A/N: There's a lot of Vulcan in this chapter (just because I like it when Spock speaks Vulcan, and there's not enough of it in canon!) You can download a translation in .doc format from:

http:/ www . mediafire . com/?t3li2i3dipmab3y

or PDF format from:

http:/www . mediafire . com/?hp30g828uvf7v3f

(Just take out the spaces in the web addresses)

Sorry I don't have a better means of transcribing it! Fanfiction . net doesn't support HTML coding for a hover-over translation, unfortunately. For smaller, one-off words here and there, there's a translation at the bottom. All translations come from the VLD.

Also - this chapter contains some explicit content.

-o-o-o-

Chapter 5

"Nekhau tuluk tu? Skilsu nash-veh."

Kirk's head is utterly immobilized by a skinny greenish arm with the consistency of tempered iron and approximately twice the strength. A bony knee is pressed delicately into the small of his back, pinning him to the gymnasium floor, and a hand splays casually between his shoulder blades as though it doesn't have the potential to push the man beneath it several centimeters through the mat and into the deck below.

Kirk grins, although he knows he can't be seen. Perhaps that has something to do with it, in fact.

"Worla," he chokes through a constricted windpipe.

"Riolozhilkaik," is his predictable answer. "Ri fakovau tu."

"Dungau gla-tor etek. " Spots of black are beginning to appear before his eyes.

"Ri aitlu du dash-tor. Nekhau sanu."

"Fa-wak shroi ri nash-veh nemut zhitlar," says Kirk.

There is a sigh. "Mair-or'nai-ga tu, khart-lan," says a voice that is just on the Vulcan side of long-suffering.

"Ri fai-tor nash-veh..." - it is getting progressively harder to think in Standard, let alone a language he only started to learn two years ago - "ish-zhit V'tosh na'insubordination."

There is a momentary hesitation. The choke-hold releases fractionally.

"Ak'wikmun nash-veh," says the dry voice of his First Officer. "Fai-tukh vu lo'uk se t'V'tosh." Almost imperceptibly - except, perhaps, to one in direct receipt of the gesture - the hold tightens again. "Wi-heh, ri fai-tor tu ish-zhit na'nekhau, saudau ish-veh."

If it were possible to draw air into his lungs past the minimum required for cardio-pulmonary function, Kirk might chuckle. The fact that it is not has not been lost on his amygdala, which is now controlling the show and forces his vocal chords to bypass that part of his brain that is vaguely aware that an audience of Ensigns and Lieutenants have paused in their workouts to watch their Captain get his ass handed to him. His survival instinct, if not his pride, says, "Nakhau nash-veh."

There is a fractional hesitation, just long enough for Kirk to wonder if Spock is going to insist he intones the ritual surrender - which comprises a hendecasyllabic ode to the victor's superior strength that borders on the histrionic, even by Human standards - and then the pressure on his throat is gently released and the hand that was formerly pinning him to the floor is offered to help him rise. Mindful of Vulcan etiquette even now, Kirk smiles his thanks and clambers to his feet unaided, dispersing the gathering crowd by virtue of acknowledging their presence. A dozen heads flick quickly away, suddenly intent on equipment, each other, or - if all else fails - the walls.

Kirk grins at his First. "It's the klachek-mal-nef ," he says, brushing chalk-dust from his hands. "My tehnokatlar-ash'ya is never quick enough to counter you."

"Indeed, Captain," says Spock. "I would be happy to provide further instruction, should you so desire."

Kirk's skin is slick with sweat, his Starfleet-issue exercise tights arrowed with dark patches of perspiration at his groin and the back of his knees. Spock has barely a hair out of place and the thick, baggy tunic and pants that he habitually uses for exercise are still sharply creased and immaculate. The Captain's eyes sparkle. "Certain you want to challenge your odds like that?" he says.

"My ratio of victory to defeat currently stands at ninety-nine point seven percent, Captain," says Spock.

Kirk's eyes narrow. "I don't recall achieving point three of a victory," he says.

"I refer to the occasion on Stardate 3717.4, when Ensign Cho slipped while making use of the treadmill and I was obliged to release you from the meskaraya-shaht before you had technically submitted in order to render him assistance."

"Ah," says Kirk. His lips twist. "I should have known, Mr. Spock."

Spock inclines his head gravely. Another man might have missed the little flicker of amusement glinting behind his carefully immutable expression, but Kirk is enjoying himself far too much to believe that Spock is not equally entertained. "If you will assume the palikau-laman," says Spock, arranging himself into the traditional opening posture of Suus-Mahna combatants.

