A Spark of Heavenly Fire (Part 1)
Title: A Spark of Heavenly Fire
Author:
ladyblahblah
Beta:
ninjaboots
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't even own my own car. It's very sad. Nothing but the plot and OCs are mine, I'm making no money from this, please don't sue me.
Summary: A transporter incident results in genderswapped!Jim. He reacts . . . pretty much like you'd expect.
Author's Note: First off, I should mention that this is an auction fic for cannedebonbon and I am SO SORRY, oh god that was back in February, I can't believe I haven't gotten this to you yet I'm terrible. >_< However, here is the first part! It has Jim, and boobs, and . . . Jim and boobs? Sorry, sorry, sorry again. >_<
Additionally, there will be a quick note about pronouns at the end of this part. Thank you for your attention..
There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.
WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Book
Day 1
“Everything's looking fine, sir. Um. Captain.” Christine opens her mouth, closes it again, and turns her attention back to her tricorder with a small shake of her head. “Vitals are all strong and steady; your cholesterol is a little high,” she adds with a significant look, “but that's nothing we haven't been telling you for the past six months. If you don't look out, Dr. McCoy's going to actually put you on that diet like he keeps threatening to.”
“You've gotta enjoy life while you can, Lieutenant, otherwise what's the point? And a salad is not enjoying life.” Jim grins at her. “And you can still call me 'sir' if you want to.”
“Yes, sir,” she says dryly, and Jim's grin widens. “As I was saying, you seem perfectly healthy. Just like the others.”
“Right. So I can go? Present company aside, sickbay isn't exactly my favorite place on the ship.”
“You can go back to your quarters, yes.” Her voice is firm, and the look on her face says that there's no room for negotiation. With M'Benga on leave and McCoy out of commission as well, she's clearly taking her role as acting chief medical officer seriously. Jim wonders, not for the first time, if there's a file somewhere in Bones's office labeled: Jim Kirk: How To Ensure He Doesn't Get Away With Any Of His Horseshit. It would certainly explain a lot. “Until we get official word from Starfleet Command-”
“I'm on suspended duty. I know, I already got the speech from Spock. Don't worry, I'm not gonna sneak onto the bridge and hope no one notices me in the center seat. I'll be good, I promise.”
“Uh huh.” Christine clearly doesn't believe it for a minute, which . . . okay, fair. She doesn't press the issue, though, which automatically wins her points over Bones, as far as Jim's concerned. “Just try to stay out of trouble? And don't make me send security to drag you back here in two days, because you know I'll do it.”
“I don't doubt that for a minute,” Jim mutters, and hops down off of the biobed, only stumbling a little. “You've got my word, I'll be here.”
“Good. Now, I have other patients to see, and Dr. McCoy's notes to try to make sense of.” Christine's eyes glint wickedly; it's the first crack in her professionalism since the away team beamed aboard, and something in Jim relaxes seeing it. “Run along, little lady.”
Jim glares up at her, shifting her shoulders uncomfortably. “It's weird that you're taller than me now.”
“Only by a couple of inches,” Christine says soothingly, but her smile speaks volumes. Jim's pretty sure she's resisting the urge to pat her on the head. “Go on, get.”
“Just because you've taken over for Bones doesn't mean you have to start talking like him you know.” Jim quickly raises her hands in surrender. “I'm going, I'm going! Jeez.”
“And try to eat something healthy for dinner.”
“Sorry, can't hear you,” Jim calls over her shoulder, “I'm too far away!”
She's slowly getting accustomed to this new body, but walking through the corridors still feels strange. She knows the technical reasons behind it-the shift in her body mass and center of gravity, not to mention the fact that everything just looks wrong from a vantage point five inches shorter than what she's used to-but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. The crew is giving her the occasional odd look, as well; whether that's because they've heard about what happened, or because she's barefoot and wearing clothes that fit oddly now, to say the least, she doesn't know. All she's really sure of is that she can't get to her quarters quickly enough.
Unfortunately, when she does finally make it there, it isn't quite the haven she'd imagined. It's quiet, yes, and away from curious eyes, but just as they had in the corridors, things look wrong. She lowers herself onto the sofa in a graceless heap, something she's done a hundred times before. She's used to having farther to go than she does now, however, and hits the cushions sooner than expected with a jarring thump.
