AN: Uhm, yes, I'm still alive! I'm so sorry, guys, it took a month and I didn't even notice! More than a month; but I've been busy as hell these last few weeks, because the trimester's drawing to a close and there were tests and exams… Well, anyway, may I present you chapter 7? A very relaxed shore leave in which we'll explore the wonderful world of Jim's inner conflicts!

7

Domestic

Shore leave didn't go at all according to plans, but that seemed to be the constant with Jim's life, thus he wasn't really surprised, just a little annoyed: he had promised his Vulcan, desert-bred best friend warm weather and sunny days, so of course it had to be raining buckets that week planet-side, an almost constant shower of cold mist. Spock was his usual gentle self and bore it quite well, with a resigned not-sigh and a mutter of 'kaiidth'. He did raise the temperature by several degrees, though, to a point were Kirk went around the house barefoot and sleeveless, and of course he categorically refused to stick his nose out the door.

He retained the ugly grey jumpers he'd worn during his illness, only now he added a pair of thick, spongy socks which he put on top of his regular, Starfleet-issued black ones and his trousers; Jim did not find it ridiculous at all, no: to him, this nerdy, bookworm side of Spock was basically adorable -disturbingly adorable, if he said so himself. Especially considering the effect was enhanced by the Vulcan's newly discovered obsession, that came in the form of National Geographic documentaries watched every evening while curled up beneath a mountain of blankets on the couch. Kirk humoured him with that, even finding himself enjoying the soft, enraptured Fascinatings uttered in the almost complete darkness and sharing his friend's obvious excitement as he settled on the floor in an attempt to cool his overly heated limbs.

It was the very first shore leave they spent alone together, and it proved to be a revealing experience, for both.

On day three, Jim tried out Vulcan cuisine: he was quite the good cook, because he had obtained the skill out of necessity when he was little and left to fend for himself with a broken replicator as his only companion; he was confident enough he could come up with something at least vaguely similar to the original recipe, even if the available ingredients were obviously terran in nature, so he commandeered Spock out of the kitchen and set about working alone. The scientist, for all of his grace and intelligence, was a complete klutz among pots and pans -the last time he'd been allowed to help, he had managed to set a rug on fire and spill water on their finished spaghetti in one move, much to McCoy's chagrin. The poor Vulcan had acted all guilty and mortified around his Captain for a whole month after that incident.

Jim smiled quietly to himself as he moved around the small, cosy room, acquainting himself with the pale orange tiles, the worn-looking stove, the piles of bowls and matching dishes filling the mint-green cupboards. It was extremely pleasing to handle real food for a change, and plus the whole place smelled nicely of ancient times, of rain and the smoke from burning wood -though it brought bitter memories to the surface of his conscious, he still cherished the feeling of genuine, still cherished the act of putting together an authentic meal.

He chose a traditional vegetarian dish, the balk'ra, since it closely resembled a terran casserole and he had a large supply of fresh vegetables; he hummed contentedly as he kept an eye on the pasta bubbling cheerfully in its boiling water and stirred the mixture of mushrooms and onion in a pan, inhaling the scent of rich, fried oil as if he were a starved man. He made sure to add a generous amount of spices to the seasoning for the potato cubes, for he knew well how Vulcans enjoyed piquant stuff. He found it preposterous and, dare he say, illogical, that desert-bred people from all over the universe tended to prefer having their mouths set aflame with every bite they took, as if their world wasn't hot enough already. Oh, well. It wasn't really his place to judge, now, was it?

He went on singing absentmindedly the lyrics to a classical song from the twenty-first Century, completely unaware of the dark, guileless eyes following his every move.

Spock stared, transfixed, at his t'hy'la navigating the narrow kitchen as if he belonged there: he was sure and collected, a steady presence, more calm and at peace than the Vulcan had ever seen him, absolutely entrancing. It was an entirely foreign sight -his reckless, relentless Captain so at ease assembling such a small thing as a meal- and yet, somehow, it felt familiar. So pleasant to watch. So beautiful.

