He comes to in a room shrouded in darkness, the only hints of illumination from moonlight slanting through lateral steel beams framing the exterior wall like a decorative trim. Aside from this detail, Jim can sparsely make out any other features of his prison, though he does assess that there is another organic lifeform within the confines of the space fairly quickly.
With an undignified yelp, Jim startles backward at the sound of the creature breathing scant inches from him. A confusing jumble of limbs and the ache of joint over-extension follows, further disorienting the near-blind officer, until—
“Ensign,” says the voice, not without its fair share of exasperation.
And thank God, actually, because Jim would recognize that voice over his own.
“Captain,” he breathes, so greatly relieved to find he isn’t about to be eaten by some foreign predator in an undisclosed location. “Oh, fuck. I thought I was a goner for sure. Where the hell are we?”
Spock clicks his tongue, clearly displeased by the vulgarity but also not so much to properly chastise him. “We appear to be prisoners.” He says this in the same way most humans would informally follow up with, duh. Though he isn’t sure there is enough lighting for anyone to witness it, Jim grins triumphantly nonetheless.
A twinge in his arm reminds him of his rather precarious position. Spock seems to have gotten the better end of the strapped-to-another-person deal, since he has the good fortune to be able to lean comfortably against the exterior wall, legs extended and bent at the knee. Between which, of course (just his luck), Jim lies sprawled on his belly, yellow shirt riding up and exposing a strip of said torso to the cool ground below him. He has never wished he followed regulation more stringently before in his life; at least if he had in this instance, his tucked black undershirt would have saved him a modicum of dignity. Hindsight, twenty-twenty, whatever. Then, his attention is drawn to his hands, which are attached to some terribly tingly arms.
The metal cuffs—if they can rightly be called such—cover his arms to the elbow and cross at his wrists, entirely encasing every inch of skin between. Spock’s cuffs mirror his. At the palms, the cuffs wrap around only the backs of their hands, pressing their palms pretty snuggly together, right to right and left to left. As if the discomfort couldn’t get any worse, the connection of their cuffs extends to the wrists, leaving very little room for finding any position even remotely comfortable.
Experimentally, Jim tests the feeling in his hands by wiggling his fingers. Above him, Spock hisses out something in Vulcan and one of his legs kick down and jars Jim, yanking on the juncture where their arms are still very, very attached. It’s a wonder his elbows don’t pull right out of socket.
“Son of bitch,” Jim curses into the cement flooring with a regulation boot digging insistently into his side. Spock seems to shake out whatever the hell had briefly possessed him, because the foot retreats quickly after that.
“So,” he asks after several long seconds of breathing unevenly into the ground. “Is this the new normal? Will we have to learn to cohabitate? I’m kind of a slob.”
“Your incessant witticisms are unwelcome,” Spock states emphatically.
“They’re welcome everywhere, Captain. It’s a universal fact.”
“I do not doubt that you believe that.”
“Aww, you know me so well,” Jim coos, though the faux flirting does fall a little flat when he can’t flash his big ol’ doe eyes at Spock. “Look at us! We’re practically married already. Fair warning: I’m a high-maintenance gal.”
Spock doesn’t respond for a moment, and for a second Jim wilts, assuming he won’t rise to the bait. Then, as if the Vulcan just can’t help himself, he says, “Strictly for clarification purposes, I am compelled to ask: does your self-identification as a ‘high-maintenance gal,’” (Jim can sense the air quotes. They aren’t physical ones—he would feel them against his own palms—but they’re there, all the same.) “extend past impromptu quips, or does it, like most of your other unsolicited narrations, serve only to disarm?”
“Oh, now we’re flirting? The Captain thinks I’m disarming,” Jim sing-songs, then wriggles around inelegantly on the ground in an effort to ease the ache in his joints, trying to ignore the fact that Spock’s crotch is about half a foot from his face. After much uninterrupted shuffling, he lets out a frustrated grunt. He may not be claustrophobic, but anyone would be greatly agitated by the sheer lack of mobility being chained up from elbow to wrist creates. “Listen, I hate to be the kind of guy to complain, but I gotta get out of these cuffs. And, barring that option, I at least have got to sit up or risk needing a double amputation of the arms. Or insanity. Whichever comes first.”
