Growth: Chapter Three
Title: Growth
Chapter: One Two Three Four Five Six Six.5 Seven Eight Nine Nine.5 Ten Eleven
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Warnings: Slash, MPREG, gratuitous use of Vulcan language (vocal and body), sex, somewhat mediocre writing; stuff like that.
Summary: Sequel to “Of Convenience”. Entering a new chapter in life is difficult when you’re single. As a pair? Let’s just say Spock and Kirk are going to have their work cut out for them if this chapter’s going to end the way they want it to.
They had barely made it onto the bridge before Sulu, at least, was raising an eyebrow at them. Jim sent him a pointed look, though somehow his nervousness increased, flowing through the bond and wearing at Spock’s carefully constructed calm. Nyota sent him an inquisitive look of her own, though he could not acknowledge it immediately. Instead, he paid no more mind to his superior and walked to his station, breathing deeply.
The nervousness would not abate.
Instinct, Spock, Jim projected. It’s logical to trust your instincts. Mine are saying this is bad news.
Out loud, he merely glanced over the bridge and cleared his throat. “Admiral Komack wishes to observe the bridge for Alpha shift. Do your best to perform your duties as usual,” he ordered, striding to his chair. “We will engage in tactical drills A14 through B12 today, in random order. Mr. Spock, if you will please begin the simulation?”
Spock nodded, letting his hands take over for his mind. The programming was simple to initiate, and not a second after he activated the scrambler, the view screen changed to an image of a Romulan warbird.
“Ouch,” the Ensign at the helm winced. “We’re starting with this one?”
“Ensign,” Jim snapped. “We are in a drill. Please take this seriously.”
Spock knew Jim’s temper was unraveling alongside his nerves, and hard as he tried, there was no way he was capable of soothing him yet. His mate’s protective nature aside, the nature of the simulation might be taxing him as well. A quick touch of Jim’s mind confirmed it.
Why’d you start with this one, Spock? Jim asked, eyes fixed on the warbird. There are 22 to pick from. Why this?
The computer program chose it, Spock replied, feeling a cold, almost viscous trepidation seep down his spine. Jim no doubt sensed it as well, turning his head to look in his direction and barking an order to open hailing frequencies. Despite his mate’s obvious concern and trust in his body’s reaction to mental and hormonal stimulus, Spock forced himself to remain calm.
“They are not responding,” Nyota called over blandly, flipping switches on her board. “I’ve tried all channels. No response.”
Jim turned to Sulu. “Are they charging weapons, Lieutenant?” he asked. The man shook his head.
“Negative. However, their shields are at maximum power,” the helmsman answered quickly, scanning through the readings his consol displayed. “Scans report engines are idling. They may be preparing to enter warp.”
“Mr. Spock?” Jim called over. Spock did not turn from his station.
“Likelihood of offensive action is approximately seventy percent,” he informed him, calculating it as he spoke. “Ship design is consistent with early warp-six capable vessels. Most likely, these ships are sentries placed to guard a recognizance brigade. I am advising extreme caution. It would also be advisable to power shields to at least forty percent.”
“Make it sixty,” his husband ordered, waving a hand at Sulu. “Any weapon activity?”
“Their weapons appear to be online,” the man confirmed, hands steady. “Do you want me to engage targeting?”
There was the tiniest of pauses, and then Jim was glancing to the view screen again. “Mr. Spock, would that action be likely to provoke a violent response?”
He could have given Jim the percentages, the statistics, the calculations - but that was not what he wanted. Spock instead simply turned away from his station and met Lieutenant Sulu’s eyes. “It certainly would,” he confirmed. “Refrain from any potentially aggressive acts.”
There was a tense silence on the bridge for a few long seconds, tense enough that Spock forgot for a moment the reason for his previous nervousness. But it did not last long. The warbird warped out of the view screen and the simulation ended.
“Performance?” Jim asked. Spock checked his PADD.
“Adequate,” he informed him. “Ninety-eight percent performance rate. Slow uptake on hails, though that seems more a fault of the system design than Lieutenant Uhura. Actions will be taken to repair this at next space dock.”
