Warning: Possible dubcon.
Chapter 002
This wasn't the upbeat, singles-only environment Kirk enjoyed, but he found himself okay with its sobriety after the chaos of his last mission.
Mackenzie's was a kitschy European-styled tavern that doubled as a small restaurant. The dining area housed few customers, and the all-night bar had even fewer seats occupied. There was a quaint collection of patrons gathered around the bar, but most were lounging or talking too comfortably to be a singles venue. Sometimes people glanced at the TV to cheer or boo at a rare fumble or touchdown, but everyone was more content conversing to each other about work, families, or that asshole who cut them off on the freeway this morning.
Maybe Kirk was getting old, or maybe it was the cocktail of painkillers in his system. The thought of going into a loud nightclub to get sloshed with the occasional bump and grind instead earned him a headache.
The menu above the bar was garish, dripping in Gaelic, and the font looked like it sprang out of a Tolkien novel. If he couldn't recognize anything familiar like a Budweiser, Kirk didn't trust himself to drink from the tap, not with his extraordinary list of allergies.
He and Mitchell dropped into seats by the wall and let Scotty do the ordering for them. Sulu, ever the budding socialite, occupied himself instead by scoping out a tiny pool of potential minglers over by the pool table.
Operative Ken Seer, being the designated driver and Scotty's usual co-pilot during missions, had been wise enough to steer himself away from the bar and tapped away on his phone from a booth in the corner. His addiction with Facebook freemium games was as well-known as his height deficiency; not even the possibility of hooking up tonight could stop him from checking on his Farmville plot.
In recent memory, Seer filled two pages of Kirk's work email with invitations to the stupid game. Kirk blocked and kicked him off his friends list for that stunt. He remembered Scotty laughing when Kirk complained.
Karma came knocking Scotty's door when Ken turned around and molested his email instead with invitation spam. If Kirk had suggested Scotty as a new victim, well...
The IT department later folded about that. It would be a breach of national security, they had said, for fellow agents friending each other on personal social media accounts. Kirk and Scotty both received commendations after an aggressive lobbying campaign which, on official record, did not include blackmail and bribery.
Bonus points that the campaign got rid of Kirk's admirers. Mark Moreau had kept spamming private messages with offers to go out for dinner if he failed on asking him in person. Now Moreau just annoyed him at work, which Kirk was still working on rectifying with little success.
Despite the lobbying, Seer was a good sport, freemium banning aside. Maybe it helped that Seer and Scotty were super best friends. From what Kirk remembered, they ended up reassigned in a small outpost in the Yukon for an entire year before Kirk even joined the CIA. Their bromance was near legendary on the compound.
The evening rolled out in a lazy pace. Sulu's inspection of the establishment came up with a half-hidden karaoke machine instead of potential dates, so Mitchell and Scotty jumped into the fray and began a drunken duet of Journey songs to entice the crowd, completely tone-deaf, and enough that Kirk had to bury his head into his good arm to stifle his laughter.
Sulu tried pulling Kirk off his stool to join them a few songs later, but he was having none of that. He had a sense of pride. Singing was for showers and nowhere else, thank you very much.
"I can't sing," Kirk said with a snort and shrugged off Sulu. "Give me the mic and the whole place will vacate faster than an anthrax scare."
Balked at the response, Mitchell shook his head at Kirk and pointed the cheap wireless microphone in his direction. In a grandiose movement that earned howls from the ladies, he jumped off the stage to see why Kirk was being uncooperative. "Look at this lying asshole!" The tiny crowd of drunken listeners cheered in agreement.
"Isn't that the unofficial name for our jobs?" Sulu asked Scotty, who then let out a sharp bark of laughter.
"Jim can sing," Mitchell said, his words confident and magnified now he was hugging the microphone to his lips and purring in a tipsy stupor. "I know he caaaaan."
Kirk snorted and returned to his beer. "You're full of shit."
"Picture it: NIU, 2007," Mitchell plopped himself on the stool next to Kirk, and sat the mic down. Sulu and Scotty grabbed seats from a nearby table and started scooching close like third graders who'd just seen a frog on the classroom wall while Mitchell regaled his tale. "I was in my second year of studies working on the admission for the Strategic Leadership Course in DC."
"Was that your fourth or fifth try?" Kirk shot back all-too-pleasantly, turning in his seat. "And Pike says I'm the one who's horrible at paperwork."
"Silence, peon," Mitchell said, raising a finger. Rolling his eyes, Kirk mimed zipping his lips and decided that the moose head that hung on the wall by the TV made a better friend to him than these guys. "Actually, point taken. I was never good at writing essays or theses. Jim doesn't want to admit it, but he was a nerd for that. A stack of books with legs."
Sulu's frown implied disbelief. "Jim was the better academic?"
"Pull me other leg!" Scotty laughed.
"I have such good friends," Kirk said, his words dripping with sarcasm.
"Well, Jim's always been the bookworm, but that's kind of the point of the story," Mitchell continued. "He prioritized his studies better than I did, so he had a lot of free time when I didn't. When he wasn't trying to hit on someone, which was all the time, you found him in the computer labs just kicking back with a book. Jim read anything he could get his nerdy fingers on: non-fiction, scientific journals, hell, a fucking thesaurus! What he doesn't know…" his gaze slid to Kirk, who raised an eyebrow with suspicion, "…is that he does things without knowing it while he's reading. Like sing."
Kirk laughed. "Fuck off."
"I got it on camera," Mitchell said, deadpan, and Kirk snapped his mouth closed in immediate horror. "Remember when I came down to the labs one day to ask you to check my rough draft? Well, I found you alone in there hamming it up with show tunes." He fished into his front pocket and wiggled his cellphone in Kirk's face. "Proof enough, Sinatra?"
When Kirk paled, Scotty made a grab for his own phone. "Gimme tae title to this vid!"
"I need to see this," Sulu agreed and pulled out his iPhone. "I need this in my life right now."
Kirk reached for a handful of mixed beer snacks until he realized there were nuts in it. With a huff, he thought 'fuck it' and tossed the entire bowl in Mitchell's direction, careful not to touch the almonds. Bones would kill him before the anaphylactic shock did.
Mitchell just continued to laugh with peanuts in his hair and tiny pretzels on the lapels of his jacket.
"Knock it off!" Jim snarled. "I'm injured here!"
"You're the one assaulting me!" Mitchell teased and in less than a minute, they were playing an old video on Scotty's phone, and apparently filmed with a toaster since the quality ended up pixelated to hell. But it was clear enough to incriminate Kirk, who viewed it with horror. He had no memory of this.
"Lamarque! His death is the hour of fate. The people's man… his death is the sign we awaaait!"
Oh god.
Scotty had to stand up and raise the phone away when Kirk tried to snatch the incriminating video. Mitchell laughed and climbed over Kirk's seat to hold him from behind while they watched. Kirk squirmed like a babe in Mitchell's grip and thanks to his broken arm, couldn't do shit about it. This was definitely article two, paragraph five of the CIA Interrogation Manifesto.
