by The Enigmatic Big Miss Sunbeam

"Maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have
Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have"

His feverish face was broad and pink.


His finger tugged at Spock's sleeve.


"I am not sure it is feasible."

"Spock, you were always the right size."

"Jim, you are not well. I am afraid I would only make things worse."

"Don't deny a dying man."

And he smiled. Jim smiled! At that juncture of time he smiled! Smiling at the irony of a dying Jim Kirk! Jim didn't live as normal men did, and he wouldn't die that way either. "Take off your clothes, Mr. Spock. That's an order."

Then -- where did he get the strength? -- Jim sat up and took off his preposterous little hospital gown.

"Jim, I just do not . . ."

"See. I can prop myself up on these pillows."


"Come on, let me feel you all the way in one last time. You don't even need a hard-on."

Spock said nothing.

"C'mon, Spock. The lubricant is in that drawer."

Sulu and Chekhov were in dress uniform waiting for the ceremony to begin. Small, dark, Asian men; Jim had liked Chekhov well enough, but Spock never had. Chekhov had an unforgivable messiness about him, a messy smile, messy hair, a messy mind. Now he was sobbing as if Jim's death were surprising! Had Chekhov thought Jim might never die?

But Sulu was different. Jim and Spock both liked Sulu. Sulu was never messy, and he was never shy about taking his shirt off. Jim had always teased Spock about how attractive Sulu was. Those careful little muscles. That dark voice.

Spock lifted his head.

The fantasy they'd had and refined for years. In a shuttlecraft set on automatic. Making Sulu take off his clothes and go in the back. They'd take turns fucking him. Silent manly fucking. Aimed at the starkest pleasure. It would have been nice.

"Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind"

Had Jim had a lot of unanswered fantasies?

Spock hoped not.

Jim had lain naked across the hospital pillows, his pink ass almost feminine in its prominence, with that farm boy firmness, enticing, pneumatic, ready, and Spock was suddenly hard as well.

He had undressed while Jim watched. "Now you're making sense, Spock. Now you're being logical," and again that beautiful smile.

And Spock, when he himself was naked, had laid his head near Jim's and said, "I love you."

"I've always known that, Spock," said Jim with that boyish joie de vivre that was always Jim's, even if he was dying.

"And I guess I never told you
I'm so happy that you're mine"

Christine was there, dim and haggard as ever, and Uhura, compact, efficient, still beautiful.

Both had married human men, men with wealth and pride and big manes of hair, and their men were there at the funeral, proud to be at the side of their Starfleet wives.

"Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have"

Spock reared back and kissed Jim's buttocks. "This is very difficult for me," he said. The lubricant was already on his hand.

"Vulcans can't lie, can they? But I want it more than anything. I can almost feel it." Jim's voice was low and soft, purring.

Spock climbed on the bed and parted Jim's legs. Then he knelt between them. The tube of lubricant was right beside him and he applied it liberally to Jim's anal opening. Jim was cooing now, and Spock could see how aroused he was, rocking against the pillow.

One finger, lubricated and gleaming, long. Spock inserted it and then gave himself a little smile; he could feel the part that made Jim melt with sensation.

Once Spock hadn't known about all that; his mind had shied away from knowing how those things worked.

Two fingers, in and out, and Jim moving and sighing.

He sat back. Jim's wide back, the flare of Jim's buttocks pink and perfect.

"Spock! More!"

Three fingers. Spock could see Jim clawing at the pillow, he could see Jim's scrotum tightening with arousal.

And Spock couldn't help it, he was getting harder as he watched this; Jim had always been most arousing.

Four fingers in a wedge. Oh, there was a science to this; now he was buried to the knuckle in Jim's ass. He added more lubrication and rocked himself against the air, Jim's air.

It was logical. It was very logical. Jim might have been dying, but everyone who was alive was always dying. After all, they were both there in this moment and in this moment Jim was alive as Spock was or as anyone else or even as a newborn and gasping again and again against Spock's hand. Jim's golden inhabitation of each second. And Spock pulled his hand out again and surveyed how much he'd widened Jim's opening.

"Don't stop," Jim said in his soft voice.

"I have not stopped. I am ready for the final stage."


More lubricant, clean-smelling, clear and fluid. He spread it on his hand up over the wrist, and on Jim's widened anus, already moist and open.

