"You're so warm," you informed him, for possibly the second time, and pressed your face into the side of his neck to test the theory further.

"Vulcan physiology," Spock said, in the same even tone he'd have used to report a sensor reading, "runs several degrees warmer than human baseline. I am aware this is not new information."

"I like it." You said this directly into his ear, which made him go very still in a way you found extremely funny, so you giggled, which made him go stiller. One of your hands had wandered up into his hair at some point and was now idly playing with it, and it was, you'd decided, an incredible texture, silky and thick, and did he know that, had anyone ever told him that—

"You are currently disarranging several hours of careful grooming," he said.

"You're welcome."

Your other hand had found his, resting on the table beside you both, and you'd laced your fingers through his without any particular plan in mind, just because it seemed like the thing to do. You studied the two of you together, his hand so much larger than yours, and pulled your fingers apart, then wove them back together, slow and deliberate, watching the way his fingers curled slightly around yours each time you did.

"You have hands," you said, with the weight of someone imparting great wisdom.

"An astute observation."

You pulled your fingers apart again. Threaded them back through. Repeated it, entirely absorbed in the small motion, like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever done. Spock did not pull away. If anything, his hand had gone loose and open under yours, letting you do with it whatever you liked — and you were far too drunk to register that what you were doing, with such cheerful, oblivious repetition, was something Vulcans reserved for the people they loved. A human might have called it a kiss. Several people at the surrounding tables clearly knew exactly what to call it, even if you didn't.

It was around this point that Pike wandered over, drink in hand, wearing the specific expression of a captain performing his duty of care.

"Hey," he said, crouching slightly to your eye level, "how about we get you some water, huh? Maybe give Spock his personal space back."

"I'm comfortable," you said, muffled, into Spock's shoulder.

"I can see that, but—"

"Captain." Spock's voice cut in, mild and immovable, before Pike could get any further. "That will not be necessary."

Pike blinked. "I was just going to—"

"Unnecessary, Captain. I think it is best to keep a close eye on her in her current state, and I find it considerably easier to do so while she is occupied here." A pause, delivered with all the gravity of a status report. "She is, at present, in no danger of wandering off, injuring herself, or falling from a chair. I consider this the more logically sound arrangement."

"Uh-huh." Pike's mouth was doing something complicated, fighting very hard against a smile and losing. "Logically sound."

"Indeed."

"And this—" Pike gestured vaguely at the hand in Spock's hair, the fingers laced through his own, the general state of you draped across your first officer like an extremely affectionate blanket, "—this is just, what, security detail?"

"Precisely, Captain."

You had, at this point, stopped paying attention to the conversation entirely and gone back to your very important work of pulling Spock's fingers apart and putting them back together, humming something tuneless against his shoulder. Spock's free hand had come to rest, apparently without his notice, at your waist, steadying you as you shifted.

Pike looked at his first officer for one long moment. Spock looked back, utterly composed, one eyebrow very faintly raised, as though daring the captain to say a single word further.

"Right," Pike said, grinning that particular grin, the one that meant he absolutely intended to bring this up at the most inconvenient possible moment for the rest of the week. "Well. Carry on, Mr. Spock. Very logical."

"Thank you, Captain."

Pike wandered off, shoulders shaking slightly, and you tipped your head back to squint up at Spock with the enormous, unfocused suspicion of someone very drunk.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing of consequence," Spock said. His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, drawing you back in against him, and if his mouth curved the smallest fraction at the corner, you were too pleasantly gone to notice. "Continue your research into my hair, if you wish. I find I do not mind."

"You never mind anything," you said, satisfied, and went back to it.

"Not when it is you," Spock agreed quietly, mostly to himself.

You didn't hear that last part, already drifting, your hand slowing where it had been laced through his, your head heavy against his shoulder. The party carried on around you both — Ortegas cackling over something at the card table, the music shifting to something slower — but you had gone soft and quiet against him, humming less, holding on more.

"I believe," Spock said, to no one in particular, since you were by now too far gone to answer, "you will not recall a great deal of this in the morning."

You made a small, questioning noise into his shoulder, more reflex than actual response.

"That is not a complaint," he added, and something in his voice had gone gentler than the rec room could see. He shifted you slightly against him, one arm firm at your back, the other hand still loosely twined with yours, and allowed himself the small luxury of watching you for a long moment — the furrow smoothing out of your brow, your breathing evening into something close to sleep.

He bent his head, unhurried, and pressed the smallest kiss to your forehead. It lasted perhaps two seconds. No one at the surrounding tables so much as glanced over; whatever Vulcan restraint he'd been quietly discarding all evening, he kept exactly enough of it left to make certain of that.

"Sleep," he murmured, in Vulcan this time, low enough that it was only ever meant for you, memory or no memory. "I will remember it for you."

You would, indeed, remember none of it by morning — not the dancing, not the hair, not the two seconds his mouth had rested against your skin. But Spock would. He filed it away with the same quiet precision he filed away everything that mattered, tucked it somewhere private, and did not, for one moment, regret being the only one who had it.

★・・・・・・★