What Part Of Forever: Chapter Three

[the_castle]

Find part one of Chapter Three here.

"Jim?"

Spock watched as Jim paused in his examination of the box of strawberries in his hand. The fruit was almost obscenely ripe and lush, nestled neatly in small, translucent containers atop one of the makeshift tables assembled up and down this street. "Yeah, Spock?" Jim smiled, his eyes sliding back to the basket of fruit in his hand. Seemingly satisfied, he handed over his card to the vendor and tucked the strawberries into the canvas bag he'd brought along with him.

Spock waited until Jim had finished paying and they had moved away from the strawberry stand before voicing his question. The momentary pause gave him time to summon his fortitude, finding the question on his mind unexpectedly difficult to voice. "I have noticed, of late, that you are spending a great deal of time with me outside of any of the activities we had previously discussed that pertain to my stated goal."

Now Jim looked at him, slowing their already-leisurely stroll down the crowded sidewalk. "What? Yeah, I guess so. But it's been educational, hasn't it?" There was something in Jim's demeanor that Spock could not quite read, a new tightness to his smile that had not been there before Spock asked his question.

Spock inclined his head in a brief nod. "Indeed. My statement was not meant as a complaint. I only meant..." Spock hesitated for a moment, then continued, carefully, "I do not wish to take advantage of your time. We will have to re-assess how much I owe you in light of all the time and energy you have put towards this endeavor."

Jim's reaction was both immediate and gratifying. "Absolutely not. We'll stick to what we originally agreed, and you can count the extra time as complimentary." Spock felt warmth spread through his chest and stomach at this statement, and though he gave no sign, he suffered a brief urge to take Jim's hand. It would be an unforgivably intimate act for a Vulcan, which he would of course not force upon Jim no matter how casually Humans seemed to hand-hold amongst themselves. But that knowledge did not stop him from the unreasoning itch of his fingers to feel Jim's twined in his own, or from desiring to see Jim's smile spread across his face again, warming his eyes and lighting his features. More and more, Spock found himself unreasonably jealous of Jim giving that smile to anyone else, no matter who the recipient was.

In the short time of Spock's acquaintance with Jim, Spock had found himself suffering illogical urges and thoughts with increasing frequency. Deep down, Spock knew that his desire for Jim's presence had ceased to be related even tangentially to his choice to explore his Human heritage. It was not his mother he thought of when he anticipated the moment he would see Jim's face again.

But all Spock said was, "I am gratified, Jim. Thank you."

"Hey. It's been my pleasure. Now come on, we've still got to find bread and garlic." Jim flashed Spock another one of his blinding smiles and then turned and made his way through the crowd ahead of Spock, the canvas bag with their strawberries and eggs swinging from its straps in his right hand.

Spock and Jim were at the Farmer's Market in northern Venice Beach in order to shop for ingredients for dinner, or so Jim had told Spock when he'd called at 0900 hours this morning. More than a little puzzled, Spock had tentatively asked about the purpose behind such an activity, and what its significance might be, but Jim had only laughed and promised Spock they'd talk about it later. Spock might have protested more, but in reality he did not mind spending the day with Jim. Completely aside from his own irrational behavior and urges, all his time spent with Jim was a welcome distraction from the building tension in the air at Spock's hotel as the date of the secession hearing drew closer.

"I am curious to participate in this variation of a Human dining ritual," Spock commented as he followed in Jim's wake. Spock did not completely enjoy the teeming press of humanity and alien at the market, though the array of food and goods available was astonishing. He found himself as exhausted as he was stimulated by the experience.

Jim made a soft noise in his throat that Spock had come to identify as a stifled laugh. This, too, was another strange habit of Humans, this tendency to laugh for reasons other than finding something humorous. Spock had found that Jim laughed for a vast number of reasons, ranging from plain amusement to an expression of pleasure, or even when he was taken by surprise. It was baffling, but not, Spock found, unpleasant.

"It's... I don't honestly know if it'll give you any more of an appreciation of being Human, but I've always hated replicated food. Tastes like cardboard. And it's just way more satisfying to eat a dinner that you made yourself."

"Fascinating," Spock said. "It is inefficient to spend quantities of time preparing food when equally nutritious sustenance can be acquired from a replicator. Yet you are not the first Human I have heard express such a sentiment. I believe the experience will be most enlightening."

"That's assuming I don't sent the kitchen on fire." Jim grinned, slipping between a few meandering Andorians and scooting up to a table from which came the fragrant aroma of fresh bread. Spock followed more sedately, allowing his eyes to travel over the loaves of bread in their paper sleeves. The number of choices was daunting, but Jim seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, because he reached for a round, crusty-looking loaf of bread and said, "I'll take this sourdough, please."

"I was under the impression that you preferred more strongly-flavored foods," Spock observed, once Jim had made his purchase and they were heading back into the crowd. Jim glanced over his shoulder at Spock, mildly surprised.

"Well, I mean. I do, sometimes, especially spicy food, but you don't. And I'm making dinner for both of us."

"Your thoughtfulness is most gratifying," Spock said gravely, and did not know whether he was grateful for his own ability to hide his reactions, or whether he wished he might be better able to express himself to Jim.

"Yeah, that and a few credits will buy you a cup of coffee," Jim remarked.

"Why would I want a cup-"

"-never mind, Spock."

Another hour in the Farmer's Market let them find the garlic Jim was looking for, as well as a Human book of poems that Spock discreetly acquired for himself and tucked into his robes. Spock faintly recalled his mother loving that collection, though he had not seen it in years; he suspected it lay with the rest of Amanda's things in storage, perhaps with her journals. By then it was drawing close to noon, the full warmth of the sun was beating down on them, and out of deference to Jim's Human constitution, Spock suggested they retreat to the safety of indoors.

