Thirty pages and 8,100 words later and this chapter of epicness is over. (Don't worry, that doesn't mean that Nar is over. Far from it.) There are lots of people I need to thank, so lets get to it.
My very good friend, Nick, whose taste in music lets me write. Romeo + Juliet and the Firefly episode Shindig, my main inspirations for the party, Heroes, because every writer needs to do research to make sure she has the picture just so in her head. Elizawriter, for putting up with my "stage fright", my beta comments that sometimes make no sense, my Latin and long letters. AtanaM, for constantly pushing me to add more description for her amazing comments for the last scene—it's ten times better because of you, mhgood, for making sure my grammar etc. is correct and lastly, all the people who made it through this long A/N. Thanks for reading!
He could kill his brother.
Painfully, slowly, with such slow and precise execution that his brother would be begging for mercy, begging for death just to end the suffering. Life would equate itself with pain for his brother, and Spock would take sadistic pleasure in that fact. He wants to hear the sickening crack of bones breaking, smell the copper of his blood. It would be...satisfying.
He is skilled in the art of Suus Mahna. He could do it—he could prove to his brother that it is not wise to interrupt an intimate moment and not be prepared to suffer the consequences.
He is tempted, oh so tempted. He stops in the hallway, contemplating going back and proving to his brother that he is better, stronger, the more worthier mate for Nyota. Did his brother think he is really that stupid, that blind, that he couldn't see the way his brother looked at Nyota? That his brother wanted Nyota for his own? He thinks back to the day that he saw his brother touch Nyota's arm at the pool.
Mine.
'She is mine,' he thinks to himself. The savagery in his internal voice is enough to shake him out of his contemplation and hurry to his chamber, determined to quell the inexplicable rage inside of him before this ridiculous, illogical party of his brother's.
He hates social gatherings. He has hated social gatherings from the embassy parties his mother made him attend, to the faculty gatherings at Starfleet. He constantly feels out of place, as if he is an actor in a play yet does not know the lines he is supposed to speak. He reminds himself that Nyota will be there, that she will help him, will whisper the lines in his ear, if he can continue the metaphor. He must keep an eye on his brother as well, and make sure he doesn't make any untoward advances upon Nyota and give Spock a reason to kill him.
He walks to his room, noting that the temperature has risen 3.47 degrees. It is uncomfortably hot now, illogical given the fact that it is twilight. The sun is setting, the temperature should be falling, not rising. He concludes, then, that it is his internal temperature and not the external temperature and thus cause for concern.
He wonders if the ardor he felt for Nyota earlier has physically manifested itself. He has read in medical journals that humans, when mentally overtaxed, will manifest physical symptoms of their unrest. It is psychosomatic, he believes the word is. That must be it. He is half-human and it is possible the extreme stress he is under is enough to provoke such a reaction in him. There is nothing to suggest that he has come into contact with a virus or a bacterium. He has not had the opportunity to test the atmosphere and he is eaten very little during his stay planetside. Thus, it must be a physical manifestation of his...desires.
He has heard human males using the term 'a cold shower' helping to remedy unwanted or inopportune arousal. Given that he has no other solution for his problem, as meditation has proven increasingly unhelpful, he decides to give it a try. He enters his rooms, casting off his shoes. Normally, he places them in the same spot, facing the same direction every time he takes them off, but he simply does not care this time. He wants his shoes off, his shirt off, his pants off, and thus they are cast off, without a care, without being folded.
The rebellion feels good.
He makes the water as cold as he can stand, surprised by how nice it feels. He braces his hands on the wall, letting the water cascade down his tense shoulders, his back, before he straightens and stands under the spray, feeling the sensation of the water on his chest, trailing down his abdomen.
He shudders at the sensation. The water feels like Nyota's hands, trailing along his skin, unaware of the fire that ignites in the wake of its path. He has wondered before what it would be like to have her in the shower. The thought would present itself in his consciousness like a delicious, forbidden secret, a fleeting moment he would enjoy before squelching it, embarrassed that he was having such irrational desires, such illogical fantasies. Yet they persisted ever since she complained as his teacher's aide of the showers in her dormitory being closed for repairs.
"And of course it will take at least two weeks for them to be fixed. I have great respect for Starfleet, but they are masters of bureaucracy and red tape."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was filled with images of her wrapped in a towel, the water still trailing along her skin.
"They're at least letting us use the showers in the gym, but it's been crazy walking halfway across campus just to take a shower and try to make it to classes and choral practice."
