Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story 1/2
Title: Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story
Author: nix_this
Universe/Series: STR
Rating: R
Relationship status: First Time
Word count:~13500 (LOLWHUT?)
Genre: Cracky-Angst? Angsty-Crack? Crangst? Aack? With a splash of romance and humour
Tropes: amtdi, chess, destiny, drugs, intoxication, mindmeld, mindmeld gave me feelings, mission, unrequited
...um...I swear it works? XD
Warnings: dubcon (amtdi, intoxication), infidelity (sort of)
Additional Pairings: KirkPrime/SpockPrime (mentioned) Spock/Uhura
Summary:
Jim doesn't even know where to start. Blurting out: 'I got shot in the ass by this planet's version of cupid, only with more teeth and claws, and then I fucked Uhura's boyfriend on the ground after the most emotionally intimate experience of my sad, sad life' seems crass.
For rhaegal's prompt at ksvalentine : A planet with actual cupids (only maybe using something less violent than arrows?) as a take on the sex pollen/AMTDI trope?
Hope you like it, bb!
Beta: The fabulawesome janice_lester
Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story
Destiny is a bitch. A mean-spirited, evil bitch, best avoided at all costs.
Jim knows this, he thinks as he gapes in abject horror at the blue-clad arm banding around his chest. He knows he knows this. He's been saying it for fucking ever, man.
The trick is actually listening to himself.
But he's getting ahead of the story here. From the beginning...
No, that'll take too long.
From the second he let his guard down and got an arrow full of love juice right in the goddamn ass, then.
No. No. That probably won't make much sense without context.
Start with Spock. It always seems to start with Spock.
Kobayashi Maru. Ice planet. Destiny. Hitherto unknown breathplay kink uncovered
in front of his entire bridge crew, leading him to go on to save the world despite cracked ribs, a bruised throat and an erection he could pound nails with. Awkward.
After all of that, spooning in the middle of a mission after coming in his pants like a fucking teenager is really only the latest in a long line of Spock-related mind-fuckery.
Too much information? Too bad.
***
Missions come in via subspace regularly. ‘Five year mission’ is actually something of a misnomer--it isn’t five years of spacefaring carefully plotted out in advance, but more like a mission statement and general itinerary with the details subject to change. They go where they are needed, however that's communicated. Free time (ha!) is easily filled in with distress signals, exploration, and the dreaded star charting. Well, dreaded for everyone but Spock and his department of nerd minions, of course. Jim considers himself a scientist, and his bridge crew alone have enough letters after their names to start their own alphabet--heavily weighted on the basic side of the Ph scale if he wants to get clever about it, heh-- but cartography and positioning, while exceptionally useful, aren't exactly the type of thrilling adventures and dramatic discoveries they signed up for.
Spock and his groupies, on the other hand, revel in it. Even in the dullest of rotations--when the past and future merge together to resemble an endless expanse of stars that need charting, when the engineers have long since turned to building robots out of scrap metal, and medical starts thinking they should maybe get a jump on that year end inventory coming up... in, oh, eleven months--there's still, always, a sea of eager faces in blue uniforms hotly debating nomenclature and mapping out new constellations with wide eyed fervor. Spock, himself, can cheerfully bend over his station for hours on end (current record: thirteen and a half, and it would have gone on indefinitely had Jim not staged an intervention) and never lose his enthusiasm for the task (for a Vulcan, enthusiasm shows in the slightly crisper diction when he's reciting coordinate shifts).
It's not enough to keep Jim's mind occupied, though. Being the captain means he's got to sit there, looking appropriately solemn and approving, while the crew completes the monotonous routines of dead space. And, ask anyone, an idle Kirk is a recipe for disaster, so it shouldn't exactly come as a surprise when his thoughts start to drift in inappropriate directions because he's fucking bored, man. It does though. It always fucking does. He'll probably be dead before he loses his ability to surprise himself.
He almost fell out of the chair all those months ago, when he first caught his attention wandering, repeatedly, to Spock's ass throughout the alpha shift. The low thrum of awareness he always seems to have of his first officer had settled itself more or less constantly into his pants after that. As a result, he was usually half-hard whenever they were together, despite the urgent 'down boy' signals he tried to transmit via imaginings of one Ensign Keenser in flagrante delicto with Admiral Archer.
Talk about boldly going where angels should bloody well fear to tread (and yes, he knows he's crossing his references, but he's James T Kirk - he's allowed to mix his aphorisms). This new development poses a series of challenges, even for the most intrepid of starship captains.
Consider:
Spock is his First Officer.
Counter:
Anti-fraternization regs are frequently referred to as the best laugh in the entire Starfleet Code of Conduct.
Consider:
Spock isn't here for Jim, not like Bones is. They get along fine, sure, okay. Saving the world together and all that (and it's not fucking destiny despite what Cave Spock tries to imply during their bimonthly comms), and yeah, they've been spending more and more time together, because they've got to be a team if they're going to make the Enterprise and her crew live up to all of that awesome potential. But, on the road from bitter rivals to soul mates, they're kinda stalled at the junction between friend and coworker, which is light years away from even fuck buddy territory. Jim's been down this road before, he figures he knows how to read the damn signs.
Counter:
He's James T Kirk. He can charm the pants off a Klingon if he needs to. (The proof is in the archives, and the less said about that incident, the better.)
Consider:
Uhura.
Counter:
Well--
And that's what stops him short.
He's been a lot of things to a lot of people in his time, but he's not a fucking homewrecker (shipwrecker? Whatever-wrecker). He likes Uhura. Admires her, even. If they're happy, he's happy and he's not about to come between them just because he's bored and Spock's presenting to him on the bridge every damn day. So what if Spock's developed this annoying habit of completely hijacking his every waking hour with images of green flushed skin pricking with sweat and long, lean muscles arching up under Jim's hands? Jim Kirk does not poach. Jim Kirk does not betray his friends just so he can get his rocks off. Jim Kirk will control this ridiculous crush, pronto.
Jim Kirk will also stop referring to himself in the third person, because Jim Kirk is not bonkers.
Where was he?
Right. Subspace. Spock. Rawr.
So yeah, by day six of trying not to look like he's looking when Spock's uniform stretches over the curve of his perfect ass, and his tunic and undershirt ride up that fraction of an inch to expose a tiny sliver of pale skin, making Jim's pants get a little bit tighter, he could kiss Uhura when she announces that she's picking up a signal in subspace. A perfectly friendly kiss, between friends, because that's what they are. Friendly friends who kiss all friendly like and absolutely do not abstractly scheme to steal each other's boyfriends as purely mental exercises. (Sadly, he's pretty sure he's speaking only of Uhura on that last one, but having a plan doesn't mean he has to use the plan and just showing up naked in Spock's bed? Isn't one of his best plans anyway.)
