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“There’s no such thing as the perfect soulmate. If you meet someone and you think they’re perfect, you better run as fast as you can in the other direction, cause your soulmate is the person that pushes all your buttons, pisses you off on a regular basis, and makes you face your shit.” – Madonna
+
Warmth.
There was warmth—weight—settled against the solid line of Jim’s spine, comfortable and familiar in all the best sorts of ways, and the Enterprise’s Captain didn’t bother trying to resist the temptation to slowly stretch against that grounding familiarity, drawing in the heat of another’s body to keep it buried and close to his center.
The temptation to slip back into sleep was something that Jim had to fight hard against, silent reminders of all of the various tasks that he had to get to today; despite that, however, it was still a long time in coming before the summer-hued man was able to bring himself to slowly open his eyes: bright blue against the golden tan of his face, and the young man slowly smiled as he caught sight of Spock meditating on the thick woolen rug situated next to their bed.
“Hey,” the younger man greeted, voice husked with the remnants of sleep.
Silence reigned for a moment or two longer before Spock quietly inhaled deep, chest expanding out from the motion, and lifted the dark fan of his lashes to pin the still-drowsy Captain with the too-human punch of his gaze, weighty and complex and layered with a multitude of emotions that Jim had only ever been able to lightly skirt against. “Captain,” Spock murmured in turn, voice crisp and sharp enough to hint that the blond’s XO had been awake and aware for hours already.
Still: Jim quirked an eyebrow tellingly, remaining silent as he waited for—
“Jim,” the half-Vulcan amended with a slight inclination of his head.
“Good morning,” the youngest of the triad answered and stretched a muscled arm away from the bed and towards the other man, middle and index fingers outstretched and held aloft, waiting for the inevitable brushing of fingertip against fingertip: a good morning kiss, ritualized eons ago, routine and patterned and necessary—a type of stability that Jim had been lacking in most of his life, clinging to now with a ferocity that would have given the warrior blood now lying dormant within Spock’s people pause once upon a time ago.
A gentle touch, the barest brushing of skin against skin—but the connection flaring to life at that simple of a touch, supernova bright and threaded through the expanse of the Captain’s mind: it still managed to take Jim’s breath away—and the blue-eyed man slowly shifted the touch to tangle their fingers together, pressing palm to palm. Spock observed Jim’s gestures from beneath the thick line of his lashes, gaze dark and half-lidded with predatory patience, and it was then that the weight pressed snugly against the Captain’s back finally began to stir to life, burrowing closer, tighter, possessive in motion even as Bones hooked his chin over the thick line of his Captain’s shoulder to glare sleepily down at his First Officer.
Expression at its most neutral—though Jim was able to read Spock well enough to caught sight of the wicked flare of amusement, hidden in the back of his eyes—Spock slowly lifted an eyebrow to meet Bones’ not-quite-aware glare stare for stare, head cocking just enough to the side to make the expression more Vulcan than human in tone. “You appear to be indulging in a dark temperament this morning, Doctor McCoy. Were you unable to achieve the rest required for maximum efficiency in an adult human male?”
If anything, the inquiry earned Spock an even darker glare from the Chief Medical Officer and Bones shifted to sprawl more thoroughly across the broad stretch of Jim’s shoulderblades; the change in position made the blanket he was currently burritoed within dip far enough over the line of a collarbone to display a series of lovebites that stretched from clavicle to bicep, varying in size and darkness, teeth marks ranging as well—a hint that the marks had been made by more than one person (and, in fact, had been made by two others).
“Oh, shut up and go find me whatever doubles as coffee in this place, you green-blooded hobgoblin,” Bones grumbled in answer, too tired to bother tossing his usual amount of gruff complaints and caustic commentary Spock’s way. The old man muttering sparked a low snicker from Jim in turn—and, before the younger man knew what was happening, a sharp shove at his side had the blue-eyed man tumbling out of bed to sprawl with limbs akimbo on the cold stone of the floor below.
The winter from outside had seemed through the building over the course of the night, and the actual stone not covered by the multitude of rugs scattered across the room was absolutely freezing: enough so that Jim, used to snow-dusted Midwest winters, yelped immediately upon contact and scrambled for the tentative protection that Spock’s commandeered rug offered.
“Jesus Christ, Bones, what was that for?!”
