Bragging Rights - Part 2/3
Part 1
Bragging Rights
Part 2
Three more days passed in interminable boredom. Jim had to come up with more than one moderately entertaining activity to occupy his brain - he was a little disturbed to realize quite how much of his time usually went into living up to his reputation as a lady’s man. He could tell the rest of the student body was equally as disturbed by it - the women for his lack of attention (well, not all of them, but the vast majority of them, anyway!) and the men for - well, who the hell knew. What really surprised Jim was realizing quite how many people he flirted with when compared to the number of people he actually slept with. Despite McCoy derisive opinion, Jim actually had fairly exacting standards about his bedmates; verbal flattery (ie: flirting), however, was free game in any circumstance.
He could cheat, he supposed, if he really wanted to. There was a chance Bones would hear about it, but not a big one, and unless the man had spies amongst the rest of the cadets (not completely outside the realm of possibility) he’d probably never know the difference. But Jim was determined to win the bet on his own merits, if only to have a legitimate reason for watching McCoy eat crow every time he had to supply one of his miraculous migraine cures without uttering a single word of reproach. That alone would be worth more than a month of boredom (though a month was certainly long enough, Jim was discovering).
“C’mon, Bones,” Jim coaxed, trailing after his friend as they both shoved their way through the crowded Academy corridors. All standard classes were officially over as of 1500 that afternoon, and the cadets were swarming through the hallways as people moved to and from transporter pads or the outlying shuttle bays, heading out for their holiday plans. Jim, unfortunately, was prevented from joining them, since his accelerated course program required attendance of more than a few extended classes. Finals week was always particularly brutal. “You know I’m stuck here until exams finish up, the least you could do is comfort me in my misery by joining me in a single night on the town - sans alcohol - before you head out on your merry way.”
“Jim, you know I can’t! I have to meet Joanna in Georgia; this’ll be the first time she’s met her grandparents in person, and I have to catch her at the transporter terminal in Atlanta. You’re just going to have to suffer through finals on your own.”
Jim scowled at the vague injustice of it all before laughing ruefully and clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder in fond affection. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Bones. How old is Joanna these days? Six going on sixty?”
“Something like that. I think she’s still planning on becoming a doctor like her old man, but if she’s told her mother, I’m sure she’s been convinced otherwise by now.”
“Put me on next time she com’s you and I’ll tell her all about your various doctoral virtues. I’ll start with how effective your hangover remedies are, and how you apply them with an impeccable bedside manner and no word of protest.” Jim smiled as sweetly as he knew how, aiming for angelic.
McCoy muttered something under his breath, which sounded distinctly like “cocky bastard”, that Jim pretended not to hear.
“When are you heading out then, Jim?” McCoy asked as they rounded the corner into the commissary.
“Sam won’t be on Earth until the week following Christmas, and finals carry me through to the 24th, so I won’t be leaving until - oomph!”
The collision wasn’t exactly unexpected - he was a little surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, considering the number of people milling about - but it still knocked him back a pace, and only automatic reflexes kept the other person from toppling over backwards.
“Sorry about that,” Jim found himself saying automatically, steadying them both until they didn’t seem in imminent danger of collapse. “It’s mayhem out here.”
“You!” a familiar feminine voice snarled.
“You!” Jim crowed, delighted. “Uhura, I didn’t know you were still in town or I’d have tracked you down before this! Have you given any thought to what you’ll be getting me for Christmas?”
McCoy cleared his throat warningly beside him, but Jim waved him off. No flirting, yeah, yeah. He’d just keep it light and annoying then, since Uhura could never be accused of falling under the spell of his flattery anyway, and irritation was almost as entertaining as swooning.
“A lump of coal,” she informed him cuttingly, with a thin little smile that had death and humiliation (not necessarily in that order) written firmly in it somewhere.
“I was thinking of something a little more fashionable,” Jim commented, releasing her when she stepped back out of his reach. “You know, like a sweater, or maybe a first name to go with your last.”
“Two lumps of coal,” she amended, craning her neck in an obvious bid for a way around him, which Jim did absolutely nothing to provide. “Do you mind, Kirk? We were just on our way to the long-range sensor lab.”
“We?” Jim echoed, pivoting to glance with curiosity at the person with her.
“Spock!” he said in surprise, which quickly morphed into genuine pleasure. “Hello again! How’re you doing?”
“Greetings,” the Vulcan intoned, tilting his head in quiet acknowledgement. “I am well, thank you. May I also inquire as to your health?”
“You may,” Jim informed him solemnly, before spoiling it by grinning broadly. “I’m great; I was just harassing Bones here about his Christmas plans, of which he has many and I have few.”
“You know each other?” Uhura interrupted, looking somewhere between innately curious and absolutely appalled. Jim, sensing the conflict, turned up the wattage of his smile and shifted the beam in her direction.
