Note: There's some Vulcan language being thrown around in here. If it's wrong, it's (obviously) my fault, but I've done my best. Feel free to correct me.
A refrigerator also makes an appearance here, and I'm only bringing this up because I feel like most people are going to think it's ridiculously out of place. According to Memory Alpha, food replicators weren't common place until TNG – though they had "food synthesizers" in TOS – so I don't want to drop a replicator in Sarek's kitchen. It also seems somehow wrong to me to envision Vulcan's doing anything other than preparing their food by hand. Because I can't think of anything futuristic and classy to call a 23rd Century refrigerator, I'm sticking with what works. We've been using "refrigeration machine" in one form or another for the past 200 years, so I have no intention of fixing what's not broken. This probably won't matter to anyone else but my neurosis compels me.
Amanda feels unhinged.
As she rushes to put the last of Spock's clothes in his suitcase, she feels Sarek pounding against her mind, pushing and shoving his way into her thoughts. He is less graceful than usual, but he wants to know everything – precisely where she is, what she's doing, why she isn't in his arms, under him, screaming his name as he—
She drops a reinforced carbon-carbon wall between his thoughts and hers, complete with a little door. She opens the door just a crack and projects, very, very clearly, I am not done with your son, S'chn T'gai Sarek.
Her words are met by a flicker of confusion. He is your son, too.
Right now? He's all yours.
Slamming the mental door shut and then erasing it, she seals the suitcase and jumps to her feet. "Spock?" she calls, dragging it behind her as she exits his room and hurries, awkwardly, down the hall.
"Here, Mother," he says, appearing from behind a door, four books in his hands.
She stares at them. "Advanced Applications for Dilithium Infu—Spock, is that really what you would call light reading material?"
He considers the books and then fixes her with a baffled expression. "They are quite heavy, Mother."
"That's not what I meant," she mutters. "Come on. We're going to be late to Auntie T'Lin's, and you know how she feels about punctuality."
"To be late is illogical, Mother," he says, holding his books to his chest as he walks beside her. She's fairly certain each of those books could be used as cornerstones for buildings and that they easily weigh more than him.
Huffing, she hefts his suitcase as they reach their hovercar. "Be that as it may," she replies, balancing the suitcase on her hip as she opens the back door.
Spock looks at her with expectation. "Be what as it may?" he asks.
Since she has no response for that, she looks pointedly at the car. "In," she commands.
"You are flustered, Mother."
Bless his observant heart. She is flustered, yes, but she's also very aroused, which feels somewhat awkward to her, and is the primary reason she hasn't touched him all morning. This is all Sarek's fault, and he is all Sarek's fault – never mind the considerable effort they went through to have Spock – and all she really wants is to get to the caves, fall into her husband's arms, and spend the better part of a week in blissful sexual oblivion.
Especially because after, if the first time was any indication and she fully expects it was, Sarek will dote on her for months. He will spare no expense – not that he spares expenses for her anyway – to see her pampered, content, and comfortable. He claims such behavior is "logical." She attributes it to the fact that he loves her, even if he won't say as much.
"Car. In. Get."
Spock's little brows draw together in an exact replica of the face his father makes when she says something confusing. "That's not even correct if one applies Vulcan grammatical—"
She gives him the Mom Look.
His eyes go wide and he darts into the hovercar, sliding across the seat to make room for his suitcase.
Not even full-blooded Vulcan children disobey her when she gives them that look. She has worked on it for seven years, and she's quite proud of the effects it has on recalcitrant children. Even T'Pau has commented on its surprising effectiveness. She supposes T'Pau meant to compliment her, but like everything out of T'Pau's mouth she isn't sure if it was a compliment or a critique of her inability to parent in the Vulcan way. She suspects it's some combination of both, which would explain why she usually feels pleasantly blindsided, if one can feel such a thing, whenever T'Pau speaks with her.
After all, she's doing an "adequate" job raising Spock.
Adequate her ass.
She slams her door a bit harder than necessary and considers the fact that her agitation, like everything else today, is very much her husband's fault.
Taking a moment to compose herself, she gives the computer T'Lin's address. The hovercar backs out of its bay, the door closing behind it, and sweeps into the air.
"Why do I have to stay with Il T'Lin, Mother?"
