Chapter Text
The day was already so infuriating and hot that Jim would have sold his mortal soul for a bowl of ice cream, but careening out of the sky takes even that away from him. Their shuttle lands abruptly on a small island in a red, restless sea, and rolls nearly the full length of it before sticking in the sand. Spock pulls Jim from the craft with urgency, looking over his shoulder as though the threat is more than just electrical fire and a bump on the head.
"I'm fine, Spock," Jim promises, touching his hair and coming away red. He grimaces, and quickly smooths it when Spock looks at him again.
"Captain," Spock says tightly. "Communications are damaged beyond repair. This place-"
"Do you know it?" Jim dusts himself off, turns to frown at the gently smoking shuttlecraft and its scrunched nose. He didn't even realize they had seas to make islands here. "We could at least get to a place you're more familiar with, and contact Starfleet indirectly, if they won't-"
"Captain-" Spock repeats, taking him by the shoulder. Jim looks at him, blinking. "Unfortunately, I do believe I know exactly where we are."
"Well," Jim puts his hands on his hips. "That can't be all bad. I don't mean to make assumptions, but surely you at least would know a way of contacting-"
Spock glances about, at the damaged craft, at the hungry rusted sea, at the unusual vegetation cropping up near the shore. Interesting. Jim did admittedly think most of the planet was desert-like, although he figures he'd probably better not touch those alien-cacti. He looks around too, wondering if there's something he's missing.
"Oh," he says, pointing. "There's a complex over there, it's just sort of hidden. Is it a good idea to have a building that underground, this close to the sea?"
"Architecture is the least of our concerns," Spock says. "Perhaps if we swim— no, your stamina… And the serpents…"
"Serpents?" Jim laughs, but Spock doesn't seem to be joking. "It- surely it isn't that bad? Let's just go… see if we can contact the ship."
Spock looks stony-faced, but doesn't seem inclined to explain either, so he hesitantly allows Jim to begin marching through the sand towards the buildings.
"Jim," he says, after some bit of struggle. Jim's boots are not nearly providing enough protection from the sand and grit, and surely Spock's are no better. The Vulcan-style outfits they left in are heavy and hot. "Perhaps… I should warn."
"Against?" Jim casts a look at him, and Spock gives him nothing useful.
"We may be faced with… a… contingent… of… Vulcans. Who live by…. different ideals, and… practices."
"What, am I expecting cannibals, here?" Jim tries another joke, and Spock looks sort of pinched.
"Not… that."
"Well, clue me in, or don't, Spock, but I can't see that we have much more of a choice?" Jim stops in front of the big gate.
"That might be simpler," Spock muses to himself. Jim cocks his head at him, which makes it throb. "No, Captain, you may find… their expectations of us will be rather unfamiliar. You might be subjected to… treatment… that requires your mental fortitude."
"Torture, Spock?" Jim frowns. "Why?"
"In a way," Spock says, continuing his streak of being entirely unhelpful.
Jim waits for more. Spock does not, or cannot, explain, though he looks… almost embarrassed.
"Well, I'll take the role I'm given," Jim assures him. "As long as I have you by my side, I'm sure we'll get what we need out of this place."
"Indeed," Spock says. "Please," he inhales. "Trust that I will do what I must to keep you safe."
"Me?" Jim smiles a little. "What about you?"
Spock reaches forward and presses the buzzer on the gate. There is a long moment, and then a screen comes on at the panel. Jim goes to introduce himself, and Spock gestures for him to step aside, and then says something in rather clipped Vulcan.
The jewel-encrusted Vulcan on the screen tucks long hair behind their elegantly pointed ears and greets him warmly. Jim is not quite sure whether that is a man or a woman, and supposes it shouldn't matter. They volley a series of questions, and Spock politely seems to sum up their arrival, and Jim tries very hard to look pleasant enough and not get distracted. He needs to keep working on his Vulcan courses. They just give him a headache when he gets to the writing portions…
He does catch the word Human and flicks his eyes back to the screen. He nods pleasantly, and the person receiving them squints their eyes, pleased.
