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Spock stared with glazed eyes, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve as he pretended to listen to Jim describe the passive aggressive notes his roommate had pinned to the fridge.
Halting his speech mid-sentence, Jim pursed his lips, watching Spock slowly fray the neat stitches decorating his robe.
“Call me crazy, but Bones is probably the most logical person I know.”
“Indeed,” Spock replied, taking a sip from his empty cup.
Jim downed the last of his water, his throat parched after babbling nonsensically for an hour while Spock blinked and nodded at random points in Jim’s monologues. His throat constricting, Jim coughed and sputtered up his ambitious gulps, choking around the subliminal wreckage that had been washing up in Jim’s esophagus ever since Spock started acting weird around him.
“Do you want to leave?” Jim asked, trying to sound unperturbed. Instead, his voice wobbled, tipping back and forth over the edge of sanity.
Blinking heavily, Spock’s eyes widened for a moment before sinking into neutrality. He nodded.
“If you wish.”
Scrubbing at his face, yelling at his wandering mind to get a grip, Jim forced down the foreshadowed heartbreak clogging his throat with a heavy swallow and stood, glanced away before the uncharacteristic panic in his boyfriend’s eyes undid Jim’s last vestiges of optimism.
Jim’s stomach sank when he noticed it, acid burning through a flood of water and the memory of breakfast. On the table, glittering like a grungy pearl under the lights of a jeweler’s display case, sat Spock’s doughnut. Dough smooth and untouched.
Spock loved sweets. Their first meeting had been at the café across the street from Starfleet Academy when Jim was still a bumbling first year craving a couple shots of espresso to take the edge off his first round of all-nighters. Jim had spotted the Vulcan drinking a sickly sweet, white chocolate mocha, topped by a swirling mountain of whipped cream, and eating a generous slice of strawberry shortcake. Ignoring his cooling coffee and half-written interspecies ethics paper, Jim had reveled in the sight of Spock’s controlled yet fluid movements as he sat sternly straight against the chair back, his eyes trained on his PADD, fork occasionally lifting to deliver small portions of cake. His bow-shaped lips unfurled and wrapped around the utensil like a gift. Following every sip of his mocha, Spock’s tongue had austerely licked the lingering whipped cream from his mouth, curved fingers dabbing at his upper lip with a folded napkin.
Jim had been instantly spellbound by this beautiful paradox. After an hour long pep talk practicing various conversation starters, pick-up lines, and compliments in his head, Jim had finally gathered enough confidence to approach Spock. Maybe it had been the charming way Jim asked Spock if the cake here was any good, or how he had intelligently noticed Spock’s black Academy uniform and thought to question him about his classes. Or maybe, as Jim had praised whatever foresight convinced him to shave three days of exam stubble from his face that morning, Spock had simply liked the look of his face. Whatever his reasoning, Spock, eyes intently curious, had dipped his head when Jim asked permission to join him. Sitting in the adjacent seat, Jim had begun a prattling conversation fueled by Spock’s participation until the barista kicked them out at closing two hours and three empty plates of cake later.
That was a memorable two years ago. Two years of frustrating bliss. They were an odd couple, out of place like whipping cream decorating Vulcan lips. One minute Spock was complaining about Jim’s unmade bed while Jim argued against the necessity of dealing with stupid sheets when it was a beautiful June day and the beach was calling. The next, Spock was throwing Jim on top of those very sheets until all thoughts of sunny days were caressed from Jim’s mind by Spock’s dexterous hands. Jim had gone coin diving between the couch cushions for laundromat change after that particularly unforgettable moment.
And now, here Jim was, trying to be romantic and apparently failing. Jim had invited Spock out on a date for their anniversary—figured he’d be romantic and take his guy to the place where they met and buy a big slice of cake to share. Maybe even grab two straws so they could slurp up an iced mocha, like in one of those corny romance movies Spock pretended to dislike. Get each other in the mood for a tumble on Spock’s freshly ironed sheets later.
Unfortunately, payday was next Friday, and his remaining credits had already gone toward a measly bag of groceries. In the end, Jim could only afford to purchase a small coffee and doughnut for Spock, and a cup of tap water for himself.
Observing Jim hand over his pennies, Spock had kept silent instead of offering to pay or objecting to the expense. At first, Jim’s heart had skipped a few beats over Spock’s attempt to preserve his boyfriend’s last flailing strands of ego. Until Spock continued to remain closed lipped as they sat to enjoy their drinks. He was distracted, his eyes incessantly darting from Jim’s face, his hands, and out the window as Jim rambled, trying to cover up Spock’s tense silence with badly timed jokes and a description of his dreary day in the Academy library.
