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Jim wakes from the same dream he's had for two days, in the snippets of sleep he's been able to coax since the Narada's destruction. In the dream, he's having sex with an unidentifiable but willing female, so many ways, yet he's unable to climax, no matter what he tries. And he tries everything…
He wakes in a cold sweat, in the bed where someone else should be sleeping, someone who's dead now, not because of him but still dead, his temporary quarters, a room vacated when its occupant was killed on deck six. For a young man, he feels about a hundred years old, bone and sinew barely beginning to recover from the last three days.
He rolls over to look at the chron; he's only been in bed two hours, very little of which has involved any sleep. Is this what it's like to save the universe? he thinks and drags his body out of bed to try a hot shower.
The hot water, at least, eases the pain in his battered body; he gets out a clean set of black Starfleet-issue sweats and puts them on, glances at the rumpled bed, shrugs, walks out the door again to wander the halls.
The night shift is underway - no, the graveyard shift, does anyone use that expression in space? - and there are few others afoot at this hour. No one recognizes him; why should they? He was a stowaway, unaccounted for, and although the crew know the names of the men who defeated Nero, many of them don't connect his name with his face.
He went to the Academy with so many of them, so long ago - last week - and so many of the others who died. He can't think about that now. Maybe some food will help. He turns into the mess hall and finds it nearly deserted, gets himself a sandwich and a glass of milk, turns to sit and sees a familiar face. Spock, sitting with a cup of tea and a padd. He looks up and nods at his captain, sets down the padd as though waiting for Jim to join him. Which he does.
"This isn't your shift, is it?" Jim says as he sits, and the Vulcan shakes his head.
"It is not. There are two Vulcans sharing my quarters, and as I require less sleep than either a human or an injured Vulcan, I removed myself to work here."
"That's very thoughtful, Mr. Spock."
"It is logical, captain. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."
That sounds like a philosophical adage. Jim lets it lie and eats his sandwich, Spock resumes reading the padd, and after a minute Spock asks, "May I inquire as to why you are here at this hour, Captain?"
"Couldn't sleep," says Jim. "I thought maybe a full stomach would help."
"My mother always favored warm milk on the rare occasions when she could not sleep."
Jim stared at him. His mother had been dead what, three days? And here he was, speaking so calmly of her. Spock seemed to anticipate this reaction on Jim's part.
"You are surprised that I can speak of her with such equanimity, so soon after her death," he said softly. Jim nodded and Spock went on, "I am aware of this perception among the crew. My father advised me to expect it."
"How do you do it?" asked Jim.
"It is no simple process, Captain. Such calm requires a lifetime of discipline and training. Processing the emotions resulting from these events is not the work of three days; however, I am able to function and think clearly. Healing, and acceptance, will come."
Jim shakes his head. "I've never been good at accepting stuff that happens to me," he says.
"You do not believe in the no-win scenario," Spock says, almost drily, and Jim laughs. The Vulcan cocks an eyebrow and continues, "You are able to appreciate humor despite your present state of exhaustion and grief, Captain. That is a typical human way of dealing with recent events."
"I hope it works half as well as the Vulcan way," says Jim. "Think I'll have another go at sleep. Thanks for the company, Spock."
Spock nods in acknowledgment; Jim takes his plate back to the galley and on his way out of the room, pauses to stand beside Spock again. The Vulcan looks up inquiringly.
"Spock, you know I didn't mean any of those things I said, on the bridge, when I was trying to get you to lose control - don't you?"
Spock rises to look him in the eye and says, "I do understand, Jim. You may think no more of it."
This time Jim nods, leaves his first officer to his reading.
He wanders back to his quarters; he's got to start thinking of it as his own quarters. He's so used to living by his wits, but his wits seem to have taken a break. God knows I've worked them hard enough the last few days, he thinks and almost chuckles. Spock's right; humor helps us through this kind of shit, better than brains sometimes.
He enters his quarters and stops cold. There's someone there already.
"Hello?" says Jim cautiously to the figure standing in the shadows, before the viewport, and it turns to face him. A woman, a girl, not in uniform but in off-duty clothing, oak-brown hair falling around her shoulders like foam. As she comes closer he sees dark eyes, reddened with weariness and perhaps tears.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"One of your crew," she says in a ragged voice. "One of the lives you saved, you and Captain Pike and Mr. Spock."
