annenburg (annenburg) wrote,

Of Convenience: Chapter Nine

Title: Of Convenience
Chapter: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: R (...ish?)
Summary: Kirk needs to get married for political reasons.  Spock offers himself as the logical choice.  Written for the st_xi_kink meme.  Enjoy!


Saron was not charged with any crime, and he had fallen into Plak Tow by the time they arrived in Sector Four.  Stonn assured Spock that the younger Vulcan would be able to resolve the fever here, hopefully with the aid of Stonn’s mate.  His face had tensed significantly when he’d explained, but it couldn’t be helped.  If it would save Saron’s life, it would have to be done.  It was only logical.

They had also been given leave, a fortnight in the sector to do as they wanted.  Spock had allowed Jim some leeway, spending time on his own at the aquarium while the human did whatever he wished.  Vulcan had had no oceans.  Creatures of the sea were exotic, an unknown existence that still fascinated Spock, even after having all these years to acclimate himself to them.  Fins, gills, a complex skeletal structure – some even had lungs.  Spock could spend weeks in an aquarium if given the opportunity.

“Oh, Commander,” Sulu’s unmistakable voice greeted from his left.  Spock nodded his greeting.  “So this is where you were.  Is the captain with you?”

Spock watched a shark swim above him, gills flaring out.  “I’m afraid not.  He asked for some time on his own this leave,” he answered, finally turning to face the man.  To his discontent, a Miss Gillian Hart was at his side, clutching his arm.  “You are endeavoring to engage Ensign Hart in emotional discourse?”

Sulu shook his head.  “Bumped into her here,” he replied.  “Figured I’d escort her around.  We call it chivalry.”

“Indeed,” Spock acknowledged.  His communicator buzzed.  “Spock here.”

“Hey, Spock,” Jim’s voice came through.  He sounded surprisingly excited.  “Reservations.  Seven.  The finest vegan fare in Sector Four.  Interested?”

“I have told you before, Jim, that you need not force yourself to consume vegetarian fare on my behalf if you would rather indulge in something more suitable to your palate while on leave,” he reminded him, a rather bright fish catching his eye.  “Where do you wish to rendezvous?”

“Main gate two,” Jim informed him.  “See you there at 6:50.”

“Acknowledged,” Spock closed his communicator, returning his attention to Sulu and his companion.  “Lieutenant Sulu, I do not fully comprehend the value in ‘chivalry’.  Is it not somewhat antifeminist?”

“Not everything has to be feminist,” Hart informed him coolly.  “So, you have a date with the captain?”

Sulu chuckled.  “Miss Hart, they’re married.  Of course they go on dates,” he said, looking around.  A school of fish rushed past, flashing a white light towards them.  Spock let himself admire the display.  “I think it’s pretty nice of the captain to think of your diet when picking out restaurants.  It’s thoughtful.”

Hart scoffed.  “You don’t realize how lucky you are, do you?” she asked Spock straight out.  Spock raised an eyebrow.  “You have the Captain Kirk all to yourself.  Do you have any idea how many women would kill for that?”

“I should hope they would not be willing to commit homicide for the purposes of procuring a romantic partner,” Spock said, folding his hands behind his back.  “That would be most illogical.”

Sulu laughed.  “Colloquialism, Commander,” he clarified, “meaning a lot of women envy your relationship.  They want the captain for themselves.”

Spock had known what it had meant.  He simply hadn’t wished to say anything, not yet.  Not before Jim knew what he felt.  “That explanation was sufficient, Lieutenant,” he stated, nodding briefly.  “He is a fine specimen.  It is fortunate that he was assigned the Enterprise.”

Sulu nodded.  “Yup,” he said needlessly.  “Anyway, Commander, we’re going to go ahead.  Have fun on your date.”




The restaurant was indeed impressive, if Spock allowed himself to be honest.  Its options were extensive, and there even seemed to be something for Jim.  And somehow (Spock allowed himself to speculate that it may have been due to his notoriety as the youngest captain in Starfleet), Jim had managed to procure a private table in a private room, lit appropriately.

It was, to use Sulu’s word, a ‘date’ in every sense.

“This is actually pretty good,” Jim informed him, chewing on something Spock believed to be a root, though he did not intend to inform his husband of this.  “How’s yours?  Palatable?”