“That simulation is simple,” Komack scoffed, and Spock found his gaze drawn to the man next to the lift. He was seated on the ground next to the door, cross-legged and hands holding his ankles. It hardly seemed befitting of someone in his position, though Spock would never seek to mention it or attempt to correct him. He was his superior, after all. “A one hundred percent performance rate is possible. Don’t blame the ship for your own shortcomings, half-breed.”
Nyota let out an outraged little noise, and Spock felt Jim’s anger flare. “What did you just call him?” Nyota demanded. Komack stood, hands going behind his back.
It was only for a moment, but Spock knew he saw that the man was holding something. Metallic. Small. He has something, he informed Jim. A slight panic surged through his mate.
“I cannot allow you to use that language with one of my most valued crew members,” Jim informed their superior hastily, moving to stand between him and the rest of the bridge crew. “You are free to make any observations you would like, so long as they are relevant to the situation. Please refrain from insults, Sir.”
Komack raised an eyebrow in Jim’s direction. “Fine, then,” he grumbled, glancing between Spock and his husband. “Did you know interspecies hybrids bred in nature are almost exclusively sterile?”
That feeling in Spock’s spine had returned, amplified by Jim’s not so subtle anxiety. He stood strong, not responding.
“Yes, I know that,” Jim answered evenly. “This is not relevant.”
“I outrank you,” Komack snapped. “What I say is relevant is relevant. Understand?”
Jim closed a little more of the distance between himself and Komack. Spock, you get in your chair. If he has a weapon, I don’t want you in range. Get in your chair and lean onto your consol.
Out loud, the captain only let out a nervous chuckle. “Not really.”
Komack sighed. “I’m saying hybrids need to be sterilized. Or neutralized,” he growled out. Spock took a step back towards his chair trying not to provoke the man. But a second later, it was evident the man needed no provocation. “Let me show you.”
And before Spock could fully register the man’s movements, there was an old-style projectile weapon aimed directly at him. With great clarity and unnatural slowness, he watched the trigger depress, and with a noise almost too loud for his sensitive ears, a bullet hurdled toward him.
But Komack aimed for his chest, not for his stomach where his heart and implant resided. It hit square in the middle. He felt the sear, the burn, the cracking of his sternum, the panic of his mate. The panic and the fear. He was vaguely aware of the flurry of action, triggers pulled and Jim rushing to his side. But mostly, he felt the blood pooling, the throbbing through his whole body.
The wound would not threaten his life.
Not his.
Jim was picking him up then, and it seemed so easy for him. Like Spock weighed nothing. He carried him quickly to the lift, barking orders back to the crew. Spock tried to turn his neck back to look at the state of the bridge, but found his neck stiff, heavy. He could not move. Jim’s concern, panic, disbelief, and determination poured through the bond.
He hid the weapon in his boot? Spock asked, feeling his body beginning to go into shock, despite his training. He forced himself into calm. Jim was in no similar state.
Damn right. Bastard must’ve had it in there for hours. Don’t try to talk.
I am not actually-
Doesn’t matter. Do that healing trance thing you Vulcans do. Get…better. Stronger. I’m not letting Komack get what he wants out of this.
The lift stopped, and the familiar smell of sickbay - the scent of disinfectant and sterility - met his nose. Perhaps it was merely his body’s reaction to the injury, but somehow the lights seemed so much brighter than usual. He closed his eyes.
“Hey, hey - stay with me,” he heard Jim say as the unmistakeable sound of a tricorder buzzed over him. This was followed by a string of curses (Doctor McCoy, no doubt), interrupted by his husband’s gentle, yet frantic voice. “Come on, Spock. You have to keep your eyes open. Don’t you dare give up on me here.”
Spock projected back what calm he could, keeping his eyes shut. “I am quite conscious,” he assured him, “but the lights are too bright to look at.”
Jim’s fingers met his, and he reciprocated as best he could. It was just the tiniest moment, and seconds later, it was lost.
“I need to perform surgery now, Jim,” Spock heard the doctor say, and he felt Jim’s agreement through the bond. There was the light touch of Jim’s lips on his forehead before his loud footsteps retreated hastily. He heard the filling of a hypospray.
