Chapter Text
They’re leaving in one week.
Even for an outdoors-y sort of teenager like Jim, it’s difficult to pack for a truly raw camping trip. He has to fish around for a hard copy of a Captain Proton novel under all the crap in his room to avoid bringing PADDs. He asks his mother if they have any matches, as flashlights would be cheating, but she says no. So he looks up on a PADD while he’s at the house how to start a fire, figuring he should really have that skill by now anyway. It doesn’t look too hard. He’s sure he can manage. When they start to pack up food, Jim pesters for marshmallows, chocolate, and graham wafers, which his mother eventually concedes too. Then he tries to pack some hamburger Synthesizer chips before she reminds him that ‘the woods’ don’t come with Synthesizers.
Camping’s difficult that way. She takes him out to get ready for it, of course, and they hit several old-fashion shops to stock up on things—they get a near-ancient model of tent that needs to be set up by hand and two double sleeping bags. Then his mother gets herself a slightly fancier tent, and when Jim complains that that’s not authentic, she tells him ‘too bad,’ which seems to be her typical response he’s never actually found a way out of. They buy popcorn kernels and a pan to pop them in, and until that moment, it’s never really occurred to Jim that popcorn doesn’t just naturally form in the wild as popcorn. His mother laughs at him when he points that out, but hey, Iowa isn’t quite that backwards. He’s used to basic amenities.
He asks in disgust if they’ll have to dig a pit for a bathroom, but she says they’ll be on known campgrounds with a ranger station a half hour away by foot. That seems a long way to walk with a full bladder, but when he says that, she says that’s half the point of ‘roughing it.’ It’s supposed to be rough. Jim says, “Challenge accepted, Mother,” and squints his eyes at her. She laughs and pats his shoulder, and then he asks if he can have a phaser to defend them from bears. She says no.
Could he take a bear with his bare hands? Somehow, as a Starfleet Admiral, he thinks his mother could. But he’d still jump in between to defend her if it came to that. He’s looking forward to this too much.
They pack bathing suits, and he wonders if he’ll run into any mysterious woodland bikini-clad babes in the woods. And then he’ll impress them by wrestling a bear and starting a fire. Maybe he’ll catch some fish with his hands. He spends the next two nights in one of the tents in the backyard, just because life is otherwise boring and he can.
It’s two days away from the trip when his mother comes home with a restrained sort of amusement-bewilderment etched on her face. She calls him down from the kitchen, and he says he’ll be there in five minutes, because he’s playing Deep Space Seven and on the final level. He spent half his summer vacation trying to beat this game, and he figures when he goes to the Academy next year, he won’t have much time to play. Not if he gets in like he plans, anyway. Then she yells much louder and he puts his game on hold, because he knows how this’ll end, and he can’t afford to piss her off too much when she’s got trip-canceling powers.
He hangs over the top of the stairs and asks, “What?”
From the bottom, still kicking her shoes off in the hallway, she says, “We’re going to have guests with us on our trip.”
“What?” Jim’s face scrunches up instantly. They live in the middle of nowhere, so that rules out neighbours, and she already said no to all of his school friends, and, “You promised you wouldn’t bring the Hendorffs!”
“I’m not,” she tells him, rolling her eyes in clear irritation that he would bring up his grudge against ‘family friends.’ “I did, however, invite three visiting ambassadors as a way to get more out of their trip here. I really wasn’t expecting them to say yes.”
“Ambassadors?” Jim repeats. Knowing how high up in the Federation his mother is, that probably means alien ambassadors. And camping with aliens sounds decidedly cool. But they he checks, “Not Grazerties, right?” Because the last time they had one of those over for dinner, they basically had to eat grass and it was boring as hell.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. They’re Vulcans.” Probably at the shocked look on Jim’s face, she says, “I know; hence why I was so surprised when they agreed. But apparently they’re interested in a look at what ‘primitive’ life on Earth once was. So we’re going to give them the tour. The three that agreed to come also have kids your age, so that might’ve contributed.”
“You... you want me to hang out with Vulcans,” Jim surmises numbly, too stunned to counteract the ‘kid’ term. His first thought is the irrational hope that one of them will be hot and Vulcans are partial to bikinis, but he knows how unlikely both of those things are.
His mother knows him too well. She rolls her eyes and says, “They’re all boys. ...And their mothers are you-don’t-even-want-to-know-how-much old, so I suggest you keep it in your pants.” Jim wrinkles his nose at even-remotely-sexual talk coming out of his mother’s mouth. He probably wouldn’t have tried anything anyway. ...Probably. “Anyway, just try and show them around. Show them what Earth is like. I’ll mostly be off with the ambassadors. ...I’m making pasta for dinner, you want any?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Okay. And you’re not sleeping in that tent tonight; I’m sick of you tracking dirt on my nice floors.”
Jim shrugs. Maybe he should enjoy his bed while he can anyway. He’s not sure how much he’ll enjoy his tent if he has to share it with a bunch of snot-nosed robotic Vulcans, but then, they’ll probably have their own tents. And he knows he shouldn’t judge them like that. Maybe it’ll be okay. Just because the few Vulcans he’s met at Starfleet Headquarters with his mother clearly had sticks up their asses doesn’t mean all Vulcans suffer from the same complete lack of humour. Maybe younger ones are more fun. He’s pretty sure they aren’t born rigidly logical, at least.
He manages to beat Deep Space Seven before dinnertime, and he spends most of the meal pondering whether or not to buy Deep Space Eight before the trip. He knows full well that there won’t be time to beat it by then, and if he’s halfway through, he’ll just miss it too much during camping, and he can’t play video games out in the woods.
