Chapter Text
Jim resisted the tight hold around his chest and arms, attempting to twist, but the grip was too strong. He scissored his legs awkwardly backwards, and that released him for only a moment before his attacker was upon him again, one deft hand twisting his right wrist while the other casually tossed him diagonally over one shoulder.
He hit the ground hard. Panting, sweating, Kirk came to his feet again and attacked, but his rush ended in being ruthlessly pitched over his assailant's hip, strength that far outstripped his own controlling the fall so his neck didn't break.
"I did warn you," Spock said, his face dewed with perspiration. "This can be strenuous for a human."
Kirk lay on the mat panting, his chest heaving, sweat running down his face. He sat up with an effort, and got to his feet, his legs trembling, not quite certain they wanted to be functioning just yet. "What did you call this again?"
"The best translation would be . . . the Kendru discipline. It is of ancient origin; no one is quite certain who created it, but we have found it to be quite effective."
Jim gave him a grimace and gingerly crouched into a fight position. "You're certainly obliterating my ego with it."
Spock's raised eyebrow was comment enough, but he added, "It is taught to children."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Jim said with a wry smile and a wave of one hand, refusing to be taunted into a bad move. "You're a Vulcan, superior in all things . . . I've heard it before."
The slight smile betrayed the serious mien. In all things?
Jim choked out a chuckle and wiped his face with his sleeve. Spock's mind-voice was soft and intimate. Don't distract me. Sparring with you makes me hot to begin with.
Then, considering we have gained an audience, I will desist.
Jim looked around, sighing when he saw the large circle of cadets around them, their dark blue uniforms wedged tightly together. "Don't you have better things to do?" he growled.
The group fidgeted, but no one moved, their bright and interested faces animated, speaking softly to each other in whatever dialect suited them. Most spoke Standard, but from here, Jim couldn't hear what they said.
They admire your courage, Spock told him, his ears easily able to garner the gist of the cadets' whispers. And your persistence.
Jim shook his head. If that's the only lesson they learn in four years. . . .
Indeed.
They returned to their workout, Spock's soft voice teaching Jim the technique before using it. It was an effective method for them; Jim learned best this way, and he liked being close to Spock. Before they'd been bonded, the necessary proximity of sparring had been his favorite method of getting under his stern first officer's skin. Now, he found, when Spock guided his body through the mental link they shared, his muscles retained the memory of what they'd been taught much better.
Spock finally called a halt to the session, and the assembled cadets gave a groan of disappointment. Captain Spock turned to them and with one glance sent the entire bunch packing, the kids falling over each other to get out of the gym fastest and away from that penetrating glare.
Jim laughed and grabbed the towel Spock tossed to him. "I think you like doing that."
Spock said nothing, but Jim could feel a small sense of satisfaction radiating from him.
They began to walk back to their quarters from the gymnasium, located in the park-like campus of Star Fleet Academy. Their home was a small, temporary apartment that they had made their own, conveniently near to Star Fleet Central.
"What have you got today?" Jim asked, wiping the sweat off his chest and back before quickly donning his jacket. It was one thing to walk around Enterprise without his shirt, but entirely another to do it on campus. Besides that, Spock wasn't entirely comfortable with Kirk's even partial nudity around anyone but him.
You are mine.
While the Vulcan's mind-voice was casual enough, the emotions beneath were not. Jim could feel the swirl of possessiveness that laced Spock's every thought of him and, having been on the wrong side of that rage once, he had no desire to deal with it again. That hadn't been much of a problem while they'd been on leave, but now back on Earth, Jim would have to be more aware of what signals he was sending out. Not responding in words, Jim sent his own feelings of covetous, desirous jealousy, enough of it to make Spock's eyes widen and his step falter slightly. No one but Jim noticed, because no one else was as much of a Spock-watcher as he was. But he'd made his point.
It didn't take them long to return to their quarters, perhaps ten minutes. Spock's hand on the small of his back warned him the moment before the door panel closed. He turned in time to receive an armful of tall, wiry Vulcan with a heavy erection. "Tease me at your peril, th'y'la," Spock murmured, dark eyes bright and keen.
Jim hurriedly began removing Spock's clothes. "How much time do we have?"
"43.12 minutes."
"Enough, enough," Jim muttered, shucking off his own pants and jacket in record time, kicking off his casual shoes so hard they landed in opposite ends of the living room. Spock grasped him like a child, tucked him under his arm, then walked softly into the bedroom and tossed him on the bed. He pounced, pinning Kirk to the soft mattress like some kind of offering to a famished god, his legs spread by Spock's knees, arms held by his hands.
