Chapter Text
Spock watches Jim settle, aware of the time, and yet rebelling against the limit he himself had set. If he is going to find anything worth attempting to communicate to a starship, he had best do it soon, as it is early enough the workers are still active and late enough that the guests are all tucked away and tangled for the evening. Still, he avoids the demand of his better senses, listening to those gentle, easing breaths, listening to his thudding, relaxing heartbeat.
Stripped of his embellishments, the bare truth of him rests, and every inch of him is perfect. Was Spock not meant to look? It would be more of a disservice in this moment to avert his eyes, as if any fragment of him were unfit for duty. He needed Spock to take him as he would any other day, and Spock obliged, his own desire to take him in another fashion entirely relegated to private, warm corners of his mind.
It is good to witness such rare peace in him. With the discovered fan on, he determined he could almost tolerate the idea of the sheet, and rather than curl under it, he has balled it up in his fists and pressed it to his cheek. He makes soft noises in the rhythm of the night— breaths, murmured exclamations (though rarely words), snuffles and huffs— and in that way truly does remind Spock of a sehlat. If Spock could find an excuse to run his hand through that soft hair again, he would take it in a Vulcan heartbeat.
He must get going. If he does not contact the ship, they may be stuck here longer, and Jim may not be able to withstand the pressure of the situation. He should have the opportunity to come around to it in his own time, in his proper biome, held comfortably by the familiarity of his duty and routine. A crisis pushing it to a head will not be good enough.
Spock rises slowly, still watching him. Jim groans softly, tightening his grip on the sheet, and pressing it against his face. Does his head hurt? It is impressive that the sights and sounds and scents and stress of the place have not given him a migraine thus far, though it is questionable whether he would admit it if that were the case. Spock moves slowly toward him, checking, before he goes.
Jim makes another desperate little sound, and then rolls over, pressing his face into the mattress. Not exactly a nightmare. His hips twitch, and then rise slightly, and Spock, feeling pressed to the limits of his discipline, reaches out and touches his arm, sending a soothing feeling again as he did last night. An eternity of reports is better than completing that climb and waking to find both evidence and witness.
Jim relaxes, hips falling. Spock waits, but he does not even resist this time. He moves back— turns the fan a bit higher, the warmth clinging to his hand— and slips out the door.
Jim waits and waits and waits and waits in the rec room, the 3d chess board set up neatly beside him, and he waits and waits and waits and waits for Spock to join him. Time seems to stretch on and on, and Jim thinks of strategies and thinks of excuses and thinks of Spock, Spock, Spock, and somehow this seems to summon him finally. Jim stands as he arrives, and Spock glances at the board, and at him, and the board, and him, and tilts his head slightly.
"You did mean it?"
Jim knows this memory. Oh, how many times has he replayed it? He shifts between Jim-the-participant and Jim-the-witness, as if watching it on screen.
"Of course," Jim says. And then the first little hint of a smile. A treasure. Then the part you can fast-forward through, the forgive my lateness I did not mean to be unpunctual but the prior mission report required further examination and Captain Pike did prioritize such things, and then his not a problem, Spock, I didn't wait that long, and the assignment of Spock as playing white and he black, so as to see how Spock would handle going first (not a fan), and the deference waved away, and the beginning part, that's a bit dry, except for the one sweet second when Spock bites his lip. He slows back down to normal speed, feels that way he did when mouthing the words along with a favorite program when he was very small and he could still get away with that kind of thing.
Spock's clever eyes watch his play, and then note several things— the tide is about to turn, and it is quite evident that the next move will be the first domino on the path to winning, if he takes it— and he looks at Jim and calculates something in his head, and makes a different move, and Jim feels a kick in his gut even now as he is being placated.
But he smiles.
"That's not your move."
"Pardon, Captain?"
"You saw the better move. You didn't take it. You're underestimating me." Jim gestures softly with both hands, a go-on-get-on-with-it. "Make your move." And Spock hesitates, looking quite caught, as if he wonders if he will be in trouble for having offended his New Captain in such a way. But he looks Jim in the eye and sees something there that he respects, and he recalls the move and makes the proper one. Jim swiftly answers it, and Spock replies, and in five turns, it's a check mate. Spock doesn't have to say it, almost looking guilty. Jim sets it up again, and they restart.
