#ghostyfic

Spock dipped his head, his voice low and breath not close enough in the space between them.  “I will remind you, we made the terms clear to one another that our involvement would not impact the ship’s affairs.  Do not allow it to do so.”

Jim could feel his nostrils flare, and his temper seep out from under his control “I’m well within my right as your commanding officer to question your ability to participate in a landing party after a severe injury, Commander.  You saw the instant that explosion happened and not a moment after it.  You didn’t see the wreckage.  The rest of the landing party.  You didn’t see all the—“  He stopped as his throat constricted.  “When I saw you under that rubble, I thought you were dead, and you’re expecting me to clear you for the duty roster, just like that?”

“I am asking you to understand that I am not human, and that your standards for personnel recovery do not apply to me.”

“You’re not.  But you’re not indestructible, either.”  He wanted to see red, but all he could see was green.  Too much green.  Spilling, seeping, staining, even as he’d rinsed it down the drain.  

Spock didn’t respond to that.  “At any rate, the decision will lie with Doctor McCoy whether or not I am fit for duty.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the duty roster is still mine to decide.”

“And if the medical data agrees with you, I shall respect that decision unquestionably.”

Jim shook his head, turning reaching for his towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.  “I’m sorry, Spock.  But even if McCoy thinks you’re ready, I’m not willing to put you on anything more than light-duty.  Not right now.  That’s what I believe will be the most beneficial to the landing party.”

“Their benefit, or yours, Captain?”

Something in him snapped, a jaw trap deep in a wound as he whipped around, closing the distance between them and making no effort to hide the fury on his face.  “Fine.  If we’re at a stalemate and neither of us is proving his point to the other, we’re doing this the hard way.  Spar with me.”

Spock was taken aback by the demand, his eyes softening as they raked over his body.  “You are exhausted, I do not think it wise—“

Kirk was no stranger to the knowledge that Spock’s presence was often a subject of gossip from the crew.   The whispers that trailed through the corridors were often a mixture of fear and hostility, remarking on the curve and point of his ears, the angled slant of his brows, how infrequently the man blinked and how little he conversed on matters outside of ship’s business.  He’d dismiss them with a stern reminder that the only business that mattered was the ship’s, but those were the easier things to defend.  The rest of the things sworn to never have been said curled somewhere dark and possessive in the middle of his chest, and he spared them no further thoughts as he steadied his thumb behind the delicate curve of his ear and began tracing the blade against Spock’s skin.

“You don’t owe them that.”  

“It matters not.  I have grown accustomed to it.”

Kirk had nothing to argue for that.  From the moment they’d met, Spock had always lived on the outside of society, too alien to gain the respect of humans, too human to be embraced by his own, alien people.  A boy lost, a man never found, masqueradeing with an identity he hoped would bring him some semblance of belonging in a world that didn’t want him.  Kirk’s reflection danced on the edge of the knife, his face on one end and Spock’s at the other before it was swallowed in soap foam, gliding down Spock’s throat, disappearing into the sanctity of routine.

Their silence over the scrape of stubble on Spock’s blade was a hymn for a truth he knew well.  People rarely hid themselves for the sake of others. 

Two more scrapes along his jaw, and a few strokes away from the side of his cheek, Kirk had finished, swiping his thumb against the side of Spock’s mouth to remove a stray drip of soap.  The line of his mouth tightened at the temperature of Spock’s cheek.  His hand turned backwards, pressing gently into the side of his skin before moving up to his forehead, knuckles blazing like he was holding a furnace.  “Mister Spock—”

“Do you know how hard a Vulcan Extee can throw?” Erikson wave his hand around his neck. “I thought he was going to take my head off with the bowl!”

It only served to make Alvarez laugh harder. “Well, if Soltone’s color of the year is Plomeek, you’ve already got a head start on your uniform.”

Erikson rolled his eyes. “The agonizer booth is more of a riot than you are, Luís.”

