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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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@fasciinating
#FASCIINATING
overview | independent RP blog for a kelvin timeline S'CHN T'GAI SPOCK.
jay. tumblr queue only ; this blog is highly selective & closed. twenty-five plus only.
verses / headcanons / memes mobile friendly rules under the cut.
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To ten years, Spock.
Jim's mouth quirks at the disagreement — not because of the dissent itself, but because of the hypocrisy beneath it.
The pot calling the kettle. Spock is projecting.
Worse still, Spock is dangling it in front of him, waiting to see if Jim will call him on it.
"Funny — "
" — I was just thinking the same thing about you."
He reaches out then, fingers ghosting along the inside of Spock's wrist.
"You were never going to tolerate someone who couldn't keep up."
At last, they agree.
“Indeed.” Spock affirms as much, eyes low as he watches the graze of Jim’s fingers across his skin.
His expression betrays nothing; he doesn’t otherwise move. But he is, unhelpfully, exposed by the rhythm of his own pulse, rapid as it is.
“Hence,” Spock raises one finger, resting it against Jim’s hand, “My confidence in your ability to properly provoke me.”
Jim doesn't move — doesn't need to. Going any further would tip this into a territory they were more than willing to cross, just not yet. Not when there's so much more to gain by showing a morsel of restraint.
“If I were,” he says, leaving the thought deliberately open. It isn’t. They both know it. “You wouldn’t have to ask.”
At this distance, Spock senses him deeply. Fire and warm sun, mint toothpaste and the distant tint of coffee beans.
The bond rustles with anticipation.
“I disagree.” And rather boldly into Jim’s space, “You prefer this. The chase.”
“Do not misunderstand,” he says, laying his words down with deliberate care.
“I not only know what you’re capable of —”
The pause is intentional, granting Jim the space to step closer.
Closer still.
“But I know what is mine to provoke.”
Something creases into the breadth of Spock’s eyes, something knowing—
—something known.
“I see.” Standing still, Spock indulges it; the volley they inspire. As if it didn’t encourage satisfaction.
“And are you provoking me, Captain?”
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Jim's gaze drops — just briefly — to Spock's mouth before lifting again.
The space between them noticeably smaller than it was a moment ago, the celebratory regard that had started this long forgotten.
"Not when I know you're capable of much more persuasive arguments."
They are closer, within arm’s reach. Though, neither of them have moved.
Not in the manner that matters.
“You disapprove of my methods?”
Jim catches the way Spock looks him over — slow, lingering a breath longer than professionalism allows.
They could do this all day, he thinks. Circle one another. Dance at the edge of the line and see who steps over first.
“You trying to flirt your way out of a reprimand, Commander?”
What was, remains. And endlessly at that.
Like retrolensing at the point of event horizon. The gravity in it, of them both, is cyclical in that way. Ouroboros, Spock thinks.
He would have it no other way.
“That, is circumstantial.” He tilts his head. “Is it working?”
"You sure that's a risk you wanna take?"
His eyes snap down to the tips of Jim’s boots, assessing as they rise back to his face.
“Affirmative.”
It’s there —
Not quite amusement; with Spock, Jim would never name it that.
But challenge, unmistakable.
A low burn threading beneath the darkness of his gaze.
“If I am?”
Spock straightens minutely, fluid and every marker of grace as he stands taller in what is otherwise anticipation.
“Then, I would advise logging such a complaint with my superior officer.”
The expression may be cool, but internally it is anything but.
Jim doesn’t need to reach for the bond to know how fiercely the desert inside Spock burns — heat held tight beneath discipline, drawing him forward on the promise of danger and discovery.
Flying too close, like he might reach out and brush the sun with his fingertips.
“Kinda hard to complain,” Jim adds lightly, mouth quirking, “when your windpipe’s being squeezed.”
He sees it. The clever lift of Jim's lips.
The statement is true. However, Spock maintains his belief that that draw had been mutual.
It still is.
"Are you providing a complaint now?"
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"What I recall," he starts to say in a way that should be indicative of what's to come.
That he is playing a game.
Pushing as only he can, and does.
But the trick is determining the end goal — is his intention to be left alone, or simply to incite.
"You threw the majority of the hits."
The statement is low and dragging around him, those same fists of which he’s referred, clawing viscerally through too heavy sand.
Jim has always been a challenging, objectively cunning creature. Seeking it, providing it, embodying it.
Wanting Spock.
Coolly, he lifts an eyebrow.
“I do not recall your being displeased.”
Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
— but he had, and he'd do it again.
"Enlighten me."
The words briefly take him to another time and place. The two of them at the forefront of a red sea of cadets.
Spock was unflinching then.
But Jim is so much taller now.
“Confession, Jim, was hardly your preference over fists. Surely, you recall.”
The problem that exists is Jim's commitment to remaining morose.
— but the first crack becomes visible.
The slow turn of a smile.
The deliberate drag of his eyes over Spock.
"Whose fault is that?"
To Jim’s accusation, Spock meets him directly, unflinching against the Captain’s scrutiny when he raises his chin. “If you believe I was alone in that delay—.” He wasn’t. Nor is he alone is this, this blazing, breathless thing that has ignited between them inevitably.
Spock’s eyes snap to Jim’s feet and back. “You are mistaken.”
"Let's start with the obvious," he says, though it is a word he tends to avoid when it comes to Spock.
As he has a tendency to play coy — which he is doing now.
Because it could be argued that nothing is obvious to him at all.
"We've known each other for years, and you have never once wished me Happy Birthday."
It isn’t entrapment. Though, Spock is becoming increasingly aware that the Captain believes their present interaction to be, nonetheless. Something unfurls inside him at that, red and blooming, never touching yet touched. “Our circumstances were different then.” Their — his — regard was different then. It is different now.
“You were not mine.”
That is seemingly harmless — were it not for the slight curl at the corner of Spock's mouth. What could pass as a smile.
Which meant — THIS. IS. A. TRAP.
"You want something."
Perhaps, the Captain is correct to be suspicious. He is certainly imaginative. Spock has, and will, infer nothing despite the rising eyebrow on his face.
“A curious conclusion.” He tilts his head, “And one, I am wondering as to how you arrived.”
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He sighs.
Not a harsh sound, but one of release.
One who reads the warmth as a betrayal of the coyness that will never be admitted to.
Because Spock is going to make him say it — acknowledge it.
The bastard.
"I don't do birthdays."
The declaration is expected. Nodding once, Spock agrees. “That is true.” Neither does Spock. However, acknowledgement of the stardate in itself is hardly his purpose. “I am merely acknowledging you, Jim.”
'Why are you doing this to me?'
@fasciinating
This, is unquantifiable. This, to the Captain's apparent dismay, is inevitable. Eyes creasing slightly, warmly, it could be argued he is doing a number of things. "Clarify."
