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It was strange, Spock thought, that he had not yet entered pon farr. He was well past the age when most Vulcans experienced the pull to come home and claim their mates. His human half, he supposed. Perhaps he would never have pon farr. It was illogical to hope. His body—his biology—would not listen to hope. And yet, he entered his thirty-fourth year with no sign of his more primitive nature coming to the surface. So he hoped.
The five-year mission had been going smoothly enough, despite the disasters, despite the danger, despite the utterly impossible incidents they encountered day after day. Jim handled all of it with grace and creativity—completely human in his reactions and emotions. Spock shoved down his envy. He did not shove down his love. It was far too late for that. He could more easily file down his ears than deny his love for Jim. It was part of him now, surely as the heart that beat in his side.
As he did with many things in his life, Spock loved quietly. Jim was a free man, a free spirit. His love was meant to be spread among many, not poured into one. And if Jim were to choose a one, Spock knew it would not be himself. Jim was drawn to those like him—bright, charismatic, beautiful. Spock was none of these things, and therefore not what Jim wanted.
Spock allowed himself to dwell on that thought today, the first day of an entire month without Jim. Extended shore leave, bureaucratic meetings, and the possibility of a promotion enticed him away, leaving his silver lady in Spock’s capable hands. Spock might have loved Jim quietly, but when his captain was gone, he allowed himself to love a little bit louder. He let himself sigh (silently), let his shoulder slump (4.1% less than the ideal posture), and let himself think of the captain freely, not denying himself wistful thoughts of a life spent at Jim’s side as more than just a first officer.
His work efficiency decreased by 12%. He berated himself for that—Jim had trusted him with the Enterprise, and to betray that trust with less-than-ideal work was unforgivable. He took thoughts of Jim, dreams of his eyes and his hands and his mouth, and locked them behind a door in his mind, determined to spend the rest of Jim’s absence in unfeeling stoicism.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t realize what was happening until it was almost too late.
—
They had met almost ten years prior to their five year mission together. Spock had been serving under Captain Pike, still of the Enterprise, but not as his first officer. Jim had been on the Farragut, under Captain Garrovick. There had been a party, some fancy get-together for rising stars of Starfleet. Jim had just gotten a shiny new commendation for displaying uncommon bravery on a mission, and Spock had just been named second Science Officer. For that, they both landed invites for a networking event cleverly disguised as a party. Pike had convinced Spock to go, after a few weeks of prodding and poking.
“Come on, Spock, just go. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Spock opened his mouth and Pike held up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want the full list. And don’t bother arguing. I already RSVP’d for you. Requested a vegetarian plate and everything. I can make it an order if that’ll help.”
“It will not,” Sock said stiffly. “I will attend if you insist.”
“And I do. Hope you have some dancing shoes tucked away, Spock. Have fun.”
Spock let out an imperceptible sigh. He had projected a probability of serving under Pike for a further decade, and perhaps beyond. It would not do to upset him, a mere two years into their acquaintance.
“I will endeavor to do so,” he said wearily.
“That’s a good man,” Pike said, grinning.
Spock surprised himself by actually fulfilling Pike’s request. The night hadn’t started optimistically: an admiral gave a lengthy and repetitive speech about the honor of attending, set a strict drink limit, and instantly vanished to break his drink limit rule. Spock tucked his own drink tickets in his pocket, sure that he would have no opportunity to use them. He ate his vegetarian plate quickly and then regretted it, since his reason to stay seated was fully consumed. He disposed of his utensils, ordered a black tea from the bar, and stationed himself in a corner to observe the room at large. Even if he didn’t end up making connections, he could observe the connections being made. Perhaps one day they’d be useful. At the very least, he’d be able to bring some petty gossip back. That would be sure to satisfy Pike. He was nearly done dissecting the complex relationship between a captain and her scandalously young yeoman plus-one when a smooth voice from his left side asked, “is this seat taken?”
Spock directed his attention to a blonde human man standing a few paces away. A pair of champagne flutes hung from his hand. He offered one to Spock, who took it for politeness’ sake. He knew proper etiquette was to put down one of his two drinks, so he set his black tea on a nearby table.
