Title: Signal/Noise V -- The Roms join the UST Fest

Author: T'Pat

Series: TOS

Codes: K/S, h/c

STATUS: NEW

Rating: NC-17

SIGNAL/NOISE V -- The Roms join the UST Fest
By T'Pat

Oh, God, this feels *so* good.

This soap makes a lather so rich my own touch is almost too much to bear in my present, er, condition. I can't quite recognize all the component scents in the blend, but let me tell you, Uhura knows the appropriate gift for anyone on board. That's why she's in charge of the surprise birthday parties. I wonder what made her give me this soap, though. She was quite
insistent after dinner, when she pushed the tiny, delicate bottle in my reluctant hands. A radiant smile on her lovely face, she told me that I deserved some pampering after the day that just passed.

And what a day it has been. Duty versus desire. Trust the Romulans to show up right then, interrupting with a red alert what promised to be the most tender, intense and certainly embarrassing erotic moment of my entire life. Perfect timing indeed, Spock would have said, had he retained a little of his Vulcan wit--we were so involved in each other that a whole
minute went by before we could react to the alarm.

Lousy timing, *I* would have said had I known right then and there, in the pulsing core of the ship, and in Spock's warm embrace, that all the Romulans wanted to do was to test their new shielding techniques. Their oblique way to tell the Fleet that they are back in the game, and more determined than ever to win it. Too bad for them that this crew has seen enough of them to be able to call off their bluff even when the Captain and his First Officer are caught with their trousers around their ankles. Figuratively speaking, of course; we never got that far, actually...

I overheard Chekov telling Sulu that 'the *Kossaks* stuck deir tail betveen deir legs and ran for deir lives.' Truth is, I think that just this once the Romulans may be onto something so strategically important it could not fall into enemy hands, even if the price was as high as a the Commander's honour. Which is a sobering thought. I can only hope the the Fleet will read through the lines in my reports and know we may soon be facing open hostilities.

Some more soap, yes. Hmmmm. I bet it has traces of sandalwood in it, and the thought makes me laugh and cough under the water pounding on my face. Uhura must have read Spock's signals long before I did, and if the look she gave me with the bottle is any indication, she also has been reading *my* signals. And why should I be surprised? She's my Comm Officer, and she's damn good at it, too. And she's an exquisite and sensitive woman to boot.

Hmmm. Sandalwood, definitely. I wonder if it's true what they say about its effect on Vulcans. Legend has it that it can evoke the deepest passion, the strongest desire. Ha! As if we needed it--I mean, look at me! I'm still as hard as a rock even after half a shift on the Bridge. And a long dinner with the senior officers. Yes, let Command think my edge in combat comes from an odd combination of experience and instinct. Spock and I know better.

*OOOUW!* Oh, God! That *hurt*! Breathe, Jimmy-boy, breathe. That's right, keep on breathing--Of all clumsy things! Slipping on the soap. No, I did not fall, just banged my already
tender left side trying to brace myself. There, that should teach me not to daydream about my Vulcan First Officer in the shower.

Where did I get the first bruise? Oh, yes, when the first warning shot hit us on the port-side nacelle. We were just getting out of the lift. Spock was right at my elbow, his sleeve softly
brushed my hand as his eyes held mine for a second, before he stalked to his station. The next thing I knew I was hunched on the railing below Communications, where I had landed, not too
dignifiedly I must add, after a long but otherwise uneventful flight across the Bridge. The pain was so unexpected my vision blurred around the edges.

And then Spock was there, concern and so much more in the deep-set eyes. "Jim--" he only said, but I could read him like an open book then. His hand on my shoulder was warm even through my uniform--and suddenly my body remembered how it had felt on my naked flesh.

Spock drew back instantly, of course, trying to maintain the decorum for both of us.

"I'm all right," I managed to say, "just got the wind knocked out of me for a moment." We both knew it was for the benefit of the bridge crew only.

The lift doors opened right then and Uhura came in, looking hurried and worried and--guilty? That's when Spock's spell broke and I realized that the red alert was still loud in our ears and
ordered her to kill it.

But, *damn,* my side is decidedly tender. Oh, well, I'll have Bones give me something for the bruises. Tomorrow, though. Tonight is just Spock and me.

Oh, God, I've got to get out of this shower before I dissolve in water or before I have to take care of my, hum, problem myself.

