Chapter 49

He doesn't intend to fall asleep, but sleep happens regardless, and, when Spock opens his eyes again, it's to early morning winter sunlight streaming through the uncurtained windows and the sense of having achieved, for the first time in as long as he can remember, a truly adequate rest. A rapid cross-reference of February sunrise times versus degrees latitude, calculated against their approximate hour of repose, suggests an estimated period of plus or minus 10.3 hours' complete unconsciousness, and Spock is certain that, in all of his 42 years, he has never slept so long.

Well. This has certainly been a week for new experiences. And now he must establish the etiquette of waking, naked, in another man's bed, with a substantial portion of pubic hair glued to his inner thigh by dried semen and what feels disturbingly like a line of saliva trailing from one corner of his mouth, and he has approximately 1.2 seconds in which to do this. Because he is acutely aware that he is not alone.

Jim has propped two well-stuffed pillows against the headboard and is sitting up in bed, knees bent beneath the comforter, reading from a thick ink-and-paper book that he's rested against the horizontal line of his upper thighs. Steam curls from a mug on the bedside table, suggesting that, however long he has been awake, it has been sufficient time to make his way down to the kitchen and back again without waking Spock, though not long enough to allow his coffee to cool. He is absorbed in the text of his novel, eyes pinched in a manner that suggests some minor decline in his vision during the years of Spock's absence, and his face is warm and easy in the cool post-dawn sunlight: open, unguarded, and so unambiguously, breathtakingly beautiful that something twists in Spock's stomach at the sight of him; at the knowledge of what it means.

This is the man whom Spock has chosen. More—better: this is the man who has chosen Spock. He has no frame of reference for the sensation rising in his chest right now, for the way it feels as though he's standing inside a plasma globe and somebody's flicked the switch, but he suspects that it might bear some relation to what his mother has been trying to describe to him for as long as he can remember. As he resigns himself to the fact of being observed before his morning ablutions have been completed, to the fact that this state of affairs is, most likely, now permanent, he finds himself hoping that his suspicions are correct. He'd like to think that this is what was in Amanda's smile when she saw her husband across a crowded terminal floor; when she turned to him on a street in Rhee. He'd like to think this much for her sake—and for his.

He does not believe that he has made any movement or appreciable sound, but Jim's eyes slide sideways, drawn away from his book, perhaps, by the sense of being watched, and his face creases into his warm sunshine smile, the one that seems to illuminate him from within.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he says cheerfully. "I'd ask you how you slept, but I think that would be redundant."

Spock quirks an eyebrow; attempts an air of injured dignity, though he doesn't need a mirror to determine that this is a tall order this morning. "I am well rested," he says, "thank you. It was not my intention to disturb your reading."

The book snaps shut, and Kirk shuffles down the bed a little way, until his face is level with Spock's. "I'm happy to have my reading disturbed," he says. One hand reaches out, almost hesitantly, and brushes a stray lock of hair from Spock's forehead. "I didn't want to wake you. You looked like you could use the rest."

Spock's orgasm last night was ruinous; his jaw still aches from the clench of his teeth, and there was a period of approximately forty seconds in which his vision skittered and blurred in a manner that, under any other circumstances, would certainly advise in favor of seeking immediate medical attention. And yet the touch of Jim's hand against his temple—the faintest drift of fingers across his psi-point—rides a cascading wave of excitement directly to his groin in a manner that causes some distinctly uncomfortable activity among his glutinous pubic hair. It's hardly surprising, of course; it has been the case for many years that the close proximity of James Kirk is sufficient to induce a perfect storm of hormonal imbalance in Spock's endocrine system, which persists until time and privacy permits the application of the only reliable corrective, and this is only likely to increase in intensity now that matters have resolved themselves thus. Still, having been laid waste so completely last night that he has, essentially, lost consciousness for almost half a Terran day, it's… unexpected to find that his body is not only prepared to respond again without preamble or hesitation, but that it's actively enthusiastic in the matter.

There's no disguising this, either. Even if he weren't naked and pressed up tight against his friend, he's ceded some considerable tactical ground in his presentation of contextualizing physiological information yesterday afternoon, and he sees the precise moment that Jim scents it on the air. The sunshine smile widens, deepens, turns into something altogether less innocent, and he shifts a little on his pillow so that their bodies are turned towards each other.