“We had lunch,” Jim said, “while discussing the merits of interspecies physical relations as it pertains to xenobiology and xenobiochemistry. Or at least, I think that’s what we were discussing, wasn’t it Bones?”
McCoy gave him a look that clearly said, ‘leave me the hell out of this’.
As Uhura gaped in apparent disbelief, Jim snuck a look at the Vulcan regarding them both with what he could swear was amusement, the dark eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. Jim felt unaccountably pleased to have caused even that barely-noticeable reaction, and he winked in the other man’s direction conspiratorially. He’d even opened his mouth, possibly to compound the situation further, when McCoy broke in irritably from his side.
“I’ve got to get going. Jim, if you’re that bored, the commander probably wouldn’t mind you tagging along to the sensor lab with them - it’s an absolute riot of fun in there, and I’m sure they can find you something to do.”
Jim, who in many ways would rather be given a hole in the head, bared his teeth at the CMO-in-training and opened his mouth to retort when Uhura’s derisive chuckle caught his attention. He turned to scowl at her and decided - why not? He certainly had nothing else pressing to do today.
“Sounds good,” he said brightly, and had to fight back a smirk when that drew a faint look of horror from McCoy and Uhura both. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
Spock quirked an eyebrow, as though to say ‘to whom are you speaking?’ and it was either laugh or play it up, so Jim bumped his shoulder into the Vulcan’s in companionable amusement, ignoring the gasp of outrage Uhura uttered, and turned to follow the two of them on their way, waving over his shoulder at his departing friend.
By the end of the afternoon, Jim thought he might have achieved some sort of world record for pissing off one person on multiple occasions in a relatively short period - forty-seven times in the last two hours, by Jim’s last count. Uhura hadn’t been pleased at his presence - her chilly attitude made that apparent, and Jim was more than happy to poke fun at her on the basis of her displeasure. He also got the distinct impression she’d wanted to work alone with Spock, which, perversely, made Jim even more determined that there was no way he was leaving the sensor lab unless forced to do so. It was something like disturbing an angry cobra, he reasoned, and he noted her winding higher and higher in irritation the longer he loitered about making a nuisance of himself. To Spock, Jim was nothing but unfailingly polite, a fact he could see perplexed the other man (as much as a Vulcan could be described as perplexed) as he watched the two Humans face off in yet another verbal sparring match.
“But what’s the point of a specialization in linguistics when the universal translator can successfully interpret all humanoid verbal input without assistance?” Jim asked, fully aware of the inherent dangers in relying too heavily on technology in first contact situations, where even universal translators had been known to fail. He added a particularly dull-looking wrinkle to his forehead, for added effect, and watched as steam began to pour from Uhura’s ears. Poor girl. But then, if she didn’t want to be used for entertainment, she shouldn’t wander about with such a self-righteous attitude, since it seemed that Jim absolutely could not keep himself from poking holes in it.
“And where do you think the linguacode translation matrix for the universal translator came from?” Uhura asked through gritted teeth. “Thin air?”
“Didn’t it?” Jim asked in surprise, fighting like mad to keep down the laughter trying to burst from his throat.
“You can’t possibly be this stupid,” Uhura shouted, looking about ready to tear her hair out, “but I don’t care even if you are! All I know is that if you ever manage to graduate from the command program, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I serve aboard any ship with you even near the captain’s seat!”
“I’ll remember to request you specifically,” Jim promised, blinking in earnest innocence.
“That’s it!” she snapped, throwing her hands into the air in a clear sign of surrender and Jim tried his best not to feel triumphant, but it was a near thing, and really, why shouldn’t he - this was basically what he’d been aiming for. “I’m calling it a night, you can stay or go as you please - I know you will anyway.”
She visibly calmed herself as she turned to regard the Vulcan who was even now watching them both with the air of a scientist scrutinizing a time-sensitive experiment gone completely wrong. Like a naturalist observing faulty ritual behavior, Jim thought with a secret grin.
“Commander,” she said, through meditative breaths probably designed to reduce stress in the midst of combat scenarios aboard the bridge of a starship. Jim felt flattered he could drive her to such lengths. “I think I’ve finished all the work I’m going to get done today. Would you care to review the research we’ve completed over dinner in the commissary?”
“I’ll come too!” Jim interjected, hopping down from one of the sensor panels, where he’d been perched casually until that moment.
“No!” she barked, at the same time Spock bowed his head in apparent regret, saying, “Thank you for the invitation, cadet, but I have no need of nutritional intake at this time. You may send me a private communication summarizing any additional notes you wish to discuss at the next available meeting.”
Uhura shot Jim a look, as though Spock’s response was entirely his fault, and he raised both hands in a ‘who, me?’ gesture. With a growl of utter frustration, she turned smartly on her heel and disappeared through the automatic doors, her ponytail trailing after her; Jim was surprised to note it was as straight and smooth as ever. He thought for sure he’d been annoying enough to frazzle that bit too. He’d have to try harder next time.