"We did what we had to," Jim says. "I'm glad it's over."
"Me too," she says and heaves a big sigh. "So why can't I sleep?"
"If I knew that, I could sleep too," he says, oddly not minding this intruder. "How'd you get in here, anyway?"
"They haven't set the access codes yet," she says, glancing at the comm panel. "When you come aboard, the new quarters are all under the same code, until the new occupants change it. You didn't change yours."
"It's only mine temporarily. I've been here two nights, counting tonight, so I didn't think about it." He draws nearer to stand next to her, looking down at her as she resumes looking out the port.
"You can't sleep?" he says gently and she shakes her head.
"Not since it happened. I'm all right, kind of. I'm alive. But I don't know how to get back into some kind of - rhythm."
"I know," he says. "I hardly know what I'm supposed to be doing, or when. Like now. I'm up at this hour, I can't sleep, I take a shower, I have a snack. In my old life, this would work. Now," it's his turn to shake his head, "it's like I don't know how anything works any more."
She reaches for his hand, out of sympathy? instinct? and he takes it willingly and they stand silently for a few minutes. Then he looks down at her again, letting himself just enjoy her presence, her beauty, and she leans up on tiptoe and kisses him lightly. Then retreats a little and looks up at him as if waiting for a reply.
Maybe this will work the way I remember, he thinks and lets his mouth fall on hers and begin to sink. Her fingers are in his hair already and he curls his hands around her shoulders and reels her in against his chest. This isn't delicate or tentative; this is two bodies that know exactly how this works and what they want and are agreeing on how to get it.
Her hair smells sweet and clean and his fingers sift through it, his lips and tongue dancing with hers; he feels her hands warm on his back, sliding down to curve over his hips and ass, coming back up to caress his chest and shoulders. She's everywhere, and he wants to bare his skin to her touch.
As if on the same frequency, she suddenly breaks loose and turns, heads straight for the bedroom, pulling off her clothes as she goes; Jim is two steps behind her and as he stops just inside the doorway she flings off her last undergarment and starts on his sweats. He's pulling the shirt off over his head as he feels her pulling down his pants, peeling them off; he's not wearing any shorts and he hears her make an ahhhh kind of sound.
Now that they're both naked, it's as thought they can forget who and where they are, what they've lived through, no protocols or uniforms. She catches her breath as Jim's hand cups her cheek, strokes down in one long line from her face, around the side of her breast, to her hip, settling at last on her behind as his other hand supports her shoulders. Slowly he tips her back and lowers his head, opens his mouth, lets his tongue land softly on her nipple, lets the undulation of her body move her breast under his touch.
She tilts her head back and moans and grabs the back of his neck, her arms pushing her breasts together so he can reach them both with his tongue, lapping, sucking now, muffling his own moan against her skin. Carefully he lays her back on the bed and continues his assault on her nipples, adding his fingers to the effort. She's beyond moaning now, whimpering exquisitely as he kneads and pulls and rolls her soft mounds in his palms.
He wants to stay wrapped in her, buried in her, but both their bodies are demanding more than comfort, demanding release. His mouth is hungry for more of her and he pushes himself downward, her hands in his hair, nudging her legs open, sliding his hands under her buttocks and lifting them to bring her sweetness to his lips.
She cries out as if in pain, but he knows that sound, he remembers it; it's the sound of unbearable stimulation, the very edge of orgasm, the most beautiful sound in the galaxy, and he knows how to take them both over the brink. His tongue moves instinctively, her hips move with his rhythm and her cry becomes a sob; he feels the rush of her climax under his mouth and revels in it.
She lies inert, gasping, and he lunges up to cover her, tipping her body to receive him, and once his head is in there is no going back. Dimly he hears her murmuring, exhorting, goading him. He thrusts harder, pumps faster, and finally his mind disconnects and his world consists of the place where their flesh meets and he releases into her.
As his awareness slowly returns, he feels his lover shaking beneath him and realizes she's crying, quiet but intense, her face buried against his neck. He slides out of her and wraps himself around her and murmurs. And feels his own tears spilling over onto his cheeks, his arms trembling as he holds her and they weep together, wordlessly, clinging to each other as if to a lifeline.
When their passion and grief are spent, they whisper reassurance to each other and sink blessedly into sleep, and when he wakes alone, he knows their healing has begun.