Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Captain’s Log. Stardate 2987.43.

After successfully concluding our diplomatic obligations on Altair VI, the Enterprise is now en route to Vetya VII, a non-Federation world in the Beta Quadrant known primarily for two things: its year-round sub-Arctic temperatures, and the renown of its psychic healers. It promises to be a fascinating opportunity to learn more about this unique society. The Vetyeka are a telepathic race of distant Vulcanoid lineage, though they colonized this system thousands of years ago and their culture seems to have evolved quite differently, as has their language; Lieutenant Uhura is looking forward to spending the next few days visiting the capital city's library and historical archives, in the hopes of adding some useful new material to the universal translator’s knowledge bank. She thinks she can equip me to deliver a traditional greeting in High Vetyekan, unassisted, by the end of the week.

Meanwhile, Doctor McCoy, Mr. Spock and myself will be beaming down to the surface for several days of cultural exchange with the Vetyekan high council and the department heads of their primary hospital. McCoy is eager to roll up his sleeves and take a tour of the facilities, while Mr. Spock will be working closely with a highly-renowned psionic healer named Dr. Vikiska on a personal research project. Our stay is open-ended at the moment; we will be free to return to the ship as soon as their work is completed.

* * * * *

JIM

“Nicely done,” says Bones, approaching noiselessly from behind him and startling Jim into jumping halfway out of his seat. “Caught the last bit. ‘Personal research project,' my foot. But I've learned through bitter experience that the best way to keep the brass from sniffing around where they don't belong is to make a thing sound boring, so I think that's the right approach. I'll follow your lead in mine."

“That’s presuming Spock doesn’t get the crazy idea to tell the truth in his own logs,” Jim says grimly, rising from his chair. “We need to put a bell on your collar, by the way. Thanks for the heart attack.”

Bones dismisses this. “Don't be a baby. Now, pack it up and let's go. Scotty’s waiting in the transporter room, and M’Benga’s on his way with our patient.”

Jim’s lips tighten, as he strives to keep his alarm from showing on his face. “How is he?”

"Scout's honor, Jim, I don't even know," Bones says frankly, as they make their way out the door of Jim’s quarters and toward the turbolift. “Spock says fine, M’Benga says not fine, Spock says M'Benga doesn't know what he's talking about, M'Benga waves charts in my face and tells me Spock is lying through his teeth. They've been driving each other batty for the past seventy-two hours. All I can tell you is the whole thing's a mess and I don't know what to make of it. I'm putting all my eggs in this Vetyekan fellow's basket for the moment, because Joseph, Christine and I are in over our illogical human heads, except that everyone agrees it's something that seems to require a mind healer. There's nothing physically wrong with him that the three of us can treat. When I tell you I'd give my left arm for a nice, easy brain tumor right now! But whatever this is, it's going on inside, someplace no Starfleet doctor can get to him. And no Vulcan healer will even take my calls, the arrogant bastards. If Vetya VII weren't on the way home from the Altair system, I'm not sure what I'd do," he adds, as they step into the turbolift and the doors whoosh closed behind them. "Prepare yourself, Jim. He may claim we're all overreacting because of our pesky human emotions, but I don't like the look of him right now and you won't, either."

Jim leans back against the wall, arms folded, biting his lip and thinking. "And we're certain it's not the blood fever," he presses. "Limbic system, hormones, all of that's back to normal?"

The doctor nods. "Everything else is back in the green zone. Like I said, if there was anything physical to treat, we'd be treating it. This seems to be a lingering side effect of pon farr, but the pon farr itself is long gone. Like how your cough always hangs on another couple weeks after a bout of pneumonia, even once the virus is out of your system. Trouble is, for Vulcans, psionic unrest is a hell of a lot more trouble than a cough.”

“For Starfleet officers too,” says Jim, anxiously reflecting on the incidents of the past five days since Spock's aborted nuptials. Jim had taken his friend's burst of uncharacteristically effusive emotion in Sickbay as a sign that the worst was behind them, but it soon became clear that it was merely a symptom of an ongoing, and worsening, mental unrest; his mood swings, though less violent than those which preceded their detour to Vulcan, were no less acute, and he'd vacillated wildly for that first twenty-four hours between paroxysms of grief-stricken weeping, and explosions of a faintly ominous hilarity that made everybody uncomfortable. From there he'd begun losing time, forgetting things, occasionally drifting off into a kind of fugue state while Jim was right there talking to him. When pressed by Dr. M'Benga, he'd grudgingly admitted that he was increasingly unable to either meditate or sleep, and he’d stopped eating altogether two days ago. Paradoxically, the situation had worked in their favor on Altair VI - the Federation officials present had never found the Vulcan more animated or gregarious, and everyone present seemed willing to dismiss his rather alarming collision with a marble pillar as the inevitable side effect of tray-passed champagne - but Jim was under no illusions that a second rabbit could be pulled out of the same hat. Bones made a few calls, and suddenly Starfleet Medical's parapsychology department decided they had a mighty need to make friends with those clever folks in the Vetya system, wouldn't it be handy if we could pick their brains, someone ought to send a ship out that way, oh, wouldn't you know it, the Enterprise is already headed that direction and can be there in thirty-seven hours, what a tremendously convenient twist of fate - so now, here they are.

The bottom line is that something is wrong with Spock. And he's not talking, which means it's something personal - something he's ashamed of, perhaps, or that he doesn't understand. Jim's no doctor, but he understands Spock pretty well; his current working theory is that something in Spock's hybrid biology means the process hasn't played out exactly as he'd expected it would, and situations like that always make Spock fret that he's a failure of a Vulcan. Coming hard on the heels of T'Pring's public rejection, that's a lot to take. He'd kicked up a hell of a fuss when Bones told him where he was going (told, not asked; Bones hadn't precisely made Jim make it an order, but the implication was clear), and he'd only simmered down once he learned that the famous Dr. Vikiska himself would be administering the treatment. Apparently the man's professional reputation precedes him even as far as the Vulcan Science Academy, and one of the most reliable carrots Jim can dangle in front of Spock to get him to behave is the chance to meet one of the handful of scientific minds in the universe bright enough to actually impress him.

Jim tries to think of it less as a semi-coerced inpatient rehabilitation and more like a win/win situation; Spock gets the help he needs and the chance to hobnob with someone whose journal articles he's read, while Jim gets Spock back.

Because he must get Spock back. There's simply no other outcome he'll allow himself to consider.

When they reach the transporter room, Scotty is waiting at the controls with an alarming expression on his habitually mild face; but it's not entirely clear why, until M'Benga - who is standing with his back to the rest of the room, doing something Jim can't see - turns and steps down off the platform, revealing the figure who'd initially been concealed behind him.

Spock is . . . 

Spock is shivering.

He’s hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around himself, head bowed as if in shame, and Jim can’t fault Scotty for his shock. His own is nearly as acute, and only years of practice at schooling his facial expression in crisis situations prevents him from reacting more visibly than he does.

But it's bad.

It's very, very bad.

Spock's habitual posture is sharp as a knife. His body is lean and rangy, all flat planes and long lines and clean angles, slicing neatly through space as he moves. It's something Jim's always liked about him, the way his form seems to align with his inner self somehow. Sleek, efficient, no space wasted, taut muscles as disciplined as his mind. Everyone on the ship sits up in their chair a little straighter when he walks into a room. So to see him crumpled up like an old newspaper is jarring, like looking up into the night sky from Earth and suddenly finding Polaris in the wrong place.

As Jim steps up onto the platform next to Bones, and a yeoman arranges a stack of traveling cases at their feet, he stands at parade rest in order to force his hands not to reach out and embrace Spock, an act he's sure would be unwelcome. They don't appreciate casual touch, Vulcans; Jim's careful about this. He knows what he can get away with - Spock's acclimated over time to his human friend's irrepressibly tactile nature - but only because he's careful never to push it. And even a friendly hand on the shoulder might be too much for him right now, with his mental shields in tatters. So he ventures only a quiet “Are you all right?”, and doesn’t give Scotty the go-ahead until he’s received the ghost of a nod in return.

It's a lie, of course - he's miles away from all right - but he's submitting to the need for medical treatment, so Jim stubbornly interprets it as a sign of things to come. Spock's not all right now, but he will be.

He has to.

Scotty, M'Benga, and the yeoman shimmer out of sight as the Enterprise transporter room dissolves into silver nothingness, to be replaced by what Jim can only describe as "organized chaos." They're standing in the left-hand corner of an absolutely massive transport center, and Jim's surprised to realize the hospital appears to beam everyone in and out from the same location; around them, uniformed orderlies pushing floating gurneys elbow past, shouting orders, while patients in all manner of conditions stream towards the row of check-in desks or are taken in hand by nursing staff. They must not get enough diplomatic visitors here to justify a private VIP transporter room; they've essentially just walked right through the emergency room's front door, and the cacophony is jarring. Bones is immediately at his ease in such an environment, of course, and Jim catches his eyes wandering about the room, taking it in with an approving nod, but Jim finds it all a bit disorienting, and risks a glance over at Spock to see how he's taking it. The Vulcan looks up once, as if to confirm that they've arrived, his dark eyes wide and oddly dilated, before folding in on himself again.  Jim does reach out for him then - he can't help himself - but only a little, just the briefest clasp of a hand around Spock’s upper arm to steady him, careful not to risk invasive mental contact through the touch of skin against skin. Spock doesn't shake him off, which is something, at least; but he doesn't react either. He barely seems to realize Jim is there.

"I'm beginning to suspect the severity of the case was understated," Jim hears a warm and unexpectedly lovely baritone voice coming from somewhere within the surrounding bustle. “Mr. Spock, you have not been honest with your medical providers. I can sense your distress from where I stand. Vulcan pride is not worth dying for, my friend.”

Jim whirls around, startled and not entirely pleased by the easy familiarity in that tone, to see a uniformed figure shaking his head in disapproval as he maneuvers gracefully through a throng of uniformed Vetyekan nurses and steps up to greet them. This is clearly Dr. Vikiska, but he's somehow not at all what Jim expected. If he'd given the man any thought at all, he supposes he'd pictured someone rather like a Vulcan elder, gray-haired and robed and reassuringly wise-looking. But the man standing before them is close to his own age, and his molten-honey voice isn't the only thing about him that's pleasing. Jim's forced to admit - somewhat against his will - that Vikiska is one of the handsomest men he's ever seen in his life. As tall as Spock, but well-built and broad-shouldered, not quite so whipcord-thin, with wavy auburn hair sparked with copper, which he’s grown long and wears in a loose, messy knot. His faintly Vulcanoid features - the trace of a pointed angle at the tips of his ears, strongly arched brows, sharp cheekbones - are unexpected in their decidedly un-Vulcan expressiveness. He’s wearing the same kind of affectionately exasperated face Jim’s used to seeing Bones direct at his own recalcitrant patients, which appears incongruous on a face with such familiar, severe angles. His uniform is surprisingly flattering, for a doctor in the middle of a shift - a close-fitting short-sleeved shirt and loose pants of some soft fabric the same emerald green as his eyes. A petty spark inside Jim instantly ascribes both the fit and the color to ego - a man who knows what looks good on him, concerned with appearances even here - until he catches sight of several other Vetyekan medical personnel wearing the exact same outfit.

Still, he can't quite let it go. There's something about the man he dislikes immediately, but there seems so little justification for it that Jim feels guilty, and a little surprised at himself.

“Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise,” says the doctor, reaching out to shake his hand. “I'd been led to believe you would be meeting with the cultural attachés at the central library this morning, along with your communications staff. How admirable that you've escorted Spock here personally instead. Most captains would be perfectly content to leave such a task to medical personnel."

His voice is frank and sincere, and he's clearly done his homework on Terran greetings since his handshake is perfect too. There's no reason to take his statement at anything other than face value, or find anything in it offensive. Still, Jim finds himself straining to offer a natural-looking smile in return, and doesn't entirely trust himself to reply with more than a nod.

Bones, beside him, has no such reservations. “Oh, I like this one,” says the doctor, laughing heartily. “Dr. Vikiska, I presume?”

Dr. Vikiska shakes the doctor’s hand in turn. “And you must be Dr. Leonard McCoy.”

“I sure am, and if you want stories about Spock not being honest with his medical provider, well, you and me are gonna have lots to talk about. I’ve got some real humdingers.”

"I do not doubt it," says the doctor, approaching Spock to slip an arm around the Vulcan’s waist to help him down off the platform, as the humans follow behind. Spock collapses against Vikiska gratefully, as though the effort of holding up his own body weight was becoming too much for him, and even as Jim winces at the realization that merely standing upright for the duration of transport has fatigued Spock, he feels his spine stiffen a bit at this excessive familiarity. Hastily stepping forward as Vikiska and Spock approach the stairs leading from the platform to the main floor, Jim reaches out for Spock's other arm.

“I can help if -”

“Nonsense,” says the doctor pleasantly, waving Jim's hand away. "I have him, Captain. Do not put yourself out."

“Or does he need to sit down, lie down, should we fetch an orderly -”

“It is a very short walk to the rooms we have prepared for Spock,” says the doctor. "He is severely weakened, but he is still Vulcan, and if he is being forced to undergo a treatment he did not seek out, I assume he will at least want to get there on his own two feet. Is that not so?" he says to the slumped-over man who shuffles along the gleaming white floor beside him. The glossy dark head nods once, though he doesn't look up. "And if your concern was for my sake, I assure you it is needless. My people, as you know, trace their genetic lineage to the same source as your first officer's; while our society is quite different, our biological makeup has many similarities."

“Ah,” says Bones cheerfully. “So you’ve got that famous Vulcan super-strength too.”

“Let us hope I will not be called upon to use it beyond this,” says the doctor. “Though I am trained in a form of martial arts which is similar enough to the Vulcan suus-mahna that I do not think, Dr. McCoy, you will be forced to resort to hypospray trickery a second time.” He lets his hand on Spock’s waist lift to drop a comforting pat between his shoulderblades. “Do not fear, my Vulcan friend,” he says gently. “I am not afraid of you. You cannot hurt me.”

The way Spock softens at this, seemingly relieved, causes Jim to bristle faintly. He’s not afraid of Spock either. The opposite, in fact. He knows the Vetyekan doctor isn’t intentionally insulting his human physiology - hell, Jim held out in hand-to-hand combat against a man three times his strength in the grip of a murderous frenzy, without having trained on either of the weapons he was handed, so he doesn’t exactly think he’s a feeble weakling here - but it stings, a little, that Spock feels so immediately comfortable with this stranger.

“I do not . . . wish,” Spock grits out, the first words he’s spoken all day, “to be . . . a burden . . . to my captain. I must . . . resolve -”

“And you will,” says Dr. Vikiska. “I know you are familiar with my professional reputation, but I am acquainted with yours as well. Your dedication to your ship and crew is admirable, and I give you my word to return you to them sound of mind and body. I do not make this promise lightly; but I know how important you are, Spock. You are not even forty; a mere youth, by our people’s standards. You have many more geologic surveys of the mineral composites of Rigel XII before you yet."

Spock visibly brightens at this, looking up for the first time. “You have . . . read . . . my work?”

“You managed to interest me in a pile of brown rocks,” says the doctor. “No small feat.”

Spock lets out a small sound which sounds just enough like a faint sniff of laughter that Jim has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut.

“Boy, we sure came to the right place,” says Bones, reaching out to slap the doctor on the back. “You’re really something, Dr. Vikiska.”

The doctor isn't at all put out by this, and his answering smile to Bones is warm with amusement. "Please," he says, with a dismissive gesture. "We do not adhere to Vulcan formality here. Call me Val.”

“Well, if you're going to be Val all week, then I’m Leonard, and this is Jim. He calls me Bones, but don’t let that confuse you.”

“My given name is Vaitlun. See? Another difference between the Vetyeka and the Vulcans. We share the Terran fondness for diminutive nicknames. 'Jim' is derived from James, I can see, but I will assume the derivation of 'Bones' from 'Leonard' has more obscure and personal roots.”

"You're the most human-seeming fellow with pointy ears I've met yet," says Bones. "Or is that offensive?"

"No," says Val, and "Yes," says Spock, and both doctors seem to find this heartily amusing.

"Well, in your own defense," Val offers to Bones, "having read your report on the incident you were recently witness to on Vulcan - even Spock, I think, cannot fault you for harboring some ill will. To an outsider, the practice would appear barbaric, and the Vulcans you encountered there would not have been disposed to treat, or speak of, your half-human colleague with kindness. The . . . absolutism, shall we say, of post-Surakian Vulcan society was one of the reasons my ancestors left their homeworld in the first place." He gives Spock another reassuring pat as they round a corner away from the bustle of the hospital’s crowded public hallways and into what appears to be a high-end private wing for residential patients. “I can enter your mind as easily as one of your own healers could do,” he tells Spock, “but you will not find yourself, here, met with their judgment. I ask you to trust that whatever I find will be used only for your welfare. The Vetyeka are a gentle and inclusive people,” he adds. “We have rejected the severity of our Vulcan and Romulan cousins. This is a place of healing, not of shame.”

Spock looks up at him and meets the doctor’s eye for the first time, his shambling footsteps halting. “I am . . . hybrid,” he reminds Val. “I am . . . the only one . . . of my kind. And what befell me on Vulcan . . . was unprecedented. It is only logical . . . to consider the possibility -”

“That you can’t be cured?” Jim interjects, the spike of anxiety in his chest making him almost angry. “That’s nonsense, Spock! I won’t hear of it. I’m not going back to the ship without you, and that’s final.”

“Captain,” Spock implores, turning to him. “Jim. I am - I cannot promise -”

“Perhaps you cannot,” Val cuts him off firmly. “But I can."

"But doctor, I -"

"Spock, it is illogical to presume you can cure yourself of an unprecedented medical crisis you do not understand without consulting a professional," Vikiska says sensibly. "You do not have the information you need to offer such a diagnosis." He shakes his head. "I begin to understand the root of your stubborn resistance to the advice of your human doctors," he adds. "Not that you distrust their capacity to help, but that you believe you are beyond help. You are not merely defensive, I think; you are hopeless. And that is something altogether different.”

Spock hangs his head in grief, unable to look at any of them. The sight is so heartbreaking that even Bones lets out a long, heavy exhale, uncertain what to do or say next.

They turn a corner and the alien doctor halts them in the center of a wide but short hallway, only a handful of doors on each side. He lets go of Spock's waist and steps around to face him directly, resting both hands on the Vulcan’s shoulders. Spock's robes are wrinkled, askew, and the deep V-neckline doesn't drape right, too low on one side and high on the other, like it's been tied improperly, so Val's right thumb just barely grazes the too-pale, too-sharp jut of Spock's collarbone. The touch is accidental, clearly, but it's also intimate, and more importantly it's skin-to-skin. It ought to cause Spock to flinch and jump away, as he always does when Jim does something like this, and Jim's surprised - maybe even a little hurt - that he doesn't.

He’s letting Val touch him. Letting Val help. 

He’s barely been able to make eye contact with Jim since they left Altair VI, and now this doctor they've never met before gets to rub the pad of his thumb along Spock's collarbone? Jim's so affronted that he has to force himself to return to the conversation once he realizes Val is talking.

"Rather than self-recrimination and despair," says the Vetyekan doctor, "shall we try a new approach?"

"What . . . do you . . . suggest?"

"Curiosity," says Val briskly, and the answer is unexpected enough that Spock's dark eyes lose a little of their heavy fog, a flicker of keen interest suddenly visible in their depths. "A koon-ut kal-if-fee which is terminated before the psionic processes have completed on their own is a fascinating scientific puzzle to solve,” he explains. “And you too are a scientist. You feel frustration, shame, because it is your own body and mind which rebel against your mastery. So then, let us separate the two. These symptoms are not signs of failure, indictments against your hybrid genetics. They are simply data, and we will collect as much as we can. If the role of patient fits you ill, then consider yourself my research partner in a scientific experiment instead. We will solve this together, using logic. How does that sound?"

Bones is openly delighted by this little speech, since its positive effects are immediate, and Jim wishes he could spare some amusement for the fact that he suspects this won't be the last time he hears Spock cajoled into a medical exam using this same argument. But right now, he can't find it funny at all, because Spock is gazing at Val with an expression in his dark eyes that Jim's never seen before - soft and grateful, almost reverent.

Not once in three years has he looked at Jim that way. Not ever.

"Thank you . . .Val," Spock says haltingly, something playing at the corners of his mouth and his eyes which might almost be the beginnings of a smile, and Jim tries very, very hard not to mind that it was months before he managed to coax Spock into using his first name. Meanwhile the charismatic genius doctor - with his Vulcanoid super strength and his flowing red hair and his suspicious interest in mineralogical surveys - got there in less than ten minutes.

No, Jim doesn't like this at all.

"This is where we part ways," says Val, gesturing to the door immediately behind him, which Jim can now see has Spock's name on the side panel. "One of my assistants will escort the two of you to your own quarters, if you like, or to the city center if you would care to join your other officers, and I will contact you later with a progress report.”

"A report?" Jim looks from Val to Spock and back again. "When will we actually be able to see him again?"

"I will leave it to Spock. He may feel quite recovered in a short time, or he may be profoundly fatigued. This is unknown territory for myself as well. Extrapolating from my most comparable previous cases, and from the information Leonard has provided, I suspect his need for deep sleep and meditation is acute. I would guess that the kindest thing you could do for your colleague is to enjoy yourselves in the capital city this evening so he can rest, without worrying about you worrying about him.” He looks from Spock to Bones. “Have I assessed the situation correctly?”

"Yeah, that sounds like Spock," agrees Bones. "Jim?"

All three pairs of eyes are now fixed on the captain, awaiting his reply, but he only sees Spock's. “The Vetyekan Cultural Center . . . is reputed to be very . . . impressive,” the Vulcan says with a note of faintly desperate hopefulness in his voice that breaks Jim’s heart a little. "You and . . . Lieutenant Uhura . . . will enjoy . . . yourselves."

He gives his friend a nod with as much of a smile as he can muster. “Don’t you fret about me and Bones,” he says, with feigned nonchalance. “You just focus on getting better. Follow the doctor’s orders. Rest, fluids, take your medication, all of that. We’ll be here whenever you feel up to some company again. Just, please,” he adds, taking a step closer, unable to entirely repress the anxious waver in his voice. “Please, my friend. Get well, and come back to me.”

Spock looks at him for a long moment, face drawn and miserable, like he wants to say more but can’t. “I will try, Jim,” is all he says. "I promise that I will try."

It's the first full sentence he's managed to grit out without pausing to swallow back the pain throbbing in his head every few words, and it feels like that means something, though Jim's not sure what. For a long moment, they just look at each other, the world around them falling away, the way it always does when Jim gets lost in Spock's dark eyes for a second and time seems to stop completely. There are unspoken words on his lips, Jim's sure of it, and he can't help wondering what he would say if they were alone, if speech weren't so difficult right now.

But then the spell is broken by Bones, slapping Jim on the back and elbowing him back down the hallway toward the visitor's desk they'd passed on the way, muttering something about leaving the doctor to do his damn job without two mother hens clucking over his shoulder, which makes Val laugh, which makes Spock relax again, which makes Jim want to scream for reasons he doesn’t quite understand. He turns around as they reach the end of the corridor to look back and wave goodbye, suddenly seized with panic that he actually doesn't know how long it will be before they see each other again.

But when he looks back over his shoulder, the door has already closed behind them.

Spock is gone.

“And now we wait,” says Bones, cheerfully oblivious to his friend's mood. “Always the worst bit. But I like that young doctor, Jim. Our friend is in good hands.”

“You mean our colleague,” Jim repeats bitingly, still a little stung by Val’s use of the word earlier. “Didn’t miss a beat looking for opportunities to remind us of that, did he?”

Bones stops in the middle of the hallway and stares at Jim like he’s suddenly grown a second head. “You’re mad at Dr. Vikiska for calling Spock your colleague?” He blinks at him in confusion. “When he is your colleague?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. It was the way he said it.”

“You sound like a twelve-year-old. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s going to be fine, Jim. M’Benga says this fellow’s the best there is. The Einstein of 23rd-century parapsychology. Even the Vulcans buy his books. Do you know how rare that is, for someone who isn’t even Vulcan? No, this is a damned miracle and I’m not letting you ruin it with your fussing. The man will be back to his old self in no time, puttering around the bridge correcting our grammar and telling us things are ‘fascinating’ and making those bitchy little jokes he thinks I don’t hear, and then lying that Vulcans don’t joke. Val’s going to dig into that head of his and root around in the attic until he finds whatever came unplugged and plug it back in. Or at least, knowing nothing about Vulcan psionic damage, that’s the best I can come up with for now. But if you’re worried Spock won’t let Val in, I’d relax about that. He seemed surprisingly comfortable around him, actually. I was impressed. Takes a hell of a bedside manner to crack a Vulcan.”

Jim doesn’t know how to explain to Bones that he's got the whole thing backwards. Jim's real fear, which has been growing steadily over the past few minutes and which he knows won’t fully leave him until he finally has Spock back aboard the Enterprise, isn't that Spock will somehow resist letting Dr. Vikiska into his mind.

The real fear is that he’ll like it.

Jim doesn’t know why this suddenly matters so much, given that he’s never melded with Spock before and only vaguely understands what it entails; but he knows it’s a profound intimacy - like Spock’s gentle smile, like his touch - and in a matter of mere minutes he’d offered both of those to Val with no prevarication, while he spent months making Jim work for it when he first came aboard the ship. Every inch of progress between them has been hard-fought, Jim triumphing over inch-by-inch victories, and now suddenly -

Suddenly Jim is jealous.

Can that possibly be right?

Jealous of what? Of a doctor offering a service to a patient? What is there to be jealous of? Spock is his colleague, and his friend, and he’s sick, and Val has promised to help him; Bones is right, this is a good thing, so why is Jim resisting it?

Why does the thought of Spock opening his mind to this handsome stranger feel like Jim's losing something he didn’t even know he wanted?

And how the hell can he make himself stop?

Chapter Text

SPOCK

The room into which the doctor ushers him is blissfully dim, spare in its furnishings, and soothing in the cool blankness of its floor and walls. It has the faintly monastic austerity of Vulcan interior design. Spock feels at home here. And he finds he immediately breathes easier once he is no longer distracted by the onslaught of Jim’s human emotions, the way his whole mind and body shout WORRY and PANIC every time he looks over at Spock. To be the source of distress to his captain is anathema to him; to know he has caused him sleepless nights - that he was forced to lie to Starfleet Command not once on Spock’s behalf, but many times - that Jim’s soft human heart, always pained by the suffering of others, is now aching because of him . . . 

It is too much to bear.

The young doctor seems intuitively to understand this, as he watches Spock sink heavily onto one of the two cushions which face each other in the center of the room. “You are far more at ease with the captain gone,” he observes, lowering himself gracefully to sit opposite. “I had thought, at first, that your heightened response was directed at the doctor, whose manner was rather peremptory, and who seems to take some pleasure in a kind of recreational antagonism I assume must be unique to humans, and taxing on your Vulcan sensibilities. But I think I was wrong. Dr. McCoy’s obstreperous criticisms you are used to. They do not cost you too dearly, I think.”

“They do not,” Spock agrees.

“It is Captain Kirk you wish to protect. Protect even from yourself, when necessary. You must have felt as though you failed, injuring him during ritual combat - no matter that the blood fever had stripped you of reason. And now you fear you will fail him again.”

Spock looks down at his hands, twisting them nervously in his lap. A human habit, one he witnessed from time to time in his mother. It is uncharacteristic of him. Vulcans do not fidget. Yet he finds, though he is weary of standing, and of speaking, and grateful to be seated comfortably once more, that he is restless, and cannot force himself into stillness.

