Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One: Fool If You Think It’s Over

Jim stood in front of the mirror in his quarters, adjusting the collar of his formal tunic—grateful that it helped hide the fading bruises. James T. Kirk was no stranger to bruises—more than a decade and a half in Starfleet, always on a Constellation-Class starship, on the very front lines of exploration and danger, had ensured that he would be banged up plenty from the time he was an ensign to now, at the age of 35, captain of the USS Enterprise for just over a year. The bruises now decorating his throat like a kinky necklace would fade within a very few days. They were not serious.

Of course, Jim had never expected to be wearing bruises received at the hands of his First Officer.

Dressed in his spotless formal blue uniform, medals affixed neatly in the designated spots, shoes shined, hair gleaming from a ruthless brush and a tiny daub of m’linkya oil, Commander Spock, First Officer and Science Officer of the USS Enterprise, stared into the mirror, seeing nothing—nothing but red sand, the mocking eyes of T’Pring as she denied him, and the slack face of his captain, his friend, as Jim hung apparently lifeless from the ahn'woon that Spock had wrapped around his neck. These sights had haunted Spock for the last six point four days, ever since that brief hour on Vulcan, that terrible moment when his control had snapped and he had shamed himself and his family, very nearly killed his commanding officer—and still not solved his problem.

Spock abruptly turned away from the mirror, taking deep breaths, fighting to find his center, as he had again and again since they’d left Vulcan. Under normal circumstances, the ritual combat, combined with the taking of his prize, should have purged the last remnants of the plak tow from Spock’s system. But he hadn’t taken T’Pring; the very thought of even laying a hand on her disgusted him to his soul. His mind had been screaming in agony as he watched Leonard McCoy beam up to the Enterprise with Jim’s motionless body lying at his feet. After that, Spock would no more have touched T’Pring than he would have accepted the embrace of a rabid sehlat.

Spock had spoken briefly with T’Pring, discovering once and for all just how much she loathed him. He was within his rights to leave her in legal limbo, married to him but without a mate. However, Spock wanted no tie of any kind. He had gladly relinquished her to Stonn, her easily-manipulated lover, a former schoolmate of Spock’s who had been one of the most merciless in his bullying when they were young together. For one moment, a mirthless smile had cross Spock’s face as he had informed Stonn, “you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing, after all, as wanting.” He wished them both joy of one another; he privately hoped, no matter how illogical hope was, that Stonn killed her in his plak tow, or at the very least, wiped that smug look from her face.

Spock had then bidden farewell to T’Pau, his Clan Mother, whose old eyes had held guarded sympathy. She had never truly approved of her grandson marrying a human woman; she had never truly approved of Spock’s very existence. But she understood the agony now possessing Spock’s soul.

“Live long and prosper, Spock” she had said quietly.

“I shall do neither,” he’d answered, calm with the utter peace that despair offers. “I have killed my captain—and my friend.”

But he hadn’t. Jim was alive, knocked unconscious on Vulcan by a hypo administered by McCoy under the pretext of helping Jim breathe. When Spock had walked into Sickbay and informed McCoy that he was turning over command to Mr. Scott and would surrender himself to the Federation authorities, the one voice he had never thought to hear again spoke from the other doorway.

“Don’t you think you’d better check with me first?”

James Kirk, battered, bruised—but breathing—smiled into Spock’s bewildered eyes.

That evening, after they had both completed their duties and the Enterprise was heading at to Altair Six at warp five, Spock had hesitated for a long time outside the door of the captain’s quarters. Finally, he made himself knock, heard the invitation to enter, and had walked in, ready to accept whatever the fates and James T. Kirk demanded of him.

Jim looked up from his monitor, frowning slightly. “Spock? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I could say the same for you, sir,” Spock replied.

Jim shrugged. “I’m all right; Bones checked me out.” He looked at his First Officer, his friend, so much a part of his life and yet in so many ways an enigma, never more so than after this day.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

Spock looked at him, for a moment unable to think of anything to say. “I....I cannot ask you to forgive me,” he said at last in a low voice. “What I did...what you were forced to do...”