Dark thoughts shadowed Jim’s good humor as they left the coffee shop and walked down the street, Spock stiff and quiet beside him. He was bored, Jim thought in the dimmest corner of his brain, the section where an image of Spock’s untouched doughnut flashed through his neurons -- an unmistakable sign of danger ahead. They’d been going out for two years; now Spock was sick of him and considering the best way to end it without garnering a distasteful emotional reaction from his human partner. At first, Jim had explained Spock’s distance on his naturally reticent nature. But lately, Spock could barely even remember Jim’s name. Just a few nights ago while Jim was shoveling large forkfuls of homemade vegetable stir-fry into his mouth, Spock had stood at attention suddenly, as if Bones had snuck up behind him with a surprise suppository, and declared loudly, “James Kirk, I wish—”
Then he froze, staring with eyes all round and awkward while rice tumbled from Jim’s gaping mouth. After some rapid blinking and overly expressive facial twitches, Spock had politely excused himself and dashed eloquently into the bathroom. When he returned ten minutes later, Spock had picked up his fork and continued to eat his meal, barely looking at Jim as he started talking about a recent influx of squirrels in the Academy gardens.
Jim had been too freaked out to ask about Spock’s unfinished wish reveal. Whenever someone called Jim James, a shit storm was generally quick to follow.
“Fascinating,” Spock said, his soft murmur clearing Jim’s thundering subconscious. Spock had paused, his body turned toward the most beautiful storefront Jim had ever laid his eyes upon.
His stomach growled as he pressed his nose against the window display filled with tiers of massive, intricately decorated cakes. Gods, he could really go for a slice of cake right now. Sweet sugary goodness coating his teeth, icing slathering his tongue, the smell of vanilla sending him on a one-way trip to paradise; a nice little sugar boost to distract him from his possibly looming breakup and get him through the twenty page essay on emergency command procedures that was due on Pike’s desk tomorrow morning. Too bad Jim could barely afford to buy a coffee for his boyfriend let alone a six-tiered wedding cake that probably cost a gazillion credits. His brother’s tears over the insurmountable debt following his marriage to Aurelan were likely a sign of the true cost associated with such a delicious creation of incomparable beauty.
They had visited eight different bakeries, Sam had told Jim, taste testing dozens of samples before he and Aurelan chose their cake. When Jim had accused Sam of being a glutton, he had scoffed. “Gotta play the field, Jimmy. You don’t buy a car before test driving a few different models first, right?”
Bullshit. His cheapskate brother just wanted to stuff his face while his engaged status allowed him exclusive cake tasting perks. And butter up his girlfriend with expensive sweets without forking up a dime.
Jim’s mouth gaped with sudden epiphany as his stomach protested painfully. Fuck it, wait—maybe Sam was actually a genius.
“Jim. You are salivating.”
Starting, Jim turned, heat suffusing his cheeks. Damn it, he was being a shitty boyfriend again—no wonder Spock wanted to break up with him. As if counting his pennies in front of a pitying barista at The Steaming Cup while Spock pretended not to notice wasn’t humiliating enough. But allowing his eyes to focus on anything other than Spock’s trim figure in that hard-on inducing robe-pant set was basically criminal.
Clutching his stomach, Jim begged it to stop complaining like Bones after someone ate all his beef jerky—I mean, really, how was Jim supposed to remember it wasn’t his beef jerky? He liked beef jerky. It’s something he may have bought at the grocery store, shoved to the back of a dusty cupboard, and scrawled ‘PROPERTY OF LEONARD MCCOY’ across in permanent marker during a sleepwalking episode induced after two nights cramming Starfleet regulations in his head for an ethics midterm.
Grinning at Spock sheepishly, Jim scrubbed at his mouth self-consciously. “These wedding cakes look pretty good, huh?” He laughed, nervousness dripping from his voice like drool from his slobbering mouth.