He swivels to face her, perhaps a little too eagerly for the solemn and dignified captain persona he's trying to project, and beams, ignoring the knowing amusement in her returning smile. "Patch it through to General Address, Lieutenant."
Amplified solar radiation comes through like radio static at first. You get used to it, and filter it out like so much white noise, but Jim has nothing but respect for Uhura's ability to distinguish even the subtlest variations in intensity. Her proficiency with languages is one thing, an amazing thing, but the Universal Translator is growing every day so it's actually her aural sensitivity over subspace transmissions that makes her his prize in the Communications lottery. He can't hear a damn thing, and if she weren't a consummate professional during duty hours, he'd suspect she was having him on to break the monotony.
"Can you boost the signal at all, Lieutenant Uhura?"
"On it, Captain." Her clever fingers twist and clatter at her control panel - filtering, augmenting, simplifying the music she hears in space for the benefit of her tone deaf superiors.
He hears it now, a low hum under the hiss, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Position, Mister Spock?"
Spock's head is canted slightly left, focusing on the rhythm even as he adjusts his sensors to probe for the source.
He's beautiful, Jim thinks fondly. And promptly panics. Appreciating Spock's finer physical attributes is one thing, but when the flavour of his thoughts turns to tenderness, he knows he's cruising rapidly towards completely fucked.
So he does what he does best and smiles through it, thinks of his good friend Uhura and crosses his legs.
“It appears to becoming from a neighbouring sector, approximately 128.3 light years away, Captain.”
“Isn’t that-” Jim starts, a hint of recognition niggling away at the back of his brain. Fiddler something, maybe?
“The Fidelus Amemus sector!” Chekov interjects. He’s getting better at containing the periodic bursts of enthusiasm whenever he knows the right answer, but Jim can tell he’s on the verge of squirming and suppressing the impulse to clap. It’s a little bit adorable, to be honest, though he doesn’t let so much as a twitch of his lips betray it. He can be perfectly professional, when it doesn’t involve Spock.
“Right. Thank you, Mister Chekov. What do we know about Fidelus Amemus? Other than that whoever named it spoke really cheesy Latin.”
"It's not cheesy, Keptin," Chekov insists. "It's home sector to Elaphe! In legend, it's the source of all love in all the universe."
“Ah, thank you, Mister Chekov for the history lesson. Sulu, how quickly can you get us there?”
“Two days at Warp 4, Captain.” Sulu responds smoothly.
Chekov’s eyes widen, and he launches a smile at Sulu that threatens to overtake his dimples and crash into his ears. The Best Of Anti-Frat Olympics going on between the Enterprise and the Constellation aside, Jim doesn't want to win because his navigator jumps his helmsman in the middle of their shifts. Again. He coughs.
“Bozhe moi,” Chekov breathes, swinging around to meet Jim’s now openly amused grin.
“Keptin, we must - I mean, is it? Can we-?”
“I thought we’d cured your stutter, Ensign,” Jim says, “after the incident with the Klingons.” Amazing actually, how the difference between "Unhand me, solemn dignitary" and "Take me now, you virile warrior" is only two repeated syllables in Klingon. An easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment and a distinction Jim hadn't really given too much thought, despite his tenure as Xenolinguistics Club Treasurer. Until he'd had to.
“I thought we weren’t talking about that, Captain,” Sulu deadpans. "But, if we are, I've been meaning to ask you about-"
“Spit it out, Chekov,” Jim says quickly, maturely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Sulu. Honestly, he jumped off a drill for the guy, is it too much to ask him for a little back up on the bridge?
“Captain, today's stardate is 2259.43. In two days it will be the Saint Valentine's Day and we will be arriving at the most romantic planet in the known universe!"
Jim frowns and sneaks a glance at Spock. They've been hooking up weekly to break in the chessboard the crew had gotten for their beloved captain for his birthday in a desperate bid to find him a safe hobby. (Cheeky buggers. As if he wouldn't own Extreme Chess if it existed.) Yesterday had been the first anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan, and he'd been surprised when Spock had shown up for a game a day early.
They hadn't spoken of the significance of the day. Spock seemed content to just play and chat as normal, not even pouting when Jim employed some very creative strategizing to earn a win, and Jim had been happy enough to just be there for him.
Spock's face shows no sign of distress, but it probably wouldn't anyway. He surveys the rest of his bridge crew.
Chekov is beaming at him again, Sulu's smirk is morphing into a grin, and, stars above, even Uhura's mask of cool professionalism has warmed into something hopeful.
"Fine, fine," he concedes to the unspoken request like the giant authoritative pushover he is. "After we investigate the whatever-that-is," he says, gesturing vaguely to indicate the thrum still pumping through the speakers, "I'll see about arranging us some Valentine's leave on the resort planet."
Whooping cheers may not be the typical response to a new mission, but Jim thinks it's not such a bad one. He smiles too and relaxes into his chair, surrounded by his fellows and looking forward to a new mystery and some well earned downtime in a peaceful sector.
He really should know better by now.
***
The day before they're due to arrive at Elaphe (almost five full hours ahead of schedule because Scotty is apparently a God of Physics when leave--and the possibility of gourmet sandwiches--is on the line), Jim's pacing his quarters and trying to deny that the flutter in his stomach is anything other than a bad reaction to the mystery loaf served in the Officer's Mess that night. The crew has been positively moony since he announced that they'd been cleared for a week of leave on Elaphe, and, while efficiency hadn't dropped, the grins and general bonhomie were getting a little hard to take.
It's not that Jim has anything against true love in general or Valentine's Day in particular, it's just that, he hasn't--that is, there hasn't been the opportunity to even try it, in a long fucking time. (And no, the Klingon emissary absolutely doesn't count. Just. No.) And, well, he's kind of, maybe, a little bit lonely. He hasn't had anything even approaching a relationship since the Academy when he and Gaila had been determined to christen every wing and available surface on campus (and several within San Francisco proper as well), but even that had been a casual, no strings attached kind of deal. She's still healing up from the injuries sustained aboard the Farragut during Nero's epic shit-fit and, reading between the lines, she and a certain Admiral are enjoying some rather unorthodox physio together, so it's not like he can pretend she's waiting for him.
He's been effectively alone for just over a year now, which is probably why this... thing... with Spock is fucking with his head so hard. He's been imagining them together, and true to the idle Kirk brain being a bad, bad place, he's not just imagining hot sex in the Captain's Chair anymore. Oh no, he's gone full out into fucking domesticity, picturing days working side-by-side, nights spent cuddling in his generous bed, morning sex in the shower ending with a chaste kiss before resuming their duties. In short, strings. Hundreds of the knotty little bastards, tying him down in mostly non-kinky ways and, for the first time in his sad little life, he craves it. With Spock. And he could just about kill Cave Spock for putting those images in his head, because he's not really just imagining it, is he? Not when he can remember what it feels like to wake up next to Spock--or to kiss him surreptitiously with two clandestine fingers on the bridge--and he misses it, even though he's never had it. In this universe, anyway.
