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Bones follows them to the transporter room, even though he can’t come, grumbling the entire way. It was just like any other new planet to visit, but this one gives mint juleps a whole new meaning. “You finally find a planet I’d risk the transporter for, and I’m stuck here,” he gripes from behind the console, while Jim and Spock stand at separate pads.
“Bring some of those alcoholic flowers back for the rest of us, aye?” Scotty adds, grinning both fancifully at the idea and amusedly at Bones’ complaints.
Jim promises through his own smile, “I’ll do my best, gentlemen,” though he has no intention of robbing the local countryside. If all goes well with their treaty in the coming week, the Federation will be able to sanction enough shore leave for them to taste the famous natural cocktail growth blossoming all over Mrennenimus Prime’s major cities. Unfortunately, Jim’s on business, and likely won’t be able to afford sampling them himself. Spock is always his first choice of partner, but in this instance, he’s also the best officer for the job—he’s probably the only member of the crew that isn’t likely to eat the leaves whenever the local dignitaries aren’t looking.
At the same time, Jim has to admit, “There’s no point coveting Spock’s position anyway, Bones. The Mrennenimian deal in very small delegations of only the highest ranking officers, and there’s a good chance Spock’ll be sent back on sight.” He’s prepared for it, but it seems worth the risk, and neither of Jim’s best friends would let him beam down alone. Still, the reminder does make Bones’ lips twitch up at the corners.
Comforted, he snorts, “See you in a few, Spock.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Spock replies, “While I have no intention of imbibing, I will endeavor to bring you a description of at least the fragrance and look of any Mrennenimian mint-tulips I encounter.” He says it with a completely straight face and voice, but Jim knows him too well to miss the subtle tease in it, and Bones scowls, Scotty chuckling as he sets the transporter into motion. The Enterprise dissolves around them, and then the world coalesces into a sea of moonlit colours.
They arrive in a vast field, covered, almost knee-high, in elaborate flowers, unlike any Jim’s seen before in all his many travels. Every one is in blossom, more beautiful than the last, and Spock immediately takes out his tricorder while Jim’s still peering around. It’s night where they are, as requested—it’s tradition on Mrennenimus to sleep in similar accommodations before holding council. The starry sky casts a pale blue glow over everything, though some flowers seem to shine on their own, iridescent and shimmering like jewels. Amidst the flowers, every kilometer or so, there’re circular structures that look like deliberate smatterings of trees. In actuality, they’re single-room “homes,” containing beds and plumbing. Several have garments hanging from stubby branches, which, according to the cultural briefing Jim was given this morning, dictate occupied buildings. The closest one opens a moment later, a Mrennenimian stepping out.
Humanoid, the alien could almost be from Earth, if it weren’t for their large, lidless white eyes. Their skin is partially peach-pink, partially deep brown, smattering in unique patterns like a human with vitiligo. A ring of flowers is around their crown, bunching together their thick black hair, weaved so thoroughly that if Jim didn’t know better, he’d think the flowers part of the alien’s body. They wear only a thin, white-silver robe, and come to Jim with an outstretched hand, clearly trying to imitate the standard Federation greeting. The inexperience with humans shows in the way the Mrennenimian’s hand is turned palm-up instead of sideways.
Clasping it gently, Jim turns it, giving the alien’s four-fingers a respectful shake, then lifting his knuckles to his lips in the traditional Mrennenimian greeting. Spock stands still beside him, opting for a silent Vulcan salute, until the alien turns to him, eyes crinkling around the corners, vaguely reminiscent of a blink.
“I am Ambassador Salvananana,” the alien officers, in a trilling, melodic voice. “You are Captain Kirk, but is this another captain? For it would be inappropriate to speak with any less...”
“No,” Jim admits. He expected the problem, but according to previous surveys, the Mrennenimians are a peaceful, understanding race who should be easy to straighten this out with. Spock knew coming down he would likely be sent back anyway. With a note of diplomatic apology in his tone, Jim offers, “This is Mr. Spock, my—”
“Bed warmer,” Spock suddenly interjects. Jim’s head whips around to him, and not just because it’s so rare for Spock to interrupt him. Spock’s face remains as passive as ever, showing no signs of having said anything unusual.
