Kirk releases his breath and realizes he's shaking. He lowers himself onto the bed.

The room is bathed in shadows and silent but for the thundering rush of blood in his ears. He clasps his hands together in his lap and leans his elbows against his thighs, head canted forward, eyes fixed on the floor. Arousal boils in his belly, spreading tendrils of flame across his abdomen, insistent and hopeless and throbbing a low, keening ache through his groin. The air is heavy with the scent of Spock – warm, coppery spice tones that conjure a shadow of him in the centre of the room, and Kirk can feel the hardness of his flesh beneath his fingers, memories imprinted into the nerve endings like a holovid on a three second loop.

In this disordered moment, he is certain that he has never wanted anyonethe way he wanted Spock in the seconds before he broke free of Kirk's grip. The knowledge of it hollows him out, sucks at his center of gravity, skitters feverishly along the inside of his skull.

Never. Not anyone. And he pulled away.

Kirk stands unsteadily, feeling pitted and scoured, and scrubs his hands across his face. ShiKahr is a little over an hour ahead of ship's time; he shouldn't feel so tired. His hostess is waiting for him downstairs and the Captain is nothing if not scrupulously polite, but instead of moving towards the small door, tucked between the edge of one of the great enveloping windows and the interior wall, behind which, he guesses, is the bathroom, he crosses to the meditation mat, bleached yellow-white as T'Khut's reflected light competes with the last strangled breaths of Eridani A.

The window stretches from the floor to the ceiling and looks out over a complex of walled gardens, stacked geometrically into a deceptively compact space, and alive with shadowed color. It's the sort of place in which he can imagine a small boy finding shelter from a world that doesn't want him, staring upwards into the sky and dreaming of escape, and Kirk follows the imagined eyes of his vanished friend to the crimson firmament where unfamiliar stars remind him that he, too, is where he doesn't belong. He sucks an erratic breath and turns away.

-o-o-o-

He follows the sound of Amanda's voice through an arched doorway off the lobby and enters a cavernous central room that easily stretches the length of the house. As in the upstairs quarters, glass is dominant and one wall is entirely windowed, stretching from floor to ceiling and opening onto a wide courtyard beyond, where a fountain sweetens the air and irrigates a sequence of raised flowerbeds. Evening drifts through a series of French doors that seem to be fashioned from the glass itself, carrying the scent of fresh water and blossom into the close heat of the living area, where Spock and his mother sit.

Amanda's face brightens as she registers Kirk's presence. She stands awkwardly, levering herself upwards on the arm of her chair, and the Captain sees his friend stiffen. Spock is facing away from the door, staring out across the garden, but he carefully sets his glass on the table in front of him and gets to his feet, turning stiffly and keeping his eyes lowered.

"Much better, don't you agree?" says Amanda brightly, nodding at Kirk's clothes. He's wearing a loose, light-colored tunic and linen pants and, though the molten air still claws at his skin, at least now he feels as though he can breathe. Spock has changed into a heavy, embroidered robe of dark colors and abstract patterns and the effect is jarring, as though he's slipped into someone else's skin. Kirk feels his gaze linger a moment too long and trails it back to his hostess.

"Much," he says, smiling his diplomat's smile and forcing it into his eyes.

"The heat of the city can be quite challenging at first," she says. "It took me some time to adjust. You're fortunate to arrive so late into the year – wasn't it summertime when you were last here?"

The Captain glances towards his First, whose eyes have not left the floor. "I'm… not sure," he says. "I don't believe I ever asked." He hesitates. "Mr. Spock?"

"Late summer," says Spock.

There is an awkward pause while Amanda watches her son for signs that he will elaborate, but she covers it with a smile learned through long years of Ambassadorial functions. "Well," she says. "Won't you sit down and have a drink, Captain? I'm afraid we don't keep any alcohol, but we have a selection of Terran fruit juices. Or would you prefer something Vulcan?"

"I'm told that Vulcan foods don't synthesize well," he says. "Perhaps I should try the real thing while I'm here."

