Star Trek: The Trail's End
Feb. 27th, 2011 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
corpus_invictusTitle: The Trail's End
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Written for a prompt on tumblr requesting Bonnie and Clyde style K/S fic. The title comes from one of Bonnie Parker’s poems about her life with Clyde Barrow. Bonnie was, in fact, married to someone else the entire time she was living with Clyde. It is widely believed that Bonnie never killed anyone during any of their crime sprees. Bonnie’s leg was horribly burned in a car accident. And Bonnie and Clyde expressed a desire to be buried together when they met what they believed to be their inevitable end.
Spock huddles in a darkened corridor, his hand fisting around the stolen data chips so tightly that he may be bleeding on them. He doesn't want to expend the energy to look. His focus is solely on the sounds of phaser fire, of footsteps too heavy to be Jim's, of snarled orders and the high-frequency wail of communicators.
Not for the first time, he wonders what possessed him to jump into this mess.
[One year ago]
It's his wedding day, which means it should be a day of solemn ceremony and ancient tradition, but instead it's all gone to hell. The human delegation that appeared claiming ties to his long-deceased mother has scattered suddenly, and there's an ominous rumbling sound at the embassy that's eerily reminiscent of explosives. There are Vulcans taking cover in other buildings, others rushing toward the embassy in the hopes of helping, and his own bride has been swept away somewhere in the crowd.
"Hey, you. Elf Ears."
There are no other Vulcans in the vicinity, so the voice must be addressing him. He turns, his wedding robes feeling heavy and cumbersome, their weight suddenly forgotten as the full force of Terran sky-blue eyes bears down on him. "Yes?"
The man cannot be any older than himself and in fact appears to be several years younger, the youth of his face at odds with his worn expression and the serious wound in his arm causing him to bleed through his thin ceremonial robe. "You got any medical expertise?"
"I am somewhat familiar with first aid techniques, though they are skewed toward Vulcan physiology as opposed to human."
"Look, whatever, I just need you to tie this off so I can stop bleeding all over the damn place." He holds out a purple sash - the color of Spock's clan, the color most of the wedding party was wearing before this whole mess began.
With a mental shrug, Spock steps forward and takes it from him, their fingers brushing together for a bare instant, a brief surge of molten pleasure trying to distract him. He forces his attention on the task at hand, wrapping the sash around his bicep and ensuring that he ties it with enough force to stem the bleeding.
"You love her?"
It's a shocking question not only due to its bluntness and the clear doubt in the voice, but due to being emotionally loaded as well. A Vulcan would never have asked him that question.
Curious, because he has never asked himself that question either. He ponders as he finishes tying the knot. "I do not know."
"Which means no, which ain't good enough," the man informs him.
He raises an eyebrow in response.
"You oughta come with me."
"In what way would that serve to improve matters?"
The man shrugs, flashing him a sinful smile. "It'd improve the scenery on my boat, that's for damn sure."
"The coastline is six hundred and eighteen miles from here. I do not understand-"
"It's slang, Elf Ears. Means I got a spaceship waiting for me that could use a Vulcan on board."
"For what purpose?"
He shrugs again, the smile starting to affect Spock in ways that are altogether new to him. "Or you could stay here with your new bride and try to figure out if you love her or not. I don't think you do, though."
"You make it sound as though I had only two choices at hand."
"You don't. You can do whatever the hell you want. But on my boat, you'd have the run of the place. Nowhere off limits. No one breathing down your neck." The man grabs the back of his neck with his injured arm, hand cradling the back of his skull as he pulls him closer. "And on my boat," he breathes, the air feeling moist and cool against Spock's lips, "no one's gonna give you shit about being half human." And he kisses him, slow and licking and utterly obscene.
Something caves in around Spock's heart then, something that's been building up ever since his mother passed away, something he had thought to be impenetrable until it turns to dust.
Piercing blue eyes stab into him when they finally part for air, a thick pink tongue darting out to lick the wetness from his lower lip. "I'm Jim, by the way."
Spock stares at him for a heartbeat until he remembers how to speak. "Spock."
He spends his wedding night with his legs hiked up to his shoulders as Jim fucks him into the floor of his tiny, rickety spaceship. He spends his honeymoon helping him gauge the value of the artifacts Jim's people stole from the Vulcan embassy, wondering if he's just made the best or worst decision of his entire life.
[Now]
Jim is a criminal. There's really no other way of looking at things, much as Spock tries some nights when he's sated and sticky and warmly wrapped around the rough, compact body of his captain. He can't quite comes to terms with the fact that so much of his happiness stems from someone who thinks of laws as amusing obstacles to be overcome rather than guidelines for civilized society.
Not that the rest of the crew is any better. The doctor is a self-confessed murderer with a fascinating backstory regarding his ex-wife that he only tells when he's near-fatally drunk. The engineer has a shady past involving the Orion slave trade, which is why they have an Orion technician who flirts with him incessantly and a whole lot of angry Orion slaver-pirates riding their asses whenever they skirt the edges of neutral territory. They're all thieves, a few of them killers, and Spock doesn't know why they invite him into their makeshift family with open arms but is grateful for it all the same.
"It's because you're smarter than the rest of us combined," Jim informs him that morning, fingers idly tracing the shape of one of Spock's ears.
"I did not think they were overly impressed by intelligence," Spock says dryly, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.
"Also I told them you knew Vulcan karate and could pop their arms right out of their sockets with a flick of your wrist."
"Suus mahna," he corrects for what he guesses is the seventh time this week alone, "and you are exaggerating."
"Maybe, but it impresses the fuck out of them anyhow."
Exaggeration or not, it's of no use to him now, flattening himself against a wall and trying to peer around an obnoxiously ornate houseplant, trying to discern Jim's location when there's a sudden grip on his elbow.
It's a good thing he always refuses to be armed when he helps on these runs, because otherwise he would be looking at a dead heap of captain right now. "Jim-" he breathes, partly relieved that he hasn't been killed and partly tempted to take care of that himself.
"Ventilating system. Scotty's on the other end; he'll help us out. Move!"
[Eleven months ago]
He had assumed from the start that his time on the HMS Bounty would be short lived; that Jim had a short attention span and his attraction to Spock was a temporary thing. The assumption made his decision to join them even more irrational than he had originally thought, but he pushed that aside to contemplate at a later time.
But a month passes, and Jim is no less enthralled with him than he was on Spock's wedding day.
Something possesses him to mention it one evening, Jim sprawled over him, hands curled in his chest hair. "Why me?"
"Little vague there, Spock. Brain still fried from you fucking it into oblivion."
He cards his fingers through Jim's hair, rearranging his thoughts. "What made you decide to bring me onto your ship?"
"We were gonna kidnap you."
Spock doesn't know what's more shocking; that Jim admits to that fact, or that he's so blase about the admission. "In theory, you did."
"No, no." Jim pats his chest fondly, as if he were a small child. Or perhaps a pet. "We were gonna kidnap you and charge a ransom for your safe return. That's why we set off all the explosives in the embassy; to create a distraction while we snatched you off the streets. Figured your dad would pay handsomely for the return of his son."
