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Far Away From Home	By : mancer Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 2090 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this writing and the non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 10
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J'Mara insisted on several days rest. Time to recuperate. Time to become used to one another's patterns.
Vuron felt himself in a state of continual discovery. He would be lifting a bowl of broth to his lips, only to suddenly find himself, his mind, across the table from him, staring at a familiar Vulcan in Klingon armor, metal bowl held between taunt fingers, while his teeth tore into the succulent red meat of an animal he'd... J'Mara had butchered shortly before.
She'd spat out a mouthful that first time.
“You will turn me vegetarian.”
“Unlikely,” Vuron responded, unsure how to deal with her teasing. “And I believe I have already turned omnivore. I surmise I ate... an animal... outside.”
“Several. I don't think they were completely dead yet,” J'Mara had said, after considering a moment. She'd grinned at his subtle Vulcan frown.
In fact, the whole while she oversaw his recuperation, she took devilish joy in getting a rise out of him. When she deemed him recovered enough to join her daily lessons, she purposefully attempted to aggravate him. Making fun of his pointy ears, pale skin, prudish ways.
She could feel the distraction in his mind, just as he knew her intention as if it were his own.
Their ritualistic flowing strokes of bat'leth continued on and on, before the somewhat amazed eyes of her disciples.
“See, how I call his mother a smooth-face, and he does not react?” She spoke with the voice of an experienced teacher.
“I thought our anger at such things brought the right energy into battle.”
“Ah, but anger is a brittle thing. If not tempered, and quenched on occasion, it will chip away like an old sword and give you nothing but shards in battle.”
At this her attack became aggressive. Her blood heating with her need to destroy him. Vuron blocked time and again as she swung her blade back, up and over her shoulders, and down into him. She screamed a battle cry with each blow. Staggering him mentally and physically, but his calmness, his cool depths as her mind thought of him, received her anger like the river of Stovokor received each battle hardened warrior, simply accepting and swallowing up all the energy.
Their ears rang after her final blow. Her lungs burned. With a disgusted spit, she flung her blade to the ground at her students feet, so they could see how she had destroyed the edge against his guard.
“If I had been calm, or at least less angry and intent on taking this pointy eared demon's head off, I would have changed my stance. Or swung from another direction. I have seen too many good men and women loose their head in battle over some perceived insult.”
You are asking them to learn logic, Vuron whispered along their oddly strong link. Vulcans are taught it as children.
J'Mara growled. Frustrated and unhappy with the direction of her frustration.
“Go to the blacksmith, children,” she ordered. “Learn to quench your steel and harden it.”
They bowed and disappeared.
“An easier lesson for them to learn, I presume.”
She grunted her agreement.
“You are tired.”
Vuron shrugged a touch. No point arguing the truth.
“Is it normal, taking so long to recover from this pon farr of yours?”
“I don't know of anyone who fought it as long as I did and survived.”
“An admirable mate indeed.”
“Or a foolish one.”
Again she grunted.
Vuron suggested t'ai chi ch'uan, to remove vestigial stress in mind and muscles. With verbal, and mental cues, Vuron led the both of them through a couple sets, before J'Mara snorted in annoyance.
“Remove your robes. I need to see your muscles move.”
Vuron felt his lips quirk a touch, but removed the practice robe that she'd provided for him. He felt her eyes roaming over the the low set of his leggins. She enjoyed the line of his hipbones, the way they curved in and pointed to his groin. She even salivated over all the scars that adorned his chest and stomach.
“This t'ai chi ch'uan, is a Vulcan art?” She asked, as they began to move again.
“No, a human one. Based on highly lethal attacks and defenses, but slowed so that one can work towards the perfection of the movement. A human's adrenaline would speed up any motion to what it would need to be, for the situation.”
“Hm. I like the idea. Slower training would help a battlemaster see imperfections in technique as well.”
While she spoke, she divested herself of her own top, stretching in a way that made the sweat glisten in the firelight.