It has been three weeks since they left Starbase 2, which makes it just shy of three weeks that they've been holed up in the Beta Aurigae system taking pictures of gravity, and Spock is pretty much the only member of the 430-strong crew who is not conspicuously over the whole thing. But there's a powerful fascination in watching him when he's got his teeth into a captivating project. It's as though part of the wall crumbles and he forgets to hold himself so stiffly or to make sure he doesn't smile when something makes him happy – as though he moves inside his own personal bubble of light – and that simple joy is contagious. Spock spends his days and nights in the labs, playing with complicated equations and occasionally calling the Captain in to gesture animatedly at something onscreen that looks remarkably like the product of an unsupervised three year old with a keyboard and a hammer. He has managed to absent himself so comprehensively from normal life, in fact, that this is the first opportunity they've had to spend time together since the evening before they rendezvoused with the Potemkin, barring official dinners. But there's a palpable difference between Spock disappearing into science and Spock hiding in science, and only a CO with a heart of stone and the punctilious soul of a dyed-in-the-wool bureaucrat would begrudge that light in the First Officer's eyes when nothing else on the ship particularly needs his undivided attention. Somehow or other, presumably during the periods when he should be sleeping or eating, the pedestrian tasks of daily crew maintenance are being completed, and Spock doesn't look like he's on the verge of collapse or breakdown – if anything, he's positively glowing – so Kirk has decided to be pleased that someone on board is enjoying their assignment and leave it at that.

It was a surprise to make his way out of the locker rooms, with the vague idea of running a few laps to slake off the restless energy that has a tendency to accumulate in his muscles when there's little else to do but paperwork, and only to find his First running through the first steps of the shidorau[RK18] on the exercise mats in the far corner. It's a Friday evening, which is their usual Suus Mahna night, but Spock has missed the past two, and the assumption that martial arts were on hold until such times as the binary system gave up its secrets in the face of the dedicated application of Vulcan tenacity had allowed their arrangements to slip Kirk's mind entirely. He's out of practice and unprepared, but, truthfully, neither one of those facts was ever likely to make much difference to the overall outcome, which has predictably seen him face-down in the foam padding for much of the past thirty minutes.

He hasn't enjoyed himself so much in weeks.

Spock circles him speculatively and Kirk keeps pace, arms arranged in the arc of the urokessor-shidik, for all the good it's likely to do him.

"Laman vu rom se," says Spock. "Nes'quil vu pi'ashenau hi."

Kirk complies, and is rewarded with a lightning tackle that zeroes in on his newly-exposed belly, sucking the breath from his lungs before he can even remember the Vulcan word for foul play. His knees succumb to the inevitable and Spock rolls him as they hit the mat, tucking the Captain's right arm between his back and the considerable weight of a Vulcan chest, and crushing Kirk's ribs and face against the mat.

"Fa-wak shroi ri tu nemut vu zhitlar," says Spock in his ear, and Kirk almost punctures a lung trying to laugh before he remembers that he can't.

"Than kwul-tor savensu t'orensu?" mutters Kirk, or at least he tries to. There is a tiny shift above him, as of a miniscule Vulcan shrug.

"Kuv'ashenau orensu t'nes'quil," says Spock. "Nekhau tuluk tu?"

Kirk grins. "Worla," he says.

There is a heavy, exasperated sigh that brushes the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, and at that moment the ship's whistle sounds and Uhura's voice fills the tannoy, calling Kirk from the bridge. Unseen, the Captain smirks.

"Saved by the bell, Spock," says Kirk into the mat, and makes to rise.

The elbow in his spine shifts fractionally, the better to pin him down. "Nekhau tuluk tu?" says Spock again. There is a short pause. "It is a question of Vulcan honor, Captain."

It damn well isn't – or, if it is, it's a question of one very specific Vulcan's honor – but it's hard to argue with a steel-corded tibia pressed firmly into one's shoulder blades. The whistle and Uhura sound again, and Kirk considers pulling rank, before realizing abruptly that he'll be pulling rank from face-down on the gymnasium floor in front of an audience of Ensigns, and the only thing worse than being repeatedly annihilated by your First in front of your crew is surely having your crew witness you abusing your status as superior officer in order to pull an underhanded victory out of the jaws of defeat.

Kirk sighs. Or at least he would if he had the lung capacity. "Nakhau nash-veh," he says. Air rushes in to fill his chest as Spock climbs off his Captain's back and extends a hand to his prostrated CO. Kirk grins and allows himself to be roughly pulled to his feet. "Don't think I'll forget this, Mr. Spock," he says.

"Indeed, Captain," says Spock, but his eyes are shining.

-o-o-o-

There is a comm port on the wall beside the locker room door. Kirk grabs his towel and holds it in front of him as he crosses the gym, because Starfleet-issue exercise tights are unforgiving and, unless one's member is completely quiescent, the options are obvious erection or obvious attempt to hide an obvious erection. He's been rolling around on the floor with Spock for half an hour now and the results are predictable.

