Star Trek XI -- "Not Your Average Pon Farr Story" -- Part 1 of 4
spoilers for "Amok Time", some dialogue taken from that episode; the rest of this should be posted sometime in the next few days
He is burning.
Not Your Average Pon Farr Story | PG | 1215 words | 1 of 4
He is burning.
He cannot think, can barely breathe. The fire rushes through his veins, has for days, and he cannot stand it any longer. He is rejected by his would-be bride, and he is certain he will die on the sands of the ceremonial grounds.
And then they put a weapon in his hands, and he fights.
The man he fights is strong, but not strong enough. It is not long before he bests him, his ahn-woon tightening around his neck, and then suddenly the bloodlust recedes as he recognizes the dying face.
His captain's face. Jim's beloved face.
Jim woke with a gasp, shivering in the freezing recycled air of his cabin. "Computer, identify malfunction in the environmental system."
"There is no malfunction."
"Then why is it so damned cold?"
"There is no malfunction."
"Some big help you are," he grumbled. "Computer, raise temperature by five degrees Celsius." He sighed happily when the air circulators whooshed into life and the warm air reached his bunk. "Thank you."
The computer didn't respond, but he didn't expect it to. He rolled over to look at the chronometer, groaning when he saw the time. Not long enough for him to really get back to sleep before he had to get up for his shift. Figured.
Jim rolled out of bed, wincing when his bare feet made contact with the cold floor. He had to talk to Scotty about the environmentals, he decided as he went into the equally cold bathroom, stripped, and turned on the sonics. There was definitely something off.
But there was nothing off with the environmental systems, Scotty assured him three hours later, over breakfast in the officers' mess. "But I'll take a look if you like, Captain."
"Thanks." Jim got himself more coffee, using the cup to warm his chilly hands. He considered going to check with Bones to see if he was coming down with something, but decided it wouldn't be worth the hassle of the poking and prodding that would entail. If he didn't feel better tomorrow, he swore, he would go then.
He didn't feel better tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. If anything, he felt worse. He found himself increasing the temperature in his cabin when he woke each morning, from dreams of swirling red sand and hazel eyes. He couldn't remember any other details.
He started wearing the thermal undershirts Spock and other desert-dwelling species wore under their uniforms, but even that wasn't enough after a week or so. The only time he felt comfortable was in Spock's quarters, when he went there for their usual chess night. He was finally warm, if only for a little while.
He also found himself getting irritated at the littlest things: Chekov's habit of whistling while he did calculations, the noise the yeomen made as they moved around the bridge, even Spock's often too-detailed answers. He spent more and more time in his ready room, where he could turn up the temperature, and he knew he couldn't snap at anyone.
He'd always known he'd had an attractive crew, but he suddenly found he couldn't stop staring. He kept a tight rein on it, didn't say or do anything stupid. Still, while he was always one to think about sex a lot, he never thought about it quite this much.
He stopped eating after a while, uninterested in food and queasy if he thought about consuming any. And he was sleeping less and less. But he kept working, and he hoped no one noticed.
"Captain, are you unwell?" Spock asked, over their next chess match. It was in Jim's quarters, and while he'd turned up the temperature so it would match Spock's preferences, Jim was still shivering.
"Fine, I'm fine," he said, waving one hand. "Just a little chilly."
"It is approximately double the temperature you normally keep your quarters," Spock said.
"Approximately?" Jim said, grinning. "No exact numbers for me today, Mr. Spock?"
Spock raised one eyebrow slightly. "You have seemed...displeased with my accuracy of late." Spock looked down at the board and moved one of his pawns. "But you did not answer my question. Are you ill?"
Jim was saved from having to answer by the arrival of his yeoman, bearing bowls of soup. "I had observed you have not been eating with regularity," Spock said, mild as milk, as he gently moved the tri-d chessboard to make room for the food.
"Here you go, Mr. Spock," the yeoman--Barnes, he thought her name was-- said, obviously flirting with the Vulcan.
