Chapter 48
Moonlight spills, milk-white, across the coverlet, chilling the darkness of the bedroom. There was no question, Kirk thinks, about where they were headed, but still they hesitate on the threshold, and he's not sure if that comes from Spock or from Kirk himself. His friend is very still beside him, close enough that Kirk can feel every breath in Spock's chest, even through their ridiculous cocoon of clothes, and he risks a glance sideways at that patrician profile. The half-light falls like liquid silver on Spock's face, casting him in dramatic chiaroscuro, like a modern-day Rembrandt, and Kirk feels something spike in his chest, something dangerous, something uncontrollable. He swallows heavily, too loud in the silence, and Spock's eyes slide silently sideways, meeting Kirk's.
There is a long moment of perfect stillness. And then, without a word, Spock raises his free hand to his mouth, fixes elegant teeth around the middle fingertip of his glove, and peels the fabric away. Kirk watches, transfixed, as long, pale inches of skin slide free, and it's only when the glove falls to the floor with a muted whuff that he realizes he's forgotten to breathe.
They are both wearing far, far too many clothes. The sojourn on the front porch, with all its attendant environmental mitigations and adjustments for desert-dwelling bodies, is beginning to look less charmingly seductive and more catastrophically ill-advised with every passing moment spent inside three sweaters and a scarf. It should not be in any way possible to shed four layers of wool and blended polyester in a manner that is dignified, let alone romantic, and yet Spock has just performed what is unquestionably the most erotic act of divestiture ever witnessed by James T Kirk, and he's a man not lacking experience in this particular field of observation.
He has no idea of how to play this. He's been intending to let Spock set the pace and lead the way. And there are times when Kirk is extraordinarily grateful for his instincts, because they are generally on the money, and sometimes, just occasionally, they direct him to a place where the only possible course of action is to lift the hand that's currently joined with Spock's, guide it up through the narrow space between their bodies, and bring it to his mouth, where he fixes his teeth around the woollen tip of the middle finger of Spock's other glove, and tugs.
Spock's eyes close. He releases Kirk's hand to allow the wool to slide free, and he leans back against the door frame, head rolling on his shoulders, breath a sharp hiss between his teeth. Kirk has been rock hard since their kiss, but the sight of his friend so open, so lost in sensation, is enough to make his cock ache with desire. His hands are still sheathed in their own gloves, and he tears them off, carelessly, wanting touch, wanting skin, as he reaches for Spock's neck, his head, and crushes their mouths together. And there's no equivocation, no restraint, in the kiss that meets his: Spock's arms encircle Kirk without hesitation, fingers reaching for flesh through layers of fabric, gripping hard enough to bruise. Kirk fists his hands in Spock's hair and pulls him in as close as he can, as close as two bodies can connect, and still it's not close enough; never close enough. Teeth and tongues clash and collide with a kind of violence that's almost painful, that hovers on the edge of control, and it has never been like this; he thought it was good before, he thought there was passion and fire and danger each time, but it has never been like this.
"Bed," he mutters, and "Yes," breathes Spock, and so much for the negotiation and discussion and careful planning, but there is a time and a place for rational thought and it's not when he's pressed so tightly against a thick, full Vulcan erection that they're practically reordering the laws of physics. "Clothes," grunts Kirk, and tugs at the edge of Spock's coat, which obliges his companion to release his iron-fast grip on Kirk's back for the second it takes to shed one layer of waterproof fabric with a ripping noise that sounds very much like there'll be some explaining to do the next time they see Bones. Or maybe not: by the sound of it, that tear had the quality of the kind of damage that offers its own commentary; there's a good chance Bones won't even ask.
But Spock is already moving, ripped clothing forgotten in the rush to seize two layers of sweater and drag them up and over Kirk's head. The collars snag on his chin, and he scrambles his arms clear to help, to pull his head free so that he can find Spock's mouth again, hands curling around the back of Spock's neck, fingers carding through Spock's hair, and sliding downwards of their own accord, over thick strata of wool, over the seam where they meet the coarse-woven cotton of Spock's robes, over the tight, round curve of Spock's ass. Spock's breath hitches in his throat as Kirk splays his hands across the corded muscles, feeling the spare flesh contract beneath him, dipping his hands into the cleft and pulling Spock's hips tightly against his own. Their cocks collide and Kirk sees white behind his closed eyes; hears in the low groan that escapes Spock that neither one of them is going to last much longer.
