Disclaimer: The usual. Paramount owns these folks; they just let me
play with them.
Summary: Spock participates in a sensual tribute.
Feedback: Yes, please. I really appreciate it
Note: Thanks to Janet for the beta. All errors and blam are mine,
He walked slowly from his official office to his unofficial one--the
private study on the second floor. The one that was never entered by
staff and only entered by housekeeper upon request. The one that was
decorated to Terran tastes rather than Vulcan. The one that had the
soft, sinkable, suede couch that could hold two comfortably (in
horizontal fashion), the recliner which vibrated and massaged with a
switch of a lever, the richly polished cherry desk, the ancient books
of history, science, and eclectic fiction. The one with the blues,
jazz, and gospel music recordings. The one with the private bar; a
bar with even greater variety than the fiction. The one that still
smelled faintly of vanilla, ginger, nutmeg, and floral candles. The
one that the occasional Vulcan guest could never comprehend nor never
find the logic of such a sensual mix of textures, colors, and smells.
The one room in his expansive home that was completely and wholly his
He hadn't been in this room of his house much of late. He told
himself that it was because his work had kept him traveling, more
than he wanted certainly, more than was wise given his notoriety, but
less than the work actually demanded. The one whom the room
reflected, however, would tell him he had not been in the room much
simply because he was not ready to be.
But he knew when he woke in his own bed this morning that he would
end the day here. Knew it as he knew--he started to think 'his own
name' but stopped mid thought to change to 'knew it as he knew the
back of his hand.' Because the 'his' wasn't him. No, he knew he would
end his day here in this room. Knew it as surely as he knew the back
of HIS hands.
He entered the study and quietly closed the door behind him. He
called for medium lumen and proceeded to the bar. As he reached for
the most expensive bourbon in the cabinet, he thought of those hands.
Hands that he first encountered as they healed him. Supple and
square, smelling of soap and antiseptic. Fingers that were long and
nimble. Nails that were smooth and white. A ring he was sure
symbolized something other than mere ornamentation, but which he
would not hear the story of for some time. Hands that were
paradoxically soft and strong, attached to arms that were stronger,
shoulders that were broad and stronger still, and a spirit that was
strongest of all.
He had learned those hands well. Watched them as they traveled his
body intimately. Watched them as they tried to discover if he
had 'tickle spots.' Watched as they had comforted and soothed him.
Watched as they had caressed and aroused him. Watched them until his
vision was blocked, usually by the interference of thin, reddish lips
descending upon his mouth or dusky blue eyes demanding a return of
his gaze. Or, equally likely, until the arousal reached the point of
overriding his optic nerves. He had never admitted it to anyone, and
he never would, but he had learned that the phrase "seeing stars" was
not merely a metaphor nor an exaggeration. No one had done to him
what those hands had done. And while he might again permit himself to
feel another's hands on his body, although he had, to this point, not
felt the need or desire to do so, he was fairly certain that no hands
would ever touch him quite the same way again.
He took the bottle and a glass over to the couch. He poured himself a
shot, and then decided to make it a double, before reclining back
into the cushions. He remembered the first time he tasted this
particular liquor. He had tried scotch before at Mr. Scott's
insistence. He'd shared a beer with Capt. Pike and Dr. Piper. He'd
tried brandy with Jim. He'd been offered bourbon, many times, before
trying it. Bourbon and mint juleps, but the sweetness of the mint
julep kept him from partaking in the straight bourbon for some time.
They had been arguing (he heard Jim's voice ask "Again or just
still?"). Instead of their usual point-counterpoint, however, he was
trying out his father's suggestion of "do not let him get a word in
edgewise." He wondered if that would not be considered rude by human
standards, but the looks he was getting in return were rather
entertaining. Then again, he had not counted on the novel method by
which his treatise was ended. It is most difficult to talk when
another covers one's mouth. And it is difficult to not taste bourbon
when that is what the other mouth has been consuming.
He took a sip of the beverage in his glass. He had learned to
appreciate the glow of the liquid--reddish amber depending on the
angle of the light and quality of the glass. He had learned to
anticipate the flow of warmth down the back of his throat. But as
good as this brand was, it would never compare to the taste of
bourbon captured by his tongue from the tongue and recesses of
Leonard's mouth. The taste that would start strong, spicy, and sharp
and then diminish as their tongues dueled to where all he could taste
was that uniquely satisfying and intoxicating flavor his brain
He could remember Leonard. He doubted he could forget even if he
wanted to, and he decidedly did not want to. He could still see
Leonard, both in holos and in his mind. He could still hear Leonard's
voice--efficient officer reporting tone; scientist tone, friend and
confidant tone; southern gentleman tone; pissed off CMO tone;
seducer, husband, lover tone. The words "you green-blooded, pointy-
eared" coming in all but the first tone. But he found that it was
harder and harder for him to still smell and taste Leonard. He had to
resort to smells and tastes that reminded him of his mate. That was
the primary reason this room has been left as it was; the primary
reason he was the only one to enter it.
He commanded the computer to play one of the blues selections and
ordered the lights lowered. He had slept sated on this couch many an
afternoon and evening. Sleeping here would suit him tonight. He
lifted his glass in a solitary toast: "Happy Birthday, Beloved. I