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What Happens in Vegas . . . Well, You Know the Rest

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Title: What Happens In Vegas . . . Well, You Know the Rest
Author: [info]ladyblahblah 
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: PG-13 again, I reckon

Summary: (stolen from [info]afallenseraphim , who did the amazing art that inspired this) BOOZ + CHOCOLATE + VEGAS + SPORK = SEXIEST HANGOVER EVARZ

Author's Note: Written for the Ship Wars Hangover Challenge.  I . . . I have no excuse for this but that I am a helpless art thrall.

 

 


The lights are unacceptably bright, even behind the arm that Spock has draped across his eyes. His entire body aches horribly, though nothing worse than his head. He wonders, quite illogically, if it is possible for one's own head to spontaneously detach itself from the rest of one's body. On the heels of that thought comes another, equally illogical: namely, that he would be quite pleased if this proved to be the case.

He has been asleep for . . . for . . . he does not know. His time-sense is in shambles, though concern over that takes a backseat to disgust at the taste coating his mouth. It's sharp and thick and bitter, and he thinks he can detect a faint undertone of . . . nougat.

Oh no.

Spock can count on one hand the number of times he has allowed himself to overindulge, and he would need only half of those to enumerate the times that have resulted in what is known in Standard as a 'hangover'. Neither of those times have been anywhere near this unpleasant. No, 'unpleasant' is not an adequate word for what this is, despite the mysterious soothing coolness pressed against his left side. In fact, he can think of no word in any of the several languages he knows to describe his current level of misery. Perhaps if he had taken the time to learn Orion.

Most unnerving at all, however, is the realization that he has no idea how he came to be in this state. The knowledge must be in his mind somewhere, however, and he is determined to chase it down. He remembers being stranded in the distant past--not for the first time--and Jim--his heart hitches in his side just to think the name and he quickly modifies his thoughts. The Captain had suggested a few days of modified shore leave while Mr. Scott completed the modifications necessary for them to return home. Spock had objected, arguing that surely all crew should be on-board to assist in the effort. Mr. Scott had refused to let anyone else go near the engines "after what happened last time, you damn fools." The Captain had persevered in the end.

He remembers the Captain expressing a desire to see a Terran city of great repute in this time, and the rest of the bridge crew's agreement. He remembers his own concern for his captain's safety compelling him to accompany them despite his own reservations.

He remembers flashing neon signs and an overweight Human male in an inappropriately tight white jumpsuit. He remembers a great deal of sequined clothing.

He remembers . . . nothing beyond that.

Spock pushes deeper into his thoughts, but his efforts are broken by a fresh surge of pain in his head and a sick, slow roll of nausea. A groan sounds out, and it is easily the most miserable sound that Spock has ever heard.

It takes him a moment to realize that it was not his own.

The cool pressure against his side shifts, and Spock instinctively follows it before he realizes what he is doing. The familiar scent in the room finally registers; he freezes.

"Fuck." The voice is rough, and Spock has a sudden memory of a Human neck bared in a full-throated scream. "Why did I open my eyes? Oh god. 'M never drinking again."

"A wise resolution, but I fear a fruitless one," Spock hears himself saying. He is pleasantly surprised at his own eloquence given the circumstances despite the fact that his voice seems to have been as mistreated as his Captain's.

The body next to his--for Spock has finally recognized the pleasant feel of Human skin--stills. The Captain's voice, when he speaks again, sounds muffled.

"Spock?"

"Affirmative."

"Ah . . ."

"Indeed."

Spock finally ventures to remove his arm from across his face to find his eyes locked on his Captain's bare shoulder, hunched nearly up to his ear. Spock's gaze wanders before he can stop it, down the long, graceful sweep of back to the contours of a hip marked with vivid purple bruises. He has the idea that if he were to fit his hand to the spot there would be no doubt as to where the marks had come from.

"Um." The Captain takes a deep breath. "What the fuck happened?"

Spock considers the rounded Human ear in front of him and tries to suppress the concern that rises in him at the question. "You do not remember either?"

"Either?" The Captain finally lowers the hands that have been covering his face--slowly, in deference to the bright sunlight streaming in through the window--and turns enough to regard Spock out of red-rimmed eyes. "So we're flying blind, then. Okay." He takes a deep breath. "There's always clues, you know." He turns away again to scan the room. "We're in Vegas."

"I do recall your desire to view the city."

"Right. And then there was . . ." He spots something and sighs. "Booze," he says, pointing to the nightstand where a nearly empty bottle of alcohol sits. "And . . . are those chocolates?"

"Were, I believe," Spock answers, and tries to ignore the revolting taste in his mouth. The Captain makes a disgusted noise and heaves himself up until he is sitting upright.

"Shit, this is the worst hangover I've ever had, hands-down. Right, so we got wasted. And . . . um . . ."

He seems to only then notice their mutual state of undress, and a red flush colors skin that was sickly pale a moment ago.

"Right," he says again, and pulls the sheet over to cover his hips. "Ah. At least we didn't--oh. Shit."

