Work Text:
Jim crouched behind a pillar, narrowly avoiding incoming enemy fire. Darting out, he hit one of the alien guards in the torso, just below their first set of arms. He took cover again, motioning the red shirts behind him to advance.
This was not what he had planned when he accepted this mission. It was supposed to be a peaceful first contact with a race known for their indulgence in pleasures and large, polygamous families.
He even let Spock lead the away team, for once allowing Spock to win the familiar argument about the wisdom of the captain remaining on the ship.
The remaining members of the away team reported that things seemed fine, at first, though the planet’s leader was a little touchy-feely with Spock. The welcoming feast at the capital had proceeded without a hitch, even if Spock was continually shifting out of the reach of many groping hands. They enjoyed the performance of a troup of dancers, who moved gracefully on their six appendages, dressed in loose pants, jewelry sparkling in the light of artificial torches.
Suddenly, when it came time for the team to report back to the ship, Spock’s courteous attempt to bid his host goodnight was rebuffed. His communicator was shot out of his hands; previously peaceful guards suddenly menacingly brandishing four weapons each.
After that, the accounts of the away team got fuzzy. Spock, seated directly to the leader’s right, among the leader’s massive family unit, disappeared into the flurry of close combat as multiple beings surrounded him.
The team managed to beat a hasty retreat to the secure beam-up point, reporting the violent turn of events back to the ship as they were chased by the natives.
Jim beamed down as soon as he heard that Spock was not among the returning crew. He took his finest security personnel with him, and they slowly retook the dirty, narrow streets of the sprawling metropolis, working their way to the palatial capital building by dawn the next day.
Through it all, Jim was a force of retribution, reckless with his own safety. Constantly in his mind, Spock’s face loomed as he calmly explained how the captain was more valuable than any other crew member, himself included. Fuck that noise, thought Jim, full of anger and regret.
Journeying deep into the inner sanctum of the capital, Jim knew he must be getting close as the density of foes and the lavishness of the decor began to increase. Rounding a corner, Jim saw a great door, and heard a raised voice muffled through the thick paneling.
“... you will be treasured all the days of your life! Remain with me, my beauty!” cried out the recognisable voice of the planet’s leader.
Jim pushed open the door to witness the leader crumpling to a floor covered in many carpets, cushions, and other felled aliens. Jim gaped at the scene, as rich and vibrant as if it were painted by a Renaissance master.
He knew the confident, masculine shape of the central figure by heart. A thick, richly patterned sash topped gauzy, billowing pants. Thick bracelets ornamented with gold filigree glinted in the low light of the chamber. A crown adorned his head, sitting atop sleek black hair and between graceful, pointed ears. His chest was bare, shining like carved marble. Jim would revisit the sight in his fantasies, over and over.
“Captain,” the vision called out, “I was about to effect my escape.”
Stiltedly stumbling forward, Jim exclaimed, “Spock, you’re not dead!”
“Obviously,” Spock replied, stance shifting and relaxing.
“You need to be checked out by Bones. Gave us quite a scare, getting kidnapped like that.”
“I apologize for not being able to enact my decampment plan sooner.”
“You apologize?” Jim wryly smiled at Spock, clapping his hand on his cool, firm bicep. “I should apologize. I was sitting pretty back on the ship while these bastards took you as some sort of, what? Concubine?”
“It was their intent to marry me into their leader’s family.”
“Well, I won’t let them have you. Let’s get you back to the ship.” Jim released his hold on Spock’s arm, suddenly realizing they were not alone in the room. The rest of the Enterprise security team was looking at Spock, some clearly and without pretense ogling him.
“Here, take my shirt, you must be cold.” Jim quickly stripped off his battle-stained gold command tunic, holding it out to Spock.
“I am not cold, Captain,” Spock said, making no move to accept the garment.
“Just put the damn thing on, Spock.” Spock raised his eyebrow at Jim. “You look like some sort of sex machine! Put the damn thing on!” Jim pressed the shirt into Spock’s bare chest, whispering angrily.
“Yes, sir.” Spock somehow pulled the shirt over his head without disrupting his crown. “I appreciate your efforts to recover me. You are, I believe the expression goes, my hero.”
Blinking rapidly, Jim called out, “Show’s over, everyone.”
While everyone else started going about the business of getting back to the ship, Jim’s eyes kept stuttering over the way his shirt stretched across Spock’s broad shoulders.
After they beamed back aboard, Jim walked Spock to the medbay. Once there, he fussed so much about making sure Spock was checked thoroughly, Bones had to order him out. Jim found solace by heading to the bridge and burying himself in reports.
Returning to his quarters at the end of a long, hard, triple shift, ready for a cold shower, Jim found his dirty command shirt neatly folded in the shared bathroom between his quarters and Spock’s. Carrying it back into his quarters, he noticed that there was a light blinking on his data terminal that indicated a new message.
It was from Spock, on a secure personal channel. “Captain, which type of ‘sex machine’ do I resemble most?” Jim read.
Laughing, Jim strode back into the bathroom only to find that Spock was there already, and then he was in Spock’s arms, kissing him deeply.