At another table, close by, James Kirk sat ignorant of Spock's presence. He appeared to be consumed by thoughts of the steaming mug in front of him, which contained tea. Inexplicable tea, given the fact he hated the stuff.
He was not thinking about tea. Neither was he thinking about why he'd been compelled to order it, because he had done so without thought. Consumed, in fact, by thoughts of a gorgeous blond bitch of a woman who would not stop plaguing his thoughts, waking and sleeping. He'd run, panicked by his response to the best, and the tamest, sex he could remember having. He'd wanted to stay, to take her weight, to fall asleep with her and wake her up with his tongue buried deep in her cunt and his slow-burning arousal waiting for her urgent demand. When he'd left abruptly, he'd wanted to turn back and spill everything, tell her he was sorry, it was all him. He wouldn't be himself if he hadn't also wanted to wring her neck and be rid of her, but the strength of the other feeling had appalled him
( ... )
It was maddening that she could not find the center of this dilemma. She enjoyed receiving penetration in her male form. And the female body was, scientifically speaking, better designed for the act.
She cast her gaze around the mess, not clearly seeing but seeking to appear engaged in her environment (she had been called brooding in the past and had taken habitual behavioral steps to avoid too much the appearance of same).
The alternate James Kirk.
The hypothesis sprang fully formed to her mind, as had happened only twice before in her scientific career.
If her Jim was not currently equipped to assist her in further experimentation, this James Kirk, this exact double, might be a suitable replacement figure.
Bill Shatner had proven reluctant to speak with her, after all. Spock considered. And then rose from her seat.
Her feet were quiet as she passed through the mess to his table, her own steaming mug of tea a mate to his.
Jim--James, fuck, he might as well get used to it--glanced up sharply, for a moment looking almost lost. He had allowed himself to wander. In public.
He was getting soft.
But he collected himself, smoothing his features and nodding, gesturing to the seat across from him. This wasn't his Spock. She didn't even look like him anymore. But there was a potential comfort in the familiar, the way Marlena had been for a time.
"Spock," he said. "Come to grill me about something?"
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He was not thinking about tea. Neither was he thinking about why he'd been compelled to order it, because he had done so without thought. Consumed, in fact, by thoughts of a gorgeous blond bitch of a woman who would not stop plaguing his thoughts, waking and sleeping. He'd run, panicked by his response to the best, and the tamest, sex he could remember having. He'd wanted to stay, to take her weight, to fall asleep with her and wake her up with his tongue buried deep in her cunt and his slow-burning arousal waiting for her urgent demand. When he'd left abruptly, he'd wanted to turn back and spill everything, tell her he was sorry, it was all him. He wouldn't be himself if he hadn't also wanted to wring her neck and be rid of her, but the strength of the other feeling had appalled him ( ... )
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She cast her gaze around the mess, not clearly seeing but seeking to appear engaged in her environment (she had been called brooding in the past and had taken habitual behavioral steps to avoid too much the appearance of same).
The alternate James Kirk.
The hypothesis sprang fully formed to her mind, as had happened only twice before in her scientific career.
If her Jim was not currently equipped to assist her in further experimentation, this James Kirk, this exact double, might be a suitable replacement figure.
Bill Shatner had proven reluctant to speak with her, after all. Spock considered. And then rose from her seat.
Her feet were quiet as she passed through the mess to his table, her own steaming mug of tea a mate to his.
"May I join you, James Kirk?"
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He was getting soft.
But he collected himself, smoothing his features and nodding, gesturing to the seat across from him. This wasn't his Spock. She didn't even look like him anymore. But there was a potential comfort in the familiar, the way Marlena had been for a time.
"Spock," he said. "Come to grill me about something?"
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She took it as the invitation it was and sat.
"You appear to be concerned with something."
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