STXI fic: One Last Night On Earth, Spock/Uhura, R
Title: One Last Night On Earth
Author: northatlantic
Pairing: Spock/Uhura, implied Kirk/McCoy (only there if you squint)
Rating: R for sex, language
Summary: Two scenes between the Enterprise's return to Earth and Spock's conversation with Spock Prime, Spock POV
A/N: although there is sex in this, it's actually far more gen than romance. Mostly me wanting there to have been more of a meeting of the minds of Spock and Kirk after Stuff Went Down In Space.
He composed the letter and sent it from his quarters, before he went to present Kirk his plan to beam aboard the Narada.
Dear Admiral Komack:
Upon reflection and greater acquaintance with the student in question, I wish to withdraw my allegation of academic dishonesty in the matter of Kirk, James T, student ID 2-0842-08-2832-082. When one has the good fortune to be teaching students who challenge one's own ability, there will always be instances in which the student will identify a hitherto-unconsidered interpretation of a complex problem that is not one the instructor intended. In this case, it is the instructor's obligation to thoroughly examine the problem and the unorthodox solution for its intellectual soundness and applicability. I regret to inform you that this was not done at the time. In this case, I have come to realize that Cadet Kirk's solution is, indeed, a solution, representing a deeper understanding of the material than this instructor had at the time charges were laid, and it would be academic dishonesty on my part not to admit my error in this instance. I would not advocate that this interpretation be encouraged at large, as the vast majority of cadets have not learned the lesson the Kobayashi Maru is intended to teach and I stand by the worth and applicability of this information. Cadet Kirk's solution is one that can only be correctly applied by a student that has not only previously absorbed this material, but also by a caliber of intellect and determination his equal, and it is unrealistic to encourage this as a general standard for achievement.
Please convey Cadet Kirk my apologies on this misunderstanding, and my highest regards for his abilities as a leader in times of desperate adversity.
Sincerely,
Spock, CMDR
Starfleet Academy Center For Professional Military Ethics
Behavioral Science and Leadership Group
At that point, he had not realized that any of them would be coming back alive, least of all himself, and that one James T. Kirk would feel compelled to act on what he read in it.
***
The tap on his door comes when he is deep in meditation, or if Spock is honest with himself, deep in trying to meditate and mostly failing. And of everyone who might have come, he does not expect Kirk, once more in red, to be there. "Spock. Komack gave me this." He hands him a print-copy of the letter from the Enterprise. "May I come in, if I'm not interrupting?"
"You are not." Which was true; he is nowhere near achieving calm or even emotional distance, so perhaps what he is meant to be doing is testing his control. James Kirk is certainly a useful expedient for that exercise. "Please come in. I apologize that the climate control is currently reflecting Vulcan comfort more than human. I encourage you to remove your jacket."
"Feels like Iowa in August." Kirk does, slings it over his arm. "I wanted to tell you, Spock, that you didn't have to do that. You were right, I did cheat. I was emotionally compromised by the assignment as much as you were on the bridge, and for some of the same reasons. And I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for doing that. I wish I could have found another way. It was unfair, and I knew it."
"Captain--" It is not official, but this is something else he knows, and put his weight behind Pike's without hesitation when it was put forward.
"Jim," Kirk corrects firmly. "It's Jim."
"Jim," Spock concedes. "It is not required. You were correct to do it. We had neither the time nor the luxury of coordination with the remains of the fleet, and I was unable to contemplate the advantages of a solo action because I was too afraid I would be doing it simply because it was what I wanted, what my anger demanded."
"Nevertheless. I hurt you doing it, and even knowing I'd do it again doesn't make it something I'm proud of, or something I enjoyed. I don't understand your people, but. I wanted you to know I do know you feel, you hurt, terribly, for what happened. And although it seems like such an inadequate thing to say, I'm sorry for your loss." He looks down. "Some of us will be at the Dockside tonight, to remember people in a less formal sort of way than the memorials. If you're not able to do that, if it's not something you're comfortable with I understand, but if you can I'd like you to join us."
