Fic: In which Ensign Cupcake isn't a BAMF, Part III (STXI, rarepair)
Title: In which Ensign Cupcake isn't a BAMF, Part III
Fandom: STXI, with passing references to a few TOS episodes in this part
Pairing: Cupcake/That Vulcan Bully, background K/S
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1800
Summary: In which Ensign Cupcake isn't a BAMF... but has a pretty good time anyway. For this prompt on the kink meme: Somehow one of Spock's childhood tormentors survived the implosion. He meets up with Cupcake... Cue mutual bitching ("I can't believe so many girls got taken in by that bastard, and then they made him a captain!" "It is illogical that he attended an inferior human school and still was published in the Proceedings of the Vulcan Science Academy before I was.") Can be crack, angst, heartwarming friendship, slash, whatever.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
< Part I < Part II
The flat is not what Greg expected. Not at all.
For some reason he'd pictured some kind of hi-tech bachelor pad paradise, full of shiny surfaces and sleek dark fabrics and the like. Because Vulcans may be spartan, sure, but they're never shoddy.
This, though...
For one thing, it's barely bigger than his cabin on the Enterprise. Most of the room is filled by a large wreck of a computer that looks like it's been cobbled together from bits from a scrap metal heap. Against one wall is a mattress on an iron frame. No pillow. There's a desk, and one chair, and a tiny replicator. And that's it.
With a start, Greg realises the Vulcan has been watching him.
"I regret I am only able to offer limited refreshment," he says tightly. "My workspace was not designed to accommodate human needs."
Greg would've glared at him, but he's still reeling from the idea that this stuck-up, well-dressed princeling actually lives in this sad little hovel. Workspace, his ass.
"I'm not fussy," he replies, carefully neutral. "What've you got?"
"There is plomeek, mixed vegetable juice, and black tea. I do not recommend the tea."
And plomeek is orange, isn't it. "The juice sounds good," Greg says gamely. Damned vegetarians. Good thing he filled up at the bar earlier-- maybe the stored alcohol in his veins will last him through the night. Yeah, right.
The replicator makes a noise like a dying phaser, and spits out a cup of murky red liquid. The Vulcan hands it to Greg.
"Thanks," he says shortly, and takes a gulp. It tastes like watery tomato juice. Could be worse.
Niceties over, everything suddenly becomes even more horribly awkward -- with him standing there in the metallic silence, fidgeting with his drink and scuffing the carpet while his host stares at him like an expressionless rock. The Vulcan appears to be waiting for him, and Greg recalls painfully that this little chat had been his idea, though he can't for the life of him remember why.
"So," he starts abruptly. Act casual, damnit. "You lived here long?" God, fucking small talk, he hates it.
"My previous residence was on Vulcan," the guy says, and fuck this is not going to go well.
"Oh," Greg says. He tries again. "How come you picked this starbase, then?"
"I was in transit from the Barrier Survey Station, and found myself unexpectedly unable to pay for return passage. My clan had no assets off-planet."
Shit, Greg thinks in desperation. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? There are Fedearation hardship funds and refugee transports, of course, but even he knows better than to suggest them.
"You could find work," he tries cautiously. "These bases always needs scientists. And computer guys," he nods at the big hulk of metal.
"I am a mathematician," Sehar states acidly. His tone could freeze nitrogen.
Greg can't believe what he's hearing. Of all the stubborn, spoiled-rotten, wallowing, lame-ass excuses-- "You could get training," he says incredulously. "You could at least get a level two tech job."
"My skills would be wasted on mechanical work," the Vulcan sneers, and that does it -- Greg has just about had it with people looking down on him for his job.
"So you'd rather rot in this dump in the middle of nowhere," he says savagely, "doing math?"
Sehar's lips tighten impossibly, and Greg realises with a shock that his fingers are trembling on the Federation Journal padd.
"That is what I have been doing thus far," comes the brittle reply. "However, Spock's recent paper has rendered my research moot. Therefore, there is no longer any 'math' for me to 'do'."
