He has his ceremonial customs, and she has hers. In silence, she lays out her requirements by candle light, kneeling. The prickle of the utilitarian floor-covering is a pleasurable irritant on her bare joints. First, she spreads out a buff-coloured roll of canvas. It is old-fashioned but necessary, and the edges are rough on her palms. Then, a fleecy cloth of dark red Kenyan cotton is stroked over the back of her hand, and she folds it with precision onto the buff fabric.
A bottle of fragrant, lubricating oil slips heavy between her fingers, slick with its heady contents. It is wiped down with a damp rag and lined up alongside a crystal-stoppered bottle of rubbing alcohol, and an engraved brass tub of polish. Battered and abraded, its Vulcan label is foxed and peeling. Finally, she places down with reverence a soft bristle brush, its wood worn to satin by the oils from countless hands. Some were gentle and kind, others gripped almost hard enough to splinter, and wear to a micron the scrolls of silver filigree burned into the back for decoration.
This is not the normal treatment of Starfleet boots, Starships have automatic boot sanitizers, and most wearers take advantage of them, but that is not the Vulcan way. The antique accoutrements accompanying a Vulcan male and his boots ensure their continuation. The Vulcan race will only use hide from an animal that died a natural death, ensuring leather goods are honoured among possessions.
At last, the rite proper begins as she lifts the boots up in one hand by their legs, clutching together the inner edges, and places them dead-centre on the canvas with the heels toward her. They are heavier than they appear. A practice is indulged that serves to reinforce his strength, his height, his masculinity. Tipping the left boot on its side, she re-seats herself, knees bent but apart, and aligns the sole of her bare, right foot to the boot's sole; her toes end just as the ball of his foot begins.
In turn, each boot is lifted onto her uncovered thigh and she inserts her hand and forearm within it, as usual finding this act startlingly intimate. The fine-grained lining is smooth beside her skin, the heft a pleasant weight on her wrist. It takes some moments for her to examine each boot for damage, turning it on her hand and running her fingers over the close-stitched seams, from vamp to welt. She hooks a finger through the pull-tab at the back, giving it a slow, hard tug. Well affixed to its anchor point, it groans.
Assured there is no defect, she raises one boot to her face, caressing it with her cheek, rubbing her nose on it and inhaling the unique smell of hide, space-dust and the potent whiff of Vulcan leather-oil; spiced, masculine and intoxicating. Vulcans do not sweat, she suspects a human man's footwear would not be so alluring.
On completing the boot-inspection, she uses the ancient brush to take off the light dirt, followed by a caress using the fleecy square. The deep colour is a velvet rose against the black.
Red nails press hard into black-covered steel thighs, a red uniform dress pools against a leather-armoured shin, a scrap of tattered red silk flutters; a tiny flag upon the mirror-shine of a boot's toe.
With a slow sigh, the bottle of oil is uncapped, and she pours a generous amount into the hollow of her hand before rubbing her palms together in a blessing before anointment. Working one boot, she massages oil from ankle to toe and back, feeling the undulating ridges where his toes and ankle flex within, causing the leather to buckle and mould to him, until he and the boot are one. The leather is soft; it has been manipulated, stretched, bent to his will. It is submissive to his dominant foot, and yields to her hand.
She begins her ministrations on the slippery surface with strong sweeps, but ends by using only her index and middle finger in firm, tight circles over the leather, then turns her attention to the boot's twin. At the ritual's end, she rises to wash her hands and brews strong, heavily spiced tea, allowing the oil time to penetrate in the stifling heat of the room.
The final act of the rite is to open the tin of polish, its contents so light-absorbing and sooty, the container appears bottomless. She presses the rag to the opening of the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and upends it a few times to soak the surface, then wraps the fabric taut and damp around two fingers. The fingers trail through the unctuous, warm, paraffin-wax texture of the polish.
Two hot fingers move through warm moisture, tracing an outline, and goose-flesh leaps up on dark pearlescent skin. Two long pale fingers greet hers, small and contrasting, in Vulcan devotion.
With more firm, tight circles she covers the leather, foot and leg, with the thinnest film of polish, attending to one boot while the other dries. In this fashion, the boots are slaked three times, the rubbing alcohol helping to achieve the gleam of newly-mined jet. Fifty minutes have passed, the ritual ends and all is put away, except for the boots, standing to military attention on the canvas square. Lined up beside them is the soft, silver-veined brush. They are servants, awaiting the return of their master, who will administer the final shining with swift, stiff strokes.