Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful
Relationship Status: First Time
Word Count: ~4700
Genre: Romance, Humor
Warnings/Tropes: clichéd romance novel setting
Summary: 23rd century AU, mock-ksadvent 2011 fic. While driving back from a conference on Christmas Eve, interplanetary law firm associates Kirk and Spock are forced off the roads by a blizzard. [or, the 2/3 plot abandoned for 1/3 porn Christmas story]
Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful
Any time now. He could see it sitting on the slight downward curve of the Vulcan's lips, the subtle furrows on his forehead. Spock's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch, and Jim started a mental countdown. It lasted from the point they shook hands with the client, exited the office, and walked down the deserted hallway, right until the elevator doors slid closed behind them.
Three… two… one…
"Your behavior is inexcusable," Spock said severely.
"Happy New Year!" Jim returned, smiling broadly. Ah, Mr. Spock. So predictable.
Spock's eyebrow twitched. "You are the most illogical, irresponsible—"
"Whatever, it got the job done," Jim said breezily. They stepped out into the deserted lobby. "And now we've got bigger problems. Check out the weather."
They approached the glass doors to the parking lot, where heavy snowfall had already blanketed the ground and was still falling fast. "This was predicted to hold off until morning," Spock said, staring out at the fat white flakes that blew past.
Jim shrugged. "We could wait until morning? Go back to the hotel, put an extra night on the firm's expense tab," he offered.
Spock looked at him strangely. "It is December the 24th, James."
"Yeah?" December 24th. A Saturday. End of the second week of their stay in Bumfuck, Colorado. The day the client finally signed the damn deed for the Martian ranch and Jim Kirk, junior partner at Pike, Cartwright & Wesley, finally got to ditch his pain-in-the-ass Vulcan coworker and—
"Christmas Eve?" Spock suggested coolly.
— and holy shit. Jim had been so busy closing this deal he'd fucking forgot Christmas.
"I was given to understand that it was a Terran holiday of some importance," Spock said, already drawing on his thin black gloves and tugging his scarf out of a pocket.
"Well, sure," Jim said, still stuck on forgot Christmas. Damn, he had to call Winona, or the sulk would be epic. And, double damn, there was no way in hell they were making it across the Rockies if it did this all night. "Do you have… plans?" The idea seemed ludicrous.
"Yes," Spock said simply, and stepped out into the storm.
"What, seriously?" Jim asked, trotting to catch up as he fumbled out his own gloves. "What for? Who with?"
"I do not believe that is any of your business." The words came out muffled, several layers of scarf between Spock and the strong wind blowing drifting sheets of white across their path. Jim's patent leather loafers weren't made for this crap. Neither was his thin wool peacoat, and he was shivering badly by the time they'd gotten to the rental. It was already buried under a fresh six inches of snow.
"Damn it," Jim said, wiping ineffectually at a window. He squinted up at the sky, where the reflection of the city lights turned the cloudcover a dull orange. "At least let me drive."
Spock had popped the trunk and found the ice scraper. "I fail to see how that might help matters. You drive as one possessed," he said, using it to brush away the loose powder.
"Wow, was that hyperbole? You'll be a real boy in no time, Pinocchio," Jim said sarcastically. "Isn't it more logical that the one with the most cold-weather driving experience takes the wheel?" Iowa winters in farm country were memorable, in a word.
"Whatever advantage in experience you may have is negated by your regrettable aggressiveness and tendency to disobey speed limits," Spock said primly. "I will drive."
"Can't we rock-paper-scissors for it?"
"C'mon, Spock, live a little."
"It is my desire to continue living that prompts me to confine you to the passenger's seat."
The rental's AI greeted them with a dulcet, "Good evening, Mr. Spock and Mr. Kirk. The National Weather Service has issued severe weather warnings for your area. Would you like to hear them?"
"No thanks, sweetheart," Jim said, just as Spock responded, "Yes, please."
They glared at each other, and the AI said, "Input not recognized. Please repeat your answer."
"Weather report requested," Spock said shortly, and pushed the ignition button.
