Chapter Text
It used to be beautiful. The tour books all say that, and the digital postcards have pictures of places that don’t exist anymore. Once, this field was lush with grass and bright-coloured flowers, home to birds and bristling with tourists.
Now it’s a barren wasteland, empty and depressing. There’s nothing but a long highway with a few shops on either side. It feels like you can see right around the planet, right to the edge. Everything’s yellow and orange, and the dust clings to Jim’s shirt no matter what he does. His jacket’s whipping back behind him. Bones is driving, and he keeps complaining about it—how hard it is to see in the windstorms. Some place to spend a birthday.
“You passed the hotel,” Jim comments, having to shout over the wind. There’s no top on this car—it’s old and it still has wheels. That’s worse; they kick the road up. Jim has to squint his eyes against the flying particles. Bones doesn’t seem to hear him, so Jim leans forward to the front seat, practically shouting in Bones’ ear, “You missed—”
“I’m not lost!” Bones shouts back, which means he’s lost. He drives too fast, but Jim’s worse. “It’s right around here...”
“It’s back there, I saw it!”
“Not the hotel, you idiot—your birthday present!”
Oh. Jim’s tempted to just climb into the front seat. He wants to hear this properly, and right now everything’s a struggle. But Bones would probably kill him. Bones hates it when he drives and hates it when he fools around. Which is often. When Jim doesn’t ask, Bones shouts over his shoulder, “You’re getting laid!”
“Fuck yeah!” Jim’s face splits into a grin immediately. “Thought you said you weren’t into men?”
“Not me, dumbass!”
Jim laughs, because he knew as much, and he settles back into his seat, not bothering with the seatbelt. Not a barren wasteland, then. His mind immediately sets into happy thoughts—what this brothel will look like, big and grand and alien. He always likes his lays a little exotic. Tarsus IV is mostly a Terran populous, but it’s got to have some stranger choices, doesn’t it? He’ll have fun either way. Jim’s not that picky, and he always likes trying something new. An alien brothel on a planet he’s never been to before is definitely new. (He loves an adventure, like going on a road trip on a strange planet with just one grumpy friend and one suitcase.)
Jim sticks his hand out the side to feel the dust fly through his fingers, looking forward to a hot vacation.
Except that it isn’t anything like that.
The dust storm’s settled, the sun’s almost set, and they can see the hotel on the horizon from outside. Not much else. The sky is somewhere between red and dark. Jim figures they should’ve bought a car with a roof—it’s supposed to be cold at night.
Around back, Bones is going to wait in the car for him. Jim tries to drag Bones in, but then he gets a rant about how full of diseases it’ll be, and it’s just for Jim because Jim’s dirty anyway. Jim chuckles and playfully shoves his friend in the arm, trying not to look as nervous as he feels. Bones has to stay around for the ride back, and even he admits the place isn’t what he thought it would be. Not what the advertising said.
It isn’t a big brothel at all. Jim knows he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the cover’s a decrepit little two-story house. It looks like an old Earth one, like a lot of the ‘buildings’ around here do. Like they’re stuck out of time, or someone gave up halfway through. Jim walks around the front and climbs the steps: old wooden things. He wills himself straight he knocks—the doors are the old fashioned kind with handles. All brown and rusty. The man that answers is just as grubby-looking as his house, with odd cloths in greens and blacks and a beer gut. His hair’s thinning and his eyes are different colours. He grunts, “McCoy, right? We got the deposit. He’s upstairs.”
Jim says, “Uh, thanks.” And he tries not to be rude, so he doesn’t mention how dodgy the house looks.
The man steps aside, and he jabs his thumb at a rickety staircase. The house has a retro motif, and it smells sort of stale. It’s like something out of the old western movies Jim’s seen, with cowboys and barely any electricity. The paint on the walls is chipping, and a few painted, ugly plates are mounted here and there. The man tells him, “You can do whatever you want with him. You’ve got until the sun rises.”
Jim says, “Okay.”
The man nods and disappears through another door, like he does this all the time and he’s already bored. Jim’s a little surprised that, apparently, he doesn’t get choices. Somehow he thought he’d get choices. Maybe a whole line up. But it’s just one man. It better be a hot man. Jim’s not exactly sexually conservative, but he’s still not entirely not-shallow. He makes a mental note to get on Bones’ back about this.
The stairs creak when he climbs them, and Jim’s not exactly sure if the feeling in his stomach is nerves or anticipation. He’s never actually paid for sex before (technically he still hasn’t; Bones did) but the idea’s sort of exciting. It means he’ll be in control of the decisions, with their limits of course, and it’ll be an experience. The hallway at the top is dark, done up like the rest of the house. A door at the end is open—Jim figures that’s the one. He sucks in a breath and he walks.