Jim waited until he was absolutely sure there was no way Uhura was going to change her mind before he burst out laughing, putting both hands on the tops of his knees and howling in mirth until he nearly tipped over he was so desperate for breath. God, he hadn’t had that much fun in ages, regardless of alcoholic content. He really needed to spend more time around that woman. Forget convincing her he was worth sleeping with - her entertainment value out of bed was far more precious.
“I will assume,” Spock said, after several minutes of hilarity had passed and Jim was left gasping against the far wall, “that you are perfectly aware of the origins of the linguacode translation matrix?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Jim guffawed, another round of laughter taking hold of him as he remembered her reaction. “And yeah, that origin is the reason we still have communication officers aboard all constitution class starships today. But there’s no way I was going to tell her that - I mean, did you see the look on her face?”
“I did,” the Vulcan confirmed in a low, disapproving voice that quieted Jim’s humor into only the occasional chuckle as he turned to face the man directly. “And yet I fail to see the purpose behind your deliberate attempts to provoke cadet Uhura.”
Jim shrugged, sprawling boneless against the wall, satisfied on so many different levels he didn’t even want to count them. “I was only living down to her expectations. Not my fault if her own preconceived notions about my intelligence - or lack thereof - conspired to drive her out of the room. With maybe a little bit of help from yours truly, of course, but still.” He smiled in contentment at the Vulcan, and watched as a curious expression flitted briefly over that stoic face. Dark eyes cut from his shoulders down to his feet and then quickly back up again, and Spock was already speaking by the time Jim realized he’d just been given a very quick, and very thorough, once-over.
“May I inquire as to the basis for cadet Uhura’s negative attitude toward you? It appeared to stem from more than merely today’s encounter.”
Jim didn’t say anything for a long moment, the smile wiped off his face as surprise - and then surprised pleasure - stole through him. Spock just checked me out, he thought. He had no idea what it meant that a Vulcan - particularly a male Vulcan, of whom even less was known romantically than female ones - seemed to find him, at least on some level, attractive. What he did know was that, regardless of what it meant, the thought of this man even remotely interested in Jim for more than professional reasons was quite enough to send a tremor of arousal arrowing straight to Jim’s cock. He told it to shut up, but it was too late by then, and he was forced to shift just enough that the fit of his pants didn’t immediately give away his sudden change in body shape.
“You’re right,” he noted, tuning back into the conversation. “There’s a bit of a story behind that. Uhura and I have something of a history.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Jim drawled, meeting those unreadable eyes with his own, grinning slowly. “Maybe I could tell you about it over dinner?”
“As I informed cadet Uhura, I do not require nourishment at this time,” Spock said, in what Jim judged to be a true tone of regret. He shrugged, rolling his shoulders easily.
“Requiring nourishment isn’t always the only reason to participate in a meal.”
“On Vulcan, it is,” Spock informed him.
“Hate to break this to you, Spock, but you’re not on Vulcan anymore. You’re on Earth, and here we pretty much have dinner with whomever we please, whenever we please.” He smiled sharply, sensing an inherent weakness and aiming for it with true command ruthlessness. “You might even call these little dinner dates something of a cultural ritual - and you wouldn’t want to stomp all over my cultural ritual, now, would you?”
Spock studied him a moment, hands clasped loosely behind his back, then bowed his head once, in intrigued acquiescence.
Jim clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly, and considered that they’d better avoid the commissary just in case Uhura was in there; she might actually tear him apart with her bare hands if they made an appearance together right after the Vulcan had turned her down not moments ago.
“Onward, Jeeves!” he said, leading the way out of the sensor lab. “Okay, so, this thing with Uhura and I started a few years back. I was younger then - immature; a little unfocussed, you know? Nothing at all like I am now, obviously…”
~*~*~*~
Jim spent more than a few inopportune moments over the next little while contemplating the potentially complicated situation that may or may not be unfolding between him and Commander Spock. They seemed to run into each other an inordinate amount of times, especially considering that Jim couldn’t recall ever doing so in the last however long the Vulcan had been instructing classes. But then, maybe that was just because there were far fewer cadets at the Academy during finals week; or, maybe Jim was just unusually aware of the other man’s presence now. A few weeks ago he hadn’t even known who the guy was, and now he couldn’t seem to take his mind off him. It would have been irritating if it wasn’t a complete turn-on.
It was hard to tell what Spock was thinking, and there wasn’t a lot of room to figure it out, either - certainly the couple times they’d met between their busy schedules, there hadn’t been time to actually do much aside from exchange pleasantries; he tried to keep these miniature meetings on a friendly level only, but was fairly certain he failed on several counts. He felt obscurely guilty that while he wasn’t breaking the technical terms of his agreement with Bones, he was certainly breaking the implicit terms. On the other hand, at least this thing with Spock gave him something else to do with his endless boredom - he could still hardly believe how much of his time had been taken up by flirting with members of the opposite sex (especially as members of the same sex were suddenly appearing just as interesting to flirt with).
