Papers in the Roadside 4/5
Part 3/5 <<
--
Cursing is never a good way to start a Saturday morning, but Jim can’t help himself, standing in the huge hangar shivering in the near-breeze as he waits for his shipment of Betazoid spring wine to arrive. He arranged for this delivery two months ago, but now that it’s finally happening, Jim finds himself wishing to be in a number of different places rather than here. He’s cold and hungry and didn’t get nearly enough sleep, and, though his hangover has been chemically defused, he still feels kind of queasy.
When the comm message woke Jim, Spock was still out like a light, his breathing deep and barely audible, a frown creasing his features even as he slept. Jim left a loaded hypo and a glass of water waiting for him and snuck out of the house, telling himself that his unwillingness to face Spock just then had nothing to do with cowardice.
“Here you go, Mr. Kirk.” The customs officer pushes a trolley toward Jim. “You need to sign here.”
Jim frowns, making no move to accept the PADD. “Why are there two of them? I ordered three, and the shipping declaration states three.”
The officer stares into his PADD with an air of a skeptic seeking to receive revelation. “Looks like the other one was detained at Lunaport.”
“Why?”
“Says here containment breach.”
Jim presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He so doesn’t need this today.
“Okay, you know what, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says, irritation pitching his tone higher. “I paid pretty cash for that wine, and if your grease monkeys at Luna want a taste, they can come to my bar and damn well pay for it, too.”
“Mr. Kirk-”
“Oh, don’t bother. I’m just notifying you that I’m filing a complaint with the FTCA.”
The officer looks at him for what seems like the first time, but it seems like an automatic gesture. He shrugs. “Suit yourself. You’re within your rights.”
“Damn straight,” Jim mutters, taking the PADD and scribbling furiously.
It’s no good. He wants to yell at the guy just to make himself feel a little better, but manages to hold back. There’s no point, and he’ll only feel like a jackass in the end. A couple of years ago, Jim would probably be throwing punches left and right by now, because complaints are for pussies and he has to defend what’s his. He doesn’t own this much to let someone just take it.
Jim still doesn’t trust the system, but his twice-monthly lunches with Gary seem to have finally corrupted him into thinking like a businessman, not a wild child.
He files the complaint competently, including a small but useful clause Gary told him about, and gives the PADD back to the customs officer who’s now staring at him with an air of resigned disgust.
Jim flashes him a grin. “It’s been a pleasure.”
His dramatic exit is somewhat ruined by the heavy trolley that refuses to move faster than a very slow turtle. He feels exhausted by the time he reaches the bar, and it’s hard to reconcile with the fact that it’s still before midday.
Jim walks in to the image of Chekov and Sulu hunched over a Go board. Chekov is winning, by the looks of it, mostly because Sulu is too busy staring at him. Shaking his head, Jim thinks that Chekov is probably the only person Jim knows who isn’t the tiniest bit unnerved by Sulu turning on his creepy act full force.
“Jim!” Chekov jumps to his feet, a blinding grin lighting up his face. “You need help with those?”
“Thanks,” Jim pants, stashing the box he’s carrying behind the bar, his back loudly protesting the abuse. “There are about a dozen more in the car, so you’d better wait for Pablo to show up-”
“Hikaru will help,” Chekov assures him brightly. “We got it, Jim.”
Sulu nods as he walks past Jim. “You look like you slept in a dumpster, Kirk.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Jim glances around as the soft sound of the drums slides through his muddy perception filter and sees Gaila on her usual dance spot. She’s wearing tights and a tank top and is actually stretching, and Jim frowns slightly in confusion as he walks toward her.
“Hi?”
“Oh, Jimmy, you’re back.” Gaila tunes the music down and slides onto her feet fluidly.
“Yeah. I thought we were done with dance nights?”
“Oh. Um, yes. About that.” Gaila looks down at her feet for a moment. “Do you think we could maybe keep them? Like, make every Saturday a show night? And also, I’d like to start teaching a class in the mornings. A couple of times a week, maybe?”
Jim stares at her. “You want to be giving dance lessons? But I thought you hated it.”
Gaila bites her lip. “Not the dance thing. I always loved it, I just... Look, I’m my own woman now, right? I shouldn’t be ashamed of admitting that I like things that made me uncomfortable in the past.”
She says it proudly, with conviction of a straight-A student, and Jim can’t help a grin.
“Have you been watching Dr. Ruth Revisited again?”
She elbows him in the ribs expertly. “No, I just - well, it’s something Nyota said, and I-”
“Nyota Uhura?”
“Yes. Jim, it’s just - she’s right. I love my body, and I love the dance, and honestly, your Earth women are hopeless - they know nothing about how their bodies work, and it’s so sad, Jimmy. They won’t even use their own heritage, and I mean, some of that yoga is downright amazing. Every girl should be able to make her body sing; this ignorance is scary. I like teaching them, showing them, like I showed Nyota, and-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it,” Jim begs hastily. It’s too early in the day for him to be contemplating the image of Gaila showing Nyota Uhura how her body works. “You can teach whatever classes you want, Gaila, as long as it makes you happy.”
She beams at him. “Thanks, Jimmy! You’re the best.” She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “You better stock up on morning drinks; bending and stretching girls is serious exertion.”
“I better hire a bouncer,” Jim says dryly. “Or I’ll have a riot on my hands.”
Gaila smirks. “That, too. Hey, good for business, right?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Good for you, sweetheart.” She sticks her tongue out at him and winks. “Just leave a note when you’ll run off with a tantric yoga instructor or something, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” She giggles. “You’ll always be my wun true wuv.”
“You insolent little-”
“Speaking of which, Spock called.”
Instantly, Jim’s gut begins to churn. “Really?” he grits out, blushing. “He called the bar?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t he just call me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jimmy. Maybe because you ran away while he was sleeping like you couldn’t stay in the same room with him?”
Jim’s mouth falls open. “Spock said that?”
Gaila huffs indignantly. “No; he just wanted to know if you were okay. The brilliant deduction was all my doing.”
“I didn’t run,” Jim clarifies. “It wasn’t like that, anyway, we didn’t-”
“Have sex? Yeah, no kidding, I would have smelled that.”
“Okay, you know what? Enough with the smelling thing. I take, like, three showers a day; what’s this even about?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Jimmy. You really think I wouldn’t know when you had sex?” Gaila chuckles. “Sweetie, I’ve seen you on a morning after. In fact, I watched you stumble through almost every morning after you’ve had in the last - what, ten years? I’m not as blind as most humans are, so believe me when I tell you that I know when you get some action. Most times, I could even tell how many times and in which positions and-”
“Okay, enough, point made!” Jim interrupts hastily, his face burning. “Get yourself some tact, Gaila.”
“From whom?” she retorts acidly. “Maybe if Spock sticks around, I finally get a decent role model.” Noticing his expression, though, she switches into a concerned mode instantly. “What happened? Did you fight?”
“No.” Jim sighs. “We got pretty smashed, and he - told me stuff. About himself, his family.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you upset about it? I thought you wanted him to open up.”
“Well, yes. It’s just - he sort of - oh, fuck it.” Jim grimaces. “He trusts me, Gaila. Understand? Trusts me - me, of all people. He looks at me like he sees someone else there. Like I’m not me, not really me. Like I’m someone better. I don’t-” He clears his throat. “I don’t know how to be that person he thinks he sees.”
Gaila watches him quietly for a moment. Jim refuses to meet her eyes. Finally being able to put his turmoil into words doesn’t make it the tiniest bit better. So much for sharing and caring.
“You’re in love with him.” Gaila says it softly, out of the blue.
“What?” Jim’s head snaps up. “No. Gaila, no. I mean, sure, it’s a bad crush, probably the worst ever, but...”
He trails off when she doesn’t contradict him. Eventually, he sighs. “How do you know? It’s not the sex thing, you can’t ‘smell’ it or whatever.”
“I can, actually,” she tells him with a fleeting smile. “But I don’t have to. Jim, do you want to sleep with him?”
Jim stares. “Duh. Have you seen him?”
“Have you slept with him? Or at least tried to?”
Jim stares some more, and doesn’t reply.
“That’s how I know,” Gaila says, brushing a hand over his shoulder.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Jim mumbles grudgingly.
It does, though, and he knows it. Judging by the sympathetic look on Gaila’s face, she knows it, too.
--
Jim doesn’t go back to see Spock that day and doesn’t work up the nerve to call him. He tries to, several times, but always snaps his comm closed before it can make the connection.
Spock is tired or busy, Jim tells himself. If he wasn’t, he would have showed up or called. He never needed an express invitation before.
He’s relieved, at first, when a day goes by and Spock doesn’t contact him. Relieved when it’s two days, but by the end of the third, Jim is slightly irritated - even hurt.
Okay, so maybe he is freaking out a little bit, but it’s not like he doesn’t have a good reason. Spock’s the smart one, isn’t he? He should have figured it out and helped Jim through it; should have been there for Jim at his time of need, not gone hiding in his basement like he’s afraid for his virtue. Hasn’t Jim proved to him that he’s trustworthy?
Spock is just being stubborn and ridiculous and even cruel, which is really uncalled for. It’s not Jim’s fault he fell for Spock, after all; it’s not like Jim chose this.
The tiny voice of reason that tries to remind Jim that Spock might have no idea about what’s going on in Jim’s head is surprisingly easy to ignore.
After all, didn’t Gaila see through his bullshit at once? Spock has like a gazillion degrees in everything; he really shouldn’t be pulling the dumb act. The only reason for him to do so is that he really doesn’t want Jim like that, which is fine and totally cool - his right and everything - but he should have just said so. It’s not like Jim would have thrown a temper tantrum. He knows how to deal with rejection, more so than most people.
Jim wakes up on day four actually angry with Spock and resigned to put all this nonsense behind him. Clearly, Spock considers himself to be too good for Jim, and for once they’re in agreement. Jim would do well to remember that.
Except… he glares at the guy who sits on Spock’s favorite barstool until the guy stalks away. It’s an indulgence, of course, but Jim is willing to cut himself a little slack. He’s dealing with it, even if they are baby steps.
“Jim, wake up.” Gaila shakes him awake unceremoniously barely an hour after Jim fell into his bed.
“S’up?” Jim pushes out around his still sleeping tongue.
“It’s Chekov,” Gaila says urgently. “I think he’s sick.”
Jim sits up on his bed abruptly, sleep evaporating rapidly from his system. “Sick how?”
“I don’t know; he stayed to help me close the tabs, but then he just collapsed and he’s not coming around.”
Jim throws the covers off and grabs his jeans. “Did you call McCoy?”
“Yes, he’s on his way. Jim, what do you think-”
“I don’t know,” Jim interrupts, dashing out of the room with Gaila on his heels.
He busts into the bar in time to hear the mad pounding at the front door.
“Open this damn thing before I wake the neighbors!” Bones’s voice comes through muffled but impressively annoyed.
Jim keys the door open. “Stop yelling, Bones. Jesus.”
McCoy barely looks at him. “Where is he?”
“Here, Leonard,” Gaila calls from where she’s sitting on her parquet dance floor, cradling Chekov’s head in her lap. “He feels like he’s burning up.”
Kneeling beside Chekov’s prone form, McCoy quickly pulls out his scanner, muttering darkly and scowling hard enough to make the devil shudder.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gaila asks anxiously.
“Velotian fever; from the looks of it, it’s progressed pretty fast, too.” McCoy snaps the scanner shut and leans in to pull up Chekov’s eyelid. “Jim, we need to get him to the hospital right now.”
Jim runs for the door. “I’ll get the car.”
--
Waiting has never been one of Jim’s strong suits. He paces the hospital hall restlessly in stark contrast to Gaila, who’s leaning against the wall, immobile and silent.
“Jim, stop it, you’ll wear yourself out,” she says for the fifth time.
“He didn’t look sick.” Jim frowns. “Did he? Is it just me - I mean, was he sick and I didn’t even notice?”
“You couldn’t have,” Christine replies, walking over toward them with two cups of coffee in her hands. Jim barely recognizes her in white scrubs and no makeup. “This virus could lie dormant for days, even months, until something triggers it, and then things start happening really fast. It’s a good thing you got him here so quickly.”
