"This is the third time this year," Jim said faintly. "Fleet's not going to be too pleased."

"Nor am I," Spock said gravely, allowing himself to take Jim's hand now that McCoy had left them in private. His fingers stroked slowly over Jim's hand, and Jim closed his eyes in relief, finally letting himself relax.

"I'm not out here to play safe, Spock." He was tired, and it was not an argument he wanted to reopen now.

"I know," Spock assured him instead, voice low. "It would be against your nature. That does not mean that I must like it."

Jim's fingers closed weakly around Spock's. His whole body felt shaky and unreliable, even just laying down, everything smelled like sickbay, and the drugs were making him feel fuzzy and detatched from everything. Spock's hand was a firm reality for him to grasp.

Spock leaned down, brushing his lips across Jim's. Jim was too drugged to feel anything resembling arousal, but Spock tasted real, and warm, and Jim's hand tightened on Spock's. Spock brushed his hand across Jim's forehead, and Jim breathed deeply, feeling that he was finally home.