He steepled his fingers, willing himself not to offer the uses of his own shower, trying desperately to get the image of her walking around his rooms, in a smaller towel than in his previous mental images, he noted, with her damp hair curling from the steam of the shower, smiling up at him and thanking him for the use of his shower. In his mind he pulls her closer, not minding, even being secretly pleased by the fact that she is still slightly wet from the shower, trailing his fingers across her arms, sliding up to her bare shoulders as he leans in, kissing her and whispering, his mouth against her ear "you are very welcome." Suddenly the towel disappears and--
"Commander? Spock? Are you okay?"
He blinks for .023 seconds longer than is necessary, making a mental note that he would have to reschedule to allot for at least two more hours of meditation. He takes a deep breath, "I am fine, Nyota. Have you finished with the exams I asked you to grade?"
Nyota does not know about his errant thoughts. He has never told her. He is unsure why, now they have embarked upon a romantic relationship, he has kept it to himself, why he has not yet initiated physical intimacy with her and suddenly it seems so asinine that he has not yet done so. He wants to feel the juxtaposition of the coolness of the water and the warmth of Nyota, wants to watch the water flow down her arched back, wants to hear the music of her moans, hear her breathless voice urging him to take her, harder, deeper, ever more forcefully still, intertwined with the steady percussion of the water beating against the shower floor.
The water suddenly feels like ice being pelted on his back. He frowns, knowing that he has not been in the shower that long, approximately six minutes and the water could not have gone uncomfortably cold that quickly. He turns off the water, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his hips. He glances at the chronos as he goes to find something to wear for the party when he freezes in fear.
It has been exactly 16.5 minutes since he got into the shower.
His internal clock is never wrong. He should have known that he was in the shower for over 16 minutes. There was no reason for him to be in the shower that long, no reason for him not to realize it. Something is wrong, his mind is escaping him.
He must find out what is going on.
He grabs the communicator off the desk.
"Spock to Enterprise," he growls out.
"Chekov to Spock. Vat can I do for you, Kommander?" the Ensign says cheerfully.
"Run scans of the atmospheric composition of planet A-75 and cross reference the composition with all known reactions to both Vulcan and human biology."
"Yes, Kommander."
Spock waits exactly .45 seconds. "Now, Ensign."
"I am, Kommander. I am vaiting for ze results."
Spock scowls. He could have done this himself and would have had the results by now.
"Sir, there is nossing to suggest dat there is anything besides ze normal composition of oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen. There is certainly nossing dat would react to either Wulcan or human biology."
"There has to be something, Ensign," Spock says with a trace of impatience. "Run the scans again and transfer me to the Medical Bay."
"Are you feeling vell, Kommander?"
"That is none of your concern, Ensign. Perform your duties," Spock says sharply.
Chekov mutters something in Russian under his breath. "Aye, Kommander."
Spock hears a click and then McCoy's gruff voice. "Yeah?"
"Doctor McCoy, this is Spock."
"Fantastic. What do you want?" The doctor sounds harassed, as he usually does.
"I am...not feeling well, Doctor."
There is a pause on the other end. "Maybe we should have this conversation in my office. Hold on one sec, Spock."
Spock is familiar with the human practice of asking someone to wait one second, but the duration of one second is at best a very loose interpretation. Doctor McCoy is no exception. It takes him 45 seconds to get to his office.
"Sorry, Spock. Got stopped on my way here by Nurse Chapel. What's going on?"
"I seem to have lost track of 10.5 minutes, Doctor."
"Any other symptoms?"
"My internal temperature has risen. My appetite has abated, it will not be long before it's gone completely. Ensign Chekov has informed me that there is nothing in the atmosphere to provoke a reaction from either humans or Vulcans." He hesitates, wondering if he should continue, tell the doctor of his violent thoughts, his increased libido but decides them to be irrelevant, a result of Sybok and the extreme stress the Vulcan causes. It is not a result of anything biological or environmental.
"What, and you don't trust the Russian wonder kid?" McCoy jokes.
"It is not a matter of trust, Doctor, I simply sought to get an opinion from a medical professional."
"Well, you came to the right place. Send some food and drink samples and I'll take a look at them. You'll probably having a reaction to something planet-side. I'll run some tests and find out."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Don't mention it. Give my regards to Jim and Uhura."
There is a flash of jealousy and hatred that the doctor has the audacity to mention Nyota's name, but Spock calms himself, reminds himself that the doctor meant nothing by it. It certainly would not be logical to beam up to the Enterprise and beat the doctor to a bloody pulp just for saying Nyota's name.
"I will, Doctor McCoy." He ends the communication, turning to the dresser to find something to wear. He decides on the sufficiently formal black, high collared fitted shirt, black fitted pants and the maroon overcoat embroidered with gold thread. He goes over to the mirror, tugging his collar into place, flatting his hair, when he hears a knock on the door.
