EDIT: I am incredibly sorry about the multiple posts. The doc program was determined to delete every single line break in this entire thing.
Cubic Pursuits
The dimly filtered light coming through the space between boards was deep violet, the shafts of color dappling Jim's body as he struggled futilely.
"Jesus hell, what is going on here? Where are you taking us?" Jim yelled uselessly, beating his fists against the side of the wooden crate and occasionally punctuating his blows with a kick for good measure. I found his actions quite irrational considering that he sat a mere 2.3 feet away from me, our close proximity due to the diminutive size our surroundings.
We had not spoken to each other since determining that the construction of the cage was admittedly adequate and that neither of us had a weapon in our possession. The bonds with which we had been restrained had been easily removed, our cloth gags utilized as bandages. Jim's sweater had been fragmented to staunch the bleeding from my shoulder; I had been hit by a jagged, curved knife and sported a short, shallow gash across my collarbone.
The chief's advisor had so kindly given me the injury when the day's talks had completely disintegrated.
The rounds of discussion with the natives had become increasingly volatile, fueled by their paranoia that they were joining what amounted to "an extraordinarily large cult, complete with screaming heathens and the weekly sacrifice of a virgin, with half the galaxy involved to boot" (which was Nyota's selective interpretation), as well as those "stubborn, sons of bitches" (Bones) insistence that they would only join the Federation if they were given the 'gift' of "a new whore for their head honchos", as Jim had so eloquently put it. He'd had taken it quite personally when they requested the 'stoic one', breaking his usual friendly demeanor to grit his teeth and politely explain that I was very off limits, thank you very much.
Apparently I was vital to the deal, because at this the negotiations had suddenly deteriorated into a full on brawl.
It had sped to a screeching halt when the crew was presented with Jim and I, necks bound with knotted ropes that the locals would undoubtedly have pulled if the away team had not complied with their demands. Faced with this, the away team had no choice but to concede defeat and regroup aboard the ship.
We had then been brusquely bound, gagged, and thrown into this crate, with no warning and little explanation.
The natives' instructions had been, by their standards, quite explicit.
"Stay quiet," the main goon had ordered us before roughly slamming the lid shut. Unfortunately, neither Jim nor I was fluent in Raa'viki, so it had sounded like 'giqveameln hahashk'. Unless it was a convoluted attempt at the English language and the creature was begging for marijuana with a terrible accent, it boiled down to nonsense. Hence Jim's relentless pounding and yelling.
His energy finally depleted, Jim slumped against the wall adjacent to where I sat, knees huddled to our chests but still almost touching. Jim stared intently at the convoluted web of hairline cracks running across the floor. He was apparently indulging himself by sulking.
I indulged myself with a long, gratuitous look at Jim, his long, muscular body and graceful stature, his tired, bloodied hands and utterly unforgettable face. It was a face that could seal the most volatile of negotiations with a smile and evoke amour with little more than a meaningful wink and a well-placed glance.
The light threw his features into sharp relief, all angles and contrasts, his eyelashes throwing shadows over his cheekbones. Dirt streaked his face, which was nothing unusual because Jim was always in disarray, always bruised or beaten or just plain disheveled.
But there was something about it, that smear of dirt running along his jaw, which had me inexplicably wanting to fix it.
And that mental lapse proved the sheer power that was Jim, the way he made me want, want so deeply and so irrationally.
I shifted uneasily, suddenly quite aware of the crate's minuscule size. I reached up to unnecessarily realign my hair, and Jim's eyes narrowed instantly.
Before we had been taken captive and unceremoniously shoved into this crate, we had scaled a spiky tree/bush hybrid in a frantic attempt to escape the locals. Unfortunately, this means of escape had proven just as troublesome as our pursuers.
The tree-bush, which had been prickly and thorny and bristled whenever one looked at it, but had also provided a slim chance of escaping the angry mob that was in pursuit of us.
