Chapter Text
It takes a lot of persuading to get "Spock" and "shore leave" to interact on any meaningful level.
"I am unclear as to why you wish me to participate in your, as Dr. McCoy puts it, 'whoremongering' while on Risa," she says, not even doing Jim the favor of looking away from her console.
Jim makes a kind of strangled noise. Bones is such an asshole. "First of all, it's not whoremongering, it's more like--"
"Also, it is irresponsible to have the commanding officer, the second in command, the chief medical officer, and the chief communications officer all absent from the ship simultaneously," she says smoothly. "There are numerous regulations, in fact, that prohibit such action."
"Come on," Jim says, trying not to think about how he's the Captain of the USS Enterprise and he's getting very close to whiny, "Uhura might need a cockblocker. You'd be great, you could just do your pinchy thing. Or... glare at them. Like... you're doing right now. It's pretty effective."
Uhura, who is sitting right next to Spock and who is laughing at him, clears her throat and says, "I promise it'll be fun," she says to Spock.
"See? Fun." Jim rocks back on his heels.
Spock raises an eyebrow and he knows she's about to remind him for the seven billionth time about how Vulcans do not indulge in fun.
"I'll even loan you something to wear," Uhura adds.
"Oh God," Jim croaks, images of Enterprise Barbie running through his head. "I mean, oh good. Good. So you'll come?"
Spock frowns. "Captain, can you guarantee me that we will not visit any tattoo parlors while planetside? I have heard several reports of something called a 'tramp stamp,' often obtained during one's first official shore leave and I confess the idea does not appeal."
"Oh God," Jim says again, as the idea of Spock and Uhura giggling while half-naked and trying on clothes is overwritten by the idea of Spock, stretched out on her stomach, a picture of a butterfly high on one bare shoulder. His only comfort is that she wouldn't go for a butterfly -- she'd probably put in a schematic of an engine nacelle or something. Which, he's not going to lie, would be even more devastatingly hot.
He shakes himself out of it and pastes a smile on his face. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
Spock looks alarmed, "Captain, that is--
"It's an expression, Spock."
*
Bones insists that they swing by Uhura's quarters to pick up Uhura and Spock, partly because he's a Southern gentleman but mostly because he wants to see Spock in a dress as soon as possible.
"You're a bad person," Jim observes, as Bones hits the doorchime.
"I'm a bad person who gets to see Spock's legs," Bones says. "I'll live with myself."
The door slides open; Uhura is standing in the doorway, wearing a truly amazing, bright red silk dress. Jim blinks. "Okay then."
She smiles. She has some complicated-looking heels on that give her an extra four or five inches; she still isn't quite at his height, but it's a little odd to see her like this. There is something slightly dangerous -- slightly more dangerous -- about her now.
"You two are like prom dates," she says, and steps aside. "Although it's a good thing you're here. Spock won't come out of the bathroom."
Jim frowns. "Did she hurt herself?"
Uhura rolls her eyes. "In a manner of speaking. Could you--?" and she waves toward the bathroom.
Jim follows her direction, and hears Bones say, "So the dress-up part of the evening, how did that go?"
"Doctor, don't make me stomp on you with my high heels."
Jim knocks on the bathroom door. "Spock? You, uh. You OK?"
"I am very well, Captain. I believe I will not be joining you after all, however."
"Really." Jim glances over his shoulder; Uhura and Bones are fussing over some bracelet that Uhura is trying to put on. "Spock," he says, a little lower, "Everything all right?"
"I am merely -- taken aback by my current appearance."
Jim blinks. It's kind of surprising to think that Spock suffers from lack of self-confidence. "Spock, it's fine. Uhura's clothes probably wouldn't look that good on me either, so." He clears his throat. "I mean, we don't care what you look like. Not that we don't think you look great. Or would. If you'd open the door."
"Thank you, Captain. However--"
"Spock, just open the door."
"I am simply--"
"Oh for the love of fuck," Jim snaps, and punches in the override code.
Spock is sitting perfectly still on the closed toilet seat, her hands clutching at the lapels of Uhura's pink bathrobe. She looks up at him.
"Um." Jim tries to remember other things that he wanted to say, but most of his brain is busy doing other stuff.