Spock stays quiet, but he does shuffle backwards a touch before carefully raising their joined arms. The leverage allows Jim to get his knees up under him, then from there he sort of–pauses.
He’s got options, for sure, but none are exactly inspiring.
Up on his knees like this, fingertips pressed to fingertips, Jim realizes just how close their bondage forces them, especially in the search for comfort. He could sidle his knees up to press flush against Spock’s thighs. Fuck.
“Ensign?” Spock addresses drily, perhaps curious as to why Jim has stopped both his incessant speech and his restless wriggling all at once. He still can’t see much, not with the hailing dark of the room, but his eyes have adjusted enough that he can pretty clearly make out the milk chocolate of Spock’s eyes, and for fuck’s sake, that is doing wayyy too much for him.
But he’s gotta talk, or risk being caught staring like a creep.
“Hnngh,” he manages, then wishes he could smack a hand to his face. “Sorry. Something stuck in my throat. Dry. Dry mouth, ‘cause I’m thirsty.”
“You have been unconscious throughout the duration of our stay.” Like it’s some sort of vacation. “In this time, I have calculated that we are monitored every two-point-two-three hours. As they have each time before, I am certain that, during their next patrol, our captors will provide necessary sustenance that will reduce your discomfort.”
Jesus, like wading through shallow water every time he opens his mouth. “Wonderful.” Then, before he can think better of it, he asks, “Permission to straddle your lap, Captain?”
Although his expression does not technically change, Jim imagines it might take on an even more bored look. “Permission denied.”
“But Captain. Caaaaptaaain. Please. My knees are falling asleep.”
“Permission considered. Permission pending.” Spock pauses as if actually thinking, but neither his expression changes nor do his eyes even waver from boring directly into Jim’s. “Permission denied.”
“Don’t make me wiggle my fingers again.” It’s a pretty hollow threat in the scheme of things, yet they still drag a greater reaction out of Spock than anything else he’s said yet as his eyes dart down at their joined hands and back up again. Those brown eyes assess his, as if trying to pin down just how serious he is, so Jim (curious; always too curious for his own good…) allows juuust his pinky to barely, barely shift to the left.
Spock’s eyes widen practically microscopically, but Jim catches it because he’s not just looking; oh, no, he’s fucking searching.
“Permission granted,” Spock finally allows, a strange but unidentifiable quality to his voice.
Gleefully, Jim pushes higher up onto his knees and sways his balance back and forth to individually swing both legs over Spock’s. After some minor adjusting, Jim finally settles back onto Spock’s strong thighs and thinks (because he can’t say it out loud without probably being murdered), damn. Probably the first motherfucker to sit here, huh?
Spock says nothing, but it is clear he could be more comfortable, for sure. Which is totally fair, because sitting in his ship captain’s lap isn’t Jim’s first choice for leisure. Sure, he’s thought about it in more recreational settings. This exact position, even, though maybe without the excessive bondage. It’s suuuper taboo—but that just makes the idea of it that much hotter, ‘specially for Jim.
And, fuck, for the life of him he cannot get those eyes out of his head; the eye contact is so focused that it bleeds everything to the wayside… to be fucked with those eyes looking right into his soul—
“James,” Spock interrupts his rumination, sounding strangled. Jim’s instantly on high alert, certain there is an immediate threat that he hasn’t caught onto yet, so he leans this way and that to look around. He doesn’t sense anything—a pin drop would be deafening in the still quietness of their cell. With furrowed brows, he returns his gaze to his Captain’s, and kind of freezes in place.
Because Spock is—no. Surely it isn’t possibly, but newly gathered evidence would certainly argue with him. In the dimness of the room, Jim can just barely make out a tinge of green dusting Spock’s face. He’s blushing. No fucking way.
“No fucking way,” Jim repeats aloud. “Vulcans can blush?”
