igrab
in
grabi_hands
With a Little Help from My Friends [Fixing a Hole]
[Masterpost]
"All right, so fill me in again. Where are we going?"
"I should have thought it would be your duty to -"
"Answer the goddamn question, Spock."
"- read up on the planetary notations, and since this -"
"Look, I get it, I'm a bad captain, you're the fucking Prime Minister-"
"- is clearly a planet that seems to cater to your needs, I would have thought -"
"Jesus, Spock! Shut the hell up, that's an order."
They walked in stony silence for a long, strained minute. Then, without provocation, both burst into speech.
"If you're referring to the antiquated position of the ruler of Great Britain-"
"If you're implying that all I ever do is drink and dance and drool over girls-"
They stopped. Glared at each other. Kept walking.
Spock broke the tension with something between a growl and a sigh. Fighting over trivial matters was illogical. "We are headed for the disciplinary facilities. Bellatrix security is very prompt in dealing with the instigators of unrest."
"So basically, I saw a Vulcan with dreadlocks fighting a Klingon, and we're heading across town to the police station because it might be your friend."
"The chances are low, yes, but I am willing to take them, as I see no other alternative." He walked stiffly, his arms folded tight behind him. Kirk nearly tripped over himself catching up.
"Look, couldn't you just - oh, I don't know - call him?"
The noise Spock made was one of annoyance, though it was not directed at Kirk (for the most part). "The transmission received by the Enterprise was made from a public communication device."
Great. Just great. "All right, so, this guy calls you, tells you he's in town. Did he give any other information? A place he's staying, someone we could talk to, anything?"
"He stated he would find us. I assume that the vague nature of his message was to protect against interception."
"Wait. Wait a second." They stopped in the street, and the crowd flowed around them. "Is your friend some kind of thug? Are we walking into a trap here, Spock?"
The motion of his eyes was darting and quick, but Kirk understood the internal tension he was trying to convey. "I... cannot rule out that possibility, at the present time." They were quiet for a moment. "However, I hope to find answers, as soon as possible." He took off again, and again, Kirk had to book it to catch up.
"Is that why you keep trying to leave Uhura behind? You don't want her getting involved?"
"Nyota Uhura is requesting the service of a medical expert-"
"And you wandered right off with the intended patient. You, Spock, are a jackass. They say I'm a jackass, but they just don't know you, and I do. Jack. Ass."
Spock was scowling. "I do not in any way resemble an equine Earth mammal, sir."
"Jim. Yes you do. Your face is - " He stopped, and sighed. "Never mind. Are we there yet?"
...Spock gave him a look of utter loathing. "Jim, sometimes I think hate you. The rest of the time, I'm positive."
"Hate's an emotion!" The captain smiled brightly.
"...Now is one of those times."
•
The room was stark. Wire-frame bed, thin mattress, a threadbare red blanket for a makeshift sheet. It was, in contradiction to most prison beds, big enough for two.
There was also a worn cardboard box next to the bed. It contained sex toys.
No one would be stupid enough to use them, but it was part of the deal, it was dirty and humiliating and low. Dzharel flexed his hands in leather-studded gloves, then began removing them, one finger at a time.
The Klingon watched him warily. His arm was broken, which put him at a disadvantage - one that this particular dangerous-looking Vulcanoid would surely capitalize on. With both arms, he could take him in a fair fight. With only one arm, his chances looked grim.
But this wasn't about fighting.
It was about orgasms.
Dzharel tucked his gloves neatly into his belt, underneath the flap of his Romulan-made leather coat. They had to have begun now, pheromones had to be pouring into the room like a mist, but he shut his nostrils and ignored them. No one had ever bothered to inform the Bellatrix disciplinary system that their little games didn't work on Vulcans.
"What are you doing," the Klingon growled, when he reached down to the box with a long-limbed grace.
"Just a little something to make it easier on you." He had, in fact, noticed one item in the box that might not be completely unsanitary - handcuffs, forged in tritanium. "I wouldn't want you hurting your arm with too much movement, after all."
"What are you doing, what are you doing..." He sounded, for lack of a better word, panicked. It was so gratifying to see that expression twisting a fierce Klingon face.
"So repetitive. I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question, but I'll answer it anyway." He darted forward, his hand closing on the Klingon's wrist before he could even think about blinking. A casual observer might have noticed that he did not make contact with his skin, and his movements were swift and light, in distaste. Clink! went the handcuffs, neatly locking his injured and uninjured arms together.
"That's better. Now, if you'll excuse me - " He leaned back and kicked, right in the chest, and his unwilling Klingon friend sailed right back into the wall, smashing more of his fingers. " - I have better things to do."
He leaped forward and touched the center of his forehead - with the very tip of one finger, let's not get too carried away here - and twisted his mind in a practiced move that he'd been perfecting for years.
The Klingon gasped, shuddered, and came in his pants.
Simple, really. Unorthodox, perhaps, but Dzharel was a deft hand at psychosomatic suggestion, and the trademark Orion pheromones did half his work for him.
After that, a neck pinch left him unconscious, so he wouldn't have to deal with him while he triggered his own orgasm, in a much neater and less embarrassing way (though, on reflection, hadn't his mind games technically prevented embarrassment? Not that any Klingon would think so, of course, but that couldn't be helped).
Door lock bypassed, he strolled out of the cell while doing his pants back up, whistling quite cheerfully.
•
"You're shitting me."
Spock resisted the urge to SIGH massively. "No, Jim, I am not 'shitting' anything. You should have done the background reading. It could have been you in there." Nothing explained the surge of irritation he felt at Jim's stupidity. Or maybe it was just the thought that he may have had to sleep with a Klingon.