Jim takes a deep breath and buries her face in her hands. She's been putting on a good face until now, keeping it together for the sake of the crew, especially Bones and Chekov. They're all three in the same boat on this, and falling apart in front of them isn't going to help anything. But in the quiet dimness of her own quarters, Jim allows herself a few moments to quietly but decidedly freak the fuck out.
“Is it permanent?”
“I dinna know, sir; I don't even know what happened!”
Jim shakes her head, clearing out the echoes of the overheard conversation. There's no use dwelling on it. So they might not be able to turn her back; if that's the case, then she'll just have to deal with it. And part of dealing, she tells herself sternly, is getting up off her ass and facing what's happened to her head-on.
There's a decently-sized mirror in the bathroom, and for several long moments she simply stands there, forcing herself to take in the sight of her new reflection. It could be worse, she acknowledges; quite a lot worse. Her face is a little narrower, and her eyes are a little larger, sure, but she's still recognizably him. Same bushy eyebrows, even if they're a little thinner now. Same hair, which she has to say is an unexpected relief, and she's surprised at how well it actually goes with her new look. Her smile, when she manages to summon one up, is the same, and yes, there's that old familiar scar on her cheek.
“Still me,” she mutters thankfully, and then her eyes drift down to her chest and she grins. “With a few additions.”
She strips out of her shirt without a second thought, and her breath releases on a quiet sigh. Her breasts aren't especially large-not as full as Bones's are, certainly, which Jim is still telling herself is no reason to be jealous-but they're well-shaped and they hang on her chest with a pleasant sort of weight. The nipples are a soft, deep pink, and already tightening in the cooler air. Jim reaches up-her hands are so much smaller now, it's strange-and gently cups the lower swell, feeling them rest against her palms. Her pulse is picking up already, and when she lets her index fingers skim over her nipples she gasps, instinctively pressing forward into the touch. Jim's always
had sensitive nipples, but this is something else entirely. It sends a deep, immediate tug through her body, and heat begins to build between her thighs.
Before she can get distracted she slides her hands down, over a lean, flat stomach to the top of newly curved hips. Pants and underwear are removed as quickly as her shirt had been, and she stands on her toes to get a better look over the counter. A thick thatch of hair forms a rough triangle between her legs; turning around, she manages a glimpse of the swell of her ass and lets out a low whistle.
She is a babe.
Tempting as this unexpected bright side to this situation may be, she's abruptly distracted by a loud, insistent rumble from her stomach. She hasn't actually eaten since before they beamed aboard close to ten hours ago, and it's high time she rectified that situation now that she's not stuck in sickbay anymore.
Her first order of business, then, is to find clothes that come closer to actually fitting this body. She rustles up a pair of boxers that serve well enough when she rolls them at the waist, and a pair of drawstring sweatpants that she cinches tight and cuffs until they're short enough. None of her shoes will fit at all, but by god if she has to walk barefoot through her ship again to get some food, that's what she'll do. She's still digging through her drawers for an appropriate shirt when there's a buzz at the bathroom door, and she calls out without thinking.
“C'mon in, Spock.” She turns around as she hears the door slide open, shirt gripped in one hand. “Any word from command yet?”
“No, sir.” Spock's left eyebrow lifts just a fraction, and he averts his eyes to a spot somewhere above and to the left of Jim's shoulder. “Perhaps I should return when you are fully dressed?” he suggests dryly.
“Huh? Oh!” Jim is torn between embarrassment and delight at the spots of color that have appeared high on Spock's cheeks. “Sorry,” she says with a grin, and starts to tug her shirt on. “Guess I'm not used to thinking about being topless around you.” It's not exactly true; he'd always been extremely aware of his own state of undress around Spock, it was just much easier to get away with it before. “You can look again, I'm decent. You don't really think the brass will make me stay on leave just because of this, do you?” she presses. “My mind's fine, it's just my body that's a little . . . different.”
“I can not say for certain.” Spock looks thoughtful as he returns his eyes to Jim. “If they are disinclined to allow you back on the bridge, however, I would presume that you might have a reasonable case for a discrimination suit.”
Jim lets out a laugh and steps forward to clap him on the arm. It's a longer reach than she's used to, and she fights back the wave of unease that causes.
“That's looking on the bright side.” She jerks her head towards the corridor. “I was just about to go grab some dinner. Come to the mess with me and we'll go over ship's status. Just for my own peace of mind,” she clarifies when Spock looks ready to protest. “Just because I'm not in charge of her right now doesn't mean I don't still have an interest in how she's doing.”