He should be offended, but in the first place he's used to this sort of brutal honesty from Jim, and in the second place the plan clearly changed at some point. "So why have you not sent my father the ransom?"
"Well that would mean you'd be leaving my boat, and I can't have that."
"But... why?" Spock gets the sensation of a profoundly circular argument, a sensation he's becoming used to as the weeks fly by.
Jim raises up on an elbow, fingers tracing along the features of Spock's face, resting at his temple. "Because I wanted you for myself. And when I want something, I set out to get it. And I don't give it up for anyone or anything."
Were Jim anyone else, Spock would still have a bevy of questions he wanted to ask. But this fierce, possessive behavior is familiar by now, and in a way... comforting. Aside from his mother, no one has expressed such love and devotion to him. It is good to feel wanted again, illogical and emotional as it is.
He lets it go, drawing Jim in for another drowning kiss, resigning himself to another morning shift fueled by very little sleep.
[Now]
Their escape plan goes off mostly without a hitch – aside from a young Russian ensign guarding the exit that they have to stun into submission – and they return safely to the Bounty. The five of them that comprise the main bridge crew gather around the command chair where Jim is setting up the series of stolen data chips.
"Well?" McCoy growls, taking a celebratory swig from his flask (although Spock has noticed that he does this regardless of the relative success of whatever task they set out to do).
"Patience, sugar," Gaila drawls, standing next to Scotty and not-so-subtly sliding her fingers into his waistband to grope at his backside. It amazes Spock what he no longer considers to be unusual behavior.
Jim lets out a sudden whoop of victory, jamming the data chip into the command chair and pointing at their old, cracked viewscreen. "There she is!"
McCoy, Scotty, and Gaila let their jaws drop at the vision before them while Spock merely stands there and attempts to look neutral. It's stock footage of a Federation starship, so large and so majestic that it does not fully fit the screen. The video capture drone swoops over it, capturing its every feature and contour, and Jim has a look in his eyes that Spock only sees on rare occasion when the two of them are alone. "Isn't she beautiful?" he breathes reverently.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," McCoy snarls. "This is what we just risked life and limb for? A vid chip of an oversized tin can?"
"And her blueprints and her security codes," Jim replies, not at all put off by the doctor's attitude.
"Ye want to build yer own I take it?" Scotty muses, his gaze fixed on the other data chip longingly, the one with the blueprints.
"Oh hell no. We'd never be able to scrap together the credits for something even a fraction of the size. Took us forever to buy the Bounty."
"Phew. For a minute there I thought you'd lost your mind, kid," McCoy mutters.
"Plus, why build your own when there's one out there for the taking?"
McCoy is shocked into dumbfounded silence, which is a rare event Spock takes great pleasure in.
"Ye don't plan on stealing her, do ya lad?" Scotty manages to choke out.
"Why not?" Gaila chirps in that overly cheerful way of hers, hand still firmly planted on Scotty's ass. "Is she complete, Jim?"
"They finished her up last month. She's supposed to go on her maiden voyage in eight weeks when the current batch of 'Fleet cadets graduates."
Spock doesn't hesitate to step all over the dreams Jim and Gaila are clearly having about this endeavor; it's what Jim wants him to do as part of the crew. "Even if we were to succeed in stealing it-"
"Her, Spock. She's a beautiful lady and she has a name: the Enterprise."
A year ago that would have thrown him badly enough to forget his original point. He's long used to the logic of humans at this point and he forges on without acknowledging Jim's outburst. "It would be impractical to keep it and impossible to sell it. It has a Starfleet registry number affixed to the saucer and the design is clearly influenced by other Terran and Federation ships. We would have, as you are so fond of saying, a target on our backs."
Jim shrugs, rationality clearly not first and foremost on his mind at the moment. "Maybe. But we gotta try."
"Why?" McCoy growls.
"Because we can."
[Eight months ago]
It takes somewhat longer than it should for Spock to realize that this is not a long-term situation. Not because Jim is going to tire of him, because he's spent enough nights with Jim clinging to him and enough times sifting through his thoughts to know that he's become a rare constant in Jim's chaotic, mercurial universe. And it's not because someday they're going to quit their life of crime and settle down on an uninhabited planet to spend the rest of their days in glorious, lazy retirement.
It's not a long-term situation because someday, they are going to die doing this.
Vulcans are a long-lived race; he probably won't hit middle age until sometime after his first centennial, even with his mixed heritage. The thought of dying before he even hits fifty - which he estimates is eighty-nine point three percent likely to happen - should terrify him.
But it doesn't. He has no home to return to; he is certain the Vulcans have assumed him dead and he has no particular desire to return and prove them wrong. He feels no higher calling than this, no wish to be anything but what he is now: a respected member of a small crew with a mate who loves and desires him - despite his dual heritage, despite the fact that he is legally wed to someone else, despite his dogged insistence on pointing out the flaws in Jim's plans and taking everything he says far too literally.
Jim loves him. And really, Spock has no desire to spend a hundred years or more of his life with only the memory of that love to keep him warm.
He is possibly the worst Vulcan in all of existence, but he doesn't care.
[Now]
Somehow, Jim manages to get them all on board with the plan. Spock doesn't know how he does it. Possibly the same way he talked a Vulcan ambassador's son into becoming a thief; through a lethal amount of charm and stubborn determination. Scotty's excited to get his hands on a real Federation ship to see how she works. Gaila gets an almost sexual thrill out of big heists like this, so she's been even more cheerful than usual. McCoy grumbles and growls and drinks from his flask and tells them they're all idiots, but he never once makes an effort to leave the ship or talk them out of it. Spock guesses he's in it for the curiosity factor, sticking around just to see if they can pull it off.
The planning stages are more complicated than any other heist they've pulled before, which is unsurprising. During the month of prep work, Jim promotes another crew member to the bridge crew to help them out: a Swahili woman who speaks an impressive percentage of known Federation languages and several non-Federation languages on top of that, including all three dialects of Romulan. Nyota - Uhura to everyone else, and Spock isn't sure why he received the honor of calling her by her first name, but he's grateful for her friendship and therefore doesn't question it - is there to unscramble Federation code and to help Spock trick Starfleet Command Central into thinking there's a Romulan warbird attacking a ship on the other side of the docking station, drawing most of the staff and security personnel there while they use the distraction to steal the Enterprise.
"This is the stupidest fucking idea Jim's ever had," Nyota tells him one evening over dinner while Jim is busy with Scotty in the engine room.
"Impressive, considering his wealth of other terrible ideas over the past year," Spock says.
She smirks at him. "That's why I like you. You're less stupid than everyone else on this wreck."
Well, that explains why she allows him the use of her first name, he supposes.
"Still, it's not like the entire security guard is going to rush to the defense of the Farragut," she continues. "We're gonna have to deal with a few stragglers one way or the other."
