Chapter Text
Three nights, three nightmares; Jim’s three for three on lunging for Surak, as well. So blinded by his own panic that he can’t stop himself from reaching out, searching for sleep warm skin and a strong pulse. Jim knows better - he should know better - but he can’t stop fucking it up. Unsurprising, really. Surak’s strong hand has closed around his wrist each time, just too slow to stop Jim’s fingers from touching him. Jim’s wrist had been bruised, after the first night. He hadn’t minded. Surak had only noticed because Jim had been idly tracing the colours as they bloomed, chasing the ache. The Vulcan’s jaw had been set tighter than usual, eyes slightly narrowed. His gloved hands had held Jim steady, removing the shape of themselves from his wrist with the regen.
Jim can barely remember where he is when he jolts awake; the year, the ship, their conditions - everything that isn't making sure Surak still lives is a nebulous concept. Surak has enough control to remember that the hand reaching for his throat isn't malicious, even when torn from sleep by Jim. He could break Jim’s wrist easily. It’d be an effective warning, might even work to convince Jim's brain to keep his hands to himself. Surak doesn’t, keeps his touch light enough that there’s no chance of bruising, even as his hand restrains Jim’s wrist. It’s unintentional but his touch grounds Jim, keeps him from slipping further into the delirium of his own mind. Jim had been so out of it last night that, for a second, he’d imagined Surak’s thumb sliding slowly against the edge of his wrist.
Surak should have separated their bedding, by now. He must be sick of Jim’s constant invasion, his inability to keep himself in check. Surak hasn’t so much as mentioned it. Jim should do it himself but if he currently possessed the ability to deprive himself of another person’s body heat, he wouldn’t be reaching for Surak’s pulse whenever he woke.
The Vulcan had made him tea, each time. Pressing theris-masu into his cold, shaking hands, placing a small plate of biscuits into his lap. He does it so casually, so easily, as though it’s nothing. As though Jim wouldn’t have killed a human for something so decadent, once. Jim’s spent longer than this living off broken sleep, in worse conditions, and he’s come out just fine. He’s done entire jobs in worse states than this; has felt more or less normal as he completed them.
Jim feels like he’s slowly unravelling. Untethered, space debris drifting without aim.
It’s morning again now. Jim’s only keeping track of the time because Surak is. The Vulcan changes between day clothes and his nightgown as though time means anything at all right now. Jim hasn’t bothered to put his jeans back on in two days. A handful of sun lamps are on instead of the overhead lights. Surak’s been rotating the succulents so that they all have a chance to bask in the direct sunlight.
Jim needs to pull himself from underneath the warm blankets in order to make himself breakfast but he’s been laying here for close to an hour now. Mind wandering as he watches Halevi and Mittens wrestle with each other. The quiet sound of Surak spritzing water at irregular intervals is soothing, almost meditative. Jim realises that his eyes have drifted shut again when the sound of the spray bottle being placed down jolts him awake once more. He listens to the quiet sounds of the replicator and manages to sit himself up.
Surak returns to their bed, bowl in hand. Jim contemplates levering himself up, weighs the need for food against the weight of his head, the dryness of his eyes. Maybe he should just lay back down, have a nap. Surak sits on top of the quilt on his side of the bed, crossing his legs as he reaches for the top of the book pile with one hand and placing the bowl in Jim’s lap with the other. Jim blinks down at it. Oatmeal, thin and runny the way Jim likes it.
“Replicator screw up? I can fix that,” Jim promises. Surak is probably equally capable of it but this is something that Jim can do for Surak so he doesn’t have to waste the time. Besides, Jim’d love to take the old thing apart. Give it some upgrades, make it better for Surak. As an added bonus, it’d give Jim something to do other than bother the Vulcan, read trashy novellas or overthink.
“It is functioning adequately. That is the meal I ordered.”
“You don’t like runny oatmeal.” Jim remembers their conversation about it perfectly. Even if he didn’t, he’s watched Surak eat oatmeal with a fork before.
“The food is for you.”