Or whatever.
Which brings him back to the little bout of food poisoning (what? He's got a very delicate system - just ask Bones!) he's trying to walk off. Spock's coming in to play their weekly chess game and now that Jim realizes he's warping into unrequited love with his first officer, his evil, awful brain keeps trying to attach significance to every little gesture Spock makes. He's getting shaky in his herculean efforts to repress which is all shades of bad news because, as previously mentioned, Uhura is his goddamn friend and he attended the Vulcan Protocol seminar in Third Year like everyone else. He knows Spock's rocking the touch telepathy, and while that shouldn't come up in a typical Human-Vulcan interaction, he and Spock are friends and Spock's become distressingly tactile lately. Almost... flirty?
And since that's clearly impossible, fuck his brain for plying him with hope. If it weren't for the stupid fantasies and lurid dreams, he'd probably be ecstatic that Spock was finally loosening up around him. He'd be grateful that they were on the path to the (not destined, dammit) epic friendship that had made their counterparts legendary. He'd be satisfied with what he had and not constantly yearning for more.
He certainly wouldn't be about to hurl from food poisoning when the tinkling (mocking) chime at his door announces Spock's arrival.
"Enter," he calls out before he's really ready, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.
Spock hesitates for his typical half-second before stepping through the archway and it's a sure sign of how far gone Jim really is when he drinks in the sight of Spock flanked in dull grey steel as if he were a portrait enhanced by the finest gilt frame. Jim goes for cool and casual, crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the table where the chess set has taken permanent residence.
"Hey, Spock. Ready to get schooled again?"
One elegant eyebrow arches. "I am unfamiliar with that term, Jim, though I can deduce you expect to defeat me again." His tone is measured, but his posture practically screams: "Bring it!"
"I play to win, Mister," Jim says with a grin, he loves cocky Spock almost as much as baffled Spock. He straightens and nudges one of the chairs out with his foot. "And since I won last time, you get white."
Spock's only reaction to the taunt is a slight nod, which is disappointing since snarky Spock is an absolute riot.
Spock takes his seat and immediately opens with Bartmess's Gambit. Jim ignores the textbook defense and edges one of his knight's pawns towards the neutral board. They play in companionable silence, Spock's moves weighed and considered while Jim does his best to appear to be countering at random. He even is, half the time. Spock doesn't actually grind his teeth in frustration, but he can communicate his disapproval with a single eyebrow rather eloquently. It's kind of hot.
Jim gains steady ground and manages to defeat one of Spock's carefully laid traps with his queen leading the charge. It's a furious battle, fraught with eyebrows, gimlet gazes and one instance of Spock's tongue poking out absently to wet his lips while he counters. Jim quietly notes the shine and fierce concentration for later tonight, when he's alone, and tries not to feel too skeevy about it. His queen eventually goes down, of course, but not before laying waste to both white knights and a clutch of pawns, leaving Spock's king to be defended by one lonely rook.
When it's obvious that the best Spock can hope for is a stalemate, he concedes graciously and studies the board for a minute, giving Jim ample time to absolutely not contemplate the perfectly bite-able line of his throat, before breaking the silence.
"Regarding tomorrow," Spock starts carefully, as if he's uncomfortable, or bored, or happy, or, you know, Vulcan.
"Don't worry, buddy. I booked you and Uhura for first rotation once we're done with the official inquiry." Jim's smile is easy, despite the fact that the queasiness in his guts has made a sudden, unpleasant return.
"That will not be necessary, Jim."
"Of course it is! Look, I know Valentine's Day didn't exist on Vulcan, but it's pretty important on Earth. Especially to the ladies."
"I do not see how that is relevant."
"Well," Jim says, nonplussed. He feels a momentary pang of sympathy for Uhura and her choice of the least romantic boyfriend in the history of ever. "Not to the mission, maybe. But after. Valentine's Day is when you show the person that you care about just how much they mean to you."
Spock's interest is finally piqued. "Indeed? I had done some research on the observance after Ensign Chekov's outburst."
Jim nods. "And?"
"It does not seem logical to commemorate the deaths of two obscure historical figures, seemingly unattached to romantic notions throughout the course of their lives, with offerings of paper hearts and candied flowers."
Jim winces and rubs at the back of his neck, sparing a moment to think that Uhura was going to owe him so hard for this. "Well, no, from that perspective it's probably not logical. But it's love, Spock. Love isn't supposed to be logical!"
"I see." Spock's eyebrows snap in, indicating that he really, really doesn't. "So you believe that love should be demonstrated by scheduled offerings of no real value?"
So fucking hard, he muses as he shifts in his chair. He's just earned the right to call her Nyota off duty. "Well, no. Not just then. But it's nice, you know? To have somebody and to show them that you care. And it's the one time of year where you can be as open and as demonstrative as you want and no one's gonna question it." Jim trails off softly and studies the section of wall just over Spock's shoulder where the portrait of his father hangs slightly crooked. He should probably fix that.
Spock leans forward, and it's a credit to the Starfleet Academy's command training that Jim doesn't flinch back from the sudden proximity. Their chairs have somehow magically transported themselves away from opposite edges of the small square table and have been orchestrating a covert rendez-vous while he was distracted. They're close now, enough so that Jim's traitorous hands could reach out and touch if he weren't actively willing them down.
"And this appeals to you? This chance to demonstrate the depth of your emotion so openly?" Spock's eyes are intense, studying Jim closely as if he were a particularly fascinating new life form ripe for discovery.
Damn Vulcan curiosity. It's no wonder his brain gets these stupid ideas under the weight of these moments. If it were anybody but Spock, Jim would be doing a victory dance and moving them past the awkwardly intimate conversation stage on to bigger and better things. Of the naked variety.
But it is Spock. His beautifully oblivious, endlessly inquisitive friend, Spock. Who has gradually been dropping his guard around Jim, letting his dry wit and warm humour show through in their off duty hours. Who is the first thing Jim sees when he comes to in sick bay these days (though a cranky Bones is still always the second, his trusted stabby implements of medical torture running a close third). Spock, who apparently now trusts him enough to ask for relationship advice. It's kind of cute, in a wistful, achy sort of way (if bitterly ironic, in a 'Fuck you, Universe, you miserable cunt' sort of way). So, Jim affects an easy sprawl and a lazy smile instead of a strip tease and a sexy smirk. "Sure, why wouldn't it?" he asks breezily. "Most humans go for the big gesture, Spock. Even if we're too proud to admit it. We've been raised in a culture rife with the epic romances. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Wesley and Buttercup. There's this cultural ideal of your one and only, your perfect match, and it's only natural to want it, and celebrate it, even if it's only for a day."
"I find it curious that you've listed only tragedies as examples, Jim."