"I see I was right," he says, and his voice has dropped a level, gone husky with arousal. "What say we gather a little more data for your sample, Mr Spock? I'm given to understand that the key to any scientific conclusion is replicability."

He cannot deny this much; it's the first rule of experimental rigor. Spock is a scientist, after all. And what sort of a scientist would he be, were he to neglect an opportunity to test his results?

"Your proposal is acceptable," he says, and reaches out a hand to curl around Jim's buttock.

-o-o-o-

Afterwards, they crowd into the tiny shower cubicle together for an overdue abstersion of bodily fluids from their skin and hair. The limited supply of hot water recommends that the procedure be consolidated into a communal endeavor, but Spock cannot deny that, logic be damned, were the cabin's ablutionary facilities connected to an abyssal hot spring powered by the geothermal energy of the Earth itself, he would almost certainly be advocating in favor of sharing the bathroom for their post-coital clean-up. There's something about the experience of nakedness with Jim Kirk that encourages a certain disinclination towards separation, and he's disposed to indulge his impulse.

The shower is elderly and the water pressure irregular, but the temperature is adequate and the need is, in any case, pressing. The bed is a wreck and he suspects that they are both, now, at some imminent risk of electrolyte depletion; frankly, in the absence of sonics, Spock would be content with a length of flannel and a bowl of water at this point, so any shortcomings or deficiencies in the bathroom's facilities are neither conspicuous nor relevant in respect of the overarching requirement to remove dried-in ejaculate from the hair of his upper chest before his nipples begin to chafe. And, besides, Jim welcomes him into the stall with a kiss that practically fuses Spock with the tiles behind him, and it's a good thing that it turns out that there's more hot water than they thought, because the most useful thing that can be said about the first ten minutes of their shower is that the walls are, at least, wipe-clean.

He is learning things about his refractory period this morning that he has never before suspected, and it's probably a good thing that he didn't know them while they shared a bathroom on the Enterprise. Though, on reflection, this is likely to make the coming mission… interesting.

When the sensation has returned to the inside of his skull and his legs are once more able to support his weight, Spock accepts Jim's hand as he struggles to his feet, and allows himself to be pulled upright and alongside his friend beneath a capricious stream of bullet-sharp water. For a moment, they simply stand together, not touching, cocooned in heat and steam. And then Jim presses a kiss to Spock's mouth and reaches behind him for a fat, misshapen sponge, slicks it from an old-fashioned polyethylene bottle and squeezes it until it erupts bubbles, and gently, tenderly applies it to Spock's chest. He circles it lightly below Spock's collarbone, dipping lower with every revolution, and Spock feels the hairs of his chest bend and swirl beneath the motion, the gentle resistance, the geometric integration of movement, water flow, effervescent drift. A lifetime has passed since the last time he was bathed by another person, and he's not sure he has words to describe the sensation it evokes: more visceral than verbal, from a time before he had language or speech. All he can say for sure is that this simple action, more than the fire of their kiss or the abandon of their lovemaking, more than the confessions that they've made or the assurances they've given; more than all of these, the care and the kindness of the simple act of washing him clean, speaks of a depth and strength of love that mirrors Spock's own. He doesn't know how to answer it, so he holds himself still and lets Jim wash him; it's how Spock would want the gesture acknowledged, in his place. And afterwards, when he's done, Spock takes the sponge from his friend and bathes him in turn.

They towel off together, side by side, two sets of feet printing dark shadows into the pale rug that fronts the cubicle. The bathroom air is heavy with moisture but cooling fast and they waste little time: a cursory scrub of cotton across damp skin, and then Jim slings the towel around his neck and strides, naked and unself-conscious, across the short stretch of landing to the bedroom, and Spock is obliged to swallow a sudden intense speculation on the prevalence of such an activity and whether or not it is, for example, his habit when he finds himself within the state rooms of a constitution-class starship. Because the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, and he's just climaxed twice in the past hour. A man has his limits—or, at least, if he does not, he probably ought to refrain from testing the boundaries of his endurance before he's even eaten breakfast.