They haven't explained pon farr to Spock yet. Sarek doesn't really want to, in spite of the rampant illogic of it, and Amanda has no idea how to. To date – meaning once – her experience with it has been mind-blowing sex, followed by abandonment, followed by understanding of the shame of an entire race, followed by months of indulgence.
She doesn't think Spock will understand her explanation.
And given that they've already found a bondmate for him, she thinks they really do need to sit down and explain some things. She wanted to tell him when they told him about T'Pring, but Sarek said no and that he would take care of it.
He hasn't, and while it's not like him to be avoidant, she doesn't blame him for this.
"As I've told you, your father and I are taking some personal time," she says, since that's as good an explanation as any.
Spock leans forward, stretching the length of his safety belt, and peers around the front seat at her. She hopes she's not blushing, but it's so hot on Vulcan that she's never sure if she's flushed, overheated, or at some bizarre equilibrium.
"You are obfuscating."
She stares at him. "When did you learn the word obfuscating?"
He beams in the way Vulcan children beam – with eyes bright from succeeding at an intellectual endeavor. "I have been reading the Oxford Dictionary for Federation Standard—"
This is her life.
"—and I wished to put to use some of the words I have discovered such that—"
My Life with Vulcans, she thinks with humor. It'll be a hit holo-show with everyone except Vulcans, and then the High Command will exile me for making them the butt of every joke.
"—you could see my personal studies are progressing at a rate acceptable for a Vulcan my age."
The frayed temper that Sarek's hormones have contributed to all week nearly snaps. "Is someone saying you're not progressing at a rate acceptable for a Vulcan your age?" she asks, thinking she could tell Sarek this and watch him go on a bloody rampage.
No.
That would be unfair to him. It would be reprehensible, actually, a horrific breach of trust and she's rather appalled at herself for thinking it.
"No, but I discovered a book relating developmental milestones for children and having familiarized myself with the concepts presented, I wished to—"
"Spock."
"Yes, Mother?"
She cups his little face in her hands and lowers her forehead to his. She feels his affection through their familial bond. "You are absolutely perfect in every way, and you don't need to worry about impressing me."
He purses his lips. "My eyes are too far apart to be considered aesthetically pleasing, Mother."
"Your eyes are perfect."
"According to—"
"Spock," she says patiently. "Am I not your mother?"
His brows draw together. "I don't understand the nature of your query, Mother."
"Thank you for the acknowledgement," she says, as she thinks, Who says Vulcans aren't funny? "As your mother, I believe I'm within my rights to declare whether or not you're perfect. Don't you agree?"
She leans back and watches him chew on this idea. Steam is all but pouring out of his ears by the time they arrive at T'Lin's. Through their bond, she can sense him attempting to figure out how to respond logically to her question without also insulting her.
She hopes the conundrum will keep him busy during his stay with T'Lin.
Helping him out of the hovercar and hauling out his books and suitcase puts a considerable strain on her. She hasn't quite adjusted to Vulcan's heat, and she doubts she ever will, but she likes it. It's so much less wet than Seattle, and far less humid than San Francisco. But it's still an arid desert, and there's not much difference, in her mind, between thirty-five degrees with one hundred per cent humidity and forty degrees with no humidity.
Both are equal in their terribleness. At least Vulcan's heat will be far more tolerable when she's naked.
She's shocked to realize her anticipation borders on giddiness and then supposes she shouldn't be shocked at all. Who wouldn't look forward to mind-blowing sex – quite literally – and months of pampering after? Admittedly, she hopes to get through without any bruised ribs this time.
How would she explain that to Spock? Don't worry, darling, your father just threw me against the walls of a cave before fucking me silly probably wouldn't go over well.
Dragging Spock's suitcase to the door, Amanda knocks twice.
"Isn't Il T'Lin expecting us?" Spock asks.
She's gratified that Spock doesn't seem to know precisely how T'Lin is related to him. Amanda is fairly sure T'Lin isn't an aunt in the direct sense. It's more likely that T'Lin is related to them third-hand. Sarek's clan of families and how they relate to each other confuses her so much that she's given up trying to figure out who specifically is who. Spock opting for the general term for a female relative makes her feel a bit better about this.
"She is," Amanda replies, knocking again.
"Then would it not be most prudent to simply enter?" Spock asks, reaching for the door.
It swishes open before she can stop him, and T'Lin stands before them looking imperious and somehow glacial in spite of Vulcan's heat.
