“I asked if you would be able to explain Halloween to me, sir, since, as a Vulcan, I have had little exposure to it.”
***
A lifelong fan of Halloween, Jim is more than happy to explain the intricacies of the Earth holiday to his first officer.
If only his pesky feelings would stop getting in the way.
Jim stared, slightly flummoxed, at his favourite Vulcan. His favourite Vulcan stared right back, maintaining that same politely curious expression - an expression Bones claimed Jim had imagined, since no one else could recognise it, but Jim knew he wasn’t. (It was all in the eyebrows, the slight shifts in the corners of his mouth, and most of all the light in his so-expressive eyes.)
“Would you say that again, Mr Spock?”
“I asked if you would be able to explain Halloween to me, sir, since, as a Vulcan, I have had little exposure to it.” Spock’s polite curiosity morphed into slight concern. “I have never known your hearing to be impaired, Captain. Are you certain you are undamaged after-”
“Entirely undamaged,” Jim said, cutting him off. The last thing he needed was Bones getting it into his head that the explosion on the starbase had ruined his ears; he’d never know peace again. “I was merely… surprised. I didn’t realise you were particularly interested in Human holidays.”
“Ordinarily I am not. However, I cannot help but be interested in something you are so enthused by.”
Jim decided not to tease that interested was certainly a feeling and instead focussed his attention on suppressing any outward reaction to the notion of Spock being interested in something for Jim’s sake. It was the sort of thing that might make a lesser man blush, but Jim was a captain, and moreover determined not to frighten the Vulcan away. He’d just barely managed getting Spock to acknowledge their friendship openly; he wasn’t going to ruin it by showing his own interests too clearly.
“You seem to have a particular fondness for Halloween, above other holidays,” Spock went on, and Jim fought to recover himself.
“I suppose I do,” he said, though there was no supposition about it. He knew full well that he did. Ever since childhood, he’d adored it. “Alright, Spock. If you’re interested, then I’m happy to give you some instruction in Halloween traditions. The Academy’s been on me for months to come and do a lecture - we’ll call this practice.”
Spock smiled faintly, which for any other man would be a beaming grin. “My thanks, Captain.”
~~~
The best lessons, in Jim’s experience, came from practical, hands-on experience. Which was why he invited Spock to his quarters to watch scary movies.
Spock, for his part, seemed deeply sceptical. “I do not understand the appeal of subjecting oneself to unpleasant, potentially harmful experiences without purpose. It is illogical.”
Says the man who went into the desert at seven, Jim didn’t say. “It’s traditional,” he explained. “A Halloween tradition.”
“I see.”
“Some find the adrenaline rush pleasant. Like rollercoasters.”
From Spock’s expression, Jim gathered that he had a similarly low opinion of rollercoasters. Best not to dwell. He decided instead to play his ace.
“Look, we don’t have to. If you’re scared-”
“I am Vulcan,” Spock said.
“Well then. Let’s get on with it.”
Over the years, Jim had cultivated an extensive collection of horror films, both classic and modern, and any one of them could have served his purpose. For the authentic experience, however, he’d borrowed Denebia from Chekov. It had come out six months ago, and Jim hadn’t had a chance to see it. That way, he could be sure his face wouldn’t give anything away ahead of time. Bones had complained before that Jim started reacting to his favourite scenes three minutes early.
He settled himself in his seat and passed Spock a pillow.
“You hold it,” he said, when Spock looked at him askance. “You sort of… squeeze it. When the frightening parts happen.”
“I see,” Spock said, with the expression of one who thought he would not need the pillow.
Two hours later, Spock was white-knuckling the pillow.
Jim winced as he looked at his poor Vulcan, with his eyes wide and face slightly pale. “You ok there, Spock?”
“I am well,” he said, clearly lying.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve… picked something to ease you in. I didn’t realise…”
Truthfully, he hadn’t realised Spock would be frightened at all. He’d expected him to notice every plot hole, every flaw in the makeup, and find it all vaguely amusing - like Jim did. He’d expected the film to be utterly insignificant compared to what they had faced in their work. Truthfully, he’d thought Spock entirely too logical to find anything fictional to be legitimately scary.
He had clearly been mistaken.
“I am well,” Spock said, and stood. “I must meditate.”
For a moment, he was still, standing as if slightly lost. It took Jim a moment to realise why.
“If you want to keep the pillow for tonight…”
“Thank you,” said Spock quietly, and then was gone.
~~~
The first lesson having been an abject failure, Jim decided on something… tamer for his second. As Spock - looking slightly sleep-deprived - arrived at his door the next evening, Jim led the way to another Halloween tradition.
“Pumpkin carving,” he announced.
Spock looked intrigued, which was promising.
“The tradition goes that carved Jack-o-lanterns were placed outside to ward off spirits,” he explained. “Later, they were used to indicate that a household was celebrating Halloween.”
“I presume they are still used for the latter purpose, not for the former.”
“As do I, Mr Spock.”
“I confess to some regrets,” said Spock later, prodding gingerly at the stringy innards of his pumpkin, reluctant (as Jim should likely have anticipated) to dirty his sensitive hands.
Jim stifled a laugh. “Come here. Swap.”
He shoved his own gutted gourd Spock-wards; the Vulcan caught it instinctively.
“It’s ready to carve,” he said.
Spock nodded his thanks and took up his knife, contemplating the orange canvas. “Is there an expected design?”
“Usually a scary face,” Jim said. “Something geometric - it’s easier to carve straight lines than curves.”
Spock nodded once and began. Jim left him to it, getting back to the messy business of scooping out seeds and flesh.
Perhaps, Jim thought later, I ought to have kept an eye on him. He studied the intricate carving Mr Spock had produced, a piece that put his own to shame. The Vulcan had not limited himself to cutting out holes, but had shaved down portions of the pumpkin until it was paper thin, thin enough to let the candlelight shine through, adding surprising amounts of detail.
It was impressive. It was surprising.
It was genuinely rather frightening.
“Yon'tislak,” said Spock. “The fire beast.”
To an outside observer, that may have seemed a neutral statement, a simple explanation of what Spock had created. Jim, however, knew Spock well enough to read the quiet pleasure in his relaxed posture, the soft pride in the upturned corners of his lips; and in the depths of Spock’s eyes, darting occasionally between Jim’s expression, his carving, and Jim’s much, much simpler offering, Jim could see a request for approval, for confirmation that he had done as expected.
Jim could not, could never, deny him.
“Excellent work, Mr Spock,” he said, grinning. “There’s not a ghost aboard who’d risk approaching your door.”
Spock’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “Do you suspect the presence of ghosts, Captain?”
“Well. One can never be too careful.”
~~~
“I meant to ask,” said Bones conversationally over breakfast the next morning. “Has Spock gone mad?”
“I don’t think so,” Jim said, equally casual.
“Oh, good. Well, you can tell him from me that he’s scaring the ensigns.”
Jim blinked. “What?”
“That pumpkin outside his door. They think he’s lost his logic - which for a Vulcan is as good as losing his mind.”
“No,” Jim said, biting on his cheek so he didn’t laugh. “He’s not gone mad. He’s just proud of it. You know he likes to do well at things - right now, he’s doing very well at participating in Human Halloween traditions. He’s got a pumpkin, he’s watched a scary movie… He’s enjoying himself.”
Bones shook his head. “I never will fathom that mind. A Vulcan who likes Halloween… Have you done apple bobbing yet?”
“No. I didn’t think he’d go for it. Unhygienic. ”
Bones scoffed. “Apple bobbing. Doctor’s orders.”
He couldn’t replicate a barrel, so he filled a wash bowl with water and two apples. That, he thought, would alleviate most hygiene concerns, especially if he let Spock go first. Jim had no issue going where Spock’s mouth had been.
Spock raised an eyebrow when he saw it. “This is how Doctor McCoy celebrates Halloween?”
“It’s common at children’s parties - I think he took Joanna when she was young.”
“I see.” Spock studied it again. “I take it that one does not use their hands.”
“One does not,” Jim agreed, and smiled when Spock sniffed. “You have to bite it.”
Spock nodded, but did not approach. Jim waited for him, only for Spock’s brow to furrow, slightly. “You do not intend to demonstrate, Captain?”
“I-” He swallowed, blinked, surprised. “I can if you’d like.”
Spock motioned that he should go ahead. Jim plunged his face into the cold water, hoping that might somehow soothe his ridiculous blush, and quickly retrieved his prize.
“Was that sufficient instruction?” he asked, drying his face.
“Most sufficient, Captain.”
Spock made a far more elegant job of it than Jim. It seemed… effortless. He barely wet his fringe and, when he came back up, apple between teeth, his makeup was entirely unscathed.
He removed the fruit from his lips with a slight grimace. “I have never been fond of apples.”
He held it out to Jim. Jim, without thinking, as if in a trance, took it, and bit it, matching Spock’s teeth marks. He swallowed the bite, and Spock watched him intently as he ate.
Jim was feeling rather stunned himself. “Yes. And I think he enjoyed it.”
A strange look passed over the lieutenant’s face, but she didn’t explain. “Well. What do you want to happen now?”
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Deep down, in his heart of hearts, Jim wanted to flirt more, flirt with purpose, until Spock fell entirely in love and Vulcan kissed him.
But Spock was one of his officers. Jim had a rule against getting involved with people on the Enterprise for a reason, and it wasn’t because they were unattractive. The power imbalance was evident. Even if there was no explicit regulation, it wouldn’t be fair to Spock.
And what if he had been mistaken? What if Spock hadn’t liked it, if Jim had merely been projecting his own desires onto Spock’s impassive expression. What if he’d merely written it off as part of the tradition, or one of Jim’s Human idiosyncrasies. Or, worse, if he’d known exactly what Jim had been doing, hated it, but not felt able to tell him off.
It was best, Jim thought, not to risk it. “I need another tradition to show Spock.”
Uhura sighed, but nodded. “If you say so, Captain.”
“We can’t do it properly,” Jim said, “because that would mean getting the crew involved, which I didn’t think you’d want-”
“I would not.”
“-but we can do a version of it.”
Spock nodded. “What is it ?”
“Trick-or-treat,” he announced, and held up a bowl of candy he’d replicated.
“Captain.” Spock hesitated, then corrected, “Jim.”
“Yes?”
“Are you aware of the effect of chocolate on Vulcans?”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
Spock nodded. “It causes us to become intoxicated. I am not opposed to this, but thought it best to clarify your understanding first.”
“Well, if you’re not opposed…” Jim started. Then he thought about it. If Spock got drunk, Jim would be expected to drink, too. And if Jim got drunk, there was a risk - a low risk, but still there - that all those dangerous feelings he kept bottled up would come spilling out, and Spock would know . He swallowed. “Maybe we should save it for another day. When we’re not on duty in the morning.”
For a moment, he thought Spock seemed disappointed. Then the moment passed. “Most wise, Captain.”
~~~
Since Uhura’s suggestion had been a dud - potentially a setup, since Jim doubted very much that the ship’s xeno-linguistic specialist had been unaware of that particular Vulcan quirk - Jim decided to plan the next activity alone. Guaranteed to be harmless, no chance of disaster.
His Halloween playlist.
Comprising all the best Halloween songs created across the centuries, Jim had first created it as a child, and perfected it through his adulthood. He was reasonably proud of it, as much as a man could be proud of a playlist.
Most importantly, however, it was safe. It wouldn’t traumatise any Vulcans (and Spock was at least a little traumatised, because Jim had never got that pillow back), it wouldn’t frighten ensigns, it wouldn’t lead to haphazard flirting, and it wouldn’t get anyone drunk.
The biggest risk was that Spock didn’t like the genre, in which case Jim could segue neatly to asking him to play his lyre instead, which was good for both of them. Overall, an entirely sound plan.
He didn’t knock on Spock’s door, which was perhaps a mistake, but Spock had never expected him to knock before. He regretted it instantly, however, when he found Spock on a call, and made quickly to retreat.
“Captain Kirk!”
He was caught.
“Lady Amanda,” he said in greeting, smiling apologetically at Spock, who seemed unconcerned.
“It’s good to see you again. Spock tells me so much about you.”
Spock’s jaw tightened, which was strange. “Mother.”
“Oh, alright,” she said, but still smiled. “He still doesn’t understand that Human tradition of embarrassing one’s children.”
“I’m afraid the children never do,” Jim said, smiling back. “Forgive me for disturbing you. I’ll come back later.”
“There is no disturbance,” said Spock, before his fingers tightened on his thighs, as if he hadn’t meant to speak.
“Agreed,” said Lady Amanda. “You should stay - unless you’re busy, of course.”
“Not at all,” he said, and took a seat beside Spock. It didn’t feel as awkward as perhaps it should.
“I was just showing Spock some old pictures I found. You’re just in time to see my favourite.”
Spock’s eyes widened slightly in alarm, as if he knew what was coming. “Mother-”
“Here,” she said, holding it up to the screen, and Jim couldn’t help the soft noise of surprise that escaped.
A very young Spock - short and chubby-cheeked - looked solemnly into the camera, even as his eyes shone with excitement. Clutched tight in one hand was a pumpkin-shaped bucket of candy. The other held tight to Amanda.
Most interesting, however, were the clothes. Amanda made a very elegant, very beautiful witch.
And the young Spock made an adorable Sehlat.
“I didn’t realise Vulcans celebrated Halloween,” Jim said.
“Oh, they don’t, but I do. A little taste of home. And Spock just loved it.” She smiled, the nostalgic smile of an indulgent mother. “His favourite holiday.”
Spock’s cheeks were flushed green. He wouldn’t meet Jim’s eyes. “Mother,” he said again, almost whispering. “Ko-mekh, kroykah, sanu…”
Amanda laughed brightly. “Oh, alright, Kan-bu. I am sorry. I mustn’t embarrass you in front of your captain, I know.”
Spock nodded. Amanda tutted.
