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He doesn’t know when they first began. Perhaps it was the moment they were born, he on the swirling sands of Vulcan, and James on an escape pod, skittering far away from the wreckage that was the USS Kelvin, their souls and destinies intertwined the moment they took their first breath.
T’hy’la. That’s what they are, what they always were.
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Spock’s first thought was that Kirk was an arrogant, pigheaded individual who would stop at nothing to get his way. Indeed, he had cheated on Spock’s program, and had defiantly defended his illogical actions, citing that the test was “unfair”. Kirk infuriated Spock, and fascinated him at the same time. This man, who could charm and fuck his way through the Academy, who was the highest students in all his classes, barring one (only Nyota held the top position in any of their xenolinguistics classes), who was engaging an accelerated command track position, this man had cheated on one of his most important tests at the Academy.
Kirk was… an enigma of sorts, which was probably why Spock didn’t immediately throttle him when he and Captain Pike discovered him amongst the crew, snuggled on board by McCoy – a man somehow even more illogical than Kirk. He was fascinated by Kirk, by the way he behaved and governed himself and others. Kirk abided by no rules or sense of logical thought that Spock could identify, random in almost every interaction and response (including the one where he became aroused at being choked against the console, a most peculiar response to threatening stimuli).
So when Kirk had offered him a place as First Officer upon the Enterprise, Spock had been more than inclined to do so, despite his initial hesitance and rejection. Kirk had proved himself to be a worthy Captain, strategic and disciplined when inclined, selfless to the point of self-sacrificial. If he were to look back on these moments, Spock would conclude that this was most likely when the bud of affectionlustinterestattraction began, later sprouting into the enormous vine of love that would be carried within him.
Once aboard the ship, Kirk began to strive for a thriving working relationship between him, inviting him to lunch and dinner in the mess, and then later, to his quarters, either to play chess or to finish their reports together. He asked Spock about Vulcan, about his latest science projects, his opinion on something. Spock began to relax in Kirk’s company, confide in him the way one might with a close friend, trust his judgement and character. It began as from those moments in front of the Academy, testifying against Kirk, to the careful games of chess that Kirk began to invite him to, a slow and hesitant build to comradeship, to something more.
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Kirk had updated the Mess Hall’s replicator, he was sure of it.
Both Shav-rot soup and N’gaan Milkshakes had not previously been programmed onto the replicator, Spock knew this, had scrolled through the small sample of Vulcan dishes listed on the replicator screen more than enough times to know what exactly was available. And it was unlikely that Engineer Scott had programmed the two new dishes onto the replicator, as Starfleet had not sent out an update request, nor had Spock himself requested the change. Kirk was the only person whom he had told about missing the spicy tang of N’gaan, and how his mother would make him Shav-rot during the mornings, especially after a taxing previous day. Before he left for Starfleet, it was the last dish she had made for him.
Spock sighed, unsure of how to feel – though feelings were emotional, so perhaps, he was uncertain as to what to think of Kirk’s actions. Kirk would likely expect no thanks, and would brush it off if Spock were to bring it up with his Captain, and as such, Spock was at a loss to how he should proceed. He felt – no, he did not feel – oddly bashful, which was illogical, as no one was currently in the Mess Hall, and he had no reason to feel bashful. He could feel his heart raise a little, his hands and face warm. Ridiculous.
He requested Shav-rot from the replicator, and made his way over to one of the dining tables in the Mess Hall. After all, it would be illogical of him to not utilise the replicator’s new update, especially when he hadn’t tasted Shav-rot in a long time, too attached to memories of Vulcan and his mother. He lifted the spoon up to his lips, and closed his eyes as the explosion of spices burst onto his tongue.
He would remember to thank Kirk afterwards, regardless of Kirk’s attempts to brush his actions off.
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“I don’t understand why we had to be dragged down here,” McCoy mumbled. He was clothed in the traditional garb of the Shu’tuk, a humanoid species whom resided on a Class-M planet, one that was characterised by large swamp-like continents and stifling humidity, only having just enough land mass to not fit into the Class-O category.
Spock was inclined to agree, as the negotiations had ended, Kirk succeeding to charm his way into the local’s hearts and secure a trade agreement on the planet’s source of dilithium crystals. Now, as per custom of an efficacious treaty between two “tribes” (Kirk had not even attempted to inform the Shu’tuk chieftain that the Enterprise and her crew weren’t exactly a “tribe” by the native’s standards), there was a feast and celebration, where all members of the tribe were expected to participate and revel. Kirk had issued the crew who were to beam down onto the planet’s surface to be dressed in the formal, celebratory attire of the Shu’tuk, as a way of showing their respect to the customs and culture of the peoples.