"What should we do today?" his friend calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the bedroom, haloed by rich, buttercup-yellow sunlight in a manner that strips the air in the bathroom of oxygen. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr Spock—I'd be quite content to spend the entirety of the day in bed with you, but I'm increasingly concerned about the kind of muscle fatigue I'd rather not explain to Bones at the pre-flight physical, so I thought it might be sensible to vary the routine a little. And besides," he adds, turning to grin at Spock as he follows his captain into their room, "I did promise to show you the Rockies, after all."

Spock would likewise consider the expedition a success if the sum total of his experience of the mountains of Idaho were acquired through the window panes of the cabin's master bedroom, but he's forced to accede to the logic of the situation.

"I defer to your superior knowledge of the surrounding topography," he says, as he casts his eye around the room in search of his dissipated clothing. He's reasonably certain it's wearable again today without laundering, but he probably ought to remember to remove his pants in plenty of time this evening. Or this afternoon, come to think of it. Possibly pre-lunchtime, but they are neither of them as young as they were.

Jim is gathering up discarded diverse items of apparel, both Terran and Vulcan, and tossing them onto the unmade bed. Comforter thrown back, it is evident that nobody will be sleeping on that sheet again, and the pillowcases have fared scarcely better. This vacation could prove logistically challenging in terms of linen consumption.

"There's a town on Payette Lake," says Jim, peering speculatively at a handful of fabric that turns out to be his own shorts. "It's two hours' hike in fine weather; three today, if the roads are clear. But it's a couple of days since the last snowfall; the going should be easy enough. How are those boots of yours fixed for cold weather?"

They coped adequately with the winters of Gol, where the temperature dropped, on occasion, below 95 degrees. Spock is not sure this is relevant. "I believe they could be waterproofed," he says.

Jim laughs easily and tosses Spock's pants at him. "Perhaps we'd better take your car," he says. "It might be sensible to stock up on a few essentials, anyway. You'll have a hard time persuading the synthesizer downstairs to turn out anything acceptable to the Vulcan palate, and I think it's high time you had a square meal, Mr Spock."

He had not considered the question of food, but, reminded, Spock's stomach growls mutinously, which trails another laugh out of his friend as he pulls on a fresh pair of pants from the closet. He does not, Spock cannot help but notice, trouble himself to procure or don any manner of undergarment, and this is information that is likely to weigh heavily on and at the forefront of Spock's mind for however many hours they both remain clothed.

"Last night's meal was sufficiently…" he says, and hesitates, because he cannot truthfully conclude that sentence with nourishing and they both know this. But there is more to a meal than its nutritional content. "…Satisfying," he finishes, and, though he's not content with the adjective's connotative properties, Jim looks up with a smile that says he's understood him very well. He pulls an undershirt over his head, close-fitting fabric clinging to the lines of his chest, and closes the distance between them with a couple of strides until he's got two feet inside Spock's circle of personal space. Had he been any other living being, his proximity would be intolerable; with Jim, those inches that separate them are as frustrating as if they were light years apart. He rests a hand lightly on either side of Spock's hip, presses a kiss to his lips.

"Last night's meal," he says, "is likely to be this morning's breakfast as well, I'm afraid. And lunch and dinner too, if we don't make it to a store in the next few hours. Which becomes less and less likely, my friend, the longer you continue to stand in this bedroom wrapped only in a towel. Because frankly, Mr Spock, it's distracting, and there's only so much willpower a man can be expected to exercise."

And, just like that, there's spice on the air again. Spock would not have credited it, but his reproductive functions appear to have divorced themselves from his higher cognitive processes in a manner that permits little logical interference.

Fascinating.

"That being the case," he says, as one eyebrow reaches for his hairline, "one might question the ramifications of such close proximity in our current state of undress."

A wide grin spreads easily across Jim's face, and his hands tighten on Spock's hips in a manner that provokes a distinct flurry of activity beneath the towel. But the admiral is a practical man, first and foremost, and he contents himself with another brief kiss before pulling away and crossing to the dresser for a sweater. "Your logic," he says, as he stretches it over his head, "is, as ever, impeccable, Science Officer. I'll make myself useful in the kitchen. Don't be too long."

