His tanned, muscular back flexing, his strong capable hands rummaging, Jim looked through the box of clichés one more time. “I can’t find them.” He threw back his head and shook back that shock of Paul-Mitchell-worthy blonde hair as half the women on the ship had an orgasm.
“Captain,” Spock replied, his hands clasped behind his back, the blue Science tunic showing off his sinewy body while his tight black pants explained his nickname, The Mighty Vulcan Photon Torpedo, “to what are you referring?”
“There’s no pon farr in here, whatever that is; it’s some kind of Vulcan fruit, right?”
Spock looked uncomfortable, the strong jaw line tightening as he frowned faintly, struggling to control his emotions as he realized his captain had just inadvertently called him a Vulcan fruit. Curse those human emotions!
“Under some circumstances, that would be an accurate description,” he replied stoically, not willing to let his captain in on all of Vulcan culture (after all, he’d already showed him how to get off by choking himself with a lirpa). Spock took a step closer and peered into the box.
“There are no chensei, either,” he noted, as he bent over. Behind him, Nurse Chapel had an orgasm. Spock looked at Jim. Jim looked at Spock. Ominous music by Jerry Goldsmith played in the background.
“Captain,” Spock paused, because after all, Jim was cute but like all humans when compared to Vulcans, as dumb as a pile of petrified Horta droppings, “it is possible that one of our enemies has stolen some items from this box.”
Jim threw back his head, exposing his strong throat and sucking in his gut for the close-up shot.