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Spock sat at his desk, reading a journal about colony agriculture. He wasn't particularly interested in the breeding of superior purple-fleshed tomatoes on Colony Bastet, but there were no new astrophysics journals out this month and he desperately needed something to take his mind off his troubles.
The crew had organized a masquerade that evening, and most of the off-duty personnel were extremely excited about it. Most of the chatter between Chekov and Sulu all week had been about getting the details of their costumes just right - Sulu had somehow talked both Chekov and the other navigator, Riley, into teaming up with him for the Three Musketeers. Rumor had it that Uhura was going to show up as a fairy princess in a costume she'd made herself, and Scotty had let it drop that he was going to attempt attending disguised as a bottle of Glenlivet.
Spock didn't usually pay attention to the crew's parties, because he found them noisy, boring, and illogical. However, the prospect of attending just to see the display and promenade of costumes did excite his curiosity. He also wanted to attend because Jim would be there. An illogical twinge entered his breast as he thought of Jim enjoying himself without him being there to watch.
But this was why he knew he could most definitely not attend. Such a party would be the height of human excess, and all his reasons for wanting to be there could not stand up to logic. All logic dictated that he should spend this evening in productive occupation.
If only he could think of a logical reason to go...
The door to his quarters beeped. “Enter,” said Spock.
The door slid aside to reveal the captain—more of the captain than usual, in fact. He stood outside the door bare-chested except for a shred of a toga. A Classical skirt graced his waist, with a sword dangling from its belt, and there were sandals on his feet. “Can I come in?” asked Jim with a sheepish grin. “If I stand around in the hallway like this for too long someone may take pictures.”
Spock stood. “Of course. You are always welcome here.” Jim stepped inside and the door shut. “I presume this is your costume for the masquerade?”
“Just put it together at the last minute,” said Jim, rotating slowly to show off his handiwork. “I really hadn't decided on anything until a few moments ago. Luckily there's not much to this costume.”
“And you are...?”
“Guess.”
“A man of your ancient Greece,” Spock suggested. “Perhaps of the fourth century BCE.”
“You know your Antiquity.” Kirk moved liquidly around the room as he spoke. “But I'm a specific historical figure. Any ideas?”
Spock had one, but he was apprehensive of stating it. He didn't know if the hypothesis seemed so likely to him because it was logical, or because it would please him in some indefinable way. But Jim was looking up at him with such lovely eyes that he said it anyway. “You are Alexander?”
“Right!” Kirk beamed and punched the air with his fist. “Son of Philip of Macedonia, conqueror of the known world.”
“Your costume is historically accurate and artistically superior,” Spock observed in a very scientific tone. “No doubt you will make a favorable impression at the event. I look forward to hearing about your adventures after the party's adjournment.”
“Oh, but my costume ISN'T perfect, Mr. Spock,” said Kirk in a sly tone. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I perceive no deficiency.”
Jim looked him square in the eyes. “I don't have a Hephaestion.”
Spock didn't say anything as he considered the prospect. He valued his Vulcan training as he mentally prevented his skin temperature from rising five degrees.
“What about it, Spock?” Jim pressed gently. “Please?”
Logic had won again. He now had a perfectly logical reason to attend the masquerade. Of course the Vulcan way was best! “I shall be honored to attend as your consort,” Spock acquiesced, “if I am permitted to wear a more modest costume.”
Jim grinned. “Let's see what what the computer can turn up.”
* * * * *
They walked through the door to the ship's biggest rec room a fashionable twenty minutes late and were greeted almost immediately by Dr. McCoy. He was dressed in the Confederate grey of four hundred years ago and had a mint julep in one hand and Yeoman Mears on the other. “Captain!” he called in greeting. “Or should I say, Your Majesty? I see you found a date!” Mears, dressed as a naughty nun, giggled.
“I see you know your history,” Kirk shot back. He led Spock toward the refreshments table and away from McCoy to avoid further teasing.
Sulu was standing behind the table showing off his swordplay techniques to Uhura, Rand, and anyone else who was watching. He made a beautifully dashing figure in his seventeenth-century French military garb. “It seems, even when we're off duty, we're all still most of us military people at heart,” Kirk commented to Spock.
When Uhura noticed what Kirk was—or rather, wasn't—wearing, she transferred her attention from Sulu to the captain without further delay. She sidled over in her slinky, sparkling fairy costume and tapped his shoulder with her wand. “Hello, Captain. Are you here to conquer the known galaxy, or just this room?”
