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Story Notes:
Apologies to William Shakespeare for using his Sonnet 153 as title and cut text. Originally posted at my LJ here.

She doesn't have a brain until she's been up for about half an hour and has downed at least two cups of coffee. Also, she and Chris were roommates for so long that they lost nearly any pretensions of modesty and would have long conversations, for example, when Chris was in the shower and Jamie was sitting on the toilet. Sometimes with the lid closed, sometimes not. So it's totally not her fault when she wanders into the bathroom half awake and starts brushing her teeth only to hear the sonic shut off and a throat clear delicately from behind the shower door. Jamie mumbles, "Morning"—except, around the toothbrush, it comes out more like mrrrnng—only to receive yet another delicate throat-clearing by way of reply.

Right. On board the Enterprise. Two days out of port. Sharing a bathroom with Spock, not Christine Chapel.

Jamie spits out the toothpaste and rinses. "Uh, sorry. I'll just be...not here."


Apparently Jamie's not the only one getting used to this sharing business, because she thought Spock was asleep, or meditating, or playing the lute, or reconfiguring the equations for maximum warp, or whatever he does in his spare time. And Jamie took gamma shift this week, and Spock has alpha, and also, knocking is a time-honored tradition when one is faced with a closed door. So it's also completely not Jamie's fault that she's just out of the shower and brushing her hair when the door opens, and, whoa, naked Spock.

Really not a bad sight. Not that she's surprised, but, still, it's nice to have confirmation. Lean muscle; abs she wouldn't mind putting her tongue to; elegant cuts to his hips; broad shoulders; collarbones that would be good to bite. She'd totally hit that, if it wouldn't be sexual harassment.

He looks—he absolutely looks. Vulcan or not, he's still a straight guy and she knows what she looks like standing here, naked as the day she was born with her hair loose around her shoulders and her skin a little flushed from the warmth of the compromise temperature they've worked out for the bathroom. He looks, and he blushes as green as the skin of a lime.

Then he immediately turns around and says, "Captain, I offer my apologies." The door slides closed behind him.

Jamie sighs and puts on a robe, then knocks on his door. There's no reply, and after a moment she says, "Spock, you decent? Because I'm coming in."

After a pause, Spock says, "I am...covered."

She presses the button to open the door, and leans against the frame. He studies a point several inches above her head.

"Spock, look—it's not a big deal. We're going to be sharing this bathroom for another five years; probably we'll see each other in all sorts of inappropriate states. My old roommate and I, we just got used to it. You and I will too."

"I must trust your voice of experience on that matter, Captain."

"Haven't you ever had to share with anybody before?"

"I maintained my own apartment during my time at the academy, both as an undergraduate and as an instructor."

"Oh." Jamie blinks, and thinks of living with Chris, surrounded by so many people—loud sometimes, annoying often, but it meant she never had to be alone. Maybe Spock preferred it that way, but, to Jamie, it just sounds really lonely. "Well," she says, "you'll adjust, but a word of advice: If there's a closed door, knock on it."

"I mean no impertinence, Captain, but I might advise you the same."

Jamie laughs delightedly. "You meant every word of that impertinence, Mr. Spock. Alright, it's a deal."

"Indeed," he replies so seriously, they might have just signed a multiplanet treaty.


What she wants is to tuck herself into a corner of the shower stall and let the water rain down over her until she feels clean again. What she has is a hybrid shower and a water ration she was saving for her birthday. Well, fuck it. Desperate times and all that.

The water is as hot as she can stand it. She can see the streams running pink as it starts to rinse the blood from her hair and her uniform. She realizes she's still wearing her uniform. Well, fuck that too. The thing was probably ruined anyway. She wraps her arms around her knees and presses her forehead against them, because for once in her life the sight of blood is making her sick. Maybe it's not as bad when it's your own blood. Maybe it's not as bad when it's your enemies' blood. Maybe it's worse when it belongs to somebody that you know. Maybe it's a million times worse when it belongs to a bunch of people that you know and that you're responsible for.

After a while, the shower stops. Her ration must have run out. It occurs to her that she must have been here a while, because she had most of a year's worth of water saved up. She should get up, turn on the sonic and actually get herself clean, except she's pretty sure she's never going to feel clean again so what would be the point?

Some amount of time goes by before there's a knock on the door from Spock's side. "Captain?"

She doesn't bother answering; she's got both of them locked on a command override. Spock tries again, and once more, but finally there's just silence. Maybe he got the point that she doesn't want company.

Except then she hears his door swish open and Spock's even voice querying, "Captain, are you alright?"

She raises her head to glare at him as he opens the shower door. "I don't remember saying you could come in. Shut that and get the fuck out of here."

"Your nonresponse coupled with your refusal to allow Dr. McCoy to examine you was of great concern. Further, the evidence of injury on your skin, hair, and clothing is troubling."

"I'm just bruised up a little. The blood isn't mine. How the hell did you get in?"

"I obtained a medical override from the doctor."

