Characters: Spock, Kirk
Rating: PG, now. NC-17, later.
Warnings: FLUFF. *irked*
Notes: Angsty Spock is angsty. Or some shit. He's about as angsty as a Vulcan's going to get. And modest. And derangingly uncertain about Jim's intentions and actions. I'm trying not to let the next story in the sequence interrupt this one.


"And that beauty spilled out across the high way
Like a glittering trail of venom and diamonds"
-- Chemlab, 'Electric Molecular'

"Two pressure points," Jim explained, thumbs pressing into Spock's back. "I can't reach the third, from here, because you're sitting on it, and that might be a good thing. It makes these two that much more interesting."

"Third? Just be careful with my back, please. I don't allow this sort of thing." Spock sounded less concerned than the words should have been, as he pulled off his shirt, without disrupting the rhythm of Jim's hands.

"I'm not going to break anything. Chill out." Jim's fingers traced the line of Spock's spine, pressing into the points he knew would release some of the more obvious tension -- not that there was obvious tension, in a human sense, anywhere in Spock's body. It was an odd baseline to adjust to, but Jim knew his friend well enough to understand what he had under his hands. Spock's movements were miniscule, and his tension tightly compressed and efficiently worn. Jim wondered if being a Betazoid would make it easier, but he didn't need to be an empath or a telepath to read Spock -- sufficient interaction had opened his Vulcan friend to him like a book.

Some time after Jim had stopped thinking and let his fingers do their work, he slid his hands around to Spock's chest, pulling his friend back against him, breathing in the scent of Spock's neck, pressing a kiss to the junction of neck and shoulder. Mine, he wanted to say, but Spock wouldn't take it the way he meant it. It wasn't so much ownership, as it was an almost tribal claim -- a promise to cherish and protect, to defend and encourage. Not 'my mate', but 'my family'.

He'd left Spock's personal life alone, for much of their friendship -- the Vulcan didn't want to talk about those things, and for all that Jim sucked at following the rules, he knew which ones needed to be kept. Learning, this way, that Spock had been not just unappreciated, but hurt by the women he chose seriously pissed him off. After Spock was asleep, he intended to shut himself in the bathroom and invent new languages in which to shout expletives, because there weren't enough in the languages he knew. Although, upon reflection, Klingon might not be a bad place to start.

Jim returned to the moment as Spock's hand settled onto his own. "I have never felt so comfortable, as I do with you. I have never felt so safe."

Jim choked up for a moment, but covered it with another chaste kiss, as he pulled Spock tighter against him. "Yeah, I have that effect on people. May I never do you wrong."

Spock relaxed against Jim's chest, into his arms, and Jim's fingers idly ruffled his chest hair. This was acceptable. This was cotentment -- plain and unexciting, simple and warm. However, it was likely to go awry, in this position. Spock was bent in a way that Jim knew was putting weight on his lower back, instead of his hips.

"I should move, and you should stretch out. You're going to fuck up your back, if we stay like this, and I just fixed your back." Jim patted Spock's arm.

"My back doesn't hurt," Spock protested.

"Yet," Jim pointed out. "Seriously. I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to watch you hurt yourself on me, because you're too damn stubborn."

Jim moved aside, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the floor, and Spock stood to stretch, sulkily -- or at least as sulkily as a Vulcan would allow. Jim knew what it was; he'd seen it a hundred times before. He shook his head and smiled, standing to unbutton his own pants.

"Look, I hope you don't mind if I take my pants off. My pockets are full, and my hands are covered in massage cream. I don't really feel the need to make more of a mess than is strictly necessary." Jim's back was to Spock, and he glanced over his shoulder to catch the response.

"Terribly logical of you. I am trying to work myself up to join you, but I do not wear underclothing, and the situation is... unusual," Spock replied, hands resting at the closure of his own pants.

"Hey, you don't have to, you know." Jim sat down, kicking his pants into the laundry pile, at the corner of the room. "I really don't care what you choose to keep wearing. Don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account. I'd be --"

Jim stopped talking when he heard Spock's pants hit the floor, behind him -- the thump was likely the communicator that was perpetually in his pocket. Reaching behind himself, Jim lifted the far side of the blankets, holding them like a barrier to his vision, and an invitation for Spock to settle under them. He stared into a corner of the ceiling, until he felt Spock stretch out, and then he laid the blanket across his friend, before he let his eyes come back down.

"Why in the fuck are you so beautiful?" Jim cursed his mouth, silently, as soon as the words were out of it. Sometimes, he spoke without thinking, and the words that came out were always true, but rarely acceptable. In this case, to his horror, he couldn't seem to stop talking. "It's true. Your ears --" he traced one with a fingertip, and Spock tensed, but not in anything like irritation "-- these lips --" again, he enhanced the point with his fingertip "-- you're fucking astonishing."

"Thank you," was the only response, as Spock gazed up, in amazement.