Chapter Text
Jim’s lips brush down the column of Spock’s skin, slender and sensitive in all the places Jim had expected it would be. He hums against the top of the Vulcan’s clavicle, momentarily ceasing his motions. “Spock?”
“J-Jim?” Spock manages, unused to such forward attention. His mental shields are failing (and Jim’s skin pressed against him is in no way helping), in need of mediation and reinforcement. He bears no desire to desist.
“Would you please,” Jim begins in a low, sweet voice; it’s the tone a child might take when politely asking an adult for candy. “Please, fuck me?”
Spock tenses, and for reasons unbeknownst even to him, his need for escape increases significantly. His jaw falls open to utter words, maybe ones requesting clarification or repetition. However, upon the first hum of his unpredictable response, he is - as Doctor McCoy might say - saved by the bell.
“Bridge to Captain Kirk.” Lieutenant Uhura’s sultry voice trills from the wall communicator. “Admiral Pike is requesting your presence in your ready room. He said it’s private.”
Heaving an unnecessarily dramatic sigh, Jim pulls himself from the edge of his First’s bed. Before he leaves the room, he smiles apologetically and presses a toe-curling, close-mouthed kiss to Spock’s lips, joined with a teasing stroke of his fingers against Spock’s. “Meet up later?”
“That would be amenable.” Spock hushes back, the quietest volume in which still seems too loud to his own ears. His quarters are next to silent, save for Jim’s and his slightly elevated breathing; it is a weighted, focused silence that unnerves Spock for what is to come later in the evening.
With a radiant grin that dances fluidly along Jim’s lips, Spock is left alone in his too-big quarters with his own daunting thoughts to dwell.
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In the end, Spock finds no logic in hovering about anxiously - although he would not consider aloud that such an emotion exists amongst his few - and retreats into the hall outside his quarters. The lights are brighter out here, the atmosphere less constricting. The irony doesn’t slip Spock’s mind; the fact that his quarters are the only rooms in which he finds comfort in shedding some of his clothing is the exact reason in which he doesn’t feel comfort in them now. He isn’t entirely sure where his subconscious is leading him, and he entertains - fleetingly - the idea of returning to his meditation mat in attempt at regaining his faltering shields and control.
It is only once he has stepped off of the turbolift and knocked smartly on one of the offices lining this particular deck that Spock’s subconscious dawns on him.
“Ah, Commander Spock. Do come in.” A warm voice invites upon opening the door. M’Benga’s smile is welcoming as he moves aside and, as much as Spock desires to turn and walk in the other direction, he moves past the threshold with an acknowledging nod. When M’Benga’s profile returns from shutting his door, Spock notices the discomfort the doctor is in; perhaps the lapse of unexplained silence is the cause.
“Doctor,” Spock begins in a quiet, monotonous tone that suggests a strict schooling. “I find myself lacking-” He cuts off, jaw twitching slightly with the itch to spout all the words he can’t seem to find.
This alone seems to concern the doctor, as M’Benga retrieves the tricorder next to his elbow to run along Spock’s exterior. A twinge of quickly-addressed annoyance runs along Spock’s spine at the implication. “Spock? Lacking in what? Are you in pain? Discomfort? Any odd physical behaviors?”
“You are familiar in Vulcan behaviorism and culture, are you not?” The Vulcan states instead, hedging the doctor’s question entirely.
This gives M’Benga pause. “Vulcan behav-...?” He blinks owlishly. “Yes. You know I am. Why?”
“I,” Spock begins yet again, unsure even now how to broach such a taboo conversation - well, taboo in Spock’s opinion, in any case. He is well aware of the immodesty toward sexual congress in human culture. Painfully aware, he reminds himself, the whisper of Jim’s recent request seared into his neck. A barely visible shudder runs through Spock. In light of lacking the words, Spock very nearly sighs before stating just that: “Do not know.” A ghost of confusion flits across M’Benga’s face. “How to introduce my inquiry.” He elaborates helpfully, the stutter of run-on sentences, he’s sure, damaging his reputation for complete, constant composure.
“Oh.” Is all M’Benga offers for a moment, a sort of half-realization dawning on him. He sits behind his desk heavily, the long-forgotten tricorder hitting the tabletop with a thud. “Please, Mr. Spock, do sit. I have -” His eyes dart reflexively to the chronometer sat precariously on the bookshelf next to him. “- twenty or so minutes before shift change.”
