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The bar is crowded and noisy, just as Jim likes it.
“Cool place, huh?” he says loudly to be heard over the general hubbub.
“Indeed, Captain, the ambient temperature is—”
“Knock it off, Spock!” Jim grins, elbowing his first officer in the ribs. “I know you know what that means.” The Vulcan’s silence is all the confirmation Jim needs. “And quit with the ‘captain’ thing – we’re on shoreleave now.”
Spock is wearing what Jim has come to think of as his unhappy face, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned which he’s long privately thought is rather adorable on his Vulcan friend. The only reason they are late getting to the bar is because it took Jim ten minutes to persuade Spock to come along (‘Captain, Vulcans have no need to, as you say, let their hair down, and I do not believe my presence would, in any way add to either crew morale or camaraderie’) and another ten for the Vulcan to change into non-regulation clothes because no way was Jim going to let him beam down in uniform.
The dark gray slacks and asymmetric black jacket Jim thoroughly approves of; Spock, he thinks, looks both forbidding and hot. When he first caught sight of his first officer as he stepped out of his quarters, a little thrill ran up his spine at the sight, though he managed to keep his mouth from gaping open in silent appreciation. His crew, he noticed as they made their way to the transporter room, were not so subtle or self-controlled, with several heads turning and at least one clunk behind them where someone must have walked into a wall.
Standing at the bar, they scroll through the drinks menu together. “I hope you’re not going to stick to boring fruit juices,” Jim says, still undecided. There are plenty of drinks he recognizes, but he’s looking for something new.
Spock meets his gaze. “You are aware that alcohol does not affect Vulcan physiology in the manner it does Humans, therefore it would be illogical to purchase a beverage for which its purpose is rendered null.”
“We don’t just drink to get drunk, Spock!” Jim protests. “It’s about the flavor, too.”
Spock looks at him skeptically, no doubt remembering the time they were on Wrigleys when he made a bet with Bones that he could get further down the drinks list than the doctor without losing consciousness. He won and, and hadn’t exactly acquitted himself as an officer and a gentleman when Spock was forced to virtually carry him to his hotel room and he threw up on his shoes. Yeah, not one of the more glorious moments in the life of Captain James. T. Kirk.
“Look to get you here, I promised you I wouldn’t get shitfaced this time, and I meant it, okay?”
Spock nods once in response (proving to Jim, once and for all, that Spock is perfectly able to understand colloquialisms like ‘shitfaced’ and probably only asks for explanations for his own amusement).
“Right. So I’m going to stick to something mild and it would be kinda nice if you joined in.”
Jim watches Spock exhale heavily, the Vulcan equivalent, he supposes, of a sigh, and grins. “So, Phalaxan wine is apparently the local brew. Wanna give it a try?”
“Very well, Jim. However, if the flavor is not to my taste, I reserve the right to select an alternative beverage with which I am more familiar.”
“Deal,” Jim grins and places an order.
Holding their drinks, they work their way through the crowd, Jim leading. “Fuck, it’s crowded here,” he shouts over the noise of the music which is louder in the middle of the dance floor where he pauses to survey the large seating area beyond. “Can you see them anywhere?”
Spock moves forward and unerringly leads them to a corner where his senior crew have amazingly found a table. By the looks of all the empty glasses, they're on at least their second round of drinks.
“Jim,” Bones calls, standing up when he sees them pushing through to get to their table.
Jim waves back with a grin. His friend is already looking more relaxed than he’s seen him since their brush with a Klingon warbird on the edge of the Neutral Zone two weeks earlier.
The round table has two large, curved, bench seats able to comfortably take four humanoids. Sulu, Chekov, Scotty and Chapel are sitting on one bench. Jim and Spock take the two saved seats on the other bench beside Bones and Uhura. As he sits, he raises his glass of wine. “To the best starship crew in the Federation,” he says with genuine feeling, raising his voice to be heard. Everyone cheers and toasts everyone else with glasses clinking together. He sips the Phalaxan wine and is surprised when the tangy, fruity flavor of the liquid bursts across his tongue and lightly burns down his throat as he swallows. He glances at the pale orange liquid in approval before looking to Spock, his eyebrows raised.
“Well?”
“It is acceptable.”
Can’t ask for more than that Jim decides and takes another sip. He sees Uhura lean forward, looking at the glass Spock is holding and noticing it’s the same as his own drink.
“Is that alcohol?” she asks Spock, her voice sounding incredulous.
“It is Phalaxan wine, Nyota. A most pleasant, fruitful flavor redolent of Traggle Nectar, with an added…I believe the Standard term is…‘kick’.”
“Kick,” Uhura repeats, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Was I incorrect in my usage of the term?”
Jim punches Spock on the arm. “Nope. You got it right.”
“You do know,” Uhura says, looking directly at Jim, “that alcohol doesn’t do anything for him, right?”
+
Apparently…wrong, Jim discovers two hours and five glasses later. He’s feeling more than pleasantly buzzed – Spock was right about the kick. The alcohol content must be a lot higher than in Terran wines.
The table is empty, save for the two of them, as the others have gone to dance or look for potential partners for the evening, or both.
“Is it a normal physiological response when imbibing alcohol,” Spock asks in a tone that he might use on the bridge, “to become erect?”
Jim inhales the wine he was in the process of sipping.
“Excuse me?” he wheezes, once he gets his coughing fit under control and wipes the resultant tears from his eyes. The effort to talk brings on another bout of hacking.
“I said—”
Jim waves his hand and takes another gulp of his drink to calm the coughing down. “I heard what you said.”
“Then why—”
“I just couldn’t believe you said what you did,” he interrupts. His first officer, the most upright member of his crew, doesn’t ask questions like that. But fuck, it’s hot when he finally does.
Spock is staring at him, apparently waiting for an answer. “Uh…no, it’s not generally a direct effect – quite the opposite if too much is drunk.” He’s unable to stop himself glancing at Spock’s lap, but he’s disappointed to see it’s in shadow and partially covered by his jacket. “Are you sure…?”
“You do not believe me?” Spock asks, his eyebrow raised. Before Jim can respond, his wrist is gripped and his hand is suddenly being pressed against what feels like an impressive hard-on.