"Like climbing a rose stem," Jim had noted aloud, "except the thorns are huge and poisonous, which in itself seems a really girly comparison" until he'd interrupted his musings with an exclamation of "oh holy shit." My left hand, slick with perspiration, had slid and one of the thorns had embedded itself in the oblique portion of my abductor pollicis muscle.
It now throbbed dully, a consistent ache that radiated throughout my hand.
Jim reached out and slowly pulled said hand towards his chest.
"Fuck," he breathed, swiveling the offending appendage to examine the total damage. He touched the spike gently and I withheld a wince.
"Hey, hey, Spock. Easy." Jim said soothingly, readjusting his grip and steadying himself.
"Jim. I am perfectly fine." At this, Jim snorted; my eyebrows rapidly gravitated towards my hairline.
"Fine my ass. Spock, you've got to get this out of your hand. It doesn't look too good, and the last thing I need is my First Officer outta commission."
Doesn't look too good was in itself a moderately accurate description: the thorn entrenched in my hand was a nearly a quarter inch in diameter and a sallow shade of blue; the skin around it was turning a virulent shade of teal. This was a dire sign, because the poison was leaching into my hand and creeping insidiously through my veins towards the heart.
I was unfamiliar with the poison afflicting me, unaware of the potential symptoms and unsure as to the proper methodology of removal. Jim, however, appeared familiar with it, judging by the thoughtful look on his face as he examined the spine.
"Spock, if I try to take this out with my hands, the added pressure's going to pump even more of that poison into your hand. This gunk is completely neutral towards humans, so I'm going to have to suck it out from the surrounding tissue unless you're looking to die in the next couple of hours, okay? And there's not a chance in hell you're doing that, because I need you right here with me." He chuckled nervously, and lowered his head until his lips gently touched my palm.
"Oh, wait a sec." He lifted his head a fraction of an inch, tilting his head to meet my gaze. "Can you feel your fingers? Aside from when I touch the thorn?"
"Faintly." I answered quietly as I looked at the hand, still cradled in Jim's, with a kind of incredulous intensity, unwilling – unable - to acknowledge what was to come.
My grasp on the inner lining of my pocket tightened considerably, my free hand fisted in the fabric. My intention was not to warn Jim about a certain feature of Vulcan anatomy at this point, because it would only make him feel uncomfortable about something that neither of us could change, which was pointless.
Jim's tongue rasped across the sensitive skin, and he lightly sucked at the offending thorn. He balanced our entwined hands across his knee, his grip steadily exerting pressure in an effort to maintain stability. His thumb brushed against the back of my hand, in a manner no doubt intended to calm but instead further incited a very unwelcome reaction.
My muscles clenched involuntarily. I was utilizing every inch of my will to not succumb to what was essentially sexual torture of the first degree.
The suction increased in pressure and I nearly bit through my lip, so desperately was I trying to maintain silence. I hushed the desperate moans and quiet pants and quelled the overwhelming urge that was surging forward.
Threatening to overcome me were the want and the need and the darkness, darkness poised and waiting to devour me alive.
My feelings were nonsensical, but they had taken a hold of me, and I was grasped by them so tightly I found difficult to breath properly. My breath came now in short pants.
Jim paused his ministrations to raise his head and shifted, once again uncomfortable, but he dared to move a little closer to me. "Are you okay?"
I nodded, unsure of the stability of my voice.
"Spock, you've gotta relax these muscles. This is smack dab in the middle of one, and if you tense up it's only going to make it hurt worse."
I nodded yet again, the comprehension barely reaching through the haze of lust and sheer terror clouding my thoughts.
He put his lips to my hand again, and after half a minute of determined sucking managed to shift the thorn several millimeters, the action grating it across my muscles and tugging at the edges of my flesh.
I now tried to pull away, an animalistic terror overcoming me, insisting that I get away immediately, that this was oh so dangerous and I was teetering on the brink of destruction, of what kind I was wholly unsure, all I knew was that this was bad and it had to cease. Instantly.
