Chapter Text
The Crooked Run Club was, according to the San Francisco Guide for Off-Worlders, a popular meeting point for young adult members of the “queer community.” There was a paragraph explaining what was meant by queer community, which tried very hard to use concepts understandable by all species—naturally an impossibility, given the xenocultural differences in sexuality and gender across the quadrant.
However, it seemed a pleasant bar, all things considered. The music was not loud, for a Terran establishment, and it was spacious enough that Vulcan standards for personal space could still be followed. The people present displayed a particular style he could identify as “queer” by Terran standards: odd colors of hair, specific jewelry, divergence from majority gender clothing standards.
This was not enough for Spock to narrow down anyone’s specific gender or sexuality, however. The Terran concept of queerness included the idea of self-definition. There was not a plurality of sexualities and genders, there was an infinity, and one was expected to invent them oneself.
Vulcans had no such expectation. There was instead a long tradition of roles which one fit into more or less well. It was freeing, in that one was not expected to reveal more about oneself than merely the role, if that. Some however found it confining, as there were exactly nine, which could not fit perfectly for everyone.
In the Academy, a fellow cadet had once asked Spock for his pronouns. Spock, confused, had listed off all the pronouns Golic had. Once he had been made to understand the meaning of the question, he explained that Golic did not signify gender with pronouns, so a Standard speaker would simply have to select whatever pronoun seemed appropriate.
Spock knew perfectly well that his pronoun in Standard was he, as he was a fluent speaker and that was what his mother called him, but it had not seemed quite comfortable to claim the pronoun in that context. After all, Terrans had a whole host of gender expectations that went with the word he, and it seemed a great deal of weight to put on a small word which one had to use in order to speak the language.
At the time, he had identified with the Vulcan role called aweksu-ves, or monk. These Vulcans eschewed all gender, sexuality, and clan in order to seek intellectual enlightenment. Spock had selected it because it seemed the best and most Surakian option, and he hadn’t at the time felt drawn to any particular other one.
He had since learned differently, and that was why he was here.
For over a decade, he had served aboard the Enterprise under Captain Pike. It had taken less than a year into the posting before he discovered that he was not as immune to the sexual impulse as he had believed. The fact that this man had power over his life and death, the fact that Pike gave him orders and looked after his welfare, was enough to bring upon Spock a powerful new emotion that had no real place in Starfleet.
Devotion, duty, a need to dedicate his life to a man who commanded him—these were markers not of the aweksu but of the tilek-leshsu, the spear-carrier. It was not a role Spock desired. It was emotionally-driven, archaic—surely in this Surakian era there was no need for such a thing. And, furthermore, it was wholly unrequited. Pike was attracted exclusively to women, for one thing, and for another, Starfleet regulations seemed quite clear that the chain of command was not supposed to be a sexual concept.
Eventually, Spock was forced to surrender to reality. Kaiidth. Tilek-leshsu was what he was, and he could not make logical choices without acknowledging this. He began to paint his face in the traditional manner for this role, and the word had gradually spread among his Vulcan acquaintance. From time to time he had sexual encounters with Vulcan men, but they were brief and rare.
Nothing else had happened. Pike remained unaware of Spock’s devotion, as Spock wished him to.
But now the mission was over, and Spock would soon have to serve under a new captain. He would not fall prey to the same weakness. Instead, he would make a real effort this time to cultivate off-ship relationships, even if they were necessarily short in duration. His inconvenient sexuality must be headed off in advance.
That was why he was here, in this Terran bar, seeking out a potential partner. It would likely be an arrangement that lasted only one night, but that would have to be sufficient.
The new captain would be announced within the next week, and Spock wished to meet the man while as sexually satiated as he could be. In this way, he would protect himself from immediately being overwhelmed and bewitched by the man’s commanding nature.