Against his will, Spock stiffly sits at M’Benga’s request. “Nineteen point three-two minutes and forty-three seconds,” he corrects habitually, and the look his doctor shoots him is nearly withering. The atmosphere appears to shift back to the unspoken matter once more, and Spock very nearly shifts in discomfort. He doesn’t, of course, because Vulcans do not experience discomfort, and they do not fidget.
“Okay, what uncomfortable Vulcan topic is this about?” rushes the doctor, impatient. The tone suggests that Spock’s reservation is not surprising, and certainly does not clue him into what kind of conversation he has involved himself in; in any case, M’Benga is sure it is not nearly as embarrassing as Spock is making it out to be.
“Sexual congress,” Spock utters before he can illogically desist the conversation. M’Benga blinks several times in, perhaps, surprise.
“Sexual congress,” he parrots slowly; it is not clear if the purpose of this repetition is for the benefit of clarification or a malicious use of mockery. Similarly, it is not clear in Spock’s mind which rationale he prefers in this moment.
“That is what I said, Doctor,” Spock affirms for the sake of interrupting the maturing silence.
“And what of it?”
“I find my inexperience in such a field is causing… dismay.” To say the least.
“Your…?” The amount of shock the doctor is experiencing in one afternoon is concerning for his health. “In which case you mean-”
“Inexperience suggests a lack of firsthand observation or contact in regards to a particular event.”
“Yes, I know what inexperience means!” M’Benga huffs in an almost-amused, almost-aggravated manner. “What I mean is… Well, Spock, I admit, I’m not quite following. What exactly are you asking me here?”
Spock’s eyes avert from the doctor’s eyes to the strip of wall directly behind him. It is a minute change, but one M’Benga automatically notices nonetheless. “You are aware of the relationship between the Captain and I, to this day having come to fruition three-point-two months ago.”
“Right.” M’Benga nods unconvincingly; clearly the information is news to him, to which brings the tiniest of blushes upon the high of Spock’s cheekbones. As quickly it appears, Spock wills his autonomic system back into his control, and the normal amount of blood flows through his face once more. “So… what you’re saying is, you wish to advance your… relationship.”
Spock has reason to pause here. “Upon Jim’s… request.” Something about the way Spock verbally executes the correction twists M’Benga’s lips into a grin - one he unsuccessfully attempts to will away - and Spock once more fights with a blush.
“Meaning Jim tried to push himself on you,” M’Benga interprets, and quite accurately. He leans back in his chair. “And how did he react when you didn’t respond quite as - enthusiastically - as he did?”
“I did not have an adequate period of time to react in any way, positive or negative, as Jim was abruptly called away for urgent Starfleet business.”
M’Benga continues with his series of blinking once more, evidently a personal favorite habit, before tapping his fingers against his desk top. “What exactly is wrong, then, Spock? This might be less painful if you’re more blunt.”
“I have not been informed nor have ever had the opportunity to learn the mechanics of Vulcan intercourse, and I find I have no insight of such a concept.” Spock states clinically. “It becomes apparent that on such a topic, I am unaware the similarities of human intercourse and in my… ignorance, a sensation of ...discomfort overcomes me at the thought of approaching the situation without acquiring the appropriate knowledge.”
M’Benga appears to mull Spock’s words over with a stunned, expressionless face. “So… If I am understanding correctly… No one on Vulcan gave you the sex talk.”
“While I would not phrase it as such, you are not incorrect in your summation.”
“Therefore, you are requesting that I… give you said ‘talk’.”
“As stated before, you are practiced in such things in a manner which no other crewmember is. Excluding, perhaps, Doctor McCoy.” Spock does not grimace at the proverbial shitstorm to which would occur should he have inquired after the Enterprise’s CMO, but it is a close thing. M’Benga appears to - as Doctor McCoy might say - ‘get the gist’.
“Okay.” M’Benga accepts with a long-suffering sort of sigh. “Okay. Shouldn’t be too painful. I’ll stick to medical terms.” He clears his throat. “Alright. Did Jim… say what he wanted to do?”
Spock pauses for a solid 5 seconds. “He said, ‘Would you please, please-’”
“Okay, hold up, never mind!” M’Benga covers his ears for fear of hearing the last bit. “I don’t want to hear what he said word for word. Jesus, Spock.”
“You are exhibiting contradictory behaviors.”