"I will consider it." Spock looks at him. "Jim. I do know why you did what you did for the Kobayashi Maru, now. It is why I do not think you cheated. You passed your first time, for the record. It was an acceptable mark, and as the Kobayashi Maru is a pass/fail exercise, you were not able to improve upon it for purposes of your transcript. It is why I should have realized earlier that you were...attempting to achieve something else, when you insisted on retaking it."
"In any event, it's done," Kirk says, refusing to meet his eyes now, and Spock realizes with something approaching amusement that for all that he is human Kirk finds this discussion almost as difficult and embarrassing as he does. "And if you're coming tonight everybody should be there by six, except Bones, he's on until seven and then he'll come down. Do you drink alcohol, Spock?"
"On occasion. You need not make any special accommodation for me."
Jim's lips curve wryly. "We'll see you there, then. Later, Spock." He goes to the door.
"Captain." This time it gets a questioning glance over Jim's shoulder as he goes, and this also amuses Spock a little. It is easier to meditate afterwards, and as it would defeat the purpose of the exercise to question that too closely, Spock does not.
***
The Dockside is not someplace that Spock has ever been; he knows of its existence, of course, but he did not go out drinking with his fellow cadets to socialize and when it became occasionally necessary as an instructor, invited along with his colleagues, there was an unspoken divide between faculty bars and student bars, a common social convention allowing each population to unbend from the constraints inherent in the student/instructor relationship. However, the Dockside tonight is unwontedly somber considering the tales that had usually been brought back from it by fellow cadets, a tang in the air of grief and emptiness and Spock closes his eyes at the realization, again, that fewer than one in five of the graduating class has returned for a last glass. No matter what this place has been like in the past, it will not be so again while they are there to see it.
"Spock," Jim calls, breaking into his thoughts. "Over here."
The Bridge crew has assembled in a small knot in one of the larger corner booths and Nyota's eyes shine with something painfully bright when she sees him, although she does not reach out to touch. Spock regrets this with the keenness of a blade in his chest, the inability to be what she needs and deserves, to give her the comfort of his presence but he is afraid that once he touches her he will never be able to let go, will fail his people when they need all of their sons, even the ones who are...disadvantaged. His hand closes around the glass Jim sets in front of him and he welcomes it; it will take longer to affect him, but eventually it will numb as it would one of his mother's people. A weakness that in this case is a gift.
"Okay, people," Jim says after setting down the round he has apparently purchased. "I'm only going to say this once, and I mean it. We're here for a party, dammit. Because we can drink, and tell embarrassing stories, and laugh and cry and hold onto each other. Because we all brought them back with us, in the things we remember about them, the things we love, and that's only gone if we bury it. We owe them better than a plaque on a wall, and someplace we don't go in our head because it hurts too much," and the look on Jim's face is iron and far away at that for a moment before he goes on. "We'll start with everybody telling a stupid, embarrassing, lame-ass story about yourself for someone who can't be here to tell it. If we can't laugh for them we can laugh at ourselves, right? I'll go first."
He launches into a highly improbable and indeed embarrassing story about Lieutenant Knowles in the science division, who Spock remembers as a fairly straightlaced and straightforward individual, and this is something he would not have guessed of her, would not have known. "And so there I am, naked, covered in this bright purple crap that it took a week and thirty showers to get rid of, and she says, cool as can be, "Oh, and by the way, there's no such thing as Andorian crotch rot, I put itching powder in your coverall. In fairness, however, I will admit it's a perfectly average-sized dick, so it must be your brain you're compensating for."