That afternoon, instead of experiencing the usual, the expected impatience of being too long in company of another, Spock found himself astonished at how quickly and easily time seemed to pass. As soon as they got home, Jim ran into his bedroom to retrieve a book he'd wanted to show to Spock-the Heinlein novel he'd mentioned the other night, curiously titled "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress." Spock settled himself on the couch and listened attentively as Jim found the passage he'd had in mind and read it aloud to Spock, and they proceeded to spend the next two hours discussing the merits and drawbacks of the social structure Heinlein had invented, the likelihood that the fictional revolution would actually succeed in its aim, and the theoretical physics contained within.

The conversation rambled from there, returning yet again to the duotritocale project Spock was spearheading, and from there to the socio-political psychology thesis Jim had just submitted for a class at UCLA, skipping among a great many topics in between. Spock was used to engaging with formidably intelligent associates-the VSA was one of the most renowned research institutions in the galaxy-but almost all of Spock's fellow researchers approached their projects in the same very regimented manner, so in lock-step about their theorems and methods of investigation that Spock almost did not even have to ask a question of his associates; he could already predict what they would say.

Jim, on the other hand, possessed a mind of shocking intellectual breadth and elasticity. His interests ranged from social psychology to bioengineering, from the mechanics of fixing transports and comm-units to the best combination of herbs and grasses to cure nausea (or more specifically, hangovers). He leapt from subject to subject with a rapidity that Spock might have found frustrating, had the insights that accompanied such jumps not been so fascinating. Or maybe it was just that Jim himself was fascinating. Spock was no longer sure. But he found he could not guess what might come out of Jim's mouth next, and the realization that he very much wanted to find out thrilled him to his core.

Eventually Jim excused himself to "answer nature's call," as he put it, and Spock found himself sitting alone on the couch in the middle of the living room. For the first time that day, he wondered where Dr. McCoy was. Spock knew that Bones (he would really have to inquire the reason behind that nickname, he decided) was an ER doctor, and that his shifts varied greatly from one week to the next; perhaps he was working a "double." Spock found himself hoping that Dr. McCoy would not arrive home anytime soon. As engaging and interesting as the doctor also was, Spock found he wished to have all of Jim's attention to himself that night.

Spock looked up as Jim re-entered the room, practically glowing with energy. "Are all Humans as energetic as you?" he asked, suffering an illicit thrill of pleasure as Jim smiled at the question.

"Nah, not everyone. Bones is always accusing me of drinkin' too much caffeine, but really I'm just like this." Jim came to a halt in front of Spock's feet, grinning down at him for no reason Spock could discern. "Are you hungry? You didn't eat much for lunch."

"Indeed. When you informed me that you would be making our evening meal, I chose to not over-indulge too soon in the day. I wished to be able to experience the meal to its fullest extent."

This statement seemed to please Jim, for he rolled forward and then back on his heels again, all but bouncing in place. "Awesome. Well, in that case, I'm gonna start making dinner, 'cause I'm starving."

"That seems advisable. Might there be something I can do to help in the preparation?" Spock felt it was impolite not to offer, but secretly he was not sure he would be much help in the kitchen. He was perfectly capable of preparing simple meals for himself, but he was not familiar with anything Jim was making for them that night, and after all the care Jim had shown in selecting their ingredients, Spock had no desire to ruin the meal.

Luckily, Jim seemed intent on being a good host. "Don't even sweat it. You're my guest, I'll do the work. But I do have one request." Jim turned and headed back towards the open kitchen as he said this, leaving a bemused Spock to rise and follow in his wake.

"A request?" What would Jim request of him, Spock wondered, slightly anxious. He stood in the doorway, watching Jim move around the kitchen, unconsciously admiring the way Jim's muscles moved under his white t-shirt and the way his blond hair gleamed in the sunlight coming in through the kitchen window.

"Yes, kimosabe, a request." Jim threw Spock another grin over his shoulder. "I've spent almost a month with you, doing Stupid Human Tricks for your entertainment and education, and you've barely talked about the one Human in your life at all. So I wanna hear about your mom."

Spock stiffened, shock robbing him of his speech momentarily. Jim was not wrong; Spock himself had been growing increasingly uncomfortable with the way his focus had drifted from the person who was supposedly the whole reason for this research in the first place. Jim seemed to notice Spock's sudden discomfort-he was surprisingly astute at reading Vulcan body language, since as a species Vulcans were not nearly given so much to visual cues of their mental states-and stopped what he was doing, clutching the handle of a saucepan in one hand. "Hey, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Spock, I was just curious."

"I... do not mind," Spock said slowly. "That is-do not think I am offended by your request. It is entirely reasonable that you would wish to know something about Amanda-my mother. I find I am simply unused to talking about her." Spock let out a long breath, feeling something inside him start, ever so slightly, to unclench. He wondered suddenly how long it had been since he had even said his own mother's name.

Jim was still watching him, quietly attentive, but Spock could tell that Jim was no longer entirely at ease. Spock supposed he could not blame him. "My mother died when I was eleven years old," he said finally. He moved distractedly to one of the kitchen chairs, pulling it out and settling into it without really noticing. He had not told this story to anyone for a very long time, for longer than he could remember. "My father was in the capital, attending a diplomatic function. My mother and I were alone in our family's home."