Spock, however, had been spared of the thin and revealing clothing – Kirk had taken aside the chieftain and his subordinates to explain why Spock would prefer to avoid the attire which would reveal his chest, long legs, and lithe arms – all of which was done without consulting Spock himself, of course. He admired the Captain’s concern and thought towards his own cultural customs – indeed, Vulcans did not readily dress in wear that would show off long panes of skin – but he thought it rather unnecessary. Spock was a Starfleet officer, and part of his obligation as a Starfleet and Federation member would occasionally require him to forgo Vulcan cultural rules and customs for the sake of a mission or negotiation. He had done so many times before, and this instance should not have been an exception.
Kirk had acted too quickly, however, and before Spock could even think to object, the Shu’tuk chieftain was happily waving him off and patting the underside of his neck; a visual cue which was roughly the verbal equivalent of “All is well” or “I understand” (Lieutenant Uhura had already animatedly talked to him about the fascinating communication used by the Shu’tuk – a strange mix of both visual and verbal to talk and communicate ideas and meanings – visual signage and cues for shorter, more succinct messages, and verbal language for discussions, debates, and longer, complex talk. She had spent an hour and a half conserving with him, her words unusually rushed, and bright spark in her eyes. Spock had retired once Ensign Gaila arrived to accompany Nyota down to their scheduled second beam down, imagining that the Communications Officer would prefer the company of and discussion between her partner).
And so Spock had been spared the clothing, though perhaps not the participation in the native’s dances, which unnerved him significantly more than any uniform that could be requested of him to don. Dancing was another significant part of Shu’tuk culture, once again displaying visual communication of songs, stories, and feelings, which was perfectly acceptable in theory, until Spock had learned just how much one-on-one touching and … hand holding was involved.
He told Kirk, once, of what hands meant to Vulcans, his ears tinged green with shame no matter how illogical he told himself he was being. Kirk had questioned Spock why Vulcans were so careful with their arms and hands, yet almost all affection between the bonded couples he had seen was displayed through the chaste touch of fingers and palms. Kirk had smiled, not unkindly, when Spock explained.
“I won’t give you any handshakes then, Mr Spock,” he had laughed, head thrown back.
“I should hope so, Captain.” Was Spock’s dry response, still willing the blood to redirect from his face elsewhere.
Now, it seemed, the dancing would be expected of him. He valiantly tried remembering his duty as a Starfleet Officer, to push past his embarrassment and severe discomfort, however, this wasn’t simply just a cultural inconvenience. His hands were an erogenous zone, any stimulation, even slight, would set his nerves alight and cause a potentially disastrous situation. And to think, with an individual who he was not familiar with…
Kirk’s sudden presence surprised him, though he did not show it. The man appearing beside him, a warm hand squeezing his shoulder, and an even warmer breath tickling the side of his neck, effecting his already racing heartbeat to quicken considerably, a faint, green tinge touching his cheeks.
“Enjoying yourself?” Kirk asked, leaning forward so that Spock could hear over the noise.
“The observation of the Shu’tuk culture and practices is not unenjoyable,” Spock replied, and heard a huff from Kirk.
“I’d hope that you’re enjoying outside of a purely scientific context, Mr Spock,” Kirk said, and Spock resisted the urge to shiver at the rush of air against his sensitive skin, and even more sensitive ears. “After all, this is considered a party.”
Spock raised an eyebrow and finally turned his head minutely to look Kirk in the eye. Kirk just grinned at him, a mischievous spark in his eyes. Spock could feel his mouth twitch, and knew that Kirk had identified the brief lapse in control, eyes dropping to observe the movement.
“Anyway, I came over to tell you – both of you –“ at this, he finally acknowledged McCoy’s disconsolate presence. “That you’re expected to dance, eventually. Apart of the custom – the Shu’tuk don’t care who it is with, or for how long, but you’re required to dance in the celebration, otherwise you’ll be perceived as distrustful or unwelcoming. Not the impression we wanna give, huh?” Kirk turned his gaze back to Spock, face unreadable.
McCoy grumbled unhappily, something containing far too many expletives and what would probably be considered insubordination, all of which was tactfully ignored by Kirk. Spock cleared his throat. “Of course, Captain, I had known of this. I suppose you wish for me to engage in these… activities now?”
Kirk grinned. “Sure! I thought maybe you could come and dance with me, just for a bit, saves you having any weird mind-whammery with the locals.” He paused, suddenly blushing. “I mean, y’know – cause we’re friends and all and you know me better than most, and I thought it might be more comfortable –“
“I am certain that ‘mind-whammery’ is not a word in either English, nor Shuuk,” Spock said, interrupting Kirk’s rambling. “I will, however, agree to your suggestion, as it has merit.”
