Grudging Anticipation

Title: Grudging Anticipation
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: nu!Spock, Kirk!Prime
Rating: M
Warnings: CRACK, with a side of nachos, and hand!porn
Notes: This is for SirMordred. Dear sir, I have your nachos and your Kirk!Prime, as promised.

Prompt:
Something…bizarre? :O Uhmm…pff, I saw your poll. nu!SpockxKirk!Prime? Du eeet. >D Maybe something with nachos. [Nachos? For eating? No way!]

Thrilled though he was at the once in a lifetime opportunity to meet the alternate version of his lunatic asshole captain, Spock was … uncertain about the circumstances, at best. They were, for the moment, caught in a singularity, and all he could wonder was why his other self wasn't here, instead. Those two, according to all the data he hadn't wanted from that mind-meld, had been madly in love and fucking like terran rabbits. The images warmed his heart in the most annoying fashion, when he looked back through them, yet again.

"We are gods," Spock muttered, for the third time, "of a thirty foot radius."

The very idea annoyed the shit out of him, and this Jim Kirk might not be his Jim Kirk, but he wondered if throttling the hell out of him might not be just as cathartic. He did, in fact, require some amount of catharsis after being ripped out of his own timestream and deposited on the ass-end of nowhere with some forty-year-old parody of his captain.

But, that doesn't stop you from wanting to…

Yes, it does. Shut up.

And now, he was talking to himself. Fuck today, as his Jim was so fond of saying, fuck it right in the ear. And then the images came back — he hadn't known Vulcan anatomy could do that, and he was sure he could've gone the rest of his life without knowing. But, it was still derangingly erotic, in ways he didn't want to think about.

Spock rubbed his face, tiredly, glancing around their space-time bubble. Other-Jim had decided a velvet couch would be a good idea, and he was currently lounging on it, eating some revolting-looking human food, with his fingers. Fucking barbaric. But, the rush of memory told him this food was something he would learn to almost … grudgingly … look forward to (?!!) after years of exposure. Giving up, he sighed and jumped in with both feet.

"What are you eating, Captain? And … why are you touching it?" Spock asked, failing to entirely keep the disgust out of his voice.

Other-Jim laughed. "You sound just like my Spock. It's taken him a while to even tolerate watching me eat nachos, but I refuse to give up a perfectly good food over a matter of aesthetics. Come have some. I'll show you how it's done — it's an Earth thing."

Spock looked at his fingers and then at the plate of crunchy bits and goo. He'd eaten gladst, at that one border negotiation with the Klingons. This couldn't possibly be that bad. Humans didn't make food into a ceremony testing the willpower of the person consuming it. As he considered, the couch changed shape, extending into an 'L', to accomodate him, if he wished to sit. This Jim was too fucking considerate. It annoyed him, like everything else here.

Bending his fingers, to simultaneously crack the knuckles of both hands, Spock sat on the extended couch, staring thoughtfully into the plate of 'nachos'. As a god of this thirty-foot radius, he determined that a spoon was necessary, and caused one to occur in his hand. That was actually kind of cool, but it still annoyed him, because other-Jim could do it, too, and had noticed first. He prodded the plate experimentally with the spoon, watching the bright yellow sauce seal up like creeping sludge.

"I learned to eat this, in your world?" Spock couldn't keep vague hints of revulsion off his face. "First and last and always," he muttered, with a disbelieving sigh, as he picked up a spoon full of crunchy bits and sauce, with some sort of vegetables mixed in.

Toasting other-Jim with the spoon, he then consulted his memories on how to best get it into his mouth. The so-called food was a sloppy pile, and if his calculations were correct, wider than his mouth by a few millimetres. This was doomed to end poorly, except for the part where he was a god of the realm. With a slight gesture of one finger, he rearranged the contents of the spoon to a more reasonable width, and plunged the spoon into his mouth before he could think about it any further.

It was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the single slimiest thing he could recall havng eaten, aside from that one time with the fermented soybean product that Sulu ate for breakfast. It was oily, in a word; in another word, piquant. It wholy disrupted his sense of reality, which, frankly, was getting to be old hat, at this point. He raised an eyebrow, in stunned contemplation.

"I left out the jalapeños. The you that I know doesn't like spicy things," other-Jim commented, deftly snatching another chip and stuffing it in his mouth.

"Vulcans don't like spicy things. It is an affront to the natural order of things, in which one does not eat things that cause a sudden desire to imbibe more than one's water ration for the day," Spock clarified, licking nacho-cheese off his lip.

"But, I've still never gotten an answer about that hands in the food thing. What is that about?" Other-Jim licked salt and cheese off his fingers, causing Spock to stare, wide-eyed, and blush faintly.

"Because what you have just done is only done in Romulan pornography, which is purporting to be Vulcan." The words exited Spock's mouth before he could check them.

Other-Jim looked down at his hands, touching the first two fingers of each hand together in what was called a Vulcan kiss. His face looked up, in horrified amusement. "Oh. Oh, shit. No wonder you — he — my — the other you learned to eat nachos." A wicked grin crept across his face. "Oh, my Spock is in for some delicious surprises…"

"Captain, I must insist that you spare me the details." Spock looked outright nauseated, in any species' expressions.

"Only if you agree to eat one with your hands," other-Jim demanded, with a smirk.

"I want you to know that, anywhere but here, I could kill you with my bare hands." Looking terribly unamused, Spock cracked his knuckles, again, bending and re-bending the crackling joints as he schooled himself to touch something he was then going to place in his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he closed his fingers around a chip and lifted it to his mouth. A long moment passed before he successfully got it past his lips. The flavour was much the same as it had been, but he'd just performed what might be taken as a sexual act in front of a man who had already learned to think of some version of himself as a lover. Still, he forced himself to continue, knowing that if he didn't follow the entire procedure, he'd have to do it again. He thought of T'Pring — that was not the image he'd intended at all. He thought of Uhura, but realised she was not nearly forgiving enough for something like this to slide. Finally, he thought of his Jim, and knew this would just be another comic episode in the life and times. With that thought in the forefront of his mind, he stuck his fingers in his mouth to suck the cheese off.

The cheese came off fairly easily, but the salt stuck in the grease was another matter. He licked and nibbled at the tips of his fingers, driving himself into an unconscionable state of arousal, trying to get it off. And in that moment, he understood the grudging anticipation his other self had expressed, with regards to nachos. They were, it seemed, an inherently sexual food. Doubtless this was the start of that appalling relationship.

When the blaze of light flashed across his eyes, Spock's first thought was that he definitely hadn't gone that far. Then he realised that he was facing the bridge crew, still sporting an entirely uncomfortable half-erection, caught in exactly the wrong place in his slim-cut uniform pants. And his fingers were still in his mouth.

"Nachos," he said, at last. "I have been to a very small pocket dimension, and I have learned the human art of eating nachos."

With that, he walked off the bridge, as though everything were perfectly normal.