But how can I *not* want him? After I embarrassed both of us in front of McCoy, and thought I had ruined it all, Spock found me, deep in the ship's core and I could feel his determination
to establish communication and straighten things out. I could feel he was divided, wanting me and still at a loss to understand why I asked him to leave Sick-bay without him.

I chickened out, that's why. He's too precious to me--far too precious to risk his friendship and everything that matters to me on a whim, an uncontrolled impulse. But was it a whim? Or did my self-control fail exactly when we were both ready to talk and willing to listen?

I touched him. There, in the darkened Sick-bay I dared touch him. I presumed to do that to him, of all people. And it was pure bliss. Like a dream finally come true. Yet, when McCoy stopped me, and reality crashed down on us, I ordered Spock away. I pulled rank on him and he went, quietly, hurting. So like him--he would take everything I throw at him, the punches in the gym, my ill-conceiled advances over shared meals, my hasty, unexplained retreat.

So perfectly he can mold his life to mine. So perfectly can his body fit against mine--OK, Jimmy-boy, if you don't stop this train of thought you'll never be able to dry out with a towel,
let alone fit into your pants, or zip up your boots.

Yet, Spock has touched me back, and I can't quite believe he wants me the same way I want him. And he's--are you blushing, Jimmy-boy?--experienced all right. Sneaky Vulcan--either he's had other men before or, more probably, since I can't quite picture him as a consumed lover, he's been catching up on human mating techniques. Oh, and the *way* he felt when he touched me--his strength, his heat, the passion on his lips that--

--will certainly make me unfit to walk out of here if I don't think of something else. Right now. I *mean* it.

What now? Uniform? Nah, something off-dutish. We have lots to talk about now that the hailing frequencies are open, and hopefully, we'll finally have some time for--sigh--yes, that should do. Some have said silk looks good on me. Let's see if Spock agrees.

My head is light, my heart pounds in my chest, and I simply stare at the chime on Spock's door, hesitating. I told him I love him. It was not an impulse. I was a truth I just could not contain
anymore. I did not give him a chance to reply to me, though. He's not human, and I don't want him to think I expect him to behave like one. He'll need time to process the mess of data I gave him and come up with an appropriate response. I don't want to scare him away--

I did not even ring the chime, and the door opens before me. Spock's welcoming half-bow brings a curious smile to my lips. "How did you know I was--"

Then I really see him, standing by the door, and I am suddenly breathless. He's not in blue. He's not in uniform at all. He's wearing an astounding black velvet tunic and tight-fitting pants that, though Vulcan proper, leave little to the immagination. And his gaze--he's half-smiling at me, at my reaction to him, as if at a private joke--his gaze is warm and welcoming and hot and demanding at the same time.

"As I previously told you, I never lost you." A beat. "I am often aware of you. It happened in the past; it will become the norm."

My momentum carried me to within two metres from him, and I sigh. "We need to talk, Spock."

I can tell he's been expecting this, and he's not worried. "I quite agree. Will you have tea with me?"

"Whatever you have, Spock, I'll gladly accept." Did I actually *say* that?

The ghost of a smile touches his lips at my involuntary, well almost, dig. He motions me to a chair and makes himself busy with tea-pot and herbs. He's actually going to brew tea, instead of
replicating it. So like him. His lean, strong hands work with finely carved instruments, and handle the Vulcan traditional tea-pot and cups with the ease of a long practice. I get the feeling I'm being treated with diplomatic honours, family China and all, here, and just this once, I don't mind it at all.

I sigh. He has not touched me. Not even brushed my wrist like he does sometimes when we walk side by side. I wonder, is it because he doesn't trust this human or because he doesn't trust himself?

As if reading the thought, he looks up and his eyes warm with another half-smile. *Both,* they say. The look he gives me, the way he draws a deep breath in, tell me he wants to savour these
moments together.

Then, he studies me closer, and frowns. "Are you all right, Jim? You look tired."

Tired? You have a gift for understatement, my friend. "Just adrenalin let-down, Spock. I guess the day is finally catching up on me."

"Indeed. I believe this should be what we both need, now."

I take the offered cup, also aware of the layers of meaning in his words. Time together, undisturbed. Peace, comfort. Release. "Spock, I'm not sure I know how to do this right."

"I suggest you put sugar, stir and drink slowly. It is very hot."

There's mischief in the ebony eyes. So we *are* having two conversations at the same time, after all. "In that order, I am sure."

"Precisely." As if to illustrate, he adds sugar to my cup, retrieves a spoon, and hands it out, a 'now you can go on without assistance' look on his otherwise stern face.