Kirk paused for a moment, before grinning. “Excellent, Mr Spock. We’ll go now, if that’s alright by you?” Spock nodded, and Kirk’s grin widened. Taking Spock by the arm, he lead him into the centre by the fires, glancing behind them to say, “Oh, and Bones? I’m sure you can hit it off with the Shu’tuk dude over there, saw him with some real smooth dance moves.”
McCoy’s ‘goddamnit, Jim,’ was blocked out by the roaring of the fires, but that didn’t stop Kirk from laughing, regardless. The heavy drums and wooden trilling seemed to waft and twirl around them, as Kirk grasped Spock’s hand properly and pulled him in, his grin softening into something… different – Spock was unsure. He could barely think over the thrumming of the skin-to-skin connection, the faint humming of Kirk’s mind, only just out of reach from his own. Kirk moved him in a twitchy rhythm that imitated the music following them, pulling and turning Spock this way and that, his body going from flush against his, then far away, spinning in circles. Spock was not a good dancer by any means – he felt stiff and rigid, unfamiliarly clumsy in a way he had never been before. And compared to Jim, who seemed to flow and move like the sandstorms on Vulcan, the ones where they’d have to shut and block out every door, window, and crevice, or like the angry gushing of rain on Earth, or like –
“You okay?” Kirk asked with a knowing look, though Spock did not know what Kirk realised, or at least, thought he realised, but that didn’t matter when Spock’s own body, usually so tightly controlled and easily commanded, felt like an uneasy thing surrounding him. Spock nodded, recognising that he had perhaps lapsed too long in his response to Kirk’s query, and would concern his Captain regarding his higher cognitive abilities. “Okay. Hey, relax, it’s just movement. Just follow me, man, like this.”
Kirk pulled Spock closer, a small smile on his lips, and began to slowly guide Spock’s lead-like body into a synchronised rhythm, one where he had no trouble following. “Yeah, like that.” Kirk’s smile was radiant, and strange, wasn’t it, for him to be thinking such… human, romanticised things. Spock shook his head slightly, disregarding all the purely illogical thoughts, and focused on dancing. With Kirk.
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It was 1900 and Spock was seated in Kirk’s quarters playing chess, in an attempt to palliate the events from an eight-day long mission. Spock’s tired, which means that Kirk can only be in worse condition, for he was awake alongside Spock, and shared the same hours of strenuous work. There had been a less-than civil situation with a Starfleet base and Klingons, one which had caused the bridge crew to work overtime, Spock and Kirk withstanding the force of it. McCoy had been in a similar situation, attempting to deliver field medicine care to several of the injured officers through a temporary communication device, as well as develop a vaccine to a virus passed onto to the survivors from the Klingons. It had been a long and arduous situation, leaving only fifteen of the one hundred and ninety Starfleet base crew alive, with the Enterprise losing another eight in the ensuring battle against the Klingons who had invaded the base, two of which were medical crew.
Spock had watched as Kirk dutifully wrote letters to all of the families of the deceased, as personalised for each crewmember as he could manage. His efforts had taken him the better part of three days, and kept him awake even whilst he should have been sleeping, even while the situation was still going on.
Observing Kirk dutifully write each letter had risen deeply-hidden feelings towards his Captain. Kirk’s loyalty to his crew was astounding, his pure love and devotion to the men, women, and others who resided on the Enterprise, and even outside the Enterprise was overwhelming. Spock, while he did not disregard the deaths, did not encompass the same level of grief as Kirk. Perhaps this was because of his Vulcan culture. Or perhaps it was simply because he wasn’t Kirk.
Regardless, the moment the beta shift crew arrived to clock in, Spock incited Kirk to come off shift, before escorting him to his quarters, and ordering two meals from the mess hall. Kirk had objected, stating that there was no reason for him to not continue onto beta shift, or have his meal delivered to him, but Spock had simply enquired when the last time Kirk had slept, and he finally fell quiet, a light blush on his cheeks, before offering a game of chess.
And now here they were, three rounds in, one round one by each and the other a stalemate, Spock resetting the board for yet another round. He could see that Kirk was slowly growing drowsier, his head drooping slightly, before it shot back up, still trying to stay awake despite his exhaustion. Spock felt his insides twist with something warm, before he focused back on the game. They had not said a word since the last game, and Spock did not feel like interrupting the quiet. It mattered little; he and Kirk could sit in silence for hours, simply enjoying the presence of the other.