I snatched my hand away as if it had been burned.
"I'm sorry, I know this hurts, I've just got to pull this out of here, and you're going to be fine, okay? I promise, you're gonna be fine…" Jim assuaged me, spewing a litany of nonsensical reassurances as he held out a hand.
I unhappily relinquished mine, and as Jim resumed I clung to reason, grasped at the fluttering shreds of my composure and wished fervently that blood wasn't pooling in places it shouldn't be.
But then the crate was jostled and Jim's tongue slid across the delicate skin at the base of my fingertips, and I succumbed to the sensations wracking my body. I emitted a high, keening screech that cut off abruptly and Jim's head snapped so that he could bear witness to my utter humiliation, though he probably was unsure as to what had caused my reaction.
I clawed at Jim's arm with my free hand, eyes wide and mouth open in a wordless cry. The rigid pose I had maintained broke as my hips bucked once, twice.
Jim's eyes widened and we automatically looked to my hand, him in fear of having caused me further harm and I in an attempt to hide my utter mortification.
It was a rather disparaging sight: the color had surpassed teal and was creeping towards cerulean, the color knitting across veins which now stood prominent and inching toward my wrist.
He then looked at me questioningly.
"Jim, I apologize, I-I," I stuttered, unable to fabricate a reasonable excuse for my highly inexcusable behavior. The words eluded me.
I was very well aware that I needed to calm down, that this was just a minor indiscretion, that Jim was not fully aware of the ramifications of his actions and therefore this was but an innocent occurrence, but the lust and terror persisted. I stared at Jim as panic and mortification and vulnerability swept through me, scraped across my innards and left me hollow.
"Are you okay?" Jim asked, rightly confused. I was not hastening to enlighten him.
"I-that is a, James," And I paused, before providing the flimsy excuse, "It…stings, profusely." That utterance was possibly one of the worst moments of inadequacy I have suffered. Ever.
"Hands, huh?" he asked sympathetically, eyes bright with worry and concern. "There's a lot of vital stuff connected down there."
"Yes," I breathed; Jim had turned me into little more than a quivering mass of gelatinous goop, heaving in deep, shuddering breaths.
Jim's head suddenly dipped and he yanked the thorn without warning. He spat it to the side and rocked back on his heels, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
"Figured it'd be easier to jerk," at this, a mystifying blush suffused Jim's cheeks, "it out instead of prolonging the pain." He eyed me nervously, clearly wondering if I was swirling into the depths of some sort of life-threatening reaction.
And suddenly, Jim understood it. I wasn't in pain, Vulcan hands weren't just sensitive, I wasn't deep in the throes of an anaphylatic reaction, I was, was…
Turned on.
Jim's lips curved into a wicked grin, bright and filled with intent.
"Guess I can stop then, huh?" he asked, one hand still grasping mine as the other scrabbled along the floor, looking for fabric to bind the gaping hole in my palm with. Ripping his undershirt into strips, Jim tightly wrapped my hand and knotted the bandage's ends.
"It is imperative that you continue," I said.
"Well then, I guess that I'll have to keep going." he said, grinning manically.
The interim that followed this exchange was surprisingly uncomfortable despite our best efforts, due to a variety of factors out of our control.
Whatever means of transport our captors were using was insufficient, as we were being consistently jolted. When the box was tilted at a seventy two degree slant, I slid backwards and my back slammed against the wall, sending a sharp shock through my spine and catapulting Jim onto me, the warm presence of his weight taking my breath away. On several occasions when we had managed to find a position in the cramped space, the box would rock violently and one of us would crash into a wall. The constant shaking afforded us no time to settle.
The minuscule size of our enclosure also proved a deterrent. Our elbows and knees kept knocking against the floor and walls; doubtlessly we would both have bruises the next morning. It mixed pain with pleasure.
