Four times Spock just growled when
someone touched his Leonard, and one time he spoke up.
(warning: cracky story is full of crack)
By Greywolf the Wanderer
Spock knew that Ensign Chekov meant no disrespect. The boy was very young,
rather excitable, and much given to touching almost everyone he met. He even
put a hand on Spock's sleeve once, when a volley of alien fire rocked the ship and Chekov nearly fell out of his seat. Spock had simply caught the young man and eased him back into his chair once the deck
stopped pitching beneath their feet. No skin-to-skin contact had occurred, and
propriety had been preserved.
Now, however, Spock was finding it difficult to maintain his control. Surrounded
by chattering civilians, all more than half drunk and apparently congenitally unable to cease talking, he had become separated
from the doctor, who was currently across the room listening as Jim Kirk regaled their hosts with surprisingly inoffensive
anecdotes. That was not the problem.
The problem was that Pavel Chekov was standing altogether too close to Spock's t'hy'la, gazing worshipfully up at him,
even *touching his sleeve* – and in this crowded hall full of diplomats, Spock was not free to do or say anything about
it. He spent several thoroughly awkward minutes subduing his instinctive responses
before finally regaining control.
He had no idea his mate had noticed any of this until hours later, when they finally reached the privacy of their own
room, and the first thing Leonard did was throw his arms around Spock's ribcage and hug him with all his might.
“Damn! Thought we'd *never* get out of there in one piece. Those folks could give my former in-laws a run for their money when it comes to gossiping.” Cool human fingers entwined themselves at the back of Spock's neck. “And thanks for not smacking Chekov, sweetheart. You
know he's just like a puppy, he don't mean nothing by it.”
Spock nuzzled closer to a cool, human ear, snuffing deeply at his mate's scent and finally beginning to relax. The longer they stood together like this, the calmer he felt. For a while anyway. Until Leonard started kissing him. But that was all right. That was how
things were supposed to be.
Spock had realized, not long after their mission began, that the doctor's presence had become necessary to him, personally. He didn't know exactly when this had occurred, just that now, Leonard's safety and
happiness were of great importance, more so than his own.
This being so, he should have realized that he would not find Jocelyn Treadwell, formerly Jocelyn McCoy, to be amenable
in any way. After all this was the woman that had put his Leonard through months
of pain and anguish, had tried to keep him from his own daughter, and seemed to have gone out of her way to torment the man
at every possible opportunity.
But all the logic in the world was of no help just now. Jocelyn was here
on this ship, in this room, standing right next to Leonard and *cooing* at him, for all the world as if he were a kitten or
a puppy. It was a thoroughly inappropriate display and Leonard looked both embarrassed
and annoyed. But his daughter was standing there as well, her face full of laughter,
eagerly upturned to hear her father's every word. And somehow, for Joanna if
not for himself, Spock managed to control, to say nothing to this odious woman who was clinging to Leonard's arm even now. He stood by silently while the seemingly endless leavetaking went on, and finally,
eventually, she walked back onto the transporter platform.
Perhaps the Ancestors would have forgiven Spock the almost-silent growl he bit back as he moved to operate the controls.
At any rate it was unimportant now, for once that woman was gone, Leonard was still here. With Spock. Where he should be. And he absolutely did not smile, even internally, when Joanna leaned over and whispered, sotto voce, “Just
think, Bradley has to listen to her talk like that every single day!”
Although Spock knew that he ought to be scandalized to hear a child speak so of the woman who bore her, after fifty-five
interminable minutes spent in Jocelyn's company, all he could think of was how fortunate the crew of the Enterprise was, not
to count that woman among their number.
Commodore Stocker was, in the words of Jim Kirk, “not the sharpest knife in the drawer”. That had become painfully obvious within minutes of the man coming aboard.
But he was only here in transit to his posting on Starbase 22; surely one additional human wouldn't be that hard to
That was what Spock kept repeating to himself, day in and day out, while Stocker made a nuisance of himself on the
bridge, in Engineering, down in Fire Control and even in Laundry and Recycling. But
the moment Stocker entered Sickbay Spock was hard put to maintain his control. Because
the accursed man simply would not leave Leonard alone. He kept walking up close
to him, gazing into those marvelous hazel eyes, and even went so far as to put his hand on Leonard's arm, all the while speaking
enthusiastically of having Leonard transferred to the Starbase as his personal physician.
