Author:  Shoshana

Summary:  McCoy returns to Spock’s cabin after their conversation/

    argument (Part I) following their sexual encounter on Sapeidon. 

    Spock POV.  3300 words.

Rating:  R, more for what is discussed than what is depicted.

    References to masturbation and m/m sexual acts.  Mild profanity.

Disclaimer:  I do not own Star Trek.  Not a molecule, atom,

    quark or vibrating string of it.

After you leave, I am unable to sleep, because it is as if you have

never left the room.  Surely your scent cannot linger over that of

incense?  Your voice rings in my head, your face looms in my mind’s

eye.  I am haunted by memories of Sarpeidon:  the taste of your skin,

the touch of your hands, the feel of your naked body next to mine.   

I have had previous sexual partners; male and female, Vulcan and

human.  Always before, it was a simple matter of physical release,

tinged sometimes, perhaps, with affection.  Never was it this

irrational preoccupation with another being.

Especially such an illogical being as you.

Masturbation relieves the body’s desires, but does not ease the

longings of the heart.

Why can I not put you out of my mind? 

I remember your obstreperous demand that I abandon you in

Sarpeidon’s frozen waste, so that I might save myself and Jim.   

I remember, too, you saying it would have gladdened you to see me

happy with someone else; divulging that you would have rather died,

than live to see me go to Gol; declining to entrap me into a bonded

relationship, despite wanting me.

I remember a hundred small moments of humor, gentleness and wit,

of friendship, insight and concern.   I recall, too, your temper and

obstinance, your sarcasm and emotionalism, your impulsiveness

and irritability.

And I remember the smile on your face after we kissed in the ancient

cave of an arctic wilderness, your face lit with wonder and desire

and love.  

I allow myself a moment of regret, that I will never see that smile

again.  I tell myself it happened five thousand years ago, that the

smile was for a different Spock, one lost in the far reaches of time

and who was able to love you in return. 

I wish I could go to Gol, tomorrow.  I wish I would enter pon farr,

tomorrow, with no possibility of returning to Vulcan, so that I might

claim you as partner.  I wish we had never set foot on Sarpeidon.  I

wish we had been stranded there, together, in the frozen past.

Am I suffering from a vestige of the behavioral regression I exhibited

on Sarpeidon?  For I remain lost.  I no longer know who I am.

I regret, now, having rebuffed you:  I wish you had guessed my

secret.  I wish I could have professed my love for you.  But I will

never bring myself to your door to tell you the truth.  You would

accept, if offered, my bed and my heart; possibly, even, given time,

my hand as bondmate.  But I rejected your offer of love, and

I am unable to take the first step back to you.

Finally, unable to sleep, I resume the meditations you interrupted.

There, in the filling of the self through the emptying of the self, I

find a measure of peace.

                           *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Six point six eight hours after your initial visit, you have returned

to my quarters, this time unexpected as well as uninvited.   You

normally would be sleeping at this hour.  What could you have to say

that is so urgent?  Reluctantly, I order the computer to open the

door. 

Your nose wrinkling, your hand fans the air as you enter the room.  

“Don’t you ever put out that blasted incense?  The particulate matter

will scar up your lungs.”

You appear to have come here hurriedly.  You wear the standard

issue black tee shirt rather than your uniform shirt, and your hair

is disheveled.  I remember your hair on Sarpeidon, windblown in the

blizzard, and thick under my hands, in the cave.

I dismiss the irrational thought.  Making no effort to extinguish the

incense, I stand blocking your access to the chair.

“Do you, Doctor, ever announce a visit beforehand?  This is the

second time tonight you have interrupted my meditations.  I have

nothing further to say regarding the matters we discussed earlier.”

“If I waited for an invitation,” you say equably, “I might be waiting

five thousand years. I promise I’ll be brief, and I swear I won’t argue

with you.”

“Either behavior would be anomalous.” 

“I’m not here to try to talk you into—or out of—anything,” you reply.

“But there is something I need to say.  Ask, actually.  I woke up a

while ago, and something popped into my head, about what you had

said earlier.  You told me you didn’t return my feelings, not in the

way I’d want.  You implied that what you feel for me is a

combination of friendship and physical attraction.”    

“That is correct.”  My voice is controlled, but I am aware of a slight

acceleration of my respiration and heart rate.  Have you guessed my

secret?

