Chapter Text
Either Jim was suffering vivid nightmares from that shitty Chinese food he’d eaten earlier, or something the size of Rhode Island just landed in his back-fucking-yard.
Normally he’d be inclined to go with the nightmare option. He could still queasily recall the one time – yeah, because it only happened once – he’d eaten a Dominos pizza that had been lying on the counter for, uh, a while. Next thing he knew he was waking up in the shower, flailing and screaming because he’d thought Norman Bates was trying to fillet him with a lightsaber.
On the plus side, he’d been in Janet Leigh’s body, and damn did she have nice tits.
Anyway, the point was this: Jim was looking out his bedroom window, and there was very definitely a massive, steaming crater in his cornfield. Jim took off his glasses, checked them for smears, and put them back on for a double-take.
Definitely not a dream. Or else he would be Janet Leigh or Robert Redford, or something.
Well and also, the impact of whatever-the-hell-it-was knocked him from sleep, and sent him rolling off the bed. That had been an eye opener.
So, clad in his tight boxers, and armed with a shotgun he’d fondly named Little Jimmy, Jim stumbled down the stairs two at a time and dashed out the front door with bare feet. His lungs were already burning by the time he reached the edge of the field, and began weaving his way through the towering stalks.
The moon was nowhere to be seen, but Jim could make out the grey plumes of smoke contrasting with the pitch of the night. He could also smell the distinct singe of his crops – which, disappointingly, didn’t smell anything like popcorn.
Residual heat from the crater indicated to Jim that he was closing in on the source of his non-nightmare. He slowed instinctively, and flicked off the safety of his gun. Holding his breath, Jim crept up slowly and squinted into the darkness. He could see the corn thinning out, and something smoking beyond that.
Every muscle in his body tensed. Jim brought the shotgun up as a precaution, with the butt pushing against his armpit. The only sound he could hear was the blood rushing to his head, and the muted sizzle of whatever was cooling down not twenty feet away from him. Jim swallowed hard, put one foot before the other; his adrenaline spiking, as he –
A tall shadow came out of fucking nowhere and scampered past his line of vision. Jim yelped, sounding more like Janet Leigh than he cared to admit, and reflexively fired.
Always with the itchy trigger finger.
The force of his weapon against his arm tripped him back a few steps, and would most certainly bruise – but Jim was more concerned with the very human augh he heard in the near vicinity, and the thump of a body hitting the ground shortly after.
Oh, motherfuck. I shot someone again.
Jim rushed to the epicentre of the crash, only catching from the corner of his eye an egg-shaped –vessel? – before he noticed the lanky figure sprawled at the edge of the circle. Jim fell to his knees at the man’s side, while still clutching his weapon in one hand. The man was lying on his stomach, turned away from Jim. He didn’t appear very... conscious.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Jim gripped the stranger’s shoulder and rolled him with a huff of effort – jeez, the guy was heavy as a horse.
Naturally, his eyes had chosen now of all times to fully adjust to the unlit night – and Jim absolutely, positively saw pointy ears. Oh sweet Jesus he’s an elf; he’s an elf from the North Pole, or possibly Mordor – no, elves aren’t from Mordor, they’re from Rivendell and Mirkwood and –
The shadowed stranger opened his eyes. Jim scrambled to his feet, and aimed the gun in his face.
“The fuck’re you?” Jim asked, too loud. Then quietly, “You’re okay?”
There was a long pause, and Jim thought maybe he’d imagined seeing those black-holes for eyes open. He shivered, and attributed his reaction to the chill of night, and not the expressionless look on the guy’s face.
“You have shot me, but I predict I will survive.”
Jim laughed and shook his head, because this really was feeling like a hallucination.
“Bullshit. You don’t sound like someone who just got shot.”
“I assure you that I am distinctly aware of a bullet lodged in my gluteus maximus.”
“I shot you in the ass? Christ, I – well, you fucking deserved it! What are you doing skulking around my property, and what the hell is this thing behind me?” Jim gestured wildly with his gun, looking between the egg-thing and the elvish guy.
The stranger took his time sitting up, and leaned on what Jim suspected was his good ass-cheek. “I am –” He swayed, one hand going to his forehead. “I apologise. I may lose consciousness due to blood loss in sixteen-point-seven minutes if I am not medically treated.”