He hopes it is Nyota, coming to collect him, so they can walk to the party together. He is more than a little disappointed when he opens the door to find Kirk on the other side, tugging at his shirt. He is dressed similarly to Spock, though his shirt and pants are white and his coat is a cerulean blue with silver embroidery.
"How can you wear this stuff and not feel like you're suffocating?" Kirk complains.
It is evidently a rhetorical question, because Kirk continues. "Uhura's still getting ready. She's an amazing communications officer, don't get me wrong, but she is like all girls, taking forever to get ready."
Spock raises his eyebrow. "Indeed."
"Yeah. Anyway, let's go. She said she would meet us down there."
He is disappointed, hoping to make an entrance, as the human saying goes, with Nyota by his side, but Kirk has already intercepted him and he has no choice but to accompany the Captain.
Spock follows Kirk, who talks the whole way about how much he's looking forward to this party. Spock wishes, intensely, for the Captain to just cease talking, to leave him to his thoughts, to leave him to Nyota.
They can both hear the dull buzz of cocktail conversation as they get closer to the ballroom. They can hear the whisper of an string quintet, the trill of laughter.
"Sounds like a good time," Kirk says to Spock.
"Indeed."
They go into the ballroom and it is an explosion of color. Women seem to be in a subtle contest of who can out-dress whom, the men stand talking amongst themselves, creating a rainbow of robes themselves. They sip chocolate drinks out of martini glasses, there are couples dancing.
Kirk raises his eyebrow. "This is almost tame, for your brother."
Spock does not hear him, does not even glance his way. He is, instead, looking past Kirk's shoulder, to the staircase, where Nyota is descending, where he hears the conversations stop around her, hears the quintet stop there music as they, like he, remains transfixed by her.
She looks for them, biting her lip. Kirk waves and she sees the movement and waves to them, smiling, walking down the stairs faster.
"You are such a lucky bastard," Kirk mutters.
The girly girl in her is excited at the thought of going to a party.
Every girl loves dressing up, listening to good music and having a good time, Nyota thinks. It is simply a rule of nature. She puts all her energy into getting ready for the party. It's either that, or think about how close she and Spock were to getting rid of all the tension between them. God damn Sybok! She groaned, still feeling his lips against her neck, how amazing it felt--
She shakes her head, as if she can literally shake the thoughts away. She can't think about that right now. Otherwise she might slap Sybok and then jump Spock. Hell, she just might skip over the slapping Sybok part and get right to the jumping.
Which takes her right back to where she began.
She closes the door to her room and turning, notices a box on her bed. She opens it, pulling out a shimmery, beautiful silver dress. It looks like it was made out of stardust. She tries it on eagerly, unable to resist a beautiful party dress. She turns to look at herself in the mirror.
The dress is asymmetrical, with only one strap, leaving her left shoulder bare, a slit in the skirt of the dress on the right side, showing a fair amount of leg, hugging her figure like a second skin.
She feels amazing in it, and it goes perfectly with the earrings Spock bought her. She puts on the earrings, just to make sure, then notices on the dressing table that there are haircare products—shampoo, conditioner and a hair straightener. She smirks a little; this almost, almost makes up for the fact that Sybok interrupted her and Spock together. Her hair was rebelling against her.
She looks at the chronos. She doesn't really have that much time to wash her hair, not if she wants it dry completely, and she still needs to do her makeup. She notices that there is an entire assortment of cosmetics at her disposal, next to the haircare products.
There is a knock on the door.
She hopes it's Spock. She wants him to see her wearing the earrings he bought.
"Who is it?" she calls.
"It's Jim!" she hears him shout. "Are you ready yet?"
She sighs, wishing still that it was Spock. "Not yet. I'll meet you at the party, okay?"
"Okay, I'm going to go collect Spock."
Which means that she has even less time than she thought she did. She quickly but carefully puts on her make-up, choosing to put on some mascara and a little bit of eyeshadow. Her hair she isn't sure what to do with. She decides to brush it out and leave it down, change it up from her customary pony-tail.
Shoes.
Oh god, what is she going to do about shoes?
She looks around and notices that there is a second box next to the dress box. This one is a shoe box, with silver, high heeled strappy sandals in them. They look almost as beautiful as the dress, a work of art in and of themselves.
She knows that they're from Sybok, but they so beautiful and she has nothing else to wear. They fit so perfectly with the earrings that she can't resist. It's perfect, she looks perfect and part of her wants to completely knock the socks off of Spock.
She walks out of her room, down the hallway, realizing that she has no idea where this party is taking place. With any luck, she'll run into one of Sybok's servants.
"T'sai Uhura?" a servant asks her.
"Ha?" she responds in Vulcan.
"I am to take you to the ballroom. If you will follow me," he says.
"Of course," she says.
He leads her to a door. "There will be a small hallway and then you will walk down a staircase to the ballroom."
