Fic: Onward, The Road
Dec. 20th, 2009 11:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixTitle: Onward, The Road
Pairing: Kirk/Spock (TOS)
Rating: soft R
Summary: The interaction between Kirk and Spock on the evening of Kirk's birthday at the beginning of Wrath of Khan. Kirk is not best pleased to be getting older.
Notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
candesgirl, my best-beloved comm-daddy, for her birthday and because I love her lots. ♥ ♥
"Hell," Jim said, addressing the other Jim in the mirror, the expression on his face one of mild disgust. "Goddammit, Spock, why'd you let me get so old?"
The corners of Spock's mouth quirked. The small of Jim's back, now turned towards him, displayed sporadic damp patches where his white undershirt had attached itself to his skin. Spock found the effect pleasing enough that, had his fingers not been otherwise occupied in unbuttoning his own cumbersome uniform tunic, he would have reached out to insinuate them between cotton and skin; later, perhaps, he would lick the salt sheen from Jim's spine.
"You are middle-aged," Spock countered, his words, as ever, unapologetic and true. "Statistics indicate that there is every likelihood of your continued survival for a further fifty years - although this does, of course, fail to take into account the interference of occupational hazards into the expected lifespan of the human male." Conquering the tunic at last, he shrugged it off in an easy motion, depositing it on the bed. "In addition, although I welcome as always your high regard for my abilities, I fear I will be unable to prevent you from becoming old, when the time does come."
Jim turned towards him, then, and laughed, as Spock had known he would. One of the most beautiful things about Jim was that, while a formidably random enemy in a combat situation, with Spock, his reactions were always delightfully predictable. "All right for you to say," he protested. "You'll be alive about fifty million years after I'm dust, won't you, Spock?" His eyes were laughing, green and gold, amused. How fascinating it was that the eyes of humans seemed to alter so little with age.
Spock reached for him then, hands gentle and firm at the centre of his back, exerting an unobtrusive pressure. "I do not relish the prospect, Jim," he said. His voice was soft, and the gold eyes softened with it, like butter.
"Of course you don't." Jim's hands moved to cup his jaw, thumbs smoothing the sharp plains of his cheekbones. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He shifted closer, moulding their bodies together in the old familiar way, contours curving against each other with the inexorable certainty of breathing. Spock permitted his hands to drift further down Jim's back, smoothing the thin fabric against his skin. When he reached his waist, he found a narrow space between waistband and shirt-hem, and slid his hands inside.
"It is of no consequence," Spock said gently, in a tone that concealed no dishonesty. He had long known that Jim would predecease him; the prospect was chilling, but the chill was a familiar one, now, and he no longer shuddered at it. He was, at least, a half-Vulcan. Tests indicated that his own lifespan was not likely to exceed that of the average human's by too great a margin. Already, his body showed signs of age almost equal to those presented by his own father. He would not be too long, he hoped, in loneliness. It did not occur to him that he might take another mate.
Jim laughed again against Spock's mouth when he lowered his face for a kiss, the fingers on Spock's face migrating into his hair. The sensation was pleasant, and Spock attempted to convey his appreciation by turning his face in such a way that Jim's hands slipped of their own accord, stroking more expansively over his scalp. He felt Jim's resultant smile, both at the point where their lips met and through the universal communicator of Jim's skin, pulsing pleasure and amusement and encouragement everywhere Spock's hands touched. Jim was beautiful, muscles running firm under skin whose battlescars he knew by heart, and Spock would want him long into his autumn. This, he thought, as his fingers traced the vertebrae of Jim's spine, this, t'hy'la, will seem like only the beginning, by the time the end comes.
Jim gasped against him, sharp inhalation of air hissing out again through his teeth, and Spock pulled him closer, tongue tracing the seam of his lower lip. The temperature in their quarters had long since been set for Spock's comfort, with the result that Jim was frequently overheated, as he was now, hot dampness flattening itself to Spock in ways that only served to make Spock decry what distance remained between them. Jim's shirt he worked off easily, with the dexterity of long practice; with a controlled effort, he made himself drop both it and his own onto the floor, exactly as Jim would have done. Immediately, Jim's hands were everywhere, fingernails scraping the wings of Spock's shoulderblades in a manner that made the fastenings of Jim's trousers seem absurdly more difficult than they truly were. Spock calculated, as he wrest them at length from Jim's hips, that the whole exercise had been extended some 36.78 seconds beyond the necessary time, purely because Jim's touch was so illogically distracting. His frustration at this fact might have been exponentially increased by Jim's subsequent removal of Spock's own trousers in a mere 18.91 seconds, but any lingering irritation was swiftly dispelled when Jim sank to his knees, pulled Spock towards him by the hips, and proceeded to exercise all his not inconsiderable art.
