Lessons in Love

Lessons in Love

Disclaimer: The usual. Paramount owns these folks; they just let me
play with them.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Spock reflects on coping with loss, fear, need, and love.
Special thanks: Inspired by MfU author Kate D. I could never match
her style, but I freely admit to trying to imitate it. Good writing
works. If this works, it's because of her influence. If it doesn't,
it's my own fault.
Special Tributes (re: inside jokes) to Janet and Birgit.
Feedback: Yes, please. I really appreciate it.

I await him in his cabin. A concession to the need I felt and knew
he would. That was one of the fundamental lessons he taught me: need
is neither logical nor illogical, it merely is.

Permitting myself to have the need met took longer to learn. For him
as well. For all that he gives, he never takes freely except with
me. That I come to him tonight without invitation, without mutual
agreement, serves as testament that I need to give and need him to
take. This, too, I learned from him.

Meditation is illusive, so I give up trying and go to bed. I no
longer think of it as his bed, though I still think of it as his
cabin. Perhaps this is to ensure that I do not misspeak in front of
those that do not know. But the bed is ours, just as the one in my
cabin is ours now.

I did not increase the temperature in the cabin, but I compensate
with the flannel pajamas he keeps here for me. He bought them as a
joke two quarters ago. Blue flannel with yellow ducks on them. My
Spockam jammies, he called them. They amused him. Vulcan is not
known for its waterfowl. Nor does he easily imagine me as a young
boy. That I liked their feel, especially after several recyclings,
and continue to wear them only amuses him more. That is another
reason I like them.

I am in a light sleep, dozing he says, when I hear the door open. He
knows I am here; I have told him by the simple expedient of leaving
his chair slightly turned away from the desk. He is not the neatest
of individuals, but unless he has been called away in an emergency he
always puts the chair in place. A lesson he learned from his father,
he tells me. Sometimes we compare paternal lessons; mostly we do not
speak of either. As he does not remember much about his mother, I
only speak of mine when he inquires. I hear him push the chair into
place and proceed to the bathroom.

He returns and climbs in behind me. That he pulls himself close
around me is not due to the size of the bed. He is, in his own
words, a snuggler. That he fits me as well as any of Mr. Scott's
engines fit this ship is no longer unanticipated. He taught me that
I am a snuggler, too. This he accepts with pleasure, not amusement.
Legs curled behind my bent knees, chest to my back, head tonight
dipped to my shoulder. His wrist rests at my lower side, over my
heart. I know this trick of his. He is counting my pulse, just as I
count his through the feel of my back against his chest. He verifies
my life. Illogically I do the same even though I know he lives by
the mere fact that he is here. That will be the meaning behind this
night--that we both survived the ambush on Syredronning A. For him
it will also be his own personal battle against death. Death beat
him today; worse still, death beat him in his own domain. He lost
two crew and one civilian despite his surgical skill.

As a doctor, as a surgeon, he knows he will lose patients. But he
fights death, cheats it almost as much as the Captain does, and
snatches people back from Death's grip more than any other I have
seen. Death had best not try to take Leonard McCoy on a day in which
he has lost patients.

He is naked. He does not always sleep this way; in fact, he usually
only sleeps this way in the increased heat of my cabin. But he
craves closeness tonight, as I knew he would. His erection rubs
knowingly against the fabric, pressing slightly in between the
mounds. Solid. Almost arrogant. This, as so much about him, was

Emotional. I knew. We all knew. But I now realize that most of his
emotions are directed *for* others rather than himself.

Giving. This we all have come to expect, sometimes to abuse. He
wants to give to me; he needs me to accept him as much--sometimes
more--than I desire his acceptance of me.

Sensual, seductive, intoxicating. Far fewer knew this about him.
Now only I know. And I do not tell.