I stir the tea without releasing his gaze. "Spock--"

"Please, have some tea, first."

In a sudden insight, I know. He wants me to watch him.

* * * * * * *

I want him to watch me.

I want to feel his eyes on me, open, unashamed, joyous. The times of stolen glances are finally over. No more will his gaze flee when I meet it. No more will I hide behind a chess-board. Or play with a piece, dreaming how his flesh would feel.

My lips are suddenly dry as I bring the cup to them. I have to wet them before I gently blow the steam off the hot surface, and slowly, slowly, lay them on the rim. My senses are hightened by
his closeness--I am so aware--I can feel the delicate patterns in the painted rim, the smoothness of the border. I can feel the exact point where the liquid reaches the inside of the cup with my lower lip. The spice in the tea makes my eyes close, and I finally taste the scalding liquid.

I hear Jim draw a deep breath in, and it feels like music.

When I open my eyes, he's still looking at me the way only he does, with the gentle, fond acceptance. And now, open wanting. His gaze burns my skin even through the layers of velvet, and I know he's trying hard not to stand and draw me to him. Not to say my name again, a hot and needy whisper in my ear. Just a little longer, *T'hy'la*. Just a little longer.

First, I have to tell you what you did not allow me to say before. "Earlier, in the core--"

"Yes--" He sips his tea, slowly, and I know I have his full attention.

"What you told me. Did you mean it?"

Another slow sip, then he breaks into a smile, one so soft and shy, and self-conscious as I would have never dreamed to have directed at me. "Yes, Spock."

I must command my lungs to breathe. So strong is the power he has on me. I force another sip past my lips, because I know its warmth will give me the strength to hold on to the brightness of his gaze.

"It is mutual--?" he whispers.

I can see the regret at having spoken it aloud as soon as his words are out. He does not want to push me. He never asked me to be different from what I am, and his acceptance has filled my lonely existence with companionship. With friendly, meaningful silences. Like now.

I cannot trust my voice to answer. I cannot trust my heart to find the words my tongue never spoke before. Yet, there is all my Vulcan certainty in my nod, and he relaxes against the back of
his chair, as if weak with relief.

More friendly silence, his eyes doing all the talking. His lion, expressive eyes, roaming my body, freely, unashamedly. Like a tribute.

I revel in his touch.

I slowly sip more of my tea, and he gasps, "Spock--"

He is suddenly on his feet, the tea forgotten. I barely have the time to dispose of mine, and he is in my arms. Filling them, warming me like a small star from within. His hands run up my chest following the path his eyes had just travelled a minute ago, then run up my back, and his lips meet mine. At long last.

He is gentle, at first, unhurried, like that first kiss we shared in the core of the ship. Tenderly nipping at my upper lip, sighing along with me. Then, he becomes needy and urgent. And I am utterly undone. I want him with a desperation that makes me shudder.

When we come up for air, I push him away, just a little, so that I can look down in those golden, ever-changing eyes. Lips slightly parted, he waits.

"Will you meld with me?" I finally say.

He breaths in, and out, once. Regret darkens his gaze--he *is* tired, and does not know how to tell me. Human ego, what a complicated concept.

"--Later," I tell him, as if continuing my previous sentence. I am rewarded with renewed light in his eyes. "But first--make love to me. Now."

His breath catches. "Oh, yes."

I allow myself a small smile, knowing he can read it as easily as I can deny it, and I lead him to my bedroom. At the metal partition, he hesitates, briefly leans on it, but before I can ask him if he is too tired for this as well--he *is* pale--he smiles and shrugs.

"Nothing left for the brain."

I admit I understand the situation perfectly well, and his smile gets even brighter. In one smooth motion he has me with the back of my knees against the bed, and removed my tunic. He groans
when he finds out there's a t-shirt underneath, then sighs, "Nothing is ever easy with you, Spock. I guess I'll have to unwrap you, then."

"It would seem so." I have no notion of how I can still produce coherent words, now that his hands are under my t-shirt and his lips at my neck. Now that his fingerstips are circling my nipples--

"Mmmm," he sighs, as I arch my back against him. "So sensitive."

There is wonder and admiration, and joy and lust in his voice, and I am surprised how easy it has been for me to read it all, now that--he's removing my t-shirt, hastily, hungrily, and he's
pushing me down on my bed, straddling me at my hips.

Twin moans escape our lips.