Of course, it might not be a danger at all. If the captain was a woman, there would be no concern: Spock was not the acolyte-type who pined for powerful women. (His betrothed would have much preferred it if he were.) And many captains, though technically in command, did not have the same powerful personality. They reached command through “putting in their dues” and ran a ship in a mild-mannered, efficient, unerotic way. Spock hoped for this type of captain, a Garrovick or Decker, someone whom Spock would work with dispassionately, as a Vulcan and a Starfleet officer should.
But he could not take the risk. Hence this attempt.
He was dressed in a way a Vulcan would have immediately recognized as a spear-carrier on the prowl: heavy makeup, a silver cuff high on the edge of his left ear, a hammered silver ring on his right little finger. His Terran civilian wardrobe was limited, so he wore a plain black shirt and pants.
There were no Vulcans present, but that did not mean there was no one suited for Spock. He scanned the crowd again. He was looking for a man, a commanding man, someone bursting with masculinity and domination. But at the same time, not a bully, not a despot. Someone secure enough in his power to have no need for bluster.
The door of the bar swung open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air, and a man appeared. Spock’s spine straightened and his lips parted before he was aware. Deliberately, he dissected the reasons for his reaction. The man wore no markers that a Vulcan would recognize as belonging to the khartlan-ves, command type: no stacked shoes, long hair, or contoured jawline. He was wearing plain Terran jeans and a red plaid shirt. And yet there was something in the way he walked, the way his chin lifted slightly, that made him seem taller than everyone else present, though on logical examination he was clearly not a tall man.
The man’s eyes roved over those present and stopped on Spock. Spock’s impulse was to avert his gaze immediately, but before he could, the newcomer’s eyes crinkled warmly. As if recognizing a friend, though they assuredly had not met before. Spock would not have been able to forget him if they had.
Spock studiously turned back to the bar and signaled the proprietor for a refill of his Altair water. He would not embarrass himself by being forward. Besides, the kind of man he wanted would wish to make the first move.
Golden brown hair nudged into his peripheral vision, and Spock turned just enough to make out the man in the plaid shirt. His heart thudded in his side, but he made no other move.
“Saurian brandy, neat,” said the man, and the warm tenor of his voice twined around Spock’s abdomen, heating it.
This was absurd. Spock had underestimated his own desperation. The man had not even spoken to him and Spock already felt weak. He should have enacted this plan years ago. Keeping his hand carefully steady, he drank from his glass and returned it to the granite surface of the bar.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” said the voice.
Spock finally turned. The man was even more handsome up close. Warm amber eyes, a soft half-smile. How was everyone else in the bar not staring? “That is because I have not come here before,” he said neutrally.
The man waited a moment, as if waiting for further “small talk,” but when he did not receive it, he only smiled, eyelashes lowering as if nurturing a private amusement. “You should come often. You class up the place.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Do you refer to social or economic class? I understood Earth to be a classless society.”
“I refer to aesthetics,” said the man with a wink so quick it might easily appear accidental. “You raised the average attractiveness in this bar by at least ten percent just by walking in.”
Spock faced forward, swallowing hard, summoning all his controls to prevent vasodilation in his facial capillaries—a regrettable human response. It was very likely the largest compliment he had ever received. There were at least fifty people present; changing the mean to such a degree would mean a dramatic outlier.
Though surely the human did not speak literally. Humans rarely did.
“I think I would like to come often,” said Spock neutrally. “This is a fine establishment.”
“What do you think of the company?”
Spock looked back at him, flicking his eyes quickly down the man’s body: compact, muscled beneath soft curves. The body of a man who exercised for strength, not show. “So far I can make no complaint.”
The man grinned, holding out a hand. “Jim.”
Spock raised an eyebrow at the proffered hand. Jim clearly knew nothing about Vulcans. But on the other hand, Spock was not averse to the touch. Just as Jim hesitated, about to withdraw, Spock reached out and touched it. Not a Terran handshake: instead he lightly trailed his fingertips against the other man’s before returning his hand to his glass. Even in that brief touch, he could feel the hot surge of a dynamic mind. He wanted to dive into it, right here in the bar, in front of everyone.
“I am Spock,” he said faintly.