“Well, it’s about time I sign off anyway. I’ll speak to you soon, Spock. Keep yourself safe.”
He nodded again, stiffly. “I will, Mother. Live long and prosper.”
“Goodnight, Captain Kirk.”
“Goodnight, Lady Amanda.”
The screen went dark. That left him and Spock and silence.
“Well,” he said at last. “You’ve had more exposure to Halloween than you let on.”
Spock blushed even more, a deep emerald hue. “Yes, Captain.”
“Do you want to explain that?”
“Not particularly, sir.”
“What if I ask you to?”
Spock took a deep breath. “If you ask me to, sir, then I will.”
His natural hatred of making Spock uncomfortable warred with his confusion and curiosity. In the end, curiosity won. “Explain it. Please.”
Spock still didn’t meet his eyes. He focussed his attention on Jim’s hands, resting on his knees. “I had noted your preference for Halloween. I wished… I wished to share in it with you. You have always been amenable to clarifying Human traditions and behaviours to me. I anticipated that you would be as willing in this case.”
“Always,” Jim said. “But Spock… You know I would have celebrated Halloween with you either way, right? Even if I wasn’t teaching you what it was. You’re my friend, Spock. I enjoy spending time with you.”
That was what it took to make Spock look up, surprise and delight and fear in his eyes. “I- I am glad. I am glad, Jim. I also enjoy spending time with you.”
Jim smiled at him, this strange, wonderful Vulcan who lied about his Halloween experiences to spend more time with his friend. It made his heart feel tight, the sharp squeeze of a desperate crush. He didn’t mind that.
Spock looked at him for a long moment. “Jim.”
“Yes?”
“I had another motive.”
“Oh,” he said. “Do you want to tell me?”
“I am unsure,” he said. “But, if I do not do so now, I never will.”
“Alright.”
“I hoped that increasing the time we spent together would induce you to make a romantic overture towards me, or allow me time to build the courage to make one towards you.” His eyes flicked down. “I had thought I succeeded after the apple bobbing, but it did not happen. I was unsure whether this was due to lack of interest or-”
“It wasn’t lack of interest,” Jim blurted.
“Oh,” said Spock, more a breath than a word. “That is fortunate.”
~~~
Given the revelations of the previous evening, there was no real need for Jim to keep on exposing Spock to Halloween traditions.
That didn’t mean he was going to stop.
He had saved the best tradition until last, anticipating that it would be the most difficult to convince Spock to partake in. However, armed now with the knowledge of his affections and the ability to tease him for his conspiring, Jim thought he had a decent chance.
Spock did seem less than totally willing as he looked at the bundle of replicated fabric in Jim’s arms. “Captain-”
“You won’t indulge me, Mr Spock?”
Spock wavered. Jim unfolded the costumes. Spock’s jaw clenched.
“I do for you what I would do for no other,” he said, with poorly masked fondness, and Jim laughed.
Getting Spock to wear his costume on the bridge was an indulgence Jim didn’t expect to get again. This time next year, the flush of new love - and light embarrassment - that was currently clouding Spock’s judgement would have faded, and he’d say no to such foolish suggestions, even if the rest of the bridge was in costume too. Jim, therefore, had made the most of it.
His crew were, of course, far too smart to make any remark as Spock walked in as the devil to Jim’s angel. They had enough respect for Spock as a Vulcan, as an officer, and as the man who organised shift rotations to make any particular remark about it. Lieutenant Uhura did, however, raise an eyebrow at Jim, who merely shrugged. She smiled, readjusted her cat ears, and returned to her work.
The shift passed slowly, the boredom of having nothing to do alleviated only by doing nothing in costume. Watching Sulu the musketeer and Chekov the tsar navigating the helm was infinitely amusing. And, of course, he only had to look behind to see Spock in a tight red suit, sequin horns, and a pointed tail. That was a thrill.
It was more of a thrill when he caught Spock looking back. Saw Spock looking at Jim’s white cotton robe, feathered wings, silver halo. Saw Spock looking at the skin of his thigh where the robe had ridden up, and saw his eyes snap away when he was noticed.
He was starved by lunch.
Spock’s lips were hot against Jim’s neck, his hands tight on his hips. Jim groaned out loud as Spock bit down.
“Oh,” he gasped. “Oh, you’re- You’re evil. ”
He felt Spock’s lips curve into a smile. “If I were evil, Jim, I would take my own pleasure and leave you wanting. I would return to the Bridge and force you to wait until the conclusion of our shift to reach climax. You would spend hours waiting - and I would not allow you to forget that you were waiting.”
Jim shuddered, fingers tensing uselessly around Spock’s wrists. Evil suddenly didn’t sound so bad.
“Fortunately for you,” Spock said, “this is merely a costume. I suggest you get on the bed.”
Oh yes.
Jim had never moved faster. He lay back on the mattress and watched Spock stalk towards him. Spock stripped quickly, but when Jim moved to do likewise, he shook his head.
“Alright,” he said, since he couldn’t refuse Spock anything. “But you have to keep the horns.”
Spock was a fast learner. From the first moment he’d shoved his head under Jim’s robe and swallowed his captain’s prick whole, Jim had known he’d be a fast learner. He seemed to catalogue every sound that escaped Jim’s throat, every tremor that wracked his limbs, and to revel in it. Maybe it was Spock being a touch-telepath, maybe it was just that Jim knew him so well, but Jim thought he could sense Spock’s enjoyment, his smugness at taking Jim so close to the edge so quickly.
And he was close. He was so close.
“Spock,” he tried to warn, but Spock only redoubled his efforts. Jim came hard, right down Spock’s throat.
“Divine,” said Spock with a tiny smile, and Jim let out a shaky laugh.
“Good God, Spock. That was- How long do we have before we have to be on the bridge?”
“Five point eight minutes,” he said. And then, perhaps sensing Jim’s disappointment added, “Do not be discomfited, Ashayam. It was always my intention to make you wait to be fucked.”
And now Jim would have that in his mind for the rest of the shift.
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Couple of days late, but if any of you are aware of the Philon fic awards, two (2!!!) of my fics have been nominated
First: if you aren't aware, go check them out, it's basically a recommended reading list of some of the best Spirk fic (and writers) of the year, and you get to vote for your faves!
Second: if you fancy reading my fics and possibly voting for them before people realise what a mistake they made putting me on there (XD), check them out below
Cruelty
Lessons in Seduction, Presented by S'chn T'gai Spock
(P.s. in all seriousness, if you nominated me thank you so much! It's amazing to be up there amongst brilliant writers who I admire so much <3)
Note: Please read the warnings in the Author's Note
Behold, my fic for @spirkevents Spirk in a Cave event! Within, Spock and James (of the mirrorverse variety) address the tension that has recently built between them and do something about it. In a cave.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
p.s., thank you @illegalpaladin for beta-ing <3 They have also written a fic for this event, and you should 100% go check it out!
And after mine and theirs, go see the rest, too! Treat yourself!
He pushed the feeling of a question into Jim's mind and received nothing insightful in return. That did not mean that he did not appreciate the warm glow of Jim's affection, nor did it mean that he did not take note of the slowly banking heat at the back of Jim's mind; it only meant that these things did not clarify the current situation.
And that—in itself—was what made him realise.
He was being seduced. For nefarious purposes.
***
The Enterprise crew is keeping something from Spock. Something that causes breakfast in bed, giggling, gossiping, and Kirkian flirting.
He would like very much to know what it is.
It was Spock's nose that woke him.
He knew, when he woke, that he could have slept for a further hour and sixteen minutes without being late for his shift. Meaning that Jim—who did not follow Spock's stringent makeup routine—could have slept for a further hour and twenty-two minutes without being late.
With this in mind, there were three questions for which Spock desired an answer. Question one: why was he awake? Question two: why was Jim awake? Question three: why had Jim been out of been bed for so long that his part of the mattress had gone cold?
When he sniffed again, he had his answers.
"K'diwa?" Spock sat up, careful to keep the warmed blanket around him, so he could better squint at Jim and his breakfast tray. Two portions of Pirmah and two glasses of sheekuta na'an sat upon it, food and drink that could not be obtained from the replicator.
Meaning that Jim had made it.
Spock squinted harder. "Jim. Why?"
Jim placed the tray firmly on the table. It rattled, slightly. "Why what?"
Why are we not eating in the refectory as is typical? Why have you chosen the more time consuming option of hand-making breakfast? Why have you made breakfast personally when you do not care for cooking? Why have you made Pirmah when you do not typically eat sweet food in the morning, preferring it for dessert?
It was too early in the morning. Spock's mind and tongue were still creeping their way to wakefulness. "Why?"
Jim tilted his head, clearly amused. He was—in his own words—a morning person. Spock found it more endearing when he'd been awake longer than twenty minutes. "Does there have to be a reason? Can a man not just decide to spoil his t'hy'la?"
That, Spock knew, was a trap. He considered the nature of this trap as he rose from bed, winced at the cold floor, and pulled a robe around his shoulders. He could not say "no", as Jim would pout and it would be delightful, and the ensuing series of events would make them late for work, no matter that they were an hour ahead of schedule. However, if he said "yes", Jim would gloat.
He decided to maintain a dignified silence. He sat at the table and allowed Jim to place the food before him.
A sip of juice went a long way to setting Spock's mind to work. He blinked slowly.
"The anniversary of our bonding is not until September," he said. He knew this as instinctively as he knew how to breathe. He knew that he was not in error. However, he also knew that if he was missing something obvious, the statement would provide Jim the opportunity to enlighten him. And if, as he slept, he had slipped into a mirror universe where this was untrue, Jim would now make him aware.
"It is," said Jim around a mouthful. He did not elaborate.
Clearly, Spock would not receive the answers he sought. With a sigh, he began to eat.
It was, of course, delicious. He made sure to make this clear.
Spock's suspicions had not abated by the time they reached the bridge. They had, in fact, increased exponentially, and they only continued to do so as the shift began and the Alpha bridge crew arrived. There was a certain air of… excitability. An air totally incongruous both with the ship's current task—a star mapping task that Jim had called a 'milk run'—and the time of day. Furthermore, it was not limited to Ensign Chekov, whose youth and romantic nature lent themselves to such moods, especially when beginning a fresh courtship. Instead, it had infected the entire bridge. Lieutenant Sulu could not meet Spock's eyes without smiling. Lieutenant Uhura could not keep from humming under her breath. Lieutenant Scott, making a rare appearance to update Jim on engine maintenance in person, had come perilously close to slapping Spock's shoulder before he remembered himself. Scott had then beat a hasty retreat to the sound of laughter.
With infinite patience honed by living amongst Humans, Spock attempted to ignore it, to focus his attention upon his station and his duty. Unfortunately, the situation quickly escalated to the point where he could not.
There was whispering.
Worse than that—there was whispering that ceased immediately whenever he attempted to listen in, meaning to the alarming conclusion that it likely concerned him. (Spock reminded himself, forcibly, that he did not regret instructing the bridge in identifying an eavesdropping Vulcan prior to the Babel mission.)
(He also inspected himself, discreetly, in the reflection of a nearby screen, for any marks that Jim, in his enthusiasm, may have inadvertently left behind.)
"Captain," he said, once he had endured an hour of this. "My presence is not currently required. I will serve my shift in the lab today."
The humming ceased.
"Mr Spock!" Uhura's voice brimmed with—something. "Before you go, will you help me adjust my console? I've been meaning to ever since we left the last starbase, but…"
He knew that he looked incredulous, and that this was why Uhura had trailed off, but this simply could not be borne.
"Miss Uhura," he said sharply, though he walked over regardless. "You know as well as I that you do not and never have required any assistance—including mine—in adjusting your console."
"Well—"
"I must insist that you explain why I am being prevented from going to the lab." He felt a flutter in his side and recalled that he had, for the first time, left the very junior Lieutenant Kaye in charge. It was important to build young officers' experience, and Spock was glad to do so, however… "If there has been an incident—"
"No incident," she said quickly, and placed a reassuring hand on his arm, a liberty he allowed few people to take. "No incident, accident, explosion, or injury, Mr Spock."
"Then why—?"
"Mr Spock, you old cynic!" she said, laughing gracefully. "Does there have to be a reason? Can't I just want to spend time with an old friend?"
"You can," Spock despaired, knowing the futility of attempting to gain any answer that Lieutenant Nyota Uhura did not wish to give. He was forced to surrender with dignity, or else lose without it. "What assistance do you require?"
Time marched on. Spock, having abandoned all hope of going to the lab, continued his vain attempts to ignore whatever strange mood had affected the Enterprise crew—and her captain. His bondmate. If not for the fact he could very easily ascertain Jim's health himself, Spock would have summoned McCoy to the bridge several hours ago. Jim was entirely too…
Touchy.
They had an unspoken mutual agreement that, although their relationship had been sanctioned by Starfleet Command, they did not flaunt it before others. Partly because Spock believed entirely that it had been sanctioned under duress—meaning T'Pau's extraordinary glare—and partly because Jim, despite his reputation in the media, valued professionalism most highly. Therefore, when Jim made a third needless trip to Spock's station to peer at unchanged numbers and slowly rub two fingers over Spock's knuckles, he could not help but wonder what had 'got into him'.
He pushed the feeling of a question into Jim's mind and received nothing insightful in return. That did not mean that he did not appreciate the warm glow of Jim's affection, or that he did not take note of the slowly banking heat flickering at the back of Jim's mind; it only meant that these things did not clarify the current situation.
And that—in itself—was what made him realise.
He was being seduced. For nefarious purposes.
"James Tiberius Kirk," he said aloud, before realising what he had to say should not be said aloud.
Jim turned, sheepish, in the centre chair. "Yes, Spock?"
To hell with it. If Jim wished to play such games before an audience, he would receive the consequences of said games before an audience. "You will cease this method of distraction immediately, or spend the night in your own quarters."