This is the stuff of Jim’s fantasies. He's had the hots for Spock from the moment he set eyes on him, though at first he thought the Vulcan had a serious attitude problem that he found kind of irritating and sexy at the same time. (Yeah, he’s a bit fucked up that way – blame his unconventional up-bringing.) So getting to cup evidence of his first officer’s virile masculinity brings about a predictable result as his own cock rapidly perks up with interest.
“Wow,” is all Jim can manage, as he puts down his drink so he can use his spare hand to surreptitiously adjust his now very tight pants to accommodate his own raging boner.
“Is it not the same for you?” Spock asks and, without warning, presses his hot hand to Jim’s groin and apparently discovers that it is.
Jim does not whimper. Whatever noise it was that escaped his traitorous mouth, it wasn’t a fucking whimper. He is a starship captain with considerable sexual experience, he reminds himself.
The trouble is, not only is he happily getting the full measure of Spock’s lack of control cupped in his palm, but the Vulcan’s hand on him feels like it’s branding him. It’s as though his brain short-circuits, his entire world narrowed down to the sensation of him touching Spock and Spock touching him there. It takes every ounce of his rapidly departing self-control not to push himself up into the hand, for once cursing Spock and his superhuman strength for being so fucking gentle.
“You state ‘not generally’,” Spock says matter-of-factly, as if he’s not feeling up his commanding officer in public, like this is some sort of discussion they’d have while on duty. Jim tries to force his mind to focus on what his first officer is saying. Arousal aside, the amount he’s drunk isn’t helping matters either. “That connotes occasions when it is, indeed, the case, such as now,” Spock concludes.
Jim marvels at Spock’s ability to form coherent sentences, when his own has deserted him. “Yeah, I guess,” he says and then remembers to look up at Spock’s eyes and not stare at his cute mouth, which would look fucking amazing wrapped around his cock right about now.
“It is logical, therefore,” Spock continues, apparently unaware of the dampening effect his proximity and actions are having on Jim’s genius IQ, “that you and I should find a mutually beneficial method by which we may eradicate the issue.”
Jim’s eyes lift from where he’s staring at the gorgeous mouth again to look at Spock’s dark, earnest eyes. His brain has just gone off on vacation. “What?”
Spock stands and hauls Jim up. “We will seek suitable accommodation for our purposes.”
“Right,” Jim agrees, and then tries to parse Spock’s last few comments in his memory to make sense of them because he’s becoming convinced he’s just stepped through Alice’s looking glass.
They move through the crowd, Spock’s grip on his upper arm never faltering – not that Jim needs any coercion – and he admires the way the crowd parts for them like the biblical Red Sea, no-one apparently willing to stand in the way of a determined-looking Vulcan. When a woman on the dance floor looks at Jim as they approach and says, “Hello beautiful blue eyes,” Spock growls at her. Fucking growls. And Jim wants to laugh and hug Spock to him but he can’t because he’s being dragged with even more urgency.
They manage to get out without running into a single one of his crew. The moment the door shuts behind them and they stumble onto the street of Phalaxa’s capital city, they are enfolded in warm, humid air, heavy with the scent of the moon-blossom that is growing in wild clumps along the edge of adjacent parkland. Spock’s grip on his arm lessens, but he doesn’t let go as they begin to make their way down the semi-lit street.
“Spock,” Jim says, finally coming to his senses. The part of him that has been lusting after his first officer forever wants to strangle the part him that is, god forbid, trying to be sensible, because Spock’s behavior right now is not normal and even Jim has some principles. “Spock, wait up,” he repeats when he gets no reaction.
The Vulcan stops. “You have a query?”
“Yeah, I do,” he says, swinging around to face Spock. “What the fuck’s going on with you?”
“We are both in a state of arousal. I am attempting to locate an establishment where we may remedy the matter in private.”
Jim tries to yank his arm free of Spock’s firm grasp. “I am not going to a hotel with you!” Not like this, even though he wants it so much he can taste it. The air is helping him sober up, but his body is sluggish, his mind not as sharp as it usually is, when it can normally come up with a robust tactical plan in moments. Right now he’s having difficulty putting coherent sentences together.
“Very well. Not a hotel.” With that, Spock begins to walk again, immediately veering off into the unlit park they have been skirting.
Since Spock is still holding on to him, Jim has no choice but to follow. Twenty steps into the park, he stumbles over something, his eyes not yet accustomed to the gloom, the only illumination a red gibbous moon hanging overhead like a ruby cabochon. The jarring brings him back to his senses.
“Spock, stop.” His command tone works and he sighs with relief. “Spock, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but this isn’t you. Something in that wine has made you—”
Jim is effectively silenced by a pair of hot Vulcan lips. When he opens his mouth to try to at least get out a small protest, his mouth is invaded by a searching tongue which slides wetly against his own, and it’s at that point that his voice of reason gets up and walks away without so much as a backward glance.
The kiss is hot and erotic, alternating between urgent and consuming, tongues clashing and dancing in battle, and gentle, affectionate sucking and nibbling of lips. He can taste the wine in the Vulcan’s mouth, coupled with something else – a spicy flavor that is uniquely Spock. Jim’s vaguely aware of one of Spock’s hands cupping the back of his head, the other sliding against his own hand, palm to palm. But most of all, it’s the feeling of Spock’s hard shaft pressed against his own, the subtle movement of shifting hips creating a delicious friction.
As suddenly as it started, Spock withdraws from the kiss and, in surprise, Jim opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Spock hasn’t run off, but instead has fallen to his knees on the soft ground and is attempting to undo his pants.
“Why do you choose to wear attire that is clearly manufactured for someone whose dimensions are smaller than yours?” Spock asks, a tight note to his voice. He finally gives up and rips the material away.
“Hey, I paid good money for these pants!” Jim protests.
“Then I will replace them,” Spock pulls them down Jim’s thighs, “and ensure the size is correct.”
Spock’s eyes fasten on the bulge in Jim's briefs, then almost reverentially reaches out and, taking hold of the waistband, slowly slides them down. At first, his cock is trapped in the material, but then it suddenly springs free and points straight at Spock’s face: hot, hard and damp with excitement. The Vulcan’s nostrils flare as he breathes in the scent of Jim’s arousal.