Spock watched as Kirk planned his next move, the man biting his lip as he scanned the chessboard, brows furrowed. He was absentmindedly fidgeting with one of his rooks, twirling it on his bottom corners upon the black square where it sat. Finally, Kirk moved his knight closer to Spock’s front defence on the chessboard, lips pursed into a thin line; evidently, he wasn’t entirely happy with the move. Spock turned his gaze onto the board, determining which move would best be utilised; he could lose his rook, but then gain one of Kirk’s bishops and disadvantage him – or he could use his pawn to take Kirk’s night, but then risk leaving an opening for Kirk to attack his queen. He considered any further options, and calculated the probable moves Kirk would employ to each of those actions, before finally, he settled on taking Kirk’s bishop. His entire turn lasted six point eight minutes, however when he looked up to observe Kirk’s reaction and his next effort, Spock was greeted by the sight of Kirk nestled into crossed arms, eyes closed, twitching, and asleep; he must have silently succumbed to his fatigue while Spock was engrossed in his decision making, though it was of no matter. Spock would leave him to sleep, happily.
Spock raised from his chair, before hesitating. While Kirk’s room was at a warmer temperature – an effort to appease Spock’s preference for warmer temperatures, even though Spock had told him numerous times that it was not necessary for him to change the room temperature every time Spock arrived to his quarters – Spock doubted that it would be warm enough for a sleeping body, considering the internal temperature drop during slumber. Spock allowed himself a small sigh, before crossing the room and gathering a soft blanket from Kirk’s bed and a pillow, slipping it under his head and around his body. Spock couldn’t do much about the uncomfortable position Kirk lay sleeping in; if he were to attempt to move Kirk, he’d likely only succeed in rousing the sleeping man, upon which Kirk would then find some other bit of work to do, and stay up even later.
Resolving that the pillow and blanket would have to do if Spock wanted Kirk to get any sleep, he turned from the prone man, lightly brushing his fingers across Kirk’s own, and left through the shared bathroom.
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The quiet woods on Belta-9 were a comforting change to the Enterprise’s recycled air and sterile decks, even Spock could attest to that. The soft smell of the planet’s native flora soothed him into his morning meditation routines, the windows of the cabin he’d been given at the beginning of shore leave flung wide open, the sounds of Betla-9’s aves twittering and chirruping echoing throughout the cabin, so unlike anywhere else he had been. The planet was a co-dependant ecosystem, where the colonists existed in relative harmony alongside the native wildlife and flora, with very little destruction to the ecosystem or environment around them, an achievement very few planets could boast.
The entirety of the crew seemed elated at the almost two-week shore leave while the Enterprise was docked for maintenance and repairs, and Kirk especially. Kirk had excitedly mentioned hiking and rock-climbing, before McCoy had grumpily reminded him that the resident CMO was on leave, too, and would not be doing any medical work until shore leave was over. A not so subtle suggestion to Kirk to keep his feet safely on the ground, a point which Spock – uneasily – agreed with.
Kirk had suggested a walk around the woods near Spock’s cabin the night before, while getting ready to go out to one of the local bars with the doctor. Spock, despite heartedly declining the offer to go out and ingest alcoholic beverages until the early hours of the morning, did however see the quality in a traverse around the woodlands that surrounded his temporary lodgings. The crew had been assured that most of the animal life was harmless, and that there was little to worry about regarding the woodlands and forests most close to the populated areas. Imagining that there would be little reason to worry for his captain’s wellbeing, Spock researched the local paths and areas around the woods, and commed Kirk to meet him at 0800 hours promptly, outside Spock’s lodgings. Kirk had, surprisingly, arrived early, and they set off soon after.
During their walk, Kirk chatted aimlessly about the local customs and architectural design on the planet, and commented on any flora or fauna that caught his eye. There were periods of silence, not uncomfortable, where Kirk seemed more than happy to simply bask in Spock’s presence. It was gratifying, thus, to feel the fresh air upon his face, the soft mound under him as they walked, and catalogue the sun catching in Kirk’s blonde hair. The brief period on Belta-9 had already been enough to golden Kirk’s skin, taking away the pale look all members maintained in the prolonged, sunless environment aboard the Enterprise. He looked healthy, well-rested, and far more relaxed than Spock had seen him for months. He was well aware of the toll and exhaustion present in a captain’s position, Kirk’s position perhaps even more so; the young man seemed to push himself until he exceeded all expectations bar his own.
