all we have to go on
This is so far and away removed from being anything like a novel concept, even though I usually find myself enjoying stories where Spock is compunctuously worried about Jim's "base needs" (not talking about Spice but also maybe I am?) much less, or at least much differently, than those which just...ignore it, or take it in stride, but a-spec Spock is nevertheless of course a classic interpretation that I feel has both the very intuitive "can be" and the very important "should be" - it's really weird picking/making representation because of the accidental dehumanization trope, and I like a-spec as a label for him here because I far too often struggle with feeling like I'm not "ace enough" myself...you get the picture. They're the guys. :)
James Tiberius Kirk is a simple man. An honest man. A warm man. Round, not sharp. Yellow (green and gold, even, in terms of aesthetics and in terms of pathetics), not blue.
It's predictable. There again, simple. Why shouldn't the most well-beloved Starfleet captain in recent memory be not only charismatic but also considerate, not only accomplished but also affected, not only gregarious but also genuine?
There's also the fact of his qualifications, his numerous descriptions by others who knew him better during his collegiate career as being far more than just book smart. It's that training that allows him to be so seemingly defiant of the regulations on such a regular basis now, and that, again, is, of course, relatively simply explainable and predictable. It's even...satisfying, in its logic.
But our point lies buried slightly further in: James T. Kirk is conventional. He is almost as maximally conventional as any a Constitution-class Starfleet vessel captain can be in the slow-blooming latter half of the twenty-third century.
He, as a born romantic sort of fellow, favors a chaste kiss on the back of the hand, knuckles swept briefly but meaningfully downwards, a careful arc against a cold cheek, and always meaningful glances. Oh, always. He couldn't do without.
His lingering is uncomplicated, approachable. He is everything a Human should be, and that is to be expected. It's, oh, so, so easy.
But it is not logical to think in terms of ease, in terms of uncomplication. Though logic necessarily precludes overcomplication in the majority of scenarios (not that overwhelming, because a Vulcan in competent touch with his impulses and their corresponding shields will never be nor ever become overwhelmed), it is not logical to choose courses of actions because they are easy. Certainly, Captain Kirk would agree with that.
First Officer S'chn T'gai Spock, otherwise known as Mr. Spock, for his title is somehow much more necessarily a part of him than it is of the captain (moreover, Spock follows the title while the title follows Kirk, because even after all this time in Starfleet he knows that among all others, all those who are not Kirk, he is lost without it), is sharp, is deep cold blues, is...likely less honest than the captain, habitually, in...certain ways.
He is not rational, purely or principally; he is logical. The captain is rational, because he is capable of reasoning and on most occasions also of being reasoned with. Namely: round and reasonable, meet square and sensible. The captain is rational, but he is not logical. Spock, in the eyes of those other than Doctor McCoy, is both.
Spock's presence is incredibly complicated and absolutely unapproachable - to some. He is not everything a Vulcan should be, and that, unfortunately, is also to be expected. It's not easy. He must admit that.
All of that, however, is mere preamble. Without Spock's bidding, as he considers this, the descriptions of the two of them as a pair, as joined, as yin and yang and cookies and cream and peanut butter and jelly (Jim would say this, and then not know himself which one was which, one hundred percent of the time) and every other irritably (no, endearingly) illogical human metaphor, have snuck in and led him to the next portion of his meditation - a figurative one, as he is standing on the bridge waiting for the alpha shift to draw to a close.
Patiently, he predicts the next censure he is due himself: why has the most straightforward representation of Kirk's very humane appeal so consistently been an image of his intimate interpersonal habits?
It's simple, really. Kirk's rank demonstrates his competency in leadership; the continued intact lives of the crew after most of a five-year journey demonstrate his leadership in competency; his everyday rapport with Mr. Spock demonstrates the inherent, inescapable truth in all of this.
Spock finds the captain quite pleasing to spend time with, because he is a well-constructed proof of a man who is as he seems. There is no reason to recoil from him. Kirk is not, as some humans (perhaps Spock's mother) would say, annoying. He is not smarmy. He is not cocky, for cockiness is merely confidence proved undue, and Kirk does not have that. No, indeed...he does not.
He is not a liar. This is incredibly important. Kirk is not a liar.
If Kirk is roguish, again as Amanda Grayson might describe, he is the softest rogue she's ever seen. If he is a womanizer, it is solely because anything can be an -izer, in the twenty-third century. He could be a romulator, even, though that does sound a touch too close to Romulan.
Doesn't it?
Having indulged this highly illogical, even nonsensical and silly, train of thought, Spock has begun to lose track of who is guiding his thoughts: whether it is himself or his mother.
Repeated, without the vague double entendre: whose impulses should and do guide Spock in his consideration of Captain James T. Kirk? Is it his father, Sarek, or his mother, Amanda? Is it his Vulcan side or his Human side?
