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“Does it look like I have a third eye?!”

“Negative, Captain. It appears as if you have attempted to compress an aluminium cylinder against your forehead, and the object has imprinted into your epidermis.”

“You seriousilly lack imagination.” Jim frowned when his tongue went all wibbly in his mouth. He stuck the tip out and bit down with what he could only assume was a gentle pressure, because he couldn’t particularly feel the extremity.

Was a tongue an extremity? It stuck out if you wanted it to, but otherwise it was like a lump of flesh in your mouth. Ew. Tongues were gross when they weren’t doing anything, but it wasn’t like Jim would get rid of it. He needed it for, like, eating steak – and also kissing.

Spock glanced to the side, across the bar counter – which was as close to an eye-roll as Jim would ever see. “My profession does not rely solely on my imagination. My primary duty is to ensure your well-being. Please desist biting your own tongue, Sir.”

Jim thought he had stopped, like, forever ago. He scrunched his face up and stared at the empty can in his hand – there wasn’t even a dent in it from his head, damn it! What was the point of being hard-headed when you couldn’t smash shit with it? “I’m bein’ well, though! Jus’ wanna get this right. Swear I could do it when I was, like, sixteen.”

“Since you have successfully completed the endeavour a decade ago, it is not necessary to repeat the performance now.”

“But I don’ wanna lose the skill, y’know? It’s, like, relevant to life. Bet Scotty can do it, the bastard. Lemme just –” Jim hurtled the can crookedly towards his face.

A slender hand snapped out and sharply gripped Jim’s wrist. “Jim. Stop. You cannot hone a practice that does not require skill, in the first place.”

Jim blinked blearily at Spock, whose one severe eyebrow rose in... something. Annoyance. Jackassery. No-Funnery. Yeah, definitely No-Funnery.

Spock released him quickly, and Jim felt the echoes of desert sand and red sun branded in the imprint of fingers upon his wrist.

“No skill?” Jim balked, careening slightly atop his barstool. He voice raised an octave that probably wasn’t very Captainly, but whatever. “No skill? Spock, have you ever even tried to smash somethin’ against your forehead? It’s fuckin’ hard!”

His First Officer’s voice was droll. “May I take into account the instance in which you head-butted me on the bridge?”

“Uh, no, because – as you can see – my face is totally intact from that. You didn’t crush me. Gawd, and I have the big ego,” Jim griped and rolled his eyes.

Oh, okay. Spinning room. Rolling his eyes wasn’t the best plan, to be perfectly honest. And where else could he be truthful, but in his head and with his Spock? Yep. Yessiree bob-howdy.

“In that case, my reply is ‘negative’. I have not compressed an object upon my forehead.”

“Tha’s what I thought!” Jim pointed an accusatory finger at Spock, but ended up tilting forward. He laid a steadying hand on Spock’s thigh, and attempted a narrow look in the face of total calm.

“And you couldn’ do it, anyway. I mean, like, I’m sure you can do it, ‘cause you’re like a freak mew – muta - nutrition of the Hulk and He-Man and maybe a lil’ bit of Catwoman – but, like, your pro – errr, propiety wouldn’ letcha.”

For a second, Jim was pretty damn sure Spock was gonna choke a bitch – but he totally didn’t, and that was cool. Spock was a very cool guy. Cool, but hot. Yes.

Instead, all his First did was press a large hand against Jim’s chest and edge him upright. Lips pursed slightly, Spock plucked the can from Jim’s numbing fingers. Without a wasted movement or flinch, Spock promptly crunched the thin metal against the centre of his forehead.

Spock might as well have slapped a crumpled napkin to his head.

He mutely held out the metallic disc to Jim.

“You...” Jim gaped at Spock – out and out gawked at the guy. Never taking his eyes off Spock, his hand flailed out to clumsily take the compressed can. He shoved it in his back pocket, nearly chucking himself off the wobbly stool in the process.

Spock’s eyebrows were lofty. “I believe the silencing idiom appropriate for this occasion is: you may can it.”

Haaa –” Jim didn’t know what the fuck he was going to say, because he was far too concerned with launching himself off his stool and onto Spock’s lap. The incoming kiss was sloppy and tactless and long over-fucking-due.


Oh, hell. Jim didn’t know Spock could make a noise like that. Didn’t know he would crush a can to his forehead in front of an entire bar. Didn’t know he would make a joke afterwards, and still look prim and perfect and edible all at the same time.

Their tongues tangled for a painfully short amount of time, before Spock lurched back and Jim whimpered pathetically.

“Jim,” Spock huffed, his penetrative gaze ricocheting between Jim’s face and the bartender who was coming around to undoubtedly kick them out. “This is not an appropriate time or location. You arehng,” he swallowed a delicious noise, as Jim bit down on that delectably pointed chin. “Inebriated. This is highly imprudent and I will not – Jim, cease licking my ear. I will not engage in activities of a sexual nature while your ability to make logical decisions is hampered.”

And with that, Jim was delicately extracted from Spock’s lap, and his feet were unfortunately on the ground again – and yeah, the world was kinda crazy like a fun-house or a rollercoaster, so Spock was probably right. Hell, he was almost always right.

Jim searched Spock’s face for a moment. From his back pocket, he pulled out the crushed can and held it up between his thumb and forefinger.

“Fine. But if, and when, I r’member this in the mornin’, I’m jumpin’ the hell outta you.”

Full, flushed lips quirked faintly. “Affirmative, Captain.”

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