Chapter Text
McCoy sets his tray down across from Jim’s with a definitive snap and rattle. Oh boy. His chief medical officer is in a mood.
“Mornin’ Bones,” Jim greets cheerfully, basing his greeting on McCoy’s choice of egg-white omelet and wheat toast. Internally, he’s wracking his brain for any probable cause as the doctor’s unpromising mood. He can’t think of anything. He’s been a very well-behaved captain, recently.
He hopes.
McCoy’s answer, “Mornin,” is so gruff and garbled, only long familiarity allows Jim to decipher it.
Jim thinks about inquiring as to what’s eating his friend, but then takes a bite of his breakfast instead. Best to keep his mouth shut, especially as his doctor is now narrowing his eyes at Jim’s choice of chicken and waffles sitting in a pool of syrup.
They sit in silence until McCoy has had more than a few sips of his coffee; but just when Jim thinks he may be in the clear, McCoy speaks.
“I see our heading changed to skirt the edge of that star nursery the Vulcan was in raptures about on the Bridge last shift,” he comments sourly.
Aha! Doctor McCoy's favorite pastime! Bitching about Spock. Jim relaxes a little.
“Yes,” Jim agrees as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his own coffee.
“Scotty was in my Sick Bay earlier, ranting and raving about the strain on the engines to make up for the lost time.”
Jim refrains from rolling his eyes and instead offers a noncommittal ‘hmm’ of acknowledgment.
McCoy affixes him with a piercing stare, and snaps, “That Vulcan has you wrapped around his little finger!”
Jim is surprised into letting out a laugh. “I don’t know where you come up with this stuff,” he chuckles.
McCoy points a finger at Jim. “Last month it was a three hour delay in leaving the orbit of Monoceros III for extra sample taking because Spock said ‘it would be unfortunate if the sampling party should miss anything’. The month before it was shore leave at that boring, half-deserted Starbase 17.”
Jim opens his mouth to start defending himself, but McCoy plows ahead.
“A Starbase that happened to have nothing in the way of entertainment to recommend it except a ridiculously oversized museum dedicated to the shellfish found across the local systems.”
“Plenty of my crew were interested in that museum,” Jim protests. He meant that to come out as a statement of fact, but instead it sounds lame, even to his own ears.
“Ha!” McCoy sneers. “Only two of your crew set foot inside that place: Spock, and you, trailing right behind him, with an idiotic, besotted look on your face.”
Jim gives McCoy’s last statement exactly the attention it deserves: none. He pretends not to have heard it at all. “Well, excuse me for trying to introduce an edifying experience to the bar and dancehall junkies on this ship,” he says with an eye roll.
The good doctor switches up his attack. “And now this latest! A detour from our scheduled path!”
Unfortunately for Jim, McCoy anticipates his next defense, and preempts it. “Yeah, yeah, exploration, discovery, the whole nine yards, I get that,” he continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. Jim eyes the piece of omelet nominally speared on the end of McCoy’s fork warily. “But the only reason we went to this particular discovery destination was because that damn Vulcan mentioned how disappointing it was that we wouldn’t pass close enough to see it.”
“Actually,” Jim corrects, “he said it was ‘regrettable that the Enterprise would not pass within range to conduct a more detailed analysis.’”
Goaded, McCoy snaps, “I suppose if he asked you for a kidney you’d just rip it out and hand it to him!”
“Well, that depends, I guess,” Jim says thoughtfully.
“On what?” McCoy asks suspiciously.
“Whether there would be time for me to have you surgically remove it, or if he needed it right on the spot,” Jim says innocently.
Jim smirks at the look on McCoy’s face, which is priceless. Apoplexy at its finest. Thank god for that vow to do no harm. Jim swallows the last of his coffee and hops up to bus his tray.
“Good talk, Bones,” he tosses over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Damnit, Jim!” McCoy yells from behind him.