“Spock, I will be frank with you, now that we are alone,” says Val, leaning forward. He has crossed his legs into a meditation posture similar to Spock’s, but leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees in an oddly human pose. “I will state in private what I did not wish to say in front of human witnesses. We are scientists together, remember, so shame has no place in this room.”

Spock tenses up at this, but nods in response, permitting the doctor to continue.

“The report I received from the human doctors, McCoy and M’Benga - while frankly impressive given their lack of prior knowledge, and your own many deceptions in concealing your condition from them - offered what I believe to be a rather . . . shall we say, euphemistic understanding of the ritual they witnessed. They spoke of the ceremony as a marriage rite, and I understand that of course this is one piece of it. But their human conception of a marriage limits their comprehension. To abort the kal-if-fee as Dr. McCoy did before the ritual had been fulfilled by either mating or death . . . this is without precedent, as you know. I suspect the humans are comparing it to the Terran concept of divorce, when it may be closer to a psionic form of ischemic priapism.”

Spock stares at him, unblinking. “Priapism,” he repeats. “That is . . . certainly an interpretation . . . I had not considered.”

“This was your first pon farr,” says the doctor, “which marks your full sexual maturity as an adult Vulcan. The bond space you shared with T’Pring was stimulated into arousal by the blood fever, anticipating that it would obtain relief once you consummated the bond with her. But you did not. The blood fever itself, Dr. McCoy informs me, did subside after the koon-ut kal-if-fee and did not return; but your bond space has been stimulated and left unsatisfied for weeks now, and this is a highly dangerous state. I am able to sense it even without a meld. You are capable of tremendously powerful bonds, I think; the waves of psionic energy loose inside you with no outlet are more than your ordinary shields can maintain.”

Spock finds himself almost relieved that his fatigue runs so deep that the energy required of him to feel mortification right now is greater than he can muster. He had prepared himself for bad news from the doctor, was braced for a grim prognosis - intense suffering, painful treatments, perhaps even permanent disability or death - but he realizes now that he has never thought to consider this as . . . well, a sexual problem.

Though, as he has only been a fully sexually mature being for a matter of 3.7 weeks, this is perhaps forgivable.

“Among the Vetyeka, we have skilled sex workers with intensive psionic training who are capable of performing the kind of meld I would like to attempt,” says Val, “if you are interested in a more immersive erotic experience. There are two employed by this facility whose services I can recommend, and the process can be as discreet as you wish. If it would discomfit you to inform Dr. McCoy and Captain Kirk, I will not. I am also able to perform the meld myself, of course, but as a medical professional the experience would be different. You understand that, for example, the act of providing a massage may be an intentionally sexual experience, or it may not.”

“I want you,” Spock says immediately, then fumblingly corrects himself. “I would like you . . . to . . . perform . . . the procedure.”

Val nods. “Please know, before we begin, that you may change your mind at any time,” he says. “I will be able to sense your resistance or discomfort; you have only to think it, and I will sever the meld immediately. Do not feel shame or alarm if the problem is not solved on the first day; it is quite, quite likely that I will require numerous melds in order to fully repair the damage to your bond center so it will be capable of forming another such link in future.”

Spock starts visibly at this, and opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.

Val regards him thoughtfully, and his bright green eyes grow suddenly sad. “You had written off the possibility,” he guesses. “This was the last, but perhaps not the first time T’Pring expressed dissatisfaction with your bond. And you have been blaming your hybrid genetics for it all this time.”

“I -”

“We will not know until we try, will we? This is an experiment, do not forget. But Spock, you are so young,” Val says earnestly, leaning forward and taking Spock’s hands in both of his. His skin is blissfully cool, soothing to the touch against Spock’s feverish fingertips which are electric with unrestrained telepathic energy; but Val’s shields are immutable as a glacier, and Spock’s heat cannot permeate it. He feels nothing. No bombardment of human emotions, no golden thrum of JIM, JIM, JIM pulsing in the air between them at even the faintest touch of his captain's hand upon his shoulder. For the first time, he is powerfully aware of just how intensely not human Vaitlun Vikiska is. 

Over the long term, Spock thinks, he is not sure he could bear it; to sense only stillness, silence, quiet, after he has grown so accustomed to living inside the kaleidoscope of human emotion. But here, in this peaceful room, after so many weeks of suffering - unable to shield, every emotion heightened, the noise in his mind, the noise, the noise - the relief is so overwhelming he could weep.

Val is as strong as Spock is, mentally and physically. He does not have to hold himself back, to be cautious, to guard his Vulcanoid strength against the soft, fragile humans he cherishes. He does not need to protect Val from himself.

“The Vetyeka meld through joining hands, rather than via the cranial meld points,” Val says. “Is this acceptable to you?” Spock nods. “Very good. Then I ask you to close your eyes, and listen to your own breathing and heartbeat. Slow them, if you can.”

Spock tries, reaching for the inner place to which he goes in deep meditation where he can access the systems of his own body, the map of his muscles and arteries and nerves and bone, and he focuses on the too-fast, too-shallow scrape of his breathing, which continues to make speech so difficult. He envisions it like a wheel - turned one way, it will accelerate his breathing; turned the other, it will decelerate.

He grips the wheel and struggles to turn. It does not budge.

“I -” His voice cracks. “I am unable -”

“No shame in this space,” Val reminds him quietly. “We are not reproaching you for your failure. We are assessing the current state of your abilities. Are you able to slow your breathing from its current rate by 1%?”

Spock tries again, with all his might, striving to remind himself that Val is not asking him to push the wheel all the way back into position on his own. He is making a scientific inquiry. The wheel is not Spock. Lungs are not a person. This is not failure.

Curiosity, Val had said. Spock endeavors to approach the wheel as though he is asking it a question. How far are you willing to turn?

Eventually, he is able to achieve 1%.

“Good,” says Val, whose pointed Vetyekan ears are as keen as Spock’s, and can hear it. “Try again, and simply see how far it will go. Not to catalog your inadequacy; simply to identify for me the outer parameters of what is currently attainable. That way we will be able to mark our progress.”

Something in the young doctor’s calm, matter-of-fact approach seems to loosen a knot deep inside Spock somewhere, and all at once he feels a kind of inner release, as though a muscle which had been tensed has now relaxed. He reaches once more for the wheel, and finds it turns with greater ease than before; nowhere near its habitual fluidity, but an enormous improvement over the past twenty-four hours.

He inhales deeply, holds it, and releases.

“Thirty-seven percent,” he says. “I believe I have regulated my breathing sufficiently that speech will no longer be impeded.”

“Very good, Spock,” says Val. “And now your heart rate. I wonder - out of simple scientific curiosity - whether the percentage of progress in the one is tied to the other. To slow your heart rate by the same percentage would be a significant step towards achieving a deeper state of relaxation, without which your body cannot function. Let us see.”

Spock finds that, when he reaches out for the wheel again this time, it does not resist him as forcefully as he did before. He feels the hammering in his side begin to ease bit by bit by bit.

“Forty-two percent,” he finally says, and they both hear the spark of triumph in his voice.

“Excellent,” says Val. “What have we learned from this?”

“It is clear that my physical and mental conditions are linked. Inability to regulate my body’s ordinary functions no doubt contributed to my inability to meditate or sleep, which exacerbated the weakness I was already experiencing following the ravages of the plak tow.”

“And your frustration at your inability to heal yourself only made it more difficult to heal yourself,” Val agrees. “We will note all this as data. It carries no moral or qualitative weight, remember. We are simply making observations.”

“I will confess to a degree of cynicism when I was first informed that Dr. McCoy had sought you out for treatment,” Spock admits. “I did not believe anyone but a Vulcan could possess the ability to assist me. And yet, you already have.”

“Without wishing to cause offense,” says Val carefully, “it is possible that, in a situation such as this, where Vulcans were the problem, Vulcans cannot be the solution.”

Spock’s eyes snap up, and he regards the doctor in some surprise. “Clarify.”

“Spock, your bond was ripped from you,” Val reminds him. “T’Pring did that. Then you were forced into a violent confrontation you did not want, with a person you very badly did not wish to hurt. Your Vulcan laws did that. You were not offered an examination by a healer afterwards, and you were as good as forbidden to return to your homeworld where you might have received care, once your symptoms were detected. If I were you, and particularly if I had grown up with my human and Vulcan halves at war with one another, I do not believe any healer on Vulcan could offer me true ease; the fear of further judgment would be too great. I think you trust humans more than you trust Vulcans, and given the life you have led I suspect that is wise; so when your human doctors sent you to me, your doubt was not for McCoy, or M’Benga, or the Vetyeka - but for yourself.” He gives Spock’s hands, enfolded in his own, a gentle press. “I should like to leave you, at the end of this process, with the hope that you may bond again, if you wish it,” he says. “I feel the way your mind reaches. You crave it. Right now, it is a raw, open wound. We will heal it over, you and I, so something new may grow one day. You are far too young, attractive and interesting to forfeit the notion entirely.”

Spock is startled by this abrupt shift to such a personal tone, but he is not entirely displeased by it. Val is a pleasant companion, and Spock finds him, also, quite interesting. Perhaps attractive as well, though he has not really considered the young doctor in that light. But it is strangely gratifying, so soon after T’Pring’s scathing rejection, to be assured by another that he is not without worth.

And if, perhaps, Val is not the person from whom Spock longs to hear such words . . . well, he has had many years to resign himself. Jim Kirk’s friendship is a precious gift, and he will not be so uncharitable as to diminish its value simply because he is selfish, and wishes for more.

“Close your eyes,” says Val, “and let us see whether you are able to enter a very light meditative state, now that the oxygen flow to your brain is better regulated and your pulse is not so dangerously high. If not, no matter, simply concentrate on your breath. When you are ready, lower your shields. You may go as slowly as you wish. We have all the time in the world, and you will rest well after this, so there is no necessity for haste, or to pressure yourself. First, I will acquaint our minds with one another, and attempt to confirm whether my hypothesis is correct. If so, I will begin to attempt manual stimulation of the bond center in order to begin the healing process. I must inform you, I have melded with Vulcans before - healers from your world bring extreme cases to us, now and again, from among the riyeht-kashik or the v’tosh katur - and am told you will find the experience markedly different from what you are used to. I find the touch of Vulcan minds refreshingly bracing, as a rule. Sharp and cool and clear, the thoughts organized. You will find melding with a Vetyekan to be a gentler sensation.” His mouth quirks upward in a wryly amused grin. “‘Creamy’ was the adjective they used, as I recall,” he says. “I confess I am wholly uncertain whether or not to take that as a compliment.”

“It is difficult to imagine such a word can possibly be an accurate descriptor of a mental joining,” says Spock, unable to repress a faint whiff of judgment against whatever imprecise Vulcan would dare to say such a decidedly un-Vulcan thing.

“I will let you be the judge,” says Val, smiling. “Now, we will begin whenever you are ready.”

Spock closes his eyes. Rather than ordering his heart rate and breathing to slow, as he customarily would, he tries it Val’s way, approaching it as though he is simply wondering whether or not they will. Surprisingly, it works, and he finds that he is able to descend, after a moderate but not prohibitive degree of difficulty, to the first level of a meditative state. He can feel Val sending gentle waves of affirmation at him, through the link in their hands. Slowly, carefully, a little afraid of what might spill out, Spock lowers the fractured remains of his mental shields, bit by bit able to absorb more of the world around him, though he is aware of Val holding himself carefully at bay until the process is completed.

When his shields have been entirely removed, and he is wholly open to Val, he feels the hands wrapped around his tighten in a gentle, reassuring clasp.

~Do I have your consent to enter you, Spock?~

<Yes.>

And Spock submits completely.

Val pours into him, then, and Spock is astonished by the sensation. His Vetyekan mind is remarkable, all-encompassing, seeping into every nook and cranny of Spock’s consciousness, but somehow it does not overwhelm him. It is not a tidal wave, it is . . . a caress. Val is soft somehow, liquid, molten, and the touch of his mind is as reassuringly free of judgment as his eyes and his voice. He can see everything, now, all that Spock is and has ever been, and Spock can feel that he was not being disingenuous by proposing such a neutral, scientific approach; Val is taking in everything, reading, listening, watching, learning, touching Spock everywhere, but there is not a single flicker of criticism to be found. Never once in his life has anyone melded with Spock simply to offer him comfort, and it feels unfamiliar, alien, strange. 

But also . . . intoxicating.

Val oozes through him like spilled honey, lush and thick and somehow sweet in a way Spock can't articulate, cooling the burns in every feverish place, muffling the drumbeat of chaotic memories; and when he cannot entirely help himself from conjuring the image of his mother spreading a human delicacy referred to as “whipped cream” over the surface of a cake, Val’s low chuckle warms him gently from within.

~So perhaps the choice of adjective was apt, after all. I wondered.~

He can feel the gentle brush of Val exploring, and he does not hold the doctor back from all the places he wishes to go. His heartbeat eases still further, and he descends into the second level of meditation; Val has, he thinks, given the wheel another turn. Spock has not felt so serene in weeks.

~Tell me what you are feeling, Spock. Are you ready to proceed further? Do you need a respite? Or are you prepared to end our session for the day?~

<I find the touch of your mind pleasing, Val. I detect no deleterious effects, and in fact I believe already this joining has been beneficial. I have no objections to further exploration.>

~Very well. I will proceed to your bond center. The sensations here will be much more intense. It is akin to treating a severe epidermal burn, where the surrounding tissue is so damaged that the very attempt to apply a healing salve exacerbates the pain, simply because the flesh does not wish to be touched yet. I will repeat - you have only to think it, and I will terminate the connection. If all we accomplished today was this, you have still done a good day’s work, and I believe you will sleep soundly tonight, which will only make tomorrow easier. ~

<I am grateful for your sensitivity, but I am prepared to proceed further.>

~I am now reaching for your bond space. Prepare yourself for a more intense sensation.~

<Thus far, the change appears to be insignif - oh.> A violent tremor surges through Spock's entire body. <Oh. Val, that is - you are ->

~The damage is severe, Spock. This will be slow going. I am attempting to knit together small sections at a time, but I apologize if the experience is overwhelming.~

<It is . . . I did not realize it would be ->

~Pleasure.~ Val chuckles lightly. ~Spock, I diagnosed you with priapism and prescribed you a sex worker. What were you anticipating from this experience?~

<You characterized it as the difference between a healing massage to relieve muscle tension, and a more . . . erotic form of touch, designed for sexual gratification. A deep-tissue massage is often uncomfortable at first, even painful, when conducted properly.>

~Yes, but it can be pleasurable too. And it can even be sensual, or arousing, without being a sexual act. I am touching your mind now with the primary goal of healing what I can now see is a vast amount of severe psionic damage; but for both our sakes, I would prefer the experience to be more enjoyable than painful.~

<With your . . . your hands touching my hands, it is - the sensations are amplified, I am - >

Spock’s breathing and heart rate are accelerating again, but in a very different way. He slumps forward, unable to hold himself up anymore, and his forehead bumps gently against Val’s shoulder. He trembles, panting, as electricity ripples through him, heat rising everywhere, savoring the unfathomably delicious sensation of Val’s intimate caresses stimulating that tiny corner of his mind.

When he realizes he has become physically aroused, Val mentally waves away the rising tide of his embarrassment before he can articulate the apology he feels. Here, too, another strategic omission from his reports to Dr. McCoy, which Val comprehends immediately: that since the pon farr subsided, Spock has begun for the first time to experience sexual desire. He has even succumbed to the temptation of self-pleasure, an act he once loftily dismissed as an illogical human pastime . . . right up until the very first night after he returned to the ship, overwhelmed with joy and relief to find Jim alive. He lay in bed that night and replayed the day's events - the way Jim’s body felt pressed against his own, so hot and hard and unyielding, Jim’s golden beauty, Jim’s unexpected strength - only in his covert imaginings there were no weapons, no witnesses, no T’Pring; just hot red sand, and bodies moving against each other. He had not realized he was accelerating toward the first sexual climax of his life until it was upon him, forcing an unbidden cry out of his mouth, which he bit back as swiftly as he could, praying it had not been overheard by Jim on the other side of their shared wall. Since then, the act has repeated itself every night, and the images which precipitate it are always Jim, though they are hazy, vague. Spock’s knowledge of human sexual habits is academic and theoretical, divorced from any sense of what he himself might enjoy; he knows only that he liked the way Jim felt on top of him, moving against him, the pressure of their bodies tangled together.

~Spock, this is very good. I believe that if you are capable of stimulating yourself sexually, it will facilitate your healing process. I am able to repair the damaged tissue 17% more rapidly now that your conscious thoughts have turned to images of an erotic nature. Would you like to attempt a new experiment?~

<I . . . I do not know. I am . . . overwhelmed by what I feel.>

~Some Vulcans - though not all - are able to achieve sexual climax without physical touch, or direct telepathic stimulation of the genital organs. You are in the unique position of experiencing both Vulcan and human desire simultaneously. Am I correct in deducing, from the content of your thoughts, that you experience sexual attraction to Captain Kirk?~

Hearing it put so frankly evokes a mild burst of panic; but Val’s languid, sinuous caresses pour through the ache in his mind, hushing and soothing him.

~I make no judgment. I inquire merely whether Captain Kirk is an adequate subject for our experiment. If you continue to explore your fantasies of him while I work, I believe it will channel the intensity of the sensations in a pleasurable direction, and if you are able to achieve climax through thought alone, you may find that too has a profound healing effect on the bond center. ~

<I am . . . inexperienced. I do not know how to understand my own desires. What I . . . wish to do. Or wish him to do to me. I do not know what forms of sexual congress would bring me pleasure.>

~You wished to be dominated by him, I think. We may begin there. The sensation of his body on top of yours sparked a significant reaction.~

<Yes.>

~Do you wish to be penetrated by him? ~

Spock’s reaction to this is explosive. His whole body convulses, leaving him slumped heavily against Val’s shoulder as he pants and trembles.

To be penetrated by Jim.

To feel Jim lying over him, gently parting his thighs, entering him . . . to be filled by Jim, to carry Jim inside himself . . . Spock is overwhelmed, suddenly, by the force of his own desire, which expands within his chest like a bubble and leaves him feeling lightheaded, giddy.

Jim’s human penis, which Spock has never examined closely, but which he knows must be beautiful because Jim is beautiful. He has seen it in passing - shared bathing facilities on away missions, emergency chemical showers in Sickbay - and its basic schematics while flaccid are therefore housed in his eidetic memory; but he has never given himself permission to contemplate it in its aroused state. It would be flushed a deeper pink than usual, contrasting with its thatch of soft brown hair, silky on the outside around a thick central core of iron heat. Spock is familiar with the biological functions at play, he could pass any Starfleet Medical human anatomy exam, but he is suddenly marveling at the existence of hundreds of questions he has never considered. For example, he understands the biological function of Jim’s testicles, but not how they would feel in his hand, whether the texture of the skin is different there. He can conjecture that the presence of iron-rich blood would mean Jim’s taste contains metallic and salty notes, but that is not the same as knowing. And having never experienced penetration, he cannot begin to imagine what sensations it might entail.

~If you would not find some degree of guidance inappropriate, Spock, my Vetyekan anatomy is comparable to yours. I myself take great pleasure in penetrating my lovers, and being penetrated by them in turn. I am able to share my memory of those sensations with you, in order to help you better know your own desires. Do you wish for me to assist you in your fantasies of Captain Kirk?~

It is a sign of just how far Spock has veered from what might be considered “normal” that the request elicits no shame, no guilt, not even a hint of misgivings. The yes he transmits to Val comes from the very deepest place of himself. A mental nudge from the doctor, who he can still feel busily working away in his mind, prompts Spock to conjure a visual image as the basis for this fantasy. Himself and Jim, on the burning sands of Vulcan. Spock lies naked on his back, hot wind licking at his skin. Jim lies above him, gazing down, pinning Spock’s wrists above his head . . . but there is no violence, no blood fever, no pain. No fear.

“I claim you,” Jim says softly, smiling down at Spock in that quiet, private way he does not share with anyone else. “Spock. Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched. We meet at the appointed place.”

Spock trembles, suddenly realizing a truth about himself he had not known until this moment. He understands, now, why his bond with T’Pring was never fulfilling, why he did not look forward with anticipation to consummating it once he came of age. The way identical poles of a magnet repel each other rather than attracting, he and T'Pring were incompatible because they both sought the same thing. Much was whispered, all his life, about the half-human son of Sarek and whether he could possibly satisfy such a desirable Vulcan mate; but there is a peculiar kind of power in his realization that, in fact, he had always been aware on some level that she could not satisfy him.

“Jim,” he whispers. “Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched. I await you.”

~Very good, Spock.~ Val’s voice is like warm velvet in his mind, gently nudging him to go further, to be just a little braver, bolder, to claim what he wants. To give himself, at least, the possibility of imagining it, no matter that this can never be real. He must, at the least, be honest with himself.

The naked dream-Jim bends his head and presses a kiss against Spock’s mouth, the human way, as Spock has seen him do before with beautiful women; but he has only observed the act from the outside and cannot imagine how it feels, the sensations frustratingly blank.

~Let me help,~ Val murmurs, and suddenly Spock is no longer standing outside his body, watching Jim kiss him; he is lying beneath him, looking up. He can feel Jim everywhere, the heat of skin against skin and the press of lips against lips and then - oh! - a hot, searching tongue licks into his mouth, a shocking sensation. Spock did not know his tongue was sensitive to touch, yet the gentle dance of Jim’s with his own makes him shudder and whimper, both inside the meld and without.

~If these bodies were made of flesh, you would require significantly more preparation in order to perform the act safely,~ Val reminds him with a flicker of amusement. ~I am a doctor before anything else, you will recall. But for now, I think you are eager to learn how this feels.~

<Yes. Please. Please. I wish for Jim to penetrate me. I can wait no longer . . . I wish to know - >

Then a cry is torn from his lips, pleasure so startling that outside the meld, Val lets go of one of his hands in order to wrap a comforting arm around his back and pull him close, stroking his back, holding him so he does not fall apart.

The pleasure of being penetrated is indescribable.

Val is sharing his own memories, and he is honest. The sensation is not without discomfort. It is so new, so foreign, and the flared head of Jim’s human penis burns as it pushes him open wider, too wide, breaching the tight ring of muscle. Then, once he has pushed all the way in, the weight of it, the fullness, is so shocking that Spock cannot breathe.

But the pain is nothing compared to the sweetness.

Jim smiles down at him, his radiant face soft with pleasure, his voice murmuring Spock’s name, and somehow being filled by Jim is exactly like everything else about loving Jim - too much, too beautiful, too overwhelming, and all Spock can do is hold on.

~You love him.~ Val’s voice is surprised, and gentle, and sad. ~Spock, I think he does not know this.~

<He cannot know.> A brief, wordless catalog of beautiful women’s faces, and he feels Val’s wordless comprehension. No more needs to be said.

~I am sorry I cannot make this fantasy real for you. But I can give you this, at least. In a way, he is helping to heal you. And that is something profound, whatever name you call it, and whether he knows or not. Your feelings for him are making you whole again. I honor him for that.~

<I did not know - I have never felt - with T’Pring, it was not like this. I did not know it could be like this.>

~You did not realize what you were missing by suffering through a bond which did not fulfill you.~

<No.>

~We will heal your mind together, Spock. You, and Captain Kirk, and me. And someday, perhaps, you will bond anew. But even if you do not, you deserve to know pleasure. To understand what your body craves and what it does not. Already, Spock, you are a different man than you were when you arrived here. Already you have grown, and changed. You are more than you knew yourself to be.~

Jim looks down at him on Vulcan’s red sands, pinning Spock to the ground, and Spock could resist if he wished, could throw Jim off him if he chose to, but it feels so right and so true and so perfect to simply yield, to receive, to be cared for, to lay down his Vulcan strength and trust in Jim’s body - Jim, who understands pleasure, who is generous and giving, Spock would be so safe in his hands, there is no one he has ever trusted more deeply, Jim would not hurt him, not ever, Jim would treat Spock’s body like a sacred vessel and pour himself into it with gratitude and joy . . . 

The dream-Jim thrusts deeper and deeper into Spock until finally, with a guttural cry, his hips stutter again and again and an indescribable warmth floods Spock’s body. The knowledge that he will bear infinitesimal traces of Jim within himself forever after this is so powerfully erotic that his own climax follows shortly after, exploding within him like a star going nova, wave after shockwave coursing through his veins. The experience is so overwhelming that he does not realize for several minutes - not until he opens his eyes to find himself lying on a soft mattress, his soiled robes removed, the faintest sensation of warm water still drying against his skin - that the climax was not confined to his mind.

“Sleep, Spock,” he hears Val say from across the room, where he is washing his hands and placing Spock’s robes into the laundry. “You did very well today.”

Spock’s limbs are languid and heavy, and for the first time since he began experiencing the symptoms of the blood fever, he feels the pleasant sensation of drowsiness which precedes healthy and restorative slumber. As he closes his eyes and sinks into the comfortable bed, Val closes the door behind him, leaving Spock alone in darkness.

He sleeps.

Chapter Text

Captain’s Log. Stardate 2995.5.

Our third day among the Vetyeka. Lieutenant Uhura and her team have been hard at work at the central library since our arrival, and are making excellent progress on their efforts to update the universal translator. Dr. McCoy and I had a productive meeting with several members of the high council this morning, and will be joining them for a formal reception tonight. Several additional members of the Enterprise science department have been invited to beam down and join us, particularly those with expertise in meteorology. Most inhabited regions of Vetya VII are located under biodomes for protection from the severe year-round winters, with technology far more advanced than our own. Continual dialogue between their climate scientists and the Federation's is greatly advisable; the Vetyeka may possess useful knowledge to assist us in future efforts to terraform uninhabited planets at sub-zero temperatures.

No word yet from Mr. Spock, who continues his independent research with Dr. Vikiska at the hospital, though Dr. McCoy was informed that the project is proceeding favorably and may be completed by the end of the week. His reports on the hospital and its staff are glowing so far, and he finds the young mind healer a very impressive person. I can only presume Mr. Spock does as well.

* * * * *

JIM

“You know,” says Bones, dropping into the seat across from Jim in the elegant little dining area of their guest quarters, “this new experimental literary style you're playing around with is fascinating. Masterful usage of the passive voice." He takes a large bite of the salad he's carried over from the replicator and gestures pointedly at Jim with his fork. "I’ve never heard a captain so thoroughly leave himself out of his own logs as you've begun to do."

Jim sighs, setting down his recorder and picking up the sandwich he'd replicated for himself. “Tell me, at exactly what point in our relationship did I lead you to believe that if you happen to eavesdrop on me recording my logs, that means I’m requesting editorial feedback?”

Bones shakes his head. “You’re acting funny, and I don’t like it,” he declares. “I’ve never known you to be cagey about a personal opinion before. Uhura thinks the library is great. Bones thinks the hospital is great. Spock thinks Dr. V is great. What do you think about Vetya VII, Jim?”

Jim takes a large bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows, and raises an eyebrow. “I think their replicators do an impressively accurate pastrami on rye, for people who run into humans so rarely.”

"Jim."

"Didn't you hear me say that continued dialogue was advisable? It may be passive voice, but it's a personal opinion nonetheless."

“Jim.” Bones leans forward. "Spit it out."

"Three days with no word," Jim begins, and Bones buries his face in his hands. "Oh, come off it. You knew I'd worry. It's too damn long to go without hearing from him."

“You’re mother henning again," warns the doctor, "and that’s my job.”

“Well, you don’t have to be the mother hen, do you, because you get to read each morning's top secret doctor-to-doctor progress report,” says Jim; but his attempts at breezy nonchalance go terribly wrong somewhere, and what emerges sounds downright bitter.