"When I thought that I fought this war alone…" Jim was murmuring softly, surprisingly in tune, as he bent down to slide a baking tray inside the pre-heated oven, "You were there by my side on the frontline…"

The First Officer did not know the song, but found it to be also pleasing, the lyrics fitting their current relationship to some extent. He stood silently by the door, holding his forgotten Padd in one hand, mind racing wildly, twisting around the fact that Jim -oh, so golden a creature- was utterly unattainable and still closer than anyone else. He was inexorably drawn to him, but he couldn't help but stop a few steps away, frozen in his effort to maintain a firm control over his every urge, even if it meant fighting his desperate desire -the constant need he felt to join their minds and taste that sweet honey again. T'hy'la.

Kirk clapped his hands, squatting on the floor to peer inside the oven; Spock's eyes never left him. "When I thought that I fought without a cause…" the song went on, so accurate, "You gave me a reason to try…"

The Vulcan sighed heavily -which, for him, meant he exhaled a slightly deeper breath and slumped his shoulders by a millimetre or so- and thought about Nyota's repeated advice: you should just tell him the truth.

He was well aware, though, that the odds were against him: Jim, promiscuous, womanizer Jim, would only be scared away if he knew, if Spock told him about the kind of commitment bonding to one's t'hy'la brought, if he showed him the depth of his affections and regard for him. It simply wasn't worth the risk, because the half-blood had already lost so much -so many- and he couldn't afford to live without the easy, trusting friendship they shared. Thus, he kept quiet, pining from a distance. It was enough, being friends. It had to be enough.

After allowing himself another tiny sigh, he joined Kirk by the counter to offer what little help he could without accidentally blowing the kitchen up.


Spock lay the table as Jim filled the dishes; the human looked up at his friend with eyes brightened in expectation as soon as he sat in front of his plate; the Vulcan quirked his lips upwards in what the Captain had come to recognise as a smile, then dipped his fork in the vegetarian casserole, lifted it to his lips, blew some air to cool the morsel down, took a mouthful, chewed with great care, swallowed. Silently, he sat about cutting the whole thing to very symmetrical pieces, while Kirk watched bemusedly, reminding himself that for all that they were friends, his second was definitely not one to give away compliments with any ease.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked, tasting the balk'ra himself and finding it pleasant.

The Vulcan's face went stiff, his eyes closed off. "It is… very well done, Jim," he whispered, a little too formal for the human's liking. It seemed to him as if his friend was becoming more uncomfortable by the second. "You don't like it? You can tell me, I won't mind too much!" He snickered, raising both eyebrows at the unmoving scientist.

"No, Jim, I… My apologies." He bent his head, set his shoulders. "I find it rather similar to the original recipe. As I said, it is very well done."

"But you don't like it."

"My apologies."

Jim frowned, uncomprehending. "I've seen you eat that thing once -you had two helpings!" He shoved a second enormous bite into his mouth, thinking that maybe he could live with vegetarian if it came with a Vulcan in tow. Said Vulcan was now looking terribly tense, lips pursed and acting like one about to reveal some sort of dark, shameful secret. "It is… the spices." Once again, he brought the fork up to his mouth and chewed quickly, allowing himself the smallest of winces. "They are… quite harsh upon my tongue."

"You mean to tell me… they sting?" Jim gasped, disbelieving. "But… but you…"

"I am aware no other Vulcan has any such problems," Spock murmured flatly, hiding his burning humiliation well, but not well enough that Kirk did not see it clearly.

"Oh, just shut up already!" the Captain basically ordered, "That's not what I was gonna ask! I don't give two shits about other Vulcans. What I want you to tell me is why you keep eating spicy food if it hurts you?" He made it sound like a question on purpose, to convey the whole of his incredulity and disapproval. Spock's earnest eyes slid up and down his face, as if he were searching for jest. "It is the tradition," he simply stated.

Jim waited almost a full minute for him to elaborate, then said: "So what?"

A graceful eyebrow was arched minimally. "So nothing. It simply is." The Vulcan's gaze conveyed all his confusion in front of the human's confusion, then he joined his fingers on the table and went on: "You are… accurate when telling me I favour Plomeek soup above all else: it is the only Vulcan dish generally considered bland."