Despite the gesture not having meaning in Terran culture, Jim was clearly affected by it. He stared down at his hand, flexing the fingers, and then licked his lips and looked up. “Spock,” he repeated. “Is it true that Vulcans prefer straightforwardness?”
“You are well informed.”
“Here’s a straightforward proposition for you. I have a room just around the block here. I’d like to take you back there for the evening.”
Spock blinked. “For sexual purposes?”
“Ideally. But I’m so interested in you I’m down for almost anything.”
“Almost?”
Jim gave a half smile. “Just one condition. I need to be in charge. That’s the kind of guy I am.” He looked faintly apologetic about this.
“I consider that ideal,” said Spock. “Lead the way.”
The room was a temporary one. Spock did not know if this meant Jim was only visiting the area, or if he had simply planned ahead for the encounter he would assuredly have. Surely a man like Jim would have been well aware it would not take him long to find a partner for the evening.
Jim shut the door behind them both and turned to Spock. For a moment he seemed hesitant, like he had not truly expected Spock to come with him and wasn’t sure where to start. But then he reached for Spock’s hand and splayed it out in both of his. “I like your ring,” he said casually. Then, with slightly more meaning, “And your fingers.”
Spock’s fingers twitched involuntarily in the human’s warm hands. Jim could not know how arousing he was being. Stumbling, by pure guesswork, on the most alluring thing he could possibly do.
He moved his hand against Jim’s, lining up their fingertips once again, feeling the heat of that dynamic mind. “I must disclose to you that this is a telepathic region for me.”
Rather than withdraw, Jim looked intrigued, rubbing his fingers deliberately against Spock’s. “Picking up anything that’s a turnoff?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Spock huskily.
Jim seemed to understand, at last, that he was being given permission to proceed. Without dropping Spock’s hand, he moved closer, tipping his chin up toward Spock. His free hand wound around Spock’s neck, pulling downward to bring their lips together.
The breath went out of Spock’s lungs. Jim pulled back, but only a few centimeters. “Never been kissed before?”
“Never in the human way,” said Spock.
“What’s the Vulcan way?”
“What you are doing to my fingers.”
Jim’s warm amber eyes widened. From here, multiple colors could be discerned within his iris, flecks of green and brown and gold. “I see,” he purred, and then his left hand moved decisively against Spock’s, fingertips to fingertips, while he reconnected their mouths.
Spock’s knees felt weak. He let himself lean into Jim while the human’s tongue trailed against his lips, pushed inward. He allowed the invasion. The penetration, one might even say. This powerful man’s body pushing into his. He sucked eagerly on Jim’s tongue, fingers twining around Jim’s fingers.
Time had no meaning; the universe outside the two of them did not exist. Spock had never experienced anything similar. Never been so caught up as to cease thinking at all.
His back pressed against the wall; he had not noticed being walked back against it. Jim’s left hand pressed Spock’s right against the wall beside his head, still eagerly caressing it, dragging swirling golden thoughts against Spock’s mind. A knee pressed between Spock’s legs, parting them, and a strong hip ground into his groin. A whimper escaped him.
Jim stepped back very slightly, letting him catch his breath. His pink lips were wet from their kiss and his eyes were dancing.
Impulsively Spock dropped to his knees, sitting back until his face was on a level with Jim’s crotch. “Allow me to please you, s’haile,” he begged.
“Is that a Vulcan endearment?”
It meant my lord. “It is the one I use,” said Spock.
Jim’s hands went to the waist of his pants. “I should ask, before this goes any further. You know humans consider sex and gender to be separate?”
Spock gave an impatient nod. He was aware of human standards on the matter, though the fine points were irrelevant to him. Jim had revealed himself to Spock’s mind as a leader of men, whatever human convention might call him. “I am already attracted to you,” he said. “Be assured there is nothing you can reveal which will change that.”
Jim grinned and slid off his pants and undergarments in one motion.