“But you never said outright, ‘I do not love you.’” 

My face, I know, does not reveal the turmoil churning within me.  I

doubt that any human—not my mother, or the Captain, or you with

your medical training—could perceive my agitation.

“I want you to look me in the face, Spock, and say those words.  Do

that, and I’ll leave, and I won’t bother you again about . . . what

happened.  Just don’t hand me some line about loving me as a

friend, like you said about Jim.  I’m honored if it’s true, but I’m not

in the mood just now to hear it.  I want you to look me in the face,

and say, ‘Dr. McCoy, I do not have romantic feelings for you.  I am

not in love with you.’  Ought to be easy enough—”

I cannot say it.  I cannot even look at you:  before you have finished

speaking, I have walked away.  Hands clasped behind my back, my

head bowed, I gaze once more at the verdigris firepot creature

sitting on the bulkhead.  Plumes of fragrant smoke, sweet and

pungent, rise in the air from its shadowed heart, where the pinpoint

ember burns bright and hot.  

“—assuming it’s true,” you finish, almost under your breath.

The long silence which ensues fairly shouts the truth.  I am shamed,

for I wish to say words other than the untruth you have asked to

hear; shamed, too, because I cannot bring myself to speak them.  I

sense your eyes boring into my back.  I feel more naked to you than I

did in the cave.

What will you do, now that you know I love you?  Gloat at my

unVulcanish emotionality?  Make physical advances towards me?   

Attempt to browbeat me into a verbal declaration of what my silence

has already confessed?  Reproach me for having withheld the truth?

The last, I decide, is the most probable.  You said you would not try

to change my mind. 

Very quietly, you say, “You might not believe this, but I’d hoped your

answer would be different.  I can’t have you, either way, I know

that.  Would have been a whole lot easier on both of us, though,

if what you said to start with had been true.”

Still looking at the firepot, I ask, “Why, then, have you asked?”

“I needed the truth.”  Sensing your answer is incomplete, I do not

speak.  For six point three seconds you are silent.  Finally you add,

“Especially about why you want to undergo kolinahr.”  Emptied, now,

of the anger it held hours earlier, your outwardly composed voice is

full of secret tears.  A human might not hear them; from a Vulcan,

trained from birth in emotional control, they cannot be hidden. 

“Ironic, isn’t it, Mr. Spock, that you plan to sacrifice your human side

on the altar of Vulcan perfection—mostly on account of me?”

Your mention of the forbidden topic of kolinahr does not anger me;

the emotion would be illogical, since you were answering my

question truthfully.  Nor can I take affront at your audacity in

assuming you are the primary cause of my intention to go to Gol. 

Presumptuous or not, your conjecture is correct.  

My reaction to your rhetorical question is, nonetheless, thoroughly

emotional.  I am wounded, not by your seemingly mocking words,

but by the quiet anguish with which they are uttered.

I knew, when you came to my door earlier tonight, that I would

hurt you:  I did not know how much.

I wish to undo this pain.  Yours, and my own.  I turn to face you.

Your voice still calm and profoundly sad, you continue, “Right after

that debacle with Rayna, I said love wasn’t written in your book. 

Seems I was wrong.  Turns out you’re unable to stop yourself from

knowing the torments of love, but won’t allow yourself to experience

its joys.  No wonder you want—”  Abruptly, and uncharacteristically,

you break off what you were about to say.

No wonder you want to go to Gol.

“You are mistaken.”

“Don’t tell me—!”  Again, you bite off your words.  “Forgive me,”

you say simply.  “I promised I wouldn’t argue.  Not tonight, not about

this.  And you asked me not to mention kolinahr; I’m sorry.  Thank

you for the truth.”

You turn to the door.

“Do not go.”

Your turn, now, to keep your face averted, your posture sags.  “I’m

liable to say things you don’t want to hear.  Well, more things.  I

should leave.”

“I think you wish to hear what I have to say.  Please stay . . .

Leonard.”

“Leonard?” you breathe.  The last time I addressed you in that

manner was five thousand years ago, in a lonely cave:  “I would

bond with thee, Leonard.”

You turn, your eyes filled with questions.  And hope.   

“Since you . . . have guessed the truth, I have changed my mind

about your proposition.” 