Spock frees his hands to struggle out of the last few sweaters, and now they're down to manageable quantities of clothing at least. Now, after five solid minutes of groping and pulling and disrobing, they've achieved the typical starting point for an enthusiastic undressing of bodies, and that ought to be much more frustrating than it is, but there's something perversely satisfying about it, Kirk thinks; neither one of them has much control over what's happening here, neither one of them is in any kind of state to slow things down, but still—he'd like it to last as long as possible, to remember what he can of it afterwards. They're almost at the bed now, close enough that Kirk can tumble them with just the slightest sideways motion, and they fall together, landing on the comforter without breaking contact. Kirk hitches one leg over Spock's hip and the improved angle sends a dizzying rush of pleasure straight to his balls; and that moan, that low, primal sound that trembles in the air between them, that could have come from either of them. It has never been like this.
Spock's hands are moving now, up and under Kirk's shirt, and his fingers are chilled, delicious points of ice against Kirk's overheated skin. Spock's lips are moving against Kirk's mouth, his jaw, his throat, and Kirk rolls him so that he's on top, bearing down on him, pressing him into the mattress. It's a long time since he's felt the solid pressure of another male body above him, since he's surrendered control like this to someone, and there's a disjointed moment where he has to remember how to let go, to just let himself feel the weight at his hips, his chest, the agonizing roil of pleasure at his groin that he can't control, he can't command. Spock's hands slide higher on his chest, cool fingers grazing a nipple, and Kirk can't help the guttural cry that breaks out of his throat. Spock's body contracts, hips bearing down at the sound, cock grinding against Kirk's, and he knows that they could come like this—together, clothed, and out of control—and he doesn't want that. This is different; this has to be different.
So he cups Spock's ass with both hands, fingers digging into fabric-covered flesh for only a minute before he makes himself move upwards, under the folds of Spock's tunic, grab a fistful of cloth and tug it upwards. He has no idea if this is how Vulcan robes come off; it's not as though this is something he learned in his Xenoculture and Linguistics class back in the Academy, but it seems logical enough, and that's a decent place to start. Spock's elegant fingers move to the collar of his top, to some hidden clasp, and, yes, that's definitely one link higher on the chain of logic—well played, Vulcan haberdashers—but there's barely time to notice this before the thick cotton is falling away to reveal a loose black undershirt, and, dear God, how is the man not melting beneath all that cloth? Kirk zeroes in on Spock's mouth again, because the five-second break in their kiss is becoming intolerable, and together they work with clumsy fingers to free the vest from its precision fastening beneath the waistband of Spock's pants. It slides clear with minimal difficulty, up and over Spock's head to cast onto the dark floor behind them, and suddenly Spock is naked from the hips up and things have just gotten very, very real.
He has imagined this moment more times than he can count, hand wrapped around himself in the privacy of his quarters, eyes closed and the scent of spice at the back of his throat. Here and now, spread out above him, bony and angular and entirely too thin, hair disordered and arousal tenting the front of his pants, it's almost too much to process. It's not that they've never been naked together before; they shared a bathroom for five years, after all. It's not that they've never been this close to one another before either. Hell, it's not even as though they haven't brought each other to orgasm before. It's just that this is the first time they've ever agreed the terms of what they're doing together; it's the first time that they've both walked into this with open eyes and complete understanding. There have been points of no return before, and they've blasted through them with all the care and delicacy of a Dreadnought at Warp 8, but this is the first time that they've let it happen with a clear idea of what things might look like on the other side. And that changes things; it changes them almost past recognition. They've done this before, but not this. This they haven't tried. Kirk reaches his hands to the hem of his shirt and tugs it up and over his head, throwing it carelessly out into the shadows and pulls Spock's mouth back down to his own, fingers curling into the skin of Spock's neck. Because this they haven't tried, and he's getting damned impatient about fixing that.
Bare-chested, skin to skin, Kirk toes off his boots and hears them thud against the floor. His fingers glide along the length of Spock's back, over ribs too close to the skin, over vertebrae that jut out of spare flesh, until he finds the edge of Spock's pants. They're tight, close-fitting, but they will part enough to admit two Human hands and Spock grunts and thrusts downwards as Kirk makes contact, grips, pulls him closer. One hand slides between them, fusses somewhere along Spock's waist, and suddenly the pressure over Kirk's wrists releases, the fabric gapes away from Spock's backside, and he feels his companion go very, very still. Kirk didn't realize his eyes were closed until he's obliged to open them, and he looks up to see that Spock has rested his head against Kirk's forehead, gaze fixed on Kirk, face unreadable.