“Very well,” Spock says after a long moment. His eyebrow wings higher as Jim heads for the door. “You plan to wear those clothes outside of your quarters?”
Jim lifts her arms to the sides. “This is all I have that'll fit. Not exactly regulation, but then, I'm not exactly on duty, am I?” Spock's lips twitch just a bit at that, and Jim grins proudly. “Unless you've got a better suggestion?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good. I'll stop by the ship's stores after I get some food. If nothing else, I need to get some shoes; I'm not walking around the ship barefoot any longer than I have to.”
“I . . .” Spock's hesitation brings Jim up short again. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is a replicator here in your quarters. Do you truly think it advisable to go to the mess, amidst the rest of the crew, in your current state?”
“Yes, I do. I can't just hide in here, Spock,” Jim says quietly. “I'm still their captain, and they need to see me; I can't let them think that this is all it takes to shake me. Besides.” She squares her shoulders. “Gender's just a construct, after all. Why not have a little bit of fun deconstructing it?”
Spock regards her silently for a moment before he nods. “Indeed, sir.”
“Well. Now that that's settled, let's go get some dinner.” She leads the way, grinning back over her shoulder. “And just because we're down the rabbit hole, don't let that make you afraid to call me Jim. Unless you'd prefer Jamie?”
“Perhaps we should stop at the ship's stores sooner rather than later, Jim,” Spock says dryly, and Jim laughs.
“That's the spirit, Mr. Spock. All right; let's go shopping.”
Author's Note 2: After much going back and forth, I finally settled on female pronouns for girl!Jim, as I feel it better communicates the psychological impact of this change. I do not mean to imply, however, that suddenly having a biologically female body automatically makes him a woman. I'd originally intended to begin with male pronouns and then shift into female as his mindset alters, but it simply wasn't working from a technical standpoint. However, I do see nu!Jim as rather fluid in his understanding and expression of his own gender, and likely to fling himself as enthusiastically into female-presentation as he embraces traditional masculinity in the normal course of things. It is never my intent to offend anyone by my writing choices, but if you have any objections or concerns, please feel free to contact me to discuss them. Thank you again for your time.
Author:
ladyblahblah
Beta:
ninjaboots
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't even own my own car. It's very sad. Nothing but the plot and OCs are mine, I'm making no money from this, please don't sue me.
Summary: A transporter incident results in genderswapped!Jim. He reacts . . . pretty much like you'd expect.
Author's Note: First off, I should mention that this is an auction fic for cannedebonbon and I am SO SORRY, oh god that was back in February, I can't believe I haven't gotten this to you yet I'm terrible. >_< However, here is the first part! It has Jim, and boobs, and . . . Jim and boobs? Sorry, sorry, sorry again. >_<
Additionally, there will be a quick note about pronouns at the end of this part. Thank you for your attention..
There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.
WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Book
Day 1
“Everything's looking fine, sir. Um. Captain.” Christine opens her mouth, closes it again, and turns her attention back to her tricorder with a small shake of her head. “Vitals are all strong and steady; your cholesterol is a little high,” she adds with a significant look, “but that's nothing we haven't been telling you for the past six months. If you don't look out, Dr. McCoy's going to actually put you on that diet like he keeps threatening to.”
“You've gotta enjoy life while you can, Lieutenant, otherwise what's the point? And a salad is not enjoying life.” Jim grins at her. “And you can still call me 'sir' if you want to.”
“Yes, sir,” she says dryly, and Jim's grin widens. “As I was saying, you seem perfectly healthy. Just like the others.”
“Right. So I can go? Present company aside, sickbay isn't exactly my favorite place on the ship.”
“You can go back to your quarters, yes.” Her voice is firm, and the look on her face says that there's no room for negotiation. With M'Benga on leave and McCoy out of commission as well, she's clearly taking her role as acting chief medical officer seriously. Jim wonders, not for the first time, if there's a file somewhere in Bones's office labeled: Jim Kirk: How To Ensure He Doesn't Get Away With Any Of His Horseshit. It would certainly explain a lot. “Until we get official word from Starfleet Command-”
“I'm on suspended duty. I know, I already got the speech from Spock. Don't worry, I'm not gonna sneak onto the bridge and hope no one notices me in the center seat. I'll be good, I promise.”
