A/N: Thank you for checking out my story! I've been super busy writing lots of ficlets and answering prompts on tumblr during the last few months and wanted some special way to share them. Between Our Hands is an on-going collection of short stories that have been tied into a light overlaying plot. Enjoy!
Between Our Hands
Two immaculate flute glasses had been set side-by-side on the counter, gleaming from the soft overhead kitchen lighting. Intricate silver plating accented by small gaps and glittering faux diamond gems hugged the curved bottom and base of both, the exquisite decoration separated by a dainty opaque stem. While such luxurious features were perhaps more common adorning a royal tiara than a simple means to consume wine, the glasses were profoundly symbolic and nothing less than perfect for the occasion.
The stark sound of a cork popping cut through the silence of the condo, and was quickly succeeded by the gentle crackling of effervescence following a freshly opened bottle of expensive champagne.
A small plume of misty vapor escaped the opening and curved before dissipating as the olive tinted bottle was lifted and then tilted. It was gently rested against the rim of one glass as the pearly golden liquid rushed forward to fill the empty space of the flute, leaving a dazzling display of bubbles rushing upwards and escaping through the white foam that had formed at the top. The empty glass waiting to the side was filled in the same manner and the bottle deposited into a nearby bucket of ice.
Jim took hold of both glasses by their stems and as he made his way out of the kitchen, commanded, "Lights off." The neat strips of illumination dimmed, leaving only the soft glow bleeding out from the open door of the bedroom to light the way.
Carefully walking through the darkness, Jim arrived in the doorway and paused just to smile softly as his eyes fell on what waited for him there.
The lights were dimmed just enough to create a hazy, glamorous atmosphere, and reflected off the wall-to-wall strip of glass windowpanes behind the bed. Spock, clad in loose-fitting black sleeping attire, had already crawled into the middle and nestled himself underneath the covers, casually leaning back into the wall of pillows he'd built up behind him for support. His dark hair and garments starkly contrasted the light fabric around him, almost creating the illusion that he had an aura. A small stack of books in all different shapes, sizes, and colors waited patiently at his side.
Jim could have remained in that one place, simply taking in the pleasurable sight before him, but the slow incline of one pointed eyebrow inspired him to take his leave of the doorway. With one glass in each hand and the gentle smile never leaving his face, he glided across the hardwood floor in his soft burgundy robe.
As he closed the space separating them, Jim held the gaze freely baring unfathomable endearment that Spock followed his every movement with, returning it in full with soft, half-lidded eyes. When he arrived at the side of the bed, both glasses were carefully transferred to the care of slender Vulcan hands that had aged over the decades before Jim peeled the covers back to make room for himself to climb in.
Spock levered himself forward just enough so Jim could slip behind him and sit with one leg bent at the knee on either side, and was supported by the soft pile of fluffy pillows. Once situated and comfortable, Jim's large, warm hands tenderly cupped the bony Vulcan shoulders before him and slowly drew his bondmate back onto his chest. His hazel eyes closed, head cocking to the left as his lips fell on the delicate skin of Spock's neck before moving up and planting a kiss behind his ear.
Jim pursed his lips once more and then nuzzled against the silken black hair while his hands slowly ghosted down to Spock's pointed elbows. They docked there in a brief pause before he slipped his right arm securely across the lean Vulcan midsection in a possessive half embrace. Raising his left hand, he took hold of the fragile stem of the nearest glass and removed it from Spock's grasp.
Jim nudged his cheek against his ear and then turned his head so that his lips barely touched it as he uttered just above a whisper, "Happy Anniversary, Spock."
Before he could hear the reply, he could feel it–a surge of affection flooded into his side of the bond conveying the message absent in Spock's gravelly, deep voice. "It has been thirty-three years, Jim."
Jim's digits entangled themselves with the fabric of the dark robe as he asked, "At least a hundred more?"
Spock wouldn't dare point out the obvious lack of logic in such a statement, if only because the implication was enough to destroy every Vulcan control in his mind. Instead, he simply accepted it at face value, allowing his shoulders to lean back into Jim and turning his face to the side slightly.
"That is a most agreeable notion," he replied.
"A hundred more it is then."
