We Are Gonna Be Friends: Year Nine
Title: You Don't Know What Love Is (you just do what you're told)
Universe/Series: AU
Rating: hard R for language, underage sexual acts
Relationship status: First Time (eventually)
Word count: 5,025
Genre: h/c, angst, fluff
Trope: kid!fic, family, friendship
Warnings: language for this part, slight violence, implied drug use and underage sexual activity.
Pairing: k/s, no others.
Beta: thanks to medea_fic for pinch-hitting for me. :)
Summary: written for this prompt on the kink-meme. which then ballooned like a motherfuc monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"
A/N: dedicated with much love and humble adoration to 13empress . <3 you, bb.
So,originally supposed to be brief, now it is a 12 parter to the original theme of the song "we are gonna be friends", with each chapter named for a white stripes song. honestly? i wasn't even that huge a ws fan before i wrote this, but they've definitely grown on me. i recommend listening to the songs for each chapter- i'll try to include a you-tube link to the songs at the end.
IT'S BACK, OMG IT'S BACK. my big bang finally got posted, and now i'm back to finish off WGBF, hooray! many many thanks to anyone who is still reading this! hope this chapter is worth the long wait!
* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.
(approx. ages for this bit- 13/14 and 15/16)
Summer 2245
He can hear the house from nearly a mile a way, but then, his hearing is exceptional compared to that of humans. Nonetheless, even a human could hear it from a two-block radius, he thinks, and he wishes momentarily for his earplugs before he pushes past the smokers in the driveway and strides in the back door, caught up immediately in the mob of moving, yelling, pushing revelers.
It’s a marker of the level of intoxication reached by most of the attendees that a scowling Vulcan attracts little attention, Spock thinks, but he passes the thought by, intently scanning the room for any sign of Jim. There are people on the couch, people on the floor, people in the kitchen, people swirling and drinking and kissing. People everywhere, but no sign of the one person he’s looking for.
A passing blond grabs his ass, and he catches her wrist in his fingers, only just remembering to lessen his grip before he does real damage. Her pupils are artificially huge behind her false lashes, and she shivers at his touch before sliding away down the hallway. The overpowering sound and scents of the place have his head reeling; the thumping bass and the shouting voices combined with the smells of sweat and perfume and sickly sweet booze form a pungent irritant to his delicate ear canals and sinuses.
He’s been home for three days now, and seen no sign of Jim. He’d let it go for two days, but his worry mounted, as well as his loneliness, and besides, tomorrow is the first day of school, and Spock would be willing to put money on the fact that Jim will have to be forced into the building. He doesn’t gamble, but it would not be gambling, as there is no risk of him losing the bet.
He forces himself to concentrate, to pull in, to disregard the commotion surrounding him, the claustrophobic press of humans against his body, and focus instead on the sound of that voice.
Nothing.
A systematic search it is, then.
He has it on good authority that Jim is here somewhere; Nyota had let it slip when he commed her that this was going to be the “mother of all end-of-summer parties”, and he knows enough about Jim’s life away from him to know the siren call that particular phrase would have. He had stopped by the Kirk house on the way, just to be sure, but Frank had only said “I thought he was with you, you pointy-eared fuck”, which led Spock to assume that Jim had not been home in some time.
There’s a hallway branching into rooms that stretches off to his left; empty spaces masked with thin particle-board doors. It is the logical place to begin his search. He can identify the noises emitting from behind them; he may be virgin, but he’s no fool. Right now, though, he’s too far gone into really pissed to blush.
The first door he opens yields nothing more than a bunch of laughing idiots clustered around a large purple bong, a cloud of smoke hanging three feet from the ceiling, and shouts of “fuck, man, shut the door!”
The second door reveals mostly darkness, but also a writhing knot of bodies, none of which are Jim’s.
It’s the third door that gives him what he wants; Jim’s golden head gleaming in the light from the ceiling fixture, his blue eyes wide with surprise.
What Spock doesn’t want is the older boy whose cock is filling Jim’s mouth, and the second older boy with his hands halfway down the back of Jim’s jeans.
There’s a rushing in his ears that has nothing to do with the sound in the building, and his vision narrows to lock on Jim’s face, which works its way impressively through shock, horror, joy, and fear in the very brief time it takes for Spock to stride forward and pull him off his knees. They’re halfway out the door before either of the boys can even react, Spock dragging Jim along as his feet scrabble uselessly at the floor, as one of the boys starts to shout in the background.
Spock doesn’t even hear him.
Jim struggles unconvincingly, though his attempts grow stronger as he realizes that Spock is not even anywhere close to letting him go. Spock drags him out through the party and down the street, only resisting the urge to throw him against the car by the barest of margins.
His control is fragmented, and he can’t honestly say why- it’s some combination of bloodlust for the boys who might dare touch Jim, and regular lust for Jim as he struggles in Spock’s iron grip, and really, it’s anybody’s guess which is stronger.
He drops Jim unceremoniously on his feet next to the car, and turns his back to breathe, drawing in air through his nostrils and pushing it out his mouth, desperately trying to ignore the taste of Jim’s pheromones on the night air.
“What. The ever-living. Fuck.”
Jim’s voice is high and tight, and Spock turns to see him rubbing at his upper arm. The prints of Spock’s fingers are already visible, painfully red against the milky skin.
“What. The goddamned hell. Do you think you’re doing?”
Jim steps forward, his face drawn in rage, and thumps the palms of his hands into Spock’s chest. Spock catches his wrists on instinct, forcing himself to relax his grip at the squeak Jim makes as his bones twist in Spock’s grip.
“You will want to allow me a moment before you touch me again.”
He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, gritting out the words in a dangerous monotone. He forces himself to release his hold, watching as Jim stumbles back against the hood of the car. Jim’s eyes are dilated more than the dim street-lamp accounts for, and he rubs his hands unconsciously across the cool metal with an inamorato’s touch, his mouth sliding open in pleasure. Spock can feel the crawl all over his skin from the telepathic contact with whatever cocktail of substances it is that Jim’s ingested, and it’s that more than anything that settles him, allowing him enough chest space to fill his lungs and sliding the red tinge away from his eyes.
“Jim. What were those boys” he spits the word, “doing to you?”
Jim laughs once, hard and short, crossing his legs at the ankles to display the bulge behind the line of his unzipped jeans.
“Fuck, Spock. What did it look like they were doing to me?” His expression is furious, even as his hands begin to rub across his thighs, desperately seeking something to touch. “What do you think they were doing to me?”
“You would…” Spock hears his voice crack, pauses for a gasping second, “…you would allow them to do such a thing?”
