Holography 3
As a Reminder and a Promise
By
Pat Foley
Chapter 2
Stardate 2253.4 Vulcan
On the morning of the Academy's new term, Sarek woke a few minutes before it was necessary. It was an important day. Today his wife would go back to teaching. Back to her former life in all respects.
He looked down at her with affection…and concern. She had been working too hard. Trying to catch up, and trying too, to leap past the barrier of six months of chattel behavior. And she was succeeding, but it was taking a toll on her. She looked tired, and she was still too thin.
A faint haze of perspiration covered her body and Sarek drew back away from her, to let her cool. She told him often, teasingly, that he was like a furnace. But she still slept curled against him every night, in spite of the warmth of the room and the warmth of his skin. Years ago, he had wanted to air condition the house to human standards, and Amanda had refused, saying she would prefer to acclimate. He had done so anyway, but Amanda refused to use it at all in winter, and kept it on a minimal setting in summer. And acclimate she had – far better than he, in spite of his Vulcan controls.
He drew up a corner of the sheet and ran it across her brow, and down her body, and she sighed, and stretched without waking, a murmur in her throat. And he realized anew she had, even asleep, taking his gesture as a prelude to lovemaking, and became aware himself of the sensual feel of the sheets around him, and shifted, resisting their lure. Today they were cotton velvet, one of his favorites. Not that Amanda had done that deliberately, she alternated them more or less randomly.
It was he who had come to enjoy the feel of the different textures against his skin. But it was Amanda who had innocently introduced him to them….
Stardate 2230.1 Terra
They'd just been married, and he'd been …suffering…that was the only word for it, in the Terran ambient temperature he'd newly imposed on his quarters. To put it bluntly, he had been frozen all day. Outside the Vulcan embassy in Geneva snow had been falling thickly, and the cold damp seemed to permeate even climate controlled buildings. He sometimes wondered why Terrans didn't have gills, having evolved on a world of mostly water, where water in various forms poured down from the sky, not merely during rainy seasons, or expected periods but at almost daily intervals. A most inhospitable world.
He'd been accustomed, upon a day spent in frigid Terran rooms, to the warm haven of his own quarters after business hours. It had been a sharp physical shock, in spite of his setting the environmental controls himself, to return to rooms as cold - or even colder, for some of his contacts tried to accommodate Vulcan needs - than those he had left.
He had only tensed, but Amanda had shivered.
"It's cold in here. Don't you feel it?"
He looked down at her, almost too cold to think. "We have been told that sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit is an optimal temperature for humans."
"Yes, for humans. In business meetings where you're wrapped up in layers of formal clothing. Aren't you cold?" She looked at him closely, and her eyes widened. "You're shivering!"
He drew up, surprised and a little hurt that his own wife would point out a flaw in his physiological control. "I am not."
"Of all the silly …" she crossed to the environmental controls and turned up the heat with a vengeance. He'd been about to protest and then, as the pure bliss of warmth enveloped him, after a day of holding himself against Earth's relentless winter, he'd just relaxed into it.
"I thought Vulcans were beyond macho behavior." She said, coming back to him. "That was singularly stupid, my husband. You don't need to do that again."
He eyed her. "Now you will be too warm."
"Not at all. Humans are infinitely adaptable. I hardly ever use air conditioning in the summer. I hate it. And I don't like being cold any more than you do. Anyway, if I am going to Vulcan, I had better start adapting now, don't you think?"
The warmth of the room was clearing his mind, previously so distracted with dealing with physical discomfort and he was able to consider matters more logically. But he was a little confused by her phrasing. "If?"
"Since. When. It was a hypothetical question."
"There is nothing hypothetical about your going to Vulcan. It is a fact."
She sighed. "Rhetorical, I meant."
"Indeed."
"You should take a hot shower, and go to bed. What good will it do me to marry you, if you die of pneumonia before we even go to Vulcan?"
Finally comfortable, he drew a deep breath and relaxed completely. And looked down at her, amused at the latter. "I am immune to most Terran diseases so that rhetorical question has no bearing. As for the rest…no, to the shower. I still prefer sonics. But, after that…" he reached down and slid a finger down her cheekbone, the lightest of touches. "Yes to bed."
She blushed, a phenomenon he found intriguing, her behavior in regard to this subject equal parts bold and shy. He'd been considerably …apprehensive …about this aspect of their relationship before their marriage. Vulcans did not practice premarital sex. Sarek found the idea of such intimacy outside of a bond impossible. But to take the risky step of bonding without empirical proof of that compatibility had been a leap of faith for both of them.
He had been well pleased with the result. His control had held, and the dreaded specter of harming her not only had not come to pass, but he had …fulfilled her. And himself. He had in fact enjoyed himself, found far more pleasure in mating than he had ever considered possible. The freedom to indulge in that passion, finally and at last, was quite delightful. He almost found it difficult to restrain his passions to attend to his duties. In fact he found the concept of a "honeymoon", a period where one apparently did nothing but engage in such relations, understandable now, whereas before it had seemed one more example of Terran excesses. He had much to learn of her, and he felt the press of time. He could not be sure when his first Pon Far would overtake him. If he followed the pattern of most Vulcan males, it probably was no less than a year away. Hardly time to learn her well enough that he felt safe subjecting her to the fever. He would not see her hurt.
