Work Text:
It was always a pleasure for Jim to rise late.
He could feel Spock’s lithe, sturdy arms clasped around his body, bare skin brushing the linen sheets they both lay upon, breath rising and falling within his chest. The world spun around them slowly as it always did, and they lay in bed at the epicentre of the storm they called life, ready to bear it.
Spock rose early. He’d always found himself awake at the dawn’s arrival, Jim knew, but instead of manoeuvring himself from the bed he would caress Jim’s hair and kiss his forehead and slowly but surely fall into sleep again. Then Jim would rise, and find himself at the mercy of his husband’s beauty, splayed around his body like a rag doll.
Raindrops fell from the sky around their apartment, tinging the world stony grey like bruised flesh and crystalline glass. Like the backlit moon, half shadowed, craters pulling at the fabric of their reality.
Was it real? These days, life felt as if someone had reached into Jim’s mind, taken every secretive desire he’d harboured throughout his professional career and slowly but surely thrown them into the touching-down cyclone of his existence. They had settled into a thing of domesticity, of utter beauty: the way dull light reflected off their dresser from the rainy window in their bedroom, the paint on the walls, the curve of Spock’s hand arching like marble across his waist; nothing had ever been so tangible, so breathtaking.
He was naked, ‘cept for soft underclothes, and the weight of Spock against him was heavenly. Lip bit, eyes dull with sleep, he crooked one finger against the angled pull of Spock’s bare spine, skin warm, pitted and marred by scars and long-healed wounds that each signified a story to be told. Jim knew every story, the words written in the fabric of his heart, pauses and plot twists and semicolons making up the veins that held him together, kept him alive.
Spock’s brow no longer arched nor furrowed when he slept. It had, in youth, but now his face was a picture of mundanity, a slate ever so carefully etched with emotion and logic and love in effortless print. Jim ran his thumb over where his cheekbone raised high, free of makeup, bared to Jim’s scrutiny.
It had been a long time since either one of them had been scrutinised for their love, and he could not very well say he missed it.
“I love you,” Jim whispered, tipping his head back and inhaling the scent of fresh rain and hard earth and vanilla.
Some mornings, as well as people, were to be treasured.