Lean limbs, trim frame in uniform. Out of uniform, though, he is firm
legs and arms, slightly furred chest with tawny responsive nipples,
and the most beautifully sculpted genitalia I have seen, especially
on a human. A thick and long shaft, with perfectly symmetrical
testicles. He teases me, though, with his pleasing rear. As much as
I enjoy encasing myself in it, he knows I also enjoy just looking at
it and holding it. Illogical to think it was made for me, but the
evidence is suggestive.

I have had to chastise him for purposively leaning over the railing
on the bridge to speak with Jim. I have not told him that I once
caught Uhura appraising him.

I push back slightly acknowledging that his invitation has been
received and is accepted. Even if I were not significantly stronger
than he, he would never assume, would never demand. He always
offers. He always asks. I have never refused.

He nibbles at my neck, attempting to distract me as he begins to
unfasten the pajama top. He licks my ear, knowing it is an erogenous
zone for me. Yet I know my ears serve as an erogenous zone for him
as well. He whispers, "I'm glad you're here tonight. I hoped you
would be." I see no purpose in pointing out that if I had not been
here, he would have come to me.

When I saw the explosion force him from his feet and toss him as if
he were some scrap waste over the boulders and into the ravine, I
felt a bolt of cold panic. Jim found his voice first and called to

"Yeah," came the drawl. "Only thing hurt is my pride, but I'm gonna
need a new tricorder." He rose slightly and peered over the boulder,
scowling. My adrenaline of panic turned to arousal at his safety and
I felt my blood rush to my groin. Even from the distance that
separated us, he looked at the ragged tear running across my
shirt. "You okay, Spock?"

"Just flying debris, Doctor. Nothing in need of your attention."

"Yet." And with that one word I knew his fear for me.

His hand finally opens my top completely, and he runs his fingertips
down the path of dark hair from sternum to navel, stopping at the
waistband of the bottoms. Down and up. And again. He is patient
tonight, more so that I expected him to be. More so than I want him
to be.

I place my hand over his and guide him back to my breast. He places
his middle finger directly on the nipple and rubs it until it is
unbearably hard. My other nipple is treated to the same manipulation
immediately. He rakes his nails across my chest and pulls my top
from my shoulder with his teeth.

With my shoulder now revealed, he kisses and sucks. There will be a
dark green mark on my shoulder tomorrow. But there will be no
visible marks on my neck. He kisses my neck in affection, in
comfort, whispering endearments in between. He sucks on my shoulder
in lust. My shoulders were not erogenous zones, at least not until

I rise slightly to remove the top completely, and he slips one arm
under me. When I return to my side, both of his hands caress my
chest and pull me closer still to him. One works its way to the
pajama bottoms and begins to fondle my growing arousal. I move into
his hand, no longer chagrined by the desire he fires in me. I have
come to see the logic in openly communicating what I wish him to do.

He fumbles with the drawstring. A complication he did not anticipate
when he bought them; I know from the simple fact that he has broken
three drawstrings trying to undo them in haste. This amuses me.

"You gonna help me out here, or you gonna pretend we need this kind
of birth control and force me to work over them?"

"It is a simple knot, Leonard; as a surgeon you should be familiar
with knots."

"I get it. This is punishment for that 'Little Green Vulcan' crack I
made the other night isn't it?" He teases.

It is. And it is not. After all, I surprised him by countering and
referring to his ass as my 'sweet Georgia peach.'

Laughing in bed is another of the lessons he has taught me. If not
the most valuable, surely the most notable.

I untie the drawstring and he begins to push the bottoms down my
hips. I sense his patience is waning and I know if I do not remove
the bottoms now that they will end up inelegantly wrapped around my
ankles hindering my movement. I have taught him that there is no
room for pride in bed, but that does not mean I have to subject
myself to the indignity of being trapped in my own sleepwear.

My body bared, my soul close to the surface, he begins his loving
assault. One hand caressing my shaft and circling the ridges. The
other hand begins exploration of my cheeks and the crevice between
them. He begins his verbal litany.

