Kirk would hear them whisper from time to time, Spock never far from his side. In market places on alien worlds, in the halls of governments and on open planes. The human race, it seemed, did not have a monopoly on hatred and stupidity. It disgusted him that people thought so little of such a respectful, peaceful people.
“He could read your thoughts at any time. How would you know? And those hands? I just don’t know if he’d be kissing you or just shaking your hand. It’s indecent.”
Kirk could tell the difference. It was the subtle tilt of Spock’s wrist, the way two fingers would slide along his knuckles in unison while the others curled to inspect grazes or bruises. It was in his dark gentle eyes. The way loneliness would ease in Kirks mind and a warm tenderness would trail behind Spock’s fingertips. Kirk knew when Spock was kissing his wounds.
And while the words would whisper Kirk would brush his knuckles against Spock’s repaying the kisses in kind.