Spock looked down at himself; he was quite hard.

Logically, dying was one of the conditions of living; logically, Jim was dying no more than Spock was dying.

Spock pushed himself in up to the knuckles; Jim bit the pillow and screamed softly, rocking back and forth.

Everyone was waiting.

Spock was suddenly proud that he was Vulcan, that he had centuries of ritual to fall back upon, that he didn't have to face this alone. That, while all of Jim's luscious flesh would never again be seen in this world, Spock could handle the situation.

He was Spock of Vulcan. He nodded at the small crowd.

Jim's flesh was pinker than usual, expansive, and Spock looked at the juxtaposition of his fingers in Jim's ass.

"Oh," Jim had groaned, "when you do that, I know you know me."

Spock did know his Jim. He would have even if there had never been that intimacy.

Because Spock always knew things; that was one of the subtle pleasures of being alien everywhere. He always had to keep his eyes peeled, as McCoy had said.

He knew his Jim and loved him. And through miracles Spock could never begin to comprehend, Jim had loved him back. Their intimacy had only grown through the years, so that they were both best friends and lovers.

It could never have happened on Vulcan, with a Vulcan, or with any other human, but it had happened with Jim Kirk.

Oh, how Spock had known him. And it wasn't just from fucking him or fisting him, although that was part of it, part of the knowledge of the scents and mysterious ledges of Jim's flesh. It was also from loving him. Loving Jim's temper tantrums and sulkiness and bad jokes and enthusiasms; all those moods that shaded into each other and resolved themselves quick as a summer rain when a decision had to be made. Nothing ever sneaked up on Jim.

Nothing but his sickness.

Spock had been the first to know Jim was sick. He had smelled the illness on Jim one morning. And, because he loved him, he told Jim what he sensed.

Jim had not flinched; he merely narrowed those golden eyes as in a smile and said "we'll see about that."

Spock gave a little heave of his hand, not a fist so much as a wedge of long fingers, and Jim reared back and Spock said "one more push" and Jim lunged back against him and suddenly Spock's whole hand was inside Jim's ass, feeling the moistness and edema and heat of Jim's gorgeous soul.

"Neutronium-related cellular metastasis," McCoy had said and looked at Jim and then he looked at Spock.

"What are our options?"

"Let me do some research. It'll take about twenty minutes."

Jim had nodded.

Knowing Jim.

Spock would never have imagined that he could be lovers with anyone quite as frolicsome as Jim Kirk. Jim and his sex life. Jim really liked it all. For instance, he liked to scan all sorts of strange radio-wave spectrums to see what was out there. He was always finding "good ones" and making Spock watch them.

"Watch this, Spock! It's a good one."

A good one.

One broadcast Jim was particularly taken with was "Boys Boys Boys!" He even recorded it so they could watch it over and over.

"Boys Boys Boys!" Preposterous.

Until he had begun his alliance with Jim, Spock had never seen any pornography. And, although he watched "Boys Boys Boys!" with Jim, Spock still cared nothing for it. But Jim always enjoyed it and called out encouragement and made wonderful teasing Jim jokes and just generally cajoled and enticed Spock into watching and Spock was always a fan of Jim's if not of the silly movies.

"Boys Boys Boys!"

Actually, if one accepted the basic premise that humans liked to watch other beings engaged in sexual activity, then "Boys Boys Boys!" was not illogical. It was the story of several attractive youths sitting around a campfire on a distant moon. Each one got to tell an erotic tale which was then enacted by professional pornographic actors. The stories were about male love (not that Jim was careful about that distinction; there were also several of these videos which featured buxom blondes - Jim did like buxom blondes - in elaborate skits of love with one another).

Well, nothing new in the human vocabulary of smut. One could find the same thing in The Decameron. Or in The Canterbury Tales.

"Look at this!" Jim would say (he liked to drink wine and eat pizza as he watched these: Jim and his various appetites).

So Spock watched one of the boys in "Boys! Boys! Boys!", Danny by name, tell a story about his drill sergeant who entrapped him and made him wear a kilt with nothing underneath but a buttplug.

The first time Jim had unspooled this for Spock, Spock had been taken quite aback. He had soberly said to Jim: "Do you like this as something you and I might do?"

Jim gave him a golden slanted look: "Of course not."