He ends up deciding to rough it. He eats three helpings of pasta, and when his mother accuses him of eating like a linebacker, he says he’s just stocking up.
The campgrounds don’t have a warp panel, so they have to take a hovertaxi from the nearest town. The driver is a friendly Bolian who spends the whole way there talking about deer, which are nice, but not nearly as fascinating as he seems to think. Jim gets bored out of his mind ten minutes in and reverts to his Captain Proton book. It’s not as fun as playing the Captain Proton video games, but it’s better than hearing about deer. (Which he can still hear if he listens, as his mother is too polite to tell the driver to shut up. Well, too polite to strangers, at least. If Jim did this, she’d throw him straight out of the car.)
All of their equipment is fold-up, of course, and it fits into four small backpacks: two personal ones and two equipment ones. The driver asks them if they brought binoculars. His mother did, actually, in order to show the Vulcans some of the native wildlife. The driver tells them shrewdly that Vulcan deer are hideous and hardly even deer at all. Now Bolian deer—those, apparently, are something.
When they finally reach the campground station, they bid the driver a kind farewell, and he jovially wishes them fun. As he drives off, Jim and his mother head towards the campgrounds. His mother carries one backpack and Jim struggles with three, insisting that he’s the man of the house and can do it.
Once sufficiently out of earshot of anyone, Jim mockingly proclaims, “Have I told you about the rare humpback deer of Ca—” And his mother promptly smacks him in the back of the head. Jim just laughs, knowing full well that he deserved it.
“If I ever hear about another deer in my life, so help me...” But she just sort of trails off.
Jim pictures a Vulcan riding a deer for no apparent reason. There is no way in hell he’s going to manage to be logical for the next three days. He’s sure of it.
Jim wants to setup both tents, but his mother laughingly shoos him away to do his own while she does hers. He’s both impressed and irritated when she erects hers easily and first, and he’s too stubborn to let her help with his. So he continues staking poles into the ground while she sets up other things and starts to arrange logs around a pre-assigned fire pit. They’re in a small clearing of mostly dirt, with grass and general woods around them comprised of thick, green trees nearly blocking out the mid-level sun. There’s a lake a little ways away that his mother tells him about, and the ranger station is in the opposite direction. It occurs to him in the midst of his tent-setup that it’s too far away to bother heading to in the dark of night, so he’ll probably just piss in the woods if he has to. ...But he’s definitely not going to tell his mother that.
He’s got it mostly set up, though it needs a bit of work, when he hears a general commotion behind him. Jim turns to find a small group of obviously-Vulcans headed down the faded path, all in stereotypical Vulcan style. They all have short, glossy black hair, even the two women, and they all have pointed ears, and they’re all wearing not very good facsimiles of human clothing—pants and sweaters. Most of them have odd cuts to them—extra ‘v’s and an almost robe-like quality, but one of the boys seems to be wearing jeans and a regular, white, wooly sweater. The women are wearing something between dresses and robes that touch the forest floor. The adults are all carrying shoulder bags, but there are no backpacks. Obviously, they don’t know what they’re doing.
Somehow, they all look simultaneous out of their element and perfectly fine. There are a few spare glances around the woods, but the adults head straight for Jim’s mother, who stands up and walks over to greet them. A few curt nods are exchanged, and she calls, “Jim, c’mere!”
He casts a warning glare at his tent—it better not collapse while he’s gone—and jogs over. He’s already discarded his own jacket in favour of jeans and a white t-shirt, but then, he’s been working. The air is nice and cool. Jim forces a smile at the aliens, and they regard him with completely level faces.
“This is Ambassador T’Pern and her son, Stonn,” Jim’s mother starts, gesturing around. None of them offer hands to shake or so much as smiles. “This is Ambassador T’Paul and her son, Suval.” Last is the man and the teenage boy in jeans and a sweater, “And this is Ambassador Sarek and his son, Spock.”
Because Jim’s already unable to cope with the stifling atmosphere, he smiles and thrusts his hand out at the last person introduced. Spock blinks, glancing down at it, and his cheeks flush a pale green. For a second, Jim thinks he’s made the other boy sick, and then he remembers that Vulcans have green blood. So... that must be Vulcan blushing, however faint it is. Spock hesitates to take his hand, and Jim waits for Spock’s long, smooth fingers to tentatively slip against his before he wraps around them. He can feel Spock tense slightly, evidently not expecting that. Jim squeezes Spock’s fingers to be reassuring, and he lifts his hand. It’s the lightest handshake he’s ever given, but the touch lingers. When he slips his hand away, one of the other Vulcan boys, back behind their parents, snickers. Spock’s cheeks stain a little deeper and he pointedly looks away.
He’s... cute. Jim doesn’t have any problem admitting that. He smiles at Spock while his mother finishes, “Boys, I’m Admiral Kirk, and please let me or my son, James, know if you need anything on this trip. This is our first camping trip since he was little, actually, but I think we should be able to get the hang of things pretty easily.”
“Call me Jim,” Jim corrects, and he doesn’t have to look up to know his mother’s rolling her eyes. No one actually calls him ‘James.’
“Anyway, shall I show you around? Help you set up your tents, perhaps?”
“Yes,” one of the ambassadors—T’Paul?—answers. “These... ‘tents’ you requested we purchase are very interesting constructs.”
“We had similar structures in our distant past,” Sarek adds, “But as they were replaced, their design was not up-kept for modern use.”
“A most fascinating concept,” T’Pern admits. They’re all displaying evident curiosity, but not a one of them looks anything but blank. Boring.
Jim finally tears his eyes away from Spock to stare at his mother until she acknowledges him. “How about you show the boys how to do their tents, Jim?”
Jim salutes like a cadet. “On it!”