They say something to Spock that sounds like a compliment. Spock hesitates, and indicates that he agrees.
The gate lowers rather quickly, and Spock silently directs him to step through.
"What was all that about?" Jim whispers.
"We… have been allowed in," Spock says.
"Spock, you're really not helping here." Jim nudges him slightly. "I need tactical information, and you're barely providing any. Is there something I need to know to… defend ourselves here?"
"This, Captain," Spock slows his pace and looks at him with a strange concern in his eyes. "Is no battle of physical strength. It is a game of wits, and social delicacy. However, it is… a… social environment I personally am less familiar with. This…group is run… by an offshoot of a certain religious order," he begins, actually usefully, though he has that look he gets when he omits something important, and they are interrupted by an internal door sliding open to a staircase, and the same beautiful person waiting in shimmery robes at the bottom.
"You must," Spock asserts. "Follow my lead and trust that I have your best interests in mind."
"Always, Spock," Jim says, frowning. "But-"
"We will speak later," Spock promises. He leads the way down the stone stairs, and Jim, baffled, follows.
The person greets them again in Vulcan, and Jim nods politely.
"Thank you for having us," he says warmly. "We were definitely in a bit of trouble. You might want to send someone out there with a fire extinguisher, honestly-"
They cover their mouth, eyes twinkling, and look at Spock. They question him, and Spock says something calm, very commanding, and gestures as if it is nothing of note. Huh.
The long-haired Vulcan nods and leads them in, to a much, much cooler stone hallway, which leads to a maze of other beautifully tiled halls, and begins to give Spock a tour, speaking right over Jim's head.
"Sorry, not to bother," Jim says, feeling a little hot. "You wouldn't happen to have a Universal Translator? Or speak any English?"
"Ah," they say, amused at him again. Then they look at Spock and gesture at Jim, chattering as if speaking about a precious pedigreed pet that's a bit naughty. Jim feels his face grow even hotter.
"Do not worry," Spock says in an unusual tone. "I will share what is needed."
"Will you?" Jim can't help but gripe.
"If given the opportunity," he says quietly, and then when their guide turns and continues, he leans over and whispers. "He… believes my Human is quite… cute."
Jim squints at him.
He. Doesn't seem like he's joking. Probably.
"Cute," he says, unsure how affronted he is. "Your Human? What did you say??"
"As this is a situation in which blending in is pivotal to our survival," Spock says, drawing it out. "I agreed."
Jim's face feels terribly sweaty.
"He, huh?"
"Yes, the long hair is quite customary here."
"As is… this sort of attitude?" He gestures subtly at their guide.
"I suggest you temper your offense," Spock says, now certainly aiming for humor. "You may run out before the day is done."
Jim is spared the need to retort by their guide turning and indicating another long haired Vulcan at the fork of the hallway. He gives almost a smile and nods at Spock, and then the newcomer, and says something soothing, then gestures to Jim's head. Jim frowns.
Spock hesitates, and asks a question, which makes the guide cover his mouth again and shake his head, like he's asked something ridiculous.
"What's he saying?" Jim demands.
"They would… like to have you cleaned up prior to allowing us further entry," Spock says awkwardly. "This would separate us."
"Separate? Separate?" Jim flexes his hands. "It's just a bump, I'll take a washcloth or something."
Their guide purses his lips, and then pats his shoulder like he's being quite unnecessarily nervous.
"You will go," he says slowly.
"So you do speak English!" Jim says, annoyed.
"Little," the guide says, offended.
"Spock will come with me."
"It is not permitted," Spock says tightly.
"What? Why?"
Spock gives him a loaded look. Jim inhales, and reassesses the situation. He checks around them, at the opulence and comfort even of the entryway, at the casualness of their welcoming party, at the sleeveless robes of the newcomer, filigreed and decorated, at both men with their glittery green-blushed cheeks… and back to Spock. Spock almost says something, and then forcibly relaxes his shoulders, and brushes their knuckles together before touching Jim's wrist.
