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Judging by the comm chatter from the away mission, Francis has a feeling he'll soon be needed to offer Lieutenant Little emotional support. While Edward technically has the bridge, there's something to the conventional wisdom that a starship captain's never truly off duty.
Yes. That's why he's in the lift heading towards the shuttle hanger. Not because of personal concern for Commander Fitzjames, who is in charge of the away mission—and whose voice had been noticeably absent from the last received transmission.
Francis simply does not wish to wait in his quarters to hear if all is well. He's been doing this long enough to have a sense for these things.
The lift doors open and Francis finds himself suddenly face to face with a wild-looking James Fitzjames.
"James!" Francis' concern is overshadowed by relief he feels all the way in his chest.
James is breathing heavily but otherwise appears unharmed, though Francis blinks at James' unusually over-tousled mane. "I didn't see the shuttle had docked already. How was the mission?"
James falls on him.
An intense flash of confusion, almost fear (is he injured after all?) disappears when James grabs the front of Francis' uniform, pulling them close—
And kissing him. Kissing Francis.
Francis' eyes widen. His sound of surprise muffled by—by James' mouth on his. And his body is warm, solid, pressing Francis flush against the back of the lift as the doors close behind him.
"James," he tries to say, and James murmurs Francis in a way he never has before, a way Francis never dared hope he could hear from his first officer.
And James' tongue is so warm on his own... So perfect that for a moment he can’t believe it’s real. It can’t be. Not for Francis. The virtual suite software has gone haywire again, or an anaphastic alien has taken control of James’ body, or the ship has spun into a wormhold and this is an alternate dimension version of James who loves him, somehow.
Then feels James touch his face, and the hitch in breath when he opens his mouth to lick Francis mouth, and under that—nearly subvocal—the most passionate, desperate, whorish ah! of pleasure which has Francis kissing back and closing his eyes, determined to never resurface. Perhaps—
Perhaps James has seen through him all along. He realized Francis’ secret feelings and in typical Fitzjames fashion marched right to him and started by tongue-fucking his mouth. God, the tongue on the man, Francis thinks, and touches James’ firm shoulder, the silky ends of his hair. James places a large hand on Francis’ back and nearly bends him back from the force of pressing them together and deepening the kiss. Between them, James is phaser-hot, hard and pressing against Francis’ stomach, oh, he is earnest after all. He means it. He really wanted Francis, after all this time—
“Oh, pardon me, Captain,” says the shockingly close voice of Dr. McDonald, beside them in the lift and prying James away by the upper arm.
Francis startles back. When did the door open again? “Doctor?” he says, trying not to raise his voice.
Another of those desperate, aroused gasps from James as he’s pulled out into the corridor.
“Very sorry, sir," says McDonald. “I’m afraid Commander Fitzjames got away from us somewhere between the shuttle and sickbay. Seems he found his way here! Good thing, too.” Doctor McDonald turns a cheerful smile on James, who is visibly upset at being separated. “We should get you back for treatment, sir.”
“What are you talking about?” Francis snaps.
“Symptoms suggest a xenopollen. The away mission landed on the side of the planet experiencing a spring season — ”
“And?”
“The commander is having a particularly strong endocrine reaction to the seasonal flora,” he explains, a little apologetically. “Nothing to worry about. Very similar cases in the literature. Wild varieties, pseudo-viral strains, even a few recreational overdoses. Nothing a starship sickbay can’t handle.”
“Francis…?” James says. He’s begun breathing faster, and his eyes are rather large, seeking him out as Dr McDonald turns them in the direction of sickbay.
Something in Francis’ gut tugs at him, makes him start to follow. “He’s—unwell?”
“Oh, it’s not dire at this stage. Mr Goodsir should have a hormone regulator and targeted antihistamine prepped as soon as we return.”
A cold flush washes over Francis. Slowly, the pieces come together.
He’s high on sex pollen.
“Oh,” Francis says.
Fuck.
He stands alone in the corridor, shocked still even after they leave. The chilling sensation changes to hot, burning shame. Taking advantage of his second in the middle of the corridor, and he scarcely questioned it. Oh, he thought about it—for all of two seconds. How is he meant to face his crew, knowing what he’s just done?