He had half a mind to complain to Human Resources.
His twenty-two year old self was leaning backwards on a chair in shitty 240p resolution, his feet on the table between computers, back to the camera. He was belting out a passable rendition of Les Miserables 'Red and Black' while thumbing through a familiar-looking book.
Kirk remembered the book, a Carl Sagan number called Broca's Brain, and he recalled how fond he was of it. He ended up engrossed in its pages between midterm papers, and couldn't put it down until he finished. With a miserable sigh, Kirk realized that the video might be real.
For the record, he didn't enjoy show tunes, well, maybe a few. There were a few pieces that got stuck in his head while working on his political thesis, which he blamed on past girlfriends and their obsession with catchy pop songs. The last boyfriend he had before graduating loved musical theater and had made him see Wicked so many times, Kirk still refused to touch any kind of Wizard of Oz apocrypha, and wouldn't for the rest of his life. As far as he was concerned, Oz: The Great and Powerful didn't exist.
"Stop pouting, Jim," Mitchell grinned and brushed an almond out of his hair. The video ended and Kirk was short of breaking open his beer bottle so he could shank him East Coast style. "You were good! If you weren't such a good shot, you'd have been on Broadway by now. Like a hammy Prince Charming in one of those parody musicals where they let the Disney guys off the leash."
Kirk flushed when two ladies nearby giggled as they eavesdropped. He snorted to himself and returned to his ninth or tenth beer, his manhood now in question. Musicals? No way. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Gary."
Mitchell just shrugged and climbed off of him for the stage. A few people were dithering near the karaoke machine and he was hogging the mic. He had his fill teasing Kirk for the night, with any luck.
Kirk wasn't sure what kind of beer he had, but it took the edge off his humiliation and made it the best in the world to him. Scotty called it a particular brand of craft beer from his homeland because American beer's shit and Kirk agreed with the statement. Budweiser were proud to say they aged their beer out of beechwood and proved it since it always tasted like stale air.
The aftertaste was bittersweet and complicated. Like his men. Or women. Both.
Scotty implied that the tavern was brand-spanking new, but Kirk realized Scotty's been talking out his ass about it being exclusive. When they'd arrived, the bar seemed almost deserted, but now a crowd formed. And, shit, these were faces Kirk knew.
CIA agents from different branches trickled in, and soon over half the clientele were CIA or friends of CIA. Kirk learned to recognize them by their mannerisms and concealed weapons early on. Hell, Agent Stanley walked around with a pistol strapped to the inside of his thigh. Everyone and their grandmother could see it a mile away because of his tight jeans.
This place looked more like a fucking government convention than a civilian bar. So much for keeping work and social lives separate. All they needed was a kiosk of matching T-shirts.
Kirk's thoughts drifted to his 'FBI - Female Breast Inspector' gag sweatshirt and possible suggestive acronyms for CIA versions when he almost took a face plant into his coaster. Sulu had just jumped on his back in some weird-ass gay hug.
"Dude…" Kirk moaned. His elbow in the sling was digging into the edge of the counter, causing it to throb with discomfort. "It's not you, it's me… okay, it is you. Just not fond the Korean beef, bro." Sulu let up on the pressure but stayed too close for Kirk's liking.
"Shh! Look, look…" Sulu uttered, his breath smelled of amaretto and lemon juice. His fingers prodded into Kirk's uninjured shoulder to get his attention. "See that guy over there? Blond curls…"
Kirk sighed and tilted his head until he caught a glimpse of curled dark-blond locks brushing a young looking face in the corner of his eye.
He recognized the boy from work though they never worked together. Because he'd looked so young at a first glance, Kirk had been positive he either was someone's kid taking a tour of the non-covert part of the building or an intern. Analyst Chekov was neither of those things, and had higher clearance for Russian counter-intelligence than even he did. His features were innocent and boyish, puppy-like, and he ducked and wove around the office with a childlike excitement that was almost contagious.
But he'd heard seedy things about the kid's heritage, so Kirk knew better than to underestimate him. Russian agents, like the KGB, were hardcore. To this day, the CIA was still investigating and uncovering sleeper agents who had spent decades as American citizens, raising entire families just to perfect their sincerity. Chekov was the offspring of second generation KGB parents, who had accepted asylum for valuable information about the Cold War. It was likely for foreign agents to get used to the comfort and stability the US offered, especially if they hailed from war-torn countries with even worse economies. The CIA had benefited from their betrayals.
The boy was waving his vodka around and chatting it up with Analyst Uhura from the Linguistics sector. Like the rest of them, she was still in her work clothes, wearing a navy blue suit skirt ensemble that showed off those lovely long legs.
"The jailbait twink?" he asked stupidly, more interested in the way Uhura's dark stockings sculpted those perfect thighs instead.
"He's twenty-one!" Sulu snapped, then pouted, then detached himself from Kirk to slide into the seat next to him, defeated. "You think he's too young for me?"
"No! Nooo…" Kirk reassured him with a drunken grin. He hadn't realized Sulu swung that way since it was women who approached and offered him little trips to coffee shops or dinners. Sulu never turned down an offer when he had free time and word around the water cooler was that Sulu was a goddamn saint to the ladies, an actual officer and a gentleman.
When the man had his own personal female fanbase to choose from, finding Sulu showing genuine interest in the same sex was downright surprising. "Hey Hikaru…" Kirk began with mild confusion. "You actually interested in dudes?"
"Of course not…" Sulu replied in mild offense and seemed thoughtful. "Look, I'm not going to sleep with Pavel! I'm just saying."
"Uh-huh," Kirk mumbled, scatterbrained from the drink, and decided that Sulu was backtracking into his Gucci-filled closet. "So what? You're trying to pair him with me? I kinda like my men a little more my height if you get my drift."
As Kirk expected, Sulu stiffened in defense. A tell-tale sign of homoerotic jealousy, or, Kirk supposed in their case, bi-erotic jealousy. Or whatever.
"Look, you're better at guy-romancing than I am," Sulu stressed in Kirk's ear so no one else could eavesdrop. "I'm used to women, I like women, but I like Pavel too. Help me out here. Do you think I'm just getting my wires crossed because the kid's adorable?"
"Might be the accent," Kirk said thickly, remembering an incident where he crossed paths with Chekov. He couldn't help but smile when the kid's thick Russian timbre took him by surprise. "If he looked more like Konstantin Kamynin, I'd have already jumped him by now. Russian fever hits everyone, my boy, nothing to be embarrassed about."
Sulu fell quiet, unsure, but unable to stop tossing 'inconspicuous' glances at the guy. Kirk knew it was more than a passing fancy. He too had been a sucker for blond curls at one point. Hell, he almost married a few blonds in his day in his blind infatuation.