“We are not seated,” Spock replied. The man’s polite smile grew into something more genuine.
“Ah, you’re right, of course. I thought it was alright line, but I’ve gone and employed it in the wrong situation.”
The statement was a touch nonsensical, but something made Spock incline his head and reply, “had I been seated, it would have most effective.”
“Oh, good. Enjoying the party?”
“Vulcans do not typically ‘enjoy’ parties.”
The man took a sip of his champagne. “Too bad. I’ve met a lot of good people at parties. And if not, at least there’s booze.”
“Again, I must disagree.” Spock looked distastefully at his flute. “Even if imbibing produced the same results in me that it does in humans, I find the taste….undesirable.”
“May I, then?” the man asked, gesturing at Spock’s glass. Spock handed it over readily. Instead of drinking it, he set it and his own half-finished flute on a nearby tray to be picked up by a waiter.
“I’m Jim Kirk,” he said. “Lieutenant,” he added as an afterthought. He did not extend his hand for a handshake, of which Spock was grateful. Instead, he pressed a hand against his chest and bowed slightly.
“I am Lieutenant Commander Spock,” Spock said, returning the gesture.
Lieutenant Kirk whistled. “Of the Enterprise?”
“Correct, Lieutenant.”
“Please, call me Jim. The Enterprise is a fine ship, and Pike is a fine captain.”
“I have found my posting to be more than satisfactory. The Enterprise is a comfortable residence,” Spock said, surprised by the freeness of his tongue. “I apologize,” he said immediately.
Jim’s eyebrows furrowed. “For what?”
“I do not usually employ such emotive language.”
At that, Jim laughed and Spock could not keep the confusion from his face.
“Oh, well, no offense taken,” Jim assured him jovially. “In fact, I would welcome more that brazen emotional speech. It’ll make for a dull night otherwise.”
Prickled, Spock said, “You need not spend more time in my company if you believe it to be dull.”
Jim held up his hands. “Sorry, Spock, I didn’t mean it like that. I was teasing you. Bad habit, I know, and not the best way to make friends.”
“Vulcans do not have friends,” Spock said. He meant for it to be a flat statement but a hint of uncertainty crept into his voice.
“That sounds like a challenge,” Jim said. “And there’s nothing I like better than a challenge.”
Now Spock was utterly thrown. One moment declaring Spock to be dull, the next cheerfully announcing he saw him as a challenge—this man seemed designed to confuse him. And yet Spock did not feel the need to excuse himself. Something about Jim’s eyes, almost painfully expressive, drew Spock in. The gentle timbre of his voice contrasted to the rough sounds of the crowd seemed almost exactly suited to Spock’s heightened hearing.
Jim must have seen Spock’s hesitation because he smiled easily. “I apologize, Mr. Spock, if I said anything untoward. I’ve been keeping up with some of the Enterprise’s escapades and I had a few questions, if you have another moment to spare on me.”
Spock nodded, pleased to be back in familiar territory. But Jim’s questions about the ship were not what he expected. Rather than stories of their more dangerous adventures or gossip about the captain, he wanted to know about the culture of the ship, how the crew interacted, safety protocols and mental health precautions.
“I’m aiming for captain in the future,” Jim admitted when Spock pressed him for details. “I believe there’s nothing more important for a captain than to take care of his crew. Whatever ship I get—and believe me, I’ll end up on a bridge one day even if it kills me—I want my crew to be the most important thing about it.”
“A worthy endeavor,” Spock conceded, and from that moment on, he was more open with his replies. Instead of just accepting facts and statistics, Jim pulled opinions and ideas from him and returned with his own. His brown eyes lit up as he discussed Spock’s proposals, hands animating his words in an unpracticed, enthusiastic way. It was charming, Spock realized with a start. He was charmed by this man. He might have shut down the emotion in another setting, but he remembered Pike’s request that he enjoy himself and let himself indulge in the unusual occurrence. Healthy scientific curiosity, he reasoned with himself. Feeling, cataloging, and classifying emotions such as this in a safe environment like the one Jim provided allowed him to better cope with them in less favorable circumstances. It was just logical enough to avoid feelings of guilt.
