Eight Days

Part IV:


They are showering. He soaps the tenderest parts of her.

“Ooh, not so --.”

“You are stimulated.”

She spares him one of her saucy glances. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Perhaps we should --”

“Shhhh,” she counters. The connection is weaker on her side. She can’t know his exact words, but can read the intentions. “There are other things we can try.”

Another quirk of the eyebrow. “Indeed?”

She sinks down until she is kneeling. The dominant color of his secret is in fact a pale jade. The architecture is much as she’d expected. But far from dulling her ardor, the differences excite her.

He peers down at her through the steam. “I fail to see--”

Then she puts her tongue on him. A lingering trail from base to tip. He’s still erect. He has been more or less so ever since they began. She has been wanting to try this almost as long.

“Ohh. I . . . see. “

Uhura laughs, which , under the circumstances, forces her to take a break. She stands back up, hugging him, trying not to giggle.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s fine”, she schools her features, trying to look serious. “It’s just not . . . customary to speak, at certain times.”

Hair plastered wetly to his head, he is nonetheless quite earnest. “Tu sanosh bek-tor.”

She slides back down and homes back in, engulfing him deeply this time. She’s slow and tentative at first, but with the depth of their connection, it’ s easy to tell what he likes. He swells, filling her, forcing her to back off. But she is experienced enough that it’s easy to find alternate ways to attack. There are sounds, and swirls, little nips of the teeth, flutterings of the tongue . . . .

“T'hy'la -- yontau na'du . . . bolaya lo'uk . . . . “

This is code -- a polite warning on his part. But she doesn’t care to be warned. She is going to take everything he has.

And afterwards, she’ll teach him something else he might like.


If his office was untidy, his quarters are chaos.

Not least chaotic is Spock himself, dressed in a wrinkled black T-shirt and soft pants. The PADD is in his hands now, but he’s gazing at it blankly, as if not comprehending the purpose of this device, let alone the message it contains.

“Ponfo mirann!”

With that strangled shout, he hurls the PADD into a corner. It connects with a desk lamp, shattering both and sending the pieces everywhere.

A chill shakes me. What’s more disturbing about this, this violent anger, or the fact that he expressed it?

“Commander, what’s wrong?”

He rounds on me, snarling. “I had applied,” he grinds out, “for permission to visit my homeworld. That permission has been denied.”

I blink, uncomprehendingly. “You can’t reapply?”

“There is no time!” he roars. He spins and his fist goes _into_ the wall.

I’m completely stunned. It’s all I can do to just stand there, quivering.

Still facing the wall, Spock massages the knuckles of his striking hand. His breathing is ragged. There is a line of sweat down the back of his shirt, along his spine. But the pain seems to have brought him around a bit. His voice is calmer when he speaks.

“You must leave now.”

He scares me. But his scent is so strong in this room. What I really want to do is just throw myself at his back and hold him.

He is trembling, refusing to look at me.

“You are not safe here! Go! ”


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