The whole table bursts out in horrified and appreciative laughter, and Sulu raises his glass at that when he can breathe. "That kind of reminds me of a story--not about my dick, thank god, and thank you Jim for the image SEARED into my brain--" And the stories pass around the table to him, and he can see their uncertainty but nods his head gently. "My anecdote is perhaps not as colorful," his eyebrow launches up and Jim smirks back, "but when I was first employed with Starfleet Academy, I was working with the universal translator group. We had just made contact at that time with the X'Tang people, who have a highly tonal language, something I had had only limited experience with outside the classroom, and I was perhaps...overambitious in my understanding of their idiom. Ensign X'Tanne," he swallowed, "on the Hood, was one of our first recruits from X'Tang. She came to me shortly after instruction began, to inform me that her translator must have had a fault in its logic circuit, since it kept repeatedly translating 'it would be my pleasure,' as 'I would like to give you pleasure of a sexual nature,' and while flattered, she was certain that could not be correct. This is the same subroutine, you understand, that was used in the initial diplomatic meetings with the X'Tang." Spock bit his lip.
"Those must have been some...interesting negotiations," Jim says, tongue tucked in his cheek, and the table, very quiet until that moment, breaks up in laughter. It is, however, somehow kind, a shared acknowledgment of vulnerability rather than mocking, and Spock finds he does not mind.
Nyota is about to begin her story when she stops, eyes wide and vulnerable and everyone's gaze settles on Dr. McCoy trudging in, undress black instead of Science-blue and his hair still wet from the shower. "Holding her own, Nyota darlin'," he says, eyes tired but smiling. "And now, breathing on her own. It's a good sign." Belatedly, Spock realized that McCoy must have been with Ensign Gaila; it seemed impossibly cruel that after surviving the catastrophes that had taken so many lives, the Orion girl had been injured in the repairs that had carried the survivors home, an overloaded panel that she'd been working on blowing up. He glances over at Jim, whose shoulders have slumped a little bit in relief, although unlike Nyota's, his eyes have not cleared of worry. "Dammit, Jim, where's my drink? you promised me booze," McCoy says acerbically, although it is quite clear that rather than temper he is teasing to lift the cloud passing over his friend's face.
"It is not your turn," Spock says as Jim gathers himself to get up. "I believe it is mine. Doctor, do you have a specific requirement?"
McCoy's eyebrow leaps for his hairline, but all he says is, "Thank you, Spock. Bourbon, neat."
"So anyway. I was going to say, speaking of languages and misunderstandings..." And there is something easier in Nyota's carriage as he comes back and distributes beverages, the drink for the doctor which he recognizes as the first and not unpleasant drink Jim had given him, something called 'sweet tea' vodka for Jim which he keeps trying to convince a skeptical McCoy to try, regular vodka and tonic for an equally skeptical Chekov 'wodka does NOT have tea in it. that's just wrong,' and something called a 'gimlet' for Sulu which smells sharply tangy and possibly pleasant. Nyota's preferred Cardassian sunrise is sweeter than Spock would choose, although the taste of it also recalls to him now the taste of her mouth and it is therefore attractive by association. He tries several of the beverages as the evening goes on, as the crew continues to tell stories, funny stories, tender stories, rambling anecdotes that others begin to break into to share their own impressions, weaving and tangling together, no longer individual threads.
More and more people filter in as the evening goes on, more chairs found and much, much more alcohol consumed, heads resting on shoulders and knees against knees, arms around shoulders as the survivors seek comfort in simple closeness. Spock's hand finds Nyota's without his conscious volition; he can feel her startlement flowing through that connection, a well of pain and need and want and he draws her in, lips against her hairline, unable to retreat to propriety when all that will do is add to her distress. More, he is unable to deny himself the comfort of her warmth, that the thoughts that he had thought would be his last had been of her and he is still confused and torn but tonight does not need to be a resolution. Tonight is for comfort, for the needed remembrance of what is still here along with what has been lost.
McCoy is holding himself apart a little bit, quietly watchful, and Spock notices him at more than one point getting up to follow someone who has left to collect themselves, overcome. Jim also, he realizes, has not let himself go, watches the doctor surreptitiously while keeping control of the larger gathering. He is working hard to keep the mood more nostalgic than painful, needling and laughing, bright steady energy and purpose that mask his own fatigue and grief, something Spock cannot help but feel when Jim touches him, a casual hand as he stands behind Spock's chair talking to someone else. "Jim," he says, leaning back to catch his eyes. "You and Doctor McCoy must allow yourselves the care that you give your crew."
