Archive of Our Own

The environmental controls on the Enterprise had been malfunctioning for two days. The whole ship was cold. Not 'there's ice forming on my coffee' cold, but kind of chilly, especially for everyone whose job involved sitting stationary at a console for most of their shift. It reminded Jim of late fall or early winter back home; kind of rejuvenating, in a way.

Scotty had no idea what was wrong, and he was getting more pissed off about it by the hour. "The nearest I can figure, some wires have been crossed someplace. When the sensors read that the heat needs to come on, the air conditioning comes on instead."

"Well," Jim said, following that thought to its logical ending, "what if we—"

"The air conditioning controls don't work at all," Scotty said, stomping on Jim's optimism. "The whole environmentals panel is buggered and it's gonna take me and a team of five at least another day or two to sort it all out. The services that are hooked into that panel might be a bit touch-and-go till we've got it fixed," he said, crossing his arms and waiting for Jim's approval.

Jim pushed a hand through his hair, sighing. "Well," he said, "fix it. If you can figure out what the hell happened in the first place, let me know."

"Aye," said Scotty, already turning away to yell at some nearby ensigns. They started scrambling for tools. Jim took that as his cue to head back to the bridge.

Everyone else on the ship was dealing with the temperature. Most of the women were wearing the pants-and-long-sleeves uniform; some people took regular, brisk walks around the bridge between duties to get their circulation going again. Jim overlooked the occasional, against-regs coffee or tea sitting on a console. There was some whining, but they were dealing with it.

Spock stood up from his chair when Jim got back to the bridge, nodding. "C-Captain," he said, striding quickly back to his station.

Jim paused. Was that a stutter? From Spock?

"Everything all right, Commander?" he asked, sinking slowly into his chair as he watched the back of Spock's head.

"There were no incidents in your absence, Captain," Spock said blandly.

Jim frowned. He'd sounded normal that time. He decided not to press the issue, but kept an eye on Spock at his station; he had nothing else pressing to do, anyway.

It took almost ten minutes, but Jim saw it clearly: a full-body shiver. Spock rubbed surreptitiously at his arms.

Duh. Vulcans are a species adapted to high temperatures, he remembered, feeling like an idiot.

Jim busied himself with inventory stuff for the rest of the shift (Yeoman Rand would be so happy), and fell into step with Spock when he left the bridge for the evening.

"Captain," Spock acknowledged as they stepped into the turbolift.

"You look cold, Spock," Jim said conversationally.

Spock looked away. "The decreased temperatures on the ship are not optimal," he said.

"Scotty's working on it. Don't you have some long johns or something for when you get cold?" he asked, grinning.

Spock looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. "Indeed, I possess thermal clothing, specially designed for Vulcan physiology. I wear it when the ship is what you would consider 'warm', Captain."

Jim winced. "Yikes. You're freezing, huh?"

"An apt description."

They stepped off the lift on Deck 5 and turned to go down the corridor to their respective quarters. "You know, if you wanna wear a scarf and mittens or something to work, I'll understand. You've got permission."

Spock gave him an arch look. "That would be highly unprofessional; much of the rest of the crew also feels the reduced ambient temperature and would most likely call for a universal relaxation of the dress regulations."

Jim was about to say that he'd just tell them all to suck it up and deal, but he stopped himself. Spock wasn't going to give in. "Back home in Iowa," he said instead, "it gets really cold in the winter. Howling winds, blowing snow, the works. At Christmastime, we'd usually sit around drinking when we were at home. Booze warms the blood up." He winked.

"Even if alcohol were not forbidden on the ship, it does not have the same effects upon my physiology as it does your own."

Jim smirked. "All right, then. Next best thing. I'm gonna make you what I used to have when I was a kid and it was cold out. No booze, I promise." Jim keyed open his door and waved Spock inside.

"Very well," Spock said, and took the proffered seat on Jim's couch as Jim went to the replicator.

"Here you go," Jim said, bringing the steaming mug he'd replicated over to the couch and handing it to Spock. "Hot cocoa. Hot and sweet and full of fat, guaranteed to warm you inside and out."

Spock sniffed it cautiously before wrapping his hands around the mug and taking a small sip. Jim grinned again and dug out his whiskey stash, pouring two fingers and settling on the couch next to Spock.

It was really nice to sit around quietly, companionably, Jim thought, putting his feet up on the coffee table. They got along well, these days, and he secretly got a kick out of spending time with Spock. Jim got to hone his annoyance skills trying to get a rise out of Spock and it felt like a special reward every time he got The Eyebrow in return. He was starting to wonder if maybe he had a bit of a crush, but whatever. This was nice.

"This is a traditional drink in your culture?" Spock asked suddenly. "I find it surprisingly tolerable."

Jim chuckled. "Yeah, where I'm from it's pretty popular, especially with kids. That'd be because of all the chocolate in it."

"So this is the flavour of chocolate," Spock said. "I have been somewhat interested to experience it."

"You've never had it?"

Spock shook his head. "It did not exist on Vulcan, and although I knew of its popularity and history on Earth, I never tried it during my time at the Academy. Food is not generally one of my great passions."

Jim suppressed a snort at the notion of Spock having 'great passions'. He always came off as really calm, even about his hobbies. The only passion Jim had ever seen from him, even when he'd been with Uhura, was anger. He'd seen more than enough of that, he thought.