Jim has lost nothing of his skill in eye-rolling during Spock’s absence, and he demonstrates his proficiency now, leaning back on the car in a gesture that slides his shirt up just enough to let the streetlight warm the skin of his belly.
“Well, shit, Spock. Did it look like I was saying no?”
Spock’s fists are clenching involuntarily, and he thinks that grinding noise is probably his teeth. Jim looks at him suddenly, seeming to see him for the first time tonight. He pushes himself up, swaying deliberately toward Spock, placing a hand on his hip in a horrible affectation.
“Why, Spock. Are you jealous?” He saunters closer, reaching out to slide his fingers teasingly across Spock’s hand. “Did you wish it was you? You, with your hands sliding into my pants? Or…” he pauses, considering. “Or did you wish it was you with your cock in my mouth?” He tips his head and runs his tongue across his chapped lips, and Spock is suddenly pressing him hard against the bumper.
“That is…” he shudders, spinning with a depth of rage he’s never known before, “… that is unfair, Jim. I have never… never… made any secret… of my regard for you.”
“No?” Jim sneers at him, eyes blanked of all feeling. “You lie, Spock. You’re just like everyone else. You come, and you go. And when you’re around, that’s great, and we’re friends, and then you leave again, and I do what I want.” He rocks his hips up, forcing a gasp from Spock as Jim shoves his unzipped groin against him.
“Come on, Spock. You know you want it.” His voice is a mocking singsong, winding into the back of Spock’s brain.
He pulls loose of Spock’s shaken grip and turns, splaying himself over the hood of the car and grasping Spock’s hand in his to shove past the band of his jeans onto his bare skin.
“It’s gonna be someone, Spock. May as well be you.”
Jim shoves his ass against Spock’s swollen flesh, and Spock can hear the metal of the car’s hood pucker as he digs his free hand into it before he manages to shove himself back and away from Jim. His heart is thudding in his side so fast that he wonders briefly if this is what cardiac arrest feels like, the fluttering of mad wings just prior to a crash.
“No”, he manages, and he couldn’t say at this point what language he’s speaking anymore, but it’s irrelevant, really. “No, Jim. You are… I will not… take advantage.”
Jim’s dilated eyes blink once in surprise, then his face closes down. He zips himself up viciously, dragging his shirt down to his waistband.
“Always an excuse with you, isn’t it? Why don’t you just say it? You don’t want me. Just like everyone else, Spock. You don’t want me.” He spits onto the asphalt at Spock’s feet, and Spock has never seen blue eyes burn this cold.
“You worry I’ll forget you, Spock? I wish I could forget you. I wish I could erase you from my fucking mind.”
Fall 2245
Jim’s been mostly at school this first month, but they haven’t spoken any more than absolutely necessary. By the time Spock has unbent enough to think that he might be able to consider apologizing, it’s been so long that he considers it certain that he would not be welcome.
Jim comes to class, when he comes, smelling of cigarettes and booze, but he never actually gets caught, so there’s nothing the teachers can do. He’s been gone these past few days, but Spock saw him tooling around town on his hoverbike yesterday evening, so he’s not quite as worried as he might otherwise be.
Of course, worry for Jim is his basic default frame of mind these days, so. It is, perhaps, somewhat irrelevant.
He’s walking home when the hoverbike pulls up next to him. There’s a fine sheen of dirt on his shoes, he notes, kicked up by the tires as Jim pulls the bike into a skid in front of him. The bike is across his path; if he wants to continue on his current trajectory, he’ll have to go around.
He waits.
“Get on.”
There’s a moment in which he could ask questions, or refuse, he supposes, but really, there’s no other option, so he mounts the back of the bike.
Jim waits just long enough for Spock to secure his arms low around his waist before he kicks it into fourth gear, the bike leaping ahead with a burst that pulls Spock clutching against Jim’s back, feeling the rumble of laughter rolling through the muscles of Jim’s stomach.
--
It takes several hours, but Spock doesn’t mind. He’s got his arms around Jim, feeling the aching familiarity of the push/pull/burn of Jim’s energy under his skin. It’s been long, too long, he thinks, and though he remembers why it’s been such a length of time, he finds he doesn’t understand it, not really. There’s something unavoidable about Jim’s presence against him, something utterly involuntary in the way his chest is made to fit around Jim’s back, something completely inescapable that flicks at the edges of his mind when he gives in and lays his face between Jim’s shoulder blades.
It’s nearly dark when they get there, the lights of the Arch rising high above the sluggish darkness of the mighty Mississippi as they pull into the lane to cross the bridge. The reflections in the water wink and flicker as they putter over the span, and Spock feels punchdrunk with the prolonged contact, content to simply exist and allow the evening to unfold in whatever way Jim has pre-ordained.
They go first for food; pizza and beer in a bar by the water, too loud for talking with the game on the holos and the cheering of the patrons, so they don’t say a word. They eat, and they drink, and Jim is pressed into Spock’s side like a tongue in a groove, only moving to go take a piss before they leave.
They end up down at the water’s edge, walking and walking in the heavy humid dark, fetching up eventually at a park where an old-style band plays “Waltzing Matilda” to the percussive splash of waves on the rocks.
Spock’s got Jim turned before he registers it, pulling their bodies flush together and taking Jim’s hand, moving their feet in a step that has Jim’s face opening in a laugh even as he moves willingly along. Spock still doesn’t know what’s happening, not really; why they’re here, what Jim’s doing, but he doesn’t care, not at all, not right now.
“Waltzing, Spock? Really? I had no idea you were such a romantic.”
Spock doesn’t bother to answer, continuing the rhythmic motions as Jim’s laugh quiets and he tucks his head into Spock’s chest, pressing the hard curve of his skull into the underside of Spock’s chin.
The music ends after a space of time, and their feet still as the sounds of the musicians packing up echo down from the stage. Jim looks at him with half a question in his eyes, then comes to a decision, pulling Spock along by the hand.
It’s a several block walk back to the hoverbike, and then just a moment’s ride before they’re pulling into a rather drab motel not far from the casino boats. Jim parks the bike, setting his own extremely complex security system, and goes inside to pay, leaving Spock to watch through the window as Jim produces cash and a fake ID, taking the room key from the sweaty hand of the bored night clerk before coming back out to stand with his hands in his pockets in front of Spock.
It’s the first time in what seems like months that Spock’s seen anything on Jim’s face other than arrogance or anger, so he leans forward and kisses the fear from Jim’s mouth, taking it as blame onto his own, licking the trepidation from the corners of his lips as he slides the room key from Jim’s trembling hand.
The door opens easily onto a small room, and Spock forces the thoughts about the exact nature of the questionable hygenie of the bedcovers from his mind, choosing to lose himself instead in the texture of Jim’s tongue against his, the feel of callused fingers sliding into his own.
