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Kiss or Kill

 

On Earth, it was December 25, 2265. It was also almost a year since First Officer Kirk assassinated Captain Pike. Amongst the crew of the ISS Enterprise, the approaching anniversary fueled their delight with the Terran holiday of Christmas.

 

Unlike some of the other Terran holidays, Christmas was a time of giving or slaughter, depending on which part of the Judeo-Christian birth story the humans preferred. Amongst one of the more bloody traditions of the holiday was the tradition of the mistletoe, which delighted the doctor and the captain to no end.

 

Any two persons caught under the mistletoe had two options: kiss or kill. However, there were no phasers involved. Rather, every person was equipped with a dagger to use for the lethal or maiming strike. Christmas was one of Doctor McCoy’s busiest days and the crew’s favorite holiday as it meant more opportunities to get rid of certain crew members and sleep with others. A most decadent and primal practice that amused even the stoic Vulcans of the crew.

 

Commander Spock was the only exception. He loathed the holiday.

 

Although he was not adverse to the gift-giving portion of the festivities, he hated the mistletoe. In his eyes, it meant that people could run amok of the disciplines of the service and precious assets to the starship crew could be wounded out of commission or annihilated. Not even the most careful of the crew could avoid the fights and he found it annoying.

 

That was not to say that the new first officer hated killing—far from it. He enjoyed torture and that look of pure terror he always managed to inflict upon victims. The perfume of an assortment of alien blood relaxed him almost more than sex. And so, it was not the sensual part of the celebration he was adverse to: it was the way a sudden influx people he never desired forced themselves upon him.

 

Spock always had the highest kill rate during Christmas and his record was not to be beaten that year either.

 

By the time half the day was over, Sickbay was inundated by dying, limbless Empire officers and eighty percent of them came from Spock. One would think after over ten years of such records, his fellow officers would stop attempting to solicit a kiss from him on the 25th of December, but humans were illogical and foolhardy, if not weak.

 

Wiping off his blade on the skirt of a now-headless yeoman, he looked up at the clearing of a throat. Not far from the offending mistletoe in the rec room was his smirking captain.

 

“If you are quite done murdering half of my crew, commander, I’d like to have a word with you in my quarters.” Spock straightened and stepped out from under the doorway and dutifully followed Kirk away from the crowded rec room.

 

The two managed to avoid standing under a single sprig of mistletoe together until they reached Kirk’s quarters.

 

The human was the first to notice as he abruptly stopped walking, allowing the Vulcan to collide into him at his doorway. Daggers were pulled out of reflex and pointed at one another’s vitals. Spock stilled his hand a moment before he would’ve sliced open Kirk’s chest, recalling in a second that if he maimed the man before him, he’d not only be going against his promise to Kirk, but he would become the captain and consequently the most hunted officer on board. The realization was immediately followed by the most logical conclusion as he stood at the captain’s doorway: Kirk had planned for them to end up in their current situation.

 

“I don’t have all day, first officer. Kiss or kill?” Oddly enough, Spock found himself unable to hold back a tremor of arousal as his captain flashed him a smile he usually reserved for the more attractive women on the Enterprise.

 

The arrogant human’s golden eyes betrayed a moment of alarm as the knife in his hand was knocked away and the Vulcan’s blade came down, ripping open his tunic and leaving a trail of scarlet in it’s wake. Placated by the moment of weakness from Kirk, Spock knocked the captain off his feet and into his quarters so that he could take that final step in and let the doors close behind them.

 

“I choose both, captain,” he whispered, eyes never straying from Kirk’s face as he carefully licked off a droplet of blood from the tip of his dulled weapon. Golden eyes lost their wariness and glowed with anticipation as the Vulcan forcefully pulled him back onto his feet and kissed him roughly.

 

For the next four years, Commander Spock would continue to hate the holiday, but only dislike any mistletoe not found under his captain’s doorway.

 

 

 

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