Kirk bellowed, pointing his index finger at him: "A-ha! I knew I'd get you to admit it!" He shook his head, got up fluidly, sent the scientist a fond smile. "Now, come on, Spock! To hell with tradition! Don't like, don't eat!" And with that, he took away his friend's plate (firmly unheeding of his half-hearted, very polite protest) and placed it inside the fridge: "It'll be my lunch for tomorrow." He rummaged a little, yawning under his breath and tapping his foot on the floor impatiently until he found what he was looking for. "Here, you can have this." He settled a colourful salad under the officer's appalled face. "There's… uh… tomatoes, lettuce, boiled corn, radicchio, chopped carrots, fresh peppers and just a little onion. Entirely spice-free!" He chuckled lively, patting the Vulcan's shoulder before sitting back down at the table. "I made it for tomorrow, but we can switch."

He resumed his meal, waiting for his friend to chill; after a while (scant minutes, as much as his limited patience allowed) he raised his head to look at him, and froze: Spock was staring at him with open adoration written on his fine features, eyes soft and warm with some kind of unspoken emotion that made the Captain's skin tingle with a heady mixture of expectation and anxiety. It was… such a rare thing to see and yet he chose to ignore it without even knowing why -perhaps he was afraid to break the fragile equilibrium they had created through their months of shared experiences, their constant confrontation with death and the struggle to survive; perhaps he was afraid to let himself care too deeply; perhaps he felt as if he were threading on thin ice, and one wrong move could mean drowning beneath frozen water.

Be it as it may, he produced a cocky grin and, pretending his friend was his usual detached self, he retreated ever-so-slightly behind a mask of smug irreverence. Picking up an olive from a small jar, he threw it inside the Vulcan's plate, where it landed with an undignified squeaking sound. Then he threw another one directly into his chest, smearing water and oil all over his civilian, old-fashioned shirt. Thankfully, Spock's tender gaze melted into a frightening glare that gave way to a low, menacing growl, and the moment was gone.


"The temperature outside has lowered considerably," Spock stated flatly, quite out of the blue. Jim glanced at the windows and, sure enough, the glass was fogged, turned white by the thick condensation. Without awaiting invitation, he jumped up on the Vulcan's bed, on top of the covers because, no matter what Bones kept saying, he wasn't self-destructive and had no intention to die out of sheer heat. His friend kept staring intently at him from beneath his pile of warm blankets, until Kirk felt compelled to cross his arms and snarl: "Don't you dare raise the temperature again." He pointed at the very thin undershirt and shorts he was wearing and added, snorting, "That's as naked as I can go for the sake of decency, and it's already hot as hell in here!"

Spock burrowed himself deeper under the dark blue sheets, so that only his wide eyes and the tips of his ears where visible, then, with a soft rustle of fabric brushing fabric, he brought his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs tightly, in a very un-Vulcan fashion; the Captain smirked privately, feeling absolutely lucky that the normally reserved, composed scientist deemed it safe to lower his defences in his presence. His self-satisfaction lasted for a few minutes, until his second gave him a level, ever-so-slightly resigned expression, the one he called 'the Vulcan pout of martyrdom', which clearly meant Spock was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of Jim's human needs.

"I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable," the First Officer declared for good measure, in an actual earnest voice, "I shall endure."

Suddenly Kirk wanted very much to smack him in the head, possibly hard. He was fully prepared to use the whole of his persuasive skills on his friend, but that was before he got a better look at him -was his nose a little green? And weren't his lips beginning to dry? Jim just had to give up, at that point. "Fine! One degree only," he conceded, biting his lip. "You spoiled, manipulating bastard."

"Thank you, Jim. You have my gratitude." And without further ado, Spock extricated his left arm from his nest to reach for the controls and raise the temperature to the point Kirk thought he would sweat his skin off. The sight of the Vulcan snatching his arm back under the covers as if he'd been burned and shivering quietly did have its merits, though.

"I expect you to at least buy me drinks for all this trouble," Jim said, scooting closer to the wall so he could rest his back against it.

"That shall never happen," the scientist made sure to inform him, "But you may choose the channel we are to watch this evening."

"Oh, I may? And you're giving me permission, aren't you?" Kirk murmured with venomous sweetness.

"I am." Spock looked perfectly collected now, obviously not worried in the slightest to incur in his Captain's wrath. He handed him the remote controller, which he had taken apart and reassembled first thing when they had arrived. "I am quite curious as to what your choice will be."

