The Prophecy of Apollo, Part 6
Title: The Prophecy of Apollo
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot (AU)
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: My cats own all, I own nothing. They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse. Cats, you make terrible agents! Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.
Summary: AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth. How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions? It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it. Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate. Who will brave the monster's lair?
Author's Note: This chapter is the first part of my fill for rynne , who won my help_japan auction! The next part will be coming just as soon as I can bully my brain into functioning properly.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
“You smell of the sun again. You have been outside.”
“Helped T'Perea exercise I-Chaya again.” Jim reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I really wish you wouldn't make her do that; she doesn't deserve to be punished, and I-Chaya makes her nervous.”
“Very well.”
Jim blinked into the darkness. “Really? That's all? I just ask and . . . 'very well'?”
“You may find that I am inclined to provide you with anything you may ask for.” Jim could feel the heat of Spock's body move closer, smell the warm, spicy scent of him, and every nerve in his body seemed to suddenly quiver in anticipation. “Especially,” he added in dark, rich tones, “if you ask me sweetly.”
Jim's mouth had gone dry. “I don't beg,” he reminded Spock, and their bond opened just enough for him to feel a thin sliver of amusement.
“So I have been assured.”
Spock moved away again; the air felt cooler despite the constant oppressive heat, and Jim caught himself leaning after it. It was more than just a physical reaction as well; his mind was yearning towards that one fleeting touch as much as his body ached for the feel of Spock's skin against his. He had to shake himself sharply to come back to himself, and would have sworn he could feel Spock's smirk from across the room.
“What if I ask for something you don't want to give me?” Jim asked when he was relatively sure he could speak without his voice shaking. Spock gave a thoughtful hum that sent a shiver down Jim's spine.
“Ask me and find out.”
I want to see you, Jim very nearly said. But even half-asleep he knew what the answer to that would be; there was time enough to get his way later on. The full implications of that thought hit him after a moment, and he flushed.
“A computer,” he heard himself say abruptly, not even fully aware of what he meant to ask for until the words had left his mouth. “I want to send a message to Pike.”
There was silence for a long moment, long enough that Jim might have suspected that Spock had left the room if not for the fact that he could still sense him there.
“He will not succeed in taking you from this place,” Spock said flatly. From me remained unsaid, but Jim could hear it clearly nevertheless.
“And I give you my word I won't ask him to try.” Jim frowned uselessly into the darkness. “I don't want them to risk getting injured or . . .” He swallowed heavily. “Not over me. Those people-Pike, Number One, all of them-they're the closest thing to family I have.”
Spock moved closer; Jim could feel it even through the blackness that surrounded him.
“No longer, Jim,” he said quietly, and just like that he moved away again. “What is in my power to give you, you shall have. Now rest.”
“I'd rest better with you here.”
He hadn't meant to say that, either, but as before the words slipped out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up. There was a long, pregnant pause, and Jim found himself leaning forward again.
“Are you asking me into your bed?” Spock said at last.
Yes. Jim caught himself this time, though he had to literally bite his tongue to keep quiet.
“I'm . . . making sure you know it's an open invitation.”
“That is not enough.”
“Why isn't it?” Jim scowled. “You know I want you; you have to know that.”
“Indeed.” Spock's voice didn't quite sound steady. “However, I want . . . more.”
Jim fell asleep before he could manage a suitable response.
The next morning dawned as bright and hot as the ones before; despite the heat, Jim had T'Sal show him the way down to the pools he had been taken to when he arrived. After soaking there for as long as he could stand, the air in the rest of the castle felt cool by comparison. Even so, he was sweating again by the time he sat down to eat, and his clothes were already starting to stick to his body.
“When you have finished your meal,” Vlorik said, pouring a large glass of the iced tea he tried very hard to pretend he didn't disapprove of, “there is a delivery that awaits your attention.”
Jim paused with a soft kriela halfway to his mouth. “My attention?”
“Indeed.”
“Hmm.” Jim chewed thoughtfully. “Who's it from?”
“The Lady Amanda,” Vlorik replied calmly, and Jim nearly choked. “She has sent the traditional telik-tanan.”
“The . . .” Jim had to pause to cough and clear his throat with half the glass of cold, spiced tea. “Sorry, the traditional what now?”
“Telik-tanan.” Vlorik's lips quirked up slightly. “In Standard, a . . . wedding gift, I believe is the closest approximation.”
Jim swore softly under his breath. “You don't need me for that. Just put it . . . wherever. I don't care.”
“I am afraid that your attention is required,” Vlorik countered. “There is a message attached that is addressed to you personally, and to be delivered into your hands only.”
A nervous, crawling sensation took up residence in Jim's stomach, and he looked at the rest of his food with regret. “All right,” he sighed after a moment, tossing his napkin onto the table. “Let's go.”
“You need not interrupt your meal-”
“Skipping the last course isn't going to kill me,” Jim snapped. “Let's just get this over with.”
Though clearly disapproving, Vlorik led the way through the dark, twisting corridors. Jim tried, as always, to keep track of where they turned, of how many doors they went through, but it was useless. The way was too convoluted, and eventually he simply gave up and followed the bobbing light of the lantern that Vlorik held.
They emerged through the final door into the blaze of mid-morning sun, and Jim spent several long moments struggling to adjust his eyes. When he finally managed to make out his surroundings he found himself in yet another part of the fortress that he had never seen before. They were higher up than he had thought; he could see the very edge of the city below, and the vast stretch of sand beyond, bordered in the south by the curve of the mountains. The stretch of ground beneath their feet was huge, as long as the garden courtyard and easily twice as wide, a sea of flat, hot stone. A handful of speeders gleamed in the sun, and Jim realized that they had walked out onto a landing pad.
Slightly apart from the speeders was a Zephyr, and next to it stood a tall Vulcan with hair that just barely brushed his shoulders. Beside him was a heavy square wooden crate, the top of it as high as his hip. His gaze flicked continually between the crate, the city below, and the half-dozen attendants who stood in a loose half-circle between him and the door. Jim slipped through with a hand on T'Mira's shoulder in silent greeting, and abruptly the new Vulcan's attention was entirely fixed on him.
“My lord,” he said with a bow, as Jim took a quick moment to size him up.
Tall, as he had noted before, but thin, even for a Vulcan. He wore K'tash armor, but it was stiff and new, and in places seemed to gap or bind. Not a newly-made warrior, then; a courier, Jim guessed, overly nervous about his trip to The City of Shadows.
“I'm not a lord,” Jim said absently. “I was told that you have something for me?”
“Indeed.” The man bowed again and gestured to the crate at his side. “A telik-tanan from the Lady Amanda and her lord. And a message from my lady's own hand for her sa-fu k'war'ma'khon.”
Jim fought the urge to shake his head at that impossible tangle of sounds. “Her what now?”
“Her . . .” The man visibly struggled for the words. “Son,” he said at last, “yet not her son. As close as family, though unrelated.”
“I see.” For a moment, Jim wondered why no one had bothered to teach him the phrase son-in-law. Soon, however, he remembered T'Pring; a son-in-law, he supposed, hadn't been entirely expected. “I . . . appreciate the gesture,” he said, despite not being entirely sure that that was true. He glanced at the waiting ship, quiet and still as any of the others. “You really didn't have to wait for me, though.”
“I was instructed to deliver the telik-tanan into your hands, and none other.”
“You could've waited inside, then. We can get you something to drink, if you want.”
“No.” The courier twitched slightly in what looked like an aborted step backwards. “Your generosity is appreciated, but the courtesy is unnecessary. He reached into his vest and pulled out an envelope, thrusting it quickly at Jim. “My lady extends her regards, and her wishes that an introduction may not be long in coming.” He did step back then, glancing almost hopefully towards his Zephyr. “If my lord is satisfied . . .”
