Letters

Kirk was sitting quietly at his desk, putting pen to paper. It was a nice pen, and real paper, white and fragrant. Nothing smelled quite like real paper... Bones had given him the pen years ago. He only ever used it for one thing, but Bones hadn't minded. Best way for him to honor the task, he supposed.

He'd always written the letters. It was the one thing he could do. He knew that people thought he was eccentric, to bother with something so archaic, even for a reason like this. He'd gotten enough tearful messages of thanks to know it was worth it, no matter what was said. Worth the expense, worth the 'eccentricity'. The best captains never questioned it. The best captains jumped at the chance to deliver the packages. Some of them, he'd heard, had adopted the practice. There were probably shrinks back at command organizing some kind of study.

He listened to his own pen scratch at the grain, tracing words he'd written many times before, in many different variations.

"...to inform you, in the course of his duty..."
"...how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine..."
"...to have laid so costly a sacrifice..."
"...deepest condolences..."

A small note. After the official notification from Starfleet. Sometimes enclosed with a few of the deceased's possessions. He never had time for more than a few words, really. The sentiments had to be felt in the paper itself, in the ink and the signature. A deliberate luxury...a waste, really. One sheet of paper brought millions of miles, sometimes through half a dozen intermediaries just to be read in five minutes.

He signed his name with care, making certain it was recognizable, readable. He'd become famous, in his own way. He supposed one of the letters might be worth something. Somehow he doubted it would ever come up.

There. Last one.

He was folding it as the door chimed.
"Come." He said with absent curiosity. At this hour?

He was surprised, in more ways than one, when Spock entered. Spock never interrupted him when he was writing. No one did. He put a hand on top of the last folded sheet.
"Spock," He said, and waited for an explanation.

Spock looked hesitant, and awkward as hell. Like a kid expecting to be scolded. A long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, as Bones would say...The metaphor softened him considerably, and he spoke.

"Something on your mind, Spock?" He prompted gently. Spock looked at him closely, and Kirk frowned. He knew that look-

"Dr. McCoy-" Spock began.

Ah.

"-seemed to feel that you have been-" He lifted his eyebrows, "-overtired, of late." His eyes strayed to Kirk's hand on the desktop, on the small stack of folded papers beside it. Spock stiffened a bit, and his voice deepened.
"Your pardon, Captain. I did not realize..." He looked, in his own restrained vulcan way, deeply embarrassed. Kirk put a hand up to forestall him.

"It's all right. I'm nearly finished." He gestured at the vacant chair with a nod of his head. "Have a seat."

Spock hesitated, clearly loath to intrude on this particular illogical habit of this particular illogical human. After a moment, he sat, and Kirk wondered about why he'd been sent in the first place.

For all Bones' harping about Spock's inhuman insensitivity, the first person he invariably went to when he thought Kirk was having emotional trouble was the vulcan first officer. Kirk pressed his lips together. Man was smarter than he looked.

"I've put this off a little." Kirk said absently, writing the deceased's name in small letters on the outside of the final bit of paper. He would walk the ship later, bow to stern. Taking time to meet with his night shift before stopping off at the quartermaster's to pass her the papers. She was in charge of sorting through the personal effects. Then on their next rendezvous or port of call, the packages would be sent off. "We haven't had a break in the action for a while." He continued, and then glanced up with a sudden thought.

"We're still on schedule to meet up with the Lexington?"

"Yes, sir." Spock said quickly.

"Mmmm." Maybe he should put a call in to the quartermaster. Normally, he'd take his meal in his quarters, write the letters, then walk the ship. Ensign Frank usually knew to wait up for him. Of course he'd been taking meals in his quarters quite a lot lately...foolish to think she would know to wait up, as it was foolish to think that Spock should have known not to disturb him.

He rubbed his face with a sigh.

Spock made some small motion, some half suppressed sound of concern. Kirk gave him a weary smile.

"I'll be fine." He told him. Spock did not look reassured. He'd probably noticed that his Captain hadn't said anything about how he was now. Spock was more perceptive than he used to be. Or maybe he just didn't try to hide it so hard anymore. Kirk smiled to himself a little.

Spock's look of restrained concern was getting less restrained. He leaned forward, arms on the desk, folded his hands.

"Jim," He said carefully, "If you wish, I could deliver these to Ensign Frank." He looked up, meeting his eyes, and Kirk got the message loud and clear.

Jim, let me help.

For some reason, the thought made his eyes burn. Let me help....he wasn't going to think about that. Not right then. Later. He took a breath, and had to admit he was touched.

After a moment of thought, he also had to admit that Spock was probably the only one he'd ever trust to deliver the letters, if he couldn't.

Spock reached forward, probably intent on pushing his luck, since Kirk hadn't rejected him outright. He brushed his fingers over the back of Jim's hand, maybe intending to claim the papers, maybe meaning to make some kind of appeal...