Mitchell's girlfriend once called Kirk's blond fixation an oedipus-complex, common for men to 'replace' absent mothers with lovers who looked similar. All doctors, save for Bones, enjoyed over-complicating things. The truth was he just loved blond women. They partied more. He hadn't thought about Winona in the last five years.
In Sulu's case, he was showing the tell-tale signs of blond fever on top of Russian. A dangerous combination. It might even be lethal in copious dosages.
Kirk had no choice but to swallow the bitterness of his thoughts and the memory of ghosts of girlfriends past for the present. Office romances were a sore spot for Kirk, but he decided he should offer some encouraging words out of duty to a friend.
"So what? You're worried the age difference is a problem? Or just the whole he's got a twig, and it's rustling your jimmies? If he's old enough to drink, he's old enough to fu—romance," he backtracked when Sulu shot a glare at him. "Romance, flowers, babies in cribs. White picket fence. And a big gay rainbow flag parked in solidarity right next to ol' red, white, and blue. The American Dream."
"Thanks for the lousy advice, Kirk," Sulu said dryly, then stole Kirk's next bottle of beer before escaping into a large group new arrivals, emboldened by the women eager to wave him over. It was too bad that their perfect gentleman's got a raging one-hundred percent gay hard-on for a former KGB brat. He owed Mitchell fifty bucks.
"Anytime!" Kirk shot back with a cheer and raised his beer in a toast when Sulu shot a glare at him.
He got a few stray moments of peace before another body crashed into him, causing him to whimper and almost keel over from the pain in his arm. What was he, a magnet for drunken men? Not that he could complain, he just wished it was someone other than his buddies doing it.
This time Scotty was the culprit, who plastered himself cheek-to-cheek with Kirk before dragging him off his barstool. His breath made Kirk wrinkle his nose. Scotty smelled like a distillery. "Jim, Jim, Jim…!
"Scotty, Scotty, Scotty…!" Kirk let out a breathless laugh and grateful that his arm wasn't throbbing anymore.
Scotty laughed and straightened Kirk out, making a show to 'dust' him off like a trophy. His accent seemed more thick thanks to the drink. "Ya sho lonely. An' I know a good-lookin' gen'leman like you shouldnae look sho lonely! Sho I want yeh ter meet shomeone…"
"Is that English…?" Kirk squinted his eyes and swiped out for his eleventh beer but missed and tipped it over with his fingertips. He mourned the contents spilling over the polished bar, the liquid gold now wasted. The bartender tossed them a sour frown before shuffling off for a dishrag.
His world tilt-shifted when Scotty lifted Kirk upwards, causing him to stumble, until he found himself face-to-face with Uhura.
He smiled foolishly. "Analyst Uhura…"
She was a feisty dark-skinned woman born and raised in Kenya who once swore in Swahili after he failed picking her up for drinks. An exotic beauty with a statuesque figure, Uhura had brown eyes that sharpened in warning every time he approached. Tall, dark, and dangerous through intelligence: Kirk's ideal creature. She had that in spades. It made him almost shameless in his interactions with her.
The only problem? Both of their attitudes kept them from getting it on. Their interactions couldn't be more like oil and water. Both were obnoxious in the sarcasm department, but while Kirk did it for enjoyment, Uhura was sincere, so miscommunication became inevitable between them. Uhura found Kirk to be a clown. He thought her an uppity bitch.
That didn't stop him from fantasizing about her occasionally. Fantasy sure, but in reality they'd end up strangling each other. Her dislike for him so infamous, she refused to share her first name with him no matter how many times he asked. Kirk found himself unable to stop. She was just so easy to tease, and so easy to set off with a few choice words.
His interactions with Uhura these days measured itself by a tally chart of insults exchanged between them. They've racked up quite a score so far.
She wrinkled her nose at him as per usual for their greeting. "Agent Kirk." If Scotty thought hooking him up with Uhura would cheer him up, it wouldn't. It never worked, drunk or sober. He might be tipsy, but he wasn't blind to disinterest.
"So… what am I doing here?" He swayed in Scotty's grip. "Am I wingman tonight?"
Uhura rolled her eyes and Scotty chuckled. "Yeah, Kirk. Ya get to spend shome time with yer new partner while I give Ms. Uhura a chance ter drink. Would that be alrigh'?"
Partner?
"Wha'? Yeah, sure, I don't care…" Kirk was too drunk to object, and he wouldn't have even sober. Scotty could dance the night away with icy Analyst Uhura any day of the week. Kirk's personal interest in her summed up as simple eye-candy and, on occasion, someone to annoy.
Uhura shook her head, as if regretting her next action, and pulled someone from behind an ornate privacy screen. A well-dressed man in a black suit let out a quiet exhale until he was beside her, radiating discomfort now that all eyes focused on him.
Spock Grayson up close and personal was even more stunning than he'd been from across the cafeteria.
The shade of his hair looked unnaturally dark, darker than Uhura's even; styled and gelled back with a complementary set of thick eyebrows striking on such a pale complexion. He was thin, no, slender, but still stood with a coiled strength that broadcasted caution, like a rattlesnake's tail. If someone made a stupid misstep that compromised Spock's safety, he'd easily lash out quick and effective.
How unfair that warning was when those kissable bow-like lips looked so tempting. Aside from the cautious impression, Spock had that typical Middle Eastern flavor to him except for paler skin, clean-shaven face, and a lady friend by his side who's not covered up from head to toe.
Westernized, Kirk's thoughts buzzed with curiosity. For someone who hailed from an ultra-orthodox Muslim country, Spock was a testament to everything groups like Al Qaeda despised.
The man locked dark brown eyes with him once more and Kirk froze, finding more expression there than he'd expected. His gaze was inquisitive, almost shy, and foolish with a pretentious confidence. If Spock thought he could hide his emotions from Kirk with a neutral look, he's wrong.
But Kirk knew subtle body language, learned how to read an enemy's soul through dilated pupils, the sweat of their palms, and the way their muscles twitched beneath their skin. Spock wasn't able to hide a single thing from him, a diplomat's son be damned.
Kirk looked him up and down, physical attraction immediate, and maybe it was the liquor but something had him floored by Spock's intoxicating presence. His determination to see everything about Spock in their first real meeting helped sharpen his foggy vision. Even his drunken sway stopped by Spock's passionless stare.
He may have to redefine his idea of 'good-looking' now he's examined Spock. Sudden fantasies of licking a trail up that strong pale throat almost kept him from hearing and responding to the mandatory introductions.
Social niceties mattered little to him at this point so long as he continued to stare at Spock, who decided to no longer acknowledge the flirty smiles sent his way. He focused his own line of sight on a spot somewhere over Kirk's shoulder to avoid him.
"This is Analyst Spock Grayson," Uhura introduced, shooting a look at Kirk as clear as a siren. A blind man could tell that Kirk was going above and beyond the call of duty to flirt with Spock. This time, he wouldn't let her impede his ogling.
