Eight Days

Part VI:

The door to Spock’s quarters hisses open.

He is on the bed, shirtless now, the blankets bunched in his fists. The weak light from a single bedside lamp deepens the shadows around his eyes, giving them a bruised, hunted look.

His voice is laced with anger. “You should not have come.”

Wordlessly, I set the bag down at my feet and begin unpacking. McCoy gave me a multi-cartridge hypospray because it’s easier to handle than individual injectors. There are two vials of liquid; one is clear, the other a pale yellow.

“What is that?”

I snap the vials into their slots in the handgrip. “The first one is a hormonal blocker. It will close up some of your neural receptors and give you some room to think. The second one is a mix -- part muscle relaxant, part sedative.”

I leave the gun on the floor and back up to stand near the exit. He’ll have to administer the shots himself because it’s not safe for me to stand within arm’s reach. Hell, it’s not even safe for me to be in the room, but I try not to think about that.

He stays on the bed, watching me.

“I need you to get up and take that medication.”

“It will not . . . help me.”

“Not by itself, no.”

Surprise washes across his face. There is no filter on his emotions anymore.

“Spock. It’s time to stop pretending.”

He remains on the bed: obstinate, like a schoolboy.

I ramp it up a notch. My Vulcan is accented, but it was good enough to translate those medical records and parse all those layers of hidden meaning. It will be more than adequate for this.

“Spock, it is your Time. I know what will happen if you stay here alone.”

“Then you also know that regulations strictly forbid -”

“Regulations be damned!“ I look directly into his eyes. “Your fire is in me. Would you have this body die as well?”

Again, I seem to have shocked him. “Your flesh . . . also burns? Your mind?”

“Yes.”

Before the word is all the way out of my mouth, he’s up and rushing towards me. I flinch back. But he’s only gone for the meds. The first shot goes into the side of his neck. There is a little hiss of air and he winces. The second goes into to the center of his torso, below the ribcage.

I let out a sigh. “Maybe you should . . . sit down while it takes effect.”

He complies, sinking into his desk chair with exaggerated slowness.

“May I get you something to drink? Water?”

A nod. His eyes are closed. He seems to be concentrating on his breathing.

I find a cup, wash it in the bathroom sink, and fill it with the coldest water the tap will give me. I’m trembling, both from relief and from my own suppressed need. I take a good long drink before refilling the cup and bringing it back to him.

When I emerge, his eyes are open and his breathing has slowed. I judge it safe enough to hand him the cup, but make sure not to touch him. He drains it in exactly two swallows.

“Could you bring more please? There is a larger container . . . .”

I see the thermos he’s indicated and go back to fill it. The water from the sink is even colder now and once Spock his consumed it, it seems that he’s cooled off as well.

“Thank you.” He’s switched back to English. More control returning? But he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Uhura . . . . ” His arms are braced on the knees of his wrinkled pants. Every muscle is outlined so beautifully in the lamplight that I press my lips together to keep from saying anything. “I deeply regret that this has happened.”

“I don’t.”

His raises his head and blinks several times.

“I’ve admired you for a long time. Your talents. Your mind.” It’s hard for me to get the words out, especially with my delta quad pulsing like a variable star. “Later, my feelings became less appropriate. Sorry, I mean, they_are_ still . . . no, I mean, well, maybe tonight they aren’t, but -”

“If we were to . . . join . . . . ” Once again he seems to have trouble getting the words out. The curse of telepathy? Or just shyness?

I take a step nearer. “Yes?”

“You understand that . . . . Vulcans mate for life? And that this Time . . . .” His eyes are pleading. It’s all I can do not to run at him. But I can’t -- not while there’s anything left to say.

My knees are together, hands clasped in front of me. “I understand.”

There is a long moment of silence between us.

“It is strange. Among my people, the pon farr may be transferred through touch, yet I have --”

“Spock.” I can’t hold a finger to his lips, so I make the gesture using mine. “Please don’t say anything about that now. I have something very important to tell you.”

His expression closes. He is wary.

I allow myself a grin.

“My first name. You need to start using it.”

To see a smile bloom on his face and grow there -- it’s breathtaking. My eyes fill, even before he answers.