“Yeah.” Jim sighs, cradling the paper cup in his hands. “I just feel like I should have done something. Looked after him better, you know?”
Christine fixes her pale blue eyes on him with such quiet, utterly non-judging acceptance that Jim is forcibly reminded once more why she makes as good a barmaid as she is a nurse.
“Do you know how to contact his family?” she asks softly. “He only lists you and Sulu as his emergency contacts.”
Jim shakes his head. “Even if I did, I don’t think he’d want me to. They pretty much kicked him out when he refused to tamper with their tax declarations or something.”
Christine sighs. “He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah.” The too-strong hospital coffee burns down Jim’s throat. He takes another huge gulp anyway. “He is.”
Bones finally comes to find them three hours later, looking like one of the undead. “He’s going to be fine, Jim,” he says, words slurring slightly. Even through the haze of relief, Jim can see that Bones looks exhausted. “We pumped him up with antiviral meds, and Velotian fever makes for some nasty stuff, so he’s going to be sick as a dog for a few days, but he’s going to be fine. Shouldn’t develop any complications.”
“Bones.” Jim grabs his hand in both his own. “Oh, thank God. Bones, man, I owe you one.”
“Stop it, Jim.” McCoy shakes him off irritably. “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake; what are you thanking me for?”
“Just being awesome, I guess.” Jim tries to pull him into a hug, but Bones shoves him off.
“Gaila, take him home and make him get some sleep, for all our sakes,” Bones grumbles darkly. “He’s drunk on insomnia.”
“Look who’s talking,” Jim retorts. Bones glares, and Jim throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, we’re leaving. When can we come to visit?”
“Not before tomorrow evening, probably.” McCoy frowns. “And Jim? It won’t be pretty.”
“We understand, Leonard,” Gaila says, tugging at Jim’s sleeve and smiling at McCoy. “Thank you for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah, get out of here,” Bones mutters, but some color creeps back into his cheeks, and he doesn’t tell Gaila off. “I’ll be seeing you lot around, I guess.”
Jim flashes him a grin. “Count on it.”
Bones rolls his eyes.
Chekov looks way too young and scared shitless when Jim comes to check on him for the first time. He’s also pathetically grateful for seeing a familiar face and desperately fighting his clinginess that stems from his utter terror of medical procedures as well as the general vulnerability of a sick person. Jim tells Gaila to take as much time of as she wants to stay with the poor kid, and he himself stops by every other night, because of course this thing would happen when Sulu is off planet pursuing a lead.
With all the excitement, thoughts of Spock should have been driven firmly out of Jim’s mind, but, of course, he isn’t so lucky. He still glares at anyone who takes Spock’s spot at the bar, but with each passing day, there’s less anger and more guilt in Jim’s reaction. He’s beginning to think that he really screwed up this time.
Which is why when he comes down to the bar one morning to find Gaila talking to Spock quietly, Jim is so happy to see him that it literally takes his breath away.
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer, a helpless grin on his face.
Spock turns to look at him, and wow - Jim has never seen him so closed off and unapproachable.
“Good morning, Jim,” Spock says coolly. “I trust you are well?”
“Fine,” Jim breathes, feeling his grin falter as his stomach turns slowly to lead. “What about you? Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
“My condition has been acceptable,” Spock replies. He looks at Jim for a moment longer as if daring him to say something else, but Jim is suddenly too intimidated to rise to the challenge. Spock turns back to Gaila. “I appreciate your assistance,” he says softly. “I will not keep you any longer.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Jim blurts out. “But you’ve only just come here. Don’t you want a - a drink or something?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow at him. “No, Jim - please do not concern yourself. I only stopped by to deliver this book to Gaila. Nyota informed me of Pavel’s misfortune, and since he expressed an interest to this author in the past, I inferred that he might benefit from having it while he is indisposed.”
It only takes Jim a second to get to the meaning behind Spock’s polite words.
Don’t bother; I didn’t come here for you.
“So, um. You - you don’t want to hang out anymore?” It sounds childish and clingy to his own ears, but Jim can’t help it. He’s probably a masochist, but he needs to hear it from Spock.
Spock’s eyebrow climbs higher up. “I was under the impression that it was you who did not wish to trouble yourself with my company.”
“What?” Jim stares. “Where’d you get that from? I never-”
“Jim.” Spock speaks over him, which is uncharacteristic enough. But then his expression softens, and somehow, that’s so much worse. “There is no need for this. I do not blame you. You are not the first person to realize that any association with me is more complicated than it is worth. You have enough burdens on your shoulders; I never meant to add to them. I understand.”
It takes a moment for Spock’s words to sink in, but when they do, Jim wants the floor to part and swallow him. He has never felt more of an asshole in his entire life.
“Spock, no! That’s not it at all!” Jim steps closer instinctively, words spilling from his lips faster than he can think them through. “I just - it’s not like that! That first day after, it was just crazy, and then something else came up, and I had a hard time dealing with it, and then Chekov happened, and I kind of lost track of days, but that’s it, I swear!”
He sucks in a breath hurriedly. “You’re not more complicated than you’re worth. I mean, you are complicated, but in a good way, all the good ways! I’m so sorry you thought - I mean, what else could you, obviously, but that’s not what I - God, man, I’m so sorry I was such an asshole!”
“Jim,” Spock tries to interrupt. “Calm yourself; I do not-”
“Please stay! Please? Let me make it up to you. We’ll go out for dinner or something, and I won’t criticize your writing, and I’ll get rid of that gargoyle statuette that you hate, and I’ll-”
“Jim.” Spock raises his voice slightly, which finally has the desired effect. “I appreciate the offer, but I cannot stay.”
Jim swallows. “…Oh. Okay.”
“I have an appointment at the editorial office,” Spock explains. “It is likely to last several hours.”
Jim nods numbly. Spock looks at him almost timidly.
“But I could - come back after it’s over,” he suggests tentatively. “If that is convenient to you-”
“Yes!” Jim exclaims over him, relief making him high. “Of course it’s convenient! Any time you like, Spock, just stop by, I’ll - I’ll be here.”
Spock holds his eyes for a long moment, but whatever it is he sees seems to convince him of Jim’s sincerity. He inclines his head in a reserved nod. “Very well, then. I will see you later, Jim. Gaila.”
“Bye, Spock.” Gaila waves at him.
Spock glances at Jim once more before walking out.
“Don’t say it,” Jim mutters the moment the door closes behind Spock.
“Fat chance,” Gaila snaps. “You are a class-A moron, Jim.”
“I know,” he groans. “I screwed up. I didn’t realize he’d take it that way.”
“How else was he supposed to take it? I mean, he spills his guts to you - which, according to Ny, he doesn’t do all that often, if ever - and you disappear the next day and don’t return his calls!”
“I know, Gaila, okay? Please, can we not talk about this? I feel terrible; do you want it in writing?”
Her eyes flash menacingly, and she hisses like an angry cat before spinning on her heel and storming off. Jim presses his hand over his eyes and contemplates introducing his head to the nearest flat surface. Repeatedly. It’s the most attractive idea he’s had in days.
Four hours later, Spock calls to say that the meeting is going to last longer than expected, and then Spock has another appointment he can’t cancel. Jim knows he deserves this, so he tries not to show his disappointment.
But when Spock asks cautiously if maybe Jim would like to come by his place for dinner instead, Jim is incapable of containing his emotions, and Spock is lucky there’s a screen between them.
--
Spock’s door has obviously been taught to recognize Jim, which adds another couple of miles to his guilt trip. Tugging at his collar nervously, Jim walks in.
He finds Spock in the kitchen, bewitching a wok. Spock holds a spatula in his hand like a wand, directing the clouds of steam rising from the heated surface like an orchestra conductor guiding his ensemble. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, and his hair looks like he showered and forgot to comb it, mutinous strands falling into his eyes.
He looks back at Jim over his shoulder, and Jim can’t help a grin that is probably absolutely ridiculous.
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Something you find amusing?”
“Yes,” Jim admits unrepentantly. He sets the bottle he brought on the counter. “You need a hand?”
“No,” Spock says, shuffling the contents of the wok expertly. “It is almost ready.”
Jim shrugs. “I’m not that much of a cook anyway.”
“Neither am I,” Spock admits, balancing out the temperature. “I had basic training, as all Vulcan children do, but I never really cooked until I came to Earth, and even then, it was a desperate measure.”
“How so?”
“Replicator food seems like a travesty when one lives planetside,” Spock says. His lips stretch into a fond smile. “And my mother was a terrible cook.”
Jim is surprised into a chuckle.
They eat in the kitchen and not in the dreadful dining room, for which Jim is very grateful. The conversation flows easily as Spock tells Jim about his godawful - Spock uses another word, but the sentiment is there - meeting at the office, for which he still isn’t sure why his presence was required. They talk about Chekov, then drift to the recent political conundrum, and end up with Jim trying to explain to Spock the merits of spaceball.
It feels so familiar and effortless that Jim is privately wondering how he could possibly have thought that anything would change between him and Spock if Jim’s true feelings were revealed. It seems impossible to believe that Spock would judge Jim or hate him when confronted with the image of Spock sitting across from him on a tall stool, peering at Jim above his steepled fingers, seeming relaxed and open and warm and so clearly enjoying himself.
They take the rest of the wine to the front porch, sitting on the steps and watching the slow fall of night.
Maybe it’s the different setting or just the natural evolution of things, but they lapse into silences more often. Spock seems pensive and a little wistful, and Jim can’t help wanting to be closer to him, to chase away whatever troubles ail him. Jim presses his shoulder against Spock’s, happy when Spock doesn’t move away.
“Hey,” Jim says softly. “You okay? You seem like a million miles away.”
Spock shifts slightly, as if pulling himself out of some kind of darker realm. He stares into his nearly empty glass. Jim has always found spring wine a bit too sweet for his taste, but Spock seems to like it.
“I was thinking about you, Jim.”
Jim feels his heart stutter. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Spock says simply. “Most people in your circumstances would have given up. Complaining that life is unfair, they would have lost themselves to one kind of destructive addiction or another. I have seen it happen in less dire situations than yours. Yet, you never gave up. More than that, you have made a life helping others in ways that most people can’t even come close to.”
Jim shifts uncomfortably. “Spock, I’m going to stop you right there, okay? You don’t really know me - I mean, really know me. I’m not some kind of hero just because I refused to lie down and think of England or whatever. I might not be a bad guy, but I’m definitely not something special.”
Spock sets his glass aside and looks at Jim calmly. “I did not say you were a hero, Jim. But through my profession, I met hundreds of people on dozens of worlds. And I have never met one like you.”
Jim closes his eyes, an unknown heat rising within him like a choking wave. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious, Jim. I only wish - I only wish I had some of your bravery to make something worthy of my life.”
Jim’s eyes snap wide open. “What are you talking about?”
Spock purses his lips, glancing at the shimmering ball of Venus hovering above the building across the street.
“I hide behind my words, Jim. Instead of doing something, instead of acting, I-”
“You tell people the truth. That’s not nothing, Spock; it’s a big deal.”
“It is not enough. On Belta-”
Jim draws a breath in sharply.
“It was a tragedy, but at least I was useful. The life I live now is one of self-indulgence.”
“Stop it,” Jim demands sharply, his fingers digging into Spock’s shoulder. “Stop it right now.”
Spock stares at him warily, but Jim is too far-gone to halt midway.
“You are talented, smart, and caring, and you don’t have a selfish bone in your body,” Jim says fiercely. “Your writing isn’t some kind of smokescreen - it affects people! Remember, you wrote about the guy who couldn’t make one decision - how many of us have been there? All those pieces about projects, aspirations, dreams - failed or successful, doesn’t matter - they help us carry on, Spock. They help us not give up!”
Jim springs to his feet, unable to remain still. He whirls on Spock almost accusingly.