Another person approached and Kirk got a flash of blonde curls, but his attention was too much focused on Spock for him to turn or care. Uhura smiled at the boy and gestured, "And this is…"
"Analyst Pavel Chekov, remember me?" Sulu interrupted. He popped out of nowhere to slip into Kirk's space like fucking butter and give the boy his best smile. In Spock's relief, the action impeded Kirk's line of sight.
Kirk snorted, half-annoyed until reality returned now that all he could see the back of Sulu's head. The proverbial clock struck midnight and whatever spell Spock's hot physique had on Kirk dissipated. From behind Sulu, he ducked and sighed, grateful for the interruption.
Office romances should be avoided at all costs. He had almost forgotten his own golden rule.
Spock relaxed his shoulders now that Kirk's 'examination' stopped at the same time Kirk allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. Just what he needed: messing around with one of Komack's men and a rival coworker to boot. Even while drunk he realized that was a monumentally stupid idea.
Chekov beamed. "Oh! Yes, you are Agent Hikaru Sulu? You flipped Officer Hendorff onto his back in ze gym and von me fifty dollers!"
"You beat up Cupcake?" Kirk shot an incredulous look at Sulu, his thoughts diverted. Before Sulu could answer, Mitchell joined the fray and locked himself full against Kirk's back, shoving Sulu aside for a better view. Kirk's knees almost buckled under Mitchell's possessive weight.
"He hates it when you call him that, Jim," Mitchell's smile was playful against Kirk's shoulder before it dimmed into a curious frown.
Spock stiffened now that Mitchell's clinical gaze was on him, determined to find out what made Kirk so stupid and hot for the analyst. Whatever he got out of Spock, he didn't like, because Kirk knew Mitchell's sudden guarded tone all too well. Kirk frowned when the arms around his neck stiffened. Not good.
"Spock, huh?" Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "I heard you got Jim in trouble. He barely got out of Medical for his injuries when you filed the complaint. Not surprising, since you work under that hardass Komack."
The awkward silence was stifling. "Gary..." Kirk warned.
"Just a friendly reminder is all," Mitchell continued. "You see, I'm usually the one who takes care of this guy. Danger follows him like ticks to tits. Now that you got yourself assigned to him, I can't do shit. This Komack's plan? You trying to sabotage him?"
Kirk wasn't the only one who was goddamn drunk.
This time Spock didn't flinch. "That is not your concern," Spock said coldly. "At least, not anymore."
Uhura's jaw dropped in alarm at the same time Scotty had to shove an arm forward to keep Mitchell from slipping between them and advancing.
"Oookay..." Sulu stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave Chekov a sheepish grin. "This is awkward. Sorry about that."
"I think eet's fun!" Chekov chirped. "I am 'oping for some brawls myself. Ve inwented bar brawls in Russia, you see..."
There was going to be only one person injured today if Kirk could help it. He'd rather not see two men he'd be happy to screw leave him out of the mud brawl.
So Kirk snorted in laughter to divert the impending fight and shoved Mitchell off of him, lightening up the party Jim Kirk-style. "This is Agent Gary Mitchell," he introduced with a light slur. "Don't mind him. He's only a sweetheart to me." MItchell shot him a look of irritation for butting in, but that meant Kirk succeeded in his objective.
"Heyyy that'sh not true! He's a shweetheart to good ol' Montgomery Scott! Tha's me…" Scotty piped up, feeling left out, but all of his attention was on Uhura, who gave him a rare amused smile. He then patted Kirk's shoulder in sympathy. "And o' course, last but by far not least…"
"The name's Kirk," he interrupted and reached for Spock's outstretched hand for the obligatory handshake. But instead of a professional greeting, before he realized what he was doing or how it would look, he entangled those long fingers around his own under a strange compulsion.
Spock stiffened at once, brown eyes widening a fraction before Kirk lowered his head to brush his lips against those strong knuckles. Analyst Grayson moved like royalty, and really, Kirk could only oblige in kind. "James Kirk. Leader of Sector Zeitgeist."
"We have a leader?" Mitchell rolled his eyes at Sulu, who grinned and winked at Kirk's antics.
"Excuse me," Kirk corrected with an indulgent smirk in Spock's direction. "I meant Supreme Dictator."
"Mascot," Sulu corrected.
"The creepy janitor," Mitchell interjected and, just like magic, Kirk turned a tense situation inside out like the social butterfly he was.
"That would imply he cleans his own messes, gents!" Scotty said jovially, which caused the rest of them, excluding Kirk and Spock, to laugh.
Jesus, Kirk wondered with irritation, what was with the Jim Kirk abuse today?
To everyone's surprise, Spock came to his defense. He withdrew his hand from Kirk's and folded his arms behind his back. "The word 'dictator' implies absolute power and control over a country or populace. If one was truly a dictator, would not control of the press and speech be his first priority once in power?"
"Are you implying that I should execute these loud-mouthed motherfuckers?" Kirk inquired, glad for the subject change. He might have massively fuck-upped with the hand thing. "Because that's a good idea. You're hired, Spock."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Hired?"
"Yeah, you'll be my House Speaker, second-in-command, or whatever position answers directly to the dictator and makes speeches for him," Kirk said with an impish smile and recovered his confidence quick. "I bet you're good at oral… presentation, I mean. Wow, isn't it getting bright in here?" He felt light-headed, most likely from the booze and embarrassment, and had to grip Scotty's shoulder for support lest he fell and busted his head open on the tiled floor from his sudden lack of equilibrium.
Uhura rolled her eyes at the same time as Sulu. Chekov erupted into a fit of snickers. "Smooth," he grinned. "Wery smooth…"
"He is a shmooth shon of a bitch, innit he?" Scotty laughed and thumped Kirk on the shoulder again. "What de yeh shay, Spock? Charmed enough ter hangout with while I treat the lovely Analyst Uhura to a drink? He's 'ouse-trained, I promise!"
Spock didn't seem sure of Kirk at all. His stance was stiff, almost awkward, and his eyes had darted to Uhura for some kind of silent guidance. Maybe he was wondering if it would be a social faux pas to just deck Kirk here and now for the oral comment.
At least what the last few sober cells of Kirk's analytical mind decided before they too perished from the liquor.
"Agent Kirk," Spock began with hesitation, his tone clinical and inappropriate for a casual bar setting. "Formalities aside, I hoped to speak with you."
"Oh?" Kirk wondered if maybe he had some actual success getting somewhere with Spock. A lazy smile formed on his face. He wouldn't mind continue talking to Spock about stuff as long as he could keep staring at him. The guy was super fine, with an exotic cherry on top. It's okay to look according to his code, but not touch. He should know, he invented the loophole.
And the way Spock kept himself folded up, he would no doubt appreciate Kirk's self-control on this issue.
Did Kurdish men use the cherry popping euphemism? Did they also believe that seventy-two useless virgins waited for them up in Heaven? It made Kirk's chest bubble with mild drunken humor.