Another protestation of the title was on Jim's lips, but he bit it back with a sigh. “You're free to go whenever you like,” he said.
With one more quick, cursory bow, the courier headed for his ship as swiftly as his dignity would allow.
“He was a little skittish,” Jim remarked as the Zephyr lifted with a whisper of sound and shot away.
“Most are, upon their arrival,” Vlorik replied. “ Da’kum’Ulcha is a place most sane men avoid if the have the choice.”
Jim turned to answer him, saw the line of waiting Vulcans staring back with blank, empty eyes, and snorted instead. “I don't think it's just the city,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the envelope in his hand.
It wasn't thick, but the paper was fine. Real Terran paper, stuff that Jim hadn't seen in years. It was expensive even on Earth; this far out, it would be worth nearly as much as a comparably-sized sheet of gold. The Lady Amanda had expensive tastes, it seemed. Jim couldn't help but be oddly grateful for it; it made him think of his father's books, Pike's now and stored securely in a facility back on Earth. Nostalgia swept over him for a long moment before Jim roused himself again and broke through the heavy purple wax seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, as fine as the envelope and adorned with even, graceful handwriting.
Dear Jim,
First and foremost, I wish to thank you. You have given me a gift beyond what I can possibly hope to repay-you have given me my son's life, and for that I owe you more than I can say.
I will not attempt to speak for Spock, to communicate his regard and affection for you. It is a difficult thing, at times, being bonded to a Vulcan; my son occasionally forgets that Humans are not by nature telepathic, and may neglect to speak aloud when it is most necessary for him to do so. I encourage you to remind him of this need, and don't be afraid to inform him when he is being stubborn and self-involved. Love him as I do, I will not pretend that he is entirely without flaws.
The circumstances of your bonding were, I know, unorthodox at best. Know, however, that you could not have seen him whole and sane through his Time without a true connection and compatibility between your minds. My son has seen too much cruelty and rejection in his life; I ask only that you allow yourself the chance to experience all that this bond might be for both of you. And if you do not believe that is possible, I ask only that you break his heart quickly. Do not allow him to suffer more than necessary.
Though life here may can be difficult, with the aid of others it need not be unpleasant. It is traditional for the telik-tanan to be something that will ease the life of a newly bonded pair. With you, Spock has everything he may need. My gift, therefore, is for you. When you find yourself in difficulty, may you remember that at least one Human will be able to relate.
Yours in hope,
Lady Amanda Greyson
“Well.” Jim refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope with slightly unsteady fingers. “I'd always sort of wondered what a motherly guilt-trip would be like.”
“My lord?”
Jim shook his head. “Nevermind. Do we have anything to get this open?” he asked, indicating the crate.
Several pairs of Vulcan hands proved equal to the task, prying the wooden lid away with hardly a trace of effort. Curious despite himself, Jim moved to look inside and could have wept with gratitude. Safely packed in layers of padding were boxes of tri-ox hypospray cartridges. A set of bright new hyposprays were carefully wrapped on top, and there were easily enough cartridges inside to last him several months-more, if he didn't eventually find something more physical to keep himself occupied.
Jim reached in and drew out a box of cartridges, loaded one of the hyposprays, and shot the dose into the side of his neck.
The faint sting had barely faded when the compound hit his blood, and while the scorching heat didn't lessen at all, it was far easier to bear as his lungs seemed to fill with a sudden rush of air. Jim closed his eyes for a moment as relief washed over him, the pleasure of being able to take a proper breath rushing back after having been nearly forgotten. Thoughts he hadn't realized were fuzzy began to clear; he suddenly felt ready to take on the world.
“Okay.” He took another deep breath, simply because he could, and turned back to Vlorik. “I need a computer.”
The terminal they found him was in what appeared to be an abandoned study deep within the fortress. It was noticeably cooler there, and Jim's suspicion that it had once been occupied by Lady Amanda seemed borne-out by the faded notes scrawled over sheets of dun-yar paper that Jim found stuffed in one of the desk drawers. The terminal was up-to-date and fully functional, however, which was all Jim cared about at the moment.
The portable terminals Pike's unit was equipped with were Terran-design rather than Vulcan, and it took Jim a few minutes to figure out how to navigate to the necessary program. When he finally had the video ready to record he took another moment to go through his mental script one more time before he finally reached out to start his message.
“Hey.” Jim smiled at the screen, hands folded loosely on the desk in front of him. “I don't know what the K'tash have told you, how much detail you got, but I wanted to let you know I'm all right. There's been a . . . ah . . .” He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Sort of a snag. Tell Uhura she was right about there being something off in the translation, if she hasn't already figured it out yet,” he added wryly.
“The point is, I'm fine, so don't get any bright ideas about coming to extract me. You'd never be able to,” he said bluntly, “and I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me. I don't know when I'll . . . Spock isn't really crazy about the idea of me leaving, and I . . .”
He tapped his fingers together absently, his planned script abandoning him. Anything that he might say about his own feelings, his own desires, felt like a lie. He wanted to go. He wanted to stay. If he could find his way again, there was a small fleet of speeders waiting. He had tri-ox and water and could pick as much fruit as he needed from the garden. Yet the idea of leaving made his stomach clench. Unable to choose, then, he settled for clearing his throat and moving on.
“I'll get in touch with you again when I can. Good hunting.”
Jim switched off the recorder and sent the file to Pike's personal account before he sat back, his heart beating faster. The message was simple, straightforward, but Pike would be watching carefully. Jim hadn't been able to work in much information with his hands without being obvious about it, but the little he'd managed should be enough to put Pike on his guard. Vulcans, job, wrong, back off. It was enough to get Pike thinking, anyway. Jim hoped. And once he started looking-really looking-between him and Number One they should be able to spot some discrepancy between the camps they'd been raiding and the major trade route they were supposedly disrupting.
It was the best he could do for now. He spent the rest of the day with I-Chaya, and tried not to worry.
“I wonder,” Spock's voice said, low and deep when Jim awoke in the dark that night, “if I could taste the sun on your skin as well as smell it.”
Barely awake and already primed by the ready desire that was flowing through their bond, Jim felt himself grow half-hard at the suggestion. “You could try and find out,” he said, stretching languorously and enjoying the sharp intake of breath from the shadows.
“You are taunting me.”
“Maybe.”
“You spend a great deal more time outside than I had anticipated,” Spock said after a moment, and Jim had to grin.
“Didn't expect me to get you quite so hot and bothered this easily?”
Jim thought he felt something like amusement. “Are you flaunting your scent deliberately?”
“No.” Jim stretched again, arching his hips a bit so that the sheet covering him slid lower. “But it's a nice side-effect.”
There was a low growling sound, and then the heat of Spock's body was close enough to feel. “You provoke me at your peril.”
The words were breathed mere inches away from Jim's lips, and for a moment his mind went blank at the sensation.
“I'm here for the taking, Spock,” he said quietly, his heart hammering and his flesh fully hard now. “But I won't beg.”
For a moment those hot puffs of breath continued to fall against his skin. They withdrew before he could lean up to capture Spock's lips with his, and Jim collapsed back against the pillows.
“Your mom was right,” he muttered. “You're fucking stubborn as hell.”
“A trait I believe I likely inherited from her,” came the disgruntled reply, and Jim laughed.
“I can believe that.”
“May I make a personal query?” Spock asked after a moment, and Jim had to laugh again.
“At this point? I don't see why not.”
There was a pregnant pause, and then, “You find me . . . desirable. Our minds are uncommonly well matched; nevertheless, I am willing to keep our bond shielded if you prefer it. You appear to enjoy my company.”