“We must have come here with the same idea,” said Kirk as he looked her over admiringly. “I think I'm going to go over there and conquer some punch.”
Spock followed the captain to the punch-bowl. Jim scooped a cup of nonalcoholic punch and handed it to Spock before serving himself. Spock drank deeply, silently congratulating Jim on the logic of his gallantry.
Chekov and Riley had wandered off from Sulu the Musketeer and were guarding the punch-bowl like overdressed court jesters. When Chekov noticed that Spock was standing beside him, he chuckled through a haze of alcohol, “So, just how 'great' vas Alexender, anyvay?”
Spock, not having a ready response to the question, was relieved that Riley spoke up first. “He couldn't have been that great—he wasn't Irish!” He still hadn't forgiven Sulu for talking him out of his Michael Collins costume.
Chekov's face twisted into irritation as he drew Riley aside. “No, no, you didn't get it...”
Kirk smirked at Spock. “I suggest we beat a hasty retreat.”
“Excellent suggestion, General.”
A fragment of conversation in a rich brogue reached their ears. “Well, the real Alexander wasn't really homosexual,” Scotty was telling someone. “Back then, lots o' men slept wi' other men. In ancient Greece, anyway. It was just the times.” Then he turned slightly and noticed Kirk and Spock standing next to him. “Oh! Sorry, Captain. Your costumes just got us in a wee bit o' conversation.”
Scotty was, as promised, dressed as a bottle of scotch. He couldn't move around much in the costume, but he could move his arm to lift a glass to his lips. He had been talking to Kyle, who was dressed as a beefeater—the London palace guard, not the drink.
“We didn't mean any disrespect, Sir,” said Kyle.
“None taken,” said Kirk affably. “Only I do want to point out that the historians of antiquity, Alexander's contemporaries, reported him as having no interest in women. It's even been said that his orientation was so fixed that his mother despaired of his ever producing a natural heir.”
“Really, now?” Scott said, wide-eyed.
“Alexander was also an unusual case because of his consort, Hephaestion,” said Spock. “It was common for youths to interact intimately with older males, but they were expected to dissolve these relationships when they had matured. Alexander maintained his relationship with an older male well into his kingship. Apparently, as the greatest general in history, he was allowed a few eccentricities.”
“That sounds pretty homosexual to me,” Kyle said, satisfied that he had won the argument.
Rand approached the group of men, dressed as a mermaid wearing anchor earrings. Mears was behind her. “Captain, I'm taking down names for the costume contest,” said Rand, her PADD at the ready. “What should I write down for the two of you?”
“I am Alexander, and this,” Kirk added, gesturing to Spock, “is my trusty right-hand man Hephaestion.”
Rand looked up from her PADD and noticed Kirk's mostly-bare chest for the first time. Mears interrupted her wide-eyed silence by nudging her and joking, “We might have to disqualify him for wearing only half a costume.”
The costume contest took place a little while later, after more of the refreshments had been consumed. The award for best costume, by vote of applause, was awarded to Lt. Uhura, in her slinky dress and her glittering five-foot wings. The Three Musketeers won for Group, mostly because of Sulu's meticulous attention to detail. Chekov and Riley didn't look so disappointed in their costumes anymore after that.
After the contest was over, the lights dimmed slightly and Scotty, in his Glenlivet costume, began to program a selection of music appropriate for dancing into the room's audio system. Swords, wings, and other unwieldy costume fragments ended up on tables and chairs as the crew took to the dance floor.
Spock looked apprehensively at the captain. “I will not be required to dance, will I?”
“Not if you don't want to, Spock,” Kirk replied, “but I think I should take a few turns. Will you be bored if I leave you on the sidelines for a few minutes?”
“Not if I can watch you,” said Spock.
“I'll make sure to be near you.” Kirk squeezed his arm and then headed off towards Uhura.
Spock stood against the wall, looking like a sentinel on guard in his Greek breast-plate and helmet. He watched Kirk dance with Uhura, Rand, and a young man from engineering who was dressed as a tree. He was glad for the moment of respite from activity, so he could calmly consider the events of the evening. He hadn't had a moment to himself to think since Kirk had entered his quarters.