Spock blinked in confusion at Kirk's random smile, then elaborated. "Yes. I have a question about the hard drive in possession of the Springfield PD. If we can speak privately on the matter, I can…"
It was like someone yanked the needle off a record. Kirk's smile fell at the thought of work and he wasn't alone. At the sound of a possible work-related debriefing, every other agent within earshot began high-tailing it away from them and towards the bar.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Chekov stiffen like a child whose hand got caught in the cookie jar. It was immediate when Chekov grabbed Sulu by the tie and dragged him away toward the foosball table before Spock might rope him into a debriefing too. Mitchell lingered for a moment, as if unsure that leaving Kirk with Spock would be a good idea, before deciding to escape while he still had the chance.
Kirk kind of wished he could join them.
"You know," Kirk slurred out with care, though horrified at working under the influence. He had made a big, big mistake. Spock was one of those guys: more interested in work than relaxing like a normal person, "we're off the clock, Analyst Grayson."
Still, he took a somewhat demented pity on Spock, who continued to look like he would rather be elsewhere than in some bar, so he just shrugged in mild defeat and gestured him over to a small booth where it was less crowded and easier to breathe.
It might have been the best move he made all night because Uhura slipped away from Spock and towards the bar. She draped her suit jacket over her arm, so Kirk had complete visual of that lovely lower back being guided by Scotty's hand. It surprised him. He thought someone more sophisticated and elegant would be Uhura's type than a jaunty boorish guy like Scotty.
Scotty owed him. Scotty do. Scotty don't.
'Scotty doesn't know'. Kirk chuckled at his own drunken cleverness and hummed the respective song. Spock didn't seem bothered aside from a raised eyebrow. He seemed more curious than accusatory so Kirk continued, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the cool polished wood of the table.
Spock watched him for a moment, looking more relaxed now that there were fewer people surrounding him. He pulled out a tablet from his briefcase. "Agent Kirk, about the data-mining of Arman Faziz's computer tomorrow…"
"Spock…" Kirk moaned, disappointed by the interruption mid-chorus, but it was kind of okay because someone was working an old-fashioned jukebox in the restaurant and picked Here Comes the Rain Again to play. He had to resist singing along. Maybe that beer was stronger than he expected. "I don't think this is the time to talk about work." He'd run out of fingers to count his drinks on and was in no shape to discuss national security with the walking computer. "Plus I'm kinda injured…"
Spock paused and looked up from his tablet, his gaze on Kirk's arm dismissive when he wiggled his fingers at him to prove a point. "If you can go out with your coworkers, then you are not in significant pain."
"Now that's not fair. I'm drunk," Kirk countered, the alcohol not doing much to suppress the irritation itching under his skin. Why should he have to explain himself for being off the fucking clock? "I've had a rough day."
"Clearly."
Kirk's brow furrowed and his words grew sharp. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Agent Kirk, your salvage attempts on Faziz's computer had disrupted my data-mining. I could not piece together the locations of the rest of the possible terrorist cell through that source. This has made our mission more difficult to complete," Spock said. His words continued to be curt, yet he couldn't look Kirk in the eye and instead focused on the tablet. The disrespect was slowly pissing Kirk off. "Sergeant Calhoun has also refused to surrender Faziz's equipment without your approval, despite Director Pike's assurances it wasn't necessary."
"Good," Kirk spat out, glad someone thought of his injured ass. "I bet you're damn pissed off about that, aren't you?"
"As a Kurdish citizen, my culture does not stress anger as an outlet."
"But you're half-American, so that's half-bullshit."
Those dark eyes of his alighted with something familiar: irritation. An actual emotion flickered across Spock's handsome features. "Agent Kirk if you are refusing to work with me in the supplemental log of Operation Gemini…"
How funny. He had sworn Pike had called it Operation Screw-A-Lot. Or was it Don't-Screw-It-Up? It had the word screw in it, that's for sure, and Kirk liked the name better than Ge-mini-dress, or whatever Spock called it.
"What are you gonna do about it? Tattle on me like Mitchell said?" Kirk snarled, withholding the urge to pull on that nice coiffed hair and kick Spock's immaculate ass. Who the hell was so uppity in a goddamn bar? "I'm not refusing shit. Does this look like a conference room? We're in a bar. Do bar things. Work doesn't count."
Spock considered his words, that dark gaze attempting to penetrate Kirk in some strange quest to find something. No, his stare almost resigned, but calculated. Spock was trying to guess Kirk's next move. Because he was a clever son of a bitch, and believed Kirk would be the type to skirt his duties.
Kirk exhaled through his nose, his own gaze imposing. Spock would think that. Everyone else did. His disciplinary file was on constant blast on the compound. Jim Kirk's reckless, a promiscuous liar with a disregard for rules. That's what he wanted, worked hard to portray. He concocted the ultimate con and his coworkers fell for it.
Spock didn't need to learn anything more than what he saw on Kirk's file, thanks. Especially since he was Komack's grunt and here to make sure Kirk got fired for something stupid. As far as Kirk concerned himself, Spock was an enemy mine, and he had to be careful like Mitchell suggested.
He'd be damned to hell if he lost his job because of a pretty face.
For a moment, it almost seemed like Spock's look softened. Dark eyes moved from Kirk's face to his shoulder and down the sling. With a considered nod, Spock got up and tucked the tablet back into his bag. "Very well. We will continue the matter tomorrow morning. If you will excuse me."
Kirk guessed that meant Spock didn't know shit about bar stuff.
"What the fuck?!" Kirk mouthed to the stuffed moose head from next to the TV, and he wondered if he had earned himself a pink slip for his mouth. "Now just wait one damn minute, Spock!"
He chased Spock out of the bar and almost dropped his coat when Mitchell threw it at him. Ignoring the disapproving glare Uhura gave him, Kirk stumbled out the door like a clumsy ox in a desperate bid to save his job. "Okay, seriously! It's just pillow talk, baby!" he slurred out before he could smack a hand over his mouth.
The infamous Kirk mouthiness bounces back at full force. It's a wonder how his paternal line ever secured spouses.
Spock stopped long enough to shoot a look of utter disbelief over his shoulder.
Ken was outside smoking and raising his palms up in confusion, but Kirk ignored him in favor of Spock, who clicked the key fob to a 2014 Mercedes-Benz CLA250. Meanwhile, Kirk's beat up 2002 Dodge Pickup was sitting in the underground CIA lot, looking more like a junk heap than a practical method of transport. Kirk couldn't hate him any more than he did right now.
He glared at the sleek black car and at Spock, who narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"Agent Kirk, it would be best for you to return to your coworkers."
"Oh fuck you," Kirk shot back and hobbled to the passenger side. "Fuck you and your ineptitude at being a date. Fine. I can play. You want to work? Let's work, baby. Get me some coffee and choo-choo mother fucker, I'll fucking work."
"You have made it very clear—"
"Just shut up and start the car!" The world spun and Kirk almost thought Spock would refuse and leave him standing on the parking lot, now without a job or a scrap of dignity left.