No. Not unreadable; not quite. There's a question in that hooded stare, and there's remorse, and there's confession, and all the hundred-and-one things that Spock will never name emotion while he allows them to eat away the heart of him, to freeze him from the inside out. And there's hesitation, too, but, where once Kirk might have read shame, distaste, aversion; it's remarkable the way a little context can add nuance to the lexicon of Vulcan non-verbal communication. It's not reluctance that has brought procedures to a groin-tightening halt. It never was, and that was always the problem.
Kirk sucks in a breath, leans his head up to press a gentle, tender kiss to Spock's lips. His friend's eyes close, his breath catches, and Kirk moves his hands up to cup either side of his jaw, to hold him in place as the stiffness in his shoulders eases, as the tension softens from his arms. "Let me," he says, a breath against Spock's mouth, and Spock's eyes don't open and he says nothing, and the world holds still for a long, long moment.
And then Spock nods.
Kirk presses another kiss upwards, close-mouthed and chaste, feels Spock's lips contract into it above him. His hand runs along the length of Spock's jaw, over his shoulders and onto the small of his back, and then he rolls them with a gentle push: enough to lay Spock on his back above the coverlet, not enough to move Kirk on top. Spock's chest is heaving, breath fast and uneven, but he moves without complaint and without comment, eyes following Kirk as Kirk shifts onto his knees, gets a hand beneath each of Spock's upper thighs, lifts them up and onto the bed. Whatever they've been doing to him out on that desert rock, Kirk thinks, it hasn't involved food or rest or any form of basic bodily maintenance; the man he remembers from a desperate scramble on a San Francisco couch has receded into a shadow of bones and loose skin, but there's still strength in those muscles, there's still weight, and he couldn't move his friend if Spock didn't want to let him. But there's no hint of resistance as Kirk slides Spock's hips more fully onto the mattress, lifts one leg to rest on his right, the other to rest on his left. There's nothing but silence, hooded eyes, and ragged breath.
Spock's boots are damp with melted snow, dark patches staining the thick-woven cloth. They're not Starfleet issue, and they're certainly not Terran, and, for a moment, Kirk simply stares at them, at the criss-crossed lines of binding that wrap them from toe to calf, and wonders how the hell they're supposed to come off. But he's not the youngest admiral in 'Fleet history because of a penchant for the complicated; command is about starting with the simplest solution and working up from there, and so he gives the heel of one boot a speculative tug, on the principle that, if it doesn't work, he can think about investigating the intricate pattern of knotwork at the top in the hope that it's not as convoluted as it looks. And, since he's never met a Vulcan artifact that wasn't at least twice as arcane as it needed to be, he's pleasantly surprised to find that the shoes slide clear of Spock's foot with only the most cursory resistance, revealing the pale, narrow feet below, chilled and pinched with cold.
Kirk runs an experimental finger along one sole, and Spock's foot arches into the touch, a hiss escaping from his throat. He glances up and sees that his friend has not moved, that his eyes remain fixed on Kirk, that his chest rises and falls in a manner that betrays his utter stillness. "Trust me," says Kirk softly, and it's somewhere between a question and a command, enough to prompt a faint quirk of one eyebrow. "Trust me," says Kirk again, and what he wants to say is trust yourself.
"Yes," says Spock, and Kirk wonders if he's heard him just the same.
