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!
Hours later, Jim finally returned from the call. Spock had intended to join him, but on his husband’s insistence had instead returned to their quarters to bathe and change into his bedclothes, the ruined uniform top disposed of immediately. Upon his return, Jim seemed almost subdued, silently pulling his clothes off and slipping into bed beside his first officer. For a time, neither spoke.
“He said he didn’t plan it, and I believe him,” Jim whispered. Spock nodded, threading their fingers together. “Did you ever figure out what I wanted you to say first?”
“I love you.”
The words escaped Spock with no preamble, surprising even himself. He had not intended to say these words to his husband, not when the man was so terrified of falling in love. There was no expectation of reciprocation, and to state his emotions like this would only cause more complications than were necessary in their arrangement. But he could not help it. The three words slipped out of his mouth, logic failing him.
But Jim did not panic. Through the bond, Spock found no fear, worry, or alarm – just a slight apprehension.
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted you to say,” the human whispered, turning onto his side to face Spock, fingers entangling gently. He just looked at him for a long while, building resolve evident in his eyes, and then sighed. “I think I really sort of love you, too.”
Although Spock’s breath hung deep in his lungs with what Jim had said, he managed one sentence before the power of speech failed him entirely: “Could you put that more concisely?”
Jim nodded, lips seeking out Spock’s. “I’m pretty sure I love you,” he murmured against Spock’s skin. A rush flew through his body at the words, and he stroked Jim’s fingers firmly. “Yeah. Pretty damn sure. I love you.”
And then there was no need for words, Spock deepening the kiss and rolling on top of him, working himself out of his pants. He considered bonding them, doing it right there and then. The elation humming in his mind nearly drugged him, slowing his fingers as he caressed his husband’s cool skin, working to elicit more sounds in that brilliant voice. The bond, he needed to make the bond. Needed to join himself to Jim permanently, to ensure they would never part again—
And, as though he had been abandoned on Delta Vega, Spock found himself cold.
Saron would have attempted to forge a bond with Stonn’s mate. The evidence of what had occurred in the face of that attempted bond still echoed in Spock’s mind, the agony and emptiness and absolute barrenness of the woman’s consciousness. She had been reduced to the most basic pieces of herself, barely keeping her personality intact.
It could not happen to Jim.
He pulled back, all arousal suddenly purged from his body. Jim looked up at him questioningly, and he was barely able to choke out the words to his husband. “I cannot act on this tonight,” he managed. “I am compromised.
Jim’s hands pulled him down, hugging him to his chest. Spock could not react, merely letting his mind be blank, a reprieve from the horror of what he might have done, had he continued. Concern and a slight sadness slipped through the bond from Jim, but the man did not act on it. He merely held Spock to him, stroking his shoulders lightly and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, the words floating in the room. Spock felt them wrap ineffectually around him, and as much as he wanted to believe them, he couldn’t. But he let them cocoon him nonetheless, the steady beat of Jim’s pulse under his ear more of a comfort. “Spock. You’re going to be okay.”
And with the irony of the situation rooted firmly in his mind, of Jim’s confession and his own inability to act on it as he should have, Spock let himself fall into a restless slumber.
You will be okay, Jim, he thought. And then the world was gone to him.
Jim did not attempt to convince Spock to bond them, and Spock found great relief in this. Yes, he wished to create the bond, to cement their relationship – and yet he was terrified. It was irrational, illogical, emotional, but it was so overpowering that he could not do it. He knew Stonn’s mate had been compromised in a fit of mental instability, and he knew that he was capable of refraining from damaging Jim. But if there was even the slightest chance, he was not going to risk it.
For the first time in his life, he worried. And there was no way to quell it. It was constant, flaring up with every brush of his hand against Jim’s face. He could hardly sleep for fear that he might attempt to meld with Jim while they were both unconscious, might awaken to find his husband catatonic, beyond his ability to heal.
It exhausted him.