Spock never wears makeup ("I have no need to make myself sexually alluring to anyone, Captain, as I have no interest in marriage at this time. Also, Sulu and Scotty have both assured me that I am quite bangable as it is," which of course resulted in a lot of latrine duty for Sulu and Scotty, not that Jim has a problem or anything.) But Uhura -- and it must have been Uhura -- thickened the black line of her eyelashes, brushed soft strokes of rose along her cheekbones, put a dark red stain on her lips. When Spock is displeased or uncertain or angry, her mouth tightens and purses. It's adorable, usually.
Right now it's incitement to riot.
Her hair is still pulled back and pulled up; it would take more than shore leave to get that to change. But instead of straight bangs along her forehead, there are curled tendrils on either side of her face, like a renaissance muse. She looks strange in the harsh light of a starship bathroom, out of place.
All things considered, Jim is kind of glad that Spock's wearing a bathrobe. The dress is probably going to make him stroke out.
"Hi," he says, belatedly, realizing that he's been staring at his first officer for about thirty seconds. "So, you look OK to me."
Spock lifts an eyebrow -- god, even that's hotter now, Jim is going to hell -- and says, "Thank you, Captain. However I do not believe a dressing gown would be appropriate attire for the evening."
"Then take it off," Uhura says from behind Jim, "And let's go. Your dress is great, and Jim didn't laugh at your makeup, so--"
"Wait, you thought I'd laugh at you?" Jim says.
Spock stands up, knuckles still white where they grip the lapels of the robe. "You often find me humorous," she points out.
"She's got a point," Bones says. "Come on, Commander, let's beat feet."
Spock doesn't get nervous, but she does get tense; Jim has a feeling that if he taps her right now she'll vibrate like a tuning fork. "Very well," she says, and pulls off the robe.
Bones whistles. "You clean up nice, Commander. All right, Uhura, you got a comm?" and he and Uhura wander toward the exit.
Jim knows he should follow, but he can't seem to move. "You look--"
The dress is a dark blue, almost black. It has thin straps holding it up, although it's so tight in the bodice that it looks almost sprayed on -- Jim notices, a little hysterically, that Vulcans react to cold the same way humans do -- before flaring out over her hips, soft folds stopping at mid-thigh, showing slightly more leg than the standard female dress uniform that Spock refuses to wear.
"Uhura said this would be acceptable," she says, and it isn't a question but it feels like a question, and Jim nods.
"Yes, yeah, it's acceptable. It's great. So, you should probably bring a jacket or a coat or something so you don't get cold, I know how you get uncomfortable even when it's like a million degrees for us, so, um, do you have something like that?" He's just noticed that Uhura dusted her with goddamn body glitter, and this is the worst idea he's ever had.
Spock doesn't, but Uhura does, a kind of wrap/coat thing that covers more than the dress does, although it still lets people see Spock's face and some of her leg and Jim is not going to think about how fucking unacceptable that is.
They make their way to the transporter room, Spock walking silently beside him while Bones and Uhura are still chattering away about something or other, and one of these days Jim's going to have to get around to asking Bones if they are in fact doing it or if they're just becoming BFFs, but not now, because right now he's kind of preoccupied walking down the hallway and not glaring at every ensign and engineer who stops to gape at Spock.
Jim took the Leadership Dynamics course at the Academy, and he knows that in order to exploit your strengths you have to embrace your weaknesses or whatever, so he's fully aware that he's selfish and arrogant and doesn't treat his friends very well. But this feels like something more than just being possessive, than being worried that someone's going to make Spock uncomfortable. This feels like something that's very quickly going to get out of hand.
They climb up on the transporter pad and he reflects morosely that he is definitely, definitely going to get into a fight tonight.
*
The place they go to is loud and crowded and mostly nonhuman, which makes Spock relax just the tiniest bit, although she keeps her cloak on as they all slide into a booth by the dance floor. Jim has absolutely no problem with that.
Bones disappears to get drinks and Uhura disappears onto the dance floor. Jim sits next to Spock and tries to act normal, which of course means he starts acting like a douche.
"So you know if you spin around on the dance floor in that dress," he says -- yells, really -- over the noise, "People are totally going to see your underwear, right?"
Spock opens her mouth to answer when a -- person, who knows what gender or species -- comes up to the table. "I would like to dance with you," it trills, eyestalks wobbling slightly.
