#rejected scenes

All Spock can think is that he hopes Sevin didn’t hear too much of what he was saying. Kirk wouldn’t have understood a word of it, but those weren’t phrases he wants added to his son’s vocabulary.

“I am fine,” he insists, and puts his arms behind his back, partly out of habit, partly to hide his injured hand. “It was a small accident—I was only surprised for a moment.”

“It didn’t sound small,” Sevin answers, wary and uncertain. f

“A half-second’s surprise,” Spock argues.

“Will you just let me look at it?” Kirk interrupts, and reaches for Spock’s hand. He sounds a little exasperated, which is not surprising, and a little worried, which is. But he doesn’t touch, not even Spock’s wrist or arm, until Spock nods and reluctantly consents, and for that, at least, he’s grateful.

Kirk takes his hand gently, and turns it until he can take a look at the small burn mark on the outside of his index finger. This contact between Vulcans would be an undoubtedly intimate one, and Spock feels it in his heart and in his lungs. But Kirk is not a Vulcan, and Spock reminds himself that this touch evinces no more than the concern of one friend for another. That is all.

Kirk slides the tip of his finger slowly down the burn, as if testing it. In truth, it’s no more than a hardened bit of raised, angry green skin between his second and third knuckles. Hardly worth the attention. Hardly worth the way Kirk’s touch lingers.

“You should kiss it better,” Sevin’s voice, cheery now and all hint of worry gone, interrupts the moment sharply. If it could even be called a moment.

Spock looks up abruptly and his brow furrows. “Where did you learn a concept like that?”

“School,” Sevin replies, as if it were obvious.

“Yeah, Spock,” Kirk echoes, looking up for the first time since he stepped up to Spock’s side. “School.” There’s the slightest hint of amusement on his face, but there’s something else, too—a softness, a fondness, something that again brings the word ‘intimacy’ floating to the top of Spock’s mind. He wishes they were not standing so close. He wishes they were not touching skin to skin. Yet it does not occur to him to pull away.

“I do not see how one could kiss away even a minor injury such as this,” he insists.

“It’s an old Earth remedy,” Kirk answers. “Simple, but effective.” And before Spock can argue any further, he’s leaned down, and brought Spock’s hand up to his lips, and pressed a very gentle, soft kiss to the burn mark.

Spock’s pretty sure his ears have turned green.

“Did it help?” Sevin asks. “Do you feel better?’

He can hardly tell the truth: that the kiss did not help, that it has only brought to the surface what he must keep buried and suppressed. Sevin is staring at him, waiting. Kirk is watching him, too, an air almost of nervousness about him, or perhaps regret.

"Yes,” Spock answers. “I feel much better. Thank you, Captain Kirk."

VS THE REWRITE:

"Let me,” he says, and rises to his feet.

“It’s been some time since he’s used the oven, he would be embarrassed to admit, and it takes him a minute or two find the oven mitts hidden in the back of one of the drawers. He turns the oven off, opens the door, and carefully reaches in to draw out Kirk and Sevin’s cake. A simple operation. And yet, as even simple operations occasionally do, it goes awry—the oven mitt slips, his hand comes in contact with the hot metal side of the pan, and he all but drops the whole thing. He lets it clatter from his hands onto the stovetop, unthinking, just acting on the instinct to get it away, and lets out a fast string of Vulcan curses, mostly under his breath.

It’s not his proudest moment.

The pain has mostly subsided, the slight throb of it easily brought under his control, and only an acute and less simply suppressed embarrassment left, when he turns and sees Kirk and Sevin standing in the doorway.

"Father, are you okay?” Sevin asks, skirting around the kitchen table to get to him. Kirk follows the same path, but slower, and echoes the same sentiment: “Are you all right?”

All Spock can think is that he hopes Sevin didn’t hear too much of what he was saying. Kirk wouldn’t have understood a word of it, but those weren’t phrases he wants added to his son’s vocabulary.

“Yes,” he answers, trying to convey by his tone just how misplaced their concern truly is. He keeps his hands behind his back, in part because the posture is a familiar and comfortable one, and in part to hide the injury, slight though it is, from view. “I am uninjured.”

Kirk and Sevin continue to stare at him as if he had told them quite the opposite, and in a way, by saying too much, he supposes that he has. Sevin’s face shows a wide-eyed concern, while Kirk’s expression is one of persistent skepticism.

“Then what was that crashing sound?” he asks.

“And why did you say all those bad words?” Sevin adds.

