"My latch is broken," Kirk said, annoyed, as he climbed into the ferris wheel car. He jammed the metal into the latch- for nostalgic reasons the amusement park hadn't used a more modern electronic latching system. The whole park, in fact, was themed to be in the early twentieth century. After almost a minute of this, he turned to Spock with a mock crestfallen face.

"Would you like me to help you?" Spock asked, although he knew what his captain's answer would be.

"That would be wonderful, Spock, thank you."

The first officer reached over and tried to gently click the pieces of metal together, rather than the violent way that the captain had been clanging them against each other.

"Would it help you if I moved over a bit?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

Kirk shifted over so that he was touching Spock's body, which tensed up a bit, then relaxed as he went back to his task. Finally, there was a click. Spock straightened his back and sat up, but Kirk remained pressed up against him as he stared at a passing balloon. It had some kind of writing on it, but it was unclear what it said exactly from their distance.

"Oh," Kirk said, his face reddening, "Would you like me to move back?"

"Not necessary, Captain, this position is...ideal...given that…," Spock rambled on, trying to maintain a professional manner.

"Oh. Oh! Good. Very good," said Kirk, his peach skin glowing as he smiled happily. The machine creakily began moving. It was a replica, but it felt like an antique- Jim was utterly fascinated with the complexities of the contraption. Spock's eyes were tightly shut, and his body was slowly stiffening, becoming tense and uneasy.

"Now, don't tell me you're afraid of heights, Mr. Spock."

"No, Captain, I have a far more logical concern-the methods used to build this structure."

"It's only a replica, Mr. Spock."

"Affirmative. However, it is structured around an unsafe model from the early 1900s."

"Trust me," said Kirk, looking out around the cart. "We're going to be safe. Look," he said, pointing at the moon. Spock prepared himself to comment on the lack of notability of Minerva's moons in comparison to the moons of any other planet, and the lack of causation that it provided to the safety of the machine, but abruptly stopped himself upon the sight of the shy but piercing moon revealing itself. He was his mother's son, and he could never be any less than awestruck at the sight of natural beauties such as this. He said nothing but looked at his captain, who was far more distracted by the clinquant lights of the Ferris wheel- who had, deciding that it was adequately dark enough, lit themselves. The multicolored lights reflected off of Kirk's hypnotized eyes as soft swing music echoed from every edge of the park. Kirk had always loved the idea of the old-fashioned early twentieth century, of his long-forgotten ancestors and their simple romances. There was some allure to it that he couldn't deny.

Spock was having similar thoughts, as the bondmates frequently were. He had been able to ascertain that his captain had a partiality to the 1900s-that much was clear from the escapade at Sigma Iota II. There was something endearing about the purposely cracky and staticy music blasting from the speakers. Spock had always loved music. Kirk turned back to look at Spock, his eyes glistening with childlike excitement- everything about this was somewhat wonderful. It was a certain kind of fantasy of Jim's- one that he'd never truly imagined, but now, with it placed before him, he realized he wanted more than anything else. A little smile peeked at the corner of his mouth as he listened to the words of the song.

"Wait," he said, his face immersed with determination, "I know this song. I've heard it somewhere, but I can't put my finger on where." Spock said nothing. He was under the spell of the park as well, but desperately tried to remain unfeigned. Despite his efforts, there was something obviously dissimilar about him- he was enamored with something about the park, or the night, or them both -neither the captain nor Spock could quite place it. There was something quixotically pleasant about it all. Kirk shook his head a little, giving up on remembering the song, and then returned his avid eyes to the Ferris wheel's dazzling show.

"You know what this song reminds me of, Spock?" Jim asked, staring over the side of the car.

"No, Captain."

"It reminds me of you," he said, turning back to gaze at his first officer. His eyes were glittering with quiescent wonder, and it was no longer because of the ride.

"How so, Captain?" Said Spock, hoping that his hot face was not as green as it felt. It was a blatantly romantic song, and Kirk knew it.

"I don't know," said Kirk, a familiar smile returning to his face. He had never felt any shame in unconcealed flirtation. He turned back to look at the stars, who were showing themselves just as shyly as the moon had. He was again distracted by a shiny red balloon floating by their car, and immediately began to laugh.