Still, it was as though all his thinking about the Vulcan managed to somehow conjure him from thin air, at times. Jim was certainly more than a little surprised to find the man in probably the last place he would have ever expected to see him: the mall.
Christmas shopping was hell, Jim decided, scowling down at the array of cheerfully arranged gift packages decorating the table in front of him. He couldn’t decide what annoyed him more - the actual act of shopping for gifts, or the thousands of other people jockeying for position in the mayhem that was Christmas retail. He’d tried to bribe Uhura into coming with him - for the amusement factor alone, if not her advice - but she hadn’t gone for it; something about ‘thank God she was leaving today’, and ‘not even if hell froze over’, though he hadn’t quite caught the whole diatribe. Probably better off that way.
He’d managed to find something appropriate for his mother by about noon, but Sam was proving more than a little difficult, not to mention Bones. He drew the line at buying for any of his hundred acquaintances at the Academy - the few presents he already had to get were more than enough, thank you very much.
So it was without the slightest hint of expectation, and a great deal of surprise, that he literally ran smack into Spock on aisle four of the Golden Gate shopping center, right next to the Christmas garland, and the fake holly. The impact actually sent him reeling into one of the mechanized Santa impersonators, which promptly cried ‘ho, ho, ho!’ and nearly scared the living daylights out of Jim.
“Jesus, Spock,” he gasped, righting the Santa to another rousing chorus of ‘ho, ho, ho!’ and quickly stepping away lest the commotion draw even more attention. “Has anyone ever expressed a desire to bell you?”
“Negative. I am uncertain as to the process of such an action.”
“Never mind,” Jim said quickly, even as thoughts of bells and collars and that surprisingly attractive eyebrow lifting in disdainful inquiry began to take root in his imagination. Obviously a week and a half of enforced chastity and sobriety were beginning to take their toll, he thought disparagingly.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” he asked, hurrying down the aisle away from the Santa, which seemed, to Jim, to watch in a very eerie fashion as they stepped out of sight. Who could stand to buy one of those things? Ugh. Creepy.
“I am attempting to locate an appropriate gift for my mother, a task at which I have been unsuccessful as yet. I find the process of discovering, purchasing, and transporting gifts at this time of year to be exceedingly time-consuming and inefficient.”
“You and me both,” Jim muttered. “Although, hey, as long as you’re here - you’re a scientist, right?”
The Vulcan stared at him for a moment, one eyebrow climbing his brow until it rested at the highest point of its peak. Jim sternly suppressed the arrow of desire that shot through to his groin. Stop it Jim, he told himself, a little irritated. You can’t be turned on by a man’s eyebrow, that’s just wrong.
“Though I had thought you aware of my designation and credentials, I will reiterate them for you if you have forgotten. I am indeed a scientist, with three specializations in - “
“No, no,” Jim said, waving him off. “I get that part, of course. I was going to say, as a scientist, if you were to receive a gift, er - what would you like it to be?”
The second eyebrow joined the first, sending another dart of desire to regions Jim had sworn to steer clear of for the duration of the month of December. He firmly commanded his libido to cut it out.
“I do not understand the purpose of your question,” Spock informed him.
“Well, I’m heading home to Iowa for the five days after Christmas to visit my family, and my brother’s going to be there - I never have any idea what to get him and I usually end up with a flop gift that I just know gets thrown in the trash the minute I’m not looking. So - as a fellow scientist - what might you hope to get for the holidays if Santa left you a surprise gift under the Christmas tree?”
“I am certain you are aware that Santa Claus is neither real, nor even remotely credible. He is a figure rooted deeply in Human mythology - “
“Hey, don’t knock old Saint Nick,” Jim protested, smiling angelically at Spock’s slow blink of confusion. “You’re talking to a true believer!”
“Surely you cannot - “
“So, gift ideas?” Jim interrupted before the discussion could degenerate into a scientific dissertation on the mythological existence (or non-existence) of Santa Claus.
“I have none. I have no desire to receive material possessions as a part of the traditional Human celebration of Christmas.”
Jim rolled his eyes. “C’mon Spock, use your imagination; I know you have one buried inside that analytical brain of yours. If you were to receive a gift, what would it be? Surely your mother must send you something; what does she give you?”
Actually, he could be wrong about that... “Wait,” he said in some confusion. “If your parents are Vulcan, why the hell are you buying them Christmas gifts?”
For the first time in their admittedly short acquaintance, Spock actually looked - visibly and noticeably looked - uncomfortable. Jim stared at him, taken aback as he noticed the Vulcan cut his eyes away until they rested on some point just over and beyond the Human’s left shoulder.
