A reiteration: t'Khasi is what Vulcans and Romulans called themselves before the Sundering.
2. striking difference between compared individuals
I think I'm going to change the stars on my ceiling. Take down the ones I have now, show a sky where Eridani is large. You can't see it from here. Besides, if I want to see my own sky, all I have to do is sleep in the hammock.
It's a nice night out. Crisp, with that autumn smell. Bonfire sweet, but the burning leaves are alive and safe. Cloudless.
Spock must be freezing.
Did someone tell him how to turn off the air conditioner? Sam likes it almost as cold as I do, and I the air conditioner was on when the switch got jammed. When did it get broken? That time we were playing baseball upstairs? I can't remember. At any rate, he needs the humidifier on, and it's no longer independent of the air conditioner, so he'll just have to freeze.
He should be okay, though. My unnatural brother likes to turn the air on cold--and then make a fire and swaddle himself with blankets. Honestly. What's the point in that? How can you appreciate the heat if only your head's poking out of it? But there should be lots of blankets and comforters and things in there, and presumably Sam will give him some. He should be all right. I could bring him a sweater, though, or a hot water bottle, see how he's doing...
Not a chance, JT. You'd end up spending the night, and you know it. If he'd let you.
That carving's going to be good. I can tell. Fire was a good choice for it. He pushed me away and I was so mad, I wanted to pound something--preferably him. I was on a slow burn all evening. Then we were all kidding around and it was all family-warm, and he was so dense about it I felt like screaming the point of the punch line into his thick Vulcan head. Instead, I worked on my carving. It'll be a good piece. I poured everything into it. It'll be a complex sense when it's lifted, I think, that deceptive comfort as well as pure burning. If I could only have got through to him, I could have given it ecstasy and glow, too... oh, well. Not happening.
I guess it's an honor to have the Vulcan Ambassador's son staying here. Sure. Yeah, it is, although that has more to do with Uncle Rob than any of us. Uncle. I still get a kick out of that. Captain Robert April lets me call him that. I mean, he is my dad's captain, but still! Once, I actually asked him why he allowed it. He just smiled, and said that the word 'godfather' made him feel rascally. Whatever that means.
Yeah, it was probably Uncle Rob's doing. After all, I can hardly picture Dad endearing himself to Ambassador Sarek. Oh, boy. I can just imagine that meeting. They'd both be stuffed-shirt formal. Then they'd get out of earshot, Dad would make rude comments to his lieutenant, Sarek would give Spock his best 'this is the alternative to Vulcan, my son' look, and they'd spend the rest of the trip avoiding one another as much as possible.
I wish he hadn't come. No, I don't wish that, I know we've been honored. Condescended to, actually, but that's only as far as Sarek's concerned. So I don't wish that. I just wish we hadn't made sure it would be so uncomfortable, Spock and I.
No, I don't. That is, I can't. I can't bring myself to wish that. What I really wish, and I mean it this time, is that I knew what was going on between him and that Spring girl. At least then I'd have an idea why he hasn't met my eyes since I hugged him. Or tried to. Damn, that hurt. I tried everything one can try in front of a parent. I tried playing it exuberant, hard to get, charming, pissed off, clever, interesting, receptive, funny, and I have no clue why none of it worked.
Ow. Good thinking, JT, let's just kill off all our brain cells and pound a hole through the headboard with our skull, because yes, it really is too thick to shatter. Brilliant!
Okay, I do have a clue. In fact, I've got it fairly well narrowed down. Best case, shyness. This is more probable than you'd think. He is pretty shy for someone that self possessed. Worst case, shame and disgust. Unfortunately for me, this is exactly as probable as it seems. He jumped away from me awfully quickly, and then there was that little conversation I eavesdropped on in sickbay. I'm not exactly Iowa's fluffiest little white lamb anyway, bleat bleat, and I wasn't in tip-top form last time we met.
I really don't know what happened then, after Tarsus. The actual events were unmistakable, but the reasons behind them are much, much less clear. I know what was going on with me, of course: I was off my head. I'd spent so much time with a clamphold on my emotions that I completely unhinged the moment it was safe to do so. I was a mess. But him? I have no idea why he came to me. He had a look that, on a human, I would have interpreted as indicating Fight with Parent. On a Vulcan, it could have meant anything.
Maybe it was just rebellion for him. He had no idea what to do. Quick learner, sure, but before he got into the swing of things his inexperience was kind of obvious.
Not like mine wasn't.
