There was nothing particular or extraordinary about that night. The lack of pollution in this part of the Midwest was a blessing, allowing an undisturbed view of the galaxy surrounding the small, intergalactic hub that was earth. Spock's dark eyes ran smoothly back and forth in methodic rows, mapping every star and solar system he could pick out from the roof of the farmhouse that would become 'home'.
If was relatively fascinating how, once you were separated from your childhood abode, the difference between 'a house' and 'your home' become more distinct. Same denotation, vastly different connotations. He was not at home here, not yet, and that fact was made abundantly clear now that he was so alone in his new environment. While Spock knew 'alone' wasn't really the correct word; Winona was in the kitchen after all, whistling a happy little tune, alone was how he felt (he was here to heal from things like this, and maybe admitting to it would give him closure.)
Isolated and abandoned were the first two words that came to mind— Delilah's company only going so far towards his security. He was trying to view these emotions as a purely scientific procedure, a creative add on to his progressive theorem; the effects of loneliness on the human psyche. It wasn't working.
Spock was fairly certain Jim was happy at the party, which meant he should be content as well; except he wasn't. James' happiness, in this particular instance, had nothing to do with Spock or his efforts, and was therefore an experience Spock could not take part in. This uselessness wasn't a feeling he allowed himself to wallow in.
He was sitting on the roof in one of Jim's ratty old night-T's Mrs. Malcor had given him until his own PJ's came out of the wash. They were too dirty, drenched in sweat from last night, caused by fear he shouldn't have. Almost single-mindedly, he kneaded the fabric thoughtfully between his palms. Something inside of him protested the wrongness of his current situation. He had become a ship stick in foreign waters, his anchor having simply gotten up and left.
Jim was gone, because he favored human companionship over that of Spock. It a cold, slimy truth that stopped the hybrid from simply rising and going to retrieve his acquaintance- the thought that he might be unwanted, or that his presence might embarrass Jim in some way. Too human to be accepted in the Vulcan culture, to Vulcan to be around humans. It seemed his place would only ever be in perpetual social limbo: brilliant in the way that nobody ever seemed to care about.
Roofing rough under his bare, slender feet, Spock pulled his legs under him in an attempt to conserve warmth and continued to stare absently at the sky. It looked all wrong to him- with the wrong constellations and the wrong color tint, as if viewed through some funhouse mirror; then again, these were not Vulcan stars.
He was still convinced something was going to end up awry. That slimy jerk Frank (he loathed to use such uncultured, colorful metaphors, but he'd make an exception for the man who he was sure had injured innocent James at some point) might be where the vibe was coming from, but he was inclined to doubt it. It contained a more pressing sense of urgency than that, as if something was about to go very wrong, very soon is Spock didn't find the problem and make himself the solution.
While he acknowledged that Frank was their (he and Jim's, that was) common foe, that war would require more wit than aggression- bark over bite, if you will. His tended to be a more subtle kind of 'evil', whereas this just felt like… hurt. Pain and ridicule, in all of the worst ways. But Jim could make it through whatever it was alone. If not, he would've had the good sense to invite Spock along… right?
There were bigger parties with better food and louder music going on, but this was the one Jim (and the vast majority of Riverside High, it seemed) wanted to be at. No longer having to flick his mop of light russet hair out of his eyes every two seconds (It looked substantially darker when still damp), face clean and eyes bright, he navigated the living room turned dance hall with a spring in his step. After flicking aside the little, niggling conscience telling him to go home, to teach Spock how to play violent video games and put the only person who seemed to genuinely want his attention before the girl who had been shunning those same attentions since seventh grade, Jim searched for the telltale hair and voice of an angel of his dream girl like a man on a mission.
It was as if, in the face of all these people, the large house had shrunk, leaving only tiny entry and exit points for one to navigate through. His shoulders were always touching someone else's, constant contact taken for granted in this throng of young humanity. Wearing dark navy jeans and a black dress shirt with delicate, hardly detectible wings embroidered on his shoulder blades, he fancied he would've been the center of all attention if he wasn't a discriminated against freshman- never let it be said that his ego suffered from his apparent lack of popularity.