“Spock-”
“Why do you wish to leave?”
“It's not that simple.” Jim sat up, running his hands over his face. “It's not about you, it's . . . we just met, and . . .” His protests sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Jim struggled to ignore the part of him insisting that he didn't want to leave, tried to focus on why he couldn't. “I can't live . . . like this,” he said at last. “I can't stay here when the highlight of the day is taking your pet for a walk. It's just not who I am, Spock.”
There was another long pause.
“If you had something more stimulating to occupy your time, then,” Spock said eventually, “you would be more inclined to stay?”
“I-”
“I will arrange it.”
“Spock-”
“I will convince you, Jim.” Spock was so close that Jim could feel him again, close enough to have Jim's head swimming with the urge to reach out and touch. “You have only to give me the chance.”
That's what I'm afraid of, Jim thought as he slumped back against the bed, and didn't fall asleep until long after Spock had left the room.
He had managed to put it out of his mind by morning, but he had barely finished his breakfast when Vlorik appeared at his elbow, filmy white eyes fixed on Jim in that way he still found profoundly unsettling.
“If you have finished, Master Jim, we may begin.”
Jim stared up at him for a moment, wiping his mouth. “Begin what, exactly?”
Vlorik simply raised an eyebrow. “Your assessment. Lord Spock informed me that you wished to take a more active role in the duties here.”
“Ah.” Jim frowned. “I don't know if that's exactly-”
“Your combat skills will, of course, need to be assessed before we can determine your eligibility.”
“See, that's-my combat skills?” Despite himself, Jim could feel his interest piquing. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Provided you are suitably skilled, my lord suggested that you may be interested in assisting with training the house guard.” He stepped away from the table. “If you will follow me.”
Jim scrambled to his feet and hurried after the elderly Vulcan. “There's a house guard?”
“Certainly.” There was clear amusement in Vlorik's voice as he led the way. “You do not imagine that Lord Spock is foolish enough to equip a fortress such as this with less than full protection?”
“Why haven't I seen any guard before, then?”
“You have,” Vlorik assured him. “Many times over.”
“That doesn't make any-”
“Suffice it to say,” Vlorik interrupted, “there is adequate protection within our walls. Constant training, however, is a necessity, especially since our forces are only rarely tested against an outside opponent.”
Jim thought of the trek through the city, the long climb up the mountain. “I'd imagine so.” He shrugged. This was, at least, something to do. “So what do I have to do to 'prove my eligibility'?”
“You will have to spar against the opponent Lord Spock has selected.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. It would be a challenge, certainly. But he'd already taken his tri-ox, and he had several years' experience fighting Vulcans working in his favor. The captain might be stronger, but Jim had a sneaky, slippery fighting style that usually confused the hell out of Vulcan opponents.
Vlorik led the way outside, into a small courtyard. There was no oasis waiting here, just heat and sun and sand, and the diminutive T'Mira with a selection of weapons and a small med kit at the ready. Jim tried not to think about needing medical attention as he stretched, loosening up his muscles. As the full heat of the sun hit him he remembered again the soft robes he had rejected, but swiftly put the thought aside. They might keep him cooler, but his own clothes were what he was accustomed to fighting in. The sacrifice of comfort for familiarity and mobility was one Jim was used to.
“So who's my opponent?” he asked savoring the first trickles of adrenaline through his system. He glanced back to see Vlorik lift an amused eyebrow.
“I am.”
For a moment the words refused to sink in. When they finally did, Jim dropped his hands to his sides and tried to control the fury that was slowly bubbling to the surface.
“That son of a bitch,” he said softly; Vlorik tilted his head curiously.
“Is there a problem?”
“Is there-yes, there's a fucking problem!” Jim spun away, pacing across the sand with long, angry steps. “Is this a joke to him? Does he think I'm an idiot? Is that it? Because I'd have to be not to see this for the completely fucking obvious set-up that it is!”
“I am uncertain-”
“He needs me to help train his house guard,” Jim said derisively. “Have to prove myself. Prove myself against the blind man old enough to be my great-grandfather.”
“Ah.” There was a smile playing around Vlorik's mouth despite the insult. “Allow me to assure you, I am a far more capable opponent than I appear.”
“I'm going to kill him,” Jim muttered.
“I am afraid that fighting me is the only option available to you,” Vlorik said calmly. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to abstain from the duties you have been offered.”
Jim glared at him. “All right.” He stalked back to the center of the courtyard where Vlorik was waiting. “But we're not using weapons. Hand-to-hand.”
“As you say.” Vlorik settled his weight into a fighting stance, and Jim did the same. “At your leisure.”
Blood boiling, Jim struck out harder than he had originally intended, wanting only to get this farce over with as quickly as possible.
He hardly saw the old Vulcan move; one moment he was there and the next Jim's fist was whistling through empty air. There was a hard crack against his elbow, and only long experience allowed him to move with the impact to keep the bone from shattering. He stumbled forward two steps before he regained his balance and whirled to face his opponent again.
Vlorik moved before Jim had completed his turn, but anticipating a move this time Jim was able to avoid the sweeping kick sent his way. He tried a kick of his own, and Vlorik nearly caught his leg in mid-air; he was a hair too slow to manage it, but still deflected the blow with his forearm and danced back out of reach.
It was like no fight Jim had ever experienced. Blind he may have been, but it seemed that the Vulcan was just as capable of seeing with the senses remaining to him. Jim's usual series of feints and false starts were almost useless, though he did manage a sharp blow to the crown of Vlorik's head that sent a steady trickle of green blood flowing down his face. Against another opponent, that may have been more effective; when blood dripped into his eyes, however, Vlorik took no notice. And though Jim managed another handful of strikes, before long he found himself face-down in the sand, his arms twisted behind his back with a bony knee pressing hard against his spine.
“Okay,” he groaned, “I yield.” Jim started laughing then, even when his arms dropped with graceless thumps to the ground and half his body felt like a giant bruise. Still laughing, he rolled over onto his back. “All right,” he managed after a moment. “Point taken.”
“You might have beaten him,” T'Mira said, kneeling next to him and opening the med kit, “were your mind not so expansive.”
“Fix Vlorik up first,” he said, trying to wave her away and still fighting against the urge to laugh at his own idiocy. “He's bleeding.”
“He is seeing to his own injuries.”
Jim levered his head up despite his muscles' protests. Sure enough, the older Vulcan was cleaning away the blood on his face with methodical, efficient swipes, a hefty portion of the medkit's contents arranged carefully in his lap. Jim let his head fall back down and didn't try to move while T'Mira began to run the dermal regenerator over the worst of his injuries.
“What do you mean, my mind's expansive?” he asked after a moment.
“It is . . .” She paused, searching for the words to explain. “Searching. Without full contact from your bondmate, it attempts to compensate by reaching for contact with the minds closest to it. It makes your thoughts . . . loud.”
Jim did move away then, but T'Mira seemed to be finished and didn't protests. “How do you know I don't have full contact with Spock right now?”
“T'Perea found your mind quite well-contained when she attended you after our master's pon farr. Though her telepathic powers are limited, as she was touching you I have no reason to doubt her assessment. It is not, therefore, merely your Human brain's reaction to a bond. The logical conclusion is that your bond has been blocked in some way, and your mind is now seeking alternative contact.”
“That . . .” Jim trailed off, unsure what, exactly, he was meant to say to that. It made him uncomfortable, somehow, the idea that others might know that the bond he shared with Spock was blocked off.
“I did not mean to suggest that you should maintain contact simply for a tactical advantage,” T'Mira assured him.
“All right.” Jim shifted uneasily, stood. “I wouldn't do that, anyway.”
T'Mira stood as well, nodding. “I do not blame you.”