Jim can feel his hands bunching into fists, but Spock just blinks, looking surprised. "Very well," she says, and without further fucking ado she strips off her cloack thing like she's not half-naked in front of half the crew and a hundred strangers and proceeds to follow Eyestalk Guy out onto the dance floor.
Bones comes back a few minutes later to find Jim staring at the dance floor through his fingers and wondering how this became his life.
"She's dancing with a snail," he tells Bones, taking a deep drink of whatever it was Bones got him. It tastes like pineapple-flavored fire.
"Bet those kids'll be attractive," Bones says, sprawling out on the booth. "And what are you doing sitting here, anyway? I thought we were whoremongering."
Jim glares at him. "I hate you a lot. You know that, right?"
Bones just grins. "Oh look, there's Uhura. Excuse me, Captain." And he slides out of the booth and into the crowd, where Uhura is dancing along with about a dozen other people. Jim watches them for a few seconds, but his eyes are drawn back to Spock and whatever she's dancing with.
He expected -- when he'd allowed himself to think about it, which wasn't often, because if you're daydreaming on the bridge it's really bad form to get an erection -- that Spock would be an awkward dancer, that she wouldn't quite know where to put her hands or how to move her hips. He would've imagined -- not that he did -- that she would be grateful when he took hold of her hips, pulled her close to show her how to move, that she would settle her fretting hands on his shoulders, at the back of his neck, that she would look up at him with something like relief that he had taken charge.
But the reality is a lot worse, because Jim's only seen dancing like that in Orion porn films, and even that wasn't in four-inch high heels. Spock moves with a sinuous grace that proves what Jim's suspected all along, that the stiffness in her body was really just stillness, a potentiality. Eyestalk Guy seems to be enjoying itself, but it's not touching Spock, which is both a good thing and a bad thing -- good, because then Jim doesn't have to rip its head off, and bad, because Jim doesn't get to rip its head off.
There are a few other people around her starting to take an interest, though, and Jim stands up without really thinking about it. Spock catches sight of him as he gets close. She twists around to face him, and Eyestalk Guy mercifully melts away -- although to be honest, it's more like Jim stops being aware of anything else.
"Hi," he says, and he can feel a crazy grin spreading on his face, because Spock is in a dress and dancing and the universe is perfect right now.
Except smiling was the wrong thing to do, because Spock suddenly stops, jarring against the writhing bodies around her. "I was given to understand that you did not find this amusing," she says.
"Oh, trust me," he says, and steps closer, "I don't find this funny at all."
She watches him, not moving, as he places one hand very, very carefully on her hip, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of her dress. It's a little like silk, but thicker and softer, and it drags against his fingers. He keeps his eyes focused on his hand, and she begins to move again, slower this time. The music's changed to something with lyrics, although they're not in a language he recognizes; the beat is a pulse instead of a drum, something he can feel in his throat. He slides his other hand up her back, sucking in a deep breath when he realizes -- fuck, how had he missed this -- how low-cut it is, the fabric barely covering the the swell of her ass. Her skin is hot, burning, and he looks up into her face almost by accident.
Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open. Vulcans don't sweat, or at least they don't usually, but the glitter on her skin and deep breaths she's taking makes her look like she's run ten miles, like she's been in a sauna, like she's been fucked for hours on somebody's bed.
His palm flattens against her lower back, right where the dress doesn't cover, and he presses, ever so slightly, because if he doesn't get closer to her he's going to die right here on the floor and Spock will have to explain how she killed him, which will probably be really embarrassing and lead to lots of paperwork. Spock hates paperwork just as much as Jim does -- she's just better at hiding it.
Her eyebrows dip slightly, and she opens her eyes, blinking at him. "Jim," she says -- softly, he shouldn't be able to hear her -- "I believe -- I think-"
Someone is tapping on his shoulder, a jab that's like a really tiny punch. Jim turns around and comes face-to-face with a Cardassian soldier, sinuous and elegantly ugly.
"I want to dance with your female," he says, gesturing at Spock with a hand that Jim is going to cut off in the near future. "Step aside."
Jim squares his shoulders, blocking Spock with his body. He knows this is a very bad idea, but he also knows that sometimes you just have to roll with the stupid. "If the lady wants to dance with you, I'm sure she'll let you know."