Spock could see now the reason for his warning. Jim had the genital arrangement more common among human females. Tawny hair curled around a wet slit, not looking significantly different from a Vulcan male in the early stages of arousal.
Without hesitation, he moved forward, rubbing his nose lightly through the hair, scenting Jim. A musky, salty aroma which made his lok twitch within his sheath. His tongue came out and burrowed within the slit, seeking out the tingle of psi energy that signaled a large cluster of nerves.
Jim’s hands combed through Spock’s hair and traced along his ears. Spock hummed with pleasure and continued his efforts. Within the slit was a large nub that sparkled with kash-tepul on his tongue: Jim’s lok. He sucked it and was immediately rewarded with a delicious moan and Jim’s hands twisting painfully in his hair.
Then Jim’s grip abruptly loosened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be—”
“Do not restrain yourself,” said Spock firmly and reapplied himself to his task.
Despite his commanding personality, it seemed Jim was capable of taking instruction. He pulled more aggressively on Spock’s hair, sending pleasing tingles down his spine. Spock was very aroused now, fluid dripping out of his slit and soaking his clothes, but he refrained from touching himself. He could wait; for his lord, he could wait.
Jim, too, was aroused, his genitals flushed and swollen, moisture spreading outward from his vagina, coating the labia and soaking the little curly hairs. Jim was chanting obscenities, pressing Spock’s head into his groin and grinding into his mouth. Spock held tight to Jim’s muscular thighs.
He could sense Jim’s orgasm building and focused on steadily sucking, tongue massaging the underside of Jim’s lok. There would be no interruption in the stimulation Jim seemed to prefer.
A deep groan and a sharp bucking of Jim’s hips signaled his completion. Spock soothed Jim’s lok with a few softer licks before pulling away and looking up through his eyelashes. Jim’s chest was heaving and his face was flushed. He looked down and smiled, smoothing down Spock’s hair. “Look at you, you’re a mess. You loved that, didn’t you?”
Spock considered the question to be rhetorical, so he did not answer it. “In my understanding of Terran physiology, you are capable of further climaxes,” he said. “Shall I continue?”
Jim grinned. “Oh, you really loved that. I have another idea. Ever sucked a strap?”
Spock shook his head. He was not entirely sure what one was. “I am willing to try anything you desire.”
Jim moved away, unselfconscious of his half-nudity, generous buttocks flexing as he walked. He bent over a drawer, displaying his hindquarters to even better advantage, before withdrawing an object and returning to Spock.
It was an object of some smooth white material with two protrusions at an odd angle to one another. After a moment he realized the larger protrusion was a synthetic phallus. The smaller one was to fit inside Jim and keep it in place, while a soft, shaped hollow on the inside angle would house Jim’s lok and provide some pleasure when the phallus was used.
Yes, he did very much want to suck it.
Jim donned the device, slipping the small end inside himself and activating an almost-invisible tractor field which secured it firmly in place. Then he came close enough for the tip of the phallus to touch Spock’s bottom lip. Spock gazed up at him hungrily and fastened his lips around the head, sliding his tongue around the ridge as he might do with a real one. The texture felt much the same, although it had none of Jim's alluring flavor.
“I can hardly believe this is happening,” said Jim. “A gorgeous person like you…” One finger trailed up Spock’s ear to the tip and down the opposite side, tweaking lightly at the silver cuff.
Spock thoroughly agreed. It seemed too perfect to be true, this golden creature with his air of confident command, more alluring by far than Pike had been, and yet desiring him in return. For years he had tried to drive Pike from his mind, and now the whole thing seemed a childish infatuation, almost a dream.
He bobbed his head experimentally, trying to see which movements would best stimulate the erogenous zones beneath. Normally, he would wish for telepathic contact to discover what was working, but Jim’s unashamed noises of pleasure conveyed all the information necessary. Still, Spock planted his hands on Jim’s upper thighs to sense the hot desire roiling in that golden mind.
“In a minute we’ll have to do something for you,” said Jim.