“Spock.” Jim rose to his feet and took a couple of steps around his desk. If it had been anyone else in the crew, Jim would have put a hand on Spock’s shoulder, knowing that sometimes a reassuring touch says far more than words. But despite having worked closely with Spock for all these months, despite having developed a genuine friendship, Jim still felt frequently that he was on terra incognito when it came to dealing with a Vulcan—and the ritual he’d just been an unwitting part of certainly served to reinforce that feeling. So Jim stopped short, merely stretching out an open hand in a reassuring gesture.

“Spock,’ Jim said again, as gently as he could. “I wish I’d known what was happening, what you really faced down there on Vulcan. I had no idea that...that female...could just spurn you, leave you in agony like that.”

“The kal-if-fee is rarely invoked,” Spock replied quietly. “Most bond mates are content to do their duty to one another, even if there is no great emotional attachment.” He looked down at his shoes, plainly embarrassed. “T’Pring did not wish to have a consort in Starfleet, nor one who is so...set apart...from the rest of our people.”

“I’m sorry,’ Jim said softly.

Spock shook his head. “It does not matter. What does matter is that you were tricked, dragged into my problem by my betrothed, and nearly killed.”

Jim sighed. “Look, Spock; I don’t blame you,” he said. “I walked into that whole mess at least in part because I thought I could handle myself. I had it all planned out. I was going to let you slap me around a bit, and then I was going to curl up in a ball and holler uncle.” He chuckled faintly at the suddenly puzzled look on Spock’s face. “Yeah, I know; my dad’s brother wasn’t there. Human idiom, Spock. What I mean is, I was going to let you win the fight and then honor would be satisfied. I should damn well have found out what I getting myself into; that was a dumb ensign’s mistake on my part, so if I had died, it would have been at least partly my fault.”

“But I laid hands on you. I attempted to choke you to death.”

“And you were out of your head with fever,” Jim replied firmly. “Bones told me what your readings were by the time the fight started; I’m surprised you didn’t drop dead.” He looked at the bowed head, the averted eyes.

“Look,” Jim said. “Remember what I said to you a few days ago, back when I visited you in your quarters and you finally told me what was wrong?”

Spock looked up. “You said, “I haven’t heard a word you’ve said—and I will get you to Vulcan’, sir,” he replied.

“Exactly,” Jim replied. “As far as I’m concerned, none of this happened. I’m fine; you’re fine, and we’re on our way to Altair without Command busting me down to ensign for my little detour to Vulcan. As far as I’m concerned, Spock, that’s where it ends.” He gave Spock a sudden grin, that warm smile that was such an attractive part of his personality.

“I also told you that you’ve frequently been patient with my type of madness,” Jim said. “Consider this your one chance to be nuts for free.” He held out his hand once more and slowly, Spock took it for just an instant.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

Now, alone in his cabin, Spock repeated the formula again and again. The mind rules, he told himself. There is no pain. There is no fever. There is no...longing.

Once more, that beast inside him, that hungry, feral animal that had been fighting to get out since his Pon Farr began, subsided with a grumble.

Very well, a tiny voice whispered inside Spock’s mind. Deny me; chain me up; starve me. It shall not be forever.

Spock shuddered—and then pulled his tunic straight and left his cabin, head held high. He had an inauguration to attend.

The inauguration of the new President of Altair Six was like about a thousand diplomatic functions Jim Kirk had attended on a hundred different worlds—lots of people milling around, everyone dressed as uncomfortably as possible, unidentifiable little finger foods that could be balanced on a tiny plate and nibbled at, and lukewarm drinks, not that he dared drink much. He was after all the Federation’s representative or one of them anyway. As he’d protested to Command, there were two other starships at the inauguration as well, so there were plenty of Starfleet officers milling around.

