Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot -- and it could be said that the plot owns me. These characters, much as I regret it, are not mine.
Summary: At night, when Jim is asleep and Spock is watching over him, the doubts come through.
A/N: This is a companion piece to my work "As the Moon", and like that fic is based off a picture. Picture for "As the Sun" found here:
Why Does He Love Me by ~MedicatedManiac on deviantART
As The Sun
He sprawls – there is no other term for it – as if there exists not a single bone in his body. A sigh, as his unconscious form shifts closer to my warmth. I automatically contain an expression of fondness as his mouth opens and a patch of dampness begins to form on my bicep.
I find my fingers stroking through his golden hair, and as we are alone in our quarters I indulge the impulse. I adore this man and it extends to…finding pleasure in watching him sleep. Oftentimes, as I require less rest than he, I lie here and observe.
His face softens as he nuzzles into my pectoral. The piercing blue of his eyes is hidden, the small wrinkles of concentration that are always present between his brows – absent. His sleeping face is a study in contrasts when compared to the constant tension and energy contained therein when his formidable intellect is aware.
No one else, except, perhaps, the doctor, sees him when he is being anything but the charming exuberant captain.
My fingers ghost along his temple, down his neck, and along the planes of his shoulder – the hard lines of his muscles lax in sleep. There are, of course, no thoughts for me to pick up through the touch, only a general flush of contentment and – a trust, and happiness at my proximity. Even in sleep.
Not even the doctor is afforded absolute trust, as I am.
I acknowledge this gift I have been given, to share my life with this man who has so much depth it is unfathomable. We were satellites, drifting lost and alone through space until his gravity drew me in. And now he is my anchor, my solace, and my strength. And I am his.
My fingers still at his wrist, hovering over the pulse point. Because sometimes, when we are lying like this and the only sound is his steady breathing and the beat of his heart under my fingertips, doubt creeps in. It is illogical, and so it goes against my nature – but even so, it exists. A simple question I whisper to him in the dark.
"Why do you love me?"
I have no doubt that he does – that is one of the constants of my existence. But I know my failings, my shortcomings. They have been dutifully catalogued and analyzed, and occupy their own sector of my mind.
In that way he has, always, he stepped into my life and swept them to the side – deciding they no longer mattered. That instead of being faults, they could be strengths. And that they, too, are something he treasures.
I try to believe him, but they have been catalogued. And sometimes they escape their neat compartments and they overwhelm me. As he would say, they pound me over the head and drag me under. And there are so many of them, so glaring, that I am assured once again that soon he will grow tired of them and leave.
But each time, he just laughs. And stays.
Remembering, a smile touches my lips and I allow it to grow. Freed to move once again, my fingertips trace his lips, his eyebrows. His eyelashes. I do not need his answer, I already know. He loves me because he is as the sun. Bright, and glowing, he affects everything within reach.
As long as he is with me, I can make these shortcomings into virtues. Remind him to be still when silence is necessary, to be hard when the situation demands it. My caution will keep him alive. And my Humanity…will be his alone.