"What is it, Captain?"

"Oh, it's...it's nothing, Mr. Spock."

"Is something wrong, Captain?"

"Oh, no, of course not. I'm actually. . . you are aware that Lieutenant Uhura and Nurse Chapel beamed down with us, yes?"

"Affirmative."

"Well, they've been writing things on these balloons and sending them up for us to see," he said between spiels of instant laughter.

Spock looked to the sky to see another plastic balloon floating up, the words "kiss him!" written in sloppy handwriting. He gazed down to see Uhura and Nurse Chapel laughing on each other dotingly- he wasn't surprised, but he was turning greener with each passing second. He turned back to Kirk, who was breathing heavily after his mellifluous spiel of laughter. Jim touched Spock's arm so lightly that it could hardly be felt, not bothering to look up at his first officer; there was an odd kind of static as his hand dared to meet his officer's arm, as if their bond went further than mentality. As if it was a part of them. He gently skimmed his hand down the seam of his officer's soft blue uniform, a quiet sigh slipping from his mouth. The hesitant hand reached Spock's as he began to slowly curl his fingers back until only his pointer and middle finger were touching Spock's hand. A Vulcan kiss. Spock's eyebrows knotted as he stared at his pale fingers. He hadn't known that his captain had even learned of his culture's custom. He rose his head to look at Kirk's gleaming eyes as he copied his captain's gesture with his own hand.

"Jim," he said, and that was it. That was all he could say. That was all he had to say. He now understood why his father would occasionally and illogically state Amanda's name at seemingly nonsensical moments. That one word possessed more love than he could possibly profess, even if he hadn't been in control of his emotions. It was his sempiternal promise, his meaning. It was everything. Jim was everything.

"Shan'hal'lak," Jim said, looking from his unmoving hand back to Spock. Spock instantly looked up, his eyes flashing with surprise in his moment of emotional fragility. He recognized the word, of course, but it wasn't a frequently said one- he had only heard it in soft whispers exchanged from his parents when they thought he hadn't been listening.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Your father told it to me. It means 'the engulfment.' It means. . . it means love at first sight," Jim said, the cool wind blowing his hair slightly. He had kissed many people before, but never like this. Spock meant everything to him. There was nothing he would change- not Spock's lack of emotion, not his aversion to touch, not his culture, not his family, nothing, ever, in any universe, in any lifetime. He was a definition. A definition of Jim, a definition of love, a definition of the word itself. He was more than anything Kirk deserved, and the captain knew it well. He never wanted to live a moment without him- they could fall over the edge of the ferris wheel, they could fall and they could die and they could never be saved, but it wouldn't matter anymore- this was what he wanted, what he'd always wanted, and now he had it, and it was perfect. This was what he'd dreamed for, prayed for, lived for. And it was his. Spock was his.

"Yes, it does," said Spock, staring, awestruck, at his captain. He was much more than a bondmate- that was irrefutable. He was his purpose. "I do not deserve this treatment, Captain. You are an individual. You are . . . a bold, wise, and utterly fascinating man. Everything is dark, and yet, you are vivid. You are the ne plus ultra of your kind. I am merely another one in my species, trying to maintain every characteristic that thousands before me have acquired."

"No," Jim said, his eyes widening in empathy and conflict, slowly reaching out with his unused hand to touch Spock. He softly ran his hand along the edge of Spock's face. The science officer's eyes fluttered as he looked down, demanding himself to control his emotions. His breaths were growing heavier- he hadn't felt this since he was a child. His eyes burned with salt and water and pain- he was no longer in control. His head fell all at once into Jim's arms, like he'd done with his mother when he was young. But that was different. He was sad then, he was learning. He was no longer in pain, he was no longer in need. He had everything he needed. He had his purpose. He had his t'hy'la.

He rose his head back up to Jim, no longer trying to suppress his weak smile. Jim's eyes lit up as his lips pulled into a genuine and unremovable grin. This was his simple romance, on a ferris wheel in the middle of the night. Spock's redamancy had never been a secret, but now it was ceaseless. As the car screeched to its inevitable halt, Kirk felt a warm sensation run through him.

He took Spock's hand with conviction, and this time, he wouldn't let go.