He lifts his chin and blinks very deliberately, and for the second time that night and in his life, Greg squashes the urge to hug a Vulcan.
*
Greg freely admits that he has no idea how to deal with a Vulcan on the edge of emotional meltdown. He supposes Kirk would know -- although his advice would probably be to tell a joke or insult his dead mother or something, and Greg's already in enough danger of being crushed to death, thank you very much.
No one laughs at his jokes, anyway. And after his spectacularly shit attempt at conversation, he doesn't think opening his mouth again would be a smart idea.
So instead he compromises -- puts the cup of awful juice down, and claps a hand firmly against the Vulcan's slightly shaking shoulder. Sehar twitches at the contact, but doesn't pull away.
"So we were on this planet awhile back," Greg blurts out randomly. The words come out stilted, and his hand is still on Sehar's hot arm, which is weird, but he can't find a good moment to take it away. "It was one of the Omicrons, in the Mira system. And there were these plants there that make you high or something, like a drug, you know?"
Sehar sort of frowns. "'High'?"
"They made you feel... emotions. Like happiness. And ecstasy and stuff. It was something in the spores, I think. Anyway, the point is," he says hurriedly because Sehar's started looking at him like he thinks he's a nutjob again, "Spock got hit with them right in the face. And it made him laugh and climb trees and sing songs with this woman and do all sorts of stupid shit."
"I do not see the relevance of this to the present situation."
Ah, fuck it. This is the last time he tries to be nice to someone this dense. "Well, he looked like an idiot, is the point. He was grinning and everything. Like this" -- and here Greg pulls his jaws wide and gives the Vulcan what has punningly been called Security's most stunning smile. "And he pretty much told the Captain to fuck off, too! Kirk had it coming, of course, annoying bastard. But still." He looks up hopefully at his companion. Sehar does look less miserable, which is a good sign. But now he just looks slightly confused.
"He committed a severe breach of Starfleet protocol, then," he finally comments.
"Yeah!" Greg says encouragingly. Maybe the guy's finally getting into the spirit of things.
"Are you suggesting it would be possible to have him court martialed and disgraced?"
"What?" Greg's jaw drops. "No!" Fucking Vulcans. "That's not what I'm saying at all." So much for them being a peace-loving race! "Look, it's just a human custom, okay? When there's someone we don't like, we get together and sort of... talk about the stupid things that they've done. It makes us feel better. Solidarity, you know?"
Sehar glances down at Greg's large hand on the sleeve of his jacket, and Greg drops it clumsily, shoving it into his back trouser pocket. He's considering shoving his head into the neckhole of his shirt, too, so he won't have to see what an ass he's making of himself, when Sehar clears his throat a little and says, "Spock was considered overweight as a child. He had over eight point five percent more body fat than the average Vulcan at one point."
"No way!" Greg exclaims, eyes lighting up. Eight point five percent probably works out to like half a pound or something, but still, thinking of Spock as the Vulcan equivalent of a fat kid would explain so much.
"I've got another good one," he offers. "We were on this other planet, and there was this machine that was controlling the natives. And Kirk gets it into his head that these people should be Free, so he says to hell with the prime directive, and tells Spock to shut it down. So Spock goes up to it, and has his tricorder out and everything, but he's not paying attention so he runs right into an invisible forcefield! Fell right down on his skinny ass, in front of everyone!" He grins, slapping the tabletop in malicious glee.
"It is illogical that such an inefficient pair has been given command of the Federation flagship," Sehar remarks, pronouncing the alliterations with disdainful relish. "And the captain's disregard for the prime directive seems the height of irresponsibility."
"Exactly!" Greg agrees. There's hope for the guy after all. "Kirk's always pulling shit like that. There was another time..."
And off he goes, unloading story after story, month after month of bundled grievance and aggravation unfolding in front of his captive audience in unstinting, animated detail. Sehar listens intently all the while, his eyes slowly filling with satisfaction. It makes Greg feel really good, to be the focus of that rapt attention, to get those nods of approval, those prissy, sarcastic comments and interjections.
