lymanalpha: (oldspock)
[personal profile] lymanalpha
Title: Know Thyself
Author: [ profile] lymanalpha
Pairing: Spock/SpockPrime. Mentions of Spock/Jim/Bones.
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: READ THE PAIRING. Also, more Sad Vulcans.
Disclaimer: I do not own either Spock, or the worlds they live in.
Words: 1120
Summary: From the prompt-a-mod thing at Ship Wars. The prompt was for Pon Farr, with them stuck in a someplace, but I dunno, this is what came out instead? Sorry. I'm still playing with it. It's getting better.

The Ambassador waits in desert air that's still too wet and cool, on a world that does not know his name. He'd woken in the night, feeling a familiar pull and flare in his groin. It's time, the Time -- not his, but his. He'd felt the pooling weight between another's thighs, light-years away. Felt the quickening beat of blood against flesh. In an old man's moment of indulgence he'd allowed himself to remember the scent of mingled human and half-human arousal. Sweat and dust and cool, slick legs. A lost century's memory, and an unfaded desire.

He'd moaned, then, quivering. Thrust once against the mattress, and stopped, and walked throbbing into the desert. "Spock!" he'd shouted -- gasped, hoarsely -- at the stars, and inside his mind. "Spock!" Now he's cold against the cold night's dust.

Spock flies in with the dawn, ablaze in air that snaps against the old man's cheeks. The ship lands alone, on solid soil, and his younger self walks to face him. Spock clasps his hands viciously behind. Dares him to speak.

The Ambassador closes his eyes. With a shaking breath, he tests the edge in himself. He slices a thumb along the re-blooming easy fury. He blisters and: "we burn," he says.


"Bones!" Jim had yelled, earlier. "Spock's all fucked up!"

Spock had watched the pulse heat his captain's neck. With heightened sense he'd seen the narrowing and dilation of Jim's pupils. Watched McCoy's sneer and hazel frown. He'd looked at them and known, finally, the fire for what it was.

No, he thinks at the nightmare. No, I will not. In Vulcan's absence the Time has become unpredictable and violent. Without a bondmate, he will die. And with human bondmates, they will.

"Spock," Jim had whispered. His too-human anguish had bled and eddied; Spock had wanted to bite him, rip clothing, shove him flush against the turbolift. Love-take-end. "Spock! Talk to me!"

The doctor's head had shaken, and Spock had nearly been undone. Leonard had sagged: "He's dying, Jim."

His blood-vision had pulsed them in and out of view. Glimpses and fragments. "Spock," they'd said.

He'd vibrated lust and rage and need, wanting them both and wanting their blood and their death upon a desert's sand. "I cannot," Spock had said, and, burning, fled.


Spock stands in a cold desert with heat coursing through his mind, and the Ambassador stands before him. The old man is robed, cloaked, but his arms open.

To step into this unlikeliest embrace runs counter to everything he is and knows. Once, when he was very young, he'd ripped the wings from Vulcan moths and rubbed the powdery stuff between his palms -- childhood brutality -- and his finger muscles twitch for a moment in remembrance. He thinks, with a distant, habitual rage, that he could as easily rub away this other self's cheek-skin. For a nanosecond he imagines gouging nails through that wilted muscle. Furrows in the old man's cheek. Blood on the sand. Green, but black in half-light, almost red.

"Spock," the Ambassador whispers, and is silent. The light beats above them, gold and crimsoning, until -- "Spock."

"I cannot," Spock says, and erupts into his other's arms.

Rage. He rips his robes and pulls them open. Somewhere he's counting and cataloguing: vertebrae, ribs. The old man's desert skin whispers beneath his fingers where he tears at it, but does not yield. He digs his nails into the old man's hip and snaps his teeth at an ear. Mine, he thinks. "My heart" -- and it is not logical that gasps of air should burn this way -- "is flame," he says.

"Your flame is" -- the Ambassador shoves a leg between his knotted thighs -- "mine", and Mine, he thinks.

"My eyes are flame," Spock pants, and wills them open to blister into their mirrors, where the light of dawn casts their reflection into red. The Ambassador hooks a knee behind his and flings them both onto the not-Vulcan sand. Their robes are tattered, flung away, and gone. Spock feels himself think, deeper, and crush himself against his other's ribcage.

Then it kicks in, the old self-sense, the neural networks formed to a mold he knows so well. Without thought he scrabbles for purchase at his elder's bony spine, gasps against the chiffon-skinned collarbone. His cheeks are wet, and so are his. "I burn with thee," bites old Spock against his throat. The world stutters, and they with it, until they are truly one: two: one.

Limbs and skin and flesh: it's a release he's never felt before and one he's felt a thousand times but never this way, never with the comfort of a mind whose chambered shape he remembers having built himself. This mind has a quietness and an innate calm where he has fury and violence and jagged searing loss. He's given to logic, not poetry, but this is like flying and drowning and the Schwarzschild criterion for stability against convection in stellar interiors and he wants to shout but feels one of them shudder instead.

Here is the Vulcan love he tries to hide, deeper than the last hints of darkness. More human than humans. Here is calm and cool relief and the logic's certain beauty and here's a skin he knows, because it's his and his and theirs. They drink each other and themselves and smell of the desert together.

He bucks into his skin until teeth close around a finger and he screams -- he screams -- they scream, one Spock-and-Spock into the beautiful-wrong and startled air.


Later, in the fire's ebb, he'll return to the ship. Jim will say, "Good trip?" And McCoy will say, "Hobgoblin." And later, in their bed -- Jim's ear between his teeth; Leonard's knee beneath his own -- he'll time the lazy tandem of their beating hearts. Swipe a tongue on their wet skin. He will not be their death. Will not.

It's the difference between him and himself. Or it isn't.


The Ambassador remains, in desert air that burns too bright. In the younger mind and on the younger skin he'd tasted flavors from another life: the salt of Leonard's flesh, lingering at Spock's neck. The musk of Jim's sweat at Spock's temple, things remembered and half-forgotten. And he'd smelled, and wanted, his own arousal on another.

This is no world for him, he thinks. He has no name to call, except his own. He's an aging Tithonus: condemned to a future of brazen, untouchable child-Jims, and to the distant ache of himself among the stars.

He squares his stance and folds his hands. Life moves. There's work to do, today and always.
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