As Spock stepped closer to the window display, Jim was distracted from his peevish stomach by the firm pressure of an arm against his own. Tilting to the right, Jim rested his cheek against Spock’s shoulder and rubbed it against the thick fabric of Spock’s robe, breathing in the scent of soap and laundry detergent. Jim was always amazed by how clean Spock smelled, even when they worked out in the Academy gym together, or were in the passionate throws of sex. Perks of not having sweat glands. Spock remained dry and silent in his intense sort of way, smelling like a basket of clean laundry when he came. Meanwhile, Jim would be a sweaty mumbling mess, leaving damp patches across Spock’s skin with every grasping movement of his hands and mouth.
“Visually, they are aesthetically pleasing,” Spock responded, nodding at the display. “However, it is impossible to discern how palatable they are from sight alone.”
Desperation thrummed through Jim as his senses filled with the smell and feel of Spock, his head swimming with thoughts of icing, Spock’s lips, and his own persistent hunger. If Jim was going to convince him he wasn’t just a broke bore, Spock needed an actual good time and some quality cake after Jim’s lame performance at the café.
Nodding, Jim scrubbed at the oily streak his nose had left on the window. “How about we do a taste testing. If that’s not a fun anniversary date activity, I don’t know what is.”
Spock’s brows slipped southward. “Although I am not overly familiar with Terran marriage practices, I believe this establishment prepares cakes that are exclusively served at wedding ceremonies. I highly doubt the proprietors will allow us to sample their products, as the likelihood of us purchasing such a cake before we have discussed the prospect of our bonding is improbable.”
Jim’s eyes widened. Was that a subtle hint Jim should be getting? What did discussing the prospect actually mean: that Spock wanted their relationship bliss to continue into the unforeseeable future? Or that he wanted to talk about severing it immediately?
“Jim. Are you ill? Your amicable expression has deteriorated.”
Shaking his head to clear his unfounded suspicions, Jim nudged Spock’s hip. “They don’t know we’re not engaged.” He shoved a thumb in the direction of the store.
Turning, Spock faced Jim, his eyebrows converging. Jim could practically see the well-oiled cogs in his brain turning, screeching in protest against the devious thoughts clogging up its gears.
“Your intention is to lie to the employees of this establishment with the expectation of being supplied with samples of baked goods for us to ingest.”
Jim slapped Spock’s arm lightly. “You got it.”
Spock’s hands drifted behind his back. It was a thing Spock did when he was about to get more stubborn than usual about one of Jim’s mad schemes.
“Vulcans do not lie.” Spock’s chest noticeably expanded with each breath, fingers twitching where they lay tightly grasped.
“Now, that’s a lie right there,” Jim accused. “Remember when we first started going out and I made you that really shitty carrot cake?” Jim had certain skills in abundance, but none of them related to the preparation of food. He’d been living off of cafeteria stipends, leftover snacks from chess club meetings, and Bones’ hotplate creations ever since he arrived at the Academy. “You ate the whole slice I handed to you and said it was satisfactory. Hey, I’ll eat anything, and even I had trouble swallowing more than two bites. It was as unsatisfactory as a cake can get.”
Spock straightened—however improbable the feat, considering he always stood as though a board were permanently strapped to his back. His glance remained fixated on the window display.
“Eating the food you had prepared to please me was logical in order to show my appreciation for your efforts.” His fingers dusted briefly against Jim’s. “However, lying to obtain free cake samples is not morally sound.”
Ok, so maybe Jim didn’t want to compromise the unscratched perfection of Spock’s morality. Sometimes his boyfriend’s do-gooder nature drove Jim nuts, for example when Spock complained whenever Jim drove above eighty on his hover bike, or that time he had called Jim out on his manipulation of the Kobayashi Maru simulation. Most of the time though it made Jim so proud, words of praise would overflow from his mouth. Until Bones threw a pillow at Jim’s face at oh two hundred, yelling sleepy gibberish filled with good-god-mans, it’s the middle of the night shut the hell ups, and stupid green-blooded boyfriends.
No matter; Spock may be a saint, but Jim definitely was not.
“I’ll do the lying, Spock. All you have to do is stuff your mouth with all the treats it deserves. Come on, it’ll be fun. A kind of game.” Leaning to breathe in his boyfriend’s ear, Jim squeezed Spock’s arm. “Like your favorite role play,” Jim needled. “You know, the one where you’re the teacher, and I’m the bad student. Took me ages to convince you to play along, but you sure enjoyed the make-believe once we started.”
Jim definitely didn’t imagine the flush spreading along Spock’s neck.
“Your imagination knows no bounds when it comes to creative recreational activities, Jim.”
“Imagination is my middle name.” Jim nodded.
Spock raised an eyebrow, his mouth opening to speak.