Jim taps his finger against the still warm bowl. He knows Surak hasn’t already eaten. Jim hadn’t gone back to sleep last night, after. Had stared at the back of his eyelids and listened to Surak’s breathing shift through sleep cycles. Watched as the man prepared himself for his morning meditation, as he tended to the cats and then plants. Jim might’ve been dozing on and off but he would’ve woken up at the sound of the replicator. Surak has not yet had breakfast and, given the way he’s started reading, it doesn’t seem as though he’s about to rectify that.
“You're not gonna eat breakfast?"
“I am not,” Surak confirms. Jim’s head doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, the first tendrils of adrenaline seeping through his system starting to wake him up. It was stupid of him, to put off checking the replicator. He’d been confident in it but Surak’s trip to Old Bess had been interrupted, hadn’t it? What else hadn’t he had the chance to do, apart from fix his warp core? They’ve already been here for three nights, not quite four days; they’ll be able to leave soon. Figure out where the asteroid has taken them, reroute to the nearest planet. Jim can't know how tightly they'll need to ration until then but Jim can still prepare, still cut his own portions so that Surak can eat. They’ve still got the ration bars in his bag - has he told Surak about those?
No. He hasn’t. A foolish oversight, selfish, and now Surak’s skipping breakfast without a word. Giving Jim a full bowl of oatmeal as though Surak’s own stomach isn't empty. Surak better not try to tell Jim any of that bullshit about how Vulcan’s are able to live on less food than Humans. Jim was fooled by that bullshit once, never again.
“I’m not hungry. You’ll have to eat half of mine so it doesn’t go to waste.” He used to use this trick with the younger kids. Surak’s old enough to see through it but Jim’s stubborn enough to pull it off. If Surak had a bowl, Jim’d just start spooning it in. He can’t exactly spoon it into the man’s gloved hands. Bite for bite? Jim’s nails are tapping against the side of the bowl, fast and repetitive.
“No. I -”
“It mightn’t be able to double as cement, but it’s still edible, Surak. Promise.” Jim gives a winning grin, holding the bowl out for Surak. The Vulcan shakes his head.
“Tarsus-”
“Jim.” The joke isn't funny anymore. Not now, with the threat of rationing hanging over them, the cold prickling at Jim’s skin even with the sunlamps shining. Not when memories of that place are clawing their way through his dreams every night. “Call me Jim.”
“Jim,” Surak repeats, after a moment. Hearing his name in Surak’s deep voice isn’t something he ever expected to hear. It’s… odd. Good. Not good, just. Better than being called Tarsus.
“I am fasting for religious purposes, Jim. If you cannot finish your meal, simply dispose of it in the replicator. If it is that you do not wish to eat oatmeal again, do not feel obliged. Choose a different meal. The replicator is well equipped to handle our requests.”
“Religious purposes?”
“Purim begins tonight. The sequence of events which has led to our current situation also prevents me from completing all the mitzvot but I will do what I can.”
“Including fasting?”
Surak nods. “Yes, Jim.”
Jim stirs his spoon through the oatmeal. He’ll still check the replicator levels later today, just in case. He takes a bite of the oatmeal Surak made for him. The Vulcan added honey, stirred it through. The taste of it warms Jim more than should be possible; maybe that’s just the weight of Surak’s dark eyes, watching him eat.
“I don’t really know anything about Purim.”
Surak runs one gloved finger along the edge of his book. It’s open but the Vulcan hasn’t looked down at it since Jim started eating. Jim can’t imagine fasting willingly in any situation that doesn’t involve a severe shortage of food and needier mouths; can’t imagine having to watch someone eat a full bowl of food while his own stomach aches. No wonder Surak looks so hungry, eyes dark and hooded.
“Would you like to?”
Jim’s never gonna believe in any higher power but he can recognize the worth it has to other people. Even if Jim didn’t like learning, even if he had no interest in knowing more about Surak and his life, he’d still agree. Surak has a voice made for listening to.
“Yeah. What’s a mitzvot?”