Suddenly, I need to touch him, crush him against me, in my heat. My hands follow his arms, grasp his shoulders and pull him closer. He grimaces, and I immediately let go of him.

"It's all right, Spock. Just a strained muscle."

I am not entirely convinced, but his lips on my right nipple make thinking impossible for a small eternity. His fingertips are laying on my low abdomen, now, spreading out like they did in Sick-bay, slowly weaving his spell. They describe large, slow circles, and their rythm is hypnotic.

He is looking down at me, with an intensity that robs my breath away. "God, you're beautiful." And then he smiles.

I want to tell him that all I know about beauty he has taught me, but he's moving again, he's running his fingers up my chest, now, playing with my nipples in passing. And thought flees.
His lips brush my skin where the neck joins the shoulder and I cry out.

When I open my eyes again, he is stretching on top of me, his hands roaming my body, finally stopping at my backside. The way he squeezes me, possessively, a sweet promise in his eyes, draws a low moan out of me.

And then, I am kissing him, devouring him. Never been so hungry, never known what I hungered for. I long for him. Did I just make that sound? Jim's satisfied smile seems to indicate so. And I need him. Now. It must be now.

I grab his hips and pull him even closer.

His groan freezes me again. When I meet his eyes, he's out of breath, as if fighting a sudden pain. My hands stay at his hips as he sits back and straddles me again. He is shaking his head,
unbelieving. He swallows hard, takes in a steadying breath and smiles again, self-consciously. We both know I used considerably less force than I apply in our combats in the gym--he lets me pull his shirt up and reveal a swollen, angry bruise on his left side.

His chest is heaving, and he is breaking into a sweat. "Jim--" He's still straddling me, and I just felt his arousal abate.

"Just a bruise, Spock. You caught me by surprise, that's all."

I tentatively run the back of my finger across the heated skin, and he almost doubles over. "Lay down, Jim. Please."

Reluctantly, he moves away from me and gingerly stretches out on the bed beside the place I just vacated. "Really, Spock."

"Did this happen on the Bridge?"

A nod, a grimace.

"Are you still in pain?"

Non-committal half-grin.

I touch his face and his skin is cold under the faint sheen of perspiration. And he's breathing faster, now, shallower. Oh, no. "Don't move," I say urgently, and run to retrieve my tricorder.

He faintly waives his fingers, meaning an agreement, but otherwise stays still. Exactly as I feared. Accelerated heart rate, respiration, cold sweat, abdominal pain and swelling.

"Jim, I am no doctor, but I believe there are indications of internal bleeding. Probably the spleen, given the location of the bruise. Now, you will have to be perfectly still, while I call McCoy."

He grabs my hand, weakly, as I place a pillow beneath his bent knees.

I briefly squeeze it. "Please, be still."

While I summon the doctor and slip into my tunic, I can hear him muttering, "I don't believe this."

I hate to have to move him, but McCoy warned me every second may count, now, since I can't tell him if his spleen is ruptured or simply lacerated. The sound he makes as I lift him tears my heart to shreads, but I must go.

"I don't *believe* this," he mutters again between clenched teeth against my shoulder. "Spock--"

"You'll be all right, Jim. Hold on."

But he's already unconscious.

* * * * * *

Well, Jim pulled it out once more. He's out of danger and I moved him into the intensive care unit more to limit visits than for anything else. So, here I am, going to face that stubborn son of an elf once again.

I can see it's hard on him. He's still out there, right outside Jim's door, his shoulders stiff. If he were Human, he'd be pacing the floor open by now. He must have spent the whole time out here, beating himself. And he didn't even bother to change.

"Spock," I call out.

For a moment there, I thought he wouldn't look at me. Heck, I sure as hell didn't want to meet his eyes. I keep remembering how he and Jim had been like at my Sick-bay just yesterday. It was hard on all of us--I was the voyeur who had seen them both stripped naked, in a manner of speaking. I'm still not sure if the Vulcan could forgive me for catching him, and our beloved Captain, without their dignity intact.

After what feels like forever, he turns to me. I can see he's coiled as tightly as one of ol' Gramma wall clock's springs. "Doctor?"

For a few seconds, our eyes meet, and I thought he'd look away, but he doesn't. He flinches, but he looks straight at me. I know that look. He's not gonna answer any questions--and though he won't admit it, he's too tired to fight.

They need time, both of them. And they need their space. They both need to heal. And as their doctor--and their friend--there's nothing for me to do but give them what they need.