Halfway back to Jim’s tent, Spock opens his bag and abruptly wanders back over to his father. The Vulcan boys linger after him, Jim stopped where he is. “Father,” Spock asks, once Sarek looks away from Jim’s mother, who was in the midst of explaining the local wildlife to them. “The tent and sleeping bag tubes are not in here.” Lifting an eyebrow, Sarek reaches out his hand. Spock passes him the bag.
After going through it, Sarek concedes, “That appears to be so. They have gone missing.” Stonn snickers. Jim looks over in time to catch Suval’s quick smirk, but he seems to be the only one to notice. Sarek pauses to consider an alternative.
Before Jim can point a finger at the probable culprits, his mother suggests, “That’s alright; Spock can share Jim’s tent. Tents are usually supposed to fit at least two people anyway.” She looks over at Jim with a bit of a glare, as though willing him to agree, but it’s not needed.
He smiles easily and announces, “It’s fine; he can stay with me.” He grins extra hard at Spock, whose expression doesn’t change beyond the slight greening of his cheeks again. When Sarek nods and turns away, Jim shoots a smirk at the other two Vulcan boys, who barely spare him a glance. He meant to be smug at foiling their plan, but evidently, they don’t consider that done. Maybe they don’t think sleeping with Jim is any better than the dirt.
Well, that’s on them. He takes Spock back to his tent, then tells the other two, “So your tents will probably be a bit different than mine, but they’re probably going to have the same basic wiring—”
“We do not require your assistance,” Suval abruptly cuts him off.
“We will be able to construct our tent more efficiently if you are not in our way,” Stonn adds. To which Jim kind of wants to punch them both out for being so rude.
For his mother’s sake, he just grunts, “Fine,” and starts unzipping his tent flap. He takes his backpack in and gestures for Spock to follow. A bit stiffly, Spock does.
Jim does the dark blue flap up behind him. The light’s a bit dimmer in here; they’ll just be vague silhouettes from the outside, gone from view when the sun goes down. Jim awkwardly pulls his sleeping bag out of his backpack while Spock sits quietly in the corner. For a long while, Jim unrolls his sleeping bag in silence and checks on the tent’s structure.
When he has to shove Spock out of the way to stretch the sleeping bag out properly, he mumbles, “I’m surprised Vulcans would agree to go on an authentic camping trip.” As Spock’s been a man of few words so far, he doesn’t really expect an answer.
But Spock concedes softly, “As am I.”
Jim chuckles. “How can you be surprised? You said you’d come.” Then he realizes how stupid that is, and he amends, “Your parents made you join them?”
Sitting back down on the now laid out sleeping bag, Spock nods. “Yes.”
“Any idea why they’d do that?” Because he must have some idea, and it is weird.
For a moment, Spock pauses. He seems to be considering something, and then he says very slowly, looking away, “I believe my father is attempting to... honour my mother’s memory.”
It takes Jim a minute to get that. And he frowns. He doesn’t know what to say first, so he settles on, “I’m sorry.” When Spock raises an eyebrow at him, Jim elaborates, “For your mother. ...She... liked camping...?”
Spock looks aside again. Jim has a chance to admire his stern profile, now screwed up in something akin to concentration. “I do not know. She was human. While my upbringing has been almost entirely Vulcan, I believe it is his wish to expose me to brief glimpses of my human heritage. ...As for the other ambassadors, I cannot speak to their motives. Perhaps they believed it would prove an interesting study in human culture.” Jim nods. But honestly, he doesn’t really care about the other ambassadors right now.
“...My dad’s dead too,” Jim shares, for no particular reason. Spock looks sideways at him. “I don’t know much about him, but my mom says he loved camping. He was a Starfleet captain; he loved adventures and stuff like that.” When he stops talking, he expects Spock to go on, but Spock doesn’t say anything.
After a moment, Jim says purely to break the silence, “Wouldn’t it be weird if our single parents hooked up out here?” And then his nose wrinkles up, because that’s a disgusting thought. His mother with anyone is a disgusting thought, but particularly with a super strict and uptight Vulcan.
Spock’s eyebrows knit together, and Jim thinks that must be the look of a mildly horrified Vulcan.
When everyone’s finished setting up, the parents are still talking about boring things. Professing this officially too boring to put up with, Jim suggests heading for the lake. Stonn and Suval concede to this, disappearing back into their tent to change into the appropriate gear.
Spock seems surprised by this, and Jim asks, “Did you bring swim trunks?”
“I did not.”
“That’s fine; you can borrow mine.” Jim’s smile is an attempt to be comforting, but it’s difficult to tell from Spock’s blank reaction whether or not it’s working.
Then Jim ducks back into his tent, holding the flap open for Spock to follow, so they can change. It takes Spock a second to follow, and as he does, he asks, “We are both going to change in here?”
“We’re both guys; we can handle that,” Jim answers. Never mind his ulterior motives. He’s changed in locker rooms before; schools and sports teams do that. He pulls two pairs of trunks out of his bag—gold for him and blue for Spock. Spock holds onto them awkwardly.
Sighing, Jim tries to make him comfortable by starting first. Jim tugs his shirt over his head, pausing a little bit and looking forward, catching Spock’s reaction out the corner of his eye. Spock’s staring at him. But then Jim unzips his fly, and Spock hurriedly looks aside. He pulls his own sweater stiffly over his head, and Jim catches a quick look. He pushes his jeans and underwear down his thighs while Spock pulls off his shirt, stealing a glance at Jim’s lap and quickly looking away again. Jim can’t help but smirk; even limp and unexpected like this, he knows he’s impressive. Well, by human standards anyway. He doesn’t know what a Vulcan cock looks like exactly, and he can’t help but be curious. He pulls his pants all the way off and looks expectantly at Spock while he steps into his trunks.