Spock pulled off for a moment. “I suggest thrusting into my mouth.” He swallowed the phallus again, taking it deeper and opening his throat.
“That’s not what I—” Jim began, but gave up, thrusting gently, giving soft little moans. Spock hummed, the vibrations moving through the device and into Jim’s body.
After a minute Jim groaned and pulled out. “I see what you’re doing and I’m not letting you get away with it,” he said. “Strip.”
Spock rose to his feet, feeling a gush of slick dislodged by the motion. His lok was nudging out of the sheath now, the head of it stretching the slit pleasantly. Heart pounding, he removed his clothing. He could feel Jim’s eyes on his body, that swooping sensation of being out of his depth, commanded by someone strong enough that Spock could entertain no thoughts of rebellion.
“That’s right,” said Jim approvingly. Spock looked up at him. He had removed his plaid shirt now, showing rose gold skin and firm pectorals, lightly scarred beneath.
He commands even his own body, Spock thought, overwhelmed.
“Get on the bed,” said Jim. A knowing look in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.
Spock lay down immediately, eyes still fixed on Jim. Provocatively, he drew up one knee and let the other leg hang a little open.
Jim licked his lips and approached, crawling onto the bed. He kissed a path from Spock’s ankle, up his leg, and up to his hip. There he paused to nuzzle into the delicate skin in the crease of Spock’s thigh.
Spock trembled. Just a little to the side…
But no. Jim resumed his path, kissing up the side of his ribs and running one hand up the center of his torso, through his chest hair. “I can’t believe you,” he breathed against Spock’s nipple. He took it lightly between his lips, flicked it once, and moved on to kiss just above Spock’s collarbone. “I’ve never wanted anybody so much. This long body and the way you move…that look in your eyes…what’s this magic, Spock, what did you do to me?”
Spock trailed his fingertips up Jim’s chest. “It is a relief to hear it is mutual,” he breathed. “Your katra calls to mine; I cannot explain more than that.”
Jim’s lips reached his, and his hand slipped down at last to trail through the slick around Spock’s sheath. Spock whimpered into Jim’s mouth, hips bucking toward Jim’s hand.
“You’re so wet for me,” Jim mumbled against Spock’s lips. His fingers explored Spock’s sheath, sliding up one side and down the other, circling the protruding head of his lok. Spock was still preventing it from everting the rest of the way, largely to give Jim the pleasure of coaxing it out.
Jim seemed to understand this perfectly. He kissed Spock, rocking against his hip, and worked his fingers bit by bit into the sheath. Two fingers together slid under his lok, separated, and bracketed the base inside the sheath. Jim pushed inward, and Spock’s sheath could no longer resist. The lok slipped out.
“Good boy,” purred Jim, and Spock’s hips jerked wildly. Jim took hold of his newly-emerged lok and stroked it lightly. “You like that, do you?”
“Yes, sir,” blurted Spock.
Jim’s eyes widened for a moment in surprise, and Spock worried he had ruined everything. Humans did not understand. But Jim only said, “You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart.”
Spock shuddered; for a moment he was afraid he would climax from only this. But after a few careful breaths, he regained control. “You may penetrate me,” he gasped. “If you wish.”
“I do wish,” murmured Jim, sliding his hand downward through the copious slick to Spock’s entrance. “I want to fuck you. I want to take you. I want to own you.”
“Jim,” Spock gasped, uncertain what he even meant by it.
Jim breached him with two fingers at once, too much and yet exactly what he needed at this moment. His lips fastened onto Spock’s, distracting him with kisses while his fingers did their work. Spock rocked back against him, trying to get those fingers further inside him. He wanted everything Jim could give him.
“Please,” he rasped after a moment. “Please, now, my lord, please.”
“So eager,” Jim chided, but he moved off of Spock, pulling his fingers out. He knelt between Spock’s spread legs, hefting one onto his shoulder to split him wider. Then Jim’s hand squelched again in his sheath, drawing forth its slick, and there was a wet noise as he slathered it on his cock.