Jim scowled. “Well that’s not my problem. Didn’t you see the ‘no trespassing’ signs all over the place? Who are you? I should call an ambulance. Or do I call the police? No, I hate the police – they’re all uptight shitb –“
“No.” It was the first inflection Jim had heard in the stranger’s voice. He struggled to his feet, although his voice didn’t portray the effort he was clearly putting in. “Do not alert the authorities.”
“Okay, that’d be a great idea aside from the part where it’s not. Come on, man - I’ve already shot you. You lost, I won, and you’re fucked.”
“No. Please.” He took a stiff step forwards, his face eerily pale, even without the moonlight. “My name is Spock. I am from the planet Vulcan.”
Jim could make out severe, slanted brows and inky hair – and shit, this Spock guy was taller than him by a few good inches, and that was saying something.
He also thought he was an alien, apparently.
“The planet Vulcan, huh? Gosh, if that’s all…”
“I believe you are employing sarcasm, but I speak in earnest. You merely have to inspect the vessel in which I arrived to validate my claim.”
“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”
“Please. Look.”
Jim’s gaze flitted between Spock and the... space... ship. Or, whatever it was.
Unfortunately, the moment he took a step forward, the so-called-Vulcan just about face-planted.
“Woah there!” Jim lurched as he dropped his gun and caught Spock’s shoulders, allowing the stranger to sag against his body. “Christ, you weigh a ton.”
“I require rest and medical aid.” Spock’s breath was like a puff of steam against Jim’s ear.
“I’m gonna call an ambulance,” Jim decided as he shifted beside Spock. Shoulder to shoulder, Jim could wrap his arm around Spock’s thin waist and take the brunt of his weight. “Let’s get you to my house. Don’t try and rob me or I’ll shoot you again. Anyway, I don’t have shit worth stealing, so you’re out of lu –“
“No. Ambulance,” Spock hissed between his teeth. “Surely you have the skills to extract a bullet from a clean wound such as mine.”
“You want me to yank a bullet from your ass?” Jim asked incredulously, as they stumbled through the field.
“Affirmative.”
“Um, well, I guess I could. It’s not like I’ve had practice. Oh wait, actually – no, yeah, I do – but I have a nasty scar to show for it. And if we’re being totally honest, I don’t think I deserved to be shot because I was peeing on some old guy’s rose bushes. I mean, who sits on their porch in the dark, with a shotgun, and waits for drunks to come ‘round and piss in their garden? I’ve never heard actual proof that it can kill plants, you know? Hey – are you conscious?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Hey man, I’m giving you a hand here.” Jim sputtered as a cornhusk whacked him in the mouth.
“You are also the person who shot me without provocation.”
“You were a shadow in the night, okay? It was freaky. You could have been a ghost.”
“If I had been a spectre you would have been unable to shoot me,” Spock pointed out as they broke through the crops and onto Jim’s yard.
“Y’know what? Pass out, see if I care.”
They hobbled awkwardly towards the front door. The outdoor porch lights flickered on, and suddenly Jim got a real eyeful of this mystery man.
And he nearly dropped the guy.
Spock’s ears were definitely pointed. Or, he was using excellent makeup. Maybe he’s born with it – maybe it’s Maybelline? His eyebrows were plucked to high hell, that was for sure.
But that wasn’t what tempted Jim to drop the guy like a sack of potatoes, and lock the door behind him. Oh no. It was the blood.
Green blood.
Yeah - how do you make that shit up? Green globules of dried blood clumped at one temple, and Spock’s lip was split and swelling a very interesting tealy-green colour. But that was... not normal.
That was not human.
Jim supposed things could be weirder.
At least Spock wasn’t a Wookiee.
“All right E.T., let’s get you in.”
They took each porch stair one at a time, and Jim felt Spock’s body stiffen in pain with every step. But his face remained expressionless, and his breathing was slow and even.
Jim’s Springer Spaniel, Gumby, was standing on the other side of the screen door. He emitted a high-pitched whine and wiggled his butt on the floor when he saw Spock.
“It’s okay, Gumby,” Jim crooned in a low, soothing voice that he reserved for calming dogs, horses, and women. “Just Daddy and his new, uh, friend. Be good. Stay.”
“Gumby?” Spock murmured.
Jim gave a small shrug as he tugged the door open with one hand, and snuck them through the entrance. The screen door hit Spock on the ass as they got in, but Jim was the one to flinch instead of Spock.