--
Jim busies himself for the next several hours with his scheduled inspection tour of the Water and Waste Department and subsequent meeting. The inspection passes without incident, just as dull as one would expect, but then, that’s the preferable state of Water and Waste. It’s one department where any excitement does not mix well (no pun intended). Once, when Jim was still a Jr. Lieutenant on the Farragut—a shiver runs down his spine at the memory. The smell alone—but best not to think about those three particularly harrowing days. Thank god the Enterprise has never had such an incident. The follow-up meeting is even more mind-numbing than the inspection itself, but it is mercifully short, and at the end of it, Jim is filled with the satisfaction that comes from having discharged a disagreeable duty admirably.
That satisfaction is short-lived, however, as the next part of Jim’s day is set aside for him to draw up a report for Water and Waste’s department heads on the department’s performance, and then catch up on several pending reports which require his signature after that. He does his best to plow through it, but the dense material (no pun intended) resists all his attempts to get through it quickly. With no relief in sight, his mind wanders, and turns towards his breakfast conversation with McCoy.
The doctor’s accusations might sting, just a little, because he cannot get them out of his head. Certainly the Enterprise’s ongoing mission, her charter of exploration and discovery, is more than enough justification for the odd detour here and there. Their current assignment, being little more than a leisurely tour, certainly allows for it. They’re slated for three or so months of sailing through a well-explored corner of the galaxy (ostensibly ‘patrol’), interspersed with a few days of check-ins to a few colonies and starbases. It’s a glorified delivery run, and it’s amazing there’s anything around here for the Enterprise to stick her nose into at all!
But if Jim’s being honest with himself, the greater part of his motivation for ordering the course change was the anticipation of satisfying Spock’s curiosity. Of witnessing his Vulcan friend’s very real scientific pleasure in discovering the many fantastic wonders to be found in space, that final, yet infinite frontier. Hence the sting from McCoy’s accusations that he’s having difficulties shrugging off.
Jim’s decision wasn’t…unprofessional, was it? It’s not like Spock said, “Please Captain, I want to go see that,” and batted his big Vulcan eyes at Jim (or whatever McCoy was insinuating). Not likely, Jim thinks with a snort. When Spock spots some opportunity for scientific discovery outside of their current path or assignment, he very correctly submits a request through the proper administrative channels, and Jim then grants or denies it accordingly. So what if Jim just saved everyone a lot of paperwork by just ordering a new course then and there?
And it’s not like Jim ordered the Enterprise to turn around and start heading in the opposite direction, either! McCoy’s account of Scotty’s (alleged) moaning aside, no increase in warp speed will even be required, thanks to Chekov’s efforts. It didn’t even take the Russian whiz-kid ten minutes to compensate for their slight deviation and provide a streamlined navigational path, putting them right back on their original target.
Jim thumps his head a few times on his desk. Why is McCoy's bitching getting to him today? What about this morning is bothering him so that his mind is fixating on it?
‘Idiotic, besotted look’, McCoy's words float through Jim’s mind.
He’s not…he doesn’t—right? Spock is…Spock is very dear to him, of course. Closer in some ways than even Leonard McCoy himself. Jim can’t picture his life without him. And certainly he finds Spock attractive, but Spock’s objective attractiveness is well-documented at this stage—and besides! Jim finds most people attractive, regardless of gender or species, after all. Even during the pon farr incident, Jim hadn’t let his inevitable and inconvenient physical responses interfere with his duties as Spock’s captain and friend.
Of course, he would have been more than happy to offer, if Spock had needed that sort of—that is to say, if it had been required, in the end, for him to—
You are a traitor, Jim accuses his own mind as it helpfully supplies him with a myriad of ready made fantasies involving him, Spock, and a different aftermath of their visit to Vulcan. And you too, he thinks at his dick sourly as it twitches at the thought of Jim and Spock entangled together in the throes of passion; they could—
Alone in his quarters, Jim stands so violently his chair topples over. He slams his hands down on his desk. “Damnit, Bones!” he snaps to the empty air in front of him.