But then the passenger door wirelessly clicked, and he slid into expensive leather seating with the heater blasting in his face before Spock could stop him. The sudden extreme change in degrees made him nauseous. "Wow… why so hot…?"
Spock joined him in the driver's side and lowered the temperature. "Where do you live, Agent Kirk?"
"Don't do that," Kirk growled and surprised himself by remembering to put his seatbelt on. "I said I would work, didn't I?"
"You are in no condition to work, nor are you eligible to apply for the graveyard shift tonight," Spock said, careful of avoiding Kirk's drunken temper. "It was an error on my part to ask this of you. You are inebriated."
Kirk shrugged, ignoring the swirling of craft beer and anger in his gut. "My car's back at the compound, so I'll get stranded at home anyways."
He wasn't sure how long they just sat there in the expensive Mercedes. Five seconds? Five minutes? Kirk faded in and out of consciousness because the interior smelled wonderful. The air was potent with a minty spice mixed with the aroma of authentic leather from the seating. He took a deep inhale, letting the scent quiet his nauseous stomach.
The fragrance lulled him into a near-catatonic state, which was better than vomiting. Through the haze, he thought he felt the car move, but he had already passed out and so chalked it up as a dream.
Sometimes when stress overwhelmed him, his idle dreams morphed into a twisted world where his worst nightmares occurred. Add a good wash of booze and his mind became a breeding ground of insecurity and fear of losing everything.
Kirk panicked in his seat the moment the drifted into REM sleep, and flung out with clumsy, inebriated grasps until he found a cool surface to twist his fingers around and give him stability, a soft palm to slide against his own.
The ghost hand tugged, attempted to pull away, but Kirk was firm and desperate. He was dreaming of the entire Board of Directors surrounding him, accusing him of being a constant fuck up, and ordering him to turn in his badge and sidearm. Pike was standing amongst them with disappointment in his eyes.
He had always known he would fuck up eventually and end up alone again.
Kirk whimpered and before he could just give up and pull his fingers away in defeat to unhook his badge, the reluctant hand came back and intertwined their fingers once more.
No matter how much the hazy image of Komack spat at him to hand over his gear, he could not, not with his bandaged arm and someone holding the other hand down.
His nightmares faded until they were nothing. A blissful state of peace washed over him, like someone was smoothing out the wrinkles in his mind until the fear disappeared alongside the nightmares.
Then, almost tentative, the hand around his brushed a thumb over one of his knuckles, and a thrum of unexpected pleasure hit him hard. His nerves flared and warmth shot up from the fingers up his arm until his entire spine lit up with shivers. Kirk feared what that meant, had experienced this kind of excitement once in his life from just a simple goddamn touch, and crashed hard when the infatuation came apart.
He tugged his hand, desperate for a way out. Not again. He couldn't do again. The hand around his was firm and Kirk couldn't muster enough coordination to outmaneuver it. His fingers started to shake until he let out a breathless laugh and was out a second time.
Bones was a dead man. What the fuck did he give him? Cocaine? He didn't remember much else after that thought.
Kirk felt so lax now it was hard to comprehend the waking world, but someone must have picked him up for the night. That explained why someone's fingers were now disentangling from his to slide up his arm and across his throat as gentle as Mitchell would. But the touch didn't seem as coarse like Mitchell's. It couldn't be him.
He moaned in pleasure from the little electric sensations flickering just beneath his skin and pressed his free hand against the hard knuckles of his new partner's.
Did he get picked up by someone else this time? Kirk prayed for a good-looking one before he let his eyes flutter open and begged to the beer gods it wasn't Cupcake again. He didn't want to vomit again. Good beer shouldn't be regurgitated.
"Hey…" he drawled in confusion. Even his goddamn vision was blurry. "Did Spock toss me out of his car?" That's right. He tried to stop Spock, failed, and got picked up by some random guy from the bar.
The hand against his shoulder stilled so Kirk took it as an affirmative. He snorted, too drunk to care about national security. "God I hope he's not gonna report me. Komack's an ass and… he's been riding on mine since forever. Do you think Spock's gonna tell Pike I'm incompetent? Mitchell's right. I have to stop him…somehow."
"I do not…" the voice began, but Kirk laughed and crawled out of the car. He felt strange and hyper-aware of his surroundings and all this empty space around him now he wasn't near the other man. When the driver came around to his side, he stumbled into strong arms and snickered at his clumsiness. It was like something out of a shitty romance novel.
God, he hoped that meant he was getting laid.
Not-Spock smelled nice. Like crisp aftershave and something else, like the nice car. Kirk pressed closer and ran his uninjured hand up that unwrinkled dress shirt, cursing the fashion designer who decided it was necessary to stuff the ends of shirts into pants. It didn't matter because he could still feel cool skin through the thin shirt, but he would have preferred direct contact.
Kirk found himself at home at last, bliss and comfortable in someone else's space. It's been almost five years since he'd experienced that. Loneliness can be a bitch.
"You smell nice," he murmured and nuzzled his mouth snug against the side of the man's neck.
"Agent Kirk," Spock said, his words thick and hesitant. "Please follow me to the elevator."
Kirk frowned at the familiar voice, but decided the booze was fucking with his memory while he ended up dragged through the underground garage and into a steel elevator. Spock wouldn't bring him home; Spock couldn't stand him. Smiling in pure indulgence, he pushed Not-Spock against the doors once they closed and pressed his mouth hungrily against Not-Spock's jaw this time, ready to bleed right into him and just stay there. He belonged there.
Spock stiffened at Kirk's boldness. Kirk felt Spock's hands tremble as he tried to pry him off as gentle as possible, but Kirk wouldn't let him.
It hit him as clear as day once two of his brain cells rubbed themselves together on accident. The voice, the scent, the body.
This guy was Spock, and he was ignoring the bells clanging a desperate warning in the back of his head. The beer and atmosphere had dulled everything, even his survival instinct. Spock should easily beat the shit out of him in his current state and had yet to do so. Kirk was no stranger to mutual attraction.
So why wasn't he kicking his ass? Did gay, bi, whatever Iranian men even exist? It seemed a contradiction, almost unfeasible. Kirk stopped thinking entirely because it was killing his mood.
Spock jumped when Kirk defiantly nipped at his ear, grip loosening just like he wanted. Unable to withstand the sensations any longer, Spock placed two fingers with surprising care against Kirk's chin as if to deter him. Then, in a moment of weakness, he slowly drew them up against Kirk's lips before returning them to Kirk's cheek and pushing his head away.
If Kirk had been in his right mind, without alcohol or the painkillers muddling everything, he would have stopped everything and apologized. Instead, he scooped Spock's hand up to his mouth and met Spock's dark gaze as he flicked his tongue over the other analyst's fingers.
A smug jolt of pleasure settled in his churning stomach when Spock jumped like a live wire and pulled away.
"You licked me," Spock accused, looking at his hand and then back at Kirk, who smiled with satisfaction at his displeasure. Kirk didn't respond except to lick his lips, his grin positively filthy. Spock continued to stare, his nose wrinkling, and uncomprehending of the situation he was in. "That's disgusting."