--he knew exactly what, though, and brushing up freezing flooring or not, it’d been worth it to watch the easy back and forth byplay that had slowly emerged between his XO and CMO: shifts in language and intent of emotion behind it all, and it was a change that Jim had had to learn to covet and hold dear (not to grasp too hard; he’d learned the hard way early on in life that that was the best way to ensure that things trickled out between his fingers). The acidity had long ago been tempered, sharp edges softened, and in this current moment the Captain was able to emerge himself in a old married couple domesticity that Bones and Spock patterned themselves so well after.
Was treasured because of it even while being the outsider looking in on this particular aspect of Bones and Spock’s relationship.
Before Spock eventually stood to acquiesce to Bones’ demand for caffeine and a hot drink, his fingers brushed ever so lightly over the nape of Jim’s neck—a touch that was as light as a hummingbird’s wing, there and gone again with the quicksilver mutability of a thought—and the blue-eyed man closed his eyes to drink in that momentary flare of warmth.
Mine, Jim thought, something feral purring to life when Bones eventually snuck an arm out of his snugly wrapped pile of blankets to cup a hand over the stubbled edge of the younger man’s face, thumb brushing in a telling gesture against the arch of a cheekbone. These men are necessary now, have always been; mine.
(Ever since Tarsus, Jim’d learned to hold on tight enough to bruise to those that meant something to him.)
“Hey,” Bones eventually murmured, echoing Jim’s initial greeting at seeing that Spock was already awake—the single word was as smooth as honey-laced whiskey, drawled in the Southern accent that the doctor had never bothered trying to shake.
“Hey,” Jim answered in turn, opening his eyes to pin Bones with a gaze that burned brighter than the heart of a star.
+
Jim paused for a moment as the B’thdi ambassador led the small diplomatic group through the palace’s extensive grounds; the group—half of them various Starfleet officers—had been taken to the B’thdi prince’s private botanical garden two hours before, following after their guide like a host of ducklings after their mother. Jim took up the lead position with his officers fanning out behind him, unfazed by the below-freezing temperatures of this planet’s winter season; however, as the group stepped past a deep purple flower, its petals dipping beneath the weight of the snow until the finger-like tendrils nearly touched the ground, the blue-eyed Captain took a moment to pause and tilt his head back to meet the start of a new snowfall:
Snowflakes caught in the velvet of his lashes, melting seconds later to coat his cheeks with a fine layer of frost and ice: Jim gleamed beneath the planet’s triple blue dwarf suns, and as Bones glanced Jim’s way, he found himself utterly breathless at the picture that his lover painted—warm and golden, cast from the dying rays of a midsummer sun while the endless sky spread out into eternity.
Vaksurik, hummed along the silvery mental bond that connected Bones to Spock, and the doctor glanced away from Jim for just a moment to shift his attention towards the half-Vulcan who had settled himself at the back of the touring group; bundled up as the First Officer was in multiple layers, Bones was honestly surprised that Spock was actually capable of movement let alone retaining the ability to keep up with the others. But Spock had been able to do so, strides groundeating and still somehow graceful despite the thickness of his clothing—and here the Vulcan was now, dark gaze riveted to the very same sight that had left Bones arrested and nearly breathless.
‘Beautiful’ the Southern man was able to translate after a moment, searching through the words that he was slowly starting to learn and—yeah, that was fitting.
+
If Bones was completely honest with himself, he should have seen it coming a mile away.
(But hindsight was twenty-twenty—and Jim had always been rather fond of coming in at people’s blindspots.)
The Enterprise’s CMO huddled over a tricorder, arguing the displayed results with Spock—words hissed at the stoic Vulcan and, while most would state that Bones was providing the entirety of the fire to the academic disagreement, the slight furrow found between Spock’s uplifted brows would have given truth to that particular statement: the Science Officer was just as invested in his stance as Bones was in his.
Tension wound tight between the two men, stringing higher—nearing a certain type of breaking point as each argued his own interpretation in low voices, the human gesticulating every so often towards the reader’s screen as results shifted and updated.
Before either Spock or Bones could get started on another round of arguing, a ball of something too-soft and cold connected with the backs of their heads, crumbled portions of the thrown snowballs tumbling over the men’s shoulders and slipping down the open collars of their Starfleet-issued uniforms.
“Jesus Christ, Jim!” Bones yelled out in both surprise and the sudden chill, jumping about five feet in the air and causing even more of the annoyingly powdery stuff to fall down the back of his shirt. He shuddered at the feeling of clumps of snow trickling down along the edge of his spine, and the stink-eye he tossed the grinning Captain’s way was truly spectacular. He was a Southern man, for godssake—he wasn’t meant for the cold and snow.