Spock laced the fingers of his hands together, staring past Jim at the painting of a sea mammal on the wall above the stove. The words came out with a mechanical slowness, as Spock dug deep down inside himself to find them. "My mother was a scholar of language and culture; she held doctorates in three subjects, two from one of your Earth institutions, and one that she obtained on Andor. As you are no doubt aware, she was one of the founders of the Universal Translator Protocol. At the time of her death, she was in the middle of a project related to the Universal Translator. She had been hard at work on it for more than six months, and was very close to completion. I arrived home from school to find her asleep at her desk in her study. I remember..." Spock paused, a painful knot forming in his chest, above his lungs. "I remember thinking that she looked so tired. And she was covered in blankets. Vulcan is a desert planet, and our house was on the edge of Shi'Kahr, bordering the desert, and she was cold enough to wrap herself in blankets and turn the heat up in her room."

The knot in his chest grew tighter, heavier, as though his bones were turning to iron. Jim's sunlit Los Angeles kitchen was gone. Instead, Spock saw his mother's face as though he'd seen her only yesterday. Even then-even as sick as she was those last few days-he had thought she was so beautiful, with her easily-summoned smile for her curious son and her long brown hair.

"The next day she was back at work on her research. My mother was a stubborn woman; she was so close to being done with her paper, and she wanted to be ready to present it at the conference the following week. I believe even my father would have had difficulty persuading her to seek medical aid. But Sarek was not at home. There was only me."

"And you were only eleven," Jim said in a low voice. He had not moved from his spot, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely across his chest as he listened to Spock. "It's tough to argue with your parents at that age."

Spock inclined his head, but it was a disinterested gesture, one he hardly registered. "I tried, once, to convince her to at least call for a healer. But she would have none of it. She insisted she was fine, that it was not serious. Within two days she was coughing so hard that she could not stand." Spock stared at the black-and-white marine mammal in the painting and saw only the heavy red brick of his father's house, the house that neither of them could stand to be in after that weekend. "By the time I got home from school that day and called for an emergency medical team, she was unconscious. She was already in major organ failure by the time she reached the hospital."

"What did she have?" Spock looked over at Jim, at the strange, complicated expression on his face. Spock thought he saw sympathy there, and sadness, but something else too-something that was not pity.

"A particularly virulent strain of pneumonia. Completely treatable, had she been admitted to the hospital 48 hours earlier."

Jim exhaled, swiping his hand across his face. He pushed both his hands against the counter, still just watching Spock's face. Spock straightened, taking a deep breath and letting it out, willing the hard knot in his chest to dissipate. It did not. "I'm sorry, Spock, I shouldn't have asked," Jim said finally.

"Do not apologize. I am the one who came to you, seeking to better understand my heritage." Spock folded his hands carefully in his lap. "It is no fault of yours that my mother died a pointless death."

"Yeah, well... I know a thing or two about having dead parents, so." At that, Spock felt himself come out of his revery a little, turning his eyes to focus on Jim again. Jim managed to smile in a way that was completely devoid of humor. "My dad died on an exploding spaceship the day I was born."

"I have not forgotten," Spock said. He hesitated, then added, "Your father's heroism while captain was admirable. He saved over eight hundred lives, Jim."

Jim's smile went strained around the edges. "Tell that to a ten-year-old on his birthday," he said. He shook his head and turned back around, leaving Spock to watch him and wonder what to say.

* * * * *

They moved on to lighter topics, which Spock found was not as much of a relief as he would have expected, but Jim's company was more than sufficient distraction. Soon a fragrant aroma filled the kitchen, a mixture of what Jim told him was cream and garlic and butter. Spock was not certain that fettucine alfredo was going to be a good idea for a Vulcan digestive system, but he could not deny that it smelled very pleasing. He found himself fascinated by the way Jim moved around the kitchen, suffering a renewal of his earlier impulses to take Jim's hand in his own, or to feel Jim's hand on Spock's own skin. Indeed, Spock could not be certain he wasn't imagining it, but he thought that Jim was brushing against Spock more than strictly necessary as he moved around the kitchen, his blue eyes lingering on Spock's.

By the time Spock had laid out the silverware and bowls on the table, and Jim brought the pasta over to spoon into its dishes, Spock was dizzy with over-sensitivity to everything Jim said or did. He felt like high-powered superconductor, as though the air were crackling with unseen electricity, ready to jump from Spock to Jim or from Jim to Spock and set fire to the entire building and everything in it. As he sat down, Spock took a deep breath, forcing himself to let it out slow, to regain a measure of his own self-control. It was a mark of how seriously Jim was affecting him that a great part of Spock did not want to reign himself in-was, in fact, luxuriating in the recklessness that Jim brought out in him, however subtle it was.

Jim dropped down into the chair across from Spock with a satisfied sigh, grinning across the table at Spock. "Well, here we-oh!"

"Is something the matter?" Spock raised an eyebrow.

"No, it's just-" Jim hopped up again, and Spock watched, perplexed, as Jim darted over to the messy counter by the stove, casting about in the debris for something. He spoke over his shoulder to Spock, his words slightly muffled. "Where the hell did I put the basil?"

Spock rose from his own seat as well, not wishing to start the meal without Jim, and his eyes fell on a small green bundle on the counter that Jim had set aside much earlier in the process of making dinner. He picked it up and walked over to Jim, who had by now yanked open the spice cupboard and was scowling at its clutter of jars and cannisters. "I believe this is what you are looking for," Spock said.

Jim turned, looking from the bundle of basil in Spock's hand to Spock's face, looking startled. "I-oh, yeah. It is."

"You left it on the counter earlier," Spock said. Jim smiled. This close, it was blinding. Spock and Jim stared at each other for several long moments, separated by less than a foot, Jim leaning back against the counter behind him. Spock felt his heart speed up in his side, at the same time as he seemed to stop breathing, unable to tear his gaze away from the startling blue of Jim's eyes. He found himself caught by the warm swell of Jim's full lips, by the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, by the brassy gold of his hair and the strong curve of his jaw. Spock did not think he had ever paid so much attention to another being's facial structure before.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Jim blinked, glancing out the window at the noise, and when he turned to look back at Spock, that wide-eyed uncertainty was gone. "Silly of me to get it out and then forget about it," was all Jim said, taking the basil from Spock. Spock tensed momentarily, the feather-brush of Jim's fingers against the skin of Spock's wrist sending shockwaves up Spock's arm, all the way down his spine. Carefully, so as not to betray himself, Spock backed away from Jim, allowing his friend (his friend. shouted a voice in the back of Spock's mind) to move back towards the table.