“Figuratively, not literally.”
Spock closed his mouth. His brow remained firmly lifted.
“I know you want to try those cakes, Spock. You’re a cake hound.” Running his fingers over the knot of digits resting against Spock’s lower back, Jim pressed his lips to a green tinged cheek.
A soft breath of air filtered through Spock’s nose. “Jim, I am not a canine, I am a Vul—”
“Hello there,” a voice chimed from behind Jim, making him jump, startled, into Spock’s arms. Or, he would’ve if Spock’s hands weren’t clutched obstinately behind his back. Instead, Jim just bashed clumsily into Spock’s chest before gaining his footing and turning to face the voice.
Laughing nervously, Jim ran a hand through his hair. “Um, hi.”
“Are you two here for a taste test?” the woman asked. She was clad in a clean white apron and a spectacularly elaborate hairdo piled on top of her head.
“N—” Spock began to say.
“Yes!” Jim yelled over top of him.
“No,” Spock reiterated, the firmness in his voice turning Jim on, reminding him of their sexy roleplay, the one he had just used to get under Spock’s skin, and the one Jim may have masturbated to the memory of in the shower this morning. But Jim had set his mind on feeding Spock cake, a fantasy of his stoic boyfriend licking icing from his fingers flashing through his mind like those sketchy bar signs on Third Street.
He looked over his shoulder at Spock with the captain’s face he’d been practicing in his bathroom mirror ever since he entered command school. “Yes. We are.” He glanced back at the lady who was grinning her face off. Jim hoped they looked like an annoyingly cute, almost married couple—it could only promote the success of his mission. “My fiancée here loves cake, but ever since we got engaged he’s been on this crazy Vulcan cleanse where you can only eat celery and Plomeek soup. You know, to purge himself of illogical toxins before our union. But our wedding is in three months. We can’t keep putting it off, babe.” He reached back to pat Spock on the chest.
“Three months?” the shop keeper exclaimed. “That leaves barely any time at all!”
“I know!” Jim sighed heavily and shook his head. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mr. Eat Right, over here. But you know Vulcans, they’re a stubborn bunch.”
Jim congratulated himself on an A-plus lie, laughing to himself at the contradiction in his claim. Sure, Spock liked his meditation and his logic, but no way could Jim ever imagine Spock’s crazy sugar tooth giving up anything covered in frosting for more than a few days.
Except if he was mulling over a gut wrenching decision, Jim recollected, the memory of an uneaten doughnut clouding Jim’s vision. Cringing at the thought, Jim pressed closer against Spock, fixing his smile in place.
“I see.” The woman pressed a forlorn hand against her cheek. “Well, our cakes are made with the highest quality ingredients. Perhaps your fiancée could make a small concession, just for today, so you can pick a cake you’ll both enjoy?”
Spock was boring a hole in Jim’s back with that penetrating gaze of his—the look he used when Jim was being illogical or taking his shirt off. Jim could feel it between his shoulder blades, as if someone had lit a match against his skin.
“Come on baby, treat yourself.” Jim turned to loop an elbow through Spock’s, poking his belly gently while he thought of snowy winters in Iowa to combat the burn from Spock’s fiery glare.
“Vulcan tastes are likely different from those of Terrans, but we have a large variety of recipes including chocolate, vanilla sponge, red velvet, tiramisu—”
“Tiramisu?” Spock piped up quietly, his eyes suddenly softening.
The cake was in the bag. Tiramisu was Spock’s favorite.
“Yes, it’s our most popular flavor,” the shop keeper nodded with a smile. “You’ll have trouble finding a better Tiramisu this side of San Francisco.”
There was a pause as Jim counted the exhales of Spock’s breath. “I suppose it would not hurt to try a selection of small samples,” he said.
“Fantastic!” The woman clapped her hands together. “Please, come in and we’ll get some samples ready for you.” When she opened the shop door, Jim grabbed Spock’s hand, dragging him indoors before his boyfriend’s head fell from the sugar cloud it was floating on and his stringent sensibility took over.
“My name is Janice, by the way.” She handed them a PADD, the screen listing images, descriptions, and prices of various cakes. “Here’s a menu of our standard cakes. We can, of course, customize any to suit your particular tastes and design preferences.”