They watched a little bit more. The drill sergeant was very insistent on inserting Danny's buttplug himself.

"That drill sergeant looks like Coleman," Jim said and picked up another piece of pizza.

"Coleman? Dr. Janice Lester's companion and physician?"

"Yes, doesn't he? That same weird haircut!"

"I see a certain slight resemblance."

They continued to watch. The actor playing Danny was angel-faced and his small curly mouth panted as he smoothed his kilt over his clearly aroused front.

Jim was very still. Very silent. Then he spoke. "When you asked me that earlier? Would you? I mean, you like to wear robes. We could replicate something really big and you could pull up your robe and we could stick it in you; you could wear it around quarters and I could jerk off."

Spock had been too suddenly aroused to move, to even breathe.


"Tell me, tell me that your sweet love hasn't died
Give me, give me one more chance
To keep you satisfied, satisfied"

And they did and he had and Jim had.

Oh, to have Jim back for a moment. It wasn't sex, of course, sex was a part of it, but everybody knew everybody could get sex anywhere; what he wanted was Jim.

"Jim," he said out loud. What it was like holding Jim. He shut his eyes. Yes, he had never been prouder of being Vulcan than in this moment. He would not collapse because he had centuries of restraint and ritual to fall back upon.

And Jim backed again and again against Spock's coiled fist, rubbing his erection against the bolster.

His breathing was happy, but a certain misery rolled over Spock. He had not been as good a lover as he could have been. Talos. The Kal-if-fee. Gol.

"If I made you feel second best I'm sorry I was blind"

"Jim, let me apologize for . . ."

"Nobody's perfect," Jim said in a soft rasp. "You just think about what we're doing right now."

"Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind"

For Spock, the Vulcan way was the way he wished to proceed. His immaculate quarters and uniform. His hair even. But Jim was like Chekhov in a way, in his farm-boy messiness, his messy oily hair, the untidy way his uniform always rode up around his waist; he was always coming in from away missions as pink-cheeked as a girl, panting, biting his lip. But Jim's messiness wasn't like Chekhov's because Jim's messiness was a foil to his trueness, it set off the real beauty of Jim as clearly as if Jim had been purified down to the bone.


"I am all the way in your asshole. Your asshole is around my hand. My hand is fucking you and fucking you."

"What?" said the breathless Jim; he probably wanted to hear Spock say those things again.

"I am fistfucking you, Jim, and you want it. You want it in your ass. I wish I had a photograph of this, your ass all the way around my hand," and as he spoke he rhythmically moved against all the sensitivities inside of Jim and Jim was breathing. "After this, I might have you suck my cock, Jim. Would you like that?"

"Oh yes. Listen, Spock, when I get well," Jim's speech came in little staccato bursts, "let's do it the way we used to."

Jim had always liked to squat on the floor, holding on to a chair, thrusting his big ass out, as Spock knelt behind him and stuck his fist in. In over the wrist. Each man rubbing his own cock. An incredible sight.

"Yes, we will do that."

And now he let Jim pulse back against his fist and fuck the pillow as Spock stimulated him from the rear and Jim's breath was coming in tiny gasps and he felt the heat and pulse and Jim was coming and saying nonsense syllables, murmuring as if from a great distance, and Spock very gently moved inside him to help him all he could.

Spock stood up and said: "We had the formal gederation ritual yesterday. Now, we few are left here, Jim's friends, gathered to say good-bye."

To his horror, he felt like crying.

After he came, Jim had been exhausted, his face red and swollen, his eyes slits in the wide flesh of his face.

Still he gamely sucked Spock's cock for a moment, but Spock could smell the illness on him and withdrew. "Let me come on you. I'll satisfy myself."

"Yes, do," Jim whispered.

And now it was left to Spock to . . . suddenly he was not in the mood, but he stroked his softening cock a little and glanced at Jim. Jim's eyes were barely open, but they were fixed on Spock's shrinking erection.

Spock paused, and Jim seemed to deflate a little.

"Watch me, Jim, watch me pleasure myself. Watch me get hard over you, over thinking about your open anus with my hand in it." And he shut his eyes, determined to get hard for Jim. Jim!

