Dreams of the Heart
Author: Abraxisdragon
Pairing: K/S
Rating: R (for slash)
Disclaimer: Paramount owns it all except for Adrian 4 and the plot. I do this for love not money
Warning: Look at the pairing – this is male with male slash. If that bothers you don't read it. Does not contain explicit sex.
My heartfelt appreciation to my betas: Lovin'JamesT, Anki, Shalimar and Genna. Anything that still isn't right is due to my error.
Table of TOS episodes referenced:
Edith Keeler – City on the Edge of Forever;
Psi 2000 – The Naked Time;
Organians – Errand of Mercy;
Pon Farr and T-Pring – Amok Time;
Omicron Ceti III – This Side of Paradise;
Zefram Cochrane – Metamorphosis.
Summary: Jim has a problem that he can't share. His trying to deal with it by sneaking off for some incognito shore leave has repercussions that he didn't anticipate.
Chapter 1
Jim Kirk slowly clawed his way back to consciousness. His stomach was trying to turn inside out and his head felt like it was splitting wide open. He didn't even want to think about how much worse both conditions might get if he dared to open his eyes. Taking inventory of what his other senses could tell him, he discovered that he was lying on something very, very soft and satiny cool, was covered with a very thin layer of the same fabric and was otherwise as naked as the day he was born. Though he couldn't feel any restraints, he seemed to be immobile from the neck down and, other than touch, his senses seemed to be in about the same condition as his body, useless. He could hear nothing, smell nothing and, as he courageously forced his eyelids apart, discovered he couldn't see anything either.
He easily squashed the instinctual flare of fear and panic; so easily, that his reaction was almost as worrisome as his situation. Worrisome? Well, hell. Had he been in this kind of shit so often that he was becoming inured to it? Had kidnapping and incapacitation become just another ho-hum day at the office? At the very least, he should have had a good hot blast of anger to put down as well. It seemed that his emotions were just as numbed as his senses.
Then again, maybe it wasn't kidnapping. Maybe he had been run over by a shuttlecraft, or the local equivalent, and all this was massive physical trauma and brain damage. He puzzled on that for a moment before deciding that if he still had his sense of touch, a massive headache and a sick stomach he would have been able to feel the pain of serious trauma injuries as well. That didn't rule out brain damage but he had never known of a medical or mental facility that had satin sheets. Of course, kidnappers didn't usually supply them either.
Confusing.
He leaned his head to the side and focused his attention on the cool smoothness under his cheek, trying to organize his thinking. It didn't help. He had very clear memories up to a point and then everything became confused and finally blank.
The last six months had been just about as stressful as it gets on space duty. The "peace", enforced between the Federation and the Klingon Empire by the omni-powerful Organians, had been pushed to the far limits by one incident after another as the Klingons tested both the self-control of Federation personnel and the resolve of the Organians. Finally, one Klingon commander had been such a dedicated war-monger that not only had his ship been suddenly stripped of all armaments but every piece of clothing and anything that could be adapted for clothing had also disappeared. This was instantly vidcasted across the whole of both Federation and Klingon territories and he and his crew had crawled back to Empire territory naked in every sense of the word. Who said that the Organians didn't have a sense of humor?
The Federation psychologists decided that a great deal of the Klingon self-image and status must be derived from their aggressive style of dress since, after that, the incidents dropped off dramatically and things became a great deal more peaceful. In fact, things became so peaceful that ships-of-the-line, like the Enterprise, were being scheduled long overdue shore leave as fast as headquarters' clerks could process the scheduling. Thus, the Enterprise found herself, along with four other Starfleet ships, in a berthing orbit around Adrian 4 -- unofficially and better known as "Paradise, Inc."