Spock’s time sense was impeccable as always, but Jim’s apparently was not. Two hours and forty minutes later, he glanced at his watch.
“Oh, damn. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten,” he said apologetically. “I shouldn’t take up your whole night.”
“The night is nearly over,” Spock said hesitantly. “I suspect it would not be harmful to spend the remainder in discussion. I have found it to be most stimulating.”
Jim grinned like he and Spock were in on some great secret. “You know what? I’d say you’re right, Mr. Spock.”
Spock blinked against the brilliance of Jim’s smile. In a stroke of genius, he stuck his hands in his pocket and pulled out the drink tickets.
“If I may be allowed a hypothesis, I would guess you used your limited drink tickets to offer me a flute of champagne. As I wasted your ticket and have no proclivity towards alcohol, I would like to offer you mine.”
“That’s very kind of you, Spock,” Jim said, taking the tickets. Their fingers brushed and a jolt of something electric ripped through Spock’s hand. He pulled back hastily, unsure as to what caused such a reaction. Jim didn’t seem to notice. He just touched Spock’s arm and gestured to the bar.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“No, Jim,” Spock said. “Please. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back before you can say ‘blueberry pie’,” Jim said.
“Why would I….” Spock started. He drifted off, watching Jim’s hasty retreat to the bar. A smile softened his eyes.
“Illogical,” he murmured to himself. His skin still tingled where their fingers had touched.
—
Nine years later, when Pike was reviewing applicants for the captaincy of the Enterprise, Spock gave his recommendation for one James T. Kirk.
“Kirk, huh?” Pike said. “Any particular reason?”
“We met briefly nearly a decade ago,” Spock said, attempting to keep his voice level. “He seemed trustworthy, hardworking, and concerned with the health of his crew. He would do well here.”
“Spock, I’ve never heard you speak so highly of anyone before! Well, if you think he’d fit in, he probably will. I’ll add him to the short list.”
Hope was an illogical emotion, but Spock felt it pressing against his ribs anyway. That pressure was only relieved when, months later, he saw Jim standing on the bridge for the first time, his captain’s rank shining like gold on his uniform sleeves, and his smile shining brighter than that. He had been right—it was where he belonged.
—
Eight days into Jim’s absence on the Enterprise, Spock woke feeling as though he had not rested at all. There had been nothing unusual the previous day to suggest this type of exhaustion. Perhaps there had been an unusual virus or bacteria present on the planet they had explored several days previous. None of the human crew had expressed any kind of discomfort or checked into med-bay with anything beyond the usual aches and pains of humans, so perhaps it was something that only affected Spock’s Vulcan heritage. It was something to keep in the forefront of his mind, but not so serious that he would take time from his day to address it. He made a mental note to report to sick bay if it did not clear up by the end of the week.
That choice was taken from him 72 hours later, when, on the bridge, an ensign brushed her hand against his arm to get his attention and he sent her flying across the room.
“Do not touch me!” he roared.
“Mr. Spock!” Uhura gasped, running across the bridge to help the girl up. She was dazed and a bit wobbly, but stood up with Uhura’s help. He watched her blink back tears as if from behind glass, not sure as to why the human should be crying. Distantly, he realized his hands were curled into fists and forced them open again, ignoring the small trickles of blood that followed. As quickly as it had come, the rage left him, and all he felt was exhaustion. He cleared his throat and said evenly, “I apologize, ensign, for my inexcusable behavior. Sulu, I believe it is in the ship’s best interest if you take the con for the remainder of my shift.”
“Yes sir,” Sulu said quickly. His voice was cold and Spock knew the only thing protecting him from the steel of Sulu’s blade—or perhaps his fists—was the rank he carried. He did the only thing he could reasonably do. He left, and he went to sick bay.
—
Doctor M’Benga didn’t have to say a thing. The look on his face told Spock everything he needed to know.
He held up a hand before the doctor could speak. “Do not say it.”
“I am sorry, Spock,” M’Benga said.