"You're telling me, that - as a disciplinary move - they lock you in a room and make you have sex?"
Remember those times, mentioned previously, when Spock was positive he hated Jim? This was one of them. Spock's lips tightened. "It is not a privilege, it's a punishment. Anything can happen, Jim, anything can happen as long as there are mutual orgasms, because that is the only way to unlock the doors."
"That is amazing." Clearly, the idea that anything could happen regularly involved death and dick-biting and torn-off limbs was not computing in Kirk's mind. "Can I get into a fight with a hot girl and bring her here?"
"There are better rooms for that, Jim." The pressure behind his eyes was mounting, he did NOT want to think about James Kirk sleeping with alien girls, though he was well aware it was an often enough occurrence. He just didn't want to know about it. Ever.
"Are there? I think I'm going to like this place..."
They were walking down the halls, now, and scrolling marquees on the doorplates bore the names of each of their occupants. As they passed, two Andorians came by who looked like they'd completely forgotten the reason for their quarrel, an Orion female passed by looking satisfied, and then, half a hallway down, a floating stretcher drifted by. It was difficult to determine what sort of being it had initially been, though the red blood and tan skin suggested human.
"...All right, maybe... not so amazing." Kirk felt his stomach turn, and he subconsciously pulled a little closer to his Vulcan companion.
Spock was trying to decide whether he should tell Kirk off for the proximity or welcome it, when he heard a sudden voice echo down the hall - painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
"Spock! Spock, is that you?"
The man running toward him was unmistakable. Though the dreadlocks were new, and his dress code was far too Romulan for his taste, and what were those things in his ears? - he was absolutely sure that this tall, angular Vulcan man was his close childhood friend.
He took two steps away from Jim, his throat tightening, and suddenly his mouth twitched, in a very definite smile. "Dzharel. Dif-tor heh smusma."
The man, Dzharel, skidded to a halt and held up his hand in the traditional spread-fingered salute. "Dif-tor heh smusma, Spock. You got here just in time."
•
"I can't believe they'd do that."
"What, leave without us?" McCoy rolled his eyes, and snorted. He was setting some instruments out over the desk in the hotel room. "Did you forget who we're dealin' with, here? The A-team. Bonnie and Clyde. Frank and Jesse James. You know what I mean?" He prepped a hypospray, grumbling under his breath. "James Bloody Hero-of-the-People Kirk."
Uhura sat on the bed, expelling air in a sharp sigh. "Spock wouldn't be that stupid."
"Well, I hate to break it to you, but Spock ain't the captain. Kirk is." There, that should do it. Kirk was like an elephant, you had to take a large dosage, double it, and then add five more chemicals to fool his body into making it last longer. It was like a medschool game. Only with more bitching.
McCoy realized Uhura had been quiet for a while, and if there was one thing he knew as a doctor, it was the silent sound of someone who wants to tell a secret, and is waiting for the right person to tell it to. Bones usually ended up being that person.
"Uhura. Something on your mind?"
She shrugged. "It's nothing, really."
"Yeah, bullshit. I get that all the time and it's never 'nothing' if you had to tell me so. So come on, spit it out." He grabbed a chair with his big hands and spun it around, so he could sit down and lean his chin on the backrest.
She looked, for a moment, as if she wasn't going to talk about it... but then her shoulders sagged, and her hands curled in her lap. "It's Spock. I never thought I'd be saying this, but... lately, I've been getting the feeling that he's too... clingy."
McCoy's eyebrows shot through the roof. "Wait, did I hear you right? Spock, the emotional neanderthal? The guy with a rubik's cube for a heart? Clingy?"
Uhura sighed with exasperation, choosing to ignore McCoy's insults. "All right, maybe that's not the word I was looking for. He's being... protective. Overprotective. And I don't like it."
"Ahhh." Now the Doctor's face softened, a look of almost melancholy came into his eyes. "You know, I think there's - as much as I hate to say it - a logical explanation for all this." Damn logic damn pointy-eared brat, he thought in a steady stream.
Uhura raised one eyebrow, her back straightening. "Is there?"
"Yeah." McCoy looked serious, maybe not as serious as the you-have-a-deadly-infection talk, but he wasn't kidding around. "Actually, it's something I thought you knew. It has to do with the way Vulcans treat their women - culturally speaking."
Uhura's eyes went imperceptibly wider. "So what you're saying is... but... he's never been like this before."
"Maybe he never had a reason to before. Maybe he didn't think you were serious. Maybe he didn't think he was serious, and that's a closer bet." He scowled down at her. "But like it or not, he's thinking serious now. And if that's the case, then it looks like his Vulcan heritage runs pretty deep."
She was quiet now, her hands folded together, her face smoothing to serenity. "I just can't win, can I."
"With Spock?" Bones cocked an eyebrow, and shook his head. "Not likely."
•
"What do you mean, just in time? Are you coming back to our rooms?"
Dzharel waved a gloved hand, cutting Spock off. "No, come on. I have a place, the least I could do is play host to you and..." he trailed off, pointedly raising an eyebrow in Kirk's direction.
Yeah, that's right. Just forget about little old me, over here, nothing to see here, guys, just James T. Kirk, just the captain of the fucking Enterprise. "James Kirk. 'Sup."
"T'hy'la t'du ha?" Dzharel snapped a quick question at Spock, lips quirking and grinning with his eyebrows.
