Archive of Our Own

The lantern makes moving patterns of light on Gaila’s skin.

Lying in bed, she watches them, enjoying how they speckle her green arms with gold. “Like the leaves of a Tellarite orchid,” Spock had said once, in this very bed. The memory makes her lips tingle, and she smiles.

Beyond the lantern’s light, shadows become the familiar shapes of Spock’s room: The chair, the bookcase, the desk with its boxes of brushes and scrolls. The tall windows to the garden are open, and the the cool night air carries in the smell of flowers.

When she’d come to bed, Spock was already there. He wore a simple robe and lay with his eyes closed and hands folded, his breathing calm and even. Gaila had watched him for a few minutes, trying to see—was he different? His sculpted face was tranquil, his gray hair neat, his hands showing no tension. She’d just begun to wonder if he was sleeping when he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Gaila. I must reiterate the importance of adequate rest.”

“But it’s fascin—” she’d begun, but was quelled by a lift of his brow.

“I promise, I will wake you when it is time,” he’d said, gentle but firm, and closed his eyes again.

Now, in the dim light, she senses him behind her. Not touching, but close enough to feel his rising warmth against her back. He hasn’t moved or made a sound, but something is different; she feels it like a weight in the air. Her Orion senses, normally quiet, spark to life and throw up a quick warning, which she just as quickly dismisses.

Gaila hears his intake of breath as he turns toward her. Then his hands find her and he pulls her roughly against him. She has a moment to appreciate the strength of his arms, then the thought stutters away as his hand sweeps down her body and presses between her thighs. “Good gods,” she breathes, her skin going hot. His fingers find the wetness between her legs and push inside, fast and deep, and she catches her breath at the sudden, eager pulse of desire.

His other arm is tight around her waist, holding her body flush to his. She can feel his hard, heavy length against the soft curve of her bottom, separated from her by nothing but the thin fabric of his robe. She squirms, pressing against him, working herself deeper into his embrace. She wants more, she needs the barrier gone, she needs—

He understands her. He quickly withdraws his fingers and tugs on his robe, tearing the cloth from between them. He grasps her hip and moves her, shifting the angle of her body—then he’s there, his cock pressing blunt and insistent against her. He buries himself inside her in one fast, fluid thrust, and the answering throb of her body is so intense she can’t hold back a desperate, gasping “Aah!”

At that, he freezes. Even in his fevered state, his control unraveling, he remembers that he needs to be careful—that she’s not Vulcan, that he might be too strong, that he could hurt her—

For a spiraling moment he holds himself still. He drops his head to her shoulder, his breathing ragged, and when she reaches up to stroke his neck she feels how he's caught—how part of him is still rational, wants to be careful, while the rest is being slowly consumed by burning, ferocious need.

“Please," she whispers, "I won't break. Just fuck me."

The sound he makes is the sound of reason departing.

The Vulcans know. All the Vulcans on this planet, at least.

Spock had told her, when he first perceived the signs in himself, that the others soon would as well. So it’s not a surprise when, three weeks before it begins, Sovek and two assistants from the Vulcan Science Academy appear on their doorstep.

Spock knows why they’re here. They know why they’re here. Somehow, that doesn’t inspire directness. The Vulcans sit on the padded bench, not drinking the tea Spock has poured for them. They're not young—Sovek is nearly Sarek's age—but next to Spock they look like nervous teenagers.

Gaila expects the usual indirect Vulcan conversation, where nothing of significance gets said until at least ten minutes of ritual remarks have been made. So she's surprised to find, on her return from the pantry with plomeek biscuits, that Spock has decided to get right to the point.

"You have come because I will soon experience pon farr,” he says. The other Vulcans blanch and develop a sudden interest in their tea. If there was any question, they just answered it.

Sovek is the first to get a hold of himself. “Ambassador, for your safety, it is advisable—“ he begins, but Spock silences him with a gesture.

"My intention to help rebuild the population has not changed. When necessary, I will participate. But I do not require assistance with my Time, nor will I accept it. This is not negotiable."

Sovek's eyes flick to Gaila, standing behind Spock. She smiles and gives him a little wave. Gaila is respectful toward Vulcans generally, but Sovek is the worst. She's seen the way he looks at her. Everyone has seen the way he looks at her.

In your dreams, Gaila thinks, returning Sovek's stare.

It's possible her lips move, a little.

By day, Spock does his best to stay lucid. He rises early to meditate, kneeling in the garden as the sun gradually ascends over the roof of the house. He accepts small amounts of food and water from her, and the few words he says are gentle, though his voice is rough from disuse.

