Chapter 50

The room is warm and the fire is bright, but it's February outside: the season is wrong for sleeping naked without a blanket, and, as it turns out, the presence of a Vulcan bedfellow, stretched skin to skin along the length of one's body, does not generate sufficient bodily heat to mitigate against the chill in the air. Kirk wakes after no more than half an hour's fitful sleep, and it's only partially because the skin on his hand is starting to throb.

This could be problematic.

The slow, steady rise and fall of Spock's chest tells Kirk that his friend has not woken with him, but there's no way to know if he's slipped into a light mid-morning doze, or dropped like a stone back into that deep, immersive blackness that laid him out last night. Snoring would be a useful marker, but why does Kirk have the feeling that this particular autonomic reaction is going to turn out to be an artifact of illogical Human physiological redundancies, and absolutely not a thing that Vulcans do? Whether or not that proves, in fact, to be the case? But that's another debate for another time; for now, he needs to take care of the issue at hand, as it were, and that's going to be one hundred percent easier to achieve if he can finish his ministrations before Spock wakes up.

Carefully, deftly, he slides out of Spock's loose-limbed grip, folding the long, pale arm back across his friend's chest. The throw rug is going to need a run in the cycler, just like the bed linens, a couple of the towels, last night's clothes and this morning's jeans, so there's nothing to be lost in tugging one end down off the back of the couch and using it to cover Spock's sleeping body; maybe keep a little of the heat in, let him nap a while longer. Uninhibited treatment of possible low-level chemical burns aside, Kirk has never known him to sleep like this. He clearly needs the rest.

His pants have made it out into the hallway. Kirk has no idea how this happened, but it's something of a relief; when they were not immediately visible in the sitting room, he had visions of his parents happening upon them down the back of an armchair or stuffed beneath a rug at some undetermined date in the future, and they actually belong to his father. That's just not a conversation Kirk ever feels like having, even across subspace and thousands of light years of distance. He pulls them halfway on, realizes they're going to be uncomfortable, and settles instead for slinging them over his shoulder and continuing naked into the kitchen. This is, technically, his place too, after all, and they're miles from any other curious eyes. And, besides, he likes the fact that he has an excuse to pad about the cabin with no clothes on. He likes the decadence of it. He likes the reason behind it.

At the sink, he runs the water for a moment until it's ice cold, and then jams his hand beneath the flow. It's probably too late to make any appreciable difference; what he needs is to remember to make sure, in future, that none of Spock's lubricant stays on his skin any longer than it has to. It's fun at the time, but his epidermis clearly isn't enamored of long-term exposure, and this is precisely the sort of thing that Spock does not need to know at this point in the discussion. They've kept contact limited to their hands alone for now, and it seems like a sensible precaution: the skin of Kirk's palm is not blistered and it shows no sign of any deep or significant damage, but it's red and uncomfortable and he can feel the heat tingling beneath the surface even under a stream of water that has only just stopped being snow. This seems like useful information to accumulate before attempting any more adventurous maneuvers; forewarned is forearmed, after all.

In the end, he dials up a bowl of milk on the synthesizer and immerses his hand for five solid minutes, until the prickling warmth subsides, and then spends another five hunting in the medicine cupboard for the dermal regenerator. Spock turns up in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed and wrapped shoulder to ankle in the throw from the couch, as Kirk is running a final diagnostic on the pads of his fingers, where the skin beneath his nails has proven particularly difficult to treat. He leans against the doorframe, eyes fixed on Kirk's hands, and one eyebrow arches in a gesture of elegant dissatisfaction that ought to be completely impossible beneath such an impressive head of bed hair.

"Is there pain?" he says, and his voice is quietly impassive in a manner that bodes very poorly for Kirk's ability to talk him down from whatever excoriating platform of self-castigation he's currently erecting for himself behind the darkness of his eyes. Kirk is sleep-deprived, goose-pimpled, and hungry, and, moreover, he's the one with the scalded hand; he just does not have the patience for masochism right now.

"No, Spock," he says curtly, "there is no pain. There is no injury and there is no cause for alarm, and there is certainly no basis for whatever it is that you're thinking right now. What there is, is additional information and a salient lesson in preparedness and after-care that I doubt either one of us will forget, so what say we go upstairs and get dressed, then get in your car and drive to the nearest diner before I start trying to eat the leather of my own boots? Commodore Kaplan will be comming with an operational update in a few hours, and I think poorly on an empty stomach."

The eyebrow arches a little higher. "Have you flushed the area with…?"

"Yes, I have flushed the area with water," snaps Kirk. "I have also neutralized the compound with topical application of casein. The dermal regenerator is a precaution, nothing more. Are we done?"

"It is possible," says Spock, because, no, of course they're not done, "that the effect of the chemical may be cumulative."