Jim once threw his head back and slammed it into the ceiling. And then he had started to laugh, an action that was entirely consistent to his character, a strangely endearing sound.
He made his thoughts on our cubical pen quite clear at this point:
"You know, I hate this damn box, and the next time we have sex we are doing it someplace proper, with a bed and a mattress and some motherfucking space," Jim announced, rubbing his head and chuckling,"because this is really really small, but actually, this is still pretty awesome." He then proceeded to show me just how 'awesome' it was.
And throughout it all, that obnoxious box was tossing us in every which way. It was an experience I had no desire to repeat.
Laying there, sore and sated and euphoric, I marveled at Jim's closeness and the intricate ways in which we were intertwined: my arms were ensnared around Jim's ribcage and his head rested between my deltoid and trapezius muscles, our legs tangled together, one of Jim's hands twisted in my hair and the other resting softly on my side, .78 inches from my heart. My hand was dripping blood and needed to be addressed, but I was loathe to move from my current position. I could feel Jim's heartbeat thudding in a low, steady staccato, and his hair was remarkably soft where it brushed softly against my chin….I needed to focus.
I muttered a low oath and gradually, unwillingly, lifted Jim's hands from my body.
Jim managed to sleep for several minutes despite the box's erratic motions, a deep, dreamless sleep, until he woke up to me practically folded in half in an attempt to reach my sweater, which lay below our feet.
And then he sat straight up, because while he had slept my entire forearm had developed that cerulean tinge, my veins now bulging against my skin. My hand bled sluggishly, but what doubtless scared Jim the most was its color.
Deep, deep blue.
I estimated the blood I had already lost at several pints. Which meant we were running out of time.
Internalizing his panic, Jim just bandaged my hand the best he could and sat close enough that I could feel the heat emanating from his side, which was a hefty concern: typically I was much hotter than Jim, and this meant that my temperature was dropping.
My blood pressure was dropping.
We sat in silence for the better part of an hour until we were interrupted by the ominous sounds of a crowbar against a plank. It buckled and bowed under the pressure before snapping messily, slivers of wood raining down on Jim's head.
This incited a scrambling panic to clothe ourselves before we had to face our fates. It was a difficult task to maintain one's dignity when naked. Whoever it was made quick work of the lid, and we stepped blinking into the obnoxiously purple sunset halfway clothed, Jim only wearing pants because I held Jim's sweater pressed to my shoulder and what remained of his undershirt bandaged my hand.
Nyota winked at me as I grasped Jim's forearm with my good hand; and when he gasped from the sudden intake of information that sped across the link before I could quell it, she gave me a quizzical look that insisted I would explain in great detail what had happened today and what was the cause of our…inappropriate attire.
I was in better shape in Jim, though that was not much of an accomplishment. I wore my regulation pants and black undershirt, and Jim, unaware that our contact gave me a filtered understanding of his thoughts (which he was making no effort to conceal, hence the clarity), was secretly thinking that I would have looked like a pillar of absolute badass had I not taken on a resolute shade of blue everywhere, oh boy did I look awful, my hand was dripping bloody blue gunk on just about everything through the makeshift bandage.
What (or rather, who) awaited us was the concerned landing team, which consisted of:
-Bones, who was present solely because Jim was involved and therefore would need medical attention.
-An array of officers from Security, who were all fully armed and had doubtless incapacitated our captors.
-Nyota, who figured out exactly what had conspired in the box about five seconds after we exited it and had to conceal her smile behind her hand.
-Chekov, and nobody was fully aware as to why his presence was required.
-Sulu, who almost certainly wanted another opportunity to brandish his fold-out katana.
We were quickly beamed up and greeted on board with sighs of relief from the technicians, who had been under some very intense pressure to get the Captain and Commander up before the locals found them again.
"So, how exactly did you guys find us?" Jim asked. He was nearly dragged off of the platform by Bones; I walked next to him, hand cradled in a large bundle of fabric in an attempt to abstain from dripping blood around the halls.