The nickname derived partially from the native inhabitants' appearance. They were an avian species whose wild, colorful plumage and head crests did resemble that of the Earth native "Bird of Paradise". But, the manner in which they chose to interact with the rest of the Federation had a great deal more to do with it. Being an empathic race with a very hedonistic mindset, they had decided to do their part in relieving the suppressed emotional states of any and all sentient creatures that crossed their path. Their motto seemed to be "If you desire it and it harms no other more than they wish to be harmed, it shall be yours." Since the Adrians had been very successful at recruiting employees of like mind from just about every known species, Paradise, Inc. was considered the plum of shore leave destinations.
The crew of the Enterprise was quite justifiably excited; except for their Captain. The more he listened to the chatter and planning going on around him, the more depressed Jim Kirk became. The worst of it was listening to Leonard McCoy, his good friend and longtime carousing buddy, making plans for the two of them that sounded like nothing more than a rehash of all the shore leaves they had shared over the years.
Sure, those had been good times … at the time … but something had changed in Jim Kirk. Now, it all sounded shallow, boring, sadly desperate and unsatisfying. There was no way that what he desired could be on the menu of Paradise, Inc. His desire was focused on someone who could not possibly return it and would definitely be harmed by the knowledge that it existed. Jim Kirk wanted his Vulcan First Officer; wanted him in the most intimate way possible.
He couldn't pinpoint exactly when his feelings for Spock had moved beyond respect, admiration and an extraordinarily deep friendship to one of sexual desire and, yes, love. Edith Keeler's comment, that Spock seemed to belong at his side as if he had always been there and always would be, was highlighted in his memory. The effect of the chemicals in the water of Psi 2000 had opened his eyes to Spock's inner emotional turmoil and had made it much harder not to ascribe 'human' values to all the times, both before and after that, in which Spock had obviously placed Jim's welfare above his own logical and moral precepts. The beauty of the relationship between Zefram Cochrane and his alien cloud lover and Spock's open appreciation of it had added even more fuel to Jim's fire. The encounter with the spores of Omicron Ceti III had shown Jim an innocent, hedonistic Spock that took his breath away and made his heart skip. God, he had hated the necessity of destroying that open, joyful Spock to get back his First Officer. He had wanted to have both.
But, no matter when the change had begun, Spock's Pon Farr was certainly when Jim had been forced to admit it to himself. He had to deal with the fact of Spock's marriage; had to force himself to smile and play best man as he had come to the inescapable realization that the role he really wanted was on the other side of the groom. Then at the ceremony -- watching that cold bitch T'Pring not only refuse Spock but do her best to destroy him -- that had made Jim's blood seethe with more anger than he could ever remember feeling before. He had been hard put to concentrate on keeping himself alive while not hurting Spock when all he really wanted to do was get his hands on T'Pring and break her vicious little neck.
Oh, yes. James Tiberius Kirk -- the tomcat of the universe who had bedded male, female, human and alien and had always walked away intact -- had finally lost his heart; lost it to someone who never would, never could, claim it.
The closer the Enterprise came to Adrian 4 the more depressed Jim became. He couldn't, just couldn't, put on the face and play the game for Bones for a whole shore leave. He became determined to find a way to escape, not only Bones but also anyone else from the Enterprise, and drown his pain and sorrow in private. As soon as possible after the Enterprise had achieved orbit, her Captain left a note for her CMO apologizing for running out on him and beamed down alone. Changing into a Security Officer Second Class uniform he had filched from Stores, Jim added a red mustache and wig appropriated from the theatrical supplies in Recreation to the disguise and disappeared. It wasn't hard to do. With the crews of four ships on leave at the same time, anyone who wasn't too busy with their own pleasure to notice just assumed the unsociable redheaded crewman, hanging out in dark shadowed corners, belonged to some other ship than their own.