“Thanks, Janice,” Jim grinned at her as he glanced down at the PADD. “I’m Jim, and this is Spock.” He waved a hand at Spock’s face which was peering over Jim’s shoulder at the menu. A long finger reached around to swiftly swipe through the pages until the Tiramisu appeared. Jim felt his eyes bulge out of their sockets. Six hundred credits! That was more than he made in a month part-timing as a bartender at The Raucous Riddler. No wonder Sam had gained five pounds on cake samples before making a purchase.
“Could we try a little of everything?” Jim asked with a charming grin. “Spock’s a cake snob.”
“Of course!” Janice exclaimed, excitedly. “We want to make sure you find the perfect dessert for your special day.”
This was actually a lot easier than Jim had expected. He assumed the bakery would demand proof of their engagement. Why had he never done this before? If he ate enough cake, he could fill up and save his last frozen chicken dinner for tomorrow instead of dividing the portions in half and inevitably waking up at midnight with a ravenous stomach.
“Which brand of liqueur do you use in the Tiramisu?” Spock asked. “Many bakeries in the area use Branson’s in a flagrant attempt to cut costs despite the substandard flavor. However, L’Velur is of a much higher quality.”
Jim snorted, again marveling how Spock had so easily downed his terrible carrot cake.
“That’s an excellent question. I’ll double check with our chef and be back in two ticks with a sample plate.” Janice waved at a table and chairs in the corner as she moved to a back door. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Jim turned to Spock a few seconds after the kitchen door closed behind Janice. Spock had taken the menu from Jim’s hands and was pouring over it, intense fascination scripted across his features.
“Well, well, someone’s having fun. You’re really getting into the game.”
Spock glanced up briefly. “As you have forced us into this unseemly situation, it would only cause embarrassment to both ourselves and the proprietors if we were to reveal our dishonesty.”
“That’s the spirit.” Glancing around to check if the coast was clear—his boyfriend didn’t like a show—Jim stepped behind Spock, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and pressed a kiss behind a pointed ear. “This is kinda hot. You know, pretending to be engaged.”
Spock was reading a description for the bakery’s chocolate fudge cake. “I have not noticed an increase in temperature since the commencement of our falsehood.” His body stiffened briefly before relaxing under Jim’s fingers. “Indeed, since the bakery is air conditioned, the temperature has, in fact, decreased by ten point two degrees.”
“I’ll just have to warm you up, then.” Rubbing a hand firmly against Spock’s belly, Jim traced the curve of Spock’s ear with his tongue.
The PADD drooped slightly in Spock’s hand. “Jim, this is hardly the place to initiate coitus,” Spock protested, unmoving. “Janice will return with our cake samples shortly.”
Jim’s hand snuck within the layered depths of Spock’s robe until he felt cool skin against his sweaty hand. As Jim’s fingers grazed along his abdomen, Spock’s muscles constricted. “Hey, we’re almost fake married,” Jim huffed against flushed skin. “Married couples can do it anywhere, anytime.”
“You have a convoluted view of married life, Jim,” Spock breathed, head tilting to the right as Jim’s mouth moved downward, lips nipping at the exposed flesh. “Even during the early days of our courtship, you were keen to explore my body in inconveniently public locations.”
“And you weren’t keen?” Jim hummed against Spock’s neck, the welcoming reaction from his boyfriend lighting Jim’s hope alight. Spock might be zoning out during their conversations together, but at least he showed no sign of tiring of the sex. The hand holding the menu dropped to Spock’s side as Jim’s hand drifted to the zipper of his boyfriend’s pants.
“Initially, I was surprised at my enthusiastic response to your physical attentions.” Spock’s left hand drifted to Jim’s wrist, fingers dusting over his skin. “However, considering my strong affection for you, and the aesthetically pleasing quality of your features, I have evaluated my willingness to engage in sexual relations with you at various venues when our bodily demands conjointly occur, to be logical for the purpose of reinforcing our knowledge of, and regard for, one another.”
Jim’s confidence flared against Spock’s affectionate declaration. “Well, if it’s logical.” His hand slipped through Spock’s open fly.
A door creaked and Jim jumped back, hands flying into the pockets of his jeans. “Sorry for the wait,” Janice called as she reentered the room carrying two trays decorated with small squares. She paused, staring at Spock. “Are you alright, sir? You look, well, a little green, to be honest.”
“I am functioning optimally,” Spock replied, his voice oddly robotic as he gathered his robes about him and stared fixedly at the wall. Janice glanced at Jim and he shrugged, tilting back and forth on his heels as his fingers twitched in his pockets. Heat still lingered along their tips.
