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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
- 11
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On unspoken agreement, they remained separate throughout their meal. J'Mara even seemed to test their combined resolve, eating with her hands, taking only raw meat and the strongest bloodwine. Vuron found himself watching intently. Each lick of her fingers. Every slow swallow. The delicate droplet caught in the corner of her mouth, before her dexterous tongue flicked out to collect it.
“I find I don't like this control of yours.”
“I can not disagree.”
Her grin warmed him. She passed him a goblet full of bloodwine.
He sighed. “I would prefer to remain sober tonight.”
“You fear forgetting tonight. That will not happen.”
“T'hy'la,” Vuron admonished. “I thought we were-”
She waved a hand to dismiss his trouble.
“I will not press anymore tonight. But if you are leaving tomorrow, I want to enjoy what time we have left together.”
“What do you wish to do, after we have finished eating?”
“What else?” she asked with a grin. “I want to test your steel with mine. You are recovered enough.”
Vuron nodded and continued to eat his meal. If his chest felt a bit tighter, his breath perhaps a bit quicker, or the food tasteless for the haste in which he barely chewed before picking up another mouthful... well. Perhaps he had not completely recovered from the fire in his blood yet.
J'Mara finished first, kissed him on the cheek, her fingers straying along his covered arm a moment before she disappeared down the long hallway to the practice chamber.
Vuron felt... empty. The feasting hall echoed with her footsteps. The first time in days they had eaten alone, rather than with her pupils. His mind echoed with that same emptiness, but he firmed his resolve to keep their minds separate. He only had a little longer to practice. And no doubt that the moment he left, their bond would be pulled to a painful tautness. Screaming for him to return.
His fingers found the mug of bloodwine, now chilly in the cool air, and he drank deeply. A tingle of regret niggled at him for not doing so in his bondmate's presence. He sighed and stood.
Vuron's body ached. A good practice before sleep might well be just the thing. Work out the last of the pain in the muscles.
His feet took him through the long, cold hallway that skirted the edge of the practice grounds with the familiarity of years. His fingers traced old scars in the wood of the walls. For a moment, he saw not his pale hands with the neat, blunt fingernails, but deep chocolate skin, fingernails more like rough little claws. Chewed nervously while being lectured at. Vuron pulled back from the memory from a childhood not his own with great difficulty.
More than curiosity made him itch to put a little pressure to that slim tidbit. How old had J'Mara been when her fingers first explored those deep grooves? Had she trained here since she was so young? Vuron traced the mark again, comparing the size of his hand to the larger member that had held dagger and sword against him, and the small appendage he'd just seen. Truthfully, he couldn't estimate her age from that memory.
Simply not enough information.
Are you going to join me, or not?
The shock of her presence in his mind shook him from his contemplations.
I am. I simply became distracted. With a moment of concentration, he showed her the gouges in the wood, trusting that her memory would be sufficiently stimulated to figure out the rest. He only heard a rude noise on the wind.
I am waiting. Take your pick. Come spar with me, or wallow in a bunch of useless old memories.
For all of the grump she attempted to project, he felt a faint bit of curiosity. Embarrassment. Not quite deception but-
For the love of Kahless. Get in here, will you?
The hint of a smile tugged at Vuron's lips, warmed his mind. Time enough for musing later.
J'Mara sat in the middle of a precise circle on the ground, sharpening one of her treasured daggers. Irritation emanated from the set of her shoulders, the bulging muscle of her jaw.
“I have angered you.”
“We only have a few precious hours yet, and you spend a quarter of one of our few hours staring at a wall.”
“I thought we were spending the evening separate from one another.”
She huffed in frustration and stood.
“I have our weapons assembled.” Vuron felt an eyebrow quirk at her declaration. “We shall take our pick freely. First one to draw blood wins.”
“But ends the spar,” Vuron countered. He'd had enough bloodsport for a while. She considered for a moment, then nodded.
An interesting stipulation, love.
Vuron sighed. Please. I would like to practice shielding.
“Fine. But only until the end of the match. I find I enjoy your taciturn voice in the back of my head.”
If I am so taciturn, then you wouldn't be hearing my voice.
Details. She smiled. Open. Full of teeth. Challenge. Invitation. She tossed him her favorite dagger.
“If you can keep this through the night, it's yours.”
“An interesting challenge, t'hy'la, but I don't see-”
Her shoulder whooshed the air out of his lungs. He twisted and rolled away. He had only a moment to retract and tuck the naked d'k tahg into the tie of his practice robes. He flipped away quickly as she raised her joined fists for another blow. In a sweeping, articulated scramble, his hands skimmed over the blades, settling on the gin'tak spear.
At some point I'll have to show you the lirpa.