Two months passed rapidly, and the anniversary of their wedding approached. More importantly, the day Jim would be awarded unconditional Vulcan citizenship was also approaching – the day he could divorce his first officer. The anticipation had Spock even more restless.
He wished for the serenity his father had assured him Vulcans could experience. Serenity through logic, he recalled. Such a prospect was alluring beyond measure.
He knew he could bond them safely, and that would keep them together for the rest of their lives – he wanted to. Jim wanted him to, even if he would not say it. But for the moment, at least, he could not bring himself to do it.
Jim sat in the captain’s chair, sprawled boredly as he glanced out at the endless space before them. Spock knew he should have been working, but no one really was. It was late enough to be early, and their shifts would end within the hour. The lack of motivation on the bridge was so extensive that the youngest crewmember present (Ensign Flint, if Spock remembered correctly) had actually fallen asleep on his consol. Jim’s lips were red from him biting them, no doubt trying to keep from yawning himself, and Spock found himself inexplicably aroused.
He turned back to his station, sorting his slides meticulously as possible. Even as he did so, expression as blank as he could make it, the memory of Jim flat on the bed the night before played out in his mind. He remembered the way his hands had gripped his waist, leaving bruises like those all that time ago when they were faking their intimacy. The deep flush traveling down his chest as Spock moved, fucking himself on his husband’s cock, had been so erotic. The Vulcan knew that his husband was sporting a few bruises himself, one on each knee where Spock had gripped him for better leverage. The thought of causing a few more of those uniquely colored marks was becoming more and more attractive with each passing moment, and he allowed his undeniable lust to leak into the small bond they shared.
“Spock,” Jim called over, and Spock immediately rose, taking a single step towards the man.
In that same second, there was a terrible noise, and Spock found himself launched backwards, the small of his back colliding violently with his consol. There was a sensation he couldn’t quite understand pulsing near his heart, below it and of rather significant. He did not know how to explain it.
Jim swore loudly, Ensign Flint snapping upright in his seat. “Ensign! What was that?”
The young man flipped through the controls rapidly, blinking sleep from his eyes as he did so. “Meteor, Sir,” he said, sounding ashamed. “If I’d been awake, I would’ve gotten the warning, but…”
“You are relieved,” Jim growled. He turned his head to Spock, blinking. “Spock?”
It hurt. Badly. Spock could not pinpoint the organ in question, but he knew he was bleeding internally. “I need to go to medical bay,” he managed, voice strained. He knew the eyes of the entire team were upon him, and his mind was fuzzy. Detached. “Please—help me up. I need—”
“Ensign Flint, take Spock to medical,” Jim barked out, immediately at his side. And then, softer, “Spock, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Spock was unconscious before he could reply.
He awoke on a biobed, McCoy palpating his abdomen. The pressure was unbearable, and he had to reach a hand up to stop what he was doing despite the necessity of it. Ensign Flint was standing off to the side awkwardly, and next to the bed Jim sat holding his hand, stroking his fingers with obvious concern.
“Do I have his full medical history?” McCoy asked, sounding desperate. Spock attempted to remember if he did or not, and when neither he nor Jim responded, the doctor pressed his hand right onto the center of the pain again, prompting Spock to let out the slightest hiss. “Jim, did Spock have the Male Carrier Technique performed on him?”
Spock watched Jim nod, squeezing his hand tighter. McCoy swore.
“Has the implant been compromised?” Spock queried, finding his voice unnaturally weak. It must have, judging by the weakness in his body. He was bleeding out. When the doctor didn’t answer immediately, he continued, aware of the throbbing in his stomach. “Shall I assume that it has…ruptured?”
McCoy didn’t speak, waving a tricorder over him once more, and then he looked almost pityingly at Jim. If he’d had the energy, Spock would’ve cocked his head.
“No, it’s not the implant,” McCoy informed them, setting the tricorder down and sitting next to Jim, eyes looking directly into Spock’s husband’s. Jim waved him on with his free hand, face open and desperate, and the doctor looked to the ground briefly before his eyes were back on his. “The implant is intact and functional – and it was occupied. He’s not bleeding out, Jim. He’s miscarried.”