"Rai!" Whatever the question was, it made Spock even shorter of temper, biting back his response almost before the question had finished. "He is my captain, and my friend. Jim, this is Dzharel." The 'Dzh' was pronounced with a 'j' sound, as in 'jackal'. Or 'Jesus, that is an attractive Vulcan'. "Shall we? Nyota and Doctor McCoy are undoubtedly waiting for us."
"Carry on, zhel-lan. You are a Commander now, are you?"
"Quite. However, I would appreciate if you kept that fact to yourself, around these parts." His eyes flickered sideways. "I do not wish to bring about our untimely demise." He cocked an eyebrow, spun on his heel, and strode right off down the hallway, leaving Dzharel and Kirk looking dubiously at each other.
"...Has he always had a stick up his ass?" Jim asked, jerking a thumb in Spock's direction.
"Oh, yes." The other Vulcan smiled, or at least - his mouth moved in an expression of humor, but Kirk couldn't help notice that it didn't reach his eyes. "He hasn't changed a bit."
•
"Damnit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not your babysitter!"
Predictably, the very first thing that McCoy had done when Kirk walked through the door was jab him hard in the neck, injecting him with a probably-illegal amount of olfactory paralyzers and detoxifiers. He dropped like a stone in a dead faint, and Spock stepped over his body without a second thought.
"Nyota," he murmured, inclining his head respectfully. "And Doctor McCoy. This is Dzharel. He's the one I came here to see."
The dreadlocked Vulcan raised his hand in a rather cheery version of the 'live long and prosper' salute. "The pleasure is mine."
"...And, to my great relief, he has offered to let us guest in his dwelling. I, for one, find this to be an amicable solution, as the decor here is... distasteful." He scowled at the aberration in the carpet pattern. He had been hoping it was only his imagination. "Doctor, are you staying?"
"I might as well. Jim's probably going to have an allergic reaction to everything I stick 'im with, but it's better than letting that pheromone get to him." He shook his head. "God knows he's bad enough already. Can you carry him?"
But Spock was already crouching down, scooping the prone body of the captain up in a fireman's carry. "I am quite anxious to speak with you," he was murmuring in an undertone to his friend. "There is much to discuss."
"Yeah, tell me about it." Both of their faces were deadly serious for a moment, and it was easy to understand what they were silently grieving for. "...Let's get back, and then we'll talk." Bones was already out the door, his instruments packed back in his medical bag, and Spock was quick to follow. Dzharel met Uhura's eyes, and held an arm out - gestured for her to go. "Ladies first."
She raised an eyebrow at him, and crossed her arms. "Well, I guess that means you, doesn't it?"
He laughed, and she was very nearly astonished. "Guess I walked right into that one." And he headed out the door, but not without cocking an eyebrow over his shoulder, and making sure said door didn't close before she could get out.
The courtesy was old-fashioned, but she had to say, she liked the way he laughed.
•
Dzharel's house was not a house, houses were for the rich and important, of which he was neither. It was, however, considerably large - spanning almost the entire 32nd floor of his building - and open, archways connecting rooms rather than doors and floor-to-ceiling windows lining the walls.
Spock made his way to a nearby couch and gently set Kirk down, arranging his hands over his chest so he wouldn't hurt himself on anything when he came to. McCoy was directed to the restroom, as he'd been bitching about having to pee half of the way there, and Dzharel bowed himself out graciously. "Make yourself at home. I need to be a good host and get supplies so I can feed you all." He cocked his head, waved a hand in the Vulcan salute, and slipped out the door.
Spock and Uhura were left staring at each other for a long minute.
"I apologize for making you feel -"
"It's all right," Uhura murmured, cutting him off. "Really. It's okay."
Another long silence. Then, Spock lifted an eyebrow. "Clearly, it is not."
She let out the breath that she'd been holding. "Spock, I can't help but notice the way you've been acting - and, frankly, I'm having trouble understanding why."
He folded his hands neatly behind his back, looking down at the floor. "Explain."
"...You didn't want me to come here at all." It was a statement of fact, and Spock could not refute that. "And you were upset when I just wanted to dance, have a little fun. I thought we made a deal, that this wasn't going to be a serious relationship. You told me that. You told me you couldn't give me all of yourself, and I was okay with that. Because frankly? I didn't want to either." Spock hadn't moved, and she stepped forward, trying to get a handle on her emotions so she could be strong, like him. "...What happened? And why?"
He was silent for a long moment. "Vulcan males are protective of their mates."
"I heard." She sighed, heavily. "Doctor McCoy told me. Is that how you see me? As your mate?"
"I am aware that the term carries negative connotations, but in my culture - "
"Yes." She cut him off, her mouth a hard, final line. "In your culture. And that's really what it comes down to, isn't it?"
Spock's eyes jumped up to meet hers, and her heart twisted painfully at the lost, naked emotion there.
"...We both have a different concept of what it means to be 'more than friends'." Her voice echoed his sadness, and she really, really wished that it didn't have to be this way. But if it was only going to get worse, she didn't... logically... see how it could work.
"But..."
"If it were just about sex, or keeping our relationship casual, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"
Logical. He swallowed, and nodded shortly, once.
The silence that stretched between them was as vast and empty as the millions of light-years of deep space.
"...I'm going to go outside for some fresh air," she muttered, and Spock knew that she wanted to compose herself, and grieve. He had the utmost Vulcan respect for her. It did not make it any easier.
"Please-" he stopped himself, just barely, as she paused with her hand on the doorknob. His eyes fluttered shut. "...I urge you, as an officer of Starfleet, to proceed with caution. You are a capable Lieutenant. I do not wish to see you hurt."