The subtext behind Kirk's invitation for the evening, and his choice of costume, was clear. Spock wasn't surprised to find himself Kirk's date for the evening—he had hoped, or hypothesized, that Kirk had been gently nudging him in this direction for some time. Now he wondered what he should do next. Kirk was unlikely to remain at the party until its conclusion, because his responsibilities were greater than anyone else's on the ship. He would tire soon after his exertions on the dance floor. What next? Would Jim walk him back to his quarters? Yes, Captain Kirk was a gentleman, and logically, that is a gentleman's duty.
Which meant that the next move would be Spock's, namely, the opportunity to invite Jim inside for the evening.
Studying the sweating body of the half-dressed man in front of him, he noted that Jim would likely accept.
The vacuum of his own inexperience reached up to choke Spock with apprehension. Quickly, Spock plugged the gap with the entire wealth of his historical and biological knowledge of sex between men. It was all third-hand, of course, but it was all he had at the moment.
The music shifted to a slower dance and the lights dimmed further. Kirk left the dance floor and was back at Spock's side in seconds. “You do not dance to this piece of music?” Spock inquired.
“There's only one person I'd dance with to this slow stuff,” Kirk intimated, “and he doesn't dance. Besides, it's getting late. May I see you to your quarters?”
“Affirmative.”
McCoy, Uhura, and a few other people waved goodbye as they left. “Thanks for a great party!” Kirk called out. “The rest of you... carry on. And be safe.”
The bright lights and silence of the hallway were a harsh contrast to the boisterous, dimly-lit rec room. “It's chilly in here!” Kirk remarked.
“The body heat caused by so many beings and the physical exertion of dancing caused the temperature in the masquerade to become—”
“A sauna, Mr. Spock. And now all the sweat is evaporating and making me cold.”
Spock noted with private amusement that Kirk's nipples had firmed. “My costume is warmer than yours,” he noted. “If you would care to wear it—”
“No, no—your planet is much hotter than Earth. I'm sure you need it more than I do.”
They entered the turbolift together. “Alexander and Hephaestion in a turbolift,” Kirk remarked. “Ancient meets modern. I wonder what they'd think of our starship—or the worlds we've discovered.”
“Starfleet's mission is peaceful,” Spock reminded him. “Alexander would not have been made captain—not as an imperialist.”
“Still, I can't help my fascination with him.”
“Obviously,” said Spock dryly, looking down at what they wore. They exited the lift.
“You had a good time, didn't you?” Kirk asked as they reached Spock's quarters.
“I found it agreeable to observe the crew's choice of costume,” said Spock, “and to participate in stimulating conversation. And I enjoyed being with you, Jim.” They stopped outside of Spock's door. “I would be honored... if you would join me,” he paused, “in my quarters.” His fingers moved purposelessly at his side.
“Yes, Spock, I'd like to do that.” Kirk's eyelashes suddenly seemed very, very long.
Spock let him in and shut the door.
Kirk reached towards him, but he didn't move forward himself. He was a wise man and realized how important it was for Spock to make his own pace. “Spock, do you want to see how my costume is different from yours?”
“Aside from the breastplate and helmet?”
“Come closer, and you'll see what I mean.”
Spock drew nearer and visually scanned Jim's body. The sandals were the same, and they wore very similar toga-skirts with a piece that was fastened over the shoulder diagonally. Then Jim began to play with the edges of his skirt, teasing it down on one side to reveal the golden flesh of a hip.
That was when Spock realized that Jim was not wearing anything underneath.
Jim had attended the party like this? How illogical, yet how tantalizing! But if Jim would be illogical, then he would overcompensate with logic of his own. Logically, since Jim clearly wanted to be 'on display', he would examine that which Jim sought to share with him. Logic conquered all.
Spock pushed the skirt up Jim's thighs until it was around his waist.
He was shaved and smooth, muscular and golden, and from the moment Spock first laid eyes on Jim's beautiful erection and testicles he wanted to touch them, love them, fondle them and pleasure them with his mouth. These were logical impulses, he decided—the penis was, after all, the sexual organ. It would have been illogical had he focused this way, for example, on Jim's kneecap.
Spock ran his hands reverently over Jim's skin, thinking of the velvet softness of rose petals. He was so dry and smooth compared with Spock's own organ, which was dotted with stray hairs and, during masturbation, was wet with the juices of a Vulcan's natural lubrication.
With a hand on each of Jim's thighs, he climbed to his knees and placed his face against Jim's penis. He rubbed his cheek against it, scenting like a cat. The balls behind it looked so wanton and vulnerable. How illogical the human body was, to leave them outside like this! He, Spock, defender of logic, must protect them.