The ambassador brightens instantly with a grin like any other human, except for that their teeth are all one structure instead of many separate growths. “I see, I see,” Salvananana trills. “It is late and you have your traditional rest before you—of course we would deny no dignitary their greatest possession! Forgive my indiscretion—we did not extend such a suggestion, for we were unaware if such roles existed in the Federation. I am glad to learn your beds are not cold!”
For a moment, Jim’s too shocked to correct him. There was nothing about bed warmers in his briefing, though if the translator’s correct, it isn’t that difficult to discern the meeting. Of course, alien bedroom rituals in general are rarely brought up in starship meetings, but Spock seems to have discerned their traditions well enough. While Jim simply gapes, Salvananana turns and begins to walk forward, bidding them to follow with outstretched arms. “Come, my guests! There are many spare beds to be occupied before our talks.” The walk to the nearest empty structure is so short that there’s no room to say anything else, and soon enough Salvananana is turning outside one without any clothes hanging outside the narrow window. “Will you please to be sleeping here? I will come to fetch you when the rest period is filled. Your bed warmer may attend if you wish, unless, of course, it is a distraction to you—these will be important talks for our people! But I trust it will aid you well in your rest before hand. May you have many delightful dreams.” Salvananana then attempts to bow, but does so sideways instead of bending forward, and Jim’s still too confused to explain, so simply follows suit.
Once they’ve straightened back out, Salvananana sweeps off with a smile, headed towards the hut they original slipped out of. It leaves Jim and Spock alone for as far as they eye can see, though many of the close structures are apparently filled.
As usual, Spock waits for Jim to step inside first. There’s a hanging sheet of fabric that he has to push through, to find, inside, a room not unlike a wooden cabin. The floor is paneled with boards, but the walls are very much like naturally-growing trees, with only the door and the window cut out. There’s a bed against one wall and something that might be a toilet on one side and a sink on the other across from it. There’s nothing else that he can see, but the darkness casts most of it in shadow: the ceiling is merely woven together branches with the stars occasionally peeking through it.
It would be a truly breathtaking place, if Jim had any breath left to give. Finally alone, he looks at Spock, though Spock is acting just the same as usual and provides no explanation. He merely turns half away from Jim and proceeds with another Mrennenimian tradition: freeing his clothes to hang from the window.
As Spock pulls his blue tunic from over his head, ruffling his dark hair, Jim stares unabashedly. Spock neatly folds the tunic and places it on the end of the bed, then brings his long fingers under the hem of his black undershirt, tight-fitting, sucked taut against all his light muscles, his lithe body a mass of delights. Jim asks, eyeing the line of skin across Spock’s stomach that he slowly reveals, “Spock, what the hell was that?”
As Spock strips the second shirt, he glances to Jim. He folds the black shirt the same way, his chest now completely exposed, smattered with dark hair and a light green flush, his nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air. “If you are refering to my improvisation, It was only logical, Captain.”
Jim snorts. He’d roll his eyes, but he’s too busy staring at Spock’s tight pecs and broad shoulders. Spock continues accordingly, “Having studied the Mrennenimian culture extensively, I knew that it was the only way I would be allowed to attend the negotiations, and you are simply too valuable an officer to be allowed alone, even on a presumably peaceful mission.” Starfleet didn’t seem to think so. But Spock did, and Jim files that knowledge away. He’s been protective of Spock, too, but they don’t usually let it interfere with Starfleet orders. Bed warmer still seems a leap, even for Spock.
Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Spock begins to unlace his black boots. There’s nothing self-conscious about his movements, no embarrassment to stripping before his captain. It could simply be that missions have dictated them to change outfits around one another before, but in this situation, it only makes Jim’s breath come all the faster. First Spock announces that he’s meant to warm Jim’s bed, and then he strips himself bare for Jim to see. Still, Jim mutters, too serious to tease as he might usually, “I thought Vulcans didn’t lie.”