I can't believe it's only been two months. They feel like forever. Iowa always feels like forever. That was the most frightening thing about Tarsus, I think. Even at the worst, even at the scariest and most nauseating, I felt more at home there. Well, not at home. More awake, maybe. I understood it better. It was like taking off sunglasses and handcuffs at once. In Iowa there are rules I can't figure out.
I think that must have been part of it. I'd gotten used to doing things that agreed with my instincts and my feelings, over there, and when they pointed at him and said go for it, I went for it.
You, James Robin Tiberius Kirk, are trying to make yourself unpathetic. Admit it and move on.
I was pretty pathetic, it's true. Bloody nightmares, for one thing; screaming, sweating, sickening nightmares I'd wake up from every night with my lips bitten through. I was having a lot of migraines. My chess game was way, way off. We played three times, Spock and I. He actually beat me the first time. I don't think I was paying attention. It was god-awfully claustrophobic in that rec room, with all those eyes on us, on me, and him playing like I wasn't even there. The second time he underestimated me badly. The third time was a draw.
Actually, we never finished the third game. We were discussing how to avoid a stalemate when he moved on me. It was checkmate, but I don't know which king was captured. It was his move, but I'd been angling for it all evening.
And then there was the mouth thing. I couldn't use my mouth. I couldn't bear to. For speaking and breathing, sure, I could use it for that, but for anything else... no. Spock got annoyed at me about that, but I just couldn't. Not after that skeleton guy on the planet came after me with the fork. Just no. Solidly, emphatically, no. They had to hook me up to an IV, because just then I would rather have starved than eaten anything, and just the thought of touching my mouth to sentient, living flesh, of letting someone's mouth touch me... no.
I'm better now. I recover quickly, and after the fork-marks healed, it got easier. A lot easier. I think I could do what he asked of me, now, if he still wanted it. I'm pretty sure I could kiss him now. I think I might even be able to let him kiss me. Not that that looks like it's going to happen.
He has incredible hands. I mean that literally. I don't just mean that they're long and fine-boned and gentle and agile and a lot stronger than I expected, which they are. I mean that they are unbelievable, that I can't wrap my mind around them. The tips of his fingers seemed to plug directly into my nerves.
Well, any part of his skin on mine did that, but this was different. This was probing, not caressing, and it had nothing to do with the actual motions he made. Which, I readily admit, were talented. Not skilled, but very talented. He has a good instinct.
He was obsessed with my face and neck. He gave me this amazing massage, and I couldn't get up the energy to move for nearly five minutes. I almost felt paralyzed. He actually apologized for that. I guess that's why they call them 'aliens.' At one point he pried my eyelids open so he could look in my eyes. He kept stroking my face in big loose semicircles, temple to jaw and back, and that was... I can't describe it. It was fluid, it was wings, it was cool, dark wind, it was solid and intensely, intensely real, and it undid me.
It hardly seems real, now. In this cold room, in this bed which is good for my back (translated from the Parental, that means 'hard'), in my flannels... how could that have actually happened? How could I have slept cradled to that heat? How could someone have felt comfortable enough with me to hold me all night? And why didn't I dream?
Every other night the whole way back to Earth and for no little time afterwards I had nightmares. Why not then? Was it just that I was sure that I was touching someone without one of us trying to kill the other? He has a relaxing pulse. That could have been part of it. It's light compared to mine, like an elf or a hobbit skipping next to a plodding man, and it sped up until it was just a thrum.
I tried to sneak away in the morning. I thought he wouldn't want to be reminded. I thought I'd woken up first; it was disgustingly early. But he grabbed me by the hipbones as I was rising from the bed and indicated, in no uncertain terms, his willingness to skip breakfast.
Lifted me right off the floor, too.
Down, you. You are not getting indulged with a telepath in the house. Understood?
It was supposed to be an isolated incident. A healing. A release. It was none of that. The demons from that time have slipped their hold on me, mostly. I'm probably as well as I'm going to get, in that regard. As I said, I heal quick. But I hurt worse, now. It hurts, that someone who once forcibly opened my eyes to look into them will no longer meet them. It hurts to know that someone who held me tight and wouldn't let me fly will no longer so much as shake my hand. I seriously wanted to throw something, so badly that I gave in a couple of times. Hurling the water at him was a uniquely soul-satisfying moment.
She'd better be worth him. That's all I can say. She'd better be able to beat him at chess. She'd better be as lovely as he is. She'd better be at least as sweet as Uncle Rob.