Jim's head felt like it was swimming, like he was trying to understand a language that he didn't quite speak. “Why's that?”
“Lord Spock's mind is . . . unsettling,” she said. “None here would question your desire to limit contact with it.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?” Jim asked sharply, and T'Mira tilted her head uncertainly.
“We all presented ourselves as candidates to see our lord through this Time. Just as we serve him, and guard him, to assist him in such a way would have been . . .”
“An honor,” Jim said hoarsely, remembering Sakkint's words, and T'Mira nodded.
“None of our minds were compatible. The feel of his is . . .” She turned away, clearly hesitant to continue.
“Unsettling.” Jim could only look at her. “Right.”
It was all he could think of for the rest of the day. Through Vlorik's explanation of their training schedule, through eating his meals and exercising I-Chaya and sitting with his feet dangling in the cool water of the garden oasis, Jim's mind could only focus on Spock. He tried to imagine what it must have been like-reaching out for mind after mind and encountering only unease, or disgust, or cold duty. How many times must Spock have endured that in his life to send him here, to this desolate piece of land where only the desperate dared to go?
How long had it been since Spock had been touched by someone who wanted to?
Jim awoke that night to the faint sense of laughter trickling into the back of his mind, and rolled onto his back with a smile on his face. “You're in a good mood.”
“Vlorik tells me that your assessment took an unexpected turn.”
For one breathless moment Jim could only think of what T'Mira had said; then he remembered the feel of sand pressed roughly against his cheek as his arms were nearly dislocated, and managed a weak laugh.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“He also said that you fought well. That you came very close to defeating him.”
“That's what-yeah, I guess so.” He licked his lips and sat up. “Can I ask you something?”
“You may ask me anything.”
“Why do they need me? Why not train them yourself?”
“I have many other responsibilities,” Spock said stiffly. “I do not have the time.”
Jim nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“You do not believe me.”
“Not really, no.” As Jim's eyes futilely searched the darkness, he became aware that his mind was doing the same. Searching, T'Mira had said. “I think there's something you're not telling me.”
“It is . . . difficult,” Spock said at last, “to instruct the blind in combat without touching them.” There was a restless, shifting sound. “Nor will they use their full strength against me. They think me weak, a tselsu,” he spat, and while Jim might not have understood the word the sentiment was entirely clear.
“Maybe they just don't want to hurt you,” he offered quietly.
“I am a warrior of the K'tash clan, heir to my father the High Warlord. I do not require their concern.”
“What about your bondmate's concern?”
The room went suddenly and entirely quiet, and Jim realized that it was the first time he had referred to himself that way.
“Are you worried for me, t'nash veh kin-kur?” Spock murmured, and suddenly he was close enough to feel, close enough to smell, close enough for the heat of him to sink all the way down to Jim's bones and the last of Jim's patience broke with an almost audible snap.
“Please.” His voice was rough, his body nearly vibrating with need. “Please, Spock, let me touch you.”
The low, desperate sound Spock made was still ringing in the air when his body collided with Jim's, knocking him on his back and pinning him there while he took Jim's mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Jim's entire body seemed to sigh in relief, and he surged up to meet him, tangling his hands in the long, silken strands that tumbled down around him. Spock was still fully-clothed, and Jim pushed and tugged impatiently at the fabric until there was nothing but bare skin beneath his hands. Then with a sudden twist, he rolled them over, and the fact that Spock let him only made his desire burn hotter.
Jim draped himself over Spock, touching every inch of him that he could reach, running his hands greedily over hot skin and firm muscle, coarse hair scraping against his fingertips as his mouth trailed gradually lower. He savored the sound of Spock's breathing growing heavier as Jim trailed his tongue over a flat stomach to circle the faint jut of Spock's hipbone. Spock's hands skimmed over Jim's shoulders, slid into his hair, unfailingly gentle despite the inferno that Jim could feel building through their bond.
By the time he took Spock into his mouth, Jim was leaking onto the bedsheets, grinding his hips into the mattress in a desperate search for friction. The feel of Spock's cock heavy against his tongue was ridiculously good, and Jim started bobbing his head in earnest, relishing the feel of Spock sliding wetly between his lips. His hands wouldn't stay still; they gripped at Spock's hipbones, slipped up his sides, rubbed over his chest and down his stomach. The feel of all that smooth skin beneath his palms made him shudder and moan, and Spock groaned as the fingers in Jim's hair curled into a fist. Jim slid his hands between Spock's body and the mattress to cup his ass, to rub hard up and down his back, determined, if he couldn't see Spock, to learn him entirely by touch and by taste.
The hand in Jim's hair tugged, pulling him up and away, and Jim felt a hard grip circle his hip, a moment of sudden vertigo, then warm fingers spreading him open for one to work inside of him. Spock's touch was slick and firm and ruthless, and Jim reached out blindly until he encountered warm skin, slid his palms over Spock's legs where they stretched above his head. When he realized that his head was resting next to Spock's hip he leaned forward and bit, licking his way to the crease at the top of one leg and following it down to Spock's waiting cock. That earned him a second finger, and Jim started rocking back and forth, moaning as Spock filled him from either end.
It was cruel, delicious torture, and Spock had barely added a third finger by the time Jim tore himself away, keeping his hands braced against Spock's chest and stomach to keep himself oriented as he swung around to straddle Spock's thighs. He reached out, following the strong, smooth line of Spock's arm until he found his hand, still slick with oil, and brought their joined fingers to Spock's waiting cock. Spock groaned heavily as they moved together, hands slip-sliding over each other. Reluctantly, Jim pulled his hand away, and Spock's grip immediately shifted to his hips, dragging him forward as they both cried out at the sensation. Jim reached down, felt Spock hard and pulsing in his grasp, and held him still while he sank down, taking him inside an inch at a time.
He felt himself open. Felt Spock press inside, hot and hard and thick, stretching him, filling him and bright electric jolts sparked up the length of Jim's spine as he began to move.
Jim's thighs slid against Spock's sides, slick with the sweat dripping off of him. He braced his hands on Spock's chest, twisting his fingers in the thick hair here to keep from sliding, and Spock's hands drifted back to cup Jim's ass as he began to move. His sense of balance was shaky in the dark, but Spock's hold kept him grounded, supporting without trying to influence, letting Jim set the speed and force he wanted.
Jim moved faster, harder, lost in the sensation of the body beneath his. But still, something within him was stretching, searching, and his mind followed the flood of heat filtering through their bond wanting more. He didn't know how to get more, though, and one of his hands lifted, settling clumsily on Spock's face where his fingers spread into what felt like an approximation of the meld position. Sparks seemed to ignite beneath his fingertips, and Spock gave a sudden gasp through his teeth as his hips jerked hard once, twice.
“Jim?”
“Let me in, Spock,” Jim panted, trying to mentally shove at the shields Spock had erected. “Please, I need you, let me in.”
The shields fell in a frantic, jumbled rush, and Jim's mind surged forward, wrapping itself around Spock's in a burst of pleasure that cascaded all the way down Jim's spine. He was aware, vaguely, that his hips were moving faster still, that Spock's fingers were digging into his ass now hard enough to bruise. Then his entire system overloaded and he came, hard enough that he felt as if he would turn inside out from the force of it. Spock's release came only moments later, spilling hot inside Jim's body, and they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap as they struggled for breath.
“Stay here,” Jim managed to slur when Spock seemed ready to pull away. “Stay.”
Spock settled again, rearranging them so that they weren't quite on top of each other and Jim's leg was no longer bent at an unnatural angle. His fingers skimmed lightly over Jim's temple, and Jim shivered.
“Stay there, too,” he mumbled.
“As you say, ashayam,” Spock murmured.
Content and sated, Jim let himself sleep.