"I was distracting you," Spock pointed out, as he followed Jim to the table. Jim's face creased with a smile as he unbound the basil and ripped up a few of the fragrant, green leaves over each bowl of still-steaming fettucine.

"That's for damn sure," Jim remarked. He seemed to be looking anywhere but at Spock, but he couldn't seem to stop smiling, either. Spock did not know what to make of it. "Well, let's eat. I'm starving."

They did not in fact pick up their forks immediately-Jim hopped up yet again, this time to fetch two glasses of water, the loaf of sourdough bread, and some olive oil-but when they did, and Spock bit in to the cream-coated pasta, he almost dropped his silverware to his lap again.

"Is it okay?" Jim was looking across the table at him now, eyebrows raised, his own fork halfway to his mouth.

Spock straightened, chewing the mouthful of pasta, tasting its weight and warmth and texture against his tongue. Swallowed. Opened his mouth, fixing his eyes on Jim, and informed him, "It is delicious."

Jim grinned. "Good. Coz I mean, if you didn't like it, I'd totally eat your bowl too, but then I'd have food coma and I'd be the most uninteresting host ever."

"I assure you that I have no wish to cause you to sink into a coma, Jim," Spock said, the corner of his mouth quirking ever-so-slightly. Jim laughed.

"Well, if you did, you wouldn't be the first one." Spock raised his eyebrow, pausing again in his meal. Jim gestured with his fork for Spock to continue eating. And as he did, it was Jim who now spoke, rambling on between mouthfuls of pasta about his father, and about his mother, whom Spock was more than eager to hear more of. Winona Kirk's pioneers in engineering were studied even on Vulcan, and Spock vaguely recalled at one point that Pike referred to one of their best teachers at Riverside Shipyards by her first name, Winona.

Spock was content to let Jim talk-was, in fact, reveling in the widened glimpse into Jim's past. Though Jim had never been anything but easy to talk to, he'd shared so little of his past with Spock until now. Casting back to the dinner with Komack and Pike, remembering how unwilling Jim had been to go by his own last name, Spock thought again of his previous assumption that Jim did not want Komack to know who he was, or who his parents were. But he still did not understand why.

At the end of the meal, Spock was surprised to realize that he'd eaten his entire bowl of pasta. Jim refused to let Spock help clean up, sweeping up the dishes and taking them to the sink, dumping there to be dealt with "later," whenever that was. "Later" also appeared to be "after Jim makes dessert as well as dinner," to Spock's surprise, but Jim ejected him from the kitchen before Spock got a good look at what he was doing.

Spock settled in the living room to wait, not-very-patiently folding his hands in his lap and wondering what Jim was doing in the kitchen. Eventually, Jim wandered out, looking entirely too smug. He stretched out on the couch adjacent to Spock's easy chair, his shirt stretching distractingly over his stomach and chest, and in pure self-defense Spock asked Jim the question he'd been debating over since he received the invitation the night before.

"Jim, would you be willing to accompany me on a trip to visit my maternal grandparents?"

Jim stared at Spock, shutting his mouth and blinking a few times. "Uh," he said, and laughed. "I mean-sure, Spock. If you're really sure you want me to come along on something like that, I'd be honored. When?"

Spock hesitated. "I would prefer to leave by the end of the week, so as to be back with sufficient time to finish preparations for the secession hearing."

"Sure," Jim said, breaking into another smile. "Sounds good to me." Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment and then abruptly found himself with nothing to say that was not an embarrassment. He cast about for a moment as he and Jim just stared at each other, before he finally thought to ask Jim to tell him the origin of Dr. McCoy's nickname. Jim's eyes brightened, and he launched into the story with the customary relish with which he approached almost everything, at least as far as Spock saw. The story itself centered, unsurprisingly, on a chance meeting in a bar, but more than once Spock found himself paying as much attention to Jim's wildly gesticulating hands, and to the shape of Jim's mouth, as to the words he was actually saying. Which is why it took him so long to notice the faint charred smell. He sat up abruptly, turning to look down the hallway towards the kitchen.

"So anyway, I was...." Jim broke off mid-sentence, frowning. "Something the matter?"

"Jim, I believe I smell burning." Jim's eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet, bolting into the kitchen without even answering Spock's statement. Spock sprang to his feet as well, following after Jim in alarm. "Jim, what-"

"Fuck fuck fucking FUCK!" Jim yanked the oven door open with a loud clang, swearing as the smell of burning sugar and flour suddenly became much more pronounced. Spock stopped in the doorway, staring as Jim cast around for something. "Where the fuck did I put the fucking pot-holders, oh sweet Christ-" Before Spock could find anything suitable, Jim had snatched up a towel and bent back over the open oven, reaching hastily inside. Spock saw the moment when he bent too close, jerking minutely as he came back out of the oven and straightened up with the metal tray in one hand. He dropped it onto the counter with a loud clatter.

Jim stared at the hard, yellow-and-brown lumps of would-be shortcake on the sheet, disgust warring with irritation across his handsome face. "Well that's brilliant," he said, leaning back against the counter. He growled in the back of his throat and wiped his arm across his eyes. But Spock's attention was held by the stiff way Jim was standing, and the memory of that jump while bent over a hot oven door.

