NEW2ASCEM: Surrender 1/7 TOS [NC-17] (K/S, d/s)

[ASCEM]

Subject:
NEW2ASCEM: Surrender 1/7 TOS [NC-17] (K/S, d/s)
Date:
Tue, 9 Dec 1997 15:59:32 EST
From:
Killashdra <Killa...@aol.com>
Organization:
AOL (http://www.aol.com)
To:
as...@earthlink.net

Copyright (c) 1997 by Killashandra

This is an original work of amateur fiction based on Star
Trek. It is not intended to infringe on the intellectual
property rights of Paramount, Viacom or other owners of
copyright in Star Trek. The copyright extends only to the
original material in this work, and the rest belongs to them.
This story portrays explicit sex between two men. If
such things offend you or you're under 18, READ NO FURTHER!
Also, this story is a little bit rougher than my usual, so
be warned. It is written out of my own convictions and my
own feelings about trust, about submission and control.
This is not a story about force. But if you have difficulty
with the concept of dominance and submission as a
plausible dynamic in a loving, trusting relationship, this
story is not for you. Some alterations have been made to
this story since its original posting, but not enough to call
it "revised," I think.

***

"You look like a man with a problem, Mr. Spock."
The first officer of the Enterprise started. Leonard
McCoy stood next to his table, dinner tray propped against
one hip. Spock was somewhat chagrined to realize that he
had just been caught staring at nothing, empty fork in hand,
in the middle of the mess hall. How long had been sitting
like that? He hadn't even seen the doctor come in.
"Doctor," he said by way of greeting, ignoring the
question that hadn't been a question.
"Mind if I join you?" McCoy's tray was already on its way
toward the table.
Spock inclined his head. Pointless to argue. The doctor
had his diagnostic expression on, the one Jim said reminded
him of a bloodhound on the scent.
McCoy sat in the chair opposite, began removing his
repast from the tray. "So you just woolgathering, or is it
something more serious?"
Spock gave the doctor his most innocent look. "'Wool
gathering,' Doctor? Shall I assume that this is yet another
of your colorful expressions that I am not meant to take
literally?"
But McCoy did not rise to the bait--and Spock knew that
he was in trouble. The doctor was most dangerous when he
was at his most patient. "You know perfectly well what I
mean." McCoy lifted his fork and began poking at his spinach
salad. "Since when do you let me sneak up on you like that?
You were a million miles away."
While the doctor considered his dinner, Spock considered
the doctor. He was reluctant to get into this with McCoy,
now, when they still had unfinished business between them.
But realistically, he could not simply get up and walk out of
the mess. It would be too much of a concession--and
walking out on two conversations in as many days would set
off McCoy's professional red alert for sure. Perhaps the
better part of valor should dictate his actions this evening.
He'd already proven that when it came to personal matters,
simply ordering McCoy to back off did no good. Perhaps it
would be safer to maintain calm and humor him.
Indeed, the man might actually be of some assistance.
After all, McCoy was Kirk's friend, too.
Spock glanced at the nearby tables, making certain there
were no crew members within earshot. There were none; it
was late for alpha shift's supper hour, and most of gamma
shift was still sleeping. The room was deserted. At last he
sighed quietly and put down his fork. "I am forced to admit,
I may be out of my depth."
The doctor looked up, surprised. "*You,* Spock? I
wouldn't have thought it possible."
Spock tilted his head slightly, his equivalent of a shrug.
"One cannot excel in everything one attempts."
McCoy snorted. "Since when? I always thought
perfection was your goal in life."
"Naturally. Is it not yours?"
"Not hardly. My goal in life is to drive you crazy, didn't
you know that?"
"Ah. Well, in that case, you are to be commended."
McCoy grunted, obviously amused and trying not to give
Spock the satisfaction of knowing it. "Now I can die a happy
man."
The Vulcan watched him take a bite of the salad,
watched him chew it thoughtfully. Spock's own appetite had