Spock turns his back to Jim. It’s a little disappointing, but not that bad; he’s got a cute ass. A little round, mostly taut. Spock’s whole body is lithe and pale, strong, but with less obvious muscles than Jim. Jim’s only slept with two or three guys, and they were good looking, but not... as alluring as Spock, somehow. He can’t help it; he indulges in a quick daydreaming about shoving Spock down onto the sleeping bag and licking a trail up his spine before taking him roughly against the ground.
Jim’s mouth slips into a half-frown when the swim trunks go up, but at least they’re his swim trunks. There’s something bizarrely endearing about seeing the half-alien in his clothing. As Spock slowly turns back around, Jim asks half to distract Spock from his own embarrassment and half to keep them in the tent, “Was it hard growing up on Vulcan as a half-human, having to be logical all the time and stuff?”
Spock blinks, as though this is something he’s thought about in depth but never properly been asked. He settles on a simple, “I strive to be logical.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Jim says, “That’s not what I asked.”
“It could be perceived as trying in certain areas, but as a Vulcan, there is no reason to allow that to interfere with my way of life.” Jim has to stifle a snort, because that’s such a very Vulcan answer. And even though he’s heard that Vulcans can’t lie, he thinks it’s bullshit.
So Jim tries another switch-the-topic tactic, figuring he’ll go back to the half-Vulcan thing later. (Because he is kind of curious about it.) “What would you do if a bear broke into our tent? Would you still be logical?”
“A bear?” Spock repeats, frowning. Jim nods, then thinks of explaining what a bear is, but Spock repeats instead, “I am not familiar with the appropriate way to handle a bear. However, I believe we are not its target food, and therefore I would not engage it. Perhaps if we simply ignored it, it would leave.”
“You’d ignore it?” Jim can’t help but laugh.
Frowning deeper, Spock asks, “Is my answer dissatisfactory?”
“No.” Jim’s grinning. He has to admit that Spock’s stilted speech is becoming a little... adorable. “Just cute.” Spock’s eyebrows knit together again, clearly confused.
Jim climbs back out of the tent, reaching out to grab Spock’s wrist and tugging Spock with him.
Before they leave, Jim’s mother tells him to be careful. At the Vulcans’ pseudo-concerned reaction, she quickly assures them that the lake is perfectly safe; Jim just needs to be warned because he’s ‘trouble.’ Jim can’t really argue with that. Then his mother has to insist that he’ll behave and it’ll be fine, but Jim can still see Sarek’s veiled reluctance to let Spock away from him. T’Pern and T’Paul seem convinced their sons will be perfectly fine, although they clearly think Jim shouldn’t be allowed out on his own if he’s grown so unruly.
The four boys head down to the lake together, Jim between Spock and the others. Stonn and Suval are both, undeniably, also hot in just their swim trunks, though their attitude does make him want them less. They’re still good eye candy. Jim can’t help but vaguely wonder if all Vulcans his age are this attractive or if he just got lucky. Really lucky. He’s practically salivating at the thought of getting them wet before he even gets there. Sometimes he can have a one-track mind. But he figures that’s normal for a young man. And really, who wouldn’t salivate at the thought of swimming with three hot half-naked Vulcans? Jim’s fantasy quickly turns into an orgy wherein he’s the king and he has a Vulcan harem, where Spock’s his head consort and he makes Suval and Stonn wear tiny loin clothes and spank each other every time they say something illogical.
Sometimes Jim’s head is so ridiculous that he’s mildly ashamed of himself. Still, he doesn’t regret it. There isn’t much of a beach area around the lake; where they are, it’s mostly dirt and rock ledges that loom or dip into it with a few trees overhead. Jim finds and leads them towards a rocky path that dips slowly down. He wades in a few steps, gets in to mid-thigh, and turns to ask, “Do you guys wanna play Marco Polo or something? I didn’t bring a ball or anything to play with.”
“Why would we need to ‘play’?” Suval asks, as though Jim’s being foolish for even suggesting fun.
Stonn adds in a not-as-level-as-it-should-be tone, “Spock would most likely enjoy your ‘game.’”
“He is half-human,” Suval says. That’s entirely irrelevant.
“Humans are unreasonable in that regard.”
“As are half-humans and in most regards.”
Stonn nods. Spock says nothing, merely stands a few steps away from them and watches Jim. Scowling, Jim says, “Shut up. You don’t have to play.” And he leaves off the ‘if you’re just going to be douchebags’ part. As toned as both of their chests are, Jim’s getting annoyed with their faces, so he turns and wades a little deeper into the water, until he can finally start to swim instead of walk. It’s not particularly deep around here, but it is fairly clear water, clean, with very few fish and plant-life. The bottom is covered in rocks like a river, though it probably gives way to dirt a little farther out. Jim’s not sure. It’s a small thing, with a completely still surface.
Stonn and Suval come in first with Spock trailing behind them. They all slip into the water smooth as silk. It’s not exactly the pool behaviour he’s used to. But, he supposes, it makes sense. They’re all around more graceful than him. Stonn and Suval wade right up to Jim, staying easily above the water, while Spock trails a little off to the side. The water’s a pleasant temperature, neither cold nor particularly warm. Suval asks Jim, “What is the purpose of this exercise?”
“Exercise,” Stonn repeats. Jim laughs, because that sounds like a joke, but neither of them laugh, so he stops abruptly.
Suval asks Jim, “Is that the purpose? Perhaps if we pick a course and then swim it repeatedly...”