One side of Surak’s mouth tips upwards, just barely. Just enough for Jim to see. He wants to reach out and touch it, to run his fingers across Surak’s lips. He runs his fingers over the side of the bowl, instead, and listens to Surak talk.
“Go back to sleep, Surak,” Jim says, curled up on his side of the bed. He’d barely been asleep before he’d woken up again, tonight. They’ve both been awake for hours and it’s still barely midnight. Jim wants to get up and move but he knows that pacing around the small cabin will do nothing but agitate him further. He doesn’t want to deprive Surak of his body heat, either. Or bother Halevi, who’s asleep on the very edge of Jim’s futon, pinning down the quilt.
“Vulcan’s require less sleep than humans, Jim.”
“You still need more than what you’re getting. I’ll stay awake. No more hands at your throat tonight. Someone’d have to offer me a pretty sweet deal for me to even consider killing you, you know?” Jim jokes, staring at Surak. One of the sunlamps is still on, Surak doing his best to care for an ailing plant. It's a small lamp, barely doing more to illuminate the cabin than the emergency lights. It’s just enough for him to be able to see Surak, rendered in flat monotones; the faintest hint of pink against his pillow, his hair.
“Informing someone that you would kill them, regardless of how exorbitant the price, is perhaps not as reassuring as you may have intended.” Surak’s voice is slow; tired. Still dry as the Vulcan desert when he’s joking.
Jim chuckles, smothering it when it threatens to turn into a yawn.
“Just being honest, Surak. Who wouldn’t I kill, if the price was right.”
“…That is a very sad way to live.”
Is it? By Jim’s count, there’s eight people in the entire universe Jim wouldn’t kill, no matter what. Eight whole people; that number’s larger than it used to be. Maybe Surak’s just talking about living with the knowledge that sentient life has a price tag and Jim’s low enough to ask for it. Maybe Surak’s pondering some deep moral quandary and Jim’s too overtired to see it. His eyes ache with how little sleep he’s gotten, brain feeling like it’s barely ticking over.
“I mean no offence,” Surak says, when Jim keeps his silence.
“None taken.”
Surak’s handsome, even like this - washed out by the shadows and tired. He looks soft with sleep and vulnerable; he’s letting Jim see him like this. Allowing Jim close enough that he can reach out and touch; close enough that he has, night after night, without reprimand. Surak lets Jim look at him, nightgown rumpled and hair gently mussed. Keeps giving - food, tea, conversation; little intimacies that Jim hoards deep within his chest.
Does Surak understand the way it makes Jim feel, to know him like this? The privilege of it, the honour; the horror.
Jim’s plan to sabotage the growing friendship between them once they’re free of the asteroid keeps sliding through his hands like water when he tries to think about it. Surak knows too much about him; he couldn’t use it to hurt Jim, if he were dead. Jim already knows he won’t be able to kill Surak. Can’t so much as think of the Vulcan injured without feeling the urge to check on the man, make sure he’s still safe, still healthy.
He wants to bind Surak to him irrevocably. Wants to lure him closer, and closer; dig his filthy claws in deep enough that the Vulcan can never leave. What would it take, to keep Surak? Jim would do it, whatever it is, to keep Surak’s solid presence at his side.
“You should sleep more, too.”
“Hm?” Jim’s tired enough that it takes actual energy to pull his mind back to their conversation and away from the low neckline of Surak’s nightgown, trying to make out chest hair through the gloom.
“Humans require more rest than Vulcans and yet, you sleep far less than I do. I promise that, without adequate financial compensation, I will not make an attempt on your life.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” Jim giggles, shaking with laughter.
“My grasp of human social mores has failed me yet again.” Surak says, deadpan. He blinks slowly, his eyelids as heavy as Jim’s. Surak’s right; he needs to sleep more. If it were just a lack of sleep, Jim’d be fine. It’s the stress, the nightmares. He doesn’t want to sleep. Jim would say that what he wants doesn’t matter but… it does, here. It matters to Surak, for some reason. The Vulcan will stand at the replicator in the morning and make food for them both so that Jim doesn’t have to crawl out into the cool air. He remembers which tea Jim prefers, which juice.