“I don’t even know, man. Fuckin’ animal shelters and their pre-named animals, right? Gumby always scared me - never watched it. I was more of a Lamb Chop’s Play-Along toddler. Do you know that annoying song – you know the one, right? This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friend – ”
“Do you ever cease speaking?”
“Do you ever not talk like a dictionary?”
“I speak proper English.”
“So do I. I just speak more of it than you do. We’re gonna walk upstairs now.”
“Must we?”
“We must.”
“I can see a couch.”
“You’re not bleeding on my couch, man. That was my dad’s couch.”
“I will bleed out on your stairs, shortly.”
“What a pessimist. We’re almost to the top.”
They struggled to the landing, and by now Jim was carrying nearly all of Spock’s weight. It felt like the guy had steel for bones. Or Adamantium? Oh.
“Do you by any chance have like, uh, claws that come out of your hands?”
Spock turned his head to stare at Jim. “No. What is your name?”
“Jim. Jim Kirk.”
Dark eyes narrowed. “Please procure me a bed, Mr. Kirk.”
“I’m on it.”
“You are not on your bed, you are in the corridor.”
Jim studied Spock’s face as he helped him into his master bedroom; as he really couldn’t tell if the guy was joking or not. He’d leave it for now.
Weird guy, alien, X-Man – whatever.
“Lay down.”
Gumby – who had apparently been trailing after them – jumped at the foot of the bed, and lay down.
Jim smacked his forehead. “Not you. Get off the bed, doofus. Spock, lie down on your stomach.”
He certainly didn’t need to be told twice. Guy toppled like a redwood.
And then Jim got sight of Spock’s ass. Not in that way – although wow, can you say buns of steel? – but in the way that there was most definitely a bullet hole in his right butt-cheek. Green blood was seeping thickly down the back of his thigh.
“Well, shit.”
“I suspected as much,” Spock wheezed, with his face in the pillow.
“I think we need to get you out of those clothes.”
There was a pause.
“Spock?”
“I am inclined to agree.”
“Right, okay, uh – you just lie there, now.”
“I had planned on that particular course of inaction.”
“You’ve sure got some Vulcan sass on you,” Jim muttered as he kneeled on the bed beside Spock, and ran his hands along the back of the uniform. It was kind of a one-piece thing – like a race car driver. Sort of. Except it was made of some really durable, thin material Jim didn’t recognise.
He slid his fingers down Spock’s sides. “This thing got a zipper, or is it just painted on?”
“Down the spine. It is concealed between the dark purple piping.”
Jim’s nails jammed between the raised lines of colour starting at the high collar at the back of Spock’s neck, and yep - there it was. Tongue between his teeth, Jim carefully swept the zipper down, and revealed a smooth landscape of pale skin. His flesh was hot to the touch.
“Crap, I think you have a fever or something. You’re burning up.”
“I am not.” Spock sounded a bit... distant. Breathy. “My body temperature is higher than yours.”
“Oh.” Jim carefully turned Spock on his side. He helped him pull one arm from the clinging sleeve. “Because you’re an alien, right?”
Spock sighed as he was rolled on to his bad side, but he obediently held out his arm. “Yes, Mr. Kirk. Because I am an alien.”
“You look more like an elf, to me,” Jim mumbled, and peeled the suit down to the small of Spock’s back.
Spock didn’t even seem to have the energy to refute the claim. Jim scooted to the end of the bed, at Spock’s feet, and tugged off his boots with growing haste. A little less conversation, a little more action was probably a good motto right about now.
Jim located a zip along the side of the calf that went to the knee – why the hell were these uniforms so tight? Not that he was necessarily complaining; they would be kind of hot, under different circumstances. All stretching fabric over taut muscle...
“Remain concentrated on your task, Mr. Kirk,” Spock grumbled with his face in the pillow.
“Huh?” Jim boggled, but snapped back to attention. He tugged on the hem of one leg, then the other; slowly bringing down the fabric.
Jim kept his eyes glued to Spock’s calves once a firm, white ass was exposed. Yeah, he knew he’d have to look at it in a second, but it wasn’t like he wanted to make the guy more uncomfortable than he probably already was.
