Fic: A King of Infinite Space (Kirk/Sulu)
I finally wrote Kirk/Sulu! I love this ship so I was really excited kirk_sulu did a holiday challenge this year. I wanted so badly to work in implied Spock/Uhura/McCoy because a. there would never be a better chance and b. damn, but alas, it's only in my head. McCoy still managed to finagle his way into a big role because frankly they were in desperate need of a third party. And I freely admit that this is based on a kink meme prompt I left a long, long time ago that was never filled.
Title: A King of Infinite Space
Kirk, Sulu, and Tarsus IV.
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/Sulu
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3577
Disclaimer: standard applies; title from Hamlet
Written for: re_white for the kirk_sulu Holiday Exchange; I went heavy on the angst and hurt/comfort. Hope you like it! :)
A King of Infinite Space
“Right behind us, he said,” McCoy snarled, cursing as a wayward rock nearly sent him tumbling to the ground. “Right behind my ass.”
“Kinda the whole point,“ Sulu said with a breathless laugh. His vague notions of holding back had been proven false; McCoy might not hit the treadmill very often, but he was having no trouble keeping up with those long legs of his. And they could both afford to be flippant because the whine of Kirk’s phaser was still echoing at their backs. He was only a kilometer or so behind, by Sulu’s guess, and the weird heavy boom of the enemy firearms was coming in longer, more distant intervals.
His eyes registered a shadowed outcropping to their left before his feet entirely caught up. “This way,” he panted snagging McCoy’s sleeve and doubling back. There was an incline below it -- a good enough hiding spot while they waited. McCoy bent over with hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, while Sulu scattered some pebbles to obscure their path in case Kirk still had someone on his tail.
Okay, so this mission hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, but when did they ever? He and McCoy had gotten out, Kirk was right behind them, and as soon as they were clear of the alien encampment’s energy signature the Enterprise would pick up their bio signs and get them off this miserable rock.
Despite his confidence, Sulu’s heart stuttered when Kirk appeared around the edge of the ridge a few minutes later. He put his fingers to his lips to make the low, fluting bird call all the away teams learned as protocol. Kirk started at the noise, but he looked at the copse of stunted trees that Sulu had dismissed as poor cover.
He looked at McCoy, who frowned and glanced back in the direction of the encampment before cupping his hand around his mouth. “Jim!” Sulu winced, but it was as quiet as he could manage and still make himself heard.
Kirk turned toward them, his shoulders hunching up defensively. He’d lost his phaser somewhere along the way, Sulu noted, and there was something…off about him. He almost looked like he didn’t recognize them, like he was sizing them up as a potential threat. Finally he hurried over to their ridge, his head swinging wildly around at nothing; Sulu couldn’t even hear the cannons any longer.
“They’re coming for us,” Kirk muttered, drawing close. “He’s coming for us. I heard the troopers talking.“
His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and it wasn’t the adrenalin rush of fight and flight. Even with lives at stake Kirk was always in command; the trust his people put in him weighed on him sometimes, Sulu knew, but it shored him up, too. This was Jim Kirk defenseless as Sulu had never seen him. Sulu stared down at his hands, clenching and unclenching on his thighs. They were shaking.
“Sir?” he said slowly, reverting to the chain of command in the hopes it would calm Kirk down.
“Jim, what…” McCoy began, his brow furrowed in the same kind of confusion Sulu felt.
“He’s coming,” Kirk repeated urgently, shifting on his feet, his eyes darting from Sulu to McCoy to their drab surroundings. Suddenly he made an sound low in his throat. Crouching down, he dug frantically at a soft green shoot that had, against all odds, sprung up from the sandy soil.
For a moment Sulu entertained the absurd thought that he’d hidden a weapon there. Then Kirk brought his hand up and stuffed the plant and a good portion of dirt into his mouth.
The beads of sweat running down Sulu’s back turned cold.
Kirk grimaced but swallowed, glancing up at Sulu with feverish blue eyes. It was the first time Kirk had met his gaze directly and it sent a shudder through him, worse than the sympathetic gag reflex that burned his throat as Kirk shoved another handful of dirt into his mouth. He’d been right, earlier -- there was no recognition there.
He heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. There was horror in McCoy’s eyes, too, but slowly something else was dawning.
“My god,” he said hoarsely. “Jim…Jimmy?”
Sulu felt his eyebrows shoot up. He’d never heard anyone call him that, not his mother or his best friend or hell, even Cupcake. And while he’d said a lot of things in bed with Kirk -- none of which he wanted to think about right this very moment -- ‘Jimmy’ had never even crossed his mind.
