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Five Things Spock Doesn’t know about Kirk
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skitz_phenom
Spock doesn’t know why Kirk plays chess with him.
At first, Kirk didn’t realize Spock didn’t understand. But as their nightly games continued, it slowly dawned on him. Kirk knew Spock’s reasons for agreeing to the nightly ritual: Chess was an exercise in logic, a tiny, self-contained battle, a celebration of strategy. Spock played to keep his mind sharp. Kirk played because Spock made him smile. The way his brows knitted together as he concentrated, the deliberate way he moved each piece, the way he studied Kirk between turns. But the best part of all was the confused, muted anger that would flash in Spock’s dark eyes when Kirk captured his king. And just as quickly as it arrived, it would be gone, leaving nothing but respect.
Spock doesn’t know Kirk loves the shade of his eyes.
When he was homesick for Iowa—which didn’t happen often—Spock’s eyes reminded him of the richly tilled soil, just before the corn would sprout. He saw humanity in Spock’s dark eyes, a humanity that Spock could never acknowledge, and would never tolerate. But a Vulcan’s eyes should always be flat and expressionless, devoid of emotion, like the black expanse of space surrounding them. Spock’s eyes were never flat. They sparked. They betrayed Spock’s controlled mind.
Spock doesn’t know he makes Kirk ache.
It’s an ache Kirk never experienced before and never understood, so he never bothered to name it. But he felt it whenever he saw Spock touch humanity and then flinch away. He felt it whenever Spock needed to be defended from small-minded pricks, who would judge him for being too Vulcan, or too human, too alien, or too familiar. He felt it because Spock never felt it for himself. Spock knew so much, and understood so much, but he never understood it was okay to hurt.
Spock doesn’t know Kirk wants to touch him.
Kirks wanted to touch everything. Tactile learner. That’s what his mother had been told when Kirk was a boy. He felt like he couldn’t know Spock until he felt the texture of his hair, tested the warmth of his skin, compared his flesh to other people Kirk had touched. It felt like he couldn’t read his eyes until he had established that connection. But Spock didn’t like to be touched. Kirk suspected that had to do more with the part of him that was human, but he didn’t know why.
Spock doesn’t know why Kirk loves him.
That would be the big question, of course. Love was always illogical, so it would never have a reason. Yet this love must have an explanation. Spock inquired once, in that pensive, focused way of his. Kirk merely laughed and shook his head. Love doesn’t need a reason. It just is. But if forced, Kirk would say that he loved Spock because Spock didn’t know why Kirk played chess with him.
Written for
skitz_phenom Spock doesn’t know why Kirk plays chess with him.
At first, Kirk didn’t realize Spock didn’t understand. But as their nightly games continued, it slowly dawned on him. Kirk knew Spock’s reasons for agreeing to the nightly ritual: Chess was an exercise in logic, a tiny, self-contained battle, a celebration of strategy. Spock played to keep his mind sharp. Kirk played because Spock made him smile. The way his brows knitted together as he concentrated, the deliberate way he moved each piece, the way he studied Kirk between turns. But the best part of all was the confused, muted anger that would flash in Spock’s dark eyes when Kirk captured his king. And just as quickly as it arrived, it would be gone, leaving nothing but respect.
Spock doesn’t know Kirk loves the shade of his eyes.
When he was homesick for Iowa—which didn’t happen often—Spock’s eyes reminded him of the richly tilled soil, just before the corn would sprout. He saw humanity in Spock’s dark eyes, a humanity that Spock could never acknowledge, and would never tolerate. But a Vulcan’s eyes should always be flat and expressionless, devoid of emotion, like the black expanse of space surrounding them. Spock’s eyes were never flat. They sparked. They betrayed Spock’s controlled mind.
Spock doesn’t know he makes Kirk ache.
It’s an ache Kirk never experienced before and never understood, so he never bothered to name it. But he felt it whenever he saw Spock touch humanity and then flinch away. He felt it whenever Spock needed to be defended from small-minded pricks, who would judge him for being too Vulcan, or too human, too alien, or too familiar. He felt it because Spock never felt it for himself. Spock knew so much, and understood so much, but he never understood it was okay to hurt.
Spock doesn’t know Kirk wants to touch him.
Kirks wanted to touch everything. Tactile learner. That’s what his mother had been told when Kirk was a boy. He felt like he couldn’t know Spock until he felt the texture of his hair, tested the warmth of his skin, compared his flesh to other people Kirk had touched. It felt like he couldn’t read his eyes until he had established that connection. But Spock didn’t like to be touched. Kirk suspected that had to do more with the part of him that was human, but he didn’t know why.
Spock doesn’t know why Kirk loves him.
That would be the big question, of course. Love was always illogical, so it would never have a reason. Yet this love must have an explanation. Spock inquired once, in that pensive, focused way of his. Kirk merely laughed and shook his head. Love doesn’t need a reason. It just is. But if forced, Kirk would say that he loved Spock because Spock didn’t know why Kirk played chess with him.