"You burned yourself," he noted, coming across the room. Jim's eyes flicked to Spock's face and away again too fast.

"I did not," Jim said automatically. He looked up again as Spock stopped in front of him, and Spock heard him inhale a breath and hold it as he reached for the hem of Jim's shirt. Jim held very still under his hands as Spock pulled the shirt halfway up Jim's abdomen, exposing smooth flesh marred by the expected welt, already red and slightly raised, about three inches long and half an inch wide. But to one side of Jim's stomach were a number of other marks, dark purple smudges, four of them, just above Jim's hip-bone. Spock leaned down to peer closer, confused; above him, he was aware of Jim tensing. The marks were slightly uneven, and small, almost the size of-

Fingertips. Marks left by a hand, pressing with bruising force against Jim's hip.

Spock stayed as he was, staring at the marks as if frozen in place, unable to process. Inwardly, though, his mind was exploding. Rushing silence filled his ears, as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving only a great and terrible pressure. Unbidden, images sprang to mind: Jim on all fours, pressed roughly to the bed while a shadowy figure reared behind him, greedy hands running over the flanks of Jim's trembling body-a hand tangling in Jim's hair, Jim's mouth falling open in an O of pleasure and pain-

Jim twitched back under his hands, jerking the shirt back down over the marks. "You weren't supposed to see that," Jim said, and Spock knew he was not referring to his new burn. Spock straightened slowly, struggling to force his rampaging emotions back down, his face a stony mask. He did not know what was wrong with him. Jim was free to do as he wished with his time, with his business. But saying this to himself did nothing to quiet the rushing inside his skull or the urge to smash that shadowy figure into bloody fragments.

A tight, bit-back noise made Spock raise his eyes, and he looked into Jim's now-familiar face, twisted with anxiety and uncertainty. Jim opened his mouth as if to say something else, but Spock beat him to it. "I apologize for invading your privacy," Spock said stiffly. He wondered what else he could say. The previously cheerful, intimate kitchen now felt stuffy and too quiet. He knew he should move away, but he could not stop staring at Jim's eyes, eyes that were threatening to drown him.

Jim swallowed audibly, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands tight enough that his knuckles were turning white. Then he blew out a breath and reached a hand up to Spock's face, cupping his cheek and pulling him down to kiss him, hard.

White shock went up Spock's spine, turning him stiff as a board. Jim's mental sense washed over him, drowning him in urgent anxiety, grey and smothering worry and a flurry of clearer thoughts, didn't want that/think I'm awful/don't go don't go. But underneath that, a curl of hot need want ache like forged steel, cramping Spock's guts and making him break out in a sweat. Jim broke back within moments, dropping his hands and pressing himself back against the counter as though Spock were scalding. Spock took a deep breath, staring at the man in front of him, too stunned to think for several seconds.

"I'm sorry," Jim blurted. A dull flush was creeping up his neck and face, giving him the look of a man consumed with fever. "I'm-"

"Stop talking," Spock said, and Jim's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. Spock looked down at Jim's hand, and after a moment, reached out to take it, prying it gently away from the counter. Again he found himself swamped by flashes of Jim's mind, and Spock shuddered but did not let go. Jim watched him warily, relaxing infinitesimally as Spock's fingers flexed around Jim's. Spock raised Jim's hand until it was between their chests. He raised his other hand, pointing with the first and second fingers, the other fingers curled against his palm, and rubbed the tips of his fingers slowly along the back of Jim's fingers and hand. A shiver went through Jim, but he did not take his eyes from their joined hands.

"This," Spock told him, "is how Vulcans kiss." Slowly, he released Jim's hand from his own, continuing to run the tips of his fingers of his opposite hand up and down Jim's fingers. Jim stared, entranced, and then tentatively mirrored Spock's motions, stroking his own two fingers along Spock's hand. Spock took a shaky breath as bursts of arousal swamped him, and a smile broke out on Jim's face.

"Sweet," whispered Jim. "Far-fucking-out." Jim's smile got wider, the delighted unaffected smile of a child, and Spock suffered an illogical urge to return Jim's Human kiss. But instead of stepping back and ending this here and now, as he most assuredly should, Spock chose instead to give in. He pressed forward, crowding Jim against the counter, and this time when Jim surged up to meet him, Spock kissed back with equal force, lips working against Jim's eager mouth.

Jim's fingers twined around Spock's own, lacing all five digits together and clasping his hand tightly, and Spock slid his other hand around Jim's waist, clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. Jim tasted of garlic and wine, and his mouth was wet and warm and inviting, opening easily against Spock's lips. Spock felt drugged, at once hyper-charged and confused, wanting badly to-to-he did not know, but he wanted, he craved, hot and nebulous urges like the ancient fires of Vulcan. Spock moved his head slightly and bumped his nose against Jim's, making his eyes water. He broke off with a soft noise, blinking rapidly, and Jim laughed, eyes crinkling close-up, obscuring Spock's vision. "Human kissing is troublesome," Spock murmured.

"Illogical," Jim whispered back, and Spock felt Jim's hand twist in the fabric of Spock's robes, wriggling their way under the heavy material. Spock tightened his arm around Jim's waist, pulling Jim flush against Spock's chest, and Jim groaned, lust blooming in Spock's chest like a banked fire. Jim squeezed Spock's hand, twisting his fingers around against Spock's. Bolts of heat and want burst inside Spock's skull, and he leaned heavily against Jim for support.

"Jim," whispered Spock, desperately. He did not think he could continue this without breaking, or- Jim seemed to know what Spock needed, though, or at least made an educated guess, because he straightened them both gently, twisting around until Spock no longer pinned him against the counter. He kept their hands twined firmly together, for which Spock was grateful. Spock did not want to relinquish his hold on Jim even for a moment.

