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Jim walked into his quarters and kicked his suitcase hard enough to break his toe, promptly hopping across the room like an Andorian rain dancer, exercising his newly-acquired vocabulary of Klingon obscenities, but not abandoning the classics, either.


How could Spock fucking do this to him? After nearly eight months as lovers, after settling for quickies in the linen closet and stolen kisses in Sickbay and the occasional “Oh, God, I’m too tired for sex, but there’s a hot Vulcan in my bunk and I’m gonna suck his dick even if I do fall asleep in the middle of the process,” roll in the sheets, they finally, finally had a shore leave together. Jim had planned every detail, from the luxurious room in the best hotel on Rimus IV to the delivered-to-the-door all-vegetarian gourmet meals, cooked by a real chef, which were costing Jim more than a fully-equipped shuttlecraft, not to mention the carefully-assembled collection of toys, silk boxers, and lube that Jim had managed to find, purchase and pack, all without his yeoman finding any of his stash, and now Spock had fucking announced that he would be spending their shore leave alone, holed up in some FUCKING meditation hut in the mountains!  Jim still couldn’t believe what Spock had said to him.


“While I appreciate your efforts,” he’d said in that snooty intellectual tone that normally got Jim so hot he wanted to sprawl naked and facedown across a desk and beg Professor Spock to punish him for lying about the dog eating his homework, “I can see no practical purpose in a shore leave devoted to enervating sexual activity and excessive consumption of calories. The purpose of a leave is to rest, and when Vulcan rest, they do so quietly, alone. I have already made reservations at the meditation center, and I will be spending my leave there.” With that, he’d walked out, leaving Jim feeling like a lost puppy, an emotion that made him so sad and sick to his stomach that his only recourse was to get good and fucking mad to compensate.


Jim slumped down into a chair, feeling dangerously close to tears. How could Spock do this? Why had Spock done this? Was he tired of Jim? Oh, God, did he want to break up and just didn’t know how? Jim swallowed the phaser-sized lump in his throat. If Spock left him he’d die; he’d walk into the next alien ambush with a smile on his face and depart to Valhalla. Jim just didn’t understand it, though. They’d been getting along so well. Why in fact, for the last few weeks, Spock had barely been able to keep his hands off Jim, grabbing him at times and in places that bordered on incredibly inappropriate. Jim’s face flamed as he remembered the call he’d had with Chris Pike four days ago, when Spock had crawled under his desk and sucked Jim to a shattering orgasm, all the time pumping his own dick until he’d come in a hot flood all over Jim’s feet, then licking up every last drop of his own cream and sucking Jim’s toes until Jim had to cut the call short and grab Spock, joining him on the floor and spreading himself so Spock could plunge into him and fuck him until they had both screamed and come again…Jim shook himself angrily. No reason to think of that. Spock had made it plain he had no interest in a repeat performance. His manner had been so cold and his words so cutting that if he couldn’t have pissed Jim off worse if he’d tried; couldn’t have done anything guaranteed to pick a fight faster if he’d tried, if…he…tried.


The light went on. “He played me. That son of a bitch played me!” Spock had picked the fight deliberately. The only question now was, why?


Jim wasn’t a genius for nothing. He sat down and thought hard about Spock’s behavior over the last few weeks, combining that with certain facts he’d learned courtesy of Selik, Old Spock, who had been a Godsend as Jim fell in love with a Vulcan and tried to do a relationship without fucking everything up. Jim got to his feet and headed to his link. He needed to make a call to New Vulcan and check in on the galaxy’s resident Spock authority.


 


Spock knelt on the meditation mat in the small, two-room cabin he’d rented in the mountains on Rimus IV. He concentrated on his breathing, trying to control the waves of heat and cold that washed over him, trying to ignore the ache in his flesh, wishing that Jim was here to hold him, to warm him when he was chilled and cool him when he burned, wished for Jim’s warm fingers and cool lips and firm, sun-kissed flesh…Spock drew a deep, shuddering breath. That way lay madness. Jim couldn’t be here; he couldn’t see Spock like this; Spock couldn’t risk hurting or repulsing Jim with his needs, his hunger, his…his Time. Spock had read that pon farr could be controlled through meditation, and he was determined to endure, to control the fever. Then he would return to the Enterprise, no longer a danger to Jim, Jim with his laughing blue eyes and his crisp golden curls, Jim’s strong arms to hold him and his hard, delicious cock to pleasure him, his cool moist, depths for Spock to drive himself into until he exploded…Spock swallowed miserably. It was going to be a very long week.


The door banged open. Spock looked up, startled. Jim stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand. He dropped it to the floor with a thump, slammed and locked the door behind him, and strode across the room, dropping to his knees and pulling Spock into his arms.


“Oh, no you don’t,” he said fiercely. “You’re not hiding yourself away here and suffering all week so the fragile little human isn’t hurt. God damn you, Spock, I’m yours and that means all the time. You’re burning? Fine.” He grabbed Spock’s chin in his fingers, forcing Spock to look into his eyes. “So am I,” Jim whispered, as his lips met Spock’s and the fire was ignited.


 


Four days later, the two lay on the narrow, hard bed in the cabin. Both were covered with bruises, scratches, and love bites. Both were so exhausted they could barely raise their heads off the flat pillow. Both had never been happier.


“I ought to kick your ass,” Jim murmured, his head on Spock’s shoulder, his arms still wound tight around his love. “We could have been doing this in a four-star hotel with a hot tub.” His tone held no real rancor; Jim was doing just fine without a hot tub.


“Forgive me,” Spock whispered to his love. “I did not want to hurt you.”


“You only hurt me by shutting me out,” Jim replied, gently kissing one of the truly Olympic-class hickies on Spock’s neck. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again. When you need me, you tell me. If you don’t, I swear I’ll have Bones put a transponder in your ass, and I’ll track you across the galaxy.”


Spock cradled Jim in his arms, his heart overflowing with the love he felt for this extraordinary being. “I will not hide again; I promise. Thank you, ashaya. Thank you for being with me.”


“No problem.” Jim yawned, cuddling even closer. “Just remember, in seven years we’re getting a suite in a really expensive hotel…” He was asleep. Spock held him close, pressing his lips to Jim’s brow.


“It is a date,” he whispered, before sleep claimed him as well.


 

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