Jim saw red. "He's not yours," he all-but-yelled, swiping the bowls off the table. He barely registered the sound of them hitting the ground, or the gasp as the yeoman was splashed with the hot soup. "Get out of here. Now!" The woman ran out of the room, and Jim found himself breathing hard, unsure why he’d reacted so strongly. He couldn’t explain it, but he was furious.
“Captain?” Spock asked, tone mild, but eyebrows raised in concern.
“It is undignified for a woman to play servant to a man who is not hers,” Jim heard himself say. The words were familiar, like he’d heard them before, but he didn’t know where.
Spock’s expression turned pensive, and then his eyes widened, the most obvious expression he’d had in months. “Captain, you will go to sickbay immediately, or I will take you there myself.”
“Is that an order?” Jim tried to joke, but it came out harsh and angry.
“It is a request, as a friend.”
Jim deflated, all anger gone, a warmth growing in his chest. “Alright, then,” he said, standing. “Um, have someone come and clean this up, will you?” Spock nodded.
Sickbay was empty when Jim arrived, but as he’d expected Bones was in his office. “Good, you actually came,” Bones said when Jim tapped on the door frame. “Spock warned me you might be...recalcitrant.”
Jim shook his head ruefully. “I’m fine, Bones, just a little moody,” he said. “But if it’ll get you and Spock off my back, feel free to examine me.” He hopped up onto a table.
Three hours later, Jim had been examined not only by Bones, but also by M’Benga, Chapel, and their Betazoid counselor, who had taken one look at him and all but run out of sickbay, pleading a headache. They were gathered around PADDs with his file on them when Spock reappeared. Jim was starting to get bored.
Then Spock arrived, sweeping through the sickbay doors in that way he had, and Jim perked up. “Come to spring me, Spock?”
“On the contrary,” Spock said. “I have come to inquire after Dr. McCoy’s findings.”
“Well, I don’t know what I’m looking at here,” Bones said unhappily. “There's a growing imbalance of body functions, mostly adrenalin and testosterone. Now, I can't trace the cause down in my biocomps. I don’t know what it is. But if it isn't stopped somehow, the physical and emotional pressures will simply kill him.”
Spock paled slightly. “Doctor, we must change course immediately.”
“To where?” Jim asked.
“We must go to New Vulcan.”
Feedback is better than chocolate.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
He is burning.
Not Your Average Pon Farr Story | PG | 1215 words | 1 of 4
He is burning.
He cannot think, can barely breathe. The fire rushes through his veins, has for days, and he cannot stand it any longer. He is rejected by his would-be bride, and he is certain he will die on the sands of the ceremonial grounds.
And then they put a weapon in his hands, and he fights.
The man he fights is strong, but not strong enough. It is not long before he bests him, his ahn-woon tightening around his neck, and then suddenly the bloodlust recedes as he recognizes the dying face.
His captain's face. Jim's beloved face.
Jim woke with a gasp, shivering in the freezing recycled air of his cabin. "Computer, identify malfunction in the environmental system."
"There is no malfunction."
"Then why is it so damned cold?"
"There is no malfunction."
"Some big help you are," he grumbled. "Computer, raise temperature by five degrees Celsius." He sighed happily when the air circulators whooshed into life and the warm air reached his bunk. "Thank you."
The computer didn't respond, but he didn't expect it to. He rolled over to look at the chronometer, groaning when he saw the time. Not long enough for him to really get back to sleep before he had to get up for his shift. Figured.
Jim rolled out of bed, wincing when his bare feet made contact with the cold floor. He had to talk to Scotty about the environmentals, he decided as he went into the equally cold bathroom, stripped, and turned on the sonics. There was definitely something off.
But there was nothing off with the environmental systems, Scotty assured him three hours later, over breakfast in the officers' mess. "But I'll take a look if you like, Captain."
"Thanks." Jim got himself more coffee, using the cup to warm his chilly hands. He considered going to check with Bones to see if he was coming down with something, but decided it wouldn't be worth the hassle of the poking and prodding that would entail. If he didn't feel better tomorrow, he swore, he would go then.
He didn't feel better tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. If anything, he felt worse. He found himself increasing the temperature in his cabin when he woke each morning, from dreams of swirling red sand and hazel eyes. He couldn't remember any other details.