Jim laughs. "I guess you've read the original Goldman, then?"
Something flashes in Spock's eyes, a momentary pang of sorrow softened by a sweet memory. "It was a favourite of my mother's."
Ah. Jim relaxes his grip on the arm of his chair and rests his hand lightly on the sleeve of Spock's tunic. "Mine too."
The silence stretches between them, and for the life of him Jim can't put a name to the emotion reflecting in Spock's eyes. He seems so soft, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, that all Jim wants to do is lean in and press his lips against the faint furrow between Spock's brows until that searching look is quieted. He stands instead, pulling back his hand and curling his fingers in to hold the lingering heat from Spock's skin a little bit longer.
Spock rises to face him, the indecipherable emotion shuttering behind a mask of stoicism.
Jim's voice is unnaturally loud when he finds it again. "Right. So. The mission tomorrow-"
"I wish to be included in the primary landing party," Spock interrupts. His voice is clipped and neutral, jarring the atmosphere from the closeness of only moments before to something awkward and strained. Jim can only hope this hour of Talking About Feelings hasn't given away his stupid, hopeless crush and ruined everything for good.
"Oh, I thought-" Jim stops himself.
"Yes?"
"Never mind. It's fine, I should have figured you'd be curious about the subspace pulse too." He smiles again. At least he'll get some time with Spock tomorrow, even if it is a routine inquiry into spatial anomalies. "Sure, no problem. I'll log the roster change tonight before I hit the hay."
Something in Spock's shoulders loosens, as if he'd been worried that his request would be refused. He seems about to say something, but stops himself. He makes a blatant show of searching Jim's room in confusion. "I see no equine fodder here, Jim, nor do I understand the logic in striking it, were it present."
Jim laughs, and they're at an even keel again. Friends. "You know damn well what I meant. Now get out of here, for I am very busy and important and need my beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow and alla that."
"Indeed," says Spock with relish. "Without you, who else would the historically peaceful Elaphians fire upon?"
"Hey! That was one time," Jim says with mock affront.
"Or kidnap."
"Not my fault! We had no way of knowing that the Grats were collaborating with the Klingon Empire."
"Or elect to lead their revolution."
"Out. Now."
Spock's eyes twinkle as he inclines his head. "Good evening, Jim."
"Yeah, yeah. G'night, Spock." Jim waves him out the door with a laugh.
He's still smiling after he adds Spock to the landing party and settles in to sleep.
He dreams of Spock.
***
The relaxed cheer follows him to the mission.
Elaphe lives up to the hype as the perfect place to fall in love. The forests are lush, filled with brightly coloured foliage that sways lazily in the warm breeze, painting the sky with palimpsest patterns, layering and dissolving and layering anew. Jim could stare up for hours, letting the imagery roll directly into his subconscious without structure or meaning. They've passed a half dozen sets of lovers doing exactly that on their winding path from the main resort into the woods. The sweet scents of flowers and earth mingle in the air, and he thinks he finally understands why Spock loves meditating. He's never felt so relaxed, or so peaceful, just from being.
"I think we've stumbled on paradise, Mister Spock."
Spock frowns at his tricorder and fiddles with the settings again. "I trust you recall what transpired last time we 'stumbled on paradise', Captain."
Jim grimaces. Right. The cult thing. To be fair, Bones had done most of the stumbling that time, but he and Spock had had to do some fast talking and faster shooting to get them all out intact.
Elaphe was nothing like Dworzhe Desyat, though. Exhibit A: note the distinct lack of people trying to kill them. He was mostly joking about paradise, anyway. It always struck him as a very dull place to be for any length of time. Still, Elaphe was pretty.
Rico and Flores, the two Science Officers that make up the rest of the small party, orbit Jim and Spock, periodically scanning the grounds and the bushes while Spock makes his adjustments. The source of the pulse continues to elude them, even though they can all feel it around them. The Elaphian delegation had been delighted when they described their mission, though they admitted no knowledge of the signal or its purpose. They'd heard Jim out, conferred in an excited huddle and packed them off without further explanation to investigate the surrounding area, promising a guide to assist them.
They'd been gracious enough, but it was all a little bit suspect. Still, Jim thinks philosophically, if they were going to chase a mystery, it might as well be somewhere beautiful. Balmy breezes and friendly natives make for a nice change of pace.
Their guide, a tiny bipedal deer-like woman, waits patiently at the mouth of a clearing. She observes them with interest, wide brown eyes studying them each in turn. Jim wanders over to her, figuring he might as well pick the brains of a local while they wait for Spock's go ahead.
"Daim, wasn't it?"
She startles at the sound of his voice, her ears perking up as she turns to face him. "Yes. And you are Captain Kirk."
They exchange bows.
"So how'd you get stuck with babysitting duties?"
She laughs and shakes her head. "Not stuck, Captain. It's an honour to assist the Federation, it's been years since our last questing."
He stifles his frown. That had definitely not been in the archives. "Questing?"
Daim nods, seeming pleased by the query. "There are legends here that only those touched by destiny can find the heart of the world. They'll be drawn here by the pulse of time and it is our honour to guide them to their true path."
Destiny, eh? More like a brand new marketing scheme for the planet of loooove. He spares a rueful thought for the mission report, wondering how exactly he's going to word 'giant fucking hoax' in a way that won't get him reprimanded for wasting resources. Maybe he'll let Spock write up this one.
Jim casts a sidelong glance at his first officer. He's standing a few feet away, in the process of reslinging his tricorder strap across his chest. He darts a glance between Jim and Daim, frowning slightly.
"Everything OK, Mister Spock? Any luck with the readings?"
"Negative, Captain. Though I can sense the pulse, our instruments detect no unusual energies. It defies logic."
"Well Daim insists it's destiny, so maybe we need to adjust for that?" He winks at Daim, who tilts her ears back in amusement.
Spock's frown deepens. "Perhaps we should return to the ship and conduct more research, Captain. I believe Commander Scott can assist me in developing a more precise sensor."
Jim grins. "Nonsense, Mister Spock. We can all feel it, even if the tricorders can't." He waves toward the clearing. "It's definitely stronger in that direction. Let's go check it out."
Daim bows to Spock. "I've lived here all my life, Mister Spock. I promise I won't get you lost!"
"There you go. We'll just take a walk in the woods with a beautiful woman, no tricorders necessary."
He's actually kind of looking forward to it, now that he's figured out the scheme. Spock still looks conflicted though, his elegant fingers resting on the tricorder at his hip absently. Jim tilts his head to the path and lifts a brow in challenge.
Spock sighs. "Very well."
"Perfect!" Jim enthuses, almost rubbing his hands together in glee. He dismisses Officers Rico and Flores instead, since he and Spock can handle general observation handily enough on their own. He bows theatrically to Daim. "Lead on, milady. To destiny!"
