T'Leiarel arrived at the mess hall early, taking a cup of peppermint tea to sit by the window. She had wanted to be there before Spock arrived, she had not expected to find herself with company before that point.
Spock could recognise her laugh through the wall as he approached the mess hall… he hadn't heard her laugh before but still he knew it was her as certainly, if not more so, as he recognised the answering laugh belonged to Uhura. From the corridor he could not tell what they were discussing but the panic and paranoia welled up in him. He froze. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the emotions were more unpredictable and harder to control, there was absolutely no reason Uhura would say anything negative about their relationship, or even mention it at all, there was no reason to assume they were even discussing him.
"Is everything okay there?" It was slightly disconcerting to McCoy how quickly Spock turned at the sound of his voice.
"I am on my way to meet T'Leiarel at the mess hall." McCoy nodded.
"Well on Earth it's generally considered bad manners to keep a lady waiting…" He tried prompting. Spock nodded, and they entered the mess hall together. "Good to see that you two are getting on so well." He commented as he approached the two women. "Do you mind if we join you?"
"Not at all Doctor, we were just discussing Vulcan poetry, particularly the older poems about emotions. I recited my favourite poem for Lieutenant Uhura, who had not heard two of the words involved before due to them now being considered somewhat vulgar with the cultural shifts." T'Leiarel greeted them both with smiles and Spock had to squash the illogical surge of jealousy as McCoy sat next to her, leaving Spock with the seat next to Uhura.
"I didn't think Vulcans would be interested in poetry, doesn't seem very logical to me. I would be interested in hearing some, although I am fairly sure I wouldn't recognise any of the words." Spock raised an eyebrow at McCoy's lack of insight into their race, then again it was not a topic they had reason to have discussed.
"Poetry is very popular, the focus on selecting precisely the correct combination of words to express a logical concept in a beautiful form is a much respected art form. Although personally I don't particularly like most of the poetry from the last few centuries. I can attempt a translation if you like, although I'm not certain how well it will translate, the rhythm and rhyme won't exactly work and the topic is somewhat… risqué." McCoy's eyebrows went up and he nodded interestedly. He was mildly surprised about the poetry but he never would have guessed Vulcans might have dirty poetry…
"Fingertips. The feel of your skin is a soft resistance, the sweetest of barriers between our beings. I trace the contours of your hand, I learn the delicate beauty, the dip of your knuckles beneath my searching touch. I feel your breath as mine, the wind smells of your uncertainty, gritted sand of desire catches at my eyes. You shift and I lose sensation, I drown in the loss and the longing, but you know this. Your fingertips trace the lines of my palm, tauntingly close to connection. Your lips part in a gasp as the water of my love crashes into you. Slowly you slide upwards, your eyes shining dark as the shade of a tree at noon. Closer and closer to the sweet rain as we drink of one another, bonding closely to one breath, one echoing sigh, you fill me with more than I can dream and yet I can never have enough. My blood is yours and it burns."
There was a moment of silence as she finished. Spock knew he had never heard a poem like that before but it felt familiar, and deeply sensual, he focused his gaze on the table, trying to get the image of her hands on his out of his mind. The rawness and openness of the description, the depth of the connection and bond between the two characters, it stirred a hunger which had nothing to do with the mess hall.
"Is that it?" McCoy frowned in confusion. "It's lovely but I don't see how it's risqué." He frowned even more at the glare Spock was giving him. "It's a love poem about touching hands?" Uhura and T'Leiarel were smirking, at least until Uhura noticed Spock's glare and got more concerned.
"You may have noticed Vulcans do not shake hands as humans do, the touching of hands other than out of need for survival is reserved for close friends, family and lovers, as well as on occasion medical professionals. Vulcans are touch telepaths, particularly with our fingertips, and emotions are much more personal than something as simple as nudity, the build of understanding and emotional connection between the writer and her beloved is a deep revelation of the self. Although I have been taught that the reason Vulcans do not touch their food is because of hygiene and discipline, personally I think it might be to do with the sensuality of food and fingers in combination." Well that made a certain amount of sense. T'Leiarel was certainly more open about a lot of these things than most of the Vulcans he'd come across, despite her secretiveness earlier. It was then that she looked to Spock and raised an eyebrow at his glare. Perhaps she shouldn't be discussing these things around him right now… He looked down, taking a deep breath.
"Maybe we should go and say hello to Sulu…" Uhura suggested, trying to give the Doctor a way out. The two slipped away from the table, leaving T'Leiarel and Spock alone.
"I am hungry, do you have any recommendations as to what is likely to be good on board?" Spock looked up, his eyes going to her fingers where she rested her chin against one hand before meeting her eyes.
"I have often found the Kleetanta to be pleasant." T'Leiarel nodded, moving to stand. "I can collect two bowls, if it is acceptable?" Another nod and Spock went to collect the food. She wondered if he knew that bringing food to a prospective mate had been common before the arranged marriages began, to prove an ability to provide, or perhaps he was simply being polite.