“Quite,” Spock confirmed.  “Perhaps the reputation of this establishment is well-deserved.”

“Duh,” Jim said around some sort of potato.  “As if I’d take you here without seeing how other Vulcans liked it.  Stonn said it was the best.”

Spock raised an eyebrow.  “Verbatim?”

Jim shrugged.  “I think he said something along the lines of it fulfilling both the basic nutritional requirements of his species while maintaining a flavor suitable to…something or other,” the man admitted.  “But I trust the guy.  He did kind of help out amazingly with keeping Saron locked up the past few days.  What’s wrong with him, anyway?”

The Vulcan simply didn’t answer, languidly chewing his dish.  Exquisite.  Jim accepted the omission, and Spock knew his eyes were on him, just watching him eat.  He did so comfortably, and the Vulcan found it inexplicably relaxing.  He met Jim’s eyes and they just held each other’s gaze.

“Say it?” Jim asked.  Spock raised an eyebrow.  “I can’t say it to your face until you say it to mine.”

Spock thought for a long moment.  What was it Jim wanted him to say?  Clearly, this was an illogical trigger of some sort, something connected to his emotional state.  Jim’s eyes were blue.  Very blue.  Spock wasn’t sure how long he’d known they were blue, but they were particularly blue tonight.  He credited the lighting.

“You are an exceptional specimen of the human male, both mentally and physically,” Spock offered, “and, if I may add, sexually.”

A chuckle escaped Jim’s lips readily.  “You are also a prime specimen.  Mentally, physically, and sexually.”

Spock sipped his tea.  Herbal.  “While I would ordinarily point out that, as I am the only specimen of my genetic construction, I cannot be considered a ‘prime specimen,’ I imagine you did not mean for me to take it so literally,” he stated, savoring the aftertaste of the tea.  “I also assume that is not what you had hoped to prompt from me tonight.”

“Yeah,” Jim said, but his voice indicated amusement.  “But I’ll let you keep guessing.”

Guessing was imprecise.  Spock was not particularly enamored with the art.  But he considered it.  He had complimented Jim three times in one statement, and none of those things had been what the man was seeking.  Hmm.  It was possible it had to do with recent events, perhaps with all the references to him being fertile and their wait for his contraceptives to be effective again – perhaps one more week – and the agreement they had reached about not reproducing.  It seemed likely.

“Past precedent states that my fertility will only remain for another six point two days, after which we may resume our customary sexual practices,” he began, face impassive as he could make it.  “I will consent to ‘riding’ you, as you have put it, at that time.”

“That’s great news,” Jim grinned, “and I can’t wait to try it out.  But that’s also not what I was aiming for.”

Spock chewed the last of his dish.  “You are making this intentionally difficult,” he accused, setting his fork down.  “Am I to state that I forgive Saron for his assault?”

“It’s logical,” Jim pointed out.  And it was, he had to admit.  “You said the kid wasn’t in control of himself.  That’s good enough for me.  Are you going to forgive him?”

“There is no need,” he replied.  “I never assigned blame to him.”

“Great,” the human said, calling for the bill.  The credit transfer was done nearly instantly.  He turned back to Spock.  “That wasn’t what I meant, either, though.  Come on, this is an easy one.”

Jim led him out of the establishment with their fingers intertwined.  Deep affection worked its way to the surface of his mind, and Spock stopped them just outside the restaurant, a daring feeling rushing through him, and he pulled his fingers back from Jim’s, standing in front of him.  He crossed their wrists and touched their palms together, closing his eyes at the sheer force of the attachment, the affection and sensation and love symbolized by the act.

A moment later, when he opened his eyes, Jim’s forehead was pressed up against his.  “What is that?” he asked, pressing his palm closer to the Vulcan’s.  Spock was quiet for a long moment, letting the sensations flow through him.

“El'ru'esta,” he murmured.  “An embrace for T’hy’la.  It is the greatest act of affection I am permitted to perform in public.”

Jim was silent for a long while, eyes closed.  “More intimate than a kiss, then?” he inquired gently.  Spock nodded, not certain how best to explain this to his husband.  But it didn’t seem to need any further explanation, the hand pressing harder into his.  “God, Spock.  You’re getting so close.”