He closes the door behind himself on instinct. The second he turns around, he freezes. Completely stuck in place.
There’s a boy, not a man (a teenager who can’t be any older than Jim, legal but not by too many years), sitting at the foot of the bed. Jim doesn’t bother to take in the rest of the room. It’s a dull, grey background nothing in the light of this boy, staring at Jim with open, dark eyes. His skin’s a pale alabaster, less pinkish than Jim’s, with a blue sort of tint to his eyelid. He isn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, other than a heavy black collar like what a dog would wear and an attached leash trailing down his stomach.
He’s got a trickle of dried, green blood on the side of his lip. He’s black and blue in many areas, but his posture is perfect anyway. His eyebrows are sharp, his black hair is in a bowl cut, and his ears a pointy.
A Vulcan.
A naked, bruised Vulcan, kneeling before Jim to be used. The ceiling light doesn’t do him justice. The window’s open, but it’s dark outside. He seems to be waiting for Jim to act or speak. Jim’s got his heart in his mouth and doesn’t know what to do.
He really didn’t think it’d be like this.
There’s a horrible knot in his stomach. This isn’t how he thought it would be at all—this place is grimy and dirty and there’s a table in the corner with strange instruments on it, and bruises on the boy’s skin to match. This boy doesn’t look like eager at all, an alien from a more open culture; he looks used and worn down and resigned. He’s a Vulcan for fuck’s sakes. Vulcans don’t... do this. Jim’s never even heard of them having sex at all, and when he lets his eyes roam down to the boy’s cock, nestled between the hands on his knees, it isn’t even remotely hard. It’s long and pale and limp, and it doesn’t even twitch with Jim looking at it. Like Jim’s would. Jim has to wrench his eyes away, because his traitorous body does get hard. The boy’s stunning. But fuck... this is sick.
Jim swallows and walks quickly over to the bed, feeling stiff and self-conscious. When he sits down, it’s lumpy and uncomfortable. The boy turns on the floor, still waiting. Jim’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t know what to say.
He didn’t want it like this. He can’t justify this. The boy’s beautiful, but...
The boy tries to lean forward, going for Jim’s tented crotch, but Jim cringes and shoves his forehead away. The boy has no reaction. His eyes flicker up to Jim, intense. He doesn’t move or say anything.
Jim’s still shell shocked. He needs to do something. He gulps and asks, “What’s your name?”
In a deep, lulling voice that Jim finds entirely too sensual, the boy says, “Whatever you want it to be.” But he has no intonations: just flat words.
Jim frowns. He likes to be a leader, but he doesn’t play like that. “What’s your birth name?”
The boy hesitates before saying, “Spock.”
“Jim.”
The boy—Spock—doesn’t even blink. He probably thinks it doesn’t matter. It makes Jim sick to think of how many times Spock’s done this. Hopefully Jim’s one of the first. He still feels inclined to check, on the vague, hopeful, impossible chance that Jim’s gotten this wrong. “You don’t... you don’t want to be here, do you?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. Jim gets the distinct impression that no one’s ever asked him that before, or if they did, only one answer was acceptable. He opens his mouth, looking down, but then he quickly closes it. He has such a handsome body and an even handsomer face. It might be easier if he didn’t.
Jim pats the bed next to him. That was all the confirmation he needed. Spock looks hesitant, but he does get to his feet—he’s as tall as Jim—and he sits down beside Jim, back still straight and hands still in his lap. He doesn’t bother trying to cover himself up. The leash is hanging straight down Spock’s torso, between his pink nipples and down the almost concave curve of his belly. He hasn’t been fed enough. A part of Jim wants to reach out and grab the leash and drag Spock away...
Can he do that? Spock, slowly and carefully, leans into Jim and shifts one hand to Jim’s leg, sliding it up his inner thigh. Jim’s already slightly hard, but it gets him harder. Spock has long, delicate fingers, that look like they’d know what they’re doing. They close over his crotch and squeeze lightly, and Jim moans loudly. And he hates himself for it. It takes willpower to push Spock’s hand aside. More rigid than before, Spock sits back on his ankles.
He looks slightly annoyed.
He waits a few minutes, and then he says very evenly, “Get it over with.”
Jim winces instantly. Sex has never been a punishment with him, never something to inflict on others. He mumbles, “You’re hurt. Was it the people who own this place? Do they beat you?”