“You wanna swim laps?” Jim repeats in laymen’s terms. That... doesn’t sound fun at all. But he’s not sure how to explain to them that swimming doesn’t really have a purpose, just as camping doesn’t. Things on Earth don’t have to.
“Perhaps if we race,” Stonn suggests. “A test of agility and strength.”
“That is not fair, as they will be at a disadvantage,” Suval points out, and though the way he says it doesn’t sound particularly offensive, it is kind of offensive. “Humans are not as physically adept at Vulcans.”
“I’m an excellent swimmer,” Jim snorts. He glances sideways, but Spock is simply observing. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble swimming either.
Stonn decides anyway, “Perhaps another activity would be better suited to our group’s... particular makeup.”
It takes Jim a second to think of something else, and he tries, “Do you know what tag is? It’s really simple, you just—”
“I am familiar with that particular human game,” Stonn interjects, “and I find it both thoroughly juvenile and something that will again hold both of you at a disadvantage.” Even more than being told that he’ll lose, Jim doesn’t like their continual assumption that Spock’s any worse than them. He spends a few seconds trying to think of something else.
Then he thinks ‘fuck it’ and abruptly splashes Stonn and Suval with a wave of water before they can see to stop it. Partially on instinct and partially not to make Spock feel left out, he turns enough to send a splash into Spock too. As soon as he’s hit, Spock stumbles back in the water, closing his eyes and shaking his head, tossing droplets everywhere. His eyes scrunch up. Grinning and stifling his laughter, Jim looks back at the other two boys, who’re simply frowning at him. Their naturally tilted eyebrows make them look angrier than they probably are.
He isn’t expecting to get hit with water in the back of the head, but apparently Spock’s taken advantage of his distraction. Jim’s head bends forward with the impact, and he swirls around to send another wave back, but now Spock’s thrashing wildly at him, and Jim gets caught in a sudden battle of water. When too much gets in his nose, he snorts and takes a deep breath, pushing under the surface.
He goes down just far enough to step on the rocks below, and then he shoots up like a dolphin, splashing as much as possible. He’s only a few centimeters from Spock, and the force of the water pushes Spock back a bit. Jim paddles quickly backwards too, now dripping wet and grinning, endorphins rushing. He needed that.
Spock’s just as wet, and his dark hair is slicked down around his face. That combined with his expression makes him look like a sad, wet dog, left out in the rain and confused by that. Jim almost lets out a pity laugh.
Clearing his throat, Suval draws Jim’s attention back by asking, “Perhaps you would prefer to swim laps with us rather than to... waste time doing whatever it is Spock is doing.”
Stonn points a little ways off to the side, along the shore. “That seems to be the most suitable area to conduct our exercise.”
Purely because their parents are ambassadors and Jim doesn’t want to face his mother if he fucks this up, he resists the urge to roll his eyes at them. He just shrugs and says, “I’ll stay here, thanks. You guys have fun.”
They share a small look between each other, eyebrows raised. But they do turn around and paddle away, as easily as fish and without the large splashing Jim and Spock caused. The second they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Jim mumbles, “Is it so unbelievable that I don’t want to swim laps like a zombie?”
“Their expressions were in regard to your final remark,” Spock says. Jim looks sideways at him curiously, and he explains, “Your wish that they ‘have fun.’ The purpose of exercise is not to derive entertainment, and therefore your statement did not make any sense to them.”
“Oh.”
“Also, may I ask what I have done to upset you?”
It’s Jim’s turn to scrunch his eyes up. He subconsciously starts to swim backwards a little, paddling towards a far ledge, just aimlessly drifting on his back like an otter. Fortunately, Spock follows, albeit a tad hesitantly. He’s just sort of wading, paddling in place, but smoothly enough to not disturb any off the water more than a centimeter away from him. “Why would you think I’m upset with you?” If anything, Jim’s starting to enjoy Spock’s company.
“You attacked me. ...I do apologize for my defensive stance in return.”
“I attacked you,” Jim mumbles, adding, “with water.” When Spock nods, Jim bites his lip to stop from grinning too much. “Spock, that wasn’t an attack. It’s just something people do in the water. For fun. You’re supposed to splash back.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
After a pause, Spock amends, “No.”
Jim laughs. “I thought Vulcans couldn’t lie.”
“That was a vague statement not intended to—”
But Jim cuts him off with another splash of water. Spock doesn’t hesitate to return the fire this time, and Jim just shakes it off, feeling cool and happy. He’s been looking forward to this trip, and it’s not disappointing. He probably wouldn’t have had much fun swimming with just his mom anyway. ...And having Spock to look at is definitely a bonus.
Spock obediently follows wherever Jim swims, probably because he’s unfamiliar with the terrain, and Jim leads him gently around the shore, looking for a higher ledge. They talk a bit while they go, falling, somehow, easily into the ebb and flow of their own dynamics; Jim will say something random or reckless in a strong, undeniable way, and Spock will deny it with bemused or certain logic, and then Jim will keep going. Eventually, they always get to the end. Work something out. They’re oddly compatible in a dissimilar way. Jim continually steals little glances sideways, catching the way stray droplets cling to Spock’s pale skin, the way his lips look pinker when moist and the way his hair isn’t brushed so perfectly anymore. His shoulders aren’t quiet as broad as Jim’s, and his neck might be a little more slender, a little longer, and Jim watches the way his adam’s apple bobs when he talks. Water likes to gather in his collarbone, like it does at the end of his nose. Eventually, Jim finds the perfect place.