“Commander Spock,” a third voice interrupted, and Spock was forced to break eye contact with Jim, glancing to his right to find Stonn standing there, looking only the slightest bit flustered.  Spock nodded, not disentangling his hand from Jim’s.  “I had believed it was you.  There has been an incident, and I must request your assistance.”

He felt a wave of suspicion through the bond from Jim, but he did not see reason to distrust Stonn.  He sent back what calmness he could through the tiny bond, eyebrow arching slightly more severely.  “What kind of incident?”

Stonn’s eyes burned into Jim.  “You know I cannot speak of Saron’s plight, especially before one who is not of our race,” he replied.  “The most I can inform you is that my mate has sustained some damage to her mind.  Your abilities in telepathy are said to be unrivaled.  It is therefore logical to approach you in this instance to determine the amount of damage and how best to heal it.”

Another distrustful feeling slipped through the bond.  “Jim, the Vulcan race does not lie,” he assured him, finally separating their hands.  Jim glanced up at him, almost pouting at the loss.  What could almost be an arrhythmia flitted through Spock’s abdomen.  “If Stonn says that his mate is in need of my expertise, then it is my belief that his mate is indeed in need of my expertise.  Saron’s behavior is not the example you must take to be the model of every young Vulcan male.  It is the exception.”

“I just don’t like it,” Jim said firmly.  “I’m going with you.”

Spock sent as much disapproval as he could through the bond.  “What has caused this is a condition we do not speak of, even amongst ourselves,” he stated flatly.  “When it comes to affect me, I will explain it to you.  But at the moment, it is both unnecessary and inappropriate for you to accompany me.  I will return to the ship no later than 2300 hours.”

Jim surged forward and kissed him hard on the lips, the contact thrilling, passionate, and wholly inappropriate.  When he leaned back, wiping his lips, he frowned.  “If you aren’t in our quarters by then, I swear to whatever deity your people worship – and don’t tell me there isn’t one, or I’ll just swear it on Surak – that I am going to come out here and personally whip some ass.  You hear me?”

“Clearly,” Spock responded.  How impulsive and possessive.  “I will return as expeditiously as possible.”


Jim turned around, anger seething in the bond, and left.




Indeed, there must have been significant damage to Stonn’s mate’s mind.  She was stretched out on her back, barely made decent before his arrival, eyes wide and unresponsive.  Green bruising on her face was indicative of an overly forceful mindmeld, and Spock was almost hesitant to meld with her.  But he did so, slipping easily into the unguarded mind.

The damage done was so extensive that Spock hardly knew where to begin the reparations.  The fundamental structure of her mind and personality seemed to be all that had been kept safe, no doubt an instinctive act of self-preservation.  He began the work methodically, restructuring what he could.  It was all he could do to manipulate her into a healing trance before he slipped out of her mind.

“She will recover?” Stonn asked immediately after the meld was broken.  “It is imperative that I have this information.”

Spock glanced over the woman, a terrible feeling of apprehension building in himself.  He could not allow himself to do this to Jim.  This woman had been significantly stronger than his husband, physically and mentally – and this much damage had been sustained.  He could not allow this to ever happen to the man he loved.

“She will recover, but it will take a minimum of nine days for her to awaken,” Spock informed him.  It was truly unfortunate to have her in this situation.  “Do not attempt to meld with her before she has awoken of her own volition.”

Stonn stood firmly, mouth in a firm line.  “Saron’s Plak Tow has not been resolved,” he murmured.  “I will need to find him an outlet.”

Spock glanced at the clock on the wall.  2212.  “I wish you success in your endeavor,” he gathered his overcoat from the ground.  “I must return to the ship.  Jim is expecting me.”

“Of course,” Stonn nodded.  He opened the door for Spock, bowing his head.  As Spock passed, there was so sudden a movement that he could not react, everything going black with not so much as a moment to think about what was happening.

When he awoke, some indeterminable amount of time later, he found Saron tearing at his pullover, seemingly incapable of logically solving the apparent mystery of how to remove it.  He attempted to bring his hands down to knock out the younger Vulcan, only to find them held firmly in another’s grip.  He did not have to look up to know who it was.