They stare at each other in the dark, silence a comfortable weight. Everytime Jim blinks it feels as though there’s sand scraping against his eyeballs. He refuses to sleep tonight. They’re powering up the ship tomorrow; a handful of hours and then they can leave. Split apart their beds, Jim slinking back into the storeroom to lick his wounds alone. He can sleep then. He just has to wait it out. Jim pinches the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger but the spark of pain barely registers.
“Should you need,” Surak’s voice drags Jim’s eyes open once more, “I will listen. To what troubles you.”
Jim offers the Vulcan a faint smile. He can’t imagine something he’d like less. Showing Surak the rot that lingers inside, the scars scored right through the heart of him - he wants to keep Surak, not drive him off. Not anymore.
“Think ‘m falling asleep,” Jim admits. If Surak replies, Jim doesn’t hear.
They chase it down the mountain, JT, Kevin and T’Pring.
The ship.
It’s still cold but there’s no wind today, no snowfall, just the pale winter sun high above them. Perfect landing conditions.
They can’t run fast - Kevin can’t run at all, though he tries. Darting ahead and laughing breathlessly and then lagging behind until his excitement overwhelms his exhaustion. JT’s grinning so hard that his cheeks hut; T’Pring’s smiling, too. An actual curve to her lips rather than JT having to search out the barest reflection of an expression.
JT can’t remember the last time he felt so many good things, good emotions; they’re saved. There’s a ship and it’s here and they can leave.
It’s flying towards the town but JT doesn’t even care. There’s gonna be food on that ship, people who can take all three of them away; no way is he letting such a thing slip through his hands just because of those fuckers. JT dares any of those fuckers to get in his way - nothing’ll stand between him and that shuttle.
Their legs are aching by the time they hit the edges of the once bountiful fields. The snow has seeped through their clothes again, clinging and damp and uncomfortable. It doesn’t even matter; there’ll be blankets on the shuttle, too. More on whatever ship they came from.
If the crew of the shuttle looks at the three of them and agrees with Kodos, that they’re undesirable, that they’re deserving of death - JT didn’t forget the knife. He might be weak but he’s quick and not afraid to fight dirty. They’re leaving on that shuttle, no matter what JT has to do to get them there.
The three of them skirt the edges of the town, closer and closer to the shuttle pad. He can’t hear anything, none of the noise he’d expected to hear. Where’s the laughter, the relief, the joy?
JT hopes that, faced with a reminder that the rest of the universe exists, they’re all drowning in guilt. Too ashamed to look at themselves in the mirror. He doesn’t think it’s true, but he wants it to be.
The streets are still familiar. JT takes point, peeking around corners, making sure the way is clear. T’Pring got the rear, strong enough to overpower anyone who’s stupid enough to try and catch her off guard. Kevin’s in the middle, safe. His enthusiasm faded, the closer they got to town. He’s anxious, now; gnawing at his knuckles - JT doesn’t let him bite the skin around his fingernails. Too much chance of infection if he rips the skin.
Street after street taken at a snail’s pace but it’ll be worth it when he can sit down in actual chair.
It’s the simple things in life.
“Oh,” T’Pring gasps. JT spins around, knife at the ready, but her head’s tilted upwards. JT looks up, too. There’s another shuttle, and another following. Still descending through atmo, still barely more than dark shapes in the sky, but they both know the shape of a shuttle.
“See that, Kevin?” JT points up, crouches down so the boy can follow his arm right to the shuttles.
“You said they’re here for us?”
“Yes. Rescue,” T’Pring agrees, her shoulders loosening in unmistakable relief. She closes the gap between them, bumping her hip against JT’s shoulder. JT leans his slight weight back against her for a moment. It almost feels like he’s dreaming. As though any moment he’s going to wake up and everything will hurt worse, knowing that help’ll never come.
But help has come. It’s… it’s over. They’re not gonna die here.