Spock inclines his head but says nothing. He knows, intellectually, how those stragglers will be dealt with. He knows, intellectually, that there are killers amongst the crew. He even knows, intellectually, that Jim is one of them. He himself has managed to avoid the problem by nerve pinching anyone who gets in his way during a heist, but the others have been unable to develop that same skill. Knowing all of that doesn't make him any less uncomfortable with the practicalities, however.
"You're cute," Nyota tells him, interrupting his thoughts.
"Vulcans are not cute," he says, the response automatic after saying the same thing to Jim so many times.
"Maybe, but you are. It's cute that you're still squeamish over murder, considering the crowd you run with."
"Forgive me if I treat life with a modicum of respect." He can't quite keep the disdain from his voice, wondering now if he truly wishes to be friends with this individual.
She reaches out and places a hand over his arm, and he realizes that she's purposely avoided touching his hands instead. "I didn't mean that to sound quite as condescending as it did," she says. "It's... well, it's an impractical view to have, but I can't honestly say I disagree with it."
"Oh," is all he can think to say.
She changes the subject after that.
[Two weeks ago]
Jim gets philosophical after sexual activity, so it's not at all surprising to see him sliding up from between Spock's legs, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and nuzzling in close before murmuring, "I always thought I was gonna die alone in space."
Not the best one-liner after sucking each other off in a supply closet, but Spock's gotten used to this sort of behavior by now.
"And what has occurred to change your mind, t'hy'la?" he whispers, tilting Jim's face up to lick the last traces of himself from the corners of his mouth, indulging in a long, exploratory kiss when he's through.
"Mmm. You."
Spock raises an eyebrow, even though Jim can't see it in the darkness.
"Don't give me that look."
Or not.
"I mean it. I know I told you we were only after you for the ransom we thought we could get, but you're..."
He stops there, clearly flustered. Spock kisses his temple, feeling their bond flare to life under the skin. "What am I?"
There's a heavy pause, Jim's hands fisting in his shirt as he struggles for words. "Everything," he whispers.
Spock kisses his forehead, unsure of what to do with a statement that overwhelming.
"My dad died alone in space," he continues, even though Spock knows this story. "Launched my mom's rescue shuttle and died alone on the Kelvin."
"Yes," Spock says quietly.
"And everyone always said I was just like him. So I figured I'd share the same fate, especially after I got the Bounty. But I'm not... I just need you to know that I'm not that noble. If things go wrong, I'm not gonna spend my last breath trying to save your Vulcan ass. If everything goes to shit, I want you right there with me to watch it all burn."
Which is... Spock's not sure what that is. Not romantic, because that would be ludicrous, but it has its own sort of morbid charm. And if he's honest with himself - and if Jim has taught him nothing else, it's to be honest about his own thoughts and desires no matter how illogical or un-Vulcan they might be - he feels the same way.
So he presses his mouth against Jim's rounded human ear and breathes, "I will be there beside you, t'hy'la."
Jim's answering shudder is everything. Everything.
[Now]
It doesn't go as planned. At all.
Starfleet's codes have changed since the last time Nyota studied them, and the delay caused by her having to translate and re-translate to fit the new ones makes Command Central suspicious enough to throw off their timing from the start. Scotty gets a phaser burn to the leg, which means Gaila has to dump him and keep on with their portion of the plan while Spock scrambles to get Scotty an emergency beam-up. McCoy gets caught by Starfleet security and Jim has to waste valuable time storming in and disposing of his jailers before freeing him. The Enterprise turns out to be housing a small class of cadets simulating a run on the ship, so there's an added delay in stunning them and dumping them back on the docking station.
And then Starfleet traces the source of the original code-breaking back to the Bounty.
There's more scrambling as Spock attempts to get the rest of Jim's crew safely transported to the Enterprise - something they'd originally planned to do anyhow, but only after they had both the Bounty and the Enterprise several lightyears away from the docking station. The whole time he's shoving crew members onto the telepad, his personal communicator keeps chirping at him - or rather, screaming at him. Jim's voice snarls at him to, "Get on the goddamn Enterprise now or I will knock you on your Vulcan ass!"
He stays long enough to ensure Nyota's transport completes successfully, hopping onto the telepad and wincing as a bright white light engulfs his vision, the sound of tearing metal and scraping debris filling his senses until he half believes he's died in the wreck.
When he next regains consciousness, he's in a sterile white room with the lighting set low and soothing over his head. Everything is foggy and indistinct, and he makes a small noise of discontent as he tries to discern what went wrong.
"Keep down, Spock," comes a familiar Southern drawl. "Y'ain't fit to be moved yet."
"What happened?" he tries to say, though what comes out is a strained whisper of a voice.
"You almost died transporting here, that's what. Open your eyes, dumbass, you've got your second lid down."
That explains the fog. He clears his mind, focuses on his body's physical state. While the room becomes clearer as his second lid retracts, various other physical sensations make themselves known. He hisses in pain.
"What-"
"Your leg," McCoy cuts him off. "The Bounty exploded just as you transported out. You've got third degree burns and fractures in two different places. Pretty sure you're gonna live, but you're gonna have a nasty-ass limp."
That doesn't sound right. "I thought you were a doctor," he coughs, his voice too weak for him to argue effectively. "Surely you can do better than that."
"I could if I had my own goddamn medical supplies, but Starfleet made sure to blow them out of the fucking sky, now didn't they? So shut the fuck up while I try to fix your leg with voodoo and potions, as you're so fond of calling them. They didn't have this Sick Bay stocked yet because she wasn't scheduled to fly for another three weeks so I gotta make do with old fashioned Dark Ages doctorin'."
Spock coughs in response, his leg still screaming at him.
"Which means no pain meds or anesthesia either." McCoy's face softens, resting a gentle hand on his arm. "Sorry, Spock."
That's as much sympathy as he ever gets out of the doctor. He takes a deep breath, clearing his head and calling on his meditation techniques, breathing out when he has his body's physical responses back under control. He gives a short nod. "Proceed."
[The night before]
He has never seen the Bounty's bridge quite like this. There's no one there but the two of them, the stations empty so the crew can rest up before they attempt their theft of a Starfleet Federation vessel. The consoles are mostly powered down, their faint lighting giving the bridge an eerie glow.
The glow is mirrored on Jim's skin, his shoulders and forehead shimmering a faint blue where the sweat has collected and slid down his face. He has his hands on Spock's hips, his teeth pulling at Spock's ear, his cock sliding and pressing into him, pushing up against his prostate, making him moan quietly, still muffling himself as if the rest of the crew were around to hear him.
"Come on, Spock," Jim growls into his neck. "Come on. Want to hear you, baby, want you screaming for me, want your come all over this fucking chair."