“What’s this about soup?” Kirk watched them flinch, Erikson jumping at the tone of his voice, and Alvarez playing off his discomfort with an easy smile.

“Nothing, sir,” Erikson replied, pulling his uniform tunic straight as he continued walking down the corridor.

“Commander Spock decided his breakfast looked better on Rex’s face,” Alvarez’s Cheshire grin had Erikson muttering curses under his breath. “Hurled the whole bowl of soup at him. Stain’s still on the wall and everything.”

Kirk’s brow furrowed and his steps slowed as he tried to picture the scene. “Why, out of all people on this ship, would Commander Spock throw something at you if it wasn’t in self-defense?”

“Beats me. I thought Vulcans were pacifists,” Erikson said. “Look, I didn’t want to be on his tail as much as he didn’t, I was just trying to strike up some conversation to ease the atmosphere. One comment about shore leave and recreation dens—and the next thing I know I’m about to have a ceramic headpiece permanently fused to my skull.”

Kirk’s frown deepened. He almost wouldn’t have believed it was true, but the faint purple staining on the front of Erikson’s uniform was unmistakable for the deep hue of Plomeek soup, and as he rounded the hall to his quarters, he could see its matching culprit, the majority of the contents of Spock’s soup, lingering on the panel of the wall across from his cabin door. Spock could exercise violence if necessary. They’d crossed paths enough times under different circumstances for Kirk to know he wasn’t someone to underestimate in a fight. But now that Spock had the choice, violence was a last resort and even then, he detested it enough that he’d frequently abstain from it, often at his own expense.

The sweat dripping down his face did nothing to cool the flush on his skin as Jim pushed the bar off his chest, hands choking the metal as his arms shook and buckled against the weight of it.  He held it, counting seconds behind closed eyes as he tried to purge the day from his mind, reducing himself to the simple function of breath, numbers, and the ache of his body supine on a bench, lying somewhere between routine and overindulgence.  

  Breath was the foundation for everything.  An expanse he could feel radiating in his chest.  A rhythm he’d memorized, pulling in as the bar came back to hover above his chest, and out as he pushed it up again.  

In.

Out.

In— 

Breath was desperation and panic, spilling quick from his lungs as he tore through the rubble of the Videan embassy, debris and shattered opulence cutting into his palms and scuffing his dress uniform as he searched for signs of life in the aftermath of an anarchist’s playground.  And his duty had kept him on the ship.  If they hadn’t signed the accords on the ship—

Out—

He huffed sharply, his throat raw from calling out ranks and names between dust-filled coughs, and his ears ringing with the screaming silence of their absent response.  He spied a communicator, snapped in half from the pressure of the column that had crumbled over it.   He spied a body just the same, the red of their shirt matching the grim color on the floor.  He swallowed a sickening lump.  If he’d only noticed the signs sooner, he’d have called the whole thing off and made demands of his own.  

In—

Blood.  The twinge of blood and noxious smell of a lithium-fuse reaction made him sick to his stomach.  But he was sicker still without knowing.  He’d never forgive himself if the last conversation they had were the professional  logistics of a landing party for a diplomatic decoy.  He’d bid his usual farewell, a silent, authoritative look that begged him to exercise his best judgement in caution.  There was never enough time and space for more words than that. 

Out—

He’d barely heard Lieutenant Giotto call for him when the air was mercilessly ripped from his lungs.  If breathing was intrinsic, he’d forgotten how and why.  He ran, numb, and threw his weight to the ground, his hands fitting perfectly against the face they’d mapped many times, turning green as they pressed against clammy skin, begging him to open his eyes.

In—

His hands grasped painfully against the stone, skin splitting on broken edges as he failed to lift the column.  And heaved, strained, and failed again.  Giotto was by his side, calling the rest of the security detail to assist.  If there were words of comfort there, he hadn’t heard them over the blood in his ears, or his hands, or the floor.  

Out—