Chapter Text
Jim doesn't have a good excuse for letting her guard down. Only that the people of Abalonia had been warm and generous. Negotiating a trade deal with them had gone smoothly and they'd insisted on hosting the entire crew complement at an on-planet celebration. It was such a nice change to relax, not worry about rebel factions or unexpected double crossing. To enjoy the enthusiasm of their hosts, who came up to about elbow height and who offered a seemingly endless parade of intriguing amuse-bouche and picturesque locales.
Jim knows now that she should have been more cautious when the parliamentary leader offered her a glass of their "most special wine" — made, it turned out, from fruit containing a mild hallucinogen.
She has this to blame for indulging in something she would never have allowed herself to do otherwise. Had, in fact, specifically avoided doing — not just for the guilt it would cause, ethically and personally, but for the images she'd never pry back out of her own head.
Her only salvation is that no one knows what actually happened. Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise merely spent a pleasant evening in one of the glass-roofed Abalonian gazebos — sprawled across a cushion in an enormous round basket, gazing up at the stars. Just privately imagining in lurid detail taking her first officer to bed.
Because what would it be like? Spock was so controlled: competent, self-possessed, tirelessly professional. Cold, said those who didn't know her. But Jim did know her; knew her dry humor, how she weaponized pedantry, the raised eyebrow that belied her amusement.
Jim knew how that sharp mind worked, equally quick whether inquisitive, fascinated, or frustrated. And best of all, she knew the moments Spock only showed her, when she let slip those heady glimpses of emotion. Fondness, amusement, regret.
Jim drank up these moments like a dry lake bed in the rain and was scrupulously careful never to push for more — she'd seen how thoroughly Spock's walls could slam down. But she often had a feeling like trying to pry loose a piece of engineering tape, knowing if she could just slip her fingernail under the corner, she could strip back the whole thing.
Above her, the stars rocked gently in the black. Kissing Spock, for instance — what would that be like? So often their faces were centimeters apart as they bent over a console or crouched for cover on a reconnaissance mission. It would flash through Jim's mind how small the distance was. How little she would have to lean forward to brush their lips together. Would Spock tense up? Melt beneath her?
Has Spock ever even been kissed before? How Jim would love to be her first, to feel her freeze in surprise as Jim brushed her tongue oh-so-lightly against Spock's bottom lip; to feel her open her mouth in response, hesitant then hungry, clumsy in her enthusiasm. To hear what sound she'd make—
Jim can tell people are moving nearby, chatting, but they feel far away and unimportant. She hums and lets her mind wander further down its chosen pathway. Is Spock a virgin? Maybe. Probably. She's so utterly brilliant, has been so focused on the life of the mind — not just intellect, but meditation, too. And not to the exclusion of her body, because Spock leading a Suus Mahna training is a perfect distillation of the form, a demonstration written on air of what a powerful and graceful killing machine the Vulcan body can be.
Spock is master of her limbs and muscles, her mind and reason; but what does she know of her own soft places? The shadowy, wanting parts of her subconscious? Because they must be there and god, Jim wants to go searching. Wants to guide Spock through the overwhelming wonder of it, slowly enough that she feels safe, quickly enough that she feels as off-kilter and breathless as Jim will certainly be.
Flashes of it in Jim's mind (throbbing between her legs):
Guiding Spock's shirt over her head, her lips kiss swollen, eyes wide, hair mussed from Jim's fingers.
Jim's hands wrapped firmly around the soft swell of Spock's narrow hips, Spock's fingers in Jim's hair as Jim looks up at her, taking a nipple in her mouth. (Again her imagination overheats trying to imagine the noise from Spock's mouth: wanting, wanton.)
Sliding Spock's pants down her long legs so Jim can nuzzle and nip at the soft flesh on the inside of her thighs. She imagines Spock gasping as Jim's mouth approaches the apex of her legs. Does Spock even know about oral sex? The idea of shocking her made Jim dizzy with lust. How she wanted to wrap her hands around the pert globes of Spock's endlessly-tempting ass and meet her eyes as Jim touches the very tip of her tongue to Spock's clit.
How similar is Vulcan genitalia to human? Jim longs to find out firsthand.
Has Spock gotten wet before? Rewind, back to the kissing, Jim's hands kneading and teasing at Spock's round little breasts. Spock whimpering and squirming, confessing— Captain, I am feeling— my body is producing— . Jim slipping a hand in Spock's underwear, sliding down to press against that secret, wet place. Pulling her hand free, bringing her fingers to her mouth and licking as Spock's mouth falls open in shock, her cheeks flushing.
