[Star Trek TOS] Gravity
Title: Gravity
Wordcount: ~1,000
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/Spock
Rating: R? I guess?
Disclaimer: I don't own them!
Summary: Written for help_haiti auction. I won't explain the prompt, because it is spoilery.
Note: I...am not entirely sure I am happy with this. I may end up rewriting the prompt. But for now, here it is.
"Eat," Kirk insists, pushing the fruit towards Spock with the toe of his boot. Spock opens his eyes, his hands loose on his knees. He radiates calm, a bubble of cool silence, pressing outwards against the walls of the hut and the wall of pure, buzzing, humming noise outside it alike. Kirk breathes it in and feels some of the tension in his head ease.
"You have to eat, Spock." He says again, crouching down by his friend. "Scotty'll be back for us, but it won't be for days yet at the least. Even at maximum warp - "
"I do not need the sustenance, Captain." Spock raises dark eyes to his. "My body is well suited to the heat of this clime, and I can withstand hunger far better than you. I suggest you see to your own needs."
"I have," Kirk says, rocking back to sit against the wall. "And now I am attempting to see to those of my First Officer. However, it seems he is proving...recalcitrant."
Spock raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Kirk smirks. "Indeed. He seems to think he knows better than his superior officer."
Spock flickers his gaze away and back, subtle enough that anyone but Kirk would have missed it. "Were you able to discover any hint to the origin of this planet's ecological overabundance?"
He sighs. "Just insects. Thousands and thousands of insects, thankfully entirely uninterested in human flesh, but fascinated by these fruits." He picks one up from the bowl, tosses it from hand to hand. "I wonder, Spock, if you could taste one and tell me if you notice anything strange in its flavors?"
Spock regards him with a flatness of gaze that means he's entirely unimpressed. "While your attempt at subterfuge was admirable, Captain, I can only paraphrase Doctor McCoy: You must trust me on this one."
Kirk slides down the wall until he's lying on his back. "Of course." He murmurs, soft, to the sunlight sifting through the braided plant fronds of the hut's roof. To the motionless Vulcan at his side. He closes his eyes, as if it will block out any of the noise. Always.
**
He wakes to silence. No - not silence, but hissing where there had been humming, and cool, dim light where there had been sun.
Spock is gone.
He pushes himself to his feet, immediately wary. Are there snakes, now, where there had been bugs? Strange, yes, but not impossible - not with some of the things he's seen. But then he takes a breath, smells wet, healthy soil. Not snakes, then.
Rain.
He smiles, and puts the phaser back on his hip. Outside the hut, there's no sign of the insects that had been swarming the jungles only hours before. The rain sheets softly down on the forest, gathering in the hollowed hearts of the fern-like plants that cover the ground, running in rivulets down the trunks of the trees.
Kirk bends, sips the rainwater from the curl of a new leaf. It's sweet and clean, perfect and delicious. All his remaining tension seeps into the ground beneath him, as if he has roots. He turns, feeling light, and sees Spock.
He's standing in the underbrush, the ferns up to his shins, his profile to Kirk. He is completely naked, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, water dripping from his fingers. There is a hole in the canopy above him, must be, Kirk thinks distractedly, because the light and the rain both enter there, both glance off his upturned face, both make him glow pale and otherworldly. His lips are parted, raindrops gathered at their corners, and those corners are just the slightest, littlest bit quirked upwards.
Kirk isn't entirely sure how to breathe.
He takes a step closer, unable to tell whether he's done it voluntarily or out of respect for the gravity, the utter magnetism of the sight before him. He can see the raindrops trace the muscles of the Vulcan's back, slide step by step down the notches in his spine, pause in the dimple of his tailbone. There are droplets caught in the dark whorls and tangles of his chest hair, glinting in the - dawn? dusk? - like stars.
He takes another step closer. His clothes, sodden through, feel heavy and awkward.
Spock lowers his chin a bit, but he doesn't open his eyes. "In the times before, before we knew control and the bonds of logic, we would drink in the rain." He says, in a strange, lilting voice. If Kirk didn't know better, he would say that it had a sort of ritualistic cadence to it, a cant of storyteller. "We would store it and its nutrients. The deserts are hot and the summers long, on Vulcan." He continues. "Water is a precious thing." He opens his eyes, and there are droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "It's in the rain, Jim."
Water runs in rivulets off the point of his chin, the corners of his jaw. His hair is slick to his head, and Kirk feels like he's too full, like he'll burst upwards with the beauty of him. He steps forward again (gravity, just gravity) and Spock watches him come, standing motionless until Kirk is inches from him, and then his hands come up, swipe warm and wet against his arms. The slight smile hasn't left his lips, and Kirk still feels like he's floating.
They kiss like it's the rain that matters, like they're tasting, scientific and laughing, this new ecological phenomenon. Kirk ends up slick and stripped, tracing the trail of rain down the tendons in Spock's neck, sipping from the hollow of his collarbone. There's nothing hurried about it, about them. The rain will last for hours, Spock knows, and what Spock knows Kirk knows, traded between them in kiss and handclasp and the bitten off whispers of informative nonsense that Spock wouldn't be Spock without. The ferns are soft when Kirk's knees sink into them, softer when they lie there spent and satisfied, staring up through the canopy.
After what might have been seconds or might have been hours Kirk flips onto his side, quirks his lips at Spock. "You could have just eaten the fruit. It is, after all, the same nutrients."
Spock raises an eyebrow at him. "Indeed." He acknowledges. "However, I think perhaps you might agree that the more long-term ramifications of this method of gaining them are, in fact, more desirable."
Kirk's smirk grows. "Am I take from that that this was premeditated, Mr. Spock?"
Spock blinks, slow. "You are to take from it what you will...Captain."