Because if she isn't, if he isn't in love with her, I'm going to feel perfectly justified in trying to steal her boyfriend. Why should she get first crack just because she's female? And of the right species. And, given that Spock is an heir and an only child, quite possibly rich and beautiful. And, given the sheer power of Spock's family, almost certainly much better behaved than I am. Nicer manners, too, probably. And I'm sure her grammar's exquisite.
But, hey, if she's mortal like me, why not? His father called her his 'betrothed.' Maybe that was translator error, but this is not a word that implies free will on the part of the happy couple.
I just wish I knew how he feels about her. I wish I knew why he pounced on me then. I wish he'd come now.
"Jim?"
Oh, good grief. Instincts, calm down. You wanted him to come in here, and now you're going all spooked and holding a throwing knife on him. Brilliant, JT. You have to stop keeping that thing there, anyway. You're going to ruin the pillow. Besides, no one's going to jump you here. No one you can defend yourself from, anyway.
"Spock? Uh--sorry. Please, come in. Here, I'll put this away."
"Thank you, that would be appreciated. I am sorry to disturb your rest, but I have a number of questions I must ask you."
"That's okay, I wasn't resting very well anyway."
The silhouette of his head tilts in the doorway. "Still? I had noted definite signs of recovery...?"
He had been watching me. Out of the corners of his eyes, I guess. Is it getting warmer in here? Stupid question; the addition of another body... nope, I'm definitely blushing. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine, nothing like that. I was just... thinking. Please, come in. Sit down."
I've gestured to a chair, but he shuts the door and sits beside me on the bed. I can feel the new pull of the blankets, and there is now heat coming from a decidedly external source. "Thank you," he repeats.
"So," I say inanely, sitting straighter and lifting my knees. "What did you want to ask?"
"Many things," he admits, rolling the soft blanket between his fingers. "There is a specific question, however, that has preyed on my mind."
"Well?" I urge.
"Do all human eyes change color so?" he blurts.
I stare at him for a while, somewhere between disappointment and amusement. He is, after all, going to be a scientist. "No," I say finally. "It is a trait peculiar, although not unique, to me."
"Explain," he demands, still playing with the blanket in order to avoid looking at me.
"Many human irises seem to change color or shade with emotion or light. It's a trick of the light, sometimes aided by angle and muscle movement. It seems to be exaggerated in me."
He shook his head slowly, "It is not a 'trick of the light.' Your eyes were dark gold one moment and pure green the next."
"I have hazel eyes," I agree, shrugging. "That's the ID card description for them, anyway. I usually call them no-colored."
"Hazel," he repeats thoughtfully, turning it over in that rich voice. Then he does look at me, or at least in my general direction. "It is your turn to ask."
I hadn't known we were playing Truth or Dare, but I'm not turning this down! "You and this Spring person--"
His blank look cuts me off. Finally, he corrects me, with a look of enlightenment and relief. "Her name is T'Pring."
"Whatever. Are you engaged to her or aren't you? I mean, I heard your father say you were betrothed, are you going to marry her? Do you love her? Why did you come to me? Why are you here now?"
"That is five questions," he admonishes me, and I fall silent. "I shall try to answer them, however."
"Thanks," I whisper. He'll hear me, with those ears.
"You do not understand Vulcan, Jim. You must not speak of what I will tell you here." I nod. "Good. We are telepaths, Jim. When we are betrothed, it is not an agreement, as it is with humans. It is a telepathic link, forged between young, malleable minds by their elders. Between T'Pring and me exists such a link. There is a ceremony, later in life, but the link deepens of itself in response to certain life-events of which I will not speak."
"I see," I say encouragingly, just because he's trailed off.
"I sincerely hope that you do not," he responds, a trifle sharply. "It is a thing of which I am not permitted to speak. As to the rest of your questions, I can hardly say." His voice softens. "I cannot say, for I do not know. This word you use, this 'love,' has no single translation in t'Khasi. I do not know which variant you mean. I know only that nothing I have ever had with T'Pring was as... vivid as what I had with you. I do not refer only to that night. Since then I have carried a sense of your presence at least as strong as my sense of T'Pring."
Um, lungs? You should probably be breathing, here. I don't think Spock will be too terribly impressed if we turn blue and fall over.
"I cannot judge the comparative strengths," he's continuing. He's also shredding my blanket, but I could care less. "I cannot judge, for I do not know if my link with T'Pring is so weak that I cannot sense her thinking of me, or if she simply does not think of me at all.
"Do you know what I remember most?" he inquires, abruptly changing the subject. "You kept in contact with one or another of my pulse points at all times. I wanted very badly to be alive for you."
"Why did you come?" I repeat, pushing at a numb tongue. "Why are you here?"