After spending a couple of hours finding and shipping some gifts to his mother and nephew, Jim Kirk started making the rounds of the lowest dives he could find. His sole intention was to get as shit-faced and mentally disabled as possible through the liberal imbibing of the oldest anesthetic know to the human race. The last thing he could remember clearly was sitting in a bar trying to glare holes in the obnoxious group of Klingons that were blowing his plans, for a nice maudlin drunk, all to hell. Everything after that was just a kaleidoscope of images -- most of which didn't make any sense. There were outraged Klingons, outraged Federation crewmen, loud voices, flying fists, Spock and Bones (but that could have been his imagination) … more fists … pieces of airborne furniture … Spock again. No, that last was definitely something from his imagination; a flashback to the latest round of erotic dreaming that had sent him running away in disguise in the first place. He searched for more but there was nothing until he had awakened, lying on satin.
He was drawn back to the present as gentle fingers smoothed caresses across his forehead then down his cheeks. He felt something hard and cold against his lips and, before he could react, a warm liquid filled his mouth. The delicate fingers became hard steel and held his jaws shut until he swallowed. Next was the feel of a hypo being applied to his upper arm. Again there were soothing touches and then he sensed the loss of warmth as the being, whoever it was, moved away.
Whatever was in the hypo and the liquid he had been forced to drink soon proved beneficial. A spicy-sweet taste registered on his tongue, the headache began to disappear and his stomach settled back to its normal position. The fuzziness cleared from his ears and nose to reveal the soothing scent of native, orchid-like flowers and the sweet notes of an Adrian chant softly playing in the background. Jim also discovered that he now had the ability to move -- though the urge to do so was very slight since his first tentative wiggles revealed stiff and bruised muscles. When a very familiar, soft, deep voice commanded, "Lights, twenty percent", he realized that he had not been blind -- only in a room darkened to protect his eyes.
After a few moments of rapid blinking to adjust his eyes to even this low level of light, Jim turned his head toward the voice and found himself staring into the wonderfully dark eyes of the object of his desire. Spock was sitting about six feet from him in a rather comfortable looking armchair. His facial expression was at its Vulcan best but there was a glitter of interest in his eyes. He seemed to be studying Jim quite intently. Remembering the extraordinary range of Vulcan night vision, Jim found himself feeling quite vulnerable with only the thin, clingy sheet covering him.
"If Dr. McCoy's potions are as efficacious as he claims, you should be fully recovered in approximately10 to 12 minutes, Captain."
Jim found the "science officer" tone of Spock's voice and the fact that it was much more likely to have been Bones who stripped him and put him to bed reassuring. But his mind twisted in confusion as he tried and failed to understand the situation. As the silence lengthened, he struggled for something to say.
"Spock? What are you doing here? ... Where is here? ... What happened?"
Hearing himself, Jim felt about as intelligent and coherent as a salted slug. He was relieved when Spock began answering his stammered questions as if they had made some degree of sense.
"I am here because Dr. McCoy became concerned over your disappearance and requested that I assist him in locating you. 'Here' is a room-for-hire in Joy City on Adrian 4. As for 'what happened', when McCoy and I arrived at the drinking establishment you were patronizing, an altercation was in progress between a group of Starfleet personnel and a group of Klingons. You became involved in that altercation when the Doctor and I were accosted by the Klingons. After the altercation ended, Dr. McCoy ran a medical scan and discovered that you were having a severe reaction to the combination of local spirits you had ingested. We agreed that, under the circumstances, it would be best to preserve your false identity and not to return you to the Enterprise until you had recovered. Am I to presume by your questions that you have no memory of any of this?"
Jim checked his memories again and found that nothing had changed. He was embarrassed as hell that Spock had seen him drunk and disorderly. The Vulcan's total control told him better than any words could just how bad an impression he had made. He was also dreading the lecture that he was sure to get from Bones. The only bright spot, a really dim bright-spot, was that what Spock had described had been the extent of his stupidity. Considering the mood and condition he had been in, he could have been guilty of a lot worse.
"No, I don't remember -- not anything that makes any sense. The last thing I remember clearly is being aggravated that the Klingons had invaded the nice, quiet dungeon I'd found and thinking about trying to find another one that they hadn't. The rest is just flashes but, yeah, they fit with a good old-fashioned brawl. It's good to know that I didn't get into it until you and Bones were threatened. That makes me feel like less of an ass than if I had just jumped in for the hell of it. Well, I guess I'd better get back aboard the Enterprise before I get into any more trouble. Where are my clothes?"