"You are mine."
Oh, god, oh, god. It made him so hot when Spock got all possessive. Jim went liquid beneath him, wanting to do anything to please him. "Yes," he ground out, barely able to speak around the pulse that slammed through his throat, his body. He could feel Spock's cock moving slowly over his, spreading the fluid they were both leaking.
"Say it."
He couldn't argue, didn't want to resist. "Yours," he managed to pant, and satisfied, Spock's head dipped lower, taking in a peaked nipple and sucking hard. Jim's hips lifted, wanting the friction, needing it, but he was going nowhere with Spock planted on him as he was. He ground into the hard flesh above him, twisting in intimate longing, bound by his lover to this moment, this soul-stealing feeling. "Yours," he repeated in a voice that sounded nothing like his own, and Spock leaned over him, eyes flashing, an inferno overtaking the calmness of just moments before. He heard Spock's growl moments before his mouth was taken, a fierce slick tongue demanding his compliance.
A strong grip locked around their organs, binding them together in wet, messy intimate kinship. Spock was so soft here, so hard; Jim could feel the muscle beneath the skin, sliding against his own. He thrust against it, wanting more, needing more. It was good, so good, but just beyond his reach was better. He knew it, had felt it before.
"Slower," Spock whispered against his lips, voice deep and dark. A shiver rippled over his skin.
"No," Jim complained. "Now!"
Another growl answered him, and Jim leaked even more.
"Soon, th'y'la . . . soon."
"Don't . . . have . . . time," Jim managed to gasp, even though Spock's mouth had latched onto his neck, a move guaranteed to make him writhe. Spock began to thrust against his own grip, lending needed friction to Jim's cock, as they rubbed against one another. In response, Spock moved lower and bit down on the previously laved nipple, teasing the soft nub between his teeth, leaving him suspended between aching pleasure and insistent pain.
Jim shot to orgasm so fast he lost all ability to breathe. His vision went white, and all he knew was Spock shooting fiery jets of semen onto his thigh, his lover making odd, whimpering sounds deep in his throat. They collapsed together, finding all sensory ability lost for a long while in the afterglow.
Kirk swam to the surface, trying to ignore the warm, liquid feeling in his bones. "Time?"
"18.47 minutes to duty stations."
Jim uttered a few choice phrases, and rolled out of the bed, dizzy and weak. He stood there for a moment, letting his brain and body go from post-euphoric haze to semi-alert, before staggering to the bathroom and into the shower. Five minutes later, he was far more alert, presentable, and began to quickly dress.
Spock watched from the bed. The Vulcan lay on his side, one hand cocked to hold up his head, while the other rested along his hip. Jim took a moment to admire the long, lean length of him: the olive-dark nipples and sturdy chest, well-furred to protect him from the cold desert nights of his home world. Tight abdominal muscles tapered down to strong hips, sturdy rectangular hipbones that jutted slightly, his pelvis square and blocky, strong thigh muscles relaxed in this moment. Bones had once said that touching Spock was much like stroking piano wire covered in thick velvet, and it was true. Even relaxed like this, his impressive musculature was only so soft, the ferocity of his feline predatory forebears evident in the strength of his body.
His cock lay quiescent against one thigh, still thick and darkly olive, always ready for more action. Jim smiled, distracted from putting on his boots by the sight.
"12.21 minutes, Jim."
Though he'd prefer to ogle his lover a while longer, and even better, crawl between the sheets for a more lengthy session, he couldn't be late for duty the first day at Ops. With a sigh, he shot to his feet, pulled his tunic to neatness and took a quick glance in a mirror before leaning down to kiss Spock roughly, then hurrying out of the room and their apartment.
Spock lay back against the sheets. His body tingled in aftermath and he mentally reviewed a paradoxical koan to focus his logic. After he returned to physical and emotional balance, he rolled from the bed and walked into the bathroom. Neither he nor Jim had eaten breakfast, so he ate after his shower, a wheat roll and a cup of pineapple, a fruit he had always been unreasonably fond of.
After straightening their rooms, which only took fifteen minutes due to their constricted size, he turned to his computer terminal. It was located in the small office space overlooking the windows. He had learned yesterday that his first academy assignment would be teaching four courses—one each in varied fields. In mathematics, advanced analytical statistics; in physics, electromagnetic radiation; in chemistry, spatial thermodynamics, and finally, one that dovetailed into his research well, astrophysical anomalies.