“Do you want to know what’s wrong with this goddamn world? We’re all alone, Spock. Each and every one of us is alone, rattling in our nutshells, and thinking we can hide from the truth behind the noise. You - you’re the one who cracks us, who makes us come out, and you are the one brave enough to look at it the way it is, without the comfort of illusions. And then you take our hands and lead us into it, and it’s scary as fuck, but you show us that we can do it - and we do! So don’t you ever, ever call yourself useless!”
Spock’s mouth is open with shock he doesn’t bother to control as he stares at Jim in undiluted astonishment. Jim glares back, daring him to protest.
“Jim,” Spock utters breathlessly, sliding up to his feet. “Jim, I don’t-”
Jim growls in anger and frustration, and his body reacts faster than his brain can come down from the frenzied high.
He pushes Spock back against the wooden column of the porch, and kisses him.
It’s angry and desperate and Spock is unresponsive under him, but Jim doesn’t care just then. He kisses Spock vehemently, reading him the riot act by means of his tongue and teeth, seizing his probably only chance to set things right. He presses on until he runs out of air, and then some more after that, and then he pants, breathless, against Spock’s neck, his indignation melting rapidly under the onslaught of dread.
Spock moves, finally, sliding his hands up to cup Jim’s face and leaning back slightly to look into his eyes.
Slowly, torturously, keeping eye contact determinedly, he leans forward and brushes his lips over Jim’s once, twice, an exploratory, questioning touch, eyes open wide and watching.
Jim trembles, shivers all over, chasing Spock’s touch instinctively, unable to stop.
Spock closes his eyes then and goes in for a real kiss, gentle yet undeniably passionate, a kiss Jim can’t help but respond to. He slides his arms around Spock, pulling him close, holding on to him frantically, because his head is spinning and he feels like he’s falling, waiting for the inevitable punchline of a hit, and he doesn’t want it to come.
Spock’s fingers dive into Jim’s hair, sifting through it almost reverently, as his other hand caresses Jim’s neck, a feather-light touch that threatens to undo him. Jim moans dully when Spock nips at his bottom lip, tightening his hold on Spock reflexively, because Jim wants him, all of him, wants to come closer than humanly possible, wants to show him every bit of how he makes Jim feel.
They separate reluctantly, unable to fully pull away, stealing short kisses pressed to the corner of a mouth, the curve of a chin, the line of a jaw. Finally, they still, breathing each other in, hands and arms holding on tight and not straying to wander, as if they are both afraid of losing connection.
“I, um... I know you’re tired,” Jim lets out breathlessly in the end. “But would you mind terribly if I stay? I’ll be a perfect gentleman, promise. I just - I just want to stay with you tonight. Please.”
Spock sighs softly and pulls away just enough to be able to see Jim’s face.
“Jim, I could not let you go even if you asked me to,” he says, a somewhat incredulous, shaky smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank God,” Jim breathes, leaning in for another kiss. “Oh, thank God.”
They leave the glasses forgotten at the foot of the stairs.
--
Jim wakes up when the night is still on the rise and goes instantly into full alert mode, his heart pounding with a rush of adrenaline, before he remembers why he’s in an unfamiliar place. He turns his head then, almost warily, and there is Spock lying on the bed beside him, his breathing deep and untroubled. Jim looks at him, trying to slow his racing pulse down.
Spock is a study in contrasts. He’s lying on his back, head tilted slightly to one side, and he’s probably hot because he pushed the covers all the way down to his hips. He’s not wearing a t-shirt, and Jim’s eyes feast at the planes and angles of Spock’s chest and shoulders, at the disturbingly elegant lines of his stomach that seems to be arching in not out, at the smoothly carved peak of a hipbone visible on his right side. His hair is covering half his face, drawing attention to his lips, sculpted to perfection, and to the stubborn, uncompromising line of his jaw stopping the long rise of his neck before it lifts his head any higher.
Moonlight falling from the tall window makes Spock’s pale skin look pearly, reflecting the light but keeping part of it, like a greedy mirror. Stretched out like that, Spock looks vulnerable, almost fragile, but the persistent whisper of muscles beneath his skin and the swift suppleness of his sleeping body project the aura of tightly coiled power around him, threatening and thrilling.
He isn’t moving, but he isn’t really still, either. Watching him is like watching a piece of music that has somehow attained a corporeal form. It’s the closest definition Jim can come up with, and he’s never been one for poetry, but this just feels like the truth.
Jim moves closer. He promised to be a gentleman, but this is too much to ask. His thoughts aren’t even all that sordid; he doesn’t know what they are, except that he has never felt so enchanted by anyone in his life, and never even thought it was possible.
He could look at Spock for hours like this, but there’s nothing sacred about it, because he also wants to touch. To besmirch everything that is clean and perfect about this body; to make it break its ideal lines; to ruin its quiet with the dirtiest sounds Earth has ever heard; to make it plead with every cell and every pore; to torture it so sweetly it would fall apart screaming for more, and then reassemble it back together, inch by inch, with his hands and lips and teeth, and mark it as his.
Jim leans over, bracing himself on his arms, bending low and watching as the muscles of Spock’s stomach contract under his breath. Jim lets his mouth hover over the exposed skin, anticipation threatening to destroy him, before finally pressing his lips just above Spock’s navel and moving up, all feather-light kisses and gentle nips.
Spock shivers under him, letting out a small sigh, his head lolling on the pillow. Jim grins and nuzzles the hair on Spock’s chest, memorizing the smell, as he gently pins Spock to the bed with his weight.
Spock shifts underneath him more distinctly now, and okay, yeah, there’s been enough teasing. He closes his lips over one small, defiant nipple and sucks gently, worrying the bud with his teeth.
Spock flinches, tensing instantly, and then his arms slide around Jim, fingers carding through Jim’s hair, and he comes to full wakefulness instantly with a soft sigh of Jim’s name on his lips.
Jim moves to cover him fully now, hips to shoulders, nibbling at the exposed column of Spock’s throat, reveling in the way Spock’s hands glide down his back, scratching lightly, smart fingers mapping the knobs of his spine. Jim grinds down slowly, experimentally, and yeah, Spock’s awake all right, the layers of fabric between them doing nothing to conceal it.
Jim thrusts down more forcefully now, laving the shell of Spock’s ear with his tongue and mouthing at his jaw, hands roaming with would-be accidental precision. Spock bucks up and moans softly, clearly torn between squirming away and giving Jim better access. Jim grins, pressing their groins together neatly and stilling.
“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers breathlessly, nibbling at Spock’s bottom lip, ignoring the little sighs of frustration coming from the man beneath him. “Like me holding you down, like me lying on top of you, like me making you-”
Spock is fast, scarily fast, sealing Jim’s lips with his own as his thighs lock around Jim’s hips and Spock rolls them over, swift and efficient, pressing Jim down and kissing him, so, so dirty and devastating and sucking the living breath out of Jim while his tongue draws complicated patterns on the roof of Jim’s mouth. A wave of heat carries Jim higher and higher, and he’s thrusting against Spock instinctively, greedy hands attacking everything within reach.
“I like to be held down,” Spock admits without a hint of embarrassment, sucking what would be an impressive bruise into Jim’s neck. “By someone who knows what to do with me when they do.”
It’s so clearly a challenge that Jim laughs, surprised and delighted, before flipping them back over again and straddling Spock’s hips. Spock lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and Jim grins wolfishly above him, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and tugging it off slowly.
He can feel Spock’s eyes on him, setting every inch of his skin on fire, and Jim nearly chokes when Spock’s gaze crawls up to his neck. Intent on giving a show, Jim drops his head back, dragging the t-shirt over the column of his throat slowly, and is rewarded by a low moan from Spock, who cants his hips up uncontrollably, just once - but it’s enough.
“Like what you see?” Jim teases, more than a little breathless.
Spock breathes an unashamed “Yes” as he half-rises on the bed to grab Jim, eyes blown wide into a smoldering black.
Jim pushes Spock back down, smirking, but it takes all his willpower to go on with the act. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, then lifts himself to his knees and pushes down his boxer-briefs, exposing himself fully. He keeps his gaze on Spock and is close to hyperventilating when a ragged, desperate gasp is torn from Spock’s lips, and his eyes come alight with such powerful longing that Jim shudders, knowing that he would be swept over the moment he cuts Spock loose.
Jim pushes his underwear off and bends low, nuzzling at Spock’s groin. Spock keeps very still as Jim palms him carefully through his pajama pants, mapping the territory, but when Jim licks him, sucking lightly right through the thin silk, Spock swears loudly in a language Jim doesn’t recognize.
Jim grins, giving him more of the same, before finally sliding his hands under the waistband, his fingers greedy on the deliciously firm curves of Spock’s ass that Jim sincerely hopes Spock would let him devour at some point. He pulls Spock’s pants down and off with more-than-willing cooperation and stills for a moment, taking all of Spock in.
Most people, save for professional models, are more than a little squeamish when completely naked. There is always some inherent ridicule to this state, and more than a little vulnerability.
Spock is neither squeamish nor vulnerable as he lies there, allowing Jim to look his fill. His breathing is out of rhythm, but otherwise, he’s quiet. Not proud, even though he clearly should be, but confident having all of his defensive layers stripped. ‘This is what I am,’ he seems to be saying, and Jim can’t help releasing a low, guttural groan.
He looks and looks at the miles of smooth pale skin and muscles, at Spock’s lips, flushed so dark they seem black; at his cock, lying full and heavy against his stomach; at the trembling flutter of pulse at the side of his neck; at the graceful arc of his sternum.
It hurts Jim, physically hurts him to look, and for a frightening moment, it feels like there’s no air to breathe, none at all to sustain his straining lungs. His heart is breaking, and Jim has never thought it could happen literally.
“Jim,” Spock murmurs, and sits up.
Jim lets him. Torn between the most carnal of desires and almost reverent awe, he’s motionless and helpless; he can’t look anymore, and he can’t look away.
“Jim,” Spock whispers, sliding his hands over Jim’s tense shoulders and pulling him closer. “Jim.”
Spock kisses him, slow, deep, and gentle, passion tamed as he holds Jim tighter, chest to chest as his fingers drift through Jim’s hair and down his spine, soothing and curious. Spock’s kiss is steadfast and languid, gaining in intensity, breaking whatever spell Jim’s been under with uncompromising determination.
‘Beautiful,’ Jim hears whispered under his skull. ‘So beautiful. Mine.’
Jim breaks then, lunges at Spock then, knocking him back onto the bed, kissing and stroking every bit of him, licking and nibbling and scratching, having no agenda, no plan, except for getting everything, every inch, every sound, every instinctive, aborted motion.
When he finally takes Spock into his mouth, it’s glorious. Spock’s hips are glued to the bed, but his upper body arches up, eloquent in its response, and Jim has to bite down the head-spinning sense of triumph.
Spock tastes like bitter almonds, and Jim treats himself to it, sucking lightly on the head and tonguing the slit. Spock’s breaths start to come in short, uncontrolled puffs of air as his hands curl into the sheets, white-knuckled and brutal, and Jim tortures him some more for it before taking in as much of him as he can.
He wraps his hand around the base of Spock’s cock, squeezing and pulling experimentally, as he hollows his cheeks and lets his tongue be as dirty as it knows how. It thrills Jim like burning when he feels the muscles of Spock’s inner thighs tremble with tension, sees Spock’s stomach flutter, his head thrashing wildly on the pillow, his mouth torn in a permanent growl as he bites his lower lip mercilessly.
Jim has never enjoyed doing this that much in his life, and it takes him a while to register Spock’s urgent warnings of, “Jim, Jim, Jim.”
He can feel it, too, and regretfully releases Spock with a wet sound that nearly makes him come there and then. Jim glances up to meet a desperate, borderline insane look.
“What do you want, Spock?” he pushes out hoarsely, licking his lips. “Anything you want.”
Spock stares at him a moment longer, and then slowly, holding his body tightly as if a brisk motion will break it, rolls onto his stomach, spreading his legs, and glances at Jim over his shoulder.
“Okay.” Jim swallows, his heart beating madly all over the place and his hands shaking. “Okay.”