The concept that Spock would've appreciated his 'frivolous yet aesthetically pleasing efforts' was filed away as soon as it popped up, along with the guilt. Something logical (that, since the sophomore's arrival, had adopted Spock's baritone) in his teenage thought processes told him that if he weren't so busy chasing skirts he had no chance of fitting into, maybe he and Spock could be talking now, plotting against Frank together. It was a strange sensation; normally things like consideration of others would never be able to take precedence over girls and school. Jim had to wonder, with affectionate humor, if he had begun accidentally riding along on the coat tails of Spock's emotional mellow.
Not that it would surprise him. The other boy tended to bring out the best in him- best sense of humor, best emotions, best intelligence. They were simply better together, it seemed. He became lost in thought as he scoured the household for his prospective girlfriend.
James didn't make it to Suzy. In his leisurely search, he had made his way into the kitchen: which was, both luckily and unfortunately, exactly where she was. Much to his dismay, however, that was also the general vicinity of Adam Muchid; the slightly overweight tank of a junior he'd taken to calling 'cupcake' in one of his finer moments of verbal triumph over the boy. They had been in a public area at the time, of course- such that the other boy couldn't take a swing at him without having several teachers on his fat ass in a milky-way minute.
And while Jim may not be the captain of the football team or president of any clubs, he was unparalleled when it came to mincing words, especially so when his opponent was a C-student, backwater jerk like Adam. On the flipside, the stupid oaf and Suzy had been neighbors since diapers and 'friends' just as long, and Adam always seemed to linger in the shadows around her at school. If there was one instance in which Jim's self-preservation instinct came through for him, it was when addressing the subject of not-letting-Cupcake-or-any-of-his-sprinkle-drones-get-you-alone. On the topic of physical bullying, they meant business when they could get away with it.
Except that apparently getting him alone was, it seemed, the agreed upon plan for tonight, and the bruising hand that clasped his shoulder as soon as he came into sight didn't feel too keen on letting this one slide. There was a side door by the pantry leading outside onto a concrete porch, dimly lit and vacated of the innocent partygoers that swarmed inside.
"I thought you weren't going to show up, Mr. Kirk. I know I remember telling you not to." Like a bad actor from an old mobster movie, the hand that had dragged him out here pushed him roughly to the ground, rounds of stupid, guffawing laughter punctuating the action echoing from the people already waiting outside.
It let him know just about to a T who he was up against. "You say a lot of stupid things, Cupcake. I've learned to tune most of them out." It was true- if the great, stupid boy had actually made any previous mention of the request he said he had, Jim hadn't heard it. It must've been hidden covertly between the customary 'Your father was a coward' and 'Kirk's a jerk' comments; like they were still supposed to hurt him after all of this time. Regaining his equilibrium and blinking upwards, he saw exactly what he'd (feared) expected: Adam, three of his mouth-breathing friends and his slobbering pit bull, genuinely mean in a way that very few animals actually were. He thought, through the static of panic, of gentle Delilah back home with Spock.
This was a kink in his plans if he'd ever seen one. He should be throwing insults, freaking out, trying to run- but all he seemed able to do at the moment was stare up at malicious faces like a deer in headlights, still thinking of Spock as the pain brigade advanced.
-StoneByStone-
It had been a reluctant decision for the sixteen year old; get off the roof, stop moping and find something at least mildly constructive to do. In his cursory and half hearted search, Spock had found James' Biology textbook. There were no complex equations or far fetched theories such as he was used to, but it was none-the-less more fascinating than he had initially accounted for. Earth itself, it seemed, was a lot more fascinating, too. The diversity of ecosystems, staggering number of species and the effect of so much water on all of the above almost blew him away. Earth was truly a marvel of a planet- more lush and picturesque than most aliens gave it credit for. He was grasped by a senseless, illogical urge to go out an experience it all for himself, and take pride in what was partially his planet or origin. If this phenomenal, scientifically wondrous world was really what his mother had left behind, she must have a deeper devotion to his father than Spock had any inkling. Abandoning this mentally and visually stimulating place behind for the barren, alien desert-
It was at this point in his musings when the migraine struck. He knew it wasn't quite normal or natural the instant the pain ignited his brain- it was sharp stabs next to bursts of anger and humiliation, all with the undercurrent of 'helphelphelphelpHELPME!' thrumming from Jim's end of the link into the panic switch at the base of Spock'sbrain, wired to protect.