He picks a smaller shore nearby, and he wades over to climb up, helping Spock along the way, careful not to slip over the mix of dirt and stone. Then they’re weaving through smaller trees, until they hit the top, only a few meters up. But it’s something. He knows the water’s deep enough there—he already tested it. Because it seems kind of like his duty as the clear leader of this expedition, Jim informs Spock, “Diving’s kind of dangerous out here to do with an ambassador’s son and my mom so close, so we’re just going to cannonball, which is just as good. And when you do that, you always have to make sure the water’s deep enough. I know you probably don’t think I’m that responsible, but that’d be a really shitty way to die, so I know what I’m doing.” Just in case Spock wanders off on his own to go swimming...
Spock takes this information as well as can be expected. He dissects first, “I assume from your context that by ‘cannonball,’ you do not mean an ancient Earth projectile weapon.”
“Correct,” Jim answers as scientifically as he can, only half-mocking because Spock’s so damn mock-able. “It’s a way of jumping into the water—you pull your knees up to your chest and hold onto them like this.” He jumps in midair to mimic the movement, landing heavily on his feet after. They were nice and clean, but now they’re collecting mud. It’s getting a bit darker outside, and though it’s still a fairly pleasant temperature, being wet and out of the water is getting him a little cold. He should’ve thought to bring towels down from the camp. In the interest of getting back in the water, he waves his hand. “Never mind; just follow me. Do what I do.”
And he abruptly spins on the spot, jogging through the few trees towards the end of the ledge, jumping right off at full-speed.
He hits the water a split-second later, the surface shattering beneath him and splashing everywhere, his weight sinking him down too fast to notice anything but water all around him. Feeling his trunks ride up and his ears fill, he lets himself sink to the bottom, only to push up a moment later. He bursts from the water just in time to see Spock take a glorious leap, clutching his legs to his chest before immediately letting go, exactly replicating Jim’s demonstrative jump. Spock’s feet hit the water first, sinking down like a rigid doll. Jim bursts out into laughter; he’s not sure he’s ever seen anyone do a shittier cannon ball in his life.
He’s still laughing when Spock surfaces a moment later, abruptly flinging his hair out of his eyes. His bangs slick sideways, clinging in place, and he looks somewhere between ridiculous and wildly beautiful.
Spock looks at Jim expectantly.
Humans can lie, so Jim says, “Perfect.”
The corner of Spock’s mouth twitches, as though finally threatening a smile.
They only leave when it’s started to get dark and Jim’s mother’s voice calls from a little ways deeper into the woods, retreating back as soon as Jim answers. Jim collects Stonn and Suval, who’ve been studiously doing laps the entire time. As they step out of the water, Stonn comments, “That was not entirely unpleasant.”
“We can come back tomorrow,” Jim offers, because he knows Spock’s unlikely to refuse, and he had a lot of fun. And he wouldn’t mind getting Spock wet again. Spock’s trunks stick to his legs as he climbs out of the lake, outlining his crotch and his ass as he strolls a few steps ahead of Jim, then turns when he realizes Jim isn’t following. Jim’s eyes abruptly jerk back up until Spock turns around again. Spock’s ass looks taut and tight. He has shapely legs—he’s defined and just the right amount of muscle for Jim’s ideal taste. There’s a tiny bit of dark hair poking out of his trunks in the front. The thought of what’s going on under those clinging trunks—Jim’s trunks—makes Jim have to abruptly switch his train of thought; there’ll be no hiding an erection like this. He tries to think of less sexy things, like Spock dressed up like an octopus, which nearly makes him laugh out loud.
As they start to ascend the bank and head back to the woods, Stonn comments lightly behind them, “Perhaps we should report this.”
Jim can tell that Stonn’s speaking to Suval, but he interrupts, anyway. “Report that we went swimming?”
“Report to Ambassador Sarek the illogical behaviour of his son,” Stonn corrects.
“I believe it would be our duty as fellow Vulcans,” Suval adds, as though this is somehow any business of his at all. Jim stops walking immediately, and Spock takes a second to stop behind him. The two others are further back and can’t move forward with Jim blocking the way. As though Jim simply doesn’t understand, Suval elaborates, “We witnessed the large jumps into the water as well as the array of splashing about like some sort of aquatic creature.”
Stonn looks like he wants to add something, but Jim snaps, “Just stop it.” He’s worked himself into a glare. Honestly, he’s been more than reasonable. “What the hell is wrong with you two? Just leave him alone.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Suval says, “We are merely acting in the best interests of our race. It is important that our ideals are upheld by every member of our society—”
“And if not you just toss little jibes at them all the time? Just because he’s a little bit different than you? How would you like it if we were on a trip with a bunch of humans and everyone pointed out how different you were and how stupid your ears look?” Immediately after he says it, Jim wishes he hadn’t. His cheeks turn a little pink with regret, but he doesn’t take it back. He didn’t mean to say that. He doesn’t think their ears are stupid, but when he’s angry, he says things he doesn’t mean. There’s a moment of general silence, wherein Jim doesn’t look sideways at Spock standing next to him.
Then Stonn simply says, “That would be a different scenario, as we have never claimed to be members of human society, a concept which Spock seems to confuse. Therefore we cannot be expected to uphold your... aesthetic preferences.”
Jim just barely stops himself from making a crack about their haircuts. Their excuses don’t make their bullying any more acceptable. Before he can figure out the right retort, Suval cuts in, “I believe Ambassador Sarek would wish to know of this. If my son were acting in a shameful manner, I would appreciate being informed.”
Stonn throws in, “If he is not adequately scolded for his actions he will never learn—”
The reasonable thing to say would be that it’s not Stonn’s place to decide what Spock needs to learn or Suval’s place to decide if Spock’s father should be ashamed of him. Instead of saying that, Jim practically snarls, “You shut up right now, or I’m going to punch you right in your green face!”
Stonn looks startled for half a second. Then he schools himself quickly into a level frown, asking with clear animosity, however veiled, “Is that a derogatory reference to my blood?”