That earns him a sharp gasp, Spock's fingers digging bruises into his shoulders. "Jim-"
"Yeah, baby," Jim breathes, reverent and throaty. "Just like that. You close? You almost there?" He grabs one of Spock's hands in his, kissing the palm before sinking his teeth into it, scraping them up over his knuckles and sucking down two of his fingers. It's no different from having Jim's lips around his cock, and he chokes out another strangled moan, hooking his legs around the chair and using it as leverage to ride him harder, his flesh slapping against Jim's thighs. "Fuck, yeah, look at you," Jim continues, letting go of Spock's hip to fist around his cock, stroking and pumping him in time with his thrusts. "Come on baby, do it, do it for me, take me with you, take, take, please-"
Spock removes his other hand from Jim's shoulder, digging his fingers into his temple instead, the bond flaring to life between them. The world dissolves in sudden darkness, the deluge of sensation flooding over them. He can feel his own desperation threading into Jim's, feel himself tense as they push each other higher, harder, faster, deeper, so much a part of one another that he can't tell for sure which one of them comes first, or which one of them is making that throaty groan, or which one of them is going to be more bruised come morning.
His legs relax and drape off the chair when they're finished, his head nestled against Jim's shoulder, his back alternatively shivering and then relaxing as Jim rubs his hands over him. He allows himself the freedom to purr quietly, expressing his contentment without having to resort to the nuance and complexity of language.
"Mhm," Jim agrees lazily, kissing the top of his head.
"We should go," Spock murmurs softly. "We need to rest before tomorrow."
"Mhm," Jim says again, moving to slide out of Spock but tightening his arms around his waist at the same time, preventing him from leaving the chair. "Promise me something."
"What is it?"
He can feel the wicked grin boring into him even if he doesn't see it. "Promise me we'll do this to the chair on the Enterprise, too."
"Certainly. It is bound to be more comfortable, at the very least."
Jim's throaty laugh warms him through to the bone.
[Now]
It's a longer recovery without the aid of regenerators and medication, but about a week after the successful theft of the USS Enterprise, a crew of impressed Ferengi pirates offer some of their own medical stores in congratulations. The next day Spock is finally able to walk under his own power.
"I knew you weren't gonna die," Jim greets him in the hallway when he limps out of Sick Bay.
"Your screaming over the communicator might suggest otherwise," Spock says dryly.
"Nah, that was just me wanting you to hurry your slow ass up. I knew you weren't gonna die."
"And how did you know that?"
Jim steps forward, setting his hands around Spock's waist and leaning in to kiss him softly. "Because we're gonna go down together, remember? You weren't here with me. So I knew you weren't gonna die."
Irrational and ludicrous, but Spock cannot help the small smile threatening to take over his face.
The limp seems permanent, just as McCoy said it would be, but it in no way impedes his ability to make good on his promise and christen Jim's new captain's chair, although this time he's the one seated against the synthetic leather as Jim rides him to a growling, gasping climax. They take the time to christen other parts of the ship, too: Spock's console on the bridge, the bed Spock occupied in Sick Bay, McCoy's desk (which he seems so far to be ignorant of, thank Surak), the engine room (which... yeah, Gaila knows exactly what they were up to in there and gives Spock a salacious wink whenever she sees him now, which is only mildly humiliating), and plenty of time dirtying up the sheets in Jim's new officer's quarters.
They take the Enterprise to a host of Gaila's old friends, other escaped Orion slaves who apparently owe their freedom to Scotty and therefore charge next to nothing for some bodywork Jim wants. They manage to remove the Enterprise's registration number from the saucer and other Starfleet insignias from the rest of the hull while Scotty and Gaila make some minor changes to the engines to soup them up.
Jim, meanwhile, does that thing where he's thrilled and content with his victory for approximately a week before thinking up his next ridiculous heist.
"I'm just saying," he murmurs against Spock's ear, hands rubbing along his thigh where the burn scars begin, "that a cloaking device would be a logical-" smug over-emphasis on the term, "-thing to have considering what we're flying in now."
"Jim. It is astounding enough that you actually succeeded in stealing the Enterprise. What makes you think your luck will hold out long enough to raid a Romulan vessel for a cloaking device?"
"I've got you." There's a sweet, almost chaste kiss pressed against his neck. "You're my good luck charm."
"There is no such thing." Spock tries to sound uppity and superior about it, but his eyes are closed and there's a purr threatening to escape his chest as Jim works his hands over the rest of his leg.
"I didn't think so either, 'til I had you."
Spock could bring up the number of unlucky circumstances they've found themselves in ever since he joined Jim on the Bounty. Instead he simply snuggles deeper into the sheets and allows himself to purr.
[Two days later]
Spock can honestly say that he never saw it coming.
Which is not to say he didn't see it coming under different circumstances. They are flying Federation property; it was sure to catch up with them sooner rather than later. However, he had always assumed that it would be another Starfleet vessel that caught them, or perhaps an independent Vulcan vessel, or some other ship from another Federation race.
He did not, if he is honest with himself, expect Klingons to catch wind of what they'd done.
Which is stupid, now that he thinks on it, which is difficult to do when he's scrambling to follow Jim's rapid-fire orders as they try to maneuver their way out of this mess. If the Ferengi have heard of their success, that means they've certainly spread word to the Andorians, the Cardassians, the Romulans, and the Klingons. One of whom is currently dedicated to blowing them out of the sky so he can tow the Enterprise's empty hull back home as a trophy.
Scotty's down, from what he can glean from Gaila's terrified shouts over the intercom system. McCoy's been oddly silent over the system, too. Nyota left moments ago to make her way down to Sick Bay and report on her findings. He and Jim are the only two left on the bridge at this point, both of them standing over the navigation console and inputting commands as fast as their fingers will allow.
"This is Commander Korr of the Klingon Empire!" comes the bellowing voice over the ship-to-ship communication system. "You will surrender your vessel and prepare to be boarded."
"Like hell!" Jim bellows back, trying to move the Enterprise out of the line of fire.
"Jim," Spock says under his breath, "it is a useless endeavor. We cannot maneuver away and Gaila does not possess the skill to recalibrate the engines to give us enough power to run."
"I know that, Spock," he hisses back. "I'm not trying to run."
"But your navigating suggests-"
"I know what it suggests. Get the photon torpedoes ready."
It's another useless move. More than that, it's completely suicidal. Unless they were able to get a perfect target on the Klingon warbird's bridge - without the warbird's shields deflecting them and without its crew attempting an evasive maneuver - there's no way the photon torpedoes will do anything but amuse the Klingons. They would need a perfect target, perfect timing, and an unimaginable amount of luck for this to work.
"Told you when shit went down, I wanted you here to watch it burn," Jim says, quieter now.
Spock turns to look at him, takes in the stubborn, bright blue of his eyes and the singed spots on his uniform. He smells the smoke surrounding them for the first time, takes in the enormity of their situation and the near-inevitability of their upcoming demise.
He takes in Jim's smile. He feels the steadfast loyalty and devotion flowing into him through the bond. He feels Jim's trust in him, his willingness to believe that luck will see him through.
He smiles.
"Ready on my mark," Jim says.
Spock does the necessary calculations in a nanosecond, fingers flying over the console again, hovering over the switch that will unleash the torpedoes.
"Steady..."
He waits, body surprisingly at ease next to Jim's, his free hand finding Jim's and tangling their fingers together.
"Steady..."
He squeezes, feeling an answering squeeze in response.
"Fire."
He fires.
