| ST: TOS S2 Fic, Part 3/5: "Split Vision" - Kirk/Spock - NC17 |
[Jun. 23rd, 2009|10:13 pm] |
Title: Split Vision
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS (S2)
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17 (definitely more graphic than previous installments)
Notes: This will be the third piece out of five in my S2 fic arc, which itself follows from my five-story S1 arc (which begins here - I strongly recommend reading those first; meanwhile, Part 1 of this arc is here, and Part II is here). This piece contains references to/spoilers for "Journey to Babel," as well as a few reference back to S1's "The Naked Time." As with the first sequence, there's music holding all of this together. The song in question is "This Is Me," by Girlyman. I find that they're very little-known outside the Northeast U.S., so I suppose I'm imagining a future where they're still haunting the airwaves (or the minds of the musically-inclined).
Summary: Blood is often thicker than regret. Also, there's some McCoy surliness in here that I hadn't been planning on when I first started writing, so that's something!
[Part 2/5, Reverse Mirror, can be found here.]
You will become a stranger, you will seize all the land.
You will breach the other, count the hours, spill the sand.
This is me:
All that I am.
You will see...
—This Is Me, Terran 21st-century
*
Spock could count the number of times that he had been slapped on one hand: first by his lover, before they had become lovers, and second, mere days ago, by his mother.
It had been more than an Earth-year since the inexplicable madness that nearly the entire crew had contracted from the Psi 2000 landing party. That Jim had only been able to still Spock through the use of physical force had spoken volumes of his condition; those thoughts of shame with regard to feeling love for his mother and affection toward Jim had, even if briefly, undone him.
In striking back, he had undone Jim in kind. He had wondered many times if that lowering of inhibitions had begun the slow, inexorable burn between them. Or had it always been there, and Spock had only afterward begun to notice? Already, he knew that his human blood had more than caught up with him. He could no sooner blame Jim for what he had done than he could blame his mother for having given him life.
Nor could Spock blame her for having hit him, not least because she had never found reason to do so when he was a child. Physical discipline, although exceedingly rare, was not unheard-of on Vulcan (but, logically, quite rare in comparison to Earth). It was the love he had borne her and still bore her, perhaps, that had prevented him from wishing to cause her undue grief. Before, Spock would have insisted upon reason: it is only logical to do all in one's power to preserve harmony and balance in the family.
By those standards, he had certainly been in the wrong, thinking that his duty to the Enterprise outweighed his duty to his mother in the case of his father's life. Her pain had injured him far more deeply than the flat of her hand.
And somehow, none of it—none of it—had hurt as much as it had to know that Jim had lain bleeding from a knife-wound that duty—duty to his father—had prevented him from tending. Even with his parents well off the ship (in spite of Doctor McCoy's strident protests), safely on Babel's surface with the rest of the delegates, Spock felt, illogically, twelve years old again, sneaking books from his father's library.
The squeeze of Jim's fingers summoned Spock back to the present.
"As First Officer, don't you have better things to do than sit here at my bedside while we're in orbit? Like make sure there aren't any stow-away Andorians on board?"
"That would be illogical, Captain," Spock said, mildly, sparing half a glance for McCoy, who was, in turn, sparing half a glower for them as he cleaned his surgical tools. "I can assure you that the Andorian delegation has long since departed, and I do not think they will be gracing us with their presence for the return journey." Spock ran his thumb down the length of Jim's, letting it drift up to the heart of Jim's palm. The other man shivered, a satisfying sensation. Audibly, the Doctor cleared his throat.
Jim smiled, leaning to one side. "Something bothering you, Bones?"
"It would seem I'm allergic to your extended presence," muttered McCoy, tossing a few implements noisily into the sink. "Both of you. Hell, Spock's been on his feet for three days, but I can't seem to get him out of here."
Spock inclined his head without turning to look at the Doctor. "As soon as you see fit to release the Captain, I guarantee that you will, indeed, see less of me."
McCoy dried his hands and tossed the standard-issue towel into the sink. "I'm going to leave you two lovebirds alone," he said with an air of finality, and was gone.
"Getting better at having the last word, isn't he?" Jim asked, grinning.
"His skill is much improved," Spock agreed, instinctively leaning closer.
"I'd say, especially given that job he did on you and your father. Not to sound condescending, Spock, but I think you ought to thank him when you get the chance."
"No need, Jim. I already have." Spock wasn't sure if Jim's look of surprise was more satisfying than the Doctor's had been when he had done it. He decided it was.
"Hey, what are you smiling about?"
"I am not certain what you mean," Spock said, and leaned in for a brief kiss.
"Well, what I'm smiling about," Jim said as they drew apart, "is a plot I've been hatching all day. Are you interested?"
Spock raised an eyebrow, nodded. "Most interested, Captain."
Jim playfully smacked the back of his hand. "It involves a jail-break. Are you up to it?"