“It’s all that celery he’s been eating. Gives him an earthy glow.”
Staring at him skeptically, Janice raised her eyebrows. Yeah, that didn’t sound real in his ears either.
Janice placed the trays on the table. “Okay, I brought a bit of everything like you asked. I hope you have an empty stomach.”
Jim’s stomach grumbled.
“That sounds like a yes,” Janice laughed. “By the way, our chef confirmed that L’Velur’s coffee liqueur is used in the Tiramisu.” She pointed at a thickly layered square. “You seemed to be especially interested in that one, so I brought you both an extra big portion.”
Stepping closer to peer down at the cakes, Spock nodded. “You have my gratitude.” He picked up the slice, bit into half of it and chewed slowly, his eyelids lowering. After swallowing, he paused for a moment. “The taste is pleasing. However, I will withhold my final judgement of preference until I have sampled the rest of your offerings.”
“This one looks good,” Jim said, picking up a slice of chocolate cake and shoving it unceremoniously in his mouth. His tongue practically sang, salivary glands rising in chorus as he chewed around the sticky mass. He sucked the remaining icing off his fingers. Spock watched, a feral gleam in his eye.
“So, when’s the special day?” Janice asked.
“Huh?” Jim mumbled around a slice of spongy red velvet.
“Your wedding date?”
“Ohh,” Jim almost yelled, “yeah our wedding. It’s uh...” He scrambled to remember his lie—did he say two months or eight?
“The seventh day of September according to the Terran calendar,” Spock answered.
Jim turned to gape at his boyfriend’s strict expression. The sight of Spock’s poker face snapped his wits back in to place.
“Yeah, what he said.”
“Can I see the ring?” Janice beamed, her face open with excitement. “I’m a bit of a jewelry fanatic. I get to see some interesting rocks working here.”
“Uhhh.” Jim glanced back at Spock. “Well, we—”
“The exchange of rings is not a ritual performed during Vulcan engagements.”
Janice looked a little disappointed, but seemed to accept the excuse as she began describing the cakes in front of them. Jim shoved another piece in his mouth before she asked any more questions. Spock mimicked him with a slice of lemon sponge.
An hour or so later, plus two full stomachs, Spock and Jim had consumed the greater portion of the sample trays. Spock was swaying slightly on his feet, his hands bumping and grabbing at Jim’s with increased frequency after every bite. With all the sugar coursing through his system, Jim felt like he could write Pike’s paper, run a marathon, and jump Spock at the same time.
When Spock’s hand pressed firmly against Jim’s ass and stayed there, Jim figured it was time to get the hell out of dodge. He thanked Janice for her time, took a business card, professing a need to sleep on their decision. They’d definitely be purchasing their cake from her bakery for their wedding.
Whenever that would be. If that would be.
“Jim,” Spock murmured as they stumbled out of the store. He took Jim’s hand, his fingers warm and dry, thumb caressing a knuckle in slow circles. Jim’s head almost burst with relief.
“Yes, Spock?” His body curled up against Spock’s side like a ship docking at port.
“Although traditional Vulcan bonding ceremonies do not include baked goods, I would not be averse to purchasing one of the cakes we tasted today in order to add a human element to our joining.”
Maybe it was the sugar rush, but the idea of marriage, although it once made Jim feel nervously wary in his youth, combined with the image of Spock standing beside him in some fancy robes, their hands entwined, struck him as all too right.
“We can do the whole feeding each other cake thing.”
Spock’s eyes widened. “It was unfortunate you did not demonstrate this ritual to me while we were consuming samples.”
“Dammit, you’re right,” Jim laughed. “You know, you really shot the whole Vulcans don’t lie thing to the moon. We’re getting married on September seventh, huh?”
Spock was silent for a moment, lips pressed into a firm line. Jim’s previous fears flooded back in an instant. Their little sugar rush had been only a temporary cover up, and now Spock’s brain was jolting back into break up mode. Shit, Jim thought, squeezing his eyes shut, here it comes.
“In retrospect,” Spock murmured. “The lie I conveyed would become a truth if we planned a bonding ceremony on that date.”
Jim’s eyes flew open and a bark of nervous disbelieving laughter burst from his throat, “You’re hilarious, Spock.”
The weight of Spock’s words struck him cold as he swirled his tongue around a slab of icing caught between his back molars.
“Wait,” Jim coughed out on a choked giggle. “Are you proposing to me?”