Jim's surprise is transmitted through that contact, then weary amusement and resignation as he slaps Spock on the back before letting his hand slip away. "Duly noted, Commander. But the night's young and I'm good for a while."
Nyota looks up at him and he can feel a thread of warmth from her, a tenderness of a different kind. "Spock," she says, getting up and pulling away, offering him a hand. "It's warm in here and I need some air. Will you walk with me?"
"Of course," he murmurs, lets her lead him out, her mind full of him, of them, of a fierce and luminous need to touch and be touched. This, too, he cannot deny himself and he surprises her by catching her and drawing her into him as soon as they are outside, his mouth hungry against hers.
"Spock, I know you asked me not to, but--"
He lays his fingertips against her mouth, her tear-bright eyes closing and he brushes kisses over them. "Tomorrow," he murmurs, and it is enough, her mouth firming in pain and resolve and she nods as they start to walk back to the Academy, still hand in hand, the awareness beating bright and hot between them.
They do not speak again that night, save meaningless whispers: yes, please, more, faster, Vulcan and Standard, deities and profanities, as Nyota's body rises over his and she rides him, hands linked into his. Their encounters before had been tender, tentative; tonight there is neither the desire nor the ability to protect the other from pain as they take each other. He knows Nyota will have bruises from his hands, as they bite into her slim thighs and he pushes up into her, that he will bear the imprint of her teeth in his shoulder when she comes. It feels better, cleaner than tenderness would have, leaves them both replete and empty and able to accept comfort, Nyota's lips on his throat, his hands in her hair as she cries afterwards. Her tears have the salt-sweetness of the tang of her mouth on the glass they had shared, of her slick and tender flesh as he slides down her body and her hands tangle into his hair.
Tomorrow is a time to begin, or to end. Tonight is suspended like the stars overhead, a space to breathe and to hold on before letting go.
Author: northatlantic
Pairing: Spock/Uhura, implied Kirk/McCoy (only there if you squint)
Rating: R for sex, language
Summary: Two scenes between the Enterprise's return to Earth and Spock's conversation with Spock Prime, Spock POV
A/N: although there is sex in this, it's actually far more gen than romance. Mostly me wanting there to have been more of a meeting of the minds of Spock and Kirk after Stuff Went Down In Space.
He composed the letter and sent it from his quarters, before he went to present Kirk his plan to beam aboard the Narada.
Dear Admiral Komack:
Upon reflection and greater acquaintance with the student in question, I wish to withdraw my allegation of academic dishonesty in the matter of Kirk, James T, student ID 2-0842-08-2832-082. When one has the good fortune to be teaching students who challenge one's own ability, there will always be instances in which the student will identify a hitherto-unconsidered interpretation of a complex problem that is not one the instructor intended. In this case, it is the instructor's obligation to thoroughly examine the problem and the unorthodox solution for its intellectual soundness and applicability. I regret to inform you that this was not done at the time. In this case, I have come to realize that Cadet Kirk's solution is, indeed, a solution, representing a deeper understanding of the material than this instructor had at the time charges were laid, and it would be academic dishonesty on my part not to admit my error in this instance. I would not advocate that this interpretation be encouraged at large, as the vast majority of cadets have not learned the lesson the Kobayashi Maru is intended to teach and I stand by the worth and applicability of this information. Cadet Kirk's solution is one that can only be correctly applied by a student that has not only previously absorbed this material, but also by a caliber of intellect and determination his equal, and it is unrealistic to encourage this as a general standard for achievement.
Please convey Cadet Kirk my apologies on this misunderstanding, and my highest regards for his abilities as a leader in times of desperate adversity.
Sincerely,
Spock, CMDR
Starfleet Academy Center For Professional Military Ethics
Behavioral Science and Leadership Group
At that point, he had not realized that any of them would be coming back alive, least of all himself, and that one James T. Kirk would feel compelled to act on what he read in it.