Captain Kirk—fearless veteran of a great many conflicts and diplomatic incidents—hissed through his teeth. The crew made valiant, failed attempts to smother their obvious laughter.
"I'm sorry," said Jim. At the same time, taking exaggerated care over the pronunciation, he thought Ni'droi'ik nar-tor, adun.
Damn him.
Jim spoke the language of Spock's people sparingly, but he did so to great effect.
"You are forgiven," said Spock.
Spock's education and research indicate that, prior to the unification of Earth and Humanity joining the Federation, there had been a law written to prevent 'cruel and unusual punishment'. If pressed to provide an example such, he would now be capable of doing so. Human excitement was a bearable, even pleasant, thing. Human excitement that he could not understand, and was even being prevented from understanding, was less pleasant. His curiosity alone was enough to sting.
The giggling was salt in his wound.
He wished that they would explain themselves. Since they would not, it was his prerogative to, in Human terms, make a break for it.
"Captain," he said, already standing. "I am due for my annual physical."
Jim blinked. "You are," he confirmed. Spock had complained of it only days ago. "Relevance?"
"I intend to go to Sickbay, so that Doctor McCoy can perform it."
With a slightly guilty wince—one echoed by the crew around him—Jim nodded his permission.
"I will meet you in my quarters later," he said. Just in case Jim thought he was truly upset, rather than mildly frustrated and considerably bemused.
"Of course," said Jim.
The doctor was surprised to see him.
"Spock!" he cried, excessive in both emotion and volume. "What're you doing here?"
"I am here for my physical examination."
"My God," said McCoy, as if to some invisible audience. "He's dying for certain."
"Doctor McCoy," Spock sighed, pleased beyond telling by the normality he had found. "If you could restrain yourself, please. I am in perfect health—which, if you attend to your duties promptly, you will be able to ascertain for yourself."
McCoy tutted at him and, muttering direly beneath his breath about what good health even meant for green-blooded menaces, gestured towards a bed. Specifically the bed that he was attempting to program to accommodate and monitor Spock's readings. It was slow-going, made difficult by the various unknowns of Spock's hybrid body, but it was…
It was…
It was only logical that the doctor have a way to quickly gauge Spock's condition in the event he be rendered unconscious and incapable of self-reporting.
It was the most effort any physician had ever put into Spock's individual care.
("Does there have to be a reason?" McCoy had asked when Spock attempted to question him. His eyes had belied the casualness of his question; there had been quiet anger in them. "You're part of this crew, same as anyone else. Should've been done for you years ago.")
Once the tests were underway, McCoy embarked on his favourite hobby. Psychiatry.
"Wanna tell me what you're really doing here, Spock?"
Spock enjoyed teasing and needling the doctor as much as the doctor enjoyed the reverse. But, when it came down to it, he was more than aware that McCoy was an excellent physician. And an excellent friend.
"There is something being hidden from me," he said. "Not only by Jim, but by the rest of the bridge crew. And I suspect that if I spoke to my scientists, I would discover that they, too, are part of the conspiracy."
"Ah," said McCoy. He bounced guiltily.
"I am aware that you, too, are part of this," Spock sighed. "I am confident that you, at least, will be blunt. You will not attempt to conceal the concealment."
"Damn straight," said McCoy. "I told 'em not to bother with secrecy, that it'd only get you riled, but what do I know?"
Spock gave a conciliatory hum and McCoy had him move from the bed to an exercise machine.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "Take it from your doctor—a surprise is good for the soul!"
"Vulcans," said Spock drily, "have katras."
With his good health officially certified, Spock went to his quarters to await Jim's return. He was unsurprised when a rather chagrined captain came over the threshold.
"Well," said Spock.
"We are sorry," said Jim, hurrying over. He took Spock's hands in his. "We didn't mean to upset you."
"Just to hide something," Spock said. And then added, "I was not upset."
"Alright." He squeezed gently. "If I promise it's a good something, does that help?"
"Yes," said Spock, though he had been quite certain of that already. "Although I do not understand why it must be hidden."
"Does there have to be a reason?" Jim asked, or at least began to ask. Alas, he only made it to "be" before, likely seeing in Spock's eyes the impulse to bite, he changed tack. "I'm authorised to tell you that you'll know all about it in another hour."
Spock considered this, then nodded. "If I do not," he decided, "I will find Ensign Peters, and question him on the subject."
"Peters can't keep a secret to save his life!" said Jim, aghast.
"Precisely."
"Ah. Well." Jim chewed on his lip. Then he smiled, apparently catching Spock's eyes tracking the motion. "If I tell you in advance that I'm going to seduce you for nefarious purposes, will you go along with it?"
Spock had not realised that he was broadcasting the exact wording. He felt a blush warm the tips of his ears.
"Perhaps," he said. He let go of Jim's hands to shrug off his blue shirt. "We cannot know until the attempt is made."
Jim smiled, pulled off his command gold, and made the attempt.
Fifty-six minutes after Jim's arrival, Spock—having first been instructed to dress in off-duty clothing, and second to match his robe to Jim's shirt—was stood outside the lab Uhura had earlier prevented him from reaching.
"Jim," he said, with some small dread. "Will whatever is occurring within continue to disrupt normal function tomorrow?"
"No," Jim promised, with unreasonable amounts of amusement. He kissed Spock's cheek and added, "You know I'd never let anyone hurt your lab, Commander."
The possessive was illogical as the labs were property of Starfleet, but Spock was grateful for the reassurance. Enough so that he allowed Jim to hook their little fingers together as they entered the room—an act that would have been indecent on Vulcan, and aboard the Enterprise risked getting looks from Communications experts who knew too much.
It was immediately clear why the room had been subject to such stringent secrecy. The change was immense. All experiments and chemicals had been locked away and every surface sanitised in order for a large loaf of Ha Rageel and several plates could be brought into the room. The room had been decorated with red, blue, and gold balloons, and blue streamers hung from the ceiling. And above it all was a large banner—which must have taken some time to replicate—that read in large print, Happy Anniversary, Mr Spock!
All this, he was able to notice in the split-second before the assembled crowd, comprised of the bridge crew and his scientists, called out, "Surprised!"
Spock blinked twice.
"You have my thanks," he said, to all of them. "However, I do not understand the purpose of this celebration I cannot think of any anniversary that would be celebrated at this time."
He found himself surrounded, once again, by wide smiles and muffled laughter.
"I promise you, Mr Spock," said Scott, "it's a real anniversary. And a fine one, too!"
Confused, he looked at Jim. Jim shook his head, smiling. "It's alright, tal-kam. It'll come to you."
"Jim…"
"In the meantime," he said, raising his voice slightly, "I believe Lieutenant Uhura has a treat planned for us all."
Uhura, clad in elegant dress and fine jewellery, stepped forwards to thunderous applause. This, at last, Spock could understand and appreciate. Uhura's singing was beautiful, one of the greatest pleasures of the Enterprise—one that all the crew could appreciate.
She raised her hands for silence, then curved them into a dance.
Oh, on the starship Enterprise
There's someone who's in Satan's guise,
Whose devil ears and devil eyes
Could rip your heart from you!
Spock knew the song, recognised it immediately, and could not—and did not want to—stop the corners of his lips from beginning to lift. She had composed it, improvised it, early in the voyage, cementing the burgeoning friendship between them. He would enjoy hearing it again.
Oh, dear scientist, clad in blue,
Who stood in lab six-forty-two,
Right on the edge of great breakthrough…
Awake the whole night through!
That, Spock thought, was not part of the original song. But… Perhaps he was starting to recall…
Reactive metal in his grasp,
His lovely voice a sleepy rasp,
Begins to sway, the ensigns gasp,
His hand unclasps on cue!
"Ah," said Spock. He blushed, even as he ducked his chin to mask the irrepressible smile. He knew precisely the anniversary they had chosen. At the time he had been horrified, mortified.
Now, he saw that everyone else smiled with him.
It hits the ground and does explode,
As loud as large Klingon payload,
And poor Kirk's nerves it did erode—
Such harsh language did ensue!
And that's why all we astronauts,
All we wary astronauts,
Wait terrified and overwrought,
To find what he will do!
The room exploded into applause and laughter, and Uhura took a bow. "Thank you," she said, beaming. "Thank you kind sirs, lovely ladies, and beautiful beings. We are here, together, to celebrate a momentous occasion. On this day, four years ago, Mr Spock dropped his experiment and set off the first explosion of Captain Kirk's tenure!"
The applause turned to Spock. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, knowing it would please them.
"An explosion so impressive," Uhura continued, "that for the first and only time on record, Captain Kirk swore on ship-wide intercom!"
Jim went pink—clearly, he had not expected that particular tidbit to be brought up.
"Should this not be a joint anniversary?" Spock asked in an undertone. He remembered the language in question. So far, he had been unable to induce Jim to repeat it.
"It was your hard work that brought it about," Jim demurred.
He might have argued, but Uhura concluded her speech by asking, "Have you any words for us, Commander Spock?" and the room fell silent, awaiting him.
Spock looked over the crowd. Lieutenant Kaye had not been present for the incident in question and seemed enthralled; several of his ensigns were similarly enraptured. He affected a stern expression. "The occasion is inauspicious," he said. "Celebrating a disruptive, potentially dangerous lapse is illogical."
As the crowd cheered, he knew they understood. He was not upset in the least.
Lessons in Seduction, Presented by S'chn T'gai Spock
Rating: E
Word Count: 8133
Also on AO3
"I understand why you choose not to share details of your experiences," he said, once greetings had been dispensed. "However, I require advice, and there is no other being who can provide it."
A slight exaggeration—in truth, it was only that Spock could not bear to approach another with it—but it only repaid Sa-kuk for telling Jim that their meeting might end the world.
"Ask your question and I will consider my answer."
"Sa-kuk." Spock took a single breath. His throat was tight. "Am I gay?"
"Sa-bath…" His counterpart looked at him for a long moment. He looked exceedingly tired. "I suggest that you procure an intoxicant."
***
Asked by Starfleet Command to undertaken a honeypot mission, Spock has come to a startling conclusion about his sexuality. When he reaches out to his counterpart for advice, he may get more than he bargained for.
It was not dislike.
Spock had struggled with self-loathing in his life—he would admit that to himself if no one else—but he had not taken it to such an extreme that he particularly disliked his counterpart. Despite what anyone else might think, it was not dislike that induced him to keep his distance. It was simply an instinctive reaction, not dissimilar to the revulsion a man might feel upon encountering a corpse. Something that was and was not like yourself. The effect of the 'uncanny'.
Spock looked into the weathered face of his counterpart and saw what he could and could not become. A future that was and was not possible. Inevitable. Inescapable.
It was a hard thing to bear.
When not face-to-face with the man himself, however, Spock could feel some strange kind of affection for him, as one might for a very—very—distant relative. The elder had attempted to warn them about Khan, for all the good it had done. He occasionally sent a suggestion that Spock should or should not speak to his father and grandmother, depending on their moods and how recalcitrant various planetary representatives had been that week. That information had been of infinite value, and was perhaps the only reason that Spock and Sarek were yet to have had another relationship-ending row.
And, above all else, Jim was fond of him. He kept in regular contact with Spock's counterpart, sharing stories and jokes and references to a life that no longer existed in any reality except their shared memory, and sometimes when the conversation concluded he'd come and tell Spock about it. Spock struggled to tamp down the instinctual disgust, but he trusted Jim's judgement. Anyone he cared for could not be entirely unpleasant—except perhaps Doctor McCoy.
Jim also liked to remind Spock—pointedly—that his counterpart was likely struggling too. That he had lost everything and everyone he had loved in another place and time, and was now forced to watch their younger selves without interfering. The elder, in Jim's opinion, must have seen in Spock all the lost opportunities, all the things gone unsaid and undone.
And he had to be lonely.
That was how Spock found himself here, staring into the blank vid-screen. Jim had asked him without asking—a skill Spock was yet to master—to spend more time speaking with his counterpart, and he had not yet learned how to tell Jim "no". He had therefore been compelled to call his counterpart to engage in 'casual conversation' once every two weeks for the past six months.
There had been progress. His skin had mostly stopped crawling when he looked into his counterpart's eyes. For convenience's sake, he had begun calling him Sa-kuk, saving the awkwardness of using their shared name. Sa-kuk, after breathing a laugh more free than Spock had ever managed, had begun to call him Sa-bath in return.
It was not entirely unpleasant.
Conversation was rarely stilted, typically revolving around experiments that Spock conducted on Enterprise and those Sa-kuk conducted on the colony. Occasionally Spock caught sight a glimmer in Sa-kuk's eyes—he thought that might be when he remembered the experiment Spock was describing, though he never confirmed it. Sa-kuk was stubbornly maintaining his policy of sharing little of his past, his own life, for fear of influencing Spock's choices.
That Spock had no particular objections to being given guidance did not sway his mind.
On this matter, however, Spock needed answers.
He had no intention of accepting no.
I understand why you choose not to share details of your experiences," he said, once greetings had been dispensed. "However, I require advice, and there is no other being who can provide it."
A slight exaggeration—in truth, it was only that Spock could not bear to approach another with it—but it only repaid Sa-kuk for telling Jim that their meeting might end the world.
"Ask your question and I will consider my answer."
"Sa-kuk." Spock took a single breath. His throat was tight. "Am I gay?"
"Sa-bath…" His counterpart looked at him for a long moment. He looked exceedingly tired. "I suggest that you procure an intoxicant."
According to regulation, Spock should not have been able to replicate an intoxicant aboard a Federation ship. No Human would have been able to do so without hours of legally dubious hacking. (Jim's replicator, for the record, had an extraordinary range of Saurian brandy that Spock was still steadfastly refusing to partake in.) Starfleet's unfortunate and under-acknowledged speciesism, however, meant that Spock was more than capable of gathering any sucrose-laden food his mind could conjure.
Suffice to say, it did not take him long to gather the necessary supplies.