How can he face James?
Damn pollen of all things. Francis should have known. The warmth of James, the urgent press of his mouth…of course there was a reason behind it. As if James would ever kiss him of his own free will.
As he thought, Lieutenant Little eventually comms him requesting the captain's presence on the bridge, and Francis will force himself to take one step in front of the other, again and again, until he gets there.
He can taste James on his lips for hours.
🌱
He plans to make himself scarce until the thought of taking advantage of Commander Fitzjames doesn't make him want to turn in his pips and resign in shame.
Unfortunately, James is waiting for him in his office first thing the next shift.
Francis can hardly consider it an ambush under the circumstances, though it surprises him like one. Standing in front of his desk, James is almost sheepish. He’s standing awkwardly at attention and taking up less space than normal, as though he’s trying to disappear.
Francis can’t say he blames him.
“James,” he says, and waits for the door to close behind him. “I—how are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you. I thought it best”—Francis’ heart skips, bracing for the inevitable inform you of my transfer request, or I’ve alerted the Admiralty to your perversions, at worse.
But instead, “—that I apologise to you personally.”
He makes a face without meaning to. “What?”
“My apologies, sir,” James says. The sir all but leaps over the desk and slaps Francis across the face. “There were extenuating circumstances, which I've included in my mission report, but I hope you will accept my apology for any unpleasantness I may have…personally caused.”
With that flat, awkward conclusion James lowers his eyes and stares at the floor. They had been getting along recently, Francis thought. Now the man can’t even look at him.
“You caused?” Francis shakes his head. “James, I won't hold you accountable for that. I know,” he adds, and takes a steadying breath, “that you would never have done that if you were thinking clearly.”
“...Right,” says James, tightly. “And yourself?”
“No!” Francis feels his ears grow hot, and all the muscles in his shoulders tense. That his commander could think so little of him... “No, James, of course not. I deeply regret it.”
But doesn’t Francis deserve the scrutiny? He did enjoy it, even briefly. Some tiny voice inside him thought of reasons it couldn’t be real, and he ignored all of them because he wanted it. Unspeakably foolish of him to think it was possible at all. And with James unwilling, at that…he shakes away the thought with a disgusted shudder.
“No, I think I'm the one who mut offer an apology,” Francis says. “Should have called for a doctor and seen you to sickbay at once. Would have saved us both the unpleasant experience.”
When they first served together under Franklin, Francis remembers wishing for silence. Anything to shut the man up. Now he would give anything for James to take mercy on him and say something. Anything.
He doesn’t.
“Well,” Francis says, “if there’s nothing else?”
James’ mouth tightens into a thin line. “No, sir. Thank you for your time.”
As the doors close behind him, Francis tries not to notice the fresh botanical scent of James’ hair still lingering in the room.
🌿
For the rest of the week, he thinks he hides in his office. For a reasonable amount of time, though Chief Blanky gives him a hard time about it.
“Oh, come on. Didn't you feel up Ed Parry after that run in with the pod plants?”
“That was Ja—Ross. Parry was the virus.”
“The bumpin' uglies bug, gawd, you're right.” He cackles. “I remember. The 2320s were a different era.”
Francis puts his head in his hands.
“None of that now, up you get,” Blanky says and manhandles him out from behind his desk. “It's only weird if you make it weird. You have a plan to tell him the real issue? Namely how you hoped he'd just read your mind and decided to throw himself at you instead of a conversation like adults?”
"Thomas!" Francis says, trying to be stern. Blanky just laughs at him more.
Near the lifts to the bridge, they run into Jopson, who nods in greeting and hands Francis am armful of reports. "Good morning, sir. Are you looking for Commander Fitzjames?"
Francis opens his mouth and only silence comes out. Blanky doesn't bother covering for him but manages to grin very loudly about it.
"Why would I be looking for Commander Fitzjames," says Francis, pretending to scroll through the ship log.
Jopson glances at Blanky. "I saw the commander speaking to Lieutenant Le Vesconte and thought I heard your name mentioned. It sounded..."
Francis lifts his head and levels an eyebrow at him.
