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Jim creeps across the hallway, tiptoeing by habit, and the light from downstairs shines up through the railing, painting cut-out squares on the wall. He doesn’t need to be so quiet, not tonight, with his mother and Mrs. Grayson shouting like Klingons and Sarek’s voice raised just as loud to be heard over them, no longer as toneless as it started. Jim doesn’t pay any attention to their words; he learned to block out that sort of thing long ago; he picks up on the tone, and it alerts him to shut the rest out. At least its masks his footsteps, and he makes it to the other side of the hall, where the creak of the ajar door is swallowed up in the chaos.
When he gets inside, he closes the door behind him, and it helps to muffle the sound. The moonlight from the window on the far well helps him see through the dark room, and he walks towards the bed, holding himself back from running.
There’s a lump on it, covered in the white sheets, the blankets rolled down to the end; it’s too hot in the summer, even, apparently, for a Vulcan.
Jim slips onto the mattress and whispers, “Spock,” but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get an answer. He wonders, for a small moment, if Spock’s asleep, and if he should go back to his own room. But then, no one could sleep through this, and Spock’s door was open. If Spock were seeking refuge in unconsciousness, he’d meditate instead, and Spock wouldn’t do that curled up in bed.
Jim lifts the edge of the sheet and peeks underneath, only breaking Spock’s privacy because he knows he’s welcome in Spock’s little world. Like Spock’s welcome in his. The light is dulled through the sheet, but white as it is, it lets a bit shine through, and Jim’s eyes have adjusted to the night. He sees Spock’s silhouette and the small highlight on the arch of his cheek, across the side of his nose, the shimmer of his lips. His deep eyes glisten in the dark, and he reaches an arm out of his tucked-in cocoon to hold the sheet up, leaving Jim free to scoot inside.
The shield falls back down around him, soft and thin as gossamer. Jim curls up tight, close to Spock, so their knees bump together and their breath mingles, stifling in the muggy air. To uphold the magic, Jim keeps his voice low, so only he and Vulcan ears can hear. “What are you doing here?”
For once, Spock doesn’t interpret it literally. He doesn’t say it’s his bedroom, or that it’s night and he’s in bed, where their parents put him and told him to stay, like they put Jim in his across the hall. Spock whispers back, “Hiding.”
Jim’s heart aches, and he understands. His fingers crawl forward and find Spock’s, twisted and curled into his body, and Jim pulls one hand out. Spock’s described touching to him, what hands are like to Vulcans, but they’re too young to bother with that, and Jim knows he’s allowed to touch Spock. He squeezes Spock’s fingers and murmurs, “It’s okay.” Even if maybe it isn’t. But Jim was raised on Earth, and he’s more used to these things than Spock is. And he’s not the type to lie still and accept it and deal with it; he has to seek out and help.
Spock mumbles, “I am attempting to pretend I am somewhere else.”
Jim doesn’t say that that doesn’t sound very Vulcan. This isn’t the time to tease.
Maybe sensing what would be Jim’s usual response, Spock adds, “Please do not tell my father.”
Jim shakes his head automatically. “You know I wouldn’t. It’s just like reading a book. Humans want to escape all the time.” And Spock’s half human, Jim knows, can see it in how uncomfortable he is, here in the bed where he should be safe. Jim goes on, even though he has no right to promise, “It’s okay. It’s just... adults are like this, sometimes.”
“I do not want to be,” Spock says, even though he has many, many years to go before he reaches the age his father is now. Jim’s still holding his hand and glances down. He turns Spock’s hand over, laying the back of it against the mattress, and he uses his index finger to trace lines in Spock’s palm; it makes Spock shiver and maybe soothes him.
“We won’t be,” Jim insists. He’s pleased with how firm his voice comes out, even though he feels every bit as small as he is. He won’t be, someday, and he won’t be scared then, either. “We’ll know better.”
“Where do you want to live when you grow up?” Spock asks. Jim looks back to his face, still neutral, trying to be straight, even in their special sanctuary. Jim must look puzzled, because Spock explains, “That is what they were arguing when you closed my door. If I concentrate, I can still make out the words. They seem to be divided between Earth and Vulcan.”
Like Spock. But Jim doesn’t say that. He says with full confidence, “Space,” and he breathes out a quick, longing breath. He’s thought about this before, and it comforts him, sometimes, when he feels tied down, and this little planet feels too rough around the edges. “I’ll get my own ship. I know I will.”
Just for a second, or maybe even a fraction of that, Spock’s lips twitch into a smile. Jim catches it. Jim always knows when Spock wants to be smiling, when he would be if his blood were red instead of green. They might as well be bonded. Someday, they will be.
Spock asks, “May I come with you?”
Jim curls his hand around Spock’s again. He lifts it up and presses Spock’s knuckles to his lips, anchoring Spock too him, like there was ever any chance they’d be apart. “I’d never leave orbit without you,” Jim whispers, reverent and strong. “You’ll stand by my side in space, and we’ll never fight like them. ...And... and we’ll build a whole fort of pillows and blankets and we’ll sit in it sometimes and laugh about far-off memories like this.”
Spock whispers, “I would like that.”
Jim nods and lets go of Spock’s hand. It curls back up, nestling in close. But Spock’s eyes are burning holes into Jim, and Jim shuffles closer, until their elbows and feet and noses are touching, and it’s almost hard to breathe. They’re tied together by so many invisible strings that Jim doesn’t think they could be pried apart by an entire fleet.
He’s not sure which of them falls asleep first. The angry shouts in the distance become a garbled lullaby, the silence between them tantamount. They’re safe together; Jim feels safe, and he can feel Spock relax against him, sees Spock’s eyelids grow heavy, knows that his aren’t far behind. He’s holding Spock in reality, and the next minute, he’s holding Spock in his dreams.