HIS ONLY RESPONSE is a hum, a noise vacant of his interest or disapproval in that regard. There are many of whom that do not survive his instruction, unable to match even the lowest—comparatively speaking of his own highest bar—of Spock’s competitive expectations. Eyes bright, he turns away, fingers tented at his waist while he makes his journey to the desk in Leonard’s quarters. He’s sat in this chair before. But at the moment, it suffuses him for greater purpose, taking on new shape and deeper meaning—whatever the end result of Spock’s ever evolving mind. This is all still foreign, unidentifiable territory. The foundation of the Doctor’s core desires remain the same: to be supplanted of strength, to be stripped of control—taken, claimed, and other colorful similes of the same, ever-present thought. Spock’s hands find the backrest of the chair and he swivels it to fold into the seat. It squeaks in protest as his knees part, eyeing Leonard almost curiously. A spark of challenge ignites at his mouth. “We will see.”

We will see.

They will, won’t they?

Despite enjoying this game of theirs far more than even he imagined, Leonard can feel it starting to draw to a close as he finds it increasingly difficult to remain ‘in character.’ He watches closely as Spock approaches his desk and pulls the chair around, sinking down into it; after this, he is certain to think of this interaction every time he sits there attempting to do work he’s brought back to his quarters, or catch up on correspondence. 

His watchful gaze does not miss the movement of knees leaning outward, thighs parting as if to silently provide him with a clear path. It’s the sort of thing he’d initially imagined when seeking to bring this scenario to life, and he knows Spock had likely always counted on this result as well. The sly quirk of his mouth is evidence of that, and far more appealing than it has any right to be. 

Leonard follows along without being asked - without being told - though he does halt just short of imposing upon the instructor’s personal space. It feels as though it has been an eternity since this carrot has been dangled in front of him; since he pledged silently to deprive himself of touch, of tracing the way that black uniform molds to Spock’s body, fits him like a goddamn glove, with his palms. 

                  NEED ECHOS IN A DELICATE TREMOR he often wonders if the Doctor is aware of. It begins like it always does. In a hum churned into a minute vibration at the nape of Leonard’s neck, shuddering outward, tiny peaks of goose flesh Spock knows well beneath his hands, can see now, with keen eyes that voice his hunger to lick them roughly from Leonard’s skin.   But Spock’s intentions have become masked by anticipation, want, and these thoughts three steps ahead and belonging of someone else. The sensation bleeds in a rush, drowning out all else but this sharp pang of pleasure along his palm and down Spock’s wrist. And it’s bold, he thinks, as Leonard consumes him. So eager and greedy— Abruptly, Spock pushes his fingers against the draw of Leonard’s mouth, splitting the digits across a curling tongue and shoving his fingertips into either side of a cheek. The pressure is just enough, then slightly more—a reminder of the play at hand, quite literally, that Leonard is not the one in control. Spock is. Spock always is. The Doctor would do well to remember. “This,” the hand on the Doctor’s back is quick to snap at the one crawled to it, and molding himself against Leonard’s spine, Spock claps it to the wall, slippery in his retreat. He speaks calmly to Leonard’s ear, “—stays here.”

It’s an unexpected maneuver, and one he doesn’t immediately take to, but he has to admit that the stretch of his lips around the widening of these slender fingers is a bit obscene to imagine. A small amount of saliva wells beneath his tongue, and as if inspired to demonstrate his status as a true contrarian, he applies a bit of pressure with his teeth without actually biting. 

It does not mean he’s forgotten who is in charge. It is, rather, indicative of very intimate knowledge to the contrary, and a strong desire to continue baiting Spock even when put in a more vulnerable and submissive position. It’s always excited him, this notion of poking and prodding at the man’s patience, waiting to see what he might do. It transcends sex, had been a favorite pastime of his long before they ever came together in this fashion. 

Leonard’s hand presses to the wall, harder as he rests some of his weight on it. His jaw tightens around the fingers in his mouth, responding with a pleased, rippling shiver to the amount of force being asserted upon the back of his hand. His fingers flex, wrist pulling, just to test that strength even if he has no intention of truly trying to pull free. 

                    OVERHEAD THE SUN SHINES brightly over the span of the market. There are less canopies and tents, more tables and perishable foods for purchase, and leading the Doctor through the rows, Spock shifts his concentration to every one as they pass. For other species, Vulcan cuisine is difficult to grow accustomed. But perhaps, it was always that way given their delicate palette. Now, he considers it may be exceedingly difficult without the capability to do so in the first place. Spock walks slowly through a section of vegetables from nearby planets. He will have to consider substitutions. It is a disappointing thought. However, he is determined to avoid the use of the replicator in favor of Leonard’s tastes. “As you are aware, a Vulcan’s diet is comparative to the human equivalent of a vegetarian.” He thinks back to one particular evening that makes that quite clear. Spock stops at a stall and eyes a selection of breads. “Additionally,” he leans to inspect the consistency of a specific piece, touchless and scrutinizing, “You may find it,” Spock looks up at Leonard and takes into account the Doctor’s choice in foods, “—bland.”