***
Part Two
Author: nix_this
Universe/Series: STR
Rating: R
Relationship status: First Time
Word count:~13500 (LOLWHUT?)
Genre: Cracky-Angst? Angsty-Crack? Crangst? Aack? With a splash of romance and humour
Tropes: amtdi, chess, destiny, drugs, intoxication, mindmeld, mindmeld gave me feelings, mission, unrequited
...um...I swear it works? XD
Warnings: dubcon (amtdi, intoxication), infidelity (sort of)
Additional Pairings: KirkPrime/SpockPrime (mentioned) Spock/Uhura
Summary:
Jim doesn't even know where to start. Blurting out: 'I got shot in the ass by this planet's version of cupid, only with more teeth and claws, and then I fucked Uhura's boyfriend on the ground after the most emotionally intimate experience of my sad, sad life' seems crass.
For rhaegal's prompt at ksvalentine : A planet with actual cupids (only maybe using something less violent than arrows?) as a take on the sex pollen/AMTDI trope?
Hope you like it, bb!
Beta: The fabulawesome janice_lester
Destiny's Bitch : A Love Story
Destiny is a bitch. A mean-spirited, evil bitch, best avoided at all costs.
Jim knows this, he thinks as he gapes in abject horror at the blue-clad arm banding around his chest. He knows he knows this. He's been saying it for fucking ever, man.
The trick is actually listening to himself.
But he's getting ahead of the story here. From the beginning...
No, that'll take too long.
From the second he let his guard down and got an arrow full of love juice right in the goddamn ass, then.
No. No. That probably won't make much sense without context.
Start with Spock. It always seems to start with Spock.
Kobayashi Maru. Ice planet. Destiny. Hitherto unknown breathplay kink uncovered
in front of his entire bridge crew, leading him to go on to save the world despite cracked ribs, a bruised throat and an erection he could pound nails with. Awkward.
After all of that, spooning in the middle of a mission after coming in his pants like a fucking teenager is really only the latest in a long line of Spock-related mind-fuckery.
Too much information? Too bad.
***
Missions come in via subspace regularly. ‘Five year mission’ is actually something of a misnomer--it isn’t five years of spacefaring carefully plotted out in advance, but more like a mission statement and general itinerary with the details subject to change. They go where they are needed, however that's communicated. Free time (ha!) is easily filled in with distress signals, exploration, and the dreaded star charting. Well, dreaded for everyone but Spock and his department of nerd minions, of course. Jim considers himself a scientist, and his bridge crew alone have enough letters after their names to start their own alphabet--heavily weighted on the basic side of the Ph scale if he wants to get clever about it, heh-- but cartography and positioning, while exceptionally useful, aren't exactly the type of thrilling adventures and dramatic discoveries they signed up for.
Spock and his groupies, on the other hand, revel in it. Even in the dullest of rotations--when the past and future merge together to resemble an endless expanse of stars that need charting, when the engineers have long since turned to building robots out of scrap metal, and medical starts thinking they should maybe get a jump on that year end inventory coming up... in, oh, eleven months--there's still, always, a sea of eager faces in blue uniforms hotly debating nomenclature and mapping out new constellations with wide eyed fervor. Spock, himself, can cheerfully bend over his station for hours on end (current record: thirteen and a half, and it would have gone on indefinitely had Jim not staged an intervention) and never lose his enthusiasm for the task (for a Vulcan, enthusiasm shows in the slightly crisper diction when he's reciting coordinate shifts).
It's not enough to keep Jim's mind occupied, though. Being the captain means he's got to sit there, looking appropriately solemn and approving, while the crew completes the monotonous routines of dead space. And, ask anyone, an idle Kirk is a recipe for disaster, so it shouldn't exactly come as a surprise when his thoughts start to drift in inappropriate directions because he's fucking bored, man. It does though. It always fucking does. He'll probably be dead before he loses his ability to surprise himself.
He almost fell out of the chair all those months ago, when he first caught his attention wandering, repeatedly, to Spock's ass throughout the alpha shift. The low thrum of awareness he always seems to have of his first officer had settled itself more or less constantly into his pants after that. As a result, he was usually half-hard whenever they were together, despite the urgent 'down boy' signals he tried to transmit via imaginings of one Ensign Keenser in flagrante delicto with Admiral Archer.
Talk about boldly going where angels should bloody well fear to tread (and yes, he knows he's crossing his references, but he's James T Kirk - he's allowed to mix his aphorisms). This new development poses a series of challenges, even for the most intrepid of starship captains.
Consider:
Spock is his First Officer.
Counter:
Anti-fraternization regs are frequently referred to as the best laugh in the entire Starfleet Code of Conduct.
Consider:
Spock isn't here for Jim, not like Bones is. They get along fine, sure, okay. Saving the world together and all that (and it's not fucking destiny despite what Cave Spock tries to imply during their bimonthly comms), and yeah, they've been spending more and more time together, because they've got to be a team if they're going to make the Enterprise and her crew live up to all of that awesome potential. But, on the road from bitter rivals to soul mates, they're kinda stalled at the junction between friend and coworker, which is light years away from even fuck buddy territory. Jim's been down this road before, he figures he knows how to read the damn signs.
Counter:
He's James T Kirk. He can charm the pants off a Klingon if he needs to. (The proof is in the archives, and the less said about that incident, the better.)
Consider:
Uhura.
Counter:
Well--
And that's what stops him short.
He's been a lot of things to a lot of people in his time, but he's not a fucking homewrecker (shipwrecker? Whatever-wrecker). He likes Uhura. Admires her, even. If they're happy, he's happy and he's not about to come between them just because he's bored and Spock's presenting to him on the bridge every damn day. So what if Spock's developed this annoying habit of completely hijacking his every waking hour with images of green flushed skin pricking with sweat and long, lean muscles arching up under Jim's hands? Jim Kirk does not poach. Jim Kirk does not betray his friends just so he can get his rocks off. Jim Kirk will control this ridiculous crush, pronto.
Jim Kirk will also stop referring to himself in the third person, because Jim Kirk is not bonkers.
Where was he?
Right. Subspace. Spock. Rawr.
So yeah, by day six of trying not to look like he's looking when Spock's uniform stretches over the curve of his perfect ass, and his tunic and undershirt ride up that fraction of an inch to expose a tiny sliver of pale skin, making Jim's pants get a little bit tighter, he could kiss Uhura when she announces that she's picking up a signal in subspace. A perfectly friendly kiss, between friends, because that's what they are. Friendly friends who kiss all friendly like and absolutely do not abstractly scheme to steal each other's boyfriends as purely mental exercises. (Sadly, he's pretty sure he's speaking only of Uhura on that last one, but having a plan doesn't mean he has to use the plan and just showing up naked in Spock's bed? Isn't one of his best plans anyway.)