He presses the button to activate the link. "This is Kirk," he says. Sweat trickles down his back between his shoulder blades and he'd love to throw the towel around his neck, but Spock is watching from across the mat. It wouldn't be the first time that Kirk has sprung an inconvenient hard-on during exercise, but these circumstances are a little more compromising than he's comfortable with.

"Captain, we've received a communication from Starfleet HQ," says Uhura's disembodied voice. "Encrypted for the Captain's eyes only. Shall I send it to your quarters or would you prefer to read it on the bridge?"

"I'll take it in my quarters," says Kirk. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Kirk out." He glances up at Spock and nods a summons, then gives up and slings the towel around his neck anyway, because what the hell: it's not like Spock doesn't know what he's hiding beneath it. His First Officer crosses the floor in a maddeningly energetic stride, with his eyes trained carefully away from his Captain's crotch. The knowledge that Spock is actively trying not to look does not do anything to invert the blood flow from the area; if anything, the implied attention makes things worse.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" says Spock.

"Mr. Spock, it looks as though you're going to have to forgo the pleasure of humiliating your Captain any further tonight," says Kirk cheerfully. Spock looks neither chagrined nor offended but simply inclines his head with a supercilious glint to his eye. It is both a triumphant return to form, and at the same time indicative of less horror at the notion of humiliating the Captain than the Captain would necessarily prefer. "I may need you later. Will you be in the labs?"

"I think not," says Spock. Not a hair is ruffled, nor is there a crease to be found on the sweat-free fabric of his tunic. The only perceptible sign of exertion is the slightly heightened scent from his skin – sharp and vaguely piquant, like freshly-chopped chillis or ginger. "The latest gravitational simulations are running autonomously and are close to completion. I believe I will pass the evening by attending to a number of tasks that more immediately require my attention."

"Spock," says Kirk. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Three point seven ship's days ago, Captain," says Spock innocently. Kirk rolls his eyes and Spock, predictably, elaborates. "Vulcans do not require as much rest…"

"Yes, Mr. Spock," says Kirk, with an air of infinite patience that earns him an eyebrow.

They wander into the locker rooms and Kirk slings his soaked towel into the cycler. If the message were urgent he would have been notified, and he's damned if he's going to stride through the corridors of his ship in skin-tight, sweat-stained tights and sporting an erection you could hang a flag off, not when he can shower himself decent and camouflage the worst of his arousal in a clean uniform. He turns to Spock. "I'll leave you to your work," he says. "It's probably nothing, but I'll let you know. And, Spock: try and get some rest, will you?"

"Captain," says Spock, which is not an answer. But he's too practiced at this to wait for a reply.

Kirk watches him leave for a moment, since the room is empty and there is no-one to bear witness to a priapic Captain and the object of his gaze. His skin is tacky and chilled in the relative cool of the tiles and shadows, and, where it has been pressed against his First Officer, the lingering scent of him remains. Kirk breathes deeply and his nostrils fill with the warm Vulcan flavors, always stronger and more thickly layered after their Suus Mahna, perfumed and peppery like an exotic spice.

-o-o-o-

Despite what he's told his Captain, Spock does not go directly to his quarters but makes a series of perfunctory stops in the gravitational metrics and computer labs on the way. It's as much of a denial as it is a reassurance because, as pressing as the urgency is, he needs to know that it can be subsumed, that it is still possible to exercise his will over his biological functions. For three weeks he has been so comprehensively submerged beneath a constant stream of discovery that he has barely noticed when he's been hungry or fatigued, let alone the secondary imperatives, and, if he considered it at all, he imagined that the distance from Kirk, both metaphorical and actual, was enough to restore some sort of equilibrium. They have dined together at formal parties held for the senior officers of both ships, and he has spent dutiful hours away from the labs in attendance at endless social gatherings and strategy meetings and brainstorming sessions, where the Captain has approached him and they've talked easily, as friends do. As long as there has been a continuous stream of higher math churning through 50 percent of his brain, it has been possible to believe that this is all he feels. And then tonight the computer spat out the first in the series of logarithmic formulae that he initially predicted would start to map the binary gravitational matrix, and he suddenly realized that the project was approaching its conclusion. More than that: the need for sentient input is now essentially past, and it only remains for his team to supervise the processing of results.

From a cushioned bubble of parabolic segments and rotational axes, he has now found himself rather unceremoniously ejected into the prosaics of a starship that is stationary in a non-hostile, unpopulated segment of charted space. Or, to put it another way, he no longer has math to hide behind and there's basically nothing to do on the ship.