***
The tap on his door comes when he is deep in meditation, or if Spock is honest with himself, deep in trying to meditate and mostly failing. And of everyone who might have come, he does not expect Kirk, once more in red, to be there. "Spock. Komack gave me this." He hands him a print-copy of the letter from the Enterprise. "May I come in, if I'm not interrupting?"
"You are not." Which was true; he is nowhere near achieving calm or even emotional distance, so perhaps what he is meant to be doing is testing his control. James Kirk is certainly a useful expedient for that exercise. "Please come in. I apologize that the climate control is currently reflecting Vulcan comfort more than human. I encourage you to remove your jacket."
"Feels like Iowa in August." Kirk does, slings it over his arm. "I wanted to tell you, Spock, that you didn't have to do that. You were right, I did cheat. I was emotionally compromised by the assignment as much as you were on the bridge, and for some of the same reasons. And I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for doing that. I wish I could have found another way. It was unfair, and I knew it."
"Captain--" It is not official, but this is something else he knows, and put his weight behind Pike's without hesitation when it was put forward.
"Jim," Kirk corrects firmly. "It's Jim."
"Jim," Spock concedes. "It is not required. You were correct to do it. We had neither the time nor the luxury of coordination with the remains of the fleet, and I was unable to contemplate the advantages of a solo action because I was too afraid I would be doing it simply because it was what I wanted, what my anger demanded."
"Nevertheless. I hurt you doing it, and even knowing I'd do it again doesn't make it something I'm proud of, or something I enjoyed. I don't understand your people, but. I wanted you to know I do know you feel, you hurt, terribly, for what happened. And although it seems like such an inadequate thing to say, I'm sorry for your loss." He looks down. "Some of us will be at the Dockside tonight, to remember people in a less formal sort of way than the memorials. If you're not able to do that, if it's not something you're comfortable with I understand, but if you can I'd like you to join us."
"I will consider it." Spock looks at him. "Jim. I do know why you did what you did for the Kobayashi Maru, now. It is why I do not think you cheated. You passed your first time, for the record. It was an acceptable mark, and as the Kobayashi Maru is a pass/fail exercise, you were not able to improve upon it for purposes of your transcript. It is why I should have realized earlier that you were...attempting to achieve something else, when you insisted on retaking it."
"In any event, it's done," Kirk says, refusing to meet his eyes now, and Spock realizes with something approaching amusement that for all that he is human Kirk finds this discussion almost as difficult and embarrassing as he does. "And if you're coming tonight everybody should be there by six, except Bones, he's on until seven and then he'll come down. Do you drink alcohol, Spock?"
"On occasion. You need not make any special accommodation for me."
Jim's lips curve wryly. "We'll see you there, then. Later, Spock." He goes to the door.
"Captain." This time it gets a questioning glance over Jim's shoulder as he goes, and this also amuses Spock a little. It is easier to meditate afterwards, and as it would defeat the purpose of the exercise to question that too closely, Spock does not.
***
The Dockside is not someplace that Spock has ever been; he knows of its existence, of course, but he did not go out drinking with his fellow cadets to socialize and when it became occasionally necessary as an instructor, invited along with his colleagues, there was an unspoken divide between faculty bars and student bars, a common social convention allowing each population to unbend from the constraints inherent in the student/instructor relationship. However, the Dockside tonight is unwontedly somber considering the tales that had usually been brought back from it by fellow cadets, a tang in the air of grief and emptiness and Spock closes his eyes at the realization, again, that fewer than one in five of the graduating class has returned for a last glass. No matter what this place has been like in the past, it will not be so again while they are there to see it.
"Spock," Jim calls, breaking into his thoughts. "Over here."