Spock's pants gape open at the waist, peeled back from the fastening to expose the sharp angles of his pelvic bone. Kirk shifts himself, re-centers, and reaches up to close his fingers around the upper hem, aware that his hands are shaking. Spock's breath stutters and skips as their skin connects, and then, wordlessly, he cants his hips upwards, lifting the seat of his pants from the comforter. The fabric shifts again, outlining the shape of Spock's erection through the cloth, and Kirk sucks in a breath, steadies himself, and lifts the hem up and over the swollen cock, releasing it into the night air. He has never seen it hard before; he's barely seen it soft—stolen glances in the gymnasium showers, guarded moments in communal mission quarters, cursory ablutions during a red-alert wakening in the middle of the night—and he lets his eyes glide over it as he slides Spock's pants down, along his legs, over his ankles, and throws them to the floor. It's lean and long, like the man himself, slick with a filmy, viscous liquid that casts the sharp, spiced scent of his arousal into the air; smoother-skinned than Kirk's, and absent visible testes, but otherwise little different. Kirk wants to touch; he wants it so badly that he can feel his heart thrumming in his ears with the rush of desire, but instead, he makes himself sit upright, step off the bed, raise his hands to the fastening of his own pants, and strip off those final layers of clothing. Spock's eyes follow him, and still he says nothing.
Naked, Kirk makes his way back to the bed, lies down next to Spock. For a moment, neither of them moves, and then, slowly, gently, Kirk nudges his head forward to meet Spock's, brushes their lips together, watches as Spock's eyes flutter closed. One long-fingered hand rises to trail the length of Kirk's jaw as their kiss deepens, and Kirk brings a hand up to Spock's flank, to rest it lightly on the curve below his ribcage and feel a strong heartbeat thundering below his palm. He's so close now, close enough that he can feel the heat from Spock's cock, can feel the air move as it twitches below his arm when he glides his hand down, over the angular hip, over the wiry hair of his upper thigh. Kirk presses his mouth in more tightly against Spock's, feels Spock's tongue meet his, feels the soft sound of pleasure at the back of his friend's throat, and lets that be his guide. His hand moves downwards, into the rough brush of pubic hair at Spock's groin, and his fingers circle Spock's penis.
A small noise, halfway between pleasure and consternation, buries itself in their kiss, and Spock arches forward, thrusting into Kirk's grip. The skin of Kirk's palm tingles where it slides against lubricated flesh, as though he has dipped his hand into water that's just the right side of uncomfortably warm, and the cock in his hand feels hot to the touch, solid as a length of iron. Spock breaks free of Kirk's mouth and tilts his head forward, breathing heavily as his hips work against the comforter, hand hovering above Kirk's thigh as though he's looking for permission. Kirk is painfully hard now, and, with his free hand, he reaches up and laces his fingers through Spock's, guiding them down to wrap them together around his aching cock. The touch of Spock's cool skin is so sharp it's almost electric, and Kirk can't help the groan that escapes his throat as those long fingers begin to work him, carefully at first, gently and uncertainly, and then harder as Kirk lets himself go, thrusts into it, matches Spock's rhythm.
"Spock," he hears himself say, and his hand is slick, sticky with Spock's lubricant; he can feel it between his fingers, beneath his nails, like a constant, low-level current running through his skin. "I can't… you feel so good…."
If he was expecting a response, he gets none, but the hiss of Spock's breath in his ear; the short, nasal sounds of pleasure; the rapid thrust of his cock in Kirk's hand are answer enough. He can feel his orgasm building; he can feel it tightening his balls, and he wants to hold it off but there's just no way to slow himself down. He's wanted this for far too long; they both have.
Kirk comes first: a dizzying rush that whites out his vision, and he hears himself yelling something that might be Spock's name, might be obscenities, might be nothing but pure sound. It's long and it's hard, and he feels it splashing on his chest, over their joined hands, as though he's emptying himself onto his friend's pale skin. Spock is thrusting faster now; even through the daze of his own orgasm, Kirk can feel it, can feel the heat that builds beneath his hand, can feel the air of desperation that creeps silently into his movement, and then he stiffens on the bed and Kirk feels a hot streak at his groin, on his belly as his friend jerks and spasms beside him.
He thought they'd done this before. He thought he knew what Spock would look like when he lost himself in pleasure. But they might as well have been different men, that day; it might as well have happened to somebody else, because it was nothing like this. It was nothing like the way Spock's eyes squeeze shut as climax grips him, the way his lips form a thin white line across his face as his head rolls backwards on his shoulder, as his body forms a perfect arch on the bed. It was nothing like the hissed, abandoned sound of Kirk's name forced through his lover's clenched teeth as he stripes Kirk's body with thick lines of ejaculate. Everything is different, even this.