Jim sat up and turned to sit on the side of the bed, dragging the sheet with him, to find that Spock was still staring at him in that oddly intense manner.
"I do not believe that your immediate return to the Enterprise would be advisable, Captain."
Jim was feeling a great deal better but was becoming aware of even more strains, lumps and bruises that certainly supported the reality of a bar brawl. Mentally, he was certainly not feeling up to dealing with any extended time in a satin-lined love nest, naked but for a sheet, with his very sexy, very desirable First Officer sitting barely six feet away from him playing super Vulcan. So, he really couldn't find any reason to feel bad about it when his reply to Spock came out a bit snappish.
"And just why not!"
The sharp edge to Jim's voice didn't seem to have any affect whatsoever on Spock. He replied in the same controlled, calm voice he had used from the beginning.
"If you return to the Enterprise before the end of your scheduled leave, Dr. McCoy has threatened to exercise his prerogative as CMO to confine you to sickbay until you have completed the full range of medical and psychological testing advised by Starfleet standards and, in his words, 'a whole lot more they haven't even thought of'. I would suspect that this last is an empty threat since Starfleet standards are quite comprehensive but, with Dr. McCoy, one can never be sure. The Good Doctor also insists that I accompany you for the remainder of your leave and be vigilant in the matter of preventing you from ingesting any more of the native spirits or indulging in any further altercations with Klingons."
Jim Kirk wanted to scream. Just what he needed -- the rest of his shore leave spent in the company of the one person he was desperately trying to get away from. How in the hell was he supposed to deal with his feelings for Spock -- dig them out, murder them and bury the remains -- if he was forced to spend every waking minute for the next twelve days in Spock's company?
But he didn't scream. Nor did he rant, rave and storm around the room. Spock wasn't the proper target for his anger and the proper target wouldn't be the least little bit impressed by it. When Bones was finally pushed to the point that he pulled out his three-initial big gun -- CMO -- he was the most immovable of immovable objects. Consoling himself with the thought that this would postpone any lecture from Bones, Jim surrendered to the inevitable. It was not a joyous surrender and the sarcastic tone of his voice reflected that.
"Does McCoy expect me to spend the whole time in this room or did he leave an itinerary of what I am and am not allowed to do?"
Again, Spock didn't seem to notice his Captain's foul mood.
"No itinerary, Captain, but he did suggest something less urban. He mentioned mountains, trees, water and sandy beaches. Though I do not believe all of these elements could be found in one location, I suggest a visit to the nearest Welcome Center could provide a list of those that most closely approximate it. Once you have chosen a destination they could aid in securing transportation and lodging. It would also be logical that they could supply recommendations as to the proper civilian clothing to purchase for the locale."
Ok, wide open spaces; that would work. Jim could probably get Spock interested in the local flora and fauna and maybe give him the slip for a good number of hours each day as long as there were no bars or Klingons in the area. But, Jim didn't want any other Starfleet personnel around to disturb his solitude either. Also, he was definitely too bruised and battered to go for anything too physically strenuous or anything that didn't include a hot tub and some other creature comforts like a soft bed. It was going to take some luck to find a place that would fit all those requirements. But, what the hell, why not put Paradise, Inc.'s motto to the test?
As soon as Jim nodded his acceptance of this suggestion, Spock presented him with a set of civilian clothing and exited the bedroom to allow him privacy. As he did this, Spock was silhouetted in the doorway to the brightly lit hall and Jim discovered that Spock was already dressed in civilian clothing. He found it irritating that both Bones and Spock had been so certain that he would cooperate with their plan. (Oh, yes. Jim was certain that Spock was just as guilty as Bones in plotting this.) Then his irritation changed to resigned amusement. Their knowing him so well was one of the factors that made them so valuable to him as Captain of the Enterprise. That it was sometimes a pain in the ass for Jim Kirk, private citizen, was a small price to pay. With a shake of his head, he began dressing.