"Maybe I didn't hold you
All those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you
I'm so happy that you're mine
If I made you feel second best
well, I'm sorry I was blind"

Spock began to search frantically for a memory he could use. Their first time. That time in the shuttlecraft. In a hotel room, finding Jim jerking off and telling him 'continue'. The dazed look Jim had given him then. Or those genuinely risque times they'd fucked and let McCoy watch. McCoy stroking himself and hitting Spock's ass to spur him on.

McCoy had come back in fifteen minutes. "There's a lot of information. It's in the news. We had never figured on the sensitivity of some terrans to neutronium."

"How long do I have, Bones? A year? A month? A week?"

McCoy gave him a look. "Well, it depends."

His cock was getting softer, and Jim's fevered eyes were still watching him.

But Spock kept at it, although something in him wanted to say, Jim, it is not logical to expect me... but it was at a point where it wasn't about Spock, it was about Jim. What Jim wanted.

He would have to concentrate. Use those famous Vulcan powers of meditation and concentration.

Jim's mouth.

Jim's ass.

How long do I have, Bones.

He was softer.


"Tell me that your sweet love hasn't died.
Give me one more chance to keep you satisfied."

And then an image flooded over him: that idiotic "Boys Boys Boys!" Two boys in an old-style jalopy. According to the true pornographic iconography, one was dark and brooding and serious, and one sunny and blonde and pretty, and the blonde one had ingenuously turned his back to the dark one and pulled his jeans down to the top of his thighs and had thrown his sunny head back and his rounded smiling face was turned to his lover and he indicated that he wanted to be butt-fucked and it was clearly shot on some sort of sound-stage, there was a stagy moon and a few cardboard trees, and the dark one looked self-satisfied and unzipped his jeans and pulled them down and drew out a gratifyingly large cock and spat on his hand and stroked it a few times and began to penetrate his companion who closed his eyes. The dark one apparently liked to tease, because he would insert himself a few inches, just past the swollen ridge of the head of his big cock, and then pull back so he could repeat the motion. The first time Spock had seen this piece of film, he had been quite sure that the boys were not actors, or not merely actors, but actual lovers, because of the slightly opened mouth and closed eyes of the blond and the most un-pornographic gravity of the dark one, and the first time they'd seen this, Jim had watched in silence, his hand moving in front of him, lost in his own little sex world, but, when he had started to come, he had rolled over to Spock who was lying at his side and, with the same sort of serious intensity on his face, came on Spock's thigh, came on Spock's clothes, and Spock had covered Jim's jolting cock with his long hand all the better to get Jim's come all over him, and then he had licked his hand while Jim panted beside him, his eyes glazed as he watched his lover.

And Spock was suddenly coming, and he moved towards Jim's chest and stomach and Jim's eyes lit up and he moved his hand towards the spattered come, and touched it and closed his eyes and whispered "thank you" and lay back.

Spock shook himself.

And the door to Jim's room opened and McCoy came in.

"I wouldn't have come in, Spock, but the monitor out in the hall was going ape."

And, as Spock leaned back (he and McCoy and Jim had no need to be modest with each other; they had all enjoyed each other too much), McCoy ran the monitor over Jim's motionless body.

"Some of those others will be in here in a second. You might want to grab you one of those scrub suits," he said, not looking at Spock.

Spock picked up a suit. "McCoy . . ."

"Spock, I said, put you a suit on. The alarm's gone off all over the place."

So Spock did, and, just as he was finishing with the buttons of the scrub suit, the rest of the med team rushed in.

Spock spoke to McCoy again: "Dr. McCoy, what..."

"I ain't saying it, Spock." McCoy looked up. "I ain't saying it."

Then he turned and leaned over Jim's body again. "I love you, Jim." He was barely audible.

Spock understood then and picked up his shirt from the floor and placed it on Jim, even though Jim would never be cold again.

"Give me, give me one more chance
to keep you satisfied, satisfied"

Spock looked down and then back up. "Jim's not dead."

His eyes met McCoy's.

"When Dr. McCoy told us about the metastasis, Jim and I had a long discussion of what sort of service, if any, he wanted. The first thing he said was, just send me to the heavens. That's what we did at the formal Federation ceremony. We sent Jim's body into the heavens."

Uhura smiled and nodded.

Spock nodded back at her. "Where Jim always wanted to be. Where Jim is now. In his space. With his stars. Where surely he is waiting for us."

And then he looked up to the great stars that held them all and smiled.

The End