Spock had thought Jim asleep since he had not spoken for many long minutes after their lovemaking. He’d just been deciding how best to extricate himself from Jim, who had snuggled up to Spock’s chest and had a hand lying there, just under Spock’s nipple. He was not altogether sleepy and had decided that he might wish to meditate after the extraordinary circumstances of the evening. Most unexpected and entirely welcome.

But just as he contemplated easing away from Jim, Jim’s fingers stroked along his chest and down to his abdomen, freezing there.

“This feels like a scar,” Jim whispered, curiosity in his voice.

“It is.”

“From a battle?”

Spock shook his head. “Not the sort you refer to.”

Jim lifted his head, looked down at the scar, and then up to Spock. “Looks like a word.”

The old memories threatened for a moment, but Spock pushed them away. “Yes. It was supposed to be. They were interrupted before they could finish it.”

Jim leaned over the scar. “Half…” His gaze flew to Spock’s, eyes wide, the beginnings of emotion welling up to make those blue look like gemstones. “Spock.”

He swallowed. “Yes. They meant to write half-breed. They never got to finish. I was able to get most of the scar removed, but a small part remains. It reminded me for many years that I didn’t fit in with Vulcans or Humans.”


“That is no longer the case, T’hy’la. I know exactly where I belong and that is with you.”

Jim kissed him fiercely and Spock forgot about getting up to meditate.