"Y'know, if you'd sprung for the model with the onboard replicator, I could be having hot chocolate right now," Jim said sulkily, under the AI's wind and precipitation predictions. Spock did not deem this worthy of response.
For the first thirty minutes, they drove through the storm with relative ease; Spock was a careful driver, and the car hugged the road confidently. He was also a bitch about the radio. When Mendel and Beethoven got boring and Jim reached for the tuner to try and find some Bing Crosby already, Spock actually smacked his hand.
Jim shot him an outraged look. "Dude!"
"I refuse to be subjected to your infantile musical tastes, and the rule as you yourself stated to me is that the 'Driver picks the music—'"
"'—shotgun shuts his cakehole', fine, fine."
Jim settled back and watched the snow hurtle down, building quickly on the roadside, coating naked trees. The farther west they got, the more the wind picked up, so that snow covered the windshield as quickly as the wipers cleared it. Somewhere near the merger for Route 191, the car in front of them fishtailed and skidded into the center lane before the driver regained control.
"It's getting dicey," he murmured, casting a look at Spock.
"Yes." He kept the speed slow and even, with his eyes fixed on the road ahead. With every mile, the visibility became shorter and the road icier; Jim had lived in the Midwest long enough to know the makings of a blizzard when he saw one. It was falling too thick and fast.
"So, maybewe should pullover," Jim suggested.
Spock shook his head without looking away from the road. "The weather report indicated that the storm would worsen before it moved on. It's best to cross the mountains now, while visibility remains somewhat better."
"Except that we might not make it through the mountains, because if visibility gets much worse it'll be zero and we'll be blind," Jim pointed out, very reasonably he thought.
A muscle twitched in Spock's jaw. "I do not wish to discuss it any further."
And he didn't say a word to Jim for the next twenty miles.
They'd made it a third of the way to San Francisco in the same time the entire trip had taken earlier. Snow danced crazily in the headlights, and there were drifts of over a foot on the side of the road, with more coming. On the other side of the median strip, two cars slid into each other and stopped, and a little further on, an abandoned car sat crookedly where it had skidded off and stalled.
They were entering the mountains now, and the shoulders steepened until there were sheer cliffs on both sides of the road. "Ihavelostconnectionwithournetwork," the AI reported. "Attemptingtoreconnect.Attemptingtoreconnect.Attemptingtoreconnect."
"Stop task," Jim snapped. His PADD, when he checked, had the same sad message.
Blind curves made an already nerve-wracking drive terrifying. As they slowed to take a turn, a car cutting the corner from the other direction came within inches of the rental's front fender. Jim managed a, "Jesus Christ—" as Spock slammed on the brake, fighting a slide into the opposite lane.
Spock turned into the skid and righted them, just in time for a huge semi to come barreling around the next corner. They fishtailed wildly as he jerked the wheel too quickly to the right, and Jim pressed himself back in his seat as it came straight for them. "Shit! Shitshitshit—"
Spock wrestled the car back onto their half of the highway just as the semi roared past, blaring its horn.
"Ihavedetectedabnormalbrakingpatterns," the AI said. "Areyouinneedofassistance?"
"Holy Mother of God, Spock, pull the fuck over or I am hacking the car and shutting it down manually!" Jim yelled, still braced against the dashboard.
"Input not recognized. Please repeat your answer."
"At the next town," Spock finally relented.
"Yes! Thank you!"
The weather was approaching white-out conditions when Jim spotted a misty red glow through the snow whipping horizontally past their windshield. "There," he pointed, and the glow resolved itself into a neon sign proclaiming CABINS! were available. "Pull in there."
"We agreed we would stop at the next town," Spock said pedantically.
Jim turned in his seat to glower at him. "I swear I am not afraid to punch you."
"There is no need for threats," Spock said, with all the stiff dignity of an offended cat. But he slowed and made the turn.
There were a surprising number of cars in the parking lot for such an isolated little spot. A small building with 'Main Office' written above the door stood at the foot of a steep hill, and behind it small individual cabins clung like mountain goats to the slope.