“While unorthodox, your method of bringing the disagreement to an end was… fruitful, Captain,” was Spock’s two cents even as he visibly burrowed himself deeper within the confines of the scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face: between that and the layers, Bones doubted that any snow had managed to sneak its way down the Vulcan’s uniform shirt.
“Just try to play nice with one another—remember that, out of the three of us, I’m the only one who knows how to create weapons out of the plentiful amount of ammo currently surrounding us,” Jim answered in turn, wicked grin turning sulky-sweet with the mischief that began to edge into its well-known curve.
And, while it was true enough that Jim was the only one who knew how to make snowballs, country boy that he was, there wasn’t anything stopping Bones from instead shoving his Captain’s head into a nearby snowdrift, shoving the chilly stuff down the back of Jim’s shirt to match the damp spot that was already beginning to form from snowmelt at the small of the CMO’s back.
All was fair in love and war, after all.
+
Spock’s shoulder was scorchingly hot against the open press of Jim’s mouth, green flush rising to taut skin as the blue-eyed human idly scraped his teeth over the stretch of muscle and bone. “Jim,” Spock husked, the whisper quietly reverent even as the Captain flicked his eyes upwards, catching Bones’ gaze with his own: summer sky veiled, but the two of them had done this often enough that all it took was a slow, self-satisfied curl of Jim’s mouth before his CMO was burying his fingers in the silk sheath of Spock’s hair, tipping the Vulcan’s head just enough to meet his lips in a hungry kiss.
It was like watching fire and ice collide, the inevitable press of heat and arctic-chill sparking an all-consuming maelstrom—one that Jim hadn’t ever been able to bring himself to look away from: instead found himself watching, always watching with too-wide eyes, memorizing the possessive slide of lips against lips, the barely-caught sight of tongues brushing against its mate. Of the midnight whisper of a whiskey-laced voice and the foreign but familiar scent of spices, sharp against Jim’s tongue as he soothed the bite mark he’d left behind on the curve of Spock’s shoulderblade.
Spock’s fingers tangled with his own, clutching tightly—I’ll never let you go.—and, as Jim’s bright eyes fell closed, his mind sparked, exploded with a supernova’s spectrum of light and Jim’s hold on the Vulcan’s hand tightened even further as his bondmates’ presence thrummed in the back of his mind, as molten-hot as the hidden heart of a star.
Mine, Jim whispered, and Bones’ soul brushed against the arch of a cheekbone, there-and-gone again, touch lighter than the briefest kiss from an oleander blossom, rooted deep within everything that made the Captain who he was, a cornerstone that would have left Jim floundering in his lack: untouchable and beautiful because of it; deadly because no one bothered to look beneath the surface.
And there, too, mind cutting sharper than the bladed edge of a shard of obsidian, solid in a way that Jim had never had—not until these two men had come into his life—Spock stopped and stilled, a pool endlessly, impossibly deep, and whispered, T’hy’la.
+
Bones was a familiar weight against the plane of Jim’s back: as always, the doctor had gravitated towards sprawling over his bedmate at some point during the night—ending up, as each morning went, with his face buried against the curve of the blond’s throat, breaths steady and patterned, in out in out in out in out, against golden-tan skin. Morning rituals, quietly sacrosanct to the Enterprise’s Captain: there had been so few things that Jim clung to, set the beating of his heart to—relied on—but the warmth of skin on skin, sleep-slack against his own, had long ago become a cornerstone for the azure-eyed man.
This, here and now: mine.
Jim breathed deep, chest slowly expanding as air filled his lungs, and lashes eventually lifted so that he could meet the fathomlessly dark gaze of his Vulcan XO: bedrock solid, constant as the spiraling turn of a galaxy. Wordless this morning, Jim lifted the hand whose knuckles just barely brushed against the floor of their bedroom suite and stretched fingers outwards to touch Spock’s own.
Mahogany eyes went darker still—
And Bones shifted closer still, mouth pressing against the bared, vulnerable line of Jim’s nape.
Mine.
+
Outside, the horizon just barely began to blush from the first touch of the B’thdian suns, bleeding from twilight blue to palest gold; ambassadors and Starfleet officers began to stir to life, awakening to begin a new day of treaties and contracts—
And the snow continued to fall as three bondmates entwined, sparked brighter and hotter and burned.
::fin::