The words fell like lead, and she knew he couldn't help it, couldn't help the way he was. She'd spent so long dreaming about what it would be like for Spock to care about her - to truly care - but the reality was far, far different than anything she'd expected. "I can take care of myself. Uhura out."
When she had gone, he simply... sat down. Right there on the floor.
Silence settled in the air like a thick blanket.
"...I'm sorry," a rough, far-too-emotional voice came from the right, and had Spock been in a better frame of mind to care, he might have been surprised. Kirk's eyes were open, serious, and had a balance of sympathy and empathy that he wouldn't've thought possible from his brash, jackass of a captain.
"Don't be." Spock's voice was quiet, measured. It was nearly terrifying, how much he didn't sound heartbroken. "It was... logical."
Suddenly, from behind, there was a quiet sound - nearly inaudible, the pad of socked feet settling carefully on thick carpet. Though he heard it clearly, Spock did not move - not even with a delicate hand splayed out over his shoulder blade, and he felt the brush of air as whatever it was behind him settled into a crouch.
UnderstandingTrustSympathy. Missed you. Spock.
Spock's eyelids settled as the flow of thoughts and emotions washed over him, the mental equivalent of a calming bath. He murmured one syllable, a recognition, a name. "Gaan."
Kirk had watched the whole thing, he wasn't quite awake enough to be moving around yet, or else he'd've been up and in his face, demanding to know why he was getting so close to Spock. Even if Spock was capable of defending himself from strangers.
But, from the looks of it, he didn't seem like an enemy - and since he'd come from within the apartment, there really wasn't any reason for him not to be a friend.
So Kirk was paranoid. So what.
It was difficult to tell how tall he was - unlike Spock, who always stood completely straight, he held himself shyly - to the point of being almost concave. He had none of Spock's muscle definition but all of his Vulcan decorum, and his face was thin and sharp but much more childlike, his eyes looking even bigger than should have been possible.
And it was the eyes that the looker was drawn to. Kirk had never seen eyes like that - not on a Vulcan, anyway, and while the rest of the newcomer's body was definitively Vulcan, from the way he was dressed to the ubiquitous bowl haircut - his eyes were a light, pale gray.
Gaan, he'd said. All right. "Gaan?"
Both Vulcans looked up at him quickly, and the gray-eyed one tilted his head to the side, arching an eyebrow in what was clearly a question, asking for introduction.
"...I'm Jim. I'm Spock's-"
"Captain," Spock interrupted, and Jim couldn't help feeling put out by that. He had been going for 'friend'.
"Dif-tor heh smusma," Gaan murmured, in a slow, halting voice. He was turning green, and almost attempting to crouch even further to hide behind Spock's back.
Suddenly, there was a distinctive sonic whooshing sound, and the door to the bathroom opened. "God christ, remind me never to hold it for-" He stopped dead in the hallway, his hands on his belt buckle. "Who the hell are you?"
Gaan's already-huge eyes widened even more, and he gripped Spock's shoulder, hard.
Who is that? He makes loud noises.
"Doctor, this is Gaan."
Doctor? The word was accompanied by a rush of images that Spock didn't have the time to decipher, but it had a distinctive negative connotation. He quickly sent a soothing thought back in return.
"Jesus, how many more of you elvish bastards are lurking in the corners?" He stepped heavily down into the room, somehow managing a 'thunk' even with the thick carpeting.
Rude. "Gaan and Dzharel are alone."
Spock's head was starting to hurt from the prolonged contact and heavy mental transferral, but he knew how it was, knew that it was easier for Gaan to communicate this way, and the fact that he was willing to do it at all, even after so many years apart, spoke volumes for the trust he had for an old friend.
Always. Even that simple concept was tied to a thousand different images that Spock had no hope of understanding just yet, but for the briefest instant he felt warm.
"All right. Gaan, is it? I'm bad-tempered and foul-mouthed and my name is Leonard." He flopped down into an armchair.
Gaan found himself utterly agreeing with this, despite Spock's illogical mental echo of the contrary. He'd picked up, all in surface thoughts, that Dzharel was out shopping, Spock was sad and nervous and worried, and this 'Jim' and 'Leonard' were two of the worst sorts of humans possible - and yet, despite the facts, he cared for them both deeply.
He uncurled his fingers from Spock's shoulder, as the humans began to speak of the girl, the female-mate-potential-nolonger. Spock verbally expressed his concern of her whereabouts, and the unpleasant Doctor agreed almost instantly. Gaan recoiled from the verbal outburst. He did not like the doctor.
"...So what the hell were you doing in there for so long, anyway?" Kirk had had enough of everyone harping on Uhura, and he was damn certain that Spock didn't want to be thinking about her much, either. "That's a hell of a time to take a shit."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Well whatever you're thinking, Jim, it's not that. God knows what you'd get up to in there."
"I don't know about you, Bones, but when I go to a bathroom, I, you know, go to the bathroom. And it sure as hell doesn't take me fifteen minutes to do my business..."
Spock winced. "Can we not talk about excrement? Thank you."
"So, Gaan." Kirk changed topics at the speed of light, leaving Bones to roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the word 'whipped'. "You and Spock were friends, right? What was he like, when he was little?"
The room went quiet, and for a minute, Gaan looked like he didn't understand the question. Then, slowly, he unfolded from his crouch, delicately circumnavigated the unusual (though not unwelcome) obstacle of a Spock on the floor, and situated himself within easy range of all three of them. He was slightly loathe to include the Doctor in his storytelling, but as it was image-memory-projection only, he would not need to directly contact his mind. This was preferable.
"I will show you," he murmured, and the living room seemed to fade away.
