SPOOOOOONES
Here y'go. I've never read or written this pairing before, so here's hoping it pays off. Thanks for the prompt, Darlin' ;).
Touch [1026 W]:
Leo's not a tactile person, not by any stretch. Jim's the one who likes touching people, slinging arms and crowding up in close quarters. It’s not him, which makes this whole goddamn situation more confusing and a hellovalot more awkward, because there’s something that tells him that the way that he can’t help but reach out and clap their first officer on the shoulder every time it comes to farewells, the way that Spock’s fingers curl when he shakes his hand, (Vulcan biology’s givin’ him a freakin’ headache), and the way that the space between them when they’re able to share lunch is getting to Jim-like proportions means a whole lot more than he thinks it does.
When it comes down to things, Leo’s not quite sure how he’s handling the looks Spock’s giving him, or the hot, twisting feeling in his stomach every time their skin brushes. He’s no expert in reading people in terms of anything but Doctor-Patient-tell-me-what-the-fuck’s-wrong, so he’s got no idea what all of this is supposed to mean. All he knows is that his supply of bourbon’s getting low and he may just have to engage Scotty in a game of poker to replenish his stocks, because otherwise he’s not going to make it through the week. As it is, he’s been reduced to rubbing the still marked skin of his ring finger, and furiously arguing with himself about the merits of staying on shift for another 24 hours so that by the time he finally retires he’ll be too exhausted to think anymore.
When the fuck did things become so complicated?
“Doctor.”
Leo’s fingers tighten into a fist before he relaxes them and turns around, kicking a box of files behind him. The monotone that’s not really a monotone kicks his brain into gear, letting loose the voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like his Gram. Curses and half-assed excuses boil in his mind, ready to spill from his lips, but the only word that comes out is, “Dammit.”
He should have known better than to sit around and frustrate about this crap. Spock’s like a dog with a hidden chewtoy when it comes to sniffing out problems. Leo painfully forces his muscles into a tight smile, leaning back in a semblance of something casual against a shelf that’s seen better days. “Spock, what can I do you for?”
All of his sarcastic quips melt from the wet walls of his mouth as Leo catches the Vulcan’s eyes, because there’s something in them, a color he’s never seen before –and why the hell is he noticing now?
“I simply wished to enquire about the new shipment of thermal tablets, as I have heard that there may be delays. Is this correct?” Spock doesn’t notice him staring, or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. His hands are clasped behind his back, head tilted with the slight eyebrow raise that Jim likes to call his ‘I’m making polite conversation,’ stance. A quick glance at the scattered records on his table confirms Leo’s thoughts, because Captain Kirk, James T. and Commander Spock, whatever the hell his real name is, have to sign off on everything that goes on before it reaches his hands. The whole whatever it is that’s happening is too full of fuckery for Leo to work out now, so he settles for an eyebrow raise in return and a dry, “Yes. That’s correct.”
Spock looks at him for a second, mouth quirking like he knows exactly what Leo’s thinking (and goddamn does that ever rattle his bones) before he takes on step forward.
“I have noticed a distinct rise in your levels of alcohol intake over the last 2.4 weeks, may I enquire as to why?”
Goddamn fuckin’ Jesus –if there wasn’t a desk behind him Leo’d be taking five steps back. The back of his neck flushes for whatever hell of a reason, and it takes an impressive amount of willpower to stop himself from telling Spock exactly where to put his enquiry. It’s exactly like the pointy eared bastard to ask like that, like he doesn’t already kno—
Leo’s heart stops for a second, and he can feel the back of his throat, the wet slick of his mouth, the dry sterility of air travelling through his nose as he swallows. He almost hates himself for the realization, almost hates Spock as well because if he could be with Jim and not feel the need to reach out and touch, he doesn’t see why on any planet that it’s logical that he feels like he needs to with the Vulcan. But he does. And it sucks like Christmas on a Monday night with no giftwrap. Mainly, because he’s felt like this before and there’s hell all he can do about it.
Letting out a weary sigh, Leo slumps back onto his desk, meeting Spock’s eyes, “Tell me that you don’t know the answer to that and I’ll buy you a drink myself.”
“I-,” Spock hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Buying an alcoholic beverage for a Vulcan would be illogical.”
There’s something like disappointment radiating off of Spock, or maybe it’s just him being hopeful. Maybe Spock can see the resignation in his eyes. There’s way too many maybes for him to figure out right now. Leo rolls his shoulders and stands up, ready to walk out and save himself whatever he can.
“Yeah Spock,” He makes to raise his arm, drop it on the other man’s shoulder, before he stops himself, swallowing, “It would.”
Leo’s boots don’t make any noise as he pushes past their first officer, so it’s easy to pretend that this whole evening never happened. It’s easy and Leo’s all but ready to go and toast himself to sickness in his quarters before he catches Spock’s reflection on one of the oversized cabinets dotting the walls. He’s rubbing his shoulder.
Rolling his eyes, Leo jabs the turbolift button with unnecessary force and steps in, ignoring the blindingly white lights. His head hits the wall with a ‘thunk.’
Hell if he knows what he’s gotten himself into.