In an instant he was sitting ramrod straight in the office chair he'd been lounging in, long ears slicked back against his skull in an aggressive gesture, nerves on edge. He hated to give himself the satisfaction, but he knew it! He had known something was bound to malfunction, knew he should've stuck with his wayward t'hy'la at all costs.
Deciding that going down the stairs and leaving out the front door would require too many explanations and take far too much time, (time he didn't have, time where he could be protecting that which was his self-imposed responsibility) Spock slid out the open window and down the now familiar shingles, making the twelve foot drop from the lower roof to the damp ground with more grace than any human could ever hope to have.
He hit the ground running and didn't stop, muscles contracting with every leaping step, advancing in rapid bounds with his springing, entirely Vulcan gait, reminiscent of a time when his people had digitigrade feet, like cats and canines. A time when Vulcans were warriors and hunters, a testament to how far gone Spock was becoming to find James (who was in so much pain now, only increasing with every second passed. It was simply logical that he should hurry.)
His careful control had popped again, traces of worry seeping through the cracks. Luckily, he reflected, he wasn't to the point of total abandon.
His arrival at the party was roughly six minutes after his departure from the farmhouse. Riverside was a small town, sure, but that was positively inhuman; almost invulcan as well. Spock didn't need to go inside to find Jim. He could hear the pained exclamations from sixty feet away, muffled with from willful desire not to give his tormentors the satisfaction as they were.
Spock bounded effortlessly over the fence without touching it, unconcerned with appearing human (or rational) at this point. Hair no longer appearing as its customary bowl cut, windswept to the left and tousled with sweat, he supposed he mustn't have looked much like a modern Vulcan. The pinned ears, narrowed eyes and working jaw, teeth gnashing under his closed lips, may have had something to do with it as well. Spock was about the same height as the tallest boy there, but with his thundering presence he appeared to tower over them all as the stalked viciously foreword, disregarding all trespassing laws and outer-planetary visitor regulations.
And then he caught sight of Jim, curled in fetal position with a black eye, split lip and bruises in places Spock couldn't see (but feel quite acutely), and while his heart broke his patience simultaneously snapped.
"You. Will. Cease." There was no epic showdown, no punches thrown or insults exchanged; but the pit bull flanking the ugliest of the loathsome little group abruptly began whining urgently, backing away with the utmost care and it's tail between it's legs. The animal had the right idea.
"You have a smart canine. I suggest you follow suit." It was a threat by anyone's standards, unmasked, with vicious undertones of retribution and a demonstration of Vulcan's violent history.
Stumbling and muttering, eyes wide as saucers, they did as they were told, moving faster the farther away they got and tripping over themselves to get inside and find safety buried in the raging crowd still gathered. Walking over quickly and lightly, Spock bent down with eyes brimming concern, speaking in volumes a facial expression could never manage.
He reached out and smoothed down a stray lick of hair on his friend's head, ignoring the crimson-brown smear of blood from a tiny gash towards the front of his skull. He didn't stop there- he couldn't, not without more reassurance that Jim would really be ok. While he ran his fingers soothingly across Jim's cheek and over his temple, ghosting the meld points in an attempt at comfort, Spock took further inventory of the human's injuries. He'd broken his pinky and fourth finger on his left hand, while two bruises as big as Spock's fist were quickly turning deep purple on the outside of his left leg and beneath his right pectoral. There were a multitude of other, minor bruises and a handful of scrapes, but Spock couldn't hear the blood painfully rushing to them like he could with the Charlie horse its upper body compatriot.
Jim's face looked like it'd gotten the worst of it. Blood from the tiny gash on the top of his head was dripping down onto his face, making it seem infinitely worse than it was. While head cuts may bleed like there's no tomorrow, this one (thankfully) wasn't very deep, and looked clean enough that it could heal well on its own. A profound sense of regret threatened to take hold of the Vulcan, but the pressing matter of getting Jim to safety took precedence. They were all fairly superficial wounds- and, with the nearest hospital being a day away with the Malcor's old fashioned car, it wasn't worth the trek.