He quickly stripped Spock and tossed the uniform to the floor – which Gumby promptly padded over to and lay upon. Jim really hoped Spock wasn’t allergic to dogs. Was that outfit dry-clean only?
Then he looked at the wound. “Shit. I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”
Spock only grunted.
“I’ll be right back. First-aid supplies and stuff.” Jim raced out of the room, and returned moments later with his fix-all kit. Bones insisted that he remained stocked on everything that CVS had to offer because, well – Jim did tend to get himself in more than a few scuffles.
“Tweezers, right? To pull the pellets out?”
“They will suffice, I suppose.”
“God, so snooty.”
“I have been shot.”
“No excuse for rudeness.”
“In many cultures, shooting someone is considered rude.”
“Okay, I’m not having this discussion again. You were on my property, and I can do whatever the hell I want to you.” With that, Jim soaked a cloth in antibacterial and slapped it on Spock’s ass with on clean swipe.
Spock flinched – because yeah, Jim was kind of hoping that stung – but said nothing.
Jim rolled his eyes at the tough-guy routine, and slowed to a gentle swipe of cloth over skin.
“Are all Vulcans as hairy as you?”
Spock didn’t make a sound.
“Hey, are you unconscious yet?”
“No.”
“So you’re just embarrassed because you’ve got a hairy ass.”
“I do not –” Spock sounded a teensy bit murderous. “What is the extent of my injury?”
“Well...” Jim set aside the now-green towel and leaned in to squint at Spock’s ass. “Oh my god!” His hand flew to his mouth.
Spock’s shoulders tensed. “What?”
“You’re a huge fuckin’ baby, is what,” Jim accused.
“I am certainly not an infant.”
“Um, you certainly are, because you’ve hardly even been shot! I musta been too far away to get a clean hit. I mean, you’ve got some tiny pellets lodged in there, but it’s not like, life-threatening.”
Spock may or may not have groaned into his pillow – leaning strongly towards the may.
“Wow,” Jim murmured, staring at Spock’s buckshot-speckled butt cheek. “You are like, a shittier alien than E.T. You’re on Alf-levels, here.”
“Please be silent,” Spock grumbled into the pillow. “Attend to the wounds you caused, and allow me to return to my ship.”
“Fine, fine – no need to get pissy about it.” Jim finally went quiet as he disinfected the tweezers to the best of his ability, and began to pluck the miniscule lead pellets from beneath Spock’s skin. Some would have to remain – he knew from experience that as the wound healed they would get pushed to the surface, or just encased by healthy flesh. Either way, there was no harm in it.
“So, are you gonna go home already?” Jim asked quietly, as he began to dress the wounds.
For a long while Jim thought Spock had fallen asleep. Finally, he turned his head from the pillow, and stared blankly at the open doorway.
“I do not believe I will be able to.”
“What – why? Because you crashed?”
“There are complications surrounding my arrival to Earth, yes.”
“How did you end up here, Spock? I mean –“ Jim’s brow furrowed as he stared at the small of Spock’s back. “You are, like... not from around here, right? I’m not just having a really cool dream?”
Spock propped himself up on his elbows, and sent an arched look over his shoulder. “You are finding this experience enjoyable?”
Jim switched gears, and offered his most comical leer. “Oh yeah.”
The Vulcan just offered a bland expression in return. Jim’s attention was drawn to the swollen gash under Spock’s really unfortunate bowl-cut. Style of the future? No thanks.
“I think what’s made you so dizzy isn’t the gunshot, but your head.” Jim gestured vaguely to Spock’s forehead, where slender fingers tentatively prodded.
“I believe you are correct,” Spock murmured. “Have you completed with...”
Jim could swear Spock’s ears went grass green. He also realised for the first time that he was still stripped down to his Wolverine boxers, and that his feet were cut and muddy from the trek around his farm.
He repressed a nervous giggle. “Yup – yes. Uh, done.” He scooted off the bed, and quickly grabbed an old quilt and tossed it over Spock. “There, shame hidden. Turn over so I can get to that nasty cut.”
Spock obeyed without argument. It looked like he was getting a bit more compliant as the night wore on. The guy was probably exhausted – what with, you know, hurtling through the atmosphere and getting shot and stuff. Not to mention whatever led to Spock’s crashing here in the first place.
Wandering back to the bathroom, Jim grabbed another hand-towel and soaked it in hot water. When he returned and perched on the side of the bed, Spock looked up at him with guarded eyes.
