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I've never seen Spock angry before. And not because Vulcans have a piece of ice from Delta Vega in their side. They thoroughly guard their emotions: gently wrapping them in logic and carefully covering them with control. It's too personal, too sacred, and revealing it to everyone around them is like coming naked to a Starfleet officers' meeting. Inappropriate. Immoral. Frighteningly strange.
I've never seen Spock angry before, even though we've been together so long. We've learned to hide it, lurking in the white corridors of the ship where engineers rarely go. We change places so often that hardly anyone notices the pattern. Sometimes we go there individually, having previously confused computer testimony. So even if someone wanted to, they couldn't trace our location. Sometimes we go there together, as captain and first officer, nodding to the redshirts we meet along the way. We have an unscheduled inspection, gentlemen. The access code on the door cuts us off from questions and anxious looks. No one can lure us out unless one of us orders the computer to unlock the door. We silently inspect the room and it takes us 30% of the time. The other 70%, we are no longer responsible officers. We are hungry, we are intemperate, and we are drunk on smells, tastes, and groans. We have to be quiet where the echoes leave us no chance for privacy. We allow ourselves to be loud where soundproofing removes any remnants of reasonableness. Our heated bodies cool down to the measured hum of the ship, and we leave the room with completely unperturbed faces. Because we always have a skin regenerator. We nod to the same redshirts, their work is acceptable and no problems found. And with their sighs of relief, we go our separate ways to perform our duties.
We've learned not to hide too much. Because too much secrecy is like a blinking red emergency light. It's not that we don't trust our officers. It's that we don't trust ourselves because it's so easy to relax around understanding people. And it's so easy to lose each other on different ships if the truth comes out.
We have learned to touch each other publicly and yet innocently, to crack jokes and smile softly. And no one on the whole ship can see this as more than friendship. None of the admirals have any doubt that we are professionals. All we do is nod to that. And the truth is, it's not even a lie. We really are a great team. And it shouldn't concern anyone that in privatе we tear each other's clothes off and let go of the pain of loss, the fear for each other, and the long rehabilitation after another captivity.
I've never seen Spock angry before. Because there, behind the rational mask, behind the Vulcan manners and straight back, is an ocean of tenderness. On special days, when our lives are even a little bit like normal, the intimacy we share is quiet and serene, like the light waves of the surf. And gentle, like sand warmed by the winter Vulcan sun. In such moments there is nothing but whispers, slow kisses, and the touch of our bodies. The serenity I give Spock comes back to me with his breath. The corners of Spock's mouth lift and the dark eyes reflect the soft glow of the ship's lights. He looks at me like I'm the world's greatest jewel. And I can't believe it's possible to feel such great happiness. I had so little of it, and now it doesn't fit inside me and I give it generously to the whole crew.
Sometimes we invite each other over to play chess. We sit in the rec room with the other members of our crew, silently moving pieces until one of us corners the other. But more often our games take place in private, in one of our quarters. As it happens, chess for us is not only a battle of wits, but also the unspoken rule of who will be in charge'. I love to win and feel Spock's legs sliding down my back. And I love total surrender. As soon as I topple my king, I feel Spock's heavy, promise-filled gaze. I don't mind surrendering without a fight. Feeling the heaviness of Spock's body and all his passion. I don't mind when he takes me in such a way that I can only feel him but not see him. It is pure trust that I am so seldom able to give. And Spock is the only one who can appreciate the importance of such a gift.
I'd never seen Spock angry before. Not even when he squeezed my throat, dropping me onto the hard, cold console. It wasn't anger, it was pain. A blinding, pure, all-consuming pain that he so desperately wanted to get rid of. I felt that agony through Spock's hands, and in those seconds there was no greater desire than to take away his suffering. I begged his forgiveness on the dilapidated, dark deck while we waited for backup. My caresses were remorse and his were forgiveness. It was our first time. And we couldn't pretend that it was an accident. That it was only despair brought on by a difficult mission. It had always been with us: a living and throbbing sense of tension. And nothing felt more right than to feel Spock's lips on ours and feel the grip of his strong hands again.
I've never seen Spock angry before. And now, as we stand in the fire-lit cave we've managed to make an almost cozy home, Spock's eyes burn with this frighteningly unfamiliar emotion. Spock trembles, even though I have made a fire. He clenches his hands into fists as hard as if he were going to beat me. And I have to remind myself that it is still the same Spock who came for me, despite all the risks. Despite Starfleet's orders to fly away, and leave me on a planet inhabited by predators of incredible size. I don't know how he did it, giving control of the ship to Mr. Scott. I don't know how he found me, or how we were able to find a safe place to wait for the return of the ship. And I don't know why Spock is so angry. What scares me is that there is so much I can't understand. But I boldly move closer and squeeze his tense forearm. I ask, no, I order him to explain himself. And for a moment I think I'm about to fly across the cave. This thought reaches Spock. He covers his eyes and no longer growls at me to get away. He asks quietly, and it's more like a painful groan. And I say no. Clearly and loudly.
Spock's blood burns. It burns so hard it hurts him. He thinks I shouldn't see him like this. He would rather die than notice the disgust in my eyes. There, behind all the many layers and protections, is no tenderness anymore. There is nothing that I am used to seeing. That is what Spock is without control and logic. A being made up of primitive instincts and a crude animal desire to possess, to taste blood and liberation. Spock asks, with a hiss, how pleased am I to know the truth? How much do I still want to stay? After all, it makes more sense to run to the next cave and let Spock burn. Because Spock wants to burn.