M’Benga makes a frustrating noise. “For fuck’s sake - let’s keep this generic.” The doctor clears his throat. “While I personally don’t have much firsthand experience with homosexual relationships, the mechanics are relatively simple and similar to that of heterosexual relationships. I assume, ironically, you have the emotional aspect under wraps.”
“I do not find profuse toil in this particular field. Meditation aids my emotional strain.”
“Right.” M’Benga shuts his eyes briefly; when they reopen moments later, there is a visible edge to it, one typically associated with an on-duty doctor. It is appropriate. “I suppose you understand the premise of intercourse? Of course, that being said, between different couples, this could mean conception or, otherwise, simply pleasure.
“The biggest thing you should be aware of is that it should never cause you pain, if executed properly-” M’Benga momentarily breaks character for half a second, looking somewhat nervous with a quick ‘unless you’re into that sort of thing, I guess’ before returning to his stoic explanation. “-and in those regards, when having… penetrative intercourse, one should always make use of lubricant to avoid tearing and discomfort. Especially if the receiver is new to it.”
Spock blinks once, processing the information in the short second it takes to do so. He takes a breath to speak, but M’Benga beats him to it - perhaps out of fear of what Spock will say.
“It’s also important to remember that anything I tell you will likely be unhelpful when the real thing happens.”
Spock’s eyebrows don’t furrow, but by the way he’s blankly looking at the doctor, it’s implied. “Is requesting clarification and explanation not integrated in conversation for the greater purpose of future reference?”
M’Benga flashes a smile; it’s discrete and rare, much like the situation - Spock asking for help - is. “Yes, but it’s different with things like this. Sex is a buildup of spontaneity, and in cases of romantic entanglement, drastic emotional expression.” A beat of silence lulls the conversation before M’Benga huffs out what sounds like a chuckle. “Both of which, I’m sure, terrify you of all people.”
“Vulcans do not experience terror.” Spock says, all the while trying to ignoring the unconvincing (although slight) tremor in his voice.
“But even though you can’t really go in with a gameplan, per se, doesn’t mean you can’t talk to Jim. He has experience in this field - whether you want to know or admit that or not - and I’m sure he’d understand if you told him you weren’t quite comfortable enough.”
Spock’s stoic exterior cracks, and with it, he huffs a frustrated breath. “It is not fair to Jim for me to continue-”
“What? Withholding sex? Jim’s a big boy. He can handle it.”
“Patience is not the same as tolerance. I do not wish to be the source of the Captain’s-”
M’Benga rolls his eyes. “If he’s willingly entered in a relationship with you and has maintained it for 3 months, Spock, without sex, I think he isn’t too worried about it. He isn’t a crazed maniac in need of daily sexual endeavors.”
Spock glares without glaring at his hands. “I do not want to tell him no...”
M’Benga sighs. “None of your concerns are relevant-”
“... Because I do not feel obligated to say yes.”
A beat of silence, very similar to the previous ones, lasts for 5 agonizing seconds. “What do you mean?” M’Benga queries, brows furrowed and arms folding over one another.
“It appears that despite my doubt, I find that I… wish to consummate our relationship.”
M’Benga says nothing for a long second, instead opting to watch the increasingly uncomfortable Vulcan across from him twitch from the effort of intentionally not fidgeting. After the smugness wears off from watching the emotionless alien betray himself, M’Benga leans down to mess with something on one of his shelves; upon discovery of the item he’s looking for, he trains his face to one of neutrality.
A clean clink of glass against glass echoes in the small room, and had Spock been anyone else, he would have jumped at the abrupt cut of sound. M’Benga pushes the glass across the desk with the sort of nonchalance that comes from experience of regularly gifting such an item, as would be common for a doctor. He holds back a bite of a smile for Spock’s benefit.
With delicate fingers, Spock tentatively lifts the container from the glass surface. Upon reading the label, however, M’Benga delights in the flush of green that tints his ears and the high of his cheeks. “Thought it might come in handy. Good talk, Spock.” He elaborates cheerily, then stands to leave, a dismissal lacing his tone. Spock doesn’t catch on at first, what with his open staring at the lubricant in his palm.
“I - thank you, Doctor.” He manages, flustered as he stands as well and disappears without another word down to the nearest turbolift. M’Benga watches smugly as he enters the locking mechanism on his office door, determined on telling Doctor McCoy about the entire thing before the end of older man’s shift.