There was a long moment of utter silence, although Spock did not care to imagine how long that time was. His mind was blank, the shock of the statement rushing through his body. How? It was not even possible for him to have become pregnant, not with the contraceptives he’d been using. Even when he’d been injected with the DHEA, they had done what was necessary to prevent conception. Chances of contraceptive failure were miniscule, and yet—
He had lost a child. Jim’s child. And worse, he had not known he carried it.
“That’s impossible,” Jim managed, voice cracking. Spock wanted to agree. “That just can’t be—are you sure?”
McCoy held up the tricorder, but Spock didn’t really care. His free hand traveled to his stomach, pressing gently where he knew the implant was. He ignored the pain, trying to discern whether there was anything different there, whether there was any way he could have known. The flesh under his hand was firmer than he remembered it being.
He had been pregnant.
“Two months ago would have put the conception date when he was injected with the DHEA,” McCoy was saying. “I would have suspected Stonn or Saron, but indications are that the embryo was mostly human.”
“Give us a moment, Bones,” Jim murmured, “and get Flint out of here. He shouldn’t have been allowed to stay in the first place.”
The room was empty save for the two of them only seconds later. Spock squeezed Jim’s hand.
“I left a small sample of your ejaculate in me the night before I was injected with the DHEA,” Spock whispered, the memory coming back to him instantly. Why hadn’t he thought of it back then? Why hadn’t he recognized the possibility that he could become pregnant? “I had hoped that allowing your seed to remain inside me would…dissuade Saron. Not only was I incorrect in my hypothesis, but it seems that it led to…this.”
Jim’s arms were around his shoulders in an instant. Spock felt all thought leave him, all except for one: the child. They had not wanted it, had not tried for it, would not have been able to provide it a stable environment in which to grow to maturity – but it should not have been lost. And Spock should have been able to realize he was pregnant in the first place.
“Are you okay?” Jim asked, no doubt feeling his turmoil across the bond. Spock thought about it.
This should have been a relief, given the nature of their relationship, the reason for their marriage, and the impending divorce that Spock would give near anything to prevent. The pregnancy would have caused countless complications, personally and professionally. Upon their inevitable divorce, they would have had to undergo Ku'nit Ka'fa'ar. Custody arrangements and visitation would have been debated, and the shame of being a single parent of so young a child – so young a mostly human child, no less – would have brought scorn to him.
And yet he found himself feeling the loss of their tiny, unborn child. That piece of Jim he could have had beyond Jim’s lifespan was gone. He would never teach it of the Vulcan culture, of the lost planet and all its splendors. He would not see it grow, the features of its parents blending to create a unique individual. He would never hear the child’s voice or advise it or even watch it watch him back.
There was no blame to be placed, and yet…
“I am not,” Spock answered finally, the throb in his stomach more painful than ever, seeming to wrap around his heart and constrict it until his shoulders were shaking. Why? Jim held him tighter. “I am not okay.”
Grief and confusion poured back through the bond, powerful and human. Jim’s emotions. Jim’s mouth was beside his ear now, breath coming raggedly.
“Me neither,” he whispered. Something wet smeared on his cheekbone, and Spock didn’t have to think to know it was a tear. Maybe more than one. But it was not without justification, and Spock knew that if he was capable, he would also be leaking those tears down his own cheeks.
Just because they hadn’t meant to conceive their child didn’t mean it should’ve been lost.
He’d thought it wouldn’t hurt much, not like this. When he’d heard of women miscarrying, he had had some empathy for the lost opportunity, but it had never occurred to him that the emotional strain was so powerful. And those women had known about their pregnancy beforehand.
“There will be complications if Dr. McCoy does not remove the embryo,” Spock managed, briefly returning Jim’s embrace. Jim released him and kissed his lips, the coolness of them more obvious than it had ever been before, and then Jim was walking towards the door, intent on bringing the doctor back to perform the procedure no one had anticipated the half-Vulcan ever needing.
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