His Vulcan side is already satisfied, wholly and logically so, with his relationship - by any designation - with the captain. The man is admirable, and eminently so; he is Spock's friend. Barring some obscene eventuality (these are Kirk words, Spock knows, the type he might throw in the face of any high command with which he seeks to contend, likely when the course of his and his crew's mission has come under question), he will always be Spock's friend. Despite a stiff interrelation at the start of their appointment above and below one another, Spock feels deeply that, somehow, he has always been Spock's friend, and that Spock has always been his.
And to Vulcans, friends are not just valuable but invaluable. After sufficient time has been invested in evaluating the quality of another individual's character, particularly one with whom one constantly shares responsibilities and experiences, it would be illogical to disregard that individual, to afford them no special distinction. So Spock does. So Spock does.
His Human side - rather, the collection of impulses that since his childhood have always resembled and forecasted the most shameful, regarding the barometer of tradition, of all Spock's experiences - is confused. As ever, it is confused. These impulses resist the compulsion to be marshalled, to be silenced, to be stowed and mutinied by the processes of reasoning that have led some other portion of himself to be satisfied with the situation.
Yes, indeed, those impulses are asking the questions of limits, of loneliness and, by another turn, of greediness. How can Spock speak truthfully of all that he is if he is not sure that he is...all that he is?
There is a general shuffling and issuance of chimes, and Spock deduces that alpha shift has concluded. He deduces because he is not looking at a chrono and because the captain, whose back he has been watching from his standing position, has not moved.
Spock also deduces this salutory information because he has been following the foregoing largely inconclusive train of thought for a measure of time that, for reasons unknown to him, he can only, unfortunately, quantify as "quite some" - Kirk words, again. Or perhaps his own. Perhaps a blend of both - and that still makes them more Human than Vulcan.
Why has he been following it? What is the logic behind it; what is the justification? Should the captain gamely ask Spock what he's been doing for the past five or so minutes, what will Spock tell him? Certainly not that he has been observing the weather, for that is not applicable on the appropriately climate-controlled bridge of the USS Enterprise, barring serious problems in engineering.
Serious problems in engineering. Spock often wonders if he himself possesses those. Doctor McCoy would certainly say so. The comparison of disciplines is somewhat apt, he finds. To describe Vulcans as attempting to engineer their fates, their reactions, their moods, would not be entirely remiss. Fascinating.
But what is the justification? Spock finds this all-too-pressing question much less fascinating, because he finds that he'd really rather not have to think about it. Really.
Of course, when a relationship of considerable importance goes undefined in a military hierarchy such as Starfleet resembles, it is logical to wish that that matter be resolved without undue delay. It is also logical, therefore, to attend to possible resolutions to the issue at all times made available.
It is not, however, logical to let such an issue linger for such periods of time as those which eventually cause a reduction in performance efficiency. In other words, Captain Kirk has some explaining to do - after all, Mr. Spock already well knows what he himself thinks.
"I am drawn to you," he says, when he's somehow arrived himself to the captain's quarters with almost no memory of the travel, so solely focused as he is on his task, on this confoundingly unsolved problem. No captain is in his address. Apparently, the captain is waiting for him. They are both still standing, neither quite limited at parade rest. "It is my constant and consistent determination that my place is at your side."
Kirk nods, gently, appraisingly, like he's purposefully put himself off guard. "That sounds agreeable to me, Mr. Spock. I won't say I don't appreciate your declaration of loyalty, but I'm not sure why you feel the need to remind me."
His hands spread wide, rotored from the elbows. The anchors are round, supple, not bony pins. "We work together every day."
Kirk- no, Jim, smiles in such a way that Spock cannot mark the ease of it as borne of anything other than something spectacular. Jim should appear to be just as confused as he has just professed to be, under absolutely no duress from his first officer nor any other individuals in the vicinity, because there aren't any, but he does neither sound nor feel it. Not at all. The conversation does not judder; it's as if they've had it continually, without noticeable cease, for years, every day.
Every day. And the sun rises. Spock swallows, but he cannot swallow his confusion.
It seems quite simple. He had already determined his solution, on the bridge...when, on the bridge?
Why can he not recall?
"I am drawn to you," Spock repeats, watching carefully for a reaction, a response to stimulus, in Jim's eyes.
In Jim's eyes. Why does that phrase sound so significant?
Something should shift, in Jim's eyes. Something should glimmer, and then darken. Something should be alarmed, because while a man like James T. Kirk is always astoundingly resilient to change, he is constantly and consistently quite far removed from acting impervious to it.
He welcomes it, always with the requisite trepidation and intrepidation paired that make up human hubris, that define him as a being made of light that moves with the impact of sound (as Spock is his opposite, as Spock has always been his opposite, as Spock is currently so overwhelmingly confused).