“Jim…” he manages to tear his mouth away for a moment, pulling Jim’s t-shirt up and over his head. “Jim… I’m sorry. I… I don’t care about anyone else, or anything else, or…” he tries to collect himself, only to drown in the look in those eyes. “Jim… I just… I want you. Just you. Just you.”
He leans in to press his mouth to the space beneath Jim’s jawline, taking Jim’s chin in his hand and turning it, forcing himself to let go long enough for Jim to tug his shirt off over his head.
Jim’s hands are cool on Spock’s overheated skin, tracing linguistic patterns, mathematical symbols, greek and equation and line on the delicate whorl of his flesh.
“Spock, goddammit.” Jim’s breath is a laugh, and then a sigh as Spock finds Jim’s button and frees his waist from the confines of denim, his hands moving with the fervor of a saint across the planes of Spock’s chest. “Why have you resisted so hard? How could you not know?” He strips Spock naked with a flick of his wrist, shedding his own underwear with a casual haste that has Spock pressing him down to the bed, their bare skin pushing heated and slick against each other. “We, this…” He gestures vaguely at their exposed forms, stuttering a gasp as Spock licks down his stomach. “We’re inevitable, Spock. It was always going to end this way. It’s the only way it could ever be for us.”
The last of his sentence is cut off with a moan as Spock crawls up his body, taking them both in hand with a decisive pull. He doesn’t expect the strength of his response and is nearly derailed, but he manages to get his other hand up to Jim’s face, touching his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth with reverent fingers before sliding his outstretched digits into the meld position.
There’s a moment when Jim’s blue blue eyes lock with his, and then they’re gone, spiraling into a mental oblivion in a sparking swan dive of electricity, their bodies clutching and stilling in a spasm of sensate overload.
Winter 2246
The dinner is stiff and formal, and Spock frankly hasn’t been this bored in months. Not since the scholarship reception dinner on Vulcan in August, when he actually fell asleep during the post-dinner speeches and was elbowed sharply by the girl seated on his right.
Perhaps it’s his human half, or perhaps his innate personality, but he has always felt out of his depth and beyond his patience when forced to endure the sorts of dry soliloquies that T’Pring’s father seems to favor. He can’t tell what his parents think; his father would never betray so much as an impatient sigh, and his mother has long since mastered the pleasantly smiling diplomat’s face. He studies her for a moment in quiet amusement. For all he knows, she’s busy solving last week’s crossword in her head, but she’s the picture of polite attentiveness.
He doesn’t realize that he’s fidgeting, moving the drops of condensation on his water glass back and forth, until his father coughs discreetly.
“Perhaps Spock and T’Pring should be excused at this juncture? I am sure that Spock would welcome the opportunity to receive some constructive peer review on his latest mechanical builds.”
T’Pring blinks at him balefully, but her father nods a firm assent. “She is top of her class in electrical transmogrification. I am sure that she will have some useful insights to contribute.” Spock catches his breath. Freedom? At last?
T’Pring inclines her head once in acknowledgment, then rises from her seat, a study in graceful efficiency in motion. Spock manages to stand without banging into the table, despite the fact that his left leg is entirely asleep, and makes his way over to her.
“Mother. Father. Ambassador Soren.” Spock bows formally, then turns and leaves the room, confident that T’Pring will follow.
He makes himself wait until they reach his room and shut the door before allowing a massive sigh of relief to escape, his shoulders slumping with release. T’Pring looks at him blandly, but he can see the miniscule hint of relaxation in her ramrod posture, and knows she’s as pleased as he to have escaped the interminable conversations below.
“What is this?” She is circuiting his room curiously, and has laid her hand on the star projector hooked up to his desk module.
“It is a light projector. I have programmed it to display points of light upon my ceiling and walls in such a manner that it resembles the night skies of various planets.”
She looks intrigued. “May I see?”
Spock crosses the room to palm the lights off, and speaks calmly into the sudden darkness. “Display: Starscape TKSK0829. Accelerated display, 8:0.5.”
The room is filled with points of light, their movement slow, but perceptible across the white walls. T’Pring gives a tiny gasp, turning in a slow circle to admire the view.
“It is displaying the sky as seen from Vulcan.”
“Yes.”
“This is… quite well done, Spock. The atmospheric qualities have been accounted for, as well as seasonal variations.” There’s a tiny note of wonder in her voice, and Spock suddenly likes her much better than he did when they met. “It is… very aesthetically pleasing. Do you have more?”
Spock smiles to himself, expression safe in the dark, and gives the command for the next display.
They are past Vulcan, Tellar, and Risa, and onto Orion when the knock sounds at his window. There’s a second of pause, and then the sound of the window slowly being pushed open. Spock reaches over to hit the lights, the sudden illumination revealing a blinking Jim Kirk with one leg over the sill as he pushes the sash up.
“Hey, Spock.” Jim focuses on T’Pring, then Spock. “ Um, Spock? There’s a girl? In your room?” He catches himself as he starts to tumble onto the floor, closing the window behind him and turning his best smile on T’Pring. “Hi, beautiful. What’s shakin’?”
Spock does not roll his eyes. “Jim, this is T’Pring. Her father, Ambassador Soren, is having dinner with my parents downstairs. As I informed you last week.”
Jim rubs his head sheepishly, still grinning at T’Pring. “Sorry, Spock. I forgot.”
T’Pring is looking between the two of them, and if she were human, Spock is sure that her expressions would be running the gamut. She takes one last look, blinks, then folds her hands. “Fascinating.”
Jim laughs outright, coming all the way into the room and plopping onto Spock’s bed where he bounces and kicks off his shoes.
“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Jim’s voice is deeply amused.
“You two are engaged in a sexual relationship.” She looks between them again. “This is most unorthodox, Spock. How is it so?”
Spock can feel his ears heating, but he keeps his voice determinedly even. “Humans mature at a younger age than Vulcans. I have myself reached maturity somewhat younger than most Vulcans, due to my hybrid status.” He pauses, looks at Jim who has fallen backwards on the bed and is hooting breathlessly with laughter. “Additionally, Jim and I are exceptionally mentally compatible. It was… logical to proceed with our relationship.”
T’Pring doesn’t bat an eye, simply walks over to Jim, staring down at him as he giggles. “Is that the case?” She pokes Jim with a finger, and Spock can tell she’d like a microscope. “You are still unbonded?”
“I am.”
“You are aware that my father wishes to discuss a potential bonding between us?”
Jim has finally stopped giggling and pushed up on his elbows to watch them.
“I am aware.” Spock looks at her perfectly lovely and utterly blank face. “Is it something you would wish?”
