Fic: Vulcans Are Fangirls Too! Part 2

[skellig8]

Title: Vulcans are Fangirls Too, 2/2
Authors: skellig8 and jouissant
Pairing: Kirk/Spock; NC-17
Summary: For this prompt at st_xi_kink_meme. Kirk is a secret astrophysics genius who publishes under a pseudonym; Spock sends him fanmail. Shenanigans ensue! 
jouissant , you are amazing. I could not have done this without you!

Previous Part: Vulcans Are Fangirls Too

Jim sighs. Suddenly everything is wrong; he didn’t know what he was thinking, doing this, meeting Spock here. The fine china, the soft lighting- it all seems faintly obscene, and the intimate room is claustrophobic, its walls pressing in on him. “Look, are you hungry? I’m not hungry.”

“I find my appetite has diminished considerably in the past several minutes.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“I would not be averse to a change of locale.”

“OK, great. I…I booked a room at a hotel. It’s not far. Look, just walk with me there, and I’ll explain everything. I can’t tell you all this here, with all these people.” Spock nods cautiously, and Jim’s glad he didn’t have the glass (bottle) of wine he considered, because it means they can just walk out with a mumbled apology to their server as he arrives to take their drink orders.

Jim gestures wildly at Spock’s retreating back, making what probably looks like a pained grimace as he follows his First Officer out of the dining room. Out on the street, it’s chilly; a fog is rolling in. The streetlights turn the moisture in the air into little glowing clouds at intervals along the sidewalk. The scene feels like something out of a 19th century novel. Jim thinks he makes a pretty poor excuse for a gothic hero, although Spock might not be so bad.

They walk in silence; Jim can feel Spock’s eyes on him as he matches him stride for stride. Spock does not say a word, although Jim can almost hear the questions filling the space between them. The hotel is less than a mile away, but it feels like ten. Finally, they get there- it’s a small boutique operation in a preserved Victorian; the gingerbread woodwork on the balconies and windowsills is lavender and so sweet it makes Jim’s teeth hurt, but it’s small, and it’s private. He keys into the lobby and nods at the girl behind the desk before ushering Spock up the stairs. “Second door on the left, yeah, that’s the one.”

Spock sits gingerly on the corner of the bed. Jim paces. Now that they’re here, he finds he has no idea how to explain. It was easy with Bones. But it didn’t matter with Bones, thinks Jim. “So. Yeah. I’m Kirkpatrick. I didn’t mean to let it get this far without telling you, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“I regret that.. I do not fully understand your motivation for developing such an elaborate prank. And that Admiral Pike should have become involved…it is difficult for me to comprehend, although I admit to some difficulty parsing the intricacies of human behavior. Who could have consulted you in astrophysics? The concepts you…the concepts discussed were very advanced, and…. ” Spock doesn’t sound mad exactly, just confused. And hurt; there’s definitely more than a trace of hurt in his tone, try as he might to mask it with academic curiosity at how Jim possibly could have managed to pull off such a completely dick move.

Spock trails off, and fuck, Jim feels sick at the thought of him spending their entire walk to the hotel thinking himself the butt of some ridiculous joke.

“Spock, remember when I said you were lucky? I meant it. I didn’t consult with anybody on those letters. That’s my research. All of it. I didn’t tell you because…because I’ve never told anyone. Pike’s the only one who knows, and that’s only because he sold me on the dual PhD program at Berkeley when he was trying to get me to join up.” He pauses, glancing at Spock, still sitting poker-straight on the edge of the bed. He is worrying a loose thread from the duvet cover between thumb and forefinger.

“Anyway,” Jim continues, “I said you were lucky because I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about my research, really talk to them, you know? You had it on Vulcan, you have it in the lab on the ship. And maybe no one in the science department is really on your level, but at least it’s remotely plausible to you that they might understand what you’re talking about. It’s lonely. So when you wrote me, I couldn't help it. I had to write back.”

Spock opens his mouth as if to protest, but Jim keeps talking. He needs to get this out. “No, come off it, Spock, you would never in a million years have guessed that I’d be the least bit interested in astrophysics. I’m Jim Kirk. I shoot first and think later. And yeah, I end up on top most of the time. But it’s not exactly rocket science. I can’t even fly the damn things, let along tell you how they work. Except, turns out I can.” He heaves a sigh, flopping heavily onto the bed next to Spock, leaning back on his hands.