“Yeah, and unless you want it all over the ground, I suggest you keep your moth shut.” Jim shoots Suval a glare to make it clear that this assault is aimed at both of them. Jim half-expects Suval to point out ‘Vulcan superior strength’ and that a physical fight wouldn’t bode well for Jim, even though he’s positive he’s got more fighting experience than them and he’d win.
Instead, Suval takes a minute to say, “Then, in the interest of our mothers’ diplomatic relations with your mother, we will refrain from a report.”
As much as Jim wants to demand they lay off all together, he quits while he’s ahead and settles for a curt, “Good.”
He turns on the spot like lightning, half forgetting that Spock’s stood beside him the entire time. Spock’s face is mostly as blank as the other Vulcans, but Jim thinks there might be a bit of surprise or confusion somewhere in there.
He takes Spock’s hand more forcefully than he means to and practically drags Spock up the hill.
Dinner is a mildly awkward affair in more ways than one. Every one sits next to the their parents, and while Jim’s mother shows them how to roast veggie dogs on the fire, (as Vulcans are apparently vegetarian) the Vulcans do their best to veil their obvious disgust. They don’t seem to want to eat with their hands but sticks are ever worse. Jim fetches an actual stick, but his mother confesses to predicting such a dilemma, and she pulls several foldout metal tongs from a case. She shows them how to use these to skewer the imitation meat, and she passes out a set of buns and condiments. Jim can tell from all of the muted reactions that hotdogs aren’t a typical food on Vulcan, but in the interest of respect, they follow along.
Spock doesn’t put any condiments on his bun, so as soon as Jim’s finished with his, he drizzles a quick line of ketchup along Spock’s bun. Spock shoots him a sidelong look something akin to a glare, but Jim just mumbles, “Trust me, you’ll need that.” Then he squirts some mustard on too, because even if Spock doesn’t take all the rest, those are just basic requirements. Spock, too polite to ask for another bun, just accepts this.
Jim loads his own with a myriad of ingredients—he likes a taste explosion in his mouth. His mother informs him, “Vulcan foods are often mild by human standards.”
“And they are often less... fragrant,” T’Pern adds. Jim nods like he’s soaking this in. Sometimes he’s afraid his mother’s going to quiz him on the Starfleet knowledge she puts under his nose, even though he still has time before the Academy and will already have a leg up on his peers. T’Pern and Stonn are continually rotating their veggie dogs, while T’Paul and Suval are waiting a period of about three seconds on each side. Jim’s shoving his right into the fire, not caring if it’s blistering. His mother’s is the same, simply because she’s more preoccupied monitoring the others. Sarek is more patient, allowing his about five seconds on each side. Spock seems torn between mimicking his father and Jim, and his imitation wiener hovers at mid level.
“Don’t worry,” Jim says mostly to Spock, but it fits for the group as a whole. “It’s pretty much impossible to screw hotdogs up.”
“Veggie dogs,” his mother corrects, because she’s his mother, and she does that no matter how old he gets. He just rolls his eyes.
“Are they always cooked over an open fire?” Sarek asks, voice toneless.
“No,” Jim’s mother laughs. “Traditionally, they’re meant for this, but in the city, they’re cooked by regular means. Some consider this to be better for the flavour, however.”
“Interesting,” T’Paul says, sounding only marginally, barely interested. But that seems the way of the whole group.
Jim vaguely wonders if he’ll go insane before the three days are up. He pulls his stick back before the others, because he’s too impatient and hungry to wait any longer. His is nearly black on the bottom anyway, and it’s full of blisters. He drops it in the bun in his lap atop the synthesized ‘paper’ plate. Pulling the stick out is a bit messy—he gets ketchup on it accidentally, then tosses it over his shoulder. He’s got the bun halfway up to his mouth before his mother scowls, “Jim, it’s rude to eat before everyone has their food.”
“Everyone has their food,” Jim points out. It’s not his fault they’re slow. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock pulling back his veggie dog too. His tongs come out cleaner than Jim’s stick did.
Jim looks over instantly, fully ready to see Spock eat a wiener. But Spock’s just staring down at it. Jim looks over at Suval and Stonn—he’ll settle for that. But neither of them seem convinced their food is properly cooked.
Jim’s mother suddenly passes around a bag of silverware, to Jim’s great confusion. Spock seems relieved to pull out a knife and fork, and the bag’s passed on and around the circle. When Jim’s mother deems her veggie dog ready, the others do too. She rolls up her bun and uses the knife and fork like the Vulcans.
Jim eats with his hands, because this is just ridiculous, and it’s what his hands are for. The first bite is delicious. Just the way he likes it—messy and uneven. He gets a bit of sauce and crumbs all over his lips and has to lick it off, but hey, that’s part of the camping experience. It’s not supposed to be pristine. Obviously, he’s the only one that thinks that. The rest of them eat very slowly, and while Jim still sneaks a few glances sideways, it’s not as hot as if Spock were just shoving a wiener in his mouth. Jim has the bizarre and vindictive thought that Stonn and Suval should be force fed wieners by hand as a punishment for being dicks. He snickers to himself and crosses his legs just in case the image does anything to his head, but no one seems to notice. The Vulcans are all too caught up in their unusual food. Jim mumbles under his breath to Spock, “How’s it taste?”
Spock says, “Fascinating.”
Jim laughs loud enough to draw attention this time, because he’s not sure he’s ever heard a stranger description of a hotdog in his life.
“You ate off a stick,” Spock concludes while they change into pajamas. Spock’s not usually the instigator of conversation, so Jim looks around instantly.