→ Eleanor Rigby
"All right, so fill me in again. Where are we going?"
"I should have thought it would be your duty to -"
"Answer the goddamn question, Spock."
"- read up on the planetary notations, and since this -"
"Look, I get it, I'm a bad captain, you're the fucking Prime Minister-"
"- is clearly a planet that seems to cater to your needs, I would have thought -"
"Jesus, Spock! Shut the hell up, that's an order."
They walked in stony silence for a long, strained minute. Then, without provocation, both burst into speech.
"If you're referring to the antiquated position of the ruler of Great Britain-"
"If you're implying that all I ever do is drink and dance and drool over girls-"
They stopped. Glared at each other. Kept walking.
Spock broke the tension with something between a growl and a sigh. Fighting over trivial matters was illogical. "We are headed for the disciplinary facilities. Bellatrix security is very prompt in dealing with the instigators of unrest."
"So basically, I saw a Vulcan with dreadlocks fighting a Klingon, and we're heading across town to the police station because it might be your friend."
"The chances are low, yes, but I am willing to take them, as I see no other alternative." He walked stiffly, his arms folded tight behind him. Kirk nearly tripped over himself catching up.
"Look, couldn't you just - oh, I don't know - call him?"
The noise Spock made was one of annoyance, though it was not directed at Kirk (for the most part). "The transmission received by the Enterprise was made from a public communication device."
Great. Just great. "All right, so, this guy calls you, tells you he's in town. Did he give any other information? A place he's staying, someone we could talk to, anything?"
"He stated he would find us. I assume that the vague nature of his message was to protect against interception."
"Wait. Wait a second." They stopped in the street, and the crowd flowed around them. "Is your friend some kind of thug? Are we walking into a trap here, Spock?"
The motion of his eyes was darting and quick, but Kirk understood the internal tension he was trying to convey. "I... cannot rule out that possibility, at the present time." They were quiet for a moment. "However, I hope to find answers, as soon as possible." He took off again, and again, Kirk had to book it to catch up.
"Is that why you keep trying to leave Uhura behind? You don't want her getting involved?"
"Nyota Uhura is requesting the service of a medical expert-"
"And you wandered right off with the intended patient. You, Spock, are a jackass. They say I'm a jackass, but they just don't know you, and I do. Jack. Ass."
Spock was scowling. "I do not in any way resemble an equine Earth mammal, sir."
"Jim. Yes you do. Your face is - " He stopped, and sighed. "Never mind. Are we there yet?"
...Spock gave him a look of utter loathing. "Jim, sometimes I think hate you. The rest of the time, I'm positive."
"Hate's an emotion!" The captain smiled brightly.
"...Now is one of those times."
•
The room was stark. Wire-frame bed, thin mattress, a threadbare red blanket for a makeshift sheet. It was, in contradiction to most prison beds, big enough for two.
There was also a worn cardboard box next to the bed. It contained sex toys.
No one would be stupid enough to use them, but it was part of the deal, it was dirty and humiliating and low. Dzharel flexed his hands in leather-studded gloves, then began removing them, one finger at a time.
The Klingon watched him warily. His arm was broken, which put him at a disadvantage - one that this particular dangerous-looking Vulcanoid would surely capitalize on. With both arms, he could take him in a fair fight. With only one arm, his chances looked grim.
But this wasn't about fighting.
It was about orgasms.
Dzharel tucked his gloves neatly into his belt, underneath the flap of his Romulan-made leather coat. They had to have begun now, pheromones had to be pouring into the room like a mist, but he shut his nostrils and ignored them. No one had ever bothered to inform the Bellatrix disciplinary system that their little games didn't work on Vulcans.
"What are you doing," the Klingon growled, when he reached down to the box with a long-limbed grace.
"Just a little something to make it easier on you." He had, in fact, noticed one item in the box that might not be completely unsanitary - handcuffs, forged in tritanium. "I wouldn't want you hurting your arm with too much movement, after all."
"What are you doing, what are you doing..." He sounded, for lack of a better word, panicked. It was so gratifying to see that expression twisting a fierce Klingon face.
"So repetitive. I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question, but I'll answer it anyway." He darted forward, his hand closing on the Klingon's wrist before he could even think about blinking. A casual observer might have noticed that he did not make contact with his skin, and his movements were swift and light, in distaste. Clink! went the handcuffs, neatly locking his injured and uninjured arms together.
"That's better. Now, if you'll excuse me - " He leaned back and kicked, right in the chest, and his unwilling Klingon friend sailed right back into the wall, smashing more of his fingers. " - I have better things to do."
He leaped forward and touched the center of his forehead - with the very tip of one finger, let's not get too carried away here - and twisted his mind in a practiced move that he'd been perfecting for years.
The Klingon gasped, shuddered, and came in his pants.
Simple, really. Unorthodox, perhaps, but Dzharel was a deft hand at psychosomatic suggestion, and the trademark Orion pheromones did half his work for him.
After that, a neck pinch left him unconscious, so he wouldn't have to deal with him while he triggered his own orgasm, in a much neater and less embarrassing way (though, on reflection, hadn't his mind games technically prevented embarrassment? Not that any Klingon would think so, of course, but that couldn't be helped).
Door lock bypassed, he strolled out of the cell while doing his pants back up, whistling quite cheerfully.
•
"You're shitting me."
Spock resisted the urge to SIGH massively. "No, Jim, I am not 'shitting' anything. You should have done the background reading. It could have been you in there." Nothing explained the surge of irritation he felt at Jim's stupidity. Or maybe it was just the thought that he may have had to sleep with a Klingon.
