Hi guys! So, I promised I'd have this out by this weekend and – lo and behold! – I did! Pretty amazing, right? Well, it was a close thing (it's my birthday and I now own more Star Trek than I know what to do with) but it's here.
I feel I should explain something. There's a bit of poetic licence in this story, in regards to the PADDs. It seems like they're being physically mailed across the space but they're technically not. Using the reasoning of people passing Kirk PADDs in TOS, I have decided that (yeah, the presents are all physically mailed unless otherwise specified) the actual letters are emailed (do they still call it that in the 23rd century?) but the PADDs are constantly handed to the schools/teachers for marking. It is an assignment. But after the four letter assignment boundary, there will be other ways for the boys to remain in contact.
Oh, uh, sorry if the times seem at all squishy (as a Southern Hemisphere gal, it's sometimes hard to remember NH school times). And this one goes out to Katherine, without whom this chapter would probably have taken another week to write. I guess the moral is; reviews make me feel guilty for not uploading. So, using that logic, feel free to guilt me if you have the time but otherwise alert or fav if you liked it? Unless you have a super-memory and can just go back to stories you've read without ever alerting or faving… (My memory kinda sucks, so I fav everything I like.)
Enough A/N. Onto the chapter…
Chapter Four: A Paper Moon
*^.^*
Jim hissed feebly and stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth. It was official; he sucked at origami.
For the upcoming Terran holiday of Christmas, Mrs Green had her class making origami figures. Most of the kids had the basics down (read: were happily throwing paper planes at each other) but Jim couldn't for the life of him seem to get the paper to obey. His desk was steadily being swallowed under a multi-coloured mountain of torn paper. Of course, it wasn't real paper – like in those old books Jim loved so much – but replicated paper, made from reformed atoms and molecules.
Jim had at least five paper cuts – not including the latest one – and not so much as a plane to show for it, let alone the little Santa's and elves some of the other children had succeeded in making. Currently, he was just trying to make the virtually flightless planes the rest of his class seemed able to do in their sleep. It wasn't that he wasn't creative – he was, indeed, extremely inventive in all his work – he simply had no experience with this sort of thing.
Mrs Green was finishing showing a girl a few seats across from Jim how to fold a crane when she noticed his plight. She stood soon after and made her way over to Jim.
"Do you need help, Jim?" she asked, despite the obvious answer.
Jim nodded miserably, his finger still in his mouth. Paper cuts hurt.
Mrs Green carefully brushed the ruined paper to one side, before getting out a brand new sheet of sky blue paper. "Here," she offered kindly. "I'll show you how to make a plane."
One demonstration and five folds later, Jim was looking at his first successfully made paper artwork.
"Thank you, Ms," he said, staring in awe at his plane.
Mrs Green chuckled and ruffled Jim's hair lightly. "Anytime, Jim." She made to stand and move away to help other students, when a tiny hand gripped onto her shirt sleeve. She looked down at Jim in surprise; he'd never been this bold before.
"Ms…" He sounded choked. He swallowed and began again. "Mrs Green, would you mind helping me, um…" he trailed off. Jim shook his head to clear it, squeezed his eyes shut and blurted out, "?"
Mrs Green blinked, nonplussed. "Excuse me?" she asked, having not understood the string of words Jim said without taking a breath.
Jim swallowed again and looked down at his desk, at the piles of now useless paper. He exhaled heavily and began again, forcing himself to speak slower this time. "Would you please… help me make something nice… for Spock?"
Mrs Green smiled at him. "Of course, Jim. Anything in mind?"
Jim started, somehow not having expected compliance. "Uh…" he said rather unhelpfully. He hadn't really thought this far ahead.
Mrs Green pulled up a spare chair and sat next to Jim, allowing him his time to think. She was a little surprised, but immeasurably happy, that Jim was friendly enough with Spock to exchange presents. He'd sent Jim those star stickers (boy, had Mrs Green been surprised when Jim told her about them the next day) and now Jim wanted to send something back. It was really quite sweet.