It seemed, however, to make Kirk focus a little. “They’ll take us,” he insisted with that same fearful desperation. “They’ll take us, and they’ll kill us.”
Dry as this planet was, the mess smearing his mouth looked more like ashes than dirt. Sulu‘s palms itched with the need to wipe it away, to touch him, to fix whatever this was. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to move. He was as rooted to the ground as the gray, warped things that passed for foliage here.
“Jimmy,” McCoy said again, his voice softer than Sulu had ever heard it. He dropped to the ground and reached out, but Kirk jerked away from him. McCoy’s mouth tightened, although he was clearly trying to keep calm. “No one’s gonna kill us, okay?”
Kirk wrapped his arms around his knees. “They took Sam.” His voice was very small, a boy’s voice -- a little boy who might have been called Jimmy, a world of stars ago.
“I know,” McCoy murmured. “I know they did, Jimmy.” He reached for Kirk again and this time Kirk didn’t retreat, although he eyed McCoy’s hand with some suspicion. McCoy cleared his throat and Sulu thought he might learn something from his face, might get some faint inkling of what the hell was going on, if he had been able to look away from Kirk.
“But all that happened a long time ago,” McCoy was saying, running his index finger back and forth across the hem of Kirk’s sleeve. “Do you understand?”
Kirk lifted his chin, the edge of defiance making him look more like himself as he nodded once. But his eyes were still cloudy as he blinked doubtfully up at Sulu.
“We’re --”
McCoy was cut off by the familiar hum of the transporter. Relief made Sulu sag against the rocks but Kirk surged to his feet, panic-stricken again. Sulu’s arms were closing around him before McCoy could fully shout “Grab him, dammit!”
Kirk struggled against his grip, slamming his head forward when he couldn’t get his arms free. Distantly Sulu felt the pain as something shattered but all he could think as the air shimmered around them was don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.
In the end, they had to sedate him to get him to sick bay. Sulu’s memory of the next few hours would always be a little fuzzy -- he got into a shouting match with Spock, M’Benga set his nose at some point, Chapel chased him with a tricorder even though he told her he was perfectly fine. When McCoy finally emerged from quarantine looking like hell warmed over, he waved off Sulu’s questions but let him spend five minutes with a still-unconscious Kirk. Then he barricaded himself in the lab with Spock and banished Sulu to his quarters under pain of hypospray. It was Sulu’s grand plan to pace and fret until someone told him Kirk was awake, but exhaustion caught up with him in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
He slept for twelve hours straight and woke to a comm message from McCoy. They’d figured out that Kirk had been hit with some kind of hallucinatory gas, got the last traces of it out of his system, and sent him to his own quarters to recover. To Sulu’s surprise, McCoy closed the message with And you’re both off duty for two days, so get your ass up there. He hadn’t thought McCoy held a very high opinion of his relationship with Kirk.
If ‘relationship’ was even the word for it. Much as Sulu might have been playing the worried boyfriend yesterday (and much as Chekov liked to refer to “your boyfriend the keptin,” to Sulu’s eternal annoyance), neither one of them had raised the issue yet. True, there had been sleep-overs and lazy mornings in the captain’s shower and even the occasional movie night without any sex whatsoever. He had no idea what Kirk’s usual hook-up expiration date was or if he even had one, but they’d moved way past Sulu's own and he still hadn’t considered cornering Kirk for The Talk.
Maybe he’d been afraid of the outcome. And maybe his apprehensions seemed inconsequential now.
By the time he punched in the code to the captain’s quarters, Sulu had actually given a lot of thought to how this would go. Kirk would be in bed, or maybe wrapped up on the sofa, his bare feet poking out of a blanket. Sulu would get to touch him like he’d wanted to on Bexin VII -- pull him close and run his fingers through rumpled blond hair and press his cheek to a steady heartbeat. They’d talk about what happened, about what it meant, and they’d curl up in bed feeling exhausted and raw but ready to face the morning together.
What actually happened was that he got two steps inside before he was slammed against the door, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh
Kirk breathed into him, hands coming up to flex around his biceps. Sulu kissed him back out of reflex, the tiny corner of his mind that hadn’t shorted out at the press of Kirk’s knee between his thighs reflecting back on how this had stared. It was another mission gone bad the first time, and really most of the times after -- the near-misses and narrow escapes had made everything sharper, hotter. Kirk’s lips on his neck were burning now, as Sulu tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined he could taste dirt beneath the mint-sweet sweep of Jim’s tongue.