The planet they were visiting was basically earth in the early 90s, complete with silly TV programs and weird music; Jim had decided to stay in the equivalent of the USA, because it was an English-speaking country, and since English was the closest language to Standard, he figured it would be easier for Spock to acclimatize. After a ten-minute search, he chose to watch an old sci-fic movie about an alien invasion, and they enjoyed themselves by thoroughly tearing it apart scene by scene. Or at least they did up until the point where the Vulcan fell soundly asleep without a warning.

Kirk gaped: it was so damn rare for the scientist to sleep more than the human did, but then again, it was about time he rested a little. On the ship, Spock seldom slept, taking almost every shift and spending most of his free time locked away in the labs, unless Bones stepped in and forced him into a couple of days of medical leave -and even then, it simply equated to transferring his work from around the ship to his quarters. Hell, it was shore leave and he had a pile of blinking Padds on his bedside table, the workaholic. Jim briefly considered stealing a few and hiding them somewhere, but he restrained himself, because he liked his head where it was, firmly attached to his neck, thank you.

He smiled as he looked down at Spock's peaceful face, then he stripped his last blanket from his own bed and carried it across the room to let it fall on his friend's unmoving form; the room was dark and he had turned off the TV: in the silence, he could hear each even breath escaping from the Vulcan's severe mouth, each raindrop crashing against their window, the sound of cars running in the distance, the occasional hoot hoot of the owls hidden in the night. It was a long time before he, too, fell asleep.


He woke up early enough, shaken by the sound of a storm thundering against the frail windows; surprisingly, Spock was still lost in a deep, peaceful slumber, almost completely hidden by his faithful pile of blankets, which, for the record, hadn't moved more than an inch from where Jim had left them in the evening. Careful of not making noise, the human rose from his bed and tiptoed across the room so he was standing by the Vulcan's bedside table, the better to stare him down.

He was so relaxed and vulnerable that way, nothing like the unwavering, ruthless scientist that alone managed half of the Enterprise's affairs. Those long dark lashes of his rested against his high cheekbones, the shadows they casted fluttering from time to time as his eyelids trembled; Kirk had heard many things about Vulcans: some people said they didn't even dream, but that didn't seem to be the case with his friend… Then again, there was very little information about them.

Had it been anyone else, Jim would have jumped him then and there, he was so tempting. This was Spock, though, and it was different, he deserved better; there could be -and would be- no casual thing about him, because they trusted each other and the human valued that trust more than anything else in the world. It humbled and pleased him both to see the amount of loyalty and faith the Vulcan placed in him.

He liked Spock an awful lot, he'd liked him for ages, but it had never mattered because until that moment he had always believed his friend to be unreachable -even after he had broken up with Uhura, he simply was… distant, too good, too proper, too out of his league. And yet now it was becoming more and more evident just how attached the Vulcan had grown -how easy it was for him to lose that cold mantle of pure logic and warm up around him -he appeared to regard him as family, at the very least.

Jim was vastly unsettled by such familiarity. Aside from Bones -because Bones had always been the exception to his every rule- he'd never let anyone so near, and he'd certainly never been held in such high esteem by the people who knew him so well.

He sighed softly and decided to let Spock sleep in without disturbing him. So he left him a note -on a real piece of actual paper, which was terribly cool.

I'm going out, sleepyhead, to take a stroll. Feel free to meditate or do whatever respectable Vulcans do when they're alone.

I'll be back before lunch, so don't you dare go anywhere near the kitchen!

I'm leaving you tea in a thermos and cookies on the table.

-J

It was almost a two-hour walk to the nearest city, and even though it was raining buckets, Jim decided to forgo the car, choosing instead to make his way through the pouring water without taking an umbrella.

He needed time to think, and he liked the rain -he found it relaxing, pleasant, clear, a source of life, a promise of hope; back in Tarsus during the famine it had been so scarce: it happened only twice, and both times had been times of wonder, and joy, and relief; the transparent water had washed away a little of the land's ugliness, eagerly swallowed by the too-dry dirt which had begun a slow metamorphosis into mud, delightful mud that hinted a capacity for new growth. It had trailed down the parched, battered skin of the children-turned-savages, cleansing their serious, thin faces and bringing back a sliver of their long-lost innocence. Only then had young Jim allowed them to run free for a while, to play among the burnt remnants of the forest, to paint their cheeks and skinny arms with stripes of black, wet ashes. Only then had he joined them, momentarily dismissing his responsibilities.