"Are khart-lan Kirk and zhel-lan Spock already there?"
"I believe they are, t'sai."
She nods and he opens the door and motions for her to go inside. She does, and instantly feels as if she is about to make her way onto a stage.
As she descends the staircase, she feels everyone's eyes on her, hears conversations stopping in midflow, even the quintet stopping their music. It makes her uncomfortable, being the center of attention and all she wants to do is find her friends and get off the metaphorical stage.
She scans the crowd, unable to find them, when she notices a hand wave. It's Kirk, with Spock next to him, his eyes smoldering. She smiles, waves back to them, walking just a little bit faster towards them. She sees Kirk mutter something to Spock, but she isn't sure if Spock even heard him. His eyes remain on her, predatory. She is the only thing he sees right now, she thinks. The only thing he wants. As she walks closer to them, she can see him lick his lips, his eyes darken. He looks dignified in his clothes, like a Vulcan prince. The look he's giving her, though, is anything but dignified and she wonders if Kirk would mind if she and Spock left the party and picked just picked up where they left off in the garage.
"Captain, Spock," she says just a little breathlessly when she joins them.
"Lieutenant," Kirk responds. "You clean up awfully well."
She smiles at him. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself."
He tugs at the overcoat. "Yeah? Thanks. Uncomfortable, though. Never thought I would want to wear a Starfleet cadet uniform again, but compared to this, I would gladly put one on."
Nyota looks over to a group of women oogling Kirk. "I think there are more than a few women who would disagree, Captain."
Kirk follows her gaze. "Looks like I better go introduce myself. You know, in the name of Starfleet-Vulcan relations and all of that. Uhura, Spock, if you'll excuse me..."
Nyota laughs and just shakes her head. "That man is incorrigible."
Spock doesn't say a word, but continues to stare at her hungrily, as if he would like nothing more than to devour her where she stood. She swallows.
The music starts up again, this time a waltz.
"Nyota, would you care to dance?" Spock asks her, surprisingly calm, given his facial expression just a moment ago.
"I would love to dance, Spock," she says, shocked that he would ask her. She didn't think he could dance.
He pulls her closer than absolutely necessary for the waltz, but Nyota isn't about to complain. His hand is around her waist, his other hand is cradling hers, his thumb tracing circles in her palm. She wonders how long waltzes are. Hopefully long. Very, very long.
"You are wearing the earrings I gave you," he whispers in her ear.
"Of course," she murmurs. "I said I would."
"They compliment your skin tone."
She smiles. "Thank you."
He is a skilled dancer and she's surprised to learn this. He doesn't strike her as the type to know how to dance.
"My mother taught me," he answers her unspoken question. "She felt it necessary, given how many embassy social functions we were forced to tend because of father's occupation."
Nyota nods in understanding.
The dance ends much too soon for Nyota's liking. A steward comes up to them, offering champagne to Nyota and sukulata for Spock, a drink that seemed to be like crème de cacao, but without the alcohol and served in a martini glass.
Surprisingly, Spock accepted the drink, taking a sip. "Intoxicating beverages serve to enhance one's enjoyment of an experience, do they not, Nyota?" he said to her surprised expression.
"Yes, I suppose they do," she said uncertainly, taking a sip of her champagne.
She turns away from Spock, momentarily distracted by the sound of loud laughter from a Vulcan couple dancing. She watches the Vulcans, still fascinated by the emotions that ran freely across their faces, by how there were more than a few couples making out, holding hands, not one among them being discreet in the Vulcan interpretation of the word.
It doesn't cease to amaze her.
Kirk saunters over to them, just finishing his fourth dance with a Vulcan female, glass of champagne in hand. "Great party," he comments to them.
Both of them murmur and nod, agreeing with the Captain.
"I saw Shylock earlier, talking with Sybok," he notes casually. "Neither of them looked really happy."
"Really?" Nyota asks.
Kirk nods. "Worth looking into. Not sure if it had something to do with our visit into the city or something else. Either way, those two are connected somehow, and I don't think they go to the same gym."
Spock purses his lips. "I'm not sure I understand the observation, Captain."
Kirk smiles. "Never mind, Spock. Chalk it up to a humanism."
Spock nods.
"Hey, is that one of those sulata drinks?" Kirk asks, gesturing to the one in Spock's hand.
"Sukulata, Captain, and yes, it is," Nyota says archly, daring Kirk to say more.
Kirk instead gives Spock a look and claps him on the shoulder. "Didn't think you had it in you," he comments.
Spock raises his eyebrow. "Pardon, Captain?"
Kirk laughs. "Nothing, Spock. I'm going to go talk with Shylock. You two enjoy yourselves. Dance, drink, be merry."