By the time he finishes the one about the telekinetic wannabes who took over Kirk's and Spocks' bodies, the Vulcan is all but leaning into him, dark eyes fixed on Greg's broadly grinning face.
"I'll never forget the look of horror he gave when they made him kiss Chapel," he concludes with a laugh. "Sweetest sight in the galaxy, man -- I wish you could've seen it."
Sehar's gaze sharpens. "May I?" he asks. The tone's almost mild, but his look is strangely intense, and Greg doesn't know why, but he can feel the goosebumps breaking out.
"May you what," he asks warily.
Sehar raises one hand, palm forward, fingers parted a bit like he's preparing to do the salute. Greg's confused, and he almost makes a fool of himsef by doing the ta'al again, but all of a sudden he realises what's going on, and something spikes in his chest like a shot of cordrazine. Fucking hell, he thinks. The guy wants a mind meld.
It's obviously a Very Bad Idea. Although to tell the truth, Greg's always been a little envious about Kirk getting to do all those mind melds. He and Spock do them literally all the time, on the bridge, on missions, whenever they can, and Kirk always looks so smug and so secretive when they pull away, like it's something exclusive, something only the cool kids get to do.
But it all comes down to, does he trust this weird guy he's barely met. And the answer to that is no. Clearly the man has ethical issues, and vicious issues, and many many other issues, and when Vulcans have issues that usually means Emotional Compromise, which usually means shitfuckdeath.
So fine, maybe it doesn't come down to just trust. It comes down to whether or not he mistrusts the man less than he wants the one-in-a-lifetime chance to try this crazy new thing, to let go and let things get out of hand for a bit, to see just what it is that makes Kirk look at that tightassed Vulcan of his like he's the best fucking thing in the universe.
The man -- this Sehar -- is still waiting, his fingers warm millimetres away from Greg's face. His eyes are deep and hungry, eager even, and Greg knows that the answer to that question is yes.
Fuck it, he thinks. "Do it."
Sehar does.
Part IV >
Fandom: STXI, with passing references to a few TOS episodes in this part
Pairing: Cupcake/That Vulcan Bully, background K/S
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1800
Summary: In which Ensign Cupcake isn't a BAMF... but has a pretty good time anyway. For this prompt on the kink meme: Somehow one of Spock's childhood tormentors survived the implosion. He meets up with Cupcake... Cue mutual bitching ("I can't believe so many girls got taken in by that bastard, and then they made him a captain!" "It is illogical that he attended an inferior human school and still was published in the Proceedings of the Vulcan Science Academy before I was.") Can be crack, angst, heartwarming friendship, slash, whatever.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
< Part I < Part II
The flat is not what Greg expected. Not at all.
For some reason he'd pictured some kind of hi-tech bachelor pad paradise, full of shiny surfaces and sleek dark fabrics and the like. Because Vulcans may be spartan, sure, but they're never shoddy.
This, though...
For one thing, it's barely bigger than his cabin on the Enterprise. Most of the room is filled by a large wreck of a computer that looks like it's been cobbled together from bits from a scrap metal heap. Against one wall is a mattress on an iron frame. No pillow. There's a desk, and one chair, and a tiny replicator. And that's it.
With a start, Greg realises the Vulcan has been watching him.
"I regret I am only able to offer limited refreshment," he says tightly. "My workspace was not designed to accommodate human needs."
Greg would've glared at him, but he's still reeling from the idea that this stuck-up, well-dressed princeling actually lives in this sad little hovel. Workspace, his ass.
"I'm not fussy," he replies, carefully neutral. "What've you got?"
"There is plomeek, mixed vegetable juice, and black tea. I do not recommend the tea."
And plomeek is orange, isn't it. "The juice sounds good," Greg says gamely. Damned vegetarians. Good thing he filled up at the bar earlier-- maybe the stored alcohol in his veins will last him through the night. Yeah, right.