“Jim, wait,” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded, as if it knew how much he really, really didn’t want to stop -- but they had to, didn’t they?
Kirk grinned at him, tucking his thumbs into Sulu’s waistband. “Already did. Bones said not to bother you ‘til you woke up.” He kissed Sulu’s neck, dragging his teeth over his pulse point and rumbling, “Now I’m gonna bother you a lot.”
With a Herculean effort Sulu got his palms on Kirk’s shoulders and a foot of space between their bodies, or the top half at least. Kirk was still pressed against him from hip to ankle and he certainly didn’t seem to be suffering any physiological effects from his ordeal.
“But we…we should really talk.”
“About what?” Kirk rolled his hips and Sulu bit down on a groan.
“About --” Sulu caught Kirk’s face in his hands as he was leaning in for another kiss. “About what happened down there.”
Kirk cocked his head as best he could in Sulu’s grip. “Why?”
“Uh, because it got really bad?” He found the soft spot behind Kirk’s right ear with his index finger, gentling his touch and his voice. “You didn’t even know who I was, man.”
Something dark flashed in Kirk’s eyes before his whole demeanor changed from lustful mischief to nonchalance. He leaned back, taking his weight off Sulu and tugging at the neck of his undershirt. His mouth twisted wryly. “Honestly, Hikaru, it’s not that big a deal. I got hit by some alien whammy and went a little feral.” He spread his arms and took a step back in the process. “See? Totally fine now. I brushed my teeth four times.”
Shaking his head, Sulu said, “It was more than that and you know it.” His voice came out a little louder than he intended; this was not going the way he’d planned.
He touched Kirk’s wrist where McCoy’s fingers had rested earlier. While Kirk didn’t pull away, Sulu could feel his hand twitch. Something twisted bitterly in his gut.
Fighting to keep his tone level, he said, “You can talk to me about it, Jim.”
Kirk turned on his heel with a sigh. “Nothing to talk about,” he said over his shoulder.
“Are you seriously going to pull this shit with me?” Sulu raked a hand through his hair, feeling his temper rise and his libido take a sharp dive. “I thought we were --” He paused, suddenly glad that Kirk wasn’t really looking at him.
“We were fucking,” Kirk said flatly, propping his hip against the bedroom door. He raised an eyebrow, his expression so damned cool that Sulu was tempted to stride across the room and slug him. “We can fuck now, or...” He shrugged, his eyes flicking down to the carpet as if he couldn't be bothered either way.
Fuck you was on the tip of Sulu’s tongue, but since that wasn’t actually going to happen he left without another word.
On the fourth day, Chekov shot Sulu a concerned glance across the navigation console and a text message on its screen: Are you okay? You are being very...stoic.
Sulu snorted. He and Kirk had both been the picture of professionalism, belying all those Academy lectures about the dangers of shipboard fraternization. He’d thought about requesting a shift transfer, but that would definitely fuel the rumor mill. Now he was relieved they hadn’t made anything official, since the fact they were no longer seen together in the mess, gym, or rec rooms went unnoticed -- wiith a few notable exceptions, anyway. At least Uhura limited her intrusion to sympathetic looks and shoulder-pats. Chekov, on the other hand, had pestered Sulu for the story until he finally got a condensed version. Watching his face fall had been almost as bad as Kirk’s brush-off, although Sulu had no idea where he’d gotten this romantic image of them in the first place.
I’m fine, Pavel, he typed, pointedly not glancing back at the captain’s chair. It was a thing, it’s over, we’re both adults.
Chekov bit the inside of his cheek and studied him for a moment before turning back to his equations. Sulu wondered if he’d try plying him with vodka again later, but fortunately he let it go.
A week past his last private conversation with Kirk and his luck ran out: McCoy found him in the weight room on Deck Seven, pummeling a speed bag.
“Looks therapeutic.” McCoy leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not really the point,” Sulu replied, relishing the burn in his lungs nonetheless. McCoy could be pretty damn smug sometimes -- Sulu figured it was a doctor thing -- and he had that air about him now. Probably come to tell him to move on, that the golden boy just wasn’t relationship material and he was better off. He’d always thought Kirk and McCoy were freakishly codependent and knew he wasn’t the only one. It took a fifth of Jack-courage to ask Kirk about it one night, and he’d just laughed and said, “Bones has more sense than that.” Which led to righteous indignation over the implication that Sulu didn’t and a wrestling match and whiskey spilled all over the bed; Sulu had been mollified at the time. But he still had his suspicions and so McCoy’s next words caught him off guard.
“Jim was on Tarsus, you know.”
He sat down heavily on the bench. “The hell?”