A subtle change in your expression, swiftly checked, flashes across

your face.  No, you do not have the emotional control of a Vulcan,

but for a human you can be very controlled, when you choose to be.

I say, “I am willing to initiate an intimate relationship with you.  With

certain provisos.”

I recognize the intent expression on your face, one of eager curiosity  

carefully reined in.  Crossing your arms, you say, “Shoot.”

“First, that the arrangement be considered tentative.”

“I’m divorced,” you dryly observe.  “I know all about tentative.

Go on.”

“Secondly, that for an indefinite length of time the relationship not

be made public.  Although it may prove difficult to hide from the

Captain.”

You are, I can tell, disappointed with this condition, but you make

no protest.  “It wouldn’t be Jim I’d be worried about.  I’d lay a bet

Uhura will be the first one to figure it out.  The lady has sharp eyes

and ears.  Knows how to hold her tongue, though.”

“Indeed,” I concur.  “Thirdly, you agree not to mention kolinahr.”

This condition you weigh before answering.  “As long as we’re

together, fine.  We break up, don’t count on it.”  You shrug, palms

up in the air.  “Just being honest.”

“That is acceptable,” I say, but I make note of your objection.  

Your opinions, in any case, will be of little concern to me if our

relationship ends.  “I do not anticipate you will have any qualms

about the final stipulation.  I wish the relationship to be exclusive.” 

Only now do you smile, a broad grin which announces the joy you

have been holding in restraint.  “Damn right I don’t have any

objection!”  Still smiling, you say, “And while we’re at the

negotiating table, I have a few requests of my own.  First off, no

mind reading.  Not that I have anything to hide, but I’d rather you

didn’t go rooting around in my head.” 

Ah, but you do have something to hide, Leonard.  You have hidden,

at least from me (from Jim? from the medical staff?) what my

counterpart did to you.   

“Complying with your request would be problematic.  Shielding

becomes increasingly difficult during sexual arousal, and is

impossible during climax.  Nor do Vulcans shield during sleep, or

while entering the sleeping state.”

“Great,” you say.  “Didn’t come across that in my reading.  For a

supposedly rational and enlightened race, Vulcans are remarkably

secretive about sexual matters.  Should’ve figured mind reading

would come with the territory, sleeping with a touch telepath.”

“I shall endeavor to minimize my use of telepathy during our sexual

activity.  And we need not sleep together, in the literal sense.”

You hesitate. “No,” you say decisively, shaking your head.  “Wouldn’t

be fair to you.  Do whatever comes naturally.”   You add with a

smile, “Within reason.  Maybe there’s something else I should know

about the secret sex lives of Vulcans, besides pon farr, and reading

each others’ minds in bed, and all that bonding mumbo jumbo?”

“There are no other aspects of Vulcan sexuality that you should

find disturbing.  Although there are several that you may find . . .

interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow.  “I look forward to learning about them.  And

I am starting to think there could be real advantages to having a sex

partner who can read my mind.”

I recall how fleeting was your hesitation, before you walked so

willingly into my arms, barely two minutes after you had been

struggling in panic in my grasp.  

What have I done, to deserve such trust?

“I hope you find that proves to be the case.  Do you have any further

stipulations of your own, Leonard?”

You blink as if in surprise when I use your given name.  Indeed, the

syllables seem odd on my tongue.  Odd . . . but agreeable.

“Could we please compromise or take turns setting the temperature

in whoever’s cabin we’re in—this place is an oven!  And try to avoid

the incense while I’m around.  I know meditation’s important to you,

though.”

“Incense is not essential to meditation.”  I walk over to the bulkhead

on which the firepot sits.  “In any case, I do not expect to resume my

meditations this evening.”  As I did during your prior visit, I pour

sand over the burning stick.  “Computer, circulate clean air.  Also,

adjust room temperature to twenty-three.”

“Is that an invitation for me to stay?”

“Affirmative.  Remain as long as you wish.”

You stride towards me and we embrace.  “You might regret saying

that.  We both go back on duty in three hours.  What if I want to

hang around a lot longer?”

“Beta shift begins in three point three nine hours, to be precise.  In

the event you describe, I report on time and you do not.  And when

the Captain or the medical staff discovers your location aboard ship,

it will be difficult for you to explain why you are in my quarters

without violating the second of my stipulations.”