"Mr. Spock," Jim starts, the S sounds of his speech the most pleasing, sweetest sounds Spock has ever heard and quite possibly will ever hear, and in this moment he cannot even bring himself to reconcile that, to marshall down such pleasure and insist that the sound of a word well spoken is simply logical, and that it is logical to maintain affirmative reactions to the hearing of such sounds for evolutionary purposes, to facilitate and stipulate such fine and lucid behaviors in future generations of Vulcans and Humans, all humanoid communicators, alike.
The voice of a human man in command.
Not just fascinating. Marvelous.
And all Jim's done is say his name.
The rest of his gentle, magnanimous, magnificent sentence comes: "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you meant this to be a confession."
A confession? No. It's not a confession. It is a first officer requesting a report from his superior officer, the captain of his and their starship, upon receiving update information about a confusing contact, first and ongoing, with another being. Persistent reception of this data and persistent inability to reconcile the conflict, in whatever form it has come, with this other being, necessitates that greater attention be paid to the issue.
Spock has already ironed out this logic what must be a quarter of an hour ago. He has no idea what business conversation he and Jim had had on the turbolift, along the corridor, in the threshold, should they have lingered there...
Why doesn't he know?
Spock swallows again and voices his conclusions - quite firm, they are. "No, Captain. I do not intend to confess anything to you. I simply wish to inquire after the nature of our professional relationship, because I find it occupying our thoughts-"
He stops short; in an instant he's noticed. Has the captain?
Why did he say "our"? What could possibly be the reason?
He tries again: "-my thoughts far more than is permissible."
"Thinking about each other is a time suck, in other words, Mr. Spock?"
Spock finds that he cannot conclusively state whether or not the captain had in fact been cognizant of his first officer's error in speech 9.6 seconds prior to the conclusion of his answering question (which had come accompanied with a wryly arched brow, round like a bridge proudly displaying its keystone).
"That is a fairly accurate assessment of the scenario, Captain."
Now, as requisite, conventional: "Jim, Spock. Jim. Spock."
The captain (it's not an address, it's not an address) has begun to work his hands, and wrinkles have appeared on his usually round, smooth forehead. In Spock's company, at least.
"Let's both be honest about this...nature of our 'professional relationship'."
"Captain?" Spock wants to utter, but knows he can't, can't pretend that measure of obtusion now.
He is, as the captain or perhaps the doctor would say, "in too deep". He settles for the forward tilt of his head; customary eyebrow raised denotes far too much advantage that he simply does not hold. He wishes he did, and then again he's glad that he doesn't.
Jim would call it "even footing" - ridiculous and unnecessary, because, again barring serious problems in engineering, all deck surfaces on the Enterprise are required and indeed guaranteed to remain, to be maintained as, level, within 0.1 percentage points of error one way or the other.
Would that the only discrepancy here were the differences in their heights, in their statures, in...
In their dispositions. In what Spock knows - after all this time, knows, truly knows - he can expect from this...feeling of his. This dreadfully complex feeling, which is...all he has to go on.
He feels like swearing to Surak. Like praying, which is illogical, because Surak is not a deity.
He feels altogether too much, and that's the problem. Because most of the time, among humans and their conventional expectations, Spock finds that he feels altogether too little. And if this feeling, this new and irritatingly (or is it comfortingly?) persistent notion, is correct, he and Jim are drawn, irrevocably and inexplicably, together.
That alone should, to a spiritual man of whatever disposition, indicate that the two puzzle pieces will necessarily fit together, if they are to be joined in any significant, meaningful way. There should be no obstacle too great, or even very great at all.
Barring...serious problems in engineering.
Maybe they are not problems. Maybe they are simply alternative blueprints. But they are novel, nonetheless.
Spock hasn't said anything, and neither has Jim. Spock, of all people, knows that thinking takes time. He's not sure how much time this thinking has taken, and he doesn't want to know.
He levels his gaze, and he clears his throat.
"..."
And nothing comes out.
It should be so easy. It should be so simple. It should be so logical. And on, and on, and on, and Spock almost begins to think that he feels dizzy.
It's a sweet intoxication, of course, much like that caused by the chemicals that compose chocolate, but the buzz of irritation that floats on top is not a pleasant one.
Spock waits.
He swallows.
He waits.
He needs the captain's judgement to take over. This is not a command he is equipped to serve.
"Is it a confession, Spock?"
The way Jim is looking at him, brow furrowed and lips pursed in the opposite directions to usual, so as to appear and to be slightly ajar, slightly curled, indicates that he is on the receiving end of a sort of inverse of the confusion that Spock has contracted. He had been contented, and then suddenly he had cause to worry, and now there were words, and thoughts, and feelings in his head.