“Stonn, cease this,” he commanded, sending a wave of urgency and panic through the bond.  An immediate rage seeped back through, followed by an echoing panic and worry.  Stonn did not relent in his hold.  “Stonn.  There are other ways of resolving the Plak Tow.”

“They are not guaranteed, especially not for one’s first Pon Farr,” Stonn’s calm voice informed him, and Spock became aware of a firm pressure against his hip, very distinct in shape and very, very hard.  There was no escaping what it was, and it was all Spock could do to make sure that it did not find its way inside of him.  “I understand your reticence to reproduce at the moment, and it is unfortunate that Saron managed to inject you with DHEA, but I cannot stop this, Spock.  You will have to bear it.”

He knew Jim was on his way, could feel the determination and panic, and he felt Saron finally tear his shirt open, hands splaying over his chest.  If Spock was to prevent the unthinkable, he would have to act immediately.

No matter how degrading the action taken might have been.

He bucked his hips up, not to dislodge Saron, but to engage him.  He spread his legs wide, and then clamped them around the younger Vulcan’s hips, using what leverage he had to buck into him.  A growl escaped the boy, and his hands reached down to tear at Spock’s pants – he had to allow it, had to, but he kept bucking, forming a rhythm – and even if he succeeded, the angle was too controlled.


Saron could not penetrate him like this.  The diplomat’s hips rutted hard against Spock’s, harsh thrusts and growls coming from him.  If he made Saron ejaculate, the recovery time necessary could give Jim the time he needed to arrive.  It was not something he would ever have wanted to do, but…

He thrust back, forcing his own body not to react.  This man was not Jim.  This was not the man he loved, not his husband, his mate.  He reminded himself of that, reminded himself that Jim was on his way, even as Saron came, gasping harshly.

Jim would not be long now, he knew.  But still, he was already too late.  This should not have happened.  Jim had been right to be suspicious, and Spock knew he should never have come here.  His mind returned to the woman on the bed, how viciously she’d been taken, physically and mentally, how near to impossible the devastation in her mind had been to fix.  That could have been him.

“How can you permit this?” Spock asked Stonn, trying to keep his voice calm.  Saron was still panting against his chest, breath too hot.  Stonn clenched his wrists harder.

“If it will save Saron’s life to permit him to breed you, I will do it,” he answered.  “Saron is the only other member of my bloodline alive.  It is logical to save one’s own flesh and blood.  I can permit this, Commander Spock, because Saron is my brother.  He will not be lost to a genetic flaw.”

Saron picked up his head, hands reaching out for Spock’s face.  This he could not fight.  He could only seek to protect himself, putting up the strongest barriers he could manage.

The heat of Pon Farr would break them, he knew.  He would be left in ruin, just as Stonn’s mate had been.  But he had to try.  As Stonn had said, his abilities were first class.  He felt the fingertips press themselves to the meld points, the pressure daunting, and—

“Oh,” Saron gasped out, not even beginning to enter his mind, and before Spock could seek to know the cause, the door flew open.  His wrists released, Spock immediately reached forward to pinch his assailant’s neck, flipping around once he was unconscious.

Jim was kicking the obviously stunned Stonn fiercely, utter rage seeping into Spock’s mind from him.  McCoy and Sulu were directly beside him, the doctor trying his very best to pull Jim away.

“He’s not yours, you hear me?” Jim was hissing, McCoy’s arms all keeping him from further assaulting the unconscious Vulcan.  “I don’t care what your excuse is!  That’s my fucking husband, and you’re not going to do anything to him because he’s not yours to do anything to!”

“Jim,” Spock interjected, and the man froze immediately, eyes widening at the sight of him.  And what a sight he must have been, shirt torn wide open, bruised wrists, hair wild – but none of that mattered right now.  “Jim.  He did not succeed.  I am unharmed.”


“Unharmed my ass,” Jim snarled, breaking from McCoy’s grip and embracing him – the human way.  Spock was not certain what to do.  “You think I didn’t feel how panicked you were?  How disgusted, how uncertain, how fucking scared you were?  Don’t deny it, don’t you dare.  You know that anything you feel I feel.  Anything.  You should have known what he was going to do!”