Then, nothing. The world ceased to exist.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
He awoke to dimmed lights and a cool hand in his, and there could be no question where he was or who was holding onto him so strongly. He cast his eyes about the room, noting a hypo on the counter next to the biobed and his mate, clothes changed from that ill-fated shift, asleep at his side. An old-fashioned clock on the wall read six-thirteen, though he was not certain whether that was morning or evening.
Doctor McCoy stepped inside quietly. It was evident that he knew Jim would be here. Like Spock, he seemed to take it for granted that Jim would always be there when he woke. He stepped closer, running a tricorder over his body quickly.
“Damn lucky Komack never took a xenobiology class,” he muttered lowly. “For once, it’s a good thing you’re a hobgoblin.”
“Indeed,” Spock murmured, feeling a rush of pain through his body with the exhalation. There was a moment of silence as the doctor administered the hypospray. “Am I still…?”
“Pregnant? Yeah,” the man said gruffly, but it was the confirmation he needed regardless of tone. “And you’re a whole three days more pregnant now than your last visit. Almost four weeks down now.”
Like he knew what they were saying (although Spock recognized his sleep as being deep enough that such a thing was impossible), Jim was suddenly reaching up, laying his free hand awkwardly on Spock’s shoulder. McCoy let out a sound close to a chuckle.
“He does that every time someone talks in this room,” he explained. “Especially when he’s asleep. Damn protective bastard.”
Spock used his own free hand to cover his mate’s, gently rubbing his fingers and projecting calm. Jim’s shoulders sank lower, his breathing deepening. He focused on this as the doctor did his work, checking his readings once, twice, and again.
“Obviously, we’ve postponed your time in the scanner,” he informed the Vulcan. “But as soon as we can, we need to. We have no way of knowing how your body is going to react to all this. There is absolutely no precedent whatsoever. And some of the readings I’m getting worry me.”
He watched Jim’s sleeping face for a few moments longer. “And the likelihood of miscarriage is increased if there is history of it,” he murmured. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought a look of pity crossed over the doctor’s face. Spock kept his face as neutral as he could, the exhaustion in his body pressing against his ability to do so. “We considered this when we initiated this attempt. We are prepared.”
McCoy nodded. “You need sleep.”
“It would seem so,” Spock conceded. “I will attempt another few hours. Please insist Jim maintain our present course - and that he eats a decent meal before his next shift.”
“How motherly,” the doctor drawled, flicking the lights off. “Sleep well.”
That was one order Spock had no difficulty following.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
When he awoke again, Spock found Jim seated beside him, awake this time and watching him, jaw resting on his fist. His husband gave him the briefest of smiles, offering two fingers. Spock accepted silently, rearranging his shoulders and feeling the slight burn of pain spread through him. He met Jim’s eyes.
“You have not changed clothing since the last time I woke,” he observed. “Have I slept long?”
“Eleven hours,” Jim told him, still glancing over him. “Komack’s in the brig. The Edison is going to pick him up later. He’s being court-martialed. He’s lucky phasers are automatically defaulted to stun upon entry to the bridge. Not that I’d have minded if he’d died.”
Spock closed his eyes. “You would have minded severely,” he murmured. “Have you informed New Vulcan of our projected arrival?”
His mate was good enough to simply accept that Spock was correct on the first account. A trickle of guilt slipped through the bond. “I told the ambassador and your dad,” he confirmed. A beat of silence later, he cleared his throat. “On the plus side, Bones says we can get you into the scanner as soon as the day after tomorrow. He wants it done as soon as possible.”
Spock relaxed into the biobed. “That seems logical,” he agreed. “I would like to enter a healing trance.”
Jim nodded, standing up. “Good plan,” he said softly, leaning to press a gently kiss to Spock’s mouth. He accepted it, sliding their hands into an embrace briefly. “Now, I need to go see a man about a court martial anyway. Meditate. Do your healing thing. I’ll be back before you come out of it.”
Spock felt his eyes closing of their own accord. “I do not doubt it,” he murmured, feeling Jim’s hands leave his. “I can hardly recall an occasion when you were not present when I awoke in the past year.”
Don’t forget it, Jim projected towards him. Heal up.
Spock didn’t even bother replying. He merely projected back neutrality as best he could, and then, with the feel of Jim’s palm still lingering on his, he slipped into the trance, letting the sounds and smells of the world fade away.