"I do not," Spock replies, clear and even, from behind him, and he loves her so much in that second that he's almost dizzy with it.
"You ask your females for permission?" the Carassian says, honestly laughing now. "How quaint."
"You should probably get Bones and Uhura now," Jim mutters to Spock.
"Uhura does not know how to fight, Captain. And the last time Dr. McCoy was in a physical altercation, Keenser made him say Aunt."
"Uncle," Jim corrects her. "Made him say Uncle."
"Thank you for the edification, but perhaps we should focus on matters at hand," Spock hisses into his ear. He tries not to get distracted by that.
"Look, Bones can make sure I don't bleed out on the floor, and Uhura's got the comm. Go," he orders, and for once in her life she actually does what he tells her.
"Now, gentlemen," he starts, turning back to the head Cardassian, "While I appreciate that there are many cultural differences in our societies, perhaps I can expand your understanding of human and Vulcan social mores. It may one day come in handy. For example--"
The punch is totally not a surprise, but it still hurts like a motherfucker. Cardassians don't have bone tissue the same way humans do, but their skin is as tough as cured leather.
Jim stumbles into someone, who pushes him back toward the Cardassians, who are mostly looking bored. The music grinds to a halt and the floor is clearing like magic; some things are universal, and a crowd's instinct for both self-preservation and entertainment is one of them.
He ducks the next punch and remembers just in time not to try to hit any of them -- the armor that they wear is no joke, and he'll end up with a broken hand and nothing to show for it. Instead, he grabs onto the leader's neck ridges and throws him over his hip, knocking him to the ground as the other two start to realize they might have picked the wrong puny human to play with.
Jim lets one of them punch him in the stomach -- the guy doesn't know enough about human body structure and doesn't hit high enough, missing Jim's solar plexus -- and rams his elbow into the guy's nose. That has some effect -- the guy staggers backward, clapping his hands over his face as black fluid trickles between his fingers.
The third one glares at Jim, but doesn't try anything. "As I was saying," Jim says, only a little out of breath, "It's considered very insulting to treat any human or Vulcan female as though she was property. And it'll get you your ass handed to you, as you have no doubt noticed."
The lead Cardassian struggles to his feet; Jim watches him, careful to keep distance between them, but all three of them storm out of the club amidst a chorus of cheering and clapping. Jim is instantly surrounded by people, all telling him in various languages that he fought well, that he was brave, that he was the man or whatever. He finds himself half-carried to the bar and given every drink in the house, on the house.
A few moments later Spock, Uhura, and Bones find him; Uhura looking worried, Bones looking irritated, and Spock looking like Spock. Jim hands them all various drinks.
"So," Bones sighs, "Do you feel better now, Jim?"
Jim knocks back three drinks before he feels the adrenaline fading out of his system. It's been a long time since he's been that stupid kid in the barfight, and he's learned how not to lose since then, but there's something nastily familiar about the ache in his cheek and the burn in his gut. "I think we can safely say yes," he answers. "Aside from, you know, the dislocated jaw."
Uhura drifts off after two drinks and a scowl, and Bones follows, after four drinks, a rough examination ("Ow, Jesus, Bones, where did you learn your bedside manner, a Klingon prison planet?") and a stern admonishment not to run into anyone else's fist.
It leaves him alone with Spock, who has had seven drinks and has not been remotely affected by any of them. "Are you in pain?" she asks, frowning up at him, her arms wrapped around Uhura's cloak. She's staring at his jaw.
"Nothing an ice pack and some more of those blue drinks won't cure," he says cheerfully.
Spock nods and leans over the bar. "Excuse me?" she calls, and it's probably her cleavage that gets her such fast service, but when she sits back down on the stool she's holding a (relatively) clean bar rag with a handful of ice cubes.
She reaches up as though she's going to put the ice cubes directly on his face, and he stops her, cupping his hands around hers."Hold on, you have to fold the cloth over, like--" he demonstrates, fashioning a makeshift icepack like the one his mother used to put on his face after school, then brings her hand up to his cheek and presses the cold cloth against it.
Under his cheek, the icepack is freezing, but under his hand, her fingers are still warm.
"That was a remarkably stupid course of action, Captain," she says. "I am puzzled as to why you did it."