Spock lifts his hand in the ta'al. "Dif-tor heh smusma, Il T'Lin," he intones with a serious face.
"Sochya eh dif, Spock," she responds, returning the ta'al to him. She shifts her gaze to Amanda and opens her mouth to speak.
Amanda cuts her off. "Live long and prosper, yes, thank you, and peace and long life to you, too, I'm sorry to be rude, but I really do need to go."
"Mother is late," Spock announces with all the delicacy of a sun going supernova.
"Yes, I am," Amanda says at the same time T'Lin replies, "Yes, she is."
Vulcans, she thinks, and she feels her husband's curiosity at the thought. He must be pressed up against her impenetrable wall.
Or maybe her mental block isn't as well constructed as she thinks it is. He's had sixty-odd years more experience with mental blocks and bonds than she has.
Amanda.
He's through the wall, suddenly filling her mind, and Amanda feels like she's burning from the inside. The pain of it is nearly unbearable.
I need to say good bye to our son, she tells him blithely.
His presence retreats, but the fires don't go away. Figuring it won't get any better, she leans down and offers Spock two fingers. He touches them with his own. "Be good," she tells him. "Mommy and daddy will see you in a week."
"I am aware of your itinerary."
Vulcans, she thinks again, because, really, only a Vulcan seven year old would use the word itinerary. "Have f—" She pauses. "Have a pleasant time," she says, not wanting to embarrass him overmuch in front of T'Lin. "And thank you again, T'Lin."
"No thanks is needed," T'Lin responds, stepping aside to allow Spock into the house. She takes his suitcase and closes the door a moment later, and as soon as she does, Sarek's need hits her again.
Amanda gasps with the force of it, stumbling back to the hovercar and telling it to take her to the caves.
He flits through her mind while the car drives, touching and caressing her with his thoughts. She doesn't understand how it works, only that it does, and within minutes she's sucking in great mouthfuls of air. Her clothes are too hot, too tight, too restrictive. She wants to tear them off. He wants to tear them off.
She pushes against his mind, sending him a mental image of him using his mouth to undress her. She imagines it as a slow, almost tortuous process where he maps each exposed plane of skin with his lips and tongue.
He reminds her he has done this before on several occasions and that all he wants at the moment is her body clenching around his as he pleasures her.
And here I've thought of you as a poet, she thinks.
He responds by filling her mind with the image of her pressed against a wall, his hands on her breasts and hips as he moves with deliberate slowness, drawing her pleasure out until she can barely stand.
She wants this more than anything. Is utterly consumed by her need for it. She checks the computer, wanting to know where she is in relation to the caves and to him.
"Oh," she says.
Concern and apprehension fills their bond. He doesn't understand why she's surprised or why there's a nervous pit forming in her stomach. It's his feeling but her concept, and he is suddenly concerned that there's a gaping hole in her abdomen. But he feels no pain through their bond, so this must be illogical, except she's thinking—
She settles her hand against her stomach to prove that she is quite fine.
The hovercar, on the other hand, appears to have run out of power.
He insists that's not possible.
"Oh, but it is," she says, realizing she didn't actually charge it the previous night.
The fact that she has overlooked something so monumental takes him aback and actually knocks some of the lust back. Fear replaces it.
"Shh, shh, no," she murmurs. "I'll come to you. I'm not far from the house. Let me contact emergency services, and I'll get the bi—I won't get the bike?"
He is adamant that she not take the bike, and she realizes it's because he's turning around.
"Why are you not there yet?" He has no excuse. "No, you don't. Sarek, can we even do this at the house?" He doesn't see why not. It's empty. "But what if someone comes back!" He reminds her she gave the household staff the week off. "But what if!" None of them have a reason to return to the house.
She considers the dead hovercar. She considers him, his need for her that is a loud roar in the back of her mind she can only barely ignore. She considers the empty house.
Heaving a sigh, she says, "If T'Pau finds out about this and rides me for it, you'll be on the couch for the next month."
His response is an explicit image of her riding him, her back arched, her head thrown back, and his name on her lips as he holds her hands in his. She can't help the moan that spills from her lips, her hands sliding over her thighs. Every part of him that's in her mind sharpens with interest and eager anticipation.
"If the point of this is procreation, you… watching me is hardly logical," she says, clenching her hands on the fabric of her skirt.