With that, he walks away.
Spock turns to Nyota, taking the champagne flask out of her hand and setting it next to his drink on a table.
"We should obey our Captain's orders," he murmurs, his lips ghosting her ear.
She giggles, the champagne going to her head just a little bit. She nods.
The quintet is playing something slow and sultry, a song Nyota doesn't recognize, but it causes Spock to hold her even closer than during the waltz, his hands at her hips, her arms around his neck.
She wonders if they can leave the party early, if anyone would miss them. She doesn't want to be around these people anymore. She just wants Spock.
"Mind if I cut in, brother?"
Sybok is dressed in a loose dark purple shirt with gold embroidery and dark pants. He smiles cockily, blatantly ogling Nyota.
The look Spock gives him is dark, murderous, sending shivers down Nyota's spine. "Perhaps the next dance, Sybok."
Sybok frowns, displeased with his answer, but accepts it. "The next dance it is, then." He walks away.
"I do not want you dancing with my brother," Spock tells her in Orion.
"I do not wish to dance with your brother," she responds in the same language.
"We are in agreement, then," he says, the corner of his mouth upturning.
"I will have to, you know. It is his party," she tells him.
He nods in understanding. "You are mine, Nyota."
They stop dancing and just look at each other. Their mouths are so close together, Nyota thinks. It would take just a slight turn of her head and to his lips hers, meeting, a dance on the most intimate scale.
'Not here,' she thinks. 'Spock would be mortified.'
So instead she smiles at him, gently, and when the song ends she clings to him slightly, to assure him that if it were in her control, the song wouldn't end.
Sybok comes upon them, barely before the last note dies.
"I believe the next dance is mine," he says with too much enjoyment.
Spock looks at his brother, the murderous look back in his eyes before he kisses Nyota.
It is the kiss she secretly dreams of. She loves it when he kisses her, his careful exploration as if he's trying to learn her. But sometimes she wants him to consume her, to make her lose control with just a kiss, all because of the ardor he can barely contain.
It leaves her breathless, everything she ever thought it could be and more.
"I will be back," he promises her.
He nods curtly to his brother, then steps back.
Sybok holds her just a little bit too closely. She can feel his breath on her neck and it repulses her and she forces herself to forget her current surroundings and remember what it was like to dance with Spock.
"Now, now, Lieutenant, no fair thinking about my brother while you're with me."
"How did you know that?" she asks him, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Your scent changes when you think about him," he tells her.
She feels her face getting hot.
"Now, now, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Passion is," he breathes in. "the very essence of life."
Nyota wonders why this song isn't over yet.
"My brother is a lucky man, to have such a passionate woman in his arms tonight."
She looks at him squarely. "Yes, he is."
Sybok smiles at her. "What did he ever do to deserve you?"
She wants to slap him. His voice rubs itself all over her and she squirms under its implications and its innuendos, wants to take a shower and for Spock to make her ever forget there is a Sybok.
The song ends. "Hmmm," Sybok hums, cocking his head to the side. "Pity." She isn't sure if he is referring to the song ending or something else, or perhaps both.
He releases her. "I have a feeling brother dear will be over soon and must just challenge me to a duel if I hold you for a second longer, though it would certainly be worth it," he tells her. He bows, takes her hand, brushes his lips across her knuckles and leaves.
Spock comes up behind her. "Are you well, Nyota?"
She turns into him, wrapping her arms around him. "Yes, I'm fine."
"My brother did not behave inappropriately?"
"Nothing I can't handle, Spock."
He clutches her just a little bit tighter.
Kirk smiles to himself as he watches his First Officer and Communications Officer dance. Normally he would tease them mercilessly, because they're so damn perfect, so damn right, that he can't help but tease them, but he lets them have this moment, knowing they've both been through hell to get it.
Shylock has finished his conversation with Sybok and is now speaking with a Vulcan female while drinking one of those chocolate drinks he saw Spock drinking earlier. Kirk puts on his most disarming smile, walking up to the Vulcan dressed in scarlet robes. He is not pleased to see Kirk.
"Captain. I see you made it out of the city alive."
"I'm lucky that way."
Shylock looks at him appraisingly. "So I hear. Your reputation precedes you."
Kirk merely shrugs, looking unimpressed. "People either know me before they meet me, or they sure as hell remember me after I leave."
There is a pause before the Vulcan breaks out into booming laughter. "You are an arrogant man, but it is fitting for you, Captain James Kirk."
"And you've got an interesting way of complimenting people, Shylock. I think that puts us on equal footing. Call me Jim."
Shylock nods, considering it. "Jim. How long has Spock been your First Officer?"
"Barely a year. It'll be a year in a couple of months, I think. A question for a question. How long have you lived in that corner of the city?"