"You're telling me, that - as a disciplinary move - they lock you in a room and make you have sex?"
Remember those times, mentioned previously, when Spock was positive he hated Jim? This was one of them. Spock's lips tightened. "It is not a privilege, it's a punishment. Anything can happen, Jim, anything can happen as long as there are mutual orgasms, because that is the only way to unlock the doors."
"That is amazing." Clearly, the idea that anything could happen regularly involved death and dick-biting and torn-off limbs was not computing in Kirk's mind. "Can I get into a fight with a hot girl and bring her here?"
"There are better rooms for that, Jim." The pressure behind his eyes was mounting, he did NOT want to think about James Kirk sleeping with alien girls, though he was well aware it was an often enough occurrence. He just didn't want to know about it. Ever.
"Are there? I think I'm going to like this place..."
They were walking down the halls, now, and scrolling marquees on the doorplates bore the names of each of their occupants. As they passed, two Andorians came by who looked like they'd completely forgotten the reason for their quarrel, an Orion female passed by looking satisfied, and then, half a hallway down, a floating stretcher drifted by. It was difficult to determine what sort of being it had initially been, though the red blood and tan skin suggested human.
"...All right, maybe... not so amazing." Kirk felt his stomach turn, and he subconsciously pulled a little closer to his Vulcan companion.
Spock was trying to decide whether he should tell Kirk off for the proximity or welcome it, when he heard a sudden voice echo down the hall - painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
"Spock! Spock, is that you?"
The man running toward him was unmistakable. Though the dreadlocks were new, and his dress code was far too Romulan for his taste, and what were those things in his ears? - he was absolutely sure that this tall, angular Vulcan man was his close childhood friend.
He took two steps away from Jim, his throat tightening, and suddenly his mouth twitched, in a very definite smile. "Dzharel. Dif-tor heh smusma."
The man, Dzharel, skidded to a halt and held up his hand in the traditional spread-fingered salute. "Dif-tor heh smusma, Spock. You got here just in time."
•
"I can't believe they'd do that."
"What, leave without us?" McCoy rolled his eyes, and snorted. He was setting some instruments out over the desk in the hotel room. "Did you forget who we're dealin' with, here? The A-team. Bonnie and Clyde. Frank and Jesse James. You know what I mean?" He prepped a hypospray, grumbling under his breath. "James Bloody Hero-of-the-People Kirk."
Uhura sat on the bed, expelling air in a sharp sigh. "Spock wouldn't be that stupid."
"Well, I hate to break it to you, but Spock ain't the captain. Kirk is." There, that should do it. Kirk was like an elephant, you had to take a large dosage, double it, and then add five more chemicals to fool his body into making it last longer. It was like a medschool game. Only with more bitching.
McCoy realized Uhura had been quiet for a while, and if there was one thing he knew as a doctor, it was the silent sound of someone who wants to tell a secret, and is waiting for the right person to tell it to. Bones usually ended up being that person.
"Uhura. Something on your mind?"
She shrugged. "It's nothing, really."
"Yeah, bullshit. I get that all the time and it's never 'nothing' if you had to tell me so. So come on, spit it out." He grabbed a chair with his big hands and spun it around, so he could sit down and lean his chin on the backrest.
She looked, for a moment, as if she wasn't going to talk about it... but then her shoulders sagged, and her hands curled in her lap. "It's Spock. I never thought I'd be saying this, but... lately, I've been getting the feeling that he's too... clingy."
McCoy's eyebrows shot through the roof. "Wait, did I hear you right? Spock, the emotional neanderthal? The guy with a rubik's cube for a heart? Clingy?"
Uhura sighed with exasperation, choosing to ignore McCoy's insults. "All right, maybe that's not the word I was looking for. He's being... protective. Overprotective. And I don't like it."
"Ahhh." Now the Doctor's face softened, a look of almost melancholy came into his eyes. "You know, I think there's - as much as I hate to say it - a logical explanation for all this." Damn logic damn pointy-eared brat, he thought in a steady stream.
Uhura raised one eyebrow, her back straightening. "Is there?"
"Yeah." McCoy looked serious, maybe not as serious as the you-have-a-deadly-infection talk, but he wasn't kidding around. "Actually, it's something I thought you knew. It has to do with the way Vulcans treat their women - culturally speaking."
Uhura's eyes went imperceptibly wider. "So what you're saying is... but... he's never been like this before."
"Maybe he never had a reason to before. Maybe he didn't think you were serious. Maybe he didn't think he was serious, and that's a closer bet." He scowled down at her. "But like it or not, he's thinking serious now. And if that's the case, then it looks like his Vulcan heritage runs pretty deep."
She was quiet now, her hands folded together, her face smoothing to serenity. "I just can't win, can I."
"With Spock?" Bones cocked an eyebrow, and shook his head. "Not likely."
•
"What do you mean, just in time? Are you coming back to our rooms?"
Dzharel waved a gloved hand, cutting Spock off. "No, come on. I have a place, the least I could do is play host to you and..." he trailed off, pointedly raising an eyebrow in Kirk's direction.
Yeah, that's right. Just forget about little old me, over here, nothing to see here, guys, just James T. Kirk, just the captain of the fucking Enterprise. "James Kirk. 'Sup."
"T'hy'la t'du ha?" Dzharel snapped a quick question at Spock, lips quirking and grinning with his eyebrows.
