The first time it happened, it just seemed like a natural extension of their friendship. They'd had a late dinner together and talked some over a chess board, then sprawled out on Jim's bed to continue their conversation. Jim had reluctantly hinted that Spock needed to leave so he could go to sleep, then walked his friend to the door.

When Jim suddenly felt the urge to kiss Spock goodbye, it didn't upset him at all. And when he cupped Spock's face in warning and then pulled him into a light, easy kiss, the Vulcan reciprocated gently and with considerable warmth.

And when they drew away, there were no stuttered apologies or dazed looks, no denials or frantic departures.

They just smiled, and parted with a comfortable silence borne of long and close association.

Jim didn't spend the next few hours agonizing over Spock's reaction to the sudden shift in boundaries, and Spock didn't bother trying to dismiss or justify the action with logic.

And when they met the next morning, there was no awkwardness, only small, knowing looks and affectionate teasing.

And when they parted again that night, there was another kiss by the door, but this time it was accompanied by the twining of their fingers, and a long embrace goodbye.

The next night, they didn't part at all.