Despite himself, despite his frustration and his hypoglycemic irritation, Kirk has to bite down on a sudden urge to laugh. There is something inherently ridiculous about the fact that he's sitting naked in his kitchen, nursing a lubricant-burned hand, while Spock first-officers at him from beneath a floral, semen-stained throw rug on the perils of multiple mutual orgasms, and, in any case, he's taken such a colossal hit of oxytocin in the past twenty-fours hours that there's a decent chance he's actually, legitimately, high right now. He holds out his right hand for inspection, and purses his lips around a recalcitrant smirk.

"That's certainly true," he concedes. "But see for yourself. There's some irritation, some redness and swelling, and I'm in no hurry to leap to the next stage of experimentation just yet, but it's hardly the unmitigated disaster written all over your face. Please," he adds, as Spock opens his mouth to voice a token defense of Vulcan inscrutability, "don't. We've known each other for a very long time, my friend, and you're standing in my house wrapped only in a quilt. Let's just bypass the point in the conversation where we pretend that I don't have any idea what's going on inside your head, and try to aim for a useful conclusion instead, yes?"

A second eyebrow joins its twin. It would be more impressive if the fringe above it weren't currently standing out at ninety degrees from Spock's forehead.

"My mother," he says slowly, "was fond of cooking while we were stationed on Earth."

As pithy rejoinders go, this one is… unexpected. And notably lacking in pith. And, damn it, not fifteen seconds have passed since Kirk's confident repudiation of his friend's ability to confound him, and, particularly under the circumstances, it's just plain annoying that Spock gets to be right again.

"I see," says Kirk, because he refuses to admit that he does not.

"We had a small kitchen garden at the Ambassador's residence in San Francisco," his friend continues, and, though he's certainly aware that he's being deliberately obscure, there's no hint of triumph in his expression. This is, of course, one of the many reasons that Kirk has fallen so intemperately in love with him, though he's not inclined to admit as much right now. "We had a small coterie of staff, but my mother preferred to maintain the garden herself. When we returned to ShiKahr, it was her habit to spend the several days in advance of travel preserving and packaging for transport those items of produce that she was unable to cultivate on Vulcan. This included several varieties of capsicum."

"Capsicum," says Kirk. It is deliberately not a question. He feels, at least, as though the conversation is settling back into a thematic groove, but he'd be lying if he said that he knew where it was headed.

"Yes," says Spock. "She was particularly fond of the jalapeño and the habañero, and there was not always sufficient notice prior to our return to Vulcan to be able to complete the drying process, as was her preference. Often, the most practicable resolution was to slice and suspend the peppers in a vinegar solution, which had the effect of preserving them for several seasons. It did, however, require prolonged manual contact, during preparation, with the oils contained within the fruit."

"I… see," says Kirk again. He's starting to suspect that he does, though it's difficult to be certain.

"Naturally, I assisted where possible," says Spock. "However, on the occasions of my absence, or prior occupation, I believe she sought to moderate contact with her skin by lubricating her hands with olive oil before commencing work."

Kirk blinks. "Olive oil?" he asks slowly.

Spock inclines his head. "I am given to understand that it offers a measure of protection without appreciably affecting the quality of the final product. However," he adds, with an innocence that is entirely unconvincing, "any similarly oleaginous liquid might be expected to perform a similar function over periods of limited exposure."

Into a sudden, vacuous silence, Kirk offers a feeble cough. "Oleaginous… liquid," he manages after a moment. His voice is thin and inconveniently weak, but it's hardly his fault: his conversational prowess has been dented by a sudden overarching need to concentrate really, really hard on remaining utterly still.

"Indeed," says Spock mildly. "Perhaps an alternative might be found in some form of petroleum jelly?"

Kirk crosses his legs.

"That seems," he says carefully, because he'd prefer to reassure himself that the discussion really has taken an unexpected turn for the carnal before he makes any potentially embarrassing assumptions, "an unlikely substitute for use in food preparation."

Spock offers him a blank-faced expression that manifestly refuses to believe that Kirk can be so obtuse. "Indeed," he says.

Well. All right, then. Of all the ways Kirk was expecting this debate to play out, Spock as Problem-Solving Lube Connoisseur was not among them, but he's a starship captain. He's a veteran of deep-space command and a decorated admiral of almost three years' standing. He's adaptable.

"No doubt," he says, as he folds his hands in his lap, because he's still naked, after all, and damn it all to hell, but he really ought to have thought to bring a cushion with him from the couch, "something of the kind can be found in the bathroom cabinet. I'll make sure to have a look before we go out, and, if not, I'm sure we can find a drug store in town." And a wide diversity of specialist retailers in San Francisco that promise more exotic variations on a theme, he thinks, but that's an idea for another day. For now, though, he's not above evening the score with a stealth attack of his own. "However, I would invite you to remember Bones' predilection for Mexican food where it was available on our joint shore leaves, Mr Spock. And my own enthusiastic participation in his choice of cuisine."