He watches as Spock takes his eyes off his cock to glance up at him and it is the most erotic sight he has ever seen. Gaze never wavering, Spock leans forward and, engulfing him in the furnace of his mouth, bathes him in a searing heat that penetrates him to his core, like a brand on his heart.
Jim may have cried out. He’s not sure because the entirety of his attention is focused, raptly, on Spock swallowing him whole until those lips, that normally utter such logic, are pressed firmly to his groin and Jim’s hands grip the Vulcan’s head, feeling the silky strands of hair slide between his fingers.
Jim wants to fuck Spock’s face. Spock wants to suck him off. Spock wins, as his hips are gripped firmly and that beautiful mouth slides wetly along the length of his cock, tongue lapping at the sensitive head, poking into the slit before slowly gliding back towards the base.
Jim groans. The feeling is indescribable, but it’s the emotions that go with it that make this moment so special. He’s wanted Spock for so long – over two years – and has brought himself off countless times to this very image. To be able surrender, utterly, to the Vulcan, for once to not be in command, to not have to make the final decision, is his deepest, most abiding fantasy.
Spock’s movements speed up and he can feel the climax building in him, the sensation of uncoiling starting in his balls and spreading outward, up his spine, into his abdomen, pulsating within him. Jim fights to keep his eyes open, to watch Spock’s every movement, so he sees it when Spock releases one of his hips and takes a gentle hold of his balls and pulls…
With a cry, he throws his head back as his orgasm rockets through him in jarring waves, spreading to his extremities in toe-curling pulses of pleasure.
With breathless, urgent gasps, he manages one word: “Fuck.”
“That is my intension,” Spock says, gracefully standing, as he undoes the front of his gray pants.
A moment later, Jim is staring raptly at Spock’s engorged cock, glistening in the eerily red moonlight.
“Prepare me,” Spock says and pushes two fingers into Jim’s mouth. Like a child at a breast, he sucks on them hungrily, noting with satisfaction the quiet gasp his action elicits from the Vulcan.
The fingers are removed and Jim is gently turned. “Spread your legs,” Spock commands and he does, without question, as much as he’s able, given his pants and briefs are still around his thighs. He’s stopped thinking about what’s happening, no longer concerned with Spock’s atypical behavior or the reasons for it. All he can focus on is the fact that he’s about to get his fantasy come true.
He feels his asscheeks gently pulled apart and then, something wet. Not Spock’s fingers – his tongue. Touching him there. Laving him with moist strokes, causing shudders of desire to buzz through him. He can't see what Spock's doing, but he can imagine it in his mind's eye, and it rates as one of the most erotic experiences of his life.
“Fuck, oh fuck, jeez…oh…oh…fuck!” his litany whispered as Spock continues his blissful attention, stroking over the sensitized skin and then pushing wetly past the tight ring of muscle to fuck into him again and again.
Jim cries out at the intensity of feeling, and suddenly he’s achingly hard again, the fastest turnaround, he’s sure, since he was young teenager. His whole body is screaming in want, in lust, eager for Spock to fill him, impale him on the gorgeous alien cock he caught a brief sight of.
Fingers replace tongue, filling him, sliding and scissoring as Spock plasters himself against his back, the tongue that was doing wicked things to his ass, now licking at his neck, lips and teeth nibbling at his ear, as he’s gently but thoroughly prepared.
A hand pressed between his shoulder blades pushes him forward, bending him at the waist and then he feels it nudging against his ass. He closes his eyes, waiting for the burn with no lube, but it never comes as Spock gently and inexorably slides into him, filling him inch by incredible inch with his thick hardness, making wanting a reality. If he dies now, he thinks, he’ll die a happy man.
When Spock is fully sheathed, Jim lets go the breath he’s been holding, a sigh of contentment at the rightness of their bodies joined as one, slotted together like a dream of perfection.
He feels the Vulcan hold onto his hips and pull back almost to the tip and then plunge back into him, impaling him to the hilt as though staking his claim, and Jim accepts and surrenders, utterly, to the force that is Spock.
Spock wraps his arm around Jim’s chest and pulls him upright while still buried in him, thrusting wildly, fucking him hard, and Jim imagines Spock’s tight, sinewy ass flexing as the Vulcan powerfully plunders his body. Spock bites him through his thin shirt and Jim grabs his own cock, milking it in time to the Vulcan’s pistoning until he feels the rhythm falter, Spock’s hips stutter and he growls, “Jim!” With a shudder, he spills his release deep inside. Hearing his name uttered with such obvious carnality sets off Jim’s second orgasm, exploding hot seed over his hand as muscular convulsions grip Spock’s shaft, milking him dry.
+
Jim is sitting in his quarters, using the downtime they have at Phalaxa to catch up with a backlog of paperwork. His mind is only half on his job, the burn in his ass a constant reminder of the events of the night before.
After straightening themselves out – Jim having to borrow Spock’s jacket to cover the fact his pants were ripped – they signaled beam-up to the ship. Flung over the back of the spare chair, it is the only other tangible evidence of the incredible encounter the night before. They parted ways at the doors to their adjacent quarters, with formal goodnights, like Spock hadn’t just fucked him into oblivion.
There was no sight of Spock in the mess at breakfast, and Jim had sighed partly in relief and partly in regret. That epitomized his feelings on the whole encounter. Part of him wants more, but the greater part of him is horrified he took advantage of Spock when the Vulcan was clearly affected by something in the wine, his judgment seriously compromised. That he, himself, was less than sober, made little difference to him.
When the door chime sounds he almost jumps as it pulls him abruptly from his thoughts.
He presses the button on his desk console and the door slides back to reveal the person he most and least wants to see right now.
Spock steps over the threshold and waits for the door to close. “Captain.”
“Spock.” Although the urge to speak, to say something about what happened between them is strong, he finds his StarFleet training in diplomacy coming in surprisingly handy. He remains silent, giving room for Spock to speak, since he’s obviously come here for a reason. He waits to see how his first officer wants to play this.