"Well, I'm glad it's hitting the spot," Jim said, turning a little and settling his shoulder against the couch. He blinked. "Your cheeks are green."

Spock touched his face. "They are warm. How curious." He took another sip of his drink. The mug was over half-empty. Jim saw how Spock's hands were still wrapped around it.

"You still really cold?" he asked, putting down his empty glass and standing up. "I can grab you a blanket."

Spock didn't object, so Jim crossed the room to the closet and pulled down a folded one. He handed the bundle to Spock and watched him set down his mug and fumble with the folds, his fingers slow and clumsy. Biting his lip against the smile that was threatening, Jim pulled the blanket away from him, shook it out, and threw it over Spock's shoulders before handing him back his mug.

"Thank you," said Spock, tugging the blanket into place.

"Want another cup?" Jim asked, and went to the replicator again, making a detour past his desk on the way back for his whiskey bottle. When they both had fresh drinks, Jim clinked his merrily against Spock's, enjoying the slightly baffled expression that got him, and relaxed back into the couch for a long sip. It was good booze, and left a warm feeling all the way to his stomach. The whole room felt warmer; he had a little bit of a buzz started.

"I have always found it interesting," Spock said, "that becoming warmer when one is cold can instill such feelings of relaxation and contentment."

"Mmm," Jim agreed, taking another sip of whiskey.

There was a pause. "Does the consumption of chocolate normally impede the clarity of one's thoughts?"

Jim blinked, startled out of his fuzzy warmth. "No," he said slowly. He turned his head; Spock was staring at his mug.

Jim looked—really looked—at Spock, and took in the flushed skin, the relaxed, almost languorous slouch he'd adopted, melting into the couch cushions. The blanket was falling off of one shoulder a bit, but he hadn't seemed to notice. He glanced up at Jim, acknowledging that he was staring, and Jim saw that his pupils were a little big, his eyes a little unfocused.

Spock looked like he'd been drinking.

Jim cleared his throat, wondering how to phrase what he was about to say. "Spock. Vulcans, uh, they don't eat chocolate?"

"Affirmative."

"Everything feels kinda... fuzzy?"

Spock tilted his head. "It does." The words sounded like a revelation.

A laugh bubbled out of Jim's lips; he couldn't keep it in. "Oh my god," he said, "you're drunk. On chocolate."

Spock glared—visibly glared—and put down his mug, very precisely, before tugging his blanket back over his shoulders and addressing Jim. "I am not drunk. That is impassable. Impossible," he corrected himself.

Jim sagged into the couch, his ass nearly sliding off the cushion, and laughed harder, his hand over his face.

"Jim! This is not humourous."

Jim peeked up through his fingers; Spock was sitting over him, glaring for all he was worth. With a hiccup of laughter, Jim said, "Yes it is," and then since he was well into his third whiskey and hadn't eaten dinner yet, he also said, "You look good like that."

Spock looked shocked, and then thoughtful. Jim pulled himself back upright on the couch and into Spock's personal space and kissed him on the lips, before either of them could do anything else.

Spock's mouth tasted sweet. They made out sloppily, tongues and teeth everywhere, like two kind-of-drunk people. It was amazing, and then Jim was helping Spock to straddle his lap without accidentally putting a knee anywhere uncomfortable. He was really warm to the touch as Jim pulled him in close, the blanket draping over both of them.

"Intoxicated sex is a frequent occurrence on Earth, I have heard," Spock murmured between kisses. "We may both regret this tomorrow."

"God, I hope not," Jim said, turning and pushing Spock flat on his back on the couch and climbing on top of him. He brushed his fingers down Spock's front, hunting for the fastening of his uniform pants by touch because he was loath to stop kissing long enough to look. Spock made a frustrated noise at Jim's ineffectual, one-handed unbuttoning and pushed his hand away, quickly undoing and pushing down his pants by himself and then doing the same to Jim.

Jim groaned into Spock's mouth when their cocks finally rubbed against each other, and he pushed his hands up under Spock's shirt, tracing the hot skin over his ribs as Spock shivered and ground upward. Jim pushed back eagerly, shutting his eyes in bliss whenever skin met skin just right, but he was a little uncoordinated and rushed and couldn't stop touching all of Spock's skin underneath that shirt, so Spock took control again. A hot hand wormed between them and curled around both of their cocks, twisting and sliding perfectly. They made needy noises that were swallowed up in deep, filthy kisses.

"Oh god, Jim," Spock said suddenly, pulling away from Jim's mouth and shuddering, and the gasping, desperate tone he'd never heard in Spock's voice before did Jim in, too.

"Fuck!" he said, coming into Spock's hand and sagging onto his chest. Their foreheads touched and they breathed each other's air for several moments, eyes shut and hearts racing.

Jim sat up, his head still a little fuzzy, his mouth tasting of whiskey and chocolate and Spock's saliva. He looked down at Spock, who was staring up at the ceiling, his stomach a sticky mess and his shirt wrinkled and damp.

"Come on," Jim said, reaching forward to grab his hand. "It'll be warmer in bed."

"I feel suddenly indebted to whatever occurrence caused the environmental controls to malfunction," Spock said.

"I feel suddenly indebted to chocolate," Jim said, "and I wonder if I can get you to eat it more often."

Spock said nothing, but allowed himself to be pulled off of Jim's couch and coaxed into the bed.

THE END