>>Part 7
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot (AU)
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: My cats own all, I own nothing. They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse. Cats, you make terrible agents! Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.
Summary: AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth. How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions? It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it. Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate. Who will brave the monster's lair?
Author's Note: This chapter is the first part of my fill for rynne , who won my help_japan auction! The next part will be coming just as soon as I can bully my brain into functioning properly.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
“You smell of the sun again. You have been outside.”
“Helped T'Perea exercise I-Chaya again.” Jim reached up to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I really wish you wouldn't make her do that; she doesn't deserve to be punished, and I-Chaya makes her nervous.”
“Very well.”
Jim blinked into the darkness. “Really? That's all? I just ask and . . . 'very well'?”
“You may find that I am inclined to provide you with anything you may ask for.” Jim could feel the heat of Spock's body move closer, smell the warm, spicy scent of him, and every nerve in his body seemed to suddenly quiver in anticipation. “Especially,” he added in dark, rich tones, “if you ask me sweetly.”
Jim's mouth had gone dry. “I don't beg,” he reminded Spock, and their bond opened just enough for him to feel a thin sliver of amusement.
“So I have been assured.”
Spock moved away again; the air felt cooler despite the constant oppressive heat, and Jim caught himself leaning after it. It was more than just a physical reaction as well; his mind was yearning towards that one fleeting touch as much as his body ached for the feel of Spock's skin against his. He had to shake himself sharply to come back to himself, and would have sworn he could feel Spock's smirk from across the room.
“What if I ask for something you don't want to give me?” Jim asked when he was relatively sure he could speak without his voice shaking. Spock gave a thoughtful hum that sent a shiver down Jim's spine.
“Ask me and find out.”
I want to see you, Jim very nearly said. But even half-asleep he knew what the answer to that would be; there was time enough to get his way later on. The full implications of that thought hit him after a moment, and he flushed.
“A computer,” he heard himself say abruptly, not even fully aware of what he meant to ask for until the words had left his mouth. “I want to send a message to Pike.”
There was silence for a long moment, long enough that Jim might have suspected that Spock had left the room if not for the fact that he could still sense him there.
“He will not succeed in taking you from this place,” Spock said flatly. From me remained unsaid, but Jim could hear it clearly nevertheless.
“And I give you my word I won't ask him to try.” Jim frowned uselessly into the darkness. “I don't want them to risk getting injured or . . .” He swallowed heavily. “Not over me. Those people-Pike, Number One, all of them-they're the closest thing to family I have.”
Spock moved closer; Jim could feel it even through the blackness that surrounded him.
“No longer, Jim,” he said quietly, and just like that he moved away again. “What is in my power to give you, you shall have. Now rest.”
“I'd rest better with you here.”
He hadn't meant to say that, either, but as before the words slipped out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up. There was a long, pregnant pause, and Jim found himself leaning forward again.
“Are you asking me into your bed?” Spock said at last.
Yes. Jim caught himself this time, though he had to literally bite his tongue to keep quiet.
“I'm . . . making sure you know it's an open invitation.”
“That is not enough.”
“Why isn't it?” Jim scowled. “You know I want you; you have to know that.”
“Indeed.” Spock's voice didn't quite sound steady. “However, I want . . . more.”
Jim fell asleep before he could manage a suitable response.
The next morning dawned as bright and hot as the ones before; despite the heat, Jim had T'Sal show him the way down to the pools he had been taken to when he arrived. After soaking there for as long as he could stand, the air in the rest of the castle felt cool by comparison. Even so, he was sweating again by the time he sat down to eat, and his clothes were already starting to stick to his body.
“When you have finished your meal,” Vlorik said, pouring a large glass of the iced tea he tried very hard to pretend he didn't disapprove of, “there is a delivery that awaits your attention.”
Jim paused with a soft kriela halfway to his mouth. “My attention?”
“Indeed.”
“Hmm.” Jim chewed thoughtfully. “Who's it from?”
“The Lady Amanda,” Vlorik replied calmly, and Jim nearly choked. “She has sent the traditional telik-tanan.”
“The . . .” Jim had to pause to cough and clear his throat with half the glass of cold, spiced tea. “Sorry, the traditional what now?”
“Telik-tanan.” Vlorik's lips quirked up slightly. “In Standard, a . . . wedding gift, I believe is the closest approximation.”
Jim swore softly under his breath. “You don't need me for that. Just put it . . . wherever. I don't care.”
“I am afraid that your attention is required,” Vlorik countered. “There is a message attached that is addressed to you personally, and to be delivered into your hands only.”
A nervous, crawling sensation took up residence in Jim's stomach, and he looked at the rest of his food with regret. “All right,” he sighed after a moment, tossing his napkin onto the table. “Let's go.”
“You need not interrupt your meal-”
“Skipping the last course isn't going to kill me,” Jim snapped. “Let's just get this over with.”
Though clearly disapproving, Vlorik led the way through the dark, twisting corridors. Jim tried, as always, to keep track of where they turned, of how many doors they went through, but it was useless. The way was too convoluted, and eventually he simply gave up and followed the bobbing light of the lantern that Vlorik held.
They emerged through the final door into the blaze of mid-morning sun, and Jim spent several long moments struggling to adjust his eyes. When he finally managed to make out his surroundings he found himself in yet another part of the fortress that he had never seen before. They were higher up than he had thought; he could see the very edge of the city below, and the vast stretch of sand beyond, bordered in the south by the curve of the mountains. The stretch of ground beneath their feet was huge, as long as the garden courtyard and easily twice as wide, a sea of flat, hot stone. A handful of speeders gleamed in the sun, and Jim realized that they had walked out onto a landing pad.
Slightly apart from the speeders was a Zephyr, and next to it stood a tall Vulcan with hair that just barely brushed his shoulders. Beside him was a heavy square wooden crate, the top of it as high as his hip. His gaze flicked continually between the crate, the city below, and the half-dozen attendants who stood in a loose half-circle between him and the door. Jim slipped through with a hand on T'Mira's shoulder in silent greeting, and abruptly the new Vulcan's attention was entirely fixed on him.
“My lord,” he said with a bow, as Jim took a quick moment to size him up.
Tall, as he had noted before, but thin, even for a Vulcan. He wore K'tash armor, but it was stiff and new, and in places seemed to gap or bind. Not a newly-made warrior, then; a courier, Jim guessed, overly nervous about his trip to The City of Shadows.
“I'm not a lord,” Jim said absently. “I was told that you have something for me?”
“Indeed.” The man bowed again and gestured to the crate at his side. “A telik-tanan from the Lady Amanda and her lord. And a message from my lady's own hand for her sa-fu k'war'ma'khon.”
Jim fought the urge to shake his head at that impossible tangle of sounds. “Her what now?”
“Her . . .” The man visibly struggled for the words. “Son,” he said at last, “yet not her son. As close as family, though unrelated.”
“I see.” For a moment, Jim wondered why no one had bothered to teach him the phrase son-in-law. Soon, however, he remembered T'Pring; a son-in-law, he supposed, hadn't been entirely expected. “I . . . appreciate the gesture,” he said, despite not being entirely sure that that was true. He glanced at the waiting ship, quiet and still as any of the others. “You really didn't have to wait for me, though.”
“I was instructed to deliver the telik-tanan into your hands, and none other.”
“You could've waited inside, then. We can get you something to drink, if you want.”
“No.” The courier twitched slightly in what looked like an aborted step backwards. “Your generosity is appreciated, but the courtesy is unnecessary. He reached into his vest and pulled out an envelope, thrusting it quickly at Jim. “My lady extends her regards, and her wishes that an introduction may not be long in coming.” He did step back then, glancing almost hopefully towards his Zephyr. “If my lord is satisfied . . .”