“I did not,” Spock says simply, as he tugs the first boot away and moves on to the second. “We have only been given one bed, and so long as I share it with you, thusly providing my body heat, I can be said to have warmed your bed, and I have spoken only truth.”
Jim lets out a dry laugh but isn’t that amused. The bed looks small, like all of the room, and they’re so close together that Jim can already smell Spock, subtle but there, a little thick and somewhat musky: raw man, half human and half exotic. When Spock looks sideways at Jim, eyeing his body, Jim reminds himself not to leave his poor first officer naked alone. For once, there’s no grace to his movements. He rips his shirt and tunic over his head at once and doesn’t bother to fold them; they’ll be hung up anyway. He’s kicked his boots off by the time Spock stands, his thumbs hooked into his waistband.
He pushes his black pants down his strong thighs, only his white underwear remaining. Jim tries not to stare at it the way he wants to, but his peripherals are glued to Spock’s package, hugged by the smooth material, cut down in the middle and rising higher on his hips, so that the underwear seems to have a v-shape to them. It shows off more of the coarse dark hair that dips down into the telltale bulge, large yet presumably soft. Jim’s glad, at least, that he’s wearing boxers. It won’t hide his erection much, but it’ll do better than Spock’s underwear wood. He tries to think of unattractive things, but it’s difficult to keep his body from tenting his shorts. They finish around the same time and move awkwardly to the window, carrying all their clothes.
There are several short pegs just outside the narrow window, making Jim wonder just how many Mrennenimians can fit into one of these small beds. He has the fleeting thought of what Bones would say if he’d weaseled his way down and gotten caught in Spock’s half-truth, but that’s a story for another day. Assuming Jim ever dares to tell anyone of this. They hang their clothes, and Jim glances at the bed. He didn’t beam down particularly tired, but the floral scents in the air and the languid atmosphere do seem to beckon him to rest, and he knows they have a long day ahead.
Vulcans don’t require sleep so strictly. But Spock’s framed his explanation in a way that requires him to sleep with Jim, if only to justify his white lie. And besides, the room is chilly, and Vulcans are more susceptible to the cold, being from a hot planet. There’s only one thin blanket on the black bed, but Jim assumes that’s what sentient “bed warmers” are for.
Spock goes around to the other side, and they wordlessly slip in together, moving on understanding. They’ve done many strange things for aliens before, but not usually with such potent, human meaning. The bed’s so narrow that Jim has to lie on his side to not take up more than his half of the bed, though Spock settles on his back. Jim meant to turn away, but somehow winds up facing him, watching the pale moonlight slip across his handsome features.
Jim tries to think of it like camping. But the bed’s smaller than two sleeping bags would be, and they’re in only their underwear. Spock closes his eyes, but Jim struggles to do the same. Even with the blankets pulled up to their shoulders, Jim knows there’s nothing underneath. He has to keep his body very still to prevent his bare knees from brushing Spock’s. For a long while, he tries to be good and tries to sleep, fighting the alluring smell of Spock, the nearby warmth, the closeness, and the memories of so many others missions that have brought them ever closer. They’ve always been just on the brink of this, sharing a bed, but this isn’t how he thought their first time would go. Every time he closes his eyes, he winds up opening them again, only halfway, to enjoy the sight of Spock, peaceful and relaxed, so very close to him.
Finally, Spock opens his eyes, too. His dark eyes slip beneath heavy lashes to Jim’s face, his bow lips in a straight line. He murmurs, “You cannot sleep?”
Jim just shakes his head against the long pillow they both share. There’s no sound outside, except for the faint chirp of a bird here and there. With the window and cracks in the walls, Jim would think he’d hear everything, but perhaps “bed warmer” doesn’t imply everything he might’ve fantasized.
Spock seems to study him, then quietly asks, “Have I erred?”