"Five years."
Kirk lets the conversation still for a moment, watching Spock and Uhura dance, Sybok talking to them, Spock look as if he's about to kill his brother. "The Federation knows nothing about this planet. It categorizes it as uninhabited."
Shylock merely shrugs. "The Federation is a large organization, Jim. It is not all seeing, nor all knowing. Many things happen in this universe that the Federation knows nothing about."
"Such as?"
"I cannot give specifics. But sometimes trade does not go as planned, cargo takes a detour from its original destination."
"A black market."
Shylock does not confirm nor deny, but takes another sip of his drink. "I am not the businessman that Sybok is. If you are that interested in the business affairs of the colony, you should talk with him."
Kirk takes a sip of his drink. "Are you enjoying the party?"
Shylock smiles slyly. "Sybok's events are not ones to be missed. One is always guaranteed a good time here."
They watch as the dance ends and the new one begins, Sybok taking Nyota in his arms as Spock steps away.
"Sybok is a powerful man on this planet," Shylock comments.
"Yeah, I kind of gathered that," Kirk says, with just a hint of sarcasm to his voice.
"He is accustomed to claiming the object of his desires. There is very little that is forbidden to him."
Kirk wonders if he should warn Spock, what good it would do. Perhaps he should just keep this one to himself, and watch Sybok more closely when he is around Uhura.
Kirk never made a secret of his attraction towards Uhura. But he would never jeopardize his budding friendship with Spock that way. There were just certain lines a man didn't cross.
Apparently, that didn't apply to hormonal Vulcans.
Apparently displeased that Nyota did not fall into his arms at first opportunity, Sybok claps his hands and announces that food would now be served. The quintet would continue to play for the guests enjoyment.
Long, banquet-like tables are set out by servants, who are now placing mountains of food on them. There is a great assortment of meat, cheese, fruits, and breads.
Spock is not hungry, had not felt hungry in precisely two days, four hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty seconds. Still, he needed to collect samples for Dr. McCoy to examine.
Would his brother try to poison him? Would there be a compound that would show no symptoms in full-humans or Vulcans but be fatal for a hybrid of the two breeds? The probability was small, 23%, but it existed. That was all that mattered. Spock saw the way his brother looked at Nyota while they were dancing and was pleased to see how uncomfortable Nyota was. That would not stop his brother. His brother would not care the look of discomfort on Nyota's face, only that she was his, a shiny new toy that was all his.
Spock chastised himself for such idle and poetic thoughts. He is spending too much time around the Captain, he thinks. It is making himself for susceptible to such musings.
Nyota puts her hand on his arm. "Aren't you hungry?" she asks.
"My nutrients do not deplete themselves as fast as yours do," he tells her. It is not quite an answer, not quite a lie. He knows that if he tells her that he is not hungry, she will question it, she will be concerned. He does not want her to worry, does not want her to know that he is slowly going mad and losing himself and has yet to determine the cause.
"Yeah, well, I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten anything since then either, so let's get something."
She takes a little bit of everything, it seems her determining factors are if it smells good and looks good. She makes a plate for him as well, though eventually has to hand it to him, in order to fill both of their plates.
Normally, the smell of meat repulses him. It smells charred, bloody, feral even. White meat does not smell nearly as bad as red, but the smell lingers and he has never quite understood human fondness for the consumption of meat.
Tonight though, it smells intriguing. It makes his mouth water, makes him long for a taste.
He grabs the tongs before he can stop himself, grabbing a piece of meat.
Nyota stares at him.
Her stare frightens him, more importantly, his actions frighten him. Her stare questions him, demands an answer from him. Her stare wants to know what he is doing. It tells him that she knows that he hates the smell of meat, that he finds it distasteful. It questions the logic of performing such an action in direct opposition to one's beliefs. It asks him, fundamentally, if this is the man that she is in a romantic partnership with.
He wants to stop, to put it back because he wants to make her stare go away, but he cannot resist his curiosity, the baser part of him that is encouraging to taste it, suggesting to him that he just might like it.
He pops it into his mouth while Nyota looks on with horrific surprise, and a fair dose of concern on her face.
He realizes his actions before he realizes the taste on his tongue and takes a napkin from the table to remove the offending piece of meat from his mouth. What is he doing?
He is not sure. Not anymore.
Suddenly there is the sound of Sybok clapping to gain everyone's attention. They turn, they must, they have no choice in the matter. Sybok has decided to put on a performance, and the guests have become the audience.
"My friends! Now, you know that I do ever need an reason to have a soirée, but for once, my guests, I have a reason." He pauses, allowing for laughter, which his Vulcan guests are more than happy to provide.