Because of the rain.

A much different rain -though, really, all rain was just as precious- now tickled Kirk's already soaked hair, falling into his neck and drenching his jacket, all the way to his T-shirt. He paid the cold discomfort no mind, though, focusing on the even cadence of his steps, on the rhythmic, rich sound of lush droplets hitting russet earth -coming home- and, more importantly, on his quite alarming thoughts regarding his First Officer.

So Spock had basically become an integral part of his life. Okay. He could deal with it. Maybe. Provided he kept his distance and his wits about him -provided he didn't do anything stupid like falling in love, because, really, falling in love was just about the worst thing that could happen to a person, and Jim knew it well, for he had seen his mother, had seen how George's death had destroyed her, turned her into a ghost of herself.

"I love him," she had said, a hunted look making her pretty eyes hollow and frightening, as she stared down at her youngest son and saw nothing but the taunting memory of her husband.

"I love you," she had said, as she accepted the ring Frank offered her and bound her life -and her children's lives- to an intolerant, alcoholic bastard.

"Goodbye, kids, I love you," she had said, bags in her hands and she once more left her boys alone with a monster to run away from her past and join the umpteenth Starfleet mission.

"It's for the best, baby, you know I love you," Winona had claimed, an empty smile on her worn-out face as she patted unruly blond hair, bright under the scorching sun beaming down on Tarsus.

And Jim had learned the hard way that to love was to destroy, to love was to die a slow and painful death, to love was to hurt, to love was a dangerous, messy affair, absolutely not worth the effort of baring your heart out and making yourself vulnerable, so vulnerable and fragile and exposed…

How could he drag Spock into such a thing? He couldn't. He wouldn't, most definitely.

A soft, pitiful, mewling sound came from somewhere behind him, successfully tearing him apart from his morose musing, and Kirk turned to see a tiny, black ball of wet fur staring up at him with exceptionally bright eyes. "Hello, there, little guy, are you lost?" Smiling delicately to himself, the human bent down to gather the trembling cat into his arms, deciding then and there that he would bring her home with himself. It would make a nice surprise to his Vulcan friend, who had on many occasions shown a very amusing feline behaviour…


When Jim attempted to slump down on the sofa, the cat was already comfortably settled in Spock's lap, drenched fur and all, and the starship Captain deemed it only fair that he, too, should get some rest, except that a cold hand suddenly placed on the small of his back prevented him from completing the motion, effortlessly keeping him somewhere between sitting and standing. "I would much prefer you dried out before attempting to join me." The Vulcan declared adamantly, giving him a light push that sent him staggering a few steps away from him.

Kirk's eyes widened, and he glared at his friend in pure, undisguised outrage: "Do you mean to tell me the cat can walk around getting the house -and your clothes- wet and I can't?"

Clearly pleased that the human had understood his position so quickly, Spock gave him a satisfied nod, waving idly towards the restrooms. "Precisely."

The Captain snorted loudly, took off his dripping jacket, waved it dangerously close to the Vulcan, who recoiled, just an inch or so. "Oh yeah? And what if I, too, wanted to get you all wet?"

In a fleeting moment of unguarded emotion, the Science Officer lifted his eyes away from the cat to meet Kirk's own, chocolate brown melting and open and utterly exposed before they once more settled back to their default placid warmth. "That would be unwise," he intoned levelly, as if nothing had occurred. "Furthermore, I would like to point out that it is not only for my sake I speak. You are an uncharacteristically delicate human: you should dry out."

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know…" But he was too shocked and confused to fight him longer, and stomped to the bathroom, hands raised in evident defeat. "Glad to see you too…"

Jim knew a come-hither look when he saw one, and he was fairly certain that his First Officer had never stared at him quite like that, but with Spock, he couldn't really tell… or wouldn't, that was more like it. But surely it wasn't possible… Did his logical, calm, collected, ethical, Vulcan friend fancy him, of all people? James Illogical Exasperating Hot-headed Kirk? The idea was, if not downright absurd, at least preposterous. He sighed again and fixed his mind on the incoming shower.