been small tonight to begin with, and now it was
nonexistent. That was nothing new, though... he'd been
finding food unappealing for some weeks now. He'd only
come to the mess hall tonight because he had hoped to find
Jim here.
As if reading the thought, the blue eyes came to rest on
him once more. "Where's Jim tonight, anyway?"
Spock blinked, suspected that he'd given himself away
when the other's gaze sharpened. He kept his answer
neutral. "He was here earlier, but said that he and Mr. Scott
had some things to go over before shift change."
The doctor scowled. "He's already been on duty for
twelve hours today. What's so important that he couldn't
even take time off for supper?"
Spock could not answer that. The truth was that he
suspected very strongly that Kirk had been lying to him
about his reason for leaving the mess hall when he had. It
was that suspicion which had distracted the Vulcan to the
point of forgetting his surroundings a few minutes before.
To the best of his knowledge, in three years of friendship
Kirk had never lied to him outright.
McCoy leaned forward slightly. "What is it? There's
something you're not telling me."
Spock suppressed the urge to sigh again. "I am...
concerned about him, Doctor. His detachment seems to be
growing more pronounced, rather than lessening with time."
"What makes you say that? Not that I'm disagreeing with
you--I'm not. I'm just surprised that he's let you see it."
"He believes I am unaware of the problem."
McCoy nodded, took a sip of coffee. "Yeah, he thinks he's
got everybody hornswoggled. Damn fool. What happened
tonight, specifically?"
"Nothing, specifically. Simply that he was...
uncomfortable with me." As if he feared that I might ask
him questions he did not want to answer, Spock thought, did
not say. He was remembering the way Jim had fidgeted
when Spock had made his clumsy offer of a chess game.
They had not played in more than a month. Spock had hoped
that if he could get Kirk alone, perhaps his captain would
talk to him about what was so obviously eating at him. But
when he pressed the issue, Kirk had bolted, with only a
clumsy attempt at an excuse.
"Well, that's certainly not the norm," McCoy agreed, his
eyes on his plate. "You two are usually thick as thieves."
There was a knowing undercurrent to the words, and
Spock felt his face start to heat. He willed the reaction
down. He wanted to talk about Jim, and what was troubling
his captain--most emphatically did *not* want a return to
the aborted conversation he and McCoy had begun on the
observation deck the night before.
"Doctor..." he began warningly.
"Relax, Spock. I'm not gonna push you." *Yet,* seemed to
hang in the air after his statement.
Spock had to take a deep breath to maintain his air of
calm. "What is your analysis of the captain's mental state,
Doctor?"
McCoy frowned at him. "You know I haven't done a psych
exam on him."
"Very well. What is your *opinion* of the captain's
mental state, then?"
"My opinion...? You asking me as his friend, or as his
doctor?"
"Either." Spock met his eyes. "Both."
"Not good," McCoy said without hesitation.
"Specify."
"I can't, without an exam. But," he forestalled Spock's
protest, "I can tell you that I've got him under observation.
First indication I get that this... funk he's in is affecting his
command performance, I'll have him down for an exam
before you can say Jack Sprat."
Spock quelled a surge of very unVulcan annoyance. "You
do not feel the problem is severe enough to warrant your
involvement?"
"Spock, you're not hearing me. I *feel* the problem is
deeper, and more serious, than he's willing to acknowledge.
But until I have some outward indication that something is
wrong, something besides a friend's intuition--I can't
evaluate just how serious it is. I can't order him to come to
me for help. Not if he's still functioning at peak efficiency."
His gaze was piercing. "Is he?"
Spock hesitated, but there could be only one answer to
that. "More than ever."
"Well then."
"Can you not speak with him, Doctor? As his friend?"
McCoy set his coffee mug down with a thump. "Where've
you been for the past three weeks, Spock? Don't you think
I've been trying? He won't sit still long enough for me to
say hello."