"Personally, I've never been able to tell the difference," she confesses. "But Spock and Sarek would certainly agree. Perhaps some iced tea? It's very refreshing."

"Wonderful."

She nods to her son. "Spock? Would you fix the Captain some iced tea, dear?"

"Of course," he says quietly, and slips past Kirk on his way to the culinary area on the west side of the room. His robes brush against the Captain as he moves and trail an involuntary shiver from the flesh beneath.

At Amanda's gesture, Kirk lowers himself onto one of the low, cushioned seats that surround the table, watching as she does likewise. Her movements are careful, deliberate, and that same prickling of unease returns. She catches his glance, and to cover it he says, "You have a fine home, Ma'am."

"Thank you," she says. "After dinner, won't you walk with me in the gardens? You won't believe what you can get roses to do in the Vulcan climate."

"You have roses? Terran roses?"

"I do. It took me several years to breed a strain hardy enough to survive the sunlight and thinner atmosphere, but now they grow almost like weeds."

She strikes him as just the sort of woman against whom Nature would throw up her hands and call it a day, and he laughs softly. "I believe your son has inherited your determination, Ma'am," he says.

A hand reaches silently into his field of vision, brandishing a glass so cold that condensation runs freely down the edges. Kirk glances up and meets Spock's eyes before he can shield them, and sees a flash of panic chased by a silent plea before they cloud over and he looks away. "Thank you, Spock," he says, and his friend nods and crosses to stand a little distance away: not far enough to be rude, but out of the circle of acquaintance.

Amanda notices, of course, and her eyes follow her son and settle on him for a moment. Then they glide smoothly back to Kirk and she says, "Captain, please, call me Amanda while you're here. I invited you as a friend of my son, not as the captain of a starship. 'Ma'am' is so formal."

"In that case, you'd better call me Jim," he says. He glances up, and an ancient mischief makes him add, "And that goes for Spock too, of course."

There is a tiny movement to his friend's shoulders, as of a sigh swiftly suppressed. "Yes, Jim," he says.

"My wife has a habit of dispensing with formalities," says a diffident voice from the doorway, and Kirk stands quickly, turning to face Sarek as he enters. "I prefer to observe the courtesies, Captain Kirk. It is the Vulcan way."

The Captain raises the ta'al, and the Ambassador mirrors his gesture. "Live long and prosper, Ambassador," says Kirk.

Sarek inclines his head. "Peace and long life, Captain. You are welcome to our home."

His movements are slow but steady and only an aura of fatigue hints at convalescence. Otherwise he seems stronger than when they left him on Babel, recently perfused with his son's blood and McCoy's surgical skill. He crosses the room to Amanda, who has raised the index and middle fingers of her left hand for him to meet with his ozh'esta. Only then does he turn to Spock.

"Na'shaya, sa-fa th'at," he says.

Spock nods. "Father."

There is a silence so tense it's practically smoldering. Then Amanda smiles the smile of a woman for whom these moments are part of the fabric of daily life and says, "Well. Dinner, then."

-o-o-o-

"It seems," says Sarek, "Unlikely."

"You may be right, sir," says Kirk as evenly as he can. "However, that's not my decision to make."

They are seated on low, backless chairs around a table of polished stone as an elderly factotum serves balkrafrom a steaming urn that he carries on a thick static strap over one shoulder.

"Thank you, Veshek," says Amanda quietly. The lamps are low and the shadowy half-light from the ubiquitous windows drains the color from her face, etching lines of strain that speak of greater fatigue than she will admit.

"I do not suggest that you disobey a command, Captain," says Sarek. "I simply wonder at the wisdom of pursuing such a project. Diplomacy is often a question not simply of protocols, but of knowing when they are unlikely to achieve a satisfactory outcome."

"With respect, sir," says Kirk, "Many of Starfleet's – of the Federation's – greatest accomplishments would have been abandoned long ago had we followed that logic. The Romulan Peace Treaty would never have been negotiated. The Federation's current experimentation with time travel…"

"All causes with far more at stake than the establishment of mining rights on Ilion VII," says Sarek. "The Federation can survive on its current pergium reserves. It is illogical to expend such resources on a project with little chance of success."