After lunch, they went back to the living room, Jim sprawled on the sofa with a hard-cover book in his hands and Spock sitting cross-legged with a straight back on a thick layer of blankets arranged on the floor in a close imitation of a meditation mat; he held his faithful Padd in one hand while he absentmindedly petted the cat with the other, twisting his fingers gracefully in her now very dry, very soft fur. For little more than an hour, they were silent, relaxing, enjoying each other's presence and the luxury of simply being, without constantly worrying about oncoming anomalies and angry aliens ready to throw a fit if they so much as blinked at the wrong time.

Kirk frowned a bit as he turned the last page of the novel, biting his lip as he allowed himself a moment to feel the loss of such a good story before he turned lazily among the pillows to lightly tap his friend's shoulder. "What are you up to?" he asked, smiling at the Vulcan when he let his head fall back a little in order to look at him. "I am currently studying the history of ethnologies throughout the centuries in Earth, Vulcan, Tellar and Andoria," came the immediate reply, and Spock offered him his Padd, letting him see the open page: a series of quotes from renowned authors written in their original languages and alphabets. Jim chuckled under his breath at the not-so-subtle reminder that the Vulcan, other than a scientist, had also been a Xenolinguistics professor -he had taught Uhura, after all.

"You need help with that?" he blurted out, reading quickly through the familiar lesson, his mind instantly going back to a few years before, when he was still at the Academy. "Cause I totally aced Interstellar Ethnology when I took the exam, so maybe… eh… I could give you a hand if you… want?" He suddenly felt very insecure: was he really offering study tips to the most brilliant mind in the whole universe? But Spock gave him a placid, satisfied look, obviously unfazed by his restlessness, and nodded once: "That would be most agreeable."

Pleased and astonished, Jim slid down off the sofa to sit by the Vulcan, stretching both arms and legs and stifling a yawn. "You're always studying, aren't you?" he teased, a playful grin on his face. Spock answered him with customary seriousness, and his brown eyes were focused on his and so intense it was almost difficult to hold his gaze. "I am fascinated by the number of things I do not yet know."

"Yet?" Kirk repeated, laughing openly now, "You planning to die with full universal knowledge in your hands?"

Lowering his eyelids just that little necessary to compose a perfectly condescending expression, the scientist arched one dark eyebrow and reclaimed his Padd, sifting through his notes. "That, Jim, would be both preposterous and impossible."

The human smiled fondly, even lovingly, at the back of Spock's head, then froze as he realised what he'd been doing. People leave, he reminded himself sternly, people leave, and you have no business meddling with this kind of stuff. But it was close to impossible to deny that he had never been so at ease in his life -he had always been on edge, ready to fight at a moment's notice, ready to attack or defend or flee; that, to him, was familiar. He hadn't thought familiar could also mean safe -and now familiar was that light snorting sound Spock made when he was laughing inwardly at him, the slightly bitter scent of black tea that filled his quarters when they played chess, the disapproving glare that was the last thing he saw when he managed to land himself in trouble against all odds and the warm, concerned look that was the first one to meet his eyes when he woke up in sickbay.

Familiar. A dangerous illusion: dangerous, because he wanted it, oh, how he wanted it, and yet he knew well he couldn't allow himself that particular slip, not with Spock, not with anyone. It was crazy to even consider the idea.

Well, as long as the Vulcan wanted nothing more but to be friends…

"You are distracted," Spock stated in a neutral tone, "Are you experiencing discomfort? Perhaps you are ill and need to rest." And, yup, he was being made fun of.

Kirk rolled his eyes very slowly, making sure to convey all his annoyance: "Shut up, Bones," he snapped, smirking impishly at the scientist, "Perhaps you're just looking for excuses to go back to your Padds, you incorrigible workaholic."

"Perhaps," Spock allowed, "But I was under the impression that one should be extremely unproductive during shore leave."

Jim elbowed him in the ribs, wincing when the blow reverberated all the way up to his shoulder; Spock gave him an unimpressed glance that told him, quite clearly 'you should know better than to hit me by now'. Kirk shrugged, waving the pain off: "And in what kind of alternate universe does 'studying' fall into that category?"

The Vulcan chose to ignore the question, apparently deeming it beneath him. "Should we begin by reading Historiae ivrisqve pvblici Regni Vngariae amoenitates by Adam Franz Kollár?"