A grin fights its way onto Jim’s face, as Spock so often makes it. Jim mumbles, “No.” it’s not what he expected, but he doesn’t begrudge Spock for it. Spock’s eyes search Jim’s, but Jim means it. If they’re not going to sleep, they may as well talk, and he tries to lighten the mood by asking. “What exactly do bed warmers on Mrennenimus do, anyway?”
Spock shifts beneath the blanket. He turns onto his side, facing Jim, still very close but now with a slight reprieve between them. Jim has one hand under the pillow, and one of Spock’s slips above the blanket, but he couldn’t outstretch his arms without running into Jim’s body. For a moment, Spock’s quiet, and then he slowly explains, “It is an occupation, of a sort, where someone so inclined shares an employer's bed. As the name implies, it provides heat, as well as company.”
Company. It’s too vague, and Jim asks, “That’s all?”
“It is a voluntary duty,” Spock answers, and his eyes fall lower to the pillow. Jim can tell Spock’s deliberately not meeting his eyes anymore, and with some difficulty, Spock elaborates, “They may do... more... as they wish.” Then, switching gears, Spock’s eyes flicker back to Jim’s, and he presses on, “It is considered an important part of the Mrennenimian culture. I am surprised you did not come across it in your readings.”
Jim rolls his shoulder in a half shrug. “I suppose whoever prepped the file for me didn’t think it would be relevant.”
Spock’s mouth presses into a thin line. Perhaps he considers it negligence on the part of the officer who comprised Jim’s briefing, or perhaps he simply finds the need to defend himself for having accumulated such knowledge. “It is a long-standing tradition, and seen as a communal strength, heightening empathy and compassion towards others. It is encouraged as an occupation, and also between parties with a mutual need, particularly amongst already... close... individuals.”
Jim nods, because he can understand. But it isn’t heightening empathy for him. He already has compassion for Spock. Lying near-naked in bed with Spock gives him entirely different feelings, which become harder to ignore the more they speak, the more Spock’s deep, alluring voice fills his ears, the more he looks at Spock’s plush lips, Spock’s upswept brows, the slight dishevelment to Spock’s clean-cropped bangs. Every part of Spock is beautiful, but it’s made even more so in the intimate setting. The window’s behind Spock, and the stars silhouette his side, shining around the pointed tip of his ear, something Jim’s always loved about him. They’ve always walked a thin line, but missions like this make it so hard to keep back, when Jim’s so close to Spock’s eyes and is so sure he’s not alone.
He lifts one hand before he can stop himself, and Spock glances at it but says nothing. Tentatively, Jim reaches to touch Spock’s cheek. He shudders instantly at the warmth, his palm flattening against the smooth skin, fingers splaying back to brush the edges of Spock’s dark hair. There’s a spark of electricity, like there is whenever they touch—remnants of one too many mind melds. For a moment, he simply holds onto his first officer, and then Spock asks, whisper-soft, “Do you wish me to provide more services?”
Jim licks his lips. Of course he would, but Spock makes it sound like a duty, and that’s strange to him—he doesn’t know where to draw the line. He asks, throat a bit hoarse, “What are my options?”
Spock’s hand slips out of the blanket. It lands over Jim’s, thumb gently stroking his knuckles, holding Jim against him. He murmurs, “Some Mrennenimians enjoy touch...” Pausing, Spock stiffens his hand around Jim’s, latching on, though Jim had no intention of letting go anyway. “Some enjoy their hair being played with. Others... prefer to be tasted...” Spock’s breath comes huskier as he goes, and Jim’s lips part for a quick intake of breath.
He would give a great deal to feel Spock’s mouth on him, but even with Spock’s suggestion, it seems too big a leap. It isn’t quite clear what Spock means with this veil—if it’s a game, or some attempt at local culture, or an even odder attempt to please Jim. Just in case, Jim picks the subtler option, admitting, “I think I’d like it if you played with my hair.” He tries so hard not to phrase it as a command, but the want is thick in his voice. Spock nods like complying with orders.