The moment they touched, Kirk's heart gave a nasty little shudder. It felt very much like every hair on his body stood on end. He even felt his scalp prickle. There was a mad rush of heat, a hot buzz over his skin, coming in waves...he almost felt like a plucked string. Massive vibration...

He was gasping for air, for some reason he thought-
Oh, no, not NOW...

Spock moved his fingers a little and Kirk suddenly wanted to roll around in the feeling, like a cat in the sun. He wanted to press it against his face and breathe it in, it felt so good...Instead he opened his mouth. It took a long time.

"What's...happening?" He looked up, and figured they were in trouble. Spock was half draped over the desktop, face flushed, lips parted. He sighed through those lips, and Kirk felt it, felt it all down the back of his neck, coiling around his stomach. Spock...Spock looked like Kirk felt. Like he was a hairsbreadth away from crawling over the desk and just...touching him...rubbing all over him like warm fur.

Then Spock stiffened, and Kirk braced himself...
(and why, how had he known?)

As he withdrew his hand, Kirk had to check himself savagely from reaching out and snatching it back. The impulse was shocking. Not that it had happened. That it was so hard to beat down.

Spock sat back with an explosion of breath. Like it had been an effort, letting go. His eyes flicked to Kirk's face and answered a question he hadn't even asked yet. Whatever Spock had intended, it hadn't gone according to plan. Kirk stood up, touching his mouth. He came around the other side of the desk and leaned against the corner of it. He folded his arms, looking down at the taller man.

"You want to tell me what just went on here?" He was a little surprised by how mild his own voice was, suddenly realized that he felt pretty good. He felt...relaxed. Rested. He tilted his head, noticed that the ever-present ache had faded. " I feel...good." He said with rising eyebrows, rolling his shoulders.

"Captain," Spock said in a rough voice, his eyes fixed firmly on his hands, " I must apologize."

Kirk frowned, not really certain why it stung to hear him say that.
"Explain."

Spock glanced up at him, then away, pressing his lips together.
"It was unintentional." He said quietly. " I merely need to remain...on guard."

"On....guard." Kirk repeated doubtfully.

Spock's eyes flicked past him, towards the door, and Kirk realized with a jolt that Spock wanted to escape.

"Merely when we come into contact, Captain." Spock replied.

Kirk did a quick mental translation.

"But we've touched before." Kirk said.

Spock gave him a significant glance. His voice dropped an octave.

"Yes," he said.

The truth behind that statement bled around the edges of Spock's contol and smacked Kirk in the face with quiet intensity. Spock always touched him. Walking down the hall, passing him on the bridge... lately he'd seemed to go out of his way to touch him, ever since...

Well.
He had a sudden wrench of memory. The way Spock's mouth tasted pressed against his, the hot, insistant reality of it...

Kirk exhaled, and leaned his weight more heavily against the corner of his desk. There was a long silence.

"We...haven't talked." Kirk wanted to tell himself there hadn't been time, but if he was honest...he could have made time. He couldn't blame Spock for wanting to corner him, eventually.

Spock's gave him a brief, dark look that faded before Kirk could interpret it. He felt a sharp twist of guilt.

Dammit.

Jim reached down, slid his palm over Spock's clasped hands. After a moment, the fingers loostened enough for him to part them, to lift one of Spock's hands in both of his. He held it gently, like a small animal. Waiting. He didn't feel anything except the slight sense of well-being he always felt when touching Spock. So he brushed the pads of his fingers over the back of his friend's hand.

Spock was following his movement, staring at their hands as if Kirk had suddenly started to strip in front of him. He turned Spock's hand over, began kneading the palm with little circles of his thumb. Kirk watched a little tremor go through his first officer, head to toe, watched something in him seem to give way. Spock's shoulders dropped a bit and he was suddenly leaning toward him. Yearning from the base of his spine. Spock shut his eyes and tipped his head back a degree or two. Beneath Jim's kneading thumbs, Spock spread his fingers, just slightly.

It was astonishingly erotic. He pressed Spock's palm between both of his, letting their fingers entwine. Spock hissed in a breath, eyes fluttering a moment. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting Jim's with the force of an armed grenade.

Eye contact, he thought dazedly, once again caught up in a fierce wave of heat, resonating like a struck bell. It went deeper in this time, insinuating, until every small motion, every breath was an unbearable pleasure...he felt his knees start to go, and could only think how amazing it felt...

Then the contact broke, and Kirk was panting into Spock's shirt. His face was pushed up against Spock's shoulder, caught tight. Spock's arms were shaking. His heart was pounding against Kirk's side.

"Perhaps..." Spock had to stop, clear his throat. "Perhaps in the future we should retire to a horizontal position, as a precaution."

Kirk had to pull back, or risk smothering himself laughing into his first officer's shirt.