"Then you don't believe Sorelan will manage to communicate with the Veleth Hai?"

Sarek regards him with a mask of Vulcan reserve. "I find it extremely unlikely," he says. He raises his glass to his lips as Kirk stabs his fork into something yellow and fragrant. "No doubt my son has expressed a similar sentiment," he adds.

Caught abruptly in the conversational spotlight, Spock stills for a moment, then clasps his hands in front of him. "I expressed some speculation as to the rationale behind the Professor's reticence," he says evenly. Kirk risks a glance in his direction and finds that the air above the table has focused into a narrow, laser-beam path between father and son. "However, upon reviewing his scholarly output, I believe that it would be unwise to discount his potential in this situation."

Spock has the singular ability to convey soul-crushing disdain without shifting his expression, and Sarek takes this opportunity to display its lineage in a spectacular battle of scrutiny that flares suddenly across the dishes. The muscles of his face do not so much as contract, but if this were a Human discussion someone would be getting their forehead repeatedly pounded against the nearest wall by now. He says, "You have concluded that Sorelan trensuhas the skills necessary to make contact with a race of beings whose linguistic patterns appear to be coded in nuances of emotion?"

There is a meaningful silence. "I have," says Spock.

He damn well hasn't, or else he's kept it very quiet from his Captain, but Kirk smothers a smile and spears a yellow lump. Piquant steam curls up into his face and agitates the back of his throat, which is already struggling not to laugh and cannot cope with a chemical assault as well. He buries his sudden coughing fit in a hasty gulp of water and tries not to choke.

"So," says Amanda brightly. "Won't you tell us about your plans for tomorrow?"

She has deliberately thrown the question wide, but both she and Kirk know that Spock's not likely to answer, not in the middle of a Vulcan stare-off. Kirk wrestles his epiglottis into submission and strangles out a hoarse, "I'd asked Spock if he'd accompany me to Mount Seleya." He clears his throat and tries again. "I understand that it's a site of great spiritual and cultural significance. I'm relying on your son to keep me from causing offence." Amanda smiles. No-one else does. But, then again, they wouldn't.

"Why Seleya?" says Sarek, and Kirk resists the urge to roll his eyes.

The fact is, he doesn't have a good answer, and he's actually a little bit amazed that he's got this far without anyone asking that very question. Because I've heard of it, he thinks belligerently. Because it's the one place I can name on this whole goddamn planet of secrecy and silence. Because I'd have skydived into the mouth of Hell itself if I thought it would get me an hour in your son's company, away from the ship, away from command, away from protocol. Because I picked it at random just so I'd have somewhere to suggest when I asked him to spend time with me.

Because I'd swear on my ship that he nearly let me kiss him an hour ago.

"Call it an explorer's thirst for knowledge," he says. "I can't think of anywhere on the planet more representative of Vulcan culture and society than Mount Seleya."

Sarek inclines his head slightly. "It is not a curiosity, Captain," he says.

"Nor is it exclusive to the followers of Surak," says Spock blandly, but with suspicious speed. "The Captain is not a tourist. He is respectful of Vulcan customs. He honors Seleya with his interest."

Their eyes lock across the table again, and Kirk finds himself vaguely expecting the air to catch fire. Sarek says, without breaking the stare, "I meant no disparagement, Captain."

Kirk glances from Spock to his father. "Of course not, Ambassador," he says. "And I meant no disrespect."

"It's a difficult journey," says Amanda. "I made it twice, when I was much younger. Once shortly after Sarek and I were married, and once when Spock was a boy. Of course, a truepilgrimage begins at the mouth of Vulcan's Forge, but even Vulcans scarcely follow the full path anymore. You'll approach from the eastern landing, I suppose?"

"Yes," says Spock. "I do not anticipate proceeding past the lower sanctuary tomorrow. We must return to the ship by evening."

"How high is the sanctuary?" asks Kirk.

