to build something to send a distress signal. Her life had been in danger from a threat that simply hiding somewhere on her planet would suffice. The Enterprise shouldn't technically have answered her call, her planet wasn't considered 'First Contact' ready because they didn't have warp core capabilities. But as she had pointed out at the time, her people weren't primitive; far from it, they just chose to rely on nature instead of technology.

"Stupidity is universal amongst all species no?" She asks, a small smile on the corner of her lips. "My cousin once thought it be a good idea to tame and ride a Byól'nx, despite us all telling him he was more likely to end up impaled." She shrugged her shoulders. "He still tried and he was lucky to get away with one piece." The Captain wouldn't have the full context of her story, but hopefully he would still understand. "I always feel it best to give people the benefit of the doubt, no one attacks another for no reason. It may simply be we don't understand that reason yet."