Another protestation of the title was on Jim's lips, but he bit it back with a sigh. “You're free to go whenever you like,” he said.
With one more quick, cursory bow, the courier headed for his ship as swiftly as his dignity would allow.
“He was a little skittish,” Jim remarked as the Zephyr lifted with a whisper of sound and shot away.
“Most are, upon their arrival,” Vlorik replied. “ Da’kum’Ulcha is a place most sane men avoid if the have the choice.”
Jim turned to answer him, saw the line of waiting Vulcans staring back with blank, empty eyes, and snorted instead. “I don't think it's just the city,” he muttered, and turned his attention to the envelope in his hand.
It wasn't thick, but the paper was fine. Real Terran paper, stuff that Jim hadn't seen in years. It was expensive even on Earth; this far out, it would be worth nearly as much as a comparably-sized sheet of gold. The Lady Amanda had expensive tastes, it seemed. Jim couldn't help but be oddly grateful for it; it made him think of his father's books, Pike's now and stored securely in a facility back on Earth. Nostalgia swept over him for a long moment before Jim roused himself again and broke through the heavy purple wax seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, as fine as the envelope and adorned with even, graceful handwriting.
Dear Jim,
First and foremost, I wish to thank you. You have given me a gift beyond what I can possibly hope to repay-you have given me my son's life, and for that I owe you more than I can say.
I will not attempt to speak for Spock, to communicate his regard and affection for you. It is a difficult thing, at times, being bonded to a Vulcan; my son occasionally forgets that Humans are not by nature telepathic, and may neglect to speak aloud when it is most necessary for him to do so. I encourage you to remind him of this need, and don't be afraid to inform him when he is being stubborn and self-involved. Love him as I do, I will not pretend that he is entirely without flaws.
The circumstances of your bonding were, I know, unorthodox at best. Know, however, that you could not have seen him whole and sane through his Time without a true connection and compatibility between your minds. My son has seen too much cruelty and rejection in his life; I ask only that you allow yourself the chance to experience all that this bond might be for both of you. And if you do not believe that is possible, I ask only that you break his heart quickly. Do not allow him to suffer more than necessary.
Though life here may can be difficult, with the aid of others it need not be unpleasant. It is traditional for the telik-tanan to be something that will ease the life of a newly bonded pair. With you, Spock has everything he may need. My gift, therefore, is for you. When you find yourself in difficulty, may you remember that at least one Human will be able to relate.
Yours in hope,
Lady Amanda Greyson
“Well.” Jim refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope with slightly unsteady fingers. “I'd always sort of wondered what a motherly guilt-trip would be like.”
“My lord?”
Jim shook his head. “Nevermind. Do we have anything to get this open?” he asked, indicating the crate.
Several pairs of Vulcan hands proved equal to the task, prying the wooden lid away with hardly a trace of effort. Curious despite himself, Jim moved to look inside and could have wept with gratitude. Safely packed in layers of padding were boxes of tri-ox hypospray cartridges. A set of bright new hyposprays were carefully wrapped on top, and there were easily enough cartridges inside to last him several months-more, if he didn't eventually find something more physical to keep himself occupied.
Jim reached in and drew out a box of cartridges, loaded one of the hyposprays, and shot the dose into the side of his neck.
The faint sting had barely faded when the compound hit his blood, and while the scorching heat didn't lessen at all, it was far easier to bear as his lungs seemed to fill with a sudden rush of air. Jim closed his eyes for a moment as relief washed over him, the pleasure of being able to take a proper breath rushing back after having been nearly forgotten. Thoughts he hadn't realized were fuzzy began to clear; he suddenly felt ready to take on the world.
“Okay.” He took another deep breath, simply because he could, and turned back to Vlorik. “I need a computer.”
The terminal they found him was in what appeared to be an abandoned study deep within the fortress. It was noticeably cooler there, and Jim's suspicion that it had once been occupied by Lady Amanda seemed borne-out by the faded notes scrawled over sheets of dun-yar paper that Jim found stuffed in one of the desk drawers. The terminal was up-to-date and fully functional, however, which was all Jim cared about at the moment.
The portable terminals Pike's unit was equipped with were Terran-design rather than Vulcan, and it took Jim a few minutes to figure out how to navigate to the necessary program. When he finally had the video ready to record he took another moment to go through his mental script one more time before he finally reached out to start his message.
“Hey.” Jim smiled at the screen, hands folded loosely on the desk in front of him. “I don't know what the K'tash have told you, how much detail you got, but I wanted to let you know I'm all right. There's been a . . . ah . . .” He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Sort of a snag. Tell Uhura she was right about there being something off in the translation, if she hasn't already figured it out yet,” he added wryly.
“The point is, I'm fine, so don't get any bright ideas about coming to extract me. You'd never be able to,” he said bluntly, “and I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me. I don't know when I'll . . . Spock isn't really crazy about the idea of me leaving, and I . . .”
He tapped his fingers together absently, his planned script abandoning him. Anything that he might say about his own feelings, his own desires, felt like a lie. He wanted to go. He wanted to stay. If he could find his way again, there was a small fleet of speeders waiting. He had tri-ox and water and could pick as much fruit as he needed from the garden. Yet the idea of leaving made his stomach clench. Unable to choose, then, he settled for clearing his throat and moving on.
“I'll get in touch with you again when I can. Good hunting.”
Jim switched off the recorder and sent the file to Pike's personal account before he sat back, his heart beating faster. The message was simple, straightforward, but Pike would be watching carefully. Jim hadn't been able to work in much information with his hands without being obvious about it, but the little he'd managed should be enough to put Pike on his guard. Vulcans, job, wrong, back off. It was enough to get Pike thinking, anyway. Jim hoped. And once he started looking-really looking-between him and Number One they should be able to spot some discrepancy between the camps they'd been raiding and the major trade route they were supposedly disrupting.
It was the best he could do for now. He spent the rest of the day with I-Chaya, and tried not to worry.
“I wonder,” Spock's voice said, low and deep when Jim awoke in the dark that night, “if I could taste the sun on your skin as well as smell it.”
Barely awake and already primed by the ready desire that was flowing through their bond, Jim felt himself grow half-hard at the suggestion. “You could try and find out,” he said, stretching languorously and enjoying the sharp intake of breath from the shadows.
“You are taunting me.”
“Maybe.”
“You spend a great deal more time outside than I had anticipated,” Spock said after a moment, and Jim had to grin.
“Didn't expect me to get you quite so hot and bothered this easily?”
Jim thought he felt something like amusement. “Are you flaunting your scent deliberately?”
“No.” Jim stretched again, arching his hips a bit so that the sheet covering him slid lower. “But it's a nice side-effect.”
There was a low growling sound, and then the heat of Spock's body was close enough to feel. “You provoke me at your peril.”
The words were breathed mere inches away from Jim's lips, and for a moment his mind went blank at the sensation.
“I'm here for the taking, Spock,” he said quietly, his heart hammering and his flesh fully hard now. “But I won't beg.”
For a moment those hot puffs of breath continued to fall against his skin. They withdrew before he could lean up to capture Spock's lips with his, and Jim collapsed back against the pillows.
“Your mom was right,” he muttered. “You're fucking stubborn as hell.”
“A trait I believe I likely inherited from her,” came the disgruntled reply, and Jim laughed.
“I can believe that.”
“May I make a personal query?” Spock asked after a moment, and Jim had to laugh again.
“At this point? I don't see why not.”
There was a pregnant pause, and then, “You find me . . . desirable. Our minds are uncommonly well matched; nevertheless, I am willing to keep our bond shielded if you prefer it. You appear to enjoy my company.”
“Spock-”
“Why do you wish to leave?”
