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It was his Time; the fever was upon him. For the fifth time in his life, Spock of Vulcan was entering pon farr, the mating cycle that was still the shameful secret of Vulcan physiology. Few outsiders knew anything about this mysterious syndrome. One human had known—and endured, indeed embraced—Spock’s time, his bond mate Jim Kirk, the man who had come to Spock the first time the fever ravaged him, after his betrothed had rejected him. Jim had come to Spock’s cabin, where he had hidden himself away to die—and Jim had saved him, healed him, loved him. Each time after that, Jim had changed Spock’s time from a period of shameful madness to a joyous exploration of their love for one another. Only Jim could have done it. Only Jim had done it.


This time, Jim would not save him. This time, Spock was alone.


Spock knelt on his meditation mat in the bedroom of his San Francisco apartment, the home he had shared with Jim after they had finished their service on board the Enterprise. Spock had never told Jim this, but he had been secretly relieved when Jim had finally taken a dirt-side posting, left ‘star-hopping’ to others. For a long time, Spock had secretly feared that the Enterprise would be the death of Jim Kirk. There had been too many close calls, too many moments that stopped the heart. He had been so relieved when his t’hy’la was safe at last on Earth.


Spock moaned, burying his face in his hands. The Enterprise had been the death of Jim Kirk—not the original ship, but the Enterprise-B, the new ship that had been launched almost a year-and-a-half ago. Admiral Kirk, Starfleet’s P.R. miracle, had gone aboard the Enterprise-B for her maiden cruise, a simple loop around the Sol system and back again. It was a photo op, a P.R. story—a disaster. There had been trouble, terrible trouble, and the new captain, a fool named Harrington, had not known what to do. Jim Kirk had known. Jim Kirk saved the ship and its crew—at the cost of his own life. Now he was gone, not even a body to bury, not even a katra to cherish. And Spock was alone, burning, knowing that his death would be next. He didn’t care. It was far better to die in the flames of pon farr than continue to endure the living death of the spirit that he had suffered for the last 18 months.


Spock rose wearily. Meditation would not help. Nothing would help. The one sure cure for his fever was dead, blown out into the cold vacuum of space. Not for the first time, Spock felt that pain in his heart as he thought of Jim’s last moments, frantic, determined—alone. Now Spock was alone, and despite his agony, he was thankful that he had a chance to share the pain Jim must have felt. He deserved no less. He should have gone with Jim. He should have been with Jim.


Spock crawled into bed, shivering with fever. The environmental controls were set to their highest setting, and there were three quilts on the bed, all gifts from Jim for his ‘frozen Vulcan,’ as he had often teased. But nothing helped. The cold was inside him. Despite his fever, he’d never be warm again.


 


Spock was dreaming, yet he was awake. He lay on his bed, tossing and moaning as the fever burned through him, his flesh aching as pon farr ravaged him. He threw off the quilts and tore off his robe, lying naked on the bed, tossing as he felt his arousal rise and rise with no outlet. He moaned as his erect phallus throbbed, as his hardened nipples ached for the touch of cool human fingers and lips, as his skin burned with no one to caress it and soothe the flames. Spock did not even try to touch himself; he knew that his own hand could do nothing to slake this terrible hunger. He closed his eyes and waited for his body to incinerate.


“Hush, t’hy’la.” The voice washed over him like a warm wave, soothing Spock’s over-stimulated nerves with a gentle touch. “It’s all right. I’m here.”


Spock gasped as cool, unseen fingers reached for him, grasped and stroked his aching shaft, the sweet friction moving up and down, up and down, in a rhythm Jim had taught him a lifetime ago. Spock sobbed with relief as those fingers softly rubbed between his flared ridges, as they moved lower and cradled his testicles, as a warm mouth slipped over the tip of his agony and began to suck, slowly at first, then harder, deeper, ever deeper until Spock thrust his hips into that vortex, felt himself coming in a floodtide, felt his entire body go rigid with that single instant at the pinnacle, felt the fever ebb for the moment as he slumped back down, boneless, panting. He felt those unseen fingers tenderly stroke back the sweat-soaked hair from his brow, as Jim had done a hundred times before when Spock burned.


“Don’t worry, ashaya. I’m here. Rest. When you need me, I’m here,” the beloved voice crooned. Spock felt those beloved arms gather him close, felt himself being pressed against a sturdy, satin-skinned body, moaned with delight as soft, cool lips found and suckled an aching nipple, as those magic hands roamed up and down his spine, cupped his buttocks, soothing and enflaming him all at once.


“Jim, Jim,” he sobbed, kissing that warm neck, tasting the sweet salt of human flesh. “Oh, please Jim.”


“Yes, Spock. Oh, yes, love. I’m here. I’ll always be here. Take me. Take me and make me yours.”


Spock felt himself harden again as the flames rose, felt those strong arms roll him onto his back, felt himself being caressed and teased until he was thrusting helplessly into the air, felt that strong stocky body settle over him, felt his shaft plunging into the cool, moist depths of is beloved, felt Jim riding him strongly, sweetly, until he exploded again, felt Jim slump forward, his weight a precious burden, felt Jim’s lips brush his in a fleeting, tender kiss.


Spock burned through the night, but he was not consumed. Jim was there to cool the flames. Jim was there to ease the hunger. Jim was there, as he had always been.


 


When Spock woke in the morning, his body was stiff and sore, covered with dried sweat and the evidence of his passion. But the fever was gone. His blood was cool. He would live. He rose slowly, tended himself, dressed, and ate a meal. He was still alone. But he was well and whole.


 


 


Far away, removed in both space and time, Jim Kirk woke in the Nexus, a smile on his lips. He’d dreamed about Spock again, as he did so often. Spock had been burning; it had been his Time, and they had shared it together. Spock was safe now. Spock was healed. Somehow, Jim knew that the dream had not been a dream at all. He had been with Spock. He had helped him, as Jim had vowed to always help him. Jim didn’t truly understand what had happened to him that day on the Enterprise-B, but he was grateful to whatever power had brought him here. As long as he was trapped in this time loop like a fly in amber, he would always be there for Spock, for as long as he lived, for as long as he burned. This half-life was worth it; Jim would make sure that Spock was never alone.

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