"I want to see your strategy. I want to see how you think, not a perfect picture that you think I want to see. My first officer isn't going to be just anyone, Mr. Spock. I need a tactician, an analyst. A partner." Move.
"A… partner, sir?" Answer.
"You don't have to call me sir. We're playing chess. You could even call me Jim right now, if you wanted." Move.
"Captain, I did not intend to offend." Answer.
"Good. If you intend to offend, you'd better do it properly. If you're going to insult me, make it hurt. If you're going to hit me, it should bruise." Move. Answer. Move. Answer. "Play like you mean it." Move.
"Captain?" …Answer.
"It's a game, isn't it? It's meant to be enjoyable. You agreed to this for a reason, didn't you?" Jim watches him. He does so much thinking in this interaction. Jim wants to pry into his head and know the other side of the story. He could push his bare fingers in there and claw out the sticky answer he's been looking for.
"…Yes." They focus on the game, and he does play like he means it now, and it's terribly exciting. They get fast. It's delicious. Jim hasn't been challenged like this in ages. He craves more. Spock wins.
Jim resets. They begin again. Jim switches up his strategy, playing more like he feels, and less like some method you'd find in a book. Spock tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Yes. Yes.
"Fascinating," he says. Jim grins. It feels like a trophy.
They don't mince words. They play with a fiery intensity that lights Jim up, and it feels so good. There's a connection here, and it will work. He's sure of it now. Spock not only plays like he means it, without fear of upsetting him, he plays like it's to the death, and Jim will accept that. He stays calmer than Jim does, but there's an excitement in his eyes that invites a hope into Jim's mouth that he hasn't tasted in a very, very long time.
"Check," Jim says. Spock answers. Jim moves again. Spock replies. The opportunity slips.
"Check," Spock repeats. Jim half-stands, scanning the board, taking it all in with satisfaction. He makes one more move, and he is summarily beat, but with an urgency that does say he got very, very close to beating a Vulcan at chess on his third try. "Check mate."
Jim stands up fully, and laughs. Spock squints at him.
"I'd shake your hand, but I hear that's a bit personal," Jim jokes. "Good game."
"…Yes," Spock says, caught off guard. "You played quite well."
"You played like you meant it," Jim says with satisfaction, and he sits back down for a moment. "Do you know why I asked you to play, Spock?"
Spock assesses him.
"You wished to know how I would behave both as a strategist and an opponent," he determines. "The method in which I played the game would inevitably reveal what you might expect in the coming years. If I played too ruthlessly or obsequiously, you would have a sense of how to interact as Captain and First Officer."
"Exactly," Jim says, pleased. "What do you think I noticed?"
Spock stares at him.
"I would not presume to know your thoughts," he says quietly. "Your assessment is your own."
"Well, I'll give you an invitation." Jim splays his hands. "You tried to protect my ego."
Spock presses his lips slightly together.
"And when it didn't work, you didn't try again. You weren't trying to disarm me, though. You wanted this to go well. You were trying to get the right answer."
Spock does not move.
"And when you understood me," Jim says, feeling deliriously excited at this potential, but keeping himself in check, making sure he sounds like a Captain. "You played me like an equal, and you enjoyed yourself." He points at Spock. "I want you to challenge me, Spock. Not my authority, but my strategy, my problem-solving. I want your cleverness, not your assimilation, and not your flattery. I want you, Spock, you, the person, not just the job title. You bring so much to this position. Use it. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Captain," Spock says. It's the way he looks at him, then, that's the good part. Like he's figured something important out. "If that is what you expect, that is what you will have."
"Good," Jim says, very pleased. "When do you want to play again?"
"Again, Captain?"
"Well, I'm not stopping until I've beaten you," Jim laughs. "Do you have any idea what a gift you are? How about tomorrow, at lunch?"
"…I generally take my meals in my quarters," Spock says, but decides something. "I will… adjust that routine to join you."
"Really?" Jim feels like he's swallowed a star. "You're a creature of habit, Spock, you'd do that for me?" He rises, and Spock follows suit.
"Only," Spock says, thinks better of it, commits anyway. "If you 'play like you mean it', as well."