His footsteps on the stairs are heavy, careless, echoing through the hollow wooden frame as he descends. Spock stands for a moment in the center of the floor and feels, illogically, bereft, as though the light has left the room. His clothes are lying on the comforter, carefully arranged away from the expansive evidence of last night's activities, and he crosses to the bed, lifts his pants with the idea of dressing as quickly as he can and following his friend downstairs, to the warmth of the log fire, the throw-scattered couches, the mid-morning sunshine in the oriel. The fabric is creased from its night on the floor, but it's wearable, and, as Spock lifts it, he smells Jim in the gaps between the fibers.

-o-o-o-

He finds him in the sitting room, perched on the window seat and peering at a PADD on his lap, hands curled around a fresh mug of coffee. The promised stack of pancakes sits on an occasional table alongside a teapot and cup, and Spock pours himself a serving of Earl Grey and contents himself with watching, for a moment, as Jim reads. His hair is darker, these days, than Spock remembers from the years of their mission, although it's not yet showing signs of yielding to age, and he seems leaner, sparer, even if his body beneath Spock's hands last night felt much as he remembers from that long ago Cochrane's Day in the flag officers' residences. And there's something in his smile that didn't use to be there, but that, Spock thinks, is to be expected. James Kirk has seen his share of difficulty these past few years.

Unbidden, Spock's eyes drift to the mantelpiece, to its solitary portrait and the empty place where another ought to hang. He wonders what he would have done, had he returned from Gol to find Jim still married. Glorious, gifted, restored to his proper place in the universe… and yet bound to someone who was not Spock; lost to him forever. How would he have reconciled that to himself? Could they have found a way to work together, knowing what he now knows, and yet obliged, once again, to repackage it as something else, something that will never be enough? He suspects that they could not—that Spock could not—and he's grateful that he never had to find out for sure.

In his peripheral vision, he's aware of motion at the window, of soft footsteps that cross the floor towards him, and Jim falls into place at his shoulder, cradling his cup to his chest and following Spock's line of sight to the empty space on the wall. Spock drops his eyes, considers the ribbon of steam winding from the mug in his hands, but he's a moment too late, and he knows it.

"I guess you know what used to hang there," says Jim quietly.

Spock considers. This feels like a grave invasion of privacy. But he's been caught in a moment of intrusion, and there is no sense in prevaricating now.

"I believe so," he says, and Jim nods.

"For the record," says his friend, "I didn't take it down. Or put it up, for that matter. I didn't even know it existed until a few days ago." His eyes drop to his chest, to the mug in his hand, to the surface of the liquid as he tilts it towards him. "I wouldn't like you to think," he says, "that I would be so dismissive of her."

Ship's records show that Vice Admiral Lori Ciana was killed in a transporter malfunction on the refitted USS Enterprise,nine hours and thirty-seven minutes prior to launch. Spock remembers her as a slight, attractive woman, possessed of intelligent eyes, and with an authoritative manner that seemed to fill the space around her. He recalls her appraising stare beneath a light well in the center of the Phoenix Building, the way she watched him, the way she watched Jim, and understanding he saw flash across her face for just a moment before she schooled it back into command distance. He remembers her icy fury in the corridor behind an auditorium full of journalists, her stillness and her dignity in the face of Jim's anger, and the softness of her voice when she ordered Spock to follow him. He remembers his desire to distance himself from her that he neither understood nor chose to interrogate, and he understands that it was fed by the knowledge of her regard for the man that he loved, and his fear that, one day, Jim would come to see just how much healthier it would be for him if her regard were returned.

Yes. She must have been a remarkable woman.

"I believe," says Spock—slowly, carefully, uncertainly—"that, if you have no objection, Jim… I would like to see the portrait."

Hazel eyes flick upwards from their contemplation of porcelain and coffee, brows arched in surprise. "I… no," says Jim, and, though his tone suggests mild consternation, if the enquiry has offended, there's no sign of it in his voice or his expression. "I have no objection. I'm just… it's a little unexpected, that's all."