He lowers himself on top of Spock carefully, both trembling with anticipation and need. Jim bites the curve of Spock’s neck lightly, and then rubs his face against the hollow between Spock’s shoulder blades, licking off the bitter, thin sheen of sweat.
Spock is ringing with tension under him, and Jim looks around, a question ready on his lips when he spots a jar of massage oil on the nightstand. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in months, and Jim feels heartbroken because Spock should never be alone, ever, and selfishly elated at the same time, because ‘not alone’ should mean with Jim, only with Jim.
He kisses down Spock’s spine as his hands busily part Spock’s cheeks and he slides one slick thumb in, followed shortly by his other. Spock lets out a choked “Jim,” and Jim licks at his neck, soothing and begging wordlessly to hold on for a little longer. Spock moans almost mournfully, and there’s only so much of this Jim can take.
The moment he pushes in, Spock tenses, and Jim doesn’t know how he knows not to stop, but he does. It becomes imperative not to, and he presses on and on, a deliciously tight wet slide, so much better for him having to work for it, fighting Spock for every inch.
Jim doesn’t know, will never guess, how he manages to not explode while riding the edge so closely, so dangerously. Seconds filled with liquid heat stretch into eternity as he moves and Spock moves with him, perfect fit, perfect rhythm, every bit an effort too hard, teeth clenched, sweat in their eyes, hands finding each other and gripping, thoughts twining and fading, both dancing on the string pulled tight across the abyss, too scared to fall, delaying the inevitable...
Jim lets go of Spock’s hand and grips his hips hard, holding him in place, pounding into him as if Spock is something non-sentient, something not requiring consideration or mercy. Spock’s only response is to curve the small of his back in a mute plea for more - and Jim loses it, thrusting through his orgasm wildly, unable to control his own body, unable to stop.
The only thing he can do, instinctively more than not, is snake a hand under Spock. Jim barely strokes him once before Spock is jerking and pulsing in his hand, spasming around Jim’s cock when it’s on the verge of too much. Jim parts with his breath, a pitiful and angry sound that cannot possibly belong to him, and falls down as his arms and knees give, crushing Spock’s moan with his weight.
It’s a while before either of them moves.
Surprisingly, it’s Jim who takes the initiative, pulling out and off. He runs a soothing hand down Spock’s spine when Spock murmurs something - incomprehensible, but clearly disapproving. Jim pushes gently until Spock rolls onto his back, away from the mess they’ve created. Jim fishes for his discarded shirt and wipes them both, hardly really clean but at least a little better. He settles on Spock’s other side, wedging his shoulder under Spock’s and draping an arm around him.
Spock mumbles something Jim doesn’t even try to parse, but it has Jim’s name in there somewhere, and Jim grins, silly and dopey, presses his face to the crook of Spock’s neck, and falls asleep.
--
Jim wakes up still tangled in the sheets, the room around him wrapped in sunlight. He blinks, already knowing he’s alone, but, for some reason, the thought isn’t alarming. He stretches languidly, his muscles pleasantly heavy and humming with the night’s echoes. Jim grins to himself and trots into the bathroom.
Spock’s facilities are impressive. The bathtub seems to be able to easily accommodate three people; the shower stall is equipped with all kinds of sprays and could be programmed for a few dozens of what Jim is pretty sure would be most invigorating experiences. He smirks, but opts for sacrificing pleasure for efficiency for the moment.
Spock is in the kitchen when Jim walks in, making what looks like an omelet. The smell is delicious. Grinning, Jim steps closer and wraps his arms around Spock from behind, kissing his neck and eyeing the bright orange eggshells.
“Iollian eggs,” he mumbles, pressing closer and reveling in the fact that he can, that he is allowed. “Why, Spock, I do believe that you intend to spoil me.”
Spock pushes the frying pan aside and turns within Jim’s arms, capturing his lips easily in a gentle kiss. “You are in dire need of being spoiled. It pleases me to have the honor.”
Jim grins against Spock’s lips, and there’s no urgency in the long kiss they share - just lots of simple, uncomplicated enjoyment and warmth.
“The food is getting cold,” Jim mumbles, a little breathless.
Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim laughs, and steals another kiss quickly before they pull apart.
On some level, he was afraid that it would get awkward. Sometimes, watching couples, Jim would feel mildly nauseated, even as Gaila would make strange cooing sounds and tell Jim that they’re adorable. Jim isn’t sure he can handle it if that’s what Spock wants.
But their breakfast is as normal an affair as one can imagine. They sit across from each other, eating and talking about one of Spock’s colleagues and the last video game Sulu and Chekov have been drawn into. Jim jokes, Spock feigns ignorance, and it’s comfortable and easy like the dozens of meals they’d shared before.
The only difference is, their legs are entangled under the table, and Jim can’t stop grinning if it kills him. He’s just so fucking happy he could burst. He grins wider because, oh God, what a way to go.
“Do we have to go?” he whines petulantly, once they’ve dealt with the dishes. “I was hoping we’d go back upstairs, and you would maybe return the favor from last night-”
Spock presses him against the counter and nibbles lightly at the curve of his neck. “Do not tempt me. There is nothing I desire more, but I have an interview scheduled in two hours.”
“Two hours!”
“And you have a bar to run.”
Jim sighs, hands lost under Spock’s shirt. “That’s true.”
“Come back tonight.” Spock kisses along his jawline. “We can do whatever you wish.”
Jim groans softly. “I’ll be beat tonight. It’ll be a full house.”
“Then come back, and I will take care of you.”
Jim pulls him closer. “Promise?”
He can feel Spock’s smile, and it’s almost better than seeing it.
“Yes, Jim. I promise.”
It takes them another ten minutes to finally get going, and another thirty to leave the house.
--
Jim walks into the bar in the middle of Gaila’s morning class and is thus saved from enduring her jibes. But when she catches sight of him and gives him a saucy wink, he can’t help but split into a grin - silly and immature, maybe, but Jim can’t do anything about it. It’s like he’s buzzed without drinking, everything seeming brighter and higher and more this morning.
He’s grateful that the day is busy with restocking and some additional staff training before the evening itself arrives. It’s good that Jim literally doesn’t have a minute to spare, because otherwise he’d be calling Spock and panting down the comm line like a fifteen year old. He’s been in love before, but he can’t remember being this giddy or cross-wired about Ruth or Carol. Spock might as well have put some kind of spell on him.
The night is busy, just as Jim has predicted, and, after a certain point, it starts to take its toll on him. It doesn’t help that he’s spent the last two weeks worrying himself sick, and the mad burst of endorphins in his system isn’t enough to counteract that much stress and fatigue. A brawl that two idiots start when Gaila flips them for trying to grab her ass doesn’t help matters.
Jim hates this kind of shit. He’s been in enough bar fights in his life to know that he doesn’t want any of this anywhere near his establishment. The guys are drunk, though, and they manage to alienate another couple of assholes before Jim even gets there, so fists are flying nice and heavy when Jim reaches them.
He doesn’t have to do much. While Gaila and Janice rush for the buckets of ice specifically preserved for this purpose, a tall, bulky man Jim has never seen before steps inside the fighting circle and effectively knocks everyone out in twelve seconds flat.
Blinking, Jim takes in the man’s appearance. He looks massive and sturdy - an obvious fan of foods that aren’t good for him - but that doesn’t stop him from having some impressive muscles. His hair is cut short, military-style; his jacket resembles a uniform; and his shoulders are squared, as if he’s constantly ready to stand at parade-rest. His eyes look haunted, though, as if he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing here.
Jim steps forward, extending his hand. “I’m Jim Kirk and this is my bar. Would you like a job here?”
The guy clearly seems lost even as he shakes Jim’s hand - more like tries to break it by accident. Then he catches sight of Gaila hovering at Jim’s elbow and blushes like a schoolgirl. Jim glances at Gaila, who’s smiling invitingly and with far more enthusiasm than when Bones tried to make an overture all these years ago.
Jim suppresses a sigh. He’ll have to look this guy up in depth later to find out exactly why he was kicked out of Starfleet; hopefully it wasn’t sexual harassment. From the way the guy blinks bashfully as Gaila leads him away to fill in the paperwork, though, it seems unlikely.
It’s past two in the morning when Jim stumbles into Spock’s house. He wouldn’t be offended if Spock was asleep. In fact, Jim might have preferred it that way, because all he wants now is to crawl into bed beside Spock, wrap himself around him, and go to sleep.
Of course, Spock not only is awake, but he has other ideas.
He takes Jim’s hand and leads him to the bathroom, undressing them both along the way, dropping clothes everywhere. Jim grins sleepily. So much for being a neat freak.
He forgets all about clothes, though, when Spock guides him into deliciously warm bathtub, filled to the brim with multicolored foam. Jim wants to protest that he’s not a girl, but he’s never had a bath like this and is hopelessly distracted by how good it feels. The heady scents are making him pleasantly dizzy, and when Spock settles down behind him, pulling him close, Jim thinks that this is what heaven must feel like.
Jim leans against Spock, relaxed and floating, letting Spock run the washcloth gently all over his body. Spock is thorough and methodical but also torturously slow, and Jim would think that it’s revenge for last night, but he’s so completely and utterly content that he simply can’t be bothered.
He tells Spock about his day and about the fight while Spock’s hands touch him everywhere, slippery smooth and tantalizing. Spock is hard under him, Jim can feel, but he seems to be okay with not doing anything about it, even though Jim can’t help but wriggle teasingly against him. Spock reaches around and strokes Jim, easily coaxing him into a full erection.
Jim turns then, suddenly serious, and straddles Spock’s hips, leaning in and kissing him, deep and hungry and seemingly forever.
Spock’s fingers ghost over Jim’s entrance, slick with something that doesn’t dissolve immediately in the water, and Jim emits a low, happy grunt of approval. He’s so relaxed he hardly needs any of it, but he wants it, because Spock’s fingers are smart, and maybe even seeing, and Jim clenches greedily around them, wanting more.
Spock helps Jim lift up just enough to guide himself in, and Jim moans into his mouth, sliding down inch by inch. It feels wonderful, as if Spock is cutting the strings of tension one by one and immediately replacing the emptiness with the sense of warmth and fullness and dark, churning desire.
It’s glazy and tender and devilishly slow-paced. Jim lets Spock do all the work, content to hold on and kiss him through it, rolling his hips from time to time and swallowing Spock’s quiet moans. Jim doesn’t remember ever feeling so blissed out. Spock moves inside him steadily, gliding over that sweet spot every time, and Jim pants into his mouth, licking the insides of his cheeks, and Spock drops his head further back, letting Jim deepen the angle.
Spock’s hot hand wrapping around him is a surprise that makes Jim jolt, and he can feel Spock’s smug amusement curling around him as Spock begins to jerk him off in time with his thrusts, making Jim crazy with overstimulation. He retaliates by grabbing Spock’s jaw, holding him where Jim wants him, and tongue-fucking his mouth in the dirtiest way possible.
They both come not a moment later, Spock gasping and Jim silently. They kiss through the afterglow, as if the idea of separation doesn’t belong in the same realm.
Spock pulls them out before the water begins to cool and wraps Jim in a gigantic bath towel. Jim tries to protest being manhandled like this, but he can barely stand, never mind keep his eyes open, so real resistance seems to be out of the question.
Spock guides him toward the bed and makes him lie down on his stomach, straddling his thighs and reaching for the massage oil. A new one, Jim notes sleepily - a multi-layered scent with hints of cinnamon.
“Spock.” It comes out mumbled, but Jim tries anyway. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I can’t stay awake for a moment longer.”
“Shh; relax, Jim.” Spock bends down and presses a gentle kiss behind his ear. “I don’t need you awake. Close your eyes and sleep.”
“Mmm… ‘kay.”
He almost doesn’t want to. Spock’s hands on his shoulders and neck feel wonderful - strong, purposeful, relentless. Spock rubs and presses and kneads like an expert - probably is an expert, Jim thinks deliriously. The residual tension melts inside Jim bit by bit almost palpably, like honey in the heart of a roasting apple.
He drifts to sleep with the steady, secure feeling of Spock’s hands on his skin.