Amusement coupled with desire tickles the back of her mind. Then he presses his urgency upon her, and she murmurs reassuringly as she contacts Vulcan's very efficient emergency services.
They'll care for the hovercar; she tells them she won't be there by the time they arrive, and because they are Vulcan they don't ask questions. It's entirely possible they suspect she won't be at the car because she'll be with her husband. It's what she would think if pon farr was a thing humans did. But they're Vulcan, not human, so it's equally likely they won't think anything at all.
He nudges her mind.
"I'm dithering, I know," she says, striking out across the arid plane between her and their home.
They live on the outskirts of Shi'Khar. She would consider it suburban – they're only twenty minutes from the city – except for the fact that their house is the only one for miles in any direction. It surprises her how much urban sprawl Vulcan doesn't have.
His agitation increases as he approaches their home from another direction, and she increases her pace. By the time she's within sight of the house, she's running, her skirt hiked up over her knees. She's hot and sweating, and only a small part of that is because he's waiting for her, wanting her.
She flings herself at him when she reaches him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing flush against his body. Her fingers slide into his hair, disheveling it, and brush against the tips of his ears as he grabs her hips and kisses her fiercely. His lips consume her, the scalding heat of his mouth an unbearable pleasure.
Applying a gentle pressure against her back, he urges her to move with him into the house. She follows because she can't fathom doing anything else. To let him move away from her would be to drown.
His hands stroke her back, comforting, reassuring. He won't let her drown. He will protect her. She knows this as surely as she knows her own mind – because his mind is hers.
The door shuts behind them, and he sags against the wall, still kissing her. His kisses are soft and drugging, pulling her into a hazy fog of pleasure. He likes that he can confound her mind and wrap her up in feeling, and he likes that she has no inhibitions about it.
His hands sweep over her back to find the buttons at the back of her gown when the door chimes.
The noise that explodes from his throat isn't civilized. He sounds more animal than man, and the look in his eyes as he tears his mouth from hers sends terror skittering down her spine. Fear sinks claws into her muscles, cooling her ardor and adding to his rage. His anger is split between whoever is at the door and her sudden withdrawal from his lust.
"Sarek," she says, attempting to catch his face in her hands.
He snaps at her with his teeth and yanks away, setting her behind him as he prowls toward the door.
His murderous intent is black and viscous in her mind, a sticky sludge that turns her stomach. He has no qualms with murdering whoever happens to be outside that door. This unknown is a threat to him and to his ability to take his mate.
For a moment, his mind threatens to subsume hers. She flounders in it, not sure which of the thoughts in her head are hers and which are his. She sees flashes of maimed bodies and blood, and some part of her yearns to see him defend her. Another part of her screams that he doesn't need to defend her. No one is going to hurt her.
A strangled sound comes from her throat, and Sarek freezes, caught halfway between her and the door. He is torn by his need to protect her, not sure if he needs to destroy the threat at their door or wrap her in his arms and use his body to make hers sing.
"That," she gasps, trying to picture it in her mind.
The door chimes again, and the chime makes up his mind for him.
He whirls toward the door, moving with practiced, martial grace, and she can imagine clearly how the bones of the intruder's neck will break under her hands. She can picture his face as the life drains out of him, the terror and the fear. She exults in knowing she will protect her mate, and—
Flinging herself forward, she wraps her arms around him as the door opens. Her hands on his chest are somehow capable of holding him back. He goes still, and she can't imagine the look on his face, or the look on the face of whoever is on their doorstep.
Her heart pounds against his back and in her ears, and she rubs her cheek over the rough fabric of his jacket. Need you, she whispers into his mind.
She hears the sound of quickly retreating footsteps.
He's angry as the door closes. He's angry that she held him back from the threat to her, and there is nothing gentle in his eyes when he turns in her arms to face her.
Fear spikes through her. This is the danger with his time; she knew it last time, she knows it this time, but last time she didn't see more than a glimpse of it. Now, he has been driven to the edge of what little, ragged control he has by whoever was at the door. She feels the swirling conflict in him. He wants to destroy the man – the human man – who came to the door, perceiving him as a threat to his mate. Some small, still lucid part of his mind recognizes this frightens her and that it is his duty to protect her from the things that frighten her – even himself. But he burns for her, and there is a twinge of fear, of stark terror really, that she will refuse him.