Still, the fever is ever-present, and his inhibitions are completely, delightfully absent. Gaila gets her wish to fuck him on the garden bench, straddling his lap with her dress pulled down and her skirts pooled around them. He takes her again in the garden, between the rows of plants where she sunbathes. His hands fist in her hair as she cries out, coming helplessly, surrounded by roses.

Inside, he presses her against the wall and lifts her like she weighs nothing, lowering her onto him with torturous slowness until she begs him to please, please just do it, just take her now.

She really likes the “take her now” part.

Each afternoon, he bathes her. He stands her in the tub and sluices water over her body, then rubs fragrant oil into her skin until she’s glowing and radiantly green.

On the second day, she discovers he’ll let her to do the same to him. He stands still as a statue and watches her as she pours water over his long limbs, his lean muscled chest. Normally his Vulcan modesty keeps him at least somewhat dressed; even during sex he finds a way to wear clothing. Now, his indifference to his own nudity charms her. Now, he lets her see all of him.

For a little while after the bath he’s cooler. He’ll lie, relaxed and compliant, and let her do whatever she likes with him. But the heat always returns; she gets half a second’s warning before he catches her wrists and rolls her, pinning her beneath him. The ache inside him can’t be satisfied by gentleness. She knows, because she feels it, too.

Still, he's careful with her, as much as he can be. His teeth find her shoulder, her neck, her thigh, but only bite hard enough to give pleasure. The hands that hold her hips as he fucks her will release at her command, if she gives it. Which—well, if she gives it.

His fingers, when they brush her temples, touch only lightly on her mind. It’s no more than they've already done—the sharing of emotion and sensation, the communication of a thought. He's careful with her, even now. But she feels the intensity of his need building, distantly, like a far-off storm.

He doesn't have to tell her it's difficult. His need to join his mind with hers is as clear as his need to penetrate her body. But he doesn’t ask her, will not ask her, not yet. Not before it’s necessary.

She already knows what her answer will be.

At night, it’s different. Darkness pulls at his self-control, weakening his hold on caution, removing all traces of inhibition.

He allows her a few minutes of holding him down, his hands above his head and his eyes gazing up at her in dark amusement. But his submission is only pretend, and when the urge to act becomes unbearable he ends the game in an instant. With lightning speed he flips her, rocking into her with breathtaking force. Everything that's Vulcan in him is clamoring for him to take her, to dominate her, to claim her.

The truth is, it's indescribably hot.

Gaila has always known he was restraining himself with her. Not only physically, but in the needs and desires he allows himself to express. She's had glimpses, moments when his control has faltered, and she’s felt the presence of something deep and turbulent beneath his tranquil surface. She’s even daydreamed about what it would take to bring it out. Now, she sees how little she understood.

At night he speaks to her in Vulcan. The words spill out as if he can't contain them, as if they're being forced up from somewhere deep inside. He murmurs them against her ear, against her neck; he whispers them as he holds her hands, their fingers laced together and pressed into the mattress. Gaila speaks Vulcan well now, but she doesn't know these words. Still they make her blush; they raise goosebumps on her skin. When he repeats them in time with his long, slow thrusts it pulls an answer from her: “Yes, oh gods, please, yes.”

She has no idea what she's agreeing to. She literally does not care.

He always fucks her like he means it. Restrained as he is, she’s never doubted his sincere regard, his desire to please her. But now he fucks her like he really means it. Like he intends to mark her. Like he wants to leave some part of himself inside her. Like if he goes deep enough he'll find something in her that he's lost.

Two nights before it begins, they lie together in her room. Gaila is tucked under Spock’s arm, her head on his chest, drawing circles with her fingers on the back of his hand.

“You understand that I may ask to join my mind with yours,” he says. “It is important that you are prepared. I may not be able to answer questions in that moment.”

“So, what we do, but—more.”

Spock nods. “Yes. Ours are not deep connections. A Vulcan bond is like—a merging of consciousness. It would be very invasive, if it was not wanted."

“How long does it last?”

"For some, a few hours; for others, days, or longer. The depth and duration are somewhat dependent on the abilities of the Vulcan who creates it.”

Gaila smiles and draws a few more circles. “You know, the trainees at the Science Academy are very interested in your abilities.”

His brow lifts slightly, but he accepts the digression. “Indeed. That is surprising.”

“That is the opposite of surprising. You know gossiping about you is their favorite pastime. They think I don't speak Vulcan well enough to understand them."

“A mistake, obviously.”

