10001 Nightmares Party

[Fic] for the weak-hearted, we yearn (Star Trek: AOS)

Summary:

Jim's seen the guy every other night for the past two months.

Notes:

can't tell if i have a headache or not so i'm procrastinating on figuring that out by writing fluff in a new fandom instead. as you do.

also, wasn't sure if vulcan should be capitalized or not but that's what my spell-checker wanted so just went with it.

Work Text:

Jim's seen the guy every other night for the past two months. He's a Vulcan, this stranger of his, and Jim has spotted him sitting in the same corner every time, staring down every other person who's occupied it at his arrival. Once, Jim sat down there when the club was closed, just to figure out what was so special about the seat and not gonna lie, his ego did hurt a little when he realized it wasn't the best place to watch the stage.

Not a bad one, of course, there are no seats in the place where you can't see the stage, but certainly not a particularly good one. 

Okay, so maybe he got a bit attached. Watching the Vulcan during his routine has become kind of habit of his, and he doesn't think the Vulcan minds much, considering how often they make eye-contact. Well, they probably make eye-contact. Sometimes it kind of hard to tell in the low lighting and when the room is busy. Still, "You can't just creepily watch the guy forever," Bones says after Jim is back home after another hard day at work, slumping on the couch and stretching out like a cat, groaning in exaggerated despair.

"Maybe I can though," he retorts, because he is a smart person with smart ideas, all his kindergarten teachers said so. Probably. Well, they did in his romanticized view of his past.

"You do that then," Bones ruthlessly retaliates.

Groaning again, Jim turns his head to stare at Bones, blinking his eyes. The glitter has gotten onto his eyelashes, he notes, and accuses, "Meanie."

Bones stares at him in abject horror.

Laughing, Jim sits up and brushes his hands through his hair. "Yeah, I'm gonna do something. I'm gonna do something alright," he swears, standing and cracking his neck, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Wait, what are you--"

"Can't hear you, busy scheming, talk later." Jim vanishes into his room. He shares the apartment with Bones, but that doesn't mean it's a particularly big one, and his room isn't exactly something to write home about. Part of that is doubtlessly the fact that he keeps forgetting to dust, but hey, he does the laundry. Victory. Sometimes you've gotta dream small.

The Vulcan is there again two days later. Jim does his routine on stage, maybe even going a bit further than he usually does; just because he feels like it, obviously. It has nothing to do with the fact that the Vulcan makes eye-contact with him again (probably) and it definitely has nothing to do with the fact that his make-up is especially good tonight, or the fact that he's wearing an outfit that's a bit skimpier than usual.

Jim watches the Vulcan until the moment he gets off the stage, then he hurries out before even changing. He drags a hand through his hair as he steps into the club proper, feels the music rolling through him, the bass heavy, and he scans for the particular corner he's basically memorized every inch of. The Vulcan is still there. The Vulcan is looking at him. Jim's eyes widen.

"Hey-o," Jim drawls when he's close enough, swaggering his hips and lowering his eyelashes a little, giving the man a sultry look. "You come here often?"

"I am here every other night," the Vulcan smoothly says, placing his hands on his lap and turning to properly look up at him. "You are aware of this," he points out, and Jim snorts a laugh, sitting down on the opposite seat without checking for permission. 

"Maybe I'm not," Jim points out in turn, deciding to play along with this. Because on the one hand, he's almost terminally curious about why the Vulcan is here so often and on such a consistent schedule, and on the other, he just really want to know his name. So he leans over the table and rests his head on his hand, and he looks up at the Vulcan from below eyelashes he happens to know are very pretty right now (glitter somehow ended up on them again), and he suggests, "Maybe I've never seen you before."

The Vulcan slowly tilts his head. "I can recommend a optometrist."

Laughing, Jim says, "Why, thank you, kind sir." Then he hums, leaning a bit more over the table. It's nice and clean because the Vulcan always wipes the table before he sits, and so he spreds out shamelessly. The Vulcan does not lean away, he notes, and grins a little. "And might I ask for you name?"

"I am Spock," Spock declares.

Jim's smile grows. "Nice to meet you, Spock."

"It is pleasant to meet you too," Spock says, and even leans a bit forward. A thrill goes down his spine and settles in his stomach; a fluttering sensation that he can't quite suppress, and he straightens a little so he can make better eye-contact with Spock without breaking his neck. Spock's eyes are a rich brown, and Jim finds that time slips away from him a little when he's staring into them.

"I'm getting off work soon," Jim offers when he regains control of his brain, and he drags a hand through his hair again, grimacing when it comes back covered in even more glitter. Then he grins, holding it out to Spock. "Wanna join me in the eternal battle against glitter? More warriors are always needed; 'tis a tough a beast."

Spock eyes the hand. Jim wiggles his fingers a little for good measure, and Spock swallows so heavily Jim can see it. Part of Spock's face is hidden in the dark, but what he can see is certainly to his taste, and now that the offer has been made he realizes, perhaps a bit late, that he really wants Spock to take him up on it. They could have some fun together, and also he could ask all the questions about Spock that have piled up in his brain the last few months. He's had time to think, and that's not necessarily the best thing. For Spock, that is. Jim's been having a pretty good time among all his pining.

"A tempting offer," Spock says at all, and then he frowns. "But I'm afraid I must be up early for classes tomorrow."

"Student? Teacher?"  Jim looks Spock over. "Teacher." He tilts his head. "What, no wait, where do you teach?"

"Starfleet Academy." 

Eyes widening, Jim looks Spock one more time, just to check. "Wow," he slowly drawls, and smirks. "A hotshot professor, at my little old club? What are the odds?"

"It's less than a mile away," Spock says, and Jim projecting or is he picking up on some dry humor. He thinks he's picking up on some humor, and he rolls his eyes good-naturally, lips twitching with the effort he's using to stop himself from smiling, lest he give away his good mood. Because that would be bad, probably. Obviously. Probably?

"So? No late night paramour-ing tonight?" Jim pouts.

"I'm afraid so," Spock solemnly says. But he follows it up, "I would greatly enjoy taking you out to dinner. Please get in touch," and hands over a card with his number. Jim picks it up, holds it up high for a moment, humming as he tilts his head this way and that in theatrical consideration, just for fun. Peeking at Spock, he grins at the darkness brewing in the man's eyes, the way Spock follows his every motion with the card.

"Thanks," Jim finally says, tucking the card into his skimpy clothes, and then he drawls, "I'm Jim, by the way. Says you never asked."

"The bartender has told me as such," Spock reveals, and the way he guiltily look at the table startles a giggling laughter out of Jim. At that, Spock stares at him, so obviously drinking the view in that the butterflies in Jim's stomach grow into a hurricane. And when Spock straightens a little, too, satisfaction radiating off him, Jim very nearly blushes a little. Damn, he thinks. Damn.

"I'll get in touch," Jim says,  wiggling his eyebrows and grinning. Spock hums in agreement, distracted, and Jim laughs again. Tilts his head to the side and acknowledges the fact that the clock is still ticking; alas, time has not conveniently stopped. Foiled again, he thinks. Stands, and claps his hands a little in a vain effort to lose some of the glitter of them. Half the table is covered by it now, he notes, some degree of fierce satisfaction curling through him at the idea that he made a tangible mark on Spock's favorite table. He grins. "Don't be a stranger, Spock."

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#Fandom: Star Trek #Post Type: Fic #Rating: Teen #Status: Complete #Tag: AU #WC: 1000-5000