Archive of Our Own ^beta

The outpost is a small one, not exactly well located, not on any major traffic routes but not too far out into the ether—right in that sweet spot of providing for all the most common species with just enough miscellaneous oddities to keep things interesting. It’s all enclosed in a giant geodesic dome on a moon to nothing, a dead planet that’s just one big red ball in a vast black sky. Even though they have that view, that clear shot at space, it all feels indoors, not all that different than the halls of a Federation starship, wider but still full of over-recycled air. It still boasts fresher food than they’re used to. Only seventy percent of the goods are synthesized, unlike the ninety percent on the Enterprise. Jim stalls by a stand of Terran fruit he hasn’t seen in ages: real strawberries in their raw, natural state, but Bones waves him on with an insistent, “Jim.”

Spock’s on the move too, eyeing the various small storefronts with not-quite-curiosity. Jim has plenty of curiosity. They’ve already passed two different ‘enohpolyx’ signs, spelled out in plain Standard, with no translations forthcoming. He should’ve brought Uhura down. She’s on the next rotation for not-really-shore-leave, and she probably has a much better chance of figuring out what the eight-foot-tall scaled street performer’s singing. Again, Jim’s translator does nothing. Spock murmurs a quiet, “Fascinating,” when the performer gets down onto all fours and starts crab-walking back and forth, but ‘fascinating’ isn’t an explanation.

Bones isn’t paying attention to any of the ‘entertainment’—he beelines through the crowd, swerving into a glass shop with over-stuffed windows, plastered in all sorts of mysterious signs. Bones double-checks the main one, the name scrawled out in Andorian and Vulcan. Then he passes through the open doors, headed for a table of a hundred or so blue bottles.

Jim makes to follow, and Spock stops short, so abruptly that Jim does a double-take. He stops too, watching Spock stiffly turn away from the shop windows and eye nothing in particular. His gaze is lost over the milling crowd. His hands fold behind his back, arms straight, posture perfect—but a little too perfect; Jim knows him well enough to read the difference in those few millimeters.

“Spock?”

“I prefer to wait outside, Captain.” Just that. No reasoning. Spock doesn’t look back at him. There’s something off with that long, lean silhouette, a small sliver of detail that Jim can’t quite put his finger on. He’d wait too, but he’s also curious about what’s so important to Bones that he was willing to transport down with only a few complaints. A shrouded figure seems to have approached him inside, a shopkeeper too wrapped up in blankets to discern the species. In the end, curiosity wins; Jim meanders after his doctor.

A cloud of perfume hits him the second he’s inside: a cloying stench right between lavender and curry and something totally unknown. Bones seems unbothered by it; he glances up as Jim approaches and grunts, “Herbal oils. They’re far more effective when they’re grown naturally, but they’re the darndest thing to get on a starship.”

“And we have plenty,” the shopkeeper hisses, garbled out into Standard from some obscure strain of Tellarite. “Most arousing, these ones, and these are always warm to the touch, harvested fresh from the Rigel system...”

Jim’s attention drifts as the shopkeeper rolls on, though Bones seems invested. There are plenty of other bottles elsewhere, sporting other liquids and oils and things Jim doesn’t recognize, maybe with less medical value—several seem to glow, and pictographic labels show various foods, as though demonstrating flavours. Other odd objects litter the shelves, like long rods and rubber circles and complicated straps that Jim can only imagine are harnesses for alien animals. The only things he can truly place are candles and something that might be a nasty looking whip and a wooden cutting board with a handle. None of the things are properly labeled beyond prices, but a large notice behind the register reads ‘Please ask for a demonstration.’ There are at least ten things Jim would like a demonstration of, if only to determine their purpose, but glancing back through the open doorway, he places what’s wrong with Spock.

He catches the ever-so subtle green tint to the very tips of Spock’s ears: a faint flush that only a long-standing partner would notice.

Bones is down to price haggling, and Spock’s blush is infinitely more interesting. Jim heads back out of the otherwise empty shop and comes right up to Spock’s side, sticking close so he can keep his voice hushed, so no one else will hear them. Knowing it won’t be so easy to get an answer, Jim asks, “What is it?”

Naturally, Spock glances at him with pinched brows, as though Spock has no idea what ‘it’ is. He’s being deliberately obtuse.

But Jim plays the game and elaborates, “With you. What’s affecting you?” As far as he can tell, nothing in the windows is relevant to Spock’s interests, to the science department, to anything Vulcan. Spock won’t even look at the store so isn’t giving any clues.

And Spock lies, “Nothing.”

Even though Jim presses, “You’re not supposed to do that.”

They both know what. Of course Vulcans can lie. But they’re not supposed to. Spock stares at Jim for a long moment, quietly boring into him, maybe trying to will him away. Jim stands firm. And finally, Spock tightly, almost silently, mutters, “They are selling... Vulcan... toys.” The word is chosen carefully, used pointedly. Jim would still have trouble placing the meaning if not for the slight discoloration on Spock’s handsome face.

Colour blooms in Jim’s cheeks too, and he automatically answers, “What?” even though he knows what. Albeit not specifically. He can’t help glancing over his shoulder, scanning the window display, seeing nothing that could be anything—especially not Vulcan-specific. Spock’s shoulders gently sway in his peripherals, riding a long, poignant exhale.

Spock inclines his head ever so slightly towards a box of fuzzy string, and he murmurs so low that it might as well be whispered directly into Jim’s mind, “That is meant to be drawn between fingers.”

“Oh.” Oh. All at once, Jim can picture it: holding the end of one soft piece of yarn, slowly pulling Spock’s hand into his lap and wrapping the material tightly around Spock’s index finger, pulling it down over his thumb, letting the texture brush along his bare skin and tickle him, tease him, ever-so-faintly arousing that one sense in such a Vulcan way—Jim knows from experience that simply drawing his tongue between Spock’s index and middle finger can take Spock close to climax.

Spock’s condition has only worsened, perhaps by the ideas swirling in Jim’s mind, ghosting along the edges of their bond, because Jim’s desires always call for Spock. Even when they’re out in public on alien sidewalk with their own crew sprinkled around, it happens. All things considered, Spock does an admirable job of hiding his embarrassment and, more importantly, hiding the connection bristling between them.

For Spock’s sake, Jim holds back his smile. He doesn’t laugh like he wants to, and he certainly won’t share that particular insight with Bones. He does risk musing, “Maybe I should get one.”

Spock instantly quips, “You would not find it... stimulating.”

“I meant to use on you.”

One little look, a single sideways glance, says it all. Jim won’t do it, even though a part of Spock might like him to, might at least be interested in trying, because Spock longs for adventure and new experiences just like Jim does, especially when shared with his partner. But he can’t do that, not in public, not with Bones nearby, not with everything he’s worked so hard to be. Without a single word, he’s asking Jim not to test him. Jim can respect that. He nods, and that’s enough: the whole conversation discussed and resolved.

Instead of saying ‘thank you’, Spock quietly notes, “I have no need of objects, given the partner I have.”

Which is Spock-speak for ‘t’hyl’as are better than sex toys.’

Jim’s flattered. He shrugs and counters, “Guess I’ll just have to settle for rubbing Bones’ oils on you later.”

Spock quirks a brow, and Bones emerges from the shop, right on cue, with a box full of bottles that are probably meant for other things. Jim doesn’t enlighten Bones. He shuffles them all down the walkway, and they finally stop for food, only to beam back up when it turns out the outpost only serves finger-food without utensils.