“Indeed. Right now the debate is whether you could ever be an acceptable bondmate. Some of them say yes, because you’re an Ambassador, you’re very intelligent, and you act logically in dangerous situations. The rest of them think it's weird how you appeared out of nowhere, you know way too many humans, and they suspect you’re not who you say you are.” She pauses, thoughtful. “No offense, but I think the ‘no’ vote is doing pretty well right now.”

“No offense taken. Those are all accurate observations. I would be concerned if no one had made them.”

“Also, everyone agrees that cohabiting with an Orion will ruin you for Vulcan women."

“Ah.”

“Except T’Chana. I think T’Chana is Orion-curious. She may actually think it’s hot.”

Tactfully, Spock ignores this speculation and addresses the previous statement instead. “Does this concern you, the suggestion that you are ruining me?"

“Speaking as an Orion,” Gaila says lightly, “I don’t think I’m qualified to say. Do you think I’m ruining you?"

“I also may not be qualified to say, if I have been ruined.”

That makes her laugh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You were telling me about the bond and I interrupted. Please go on.”

“As I said, the connection would be temporary. But for as long as it exists, it would be like any other Vulcan bond. My thoughts would be open to you, and yours to me. While a bond is not a necessary condition for pon farr, the sense of well-being it produces may alleviate some of the more uncomfortable aspects. Once the Vulcan’s Time is over, the bond usually dissipates.”

Gaila lifts her head. “Sorry if I’ve been scarred by Starfleet, but—what do we mean by ‘usually’?”

“As I too served in Starfleet, I understand your concern,” he says, dry. “‘Usually’ in this context indicates a degree of uncertainty. My intention will be to create a temporary bond, but I will not have my usual level of self-control. There is a chance that the bond may persist beyond the intended time.”

“I see.”

“But Gaila, if something unforeseen occurs, it need not truly be permanent. Reversing a bond is not simple, but it is not dangerous.”

“So if we—we could just—” She falters, feeling a blush rising. “We could reverse it. You would want to reverse it.“

He turns his hand over, pressing his palm to hers. “If such an outcome were to occur, I would be guided by your wishes. I would end it or preserve it, according to your decision.”

“Oh my gods,” Gaila breathes. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

The emotion that flickers in his eyes is gone too quickly for her to identify. “I do not believe that I do,” he says. “But perhaps I have been improved by cohabitation with an Orion.”

Gaila understands why Vulcans don’t talk about this. They call their Time “loss of logic,” but that’s hardly sufficient. It's loss of boundaries, loss of shame, a dislocation of identity. Even Spock, the most open-minded Vulcan she’s ever met, was reserved and indirect when he talked about it.

Maybe that's why, though he tried to prepare her, he left out so much. He didn't tell her how thrilling it would be, how erotic. The lush and layered way his mind engages with hers, tangling together with a fluidity that extends outward, encompassing both of their bodies. It hums inside her like a drug so rare only Vulcans have ever touched it.

Through the wide open doors of the bond she feels herself—the way her Orion consciousness curls, tendril-like, through the gaps in the delineated order of his Vulcan one. And his, pressing back, realigning her mutable structures into a different kind of order. It’s beautiful and exposing and intimate, the most intimate thing she's ever done.

Then, on the fourth night, in the blackness of his room, she sees—light.

She’s resting while he sleeps, floating in the stream of memories and nonsense which the bond allows her to see, and in which, to her delight, she frequently appears. He’s dreaming of space, of his younger self—no, of himself in his own timeline, younger. She hooks the memory and holds it, trying to see—

A sudden, blinding light overwhelms her, a sense of tearing pain. Jim Kirk on the other side of a glass wall, shouting—

Her ears are filled with roaring noise. A vast wave of emotion seems to pick her up and throw her. A wall of heat, a dissolving, then a sudden pitch into blackness and void—

The room re-forms around her abruptly. Spock’s hands are already on her, pulling her tight to his chest as she sobs in shock and grief.

“You died—” Her voice is broken; the words feel like they’re choking her. “I saw it. I felt you die.”

Gaila. It comes through the bond, his voice in her mind. Everything is suddenly soft and unreal, as if he’s thrown a blanket around her, is shielding her from whatever maelstrom is still inside him. His hands are unsteady as he smooths back her hair.

“Spock, what was that? Please, explain.”

He lowers his head and touches his forehead to hers. This memory begins with silence, but do not be afraid. It is not the void. His fingers rest lightly on her temples, and he allows the shield to fall away.

Silence, soft and gray. A feeling of tranquility, of suspension. A formless place, but safe.