“Uh huh.” Christine clearly doesn't believe it for a minute, which . . . okay, fair. She doesn't press the issue, though, which automatically wins her points over Bones, as far as Jim's concerned. “Just try to stay out of trouble? And don't make me send security to drag you back here in two days, because you know I'll do it.”
“I don't doubt that for a minute,” Jim mutters, and hops down off of the biobed, only stumbling a little. “You've got my word, I'll be here.”
“Good. Now, I have other patients to see, and Dr. McCoy's notes to try to make sense of.” Christine's eyes glint wickedly; it's the first crack in her professionalism since the away team beamed aboard, and something in Jim relaxes seeing it. “Run along, little lady.”
Jim glares up at her, shifting her shoulders uncomfortably. “It's weird that you're taller than me now.”
“Only by a couple of inches,” Christine says soothingly, but her smile speaks volumes. Jim's pretty sure she's resisting the urge to pat her on the head. “Go on, get.”
“Just because you've taken over for Bones doesn't mean you have to start talking like him you know.” Jim quickly raises her hands in surrender. “I'm going, I'm going! Jeez.”
“And try to eat something healthy for dinner.”
“Sorry, can't hear you,” Jim calls over her shoulder, “I'm too far away!”
She's slowly getting accustomed to this new body, but walking through the corridors still feels strange. She knows the technical reasons behind it-the shift in her body mass and center of gravity, not to mention the fact that everything just looks wrong from a vantage point five inches shorter than what she's used to-but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. The crew is giving her the occasional odd look, as well; whether that's because they've heard about what happened, or because she's barefoot and wearing clothes that fit oddly now, to say the least, she doesn't know. All she's really sure of is that she can't get to her quarters quickly enough.
Unfortunately, when she does finally make it there, it isn't quite the haven she'd imagined. It's quiet, yes, and away from curious eyes, but just as they had in the corridors, things look wrong. She lowers herself onto the sofa in a graceless heap, something she's done a hundred times before. She's used to having farther to go than she does now, however, and hits the cushions sooner than expected with a jarring thump.
Jim takes a deep breath and buries her face in her hands. She's been putting on a good face until now, keeping it together for the sake of the crew, especially Bones and Chekov. They're all three in the same boat on this, and falling apart in front of them isn't going to help anything. But in the quiet dimness of her own quarters, Jim allows herself a few moments to quietly but decidedly freak the fuck out.
“Is it permanent?”
“I dinna know, sir; I don't even know what happened!”
Jim shakes her head, clearing out the echoes of the overheard conversation. There's no use dwelling on it. So they might not be able to turn her back; if that's the case, then she'll just have to deal with it. And part of dealing, she tells herself sternly, is getting up off her ass and facing what's happened to her head-on.
There's a decently-sized mirror in the bathroom, and for several long moments she simply stands there, forcing herself to take in the sight of her new reflection. It could be worse, she acknowledges; quite a lot worse. Her face is a little narrower, and her eyes are a little larger, sure, but she's still recognizably him. Same bushy eyebrows, even if they're a little thinner now. Same hair, which she has to say is an unexpected relief, and she's surprised at how well it actually goes with her new look. Her smile, when she manages to summon one up, is the same, and yes, there's that old familiar scar on her cheek.
“Still me,” she mutters thankfully, and then her eyes drift down to her chest and she grins. “With a few additions.”
She strips out of her shirt without a second thought, and her breath releases on a quiet sigh. Her breasts aren't especially large-not as full as Bones's are, certainly, which Jim is still telling herself is no reason to be jealous-but they're well-shaped and they hang on her chest with a pleasant sort of weight. The nipples are a soft, deep pink, and already tightening in the cooler air. Jim reaches up-her hands are so much smaller now, it's strange-and gently cups the lower swell, feeling them rest against her palms. Her pulse is picking up already, and when she lets her index fingers skim over her nipples she gasps, instinctively pressing forward into the touch. Jim's always
had sensitive nipples, but this is something else entirely. It sends a deep, immediate tug through her body, and heat begins to build between her thighs.
Before she can get distracted she slides her hands down, over a lean, flat stomach to the top of newly curved hips. Pants and underwear are removed as quickly as her shirt had been, and she stands on her toes to get a better look over the counter. A thick thatch of hair forms a rough triangle between her legs; turning around, she manages a glimpse of the swell of her ass and lets out a low whistle.