“Acknowledged. Leave me in peace. Tell the bridge to set a course for Vulcan. Let the ramifications fall on me,” Spock said. He closed his eyes, attempting to drag his usual calm back into place. It would be so easy to let go, to let the fire inside him swallow him up. Perhaps he would not be so tired if he let himself rage.
M’Benga grimaced but did as he was told. Spock let out a shuddering breath as the door slid closed. He planted his feet on the ground, breathing in and out a few times to center himself. He walked calmly, deliberately, to his computer and sent out a hailing frequency. T’Pring answered after a few moments. Seeing her did nothing to stop the fire in Spock’s stomach, nor did it increase it. He felt the same as he had for the past three days, which is to say he felt achy, angry, and hungry.
“T’Pring. Parted from me and never parted,” Spock said. He held up his hand in the ta’al.
“Never and always touching and touched,” T’Pring said, a glint of something unsettling in her voice.
“My wife, as you can doubtless feel, the fever has started in me. It pulls me to Vulcan, to the sands of our ancestors, and to you.”
“Spock, the pull you speak of does not affect me. I am not currently on Vulcan, and cannot be what you seek.”
“But—” Spock began. She continued talking as if she had not heard him—as she always had, since the moment of their bonding.
“The bond has been broken for years. It was clear you did not wish to acknowledge it and so I have not.”
Spock prodded at the bond in the back of his mind—it lay dormant but intact, thrumming with promise and stronger than it had been at its inception.
“The bond cannot be broken. I feel it still,” he protested. Emotion finally broke over T’Pring’s face—something like regret, something more like annoyance, and something else like sorrow.
“It has been gone for twelve years. If you have not noticed its absence, then it is clear that yours was replaced by another.”
“And you?” Spock asked.
Now, something like pain flickered over though her eyes and Spock felt it echoed in his heart.
“Unbonded. All this time, alone in my mind.”
“Why did you not—”
“Tell anyone? What would I say, Spock? We were a match made by T’Pau herself. To ridicule it would be blasphemous. To report its absence would be betrayal.”
“If what you say is true, I have betrayed you first, though I was unaware of it all this time.”
T’Pring said nothing. Now that he knew to look for it, he could feel the edges of his bond with her, snapped like a taut wire. Never correctly healed, not severed with dignity or choice. Broken.
“I am sorry,” Spock managed.
“As am I,” T’Pring said. “If I were the correct match for you, a spontaneous bond would not have been able to separate us. It is only logical you seek your true match.”
“What will you do?” Spock asked. He folded his hands behind his back to hide their shaking.
“I will find another mate. Stonn has expressed interest in forming a bond with me. If your blood fever had ever made itself known, I would have considered kaliffee.”
Spock eyebrows shot up. “So you would have broken our bond regardless?”
She shook her head. “I cannot say what would have been. I can only speak of what is now. I will mate with Stonn, or with another. You will mate with the one your bond hungers for. Kaiidth.”
“Kaiidth,” Spock echoed. She inclined her head in parting, but Spock held out his hand. “Wait.”
She raised an eyebrow. Spock tucked his hands again, trying to regain his composure.
“I regret the trouble I have caused you. I am in your debt. Do not hesitate to call upon me if you require my assistance.”
One final emotion flashed over T’Pring before her face settled into Vulcan calm—appreciation.
“I will recall this, Spock. A broken bond is cause for sorrow, but ours has resolved as peacefully as any in history.”
“Goodbye, she who was my wife,” Spock said quietly.
“Farewell, he who was my husband.”
—
The fever grew worse. He shook, he ached. He was too hot, too cold, too hungry, too angry. He couldn’t abide food, hardly forced down water. He did not sleep or meditate. He alternated between bouts of unending motion and absolute stillness. Sulu and Scotty took turns manning the con, with support from Uhura where needed. McCoy dropped by Spock’s quarters every few hours, since Spock refused to leave his room.
“You might as well tell me why we’re headed to Vulcan,” McCoy grouched. “I’m bound to find out soon anyway.”
“It is not necessary for you to know. Doctor M’Benga should have relayed the most pertinent information.”