Jim opens his mouth, baffled, but undeniably a sensation is transferred, surely from Spock's touch telepathy— calm, safe, trust… comply. And what else? Jim responds as best he can with confirmation. Whatever this is, if Spock needs Jim to play along, he will.
His elegant hand moves not away from Jim, but to squeeze his shoulder. Jim tempers the strange carbonated feeling it gives him to focus on what is being signaled here.
Spock looks at the two attendants and says something else, gesturing at Jim's little head injury, expressing… concern? And both of them wave off his worry, falling all over themselves to promise, surely, that it will be taken care of. Jim catches the excuse, and nods, accepting this role, whatever it may be.
"It'll just be quick?" he asks, glancing first at their hosts, then at Spock. He softens himself, puts his Captain away.
Both attendants nod, pleased at his compliance.
"Well, then, that's not so bad," he murmurs. "I trust you'll be alright."
"Yes-" Spock audibly stops before calling him Captain. Jim gives him a little look, softening his eyes, allowing it. "Jim. I will await your return."
And Jim is swept away, wondering if he injured his brain a little more than he thought, because he feels… lightheaded and spun around and… far too warm.
He is taken down a maze of hallways to a humid, open area, beautifully tiled in detailed mosaics and dressed with unusual plants thriving in the hot, wet air. Jim wishes he were that kind of plant, but he's already about to wilt. Two attendants take him, clad in even less clothing than the other, which… surely makes sense, in such an area. One a woman and one a man, both with fully bare chests, tinged pretty green and glittered, and Jim averts his eyes rapidly, heart pounding. They all but laugh at him, and he feels his own cheeks go very pink.
They don't play with him for too long, however, immediately taking care of his bump on the head— one cleans it, her body far too close to him for… his… personal space ideals, and the other applying a sweet-smelling gel that makes his scalp tingle strangely. He looks at the man, but his skin is just as slick and close, and he stares dead ahead, baffled and embarrassed. They let the gel sit a moment and take the opportunity to insist he remove his clothes, both looking quite amused at his initial resistance.
"It's not necessary," he laughs softly, trying to appear friendly. He has a terrible habit of flubbing Vulcan social maneuvers, and these aren't even the sort of Vulcans he's used to, that much is… out in the open. "I'm alright-" but they continue to insist, gesturing at a large tiled bath sunken into the floor of the space, framed on either side with racks of jeweled glass bottles of a myriad of shining colors. He hesitates, tempted by the idea of at least getting the sand out of his socks, but if he submits to this, what else is he going to end up submitting to? He looks at the woman, who tilts her head forward intently, and he hurriedly looks at the man, who is very close to his face, actually, and pats his shoulder. They both say soothing, placating things in Vulcan, and Jim burns, glancing back the way they came.
Their hands wander, and the words become a little more… encouraging, tempting, and Jim has no idea what literally is being said, but a few of those words would have no business being in his Vulcan language learning tapes, that's for certain.
Perhaps out of sheer need to be in a different frying pan, he nods, and begins to… take off his clothes. They give him just the tiniest amount of space, the woman moving to prepare the bath and the man watching hungrily while taking his clothes. Jim stares at the ceiling, wondering if he even wishes he knew more Vulcan right now or not.
It is not until he fully strips bare that he is given any space, but sinking into that bath— which must be cool for them, luckily, because he did not need to be boiled like a handsome pet lobster— is enough of a relief he can almost pretend it was worth his dignity.
He closes his eyes and rests on the seat at the edge, leaning his head back, trying to take stock of what all he knows and what plenty he does not, when he finds his hair being touched. He rockets up, startled, but it did not hurt, and his hand goes to a wound that is no longer there. Wouldn't Bones be curious… He spins around, and finds the pretty man at the edge of the bath, one knee lazily up, one hand over an unmistakably amused mouth.
"Sorry," he murmurs. "It was… tender." He glances down, seeing his frantic movement did splash this person's white linen pants, and has to let himself fall into this trap simply to have the opportunity to look anywhere else. He blinks to himself as the man's hands return to his hair, luxuriantly shampooing him, although he feels more like he's at the groomer than the spa. He wishes he could at least do some proper reconnaissance.