"Families are important, if colorful and complicated. I consider this colony to be my extended family, especially after the death of my beloved mother," he puts his hand over his heart, bowing his head. "But tonight is not a night for mourning. No, my friends, tonight is a night for celebration. I always knew I had a brother. Spock, the younger brother, the half-human brother. He is the other black sheep of the family."
There is laughter again as Nyota looks nervously at Spock, who has set his plate down, placing his clenched hands behind his back, standing slightly straighter. He will not let his brother effect him.
"But I never met this brother. I was curious, I wanted to meet this other part of my family. The fates smiled upon me and brought my brother to me, adding to my family. Not only have the fates given me my brother, they have also allowed me to meet Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Uhura, close friends of my brother."
Friends?! Friends?! Is his brother blind, or perhaps merely idiotic? Lieutenant Uhura is not his friend. Nyota is his partner, his lover, his bond mate, above all, his. How dare he insinuate that they were merely casual acquaintances, coworkers who sometimes shared meals together, but knew very little about each other?
His brother is not fit to say Nyota's name.
"So to friends and family and may we all be fortunate to have both in our lives."
The guests raise their glasses in salutation and drank, then resuming their personal conversations.
Sybok comes over to Spock and Nyota. "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable with my speech," he tells them.
Nyota tells him no, that it was a fine speech, and it is all the Vulcan training Spock's received to not administer a nerve pinch on Sybok.
Sybok turns to leave, but stops before walking away. "Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you how ravishing you look tonight."
"Thank you," she tells him, hoping to hurry his departure.
"Of course, I had no doubts that any dress I picked would look amazing on you, but you look like a goddess tonight, Lieutenant Uhura."
He sees red. The rage boils inside him, threatening to crush him, to destroy him. His hands shake, wishing to rip that dress off of Nyota knowing that his brother picked it out for her specifically, knowing that his brother thought about her and was seducing her, that everyone in the room knew this. He wants to make Nyota his, to make sure there is no question as to possession, he wants his brother dead for his words, his actions, his thoughts, his feelings.
He cannot breathe, the overwhelming urge to do all of these things suddenly too much. He walks away, back to his rooms. He has to meditate, immediately.
"Spock!"
He walks faster. He cannot look at her right now, not with his brother's dress on her person.
He makes it out of the ballroom and into the hallway, hoping that Nyota has not followed him.
"Damn it, Spock, talk to me!"
His hopes were futile, he thinks. He should have remembered that this was Nyota, after all.
She manages to catch up to him, matching his stride. Impressive, he observes, considering her choice in footwear.
"Is this about the dress? Look, I didn't have anything else to wear and I didn't know he had chosen it specifically for me. I didn't have a lot of time to find something to wear for this party, and it looked so nice with the earrings you got me--"
He whirls around to face her at the mention of the earrings he bought her. "It is unwise for you to speak with me right now, Nyota. Rejoin the celebration. We will speak later."
A fire blazes in her eyes. "No! I'm sick of this game, Spock, of constantly walking on eggshells around you. I'm not going to speak with you about it later, I'm tired of avoiding the subject. Talk to me, please!"
She is about to cry, he realizes. Her eyes are wider, more luminous because of tears unshed. Her lower lip is trembling, her jaw is set, and she is trying so hard to maintain a neutral expression.
He wants to make it stop, wishes that he knew how. But he does not know how, does not know how to make her understand that he needs to get away from her, right now, or there will be dire consequences. He is losing his mind to all the emotions raging inside of him and he does not know how to make it stop. He cannot be around her, should the last of his control of his break. He cannot hurt her, will not be able to live with himself if he does.
"Nyota," he says softly. "Please let me leave."
"Spock," she chokes out.
He turns to go, walking down the hallway that he knows that if he turns left, then right, will take him to his bedchamber.
She wants this dress off of her.
Intellectually, she knew the dress and shoes and everything was from Sybok. She really did have nothing to wear to that party and it looked so amazing on her and with the earrings that she couldn't resist. But the look in Sybok's eyes, that gleam that told her that she made a massive error in judgment in wearing that dress, because now he considered her all but his, that he now thought it was just a matter of time. Now Spock is mad at her and she really just wants to go back to the Enterprise.
She isn't in a party mood anymore. She walks back to her room, taking off her shoes, her dress, then going to take advantage of the shampoo and conditioner that was sitting on the dressing table.
Her hair was not going to suffer just because Sybok was creepy.
She takes a bath, trying to get the tension out of her shoulders. She tries to just remember the good parts of the evening, dancing with Spock and feeling like things were good between them again, instead of the tension that seemed to create a wall.
She washes her hair and by the times she finishes the water is too cool to be considered comfortable to sit in. She gets out, putting on the scarlet robe. She is about ready to go to bed when she hears a loud boom outside of her window. She hurries to it, looking out, thinking that there's an attack on the colony happening when she sees it's fireworks.