Spock's head is empty. Where has it all gone?
It's not about the shields. It has never been about the shields. It has been about the words, and the labeling, and the definition.
They're still standing. Jim looks eminently like he wants to sit down. Spock gestures, but it's the bed they find, not the chairs.
He must at least be able to find some words, at least to ensure that his throat still works. Vulcans are reticent and measured, but they are not stilted. On the contrary; their movements are the epitome of grace.
Logically.
So logically.
Spock feels sick, and again the bile is sweet. A vague memory of butyric acid's presence in chocolate bars of Earth societies some three centuries ago causing the confections to taste like vomit surfaces. Fascinating.
"The sheer difficulty I am finding in producing words with which to communicate seems evidence enough of our predicament, Captain."
He has to say Captain; he has no other choice. It is the sole comfortable, steadfast routine he knows.
He'd like "Jim" to become natural. He knows it is supposed to be. He can practically feel the way Jim himself wants to be, too.
Jim's sitting next to him now, not quite across the gulf, and he's huffing rueful breaths and shaking his head. "I feel so stupid, Spock. Like I'm back at the Academy, and I've forgotten the question, only the professor's not gonna get on my ass about it, and the answer actually matters, more than anything in the world."
More than anything in the world.
That-!
That is the point.
"Perhaps that is all that need be said, Jim." The name is forced, but not unwillingly so. The problem is not finding home; the problem is convincing yourself that you really own it.
There is more to that train of thought, perhaps, but Spock dismisses it. His focus now is on Jim's eyes, which seem to have lost their erstwhile hazy look. Amidst the murky brown, the same undefinable color as his hair, tones of those same precious yellow-green golds jump out, sparkle and flicker. It's...
He had not reviewed lingering glances and touches, throes before danger and death and what, among humans, would be termed as "emotional constipation" thereafter. Spock had not considered those pertinent, in individuality; merely the facts of what had summed up to date.
But Jim is considering. Very much so, he appears to be considering.
"In the strangest way, I think you're right, Spock." Nervously, his fingers work in his palms, clutching at themselves and their own make. He is hunched and round where Spock is straight and stern. Of course he is. "Maybe it's not about what we're not saying. I mean, it's all about what we're not saying. But..."
The words come at Spock in a pleasing thrushing murmur. The logic. The conclusion. And the fact that it and they have been arrived at not only by premise, major and minor and step by step, but by...feeling. A feeling. Not that one, no, but...
"We spoke, somewhat deflectingly, of a professional relationship. You have surmised enough of my personal preferences to be aware that 'dating' me, in the common Earth and Human fashion, would not be truly amenable to either of us."
Jim nods, not eagerly but definitely earnestly. His hands have stiffened; Spock's back has curved, gently, slightly.
Spock is always ever so gentle and slight.
"Aware of that fact myself, I was unable to communicate to you any more clearly of my care for you than the simple fact that I am drawn to you."
"And by drawn to me, you mean..."
Oh, he could have laughed aloud. It would have been entirely logical.
"I mean exactly that, Jim." And much more, but not much different. "But you have not said what it is that you mean."
"Me? I..."
His thoughts are like honey and butter and blankets and coffee, spread on fruit and flatbread and settees and cups meant for tea.
Spock is drawn, in and out and on and over and around and through and he is drawn, he is composed, he is built and he is stuffed between his scaffolds and the green of his insides becomes a mild chartreuse.
When he is with Jim. Jim, who would likely love to kiss and touch, to be easy, to be unthinking, to be spread all over like the curtain of the sun.
Jim would cherish the confusion of the time, the loss of the hour and the sublimation of phase. Jim would like to be so lost in it all that he would not have to define it, and Spock is to some extent content with not defining it, because apparently he has said all he can coalesce to say, but he does have to say something. Spock is requiring of him at least that. And maybe that does mean that Spock is still acting overtly professional. So, to let him have his morés...
James T. Kirk is not a liar. So when he says to Spock, "I plan to give you everything I can, all of me, but only when you want it - really, Spock, honey, only when I know that you need it, because you're what I need and that's the tops, believe me--"
Spock believes him. Bemusedly, almost, with lips loosely pursed from within and right eyebrow extending skyward. Not completely so, however; amusement has snuck in as well.
(Honey? Vulcans, no matter how much Human heritage they also share, do not particularly resemble the result of the storage of nectar secreted from pollenating plants by the bees of Earth in any respect, save perhaps a slowness that might be equated with visual serenity, and vice versa.)
"Certainly, Captain. It is somewhat illogical for you to make this promise," Sarek's tetchy ambassador's pride, "but I appreciate it nonetheless," Amanda's flowing musician's grace.
Kirk's face soars with wonder. Right. Spock's right. Of course he's right. He's always right.
Conventional as he is, he needn't even have asked.