Spock stands just inside the door, his body ramrod straight and radiating tension. “Captain,” he says again, looking at a point somewhere above Jim’s head, and the fact that he's repeating himself is an indication to Jim that he's as close to nervous as it's possible for a Vulcan to get. “I regret the events of yesterday evening, and formally submit myself for whatever disciplinary action you deem appropriate.”
Well, he wasn’t expecting that. He stands up and walks around his desk. “Disciplinary…? Uh…why?”
For a moment, Spock’s gaze slides to him, and then moves back to some place vaguely over his shoulder. “I assaulted my commanding officer.”
Assaulted? He sits on the edge of his desk, his thoughts going in several directions at once. Needing to stop the clamor, he focuses back on Spock’s words, requiring clarification before he says anything, before refuting the claim.
“Would you explain to me at which point last night you believe you assaulted me?”
A shadow passes over Spock’s face. Two years into their mission and Jim still finds the Vulcan almost impossible to read, but there are the tiniest of tells if you know where to look for them. For a start, his hands are fists curled against his thigh and his brows are slightly furrowed.
“I took advantage of you while you were inebriated by physically removing you from the bar without your permission, and then proceeded to sexually assault you in a public place.”
Jim scratches his chin to give him some thinking room – he needs a tactical advantage. “Okay, that’s your perception. So let me share my memory of the same event.”
Now is not the time to be flippant – Spock is taking this seriously, so Jim will too. “We were both in a sexually aroused state. You suggested we leave and I agreed. After we got outside, I had second thoughts – not because I didn’t want to go ahead with it, but because I was worried about taking advantage of you while you were under the influence of an unknown intoxicant that was clearly affecting both your judgment and your control. Although the wine wasn’t having the same effect on me, unfortunately my own good sense wasn’t enough to curb my libido. As a result, I perpetrated a sexual assault on an officer under my command while said officer was impaired and unable to defend himself.”
He’s never seen Spock look floored before, but that’s the only way he can describe his current expression.
“You believe you assaulted me?” Jim definitely picks out an incredulous tone and feels quite pleased with himself for turning the table so quickly and pulling the rug out from under Spock.
“Put another way, would you have behaved like that if you hadn’t been under the influence of whatever was in that Phalaxan wine?”
Spock remains silent and Jim smiles. If he states he wouldn’t have, then he’d be within his right to press charges. And if he says he would have, well then… they would need to have that as a separate discussion.
“There’s an old Terran expression that seems fitting,” Jim says when it’s clear Spock isn’t going to answer. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“Indeed.”
Jim wonders how long it’s going to take that big Vulcan brain of Spock’s to realize that his captain has just made a confession of sorts.
“The wine did not influence you in the same manner it did me?”
Bingo. He knew it wouldn’t take Spock long.
“No, it had pretty much the same effect as any alcohol, just lowering my inhibitions and making me more reckless.”
He gives Spock time to process that. Where they go with this conversation is now up to his first officer. He is willing to confess the degree of his attraction, but only if he is given some sign that the news will be welcomed. The last thing he needs right now is to cause any problems with either their work relationship or their friendship.
Jim releases the deathgrip he realizes he has on the edge of his desk where he is perched, flexing his fingers and consciously trying to force his body to relax, but he can’t still the hammering of his heart, which is hammering in his chest like a freight-train at full-speed.
“I require time to reflect,” Spock says eventually.
“Fair enough.” Jim stands upright. This isn’t what he wants, but it is clearly what Spock needs and that is of paramount importance to him.
Spock moves to leave and Jim grabs the jacket. "Wait, this is yours."
Perhaps remembering why Jim needed to borrow it, Spock seems almost reluctant to accept it. He walks to the door and as it opens, he turns back to Jim. “I do not intend to press charges, Captain. Your claim is built on inaccurate evidence.”
As the door slides closed behind Spock, Jim lets out the breath he’s been holding and falls into the spare seat at his desk. He feels deflated yet he’s unable to quell the small seed of hope that was sown, but has lain dormant, since the day he found out Spock and Uhura were no longer an item. The previous night’s activities have fed and watered that seed which is now doing its best to flourish. But it’s too soon.
“Fuck.” He leans forward in the chair, elbow on knees and suddenly feeling very tired, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s hyper-conscious of the fact that he’s standing at a crossroads and the decision which direction an important part of his life will take lies in Spock’s hands, even though the Vulcan may not realize it.
Jim has spent most of his life carefully avoiding any situations that give others the upper hand with him, a hard-won lesson learned during his years living with his step-father. So the fact that Spock now effectively holds the key to his heart does not sit well with him. Neither does the realization that Spock has come to mean more to him than just a colleague and friend, because all things considered – specifically the fact that the Vulcan isn’t exactly jumping into Jim’s arms – it’s damn inconvenient.
The trouble is, these feelings aren’t new and easily ignored. He found Spock undeniably attractive from the moment he set eyes on him, though their professional relationship had gotten off to a somewhat rocky start. Somewhere between then and now, Jim fell for him, but even he isn’t masochistic enough to dwell on it and ‘what could be’, since he has no idea if any Vulcans in general, and Spock, specifically, swing both ways. And even now that he knows he does, with Vulcan gone, it is highly probable Spock will choose someone he can have kids with. Perpetuating the species and all that.
So. Now Spock is aware of Jim’s attraction, and he’s now going to have to wait to see what his first officer is going to do with that knowledge, if anything; he is just going to have to sweat it out.
+
The first week after ‘the encounter’, as he’s come to think of it, is fucking torture, as he half waits for the sword of Damocles to fall. By the end of the first month when Spock has failed to broach the subject, he’s buried that little seed, squelched any residual feelings and firmly put the whole incident behind him. Jim learned a strong sense of self-preservation early on in life – another life-lesson from his step-dad – understanding that when things aren’t working out, it’s best to pack your bags and move on. In this case, metaphorically speaking.
It isn’t easy. There’s a slight awkwardness to them at first when they are alone together – the elephant in the room that apparently neither is going to acknowledge – but since these times are the result of professional duties, they seem to get over it and things become easier.