Leonard is not at all worried about the composition of an authentic Vulcan meal, as vegetarianism is not at all a deterrent to his enjoyment of food. In fact, he still thinks he’d done a pretty decent job cobbling together at least half a dozen dishes in his own inherited culinary style that fit the bill rather nicely. 

What he is after, though, is authenticity. For Spock to put his own spin on a dish is an exciting prospect, but he isn’t looking to water down a cultural staple for the sake of remaining in his own comfort zone. Either way, he knows they’ll have to use whatever they can find, which will present its own challenges, he’s sure.

He makes a face as Spock looks up at him, as if considering something dubious. There can be no mistaking his gratitude in this; in being treated to something he has never before experienced, ingredients hand-picked and assembled with the love and care of somebody born to appreciate it. 

Fifty Reasons to Touch Someone || No Longer Accepting

22. ...in relief.

It's never been difficult to read Leonard; his face is expressive, his words are honest, and his heart is worn right there on his sleeve for anybody to glimpse. Even so, actions speak louder than anything else, and he doesn't try to hide his relief as he stumbles to Jim's side with his med kit in tow.

"What the hell were you thinking, Jim?" he practically growls, on his knees and grasping Jim's bloody face in both hands, forcing the man to look at him. Worried hazel searches for obvious signs of concussion, but more prominent even than worry or irritation is a look of powerful, genuine relief.

     “If I’m lucky,” she parrots back, deadpan, but lets herself be moved in the right direction. Carefully, she picks her steps to the closet, where a military-neat row of replicated clothes hangs over a small dresser. Most of her wardrobe is standard issue, plain and simple, but there are a couple items of creature comfort there, and she decides that she can probably use that right now. Normally she wouldn’t indulge, but she’s at least vaguely trying not to give in to self-loathing, so it seems for the best that she let herself be soothed in whatever way she can.  Whether it’s by Leonard’s company or by her choice of clothes or both, at least it’s better than sitting alone in her fatigues until she passes out in her chair, right?

     Natasha takes her softest shirt and some leggings over to the adjoining bathroom and changes on autopilot. She considers snapping into mission mode — it would be so much more efficient — but then considers the look on Len’s face the very first (and only) time he saw her like that. She doesn’t want to worry him any more than she already has.

     Me, worrying about someone else? At least I’ve changed a little from who I used to be, right? She muses to herself as she emerges again. Washing her face has made her feel marginally less like a worn out robot, and she moves to sit on the bed. On impulse, she reaches for him as if to drag him over to her, and then drops her hand again. Nat curls her legs under her and waits wordlessly for Leonard to… well, to do anything. She doesn’t care what. She’s just grateful not to be alone.

She doesn’t need to take him by the hand for him to be drawn bedside, responding to her wordless gesture of request as soon as she indicates that he is wanted. Leonard sinks slowly onto the edge of her bed with a good foot of space between them and no more, no less; he glances her out of the corner of his eye, noting with obvious fondness how different Natasha looks now, how soft. Younger, almost. Being out of uniform tends to have that effect.

“If I knew we were havin’ a slumber party,” he quips tiredly, “I’d have brought snacks.” It’s a jest in poor taste, though he assumes forgiveness on the grounds that they are both near the ends of their very frayed ropes. Leonard knows better than to invite himself into a woman’s quarters for the night; some might say he’d learned that lesson the hard way, close friendships notwithstanding.

Fifty Reasons to Touch Someone || No Longer Accepting

7. …in secrecy.

Leonard doesn't know how long this has been going on now, nor does he know at one what point sticking it to his ex had ceased to be the primary drive behind his desire to keep up the charade. Somewhere along the line, his focus had shifted, his original purpose falling by the wayside. He doesn't know when that happened, either.

They're alone. There's no reason to keep up the act when there aren't any eyes on them, scrutinizing their interactions. Beyond the glass is an endless void of stars, a cold, black backdrop for the shimmer of distant stars. Sheila stands closer to him than she needs to, and Leonard peers down at her fondly. There are words stuck in his throat that he knows he ought to keep to himself. It's getting harder by the day.

Fifty Reasons to Touch Someone || No Longer Accepting

32. …to wake yours up (+flip)

Leonard's not sure he's ever seen the man looking so peaceful. Familiar though they may be from years of serving together and sharing a close circle of friends, they aren't necessarily as close as some. Still, he knows that when he's got a question pertaining to botany, there is only one person he wants to ask.

It's quiet down here, balmy as any greenhouse and filled to bursting with a diverse array of plants and flowers, even an assortment of small trees lining the walls of this space. It's only his imagination, but Leonard would like to think that if he listened carefully enough, he'd hear the chirping of birds and the faint buzz of insects.

He approaches his gold-clad compatriot, eyeing the space one way and the other as if searching for the presence of others. It would appear that Sulu is quite alone in here.

“No. Martin will be thirteen and a half soon, and Samy skipped two grades, but she’s still thirteen,” Elliot said. Crap. It wasn’t a face filter was it? It was just a guy who was really confused as to why Elliot was calling him out of the blue and accusing him at being bad at social media.