"There, was that so—fuck," Jim swore as he stepped out of the car and into knee-deep snow. "Damn it." Spock's side of the car was nicely shoveled, he noted dourly as he trudged through the mess to get to the cleared path to the office. The door jingled stridently as Jim shoved it open, and the cold, clean smell of snow was immediately smothered by the scent of cheap synth-cigs and nearly overpowering pine air freshener.
What looked an animatronics woodchuck was sitting on the counter. It came online as it registered their entrance, lifting its head with a faint whirring sound. "Greetings," it chirped. "My name is Pam! How may I be of service?"
"Uh, hiya Pam," Jim said uneasily. With its wide staring eyes and visible chassis seams, 'Pam' belonged to that category of simulacra that missed the jump over Uncanny Valley and landed in 'Oh good God what is it?' gulch. "Aren't you the creepiest little thing."
Spock sent him a quelling look. "Pam, we are in need of two rooms."
The droid stilled as somewhere in its plastic shell, a processor ground to life. "There is one remaining accommodation, Cabin 16, which has one room. The storm is bad for people, good for business, ha ha!"
Jim grimaced. "Actually, I'm pretty sure it's against one of Asimov's robotics laws to be this creepy. You may want to get that checked during your next upgrade."
"Duly noted!" Pam said brightly. "I have offered you a cabin. Do you accept?"
"If it has only one room—" Spock began, just as a loud trio of men entered the office behind them, stomping snow off their boots.
"We accept," Jim said hastily. He was not getting back on the road, not even if the Virgin Mary waltzed in looking for room at the inn. "We'll take it for the night."
Pam the creepy woodchuck handed over keys (keys! What century were they living in?) and the disheartening news that there were no replicators on the premises, but a canteen out back that was open 24/7. The meatloaf was guaranteed to contain meat, ha ha!
"Pam needs a new personality chip," Jim said as they slogged up the hill, by mutual agreement heading towards the canteen and meatful meatloaf.
"One should never have been installed in the first place," Spock disagreed. "Mimicking sentient emotion is waste of processing power that might otherwise be put to proper use."
Said the Vulcan, but whatever. Jim didn't feel like philosophical debates at ass o'clock on Christmas Eve. Instead he rechecked his PADD, confirming that it still wasn't getting any service. Winona was going to kill him, dig him up and kill him again. More immediately, they were nearing the canteen and he needed to prepare to brave a food selection that hadn't come out of a nice, clean synthesizer. There would be lumps. And gristle.
"Holy crap, this is awesome," Jim said twenty minutes later, with his mouth full of pork chop and mashed potato.
"Allow me to express how pleased I am on your behalf," Spock said snidely.
Jim pointed his fork at him. "Hyperbole and sarcasm. We'll make a human out of you yet."
The canteen, like the parking lot, was unusually full for the late hour. It was noisy and crowded, people jostling each other to get to the small warming plates against the far wall. The air felt sauna-like after the subzero chill of the winter night, and there were number of families with small children, which added to the general din.
Spock sat hunched across from him, looking sour and put-upon. The only thing decorating his own plate was a small sad pile of peas and carrots, and a half-eaten roll he had taken one bite of and pronounced, "Contaminated." He still had his scarf and gloves on, although he had deigned to lower the hood of his coat. The tips of his ears were a bright apple green.
"I might get thirds," Jim said, sighing blissfully. "Fourths. And then more pie."
"I will leave you to it, then," Spock said, rising abruptly.
Jim looked up at him, mock-frowning. "It's Christmas. Don't be such a grouch, Mr. Grinch."
"Your use of nicknames is neither as clever nor as humorous as you believe it to be," Spock said coldly. "You may do as you wish; I am retrieving my luggage and retiring to our… cabin."
He strode off, and Jim rose reluctantly to go after him. The food was good, but making sure his colleague didn't take the opportunity to pitch his bags into a ditch was more important.
He caught up with Spock just outside the door, and rocked back on his heels as the howling wind blew right through his coat and into his bones. It was heavily wooded here and the snow had piled high under the evergreens; he couldn't even see the path back down towards the parking lot anymore. There was, however, a sign pointing the way to cabins ten through twenty.
"On second thought, it might be best to just head to the room."
"P-p-perhaps you are r-right," Spock chattered out.