He sat down at his desk to review the previous syllabi for the courses. None of them were particularly difficult, but Spock had never taught a mostly human class, and understood that what may have seemed simple for him would not be for his students. Therefore, the rate of learning would have to be considered for each. After review, he decided to maintain the syllabi largely as they were, with only a few changes to include new thinking in each field. At least the classes were on the more difficult end of the spectrum for the academy, and he would be interested in determining the caliber of those cadets who would be going on to shipboard or planet-based assignments when they graduated at the end of the academic year.
That is, if they graduated. The rate of failure in the senior year of the academy was three times that of any of the others, simply because so much more was demanded of cadets. Not only were they required to cope with a much heavier course load and stressors, they were also given practical assignments in varied areas of Star Fleet in the form of internships. Their performance was graded by the officer to whom they reported, and included a great many items, including punctuality (a concept Spock doubted most humans understood), adaptability, performance, leadership qualities, ingenuity, and most of all, character and responsibility. Cadets in the Command rota would also undergo the Kobiyashi Maru scenario, a daunting test of one's command potential in a seemingly unwinnable challenge. It was a completely psychological examination, determining how one dealt with failure. Too many cadets never knew what it was to face a significant disaster and froze under the strain. Many initially coped with the test and subsequent disappointment well, only to have it raze their self-confidence over time and wreck their budding career prospects. Not all were cut out for leadership; Spock knew that he was a capable, but not gifted, leader. However, he had often enjoyed watching Kirk use his magnetism and charisma to enhance his already stellar leadership skills, though he could never have emulated him.
He spent the rest of the day reading and reviewing the relevant texts for the classes, and adding more student readings. His expectations were stringent, the classes rigorous, and he would accept nothing less than proficiency in his cadets. He analyzed his schedule and noted when he would be able to have office hours, posting them onto the course sites, as well as all relevant texts, assignments, and syllabi. Spock sent out the first assignment for each class, a simple preparatory chapter, and then signed off the academy website before entering his own mail access system.
As expected, his mother's weekly message had arrived. Apparently, she and Sarek were to be staying on Vulcan for a time. It was to be expected, he mused. While Amanda was chronologically younger than her husband, she had not aged as well as a Vulcan would, and the frequent trips that were required of the Ambassador of Vulcan and his mate had begun to exhaust her. Spock had noted his father's decelerating travel schedule over the past 4.3 years with approval. In some cases, it would be just as efficient for him to mediate long-range than on-site, and for those that required an actual ambassador, he sent his juniors. Only for the most important and high-level issues, both for the Federation and Vulcan, was Sarek dispatched, which relieved him of all but the most major negotiations.
Amanda was obviously aware of all this, but she hadn't disagreed too strenuously. She was a pragmatist in everything except her family relations. Her temper, on that subject and others relating to her child or her spouse, was both passionate and articulate, painfully so in some instances. She did not approve of Spock being bonded to Jim, more because of Kirk's reputation as a notorious womanizer than for any personal reasons of dislike. Amanda feared Jim would bring them both to ruin with his sensual appetites, but Spock was not dismayed. He sensed the depths of Jim's feelings for him, the majority of which he doubted even Kirk was aware of. Jim wasn't interested in anyone else, and had not been active in his sexuality for some time before they were bonded, content to spend his free time with Spock, or McCoy, if his First Officer was busy.
He reached out and gently stroked Kirk's mind, receiving in reply the muted buzz of deep, focused thought, and withdrew, not wanting to distract his mate from his work. He began to draft a reply to Amanda, and stored it, before rising and moving into the kitchen area to drink a large glass of papaya juice.
Returning to the desk, he logged onto the Star Fleet Central site and began to review the administrative minutiae and reports regarding Enterprise's refit. He was pleased to note the design changes that Montgomery Scott had approved, and moreso to see the less-than-stellar concepts that he had vetoed. The architectural engineers were furious with him, Spock noticed with little surprise, if their near-hysterical memos were to be taken as read. Apparently they believed Enterprise should be a testing ground for the more "unusual" engineering concepts, while Scott was of the mind that the ship be a working prototype for others of the class. Spock had previously forwarded to Scott the requisite changes he and Kirk would choose to implement, and Scott had dutifully taken them into consideration when drafting his ship plans. Not all were workable at this date, but Spock would keep bringing them forward in the hope that Scott's genius for miraculous feats could be stimulated.