--
After an hour of futility, he acknowledges that his ability to concentrate and achieve any measurable work output has been thoroughly derailed. A restless energy seems to have gripped him, try as he might to deny it.
Exercise! That's just what he needs to calm himself down. A trip to the gym ought to help him work off whatever strange mood he’s descended into. His brain helpfully attempts to inform him exactly the cause of his preoccupation, but he resolutely ignores it.
He’s going to give himself the workout of the century, and reset his entire body, and then everything will be fine. Jim will put that entire conversation this morning behind him, and banish whatever sort of existential crisis his mind wants to have about it with some good, old-fashioned sweat.
He checks into a small exercise room after changing into his standard Starfleet-issued gym pants. He sees no point in putting on a shirt, given that he intends to sweat right through it anyway. Why make more work for the Laundry Department? Or even Water and Waste down the line?
Feeling better about himself after this evidence of captainly conscientiousness, he enters the small exercise room and extends a standard weight punching bag from the storage bulkhead. After a light warm up and a few stretches, he goes after it. Hard. And if he succeeds in pummeling himself more than the bag, all the better.
Of course Jim enjoys spending time with Spock. Who doesn’t enjoy spending time with their friends?
The bag wobbles back and forth as he beats it with his fists.
Of course Jim is happy at the mere sight of Spock. Aren’t most people happy to see their friends?
Jim inserts a combo into the mix. Punch, elbow, knee, kick.
What is McCoy trying to say anyway? That Jim is behaving like some sort of teenager with a crush?
Punch, Punch, elbow right, elbow left, knee, kick, kick.
Jim has a very satisfying romantic life, thank you. One that doesn’t include pining over his first officer like a tribble over a lack of grain.
Wait.
His punches falter.
Satisfying romantic life? He hasn’t gotten personal with anything other than his hand in over five months.
Shaken, he does his best to get back into a rhythm. Five months isn’t too shocking, being who and what he is, but then…his punches falter again. He distinctly remembers two offers during that time that he turned down unhesitatingly and without regret. Mattus, a lovely civilian events coordinator as far back as Ceti V, and Sondra, executive assistant to Ambassador Elric, whom he’s always found time to spend a delightful few hours or so together on the rare occasions where they meet. He hadn’t thought of either of them again until just now.
Savagely, Jim abandons all rhythm and form and attacks the punching bag with everything he has.
Recalling Mattus’ pouting lips, or Sondra’s welcoming curves, evinces no response from him, either physically or mentally, other than a vague appreciation for two fine examples of human beauty. With trepidation, Jim calls forth an image of the blue-clad form of his first officer; tall, slim, deceptively strong. He stands in Jim’s thoughts now as he stands on the bridge, with his hands clasped behind his back, listening to a report being delivered, or to orders being issued. Jim’s mind poses him no more provocatively than a statue.
But that’s all it takes. Jim’s body fills with warmth at the thought of him. A glow seems to surround him like a bubble, within and without, accompanied by the heady tug of arousal in his gut.
That’s not so good for the ‘I am not secretly lusting after and also possibly in love with my first officer’ team Jim is half-heartedly trying to put together, damn McCoy! Frustrated and aroused, Jim lays into the punching bag like destroying it can solve all his problems.
An obnoxious alert goes off in the exercise room, which pulls Jim rudely from his contemplations, and causes him to stagger back from his all-out assault.
“Physical threshold met,” the computer informs him. “Recommend crewmember cease activities, and begin a cool down and stretch out regimen.” The punching bag locks itself in place, and the storage bulkhead automatically opens to receive it.
Jim can certainly override the damn computer's exercise safety protocols, but then that will be reported by the computer straight to McCoy. The last thing Jim needs is for the doctor to know he’s gotten inside Jim’s head so much that he sent Jim on a rampage in the gym.
With ill grace, he stuffs the punching bag back into its slot and closes the compartment. Dutifully, he engages in a series of stretches and breathing exercises to mollify the computer, and calms himself by thinking of all the things he’d like to do to the coding of its more annoying behaviors if ever given the opportunity.