They waded uphill through the now thigh-deep snow, spending a few long frustrating minutes between cabins fifteen and seventeen before they realized that number sixteen was set further back into the thick forest. By the time they reached the front steps, Jim couldn't feel his legs and Spock was visibly hurting, shivering and stiff with cold.
It was really just adding insult to injury that when Jim got the door open and groped for a light switch, they were absolutely assaulted by kitsch.
The theme was lumberjack, the execution bored housewife. There were old wooden paddles on the walls and lamps made of antlers on the bedside tables. Sad-eyed raccoon statues wibbled at them from the corner. Moose on the loose, announced one hand-painted placard above the fireplace. Bear going somewhere, said another. There was a grouping of honest-to-God stuffed fish hanging next to the window.
And in the middle of it all, with plaid flannel sheets no less, stood one single, very solitary bed.
"I will sleep in our v-v-vehicle," Spock announced.
Jim tamped down his appalled shock at the décor and rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. You're the one with the delicate alien constitution, and I sure as hell am not sleeping out there. We share the bed."
"I don't s-see why—"
"Shut up. Computer, raise temperature to seventy-five degrees."
"Given the lack of r-replicators and antique locking mechanism, it seems logical to assume that this 'cabin' would n-not have a central AI," Spock pointed out.
"Are you kidding me?" Jim yelped. "That was standard in 2100!"
"I believe that the proprietors w-w-wish to furnish the establishment with a r-rustic air. That would explain P-p-pam."
"Nothing explains Pam," Jim muttered, looking along the walls for a thermostat. "Hey, do you think the fireplace works?"
It did, with the application of wood from the pile stacked helpfully next to it (fucking medieval!), a few crumpled balls of paper and a half-empty lighter Jim found in his coat pocket.
"Burn, baby, burn," Jim murmured to it, watching as the smaller bits of brush went up in flames. "C'mon, yeah, that's the stuff. Yeah… yes! Spock! We got fi-yah!"
"Congratulations," Spock said, very dryly. He sat at the foot of the bed, watching Jim fight the flue open and reposition the iron grate. He'd finally stopped shivering after they found extra blankets in a cedar chest and bundled him up. "Please clean yourself before lying down."
Jim considered the ash and soot streaked up his arms, and across the knees and rolled-up sleeves of what had been a very nice pair of slacks and shirt. "No-o, I thought I'd just crawl right on in," he said sarcastically, and went in search of the bathroom.
As Jim would have guessed if he'd thought about it, the cabin did not have sonics installed. He felt a bit like he was in a period drama, but the hot water was fantastic on his numbed hands and feet, and he spent ten minutes just thawing out before scrubbing the day and fireplace dirt from his body. The bar of soap was shaped like a grinning duck and that was more than mildly disturbing, but the towels were thick and the shampoo plentiful. By the time he stepped out of the shower, his mood had improved drastically.
Seeing the fire crackling merrily away certainly didn't dim it, and the fire had warmed up the room nicely by the time he reentered, dressed in his boxers and undershirt. Spock had apparently taken his absence as invitation to shuck off his own suit and go to sleep; there was a pin-neat pile of clothing on the dresser and a vaguely man-shaped lump under several hundred layers of fleece and flannel.
"How can you even breathe like that?" Jim asked, and got no response.
He pulled back the first two comforters and, climbing in, found himself immediately sliding towards the middle of the bed. "What the—" Oh, of course, it was a spring mattress, and an old one at that, sagging down in the center like a broken-in couch. There were limits to how much rusticness he was ready to tolerate, he thought wrathfully, and tried to rearrange his limbs so that he didn't go rolling into Spock the moment he relaxed.
The lump that was Spock remained still and silent through all his maneuvering, and finally, with an arm dangling off the edge of the bed and his face mashed in a pillow, Jim shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
Jim actually liked winter, for a given value of winter. He liked skiing and hot toddies, and always got a little wistful when he heard "White Christmas"; in San Francisco, snow was hard to come by and sometimes they wouldn't even get a hard frost until January.