The replicator makes a noise like a dying phaser, and spits out a cup of murky red liquid. The Vulcan hands it to Greg.
"Thanks," he says shortly, and takes a gulp. It tastes like watery tomato juice. Could be worse.
Niceties over, everything suddenly becomes even more horribly awkward -- with him standing there in the metallic silence, fidgeting with his drink and scuffing the carpet while his host stares at him like an expressionless rock. The Vulcan appears to be waiting for him, and Greg recalls painfully that this little chat had been his idea, though he can't for the life of him remember why.
"So," he starts abruptly. Act casual, damnit. "You lived here long?" God, fucking small talk, he hates it.
"My previous residence was on Vulcan," the guy says, and fuck this is not going to go well.
"Oh," Greg says. He tries again. "How come you picked this starbase, then?"
"I was in transit from the Barrier Survey Station, and found myself unexpectedly unable to pay for return passage. My clan had no assets off-planet."
Shit, Greg thinks in desperation. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? There are Fedearation hardship funds and refugee transports, of course, but even he knows better than to suggest them.
"You could find work," he tries cautiously. "These bases always needs scientists. And computer guys," he nods at the big hulk of metal.
"I am a mathematician," Sehar states acidly. His tone could freeze nitrogen.
Greg can't believe what he's hearing. Of all the stubborn, spoiled-rotten, wallowing, lame-ass excuses-- "You could get training," he says incredulously. "You could at least get a level two tech job."
"My skills would be wasted on mechanical work," the Vulcan sneers, and that does it -- Greg has just about had it with people looking down on him for his job.
"So you'd rather rot in this dump in the middle of nowhere," he says savagely, "doing math?"
Sehar's lips tighten impossibly, and Greg realises with a shock that his fingers are trembling on the Federation Journal padd.
"That is what I have been doing thus far," comes the brittle reply. "However, Spock's recent paper has rendered my research moot. Therefore, there is no longer any 'math' for me to 'do'."
He lifts his chin and blinks very deliberately, and for the second time that night and in his life, Greg squashes the urge to hug a Vulcan.
*
Greg freely admits that he has no idea how to deal with a Vulcan on the edge of emotional meltdown. He supposes Kirk would know -- although his advice would probably be to tell a joke or insult his dead mother or something, and Greg's already in enough danger of being crushed to death, thank you very much.
No one laughs at his jokes, anyway. And after his spectacularly shit attempt at conversation, he doesn't think opening his mouth again would be a smart idea.
So instead he compromises -- puts the cup of awful juice down, and claps a hand firmly against the Vulcan's slightly shaking shoulder. Sehar twitches at the contact, but doesn't pull away.
"So we were on this planet awhile back," Greg blurts out randomly. The words come out stilted, and his hand is still on Sehar's hot arm, which is weird, but he can't find a good moment to take it away. "It was one of the Omicrons, in the Mira system. And there were these plants there that make you high or something, like a drug, you know?"
Sehar sort of frowns. "'High'?"
"They made you feel... emotions. Like happiness. And ecstasy and stuff. It was something in the spores, I think. Anyway, the point is," he says hurriedly because Sehar's started looking at him like he thinks he's a nutjob again, "Spock got hit with them right in the face. And it made him laugh and climb trees and sing songs with this woman and do all sorts of stupid shit."
"I do not see the relevance of this to the present situation."
Ah, fuck it. This is the last time he tries to be nice to someone this dense. "Well, he looked like an idiot, is the point. He was grinning and everything. Like this" -- and here Greg pulls his jaws wide and gives the Vulcan what has punningly been called Security's most stunning smile. "And he pretty much told the Captain to fuck off, too! Kirk had it coming, of course, annoying bastard. But still." He looks up hopefully at his companion. Sehar does look less miserable, which is a good sign. But now he just looks slightly confused.
"He committed a severe breach of Starfleet protocol, then," he finally comments.
"Yeah!" Greg says encouragingly. Maybe the guy's finally getting into the spirit of things.