“Nyota . . . .”

“S'chn T'gai Spohkh.”

Pronouncing his full name is impossible for most people, but not for me.

He rises to his full height, extending the first two fingers of his right hand in the gesture used only by bondmates. I copy him with my right hand, extending it, but not touching. Not yet.

“I'wak mesukh-yut t'on.” He says in a hoarse whisper. When I repeat the formula, a profound sense of completeness washes over me.

Then, our fingers touch.

His mind pours into me. Thoughts, feelings, and memories all surround me, lifting me onto some higher plane that was formerly not only closed, but undreamt of. I can feel him closely, understand his inner longings, including those carefully hidden ones that began on the very first day he saw me.

I am dimly aware of collapsing and feeling his strong arm support me. Then it’s both arms, then a hand, fumbling under my skirt and finding me naked, open, ready for him. He gets rid of his pants, stumbling, his breath hot and ragged in my ear. But he catches us again and, once standing, lifts me bodily and impales me in one easy stroke.

The double penetration, his mind and now his flesh, is like a nova. I cry out in the raw heat of it.

The sound just urges him on. He thrusts a few times, finds the leverage insufficient, and then turns us around to put my back to the wall. He supports me easily. Gasping, he pounds his aching need into my own.

My hand is around his neck, lips pressed to the side of it. My other hand is clawing at his back as my legs clench furiously, in time with him. I know his scent, his thoughts, his flesh, his fire. All of it serves to ease the twin blaze inside of me. It doesn’t matter that the only place he’s touched me is at the point where our bodies collide. All that matters is that we are conquering the plak tow, beating it back together.

But after a time this vertical striving is not enough. Hands still supporting me, he walks us back to the bed. This is better. Now, with leverage of my own, I can give as good as I get. I can also see his face, there above me, emotions moving openly across his features. I can feel them too, washing into me, churning, mixing sweetly with mine. But his visage is the focus, his eyes, burning triumphantly until he closes them, his crisis imminent.

“Nyota . . . .”

I’m nearly drowned by an orgasmic wave. It’s his, funneled straight into my body and brain. It rocks me, but I rise up and stay abreast of it. More waves flood in, the aftershocks, but I’m ready. I hold him hard against me as he shouts out a few hoarse, exclamations that, heard in this context makes my yoni clench with excitement. How long have I dreamt of making him say things like that?

He feels how I’m gripping him and begins to move inside me me again. But it was his voice that did it, those beautiful velvet tones strained by ardor, and it’s not long before he figures that out. So he speaks to me. He murmurs, whispers, teases, and entreats until I’m drunk with pleasure and happiness. Then he speeds his thrusts, all the while explaining that after these first few rounds, we’ll have to find find a place off campus. A location with more privacy, and room service, perhaps. And and what foresight, that I provided enough medication to last us through these remaining days. He’ll have to reward me for that.

It rockets me over the edge.

I arch my back, feet planted, lifting both of us off the mattress in the extremity of my joy. Coming, with this fire inside me, is so intense it’s almost beyond pleasure. The waves sing through me, and a heartbeat later, though him, so profoundly I hear a stuttering kind of wonder from his thoughts that such heights of feeling can even exist. But he doesn’t try to vocalize. It’s just there in his head, and in mine.

Th’y’la, you feel . . . exquisite.

Just you wait, I think at him. And he smiles.


The End

***


Thanks to the many contributors who help keep Memory Alpha and the Vulcan Language Dictionary running. I couldn’t have done this without you. Thanks also to to Voragh for his oh-so-useful notes on Klingon cursing.


Vulcan Phrases:

Kashkau, Nyota . . . wuhkuh eh teretuhr .
Our minds are joined, Nyota . . . together, and as one.

Ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo'uk do tum t'on
We have differences. May we, together, become greater than the sum of us both.

Tu sanosh bek-tor.
I await your pleasure.

T'hy'la -- yontau na'du . . . Bolaya lo'uk . . . .
Beloved -- I burn for you . . . My need is great . . . .

Ponfo mirann!
Go to hell!

I'wak mesukh-yut t'on.
The present is the crossroads of both.