Jim isn’t technically changing into pajamas—he’s just stripping down to his boxers. Apparently, so is Spock. Perfect. It’s hard to tell through the darkness now that the stars are past the tent and the fire’s out, but he thinks Spock’s cheeks might be a little green.
“So? That’s the authentic way to go camping.”
“It is dirty,” Spock says quietly. The whole tent is quiet; the whole camping grounds are quiet, except for the occasional cricket or bird. Everyone’s settled down to their individual tents. Everything’s a pale, dark blue, and Jim lifts up the flap of his sleeping bag, shuffling over to climb in. It’s big enough for two. He reaches for the jacket he had earlier, draped across his bag, and he bundles it for a makeshift pillow.
While he’s doing that, he teases, “So? It doesn’t effect you—it’s not like I’m going to kiss you with my dirty mouth.” He winks at Spock, before realizing belatedly that Spock might not understand the gesture. Though, he is half-human. He tentatively climbs into the sleeping bag next to Jim, and it’s a tight squeeze, but it works. Their sides touch.
To give more room, Jim rolls onto his side. “Get your sweater; otherwise you’ll crick your neck.”
Spock says, “I am fine.” But Jim’s not so sure.
So Jim just reaches over Spock, propped up on one arm, his entire body casting over, his stomach brushing Spock’s shoulder. Spock’s sweater is folded atop his bag, and Jim pulls it over, keeping it folded. He gently lifts up Spock’s head and slips the pillow under, while Spock is rigidly still beneath his fingers.
As Jim pulls back and smiles, Spock mutters, “Thank you... Jim.” There’s something a little strange about the way he says it. It’s the first time he’s said Jim’s name, Jim thinks.
Jim says, “You’re welcome, Spock.” And he sighs.
For a moment, the two of them just lie there. The night air is slightly cool, but the sleeping bag’s warm. Spock’s mildly curled up, but he’s careful not to let his knees or feet hit Jim’s. Jim wants to entangle their legs. That’s natural whenever he gets in bed with anyone attractive, but... there’s something about Spock in particular. Jim’s always liked aliens. Or maybe it’s that Spock’s not so very foreign. Deep down, Jim thinks they’re the most similar on this trip, other than him and his mother. Spock’s... something different.
Spock’s voice is deep but light, mellow and comforting. After a while, Spock says quietly, “Thank you for... defending me today.”
Jim nods. A serious look slips easily onto his face. “Don’t worry about them; I’ll keep them in check.” He means it. He shifts his hand a little closer, but Spock’s are under the blanket, and he’s not sure enough of where to be able to go fishing without being too creepy. He’s horny, but he’s never one to make someone else uncomfortable. “It sucks that you have to put up with people like that. ...Is it always that way on Vulcan...?”
Tilting his head slightly against his sweater, Spock says, “It is inevitable. But I believe I would not fair much better on Earth. I belong nowhere, and Vulcan is the closest to a home I have.”
That’s... really sad. Jim’s sure all Vulcans can’t be like Suval and Stonn, but even if just those two are, they’d make life hard. He says sincerely, “I’d be your friend on Earth.” And he really would. They’d probably be different types of people in some areas, but they’ve sort of clicked today. They seem to work so well together that he’s sure they’d have some sort of fun. And Spock would be a big help when he needs to study to get into Starfleet, he can tell. He’d probably be a big help for Spock to learn more social skills too.
When Spock doesn’t say anything else, Jim adds in a lower voice, thinking of earlier, “And I’m sorry about the ear thing. I was just mad. I really like your ears.” Spock lifts one measured eyebrow, so Jim insists, “Seriously. I do. I think they’re hot.” Which... probably wasn’t the right thing to say either. (Even though it’s completely true.) He can feel his cheeks warm slightly, and it makes him wonder if perhaps Spock thought he meant ‘high in temperature.’ Spock looks confused.
He says very slowly, “You are... most illogical.”
“Thanks.” Spock looks even more confused, but it just came out. Jim wouldn’t want to be logical anyway.
He shuffles a bit closer to Spock under the pseudo-blanket. There isn’t much room for that. Now their noses are almost touching, and he can feel Spock’s breath ghosting gently over him. He doesn’t miss the way Spock’s dark, sleep-heavy eyes flutter momentarily down to his lips. They do have a connection: he knows it. Every time Spock shifts in the sleeping bag, Jim can both hear it and feel it. With the dark tent walls around them, it feels so secure and intimate, just the two of them. Jim mumbles, “We’re going to have fun tomorrow.”
Spock doesn’t scold him on the concept of fun. Spock says, “You do not have to do anything for me.”
“I have to look out for my crew.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim says, “I’m going to be a starship captain someday. Both my parents were. My brother’s probably going to be. I’m going to be.” With a grin, he finishes, “I’m a leader like that, and I look out for my people.”
It takes Spock a moment to nod slowly, digesting this. It’s been Jim’s goal for a long time, and his mother says that if he applies himself, he could probably do it. She’d know. “What d’you wanna be?”
“...Something in the sciences, I believe. Joining Starfleet like my father had occurred to me, and it would offer the most opportunity to discover new scientific data.”
“Great. You’ll be in my crew.”
Spock simply frowns. Jim compensates on his own face, his smile growing. It’s always a fun thought, traipsing around the stars. Having at least one person at his side that he knows would make it even better. ...One of his greatest fears is being lonely.
He thinks Spock’s fears might be similar in a different way. But then, Jim’s not entirely sure how Vulcan fears work.
A few quiet seconds later, Spock’s fingers poke out the edge of the sleeping bag.
Jim’s wrap around them, holding on as he murmurs, “Good night, Spock.”
Spock whispers back, “Good night, Jim.”
Jim falls asleep too soon.