Chapter Text
Spock could hear Jim just outside the room where he lay, speaking to Doctor McCoy in a low voice he thought Spock couldn’t hear. He practically interrogated McCoy and the other injured members of the Away Team on what exactly happened and how it could have turned into such a “shit show.” Spock computed a 91.3% chance that later he would obsessively go over the mission recordings and logs, and all the tricorder readings, to get as complete an idea of what went wrong as he could. And he would do all of that without once talking to Spock.
Spock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain in his chest. Soon McCoy came to wheel him off to surgery, and when Spock finally caught sight of Jim, he was walking out of the sick bay.
----
It was days later before Spock was allowed out of sick bay, and he made his way, alone, to his quarters to meditate and rest. His injuries were more serious than even he originally thought, and despite the effects of his Vulcan healing trance, he was ordered by McCoy to spend the next week convalescing in his quarters. He looked forward to the relative quietude; he’d been visited quite often by his friends and colleagues, who, after the trauma of the Q’raqusian mess and, now, an unexpected battle with Orion slavers who’d been victimizing an Andorian settlement, wanted to ensure themselves of his mental well-being. They needn’t have bothered, as it would be illogical for him to allow the deaths of three crewmen on an Away mission to affect his performance, would it not?
Jim had not been among them, though.
In the month since they’d returned to duty after their captivity on Q’raqus, they had failed to regain any measure of the camaraderie they had once shared, a fact that caused Spock much consternation, but that he had no choice but to accept. He and Jim spoke only in the course of their duties, and rarely spent time together away from the bridge except for in meetings and for scheduled inspections.
Spock showered immediately once he returned to his quarters, donned sleeping attire, then lay on his bed atop the covers, with his hands folded on his stomach, attempting to enter a light, meditative trance. Moments later, there was a chime at his door. He ordered the computer to open it; he didn’t bother to ask who it was because he already suspected.
It was a pattern, after all.
Jim stood in the doorway, a stricken look on his face. Spock struggled to sit up, intending to stand to greet him, but he crossed the space between them in less than a second and was on his knees before Spock had a chance to right himself. Jim laid his head in Spock’s lap for several minutes, breathing heavily, and eventually Spock realized he was crying. Spock threaded his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair and curled over him, breathing deeply of his scent. He had not, apparently, washed in days.
Spock didn’t care about that, though. He found, in fact, that he no longer cared about the estrangement and distance between them, not in this moment, not with Jim’s desperation beating an incessant tattoo against his mind. Not with Jim here.
sorry so sorry
Spock put a hand under Jim’s chin, lifted his face so that he could look into his eyes, and caressed the side of his face with an open palm. Jim rose up on his knees suddenly, hands at Spock’s shoulders with sudden need as he kissed him, making desperate sounds in his throat. Spock sank back onto the bed, dragging Jim with him, the captain’s movements getting increasingly agitated until he finally whined, “Please.”
pleasepleaseplease
Spock fumbled with the waistband of his sleeping pants as Jim raised himself up on his own knees and stripped, and soon they were completely naked and again kissing with the kind of urgency Spock hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on or to miss. After a moment, Spock pushed Jim away, though he held onto his hand as he turned onto his side facing away from him, offering himself. Jim stretched out behind him, kissing his neck and shoulder as he reached down to prep Spock.
“No. Now. Please, Jim,” Spock heard himself saying, his voice rough with want, with need, with… something he couldn’t name, urgency that was not entirely his.
There was a cold space as Jim left him to fetch a condom from a bedside drawer. When he returned, he pressed his body up behind Spock’s and kissed the back of Spock’s neck. Spock arched his back against Jim, and spread his legs, and soon felt the head of Jim’s penis at this hole, its girth at once desired and a surprise. Spock sucked in a breath as he was breached, and Jim slid his arms around his body, holding onto him desperately, the kisses at his neck becoming harder, becoming bites as he pushed into Spock.
Spock closed his eyes against the drag and the stretch, tears leaking from his eyes unwanted, whimpering as Jim pushed in a little too fast, a little too greedy for it now.
need this
thought I’d lost
this
god, don’t do this to me
Jim’s thoughts and emotions bounced around in Spock’s head, buffeting at what remained of his mental shields and sweeping them aside again until, finally, they merged with his, and he could no longer discern his own feelings from Jim’s. He needed this, had needed it since Khan, since Antares V, since Q’raqus, since a realization that he might never have this again took hold in his gut and never really left. Spock reached behind to grab at Jim’s ass, urging him forward, pulling him tighter.
morepleasemore
Jim began to pump into Spock, his movements shallow and awkward, the lack of preparation making Spock too tight for this, too tight for much movement of any kind, but all Spock knew was that it was not enough, could not be enough.
It never was enough.
He bowed his head, used his left hand, gripping the sheets, as leverage to press himself backward against Jim, anything for more leverage, more of Jim. Jim rolled them so that Spock was face down on the bed, a hand between his shoulder blades, steadying him, holding him down. At this angle, the movement was easier, but Spock still hissed at the burn; the condom was lubricated, but it was not enough. He didn’t care. He closed his eyes, and tears began to flow behind his lids, fueled by emotions he was no longer sure were Jim’s or his. They soon overwhelmed him, though, and he gave up trying to repress his sobs, feeling the tears soak into the sheets beneath his cheek. But suddenly Jim was there, his chest pressing into Spock’s back, murmuring, “You’re OK, you’re OK now,” over and over, his tone more questioning than reassuring.
Jim came moments later, his entire body taut with it. He pulled gently out of Spock, and they collapsed into a tangle of limbs on the bed. Jim reached around to stroke at Spock’s achingly hard member and Spock hissed and flinched away. He was too hard, too sensitive.