“OK, I’m done now. You may now proceed to verbally eviscerate me.”

Spock just stares, as if he’s having trouble reconciling his ridiculous captain with the beauty and eloquence in those letters.

“It was you.”

“It was me. All of it. It is me.”

Spock shifts closer, the mattress sinking under their combined weight and causing them both to pitch forward, toward each other. Their knees are touching. Slowly, deliberately, Spock moves his hand, until his fingertips are barely touching Jim’s. It feels cautious, experimental.

Spock draws himself up. “In that case, Jim, I wish to thank you. I have greatly enjoyed our correspondence,” he says formally.

Jim laughs. He reaches across and grabs a fistful of Spock’s shirt, dragging him forward, and kisses him. It feels like one of the letters- Jim pours everything he is- captain, scientist, misunderstood genius (and, damn, he likes that last one)- into Spock’s mouth. He’s still for a moment, as if gauging the situation, and then he’s kissing Jim back with fervor, hand snaking back to clasp the nape of his neck.

Suddenly, Spock pulls away, pressing his palms flat against Jim’s chest as if to steady himself and gasping into Jim’s mouth.

“I…I wish to make a request of you. It is…considerable, and I will understand if-”

“Anything,” Jim says, and means it. "Ask for the heavens, and I'll bring you down a star," he singsongs.

“I wish to meld with you. It…that is, I have long wondered…what his mind would be like. Jim, please-it is not a request I make lightly, and you are certainly well within your rights to decline.”

Jim boggles, because Spock’s basically just told him that a) he fantasizes and b) he fantasizes about playing around in Jim’s mind. He laughs, gently, so Spock understands he’s not laughing at him. “So are you telling me that if Kirkpatrick were real, you’d be asking him to go traipsing around in his brain like an amusement park?”

Spock flushes a delicate shade of olive. “On the contrary. In that case, I believe the matter would never have escaped the realm of speculation. However, with this revelation…I find I am experiencing extreme curiousity regarding the state of your mental landscape.”

“You’re curious about me, Spock?” Jim says teasingly.

Spock looks him in the eye. Jim feels like he’s falling, or swimming. “Irresistibly.”

Jim feels a curl of warmth spiral up inside him. He smiles languidly. “Then who am I to deny you?”

Spock closes his eyes and lets out a long, unsteady breath. “Very well. It may be more comfortable if you lie back.” Jim complies, scooting back against the headboard.
There’s a dreamlike quality to what happens next. Jim is warm, too warm. Spock moves up towards his head, kneeling at his side. He cups Jim’s cheek protectively, running his thumb over Jim’s lip. Then his hands move to the psi points, Spock whispers his name, and they are gone.

It’s different from his meld with Spock’s counterpart on Delta Vega- that was an information dump, with Jim’s mind a kind of emotional hard drive. It’s unlike his other melds with this Spock, too- there’s no mission waiting for them, no sense of urgency, and there’s nothing in particular Spock is looking for in his mind. It feels almost…playful. For his part, Jim feels as if he’s swimming in a warm pool. Spock’s mind is like a series of caverns- he can glide through them easily, go where he will, and he gets the impression that Spock can control the degree of accessibility. This is true, Spock thinks, and Jim can see the words hanging in the air before him. You are free to explore my mind. It is a great intimacy you permit me. I would return the favor.

But Jim finds he is content to float.It's peaceful here in Spock‘s mind. He's relaxed, basking among the Vulcan's ordered thoughts. He feels Spock browsing gently through his mind, a vague presence broadcasting by turns humor, affection, sympathy, admiration. Time seems to slow down, to stretch like taffy, and presently Jim becomes aware of the faintest tinge of…something else in his mind. Whatever Spock’s seeing in Jim’s brain, he likes it. A lot. Almost as soon as Jim can name the feeling- desire, he can feel Spock begin to retreat from the meld. Wait, he thinks, and Spock stills. It’s…it’s ok. Spock lets out a low moan, and Jim can’t tell whether it’s out loud or in his mind. Using his superior strength, Spock flips them over, pulling Jim beneath him and settling atop him in one smooth motion.