“Yeah, he mentioned you were sick something awful and needed to go back to your homeland. But he didn’t say why.”
“If he had, I would have reason to dismember him,” Spock snapped. McCoy’s eyebrows rose.
“Down, boy! I’ve never seen you like this, Spock.”
“And you never shall again. Are you satisfied with your medical check-in?”
“Let’s see…hormones off the charts, high blood pressure, elevated respiration rate, elevated heart rate, shaking, sweating—which, mind you, I didn’t know Vulcans could do—dehydration and the beginnings of malnutrition.”
He threw a disgusted glance at Spock. “In other words, all….normal, as far as M’Benga’s predictions of your condition go. Whatever magic medicine is on Vulcan, let’s hope we can get you to it quickly.”
“I am inclined to agree,” Spock said stiffly. He fell silent and Doctor McCoy wisely left him in peace. Every conversation, every moment spent retaining normalcy took a little more effort than the day before. He could hardly force words out, now. He did not have the mental strength to calculate the days until the fever consumed him, but he was sure it was fast approaching.
He lay on his side, not bothering to climb into his bed—ruined from nights of thrashing and primal instincts to nest and shred. Cold metal soon warmed under his overheated cheek.
“Jim,” he whispered. “If only you were here. I might be able to endure this if you were here.”
—
They arrived on Vulcan soon afterward. Time had no meaning to Spock, now, just emotion. It passed in blurs and chunks and pain. He whispered mantras and mediations under his breath, unaware of the exact moment when the ancient words of his ancestors devolved into a continuous litany of Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim.
“Jim,” he muttered as a face swam into his vision, hours or days or weeks later.
“‘Fraid not,” Doctor McCoy’s gruff voice answered. He heaved Spock up by one arm, and the other was quickly taken by Doctor M’Benga, supporting his limp body between them. Spock pressed his eyes closed, fighting off the musky scent of male sweat, pheromones, hormones. It ignited something in him, primal and raw, and he couldn’t tell if he want to kill them or fuck them. They weren’t the one his body and soul craved, and the urge faded away, leaving only adrenaline and anger behind. It was strong, but Spock was stronger. He would not kill friends nor medical professionals of Jim’s beloved ship. It would be doing his captain a disservice in his absence.
“Spock, you gotta tell me where we’re going. I know how you like your Vulcan secrets, but as your doctor, I’m accompanying you down to the planet,” Doctor McCoy said.
Exhausted beyond words, Spock mumbled something about his parents’ house. Doctor M’Benga shifted Spock’s weight fully to Doctor McCoy so he could check Spock’s file. He passed the information to navigation, and the first pleasant sensation Spock had felt since this whole horrid affair started enveloped him—the transport beam. Usually vaguely unpleasant, the tingle of being taken apart and put back together was a welcome distraction from the feel of hands against his body and the throb of his own head. It ceased nearly instantaneously, and he was on Vulcan for the first time in almost a decade. Some of the terrible hunger let him go and he stood on his own for the first time in days, rooted in the sands of his ancestors. Something inside of him, the oldest, deepest part of his soul that held the touch-memory of the thousands of Vulcans before him took hold of him. Like a bloodhound, Spock whipped around, orienting himself. The one he sought was nearby—Spock could feel his bond calling for completion and restoration. He pushed Doctors McCoy and M’Benga off of him, ignoring both them and his parents, voicing their rightful concern, and darted towards the door. As if all the energy he’d been storing up while in his stupor had come back to him now, at this most important moment, and he ran. He felt lighter on his feet than he had in years, like a young boy who barely touched the ground while tearing through the sands of Vulcan, on a mission. His breath came in great, painful gasps, though he could hardly feel it. All that mattered was the pull in his chest that led him where he needed to go. There, to the left, towards the center of the city. There, down that street and across the way, that large stone building. Spock burst through the doors into the building that held the one his soul craved.
His golden Human, his beautiful Jim, was seated at a large table filled with Vulcan ambassadors. They had just adjourned the meeting, all beginning to rise and file out the doors. As if on a string, Jim turned around to face Spock the instant he came through the doors.