Nerd.
"Then give me something nicer to lick on. Unless you still believe in cooties," Kirk goaded and pressed his damp mouth against Spock's before the other could react.
Spock murmured something dry and woeful against Kirk's mouth, words that sounded foreign. But Kirk knew what exasperation with a touch of amusement sounded like, no matter how faint it was. He let out a soft breath of laughter before encouraging Spock to take part with a gentle trace of fingers down his jaw.
It didn't work. Spock was determined not to deepen the rather bland pressing of lips, but it looked like he was reconsidering the offer. His fingers ghosted against the area where Kirk's neck met shoulder, squeezing and then not with conflicted consideration.
Kirk purred in encouragement when Spock's fingers slipped upwards once more, vulnerable to his advances. He brushed the corner of Kirk's bottom lip and stiffened in reaction when Kirk sighed in pleasure.
The guy must be a prude or a closeted freak, Kirk decided, because he was still putting up a fight. He pulled back a fraction, making note of those bow-like lips that refused to open and yield, and gave those dark eyes his best sultry smile before leaning forward and playfully lick at the corner of Spock's mouth. "Don't want to play?" he asked hoarsely, half-disappointed, half-aroused.
There was a beat of consideration again before Spock swallowed hard and shook his head. Undeterred, Kirk pressed himself against him once more, this time giving Spock a more physical demonstration of his attraction.
Spock's lips parted with surprise and his dark eyes narrowed, pupils dilating against his judgment. He almost said something, but the elevator stopped, causing Kirk to bounce on his heels and Spock to hiss when his erection accidentally rubbed against his thigh. Before the doors even opened, Spock shoved Kirk back and centered himself, drawing his cool, impassioned aura around him like the armor it was.
Kirk moaned in frustration when he collided with the side of the elevator and decided that he never had a harder time trying to get to first base with someone. Well, okay, Janine Saunders in middle school was worse, but they had metal retainers. To be driven by her irate father down to the orthodontist while connected had been the most humiliating experience of his life, bar none.
A woman in her mid-60s was instead staring at the far wall of the elevator, too tired to comprehend or question why Spock looked rumpled with his collar turned up and his shirt unbuttoned. Kirk wasn't any better. It looked like he had just gotten molested by a bear thanks to his sling.
With a careful nod in greeting to his fellow tenant, Spock grabbed Kirk by the wrist and dragged him into the hallway. The first thing Kirk noticed was the floor tiled with tessellated marble and polished so well he could see his reflection in it.
And really, the dragging was unnecessary. Kirk was eager enough to slip back into Spock's cool side and follow him down the hall, whispering sweet drunk nothings into his ear. Spock ears turned a healthy shade of pink when Kirk deviated between tasteful words of desire to the borderline obscene of where he wanted to stick his tongue in the next three minutes. If that didn't work? Kirk had more ideas if he got himself sober.
Then again, if he wasn't drunk, he was sure he'd have ended this. Something about the golden rule...
You know what, sobriety was overrated.
Despite Spock's urging for him to detach himself, Kirk fixated himself flush against Spock's back, exploring and rubbing through Spock's shirt with his fingers and cheek. He hummed with so much delight, even Spock found himself unable to do anything but stop and allow Kirk to treat him like a heated blanket until he could turn the key and get them through the door.
"Please try to get a hold of yourself, Agent Kirk," Spock said, barely a whisper, because Kirk had returned to nibbling on his ear and exploring Spock's sides and hips with inquisitive fingers.
So virginal, Kirk decided. He continued his careful exploration of Spock's hips and ass, boldly going where no man had gone before, and squeezed. Spock tried to slip away from his touch to close the door, but Kirk followed, determined to get a piece of the action while he was still drunk enough to think it was a good idea to molest his new work partner.
"I'd rather let you get a hold of myself," Kirk managed to get one final lick up the side of Spock's flushed throat until Spock had enough and propelled him into the nearest couch. "No bed?" he whined in mid-bounce on the cushions. The drink told him to stretch himself across the seating to entice Spock instead, letting his legs part to give Spock a look at his arousal, a sneak preview of possible good things to come.
"That is not wise," Spock answered, his gaze flickering over Kirk's obscene pose. With a flare of his nostrils, Spock moved away from temptation and into the safety of personal space. "You will stay here until tomorrow. By then I hope you are sober enough to work."
"You sound like Analyst Grayson," Kirk noted with a groan. "I don't like him, but I like you."
Spock dismissed his drunken ramblings and retreated to his bedroom, making it a point to close his door to deter Kirk from following. "Indeed."
The room was warm, and Kirk drifted in a fog of beer-induced relaxation. When he took stock of his surroundings, he found himself on a stylish comfortable couch inside a stereotypical yuppie apartment. It was artsy, the kind that country boys like Kirk would envision while laying on a barren field and dreaming of skyscrapers and art galleries instead of farms and rundown churches.
'You won't be saved from your total depravity, Jim,' was the old family pastor's parting words. 'You take pride in greed and lust. It will be your undoing, young man, mark my words. If you think moving to the city will keep you from God's watchful gaze, you are mistaken.'
God must be a perverted son of a bitch for peeping in on Kirk's shenanigans. He snorted loudly and his thoughts drifted from unattractive old codgers back to the appealing decor before it still killed his hard-on. The colors were muted, blacks and greys with marble half-walls and glass paneling and some kind of fluttering silky fabric draped around the windows that served less as curtains than as decorative scarves.
Either Spock was obscenely gay, or someone went Queer Eye on his decor. Kirk still wasn't sure which one was right.
He shifted a bit and had to bite back a low moan once he relaxed against the couch's upholstery. It was sinful to his exposed skin and probably cost more than his year's salary. There were pieces of tasteful modern art placed around the area, polished wooden floors that reflected like the hallway floors, and lighting so dim that Kirk almost mistook the lamps for candles at first.
There wasn't a TV anywhere. Instead, a fake fireplace that doubled as a heater was the main centerpiece for the couch. It poured out heat like a real one, which probably accounted for how drowsy Kirk was getting.
He tilted his head over the armrest to find more large windows that overlooked some residential buildings and the freeway, translucent from the silky material of the drapes covering them. To his right was a spotless kitchen that looked like something celebrity chefs like Gordon Ramsay would use, complete with a small marble island with chairs and silvery pots and pans hanging from a rack installed above it.
Kirk would have enjoyed getting down and dirty in a place like this if the host wasn't so prudish. No, he supposed it wouldn't be very tasteful. Making sweet cheap love, maybe? This was a chick's wet dream right here.
"God, your place is fucking incredible," Kirk sighed loudly, jealous that this guy had a better living space than an actual espionage spy like himself. "I bet you get laid like hell bringing people up here. Me? My dates would probably think I was getting food stamps if I brought them home."
