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Jim awoke from hazy, feverish dreams of rough sand, harsh suns, and vice-like hands to a faint mechanical beep, and the low hiss of a door sliding open.
He inhaled sharply, blinking once, then twice. The sheer darkness of his cabin began to fade into indistinct shapes. He shivered, cool sweat pooling in the small of his back and between his thighs, his thin blanket sliding over a flagging erection as he sat up, squinting to the noise that had woken him.
A figure, tall, dark, and imposing, stood still in the doorway to his bathroom. Jim let out a soft breath, and relaxed- there was only one person it could possibly be. Concern grappled with warm affection in his chest.
“Spock?” he murmured, sliding his bare feet over the side of his bed.
There was no response. Concern won the fight- Jim stood, stretched his back until it cracked, and shuffled the short distance from bed to entryway.
“Computer, lights to five percent.”
His eyes relaxed, no longer forced to squint against the darkness. In the faint, neutral illumination, Jim could make out the form of his first officer, who swayed, ever so slightly, as he stood.
Spock wore nothing but a tight black undershirt and regulation boxers, and his hair was rumpled, clearly fresh from sleep. His gaze was half-lidded, his mouth just slightly parted at the bow, and if it had not been for the events of the day, Jim would have been shocked by the absent glaze over those dark eyes- but he recognized the signs that Spock was not really present, and his body was acting at the whim of instinct… or in this case, sleep.
Jim frowned. He wondered if this was worth waking Bones in the middle of the night… perhaps a sign of some kind of relapse. Gently, slow enough not to startle, he brought his hand up to Spock’s forehead, and rested the back on his friend’s forehead. He was warm, but the blazing, almost unbearable heat of the fever had fled.
Relief relaxed his shoulders, and Jim exhaled. The exhaustion of the day was close at its heels, nipping at the back of his mind, reminding him of his warm bed a few paces behind. He regarded Spock with a question in his eyes that he knew would not be answered with words, and drew back his hand, intending to lead them back into the warmth of Spock’s quarters, but-
Shocked, Jim put it back, knocking his knuckles against smooth Vulcan skin. Then, he tried to shift it away again, and-
Yes. Spock was leaning into it!
He was pressing his cheek unashamedly to the line of Jim’s forearm, like an overgrown cat.
Jim smiled. Privately, at first, and then it spread, until he was chuckling quietly with his chin tucked into his chest. He shifted his wrist, so his palm pressed against Spock’s cheek, and his fingertips ran soothingly through sleek black hair.
It was so utterly domestic, and yet the thought did not bother Jim in the slightest. This was all he ever wanted to do, when Spock was sick, frightened, exhausted, overworked. It had killed him, just a bit, to watch his friend suffer through the long indignity of Vulcan ritual instead of being sequestered away to a dark room, a cool bath, and the privacy he deserved. He wished he did not understand Nurse Chapel’s instinct to tuck the man into bed and feed him soup.
Spock’s smile flashed through his mind again. His real smile, wide and a little toothy, and the way it made his eyes crinkle and shift into a new shape.
Jim, still absorbing body heat with his hand, made a sudden decision. He would not have made it any other day before, but there was something about that day. And, in the end… his heartbreak would not be fatal. They would live, and at that moment, that seemed like the only important thing.
The plain fact was, Jim had been enough, in the end, to break Spock out of the madness. He had seen it in the shocked faces of T’Pau, T’Pring, and Sarek, when he had sheepishly informed them of his ongoing life. Things like that did not just… happen. But they had beaten the odds, and it almost seemed like some kind of blessing.
So, sure. Perhaps he was stroking his own ego, but Spock had chosen him. And now here he was, doing it again.
“Come on, my friend.” he whispered, running his hand down the wiry length of Spock’s forearm, and tugged them towards the bed.
Spock needed no convincing. Like a lost duckling, he padded willfully at Jim’s heels, so close that hot breath tickled the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry.” Jim said after a moment. “I should have guessed you wouldn’t want to be alone.”
As a matter of fact, he had guessed. But Spock, awake, would never permit himself the indulgence of asking. If he were feeling confident, Jim would occasionally force social rituals on Spock that he knew, despite the token protests, the man would enjoy, but the pon farr had left him feeling wrong-footed, and he had not had the courage to knock on Spock’s door.
Spock, of course, did not respond- not verbally. But he pressed the line of his leg up against Jim’s and sighed softly. The message seemed to be received.
Jim smiled, again, and urged him to the other side of the small mattress. He had the privileges of captaincy, and could request a larger one, but he could never quite bring himself to fill out the form, something that he could not find it in himself to regret. He lifted the blanket and slid beneath it, the bed dipping under his weight, and he ushered Spock in by the wrist, settling back into the faint impression of body heat that welcomed him back.
The moment he relaxed against the pillows, Spock all but collapsed around him. His long limbs curled into a circular protective embrace, and he tucked his nose into Jim’s neck, one arm thrown atop them, and their legs tangled so their knees fit snugly together. The heat of his body crept into every crevice of the bed, and then, like a rusty old engine kicking into gear, a deep, thunderous rumble started up out of Spock’s chest. Jim stared at him, shocked, but all it seemed to do was lull him further into peaceful sleep. It was quiet at first, and then contentedly, adorably loud, shaking the sheets with the force of it.
Of course he was purring. Spock, his unshakable and stoic Vulcan, was cuddling him and purring like a lawnmower while doing it.
Joy bubbled up in Jim like a geyser. He could barely contain himself from bursting into peals of laughter, but settled for lifting and pressing a soft kiss into the smooth, dry palm of the hand that lay near his shoulder. He hoped that he could be forgiven the indulgence, given the circumstances.
Nobody had ever held him like this before. But then again, nobody else was Spock. And he was warm, safe, and comfortable, and beginning to like it very much.
“Lights off.” he murmured, already nodding off to the steady rumble at his back.