"It is a little over 1,000 meters above sea level. We should reach it by midday," says Spock. "Beyond it, the path becomes extremely difficult. It is… unlikely, in any case, that we would gain admittance to the Hall of Ancient Thought, Jim."

"The sanctuary is quite beautiful," says Amanda. "Many pilgrims break their journey there for several nights. If I'm not mistaken, you'll enjoy it a great deal, Captain – Jim."

"I have no doubt," says Kirk, holding up a hand to forgo a second helping of balkrafrom Veshek's urn; dear God, if ever there was a dinner that couldn't end soon enough, this is it. This is the one. "I look forward to it."

"We must leave before sunrise," says Spock. He glances at Amanda. "No doubt you and my father will not yet have risen."

"I shall be awake," she says mildly. "Your father will not."

Sarek looks vaguely surprised at the news – which is to say that he blinks slowly in his wife's direction – but makes no comment. Spock raises an eyebrow and half-turns his gaze on the Captain, but aborts the motion halfway through and re-directs his eyes to his empty plate.

"Well," says Amanda brightly. "I believe I promised the Captain a tour of our gardens after dinner. I imagine the heat will be almost out of the air by now, so perhaps you might find it tolerable, Jim?"

Kirk is reasonably certain he'd skip naked through the corridors of the Klingon High Council if it would get him away from this table. He smiles. "That sounds wonderful," he says.

She turns an innocent face on her son. "Spock, your father tires very quickly at the moment and he will need to meditate before he sleeps," she says. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough to join him while the Captain and I take a stroll?"

A sudden glacial freeze across the table indicates precisely what the Vulcans think of thatidea. Kirk wonders if it's his presence that obviates an explicit protest, or if they really are both that stubborn, and decides that, for present retributive purposes, he doesn't really care. He presses his lips together and lowers his eyes, but Spock will not have missed the gesture and will certainly not have mistaken its significance.

"Of course, Mother," he says stiffly, and she stands and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, dear," she says. "Don't let him continue too long, will you? He needs his rest." She glances down at Kirk, and a mischievous glint in her eye tells him that she's daring the rage of her Vulcan every bit as much as the Captain is daring the rage of his just now, and that she is doing it for her own amusement, and that she understands that they have this in common. And that she approves. She holds out her arm. "Captain?" she says.

Kirk stands quickly and crosses the table to her, crooking his elbow for her to hold. He grins down at his First. "Mr. Spock, we'll need to finalize our plans for tomorrow," he says. "Can you spare a few moments later on?"

Spock cranes his head imperiously upwards. "I believe so, Jim," he says.

"Good," says Kirk. He turns to Amanda. "Lead on, Ma'am."

-o-o-o-

They have barely crossed as far as the fountain before laughter spills from her, high and clear, and he realizes that, in all the chaos of the Babel mission, he's never had cause to hear it before. He wonders, absently, if Spock would have taken after her – if this would have been hislaugh – and if she ever wonders the same thing herself.

She says, "Good Heavens, Jim, I'm sorry you had to see that. I could knock their heads together sometimes."

"I believe," he says, "That I share that sentiment."

"I haven't told either of them about your message," she says. "I thought that was for the best. Taaval won't contradict me; he's glad of the opportunity to appear omniscient."

He grins. "I appreciate that."

"Not quite as much," she says, "As I appreciate your contacting me in the first place." She hesitates and they walk a few steps in silence before she adds, "I hope your visit hasn't been too uncomfortable, Jim. At least they'll talk to each other now but… still. Not much has changed."

"They're both remarkable men," he says. "It must be difficult to be constantly measuring one's achievements against one's father or one's son."

"You are also the remarkable son of a remarkable man," she says. "Was it so difficult for you?"

He hesitates, then half-smiles. "No. No, it wasn't."

Her free hand closes around his arm and squeezes tightly. She says, "I'm so glad he has you."