"He's gonna be fine, Spock. I'll release him in a day or two. Earlier, if he promises to stay away from the Bridge for a few days. For which I'll hold you responsible."

He nods that quiet nod of his, and his dark eyes soften in relief. The relief is for Jim, that nod--I guess, is for me for keeping my mouth shut. That's the closest that Spock will ever get to thanking me.

"May I see him?"

"He's still unconscious and should not come around for another, uh, eight hours or so. But, yes, you may visit him."

His jaw sets as he turns to go in. Then he looks at me one last time and says the impossible: "Thank you, doctor."

"Spock--you saved his life tonight." I see his guilt in the tense bearing of the lean shoulders, before he makes himself relax. I want to tell him something, to make it easy for him, for both
of them--and probably to tell them that I know, and that what they have is OK with me. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to worry about me. "Had he not come to you, had you not checked him, he would have waited till the next morning to see me. And it would have been too late. You did save his life."

I guess he heard what I was trying to tell him, because he said matter-of-factly, "No, I saved-both our lives."

*That* was an admission I've never dreamt to hear.

Then I watch him through the transparent glass as he pulls up a chair on the right side of the bed, sits down and carefully takes Jim's hand.

He presses his lips to Jim's wrist and holds the hand between his. His lips move, and I can read the whisper, just a little: "I am here," and what seems to read like "t'hy'la."

As I head back to my cabin, I'm not sure what sticks in my mind the most - that word that I have to look up in the computer, or the First Officer of the Enterprise holding hands with his
Captain.

* * * * * *

So, I am still alive. Hmmm, feels like hangover. Where's--oh, yes, even before I open my eyes I know he's here. He's been holding my hand the whole time, I bet.

"Jim."

Told you. I take a careful breath in, find out I actually can without being in pain, then open my eyes. Spock is sitting here, surprisigly close, his face unguarded. Before he says something compromising, I play wicked. "Did not tell you before, but you look awesome in black."

He briefly closes his eyes in relief, or pleasure. Or both. "I shall keep that in mind, for our next encounter. How do you feel?"

"Beat--thirsty."

His eyes cloud for a second. Guilt. "I shall get you the necessary fluids."

As he starts to raise, I hold his wrist. "Spock--what is it? Tell me."

He looks at me as if surprised for a moment, then sighs. "I must apologize, Jim."

I frown, at a loss.

"I believe my actions tonight compounded the trauma you sustained on the Bridge."

Oh, *that*'s what it is. Of course, he would take the blame. Silly old Vulcan. "Did McCoy say so." At his denial, I smile. "I bruised myself while taking the shower. You had nothing to do with it, Spock."

He gazes at me, probably trying to decide whether I am lying to make it easy on him. Then, he nods. He believes me, and his eyes are unguarded once more as he looks at me the way he only
knows how. And I feel that warmth in my stomach again.

"Can I get you anything else?"

I look at him seriously. "You. I only want you, Spock. Naked, on my bed. No red alerts,
no internal bleedings and, most of all, no medical personnel within three decks, even Bones."

Spock rises, then, his eyes warm. Then, he pulls up his best poker face. "Would you like some water?"

He sounds outrageously intimate, and I decide to take it as an encouragement. "I want to make slow, tender love to you."

"How about some fruit juice, instead?"

Now, is this the way a Vulcan teases? "I want to see you come, Spock. I want to hear you cry out my name as you do."

"Juice, then."

Oh, that's a Vulcan smirk, if I ever saw one. I can't help shaking my head and smiling. "Spock. Oh, Spock."

He actually half-smiles back at me. His fingertips brush my lips in a gentle, intimate gesture. "We shall agree on my crying-out schedule after you are fed, *T'hy'la*. Now, Dr McCoy has me bound by Vulcan honour to first remind you that, I quote, 'you behaved like an ass', and second, that we should stop meeting this way, in *his* Sick-bay. Surprising as it may seem, I quite agree on his last point."

"Are you trying to tell me I should shut up, already?"

"It would be medically sound, Jim, at least until you can--keep your word?"

He walks away, as smug and dignified as usual. Then he turns to me one last time, his eyes gleaming a little. "Promises deserve to be fulfilled, Captain." Then he walks out, and my eyes stick to his backsideup to when he walks right through the door, sure he can feel them.

I grin to myself and lie down on the bed, stretching. Spock knows I'm a man of his word. I always keep my promises. And I intend to, especially when it comes to him.

But first, I have to get out of here.