Bones sighs, setting down his fork with a familiar grumble that Jim knows means time for me to give you a piece of my mind. “As I've reminded you about thirty times a day since we got here, Spock is an intensely private person who is being treated for an intensely private medical situation. Val passes along what he thinks Spock's CMO ought to know, and what Spock's given him permission to share with me. The only thing you should give a damn about, Jim, is that it's good news. The treatments are working like a charm, and Spock's already miles better. Hell, he slept for seventeen hours after their very first session! Do you have any idea how long it was before then since he'd slept at all? And since then he's progressed to being able to meditate at least an hour every day. Vital signs improving across the board. They may even attempt a full Vulcan healing trance tomorrow."

“I’m glad."

"This is good for him, Jim. Coming here was the right decision. In fact," he adds thoughtfully, "it might not be a bad idea to discreetly arrange for shore leave on Vetya VII on a semi-regular basis; the crew will enjoy the mountain resort biodomes, skiing and sledding and whatnot, and Spock can pop back down here for a little tune-up with Val. Vulcans need regular access to mind contact once they’ve reached pon farr. That’s part of what the bonds are for. Demanding that Spock go without for years at a time, simply because that frosty little ex-wife of his threw him over - and because the Enterprise doesn’t get back to Vulcan often enough for him to find time to woo another mate - why, it would be just as inhumane as expecting you to go that long without . . .”

He trails off without finishing the sentence, but the suggestive waggle of his eyebrow is sufficient.

“All right, Bones,” Jim says shortly. “You’ve made your point.”

“Have I? Because I had a couple more zingers in the can.”

“Well, it’s not funny.”

“I’ll say it’s not,” Bones retorts. “Jim, the man could have died.”

Jim feels the clench of nausea rising in his stomach and takes a long drink of his water, shaking it off. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know it isn’t.” Bones is watching him rather strangely now. “That’s because you’re making this about yourself. And I think I’d like to know why. Spock arrived here a shell of a man, and after three days he’s sleeping, eating, and apparently beating Val at chess. The treatment is working! And damned fast. Why aren’t you jumping up and down for joy, that’s what I want to know.”

“I am!” Jim protests. “Bones, of course I am. I’m just going to worry until I see him for myself. You know me.”

“Well, you have nothing to worry about. While you were hobnobbing with those council members yesterday and talking about how to turn ice planets into snow globes, I took a tour of the hospital facilities with Val and his colleagues, and they do a heck of a lot more here than Vulcan parapsychology. I met a Betazoid fellow who arrived a few weeks ago on the verge of a nervous breakdown because his psi centers had some kind of neurological resistance to shielding. Just bombarded with sensory input from around him all the time. Almost lost it. Doctors got in there and sorted him right out. Saved his life. And they get cases from psi-null races, too; there’s some recessive Trill gene that pops up randomly from time to time that means you can’t ever be joined because your brain won’t link with a Host, and they’ve got a whole team working on a cure. And you know, he doesn’t toot his own horn about it, but that young Dr. Vikiska seems to be the heart and soul of the whole operation. Everywhere we went, patients knew his name, and medical staff kept coming up to tell me what a genius he is. Did you know he's treating a group of Romulan military veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder? Romulan veterans! Here! And he's getting them to sit around in a circle and talk about their feelings, and it's working. Impressive stuff. A real outside-the-box thinker. Handsome, too, I happened to notice, though you know the fellas aren’t usually my type. Surprised you didn’t make something of it, though.”

Jim takes an overlarge bite of his sandwich to avoid answering this. But whatever his face is doing must give away more than he intended, because Bones makes a smug kind of “hmmph” noise, like Jim’s just proven him right about something.

“You don’t like him."

“I never said that, or anything like it, and if you put that in your logs I’ll have you up on charges, Dr. McCoy.”

“I can’t believe it.” Bones shakes his head. “Good-looking, kindhearted science genius right in front of you - and red hair, you love ‘em with red hair! - and more than that, he’s bending over backwards to save Spock’s life, which is usually your favorite trait in a person. What gives?”

Jim sets his sandwich down with shaking hands, uncertain why his heart is suddenly racing. “The melds they’re doing,” he says, staring fixedly down at his plate, unable to meet his friend’s eyes for this. “I've just . . . I've been thinking, Bones. I've been trying to work it all out. And I can't stop asking myself - it's just that it all seems tied in, somehow, with a mating drive gone wrong. The blood fever, the damaged bond with T’Pring . . . So if that's the cause of the problem, then it made me wonder about the solution, and whether the kind of therapeutic treatment Val’s providing involves -”

“Jim.” His voice is abruptly sharp and stern, professionally cold. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

" - having sex with Spock."

The doctor is silent for a long, long time. “For all four of our sakes,” he finally says, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that."

"Bones -"

"But to stop you from ever saying it again," he steamrolls right over Jim as though he hadn't even spoken, "I’m going to remind you all the reasons why, and you're going to shut the hell up and listen. First of all, you are Spock’s commanding officer and the captain of the ship, and you cannot go around inquiring into your crew members’ sexual activity, which I know that you know, but apparently it needs saying, so I'm saying it. Second of all, it is none of your damn business. Third of all, see second of all. Fourth of all, this is not just any crewman, it's Spock. Spock who was so ashamed of what turned out to be a perfectly standard Vulcan biology cycle that he lied to us for weeks until his behavior was hovering dangerously close to court-martial territory, which should be proof enough of what happens when he’s afraid he’s going to be judged. Fifth of all, there’s nothing wrong with doctors and there’s nothing wrong with sex workers but conflating the one with the other is insulting to Dr. Vikiska. You’re either making a sweeping generalization about the Vetyeka being more psionically promiscuous than other races, or you’re implying Val may have crossed professional lines. Sixth of all, it’s none of your damn business, and if there was any reason at all that it affected the ship or crew and actually was your business, you should trust me that I would have already told you. Seventh of all, and this is the big one: why does it even matter?” He leans forward across the table, glowering at Jim. “I’m serious. Invasive, prurient curiosity isn't like you, and while I'm not going to break my doctor-patient confidentiality, or piss off both Spock and Val by telling them you asked, I am going make you explain yourself to me.”

Jim looks at him for a long time. “Are you finished?” he finally asks, but there’s no rancor in it. He’s suddenly just very, very tired.

Bones sits back in his chair. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m finished.”

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. “Hell of a speech.”

“You gonna answer the question?”

“Bones, I don’t know why I -”

“Sure you do.” Bones is suddenly implacable. “You absolutely do know. And I think maybe I know too. But I’m curious whether you’ll actually say it.” Caught, Jim looks away, cheeks burning, mortified to be so obvious. Bones softens a little, at this. “You don’t like to share him,” he ventures, but it’s an observation and not an accusation. He isn’t judging anymore. “You’d always rather have Spock to yourself.”

Jim opens his hands in a helpless gesture. “Does that make me a terrible friend? That I worry, sometimes, about him finding someone to share his life with - really, properly, bonding and marriage and the whole nine yards - and bumping me to second place?”

“Jim, if you think there’s any chance that Spock coming home from the hospital with a Vetyekan husband in tow is going to be the death knell of your little chess games -”

“I’m serious, Bones. I’m aware that it’s selfish. You don’t have to remind me of that. I’m making an effort. You let me have it just now, speaking as Spock’s doctor, and God knows I deserved it; but as Jim’s friend - what the hell do I do?”

“You invite Val to join us for tonight's diplomatic reception,” Bones advises him, “and you put on your best dress and smile pretty and give him that good old James Tiberius charm; because the worst imaginable thing you could do here, Jim, is to make Spock think he has to choose between the doctor providing him lifesaving treatment, and his captain.”

“Oh, God.” Jim buries his face in his hands. “Dammit, Bones, that’s exactly what I was doing, wasn’t it. Dammit. Dammit.”

“He’ll choose you, Jim,” Bones says gently. “Over himself. Over his own life. Over everything. He’ll always choose you. Without stopping to think long enough for you to talk him out of it. He’ll choose you, and you’ll choose him, because that’s the way you morons are, because apparently you both want to send me into an early grave. So you can’t ever ask him to choose. Spock needs to know that his captain, and his friend, is 100% behind him. That you support anything Spock deems necessary to get himself back to his job and his life in one piece. The minute he sniffs out a single hint of ambivalence on your part - and I mean the very minute - the whole thing’s over.”

Jim shakes his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me, Bones,” he says ruefully.

Bones eyes him over the rim of his water glass. “Want me to tell you?”

“Not really, no.”

The doctor snorts. “Coward.”

Jim pointedly ignores him, in favor of picking up his sandwich again, then realizes he isn’t hungry and sets it back down again. “The formal reception tonight, you think? Champagne, dress uniform, olive branch?”

Bones nods. “If Spock’s feeling up for it, he should join too. But you should invite Val personally, and be extra nice. Penance, for whatever mean little sins you’re committing against him in your head.”

“I’m not -”

“Oh, please. I can always tell.” Jim sighs heavily, all the fight drained out of him, which is how McCoy knows he’s won. “Good,” he says briskly, his voice decidedly unsympathetic. “Just think of it this way: every time you’re tempted to go hard on him because he’s younger and prettier than you -”

“That’s not why.”

“ - just remind yourself that this is the man who dropped every case on his desk, with a day and a half’s notice, to save Spock’s life.”

It’s impossible for Jim to hold out against that argument, so he doesn’t even try.

He knows it’s beneath him. He knows it’s petty. He knows there’s absolutely no justification for asking Bones what he asked, and frankly the fact that Bones didn’t file an incident report is a true gesture of friendship.

Because, actually, Jim doesn’t understand why it bothers him so much. He’s not being deliberately evasive. It’s a gut feeling, something he’s wholly unable to explain. It kept him up all night last night, imagining Val with his graceful hands on Spock’s meld points, or roaming all over his body, the Vulcan writhing in pleasure, naked, the head of a glistening green cock just beginning to peek through the folds of his sheath, Val whispering pretty things in Vulcan until Spock’s hips lift off the floor and he comes and comes and comes.

And hadn’t that come out of nowhere - the image of Spock in the throes of passion, and the startling sensation of being turned on by it.

But Jim’s never looked at Spock that way, never thought about him as a sexual being in any context, and reminding himself “that’s because he wasn’t until five days ago” doesn’t do much to help the problem go away.

No, something’s not right, some wires got crossed somewhere and Jim’s brain’s gone askew. But if he can't identify the problem, he can't fix it, which means it'll have to keep until later. Tonight, he needs to put all that aside and focus on being the most charming captain in Starfleet, so Spock doesn't feel guilty about accepting Val's help.

Because Bones is right. If Jim pointed at Val and said "it's him or me," Spock would choose Jim without a second thought. And Jim can't be the kind of person who would ask the most important person in his life to make that choice.

Without Val, Spock might never have been okay again, and Jim needs Spock to be okay. Nothing else matters.

And the sooner he gets well, the sooner Jim gets him back.

 * * * * *

SPOCK

“Your progress is remarkable,” Val says approvingly, holding out a damp cloth for Spock to tidy himself following his fourth sexual climax of the day. “By my calculations, your bond center is now nearly 57.5% repaired. I would ask how you are feeling, but the improvement in your condition is visible to even a casual viewer.”

Spock rises to his feet, reveling in the ease with which his limbs now obey his mental commands, to pad naked across the room toward the tiled washroom area, and accepts the cloth, painstakingly washing away the traces of sticky ejaculate on his abdomen, pelvis and thighs. “I have not felt so clear-headed in weeks. I do not have words to express my gratitude for your services.”

Val leans back against the sink, arms folded. “You are not fully healed, just yet,” he reminds his patient, “and it would be wise to carefully consider the level of exertion you feel prepared to undertake. Particularly in regards to leaving this room where you will be susceptible to absorbing the psionic energy of others. You are a long, long way from full shielding.”

“I wish to accompany you to the reception nonetheless,” says Spock firmly. He considers the matter closed.

“You wish to see Jim.”

There seems little point in denying it, so Spock does not bother.

Val sighs. “I do not desire to overstep the boundary between medical advice and personal advice. However, if you have not yet made a decision about how to proceed with Captain Kirk - what you may or may not wish to disclose to him about your own feelings - consider whether it may be prudent to wait until you are a little stronger.”

Spock makes his way to the closet to begin dressing himself. “My strength is sufficient."

“You are presently experiencing what we have both observed, through trial and error, to be a temporary surge of energy and euphoria which follows a sexual climax while the bond space is being stimulated,” Val cautions him. “None so far have lasted longer than one hundred eleven minutes.”

“Each successive surge has achieved a duration between 7% and 9% longer than the last.”

“Meaning the best you can hope is that this dinner lasts no more than two hours. And you have not met the high ministers. They are excessively fond of hearing themselves talk.”

“I have not met your high ministers. I am eminently familiar with the ways of politicians in general. Do not forget who my father is, Val.”

“Yes,” the doctor retorts wryly, “you grew up in this world. I have not forgotten. And I think we both know my concern at present has little to do with your tolerance for tedious discussions of bureaucracy.”

Spock finishes tying the underlayer of his robes and turns to meet his gaze. “You doubt my ability to shield in Jim’s presence.”

“You say he is a tactile person. Humans often are. That itself would necessitate an exponential increase in the energy required. I can only bolster your shields with mine when you and I are in physical contact. Will you not find it burdensome to have your doctor glued to your side all evening, unable to be separated?”

“Nothing about your company is burdensome,” says Spock. “And if I am able to draw upon your psionic energy for shielding to reserve my own, I calculate that the corresponding redirection of my internal resources -”

“You could hold out for three hours. Maybe even four.”

“Yes.”

Val looks at him for a long time. “I obeyed your request and sent the medical report to your Chief Medical Officer only,” he says slowly, “and I excised a great many details. Still, I think if he is as perceptive as he seems, he will have deduced from the data provided that the treatment you are receiving incorporates erotic stimulation.”

Spock feels his jaw twitch. “While under ordinary circumstances, I would prefer to avoid disclosing such intimate details to Dr. McCoy, I cannot deny that he has evinced a remarkable degree of cultural sensitivity and professionalism regarding my current malady. I trust him not to violate my privacy by revealing that which was communicated in confidence.”

“That is not what I’m talking about, Spock,” says Val. “What I’m asking you is why you don’t want Captain Kirk to know. His cultural sensitivity and professionalism aren’t in question, either. Obviously humans have a long history of antiquated sexual mores, but Kirk does not seem to subscribe to this. I can’t imagine, based on what you’ve shown me, that he would think less of you if the process was explained to him. He would find it unusual, perhaps, but I don’t think he would judge you.”

Spock feels a flicker of anxiety as he fastens the overlayer of his black robes and turns to face Val head-on, choosing his words carefully. “You have misunderstood the nature of my concern. I do not wish to cause offense to you, Val, and I am aware that my reservations may have . . . illogical emotional roots.”

“Is it my discretion you do not trust? Are you worried that, if the captain learns self-stimulation through erotic imagery is part of the treatment, he will be able to deduce who the subject of that imagery might be?”

Spock feels a warm flush sweep over his cheeks, and looks away. “I have perfect faith in your discretion,” he says, stepping into his black silk slippers to avoid making eye contact with the doctor. “And Jim would have no reason to suspect me of harboring such thoughts. As I have stated, he does not regard me in that way.”

“Then help me understand. If you want me to give you permission to leave the hospital, I need to know what you are worried about so I can help you avoid it.”

Spock’s cheeks burn with mortification. “Your physical appearance and demeanor are . . . very pleasing,” he says haltingly, eyes fixed on the floor. “And the captain is . . . curious, and adventurous in his amorous partnerships. I have never known him to experience attraction to a male, but he finds new experiences to be exciting. If he learned that the Vetyeka are capable of such unique forms of mind-to-mind intimacy -”

“Spock.” Val’s voice is mildly incredulous. “You have asked me to withhold medical data from your commanding officer because you are concerned he will proposition me sexually to perform the same service for him?”

It's silent for a long time while Spock tries to determine how to respond to this. “My fears are not rational,” he finally mumbles, still looking at the floor.

“No, they are not,” the doctor agrees. “I am uncertain, at the moment, whether the greater insult is to him, or to myself, but that is a secondary concern. Spock, if your affections run so deep that you are distressed beyond the capacity for logic by even the distant possibility of Kirk choosing to be sexually intimate with a man who is not you, I think we both know you have passed the point at which disclosure becomes necessary.”

Spock hangs his head. “I will not attend the dinner,” he says heavily.

“No,” says the doctor firmly, surprising him. “You will. I did not say you should tell him tonight. Let us be scientists, Spock, and gather data.”

“On what subject?”

“It sounds as if you possess enough uncertainty about the precise boundaries of James Kirk’s sexual orientation to contemplate the possibility of him experiencing attraction for me.”

“I am unable to accurately calculate the likelihood of such a scenario.”

“Then we need more information. If he is capable of experiencing attraction to me, then he is capable of experiencing attraction to men. Perhaps you have observed indicators in that direction in the past, but on a subconscious level. Your primary argument for denying his capacity to experience attraction to you was that you had only seen him intimate with women.”

Spock stares at him. “What are you proposing?”

“An experiment.” Val’s face is sparkling with amusement. “Jealousy can be very instructive, Spock. And now you have made me curious. I will admit that I initially agreed to this dinner out of professional obligation, and because I have enjoyed my discussions on parapsychology with your Chief Medical Officer; but now I find a second agenda has presented itself.”

Spock’s eyes widen, and he regards the doctor with a faint sense of alarm. “A second agenda?” he repeats faintly.

“Your bond space will need tending even after it heals, Spock,” Val reminds him. “It is necessary for adult members of your race. I greatly enjoy the experience of melding with you, and I would offer myself as a candidate if I thought you would accept me. Vetyekan telepathy is somewhat distinct from Vulcans in that bonding and mental contact is not restricted by distance; if you wished it, we could form a bond that would allow you receive the care you need without obligating either one of us to give up our professions, and which would bring us both enormous mental and physical pleasure. But as you do not wish it, I think the optimal candidate is quite clear to us both. We simply need more information.”

Not entirely certain what to make of this, and intensely discomfited by the doctor’s implications, Spock follows him out the door with an increasing sense of alarm. “You will do nothing to cause embarrassment or unpleasantness to Captain Kirk,” he says, realizing as the words emerge from his mouth that even he cannot tell whether it is an order or a question. "You will not imply that I wish him as a bondmate, or disclose the nature of my . . . intimate thoughts."

Val turns left toward his private office, which is in the opposite direction from the transport bay and where he therefore clearly intends to replicate a more impressive set of clothing than the medical uniform he currently wears, a fact which only heightens Spock’s misgivings.

"Val," Spock demands, striding quickly to keep up. "I require your word on this matter."

"The third of your points would violate doctor/patient confidentiality, Spock," Val points out as he pushes open his office door, "and the second is not for me to say."

"The first is the most significant, to which the second and third are obviously subsidiary. Val, I must have your promise."

“I will do nothing to cause embarrassment or unpleasantness to Captain Kirk for non-altruistic reasons,” Val concedes, tapping away at the wall panel until a heap of shimmering fabric appears, then disappearing with it into his ensuite washroom. “I can promise you faithfully, Spock, I will conduct myself in accordance to my oath as a medical professional and always in aid of my primary obligation, which is to serve your welfare. Can you be satisfied with that?”

Spock attempts to formulate a reply, but is halted by the doctor’s emergence from the washroom wearing a flowing robe of iridescent violet, fastened at the hip with a cluster of amethyst gems. The garment is similar in cut to Spock’s own Vulcan robes, but decidedly more . . . provocative. There is no underlayer, and the neckline is open to reveal the cleft between Val’s pectoral muscles, while the gauzy fabric clings about his hips and thighs. He has also removed the tie with which he habitually fastens back his auburn hair, which now curls loosely about his shoulders in a decidedly sensual manner.

“If your change in appearance is calculated to assuage my concerns that Captain Kirk may find himself attracted to you,” Spock finally says, “you have categorically failed.”

Val grins at him. “Vulcans really are no good at this,” he complains, ushering Spock out. “If you were Betazoid, we would not be having this problem.”

“If I were Betazoid,” says Spock dourly as they make their way to the transporter room, “I would not be having any of these problems.”

The doctor seems to find this very funny, and gives his back a comforting pat. “Come now,” he says. “We are scientists, remember? You have proposed a hypothesis that Captain James Kirk experiences attraction to beings of the male gender, including those not of his own human species. Tonight we will attempt to gather data which supports or refutes your conclusion. We will review our findings at the end of the night, and determine from there how best to proceed tomorrow.” He slips his arm through Spock’s. “Stay close to me, and I will share my shields with you,” he advises. “This will allow you more time in your captain’s company, and will increase the data points we are able to collect.”

“Very well.”

“But if you begin to feel weak or tired, or if I sense your mental controls flagging -”

“I will inform you,” Spock promises. “I will be responsible with my health.”

Val gives a small sniff which might be laughter. “You mean you wish to demonstrate before Captain Kirk that you are being responsible with your health, in order to ameliorate his concern.” Spock says nothing, which makes Val laugh again. “All right, my friend,” he says, as they step up onto the transport platform. “No more teasing. I will say nothing in front of the captain to give you away. You have my word. I can be the soul of discretion when I choose to be. And besides, here we are in my territory,” he adds. “Tonight we will be on yours. I am not, as a rule, fond of political events. I did not grow up, like you, with a father who was an ambassador.”

“What are your parents’ professions?” Spock asks, suddenly curious. It occurs to him that Val has revealed remarkably little about himself.

“I mentioned them to you yesterday.” There is a flicker of faint amusement in his voice. “They both work here at the hospital, in fact.”

“You did no such -” Spock begins, then cuts himself off, unable to restrain a violent green blush from sweeping across his cheeks.

“Ah,” says Val merrily. “You remembered.”

“Your parents are the psionic sex workers to whom you recommended me.” 

“The highest-reputed among all the Vetyeka,” Val says proudly.

"You offered your parents to me. Sexually."

"Our professional lives overlap on occasion. We periodically refer clients to one another. I would not have risked sending you to a stranger."

Spock winces. “I would not recommend disclosing this information to Captain Kirk."

“Why not? Does he harbor negative opinions of their line of work?”

“Nothing of the kind. But he will make . . . assumptions,” Spock says helplessly. “About you. And about myself.”

Val grins at him. “And we will let him,” he says, raising an eyebrow in an expression Spock can only describe, with a sinking heart, as mischievous. “And then, my friend - we shall see what happens.”

Spock’s last thought, before the silver beam overtakes them and the hospital shimmers out of view, is a sinking sensation of dread.

This may turn out to have been a very bad idea.

Chapter Text

JIM

The consulate on Vetya VII is located atop the highest peak of a mountain range about seventy kilometers outside the capital. It shares some similarities with Andorian architecture, Jim observes, recalling that they were the Vetyekan people's first introduction to Federation cultures a little over thirty years ago. Cold-dwellers instinctively get along, it seems. Like most of the public buildings they've visited on this trip, the consulate is only partially enclosed; with the protection of their climate-controlled biodomes to protect them from the elements, the Vetyeka seem to prefer unobstructed views of their marvelous scenery whenever possible - certainly an asset worth flaunting in a building designed to host diplomats from all over the galaxy. The reception rooms are all located on the highest floor, with no walls or roof, so there's nothing to impede their appreciation of the remarkable arctic landscape spread out below them on all sides, or the dazzling sky overhead, visible through the clouds since the snow has stopped. But there are still absolute heaps of it piled around the perimeter of the ballroom, outside the protective dome, creating an illusory sense of cold which forces Jim to repress a faint shiver as he makes his way inside, though he can feel that the room is heated to accommodate human comfort.

The Vetyeka are fond of interior design which harmonizes with the exterior landscape, heavily weighted toward silvers and pale ice blues. The floor below them is a cool white marble, veined with a glittering blue-gray, while the furnishings are sleek and modern, all glass and steel and crisp white fabric. The people themselves, however, are a riot of color; he and Bones and Uhura, wearing their dress uniforms, instantly blend into the rainbow-hued crowd, which stands out in startling relief amidst the snow-tinted surroundings. Scattered amongst the primarily Vetyekan crowd Jim sees a few other visiting dignitaries besides themselves, including Rigelians, Andorians and even a few Trill. A handful of other Starfleet uniforms weave through the crowd as well - High Minister Vanufaya has invited the Enterprise science officers to the party - but Jim scans the crowd with a sinking sensation, unable to spot the one crew member he's looking for.

His companions don't seem to share his ambivalent mood.

“Now this would make quite a holiday party,” says Uhura, plucking a fizzing glass of something pink from the tray of a passing waiter and handing another to Jim. “I think Dr. McCoy will be getting my vote to keep Vetya VII on the list of prospective new shore leave destinations. They have all manner of winter sports in the mountain lodges, you know, even human ones. Cross-country skiing is very popular, according to the library staff. And Andorian sled-racing, which I’ve always wanted to try.”

“I generally enjoy snow better when I'm looking out at it from the inside,” says Bones agreeably, flagging down another waiter bearing steaming silver cups of something which smells very much like a hot toddy. “This suits me just fine.”

“You’d never have survived growing up in Iowa,” says Jim, taking a sip of his pink fizzy beverage. It's unexpectedly tart and refreshing, like a dry orange soda with a gin kick. If he weren't on the job tonight, he suspects these could get him in some trouble.

“Good thing I never had to,” says Bones. "I'm a Southern man through and through. Snow's for looking at. God made it so we'd have something nice to put on Christmas cards. You won't catch me joining Uhura for Andorian sled-racing." He takes a deep swig of his beverage. "Unless I can kick back at the lodge with a good book and a couple of these," he says approvingly. "The Vetyeka sure know how to mix a drink."

A young diplomatic aide Jim remembers from their tour of the capital city scurries up to them to make breathless apologies for the high council's tardiness - a vote on municipal education funding has run long, and apparently they're still arguing behind closed doors - but the bar and the appetizer buffet are open, so it seems they're free to mingle and wander aimlessly a bit longer before they're called upon to do Starfleet business. "And I believe the rest of your crew are already present," she adds. "Your science officers arrived a few moments ago. And of course Dr. Vikiska has brought Mr. Spock."

Jim feels his heart do an embarrassingly juvenile little flip. "Mr. Spock is here?"

The girl nods. "They arrived just a few minutes before you did. I last saw them there -" she points into the depths of the crowd - "by the east windows."

"Thank you," says Jim, and plunges into the maelstrom.

"Oh, yes, let's go say hello," Uhura exclaims, following gamely. “I’m so glad he was finally well enough to leave his room today. We’ve all been so worried about him. You've been seeing his daily reports, haven't you, Dr. McCoy?"

Bones has downed his first hot toddy and seizes another, swapping his empty silver mug for a full one as he strides along at Uhura's side. "I have," he says, "and I'll tell you something, my friend, that Dr. V is a wonder. I'll make my own judgments when I see the man, of course; but on paper, Spock's strong as an ox again. Nothing but good news left and right. Eating, sleeping, meditating, and no doubt being insufferably logical. Pity the saintly healer trapped alone in a room with him for four days. But don't you worry, we'll have him back at full strength by the end of the week, you see if we don't. It's a shame the Vulcans are so private about this whole pon farr business; Vikiska ought to be written up in a journal. I'd do it myself if I didn't think Spock would kill me for telling tales out of school. Oh, look, there he is."

Jim, distracted by the peculiar sensation of seething frustration that sweeps through him every time Bones effusively praises the young doctor, stops short at that final, nonchalant aside, and cranes his neck to see through the crowd, unsure at first where Bones is looking.

"Oh, he does look well," Uhura says approvingly, taking Bones' arm.

It takes all his restraint not to shove past his friends for a closer look, but eventually they approach close enough that the crowd between them dissipates and that achingly familiar form - lean and dark like a shadow against the white snow - finally comes into view. As if sensing Jim's proximity, Spock turns suddenly, and their eyes meet across the last twenty or thirty feet of crowded ballroom which separate them.