“I am not purchasing an item for both of my parents. My father would certainly not appreciate such a gesture. My mother, however, is quite insistent. Her family originated on Earth and the winter celebration held great sentimental value to them. She is determined that regardless of my Vulcan heritage, we will participate in this ritual without fail, unless otherwise prevented from doing so.”
“Your mother’s Human?” Jim blurted.
“Yes.”
“Well,” Jim said, blinking uncertainly, not quite sure how Spock wanted him to react to this sudden sharing. Not that it bothered Jim, but with the way Spock was standing at such rigid attention, it certainly seemed to bother him. “That should make your answer to my question all the easier. In all the years she’s been sending you presents, she must have given you at least one you found useful. What was it?”
Spock’s eyes moved back to him, spearing him with intense curiosity, and Jim caught his breath as that piercing gaze stole the air right from his lungs. He took an involuntary step toward the Vulcan before forcing himself to stop, standing completely still. Spock, far from appearing alarmed at the sudden proximity this put them in, took a single step closer to Jim in turn, until they were near enough they were almost breathing each other’s air. Tension sparked between them, crackling like electricity. Jim took a long, deep breath, wondering if that faint herbal smell was some sort of soap, or if the Vulcan just exuded it naturally.
He raised one hand, feeling almost as though he were watching himself through some outside party, and observed it approach Spock’s face, the Vulcan leaning forward in encouragement -
“Oh, sorry!”
The sudden knock from behind (really, this was becoming something of a habit, Jim thought) forced him forward, and Jim belatedly found himself not so much touching Spock as clutching at him for support, their bodies flush against one another. A blush - an actual frigging blush - stained Jim’s cheeks, and he stared into the black eyes glittering into his own, noting almost as an afterthought the startling heat seeping from beneath Spock’s clothes to radiate up into Jim’s fingertips where they curled around bony shoulders.
“Spock,” he said hoarsely, but that was all he managed to get out.
“Sorry,” a voice piped up behind him, and Jim recalled with a rush of clarity that they were standing in the middle of a busy shopping center. He disengaged from the near-embrace at nearly the same moment Spock did.
He cleared his throat. “No problem,” he muttered at the person hovering at his back and, with a sheepish little wave, the woman continued on down the aisle, disappearing from sight a moment later.
A long, awkward silence stretched between them, before Jim managed to quirk a small grin in the Vulcan’s direction.
“I’d apologize for making you uncomfortable,” Jim said quietly, honestly, intently. “But I don’t think I did. And I don’t think you’d hesitate to tell me if that wasn’t the case.”
The Vulcan said nothing, which was in and of itself a glaring confirmation. Jim looked away, releasing a pent up huff of air on a sigh.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked finally.
Quiet reigned, but a strained one this time; it counted as one of the first true moments of discomfort between them.
“Socks,” Spock said abruptly, apropos of nothing.
“What?”
“The most functional and appreciated item my mother ever gave me. I have utilized it approximately forty-seven percent more often than any other item she has sent me in years past.”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed, bewildered, “but that’s because they’re socks.”
“Precisely.”
Jim stared at him, and he could feel the grin tugging at the corners of his lips, letting it slide slowly across them until Spock dropped his eyes to watch it unfold. Pressing his tongue out to moisten them, he nodded decisively, without once taking his eyes from the Vulcan. “Okay,” he agreed. “Socks it is. And - you didn’t answer my question.”
“I cannot provide you with an answer at this time,” Spock said quietly, but there was no rejection in his gaze. Quite the opposite, really. “Perhaps it would simply be best to carry on as we have been - and take things as they come.”
Jim laughed softly, his amusement sealing the bargain with tacit agreement.
“A long-distance com message,” he told Spock, conspiratorially.
“I beg your pardon?”
“For your mother. If you’re not going to see her this year, you should arrange for a video conference in one of the long-range communication labs. There’s probably nothing else you could get her that’d mean more to her than that.”
Spock regarded him with surprise and faint suspicion - Jim was getting better every time they ran into each other at reading the subtle cues of the Vulcan’s expression. “You have personally utilized this option?”
“Yep. Twice, actually, and both times worked like a charm. Get her something else if you have to, but nothing beats a surprise call home when you can’t make it in person. Mom’s are sentimental like that.”
“I shall take your suggestion under advisement,” Spock said, which was about the same thing as agreeing on the spot to have it done.
“Good,” Jim said, and when they parted ways several minutes later, he had to ruefully revise his opinion about Christmas shopping. It might be a little bit hellish, but it was also capable of providing more than a few pleasant surprises that made up for the fuss.
He bought four pairs of socks for Sam, and three more for Bones. At the very least, this was one gift that wouldn’t end up in the trash.
