Spock could not sleep. As illogical as insomnia was to someone with fine control over their body’s reactions, he could not deny that he was lying in his bunk, staring into the darkness that surrounded him, at two a.m. on Christmas morning.
Perhaps analysis would help. Why could he not sleep?
His brow furrowed. Christmas Eve had been very much a normal day. He had followed his normal work pattern, shifted and carried the usual unwieldy objects back and forth through the quarry, eaten the usual bland meals and held the usual conversations with fellow prisoners and surly guards alike. Christmas had no place on Gamma Zentra 4.
The only reason why he knew it was Christmas was because of his careful attention to time passing in this grim place. He and Kirk had been here together now for a little over four months, beamed unceremoniously from their shuttle when it had apparently passed too far into Zentran airspace, and committed without trial to one of the planet’s harshest labour prisons. Zentran relations with the Federation had never been good, and now both the Vulcan and the human were discovering how much they were despised by Zentran authority.
Spock’s arms ached, as they always did, from the day’s continuous fetching and carrying. His shoulders ached from the blows that hit him when he did not perform fast enough or seemed to show any hint of surliness in his manner to the guards. His ankle pulsed alternately with aching and sharp soreness where he had turned it on the rough ground a week ago. His hands were rough and callused and dirty, his hair was lank and filled with dust, and his face was disfigured with a barely healing wound across forehead and cheek, gained when another prisoner had pushed him over onto the sharp rocks.
He was not, he had to admit, happy. But still, thus far every night he had been able to sleep.
He stirred on the uncomfortable mattress beneath him, the blanket rough against his naked skin, and let his eyes focus on the barely perceptible underneath of the bunk above him, where Kirk’s bulk lay. Jim was undoubtedly asleep. Jim always fell into sleep before Spock, and lay there with his tired face suddenly as innocent as a child’s, as if he had forgotten every pain and hardship that had followed him through the day. In some way Spock saw it as his duty to remain on guard until his captain was safe in sleep. Only then did he feel able to follow suit.
He focussed his attention abruptly. Perhaps Kirk was not asleep… Perhaps he had subconsciously realised that Jim was lying awake above him, and the knowledge of that had kept him awake too…
‘Jim?’ he asked very softly. Talking was forbidden after the lights were switched out.
He heard Kirk jolt suddenly, and realised abruptly that Jim had not been awake after all. Instead, Spock had woken him for nothing. How had he not noticed the quiescence of Jim’s mental presence? Now he was awake Spock could feel his mind, on edge and ready to catch hold of anything that might threaten them.
‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ he murmured. ‘I believed you were awake.’
‘No,’ Kirk murmured. He was silent for a moment, and then swung his legs over the side of his bunk and dropped noiselessly to the floor.
‘Jim, you should not – ’ Spock began. Prisoners were required to remain in their bunks until the lights were switched on in the morning.
‘Spock, it’s – what – two, three a.m.?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Guards don’t patrol again until four, at least.’
‘That is true,’ he admitted.
‘Go on,’ Kirk said, his voice dropping even lower. ‘Shove up.’
‘I beg your pardon, Jim?’ Spock asked, but he grasped Kirk’s meaning as the captain’s hand pressed at his flank. He moved over as close as possible to the wall, and Kirk slid into bed beside him, pulling his own blanket down for extra warmth against the night’s chill.
Spock lay very still for a moment, very aware of the naked length of Jim’s body along his. He had been confined in this cell for a large portion of every day with Jim. He had showered alongside him in the communal showers, rubbed his shoulders when they ached, eaten beside him. He had watched him undress each night, put his clothes carefully on their shelf as was dictated by prison rules, and climb, nude and shivering into his bunk. He had wished to put his arms around him, just to warm him up, or to warm himself up. Over the months he had found a latent admiration for the perfection of his captain’s form building into something akin to a primitive Vulcan desire to possess that form. He had seen Kirk’s eyes linger on him with the same depth of desire. But as yet, neither had acted on it, terrified of transforming a perfectly satisfactory friendship into the shards of a failed romance. As yet, they had always slept very carefully in their own bunks, no matter how cold or lonely each felt at night. The risk of being caught by the guards sharing a bed was too great.
‘Jim,’ Spock said in a low voice, uncertain as to what exactly it was that he wished to say.
Kirk stirred, and the feeling of his captain’s skin sliding against his was like a charge of electricity. Spock suppressed a gasp. He turned cautiously onto his side, ostensibly making more room, but in fact angling his body so that the softness of his penis dropped downwards against Jim’s own, his own heat lying against Jim’s cool.
Kirk was unable to hold in his own gasp. Spock felt air billow past his ear as the captain sucked air in, and then the sweet warmth of Jim’s breath blossomed back over his face. Neither of them said anything about this sudden intimacy, but Jim did not shrink away.