They came to an overgrown creek not far from the towering cliffs Kirk had begun steering towards, and decided to stop by its bank for a while. Kirk had packed a lunch, a surprise to Spock, and a soft blanket which they sat on. It’s woven fabric reminded Spock of his mother’s own blankets and quilts she would make, or bring home from the rare visits to her family on Earth. Spock observed the trickling of the water, watching Kirk from his peripheral vision. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Kirk, not since four months ago, when he had come to the conclusion that he had developed an affinity for Kirk, one that would be, perhaps, described as love. Further, since the incident the month prior, where he gave Kirk a brief Vulcan kiss, he seemed plagued with thoughts of more… overt forms of intimacy. A Human kiss, perhaps, before shift and after, the rights to curl up beside Kirk during the night, the ability to listen to Kirk’s breathing during his morning meditation. The privilege to take the man as his own.
He thought that, perhaps, he had always felt this attraction towards Kirk, this inevitable pull towards the man. Even during the hearing, even while he had lost control and choked him across the bridge console, there was a spark. A whisper. Something decidedly un-Vulcan, but similarly non-Human. Spock was drawn to Kirk in so many ways, and Kirk to him. They were companions, friends, brothers.
“You still with me, man?” Spock turned to a smiling Kirk, a soft look in those cerulean eyes.
“Affirmative, I was simply… meditating, on the tranquillity of the environment,” Spock murmured, tipping his head, before gazing at the scene before them. Kirk followed. “And how dissimilar it is - was - to Vulcan.”
Kirk huffed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I don’t think there’s a place on Earth like this.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “No? You have not observed any cerise leaved trees on Earth?”
Kirk laughed loudly, which gratified Spock.
“Whoever said Vulcan’s have no sense of humour was wrong, man,” Kirk turned to him, his grin still sparkling. “C’mon. Finish up, I wanna get up those cliffs before afternoon.”
“I would rather prefer to avoid a medical trip today, Captain.”
“It’s Jim, Spock.” He shook his head, Spock following the movement. “How many times have I said that, and you still haven’t caught on.”
It was stated in humour, though Spock could detect the wistful tone within it. He eyed Kirk, the way his eyelashes fluttered as he blinked the sun from his eyes, the hint of a scar under his left eye, the fullness of his lips. He was, truly, in love with this man.
“If you so insist, James.”
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He can feel the snarl building up in his throat, something feral and repressed rushing up to meet him, clawing at the walls of his consciousness. He feels a loss of control, and a steady hold on it all at once. He is rational and irrational; guided by logic and lost to his passion.
McCoy, oddly enough, seems to be the only individual in the room who senses this. The new head of the away team, a young junior lieutenant in Command gold, recites his version of events, carefully recalling all and every detail of the ambush and subsequent abduction of half the away team and the Captain.
JamesJamesJamesJamesJamesJamesJamesJamesJamesJames.
McCoy’s eyeing him carefully, distinctfully. Perhaps the CMO is not as ill-informed of Spock and his moods as he previously thought. Not that Spock ever strictly believed that McCoy was so ignorant to think Spock as emotionless, quite the contrary, however the doctor’s endless comments and quips regularly implied his view of Spock was that of a robotic individual, that Spock could not, would not, lose his control. Curb the fiery blood and impulses that once ruled his ancestors. The junior lieutenant mentions the specific details of the attack, how the away team had been incapacitated through the use of a smoke bomb of sorts, and coloured flares and sparks which aimed to disorientate the team. It had worked; the attackers had gotten away with the Captain, and caused several casualties.
“We think, maybe, that it was Romulans that attacked us, Sir.”
Spock’s head shoots up, a dangerous tug in his stomach.
“Explain.”
The junior lieutenant seems surprised by his clipped tone, but continues regardless. “Uh, we uh. One of the lower-ranking members managed to grab hold of and rip part of the assailant’s clothing, Sir.” The ensign produces a ripped section of uniform, the outline of jagged, expanding wings covering almost a third of the slashed fabric. Spock pressed his lips into a thin line, a poor attempt at emotional repression. All he wants to do is push his fists through the table in front of him.
“Lieutenant, report back to tactical and security and begin a battle team,” Spock says, and watches the young man snap to attention, back rigid. “We’ll need to begin a plan of attack and an intel operation soon enough. Dismissed.”
McCoy waits until three point four minutes has passed, before he finally states what he has been brooding over.
“Have you told him?”
“Told who what? I cannot answer such vague queries whe-“
“Jim, you pointy bastard,” McCoy rolls his eyes, but the fondness is there, regardless of the seemingly acidic words. “Have you told him how you feel?”
James, James, James, James. He feels blood rushing to his head.
“If you are inquiring if I’ve informed the Captain about my esteem and respect for him and his authority, then I assure you, that I have-“
“You know what I’m talking about, Spock,” McCoy gives him a look, one of his common unimpressed glares, and Spock knows that he cannot twist the doctor’s words any longer. Spock sighs, something he would not dare to release outside of the company of James or the CMO.