Crap.

Elliot groaned, hanging his head low from his shoulders down towards the crew lunch table. This was bad. This was so bad, wasn’t it?. “We have the AI but, you know, she’s an AI. And she’s not working right.”

Leonard can hardly believe it. 

“Look, kid, I’m gonna need you to be real clear with me. Are you tellin’ me that ship is full of kids? Your whole crew?” This is extremely concerning. What’s happened to the rest of the crew? Slaughtered by hostiles? Taken by a deadly, contagious illness? This could very well be a plague ship, for all he knows.

     “I thought this was some extreme sightseeing! Now this is embarrassing.” Now probably wasn’t the best time for jokes and sarcasm, but what better way was there to make light of an unfortunate situation? She has enough air in her lungs to spare for a joke or two.

     While he takes up his newly appointed post, she turns her back on him, fixated on the task at hand. First door—rattles—locked. The second, same result. There was a saying for situations like this, wasn’t there? Once is a mistake, two is a pattern? Something like that; it wasn’t too important at the moment. She didn’t have to try the third door to have an idea of how that would end up. 

     “I was trying to be quiet about it, but—” She takes a step back from the door she’s standing in front of and with a slight growl, throws all the strength she can muster into a hard kick aimed right beside the handle. The sound of the door cracking echoes down the hall—that was a dead giveaway to their location—but they had a new path out of there and she could think on the go. 

     “Quick enough for you? I’m sure someone heard that. Go on, go first. Got your back.”

The force with which she collides with the door is evident in the near-deafening splitting of wood; in the relative quiet of the hall, it may as well have been an explosion. Leonard’s wide-eyed when he looks from the now open door to Lyla, pointing a finger in her direction. 

“Later, when we’re not bein’ run down for hunting trophies, I’ll tell you how impressive that was.” Her direction is clear enough, and he knows that if either of them are to be caught out, she is the one better equipped to handle a struggle. Leonard’s not meant for fighting, and he won’t insult her or make a fool of himself by insisting that she go on ahead in front of him. 

Fifty Reasons to Touch Someone || No Longer Accepting

19. ...on a scar. (+ reverse)

Leonard doesn't ask how she got it. He's known enough people with difficult pasts to understand that revisiting unpleasant memories rarely makes for a good time, let alone enjoyable conversation. They may be well-acquainted enough for him to touch, but he is unwilling to ask her to confront ghosts on his behalf, if in fact this scar is associated with something she'd rather not think about.

"Interesting, is all," he's murmuring, fingertips making one singular pass over the scar, gentle. "Never thought of wings that way, healin' quite like that."

    “Then we’re both lucky.” He gets to see something rare and she gets the pleasant experience of being appreciated without it coming by way of endless insincere compliments.

     Her eyes linger on his face, watching as he tries on each name,

    “No? And here I thought I was right on the mark.” She swirls her drink in her glass, clicks her tongue in faux disappointment, but the sound sits in contrast to the amusement on her face, the fun she’s having with such a simple game. He’s a willing participant, doesn’t seem offended by her choices, and that’s really all she could’ve asked for.

    And now it’s her turn. What does she look like to someone else? To him?

    “Gwen.” She sips once at her drink, turning the name over in her head. There’s something about Gwen that feels wrong, ill-fitting, like being stuck in a half-shift after finally coming of age. Even trying to pretend to be someone she’s not, she could never imagine settling on Gwen as a name for herself. “Not that one. Definitely not. Do you actually know someone named that?”

    For the few he gave, there are two she does like—or at the very least doesn’t mind. Lena immediately jumps out at her. If someone decided to call her Lena instead of Lyla, she wouldn’t give it a second thought. Maybe it was because it was close enough to the name given to her by the Auriga’s crew and that automatically created some kind of unconscious bias in favour of it. Julia takes a little bit more work, but the name itself isn’t bad and she could possibly see it working.

    “Lena. I like that. Julia, maybe. Thea—don’t know about that one.” Either way, she’s pleased—her game was a success. She tips her glass slightly toward him with a smile, a thanks of sorts for humouring her.

     “—Oh, just out of curiosity: I was hoping to find food at some point. You hungry? It’s on me.”

They can’t all be winners, and Leonard does not at all mind when her expression shifts between thoughtful consideration, amusement, and distaste. It’s a hopeless game, in his opinion; once he learns a name or associates a face with somebody, it’s impossible to consider any other in its place. 

“Don’t know anybody with any’a those names,” he admits, but in the end, maybe that’s what’s helped him select them. There is no preconceived notion of what one of them ought to look like, or act like. A faulty theory, as it turns out; he doesn’t personally know anybody with the names she’d chosen for him, either. It’d been an amusing way to pass the time and continue getting acquainted, all the same.

Leonard looks pleased by the invitation, though he spares a moment to tilt his head as if thinking it over, sipping once more from his glass. He’ll gladly accept, not only because he’s not the sort of man to turn down such a lovely, intriguing woman, but because this is his first night free of the weight of responsibility, and he hasn’t got anything else to do except return to his temporary lodgings. The night is young.