He swivels to face her, perhaps a little too eagerly for the solemn and dignified captain persona he's trying to project, and beams, ignoring the knowing amusement in her returning smile. "Patch it through to General Address, Lieutenant."
Amplified solar radiation comes through like radio static at first. You get used to it, and filter it out like so much white noise, but Jim has nothing but respect for Uhura's ability to distinguish even the subtlest variations in intensity. Her proficiency with languages is one thing, an amazing thing, but the Universal Translator is growing every day so it's actually her aural sensitivity over subspace transmissions that makes her his prize in the Communications lottery. He can't hear a damn thing, and if she weren't a consummate professional during duty hours, he'd suspect she was having him on to break the monotony.
"Can you boost the signal at all, Lieutenant Uhura?"
"On it, Captain." Her clever fingers twist and clatter at her control panel - filtering, augmenting, simplifying the music she hears in space for the benefit of her tone deaf superiors.
He hears it now, a low hum under the hiss, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Position, Mister Spock?"
Spock's head is canted slightly left, focusing on the rhythm even as he adjusts his sensors to probe for the source.
He's beautiful, Jim thinks fondly. And promptly panics. Appreciating Spock's finer physical attributes is one thing, but when the flavour of his thoughts turns to tenderness, he knows he's cruising rapidly towards completely fucked.
So he does what he does best and smiles through it, thinks of his good friend Uhura and crosses his legs.
“It appears to becoming from a neighbouring sector, approximately 128.3 light years away, Captain.”
“Isn’t that-” Jim starts, a hint of recognition niggling away at the back of his brain. Fiddler something, maybe?
“The Fidelus Amemus sector!” Chekov interjects. He’s getting better at containing the periodic bursts of enthusiasm whenever he knows the right answer, but Jim can tell he’s on the verge of squirming and suppressing the impulse to clap. It’s a little bit adorable, to be honest, though he doesn’t let so much as a twitch of his lips betray it. He can be perfectly professional, when it doesn’t involve Spock.
“Right. Thank you, Mister Chekov. What do we know about Fidelus Amemus? Other than that whoever named it spoke really cheesy Latin.”
"It's not cheesy, Keptin," Chekov insists. "It's home sector to Elaphe! In legend, it's the source of all love in all the universe."
“Ah, thank you, Mister Chekov for the history lesson. Sulu, how quickly can you get us there?”
“Two days at Warp 4, Captain.” Sulu responds smoothly.
Chekov’s eyes widen, and he launches a smile at Sulu that threatens to overtake his dimples and crash into his ears. The Best Of Anti-Frat Olympics going on between the Enterprise and the Constellation aside, Jim doesn't want to win because his navigator jumps his helmsman in the middle of their shifts. Again. He coughs.
“Bozhe moi,” Chekov breathes, swinging around to meet Jim’s now openly amused grin.
“Keptin, we must - I mean, is it? Can we-?”
“I thought we’d cured your stutter, Ensign,” Jim says, “after the incident with the Klingons.” Amazing actually, how the difference between "Unhand me, solemn dignitary" and "Take me now, you virile warrior" is only two repeated syllables in Klingon. An easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment and a distinction Jim hadn't really given too much thought, despite his tenure as Xenolinguistics Club Treasurer. Until he'd had to.
“I thought we weren’t talking about that, Captain,” Sulu deadpans. "But, if we are, I've been meaning to ask you about-"
“Spit it out, Chekov,” Jim says quickly, maturely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at Sulu. Honestly, he jumped off a drill for the guy, is it too much to ask him for a little back up on the bridge?
“Captain, today's stardate is 2259.43. In two days it will be the Saint Valentine's Day and we will be arriving at the most romantic planet in the known universe!"
Jim frowns and sneaks a glance at Spock. They've been hooking up weekly to break in the chessboard the crew had gotten for their beloved captain for his birthday in a desperate bid to find him a safe hobby. (Cheeky buggers. As if he wouldn't own Extreme Chess if it existed.) Yesterday had been the first anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan, and he'd been surprised when Spock had shown up for a game a day early.
They hadn't spoken of the significance of the day. Spock seemed content to just play and chat as normal, not even pouting when Jim employed some very creative strategizing to earn a win, and Jim had been happy enough to just be there for him.
Spock's face shows no sign of distress, but it probably wouldn't anyway. He surveys the rest of his bridge crew.
Chekov is beaming at him again, Sulu's smirk is morphing into a grin, and, stars above, even Uhura's mask of cool professionalism has warmed into something hopeful.
"Fine, fine," he concedes to the unspoken request like the giant authoritative pushover he is. "After we investigate the whatever-that-is," he says, gesturing vaguely to indicate the thrum still pumping through the speakers, "I'll see about arranging us some Valentine's leave on the resort planet."
Whooping cheers may not be the typical response to a new mission, but Jim thinks it's not such a bad one. He smiles too and relaxes into his chair, surrounded by his fellows and looking forward to a new mystery and some well earned downtime in a peaceful sector.
He really should know better by now.
***
The day before they're due to arrive at Elaphe (almost five full hours ahead of schedule because Scotty is apparently a God of Physics when leave--and the possibility of gourmet sandwiches--is on the line), Jim's pacing his quarters and trying to deny that the flutter in his stomach is anything other than a bad reaction to the mystery loaf served in the Officer's Mess that night. The crew has been positively moony since he announced that they'd been cleared for a week of leave on Elaphe, and, while efficiency hadn't dropped, the grins and general bonhomie were getting a little hard to take.
It's not that Jim has anything against true love in general or Valentine's Day in particular, it's just that, he hasn't--that is, there hasn't been the opportunity to even try it, in a long fucking time. (And no, the Klingon emissary absolutely doesn't count. Just. No.) And, well, he's kind of, maybe, a little bit lonely. He hasn't had anything even approaching a relationship since the Academy when he and Gaila had been determined to christen every wing and available surface on campus (and several within San Francisco proper as well), but even that had been a casual, no strings attached kind of deal. She's still healing up from the injuries sustained aboard the Farragut during Nero's epic shit-fit and, reading between the lines, she and a certain Admiral are enjoying some rather unorthodox physio together, so it's not like he can pretend she's waiting for him.
He's been effectively alone for just over a year now, which is probably why this... thing... with Spock is fucking with his head so hard. He's been imagining them together, and true to the idle Kirk brain being a bad, bad place, he's not just imagining hot sex in the Captain's Chair anymore. Oh no, he's gone full out into fucking domesticity, picturing days working side-by-side, nights spent cuddling in his generous bed, morning sex in the shower ending with a chaste kiss before resuming their duties. In short, strings. Hundreds of the knotty little bastards, tying him down in mostly non-kinky ways and, for the first time in his sad little life, he craves it. With Spock. And he could just about kill Cave Spock for putting those images in his head, because he's not really just imagining it, is he? Not when he can remember what it feels like to wake up next to Spock--or to kiss him surreptitiously with two clandestine fingers on the bridge--and he misses it, even though he's never had it. In this universe, anyway.