Jim’s hands roam Spock’s wiry body; through the soft, shiny cap of black hair, over strong back muscles, and then down, down to the curve of Spock’s ass. He presses up into Spock, grinding their hips together, unable to stifle a moan of abandon. Spock is gasping now, hot breath at Jim’s ear, and he thinks he hears him hiss out something in his native tongue. Show me, thinks Jim. Show me why you wanted him. Jim finds himself at another of Spock’s mental caverns. Inside, there are vast swirls of images. Numbers, formulas, fractals, crystalline nebulas, and permeating them all is a vibration, a deep hum of passion and excitement. Science, says Spock. Jim marvels. It’s beautiful.

Spock shows him his quarters. He is sitting at his desk, he is reading the first letter. He traces his fingertips over the creamy stock, the cramped handwriting. I wrote in cursive, Jim thinks. I knew you’d know my handwriting if I didn’t. Then the next letter, then the next, and oh god, it took Spock days to write them, just like Jim. Spock’s voice in his head is small. I wished to present the best possible impression. It is illogical; my work should speak for itself… He pushes a memory to the fore, showing it to Jim. The letters are written on old Earth paper with an old-fashioned ink pen. He has never seen one used, only replicas, old pictures,preserved documents. The writing is in old cursive, flowing from one word to the next with a simple flourish. He does not feel, but if he could, he would feel pride at being one of the few people in contact with the famous doctor. He replies to the letters in kind, though he realizes the next letter may be his last. He treasures each one, keeping them among the small collection of Kirkpatrick's publications and his responses to journals about similar research. Spock's research, particularly.

Jim kisses him again, deep and slow. I loved your letters, he says, and how amazing is it that he can talk to Spock and kiss him at the same time?

He’s suddenly aware of their bodies again, pressed close, little sparks of pleasure radiating out from his cock, or from Spock’s, mirrored back through the meld. “Clothes,” he says aloud, and Spock gives a little sob of complaint at the interruption. Jim sits up a slightly, pulling off his shirt and raising his hips off the bed just enough to shimmy out of his pants. Spock follows suit, and then Jim is cupping his ass with both hands, grinding them against each other and moaning into Spock’s mouth. Jim scrapes fingernails down Spock’s spine and feels the hot sting of pleasure as if it was his own.

Spock is so hot, and Jim is so close already, from the intensity of the meld and the pressure of Spock’s body, pressing Jim’s cock flush against his stomach. He worms one arm between them and takes them both in hand. Spock moves his free hand over Jim’s, and together they stroke in time. “Yes, yes, just like that, that’s perfect, you’re perfect..” and Jim knows there’s no need for commentary, but the words spill forth anyway, and fuck, telepathic hand-jobs are amazing. Jim gets a definite sense of amusement from Spock through the meld, and he’s pretty sure that if Vulcans laughed, Spock would be laughing now. Jim wants everything, wants to be in Spock and around him and everywhere, but right now he can’t move, can’t do anything but thrust helplessly into Spock’s hand and bury his face in his neck, worrying the tender flesh there. When Spock comes, he doesn’t make a sound. Jim sees a bright flash behind his eyes and then the shockwave hits him too, sweeping him over the edge and he’s coming harder than he can remember over their hands in hot pulses and fuck this was just a hand job, what’s sex going to be like fuck fuck fuck and somewhere far away Spock might actually be laughing.

Jim comes back to himself, leaning back against the hotel pillows. His heart is racing, and Spock’s face is inches from his. Jim remembers what the older Spock told him about emotional transference, but he’s sure not all the intensity of feeling coursing through him now can be attributed to the meld.

Jim looks into Spock’s eyes; they are warm and soft, and regard him with both curiosity and a touch of…something else. Uncertainty? Spock still has his hand on Jim’s face. Jim looks from Spock’s eyes to his lips and then back again, licking his own semi-consciously in the process. The lights in the hotel room suddenly feel too bright, so Jim closes his eyes and leans forward to close the distance between them.

He finds himself idly wishing this were his first-ever kiss. It’s quiet, and full of promise. They pull away from each other slightly, eyes meeting, and Jim brings up his left hand to gently cup the side of Spock’s face. In response Spock covers Jim’s free hand with his own, interlacing their fingers. The simple intimacy of the gesture is not lost on Jim, and he smiles into Spock’s mouth.