Jim fiddled with a loose thread on his jacket. What to make Spock? Hmm… He didn't know what sort of things his Vulcan liked outside of science… Well, science it was then. Just… what exactly?
Jim thought, long and hard, before he came up with something that he figured everyone had to like. Even his Vulcan.
"A… starship." Jim looked up at his teacher. "Like the one in the Shipyard. Can we do that?" A smile stretching her green features, Mrs Green tucked a brown lock of hair behind her ear and slid a silver piece of paper out of the few sheets Jim had left. She handed it to Jim and began instructing him on the appropriate way to make an origami starship.
*^.^*
Amanda hummed as she trimmed back a bush in her rose garden. Her humming soon turned to singing as she straightened to wipe sweat of her forehead.
"God rest you merry, Gentlemen; Let nothing you dismay; For Jesus Christ our Saviour; Was born upon this Day; To save poor souls from Satan's power; Which long time had gone astray-"
"Mother?"
Amanda stopped and turned around at the quiet, questioning voice of her dear son. He stood down the path, looking at her like she'd grown a second head. Amanda chuckled quietly.
"Sorry, Spock." She opened her arms, gesturing silently for him to come closer. He complied without much hesitance, though he continued to observe her strangely. "I was singing an old Christmas carol."
"Yes," Spock murmured, head tilting to the side. "If I recall correctly-" Which you always do, Amanda thought proudly. "-it was in 'A Christmas Carol' by Charles Dickens, was it not? …'God rest you merry, gentlemen'?"
Amanda nodded, quite proud Spock had remembered something so insignificant from an illogical Earth story she'd read to him when he was three.
"It is almost 'Christmas time' on Earth, is it not?" Spock had a contemplative look on his face. Amanda would have bet good money that he was thinking of his young Terran friend.
"Yes it is, Spock." Amanda handed Spock a pair of pruners which he wordlessly accepted. He knelt on the stone path next to his Mother and began trimming back those few stems that had dared reach out over the path. "The children on Earth will probably be preparing to celebrate it," she observed as casually as she could. "It's still a pretty big thing there, even if not everyone's Christian," she continued, answering Spock's question before he could do much as open his mouth.
In all honesty, Spock had forgotten it was almost the 25th of December on Earth. Only a week until Christmas, an occasion for the exchanging of gifts and well-wishes between friends and family, as his Mother had explained to him when he was very young. Despite having lived on Vulcan for many years now, Amanda still celebrated Christmas in her own small way. She would make or purchase small gifts – logical gifts of clothing or food or educational items such as books – and hand them out to everyone she cared about. Sarek had at least three knitted dark grey sweaters, each better than the last. Spock often received fictional books or collections of poetry in either Vulcan or Standard from his Mother, and he always gave her something in return, despite his father's insistence at the illogic of celebrating the birth of a Human from over two millennia ago.
With such a short time until the holiday was truly upon them, Spock most certainly did not panic. He did, however, begin to wonder if he should send something to Jim. He thought he probably should – it wouldn't be a hassle and his Mother could always assist him in selecting something – but he wasn't sure Jim would want to send him something. And if Spock sent a present when Jim was not, Jim would feel the need to reciprocate and would go out of his way to do so. Spock did not want his Human to go to any trouble, and feared inadvertently putting such pressure on the young boy, because anything might scare him off. Spock remained insecure in regards to their friendship; it would take him some time to get used to having a friend, after all. Then again, what if Jim was planning on sending Spock something, and he did, and Spock had nothing to send in return?
He sighed, dispirited. Having a friend was proving to be hard work.
Amanda cast a sideways glance at her son, who'd stopped pruning and was staring blankly at the rose in front of him. Something was troubling him, and Amanda had a good guess as to what.
As with all Vulcans, Amanda broached the subject in a logical manner – as roundabout as possible.