This situation is familiar to her. It's like what happened last time, but worse, and she has to deal with it directly. This is part of what it means to be a Vulcan's wife.
Swallowing, she looks up at him with a tentative smile. The smile cuts through him. She can feel his pain. He doesn't want a tentative smile on her face, but he is unsure of himself and doesn't know what to do to make her truly smile. He knows what he wants, but he's fairly certain that acting on what he wants will only scare her away.
"So logical, sa-telsu," she murmurs, mustering her courage. Her hands spread across his back, her breasts press against his chest. Just her nearness to him is enough to make her feel a tickle of arousal. Olozhika-osa-telsu t'nash-veh, she whispers in her mind. Her logical, honorable husband.
He slowly, so very slowly, sets his hands on her hips. Watching her, he lowers his forehead to hers. He trembles in her arms, vibrating with his leashed need for her.
She turns her face to the side, and for a moment, his hands tighten almost painfully. He thinks she's rejecting him. But then her hair slides away from her neck, and her eyes flit to his, a playful smile on her lips.
With a groan, he sinks his teeth into the skin of her neck, marking her as his. It hurts for a bare moment, a flash of pain that is overwhelmed by his pleasure pouring through the bond between them. She gasps, lost in the powerful sensation of it.
The impression of words echo in her mind, the feeling of a complete loss of self and of control and of substance as he releases the bite to run his tongue over the marks he's given her. And as always, he hangs on a knife's edge between passion and rage, and she is the one who determines which way he swings.
He is still trembling, still struggling to keep from destroying anything that might cause her harm or fear – and he is considering destroying himself for her, too.
"No, no," she murmurs. Rai, rai, osa-telsu.
He whines softly against her neck, a plaintive sound, asking her to show him whether she wants him to stay or go.
Closing her fingers around his wrists, she removes his hands from her hips and takes a step back. Pain – and rage – flickers across his face and through their bond. His muscles are coiled, and he's ready to jump on her and drag her to the ground – she can see it in his mind, and she can see that this ends with them both naked and entwined – when she pulls the front edge of her gown free from its buttons.
Vulcan clothing, if nothing else, is suspiciously easy to get into and out of.
The gown falls about her ankles in a heap, leaving her in naked. He stares at her, somehow baffled by this, as if he doesn't understand that his wife is, in fact, standing nude in front of him.
She lifts one hand, beckoning him forward, and he launches himself at her. His arms come around her, and when they hit the floor, she lands safely on top of him. Then she's under him, his hands everywhere on her body, frantically stroking, touching, and his teeth catch her skin in little bites she knows will bruise.
She's not entirely certain how he gets his pants off, but he's suddenly inside her, stroking the flame of her need, making her burn for him as brightly as he burns for her. His fingers brush her psi points, and she closes her eyes against the brilliant surge of white hot passion that washes through her. She gasps his name before she's lost in the swirl of his mind.
The first time they did this, his mental presence overwhelmed her. But she's used to him being in her mind now and has learned how to ride the waves of his thoughts. They buoy her in warmth and pleasure, creating frissons of pleasure that skitter down her limbs like fleeting caresses. He uses his mind to arouse hers, applying gentle pressure here and there to stimulate her, to make her arch into him and cry out with delight.
He keeps her on the floor for the better part of two hours, bringing her to one earth-shattering climax after another until she's boneless in his arms. Then he bundles her against his naked chest, having shed the rest of his clothes at some point, and carries her to the kitchen.
She floats in his mind, weightless like one floats in a sea, and watches his thoughts come and go. They are as efficient and methodical as he always is, even in his time; it is simply that what he would call logic has been overridden by his primal urge to mate with and care for her.
It's touching in an archaic sort of way, but she finds she doesn't mind at all when he takes a bowl of fruit out of their refrigerator. Her eyes widen with delight when he offers her a strawberry. Smiling, she lifts her hands, waiting for him to drop the strawberry onto her palms.
He gives her a blank stare that somehow manages to convey his amusement.
With a sigh – stubborn, demanding man, she thinks at him – she leans forward and parts her lips.
Poor man, he thinks he's just going to feed her, that he's going to care for the hunger gnawing lightly at her stomach. He has no idea what she wants to do with these fruits. Licking her lower lip, she wraps her mouth around the lower half of the succulent strawberry, her eyes on his as she bites down. Sweet, tart juice fills her mouth, and she pulls back to chew and swallow, watching him watch her.