The left eyebrow, which has leveled off again as the conversation progressed, arches once more. "Indeed?" says Spock.

"Indeed," says Kirk cheerfully, and he's not too proud to enjoy the look of consternation that flashes behind his friend's eyes as he patently attempts to work out where Kirk is going with this. "Though my preference has always been for Asian cooking."

There is a moment of thoughtful silence. Then Spock says, slowly, "I fail to discern the relevance."

Kirk's grin breaks free. "I'm simply suggesting, Mr Spock," he says, and, yes, he should definitely have brought a cushion; his folded hands are no help at all, "that there are certain areas of this fragile Human body that are already adapted to tolerate the prolonged and concentrated presence of capsaicinoids. That's all. Now—shall we get dressed and head out?"

-o-o-o-

McCall is a resort town that curls around the south bank of Payette Lake, and nestles, in February, beneath a permanent layer of glistening snow. In summer, the crystal blue waters of the lake and the tail end of the temperate Pacific winds that sweep in from the west coast, painting the hills with warm, golden sunshine, fill the streets with tourists both Terran and non; by winter, it serves as an adjunct town for Brundage Mountain and Little Bear Basin, and, near-miss apocalypse in the skies above notwithstanding, the Idaho ski season is in full force. It is the work of several minutes' searching to find a parking spot in the town's commercial center, weaving in and out of chattering bands of pedestrians on the snow-slick streets, and, when a spot opens up on the lakeside, it's possible that Spock swerves into it with uncharacteristic ferocity, ahead of a small pink mountain cruiser populated by a group of giggling students.

The town is on a lower elevation than the cabin, but the temperature differential is barely perceptible, and so they elect, by unspoken agreement, to defer appreciation of the magnificence of the mountain-framed lake until after breakfast, and make instead for a diner that Kirk remembers from his youth, where the coffee cups are bottomless and the trade is varied enough that the bill of fare represents a snapshot of Federation culinary traditions in all their deep-fried glory. It's well and truly off-season for Vulcan explorers in this part of the world right now, but, though prusah kisan might be off the menu, there will be something vegetarian there for Spock to eat, which is more than can currently be said for Kirk's house.

They're late for the morning rush, early for lunch, and the cafe is almost deserted, save a couple of elderly regulars at the counter, sipping from steam-curling mugs and staring at the holoscreen in the corner, and an Andorian family in summer clothes chattering contentedly in a booth by the door. At Kirk's request, the waitress seats them by the far window, which opens out onto the lake, and she welcomes Spock in Vulcan Standard before retreating to the kitchen for coffee. Kirk's communicator chirps as they're scanning the menus, and he exchanges a couple of words with Kaplan, who's sent through preliminary deployment schedules for the third quarter of the year and needs his approval for a few days more before she can sign off on them. And then, because she's gotten hold of him now, she patches Kirk through to his Yeoman, who patches him through to Chavez's office, where he speaks at length to an excitable woman called Descôteaux who is indefatigable in her determination to know exactly when Admiral Kirk can be expected back in San Francisco. Kirk deflects as best he can, but he's just not in the same league as her, and so, by the time the waitress returns to take their orders, their sojourn in the Rockies has developed a brand new expiration date.

It's not that he doesn't want to return to the Enterprise. Second only to the reappearance of the man across the table from him, a return to the Enterprise is the only thing Kirk has wanted, these past few years, and the thought of going home again, considered in isolation, tightens his chest with longing. It's only that, hidden out here in the mountains, it feels as though time and the world stands still around them, as though they've cocooned themselves in an impenetrable bubble that admits none of the compromises and exigencies of life together in the service. And, yes, that was always a bridge they would have to cross, and he has no doubt that they will cross it, if not with ease, then at least with dignity, honor and professionalism, but he'd just… he'd like to hold onto the simplicity of their time together here, for as long as he can. That's all.

The waitress retreats, along with Kirk's appetite, and he purses his lips and turns his head to look out across the lake. They're relatively undisturbed in this corner of the cafe: they're seated at a table rather than a booth, but their nearest neighbours are more than fifteen feet away and focused intently on the hoverball playoffs, and the Andorians are at the other end of the diner. They're secluded and unobserved, but it's still not what anyone would call private, and so, when Spock reaches out across the table to cover Kirk's hand with his own, the gesture is so completely unexpected that, for a second, Kirk almost flinches.

Almost. Fortunately, he's able to catch his surprise in time, because a response like that to a gesture like that would require quite the explanation, and, moreover, the hand under Spock's is Kirk's right, which might very well lead to a reprise of their conversation from the kitchen. But a little curiosity is certainly permissible, and he allows it to show in the smile he turns on his friend as he curls his fingers upwards, nudging them between Spock's so that they lace together on the formica surface.