"Rai!" Whatever the question was, it made Spock even shorter of temper, biting back his response almost before the question had finished. "He is my captain, and my friend. Jim, this is Dzharel." The 'Dzh' was pronounced with a 'j' sound, as in 'jackal'. Or 'Jesus, that is an attractive Vulcan'. "Shall we? Nyota and Doctor McCoy are undoubtedly waiting for us."
"Carry on, zhel-lan. You are a Commander now, are you?"
"Quite. However, I would appreciate if you kept that fact to yourself, around these parts." His eyes flickered sideways. "I do not wish to bring about our untimely demise." He cocked an eyebrow, spun on his heel, and strode right off down the hallway, leaving Dzharel and Kirk looking dubiously at each other.
"...Has he always had a stick up his ass?" Jim asked, jerking a thumb in Spock's direction.
"Oh, yes." The other Vulcan smiled, or at least - his mouth moved in an expression of humor, but Kirk couldn't help notice that it didn't reach his eyes. "He hasn't changed a bit."
•
"Damnit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not your babysitter!"
Predictably, the very first thing that McCoy had done when Kirk walked through the door was jab him hard in the neck, injecting him with a probably-illegal amount of olfactory paralyzers and detoxifiers. He dropped like a stone in a dead faint, and Spock stepped over his body without a second thought.
"Nyota," he murmured, inclining his head respectfully. "And Doctor McCoy. This is Dzharel. He's the one I came here to see."
The dreadlocked Vulcan raised his hand in a rather cheery version of the 'live long and prosper' salute. "The pleasure is mine."
"...And, to my great relief, he has offered to let us guest in his dwelling. I, for one, find this to be an amicable solution, as the decor here is... distasteful." He scowled at the aberration in the carpet pattern. He had been hoping it was only his imagination. "Doctor, are you staying?"
"I might as well. Jim's probably going to have an allergic reaction to everything I stick 'im with, but it's better than letting that pheromone get to him." He shook his head. "God knows he's bad enough already. Can you carry him?"
But Spock was already crouching down, scooping the prone body of the captain up in a fireman's carry. "I am quite anxious to speak with you," he was murmuring in an undertone to his friend. "There is much to discuss."
"Yeah, tell me about it." Both of their faces were deadly serious for a moment, and it was easy to understand what they were silently grieving for. "...Let's get back, and then we'll talk." Bones was already out the door, his instruments packed back in his medical bag, and Spock was quick to follow. Dzharel met Uhura's eyes, and held an arm out - gestured for her to go. "Ladies first."
She raised an eyebrow at him, and crossed her arms. "Well, I guess that means you, doesn't it?"
He laughed, and she was very nearly astonished. "Guess I walked right into that one." And he headed out the door, but not without cocking an eyebrow over his shoulder, and making sure said door didn't close before she could get out.
The courtesy was old-fashioned, but she had to say, she liked the way he laughed.
•
Dzharel's house was not a house, houses were for the rich and important, of which he was neither. It was, however, considerably large - spanning almost the entire 32nd floor of his building - and open, archways connecting rooms rather than doors and floor-to-ceiling windows lining the walls.
Spock made his way to a nearby couch and gently set Kirk down, arranging his hands over his chest so he wouldn't hurt himself on anything when he came to. McCoy was directed to the restroom, as he'd been bitching about having to pee half of the way there, and Dzharel bowed himself out graciously. "Make yourself at home. I need to be a good host and get supplies so I can feed you all." He cocked his head, waved a hand in the Vulcan salute, and slipped out the door.
Spock and Uhura were left staring at each other for a long minute.
"I apologize for making you feel -"
"It's all right," Uhura murmured, cutting him off. "Really. It's okay."
Another long silence. Then, Spock lifted an eyebrow. "Clearly, it is not."
She let out the breath that she'd been holding. "Spock, I can't help but notice the way you've been acting - and, frankly, I'm having trouble understanding why."
He folded his hands neatly behind his back, looking down at the floor. "Explain."
"...You didn't want me to come here at all." It was a statement of fact, and Spock could not refute that. "And you were upset when I just wanted to dance, have a little fun. I thought we made a deal, that this wasn't going to be a serious relationship. You told me that. You told me you couldn't give me all of yourself, and I was okay with that. Because frankly? I didn't want to either." Spock hadn't moved, and she stepped forward, trying to get a handle on her emotions so she could be strong, like him. "...What happened? And why?"
He was silent for a long moment. "Vulcan males are protective of their mates."
"I heard." She sighed, heavily. "Doctor McCoy told me. Is that how you see me? As your mate?"
"I am aware that the term carries negative connotations, but in my culture - "
"Yes." She cut him off, her mouth a hard, final line. "In your culture. And that's really what it comes down to, isn't it?"
Spock's eyes jumped up to meet hers, and her heart twisted painfully at the lost, naked emotion there.
"...We both have a different concept of what it means to be 'more than friends'." Her voice echoed his sadness, and she really, really wished that it didn't have to be this way. But if it was only going to get worse, she didn't... logically... see how it could work.
"But..."
"If it were just about sex, or keeping our relationship casual, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"
Logical. He swallowed, and nodded shortly, once.
The silence that stretched between them was as vast and empty as the millions of light-years of deep space.
"...I'm going to go outside for some fresh air," she muttered, and Spock knew that she wanted to compose herself, and grieve. He had the utmost Vulcan respect for her. It did not make it any easier.
"Please-" he stopped himself, just barely, as she paused with her hand on the doorknob. His eyes fluttered shut. "...I urge you, as an officer of Starfleet, to proceed with caution. You are a capable Lieutenant. I do not wish to see you hurt."