"Bedroom," Jim said, and again that bolt of warmth cramped Spock's stomach. They half-stumbled, half-ran down the hallway, stopping twice on the way: once for Spock to pin Jim against the wall with a growl, burying his nose in the sweet curve of Jim's neck, the other time for Jim to do the same to Spock, pressing him up against the door to the bathroom for another frantic, grasping kiss, flexing his long lean body against Spock's with a low groan.

Then Spock was standing at the foot of the bed, staring as Jim peeled off his shirt and flung it to one side. Spock had seen Jim shirtless before, but now the sight transfixed him. Jim shirtless was a vision, all smooth planes and tanned skin and defined muscles, marred only by the faint red burn on his abdomen and the cluster of bruises at his hip. Spock thought of the attention Jim must attract down at the beach, when he chose to go swimming, and felt another surge of aggression, too vague to properly identify. But it propelled him forward, meeting Jim in the middle of the bed and bearing him carefully down to the mattress.

"Hey, now," Jim said, wriggling underneath Spock's hands (and as before that same flow of emotions jolted Spock's brain, want/need/exultation/this is happening how is this happening). "No fair. You're still wearing your poncho, there."

"It is a tunic," Spock informed him, sitting back and allowing Jim's clever hands to find the fastenings, "as you well know."

"Whatever," Jim said, tugging the material up and over Spock's head, disappearing briefly from view as he helped remove the garment. "Needs to be off, now."

"Are all Humans this demanding?" Spock asked.

"When they've been blue-balling for weeks, hell yeah they are." Before Spock had a chance to ask what "blue-balling" meant, Jim's hands were on him again, kissing greedily over the newly-exposed bones of Spock's clavicle. The sudden renewed assault of sensation and emotion was overwhelming. Spock felt abruptly light-headed, as though enduring a sudden shift in gravity, and he grabbed Jim's shoulders blindly, momentarily in danger of actually falling over.

"Whoa, whoa." Jim pulled back, keeping his hands on Spock's hips, thumbing the severe arch of his left hip-bone, just barely exposed above his black trousers. "You okay? What's wrong?" Their mental connection was a shallow one-Spock would have had to concentrate to initiate anything deeper-but Spock could feel concern greying the fringes of his sizzling white lust.

Spock took a deep breath, attempting to rally his controls. Had he allowed himself to contemplate this scenario, he might have predicted that he would find skin-to-skin contact with Jim overwhelming-not that this was helping him now. "Nothing is wrong, Jim," he said, fixing his eyes on the Jim's face in front of him. "You are simply more intoxicating than I had anticipated."

Jim stared. Then a smile edged across his face, tinged with something that Spock thought might be disbelief. "God, you are unreal," Jim murmured, inching forward again until his chest bumped against Spock's, one hand sliding up Spock's spine. "Wait, 'than you anticipated?' You're telling me you thought about this?"

"Indeed," Spock said seriously. It was hard to talk straight, since once again being pressed against Jim's bared skin was melting what felt like every neuron Spock possessed. Instead of a collection of carefully-ordered thoughts and observations, his perception of reality was blurring into a haze of impulses and emotions, tinged with color and heat. "I had hoped, illogically, that you had also contemplated such an outcome between us." Another one of those blinding smiles appeared on Jim's face. Without thinking, Spock leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Jim's, lips working clumsily. Jim made a startled noise against his mouth, arching against Spock, and Spock groaned, tightening his fingers on Jim's shoulders. Whatever he was going to say next slipped away, replaced by a growing need to feel Jim naked underneath him.

"Yeah, okay, I might've thought about it once or twice," Jim said, or tried to, since Spock was still busy kissing him senseless. The next few seconds were a confusing jumble of shoving and squirming around on the bed as both Jim and Spock tried to shed their pants without actually stopping kissing, meeting with only mixed success, as Spock was still wearing pants when he found himself on all fours over newly-naked Jim, Jim's wrists pinned underneath Spock's hands. Spock drew back, releasing Jim's hands, staring dumbly at the golden body spread out beneath him.

Spock's gaze swept from Jim's throat down his well-defined chest, staring at the fine blond hair that dusted his abdomen, thickening and darkening as it led down to the wiry thatch surrounding his penis. Here Spock's gaze lingered, riveted by the erect and swollen shaft, so dark now with blood that it appeared almost purple. The flared head looked much as Spock's own genitalia did when fully extended, the foreskin now drawn back in arousal to reveal the glans, a few droplets of pre-ejaculate beading at the slit. It seemed to twitch under Spock's regard, a slight tremor running through Jim's naked body.

The movement drew Spock's admiring gaze up to the way Jim's pelvic bones arched at the connection to his thighs, perfect save for the smear of bruises above his iliac crest of his right side. Just the sight of them sent another hot flare of emotion through Spock's chest, and he reached out one hand automatically to cover those bruises with his own hand, obliterating them from sight if not from mind. Jim propped himself up on his elbows, arching slightly into Spock's touch, flashing an anxious grin. "Like what you see?"

"Seeing as I am not blind, the answer is an emphatic 'yes,'" Spock murmured.

Jim's astonished laughter slid quickly into a moan as Spock bent, flicking his tongue at the nub of one dusty pink nipple, watching in pleasure and fascination as it hardened instantly. "Fuck!" Spock licked at the nipple again, then wrapped his lips around it experimentally and sucked. The shocked, wet noise Jim made in the back of his throat was all the encouragement Spock could have wanted. Spock sucked harder, scraping his teeth against the delicate bud, hot lust blooming in his stomach at the way Jim's chest vibrated against his mouth from Jim's moan. "Oh, God, Spock," Jim groaned, digging the fingers of one hand roughly into Spock's shoulder, letting his head fall back. Spock got a flash of need/more/want before Jim was pulling at him with both hands, yanking Spock up on top of him and crushing their mouths together again.