His cock, Spock decided, was correct. It belonged to Jim. Merely an extension to allow him to breach Spock’s body, to come inside him and take possession.
The blunt head pressed inward, and Spock let it in. It felt enormous compared to Jim’s fingers, but he wanted it that way. He wanted to be filled.
At last it was all in, huge and heavy and invading. “All right, sweetheart?” Jim asked softly.
By way of answer, Spock tried to rock back against him, unsuccessfully given how his legs were spread, but Jim clearly understood. He began to move. “Feels so good,” he said softly, grinding gently inward. “And the thought of being in you—”
Spock was suddenly struck with the fact that Jim could not, in fact, feel this as much as he would with an organic phallus. “Do you wish to feel more?” he asked.
Jim rocked into him again before asking, “What do you mean?”
Spock held up his hand toward Jim’s face. He had never offered this during sex before. But then, he had never been with a human before. Vulcans could sense enough without a meld. “I can project what I feel into your mind. I will not intrude on your thoughts,” he added quickly.
“Intrude away,” said Jim breathlessly. “I feel like I’ve known you forever. I want you in my mind.”
Madness, thought Spock, complete madness, to invite a stranger into his mind. Madness of Spock to have suggested it. But he had yearned for it since they had first touched. He placed his hand on Jim’s face and pushed very slightly into his mind.
He moaned as he felt the first touch of Jim’s thoughts. He had never had a meld like this. Never experienced a mind that seemed to suck at him, to draw him inward. It was hot here, hot and dynamic, powerful. Entirely psi null and yet disciplined; orderly, not like a library was orderly, but like a forest was orderly. Interconnected and vibrant.
Jim groaned as well. “Fuck,” he muttered, conversationally, and then he began to move in earnest, keeping his head still as best he could against Spock’s fingers while his hips snapped eagerly inward. He would be able to feel, now, the moment his cock nudged between Spock’s chenesi, and he cursed under his breath as he thrust in that exact spot, again and again.
Spock could do nothing but keep his hand in place, too overpowered by pleasure to move. Jim moved in him and their minds rubbed against each other, pleasure reverberating between them. “Oh, fuck,” Jim panted. “Spock. Fuck. I’m gonna—” He reached for Spock’s neglected lok, but he had barely touched it before they both came together, their pleasure exploding together in a single drawn-out burst.
Spock dropped his hand, and Jim let his head sag between his shoulders.
“Christ, Spock,” he said after a moment. “You've ruined me for regular sex forever after.”
“I apologize,” said Spock, a trifle smugly.
But as Jim climbed off him and removed the strap, he sobered. The fact was that he was no less ruined. There would never be another mind like this one. Never another khartlan-ves who could command Spock's instant devotion so easily. To think he had devised this strategy to protect himself from falling hopelessly in love.
Jim lay down beside him, pulling Spock into his arms. Spock allowed himself to be moved, resting his cheek on Jim's chest. “You're Starfleet, aren't you?” Jim asked.
Spock tensed. “I did not agree to an exchange of personal information.”
Jim's hand smoothed along his shoulder. “You don't have to tell me. I was just guessing because of the ‘sir’ thing. A lot of us get a rank kink; the chain of command messes with your head a little.”
“That is not what it is,” said Spock stiffly. “It is an essential part of the Vulcan soul. Of my gender and sexuality.”
Jim ruffled Spock's hair affectionately. Against his will, Spock relaxed into the touch. “I'm sorry, it's obvious I don't know a lot about Vulcans. I didn't mean to trivialize it. I like it. Made me feel—I dunno—like a king.”
“You are my king,” blurted Spock, without thinking. “That is—to me, you are a king.”
Jim nuzzled the top of Spock's head with his nose. “I like that a little too much. Probably not good for me. My mother always said I was too big for my britches.”
“Your britches fit perfectly,” said Spock, making him chuckle. “You have the aura of command. It is not pride to acknowledge this.”
“If you really want to butter me up,” said Jim, “you could call me Captain.”
