Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

A/N: Written for Mein Leibling, for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza, 2014, who requested Spock/Kirk for the month of May. Also fits my trope bingo square, rivals to lovers, and my cotton candy square, smell. Much thanks go to my fellow ECTs, who read and commented and helped out with the finer points, as well as a title.

Spock regards the man lying next to him. He's sleeping, and in his sleep he looks peaceful. No worry lines wrinkle his forehead, or ring the corners of his mouth. The familiar purple bruising beneath his eyes, from lack of decent rest for days at a time, is still present, even in sleep, no less deep or dark.

Spock traces the fine lines of an angry, pinkish wound that mars his rival, turned lover's cheek. He's careful to keep his touch light, uses just the tips of his fingers, so it doesn't wake his mate, his captain.

Maybe the sleep, forced by crew, doctor, and new lover, will make a decent dent in the man's impressive amount of sleep deprivation. Spock doubts it. Kirk, if nothing else, is a stubborn bastard who holds the weight of his crew on his conscience the way some people wear skin tight clothing that leaves nothing to the imagination.

The injury's fresh, looks like the outer edges of a spider's web, cracked and puckering, spreading from the epicenter of the injury. Spock's fingers still over the swollen center of the wound. It reminds him of something - the black-brown-purple-yellow color impressive for its depth - from his past, though he can't quite recall it.

Kirk sighs, shifts, face turning toward Spock's, a frown-turned smile plays about his lips, and he settles. Spock holds his own breath until he's certain Kirk won't wake, and then he lets it out in stages, breathing freely only when the smile on Kirk's lips doesn't falter, and his breathing evens out into that of deeper sleep.

This is unfamiliar to Spock, lying in bed next to someone and just watching, touching, enjoying the peace of keeping watch over someone's sleep. Keeping the monsters and nightmares at bay with a controlled breath, or a light, lingering touch.

Kirk hadn't asked for much from him that night, after the battle, the hand-to-hand combat that freed the princess of a foreign planet that Spock honestly couldn't recall the name of right now in the wake of the captain's injuries. All superficial - bruises and scratches that didn't require suturing - according to the doctor. Nothing that a week's worth of good sleep wouldn't help heal.

He'd just wanted a kiss, to be held until he fell asleep. Both of which Spock was more than willing to give him. He'd have given more, had Kirk but made the request.

Spock remembers their first kiss, brings his fingers up to his lips which tingle at the memory. They're warm, pulsing, and he longs to press them to Kirk's, breathe some warmth and comfort into the man whose brow furrows in sleep.

Nightmare? Spock smoothes the man's brow with gentle strokes of his fingertips, closes his eyes as he brushes his lips across the overly warm surface, wills calm into the other man, wonders how it came to this. How it came to the two of them, bedding down together in the captain's quarters, by turns watching over each other's sleep.

"Spock?" Kirk mumbles in his sleep, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, mouth twisting at the corners.

"I'm right here, Jim," Spock whispers, catches Kirk's roaming fingers and pulls them toward his mouth, kisses them. "Right here."

"Thought they'd killed you," Kirk mutters, eyes still shut, clearly still caught up in the throes of his current nightmare, reliving what had happened several months ago when Spock had been captured by a militant group, tortured for secrets that he never gave up, would never give up.

"You got there in time, Jim," Spock reminds him. Remembers how close to death he'd been, how it was Kirk, then nothing more than a thorn in his side, who'd saved him.

"You got there in time," Spock repeats, trying to rid himself of the memories that are threatening to overwhelm him.

He focuses on one clear memory, pushes it to the forefront of his mind, lets it quash all of the others - too many needles, knives, hands that turned into fists, blood that ran like tiny rivers. Kirk, nostrils flaring, a wild look in his eyes, lips pressed so tightly together that they looked bloodless. In that moment, the man Spock had deemed too volatile and overly given to impulse looked like a god of fury, and he was glad to have him on his side.

Kirk quiets, his fingers grip Spock's tightly as his breathing evens out. It takes considerably longer for Spock to dispel his own unease, the images that Kirk's nightmare had elicited in his mind.

Vulcans are not sentimental beings; they don't dwell on the past. They aren't given to volatile temper, or nightmares. But, Spock is only half-Vulcan, and, though he's tried to divest himself of his more human tendencies, the very man in his embrace seems to bring them out in him.

Spock closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and filters out the sharp antiseptic smells that still cling to Kirk after his brief trip to the infirmary - he may have rescued the princess, and come out on top, as he typically does, but he'd not survived the competition completely unscathed. Underneath the hospital stench; however, are the scents that Spock has come to associate with the man - bergamot, lemongrass, and something spicy that Spock didn't have a name for.