"The utter genius of Nyota," Leonard admitted readily. "She latched onto your signal out of nowhere."
The moment we entered Sickbay he forcibly seated Jim on a biobed and barked at Christine Chapel to do 'the usual', which was the examination Jim received whenever he engaged in life-threatening activities (a common occurrence).
Doctor McCoy followed me to the bed adjacent Jim's and quickly diagnosed my problem. He inserted an IV into the crook of my elbow and started stabbing hyposprays into the bag to which it was connected at a prodigious rate.
"Thank the Lord you decided to keep some blood in reserve," he told me, before inserting one last hypospray into the bag. A potent cocktail of inoculations dripped steadily down the clear tube into my arm.
A deep wave of fatigue washed over me, and I slept.
When I regained consciousness, I was allowed several seconds to reassert myself before Leonard began questioning me.
My left wrist was strapped to the bed, a dermal regenerator above it. My skin had regained its normal hue, the puncture in my hand restored. Judging by the comparatively normal state of the tissue, the regenerator had been left on as a precaution. I turned my head and noted that Jim's biobed had been vacated before Dr. McCoy pulled the privacy curtain shut angrily, demanding my full attention towards the matter at hand.
"Okay, let's start with something easy. Where in the hell did you pick up this?" He brandished a disposal bag containing the thorn, which was swimming in the cobalt fluid it excreted.
The furrow in Dr. McCoy's brow deepened noticeably as I detailed our escapades on Maraxus. When I began to relate Jim's attempts at removal, he slid my wrist from the restraint and held it to the light.
"Wait a sec." He twisted my hand slowly, examining it from multiple angles. "So what you're telling me is that Jim pulled this out of your hand? The kid may be in denial at times, but he sure isn't stupid. He would know better than to try and pull it out; the poison emitted from the pressure would have killed you hours ago.
"He didn't suck it out of your hand?" he continued. "Because it sure as hell looks like it."
He held my wrist unnecessarily close to my face to point out the angry red mark around the wound.
Brief flashes of denial and admittance crossed my face; it was all that he needed to confirm the truth.
"Try to sleep, don't touch anything, and don't even think about sitting up," he informed me venomously, before he pivoted and stalked to his office, muttering incoherent vitriol.
Jim walked into Sickbay several hours later. His face lit up when he saw me awake; clearly he hadn't been expecting me to be conscious. He quickly made his way towards me.
"Hey Spock!" He sat in the chair Leonard had vacated previously. "How long have you been up?"
"2.15 hours," I replied. He frowned then, briefly.
"That's kinda weird," he said, "Bones said he'd call when you woke up –"
"Jim! What in the hell were you thinking?" Leonard yelled. Aside from myself, Jim, and assorted, staff members, Sickbay was empty, hence his freedom to speak at whatever volume he wished. He grasped Jim's bicep and yanked him from chair. He drew Jim aside, speaking in a low, controlled voice.
"You do realize what exactly that meant, sucking a thorn out of Spock's hand? The cultural and sexual connotations?"
Jim laughed, which irritated Leonard further.
"Really, Bones? Like I wouldn't have figured it out?" Comprehension dawned in Dr. McCoy's eyes.
"Goddamnit Jim I most certainly do not need to hear about your sex life!"
A/N: I seriously think my inspiration needs to be a little healthier. I mean, this whole thing is the love child of me panicking because I'm getting my blood drawn tomorrow (and I'm donating while the needle is in my arm!) and so I'm distracting myself, but of course I'm still freaking out, trying NOT to think about it.
And failing miserably.
So, I'm getting an unknown amount of blood sucked out of me tomorrow with a needle. Sympathy reviews, anyone?
Ha. Not.
But seriously, review.
There will be a Spock sundae for all who comply. With the prerequisite whipped cream, cherry, chocolate sauce (oh god), and plethora of sprinkles. A veritable rainbow of sprinkles.