Spock flinches with embarrassment, and carefully does not allow himself to even glance in Kirk’s direction; it is unfortunate (syn) enough that Sevin understood what he said, without also seeing Kirk’s reaction to his slip. Instead, he just adjusts his shoulders back and admits, “I accidentally touched the side of the pan when I took it from the oven. It was nothing, only a bit of clumsiness. I did not mean to alarm you.” He means ‘either of you’ but only flicks his eyes to Kirk at the very last moment.

But there is nothing mocking in his expression, only, still, that same concern. He takes a few steps closer and asks, again, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. My exclamation was one of surprise. That is all.” He turns to Sevin, intending to offer him additional assurance, when his son suggests, brightly and with an earnest expression that is hard to deny:

“Dad should kiss it better!”

The idea is such a strange one, and so suddenly presented, that for a moment, Spock can only stare. “And how,” he manages finally, “did you come up with a cure such as that?”

“I heard about it in school,” Sevin answers brightly. “It makes it hurt less.” Then, a bit more quietly, he adds, “It can’t hurt, Father.”

“I do not know—”

“Come on, Spock. It’s an old Earth remedy.”

He had expected Kirk to want to avoid this particular awkward moment just as much as he does himself, but when he glances back to the captain, he finds his expression is that peculiar combination of open and unreadable that, among all of the aliens with whom Spock has had contact, only humans have seemed able to master. He’s half-holding out his hand, wanting, but unwilling yet, to touch. Something about him, something unusually and unexpectedly soft, makes any possible answer stick in Spock’s throat.

The uncertain half-smile on his face just makes the nervous twist in Spock’s stomach worse. Sevin is glancing between them now, expectant, and the subtle throbbing of the burn against the side of his index finger, light though it is, is frustratingly difficult to ignore.

“An Earth remedy the logic of which escapes me,” he answers, as he takes his hands from behind his back. He gives Kirk a little nod, the permission he’s been waiting for, and then Kirk is holding his hand carefully in his own. Spock’s breath catches, despite himself, and he forgets that their son is watching them.

Kirk searches out the burn easily, a slight thing, a small bump of angry green between Spock’s first and second knuckles. He traces it gently with his fingertip. On Vulcan, this would be an intimate touch, a decidedly private and personal touch. A touch that, in its softness, would be inappropriate from even a close friend.

On Earth, it carries no such significance. That is what he must remind himself, even as Kirk slowly lifts his hand and presses a soft kiss against the green burn. The kiss seems to last longer than it should. But then, Spock is not familiar with the details of this strange tradition.

“Do you feel better?” Sevin asks, and his voice is a sharp interruption to a moment Spock wishes he could say had never been building at all. Kirk takes a long stride back, his own manner awkward, uncertain of himself. “Did it help?”

It did not. The touch, the kiss, brought up only a rush of old, best-buried memories, of touches more illicit and more intimate still, of feigned closeness that felt so achingly genuine, it echoed in him, taunted him, for years. It was not the contact of skin against skin, hands, lips, that caused this uncomfortable beating of a heartbeat in his temples, but the sense of deep caring and concern that passed between them: no telepathic wave of it, but clear in the minutiae of the gesture, telegraphed in the most human of ways.

These scenes are set when Mark meets Junior and Jackson in the hall, and he’s nervous to show that he is wearing the yellow-and-green-dotted bow tie. In the first version, his nervousness turns to pretty much panic, which causes him to expect the worst from Jackson although he knows better, and Jackson then reacts badly to the displayed fear.

In the second version, which this is, he’s just very nervous, but Jackson interprets his tenseness and nervousness as being scared or not trusting Jackson.

Mark’s heart lunged to his throat as Jackson’s shoes took a couple of steps closer and stopped right in front of him. As a soft hand came to lift his jaw up, Mark pressed his eyes closed and lips into a tight line despite himself, his heart beating so loudly he was sure Jackson could hear it from this close.

But there was no kiss pressed on his lips like he had dared to hope, no brush against his lips like he had wanted, and instead of the smile he had hoped to see on Jackson’s face when he opened his eyes, there was only an expression of confusion and hurt.

It felt like something crumbled in Jackson's chest when he tilted Mark's shying face into the light and he noticed the tense expression on Mark's face, like the silver haired boy expected Jackson to slap him on the face or something as bad. It felt like a punch to Jackson's gut to have such distrust displayed towards him, although he had no intention to do anything more than to get a better look on Mark's face and ask him what he wanted to know about the green bow tie tier. His insecurity was screaming at him from the back of his head that Mark was afraid, that Mark didn’t trust him, that Mark really thought he would force himself on Mark despite of everything he had done to keep himself in check so far.