"There must be some action that we can take."
The blue eyes stabbed him. "You're his best friend. Can't
you talk to him?"
Spock wanted to look away, didn't dare. The man saw too
much. "I have tried, also."
McCoy blinked. Then he relaxed, and started picking at
his dinner again. "Gotten anywhere?"
"Nowhere of consequence. He avoids me." He wouldn't
speak the other truth--that he himself had done his own
share of avoiding, of late. That his own pain sometimes
made being in James Kirk's presence... difficult. "When he
cannot avoid me, he simply pretends that I am imagining a
problem where there is none."
McCoy looked up sharply at that. "What do you mean?"
Spock steepled his hands, summoning Vulcan calm
against the memory of the thoroughness with which Kirk
had shut him out. "When I tried to speak with him about
what happened on Theta Aurigae, he told me I was 'dwelling'
and walked out of the room." He met the doctor's worried
gaze. "Once, I attempted to talk to him about Miss Keeler."
McCoy's voice was hardly more than a whisper. "What did
he say?"
"He said, 'It's best forgotten, Spock.' And then he began
questioning me about the latest efficiency ratings."
"Hmm. And then he turns around and works one twelve
hour shift after another, with a sixteen-hour stretch
thrown in here and there for variety."
"Yes. And his own efficiency rating this quarter was the
highest it has ever been."
"Well, no wonder."
They were both silent for a long moment.
"Doctor," Spock began, finally voicing his reluctant
suspicion. "Do you believe there is more to what happened
on Theta Aurigae than we have been told?" He spoke
carefully. He was, in effect, accusing his captain of
possibly lying in a mission report. But it was a dread he'd
lived with too long.
The doctor's autopsies had showed that many of the dead
hostages had been raped, or worse. Was it possible...? He
choked that back as he had a hundred times in the past
weeks, refused to let the thought complete itself.
McCoy looked thoughtful, then finally shook his head.
"Spock, I don't know. That could be it. But also, it might
just have been the straw that broke the camel's back. Look
at what he's been through in the past two months. Edith, his
brother..." He broke off, but Spock heard the words he didn't
say. Saw the memory of the koon-ut-kalifee like an
afterimage, red and smothering. "And then losing those
hostages... Any one of those things might be enough to knock
down an ordinary man. We've got no way of knowing what's
really eating at him unless he tells us."
"But he refuses." It came out a whisper, and Spock
immediately cursed his failure to control.
For now McCoy was looking at him, reading him like a
book. "What about you? Do you want to talk about what we
talked about the other evening...?"
Spock had to act swiftly to keep the surge of anger from
showing in his face.
"You know I do not."
"I know no such thing."
"You presume too much, McCoy." He started to rise.
"Now, Spock, you don't have to run out on me. I'm your
friend, too, dammit. I'm just trying to help."
Spock only looked at him, thinking, you cannot help me.
No one can help me.
"It might help you to talk about it," McCoy said softly,
nothing but compassion in his gaze.
"There is nothing to talk about."
McCoy leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow arching.
"Then why couldn't you answer me last night?"
Spock felt the blood staining his cheeks despite his best
efforts to stop it. He could not have said why he did not
simply terminate this invasive conversation. Could it be
that McCoy was right--that he needed a confessor after all?
"A Vulcan does not speak of such things," he said, the old
defense.
"Bullshit."
"Doctor--"
"Mr. Spock," McCoy said evenly, voice pitched low, "you
may not realize it, but you are doing a lousy job of
pretending that everything is business as usual. If Jim
wasn't working so hard at shutting us both out, he'd already
be on to you."
Shocked, Spock had no answer for that.
"It's written all over you, Spock," the doctor finished
gently.
His compassion felt like the tiny jabs of needles in soft,
vulnerable tissue.
The Vulcan wanted to argue, wanted to deny the truth of
it. Wanted most of all to escape the man's brutal