"I was thinking of making a traditional meal for Christmas, this year," Amanda mused, clipping off a rose. She held up the cherry red blossom, the sunlight diffusing pink across the skin of her palm. She smiled softly. "I'll have to contact your grandparents," she said to Spock, as an afterthought. "I'm not sure I remember all the recipes correctly. They'd love to talk to you, Spock, if you don't mind."
Spock was looking sideways at his Mother. He averted his gaze back to the plant seated in front of him, thinking in his quiet way.
"I would not be averse to conversing with Grandma and Grandpa, as it has been two point eight four years since our last verbal conversation." Spock spoke to the rosebush, turning Amanda's expression soft with affection and motherly love. Despite his claims of not having emotions, Amanda knew her son loved his family dearly – it was moments like these, telling, that let her know her husband and son truly did – and he had enjoyed talking to his Grandpa about maths when he was younger. It would be nice to set up a video comm. for a change – as much as she loved her new one, Amanda did miss her old family on occasion – and perhaps this would help Spock with his problem.
Amanda held the flower out to Spock, who took it from her hand with great care. Holding the rose unnecessarily close to his face, Spock went almost cross-eyed looking at it. At length, his brown eyes – expressive and so human – switched their gentle gaze to Amanda and he lowered the flower.
"I…" Spock swallowed and looked down at the rose. "…will go place this in water," he finished, voice a little strained. Amanda watched silently as her son got to his feet and went back inside, the rose clutched tightly in his hands.
She sighed, going back to her gardening. Hopefully her earlier words could be of some help to Spock, because she was beginning to feel concerned.
Amanda found herself quite unable to forget over the next few days the interesting shade of green the tips of Spock's ears had been as he left.
*^.^*
Jim was outside on the porch, watching the ominously grey sky, wondering when it would just give up and start snowing. The air was chilled and Jim's breath froze in little icicles in front of his eyes, yet it refused to just snow already.
He rubbed his hands together, breathing on them to warm them up. He huddled further into his coat – a hand-me-down from his brother – and waited.
He was still there, watching and waiting, when his brother returned, scowling like nobody's business. Jim got to his feet straight away, asking what was the matter.
Sam directed a glare at the frosty ground as he sat down on the porch steps next to Jim. Jim plonked back down, looking over at his brother, blue eyes shining with concern. He hated seeing anyone distressed, especially his big brother, whom he loved to bits.
"Mom," Sam began, almost growling. Jim's brow furrowed as understanding dawned on him. Sam had fought with their Mom the last night she was home and, as far as Jim knew, they hadn't made up yet. "Mom… will be back in a couple of days. She'll be staying for a week before heading out again."
"Mom'll be back for Christmas," Jim breathed, in amazement. This would be their first Christmas together. He could hardly wait! He'd make something really nice for her and then she'd have to notice him!
Jim grinned suddenly and latched onto his brother's side in a bear hug. They would have a real family Christmas; could anything be better? It'd be a real-life, Christmas miracle, like the ones in their old holovids.
Sam started a little at the abrupt, full-body contact but then he smiled into Jim's hair and wrapped his arms around his tiny shoulders, because no-one, not even Sam Kirk, could resist Jim's charm.
"Come on," Sam said after a moment had passed. "Let's go set up the tree."
The smile his little brother directed at him made all Sam's effort seem worthwhile.
The two brothers got to their feet and, Sam's arm still wrapped protectively around Jim's shoulders, headed inside. They made their way to the stairs that led to the basement, whereupon Jim disentangled himself from his brother and dashed downstairs.
Sam chuckled lightly at his brothers antics before following his steps at a much more reasonable pace. He didn't anticipate much this Christmas – it'd be much the same as any other, he figured – and he hated to see Jim's hopes grow only to be cut down later as he was sure they would be. Sam was ten; only ten and quite jaded with life on the Kirk farm. It was clear to him that no-one could be a Kirk under this roof, but it was not yet clear to his little brother and Sam didn't want to be the one to tell him. Jim was a smart boy; he'd figure it out himself, eventually.