Spock allowed the man to hold him, and he didn’t look at the other men present, merely rubbing a hand on Jim’s neck.  “I believe he would not have turned to me if his mate had recovered quickly enough.  He was merely trying to save his brother’s life,” he informed him.  “He did not succeed.  I am safe.  I am with you.”

Jim squeezed him tighter.  “Damn right, you’re with me.”

Finally, he released Spock, yanking him to his feet.  “Contact Sector Four authorities,” Jim barked at Sulu.  “I don’t care if this is some big Vulcan secret or whatever; attempted assault of any kind against a Starfleet officer is unacceptable.  Bones, you and I are taking Spock back to the ship.  And he is fucking getting another physical exam whether he wants it or not.  And I want a line direct to Sarek.  I need him to know exactly what his little ‘assistants’ tried to do to his son.  And—”

Thankfully, it is McCoy who interrupts him this time.  “Look, Jim, I know you’re upset, but aside from some bruising, it looks like he’s fine,” he growled out.  “If he doesn’t want an examination, he doesn’t have to have one.  It doesn’t matter how much you love him; he has rights.”

“But,” Jim protested.  “Bones, didn’t you see…?”

“I assure you, Jim, I was unharmed,” Spock murmured, brushing Jim’s fingertips lightly.  “All I desire is to return to our quarters and rest.  If you would also permit it, I would like to meld with you.  It should provide adequate evidence for you of what occurred.”

Jim looked speechless.  “You said no more melds,” he whispered incredulously, the spike of adrenaline in the air dissipating almost immediately.  “You’re sure?”

Once within beaming range, Spock pulled his communicator from his belt.  “Completely sure,” he confirmed.  “Enterprise, three to beam up.”


They had barely made it back to the transport pad when Jim was gripping his hand, pulling it towards his face.  Spock tugged it back towards himself, more a display of unwillingness than of actual resistance.  He wanted to do this in the privacy of their quarters.  This would risk a bond, certainly, but it was necessary – and if it did result in a bond, the immediate instinct would be to consummate it.

He truly was not comfortable with exhibitionism.

But he permitted Jim to arrange his hand, fingers lining up with the meld points flawlessly.  “Do it now, Spock,” he almost growled, seemingly unaware of his audience, of McCoy and Scott and Chekov.  Spock hesitated briefly, but acquiesced.

It was a shallow meld, not delving into Jim’s mind as the previous had.  Spock felt a piece of him filled with fear of creating the bond inadvertently, but another part, one which was not particularly small, feared worse.  He remembered the damage Saron had done to Stonn’s mate, the state of her mind when he’d gotten to her.

He could not allow this to happen to Jim.

There was significant anger in Jim’s mind, worry, relief, irritation, and abating discomfort.  Thoughts of continuing what he had started with Stonn’s prone body, of having him tried for attempted rape and trafficking, and the guilt for letting Spock go to him in the first place flitted about distractingly in his mind, burdensome and dark.

Spock pushed the reality of what had happened, what he had done to preserve himself, into Jim’s mind, and the confusion and guilt ebbed away, filling with what could almost have been pity.  It might have been tenderness, Spock thought, a warm embrace of their minds.

Never again, Jim’s mind whispered to his, the sound blaringly loud.  That is never happening.  Ever again.


Great warmth was the last thing Spock felt before ending the meld, and the moment they were returned to reality, Spock found Jim pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, palms touching in an embrace.  Spock rested his forehead against Jim’s, lips finally parted, looking him in the eye.

“You are content.”

“Pretty much.”

Spock drew back with Jim’s confirmation, disentangling their hands and almost too aware that Chekov was staring.  He turned to Scott, who had an odd tinge of pink to his cheeks.  “Is video conference room two in use right now?” he asked bluntly, clasping his hands behind his back.  The engineer shook his head.  “Jim and I will need to use it immediately.  Please set lock codes to Alpha-2.”

Scott confirmed the order, and Jim walked alongside him down the short hallway to the room.  A bit of Jim’s anger was back, an irrational response to the reminder of what had almost happened to Spock – but Spock could not bring himself to complain.  He did not even attempt to calm the anger this time, knowing from experience that some things should not be suppressed.  Jim’s anger would need an outlet, and it was entirely possible that the conversation he would have with Spock’s father could be the outlet in question.

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Tags: fandom: star trek, fic, fic: r

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