Or whatever.
Which brings him back to the little bout of food poisoning (what? He's got a very delicate system - just ask Bones!) he's trying to walk off. Spock's coming in to play their weekly chess game and now that Jim realizes he's warping into unrequited love with his first officer, his evil, awful brain keeps trying to attach significance to every little gesture Spock makes. He's getting shaky in his herculean efforts to repress which is all shades of bad news because, as previously mentioned, Uhura is his goddamn friend and he attended the Vulcan Protocol seminar in Third Year like everyone else. He knows Spock's rocking the touch telepathy, and while that shouldn't come up in a typical Human-Vulcan interaction, he and Spock are friends and Spock's become distressingly tactile lately. Almost... flirty?
And since that's clearly impossible, fuck his brain for plying him with hope. If it weren't for the stupid fantasies and lurid dreams, he'd probably be ecstatic that Spock was finally loosening up around him. He'd be grateful that they were on the path to the (not destined, dammit) epic friendship that had made their counterparts legendary. He'd be satisfied with what he had and not constantly yearning for more.
He certainly wouldn't be about to hurl from food poisoning when the tinkling (mocking) chime at his door announces Spock's arrival.
"Enter," he calls out before he's really ready, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.
Spock hesitates for his typical half-second before stepping through the archway and it's a sure sign of how far gone Jim really is when he drinks in the sight of Spock flanked in dull grey steel as if he were a portrait enhanced by the finest gilt frame. Jim goes for cool and casual, crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the table where the chess set has taken permanent residence.
"Hey, Spock. Ready to get schooled again?"
One elegant eyebrow arches. "I am unfamiliar with that term, Jim, though I can deduce you expect to defeat me again." His tone is measured, but his posture practically screams: "Bring it!"
"I play to win, Mister," Jim says with a grin, he loves cocky Spock almost as much as baffled Spock. He straightens and nudges one of the chairs out with his foot. "And since I won last time, you get white."
Spock's only reaction to the taunt is a slight nod, which is disappointing since snarky Spock is an absolute riot.
Spock takes his seat and immediately opens with Bartmess's Gambit. Jim ignores the textbook defense and edges one of his knight's pawns towards the neutral board. They play in companionable silence, Spock's moves weighed and considered while Jim does his best to appear to be countering at random. He even is, half the time. Spock doesn't actually grind his teeth in frustration, but he can communicate his disapproval with a single eyebrow rather eloquently. It's kind of hot.
Jim gains steady ground and manages to defeat one of Spock's carefully laid traps with his queen leading the charge. It's a furious battle, fraught with eyebrows, gimlet gazes and one instance of Spock's tongue poking out absently to wet his lips while he counters. Jim quietly notes the shine and fierce concentration for later tonight, when he's alone, and tries not to feel too skeevy about it. His queen eventually goes down, of course, but not before laying waste to both white knights and a clutch of pawns, leaving Spock's king to be defended by one lonely rook.
When it's obvious that the best Spock can hope for is a stalemate, he concedes graciously and studies the board for a minute, giving Jim ample time to absolutely not contemplate the perfectly bite-able line of his throat, before breaking the silence.
"Regarding tomorrow," Spock starts carefully, as if he's uncomfortable, or bored, or happy, or, you know, Vulcan.
"Don't worry, buddy. I booked you and Uhura for first rotation once we're done with the official inquiry." Jim's smile is easy, despite the fact that the queasiness in his guts has made a sudden, unpleasant return.
"That will not be necessary, Jim."
"Of course it is! Look, I know Valentine's Day didn't exist on Vulcan, but it's pretty important on Earth. Especially to the ladies."
"I do not see how that is relevant."
"Well," Jim says, nonplussed. He feels a momentary pang of sympathy for Uhura and her choice of the least romantic boyfriend in the history of ever. "Not to the mission, maybe. But after. Valentine's Day is when you show the person that you care about just how much they mean to you."
Spock's interest is finally piqued. "Indeed? I had done some research on the observance after Ensign Chekov's outburst."
Jim nods. "And?"
"It does not seem logical to commemorate the deaths of two obscure historical figures, seemingly unattached to romantic notions throughout the course of their lives, with offerings of paper hearts and candied flowers."
Jim winces and rubs at the back of his neck, sparing a moment to think that Uhura was going to owe him so hard for this. "Well, no, from that perspective it's probably not logical. But it's love, Spock. Love isn't supposed to be logical!"
"I see." Spock's eyebrows snap in, indicating that he really, really doesn't. "So you believe that love should be demonstrated by scheduled offerings of no real value?"
So fucking hard, he muses as he shifts in his chair. He's just earned the right to call her Nyota off duty. "Well, no. Not just then. But it's nice, you know? To have somebody and to show them that you care. And it's the one time of year where you can be as open and as demonstrative as you want and no one's gonna question it." Jim trails off softly and studies the section of wall just over Spock's shoulder where the portrait of his father hangs slightly crooked. He should probably fix that.
Spock leans forward, and it's a credit to the Starfleet Academy's command training that Jim doesn't flinch back from the sudden proximity. Their chairs have somehow magically transported themselves away from opposite edges of the small square table and have been orchestrating a covert rendez-vous while he was distracted. They're close now, enough so that Jim's traitorous hands could reach out and touch if he weren't actively willing them down.
"And this appeals to you? This chance to demonstrate the depth of your emotion so openly?" Spock's eyes are intense, studying Jim closely as if he were a particularly fascinating new life form ripe for discovery.
Damn Vulcan curiosity. It's no wonder his brain gets these stupid ideas under the weight of these moments. If it were anybody but Spock, Jim would be doing a victory dance and moving them past the awkwardly intimate conversation stage on to bigger and better things. Of the naked variety.
But it is Spock. His beautifully oblivious, endlessly inquisitive friend, Spock. Who has gradually been dropping his guard around Jim, letting his dry wit and warm humour show through in their off duty hours. Who is the first thing Jim sees when he comes to in sick bay these days (though a cranky Bones is still always the second, his trusted stabby implements of medical torture running a close third). Spock, who apparently now trusts him enough to ask for relationship advice. It's kind of cute, in a wistful, achy sort of way (if bitterly ironic, in a 'Fuck you, Universe, you miserable cunt' sort of way). So, Jim affects an easy sprawl and a lazy smile instead of a strip tease and a sexy smirk. "Sure, why wouldn't it?" he asks breezily. "Most humans go for the big gesture, Spock. Even if we're too proud to admit it. We've been raised in a culture rife with the epic romances. Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Wesley and Buttercup. There's this cultural ideal of your one and only, your perfect match, and it's only natural to want it, and celebrate it, even if it's only for a day."
"I find it curious that you've listed only tragedies as examples, Jim."