“'Well' is understating it,” Jim murmurs, swallowing hard, so startled by the sight in front of him that he simply stops moving, frozen in place.

Spock is . . . transformed.

Jim can't put it into words, but there's something more to it than just whatever numbers and metrics Bones has been getting in his daily charts. He's recovering from his illness, clearly; but it isn't just that. His effortlessly regal bearing has returned, a pointed contrast to how he'd seemed to slump against Dr. Vikiska, unable to hold his own spine straight, the last time Jim had seen him. Now he's tall and straight once more, a clean black line against a snowy landscape, like ink on paper. Perhaps out of an overly-literal Vulcan sensibility, uncomfortable with even the visual pretense that he is here in his capacity as a Starfleet officer, or perhaps simply to fit in more easily with the similarly-clad Vetyeka, he's exchanged his dress uniform for traditional robes, and Jim realizes he’s never really noticed how marvelously they suit him. When he thinks of Spock, he thinks of him in blue. The stark contrast of rich black fabric, draped so elegantly over his lanky form, sets off his glossy black hair against his pale skin. And his color's much better than it was before, too; the healthy glow of green blood beneath his cheeks has returned, replacing the deathly pallor he'd arrived here with.

No, all of that is fine. That's just recovery. A return to the old, familiar Spock.

It’s something else that’s changed, and it takes Jim a minute to grasp it.

It’s something in his expression, a kind of easy relaxation Jim’s never seen on him before. It’s in the ghost of a smile which tugs at his thin lips as he tears his gaze away from a motionless Jim to greet an effusive Uhura, and the wry arch of his eyebrow as he and Bones exchange wordless nods of greeting. He seems more comfortable in his skin somehow, flushed with confidence and satisfaction, and oh no, oh Jesus, Jim suddenly realizes in abject horror that the answer to the inappropriate question he asked Bones at lunch is written all over Spock’s face.

It feels familiar to Jim because he recognizes this expression from looking in his own mirror, after -

Well, you know. After.

It’s utterly foreign on Spock, of course, who only hit puberty a week ago and whose mating drive was dormant until the onset of pon farr. The violent ferocity of that Vulcan ritual is Jim's only real context for Spock as a sexual being, but this is nothing like that at all; for one thing, Spock himself certainly doesn't seem conflicted about it. No, he's just standing there, demurely robed and infallibly polite and perfectly, properly Vulcan, but somehow exuding a quiet simmer of erotic power that makes Jim blush from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet, utterly flummoxed that the rest of the room isn’t feeling it too. My God, how can Bones just stand there casually ribbing him about his potassium intake like nothing has changed? How has Uhura - who’s always found Spock charming - not been bowled over backwards by the force of it?

How is it possible that only Jim can see it?

Spock has arrived at this diplomatic reception with the air of - and there really is no more delicate way to phrase this - a man who has been freshly fucked, and Jim doesn’t even know how to look at him.

And then, while he's struggling to figure out how he can possibly just walk up to this new, inexplicably alluring Spock and say hello like a normal person - it gets worse.

The small knot of Vetyeka clustered just behind Spock shifts slightly, a few of them moving away, revealing Dr. Vikiska at his side with a hand on his arm, the black Vulcan linen ruched up just a few inches so Val's fingers are pressed directly against the back of Spock's wrist.

Skin-to-skin contact.

Which Spock hasn't pulled away from.

He's relaxed, happy. Flushed with sexual power. Practically smiling. And Val just stands there, handsome and dashing and equally at ease, coming closer to holding Spock's hand than anyone has in as long as Jim's known him.

And that's when it happens. That's the moment the ground falls out from beneath Jim's feet, and he feels gravity reorient itself around him. Up is down, down is up, Spock had sex today while Jim hasn't in months, for reasons he's slowly and miserably realizing are not, in fact, entirely unrelated.

Good God, can that really be it? he thinks to himself, utterly stunned by the revelation. Was it always just that simple? I don't like the idea of someone else wanting Spock, because . . . because I want Spock?

Is that what this has been, between us, all along?

He has absolutely no idea how much time has passed while he stands there, staring stupidly at the brilliant, beautiful man standing in front of him, who is still patiently answering Bones' questions and hasn't seemed to notice that something is wrong.

Val, unfortunately, is more observant.

“Captain Kirk!” says the young healer easily, stepping forward to extend one hand, though Jim notices he doesn't take the other off Spock's, a maddeningly proprietary gesture. “It’s very good to see you.”

The feeling is emphatically not mutual, he thinks darkly but doesn’t say. But Bones catches his eye over Spock’s shoulder and gives him That Look, like he somehow heard it anyway.

“Dr. Vikiska,” he says, politely accepting the handshake and forcing a genial smile. “A pleasure. Your patient looks remarkably improved.”

Spock glows a little at this, looking from Val to Jim and back again, like he’s pleased by Jim’s approval. “I have significantly regained my strength. Val feels confident I will be able to fully resume my duties in no more than three days. We may attempt a Vulcan healing trance tomorrow.”

“That’s terrific,” says Bones, delighted. “I thought you said it was too risky before.”

“It was,” Spock agrees. “With my mind in such disorder, I was unable to achieve even the lightest meditative state. Had I somehow managed, against the odds, to enter the trance, it is almost certain I would have lacked the strength to emerge from it.”

The thought causes a violent clench in the pit of Jim's stomach, and for a moment he almost feels dizzy. “You really could have died, couldn’t you,” he murmurs, reaching out impulsively to grip Spock’s arm, unthinking. “We could have lost you, my friend. I don’t like to think of it, but it’s true.”

“But you did not,” Spock replies quietly, turning to meet his gaze. “I am here, Jim. And I am out of danger. Please do not torment yourself with further distress on my behalf. It is . . . difficult to know I have been the cause of your suffering, even where the effect was unintended.”

His dark brown eyes are alive with a new kind of heat flickering in their depths, and it takes Jim's breath away to find himself suddenly the subject of such intense focus. For a moment, everything else disappears - Bones, Uhura, Val, the snowy mountains, the blood fever, all of it - and it's as though they are completely alone.

Jim's heart begins hammering in his chest, and he swallows hard, throat suddenly dry. Is this the way Spock would look at him if he ever -

Spock on his back, the red sands of Vulcan beneath him, gazing up at Jim with those quiet, serious eyes, saying Jim's name in that low, sweet voice he only uses when they're alone . . .

Then Spock blinks at him, his expression changing to something Jim can't read, and three things happen at the same time. First, Jim realizes in some mortification that he's becoming aroused, and frantically begins reciting the multiplication tables in his mind to tamp it down before the situation becomes visible in the unforgiving trousers of his dress uniform. Second, Val steps in closer, almost possessively, at Spock’s side, placing his hand more firmly and pointedly over Spock's own, fingers now encircling his wrist. Third, as if in response to an unspoken cue, Spock gently, carefully withdraws his arm from Jim’s grip and takes a step away from him, moving closer to Val.

The only positive to this development is that it rather swiftly resolves the burgeoning arousal situation, since Jim now feels a little bit like he's been slapped in the face. It feels for all the world as if Val is politely staking a claim, reminding Jim where the lines are. It doesn't escape his notice that Val is the only person, now, who Spock will let touch him.

Unable to come up with anything to move the conversation along, Jim just stands there awkwardly, letting Bones and Uhura fill the silences as they come. Spock does not say anything at all.

It's Val, rather unexpectedly, who throws Jim a lifeline. "The council chamber doors have opened, and the ministers are entering," he says. “Spock and I were in the process of making our way to the hors d'oeuvres buffet, which features a wide range of Vetyekan delicacies. Shall we head there to fill up our plates and then refresh our drinks before you are called upon to conduct the business of Starfleet? I would imagine it is less enjoyable on an empty stomach." He gestures to a long white banquet table Jim can just see nearby, heaped with towering silver trays, beside a fountain of whatever that fizzy pink drink was, which he decides he's going to need at least one more of if Spock and Val are going to be holding hands in front of his face all night.

"The captain's great secret at these events," says Uhura, leading the way and waving all the men to join her, "is always to be holding a beverage, so he has something to do with his hands. He doesn't really drink that much, as a rule; but it puts people at ease at parties. I've seen him go the whole night sipping at one glass of Romulan ale, while all around him diplomatic aides get drunker and sillier, and the next day they all remember him as being terribly high-spirited, assuming however much they drank, he drank the same amount."

"It's a party for the rest of us," Val responds dryly. "It is business for the captain. He is at work."

The tone of his voice feels friendly enough; almost deliberately so, like he's sensed Jim's odd mood and is trying to smooth it over. But all Jim can hear is the reminder of how shockingly unprofessional his behavior has been, from his inappropriate thoughts about his first officer to his reflexive dislike for the Vetyekan doctor, and he feels the sting of reproach.

"Captain Kirk is never anything less than a model of decorum," says Spock loyally. "In any environment, and among any company, he is always representative of the very best of Starfleet."

Jim looks over at him and meets his eyes, and for a moment - just a moment - the world swings back into focus, and everything feels right again. "Thank you, my friend," he says quietly. "I've said the same of you, more times than you know."

Spock looks away. "Of late, I have scarcely deserved it."

"An illness, Mr. Spock," Jim says firmly, "is not a character flaw."

Spock hesitates. "I do not refer solely to -" he begins, but he never gets the chance to finish his sentence, as the gaggle of Enterprise science officers near the buffet observe their commander's approach and greet Spock with great enthusiasm, effectively putting an end to any further conversation while they make their reports on today's visit to the meteorological research station in the northern mountains.

Val turns his attention to Bones, allowing Spock to converse with his crew. “They have laid out quite a feast, I see. And this is not even the true meal! Shall we have something to eat, before the politicians arrive and monopolize you all for the rest of the evening?”

“They’ll be monopolizing you too, see if they don’t,” says Bones. “Unless you’re planning to remand your patient into my care so you can go hang out with your friends.”

“As my only friend here is Spock,” Val says wryly, “I have no plans to leave his side.”

Suddenly very much in need of a drink, Jim follows Uhura to the pink beverage fountain to refill his glass, then joins her to peruse their way down the table overflowing with tiny, beautiful delicacies. Contrary to the expectations created by their forbidding, frozen wasteland of a landscape, the Vetyeka maintain a highly-diverse agricultural network, in a series of biospheres outside the city which can be customized by climate zone in order to grow produce from all over the galaxy year-round. Their tastes run toward a palate of light, bright flavors - sharp spice, sweet and sour fruits, fresh fish - reminiscent of Vietnamese or Vulcan cuisine. Jim fills his plate with one of every category of thing, so he can show the ministers he's enjoying the full spectrum of their menu, even though he's long since lost his appetite. On the other side of the buffet, Val’s encouraging Spock to eat something, apparently, which Spock eventually does, browsing the table to assemble a few vegetarian-looking appetizers on a small plate to the doctor’s satisfaction. Jim strives mightily to ignore them. But it's not until he makes his way down to the other side of the table, where savories are replaced by sweets (and where, therefore, the Enterprise junior officers have semi-permanently stationed themselves, popping colorful pastries and glazed fruits into their mouths with the alacrity of young people who are still easily dazzled by unlimited access to non-replicated desserts) that Jim discovers how downplaying the First Officer's illness to protect his privacy has encouraged his crew to violate it in a very different way.

“Who’s that with Spock?” he overhears one lieutenant whisper to another, watching their XO a few dozen feet away, speaking in low tones to Val.

“Oh, that’s one of the mind healers from the big medical center in the capital,” another whispers back. “The Vetyeka are telepaths too, like Vulcans.”

"He's awfully handsome in that slinky purple robe," murmurs another. "Looks almost like lingerie. Good for Mr. Spock."

This elicits muffled giggles all around. If Spock and Val, with their keener-than-human hearing, are aware they're being discussed, they don't appear to respond to it. But Jim, just far enough away that they don't realize they've been overheard, finds himself blushing furiously and simmering with annoyance at the lieutenants, Spock, Val, and himself.

It hasn't occurred to him until just now - though of course, it should have - that since no one on the crew besides the medical staff and Uhura knows Spock's actually being treated at the hospital rather than visiting it, there's only one conclusion for them to draw from the way the two men are standing so close together, always touching, somehow in their own little world apart from everyone else.

“They’re such a good-looking couple," one of the lieutenants continues, a little dreamily, taking a giant bite out of a dainty sugar-dusted cake. "Do you think they’re - you know -”

“I don’t know! Spock never seems interested in anybody that way."

"And Lord knows plenty have tried.”

“Maybe he just has rules about it, like the captain does. Nobody from the crew. Too much trouble, when they work below you. You know how careful he is about never showing favoritism."

"'Having favorites is illogical, Lieutenant Green,'" intones Lieutenant Green in a stern Vulcan growl, the effect somewhat marred by the bite of cake she's still chewing, but it gets the point across enough to make her friends laugh.

“Spock sure seems happy, though," one of them observes, watching the two men closely. "Never seen him with such a . . . spring in his step, if you know what I mean.”

The explosion of giggles generated by this is sufficient, finally, to prompt Jim to take a few steps closer to their end of the table and discreetly clear his throat.

Instantly, all five snap into parade rest, eyes wide with sudden panic, and Jim realizes it won't make him feel any better to take out his messy emotions on a bunch of kids having a good time. Lieutenants rarely get invited to parties like this, with liquor fountains and free food and hundreds of good-looking strangers, and he supposes in their position he'd be doing the same thing.

But still.

"Dr. Vikiska is Mr. Spock's research colleague," he reminds them, "and I don't think your commanding officer will thank you to bring home any rumors to the contrary and spread them about the ship."

"No sir." "Of course, sir." "Would dream of it, sir."

He waves this off. "At ease, lieutenants. It's a party. Now, as you've conducted an impressively comprehensive analysis of this buffet table, your captain requests a full report on which desserts you recommend."

Tensions now eased, he listens to their enthusiastic chatter about the quality of the food on Vetya VII, which segues into a discussion about the biodomes they toured yesterday morning, and the impressive skill of Vetyekan crop scientists. Jim nods in the right places and chuckles in the right places and flags all the crucial data points for later, all while struggling to keep his eyes from drifting up over their shoulders to where Val is leaning in to whisper something into Spock’s ear, his palm pressed flat against Spock’s chest. Spock nods once, twice, then his eyes flick up, as though he’s looking for someone in the crowd. When they alight on Jim, their expression changes, and Jim finds himself almost willing to hope it was him Spock wanted to see; but why would he, when he didn’t even seem to want Jim to touch him before?

An amicable debate between Lieutenants Green and Himonya is interrupted by the arrival of Bones and Uhura. "That young aide from before is making eyes at us," says Bones. "I think we're to make our way to our seats now. Come on Jim. Spock! Val!" he calls out, waving them over. "They're ringing the dinner bell."

"Negative," says Spock smoothly, as the two men glide over to join the rest of the crew. "I assure you, Dr. McCoy, my hearing is far superior to your own. If a bell were rung in this building, I would be perfectly aware of the fact."

"Damn it all, Val, you've made him annoying again," Bones complains, as the laughing group follows the crowd toward the dining hall. "I'm sending him back. I want a refund."

"My apologies," says Val somberly. "Your payment has already been processed. Refunds are not available."

Bones snorts. "Keep the merchandise, then."

"Believe me," says Val, a playful note in his voice, "nothing would give me greater pleasure."

Jim feels his hands clench into fists at his side, but says nothing.

* * * * *

After a lengthy process of formal greetings, introductions, toasts, a first course which includes an elaborate ritual involving a bowl of salt passed round the table, more toasts, and a complicated bit of choreography for which Uhura has already briefed Jim in which guests at the table must take their first bite in ascending order of their place in the social hierarchy - finally, Jim is seated at the long banquet table with his food in front of him and a blissful respite from small talk while everyone oohs and ahhs over their (admittedly beautifully-plated) meal. Bones sits at his left hand, and Uhura at his right. Spock and Val are seated across the table, side by side, their chairs placed together a bit too close for Jim's liking. It feels odd and disorienting to be facing Spock at the table instead of beside him. They're so seldom separated, like this. Jim feels a little unmoored.

He's impossibly grateful for Uhura's effortless ability to keep a conversation going, so he doesn't have to . . . even if it grates on him a bit to realize that even his clear-eyed Communications Officer has fallen under the auburn-haired doctor's spell, like everyone else.

"I've so been looking forward to speaking with you, Dr. Vikiska," she says brightly, leaning forward to meet his gaze.

"Val," he says, with an elegant handwave. "I insist."

"Well, then, Val," she concedes agreeably. "And you may call me Nyota. Now, I’m sure you and Mr. Spock have had ample time to get to know one another over the past few days, but Dr. McCoy and the captain and I have had far less time with you, and I’m so curious to learn more. The Vetyeka share quite distant genealogical ties to Vulcan, I know, so your biology is similar though your culture seems quite different, but I’ve been studying your language all week and I simply must ask you about your name.”

Val seems delighted by this, and sets down his spoon to reach out across the table and press her hand with a courtly grace. “Do you know, Spock guessed you might ask me that,” he says. “He informs me he’s never met anyone in his life with a better head for languages. He felt sure you would have worked it out.”

“Worked what out?” Jim asks curiously. Not that he gives a damn about Val’s name, particularly, but he’s always interested in how Uhura’s mind works, the patterns she finds which are so often invisible to everyone else.

“I’ve noticed that the hard V sound at the beginning of words is uniquely prevalent in the language,” she explains, “which does trace back to a very obscure early dialect of Vulcan, found mostly in the northern mountain ranges on the central continent. It caused me to wonder if perhaps the original settlers who colonized this planet hailed from there. And that led me to wonder whether perhaps many Vetyekan names have Vulcan root words, only transliterated somewhat to accommodate the commonality of that particular consonant sound.”

“You’re as good as he said,” Val grins at her, his hand still resting on Spock’s back in a way Jim can only describe as “proprietary,” which makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “So what have you found out about me from all this?”

“Well, if your name holds true,” she says, laughing, “I think you may be trouble.”

The doctor seems to find this uproariously funny, and Spock comes shockingly close to smiling. “Your instincts are unerring as always, Lieutenant Uhura,” he says dryly, which generates loud amusement from everyone seated nearby.

There’s something in the effortless intimacy between the two men - how married they somehow seem, with their inside jokes and casual touches - that makes Jim want to throw his glass onto the marble floor for the sheer childish satisfaction of smashing something. Of getting any kind of reaction from Spock, even a negative one. 

It isn’t that Spock is ignoring him, precisely; it’s that - well, if Jim’s being honest with himself, it’s that someone else besides him is the center of Spock’s focus, and Jim has been relegated to the sidelines. Jim is the one who Spock permits to touch him, and even with that permission Jim’s always so careful not to overstep. Jim is the one who Spock makes his quiet little jokes to, the audience whose laughter he’s really looking for when he makes them. Jim is the one who sits beside him at diplomatic events, shoulder to shoulder, a matching pair.

Jim is the one Spock used to look at like that.

And now it’s like Spock has somehow . . . stopped seeing him altogether.

What an excruciating irony, he thinks, with a flicker of gallows humor, for Jim to finally understand what he truly feels for Spock at the precise moment that his newly-virile Vulcan friend has fixed his attentions on someone else for the first time in his life. He's never wanted Spock more, yet Spock has never been further away.

"So I've looked into many of the Vetyekan names we've encountered," Uhura is continuing, as he forces himself to return to the present, "such as High Minister Vanufaya. Well, if you remove the 'va' prefix, you get 'nufaya,' which, as Mr. Spock of course would know, in the Vulcan language - standard modern Vulcan, anyway - means a kind of oblation, like an offering to a deity or a charitable contribution. And if you remove the prefix from your surname, by the same rule, you're left with the word ‘kiska,’ which translates to covetousness.”

“Jealousy,” agrees Spock, suddenly not looking at Uhura anymore, his dark eyes finding Jim’s across the dinner table, choosing the worst imaginable moment to decide to begin seeing him again. Jim feels his cheeks redden, and can’t tell if he’s being accused of something, or if Spock’s simply replying to Uhura, but it’s damnably uncomfortable either way.

“Precisely,” says Uhura, wholly oblivious to the tension. “Which is fascinating because ‘Vikiska’ isn’t, in fact, the Vetyekan word for jealousy . . . but it is a Vetyekan sort of translation of the Vulcan word for jealousy. The entire language didn't evolve at the same rate in the same way; all the most direct Vulcan linguistic roots seem to be preserved in the names. I've never known a language to work that way before."

"That actually is interesting," says Bones, leaning over Jim to look at her. "What about his first name? It's not Val, you know. It's Vaitlun."

"It seems to apply to first names too," she says. "Remove the hard V sound, and you have the Vulcan word ‘aitlun,’ which means desire.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jim thinks, a trifle hysterically, feeling a wholly inappropriate laugh bubbling up from inside him at the sheer absurdity of this. If it were anyone but Uhura, he’d assume they were putting him on.

Isn't it just Jim's luck that the only healer in the quadrant capable of saving Spock's life is named Dr. Desire Jealousy.

“More precisely,” Spock corrects her, taking an elegant sip of his water, ‘it refers to ‘an inclination to want things’ or ‘the feeling which accompanies an unsatisfied state.’”

“This was presented to me by my parents as the explanation for my youthful rebelliousness,” says Val, which gets a hearty chuckle from Bones and Uhura, but a teasing raised eyebrow from Spock.

“Given what I know of your parents, I cannot begin to imagine what rebellion against their upbringing might entail,” he says dryly, which gets a different kind of laugh out of Val - a quiet, muffled snort, as though Spock has startled him with some private joke Val finds genuinely funny.

Jim can see Bones’ eyebrows knitting together, clearly preparing to demand an explanation, but they’re never given the chance to find out what exactly it is that Spock knows about Val’s parents (how are they already sharing things about their parents???). Val takes the opportunity provided by the waiters' return to clear their plates for the next course in order to excuse himself for the washroom.

"I will join you," says Spock, an astonishingly uncharacteristic move, and Jim feels a wave of nausea at the sight of the two men looking intensely at each other, locked in a brief, wordless exchange. They rise fluidly, as one, and Jim can’t help but notice that Val keeps his arm looped through Spock’s elbow, hand resting on his forearm, skin-to-skin, as they glide elegantly out of the dining room.

Uhura watches them go with a fond expression on her face. “He’s really quite wonderful,” she murmurs to Jim. “So clever and charming. And Mr. Spock seems so taken with him. I’ve never seen him this at ease around anyone but you.”

“Yes,” says Jim expressionlessly. “That’s rather what I’ve been thinking.”

"They bond too, you know," she remarks, almost absently, as she smilingly hands the waiter her empty soup bowl and receives a plate of delicate shaved raw vegetables in return. "The Vetyeka. I read about it in the cultural archives."

All the air tumbles out of Jim's lungs. "They what?"

"It isn't entirely the same as a Vulcan bond - the Vetyeka are predominantly polyamorous, for one thing, so the mating bond isn't exclusive - but there's some historical evidence suggesting that bonds among differing Vulcanoid races are quite compatible."

Jim stares down into his salad. "I suspect the same marital challenges which arose between Spock and T'Pring would rear their heads with Dr. Vikiska at well," he says, attempting to play it off with a breezy, amused air. "Long-distance relationships are plagued with many challenges."

"Oh, no, I already thought of that," she says. "Didn't you know Vetyekan telepathy isn't restricted by distance?"

Jim chokes on something that tastes like a radish. "It's not?"

"Not between bondmates. The Betazoids have a similar concept, known as 'Imzadi.' When Betazoids share a soul-bond, they can communicate telepathically across any distance. Obviously, of course, if they wanted to see one another . . . well, as you said, it's a challenging life and it isn't for everyone. But in purely practical terms, to provide Spock the kind of bond he needs, Dr. Vikiska seems like quite a strong candidate."

Jim makes a strangled kind of sound which he hopes sounds something like oh, that's interesting, but he's fairly sure it falls wide of the mark. He's not quite sure why Uhura's watching him so keenly, with a flicker of something like playful amusement on her face.

"Funny, how things work out," she says, in a tone he can't quite decipher. “We certainly didn’t see this coming, did we?”

"No," he says, and his voice sounds hollow and miserable, even to him; but she doesn't seem to hear it at all. “No, Uhura, we certainly didn’t.”

SPOCK

"You are beginning to show signs of strain," says Spock. "I will step outside. Increased distance will provide a more significant reprieve."

Val, who is presently seated cross-legged on the glittering silver floor of a spacious and opulent washroom, head leaning back against the wall, briefly sits up straighter and opens his eyes, regarding Spock with skepticism. "And leave you milling about in the hallway, where Jim could find you at any moment, with absolutely no shielding?" He shakes his head. "No, Spock, we're in it now. You can stand on the other side of the room from me. That's as far away as I'm letting you get." He closes his eyes again. "Ten minutes should be sufficient. No more than fifteen."

"We will be missed."

"I see few better options."

Spock would like to argue this point further, but in fact, he does not have a solution for their problem either.

If he is being honest with himself, he suspects the blame may, in fact, lie at his own door; confident in his level of improvement to date, he was certain he possessed the strength to brave a massive crowd of strangers in order to see Jim again. But the ability to reach meditation level five in a silent room wholly devoid of stimulus, with no companion save a Vetyekan capable of entirely masking his psi energies, did not prove an effective measure of his capacity to endure an event like this. He was quite pleased with himself for the first eleven minutes they spent in the reception hall - in a predominantly Vetyekan crowd, whose cultural practices encourage the practice of muffling their psionic projections when in public.

Then Jim arrived, and touched him.

And Spock, as it turns out, was not prepared for that at all.

His mental shields disintegrated almost entirely at that faint pressure of Jim's hand, warm through the sleeve of his robe, stirring a ferocity of longing Spock had never experienced before, so potent that he was forced to remove his arm from Jim's touch before his distress became visible upon his face. Val's timely intervention, bolstering Spock's flagging emotional controls through skin-to-skin contact, saved him from revealing too much, or doing himself harm through overexertion; but the transference is depleting them both more rapidly than anticipated, requiring periodic intervals of separation so Val can restore his own shields. Twice so far, he has excused himself to the washroom, Spock forced to follow since it was too risky to leave him alone amidst a crowd. Both incidents went mercifully unnoticed by the Vetyekan dignitaries; but Jim, seated across from them, clearly noted both absences, and was oddly subdued for lengthy periods following their return. The second time was longer than the first, as Val was forced to meditate for a full seven minutes before he was capable of returning to the table. Since then, Spock has observed Jim watching them both keenly, while pretending not to.

Something is bothering Jim, but Spock does not believe Val has come to the correct conclusion about its meaning.

This time, they have taken advantage of the group’s departure from the dinner table into a separate, less formal room where dessert will be enjoyed, to slip off to the washroom again. Val expressed the hope that this transition might buy them a slightly longer window before their absence was noted by the crowd. He sits still, back straight against the sleek stone wall, palms resting on his knees, breathing steady. Spock wishes he could join him in even a brief restorative meditation; but he is restless, and finds himself pacing back and forth across the tile, waiting impatiently for the doctor to open his eyes.

After 2.3 minutes of silence, he hears a long, heavy sigh. “Your thoughts are too loud for meditation,” Val says wearily. “Spock, if you wish to return to your room -”

“I do not.” He is quite firm on this point.

"You are not yet fully healed. I think this was a mistake. You are entirely without shielding, and we have been surrounded by people for 3.4 hours. Already we are pushing the limits of what we agreed you were able to withstand. And I too have begun to struggle in concealing my increased fatigue. A meld would aid us both.”