But there's nothing disgusting about it all. There is nothing that Spock could frighten me with. If he said he'd committed murder, I'd take the shovel silently. And what does that say about me? Spock stares at me, but doesn't make a sound. I know he's not a murderer, that's not the point. He's still the same Spock I know, whom I love so much. And I don't consider any scenario in which Spock dies. So I ask him, no I beg him to do it. To take whatever he needs. I allow him to be rough and wild. I give myself without regret or doubt. I cling to him with my whole body, holding him tight and not going to let him go.
At some point Spock gives up. I can just feel his body go from stony to even harder, and then abruptly relax. This defeat tastes like bitter shame, like tart vulnerability, and crunches on the teeth with dusty disgust. Later, I will hate myself for Spock to hate me. But right now, I don't intend to cower in a corner because of guilt. I intend to be the one to satisfy Spock's hunger. The shudder that shakes his sturdy body again feels like an intense need, like a crushing of the remnants of his control. And I do something crazy: I ask him to show me everything, to let me feel what he feels. It's a punch in the gut. It's a dirty trick. But I don't care. His trembling fingers touch my face almost gently, despite the wild stare that burns me to the bone. And I can feel it. It overwhelms me, igniting me with such force that it almost tears me apart. But Spock holds me while scarlet, gold, and dazzling white flashes flicker around me. It's hotter than lava, brighter than the sun, and we share that fever for two.
I barely remember what happened. Then, when we are both on the ship, torn and exhausted, but with our heads held high, we act as if we had survived an attack by a wild beast. My smile greets the crew who have arrived to get us out. And no one questions the story I tell. We are bruised, scratched, bitten, and our clothes aren't even fit for a floor cloth. When Bones hugs me with his characteristic almost loving grunt, I regret for a moment that I'm lying so blatantly to him. But then I hear Spock ask Mr. Scott in a steady voice how their mission went, and I feel that it was worth it.
Now, as we fall on the hard-earned hide of some animal, like two cavemen, there is not an ounce of prudence in us. There is a fog before my eyes. I feel the copper taste of blood as Spock moves inside me in short, tearing thrusts because the preparation took too little time, but there is no pain, no fear. There is only desire, and Spock begins to move faster, tougher, harder. I don't remember how many times this happens. I feel a warm curly fur or a hard rock against my back. I feel the cold streams of rainwater pouring from an uneven hole in the rock. But it cannot put out the fire inside me. I feel Spock everywhere, my skin burning from his kisses and bites and heavy breathing. I'm squeezed to the limit, but I'm cumming, cumming, cumming, and it goes on forever.
We're both sticky with sweat and semen, we have not yet become ourselves, but we look less like mindless creatures. Our movements are neater, and the fog is slowly giving way to a clear outline. Spock's chest, shoulders, and neck are covered with so many bites that I can't believe I did it. Droplets of green blood have baked and crusted over. And in some places, the bites are still fresh. I wonder aloof what my own body looks like? The pain gradually quenches the fire, subdues our animal selves. Now we can wash each other and treat our wounds to make them look less provocative. We eat some bright yellow sour berries and drink the rainwater greedily. I don't remember if I did this during our fever? And then we sit in unaccustomed silence, waiting for our communicators to come alive and for the long-awaited shuttle to arrive.
I'm waiting for Spock in my quarters and can't stop walking nervously. We haven't discussed what happened and have crossed paths only on the bridge during shifts. I wrote endless reports, completed one incredibly boring but important mission, during which I had an allergic reaction and almost died of anaphylactic shock. And, of course, I listened to Admiral Komack's grumbling about Spock's unprofessional actions. He yelled until he was red, pounded his fist on the table, and spat. But the truth is, I had already contacted the elder Spock. And he must have given everything to Sarek. And he's T'Pau. So I'm not surprised that two days later Admiral Comack calls me with an apology. He says it through his teeth and turns off the connection before he sees my winning smile. But the smile quickly leaves my face, and I spend the rest of the day wondering if my nervous footsteps will leave dents on the floor.
Spock comes into my quarters late at night, and no matter how long I wait for him, I'm not ready for our meeting. I don't know what to say. I could ask for forgiveness, but I'm not sorry. I could ask Spock how he's feeling. But of course he's functional. And we're just standing at different ends of the room, staring at each other uninterrupted. And then something tears inside me, like an old thin fabric, and I say whatever's on my mind.
Please, Spock, don't scare me like that anymore. I'm ready to beg, I'm ready to plead, I'm ready to command. I'm willing to let you go if you want to transfer to another ship or leave Starfleet to restore your race. But I'm not willing to lose you. Because a world without you is some kind of a bad joke. Even if my little world is left empty, to hell with it, I can handle it. Spock's eyes are rounded. It's the Vulcan equivalent of shock. My mouth is drying up and I can't get any more words out of me. We're still standing so far apart, and the space between us crackles with familiar tension. It doesn't matter how long it takes, because eventually we step toward each other and Spock's tight, almost painful embrace elicits a torn sigh of relief from me. I breathe the heavy, spicy scent of Spock's hair, and it's the only thing holding me here and now. Because Spock is alive. Because he's in my arms: hot and breathing and with his heart pounding frantically in his side. Because Spock is not angry, because Spock is illogically grateful to me and is not going anywhere. Spock whispers some Vulcan words to me, and I don't immediately realize I'm shaking. And we both wait for my shivering to pass.
We let go of each other, soothed and satiated with warmth and intimacy. There is definitely a goofy smile on my face. Spock smiles, too. In his own way. He says, 'Good night, Captain' making a slightly jocular bow. As he leaves, I can still feel his presence. And, shaking my head, I go back to my reports with a smile.