"Do you speak any English at all?" he wagers, a bit of a desperate note too audible in his voice.
"English," the Vulcan says, amused. "Mmm…" He massages Jim's scalp with deft, precise, lingering motions, which does… feel quite relaxing, at least. Jim will not let himself be tense. "When you…wish upon a star…" he jokes, and Jim makes an awkward noise that he intended to be a laugh.
"That all?"
"Ahh… Oh! Hello! Goodbye!!!" He seems to find this quite funny.
Jim casts about for anything they might have in common, but really, his Vulcan language skill isn't much better, still. He might be able to ask where the bathroom is, and that, at least, he will keep in his pocket. …Rather…
He glances down at himself and wishes he did have pockets.
He is rinsed, and then, bizarrely, massaged with scented oils that remind him of pie spices, and then another attendant, not the woman, comes with what presumably must be clothes… even by the loosest definition. He has fully given up on trying to communicate and has just focused on being amicable and pleasant and observant, and he will… carry on. Even when they begin dressing him—if one can call it that. He is decorated like an expensive cake.
Shimmering dreams of silk and frosted lines of silver are delicately, meticulously clasped down a line caressing his spine, and connected to a silver sort of belt wickedly hugging his hips, dangling the draping translucent attempts at coverage just past his knees, though they are arranged so they fall either between his legs or behind him. He decides, while they expertly paint his face as if he fell out of an oil portrait and needs to be escorted back in proper attire, that he feels even more naked than he did when his whole body was on display. This iridescent frosting only serves to frame and sell his exposure, and he will simply have to allow it until he can find a better alternative.
He does mildly resent the choices, but he doesn't exactly know how to argue that he's more of a gold man in Vulcan, and he would have already lost several prior arguments if he was that skilled. Nevertheless, he is buttered, glittered, costumed, and disoriented, and from there, he is escorted down an entirely different maze of hallways, belatedly noting that he wasn't even given shoes. They pass mirrored walls in some kind of cooler courtyard, and he stares at himself as they move, slowing slightly to take it all in. It would be easy to denounce it as making him look ridiculous, but perhaps the most powerful thing they have done is make him look like he has always belonged in such decadent and indecent attire, and has simply, finally, come home to it.
He tries to swallow his vanity and pride, but the dappled light in the courtyard makes him glimmer like a long-lost treasure, like a marble statue discovered in immaculate condition and dressed for a museum grand opening… like a dancer for royalty, or maybe a personal prize, not to be shared with too many prying eyes…
"Aren't you a treat?" A soft voice startles him even more than the touch in the bath, and he whirls around to see another Human, dressed similarly, in red and gold— so they did have gold!— and ogling him quite indulgently. "Admiring yourself, handsome?"
"Well," Jim says defensively, finding his mouth again after plenty of time without it. He looks this woman up and down, noting that the outfit looks no more modest on another body than his own. "No mirrors in there, they'd fog up."
She smirks at his little joke, and he tries to add a laugh as punctuation. She doesn't move towards him, though, and his attendant just waits, hardly bothered. Jim glances at him, and back to her. She is… beautiful, he supposes, but he's caught on the fact that he's wearing practically the same outfit as she is. He can feel his thoughts buffering in real time— he should interrogate her, he should ask about this place, he should gather information! Where are they, what is this, who is she, is she a…
"I'll let you get back to your Vulcan," she laughs, fluttering a hand at him, decorated with intricate gold paint, and a ring connected by fine golden chains to a bracelet cuff. "Have a good time, love, you'll enjoy it."
"Wait-" he says, loading just as she floats out of the courtyard, and he turns to watch her go, getting a far too good look at her exposure. He blushes, forgetting his desperate questions— what in the world did she mean by that? What sort of arrangement is this? This… couldn't be… the Federation surely wouldn't allow…?
He turns, flabbergasted, back to the Vulcan attendant, who is barely restraining gleeful amusement, and gestures for him to continue. He decides he must, and so he goes, ruminating with almost nothing to go on. At the very least he is now aware he had better not move too quickly, lest his own assets be quite so… on display.