Pairings: OMS Kirk/Spock
Rating: T
Length: 3.4k
Summary: Retirement blues has hit Jim hard, but Spock knows just what to do. Unexpectedly, he might find some of his own missing pieces along the way as well. Written for @jimkirkachu
This post contains the first scene only to keep it a reasonable length. The full story is available at AO3 if you’d like to read on.
“Jim, if you insist that you are well, must you continue to pace?”
Mid-stride before the minibar, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his trousers, Jim stopped and turned toward the dining table just off the kitchen. His eyes fell upon Spock sitting in his chair; he hadn’t touched his tea and had apparently been watching his movements all this time with the faintest hint of apprehension.
As his spine relaxed, Jim’s shoulders slumped a little. He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, and scanned the white paint as though he were seeking something of importance. “Sorry,” he offered, the fingers on one hand beginning to tap at his thigh through the fabric.
He remained liked this for some time, and when visual contact eventually returned, Jim became aware that neither Spock’s attention nor disposition had changed. He immediately pulled his hands from his pockets and turned back to the bar.
“Okay. I’ll admit it,” Jim declared as he reached for a full bottle of blue alcohol and an empty glass. “I’m going stir crazy.” The glass was set down with a pointed tap on the small counter, and he began pulling at the intricate cork with his bare hands.
If there was one thing Romulans and Vulcans had in common besides a very distant shared ancestry, it would be attention to detail. The fancy container of this ale was no exception to that rule—and it was already living up to its expectations, touted as the most potent and luxurious of Romulan liquors. Jim could believe it just from his current efforts; if it was this difficult to open, it had to be good.
Holding the bottle by the neck at his side, Jim’s lips pulled taught as he began tugging forcefully at the exposed end of the cork. “The purposelessness is killing me,” he added, light strain present in his words. When he heard the sound of Spock’s chair pushing backward against the hardwood floor, he raised his eyes and immediately clarified, “Not literally, Spock.”
Light as the breeze, Spock drifted over to where Jim struggled and reached out, gently removing the bottle from beneath his arm. With a quiet expression, he held it gracefully in one palm. Next came a calculated twist and pull, the cork at last extracted with a sharp pop, and Spock stepped up to the shelf.
“Jim.” His voice was deep and soft, flowing forth from his lips like honey, as he tilted the bottle and allowed the blue liquid to spill into the glass. “Did you not wish to retire?”
The answer came fast. “No. That’s not what I—”