After a very filling breakfast, another of Bones' requirements, he found himself accompanying Spock through the doors of the Joy City Welcome Center.
Chapter 2
Jim Kirk stood on the veranda of the open and airy two-bedroom bungalow. Spread before him was a pristine, white-sand beach. It was dotted with a number of large trees. Their long, shapely, bare trunks were rather palm-like but topped with flat parasols of spidery limbs supporting fans of huge, feathery, fern-like leaves. They provided shade at any time of the day yet allowed ample areas for sunning. The beach was constantly bathed by the gentle waves of a deep, clear, fresh-water sea.
The bungalow had all the amenities of a five star hotel: full spa facilities including hot tub, a fully stocked snack and beverage bar, room service dining via transporter, and a library and entertainment link with the Central Planetary Archives. The beds were cloud soft and totally decadent. Privacy was insured by the fact that the location of said bungalow was an island, about twice the size of the Enterprise's disk, with no other buildings on it.
The island was also a biosphere of Adrian flora and fauna; make that 'safe' flora and fauna. Jim was certain, should someone require it, the Darians would supply a location rife with the most dangerous plants and animals, possible. But for their idyllic islands not even the local equivalents of sand fleas, mosquitoes or rose thorns were allowed.
It seemed Paradise, Inc.'s claim of being able to satisfy any desire was not an idle one. Nor had it cost a great deal. Complete isolation, no matter how luxurious, wasn't high on the list of desires for visitors to Adrian 4. The island bungalows were used primarily by employees of Paradise, Inc. for their vacations and, therefore, were quite reasonably priced.
This was Jim and Spock's fourth day on the island. While things had been a bit awkward for a brief period on the first day, they had quickly settled into their own separate routines that seemed to mesh naturally in companionable, if usually silent, periods several times a day. This was one of those.
Jim had just finished his morning routine of exercise in the spa area and was ready for a swim and then an hour or so of sun before lunch. As he glanced across the beach, he spotted Spock baking himself on the warm sand as he compared his morning plant finds with printouts from the archives. It wasn't hard. Spock was dressed in the same ensemble of black t-shirt and black shorts that Jim was wearing and stood out plainly against the white beach towel and white sand. As Jim took a few moments of secret pleasure watching Spock, his mind wandered back over the last few days.
Spock had been rather reluctant to assume a more relaxed manner of dress. Whether this was due to modesty, a concern for the preservation of body heat or a Vulcan's complete lack of understanding as to the pleasures of sunbathing; Jim couldn't guess. But the clerk refused to sell them anything in long sleeved shirts and trousers for a beach location. When the clerk had included a supply of sunscreen/tanning lotion with the purchase, Spock had become thoughtful for a brief instant and then ceased his protest.
However, both Jim and Spock had drawn the line when it came to color as neither had seen any logic in buying the more garishly colored clothing that would simply rot away in their closets once they returned to duty. The clerk had countered this by talking them into a soft plush fabric that resembled velvet to the touch but was some light, flexible synthetic that breathed and moved like the standard, comfortable cotton knit. Jim had to admit that he was pleased with the way it felt against his skin.
Their first day on the island, Jim had also realized that he was a lot more than simply pleased with the way the lush fabric and abbreviated garments looked on Spock. It had been much too arousing for Jim the first time he watched Spock slather lotion over his bare, sleekly muscled arms and legs and proceed to do a very good imitation of a semi-pagan sun-worshiper. This had forced Jim to make a rather hurried run for the ocean before his physical reaction was noticed. After that, he adjusted his schedule to arrive after Spock had settled in on the beach.
