By Angel Grace
Spock is a man of definites. Black is black, white is white. That is, until a certain force of chaos is introduced into his life by the name of captain James T. Kirk. 'Call me Jim'. It is always Jim in Spock's own mind, never captain or sir. Jim is like a kaleidoscope, sucking Spock down into the whirlwind of his vibrancy. What defenses does a staid Vulcan have against a mind so mercurial, so unique, even the universal constants bend to its desires.
Sometimes Spock wonders. If he studies long enough, hard enough, would he be able to quantify the ephemeral quality that is Jim? He can not calculate the odds, finds he does not want to. Illogical.
All Spock has are his observations. The easy stance of a commanding officer well aware of his worth. The fleeting touches, so habitual to his human nature, they even surpass a Vulcan's reticence to touch. The way internal and external influences alter the man's appearance.
Spock finds himself gazing into Jim's eyes on more than one occasion. They are a scientific impossibility. The color ranges from a luscious brown, through a warm amber to the occasional shining gold, often speckled with green. It is impossible. Human eyes have no chromatophores to account for this chameleon-like occurrence. There must be a logical explanation. There must be.
One evening, after alpha shift, the mystery becomes too much and Spock gives in. It is exceedingly easy to hack into the ship's medical files. Were he a different person and inclined to do harm... Fortunately, there is only one thing Spock is interested in. He is disappointed not to find any genetic anomalies in Jim's medical file. No explanation for what is clearly a unique trait in the man. All he is left with is a word. A simple phrase, intended to be descriptive, yet utterly failing to meet its purpose.
Eye color: hazel
He finds other inaccuracies in Jim's medical file. Occasional 'little white lies' or 'lies of omission' put there because McCoy, despite all their arguing, is a good doctor. One who knows that, even if Jim went through a rough time after Edith Keeler, it won't affect his performances. No need to give those in the upper echelons of power something to hold over the captain's head.
There are other things there, though. Like the time Jim almost died from the flu. Or that Jim has an old-fashioned appendectomy scar because the infection happened during his time on Tarsus IV and modern medicine was scarce. And that the poor diet on that same planet robbed the captain of an additional inch or so. Spock finds that while he doesn't mind his friend's height, he hates the cause of it. No simple data cluster should cause such strong emotions in a Vulcan. Spock realizes he will need to meditate on it. On Jim. This man, who is friend, brother and so much more. So much that it burns its permanent mark in Spock's heart, mind and soul, without ever being spoken.
There is only one inaccuracy in the file, an anomaly that Spock finds inexplicable in McCoy's otherwise meticulously kept records. He needs data.
Spock begins his observations on the bridge.
Jim's hair is dark during their shifts on the bridge, despite the adequate lighting. There is a gloss to it that brings pale liquid chocolate to mind. The kind his mother would never let him try, even when he assured her a single sip wouldn't intoxicate him. The kind that made his parents look at one another and quit the room, fingers entwined.
It is pale under the glaring Vulcan's sun. Harsh. All life bleached from it. Like all life nearly fled from Jim himself. Spock's fault, all his own. An unforgivable offense. Had it not been for McCoy...
In medbay, it had been golden. Shining with the vigor of renewed existence. When Spock twirls Jim round it flutters, so light and fragile. It makes Spock shudder.
Yet Jim is glorious whenever he's threatened. In the blaring lights of numerous red alerts, Spock is momentarily fascinated by tongues of pure fire haloing his face. The man with the compact frame suddenly becomes ten feet tall. All tremble before him. Victory is inevitable.
This is why Spock can not comprehend McCoy's bland and wildly inaccurate entry into Jim's medical file.
Hair color: blond
Spock hung red drapes over his meditation area when he first arrived on the Enterprise. Vulcans have always considered red a soothing and comforting color. Their home planet is resplendent with it. The light, the sands, the air. All conspire to soothe the Vulcan mind with their flaming red hues.
Now, all he can see is Jim. His gloriously red blood, slowly drip-drip-dripping into unnamed alien sands as they attempted to keep it in his veigns.
In a fit of peak, Spock tears his wall hangings down and throws them on the meditation brazier. They smoke something fierce. His thoughts look much the same: dark and cloying, roiling and toxic.
McCoy is a great doctor, but even he can't do miracles. Jim lost so much blood, too much. It took them too long to ascertain the landing party's position and even longer to cut through the dampening shield created by the Klingons.
Jim probably would be flattered that their enemies had gone through all this trouble just to capture him. Injure him. Not kill him, not yet. Spock's front is stained with the captain's life's blood. There had still been life when he'd held the motionless body in his arms as he called for beam-out.
There is a call from the intercom. Spock is strangely reluctant to answer. Weary of what the news it might bring. Illogical. He toggles the device on, only to grip the wall in relief. He made it. Jim made it.
He'll be in recovery for over a week, McCoy informs Spock, but there shouldn't be any further problems. Spock closes his eyes in silent blessing to gods that are illogical to believe in and signs off.
Later, he will sit vigil over his captain's rest and observe as slowly, his color will return. Jim's first sight upon waking will be Spock, sitting stoically by his side. Spock will be fascinated to see the newly replenished blood stain Jim's cheeks and lips slightly crimson as the captain smiles at his constant shadow. Spock has never been more pleased to see the color red.
Spock generally dislikes his green blood. It is yet another thing that sets him apart. Not human red, yet not green enough to be truly Vulcan. Too weak. A freak of nature. A scientific improbability that wouldn't exist without extensive medical intervention.
Spock stares at himself in the mirror. He is not a vain man. He does not require the reflective surface to complete his morning's ablutions. Today though, his hand raises by its own accord to the bright green bruise on the side of his neck. The faint teethmarks on his shoulder. His eyes follow as his hand travels lower, to another set of greenish smudges. There are ten of them there, equally distributed over both hips.
A faint non-smile shifts his lips as he attempts to fit his own hands over them. They were clearly made by smaller, but still powerful hands. Spock cherishes them, wants to etch them in his skin. He makes a conscious decision to direct his body's resources away from the little marks, so he may admire them a bit longer in their lush green reality.
For the first time, he loves his green blood unconditionally.
His eyes snap upward in the mirror as pink hands cover the marks. They are a perfect fit. Spock sees true beauty in the mirror... and the reflection smiles back at him with its hazel eyes.