Spock analyzed the latest design plans with an eye to the viability of the construction and the validity of the architecture. While Scott was not the final word on the subject, his booming Scottish voice could be quite penetrating in the halls of the engineering sections of Fleet Central, and most didn't choose to aggravate the occasionally pugnacious, and already legendary, Chief Engineer. Spock highlighted the most important changes to the design and forwarded it to Kirk for his review. The Vulcan stifled a sigh as it went. He and Jim had an ongoing disagreement regarding the refit, mostly dealing with the scientific and military aspects of future missions. Spock was of the opinion that greater scientific exploration was required, which demanded an expanded science section; Jim, contrarily, insisted that he wanted his ship to be able to protect, and if the occasion warranted, attack, those who would harm her and her crew, which predicated greater engineering and weapons sections. In the unenviable position as middle man, Scott stood, attempting to give them both what they desired by enlarging the ship's dimensions, which required a greater warp drive and increased dilithium crystal output, making Central accountants complain of the additional expense for Enterprise and others of her class in future.
At 2000 hours, he rose from the computer station again, and stretched. Jim?
Hmm? Kirk's mind-voice was heavy with the depth of his focus on the strategic paper he was reading.
You need to eat and sleep, Admiral, Spock sent with a dry, admonishing, tone in his voice. He could sense the knots in Kirk's shoulders and the stiffness in his body from sitting for so long.
What time. . .? Damn, it's that late? I'm on my way.
Spock shut down his side of the link with satisfaction, and turned to the replicator with a faint smile. The door chimes interrupted him, and he left the small kitchen area, then walked through the dining/living area to open it.
Leonard McCoy stood on the doorstep, his expression one of irritation. "You get back to 'Frisco after eight weeks, and you can't give your friends a call?" he snapped.
The Vulcan waved a hand, ushering him inside. "Jim did send a note advising you of our return, I believe."
"Days ago. Just thought I'd see you before we all went back to work!"
Spock took a moment to take in the other man's appearance. The best indicator of his temper was his large blue eyes, and they were sparkling, belying the tone of his voice. His dark hair had been freshly cut, and he was dressed in uniform, but he looked remarkably well. His skin was tanned slightly, giving him a healthy glow that had never been present onboard ship. "You appear rested."
McCoy gave him a happy smile, his previous irritation short-lived, and sat on the couch in their living space, crossing his legs. "I'm glad to be back on Earth, Spock, to tell you the truth. Some down-time was just what I needed. Where's Jim?"
"Returning from his office."
"That might take a while," McCoy grumbled.
Spock was truly pleased to see his friend, but puzzled by his response. "It is only 400 meters from Operations to this residence."
"That's not the point. Is he still getting stopped by every Tom, Dick, and Klingon wanting to shake his hand?"
Spock shook his head. He didn't understand the human concept of "celebrity," and had no wish to endure it further. Though Kirk had more patience with it than he did, the novelty had worn off for him as well. "It is unlikely to occur in the halls of Star Fleet."
"That's what you think," McCoy told him with a grimace. "It'll probably be even worse there until people get used to having him around."
Jim's entry forestalled further conversation. He turned when he saw McCoy and grinned, the smile lighting up his handsome face. "Bones! About time you deigned to visit, doctor."
"Yeah, yeah," McCoy retorted, shaking his hand, and getting a swift hug in reply. "Just didn't want to break up the honeymoon," he said slyly, his gaze running over Spock.
The Vulcan refused to react to the jibe, and turned abruptly on his heel to return to preparing dinner. Presuming that McCoy would stay, he ordered enough for three.
"So, how is Medical Ops?" Kirk asked, wolfing down his food at the dining table a few minutes later. Obviously, Spock realized, a mid-day meal had not occurred today. He would have to take that into consideration and insist on Kirk's eating a substantial breakfast.
McCoy would be teaching at the Medical Collegia of the academy, working for Star Fleet Medical Operations, doing research, and writing a textbook of xenopathology. "Could they stretch me any thinner?" the doctor complained. "There are still only twenty-four hours in a day, and I have to sleep sometimes!"
Jim chuckled. "You know how Fleet feels about utilizing recently spaced officers, Bones. They want to squeeze out every bit of knowledge while they have them planet-side. Besides, we add much-needed practicality to the mundane processes, which makes it easier for us when we're out there."
"I know, I know," McCoy grumbled. "And it makes sense. I just never expected I'd have to go back to space to get any rest."
Kirk laughed and patted his friend's arm in commiseration. "And least you're not sitting on your ass all day."
"That would be a relief!"
"Trust me, Bones, it's not all it's cracked up to be." Jim sighed, and sat back, pushing away his empty plate. "I have a stack of manual disks on my desk. Stearns wants me to 'refresh my memory' of all the rules and regulations."