It doesn’t occur to him, in this exact moment, to really consider the why.
Spock averts his gaze. Well. His eyes shift from making direct eye contact to looking at the space marginally to the left of Jim’s eyes. “No,” he admits. Then, just as quickly as he had noticed the distinct coloration, it dissipates like it had never been there at all.
“You totally made that go away. How did you do that? Do you just—suck it back up into your body, or something? Like breathing through gills?”
“A wildly inaccurate comparison,” he says thinly. “And assumption, for that matter.”
What Jim wouldn’t give to jab him in the cheek right now, superior officer be damned. He’d risk it all right now just for some good ol’ fashioned slapstick. (It’s been far too long since he’s yucked it up with another human in person.)
“Ain’t you cute,” Jim adopts a seriously terribly southern drawl. “Blushing ‘cause you got a hot piece of ass in your lap.”
Oh, and thus appears the eyebrow of death: Spock’s always so good at looking greatly disappointed without a drop of emotion altering his expression.
“What, hit the nail on the head, did I?”
“As there are currently no implements within our reach to carry out such an activity, I should say not.”
Jim leans forward conspiratorially. “Was that a joke, Captain? A–what’d you call it? Incessant witticism? Careful, sir, I think your fondness is showing!” He can tell that Spock is physically preventing himself from reacting in any way that could be considered emotional, which is so thrilling. If just a little teasing can get him riled up like this, Jim wonders what Spock would do with a mouth wrapped around his—
“Jim.” Uh-oh. That’s a, you’ve been caught watching porn on the school desktop, ‘Jim.’ Like a deer-in-headlights, he blinks innocently down at Spock. “I can only assume that you did not attend a culture sensitivity seminar regarding Vulcans prior to your assignment to my ship.”
Oh. That’s not exactly what he was expecting. “Sure, I did. It was required. I mainly slept through it, though. Memorized enough to pass the exit exam.”
Clearly frustrated and mad about that, Spock shutters between furrowing his brows and smoothing them to their neutral position. Very carefully, very slowly, like Jim is a child: “Vulcan telepathy is limited to touch.”
Jim blinks. Then, blinks again. And once more as he glances down to where their hands rest splayed palm to palm.
Abruptly, Jim’s face flames up, a perfect parallel to his Vulcan counterpart just minutes ago. “Oh, fuck,” he acknowledges blandly. “Captain, I’m so sorry. God. That’s… well. That’s unfortunate, is what it is, that I didn’t know that like ten minutes ago. I woulda kept my, erm, impulsive human thoughts under tighter lock and key.” He drops his head backwards, staring unseeingly at the pitch black ceiling. “I’ve violated like… fifteen sexual harassment regulations.”
“Surely only fourteen,” Spock states in his typical monotonous tenor, and Jim bursts out laughing, leaning a little more into the Captain’s space.
“God, I bet you’d get crucified telling a joke like that to another Vulcan,” Jim teases, and he doesn’t really notice but their foreheads nearly brush with their renewed proximity. Any closer and the strain on their arms would probably snap Jim back into awareness, into how wildly unprofessional and inappropriate he continues to be with his fucking captain, but Spock has been nothing if not receptive to the attention—the flirting—the touch…
Their noses brush. Jim can’t tell if he’s the only one leaning in, but he can tell that Spock’s eyes have sort of gone half-lidded, that they continue to dart between Jim’s eyes and his lips, and if that isn’t an invite in and of itself—
But of course, this is the precise moment when the door swings open, and two large lifeforms enter with an imposing Vulcan woman trailing behind them. First Officer T’mock salutes Spock, and the hiss-and-click between his and Jim’s body precedes the dull thud of their cuffs coming loose and releasing them.
After that, well. It’s a whirlwind of labyrinthine prison cells and heated negotiating with the locals, but then they’re being beamed aboard the Duhal’im once more where they belong, and Spock doesn’t even look his way once.
Despite everything else that happened in that room, it’s Jim’s fingertips that tingle for hours after their hands separate.
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