McCoy nodded, studying his nails. “That’s what that vapor they shot him with did, took his mind back there. To his worst memories.”
Sulu wondered briefly how he and Spock had figured that out, but it wasn’t a curiosity he was prepared to indulge right now. He picked at the tape on his knuckles, trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Jim -- no, Jimmy, he must’ve been about thirteen when Kodos...fuck, Tarsus IV had been a hellhole after the blight. Of course they’d studied it in school, but he remembered the newsvids too. So many dead colonists, too few broken, starving survivors. And Jim Kirk had been one of them.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” His voice was harsh in the stillness of the weight room.
Pursing his lips, McCoy said, “You want to know who else knows about it besides those who were there? That’d be me, Admiral Pike, Spock --” He counted them off on his fingers, holding Sulu’s gaze. “Now you.”
Sulu planted his hands on his thighs and leaned forward. Okay, yeah, he felt like shit for how he'd acted, but there was still a thread of hurt running beneath it. Because McCoy was the one telling him for a reason.
“I asked him,” he said in a low voice, shaking his head. “I knew it was something, not -- not this, but something bad. And he didn’t want to talk about it.”
McCoy snorted. “‘Course he didn’t. That’s how he is. But you let him push you away, you just reinforce all that bullshit he taught himself about getting close to people.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He kicked a weight belt lying forgotten under the bench, only marginally satisfied by the clatter of buckles across the floor.
McCoy’s eyes flashed, but he took a breath before he replied. “I didn’t say that. Just...there are some things you’re maybe gonna have to meet him a little more than halfway on.” He slapped the heavy bag as he passed it. “If you think he’s worth it.”
“Leonard.”
Turning back at the door, he looked somewhat bewildered at hearing his given name. Sulu generally called him McCoy or Doc.
“Who was Sam?”
McCoy’s jaw tightened, but his voice was soft. “I think you should ask Jim, son.” And he left Sulu alone with the faint creak of the bag as it swayed.
He didn’t know where the halfway point was. But when Kirk’s door opened the slow, tentative curve of his mouth was a hell of a lot further than Sulu was expecting to get.
“Hey,” Kirk said, making an abortive movement like he wanted to touch Sulu’s arm, then gesturing inside. “Uh, you want to come in?”
Sulu stepped past him, noticing the shadows around his eyes that he hadn’t wanted to notice on the bridge. He looked as tired as Sulu felt and twice as nervous. Somehow, even though he hadn’t had the slightest idea what he was going to say when Kirk let him in -- if Kirk let him in -- his doubts had eased. He sat down on the couch while Kirk hovered at the tiny kitchenette, grabbing two bottles of the dark ale he’d bartered from Scotty because Sulu liked it.
Finally Kirk perched himself a foot or so away, sipping his beer and staring at the ceiling for a few moments before he spoke. “So I guess you wanna talk, huh?”
“Not unless you want to,” said Sulu. It wasn’t capitulation; he found that he meant it, and that surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Kirk.
Kirk bit down on his lower lip. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, curling his hand around the neck of the bottle. “It’s just -- you and I are the same in a lot of ways, but where we come from is...” He huffed a sigh, obviously struggling to get the right words out -- a rarity for Jim Kirk. Sulu tamped down the urge to help, to push his way in; he waited.
“You’re like this amazing, good, pure thing. Okay, maybe not so pure,” Kirk conceded, a corner of his mouth quirking up when Sulu choked on a mouthful of beer. But his eyes were still perfectly, painfully earnest. “And I’m --I'm fucked up and broken, and I didn’t want any of that to touch you.”
Sulu covered Kirk’s fingers where they were shredding the label of his beer. “You’re not broken, Jim,” he said quietly. “And I’m here for you to...touch.” He rolled his eyes at the predictable snicker and tried to hide the sudden leap of his pulse as Kirk’s foot nudged up against his own. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Kirk said, laying his hand over Sulu’s knee and squeezing for a moment. Then he leaned forward, reaching for a battered old padd on the armrest. When he sat back up, Sulu’s arm settled easily over his shoulders. “I wanted to show you something.”
Thumbing the padd on, Kirk flicked through files until he found a folder labeled The Boys -- Summer 2244. The first picture was of two grinning towheaded boys in soaked swim trunks and t-shirts, the older one caught mid-hair-ruffle.
“This is my brother Sam.” His voice was rough with emotion, but the smile lingered on his lips. “I gave him hell for that a second later.”