understanding. But he was an insect, pinned.
"I shall have to transfer," he whispered at last, in
despair.
Anger flashed in the blue eyes. "You want to kick him
while he's down?"
"Better that than the alternative."
"Better for *you,* you mean."
"For him."
But McCoy was shaking his head. "Wrong on both counts.
Spock, the absolute worst thing you could do right now is
run out on him with no explanation. He needs you. You're his
friend."
The despair welled up, a pressure on his throat. "In my
current state, I cannot be. You have just said so yourself."
McCoy opened his mouth, and Spock thought that the CMO
would yell at him, openly, right here in the mess hall. But
the doctor apparently thought better of whatever he would
have said, for he closed his mouth, and leaned forward.
"Your 'current state,' Spock? You make it sound like a
disease."
"Is it not?"
To Spock's surprise, that evoked a lopsided, sympathetic
smile. "Maybe." McCoy sobered. "Spock, we're talkin' about
your life here." Spock gave the man a look which he hoped
drew blood. But the doctor was unrepentant. "And sooner or
later, he's gonna figure it out, just like I did. It's not that
difficult to see."
The Vulcan wished, fleetingly and fervently, that the
deck would open up and swallow one of them--he wasn't
particular about which. What had he done, to be cursed with
this perceptive, affable, dangerous nemesis?
"Doctor... it is his life, too."
"Exactly my point. He deserves to know."
"Either way," the Vulcan whispered, looking at his hands,
"he shall lose his best friend."
McCoy's voice was gentle. "It doesn't have to be that
way. He's not going to hate you, you know."
"Are you certain? I am not." Spock heard the quiet agony
he could not hide, and closed his eyes.
"Spock."
At last, reluctantly, the Vulcan looked up.
"What I'm certain of is this: he needs help. You might be
the only one who can give it. We've seen already that it's
going to take drastic measures to get through to him.
Maybe..."
Spock was staring at him in disbelief.
"...well, you have to admit, it might shake him out of his
funk."
"It might also cause him to throw me bodily out of his
quarters." Somewhere, a warning bell went off. His
quarters? When had he begun visualizing a setting for this
impossible scenario?
"Look. Do you want to help him or not?" McCoy didn't
wait for an answer. "How can you expect him to be honest
with you if you can't be honest with him?"
Spock was silent for long moments, struggling with the
inherent truth of the doctor's words. The kalifee burned
scarlet behind his eyes, a stark memory of fever breaking,
Jim's brightness under his hands, fading to darkness, and
the realization--
McCoy was correct, of course; his secret was obvious
enough. The evidence was his very continued existence,
when by all rights he should be dead or married to a woman
he hardly knew. Still, he had not expected anyone else to
see it.
Live long and prosper, Spock.
I shall do neither...
He found himself meeting McCoy's gaze, seeing reflected
there compassion without limit, understanding--and
wisdom he could not deny.
The doctor glanced at the wall clock, and back at him,
and his expression shifted into something like a smile. A
challenge. "Twenty-two thirty, Spock," he said softly.
"He'll still be awake."
Spock considered that in silence, wondering if they had
both lost their reasoning. Tell him? Now, when the last
thing he needed was Spock's burdens added to his own?
Impossible.
The Vulcan swallowed, drew a deep breath, and released
it. Looked up. "Doctor, if he cannot... if he will not accept
it..."
"He might surprise you."
"...he will need a friend." Spock was finding it difficult
to say the words. The reality of what he was considering
made it hard to breathe properly. "Will you... be that to
him?" He knew what he was really asking, knew that McCoy
knew it, too. If he should turn away from me...
"Are you making me a deal, Spock?" McCoy asked, smiling
a little, painfully.
Spock realized that his hands had drawn into fists under
the table. He made them relax. "Perhaps."
After a moment McCoy nodded, once. His eyes were
bright. "Very well, Mr. Spock," he said seriously. "You're on."

<end part 1>

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