By now, the wine has settled into a pleasant hum in the back of Jim’s mind. He laughs, setting a hand on his bondmate’s thigh. Spock’s dark eyes are alight with humour, the corners of his mouth threatening to pull into a smile.
“No, no,” Jim says, trying to stifle his laughter in his hand. “I don’t believe I did.”
Spock raises a brow. “You seem certain of that.”
Jim snorts, undignified. He can’t find it within himself to care: the booths of this restaurant are fairly secluded—besides, he’s certainly allowed some imperfection on his own nights out.
“I find that I am, Mister Spock,” he purrs, leaning forward. He’s not intending to start something, just teasing.
Spock knows this. He huffs, hot on Jim’s mouth, then turns his eyes to the wine. “The bouquet is rather intriguing,” he starts pleasantly, as if they’re at a tasting. Jim swats him.
“Violence, Admiral?” Spock inquires with his unique version of a shit-eating grin.
“I would never condone such a thing,” Jim says.
“Hmm,” Spock replies, hand linking with Jim’s. Jim leans over to rest his head heavily on Spock’s shoulder, feeling strangely melancholy.
Spock presses his cheek to Jim’s hair and they sit, still, for a moment. Sentiment wells up in Jim’s chest and, loosened by the wine, falls from his lips. “I love you very much,” he mumbles into the collar of his husband’s robes. Pleased surprise colours their bond.
“And I you, ashayam,” Spock replies quietly. He kisses Jim’s temple. Jim is intensely glad there is no rule—however informal—preventing them from this relationship as there was on the Enterprise, given the chain of command. If there was, he doesn’t imagine it would stop them but he’s glad they don’t have to censor themselves in public. These evenings are wonderful.
There is one issue: Spock is almost entirely unaffected by the alcohol. Jim just needs to get his husband to eating the small chocolate cake that he ordered for dessert….