And the world goes white around them.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Written for a prompt on tumblr requesting Bonnie and Clyde style K/S fic. The title comes from one of Bonnie Parker’s poems about her life with Clyde Barrow. Bonnie was, in fact, married to someone else the entire time she was living with Clyde. It is widely believed that Bonnie never killed anyone during any of their crime sprees. Bonnie’s leg was horribly burned in a car accident. And Bonnie and Clyde expressed a desire to be buried together when they met what they believed to be their inevitable end.
Spock huddles in a darkened corridor, his hand fisting around the stolen data chips so tightly that he may be bleeding on them. He doesn't want to expend the energy to look. His focus is solely on the sounds of phaser fire, of footsteps too heavy to be Jim's, of snarled orders and the high-frequency wail of communicators.
Not for the first time, he wonders what possessed him to jump into this mess.
[One year ago]
It's his wedding day, which means it should be a day of solemn ceremony and ancient tradition, but instead it's all gone to hell. The human delegation that appeared claiming ties to his long-deceased mother has scattered suddenly, and there's an ominous rumbling sound at the embassy that's eerily reminiscent of explosives. There are Vulcans taking cover in other buildings, others rushing toward the embassy in the hopes of helping, and his own bride has been swept away somewhere in the crowd.
"Hey, you. Elf Ears."
There are no other Vulcans in the vicinity, so the voice must be addressing him. He turns, his wedding robes feeling heavy and cumbersome, their weight suddenly forgotten as the full force of Terran sky-blue eyes bears down on him. "Yes?"
The man cannot be any older than himself and in fact appears to be several years younger, the youth of his face at odds with his worn expression and the serious wound in his arm causing him to bleed through his thin ceremonial robe. "You got any medical expertise?"
"I am somewhat familiar with first aid techniques, though they are skewed toward Vulcan physiology as opposed to human."
"Look, whatever, I just need you to tie this off so I can stop bleeding all over the damn place." He holds out a purple sash - the color of Spock's clan, the color most of the wedding party was wearing before this whole mess began.
With a mental shrug, Spock steps forward and takes it from him, their fingers brushing together for a bare instant, a brief surge of molten pleasure trying to distract him. He forces his attention on the task at hand, wrapping the sash around his bicep and ensuring that he ties it with enough force to stem the bleeding.
"You love her?"
It's a shocking question not only due to its bluntness and the clear doubt in the voice, but due to being emotionally loaded as well. A Vulcan would never have asked him that question.
Curious, because he has never asked himself that question either. He ponders as he finishes tying the knot. "I do not know."
"Which means no, which ain't good enough," the man informs him.
He raises an eyebrow in response.
"You oughta come with me."
"In what way would that serve to improve matters?"
The man shrugs, flashing him a sinful smile. "It'd improve the scenery on my boat, that's for damn sure."
"The coastline is six hundred and eighteen miles from here. I do not understand-"
"It's slang, Elf Ears. Means I got a spaceship waiting for me that could use a Vulcan on board."
"For what purpose?"
He shrugs again, the smile starting to affect Spock in ways that are altogether new to him. "Or you could stay here with your new bride and try to figure out if you love her or not. I don't think you do, though."
"You make it sound as though I had only two choices at hand."
"You don't. You can do whatever the hell you want. But on my boat, you'd have the run of the place. Nowhere off limits. No one breathing down your neck." The man grabs the back of his neck with his injured arm, hand cradling the back of his skull as he pulls him closer. "And on my boat," he breathes, the air feeling moist and cool against Spock's lips, "no one's gonna give you shit about being half human." And he kisses him, slow and licking and utterly obscene.
Something caves in around Spock's heart then, something that's been building up ever since his mother passed away, something he had thought to be impenetrable until it turns to dust.
Piercing blue eyes stab into him when they finally part for air, a thick pink tongue darting out to lick the wetness from his lower lip. "I'm Jim, by the way."
Spock stares at him for a heartbeat until he remembers how to speak. "Spock."
He spends his wedding night with his legs hiked up to his shoulders as Jim fucks him into the floor of his tiny, rickety spaceship. He spends his honeymoon helping him gauge the value of the artifacts Jim's people stole from the Vulcan embassy, wondering if he's just made the best or worst decision of his entire life.
[Now]
Jim is a criminal. There's really no other way of looking at things, much as Spock tries some nights when he's sated and sticky and warmly wrapped around the rough, compact body of his captain. He can't quite comes to terms with the fact that so much of his happiness stems from someone who thinks of laws as amusing obstacles to be overcome rather than guidelines for civilized society.
Not that the rest of the crew is any better. The doctor is a self-confessed murderer with a fascinating backstory regarding his ex-wife that he only tells when he's near-fatally drunk. The engineer has a shady past involving the Orion slave trade, which is why they have an Orion technician who flirts with him incessantly and a whole lot of angry Orion slaver-pirates riding their asses whenever they skirt the edges of neutral territory. They're all thieves, a few of them killers, and Spock doesn't know why they invite him into their makeshift family with open arms but is grateful for it all the same.
"It's because you're smarter than the rest of us combined," Jim informs him that morning, fingers idly tracing the shape of one of Spock's ears.
"I did not think they were overly impressed by intelligence," Spock says dryly, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.
"Also I told them you knew Vulcan karate and could pop their arms right out of their sockets with a flick of your wrist."
"Suus mahna," he corrects for what he guesses is the seventh time this week alone, "and you are exaggerating."
"Maybe, but it impresses the fuck out of them anyhow."
Exaggeration or not, it's of no use to him now, flattening himself against a wall and trying to peer around an obnoxiously ornate houseplant, trying to discern Jim's location when there's a sudden grip on his elbow.
It's a good thing he always refuses to be armed when he helps on these runs, because otherwise he would be looking at a dead heap of captain right now. "Jim-" he breathes, partly relieved that he hasn't been killed and partly tempted to take care of that himself.
"Ventilating system. Scotty's on the other end; he'll help us out. Move!"
[Eleven months ago]
He had assumed from the start that his time on the HMS Bounty would be short lived; that Jim had a short attention span and his attraction to Spock was a temporary thing. The assumption made his decision to join them even more irrational than he had originally thought, but he pushed that aside to contemplate at a later time.
But a month passes, and Jim is no less enthralled with him than he was on Spock's wedding day.
Something possesses him to mention it one evening, Jim sprawled over him, hands curled in his chest hair. "Why me?"
"Little vague there, Spock. Brain still fried from you fucking it into oblivion."
He cards his fingers through Jim's hair, rearranging his thoughts. "What made you decide to bring me onto your ship?"
"We were gonna kidnap you."
Spock doesn't know what's more shocking; that Jim admits to that fact, or that he's so blase about the admission. "In theory, you did."
"No, no." Jim pats his chest fondly, as if he were a small child. Or perhaps a pet. "We were gonna kidnap you and charge a ransom for your safe return. That's why we set off all the explosives in the embassy; to create a distraction while we snatched you off the streets. Figured your dad would pay handsomely for the return of his son."