"Why don't we start from modern times and work our way back to the beginning?"

"That is… a most fascinating suggestion. Very well. I shall follow your lead."

Again, Jim was struck by how domestic it all seemed. Yes, domestic. And it scared the hell out of him.


"I said you're coming."

"But Jim-"

"Shut up. I booked two tickets for a real theatre and there's no way you're not going."

"It is-"

"The rain's about to stop and if you're cold you can have my jacket too."

"I would-"

"I bought you a hat, and mittens. Stop complaining."

"That is most kind, however I…"

"We've gotta drop the cat here to a shelter, remember? Don't you wanna say goodbye?"

Spock sighed his Vulcan martyr non-sigh, and allowed Jim to fill his hands with what appeared to be a pile of ocean-coloured wool. "Very well. I shall accompany you. I trust you will bring the umbrella this time." A hint of distaste tinted his last sentence, and Kirk laughed wholeheartedly at that: "Your wish is my command, Commander," he said in mock-seriousness.

"It is hardly so, Jim, and you are aware of that," the scientist muttered, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck and chin until only his eyes were visible just below the rim of his hat. He was pleased that the human had thought to provide him the items to keep him warm, however he was most displeased that he was now forcing him to go outside in the cold and the wet. "I insist that I would very much prefer to remain inside."

Kirk's finger was suddenly just a few inches shy of his nose, blue irises piercing and alight. "I said no complaining! This is The Barber of Seville! In Italian! In the actual 20th Century! Now how many chances are there that you'll get this lucky again?"

"Point three-nine-six against a hundred," the Vulcan begrudgingly admitted. Picking up the cage where he had regrettably stacked their furry companion, he followed the human across the door. To his credit, Jim did open the umbrella as soon as the Vulcan had as much as taken half a step under the rain, and Spock was all too happy to plaster himself to his friend's side, taking advantage of his perfect -if entirely truthful- excuse for doing so.

Kirk sent him a fleeting look, shivering faintly in a mixture of worry and elation in front of such closeness. It's because of the rain. Only because of the rain, he told himself, shifting so that the umbrella covered the Vulcan almost completely. "You're alright there? Nose starting to fall off?"

"I do not think so, Jim," Spock declared, breathing carefully through his mouth, so the air would be warmed by his scarf and his breath. Jim looped an arm around his elbow and pulled him into a half-run: "Come on, we'll take the car. I'll drive!"

The eyebrow of doom disappeared under the hat, and the scientist turned to stare down the vehicle parked two feet from him with an air of resigned suffering: "I am uncertain whether to prefer the cold rain or your driving," he grumbled; he did, however, fling himself inside without the slightest hesitation, seeking shelter from the unforgiving weather.

"Thanks for the confidence," Kirk hissed, grinning almost manically at the stiff Vulcan, "I'm a safe driver, I guarantee." When it became apparent that Spock had not believed him even for the fraction of a second, he added, shrugging as he turned the engine on: "I did drive my stepfather's car down a cliff once, but that was just for fun."

The First Officer outright glared at him: "Your idea of fun is disturbing," he stated, snapping his seatbelt closed and wrapping both arms around the cat's cage protectively. Jim simply stuck his tongue out and drove away at full speed.


Kirk had thought that at the theatre Spock would have eased off, resumed some of his usual distance, except… he didn't. They had a nice spot up the gallery, and found themselves surrounded by strangers -which was predictable- and wrapped up in quiet and darkness; the Vulcan, who had refused to take off even his gloves, had moved his seat as far away as possible from the 'human' on his left, subsequently getting as close to Jim as the stools would allow, so close in fact that their arms brushed at the slightest of movements. The telepath basked in his friend's proximity, drinking in both his natural warmth and the gentle hum of thoughts and feelings lapping at his lowered shields. It was a grand yet simple experience: even such a superficial contact with his t'hy'la's mental presence was profoundly steadying, and his own mind had been waiting so long, so long… he positively coveted a meld, desired with all of his being to simply merge himself with Jim's essence and become one, forever. That would be… stupendous.