Sa-kuk held a glass of something bearing alarming resemblance to Klingon bloodwine. Spock did not ask, but whatever it was seemed to bring him pleasure. He closed his eyes with quiet relish, took a moment before facing Spock again. He was unafraid of enjoyment. That was why Spock needed his assistance.
"Was there something particular that prompted this line of questioning?"
Spock placed a square of white chocolate on his tongue and let it melt, the sweetness just this side of bearable. He already regretted everything, starting with his birth and concluding with this conversation. Was it too late to retreat? "Lieutenant Uhura suggested it to me. Ensign Chekov was present and agreed that the idea may have some… merit."
"Lieutenant Uhura." Sa-kuk stared at Spock in a manner that induced him to take another square of chocolate. He had been judged by a great many beings in his life for a great variety of reasons, but never an older version of himself drinking wine that was illegal in Federation space. He was finding that he did not care for it. "Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, Chief Communications Officer, with whom you were formerly in a romantic and—presumably—sexual relationship."
"I confess that it was primarily romantic rather than sexual, which in retrospect may have informed her suspicions, but yes, that is whom I referred to."
Sa-kuk did not sigh, curse, or yell. Spock only that he might wish to do these things because he knew the look in those dark eyes. He hoped his own could not be so easily read.
"It is not something that someone else can decide for you," he said. It had the dull tone of a sentence learned by rote, and it was followed by a long drink of wine. "Have you ever felt attraction towards a man?"
The denial hung on Spock's tongue, automatic, but he held it. If it had been an impossibility, Sa-kuk would have displayed some kind of shock, of surprise. Instead, he only seemed incredulous that Spock had not come to the conclusion independently. He therefore considered it, determined to give the thought the time that it deserved.
He recalled first the strange flutter in his stomach when he'd been young and meeting Sybok's radical friends for the first time. It might have been the fear of disobeying Sarek's orders, or it might have been Adam's quick fingers dancing over the strings of his guitar, the way his and Spock's voices twined together in the harmonies, the low hot twist in Spock's gut as he saw him press his lips to the neck of another—he forgot who—and groan, deep and loud, as a hand crept beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Then he thought of his roommate at the Academy—the third one, the Efrosian boy with such deep blue eyes. He hadn't lasted long, no one ever lasting long rooming with Spock, even Nyota hadn't wanted to cohabit, but he was the first Spock had regretted frightening off. The first one Spock had not wanted to frighten off. And when they'd first met, Spock had thought—incongruously, ridiculously—that perhaps he would not mind the Efrosian's non-monogamous traditions. If, of course, the subject ever came up.
And then there was the guest lecturer with the wonderful mind and quick-fire wit—he'd called Spock intelligent and exciting and fascinating and Spock had wanted to drink the thoughts from his mind—and then the Deltan waiter who'd brushed so deliberately against his knuckles—Spock had felt his wanting stain his teeth and never forgotten the taste of it—and the unfairly tall aide his father had sent to spy on him when he took his first teaching post—Spock could have called him out but he hadn't, hadn't wanted to let him out of his sight—and the Andorian who could have hated him but instead smiled at him whenever their eyes met—such a beautiful smile, Spock could see it still in his mind—and then—
then—
Not a man, not a reality, a haze, half a fantasy, thoughts of short blond hair and a broad chest to rest against, thoughts that crept into Spock's mind when he relaxed his guard, made his blood heat with things he couldn't meditate away—things he didn't want to meditate away—
"Oh," he said. He felt fear. He felt dread. Shariel protect me. Take it from me. Kill it within me.
He did not want it to die.
Sa-kuk nodded. "Eat your chocolate, Spock."
Spock ate.
*
Alarm clocks, being a horribly loud blight upon an undeserving galaxy, had never been permitted in Spock's quarters. It was therefore his prerogative, upon hearing the blaring trill of an interloper, to eliminate it with prejudice.
Metal and glass splintered beneath his fist. A startled yelp filled his ears.
"Spock!"
Jim?
He poked his head from beneath the covers and squinted in the overwhelming light, trying to determine why his captain—who, to the best of Spock's knowledge, did not currently despise him—would appear in his rooms bearing the enemy alarm clock. He did not recall making any request. He last recollection, in fact, was being deep in discussion with Sa-kuk regarding… Vital matters. Spock had been under orders to eat his chocolate and, since he was not one to disobey the orders that served his purposes, he'd eaten, let his focus grow fuzzier and let the conversation drift to what little of Sa-kuk's life he'd been willing to share. His own youthful revelation (a boy at school with a talented tongue), and whom he'd permitted to learn of it (any who cared to discover it, particularly those with pretty mouths), and how Sarek had reacted (it paled in the face of his other deficiencies and was eventually accepted).
Sa-kuk had just inquired as to what had sparked Nyota's suggestion in the first instance when Spock realised—with great urgency—that he ought to sleep, given that the room was spinning more often than it was still, and he was, after all, on—
Alpha shift!
He sat bolt upright, even as his head swam and his stomach lurched. He could permit no rebellion of the body; the body must be controlled by the mind. "Forgive me," he said, unable to deny the panic in his own voice. "I have—no excuse, Captain. Permit me a moment—"
A sharp prick in the meat of his bicep silenced him. Any other day and he might have glared at Jim for administering a hypo with express permission, but as it steadied both head and stomach, he could not.
"Luckily for you," said Jim, smirking, "the ambassador already sent your excuses. He takes full responsibility for getting you drunk."
"I was not—" he started to lie, even if it was futile.
"He also told me to put you on Gamma, and which of McCoy's potions would get you up and running."
Spock, apparently, 'owed him one'. Although, since it was Sa-kuk's fault in the first instance…
"Then he told me that he was on his way here, and he'd rendezvous with us in approximately three point six-four hours."
Spock blinked. Perhaps his faculties were still sub-optimal, because Jim's words failed to make sense. "Rendezvous, Captain? For what purpose?"
"I was hoping you'd explain that." Jim sat himself on the edge of the bed, pressed against Spock's legs, separated only by the duvet, caring nothing for propriety and personal space. Spock hoped he was imaging the feeling of his cheeks burning. "Officially, he's an ambassador requesting transport to an as-yet undeclared location. Unofficially, he's had one discussion with you and come running. Which begs the question—what did you say last night?"
Spock was most certainly burning.
"We discussed… a private matter. I did not invite him, and he did not mention…"
Spock did not generally approve of 'trailing off'. If a man could not determine how a sentence should end, it would be better for him not to begin it.
However, if a man realised whilst speaking that he could not, in fact, vouch for the accuracy of his memories regarding the night before, it might behove him to 'shut the Hell up' before causing problems for himself.
"I did not invite him," he said, since he could at least be certain of that.
Jim sighed as he stood. "Well, we'll find out soon what he's up to. Put a shirt on, Mr Spock. We're the honour guard—and he's due any minute."
Spock had not realised his nakedness. He—most illogically, given that the conversation had concluded—dragged the covers further up his body, hiding every inch he could from view. Not that his captain would be looking. In fact, Jim snorted, genuinely amused, and mimed covering his eyes as he walked to the door of the bathroom that connected their rooms. He paused just before he triggered the door.
"One last thing, Spock."
"Sir?"
"You owe me an alarm clock."
Sober, clothed, and mostly recovered from the acute mortification he had suffered, Spock was stood at attention with Jim by the time the transporter began to whine and shimmer. In a moment—a fraction, a breath—Sa-kuk would be there, and Spock would discover what it was he had done to convince him that his presence was required. He hoped it was nothing too…
Nothing too…
Nothing too pathetic.
The familiar silhouette began to form. Spock reminded his lungs of their proper duty. Jim was already smiling, already anticipating.
"Ambassador," Jim said, striding forward as Sa-kuk appeared. The elder did not touch him, but smiled so openly that Jim seemed as pleased as if he had. Spock had never been able to give Jim—anyone—a smile such as that.
"Captain Kirk." Sa-kuk raised the ta'al with slightly crooked fingers. The joints were slightly inflamed; Spock would take note of that for his own future, and ask Doctor McCoy to provide the ambassador with a curative. "I hope you can forgive the intrusion, old friend."
No one ever reminded him that Jim was not his 'old friend'. Likely it would be a cruelty. Despite popular opinion to the contrary, Spock did try to avoid cruelty.
"No intrusion," said Jim. "I'm just curious what dragged you out here."
"We all must answer to duty," he said, cryptic, but his eyes were on Spock as he spoke.
"You did not give yourself away," Sa-kuk assured him later. The two of them had retired to the guest quarters, under the guise of Spock helping him get settled. "You remained steadfast under questioning. I would not have guessed, except for the fact that I undertook the same mission myself as a young officer."
Flooded by twin bursts of relief—that he had not betrayed his mission, that Sa-kuk knew his troubles anyway—Spock could not speak. He had not been permitted to confide in anyone. Even Jim, his captain, had not been authorised to hear of this particular mission. Spock alone knew what the Federation had asked of him.
Or… Two Spocks had known.
The details of the mission had been delivered one week ago. Spock had memorised it by heart.
The target was one Kye Daniels, a rich, arrogant man who just happened to be in possession of certain information that admirals and officials wanted very badly. Starfleet Intelligence—and Spock too, in his spare time—had researched him extensively but found very little. He had seemingly no weaknesses, no pressure points to exploit, to political leanings to be manipulated, no connections to be called upon, no loyalties to be pleaded to.
In all their searches, they had found only one thing.
Kye Daniels had a fondness for Vulcans.
There was currently half a Vulcan in the 'fleet.
'Honeypotting', the admirals explained, was a valued technique in intelligence gathering, even if the term did make Spock's insides wince. Widely used, even if not widely acknowledged, it was responsible for huge quantities of data and, accordingly, huge numbers of lives saved. There was no shame in it. And if Spock was willing to put aside personal feeling for the good of the many—and since he was a Vulcan, there could be no feeling to put aside—then Starfleet wished to ask a favour of him.
He had been studying Daniels' image, trying to imagine a scenario where he might be able to seduce him, when Nyota had come across him and mentioned the potential of his sexuality.
Spock could not have explained, even if he'd wanted to.
None of this needed to be said aloud as they both understood it. What Spock said instead was, "You… completed the mission?"
"I was assigned to seduce Mr Daniels," Sa-kuk confirmed. "Following him, there were others. Businessmen, ambassadors, senators… On one occasion, a Romulan commander."
Spock blinked. Sa-kuk smiled.
"I had a talent for the work. In certain circles, I gained a—professional reputation. That is why I have come."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, dread rising with it.
"I will instruct you, if you permit it, in the skills required to undertake such missions. Will you permit it?"
The idea of taking the help was horrifying. But the idea of facing Daniels without it was far worse. Spock steeled himself.
"I accept."
*
Gamma shift was quieter than Alpha shift. Typically staffed almost entirely by junior members of the crew—albeit those in line for promotion, who were trusted to work alone—there were few brave enough to enter a conversation with Spock.
(For the record, Spock had not purposefully intimidated them. It was simply an effect he sometimes had on Humans.)
It had its benefits. His presence was not required—and, frankly, not desired—on the bridge. If that changed, he would be summoned, but for the moment he was able to sequester himself with a library computer and trawl through the data and reports that had gathered in the last six point eight weeks since he had been able to complete a thorough review. It was gratifying to consider the task complete.
Despite this, he ended the shift with the knowledge that, at some point between first joining Pike's Enterprise and now, he had developed a firm preference for Alpha shift over Gamma.
When the shift concluded, Spock returned to his room. Sa-kuk awaited him, as they had agreed.
"There are four things I can teach you," he said, once Spock was settled into a seat. "This is the first."
He presented Spock with a delicate case. Spock took it gingerly.
"I will teach you to apply cosmetics in an efficient a flattering manner. I will also teach you a simplified version suitable for use on duty."
"Why would I wear cosmetics whilst on duty?"
Sa-kuk raised an eyebrow. Spock understood, quite suddenly, why that might be considered irritating.
"I will apply it to you whilst you watch. You may then attempt to replicate it."
He was largely silent as he worked, narrating only the aspects he deemed most complex. Spock watched the reflection of him in the mirror, how he angled the brushes, how he used the colours, and watched his own face be changed. The purple eye shadow was swept high, stopping just beneath his pointed brows. Then gold was added, blended in, adding a… a shimmer. And his lips were painted pink, a shiny gloss.
Studying himself, Spock did not know himself. Made up like…
Like a Vulcan of old. One of the men pictured in the old writings, the pre-Surakian men, Shariel's ancient worshippers. Men valued as much for their aesthetic appeal—and other skills—as they were for any intelligence or prowess in battle.
A relic. An image of illogic.
"It was armour," Sa-kuk murmured. He wiped a smudge from Spock's skin with the edge of his thumb. Spock kept his shields high. "But it was beauty, too."
Spock had never been beautiful before. He had not realised that he could be.
"Please demonstrate the duty-appropriate version."
Sa-kuk did not mention his change of heart. He nodded and obeyed.
Spock wondered but did not ask—who had taught Sa-kuk to apply his makeup?
Being Vulcan, Spock did not experience nervousness. However, as he walked towards the bridge for his next Alpha shift with painted eyelids, he encountered something that was, perhaps, analogous to nervousness. A certain nauseated flutter in his stomach and chest that intensified with every double-take and second glance he encountered on the path from his room to the turbolift. If he could have done so without being late, he would have retreated to his quarters and erased all evidence of the attempt, relegating it forever more to his mental list of 'failed experiments'. It might have found a fitting home between the helix piercing he'd wanted at fourteen—his mother, thankfully, had reminded him of how much it would hurt his sensitive ears—and the heavy ring he had bought at nineteen, worn for approximately three minutes and seven seconds, and proceeded to stuff beneath his mattress where prying eyes could not find it. (That, at least, had aided in… self-discovery.)
He could not be late. He braced himself.