They are a comforting amalgamation, and Spock lets them wash over him, welcoming the memories they bring with them. The first time they met, and Spock thought that they were wholly incompatible, that it was a burden to be saddled with such a mercurial man who trusted his gut over reason. Bergamot had been at the forefront that day. A strong, almost heady, smell.

The day that Kirk had sacrificed himself, though it should have been him lying sick, and near death with radiation poison eating away his insides, not Kirk. Lemongrass and that elusive spice had hung thick in the air.

The day that Kirk had - even though all hope had been lost, and reason dictated otherwise - come to Spock's rescue on a little-known planet. That day, Kirk had reeked of that unnamable spice, and Spock, barely able to lift a finger, let alone his head, had reached for it, the only thing familiar in the darkness that had overtaken him so completely that he thought nothing existed beyond the four walls where he'd been held captive for over a month.

The four walls that had been spattered in his blood before being wiped clean over and over again. The four walls that had contained his screams, echoing them back to him in never-ending rivulets. The four walls that had been his prison, had nearly been the undoing of his sanity, had stripped him of everything which had made him Vulcan, human.

And it was just as Spock had given up hope - envisioning the future, alternative universe of himself come to give him but a spark of life to cling to, the idea that there was hope in the midst of such darkness - that Kirk walked into the room, and the four walls which had held him prisoner, collapsed, setting him free.

Spock had been almost feral. Had gone after his rescuer like a rabid animal, biting and clawing, snarling, foaming at the mouth. Had wanted to kill, to end the pain and the suffering. To end the bleeding of the walls, the echoes, the living nightmare his life had become.

He'd launched himself at Kirk, intent to kill or be killed, and Kirk simply caught him. Held him tight. Murmured words that, at the time, hadn't made sense, because Spock had forgotten what words, spoken from human lips, sounded like.

"You're okay, I've got you now. You're safe." Kirk's voice had sounded worn, thick, like he'd been saying those words over and over again, and Spock supposes that he had. That he'd repeated those words until finally they'd sunk in and Spock had returned to himself.

The kiss - their first of what had now become many - hadn't been planned. Spock had turned his face toward Kirk's, and whether he'd meant to express his profound gratitude, or lecture the man for going against protocol to rescue him, he'll never know, because in the split second it had taken him to open his mouth, to take the necessary breath for speech, Kirk's lips were on his, and the words were simply lost.

"Sleep," Spock murmurs when Kirk stirs. "I've got you. You're safe."

He presses his lips to the swollen wound on Kirk's cheek, feels the overly warm skin throb as though it's got its own heartbeat. It'll take time for the swelling to go down. Time for the spidery cracks surrounding it to mend without the aid of medicine, which Kirk had preferred.

There'd be more scarring this way, but Kirk had been adamant, and Spock thought him a foolish, sentimental man for it. Thought he'd wanted to keep the scar as a reminder, a trophy, for what he'd done. Something with which he could stroke his ego each and every time he looked in the mirror.

They'd fought about it. In the end, Kirk had merely agreed with him, said that the scar would make for an excellent trophy, a constant reminder of a hopeless battle that he'd won, how he'd saved the life of a princess he had the right to marry, but never would.

But Spock knows better now. Understands more here, in the dark watches of the night, than he could ever hope to understand in the bright light of day, where his lover, his captain, has no choice but to put on a show of bravery. Knows that Kirk hadn't refused medical treatment because he'd wanted to keep the scar. He'd refused it because it hadn't been necessary, and, contrary to popular belief, Kirk really isn't a vain man. He's a man who does what is needed, when it is needed. No more. No less.

It's not how any of the others see Captain James Tiberius Kirk. It'll never be how others see him, because to them, Kirk will always be a glory hound, looking out for number one. The quintessential lady's man.

They never see him like this - asleep, vulnerable, wounds fresh and open, inviting. And, if Spock has anything to say about it, they never will. It'll be his secret to hold and keep. The captain's nightmares will be his to bear, just like his will be the captain's, Jim's.

Spock settles back against the pillow, lets the coolness of the sheets soothe some of his own aches - sitting in one of those high-backed infirmary chairs for several hours while Kirk had been unconscious hadn't done his back any favors. Kirk shifts, mutters something unintelligible, and finally settles - uninjured cheek pressed against Spock's chest - hopefully for the duration, safely ensconced in the arms of someone who knows him, maybe better than he even knows himself.

Reviews would be awesome, and encouraging.