Notes: Just some meaningless fluff. Established K/S relationship.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.

With the Sun Creeping Across the Floor

Sirens woke Jim up - but not medical bells, red alert klaxons, or life support warnings. No: an ambulance, or a police car maybe, racing past on the road below, the wail of the warning bouncing off the apartment blocks and through the window ineffectually.

The window was open a crack, to let the fresh air in. The apartment had been shut up and closed for the last seven years, and had been dry and stale when they had arrived the previous night. But they were tired, and Jim had only had the presence of mind to crack open the window for the air, before tumbling into bed.

The Enterprise had been grounded in Iowa for a mandatory systems upgrade to the life support. Jim's mother had been out of state, so he and Spock had caught the shuttle to San Francisco (he'd felt like a cadet again) and opened up Spock's old apartment once more.

And here Jim found himself, come this morning's sun creeping across the floor, piercing the dull fog outside the window at last. It had to be at least eleven o'clock, but he barely stirred. This counted as shore leave, planned or unplanned. And what better place to spend a shore leave in familiar territory than in bed? San Francisco had nothing left to explore - at least, nothing that couldn't wait to see if Jim reached retirement. It wasn't an exciting city at all, now, and he was content to miss out on the bustle outside the window, and let the world slip by alone for the moment.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, and smiled across the pillow at the sleeping face before him. He and Spock rarely curled together when they slept - something about Jim's dreams trespassing into Spock's mind during the night and disturbing his rest - but they always slept close regardless. Often, they would wake with their hands linked in the small space between them, or their feet brushing together at the end of the bed.

This morning, Spock lay on his side, facing Jim but still deeply asleep. His hair was still reasonably neat, though his hands spoke of his relaxation: resting exactly between their chests, the fingers curled into very loose fists, the muscles too lazy to choose a flattened state or a curled one completely.

Jim couldn't help but slip one hand into Spock's, and squeeze the fingers lightly. Too lightly to wake him, but strongly enough that those long, alien fingers twitched twice in his before stilling again.

He wasn't surprised that Spock was still out of it, to be honest. The unexpected grounding had been much welcome - between the Klingon attack last week, the nasty bout of flu (human) that had done the rounds, and an engineering explosion that had nearly caused a hull breach and the imminent death of every single crew member, they had had a tough couple of weeks. Spock especially, after Jim had caught said human flu, and his First Officer was forced to take on an even greater workload.

All things considered, it was probably the first time Spock had truly relaxed in three or four weeks. Jim knew he hadn't been sleeping in those weeks, and his meditations had barely been able to keep him going in the last two days.

Now, he had crashed. And not a moment too soon. Here, with the sun creeping across the floor and fading police sirens outside, Jim was happy to let him crash, and watch the peaceful aftermath.

So peaceful that nothing stirred. His heartbeat, low in his side, was slow enough for Jim to be able to count the individual beats, rather than its rapid hum during a hectic day on the ship. His breathing was so slow and deep as to be hypnotic, and for once entirely visible rather than measured and controlled. His eyes were still beneath their lids, but there was a very light, gentle hum to his thoughts that spoke of fleeting, shallow dreams.

An epitome of peace.

"I love you," Jim breathed, to a man that couldn't hear him, and a breeze whispered through the room from the window.

It was a chill breeze, despite the sun, and a fine shiver interrupted the smooth breathing of said man. Instead of shutting the window, Jim chose to tug the blankets higher and scoot closer, working his arms (easy with practice) around the cool body and pulling him closer. Spock was equally used to such action, curling into the embrace, and settling an arm across Jim's waist, without waking.

"Love you," Jim repeated, pressing the words into that now-accessible dark hair, and smiling when Spock finally stirred, consciousness seeping through their skin-to-skin contact.

"Your thoughts are warm," Spock murmured, his voice more a rumble in his chest than a verbal action, and Jim grinned like a lovesick idiot. Which, after all these years, he still was, just a little bit.

"Of course they are," he said, tightening his arms in a hug. "They're about you."

Spock hummed - by now, Jim knew an appreciative noise when he heard it - and fell silent again, his breathing evening out as though he were ready to sleep again. It was unusual, to see Spock willing to doze like this, and Jim felt a rush of odd euphoria that he was permitted to see it. Hell, that he was able to see it. That Spock didn't feel the need to resist the urge, with him.

It had taken four years of love, and three of less, to get to this point. They hadn't really even thawed towards one another by the end of their first year working together, but by the third year of their five-year mission, Jim wasn't willing to settle for friendship any more. At the end of the mission, they had signed on again - as had most of the crew - and it had felt, to Jim, like...permanence.

Seven years ago, he would have run away screaming from the very idea of commitment. Now, he would happily beat the living shit out of anyone stupid enough to try and separate them.

"Jim, there is no need for your grip," Spock murmured, and Jim loosened the steadily tightening hold he'd maintained around the Vulcan's upper body.

"Sorry," he breathed, kissing the exposed tip of one pointed ear in apology. "Just thinking."

"That level of strength was still unnecessary," Spock said, still speaking in a very low murmur that indicated he would go back to sleep soon, unless Jim deliberately roused him. "I am not inclined to move at this current moment."

Jim smiled, feathering more kisses until the body in his arms relaxed again, and the hazy, detached nature of thoughts drifting into dreams began to worm through his skin. It intrigued him, sometimes, how just holding Spock when he slept or meditated made Jim feel sleepy. Now, the tug was persistent but soothing, as if the world could wait a little longer.

Jim resisted, though, taking the time to ghost stray fingers across the warm expanses of skin at his disposal. He traced the scar from Ferga II, and the subtle bump of spine, and the run of ribs down the Vulcan's side to the stutter of a heart in his side - where another scar lurked, from a terrible mission on Mai IV that had nearly killed him.

Jim pressed a Vulcan kiss to that scar, and locked his hands around Spock's back.

The sun creeping across the floor, the lull of dozing thoughts, and the complete relaxation were all too strong, and Jim found himself easing down into further sleep without much protest.

"Love you," he murmured again, the words spilling over from his mental processes, and felt an answering brush of warmth - like a preheated scarf, shared, on a cold January morning - wrap itself securely around his mind.

When the sunlight hit the bed, its occupants slept once more, tangled together, and reluctance and hesitation were foreign concepts.