"Mr Spock—!" Chekov's announcement suddenly ceased. The ensign blinked twice, then rallied. "Mr Spock on the bridge!"
The others turned in their seats—perhaps to greet him, perhaps to see what had made Chekov stutter—and they did not turn back around. Spock felt verdant humiliation start to burn. What had he been thinking? Take it, destroy it, kill it within me.
Jim was not a cruel man. He would excuse Spock to rectify this error in judgement. "Captain—"
"Mr Spock." Jim's eyes were on him, fixed on him, and he was smiling. It was not mocking. It was—excruciatingly kind. "Trying something new?"
Spock's throat was dry. Jim's eyes were on him; he ignored all else in order to answer. "Yes, sir."
"It suits you."
He swallowed. His tongue was thick and useless in his mouth. He hoped he was not experiencing a delayed allergic response to the lip gloss. "Thank you, sir."
The sanctuary of his station welcomed him home and he breathed deep. Nyota gave him a moment to recover before she, too, smiled at him. "The ambassador?"
He nodded.
"Kirk's right. You do look good."
To take pride in something so subjective as 'looking good' was illogical. However…
"You should take his advice more often," she concluded, before returning to her own duties.
To borrow a phrase: she did not know the half of it.
The morning passed in its typical fashion. Yeomen coming to deliver messages did occasionally stare at him—no doubt the entire ship would be apprised of his experiment by lunch—but it was not entirely unacceptable. It could be borne, at any rate. The easy acceptance of the Alpha bridge crew, of his friends, was enough to buoy him. Even if they did occasionally look back at him, as though they might have been mistaken at first glance.
Jim looked back more than the others, but this was not unusual. Jim generally did look back at Spock more than any other member of the crew. It made sense—Spock was his first officer, Jim needed to speak to him often in the course of their duties. Of course, as well as that, he liked to turn and ask about Spock's readings, even the technically irrelevant ones, because he liked to know every detail about what his silver lady might face. And he'd turn and attempt to bring him in on the jokes that circulated the consoles, patiently waiting for the understanding to strike and for Spock to nod that he had 'got it'. And sometimes he'd turn and grin at him, a little incredulous, just to bring him into the sense of wonder that seemed to encompass Jim's life.
Look, Jim's smile said. Look at this! Did you ever think we'd have all this?
The answer, of course, was no. Spock had never dared dream to have this much.
Two hours after lunch, Jim could bear the curiosity no longer. Truthfully, Spock had expected him to break far sooner. Swinging himself from the centre chair, Jim sidled over to Spock's station, leaning over the console to ensure that Spock had to look at him. For a moment, Spock considered pretending to ignore him—temporarily—and getting to see the pout that sometimes appeared when Jim found himself thwarted, a sulk tempered by amusement and fond warmth that, unbelievably, seemed to come from Spock, from Spock gathering himself enough to try and tease.
The moment passed. He looked up to meet bright eyes and an inquisitive smile.
"You never said you wore makeup," he said. Soft, low—for Vulcan ears only.
"Until today, I never have."
Jim's hand rose slowly, perhaps unconsciously. Spock's breath stopped in his throat. Luckily—dreadfully—agonisingly, Jim's hand stopped, just before it could bush Spock's cheek.
"I like the purple," he said. He tilted Spock's head with the barest whisper of movement. Spock's head tipped back, giving him the best possible angle—viewing angle. "I do. But shouldn't it be blue? For the Sciences?"
"I shall consider it," Spock said, voice commendably even, and as Jim left him he pondered absently the work it would take to have the replicator spit out eye shadow the precise shade of Jim's eyes.
*
Sa-kuk had taken leave of his senses.
As Spock stared in ill-concealed horror at the—the thing in his hands, it was abundantly clear. In the scant hours it had taken for Spock to serve his shift, his counterpart had succumbed to utter madness, born either of age or inter-universal travel, and now Spock was forced to grapple with the consequences.
At length, he managed a strangled no and a desperate plea that it be put away before someone opened Spock's door and saw it. Sa-kuk had the nerve to laugh.
A gentle laugh, yes, but a laugh all the same.
"Have you no faith in me, Sa-bath?"
Spock could hardly believe him. He forced himself to breathe. "It is obscene."
Another laugh—this time louder, almost Human. "Is it?"
Sa-kuk held it out again and Spock forced himself not to react, to pass through the initial alarm and consider the matter without bias. It was true that, by Human standards, perhaps by any non-Vulcan standard, the robes would be entirely acceptable, even overly modest. The layers would cover the majority of a man's skin, and they were hardly tight—the opposite, even. If he showed them to Jim…
That is, if he showed them to any being aboard the Enterprise, they would likely consider them entirely proper, if overly formal, to be used as everyday robes. They would not look askance if Spock chose to wear them.
But the design…
Spock fought hard against the urge to bury his face, or to rip the robes from Sa-kuk's hands and bury them. The pure, deep black—the colours of Spock's house—and the white slash of old Golic script...
He did not read it.
But he could not avoid seeing aitlun.
"Sa-kuk," he said, trying to hide his blistering sense of scandal. "They are a declaration."
"Precisely," came the reply. Distressingly logical. "One that Kye Daniels will recognise and appreciate."
Spock did hide his face then. First in his hands and then, when it became clear that could not possibly suffice, in his pillow, lying himself face down on his mattress. He presumed that Sa-kuk would forgive it.
"I cannot," he said. "I cannot."
"Sa-bath—"
"If I was seen—"
"That would be the intended result," Sa-kuk said. "However, I believe that I understand the issue. You are alarmed by the prospect of someone who knows Sarek seeing."
He could not confess it.
"He could hardly fault his unbonded son for recognising and addressing that fact. Especially a son who is yet to have his Time."
Spock groaned at the reminder and Sa-kuk tutted. Tutted. At Spock.
Indignity after indignity.
He turned his head. "If Sarek is reminded of the fact, he may take it upon himself to—" Spock allowed himself to grimace, given the severity of the situation— "matchmake. It cannot be permitted."
"I remind you again of the importance of your mission."
"It cannot be permitted."
"I add to my argument the fact that I was considered particularly aesthetically pleasing in black, and was able to strategically plan my attire to soften precarious social situations. Logic dictates that the same should be true of you."
Spock considered it. He returned his face to the pillow.
Sa-kuk sighed. "Perhaps a compromise might be found."
Standing in his undershirt, Spock felt…
Not naked, because he was clearly not, but certainly less than fully dressed. Less than entirely decent.
"I cannot go around the ship like this."
"To Jim's quarters, then," Sa-kuk said, just this side of exasperated. They had been stood here for almost half an hour already. "In either robes or the shirt, Sa-bath, but it must be one of them. You cannot wear your uniform to meet Kye Daniels, and you cannot appear uncomfortable wearing something that is not your uniform. He will know that you were sent."
Spock swallowed his automatic refusal. "To Jim?"
"To Jim." Sa-kuk's irritation faded into the slightly nostalgic smile that meant he was not thinking of the same man Spock was. "You know that he is never upset by your appearance in his quarters."
That had not always been true, but perhaps it was now.
"Invite him to dinner with you after chess on Friday," he said. "It will take little time, offer a plausible excuse for your presence, and allow you to return immediately afterwards."
"That is—acceptable," Spock decided. He was not sure why his skin felt clammy.
Jim seemed surprised to find Spock at his door—his eyes went a little wide when he saw him—but he smiled, so logic suggested that it was a pleasing surprise. Spock resisted the urge to clasp his arms behind his back, to hide the bare skin. Perhaps Jim saw him twitch, because his eyes became fixed, seeming to trace his tense muscles with his gaze. Spock swallowed.
"Captain."
"Mr Spock." Jim looked Spock in the eye, and it was not any less overwhelming. "Want to come in?"
That was not the agreement.
"That is not necessary," he said. "I only came to ask a question."
Jim quirked an eyebrow, but he was still smiling. "Ask away, Commander."
"Would you be amenable to having dinner together following our chess game on Friday?"
It took a moment, a moment where Jim's mouth hung slightly open, before he let loose a delighted laugh. "Of course! Why not? In the mess?"
"In my quarters," Spock decided. He was still not fond of eating in the company of others. Jim was simply the exception.
"Perfect." Jim looked at him for another moment. "You sure you don't want to come in? You look… cold."
Spock looked down at his arms. He did indeed have 'goosebumps', though he was confident in his ability to maintain his internal temperature. There was no logical excuse for this particular bodily instinct.
"It is not necessary," he said again. "I shall see you on the bridge tomorrow morning."
"Until tomorrow, then," said Jim.
*
On Wednesday, Sa-kuk came to deliver his third lesson. Spock had braced himself in advance, determined not to baulk so openly at his counterpart's suggestions. He was Vulcan. He would control himself.
He was determined.
Sa-kuk smiled at him as he walked in. "Sa-bath. Greetings."
"Greetings." Spock did not smile, given that he was focused on controlling himself, but he let him in without hesitation. At one point in his life, not so long ago, he would have considered that an unreachable milestone. Fascinating what a 'honeypot' mission could do for a man's social life. "I am prepared for your lesson."
"That is fortunate. It is one that you may find—challenging."
Spock attempted to calm himself. He did not remind Sa-kuk that he had found all the lesson thus far challenging. "I am prepared."
"Then we shall begin."
The act of seduction, as his counterpart described it, was primarily a matter of attitude. More than clothes, more than makeup, Spock would have to act as if he wanted—even expected—to conclude his evening in another's bed.
"Vulcans cannot lie," Spock tried.
Sa-kuk gave him a look and Spock relented. He had not truly expected that to work.
"It is not lying," Sa-kuk said. "Merely… playing on the expectations of others."
Spock was not foolish enough to begin an argument. He thought that Sa-kuk might have looked a little disappointed.
There were, apparently, three main personas that Spock should explore if he wished to become a 'honeypot'. Those three, Sa-kuk assured him, would serve him adequately in most situations. They were as follows:
Role One: The Innocent.
Sa-kuk's eyes had shone, slightly amused, slightly sly, almost predatory, as he named it. "There are many," he said, "operating under the flawed assumption that Vulcans—lacking emotion—are entirely unaware of certain… biological realities. You have no doubt encountered this."
Spock had indeed. He did not see the necessity of voicing this aloud.
"I often found it useful to encourage that belief and to allow targets to approach with the aim of 'rescuing' me from 'Vulcan propriety'."
Spock considered the merits of this. The feigned vulnerability would likely prevent targets from properly guarding against him. The thought of a meld—even a surface meld—was slightly terrible, but it could not be ignored that the targets would likely neglect to shield their thoughts. And this was, as Spock reminded himself, espionage. It was not intended to be comfortable.
Role Two: The Arrogant.
Spock blinked when he heard it. "I have been told that arrogance is unattractive." Multiple times.
"In a romantic partner, that may be so. In a purely sexual partner, it is not always so. Confidence is often appreciated." Sa-kuk seemed amused by whatever Spock's face had done. "Certain beings enjoy the idea of 'bringing a Vulcan down to their level'. Convincing an intelligent, 'superior' Vulcan to submit to them sexually increases their pleasure.
"I see," said Spock, and it was true. He could see the logic. Arrogance to attract the arrogant—to attract those who would brag, and in bragging betray themselves.
"You are quite green," said Sa-kuk.
"My embarrassment remains at a tolerable level."
"That is good."
Role Three…
Role Three could not be named. It was not dissimilar to the second, in that it relied upon Spock's ability to project an air of confidence.
"There are some," said Sa-kuk, "who have heard of Vulcan strength and… desire to experience it first-hand."
Spock had heard of it. Could imagine it, almost. A man who thought often of Vulcan abilities, fantasised about them, catching sight of him—Spock—from across the room. What would he do? Would he follow, unquestioning, if Spock approached? Yes, Spock decided. He would. And he'd want nothing more than for a strong, silent alien to put him in his place. He'd bend easily when Spock pushed, he'd trust his whims and his force, he'd let Spock sink down onto his lok, he'd let Spock wrap a hand around his neck and squeeze…
Focus.
The daydream—because that was what it was, Spock could not deny it—was minuscule. Negligible. A fraction of a second.
There was a knowing glint in Sa-kuk's eyes, even so.
"I shall leave you to reflect," he said.
Spock did not throw anything at him as he left. That, he thought, was as much kindness as the old man deserved.
*
"Spock!"
Spock turned. Jim was approaching rapidly; he slowed his pace so that his friend might catch up, even as he knew that he and his captain would be on the bridge together regardless. "Jim."
"I feel like I've hardly seen you this week."
"We have eaten three meals a day together every day as usual."
Jim pouted. It was as pleasing as ever. "Alright, that's true. But you've got to admit I've not seen you as much as usual."
"I have been spending my evenings with the ambassador," Spock said, though he was certain Jim knew already. "He has been—mentoring me."
Jim's expression softened into a pleased smile. "That's good. I'm glad, Spock."
"I am no longer instinctively revolted by his existence," he added, and Jim laughed.
"Well, as long as you're still free for chess tomorrow—"
"If I was not, I would have notified you."
A lie. If he had not been, Spock would have rearranged things so that he was. Perhaps Jim knew that because he smiled, said nothing, and led the way to the bridge.
The crew had quickly become used to Spock's use of cosmetics, no longer turning to observe it. Normality had resumed—only the captain swivelled to keep Spock in sight.
He did that for the first few hours, spinning the whole chair in order to question or prod or joke, before the banality of the shift began to wear. It had been almost a month without excitement for Jim—barring Sa-kuk's coming—and the captain had always found that difficult. He sighed once or twice, started to lean on his armrest, and Spock estimated the likelihood of what Doctor McCoy called 'shenanigans' to be at an unacceptable sixty-three point seven percent.
Drastic measures were called for. He took a PADD and opened one of the documents that his ensigns called his 'Pet Projects'; an illogical term, given that there were no animals involved.