He and Sam had spent a lot of their early Christmases at their grandparent's farm, where they'd slept in the attic. Imperfect heating had made getting out of bed in the mornings a sluggish process; there was just something so delicious about a cold nose and cozy body, only your head sticking out from under warm sheets.
Caught in the memory, Jim drifted awake slow and easy, registering the length of someone under him only as an afterthought. He yawned, and buried his face deeper into the crook of their neck. An inarticulate groan vibrated under his cheek and the arm around his waist tightened, hand stroking up over his side.
"Mmm," Jim hummed, smiling sleepily. "Morning."
The man under him suddenly stiffened, but Jim was already drifting off again, hooking a leg around his bedmate's knee to keep them anchored together.
"'S Jim," Jim grumbled.
"James, wake up."
"Wha?" he grumbled. "'S early. Sleep now."
Jim cracked an eye open, and stared.
Spock stared back, eyes wider than Jim had ever seen them and a vivid green flush rising in his cheeks. Jim's arm was slung over Spock, fingers splayed across his chest, and their faces were inches apart. The Vulcan's hair looked like birds had tried to nest in it while he slept.
Jim couldn't help it. He blinked, blinked again, and then he started laughing.
"Oh God, your bedhead," he gasped as Spock's expression grew more and more thunderous. "You look—"
"You find this situation amusing?" Spock asked venomously.
Jim pulled his arm back and braced himself up on an elbow. "Oh please, this is hilarious. The associates vote us 'The Partners Most Likely to Kill Each Other' two years in a row and we end up making it to second base in our slee-eep!" he squeaked as Spock rolled them.
He dumped Jim on his back and knelt up on the bed between his legs. "You insufferable—" he began, but something else caught Jim's attention.
"You're hard," he said incredulously. Hard enough that there was a wet spot forming on the burgundy cotton of his boxer-briefs. Hmm, Jim would have pegged him as a tighty-whities man.
"A physiological response that has no bearing on this conversation," Spock snapped, even as his blush darkened and spread.
"You're hard," Jim repeated, grinning, and reached for him.
"Are you utterly shameless?" Spock hissed, backing hurriedly away. He hit the carved wooden footboard and it stopped him long enough for Jim to crowd close, curling a hand over his bared hip and bringing the other up to grip his chin.
"I knew it," he purred, watching Spock's dark eyes dilate. "You want me. Bones tried to tell me I was imagining things, but you want me."
Spock was quivering under his hands, spine ramrod straight and face a glacial mask. "I most certainly do not," he said, and crushed their lips together.
Spock kissed like he had something to prove, like this was just another venue of competition between them and he was determined to show himself Jim's superior. Jim fought back with nails dug into Spock's flank and fingers fisted in his hair, meeting the forceful press of Spock's mouth with equal ferocity. He sunk his teeth into Spock's lip and the Vulcan slammed him to the bed, body hard and hot between his thighs.
Jim ground up into the pressure, even as he tore his mouth away to groan out, "Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?"
"Do not begin something you are unable to finish," Spock growled, and rolled his hips in a long sinuous line against Jim's.
"Shit," Jim breathed, and yanked the Vulcan's mouth back down to his.
This wasn't lovemaking, it was war. Spock's fingers left bruises and his teeth left blood over Jim's pulse, where shoulder met neck, on the edge of his collar. By the time Spock reached his chest Jim was rocking up into every thrust, moaning with each new scrape and bite. Spock reared back to drag Jim's shirt off and Jim took the opportunity to kick out of his boxers, and then had to endure several seconds of Spock's intense, measuring stare. "What the hell are you looking at?" he panted, cold air cooling the sweat on his skin.
"You, James," Spock answered, eyes hooded and hot.
Jim licked his lips and arched his back in blatant invitation. "Much obliged if you'd hurry it up and—fuck," he gasped as Spock wrapped his fingers around Jim's dick and gave a rough, gritty stroke. "Yes, that. More."
"Greedy," Spock rasped in his ear, tracing the shell with the tip of his tongue as his hand worked. "Selfish, arrogant—"
"Fuck," Jim moaned, hips jerking up every time Spock's thumb passed over the head. When Spock leaned down to attack a hardened nipple it was almost too much. "Fuck! Spock!"