Jim's lust crashed over him like one of the huge Pacific waves Spock had witnessed down at the beach, and suddenly Spock found himself rolling Jim under him on the bed, raw desire drowning all other thoughts in a red rush. Jim squirmed and gasped under him, the vitality of his body and mind an intoxicating hum against Spock's mental receptors, and every touch of his body against Spock's seemed to crackle with bioelectricity, as though too much friction would ignite them. Spock groped blindly for Jim's hand, finding it and twisting their fingers against each other, and vicious static burst inside Spock's mind, blotting out his ability to think. Spock jerked back with a wrecked cry, falling to the bed and curling on his side against the sudden myoclonic twitches of his stomach and arms and the firestorm exploding behind his eyes.

"Spock!" Jim's voice cut through the static, sounding very far away. Spock groaned and ducked his head, curling in tighter on himself, fighting the tremors that were cramping his intestines and rattling his jaw. "Oh my God, Spock, Spock what's wrong?" Hands slid against his side; irrationally, the twitching eased, and Spock groaned as he sagged to the bed, blinking rapidly to try to dispel the flashes of color that were still bursting behind his irises. Control. He must regain control. Jim's anxiety jerked Spock out of his disorientation, and he peered up at the face hovering over him, Jim's eyes wide and very blue in his distress.

"I am uninjured, Jim," Spock said, managing to not sound too hoarse. He sat up with an effort, gritting his teeth at the way his vision swam at the change in position. "Please do not be alarmed. I believe... I believe that I was simply inadequately prepared for the strength of our connection."

"Connection," Jim echoed, staring for a moment as if his train of thought had been abruptly derailed. "Shit." To Spock's confusion, Jim laughed, settling in at Spock's side and leaning gingerly over to press another kiss to the corner of Spock's mouth. "Shit, I didn't even think about that. Worst Human guide ever."

"I must disagree with this assessment," Spock said. "I have found you more than satisfactory, Jim." For a moment, he and Jim just sat there, staring at each other, Jim's fingers stroking gently over Spock's upturned hand, sending rivulets of pleasure coursing up Spock's arm from his palm. Then Jim smiled, sliding their fingers together again and squeezing.

"Yeah," Jim said. "I find you pretty damn satisfactory too, Spock." Spock found the only logical response to this was to engage Jim in another Human kiss.

* * * * *

"Do you require assistance?" Spock's voice was faint, his voice raised from the next room.

"Nah, I'm good! Gimme a second, I'll be right out." Jim wiped at his stomach, grimacing as dried semen yanked at the hair dusting his abdomen. He swept the wet washcloth across his belly one last time, then tossed it in the dirty laundry bin against one wall and peered at himself in the mirror. A flushed, bright-eyed young man looked back at him, a few red marks dotting his throat and neckline here and there from where Spock had demonstrated his fondness for biting. For a telepathically-sensitive species, Jim thought, Spock had rallied pretty goddamn fast in the "touching" arena. Jim, on the other hand, had succeeded only in embarrassing himself.

Jim wrinkled his nose at his reflection. James "Tomcat" Kirk, possibly the most sought-after sex worker in the greater Los Angeles metro area, and he'd come like a teenage boy just from having Spock's hand on his dick. Spock, on the other hand, had taken a hell of a lot of coaxing to find his orgasm.

He'd finally managed to get Spock's pants off and taken his first look at Spock's own privates. Spock had been nervous there for a few minutes, nervous enough that Jim couldn't possibly miss it, but Jim supposed he couldn't blame Spock much. The seeming lack of a penis was initially startling-for a few dizzying seconds there Jim had actually thought Spock had a vagina, mistaking the soft greenish folds of flesh for labia. But Spock's explanation about how Vulcan males kept their genitalia retracted until "the act of coitus" had been cut off when Jim leaned down and pressed his face to the crease, lapping flat-tongued over the flesh and prompting a shout from Spock. If Spock needed physical affirmation that Jim found him attractive, then Jim was more than happy to oblige.

There was something shockingly obscene (and hot) about watching the head of Spock's prick emerge from the folds of flesh, glistening with Spock's natural lubrication and flushed a dusky brown with arousal. And even if the physical aspects of their bodies differed somewhat, Jim had proven beyond all shadow of a doubt that Vulcans liked having their cocks sucked just as much as Humans did. Spock had come with his dick buried in Jim's throat, Jim's jaw aching from how hard Spock was bucking against him, eyes watering from the hand twisted in his hair. There were few things Jim enjoyed more than having his throat fucked raw, and he'd loved every second of that heavy, wet weight in his mouth, delighted at the taste of Spock's pre-come against his tongue (there was probably a different word for it but Jim really didn't give a shit about the semantics). Spock's come had a salty, almost citrusy taste to it and was almost the same consistency as Human semen.

Regardless, Jim had been thoroughly turned on when Spock hauled him back up into his lap, looking deliciously fucked-out and dizzy. Jim had been content to ignore his own aching erection, curled against Spock's chest, kissing and biting at Spock's mouth, his own chapped and raw from sex and making out. Spock's hand on his dick had taken him by surprise, Spock's other hand cradling Jim's face, and either Jim had just been ready to blow from near-constant arousal or Spock was a fucking magician, because thirty seconds of stroking was all it took before Jim was surging against Spock's chest with a cry, spilling himself over Spock's hand and his own stomach. And instead of getting up to clean himself up, he'd just layed there and made out with Spock for another fifteen minutes before finally finding the energy to drag himself out of bed.

Fucking Vulcans.