Spock, in the deepest recesses of his mind, called these experiments 'Jim Bait'. Perfectly tailored to his captain's own scientific inclinations, Spock considered it entirely probable that one document would occupy Jim's attention until lunch and beyond.
"Captain," he said.
Jim straightened. He swivelled his chair. "Yes, Spock?"
"Provided there are no other demands on your time—" Jim laughed derisively, so Spock continued— "I wonder if you would consent to proofreading a paper I have been writing."
Eyes brightening in a most pleasing manner, Jim assented by means of making 'gimme' motions with his hands. Spock walked quickly to deliver it, and Jim's nose was buried before he made it back to his own station.
Spock would have declared it a total success, except for the fact he felt Nyota's eyes fall upon his back. She seemed to be considering him—he could not fathom why.
"This is the final lesson I can provide," said Sa-kuk as he arrived. "It is also the shortest."
Spock considered that it would be impolite to show his relief. He considered also that it was likely obvious.
Sa-kuk pressed a booking into his hands. The title alone made him flush.
"You are under no obligation—official or otherwise—to engage in true sexual contact on this or any other mission Starfleet may assign to you." Sa-kuk stared at him until Spock nodded his understanding. "However, you may wish to have the option available to you."
Sa-kuk gave no indication as to whether he had taken that option, which Spock was glad of. Even if he could guess the answer.
"The book explains much of what two beings with the same—or similar—genital configurations may accomplish together."
Spock nodded. The twin desires to expel the book into deep space and to study it cover-to-cover left him dazed.
"I will leave you to read," said Sa-kuk.
"I did not think anything could be worse than Sarek's pamphlets," said Spock.
For a moment, he and Sa-kuk were united in dreadful memory: their father, excruciatingly embarrassed, approaching their fourteen-year-old selves with two pamphlets, one explaining Human puberty (too late) and one explaining Pon Farr (too early).
"It was a trying day," said Sa-kuk.
"So is this," said Spock.
*
Friday dawned and Spock—who had, perhaps, spent less time in sleep and meditation than he normally did in order to do some reading—reported to the lab.
It was his habit to spend Fridays in the lab. It allowed him to keep in proper touch with the members of his department, who had helpfully begun to rotate who served the Friday Alpha shift, and made him a more common sight for his ensigns, which was good for morale. He had found—or, rather, Nyota had told him—that he was a less intimidating figure in safety goggles. Something about "increasing the size of your eyes" and "taking a child-like delight in exploding things". Spock had denied the accusations, but continued attending to the lab on Fridays. It had, after all, led Jim to set up a standing chess appointment for Friday evening, apparently to account for the lack of company.
Today he walked in, put on the goggles, and ignored how Ensign Simons conspicuously looked away, failing to conceal her growing smile.
"Miss Simons," he said. "Are you available to assist?"
"Yes, sir," she said. When she turned to face him, she had largely composed herself. Spock reminded himself that he did not miss the days when his junior officers were afraid of him.
Most of the work was, admittedly, dull; taking down data that Spock called out, saving him the twin inconveniences of decontaminating himself enough to touch the PADD and checking his spelling. Given that it was dull, however, Spock followed it by training her to monitor some of the Enterprise's more specialised scanners and, yes, seeking out an experiment that required a controlled explosion.
By the end of the shift, Ensign Simons had laid claim to her own pair of goggles. That, according to the Human contingent of Spock's department, was a rite of passage.
Sa-kuk was waiting when Spock made it back, slightly late, to his rooms. Spock did not frown.
"I am meeting Jim for chess."
"And dinner," Sa-kuk said. "I recall. However, there is some time left before that, and I am disembarking at Starbase Twelve tomorrow."
Spock blinked. "I was not aware of this."
"It was not planned. I received the request this afternoon."
"I see." Spock felt a strange twinge. It was not that he would miss his counterpart, precisely, for they would no doubt keep up their virtual correspondence. But they had spent enough time together that there was companionship, awkward as it often was. There was familiarity. They had formed a routine—Spock did not like breaking routines. "Then you have come to say goodbye?"
"And to give you a gift."
For the second time in less than a full week, Spock held a disgraceful robe in his hands. He refused to drop it.
"You need not wear it," said Sa-kuk. "But it is more logical for you to keep it than I. Just in case a need arises."
Spock could…
Spock could see some hint of logic. If it was as Sa-kuk described, if he did look particularly pleasing in a black robe, then it would make sense for him to keep it, in case Starfleet did send a mission where it might be helpful.
At any rate, it could not be worse than the book.
He was not entirely sure how it happened—or why he agreed to it—but he quickly found himself wearing the thing, inspecting himself in the mirror, and letting Sa-kuk adjust the hem to better fit him.
Annoyingly, he did look good.
And once the hem was fixed and Sa-kuk had put the sewing needle away, he was letting him redo his makeup—with a hint of glitter and pink lip gloss, too.
Sa-kuk stepped away. "You will look the part."
Spock wrinkled his nose, but did not object.
He was still not objecting when Jim opened his door.
Take me. Destroy me. Kill me.
"Captain," he said. "You are—" he considered it— "precisely on time. Forgive me. I was distracted."
Jim was silent. Staring. Jaw slightly loose.
Sa-kuk pressed a deliberate hand against Spock's shoulder, pushing him slightly forward, closer to Jim, and then left.
"Captain," Spock tried again.
"Spock," said Jim. He sounded slightly hoarse. Slightly dazed. "You look…"
He felt his cheeks burn. It was one thing to dress in such a way for Starfleet's sake, quite another to be seen by a friend. "If you will allow me a moment to change—"
"No," Jim blurted, and then went scarlet. "I mean—if you want to, do, but not because of me." He took a breath. "You look good. You look—" he let out a low, breathy laugh— "really good."
Oh.
Many things became clear at once. Primarily that Spock would—barring any accidents of fate—grow up to become a manipulative kre'nath.
"Jim," he said. He took a step closer, closer than he had ever permitted himself to stand. "Do you still wish to play chess?"
Jim swallowed. It made his throat bob. "I don't think so."
"Good." He pressed closer again; their chests were almost touching. If either swayed forwards, their lips would crash together, and they would kiss.
"Spock…"
"Jim," he said again, because he could see Jim's pupils dilate when Spock said his name. "The ambassador has been advising me on how best to seduce men. Do you wish to be seduced?"
"Fuck," he breathed. "Yes."
Spock took Jim's face in his hands and kissed him, kissed him so thoroughly that when he pulled back, Jim was panting. It was intoxicating. Spock kissed him again, focusing on the feel of his lips and the slide of his tongue.
"I've wanted you so long," Jim gasped, breaking the kiss. "So long, Spock—Spock, I thought you didn't want me, I would have lived with it, I want to be your friend first, always, but if you want me—do you want me?"
Spock traced his spine down to the swell of his backside and, in case that was not enough, said, "Yes, I want you, and if you permit it I will have you."
"It's permitted," said Jim.
Spock pulled him towards the bed.
*
Enterprise's halls were familiar, always, even it had been many years and another universe since Spock had roamed their Silver Lady. Still, he trod the old paths with the confidence he always had, leaving his sa-bath's room behind.
He reached the main briefing room and the eyes—familiar, but far too young—of the pair awaiting him fell upon him.
"Well?" asked Lieutenant Uhura. Her voice was urgent, as well it might be. She had called Spock to ask for his help nearly a month ago, but he had not realised it could be so dire until Sa-bath's call.
"I have done all I can do," he said.
She sighed, and Ensign Chekov groaned dramatically. "It must work," he said. "It is unbearable."
"They did seem particularly oblivious to their attraction," Spock admitted. "But if they are not currently aware of it, then I shall call T'Pau and retire."
"Then you were not this bad? Our captain and Mr Spock are unique?"
Spock hesitated. He didn't want to disillusion Chekov—always young in Spock's eyes, and this version even younger—but he did not like to lie. "My captain and I were far worse. We were aware of the attraction for over a decade before we acted."
The silence was not flattering. Spock decided to move on.
"Miss Uhura, have you sent the message I requested to Starfleet Command?"
The look she sent was not judgemental, but it was certainly evaluative. Trying to see in him what might or might not exist—or be awakened—in her own friend. Spock did not begrudge that.
"Yes," she said at last. "They'll have a representative waiting to meet you on the Starbase."
Spock nodded. It would be best, he thought, to give his sa-bath and Jim a period of adjustment before any specialised missions disrupted their time together. And, conveniently, there was now another Vulcan available to fill the gap Sa-bath's absence might leave.
A Vulcan who knew two things.
One: that Kye Daniels was currently attending a conference on Starbase Twelve.
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It is an illogical, improbable - even impossible - thought, but Spock nonetheless entertains it. After all, when all else is eliminated, whatever remains must be the truth, and he has eliminated all other possibilities. The truth, therefore, is that the universe hates him, and chooses to punish him - his sins, his hubris, whatever it is he has done this time - by subjecting him to his father.
***
Ambassador Sarek has a mission for the Enterprise - escort a Vulcan in Pon Farr to the colony, where his wife awaits.
The only problem? That the mission risks triggering Spock's, too.
It is an illogical, improbable - even impossible - thought, but Spock nonetheless entertains it. After all, when all else is eliminated, whatever remains must be the truth, and he has eliminated all other possibilities. The truth, therefore, is that the universe hates him, and chooses to punish him - his sins, his hubris, whatever it is he has done this time - by subjecting him to his father.
He attempts to look politely blank, but there is a sharpness and slight amusement in his father’s gaze that tells him he has failed. Jim, at least, does not seem to notice his dismay; he invites Spock to stand at his shoulder for the call, likely considering it a kindness.
It is not.
“It’s good to see you, Ambassador,” says Jim.
“We come to serve,” says Spock, because copying Jim would make him a liar.
“That is fortunate,” says Sarek, which Spock considers to be very likely unfortunate. “The Vulcan Council has made a request of Starfleet, and they have assured us that you will assist.”
“Of course,” says Jim.
Spock stands braced, ready. There is no indication of trouble except a prick in his ears, a slight tightness in his stomach - vestigial senses, with no real place in Spock’s life except for sensing when his father has come to tell Spock something that he won’t like.
“It is not something typically spoken of to outworlders, but the situation is complex and certain traditions must be… relaxed.” Sarek looks solemnly down at them from the screen, as if assessing the bridge crew for their trustworthiness. (The Alpha shift - Jim’s chosen few - are, naturally, above reproach.) “What do you know of Pon Farr?”
If Shariel was a merciful god, He would take Spock now and have done with it.
Naturally, He does not.
Jim makes diplomatic noises of confusion - clear that he knows nothing of the subject, but not so dramatic that it seems to accuse the Vulcans of withholding information. He is echoed first by Lieutenant Uhura, who may well decide to pulverise Spock in Shariel’s place following the conclusion of this conversation, and secondly by Dr McCoy, who will no doubt have something to say regarding ‘Vulcan secrecy’ and its impact on patient care. And he has had so much to say already…
“Pon Farr,” begins Sarek, before he pauses. Spock has no doubt that his father has rehearsed this explanation, but then, he is likewise certain that his father rehearsed before presenting the same information to seven-year-old Spock, an incident so embarrassing to all involved that Spock’s mother had taken over all future discussions of sexual health and relationships. “Pon Farr is…”
T’Kuht , Sister, Watcher, wouldst thou see and all this? Willst thou not intervene?
“It has to do with biology,” says Spock, deciding to break in before his father combusts. He feels himself flush as the eyes of his crewmates fall upon him and he clarifies, “Vulcan biology.”
“You don’t mean…” Jim blinks, then says significantly, “The biology of Vulcans?”
Shariel, wouldst thou forsaketh thine loyal servant in his hour of need?
“It is the Time of Mating,” he confesses, wishing that his cheeks would cease burning so obviously.
Nyota looks at him. He hopes, distantly, that she is simply recalling that Spock had done perfectly well (he thought) without such a thing. He knows that she is more likely deciding how to punish him for the omission of such information. It would be her right to do so, of course, but it would be uncomfortable. Perhaps there is a statute of limitations, given that the relationship has terminated. The concept seems too convenient to be true.
“Well,” says Jim. He clears his throat. “It’s… perfectly natural… Bones?”
Dr McCoy shakes himself. “Of course. The birds and the bees-”
“-are not Vulcan,” Sarek says, rejoining the conversation now that his son has done the hardest part. “Pon Farr is… beyond that. It is a madness, a fever. An instinct that drives us to return home and find our mate, or else die a painful, humiliating death.”
Humiliating.
Spock had wondered, when he was young, what it would be like to die in Pon Farr. All young Vulcans did, once they became old enough to truly comprehend the implications. There’d been a great many suppositions, discussions that even a half-breed had been permitted to join, so long as he did not openly resent the debate regarding whether or not he would ever reach Pon Farr himself. (He had prayed, fervently, that he would not.) The conclusions they had reached were likely false, but Stonn had once sworn an oath upon his sehlat’s mother’s grave that his great-great-uncle - an unlikeable tviokh, by all accounts - had been found flat on his back, lok in hand. He had died of dehydration trying to bring himself through the crisis alone, having failed to secure a third wife before his Time came. That was not - barring a brief but enjoyable period at sixteen when he’d first learned to evade his parent’s network filters - how Spock wanted or expected to die.
The bridge is silent, as well it should be after such a revelation. The belief in the Vulcan image has likely been shaken. Such things are hard to take.
“Since the destruction of our homeworld, no Vulcan has entered Pon Farr.” Sarek’s solemnity is unparalleled. It is why he was first chosen as ambassador. “Until now.”
Spock looks up. This is news that had not reached him. “It has come? To whom?”
“Skiam. He is not known to you. He is young and already bonded; this is his second Time.” Some of Sarek’s fears show upon his face. Spock will not disgrace him by calling attention to it. “It is what we hoped for.”
McCoy has no such qualms about exposing unease. “What’s the problem, then?”