Spock shakes his head. “Not yet.” He folds his arms, regarding the doctor sternly. “Val, our experiment is unsuccessful. I believe the reason for this is the flawed nature of your original hypothesis.”

Val opens his eyes and looks back at Spock. “Which part?”

“You have been exceedingly charming all evening -”

“Why does that sound like a complaint?”

“ - yet the captain has evinced no interest in you. Evidently, therefore, he must not experience attraction to men.”

"That is your conclusion?" The healer's voice is incredulous, as he unfolds his long legs and rises gracefully to his feet, straightening his robes, clearly giving up on meditation for the time being. “Spock, were we at the same dinner table?”

"You are quite obviously aware that we were," Spock replies shortly, with a Vulcan’s habitual impatience for rhetorical questions.

"We have been present in the same location for the same period of time, meaning the same data points were presented to both of us. I am astonished that our conclusions are so contradictory. I believe your conclusion to be flawed, Spock; my hypothesis is clearly sound. In fact, I consider it proven."

Spock is startled by this, and must repress an illogical sensation of dismay. “Did Captain Kirk demonstrate interest in you, while I was unaware?”

"I believe that to be impossible, since at no point all evening have you been, for a single moment, unaware of Captain Kirk's every movement," says Val. "But no, Spock. He did not demonstrate interest. In fact, I am increasingly confident that he hates me."

Val seems strangely amused by this, but Spock is indignant. "That is illogical. The captain is perfectly aware that my recovery is owed to you, and that I hold you in high esteem. Naturally, given his trust in my judgment, it stands to reason that he would echo such esteem, despite your more limited acquaintance. He has no reason whatever to dislike you."

"He has one," says Val, "and I would consider it quite significant."

"The captain is not prone to capricious resentments. You have entirely misunderstood his character."

“Spock,” says Val impatiently, “you are missing the point. James Kirk is -”

And then he freezes, cutting himself off abruptly.

Spock's sharp Vulcan ears have picked up the same sound as the doctor's Vetyekan ones. Footsteps, on marble flooring. Starfleet dress uniform boots. A gait Spock would recognize anywhere.

Spock is wholly without mental shielding . . . and Jim is seconds away.

“Oh, come here,” Val says impatiently, stepping closer and squeezing both his hands tightly, allowing the smooth, heavy waves of his psychic energy to flood through Spock’s mind like liquid velvet, transmitted through his fingertips directly through his psi centers. “But this is the last time, Spock. I mean it. Home after dessert.”

Spock nods, feeling the reassuring weight of Val's mental transference restoring his shields, but there's no time to say anything else, because just then the washroom door swings open, and Jim stands there, staring at them.

Staring at Spock and Val, holding hands.

Immediately Spock realizes that neither of them have fully thought this through.

Jim cannot, of course, be aware of the intimacy of this specific act among Vulcans - how scandalized someone like T'Pau would be to see Spock holding hands in public, even with a Vetyekan who is capable of walling off all transference. But he is certainly aware of what it symbolizes in his own culture, and naturally so is Spock . . . which renders the moment exceedingly uncomfortable. Spock would like to pull away, but he cannot. Jim's proximity throws his mind into such tumult that if he released Val's hands and left himself exposed, he is uncertain he would be able to prevent himself from doing something rash.

A hundred details crowd into his mind at once, and he yearns to catalog them all. The way Jim's hair and skin always appear more golden, somehow, set off by the green of his silk dress uniform. The fact that he has bathed in his guest quarters with some unfamiliar Vetyekan soap. His lips are soft and pink. His cheeks are flushed, with what might be warmth or might be embarrassment. How much of him is colored that same shade of pink, beneath his clothes? Does the blush extend down his throat, to his chest? Lower?

A flicker of amused reproach seeps into his mind, as Spock feels Val intercede to forcibly suppress Spock's ill-timed surge of arousal, and this grounds him sufficiently to somewhat compose himself. He risks letting go of one hand, in order to turn and face Jim directly, though he clings to Val like a lifeline with the other, absorbing his strength and willing his shields to hold firm.

“Hello, Jim,” he says stiffly, uncertain how to proceed. “If you are here to use the facilities, we will leave you to your privacy.”

“Oh. I - no, I don’t need to - I was just looking for you.” 

Jim is evincing a degree of uncharacteristic nervousness which far exceeds the ordinary discomfort humans seem to experience when speaking of bodily functions. Spock does not entirely know what to make of this.

“Is our presence requested?” he inquires. Perhaps Dr. McCoy wishes to speak with Val. “We were on the verge of returning.”

“No, it’s fine. You’re fine. I just, I wondered where you kept sneaking off to. If everything was all right. I thought there might be a chance you were feeling more unwell then you let on, and hadn’t said anything.” He looks pointedly down at their still-joined hands. “I guess it didn’t occur to me that you’d sneak off to the washroom at a diplomatic reception to do what I do when I sneak off to the washroom at a diplomatic reception,” he says, chuckling weakly. “You’ve . . . certainly changed, Spock. I hardly recognize you tonight.”

Spock is suddenly displeased with both himself and Val for entertaining this charade of an “experiment.” Something has gone wrong, though he does not entirely understand it; but Jim is more than simply confused, Jim is hurt, and Spock has caused it. The knowledge of this is terrible.

“Jim,” he says, stepping forward, unconsciously letting go of Val’s hand as he does so. "Please, I must -"

But he can't go any further.

The flow of psi energy from Val cuts off abruptly as their skin breaks contact, and Spock's shields disintegrate in a snap. All at once, he is bombarded with psionic noise from a hundred directions. He hears dozens of strangers in the corridor on the other side of this wall, talking, eating, laughing, a symphony of chaos that he cannot silence, and without even the most rudimentary shields these stray thoughts are amplified tenfold, reverberating with a deafening clamor inside his head.

*they’ve changed the recipe for these cakes from the last reception, the icing was not so sour before* 

*she’s looking at my breasts, that’s a good sign, I knew I should have worn this dress and not the red one* 

*bloody Vanufaya never shuts up, I’ve never met a man who loves the sound of his own voice so much, someone should run against him in the next council elections, everyone’s sick of him but no one will admit it* 

*I wonder if the woman with the green earrings from the Federation starship is single*

*they’ve already gone through six more cases of wine than we budgeted for, and it’ll be my head as always even though I told them to be stingy on the pours* 

*fuck I want to go home*

<NO, NO, NO, TOO MUCH, TOO MUCH>, his mind cries out, as over and above it all, threaded like a shining ribbon through the paralyzing onslaught of noise, there it is again, that blinding golden hum of JIM, JIM, JIM, his presence overwhelming, too much for Spock to bear, like staring directly into sunlight and coming away blinded. Jim's psi-null mind cannot directly verbalize thoughts into Spock’s as clearly as the Vetyekans outside, but Spock can feel what the captain is thinking, and he is certain that Val can too.

Jim's mind is looping the same image over and over and over and over again, at deafening psionic volume: Spock and Val, holding hands.

And it hurts him.

The emotional pain this memory appears to carry with it is absolutely shattering to Jim, and Spock has no resources left to withstand it. It echoes in his mind, louder and sharper, sharper and louder, some inner voice belonging to Jim which cries out {no please no goddammit anything but this I didn't want to be right I didn't want to believe it why him how did this happen why didn't I realize in time to say something do something stop this from happening and now it's too late and he'll never I'll never we'll never it's too late it's too late we missed our last chance} until the force of it drops Spock to his knees right there on the washroom floor.

"Spock!" Jim exclaims, horrified, reaching out to grab his shoulder; but mercifully, Val gets there first.

"All right, Spock," the doctor says in a reassuring voice, kneeling beside him and sliding an arm around his waist, hauling him to his feet with effortless Vulcanoid strength and pressing Spock's body as firmly against his own as he possibly can, forcing a massive wave of psionic energy over their mental link until the screaming clamor finally goes blissfully quiet. The effort of it must have depleted him considerably, and Spock does not fail to notice that Val is leaning against him for support as they stand back up again, as much as Spock is leaning against Val; but the disaster, at least, is averted. “Spock, I told you I would let you stay until after dessert, but I’ve changed my mind," the healer says firmly. "I’m taking you back to the hospital. You need another treatment, and you need it now.”

Jim looks from one to the other, verging on panic. "What happened?" he demands. "I thought he was recovering, Bones said - you said -"

"He has simply overexerted himself. This is not a significant setback, Captain Kirk. Please do not alarm yourself. The presence of several hundred telepathic beings in one space has simply taxed his mental controls more than we anticipated. He needs rest and quiet."

Jim's face is crumpled with misery, even as he nods his agreement, and he reaches out impulsively to grip Spock's arm, seemingly as much for his own reassurance as for Spock's. It is a familiar gesture, particularly when Jim is gravely concerned, and Spock understands what Jim means to convey by it - friendship, comfort, dependability - as well as he understands that it is ungrateful of him to wish it were more. But even now, with Val's arm around him, Val's energy flowing into his mind, Val's strength bolstering his shields as high as they will go - Spock knows even that light touch of Jim’s fingertips against the sleeve of his robe will undo him completely.

Jim reaches for Spock . . . and Spock pulls away.

Jim’s face falls, as though Spock has struck him. “Right,” he mutters. “Of course. Sorry. Not my place. Val is - well. You’re in good hands, anyway. I’ll leave you to it. Please take care of yourself, Spock. I hope  . . .” He swallows hard, looking back at Spock (Jim's eyes are shining, a staggering realization, something is terribly wrong, there are tears in Jim’s eyes, Spock does not understand any of this at all), “I hope you know how important you are. To me. To all of us. I hope you know how much I - we - need you back. So please, my friend. Please, be well.”

Spock nods, unsure how to respond to this. “I am significantly improved from my condition upon our arrival,” he reminds the captain. “My time with Dr. Vikiska has been transformative. You have nothing left to fear, Jim.”

Jim smiles at him sadly. “Don’t I?” he murmurs.

Then he turns on his heel, and is gone.

Chapter Text

SPOCK

“You are dangerously oblivious to the emotional states of others,” is Val’s opening remark, once they have returned to the blissful silence of Spock’s private suite. The doctor is using the washroom to change back into his uniform, addressing Spock through the half-closed door, and for the first time he detects a note of genuine frustration in Val’s ordinarily mild voice. “I accept the blame for proposing such an experiment, and for giving you my permission to attend the event at all; but it seemed impossible to me that your ignorance could withstand such a staggering onslaught of counterfactuals. If I did not know what kind of scientist you were, Spock, I would accuse you of wilfully ignoring evidence.”

Rather stung by the uncharitable nature of this remark, Spock straightens his Starfleet-issue sleepwear and makes his way over to the meditation cushions without bothering to respond. His indignant silence does not render Val any more apologetic, however; when the doctor emerges, once more clad in his green medical uniform, and takes his seat opposite Spock, his brow is still tightly drawn. Such naked emotion on such a Vulcanoid face is still novel to Spock, who finds it fascinating - even though at present the emotions are negative, and directed at himself.

“You have the solution to all your problems right in front of you,” he says impatiently. “Yet your ability to recognize it placed you in significant, avoidable psionic distress tonight.”

“Vulcans may be faulted for many things, Dr.Vikiska, but not for their faulty powers of observation.”

“Oh, is it ‘Dr. Vikiska’ again, now?" The doctor narrows his eyes at Spock. "Let me guess. You have decided to be cross with me, because you are embarrassed at your own inability to deduce why I might be cross with you.” Spock gives a disdainful sniff at this, but says nothing. “Very well, then. You need a meld, and so do I. Allow me to show you, in your own mind, exactly what Captain Kirk was hoping would transpire this evening, and perhaps finally you will begin to understand.”

He takes Spock’s hands in his as they both close their eyes, the process of entering the joint meld now effortless in its familiarity, and Spock surrenders control of his inner landscape to permit Val to direct his visualization.

He is surprised to find the doctor recreating the marble-floored washroom of the Vetyekan consulate . . . but this time, Spock is alone.

<Why have you returned me to this specific location?>

~Because you still do not understand.~

<Understand what?>

~You were unable to shield from his thoughts. From his pain. I felt it too. It was agonizing. You felt it, Spock, but you did not understand what it meant. Let me show you.~

The dream-Spock stands in the center of the room, clad in his black Vulcan robes, turning toward the sound of the door opening, as a dream-Jim, wearing his dress uniform, steps inside.

“Hello, Jim,” says dream-Spock. “If you are here to use the facilities, I will leave you to your privacy.”

“Oh.” The dream-Jim gives the  same quietly embarrassed chuckle as before. “I - no, I don’t need to - no, I was just looking for you.” 

“Is my presence requested? I was on the verge of returning.”

Jim doesn’t answer right away, but steps further into the room, toward Spock, letting the door close noiselessly behind him.

Spock is somewhat perplexed by this. “Jim?”

Jim takes another step toward him, then another. “You’ve certainly changed, Spock,” the captain says in a soft voice. “I hardly recognize you tonight.”

But the words aren’t hollow, forced, like they were before; they’re quiet with something like wonder. Jim’s hazel eyes are warm and gentle on Spock’s, curious, searching . . . and then suddenly Spock finds himself shoved roughly back against the tile wall, Jim crowding into him, gripping the front of Spock’s robes in both fists, as a warm human mouth crashes frantically against his.

~You did not see what I saw,~ Spock hears Val murmur as he watches in astonishment, standing outside himself as Jim kisses him with a frenzied kind of desperation. ~Spock, it is not you alone who desires this. It is not you alone who feels an unprecedented emotional connection. I believe you struggle to defend your mind against Jim because, subconsciously, your mind does not want to defend itself. It is actively reaching out for him, Spock. The potential for a bond between you is already there. He could not have said so more clearly.~

“Oh, God, Spock,” the dream-Jim whispers, pulling away, burying his face in Spock’s throat, and Spock suddenly realizes that Val is no longer guiding this fantasy; this is entirely his own doing, his own desires. But tonight, everything feels different. In every other meld, his mental images have restricted themselves the sands of Vulcan; he has never permitted himself to envision himself being intimate with Jim anywhere else. The bounds of propriety were already eliminated between them, after all, by that ritual combat; to indulge in such erotic imaginings did not feel quite so presumptuous.

But the embassy washroom, still so fresh in Spock’s memory, is a breathtakingly audacious location for such acts. People just outside the door, who might enter at any moment; McCoy and Uhura and the Enterprise science department only one floor above, accompanied by the high council of Vetya VII; both of them respectably clothed in formalwear, befitting such a serious occasion . . . To see Jim fumble with the sash of Spock’s robes to pull open the outer layer and reach inside to stroke him into hardness is shocking, and Spock is astonished to find that the sharp sting of mortification and alarm it elicits does not lessen his arousal.

<Captain Kirk is a respectable man. He is here as a representative of Starfleet and would never conduct himself in such an undignified manner at a public event.>

~No. But he wanted to. And since this is a fantasy, you need not fear interruption - unless, of course, it would arouse you to be watched.~

<It would not.> Spock is firm on this point.

~Then let yourself imagine, Spock. He desires you. I believe that he loves you. Would willingly bond with you, including all that entails. Once you are sufficiently healed enough to see him again, you must tell him of your feelings.~

<I will speak with him tomorrow.>

~You will not. We have learned our lesson, Spock. Your shields cannot withstand him yet. Tonight you will sleep, and tomorrow we will attempt the healing trance. If it is successful, I believe no more than thirty hours should suffice to restore you completely. Then you may speak with him.~

<Very well. I accept your terms.>

~Good. Now stimulate yourself to climax while I resume my repairs on your bond space.~

Dream-Spock lets Dream-Jim tear open the inner layer of his robes, flinging them to the floor, and bend his naked form over the marble countertop, yanking open the fastening of his own trousers, and then neither of them say anything in words for a very, very, very long time.

~Very good, Spock,~ Val says approvingly once a shatteringly powerful climax has ripped through him. ~The damaged area is nearly 66% healed. If we can get it to 75% by tomorrow morning, we will attempt the trance. You are doing very well.~

Mind hazy with the aftershocks of orgasm, Spock hardly notices himself being tidied up and helped into his bed, fatigue stealing over him, his mental shields strong and his mind quiet.

“Sleep well, Spock,” says Val. “It will not be long now before you are well again. And soon - I hope - happy, too.”

“Happiness is an emotion,” Spock mumbles sleepily. “Vulcans do not -”

And then he’s asleep.

* * * * *

He wakes 7.4 hours later to a commotion on the other side of his door, where a familiar voice is arguing heatedly with a calmer one.

“ - let me back in the damn building unless I can give him an update on Spock’s condition!” the infuriated human barks, every word audible even from within Spock’s private quarters. Dr. McCoy is quite skilled, Spock has had many opportunities to observe firsthand, at the art of what his mother referred to as “making a scene in public.” 

“I will provide you a progress report at 0900, as I have done each day since Spock’s arrival,” Val says smoothly, though his calm demeanor appears to have little effect upon the irascible Southerner.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the doctor grumbles, “and your charts and graphs are going to say he’s making progress, and Lord knows he looked better when I saw him last night; but dammit, Val, Jim says he nearly passed out in the embassy bathroom, and he’s not going to forget that sight in a hurry! He’s worried, don’t you understand that?”

“I understand completely. I will tell you now what I told him then. Spock overestimated his capacity to absorb the psionic emissions of several hundred telepathic Vetyekans in one place, and while his shields are stronger than they were when he arrived, they are not yet strong enough for him to maintain them without assistance, under such pressure from all directions.”

“That’s horseshit,” says the doctor, which prods Spock into sitting up, concerned that his intervention may soon become necessary.

“I beg your pardon?” Val’s voice has become dangerously polite.

“He lets you touch him,” says McCoy. “Skin-to-skin. He did from the very beginning we arrived here, when he was broken down as a rag doll. Your skin touched his, I saw it.”

“Dr. McCoy, I do not -”

“That means Vetyekans can shield," he says bluntly, startling Spock with this wholly unexpected deduction. "Betazoids don’t. Your patient mentioned that to me the other day. It was something he had to learn from you. They don’t teach it there. Everyone just walks around blaring their thoughts and emotions at everyone else. It’s why they’re such a disarmingly forthright society.”

“While no two psionic races -”

“I’m not a fool, Dr. Vikiska, and I’ll ask you not to treat me like one. The problem last night wasn’t the other dinner guests. You know it, Spock knows it, I know it. But Jim doesn’t. Because it’s something to do with him, isn’t it? Jim’s mind is the thing Spock can’t shield from. That’s why you had to stay in physical contact all night. The stubborn fool was borrowing mental energy from you. Am I right?”

Spock falls silent, feeling his heart hammering unaccountably in his side. At no point had he reckoned on the possibility of a human, with no personal experience in the area of telepathy, arriving so near the truth simply by observation. He feels a wave of unease at the thought. If McCoy knows his secret, it will be impossible to keep it from Jim for long.

“I will answer your question with one of my own, Dr. McCoy,” says Val, seemingly unperturbed by the turn in the conversation. “How long have you known that Captain Kirk is in love with Spock?”

Utter silence follows this, on both sides of the door.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, saying that to me,” McCoy finally replies, his voice uncharacteristically cold. “Spock’s private thoughts may fall under your professional jurisdiction, but Jim’s sure as hell don’t. And if you’re digging into our heads without our permission, thinking we’ll let you get away with it simply because us psi-null humans are too stupid to know any better -”

“I did not force myself telepathically on your captain,” says Val, and the utter disgust in his voice conveys quite thoroughly to both Spock and McCoy that such an act is considered as high a crime among the Vetyeka as it is on Vulcan. “I merely observed him. If you require proof, I am happy to provide it, but I do not believe it is necessary. For one thing, you have not denied it, which indicates you share my opinion, based on observations of your own.”

“Now, hold on. I said no such thing. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“For another, to catalog each instance of your captain’s jealous behavior toward me would be unpleasant for myself, uncomfortable for you, and deeply mortifying to Spock, who is awake now and has quite probably heard our entire conversation.”

“What? He - goddammit, and you just -” The doctor splutters in impotent rage for a few moments longer until Spock, resigned, rises from his bed and pads barefoot to the door, opening it to find the two doctors locked in a stalemate.

“Dr. McCoy,” he says patiently. “Please inform Captain Kirk that my recovery proceeds as anticipated. With Dr. Vikiska’s permission, I will attempt the tow-kath later this morning, in the hopes that I will experience 100% recovery in between twenty and thirty hours. I will ensure that you are provided with an updated report on my vital signs before I enter the trance. As my Chief Medical Officer, is this sufficient to address your concerns, as well as the captain’s?”

McCoy eyes him narrowly for a moment, before finally giving him a terse, wordless nod. Spock returns the nod before turning to the other man.

“Dr. Vikiska,” he says firmly, “you are not Captain Kirk’s doctor, you are mine. Therefore you are not privy to his private thoughts, and speculation about his emotional state is immaterial. If you were better acquainted with his personality - or with human beings in general - you would better understand that the behaviors you witnessed are merely indicative of his dynamic, passionate nature. I concur with Dr. McCoy that your theory is unfounded.”

“Now, wait just a minute, Spock,” says the human, shifting a little uncomfortably. “That isn’t precisely what I said.”

“You accused Dr. Vikiska of ‘putting words in your mouth,’” Spock reminds him. “A human idiom indicating strong disagreement with the sentiments expressed. And as one of the captain's oldest friends, I consider you a reliable source on his state of mind. You have made your opinion quite clear.”

“Listen, Spock, I didn't mean -”

“Have no fear, Doctor,” Spock cuts him off firmly. “You will hear no objection from me on this matter. Upon greater reflection, I now believe that Dr. Vikiska has permitted a fanciful notion to take hold of him and is unconsciously shaping the evidence to fit the hypothesis. He would like it to be true, and therefore has decided it must be so. I disagree.”

McCoy looks from one to the other in confusion. “Why the devil would he care about a thing like that?”

“Because he may not have access to Jim’s private inmost thoughts,” Spock says quietly, “but he is intimately familiar with my own.”

McCoy freezes. “Oh,” he says finally, a little weakly, as understanding dawns on his face. “Oh. I see.”

“I trust that your discretion, as a medical officer, on such a matter -”

He waves this off. “Of course. But Spock, why wouldn’t you - you’ve never -”

“The captain does not know,” Spock finishes for him.

“I’ll say he doesn’t.”

“I do not wish for that circumstance to change,” he says firmly. “I have no plans to inform him. It would be illogical to force an unwanted alteration in our personal and professional relationship.”

He expects McCoy, always so impatient with what he refers to as “other people’s messy relationship drama,” to view this with approval, and to commend Spock for his ongoing efforts to suppress his painful, complicated desires for the good of the crew, and most particularly for the benefit of protecting Jim from such intense discomfort. So it surprises him when the human doctor turns with a rather helpless expression toward the Vetyekan one, as though seeking his intervention.

“All right, Val,” the doctor exhales wearily, deflating somewhat, and neither Spock nor Val fail to note the shift in nomenclature. “I can see I’ve made this all a damn sight worse. Serves me right for meddling. You’d better fix this mess, since it sure seems I can’t.”

“My concern is for my patient’s welfare,” says Val, his words neutral but his voice somehow charged with another layer of meaning Spock cannot entirely decipher. “You understand this, of course, as a doctor yourself.”

McCoy regards him closely. “Of course.”

“His welfare in the immediate present, as he recovers from this malady . . . but also in the long-term, to prevent such harm from befalling him again.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow. “‘Again’ as in, say, seven years from now, or thereabouts,” he remarks, a little too casually.

“Or thereabouts,” Val agrees, with the faintest hint of a repressed smile.

The human nods at this, seemingly satisfied. “Well, then,” he says. “Seems we’re on the same page after all, Dr. V. I’ll leave you to it.”

“You will receive your daily progress report at 0900 with updated information on Spock’s vitals,” says Val. “Please encourage the captain to review it himself as well.”

“Will do,” says McCoy. “And thanks. For . . . well, for all of it.” He gives Spock a long, appraising look. “You really do look mighty improved,” he says finally. “Suppose now that you’re out of the woods it’s not tempting fate to say that we were all a bit more worried about you than we let on, Spock. We’ve all gotten so used to seeing you strutting about the ship putting us pesky, illogical humans in our place that it was downright unsettling seeing you off your game like that.”

“I assure you, Doctor,” says Spock, in the most dignified tone he can muster, “that no illness is severe enough to render me oblivious to your illogical nature.”

McCoy laughs heartily at this. “That’s our Vulcan! All right, then, Spock, I’ll leave you in the doctor’s capable hands, and I’ll see what I can do to keep Jim from wearing a hole in the hotel carpet with all his damned pacing. We’ll see you in twenty-whatever hours, after your trance is done. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get to be the one who slaps you. I do find it therapeutic.” Then he turns on his heel and makes his way back down the hallway before Spock has an opportunity to retort.

Once alone with his doctor, Spock turns to Val with a stern expression. “You are attempting to intervene in personal matters which fall significantly outside the parameters of your medical obligations to me,” he says accusingly.

“I have made no secret of the fact that I believe it is, quite literally, a medical concern to ensure your bond center is not left untended,” says Val, opening the door and waving Spock back into his darkened quarters. “Or of the fact that Captain James Kirk is your preferred choice of bondmate. While of course it would please me to receive a future visit from you, Spock, I do not wish it to be under the circumstances of your next pon farr cycle, seven years from now, if you are still unbonded and without means of either sexual or psionic relief.” He points to the bed. “Lie down. I will take some readings and then I believe one final meld to guide you into the trance will assist the transition process.”

Spock obediently returns to the bed, lying down atop the covers. The room is kept at a Vulcan standard temperature; it is a relief to feel comfortably warm at all times, without the frigid chill of processed air aboard the Enterprise which is calibrated for humans and several degrees cooler than his preference.

“You would . . . wish to see me again?” he repeats, almost hesitantly, as Val retrieves his tricorder and approaches the bed to scan him from head to toe. “In a . . . personal capacity? Was this your implication?”

Val sighs, without looking up from his tricorder. “I am attracted to you, Spock,” he says simply. “I have said so before. I am not ashamed of it. Our melds are deeply pleasurable for me, and I believe that if we shared physical intimacy while our minds were joined, the experience would be quite remarkable. Among my people, healers and their patients share such connections often. I have not offered such services to you because you are Vulcan, and your boundaries around physical intimacy are different from my own.”

“You do not - take sexual gratification within the meld, when I do,” Spock ventures.

“Are you asking whether I, outside the meld, experience sexual climax when your imagined James Kirk does, as you do both as your physical and imagined self?” He folds the tricorder and puts it away, seemingly pleased with the results. “No, Spock. I am not a participant in your fantasies. I am only your guide. If we shared intimacy with each other, I would not wish to do so wearing another man’s face.” He pulls up a low stool to the side of Spock’s bed and regards him with a faintly wistful smile. “In another lifetime, perhaps,” he says, opening his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “But I am not the one you want. I know it, and you know it. Would it please me to bond with you? Yes. I will not lie to you. It would. But it would be unfair to both of us. And to Kirk as well.” His expression changes to something more arch and playful. “Besides,” he adds, “Vulcan bondings are generally monogamous by nature. And I do not believe you would appreciate being obligated to share me, mentally or sexually, with four other men.”

Spock blinks at him, rather astonished by this. “Ah,” he says. “No. I believe I would not.”

“A pity,” Val says, conversationally. “I do believe my partners would like you.” He retrieves a small white circle with an adhesive backing of some kind and affixes it to the inside of Spock’s wrist. “This will allow me to assess your condition during the trance. Do you give me permission to bring you out of the tow-kath early, even if the process is incomplete, should any of your vital signs fall below safe levels?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now close your eyes.”

Spock does so, but he cannot help furrowing his brow in thought, and Val’s low laugh indicates that even without a meld, he has determined the source of Spock’s perplexity.