They fall back on the pillows, side by side, and, for a long moment, the room is silent but for the sound of two sets of lungs seeking oxygen in heavy, ragged breaths. Kirk's eyes are closed; he doesn't need to open them to know that he's a mess, that they both are. Semen pools on his belly, in his pubic hair, on the bed between them; he has a suspicion that it might also account for the vague feeling of wetness at his ear, and he's not sure which of the two of them it belongs to, but, either way, it's impressive. His heart hums in his chest like a caged bird, and the rush of blood inside his skull feels like the moment of weightlessness on the transporter pad when the beam locks on: not quite solid, not quite energy, somewhere in between. He's not certain he'll ever be able to move again.
A long moment passes, and neither of them moves or speaks. There's no need. Their hands remain joined.
In the end, it's the chill of cooling lubricant in February night air that brings Kirk back to himself, and he raises his hand experimentally to his face to inspect his palm. Beside him, a faint rustle of hair on cotton pillowcase describes the motion of a Vulcan head turning to watch with a blank-faced expression that could be scientific interest, could be alarm, could be self-loathing, and could be lazy post-orgasmic bliss. Kirk lets his hand catch the moonlight and turns it this way and that, peering at the skin. It's too dark to say for sure, but he thinks it might be a little redder than usual, possibly a little bit warmer, but there's no sign of any trauma, no blistering, no pain and no swelling. He slides his eyes sideways, meets Spock's, presents Exhibit A for his consideration.
"As first efforts go," says Kirk, "I'd call that a success. Wouldn't you?"
There's a moment of silent deliberation. Then Spock reaches up with a hand that, Kirk cannot help but notice, is anything but steady, grips Kirk's wrist, and pulls his arm down into Spock's line of sight. A cursory inspection fails to meet his requirements, and an item of clothing—which might actually be Kirk's, come to think of it—is procured from some corner of the comforter and swiped across the slick, sticky liquid to afford better access to the skin beneath.
"There is no evidence of damage to the dermis," Spock acknowledges after a moment. "However," he adds, before Kirk can loose any expression of satisfaction, "the skin of the Human hand is considerably less sensitive than that of… other areas."
Kirk takes a moment to reflect upon the fact that they are both naked on his bed, covered in each other's semen, and buzzing from the afterglow of two bone-shattering orgasms experienced at a volume that may very well have startled the birds from the surrounding trees, and yet Spock still cannot bring himself to refer to Kirk's penis by name. But that seems like an observation for another time.
"Well," he says cheerfully, "I guess further speculation is redundant until such time as we're able to gather sufficient evidence."
"Jim…" says Spock quietly, and his voice is low, reproachful. It's a voice with which Kirk is uncomfortably familiar, and it has no place in this room—not tonight, not ever again—and so, with superhuman effort, he makes himself roll over onto one side so that he's facing Spock, makes himself lock his eyes on the top of Spock's head. Makes himself wait.
"Spock," he says. "Look at me. Spock."
A deep breath, and dark eyes slide reluctantly upwards. Spock meets Kirk's gaze, and he does not look away, and, though there's anxiety there, and doubt, and disquiet, something inside Kirk unknots, something releases, something settles. Unbidden, a memory reaches out of the depths of recall, and he feels the rough wool of an old Starfleet couch beneath his hands, the stiffening fabric of his uniform pants at his groin, the lurch in his gut as Spock looked up at him in shame and confusion, and he realizes that he knew then; he knew in that moment that Spock would leave. He saw it in his eyes. Spock looked at him that day, and he was already gone, and whatever it was, whatever dullness or absence he saw written into his friend's face that long-ago day on the Presidio, it's not there now.
And he knows again: it's different now. They are different. There's no danger of flight this time, there's no black road stretched out ahead, there's no emptiness in the eyes that meet his, just a question, an uncertainty, and something else, something warmer. Something that wants to be convinced.
"Spock," says Kirk again, more gently. "Spock—don't think it. There's no point. We both know I couldn't walk away from this now if I wanted to, and neither could you."
Another deep breath lifts Spock's chest, moonlight like rich silk on his skin. He doesn't answer at first, but his hand slides across the coverlet in search of Kirk's once more, long fingers lacing through their counterparts, and Kirk feels his hand lifted, pulled gently upwards and towards Spock's face. It's still damp with lubricant, still sticky and prickling faintly where the liquid clings to it, but Spock raises it to his mouth, palm turned away from him, and presses a soft kiss to each of the knuckles in turn.
"You are correct," says Spock, and he closes his lips on Kirk's.