"Hey, did you hear that? That Figaro has the greatest voice ever, I tell you!" Kirk clapped his hands enthusiastically as the first act drew to an end, almost dangling from the balustrade; Spock fought his urge to wrap one arm around his waist to pull him back and instead chose to tangle his fingers together to maintain control. "I did hear it, Jim. It is why we are here."

Blue eyes sparkled his way, mischief and fake exasperation playing on those golden features. "Yeah, smartass, I know." He flopped back down in his seat, ignoring the aggravated looks he was getting from the proper, composed people surrounding him. "You ever been to a theatre?"

"Prior to today, no, I have not. It is my first time." Subtly, the Vulcan inched closer to his friend, seeking out his warmth -he was a little ashamed to be displaying such a need for physical proximity, but he was barely managing from keeping his body from trembling as it were… Jim stared at him for a few seconds before quickly shedding his jacket to wrap it around his shoulders: "Still cold?" he whispered.

"Indeed I am, Jim, however your gesture is most appr-"

In what seemed to have become a habit, the human cut him short, and Spock suddenly found himself bathed in heat as his Captain flung an arm across his back and pulled him tight against his side. "Better?"

Carefully averting his gaze to hide his embarrassment, he nodded. It is enough this way, he thought, more than I would ever think to ask for.

"Shaya tonat."


When the show finished and they got out of the theatre, the sun had come out of the fading layer of clouds in time to set; orange-golden rays painted with light the raindrops scattered everywhere, adding a bright, ethereal sheen to the windows, the colourful walls of the skyscrapers, the pitch-black roads, the passing-by cars, the mismatched umbrellas. It was a scenery straight-out of a picture.

"Oh, right, now it stops with the thunderstorm," muttered Jim, looking up at the sky with a mutinous expression. Then he turned towards his silent companion, breaking into his signature smile: "So what do you wanna do on our last evening?"

"I am open to suggestions," Spock assured him, pulling his jacket around himself and burrowing his nose inside his scarf, "As long as it involves staying in an enclosed, heated space."

The human decided he wanted to try Italian food, and they ended up in a Pizzeria, perched upon a high bench exchanging thoughts on chess moves. Jim laughed with genuine, unsuppressed mirth when the Vulcan insisted upon eating his vegetarian pizza with a knife and fork, and saved him from sugar intoxication by snatching away his bottled tea before he could even take a whiff of it. "That's not what you think it is," he threatened, gulping it down with gusto under Spock's incredulous gaze, "It's full of shit I don't even wanna mention; read the ingredients if you dare."

The scientist's eyes widened slightly and he nodded slowly, probably wondering however humans managed to survive long enough to even reach the twenty-third Century. "Indeed."

A short silence ensued, one during which Jim succeeded in swallowing two slices of pizza in three bites; at that point, Spock felt it only merciful to graciously offer him what was left of his own, because he had discovered Italian food to be quite agreeable and wished to share. "Did you enjoy yourself this week, Jim?" he asked after a while, looking up at his Captain from behind his glass of water.

Kirk thought about his answer for a while: this leave had been an entirely new and unique experience for him -there had been no trouble, he had angered no alien nor had he bed one, he hadn't gotten in any fights, he hadn't even gone around seeking an adrenalin rush… And yet. "I… did. Yes, I did. You?"

A hint of tension seemed to leave the Vulcan's shoulders, and his lips curved the tiniest bit. "Very much so, Jim." Spock's eyes did that thing, then, that soft, melting kind of thing, and Jim was abruptly torn between heart and reason, between just throwing himself at his friend or getting the hell out of that place and away from those gentle eyes making beautiful promises that couldn't be kept. He hid his worry well behind a wide grin.

Please, Spock… It's so easy between us. Don't you go and make it all complicated. Please.


AN: I hope you liked it! I have a feeling I might be running a fever so I don't know if I left some mistakes here or there… I apologise if I did! Also, I hate salads of any kind so I might have come up with something actually inedible. Oh well, Spock's a Vulcan, he'll survive. The song Jim sings in the kitchen is 'War' by Poets of the Fall, a very beautiful song that I totally recommend! That's all folks! Next chapter will be 'Drunk', where I'll explore the wonderful cliché of Spock getting drunk on chocolate and spilling his heart out to Jim! And I'll throw some Bones and Uhura as well, because I love them and the two idiots need someone to talk some sense into them from time to time.

LLAP!