“We’re getting out of here.” JT runs a hand over Kevin’s filthy hair, trying to tame it as much as possible. There’s no way they can look anywhere near presentable but maybe they can look less like goblins who’ve crawled straight from the depths of the earth. Kevin’s practically vibrating under his hand, anxiety forgotten under a fresh wave of excitement.
“Race ya!” Kevin says, darting away the second JT lifts his hand. JT stands up, follows. Kevin’s attempt at a run is an unsteady thing, his path wavering back and forth across the street. JT and T’Pring follow closely behind, shoulders bumping together as they walk. JT looks back up at the sky, at the shuttles growing larger and larger, and then Kevin’s… gone.
JT stands, frozen. Unable to comprehend the sight in front of him. It feels like the world’s moving to fast, like he’s stuck in molasses up to his head.
There’s Kevin, hazel eyes wide and already hazy. There’s… there’s blood. Blood and teeth and the inside of Kevin’s abdomen. Pink flesh; organs sliding out to be grasped at by a greedy hand.
There’s already a piece of Kevin in their mouth. Butcher knife in their hand, already slicing off a second bite.
It doesn’t make sense. They’re safe. The shuttles - one’s already landed - they’re safe. Rescued.
Kevin’s mouth is open, face already going slack from the rictus of pain it’d been in. Too surprised to even scream; maybe hit head hit the ground too hard when he was tackled to the ground by a human almost thrice his size.
JT thinks he can’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears until he realises that the sound is T’Pring. She’s screaming. She’s screaming so much and Kevin never screamed at all.
That fucking thing is eating him, one hand already trying to slide into the narrow cavity of his abdomen in search of more.
JT’s knees give out. He can’t even feel the ground, when he slams against it. His entire world has narrowed to the gnashing of teeth.
Teeth and blood and then T’Pring’s back.
Her howls.
The sound of her fists as they impact against the beast. The crack of one wrist. The impact of a head against the ground; that sound, repeated. T’Pring’s sensitive hands buried in filthy hair as she slams it face first against the ground over and over. She’s screaming ri in time with the brutal rhythm of her hands; ri, ri, ri, ri.
no, no, no, no
JT manages to crawl through closer but he knows it’s too late. Knew from the moment he saw Kevin’s eyes. JT knows death too well to cling to false hope, now. Kevin’s so small, he hadn’t had much blood to loose. From the moment a knife so large sunk into his stomach, it was over.
Maybe Kevin knew it too, and that’s why he didn’t scream.
Kevin’s still warm when JT touches his hair.
T’Pring lets the thing fall into a pool of its own blood. JT carefully moves Kevin’s head into his lap, doing his best to press the gut wound closed. There’s… there’s too much flesh missing to manage.
T’Pring picks up the abandoned knife.
Surak’s hand is so warm around Jim’s. His fingers are wrapped around the back of Jim’s hand, his thumb pressed into the centre of Jim’s palm. Jim’s breath stutters at the feeling of Surak’s thumb dragging firmly across the sensitive skin. Surak doesn’t let him go. Pulls Jim’s hand towards himself instead of placing it gently on the quilt. His grip is light enough that Jim could pull away, if he wanted.
He doesn’t.
Surak’s warm. He's so warm. Jim presses his face into the man’s neck and breathes. Listens to the slow, steady beat of the Vulcan’s pulse. Jim closes his eyes as Surak wraps one muscular arm around his waist and holds him tight. The other hand slides away from Jim's own, leaving Jim's hand on Surak's chest. He can't be upset at the loss when Surak’s long fingers slip through Jim’s hair, instead. Long fingers rubbing soothing patterns against his skull.
Jim doesn’t know when he started crying.
“You’re in so much pain.” Surak’s face is turned towards Jim, his lips brushing the side of Jim’s face. Jim can feel the rhythm of the man’s heart against his stomach, strong and reassuring. Jim shakes apart in Surak’s arms. Pressing his mouth to the man’s neck doesn’t muffle the noises he’s making; just makes them worse. They echo - wet and gasping and horrible. Wretched whines that he almost chokes on, throat tight with grief and tears and shame.