McCoy groaned. "Sarcasm, anyone?"
Jim nodded. "I'm sure there's a little payback in there. I haven't seen him, so I only received a memo from him on what I should be doing until he gets back. Apparently, I'm going to be the conduit for all those niggling requests that are so important ship-board: personnel issues, transfers, promotions. . . ." Kirk trailed off as he dumped his napkin on the table.
"Paperwork. Ugh," McCoy echoed. "But you know it's only temporary, Jim. It's your 'shaking out' phase. He's testing you."
"He's testing my patience," Jim complained, but then his face brightened. "You and Spock start your teaching schedules tomorrow at the academy. All those bright, young minds," he teased.
McCoy smacked his hands together. "I can't wait. Nothing like a little corruption!"
Jim laughed again. "Bones, you're incorrigible."
"Thank you, admiral," McCoy replied with a wink. "Someone has to teach them that they're doctors first, and Star Fleet officers after. That they need to be able to think for themselves, to smack their captains when they require it and offer a drink otherwise, to be a sounding board for their crew as much as a healer, and to stay out of the way when the shooting starts. It might as well be me."
"I don't believe Star Fleet Medical had you in mind when they imagined a prototype physician, Leonard," Spock told him dryly.
"Hmm, I know." The grin fell off his face, and his expression sobered. "But someone has to realize that these kids are coming out of Academy Medical ill-prepared for what they're going to handle onboard ship. Trauma medicine has to be an integral part of their training or they're never going to be able to deal with a ship full of sick or injured crew. And no one is teaching them how to handle the stress involved, or the psychiatric issues that have to be dealt with if the patient is going to return to full-function as a crewmember. Sure, they give them a class or two, but it's never "down-and-dirty, stop-the-bleeding-before-the-patient's-dead" kind of stuff." He crossed his long arms against his chest, an expression of stubborn resolve coming over his gentle features. "A dose of practicality would not hurt Star Fleet Medical, and I plan on giving it to them."
"Bravo," Jim said, clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder. "By the way, did you know Christine Chapel was accepted into the next medical program for deep-space?"
"Yup," McCoy replied with a satisfied smile. "I . . . er, that is, we, Jim, put her name in."
"We, huh? Did you think to tell me about it?" Kirk asked him with mock-irritation, "I saw her today and she gave wondered why I had taken the initiative to put in a recommendation for her; I didn't have a clue what she was talking about until she explained. Thanks, Bones!" he grimaced. "She must have thought I'd lost my mind!"
"Between Spock and me, we have your signature down pat," the beaming doctor assured him with a smirk. "Besides, the recommendation was far better coming from you. That way, she doesn't see me as her mentor, and she gets the ego boost of thinking Admiral Kirk believes she'd make a damned fine doctor."
"Which he does," Jim agreed.
"Of course he does," Bones replied with a nod. "And now that Spock's off the market, she needed something to do with her life."
Spock refused to react to the pointed comment with anything but, "Nurse Chapel will make a fine doctor, Jim. As long as she ignores everything she learned from McCoy."
"Ha!" Bones snapped. "That will be the day, you pointy-eared calculator."
His eyebrow lifted. "Your rhetoric has lost its edge, doctor."
They were still arguing when McCoy left for a date. Jim stared at Spock over the rim of his wine glass, a smile creasing his lips. "You just love riling him up, don't you?"
Spock considered for a moment. "It affords a certain level of entertainment," he admitted. "I wouldn't want our relationship to change due to our Bonding." The level of trust and familiarity between himself and McCoy had been hard-earned and difficult to attain. A marriage could change the relationship between any triad, never mind one as integral to their lives as this one; none of them wanted any sense of distance to intrude upon it.
"He's family," Jim agreed, rising and walking into Spock's arms, sighing as they closed around him.
"Indeed. I believe we have reminded him of that this evening." He nuzzled Kirk's hair. "And you? Is it so very terrible to be an admiral?"
"Ask me again at the end of the week," Jim grumbled. "By then, my butt will be flat as two pancakes."
Spock stroked the firm globes. "I do not believe that would be possible."
"You're prejudiced."
"Very much so," he agreed, moving away to clear the table and begin their evening routine. "Did you review the ship schematics I sent to you?"
They began a discussion of the changes that Scott had incorporated until it was time for Spock's evening meditations. Jim was his usual charming self by then, cheered by his favorite subject, and settled down happily to read something other than a manual.