He runs his fingers lightly down the back of Jim’s hand, leaving Jim’s skin tingling in his wake. He traces Jim’s wrist, along Jim’s forearm, up to Jim’s shoulders, and his long fingers slip into Jim’s hair. A shiver immediately runs down Jim’s spine, but he does his best to be still, to not disrupt the magic. This is special, he knows, whatever the alien guise. Spock would never do this with anyone else. But for Jim, he runs his fingertips along the back of Jim’s neck, lightly petting up Jim’s scalp, ruffling the short strands and curving around his rounded ear. Jim keeps his hand on Spock’s face, thumb gently stroking Spock’s cheek, his index finger just touching the shell of Spock’s ear. It’s a long, delicious moment, one he knows he’ll always treasure.
And eventually, it’s too much, and he finds himself breathing, “Would you taste me?” He tries to make it a question, instead of a need. He’s not even sure what it means exactly, but he can’t keep his eyes off Spock’s pretty lips. Spock, for the first time tonight, doesn’t answer. He looks hesitant, even as Jim shifts closer along the pillow. His knee presses in between Spock’s—another electric flash of skin-on-skin—and he hovers just short of Spock’s mouth, wanting to press them together.
Spock murmurs, “Jim.”
Jim moves forward in tiny increments. It gives Spock plenty of time to pull away, but Spock merely closes his eyes, letting his lips part. Jim’s mouth presses into his for a soft, chaste kiss, warm and wonderful, just as Jim knew it would be. He lingers, unable to leave, holding them together, and their bodies seem to gravitate towards one another, until they’re touching right down to their toes. Their chests flush together, their thighs interwoven, their legs tangled, one of Jim’s hands against Spock’s shoulder and the other slipping back around his neck, Spock lightly holding onto Jim’s back. When Jim pulls back, he licks his lips, savouring the inexplicable taste of Spock. Spock’s eyes slowly open, only ever halfway, hazy below them.
Spock whispers, “You have my word that I did not come on this mission with the intent of seducing my captain.”
Jim could laugh, if he weren’t so breathless with adoration. He smiles instead, wide and bright, and quips back, “You seduce me on nearly every mission, whether you mean to or not.”
Spock’s cheeks tint a faint green. Jim gives him another kiss, shorter but just as sweet, and it’s just as perfect as it was the first time, the sort of thing they’ve needed to do for too long but may as well have been for years. Hovering back with the tip of his nose touching Spock’s, Jim tells Spock, “Turn around.”
Spock does so without question. He rolls onto his other side, giving Jim a slight reprieve—it’s too difficult to look in his eyes and not devour him whole. Jim wants everything Spock has, but he knows Spock well enough to realize how cruel that would be—it isn’t the Vulcan way to leap to kisses and touches so quickly. So Jim simply wraps around Spock’s back. He melds his stomach to Spock’s spine, loops his arm over Spock’s spine, tucks his face against Spock’s shoulder. He wants Spock so desperately, but in so many different ways, and this can suffice for tonight. He asks, muffled against Spock’s skin, “Is this alright?”
Spock says, “Yes,” and though he sounds a tad strained, he feels relaxed, comfortable. Jim can sense in him the same longing and understands.
“We’ll be here for a few days,” Jim sighs. “We can progress slowly through more Mrennenimian traditions, if you like. For now... touch will suffice.” With a small chuckle, Jim can’t help but add, “Not that I don’t enjoy tasting you.”
“Your warmth is pleasant enough for me, Captain,” Spock responds in kind, and it’s like they’re themselves again, and this is just one more mission, no different than their usual, unbreakable closeness. “The Mrennenimian climate is cold by Vulcan standards, so the heat of your body is appreciated.”
“You’re welcome to it anytime,” Jim chuckles. He’ll have to remember that for the next time they visit a cooler planet. He feels just the right temperature himself, with Spock filling his arms. For a while, he stares into the darkness, luxuriating in the touch, and they fall into quiet, simply enjoying one another’s company.
When sleep has just begun to tug at Jim’s mind, Spock murmurs, “Thank you, Jim.” Jim doesn’t ask for what.
He falls asleep spooning Spock, but when he wakes in the morning, they’re facing each other, hands clasped together.