I am decreed to always be strong and that's as good an excuse as any. "Captain?" I shake my head. The candlelight warms and animates Spock's face, alien, exotic, fondly familiar. His dress uniform collects the flame's glow at the edges of the sheer blue where the fabric gathers. He looks good. Narrow and solid. Affection buzzes pleasantly in me. I don't want him trying to help. I want him to feel brilliant in all ways. I certainly don't want him to be made awkwardly uncomfortable for my sake. "It's okay. Let it go." I look down at the remains of my drink to hide my lie. I parted from Peaches because the charade had become untenable and I couldn't bear to hold to it anymore. But here I am, holding to it.
To meet my duty to a concept I formally disavow I must overcome decades of propriety. "I would prefer to assist. If I can." He nods with a forgiving smile. "You don't need to, Spock." He is doting on me. He is confident that he knows me in total. My reaction to this is complex, overly personal bordering on insulted. I put my reaction aside, turn recent events around in myriad ways in case I have overlooked a possible explanation. There is nothing of note in my memory. Rather standard missions dealt with by a skilled commander and his crew. Heat rises in me. I need his assistance to assist him. If he cuts me off from help, I will fail him. He very well knows this.
Spock has moved through solicitous and tentatively reaching out to land at Vulcan angry. I'm glad I feel sober. I'm somewhat glad we're in public. I look from one of his brown eyes to the other. His voice is precise. "You refer to me as friend. You sometimes use the term brother. I do not understand the meaning of those words." I open my mouth. Close it. I sound as soothing as possible. "You're right." "Perhaps you can elucidate your situation, in that case." Demanding. Right on the heels of my concession. Spock's expression is unwavering. I hold up my hands. "Checkmate. All right?" This throws him off his anger. He nods crookedly. Now he looks wounded instead. He has way too much at the surface as if he's the one who's been drinking. As if he's the one who's been torturing himself with doubts.
I take a deep breath. My command dress uniform pulls snug around me, hampering getting air. I am teetering, close to violating my own strict practices of command, my own hard-learned rules about relationships. I balance there. I have to resort to base courage, the kind that resulted in the medals I'm wearing. I find it darkly amusing that I need to. This is what James Kirk is made of. Fear of getting too close.
"Spock. I'm sorry." No human can say these words more sincerely than the captain does. "Of course, Captain." He frowns. He wants his given name. I concede it easily. "Jim." He nods, looks away, takes that small victory. His gaze narrows and I see the commander in him come forth. "You insist I discuss my emotional problems and you can't drop rank." I hold his hazel gaze, colorless in the candlelight. "You are my captain in all ways at all times. You do not cease to be that for me simply because we are off the ship or off duty." The captain sits back. Sits up straighter. This is a new idea for him. He nods slowly, mouth relaxes. "Okay. Fair enough."
The captain shakes his head. His pose exudes defeat again. "I respect you. A lot. It makes this difficult." "I do not understand that definition of respect." The left corner of the captain's lip rises. "Yes, you do. You keep using 'Captain' with me." I raise a brow. Indeed. "I see." He sips at the remains of his drink, waves the glass at the bar for another. He waits for it to arrive. It is sweating. It leaves clinging watery streaks on the table top. The waiter departs without speaking. The captain sips, considers the glass suspended in his fingertips. "I respect you too much to close the gap between us. Without heed, especially." He puts the drink down, raises his eyes to mine. "Your Vulcan sensibilities. My many duties that must come first." He rubs his chin. Frowns thoughtfully. "Actually. Those used to be the reasons."
"You know what. I don't know anything. I'm terrible at this." The captain holds a breath in. His voice falls quieter. "I respect you. And I care for you. More deeply than I do for anything else in this universe. Including the ship." I have seen the captain face a fleet of hostile vessels with shields down without a hesitation of physical movement. But in the second and a half before he binds them between his teeth, his lips are quivering. "Jim?" He lowers his face, so when he looks at me again, he is looking up. I listen. I keep listening to the ensuing silence.
I push my drink around. I listen to the communal hum of bright conversation around us, the tiny roar of the candle on the table. "Do you know how intimidating you can be?" I ask. Spock considers this as if considering the chess board mid-game. "I have noted this with others, Jim. But have not observed it impacting you." I want to down my entire drink and let it burn and then numb me. My chest is knotting up. "You are intimidating," I say. I'm stalling. I'm giving up things that seem personal and difficult to reveal, but aren't. I can't tell if he's falling for it.
We are playing emotional chess. And he no longer gives off an air of struggle. And it is my move. We stare at each other. I am out of my depth. I have been abandoned again to flounder in my ineptitude. I do not allow myself to react emotionally. It is merely a strategy of his I must combat with my own. "Indeed. That was a deflection on your part." He looks away, face set. I can read his intent in every line of him. Still your move, Commander.
Spock is as calm as ever. His great mind works behind his eyes. He starts to speak and stops. Twice he does this. Although no one else in the bar is watching us I am warmed by a surge of protective instinct. I want to take him away, shelter him. I can't bear him risking the loss of even an ounce of that epic Vulcan pride. "Spock." I cut off his struggles. "Maybe we should go." He glares at me, eyes like that statue he keeps meditative company with. "We will continue to talk?" This isn't like him. "Yes, we will. Come on."
It is biting cold outside. The wind slithers beneath my dress uniform, stealing core body heat away in its relentless passing. I follow him down the floating dock, a figure of sheer gold edges and dark silhouette against the city lights. The cold is abrupt enough I have difficulty processing it as such. My nerves react beyond my ability to counter them. At the boardwalk, the captain raises his chin in the direction of the hotel in a posture of assessment. He turns to me. His left arm goes around my back and he presses close with casual familiarity. He tosses open his communicator with his other hand. The chirrups cut through the wind as if it isn't there. I'm alive only on the sliver of me that is pressed against him. "Enterprise, this is the captain. Two to beam up."