Part 5/5 >>
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--
Cursing is never a good way to start a Saturday morning, but Jim can’t help himself, standing in the huge hangar shivering in the near-breeze as he waits for his shipment of Betazoid spring wine to arrive. He arranged for this delivery two months ago, but now that it’s finally happening, Jim finds himself wishing to be in a number of different places rather than here. He’s cold and hungry and didn’t get nearly enough sleep, and, though his hangover has been chemically defused, he still feels kind of queasy.
When the comm message woke Jim, Spock was still out like a light, his breathing deep and barely audible, a frown creasing his features even as he slept. Jim left a loaded hypo and a glass of water waiting for him and snuck out of the house, telling himself that his unwillingness to face Spock just then had nothing to do with cowardice.
“Here you go, Mr. Kirk.” The customs officer pushes a trolley toward Jim. “You need to sign here.”
Jim frowns, making no move to accept the PADD. “Why are there two of them? I ordered three, and the shipping declaration states three.”
The officer stares into his PADD with an air of a skeptic seeking to receive revelation. “Looks like the other one was detained at Lunaport.”
“Why?”
“Says here containment breach.”
Jim presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He so doesn’t need this today.
“Okay, you know what, I wasn’t born yesterday,” he says, irritation pitching his tone higher. “I paid pretty cash for that wine, and if your grease monkeys at Luna want a taste, they can come to my bar and damn well pay for it, too.”
“Mr. Kirk-”
“Oh, don’t bother. I’m just notifying you that I’m filing a complaint with the FTCA.”
The officer looks at him for what seems like the first time, but it seems like an automatic gesture. He shrugs. “Suit yourself. You’re within your rights.”
“Damn straight,” Jim mutters, taking the PADD and scribbling furiously.
It’s no good. He wants to yell at the guy just to make himself feel a little better, but manages to hold back. There’s no point, and he’ll only feel like a jackass in the end. A couple of years ago, Jim would probably be throwing punches left and right by now, because complaints are for pussies and he has to defend what’s his. He doesn’t own this much to let someone just take it.
Jim still doesn’t trust the system, but his twice-monthly lunches with Gary seem to have finally corrupted him into thinking like a businessman, not a wild child.
He files the complaint competently, including a small but useful clause Gary told him about, and gives the PADD back to the customs officer who’s now staring at him with an air of resigned disgust.
Jim flashes him a grin. “It’s been a pleasure.”
His dramatic exit is somewhat ruined by the heavy trolley that refuses to move faster than a very slow turtle. He feels exhausted by the time he reaches the bar, and it’s hard to reconcile with the fact that it’s still before midday.
Jim walks in to the image of Chekov and Sulu hunched over a Go board. Chekov is winning, by the looks of it, mostly because Sulu is too busy staring at him. Shaking his head, Jim thinks that Chekov is probably the only person Jim knows who isn’t the tiniest bit unnerved by Sulu turning on his creepy act full force.
“Jim!” Chekov jumps to his feet, a blinding grin lighting up his face. “You need help with those?”
“Thanks,” Jim pants, stashing the box he’s carrying behind the bar, his back loudly protesting the abuse. “There are about a dozen more in the car, so you’d better wait for Pablo to show up-”
“Hikaru will help,” Chekov assures him brightly. “We got it, Jim.”
Sulu nods as he walks past Jim. “You look like you slept in a dumpster, Kirk.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Jim glances around as the soft sound of the drums slides through his muddy perception filter and sees Gaila on her usual dance spot. She’s wearing tights and a tank top and is actually stretching, and Jim frowns slightly in confusion as he walks toward her.
“Hi?”
“Oh, Jimmy, you’re back.” Gaila tunes the music down and slides onto her feet fluidly.
“Yeah. I thought we were done with dance nights?”
“Oh. Um, yes. About that.” Gaila looks down at her feet for a moment. “Do you think we could maybe keep them? Like, make every Saturday a show night? And also, I’d like to start teaching a class in the mornings. A couple of times a week, maybe?”
Jim stares at her. “You want to be giving dance lessons? But I thought you hated it.”
Gaila bites her lip. “Not the dance thing. I always loved it, I just... Look, I’m my own woman now, right? I shouldn’t be ashamed of admitting that I like things that made me uncomfortable in the past.”
She says it proudly, with conviction of a straight-A student, and Jim can’t help a grin.
“Have you been watching Dr. Ruth Revisited again?”
She elbows him in the ribs expertly. “No, I just - well, it’s something Nyota said, and I-”
“Nyota Uhura?”
“Yes. Jim, it’s just - she’s right. I love my body, and I love the dance, and honestly, your Earth women are hopeless - they know nothing about how their bodies work, and it’s so sad, Jimmy. They won’t even use their own heritage, and I mean, some of that yoga is downright amazing. Every girl should be able to make her body sing; this ignorance is scary. I like teaching them, showing them, like I showed Nyota, and-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it,” Jim begs hastily. It’s too early in the day for him to be contemplating the image of Gaila showing Nyota Uhura how her body works. “You can teach whatever classes you want, Gaila, as long as it makes you happy.”
She beams at him. “Thanks, Jimmy! You’re the best.” She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “You better stock up on morning drinks; bending and stretching girls is serious exertion.”
“I better hire a bouncer,” Jim says dryly. “Or I’ll have a riot on my hands.”
Gaila smirks. “That, too. Hey, good for business, right?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Good for you, sweetheart.” She sticks her tongue out at him and winks. “Just leave a note when you’ll run off with a tantric yoga instructor or something, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” She giggles. “You’ll always be my wun true wuv.”
“You insolent little-”
“Speaking of which, Spock called.”
Instantly, Jim’s gut begins to churn. “Really?” he grits out, blushing. “He called the bar?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t he just call me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jimmy. Maybe because you ran away while he was sleeping like you couldn’t stay in the same room with him?”
Jim’s mouth falls open. “Spock said that?”
Gaila huffs indignantly. “No; he just wanted to know if you were okay. The brilliant deduction was all my doing.”
“I didn’t run,” Jim clarifies. “It wasn’t like that, anyway, we didn’t-”
“Have sex? Yeah, no kidding, I would have smelled that.”
“Okay, you know what? Enough with the smelling thing. I take, like, three showers a day; what’s this even about?”
“It’s a figure of speech, Jimmy. You really think I wouldn’t know when you had sex?” Gaila chuckles. “Sweetie, I’ve seen you on a morning after. In fact, I watched you stumble through almost every morning after you’ve had in the last - what, ten years? I’m not as blind as most humans are, so believe me when I tell you that I know when you get some action. Most times, I could even tell how many times and in which positions and-”
“Okay, enough, point made!” Jim interrupts hastily, his face burning. “Get yourself some tact, Gaila.”
“From whom?” she retorts acidly. “Maybe if Spock sticks around, I finally get a decent role model.” Noticing his expression, though, she switches into a concerned mode instantly. “What happened? Did you fight?”
“No.” Jim sighs. “We got pretty smashed, and he - told me stuff. About himself, his family.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you upset about it? I thought you wanted him to open up.”
“Well, yes. It’s just - he sort of - oh, fuck it.” Jim grimaces. “He trusts me, Gaila. Understand? Trusts me - me, of all people. He looks at me like he sees someone else there. Like I’m not me, not really me. Like I’m someone better. I don’t-” He clears his throat. “I don’t know how to be that person he thinks he sees.”
Gaila watches him quietly for a moment. Jim refuses to meet her eyes. Finally being able to put his turmoil into words doesn’t make it the tiniest bit better. So much for sharing and caring.
“You’re in love with him.” Gaila says it softly, out of the blue.
“What?” Jim’s head snaps up. “No. Gaila, no. I mean, sure, it’s a bad crush, probably the worst ever, but...”
He trails off when she doesn’t contradict him. Eventually, he sighs. “How do you know? It’s not the sex thing, you can’t ‘smell’ it or whatever.”
“I can, actually,” she tells him with a fleeting smile. “But I don’t have to. Jim, do you want to sleep with him?”
Jim stares. “Duh. Have you seen him?”
“Have you slept with him? Or at least tried to?”
Jim stares some more, and doesn’t reply.
“That’s how I know,” Gaila says, brushing a hand over his shoulder.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Jim mumbles grudgingly.
It does, though, and he knows it. Judging by the sympathetic look on Gaila’s face, she knows it, too.
--
Jim doesn’t go back to see Spock that day and doesn’t work up the nerve to call him. He tries to, several times, but always snaps his comm closed before it can make the connection.
Spock is tired or busy, Jim tells himself. If he wasn’t, he would have showed up or called. He never needed an express invitation before.
He’s relieved, at first, when a day goes by and Spock doesn’t contact him. Relieved when it’s two days, but by the end of the third, Jim is slightly irritated - even hurt.
Okay, so maybe he is freaking out a little bit, but it’s not like he doesn’t have a good reason. Spock’s the smart one, isn’t he? He should have figured it out and helped Jim through it; should have been there for Jim at his time of need, not gone hiding in his basement like he’s afraid for his virtue. Hasn’t Jim proved to him that he’s trustworthy?
Spock is just being stubborn and ridiculous and even cruel, which is really uncalled for. It’s not Jim’s fault he fell for Spock, after all; it’s not like Jim chose this.
The tiny voice of reason that tries to remind Jim that Spock might have no idea about what’s going on in Jim’s head is surprisingly easy to ignore.
After all, didn’t Gaila see through his bullshit at once? Spock has like a gazillion degrees in everything; he really shouldn’t be pulling the dumb act. The only reason for him to do so is that he really doesn’t want Jim like that, which is fine and totally cool - his right and everything - but he should have just said so. It’s not like Jim would have thrown a temper tantrum. He knows how to deal with rejection, more so than most people.
Jim wakes up on day four actually angry with Spock and resigned to put all this nonsense behind him. Clearly, Spock considers himself to be too good for Jim, and for once they’re in agreement. Jim would do well to remember that.
Except… he glares at the guy who sits on Spock’s favorite barstool until the guy stalks away. It’s an indulgence, of course, but Jim is willing to cut himself a little slack. He’s dealing with it, even if they are baby steps.
“Jim, wake up.” Gaila shakes him awake unceremoniously barely an hour after Jim fell into his bed.
“S’up?” Jim pushes out around his still sleeping tongue.
“It’s Chekov,” Gaila says urgently. “I think he’s sick.”
Jim sits up on his bed abruptly, sleep evaporating rapidly from his system. “Sick how?”
“I don’t know; he stayed to help me close the tabs, but then he just collapsed and he’s not coming around.”
Jim throws the covers off and grabs his jeans. “Did you call McCoy?”
“Yes, he’s on his way. Jim, what do you think-”
“I don’t know,” Jim interrupts, dashing out of the room with Gaila on his heels.
He busts into the bar in time to hear the mad pounding at the front door.
“Open this damn thing before I wake the neighbors!” Bones’s voice comes through muffled but impressively annoyed.
Jim keys the door open. “Stop yelling, Bones. Jesus.”
McCoy barely looks at him. “Where is he?”
“Here, Leonard,” Gaila calls from where she’s sitting on her parquet dance floor, cradling Chekov’s head in her lap. “He feels like he’s burning up.”
Kneeling beside Chekov’s prone form, McCoy quickly pulls out his scanner, muttering darkly and scowling hard enough to make the devil shudder.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gaila asks anxiously.
“Velotian fever; from the looks of it, it’s progressed pretty fast, too.” McCoy snaps the scanner shut and leans in to pull up Chekov’s eyelid. “Jim, we need to get him to the hospital right now.”
Jim runs for the door. “I’ll get the car.”
--
Waiting has never been one of Jim’s strong suits. He paces the hospital hall restlessly in stark contrast to Gaila, who’s leaning against the wall, immobile and silent.
“Jim, stop it, you’ll wear yourself out,” she says for the fifth time.
“He didn’t look sick.” Jim frowns. “Did he? Is it just me - I mean, was he sick and I didn’t even notice?”
“You couldn’t have,” Christine replies, walking over toward them with two cups of coffee in her hands. Jim barely recognizes her in white scrubs and no makeup. “This virus could lie dormant for days, even months, until something triggers it, and then things start happening really fast. It’s a good thing you got him here so quickly.”