"Oh, I'll promise you that!" Jim laughs, and the memory gets fuzzy. Jim could play it again. Maybe he should. It just feels right. It feels… good.
But so do so many of their other matches. There are so many at first that Spock wins, and then Jim finally cracks the ice, and claws out a success, but that wasn't enough, and they continue, the sweet sweet push and pull and challenge and escalation getting better and better and better…
He plays other memories again, but the pieces and moves sort of melt into one another, numbers morphing and specifics fading away, and Jim finds himself just watching Spock's hands as they play, the montage of memories on mute and the focus tugged away from him.
They really are elegant.
They're skilled, too, and clever, and they're capable of so many varied things— fixing an electrical panel, working the fiddly buttons and things at his station, taking over the transporter controls, playing that lyre, sopping up blood from another of Jim's mishaps on the job, holding him, protecting him, carrying him, touching him, reaching for him and not letting go…
And his eyes. His eyes are clever too, and so expressive, so powerful, so interesting to decode. Every little expression Jim has earned from him could be a treasure in his final resting place. Imagine a sarcophagus surrounded by data cards of memories, recorded from stolen glances and sneaky gazes and, honestly, outright watching. He's a pleasure to watch. It's a comfort.
And if he's counting those among his hard-won prizes, of course he'd have to include other things as well. The way he says Jim, if the situation calls for it—rare enough to count, each one a gem to stuff in his pockets and bolt to keep. Touches. Little ones and big ones, from tiny brushes of the fingers exchanging forms to sign, to the stabbing—a frustration because it's so slippery and hard to hold, like raw eggs in his hands, but if he pushes… If he pushes, he can feel it again—not just the pain— he can be there again, on that doomed Babel mission, and he's heavy in Spock's arms on the way to sickbay, clutched so tightly, as if he could be precious and suddenly so possible to lose.
Spock, saving him, then Jim, doing what must be done so that Spock can save his father. The panic, the stress, the almost- the security in the right answer, not just in choosing it, but seeing in Spock's eyes— the trick discovered, understood, allowed. Silently: yes, I will let you help.
He's got that blood-stained shirt in the bottom of his lowest drawer.
Spock knows him so well. They're such a powerful team. Spock is always on the same page as him or willing to flip to it, and even when they move they move in sync. They know each other's minds, they know each other's hearts, they know each other's weaknesses and strengths of the body…
He's very strong. Jim can feel that arm around his waist, holding him so neatly in place, and that isn't the only thing he can feel, either. It would be polite to ignore it. If they were wrestling— ohhh, if they could wrestle— it would just be part of the game. Bodies are bodies, and bodies are tools, and weaknesses of the body should not be pointed out— friends like them know how important it is to keep each other's secrets safe! It's behind the fences, and the fences are high enough, and the wrong thing can't be seen, surely, but—
Ohh, if they could wrestle… or touch…. or hold each other, or touch… if Jim had moved just a bit more, or if Jim had turned around and they'd been face to face, ache to ache, body pressed to body for want of a thing only a body could provide, is that so bad? Just for a moment, what if—
What if they had lost one more round, and Jim was pushed past the edge of his tolerance? What if the penalty took away the choice and it had simply had to happen? They could touch right there—how many other people are doing the same!— and they could find privacy and they could… help each other out. Jim could help him, if he wanted. Would he want that? Would he be offended at the idea, of someone like Jim touching someone like him in such a vulnerable, personal way…
Would he want it?
Could he like it? Jim wants— he doesn't want him to not like it. He wants— he can't accept not getting to have the thing he can't have— he wants— he yearns, cursive like spaghetti spelling out a poem he can't read and filling him to the skull with a wet desperation, a desperation, a desperation—
Not this, not all this, too gilded and buttered, but what if they could have… What if Spock could want to have… What if Spock wanted… What if Spock wanted that relief? Jim would give him anything he could ask for. They wouldn't even have to look at each other. Spock could pin him to the mat… Spock could pin him to the bed…Spock could hold him in place and there wouldn't have to be a choice and no one would be guilty of making it and it would just take a little, just a little friction, just a little wanting, and having, and working together, just a little movement, just a little blurring of boundaries, just- a bit- more- yes-
(They could pretend they were perfect strangers. Yes… They wouldn't have to be themselves, for a bit. They could just be two wanting bodies, taking care of a need. Yes!)