~*~*~*~
It was Wednesday of the following week, six days to Christmas, before an exhausted Jim found himself with another free day. He spent most of the morning sleeping, catching up on some rest while he had the chance (he was determinedly not studying anymore), and so he didn’t even realize it was snowing until he marched into the main courtyard and inhaled a small flurry of snowflakes on a yawn.
“Erk,” he squawked, spitting out the melted snow immediately and retreating back into the warm confines of the Academy corridor. He peered out at the miniature snow storm taking place outside and then down at his own thin, Starfleet regulation black boots. Well, there was no way he was wasting a grand opportunity like this, certainly not on a free day, and it was with a childlike sense of joy that Jim scrambled back to his quarters to find warmer winter wear and a far tougher set of boots.
He wasn’t the only one enjoying the unexpected gift from nature, he noticed, the minute he stepped outside again. More than one cadet was busy rolling the gently falling flakes into mid-sized boulders and stacking them atop one another, until the entire courtyard was littered with all manner of sculpted figurines, some more artistically accurate than others.
“Hey!” Jim called, spying several people he knew. “Finney! Would you look at this? Has someone been playing around with the local weather grid or something? We never get snow out this way!”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Jim!” Ben Finney admonished, tossing a poorly made snowball in his direction which Jim neatly sidestepped. “Enjoy it while it lasts, because it’ll probably be gone tomorrow. Bizarre, huh?”
“Just a little,” Jim laughed, reaching down to pack a snowball of his own. “Hey, what do you say to a miniature war game? Capture the flag? Each snowball strike is a thirty second out?”
Finney conferred with the two people with him, only one of whom Jim recognized: Stephen Garrovick, one of the former command cadets, now a Lieutenant-Commander in line for promotion to executive officer aboard the USS Farragut. Nice enough guy, but Jim almost had to laugh at the idea of pelting snowballs at the first officer of a constitution class starship - not that his rank was going to make Jim hesitate for even an instant, but it almost bordered on insubordination (which, really, only made the whole thing that much more appealing in Jim’s eyes).
“You’re on, Jim!” Finney called, raising a fist in a haughty sign of victory. “But seeing as you’re Mr. Hot-shot-Academy-legend, I think that calls for a handicap - us three versus your team of one.”
“Oh, bull,” Jim shouted back, tossing the neatly made snowball and laughing as it struck Finney smack in the chest. “I get at least one partner!”
“Better find one quick then, Jim; time’s a wastin’!” With a grin, the three coconspirators turned their backs on him and huddled in together, whispering amongst themselves while Jim scowled at the injustice of it all. He looked around, hoping to catch someone else he knew in the nearby vicinity, but most of the other cadets were first year, and Jim couldn’t rightly say he knew them all that well. Still, if it came down to a game of three-on-one, he’d rather bribe some other poor shmuck into taking the beating with him than go it alone…
That was when he spotted the black cap of hair distinctively cut in a very familiar fashion. A lurch of adrenaline shot through Jim, and with a truly wicked grin, he hurried back toward the courtyard doors, waving a hand over his shoulder when Finney yelled after him in question.
“Spock!” he exclaimed, when the doors swished open for him, and he knew he must look a sight, flushed and grinning and all-over entreaty, because Spock stopped in mid-step, both eyebrows shooting up as glittering dark eyes took in his appearance with more than a glancing touch of appreciation.
Jim shivered, and couldn’t decide if it was a result of the cold, or the look on Spock’s face, which might appear stoic to everyone else, but which made Jim hot enough to melt the rest of the snow clinging to his clothes.
“Spock, you’ve got to come with me,” Jim ordered, stepping up and taking the Vulcan’s arm in hand, hauling him back toward the exit. Spock allowed himself to be towed until the doors themselves opened and a blast of cold air hit them both smack in the face, and then Jim found himself pulled off his feet as the Vulcan stopped abruptly, his greater strength easily overcoming Jim’s puny efforts to force him outside.
“Is there some emergency that requires my presence?” Spock asked, glancing disdainfully outside at the snowflakes making little flurries in the air.
“You could say that,” Jim assured him, with a sly smile. “My pride is about to suffer a mortal blow if you don’t help me out here.”
“I am certain your pride is sufficient to survive whatever manner of attack it might encounter,” the other man assured him dryly.
Jim laughed, almost involuntarily, tightening his clasp on Spock’s arm in fond exasperation. It was almost a little bit scary, how quickly he’d taken to the Vulcan after only a few short conversations - but oh, what fascinating conversations they’d been.
“Maybe so,” he said, “but it needn’t suffer at all if you’d only lend me a hand.”
“What is the nature of the assistance you require?”
“Well, see, I’ve arranged for something of an impromptu war game - have you ever heard of something called ‘capture the flag’?”
“I have not.”