“Hey, Jim.” William Aston, captain of the Farragut, hailed Kirk, coming to stand next to him.

“Bill,” Jim nodded. He didn’t know Ashton well, but they’d met a few times at conferences and Command shindigs.

“Good to see you,” Ashton said. “I’d heard a subspace rumor that the Enterprise wasn’t going to make it.”

“You should know better than to listen to scuttlebutt,” Jim replied lightly. “We had to detour to Vulcan briefly; my First had a family issue to take care of.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

Depends on your definition, Jim thought wryly. But he shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “It all got resolved, and we made it here in time to mingle.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ashton replied. “I know Commander Spock’s reputation; you’ve got the best First in the Fleet. It’s nice to have that kind of talent at your back.”

“Yeah.” Jim felt a warm glow at the thought of all the times Spock had helped him with various issues, everything from piles of paperwork to life-and-death decisions.

“I don’t suppose he’s looking to transfer,” Ashton continued, obviously only half-joking. “I wouldn’t mind trading up.”

Jim chuckled. “Don’t even think of poaching,” he said, not joking at all.

Ashton held up a hand. “All right, all right. It’s just a pipe dream anyway. Your ship’s the one everybody wants to be on, Jim. Nobody ever seems to transfer off the Enterprise.”

The evening was winding down; Jim was looking forward to being able to make his excuses and beam back to the ship.

“Jim.” The low voice at his elbow was that of his CMO, Leonard McCoy. Jim turned to find his doc wearing his formal uniform and a worried expression.

“Yeah, Bones; what’s up?” he kept his voice low as well. McCoy put a hand on Jim’s elbow and steered the two of them into an alcove.

“I just sent Spock back to the ship,” McCoy said softly.

Jim frowned. He hadn’t seen Spock for an hour or so, but he’d figured his First was probably off in a corner somewhere talking with the most distinguished scientist present, his usual habit at diplomatic functions.

“Something wrong?”

McCoy nodded, looking grim. “I found him curled up in a ball on the floor of one of the men’s room stalls,” he replied. “I took a few readings; good thing I always bring my pocket tricorder along, even to dull diplomatic receptions.”

“He’s sick? What’s wrong with him?”

“I’ve only ever seen these readings from Spock once,” Bones said quietly, “a little more than a week ago.” He said nothing more; he didn’t have to. Jim Kirk could easily add two and two.

“Oh, Hell.” He reached into his tunic for his communicator. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jim knocked on the door of Spock’s quarters yet again. There was no answer, not even a sound.

“All right.” Jim turned to McCoy. “Override the lock.”

Bones hesitated. “Jim, if he doesn’t want to be disturbed...”

“I’m not letting him lock himself in there to die alone,” Jim said firmly. “I need to know what the hell we’re going to do next. You don’t know; I don’t have a clue.” He jerked his head towards Spock’s door. “The only expert we’ve got is inside. Now open the damned door, Bones. That’s not a request.”

“All right.” McCoy reached past Jim’s elbow and punched in the medical override code. There was a faint click; the lock was disengaged.

“All right.” Jim turned towards the door.

“Jim, shouldn’t I...”

Jim shook his head. “He’s probably holed up because he feels ashamed. Let me talk to him, Bones. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. In the meantime, tell Sulu to keep trying to get through to Command. We need permission to go back to Vulcan.”

Bones nodded, and Jim stepped into the sensor beam that activated the door. It slid open, and he stepped inside.

It was hot—not as hot as Vulcan, but then, the ship’s environmental controls probably didn’t go that high. It was also dim; there was a faint reddish light coming from behind the partition that screened off Spock’s sleeping area, but that was all. There was also a strong aroma in the air, not unpleasant but pervasive, like a combination of sandalwood incense, cinnamon, and bitter chocolate.

“Spock?” Jim called out. “Spock, Bones says you’re sick.”