“Vulcans have always returned to the ancestral homes to face Pon Farr. It is the Call.” Sarek breathes out and voices the dread all Vulcans carry, that all have sought to keep from the outworlders. Spock’s katra rebels at the breach in protocol. “We do not know if the fever can be sated now T’Khasi is lost.”
Silence falls again, like a thick curtain. Enterprise’s Alpha bridge crew is now privy to information even the Federation Council does not have. They know that even now, years after the tragedy, the Vulcan race may yet be staring down the barrel of extinction.
Naturally it is Spock who breaks the silence. The information is not new to him. The horror has faded over time. He forced it to. “What favour does the Council ask, Ambassador?”
“That Enterprise be dispatched to retrieve Skiam from Starbase Four and bring him quickly to his wife.”
Spock, quite suddenly, feels fear.
“Of course,” says Jim. “Whatever we can do to help. Sulu, set course-”
“Father,” says Spock. And then, to ensure he has Sarek’s full attention, he wets his lips and adds, “Sa’mekh.”
Sarek looks at him. Spock has no doubt that they both remember the last time Spock called him that, how he’d lost composure entirely and shouted it - wretched, pleading - as he watched his father leave the room in disgust of him.
“Sa’fu,” says Sarek, and a wound closes.
“To bring Skiam aboard…” He cannot say it. He is too much a coward. He must redirect and hope his father understands. “Ambassador Selek told me that his Time came at thirty-five. I am thirty-four.”
“There is risk,” Sarek allows, and in truth he does seem sorry for it. “But if you avoid close proximity to Skiam you may avoid it. And if you cannot, at least your partner is near.”
Shit.
Spock has offended his god, he is certain. This is ashv'cezh, plain and simple. He feels ill. Realisation dawns, slow and terrible, in his father’s eyes.
“Spock?”
“It is possible,” he says, having never hated being the centre of attention so much in his life (and he has spent a great deal of his life hating it), “that when the relationship I was previously in was terminated, I chose not to inform you in hopes of avoiding another arranged bonding.”
“Spock. ”
Contrary to popular Vulcan belief, Spock does not enjoy disappointing his father. He merely excels at it. “I thought I would have sufficient time in which to make arrangements,” he tries, knowing it is inadequate to salve his father’s displeasure.
“No other ship is available. You shall have to exercise caution.”
“Acknowledged.”
Jim looks nervous. “Caution?”
“There is a chance that proximity to another in Ponn Farr may trigger Spock’s. We had thought-” another blank-with-a-hint-of-irritation look is sent Spock’s way- “that he was prepared. Evidently he is not. Therefore, he must take care to avoid close contact with Skiam.”
Jim does not look less nervous. “And if he can’t?”
There is something sly in Sarek’s eyes. “Are there any among you willing to mate with him in order to preserve his life?”
Please no.
Even Surak did not face such trials as this.
Spock reaches over and terminates the call before his mind can recall that he should not. The last time he felt himself blush so severely, his mother had christened him Cabbage.
“No one should answer,” he says. His voice is mercifully level, only a little choked. “My father is-” malevolent- “overtired.”
And then he leaves, with half a mind to make use of the nearest airlock.
Jim lasts three days before approaching Spock on the subject. Frankly, Spock had expected him to break far earlier.
The captain appears at Spock’s door approximately one-point-four-nine hours after the conclusion of their shift, during which Ensign Chekov remained entirely incapable of meeting Spock’s eyes. It is long enough that Spock imagines Jim has given himself a substantial pep talk in order to broach the subject.
The last thing Spock wants right now is to have Jim in his room - at least, under these particular circumstances - but he allows him in anyway. Better to deal with this now than later, he reasons to himself. Better to get it out the way before Skiam comes aboard.
For a moment, they only look at each other. The awkwardness is palpable. Spock vows vengeance upon his father, perhaps via T’Pau. (Likely not. Despite being the only grandchild still in contact with T’Pau, Spock suspects he is still not the favourite.)
“Captain,” he says at last. He can hear his own exasperation and wonders if Jim can, too. “We cannot stand here forever.”
“Right.” Jim runs a hand through his hair and Spock tries not to stare too obviously, or to think too hard about how soft the strands must be. He fails, naturally, but Jim is oblivious as ever. “Do you have a plan for… For if…”
“Have I planned for the possibility that Skiam’s presence on the ship will trigger a series of events that conclude with my either mating or dying?”
Jim is puce. It does not suit him, but he remains beautiful. “Yes. That. Have you?”
Spock had hoped that Jim wouldn’t ask again. His uncharacteristically blunt description of the situation had been specifically tailored to scare Jim off the subject for at least two more days - he should have known better than to doubt his captain’s courage.
“I have,” he says. It is not technically a lie. He has considered the prospect at length.
Spock has no intended, and he knows full-well that his father will not succeed in finding him one within the colony, since no Vulcan would be so foolish as to accept a sterile hybrid with no intent of settling in times such as these. His only option would be to seek a mate closer to home, someone on Enterprise, and he refuses to do so with the threat of Pon Farr looming so close. It would be tantamount to coercion - have sex with me lest I die at thine feet is a poor ‘pickup line’, as Humans say, made worse by the element of truth - and he will not sully his chance with Jim--
That is, he refuses to begin a relationship under such circumstances.
On a theoretical level, all hope is not lost. There are those who theorise that, if a meditative state could be reached and maintained, it would allow the Vulcan in question to pass through Pon Farr unharmed.
It remains a theory, of course, because no Vulcan alive has thus far been capable of resisting the Burning. Spock has no illusions regarding his willpower compared to others. He will do his best, and if he fails, he will do what he must and attempt to… work through things alone. He will either succeed or die with his lok out. Kaiidth.
He realises that Jim will not approve of this. Jim, quite fairly, is opposed to members of his crew dying.
That is why Spock does not share his plan.
“Will you join me for chess?” he asks, aiming to distract.
They play chess.
When Jim leaves, Spock once again sets aside his distaste for water and takes a long, cold shower.
By the time Skiam is brought aboard, Chekov has regained his ability to face Spock. He faces him directly, in fact, as he refuses to give Spock any details about the arrangements made regarding Skiam, as if the mere mention of the other Vulcan might transform him into a slobbering, sex-crazed creature. It is only when Spock reminds him that, without details, he cannot know when to avoid certain parts of the ship that Chekov relents.
Spock does not mention it aloud, but he does appreciate the misguided attempt at kindness. For his mother’s sake, he is indebted to the young man who tried to save her. For himself, he will admit that he enjoys Chekov’s enthusiasm and intelligence and even that, like most of the Alpha bridge crew, he is perhaps a little protective of their youngest member. If he did not think that Chekov would revolt at the thought of yet another transfer, he would likely try and poach him for Sciences.
This is not the only ‘kindness’ he endures. Lieutenant Sulu stops him outside his room as he prepares to hide for an hour and presents him with a medicinal plant to display. Once inside, he places it on his dresser and discovers a note explaining that the sap can be used to treat chafing. Since he is a merciful Vulcan, he decides that he will not torture Sulu once able to leave.
And he will keep the plant.
Nyota comms to tell him that he’s lucky she’s in a forgiving mood. He fervently agrees, and makes a mental note to seek out Mr Scott and offer his congratulations.
Dr McCoy is the last. Since Sickbay will be off-limits to Spock until they reach the colony, the doctor has come to hand-deliver three first-aid boxes worth of supplies, along with a stern warning that failure to notify a medical professional of their usage will result in consequences once Skiam has been off-loaded.
Spock opens his mouth to agree and says, “He is here.”
“What?”
Spock swallows. His skin is thrumming slightly, buzzing, a strange sensation, foreign to him. He has not seen his rival, but knows that he is here.
Skiam. He has not seen Skiam.
Skiam is not his rival.
He has no rival.
“I will keep you fully informed regarding my health, Doctor,” he lies, meaning it as a dismissal. McCoy accepts it and leaves, though he glares as he does.
The door closes and Spock begins to put away what McCoy has brought. It is not unprecedented that Spock could sense Skiam. Vulcans often have a sense of one another, and it is not unheard of that a Vulcan in Pon Farr project their thoughts. Spock likely reacted to the tail end of… something. Something territorial.
Which would be foolish, because Enterprise is his territory. His home. His ship.
His and Jim’s.
The bridge is warmer than he recalls, which pleases him. It pleases him to imagine that Jim has adjusted it for his comfort, though he acknowledges that this is illogical, and that Jim would do no such thing.
He tends to his scanners. The stars, too, please him. He knows, instinctively, that he could use them to map his way anywhere in the galaxy. He could reach any home he wanted.
“Spock?”
He hums. All around him is the universe, vast and unfathomable, and within him is drive, is knowledge. He will explore and learn all that there is. The thought makes him hunger. It is a good sort of ache.
“Report, Spock.”
Jim’s voice is like honey, rich and sweet in his ears. Spock turns and looks his fill, gazes upon a golden body in golden uniform until he is sated.
“If we were stranded in a desert,” he says, “I would hunt with le’matyas to keep you fed.”
His captain looks back at him, unmoved.
“I would carry you over the dunes to find water.”
Jim stands, so Spock does too. They are alone. Spock does not know - or care to know - where the others have gone. They are alone.
“If the sun was too strong, I would shield your body with my own.”
Jim moves closer. He runs his hands over Spock’s shoulders, brings his lips so close to Spock’s own that they are almost kissing, yet does not close the distance. It is a good ache. “Would you not burn, Spock?” he asks.
Spock closes the gap, claims the breath from Jim’s lungs as if it is his due. “I do not know.”
Spock wakes with a gasp, a choked back moan. He is hard, his lok already emerged from its sheath. It takes barely two strokes before he comes, the mess coating his hand, his stomach. He breathes - pants - whines - as he lies there, waiting for the haze of emotion to pass.
It is not uncommon for him to be woken in the night by thoughts of Jim. Vulcans do not dream, but he is only half-Vulcan; his control in these matters is imperfect. His unconscious mind is as fascinated by Jim as the rest of him, and takes care to remind him of that with alarming regularity.
It is inconvenient, but not particularly unusual. It is no cause for concern. Nothing he need pass on to the doctor - the thought alone makes him wish for death.
The only uncommon factor is that he is still hard.
Spock peers critically down the length of his body to confirm this fact. His lok has failed to retreat and instead remains stiff between his legs, leaking slightly. The only proof he did not imagine reaching orgasm is the sticky mess starting to dry on his skin.
This is decidedly unusual.
But, again, not impossible. It could be a sign of Pon Farr, or it could be that Jim looked particularly inviting yesterday. And it must be said that Jim had been in particularly fine form, his uniform snug in the most aesthetically pleasing parts, his intelligence and quick wit on full display…
His lok twitches; he grips it instinctively, then moans, loudly. He is oversensitive, overstimulated, and he cannot stop. He stuffs his fingers into his mouth to smother the obscene sounds he cannot repress. He is so close, so close-
He grunts as he comes again. Part of him wishes he had thought to ask his counterpart which symptoms he had experienced when Pon Farr arrived. A larger part of him is convinced they would both have combusted from the mortification.
He decides to put the thought from his mind. It cannot be Pon Farr. He is entirely rational, and has been entirely rational, and does not expect to lose that rationality any time soon. It is simply his bad luck that he has fallen for a singularly attractive being and requires - he checks himself again - more than two attempts to bring himself to completion.
With a sigh, he sets himself to his task. The sooner he finishes, after all, the sooner he may return to sleep.
He does not sleep again.
When the artificial morning arrives, he sacrifices arriving early to his shift in favour of maintaining dignity. He waits until he hears Jim finish using the bathroom before he risks going in. It takes a shower with real water before he begins to feel clean, and even then he does not feel prepared for work.
He dresses, cursing the tightness of Starfleet trousers. He makes a concentrated effort to force his still very much aroused lok into his sheath. The breathless whimper the sensation induces is disconcerting - he is not opposed to learning new things about himself, as knowledge should never be avoided, but there is a time and a place, and he is supposed to be going to the bridge.
“I am in control of my emotions,” he says. The familiar mantra does nothing, likely because that is not currently the problem. Spock grits his teeth, smooths his hair, and says, “I am in control of my body.”
It is a lie, but over the course of his enlistment, Spock has become a rather accomplished liar.
For a Vulcan, at least.
Spock nods at Jim as he arrives, and otherwise resolves not to interact with others unless strictly necessary. He settles himself at his station and monitors the sensor readings. The stream of data is soothing, familiar - not fascinating, but certainly interesting. It is almost enough to distract him from the hot, wet feel of his sheath against his swollen lok, something he has never before been aware of.
He squirms in his seat, hoping his discomfort isn’t obvious.
“Mr Spock.”
Please no.
He turns in his seat to face Jim, face impassive, eyebrow raised.
Jim’s eyes are bright with humour and intelligence. It is a great difficulty for Spock not to lose himself within them. “I’ve been reading one of your papers. I had a question-”
Spock dedicates at least thirty percent of his mind to listening to Jim’s question. That is sufficient to ensure that he will give a reasonable answer, if not an in depth one.
The other seventy percent of his mind…
Spock has always known that Jim is at his most attractive when demonstrating his considerable intelligence. He has repressed a considerable number of fantasies after watching Jim defeat an enemy with his mind alone. The day Jim first talked a computer into suicide led to the most fraught night of Spock’s life. So yes, he is very much aware of it.
He has never been so affected by it.
The question Jim poses is well-researched, well-reasoned, and proves in and of itself that Jim, if he had been so inclined, would have made a most talented scientist.
Three things occur to Spock at once: first, that he is extraordinarily aroused; second, there is a ninety-six percent chance (approximately, based on his knowledge of biology) that it is possible for a Vulcan to climax within their sheath; third, that unless he quickly regains control, he will know with one-hundred percent clarity whether it is possible to come in his sheath.
He swallows tightly, leans a little forward in his seat, a facsimile of interest. He cannot come on the bridge. Not only would it represent a complete and utter failure of self-control, but it would almost certainly show as a damp patch on his uniform, and he would die on the spot. Such a thing is to be avoided.