Once the computer helpfully informs him that a hygienic regimen is now in his best interests, Jim drags himself off the mat and heads to the showers. His muscles are sore, and his body shows every sign of complaining at him for the next couple of days over its misuse.
Nevermind that he could have gone twice as hard, for twice as long, at the start of this damn mission. I’m not old, he reassures his reflection in the gym ‘fresher mirrors. Just putting some mileage on, that’s all.
He blasts himself with an indulgent five minute spray, then dries himself briskly and pulls his uniform back on. The review and reports he left unfinished twinge at his conscience, and with resignation, he heads back to his quarters.
Jim rounds the corner to the corridor leading to his quarters, and looks up to see that Spock is standing in front of his door, clearly waiting for him. Everything in Jim lights up at the sight of him. Now that he’s looking for it, it’s so obvious he feels like a fool for ever having missed it. Even some of the soreness settling into his body from the punishing workout he put it through seems to ease away.
‘Spock!’ His body and mind seem to cry out in delight with one voice, ‘Spock!’ Besotted idiot indeed. Damn McCoy, damn him!
“Captain,” Spock inclines his head in greeting. “You are precisely 5.3 minutes late.”
“Apologies, Mr. Spock,” Jim winces, moving to open his door, whilst racking his brain to recall what it is he’s late for.
Spock raises a slightly frosty eyebrow in response.
Ah. It comes to him. He and Spock are scheduled to overview the logs and bridge footage for Lieutenant Howers, who took her first turn at the conn earlier in Alpha shift, flying solo command. Sulu was scheduled at the helm in case of emergency, but the rest of the crew assigned at the time were all less experienced junior officers, getting some much needed hours on the bridge. Boring and quiet their current assignment might be, but in many ways it’s a welcome relief. Their previous three or four missions were all tense, dangerous, life-or-death affairs during which it was necessary to lean heavily on his more experienced officers.
He unlocks his door and ushers Spock in ahead of him. “I really am sorry Spock, I got into a bit of an argument with Bones at breakfast, so I went to the gym to blow off some steam.”
The door hisses shut behind them and Spock turns to Jim as Jim turns to the environmental controls to raise the temperature and increase the lighting.
Spock seems to thaw slightly as he responds to Jim by saying, “I, too, have had a recent encounter of my own with Doctor McCoy.”
Feeling suddenly guilty, but not knowing why, Jim’s eyes flick up to Spock’s. Naturally, they reveal nothing other than Spock’s usual calm reserve, but now that he takes a moment, Jim does spot some tell-tale markers of stress in the ramrod line of Spock’s spine and the tight clasp of his hands behind his back, sure signs he’s working against some pesky emotion. Which in the case of McCoy, is almost always irritation.
Jim grunts in sympathy as he gestures for Spock to precede him over to the desk so they can begin their review. “He’s apparently in a mood today,” he says.
“Indeed,” Spock says as he walks ahead of Jim over to the desk.
As Jim follows behind, his eyes fall down past Spock’s waist, captivated by the flex of his buttocks as he walks.
I am staring at his tight little Vulcan ass! Jim realizes with alarm, and jerks his gaze up just in time, as Spock turns crisply around to ask him, “Have you prepared the tapes for our review, Captain?”
“Ah, give me a moment, Spock,” Jim says, edging around him to pick the correct tape deck out of the (somewhat alarming) growing pile on his desk. Jim does his best to disguise how aghast he is at the size of his to-do pile.
This is all McCoy's fault! Jim would have been done with most of this and still living in happy ignorance if that damn menace from Georgia hadn’t taken it upon himself to—!
Furiously, Jim shuffles through the tapes, searching for the records of Lieutenant Howers’ command.
“This should be it,” he says hastily, sensing Spock shifting his weight behind him in an impatience that Spock would never admit to, and a judgment as to Jim’s organizational skills that he will have no such compunctions about voicing.
Jim inserts the tape, plops himself down in his chair, and unfolds the guest chair from underneath the desk for Spock.
