the likeness of a love

i would like to clarify: i am not a lesbian (i am nonbinary [unspecified] and my partner is a nonbinary man) HOWEVER i very often end up IDing characters as [nonbinary] lesbians because. idk because it seems right and seems fun and i've gotten promising reviews from friends who are lesbians at all ends of the spectrum with my various queerness-inflected interpretations/fics written for them. so while i don't want to toss around labels like they are mine to commandeer, that sort of spirk reading - i've seen people really enjoy it and i think that's for good reason - is floating around in the background here. they're nonbinary, they're genderfluid, they're lesbians, whichever you like best, but i'm not nailing this fic down as anything more than ~t4t~ and less mlm than usual because honestly that's probably what i'll have the easiest time with rendering. okay thanks love u

Chapter 01: I Like Myself
Chapter 02: It's You I Like
Chapter 03: People Like Us

It's not that she struggles with self-esteem. Not that he looks at himself in the mirror and goes god, why do you look like that, why do you sound like that, why do you walk like that, why do you talk like that?

Jim Kirk is fairly set in her ways, all things considered, not because she's so stiffly principled but because after over a decade of Starfleet assignments, his methods have proven themselves trustworthy.

You meet the mission head-on, you rise above all the complications that would make anyone else deem it a no-win scenario (certainly, there's an element of pride there), and you sweep your crew through to the next briefing. You do it, and you do it well, mostly because of the excellent company around you. Maybe you even do it in style.

But in exploring these strange new worlds, Jim begins to think - resumes it, rather - that it's just happy human coincidence, an "anybody could have done better and christ alive they probably will as soon as they figure out it's only dumb luck holding up your dumb ass" sort of deal.

Only begins, though. Never gets any farther than light thinking. Because then she remembers Spock.

Spock, who is exacting, who is perfect, who is dark and calm and moves with a grace that only such a child of two worlds could have.

Spock, the bane of their CMO's existence, because the very sound of the name signals something inmitable, something unfathomable. It makes Jim smile from the cleft of his chin to the tips of his ears just grasping the shape of the familiar thought in her mind.

Spock. They would never settle for Jim if there weren't something special about him. If there weren't something of some superlative degree, beating in her chest and thrumming in her hands and brimming up to the very forefront of her mind like sunbeams and solar flares, about Jim.

Spock is, of course...well, everything. So that's very important, indeed.

Their mind is restless, when they receive commendations, when they are instrumental to missions even outside the realm of their assigned expertise (and of course such a phenomenon will constantly serve to make the ship's good doctor groan and grumble, which only furthers the extent of the restlessness).

Committed though Spock is to upholding their Vulcan heritage, at times as far above their Human nature as possible, the most illogical result of this pursuit is a feeling of regret, of listlessness.

Is it enough, to be the science officer? To be a being of maximum efficiency and minimum effervescence?

Illogical, indeed. So they dismiss it. The only object is to produce satisfactory results by way of logic and discipline. If that be pleasing to the Starfleet superiors who oversee their progress...that is merely, as the captain would say, a bonus.

The captain. Not as perceptive as a Vulcan, but still perceptive. She does appear to notice when Spock's posture increases in rigidity, their reports coming in tighter and more informative than is consistently necessary (illogical, illogical, to give something that might termed as an effort to overperform, since it is not necessary), their indulgence in post-reconaissance jokes more and more limited.

"Mr. Spock."

They hear the question implicit, even though it has not yet actually been asked.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Perfectly, Captain," they answer him, but do not go so far as to provide the reciprocal taunting prompt: Why do you ask?

"You know I don't keep you on here because you can verify Uhura's transmissions or Scotty's calculations or Bones's diagnoses."

This one isn't a question. Spock finds themself wishing it was.

But, there is a warmth to it, the statement, that they also find themselves appreciating. And, this is allowable, given that warmth of tone is a reliable anti-stressor in interpersonal communication, one which facilitates agreement and discourages disagreement where there should not, logically, be any.

"It's because I like you. Professionally...and personally."

Jim grins. Spock loves her.

Jim hums to herself, in the shared refresher room. She doesn't usually do it outside of the private space, which has led Spock to categorize the habit as a sort of small-scale meditation. The breathing is focused, as is some subconscious portion of the mind which devotes itself to arranging notes into a familiar tune or producing new notes to sequence.

When the humming leans a little more nervous, they know that he's doing neither, and the result is positively tuneless as a result of a complete lack of order in the mind, but that does not diminish the fondness they feel. Nothing ever could.

At this very moment, Jim's humming distractedly as he pulls at strands of hair in a half-buried cowlick near the nape of her neck; worrying, doubtless, that if she blinks, her so carefully built-up self-perception will come crashing down, along with the hairs that have not, to his apparent consternation, just ceased to grow since he first cut them.

"I was not aware that Starfleet required special dispensation for haircuts, Captain."

Jim whirls around, fingertips slipping loosely to the side of her chin. But it's just Spock. Of course. A small smile comes, but it's shaky.

"You don't have to do that, Spock."

"Do what, Captain?"

"I'm not going to fall apart if you call me Jim. I would have changed my name, if I didn't like it that much."

Ah. Of course. Smiling neatly, Spock dips their own chin, lids their eyes. "Understood."

It's not the "understood" of clipped instructions and turns on booted heel - nor that of begrudging acquiesce, because they hadn't bothered restating their partner's name. Rather, it's the understanding of kindred spirits, those who accept because they haven't always been accepted and love because it's defiance as much as it is gentility.

A cautiously beautiful combination of the both is what keeps them standing there, facing each other and not frantically directing their eyes anywhere but at the other's chest, opposite. Slow, insistent, affirming.