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There had to be a limit to how many fights they could get into in one week. There had to be. Yet there wasn’t. Jim and Spock were, at least as far as Jim could tell, the most talented fuckers in the universe when it came to ripping each other a new one, and NOT IN A GOOD WAY. If there was an Olympics for it, they would be multiple gold medalists.

Okay, when they were at the height of the argument, it was probably NOT a good idea for Jim to threaten to quit Starfleet, go to New Vulcan, and hook up with Selik (cool Old Spock, who always seemed to understand Jim). That was probably hitting below the belt, landing one right on Spock’s double ridges. But Spock had no business retaliating by informing Jim that “it is obvious that you wish to be petted and indulged like an infant, not engaged in an emotionally mature relationship with an equal.” Of course, Jim hadn’t done anything to demolish that argument when he retorted, “Fuck you and the sehlat you rode in on,” and walked out of the Observation Lounge, where they had planned to have romantic sex instead of an unromantic argument.

Jim was right on the edge of what might be vulgarly called a “crying jag,” so he knew he had to get out of sight. He went back to their quarters, only to panic when he realized that Spock would probably come looking for him, and they would start fighting again. There was only one safe bolt hole, and Jim took it. He ducked into the shower and set it to “water.” Spock loathed water showers only a bit more than he hated hamburgers. Jim would be safe here.

He was safe—safe and miserable. He leaned against the shower wall and let the tears come; after all, no one was looking, and even Jim could pretend the shower spray was just a bit salty. Jim felt cold, despite the hot water. He just stood there, wet, pathetic, and miserable, wishing they hadn’t fought, wishing he didn’t always get defensive when Spock tried to reason with him, wishing…

Wishing for the pair of strong arms that were suddenly wrapped around him. Spock held him close, gently kissing away that inconvenient salty shower spray, murmuring to him in a voice that could scarcely be heard over the water but which went straight to Jim’s soul.

“T’hy’la, I am so sorry. You are right; you are the captain, and I have no right to override your decisions. But I almost lost you on that last mission, and I…I cannot lose you…”

Jim knew exactly how he felt. “You won’t lose me,” he whispered. “I’d come back from Hell for you.”

Jim was still wet, but pathetic and miserable were gone as he gave himself up to Spock’s embrace.


They lay together. Jim hadn’t bothered to dry his hair; it was sticking out at every possible angle. Spock was busy caressing it into submission.

“I don’t get it,” Jim yawned, cuddling closer. “You got in the shower. You hate water.”

“Not when you are in it,” Spock replied softly. “I would go anywhere with you.”

As Jim drifted off to sleep, he revised the next landing party roster in his head. If Spock would follow him anywhere, it damned well wasn’t going to be into danger. Just into the shower.

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