She considers for a moment, clicking her teeth absently with a fingernail. “I will be bonded to Stonn. We are highly compatible, and my father has no logical reason to object.” She looks over at Jim, with his bright eyes and flushed face. “I can see why you find him engaging. However. I trust you are being careful?”
“Careful?” It’s Jim’s voice with the question, his tone settled to its normal inquisitiveness.
“Due to Spock’s unbonded status, it is potentially… dangerous is too strong a word.” She thinks, a long finger pressed to her lips. “His mind is seeking, always looking for the one it will bond to. To engage in mental intimacy with such a mind is to invite potential entanglement.” She gives Spock a measuring glance, seeing more than he thinks he would like her to. “Spock. Be careful.”
She holds his gaze for a moment before walking to the door. The sound of their parents’ farewelling is drifting up the stairs, and she pulls the door open to exit.
“Live long, and prosper, Spock of Earth.”
Spock mirrors her gesture unthinking.
“Live long, and prosper, T’Pring.”
Spring 2246
“She was right, you know.”
Jim lifts his head from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Spock’s chest.
“Hmm?”
“T’Pring. She was right.” Spock raises his fingers to trace the line of Jim’s cheekbone, watching with his inner eye as the blue sparks arc between Jim’s face and his fingertips. “We are too compatible, Jim.”
Jim snorts and licks the inside of Spock’s elbow. “Too compatible? What the hell does that even mean?” He wriggles further down the bed, biting into the side of Spock’s abdomen, just below his ribs.
Spock squirms. “It means what we’re doing is dangerous, Jim. We could… it could be bad.” He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he can’t come up with the words to explain it when Jim’s got his mouth at the seam of his hip like that. “Jim… what is this, anyway? What are we doing?”
Jim raises his head, the sheet tenting down around him as he stares incredulously at Spock. “Well, right now, we’re naked, and I’m about to…”
Spock smacks him on the arm, and Jim laughs and laughs, falling to the mattress beside him as Spock tries to keep his mouth from twisting in a smile.
“No, Jim, listen to me. T’Pring… she knows, like every Vulcan knows, melding when unbonded is risky. It can become… addictive. Ensnaring. Maybe…” He pauses, drags in a breath. “Maybe we should just… stop.”
Jim’s hands still on his body, and Spock feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach, but he presses on. “Jim… we’re friends. Maybe… maybe that’s all we should be. I mean…” he gestures nervously, not liking the way that Jim’s face has gone still. “I mean… maybe we should just be friends again.”
“What?” The tone in Jim’s voice is deathly cold, and Spock is angry suddenly. He’s been manipulated into this, whatever this is. It’s immaterial whether he went willingly or not; there is no consent in blackmail, not really, and now Jim won’t even hear a word against whatever illogical and unsustainable fantasy it is that he’s got playing in that strung-out mind of his. It is dangerous, and it’s a constant concern to him, but Jim is so content to ignore anything he doesn’t like, to roar past any boundary that doesn’t actively punch him in the face, and he’s dragging Spock along with him, and Spock doesn’t want to go.
“You heard me.”
“I heard you say something ridiculous. You wanna try that again?”
“Perhaps it is because of your inherent self-destructive tendencies that you are so unwilling to listen when I attempt to explain to you that what we are doing is dangerous, Jim, or perhaps it is simply your inferior logic. Either way, you are failing to hear me when I say that we should consider putting a stop to it.”
The silence is complete and deadly, and Spock can hear the hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Jim… we’re friends. Or we were. And friendship is more, more than casual sex and a mental addiction.”
Jim is off the bed before Spock can catch his arm, his face contorted with hatred as he stands bare-assed in the moonlight. He grabs his jeans, stabbing a leg into them as Spock rises, crawling to the end of the bed and reaching out a hand.
“Casual sex and a mental addiction? That’s what you call this? Fuck you, Spock, I should never have trusted you. Not ever.” There’s wetness on his face, and Spock’s heart twists in his chest, his hand reaching further and further toward Jim. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
He’s got both legs in his pants and is heading for the door, and Spock is oh so grateful for the Vulcan speed that lets him grab Jim before he gets there, dragging him back and pinning him to the bed as he struggles, forcing them into the meld even as Jim bites his finger hard.
It’s the one place where Jim can’t escape him.
Jim in the meld is furious, sparks spitting from every limb as the wind behind him kicks up dust.
“Let me go.”
“No. Jim, look.” Spock points to the line at their feet, where red sand meets golden.
Jim looks, the expression on his face moving between rage and confusion.
“What am I looking at, Spock?”
Spock sinks to his knees, touching the lines of glass that have formed in the sand, crossing the edges from crimson to beige.
“You are looking at the visual manifestation of what is happening to our minds. Jim…” he feels desperate. The glass beneath his thumb hums and pulses with energy, pure heat and light. “… we are already entangled. I do not know how far it goes. But already… already our minds seek no other.”
Jim stares at him for a long moment before sinking to his knees beside Spock. He reaches a cautious hand to touch the glass, pulling back in surprise at the sensation it provokes.
“Spock…” the look on Jim’s face is the most transparent Spock has ever seen, and he feels the lines of glass hardening beneath his fingertips as the look of inchoate longing lingers on the lines of Jim’s cheek. “You would undo this?”
“I…” It’s his worst nightmare come true, a test to which he has no answer, a question asked before he’s ready. Jim’s face is already beginning to fold into the familiar lines of pain/rejection/disappointment, so Spock pulls his fingers from Jim’s skin, dropping them from the cocoon of the meld into tangible space, wrapping Jim in his arms instead of his mind. He’s damp and heated and shaking, and Spock presses them as close as matter/space occupation laws will allow.
“No”, he breathes, and the effect is instantaneous; Jim begins to inhale again, still shaking, and Spock presses his mouth to the edge of Jim’s closed eye.
“No. I would not.”
"You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)"
In some respects
I suspect you've got a respectable side
When pushed and pulled and pressured
You seldom run and hide
But it's for someone elses benefit
Not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you've realized
I'm gonna say these words to you
You don't know what love is
You do as you're told
Just as a child at ten might act
But you're far too old
You're not hopeless or helpless
And I hate to sound cold
But you don't know what love is...
You just do as you're told
I can see your man
Cant help but win
Any problems that may arise
But in his mind there can be no sin
If you never criticize
You just keep on repeating
All those empty "I love you's"
Until you say you deserve better
I'm gonna lay right into you
You don't know what love is
You just do as you're told
Just as a child of ten might act
But you're far too old
Your not hopeless or helpless
And I hate to sound cold
But you don't know what love is
No you don't know what love is
No you don't know what love is
You just do as you're told
You do as you're told
Yeah
Universe/Series: AU
Rating: hard R for language, underage sexual acts
Relationship status: First Time (eventually)
Word count: 5,025
Genre: h/c, angst, fluff
Trope: kid!fic, family, friendship
Warnings: language for this part, slight violence, implied drug use and underage sexual activity.
