Fic: Companion, Chapter 33: Spock (8)

[elliewood]

 

It appears that we have been successful in making our escape from Starfleet Medical.  The doctor and I were careful in our preparations; I purchased and delivered, along with the cargo containers, a week's supply of food for the captain and myself, late last night when there would have been few individuals about to notice the relative rarity of a Vulcan's presence among them.  Dr. McCoy also provided me with a supply of the medications he believes the captain might require to promote his recovery, so barring any unforeseeable emergencies, we shall not have to leave the room for some time.  The doctor and I also agreed to maintain communicator silence between us in order to perpetuate the impression, among any who may be surveilling him, that he has no knowledge of our whereabouts.  While this precaution is, I believe, necessary to ensure the captain's safety, it fills me with no small amount of trepidation that we will be unaware of the doctor's predicament once it is discovered, as it may already have been at this moment, that we are gone. 

Room 5042 is not on the fifth floor of the hotel building as I had predicted, but rather on the 50th floor, its altitude above the city affording what Humans would appreciate as an impressive view. It is small but luxurious, reflecting a certain celebrity to which the doctor did not allude when he described the manner in which he was afforded lodging by Starfleet.  Much of the living space is occupied by a large bed upon which are piled multiple pillows of various sizes atop an unnecessarily voluminous duvet.  The remaining space is occupied by a small sofa, an armchair, a single desk and chair, and a chest of drawers in which I have already stored our small amount of clothing.  The diminutive footprint of the room will be an advantage for the captain as he will have little difficulty navigating about it without the wheelchair; indeed, once I have removed him from it to the bed, it will be necessary to fold the wheelchair and store it in the single tiny closet until such time as he may require it, if ever again, there being insufficient floor space to maintain it in its open configuration.

I turn my attention to him.  The trip from the hospital to the hotel was not lengthy, both establishments being on the Starfleet Headquarters shuttle route and one being therefore easily accessible from the other.  But the relative lack of sleep last night as we made our plans and the exertion associated with his physical therapy session this morning have combined to exhaust him; he was asleep by the time I wheeled him out of the shuttle toward the hotel entrance.  

It will be necessary to make physical contact with him in order to lift him out of the chair and put him to bed.

I begin by facing him and pulling his upper body toward me so that I may remove his jacket.  My movements are expedient and the contact is limited, the only direct touch being between his face and the skin of my neck as his head rests on my shoulder.  Once the jacket is off I slip one arm beneath his legs and the other around his upper back to lift him up and out of the wheelchair, delivering to that item a push with my foot to roll it out of the way so that I can turn around in the cramped space and seat myself on the bed.

And it is there that my resolve flags.  I should lay him down immediately, pull the duvet over him and retire myself to the sofa, but I hesitate, and in that small space of time, I am lost.

His head is heavy on my shoulder, his slow, steady exhalations cooling the skin there and stirring it into gooseflesh.  I can feel the movement of his closed eyes against the bend of my neck just as I can feel the touch of his mind against mine while he dreams, and I marvel at how his Human mind has already learned to navigate the bond, instinctively reaching out through it even without his conscious apprehension.  Were the situation different, were he to return my affection, we would be exceptional among bondmates in the rare strength of our connection and the harmony of our minds.

I cannot

I cannot refuse him; the bond will not be denied. I answer his mind's questioning touch with my own, and his mouth curves into a smile against my throat.

I am not

It is too much.

The blood rises

His weight on my bare thighs stirs me he knows he laughs he pushes at my chest I fall backwards onto the bed he is astride me on top of me enveloping me around me riding me up and down and laughing breathless his skin damp his eyes blazing my hands are on him pulling stroking his eyes close his head arches back he reaches his climax a beautiful sound I cry out too joy amazement and roll him over under me and push quickly eagerly he groans helpless with each thrust until I peak inside him filling him marking him he is mine mine no one else shall ever have him ever again no one

My eyes snap open.  He sleeps on, apparently untouched by my lustful indulgence and unaware, I am thankful to note, of the spreading wetness in my lap.

I lay him against the pillows, pull the duvet over him, and remove myself to the bathroom to wash.  I am in dire need of meditation.

 

***

 

Two-point-seven-one hours later, having cleaned myself, changed my clothing, and engaged in meditation, I find myself once again in control of my physical being but not much calmed in my thoughts.   

I confess to a certain apprehension, even fear, regarding the loss of mastery I experienced.  I am not a novice in sexual matters and have experienced physical passion several times but never with the complete lack of control that befell me earlier.  I am certain that my parents, my primary reference point for issues relating to bonded individuals, did not lapse so easily as I just did into the depths of carnal desire, for indeed, if they ever indulged in sensualism apart from that which was necessary for my conception, I was never once aware of it throughout my childhood, and I was by nature unusually inquisitive and observant.

And even now, that loss of control taunts me, makes me aware of its presence.  I look down and realize that I am wearing one of his shirts, chosen without conscious volition from the chest of drawers.  

I pull the collar up to my nose and inhale, deeply.

If I cannot curb the impulse to touch him, physically or mentally, if I cannot regain the discipline over my own thoughts and actions that I enjoyed prior to the meld with him, then I see no alternative other than that of removing myself permanently from his presence.

I recall Nyota's third option regarding my response to her challenge: to request reassignment, transfer, to end all contact with me.  I do not desire that action on her part and have even less enthusiasm for it on mine. Yet, while I can conceive of an existence in which I perpetually yearn for one who does not want me, it would be unacceptable not to have the capacity to conceal that unrequited yearning.  And if the events of this morning are any indication, I am in the process of losing that capacity.

I cross the room to the closet to retrieve Nyota's gift from the pocket of my stained pants and sit back down on the sofa to open it, at last.  For my apprehension at its contents has been dwarfed by my decision to leave him, once he has no further need of me, and I cannot think of anything she could give me that would distress me any more.

I am mistaken, as it happens.  Beneath the dainty ribbon and shiny wrapping lies a jewelry box, and inside that box is a delicate chain upon which floats a small cylindrical pendant, muted silver in color and exquisite in taste as she is herself.  And inscribed on it, in the curls and lines of Vulcan script:

Sadalau nash-veh du

I release thee.

She knows our customs too well to have chosen this phrase by accident, the phrase that in ancient times was used to grant divorce to a wronged bondmate by the errant spouse.  In using these words, she has granted me freedom, not only from our association but also from my own proposal to her challenge.

She is telling me that I may have him because she wronged me as well.

I have not felt the pressure of shameful tears behind my eyes since I was a small child, but I do now as I lift the pendant from the velvet-lined box and raise it to the light.  It was her intention all along to release me once I confessed my betrayal to her as she now did hers to me.  My deception and cowardice have been the cause of much more pain than I supposed.

I place the pendant around my neck, tucking it under his shirt so that it rests on my skin.  In the end, it will make no difference; I may not have him because he will never be mine to take.

 

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