“It's not that simple.” Jim sat up, running his hands over his face. “It's not about you, it's . . . we just met, and . . .” His protests sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Jim struggled to ignore the part of him insisting that he didn't want to leave, tried to focus on why he couldn't. “I can't live . . . like this,” he said at last. “I can't stay here when the highlight of the day is taking your pet for a walk. It's just not who I am, Spock.”
There was another long pause.
“If you had something more stimulating to occupy your time, then,” Spock said eventually, “you would be more inclined to stay?”
“I-”
“I will arrange it.”
“Spock-”
“I will convince you, Jim.” Spock was so close that Jim could feel him again, close enough to have Jim's head swimming with the urge to reach out and touch. “You have only to give me the chance.”
That's what I'm afraid of, Jim thought as he slumped back against the bed, and didn't fall asleep until long after Spock had left the room.
He had managed to put it out of his mind by morning, but he had barely finished his breakfast when Vlorik appeared at his elbow, filmy white eyes fixed on Jim in that way he still found profoundly unsettling.
“If you have finished, Master Jim, we may begin.”
Jim stared up at him for a moment, wiping his mouth. “Begin what, exactly?”
Vlorik simply raised an eyebrow. “Your assessment. Lord Spock informed me that you wished to take a more active role in the duties here.”
“Ah.” Jim frowned. “I don't know if that's exactly-”
“Your combat skills will, of course, need to be assessed before we can determine your eligibility.”
“See, that's-my combat skills?” Despite himself, Jim could feel his interest piquing. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Provided you are suitably skilled, my lord suggested that you may be interested in assisting with training the house guard.” He stepped away from the table. “If you will follow me.”
Jim scrambled to his feet and hurried after the elderly Vulcan. “There's a house guard?”
“Certainly.” There was clear amusement in Vlorik's voice as he led the way. “You do not imagine that Lord Spock is foolish enough to equip a fortress such as this with less than full protection?”
“Why haven't I seen any guard before, then?”
“You have,” Vlorik assured him. “Many times over.”
“That doesn't make any-”
“Suffice it to say,” Vlorik interrupted, “there is adequate protection within our walls. Constant training, however, is a necessity, especially since our forces are only rarely tested against an outside opponent.”
Jim thought of the trek through the city, the long climb up the mountain. “I'd imagine so.” He shrugged. This was, at least, something to do. “So what do I have to do to 'prove my eligibility'?”
“You will have to spar against the opponent Lord Spock has selected.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. It would be a challenge, certainly. But he'd already taken his tri-ox, and he had several years' experience fighting Vulcans working in his favor. The captain might be stronger, but Jim had a sneaky, slippery fighting style that usually confused the hell out of Vulcan opponents.
Vlorik led the way outside, into a small courtyard. There was no oasis waiting here, just heat and sun and sand, and the diminutive T'Mira with a selection of weapons and a small med kit at the ready. Jim tried not to think about needing medical attention as he stretched, loosening up his muscles. As the full heat of the sun hit him he remembered again the soft robes he had rejected, but swiftly put the thought aside. They might keep him cooler, but his own clothes were what he was accustomed to fighting in. The sacrifice of comfort for familiarity and mobility was one Jim was used to.
“So who's my opponent?” he asked savoring the first trickles of adrenaline through his system. He glanced back to see Vlorik lift an amused eyebrow.
“I am.”
For a moment the words refused to sink in. When they finally did, Jim dropped his hands to his sides and tried to control the fury that was slowly bubbling to the surface.
“That son of a bitch,” he said softly; Vlorik tilted his head curiously.
“Is there a problem?”
“Is there-yes, there's a fucking problem!” Jim spun away, pacing across the sand with long, angry steps. “Is this a joke to him? Does he think I'm an idiot? Is that it? Because I'd have to be not to see this for the completely fucking obvious set-up that it is!”
“I am uncertain-”
“He needs me to help train his house guard,” Jim said derisively. “Have to prove myself. Prove myself against the blind man old enough to be my great-grandfather.”
“Ah.” There was a smile playing around Vlorik's mouth despite the insult. “Allow me to assure you, I am a far more capable opponent than I appear.”
“I'm going to kill him,” Jim muttered.
“I am afraid that fighting me is the only option available to you,” Vlorik said calmly. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to abstain from the duties you have been offered.”
Jim glared at him. “All right.” He stalked back to the center of the courtyard where Vlorik was waiting. “But we're not using weapons. Hand-to-hand.”
“As you say.” Vlorik settled his weight into a fighting stance, and Jim did the same. “At your leisure.”
Blood boiling, Jim struck out harder than he had originally intended, wanting only to get this farce over with as quickly as possible.
He hardly saw the old Vulcan move; one moment he was there and the next Jim's fist was whistling through empty air. There was a hard crack against his elbow, and only long experience allowed him to move with the impact to keep the bone from shattering. He stumbled forward two steps before he regained his balance and whirled to face his opponent again.
Vlorik moved before Jim had completed his turn, but anticipating a move this time Jim was able to avoid the sweeping kick sent his way. He tried a kick of his own, and Vlorik nearly caught his leg in mid-air; he was a hair too slow to manage it, but still deflected the blow with his forearm and danced back out of reach.
It was like no fight Jim had ever experienced. Blind he may have been, but it seemed that the Vulcan was just as capable of seeing with the senses remaining to him. Jim's usual series of feints and false starts were almost useless, though he did manage a sharp blow to the crown of Vlorik's head that sent a steady trickle of green blood flowing down his face. Against another opponent, that may have been more effective; when blood dripped into his eyes, however, Vlorik took no notice. And though Jim managed another handful of strikes, before long he found himself face-down in the sand, his arms twisted behind his back with a bony knee pressing hard against his spine.
“Okay,” he groaned, “I yield.” Jim started laughing then, even when his arms dropped with graceless thumps to the ground and half his body felt like a giant bruise. Still laughing, he rolled over onto his back. “All right,” he managed after a moment. “Point taken.”
“You might have beaten him,” T'Mira said, kneeling next to him and opening the med kit, “were your mind not so expansive.”
“Fix Vlorik up first,” he said, trying to wave her away and still fighting against the urge to laugh at his own idiocy. “He's bleeding.”
“He is seeing to his own injuries.”
Jim levered his head up despite his muscles' protests. Sure enough, the older Vulcan was cleaning away the blood on his face with methodical, efficient swipes, a hefty portion of the medkit's contents arranged carefully in his lap. Jim let his head fall back down and didn't try to move while T'Mira began to run the dermal regenerator over the worst of his injuries.
“What do you mean, my mind's expansive?” he asked after a moment.
“It is . . .” She paused, searching for the words to explain. “Searching. Without full contact from your bondmate, it attempts to compensate by reaching for contact with the minds closest to it. It makes your thoughts . . . loud.”
Jim did move away then, but T'Mira seemed to be finished and didn't protests. “How do you know I don't have full contact with Spock right now?”
“T'Perea found your mind quite well-contained when she attended you after our master's pon farr. Though her telepathic powers are limited, as she was touching you I have no reason to doubt her assessment. It is not, therefore, merely your Human brain's reaction to a bond. The logical conclusion is that your bond has been blocked in some way, and your mind is now seeking alternative contact.”
“That . . .” Jim trailed off, unsure what, exactly, he was meant to say to that. It made him uncomfortable, somehow, the idea that others might know that the bond he shared with Spock was blocked off.
“I did not mean to suggest that you should maintain contact simply for a tactical advantage,” T'Mira assured him.
“All right.” Jim shifted uneasily, stood. “I wouldn't do that, anyway.”
T'Mira stood as well, nodding. “I do not blame you.”
Jim's head felt like it was swimming, like he was trying to understand a language that he didn't quite speak. “Why's that?”
