my hopes keep on dipping, and his lips keep on smiling all the time

"The hell they did."

Jim's head whips around faster than his admiralty-aged neck quite wishes it would allow. Only in his fantasies, before, had anything like what he's thinking now, gratuitously, even been remotely closely to possible, but the bay is churning its seagull-fan press, hissing washes of salt pushing up against the edge of the tank, and his head is fuzzy.

The hell are you talking about, I could kiss you right now, I can't believe your hair even dries straight, could have sworn it was curly, maybe it was--

But Spock's tight, heavy gaze is loose and light.