#or the one that consists almost entirely of Spirk sitting around campfires having deep conversations

[suedescripture]

Words on Weds

I wrote more on this yesterday than I have on anything in months. Epic Spirk Survival fic, or Suede’s thing with scruffy bum Chris Pine Kirk and long haired Spock.

“How long have we been here?”

“In Standard time, ten months, three weeks, six days and fourteen hours. Planetary calculations differ slightly.”

Jim pulled the front of his bangs down to see that they now stretched past the end of his chin, fried from the sun on the ends and even longer and more annoying in the back as it stuck to his sweaty neck. A slight natural wave made it unruly as hell. He’d taken to tying a cord around his whole head like a headband to keep it out of his face. His beard was brushy, badly shortened where he’d grabbed tufts and sawed them off with his knife about an inch from his jaw. In the heat of the dry season, he longed for a sonic razor, smooth-chinned in a matter of seconds. He didn’t trust himself to shave the way Spock did each morning, with a viciously sharp flake of obsidian, nearly transparent and even sharper than their fleet issue knives. It could sink deep into flesh so easily he wouldn’t even feel it.

Sometimes he imagined he looked like the lifelong surfers in the secluded inlets around the San Francisco Bay, the ones who lived and died by when the swells were up, all sun-bleached and tanned and groovy. Other times, if he managed to catch his reflection in a still pool, he looked more like what he was, a skinny left-behind wild man stranded on Planet Bumfuck, Ass-end of Beta Quad, rescue unlikely.

By contrast, Spock’s hair was well past his shoulders already, straight as a ruler and so dark it shone almost purple in the late evening light of Luna Rosita. He sometimes braided it back, intricate twists like the baskets and cords he wove, but strands of it would inevitably work free, falling like streams of water over the strong features of his face. When it was loose, it would fall down over his shoulder blades, rarely tangling as each hair was so smooth it slipped easily free with a little combing of his fingers. His wiry frame was still Vulcan pale and all hard muscle, obvious when he was hauling logs up the hill to be chopped, shirtless and perfectly comfortable in the boiling temperature. Jim imagined this was how Pre-Reform Vulcans had looked once, long-haired, fierce and built like a brick shithouse. Spock was far from uncontrolled, of course; he meditated every day, moved and thought and spoke with his usual precision, but Jim had noticed a marked looseness in his stride, a significant uptick in those small facial expressions and instances of noticeable emotional tones.

For the most part, he attributed his interest in the fact that Spock was literally the only other person on this stupid planet to look at. Here, there wasn’t a lot else to occupy himself. It had been nearly a year, for fuck’s sake. Almost anything would look good.

Not that he hadn’t thought about Spock before. Ages before, when they’d first sized each other up in that fateful academic hearing, he’d thought that if Spock didn’t have such a giant stick up his ass, he might be kind of attractive. Hell, he’d wondered what it would take to loosen the guy up, and if that might be part of the fun.

But then he’d been given a ship and all the responsibility that came with it, and everything got a lot more serious. He’d seen his best friends settle down. He’d seen Bones and Carol spend a decent year together before she’d accepted a promotion to be Head Science Officer on the USS Valiant—Bones took it hard, the big softie. He’d officiated Hikaru and Ben’s wedding, and thrown them a hell of a party. And Spock and Uhura had seemed happy for years, right up until they apparently weren’t.