He should be offended, but in the first place he's used to this sort of brutal honesty from Jim, and in the second place the plan clearly changed at some point. "So why have you not sent my father the ransom?"
"Well that would mean you'd be leaving my boat, and I can't have that."
"But... why?" Spock gets the sensation of a profoundly circular argument, a sensation he's becoming used to as the weeks fly by.
Jim raises up on an elbow, fingers tracing along the features of Spock's face, resting at his temple. "Because I wanted you for myself. And when I want something, I set out to get it. And I don't give it up for anyone or anything."
Were Jim anyone else, Spock would still have a bevy of questions he wanted to ask. But this fierce, possessive behavior is familiar by now, and in a way... comforting. Aside from his mother, no one has expressed such love and devotion to him. It is good to feel wanted again, illogical and emotional as it is.
He lets it go, drawing Jim in for another drowning kiss, resigning himself to another morning shift fueled by very little sleep.
[Now]
Their escape plan goes off mostly without a hitch – aside from a young Russian ensign guarding the exit that they have to stun into submission – and they return safely to the Bounty. The five of them that comprise the main bridge crew gather around the command chair where Jim is setting up the series of stolen data chips.
"Well?" McCoy growls, taking a celebratory swig from his flask (although Spock has noticed that he does this regardless of the relative success of whatever task they set out to do).
"Patience, sugar," Gaila drawls, standing next to Scotty and not-so-subtly sliding her fingers into his waistband to grope at his backside. It amazes Spock what he no longer considers to be unusual behavior.
Jim lets out a sudden whoop of victory, jamming the data chip into the command chair and pointing at their old, cracked viewscreen. "There she is!"
McCoy, Scotty, and Gaila let their jaws drop at the vision before them while Spock merely stands there and attempts to look neutral. It's stock footage of a Federation starship, so large and so majestic that it does not fully fit the screen. The video capture drone swoops over it, capturing its every feature and contour, and Jim has a look in his eyes that Spock only sees on rare occasion when the two of them are alone. "Isn't she beautiful?" he breathes reverently.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," McCoy snarls. "This is what we just risked life and limb for? A vid chip of an oversized tin can?"
"And her blueprints and her security codes," Jim replies, not at all put off by the doctor's attitude.
"Ye want to build yer own I take it?" Scotty muses, his gaze fixed on the other data chip longingly, the one with the blueprints.
"Oh hell no. We'd never be able to scrap together the credits for something even a fraction of the size. Took us forever to buy the Bounty."
"Phew. For a minute there I thought you'd lost your mind, kid," McCoy mutters.
"Plus, why build your own when there's one out there for the taking?"
McCoy is shocked into dumbfounded silence, which is a rare event Spock takes great pleasure in.
"Ye don't plan on stealing her, do ya lad?" Scotty manages to choke out.
"Why not?" Gaila chirps in that overly cheerful way of hers, hand still firmly planted on Scotty's ass. "Is she complete, Jim?"
"They finished her up last month. She's supposed to go on her maiden voyage in eight weeks when the current batch of 'Fleet cadets graduates."
Spock doesn't hesitate to step all over the dreams Jim and Gaila are clearly having about this endeavor; it's what Jim wants him to do as part of the crew. "Even if we were to succeed in stealing it-"
"Her, Spock. She's a beautiful lady and she has a name: the Enterprise."
A year ago that would have thrown him badly enough to forget his original point. He's long used to the logic of humans at this point and he forges on without acknowledging Jim's outburst. "It would be impractical to keep it and impossible to sell it. It has a Starfleet registry number affixed to the saucer and the design is clearly influenced by other Terran and Federation ships. We would have, as you are so fond of saying, a target on our backs."
Jim shrugs, rationality clearly not first and foremost on his mind at the moment. "Maybe. But we gotta try."
"Why?" McCoy growls.
"Because we can."
[Eight months ago]
It takes somewhat longer than it should for Spock to realize that this is not a long-term situation. Not because Jim is going to tire of him, because he's spent enough nights with Jim clinging to him and enough times sifting through his thoughts to know that he's become a rare constant in Jim's chaotic, mercurial universe. And it's not because someday they're going to quit their life of crime and settle down on an uninhabited planet to spend the rest of their days in glorious, lazy retirement.
It's not a long-term situation because someday, they are going to die doing this.
Vulcans are a long-lived race; he probably won't hit middle age until sometime after his first centennial, even with his mixed heritage. The thought of dying before he even hits fifty - which he estimates is eighty-nine point three percent likely to happen - should terrify him.
But it doesn't. He has no home to return to; he is certain the Vulcans have assumed him dead and he has no particular desire to return and prove them wrong. He feels no higher calling than this, no wish to be anything but what he is now: a respected member of a small crew with a mate who loves and desires him - despite his dual heritage, despite the fact that he is legally wed to someone else, despite his dogged insistence on pointing out the flaws in Jim's plans and taking everything he says far too literally.
Jim loves him. And really, Spock has no desire to spend a hundred years or more of his life with only the memory of that love to keep him warm.
He is possibly the worst Vulcan in all of existence, but he doesn't care.
[Now]
Somehow, Jim manages to get them all on board with the plan. Spock doesn't know how he does it. Possibly the same way he talked a Vulcan ambassador's son into becoming a thief; through a lethal amount of charm and stubborn determination. Scotty's excited to get his hands on a real Federation ship to see how she works. Gaila gets an almost sexual thrill out of big heists like this, so she's been even more cheerful than usual. McCoy grumbles and growls and drinks from his flask and tells them they're all idiots, but he never once makes an effort to leave the ship or talk them out of it. Spock guesses he's in it for the curiosity factor, sticking around just to see if they can pull it off.
The planning stages are more complicated than any other heist they've pulled before, which is unsurprising. During the month of prep work, Jim promotes another crew member to the bridge crew to help them out: a Swahili woman who speaks an impressive percentage of known Federation languages and several non-Federation languages on top of that, including all three dialects of Romulan. Nyota - Uhura to everyone else, and Spock isn't sure why he received the honor of calling her by her first name, but he's grateful for her friendship and therefore doesn't question it - is there to unscramble Federation code and to help Spock trick Starfleet Command Central into thinking there's a Romulan warbird attacking a ship on the other side of the docking station, drawing most of the staff and security personnel there while they use the distraction to steal the Enterprise.
"This is the stupidest fucking idea Jim's ever had," Nyota tells him one evening over dinner while Jim is busy with Scotty in the engine room.
"Impressive, considering his wealth of other terrible ideas over the past year," Spock says.
She smirks at him. "That's why I like you. You're less stupid than everyone else on this wreck."
Well, that explains why she allows him the use of her first name, he supposes.
"Still, it's not like the entire security guard is going to rush to the defense of the Farragut," she continues. "We're gonna have to deal with a few stragglers one way or the other."
Spock inclines his head but says nothing. He knows, intellectually, how those stragglers will be dealt with. He knows, intellectually, that there are killers amongst the crew. He even knows, intellectually, that Jim is one of them. He himself has managed to avoid the problem by nerve pinching anyone who gets in his way during a heist, but the others have been unable to develop that same skill. Knowing all of that doesn't make him any less uncomfortable with the practicalities, however.