Then, from a distance, an approaching glow of green. An expanding sensation in her chest, as if something is unfurling there. A sense of things transforming, and a burst of sudden, overwhelming color—leaves, insects, flowers. The smell of water soaking into soil, her lungs filling with humid air—

“Where is this?” she whispers, eyes shut tight.

“I will explain when I am able,” he says, softly. “It is true that I died. However, as you see, I did not remain so.” He kisses her, tender, without the ravenous heat she’s become accustomed to. “Ashayam, rest with me.”

So they curl up together in the night-washed room—his hands lightly stroking her back, her hands fisted in the tear-damp cloth of his tunic. Holding on, as if to keep him there.

On the morning of the sixth day, he wakes without a fever. By evening, he’s nearly himself again.

Nightfall finds them in the garden, lured by the fresh air and the soft moonlight. They take their usual positions on the bench: Spock sitting, Gaila lying down with her head on his lap. He’d declined to trade places with her, so Gaila contents herself with looking up at him, occasionally reaching up to stroke his ear, or trace his brow with her fingers. One of his hands rests softly on her chest, just over her heart. The bond between them is already growing thin, and she wonders if, like her, he misses it.

They're quiet for some time, listening to the breeze in the garden, watching the second moon follow the first across the sky. It's Gaila who breaks the silence.

“So, I guess you’re an expert at this by now.”

He considers it. “I do not know what expertise would consist of. I have experienced pon farr under a variety of circumstances, some unusual, but this is still only the sixteenth instance of it in my lifetime."

"Good gods, you've done this sixteen times?"

He looks down at her, bemused. "Gaila, I am over one hundred and fifty years old."

"I know, I just—never did the math."

"A curious oversight for a Starfleet engineer."

“Hmm. I supposed I was distracted.”

With his free hand, Spock brushes a wayward curl from her face, then runs his fingers gently through her hair. Gaila closes her eyes, savoring it. The garden is peaceful but not silent; insects and small creatures rustle among the leaves. The air is full of shadowy coolness, and smells like flowers.

Gaila opens her eyes. “May I ask you something else?"

"Of course."

"Was this—was it what you needed?"

This time both eyebrows go up. "Gaila. Are you asking if I found this experience satisfactory?"

“Maybe.”

He huffs out a breath, what in someone else would be a laugh. "By the beard of Surak, Gaila, you ask extraordinary questions."

She smiles, tilting her head to give him access to more of her hair. “Thank you. It was satisfactory to me as well.”

"I am glad. It was my wish to please you." His hand pauses its gentle movement; there’s enough of a connection remaining that she feels his moment of hesitation. “I have been concerned that you might perceive me differently after this experience. I am aware that my behavior was not—as I usually wish to be, with you. To the extent that my actions were inconsiderate, I ask your forgiveness.”

Gaila stares at him. “Oh my gods, are you apologizing? That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. If you don’t keep doing some of those things to me I will be very upset.”

"I will endeavor to accommodate your wishes, as always," he says. "I have had—similar thoughts."

“Hah, I knew it,” Gaila says, feeling a little glow in her chest. “Related question, does Sarek know you'll throw him into the sun if he ever tries to have sex with me?”

Spock blinks. “What is said during pon farr is—“ He searches for a word, seems to change his mind. “I cannot speak for Sarek. But I believe the sentiment would not surprise him, if he knew.”

His hand on her chest is warm under hers, and Gaila gives it a little squeeze. To her delight, he turns his hand over, fitting his fingers between hers. It's unusual for him; Vulcans rarely hold hands outside the bedroom. But he takes her hand now like it's something he does all the time, and she realizes he's also trying to prolong the connection between them.

“The bond is getting weaker,” she says. “I can feel you fading from my mind.”

He nods. “That is as expected. I feel it as well.”

“I think—I think I hoped we’d have one of those accidents. Like when you’re on an away mission and you get sent to the sex pollen planet by mistake. I thought the bond might be one of those things that go wrong, but it’s okay because we secretly wanted it to.”

Something ripples through the remaining trace of the bond. “Would you have wished to keep it, then? If such an accident had occurred, and the bond was not temporary?”

She looks up at him. Spock is carefully looking away, out to the deep shadows of the garden. Not avoiding, just not wanting to challenge her with his gaze.

“Yes,” she says, “I would. Even without sex pollen. I want to keep you.”

He looks at her then. In his dark eyes she sees lifetimes—friendship, sorrow, happiness, grief. “You honor me. I wish to keep you, also.”

Sudden tears prickle her eyes, but she smiles.“Well. Okay then.”

And they hold hands in the moonlight until it’s time to go inside.