“Hey, it’s OK,” Jim assured him, but Spock could not be touched like this, and he came rutting against the sheets without a hand on him.
Spock realized he was shaking now, and that he could not stop it, could not pinpoint the reason for it, either. By now, he was used to the emotional transference that intimate contact with Jim brought, but the intensity of his own reaction caught him by surprise. Spock pulled away when Jim tried to slide his arms around him, did not turn over, preferring to face away from him. Jim turned onto his back and lay there; it was a long, long time before either of them spoke.
“Why do we only do this when one of us has nearly died?” Spock asked, finally putting words to the question he could never ask before, but which now was the only thing he could think of.
Jim sighed. Then he answered, “Because one of us has nearly died.”
“That is not a satisfactory answer.”
“We have survived, we need to share that with someone. It’s a way of taking comfort, Spock, and giving it. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened.”
Spock sat up and turned to face him. “But I do not think I take comfort in it, not in the long run. I find I want more, Jim. Further, it is my belief that I deserve it, though such a sentiment does seem self-centered to my ears even as I utter it.”
“Spock, you know I can’t.”
“I know nothing of the sort, for we never discuss it, not with any degree of seriousness. Even so, I cannot have sexual relations with you on these terms. Or will no longer, which is the more accurate phrasing. This grasping for each other only in times of crisis is insufficient to fulfill my needs.”
Jim sat up, looking angry. “I don’t think you want a relationship with me, Spock. I’m damaged goods.”
“According to whom?”
“According to everyone. Starfleet shrinks, past relationships, hell even my own family. Abandonment issues, daddy issues – take your pick, I’m a walking fucking cliché.”
Spock’s eyes met Jim’s. He saw the pain, fear, and doubt in their blue depths, emotions he’d seen and even felt from him in the past, and so he gave what he next said careful thought.
“Bullshit.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“I apologize – did I fail to use the colloquialism in its proper context? I was given to understand that when a person finds his equivocations discovered and subsequently reacts by deflecting the conversation to irrelevant matters, it was incumbent upon the second party to call ‘bullshit.’ Was I incorrect?”
“I can’t believe you.”
“I further posit that such behavior shows a shameful level of cowardice which I find, frankly, surprising. Are you not the man who faced down Nero? The man who died to save his ship and his crew when Khan was intent on our destruction?”
Jim’s eyes shot daggers at Spock, even as he continued talking, “Did you not expose yourself to certain death on Antares V to save the life of one person?”
Fighting to remain calm, Spock reached out and took Jim’s hand in both of his. “Are you not my t'hy'la?” he asked quietly, finally realizing what that word meant to him, what this relationship was to him, “The man who loves me, as I love you?”
“I can’t do this Spock.”
“Because it scares you.”
Jim snatched his hand away, but Spock already felt the truth of the statement through their connection. “That’s not fair.”
“Tell me what you find so disturbing.”
Jim really was angry now, his eyes flashing. “Why don’t you tell me? You’re the touch telepath!”
Spock would not be baited. “After what we have done, and the number of times we have done it, the time to be concerned by that has long passed.”
Jim’s mouth closed with an audible click.
“Tell me what you are afraid of.”
“Don’t make me tell you. I can’t tell you.”
“Jim, I cannot abide this. If you will not tell me, I can respect that, but I will not go on like this.” He stood, pulling himself to his full height with as much dignity as he could muster while being completely naked. “Captain Kirk, I respectfully tender my resignation from my position as your Executive Officer, and will put in for a transfer through the proper channels.” He turned and began to pick up their clothes and sort through them.
“Spock, come on,” Jim implored, but Spock would not be moved. It would pain him to leave this ship, to leave Jim and all the friends he’d made here, but perhaps it would be for the best. Having sorted through their clothes, he held Jim’s uniform out to him with an outstretched arm, face as impassive as he could make it.
“Losing you,” Jim murmured into the tense silence, eyes on the floor.
Spock raised an eyebrow.
Jim’s eyes flashed up at him, then returned to perusing the floor, and spoke slowly, “I am terrified of it. So part of me – a really big part – figures if I never have you, then I can’t lose you.”
“Jim, that is –“
“Illogical, I know. Every time one of us comes back hurt or almost dies on a mission, it gets to be too much and I just need some reassurance that you’re here with me for a little while longer. And I know I’m weak, I know it’s wrong and unfair to you and selfish, Spock, but I am a weak and wrong and selfish man.
“Why else do you think I would have let you erase my mind, Spock? Not because I was afraid to die, but because I couldn’t watch them kill you. I would have let you die alone rather than live through it, and it’s why I can’t be with you.
“I am a coward, Spock, if you die, it will end me. And I can’t face what me without you looks like.”
Spock was momentarily speechless.
“So there you have it – that’s what scares me. Losing his first officer is what scares the shit out of Jim Kirk. Pretty stupid, huh?”
Spock returned to the bed and sat on a bent leg. “Yes, it is very stupid,” he agreed, to Jim’s bark of bitter laughter. “But truthful.”
He reached for Jim’s face and made him look into his eyes. “Neither of us can predict what will happen, Jim, so why should we deny ourselves even one, fleeting moment of happiness for fear of what may or may not happen?”
“Kai’idth?” Jim said, blinking back the tears in his eyes.
“Now you understand. If we live in fear of what may be, we deny ourselves of what is.”
“Heavy. Is that some Vulcan proverb?”
Spock shook his head. “I believe I once read it on a greeting card.”
Jim laughed again, and all at once the mood in the room shifted. He raised his hand and placed it on Spock’s wrist, turning it and his head so that he could kiss the inside of it. “Can you ever forgive me for being so stupid?” he asked.
“I already have.”
“You really love me?” Jim asked, seemingly unsure of the truth of it.
Spock leaned forward and let his kiss be the answer.
yesss
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Thank you for your time.