She lay tangled in his sheets, breathing gently, insensible of him and all the vast universe that encompassed them. She was asleep.
He would wake like this sometimes and watch her as she slept. Logic told him that if he was no longer in need of sleep, he should rise and begin his day. That he should not waste his hours in idleness, but logic did not love her. Logic had no answer for the tender demands of his heart. His heart told him that he was where he should be, doing the thing he should be doing.
He was not accustomed to heeding the needs of his heart. It was a novel thing to hear this subtle voice and obey its gentle directions. Perhaps when he was a child, his logic still uncertain, his human self still noisy within him, perhaps then he had listened, he could not remember. He remembered doing the nonsensical things his mother had taught him. Things which held no practical value, but that he valued still. Human things, emotional things, illogical things; fairy stories, funny stories, nursery rhymes and make believe. She had cuddled him and he had wanted her to, seeking her embrace, but it was so long ago and he couldn't remember why he had wanted her to. He had been a child still when he put aside the human, forsaking the manifestations of his mother's love for the stern discipline of his father's.
Ironic then that it was his father's path that had led him here, to serve on this ship, with this woman. To this bed and these thoughts. To where her hair, as dark as his own, spilled across his pillows. When she woke and left his bed to resume her duties, her scent would linger. Intangible evidence of her presence so he would know this was real and not dreaming. Left alone to himself he would bury his head where she had lain hers, holding the pillow as he wished he could still hold her. Foolish whimsy he indulged but the secret of which he did not share, even with her. He was young yet and allowed himself this, where no one could see, where only he and his logic would know of it. But the discipline of logic was relentless and ruthless in its pursuit of him and there was coming a day when even alone it would not allow him this. When even friendship shamed him, though he would feel it as he felt this. And denied this he would welcome friendship, learn from it, be taught by it. His mother would come to know of his friendship and be glad for the human in her son, and for the Vulcan also.
But for now he had this, the quiet time when he was without her company but not alone. When his ears filled with the sound of her gentle breathing. When his room was unlit but not in darkness. When he only had to reach out to touch her. And when the fear that stayed his hand was of waking her and not of sharing himself.
His breathing fell into the rhythm of hers and his eyes traced the outline of her features. He wanted to fix the detail of her in his mind, hold it there lovely and immutable. To make a treasure of it that he could carry with him always. He did not know why but something deep within him insisted that he could not keep her. That she would one day be gone from him. It was not a rational thing this fear, as his love was not a rational thing. For he did love her. His love was real; this fear was real. As his logic was real. And because it was real it could not be dismissed. He wrapped his arms about him, hugging himself because she was unable. Comforting himself against the day when she would be gone.
How would he be then? He could be lonely now; though she was here. When his crewmates laughed and he could not, when they joked and he could not, when they smiled at each other in passing and he could not. He was always apart, separate from them, human and non-human alike. He was accepted, but not the same. Equal but different.
They interacted in ways that excluded him. Not purposely, but naturally; naturally for them, but not for him. They shook each other's hands, lent on each other's shoulders, clapped each other on the back, ruffled each other's hair in friendship and in jest, unflinching at the accidental brush of hands.
But he flinched, when he had first been assigned it had been obvious, the subject of their humour and of their concern. He had not known how to defend himself against either and had retreated further into himself. The Captain had seen and had helped, assuaging his doubt, giving him space, investing him with responsibility, allowing him to find his place on the ship. He flinched still, though he had learned to hide it, his stomach twisting into a tight knot, his skin burning at the contact, his mind disarrayed.
But not with her, it was not the same with her. Her touch was something he welcomed, revelling in the sensation. His skin did not burn, his mind remained his own, he gave his body to her and she cherished it.
It did not hurt him to be with her, but he knew it would hurt him to be without her. That he would lose something of himself that could never be regained. He did not know what man he would become when this precious thing was taken from him, but he knew what man he was now. He was hers. He was, and wanted to be, whatever she needed of him. He belonged to her, was loved by her, was held by her. She was his harbour against the storm. His refuge from himself. Better because she loved him. Happy because she loved him. Secure because she loved him. For she did love him.
His gaze was filled with her, as his heart was filled with her. She sighed and stirred, her blue eyes opening to look at him, finding his gaze. They were deep and inviting, made soft by her love. He tumbled into them, losing himself in them. Letting her love illuminate and comfort the hidden unnurtured places within him. She smiled and reached out with slender fingers to touch his face, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. ''Good morning my love'' she said.
''Good morning my love'' he replied.
END