There was a pause as the buzz of air cars and pedestrian traffic echoed around them.
“Yes,” Spock said.
“What!”
Spock lifted an eyebrow. “The appropriate answer in this instance would be to reply with an affirmation or a negation.”
Jim stared at him.
“Jim?” Spock squeezed his hand briefly, the tender contact startling Jim into awareness.
“I’m a little shocked, that’s all.” He poked Spock playfully in the stomach with an edgy chuckle. “All the sugar in those cakes has turned your brain to mush. You’re not thinking straight.”
Spock frowned. “My mental capacities are functional. As we have been involved in a mutually beneficial courtship for the past seven hundred and thirty days, I see no justification against a legally binding union.”
Jim continued to stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Spock replied immediately. “I have meditated on the possibility of requesting your hand in marriage for the past thirty two days, but was unsure how to word my proposition to convince you of its logic. It was my intention to finally present my proposal to you tonight. As you so insistently expressed a heightened level of romance would be evident during the yearly anniversary of our courtship, I believed it would be fitting.”
“So, this isn’t some flash case of madness? You were actually planning to get down on one knee tonight?” Jim gaped.
Spock dipped his head. “I regret the length of time it took to voice my request. I am ashamed to confess a suffering of nerves that prevented an immediate expression of my desire to be bonded to you, should you bestow upon me your consent.”
“Holy shit,” Jim muttered, pressing a hand against his lips as he paced for a moment, his thoughts a confused tangle knotting around his tongue. “I thought you were going to break up with me, not propose.”
Spock visibly frowned. “No.” he replied after a pause. “As my favorable emotions for you have not waivered but only strengthened during our courtship, such a decision would be highly illogical.” He watched Jim, eyes wary. “Was that your desire? That I end our association?”
Jim’s grip moved upward to clutch at Spock’s shoulders. “No, definitely not!”
With an exhale of breath, Spock’s eyes drifted closed, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Squeezing Spock’s shoulder, Jim leaned in closer. “So. You actually think this is a logical thing to do?”
“Affirmative.” Spock’s eyes opened, his gaze focused, a question hidden within their depths. “Do you?”
Nodding, Jim exhaled heavily, tension easing from every muscle that had been storing his anxious assumptions. “Yeah. I do.”
Spock almost smiled then. Though Jim wasn’t about to rub it in and ruin their moment.
Jim scrubbed a hand through his hair with a huffed laugh. “Three months to plan a wedding might be pushing it though.”
Spock’s lips twitched further upward. “I am extremely efficient. Three months is more than sufficient.”
“I can’t afford to buy you a ring. Not yet, at least.”
Glancing down at Jim, Spock raised an eyebrow. “A ring is unnecessary. The explanation I provided for Janice was factual. Vulcans do not exchange rings during bonding ceremonies.” Spock blinked. “However, if you desire a ring, I will obtain one for our nuptials.”
Shaking his head, Jim shrugged, trying to disentangle his tumultuous thoughts. Joy suffused his belly and tickled the corners of his mouth. He grinned until his face felt like it was about to crack in two.
“Jim.”
“Yeah, babe.”
“I recommend we adjourn from this location. I find my palate no longer desires the taste of baked goods.” Spock’s hands moved to Jim’s wrist, fingers interweaving, revelation slipping into place like a recently solved tactics puzzle. “However, the salt content found upon your skin would be a pleasant contrast after the amount of sucrose I have consumed.”
Jim did some quick math in his head. If he set his alarm for oh four hundred and drank a liter of coffee, he could probably get his paper done before his tactics class at oh nine hundred. Pike would probably cover his paper in red slashing marks, but a passionate night of post engagement sex with Spock would be worth sacrificing an A grade. He’d make it up in the sim test he was sure to ace next week.
“Your quarters or mine?” Jim demanded.
“Mine,” Spock replied. “I do not wish to encounter your cantankerous roommate while we are engaged in fellatio again. His entrance at such an inconvenient time inhibited the erotic sensations you had so creatively inspired along my nerve endings.”
Good point, Jim thought, the image of Bones walking in after his shift at the Academy hospital, exhausted and therefore way too grumpy for anyone’s good, turning him off. “Lead the way, baby.”
“Jim,” Spock remonstrated, fingers grasping. “I do not understand why you insist on referring to me as if I were an infant.”
Laughing, Jim half pushed half tugged Spock along the sidewalk. “I’ll explain later.”