"Are you suggesting it would be possible to have him court martialed and disgraced?"
"What?" Greg's jaw drops. "No!" Fucking Vulcans. "That's not what I'm saying at all." So much for them being a peace-loving race! "Look, it's just a human custom, okay? When there's someone we don't like, we get together and sort of... talk about the stupid things that they've done. It makes us feel better. Solidarity, you know?"
Sehar glances down at Greg's large hand on the sleeve of his jacket, and Greg drops it clumsily, shoving it into his back trouser pocket. He's considering shoving his head into the neckhole of his shirt, too, so he won't have to see what an ass he's making of himself, when Sehar clears his throat a little and says, "Spock was considered overweight as a child. He had over eight point five percent more body fat than the average Vulcan at one point."
"No way!" Greg exclaims, eyes lighting up. Eight point five percent probably works out to like half a pound or something, but still, thinking of Spock as the Vulcan equivalent of a fat kid would explain so much.
"I've got another good one," he offers. "We were on this other planet, and there was this machine that was controlling the natives. And Kirk gets it into his head that these people should be Free, so he says to hell with the prime directive, and tells Spock to shut it down. So Spock goes up to it, and has his tricorder out and everything, but he's not paying attention so he runs right into an invisible forcefield! Fell right down on his skinny ass, in front of everyone!" He grins, slapping the tabletop in malicious glee.
"It is illogical that such an inefficient pair has been given command of the Federation flagship," Sehar remarks, pronouncing the alliterations with disdainful relish. "And the captain's disregard for the prime directive seems the height of irresponsibility."
"Exactly!" Greg agrees. There's hope for the guy after all. "Kirk's always pulling shit like that. There was another time..."
And off he goes, unloading story after story, month after month of bundled grievance and aggravation unfolding in front of his captive audience in unstinting, animated detail. Sehar listens intently all the while, his eyes slowly filling with satisfaction. It makes Greg feel really good, to be the focus of that rapt attention, to get those nods of approval, those prissy, sarcastic comments and interjections.
By the time he finishes the one about the telekinetic wannabes who took over Kirk's and Spocks' bodies, the Vulcan is all but leaning into him, dark eyes fixed on Greg's broadly grinning face.
"I'll never forget the look of horror he gave when they made him kiss Chapel," he concludes with a laugh. "Sweetest sight in the galaxy, man -- I wish you could've seen it."
Sehar's gaze sharpens. "May I?" he asks. The tone's almost mild, but his look is strangely intense, and Greg doesn't know why, but he can feel the goosebumps breaking out.
"May you what," he asks warily.
Sehar raises one hand, palm forward, fingers parted a bit like he's preparing to do the salute. Greg's confused, and he almost makes a fool of himsef by doing the ta'al again, but all of a sudden he realises what's going on, and something spikes in his chest like a shot of cordrazine. Fucking hell, he thinks. The guy wants a mind meld.
It's obviously a Very Bad Idea. Although to tell the truth, Greg's always been a little envious about Kirk getting to do all those mind melds. He and Spock do them literally all the time, on the bridge, on missions, whenever they can, and Kirk always looks so smug and so secretive when they pull away, like it's something exclusive, something only the cool kids get to do.
But it all comes down to, does he trust this weird guy he's barely met. And the answer to that is no. Clearly the man has ethical issues, and vicious issues, and many many other issues, and when Vulcans have issues that usually means Emotional Compromise, which usually means shitfuckdeath.
So fine, maybe it doesn't come down to just trust. It comes down to whether or not he mistrusts the man less than he wants the one-in-a-lifetime chance to try this crazy new thing, to let go and let things get out of hand for a bit, to see just what it is that makes Kirk look at that tightassed Vulcan of his like he's the best fucking thing in the universe.
The man -- this Sehar -- is still waiting, his fingers warm millimetres away from Greg's face. His eyes are deep and hungry, eager even, and Greg knows that the answer to that question is yes.
Fuck it, he thinks. "Do it."
Sehar does.
Part IV >