"As efforts towards moderating the commander's mood go," he says, "I believe this may be my favorite yet, Mr Spock."

Hidden from the cafe floor by Kirk's hand, Spock's thumb traces a soft line along Kirk's in a manner that does alarming things to the inside of Kirk's skull. "Indeed," he says. "The hours remaining to us in Idaho are relatively short, Jim. I suggest that as little as possible of this time be devoted to brooding."

"Brooding?" says Kirk, with half a choked laugh, because the face across the table from him is blank and perfectly composed, but that was unquestionably gentle provocation, and he's not sure that he's seen that in Spock's conversation with him since before Vulcan. "Perhaps you're right. No doubt there will plenty of time to indulge in melancholy once we're back on board the ship. Perhaps I'll draft Bones and Scotty in to help."

"As you wish," says Spock, and, though his fingers release Kirk's as the waitress arrives with their food, hand sliding across the table to fold with his right in his lap, his eyes are dancing, just as they used to.

Just as they used to, and Kirk has the strangest sensation of vertigo as he holds that gaze and returns it, as though he's peering into a past that has seemed so distant for so long that he'd almost forgotten it. But more than that, better than that, it feels as though he's staring into a future that's writing itself as he watches, because, yes, this is the man he remembers from those earlier days, but it's also not. Spock is as he used to be, back before everything went wrong, but he's easier, somehow; settled, somehow, as though his skin has finally begun to fit. And Kirk is not so arrogant as to assume that their relationship, newborn and fragile as it is, is entirely or even mostly responsible for the change; rather, he thinks, this relationship of theirs, however it plays out, is possible because the change has occurred. So yes, no matter what happens next; no matter that they're going back to the only place that either of them has ever truly belonged; no matter that they're sharing a bed now and possibly—just possibly—a life; no matter that things have finally fallen out the way they ought to—for Spock, Kirk thinks, the homecoming has already arrived.

"Eat up," he says, because otherwise he's going to get sentimental, and Spock might be different these days, but he's not that different. "We've got arrangements to make, First Officer, and a limited amount of time in which to make them."

"Yes, sir," says Spock, and there's a lightness to his tone that certainly wasn't there a moment ago. Kirk suspects he's been played, what with the hand and everything, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Not least of all is the question of my Exec," says Kirk, who's got a few moves of his own in the one-upmanship game. "It's my intention to offer the position to the current Acting XO, provided he's prepared to accept the ratification of his temporary status. Can I assume that he will?"

"It would be my honor," says Spock, with enough of an eyebrow tilt to telegraph his surprise at the fact that the issue was ever in question.

"Good," says Kirk, and spears a forkful of omelet as a growling stomach announces the return of his appetite. "Because there are one or two conditions attached to the offer."

Spock pauses in the act of loading soup onto his spoon, and the eyebrow tilt progresses into a full-blown arch. "Conditions?" he says mildly.

"It wasn't my idea," says Kirk. He is enjoying himself more than is reasonable, and he's sure that he's going to pay for this at some unspecified and unexpected point in their mutual future, but he doesn't care; it will still be worth it. "It's only that Command has some… hesitations… associated with instituting an admiral at the head of a starship on a deep space mission."

"I see," says Spock, who almost certainly does. "Effectively, therefore, their concerns relate to your rank." And if there is a slight but meaningful emphasis on your, Kirk thinks, very few would notice it.

"They do," says Kirk cheerfully. He remembers the omelets being good here, but he's certain they never used to taste quite like this. "And, unfortunately, they're non-negotiable."

"Naturally," says Spock. He sets down his spoon and steeples his hands.

"There is simply some concern," says Kirk, "that the rank of commander is not sufficiently senior as to provide an effective check to a starship captain of flag officer status."

"Ah," says Spock.

"Were I to offer the role to anyone currently holding the rank of commander, they would insist upon a promotion."

"…I see."

Kirk grins. "They won't let me offer you the job without it."

Spock offers him a level stare that's just this side of long-suffering. "I understood this much," he says, "by the qualification of the conditions as 'non-negotiable'."

"They want a captain for First Officer," says Kirk. "And there are no existing captains that I'd chose to have at my side."

Spock does not sigh; not quite. "And these are the terms of the assignment?"

"The only terms of note, yes," says Kirk.

"And acceptance of these terms," says Spock, "guarantees assignment to the role of First Officer aboard the Enterprise?"

Kirk nods. "It does."

"Without question of arbitrary reassignment to command of a different starship, as is customary for an officer of this rank and level?"

Arbitrary. Only Spock could make the dream of every other XO-assigned commander in Starfleet sound vaguely distasteful. "Without question," says Kirk. "I do currently have a little bargaining power in my court, Mr Spock."