Pairing: k/s, no others.
Beta: thanks to medea_fic for pinch-hitting for me. :)
Summary: written for this prompt on the kink-meme. which then ballooned like a motherfuc monster. Spock and Kirk meet as kids, to the theme of the White Stripes "We Are Gonna Be Friends"
A/N: dedicated with much love and humble adoration to 13empress . <3 you, bb.
So,originally supposed to be brief, now it is a 12 parter to the original theme of the song "we are gonna be friends", with each chapter named for a white stripes song. honestly? i wasn't even that huge a ws fan before i wrote this, but they've definitely grown on me. i recommend listening to the songs for each chapter- i'll try to include a you-tube link to the songs at the end.
IT'S BACK, OMG IT'S BACK. my big bang finally got posted, and now i'm back to finish off WGBF, hooray! many many thanks to anyone who is still reading this! hope this chapter is worth the long wait!
* this bit gets more angsty, heads up y'all, can't say i didn't warn you.
(approx. ages for this bit- 13/14 and 15/16)
Summer 2245
He can hear the house from nearly a mile a way, but then, his hearing is exceptional compared to that of humans. Nonetheless, even a human could hear it from a two-block radius, he thinks, and he wishes momentarily for his earplugs before he pushes past the smokers in the driveway and strides in the back door, caught up immediately in the mob of moving, yelling, pushing revelers.
It’s a marker of the level of intoxication reached by most of the attendees that a scowling Vulcan attracts little attention, Spock thinks, but he passes the thought by, intently scanning the room for any sign of Jim. There are people on the couch, people on the floor, people in the kitchen, people swirling and drinking and kissing. People everywhere, but no sign of the one person he’s looking for.
A passing blond grabs his ass, and he catches her wrist in his fingers, only just remembering to lessen his grip before he does real damage. Her pupils are artificially huge behind her false lashes, and she shivers at his touch before sliding away down the hallway. The overpowering sound and scents of the place have his head reeling; the thumping bass and the shouting voices combined with the smells of sweat and perfume and sickly sweet booze form a pungent irritant to his delicate ear canals and sinuses.
He’s been home for three days now, and seen no sign of Jim. He’d let it go for two days, but his worry mounted, as well as his loneliness, and besides, tomorrow is the first day of school, and Spock would be willing to put money on the fact that Jim will have to be forced into the building. He doesn’t gamble, but it would not be gambling, as there is no risk of him losing the bet.
He forces himself to concentrate, to pull in, to disregard the commotion surrounding him, the claustrophobic press of humans against his body, and focus instead on the sound of that voice.
Nothing.
A systematic search it is, then.
He has it on good authority that Jim is here somewhere; Nyota had let it slip when he commed her that this was going to be the “mother of all end-of-summer parties”, and he knows enough about Jim’s life away from him to know the siren call that particular phrase would have. He had stopped by the Kirk house on the way, just to be sure, but Frank had only said “I thought he was with you, you pointy-eared fuck”, which led Spock to assume that Jim had not been home in some time.
There’s a hallway branching into rooms that stretches off to his left; empty spaces masked with thin particle-board doors. It is the logical place to begin his search. He can identify the noises emitting from behind them; he may be virgin, but he’s no fool. Right now, though, he’s too far gone into really pissed to blush.
The first door he opens yields nothing more than a bunch of laughing idiots clustered around a large purple bong, a cloud of smoke hanging three feet from the ceiling, and shouts of “fuck, man, shut the door!”
The second door reveals mostly darkness, but also a writhing knot of bodies, none of which are Jim’s.
It’s the third door that gives him what he wants; Jim’s golden head gleaming in the light from the ceiling fixture, his blue eyes wide with surprise.
What Spock doesn’t want is the older boy whose cock is filling Jim’s mouth, and the second older boy with his hands halfway down the back of Jim’s jeans.
There’s a rushing in his ears that has nothing to do with the sound in the building, and his vision narrows to lock on Jim’s face, which works its way impressively through shock, horror, joy, and fear in the very brief time it takes for Spock to stride forward and pull him off his knees. They’re halfway out the door before either of the boys can even react, Spock dragging Jim along as his feet scrabble uselessly at the floor, as one of the boys starts to shout in the background.
Spock doesn’t even hear him.
Jim struggles unconvincingly, though his attempts grow stronger as he realizes that Spock is not even anywhere close to letting him go. Spock drags him out through the party and down the street, only resisting the urge to throw him against the car by the barest of margins.
His control is fragmented, and he can’t honestly say why- it’s some combination of bloodlust for the boys who might dare touch Jim, and regular lust for Jim as he struggles in Spock’s iron grip, and really, it’s anybody’s guess which is stronger.
He drops Jim unceremoniously on his feet next to the car, and turns his back to breathe, drawing in air through his nostrils and pushing it out his mouth, desperately trying to ignore the taste of Jim’s pheromones on the night air.
“What. The ever-living. Fuck.”
Jim’s voice is high and tight, and Spock turns to see him rubbing at his upper arm. The prints of Spock’s fingers are already visible, painfully red against the milky skin.
“What. The goddamned hell. Do you think you’re doing?”
Jim steps forward, his face drawn in rage, and thumps the palms of his hands into Spock’s chest. Spock catches his wrists on instinct, forcing himself to relax his grip at the squeak Jim makes as his bones twist in Spock’s grip.
“You will want to allow me a moment before you touch me again.”
He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, gritting out the words in a dangerous monotone. He forces himself to release his hold, watching as Jim stumbles back against the hood of the car. Jim’s eyes are dilated more than the dim street-lamp accounts for, and he rubs his hands unconsciously across the cool metal with an inamorato’s touch, his mouth sliding open in pleasure. Spock can feel the crawl all over his skin from the telepathic contact with whatever cocktail of substances it is that Jim’s ingested, and it’s that more than anything that settles him, allowing him enough chest space to fill his lungs and sliding the red tinge away from his eyes.
“Jim. What were those boys” he spits the word, “doing to you?”
Jim laughs once, hard and short, crossing his legs at the ankles to display the bulge behind the line of his unzipped jeans.
“Fuck, Spock. What did it look like they were doing to me?” His expression is furious, even as his hands begin to rub across his thighs, desperately seeking something to touch. “What do you think they were doing to me?”
“You would…” Spock hears his voice crack, pauses for a gasping second, “…you would allow them to do such a thing?”