“Yeah.” Jim sighs, cradling the paper cup in his hands. “I just feel like I should have done something. Looked after him better, you know?”
Christine fixes her pale blue eyes on him with such quiet, utterly non-judging acceptance that Jim is forcibly reminded once more why she makes as good a barmaid as she is a nurse.
“Do you know how to contact his family?” she asks softly. “He only lists you and Sulu as his emergency contacts.”
Jim shakes his head. “Even if I did, I don’t think he’d want me to. They pretty much kicked him out when he refused to tamper with their tax declarations or something.”
Christine sighs. “He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah.” The too-strong hospital coffee burns down Jim’s throat. He takes another huge gulp anyway. “He is.”
Bones finally comes to find them three hours later, looking like one of the undead. “He’s going to be fine, Jim,” he says, words slurring slightly. Even through the haze of relief, Jim can see that Bones looks exhausted. “We pumped him up with antiviral meds, and Velotian fever makes for some nasty stuff, so he’s going to be sick as a dog for a few days, but he’s going to be fine. Shouldn’t develop any complications.”
“Bones.” Jim grabs his hand in both his own. “Oh, thank God. Bones, man, I owe you one.”
“Stop it, Jim.” McCoy shakes him off irritably. “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake; what are you thanking me for?”
“Just being awesome, I guess.” Jim tries to pull him into a hug, but Bones shoves him off.
“Gaila, take him home and make him get some sleep, for all our sakes,” Bones grumbles darkly. “He’s drunk on insomnia.”
“Look who’s talking,” Jim retorts. Bones glares, and Jim throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, we’re leaving. When can we come to visit?”
“Not before tomorrow evening, probably.” McCoy frowns. “And Jim? It won’t be pretty.”
“We understand, Leonard,” Gaila says, tugging at Jim’s sleeve and smiling at McCoy. “Thank you for everything.”
“Yeah, yeah, get out of here,” Bones mutters, but some color creeps back into his cheeks, and he doesn’t tell Gaila off. “I’ll be seeing you lot around, I guess.”
Jim flashes him a grin. “Count on it.”
Bones rolls his eyes.
Chekov looks way too young and scared shitless when Jim comes to check on him for the first time. He’s also pathetically grateful for seeing a familiar face and desperately fighting his clinginess that stems from his utter terror of medical procedures as well as the general vulnerability of a sick person. Jim tells Gaila to take as much time of as she wants to stay with the poor kid, and he himself stops by every other night, because of course this thing would happen when Sulu is off planet pursuing a lead.
With all the excitement, thoughts of Spock should have been driven firmly out of Jim’s mind, but, of course, he isn’t so lucky. He still glares at anyone who takes Spock’s spot at the bar, but with each passing day, there’s less anger and more guilt in Jim’s reaction. He’s beginning to think that he really screwed up this time.
Which is why when he comes down to the bar one morning to find Gaila talking to Spock quietly, Jim is so happy to see him that it literally takes his breath away.
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer, a helpless grin on his face.
Spock turns to look at him, and wow - Jim has never seen him so closed off and unapproachable.
“Good morning, Jim,” Spock says coolly. “I trust you are well?”
“Fine,” Jim breathes, feeling his grin falter as his stomach turns slowly to lead. “What about you? Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
“My condition has been acceptable,” Spock replies. He looks at Jim for a moment longer as if daring him to say something else, but Jim is suddenly too intimidated to rise to the challenge. Spock turns back to Gaila. “I appreciate your assistance,” he says softly. “I will not keep you any longer.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Jim blurts out. “But you’ve only just come here. Don’t you want a - a drink or something?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow at him. “No, Jim - please do not concern yourself. I only stopped by to deliver this book to Gaila. Nyota informed me of Pavel’s misfortune, and since he expressed an interest to this author in the past, I inferred that he might benefit from having it while he is indisposed.”
It only takes Jim a second to get to the meaning behind Spock’s polite words.
Don’t bother; I didn’t come here for you.
“So, um. You - you don’t want to hang out anymore?” It sounds childish and clingy to his own ears, but Jim can’t help it. He’s probably a masochist, but he needs to hear it from Spock.
Spock’s eyebrow climbs higher up. “I was under the impression that it was you who did not wish to trouble yourself with my company.”
“What?” Jim stares. “Where’d you get that from? I never-”
“Jim.” Spock speaks over him, which is uncharacteristic enough. But then his expression softens, and somehow, that’s so much worse. “There is no need for this. I do not blame you. You are not the first person to realize that any association with me is more complicated than it is worth. You have enough burdens on your shoulders; I never meant to add to them. I understand.”
It takes a moment for Spock’s words to sink in, but when they do, Jim wants the floor to part and swallow him. He has never felt more of an asshole in his entire life.
“Spock, no! That’s not it at all!” Jim steps closer instinctively, words spilling from his lips faster than he can think them through. “I just - it’s not like that! That first day after, it was just crazy, and then something else came up, and I had a hard time dealing with it, and then Chekov happened, and I kind of lost track of days, but that’s it, I swear!”
He sucks in a breath hurriedly. “You’re not more complicated than you’re worth. I mean, you are complicated, but in a good way, all the good ways! I’m so sorry you thought - I mean, what else could you, obviously, but that’s not what I - God, man, I’m so sorry I was such an asshole!”
“Jim,” Spock tries to interrupt. “Calm yourself; I do not-”
“Please stay! Please? Let me make it up to you. We’ll go out for dinner or something, and I won’t criticize your writing, and I’ll get rid of that gargoyle statuette that you hate, and I’ll-”
“Jim.” Spock raises his voice slightly, which finally has the desired effect. “I appreciate the offer, but I cannot stay.”
Jim swallows. “…Oh. Okay.”
“I have an appointment at the editorial office,” Spock explains. “It is likely to last several hours.”
Jim nods numbly. Spock looks at him almost timidly.
“But I could - come back after it’s over,” he suggests tentatively. “If that is convenient to you-”
“Yes!” Jim exclaims over him, relief making him high. “Of course it’s convenient! Any time you like, Spock, just stop by, I’ll - I’ll be here.”
Spock holds his eyes for a long moment, but whatever it is he sees seems to convince him of Jim’s sincerity. He inclines his head in a reserved nod. “Very well, then. I will see you later, Jim. Gaila.”
“Bye, Spock.” Gaila waves at him.
Spock glances at Jim once more before walking out.
“Don’t say it,” Jim mutters the moment the door closes behind Spock.
“Fat chance,” Gaila snaps. “You are a class-A moron, Jim.”
“I know,” he groans. “I screwed up. I didn’t realize he’d take it that way.”
“How else was he supposed to take it? I mean, he spills his guts to you - which, according to Ny, he doesn’t do all that often, if ever - and you disappear the next day and don’t return his calls!”
“I know, Gaila, okay? Please, can we not talk about this? I feel terrible; do you want it in writing?”
Her eyes flash menacingly, and she hisses like an angry cat before spinning on her heel and storming off. Jim presses his hand over his eyes and contemplates introducing his head to the nearest flat surface. Repeatedly. It’s the most attractive idea he’s had in days.
Four hours later, Spock calls to say that the meeting is going to last longer than expected, and then Spock has another appointment he can’t cancel. Jim knows he deserves this, so he tries not to show his disappointment.
But when Spock asks cautiously if maybe Jim would like to come by his place for dinner instead, Jim is incapable of containing his emotions, and Spock is lucky there’s a screen between them.
--
Spock’s door has obviously been taught to recognize Jim, which adds another couple of miles to his guilt trip. Tugging at his collar nervously, Jim walks in.
He finds Spock in the kitchen, bewitching a wok. Spock holds a spatula in his hand like a wand, directing the clouds of steam rising from the heated surface like an orchestra conductor guiding his ensemble. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, and his hair looks like he showered and forgot to comb it, mutinous strands falling into his eyes.
He looks back at Jim over his shoulder, and Jim can’t help a grin that is probably absolutely ridiculous.
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Something you find amusing?”
“Yes,” Jim admits unrepentantly. He sets the bottle he brought on the counter. “You need a hand?”
“No,” Spock says, shuffling the contents of the wok expertly. “It is almost ready.”
Jim shrugs. “I’m not that much of a cook anyway.”
“Neither am I,” Spock admits, balancing out the temperature. “I had basic training, as all Vulcan children do, but I never really cooked until I came to Earth, and even then, it was a desperate measure.”
“How so?”
“Replicator food seems like a travesty when one lives planetside,” Spock says. His lips stretch into a fond smile. “And my mother was a terrible cook.”
Jim is surprised into a chuckle.
They eat in the kitchen and not in the dreadful dining room, for which Jim is very grateful. The conversation flows easily as Spock tells Jim about his godawful - Spock uses another word, but the sentiment is there - meeting at the office, for which he still isn’t sure why his presence was required. They talk about Chekov, then drift to the recent political conundrum, and end up with Jim trying to explain to Spock the merits of spaceball.
It feels so familiar and effortless that Jim is privately wondering how he could possibly have thought that anything would change between him and Spock if Jim’s true feelings were revealed. It seems impossible to believe that Spock would judge Jim or hate him when confronted with the image of Spock sitting across from him on a tall stool, peering at Jim above his steepled fingers, seeming relaxed and open and warm and so clearly enjoying himself.
They take the rest of the wine to the front porch, sitting on the steps and watching the slow fall of night.
Maybe it’s the different setting or just the natural evolution of things, but they lapse into silences more often. Spock seems pensive and a little wistful, and Jim can’t help wanting to be closer to him, to chase away whatever troubles ail him. Jim presses his shoulder against Spock’s, happy when Spock doesn’t move away.
“Hey,” Jim says softly. “You okay? You seem like a million miles away.”
Spock shifts slightly, as if pulling himself out of some kind of darker realm. He stares into his nearly empty glass. Jim has always found spring wine a bit too sweet for his taste, but Spock seems to like it.
“I was thinking about you, Jim.”
Jim feels his heart stutter. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Spock says simply. “Most people in your circumstances would have given up. Complaining that life is unfair, they would have lost themselves to one kind of destructive addiction or another. I have seen it happen in less dire situations than yours. Yet, you never gave up. More than that, you have made a life helping others in ways that most people can’t even come close to.”
Jim shifts uncomfortably. “Spock, I’m going to stop you right there, okay? You don’t really know me - I mean, really know me. I’m not some kind of hero just because I refused to lie down and think of England or whatever. I might not be a bad guy, but I’m definitely not something special.”
Spock sets his glass aside and looks at Jim calmly. “I did not say you were a hero, Jim. But through my profession, I met hundreds of people on dozens of worlds. And I have never met one like you.”
Jim closes his eyes, an unknown heat rising within him like a choking wave. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious, Jim. I only wish - I only wish I had some of your bravery to make something worthy of my life.”
Jim’s eyes snap wide open. “What are you talking about?”
Spock purses his lips, glancing at the shimmering ball of Venus hovering above the building across the street.
“I hide behind my words, Jim. Instead of doing something, instead of acting, I-”
“You tell people the truth. That’s not nothing, Spock; it’s a big deal.”
“It is not enough. On Belta-”
Jim draws a breath in sharply.
“It was a tragedy, but at least I was useful. The life I live now is one of self-indulgence.”
“Stop it,” Jim demands sharply, his fingers digging into Spock’s shoulder. “Stop it right now.”
Spock stares at him warily, but Jim is too far-gone to halt midway.
“You are talented, smart, and caring, and you don’t have a selfish bone in your body,” Jim says fiercely. “Your writing isn’t some kind of smokescreen - it affects people! Remember, you wrote about the guy who couldn’t make one decision - how many of us have been there? All those pieces about projects, aspirations, dreams - failed or successful, doesn’t matter - they help us carry on, Spock. They help us not give up!”
Jim springs to his feet, unable to remain still. He whirls on Spock almost accusingly.
