Xenophilia
They were sitting together in the mess when one of the Orion ensigns walked in. All the men turned to watch approvingly as she passed, including—to Spock's distaste— Jim. His gaze seemed too approving.
Spock released an irritated huff. Jim turned back around, cocking his head to the side in confusion and asking of his transgression without speaking.
"You know what," the Vulcan hissed, unappeased.
Suddenly Spock felt Jim's hands grab at his from under the table. The meld activated automatically, transferring Jim's silent apology and, strangely, an image of Spock's ears. Nobody can ever, ever beat you, t'hy'la.
Palladium
They were in Jim's room. Spock's thin fingers traced the swirling patterns of metallic thread against the woven red cloth of the rest of the bracelet. "A curious artifact," he noted, ever scientific. "A trinket from a former lover?"
"From my mother," Jim retorted, defensive and embarrassed. He moved forward and put his hand on the piece. "She's a little superstitious, so she gave me this."
"I do not see where superstition enters the equation," Spock said.
"It's…" Jim sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's protection from the Evil Eye."
Spock nodded, thankfully, and said no more.
Moschate
For a half-Vulcan, Spock had a very acute sense of smell. Occasionally it drove him to irritation and headaches, like when their away missions involved exploring bogs. But when he and Jim had spent themselves entirely, or when they were just curled together in peaceable embrace, Spock couldn't avoid Jim's natural scent. The best way to describe it was, put simply, masculine—a combination of finished leather, crushed pine, and an undercurrent of musk that, miraculously, was not overpowering. And every time, without fail, Spock would press closer to his lover to memorize another note of that mysterious, inimitable scent.
Bonhomie
Even without his uniform on, people listened to Jim. This was true even in Paris, in the tiny bistro he'd brought Spock for dinner. Their waitress quickly developed a habit of curtsying whenever Jim was finished giving an order, the latest time after ordering a bottle of merlot.
Spock watched the girl go, eyebrow appropriately raised. "How do you do it?" he asked.
Jim leaned back slightly in his chair, draping his arms over the back. "I guess I'm just naturally charming?" he offered.
Spock gave a faint smile as he surveyed the captain. "Very much so, sir," he noted.
Palliation
Sound sleep was sometimes hard in coming. Spock tended to wake in the middle of the night, hounded by nightmares of Vulcan's destruction. Jim, in turn, tended to toss and turn in his sleep, usually right into Spock's waiting arms. The action was small, something that could have gone unnoticed, but it was more comforting than Jim knew.
But perhaps he did know. Some nights he would wake, very briefly, in Spock's arms, and murmur unintelligibly. Colors, warm and rich in hue, would pass between their half-linked minds, but only for a second before Jim fell back into stony sleep.
Author's Notes: Miraculously I managed to churn these out in the span of a few hours, so as far as that goes, I hope these are up to your standards. I'm slowly working on sending thanks out for all the faves I've received over the last few days; I was gone on a school-related trip and haven't had internet access for as long, and my data has been slim. I'm also working on this week's story and the very important announcement that's coming along with it. Seriously, stay tuned!
Once again many thanks to my darling beta xladyjagsvolleyball16x, who still has yet to change her pen name to something shorter. As always, thanks to all my readers, listed or unlisted, for everything you do. I swear I wouldn't get anything done if I didn't have you to please. :)