-o-o-o-

"Ah, Iowa," she says. "Yes, I visited once when we were on Earth for several months. Your state flower is the wild rose, I believe? It's extremely hardy. I cross-bred it with a middle-eastern variety – let me see – ah yes, here we are. The bloom is more like the persica than the arkansanabut the scent is similar – see." She grips expertly at the stem, twisting and pulling it free of the bustle of the main plant for him to sniff, and her face flares with an avid enthusiasm that he recognizes from her son. He bends to the flower, presses his nose into the scent, though in truth he could barely tell a rose from a chrysanthemum, let alone distinguish between varieties.

The garden complex snakes around the house in a complicated chain of compartments, perhaps twice as large as he'd guessed from his vigil at the guest quarters' window. It is entirely Amanda's domain, and under her patient hands it has exploded into a dizzying assault of scent and color. Favinit and waneti clamor for attention across glimmering walls; yelas and lale and kal'ta bustle in the verdant flower beds. A kitchen garden boasts birkeen and hla'meth and kh'aa and therisand a dozen other names that fall easily from her mouth as though she were naming her family. Here and there, where they can be persuaded to thrive, are flashes of the world she left behind: cilantro, basil, orchids, tomatoes, and, of course, her roses.

She says, "Tell me, Jim – do you miss Earth?"

He straightens, his head full of scent, and says, "Sometimes. Less often, perhaps, than I ought to."

"Does Spock?"

The question takes him by surprise and he almost defaults to denial, but there's a look in her eyes that tells him it's not an idle thought. He says, "He's never mentioned it, except in passing."

She smiles wryly. "That's not really surprising. I dare say he never mentions Vulcan either?"

Kirk hesitates. "Slightly more often than Earth."

"And I suppose he hasn't shared with you his plans for when the mission is complete?"

He knows he can't hide the flash of dismay that ghosts across his face at the words, the rapid swell of panic that rises quickly before it can be contained. Her gaze is impassive, but she doesn't miss it.

Carefully, he says, "We haven't discussed it."

Her hands trace idly over the blooms, agitating a wave of perfume into the night air. She says, "I see a change in him. More so even than the last time I saw him. He seems… easier in himself. It's as though he's finally found a way to look inside and see the man I always saw there, the good man – the great man – who was the very best part of two great worlds, instead of half a man on neither. I think… I think a parent always wants to see themselves in their child – it's what parenthood is about, really. It's immortality; we want our children to carry ourselves into the future, and so we want them to be just as we are. And perhaps we've made it harder for him that way. I will always want to see the Human in him, I will always want to see those parts of him that make him my son. And Sarek will always want him to be more Vulcan, and somewhere in the middle of that, Spock got lost. I think, Jim, that you're the only person who has ever truly wanted him for what he is, not changed or altered or different. I think, perhaps, that you're the only person who has ever seen how truly exceptional he is. I thought I saw it in your eyes the moment I stepped onto Enterprisewhen Sarek denied him to his face – I thought I saw rage there, and I swear I could have thrown my arms around you and kissed you for it. I saw someone who was prepared to fight for him and stand up for him, no matter who was set against him – do you know how long I've wanted him to find someone like that? He's different, Jim, and I think you're the reason for it. And I couldn't bear to think that he'll be thrown back out on his own when the mission ends."

She has kept her eyes on her roses as she speaks, trailing absently beside them in her stiff, arrhythmic stride, and he finds now that he can't drop his gaze, not even as she turns her head towards him and sees what's written there. Her face softens a little and she says, faintly, "Oh…" And then, "Good."

Frozen in the milky light of the Watcher, his skin tingles as though a current passes beneath it. It feels half-real. He clears his throat, a reflex action designed to rupture the dreamscape, and says, "He won't listen to me, though. When the mission ends… he'll go where the admiralty order. I wouldn't… I wouldn't want to be separated from him either, but we won't have any choice."

Suddenly, she smiles – a wide, silvery smile that lights her skin from within. She reaches out a hand and closes it over both of his where he's balled them into fists in front of him, latticing her fingers over his. "You're James Kirk," she says. "You'll have a choice." Her fingers squeeze. "For both of you, dear."