"Should have figured. Conniving bastard. You and McCoy both. Just let me sit here for a while; I'll be fine; go away."

"Shall I turn the water back on?"

She shakes her head. "I ran out."

"Ah," Spock says. He begins keying something in on the access panel.

"What are you doing?"

"My own ration is mostly unused."

"Spock, don't—" Jamie starts to protest.

"I do not plan to use it," he interrupts her. "The ship's mechanisms are not capable of heating the water to a temperature satisfactory for a Vulcan."

When the spray starts, Spock disappears, but only for a few moments. When he returns, he's barefoot and has removed his uniform overshirt, though otherwise he remains fully dressed. He's also carrying a bottle that Jamie recognizes as the wash she likes—the wash she was saving for her birthday. Spock steps into the stall and seats himself next to Jamie, whose next—and perfectly reasonable—question is, "What in God's name are you doing?"

"If you are unable or unwilling to do this for yourself, Captain, it must be done for you. The presence of foreign matter on your skin and hair is decidedly unhygienic."

"You are the weirdest person I've ever met. Why do you still have all your clothes on?"

"It would be quite inappropriate for me to remove them. You are fully dressed as well."

"So weird," she mutters, but she lets her head drop forward so that he can rub the wash into it. The scent is crisp, a little citrusy, and she remembers why she liked it so much—it's not too heavy or flowery or anything. And Spock's fingers, elegant, strong, and sure, feel good on her scalp. He tilts her head back to rinse, combing the suds out gently until her hair feels nothing but clean.

She should get up and do the rest herself, take off her sodden uniform and wash the blood off her skin, but instead she closes her eyes and lets herself lean against her First. After a moment, his arm goes around her, tentatively as though he can't be sure she won't scratch or bite.

"It was not your fault," he says, quietly, after another moment has passed.

"It doesn't matter," she says.


She's half awake and brushing her teeth when Spock knocks on the door. Words are way beyond her; she grunts around her toothbrush in response. Let him interpret that as he will.

He apparently interprets it as "come in," because he stations himself at the adjacent sink and begins cleaning his own teeth. He looks completely alert, the asshole. Jamie hates him.

"Good morning, Captain," Spock says with impeccable clarity.

She spits, rinses, and glares. "You do that just to show off."

"I regret that I do not comprehend your meaning."

"Bullshit," she mutters, and presses herself against his side. He's so very warm, and she wants to climb back in bed and wrap herself around him.

"You were awake quite late," Spock observes, stroking the spiky ends of her newly short hair.

"Trying to finalize what I'm saying to the Emalians later today. They put a lot of weight on oratory; I don't want to screw it up."

"I have some experience with Emalian culture, if you would like a second reader on the piece."

"Yeah, if you don't mind. Uhura's going to look it over, too, once we're on shift, but another pair of eyes wouldn't hurt."

In a moment she'll get her PADD and call up the draft of the speech, but right now Jamie pulls Spock against her and tangles her fingers in his hair. "It's going to be a long-ass day," she says, "and that's assuming we don't have to beam down and deal with them personally."

"There is not time—"

"Not for sex, no, more's the pity. But I want a taste of you so that I know I have something to look forward to tonight."

"An incentive," Spock says, entirely deadpan.

"Exactly," Jamie says, and leans up to kiss him.

As incentives go, it's a good one.


Shore leave is great for more reasons than Jamie could ever hope to count. But chief among them are eating nonsynthesized food, swimming in the ocean, building sandcastles with Joanna McCoy, drinking whiskey that Scotty didn't make in a Jeffries tube, baking like a potato in the sun, and taking as many showers as she wants with actual water.

And then there's this particular pleasure.

Jamie lets herself back into the house and closes the front door behind her. Inside is still and quiet, but she can see through the open bathroom door that the light is on. "Spock?" she calls.

"I am here, Jamie."

She pads in to find him in the bathtub, lying back with closed eyes. He opens them, though, when she enters, and she lets him look at her. Her skin is pink from the sun, her hair is tousled, and she's covered by nothing but two triangles, some string, and what amount to a pair of fairly skimpy underwear even though they're considered a bikini bottom. Spock's expression doesn't change, but his dark eyes are avid, and they grow more so when she reaches behind her to untie the swimsuit top and let it fall to the floor. She shucks the bottom off as well, and even though they haven't touched, she can feel herself getting wet, just at the idea of how much she wants him and he wants her.

"I'm going to rinse off," Jamie says. "Is that water safe for me?"

"It has cooled sufficiently."

She steps into the shower to take off the outermost layers of salt and sand, then turns it off and goes to stand next to the tub. She runs her thumb over one of her nipples and watches Spock watch it get hard. "Are you ready for me?" she asks. "Because I'm ready for you. I'm going to ride you until neither of us know our own names, and then I want to suck you off in the shower. Then you're going to fuck me against the wall, and then you're going to go down on me and clean up your mess. Then we're going to have dinner. That OK with you?"

"I await only the conclusion of your pronouncements."

She's laughing as she slides down onto him.
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