His hand is clasped in Kirk's, and the rain washes them clean.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Pairing/Characters: Kirk/Spock
Rating: R? I guess?
Disclaimer: I don't own them!
Summary: Written for help_haiti auction. I won't explain the prompt, because it is spoilery.
Note: I...am not entirely sure I am happy with this. I may end up rewriting the prompt. But for now, here it is.
"Eat," Kirk insists, pushing the fruit towards Spock with the toe of his boot. Spock opens his eyes, his hands loose on his knees. He radiates calm, a bubble of cool silence, pressing outwards against the walls of the hut and the wall of pure, buzzing, humming noise outside it alike. Kirk breathes it in and feels some of the tension in his head ease.
"You have to eat, Spock." He says again, crouching down by his friend. "Scotty'll be back for us, but it won't be for days yet at the least. Even at maximum warp - "
"I do not need the sustenance, Captain." Spock raises dark eyes to his. "My body is well suited to the heat of this clime, and I can withstand hunger far better than you. I suggest you see to your own needs."
"I have," Kirk says, rocking back to sit against the wall. "And now I am attempting to see to those of my First Officer. However, it seems he is proving...recalcitrant."
Spock raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Kirk smirks. "Indeed. He seems to think he knows better than his superior officer."
Spock flickers his gaze away and back, subtle enough that anyone but Kirk would have missed it. "Were you able to discover any hint to the origin of this planet's ecological overabundance?"
He sighs. "Just insects. Thousands and thousands of insects, thankfully entirely uninterested in human flesh, but fascinated by these fruits." He picks one up from the bowl, tosses it from hand to hand. "I wonder, Spock, if you could taste one and tell me if you notice anything strange in its flavors?"
Spock regards him with a flatness of gaze that means he's entirely unimpressed. "While your attempt at subterfuge was admirable, Captain, I can only paraphrase Doctor McCoy: You must trust me on this one."
Kirk slides down the wall until he's lying on his back. "Of course." He murmurs, soft, to the sunlight sifting through the braided plant fronds of the hut's roof. To the motionless Vulcan at his side. He closes his eyes, as if it will block out any of the noise. Always.
**
He wakes to silence. No - not silence, but hissing where there had been humming, and cool, dim light where there had been sun.
Spock is gone.
He pushes himself to his feet, immediately wary. Are there snakes, now, where there had been bugs? Strange, yes, but not impossible - not with some of the things he's seen. But then he takes a breath, smells wet, healthy soil. Not snakes, then.
Rain.
He smiles, and puts the phaser back on his hip. Outside the hut, there's no sign of the insects that had been swarming the jungles only hours before. The rain sheets softly down on the forest, gathering in the hollowed hearts of the fern-like plants that cover the ground, running in rivulets down the trunks of the trees.
Kirk bends, sips the rainwater from the curl of a new leaf. It's sweet and clean, perfect and delicious. All his remaining tension seeps into the ground beneath him, as if he has roots. He turns, feeling light, and sees Spock.
He's standing in the underbrush, the ferns up to his shins, his profile to Kirk. He is completely naked, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, water dripping from his fingers. There is a hole in the canopy above him, must be, Kirk thinks distractedly, because the light and the rain both enter there, both glance off his upturned face, both make him glow pale and otherworldly. His lips are parted, raindrops gathered at their corners, and those corners are just the slightest, littlest bit quirked upwards.
Kirk isn't entirely sure how to breathe.
He takes a step closer, unable to tell whether he's done it voluntarily or out of respect for the gravity, the utter magnetism of the sight before him. He can see the raindrops trace the muscles of the Vulcan's back, slide step by step down the notches in his spine, pause in the dimple of his tailbone. There are droplets caught in the dark whorls and tangles of his chest hair, glinting in the - dawn? dusk? - like stars.
He takes another step closer. His clothes, sodden through, feel heavy and awkward.
Spock lowers his chin a bit, but he doesn't open his eyes. "In the times before, before we knew control and the bonds of logic, we would drink in the rain." He says, in a strange, lilting voice. If Kirk didn't know better, he would say that it had a sort of ritualistic cadence to it, a cant of storyteller. "We would store it and its nutrients. The deserts are hot and the summers long, on Vulcan." He continues. "Water is a precious thing." He opens his eyes, and there are droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "It's in the rain, Jim."
Water runs in rivulets off the point of his chin, the corners of his jaw. His hair is slick to his head, and Kirk feels like he's too full, like he'll burst upwards with the beauty of him. He steps forward again (gravity, just gravity) and Spock watches him come, standing motionless until Kirk is inches from him, and then his hands come up, swipe warm and wet against his arms. The slight smile hasn't left his lips, and Kirk still feels like he's floating.
They kiss like it's the rain that matters, like they're tasting, scientific and laughing, this new ecological phenomenon. Kirk ends up slick and stripped, tracing the trail of rain down the tendons in Spock's neck, sipping from the hollow of his collarbone. There's nothing hurried about it, about them. The rain will last for hours, Spock knows, and what Spock knows Kirk knows, traded between them in kiss and handclasp and the bitten off whispers of informative nonsense that Spock wouldn't be Spock without. The ferns are soft when Kirk's knees sink into them, softer when they lie there spent and satisfied, staring up through the canopy.
After what might have been seconds or might have been hours Kirk flips onto his side, quirks his lips at Spock. "You could have just eaten the fruit. It is, after all, the same nutrients."
Spock raises an eyebrow at him. "Indeed." He acknowledges. "However, I think perhaps you might agree that the more long-term ramifications of this method of gaining them are, in fact, more desirable."
Kirk's smirk grows. "Am I take from that that this was premeditated, Mr. Spock?"
Spock blinks, slow. "You are to take from it what you will...Captain."
His hand is clasped in Kirk's, and the rain washes them clean.