Jim laughs. "I guess you've read the original Goldman, then?"
Something flashes in Spock's eyes, a momentary pang of sorrow softened by a sweet memory. "It was a favourite of my mother's."
Ah. Jim relaxes his grip on the arm of his chair and rests his hand lightly on the sleeve of Spock's tunic. "Mine too."
The silence stretches between them, and for the life of him Jim can't put a name to the emotion reflecting in Spock's eyes. He seems so soft, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, that all Jim wants to do is lean in and press his lips against the faint furrow between Spock's brows until that searching look is quieted. He stands instead, pulling back his hand and curling his fingers in to hold the lingering heat from Spock's skin a little bit longer.
Spock rises to face him, the indecipherable emotion shuttering behind a mask of stoicism.
Jim's voice is unnaturally loud when he finds it again. "Right. So. The mission tomorrow-"
"I wish to be included in the primary landing party," Spock interrupts. His voice is clipped and neutral, jarring the atmosphere from the closeness of only moments before to something awkward and strained. Jim can only hope this hour of Talking About Feelings hasn't given away his stupid, hopeless crush and ruined everything for good.
"Oh, I thought-" Jim stops himself.
"Yes?"
"Never mind. It's fine, I should have figured you'd be curious about the subspace pulse too." He smiles again. At least he'll get some time with Spock tomorrow, even if it is a routine inquiry into spatial anomalies. "Sure, no problem. I'll log the roster change tonight before I hit the hay."
Something in Spock's shoulders loosens, as if he'd been worried that his request would be refused. He seems about to say something, but stops himself. He makes a blatant show of searching Jim's room in confusion. "I see no equine fodder here, Jim, nor do I understand the logic in striking it, were it present."
Jim laughs, and they're at an even keel again. Friends. "You know damn well what I meant. Now get out of here, for I am very busy and important and need my beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow and alla that."
"Indeed," says Spock with relish. "Without you, who else would the historically peaceful Elaphians fire upon?"
"Hey! That was one time," Jim says with mock affront.
"Or kidnap."
"Not my fault! We had no way of knowing that the Grats were collaborating with the Klingon Empire."
"Or elect to lead their revolution."
"Out. Now."
Spock's eyes twinkle as he inclines his head. "Good evening, Jim."
"Yeah, yeah. G'night, Spock." Jim waves him out the door with a laugh.
He's still smiling after he adds Spock to the landing party and settles in to sleep.
He dreams of Spock.
***
The relaxed cheer follows him to the mission.
Elaphe lives up to the hype as the perfect place to fall in love. The forests are lush, filled with brightly coloured foliage that sways lazily in the warm breeze, painting the sky with palimpsest patterns, layering and dissolving and layering anew. Jim could stare up for hours, letting the imagery roll directly into his subconscious without structure or meaning. They've passed a half dozen sets of lovers doing exactly that on their winding path from the main resort into the woods. The sweet scents of flowers and earth mingle in the air, and he thinks he finally understands why Spock loves meditating. He's never felt so relaxed, or so peaceful, just from being.
"I think we've stumbled on paradise, Mister Spock."
Spock frowns at his tricorder and fiddles with the settings again. "I trust you recall what transpired last time we 'stumbled on paradise', Captain."
Jim grimaces. Right. The cult thing. To be fair, Bones had done most of the stumbling that time, but he and Spock had had to do some fast talking and faster shooting to get them all out intact.
Elaphe was nothing like Dworzhe Desyat, though. Exhibit A: note the distinct lack of people trying to kill them. He was mostly joking about paradise, anyway. It always struck him as a very dull place to be for any length of time. Still, Elaphe was pretty.
Rico and Flores, the two Science Officers that make up the rest of the small party, orbit Jim and Spock, periodically scanning the grounds and the bushes while Spock makes his adjustments. The source of the pulse continues to elude them, even though they can all feel it around them. The Elaphian delegation had been delighted when they described their mission, though they admitted no knowledge of the signal or its purpose. They'd heard Jim out, conferred in an excited huddle and packed them off without further explanation to investigate the surrounding area, promising a guide to assist them.
They'd been gracious enough, but it was all a little bit suspect. Still, Jim thinks philosophically, if they were going to chase a mystery, it might as well be somewhere beautiful. Balmy breezes and friendly natives make for a nice change of pace.
Their guide, a tiny bipedal deer-like woman, waits patiently at the mouth of a clearing. She observes them with interest, wide brown eyes studying them each in turn. Jim wanders over to her, figuring he might as well pick the brains of a local while they wait for Spock's go ahead.
"Daim, wasn't it?"
She startles at the sound of his voice, her ears perking up as she turns to face him. "Yes. And you are Captain Kirk."
They exchange bows.
"So how'd you get stuck with babysitting duties?"
She laughs and shakes her head. "Not stuck, Captain. It's an honour to assist the Federation, it's been years since our last questing."
He stifles his frown. That had definitely not been in the archives. "Questing?"
Daim nods, seeming pleased by the query. "There are legends here that only those touched by destiny can find the heart of the world. They'll be drawn here by the pulse of time and it is our honour to guide them to their true path."
Destiny, eh? More like a brand new marketing scheme for the planet of loooove. He spares a rueful thought for the mission report, wondering how exactly he's going to word 'giant fucking hoax' in a way that won't get him reprimanded for wasting resources. Maybe he'll let Spock write up this one.
Jim casts a sidelong glance at his first officer. He's standing a few feet away, in the process of reslinging his tricorder strap across his chest. He darts a glance between Jim and Daim, frowning slightly.
"Everything OK, Mister Spock? Any luck with the readings?"
"Negative, Captain. Though I can sense the pulse, our instruments detect no unusual energies. It defies logic."
"Well Daim insists it's destiny, so maybe we need to adjust for that?" He winks at Daim, who tilts her ears back in amusement.
Spock's frown deepens. "Perhaps we should return to the ship and conduct more research, Captain. I believe Commander Scott can assist me in developing a more precise sensor."
Jim grins. "Nonsense, Mister Spock. We can all feel it, even if the tricorders can't." He waves toward the clearing. "It's definitely stronger in that direction. Let's go check it out."
Daim bows to Spock. "I've lived here all my life, Mister Spock. I promise I won't get you lost!"
"There you go. We'll just take a walk in the woods with a beautiful woman, no tricorders necessary."
He's actually kind of looking forward to it, now that he's figured out the scheme. Spock still looks conflicted though, his elegant fingers resting on the tricorder at his hip absently. Jim tilts his head to the path and lifts a brow in challenge.
Spock sighs. "Very well."
"Perfect!" Jim enthuses, almost rubbing his hands together in glee. He dismisses Officers Rico and Flores instead, since he and Spock can handle general observation handily enough on their own. He bows theatrically to Daim. "Lead on, milady. To destiny!"
***
Part Two