“There was a rustle of movement on the other side of the screen and just for an instant, Jim froze, reminded irrationally of the noise a rattlesnake makes just before it strikes. He’d heard enough timber rattlers when he was growing up in Iowa; it was a sound he’d never forgotten.

“Please.” The voice was a low rasp. “Go. Just go.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Spock; I’m not just leaving you here in your misery.” Jim moved around the partition. The spicy scent grew stronger, and as Jim’s eyes adjusted to the dim red glow, he could see Spock, shockingly naked except for regulation black briefs, his uniform lying in a crumpled heap on a chair, kneeling before that exotic-looking idol or flame pot Jim had noticed before. Spock was bent nearly double, slim, pale back curved, shivering violently with chills as he had no doubt burned with fever a short time before. Jim snagged the coverlet off the bed and wrapped it around the huddled figure, kneeling by his side. He could feel the heat actually coming off Spock’s body in waves.

“Please...you cannot see me like this.”

“Spock, I’d love to give you your privacy, but you’re sick,” Jim said gently yet firmly. “It’s the Pon Farr, isn’t it? It’s back.”

There was a minute nod of the glossy head. “It...it never left,” Spock confessed in a whisper. “I thought...I believed that the fight, then the emotional purge of believing you dead...I thought it was under control, but now...” he shivered again violently, biting his lower lip as spasms wracked his frame. Personal space be damned; Jim found himself rubbing gentle circles in Spock’s back between his shoulder blades, trying to provide whatever comfort he could.

“We need to get you to Sickbay,” he said gently.

There was another shake of Spock’s head. “There is nothing McCoy can do, no more than there was before.”

“But then...all right. We’ll get you back to Vulcan and...” Jim began to rise, stopping as with the speed of a striking cobra, Spock’s hand shot out from beneath the bedspread and grabbed Jim’s wrist.

“No,” Spock panted. “Too late...too late...” He gave a moan that seemed to be wrenched from his guts, a sound of pain unlike anything Jim had ever heard him make. Not even the parasites on Deneva had been able to pull that sound of agony from Spock.

“Then, what?” Almost unconsciously, Jim reached and folded Spock’s hand between his. “Spock, help me here. What can we do? We can’t just let you die. I can’t just let you die. Please, Spock. There’s got to be something.”

“I need...I need....” Spock moaned again. “I...must....mate or die,” he managed to gasp. “Mate or die.”

Jim froze where he was kneeling. A dozen ideas went through his head at once, but he couldn’t send Christine Chapel in here. In Spock’s current condition, he’d probably throw her through the wall. But if not the nurse, then who? Uhura? She and Spock were friends, but Jim doubted she had any interest in having him rut uncontrollably on her. There were a few giggling ensigns and one blonde lieutenant in the Physics Lab whom Jim privately suspected of having a crush on the Vulcan, but this...this was no fulfillment of any romantic fantasy. Somehow, Jim could feel that Spock was only holding onto sanity by the very last of his strength of will. It was doubtful that Spock would have the presence of mind—or the experience, for that matter—to be a considerate bed partner, let alone a tender one. Jim swallowed hard, facing the fact—and he never shied away from facts.

“Spock,” he said, as gently as he could, “if you....if I offer, can you...take me? If I...service you, will you live?”

Spock’s head snapped up, and his eyes, pupils blown, met Jim. “You,” Spock gasped. “Yes, you would serve, but...you cannot. Jim, please. You cannot.”

Jim shook his head. “Yes,” he said, reaching out to smooth back the sweat-damp hair. “Yes, I can, and I do. Please, Spock. Do it. Save yourself.” He took a deep breath and let his hand slide down the damp torso, knuckles brushing against the swelling bulge at Spock’s groin, almost hot enough to burn JIm's hand.

“Take me,” Jim whispered.

Iron-hard hands closed on his biceps, and in an instant Jim found himself flat on his back, pinned beneath Spock’s body for the second time in seven days. But this time, Spock wasn’t going to kill him—Jim hoped.