Spock raises a judgmental eyebrow (Jim knew there would be no avoiding it) and says, “That is not the correct record, Captain.”
Jim’s eyes snap to the screen to see he’s inserted his pathetic attempts from earlier of drafting his review of the Water and Waste Department. He can feel his face getting hot as he scrambles to his feet to eject that tape and dive into the pile once more for the correct one.
“If you would allow me,” Spock says, edging sideways, biding to press Jim out of the way.
“No, no, don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Jim assures him, as his hands (un-assuringly, unfortunately) fumble through the tape deck pile, scattering them hopelessly about his desk.
“Captain,” Spock begins, but Jim hastily stuffs the correct tape in, having got his hands on it at last.
“Found it,” he says triumphantly, as Spock begins to once more try to edge Jim out of the way to look for himself.
One of the reports he was supposed to review and sign off on (yet another of Scotty’s exhausting requisition forms) begins to scroll down the screen.
“Oh,” Jim says as his face falls. “Not that one either.”
In Jim’s defense, Spock’s body pressing against him as he tries to find the right tape is not making this easier, hyper aware not only of his first officer’s physical presence, but his own physical response to it. (Helpfully illuminated by that southern pest, McCoy, damn him, damn him, damn him!)
In desperation, Jim sits down at his chair again to open his top desk drawer, where perhaps some helpful yeoman may have stored the record. “Must be in here.”
No helpful yeoman was about today, apparently. Unable to find it, Jim tries to stand to look again through the pile on top of the desk, only to find that Spock is committed now to shouldering him out of the way.
“I can do it,” Jim insists, and tries to bop Spock out of the way with his hip.
Spock angles himself to block Jim, thrusting out his skinny Vulcan butt as he does.
Irritated now, at himself, for his reaction to Spock, at Leonard Horatio McCoy, for ruining his blissful ignorance of it, and (perversely) at Spock himself for causing it, Jim tries to jockey around the side of his desk to get to the pile from the opposite side. Spock moves with him, thrusting his ass out again to thwart Jim, as Spock begins to logically organize the chaos now spread out over the entirety of Jim’s desk. This practical, obvious approach only serves to annoy Jim further.
“Spock, I can operate my own computer,” he warns.
“The process will proceed much more swiftly with my intervention,” Spock answers, because Vulcans have answers for everything.
As a final injury on top of all the insults, Spock’s calm methodology reveals for him the bridge records tape that Jim was searching for. “I have located the correct report, Captain,” Spock says.
“Alright, you found it, hand it over now,” Jim says, and tries to muscle Spock out of the way in what (he has enough self-awareness to realize) is a ridiculous attempt to gain some control of the desk area. The absurdity of the whole situation, his behavior, Spock’s behavior, and everything leading up to it hits him at once, and all of a sudden he’s doing his best to choke back laughter.
“Just a moment, Captain,” Spock says, and blocks Jim with his tiny ass once again. If Spock doesn’t stop thrusting that thing at Jim, just when Jim’s realized his (apparently long-standing) obsession with it, he is going to lose it. A hiccup of laughter escapes him as Spock inserts the correct tape and the bridge record appears on the monitor.
Still trying to master the urge to laugh hysterically, Jim says, “All right, you win, Vulcan logic masters the chaos of the universe again.” He tries to move back to his chair, but Spock continues to block him, busying himself with organizing the remaining tape decks.
Oh for—!
Spock, and his skinny, provocative Vulcan ass! Full of exasperation, annoyance, fondness, and amusement at the whole situation, Jim says mock serious, “You better watch it, mister!” And before he even knows what he’s about, he reaches out to that offered target, and swats Spock’s right asscheek with his open palm.
The gentle pop of Jim’s hand hitting Spock through his clothing acts more completely on Jim than the sound of Klingon disrupter fire. The strange euphoria that grips him dissipates immediately, and everything turns to stone and sinks to the bottom of his stomach. Jim swallows, feeling the blood drain from his face. He looks anxiously at the rigid line of Spock’s back, frozen in his half bent-over position at the desk.