Her face breaks out into a smile. She hasn't seen fireworks since Fourth of July at the Academy, when Starfleet would put on an impressive fireworks display. She didn't even think fireworks were possible on other planets, and she's delighted to discover she was mistaken.
She watches the explosions of color and light in the sky, leaning against the window frame when she hears her door open.
She goes over to it, not in the mood for company, at the same time hoping it's Spock so they can talk, so she can show him the fireworks. As she walks towards the door, she sees it is Spock, shirtless, a light sheen of sweat covering his chest, in the loose drawstring pants he wears for meditation, breathing heavily. His eyes are dark, full of desire and fire and passion. It makes her heart skip a beat and her stomach drop.
"Spoc-"
She doesn't get the chance to vocalize the k, because his mouth is suddenly on hers, kissing her harder than she imagined possible, his tongue demanding entry into her mouth, his hands grabbing onto her hips, crushing her to him. She gasps, letting it slide in, unprepared for the sensory overload that she's experiencing. She runs her hands down his chest, never missing an opportunity to appreciate his finely sculpted muscles. Her hands reflexively reach for the waistband of his pants when suddenly his hands move from her hips to her posterior, stroking her, kneading her through the silken fabric of her robe.
She doesn't even realize that they have moved until her back meets the wall, his leg in between hers and she realizes that she's so close, she's so unbelievably close and Spock has barely even touched her. She whimpers softly, grinds against his leg, trying desperately to relieve the pressure, while he lays an assault on her neck, suckling it and biting it alternatively, muttering in husky Vulcan how he wants her, burns for her. She is essential to him, necessary to him and he must have her.
"Yes," she whispers to him in Vulcan. Yes.
He picks her up again, moving them to the bed. The suddenness of the action causes her to gasp, the noise distracts him from her neck and he kisses her again. He lays her down on the bed, gently, yet makes no motion to join her and for a second she wonders what is going on, what has gotten into him that he is suddenly so passionate, if this is the part where he delivers some lecture on how he could hurt her, how this is not the opportune time to make love, even though she can't think of a better time to.
She meets his gaze and she forgets about his strange behavior and the lecture she was certain she was going to get. He is just staring at her, as if she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen and right now he is worshiping her.
At some point, her robe had become undone and she is completely open to him, no part of her body shielded from his gaze. She arches her back, just a little, closing her eyes from the heat in his.
She is his for the taking. She needs him to know this.
She feels him move onto the bed next to her, his body pressing urgently into her side. She can feel his hot breath on her neck and the sensation makes her nipples tighten, her breath come a little faster and a low keening noise escapes from the back for her throat. She doesn't open her eyes—not yet, she doesn't want to open them and realize that this is all a dream, all some fantasy her fevered mind and hormones have conspired to give her. It is real, as long as her eyes remain shut. She hears a low sound, rumbling and she swears it's laughter. Never mocking, never teasing, but rather in approval, masculine approval of the effect he has on her.
"Mine," he tells her, his voice husky and rough.
The part, however small, of her brain that is maintaining rational thought is screaming at her that this is not Spock, not the Spock she knows. There is something wrong, that he has never been like this with her, so aggressive, so open, so emotional.
The thoughts die instantly, the rational part of her brain short-circuiting when he places an open mouthed kiss where her neck meets her shoulder and slides his tongue along the line of her collarbone, then marking it with his teeth.
"t'nash-veh, ashayam," he growls in her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth.
She does not argue.
He continues southward, mapping her breasts in excruciating detail with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. She shakes, panting with need, her fingers finding the slightly thicker hair near the crown of his head and twisting into it involuntarily.
"I need you," he murmurs into her stomach.
He undoes her, the words sending white, blinding light to her eyes, the sensation almost too much and she arches against him and moans his name loudly.
He suddenly becomes very still and in an instant he is on his feet, shaking.
"Nyota--I--forgive me."
The shock of his voice, no longer rough but back to the cultured, intellectual tones of the Spock she knows, along with the loss of contact makes her eyes fly open.
"Spock, what--"
"I cannot--I am sorry--"
"Spock, wait, please--"
"Forgive me, Nyota," he tells her, as he staggers out of her room.
She scrambles out of her bed to stop him, clutching the robe around her, but he has already disappeared and there is no way she would be able to find him. Presumably, he went back into his bedchamber, but if he didn't, it would be nearly impossible to find him, not in her state.
She returns shakily to the bed to sit down. It was like he was a totally different person after she moaned his name, like he was completely unconscious of what he was doing only seconds before. It scares her, makes her wonder what is wrong with him, makes her convinced that something very serious is wrong with him.
She just has to find out what it is.