Previous Chapter----------------- Next Chapter
Chapter: One Two Three Four Five Six Six.5 Seven Eight Nine Nine.5 Ten Eleven
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Warnings: Slash, MPREG, gratuitous use of Vulcan language (vocal and body), sex, somewhat mediocre writing; stuff like that.
Summary: Sequel to “Of Convenience”. Entering a new chapter in life is difficult when you’re single. As a pair? Let’s just say Spock and Kirk are going to have their work cut out for them if this chapter’s going to end the way they want it to.
They had barely made it onto the bridge before Sulu, at least, was raising an eyebrow at them. Jim sent him a pointed look, though somehow his nervousness increased, flowing through the bond and wearing at Spock’s carefully constructed calm. Nyota sent him an inquisitive look of her own, though he could not acknowledge it immediately. Instead, he paid no more mind to his superior and walked to his station, breathing deeply.
The nervousness would not abate.
Instinct, Spock, Jim projected. It’s logical to trust your instincts. Mine are saying this is bad news.
Out loud, he merely glanced over the bridge and cleared his throat. “Admiral Komack wishes to observe the bridge for Alpha shift. Do your best to perform your duties as usual,” he ordered, striding to his chair. “We will engage in tactical drills A14 through B12 today, in random order. Mr. Spock, if you will please begin the simulation?”
Spock nodded, letting his hands take over for his mind. The programming was simple to initiate, and not a second after he activated the scrambler, the view screen changed to an image of a Romulan warbird.
“Ouch,” the Ensign at the helm winced. “We’re starting with this one?”
“Ensign,” Jim snapped. “We are in a drill. Please take this seriously.”
Spock knew Jim’s temper was unraveling alongside his nerves, and hard as he tried, there was no way he was capable of soothing him yet. His mate’s protective nature aside, the nature of the simulation might be taxing him as well. A quick touch of Jim’s mind confirmed it.
Why’d you start with this one, Spock? Jim asked, eyes fixed on the warbird. There are 22 to pick from. Why this?
The computer program chose it, Spock replied, feeling a cold, almost viscous trepidation seep down his spine. Jim no doubt sensed it as well, turning his head to look in his direction and barking an order to open hailing frequencies. Despite his mate’s obvious concern and trust in his body’s reaction to mental and hormonal stimulus, Spock forced himself to remain calm.
“They are not responding,” Nyota called over blandly, flipping switches on her board. “I’ve tried all channels. No response.”
Jim turned to Sulu. “Are they charging weapons, Lieutenant?” he asked. The man shook his head.
“Negative. However, their shields are at maximum power,” the helmsman answered quickly, scanning through the readings his consol displayed. “Scans report engines are idling. They may be preparing to enter warp.”
“Mr. Spock?” Jim called over. Spock did not turn from his station.
“Likelihood of offensive action is approximately seventy percent,” he informed him, calculating it as he spoke. “Ship design is consistent with early warp-six capable vessels. Most likely, these ships are sentries placed to guard a recognizance brigade. I am advising extreme caution. It would also be advisable to power shields to at least forty percent.”
“Make it sixty,” his husband ordered, waving a hand at Sulu. “Any weapon activity?”
“Their weapons appear to be online,” the man confirmed, hands steady. “Do you want me to engage targeting?”
There was the tiniest of pauses, and then Jim was glancing to the view screen again. “Mr. Spock, would that action be likely to provoke a violent response?”
He could have given Jim the percentages, the statistics, the calculations - but that was not what he wanted. Spock instead simply turned away from his station and met Lieutenant Sulu’s eyes. “It certainly would,” he confirmed. “Refrain from any potentially aggressive acts.”
There was a tense silence on the bridge for a few long seconds, tense enough that Spock forgot for a moment the reason for his previous nervousness. But it did not last long. The warbird warped out of the view screen and the simulation ended.
“Performance?” Jim asked. Spock checked his PADD.
“Adequate,” he informed him. “Ninety-eight percent performance rate. Slow uptake on hails, though that seems more a fault of the system design than Lieutenant Uhura. Actions will be taken to repair this at next space dock.”