“Lord Spock's mind is . . . unsettling,” she said. “None here would question your desire to limit contact with it.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?” Jim asked sharply, and T'Mira tilted her head uncertainly.
“We all presented ourselves as candidates to see our lord through this Time. Just as we serve him, and guard him, to assist him in such a way would have been . . .”
“An honor,” Jim said hoarsely, remembering Sakkint's words, and T'Mira nodded.
“None of our minds were compatible. The feel of his is . . .” She turned away, clearly hesitant to continue.
“Unsettling.” Jim could only look at her. “Right.”
It was all he could think of for the rest of the day. Through Vlorik's explanation of their training schedule, through eating his meals and exercising I-Chaya and sitting with his feet dangling in the cool water of the garden oasis, Jim's mind could only focus on Spock. He tried to imagine what it must have been like-reaching out for mind after mind and encountering only unease, or disgust, or cold duty. How many times must Spock have endured that in his life to send him here, to this desolate piece of land where only the desperate dared to go?
How long had it been since Spock had been touched by someone who wanted to?
Jim awoke that night to the faint sense of laughter trickling into the back of his mind, and rolled onto his back with a smile on his face. “You're in a good mood.”
“Vlorik tells me that your assessment took an unexpected turn.”
For one breathless moment Jim could only think of what T'Mira had said; then he remembered the feel of sand pressed roughly against his cheek as his arms were nearly dislocated, and managed a weak laugh.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“He also said that you fought well. That you came very close to defeating him.”
“That's what-yeah, I guess so.” He licked his lips and sat up. “Can I ask you something?”
“You may ask me anything.”
“Why do they need me? Why not train them yourself?”
“I have many other responsibilities,” Spock said stiffly. “I do not have the time.”
Jim nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“You do not believe me.”
“Not really, no.” As Jim's eyes futilely searched the darkness, he became aware that his mind was doing the same. Searching, T'Mira had said. “I think there's something you're not telling me.”
“It is . . . difficult,” Spock said at last, “to instruct the blind in combat without touching them.” There was a restless, shifting sound. “Nor will they use their full strength against me. They think me weak, a tselsu,” he spat, and while Jim might not have understood the word the sentiment was entirely clear.
“Maybe they just don't want to hurt you,” he offered quietly.
“I am a warrior of the K'tash clan, heir to my father the High Warlord. I do not require their concern.”
“What about your bondmate's concern?”
The room went suddenly and entirely quiet, and Jim realized that it was the first time he had referred to himself that way.
“Are you worried for me, t'nash veh kin-kur?” Spock murmured, and suddenly he was close enough to feel, close enough to smell, close enough for the heat of him to sink all the way down to Jim's bones and the last of Jim's patience broke with an almost audible snap.
“Please.” His voice was rough, his body nearly vibrating with need. “Please, Spock, let me touch you.”
The low, desperate sound Spock made was still ringing in the air when his body collided with Jim's, knocking him on his back and pinning him there while he took Jim's mouth in a hard, bruising kiss. Jim's entire body seemed to sigh in relief, and he surged up to meet him, tangling his hands in the long, silken strands that tumbled down around him. Spock was still fully-clothed, and Jim pushed and tugged impatiently at the fabric until there was nothing but bare skin beneath his hands. Then with a sudden twist, he rolled them over, and the fact that Spock let him only made his desire burn hotter.
Jim draped himself over Spock, touching every inch of him that he could reach, running his hands greedily over hot skin and firm muscle, coarse hair scraping against his fingertips as his mouth trailed gradually lower. He savored the sound of Spock's breathing growing heavier as Jim trailed his tongue over a flat stomach to circle the faint jut of Spock's hipbone. Spock's hands skimmed over Jim's shoulders, slid into his hair, unfailingly gentle despite the inferno that Jim could feel building through their bond.
By the time he took Spock into his mouth, Jim was leaking onto the bedsheets, grinding his hips into the mattress in a desperate search for friction. The feel of Spock's cock heavy against his tongue was ridiculously good, and Jim started bobbing his head in earnest, relishing the feel of Spock sliding wetly between his lips. His hands wouldn't stay still; they gripped at Spock's hipbones, slipped up his sides, rubbed over his chest and down his stomach. The feel of all that smooth skin beneath his palms made him shudder and moan, and Spock groaned as the fingers in Jim's hair curled into a fist. Jim slid his hands between Spock's body and the mattress to cup his ass, to rub hard up and down his back, determined, if he couldn't see Spock, to learn him entirely by touch and by taste.
The hand in Jim's hair tugged, pulling him up and away, and Jim felt a hard grip circle his hip, a moment of sudden vertigo, then warm fingers spreading him open for one to work inside of him. Spock's touch was slick and firm and ruthless, and Jim reached out blindly until he encountered warm skin, slid his palms over Spock's legs where they stretched above his head. When he realized that his head was resting next to Spock's hip he leaned forward and bit, licking his way to the crease at the top of one leg and following it down to Spock's waiting cock. That earned him a second finger, and Jim started rocking back and forth, moaning as Spock filled him from either end.
It was cruel, delicious torture, and Spock had barely added a third finger by the time Jim tore himself away, keeping his hands braced against Spock's chest and stomach to keep himself oriented as he swung around to straddle Spock's thighs. He reached out, following the strong, smooth line of Spock's arm until he found his hand, still slick with oil, and brought their joined fingers to Spock's waiting cock. Spock groaned heavily as they moved together, hands slip-sliding over each other. Reluctantly, Jim pulled his hand away, and Spock's grip immediately shifted to his hips, dragging him forward as they both cried out at the sensation. Jim reached down, felt Spock hard and pulsing in his grasp, and held him still while he sank down, taking him inside an inch at a time.
He felt himself open. Felt Spock press inside, hot and hard and thick, stretching him, filling him and bright electric jolts sparked up the length of Jim's spine as he began to move.
Jim's thighs slid against Spock's sides, slick with the sweat dripping off of him. He braced his hands on Spock's chest, twisting his fingers in the thick hair here to keep from sliding, and Spock's hands drifted back to cup Jim's ass as he began to move. His sense of balance was shaky in the dark, but Spock's hold kept him grounded, supporting without trying to influence, letting Jim set the speed and force he wanted.
Jim moved faster, harder, lost in the sensation of the body beneath his. But still, something within him was stretching, searching, and his mind followed the flood of heat filtering through their bond wanting more. He didn't know how to get more, though, and one of his hands lifted, settling clumsily on Spock's face where his fingers spread into what felt like an approximation of the meld position. Sparks seemed to ignite beneath his fingertips, and Spock gave a sudden gasp through his teeth as his hips jerked hard once, twice.
“Jim?”
“Let me in, Spock,” Jim panted, trying to mentally shove at the shields Spock had erected. “Please, I need you, let me in.”
The shields fell in a frantic, jumbled rush, and Jim's mind surged forward, wrapping itself around Spock's in a burst of pleasure that cascaded all the way down Jim's spine. He was aware, vaguely, that his hips were moving faster still, that Spock's fingers were digging into his ass now hard enough to bruise. Then his entire system overloaded and he came, hard enough that he felt as if he would turn inside out from the force of it. Spock's release came only moments later, spilling hot inside Jim's body, and they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap as they struggled for breath.
“Stay here,” Jim managed to slur when Spock seemed ready to pull away. “Stay.”
Spock settled again, rearranging them so that they weren't quite on top of each other and Jim's leg was no longer bent at an unnatural angle. His fingers skimmed lightly over Jim's temple, and Jim shivered.
“Stay there, too,” he mumbled.
“As you say, ashayam,” Spock murmured.
Content and sated, Jim let himself sleep.
>>Part 7