"...intense,” Jopson decides after a moment.
"Don't worry about it, lad." Blanky throws an arm over Jopson's shoulders and leads him away. "Frank's got it under control. Let me tell you about the ice readings from that comet trail we sailed through last week."
Leaving Francis once more to his thoughts, truly the last place he wants to be. He lowers the reports, feeling defeated. If James was going to complain about him to anyone, it would be his best pal Dundy, wouldn't it.
After receiving a comm on the bridge, Francis hides in his office, irritated, and tries not to think about how James’ big, steady gunner’s hands would feel around his cock.
🐝
He starts to dream about James.
He had before as well, but they were always mundane or, worse, saccharine. His prior interest in the man seems quaint and innocent by comparison.
Now that he’s had James’ tongue inside him, his brain unleashes havoc.
Francis knows he’s dreaming because far away, beyond the veil of consciousness, he can feel himself get helplessly, maddeningly hard. He dreams about James’ weekly inspections of the junior officers’ quarters. Rather than noting bunk tidiness or nail-bed cleanliness, he starts kissing everyone standing in line. A peck on the cheek, the forehead, nis nose pressed against an ensign’s neck, more and more intense until Francis can see his tongue petting licking at Jopson’s mouth, wet and filthy, both of them moaning into each other.
It’s a touch awkward to talk to anyone the next few days.
Multiple times he dreams of the damned source of the pollen. It changes from dream to dream: sometimes a mossy bog that swallows James to the waist and fills him with sticky sludge, or a line of refined pollen he snorts in a dark back room, happy to be pawed over amongst lush pillows and hungry mouths.
The most popular form his imagination clings to is monstrously large and prehensile plant, disturbingly active in the pollination process. It’s tentacle-like filament vines are slick and textured, with rubbery thorns facing backward like fish hooks. It coils around James’ thighs, peeling them open to seek his center. Smaller vines wash over his chest and neck, trailing sticky pollen-rich sap and pinching his nipples, and James moans. Francis is trapped in place, only able to watch and hunger.
The great throbbing pistil sinks in and James cries out, victorious. He’s filled, squirming against the dirt and moss, eyes rolling back as the reproductive slurry starts to take effect. The dream shows Francis, like an obscene close-up, how the fleshy thorns drag along James’ insides, catching and pulling his tender puffy hole before the entire pistil arm thrusts back inside. The tips make hairline scratches inside him, apparently not deep enough to hurt, only facilitate the sap’s absorption into his body.
James is almost crying with pleasure, thrashing his head back and forth—inside, the pistil twists inside him, the barbs dragging over his prostate again and again. A thin seeking vine on his stomach encounters James’ cock; seemingly drawn by the fluids, it worms inside the weeping hole at James’ tip.
James howls. He doesn’t seem to know Francis is there, but he calls out for him. Francis, god yes Francis, please I need to come, please Francis… until a confused smaller vine, leaking thick pollen-sap from the tip, finds his open panting lips and starts breeding his mouth. Francis sees movement in James’ throat, and he doesn’t know if it’s from James swallowing or the plant pulsing deep in his throat.
Francis wakens with a start. He stares at the ceiling of his quarters, breathing like he’s been the one fucking James all night.
The details of the dream start fading, but not fast enough for Francis to have anything else in mind when he take himself in hand and frantically finishes to James’ expression overwhelming pleasure.
🌹
One night, Francis doesn’t wake up in time. He wakes to find himself drenched from a wet dream, already past his crisis. It would have surprised him less to wake to find his bed drenched in alien blood or pure gold. But there it is. And then he understands.
He's infected.
Pollenated. Whatever the xenobotanists want to call it in the scientific paper they’ll write after the court martial. The increased libido, the dreams, the fact he can't stop thinking about how much he wants James in his arms. Ever since that day, he’s been pollenated by James’ kiss.
He doesn’t bother asking the computer what time it is. As though he’s back inside a fever dream, he’s into dry clothes and outside James' quarters banging on the door before he has a chance to think it through. “James!”
“Come,” says James, muffled through door. Even then his voice is still deep and alluring. The doors open to James’ rooms and Francis sees him sitting by the porthole reading. He looks up as Francis enters.