She is a babe.
Tempting as this unexpected bright side to this situation may be, she's abruptly distracted by a loud, insistent rumble from her stomach. She hasn't actually eaten since before they beamed aboard close to ten hours ago, and it's high time she rectified that situation now that she's not stuck in sickbay anymore.
Her first order of business, then, is to find clothes that come closer to actually fitting this body. She rustles up a pair of boxers that serve well enough when she rolls them at the waist, and a pair of drawstring sweatpants that she cinches tight and cuffs until they're short enough. None of her shoes will fit at all, but by god if she has to walk barefoot through her ship again to get some food, that's what she'll do. She's still digging through her drawers for an appropriate shirt when there's a buzz at the bathroom door, and she calls out without thinking.
“C'mon in, Spock.” She turns around as she hears the door slide open, shirt gripped in one hand. “Any word from command yet?”
“No, sir.” Spock's left eyebrow lifts just a fraction, and he averts his eyes to a spot somewhere above and to the left of Jim's shoulder. “Perhaps I should return when you are fully dressed?” he suggests dryly.
“Huh? Oh!” Jim is torn between embarrassment and delight at the spots of color that have appeared high on Spock's cheeks. “Sorry,” she says with a grin, and starts to tug her shirt on. “Guess I'm not used to thinking about being topless around you.” It's not exactly true; he'd always been extremely aware of his own state of undress around Spock, it was just much easier to get away with it before. “You can look again, I'm decent. You don't really think the brass will make me stay on leave just because of this, do you?” she presses. “My mind's fine, it's just my body that's a little . . . different.”
“I can not say for certain.” Spock looks thoughtful as he returns his eyes to Jim. “If they are disinclined to allow you back on the bridge, however, I would presume that you might have a reasonable case for a discrimination suit.”
Jim lets out a laugh and steps forward to clap him on the arm. It's a longer reach than she's used to, and she fights back the wave of unease that causes.
“That's looking on the bright side.” She jerks her head towards the corridor. “I was just about to go grab some dinner. Come to the mess with me and we'll go over ship's status. Just for my own peace of mind,” she clarifies when Spock looks ready to protest. “Just because I'm not in charge of her right now doesn't mean I don't still have an interest in how she's doing.”
“Very well,” Spock says after a long moment. His eyebrow wings higher as Jim heads for the door. “You plan to wear those clothes outside of your quarters?”
Jim lifts her arms to the sides. “This is all I have that'll fit. Not exactly regulation, but then, I'm not exactly on duty, am I?” Spock's lips twitch just a bit at that, and Jim grins proudly. “Unless you've got a better suggestion?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good. I'll stop by the ship's stores after I get some food. If nothing else, I need to get some shoes; I'm not walking around the ship barefoot any longer than I have to.”
“I . . .” Spock's hesitation brings Jim up short again. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is a replicator here in your quarters. Do you truly think it advisable to go to the mess, amidst the rest of the crew, in your current state?”
“Yes, I do. I can't just hide in here, Spock,” Jim says quietly. “I'm still their captain, and they need to see me; I can't let them think that this is all it takes to shake me. Besides.” She squares her shoulders. “Gender's just a construct, after all. Why not have a little bit of fun deconstructing it?”
Spock regards her silently for a moment before he nods. “Indeed, sir.”
“Well. Now that that's settled, let's go get some dinner.” She leads the way, grinning back over her shoulder. “And just because we're down the rabbit hole, don't let that make you afraid to call me Jim. Unless you'd prefer Jamie?”
“Perhaps we should stop at the ship's stores sooner rather than later, Jim,” Spock says dryly, and Jim laughs.
“That's the spirit, Mr. Spock. All right; let's go shopping.”
Author's Note 2: After much going back and forth, I finally settled on female pronouns for girl!Jim, as I feel it better communicates the psychological impact of this change. I do not mean to imply, however, that suddenly having a biologically female body automatically makes him a woman. I'd originally intended to begin with male pronouns and then shift into female as his mindset alters, but it simply wasn't working from a technical standpoint. However, I do see nu!Jim as rather fluid in his understanding and expression of his own gender, and likely to fling himself as enthusiastically into female-presentation as he embraces traditional masculinity in the normal course of things. It is never my intent to offend anyone by my writing choices, but if you have any objections or concerns, please feel free to contact me to discuss them. Thank you again for your time.