He doesn't care for strawberries, or most Terran fruits, but there's hunger in his eyes as he stares at her mouth. She feels a bead of moisture on her lips, and before she can lick it away, his mouth is on hers, his tongue sweeping over her lips and then into her mouth.
And now he knows all those thoughts she has about what two people can do with a fruit.
Groaning at the taste of her and the strawberry, he steps between her legs and pulls her against him. He's hard again, he wants her again, but he thinks it's more important to see to her continued nourishment.
She thinks it would be nice for him to make love to her again, and because she thinks it while still floating in the currents of his mind, he hears her. Quite clearly. And it's equally clear he's amenable to this now that he's certain their desires align.
He shifts her with a firm hand at the small of her back, scooting her forward on the counter until she's more on him than on the cool ceramic. He presses into her again, a quiet groan on his lips, and offers her another bite of strawberry as he moves.
She shivers from the intimacy of it. Vulcans don't touch their food with their bared hands. Ever. For him to feed her from his own hand is indescribably erotic to her, even more so as he moves slowly inside her.
Discarding the top of the strawberry, he plucks another from the bowl beside them. He bites into it, and she tastes it the way he does. It's too sweet to him, but she sends him her impression of the taste, the fresh tartness of the fruit as the skin breaks and juice floods her mouth, and then he's kissing her.
She moans against his mouth, shifting her hips impatiently against his, wanting him to move harder, faster. He is content to kiss her languidly, his mouth open and scorching hot, and she doesn't understand why he isn't taking and taking from her like last time, why he is so willing to play when she wants more.
The piece of strawberry tumbles its way into her mouth from his, bringing with it his uniquely alien taste. It makes the strawberry better, more savory, and she keens softly as she pulls back to chew and swallow.
He watches her with dark, intense eyes, the very corner of his lips quirking the slightest bit. His knuckles brush over her neck, and she shivers, her eyes fluttering shut. Something cool and wet follows the same path of his fingers, and when he sets his tongue to her skin, she tastes strawberry juice on his tongue.
He rumbles with pleasure, thrusting harder into her, and she arches against him, setting her hands on his upper arms. She slides one hand over his shoulder, up his neck, into his hair so she can stroke the tender tips of his ears.
Pleasure fizzes through her veins, a slow, simmering boil instead of the burning heat she's anticipated.
He drags the strawberry across one nipple and around the swell of her breast, and his mouth follows. The strawberry is cold, his mouth is hot, and she can feel her touch on his ear deep inside her like a warm rush of water over her skin.
The strawberry makes its way back to her mouth, his lips and tongue still following the sweet trail. She finishes the rest of it and then turns her attention to his fingers, licking the taste of the fruit from his skin.
He watches her as he drops the strawberry into his other hand and discards it, and she senses his fascination with her lips. He watches her mouth close over his fingers, watches her suck and swirl her tongue over his fingertips, and he groans softly.
Her teeth dragging gently against the pads of his index and middle fingers are what finally set him off. Burying that hand in her hair, holding her hip with the other, he yanks her hard against him. Pleasure lances through her, and through him, and she loses herself in the swirling sensation of their bodies joining in a passion she can't begin to comprehend. It overwhelms and engulfs her, burning her with its intensity.
But he's there with her, shielding her from the full might of it, wrapping her up in himself until there is no difference between them. They are one being in two bodies, and it's so perfect, so beautiful, that she sobs when she climaxes – and he kisses away her tears.
What is perhaps most surprising is that he understands. His eyes are wet, too.
She thinks he'll whisk her to the bedroom then, but instead he bundles her into his arms again, her legs linked loosely around his hips, and carries her and their bowl of strawberries to one of the estate's many sitting rooms. He settles them comfortably on a low-standing couch with her cradled between his legs and sprawling across his chest, and he spends the next thirty minutes feeding her in slow, measured amounts. He carries her back to the kitchen to procure a glass of hirat juice for her.
He takes her again, up against a wall just outside of the kitchen, his pace sweet and gentle as he croons to her in Vuhlkansu. He tells her she is perfectly formed, her eyes are night-bright and her hair is moon-light. He whispers to her that her skin is the softest silk, and her body the coolest succor, and she comes to a shuddering, panting release in his arms.