Jim has lost nothing of his skill in eye-rolling during Spock’s absence, and he demonstrates his proficiency now, leaning back on the car in a gesture that slides his shirt up just enough to let the streetlight warm the skin of his belly.
“Well, shit, Spock. Did it look like I was saying no?”
Spock’s fists are clenching involuntarily, and he thinks that grinding noise is probably his teeth. Jim looks at him suddenly, seeming to see him for the first time tonight. He pushes himself up, swaying deliberately toward Spock, placing a hand on his hip in a horrible affectation.
“Why, Spock. Are you jealous?” He saunters closer, reaching out to slide his fingers teasingly across Spock’s hand. “Did you wish it was you? You, with your hands sliding into my pants? Or…” he pauses, considering. “Or did you wish it was you with your cock in my mouth?” He tips his head and runs his tongue across his chapped lips, and Spock is suddenly pressing him hard against the bumper.
“That is…” he shudders, spinning with a depth of rage he’s never known before, “… that is unfair, Jim. I have never… never… made any secret… of my regard for you.”
“No?” Jim sneers at him, eyes blanked of all feeling. “You lie, Spock. You’re just like everyone else. You come, and you go. And when you’re around, that’s great, and we’re friends, and then you leave again, and I do what I want.” He rocks his hips up, forcing a gasp from Spock as Jim shoves his unzipped groin against him.
“Come on, Spock. You know you want it.” His voice is a mocking singsong, winding into the back of Spock’s brain.
He pulls loose of Spock’s shaken grip and turns, splaying himself over the hood of the car and grasping Spock’s hand in his to shove past the band of his jeans onto his bare skin.
“It’s gonna be someone, Spock. May as well be you.”
Jim shoves his ass against Spock’s swollen flesh, and Spock can hear the metal of the car’s hood pucker as he digs his free hand into it before he manages to shove himself back and away from Jim. His heart is thudding in his side so fast that he wonders briefly if this is what cardiac arrest feels like, the fluttering of mad wings just prior to a crash.
“No”, he manages, and he couldn’t say at this point what language he’s speaking anymore, but it’s irrelevant, really. “No, Jim. You are… I will not… take advantage.”
Jim’s dilated eyes blink once in surprise, then his face closes down. He zips himself up viciously, dragging his shirt down to his waistband.
“Always an excuse with you, isn’t it? Why don’t you just say it? You don’t want me. Just like everyone else, Spock. You don’t want me.” He spits onto the asphalt at Spock’s feet, and Spock has never seen blue eyes burn this cold.
“You worry I’ll forget you, Spock? I wish I could forget you. I wish I could erase you from my fucking mind.”
Fall 2245
Jim’s been mostly at school this first month, but they haven’t spoken any more than absolutely necessary. By the time Spock has unbent enough to think that he might be able to consider apologizing, it’s been so long that he considers it certain that he would not be welcome.
Jim comes to class, when he comes, smelling of cigarettes and booze, but he never actually gets caught, so there’s nothing the teachers can do. He’s been gone these past few days, but Spock saw him tooling around town on his hoverbike yesterday evening, so he’s not quite as worried as he might otherwise be.
Of course, worry for Jim is his basic default frame of mind these days, so. It is, perhaps, somewhat irrelevant.
He’s walking home when the hoverbike pulls up next to him. There’s a fine sheen of dirt on his shoes, he notes, kicked up by the tires as Jim pulls the bike into a skid in front of him. The bike is across his path; if he wants to continue on his current trajectory, he’ll have to go around.
He waits.
“Get on.”
There’s a moment in which he could ask questions, or refuse, he supposes, but really, there’s no other option, so he mounts the back of the bike.
Jim waits just long enough for Spock to secure his arms low around his waist before he kicks it into fourth gear, the bike leaping ahead with a burst that pulls Spock clutching against Jim’s back, feeling the rumble of laughter rolling through the muscles of Jim’s stomach.
--
It takes several hours, but Spock doesn’t mind. He’s got his arms around Jim, feeling the aching familiarity of the push/pull/burn of Jim’s energy under his skin. It’s been long, too long, he thinks, and though he remembers why it’s been such a length of time, he finds he doesn’t understand it, not really. There’s something unavoidable about Jim’s presence against him, something utterly involuntary in the way his chest is made to fit around Jim’s back, something completely inescapable that flicks at the edges of his mind when he gives in and lays his face between Jim’s shoulder blades.
It’s nearly dark when they get there, the lights of the Arch rising high above the sluggish darkness of the mighty Mississippi as they pull into the lane to cross the bridge. The reflections in the water wink and flicker as they putter over the span, and Spock feels punchdrunk with the prolonged contact, content to simply exist and allow the evening to unfold in whatever way Jim has pre-ordained.
They go first for food; pizza and beer in a bar by the water, too loud for talking with the game on the holos and the cheering of the patrons, so they don’t say a word. They eat, and they drink, and Jim is pressed into Spock’s side like a tongue in a groove, only moving to go take a piss before they leave.
They end up down at the water’s edge, walking and walking in the heavy humid dark, fetching up eventually at a park where an old-style band plays “Waltzing Matilda” to the percussive splash of waves on the rocks.
Spock’s got Jim turned before he registers it, pulling their bodies flush together and taking Jim’s hand, moving their feet in a step that has Jim’s face opening in a laugh even as he moves willingly along. Spock still doesn’t know what’s happening, not really; why they’re here, what Jim’s doing, but he doesn’t care, not at all, not right now.
“Waltzing, Spock? Really? I had no idea you were such a romantic.”
Spock doesn’t bother to answer, continuing the rhythmic motions as Jim’s laugh quiets and he tucks his head into Spock’s chest, pressing the hard curve of his skull into the underside of Spock’s chin.
The music ends after a space of time, and their feet still as the sounds of the musicians packing up echo down from the stage. Jim looks at him with half a question in his eyes, then comes to a decision, pulling Spock along by the hand.
It’s a several block walk back to the hoverbike, and then just a moment’s ride before they’re pulling into a rather drab motel not far from the casino boats. Jim parks the bike, setting his own extremely complex security system, and goes inside to pay, leaving Spock to watch through the window as Jim produces cash and a fake ID, taking the room key from the sweaty hand of the bored night clerk before coming back out to stand with his hands in his pockets in front of Spock.
It’s the first time in what seems like months that Spock’s seen anything on Jim’s face other than arrogance or anger, so he leans forward and kisses the fear from Jim’s mouth, taking it as blame onto his own, licking the trepidation from the corners of his lips as he slides the room key from Jim’s trembling hand.
The door opens easily onto a small room, and Spock forces the thoughts about the exact nature of the questionable hygenie of the bedcovers from his mind, choosing to lose himself instead in the texture of Jim’s tongue against his, the feel of callused fingers sliding into his own.
