It makes sense, that Spock would be mystified by something so wholly human; that most illogical paradigm of love. Vulcans loved - of course they did, no matter what they claimed - but the way humans did it, the way his mother would have, must have seemed so foreign. With openness, considered vulgar by Vulcan standards; without shame, without apology - without regret and at great personal cost, leaving her species behind. For what, for why, as Spock had so astutely asked?
Because she loved Sarek, and she loved their child. The idea that there need be further reasons would never have occurred to her. It certainly doesn't to Jim - it's the kind of love he's always starved for, deep down. Unconditional, permanent. He stopped believing it was real, long ago - but hope, and dreams, they're difficult beasts to kill. Who wouldn't take the hard road, with that kind of love waiting for you at the end of it?
But that is not why Jim cares for him; it's never been about what Spock can offer him. To be frank, Jim had never thought he would have been lucky enough to get that far. It's definitely not because of whatever strange, incomprehensible bond ties them together, across multiple planes of reality - no, it's a simple fact that Jim's never been very good at doing something just because someone tells him to. He chooses Spock, as he is, as he's always been, because sometimes Spock beats him at chess, and sometimes he beats Spock, but never once do they let the other win. He chooses Spock because when Jim burns their vegetarian lasagna dinner, Spock already has the windows open, one eyebrow raised at his ridiculousness. Jim chooses Spock, because to be without him is a reality he does not wish to live in. The thought is intolerable enough he trashed his career for it, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Caring for him is not the hardship that Spock purports it to be. Jim has never understood that - this is where he is, admittedly, the mystified one. How anyone could look at Spock and be repelled seems nonsensical. Intimidated, maybe that he could understand - it was natural to be intimidated by someone you couldn't quite read, but to dislike him? The kind, intelligent soul Jim has come to know? Where's the logic in that?
Jim doesn't think he'll ever stop wondering how this feeling could be reciprocated - that Spock should choose him over any other - but maybe that's okay. Love, after all, is not logical, even for a Vulcan; perhaps Jim should stop expecting it to be.
Spock leans in, and Jim has to consciously release the breath he didn't realize he was holding, heat rising to his cheeks. It's whole-heartedly chaste by anyone's standards, but it still makes his heart leap against his ribcage; embarrassingly so, and it's only the two of them there. Spock's lips press against his hair, the presence of him solid, magnetizing. Closer than they've ever been, save life-threatening situations. They've shared a bed for months, but this is an active choice and it's - different.
He can't very well say he's not feeling the same pull, the urge to express himself in a more human - and decidedly less restrained - manner, but the urge to spare Spock further pain is stronger. To spare himself, too, because if Spock accidentally zaps him through his face he'll probably pass out, which would really kill the vibe.
"Makes no damn sense that there's something to reciprocate, and I'm not on an island by myself, but I can't say I'm complaining." Jim laughs, something nervous and jittery within it but also, perhaps, something freeing, bumping his head against Spock's shoulder one more time before he pulls back, enough to meet his gaze. Spock seems - the only word Jim can ascribe to it is radiant, which seems an odd thing to say about a Vulcan, he's well aware. But it's true, in comparison to the rest of Spock's minute expressions and emotional, human-like eyes - Jim's never seen him look like that. Certainly never aimed at him.
"Neither have I. Not...not like this." Jim admits in return; it seems only right to be truthful, even if it's mildly terrifying, when Spock's verifiable truth is ringing in his ears. I have never held such regard for anyone. Holy fucking shit. "I would never want to jeopardize our friendship. Before I - I just have to say that, Spock, out loud, so you understand. If you ever...didn't reciprocate. It would be okay."
Jim blows out a breath; this entire conversation has been an emotional rollercoaster the likes of which he's not sure he's ever ridden in his entire life, let alone in the span of about an hour. He squeezes Spock's hands again, tight, gaze trailing back up to him. "You must be tired. I can make some tea, if you want to lay down for a spell."
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Because she loved Sarek, and she loved their child. The idea that there need be further reasons would never have occurred to her. It certainly doesn't to Jim - it's the kind of love he's always starved for, deep down. Unconditional, permanent. He stopped believing it was real, long ago - but hope, and dreams, they're difficult beasts to kill. Who wouldn't take the hard road, with that kind of love waiting for you at the end of it?
But that is not why Jim cares for him; it's never been about what Spock can offer him. To be frank, Jim had never thought he would have been lucky enough to get that far. It's definitely not because of whatever strange, incomprehensible bond ties them together, across multiple planes of reality - no, it's a simple fact that Jim's never been very good at doing something just because someone tells him to. He chooses Spock, as he is, as he's always been, because sometimes Spock beats him at chess, and sometimes he beats Spock, but never once do they let the other win. He chooses Spock because when Jim burns their vegetarian lasagna dinner, Spock already has the windows open, one eyebrow raised at his ridiculousness. Jim chooses Spock, because to be without him is a reality he does not wish to live in. The thought is intolerable enough he trashed his career for it, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Caring for him is not the hardship that Spock purports it to be. Jim has never understood that - this is where he is, admittedly, the mystified one. How anyone could look at Spock and be repelled seems nonsensical. Intimidated, maybe that he could understand - it was natural to be intimidated by someone you couldn't quite read, but to dislike him? The kind, intelligent soul Jim has come to know? Where's the logic in that?
Jim doesn't think he'll ever stop wondering how this feeling could be reciprocated - that Spock should choose him over any other - but maybe that's okay. Love, after all, is not logical, even for a Vulcan; perhaps Jim should stop expecting it to be.
Spock leans in, and Jim has to consciously release the breath he didn't realize he was holding, heat rising to his cheeks. It's whole-heartedly chaste by anyone's standards, but it still makes his heart leap against his ribcage; embarrassingly so, and it's only the two of them there. Spock's lips press against his hair, the presence of him solid, magnetizing. Closer than they've ever been, save life-threatening situations. They've shared a bed for months, but this is an active choice and it's - different.
He can't very well say he's not feeling the same pull, the urge to express himself in a more human - and decidedly less restrained - manner, but the urge to spare Spock further pain is stronger. To spare himself, too, because if Spock accidentally zaps him through his face he'll probably pass out, which would really kill the vibe.
"Makes no damn sense that there's something to reciprocate, and I'm not on an island by myself, but I can't say I'm complaining." Jim laughs, something nervous and jittery within it but also, perhaps, something freeing, bumping his head against Spock's shoulder one more time before he pulls back, enough to meet his gaze. Spock seems - the only word Jim can ascribe to it is radiant, which seems an odd thing to say about a Vulcan, he's well aware. But it's true, in comparison to the rest of Spock's minute expressions and emotional, human-like eyes - Jim's never seen him look like that. Certainly never aimed at him.
"Neither have I. Not...not like this." Jim admits in return; it seems only right to be truthful, even if it's mildly terrifying, when Spock's verifiable truth is ringing in his ears. I have never held such regard for anyone. Holy fucking shit. "I would never want to jeopardize our friendship. Before I - I just have to say that, Spock, out loud, so you understand. If you ever...didn't reciprocate. It would be okay."
Jim blows out a breath; this entire conversation has been an emotional rollercoaster the likes of which he's not sure he's ever ridden in his entire life, let alone in the span of about an hour. He squeezes Spock's hands again, tight, gaze trailing back up to him. "You must be tired. I can make some tea, if you want to lay down for a spell."