"Bringing such people to your personal quarters would be illogical, as their judgmental attitudes mark them as inappropriate partners," Spock's voice came through the door, loud enough for Kirk to hear. There was shuffling around in the bedroom. Spock was searching for something. "Perhaps if you are looking for something more tangible than a one-night stand, you will consider a permanent mate. One that would not judge your financial security at a shallow glance."
"Oh, but where would be the fun in that? The more shallow they are, the less chance of them staying before breakfast." Kirk chuckled in his expense and relaxed on the couch, kicking his shoes up on the marble coffee table. He focused on the modern fireplace, the mantle of which held two photos. One of an aged woman that was most definitely not a girlfriend. Spock's mother perhaps unless he was into older chicks.
The other frame was Uhura and Spock. Kirk grinned with amusement. Spock brought the wrong person home. Uhura was probably heading back to Scotty's shitty apartment right at this moment, lucky bastard.
"Not many agents in my line of work have normal relationships, you know? You can get away with that 'cuz you're an analyst. It's less dangerous," he answered Spock's door with a hesitant grin. "I lie, cheat, steal… murder. Sometimes I gotta sleep with the right people to get information. Sometimes I get a few close calls that can end my life. It's a messy job. Can you imagine waking up to that kind of person every morning?"
There was a moment of silence.
"I did not expect an insightful response." Spock emerged from his room carrying a pair of sweatpants and a shirt for Kirk to use. Spock scrutinized him in a way that reminded Kirk of someone trying to figure out a Rubik's cube before tossing the clothing in Kirk's direction. "The guest bathroom is to your right." He ignored Kirk's boyish wink and retreated into his bedroom. The click of his door suggested a lock turning.
The clothes smelled fresh with a hint of that spice Kirk enjoyed during the car ride. There were no logos or distinctive marks that Kirk could analyze to learn about Spock. These were just ordinary off-brand pajamas, made soft with use.
Analysis complete. No unique feature of the clothing except that it was black. Yup, case solved. He supposed the goth subculture never really went out of style for Spock. Kirk swayed and decided thinking while still drunk was bad. Instead he shrugged off half his coat and tugged at his tie.
This would be much easier if he'd had someone else to divest him of his clothes, preferably for the point of sexy times. The tie quickly became sentient from the drink and tried to strangle him as soon as his fingers tangled into the knot. He couldn't properly combat it with one of his arms out of commission.
Looks like another dangerous mission for the great James T. Kirk.
Time must have flown because Spock emerged from the room to frown at his shitty progress.
"I've come to check on you," Spock began. He was in his own sleepwear, black as well, but Kirk wasn't in the mood to ogle seeing as he was still in bitter combat with his tie. "Checking on inebriated people is recommended in case of drowning."
"Drowning?" Kirk asked with a hoarse throat, giving up on the damn tie.
"Should you expel your intoxication, you may asphyxiate on your own vomit," Spock clarified. "I suggest you raise yourself while resting so it does not happen."
It was the most unsexy thing Kirk had ever heard in his entire life. "I'm starting to realize you don't get laid much bringing people up here."
"An astute observation." Inhaling what almost sounded like a sigh, Spock sat down beside Kirk and made quick work of the tie. How the hell did he do that?
Kirk drew in a deep breath with his newly-freed neck. "Thank you."
"You are welcome," Spock replied and even helped Kirk out of his button-down, noting the sling responsible for Kirk's troubles in the first place. He diligently unhooked the harness and guided the button-down and undershirt past the cast.
Once Kirk was blissfully free of both, Spock tugged the clean black shirt over, careful to work the fabric over the cast once more. "I was hoping to bring you home to talk about the case. You are right. Conversing in the bar would have been a breach of national security."
"I think... you were just intimidated by Gary," Kirk slurred. "He's hot when he gets all angry, don't you agree?"
"He is not my type."
Kirk leaned forward like he was imparting a very classified secret. "He's my type. Tall, dark, handsome, and intelligent as fuck. What sucks is that he's as straight as the Space Needle. I live a tragic life."
"I weep for your plight," Spock said dryly. "You prefer men?"
"Fucking bi, dude. Does no one mention Ruth or Carol around the water cooler or something? You sleep with one guy from the office and all of a sudden it invalidates—hey—" Kirk began and gripped one of Spock's wrists. It was thin and his fingers could have closed around it, but what was important was how cool the skin was against the rather stuffy temperature of the room. "I can do this."
"You are inebriated and injured," Spock stressed, watching a flicker of worry pass by those blue eyes before he returned to hooking the harness back on. "You cannot optimize your motor control in this state."
"You're delaying me on purpose," Kirk mumbled. His words became frantic once it dawned on him. "You can't stop me from working… don't wanna get fired…"
Spock's dark eyes glittered, seeming alight with clear understanding. Before Kirk could question it, Spock shook his head and helped Kirk back onto the couch. "You will not get fired."
Kirk frowned in disbelief. "Why should I believe you?"
"The circumstances of tonight," Spock began carefully, then closed his eyes and reworded. "To ignore this and file a report for off-duty interactions would be illogical. It would also encourage disharmony in the work environment. You are abrasive and lax with rules, but you are not a bad person. Otherwise, you would not have many powerful agents willing to stand with you."
The words sunk in like a hot knife to butter and Kirk's rising panic dissipated, bringing back the calm he'd felt in the car. He sighed in relief and bowed his head. "I just can't lose my job, not like this," he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Might be fucking funny to you, but it's all I have. And Komack… I wasn't trying to sabotage the mission. I really didn't."
"I am aware now." A cool hand slipped up his chest and moved upwards all nice and slow until it cupped the juncture between his neck and shoulder, not unlike what he'd done in the elevator. It reminded him of the way Mitchell would comfort him, but this was different. Completely different.
His pulse quickened when Spock's thumb idly brushed the bump of his Adam's apple and upwards along the line of his jugular. Just a simple touch sharpened his senses and got his blood rushing. It would have scared him shitless if he had been sober.
"You will not lose your job," Spock reaffirmed and this time the words took root. Spock's touch seemed to carve his words into Kirk's consciousness directly, so he could only nod before a shiver of pleasure hit him hard.
"I'll take your word for it," Kirk croaked, then gave Spock a shaky smile when Spock pulled away. "Fucking hell, I think I might actually like you. And I shouldn't."
"Oh?"
Kirk closed his eyes and grinned. "You're an enemy. Can't trust Komack's agent."
"We are on the same side," Spock stressed with hesitation and then his eyes went suddenly downcast. Shame reflected in his fingers, which flexed in discomfort.
Kirk, feeling sobriety trickle in. This had nothing to do with Komack. "Are you sure?" When Spock nodded, Kirk gave him a serious look. "Think we could be friends then?"
There was a slight twitch in the corners of Spock's lips. "I will take it under consideration when you are more sober and less… tactile."
"That's fair." He hiccoughed and before he could curse or even try to get up, vomited over the arm of the couch.
First impressions were a bitch.