Spock inclines his head. "Then I accept," he says. "With due cognizance of the confidence afforded me. Thank you, Admiral," he adds, and Kirk cannot help but grin at the scrupulous and pointed deployment of protocol, because he certainly deserves it.

"Congratulations, Captain Spock," he says cheerfully, and attacks his hash browns.

-o-o-o-

They pick up supplies at an under-utilized convenience store, and Kirk is struck by the fact that it's so long since he last attempted to purchase ingredients for food that doesn't come from a tape and the press of a button that he has no idea how much of anything he's supposed to buy. Nor is Spock of any particular support in the matter: his contribution is limited to picking up packets of dried pasta and peering suspiciously at the contents, though he does manage to purchase a pair of rubberized boots of a design and esthetic that Bones would certainly relish, but which will at least keep his feet dry when he steps outside the house. His current pair are presently saturated with three streets' worth of trampled snow, and his expression suggests abject misery tightly leashed behind stoic Vulcan denial, and that's no way to remember his time in the Rockies. And, besides, Kirk has an idea that it might be quite some time before they get another opportunity to engage in some al fresco sexual activity; he'll feel better about suggesting it now that he knows it's not going to put his partner in imminent danger of hypothermia from the feet up.

Purchases completed, they return to the cabin, where Kirk spends the afternoon at his terminal. Scrolling through an alarming backlog of messages, he discovers that his successor at Fleet Ops has been confirmed, and that, yes, it is Boudin, which is not, perhaps, the worst thing ever to happen to Kirk's department, but neither is it precisely equivalent to handing over control of the Enterprise to Willard Decker. He comms the new Chief of Starfleet Operations with a brief note of congratulations, and finds Boudin in ebullient form, which Kirk carefully fails to undermine by mentioning his intention of ratifying his appointments to the Enterprise's senior crew through Nogura himself. It's not that he thinks Boudin would make trouble, it's more that, now, he could, and, though they've never been overtly hostile towards one another, there's also no love lost between them. Kirk doesn't particularly feel like holing up in San Francisco for weeks on end while the red tape gets sorted out, especially since he doesn't know where Spock is going to be bunking when they get back.

Hunger knocks him out of concentration as the sun is sinking below the ridge of trees that front the cabin, and Kirk looks up at the chronometer to the realization that his eating patterns are all out of whack today. It's barely 1530, but it's more than four hours since they last ate, and a quick glance across the room to where Spock is seated, poker-straight and PADD in hand, by the apathetic flames of the office's drafty old fireplace, notes a hint of fatigue in the set of his friend's jaw. They could both use a break, he decides; their working day has not quite stretched to the length of even the most unassuming of alpha shifts, but they are, not to put to fine a point on it, not actually supposed to be working right now. And Bones will know this, when they get back to HQ, because Bones has a way of always knowing these things, and then there will be acrimony, and, most likely, words. And Kirk is not in the mood for words.

So he stands slowly, stretches out the afternoon's cricks, and crosses to the door, pressing an affectionate clasp to Spock's shoulder as he passes. Spock nods but does not look up as Kirk heads out of the room and into the kitchen across the way, where he spends a moment in thoughtful contemplation of the synthesizer, a collection of dusty saucepans dangling from hooks above the sink, and the un-decanted bag of groceries dumped unceremoniously on the work surface and since forgotten. Still, he's done this before—if not for many years—and he's sure he can remember the basics, so he starts by dialing up a pot of boiling water, filling it with pasta, and leaving it to bubble on the stove while he sets about chopping some ingredients for a sauce. Tomatoes are out of season just now, along with everything else that enjoys sunlight and an absence of snow, and the shop attendant's confusion as to why anyone might require fresh produce that couldn't be summoned from a synthesizer tape was manifest, so they are limited in this respect to whatever the condition of Kirk Senior's coronary arteries have persuaded his parents to program into the machine at its last upgrade, which turns out to be eggplant, green beans and okra. But they have herbs and they have some manner of chutney and they have white wine that's not synthehol, which can probably be persuaded to do something exciting, if it's mixed with the right combination of flour and milk. And they have eggs and they have rice and they have tofu, for some reason, and they have dehydrated miso soup and mushrooms that look like they were flash frozen some time around the Vulcan Reformation. And as well as all this, they also have—because they were there and because Kirk enjoys them both on their own merit, but not nearly as much as he enjoyed the look on Spock's face when he added them to the basket—olive oil, extra virgin, and four different varieties of dried chili pepper.

He's just finished dicing synthesized eggplant chunks when Spock makes his way into the kitchen, PADD discarded, and takes up position by the door in a manner that neither offers help nor supervision, but simply waits to be needed.

