WARNING: Rated T for non-graphic married nookie.


Let Sleeping Vulcans Lie

"Quantum banana typhoid wingnuts."

Nyota heard her husband's voice quite clearly, but he, uncharacteristically, made no sense.

"Herald pontoon half turn manatee."

She rose from her desk, and peeked tentatively into their bedroom.

"Twelve, onion bark two deep kale."

It was a rare afternoon off for the both of them, and, strangely for him, Spock had felt in need of a nap, but she did not.

She would have joined him anyway, and he had indeed asked her to, but there was a brand new transmission from Gaila she wanted to listen to.

The Sundiata's scouting mission had found a space-capable humanoid race with a very interesting set of languages. Gaila, as mission commander, had been sending back a wide range of recordings, both before and after she had initiated First Contact, and Uhura had been studying them constantly, trying to discover this new race's idiomatic identity - a crucial step in being able to properly program the UT for their language set.

Plus, the whole experience was fascinating, and practically the reason she had joined Starfleet, so she was greatly enjoying it.

She had explained all this to Spock, but instead of his usual logical understanding, he had half-sneered, and practically growled that she spent far too much time working - that they both did - and it was high time they took some leave.

She had laughed him off, saying they could very easily take some time off at their next port of call in two months, but back behind her casual words, there was a sudden spike of. . . . . . . . . something. It was a vague feeling, not dark enough for fear, nor bitter enough for worry, nor clear enough for regret.

Through the bond, she felt Spock's puzzlement at her sudden emotion, so it wasn't a feeling coming from him either.

They both shrugged it off, and each turned to their chosen activity.

Not half an hour later though, hearing such random nonsense coming from her husband's mouth, the feeling returned, redoubled in its odd, almost alien intensity.

"Tuba door glitter parts per billion."

He was sleeping perfectly normally, not flushed or restless, settled on his back, motionless under the covers save for his breathing.

And those strangely random words, of course.

"Backgammon, Nyota please."

She started at her name.

"No Nyota, no more ginger ale."

Her vague feeling turned to an intense curiosity.

What could he possibly be dreaming? . . .

"Ashal-veh, you cannot knit the eel."

She took a hesitant step towards the bed, wondering if it would be alright if she. . .

They are his private thoughts. . .

And yet, they were married, bonded and mated, and it was considered perfectly normal for Vulcan couples to share thoughts. . . and dreams too.

And it wasn't like they hadn't co-dreamed before. . .

And he had invited her to take this nap with him. . .

"Fossil fuels are not used any more, my beloved."

Curiosity got the better of her, and she darted to his side, knelt on the edge of the bed, and slowly, still tentatively - for three years was still too short a time to make initiating a meld feel normal to her - she put her fingers to his face, reached out through the bond, and quietly mouthed the words -

"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your th-

"There is no palfrey in the wind."

"Make sure the jacaranda feeds the gerbil."

"Wary juice keel venture duck."

She was in a purple whirlwind of random words, watching as some coalesced into nonsense phrases, and others broke apart into gleaming shards of memories. She could hear the vast store of words he had to draw upon - could hear them all at once in the great silent whisper that lay beyond the thick cloud of his dream. It was his mind, and it was feeding the storm, but not directing it, as she assumed he usually did.

"Martial broom, fish, jack, and woad."

It was like standing inside a shroud of smoke, unknowing where the fire came from.

"Fire. Nyota fire. Fire. Set on stun. Fire. Shoot to kill. Run!"

Out of the murmuring violet fog there came a gout of blue flame, huge, yet remote, as though she stood at the foot of some ancient volcano, newly awakened.

"Nyota, my wife. . . . "

Spock's voice came from far away, echoing across the timeless landscape of his mind, but he was also there, of a sudden, standing beside her.

He was clothed in a swathe of blue flames, his eyes flashing with argent lightening.

"Nyota, my love," he said with a voice like Death, and like Life, and all the deities in between, "You must leave."

She stared at him, so overwhelmed with words she could not at that moment speak.

"I. . . . . . cannot," she said finally, and it felt like doom.

"So be it," he said, with the sound of distant thunder.

Like living things, great lances of fire reached out and enveloped her, taking hold of her soul and drawing her to him. When their bodies touched, his arms enclosed her, and his mouth descended to hers.

It was like falling into the sun, with all the poignancy of moonlight, and all the eternity of the stars.

It was more than a kiss. So much more that all the words were silenced, and the purple mist melted into crystal brilliance. . .

After an untold string of forevers, Nyota awoke, her body still singing from the completely unexpected pleasure. She had no idea where her clothes had gone, nor did she care.

Wow! That was some dream!

Initiating a meld with him had never led to that before.

Well. . . nothing that intense, anyway. . .

Spock was still deeply asleep, laying half on her, and half on a pile of what she assumed used to be bedclothes. The echo of his mind was now quiet, free from chaotic words and primal fire. But his skin was burning hot now, far hotter than even his normal fever-warmth. He never slept this deep, nor got this hot - because he simply was never sick. Her mind was still too full of endorphins to worry about him, but a small portion of that vague feeling finally resolved itself. It was urgency. And when she smoothed a hand down his back and felt actual sweat coming off him, she finally understood.

The Time . . . . . .

He had, naturally, told her about this before they had bonded, had expressed his doubts and fears, and his hopes and desires.

Of course, now that she saw it, she realized there was no way to be fully prepared.

But they had taken some precautions, and McCoy figured largely in them.

He stirred the minute a thought involving another man crossed her mind.

Shhhhhhh, it's alright, she projected at him, I'm here for you, Spock, love, only you. . .

He settled almost immediately, and fell back into oblivion.

She sighed, the warm luxury of the afterglow finally clearing a bit. In a minute she'd call Christine, and ask her for the food, water, and other supplies they'd arranged to get from Bones. She'd also ask her to inform Len that she and Spock would be taking a week's leave a bit earlier than intended, and would he please inform the Captain and their departments?

Gaila's scouting mission was due back in three days, and Nyota needed her people on that UT re-program as soon as possible. . .

Oh, shoot, she thought, the downsides of spending an unplanned week in a love nest finally presenting themselves.

Plus, they were four days from a stellar nursery, and a dark matter nebula was on the agenda too.

She was two steps away from being annoyed, but she looked over at Spock, his sleeping face far more expressive than it ever was when awake, and she willingly let go of all next week's schedule. He was more important than even the best laid plans.

She pet his shoulder again. For her, he was more important right now than anyone else on the ship.

Including herself.

She wiggled out from under him, quickly took a long drink of water, and snagged a clean sheet. Then she crawled back over to him, covered them both up with the cool, clean cotton, and snuggled into his hot skin.

For the first time, she noticed he smelled different too.

So that's what those "mating pheromones" smell like. Whelp. This is gonna be a week of discoveries, better get used to it and hunker down.

She half-smirked, a whole raft of previously inscrutable Vulcan traditions suddenly making a lot of sense.

And then, a sad memory, but also a good one, and now revealed to be much more useful than she had known then - the one time she had met his mother.

"Let sleeping Vulcans lie, my dear," Amanda had said, wryly, "You never know what they're keeping hidden in those hearts of theirs."

Sarek had given his wife a flat, stern look at this, and later, Spock had explained that in Vulkansu "keeping hidden" had a particularly. . . intimate, idiomatic meaning.

"Hidden indeed," she whispered lovingly against his arm, and settling herself comfortably against him, she slept while she could.