Spock very nearly lost it at that; disaster was averted by the timely appearance of his captain, who got right up in
front of Stocker's face and snarled, “No poaching, sir. I need every one
of my crew right here on this ship, and that goes double for the medical staff.”
And, since everyone in the Fleet knew how Stocker had disgraced himself under fire during the Doomsday Machine incident,
that, as the humans would say, put a stop to *that.*
If it would not have encouraged him beyond all reason, Spock could almost have kissed Jim Kirk in that moment. But he didn't. Only one human was permitted
to kiss Spock of Vulcan, and his name wasn't James Kirk.
The Queen of Melisande had taken quite a fancy to Leonard. As soon as
the treaty was signed the party had begun, and it went on for *days.* Spock found the festivities tedious in the extreme, but he didn't feel free to return to the ship, given
that this was still a First Contact, albeit more peaceful than their usual such mission.
They were warm, dry, well-fed, no-one was shooting at them, and in the words of Jim Kirk, this was a “fuckin'
Be that as it may, Spock couldn't help noticing that Her Majesty's eyes followed his mate wherever Leonard went. Noticing, and *not* liking it.
There might have been unfortunate consequences, if not for Nyota Uhura's quick thinking. She managed to sneak away under bathroom break pretenses and requested a certain young lieutenant, who
had formerly been an actor, to beam down at once. Turned out that Her Majesty
was a *huuuuge* fangirl; they finally beamed back aboard in the very early hours of the morning, leaving the queen clutching
an unwieldy pile of autographed items, all signed with lots of ruffles and flourishes, “to Queen Bella, from your adoring
servant, Edward Cullen.”
WTF. Just another “normal” day on the Enterprise, right?
Yet another First Contact gone disastrously wrong. Spock was seriously
considering, in the part of his mind not currently occupied with running and shooting, recommending to the Admiralty that
they cease to assign such missions to the Enterprise, given the frequently dismal results.
He nerve-pinched two of the captain's assailants and kept running, pausing once to sight in and pick off the enemy
soldier who was about to shoot Mr. Sulu. That worthy raised his sword in momentary
salute, then returned to the fray.
Nyota seemed to have things well in hand; one of her assailants was already
down and the other was weaving drunkenly as if about to collapse. Even Mr. Chekov
had found a length of metal pipe and was swinging it enthusiastically, if perhaps a trifle random in direction.
But it wasn't until he ran around the corner of the main building and saw Leonard in the grip of a man nearly twice
his size that Spock himself really got involved in the fight. No sooner did he
make his turn, than the attacker crashed his fist into the side of Leonard's face. Blood
flew, that strange red human blood, so thick and so oddly opaque, and Leonard's eyes rolled up till only the whites showed--
Spock never even thought of drawing his phaser. Rather, he found himself
charging at full speed, his mouth open, his ears filled with a harsh roar of anger that he only slowly realized was coming
from his own throat. Moments later he was there, swinging his fist with full
Vulcan strength, grasping the other's outstretched hand and squeezing till he felt the bones give way. Having caught his opponent's attention, Spock reached up and over, found the nerve plexus in the other's
shoulder and squeezed it, *hard.*
The man would have a lot of pain when he awoke. Spock considered this
entirely proper. As for his mate, that was easy.
It took but a moment to pick Leonard up and hold him, cradled in Spock's arms like a sleeping child. Well, all right – a child with a very bloody nose who was going to have spectacular bruises by morning...
No matter. Leonard was safe now.
*That* was what mattered. Wrapped up in caring for his mate, Spock busied
himself with calling for transport for the surviving members of the landing party. He
never saw Sulu and Chekov staring, flatly amazed at the expression on their exec's face.
Nor Nyota's wide smile, when she saw who Spock was carrying. He had eyes
only for his Leonard – all right, and for Dr. M'Benga perhaps, once he reached Sickbay.
Kirk? He just smiled, dismissed them all, and headed for the Enterprise's
sauna. He liked to bake himself in there, and lately it'd been hard to get a
free time slot, what with all the visiting Vulcan passengers and all. Even James
T. Kirk had his limits; anything above 55 Celsius was definitely out, which meant sharing it with a Vulcan? Not so great.
As for Leonard, the first thing he saw when he woke up in his own sickbay was the face of his mate not-smiling down
at him, and that, my friends, is the way to start the day!