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Roja had informed Spock that Jim would not be at the club for the entire week. When he asked to know why, he did not receive a satisfactory answer, only that Jim was “sick.”
This could not be allowed to stand. No one was allowed to keep Jim from Spock without reason. Perhaps Jim truly was sick, but Spock needed to know for certain. He could of course go to Roja and demand more of an explanation, but he decided instead to seek Jim out at home.
While he normally saw Jim in the evening, there was no reason to wait, and a visit during the day would likely be less alarming. He doubted Jim would appreciate the intrusion given that he had not disclosed the location of his home to Spock, but that was of little consequence. Jim belonged to him, whether the human had yet accepted this or not.
Jim was renting a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. Several minutes after Spock rapped a fist against the door, it opened slightly, a chain still connected that Spock could easily break. “Spock?” came Jim’s shocked voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Open the door,” Spock demanded.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
“It was not a request. If you want the door to remain intact, you will open it. Now.”
“Okay, okay, give me a second.” The door closed, and Spock heard rummaging on the other side before it opened again, the chain disconnected. Jim was turned to the side, a hooded sweater wrapped around himself over a pair of flannel pajamas, as if he was trying to hide from Spock’s gaze.
The reason for this strange behavior became evident almost immediately: he was covered in bruises, his bottom lip split, one eye surrounded by a dark ring. Spock felt fury clawing its way up his chest. “Who did this?”
“I’m fine. Spock, I swear it looks worse than it is.” Jim was trying to retreat from his assessing gaze, but Spock would not allow it. He seized Jim's wrist, not hard enough to hurt but enough to keep him from moving away. Spock’s other hand reached to pull the hood off Jim’s head so he could look his fill.
Jim reluctantly submitted to his examination, looking deeply uncomfortable. There were bandages on his neck, over what Spock assumed were the worst of the injuries. He reached for the hem of Jim’s shirt; the human flinched, and Spock's hand stilled.
That someone had hurt Jim in this way, had dared to touch and damage something that belonged to Spock, was unforgivable. He would see them dead. “Who did this to you?”
Jim shrank back as much as he could with Spock’s hand still wrapped around his wrist; through their contact Spock could feel his fear. It was normally an emotion he tried not to engender in the human, but he was too angry to care at the moment. “It doesn’t matter," Jim said.
“Tell me.”
“It was an old client. He didn’t like that I stopped seeing him, but I don’t think he’s going to bother me again.”
Spock’s eidetic memory immediately supplied the relevant information: “You were concerned he would cause trouble, and refused to give me his name.” His eyes narrowed. “And you intended to conceal from me the fact that he attacked you.”
“I wasn’t concealing it! It’s just none of your business, Spock.”
“On the contrary,” Spock said. “Everything to do with you is my business.”
“You can’t just come here and—”
“Indeed I can,” Spock shot back, a warning note in his voice. He enjoyed Jim's spirit, but would not allow such open defiance. “I have allowed you significant freedom-”
“Allowed?” Jim echoed, eyes wide and alarmed.
Spock ignored the interruption. “And as a result, you have been violently attacked. You will tell me the name of your attacker.”
Jim’s bright blue gaze turned pleading. “I can’t,” he whispered.
Anger pulsed through Spock. “Why are you protecting him?”
“If I tell you, what will you do?”
Spock simply looked at him; the answer was obvious.
“I can’t be responsible for that. Even if he’s an asshole, even if he deserves it, I just—I can’t be responsible for someone’s death.”
“You are not responsible. He has chosen his own fate, and it will be precisely what he deserves. I understand your objections, but this man poses a continued threat to you. He cannot be allowed to live.”
“What if you just, I don’t know, roughed him up or something?”
It did not bother Spock to lie, and he could certainly do so in order to get the name from Jim, but he did not want Jim to think that was acceptable treatment of an enemy. “It is unwise to strike at a man and leave him alive, unless there is a very good reason for doing so.”
Jim looked away and said nothing.
Every instinct told Spock to demand the answer; and failing to receive it, to take it forcibly from Jim’s mind. But perhaps there was another way, one that would secure him something else he wanted. “Show me the remainder of your injuries.”