The words fell like lead, and she knew he couldn't help it, couldn't help the way he was. She'd spent so long dreaming about what it would be like for Spock to care about her - to truly care - but the reality was far, far different than anything she'd expected. "I can take care of myself. Uhura out."
When she had gone, he simply... sat down. Right there on the floor.
Silence settled in the air like a thick blanket.
"...I'm sorry," a rough, far-too-emotional voice came from the right, and had Spock been in a better frame of mind to care, he might have been surprised. Kirk's eyes were open, serious, and had a balance of sympathy and empathy that he wouldn't've thought possible from his brash, jackass of a captain.
"Don't be." Spock's voice was quiet, measured. It was nearly terrifying, how much he didn't sound heartbroken. "It was... logical."
Suddenly, from behind, there was a quiet sound - nearly inaudible, the pad of socked feet settling carefully on thick carpet. Though he heard it clearly, Spock did not move - not even with a delicate hand splayed out over his shoulder blade, and he felt the brush of air as whatever it was behind him settled into a crouch.
UnderstandingTrustSympathy. Missed you. Spock.
Spock's eyelids settled as the flow of thoughts and emotions washed over him, the mental equivalent of a calming bath. He murmured one syllable, a recognition, a name. "Gaan."
Kirk had watched the whole thing, he wasn't quite awake enough to be moving around yet, or else he'd've been up and in his face, demanding to know why he was getting so close to Spock. Even if Spock was capable of defending himself from strangers.
But, from the looks of it, he didn't seem like an enemy - and since he'd come from within the apartment, there really wasn't any reason for him not to be a friend.
So Kirk was paranoid. So what.
It was difficult to tell how tall he was - unlike Spock, who always stood completely straight, he held himself shyly - to the point of being almost concave. He had none of Spock's muscle definition but all of his Vulcan decorum, and his face was thin and sharp but much more childlike, his eyes looking even bigger than should have been possible.
And it was the eyes that the looker was drawn to. Kirk had never seen eyes like that - not on a Vulcan, anyway, and while the rest of the newcomer's body was definitively Vulcan, from the way he was dressed to the ubiquitous bowl haircut - his eyes were a light, pale gray.
Gaan, he'd said. All right. "Gaan?"
Both Vulcans looked up at him quickly, and the gray-eyed one tilted his head to the side, arching an eyebrow in what was clearly a question, asking for introduction.
"...I'm Jim. I'm Spock's-"
"Captain," Spock interrupted, and Jim couldn't help feeling put out by that. He had been going for 'friend'.
"Dif-tor heh smusma," Gaan murmured, in a slow, halting voice. He was turning green, and almost attempting to crouch even further to hide behind Spock's back.
Suddenly, there was a distinctive sonic whooshing sound, and the door to the bathroom opened. "God christ, remind me never to hold it for-" He stopped dead in the hallway, his hands on his belt buckle. "Who the hell are you?"
Gaan's already-huge eyes widened even more, and he gripped Spock's shoulder, hard.
Who is that? He makes loud noises.
"Doctor, this is Gaan."
Doctor? The word was accompanied by a rush of images that Spock didn't have the time to decipher, but it had a distinctive negative connotation. He quickly sent a soothing thought back in return.
"Jesus, how many more of you elvish bastards are lurking in the corners?" He stepped heavily down into the room, somehow managing a 'thunk' even with the thick carpeting.
Rude. "Gaan and Dzharel are alone."
Spock's head was starting to hurt from the prolonged contact and heavy mental transferral, but he knew how it was, knew that it was easier for Gaan to communicate this way, and the fact that he was willing to do it at all, even after so many years apart, spoke volumes for the trust he had for an old friend.
Always. Even that simple concept was tied to a thousand different images that Spock had no hope of understanding just yet, but for the briefest instant he felt warm.
"All right. Gaan, is it? I'm bad-tempered and foul-mouthed and my name is Leonard." He flopped down into an armchair.
Gaan found himself utterly agreeing with this, despite Spock's illogical mental echo of the contrary. He'd picked up, all in surface thoughts, that Dzharel was out shopping, Spock was sad and nervous and worried, and this 'Jim' and 'Leonard' were two of the worst sorts of humans possible - and yet, despite the facts, he cared for them both deeply.
He uncurled his fingers from Spock's shoulder, as the humans began to speak of the girl, the female-mate-potential-nolonger. Spock verbally expressed his concern of her whereabouts, and the unpleasant Doctor agreed almost instantly. Gaan recoiled from the verbal outburst. He did not like the doctor.
"...So what the hell were you doing in there for so long, anyway?" Kirk had had enough of everyone harping on Uhura, and he was damn certain that Spock didn't want to be thinking about her much, either. "That's a hell of a time to take a shit."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Well whatever you're thinking, Jim, it's not that. God knows what you'd get up to in there."
"I don't know about you, Bones, but when I go to a bathroom, I, you know, go to the bathroom. And it sure as hell doesn't take me fifteen minutes to do my business..."
Spock winced. "Can we not talk about excrement? Thank you."
"So, Gaan." Kirk changed topics at the speed of light, leaving Bones to roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the word 'whipped'. "You and Spock were friends, right? What was he like, when he was little?"
The room went quiet, and for a minute, Gaan looked like he didn't understand the question. Then, slowly, he unfolded from his crouch, delicately circumnavigated the unusual (though not unwelcome) obstacle of a Spock on the floor, and situated himself within easy range of all three of them. He was slightly loathe to include the Doctor in his storytelling, but as it was image-memory-projection only, he would not need to directly contact his mind. This was preferable.
"I will show you," he murmured, and the living room seemed to fade away.
→ Eleanor Rigby