Jim carefully brought his palm to Spock’s forehead and swept his bangs back. With the other hand, he gently dabbed at the oozing cut.
“So, you’re not here to abduct me or anything?”
“Does that appear to be the situation?”
“Well, no. It looks like you’ve fucked up, is what.”
“Indeed.” Spock shut his eyes, and that made Jim kind of sad, for some reason.
“So, um,” Jim paused to chew on his top lip, and set aside the towel. He turned back with antibiotic. “What’s the plan now?”
“I must return to my ship.”
“You don’t mean now.”
“I intend to depart as soon as possible.”
Jim frowned, and stuck a Dora the Explorer band-aid to Spock’s forehead. He totally blamed Joanna for that – whenever he ended up babysitting McCoy’s kid, she always ended up making him buy ridiculous shit.
On the plus side, he now knew that estrella meant star.
“You’re not going anywhere right now.”
Spock opened his eyes, only to narrow them into black slits. “You cannot dictate my actions.”
“Um, as the guy who can hold your clothes hostage, I can and will.”
“I am not hindered by nudity,” Spock replied loftily. He looked utterly ridiculous right now; with his rumpled hair and pink band-aid, and nakedness. Okay, the nudity was less ridiculous and more hot, but...
Jim couldn’t help but smile. “I can see that. But you’re not going anywhere in the state you’re in. You need some rest – believe me, I know how these things go. The adrenaline’s keeping you going right now, but tomorrow you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
Spock shook his head and sat up, his bowed forehead close to Jim’s shoulder. “I must collect my transmitter from the vessel. It is imperative that I broadcast a distress signal, in order for someone to receive it and come to my aid.”
“Let me get it, then.” Jim pressed a hand to Spock’s arm for a moment; just to coax him back onto the mattress.
Spock jolted from the touch, and his eyes snapped to Jim’s. “No. I could not begin to impose.”
“Your blood is literally on my hands. I think if you’d consider anything imposing, it would be that. And I don’t think of it that way, so let’s cut the polite crap - do you, or do you not, want me to go and get your transmitter from the ship?”
“I –” Spock blinked several times; with his face still expressionless, otherwise. “Yes. I would appreciate the gesture.”
Jim grinned and clapped Spock on the shoulder. “All right then. What am I looking for, and how do I get it?”
“You will require a code to release the door lock. Retrieve a writing utensil.”
“Just tell me, I’ll remember.”
Spock released a soft huff of breath. “You will not. The code is in Vulcan.”
“Yeah, but it’s going to be like a keypad, right?”
“Indeed.”
Jim shrugged. “What are the dimensions?”
“Seven by seven.”
“I thought you said this would be hard? Just correlate a key with numbers one through forty-nine. I’ll remember.”
Spock stared at him, and Jim held his gaze without expression. He was used to people thinking he was an idiot. He didn’t take offense. Life had grown much easier now that people thought he was a farm hick; rather than scrapping his way through high school with teeth and fists and nails, because he was too intelligent and too bored.
“Four, nine, nine, seventeen, twelve, twenty-five, eight, one, thirty-three, twenty-eight, seventeen, thirteen, forty-seven, forty-one, one, thirty-one, four.”
Jim pursed his lips and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “More?”
Spock’s brows lowered. “Negative.”
“And this transmitter thing – will I know it when I see it?”
“Yes.” Spock sounded almost perturbed. “I suppose you will.”
“Okay.” Jim lurched from the mattress and pressed his lips together, silently regarding Spock on his bed. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?” Spock asked dryly.
Jim rolled his eyes. “Fuck if I know. Maybe you can stick to the ceiling.”
Spock’s eyes lightened for a brief moment. “I assure you that I can do no such thing.”
“Well, that’s a weight off my shoulders.” Jim ambled from the room, and sent a wave over his shoulder. “I’m gonna put on some clothes. Be back soon.”
It actually went better than expected. Jim brought a flashlight and Gumby, so he felt safe. Not because he had a dog with him – no, Gumby was useless. At least he could smack someone over the head with his flashlight. Jim had already realised that he’d dropped his gun by the vessel, so it was a good thing he’d been sent to go. He wouldn’t want to lose Little Jimmy.