He grins, and winces, and shrugs. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
She makes a noise that, if she were human, he'd call exasperated, but since she's not, he can't. "I was referring to your decision to fight them by yourself, rather than allowing me to assist you. As you are aware, I am both stronger and more adept at hand-to-hand combat than you are."
"Yes, and even if I wasn't aware, you tell me and show me at every opportunity." He moves her hand slightly, settling the cold along the line of his jaw.
"Precisely," Spock says quietly. She's still staring at his jaw--
No, Jim realizes, and the buzz of adrenaline is back. She's staring at his mouth.
He licks his lips, a nervous reflex, and he can see her react. He's spent almost a year trying to parse her body language, and a year ago he wouldn't have noticed the slight inhale, the way her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. But he's sure as shit noticing right now.
But all she does is say, "You have not answered my question, Jim."
It's really unfair the way she uses his name like a weapon. It's always deliberate; she doles out his first name carefully, the way a parent rations a child's sweets. "What question?" he says.
"I asked why you chose to fight for me," she says, and it sounds formal, solemn.
"Because no one else is allowed to touch you," he says, and shit, that was too honest, and he corrects, "No one should touch you without your permission. I meant. He shouldn't have tried to touch you without your permission, it wasn't--"
Spock stands up, her hand still holding the icepack to his cheek. She looks -- actually, she does look like she's experiencing an emotion, but Jim's only ever seen blind rage and very, very slight amusement on her face before, and he has no idea what this is.
"I believe," she says, "That I understand what you meant."
"Okay," Jim says. She's standing over him -- sitting on the stool, he's a few inches shorter than she is, and she uses it, looming over him while she examines his face. He has no idea what she's looking for, and he can feel cold water sliding down his neck.
After a long minute, she takes the icepack away from his cheek and sets it carefully on the bar. "I believe we should retire for the evening, Jim," she says.
"Uh, Uhura's got the comm if you want to beam up," Jim says, sliding off the barstool.
She takes his hand carefully in hers. "I have a different venue in mind," she says, and tugs him toward the door.
*
Risa is the resort planet of the Federation; there's no shortage of hotels to choose from. Jim tries to remember the name of the place Chekhov had recommended, but Spock takes the choice neatly away from him and tells the driver to go to the Risan Pearl.
"Uh," Jim says, because he can't think of a delicate way to bring up the fact that he can't actually afford to spend more than five minutes at the Pearl. It's the most expensive hotel on Risa; they didn't just put it on an island, they *built* an island especially for it. "Spock, I don't--"
"I secured several floors for the use of the crew," Spock says casually. "I thought they would enjoy the prospect of a few nights' planetside."
Jim stares at her. Even if she'd pawned the Enterprise, it probably would've only given her one of the economy rooms. For a day.
But she simply looks back at him, and adds, "I believe there is an ensuite that is not in use."
"Oh," Jim says.
The Pearl is everything the holo-ads proclaim it to be -- lush and luxurious and beautiful, everything designed to please the wide variety of guests it indulges. But even so, Jim notices that Spock attracts special attention as she walks through the front doors. Of course, she's famous not only from the escapades of the Enterprise, but in her own right; although Vulcan is (was) not a caste society, Spock's family is (was) one of the most well-respected and well-regarded. Everyone onboard makes jokes about how Spock's a princess, but it's never more obvious that it's true than at times like this.
"Commander Spock, it is a most glorious privilege," someone says, bowing. "We have arranged everything to your specifications, you may leave everything to us, thank you for honoring us with your custom--"
If Spock is as weirded out by this as Jim is, she doesn't give any indication. "Please direct us to our suite," she says, and Jim feels a little hopeful at that, because suite singular sounds kind of interesting. Although there are probably several bedrooms, there, and Spock's spent enough time with Jim to know what he's like with a hangover. She's probably just being nice, making sure there's someone to take care of him tomorrow morning. Which is illogical, but no more than renting out, holy fuck, three floors of the Pearl just for shits and giggles.
The suite is, as expected, jaw-dropping; an anit-grav pool bubbles away on the balcony and everything looks like the best possible version of itself. He feels dirty and dingy standing here, out of place.
Spock doesn't; she moves around the room as though examining it for security breaches (which she probably is). Jim closes the door after the valets, who are still bowing, and engages the lock. He's still not sure what's about to happen, and he puts his hands flat on the cool surface of the door for a few seconds, breathing deep.