“Do you always have to be so damn logical?”  Your murmured words

are somewhat muffled, because you are kissing me.  Illogically,

“damn logical” now sounds like an endearment rather than an insult.

My voice similarly muffled, I say, “The behavior in which I am

currently engaged is not particularly logical.”

“I won’t tell anybody you said that.”

Between kisses, you lightly trace with your right forefinger the

outline of my left ear.  Can you read my mind, or has your medical

training made you aware of the tactile sensitivity of that organ and

its function as an erogenous zone?  You say, “I’ve been waiting

five thousand years to do that.”  I know what you are going to say

before you do so, but I do not point this out, because I find your

lowered voice almost as stimulating as the caress of my ear.  Your

finger wanders to my lips.  You are looking at me in wonder, much

as you did in the cave.  “I thought I’d never get to kiss you again.”

As I was convinced I would never again see the smile which lights

your face this moment.

I say, “In that case, I will not make you wait another five thousand

years.”  I initiate a kiss.

“I’ve been waiting for more than just kisses,” you murmur.  You pull

your head back.  “Oh, shit, I didn’t bring lube.  I had it with me when

I was here earlier.  I didn’t expect you to change your mind.”

“Fellatio will be quite satisfactory.  If we have waited five thousand

years to engage in fucking, as you refer to anal intercourse, we can

wait until after our shift is ended in eleven point three six hours.”

“Maybe,” you reply, a different smile now on your face, “we won’t

wait.”  This smile, too, I had thought never again to see directed at

me:  it is the same lustful grin you flashed during your earlier visit

while referring to the mating habits of humans and Vulcans.  “You’re

a lot more in control of yourself than you were in that cave, and I’m

not half dead on my feet with exhaustion.”

“Only for the present moment.”

“You mean you’re expecting to lose control?  Or that you intend to

tire me out?”

“I was referring to the former, but I do not believe the two are

mutually exclusive.”

“Let’s find out if they are.”

Kissing, we stumble over to the bed.  You loosen my robe and it falls

to the floor.

“At least we don’t have to worry about anyone walking in on us,” you

say as we tumble onto the bed.  “Tonight we can take our time.” 

Our nearly wordless encounter in the cave had been rushed, its

almost frantic character intensified not only by the loss of my

inhibitions and our uncertainly regarding when Zarabeth might

return, but also by your anxiety about returning to the ship and your

acute awareness our encounter might never be repeated.  “This time

I intend to savor you like a fine brandy.”    

I know you mean the statement as a compliment, but I am not sure I

appreciate being compared to a Terran beverage of dubious effects. 

Am I supposed to reciprocate in kind the comment?  It seems unlikely

you would appreciate being compared to t’miirq soup, its saltiness

notwithstanding.  I remain silent.

“One other thing, Spock—go easier on my clothing this time.”  Two

point three two minutes later you say, “I knew this mind reading

thing would have its advantages.”

                          *     *     *     *     *     *     *

It has been fifteen years, seven months and six days, while I was still a cadet at the Academy, since I last shared a bed while sleeping. 

The unfamiliar sensation of a body lying next to me is distracting, yet

pleasant.  You are nestled against my back, your left arm slung over

me.  The warmth of your body wards off the chill of the room.

My mental shields wavering as I drift into sleep, the content of your

dreaming mind bleeds into my drowsy consciousness. 

In your dream, I have been gravely ill, injured in some mishap which

in waking reality never occurred.  The crisis has passed. Clustered

around my recumbent form are the Captain and the entire bridge

crew, as well as yourself and most of the medical staff and (even

more improbably), my parents.  In the irrational manner of dreams,

human or Vulcan, the room is unrealistically spacious and uncrowded.

You announce to those gathered that I will recover.  Expressions of

relief and rejoicing ensue.  Your own elation is muted, however, by

your inability to express the nature of that joy; because you have

kept secret your feelings for me, you are not free to lean down and

kiss me as you wish.  Cannot say, aloud, “I love you.”  

Your body shifts in the crowded bed, waking me, and I hear you

murmur in your sleep my name, “Spock.”  Your left hand is draped

over my ear.  The pressure is uncomfortable on the sensitive area,

and I reach for your hand to move it away.  I stroke your fingers

with my own.

And whisper, for the first time, “I love you, Leonard.”