Spock could not return to the peace that only restful slumber could bring no matter how much he tried to ignore the repetitive sound that awakened him. He spent nine point seven-six minutes staring at the wall of the bedroom as though the inanimate barrier had the power to silence the disturbing sounds preventing him from sleeping more than the four hours he’d managed, owing to certain amorous activities in the hours previous. The wall did not come to his rescue. The repeated sounds of something slicing through the air, the following impact, tumbling objects, and finally the final thuds of said objects continued unendingly.
I must locate the source and stop it myself, Spock decided, flinging the covers from his body in a rather un-Vulcan fashion, grimacing as his over-exercised body protested the sudden movement. His rise to a standing position progressed much slower. He slid into his heavy black robe to ward off the chilly air in the bedroom and shoved his alarmingly cold feet into the plush, fuzzy slippers reliably placed on the floor at the side of the bed. Properly bundled up to face the morning, Spock tiredly but crankily plodded his way to the kitchen.
The first thing he noticed was the kitchen’s stillness. He’d grown accustomed to some activity greeting his arrival in the morning, the light sound of coffee being stirred, the crisp pages of an actual book being turned, the hiss and sizzle of breakfast being cooked. Silence and a long-grown cold, still cup of abandoned tea met his arrival instead. Unease replaced Spock’s irritation.
Then, irritation took charge again when that bothersome pattern resumed. Swoosh, thunk, tumble, thud. Spock did not precisely huff. If he had, he wouldn’t have admitted it. Hugging himself both for comfort and warmth, he shuffled closer to the window. Immediately, Spock’s weariness vanished and excited alertness took control, which he wrestled into the embers of outward calmness with considerable effort.
Jim Kirk, Spock’s friend, captain, and bondmate, stood in plain view of the window, a thick and well-used tree stump in front of him, wielding an axe.
He wore only his most sinful jeans, boots, and the sweat of his exertion.
Spock stared at the specimen that was his mate, painfully aware that he no longer craved anything vegetable with which to break his fast. Swoosh, thunk, tumble, thud. Spock’s heart quickened at the gloriously rhythmic sound now that such an appealing visual matched it. With supreme control of his limbs, Spock turned from the erotic display and stiffly walked to the door of the cabin, grabbing the cold cup of tea on the way. He didn’t notice the slight chill in the morning air as he stepped quietly outside. He didn’t notice the light breeze further disheveling his already messy hair. He just noticed Jim, who plunked a log upright on the stump before him, planted his feet, and swung the axe to split the log, the impact sending both halves tumbling to the ground until they stopped with a final thud. Spock’s breath caught at the exquisite sight.
Jim turned to grab the next log with a pleased smile. “Good morning, Mister Spock,” he said cheerfully, before swinging the axe again. Spock had trouble breathing properly. When Spock didn’t reply right away, Jim’s vibrant eyes found him, and breathless from his work he asked, “Isn’t it?”
Spock swallowed, nodded, then cleared his throat. “Indeed, it is, Jim.”
He knew Jim heard the excitement in his voice by the way his bondmate laughed and proceeded to pick up another log to chop. Spock glanced at the pile of logs near Jim, noting its size and knowing that he would be treated to a long morning tease before he would be able to feast on his choice of breakfast. Spock chose to enjoy Jim’s display to the fullest extent in the meantime. “A very good morning, indeed, Jim.” Spock sipped his cold tea, needing something to calm the fire in his blood, as he hungrily watched his mate, certain that once Jim had finished with the pile of wood that the having would finally be as pleasing as the wanting of him.