There was something to be said about James Tiberius Kirk. Actually, there were quite a few things that could be said of James Kirk; half of them grossly unpleasant, the other half flattering if not questionably based. Most were true, though.

To list only a small number;

He was intelligent. This was an obvious given, considering the fact that not only had he hacked the Kobiyasha Maru that Spock himself had programmed, but he could also rebuild a phazer, tell anyone just about anything about terran vehicles, could assist in repairing the transporter (Spock was beginning to think the object in question was faulty, because it malfunctioned far more than a transporter shoulder), as well as knew exactly what kind of attack was going on at Vulcan during the Narada Crisis.

He was good under pressure. Jim was one of those select few humans that, when under pressure metaphorically strong enough to crush a man, he was calmest, most levelheaded. In those times of lulling domesticity, he was antsy and irritable and in general an annoyance.

He also had sinfully beautiful (despite beauty's irrelevance) hands.

It was Spock's guilty pleasure, even if he would not admit it to himself. Their bi-weekly chess games were becoming more and more common among his other thoughts, and the thoughts of those chess games were…illogical. His reaction to Jim's hands were also illogical, though not inexplicable. To comment, stare at, or touch another's hands was viewed as lewd and shameful. But Spock was drawn to Jim's fingers like a bug's tendency to migrate towards light sources. The way Jim would over his index finger over a piece, just barely resting on top of it to move it side to side in thought. How he'd chew on his knuckle when Spock had began a strategically maneuver, occasionally baring his teeth around the joint when said maneuver was frustrating. The slow way he would sit back in his hair and run his fingers through his hair when he'd loose a third game—only a third game—keeping them tangled into the dirty blond mess and smiling at him. Occasionally, and though he would not let himself see it, Spock would reach to offer assistance in a move just so Jim would grab his wrist and push his hand back—that was the worst of his sins of logic. He knew that small touch meant nothing to Jim, he also knew to allow himself to execute an action merely to rouse a particular response was pointless in this particular instance; as well as to mention said act one quite erotic to Vulcans. Every time it occurred, a type of warm spread straight up his arm and into his body, curling and twisting in his veins like fire, before settling as a pleasant pressure in his lower stomach.

How shameful, he scolded himself each time. But he could not bring himself to stop. No amount of meditation, no amount of self-degradation, and no amount of wishing it would stop (despite it's uselessness, because wishing gets no one anywhere, work does), it didn't, it wouldn't, and he couldn't. He would lay at night and rouse to uncomfortable sensations, and vague memory of those long, thin fingers in places he should not be imagining them. He would sit for hours in a meditative state, trying to concentrate, and be no closer to calmness than when he began. He settled for repression and exposure, allowing himself to continue to experience it in attempt to become accustomed and unaffected by it.

But he knew that, two, was merely a delusion.

So he deluded himself every Tuesday and Thursday evening at 19.00. He deluded himself into thinking he really did desire to assist Jim in learning more tactical maneuvers, not wanted his hand to be brushed. He deluded himself that he was not watching Jim's hands because they were erotic, but that he was merely observing human behavior in competitive instances. This went on for three months, until he could delude himself no longer.

He would not be able to delude himself he had not just made a noise, when the Captain grabbed his wrist for the third time that evening. He would not be able to persuade his Captain that the noise was of pain, not pleasure, and he knew it when those blue eyes snapped up to him. He was caught, he would be punished, the embarrassment, the shame. Panic, a long-forgotten poison began to surface. His Captain knew, he knew. He knew.

"Shit, Spock, I'm sorry." Jim abruptly let him go, smiling warily. "That's like the fifth time I've done that. Did I grab you to hard? I keep forgetting the whole 'me and my personal space bubble' thing."
Relief.

Spock withdrew his hand, looking back down and moving a rook to properly capture the queen of its enemy. "No apology is necessary, Captain. I have grown accustomed to your strange need for physical contact with your crew. I merely ask you do try and keep it to a possible minimum with myself."

"Sure thing, I'll try and keep my hands to my self." He could hear the grin in Kirk's voice, and only graced him with a brief glance.

He really hoped the Captain would do no such thing.