"Captain?" Spock struggles into a sitting position, as well, and grits his teeth against the urge to curve himself against that blissfully cool back again.

"Um, Spock. Your hand. You're not, uh . . . you're not wearing a ring, are you?"

Spock blinks, then examines his hands. There, on the third finger of his left hand, is a thin gold band.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, and the Captain groans.

"We got married? Oh man, Komack is gonna have our asses for this. No, it's okay. I mean, this is in the past, right? Literally. It's probably not even legally binding, so we're good."

"Captain." Spock feels as though he might vomit, and he is starting to get the hint of an idea as to what might be causing it. Aside, of course, from what appears from here to be a completely empty heart-shaped box of chocolates. "I'm afraid our situation might in fact be--"

The chirp of a communicator is unforgivably loud in their current condition, and both men immediately reach up to grab their heads. Kirk recovers first--presumably through the benefit of previous experience--and fumbles in the sheets until he finds the offending piece of technology. He snaps it open.

"What?" he groans into the receiver, and there is a moment's stunned silence on the other end before Chekov's bright, cheerful voice rings out.

"Keptin! Sorry, vas expecting Mr. Spock. Sir, Mr. Scott has requested I inform you zat ze modifications haf been completed. Ve are ready to go home--"

"Thank god," the Captain groans, but Chekov is speaking over him.

"--just as soon as you and Mr. Spock haf finished your honeymoon."

They both go very, very still. "I beg your pardon, Ensign?" Spock asks, and he can very nearly hear the boy blush.

"M-Mr. Spock! Ah. Hello. Sir. Ah, Lieutenant Uhura suggested zat ve give you a day or two to . . . uhm . . . ah, she vishes to take over communication," he says, relief clear in his voice. "I only vish to say, congratulations. You know, quvickie marriages vere inwented in Russia."

"Captain. Spock." Uhura's voice takes over almost before Chekov can finish his unlikely claim. He has never heard such deep satisfaction in another person's voice before. "Congratulations from all of us. Mr. Scott sends his assurances that a day or two's delay won't make much of a difference, and McCoy wanted me to tell you that Kirk better not have downed that entire bottle of whiskey already; that was supposed to be your wedding present. We'll beam you back up at 1600 day after tomorrow, Earth time PST. Mazel tov, sirs."

The transmission cuts off before either one of them has a chance to respond.

"This is against regulations," the Captain mutters, "I'm sure of it. I can't get my brain to work so I don't remember which ones, but I know there's something in there about mutiny and marooning your commanding officer without proper documentation or something." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Well, this is fixable. We have a couple of days. If you can get married in one night, there's gotta be somewhere you can get a divorce just as quick, right?"

"As I was saying, Sir," Spock says, keeping his voice even only through years of practice, "I believe that an antiquated Earth marriage is the least of our concerns."

"Really? Because I'd say it's pretty high up on the damned list."

"Under other circumstances I might agree. However . . ." He pauses, unsure how to broach the subject. Guilt has joined the nausea still roiling in his stomach. "In addition to the legal agreement we formed last night, we also appear to be bonded."

The Captain turns to regard him, his face blank. "What do you mean, 'bonded'? In what sense?"

"In the Vulcan sense. The Earth ceremony might not be binding, but the same can not be said of the mindlink. Especially as it seems to have been consummated."

The Captain simply stares at him. "We're bonded?"

"It would explain the increased effects of our inebriation. We are experiencing not only our own discomfort, but the other's as well. Additionally," he admits, "I can sense your mind touching mine. It is . . . quite intimate."

"We're married. Like, for real married." The Captain laughs. It sounds and feels distressingly close to hysterical. He falls back against the pillows and covers his eyes with one hand. "Oh god. I try to get you into bed for months, and when I finally do it's only because we're fucking married. And on top of everything, I can't remember any of it. I really do have a talent for fucking up, don't I?"

It is, to say the least, not the response that Spock had been expecting. He sent a careful mental probe in the Captain's direction. "You have been trying to get me into bed?"

The look he receives in return is one usually reserved for those with some sort of mental deficiency. "Um, yeah. I wasn't exactly subtle. I figured you just weren't interested."

"I see." Spock can sense regret and disappointment in the Captain's mind, but it all seems to be directed towards the circumstances of their bond as opposed to the bond itself. Reassured, he stretches out beside his bondmate. "I believe we should attempt to get more sleep."

"You . . . huh?"

"Our first sexual encounter, while apparently intense, unfortunately remains beyond my ability to recall. I am therefore extremely reluctant to attempt any activities that might lead to unpleasant consequences due to our overindulgence, as it would mar what would be to both of us our first fully cognizant coupling." He slides an arm around the Human's shoulders and eases him close again. "We will rest, and when we have recovered we may try again."

Blue eyes stare at him, measuring, and he can feel curious mental fingers snaking into his mind through their bond. "You're really okay with this," is the hushed, almost reverent response.

"Yes, Jim." Spock presses a kiss to his forehead. "Now sleep."