Spock lifted his head off Jim's shoulder and put his mouth to Jim's ear. “Captain,” he murmured. “My captain.”
Jim shivered a little. “I wish—” he began, then cut off.
“What do you wish?”
He sighed. “Well, it's the old conflict. I've always felt pulled to the stars. But it's meant sacrificing so much. And every once in a while I just feel the yearning to give it all up. Settle down with someone. Have a normal life.”
Spock was horrified at the thought of this exceptional soul tying himself down in a gravity well. He had only had the slightest glimpse of Jim's mind, but it was enough to know the man wasn't meant for an ordinary life. He propped himself up on his elbow. “Jim, if your destiny is the stars, you will never be happy with less. Please do not give up your ambitions.”
Jim blinked up at him, surprised and—for some reason Spock didn’t understand—almost disappointed. “I won't,” he said. “I can't, not really. I've lost a lot of relationships because of that.”
Spock resettled himself on Jim's shoulder. “Maintaining relationships within the Fleet is difficult.”
“Almost impossible,” Jim agreed. “I assume that's why we were both down in the bar looking for a one-night stand.”
“Yes,” Spock admitted. “I have had…negative experiences, within the Fleet. This way that I am and the chain of command make a poor combination. I felt it was better to seek out an encounter ashore.”
Jim was quiet a moment. “And yet it feels like it turned out to be more than we bargained for. Is it just me?”
Spock buried his forehead in Jim’s neck. “It is not,” he whispered.
Jim heaved another sigh. “I wish I could see you again.”
Spock contemplated proposing some kind of attempt. An exchange of contact information. An agreement for one of them to ask for a transfer. Jim was likely no more than a lieutenant, being younger than Spock was, and at that level transfers were often possible.
But not onto the Enterprise. It was a coveted posting which everyone requested; Jim might wait years for a post he qualified for to open up. And would he even want to? Or was this only a wistful dream? Perhaps if Spock made any such suggestion, Jim would be uncomfortable, retract what he had said.
So Spock said only, “If it is meant to be, we shall surely meet again.”
Jim gave a bitter snort. “It's a small galaxy, I suppose.”
“Sarcasm, Captain?”
Jim allowed himself to be mollified by the title. “Well, I don't need to leave here till six,” he said slowly. “Stay a while?”
Spock stayed. They talked about abstract things, nothing so personal as to give either of them away. They slept awhile, legs tangled together and Spock’s head tucked safely under Jim’s chin. They woke in the small hours and made slow, deliberate love, Jim teasing him almost to the point of orgasm, again and again, before finally giving him what he begged for. Spock indulged them both in a few more shallow melds, never enough. He wanted to dive deep into the center of Jim, see what it felt like to be him, what moved his heart.
At five-thirty Spock finally rose and dressed. He kissed Jim's hand, holding it for a moment against his mouth. “I believe you shall always be the captain of my soul,” he said softly.
Jim's amber eyes were shining with unshed tears. “I think I love you,” he said. “No—I know I do.”
It was highly illogical. They had known each other for one night. They had intended all along to part before morning. And yet, Spock could not find their reactions disproportionate.
“Farewell, Captain.”
The new postings were sent to their recipients the next day, before the public announcement later in the week. Spock was unsurprised by his; he had been science officer on the Enterprise for some time and had not expected a change.
He searched the Fleet officer database for persons named Jim. It was hopeless, even adding Jim's likely age and sorting by postings. He did not have a post at HQ, he was not an officer on the Republic, he was not an Academy instructor. They had discussed so few details.
Spock, of course, would be trivial for Jim to find. He was the only Fleet officer of his name and species. He was stationed on the largest and most famous ship currently in Earth orbit. It was impossible that Jim should not find him, if he desired to do so.
Foolish. Of course they had not agreed to do any such thing. They had both agreed it was impractical. It was only that, alone, with a hollowness at the back of his mind where he wanted Jim to be, Spock was incapable of being practical. He yearned for Jim.
Jim, it seemed, was more logical than he. He did not call.