If that wasn't enough, Spock had insisted on applying lotion to Jim's back when he had flopped down for his own bit of sun worship. But, since Jim couldn't argue with the medical necessity, he had been forced to suffer through -- oh, yeah -- such beautiful torture that it left him praying that his erection would subside before he had to turn over onto his back to keep from burning. Even though Spock had performed this service with competent dispatch, Jim had found himself biting his lip to keep from moaning.
After a repeat of that torture during their late afternoon beach time, Jim spent a very restless night listing and weighing his options. The only conclusion he came to was that he was trapped. There was no way he could do anything but grin and bear it unless he wanted to arouse Spock's suspicions, or worse alienate him, and end up revealing his sordid little secret in an apology which would probably alienate Spock even more.
By the end of the second day, Jim had come to another conclusion. There was no way he was going to be able to kill his inappropriate feelings for Spock under these conditions. Perhaps, once they had returned to their normal duties, he could find a way to do it; but, for now, he might as well just relax and enjoy what he couldn't avoid.
Day three, with Jim's emotional life now under new management, so to speak, had been just about the most pleasant day he could remember having in a very long time. With the pressure to erase his every errant thought removed and only the control of his observable physical reactions to deal with, he actually began to enjoy his shore leave. He had even forgone his planned afternoon jog around the perimeter of the island to accept Spock's invitation to join him in his more leisurely stroll through the interior collecting specimens. After that, their afternoon beach time had seemed even more companionable and Jim could have sworn that Spock had taken a bit more leisurely approach to the application of lotion to his back. Just his imagination, Jim told himself; nevertheless, it was a very enjoyable thought.
Now, with the hope that day four would be just as enjoyable, Jim stepped off the veranda and walked toward the sea. Spreading his towel close to Spock, Jim peeled off his t-shirt and lightweight canvas shoes and proceeded into the sea. Jim had always loved the water and usually swam himself to near exhaustion before returning to land. Today, however, thoughts of Spock as he had last seen him -- belly down, in intent study, his bare toes unconsciously caressing the sand into little hills and valleys -- were a siren's call that pulled Jim back to the beach in a very short time. The sight that greeted him there made it hard for him to breathe.
Spock was kneeling on his towel, the ever-present t-shirt stripped away, smoothing lotion over his chest. The profusion of straight, black hair that decorated his upper chest and ran in a narrow path down the center of his torso to disappear into his shorts was even more seal-sleek with the added sheen of the colorless sun-block; the erotic promise of that path, very blatant. When, without looking up, Spock held out the bottle, Jim found himself sinking to his knees behind him and smoothing lotion over the broad, strongly sculpted back as if it were the most normal and natural thing in the whole universe.
Time stretched. Nothing existed for Jim but the silky feel of Vulcan skin, the sound of two breaths synchronizing, the sight of pitch black hair against the slightly patinated skin of a shapely neck and elegantly pointed ears. He had no idea how long he had been kneeling, mesmerized, when the hum of a transporter beam jerked him abruptly back to reality. Jim looked up into the face of Leonard McCoy. Bones was smirking.
"Well, well. I can see that I don't have to ask if you two have followed the doctor's orders. Can't say that I'm surprised that you settled things this way; the cat being about as far out of the bag as she can get."
Jim had no time to make sense of this statement before Spock quickly added to his confusion.
"Doctor! … Before you continue, you should be aware of the fact that the Captain does not remember either the fight with the Klingons or anything that occurred after that."
McCoy's eyes widened in shock, "Are you telling me that he doesn't remember that he…?"
Spock cut him off quickly, "Exactly."
Anger replaced shock, "And you didn't think it was necessary to tell him!"
"I judged it best to make certain that his actions were more than the product of intoxication. Had that been the case there would have been no reason to enter into such a discussion."
"Well, from where I'm standing, it looks like you should be pretty damn certain by now."
Jim had had enough of swiveling his head back and forth between the two in total confusion. He summoned his best command voice.
"Gentlemen! Would someone care to enlighten me as to exactly what the hell the two of you are talking about?"