“You are attempting to puzzle through the logistics,” he says wryly.

“Your week has only five days and your months have five weeks. Four lovers cannot be divided evenly on such a basis. Yet you cannot possibly copulate simultaneously each time. Five bodies present enormous complexities for efficient intercourse.”

Val laughs. “We do not do so each time,” he allows, “though we certainly do so regularly. And efficiency is not the goal.”

Spock’s eyebrow raises. “Fascinating.”

“Would you care to experience it?” Val asks in a low voice. “Remember, I am able to share with you any physical sensations I have myself experienced. And there is, of course, no limit to the number of James Kirks your mind can provide you.”

Spock’s eyes fly open and he stares up at the doctor, stunned. “I . . .” He chokes out. “I have never - I would not dare -”

“A fantasy, Spock, is not bound by reality,” Val reminds him. “You fear the uninhibited possibilities of your human imagination. Your dreams of Jim are founded on your memories of him. Copulating on the sands of Vulcan, the only place in your real life where his human body touched yours in such a reckless manner, even though it was combat rather than passion. You are capable of extrapolating a fantasy from that memory. And you did not protest when I offered you another setting - the embassy washroom - because it, too, began from a memory. What if I asked you, this time, to choose the setting? To discard any constraints of realism, and allow your human creativity full rein? It is an act of rebellion against the Vulcan cultural strictures which have taught you to feel only shame about the rampant emotionalism of your desires.”

“I . . .” Spock looks away. “I cannot, Val. My desires do shame me. Rejection by my people has not made me less Vulcan. It has only made me more isolated. A man with no country, as the human expression goes. One who belongs nowhere.”

“Spock, what do you know of how the Vetyeka came to abandon your homeworld and settle here?” Val asks, rather unexpectedly. 

Spock blinks up at him. “Very little,” he says. “Federation databases are sparse on this point, even on Vulcan.”

“Your Lieutenant Uhura came quite close to the mark last night. The one who was so clever about accents and names. There was once, in the times before Surak, a large and thriving Vulcan settlement in the far northern mountain ranges, many thousands of kilometers outside ShiKahr. They did not engage in war or violence with other clans, though they were able to defend themselves when necessary. They survived for thousands of years, withstanding all the darkest periods of early Vulcan’s bloody history. Only when the newfound Way of Logic began to spread throughout their homeworld, shifting the people’s way of thinking and restructuring their society, was their way of life at risk. And do you know why?”

“I do not.”

“Because their sexual practices were deemed illogical,” Val explains. “They did not link bonding to sexuality or sexuality to procreation. The community thrived in large, interconnected families, where duties of child-bearing and child-rearing were shared among those most willing and prepared for the task. Copulation was not restricted by gender or by legal partnerships. Even their bonds were nonmonogamous. Two, three, even four might share a mind link strong enough to tend to one another’s mental needs. And I need hardly point out that the duties of caring for a mate in pon farr would be substantially less daunting when divided among many. Their gene pool was diverse and strong, as so few children shared the same exact lineage. Illness and weaker traits were diffused over time, while stronger ones spread. They were, I believe, in their time, the most content people on Vulcan.”

The picture is gradually becoming clearer to Spock. “The Vulcan Way of Logic is quite explicit on the societal benefits of clearly-defined nuclear family units, and the importance of tracing one’s lineage back to the earliest clan Houses,” he says. “And Surak’s first followers were . . . forceful in their beliefs.”

Val nods. “They were offered the choice, to convert and assimilate, or to depart,” he says. “They chose to settle on a wholly uninhabited planet of snow and ice - without so much as indigenous plant life, let alone a flourishing ecosystem to support them - in the most inhospitable type of climate to their Vulcan biology - rather than subsume their unique culture into the new society Surak built. I do not fault him for his teachings,” Val adds. “The vast majority of Vulcan was populated by warlike, territorial communities, badly in need of unification, to be turned away from violence and toward peace. Did Surak make the world of Vulcan a better place? Even I would say yes. For most. But not for all. And not in all ways. Not at the expense of free will, or emotion and desire.”

“The Vetyeka came to this place in order to live as they wished, without shame,” Spock says quietly.

“And to love as they wished, without shame,” Val adds. “Rather than pretending, as so many Vulcans do, that love is beneath us all. A delusion of emotion, existing outside logic, and as such without value. It is certainly logical, Spock, to take a bondmate whose mind is compatible with yours, in order to assuage the needs of your specific neurobiology and survive your pon farr cycle. But even if you were fully Vulcan, and not half human, it would still be your right to wish for more than that.”

“Val, I . . .” Spock’s voice falters, and he stops, swallowing hard, determined to force the words out. “I love James Kirk.”

Val’s face softens. “I know, my friend,” he says gently. “And I spoke truthfully when I said I am quite convinced that your love is returned. It is not your fault that you were never taught to understand such feelings, that it required such a dire circumstance to bring them to light. But there is no place for shame in this. I think, in fact, knowing your circumstances and your past, that it is in fact quite remarkably brave. But whatever transpires between you, it will require the full restoration of your mental controls. When you next see James Kirk, you must face him as yourself.”

Spock nods at this. “I am . . . sorry, Val,” he says, and means it. “That I am unable to return your affections for me in the manner that you might wish.”

Val smiles at him with a combination of fondness and amusement which eases some of the Vulcan’s guilt. “You have not broken my heart, Spock,” he admonishes him lightly. “You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Perhaps in another life, as I said. But in this one, your heart is spoken for, and there is nothing wrong with that. Now,” he adds, “I should like to put you to the test and permit you, this time, to be the conductor of your own erotic imaginings. I will transfer to you my memories of physical sensations, where I am able, but I will not shape the experience as I have done before. I should like to see how you fare when given free rein to explore the full scope of your desires.”

He picks up Spock’s hands in his, and the thick, sensuous slide of his psionic energy begins flooding through their mind link, pouring from his mind into Spock’s with lush, decadent sweetness. Spock sinks deliciously into it, savoring the sensation, and wonders absently if perhaps the early Vulcans who rejected the unapologetic sensuality of the early Vetyeka were as threatened by this - by their psi powers themselves - as much as by their unconventional social structures. Because the experience of sharing Val’s mind is, itself, erotically pleasurable, even without the stimulation of an explicit sexual fantasy. Spock permits himself to relax into it, to enjoy the sensation, hot and soft like velvet on bare skin. Warm honey stirred thickly into a bowl of Terran whipped cream. Decadent, indulgent, seductive.

<Is it like this for all the Vetyeka?>

Val’s amusement glitters in his mind. ~To a degree,~ he allows. ~But also, I am very, very good.~

<You are indeed.>

Spock surrenders to pleasure, allowing himself to be bathed in velvet and honey, and when he feels Val’s presence move to his bond center, resuming his careful stitch-by-stitch repair work, he is surprised to realize that he can feel how much of the damage is already mended. No Vulcan healer could have achieved so much in so little time. The young doctor is truly remarkable. Or perhaps there is something to his argument that sexual stimulation facilitates the healing process, a notion he is certain a Vulcan would deem too illogical to consider.

~Do not pay Vulcan healers any mind, Spock. They are far away from you. We are here, and they are there, and at present they do not matter to us. Now, I would like you to imagine a setting which you find erotically stimulating. Do not feel constrained by realism, or memory. Allow your human imagination free rein.~

When the location arrives in his mind, it is hard to say which of them is more surprised by it - Val, or Spock.

~Gothos?~ inquires the Vetyekan in some surprise, recognizing the setting from Spock's memories. ~Intriguing.~

Spock looks around him at the enormous bedchamber in which he stands, furnished in gleaming dark wood and heavy brocade fabrics, dimly lit by a handful of flickering lanterns on the walls, where a bed large enough for a great number of people stands draped in silks and velvets. He looks down at his own body and realizes he is clad in only a loose white linen shirt and breeches, undergarments typical of the Earth period with which the house’s inhabitant had been so enamored.

<I did not, I willingly admit, think highly of Trelane. But I found the world he created to be . . . fascinating.>

~You were, in point of fact, quite taken with the notion of seeing Jim clad in such attire.~

<I believe that I was, though I did not credit it at the time.>

~Very good, Spock. Your first attempt at a self-guided sexual fantasy is quite successful so far. Proceed as you see fit.~

Emboldened by Val’s approbation, Spock makes his way over to the massive four-poster bed, its red drapes aglow in the lamplight, and climbs into the center of it. After a moment’s consideration, he determines that the longer he waits, the higher the chances that he will talk himself out of exploring the deeply hidden desire Val’s words from earlier had awakened, and decides to proceed before he changes his mind.

Instantly, four identical versions of James Kirk - each clad in Trelane’s historical fashion - appear before him. All are wearing the same style of elegant, knee-length velvet jacket as their capricious host, but green and gold in color, like Jim’s command tunic, where Trelane’s had been blue. Each wear the same frilly white jabot tied at the neck, and tight black breeches, though Spock decides he prefers them tighter still than Trelane’s style.

Tight enough, in fact, to reveal that all four Jims are erect.

~Very good, Spock. Keep going.~

One of the Jims, standing on the left-hand side of the bed, takes a few steps closer, and meets Spock’s gaze with a mischievous grin. “A game of dress-up, Mr. Spock?” he says playfully, looking down at his attire. “This is how you want me, is it?”

“You are pleasing to look at in such raiment, Jim,” he says hoarsely, feeling his pulse begin to accelerate as the other three draw nearer too, all their hazel eyes fixed on Spock.

“Would you find us more pleasing to look at out of such raiment?” quips one of the others, giving his white neckerchief a bold tug, untying it in one graceful gesture. “You’ve got an unfair head start on us, you know. Lying there in your undergarments with your cock hard, teasing us like that. Naughty Vulcan.”

“We ought to catch up to him,” agrees another. “But there’s no rush. Not if he likes to look at us like this.”

“We’ll go slow, then,” says the fourth, stepping up behind the third to speak and reaching his arms around from behind to slowly, seductively untie the white scarf for him.

A dangerous thrill races through Spock at this, and all four dream-Jims sense it, their gazes turning soft and amused and playful. 

“He seems to like it when we touch each other. Shall we see how long he can hold out if we give him a bit more of a show?”

“If it helps us get our hands on that sweet, bare Vulcan skin a little faster, I’m all for it. Damn Trelane and these unnecessary buttons. Why did anyone ever dress like this?”

“Because it was beautiful,” Spock murmurs, unable to stop himself, as one of the Jims begins languidly undressing the other. “Because you are beautiful like this, Jim.”

“Oh, Spock,” breathes the one nearest him. “You have no idea what true beauty is, my dearest friend. You cannot see yourself as we do. The most beautiful thing in this room is you. In any room, anywhere, it is always you.”

Spock finds himself blushing and looking away, as though the words are real, forgetting that it is not the true Jim speaking to him in this uninhibited manner. And yet, perhaps . . . Val seems to think - and so, perhaps, does Dr. McCoy - so could it possibly be, that Jim - that he could ever -

“Stay with us, Spock,” murmurs one of the Jims. “There is no room for doubt here, in this place. Look at us. Stay here, in this moment. Leave everything else outside for now.”

Spock looks up, struck dumb by the sight before him. Two of the Jims are undressing each other, unbuttoning one another’s shirts and jackets, while their mouths are pressed together in a soft, sensual human kiss which causes him to shiver with arousal. The other two, nearer to him, have advanced yet further; one has dropped to his knees to open the other’s trousers, inviting Spock to sit forward and watch closely as he wraps his soft pink lips around the standing Jim’s fully-erect penis.

“Mmmmm,” sighs the one receiving the oral pleasure. “Awfully handy fucking yourself, isn’t it? You know exactly where to - oh! Good, yes, right there. That’s it. That’s how I like it.” He caresses the other Jim’s golden hair with indulgent fondness. "Just like that. Right there, with your tongue. The way I like to imagine Spock doing it."

Spock’s cheeks flush hotly, and he tears his eyes away as though this is somehow an invasion of their privacy, only to find the other two now devoid of boots, trousers, jackets, and overshirts, stripped down to the same loose linen undergarments in which Spock is clad. Their mouths grow warmer, hungrier, their hands roaming greedily over one another’s bodies, touching each other everywhere Spock has ever longed to touch Jim. Their sighs and moans are stimulating, as is the sound of quiet wet suction from beside his bed. Spock looks down to see that his own penis has fully emerged from its sheath and stands erect, without any stimulation whatever.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs.

The two Jims kissing pause and look up. “I see you’ve made excellent time, Mr. Spock,” says one playfully, while the other yanks his loose linen shirt over his head and tugs his breeches down.

“No point in filling up on appetizers when the main course is already laid out,” he quips over his shoulder to the other, who chuckles in agreement as he removes his own clothes too. A pair of very naked Jim Kirks climb up onto the massive bed, and Spock is unprepared for the multiplicity of sensations as their hands begin moving all over his body, caressing him, teasing him, gently removing his clothing in order to gaze hungrily upon his bared flesh and his pulsing erection.

“So beautiful, Spock,” murmurs one, guiding him to lie on his side and curling up behind him, running gentle hands up and down his side and his flank, while the other shifts lower on the bed and bends his head to take Spock’s penis into his mouth. The two remaining Jims, who have been otherwise engaged, break off their own activities to undress the remainder of the way and join the others on the bed.

Spock closes his eyes, and everything becomes a golden blur. There is a mouth on his penis. There is a penis in his mouth. There are hands on him, everywhere, lips and tongues on him, everywhere. Someone sucks at his left nipple, while someone pinches his right. And all around him, that low, sweet voice he loves so dearly, murmuring his name again and again.

“Spock . . . oh God, Spock . . . you’re so beautiful . . . I love you so much . . .”

Fingers find his entrance, work him gently open. He ejaculates in someone’s mouth, is petted and praised for how pretty he looks when he comes, how sweet he tastes. He sucks hungrily at Jim’s penis, which is so marvelously different from his own - the spongy texture of its flared head, the ridged veins, the heavy weight of his testicles at the base where Spock would expect a sheath to be. He is thick and rough, while Spock is smooth and sleek. It feels right, this way. Jim’s penis is so human, no two centimeters of it alike beneath his exploratory tongue. Its taste is musky, salted, tinged with the iron scent of human blood. It is delicious. Spock opens his mouth wider, and a second penis nudges at his lips. He licks and sucks messily at both, just barely able to take the tips of both at once, for which he is once more showered with gentle murmurs of praise.

“Look at you, Spock, so beautiful like this . . . look how well you’re taking it . . . so good for me, Spock, no one else could do this, Spock, only you, only ever you . . . how brave you are to let yourself have this, to take what you want without shame . . .”

He feels one Jim begin to pulse against the inside of his cheek, coming with a deep moan and filling Spock’s mouth and throat, followed shortly by the other. He takes as much as he can, but feels three pairs of lips and three tongues descend upon him, kissing away what remains, lapping it up as it trails down his jaw, licking it out of his mouth, filthy and messy and so un-Vulcan that Spock is shocked at himself. T’Pring, he thinks with some satisfaction, would not recognize him.

When the Jim who is curled up behind him, working open the muscles of his sphincter with deft, warm fingers, finally retracts his hand and pushes his thick, hard penis inside, Spock lets out a sigh which is half-pleasure, half gratitude. The sensation of being penetrated by Jim, of holding a piece of Jim’s body within the depths of his own, fulfills something primal within his katra, restoring something to him which he had never even realized was lost.

“God, I love fucking you, Spock,” Jim murmurs dreamily against the back of his throat. “So tight and hot for me . . . so needy, so hungry . . . this is what you crave, isn’t it? And you’re finally brave enough to let me give it to you. To hell with T’Pring. She couldn’t give you this. She could never fuck you properly, the way you really deserve.” He licks hotly into the side of Spock’s neck, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. “And you’re so strong, you can take it so beautifully,” he murmurs. “This perfect, powerful body, all that Vulcan mass and muscle . . . and it’s all mine to take care of.” He pushes in deeper, then pulls out and slams in again. Spock moans in pleasure. 

“That’s right, ashayam, let us take care of you,” whispers one of the other Jims, gently guiding Spock to lie on his stomach as the Jim who is buried deep within him moves too, straddling him for better leverage, his thrusts deepening. Hands stroke his back, his arms, his hair, as he melts into the velvet-draped mattress.

~Spock, you are doing very well. I believe the remaining damage to your bond space is within your own powers to heal inside the tow-kath. You are now healed enough to maintain this fantasy on your own. You are sufficiently familiar with your own desires, and with the memories of your previous fantasies, to continue without my assistance. I will withdraw from your bond-space, and invite your body and mind to enter the healing trance; however, I encourage you to permit the James Kirks of your fantasy to continue their ministrations. Whether consciously or not, it appears that your deepest longing is to be cared for by him. Let him do so. I believe it will help. Your mind knows what it needs. Permit Jim to give it to you.~

Distantly, Spock feels a sensation like the tides of an ocean receding, someplace far away, outside this opulent bedroom in this imaginary palace, where four Jim Kirks hold him in their arms, kissing him and caressing him and penetrating him with their bodies, one by one by one, until he is wholly spent, body shattered by pleasure, yet still they do not stop.

“My poor, sweet friend . . . hungry for touch, for affection, for so long . . . starved for it . . . we have so much lost time to make up, don’t we? . . . Oh, Spock, it feels so good to hold you, I never thought you’d permit this, not ever . . . God, look at you, I can hardly stand it, you’re so beautiful, Spock, so open for me, so full of cum and still ready for more, I can’t believe you’ve had such a wicked side to you all this time and I never knew . . . that’s it, Spock, that’s it, just a little deeper, you can take it, I know you can . . . come for me, Spock, that’s it, let go, let everything go, Christ you’re beautiful like this, T’Pring was a fool for letting you go . . .”

Again and again, Spock comes for them. Again and again, they come inside him. Time loses all meaning. Minutes, hours, days, he does not know. He is surrounded by Jim. All the world is Jim. There is nothing else outside this bed, this is his whole life, the feeling of velvet beneath him, the scent of sex on the air, one spent penis withdrawing as another achingly erect one glides slickly in to take its place, sweat-sheened skin pressed against skin. Jim fills every inch of him, body and mind and katra. Jim is everything.

“I love you,” he says, over and over, voice scraped raw by his orgasmic cries, but forcing himself to say it anyway, to each of them, every time, as often as he can. “I love you, Jim. I love you. I love you.”

* * * * *

Every time he says the words - and every time he hears Jim’s voice say it back - somewhere, deep inside Spock’s mind, buried far away from this imagined Gothos, far away from this bed where five sets of limbs tangle together, a tiny flame is kindled.

It remains hidden, for now, nothing more than a faint golden glow illuminating a stone cave, hovering over the last few cracks and fissures in its walls and floor which are slowly, smoothly knitting themselves back together, piece by piece. 

Once the cave has finally healed itself, its surface smooth as glass, the tiny flame slowly sinks into the stone. What once looked black in the darkness now begins to glow a warm, pulsing red, sparkling with muted amber lights. Red like the sun over Vulcan, red like human blood. Lit from within, the red stone cave waits for the light which will fill it. It is stronger, now. The mending has given it new vibrancy. It was a lonely, dark place before. The light placed there was not enough to fill it. 

Now it is ready for new life.

Somewhere outside the cave, far away, the silence and stillness is broken by a familiar voice . . . a voice that flame recognizes.

“Dammit, Val, can’t you understand? I love him!”

The red light within the cave turns golden, glowing brighter and brighter.

Its time is almost here.

Now, it waits.

Chapter Text

JIM

It takes all Jim’s self-restraint to sit through the next day’s tedious parade of droning bureaucratic summits without losing his composure. Even with Spock and Val out of his sight, they are hardly out of mind, especially since circumstances seem determined to throw his newly-uncovered fears back in his face.

It was Uhura’s remark at the dinner table last night, about the possibility that a Vulcan and a Vetyekan could bond successfully even long-distance, which first planted the fear. The Vetyeka are polyamorous, she explained; so Val probably has another bondmate already, maybe even two. He wouldn’t need Spock, the way Spock may in fact have a medical or biochemical need to be bonded, as a way to prevent such an illness from striking him again at his next pon farr. He’d simply be doing it for pleasure, and something about this gets under Jim’s skin for reasons he can’t entirely identify at first. Because Spock is monogamous, this he knows with deadly certainty. Vulcans bond for life. If Val adds Spock to his little mind-harem (all right, maybe that phrasing is a trifle uncharitable, but he can’t quite bring himself to take it back), then Spock can’t bond with anyone else until Val dies. Which won’t be for another hundred years, probably, since the Vetyeka age like Vulcans do, meaning there would never be an opportunity for a human to -

And this is where he comes up short, startled at himself.

For a human to what?

Isn’t it sensible for Jim to favor this plan? A bondmate likely to live as long as Spock will, ensuring he’s cared for as long as it’s needed, but who won’t put any demands on him which would take Spock away from the ship? A casual relationship which would meet all Spock’s biological needs, without ever making him choose between his bondmate and his crew, as T’Pring surely would have even if they’d tried to make it work. It’s eminently logical. So why does it feel like Jim is on the clock, suddenly? Why did Uhura’s enthusiasm for the notion grate on him so? Why did he feel ever so slightly betrayed by her, like she’d taken Val’s side against Jim?

But why would any of this pit Val against Jim? What are they in competition for? Jim is unable to understand himself, and he doesn’t like feeling this way. Uhura isn’t helping matters, either; after Jim returned to the party, more than a little shell-shocked by walking in on Spock and Val in what he knows full well, by Vulcan standards, was a decidedly compromising position, she hadn’t missed an opportunity to ask the council members question after question about the nature of their telepathy, including their bonds, from which Jim had gleaned the deeply unsettling knowledge that the Vetyeka seal their bonds through sexual intercourse. “As Vulcans do,” the minister of culture had added casually, as though everyone sitting around him eating their dessert had known that, which they all tactfully pretended they did. Uhura had looked at Jim rather oddly, then, and several times afterwards, as though every time the subject of bonding arose she was watching his reactions, which only made him more determined not to let his increasing alarm show.

And today, she’s found a new way to twist the knife on Jim, because the minister of health is in today’s sequence of eternally boring meetings, and the fellow is absolutely irrepressible on the topic of why young Dr. Vaitlun Vikiska is the future of parapsychology and one of the brightest lights of his generation. Bones agrees, of course, which stings a bit, though Jim had expected this; but Uhura’s bounteous praise - followed, each time, by a sly, subtle glance in his direction, to see how he’s taking it - bothers him profoundly.

He sips absently at the glass of fruit juice in front of him, which is cold enough to help assuage his headache, a little. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, torn between an agonized replay of that terrible moment when Spock went pale and collapsed in front of him, and the unexpectedly gutting sight of his First Officer holding hands with the handsome, charismatic young healer whose touches he seemed so hungry for, in contrast to the way he seemed only to patiently tolerate Jim’s. He’d been able to put at least one of those fears to bed, by forcing Bones down to the hospital the earliest possible minute after the sun came up and it could plausibly be called “morning” in order to confirm that Spock was well and hadn’t suffered a dire setback to his health. “He’s fine, and you’re an idiot” had been the doctor’s only response upon returning, and refused to say anything more, so at least he had that to hold onto; but it was the other fear which had lodged beneath his skin last night, and even now - in the cold, clear light of day, as Jim sits in the consulate’s grand conference room and listens to a droning monologue of year-over-year agricultural surplus reports - he can’t quite let it go.

And the hell of it is, he can’t even go see Spock for himself. Damn that healing trance! Jim knows he should be grateful for it - it’s certainly his best shot at getting his First Officer back as soon as possible, and it’s a miracle that Spock’s able to do it at all - but he can’t help longing for just a few minutes’ conversation alone with his friend before he went under, just to -

To what?  

Ask him something? Tell him something? 

What good would it do, since Spock’s first question would naturally be “why are you so upset about this,” something Jim can’t answer because even he doesn’t know?

The agricultural minister finally sits down and shuts up, only to be replaced by the minister of climatology and weather management, and Jim knows he’s supposed to be paying attention to this bit, but he can’t keep his mind from wandering to increasingly horrifying places.

Or, well, all right - just the one place.

Namely, Spock’s bed.

Spock’s bed, where maybe tomorrow, when he emerges from the trance, he and Val will consummate a bond through what Jim’s sure would be intensely passionate lovemaking. The Vetyeka seem gleefully hedonistic in their sexual practices, and under ordinary circumstances Jim thinks he’d get a kick out of them. If they’d come here last time they had shore leave, and Jim had bumped into the handsome auburn-haired doctor in a bar someplace . . . hell, maybe Bones would have had a point about Val being exactly his type. But now, he thinks he’d give anything for this teaching hospital to be staffed with a bunch of surly, short-tempered Tellarites, rather than the only man in the whole galaxy handsome and charming enough to successfully woo Spock. 

And Spock in bed is . . . well, a shocking and decidedly new thought. Jim’s never given the notion any consideration before, though of course in hindsight he understands the reason; his Vulcan First Officer quite literally did not reach sexual maturity until this very month. But Jim knows Spock better than anyone does, and his friend’s quiet intensity has always intrigued and delighted him; it’s just that Jim’s never considered until now how erotic it would be, to have all that quiet, solemn heat directed at a lover. To be the very first person permitted to see Spock experience the pleasures of the body - for surely that side of him was never revealed to T’Pring - God, to waste such a gift on Val! Someone who’s only known him a few days, someone who can’t possibly understand how extraordinary he is. Spock, joining his mind to Val’s and offering him his body, pristine and untouched like a field of unbroken snow. Spock, permitting himself to be touched inside and out, in a way he has never permitted Jim. Spock both literally and metaphorically naked, wholly unmasked, vulnerable in pleasure, such endless horizons to discover, showing a side of himself to Val that Jim will never get to see. 

And for what? As preventative medicine against a future pon farr gone wrong? A bonding is the closest thing Vulcans have to what Jim would consider a marriage; Spock would marry this man, a man who might have a dozen other spouses already, a man who could never make Spock the center of his world the way Spock deserves to be, who could never really love Spock the way Spock deserves to be loved, the way Jim -

Fruit juice goes down the wrong pipe, and Jim sputters briefly, coughing in a decidedly undignified manner which cuts off the minister of climatology’s lengthy description of the northern hemisphere’s storm center as all eyes abruptly swivel to fixate on their Starfleet guest. Bones glowers darkly, like he doesn’t believe Jim would ever do something as prosaic as choke on a glass of juice, and strongly suspects the captain is up to something.

“So sorry, everyone,” Jim says, mortification staining his cheeks pink, waving off their concern with an airy gesture. “My apologies, Minister. It’s delicious, and I simply drank it a little too fast. Please, do proceed.”

The moment passes, and the Vetyekans return their focus to the head of the table, where the minister resumes speaking - though as always, it’s harder to shake off Bones. But Jim can’t take any of it in right now. Not hurricane trajectories, not his friend’s steely blue eyes, not the table of dignitaries gathered around him who he’s supposed to be impressing. All he can hear is one single word, echoing over and over again in his mind like the tolling of that damned Vulcan gong.

How long has he been blind to the truth of what this is between them? Was it always there? Did it blossom a little more and a little more each day with every quiet smile over a game of chess, every dryly raised eyebrow and arch little quip on the bridge, every time that powerful Vulcan body stepped in between his captain and danger, every time that extraordinary mind uncovered a solution that would have remained forever hidden to anybody else? 

When did his feelings for Spock expand so far past the boundaries of simple friendship  that Jim feels utterly undone by the thought of losing him to someone else?

Spock needs a bondmate, and he went to someone other than Jim first - even though he knows Jim will go to any lengths to save his life. Spock has an illness which, rather unconventionally, appears to be treated with sex, and he went to someone other than Jim first - even though he knows the captain is sexually adventurous, impossible to shock, and not at all averse to taking non-human lovers. Plainly, then from the Vulcan’s perspective, their relationship is a purely platonic one. Spock doesn’t see him that way. 