“It would not be… prudent, to discuss such a matter,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “I do not want to state the level of my esteem for the Captain and have him retreat due to discomposure. My amorous regards to the Captain bear no service to him.”
“Christ, Spock, it’s love, not a service.” McCoy pushes his hand through his already messy hair. “Have you considered that he likes you back?”
Spock presses his lips together, and turns away, staring out the wide window which displays the planet below, and twinkling stars far beyond it. He hears McCoy sigh.
“Just think about it?” McCoy says, and this time, it’s softer. “It’s Jim. He’s not going to punish you for having emotions, if only towards him.”
McCoy leaves, brushing a hand across his back before exiting the room, leaving Spock to watch the glittering stars and dry planet below, lost in his own thoughts.
A week later, Spock and an intel operation team have located where the Captain and part of the away team is. They’re locked up in an underground series of caverns, the area built using a metal material that was effectively blocking their sensors until Chekov managed to squirm around the problem, with help from Chief Engineer Scott. Spock organises a security team to accompany him down to the surface of the planet, with Doctor McCoy and several medical bay officers awaiting their return in the transporter room, three travel biobeds already prepared and waiting, along with an assortment of medical and resuscitation apparatuses. They’re preparing for the worst, seeing as they’re dealing with Romulans. Spock still doesn’t know why the Romulan’s have attacked; they’re a cunning and manipulative military species, they do not oblige an offensive crusade until they can justify it in some way, not ones to attack first. What could the Enterprise crew have possibly done to validate such a confrontation?
No one, thus far, had been able to give him an answer.
They descend down into the caverns’ twisting hallways, beamed down to a location Chekov thinks is closest to where the holding cells of the structure are, closest to where James is.
James,James,James,James
They neutralise any Romulan they come across, taking precautions to ensure that they will not be discovered. It would not do to blow an already grim situation into a cataclysm. But that plan is impaired when they eventually arrive at the prisoner cells, and the resulting chaos is enough to alert their presence, to which Spock and his team hurriedly set up transporting signals and administer brief field-medicine to the few crewmembers that are still alive. Three crew are missing, whole two have been left dead in the room. If Spock where Human, he might have shivered at the sight.
James is in a corner closest to the door, and judging by his injuries, and his malnutrition, he has once again been self-sacrificial, giving the few remaining crew his food and their safety. He’s barely conscious, an old, bloody wound spilling down onto his face, swelled eyes and visible bruising. His shirt and pants are ripped, blood has soaked into his uniform, the ground beneath him, his hair. Everywhere Spock looks, there is visible injury to James’ person. His breathing is shallow.
“Jame– Captain, we are signalling the Enterprise to beam us out soon,” Spock murmurs, keeping James’ head upright, still. Hazy, blue eyes focus on him. “You must attempt to remain conscious and lucid.”
James smiles, a tired and weak twitch. “Call me that again.” Spock is confused.
“Captain?” he repeats, unsure of why James would request such a thing.
“No, Spock. Not that.”
Oh. He wants –
“James.”
James smiles, brighter this time. “Again. I haven’t heard my name for so long.”
Spock’s heart thumps, and almost misses the call to prepare for beaming, too enraptured in the blue of James’ eyes, it’s usual sparkling quality dulled and glazed by pain, the way his breath stinks but it doesn’t matter, because he’s here, alive, in Spock’s arms – sort of, and breathing. The small smile that graces James’ face.
“James.” He says, feels the beginning of his atoms being displaced and replaced all at once as Engineer Scott’s transport beam catches onto him. “James.”
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He says it out loud, again, multiple times, while James is recovering. It earns him a tired but genuine smile, almost child-like joy radiating from James.
“You’re the only person who calls me that,” is all he says when Spock inquires as to what he finds amusing one night after Spock’s shift. They’re in medical bay, in the corner where James’ biobed has been relocated from the trauma bay, the privacy screen activated and humming away in the background as they play chess using the antique set that he had found in his grandfather’s house during his youth. Spock can see the wear and tear from such an old and well-used object. “You’re the only one who calls me ‘James’.”
“My apologies, Captain, I’ll desist if you-“
“No.” It’s quick, breathless. “Don’t. S’nice, I like it. I like that you’re the only one, makes it feel special.”
It’s a proclamation containing a sentiment and undertone that Spock is now all-too familiar with. They begun this tentative back-and-forth pushing since James woke up, a subtle call from one to the other acknowledging that there’s something there, a tension that hasn’t quite left the space where they orbit around each other since James’ capture. It’s fragile, this strange, timid thing, something they can’t overtly bring attention to for fear that the other will scare off. It confuses Spock, and yet he feels no urge to change this dance of theirs, content to follow the steps his Captain leads him in.
“James. I believe it’s your move.”