There was something about Jim which, to Spock's mind, defied logic; something about the compact body radiating heat where it should have felt cool to Spock's touch; something about the gold flush in eyes which, three hours before, had been green. Jim was so difficult to explain, and yet Spock's love for him was too simple a feeling to contest; so predictable, and yet, too complicated sometimes to fathom. Always, eventually, they would end like this: Jim all around him, beneath him, encircling him, and Spock would thrust into him, and thank ancient deities for his beauty, and whisper illogical things into the meld. On this night, as ever, Jim was nothing but Jim, and everything Spock wanted, and Spock thrilled mind and body with their closeness. You will never be old, he breathed, ghosted along the bondline. You will never be old to my eyes, Jim.
"Illogical, Mr Spock," Jim told him, in the human way, fingers disentangling the knots he had worked into Spock's hair. The corners of his mouth turned up, the way they always did when he was making a private joke. Spock almost smiled back, but he lowered his gaze instead, and wondered to himself why a man like Jim should ever allow himself to become disheartened over so simple a thing as a birthday. It was not, after all, as if there were any shame in getting older.
Jim had got into the habit of forcing himself to twenty sit-ups every morning before he showered. When Spock staggered out of bed the following morning - even half-Vulcans, after all, are permitted to be a little uncoordinated at 0530 hours - Jim was just wrestling himself to his feet, pleased with himself and grinning as if to dispel any remaining doubt.
"You're getting a bit of a tummy, there," he tossed over his shoulder, as he crossed the room to the bathroom. His own abdominal muscles were certainly showing the good effects of his regimen.
Spock pressed his palm to his abdomen - tummy was surely an exaggeration, said the furrow of his eyebrows - and remembered why it was illogical to think of anyone as perfect 100% of the time.
Pairing: Kirk/Spock (TOS)
Rating: soft R
Summary: The interaction between Kirk and Spock on the evening of Kirk's birthday at the beginning of Wrath of Khan. Kirk is not best pleased to be getting older.
Notes: This is for
candesgirl, my best-beloved comm-daddy, for her birthday and because I love her lots. ♥ ♥"Hell," Jim said, addressing the other Jim in the mirror, the expression on his face one of mild disgust. "Goddammit, Spock, why'd you let me get so old?"
The corners of Spock's mouth quirked. The small of Jim's back, now turned towards him, displayed sporadic damp patches where his white undershirt had attached itself to his skin. Spock found the effect pleasing enough that, had his fingers not been otherwise occupied in unbuttoning his own cumbersome uniform tunic, he would have reached out to insinuate them between cotton and skin; later, perhaps, he would lick the salt sheen from Jim's spine.
"You are middle-aged," Spock countered, his words, as ever, unapologetic and true. "Statistics indicate that there is every likelihood of your continued survival for a further fifty years - although this does, of course, fail to take into account the interference of occupational hazards into the expected lifespan of the human male." Conquering the tunic at last, he shrugged it off in an easy motion, depositing it on the bed. "In addition, although I welcome as always your high regard for my abilities, I fear I will be unable to prevent you from becoming old, when the time does come."
Jim turned towards him, then, and laughed, as Spock had known he would. One of the most beautiful things about Jim was that, while a formidably random enemy in a combat situation, with Spock, his reactions were always delightfully predictable. "All right for you to say," he protested. "You'll be alive about fifty million years after I'm dust, won't you, Spock?" His eyes were laughing, green and gold, amused. How fascinating it was that the eyes of humans seemed to alter so little with age.
Spock reached for him then, hands gentle and firm at the centre of his back, exerting an unobtrusive pressure. "I do not relish the prospect, Jim," he said. His voice was soft, and the gold eyes softened with it, like butter.