They didn’t talk about Tarsus IV or Bexin VII that night. But they did go through the rest of the pictures as well as an outrageous story about driving a classic Corvette off a cliff. And later, when Kirk whispered "Night, H'karu" against his neck, Sulu wrapped an arm around him and kissed his brow and thought that the spaces between the words were sometimes more important.
Title: A King of Infinite Space
Kirk, Sulu, and Tarsus IV.
Author: Dala
Pairing: Kirk/Sulu
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3577
Disclaimer: standard applies; title from Hamlet
Written for: re_white for the kirk_sulu Holiday Exchange; I went heavy on the angst and hurt/comfort. Hope you like it! :)
A King of Infinite Space
“Right behind us, he said,” McCoy snarled, cursing as a wayward rock nearly sent him tumbling to the ground. “Right behind my ass.”
“Kinda the whole point,“ Sulu said with a breathless laugh. His vague notions of holding back had been proven false; McCoy might not hit the treadmill very often, but he was having no trouble keeping up with those long legs of his. And they could both afford to be flippant because the whine of Kirk’s phaser was still echoing at their backs. He was only a kilometer or so behind, by Sulu’s guess, and the weird heavy boom of the enemy firearms was coming in longer, more distant intervals.
His eyes registered a shadowed outcropping to their left before his feet entirely caught up. “This way,” he panted snagging McCoy’s sleeve and doubling back. There was an incline below it -- a good enough hiding spot while they waited. McCoy bent over with hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, while Sulu scattered some pebbles to obscure their path in case Kirk still had someone on his tail.
Okay, so this mission hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, but when did they ever? He and McCoy had gotten out, Kirk was right behind them, and as soon as they were clear of the alien encampment’s energy signature the Enterprise would pick up their bio signs and get them off this miserable rock.
Despite his confidence, Sulu’s heart stuttered when Kirk appeared around the edge of the ridge a few minutes later. He put his fingers to his lips to make the low, fluting bird call all the away teams learned as protocol. Kirk started at the noise, but he looked at the copse of stunted trees that Sulu had dismissed as poor cover.
He looked at McCoy, who frowned and glanced back in the direction of the encampment before cupping his hand around his mouth. “Jim!” Sulu winced, but it was as quiet as he could manage and still make himself heard.
Kirk turned toward them, his shoulders hunching up defensively. He’d lost his phaser somewhere along the way, Sulu noted, and there was something…off about him. He almost looked like he didn’t recognize them, like he was sizing them up as a potential threat. Finally he hurried over to their ridge, his head swinging wildly around at nothing; Sulu couldn’t even hear the cannons any longer.
“They’re coming for us,” Kirk muttered, drawing close. “He’s coming for us. I heard the troopers talking.“
His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and it wasn’t the adrenalin rush of fight and flight. Even with lives at stake Kirk was always in command; the trust his people put in him weighed on him sometimes, Sulu knew, but it shored him up, too. This was Jim Kirk defenseless as Sulu had never seen him. Sulu stared down at his hands, clenching and unclenching on his thighs. They were shaking.
“Sir?” he said slowly, reverting to the chain of command in the hopes it would calm Kirk down.
“Jim, what…” McCoy began, his brow furrowed in the same kind of confusion Sulu felt.
“He’s coming,” Kirk repeated urgently, shifting on his feet, his eyes darting from Sulu to McCoy to their drab surroundings. Suddenly he made an sound low in his throat. Crouching down, he dug frantically at a soft green shoot that had, against all odds, sprung up from the sandy soil.
For a moment Sulu entertained the absurd thought that he’d hidden a weapon there. Then Kirk brought his hand up and stuffed the plant and a good portion of dirt into his mouth.
The beads of sweat running down Sulu’s back turned cold.
Kirk grimaced but swallowed, glancing up at Sulu with feverish blue eyes. It was the first time Kirk had met his gaze directly and it sent a shudder through him, worse than the sympathetic gag reflex that burned his throat as Kirk shoved another handful of dirt into his mouth. He’d been right, earlier -- there was no recognition there.
He heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. There was horror in McCoy’s eyes, too, but slowly something else was dawning.
“My god,” he said hoarsely. “Jim…Jimmy?”
Sulu felt his eyebrows shoot up. He’d never heard anyone call him that, not his mother or his best friend or hell, even Cupcake. And while he’d said a lot of things in bed with Kirk -- none of which he wanted to think about right this very moment -- ‘Jimmy’ had never even crossed his mind.
It seemed, however, to make Kirk focus a little. “They’ll take us,” he insisted with that same fearful desperation. “They’ll take us, and they’ll kill us.”