There are a thousand things he wants to say. He wants to tell her that his name is as likely to work against him as for him, that his fame will make him a prostitute, not a king. He wants to tell her that he'd freeze time if he could and have them endlessly circling the galaxy, just as they are, if it meant that they didn't have to part. He wants to tell her about the complex game of hurt and counter-hurt they've played this past year, about the women he's seduced to show Spock that he can, about the women Spock has seduced to show Kirk how little he needs him. He wants to tell her about Spock's voice inside his head and the rapturous, vertiginous joy of being known, without words or body, but simply, unequivocally, known. He wants to tell her about the times when he's looked into his friend's eyes and felt a shiver of something – a pulse, a beat of yearning – and felt it stir something inside him that he struggles to contain. He wants to tell her that he stood in the guest quarters of her home and held her son by the arm and trembled with the effort it took to wait for him to cross that final line. He wants to tell her that her son turned away from him, and that he doesn't know what to do next.

And in the event he says none of these things, because her gaze shoots suddenly upwards, over his shoulder, and the tiniest thrill of panic flashes in her eyes before she schools them back into nonchalant pleasure.

"Ah, there you are, dear," she says. "Is your father resting?"

Kirk feels the blood run screaming from his head in a dizzying exodus that leaves his skin flash-frozen and reeling. He pivots awkwardly, wide-eyed, out of her grip, just in time for his eyes to confirm what his brain was really hoping to avoid.

Spock is standing in the trellised archway that leads into the rose garden. Of course he is. And there is no way to know how long he's been there.

"He is asking for you, Mother," he says.

"Did he achieve a kohl-tor?"

"Briefly."

"Good." She reaches out a hand to Kirk's arm and pats it gently, flashing him the briefest look of apology. "I'd better go to him. Spock – you'll show the Captain anything he needs, won't you?"

Kirk's eyebrows shoot up and she ducks her head out of their glare with a look that might very well translate as, Well, there's not much you can do about it now, dear.Spock's expression is unreadable.

He says, "Of course, Mother. Good night."

"Good night, dear." Her eyes flicker up to Kirk's. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Ma'am," he says, and makes himself smile.

Spock steps backwards to let her pass and she shuffles past him, awkward now without the Captain's arm on which to lean. Her footfall is soft on the flagstones, the only sound in the silence, retreating through the maze of stone and scent towards the glow of the picture window, which hovers above the trailing edges of wall-climbing roses. As the sound of her footsteps retreats into the preternatural quiet of a suburb on the edge of the desert, Kirk realizes he's holding his breath.

He risks a glance at Spock, whose eyes, predictably, are on the ground. He says, "I presume you've come to discuss the arrangements for tomorrow's excursion?"

Spock hesitates. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, and Kirk knows: whatever he's heard, he's heard something. He says, "I was considering the benefits of reacquainting myself with my mother's garden. I was fond of it as a child."

"Perhaps you'd like to finish showing me around," says Kirk. He forces a half-hearted smile. "We became somewhat distracted by the roses, I'm afraid."

"That would not…" His words falter, and he suddenly looks up. His eyes are black with misery. "That would not be wise, Jim."

"Wise?" It's out before he can catch it, harsher than he would have chosen. Dark eyes pin him to the spot. There's no way to mistake what's in them; no way to pretend this is a different conversation. "Spock," says Kirk, a low sound; a question, "Why is it unwise?"

There is a loaded pause.

"My responses are compromised," says Spock.

A short, breathless laugh escapes Kirk. "So are mine," he says.

"Understand, Jim," says Spock, and hesitates, so long that Kirk begins to wonder if it's a sentence in itself, a plea: understand, Jim. But then he says, softly, almost a whisper, "I cannot."

Frustration surges, so familiar that it's almost a relief. This is who they are, this is what they do. It's one of the reasons it's so damn hard to get him out from under Kirk's skin, out of his head. "Then don't," he says. The end of hope is something that can be assimilated; it's something he can live with. He has done it before. "It's all right, Spock. But let's stop pretending there's nothing there. It doesn't help either of us."

