Fingerprints (K/S/Mc, 2/4ish)iriscloudMay 8 2013, 08:51:13 UTC
However, concentrating on the route ahead proved to be a challenge today, because the Captain seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the space debris from the asteroid belt. He stood behind Spock's chair, as he often did, but instead of placing a hand on his shoulder, he knelt down and rested both arms on the back of his chair. This placed his face within unnecessarily close proximity of Spock's, and indeed, the sound of the Captain's voice so close to his ear nearly made him confuse two numbers when describing the mineral content of the debris. Still, it was nothing close to the distraction that Kirk's hands proved to be. When the Captain stood, the tips of his fingers barely brushed the outer curve of Spock's ear, and the thought transferred with it (though nothing more than an abstract feeling of intense interest) was enough to delay him in completing his calculations by a full seven seconds.
The Captain had not stopped at that, however. Throughout the shift he had kept his hands in Spock's line of sight, whether it was stretching his wrists, or brushing his hair back, or (and this memory makes him shiver) resting the knuckle of his index finger in his mouth. Worse still had been when the Captain had handed Spock a data padd that needed his signature, and their fingers had touched when he took it back. (The Captain was very, very focused on his eyes.) Spock knows that the Captain was not ignorant of what such contact means to a Vulcan. What solidifies this certainty more is the way the Captain's fingers had curled around each other upon his return to his seat, while the Captain himself pointedly did not look in Spock's direction.
Knowing all of that, Spock still might have slept after some deliberation, and perhaps meditation to clear his mind. What was driving him mad at this hour, what made his room feel suffocatingly hot, his skin flushed with fire, his mind burning with questions, was the look the Captain and Doctor McCoy exchanged in the turbolift after their shift had ended, followed by the briefest of glances in his direction.
They are doing it on purpose. The notion ought to enrage him, or at least give him a sense of grief that his friends would, for lack of a better term, tease him in this way. Instead, to his shame, the thought rather excited him. Indeed, he can feel his arousal hot and firm between his legs, the soft cloth of his nightclothes irritating to his over-sensitized skin. His mind relives the day over and over, the feeling of two sets of hands on him, and he begins to wonder what it would feel like to feel both of their hands on his skin at the same time.
With a frustrated half-snarl, he throws his blankets to one side and sits up, pulling his shirt off. The air feels no cooler on his skin, but it reminds him very acutely of the examination room, and he swears his skin remembers the exact points where Doctor McCoy's fingertips touched. He closes his eyes against the light from his chronometer, as though ashamed to face it. An unwise move; his mind crafts a new set of images, given a dark canvas on which to paint.
The Captain had not stopped at that, however. Throughout the shift he had kept his hands in Spock's line of sight, whether it was stretching his wrists, or brushing his hair back, or (and this memory makes him shiver) resting the knuckle of his index finger in his mouth. Worse still had been when the Captain had handed Spock a data padd that needed his signature, and their fingers had touched when he took it back. (The Captain was very, very focused on his eyes.) Spock knows that the Captain was not ignorant of what such contact means to a Vulcan. What solidifies this certainty more is the way the Captain's fingers had curled around each other upon his return to his seat, while the Captain himself pointedly did not look in Spock's direction.
Knowing all of that, Spock still might have slept after some deliberation, and perhaps meditation to clear his mind. What was driving him mad at this hour, what made his room feel suffocatingly hot, his skin flushed with fire, his mind burning with questions, was the look the Captain and Doctor McCoy exchanged in the turbolift after their shift had ended, followed by the briefest of glances in his direction.
They are doing it on purpose. The notion ought to enrage him, or at least give him a sense of grief that his friends would, for lack of a better term, tease him in this way. Instead, to his shame, the thought rather excited him. Indeed, he can feel his arousal hot and firm between his legs, the soft cloth of his nightclothes irritating to his over-sensitized skin. His mind relives the day over and over, the feeling of two sets of hands on him, and he begins to wonder what it would feel like to feel both of their hands on his skin at the same time.
With a frustrated half-snarl, he throws his blankets to one side and sits up, pulling his shirt off. The air feels no cooler on his skin, but it reminds him very acutely of the examination room, and he swears his skin remembers the exact points where Doctor McCoy's fingertips touched. He closes his eyes against the light from his chronometer, as though ashamed to face it. An unwise move; his mind crafts a new set of images, given a dark canvas on which to paint.
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