Jim's question was met with silence -- neither Spock nor McCoy volunteering to answer it. As this silence stretched uncomfortably, McCoy couldn't seem to decide whether to look at Jim with embarrassment or at Spock with anger. He finally settled on Spock and anger.
"Well? Aren't you going to answer him? Or are you still not certain!"
Spock retrieved his t-shirt, pulled it on and rose to his feet with a languid, powerful grace.
"No, Doctor, I am quite certain. But, since you have chosen to interfere, I shall see to ordering lunch while you continue to do so."
With that, Spock turned and walked toward the bungalow. After a moment of stunned silence, McCoy sputtered at Spock's retreating back.
"Why you green blooded, pointy eared … You're not dropping this on me!"
Spock didn't even break stride as his very self-satisfied reply floated back over his shoulder.
"Oh, but that is exactly what I am doing, Doctor."
Left with only one source of information, Jim didn't give McCoy a chance to find a way to avoid his question as Spock had.
"Well, 'Doctor'? Just what is it that I don't remember?"
Jim found that he was rather evilly pleased by the rosy flush of embarrassment that colored McCoy's face and the fact that he was very obviously avoiding making eye contact. Maybe his discomfort would keep Bones from being so quick to use Starfleet regulations to interfere with Jim's personal life the next time he decided to be over-protective. Still, after a moment or two, Jim decided that he wanted information more than payback and cut Bones a break. He patted a place on the towel beside him in invitation.
"Sit down, Bones. Spock told me that I didn't get involved in the fight with the Klingons until you and he were attacked. Why don't you start with that? Is it the truth or not?"
McCoy wasn't exactly dressed for the beach but accepted the invitation to sit anyway. He seemed very relieved to have a starting point for what he had to say but still refused to look directly at Jim.
"Well ... the answer to that is yes ... and no. I was already past the Klingons, out of range, when one of them grabbed him … grabbed Spock."
When Bones didn't continue, Jim prodded him.
"All right. Then what?"
"Well … well, then you came up out of your chair and charged across the room, roaring at the Klingon to get … you told him to get his filthy paws off of your Vulcan. Then you basically beat the shit out of him. It was pretty impressive, Jim. The rest of the Klingons must have thought so, too, because they didn't make a move to interfere."
Everything after the last pause had rushed out of Bones' mouth at light-speed; well, at least as close to it as someone with a Georgia accent can get. That didn't keep Jim from picking out the key words.
"My Vulcan? … I told him to get his filthy paws off of my Vulcan? Oh, shit!"
Having gotten that much said, Bones relaxed and was able to continue more easily with the rest.
"Yep, but you didn't stop there. When the fight was over, you stalked over to Spock and laid one hell of a lip-lock on him."
"Oooooh, no … God, Bones, I'll never be able to look him in the face again. And … and you … you forced us into each other's company! Expected him to tell me this! You must have been drunker than I was!"
"Ah, hell, Jim. I'd been so busy looking for you, I hadn't taken the time to even sniff at a drink. And I wasn't expecting him to have to tell you. How was I to know that you would get amnesia? Anyway, you haven't let me get to the best part, yet."
"There's more!"
"Relax, Jim. You're going to like this part a lot better. By the time I got across the room to you, you weren't the only one doing the kissing."
"Huh?"
"That's right. You may have started it, but Spock was doing the most enthusiastic job of continuing it that it has ever been my pleasure to witness. Of course, when you passed out and I was busy for a while making sure that you weren't going to die on us, he got all Vulcan prim and proper again. That's why I threatened him, told him that I'd hit both of you with everything I could think of if you showed your faces on the Enterprise before you got things worked out between you."
Everything fell into place for Jim. It wasn't a good place.
"But I didn't remember and he didn't tell me. I guess that he had second thoughts."
Jim felt Bones' hand on his shoulder and quickly shrugged it off. He was hurting too much already and sympathy would only make it worse. But when he tried to get up, with the intent to skulk off to suffer in private, Bones' hand returned with a steely grip to pull him back down.