That would be hard enough to stomach, on its own, of course; except for the fact that Spock does see Val that way. 

Spock is capable of attraction to men - is quite probably, in fact, given what Jim has gleaned of the way Vetyekans join minds during intercourse, capable of absolutely earth-shattering sexual intimacy with men. Sex with Spock would be the kind of encounter that haunts you the rest of your life even if you only ever experience it once. It ought to ruin you forever for anyone else. That’s what Spock is like. No other chess partner will ever be enough. No other science officer. No other second-in-command. No other friend will ever complete the other half of Jim’s soul the way Spock does. And Jim knows - he knows - that to take Spock to bed would be exactly the same. He’d be ruined forever, for anyone else. Because Spock is just . . . everything. 

And to throw all that away on someone who couldn’t be bothered to offer Spock his undivided affections - someone with multiple partners already, for whom Spock would just be one of many; someone who wouldn’t even see Spock often enough to take advantage of the privilege of being the one Spock chose - when Jim is right here, ready to offer him everything, to spend the rest of their lives together, because he suddenly realizes it’s inconceivable to imagine wanting to spend it with anyone else?

He takes another sip of his juice, trying to steady himself, feeling a trifle insane. How is it possible that this seismic upheaval, this utter obliteration of the familiar world to be replaced with some alternate reality where up is down and down is up, is only happening to him? How can other people continue talking about “a statistically significant increase in bands of lake-effect snowstorms over the central mountain ranges” and shuffling papers and eating fruit, saying ordinary things, doing ordinary things, as though this were simply another ordinary day, when Jim’s entire existence is disintegrating before his eyes?

Damn it all, the next time he sees Spock it might already be too late. How the hell is he supposed to think about anything else but that?

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Jim is on autopilot, and Bones can tell even if the Vetyeka can’t. He manages to avoid causing a diplomatic incident, at least, and his few moments of palpable distraction are easily waved off; everyone knows by now that Spock has been deep in the tow-kath since around 0600 this morning, and the captain’s concern for his first officer is no real source of alarm. Quite the contrary, in fact; the Vetyeka amiably offer to distract him, keeping him busy all afternoon and evening with social engagements, including a shuttle tour of the open-air aquarium, an interconnected series of lakes where the Vetyeka are attempting to breed several species of ice-hardy Andorian fish (“as we were informed by your friend Dr. McCoy that you shared his affinity for the pastime of fishing”), and a long evening of sampling locally-brewed spirits, which also sounds suspiciously like Bones’ idea. By the time he manages to extricate himself from the company of intoxicated diplomats, it’s after 2200, perhaps the longest day of Jim’s entire life. He decides, diplomacy be damned, he can’t endure a repeat of this.

“You’re on deck for the morning without me,” he says to Bones as they head for the transport room. “Bring Uhura with you, and the science team if you like. Let them ask as many questions as they please. The ministers will love them. And Uhura’s good with diplomats anyway.”

“Uh-huh.” Bones folds his arms, regarding the captain dubiously. “And where might you be planning to spend the morning, might one ask?”

“If Spock went into the trance this morning at 0600, then -”

“No.” Bones’ voice is unequivocal. “Jim, the absolute earliest it would be safe to pull him out of the trance would be 0200. It’s quite likely to be longer than that. Noon, or maybe even later. You can’t just pace around a man’s hospital room for that long, driving everybody crazy. I let you do it in my sickbay because you’re the captain, and I have to. Val doesn’t owe you any such consideration. Besides, there’s a hell of a lot of telepathic patients in varying stages of mental fragility in that building, and the last thing any of them need is your loud human brain blasting your damn fool emotions all over the place, just because you finally figured yourself out at the most inconvenient time imaginable.”

Jim stops short in the middle of the hallway, whirling on Bones and seizing his arm. “Figured what out?” he demands. “Bones, what are you talking about?”

Bones pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jim, you’re a grown man,” he says, narrowing his frosty blue eyes at his friend. “If you don’t know by now - well, it’s sure not my place to tell you.”

“Bones.” He doesn’t like the faintly imploring note in his voice, the plaintive tug on his friend’s arm as Bones attempts to turn and walk away.

The doctor relents, with a weary, exasperated sigh. “I’m too old to play matchmaker,” he says frankly, “and God knows I’m no good at it. And I’ve never fully understood what you see in that fussy, green-blooded hobgoblin anyway. But if the reason you almost choked to death on Vetyekan iced cloud-berry juice this morning was because you had a personal revelation of the sentimental kind -”

“He could bond with Val,” Jim says helplessly.

Bones is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, Jim, he could,” he agrees. “And a powerful argument could be made that it isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had.”

“You think Val would be -” He swallows hard; the words taste bitter in his mouth. “ - good for him?”

“Depends,” Bones says slowly. “Spock’s almost as hopeless at knowing what’s good for him as you are, Jim. And ‘good for him’ could mean a lot of different things. If you’re asking me whether Spock’s biological, hormonal and neurological problems would be solved by bonding with Val - well, the answer is yes, that’s just a plain old matter of science. If you’re asking me whether that’s what would make the pointy-eared fool happy . . . well, I’m no prude, and the fellow’s handsome enough, not to mention he seems perfectly capable of keeping five or six husbands satisfied already -”

“Bones!”

“Oh, all right, all right,” the doctor grumbles. “Let me have a little fun at your expense, why don’t you?”

“I don’t find any of this amusing, Bones.”

“I know you don’t, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t. I didn’t just figure it out this morning, after all. I’ve had nearly two years to get used to the notion.” Jim blinks at him, mouth agape, eyes wide open in astonishment. Bones snorts derisively, reaching out to place one fingertip beneath Jim’s chin and tilting it upward until Jim’s teeth collide with each other. “Don’t walk around like that,” he advises. “You’ll swallow a fly that way. Plus you look like an idiot.”

“Bones -”

“Since the first time I watched you play chess together,” Bones says, answering the question Jim hadn’t asked. “I’ve just been waiting for you two idiots to catch up. And your timing’s impressively poor, both of you. It certainly would have been more convenient for all concerned if you’d figured this out on Vulcan, but as always, it seems the good Lord put you both on this earth to drive me batty, so here we are.”

“I’m going to the hospital, Bones,” Jim says. “I have to be there when he wakes up.”

“Well, given that only a fool would attempt to get between the two of you in one of your stubborn moods, and Dorothy McCoy didn’t raise no fools, I suppose Uhura and I can manage the high council just fine tomorrow on our own. Provided, that is, you don’t set the patient’s healing back another thirty hours by shouting a bunch of messy human emotions into his poor, delicate little Vulcan brain.”

Jim looks at him warily for a long moment, waiting to see if he’ll say more, but the doctor merely raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Well, go already,” he sighs. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

Three minutes later, Jim’s standing in Spock’s darkened room.

It’s ungodly warm, which he realizes of course he should have expected; the temperature’s been raised to keep Spock comfortable. He’s clad in loose black sleeping robes, lying on his back on a low, wide bed at the back of the room. As his commanding officer, the nurse on duty didn’t seem prepared to fight Jim on his request for admittance, but he wonders how many precious few minutes he’ll have with Spock alone before Val - who’s surely been alerted - arrives to stick his oar in.

Jim kneels beside the bed, gazing down at Spock’s face. He looks softer when he’s sleeping, Jim’s noticed this before, and younger too. The severe angularity of his profile is as striking as always, but his lips - so often tightly pursed in amused disapproval, or solemn thought - are parted slightly, and Jim has to clench his hands into fists to fight back the sudden urge to brush a fingertip over them. They kiss with their hands, on Spock’s homeworld, he’s read this somewhere before. He wants to wake him with a thumb gently grazing the curve of his lower lip, a Vulcan Sleeping Beauty.

“God, how is it possible?” he whispers to the still figure before him. “How could I not have known, all this time? You’ve always been this beautiful to me, this cherished. I just didn’t know what it meant. And now I’m terribly, terribly afraid that I got here too late.” He reaches out, just brushing the edge of black Vulcan fabric, the hem of a sleeve draped against the white mattress, not quite daring to go any further but longing to touch something, to feel a tactile connection to Spock. “Please, my friend,” he murmurs, imploring. “Don’t let me be too late.”

Only when Spock, still motionless, does not open his eyes or answer, does Jim realize how foolishly he’d been hoping against hope that he would.

“If you were anyone else,” comes a low, amused voice from behind him, “I would have arrived with security in tow.”

Jim doesn’t turn around. “If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hmmm.” Val makes a kind of noncommittal sound. “Or do you mean, if he were anyone else, you wouldn’t be here? Would you trust my word as a medical professional, rather than requiring the evidence of your own eyes, if my patient were Lieutenant Uhura?” 

“Goddammit, Dr. Vikiska,” Jim snaps, “this has got nothing to do with trust. No one’s questioning how you do your job, all right? I just . . . I needed to see him.”

“Ah.” There’s something knowing in the healer’s voice that immediately puts Jim’s back up, and he tenses at the sound of footsteps as Val approaches nearer. “I believe I understand.”

“The hell you do,” he mutters irritably. “This is all working out awfully nicely for you, isn’t it? You’re planning to come out the big winner in all of this.”

Val is silent for a moment. “Your words seem to indicate that you are accusing me of profiting, somehow, from the near-death of your First Officer,” he finally says. “I take no offense, since I am aware that humans experiencing powerful and unexpected emotions frequently say things they do not mean; but I presume you speak here as an individual, and not a representative of Starfleet.”

The polite rebuke stings enough to bring Jim back up to his full height; it suddenly seems vitally important to face Val man-to-man, on his feet. “I think,” he says, turning around, arms folded across his chest, “that we can dispense with the games here.”

“I was not aware that we were playing one,” says the doctor evenly, gesturing to the pair of meditation cushions facing each other in the center of the room. “Would you care to sit?”

The cushions are close enough for Val, seated on one, to reach the meld points of Spock’s face as he sits on the other. This must be where they work. This must be where Val enters Spock’s mind, doing whatever he does to tend his fractured bondspace with mind-to-mind ecstasy. 

How dare you ask me to sit in the place where you’ve been fucking him, he thinks, with a surge of white-hot fury, and even the faintly raised eyebrow which indicates Val has caught at least the basic gist of this remark doesn’t prompt him to take it back.

“Tell me the truth, Doctor,” Jim says. “You owe me that much at least. You’re capable of bonding with him, aren’t you.” 

“Yes,” says Val, both his voice and his expression utterly impossible to read.

“And you want to do it. You want Spock.”

“Yes.”

“And he wants you, too.” Jim runs a hand through his hair, desperation rising within him. “Of course he does. I mean, look at you.”

Val’s other eyebrow lifts to match the first one. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” Jim snaps, forgetting everything Bones said about not pacing in a patient’s hospital room, suddenly too restless to stand still and too angry at Val to stay within his orbit. “You’re a smart man, and you’re also a telepath. You can’t pretend to be oblivious to the effect you have on people. The auburn hair, the emerald eyes, the charming smile . . .”

“You have a remarkable way of making flattery sound insulting,” says Val. “The emotional language of humans is endlessly fascinating.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not a laboratory specimen!” Jim exclaims, flinging up his hands in despair. “Will you at least pretend, for the sake of good manners, that you aren’t enjoying the show quite so much? It must be terribly amusing for you, to see me like this. At the end of my rope. You’re so cool and collected, aren’t you, so superior to us lowly humans. Smarter, stronger, longer-lived . . . all right, fine, you want to hear me say it? I’ll say it. It’s a perfectly logical match. You know it, I know it, he knows it. I cannot compete with you, Val. All right? I’m no fool. I’ve got a clear picture of what I’m up against, how easy it would be for you to -”

“To take Spock away from you.” Val’s voice is suddenly expressionless. “You believe this to be my aim. I suspected as much at the banquet. Spock could not fathom the source of your distress, but he is incapable of viewing you in a neutral and dispassionate way. Jealousy is foreign to him, and he could not recognize it when it was right in front of him. Even though the force of it broke through what little shielding I was able to offer his mind, and drove him to the edge of collapse.”

Jim’s face goes white. “You mean that - in the washroom, when he - you’re saying I did that?”

“Your mind is powerful, for a psi-null human,” says Val. “I myself was strongly affected. Had my shields been in tatters like Spock’s, neither of us would have been able to hold onto consciousness for much longer.”

Pieces begin slotting together in Jim’s mind. “What shielding you were able to offer,” he repeats slowly. “You were supporting him that whole time. Skin-to-skin contact. He was borrowing your shields.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Damned clever,” says Jim, eyes narrowing. “What a perfectly logical excuse to keep him close to you all night long. Make him dependent on you. Touching him every damned moment. He doesn’t let anybody touch him, Val, some of us have had to work for years to break through that Vulcan shell even just a crack at a time . . . and suddenly here you are, a man he’s known for mere days, with your hands all over him, and -”

“And he likes it,” Val says simply. “And he has not requested I stop. That, I believe, is the nature of your displeasure.”

“Dammit, Val, can’t you understand?” Jim explodes, voice sharp with desperation. “I love him!”

“That is perfectly clear, Captain,” says Val, whose face doesn’t change at all, and something about this serene impassiveness - the calm of a man who knows he’s already won - opens up a vast, aching hollow inside Jim’s chest.

What if he really is too late? What if the decision has been made, and it’s already over?

No. No, it can’t be. It can’t.

“I’ll beg, if I have to,” he says to the doctor, almost impulsively. “I’m not too proud for that. Not when it comes to Spock. You don’t know what he means to me, Val.”

“On the contrary,” Val says quietly. “I have a decidedly clear picture.”

“Yes, but you’ve already got a bondmate, haven’t you?” Jim challenges him. “More than one, in fact, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Four,” says Val evenly, not the least bit ashamed, and Jim feels a twinge of guilt that he’d expected he would be. It’s the most ignorant, prudish, uncharitable thought he’s harbored so far, and he tries his hardest to dismiss it.

“Four,” Jim repeats. “And for an adult male Vetyekan of your age and health, is that sufficient to meet your mental needs?”

“More than sufficient.”

“So if you bonded for Spock it would only be for pleasure, wouldn’t it?” he presses. “You don’t need the bond, the way Spock needs it. And if it’s just about pleasure, you could get that from anywhere. You could have your choice of men, if you really wanted another bondmate. You have options. But I don’t. For me, there’s only Spock. And for Spock, there can only be one person. If he says yes to you, without even knowing how I - that I might want -” He shakes his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. “God knows I take the blame for letting it get this far without putting a name to it,” he admits wearily. “Of course Spock didn’t know what I felt; he had no experience to compare it to. But I should have known. I should have known a long time ago, and I didn’t. That’s on me, and I’ll take my punishment like a man if I have to. But if you’ve got a heart in your body, Val, you won’t send me away. You won’t go through with this until you let me speak with him first. I have to at least try.”

“I find it curious that you assign all Spock’s agency in this matter to me,” Val says. “You seem surprisingly convinced that I speak for him, or make personal decisions on his behalf.”

“He’ll follow your lead, whatever you tell him is best,” Jim says. “He trusts you. And that’s why . . .” He swallows hard. “That’s why I’m very much afraid that all my happiness - now, and in the future, depends on you, Val. And whatever you decide to do.”

Val looks at him for a long time. “You asked me the only question which actually matters,” he finally says, “but you did not permit me to answer it myself. For better or worse, Captain Kirk, I think at this stage there is nothing I can say which will persuade you I have only Spock’s wellbeing at heart. I suggest you take the matter up with him when he wakes. Perhaps from his lips, if not mine, you will believe it.”

Then he turns on his heel, and is gone.

* * * * *

Jim doesn’t know how long he kneels beside Spock’s bedside, alone in the warm, silent darkness, before a soft beep from somewhere in the room - a biomonitor, tracking the patient’s vitals - alerts him that it’s time. He’s seen Bones do this before, and he’s even done it himself once, on an away mission which went terribly wrong. There was a cave-in, and Spock charged in to pull Jim to safety, crushing both his legs in the process. Jim had been left alone to stabilize him with a half-empty medkit and no communicator until Sulu could find them again in the shuttle. How many times has Spock risked death to save him, Jim thinks, aching with helpless affection as he gazes down at that beloved face. And how many times has Jim done the same, without ever understanding why?

He strikes Spock across the cheek, sharp and clean. Once, twice, three times. 

The third time, Spock sits up abruptly and seizes his wrist. “Jim,” he says hoarsely. “Jim.”

“How do you feel?” he asks carefully.

“Recovered,” Spock says shortly. “Jim, I must speak with you. It is urgent.”

“No, Spock, let me go first, please,” Jim murmurs, daring to turn his wrist in Spock’s grip to clasp his hand palm to palm, a breathtakingly audacious escalation of intimacy for a Vulcan. “I know what you’re going to say, I spoke with Val, but I’ve got to say something first.”

“Jim, please -”

“Don’t bond with him, Spock.” Jim leans forward, eyes closed, resting their foreheads together. “I’m a selfish bastard for asking this of you, and I know it. But don’t, anyway. Please. I know my mind is messy and human and I don’t know how to help you heal like Val does, but I know you, Spock, you’re faithful and you’re loyal and you deserve the same in return. You deserve a bondmate who would never look elsewhere if they were lucky enough to be yours. Not T’Pring, with her idiotic Stonn. Not Val, with the four husbands he’s already got. Someone who wants to give you all of himself, and wants all of you in return.” He feels the corners of his eyes begin to sting with tears. “I know you don’t see me that way, Spock, but maybe with time . . . we could be so good together, if you’d only give us a chance. I want to be the one who gives you everything you need. I know a Vetyekan has psionic powers I don’t have, but your father married a human, didn’t he, so it must be possible. We could make it work. We could figure out a way. I’ll do anything. Let it be me, Spock. The man who loves you.” His voice chokes on those final words. “I love you,” he says again. “Forgive me for not realizing it until now. My dearest friend in all the world. And forgive this damned mess of human emotions. But for God’s sake, Spock, I’m on my knees here. Don’t say yes to Val. Don’t choose him. Choose me. Please.”

“Oh, Jim.” Spock’s voice is barely a whisper. “I have already surrendered all of myself. It was done before I even knew the name for my desires. There was never a choice.”

Jim feels his heart twist and crack open inside his chest, terrified at the ache of what sounds like grief in his friend’s voice, but before he can say anything else, plead his case again, Spock is reaching out for him with both hands, gripping Jim’s uniform tunic and yanking him forward. A hot, fervent mouth which tastes of spiced Vulcan tea crashes into his, and for a moment Jim is so stunned he forgets to breathe.

Spock is kissing him.

Spock, who has only just reached sexual maturity, who has never taken a lover, who has not once - to the best of Jim’s knowledge - experienced the pleasures of the flesh, is kissing Jim with a frantic, desperate passion that sends heat racing through Jim’s body, stirring his cock into startlingly abrupt arousal. His mouth tumbles open and Spock surges into it, licking hotly against Jim’s own tongue with a muffled, keening moan, sinking back against the pillow and dragging Jim forward to half-collapse on top of him, limbs ungainly, hands uncertain where to land. Beneath him, Jim can feel Spock’s body rising up to meet him; he shivers as their most sensitive organs brush together, unable to resist shifting his weight to bracket the Vulcan’s narrow hips with his muscular thighs, grinding downward to press Spock into the mattress. Spock melts at this, his body suddenly eager and pliant, thighs parting to make room for Jim, who still barely understands what’s happening but can’t bring himself to let go.

One of the hands gripping Jim’s shirt slides upward, palming his pectoral muscle and briefly rubbing the nipple with his thumb (and how in God’s name did Spock know to do that?) before grazing his collarbone and throat, and finally fluttering delicate fingertips against Jim’s psi points, his light touch a wordless question. Jim nods his embarrassingly eager assent without tearing his mouth away from Spock’s, and reaches out with his other hand to tangle their fingers together as Spock’s lips move against Jim’s and suddenly the world goes black.

When Jim’s consciousness returns to him, he’s dimly aware of being in two different places at once. He can still feel himself lying on the bed atop a passionately aroused Vulcan who is a much better kisser than Jim could ever have dreamed; but he’s also in a kind of warm, pulsating darkness, where ghosts of sensation flicker over and through him, with the weight of an invisible presence beside him which he suddenly knows to be Spock’s own mind pressed up against his. In the darkness, a vision appears, two bodies in motion, and Jim realizes one of them is his own. And the other is . . . 

Oh.

Oh.

Stricken with mortification, Jim watches his own naked body pounding Spock’s into the red Vulcan sand, grunting like an animal, hot and hard and ferocious. The image fades to be replaced by another, and then another, different positions, different locales, but all the same. Jim fucking Spock, over and over and over and over and over again.

No, no, no, oh God, how did this happen? Is Jim’s psi-null mind so besotted that he’s been projecting such shocking, inappropriate desires directly into his friend’s head? Including quite a few that he didn’t even realize he had? Yes, all right, maybe the his subconscious knew what he wanted before he did there in that embassy bathroom, he concedes as he watches his dream self bend Spock over the marble counter and hammer into him from behind; and maybe on Vulcan, too, if he’s being scrupulously honest with himself. But the final image shocks him utterly. Where the devil did he dream up some gothic four-poster bed straight out of Jane Eyre, with two of himself hammering into Spock on his hands and knees while another Jim licks at Spock’s quivering sheath and a fourth feeds a pink, leaking cock into those soft lips? Good God, what kind of monster -

<These are not your fantasies, Jim,> comes a low, smoky voice, echoing throughout his skull and making him shiver. <They are mine.>

<They - you - what?> He tries to speak back with words, but he’s so taken aback all he can manage is a kind of inarticulate spluttering.

<The bond is repaired through sexual stimulus. Val encouraged me to . . . indulge my human imagination. What you see before you are my own desires. I believed them to be shameful. I could not even begin to contemplate the notion that they might be returned. Val told me you felt . . . deep emotions, for me. I could not believe him. Until your voice broke through the trance, and I heard you say it.> The warm darkness around Jim begins to close in, as though Spock’s mind itself is caressing him, embracing him. He sinks into it and lets it touch him everywhere. Spock’s voice, when it speaks again, is soft with fond, worried reassurance. <Jim, your fears were ungrounded. If I had imagined for a moment you might wish this, I would never have looked to another. It is you, only, I desire. To bond with you would be the greatest fulfillment I can imagine.>

<I couldn’t bear to share you, Spock. I’ve always felt as though you were mine. That only I truly saw you, that only I understood you completely. And you were always the same for me. No one else sees me the way you do.>

<I, too, have felt this, Jim. You are not mistaken. I am yours. I belonged to you before I understood my own feelings. I belong to you even more now. It is you who healed me, Jim. It was my desire for you which permitted Val to heal my fractured mind.> The vision changes, and Jim sees Spock and Val seated across from one another on the meditation cushions. A brief hot flare of jealousy is quickly extinguished by an amused breeze of affection ruffling through the mind link between them. Spock shows him everything. Jim is surprised (and then faintly guilty) to see that Val, himself, is not aroused during the proceedings, as Spock makes himself come through the power of his own thoughts, imagining himself with Jim. His behavior is, in fact, entirely above reproach. He takes notes on a PADD in his lap, monitoring Spock’s vital signs, and Spock opens his memory to show Jim the ragged, brutally damaged area of his mind where his bond with T’Pring had been ripped out, and how Val painstakingly stitched each delicate thread back together, leaving it smooth and whole once more. 

Spock wanted Jim so badly that it allowed him to heal himself from what was very nearly the brink of death. Jim has no idea what to do with this, except to pour gratitude and affection and love and longing (and a somewhat grudging wave of apology for his petty dislike of the doctor) into the warm darkness between them as their bodies move together on the bed, heat rising as their erections grind together.

<I can’t promise more than one of me, Spock, but as for the rest of those visions . . . is that truly what you desire? You really - want me, that way?>

<It is what I long for above all else, Jim. To feel you enter my body, and my mind, at once. For Vulcans, this is the deepest form of pleasure. I would not wish to share such intimacy with anyone but you.>

<Oh, God, Spock, can I really touch you? I feel like this is all a dream, and in a moment I’m going to wake up.>

<I am able to maintain a light connection between our minds to heighten our pleasure, while allowing you to remain more present in your body, if you wish. That way you will have no doubt that I am real.>

The darkness recedes, and Jim finds his focus fully returned to the body of the Vulcan lying beneath him, whose brown eyes are open and gazing at him with a softness Jim’s never seen in them before. He breaks the kiss for a moment, both of them panting for breath, and for a long moment, they simply look at each other.

“Hey, stranger,” Jim says softly, overcome with a wave of such passionate tenderness he’s afraid he’ll burst.

Spock blinks up at him in bemused fondness. “Hello, Jim,” he says, in the patient, careful tone he uses when he’s attempting to play along with some new human quirk and figure it out as he goes.

Jim smiles, tracing the slope of Spock’s cheekbone with his fingertips. “My God, how blind I’ve been,” he murmurs, wondering. “It’s impossible to imagine, now, that I didn’t know.”

“Kaiidith,” says Spock simply. “What is, is. All things are made manifest in their own time. We are here now, Jim. That is all that matters.”

Jim kisses him again, soft and sweet. “You’re right, of course,” he says, rolling off Spock’s body enough to toe off his boots and socks and pull his gold tunic off over his head. “Pragmatic as always, like a true Vulcan. What would I do without you to keep my priorities in order?”

“No doubt you would find yourself frequently distracted by irrelevancies,” says Spock gravely. “What a relief to know that your natural predilection for impulsivity is entirely curtailed by my presence.”

Jim snorts. “Sarcasm, Mr. Spock?” he retorts, as he rises briefly to unfasten his uniform slacks. “I know you’re new to this, but it seems you have much to learn about setting a romantic mood.”

“Your criticism might possess the ring of truth were it not visible, from this angle, that your erection has not abated,” Spock points out, which causes Jim to laugh out loud as he steps out of his pants and turns back to face the bed, now clad only in his black Starfleet-issue briefs - which do not, as Spock has observed, do much to hide his current situation.

“Now you know what you do to me,” Jim says simply, hooking his fingers in the elastic waistband and waiting for Spock’s gratifyingly eager gasp of breath before he pulls the briefs down to his ankles and lets Spock see all of him.

An eager Vulcan hand clamps over his hip, pulling him forward so Spock can lean close, examining it. Spock has seen Jim naked before, in circumstances where it didn’t mean anything, which is what he assumes Val drew on in helping craft those fantasies for Spock. But to have the full force of those keen scientist’s eyes trained upon him, as deft fingertips trail over his impossibly sensitive flesh to trace each ridge and vein, leaves Jim shaking with want.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmurs. “My mental recreation appears to have achieved 92.43% accuracy as far as visual observation and appearance; yet it is an entirely different tactile experience. Val’s resting body temperature is similar to my own, and the sensations he shared with me were derived from his own sexual activity with Vetyekan partners. I did not realize your skin would feel so cool to the touch. It is . . . stirring.” He leans forward and startles Jim with an experimental lick that almost causes his knees to give out. “I also misjudged the sensory input of scent and taste,” he adds thoughtfully. “Further experimentation will be necessary in order to accurately calculate -”

“You’re killing me,” Jim interrupts him, pushing him back down onto the mattress and straddling him, shutting Spock up with a forceful kiss as he reaches down to yank open the outer layer of his meditation robes. Through the link that still shimmers between them, Jim can feel Spock’s amusement, and he wonders how often he’s missed these moments before - taking Spock’s scientific preoccupation at face value without realizing he’s being deliberately teased.