There is one area of weakness in Jim’s plan to eradicate all feelings for Spock, and that’s when he indulges in the occasional Spock fantasy. He’s had them since Day One, but they’ve become much richer and more real, fed in glorious detail by the knowledge he now has from the memories of Spock fucking him that night. He doesn’t allow it often, for his own sanity, but when he does, while a small part of him breaks at what he can’t have, he focuses on what it does for him, which is the incredible intensity of orgasm and its aftermath.
He supposes if anything is going to force feelings to the surface to be acknowledged, it’s a life-or-death situation. What surprises him is that it’s not his own feelings that are eventually laid bare.
The entire mission to Sigma Priton V is a clusterfuck from start to finish. The planet is petitioning to join the Federation and the Enterprise is carrying a diplomatic team on board to handle matters (while the Federation may rely on his skills as a diplomat when in deep space, they use competent professionals to do the job wherever they can). Jim joined them on the surface, both as a figurehead and also because he knew he could learn a trick or two from people who know what they’re doing when it comes to the intricacies of carefully negotiating treaties around the Prime Directive.
What the Pritons didn’t divulge ahead of the start of the summit is the full extent of the unrest between planetary factions, some of which want to maintain their independence. And what better way to make a splash than to kidnap StarFleet’s golden boy.
As prisons go, he’s seen worse. He’s kept in a windowless room that’s not really fit for purpose; he has to be escorted to the bathroom when needed. Since he was stunned when captured, he has no idea how long it took to get wherever he currently is. Now they’ve got him there, his kidnappers are arguing among themselves over what exactly to do with him.
At first, Kirk spends a lot of his time planning his escape: watching the guards, trying to ascertain their numbers, their routines, their shift change-overs, the weapons they carry, so that he can make his move. The problem is that only about a quarter of the food they give him is edible and his strength quickly drains away. He tries it anyway, half over-coming a guard who brings in his dinner, but he’s no match physically, and is quickly subdued, knocked unconscious for goodness’ knows how long by a vicious slap to the head.
After that, with no sense of day or night, he spends a lot of time sleeping, or lying on his back staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of anything, now that escape under his own steam is not going to happen. It’s harder than he realizes, since as soon as he tries to empty his mind, a thought pops in, and more often than not, it’s related to Spock. After a while, he becomes too weak from lack of food and water to care that Spock is all he wants to think about. The alternative is despair at the thought he isn’t going to make this out alive, that his crew have given up on him. He knows it isn’t healthy dwelling on his Vulcan friend, but he finds it comforting: a small solace in a shitty situation. As he grows weaker, not just from the lack of food, but the fact that toxins that are in what he does eat, he imagines a rope stretching between him and Spock like a lifeline.
He’s unable to determine how long he’s been there, but knows it’s a while – a week or more – and wonders why it’s taking his crew so long to find him. It’s only later he finds out the place he’s being held has sophisticated communication jamming technology that has been stolen from a government agency with the help of someone high-up who’s sympathetic to their cause. The stolen equipment not only prevents the Enterprise scanners from being able to locate him, it causes his lifesigns monitor on the ship to flatline.
From an account he gets later from Bones, Spock is a veritable avenging angel, having worked night and day for nine days, apparently convinced he’s still alive – when even his best friend has given up on him – trying to figure out where he’s being held captive.
The security team Spock takes in with him when he finally figures it out are all trained in dealing with hostage situations and they execute a textbook rescue plan. His kidnappers are amateur opportunists and really don’t stand a chance against an elite StarFleet force led by a determined and, it transpires, very pissed-off Vulcan.
When the door breaks in, Jim is barely conscious, curled up in a miserable ball on the floor awaiting his fate, convinced his captors have decided he’s outlived his usefulness. He doesn’t look up until he hears a familiar and beloved voice over the sound of a tricorder’s whirring.
“Captain, are you harmed?”
The sight of Spock, wearing full combat fatigues, kneeling beside him, is a sight to behold. He somehow finds the strength to push himself to a sitting position, but he’s weak and it takes a lot of effort as he nearly blacks out. He wants to hug him, kiss him, tell him he’ll have his babies. He’s just so glad to see the one person he had practically given up believing he’d ever see again.
Spock, on the other hand, is wearing his unhappy face which confuses Jim, given how fucking happy he is to see Spock and to get out of this hell-hole.
“What happened?” is the question he asks, when what he wants to know is how come it took so long to find me? He’ll get the details soon enough when he reads the final report and right now he doesn’t want to guilt-trip Spock. Even though the Vulcan would deny it to his dying day that he could ever feel such an emotion.
“The faction holding you utilized a sensor-deflection net which prevented us from locating you.” Spock studies the readout on the tricorder display. “You are dehydrated and malnourished, Captain. Are you able to stand?”
Jim has been psyching himself up for it, but as he pushes himself up, his legs are wobbly and he feels nauseous and dizzy, seeing stars that have nothing to do with the heavens.
“Allow me to assist.”
“You’re not fucking carrying me,” Jim says, glaring. There is no way he is going to arrive back on his ship in the arms of his first officer.
“You are being illogical,” Spock protests.
“Fine. I’m human – it comes with the territory. Just help me up,” he says, extending a hand. The hand that grasps his is hot and if he didn’t feel like shit, it probably would have brought back some good memories. As it is, it’s all he can do to focus on staying upright as the room spins maddeningly.
Jim wonders if he’s got to walk anywhere, because pride or no, he seriously doesn’t think he can. It’s with a sigh of relief that he watches Spock flick open his communicator with his free hand. Evidently, the landing party must have completely disabled the jamming system and secured the whole building. He feels a note of pride in that accomplishment. His team is the best.
“Spock to Enterprise. Two to beam up on my mark. Have a medical team standing by for the Captain and inform the doctor his condition is not critical, but a stretcher is advisable.”
Jim is grinning, on a high. “Good work, Spock.”
Spock nods once in acknowledgement. “Are you ready, Captain?”
“Yeah, and I can stand on my own,” he says, letting go of the arm he has been leaning on.
Spock looks like he’s about to argue, then presses his lips together. “Very well, sir.” With a flick, he opens the communicator again. “Energize.”