Jim let out a murmur like the hum of the ship's engines starting up when Spock enveloped his testicles with his mouth.
He massaged them with his tongue for a long time before withdrawing towards Jim's erection. He did not abandon the testicles even then, but held them in his hand where he continued to undulate them slowly as he opened his mouth for Jim's dick.
With a rough, enthusiastic sucking he brought Jim off. Jim closed his eyes and leaned against the wall with a groan, then folded his body down to the deck where Spock was. He seized him with both arms and haphazardly kissed whatever was directly in front of his lips. It happened to be Spock's neck, and for the first time in his life, Spock cried out in pleasure.
“It must be logical... to... cry out.... in moments of physical... ecstasy,” Spock murmured, gasping as Jim continued to suckle his neck and fondle his thighs. “After all, we... cry... out when we are in... physical... pain.”
“MY idea of logic right now would involve your bed,” said Jim, kneading Spock's buttocks. “I've been taken on a starship deck once, and it's not something I intend to repeat if I can help it. I had bruises for four days.”
“Taken?”
“When in Greece...” Jim knocked on Spock's breastplate. “I feel like I'm making love to the Tin Man. Isn't it sweaty in there?”
“I shall remove it.” Spock stood up and hastily divested himself of his clothing.
“I see my reading up on Vulcan sexual biology didn't lie,” said Jim, also now naked. He reached out and brushed two fingers across Spock's pulsingly hard penis, then played with the gooey substance it issued.
“Are you referring to my lubricating glands?” Spock inquired.
Jim nodded. “I would love to see it in action. Or, rather, feel it.”
“You wish me to...”
“Take me. Penetrate me. Like in ancient Greece,” he added, with a nod to their discarded costumes. “Of course, if you don't want to, I understand. I've been told I'm pretty good at fellatio, but I wasn't sure if this was edible.” He held up his sticky fingers.
“It is not toxic to humans,” Spock assured him. “Very well, Jim—if you will show me what to do, I will penetrate you.”
Jim smiled, and pulled him down onto the bed. There, he kissed him for a long time. “Spock... my best friend in the galaxy, my consort... I want to feel you, pushing into me. Filling me up.” He bent his knees and lifted his legs, opening himself up wide. The look on his face was decadent, yet angelic.
Spock was transfixed. He prepared himself at Jim's entrance, reasoning that this act was logical because they would both experience pleasure. The human possessed a prostate gland that would provide him much stimulation while Spock penetrated him. He even reasoned that a Vulcan-human combination was the most logical conformation of male homosexual couples, because of this fact combined with the Vulcan self-lubricating penis...
Jim pushed his pelvis forward, his face expectant, and Spock pushed into him slowly. He paused there, with Jim lying before him in all his manly glory, savoring the unique feeling of heat and tightness that surrounded him. It took another hip thrust from Jim to get him moving again.
It felt so good that Spock feared he would be unable to stop himself from ejaculating too soon. He reassured himself that the Vulcan mind control disciplines would come to his aid, and then decided to devote part of his masturbation sessions to practicing for sustainability rather than speed. It was definitely logical to prolong that which caused his Jim to writhe underneath him in such exquisite rapture.
Jim was hard again, and he was playing with himself. “When you come, it'll probably make me come—just to warn you about the mess.”
This reassured Spock that he would not be selfish to climax first. Thus informed, he thrust harder and faster and quickly spent himself into Jim's waiting body. As promised, Jim responded with a grunt and a dribble of semen.
He pulled the satiated Vulcan down upon his heaving chest. “When I fell in love with you,” he began, gasping as the remnants of his orgasm continued to throb between them, “I swore I'd take it slow, do whatever you needed and not make you uncomfortable in any way. Have I been too brazen tonight?”
“You have your answer,” Spock replied, kissing him.
The next morning, they woke up slightly earlier than usual in order for Jim to procure a captain's tunic from Spock's uniform synthesizer. He took the tunic from the computer and shook it out to straighten it. “It was fun being Alexander last night,” he said, and pulled the tunic over his head. “But I prefer being James T. Kirk.”
“Oh?” Spock inquired, smoothing out his hair in front of a mirror. Ha! Jim had always wondered about that. “May I ask why?”
Jim laid a hand gently on each shoulder and turned Spock around to face him. “Alexander may have had a lover named after Hephaistos, but I've got a real live Vulcan!”