“Do you want to know what’s wrong with this goddamn world? We’re all alone, Spock. Each and every one of us is alone, rattling in our nutshells, and thinking we can hide from the truth behind the noise. You - you’re the one who cracks us, who makes us come out, and you are the one brave enough to look at it the way it is, without the comfort of illusions. And then you take our hands and lead us into it, and it’s scary as fuck, but you show us that we can do it - and we do! So don’t you ever, ever call yourself useless!”
Spock’s mouth is open with shock he doesn’t bother to control as he stares at Jim in undiluted astonishment. Jim glares back, daring him to protest.
“Jim,” Spock utters breathlessly, sliding up to his feet. “Jim, I don’t-”
Jim growls in anger and frustration, and his body reacts faster than his brain can come down from the frenzied high.
He pushes Spock back against the wooden column of the porch, and kisses him.
It’s angry and desperate and Spock is unresponsive under him, but Jim doesn’t care just then. He kisses Spock vehemently, reading him the riot act by means of his tongue and teeth, seizing his probably only chance to set things right. He presses on until he runs out of air, and then some more after that, and then he pants, breathless, against Spock’s neck, his indignation melting rapidly under the onslaught of dread.
Spock moves, finally, sliding his hands up to cup Jim’s face and leaning back slightly to look into his eyes.
Slowly, torturously, keeping eye contact determinedly, he leans forward and brushes his lips over Jim’s once, twice, an exploratory, questioning touch, eyes open wide and watching.
Jim trembles, shivers all over, chasing Spock’s touch instinctively, unable to stop.
Spock closes his eyes then and goes in for a real kiss, gentle yet undeniably passionate, a kiss Jim can’t help but respond to. He slides his arms around Spock, pulling him close, holding on to him frantically, because his head is spinning and he feels like he’s falling, waiting for the inevitable punchline of a hit, and he doesn’t want it to come.
Spock’s fingers dive into Jim’s hair, sifting through it almost reverently, as his other hand caresses Jim’s neck, a feather-light touch that threatens to undo him. Jim moans dully when Spock nips at his bottom lip, tightening his hold on Spock reflexively, because Jim wants him, all of him, wants to come closer than humanly possible, wants to show him every bit of how he makes Jim feel.
They separate reluctantly, unable to fully pull away, stealing short kisses pressed to the corner of a mouth, the curve of a chin, the line of a jaw. Finally, they still, breathing each other in, hands and arms holding on tight and not straying to wander, as if they are both afraid of losing connection.
“I, um... I know you’re tired,” Jim lets out breathlessly in the end. “But would you mind terribly if I stay? I’ll be a perfect gentleman, promise. I just - I just want to stay with you tonight. Please.”
Spock sighs softly and pulls away just enough to be able to see Jim’s face.
“Jim, I could not let you go even if you asked me to,” he says, a somewhat incredulous, shaky smile tugging at his lips.
“Thank God,” Jim breathes, leaning in for another kiss. “Oh, thank God.”
They leave the glasses forgotten at the foot of the stairs.
--
Jim wakes up when the night is still on the rise and goes instantly into full alert mode, his heart pounding with a rush of adrenaline, before he remembers why he’s in an unfamiliar place. He turns his head then, almost warily, and there is Spock lying on the bed beside him, his breathing deep and untroubled. Jim looks at him, trying to slow his racing pulse down.
Spock is a study in contrasts. He’s lying on his back, head tilted slightly to one side, and he’s probably hot because he pushed the covers all the way down to his hips. He’s not wearing a t-shirt, and Jim’s eyes feast at the planes and angles of Spock’s chest and shoulders, at the disturbingly elegant lines of his stomach that seems to be arching in not out, at the smoothly carved peak of a hipbone visible on his right side. His hair is covering half his face, drawing attention to his lips, sculpted to perfection, and to the stubborn, uncompromising line of his jaw stopping the long rise of his neck before it lifts his head any higher.
Moonlight falling from the tall window makes Spock’s pale skin look pearly, reflecting the light but keeping part of it, like a greedy mirror. Stretched out like that, Spock looks vulnerable, almost fragile, but the persistent whisper of muscles beneath his skin and the swift suppleness of his sleeping body project the aura of tightly coiled power around him, threatening and thrilling.
He isn’t moving, but he isn’t really still, either. Watching him is like watching a piece of music that has somehow attained a corporeal form. It’s the closest definition Jim can come up with, and he’s never been one for poetry, but this just feels like the truth.
Jim moves closer. He promised to be a gentleman, but this is too much to ask. His thoughts aren’t even all that sordid; he doesn’t know what they are, except that he has never felt so enchanted by anyone in his life, and never even thought it was possible.
He could look at Spock for hours like this, but there’s nothing sacred about it, because he also wants to touch. To besmirch everything that is clean and perfect about this body; to make it break its ideal lines; to ruin its quiet with the dirtiest sounds Earth has ever heard; to make it plead with every cell and every pore; to torture it so sweetly it would fall apart screaming for more, and then reassemble it back together, inch by inch, with his hands and lips and teeth, and mark it as his.
Jim leans over, bracing himself on his arms, bending low and watching as the muscles of Spock’s stomach contract under his breath. Jim lets his mouth hover over the exposed skin, anticipation threatening to destroy him, before finally pressing his lips just above Spock’s navel and moving up, all feather-light kisses and gentle nips.
Spock shivers under him, letting out a small sigh, his head lolling on the pillow. Jim grins and nuzzles the hair on Spock’s chest, memorizing the smell, as he gently pins Spock to the bed with his weight.
Spock shifts underneath him more distinctly now, and okay, yeah, there’s been enough teasing. He closes his lips over one small, defiant nipple and sucks gently, worrying the bud with his teeth.
Spock flinches, tensing instantly, and then his arms slide around Jim, fingers carding through Jim’s hair, and he comes to full wakefulness instantly with a soft sigh of Jim’s name on his lips.
Jim moves to cover him fully now, hips to shoulders, nibbling at the exposed column of Spock’s throat, reveling in the way Spock’s hands glide down his back, scratching lightly, smart fingers mapping the knobs of his spine. Jim grinds down slowly, experimentally, and yeah, Spock’s awake all right, the layers of fabric between them doing nothing to conceal it.
Jim thrusts down more forcefully now, laving the shell of Spock’s ear with his tongue and mouthing at his jaw, hands roaming with would-be accidental precision. Spock bucks up and moans softly, clearly torn between squirming away and giving Jim better access. Jim grins, pressing their groins together neatly and stilling.
“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers breathlessly, nibbling at Spock’s bottom lip, ignoring the little sighs of frustration coming from the man beneath him. “Like me holding you down, like me lying on top of you, like me making you-”
Spock is fast, scarily fast, sealing Jim’s lips with his own as his thighs lock around Jim’s hips and Spock rolls them over, swift and efficient, pressing Jim down and kissing him, so, so dirty and devastating and sucking the living breath out of Jim while his tongue draws complicated patterns on the roof of Jim’s mouth. A wave of heat carries Jim higher and higher, and he’s thrusting against Spock instinctively, greedy hands attacking everything within reach.
“I like to be held down,” Spock admits without a hint of embarrassment, sucking what would be an impressive bruise into Jim’s neck. “By someone who knows what to do with me when they do.”
It’s so clearly a challenge that Jim laughs, surprised and delighted, before flipping them back over again and straddling Spock’s hips. Spock lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and Jim grins wolfishly above him, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and tugging it off slowly.
He can feel Spock’s eyes on him, setting every inch of his skin on fire, and Jim nearly chokes when Spock’s gaze crawls up to his neck. Intent on giving a show, Jim drops his head back, dragging the t-shirt over the column of his throat slowly, and is rewarded by a low moan from Spock, who cants his hips up uncontrollably, just once - but it’s enough.
“Like what you see?” Jim teases, more than a little breathless.
Spock breathes an unashamed “Yes” as he half-rises on the bed to grab Jim, eyes blown wide into a smoldering black.
Jim pushes Spock back down, smirking, but it takes all his willpower to go on with the act. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, then lifts himself to his knees and pushes down his boxer-briefs, exposing himself fully. He keeps his gaze on Spock and is close to hyperventilating when a ragged, desperate gasp is torn from Spock’s lips, and his eyes come alight with such powerful longing that Jim shudders, knowing that he would be swept over the moment he cuts Spock loose.
Jim pushes his underwear off and bends low, nuzzling at Spock’s groin. Spock keeps very still as Jim palms him carefully through his pajama pants, mapping the territory, but when Jim licks him, sucking lightly right through the thin silk, Spock swears loudly in a language Jim doesn’t recognize.
Jim grins, giving him more of the same, before finally sliding his hands under the waistband, his fingers greedy on the deliciously firm curves of Spock’s ass that Jim sincerely hopes Spock would let him devour at some point. He pulls Spock’s pants down and off with more-than-willing cooperation and stills for a moment, taking all of Spock in.
Most people, save for professional models, are more than a little squeamish when completely naked. There is always some inherent ridicule to this state, and more than a little vulnerability.
Spock is neither squeamish nor vulnerable as he lies there, allowing Jim to look his fill. His breathing is out of rhythm, but otherwise, he’s quiet. Not proud, even though he clearly should be, but confident having all of his defensive layers stripped. ‘This is what I am,’ he seems to be saying, and Jim can’t help releasing a low, guttural groan.
He looks and looks at the miles of smooth pale skin and muscles, at Spock’s lips, flushed so dark they seem black; at his cock, lying full and heavy against his stomach; at the trembling flutter of pulse at the side of his neck; at the graceful arc of his sternum.
It hurts Jim, physically hurts him to look, and for a frightening moment, it feels like there’s no air to breathe, none at all to sustain his straining lungs. His heart is breaking, and Jim has never thought it could happen literally.
“Jim,” Spock murmurs, and sits up.
Jim lets him. Torn between the most carnal of desires and almost reverent awe, he’s motionless and helpless; he can’t look anymore, and he can’t look away.
“Jim,” Spock whispers, sliding his hands over Jim’s tense shoulders and pulling him closer. “Jim.”
Spock kisses him, slow, deep, and gentle, passion tamed as he holds Jim tighter, chest to chest as his fingers drift through Jim’s hair and down his spine, soothing and curious. Spock’s kiss is steadfast and languid, gaining in intensity, breaking whatever spell Jim’s been under with uncompromising determination.
‘Beautiful,’ Jim hears whispered under his skull. ‘So beautiful. Mine.’
Jim breaks then, lunges at Spock then, knocking him back onto the bed, kissing and stroking every bit of him, licking and nibbling and scratching, having no agenda, no plan, except for getting everything, every inch, every sound, every instinctive, aborted motion.
When he finally takes Spock into his mouth, it’s glorious. Spock’s hips are glued to the bed, but his upper body arches up, eloquent in its response, and Jim has to bite down the head-spinning sense of triumph.
Spock tastes like bitter almonds, and Jim treats himself to it, sucking lightly on the head and tonguing the slit. Spock’s breaths start to come in short, uncontrolled puffs of air as his hands curl into the sheets, white-knuckled and brutal, and Jim tortures him some more for it before taking in as much of him as he can.
He wraps his hand around the base of Spock’s cock, squeezing and pulling experimentally, as he hollows his cheeks and lets his tongue be as dirty as it knows how. It thrills Jim like burning when he feels the muscles of Spock’s inner thighs tremble with tension, sees Spock’s stomach flutter, his head thrashing wildly on the pillow, his mouth torn in a permanent growl as he bites his lower lip mercilessly.
Jim has never enjoyed doing this that much in his life, and it takes him a while to register Spock’s urgent warnings of, “Jim, Jim, Jim.”
He can feel it, too, and regretfully releases Spock with a wet sound that nearly makes him come there and then. Jim glances up to meet a desperate, borderline insane look.
“What do you want, Spock?” he pushes out hoarsely, licking his lips. “Anything you want.”
Spock stares at him a moment longer, and then slowly, holding his body tightly as if a brisk motion will break it, rolls onto his stomach, spreading his legs, and glances at Jim over his shoulder.
“Okay.” Jim swallows, his heart beating madly all over the place and his hands shaking. “Okay.”