For now, they could put up the tree and enjoy the time they had.
*^.^*
Jim peered around the dark of the basement, eyes adjusting to the dark. Back when Frank was less of a drunken stepfather and more of a loser uncle, he used to come down to the basement to get hammered (because, before he'd married Winona, he used to be slightly civilised), and one time he'd broken the light (read: torn the wiring from the walls in drunken rage). He hadn't bothered to fix it since, seeing as he'd moved upstairs into the living room, and neither Sam nor Jim had the skills or knowledge necessary to fix it themselves. So the light filtering in through the small, ground-level window would have to do.
Jim grinned as he finally spotted the tree tucked into the back left corner and made a beeline straight for it. Theirs was an old, plastic tree. It'd been in the Kirk family for years, and was moulting worse than their Grandpa Tiberius, but Jim loved it.
"I found it, Sam!" Jim called back to his brother. He grabbed the long white box the faux-tree rested in and began dragging it backwards towards the stairs. Jim had only taken a few steps when his brother appeared in his line of view. Sam grabbed the other end and their combined efforts managed to lift it a foot or so off the ground. They carried up the stairs and into the late George Kirk's study.
They set up the tree in a corner, the same one as every year, and as Sam rested against the wall (he'd taken most of the weight himself – not that he'd ever tell Jim that; his little brother hated being babied) Jim hurried back to the basement and sought out their box of decorations. He found it sitting on a shelf, a good metre out of his reach.
Jim glanced around the basement, looking for something to stand on. He spied a truly ancient, wooden stool across the room and grinned. Perfect. Jim hurried over to it, carefully avoiding the edges of the boxes the cluttered the floor. No-one came down here much anymore, so everyone just dumped their mess down in the basement. Out of sight, out of mind.
Jim hissed as his knee collided painfully with a box. So, not quite out of mind.
He hopped around on one foot for a minute, holding his sore knee up to his chest.
"Come on, Kirk," Jim muttered to himself, putting his foot down tenderly. He winced as he put pressure on his leg; he'd have a nice bruise later. Jim's eyes lighted on the stool again, and he stifled the pain. He continued over, hobbling slightly this time, and when he made it he let out a whoop of delight.
Jim grabbed the stool and held it over his head as he shuffled back to the decorations box.
He set the stool down and clambered onto it. Jim stood shakily, eyeing his prize with a fierce determination. He reached out his hands, not caring for his balance at all, and latched onto the bottom of the box. He spared a moment for a victorious smile before he tugged the box towards him. It tipped forward off the shelf with more force than Jim had anticipated and took him with it as it crashed to the floor.
Jim sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head where it had connected with the ground. His eyes were watery from the pain but he managed to focus and find the box. Its contents had spilled out onto the floor but the great majority were intact.
"Phew," Jim said to himself. "Ouch." He rubbed his head grumpily. Stupid gravity.
Once his head stopped hurting quite so much, Jim got his feet and collected the decorations. He herded them back into their box, hefted said box in his arms and stumbled towards the stairs. He could barely see over the box, and it was killing his depth perception. Twice up the stairs he tripped and almost went tumbling back down, but his luck held out and he was still alive when he finally got the decorations upstairs.
Jim collapsed forwards, tired from his efforts. The hardwood floors were strangely comfortable today…
"Jim?" Jim looked up only to see his brother looking down at him, consternated. "You okay?" Sam pushed the box to the side and squatted next to his brother's body. He looked from Jim to the box and back again, understanding dawning on his features. "You shouldn't do that," he told Jim, shaking his head. "I could've gotten it; you didn't have to."
"I know." Jim mustered up a smile and pushed himself up until he was sitting. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly quite sleepy. "I'm sleepy, Sam," Jim told his brother promptly. "Can we put the decorations on later?"
Sam sighed, but helped his brother to his feet. "Sure, Jim," he said, agreeably. "Just go rest, okay?" Jim nodded and, swaying slightly, wandered up the stairs to his room. Sam shook his head again, before picking up the box and going to place it in the study.