“Well, two teams participate in hiding an item, usually a piece of cloth or a rag, and the game ends when one team or the other manages to remove this item and return it to their own base without, er, being tagged out in the meantime.”
“And how is one ‘tagged out’?” Spock asked, peering suspiciously at the weather outside as though secretly dreading that he knew the answer. Jim carefully did not smile.
“Well, we’re making do with what’s available at the moment, so if any of the participants are struck with a snowball - snow packed into a projectile, used to incapacitate opponents - they experience a thirty second time out where they’re excluded from game play until their time’s up.”
“And you wish me to participate in this - game?” Spock asked dubiously, eyeing him quite as though he was hoping to be informed otherwise.
“Yep,” Jim confirmed, tugging him towards the doors once more. “Come save my bacon, Spock. I’m sure between the two of us we can come up with some formidable techniques for building a protective snow fort to use for cover.”
This, more than anything, seemed to intrigue the Vulcan, but he eventually shook his head - regretfully, Jim was disappointed to see.
“I do not believe I can participate in this exercise, Jim,” Spock said. “I have no protective clothing of sufficient thickness to ward off the low temperatures outside, and Vulcans are unfortunately susceptible to cold, as a natural function of originating from a desert world.”
“I have extra layers back in my cabin - it gets cold out in Iowa. If that’s your only objection, I’ll grab those right now, no problem!”
Spock thought for a moment, scrutinizing the white-washed landscape outside. “Were I to participate, I would insist on maintaining a minor role only. My rank and my position as an Academy instructor are likely to lend our team efforts an unanticipated psychological advantage.”
“Not really unanticipated, since I’m sort of counting on it,” Jim told him, gesturing at the three people they could see trudging across the courtyard, already in the midst of constructing a snow fort. “Besides, see the tall one of there, with the dark hair? That’s Stephen Garrovick. He’s been assigned as the Farragut’s Exec. Technically you’d be in pretty good company if you joined us.”
“Fascinating,” Spock said, peering with narrowed eyes through the rapidly fogging window.
“So you’ll do it?” Jim pressed, beginning to edge down the corridor hopefully, almost holding his breath as ridiculously sharp excitement tore through him.
“Affirmative. I will, however, continue to insist on a relatively minor role, in the interests of fairness.”
“I can live with that,” Jim grinned, huffing in exhilaration. “Wait here, I’ll be right back with double layers for you!”
He glanced back just once, to see whether Spock had simply been humoring him (which didn’t seem likely, since he was, well, a Vulcan), but the other man did not look dismayed - far from it. He appeared to be studying the snow outside, and the ground to which it was falling - probably, Jim thought with an inner little chuckle, calculating the best possible methods of packing said snow into sufficiently sturdy structures to protect the two of them from the snowball barrages that were shortly to be heading their way.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
And it definitely was. Finney and the others had been quite intimidated at the sight of Commander Spock (which Jim had, as mentioned, been hoping for) and their wary dismay had been gratifying. Jim tried his best to pay attention, though he was more than a little distracted throughout the whole exercise - he’d brought ear muffs for Spock’s delicate pointy appendages, and the very tips were still exposed. They got greener the longer the two of them labored at their fort, and more than once Jim was tempted to cover them with his hands to warm them up. He sternly reminded himself they had a war game to win, and set himself to do so with brutal intensity - which worked fairly well, as Spock seemed to dedicate brutal intensity to basically everything he did, including kicking their opponents’ asses in an absolutely hilarious game of capture the flag.
They won, of course. How could they not, when Spock put that formidable scientific brain of his to good use? He actually fashioned an on-the-spot system of snow-bricks and snow-supports for their little fort, which Jim quickly named, gouging out the words ‘Academy Hotshots - Members only’ on the front, to inform the other team of just who they were dealing with.
It probably also helped that Finney and his teammates seemed just a little bit hesitant in their attempts to tag out Spock, who held no such mirrored concerns. It was a little scary how economical Spock was with his snowballs, loosing only those sure to hit targets, with quite deadly accuracy (he seemed determined to provide a more-than-sufficient defense for their base, which was his only assignment - in accordance with his wish to provide only ‘minor’ assistance). Jim, in contrast to this sparing efficiency, could be seen stacking mountains of pre-prepared snowballs and then letting them all fly the minute anyone twitched from behind Finney’s fort, which was, of course, woefully deficient when compared to theirs. At the end of the game, triumphantly hefting the single red mitten (split from the pair they were using as ‘flags’) Jim found himself soaked to the bone and far too happy to care about it.
“Next time I suppose I really will have to give you a three-to-one handicap!” Jim called to the only visible enemy in sight, Garrovick, and the man grinned at him with good humor. Beyond him, his two teammates groaned sourly, both of them likely turning into popsicles where they’d been waiting for their thirty seconds to time out.
