Unpredictable
Uhura came toward him, her expression unreadable. Jim thought she was going to stop, to speak; but she didn't. She reached and gave his arm a gentle squeeze – Was that a hug without stopping?
Yes, he thought it was.
She continued toward the door, then left with one lingering look back, at Spock, over her shoulder. Her moving figure stood out sharply silhouetted against the brightness of the corridor, before the door whooshed quietly into place.
Spock's eyes followed her until she was gone from sight, then returned to Jim. He didn't move. He said nothing. He waited.
The guy really had the whole Vulcan inscrutability thing down.
Jim decided that he ought to make his own position clear: He was here for the long haul, so Spock might as well spill.
Jim figured he could at least make himself at home – Unpredictable, right?
He strolled through Spock's quarters, picking up a few items, idly examining them before putting them back more-or-less where he'd found them. He leafed through a book or two, took the lid off a pot (the stuff inside smelled good). He crouched down to study a sculpture of a warrior – even with a helmet covering eyebrows and ears, it was obviously a Vulcan – its profile was spookily like Spock's. He gazed at the few pictures on the wall, ran his fingers across the strings of the harp-thingy, touched the carvings on the antique chair. He poked his nose into the little stone brazier.
And the whole time, Spock just stood there, still, just watching him.
Finally, Jim flopped down onto the neatly-made bed. He crossed his ankles, laced his hands behind his head. "Hey, Spock, some evening, huh?"
For a long moment, Jim thought maybe Spock would leave. Then Jim thought that maybe Spock was going to pretend he wasn't there. Then Jim thought, 'Well, this is awkward,' and hoped Spock wasn't going to throw him out bodily.
Jim forced himself not to fidget. He made a real effort to look relaxed.
Then Spock moved to his carved wooden chair, and sat.
His posture was stiff. He didn't look at Jim; his face was averted. After another moment, he propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced in front of him.
After yet another moment, Jim realized that Spock had actually managed to avoid answering a question.
Fascinating.
Was this an in-my-own-home thing? A get-the-hell-out thing? Or had Spock deemed the rhetorical beneath his notice?
Whatever.
Staying unpredictable seemed like a good idea. What should he do, or say? What would Spock expect him to do, or say?
Aw, hell, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to do, or say.
He looked over at Spock.
"So, uhm…"
Spock's face turned away a fraction of an inch more. Apparently his hearing was still working.
"…yeah." Jim looked up at the ceiling. He crossed his ankles the other way. He hoped he didn't have his boots on the black and gold embroidered thing that had been draped across the foot of the bed so precisely. He decided not to check, since that would blow his chances of looking even remotely relaxed.
Another really long moment passed, then Spock spoke. His voice was cool. "Captain, I presume you have some purpose here?"
Purpose? Yeah… Jim thought about it. What was his purpose? "I guess."
He reached back and grabbed one of the pillows, and jammed it under his head.
He could almost hear Spock thinking. Then, was that a hint of curiosity? "Would you care to share with me what that purpose might be?"
"Sure." What was his purpose? He wanted Spock to talk to him. He wanted to tell Spock that he thought he was a pretty good guy, and was concerned about him sometimes. He wanted to tell Spock that he wished he understood him better. He wanted to tell Spock that he scared the hell out of him. And he wanted to know what the fuck had happened at the base lounge.
Spock was waiting.
Jim crossed his arms.
"So, uh, Spock. I was just gonna say…" Spock's face had turned back toward him marginally, making up that fraction of an inch, maybe even more. "What the fuck was that, at the base lounge?"
Spock surged up out of the chair, and then, mid-step, halted the momentum - so that he was controlled by the time he had moved one meter.
Jim jumped in panic. He had half-risen to his feet, and sank back on the edge of the bed as the Vulcan moved away from – rather than towards - him. Jim's heart was racing, and he felt light-headed from the adrenaline rush.
Whoa. Maybe he didn't really need to mention that whole "You scare the hell out of me" thing. Might give Spock the wrong idea.
At least Jim was still being unpredictable - and that was a plus, right?
He pushed himself to his feet, and went to stand an arm's length from his First Officer's right shoulder. "So, uhm. Some Vulcan thing?"
Spock didn't turn. Jim wondered whether that slight change in tension in his shoulder might constitute a shrug. Spock's chin lowered slightly. Jim decided that that might be a nod.
"Ah. So, uhm, I'm guessing it's some Vulcan thing that you don't particularly want to talk about." It wasn't a question, so Spock could ignore it, if he wanted.
Apparently, he wanted. But – his body shifted slightly, and some of the steel seemed to leave his spine.
Okaaay. Not demanding an answer was good.
Something was tugging at Kirk's memory. "Seven years," that son-of-a-bitch had said.
'Seven years'?
Oh. Oh, no.
He really didn't want to ask this, but: "This Vulcan thing… it has to do with biology?"
"Biology?" Spock had turned toward him, the smallest amount.
"'Biology,' as in – 'Vulcan biology'?"
Spock's eyebrow was rising.
Jim continued, a little desperately, "'Vulcan biology' as in the 'biology of Vulcans'? 'Biology' as in 'reproduction'?"
Spock had leaned back just a bit, his arms crossed over his chest. "Captain," he said, with a tone Kirk couldn't quite place, "I assure you I am very well aware of both the definition and common colloquial application of the word 'biology.'"
Good God, was that amusement?