Surak holds him close and tight and eventually the pathetic sounds being wrung from Jim’s throat fade away. He doesn’t feel better; he just feels empty. Crying has never brought him any sort of release. He’s a thing made of memories and failure, a vast expanse of nothingness hidden within a fragile shell.
“Let me help,” Surak whispers. Jim doesn’t know what Surak thinks he could help with. That sympathetic ear, maybe. More therapy. Tea and biscuits. Enough alcohol that Jim can pretend to feel emotions again.
Jim doesn’t want any of that. He manages to prop himself up on one elbow, staring down at Surak.
“Distract me.” Jim lists forward, just enough that the tip of his nose brushes against Surak’s. He leaves no doubt as to what he means, his breath fluttering over Surak’s lips. Jim knows Surak will refuse; whatever friendship has spawned between them due to close quarters, how could it survive whatever Surak has gleaned from touching Jim’s wrist, skin to skin, for so many nights.
Jim will steal a kiss and seal the deal and burn his bridges all at once.
Surak tilts his head before Jim gets the chance, pressing his lips to Jim’s. His lips are soft, so soft. Sweet pressure, gentle movement. Surak opens for Jim, gradually. The movement of their mouths against each other is still so slow; it’s another intimacy that Surak is sharing with him. Freely, willingly, though what he sees in Jim other than his pretty face, Jim cannot comprehend.
Teeth scrape against Jim’s lower lip, hands pull him closer, and Jim bites back. He nips and licks and drives the kiss higher, faster, until it’s wet and messy and the sound echoes around the cabin. Surak tries to pull him closer but there is no closer, not like this. It’s an easy decision to make, pulling away. Not far. Just enough to shed Surak’s robe and then slide a leg over Surak’s waist and straddle him. Surak’s hands slide up his sides, over his shirt. They clench in the worn fabric as they share fierce kisses before sliding back down, fingers slipping under the hem. The touch of Surak's hands against his bare ribs is breathtaking. Jim wants to feel them everywhere, wants to revel in Surak's touch. In being wanted, held so close even though Surak knows how he's coming apart at the seams.
Jim wants those hands in his mouth. Wants to lave at Surak's fingers until the Vulcan comes apart under his tongue; maybe he'll understand what he's doing to Jim, then. Understand the tremors shuddering through his very bones.
He lifts his arms, lets Surak strip his shirt off, his fingers lingering for long moments on Jim's wrists. Once his shirt's been discarded, Jim leans down for another kiss, leading with teeth. Surak matches him but doesn’t bite harder, doesn't escalate. Rubs his hands slowly along Jim’s back and sides and waist but no lower.
“What do you want?” Jim asks, trailing one hand down Surak’s arm. Shoulder to elbow to wrist, a mimicry of the path Surak's hands had travelled when stripping Jim of his shirt. He teases his fingers along the back of Surak’s hand before taking the Vulcan's wrist and raising it to his lips. Surak’s mouth parts on a shallow gasp as Jim traces his tongue along the soft skin of the Vulcan’s palm. Jim watches with rapt attention, cataloguing every reaction as he licks around the base of Surak’s fingers. Sucks the tip of one finger into his mouth, teeth just barely grazing the sensitive skin. Surak’s hips buck upwards, almost unseating Jim completely. Jim opens his mouth and takes three of Surak's fingers inside, tonguing the underside of them as he bobs his head down. Surak's thumb and pinkie slide against his cheeks, the digits squeezing for a moment when Jim's teeth graze the second knuckle of Surak's middle finger. Jim wants Surak to grip his face tight, forcing his fingers into Jim's mouth until they scrape the back of his throat.