Seven feet separate them; seven feet of dark, desert air, in which thermals twist and billow micro-patterns in the thin film of sand that no amount of careful sweeping can ever banish from the garden. Kirk has often wondered what it must be like to read the thoughts of another sentient being, to have their private self laid bare before you to consume or ignore. No wonder Spock's people lock down their emotional response; no wonder they cultivate a façade of disinterested ennui. When there is no shelter even inside one's own head, the illusion of inscrutability is not affectation, it's necessity. And yet, even without those complex neural pathways, that evolutionary advantage so treacherous it must be shrouded in ritual and custom, Kirk can read the waves of desolation radiating from his friend across the quiet air. It's both a vindication and a defeat: no, he was not wrong, everything he thought he saw was as he thought he saw it. But the victory is Pyrrhic if Spock doesn't want to want him.

He says, "I have fought so hard, Jim."

Why? he wants to ask. It tangles in his throat and tries to force its way out. Instead, he says, "I've noticed."

It's supposed to be light-hearted provocation, but it comes from a wounded place and there's bitterness in it. Spock flinches.

"I would not…" he says. "I would not choose to be separated from you either, Jim."

The words hang in the empty air like ghosts, frail and insubstantial. Never in his life has Kirk arrived at this stage of the game and found himself so utterly uncertain. They are small words, banal – trite, even – and from any other almost-lover they would be meaningless. But Spock's most intimate confessions use words like these – when I feel friendship for you, I'm ashamed; I do want to go back to the ship, Captain– and their inconsequential language is what gives them their weight. Anyone can make a poetic declaration and rely on hyperbole to make it stick. Spock gives away much more of himself in naked idiom and lengthy silence.

Kirk has a choice. He can listen to what Spock's head is telling him, or he can listen to what Spock actually wants. And only one of those things accords with Kirk's own desires.

He takes a step forward, into the gap between them, and expects Spock to turn and stride through the archway, out of reach along the path, out of reach entirely. When he doesn't, Kirk takes another step. Any moment now, Spock will tell him to stop. In another footstep, in another stride, his hollow, shadowed eyes will flash an unmistakable command and the Captain will obey – of course he will – because it's what his officer needs. It's what his friend needs. He's been here before: close enough to see a thready pulse dance beneath the surface of Spock's throat, close enough to feel the heat rush into the empty air, close enough to smell his skin. Spice and copper and salt, tea and desert air, ginger and lavender and something else, something indefinable, something that is uniquely Spock. Dark eyes scour the contours of Kirk's face, drifting over the lines of his chin, his cheeks, his nose, and finally meeting his gaze.

There's only one way this can go now.

Slowly, carefully, Kirk reaches for Spock's right arm above the elbow, where it disappears into the ubiquitous hand-clasp behind his back. Corded-steel muscles contract at his touch and the Captain gently tugs it free, sliding his hand over the rich, soft fabric of Spock's robe, down over the crook of the elbow joint, over the radius, over the wrist. At the palm he hesitates, glances up. His breath is rapid, heavy in his throat; it tugs at his chest as his neck cranes upwards to meet Spock's eyes. Liquid shadow stares back at him, hooded and impenetrable, and only the fluttering, hummingbird breaths that twitch his shoulders and ghost across Kirk's face tell him what he needs to know. Kirk's unpracticed hands fold his two smallest fingers into his palm and pin them in place with his thumb. His middle and index fingers extend from the ball of his hand, and he presses them to Spock's.

The hummingbird breaths catch abruptly. "Jim," says Spock, a breathy rumble from the back of his throat, and his left hand rises to cup Kirk's cheek.

It's more certain than Kirk expected, more certain than he feels – but, then, Spock has done this before, while the Captain has only the barest glimpses of the ozh'estawith which to sketch an outline of how it should be performed. Spock's head moves in one fluid movement, closing the inches between them, and his hand slides down Kirk's face until only the fingertips brush his chin, tilting it gently upwards, canting his lips towards Spock's. At the very last, he hesitates, breath twisting in the fractional space that separates their mouths, skittering over the sensitized flesh until Kirk can't stand it any longer and reaches for the final millimeters. The soft skin connects, and it's like closing an electrical circuit.