He brings all of his human senses to his coupling. But he touches
with his voice, tastes with his eyes, sees with his lips. He hears
with his entire body. Yet for all his passion and sexual aptitude he
still relies on his human voice to make sure I know:

"I want you so much."

"You feel so good, Spock."

"Oh, so hard, Beautiful.

"You make me feel so good."

"Lover . . .sexy . . .my heart."

His words are interspersed with moans, both his and mine, and gasps
and pants, mostly mine, as his hands continue to ignite my fervor. I
climax into his hand, but I want more. I roll over to face him
forcing him to remove his hands momentarily. I seek his mouth. He
kisses me slowly, tenderly, waiting for my shudders to subside more--
so we can build back up to more. He is exceedingly fond of kissing;
fortunate as he is exceedingly good at kissing. That was the first
lesson I learned.

I reach for the meld points. I skim over his face. Fluttering the
curtains, he says, before I open the window. Shortly there will be
no more spoken words. But he pulls away before I can reestablish my

"Thank you for being here."

His gratitude is genuine and humbling. "There is no where else I
would wish to be, T'hy'la." I relish the opening of the bond feeling
strangely warm and cool at the same time. I hear him sigh in my
mind. He has learned to find his way, to lead or follow or simply
be, as he wishes.

I show him what I want, and he moves to reach for the tube in the
drawer. It isn't necessary, but he insists. I roll to my stomach
and push myself to my hands and knees ensuring that I will get all he
is capable of giving. Our physical coupling tells, and I am prepared
and he is in me quickly.

His arms are around me at my waist. His head rests on my shoulder
and he begins to move. Slowly at first, but I know that tonight he
will not linger, will not tease. Pleasure will not be measured out
slowly. He needs to conquer the tragedies of the day. I need to
feel his vibrancy. I demand all of him tonight.

I move with him increasing the pace and the power. He rises from my
back to grip my hips. I will never completely lose control with
him. It would be too dangerous. But I give more and more of myself
and take more and more from him each time we are together.

He prefers to see my face and I prefer to see his, but tonight is
about facing demons flaunting our bond and our passion. Claiming
each other so no one or no thing can claim us. It is sex--raw and
compelling. It is exorcism. It is healing.

I ram myself back on him repeatedly and he thrusts harder, faster,
and still deeper. The room is heavy with sweat and a heady mix of
Human and Vulcan pheromones. The bunk complains beneath us.

I feel his mood change. He no longer seeks our pleasure, just his
own. His need has finally, shamelessly overtaken him. His rhythm is
erratic. His grip on my hips clutching, digging. I lower my upper
body bracing my head on crossed arms. My only movement now the
clenching of internal muscles to add to his pleasure and thus to add
to mine. And this does please me as much as when I am actively
leading this dance.

He is so close he can barely get enough oxygen in his lungs. He is
so deep in our link that I surround him, protect him. I feel him
reach the pinnacle and we fall together. His body spasms and fills
me and the sheer force of it lifts me back upright into his arms. I
shudder and surrender to the physical and mental overload as he holds
me with his lover's gentleness and a warrior's strength.

His face is buried in my neck as he still struggles to breathe. His
breath is hot, heavy, and moist. I feel his tears on my skin. His
heart aches. It aches for me. It aches because of me. I no longer
wonder at or concern myself with this. It is a good ache. He has
taught me this, too.

He slips from my body, but holds me still. We snuggle awkwardly my
back to his chest on our knees in the center of the bed. His hands
soothing, calming, never still.





//Wear your jammies for me?//

//Not in the shower.//

//Why not? Ducks swim.//

He extends two fingers in front of me. He has learned this gesture
shows deep affection. He has learned it signifies our bond. But he
has also learned to use it to offer apology, and is the case now, to
playfully challenge. I place my fingers with his.

We still verbally spar. We still argue. It is expected by others
and is a part of who we are. But it is only a part. We have learned
to complete each other through other means.