"Mr Scott reports that precision recalibrations to the Enterprise's warp coil are proceeding according to schedule," he says evenly, though his eyes are fixed on the motion of Kirk's hands as he discards the eggplant and starts trimming the green beans. "Barring any unforeseen events, the ship will be ready to launch by 1600 hours this coming Monday."

Considering the fact that the last calibrations to the warp coil were completed by Spock himself, en route to intercept with Vejur, and brought the ship to as close to optimal efficiency as the universal laws of entropy will permit, Kirk has no difficulty in believing that unforeseen events will include anything that Scotty decides they need to include, should he decide that the greater good requires it. However, given that Scotty's conception of the greater good aligns so completely with Kirk's right now, he's happy to keep that option open.

"Very good, Mr Spock," says Kirk, and nods towards the stove. "Turn that pasta down, would you? And you could top and tail that okra, if you're not busy."

"I am currently unoccupied," says Spock, and there's a warmth to his tone that Kirk is not expecting; something that, in another man, he might call contentment. It's soft and rich, and so unanticipated that Kirk glances up as Spock animates in the doorway, moves into the kitchen, and so it is that he catches sight of the smile behind his friend's eyes. A quiet joy, he thinks; something that's not for sharing, and so he doesn't mention it; simply turns his own smile into the beans beneath his knife as Spock falls into place beside him, makes space at the other end of the chopping board, and sets to preparing vegetables.

They work together for a moment or two in quiet satisfaction, pot simmering quietly against the background hush, with only the rhythmic sound of blade on wood to mark the time. Proximity hums between them: near enough to touch, but untouching; body heat tempered by their distance from the stove; and Kirk can smell the first traces of spice beside him, though it's not yet pronounced. He finishes chopping the green beans and, reaching over Spock for a dish to store them, their skin brushes in a manner that is not entirely accidental, and he hears Spock's breath stutter for just a moment, though his hands never stop working. It's remarkable, Kirk thinks, that he should have spent his three years bound to this planet wishing for nothing more than to escape, and yet he'd never once considered the quiet pleasures to be had in simplicity, domesticity, place. Not until it's almost time to leave them all behind.

The chilis are enclosed inside a transparent carton at the bottom of the bag, and he knows even without looking that an eyebrow has arched as he reaches for them, pulls them out, opens the container. The scent of them tumbles into the air, and, Kirk thinks, he may have just ceded some tactical ground here, but he knows a thing or two about picking up on the mood the old-fashioned way, so he'll let it pass. He brushes the last remnants of bean from his end of the board and tips two long, fat peppers into place, and takes a moment to enjoy the sensation of one pair of Vulcan eyes sliding sideways to fix firmly on the side of his head.

Spock sweeps okra into a bowl, and sets down his knife.

The olive oil is sitting unopened on the bench beside the stove, on the other side of Spock. Kirk, knowing exactly what he's doing, reaches across his friend, leaning heavily into his chest to pass him, and grips the bottle by its neck to retrieve it. He doesn't look up at Spock—he doesn't need to—as he unstoppers it, and this is as much as it takes to telegraph his intended actions to his friend, who was also present in the kitchen this morning for certain pertinent conversations about chili pepper preparation. Easily, gracefully, Spock takes the bottle from Kirk's hand and Kirk lets him take it, because Spock's breathing has become a little uneven now, a little ragged, in a manner that hints at promising thoughts beneath that unruffled exterior, and Kirk is damned certain he wants to know what happens next. There's the faintest tremor in Spock's hand as he grips the bottle, upends it just enough to let a small quantity of oil trickle into his upturned palm, and Kirk feels something twist deep in his belly as he realizes, half a second in advance, what is about to happen.

Spock sets the bottle down, uses his free hand to lift one of Kirk's. He tilts Kirk's hand so that his palm is facing upwards, and lets oil drizzle from his hand onto his friend's. And then, with his oil-slick right, he begins to massage olive oil into Kirk's skin.

The sensation—liquid silk and heat—and the sound of fluid shifting, skin connecting, runs straight to Kirk's cock, and he's hard almost instantly. Spock can't see it; it's hidden by the kitchen bench, but Kirk has an idea that his friend knows exactly what he's doing to him, simply because the tremor in the hands that cover his, the catch in his breath, and the sudden cascade of spice into the air suggest that Spock is similarly affected. Kirk can't help himself. The dinner is on the stove and their hands are covered in oil, but there's only so much stimulation a man can take before he's forced to act upon it, and Kirk turns his head sideways, presses forward, finds lips rushing to meet his. To hell with it; the damned clothes need to be laundered anyway, so he slides his hands free of Spock's and lets them circle around his back, his neck; lets them fist in his tunic, drag him closer. The edge of the bench slams into Kirk's lower spine in a manner that would certainly be uncomfortable, were it not for the fact that this likewise causes Spock to slam into his hips in a manner that perfectly aligns their erections, and it's quite impossible, in this moment, to be aware of anything other than that.