He knew that there was a chance, however minor, that Kirk would visit the gym this evening. The sudden burst of adrenalin at the thought of his Captain advised against the visit, and yet he knew, despite all rational arguments to the contrary, that he would go anyway. It was their customary hour for Suus Mahna practice, and, though Spock knew that there was every chance Kirk would assume their sessions were indefinitely suspended, still his eyes swept the expanse of the gym from the locker room doors, from the suspended tracks to the recessed exercise booths, in an abortive effort to find him. Of course it was better that the Captain wasn't there, logically, since his absence allowed Spock to focus on the shidorau without constantly diverting a portion of his concentration to the maintenance of his controls.

That might have been a more convincing argument, had logic played any part in his decision to attend the gym.

The sudden flash of pleasure that twisted his belly was mirrored on his friend's face when the Captain emerged from the locker rooms and their gazes locked across the floor, and it set in motion a process that Suus Mahna, with its series of grips and tackles and constant physical contact, was bound to exacerbate. The Captain's manifest arousal didn't exactly help matters either. Spock is not so disordered that he was unable to maintain his controls during their session, but there comes a point after which it is both impossible and illogical to ignore the needs of the body. The diversion through the science labs is as much for his own peace of mind as to actually check on anything, because this level of need disturbs him and he would like to know that it can be subsumed and contained by necessity. It makes him uneasy.

He steps into the comfortable heat of his quarters and strips off his bulky tunic, laying it carefully on the edge of his bunk as he lowers himself to the mattress. Kirk has spent so many hours in this cabin with him, curled casually into the guest chair by the desk, standing by Spock's side at the terminal, sitting cross-legged on the floor during a few weeks' earnest – if hopeless – effort to learn the basic techniques of Vulcan meditation. It is not difficult to conjure his image here – it can happen without Spock's conscious decision – but it feels like an invasion of Kirk's privacy and he won't do it until he has to, until his mind reaches automatically for what it needs in the final stages.

With his controls relaxed and his mind wandering, he is hard within seconds, and the first sensation is relief. The tension leaves his shoulders and his muscles sag, and for a moment he allows the undisciplined slouch, allows his mind to replay the sensation of Kirk's body beneath his, the scent of his skin, the warmth and the sweat and the taut, pliant muscles beneath his hands. In that instant, when he can feel the lithe figure pinned below him, he slips his hand inside his pants and firmly grips his erection around the base.

The feel of his hand around the sensitive flesh explodes little flash-bombs of pleasure along his spine and into his brain, and already his fingers are slick and dripping with transferred lubricant. With his free hand, he eases his pants off his body, shuffling awkwardly so as not to break contact with his swollen cock, and kicks them free. He sits for a moment, breathing heavily, as the urgency builds. Spock clears his mind until there is nothing there but a high whine of arousal, a screaming need, and a steady throb of lust. Slowly, he strips his hand from the base of his cock to its head, trailing thick stripes of his natural lube, and a grunt escapes him. The pleasure is too intense now to restrain and he pumps his hand against the slippery shaft, eyes squeezed shut as a feverish excitement rises. It is impossible not to imagine that the friction of his hand is the gentle resistance of another body as he thrusts into it, and the only control he is able to offer is to shadow the features so that the face becomes any face, the body just a body. He will not color the eyes in hazel or flash a sunshine smile over its shoulder as the pace increases; he will not imagine the sensation of being spread out, prone, above a stocky, muscular form and burying himself deeply within it. And then from somewhere his mind trails a peal of the Captain's laughter, the whisper of his First Officer's name, and Spock feels his balls tighten quickly with the rapid approach of orgasm. As his blood sings in his ears and reason deserts him, a kaleidoscope of images assaults him: Kirk on the bridge, turning a carefree smile towards the science console, Kirk slinging an easy arm around Spock's shoulders, Kirk's squat, square hands gripping a glass as he stretches his legs across the desk, Kirk's impossibly warm skin, flushed with exercise, and the bulge of his arousal tenting the front of his pants…

It's possible he mutters Jim as he comes and it's possible that the word only explodes inside his head, but sticky semen splashes over his hand and the Captain's name is on his lips, and the Captain's face is etched deeply into the disordered mess of shame and relief and helpless lust that drops him backwards onto his pillow.

Jim, he thinks desolately as his body ceases shaking and his heart begins to slow.

Jim.

-o-o-o-

Translations:

klachek-mal-nef - knee-lock

tehnokatlar-ash'ya - counter-measure using the foot

meskaraya-shaht - end hold

palikau-laman - opening stance

shidorau - exercise incorporating all the moves of Suus Mahna

urokessor-shidik - sickle-shape