"Yes, he had second thoughts. But not the ones you're thinking. He told us why he didn't tell you. Weren't you listening? He was afraid that the whole thing was nothing but the booze talking; that no matter what you felt, once you were sober you wouldn't want to act on it. As much as I hate to admit it, I can't help but agree with him.
"Damn it, Jim, you weren't just drunk. You were positively toxic. Then, you pass out and wake up claiming not to remember. I don't think that I would want to hang my heart out on my sleeve under those circumstances. How much harder would it be for Spock? Besides, I think that my showing up so soon was about the worse timing ever. He just admitted that he was certain about you. It wouldn't have been long until he was ready to talk about it."
Oh, how Jim wanted to believe what Bones was saying. But, it didn't seem possible.
"Bones, we've spent most of our time here going our own way. We haven't talked about anything except those damn plants he's collecting. How can he be certain about anything?"
The last thing Jim expected from Bones was laughter -- curling-up, clutching-his-stomach laughter. Jim didn't see anything funny about the situation and found it damn near infuriating that Bones did.
"Would you like to let me in on the joke, Bones!"
Still clutching his sides and struggling to stifle his mirth, McCoy finally got enough control over his breathing to speak.
"Oh, Jim, you really have been in a bad way, haven't you? Tell me, how many lotion backrubs does it take for a touch telepath Vulcan to be certain about something?"
Like sunlight breaking through dark clouds, understanding finally broke through Jim's confused thoughts. A bemused chuckle escaped him. Bones was right. It was funny. It was better than any farce that had ever been set on any stage.
"About as many as it takes for an idiot human to stop fighting it."
Jim's confession set McCoy off on another fit of laughter. This time, Jim joined him, not caring if they looked like idiots sitting on a beach laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks. He would have felt and reacted the same way no matter where they were. Finally having it all out in the open and knowing that Spock wasn't disgusted, and might even be willing, was too much of a relief to worry about a silly thing like his dignity.
Once they had both regained control again, Jim patted McCoy on the shoulder.
"Would you be really up set if I kicked you off my island, Bones?"
With a small chuckle, McCoy flipped open his communicator.
"Under the circumstances, Jim, I'd consider it a favor."
Within a few seconds, McCoy disappeared in the shimmer of a transporter beam. Pulling on his t-shirt, Jim rose, squared his shoulders and walked to the bungalow. Not finding Spock in the kitchen nor the common areas, Jim returned to the veranda and stood staring out over the gently rolling sea, trying to remain quietly patient. It wasn't long before he felt Spock's presence behind him and that deep, lush voice spoke softly, very close to his ear.
"Dr. McCoy has left?"
"Yes, but he told me everything: what I said to the Klingon, that I kissed you, that I passed out."
"That I kissed you, also?"
"Yes. That, too."
There was only silence, except for the warm whisper of Spock's breath, until Jim couldn't stand the anticipation any longer.
"What happens now?"
Then, for Jim, reality was broken into small slices: the touch of Spock's hand against Jim's neck, his other hand on Jim's shoulder; a pause, time frozen for an instant; then, Spock turning Jim to face him, dark eyes capturing hazel ones.
"This happens now."
Taking a firmer grip on Jim's neck and placing his other hand at the small of his back, Spock arched Jim's body, drawing it tightly against his. A small smile softened his features as he tilted Jim's face up to his to discover moist, breathless lips parted invitingly. Lowering his face to Jim's, Spock claimed what was his.
As Spock took his lips in demanding and aggressive passion, Jim slid his arms beneath Spock's and grasped his shoulders tightly; needing something, some anchor, to keep a swirl of conflicting emotions from sweeping him away. It was so strange to feel himself molded by Spock's taller frame and superior strength; just as strange, to feel overwhelmed by the intensity of unleashed Vulcan emotion. So strange … frightening … yet … wonderful.
For the first time in his life, Jim Kirk was willing and content to surrender control to someone else.
FIN