Jim approached the large, silvery egg-looking thing. Just as Spock had mentioned, there was a large pad on the surface – more like a touch-screen, really. Jim placed a finger on it experimentally and it lit up like a dim monitor. Each square was pattered with what looked like curvy hieroglyphics to Jim.
Although Jim would have loved to spend some time analysing the language, he dug back into his mind for the code. Jim’s fingers skimmed over the buttons like he’d been doing it all his life.
The spaceship – a spaceship, fuck yeah! – opened for him, like all mechanical things and females tended to. If there were two subjects Jim knew, it was technology and women.
Except a woman could not make him cum like Jim imagined he could just by fiddling with this beauty. Seriously – holy shit. Everything was so pristine and blue and shiny and beepy and flashing lights and buttons - oh, how he wanted to push the buttons!
But no, this was a mission, and Jim would stick to it. He inwardly flinched at the smear of green blood across what appeared to be the navigational system – that would explain the egg on Spock’s head. No surprises there, really. The pod was essentially bare, but for something that looked eerily like a glorified mobile phone lying on the floor.
Jim shoved the contraption in his back pocket and allowed himself one last, lingering look at the ship. With a sigh, he slammed the top down and picked up his shotgun. With a click of his tongue to Gumby, Jim made his way home.
He may have been whistling the X-Files tune as he went along.
“Honey, I’m home!” Jim hollered as he kicked the door closed behind him. He toed off his shoes and went upstairs, nearly tripping over goddamn Gumby on his way. That dog would seriously be the death of him, one day. Death by dog – on the stairs.
Jim burst through the bedroom door with a triumphant grin, and tossed it onto the bed where Spock was sitting up. “No need to thank me, I know I’m awesome.”
Spock’s reply was to flick an eyebrow and return his focus to the transmitter. He flipped it open, and began to punch in a series of codes and whatever with his thumb.
Standing there in the doorway, Jim suddenly felt kind of awkward. So, he’d helped an alien – an alien! What came after that? This wasn’t E.T. He couldn’t feed Spock M&M’s and dress him up for Halloween or anything. Spock was phoning home – but until his buddies arrived, what would they do?
Jim supposed he’d just have to play it by ear. That was what he did best.
For lack of anything better to do, Jim shut the bedroom door. He leaned against the wood and slumped down, until he was sitting on the floor. Spock didn’t look up from his ministrations. Jim found he had the time to really inspect the Vulcan. Not that he hadn’t seen basically everything beforehand, but now he could just look.
Spock was undoubtedly beautiful. Jim didn’t really like to use that word for anyone or anything but for his motorcycle, but there it was. He couldn’t exactly argue with the truth. Spock was about as pretty as a man could get without being feminine. He still had the strong jaw and prominent nose, and dangerous eyes. But right now, as Spock hunched over his transmitter with a wrinkle in his brow, and a near-pout playing across his lips – well, damn.
Jim yawned, tilted his chin, and leaned his head back. He still gripped his shotgun loosely on his lap. He didn’t realise he’d begun to drift until his head lolled forward, and his glasses fell into his lap. Jim barely noticed when Spock shut off the lights. But he did distantly recognise Spock’s quiet breathing from across the room – and that was nice.
However, an amazing dream revolving around some kind of orgy with Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, Spock, and himself was woefully shattered as a thunderous knocking resounded through the house.
Jim yelped and shot up from the floor; with his eyes wide and unseeing in the darkness of the room. He reached down and scrambled for his glasses. When he put them on, he caught sight of the digital clock – 4:17am.
“What the fuck?” Jim’s voice was husky with sleep. He blinked rapidly, finally catching the edge of Spock sitting up on the bed.
The insistent rapping at Jim’s door continued.
“Shit,” Jim muttered, dove for the bed. “This can’t be good. Definitely in the category of ‘foreboding’, I’d say,” he rambled as he gripped Spock’s wrist, and yanked him out of bed.
“What are you –”
“Bathroom, now.”
“Why?”
“Because unless you want to hide in a closet or under the bed, this is the next best option.” Jim took Spock’s silence as an agreement and pulled him into the bathroom, without turning on the light.
“In the tub,” Jim ordered. He didn’t waste any time making sure Spock was comfortable. Jim snapped the curtain across, then shut the bathroom door behind him and ran downstairs.
The knocking grew more insistent. Jim paused in front of the door, and took a centring breath. With a little nod, he opened the door.