Beneath the layers of softly draped black fabric, Spock’s skin is pale and warm. Jim rakes his fingernails lightly down his pectoral muscles, through the soft dark hair he realizes he’s always longed to touch, and parts those long, slim thighs to get a closer look at the glistening, green-tinged sheath. Jim’s sexual tastes have always run to the adventurous, and he’s no stranger to alien pornography; but he wonders now, in hindsight, how it was possible for him to be so foolish that he didn’t realize why he was so uniquely aroused by erotic holovids and imagery of Vulcan men. He’d told himself it was simply about the contrast - watching a reserved Vulcan lose himself in pleasure, enjoying the novelty of genitalia so different from his own - but it’s absurd, now, to pretend it was merely an abstract preference. He didn’t want any Vulcan. He wanted Spock. He wanted to fantasize about touching Spock, exactly like this, without admitting it to himself, because if he had, he would never be able to look him in the eyes again.

“I have felt the same of you,” Spock murmurs softly, as Jim’s hands graze along his inner thighs, opening him up so he can lean in closer. “It did not begin here, with Val. It began the first night, after the kal-if-fee. My body had undergone the change, and suddenly it knew desire. It wanted. And the one it wanted was you.”

Jim trails his fingertip through the damp folds between Spock’s thighs, savoring the way such a light touch can make him shiver. They are similar in appearance to labia, though not quite as soft; the thinnest layer of flexible cartilage lies beneath the quivering, damp flesh to protect the organ inside. Jim can just feel the slick head beginning to emerge, though it is not yet visible.

“Spock, may I -”

“Yes.” Spock cuts him off, breathless, already sensing Jim’s desire before the words are spoken, and Jim doesn’t wait another moment before bending his head and devouring him greedily. 

Spock’s stunned gasp of pleasure, hips jolting upward as though he’s been electrocuted, is the first inkling that he’s begun to put two and two together as far as his captain’s (exaggerated, but not wholly unfounded) reputation as a lover of women. Jim is a private man, when it comes down to it, far more than he’s generally given credit for, and tight-lipped even with his friends regarding the details of the bedroom; but among his better-kept secrets is the fact that he’s rather quaintly old-fashioned about intercourse. It’s so vulnerable, is the thing, it’s such a profound intimacy to join two bodies in that way; and while he definitely enjoys it, and flatters himself that he’s no slouch in that area, he’s always preferred to deploy his arsenal of other skills with more casual trysts, and save that one for the small handful of lovers with whom he’s shared a deeper, more meaningful connection. And heterosexual men so rarely bother cultivating their oral skills that he’s always taken a great deal of enjoyment out of knowing he’s some woman’s best in this particular area.

And while Spock is nothing at all like the women who have warmed Jim’s bed - he’s tended to like them soft, and small, and round, and sweet, while Spock is all long lines and sharp edges and indestructible planes of flat Vulcan muscle - still, he’s also nothing like the men Jim’s been with either. There’s no cock to suck on, not yet; not until he coaxes it out of its sheath. And there’s no complicated, testosterone-fueled power dynamics, no insecurity about losing one’s masculinity by preferring to receive pleasure. Spock is so much stronger than Jim that he’s carried him before, dead weight, with effortless ease for dozens of kilometers, when he’s been injured on an away mission. He’s faster and smarter than any other member of the crew by a factor of ten, and he doesn’t apologize for it. Yet here he is, naked and trembling, utterly submissive, utterly freed of that toxic Vulcan shame, as Jim nuzzles wetly into the copper-sweet slick of his sheath and nibbles lightly on the folds, putting to use all those years of experience making himself at home between the creamy-soft thighs of beautiful women, in order to please the only lover he’ll have for the rest of his life.

This is home now. Spock gasping, fisting the gray sheets of his bed, choking out Jim’s name in a broken plea for more, as Jim’s tongue swirls around and around the slim head that inches upward until it’s finally breached the folds of his sheath. Jim gives it one long, sweet suck; Spock’s cry is practically a scream. A few more deft licks tease it out even further, until a smooth, rounded head, about the length of a thumb and the pale shimmering green of sea glass, finally emerges from the sheath.

Jim presses a soft kiss against it, then lifts his head to look at Spock. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, faintly dazed by the sight of his proper, composed First Officer so shattered and disheveled by pleasure. “And so brave, too. My first time wasn’t anything like this. I was terrified. Didn’t even want the girl to see me without my clothes on. Awkward and shy and foolish. But you - God, look at you. Already so wet for me, so hard. You want this so much, don’t you?”

“I am not afraid because I trust you,” Spock says simply. “I have always been safe in your hands, Jim. In every way. I willingly surrender myself to you, because I know you will never hurt me.” 

Jim moves up Spock’s body to press a kiss against his mouth while his hand, trailing through the slick juices drenching his slit, coats itself in wetness before sliding lower to find the delicate opening and gently teasing at it. Spock gasps.

“Jim, will you really -”

“Yes, Spock. Yes. God, Anything. Anything you ask for. Let me make you ready. I can give it to you exactly how you imagined it, if that’s really what you want.” He lets himself indulge in delicately licking his way up the outer curve of Spock’s ear, giving that graceful pointed tip a gentle suck, which causes Spock to buck and writhe against Jim’s hand. The tight little pucker of muscle softens slightly, and Jim grins.

“I see,” he murmurs, flicking the tip of Spock’s ear with his tongue again. “Quite a powerful erogenous zone, apparently.”

“So . . . it would . . . seem,” Spock grits out, knuckles going white as he grips the edges of the mattress, his whole body liquid and boneless and unresisting, welcoming Jim’s touches. “Please . . . do not . . . stop.”

Jim lets his tongue trace the shape of first one ear, than the other, back and forth, sucking lightly at the tips, until Spock is shaking so badly he has to brace him with a hand on his chest to keep him from tumbling off the bed. It does the job with remarkable effectiveness, and in only a few minutes Spock has opened up enough to admit Jim’s index finger up to the second joint. He’s scorching hot and soaking wet inside, another delightful fact of Vulcan anatomy Jim is familiar with from all that pornography in which he was pretending his interest was purely academic. Testing another hypothesis, he lifts one of Spock’s hands and raises it to his lips, sucking messily on his index and middle fingers. Spock cries out, back arching, and comes in a thick, sticky gush, juices glistening both green and white flooding from his sheath and the head of his cock as it finally surges forward and emerges all the way. His orgasm leaves him so spent that when Jim pushes a second soaked finger through the ring of muscle to join the first, Spock sighs with pleasure and doesn’t resist even a little.

“How do you feel?” he murmurs, pumping his fingers in and out gently to stretch open the tight band of muscle as he presses kiss after kiss against Spock’s throat. “First orgasm of your life that you didn’t give to yourself.”

“Jim.” Spock’s voice is breathless, but faintly amused. “Every sexual climax I have experienced in my life has been attributable to you. This is simply the first for which you were physically present.”

Jim grins at him. “I have to say, Spock, that’s awfully flattering.”

“It is merely a statement of fact. I would advise against permitting it to inflate your ego unduly. With the bar set so high, you would do well to be wary of disappointing my exacting standards.”

A giddy laugh bubbles up from inside Jim’s chest as he feels Spock’s dry amusement echoing through their mental link, that faintly smug chuckle when he’s particularly pleased with himself. 

“That sounds an awful lot like a dare, Mr. Spock,” he says, pressing his fingertips very deliberately against the Vulcan’s pulsating inner walls, eliciting a gratifyingly ragged hiss of breath. “Just for that, I’ll have you know I’m setting myself a double challenge.” He lets his fingers scissor inside Spock a bit, gently opening him up, and licks a hot stripe up the column of his elegant throat. “I may have little competition, apart from myself, to make this the best sex of your life,” he murmurs, “but I’ll be damned if I’m letting you leave this bed until we’ve both had the best sex of my life.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I should hope so,” he says primly. “I consider myself fortunate as the beneficiary of your many years of experience.”

“You’d better not mean anything snippy by that remark, mister.”

“Your many, many, many, many -”

Jim shuts him up with a kiss, and the light tap of an index finger against his prostate, and whatever sassy little quip Spock was winding up is lost in a choked cry of pleasure as his body practically levitates off the mattress. Jim chuckles against his mouth, pushing a faint wave of smugness over the mind-link towards him, as he takes his cock in hand and gives it a few deft strokes, making himself achingly hard and slippery with Spock’s copious juices. Once he’s lined up their bodies so the flared head just barely nudges at Spock’s entrance, he lifts his head and pulls back just enough to cradle his lover’s angular Vulcan jaw in his hand.

“I want to look at you while I do this,” he breathes. “I want to see it on your face.”

“Jim,” Spock murmurs. “Ashayam. Beloved. I am yours. My body and my mind long to receive you.”

Then there’s a sensation of pulling, somehow coming from everywhere at once, inside Jim and outside him, like a magnet drawn to its opposing pole, and he tumbles into Spock like he’s falling through space.

Spock’s thighs part and his hips lift to take Jim in deeper, even as his mind opens itself up to intertwine with Jim’s, and somewhere inside the warm, sweet darkness of that mind-space, a blinding light bursts forth. Jim sees a cave of glowing red crystal, lit from within, and a river of golden lava flowing from one direction, mingling with a river of silver. It’s intoxicating and very nearly disorienting for a moment; Jim finds it impossible to tell where one mind ends and another begins.

<Oh, Jim.> Spock’s voice is dazed with wonder. <Your mind is glorious. I could never have imagined such ecstasy.>

Jim feels the heat of pleasure rocket through his body as his cock pushes inch by inch into Spock’s soaked, heated depths, his own sensation amplified by the shivery-sweet echoes of what Spock is feeling too. Spock is everywhere, around him and below him and above him and inside him, Spock is the silverbright glitter of Vulcan intellect sparkling through his mind and the quivering damp flesh which opens to admit him and the pulsating drumbeat of a heart thrumming against his side, Spock is the tang of Vulcan spices in the air and on Jim’s tongue, the heat of skin pressed against skin, Spock is adventure and surprise and impossibly strong hands to catch Jim every time he falls, so he need never fear to step out over the edge of the cliff, Spock is a virgin in the most potent and awe-inspiring of ways, because this means Spock will only ever experience this kind of intimacy with someone who loves him. And he is Jim, he feels himself echoed through Spock’s own mind, Jim is golden human brilliance, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of emotions refracting light in every direction, Jim is cool human skin stretched over delicate bones, fragile in Spock’s Vulcan arms, kept safe there, Jim is bright hazel eyes that soften around the edges in a way that Spock understands now is only for him, Jim is the glorious sensation of weight and mass pressing him down against the mattress, Jim is utter certainty, the safest place in the known universe for Spock to lay down his burdens and rest, Jim is the white-hot ecstasy of sexual climax and the thick, ridged mass of flesh pressing Spock open inch by inch, filling him so he will never be empty again, Jim will ejaculate inside him and Spock will carry infinitesimal traces of his matter within the depths of himself for the rest of his life, Jim is -

<My God, Spock.> Jim is so overwhelmed by sensation he can hardly breathe. He’s grateful for the link between them, as words would be impossible. <Is this always what it’s like, to make love with the mind and the body together? Every time you meld with Val, it feels like this?>

He isn’t even jealous anymore, not really; just astonished, that either of them could possibly have possessed the stamina to do this multiple times a day.

Spock’s reply is swift and firm. <It felt nothing like this, Jim. Val is a healer. The touch of his mind is gentle. Soothing. It gave me pleasure, but it also gave me deep comfort. You are many things, James Kirk. But ‘soothing’ is not one of them. Your mind is so vibrant. So human. It is alive with colors I have never experienced before. You stir me as I have never been stirred before. You make me feel . . . alive.>

Jim rests his forehead against Spock’s, breathing raggedly, as he finally pushes in all the way, leaving them both shaking. With one hand he cradles Spock’s cheek while the other slides down through the sticky mess of his pelvis to stroke the still-emerging phallus until it finally rises fully upright from the folds of its sheath. The juxtaposition of sensations overtaking Jim sends him into a kind of frenzy, fucking Spock hard and deep and with ever-increasing speed.

“I’ve never, God, Spock, not with anyone,” he whispers hoarsely into the graceful peak of that pointed ear. “You’re so hard for me, and so wet for me at the same time, you’re not a man or a woman like any other I’ve known, you’re just you, Spock, it could only ever have been like this with you . . .”

Spock answers with a moan so shamelessly wanton that Jim feels heat sweep through his whole body. He’s utterly lost in pleasure. He’s been with women before, and he’s been with men before, and they’ve coexisted quite comfortably in their tidy, discrete categories, and never the twain shall meet. But as Spock’s back arches up off the mattress in a way Jim can only describe as voluptuous, the thought which tumbles through his mind, unbidden, is my God, she’s beautiful. Spock shivers, beneath him, receiving it, and a white-hot spike of Vulcan lust sears through the mind-link like flames through paper.

“Does that turn you on, in bed?” Jim whispers recklessly, excitement pounding through him as his hips move harder and faster, faster and harder, the heat between them rising to a fever pitch. “Does it make you wet for me if I tell you how good it feels to fuck your pretty, sweet cunt and stroke your pretty cock at the same time?” Spock moans again, long limbs heavy against the mattress, so eager, so welcoming, so utterly yielding. “No one else could ever be enough for me, after you, Spock,” he murmurs, pressing kiss after kiss against the hollow of collarbone. “No one else could be both, neither, everything for me, the way you are.”

A flicker of heat shimmers across the link between them, accompanied by a silhouetted image, bodies illuminated in golden light, faintly blurred like the aftereffects of staring directly into the sun, and Jim recognizes himself moving atop the supine figure of a petite woman with fair hair. The thought has not originated from him, and he lifts his head to look down at Spock in wonder as its meaning becomes clear.

“I was half-mad with jealousy at the thought of Val touching your mind,” he breathes. “But you don’t feel jealous of me at all, do you? It arouses you, to think of me like that. To imagine the way I would touch a woman, talk to a woman, in bed.”

He doesn’t speak aloud the other piece of this which he can sense so clearly: that Spock finds it a thing of wonder, because no one in his life has ever been gentle with him in such a way, treated him with delicate care, recognized his need for cherishing. Vulcan self-reliance taught him to believe such desires were an illogical indulgence, even before his body first experienced lust. He is so hungry for tenderness, so weary of being strong; yet only here, only in bed, only with Jim, can he trust himself to ask for such things.

“Jim . . .” Spock’s voice is a throaty flutter, hips rocking upward again and again to capture more of him, and Jim feels suspended in the moment just before two fractured timelines stitch themselves back together. Spock is his husband, thrusting a slick, glistening cock into Jim’s fist, fucking his hand hungrily as he bares the long, lean column of his throat and the taut, pelted muscle of his narrow chest, and it feels thrilling, powerful to dominate a body so very much stronger than his own. Spock is his wife, opening her thighs to take Jim inside the depths of her soaked, aching cunt, arching her back prettily and gazing up at him through midnight-black eyelashes, cradling Jim in her arms so he can come inside her, a need so primal and ancient it’s carved into his bones. Spock is both images blurred into one and then suddenly snapping back into focus, his own unique, unforgettable, distinct self, and he is trembling unstoppably, and he is coming and coming and coming in Jim’s hand, pouring hot and slick over his slim-boned pelvis as the phallus slowly retreats back into the concealment of its sheath.

“So beautiful for me,” Jim murmurs, slowing his thrusts to a deep, gentle rocking motion and slipping a hand between their bodies to finger Spock’s now highly-sensitized folds, teasing them between thumb and forefinger as he would do with the delicate flesh of a labia, causing Spock to cry out in sharp, startled pleasure. “Do you like that?” he murmurs into the hollow of that lovely, slender throat. “When I tease your pretty cunt?”

“Jim, please . . .” Spock’s voice breaks, tremulous. Begging, but uncertain for what. Jim, exploring, dips a finger deeper into the folds to trace a delicate circle around the buried head of the spent cock, and the sound this elicits is practically a scream.

“It is . . . expended . . . for the moment,” Spock grits out, breathlessly. “It will require . . . an interval of rest . . . for approximately 23.1 minutes . . . before it is able to reemerge.”

“Mmmm.” Jim bites gently at Spock’s lower lip. “But you can come even if it’s not erect, can’t you?”

“There is no way to . . . stimulate it while it is . . . fully retracted.”

“There might be no way to stimulate it as you would a cock,” Jim corrects him, circling the drenched head with a firmer press of his fingertip, “but I wonder if a variation upon the techniques most effective on the clitoris of a human female would suffice. Have you ever tried this on yourself before?” Spock shakes his head, eyes wide with speechless shock. Jim can feel a hundred emotions pouring into his mind over the link, tinged with Spock’s silvery, crystalline mental energy - lust, curiosity, gratitude, surprise - and opens his mind to let his own affection and desire for Spock pour forth. The sensation of gold and silver mingling briefly overtakes everything inside his mind, the feeling that the divisions between them are becoming thinner and more porous.

<It is the bond. It hungers for consummation.>

<I want it, Spock. How do we seal the bond? How do I make you mine forever?>

<The bond seeks mutual climax, body and mind simultaneously. If you truly desire it ->

<I do.> He speaks the words in his mind with the finality of a marriage vow. This is Spock. This is the rest of his life. He knows there will never be anyone else. 

<As do I, Jim. I will open myself to receive you fully. When you fill me, give me all of you, and the bond will do the rest.>

<But first, I’d better make sure you’re close enough to bring you with me.> 

He begins rubbing more fervently at the slick, glassy head buried between Spock’s damp folds as his other hand cradles his (her?) jaw with infinite tenderness, grazing those thin, parted lips with the pad of his thumb, savoring the ragged, panting breaths that ghost hotly over his knuckles. “That’s it,” he murmurs approvingly as Spock rocks upward, wordlessly urging Jim’s cock deeper and deeper. “Just like that. Good girl.” His thrusts are deep, slow, purposeful, savoring the impossible wetness and heat of Spock’s cavity, this astonishing quirk of Vulcan biology that somehow makes it feel like he’s fucking one cunt and fingering another, even while knowing there’s a cock in there too (which he’s eager to have his way with again, in another twenty minutes). Spock receives him without resistance, and Jim can feel the bond between them flaring up brighter and brighter, Spock’s own thoughts coming through more clearly. She’s aroused by the shape of Jim inside her, the way a human phallus differs from a Vulcan one; Jim’s has more textures, more varieties of shape - ridged veins, flared head, heavy weighted testicles at the base - while Spock’s own is smooth as glass. He’s aroused by the feeling of surrendering control to Jim, of not entirely knowing what sensation will arise next, of feeling Jim venture all over his body with such deep interest, delighted by every new discovery he comes across. No judgment, no shame, simply the curiosity of a born explorer, finding his way through new territory. She is surprised that Jim finds her so beautiful, but she trusts it, because Jim would never lie to her about something that mattered. He is comparing the illusions Val created in his mind with the reality of making love to Jim, and realizing how many details he missed. She is thinking about T’Pring, about why their bond never felt like this, why they repelled each other like two poles of a magnet pushing each other apart, and realizing perhaps it was simply because they were too similar, because they both wanted to be loved like this and could never have offered it to each other. He is hoping T’Pring is satisfied with Stonn. She is sad for T’Pring that her distaste for emotionalism, her unimpeachably Vulcan nature, means T’Pring will never experience the overwhelming flood of sensations that Spock is now experiencing, and that is a profound loss, because Spock now knows she will never again be complete without it.

“Jim,” Spock whispers, and the heat rising between them becomes nearly unbearable, the bond driving them both toward a shattering climax. Jim feels half-wild, desperate to come inside Spock, desperate to mark Spock as his own, desperate for the primal sensation of joining. Spock, damp and quivering and utterly sex-shattered, dark eyes fixed on Jim, begs wordlessly for more, harder, deeper, and Jim thrills at the knowledge that he doesn’t have to hold back any of himself against the impossible resilience of that Vulcan strength. He rubs frantically at the slick marble he’s already come to think of as Spock’s clit, savoring the way it makes her gasp and squirm beneath him, as his hips slam against hers again and again, driving her into the mattress, animalistic and insatiable, his own moans and grunts so unabashed that he would hardly recognize himself. Their minds begin to flow together, gold and silver, silver and gold, molten rivulets tangling as they carve a channel through the rock, setting the stone aglow from within, the light growing brighter and brighter and brighter and brighter, until -

<Jim!>

<Spock! Oh God, Spock, I’m ->

Jim comes so hard the world behind his eyes whites out for a moment, a wild cry scraping his lungs raw as his cock bursts deep within Spock’s belly at the very same moment that wet heat pours forth over his hand. Their minds go blank for a moment, like a circuit overloading, too much pleasure at once, and Jim loses himself for a long, long time. When he comes to, he’s shaking, body drenched in sweat, still buried up to the wrist in Spock’s sticky wetness, and the first thing he notices is that he’s crying. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Spock’s own, dark and glittering, gazing up at him, and he realizes there are tears there too.

“What the hell was that?” he manages to gasp out, as he struggles to collect his breath.

“It was the bond.” Spock appears to be struggling to find his own words just as much. “I, too, did not anticipate its . . . intensity.”

“What, they don’t teach you about this in middle school sex education?”

Spock’s face softens into something closer to a real smile than Jim’s ever seen on him, and he feels amused affection reverberating inside his mind. “It is not like this between two full Vulcans, Jim,” he reminds him. “Human minds are very different from our own. Yours is . . . dynamic. Colorful. Explosive. It responds to the humanity within my own. There is no precedent for what we have just experienced.”

Jim retracts his sticky hand from between Spock’s folds and wipes it it off on his thighs as he pulls out carefully and shifts his weight to curl up beside Spock. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me,” he says softly. “It’s never been like that with anyone, Spock. I’ve never felt - I don’t know how to explain it. No one else has ever been . . . well, enough for me, before. I’ve enjoyed it, I’ve left satisfied, but I didn’t feel complete. Not like this. Maybe because some part of me needed the mental connection as well as the emotional and physical, but I wouldn’t even have known to want that, because humans don’t.” He turns his head to press a soft kiss against Spock’s shoulder. “It’s like I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and didn’t know it.”

“I, too, am complete,” Spock murmurs. “Jim, the bond space within my mind -”

“It’s healed all the way now?”

“More than that. It is . . . strengthened. I did not realize my bond with T’Pring was unsatisfactory until it was replaced by this new bond, with you.” His voice is low with wonder. “It is the difference between having just enough water to protect your body from death by dehydration, and having enough to truly quench your thirst. I, too, did not have . . . enough. And yet, perhaps like you, I did not believe I was permitted to long for more. But with you, I am whole in a way I have never been.” 

Jim can’t possibly resist the impulse to kiss him for saying that, so he doesn’t even try. It goes on long enough that the stickiness factor begins to become an issue, so he rises from the bed to go hunt around in the washroom and comes back with a warm damp cloth. Mindful of Spock’s unspoken craving to be touched and cared for, Jim cleans them both up himself, thorough enough to satisfy even a Vulcan’s exacting hygiene standards, but tender enough that Spock melts all over again beneath his touch. Once the ruined sheets have been disposed of along with the wet cloth, they lie clean and naked together in the bed, limbs tangled in drowsy contentment. 

Jim rests his chin on Spock’s shoulder, savoring the heat of Vulcan skin pressed against his own. “You know the first question I’m going to ask, don’t you?”

A faint huff of breath that sounds dangerously like a chuckle ruffles Jim’s hair. “You wish explicit confirmation that you are a superior lover to Dr. Vikiska.” Spock’s voice sounds exasperated and long-suffering, but Jim can feel now - in a way he always suspected before, but wasn’t entirely certain - that this tone is simply a game. Spock enjoys pretending Jim’s human foibles annoy him, because annoying Spock amuses Jim. “As I have not experienced physical intimacy with Dr. Vikiska, only mental intimacy, I lack the research to back up such a claim.”

Jim swats him amiably on the thigh. “Wrong answer.”

“If you wish me to present you with a more comprehensive data set, I am happy to call the doctor and permit you to watch us copulate.” His voice is prim, but inside the bond he’s openly laughing. “It would seem only fair, given the number of times he has been obligated to watch me copulate with yourself.”

“Hmmph.” The thought of this gives Jim no small degree of satisfaction. All this time, he was losing his mind with jealousy over the thought of Val sharing such intimacy with Spock, and it turned out in the end that all Val was doing was watching Jim fuck Spock in every imaginable position.

“Your desire to ‘win’ over Dr. Vikiska is deeply illogical,” says Spock. “He is a medical practitioner who provided me with lifesaving care. You are my bondmate. There is no competition, Jim.”

“Well, not anymore,” agrees Jim, “because I won.”

Spock sighs. “Yes, Jim,” he says patiently. “You won. I am yours.”

“Though I suppose I do owe the man an apology,” Jim says, considering. The last exchange he shared with the Vetyekan doctor now takes on a very different cast, and he wonders if perhaps Val was attempting to reassure him, without telling him more than he was authorized to share on Spock’s behalf. “I’ll stop by his office in the morning, and we can tell him then. About us, I mean.”

“Jim.” Spock’s amusement ripples over the bond. “He quite certainly already knows.”

“Knows what? About this? How can he?”

“Very probably he is still in the building,” Spock says. “His office is not far. The walls are equipped with psionic barriers, to a degree, but for telepaths as sensitive as the Vetyekans -” A spark of mental energy which Jim can only describe, in some astonishment, as a snicker flutters through his mind. “Your human mind is very . . . loud,” he says tactfully. “Very probably there are few patients housed in this wing, since they could not have anticipated the effects of my uncontrolled psi energies due to the pon farr. But I would imagine that any Vetyekan medical personnel within a radius of approximately twenty-five meters would quite certainly have overheard your exceedingly vigorous mental exclamations.”

Jim buries his head in Spock’s shoulder. “You’re telling me that every telepath who works on this floor, including Val, might as well just have been in here watching us, for all the privacy we had.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh God.” Jim flops down against the pillow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It must have slipped my mind,” says Spock primly. 

“No, it didn’t.” Jim elbows him. “You realized that my jealousy of Val had caused me to treat him unfairly, and you thought this was an equitable punishment.”

“Their confidentiality extends to you as well,” Spock reminds him. “They will hardly pass along to the high council a detailed description of your . . . orgiastic screams.”

“Oh Lord, don’t ever say that again.”

“It could be worse, Jim,” Spock says seriously. Jim props himself up on one elbow to look down at him, taking in the dark gleam of his solemn eyes.

“It almost was,” Jim agrees. “We very nearly lost you.”

Spock shakes his head. “That is not what I meant,” he says. “I was referring to the fortunate circumstance that Dr. McCoy is not a telepath.”

* * * * *

Halfway across the capital city, Bones sits up, startled out of slumber by a vague sensation like an itch at the back of his brain. Jim’s bed is still empty, as expected. Hopefully the damn fools have figured themselves out by now, he grumbles internally, but the itch doesn’t go away. Never one to second-guess a hunch, he picks up his comm and pages the hospital, figuring it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Dr. McCoy!” Val looks up from his desk, surprised. “How may I help you?”

“Surprised to see you working this late.”

“I keep odd hours when I have a full-time patient,” he explains. “Also, the Vetyeka require less sleep than humans do. We are fully Vulcanoid in that way. Speaking of which, I presume you are inquiring as to Spock’s present condition?”

“I woke up with an odd gut feeling, I suppose you’d say. Just wanted to check in.”

“He is awake and in excellent health,” says Val. “The trance was a success. I will permit him to make his report to you in the morning himself.”

“Good. Good.” He paused, uncertain how to phrase his next inquiry. “And, uh, is Jim - with him?”

“The captain woke Spock from the trance and has been with him for a little over an hour.”

“And are they - do they seem . . . okay?”

The Vetyekan doctor’s expression shifts, a kind of secretive amusement flickering through his green eyes, like he knows something he’s not supposed to say. “At present,” he says, “they are laughing.”