For a moment they stand there, motionless, prostrated by sensation. Kirk is not entirely certain he canmove; it's as though the pieces of him have flown apart and all that anchors him is the press of his fingers against Spock's and the joining of their lips. But his body moves by itself, left hand snaking over Spock's hip and sliding along his back to pull him closer, labial surfaces contracting, pressing harder, drifting over pliant skin. Spock's hand slips behind Kirk's head, carding through his hair, fixing him in place, and Kirk twists his mouth a little, parting his lips. Teeth clash as Spock responds, and that's as much as it takes.

The ozh'esta is forgotten as Kirk's hands fist in the fabric of Spock's robe, coiling and pulling, scraping him closer until their bodies collide from hip to face. Staggering to keep themselves upright, Spock's leg spirals between Kirk's, forcing his thigh against Kirk's aching cock. Kirk grunts and Spock seals his mouth firmly over the sound, lips scrabbling for purchase against lips, tongues slamming together, writhing and weaving. The Captain feels himself moving backwards – shuffling, awkward steps – until his head grazes against something solid and he feels himself pressed up against the wall by the length of Spock's body. Spock's body, long desired – no, longer still, wanted for uncounted nights, imagined in the crushing darkness with one hand fisted around himself and an agony of arousal burning in his belly. Spock's scent filling his nose, Spock's flavor filling his mouth, and it's as he knew it would be: salty, coppery, and piquant – the taste of peppers and spice, warm against his tongue, trilling against his sparking gustatory nerves. Spock's arousal digging into his hip, thrusting against him as he helplessly thrusts his own hardness against Spock's leg. Spock's hands on either side of his face, gripping his cheek and threading feverishly through his hair as all this longing, all this yearning, all this wanting pours out of them. Spock.

Fierce, impatient kisses trail from Kirk's lips and describe an arc along his chin, sucking and burying Spock's mouth against his neck. Kirk tilts his head up towards the sky, where the Watcher contemplates them impassively, feeling the tingling burn as Spock scrapes his lips lower, below the hem of his tunic, dragging his teeth over Kirk's collarbone. Kirk presses his face into the tip of a pointed ear and feels a low rumble of pleasure as his mouth makes contact, and this, even this, is how he knew it would be; the taste, the sensation, the touch of cartilage beneath his tongue. His hands comb and clutch at Spock's hair, tugging and twisting his head so that his mouth releases Kirk's throat and their lips collide again. It's intoxicating, narcotic, exhilarating, it's everything, and still he wants more. His hand snakes between their bodies, twisting between the writhing mass of flesh to where the solid bulk of Spock's erection grinds against Kirk's groin, haphazardly grazing his answering flesh in stuttering explosions of pleasure. His fingers trail the contours of it, buried beneath the heavy robes, and suddenly Spock freezes.

His hands, cupped possessively on either side of Kirk's chin, contract, but his mouth retreats so that only their foreheads are pressed together.

"Too much?" says Kirk. "I'm sorry, I won't…"

But Spock turns his face to the side and closes his eyes. It's a tiny gesture; in anyone else it would mean nothing, but in Spock… Cold dread washes Kirk's belly, dancing in his veins, smothering his desire.

"Forgive me," says Spock.

"No – wait!" says Kirk urgently. His hands shoot up to close around Spock's wrists, to hold them in place against his face, but the fingers hang loose now, flaccid against his skin, and Spock will not look at him. "Wait – Spock...!"

"Forgive me, Jim," he says hoarsely. "I cannot…"

"Wait!" he says again. But Kirk is Human, and if he ever needed a reminder of what that means in real terms when faced with a Vulcan with a different opinion, the ease with which Spock slides his wrists from the Captain's grip drives home a lesson he won't ever forget. Freed, one hand – steady but fragile – rises to press abstractedly against Spock's temple as he takes a precarious step backwards.

"Forgive me, Jim," he says again.

"Spock…" says Kirk, but he's gone, footsteps rapidly retreating up the path towards the house.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

Na'shaya, sa-fa th'at – Welcome, my son