The Bridge crew has assembled in a small knot in one of the larger corner booths and Nyota's eyes shine with something painfully bright when she sees him, although she does not reach out to touch. Spock regrets this with the keenness of a blade in his chest, the inability to be what she needs and deserves, to give her the comfort of his presence but he is afraid that once he touches her he will never be able to let go, will fail his people when they need all of their sons, even the ones who are...disadvantaged. His hand closes around the glass Jim sets in front of him and he welcomes it; it will take longer to affect him, but eventually it will numb as it would one of his mother's people. A weakness that in this case is a gift.
"Okay, people," Jim says after setting down the round he has apparently purchased. "I'm only going to say this once, and I mean it. We're here for a party, dammit. Because we can drink, and tell embarrassing stories, and laugh and cry and hold onto each other. Because we all brought them back with us, in the things we remember about them, the things we love, and that's only gone if we bury it. We owe them better than a plaque on a wall, and someplace we don't go in our head because it hurts too much," and the look on Jim's face is iron and far away at that for a moment before he goes on. "We'll start with everybody telling a stupid, embarrassing, lame-ass story about yourself for someone who can't be here to tell it. If we can't laugh for them we can laugh at ourselves, right? I'll go first."
He launches into a highly improbable and indeed embarrassing story about Lieutenant Knowles in the science division, who Spock remembers as a fairly straightlaced and straightforward individual, and this is something he would not have guessed of her, would not have known. "And so there I am, naked, covered in this bright purple crap that it took a week and thirty showers to get rid of, and she says, cool as can be, "Oh, and by the way, there's no such thing as Andorian crotch rot, I put itching powder in your coverall. In fairness, however, I will admit it's a perfectly average-sized dick, so it must be your brain you're compensating for."
The whole table bursts out in horrified and appreciative laughter, and Sulu raises his glass at that when he can breathe. "That kind of reminds me of a story--not about my dick, thank god, and thank you Jim for the image SEARED into my brain--" And the stories pass around the table to him, and he can see their uncertainty but nods his head gently. "My anecdote is perhaps not as colorful," his eyebrow launches up and Jim smirks back, "but when I was first employed with Starfleet Academy, I was working with the universal translator group. We had just made contact at that time with the X'Tang people, who have a highly tonal language, something I had had only limited experience with outside the classroom, and I was perhaps...overambitious in my understanding of their idiom. Ensign X'Tanne," he swallowed, "on the Hood, was one of our first recruits from X'Tang. She came to me shortly after instruction began, to inform me that her translator must have had a fault in its logic circuit, since it kept repeatedly translating 'it would be my pleasure,' as 'I would like to give you pleasure of a sexual nature,' and while flattered, she was certain that could not be correct. This is the same subroutine, you understand, that was used in the initial diplomatic meetings with the X'Tang." Spock bit his lip.
"Those must have been some...interesting negotiations," Jim says, tongue tucked in his cheek, and the table, very quiet until that moment, breaks up in laughter. It is, however, somehow kind, a shared acknowledgment of vulnerability rather than mocking, and Spock finds he does not mind.
Nyota is about to begin her story when she stops, eyes wide and vulnerable and everyone's gaze settles on Dr. McCoy trudging in, undress black instead of Science-blue and his hair still wet from the shower. "Holding her own, Nyota darlin'," he says, eyes tired but smiling. "And now, breathing on her own. It's a good sign." Belatedly, Spock realized that McCoy must have been with Ensign Gaila; it seemed impossibly cruel that after surviving the catastrophes that had taken so many lives, the Orion girl had been injured in the repairs that had carried the survivors home, an overloaded panel that she'd been working on blowing up. He glances over at Jim, whose shoulders have slumped a little bit in relief, although unlike Nyota's, his eyes have not cleared of worry. "Dammit, Jim, where's my drink? you promised me booze," McCoy says acerbically, although it is quite clear that rather than temper he is teasing to lift the cloud passing over his friend's face.
"It is not your turn," Spock says as Jim gathers himself to get up. "I believe it is mine. Doctor, do you have a specific requirement?"
McCoy's eyebrow leaps for his hairline, but all he says is, "Thank you, Spock. Bourbon, neat."