"You're cute," Nyota tells him, interrupting his thoughts.
"Vulcans are not cute," he says, the response automatic after saying the same thing to Jim so many times.
"Maybe, but you are. It's cute that you're still squeamish over murder, considering the crowd you run with."
"Forgive me if I treat life with a modicum of respect." He can't quite keep the disdain from his voice, wondering now if he truly wishes to be friends with this individual.
She reaches out and places a hand over his arm, and he realizes that she's purposely avoided touching his hands instead. "I didn't mean that to sound quite as condescending as it did," she says. "It's... well, it's an impractical view to have, but I can't honestly say I disagree with it."
"Oh," is all he can think to say.
She changes the subject after that.
[Two weeks ago]
Jim gets philosophical after sexual activity, so it's not at all surprising to see him sliding up from between Spock's legs, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and nuzzling in close before murmuring, "I always thought I was gonna die alone in space."
Not the best one-liner after sucking each other off in a supply closet, but Spock's gotten used to this sort of behavior by now.
"And what has occurred to change your mind, t'hy'la?" he whispers, tilting Jim's face up to lick the last traces of himself from the corners of his mouth, indulging in a long, exploratory kiss when he's through.
"Mmm. You."
Spock raises an eyebrow, even though Jim can't see it in the darkness.
"Don't give me that look."
Or not.
"I mean it. I know I told you we were only after you for the ransom we thought we could get, but you're..."
He stops there, clearly flustered. Spock kisses his temple, feeling their bond flare to life under the skin. "What am I?"
There's a heavy pause, Jim's hands fisting in his shirt as he struggles for words. "Everything," he whispers.
Spock kisses his forehead, unsure of what to do with a statement that overwhelming.
"My dad died alone in space," he continues, even though Spock knows this story. "Launched my mom's rescue shuttle and died alone on the Kelvin."
"Yes," Spock says quietly.
"And everyone always said I was just like him. So I figured I'd share the same fate, especially after I got the Bounty. But I'm not... I just need you to know that I'm not that noble. If things go wrong, I'm not gonna spend my last breath trying to save your Vulcan ass. If everything goes to shit, I want you right there with me to watch it all burn."
Which is... Spock's not sure what that is. Not romantic, because that would be ludicrous, but it has its own sort of morbid charm. And if he's honest with himself - and if Jim has taught him nothing else, it's to be honest about his own thoughts and desires no matter how illogical or un-Vulcan they might be - he feels the same way.
So he presses his mouth against Jim's rounded human ear and breathes, "I will be there beside you, t'hy'la."
Jim's answering shudder is everything. Everything.
[Now]
It doesn't go as planned. At all.
Starfleet's codes have changed since the last time Nyota studied them, and the delay caused by her having to translate and re-translate to fit the new ones makes Command Central suspicious enough to throw off their timing from the start. Scotty gets a phaser burn to the leg, which means Gaila has to dump him and keep on with their portion of the plan while Spock scrambles to get Scotty an emergency beam-up. McCoy gets caught by Starfleet security and Jim has to waste valuable time storming in and disposing of his jailers before freeing him. The Enterprise turns out to be housing a small class of cadets simulating a run on the ship, so there's an added delay in stunning them and dumping them back on the docking station.
And then Starfleet traces the source of the original code-breaking back to the Bounty.
There's more scrambling as Spock attempts to get the rest of Jim's crew safely transported to the Enterprise - something they'd originally planned to do anyhow, but only after they had both the Bounty and the Enterprise several lightyears away from the docking station. The whole time he's shoving crew members onto the telepad, his personal communicator keeps chirping at him - or rather, screaming at him. Jim's voice snarls at him to, "Get on the goddamn Enterprise now or I will knock you on your Vulcan ass!"
He stays long enough to ensure Nyota's transport completes successfully, hopping onto the telepad and wincing as a bright white light engulfs his vision, the sound of tearing metal and scraping debris filling his senses until he half believes he's died in the wreck.
When he next regains consciousness, he's in a sterile white room with the lighting set low and soothing over his head. Everything is foggy and indistinct, and he makes a small noise of discontent as he tries to discern what went wrong.
"Keep down, Spock," comes a familiar Southern drawl. "Y'ain't fit to be moved yet."
"What happened?" he tries to say, though what comes out is a strained whisper of a voice.
"You almost died transporting here, that's what. Open your eyes, dumbass, you've got your second lid down."
That explains the fog. He clears his mind, focuses on his body's physical state. While the room becomes clearer as his second lid retracts, various other physical sensations make themselves known. He hisses in pain.
"What-"
"Your leg," McCoy cuts him off. "The Bounty exploded just as you transported out. You've got third degree burns and fractures in two different places. Pretty sure you're gonna live, but you're gonna have a nasty-ass limp."
That doesn't sound right. "I thought you were a doctor," he coughs, his voice too weak for him to argue effectively. "Surely you can do better than that."
"I could if I had my own goddamn medical supplies, but Starfleet made sure to blow them out of the fucking sky, now didn't they? So shut the fuck up while I try to fix your leg with voodoo and potions, as you're so fond of calling them. They didn't have this Sick Bay stocked yet because she wasn't scheduled to fly for another three weeks so I gotta make do with old fashioned Dark Ages doctorin'."
Spock coughs in response, his leg still screaming at him.
"Which means no pain meds or anesthesia either." McCoy's face softens, resting a gentle hand on his arm. "Sorry, Spock."
That's as much sympathy as he ever gets out of the doctor. He takes a deep breath, clearing his head and calling on his meditation techniques, breathing out when he has his body's physical responses back under control. He gives a short nod. "Proceed."
[The night before]
He has never seen the Bounty's bridge quite like this. There's no one there but the two of them, the stations empty so the crew can rest up before they attempt their theft of a Starfleet Federation vessel. The consoles are mostly powered down, their faint lighting giving the bridge an eerie glow.
The glow is mirrored on Jim's skin, his shoulders and forehead shimmering a faint blue where the sweat has collected and slid down his face. He has his hands on Spock's hips, his teeth pulling at Spock's ear, his cock sliding and pressing into him, pushing up against his prostate, making him moan quietly, still muffling himself as if the rest of the crew were around to hear him.
"Come on, Spock," Jim growls into his neck. "Come on. Want to hear you, baby, want you screaming for me, want your come all over this fucking chair."