“Captain. How can I help y—”
“Don’t you captain me,” Francis snarls. “I caught your infection.”
James goes still. “What?”
“Your pollen, James. Your—your sex pollen! You must have passed them on when we kissed. God." His heart is pounding but he can't stop. "I can't stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you all the time. Even before that away mission, I had feelings for you, but it's completely out of my hands now. The dreams are endless, I can't even think sometimes. There's just you, and your voice, and your hands, and how smarmy your face gets when you tell those stupid war stories, and how your hair smells, god. I want you. I want you.”
He links his hands behind his head and paces.
James' mouth hangs open until Francis pauses for breath. “You liked me before we kissed?”
“I’m sorry. I'm so sorry, James. I couldn't say anything, could I? Coming onto my first officer out of the blue, after years of pecking at each other and just as we were getting along. And you're you.” Francis gestures. “You're James Fitzjames, handsomest man in the fleet. You’re going to be captain of a Galaxy class ship one day and I’m the old fool who got rejected twice by the same woman. I couldn’t lose what friendship we had and my commander in one go.”
“Friendship?” James says, sounding so delicate.
“I know. After how I behaved, I’m not surprised you haven’t wanted to talk to me, and things have been…fraught, between us.” Francis is the one who feels like he might shatter. “But even before that, I valued you too much to say anything. I couldn’t risk it,” he says at last.
“But,” James says, “after we kissed…”
“Oh, yes, after taking advantage of a senior officer in a compromised state! I’m surprised you didn’t report me for misconduct.”
“Taking advantage—misconduct?"
Francis stops pacing to stare at him, getting angry. "Yes!"
James sets his reading aside. Francis braces for the end.
“That’s a lot to take in all at once,” James says. “But first—Francis, you're not infected.”
Francis gapes.
James gives a little shrug. “I asked McDonald in sickbay after my treatment. It can't be passed from person to person.”
Perhaps a catastrophic hull breach will suck Francis into the vacuum of space and put him out of his misery. He can always hope. Stranger things have happened—stranger things have happened this week. He hasn't been this mortified since Sophy's second proposal rejection. Cold sweat is breaking out over his body.
When the void fails to claim him, he says, “Oh, fuck.”
“Quite. Before you try to throw yourself out an airlock..." James gets to his feet like Francis is a small creature he’s afraid of startling. It’s like being in a dream again, Francis frozen in place as James gently cups his face.
“James?” says Francis.
“Francis.” James holds him steady. “When I had the pollen in my system, I wasn't entirely in control of myself,” he says. “But I wasn't entirely out of control, either. I just couldn't think of a good reason to pretend I didn't want you anymore. I made that choice, and I’m so very sorry you felt you were in the wrong.”
The intensity of James’ full attention could rearrange the galaxy, and the two of them are at the center of it. “You wanted me before the pollen,” Francis says, weak. “You wanted me?”
“We’ve really been a couple of silly tits about this,” James says, and kisses him for a second time.
And a third. And a fourth.
And then Francis really can’t keep track of them at all.
🪴
“So,” Blanky says almost out of the side of his mouth, frowning at a data pad like he’s actually concentrating on work. “How did it go?”
Francis tries not to grin too widely when he catches James’ eye across the bridge.
“Isn’t there something useful you could be doing, Mr Blanky?” he says. “On the other side of the ship, perhaps?”
“Nothing urgent. Seems you took care of your, eh…?”
Francis also keeps his voice low. “You know, I had started to think he had pollenated me.”
“How floral.” Blanky snorts. “Had he?”
“Actually, no.” He’s been staring dreamily across the room without blinking for too long, probably, but there’s no alien pollen at play here. Just regular old human hormones and a heaping dose of being a hopeless romantic with a weakness for flashy extroverts with pretty hair. “He did end up seeding me by the end of the night, though.”
“Just remembered I promised to help Reid on something I’ll think up by the time I get there.” Blanky claps him on the shoulder. “Happy for you, Francis.”
With a last lingering look at James, Francis takes a deep breath of clean, recycled ship air and gets back to work, heart lighter than it’s been in years.