“Jim…” he manages to tear his mouth away for a moment, pulling Jim’s t-shirt up and over his head. “Jim… I’m sorry. I… I don’t care about anyone else, or anything else, or…” he tries to collect himself, only to drown in the look in those eyes. “Jim… I just… I want you. Just you. Just you.”
He leans in to press his mouth to the space beneath Jim’s jawline, taking Jim’s chin in his hand and turning it, forcing himself to let go long enough for Jim to tug his shirt off over his head.
Jim’s hands are cool on Spock’s overheated skin, tracing linguistic patterns, mathematical symbols, greek and equation and line on the delicate whorl of his flesh.
“Spock, goddammit.” Jim’s breath is a laugh, and then a sigh as Spock finds Jim’s button and frees his waist from the confines of denim, his hands moving with the fervor of a saint across the planes of Spock’s chest. “Why have you resisted so hard? How could you not know?” He strips Spock naked with a flick of his wrist, shedding his own underwear with a casual haste that has Spock pressing him down to the bed, their bare skin pushing heated and slick against each other. “We, this…” He gestures vaguely at their exposed forms, stuttering a gasp as Spock licks down his stomach. “We’re inevitable, Spock. It was always going to end this way. It’s the only way it could ever be for us.”
The last of his sentence is cut off with a moan as Spock crawls up his body, taking them both in hand with a decisive pull. He doesn’t expect the strength of his response and is nearly derailed, but he manages to get his other hand up to Jim’s face, touching his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth with reverent fingers before sliding his outstretched digits into the meld position.
There’s a moment when Jim’s blue blue eyes lock with his, and then they’re gone, spiraling into a mental oblivion in a sparking swan dive of electricity, their bodies clutching and stilling in a spasm of sensate overload.
Winter 2246
The dinner is stiff and formal, and Spock frankly hasn’t been this bored in months. Not since the scholarship reception dinner on Vulcan in August, when he actually fell asleep during the post-dinner speeches and was elbowed sharply by the girl seated on his right.
Perhaps it’s his human half, or perhaps his innate personality, but he has always felt out of his depth and beyond his patience when forced to endure the sorts of dry soliloquies that T’Pring’s father seems to favor. He can’t tell what his parents think; his father would never betray so much as an impatient sigh, and his mother has long since mastered the pleasantly smiling diplomat’s face. He studies her for a moment in quiet amusement. For all he knows, she’s busy solving last week’s crossword in her head, but she’s the picture of polite attentiveness.
He doesn’t realize that he’s fidgeting, moving the drops of condensation on his water glass back and forth, until his father coughs discreetly.
“Perhaps Spock and T’Pring should be excused at this juncture? I am sure that Spock would welcome the opportunity to receive some constructive peer review on his latest mechanical builds.”
T’Pring blinks at him balefully, but her father nods a firm assent. “She is top of her class in electrical transmogrification. I am sure that she will have some useful insights to contribute.” Spock catches his breath. Freedom? At last?
T’Pring inclines her head once in acknowledgment, then rises from her seat, a study in graceful efficiency in motion. Spock manages to stand without banging into the table, despite the fact that his left leg is entirely asleep, and makes his way over to her.
“Mother. Father. Ambassador Soren.” Spock bows formally, then turns and leaves the room, confident that T’Pring will follow.
He makes himself wait until they reach his room and shut the door before allowing a massive sigh of relief to escape, his shoulders slumping with release. T’Pring looks at him blandly, but he can see the miniscule hint of relaxation in her ramrod posture, and knows she’s as pleased as he to have escaped the interminable conversations below.
“What is this?” She is circuiting his room curiously, and has laid her hand on the star projector hooked up to his desk module.
“It is a light projector. I have programmed it to display points of light upon my ceiling and walls in such a manner that it resembles the night skies of various planets.”
She looks intrigued. “May I see?”
Spock crosses the room to palm the lights off, and speaks calmly into the sudden darkness. “Display: Starscape TKSK0829. Accelerated display, 8:0.5.”
The room is filled with points of light, their movement slow, but perceptible across the white walls. T’Pring gives a tiny gasp, turning in a slow circle to admire the view.
“It is displaying the sky as seen from Vulcan.”
“Yes.”
“This is… quite well done, Spock. The atmospheric qualities have been accounted for, as well as seasonal variations.” There’s a tiny note of wonder in her voice, and Spock suddenly likes her much better than he did when they met. “It is… very aesthetically pleasing. Do you have more?”
Spock smiles to himself, expression safe in the dark, and gives the command for the next display.
They are past Vulcan, Tellar, and Risa, and onto Orion when the knock sounds at his window. There’s a second of pause, and then the sound of the window slowly being pushed open. Spock reaches over to hit the lights, the sudden illumination revealing a blinking Jim Kirk with one leg over the sill as he pushes the sash up.
“Hey, Spock.” Jim focuses on T’Pring, then Spock. “ Um, Spock? There’s a girl? In your room?” He catches himself as he starts to tumble onto the floor, closing the window behind him and turning his best smile on T’Pring. “Hi, beautiful. What’s shakin’?”
Spock does not roll his eyes. “Jim, this is T’Pring. Her father, Ambassador Soren, is having dinner with my parents downstairs. As I informed you last week.”
Jim rubs his head sheepishly, still grinning at T’Pring. “Sorry, Spock. I forgot.”
T’Pring is looking between the two of them, and if she were human, Spock is sure that her expressions would be running the gamut. She takes one last look, blinks, then folds her hands. “Fascinating.”
Jim laughs outright, coming all the way into the room and plopping onto Spock’s bed where he bounces and kicks off his shoes.
“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Jim’s voice is deeply amused.
“You two are engaged in a sexual relationship.” She looks between them again. “This is most unorthodox, Spock. How is it so?”
Spock can feel his ears heating, but he keeps his voice determinedly even. “Humans mature at a younger age than Vulcans. I have myself reached maturity somewhat younger than most Vulcans, due to my hybrid status.” He pauses, looks at Jim who has fallen backwards on the bed and is hooting breathlessly with laughter. “Additionally, Jim and I are exceptionally mentally compatible. It was… logical to proceed with our relationship.”
T’Pring doesn’t bat an eye, simply walks over to Jim, staring down at him as he giggles. “Is that the case?” She pokes Jim with a finger, and Spock can tell she’d like a microscope. “You are still unbonded?”
“I am.”
“You are aware that my father wishes to discuss a potential bonding between us?”
Jim has finally stopped giggling and pushed up on his elbows to watch them.
“I am aware.” Spock looks at her perfectly lovely and utterly blank face. “Is it something you would wish?”