"What manner of escape did you have in mind?"
"The manner of escape that involves Bones having been too distracted to voice-lock the door," Jim said, pushing himself gingerly into a full sitting position. "Nice work."
Spock frowned guiltily. "Jim, I can assure you I did not intend—"
"Shut up, Spock," said Jim, throwing off the coverlet in order to inspect himself for any stray needles or tubes, "and help get me out of here."
"Acknowledged," Spock said, receiving the arm that Jim had already begun to fling over his shoulder. He vaguely dreaded having to explain the situation to anyone they happened to meet in passing, Doctor McCoy most of all.
In the end, they ran into Nurse Chapel on Deck Five, but she was easily enough won over by Jim's most convincing smile backed up by Spock's authoritative fabrication of Doctor McCoy's approval. Spock would have liked to take Jim to his own quarters, but Spock's were closest. It was essential to get him out of sight.
Their next kiss was slower, yet somehow infinitely more tentative than the one they'd shared in sickbay. Jim was perfectly capable of standing on his own, if a bit unsteadily, but he held onto Spock's shoulders with reassuring strength. Beneath his palms, Spock could feel Jim's hipbones jutting out slightly more than usual. Odd, that lying still and doing nothing was the only thing proven to cause this energetic man to lose weight. Spock bent to kiss his neck, marveling at it. He would see to it Jim ate dinner.
"It's so peaceful in here," Jim said, allowing Spock to guide him over to the bed. "If slightly creepy. How do you sleep through that constant red glow over there?"
"One gets used to it," Spock said, testing Jim's ribcage and lower back with some slight pressure. "Are you in pain?"
"Not much," Jim said, shrugging. "Those painkillers Bones keeps injecting me with are pretty strong. He says the bleeding's stopped when I move around, anyway."
"Will it bother you?" Spock asked, already tentatively lifting Jim's shirt.
"What, the pain?" Jim replied, distracted. "No, I doubt I'll even notice—"
"No, the light," Spock clarified, his breath hitching at Jim's grunt of pain as he gingerly coaxed the shirt off Jim's arms and up over his head. "I will dim it if you wish."
"No," Jim said, watching Spock discard his own shirt with an air of bemusement. "As you said, one gets used to it. In fact, I doubt I'll be paying much attention."
Spock kissed him again, suddenly weary of speech. Ralash-fam, t'hy'la—be silent.
Jim groaned against his mouth. "Never thought I'd find Vulcan such a...turn-on."
There is no end to what you would never have thought. Spock removed his boots with quiet efficiency, then turned to the task of ridding Jim of the rest of his clothes. The faintly shimmering white bandage bore no stains: a reassuring sight in the low light of his cabin. There was so much hunger in Jim's gaze that Spock nearly faltered through his own undressing. I would never have thought that a human could bring me to this.
"We've brought you to it, all right," said Jim, tugging him close with both hands.
I would rather not think of my mother now. Jim laughed into the kiss this time, more felt than heard. Spock welcomed it has he had been able to welcome so little in the past week. Even the simple comfort of an embrace had been forbidden.
Then we won't. The thought passed as a ripple from Jim's mind to his: still new and startling, his lover's swiftly developing telepathic aptitude. We'll think of us.
Startling, too, how easily this came to them in spite of their collective weakened state. Jim seemed to have little difficulty bearing Spock's partial weight, but before long he had managed to turn the tables in a most satisfying fashion. Their kisses were deep now, ravenous, and every last inch of Jim's flesh seared against Spock like flame.
The brush of Jim's thumb up the underside of his erection was startling at first, but hardly unwelcome. Spock swallowed his moan and concentrated on the way Jim's lower lip felt lightly trapped between his teeth for a split-second before Jim's hand closed around him in a sure, steady grip. Silence was impossible, psychic or otherwise.
You me this now us—
"Jim," breathed Spock, just once, and came.
In response, Jim kissed him again, harder still, and dragged Spock's uncooperative hand down to wrap around his own hardness. He responded to the curl of Spock's fingers with a soft hiss of pleasure. Spock lowered his head to nip at Jim's collarbone, once more enjoying the feel of Jim's skin and the fervor of his response.
No words when he came, either, thrusting helplessly into Spock's grasp. Spock caught him before the support of his arms gave out, lessening the impact. For long moments, Jim lay breathing into Spock's hair, the rise and fall of his chest taut against Spock's own. He seemed so light for as solid as he was, perhaps on account of the observed weight loss. Irrational, Spock knew: a side-effect of worry and fondness.
Jim tapped twice on Spock's temple. "I hear that clockwork ticking away."
Spock smiled against his cheek, wide and unabashed, unseen.
T'hy'la, would you have me otherwise?
Jim's hand drifted to find Spock's against the pillow, his breath evening into sleep.
- Continue: Ship and Star - |
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