“Only if I do not please the guests.” Spock’s eyes flicker down again, pointedly sizing up the growing bulge in Jim’s pants. Judging from the bruises all over Spock’s body, he fails to please often. It makes Jim even sicker to think about what things people request that are too much for him, that he won’t take. He seems so subservient and cavalier about it all. It’s...
It’s disgusting. And Jim was here to use him. Jim’s about to blurt that he didn’t want to, he did mean to, he’d never rape someone, ever. But then Spock’s leaning in again, fast as lightning, and his lips are pressing into Jim’s, out of the blue. Jim grunts without the time to pull away.
Spock’s lips are soft. They’re gentle, at first, the sort of kiss that’s a duty, but when Jim doesn’t respond, Spock presses harder, like he’s trying to force Jim to enjoy it. Jim enjoys it too much. He wants this to be under different circumstances, because the connection he feels when Spock tilts his head is overwhelming, like some electric spark he’s never experienced before. Spock’s tongue presses at Jim’s lips, and Jim’s stupid body parts them for him. Spock’s tongue is probing and careful, and it methodically traces Jim’s mouth while Jim waits to wake up, and then he’s pressing back, and his hand’s moving onto Spock’s knee, up to Spock’s thigh and he feels a bruise—
The moment’s instantly killed. Jim pulls away, shaking and nauseous. When Jim looks really hard, he thinks Spock might look confused or hurt. Mostly he’s a blank slate. Jim doesn’t know many Vulcans—just stereotype and public transmissions. He doesn’t know if Spock’s neutrality is a defense mechanism or just the way Vulcans are.
He’s a little breathless from the kiss, and he can still feel the tingle of Spock against him. He says without thinking, “We have to get out of here.”
Both of Spock’s eyebrows rise, eyes going a little wide around the edges. He says, “It does not work that way.”
“I don’t care; those bastards can’t make you do this. I don’t know what they’ve got on you, but—”
“They are my foster family.”
“What?” Jim’s mouth falls open, horrified.
Spock continues, “My birth parents are deceased. The couple downstairs has finished raising me, and how they choose to have me earn my keep is their prerogative.”
“Bullshit!” It occurs to Jim late that there might be cameras; surely in any other brothels there would be. Safety for the workers. But this place is small and old and low budget, so maybe it doesn’t. Jim looks around the room quickly just to check, but it’s as plain and empty as it was before. There’s a door in the side that probably leads to a bathroom, but there aren’t any personal affects of a young man. It amazes him that Spock isn’t having the same emotional reaction he is—the urge to throw up and the lingering rage. “That makes it even worse. They can’t do this...”
“You must be from Earth.” Spock comments. “You are not on Earth now. Tarsus IV allows parents to do as they wish. Prostitution is legal.”
Jim scoffs. “I didn’t say anything about legal. And this isn’t normal sex work—this is forced. It’s not right.” When Spock doesn’t react, Jim climbs off the bed, and he’s halfway towards the door when he realizes they’ll probably catch him if he goes out that way. So instead he walks to the window, while Spock stays on the bed, watching him. It’s a straight drop down, but the side’s made of wooden slats that Jim’s fairly certain he could climb. Bones is asleep in the car a little ways away, and Jim doesn’t call him for fear of causing a commotion. There isn’t much starlight; they could probably get away.
Jim looks back at Spock, but Spock doesn’t budge. “C’mon. You don’t want to stay here, do you?”
“I do not have a choice,” Spock says simply. “I appreciate your compassion, but you are not being logical.”
“Fuck logical.” Jim takes a step forward, reaching out to grab Spock’s leash. He gives it a little tug, fully prepared to do what’s necessary. “C’mon. I’ve got a friend with a car down there. We’ll get out of here and on a ship back to Earth before the authorities get us.”
Spock still doesn’t move, even when the leash pulls the collar tight around the back of his neck. His eyes harden, and he says very sternly, “I have no desire to be your personal slave.”
Jim drops the leash as if burned. His cheeks boil, and he stutters, “That’s not.... Look, I’m trying to set you free here. I mean, I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but it has to be better than this!”
“I have nowhere to go.”
“You can stay with me. My friend and I are going to try enrolling in Starfleet next year; you can come with us. Vulcans are supposed to be really smart, right? Or if you don’t want that... well, whatever. We’ll think of something.” Somehow it’s become ‘we.’
Spock still looks skeptical.
But he finally stands up. Jim takes off his jacket, feeling stupid for not doing that earlier, and he helps Spock put it on. He does up the zipper in the front. It does nothing for Spock’s legs, but it’s something, and Jim will give him more clothes at the hotel.
Spock’s expression is unreadable as Jim helps him out the window, out and into the night.