He lowers himself on top of Spock carefully, both trembling with anticipation and need. Jim bites the curve of Spock’s neck lightly, and then rubs his face against the hollow between Spock’s shoulder blades, licking off the bitter, thin sheen of sweat.
Spock is ringing with tension under him, and Jim looks around, a question ready on his lips when he spots a jar of massage oil on the nightstand. It looks like it hasn’t been touched in months, and Jim feels heartbroken because Spock should never be alone, ever, and selfishly elated at the same time, because ‘not alone’ should mean with Jim, only with Jim.
He kisses down Spock’s spine as his hands busily part Spock’s cheeks and he slides one slick thumb in, followed shortly by his other. Spock lets out a choked “Jim,” and Jim licks at his neck, soothing and begging wordlessly to hold on for a little longer. Spock moans almost mournfully, and there’s only so much of this Jim can take.
The moment he pushes in, Spock tenses, and Jim doesn’t know how he knows not to stop, but he does. It becomes imperative not to, and he presses on and on, a deliciously tight wet slide, so much better for him having to work for it, fighting Spock for every inch.
Jim doesn’t know, will never guess, how he manages to not explode while riding the edge so closely, so dangerously. Seconds filled with liquid heat stretch into eternity as he moves and Spock moves with him, perfect fit, perfect rhythm, every bit an effort too hard, teeth clenched, sweat in their eyes, hands finding each other and gripping, thoughts twining and fading, both dancing on the string pulled tight across the abyss, too scared to fall, delaying the inevitable...
Jim lets go of Spock’s hand and grips his hips hard, holding him in place, pounding into him as if Spock is something non-sentient, something not requiring consideration or mercy. Spock’s only response is to curve the small of his back in a mute plea for more - and Jim loses it, thrusting through his orgasm wildly, unable to control his own body, unable to stop.
The only thing he can do, instinctively more than not, is snake a hand under Spock. Jim barely strokes him once before Spock is jerking and pulsing in his hand, spasming around Jim’s cock when it’s on the verge of too much. Jim parts with his breath, a pitiful and angry sound that cannot possibly belong to him, and falls down as his arms and knees give, crushing Spock’s moan with his weight.
It’s a while before either of them moves.
Surprisingly, it’s Jim who takes the initiative, pulling out and off. He runs a soothing hand down Spock’s spine when Spock murmurs something - incomprehensible, but clearly disapproving. Jim pushes gently until Spock rolls onto his back, away from the mess they’ve created. Jim fishes for his discarded shirt and wipes them both, hardly really clean but at least a little better. He settles on Spock’s other side, wedging his shoulder under Spock’s and draping an arm around him.
Spock mumbles something Jim doesn’t even try to parse, but it has Jim’s name in there somewhere, and Jim grins, silly and dopey, presses his face to the crook of Spock’s neck, and falls asleep.
--
Jim wakes up still tangled in the sheets, the room around him wrapped in sunlight. He blinks, already knowing he’s alone, but, for some reason, the thought isn’t alarming. He stretches languidly, his muscles pleasantly heavy and humming with the night’s echoes. Jim grins to himself and trots into the bathroom.
Spock’s facilities are impressive. The bathtub seems to be able to easily accommodate three people; the shower stall is equipped with all kinds of sprays and could be programmed for a few dozens of what Jim is pretty sure would be most invigorating experiences. He smirks, but opts for sacrificing pleasure for efficiency for the moment.
Spock is in the kitchen when Jim walks in, making what looks like an omelet. The smell is delicious. Grinning, Jim steps closer and wraps his arms around Spock from behind, kissing his neck and eyeing the bright orange eggshells.
“Iollian eggs,” he mumbles, pressing closer and reveling in the fact that he can, that he is allowed. “Why, Spock, I do believe that you intend to spoil me.”
Spock pushes the frying pan aside and turns within Jim’s arms, capturing his lips easily in a gentle kiss. “You are in dire need of being spoiled. It pleases me to have the honor.”
Jim grins against Spock’s lips, and there’s no urgency in the long kiss they share - just lots of simple, uncomplicated enjoyment and warmth.
“The food is getting cold,” Jim mumbles, a little breathless.
Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim laughs, and steals another kiss quickly before they pull apart.
On some level, he was afraid that it would get awkward. Sometimes, watching couples, Jim would feel mildly nauseated, even as Gaila would make strange cooing sounds and tell Jim that they’re adorable. Jim isn’t sure he can handle it if that’s what Spock wants.
But their breakfast is as normal an affair as one can imagine. They sit across from each other, eating and talking about one of Spock’s colleagues and the last video game Sulu and Chekov have been drawn into. Jim jokes, Spock feigns ignorance, and it’s comfortable and easy like the dozens of meals they’d shared before.
The only difference is, their legs are entangled under the table, and Jim can’t stop grinning if it kills him. He’s just so fucking happy he could burst. He grins wider because, oh God, what a way to go.
“Do we have to go?” he whines petulantly, once they’ve dealt with the dishes. “I was hoping we’d go back upstairs, and you would maybe return the favor from last night-”
Spock presses him against the counter and nibbles lightly at the curve of his neck. “Do not tempt me. There is nothing I desire more, but I have an interview scheduled in two hours.”
“Two hours!”
“And you have a bar to run.”
Jim sighs, hands lost under Spock’s shirt. “That’s true.”
“Come back tonight.” Spock kisses along his jawline. “We can do whatever you wish.”
Jim groans softly. “I’ll be beat tonight. It’ll be a full house.”
“Then come back, and I will take care of you.”
Jim pulls him closer. “Promise?”
He can feel Spock’s smile, and it’s almost better than seeing it.
“Yes, Jim. I promise.”
It takes them another ten minutes to finally get going, and another thirty to leave the house.
--
Jim walks into the bar in the middle of Gaila’s morning class and is thus saved from enduring her jibes. But when she catches sight of him and gives him a saucy wink, he can’t help but split into a grin - silly and immature, maybe, but Jim can’t do anything about it. It’s like he’s buzzed without drinking, everything seeming brighter and higher and more this morning.
He’s grateful that the day is busy with restocking and some additional staff training before the evening itself arrives. It’s good that Jim literally doesn’t have a minute to spare, because otherwise he’d be calling Spock and panting down the comm line like a fifteen year old. He’s been in love before, but he can’t remember being this giddy or cross-wired about Ruth or Carol. Spock might as well have put some kind of spell on him.
The night is busy, just as Jim has predicted, and, after a certain point, it starts to take its toll on him. It doesn’t help that he’s spent the last two weeks worrying himself sick, and the mad burst of endorphins in his system isn’t enough to counteract that much stress and fatigue. A brawl that two idiots start when Gaila flips them for trying to grab her ass doesn’t help matters.
Jim hates this kind of shit. He’s been in enough bar fights in his life to know that he doesn’t want any of this anywhere near his establishment. The guys are drunk, though, and they manage to alienate another couple of assholes before Jim even gets there, so fists are flying nice and heavy when Jim reaches them.
He doesn’t have to do much. While Gaila and Janice rush for the buckets of ice specifically preserved for this purpose, a tall, bulky man Jim has never seen before steps inside the fighting circle and effectively knocks everyone out in twelve seconds flat.
Blinking, Jim takes in the man’s appearance. He looks massive and sturdy - an obvious fan of foods that aren’t good for him - but that doesn’t stop him from having some impressive muscles. His hair is cut short, military-style; his jacket resembles a uniform; and his shoulders are squared, as if he’s constantly ready to stand at parade-rest. His eyes look haunted, though, as if he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing here.
Jim steps forward, extending his hand. “I’m Jim Kirk and this is my bar. Would you like a job here?”
The guy clearly seems lost even as he shakes Jim’s hand - more like tries to break it by accident. Then he catches sight of Gaila hovering at Jim’s elbow and blushes like a schoolgirl. Jim glances at Gaila, who’s smiling invitingly and with far more enthusiasm than when Bones tried to make an overture all these years ago.
Jim suppresses a sigh. He’ll have to look this guy up in depth later to find out exactly why he was kicked out of Starfleet; hopefully it wasn’t sexual harassment. From the way the guy blinks bashfully as Gaila leads him away to fill in the paperwork, though, it seems unlikely.
It’s past two in the morning when Jim stumbles into Spock’s house. He wouldn’t be offended if Spock was asleep. In fact, Jim might have preferred it that way, because all he wants now is to crawl into bed beside Spock, wrap himself around him, and go to sleep.
Of course, Spock not only is awake, but he has other ideas.
He takes Jim’s hand and leads him to the bathroom, undressing them both along the way, dropping clothes everywhere. Jim grins sleepily. So much for being a neat freak.
He forgets all about clothes, though, when Spock guides him into deliciously warm bathtub, filled to the brim with multicolored foam. Jim wants to protest that he’s not a girl, but he’s never had a bath like this and is hopelessly distracted by how good it feels. The heady scents are making him pleasantly dizzy, and when Spock settles down behind him, pulling him close, Jim thinks that this is what heaven must feel like.
Jim leans against Spock, relaxed and floating, letting Spock run the washcloth gently all over his body. Spock is thorough and methodical but also torturously slow, and Jim would think that it’s revenge for last night, but he’s so completely and utterly content that he simply can’t be bothered.
He tells Spock about his day and about the fight while Spock’s hands touch him everywhere, slippery smooth and tantalizing. Spock is hard under him, Jim can feel, but he seems to be okay with not doing anything about it, even though Jim can’t help but wriggle teasingly against him. Spock reaches around and strokes Jim, easily coaxing him into a full erection.
Jim turns then, suddenly serious, and straddles Spock’s hips, leaning in and kissing him, deep and hungry and seemingly forever.
Spock’s fingers ghost over Jim’s entrance, slick with something that doesn’t dissolve immediately in the water, and Jim emits a low, happy grunt of approval. He’s so relaxed he hardly needs any of it, but he wants it, because Spock’s fingers are smart, and maybe even seeing, and Jim clenches greedily around them, wanting more.
Spock helps Jim lift up just enough to guide himself in, and Jim moans into his mouth, sliding down inch by inch. It feels wonderful, as if Spock is cutting the strings of tension one by one and immediately replacing the emptiness with the sense of warmth and fullness and dark, churning desire.
It’s glazy and tender and devilishly slow-paced. Jim lets Spock do all the work, content to hold on and kiss him through it, rolling his hips from time to time and swallowing Spock’s quiet moans. Jim doesn’t remember ever feeling so blissed out. Spock moves inside him steadily, gliding over that sweet spot every time, and Jim pants into his mouth, licking the insides of his cheeks, and Spock drops his head further back, letting Jim deepen the angle.
Spock’s hot hand wrapping around him is a surprise that makes Jim jolt, and he can feel Spock’s smug amusement curling around him as Spock begins to jerk him off in time with his thrusts, making Jim crazy with overstimulation. He retaliates by grabbing Spock’s jaw, holding him where Jim wants him, and tongue-fucking his mouth in the dirtiest way possible.
They both come not a moment later, Spock gasping and Jim silently. They kiss through the afterglow, as if the idea of separation doesn’t belong in the same realm.
Spock pulls them out before the water begins to cool and wraps Jim in a gigantic bath towel. Jim tries to protest being manhandled like this, but he can barely stand, never mind keep his eyes open, so real resistance seems to be out of the question.
Spock guides him toward the bed and makes him lie down on his stomach, straddling his thighs and reaching for the massage oil. A new one, Jim notes sleepily - a multi-layered scent with hints of cinnamon.
“Spock.” It comes out mumbled, but Jim tries anyway. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I can’t stay awake for a moment longer.”
“Shh; relax, Jim.” Spock bends down and presses a gentle kiss behind his ear. “I don’t need you awake. Close your eyes and sleep.”
“Mmm… ‘kay.”
He almost doesn’t want to. Spock’s hands on his shoulders and neck feel wonderful - strong, purposeful, relentless. Spock rubs and presses and kneads like an expert - probably is an expert, Jim thinks deliriously. The residual tension melts inside Jim bit by bit almost palpably, like honey in the heart of a roasting apple.
He drifts to sleep with the steady, secure feeling of Spock’s hands on his skin.
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