"So anyway. I was going to say, speaking of languages and misunderstandings..." And there is something easier in Nyota's carriage as he comes back and distributes beverages, the drink for the doctor which he recognizes as the first and not unpleasant drink Jim had given him, something called 'sweet tea' vodka for Jim which he keeps trying to convince a skeptical McCoy to try, regular vodka and tonic for an equally skeptical Chekov 'wodka does NOT have tea in it. that's just wrong,' and something called a 'gimlet' for Sulu which smells sharply tangy and possibly pleasant. Nyota's preferred Cardassian sunrise is sweeter than Spock would choose, although the taste of it also recalls to him now the taste of her mouth and it is therefore attractive by association. He tries several of the beverages as the evening goes on, as the crew continues to tell stories, funny stories, tender stories, rambling anecdotes that others begin to break into to share their own impressions, weaving and tangling together, no longer individual threads.
More and more people filter in as the evening goes on, more chairs found and much, much more alcohol consumed, heads resting on shoulders and knees against knees, arms around shoulders as the survivors seek comfort in simple closeness. Spock's hand finds Nyota's without his conscious volition; he can feel her startlement flowing through that connection, a well of pain and need and want and he draws her in, lips against her hairline, unable to retreat to propriety when all that will do is add to her distress. More, he is unable to deny himself the comfort of her warmth, that the thoughts that he had thought would be his last had been of her and he is still confused and torn but tonight does not need to be a resolution. Tonight is for comfort, for the needed remembrance of what is still here along with what has been lost.
McCoy is holding himself apart a little bit, quietly watchful, and Spock notices him at more than one point getting up to follow someone who has left to collect themselves, overcome. Jim also, he realizes, has not let himself go, watches the doctor surreptitiously while keeping control of the larger gathering. He is working hard to keep the mood more nostalgic than painful, needling and laughing, bright steady energy and purpose that mask his own fatigue and grief, something Spock cannot help but feel when Jim touches him, a casual hand as he stands behind Spock's chair talking to someone else. "Jim," he says, leaning back to catch his eyes. "You and Doctor McCoy must allow yourselves the care that you give your crew."
Jim's surprise is transmitted through that contact, then weary amusement and resignation as he slaps Spock on the back before letting his hand slip away. "Duly noted, Commander. But the night's young and I'm good for a while."
Nyota looks up at him and he can feel a thread of warmth from her, a tenderness of a different kind. "Spock," she says, getting up and pulling away, offering him a hand. "It's warm in here and I need some air. Will you walk with me?"
"Of course," he murmurs, lets her lead him out, her mind full of him, of them, of a fierce and luminous need to touch and be touched. This, too, he cannot deny himself and he surprises her by catching her and drawing her into him as soon as they are outside, his mouth hungry against hers.
"Spock, I know you asked me not to, but--"
He lays his fingertips against her mouth, her tear-bright eyes closing and he brushes kisses over them. "Tomorrow," he murmurs, and it is enough, her mouth firming in pain and resolve and she nods as they start to walk back to the Academy, still hand in hand, the awareness beating bright and hot between them.
They do not speak again that night, save meaningless whispers: yes, please, more, faster, Vulcan and Standard, deities and profanities, as Nyota's body rises over his and she rides him, hands linked into his. Their encounters before had been tender, tentative; tonight there is neither the desire nor the ability to protect the other from pain as they take each other. He knows Nyota will have bruises from his hands, as they bite into her slim thighs and he pushes up into her, that he will bear the imprint of her teeth in his shoulder when she comes. It feels better, cleaner than tenderness would have, leaves them both replete and empty and able to accept comfort, Nyota's lips on his throat, his hands in her hair as she cries afterwards. Her tears have the salt-sweetness of the tang of her mouth on the glass they had shared, of her slick and tender flesh as he slides down her body and her hands tangle into his hair.
Tomorrow is a time to begin, or to end. Tonight is suspended like the stars overhead, a space to breathe and to hold on before letting go.