Dry as this planet was, the mess smearing his mouth looked more like ashes than dirt. Sulu‘s palms itched with the need to wipe it away, to touch him, to fix whatever this was. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to move. He was as rooted to the ground as the gray, warped things that passed for foliage here.
“Jimmy,” McCoy said again, his voice softer than Sulu had ever heard it. He dropped to the ground and reached out, but Kirk jerked away from him. McCoy’s mouth tightened, although he was clearly trying to keep calm. “No one’s gonna kill us, okay?”
Kirk wrapped his arms around his knees. “They took Sam.” His voice was very small, a boy’s voice -- a little boy who might have been called Jimmy, a world of stars ago.
“I know,” McCoy murmured. “I know they did, Jimmy.” He reached for Kirk again and this time Kirk didn’t retreat, although he eyed McCoy’s hand with some suspicion. McCoy cleared his throat and Sulu thought he might learn something from his face, might get some faint inkling of what the hell was going on, if he had been able to look away from Kirk.
“But all that happened a long time ago,” McCoy was saying, running his index finger back and forth across the hem of Kirk’s sleeve. “Do you understand?”
Kirk lifted his chin, the edge of defiance making him look more like himself as he nodded once. But his eyes were still cloudy as he blinked doubtfully up at Sulu.
“We’re --”
McCoy was cut off by the familiar hum of the transporter. Relief made Sulu sag against the rocks but Kirk surged to his feet, panic-stricken again. Sulu’s arms were closing around him before McCoy could fully shout “Grab him, dammit!”
Kirk struggled against his grip, slamming his head forward when he couldn’t get his arms free. Distantly Sulu felt the pain as something shattered but all he could think as the air shimmered around them was don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.
In the end, they had to sedate him to get him to sick bay. Sulu’s memory of the next few hours would always be a little fuzzy -- he got into a shouting match with Spock, M’Benga set his nose at some point, Chapel chased him with a tricorder even though he told her he was perfectly fine. When McCoy finally emerged from quarantine looking like hell warmed over, he waved off Sulu’s questions but let him spend five minutes with a still-unconscious Kirk. Then he barricaded himself in the lab with Spock and banished Sulu to his quarters under pain of hypospray. It was Sulu’s grand plan to pace and fret until someone told him Kirk was awake, but exhaustion caught up with him in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
He slept for twelve hours straight and woke to a comm message from McCoy. They’d figured out that Kirk had been hit with some kind of hallucinatory gas, got the last traces of it out of his system, and sent him to his own quarters to recover. To Sulu’s surprise, McCoy closed the message with And you’re both off duty for two days, so get your ass up there. He hadn’t thought McCoy held a very high opinion of his relationship with Kirk.
If ‘relationship’ was even the word for it. Much as Sulu might have been playing the worried boyfriend yesterday (and much as Chekov liked to refer to “your boyfriend the keptin,” to Sulu’s eternal annoyance), neither one of them had raised the issue yet. True, there had been sleep-overs and lazy mornings in the captain’s shower and even the occasional movie night without any sex whatsoever. He had no idea what Kirk’s usual hook-up expiration date was or if he even had one, but they’d moved way past Sulu's own and he still hadn’t considered cornering Kirk for The Talk.
Maybe he’d been afraid of the outcome. And maybe his apprehensions seemed inconsequential now.
By the time he punched in the code to the captain’s quarters, Sulu had actually given a lot of thought to how this would go. Kirk would be in bed, or maybe wrapped up on the sofa, his bare feet poking out of a blanket. Sulu would get to touch him like he’d wanted to on Bexin VII -- pull him close and run his fingers through rumpled blond hair and press his cheek to a steady heartbeat. They’d talk about what happened, about what it meant, and they’d curl up in bed feeling exhausted and raw but ready to face the morning together.
What actually happened was that he got two steps inside before he was slammed against the door, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh
Kirk breathed into him, hands coming up to flex around his biceps. Sulu kissed him back out of reflex, the tiny corner of his mind that hadn’t shorted out at the press of Kirk’s knee between his thighs reflecting back on how this had stared. It was another mission gone bad the first time, and really most of the times after -- the near-misses and narrow escapes had made everything sharper, hotter. Kirk’s lips on his neck were burning now, as Sulu tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined he could taste dirt beneath the mint-sweet sweep of Jim’s tongue.
“Jim, wait,” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded, as if it knew how much he really, really didn’t want to stop -- but they had to, didn’t they?
Kirk grinned at him, tucking his thumbs into Sulu’s waistband. “Already did. Bones said not to bother you ‘til you woke up.” He kissed Sulu’s neck, dragging his teeth over his pulse point and rumbling, “Now I’m gonna bother you a lot.”