He started wearing the thermal undershirts Spock and other desert-dwelling species wore under their uniforms, but even that wasn't enough after a week or so. The only time he felt comfortable was in Spock's quarters, when he went there for their usual chess night. He was finally warm, if only for a little while.
He also found himself getting irritated at the littlest things: Chekov's habit of whistling while he did calculations, the noise the yeomen made as they moved around the bridge, even Spock's often too-detailed answers. He spent more and more time in his ready room, where he could turn up the temperature, and he knew he couldn't snap at anyone.
He'd always known he'd had an attractive crew, but he suddenly found he couldn't stop staring. He kept a tight rein on it, didn't say or do anything stupid. Still, while he was always one to think about sex a lot, he never thought about it quite this much.
He stopped eating after a while, uninterested in food and queasy if he thought about consuming any. And he was sleeping less and less. But he kept working, and he hoped no one noticed.
"Captain, are you unwell?" Spock asked, over their next chess match. It was in Jim's quarters, and while he'd turned up the temperature so it would match Spock's preferences, Jim was still shivering.
"Fine, I'm fine," he said, waving one hand. "Just a little chilly."
"It is approximately double the temperature you normally keep your quarters," Spock said.
"Approximately?" Jim said, grinning. "No exact numbers for me today, Mr. Spock?"
Spock raised one eyebrow slightly. "You have seemed...displeased with my accuracy of late." Spock looked down at the board and moved one of his pawns. "But you did not answer my question. Are you ill?"
Jim was saved from having to answer by the arrival of his yeoman, bearing bowls of soup. "I had observed you have not been eating with regularity," Spock said, mild as milk, as he gently moved the tri-d chessboard to make room for the food.
"Here you go, Mr. Spock," the yeoman--Barnes, he thought her name was-- said, obviously flirting with the Vulcan.
Jim saw red. "He's not yours," he all-but-yelled, swiping the bowls off the table. He barely registered the sound of them hitting the ground, or the gasp as the yeoman was splashed with the hot soup. "Get out of here. Now!" The woman ran out of the room, and Jim found himself breathing hard, unsure why he’d reacted so strongly. He couldn’t explain it, but he was furious.
“Captain?” Spock asked, tone mild, but eyebrows raised in concern.
“It is undignified for a woman to play servant to a man who is not hers,” Jim heard himself say. The words were familiar, like he’d heard them before, but he didn’t know where.
Spock’s expression turned pensive, and then his eyes widened, the most obvious expression he’d had in months. “Captain, you will go to sickbay immediately, or I will take you there myself.”
“Is that an order?” Jim tried to joke, but it came out harsh and angry.
“It is a request, as a friend.”
Jim deflated, all anger gone, a warmth growing in his chest. “Alright, then,” he said, standing. “Um, have someone come and clean this up, will you?” Spock nodded.
Sickbay was empty when Jim arrived, but as he’d expected Bones was in his office. “Good, you actually came,” Bones said when Jim tapped on the door frame. “Spock warned me you might be...recalcitrant.”
Jim shook his head ruefully. “I’m fine, Bones, just a little moody,” he said. “But if it’ll get you and Spock off my back, feel free to examine me.” He hopped up onto a table.
Three hours later, Jim had been examined not only by Bones, but also by M’Benga, Chapel, and their Betazoid counselor, who had taken one look at him and all but run out of sickbay, pleading a headache. They were gathered around PADDs with his file on them when Spock reappeared. Jim was starting to get bored.
Then Spock arrived, sweeping through the sickbay doors in that way he had, and Jim perked up. “Come to spring me, Spock?”
“On the contrary,” Spock said. “I have come to inquire after Dr. McCoy’s findings.”
“Well, I don’t know what I’m looking at here,” Bones said unhappily. “There's a growing imbalance of body functions, mostly adrenalin and testosterone. Now, I can't trace the cause down in my biocomps. I don’t know what it is. But if it isn't stopped somehow, the physical and emotional pressures will simply kill him.”
Spock paled slightly. “Doctor, we must change course immediately.”
“To where?” Jim asked.
“We must go to New Vulcan.”
Feedback is better than chocolate.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4