"Of course you don't." Jim's hands moved to cup his jaw, thumbs smoothing the sharp plains of his cheekbones. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He shifted closer, moulding their bodies together in the old familiar way, contours curving against each other with the inexorable certainty of breathing. Spock permitted his hands to drift further down Jim's back, smoothing the thin fabric against his skin. When he reached his waist, he found a narrow space between waistband and shirt-hem, and slid his hands inside.
"It is of no consequence," Spock said gently, in a tone that concealed no dishonesty. He had long known that Jim would predecease him; the prospect was chilling, but the chill was a familiar one, now, and he no longer shuddered at it. He was, at least, a half-Vulcan. Tests indicated that his own lifespan was not likely to exceed that of the average human's by too great a margin. Already, his body showed signs of age almost equal to those presented by his own father. He would not be too long, he hoped, in loneliness. It did not occur to him that he might take another mate.
Jim laughed again against Spock's mouth when he lowered his face for a kiss, the fingers on Spock's face migrating into his hair. The sensation was pleasant, and Spock attempted to convey his appreciation by turning his face in such a way that Jim's hands slipped of their own accord, stroking more expansively over his scalp. He felt Jim's resultant smile, both at the point where their lips met and through the universal communicator of Jim's skin, pulsing pleasure and amusement and encouragement everywhere Spock's hands touched. Jim was beautiful, muscles running firm under skin whose battlescars he knew by heart, and Spock would want him long into his autumn. This, he thought, as his fingers traced the vertebrae of Jim's spine, this, t'hy'la, will seem like only the beginning, by the time the end comes.
Jim gasped against him, sharp inhalation of air hissing out again through his teeth, and Spock pulled him closer, tongue tracing the seam of his lower lip. The temperature in their quarters had long since been set for Spock's comfort, with the result that Jim was frequently overheated, as he was now, hot dampness flattening itself to Spock in ways that only served to make Spock decry what distance remained between them. Jim's shirt he worked off easily, with the dexterity of long practice; with a controlled effort, he made himself drop both it and his own onto the floor, exactly as Jim would have done. Immediately, Jim's hands were everywhere, fingernails scraping the wings of Spock's shoulderblades in a manner that made the fastenings of Jim's trousers seem absurdly more difficult than they truly were. Spock calculated, as he wrest them at length from Jim's hips, that the whole exercise had been extended some 36.78 seconds beyond the necessary time, purely because Jim's touch was so illogically distracting. His frustration at this fact might have been exponentially increased by Jim's subsequent removal of Spock's own trousers in a mere 18.91 seconds, but any lingering irritation was swiftly dispelled when Jim sank to his knees, pulled Spock towards him by the hips, and proceeded to exercise all his not inconsiderable art.
There was something about Jim which, to Spock's mind, defied logic; something about the compact body radiating heat where it should have felt cool to Spock's touch; something about the gold flush in eyes which, three hours before, had been green. Jim was so difficult to explain, and yet Spock's love for him was too simple a feeling to contest; so predictable, and yet, too complicated sometimes to fathom. Always, eventually, they would end like this: Jim all around him, beneath him, encircling him, and Spock would thrust into him, and thank ancient deities for his beauty, and whisper illogical things into the meld. On this night, as ever, Jim was nothing but Jim, and everything Spock wanted, and Spock thrilled mind and body with their closeness. You will never be old, he breathed, ghosted along the bondline. You will never be old to my eyes, Jim.
"Illogical, Mr Spock," Jim told him, in the human way, fingers disentangling the knots he had worked into Spock's hair. The corners of his mouth turned up, the way they always did when he was making a private joke. Spock almost smiled back, but he lowered his gaze instead, and wondered to himself why a man like Jim should ever allow himself to become disheartened over so simple a thing as a birthday. It was not, after all, as if there were any shame in getting older.
Jim had got into the habit of forcing himself to twenty sit-ups every morning before he showered. When Spock staggered out of bed the following morning - even half-Vulcans, after all, are permitted to be a little uncoordinated at 0530 hours - Jim was just wrestling himself to his feet, pleased with himself and grinning as if to dispel any remaining doubt.
"You're getting a bit of a tummy, there," he tossed over his shoulder, as he crossed the room to the bathroom. His own abdominal muscles were certainly showing the good effects of his regimen.
Spock pressed his palm to his abdomen - tummy was surely an exaggeration, said the furrow of his eyebrows - and remembered why it was illogical to think of anyone as perfect 100% of the time.