With a Herculean effort Sulu got his palms on Kirk’s shoulders and a foot of space between their bodies, or the top half at least. Kirk was still pressed against him from hip to ankle and he certainly didn’t seem to be suffering any physiological effects from his ordeal.
“But we…we should really talk.”
“About what?” Kirk rolled his hips and Sulu bit down on a groan.
“About --” Sulu caught Kirk’s face in his hands as he was leaning in for another kiss. “About what happened down there.”
Kirk cocked his head as best he could in Sulu’s grip. “Why?”
“Uh, because it got really bad?” He found the soft spot behind Kirk’s right ear with his index finger, gentling his touch and his voice. “You didn’t even know who I was, man.”
Something dark flashed in Kirk’s eyes before his whole demeanor changed from lustful mischief to nonchalance. He leaned back, taking his weight off Sulu and tugging at the neck of his undershirt. His mouth twisted wryly. “Honestly, Hikaru, it’s not that big a deal. I got hit by some alien whammy and went a little feral.” He spread his arms and took a step back in the process. “See? Totally fine now. I brushed my teeth four times.”
Shaking his head, Sulu said, “It was more than that and you know it.” His voice came out a little louder than he intended; this was not going the way he’d planned.
He touched Kirk’s wrist where McCoy’s fingers had rested earlier. While Kirk didn’t pull away, Sulu could feel his hand twitch. Something twisted bitterly in his gut.
Fighting to keep his tone level, he said, “You can talk to me about it, Jim.”
Kirk turned on his heel with a sigh. “Nothing to talk about,” he said over his shoulder.
“Are you seriously going to pull this shit with me?” Sulu raked a hand through his hair, feeling his temper rise and his libido take a sharp dive. “I thought we were --” He paused, suddenly glad that Kirk wasn’t really looking at him.
“We were fucking,” Kirk said flatly, propping his hip against the bedroom door. He raised an eyebrow, his expression so damned cool that Sulu was tempted to stride across the room and slug him. “We can fuck now, or...” He shrugged, his eyes flicking down to the carpet as if he couldn't be bothered either way.
Fuck you was on the tip of Sulu’s tongue, but since that wasn’t actually going to happen he left without another word.
On the fourth day, Chekov shot Sulu a concerned glance across the navigation console and a text message on its screen: Are you okay? You are being very...stoic.
Sulu snorted. He and Kirk had both been the picture of professionalism, belying all those Academy lectures about the dangers of shipboard fraternization. He’d thought about requesting a shift transfer, but that would definitely fuel the rumor mill. Now he was relieved they hadn’t made anything official, since the fact they were no longer seen together in the mess, gym, or rec rooms went unnoticed -- wiith a few notable exceptions, anyway. At least Uhura limited her intrusion to sympathetic looks and shoulder-pats. Chekov, on the other hand, had pestered Sulu for the story until he finally got a condensed version. Watching his face fall had been almost as bad as Kirk’s brush-off, although Sulu had no idea where he’d gotten this romantic image of them in the first place.
I’m fine, Pavel, he typed, pointedly not glancing back at the captain’s chair. It was a thing, it’s over, we’re both adults.
Chekov bit the inside of his cheek and studied him for a moment before turning back to his equations. Sulu wondered if he’d try plying him with vodka again later, but fortunately he let it go.
A week past his last private conversation with Kirk and his luck ran out: McCoy found him in the weight room on Deck Seven, pummeling a speed bag.
“Looks therapeutic.” McCoy leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not really the point,” Sulu replied, relishing the burn in his lungs nonetheless. McCoy could be pretty damn smug sometimes -- Sulu figured it was a doctor thing -- and he had that air about him now. Probably come to tell him to move on, that the golden boy just wasn’t relationship material and he was better off. He’d always thought Kirk and McCoy were freakishly codependent and knew he wasn’t the only one. It took a fifth of Jack-courage to ask Kirk about it one night, and he’d just laughed and said, “Bones has more sense than that.” Which led to righteous indignation over the implication that Sulu didn’t and a wrestling match and whiskey spilled all over the bed; Sulu had been mollified at the time. But he still had his suspicions and so McCoy’s next words caught him off guard.
“Jim was on Tarsus, you know.”
He sat down heavily on the bench. “The hell?”
McCoy nodded, studying his nails. “That’s what that vapor they shot him with did, took his mind back there. To his worst memories.”