He sighs, and it echoes through me. "At the time, I did not know why. I knew only that I wanted what was being offered me. There have been times since then, though, when you were not there to distract me, that I felt as I did and had nowhere to look but the links. At first, I thought it was merely your emptiness calling me. I felt such loneliness between us, Jim. Later, though, I was ashamed of not turning to T'Pring, and so I tried. When I did, I... I can't see why she prefers him," he muses. "I could not see enough of him for identification, but his ears are definitely not attractive. They are decidedly prominent, and not well shaped. I do not see why they should be the object of such focused attention."
I was about to commiserate, purely out of habit, but he didn't seem angry, only perplexed. Maybe a little peevish. "Wait a minute," I say, getting a little angry myself and neglecting to reassure him about the aesthetic qualities of his own ears, which are considerable. "You mean you slept with me because your girlfriend was in heat?"
"Her general state of mind resonated to me," he admits, looking out my window. He doesn't say that this didn't explain why he's here now.
He doesn't have to, because I ask. He looks at me, then, helplessly. He actually meets my eyes. "I felt you thinking of me. I felt," he repeats, "such loneliness between us, Jim."
I want to shout, but confine myself to a hiss. "But that doesn't answer anything! Not anything important."
"It answers one thing, at least," he returns, finally looking at me. He doesn't meet my eyes, but my hands are an improvement on the wall. "Vulcan has no double standard, and integrity and fidelity mean a great deal to us."
I can feel my eyes going round. "You mean your father's going to kill me."
I may be imagining it, but that movement of shadows was uncannily like an eyebrow-flicker. And it looked almost like the corner of his mouth twitched before he started talking. "My father would not take life without a much more persuasive motivation than that, and in any case I meant nothing of the kind. Upon further research, and I was provided with ample opportunity, I found that the reaction to T'Pring's activities which prompted me does not take place until those activities are in the final stages of completion."
It takes me a moment to wade through Vulcan primness, but only a moment. "You mean she cheated first," I decide.
"Concisely put," he agreed. "Not, I confess, by any great period of time, but nevertheless. Perhaps you will say it should not matter. In a way, it does not. There is only one way T'Pring and I can rid ourselves of one another, and we will not have that opportunity for some years yet."
"But you intend to use it," I interrupt. I find that I've sunk my teeth into my knuckle, and I remove them.
"I cannot say," he confesses. "To marry her is my duty, and yet the prospect is repugnant to me--and to her." He's tearing at the blanket again with his elegant hands. "Jim," he begins abruptly, and trails off.
"Yes," I prompt him. Ahem. "Yes," I prompt him.
How very odd. My entire vocal system seems to have frozen.
He's continuing. "I suggest no long-term plans or commitments. That is an approach which seems to be in error. But I would like to--"
"--see where this goes?" I finish for him.
Oh, so now it unfreezes. Clever. Let's just be deathly rude in the middle of being propositioned, shall we, then? Why has my body declared guerrilla warfare? Does life hate me?
"Yes." His eyes are slowly lifting from my hands. I can practically feel them, raking up my chest to my face. "I had that reaction many times after that first, but I was never tempted to fulfill it with another. Always, my mind sought yours. I wish to know why that is."
"It is," I admit through a half-closed throat, "an interesting question." My hand, without express orders, darts towards his and stops halfway.
His traverses the difference, and then he's actually looking directly at me. "I do not wish to push you too far, Jim," he says, concern tightening his face. "If you are not well, not recovered, or if you are angry with me...?"
Despite this offer, his fingertips are against mine, pushing my hand up so that we're connected from fingertip to wrist. His palm is as soft as I remember, the tips of his fingers as electric. I do a little pushing of my own, clasping our pressed hands together, intertwining our fingers. "Spock," I murmur, reaching out to cradle his jaw with my free hand, "you're wasting time." I lean forward and, seeing his lips open for speech, soothe them quiet with mine.
His blackened eyes widen. He makes a noise against me which I interpret as the beginning of an objection or remembrance of my mental state at our last meeting.
I find, somewhat to my own surprise, that the associations which troubled me before are neglecting to surface. I'm not distressed at all, this time. I find, in fact, that I am enjoying myself. I'll let him finish his objection or whatever it is, as the vibrations are delightful. Then I'll push myself; I'll taste him, I'll invite him to taste me.
I think he was inside me Vulcan-fashion, last time, with the hands on my face. It was good. I decide, however, as I open my mouth to him and pull him down to the mattress, that this time we'll try the human way.
And maybe there'll be a next time. Who knows?
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