She considers for a moment, clicking her teeth absently with a fingernail. “I will be bonded to Stonn. We are highly compatible, and my father has no logical reason to object.” She looks over at Jim, with his bright eyes and flushed face. “I can see why you find him engaging. However. I trust you are being careful?”
“Careful?” It’s Jim’s voice with the question, his tone settled to its normal inquisitiveness.
“Due to Spock’s unbonded status, it is potentially… dangerous is too strong a word.” She thinks, a long finger pressed to her lips. “His mind is seeking, always looking for the one it will bond to. To engage in mental intimacy with such a mind is to invite potential entanglement.” She gives Spock a measuring glance, seeing more than he thinks he would like her to. “Spock. Be careful.”
She holds his gaze for a moment before walking to the door. The sound of their parents’ farewelling is drifting up the stairs, and she pulls the door open to exit.
“Live long, and prosper, Spock of Earth.”
Spock mirrors her gesture unthinking.
“Live long, and prosper, T’Pring.”
Spring 2246
“She was right, you know.”
Jim lifts his head from where he’s sucking a bruise onto Spock’s chest.
“Hmm?”
“T’Pring. She was right.” Spock raises his fingers to trace the line of Jim’s cheekbone, watching with his inner eye as the blue sparks arc between Jim’s face and his fingertips. “We are too compatible, Jim.”
Jim snorts and licks the inside of Spock’s elbow. “Too compatible? What the hell does that even mean?” He wriggles further down the bed, biting into the side of Spock’s abdomen, just below his ribs.
Spock squirms. “It means what we’re doing is dangerous, Jim. We could… it could be bad.” He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he can’t come up with the words to explain it when Jim’s got his mouth at the seam of his hip like that. “Jim… what is this, anyway? What are we doing?”
Jim raises his head, the sheet tenting down around him as he stares incredulously at Spock. “Well, right now, we’re naked, and I’m about to…”
Spock smacks him on the arm, and Jim laughs and laughs, falling to the mattress beside him as Spock tries to keep his mouth from twisting in a smile.
“No, Jim, listen to me. T’Pring… she knows, like every Vulcan knows, melding when unbonded is risky. It can become… addictive. Ensnaring. Maybe…” He pauses, drags in a breath. “Maybe we should just… stop.”
Jim’s hands still on his body, and Spock feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach, but he presses on. “Jim… we’re friends. Maybe… maybe that’s all we should be. I mean…” he gestures nervously, not liking the way that Jim’s face has gone still. “I mean… maybe we should just be friends again.”
“What?” The tone in Jim’s voice is deathly cold, and Spock is angry suddenly. He’s been manipulated into this, whatever this is. It’s immaterial whether he went willingly or not; there is no consent in blackmail, not really, and now Jim won’t even hear a word against whatever illogical and unsustainable fantasy it is that he’s got playing in that strung-out mind of his. It is dangerous, and it’s a constant concern to him, but Jim is so content to ignore anything he doesn’t like, to roar past any boundary that doesn’t actively punch him in the face, and he’s dragging Spock along with him, and Spock doesn’t want to go.
“You heard me.”
“I heard you say something ridiculous. You wanna try that again?”
“Perhaps it is because of your inherent self-destructive tendencies that you are so unwilling to listen when I attempt to explain to you that what we are doing is dangerous, Jim, or perhaps it is simply your inferior logic. Either way, you are failing to hear me when I say that we should consider putting a stop to it.”
The silence is complete and deadly, and Spock can hear the hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Jim… we’re friends. Or we were. And friendship is more, more than casual sex and a mental addiction.”
Jim is off the bed before Spock can catch his arm, his face contorted with hatred as he stands bare-assed in the moonlight. He grabs his jeans, stabbing a leg into them as Spock rises, crawling to the end of the bed and reaching out a hand.
“Casual sex and a mental addiction? That’s what you call this? Fuck you, Spock, I should never have trusted you. Not ever.” There’s wetness on his face, and Spock’s heart twists in his chest, his hand reaching further and further toward Jim. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”
He’s got both legs in his pants and is heading for the door, and Spock is oh so grateful for the Vulcan speed that lets him grab Jim before he gets there, dragging him back and pinning him to the bed as he struggles, forcing them into the meld even as Jim bites his finger hard.
It’s the one place where Jim can’t escape him.
Jim in the meld is furious, sparks spitting from every limb as the wind behind him kicks up dust.
“Let me go.”
“No. Jim, look.” Spock points to the line at their feet, where red sand meets golden.
Jim looks, the expression on his face moving between rage and confusion.
“What am I looking at, Spock?”
Spock sinks to his knees, touching the lines of glass that have formed in the sand, crossing the edges from crimson to beige.
“You are looking at the visual manifestation of what is happening to our minds. Jim…” he feels desperate. The glass beneath his thumb hums and pulses with energy, pure heat and light. “… we are already entangled. I do not know how far it goes. But already… already our minds seek no other.”
Jim stares at him for a long moment before sinking to his knees beside Spock. He reaches a cautious hand to touch the glass, pulling back in surprise at the sensation it provokes.
“Spock…” the look on Jim’s face is the most transparent Spock has ever seen, and he feels the lines of glass hardening beneath his fingertips as the look of inchoate longing lingers on the lines of Jim’s cheek. “You would undo this?”
“I…” It’s his worst nightmare come true, a test to which he has no answer, a question asked before he’s ready. Jim’s face is already beginning to fold into the familiar lines of pain/rejection/disappointment, so Spock pulls his fingers from Jim’s skin, dropping them from the cocoon of the meld into tangible space, wrapping Jim in his arms instead of his mind. He’s damp and heated and shaking, and Spock presses them as close as matter/space occupation laws will allow.
“No”, he breathes, and the effect is instantaneous; Jim begins to inhale again, still shaking, and Spock presses his mouth to the edge of Jim’s closed eye.
“No. I would not.”
"You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)"
In some respects
I suspect you've got a respectable side
When pushed and pulled and pressured
You seldom run and hide
But it's for someone elses benefit
Not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you've realized
I'm gonna say these words to you
You don't know what love is
You do as you're told
Just as a child at ten might act
But you're far too old
You're not hopeless or helpless
And I hate to sound cold
But you don't know what love is...
You just do as you're told
I can see your man
Cant help but win
Any problems that may arise
But in his mind there can be no sin
If you never criticize
You just keep on repeating
All those empty "I love you's"
Until you say you deserve better
I'm gonna lay right into you
You don't know what love is
You just do as you're told
Just as a child of ten might act
But you're far too old
Your not hopeless or helpless
And I hate to sound cold
But you don't know what love is
No you don't know what love is
No you don't know what love is
You just do as you're told
You do as you're told
Yeah