But what would Spock want? (Please-) Can it really be that he could want-
"Jim!"
Spock watches, in slow motion, an undeniable movement of the hips, hears a desperate half-formed noise with a too-familiar sound, catches the moment Jim thrusts successfully into the balled up sheets. His relief is short-lived, because the startle of Spock calling across the room to him is enough that he rolls off the bed and thuds to the floor, and there is a breath of obscurity before a pair of wild, mortified eyes appear again, and then disappear with the rest of his sweaty, exposed body into the best illusion of privacy the bathroom can be convinced to provide.
Spock stays planted in place for far too long.
Puppeted by the need to take care of the issue, Spock locks the suite door and moves closer to the bed, but his strings tangle and leave him inanimate again. Does he remove the sticky sheets? Jim will know. But Jim knows he knows. It would have been hard to miss. But he must not draw attention to it. Surely they should be picked up. And put where? It would only be logical that a place like this have solutions to such an issue. This could not be the first mess made against these sheets, though it might have been the hardest earned. If only he had reentered just minutes prior…
If only he had been the one to encourage it out of him.
No, he will not engage there at the moment. (He can smell him.) He must be responsible and swift. (He can smell that desperation and sweat and built-up pressure.) He will just take care of the problem. (He can hear Jim's prey-animal pulse.) He will focus, he will focus, he will focus. This is nothing of note. It would be entirely predicted. There is no possibility that that was the first orgasm in the last ten minutes in this complex, let alone the first in this room. There is a laundry hamper. That is a reasonable course of action.
Spock repossesses his body, though as he moves closer, his skin seems to be inhabited by some kind of poltergeist, because the malignant desire drives him to pick up the silk sheets (listening so closely, pinpointing where that desperate heart hides) and, with not a single excuse prepared, he does close his eyes and catch the scent of him.
It would be so easy.
But he is not in the habit of having things easy, and he forces propriety and purpose back into the cockpit, and he pilots himself back to the task at hand (clutched in his hands, so tightly). He has a baffling desire to fold them, and puts that aside as actually idiotic in this moment, and instead drops them into the hamper and shuts the lid.
The dresser. Spock moves to the drawers and yanks them open with unnecessary force, finding pristine sheets in a dark green neatly waiting inside. Just the top sheet will do, and he unfolds it and places it on the bed. He floats toward the bathroom—no—the hamper—no!— then what?? Does he leave again? What would Jim want?
Certainly, he cannot know.
Very well. Spock will decide what he wants. It was the command decision, was it not? Spock must take the lead. That was already determined. He will, then, and it will be as his duty to him. What would be best for him? Routine. Normalcy. He will need to know things have not changed, Spock has not fled, and his moment of "weakness" did not lose him respect. Spock had every intention of using the rest of the evening to (watch over Jim and) rig the communicator parts he had found to set up a relay for contacting the ship. The plan then will not change.
He spreads the pieces out on the desk (a bit excessively, to give the impression he is already deep in the task) and sits, beginning his work and listening, listening, listening. The sink runs a few times. He imagines Jim, red-faced, scooping handfuls of sink water into his mouth as if it will cleanse him, rivulets of water running down his sweaty arms…
Spock focuses on the task. He works very hard to not look up when Jim opens the door, and keeps his posture calm and his actions casually intentional. There's a pause in the pad of his feet as he must take in the green sheet spread across the red. Then pacing, abandoned within a few strides. His pulse picks up—he must be looking at Spock. Inhale.
"Did you… get what you needed?"
Spock imagines picking Dr. McCoy up by the shirt and threatening him for introducing him to the concept of divine punishment. This does not help any of the issues he is currently facing, so he drops the man and forgets the fantasy.
"Yes." Spock resists turning to him. He would desperately like to look at him, but even if Jim's embarrassment has softened, Spock's arousal has not, and he had best keep that information to himself if possible. Better, at least, than at the game table. "The plan is on schedule. I do not anticipate this being much of an issue."
Jim takes a few paces, a few breaths, rubs his hands together. His heartbeat begins to calm, slightly.
"…Spock…" He hesitates, changes his mind. "Good. You're reliable. If —once you finish— you want me to take watch so you can get some rest-?"