“Spock, come on—”
“Now.”
Jim sighed, and pulled up his shirt, revealing a patchwork of bruises across his chest. Spock released his wrist, allowing him to turn and show the rest. Jim dropped his shirt, turning back to Spock. Spock looked pointedly at Jim’s pants. Jim huffed, but pulled them down, revealing that his legs were also injured, but less severely.
“Did he force himself on you?”
“No.”
“Did he try?”
Jim’s hesitation was answer enough.
“But you got away,” Spock surmised.
“Yeah,” Jim admitted.
“I will not allow anyone else to touch you," Spock said softly. He leaned close to kiss Jim gently, a hand on his shoulder to coax him toward the couch. Jim went obediently and sunk down into the cushions, clearly exhausted. Spock yearned to hold the human close, but he was concerned about exacerbating Jim’s injuries. “Do you require medical attention?”
“No. My friend’s a doctor. He’s taking care of me.”
While this was welcome news, the idea of another man in Jim’s house set off alarm bells in Spock’s mind. “And what compensation does he require for these services?”
“None,” Jim replied forcefully. “He’s really just a friend, okay?”
“I am glad to hear it,” Spock said, deciding the doctor was someone he could worry about at a later date. “Does this client know where you live?”
“No, thank God.”
“Perhaps I should forbid you from returning to the club, then.”
Jim’s eyes widened. They both knew that even if Spock didn’t forcibly keep Jim from going there, he could certainly demand that Roja not allow him back, and Roja valued his own life too much to refuse Spock anything. “Please don’t. I need the money I get dancing.”
“You will have all you need from me. This solution seems… logical. I will know you are safe, and you do not have to give up the name of your attacker. Unless you wish to tell me after all?”
Jim was stubbornly silent, and Spock found himself impressed. Men who were older, more experienced, and more well-resourced quaked under Spock's gaze. “I really don’t think he’s going to bother me again,” Jim tried quietly. “It’s not worth all this.”
“You are quite correct that this man is not worth it, but you are, Jim.”
The human looked stricken by these words.
“You will not return to the club until I deem it safe. Is that understood?”
“Okay,” Jim conceded, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Will I still see you?”
“Of course,” Spock replied, feeling a surge of victory rush through him at the human's acquiescence. He would never be returning to the club. “I will come here to see you.”
Jim nodded. “Okay, just… just let me know so I can be sure to be here. I—uh—is it okay if we don’t have sex today? I could use my mouth?”
Spock’s hand gently cupped Jim’s cheek, running a finger over the split lip. “No sexual activities are necessary at present. Come here.” He gently maneuvered Jim to lie down with his head in Spock’s lap and began to massage the human’s scalp, which was thankfully unbruised.
“Feels good,” Jim said, sounding surprised. He tried to sit up. “You don’t have to—”
Spock pushed him back down. “I wish to. Vulcan neuro-pressure is an effective pain management system.” He sent soothing feelings through his touch, keeping the mental connection light enough that Jim would not realize the origin of his feelings.
Jim began to melt under him, eyes fluttering closed under Spock’s suggestive fingers. The human looked younger in repose, almost painfully innocent in his flannel pajamas, long blond lashes fanning across his cheeks. He usually wore far less clothing around Spock, yet the Vulcan found himself enraptured with the sight of Jim like this. His eyes traced over the bruises marring Jim’s perfect skin. He quashed the desire to mark Jim's skin himself.
Once he was confident Jim was asleep, he fitted his fingers over Jim’s meld points. He'd wanted the human's mind since their first night together, and felt a thrill of anticipation run through him.
He had known they would be compatible, but was still unprepared for the exquisite brightness and beauty, the way Jim’s mind welcomed him inside immediately. A meld had never felt like this before. Spock wanted to sink deeper, to reach into Jim’s very core, to forge a permanent connection between them. It would be so easy.
But if he went past the surface, Jim would become aware of his presence, and the human was not yet ready. With great effort, he resisted, skimming through Jim’s surface thoughts for the information he needed; it was easy to locate.
Spock slipped from Jim’s mind, now in possession of a name. The name of the man who would die for daring to lay hands on Jim: Gary Mitchell.