“Spock, I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Jim manages to get out.
Lord knows Jim’s swatted plenty of people on the behind before, for various reasons (his brother: he deserved it, teammates in the locker room: they also deserved it, that sort of thing), but there’s an entire world of difference between smacking, say, McCoy on the butt and smacking Spock.
“Spock, are you all right?” Jim asks anxiously.
“Please excuse me, Captain,” Spock says, still unmoving, his voice sounding distant. “I believe I shall retire early to my quarters.”
Jim wrings his hands nervously. “I—of course, Mr. Spock. Again, I—I must apologize, please, forgive me, I have no excuse.”
Spock straightens at last, and without once turning to face Jim, says stiffly, “I bid you good evening, Captain,” and walks woodenly away from Jim towards their shared bathroom door.
It swishes shut behind him, and Jim is left to his own agonizing reflections.
He looks down at his hand as if it belongs to someone else. I hit him, he thinks dully.
Not hard though, the next thought follows indignantly upon the first. It was barely a tap! I’m surprised he even felt it!
The surge of righteous anger falls away as swiftly as it had risen up. The strength leaves his legs and Jim staggers over to drop into his chair with a thunk.
“I struck him,” he says out loud, his voice disbelieving.
What…
What has he done?!
The magnitude of his sin threatens to engulf Jim.
He—he hit Spock! Spock has every right to file a formal report against him. Request sanctions, request transfer to leave the Enterprise and never speak to Jim again!
He stares around his own quarters in disbelief. What in god’s name came over him?
An incoming comm snaps him out of his downward spiral.
“What is it?” he snaps, unable to keep the harshness he feels at himself completely out of his tone.
“Incoming transmission packet from Eden Prime, sir,” Uhura’s voice reports: professionalism, layered with just a hint of reproach.
It thankfully acts like a bucket of ice water on the flaming wreckage that he has just made of his personal life.
“Understood, lieutenant,” Jim replies, far more professionally than he’d first answered. “I’ll be right up, thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” Uhura says crisply, but after all this time, Jim is easily able to detect the playful ease in her tone once more. He’s forgiven for his little snit. “Holding transmission for your arrival.”
He switches the comm off and strides briskly to his door. The governor of Eden Prime shows every sign of wanting to make a thing of what is, at its core, a very simple delivery, but Jim can’t begrudge them for it at the moment.
He is grateful for the distraction that his duties as Captain Kirk of the Enterprise will provide.
--
Three and half days pass without any personal interactions with Spock.
His first officer performs his duties admirably, as always. On the bridge, in meetings, he is a consummate professional. Jim is careful to give him his space, however, but he makes it clear that Spock is welcome to approach him personally at any time. But Spock makes no overtures, gives no indication that he wishes to engage with Jim at any level other than the purely professional.
Jim is as patient as the next captain—no, that’s a lie, he knows patience is not one of his virtues—but this silence between them, and the incident which prefaced it, weigh on him mightily.
The fourth day comes to a close without so much as an eyebrow lift in Jim’s direction, and Jim can take it no longer.
He strides into their shared bathroom, and keys for entry into Spock’s quarters. Jim knows Spock is in there. He had the computer confirm it.
Jim braces himself to be summarily denied entry, and the attendant misery that will cause, but the door opens almost immediately. Spock, standing just beyond it, greets him with a simple “Captain,” before stepping back to allow Jim in.
As Jim walks past Spock into his red-draped quarters and its cocoon of heat, some of the restless tension and anxiety seeps from his body. If Spock is allowing him into the inner sanctum, as it were, things cannot be beyond his ability to salvage them.
Jim opens his mouth to drive straight to the point, but Spock beats him to it.
“I am amenable to a discussion about the events between us which occurred 3.7 days ago.”
Jim turns to face Spock, nods, takes a deep breath in, and says, “Spock. I’m so sorry. It was wrong of me, horribly, terribly wrong of me to strike you as I did. I cannot imagine how badly I must have offended you.”
