Jim was starting to wonder how long it would take for them to rescue him from whatever whacked universe this was.
The thing of it was, he’d been unlucky to be in a mirror universe before. That one had been scary, because instead of the Federation there had been the Empire. Spock had a beard and had, at one point, held him by the neck against the wall. When he’d returned to his own universe, he still wore the bruises from Spock’s fingers.
But at least he could communicate with that Spock and the rest.
In this one, whatever it was, he somehow found himself on ancient Vulcan, or so it seemed to Jim, because they didn’t appear to be very advanced at all, and none of them seemed to speak anything other than Vulcan. And damn it, his Vulcan sucked.
The moment he had appeared, he’d been set upon by a group of half-naked Vulcan warriors thrusting weapons at him, and poking and prodding him. He hadn’t been sure if they intended to kill him, fuck him, or eat him. Or maybe all three.
Then Spock had appeared, or he sure as hell looked like Spock, also half-naked and much more muscular than his Spock, and yeah, okay, he thought of Spock as his, with long hair, and tattoos of Vulcan scripts on his chest and arms.
Anyway, he had fought off several other beastly Vulcans to claim Jim. Well, not literally. Or Jim didn’t think so.
He had been brought by Spock to a dwelling that seemed sort of a cross between a hut and a cottage. He’d been unceremoniously dumped onto a heap of cushions in the middle of said dwelling, not sure if the cushions acted as a couch or a bed, and then Spock had disappeared into another room.
Eventually he had returned with food which he had foisted upon Jim. Begrudgingly Jim had eaten it, all the while asking Spock if it was poison, and getting, of course, no response, because he was hungry and didn’t know when he would get the opportunity to eat again.
After that, and where they were now, actually, Spock sat on the cushions next to Jim simply staring at him.
Spock tilted his head.
Jim moistened his lips. “Nice, um, nice tatts by the way.” Jim sort of pointed to the artwork on Spock’s chest. Spock must have gotten it because he straightened and puffed out his chest.
Spock pointed to him. “So.”
“Oh. No. Um. No. That’s not my name.” Jim sighed. Pointed to himself. “Jim.”
He laughed. “No. Just Jim.”
“So Just Jim.”
Jim blew out a breath. “Okay, whatever. It’s not like I’ll be here long enough for it to matter.” Or so he hoped.
Spock pointed at himself. “Spock.”
“Yeah. Hi. Hello Spock.”
Spock leaned forward and put his hand on Jim’s cheek. “Pretty.”
He blinked. “You-you know the word pretty?”
Spock nodded. “Pretty!”
“Er. I mean I guess.”
“So Just Jim pretty.”
He found himself smiling in spite of himself. “Spock pretty.”
Which apparently was the wrong thing to say or the right, depending on your point of view, because suddenly Jim found himself flat on his back, underneath a very heavy Vulcan.
“Oh. Um. Wow.”
Spock smiled, which sure was strange. He put his hand on Jim’s cheek again. “Mine.”
“So Just Jim Spock’s.”
“Well. Not that I’m not flattered or anything, but—”
Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Mine.”
And then he ripped Jim’s shirt in half.
It was at that exact moment that he heard the transporter activated and found himself reappearing on the Enterprise, lying on his back across it, unfortunately, torn shirt and all.
Jim turned his head to look at his first officer, whose perfectly groomed eyebrow was arched high under those bangs of his. He moistened his lips.
“Damn it, Spock. You could have waited an hour or so.”
He sighed and sat up. “I just left what is bound to be a very frustrated Vulcan.”
Spock reached down and helped him up. “If you’d like to be sent back, I can see if that can be arranged.”
Jim walked away, looking back over his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll just have to role play.”
Spock stared. “Role play?”
**** Explicit, slightly altered version now online