Spock leans down, resting his forehead against Jim’s.

“So, Spock,” he says in a whisper. “Be my date for the symposium?”

He is met with what might possibly be a low chuckle, but is probably just Spock hiccupping or something. He rolls off of Jim. They will need to talk about this, whatever this is, whatever is between them now. But for the present, Jim’s limbs feel heavy, and Spock is a deliciously warm weight behind him.

************

He wakes slowly, gradually becoming aware of the soft mattress beneath him, different from the too-stiff Starfleet standard, and of the clear, bright light of a real morning. Jim smiles to himself and rises, propping himself up on an elbow. Across the room, Spock sits cross-legged on a thin black mat, features relaxed in meditation. Sunlight filters in, little golden motes ghosting across Spock’s face, and Jim finds himself loathe to end the moment with speech. Instead, he settles in, content to watch for awhile.

Presently, Spock opens his eyes, having completed his morning practice. He looks across at Jim and his face softens.

“Hey,” says Jim quietly, breaking the silence in the room. “ Are you hungry? Want to get some breakfast and go back to the symposium?”

“I would be amenable to that plan.”

Jim chuckles and leaps out of bed, whipping off the covers with gusto.

There’s a café nearby, less pretentious than the restaurant from last night. French doors open out onto a little veranda overlooking the bay, and miraculously there’s no fog obscuring the view. Jim cannot help but find this auspicious, although he doubts his tablemate would put much stock in Jim’s emotional investment in meteorology. They sit in companionable silence. Spock picks at a plate of fruit and sips a cup of tea. Jim shoots him a grin. Both everything and nothing is different. For some reason Jim feels a touch of shyness at this, and cautiously moves his hand across the table to rest a few inches from Spock’s. The Vulcan bridges the slight distance between their hands, and he tangles their fingers together for a moment before letting go.

*********

Jim walks through the lab door with a bright grin on his face. It’s a hive of activity. Some of the scientists are buzzing around, ferrying little vials from one machine to another. Some are taking recordings, fidgeting and talking amongst themselves as they wait at their machines for results. Jim carefully cuts a path through the room, past a partition and into the state-of-the-art astrophysics lab. He finds Spock patiently explaining calibration techniques to a young ensign. “The sensors for the starboard particle scanner are tuned to the nearest star to Epsilon V, the planet we are currently orbiting. These sensors are used to determine the composition of matter using a magnetic beam resonance, activating the spin of electrons from a distance.”

Jim listens quietly to Spock’s cool, even voice as he leans casually against the doorframe. He loves to watch Spock teaching one-on-one. Jim’s never been the best teacher, but he knows Spock loves dissecting the whys and hows in the name of education.

Spock sees the Captain out of the corner of his eye and turns toward him. The ensign looks vaguely grateful for the reprieve. Spock is nothing if not intense, after all.

“Do you require assistance, Captain?”

“No, carry on. I was just listening in, it’s quite …fascinating.” Jim smiles at the Vulcan. At hisVulcan, he thinks, and the notion sends a current of warmth through him.

Spock raises a brow and Jim thinks he can make out a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he carries on. Assured by her competency, Spock leaves Ensign M’Rath to the scanner and turns his attention to Jim.

“Now. How may I assist you, Captain?”

“I haven’t been here in awhile, Spock. How ‘bout the grand tour?”

Spock inclines his head. “As you wish.” He walks out into the larger space, gesturing for Jim to follow. “I think you will appreciate the innovations we have implemented in data analysis. Additionally, I believe it may be fruitful to focus on the Beta Quadrant for this next series of experiments. Reading your…er, Dr. Kirkpatrick’s last paper, I was struck by the…”

Jim reaches out with his index and forefinger and touches Spock’s lightly. The Vulcan looks at him, and just for a moment Jim can feel the swirl of passion he saw in Spock’s mind. “By the readings? And the traces of those old supernovas? I know, right? They were off the charts, there’s never been anything like it before…”

Fingers entwined, they walk out into the fluorescence of the room. Through the long bay of windows, the stars beckon.

END