That earns him a sharp gasp, Spock's fingers digging bruises into his shoulders. "Jim-"
"Yeah, baby," Jim breathes, reverent and throaty. "Just like that. You close? You almost there?" He grabs one of Spock's hands in his, kissing the palm before sinking his teeth into it, scraping them up over his knuckles and sucking down two of his fingers. It's no different from having Jim's lips around his cock, and he chokes out another strangled moan, hooking his legs around the chair and using it as leverage to ride him harder, his flesh slapping against Jim's thighs. "Fuck, yeah, look at you," Jim continues, letting go of Spock's hip to fist around his cock, stroking and pumping him in time with his thrusts. "Come on baby, do it, do it for me, take me with you, take, take, please-"
Spock removes his other hand from Jim's shoulder, digging his fingers into his temple instead, the bond flaring to life between them. The world dissolves in sudden darkness, the deluge of sensation flooding over them. He can feel his own desperation threading into Jim's, feel himself tense as they push each other higher, harder, faster, deeper, so much a part of one another that he can't tell for sure which one of them comes first, or which one of them is making that throaty groan, or which one of them is going to be more bruised come morning.
His legs relax and drape off the chair when they're finished, his head nestled against Jim's shoulder, his back alternatively shivering and then relaxing as Jim rubs his hands over him. He allows himself the freedom to purr quietly, expressing his contentment without having to resort to the nuance and complexity of language.
"Mhm," Jim agrees lazily, kissing the top of his head.
"We should go," Spock murmurs softly. "We need to rest before tomorrow."
"Mhm," Jim says again, moving to slide out of Spock but tightening his arms around his waist at the same time, preventing him from leaving the chair. "Promise me something."
"What is it?"
He can feel the wicked grin boring into him even if he doesn't see it. "Promise me we'll do this to the chair on the Enterprise, too."
"Certainly. It is bound to be more comfortable, at the very least."
Jim's throaty laugh warms him through to the bone.
[Now]
It's a longer recovery without the aid of regenerators and medication, but about a week after the successful theft of the USS Enterprise, a crew of impressed Ferengi pirates offer some of their own medical stores in congratulations. The next day Spock is finally able to walk under his own power.
"I knew you weren't gonna die," Jim greets him in the hallway when he limps out of Sick Bay.
"Your screaming over the communicator might suggest otherwise," Spock says dryly.
"Nah, that was just me wanting you to hurry your slow ass up. I knew you weren't gonna die."
"And how did you know that?"
Jim steps forward, setting his hands around Spock's waist and leaning in to kiss him softly. "Because we're gonna go down together, remember? You weren't here with me. So I knew you weren't gonna die."
Irrational and ludicrous, but Spock cannot help the small smile threatening to take over his face.
The limp seems permanent, just as McCoy said it would be, but it in no way impedes his ability to make good on his promise and christen Jim's new captain's chair, although this time he's the one seated against the synthetic leather as Jim rides him to a growling, gasping climax. They take the time to christen other parts of the ship, too: Spock's console on the bridge, the bed Spock occupied in Sick Bay, McCoy's desk (which he seems so far to be ignorant of, thank Surak), the engine room (which... yeah, Gaila knows exactly what they were up to in there and gives Spock a salacious wink whenever she sees him now, which is only mildly humiliating), and plenty of time dirtying up the sheets in Jim's new officer's quarters.
They take the Enterprise to a host of Gaila's old friends, other escaped Orion slaves who apparently owe their freedom to Scotty and therefore charge next to nothing for some bodywork Jim wants. They manage to remove the Enterprise's registration number from the saucer and other Starfleet insignias from the rest of the hull while Scotty and Gaila make some minor changes to the engines to soup them up.
Jim, meanwhile, does that thing where he's thrilled and content with his victory for approximately a week before thinking up his next ridiculous heist.
"I'm just saying," he murmurs against Spock's ear, hands rubbing along his thigh where the burn scars begin, "that a cloaking device would be a logical-" smug over-emphasis on the term, "-thing to have considering what we're flying in now."
"Jim. It is astounding enough that you actually succeeded in stealing the Enterprise. What makes you think your luck will hold out long enough to raid a Romulan vessel for a cloaking device?"
"I've got you." There's a sweet, almost chaste kiss pressed against his neck. "You're my good luck charm."
"There is no such thing." Spock tries to sound uppity and superior about it, but his eyes are closed and there's a purr threatening to escape his chest as Jim works his hands over the rest of his leg.
"I didn't think so either, 'til I had you."
Spock could bring up the number of unlucky circumstances they've found themselves in ever since he joined Jim on the Bounty. Instead he simply snuggles deeper into the sheets and allows himself to purr.
[Two days later]
Spock can honestly say that he never saw it coming.
Which is not to say he didn't see it coming under different circumstances. They are flying Federation property; it was sure to catch up with them sooner rather than later. However, he had always assumed that it would be another Starfleet vessel that caught them, or perhaps an independent Vulcan vessel, or some other ship from another Federation race.
He did not, if he is honest with himself, expect Klingons to catch wind of what they'd done.
Which is stupid, now that he thinks on it, which is difficult to do when he's scrambling to follow Jim's rapid-fire orders as they try to maneuver their way out of this mess. If the Ferengi have heard of their success, that means they've certainly spread word to the Andorians, the Cardassians, the Romulans, and the Klingons. One of whom is currently dedicated to blowing them out of the sky so he can tow the Enterprise's empty hull back home as a trophy.
Scotty's down, from what he can glean from Gaila's terrified shouts over the intercom system. McCoy's been oddly silent over the system, too. Nyota left moments ago to make her way down to Sick Bay and report on her findings. He and Jim are the only two left on the bridge at this point, both of them standing over the navigation console and inputting commands as fast as their fingers will allow.
"This is Commander Korr of the Klingon Empire!" comes the bellowing voice over the ship-to-ship communication system. "You will surrender your vessel and prepare to be boarded."
"Like hell!" Jim bellows back, trying to move the Enterprise out of the line of fire.
"Jim," Spock says under his breath, "it is a useless endeavor. We cannot maneuver away and Gaila does not possess the skill to recalibrate the engines to give us enough power to run."
"I know that, Spock," he hisses back. "I'm not trying to run."
"But your navigating suggests-"
"I know what it suggests. Get the photon torpedoes ready."
It's another useless move. More than that, it's completely suicidal. Unless they were able to get a perfect target on the Klingon warbird's bridge - without the warbird's shields deflecting them and without its crew attempting an evasive maneuver - there's no way the photon torpedoes will do anything but amuse the Klingons. They would need a perfect target, perfect timing, and an unimaginable amount of luck for this to work.
"Told you when shit went down, I wanted you here to watch it burn," Jim says, quieter now.
Spock turns to look at him, takes in the stubborn, bright blue of his eyes and the singed spots on his uniform. He smells the smoke surrounding them for the first time, takes in the enormity of their situation and the near-inevitability of their upcoming demise.
He takes in Jim's smile. He feels the steadfast loyalty and devotion flowing into him through the bond. He feels Jim's trust in him, his willingness to believe that luck will see him through.
He smiles.
"Ready on my mark," Jim says.
Spock does the necessary calculations in a nanosecond, fingers flying over the console again, hovering over the switch that will unleash the torpedoes.
"Steady..."
He waits, body surprisingly at ease next to Jim's, his free hand finding Jim's and tangling their fingers together.
"Steady..."
He squeezes, feeling an answering squeeze in response.
"Fire."
He fires.
And the world goes white around them.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-28 02:39 pm (UTC)Thank you for the feedback!