The buzz of the beam adds to his light-headedness and when they materialize on the transporter pad, he stumbles. Were it not for Spock’s quick reflexes, he probably would have landed flat on his face – a literal enactment of the proverb, ‘pride before a fall’, and definitely not the most heroic of returns.
“Jim,” Bones says, rushing forward and wrapping an arm about his waist, helps him down. He’s hardly drawn breath and he finds himself lying flat on his back on an anti-grav gurney, the doctor scanning him as they move out of the transporter room towards the nearby medbay. Swiveling his head around, he realizes that Spock has gone.
Well shit.
He couldn’t fault Spock’s dedication to duty even if the timing is pretty sucky. Meanwhile, Mother Hen, aka Bones, is fussing over him, telling him what an idiot he is and generally making him feel at home with the usual medical routines, which is a sad indictment on how frequently his missions end up with him in sickbay. He kind of forgives Bones if he’s seems a bit more intense than usual after he hears how his lifesigns monitor went offline.
+
Following a full dialysis and a night in sickbay on an IV to replenish his fluids and minerals, a sonic shower, a light breakfast and a clean uniform leave him feeling a hundred times better. He’s back in his cabin but not cleared for duty for another twenty four hours. Thankfully, Bones stops short of denying him access to his terminal to catch up on what’s been going on while he was held hostage.
Bones reluctantly lets him meet with Ambassador Talesk-fi, the head of the diplomatic team, to discuss what happened and how to proceed from here – the general agreement being that the Pritons will be denied entry at this time, but may reapply, should they wish to do so, after they get their house in order.
Meanwhile the people responsible for his abduction have been handed over to the government authorities and, as per the P.D., will be dealt with by them. Jim doesn’t want to know what that entails, given they screwed up the chance for Priton’s Federation membership.
The day goes by surprisingly quickly and Jim’s thoroughly engrossed in the preliminary report the ambassador left him when his door chime sounds some time into beta shift. Knowing he’s not supposed to be disturbed, he vets the visitor by pressing the comm. button.
“Kirk here.”
“Captain—”
He hits the door operator button before Spock can say any more, apparently taking the Vulcan by surprise, given the look momentarily on his face. He’s holding something.
“How’s it going?” Jim asks with a smile. He drinks in the sight of his first officer, really taking time to enjoy the view since he'd only just gotten over his uncertainty that he’d ever see him again.
“We are preparing to leave orbit, sir. The diplomatic team are now all on board. Have you reviewed our new orders?”
“Yep – ferry them to Starbase 42 and then on to sector Z-6 to patrol the neutral zone and probably scare the shit out of Bones again.”
There is a moment of silence that Jim wishes doesn’t feel as awkward as it does, and then Spock moves forward, holding out a PADD. “I have made a preliminary report of the events since our arrival at Sigma Priton V."
Jim smiles and takes it. “Thanks.” He knows Spock’s about to leave and he doesn’t want him to. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Sir?”
“I’ve been stuck in here all day, alone for most of it, like I didn’t get enough of my own company for the past week.” He's laying it on a bit thick. While the circumstances were true, he purposefully kept himself busy so he wouldn’t think about what had happened, and he was pretty successful. “I was wondering if you’d join me for dinner.”
He sees the moment’s hesitation before the nod. “That would be acceptable.”
Jim waves him to sit in the other seat and hits the comm. button. “Kirk to Rand.”
“Captain. Your dinner—”
“…is now for two – Commander Spock’s joining me. He’ll be having…”
Jim looks up in question.
“Leola root stew,” Spock says, leaning forward.
“Did you get that?”
“Yes sir. Do you still want dinner served at 19:30?”
“That’s fine.” He cuts the connection and looks at the chrono – just over fifteen minutes. He leans back in his chair and smiles happily at Spock.
“So, I have a question for you, Spock. The lifesigns monitor flatlined, so how come you kept looking?” It was something he’d been thinking about on and off all day. On the face of it, Spock’s actions weren’t logical.
He notices Spock swallow and then glance down at his hands, clasped on his lap. “It would appear that following the second meld we shared during our mission to Alazah Prime, the connection did not completely sever.”
Jim leans forward. “What do you mean?”
Spock looks up and holds his gaze. “A rudimentary link remained between your mind and mine. I was unaware of it until some time after your lifesign monitor ceased functioning.” Spock swallows again. “Despite evidence to the contrary, I knew you were still alive,” he says quietly.
Several questions jump into Jim’s mind and he quickly sifts through them, deciding which order to ask them in. “How can that happen? I thought you had to have physical contact for a telepathic connection.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, that is the case. However, there are certain occasions when a permanent link is created, for example that shared between a child and its parents and siblings, or between betrothed or bonded couples.”
“You say ‘created’, so it’s a conscious decision. Then how—?”
“It is not unheard of for those with compatible minds to form a spontaneous link when thoughts are shared, such as has been the case with us.”
Jim feels a rising excitement at this and then wonders how much Spock can actually pick up through the link – a question he’d save. There’s a more pressing one first. He suspects Spock of dissembling. If melding with Vulcans was an issue, it would have come up during his StarFleet training.
“So isn’t it dangerous for Vulcans to use the mind meld if all these links are going to get created without you even realizing?”
Spock looks away again. It’s as though he’s ashamed, Jim realizes. “Negative. The probability of such an occurrence is zero point zero zero zero zero zero two four.”
“Zero point zero zero zero zero zero two four – uh...that’s pretty low odds.”
“Indeed. As I was the first Vulcan to join StarFleet, an assessment was conducted following my entry to the Academy, and the risk has been deemed negligible.” Spock looks up and meets his gaze. “You wish to know how it was possible between us?”
Jim looks startled. “Are you reading my mind?”
Spock’s eyebrow rises sardonically. “Hardly – the link is not strong enough for that. However, after two years serving under you, I am somewhat aware of the manner in which your mind works.”
Jim grins delightedly. “So—” he prompts.
“It would appear—”
Spock’s explanation is interrupted by the door chime – a look at the chrono tells him it’s Rand.
