The love of my life.
Kirk stepped slowly through the corridor, on the way to meet McCoy in Sickbay.
Their conversation required no prologue.
"It isn't worth my ship," Kirk said, as soon as McCoy welcomed him to his preferred chair.
"Now who said anything about that?"
"I can't do it," Kirk maintained, nervously drumming the armrests and crossing his legs.
"Jim, if you think I'm gonna tell someone, I promise I—"
"No, I know." He paused, and coughed, "It's not about that."
"Sure seems like it is."
The captain had to shove every breath through his teeth. He studied the floor, and the shadows cast over it by the familiar beds and curtains.
"You're upset," he finally decided, "With me."
McCoy turned away from the cabinet, where he rearranged rows of exotic ales and brandies. He set two glasses on his desk, but left them empty.
"No, Jim, I'm not."
"It sure… seems like you are," he failed at copying the doctor's phrase and intonation.
"The only thing I'm upset about," McCoy said, selecting an ornate, delicate bottle, "Is that you won't tell him."
"He knows, Bones."
The liquid was poured, swished, and swallowed. McCoy's hand found its nest on Kirk's shoulder; supported by bone, warmed by flesh, and protected by muscle. The perfect piece of him.
"I don't care; go and tell him."
Of course, he listened.
"It is not my intent to compromise your authority," the Vulcan established.
Kirk nodded at first, slightly and slowly, then shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"What are you saying?"
Spock pressed his hands together, spreading his fingers and then drawing them together again. Kirk leaned against the wall to watch, transfixed.
"I respect your authority as my commanding officer, and find the overwhelming majority of your judgments to be logically sound. If you find my presence distracting, I would like to request permission for transfer as—"
Kirk reached for Spock's wrist, drawing his thumb over green, Vulcan veins.
"I don't want you to transfer. I won't authorize it."
The scientist glanced up. His breaths were caught in his throat, as he was once again forced to remind himself of human ignorance. The captain's fingertips danced closer to his, but he had learned not to move his hand. He would accept human customs, disregarding them as casual touches.
It was Kirk who chose to retreat. He turned to stare at the door of his cabin, as if that would open it and drag him through. He wanted to be either locked into the situation, or free to leave and forget it. The door allowed neither, sighing and daring him to step forward, enough for it to recognize him and slide open.
"It was not my goal to be transferred, Captain. I merely wish for you to continue operating effectively. I will do whatever you deem necessary to achieve this."
"I want you to accept my feelings." He said to the door, "I don't care if you'll never understand them…"
He did understand them, after years of observation. The experiment began when Spock finally lost count of their 'casual touches.' He would learn to forgive himself, if he could forget the sensations which accompanied every brush of his superior's skin.
"Captain, the—"
Limply, Kirk tossed up one hand.
"It's Jim, Spock. As long as we're here."
The sands of Vulcan glittered around them. They were alone, amongst ruins of Spock's ancestral home.
"Jim. The bond is… difficult to alter. I must apologize for—"
Only a few of the words drifted into Kirk's consciousness, between dizzying bursts of information and piles of memories, which he only recalled forgetting. He was wading between their thoughts, now, but nearly drowning in their feelings. He felt several actions at once, and had to focus on executing only one of them, outside of the glowing bond.
With difficulty, he rested his chin on one clumsily crumpled hand.
"So it'll always be like this? The same… intensity?"
It was Spock who initiated the touch, this time. He matched his fingers to Kirk's, before drawing their hands, together, to the captain's cheek.
"Our minds," he said, "are one."
Spock accepted every order Kirk gave him, even after their missions together had become mere coals in their shared, fiery memory.
"Take care of yourselves," McCoy told them, when their quarantine at the starbase was complete. Jim managed a gentle 'I will', between the lingering pats on his back. Spock was aware of these, too, and assembled a bright portrait of the motivation behind them. Kirk enjoyed this; feelings as colors.
"And keep him out of trouble," McCoy continued, without specification. Spock raised an eyebrow, and glanced back and forth between the others. Kirk smiled.
"Live long and prosper, Doctor."
"You too, Spock."
They exchanged salutes. There were no promises of future meetings. Kirk's thoughts ensnared the word 'engagement', and Spock turned to watch him as he sighed.
"You are not required to separate from myself, nor Doctor McCoy."
"You're right," he nodded. The image of his friend, walking away and glancing over his shoulder too often, was smudged by tears. Spock accepted these as different colors, and filed them away.
McCoy had reached the doors of the lift, and mumbled his intended destination as they opened.
"Bones!" Kirk called, "Wait!"
But the words were confined to his head. They sat and rotted, until Kirk thought to exchange them.
He won't listen to me, he proposed. The words were melancholy. Turquoise. Go get him, and bring him back over here.
As you wish, Spock replied, in lavender.