Another choreographed step, an understated weave, and the dance begins once again.
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James recovers in no time, and soon enough is present on the bridge. The command bridge crew and those located on the bridge at the time of his arrival smile and laugh elatedly at his return, their Captain, the man who has shown that he will readily die for his crew, his ship, restored back where he belongs. Uhura states that he is a fool, to which the bridge crew laughs at, except for Ensign Chekov, whose hero worship of James has magnified since the recovery of their Captain from the hands of Romulans. Around the ship, there is playful banter towards the Captain regarding his less than careful behaviour, but all is softened by the genuine affection and relief that the entirety of the Enterprise crew feel towards their loyal – and rather self-sacrificial – Captain. McCoy states that he’ll castrate James if he ever jeopardises his life again, a comment that would concern Spock if he did not know the doctor well enough, and additionally know that the likelihood of James placing himself in danger again was definite. McCoy’s reassured, however, regardless of his insubordinate comments, ones which, on any other starship, would be met with a reprimand, as is custom.
Spock is glad he is not aboard any other starship.
The days after James’ release from medical bay, however, are filled with tension. Spock avoids his Captain. His Captain avoids addressing that Spock is avoiding him. Rinse and repeat. The tension between them has not been this palpable since their very beginnings, where James and he were constantly on edge, arguing; each comment a sharp jab at one or the other’s perceived weakness or fault. Those times were long gone, and the two of them had grown to accept each other, spin around in the other’s orbit.
The Crew was taking notice, however. He had already been questioned by Lieutenant Sulu once, cornered by Uhura twice, and had a brazen lecture from McCoy. None of these actions from the crew were gratifying, and Spock decides that he will finally have to address this issue, as not-nervous (Vulcans do not feel nervous) as he is.
Spock arrives at James’ quarters after his shift, a previously regular occurrence (he has not been in James’ company alone for two weeks, a change in routine that does unsettle him). He barely has to touch the setting designed to notify James of a presence at his entry, before the mechanical door slides open, James nowhere in sight. Spock walks in, almost cautiously, which is illogical; he has no reason to fear his Captain, or to worry about their upcoming interaction. James is mature, and a highly empathetic individual, he is not likely to react poorly to Spock’s conversing.
And yet, his stomach feels heavy.
Spock walks further in, and looks around. The room is dimly lit, and Spock is tempted to call the lights up. A movement in his peripheral vision alerts him to James’ attendance in the corner, where the man in question is gazing at him, seated in a chair, legs and arms crossed. Spock straightens when he sees him.
“Captain,” he pauses, unsure. “I had – hoped to discuss certain issues that have arose recently with your person.”
It is dim, but he is sure there is a wry smile on James’ face.
“Sure, you know my doors always open,” James shifts forward in his seat as Spock approaches closer. “I did wonder when you’d come to finally talk to me, or if you even would.”
Spock falters, eyeing James, feeling like he’s somehow been caught out, lost a game he wasn’t aware of playing.
“James?”
“Oh, so it’s ‘James” now, is it?” He rises, stalking forward, entering Spock’s personal sphere of comfort; small enough already from working aboard a ship full of Humans, whose ideas of personal space were vastly different to Vulcans, but reduced even more from James’ distinct aptitude for ignoring other’s space.
“I – do not understand, Sir –” At this, James’ eye twitches. “Have I offended you?”
“You avoid me for near three weeks, no word as to why, and then waltz in here as if it’s all alright?” James scoffs, his face unreadable. “Of course I’m not pleased.”
Spock pauses, again. He is unsure of how to proceed, they have not encountered these arguments for a long time, and he is thus unable to think of a response, or the proper attempt to cool James’ ire, as understandable as it is. He is out of practice regarding James’ fiery anger.
“That is what I came to discuss,” Spock began, voice low. “And I do apologise if I have.” Another pause. “Caused great discomfort on your person. I found myself distressed, in a way, and in need of much meditation, and self-reflection. I hope that I have not ruined our close and valued friendship.”
There is a prolonged silence in the room, and James stares at him, his facial features still unreadable. Usually, James is open with his emotions and thoughts, especially considering Spock’s lack of experience in such an area. But now, with the tension high in the room, his wonderfully expressive face has gone quiet.
“Okay.”
Spock raises an eyebrow. He cannot help it.
“Pardon?” He queries, confused. James’ shoulders have slumped, thumbing the bridge of his nose, his mood turned completely around in just a moment. A small smile graces his face, and he looks up, blue eyes trained on Spock. “Cap- James?”
James steps forward, even further into Spock’s sphere, his hand raised to cup Spock’s face, examining it. Spock’s heart stops, or beats faster, he doesn’t know. Spock can’t think of anything except the scorching heat of James’ hands upon his cheeks. “What are you doing?”