She spends several minutes laying out their meal – ‘fussing’ would be what Jim calls it, especially as he’s on tenterhooks right now. Finally she goes.
“Chicken soup?”
Jim smiles. “Doctor’s orders. He wants me to ease my way back into regular meals because my stomach got so messed up. I’d kill for a steak but Bones says I wouldn’t keep it down. All I’ve had today is a yoghurt and toast for breakfast, tomato soup for lunch and this.” He is sure his face says what he thinks about that. “Anyway…”
“It would appear,” Spock repeats, as though there had been no interruption, “that there is an unusual degree of harmony between our minds. It is rare among Vulcans – rarer still with other species.”
Jim thinks back to the other Spock as he’s come to think of him, realizing he must have known how well-matched their minds were since he would have experienced it with his own captain – the other him.
There is another important question, one he doesn’t want to ask, fearing the answer, but he knows he must. “So what happens now, then? About the link, I mean?”
Spock puts down his fork and dabs delicately at his mouth with his napkin. “The answer to that question lies with you, Jim.”
He feels a frisson of excitement run up his spine. It’s the first time Spock’s used his given name since before the encounter. He doesn’t want to say anything until he’s gotten all the data.
“Explain.”
“The link we share is deeper than a familial link but less than that of a betrothal. While the link has served us well during this last mission, should we need to meld in the line of duty, there is a ninety seven point four percent probability that it will spontaneously deepen towards a full bonding link.”
“Bonding, as in married?”
Spock nods once in affirmation.
Jim can hardly contain his excitement. He can feel his pulse rate’s up and is thankful Bones hasn’t got him on a monitor or he’d be round like a shot wondering what’s up.
“So explain to me why this is my decision.”
Spock looks down at his lap again. If he’d been human, he’d probably be playing nervously with his napkin, Jim thinks, but he’s too controlled for that. “You will recall the events on Phalaxa on stardate 2260.26.”
The memory is burned into his synapses. He just nods.
“Following that…incident…we both labored under the false impression that we had taken advantage of the other while intoxicated. It transpired that that was not the case. However, during the course of the discussion, you made me aware of your attraction to me. I requested time for reflection, since I was aware the attraction was mutual and I wished to decide what, if anything, we should do regarding the matter. I came to the logical conclusion that such an attraction, should we act on it, would not be in the best interests of the crew or StarFleet.”
That isn’t what he wants to hear. “How so?” he asks, neutrally.
“At the time, I was uncertain of the degree of your…regard…for me. I hypothesized that were we to engage in a sexual relationship and it failed to last the duration of the mission, that it had the potential to cause serious morale issues on the ship, since we are the two most senior officers and the need for us to work closely and to trust one another is of paramount importance to the safety of the vessel. Such an outcome, were it to happen, would likely necessitate one of us leaving the ship before mission-end, thus depriving StarFleet of a valuable and competent command team.”
Something’s changed his mind. It has to be the link. “And now…?”
“…I am cognizant of the depth of your…feeling…towards me and, unless I am mistaken, I believe you would be willing to enter an exclusive long-term relationship, with a view to bonding when the need arises. However, while I am willing – that decision is yours.”
“You love me.” Jim feels exhilarated. He wants to jump up and kiss Spock and then do wicked things with his body but, with effort, he holds himself back. They need to get all this out before they go anywhere.
Spock looks at him and Jim can tell it’s an effort. Vulcans and feelings aren’t something that go hand-in-hand. “I am uncertain of the specific nature of the emotion humans call ‘love’, but by the definitions I have seen, I believe so, yes.”
“And you know how I feel?”
“When you were held captive, your mind sought mine through the link, and once I became aware of it, I was able to strengthen the connection, to deepen it to the degree I was aware of the emotions you were experiencing.”
So Spock must have felt his despair as the days wore on. There were two things his thoughts had focused on during his time there – initially, how to escape…and later, thoughts of Spock. “So, you sensed what I feel for you. You could feel my…love.”
It’s not something he’s ever said to anyone. Talking about emotions, generally, isn’t a subject he is remotely comfortable with. The people in his life who meant most to him – members of his family – all ended up letting him down in their own ways, so he just stopped feeling it. That way, no one can hurt him. The only person, between his childhood and Spock who’s wormed his way into Jim’s life, is Bones, and he knows he feels deep affection for the friend who’s loyally stood by him through thick and thin.
And then there’s Spock, who’s let him in by incremental degrees, without realizing it’s mutual. It was not until that agonizing week after Phalaxa when the full force of his feelings for Spock became obvious to him, and he ruthlessly pushed them down, suppressing them as efficiently as any Vulcan.
“Yes.”
“Jim?”
He smiles at the slightly puzzled look, the little frown, the raised eyebrow. “Yes to a relationship and to bonding. I want it, Spock. I want to be with you – I’m ready for it.”
They rise as one, meeting beside the table, their half-finished meals forgotten.
The heat between them is instantaneous. No romantic looks and gestures, their mouths smash together, their bodies collide as all the pent up apprehension and anxiety from the past nine days surfaces, causing them to want to reaffirm that yes Jim’s alive and he’s safely back where he has known for some time he belongs, in the circle of Spock’s arms.
Jim’s back hits the bulkhead as Spock pushes himself up against him, his hot body setting him on fire, igniting his blood, tongues battling, cocks grinding together through layers of material.
This.
Jim can’t get to Spock, too many clothes in the way. Spock pulls back long enough to get his shirts over his head and Jim, realizing Spock is reading him through their link, is quick to follow suit.
“Bed.” He’d love to do it against the wall, but he knows he’s still weak from his ordeal and isn’t sure he could hold up for the course. This time, horizontal is better.
Spock picks him up and he laughs at this show of strength – the first time he’s laughed since before his abduction – as he wraps his thighs around the Vulcan’s waist. It’s a wonder when he realizes that Spock treating him this way doesn’t bother him – in his bedroom they’re equals and, if anything, he can sense Spock’s natural dominance, which he has no problems with. Quite the opposite – he finds the idea and the things they could do with it, hot beyond belief. Maybe that’s part and parcel of the whole compatibility thing between them.
“Lights to twenty five percent,” he commands and then buries his face in Spock’s neck, inhaling the scent of him.