Would her chest flush, too? Jim has seen her clavicle, seen Spock in her regulation 'Fleet sports bra while changing in the gym locker room or on an away mission. The graceful sweep of her collarbones and shoulder blades, the faintly defined musculature of her abdomen. Her slender wrists. Spock is so strong but she wouldn't need that strength; Jim would guide her to lie back, let those firm thighs bracket her head, lick Spock open 'til she's able to ease a finger inside that tight, hot place and watch Spock's face as she does.
She wants to make Spock come.
Wants to see Spock's eyes widen, gaze locked on hers, as it overwhelms her. Wants to do for her what no one has done before, bring her to that undiscovered country and guide her through its wonders. Wants to kiss and kiss Spock's neck, her face, her sweet mouth as she comes down from it, 'til she's coherent enough to finally look at Jim and whisper, "Fascinating." Just to make Jim laugh.
Would Spock touch her? Jim can imagine Spock cautious or shy, unsure where to begin or if it would be welcome. Jim would encourage her, welcome her with so much enthusiasm, let her explore Jim's own body as much as she might wish. Is Spock attracted to women? Is Spock attracted to anyone? Jim wants to imagine yes. Wants to delight Spock with Jim's own body as she undresses, bares everything.
She'd settle back down beside Spock and if Spock were too timid to know where to start, Jim could take her wrist, press a kiss to her palm, bring her hand to Jim's own breast. Let Spock's thumb sweep over her nipple, watching the reaction with a scientific eye. And she could go slow, not scare Spock off.
Jim could make it so good for her.
She can almost feel it: the weight of Spock curled in her arms, sweat slick strands of hair from her ever-immaculate bob now plastered to her flushed cheeks. The alien, earthy scent of her skin that drives Jim crazy, when she's close enough to smell it. Jim's thumb brushing across Spock's lower lip, whispering things she can't even say in her own head.
Jim wakes at dawn covered in dew, disoriented. When she sits up, her underwear slides against her, slick — and she remembers why with a cold rush of shame. Real Spock, the actual person — Spock who is Jim's direct subordinate, who is owed the respect of her commanding officer — doesn't deserve to be lusted after in such lurid detail by someone she trusts. She'd probably find it disgusting. Disturbing at the very least. Jim presses the heels of her hands to her eyelids.
Jim knows her own mind; those images are never going away now, will insert themselves whenever is least opportune. When sparring with Spock in the gym and every time she tries to touch herself.
"Captain," says a familiar voice behind her.
"Spock," Jim says, nudging her face into a smile before she turns.
Spock is as impeccable as always, hair coming to a sharp point at her chin before it angles up to reveal the nape of her neck. Her hands are clasped behind her back, an eyebrow raised. "I trust you slept well?" she says dryly.
"I've… had worse," Jim offers, grinning sheepishly. She can tell a good portion of her own hair has escaped its short ponytail in order to form improbable shapes around her head.
"Indeed," Spock says, her lips certainly not twitching. Everything is normal. Everything's fine. And Jim is going to make sure it stays that way.
=-=-=
Some time later…
After Spock's disastrous aborted wedding on Vulcan, things essentially return to normal. If Spock seems extra formal and reserved for a few days, Jim supposes there are worse ways to react to having endured a series of embarrassing incidents and relationship drama in front of one's colleagues.
The faint pink left on Jim's cheeks by the Vulcan sun has almost entirely faded by the night Jim wakes in alarm, disoriented, unsure what disturbed her. Dim light is falling into her room from the bathroom doorway, she realizes. Someone is standing there, silhouetted.
With a panicky surge of adrenaline, Jim sits up, muscles tensing into combat readiness — then realizes it's only Spock. Her heart is racing.
"Spock," she says. "You scared me to death."
There's a long pause.
"I apologize, Captain," Spock says.
"What's wrong?" Jim says, head still muzzy despite the shock. "The ship?"
"Negative," Spock says and stops. Something isn't right here.
"Computer, lights to 30 percent," Jim calls and squints when the room brightens.
Spock is standing in the doorway, head down, a hand braced on either side. She's wearing the regulation black undershirt with no bra, which Jim can tell, because her nipples are hard, visible through the fabric. She's also wearing no pants, just boxer briefs and then miles of long, pale leg.
Jim realizes she's not being at all subtle about checking Spock out and darts her gaze back up to Spock's face where— she's watching Jim ogle her. Her eyes are glassy, her knuckles white on the doorframe.
Jim knows this look. Saw it several days ago on the surface of Vulcan.
"Spock," she breathes and moves from the bed to stand in front of her. She reaches out a hand in comfort, automatic, and Spock flinches away. Jim winces internally, letting it drop. "It's back?" Jim asks. "The… pon farr?"