He can feel Spock's hands grappling at the hem of his pants, slick fingers fumbling the fastener, and he wonders if this would be the appropriate moment to mention that they forgot to look for a drug store earlier in McCall. Olive oil might work and it might not; it's not the most amazingly appealing idea that's ever entered into Kirk's foreplay, but he'll take it over chemical burns and the return of The Look, especially since their thrusting is growing rapidly more urgent and it's clear that, questionable culinary hygiene aside, this is happening right now and right here in the kitchen. And then Spock gets a hand inside Kirk's shorts and a fist around his cock, and the sound that finds its way out of Kirk's mouth is ninety-eight percent consonants and in no way controlled by higher cognitive function, which has taken a temporary leave of absence in the face of overwhelming arousal and a distinct lack of operational requirement. Kirk groans, presses forward, feels the fingers slide along the length of his shaft, and arches into the sensation.

And that would, in all likelihood, be the end of discussion right there, were it not for the fact that Kirk is, by nature, a fair and generous man and not the sort of lover to accept a hand job without reciprocation in kind, and so, despite the pressure building in his groin, despite the fact that his eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he's basically flattened against a counter, a chopping board, and two dessicated chili peppers, while a well-lubricated hand works him with expertise born of twenty-four hours' repeated practice, it seems only fair to try and give a little bit back, even if there's virtually no chance that they're going to be able to coordinate this thing anymore. He's got enough presence of mind to remember how to open the catch on Spock's pants, and he's halfway there, hand snaking inside the hemline, before Spock surreptitiously but unmistakably shifts his hips and moves away from Kirk's touch. This would be a bigger problem, and it's going to be in just a minute, but Spock, as ever, has read Kirk like a pro, and any creeping indignation is swallowed in the wake of the more pressing issue of Kirk's mind-obliterating orgasm, which continues at length for several confused and disordered moments.

Afterwards, brain swimming in endoprhins, he can't bring himself to be annoyed anymore, much as he's certain that it's not only appropriate but also necessary to their continuing evolution together to make sure that touching privileges are not arbitrarily rescinded with neither notice nor explanation. It's just that it's difficult to get pissy when his balls are still tingling and his head feels like it's floating in hydrogen, and, moreover, he knows where this is coming from, and he suspects, on the balance of probabilities and prior experience, that arguing about it isn't actually going to help. But there's more than one way to handle a Vulcan, and, given that Spock has demonstrated his ongoing commitment to maneuvering his CO according to his own assessment of Kirk's needs and without any particular reference to Kirk's stated desires, he's not sure that he has any particular aversion to unscrupulous methodology, under the circumstances. Besides which, he has a theory he'd like to test. And so, after collapsing against Spock's shoulder while his breathing levels out and his heartbeat slows, he decides that, if hands are going to be an issue, then he'll approach the matter like a diplomat and opt for a solution to the problem that employs literalism at its very best.

"Mr Spock," he mutters into a faceful of homespun cotton that is beginning to smell quite overpoweringly of sex, "I have a potential resolution to our impasse, but it's going to require a certain level of trust on your part. Do we have a deal?"

There's a moment's contemplation. Then Spock replies, with unnatural equanimity, "I will require further particulars in order to arrive at an informed response."

Which is, admittedly, and almost verbatim, the response that Kirk was expecting, but he hasn't gotten where he's at in life without learning how to stack the odds in his favor. "Of course," he says, and reaches a hand downwards to cup Spock's erection through the fabric of his pants. As a tactical maneuver, it may, strictly speaking, lack integrity, but there's a time and a place for that sort of thing, and the sharp hiss of air from the lips at Kirk's ear, the way that Spock's body arches of its own accord into the touch, tells Kirk that he's played the moment perfectly. He capitalizes on the confusion by running his fingers along the length of the shaft as he breaks away from the pillow of Spock's shoulder and sinks, slowly, purposefully—and meaningfully—to his knees.

"Ah," says Spock, whose eyes are closed. The word is barely audible; it's a murmur riding on a sigh, and his head rolls back on his shoulders as his spine loses tension. "That was not," he whispers, as Kirk finds the clasp at the side of his pants, slides them over and free of his swollen cock, "an answer to my question."

"True," says Kirk, who can afford to be honest now that he's gotten this far, and, before he can second-guess himself, he opens his mouth and takes Spock inside.

It's a long time since he's done this. Years, in fact: Gary was the last, in those horribly ill-advised late-night trysts that used to happen in the captain's quarters, before Kirk remembered that there were any number of damned good reasons why they weren't together anymore, and that, under the circumstances, sleeping with his helmsman was almost certainly a court martial waiting to happen. It's not a good memory; hardly any of his time with Gary on board the Enterprise is a good memory, and so it's probably time to start writing over it with a couple of new experiences. Starting right now, and obliterating everything that came before, because this is certainly not like any blow job Kirk has ever given in the past.