‘It is Christmas day,’ Spock said. He had been intending to conceal that fact from Jim, for fear of distressing him. Jim was used to spending Christmas day amongst his friends or family, in comfort and safety. The captain had lost track of the days weeks ago.
‘Is it?’ Jim asked in wonder. ‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Spock nodded.
‘That must be why it snowed today,’ Jim said slowly.
Spock could feel him smiling in the dark. He could feel too that Kirk’s previously soft penis was growing hotter and harder, and beginning to nudge against his belly as if its impatience was growing with its size.
‘Jim,’ Spock said in a low voice.
He wrapped the heat of his Vulcan hand about the growing hardness, feeling the exquisite silken sensation of paper-thin skin that moved slickly over the solidity beneath. Kirk gasped and threw his head back, and Spock moved his hand, slowly, up and down, feeling veins filled with pulsing blood under his palm.
‘Spock, are you sure,’ Kirk began.
‘We have only each other,’ Spock whispered. ‘We need nothing else…’
He gathered his own heated erection in the same hand that held Jim’s, and pressed them gently together, beginning to pump them together with firm, strong strokes.
‘Spock,’ Kirk gasped. His face was so close to Spock’s that when he shook his head their lips brushed like moths touching in the dark. ‘Spock, we can’t. If they find the traces in the bed…’
Spock’s hand stopped moving abruptly, and his fingers relaxed. He dreaded to think what the consequences of discovered sexual activity would be. At the very least he would be separated from his captain, perhaps never to see him again. Life here was harsh enough already.
‘Turn around,’ he said abruptly.
‘Turn around?’ Kirk echoed.
‘Shh,’ Spock reminded him, continuing in a near whisper. ‘Put your mouth on me, Jim. I wish you to put your mouth on me… And there will be no traces…’
He felt that smile again, warmer than the sun despite the darkness and the cold around them.
‘Logical as always,’ Kirk murmured, but he began to carefully and silently manoeuvre himself around until he was lying in the opposite direction to Spock, artfully curving his body in the small space so that the warmth of his breath was clouding over Spock’s eager erection.
A low moan escaped Spock’s throat even before Kirk’s lips touched his skin, and to silence himself he jerked his head forwards and sank his own mouth deep over Kirk’s erection. The salty, iron tang of human flesh flooded his mouth, and he transmuted his desire to moan again into a firm movement of his mouth and tongue. Then Kirk’s mouth began to pound against his own organ, and his awareness of anything but that delectable sensation began to dwindle down to nothing. His own movements were obviously just as pleasing to Jim, because he could feel Jim’s joy like light bursting in his mind, feel Jim’s fingers clenching into his buttocks to pull him closer, feel the firm solidity of Jim’s torso pressing against his own, and Jim’s heart pounding under his ribs. That firm, cool tongue kept stroking at him, finding the sensitive tip and dedicating special attention to it. Jim’s teeth were catching on the ridge, delightfully painful to his sensitised skin. The pressure was building, building, building – until suddenly all conscious thought flooded from his mind, and he felt the jerking release into Kirk’s mouth at the same moment that his own mouth was filled with a uniquely human-tasting fluid.
Spock lay very still, aware that it was very possible that either he or Kirk had cried out in the heat of orgasm. His mouth was still filled with *Jim*, and Jim’s mouth was still cool on him. He was swallowing the fluid as if it was the most precious liqueur, and he could feel Jim’s throat constricting with the same action. Jim’s heart was still thudding against his chest, and he knew that his own heartbeat was racing out of control.
They both lay still for a long time, holding their breath, and listening, always listening, for the tramp of guards’ feet, the click of a light or the rattle of keys in a lock.
No such sound came. Eventually Kirk stirred, moving his face away from the warm, furred softness of Spock’s groin, swivelling himself again in the bed until he was lying face to face with the Vulcan.
‘Spock,’ he said in a low voice, leaning forward, touching his lips to Spock’s own, pressing his tongue into Spock’s mouth and tasting the mingled flavour of both Vulcan and human fluid mixing as their tongues explored each other.
Spock finally drew away from the kiss, gasping for air, his hand resting loosely on Kirk’s cheek, feeling the sparking thoughts and emotions that were running through his mind.
‘Merry Christmas, Spock,’ Kirk said in a low, breathless voice.
‘Merry Christmas, Jim,’ Spock echoed, letting his lips touch one more time in a soft, heartfelt kiss.
Kirk returned the kiss, and with a soft caress of the Vulcan’s face he slipped out of the bed and regained his bunk, shivering under the thin blanket now that he was without the heat of the Vulcan’s body. Inside both of them, though, burned a warmth that all the snows and cruelty of Gamma Zentra 4 could not chill.
Spock lay staring at the dark bulk above him. He and Jim had been alone in this prison for four long months, but he no longer felt alone. He slipped into sleep, knowing that no matter where they were or what happened tomorrow, this would still be the most satisfying Christmas that he had ever spent with his captain.