Sulu wondered briefly how he and Spock had figured that out, but it wasn’t a curiosity he was prepared to indulge right now. He picked at the tape on his knuckles, trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Jim -- no, Jimmy, he must’ve been about thirteen when Kodos...fuck, Tarsus IV had been a hellhole after the blight. Of course they’d studied it in school, but he remembered the newsvids too. So many dead colonists, too few broken, starving survivors. And Jim Kirk had been one of them.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” His voice was harsh in the stillness of the weight room.
Pursing his lips, McCoy said, “You want to know who else knows about it besides those who were there? That’d be me, Admiral Pike, Spock --” He counted them off on his fingers, holding Sulu’s gaze. “Now you.”
Sulu planted his hands on his thighs and leaned forward. Okay, yeah, he felt like shit for how he'd acted, but there was still a thread of hurt running beneath it. Because McCoy was the one telling him for a reason.
“I asked him,” he said in a low voice, shaking his head. “I knew it was something, not -- not this, but something bad. And he didn’t want to talk about it.”
McCoy snorted. “‘Course he didn’t. That’s how he is. But you let him push you away, you just reinforce all that bullshit he taught himself about getting close to people.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He kicked a weight belt lying forgotten under the bench, only marginally satisfied by the clatter of buckles across the floor.
McCoy’s eyes flashed, but he took a breath before he replied. “I didn’t say that. Just...there are some things you’re maybe gonna have to meet him a little more than halfway on.” He slapped the heavy bag as he passed it. “If you think he’s worth it.”
“Leonard.”
Turning back at the door, he looked somewhat bewildered at hearing his given name. Sulu generally called him McCoy or Doc.
“Who was Sam?”
McCoy’s jaw tightened, but his voice was soft. “I think you should ask Jim, son.” And he left Sulu alone with the faint creak of the bag as it swayed.
He didn’t know where the halfway point was. But when Kirk’s door opened the slow, tentative curve of his mouth was a hell of a lot further than Sulu was expecting to get.
“Hey,” Kirk said, making an abortive movement like he wanted to touch Sulu’s arm, then gesturing inside. “Uh, you want to come in?”
Sulu stepped past him, noticing the shadows around his eyes that he hadn’t wanted to notice on the bridge. He looked as tired as Sulu felt and twice as nervous. Somehow, even though he hadn’t had the slightest idea what he was going to say when Kirk let him in -- if Kirk let him in -- his doubts had eased. He sat down on the couch while Kirk hovered at the tiny kitchenette, grabbing two bottles of the dark ale he’d bartered from Scotty because Sulu liked it.
Finally Kirk perched himself a foot or so away, sipping his beer and staring at the ceiling for a few moments before he spoke. “So I guess you wanna talk, huh?”
“Not unless you want to,” said Sulu. It wasn’t capitulation; he found that he meant it, and that surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Kirk.
Kirk bit down on his lower lip. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, curling his hand around the neck of the bottle. “It’s just -- you and I are the same in a lot of ways, but where we come from is...” He huffed a sigh, obviously struggling to get the right words out -- a rarity for Jim Kirk. Sulu tamped down the urge to help, to push his way in; he waited.
“You’re like this amazing, good, pure thing. Okay, maybe not so pure,” Kirk conceded, a corner of his mouth quirking up when Sulu choked on a mouthful of beer. But his eyes were still perfectly, painfully earnest. “And I’m --I'm fucked up and broken, and I didn’t want any of that to touch you.”
Sulu covered Kirk’s fingers where they were shredding the label of his beer. “You’re not broken, Jim,” he said quietly. “And I’m here for you to...touch.” He rolled his eyes at the predictable snicker and tried to hide the sudden leap of his pulse as Kirk’s foot nudged up against his own. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Kirk said, laying his hand over Sulu’s knee and squeezing for a moment. Then he leaned forward, reaching for a battered old padd on the armrest. When he sat back up, Sulu’s arm settled easily over his shoulders. “I wanted to show you something.”
Thumbing the padd on, Kirk flicked through files until he found a folder labeled The Boys -- Summer 2244. The first picture was of two grinning towheaded boys in soaked swim trunks and t-shirts, the older one caught mid-hair-ruffle.
“This is my brother Sam.” His voice was rough with emotion, but the smile lingered on his lips. “I gave him hell for that a second later.”
They didn’t talk about Tarsus IV or Bexin VII that night. But they did go through the rest of the pictures as well as an outrageous story about driving a classic Corvette off a cliff. And later, when Kirk whispered "Night, H'karu" against his neck, Sulu wrapped an arm around him and kissed his brow and thought that the spaces between the words were sometimes more important.