Jim concludes his question. Spock opens his mouth to answer.
“Stranger,” he says instead, and notes with muted surprise that Nyota repeats the word after him, with the cool, calm tone she usually reserves for translation.
Gone is Jim’s curiosity. He looks… Not afraid, because he is captain, but perhaps concerned. “What do you mean, Spock?”
“A stranger approaches,” he says, and again Nyota echoes him. Spock cannot concern himself with why. His mind whirs with the need to protect, struggling to decide who he must prioritise in the face of a stranger in his territory. His first instinct is to hurry to Jim’s side, but Jim is t’hy’la, equal in all things, including in battle. He will not dishonour him by underestimating his prowess.
Chekov is the youngest among them, most vulnerable. Spock rises from his seat and stations himself near the navigation console. He fixes his eyes on the doors. That is where the stranger will come from. They will not reach the young one.
Behind him, Jim is reaching for a phaser. Spock’s skin sings with the knowledge. They will battle together, as the ancient ones did.
The doors start to hiss open. Jim takes aim. Spock growls, deep in his chest. He has never made such a sound before. It is as natural as breathing.
“Damn it!” shouts Dr McCoy, raising his hands in surrender. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Jim drops his weapon. “Shit. Sorry Bones. Just…”
Spock feels eyes upon his back. He cannot stand down. He sees that this is a friend, but McCoy does not smell like himself. Layered over the bleach of Sickbay is the Stranger. He growls again, bares his teeth, a warning, and McCoy’s eyes widen.
“Spock!” Jim’s voice is frantic; Spock regrets causing him fear. “What’s wrong?”
“He is…” The words come too slowly. Spock cannot understand it. “Stranger. Rival.”
“Skiam,” McCoy realises, and the hated name raises Spock’s hackles. He snarls. “Jim. He’s smelling Skiam’s pheromones on me.”
“Fuck,” says Jim. “Can he always…?”
McCoy shakes his head. Spock cannot be offended that he is being spoken about, too busy keeping his eyes fixed on McCoy’s hands. He wants them where he can see them, away from any weapon. He looks like a friend but smells of the enemy - Spock cannot disregard this.
The doctor keeps his hands raised. “Easy, Spock,” he says slowly. “Skiam just got a bit nuzzly, that’s all.”
An outrage. Spock cannot believe the nerve of this… this nirak.
“He would claim you,” he spits. “You are not his to claim. This is not his ship to claim.”
McCoy’s hands shiver, almost imperceptibly. “Whose am I, then?”
A ridiculous question. “Jim’s,” he says, off-hand, his mind too busy to focus. There is much to be done. He must visit those stationed in Sickbay, ensure that the Rival has not drawn them to his side. He must make rounds of the decks close to him, ensure that he has not thought to mark them.
He will face the Rival and ensure he dare not think to challenge Jim, not now, not ever-
“Spock!” Jim’s voice cuts through the haze of fury. “Enough!”
Spock stops. What has he done wrong? He cannot be sure. Does Jim not wish to be defended? Of course - Jim is a warrior. He would fight his own battles.
Spock knows this. He simply forgot.
He turns, bows his head. He will not overstep, he will follow Jim’s command.
Jim watches him for a long moment. The attention, the focus, makes Spock’s skin burn.
“Go wait in your quarters for a bit,” he says at last. “I’ll… I’ll come check on you later.”
Part of Spock had wanted to disobey, to divert his path, to find his Rival on the way to his room, but a far larger part had wanted nothing but to obey. He reaches his room in record time. The air is hot and dry, too hot - he strips off his uniform and lets it lie where he drops it. He paces like a caged animal, testing the limits of his confinement.
Jim will be here soon. That is what sustains him. That is what constrains him. He is alone, but only temporarily. He wants - he wants, desperately - but he will not embarrass Jim. And Jim would be embarrassed if he walked in while Spock-
The thought alone is enough. He comes, sighing at the hot pulse of it. It drips from his sheath down his naked thighs, mixed with his slick. And he wants…
He lies on the bed. He wants pleasure, wants sensation, wants to satisfy the endless ache, wants to quench the burning heat. What he wants, above all, is Jim, and since he can’t have him, he’ll rut into his hand and grind against his mattress, he’ll suck his own fingers and scream his throat raw.
It is too much. It is nowhere near enough. His thighs are wet with his spend. He has bitten his bottom lip so much it has swollen.
When Jim walks in and finds him, he cannot find it within himself to feel regret. He only wants.
“Spock?”
“Jim.”
Jim seems frozen, eyes fixed on Spock. Spock preens beneath his gaze, spreads his legs a little wider. His lok twitches.
“Jim,” he says again. Hoarse. Pleading.
Jim walks over. He walks so slowly, it feels like torture, but Spock adores it. He watches Jim walk, watches him reach his bedside, watches him reach out, feels his palm against his forehead. His eyes slip closed; Jim’s hand is the first coolness he has felt in hours.
“I know it hurts,” he says, voice low. “I know. But I’m here now. I’m gonna help you.”
Spock kisses him. He reaches behind Jim’s head and pulls him down until their lips press and he kisses him. It is more than the fever - it is gratitude, it is relief, it is love.
It is lust, too. He licks into Jim’s mouth and swallows his sighs. He tugs lightly on Jim’s shirt and makes his wishes clear enough that Jim pulls back just long enough to strip. Jim is- perfect, sublime. Spock would worship him, if Jim would allow it. He slips from the mattress and falls upon his knees. He knows better than to touch without permission, he retains that much control at least, but he looks up at Jim from beneath his lashes and thinks that Jim must know what he means.
Jim swallows. His voice is weak. “You can’t- Don’t you need to…?”
“I am yours,” he says. He is but a man, his control imperfect. He reaches out and drags a finger down the inside of Jim’s thigh and watches the muscles spasm. “You command. I serve.”
“Fuck.” Jim sits hard on the bed. The mattress creaks. Spock wants. “Fuck. Alright. Kiss me again. Please.”
Spock obeys. Jim’s mouth is sweet and warm and pliant. His hands grip Spock’s shoulders hard. The blood fire flares again and he shivers.
Jim pulls back, but not too far, resting his forehead against Spock’s. At this angle, he is slightly taller. “Did you just come?”
“Likely,” Spock says, and reclaims Jim’s lips. He cannot devote the processing power to keep track of his orgasms. Jim is here. His purpose is to bring Jim pleasure. He bites lightly on Jim’s lip and Jim moans. It is perfect. “Tell me how to serve.”
Jim blinks at him. For a moment, he seems stunned. Then, of course, he recovers. Command is natural to him. “I want you to fuck me until I’m right on the edge. Then I want you to meld us, so we go over together.”
Spock trembles. That is- That is everything he has ever wanted. More.
Jim smirks at him. “I’m prepped already. All you have to do is fuck.”
Spock feels frozen. He is not sure he can manage even that.
Jim sighs theatrically and stands. “D’you need a map, Commander?” He turns and kneels and lies his stomach over the edge of the bed and presents himself like a gift. “There.”
Spock moves like he is in a dream.
In a moment he is standing, hands on Jim’s hips, pressing his lok inside. Jim hisses at the intrusion, but when Spock stops he whines. Spock goes slow until he is buried to the hilt.
“That’s it,” Jim says. “Does it feel good?”
Spock groans, hips twitching, and Jim laughs lightly.
“Guess that means ‘yeah’,” he says.
Spock bends himself near in half so he can kiss Jim’s shoulder and breathe in the scent of him. Jim hums, stretches languidly across the bed.
“Spock,” he says, deceptively calm. “I told you to fuck me. Do I need to make it an order?”
His breath catches. He senses Jim’s amusement alongside his interest.
“Alright, Mister. If that’s what it takes, consider it an order.”
He will not disobey an order. Not from Jim. He starts to move, trying to force his limbs not to shake too noticeably. Jim makes- He makes devastating sounds, sounds Spock never dared dream of hearing, and he clenches his fists in Spock’s sheets, and Spock- Spock is releasing a near constant stream of come now, his lok so sensitive that every movement is enough, and he is gripping Jim’s flesh tight enough to bruise but when he lets go, Jim tells him not to, to go harder, harder-
“Please, Spock!”
He obeys, he can do nothing else, wants nothing else. Jim shouts, so loud Spock is certain the whole ship must hear, and the thought drives him, the thrill flaring deep within him. He wants, he wants-
“Now, Spock!”
He finds Jim’s qui’lari by instinct. His shields are so low and Jim’s mind so open - it is nothing at all to enter, to meld them, to merge their sensations so entirely that it is hard to know who feels what. They are both bright and hot, desperate, burning, close and closer every second-
They are one, cry out as one, breathe as one. Spock cannot feel the edges of himself. He is blurred, here between existence and nothingness, his mind a useless haze of pleasure. He surrenders to it, because he can do nothing else.
When Spock wakes, he is warm. Jim is asleep on top of him, head resting on his chest, hand over his side - over his heart, which seems to skip. He is naked, but he is clean. Jim must have cleaned them both. It makes his cheeks burn, but humiliation is overcome by affection. Jim did not have to stay. He has chosen to stay.
Jim shifts, wakes. He looks up and smiles. He is beautiful.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Did it work?”
Spock nods mutely.
“Good.” Jim kisses his jaw before settling back down. “It was so fucking good, but I can’t take round two right now.”
Spock’s memories are indistinct, but from what he can recall, he thinks he might agree.
“We need to let your dad know you’re ok.” Jim must sense his confusion, his slight alarm, because he looks up, raises his eyebrows. “We called him. We didn’t know what to do.”
It is unfortunate, but the unfortunate reality is that Sarek would always have to be alerted to Spock’s first Time, simply to formalise the bonding - something he will discuss with Jim later. He will accept it. Kaiidth.
“He told me to tell you that shon-ha'lock is nothing to be ashamed of, and that he always knew.” Jim traces the lines of Spock’s ribs. “What does that mean?”
Jim has butchered the pronunciation, but the meaning is clear. Spock closes his eyes.
“Jim,” he says, hoarse but determined. “I must commit patricide.”
“You’re not still sore about me failing to ask the Companion about its nature, are you?”
“No.” Spock blew out the candle and looked over, face conspicuously blank. “No, Jim. I understand that it was not the time.”
“But you’re sore about something.”
***
After meeting the Companion, Spock is having concerns.
I do not totally understand the emotion, but it obviously exists. The Companion loves you.
-Spock, Metamorphosis
“You’ve been avoiding me, Mr Spock.”
Spock barely twitched as Jim walked into the ornate room, though Jim hadn’t really expected him to. The scent of incense was heavy in the air, the candle on the altar half-burned; tell-tale signs of a meditating Spock. Probably he shouldn’t have come - Spock hadn’t invited him, he’d abused his override to get in - but Spock had been avoiding him for almost a week now. Apart from any… personal feelings Jim might have about it, and he did have a few, the fact was that he needed his first officer on form, ready to respond to anything.
Spock was distracted. That was the problem.
It wasn’t the first time. Spock’s fantastic mind could ponder several things at once; it was more than capable of overthinking things, of designing exquisitely logical ways of torturing itself.
Still. Most days Spock only needed a gentle push to start talking.
“You’re not still sore about me failing to ask the Companion about its nature, are you?”
“No.” Spock blew out the candle and looked over, face conspicuously blank. “No, Jim. I understand that it was not the time.”
“But you’re sore about something.”
Spock let out a soft sigh, unfolding himself from the meditation mat in one fluid motion. Jim took that as his cue to sit, perching himself on the edge of Spock’s soft bed.
Spock didn’t join him.
“Is it me?” Jim heard himself ask, and inwardly cursed. He sounded… needy. Insecure. But, then again, perhaps he was those things. On occasion. “Have I done something wrong, Spock?”
The blankness faded into guilt, then returned. A mask. The armour. “No. Nothing you have done. Simply…”
Something told Jim that this was far from simple. Probably the fact Spock had begun a sentence without knowing how it ought to end. Not his typical style.
“It is foolish,” Spock decided.
“Foolish?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were capable of such a thing.”
“All beings are. It is a universal constant.”
With that dire judgement, Spock took his rightful place at Jim’s side. Not touching him, but close enough that Jim felt some of his fears fade. Not all of them, but some.
“Will you tell me about your… foolishness?”
Spock closed his eyes, looking pained. “It is… not logical. It is born of emotion.”
I might have known.
“You are important to me. Part of me. T’hy’la.” Spock’s breath shuddered. “You know that I…”
“I know, Spock. I’ve never doubted it.”
“It is the Companion,” Spock said. “I have seen myself in her.”
Jim swallowed. There was a veritable wealth of possibilities that could follow such a statement, and he wasn’t particularly fond of any of them. For example: I have seen from the outside what happens when a logical being falls for a Human male, and I did not like it. Or perhaps, I have been forced to confront the fact that, like the Companion, we are both willing to die for the object of our affections, and this will inevitably place the crew in danger. Or maybe-
“We shall grow old and eventually die.”
Jim blinked. “I- Yes. At least, I hope we will. Grow old, I mean.” It was hardly guaranteed, after all.
“We cannot do it together.” Spock finally met his gaze, agonised, even as his voice remained steady. “Jim, we cannot grow old together.”
“Oh… Oh, Spock… ”
“The Companion was able to change her nature, become Human, but I cannot. I will always be Vulcan. The upper limit of my potential lifespan will always be higher than yours.”
“Potential,” Jim said, but he couldn’t follow that train of thought, not when it meant arguing that Spock might have a second less life than he deserved.
“Forgive me, Ashayam,” Spock said, and lifted Jim’s hand to gently kiss the knuckles. “I did not wish to upset you.”
“I’d rather you upset me than ignore me,” he said, but it wasn’t really a reproach.
Spock kissed him again. It wasn’t really a response.