“Captain—Jim,” Spock interrupts gently before Jim can continue on with his apologetic monologue. “There can be no offense given where none is taken.”
“You mean…” Jim trails off. That Spock would not take some form of offense, he had not imagined.
“Your striking of my buttocks was intended in the spirit of friendship, was it not?”
Jim gapes, then finds his voice. “Yes, of course it was, but it’s a sort of human ritual that had no right to subject you to!” Jim castigates himself hotly, determined not to let himself off the hook so easily, given the nature of his fixation with Spock’s skinny, provocative ass in the time leading up to the incident.
“Jim,” Spock says, his voice warm with the light amusement he occasionally allows himself in these types of private moments. “It is my understanding that ‘rituals’ such as this are a natural evolution of friendship among humans.”
Jim, terrified that Spock would find his behavior unacceptable, perversely is unable to quit arguing now that it appears that Spock does not find that his behavior has been unacceptable.
“Why should you be expected to conform to human friendship rituals, Spock?”
Spock raises a brow. “Why should I not?”
Jim sputters. “Because you shouldn’t let me take liberties with you like that, without consequence.”
Spock tilts his head. “You may take those liberties freely, Jim. I have given them to you.”
This hits Jim like a full-body tackle from a Gorn.
“Oh,” he says feebly.
“In fact,” Spock says, his eyes flicking to Jim’s and then away again, “My body’s reaction to the stimulus was not negative.”
Jim finds he needs to sit, and takes refuge on Spock’s desk chair. “Oh,” he says again.
“As it happens,” Spock continues, choosing his words carefully, “it is a reaction that I might wish to explore in further detail.”
“You would?” Jim repeats lamely.
God help him, but Jim is still several moves behind in the chessboard of this conversation. ‘You may take those liberties freely,’ Spock’s voice echoes in his head.
“If it would be possible,” Spock hedges.
A few moments of silence pass, and Jim realizes that Spock isn’t going to proceed any further without prompting from Jim. Dazedly, he does his best to get himself together. What is Spock even saying? ‘Body’s reaction’, ‘not negative’, ‘explore in further detail’?
‘I have given them to you,’ Spock’s voice continues to echo.
Quite sure that he cannot possibly have this right, Jim asks, “You—you want to ask me to—what? Hit you?”
“‘Spanking’ is the colloquial term,” Spock says.
“You want me to spank you?!” Jim jolts to his feet, completely shocked. If he’d had a thousand years to consider all of Spock’s potential reactions to the incident, never, never, would he have thought up this one. He’d thought, at best, Spock would forgive him, after a period of apology and fine behavior, and that Jim never did so again.
But here Spock is, requesting for Jim to do it again?
“The timing is appropriate,” Spock says. “Our duties over the next three and one half standard months will give us ample time for leisure.”
“Logical as always, Mr. Spock,” Jim says, searching for familiar ground in some gentle teasing.
Spock inclines his head.
Jim takes a deep breath in, and lays out the situation as he understands it to be sure he has it right. “To be clear, when I struck you on the behind, your body had a reaction you did not entirely understand.”
When Spock offers no correction, Jim continues. “After considering this reaction, you decided that you wished to explore it in further detail. You researched, and are requesting me to spank you in order to better understand your body, and ultimately yourself.”
“As always,” Spock says, his voice low, “Your comprehension of me surpasses all others. Even, at times, myself.”
A burst of warm feeling in his chest forces Jim to swallow down hard to keep down an outsurge of emotion, which, Spock’s Vulcan sensibilities aside, he is completely unready to express.
Once he is sure he can speak without choking up, Jim asks, “And you’re quite sure you wish me to be the one to spank you?”
“There is no one else whom I could ask to assist me in this matter,” Spock says.
“You don’t think Bones would enjoy getting to pop you a few times?” Jim snorts, unable to resist.
Spock dryly responds, “I think rather that Dr. McCoy would perhaps enjoy it too much.”