With an almost unbelievable gentleness about him, the unspeakable calm of relief and a sense of purpose on his face, Spock scooped James into his arms bridal style and situated his limbs comfortably. When Jim finally opened his eyes at the amiable gestures and beckoning back into consciousness, he stared up at Spock like a saving grace; the light in his blue eyes making the aforementioned sophomore both unspeakably proud and a bit embarrassed. Opening his chapped lips, he croaked out a hesitant apology, seeming to deliberately forego explanation for now.
"Sorry about needing the save." His smile was heartbreakingly sincere, weak, tired and unconditionally apologetic. He didn't ask how Spock knew how he was in trouble, or even where he was- it just seemed to make sense, in his addled, ever-so-slightly concussed state of mind, that Spock would be there when he needed him. Just… the way it had always been, that sort of thing. "I can't seem to get anything right these days-" a tender, hesitant cough broke up the sentence, more phlegm mixed with a hint of blood dripping delicately out of his split, parted lips "even partying."
Spock just kept on walking, the angle of the artificial yellow light cast behind them obscuring his dark eyes. "Curious you should say that. I happen to be of the opinion you're more than proficient at a variety of activities. Perhaps, if loud music and alcohol are two of the few things you do not excel at, you should leave this 'partying' to less talented individuals." Jim understood the words between the lines as clearly as if he were the one thinking them (he was, actually, thinking them vicariously through Spock, but this was another one of those things Spock wasn't quite ready to divulge.)
'You're talented to me. Quit doing stupid things that get you injured! Most of all, though, quit doing things we can't do together.'
In that instant, he just wanted to hug Spock. He knew it was the wrong time, the wrong place, but he didn't care. Instead, he curled further into the protective embrace he was being carried in and grinned so wide his eyes squeezed shut. "Okay. And one more thing- don't tell mom. She has 'nuff to worry about." The words were beginning to slur, and while the urge to argue with Kirk's faulty logic was there ('she is your mother, and she has a right to know'), Spock didn't. He knew he'd end up caving to the younger boy's whim: Jim seemed to have that effect on him.
Then all of the tension in the link drained, leaving a sort of floating calm from James' end that Spock wouldn't mind basking in, if the situation wasn't quite so bleak. The injured idiot had fallen asleep.
It was as if he was a part of James, simply an extension of the young man's over-active imagination, freely taking all of the affection he had been so silently starved for most of his childhood.
It wasn't that far back to the Malcor farmhouse- not for a Vulcan, at least, but getting back up onto the roof and through the window without Winona noticing was going to be a problem.
Jim was so full of bright emotions, brimming in joy and optimism that he rarely let himself indulge in, for fear of ridicule. It was a shame, because Spock thought it was simply amazing,…
Although he didn't revel in lying to the nice woman, the considerate mother, he still had an acute awareness that his allegiance lay, willingly or not, perpetually with James.
…and hoped…
The human in question was warm against his chest, in a way not simply physical but spiritual- like a band-aid on a scraped knee, fitting up against Spock's chest like the last piece of a forgotten puzzle.
…that maybe, one day…
Spock shifted Kirk slightly, so his head lolled gently and safely against Spock's chest (right above his heart, just like it was supposed to be) and broke into his odd, loaping run once more, speeding through the night with residual elation mooched off Jim (and what a feeling it was!)
…he could love like that, too.
-'-
A/N: My brother got caught illegally downloading movies. They shut down our internet for a F*CKING MONTH. If he ever does it again, they're banning us from internet forever, in which case I'm not speaking to him until I move out and can get my own internet connection. God, he's an asshole. So… sorry, bout the wait. It was as upsetting for me as it might have been for you, if you like this story; which I hope you do.
Updates should be weekly again, thank god. Please Review: remember, I take suggestions, love feedback and actually keep the longer, nicer reviews in my e-mail for writing support when I'm in a slump!
Oh god... I'm such a hurt!Jim whore. Please excuse the painfulness; I just love writing righteous Spock too much.