"I want to see it," Spock whispered hoarsely into his chest, nipping and sucking. "I want to see your face when I make you come—"
"Oh God." He was riding the very edge now, precome making the glide of Spock's fist around him slicker and easier. "Just a little more, Spock, Spock—"
"More?" he asked, voice so deep and rough Jim more felt than heard it.
Jim let his head fall back against the bed, eyes screwing shut as his hips bucked faster. "More, please—"
Spock curled a wet finger into him and Jim's body jackknifed, the building ache in his gut suddenly exploding outward, forcing a cry from his throat. Spock bit at the base of his throat and worked him through it until he gasped, "Enough."
Even as Jim slumped bonelessly back against the twisted sheets, Spock was wound so tensely he was shaking, murmuring filthy little promises in Jim's ear while his hips moved in minute jerks against Jim. He dragged a come-slick thumb over Jim's bottom lip, his voice cracking when Jim wrapped his tongue around it and sucked lazily.
"I want your mouth on me," Spock said, low and pleading. "Please, James—"
"Jim," he corrected, rocking up into Spock and really enjoying the sharp whimper-moan the Vulcan couldn't quite stifle. "Gotta say it."
"Jim," he panted, eyes slipping shut, and Jim gave him a slow, dirty grin.
"That's it," he whispered, and pushed him over.
Spock's cock was gorgeous, a vibrant emerald and already leaking like a faucet when Jim got his hands on it, nosing past the straining shaft to suck a dark mark into the crease between thigh and groin. Spock groaned and his hand vised painfully in Jim's hair and Jim grunted, grabbing for Spock's wrists and forcing them over his head. "Keep 'em there," he ordered, and smirked when Spock swallowed hard and gripped the headboard.
Jim started at the bottom like he was finishing a fast-melting ice cream cone, lapping around the base and pressing kittenish licks along the main vein, up to the tight cluster of nerves just under the head and suckling until the only thing coming out of Spock's mouth was his name, voice gone high, thready and desperate. By the time he closed his mouth over the crown Spock looked wrecked, chest heaving and hands white-knuckled on the wood. "Ah!" he breathed out raggedly, and Jim took that as the compliment it was.
He let his tongue play along the slit as he fisted Spock, long, firm strokes from base to tip. Spock wasn't small and Jim was out of practice, but he bobbed his mouth lower with each pass until his lips met his fingers and the muscles under his hands were tense as bowstrings. Spock gritted out, "Jim," and Jim hummed in acknowledgment as he started sucking in earnest.
"Jim— close—" Spock tried, hands opening and closing on the headboard, and Jim swallowed him down until his lips were stretched around the root of him and his throat worked the rigid length relentlessly.
The headboard cracked under Spock's hands but Jim wasn't paying attention, too focused on the hot pulse of fluid and the sight of Spock's head tipped back, lips parted on a silent shout as he came with a wild shudder.
The body under his went slowly lax, small tremors still working their way through it. A few gentling pulls, and Jim let Spock slip from his mouth and pressed a chaste peck to an inner thigh. Fingers slid into his hair and Spock was tugging him up to share a messy kiss, cupping his face and chasing the bitter-salt taste from his mouth.
Jim drew back, and winced at the feel of come going tacky on his stomach. He sat up on his haunches and stretched languorously. A hand smoothed up his leg and he smiled, looking down at Spock through his lashes.
"Bath?" he asked, and Spock arched a brow.
Apparently, Vulcans didn't like water. Jim talked Spock into the bathroom anyway, and somehow that bath devolved into Jim getting shoved up against the soap-slippery tile and coming again around six of Spock's fingers—three in his mouth, three buried in his ass, milking his prostate with ruthless efficiency.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he mumbled as Spock poured him into bed, feeling warm and well-fucked and at peace with the world. Thank you, Santa.
Spock dropped down beside him and drew him close, tucking Jim's head under his chin and muttering something indistinct.
Jim, eyes already sliding closed, mumbled, "Wassat?"
"And a happy New Year," Spock sighed into his hair, drawing the blankets up over the both of them.
A/N: And what were Spock's Christmas plans? We may never know…