Jackson let his hand drop back to his side. His chest hurt from disappointment but he quickly turned it to being offended and self-conscious, and he chewed on his bottom lip so hard it hurt as he watched Mark's beautiful dark eyes flutter open, looking confused, vulnerable and for some reason that was completely beyond Jackson's understanding, suddenly scared.

Jackson hated the look.

“Why are you so nervous? Have I given you any reason to not trust me and my word that I will honor the agreement we have signed on three copies held in different locations and two continents?”

Now Mark looked like Jackson had slapped him. It made the heavy weight of guilt settle into Jackson's stomach, but at the same time he felt so insecure and hurt that it was satisfying to lash out and get Mark feel some of the pain he did.

“You insult me.” He spat, his voice cold and cruel. Mark averted his eyes and turned his face away. Anger swirled in Jackson’s stomach and burned in his face, as he lifted one hand to tug on the offending, false hope-giving green dotted bow tie more roughly than was necessary to untie it, and he pulled the garment away from Mark's neck, crushing it in a fist by his side.

“If you don't trust me and you can't even look at me, why would you even wish to move to the green tier. I hope not for the money.”

He was revealing his own fears in these poisonous words, and he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Not wanting to display any more weakness, Jackson turned away from Mark, leaving him standing there in the main hall with the harshest words Jackson had said to any of his servants, ever.

Jackson felt bad for Mark, but with the tears running down his face and the insult to his pride, he couldn't bring himself to regret his words.

Mark had screwed up royally.

Jackson had interpreted his hesitation and nervousness and rejection, and lashed out, and Mark had just stood there, too stunned to react, and then cowering when Jackson so blatantly displayed his disappointment in Mark.

It was the most horrible feeling, to let someone down.

Jackson’s footsteps up the stairs were a loud sound that hammered guilt and remorse into Mark’s heart.

When they faded as they got further away and Mark heard the door to the Master’s bedroom open and close, he let out a shuddering breath as frustrated tears welled into his eyes.

Mark didn’t know where his legs were taking him at first, but he found himself standing in the doorframe to Jinyoung’s room, looking at the Keeper of the House with a lost look in his eyes, knowing very well that he was showing extreme vulnerability and he didn’t feel comfortable doing it, but he had to fix this, somehow.

“Jinyoung, I fucked up.”

Jinyoung looked up from his desk in surprise, obviously not expecting Mark to come crying into his office after just having left the Master and the servant into what had probably looked like a promisingly compromising situation.

Jinyoung was on his feet in a second, hurrying over to where Mark was standing and gently grabbing both of his arms to bring some comfort as he studied Mark’s face with worry etched into every of his classically handsome features. “What happened?”

Mark swallowed around a lump in his throat. “I… I was nervous, and I flinched, or something, and Jackson -” Mark hiccuped “- Jackson took it as rejection and he got upset and I didn’t mean for any of this, how did this go so horribly wrong?” Mark’s voice was rising in pitch and he hiccuped again, panic in his chest as he knew he had messed up and caused pain to the person who was both his Master and maybe starting to be a friend, too.

Jinyoung took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and loudly as he seemed to go over Mark’s words, before he quickly reacted. “Okay. Calm down. Breathe... I will go to talk to Jackson. Don’t worry, I’ll try to make him understand you didn’t mean to upset him. It’ll be alright. Go take a shower and get changed for the party. I’ll come check on you in about an hour, okay?”

Mark’s bottom lip trembled as he chewed on it, but he nodded, getting his breathing under control and managing to stop crying as Jinyoung rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs on Mark’s arms through the fabric of his shirt. Mark sniffled unattractively and gave Jinyoung a small smile to indicate he at least tried to believe in his words. Jinyoung’s smile was reassuring and his eyes gentle as he gave Mark’s arms one more squeeze before he let go, and went to repair the damage Mark had done.

Mark drew a slow and shuddering breath, wiping the remaining tears from his face and trying to smooth some of his hair over his forehead, trying to shadow his probably red and puffy eyes just in case he happened to run into one of the other servants on the short walk from Jinyoung’s study to Mark’s own room.

He seriously hoped he had already been so unlucky today that he wouldn’t have to endure any more encounters before he had put himself through shower and dress up and maybe regained some sense of calm so he might somehow pull through the party today.

...Yeah, I liked the “do you not want to kiss me” better too. Even though this version was looking good for the Markjin friendship. This was not the reality I wanted, but when I started with the first version where Mark was expecting Jackson to kiss him forcefully after just having had JB pull that wall-crowd move on him, this was the logical chain of reactions.

Jinyoung would have then gone to be our saving angel by talking some sense into Jackson. That would have been fun :D