"No," Spock says, and credits himself for saying anything that polite and not a charming English phrase like not on your life, or not in a million years, or I would easily rather die. Not only would he without a doubt have the same issue as Jim, not only is he harder to rouse, easily startled, and much stronger than Jim, not only is he unsure whether he talks in his sleep and unwilling to find out in the moment, he also often sleeps with his eyes open, and Jim does not deserve whatever horrible stew of a situation that would create.
"…Understood," Jim says. "I'll…" he hesitates. His options are unfortunately rather limited. He cannot leave the room— he is naked, he does not speak the language, and Spock is not putting him back in that idiotic outfit right now— but he has nothing of use to do, either. This is a fancy old-fashioned Vulcan getaway. There is not a screen he could even watch a show on, if he were the kind of person who enjoyed such a thing anyway. Spock hears him sit awkwardly on the bed.
He has to look at him. He looks so limp, and Spock could shake him upside down until the guilt and shame fell out of him, but what can he replace it with? Worry not, Captain. We will try again, and I will ensure your orgasm is much better this time. Is he insane? Truly it is impressive that it took you that long to cum in the sheets. You should be proud. He must be insane. Shall we make it even? Come here.
He needs a new brain. Something must be wrong with this one.
"What are you working on? Specifically, I mean. I know the, uh-" Jim gestures vaguely. "Goal. You did all that work when we found ourselves… Only— I just mean that I guess I didn't appreciate how hard you were working on that contraption when we-"
"Ah," Spock says, humiliatingly relieved Jim took the first step in the conversation, if there must be one. "This is not nearly so complex. It simply requires establishing a relay, amplifying it enough to bounce off of a private satelite—that will require a code which I will need to determine—using Starfleet hailing frequencies to bypass—"
"From memory?" Jim's mouth is wide open.
"Yes?" Spock blinks at him. "The message will essentially have to wait for the Enterprise to pass close enough to receive the wavelength, and it must be simple enough to survive that window of buffering but clear enough that we are found and beamed aboard without much further contact. This device is also a short-range communicator primarily built for sending grocery orders across the sea, and that will need adjusted."
Jim smiles at him softly. Spock does not understand what could be so impressive. He has definitely done much more with much fewer resources and much less time. He had not been sure how to justify not doing this the first night, other than the fact that the message would have to be delayed anyway.
"Wouldn't want to get a note all the way to Scotty and it just says fifteen pallets of potatoes." He shakes his head. "Maybe I should appreciate you more. Have I told you lately that you're incredible?"
"Captain, please," Spock says, amused, and letting it show, for Jim. "It will go to my head."
Failing rest even as a potential option, Jim tries to read his poetry book, and some of them are even rather nice, but the words blend together into a letter smoothie and he finds himself with the book steepled over his face, wishing he was better at sleeping. Or… any of the rest of it. But if he tries again…
He yawns, and the book falls off of his head. It hits the (incredibly hard, mind you) stone floor and he does not move to pick it up. He does try to rouse his body to attempt the rescue, but it doesn't want to listen to him.
"Spock," he says, uneasily. He glances over at him, working so incredibly hard, and has to, unfortunately, try again. "Spock."
Spock blinks for the first time in an upsettingly long time and then looks at him like he only manifested there just now. They really are the same. He smiles to himself.
"If… I… Well, Spock, if-" He rubs at his face. "You aren't planning to leave the room again, are you?"
"No," Spock says. "I will be here."
"Right," Jim murmurs.
"Will the light bother your rest?" Spock says, which is a bit pointed, but probably deserved. "I could turn it off."
"Don't strain your eyes on my account. Bones will hold you down and give you a lecture."
"He can try," Spock says, amused at the idea. "Perhaps a compromise." He dims it nearly as low as it can go without being off. Jim might be out of excuses.
"And you'll be here?" Jim yawns.
"That is correct."
Jim thinks about picking his book up. Moving onto his side, though, just makes him look at Spock, perfect and reliable Spock. He should roll over the other way. Spock doesn't need…any issues.
"Did you crack the satellite code?" he mumbles.
"I have narrowed it to a list of possibilities," Spock says, his low voice so nice and calm. It really has been a long day. Long series of days. He wants to go home. "For example…"