"Bones is gonna be so cranky when he comes home and finds you here," Jim murmured, a smile touching his lips as he turned away from the mirror. He walked back out into the bedroom, where Spock was reclining in the bed, covers drawn up to his waist. Jim had turned off the AC and thrown open the windows to make Spock more comfortable, but bereft of his insulating layer of clothes, Spock had quickly gotten cold again when he and Jim had taken a break. Spock looked up at him as Jim re-entered the room, dark eyes sweeping over Jim's naked body with obvious interest. Jim grinned and crawled onto the bed next to Spock, shoving the covers back again and happily letting Spock pull him over to straddle Spock's lap, Spock's hands on his hips. "I still can't believe you made me come so fast," Jim said, trying and failing to sound put out about it.

Spock smiled faintly, sliding his hands possessively up Jim's sides, stroking a thumb against Jim's bottom right rib. "I am pleased that I am so capable of bringing you pleasure," he murmured. Nothing about his words or expression was that overt, yet Jim thought he'd never seen anyone so smug in his life.

"You're pleased? I thought Vulcans didn't experience emotions." Jim smirked, the expression spoiled by Jim yelping indignantly as Spock responded to that comment by reaching up and tweaking one of Jim's nipples. Jim rolled his hips down against Spock in answer, slinging his own arms around Spock and pulling him in close again for an open-mouthed kiss that left him breathless and Spock making a noise in his throat that Jim could only describe as growling. "Fuck, Spock..." Jim took a deep breath, stabilizing breath, pressing himself against Spock's chest as Spock's arm slid around his waist and tightened, fingers of one hand threading through Jim's hair.

But then Spock pulled back, just enough to look Jim in the eye again. Jim raised his eyebrows in unspoken question. "Jim." Spock hesitated, his dark eyes full of some emotion Jim couldn't read. He reached down, thumbing over the cluster of fingerprint-shaped bruises on Jim's hip, and Jim had to swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat. "Did one of your clients leave these marks on you?"

Jim licked his lips. "Yeah," he said. "Few nights ago."

Spock's eyes darkened, but maddeningly, he said nothing for several seconds, simply staring at Jim and stroking his fingers over those marks, as though by simple dint of his own touch he could eradicate them from Jim's person. Jim waited, knowing that couldn't be the end of it, and sure enough a few moments Spock finally said, "I do not understand why you put yourself in such dangerous situations. You could-" Spock broke off, frowning minutely as he slid his palm up Jim's spine and pulled him closer. "You clearly have so many talents for other endeavors and yet you choose prostitution. Why?"

Jim had gone stiff and unresponsive in Spock's arms, his easy expression sliding into something closed and unfriendly. He'd been wondering when this conversation was going to happen, hoping irrationally that it somehow never would, but nope, here it was. "Since I don't think you really want an answer to that question, why don't we skip it?" He leaned backwards away from Spock, whose grip tightened on his hips, gaze holding steady on Jim's face. "In fact, why don't you tell me what you think I should be doing with my life? I can add it to my list." Even as he said it, Jim wished he could take it back-what was wrong with him? Hadn't he just told McCoy just the other night that he was done? But Jim couldn't help himself. He didn't have good answers, for anything, but neither was he ready to admit to being wrong.

He'd neglected to take into account the amount of his naked skin Spock was still touching, however. Spock pulled him in again, slowly enough to allow Jim escape if he wanted, stopping when Jim planted his hands on Spock's shoulders to keep a foot of space between them. "Your defensiveness is irrational, Jim." Jim bristled, but Spock kept talking. "I have no desire to tell you what to do with your life, but neither do I wish to share you with others." Jim went still at the heat in Spock's words, and for a few long moments neither of them spoke. Spock stroked his hand up Jim's back again, stopping at the nape of his neck, cradling his skull and working his fingers into Jim's scalp. "I know I do not have the right to ask this of you," Spock said softly. "But I ask it regardless."

Jim shut his eyes, arching his back into Spock's touch, moaning when Spock leaned forward and bit at the soft, precious hollow of Jim's throat. "Fuck-fuck, Spock stoppit," Jim gasped, squirming and pushing at Spock's shoulders until Spock went still, his face still pressed to Jim's throat. "I did it already," Jim said finally. He wrapped his arms tight around Spock's shoulders and pressed his face to Spock's hair. "I quit. Two days ago."

Spock exhaled, his breath gusting hot against Jim's skin, making his cock twitch and gooseflesh break out along the nape of his neck. "Good. However, I find I must retract my earlier statement about your abilities as a guide to understanding Human behavior," Spock murmured. His mouth worked against Jim's skin, and Jim's laugh died in his throat, turning into a moan. "As a Human, you are exemplary. But I find myself even more confused by Human behavior now than I did when I first arrived on Earth."

"You know, I can change my mind anytime I want to," Jim informed him. He slid his hands down Spock's sides, glorying in finally being able to touch that hot, pale skin and in the noises Spock made when Jim touched him. "Since I'm such an unsatisfactory guide. Maybe I should go back to turning tricks after all, huh?" Immediately, Spock growled in the back of his throat again, and Jim found himself upended onto the bed, Spock looming over him with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Negative," he said, palming Jim's rapidly-returning erection, making Jim's breath hitch. "That course of action is inadvisable."

Jim reached up, wrapping his arms around Spock again and pulling him down on top of Jim, groaning at the feel of Spock's own renewed, dripping erection nudging him in the thigh. "Yeah? You got a better idea, then?" Jim grinned, just self-aware enough to recognize that he probably looked and sounded like an idiot but not giving a rat's ass. And then even that thought was gone, replaced by urgency as Spock kissed him with hands and lips, and soon Jim was so distracted that he did not register the distant sound of the front door slamming, or notice at all when someone in the hallway pulled the bedroom door shut, muffling the footsteps headed back towards the living room.