Soft eyes, and an even softer smile. “Hold on,” he says, and it’s so quiet that Spock’s strains to hear it. “There’s something on your face.”
Spock is about to respond when he feels James’ lips touch his, soft and warm, sweet. His heart does stop this time, and there’s something in his head howling at the simple touch, breath catching and releasing all at once. The thumb on James’ right hand brushes his check once, twice, three times before James pulls back, one hand curling around Spock’s stiff neck, his eyes half-lidded and gazing up at Spock.
“Sorry, it was me.” Accompanied by a dazzling smile, and another soft peck. Spock can feel his face flush, knows it will now be bright green, and he cannot help but fluster out a sentence, before abandoning any attempt at language.
He stares wide-eyed at James, heart beating faster, and faster, and faster, until it bursts in a flash of bright flame and heat and love, Spock rearing forward to kiss James, hands and body now responding, going from stiff to motion, swallowing James’ delighted laughter.
☾☆☾☆☾☆☾☆☾
They’re all heat and light and electricity. A dizzying combination of too much and not enough, devouring each other’s mouths and selves and everything offered to each other. They’re fused together through trust and love, passionate and yet savouring every moment, not wanting to rush anything, or race towards the finish.
Spock gropes James closer, thrusting them together, and James moans, high and beautiful, throat exposed and available for Spock’s nipping teeth, bruising and lapping at the sweat and thunderous beat of James’ heart. Legs wrap around Spock’s torso, locking them together, encouraging Spock to move deeper, faster, harder. He’s not sure what he’s meant to focus on – the sparks of pleasure from moving inside James, the sweating hands grasping at his back, or James repeating his name like a prayer, a litany of “Spock, Spock, Spock, t’hy’la, please,”. It’s all rushing towards him, consuming him, and Spock would be terrified of such emotion, but he’s not, he knows James won’t judge him, that he’s safe here, he’s allowed to be himself.
He can feel himself getting closer to completion, and he doesn’t need to ask James if he is, too. He already knows, through their bond, which is split wide open and basking in their closeness, their lust and love entwined together. He doesn’t know where his mind ends and James’ begins, fused together in a way so much more intimate than any physical activity ever could. He doesn’t know what’s more arousing, James’ body or his mind. Perhaps it’s both.
There’s a spark of wavering pleasure, and then a burst. James gasps, and squeezes Spock, everywhere, before coming over his stomach, untouched. He buries his face in Spock’s neck, groaning, shaking and twitching as Spock continues to plow into him, his breathy gasps encouragement. Spock noses his way towards James’ face, touching their foreheads together, short, wet kisses exchanged. He’s close, a burning pleasure racing up and down his spine, intensifying when James grabs his hand and squeezes it.
“C’mon, love,” James murmurs. “Come for me.”
He presses their hands together, palm to palm, and spreads their fingers into the ta’al. Spock gasps, the salute exceedingly erotic when done in private between two bondmates, and moans, hips twitching into James’ body, before stilling, shivering.
Panting and sweating, they stay like that, still wrapped around each other, before James groans and un-clasps his legs from Spock’s waist, the movement jostling them and erupting a shudder in them both.
“Fuck,” James murmurs, a hand flung over his face, one still clasped in Spock’s. “I’m not gonna be able to sit still through shift tomorrow.”
“That is unfortunate,” Spock’s eyes are closed, face relaxed and buried in James’ shoulder. “You will perhaps need to consult Doctor McCoy’s expertise for your ailment.”
James groans, and attempts a weak smack at his shoulder. “Shut up about Bones while your cock is still inside me.”
Spock fights back a grin, before pulling out, grunting at the movement, James relaying his own noise of displeasure. He sits up, gazing down at his bondmate, now thoroughly boneless (just the way he prefers), and runs a hand up James’ left flank.
“Are you able to relocate to the shower, Ashayam?” He asks, hand now brushing James’ hair out of his face. James nods in response, heaving before lifting himself up and out of bed, turning to peck Spock on the lips.
“Love you,” is the mumbled phrase, and Spock rubs their noses together.
“And I you, Ashaya.”
He watches as James makes his way into their shared bathroom, listening as the sonic shower turns on, a rattling sound following. Spock will join his bondmate soon, but for now, he basks in the post-coital warmth, a faint twinge in his loins. The bond is sated, and content, humming quietly in the background, a constant stream of affection from it.
“Spock! Hurry up and get under here! I’m starting without you!”
Spock huffs whilst James is not around to hear, and gets up to entertain his insatiable lover, the bond now bursting with mischievous enjoyment.