“That simulation is simple,” Komack scoffed, and Spock found his gaze drawn to the man next to the lift. He was seated on the ground next to the door, cross-legged and hands holding his ankles. It hardly seemed befitting of someone in his position, though Spock would never seek to mention it or attempt to correct him. He was his superior, after all. “A one hundred percent performance rate is possible. Don’t blame the ship for your own shortcomings, half-breed.”
Nyota let out an outraged little noise, and Spock felt Jim’s anger flare. “What did you just call him?” Nyota demanded. Komack stood, hands going behind his back.
It was only for a moment, but Spock knew he saw that the man was holding something. Metallic. Small. He has something, he informed Jim. A slight panic surged through his mate.
“I cannot allow you to use that language with one of my most valued crew members,” Jim informed their superior hastily, moving to stand between him and the rest of the bridge crew. “You are free to make any observations you would like, so long as they are relevant to the situation. Please refrain from insults, Sir.”
Komack raised an eyebrow in Jim’s direction. “Fine, then,” he grumbled, glancing between Spock and his husband. “Did you know interspecies hybrids bred in nature are almost exclusively sterile?”
That feeling in Spock’s spine had returned, amplified by Jim’s not so subtle anxiety. He stood strong, not responding.
“Yes, I know that,” Jim answered evenly. “This is not relevant.”
“I outrank you,” Komack snapped. “What I say is relevant is relevant. Understand?”
Jim closed a little more of the distance between himself and Komack. Spock, you get in your chair. If he has a weapon, I don’t want you in range. Get in your chair and lean onto your consol.
Out loud, the captain only let out a nervous chuckle. “Not really.”
Komack sighed. “I’m saying hybrids need to be sterilized. Or neutralized,” he growled out. Spock took a step back towards his chair trying not to provoke the man. But a second later, it was evident the man needed no provocation. “Let me show you.”
And before Spock could fully register the man’s movements, there was an old-style projectile weapon aimed directly at him. With great clarity and unnatural slowness, he watched the trigger depress, and with a noise almost too loud for his sensitive ears, a bullet hurdled toward him.
But Komack aimed for his chest, not for his stomach where his heart and implant resided. It hit square in the middle. He felt the sear, the burn, the cracking of his sternum, the panic of his mate. The panic and the fear. He was vaguely aware of the flurry of action, triggers pulled and Jim rushing to his side. But mostly, he felt the blood pooling, the throbbing through his whole body.
The wound would not threaten his life.
Not his.
Jim was picking him up then, and it seemed so easy for him. Like Spock weighed nothing. He carried him quickly to the lift, barking orders back to the crew. Spock tried to turn his neck back to look at the state of the bridge, but found his neck stiff, heavy. He could not move. Jim’s concern, panic, disbelief, and determination poured through the bond.
He hid the weapon in his boot? Spock asked, feeling his body beginning to go into shock, despite his training. He forced himself into calm. Jim was in no similar state.
Damn right. Bastard must’ve had it in there for hours. Don’t try to talk.
I am not actually-
Doesn’t matter. Do that healing trance thing you Vulcans do. Get…better. Stronger. I’m not letting Komack get what he wants out of this.
The lift stopped, and the familiar smell of sickbay - the scent of disinfectant and sterility - met his nose. Perhaps it was merely his body’s reaction to the injury, but somehow the lights seemed so much brighter than usual. He closed his eyes.
“Hey, hey - stay with me,” he heard Jim say as the unmistakeable sound of a tricorder buzzed over him. This was followed by a string of curses (Doctor McCoy, no doubt), interrupted by his husband’s gentle, yet frantic voice. “Come on, Spock. You have to keep your eyes open. Don’t you dare give up on me here.”
Spock projected back what calm he could, keeping his eyes shut. “I am quite conscious,” he assured him, “but the lights are too bright to look at.”
Jim’s fingers met his, and he reciprocated as best he could. It was just the tiniest moment, and seconds later, it was lost.
“I need to perform surgery now, Jim,” Spock heard the doctor say, and he felt Jim’s agreement through the bond. There was the light touch of Jim’s lips on his forehead before his loud footsteps retreated hastily. He heard the filling of a hypospray.