*^.^*
Sarek looked up from his work at the sound of the entry buzzer from his study door. "Come," he called, eyes going back to their previous work.
"Father."
Sarek did not look up this time; he turned a plastic sheet of work and waited for his son to inform him of his reason for being here.
Spock stood just this side of the doorway, trying his very Vulcan best not to fidget. He could imagine his father's reaction to the request he'd come to ask, and it wasn't pleasant. But Spock had to ask; he had an effort to make now.
"Father, I am going to be speaking to Jim over video comm. It may well become a regular activity," Spock informed his father in a quiet voice. The silent question of 'is that all right with you?' made Sarek finally look up from his work. His dark brown eyes observed his son for a moment – taking in his straight posture, blank face, and the determined glint in his eyes – before he inclined his head.
"I am sure your mother would like to speak to James as well," Sarek commented dryly, turning another sheet.
Spock started then relaxed almost visibly. "Indeed," he agreed, quietly, and turned to leave. He could barely believe that his Father was being so agreeable; Spock had been under the impression Sarek would not want such Human influence on his son.
"Spock." Spock stiffened, not turning. Of course it was, as his Mother would say, too good to be true. "You will give James my regards." Spock looked back over his shoulder at his Father in surprise. He recovered swiftly, composing himself.
He inclined his head. "Of course, Father." Spock left then, before anything else could be said to shake his world. Father wants me to give Jim his regards? Spock mused as the door slid shut behind him. How odd.
What Spock was unaware of, was that his Father was happy that he had a friend. Certainly Sarek did not want another Human influence on his son – after all, he and Amanda had agreed to raise Spock as a Vulcan – but, as his beloved wife had told him, Spock was both Human and Vulcan, and no matter which culture he was being raised in, he would need a friend on occasion. Certainly, a pen-pal was the best solution; it would mean that should Spock's friendship with James Kirk begin to affect his chances of a good life on Vulcan, it could be dissolved easier than a physical relation.
*^.^*
Spock lay on his back, eyes flickering in his sleep. He was deep in REM sleep when a loud sound of glass shattering startled him from his rest. Spock sat up straight in bed, looking around his room to locate the source of the noise. His bedroom window lay in shards on the floor, leaving his room open to the cold night.
There was nothing to indicate what might have caused the damage, and Spock was lost as to what this might have been. While it was possible Seron had taken to vandalising his family's property, it was far from likely. Outside of that, Spock had no clue as to what this was.
Careful not to step on any glass, Spock got to his feet and padded to the window. He firstly checked the grounds below – which were clear of anything that might have caused his window to shatter – then turned his gaze skywards. The familiar layout of stars shone high above, Vulcan's sister planets bright in the sky. There was nothing odd there either.
Bemused, Spock turned back to his room, intending to clean up the glass before returning to his rest. If he were Human he might have yelped at the sight the greeted him, if he were Human.
As it was, Spock simply blinked a few times, as though the person on his bed might go away if he willed it enough.
The intruder was a humanoid male, approximately age twelve in Terran years. He had dark blond hair, round features, and warm hazel eyes. He had one hand resting on the rustled bed-sheets where Spock had been lying not a minute ago. The boy was staring at the place his hand rested, a strange look on his face. It was what Spock might call a 'sad smile', a purely Human and illogical emotional response for smiling was supposed to indicate the presence of positive emotions. But this boy most definitely had the saddest demeanour Spock had ever seen, and yet he was smiling.
"Illogical," Spock murmured to himself, voice pitched so low a normal humanoid should not have been able to hear it. Yet this one did, and he turned his sad gaze on Spock.
His hazel eyes lit up – though eyes physically cannot produce light – when he looked at Spock.
"Spock," he breathed, voice equally quiet.
Spock's breath caught in his throat, eyes widening as the boy got to his feet and ghosted over to him. He reached out his tan hands and caught Spock's shoulders in a friendly grip.