Spock is inclined to agree: the request has startled him too. But, as he follows Jim to the old oak sideboard where the decanter rests; as he waits for his friend to sort through an over-filled cupboard in search of a long, flat parcel of cloth and frame; as he watches the care with which Jim extracts it, unwraps its covering, pauses a moment to scan its surface with stony eyes and fixed expression, he feels increasingly certain that it was not wrong. Jim passes it to Spock without a word and Spock accepts it in kind, and Jim pulls in close behind him to rest his chin on Spock's shoulder as Spock looks down into the face of a James Kirk that he has never known.

The man that stares back at him across the gap of years is not so different from the man now standing at his side. The angles of his cheekbones are perhaps a little sharper, his brow a little less lined, but the shadow behind his eyes remains, and the hollowness of his stare is the same hollowness that greeted Spock as he stepped onto the bridge of the Enterprise seven days ago. It's eased a little since then; if Spock were to turn his head now, shift a little so that Jim's face comes into his line of sight, he knows that he'd see that the fire he remembers, the peculiar spark that is the essence of Kirk, has crept back into his eyes, his smile, his motion. But it's missing from his portrait. From another time, another place, Lori Ciana folds her arm through her husband's, rests her free hand on his chest, and smiles into posterity, as Jim grins and raises a glass to the holocam, and, if it weren't for the fact that his face is the same, that his clothes are correct, that the red lines of the Golden Gate Bridge peer through the mist and storm that gathers at the window behind them, he might be another man entirely. Spock wonders if, had he returned from Gol to find Jim married still, he would have known his friend at all.

"She knew, you know," says Jim now. His head is pressed so close against Spock's that Spock feels his words in the bone of his jaw. Jim's arms slide quietly around Spock's waist. "About this," he adds. "About you and… us."

Spock remembers her eyes, placid but impenetrable; the way her expression shifted as Jim spoke, as though he'd answered a question that she hadn't asked; and he finds himself unsurprised. "Ah," he says softly.

"Yes." A beat. "It made for some… lively debate."

"No doubt." Spock would like to ask for details; he would like to ask what she knew, how she knew it. How much was conjecture, how much was fact. But more than that, he would like to know that, by her side, the emptiness, the absence that he sees behind Jim's eyes in his wedding photo, receded a little. He'd like to know that they were happy, at least for a while. He says, "She appeared to be a woman of uncommon perception."

A breath of warm laughter brushes the skin of Spock's jaw. "She was," says Jim. "Though I won't pretend that I was thankful for it at the time." He presses a kiss into Spock's shoulder where it meets his neck, lifts the holo from Spock's hands. "Still. We found a way past it in the end. I believe she was happy… in the end."

There's a catch to his voice, a hoarseness that he buries in an abrupt clearing of his throat as he turns back to the sideboard, portrait in hand. Spock pivots on his heel to watch as Jim folds it safely back into its linen sheath, slides it carefully back into place inside the crowded cupboard, and turns back to Spock with a tired smile.

"Your tea will get cold, Mr Spock," he says quietly, but, instead of crossing back to the sofa, where their breakfast awaits, Jim closes the three feet of distance between him and Spock, loops his arms around Spock's neck, and seals their mouths together. Spock leans into the kiss, lets his hands come up to card through Jim's hair, and pulls him in tight against his body, as close as he can.

The pancakes are forgotten, in the end, along with the tea and the rest of Jim's coffee. But at least this time, Spock manages to get out of his pants in plenty of time, though he believes that Jim has cause to regret the absence of underwear beneath his jeans. They make love on the couch, in front of the newly banked fire, with the sunlight streaking shards of gold through Jim's hair as his head rolls back on the cushion and he yells Spock's name, and, when it's over, hands and chests slicked once more with each other's fluids, Spock pulls his lover's head into the hollow at his collar bone, rests his chin at his crown, and lets his eyes fall closed and his skin do the work of mapping Jim's presence at his side. There are ghosts in the room, and there are ghosts behind Jim's eyes, but, for now, Spock will circle him with his arms and hold him close against his body, and they will sleep for a while—an hour, two hours, three if they choose. They will sleep until they are rested, and, when they are finished, they will wake, once more, to each other.