Spock drops her head further. After a long pause she gives a minuscule nod.
"Okay," Jim says. "It's okay. We'll handle this. What do you need?"
Spock swallows. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. The silence stretches.
"Do you need to go back to Vulcan?" Jim asks. She'd sooner make peace with the Klingons than let that asshole Stonn ever lay a finger on Spock — on brilliant, singular Spock, standing slim and disoriented in the ring of stones as he publicly rejected her. But maybe there could be someone else. Much as Jim doesn't want to think of it.
Spock gives a jerky shake of her head. No.
"All right," Jim says. She waits, remembering how long it had taken during the difficult conversation in Spock's quarters just to get her to explain what was going on. "I hope you know I'll continue to treat this as completely confidential," she says. Spock doesn't answer, just turns her head to the side, still looking down. Her fingers flex on the doorjamb. "Is there… somewhere else you need to go?" Jim tries.
Spock flinches. It's subtle, but it's there. After a long moment, without looking up, she says, voice rasping, "I have."
"You… have?" says Jim, frowning in confusion. A long pause.
"Forgive me," Spock says. "This was a mistake."
"What?" says Jim. "Spock, no, I just don't—"
"I apologize for waking you, Captain," Spock says, turning, and the bathroom door swishes closed behind her.
To hell with that, thinks Jim, and starts to follow. Then pauses, turning toward the wall comm instead and punching the button for an audio-only connection. "Kirk to McCoy," she says, grimacing slightly at the hour, but that's the job.
After a pause, he answers, voice thick but alert enough. "McCoy here."
"Bones," she says. "No immediate action necessary, I don't think, but I need to notify you that Spock's symptoms seem to have returned."
She can hear his irritated huff across the comm line. "That stubborn-ass Vulcan," he says. "She didn't take those hyposprays, did she?"
"What?" Jim says, focus sharpening. "What hyposprays?"
"Aw, hell," Bones says. "I'm not supposed to discuss it with any other 'offworlders'." She can all but see his eyeroll. "T'Pau had her people send over some actually useful medical info after we left Vulcan. It seems like Spock's not the only Vulcan who's broken out of the pon farr fever without actual, ah, consummation. And in those cases, it's liable to come back, somewhere down the line. Not always, but often enough that they have ways of treating it."
"I thought it couldn't be treated," Jim says.
"Not that initial fever," says Bones. "What is it, the plak tow. But there are ways of regulating these— aftershocks, evidently. A hormonal regimen."
"And they sent you this? You gave it to her?"
"Yeah, it wasn't hard to synthesize once I had the molecular sequence. I gave her the full course as a set of hypos, in case it came back. Figured with her love of privacy, she'd prefer to handle things herself."
"Yeah," Jim says, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "That makes sense."
"But you think it's starting up again?"
"Yeah, pretty positive. Why would she not take them?"
"Good question." There's silence as they both think. "Maybe she didn't recognize the symptoms?" Bones suggests.
"Maybe." Jim says doubtfully. "Maybe it came on fast and she didn't have a chance yet."
"Or she wanted to meditate her way out of it. She said something about that. …You ever get the sense being good at meditation is kind of like a dick-measuring contest for Vulcans?" Jim would laugh if everything didn't feel so dire and confusing. "Listen," Bones goes on. "Let me just pull on some pants and I'll go check on her."
Spock's current state of undress springs instantly to mind. "No," blurts Jim. Not that Bones has ever been anything other than scrupulously professional around any patient. And not that Spock has ever been overly precious about her modesty. But it feels important that she came to Jim. "Let me talk to her first. I can call you back if it seems like a situation for medical intervention."
A brief pause. "What kind of symptoms are we talking about?" Bones asks, always too astute. "And how'd you see them at, what, oh-three-hundred hours?"
Jim sighs, finding herself rubbing her forehead again. "She came to my quarters. Through the 'fresher. She wouldn't tell me why, just confirmed it was something about pon farr."
"… Interesting," says Bones.
"What?" Jim says sharply. She knows that voice from her best friend and this doesn't seem like the moment.
"Nothing! Nothing. It's nothing."
"What else did those files say?" Jim demands.
"A lot of confusingly dry stuff about telepathic links, using Vulcan words we don't have a translation for," Bones says. "Really, Jim, I didn't mean anything. Sure, you go on and check on her and call me back if you need me. I'm happy to step in and we can just handle this as a medical issue. You can recuse yourself entirely."
Ha. Jim lost the chance to step back from this situation somewhere between the dereliction of duty and the temporary public execution.
"Okay," she says. "Thanks, Bones. Kirk out."