Their glasses clinked and they drank, letting the flavor of the elegant, dry champagne delight their palates. Jim allowed the crisp wine to tumble about in his mouth for several moments before swallowing as he savored the taste, just as he reveled in the moment of another year and, thankfully, another opportunity to commemorate their anniversary.
It had become a ritual which began nine years ago. As soon as midnight struck on the day of their bonding, they would drink classic Moët champagne in bed and then reminisce on the decades they had spent together.
Despite Spock's general avoidance of alcohol, he was surprisingly agreeable to partake in what became their special annual tradition and at midnight, no less. Naturally, he preferred to be precise; after the time conversion between Vulcan and Earth, it would officially become thirty three years mid-morning. Over the expanse of time spent with Jim, however, Spock had learned that he could forgo pointing out minor miscalculations and imperfect timing in favor of allowing Jim to indulge in human sentimentality and cultural habits. It pleased him very much and Spock would willingly oblige, if only for that reason.
A contented sigh fell from Jim's lips, gracing over Spock's sensitive ear again. "Delicious. Do you want me to take your glass?"
"Indeed," Spock replied and when Jim's free arm unraveled from around him, he carefully placed his half-full flute into the waiting hand.
Jim placed both glasses on the nightstand, so that he could easily reach them again, and once more settled back against the pillows. He shifted Spock forward a little and then drew him back into his arms so that his bondmate was comfortably lying against his chest, his head supported by Jim's right shoulder.
He pulled on the blankets, the material lazily falling down the inner sides of his bent knees so that Spock's lower body was protected and warm. Jim nudged his chin against the pointed ear and referenced the once-neat stack of books that had toppled over from his adjusting the covers as he softly inquired, "So. Which one do you want to look at first?"
Spock's arms rested in a lax position on top of the blankets; caught between them and the pleasing natural warmth Jim radiated, he appeared utterly boneless and serene when he suggested, "As they are arranged in no specific order, I propose we begin with the one nearest to your hand."
"Logical as ever, Mister Spock," Jim replied, the smile on his lips apparent in his voice.
One dark eyebrow elevated and Spock turned his forehead into Jim's chin, acknowledging the compliment with his talent to emit a tone that was flat but hinting of sass. "Thank you."
A soft laugh fell from Jim's lips as he tilted to the left, reaching to retrieve the mid-sized scrapbook styled album within nearest proximity to him. His fingers fell on the blank white cover and he slid it closer. They had both been in agreement to leave the covers of all of their albums untouched on the premise that their memories required no fancy introduction; after all, there was no combination of words deep or warm enough to do justice to what the pages within them held, and, above all, it was their story–one that only they would know and cherish.
Picking the book up, Jim lifted it above his knee and settled it gingerly against Spock's midsection. Spock's hands carefully took hold of both edges, his elbows rising to comfortably rest against the support of Jim's thighs.
"Are you able to see adequately?" he questioned.
Jim nodded as he peered over one black clad shoulder, the side of his cheek moving against dark Vulcan hair with the gesture. He slipped his hands underneath Spock's arms, letting them settle on the lower part of his husband's ribcage and softly replied, "Yeah."
And thus began the yearly ritual of plunging deeply into a profound ocean overflowing with memories and feelings–the tiny shattered bits and pieces of detail that had accumulated en masse over decades to create the greatest love, and, in turn, love story of all time.
It was a story rife with epic adventure and great obstacles and desperate risks... of perpetual longing and remarkable defeat and magnificent triumph... of joy, of sorrow, of loss, of regain, and everything in between.
It was a story that created, cultivated, and solidified an unrivaled affection between two people bound at the soul that not even death itself could destroy.
It was the love story of Jim and Spock, which had a definitive beginning but would never end, regardless of how much time passed or how the universe changed. That much was certain.
The tale began anew that evening on their thirty-third anniversary, and it all started when Spock drew open the matte cover of that book.
Ending Notes:
Thank you very much for reading! More chapters are coming soon. I have many to add.
Many, many thanks to:
- My wonderful beta readers, druxy_kexy and ObsidianWrites
- Scotty and Akaii, who have been an incredible wealth of encouragement
- My amazing friends on tumblr who were kind enough to provide feedback on the concept of this entire project AND for the awesome prompts you guys come up with. Your imaginations are beautiful
- You, for reading! :D *Hugs*