“No fair, Jim!” Finney yelled, brushing snow off his clothes and shaking like a dog to remove the remaining powder. “You cheated! You brought in a ringer!”
Jim laughed, waving the red mitten at Spock, who stepped from behind their secure little snow-barricade and began to walk placidly towards them. “C’mon, Spock, time to head inside before we all freeze to death. You’re looking a little green around the gills, you know - thankfully that can be explained by your blood type, or I’d be tempted to rush you to sickbay.”
“I have not yet reached the point of actual discomfort,” Spock confessed, stepping blithely over Garrovick on his way to Jim. “Although I do believe it would be best if we returned to the warmer interior of the Academy, before the effects of the cold become more keenly felt.”
“Hey, we won; I’m happy to head inside now. Do you like apple cider, Spock? I think I owe you a drink, at least, for saving my butt, and the food processors this time of year do a really great apple cider.”
“I generally prefer tea as a hot beverage, but I would not be averse to sampling one.”
“Done!” Jim said, grabbing Spock’s arm for the second time in as many hours and dragging him toward the Academy doors. “Come on then, let’s go!”
Once inside, it became obvious that while Spock may not have reached the point of ‘actual discomfort’, as he put it, he also wasn’t entirely unmoved by the cold. His hands, which had been wrapped in two layers of gloves, were more than a little green, and Jim chafed them anxiously as they headed for the commissary.
“Are you all right?” he asked, worried. A faint stab of guilt struck at Jim, which he firmly pushed away. Spock had enjoyed the mock war-game, Jim was sure of it, and he’d agreed to participate without much prompting. There was nothing to feel guilty for.
Spock allowed the touch for a moment, and then swiftly drew his hand away, placing it behind his back as though to ward off further contact. Surprised at the abrupt withdrawal, Jim glanced at him, arrested at the look on his normally placid face. The expressions that passed over those stoic features were few and far between, and so Jim had never been witness to one such as this. It was like a proverbial kick to the gut to see desire staring back at him with hungry intensity from skin already flushed green with the cold - now flushed, Jim could tell, from something quite different.
They’d both stopped walking, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Jim waited two long, hard beats of his heart before reaching for Spock’s other hand, without once taking his eyes from the image of lust on that fine-boned face.
Spock had plenty of opportunity to pull away. He didn’t, and it was with a feeling of inevitability that Jim slid his fingers in a sensual spiral down the long, cold ones of his companion, pressing it slowly between both of his. It couldn’t be doing them that much good, he thought vaguely. His own fingers were at least as cold as Spock’s. But then, that wasn’t the purpose behind the gesture any longer.
A frisson of emotion, surprising and wild, leapt to Jim, and it was only startling for the fact that it wasn’t his.
“Spock?” He murmured, tracing the swirls of their fingerprints together. “What is that?”
“A loss of control,” Spock said, his skin shuddering faintly as Jim teased his fingers along the curve of his thumb, across the calluses on his palm, back up to the tips of his fingers.
At his words, Jim paused, hesitating. “Is that a bad thing?” he asked, without letting go of his prize.
“I do not know,” Spock said, and regarded their joined hands for a moment of perfect contemplation before raising his gaze to stare directly into Jim’s. “And, illogically, I find that I do not care.” And then Jim could only watch as the Vulcan leaned forward in an unmistakable, unimpeded move to kiss him. It would have happened, too - if not for Ben Finney.
Finney, who came barreling down the corridor not a half a second later, with just enough noise heralding his presence that Jim and Spock both had the opportunity to take one step back, though it took an act of iron will for Jim to release that hotter-than-Human hand.
“Jim!” Finney said, skidding to a stop next to them. “We’re taking you up on that additional handicap. The snow’s started to slow down, and we probably won’t get any more in these parts for years. Come on back for a re-match while we still have time!”
Jim quirked a grin at Spock, hiding the tingling tips of his fingers just inside his coat pockets. Though he was fully aware of Finney waiting impatiently at his side for an answer, he found he really could not remove his eyes from Spock, standing so still before him.
Desire had raged across that impassive face a moment ago, desire so strong it had actually broken down rigid Vulcan control to make an appearance, and Jim hadn’t realized quite how far Spock had allowed him inside his defenses until just now, when it seemed that no amount of searching would reveal even a hint of that same longing on that emotionless countenance.
“A re-match sounds great, Ben,” he said, but he was staring at Spock at he said it. “I needed to cool off anyway. Rain check on that apple cider, Spock?”
“Very well,” the Vulcan agreed, without even a hint of inflection in his voice. “Whenever it is convenient.”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed softly. “Convenient.”
But if there was one thing this encounter had taught Jim, it was that there was nothing at all convenient going on here.
He lost the re-match, but consoled himself that it was at least half due to the fact that he could barely focus well enough to build the fort, let alone take out the three ruthless maniacs determined to bury him in the snow.
Part 3