For some reason, Jim expects Spock to gently lower him to the bed, but instead he’s unceremoniously dropped onto it and he laughs again as he bounces twice before coming to rest.
Spock bends to remove Jim’s trousers and socks – he doesn’t wear his boots in his quarters – so he’s lying there in only his briefs. He watches as Spock divests himself of his clothing, expecting him to efficiently fold each item and grins when Spock just drops them haphazardly.
Spock is all sinewy muscle and masculine lines – broad shoulders with a dusting of dark hair, narrow waist and long, long legs. His eyes are drawn to the bulge straining the material of Spock’s pale gray briefs, and watches avidly as they are drawn down, his cock springing free. Without realizing, he licks his lips in anticipation.
Spock bends to gently pull down Jim’s briefs, as if leaving the best ‘til last, like saving the biggest present under the tree at Christmas to the end. Jim observes Spock, sees how watchful he is as he applies himself to the task and because he’s so attentive, he hears the slight indraw of breath as his cock is revealed, lying hard and thick against his abdomen.
Spock rolls on top of him, lining up their bodies, cocks pressed together, sandwiched between their bodies. He takes both Jim’s wrists and places them above his head, holding them firmly in one hand before leaning down to capture Jim’s mouth in a fierce, twisting kiss. His mouth tastes of leola root, his lips soft and hot, as their tongues fight an erotic duel.
As suddenly as Spock started it, he pulls away, never letting go of his wrists, as he runs his lips and tongue languidly over the curve of Jim’s ear, down the line of his jaw, along his neck, pausing at his rapidly beating pulse, before moving down to teeth a nipple until it is hard and wet. The sensation arrows down to his groin and he moans in frustration that he can’t touch himself, not while Spock’s holding him captive.
Spock pulls away and Jim sees that his eyes are dark, intense and mysterious – he’s never looked more alien to him than he does in that moment, and a shudder of pleasure passes through him at the thought that this unique being has chosen him for his mate.
Spock places two fingers against his lips and then gently pushes in. Jim sucks on them, wrapping his tongue around them and between them, eliciting a gasp. He loves the sound, loves the realization that Spock is letting go some of his control when they are together, the thought thrilling him to the core.
The fingers are removed and as Spock slides off him, to lie beside him, Jim knows what comes next as he pulls he legs up to his chest. Spock kisses him reverently like he’s the most cherished being in the universe, plundering his mouth with his tongue, using the same rhythm as he finger fucks Jim’s ass, slowly and lovingly preparing him. Almost as a tease, Spock only presses over Jim’s prostate occasionally, each time sending a lightening bolt through him, causing him to buck up with a gasp.
When Jim knows he’s ready, he pulls away momentarily. “There’s lube in my nightstand.”
Spock gazes down at him and Jim can definitely see the corners of his mouth lift. “Have you forgotten? I have no need of it. Vulcan physiology differs from Human—”
“It’s why it didn’t hurt when you fucked me in the park.” He remembers now, his surprise when Spock penetrated him without pain.
He glances down to see Spock’s verdant cock glistening in the low light. “Preseminal fluid is secreted through glands along the length of my penis,” Spock explains, and Jim wants nothing more than to touch it, hold it in his palm, but his hands are still held captive above his head.
“Another time,” Spock says and kisses him again.
When he’s ready, he puts his legs down so Spock can roll on top of him again, to lie between his legs. Jim feels the blunt head nudge against him and as he bears down, Spock gradually and inexorably eases in, stretching him, filling him, and it’s the most amazing feeling in the world, like he’s being taken possession of.
Spock begins to move, thrusting slowly.
“Yessss,” Jim hisses between clenched teeth. “God, yes! Fuck, Spock!”
Spock leans down and reclaims his mouth, sucking on his tongue in tandem with his thrusts. A hot hand takes hold of his cock and Jim begins to writhe and buck into the tight sheath, arching in wild response to Spock plunging at an increasingly frantic pace.
Jim needs to suck air into his lungs as he thrashes about beneath Spock, feeling his orgasm building.
Spock pulls away from Jim’s mouth and their eyes lock though their movements don’t falter. Suddenly something shifts in his mind and he is flooded with lust and arousal not his own. And though he doesn’t know how he knows, he understands that Spock has lowered a barrier between them, his own telepathic shields, so that he has a full sense of his Vulcan lover, mind body and soul.
“Mine!” Spock says the word aloud, but it echoes inside him.
“Yes Spock…yours,” Jim gasps and an explosion of bliss floods his body in a shattering release as he feels Spock tumble over the edge of the abyss in his own shuddering climax.
+
“I think you’ve found a kink I didn’t know I had,” Jim says, his breath ghosting across Spock’s chest causing a nipple to tighten into a nub.
“You are in command of nine hundred and sixty seven crew, responsible for their lives and their well-being, every day of the five year mission. Each and every decision ultimately rests with you. It is unsurprising that you may find solace in relinquishing that command to someone you trust when not on duty.”
Jim lifts himself onto his elbow and gazes down affectionately at Spock. “And since when did you become a pop psychologist?”
“Since you allowed me access to your inner mind,” Spock says and if Jim didn’t think Vulcans incapable, he’d have said he looked smug.
“So about Phalaxan wine. What happened?”
“There is an element in the wine which acts as an intoxicant on Vulcan physiology, however the symptoms were unlike that of alcohol on humans. Instead it had two effects; it lowered my inhibitions, stripping me of my control, in effect removing the Vulcan part of me, and it also acted as a mild aphrodisiac, causing arousal in me.”
“So you were like…a horny human.”
Spock closes his eyes momentarily and Jim grins. “Somewhat.”
“But no bad side effects or anything, right?”
“Indeed not. Once my body had metabolized the wine, the arousal diminished and my levels of control returned."
“Huh. Well, that’s good then,” Jim says with a pleased smile and kisses Spock thoroughly.
Spock gently pulls away and looks at him warily. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Jim says, waggling his eyebrows, his smile becoming more predatory. “Because I ordered up twenty four bottles of the stuff. Should be waiting for us when we get to Starbase 42.”
[finis]