Then, nothing. The world ceased to exist.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
He awoke to dimmed lights and a cool hand in his, and there could be no question where he was or who was holding onto him so strongly. He cast his eyes about the room, noting a hypo on the counter next to the biobed and his mate, clothes changed from that ill-fated shift, asleep at his side. An old-fashioned clock on the wall read six-thirteen, though he was not certain whether that was morning or evening.
Doctor McCoy stepped inside quietly. It was evident that he knew Jim would be here. Like Spock, he seemed to take it for granted that Jim would always be there when he woke. He stepped closer, running a tricorder over his body quickly.
“Damn lucky Komack never took a xenobiology class,” he muttered lowly. “For once, it’s a good thing you’re a hobgoblin.”
“Indeed,” Spock murmured, feeling a rush of pain through his body with the exhalation. There was a moment of silence as the doctor administered the hypospray. “Am I still…?”
“Pregnant? Yeah,” the man said gruffly, but it was the confirmation he needed regardless of tone. “And you’re a whole three days more pregnant now than your last visit. Almost four weeks down now.”
Like he knew what they were saying (although Spock recognized his sleep as being deep enough that such a thing was impossible), Jim was suddenly reaching up, laying his free hand awkwardly on Spock’s shoulder. McCoy let out a sound close to a chuckle.
“He does that every time someone talks in this room,” he explained. “Especially when he’s asleep. Damn protective bastard.”
Spock used his own free hand to cover his mate’s, gently rubbing his fingers and projecting calm. Jim’s shoulders sank lower, his breathing deepening. He focused on this as the doctor did his work, checking his readings once, twice, and again.
“Obviously, we’ve postponed your time in the scanner,” he informed the Vulcan. “But as soon as we can, we need to. We have no way of knowing how your body is going to react to all this. There is absolutely no precedent whatsoever. And some of the readings I’m getting worry me.”
He watched Jim’s sleeping face for a few moments longer. “And the likelihood of miscarriage is increased if there is history of it,” he murmured. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought a look of pity crossed over the doctor’s face. Spock kept his face as neutral as he could, the exhaustion in his body pressing against his ability to do so. “We considered this when we initiated this attempt. We are prepared.”
McCoy nodded. “You need sleep.”
“It would seem so,” Spock conceded. “I will attempt another few hours. Please insist Jim maintain our present course - and that he eats a decent meal before his next shift.”
“How motherly,” the doctor drawled, flicking the lights off. “Sleep well.”
That was one order Spock had no difficulty following.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
When he awoke again, Spock found Jim seated beside him, awake this time and watching him, jaw resting on his fist. His husband gave him the briefest of smiles, offering two fingers. Spock accepted silently, rearranging his shoulders and feeling the slight burn of pain spread through him. He met Jim’s eyes.
“You have not changed clothing since the last time I woke,” he observed. “Have I slept long?”
“Eleven hours,” Jim told him, still glancing over him. “Komack’s in the brig. The Edison is going to pick him up later. He’s being court-martialed. He’s lucky phasers are automatically defaulted to stun upon entry to the bridge. Not that I’d have minded if he’d died.”
Spock closed his eyes. “You would have minded severely,” he murmured. “Have you informed New Vulcan of our projected arrival?”
His mate was good enough to simply accept that Spock was correct on the first account. A trickle of guilt slipped through the bond. “I told the ambassador and your dad,” he confirmed. A beat of silence later, he cleared his throat. “On the plus side, Bones says we can get you into the scanner as soon as the day after tomorrow. He wants it done as soon as possible.”
Spock relaxed into the biobed. “That seems logical,” he agreed. “I would like to enter a healing trance.”
Jim nodded, standing up. “Good plan,” he said softly, leaning to press a gently kiss to Spock’s mouth. He accepted it, sliding their hands into an embrace briefly. “Now, I need to go see a man about a court martial anyway. Meditate. Do your healing thing. I’ll be back before you come out of it.”
Spock felt his eyes closing of their own accord. “I do not doubt it,” he murmured, feeling Jim’s hands leave his. “I can hardly recall an occasion when you were not present when I awoke in the past year.”
Don’t forget it, Jim projected towards him. Heal up.
Spock didn’t even bother replying. He merely projected back neutrality as best he could, and then, with the feel of Jim’s palm still lingering on his, he slipped into the trance, letting the sounds and smells of the world fade away.
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