“I am not the only one who appreciates her mate's body,” she growled low.
“Indeed.”
He felt the hot lick of her anger at the evenness of his voice before she pounced on him. He calmly took wrist and elbow in his hands, changing her momentum and directing it in a spiral away and down, as he'd learnt from an Aikido Sensei. Pressing her down to the wooden floor, he locked her elbow so that any struggle she made would likely dislocate the joint.
“Do not pretend you do not enjoy the teasing, as well, my t'hy'la,” he whispered against her throat.
Vuron slipped the hand gripping her wrist down, stroking her fingers with his own, allowing his mind to open up with the contact. Complimenting physical appearance felt... odd. Having such a warm, inviting presence in his mind felt disconcerting in an entirely different way. But showing her how he saw her, the way the light caught on her skin, the lithe sinuous grace as she dove, attacked. The strong column of her neck. Admiration at the strength in her shoulders, her arms. Appreciation of her skill with her weapons, and her skill in teaching others the same. Aesthetically pleasing in the ways he felt important.
“You have been closing me off,” she nearly sighed into the floor. “Hiding something from me.”
The barriers in his mind went up automatically. He released her hand, her elbow, and stood carefully.
J'Mara stretched and rolled, so she could watch him. Leaving herself in a vulnerable position. Bare stomach exposed. No weapons. Physically showing him how she mentally felt.
“I need to regain control,” Vuron said. She could sense the pleading in his voice. Not even another Vulcan could hear it. “If I don't... do you want to continue to feel my revulsion when you bite into flesh? Or find yourself suddenly pulled from battle, and thrust into my body while I sip tea on New Vulcan?”
And there it was, sitting between them. His intention to leave. To return to the diplomatic party, for as long as he was needed, and then travel to New Vulcan. Join his fellows in being whatever aid they could to the colony.
“You intend to leave.”
“I must.”
She sagged back onto the ground. Eyes closed. One hand open in an invitation to join her.
Vuron settled against her side. His hand traced the muscles of her bare stomach, subtly counting the solid ribs, rubbing a thumb down her hipbone.
“You enjoy touching me.”
“Physical contact is not an experience I have had the chance to appreciate before.”
She sighed. “And your fingers are so sensitive. If I concentrate, I can feel every hair follicle.” She shivered. “Are your people normally so cold? No, not temperature. I know you come from a desert. And you miss the arid winds. And turning your face towards the sunset to gather those last few rays of heat before it dips away and the temperature drops. I meant, you and Rellig. You didn't see him, except for the matings. You had no intention of seeing him until your time came again. Is that normal?”
“For some. If my duty is to my Ambassador, and his to his family's business. It is unlikely that a delegate would have use of a potter during negotiations.”
J'Mara ruminated for a while, her thoughts clouded in their own way as he gently stroked her side. She caught up one of his hands so she could kiss his fingertips.
“I can not argue with you, hmm? You need to leave.”
He nodded.
She lifted his hand so that she could nuzzle his palm. Feeling how his fingers felt as he stroked the ridges of her nose, the curve of her eyebrow, the coarse dips and raises of her ridges.
“Oddly cyclical thinking.”
“You are the one observing my reactions to touching you.”
She smiled against his palm, kissing, then nibbling on it.
“I have been hiding something from you too. Now I am not sure I want to share.”
Vuron pressed his mind against hers, curious, and appreciating her need to feel worth the curiosity.
“I see something... made of bone?”
She laughed. “Perhaps I want my privacy too. Come. We feast tonight. Tomorrow, you return to your bastard Sranak.”
Vuron swallowed down his disappointment. In truth, while he admitted the need to return to himself, he had purposefully not considered the when or how.
“Come, husband.” She took, gripping his hands and pulling him to his feet. “No sadness in duty. We will never truly be parted.”
There, and not there. Always with him, and never.
For once, the term husband left a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. He cherished it.
- 10
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- 12
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Far Away From Home