After a sonic shower took away the last vestiges of cold, he watched her finish brushing her hair and then come to bed, clad in one of the light gowns she wore at this time. He granted that it was a pretty gown, but he didn't understand the purpose of wearing a gown to bed, only to have him remove it moments later. And as pleasurable as the events after the removal, and she certainly didn't resist him as he did so, he didn't like the unspoken barrier the gown represented. It was unseemly in a wife.
"Perhaps now that the room is warm enough, you will no longer find the need to wear clothing to bed," he suggested as she settled against him.
She looked up at him in surprise. "Does it displease you?"
Sarek hesitated making an unqualified affirmative. Displease was such a strong word, and not a feeling akin to anything he felt for his wife's doings. "It is merely…not suitable…for a wife to wear garments in a bed chamber."
Amanda considered that, eyes wide. "Never?"
Sarek conceded with a raised brow.
"Really." She was startled at this. "I didn't know. We didn't talk about this."
"No. It would never occur to me, it seems such a …nonsensical act."
"'Please don't eat the daises'," she murmured, looking down at her gown. "I guess daisies come in all forms."
"My wife?"
"Nothing. Just another nonsensical act."
Sarek felt a touch of relief that the subject had been raised. "Is it taboo in your culture, not to do so?"
She looked up at him. "No. Oh, no. In my culture, pretty much anything goes between consenting adults in private quarters. However, such clothing is common. A traditional gift, both from friends and family to a bride upon her marriage and from husband to wife." She shrugged one shoulder lightly. "I plead cultural blindness and confess I didn't even think about it. Human men generally like to see their wives in such clothes."
"Only to remove them moments later?"
"Yes. Though sometimes they are not removed, just…pushed aside."
Sarek couldn't stop an expression of disgust from crossing his face at that image, and Amanda laughed. "You did not say it was a taboo of yours!"
"Not taboo, but I find it incomprehensible to engage in intimate acts wearing clothing." He was beginning to undo the tiny froglike loops down the front of her gown. She thought to tell him it was unnecessary, easier to pull the gown over her head, but the feel of his hands, the quiet intent as he undid each loop with studied Vulcan concentration stole the breath from her lungs. "These gowns were marriage gifts?"
She shrugged. "Most, yes." She rolled her eyes, thinking of the teasing behavior of some of her friends when they realized she was really going through with marriage to a logical Vulcan. And wondered who had the joke on whom looking at his dark head bent over his task, crisp curls freer after his shower when he didn't bother to smooth his hair into accepted Vulcan lines. The sound of his voice that seemed to echo deep inside her, the feel of his strong fingers sliding under each silken loop through the silk of her gown, the burning brand of his bare skin against hers. She had to shake her head to clear it enough to continue her answer. "It is traditional that a bride come with a trousseau of such things. And friends and family provide them – part of the bridal "shower" of gifts. Let us say, I got my share," she smiled, "most of which I haven't unpacked." Given that I only wear a nightgown for about five minutes
"Perhaps, as you will not be needing them," Sarek finished the last loop with an exasperated air of that's done, and looked down at her meaningfully, "you can give them back, to be gifted to another."
"Oh, I couldn't do that." She looked up at him, seeing him blink in astonishment at her refusal. "Only because, if I did, people would conclude from such an action that we had found ourselves unsuited. That there was no intimacy between us."
"They would extrapolate such a conclusion based on -" He was shocked enough to pause in drawing her gown back from her body, "that I do not choose to have you wear clothing to bed? Does human intimacy require it?"
He was clearly astonished at the idea. It was hard for her to remember how she had once thought him inscrutable. Now she could read almost every nuance of his expressions. "No, to the second. But yes to the first. They would think it was because you did not find me desirable."
"It is the clothing I can do well without, my wife. It is a tedious hindrance to desire. And having indicated my displeasure to such, I trust you will no longer wear such obstacles, however easily disposed of." He laid her down. "I wonder how humans can consider them a facilitator of desire, rather than the opposite."
"I won't anymore. As for humans, they find it difficult to think outside the conventions of their own culture. If I gave the gowns back, or away, they'd draw negative conclusions."
"You said it was not taboo," Sarek paused, reminding her, a faint line between his brows.
"It's not, but even humans who don't usually wear such clothes to bed find them appropriate and desirable at certain times."
"And what times are these?"
She sighed. "Romantic times. Honeymoons, wedding anniversaries, Valentine's Day-"
"Valentine's?"
"A day which celebrates romance between lovers."
Sarek looked truly pole-axed now, clearly struggling to understand. "And on days such as these, meant to honor intimate relationships, human males prefer their wives…clothed." He said it slowly, as if somehow that would help clarify the point of view.
She knew she must be going crazy, because she was beginning to share his confusion. "It's illogical, I know."
"Indeed." He shook his head, giving up the subject. "It is not merely humans who find it difficult to think outside their conventions. I find incomprehensible any beings wishing to keep their wives always dressed, even in intimate circumstances." He drew her under him, slid the offending gown from underneath them both, glad this would be the last time he had to deal with such tedium, and tossed the confection of silk and lace across the room. For all his studied lack of expression, his manner said as plain as day that he was glad he didn't have to bother with that again. She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling outright at his profound relief. "It is not a sentiment I share," he continued. He ran a hand up her inner thigh, enjoying the feel of a silk that was infinitely preferable, that of her delicate skin.
She drew a sharp breath at the feel of that hand, and didn't think twice about a future life sans all nightgowns. "You are wicked, my husband."
He had already learned that word, in this context, meant his wife was delighted and pleased with his ardor. "Very wicked, my wife. Let me show you how much."
To be continued…