Despite what he's said this morning, it's not exactly on a par with loading his soy sauce with wasabi in that Japanese restaurant on Biederman's, in a manner that caused Bones to roll his eyes and start making noises about peptic ulcers, and Kirk's mouth reacts for a whole lot of reasons, not least of which is the fact that the deep-throating idea was possibly a little bit ambitious for man eight years out of practice. His tongue protests immediately and his eyes begin to water as his sinuses catch fire, but he wasn't lying, earlier on: he knows this sensation of old, has sought it out more times than he can count, and his mouth has long ago ceded defeat to the pleasure centers of his brain that manage this sort of thing. It's the gag reflex that's the real issue, and that, if memory serves, is just a question of taking things a little bit more slowly.

So he slides back a little, finds a comfortable compromise, and sets to his work. Spock's knees are buckling slightly now, and, Kirk cannot help but notice, any immediate ethical concerns about their chemical compatibility have been subsumed by the more pressing need to thrust with uncharacteristic inelegance into the tight wet heat of Kirk's mouth. His lips are tingling and the inside of his cheeks feels like they've been rubbed with liquid flame, but he's still blissed-out and orgasm-high, and the burn is almost pleasurable now that the initial shock has passed. He reaches up, steadies himself with one hand on the inside of either of Spock's thighs, and swallows as far down the shaft as he can go.

There's no real way to tell how close his friend is getting. Spock's not typically the demonstrative type during sex, and their anatomy is just dissimilar enough that Kirk's usual physical cues are largely absent, but he thinks that the steady increase in the motion of Spock's hips is probably a good sign. If there were balls he could cup, that's what he'd do at this point, but there are none, so instead he lets himself explore the soft skin of Spock's perineum, oiled hands sliding up and across the tight line of skin and dipping into the cleft of Spock's ass. He has no idea how experienced Spock might be in this particular area, though he has an idea or two relating to Vulcan ideals of fidelity and Spock's own interpersonal social skills that lead him to think that this may be a bigger deal for him than even Kirk had previously imagined, so he's not intending to push too far, as it were; simply to heighten sensation, to help him along, and, most importantly, to have something productive to do with his hands. So it comes as something of a surprise when, as Kirk's fingers find the tight ring of muscle at Spock's anus, slide over it and circle the puckered skin, a hissed, decisive, "Yes," rends the air above him, and a determined hand shifts from Kirk's head to Spock's ass to hold Kirk's hand in place.

Interesting. Kirk hollows out his cheeks, sucks at the head of Spock's dick, and dips one finger inside his ass.

The groan that erupts above him is nothing short of revelatory. Kirk has never heard his friend make a noise like that under any circumstances, and, honestly, if he'd known that this was all it took, he'd have gone straight for the blow jobs last night and they'd probably never have left the house today. His jaw is starting to cramp and his lips feel full and swollen; the taste of cock in his mouth is neither repugnant nor uncomfortable, but neither is it particularly appetizing, but that sound, that abandon, is almost enough to get him hard again, and he still hasn't quite worked out the tremors in his quads from that last orgasm just yet. His finger is only buried as far as the first knuckle—he doesn't want to push too hard, in any sense of the term—but he pulls it free, dips it back inside, and the motion of Spock's hips is becoming almost desperate now, the noises escaping his lips almost nonsensical. And then Spock's thrusting stutters, spasms, and he pulls back, sliding his cock from Kirk's mouth just as the first streams of ejaculate spurt from the head and Kirk rocks back on his knees to watch, finger working at Spock's ass as his friend comes hard onto Kirk's chest, in his hair, splashing the cool tile of the kitchen floor.

He catches Spock's hips as the orgasm subsides and is unsurprised to find them trembling. It takes very little maneuvering to persuade his friend to sink to the ground beside him, and they flatten themselves against the cabinets at their back and sit together for a moment, heads sliding sideways to rest against each other, hands seeking hands without conscious thought. It may be a testament to the power of the post-coital haze that Spock makes no effort to peer suspiciously at Kirk's mouth for signs of damage or discomfort, and Kirk finds himself wondering, distractedly, lubricant still tingling on his tongue, his lips, his cheeks, what Spock's come tastes like and how long it will take them before he finds out for sure.

In a moment, he thinks, he's going to rouse himself for a glass of milk; maybe a whisky from the sitting room to cut through the lingering capsaicin burn. He's certainly going to pull up his pants and turn down the stove before the pasta boils over and coagulates into a starchy ball at the bottom of the pot. But, for now at least, he's content to simply tilt his head sideways, raise one hand to Spock's chin and pull him in for a kiss that tastes of heat and spice and sex and desire.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hard-won conviction, too.