Stroking her hair, he carries her somewhere else. She isn't sure where, but they settle again, and he urges her to nap. She does, too exhausted to think of doing anything else. Even in her dreams, she floats on the currents of his mind. She sees herself as he does, as a precious, fragile treasure. She is his salvation and his hell, capable of offering him redemption or destroying him. If he has one weakness, it is the depths of his feelings for her and their son.
Sarek collects Spock from T'Lin's several days later. Amanda remains at home, soaking in a tub and staring at the ceiling, considering her husband. His presence is all but removed from her mind, and she appreciates having the privacy for her thoughts. This distance isn't the same as the abandonment the first time, but rather his natural inclination to give her the opportunity to review the events of his time without his influence.
He is equal parts repulsed and satisfied, and it bothers him that he can't settle the apparent dichotomy.
She, on the other hand, is completely satisfied and a little curious. She wishes she had another woman to talk to about pon farr. Briefly, she entertains asking T'Lin or even T'Pau. Just to see their faces. She thinks they'd go sheet white under their warm olive-green coloring.
With a quiet hum, she rolls in her tub, reaching for a soft cloth and soap. Gently, she rubs herself down, wincing when she passes over a particularly sensitive bruise on her breast. She isn't so sore this time, which she thinks is because she and Sarek haven't altogether foregone sex for the past seven years. In fact, aside from her bruises, she's quite fine. He wasn't as rough. He was, in fact, quite gentle.
She wonders why, meandering through her memories of the past week. They're a little fuzzy around the edges but only because she can't separate each time Sarek took her from the last. The entire week consisted of him holding her, feeding her, and coupling with her in turn – in nearly every room of the estate.
She's fairly certain she'll never be able to enter one of the private studies ever again without turning scarlet and going up in smoke.
Through the bond, she feels Sarek's faint amusement at the thought, followed by a flash of admiration for Spock. Spock regales his father with an essay. He has titled it On the Perfection of Mothers. It is very philosophical. She thinks it's marvelous.
Sarek is jealous.
To be jealous would be illogical.
"I thought you were giving me some alone time," she says, brushing the cloth over her shoulder.
Forgive my intrusion, ko-telsu.
"It's no intrusion, Sarek." Her words are warm, infused with her smile. "But you're still jealous he didn't write an essay for you."
He grumbles in her mind, and she sinks further into the warm water, letting her washcloth drift away from her. With a contented smile, she closes her eyes.
She doesn't know what provoked the change in him this time, but she does know she has no preference – both times were rather remarkable, each for its own reasons. She has to admit, however, that not having bruised ribs is rather nice.
He winces.
"Intruding," she says in a singsong voice, but she doesn't care, and he knows it. He settles into his usual place in her mind, though he keeps himself distant from her present train of thought. He won't stop her from reflection, but he doesn't want much to do with it.
Maybe, she thinks, he was gentle because he knew how scared she'd been at the depth of his anger. It had been a great, black cloud sweeping across the plain of her mind, and she was a small desert shrub with shallow roots. He would have crushed her with his rage. Maybe he recognized that at the time and sought to make it up to her with sex that was as gentle as it was emotionally overwhelming.
She likes that conclusion. He might not – he isn't offering his opinion, of course – but she finds it satisfying.
Will your bath be finished when we return? he asks.
"Oh, yes," she murmurs sleepily. A frisson of alarm skitters down her spine. His feeling, not hers. "I won't fall asleep in the tub, Sarek."
You're very tired.
"Mmm."
You should retire. Perhaps a nap?
A smile curls across her lips. "You're fussing," she says.
I am not fussing, Amanda. I don't fuss.
"Fuss fuss fuss."
Amanda, I am not— He breaks off, and she senses him withdraw his attention to his son, who is summarizing, in rapid-fire Vuhlkansu, the entirety of his book on advanced dilithium what's-its. She only knows this because Sarek knows; half the words Spock uses are ones she doesn't recognize.
Pleasure floods their bond, and an impish grin replaces the smile on her face. "Pride," she says. "You're proud of him." He's thrilled that Spock is taking an interest in something that relates to astrophysics.
It is not pride.
"You sound like a kitten that's been rubbed the wrong way."
I assure you, I have been rubbed quite well the past few days.
She has no response to that. Except a good deal of feminine satisfaction.