Spock stopped dead in his tracks, and the smile that stretched across his face was sure to offend nearly everyone else in the room. His heart sang; his soul lifted; every part of him was some ridiculous Human metaphor for happiness, and all of them were accurate.
“Jim,” he said, more out of breath from the sight of him than any amount of running.
“Spock? What are you doing here, what’s—what’s going on? Are you alright?”
Jim’s expression of amused confusion soured into one of concern as he took in the wreck of the Vulcan in front of him. Spock shook his head.
“Do not worry for me, Jim,” he said, forcing himself to take measured steps towards him, restraining himself from leaping into his beloved’s arms. “I will not be cause of any of your pain, no matter how small or large. Jim, oh, my dearest, I have found you.”
“Spock, I don’t understand,” Jim started to say, but cut himself as Spock’s hands scrambled to find his psi-points. Just touching them—no melding yet, not until he got consent—was a relief stronger than any medicine in the galaxy. His knees crumpled under the weightlessness of dissipating pain. Jim went down with him and they stayed there on the floor, one supporting the other. Spock pressed his forehead against that of his captain’s.
“Spock.”
Jim’s voice was gentle but firm; commanding. Spock couldn’t hold back a smile. Captainly. But underlying that there was concern, worry, affection. Spock felt it coming from him in waves he couldn’t control, and he drank in each emotion thirstily.
“Jim,” Spock replied, more hum than word.
“Spock, I need you to tell me what’s happening. Are you sick? Injured?”
“I am but will soon be better, if you accept me.”
“Accept you?”
Spock lowered his voice; even for his T’hy’la, he was reluctant to spill secrets long kept by his people. If he were in a clearer state of mind, he would have seen the room had emptied moments ago; elders and diplomats knew the signs of pon faar in its culminating moments, and knew better than to intrude on a private bonding.
“I long for you, Jim. All of me craves your touch. My mind, my body, the very core of my soul. We have created a bond, unnoticed until now—unnoticed by myself, foolishly. A bond stronger and purer than the one contrived by T’Pau and T’Pring.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jim said, but his voice betrayed wonder and longing of his own.
“There is so much technicality,” Spock admitted. His energy at finding Jim had faded, bringing back shivers that wracked his body once more. Jim bundled him into his arms, holding him closer, as if to stave off the shaking.
“Too much to explain right now,” he murmured, melting into the embrace.
“Tell me what I need to do. Tell what I can do,” Jim said firmly.
“Marry me,” Spock said instantly. “That is the closest Human approximation of what I wish to share with you.”
“Right now?” Jim asked, his eyes darting around the room. Cloudy uncertainly flowed from him and Spock collapsed further under the weight of it.
“Now, if you can,” he said, as steadily as he could manage. “I am weak, though stronger now that you are near me. I do not know how much longer I can live without you.”
Jim took a silent, shocked breath. Spock could feel it in the rise and fall of his chest.
“I’d bet my stripes the symptoms of this sickness don’t include making Vulcans speak metaphorically. When you say you’ll die without me….you mean that.”
Spock nodded, slowly, his eyes sliding shut. Hope drained from him like blood from a mortal wound. Foolish to think Jim could tie himself to one, especially when that one was Spock.
“I will. But if I force you to mate with me without your full, uncontested agreement, it will be death of a different kind. Either way, I die.”
“As your captain, Mr. Spock, I simply cannot allow you to die. And as your friend…if you died, you know I would follow you there.”
“Friend,” Spock repeated. “Jim, to me you are not just ‘friend’. You are ‘all’. My friend, my brother, my lover. In my heart, I know we are lovers, and if I die now…”
He had no end to that sentence. The polite thing, the right thing to say would be to assure Jim he wouldn’t mind, that just being known by him was enough. But Spock was a Vulcan and Vulcans do not lie. He left the rest unsaid. Thankfully, Jim knew the words. He took Spock’s hand and pressed it against his lips, then against his chest so Spock could feel his hammering heart.
“I love you, Spock. I give my full, uncontested consent. I don’t know exactly what’s going on right now, but I trust you completely. Do what you need to do, Spock, and I’ll be right there by your side.”