Jim barks out a laugh. “He might at that.”
A comfortable silence follows. Jim’s mind is a whir of emotion, of consideration, of logistics, even. Am I actually, seriously, considering doing this? He wonders.
He looks at Spock, who meets his gaze solemnly.
“Jim,” Spock says, unprompted. “There is no one else whom I would wish to ask to touch me in this way. Only you.”
Jim swallows as a flood of complicated emotions at this revelation tighten his throat and burn a little at his eyes. His heart beats wildly, his limbs feel weak. His body can’t seem to decide what to do with this information.
Except his cock. There’s no ambiguity of response there. You behave, he thinks fiercely at it. Nothing Spock has said has led Jim to believe this is in any way a romantic or even sexual proposition.
Spock is affirming their deep but entirely platonic friendship. His trust in Jim is such that he wishes Jim to touch him, so that he may experience new things, and be completely safe while doing so. The amount of trust and bravery that this has taken for Spock to admit this leaves Jim in awe, and completely humbled.
Is he actually considering it? As if there were any doubt as to whether or not he would. Spock has asked, and it is not in Jim to refuse him anything. And, as he does not think it is in Spock to ask of Jim something he cannot give, so Jim must be careful to always do the same.
“Understand Jim, that if my request is repugnant to you, or if you believe that it falls outside the bounds of what is permissible in our friendship, I shall certainly withdraw it, and we need never speak of it again,” Spock says abruptly.
Jim surfaces from his thoughts to meet Spock’s somewhat anxious gaze.
Jim has never spanked anyone in his life, never really had any interest in it as a kink or anything, but Spock has a need, and there’s no one else Spock would even consider asking. Jim wouldn’t want Spock to go to anyone else for something like this, anyway. Someone else could get it wrong, hurt him.
It shouldn’t be that difficult, really. Once Spock delves even a little bit into the sensation, he’s sure to discover that he has no real desire for it.
Lord knows Jim doesn’t remember any of his childhood spankings with any fondness.
“Spock,” Jim says, “no request from you would ever be repugnant to me. As your friend, I’ll do my best to help you. If that means spanking you, so be it.”
“You are certain?” Spock’s gaze searches him.
Jim smiles. “Yes,” he says.
“I—Thank you, Jim,” Spock inclines his head.
Decision made, Jim is a man of action, as always. “So,” he says briskly, clapping his hands together and giving Spock a teasing look as Spock’s ears twitch slightly at the sound. “When do you see this spanking session taking place?”
“Currently, we meet weekly for our chess match,” Spock says slowly. “Our upcoming mission, with its more relaxed itinerary, allows us time for two, or perhaps even three matches per week, which we briefly discussed after reviewing the orders packet.”
Jim nods. “I remember.”
“I propose we utilize one of the proposed chess time slots.”
“And, in lieu of chess, we explore, well, spanking you,” Jim says.
“Indeed,” Spock says, with an eyebrow raise that (were it any other being on board this ship) Jim would call saucy.
“I remember seeing a few such time slots on our upcoming schedules,” Jim says. “What do you say to the first?”
Faster than lightning, Spock’s brain calculates. Jim can see it happening. His traitorous cock throbs in his pants.
“1.5 days from now, following a shared post-shift meal. With your permission, I shall mark the time off on both of our schedules as a chess match.”
Jim nods.
“Shall we convene in your quarters?”
“I think so,” Jim says. Jim infinitely prefers that Spock have somewhere safe to retreat to if he feels the need.
“Then I shall request that we end our conversation here, Captain,” Spock says, in that abrupt way he has, sometimes, of reverting to formality. “I find a period of meditation is advisable at this time.”
“Of course, Mr. Spock,” Jim smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, on the bridge, and then…later.”
Spock nods, and Jim departs.
As the bathroom door slides shut behind him, he blinks dazedly at his tidy quarters.
Spanking?!
It will probably be quite difficult to muster the control needed for such an endeavor, but at least he won’t need to do so more than once.
There’s that, at least.