"Spock," he said again, wonderingly. "Spock." His voice broke, tears leaking out of his eyes, and he pulled Spock forward quite abruptly. Spock landed against his warm chest, as the boys arms encircled him, pressing him closer and closer still. "Spock," the boy said again, his warm breath teasing the hair on Spock's head. The boy leaned his face down into that same hair, breathing in deeply.
Spock was frozen in his grip, his train of thought having derailed in a fiery crash a ways back. Before his mind could properly reboot; before any of this could truly register, Spock felt himself fist his hands in the front of the boy's striped shirt. He nuzzled his face into the warm chest, hearing the strong heartbeat quicken as it powered the stranger's body.
"Spock," the boy choked out again. He couldn't seem to stop saying Spock's name, and Spock couldn't seem to pull away.
The boy lifted one hand from Spock's back and reached it between them, capturing one of Spock's hands in his own. The boy was so warm, like a dream, and Spock was losing himself in it. In him.
The boy lifted Spock's hand until it rested against the meld points of his face. Any attempts at regaining control Spock had been making went out the window right then and there. It was so tempting to dive into this boy's thoughts – they would be as a warm blanket, wrapping around Spock, keeping him safe in these arms – so tempting…
And Spock almost did it; he almost gave in, lost all control. But at the last moment, he pulled away. All the warm feelings faded as Spock stepped back, away from this boy – this stranger.
Was he a stranger? He felt so familiar to Spock's mind.
"Spock?" The boy sounded confused, and hurt, and he was looking at Spock with a little furrow of confusion between his eyebrows and Spock wanted to smooth it out…
No. Control.
"Who are you?" Spock said, breathless. When did that happened? he wondered. His heartbeat was also elevated, as was his temperature. He touched his cheeks, warmer than usual, and realised – to his great embarrassment – that he was blushing.
The boy took a careful step towards Spock. "Spock. Don't you remember me?" These were the first words the boy had uttered other than his name, and Spock felt disappointed in himself for not remembering this boy. He was causing him undue distress… if only he could remember…
"I know you… Do I not?" Spock tilted his head to the side, trying to place the familiarity this boy offered.
The boy looked encouraged. "Yes. And I know you."
Spock blinked, eyebrows drawing together as he racked his brain for something… anything…
"I have been… and always shall be… your friend." Spock pressed and hand against his mouth. He'd spoken without thinking about what he was saying first. In fact, he had no idea where those words had come from. But they'd been pulled from him as if by some undeniable, magnetic force.
The boy stepped forward, closing in on Spock. He seemed hushed, his expression encouraging, as he waited for Spock to remember.
"Yes," the boy murmured. "Yes, Spock…"
If this boy was his friend as Spock himself had said, and as Spock had only one friend to speak of…
"…Jim…" he murmured. "Your name is Jim."
Tears welled up fresh in the boy's eyes. He nodded his head. "…Yes."
Their eyes locked together, and the boy took the final step forward, re-entering Spock's personal space as though he had permission – and didn't he? Hadn't he always…?
Jim's hands closed around Spock's upper arms, and Spock felt his heart lurch in anticipation of feeling that comforting warmth again, but Jim did not close the space between them. He restrained himself, the effort visible, and waited. Waited for Spock to take the next step, as he always did…
Spock leaned forward, arms reaching out, all semblance of control gone… and he was falling into Jim's arms…
*^.^*
The distinct sensation of falling lodged in his gut woke Spock up. He blinked groggily at the ceiling, his mind catching up to him slowly. He had been… dreaming, quite obviously.
Spock pressed a hand against his forehead, feeling feverish. He must be ill. That must be it.
Spock's hand went limp against his forehead, sliding down to cover his eyes.
He breathed out, deeply, calming his racing heartbeat. It was only a dream.
*^.^*
Heh heh. Please don't kill me? Sorry if this seems at all cut-off-y, but it seemed a reasonable stopping point. Eh *cough*. Anyhow, thank you for reading.