Spock pressed his fingers stronger against Jim’s face, finally allowing the door in his mind to burst open and flood forward. Jim’s mind met him with surprise but resolve. He let him in without hesitation. Spock didn’t need to do anything to the bond—it was taking care of itself. Only time would be needed for its completion. While his katra bound itself, finally, to its mate, he poured everything Jim needed into his mind. Thoughts and explanations sped from Spock’s mind to Jim’s, and Spock felt the relief and understanding doubled back. Spock poured in his love as well, all he had been keeping from his Jim for so long. That, too, was echoed by Jim, redoubled, sent back with apologies for cowardice and uncertainly, resolutions and promises for a better future.
The final strings of the bond knitted themselves together and the meld faded away until Spock was alone in his mind—nearly alone, he amended, stroking the bond just to remind himself it was there. Jim jumped in surprise at the mental touch. As the intimacy of shared mindspace faded, Spock could feel Jim craving intimacy of a Human sort. He could deny nothing to his T’hy’la, and pressed his lips against Jim’s without hesitation. When they parted again, Jim’s face was flushed with pleased embarrassment.
“Sorry, Spock, I can’t imagine that feels very natural to you,” he said.
“The bond we now share is the furthest thing from natural for you, and yet you have embraced it. A Human kiss is a small price to pay in return.” He touched his lips, still warm and buzzing with the feel of Jim’s. “I did not find it distasteful.”
Despite their physical and mental closeness, he also craved a certain kind of intimacy, so he held up his hands, two fingers extended. Jim, insightful, observant, knowledgeable Jim, knew what he wanted without explanation. Their fingers met and the final bit of tension Spock had been carrying melted out of him. Jim chuckled, wrapping his free arm around Spock’s boneless form.
“Is it over? Are you okay now?”
From their meld, Jim had picked up the rudimentary workings of pon faar, and so knew the feeling of an abated fever.
“There is another component to the ritual,” Spock said. The worst of it was sated for now through the formation of their bond, but the mate-and-claim instincts of pon faar still simmered in his core. The assurance of their newly-forged promise would not last long without actual completion. Through their touching fingers, he sent a small volley of images, explanations of what was to come. Jim’s face flushed further and he shifted where he sat on the floor.
“Oh,” he said, understanding warring with embarrassment. “I see.”
“Is this acceptable for you?” Spock asked cautiously.
Jim smiled immediately. “More than, Spock, don’t worry. Though it’s been a while since I engaged in…those particular activities.”
Spock disengaged their fingers, wanting to be unheard in his own mind for this part of the conversation.
“Jim, through our years together, I have studied your nature. You are a lover of other Humans and a romantic yourself. When you have opportunity to share a night—or more—with another Human, I will not stop you.”
“Oh, Spock,” Jim said, sounding hopelessly fond. “You asked me to marry you. I know what that means: commitment and fidelity. And I gave my full consent, didn’t I?”
“Yes. But I know that your Human emotions and sex drive are much different than my own. I will not disparage you your nature.”
“And I wouldn’t disparage yours. Don’t think I didn’t see that big old streak of possessiveness in your mind! Besides, now that I have you, I can’t imagine anyone else could tempt me. I may look now and then—I appreciate beauty in all forms. But I hope you’ll never think I find anyone more beautiful than you.”
“It is much the same for me, Jim.”
The glow of Jim’s smile was intensified by the glow shared in their bond. Spock felt the stirrings of pon faar again, but this time he did not fear it. He welcomed it, knowing now that he had Jim, he’d be able to weather any storm.
“Isn’t it lucky,” Jim mused, helping Spock stand. “That we managed to find each other.”
Spock thought of the party, the conversations they’d spent the night on, the brush of Jim’s fingers against his, and of all the moments and years that had led to this moment. Pike’s retirement. Spock’s recommendation. All the times where one or the other of them had faced death and just barely won. All of it felt bigger than luck, bigger even than miracles. It felt like inevitability and a little like fate.
“I assure you, Jim. Luck had nothing to do with it.”