Surak just keeps rocking his hips in smooth, slight motions; lets Jim do as he wills with his hand, even as the tips of his ears and his cheeks darken. Jim sucks, spit starting to collect at the corners of his mouth. Whines when Surak's fingers finally slide against the back of his tongue; feels his gut clench when Surak's fingers twitch, rubbing against the delicate skin of his throat for a brief moment. He can feel Surak against him, hard and wanting. Jim drags the hand back out of his mouth, licking everything that he can until the fingers are free. He presses Surak's palm to his cheek, shivering when he sees the open, hungry look on Surak's face. Surak rubs saliva damp fingers against Jim's skin, his other hand gently massaging Jim's waist.
“Tell me,” Jim orders, or maybe he begs, pressing chaste kiss after chaste kiss to Surak’s beautiful hand.
“You. Jim, I want you.”
Jim shivers, dragging his lips across Surak’s skin just to see the man do the same. He presses a kiss to the thin skin of Surak’s wrist and then opens his mouth. Lightly sucks at the skin and grinds down into Surak when the man groans, hips bucking up into Jim. There’s barely anything separating them. Jim’s underwear, Surak’s nightgown and whatever he wears underneath it. So close to what Jim’s been craving for years.
“Have me.” A scrape of teeth. “Take me.” Jim runs the fingers of his free hand across Surak’s, arches into it as the Vulcan's hand tightens around him. Surak’s fingers aren’t digging in, his grip nowhere near hard enough to bruise.
“Be as rough as you want, Surak. I can take it,” he promises. Surak draws his hand away from Jim’s face before Jim can press his lips back to skin. Surak's hand caresses Jim's neck, thumb dragging firmly down the column of Jim's throat.
“Can you.” It’s not quite a question. Surak’s hand moves to cradle the back of Jim’s head, thumb rubbing briefly at the soft space just below Jim’s ear. “Alright.”
Surak flips them both easily, his hand cushioning Jim’s head despite the pillow waiting on Jim's futon. Halevi makes a disgruntled noise, padding off to find a sleeping spot with less movement.
“Rough as I want?” The Vulcan asks, settling himself into the welcoming cradle of Jim’s hips. Jim grinds up against him, arching into the feel of Surak’s hard length against his own, and grins as Surak thrusts against him.
“Yeah.” Jim tugs at Surak’s nighty and the man obliges him. Grabs the back of it and pulls it off over his head, throwing it to the side. Jim reaches up to run a hand through Surak’s chest hair, scraping his nails against the skin as he does so. He wants to see Surak in full, wants to fuck him with every damn light in this room turned on.
The Vulcan feels so much larger like this, looming over Jim. He's so sturdy, made up of dense Vulcan muscle, and Jim relishes in the feeling of Surak's weight pressing down against him as he lowers himself until they’re pressed chest to chest. The faint scrape of hair against Jim’s nipples is more erotic than he can ever remember it being. Surak's arms are either side of Jim’s head, boxing him in completely. Jim hooks his ankles together, already feeling the stretch of spreading his thighs wide around Surak’s thick waist.
Surak kisses him. Slow and deep and intimate. He grinds his hips slowly against Jim’s own; firm pressure and brilliant friction. Surak catches Jim’s lower lip between his teeth but doesn’t bite down the way Jim expects. Doesn't draw blood or pain. Surak moves his mouth away from Jim’s, his teeth dragging across Jim’s lip in away that tingles down his spine.
“I don’t want -” Surak presses a kiss to Jim’s cheek, “to be rough with you.”
Surak stares down at him, dark eyes intent. Jim’s mouth goes dry; his heart stutters in his chest. It's so unexpected that Jim doesn't know what to say, can't think of anything at all except - of course Surak would be gentle in this, too. Would want to treat Jim with a care he doesn't deserve. All that strength, the capacity for cruelty, and all Surak does is brush the tip of his nose against Jim's, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, hell. Ye-yeah,” Jim breathes. “Surak, please.”
Surak kisses him again, shifting his weight above Jim, rebalancing himself on one strong arm. Then there’s a hand running down Jim’s side again. Past his waist, following the line of Jim’s sharp iliac crest until two fingertips have hooked themselves inside Jim’s underwear.
“My name,” he says, lips brushing against Jim’s own in the lightest of kisses, “is Spock.”