She frowned at him for breaking his own standard, before snatching up a bat'leth.
Superior reach versus greater blade surface area. The differences in leverage could be argued either way.
J'Mara grinned with a feral joy, her blade coming down upon him with a familar, determined over-head barrage, a single-minded swinging style. Strikes that, with a bat'leth in his hands, called for either with a perpendicular stopping force, or a side-deflection, or a redirection of momentum to disarm or return a blow in kind. He could do a perpendicular block twice, no once, considering her strength, before the wood of the spear failed. The curved blade at the end offered him only a diagonal deflection and rotation of momentum; the smaller surface area of the metal, and flexibility of wood, meant he required utmost precision in his ability to just where she intended the force of the strike to hit. He caught and redirected for each of her blows with the metal of his blade, systematically protecting himself from each attack in turn. Holding ground, not advancing.
Each strike became more forceful. Her eyes tensing, never breaking contact from him.
The wood gave as expected, once he finally had no choice but to block, leaving him with a baton and a cumbersome length of handle to the head of the gin'tak. He spun both, making use of the baton for defense, assuming axe-head styled attacks for the remainder of the gin'tak.
Without reach or a good blade, Vuron found himself side-stepping constantly to get out of the way of J'Mara's sweeping weapon. Rolling to escape a downward strike. Leaping to evade the odd leg sweep.
Every dodge bringing heat up in her face. Tightness in her lips. The thrusts harder. More likely to meet out injury from the force in her arms, in her torso, in her every step.
“Fight damn you!” she hissed as her metal once again only met air.
A large downward slash aimed for his head opened the position he wanted; as her leading foot stepped into his space, he sidestepped, his lead foot slipping behind her at a neat ninty-degree angle. A slick little bit of human footwork that put him deep into her personal space. So deep, he felt her shoulders flex against his chest as she made to turn.
Baton arm flipped up, locking her elbow in an extended position, a push of his hips and shoulders twisting the klingon off to the side, in time with his steps.
“Infuriating Vulcan!”
The column of her neck flexed before him. The subtle peaty, floral scent wafting from the thick plaid of dark hair. Vuron burrowed his nose against her, drawing in her aroma, savoring the heat from her skin.
A deep growl vibrated against his skin.
“Infuriating... Vulcan.”
“You are repeating yourself, t'hy'la.”
J'Mara's body flexed against him. Intent on turning in his arms. He tightened his grip on her, locking her elbows.
“That is not the challenge you set forth.”
Another growl, nearly a frustrated groan, and their positions reversed. J'Mara dropped under his arms and popped back up quickly, flipping him up-and-over in front of her, slamming him on the mat, flat on his back.
Somehow his fingers has released the broken spear in the toss, sliding down her forearms and gripping the sweat-slick leather of her bat'leth.
He kicked up into her sternum before the wrestling match for the weapon could begin. Spun, gained feet, brandished the new weapon.
J'Mara hesitated a moment before dashing for her weapon's rack.
Vuron made a calculated risk, held his ground, giving her the time she needed. He flicked her bat'leth up and down, examining the way her weapon's weight felt in his hand. Heavier in the blade edge. The handles smaller, a bit more cylindrical. Made the little upper-cut flip she favored faster. Less controlled than he'd prefer.
A flash of metal brought his attention back up just in time for him to catch his weapon with hers. Or vis-versa.
She grinned at him over his bat'leth.
“An interesting choice.”
“You took mine, it only seemed logical,” she spat out the Vulcan word quickly. The swing she offered him slow, the arch wide. He deflected comfortably enough, until the end of the arc. The edge of the blade skittered away from him as the superior momentum of her weapon exceeded his expectation of the movement.
Vuron barely avoided having his knuckles sliced clean through.
With a huff of frustration he gripped tighter into the leather. Metal flashed back and forth, the footing equally awkward, he realized, as J'Mara fought with his heavier, slower balanced blade.
Again and again they flicked back and forth, Vuron doing his best to control every move and twist from the elbows down while still keeping torso, legs, feet fluid enough to avoid J'Mara's every assault.
“You never attack,” she grumbled. A fine film of sweat gleamed on her skin.
“The attack is not everything,” Vuron counters as he redirected yet another attack, changing her momentum so that it slipped around him harmlessly. “The attacker's momentum can be taken,” he caught her blade against his own. “Redirected,” he demonstrated with a deft twist of his hips. “Repurposed.” A flick of his wrist and he'd locked the tines of his bat'leth with hers. A hard twist dislodged it completely. He released his borrowed bat'leth to follow his into the shadows of the hall. The metal sliding along the cold dirt noisily.
“You,” she snarled, snatching up the head of the spear, a quick snap breaking off the remainder of the wood so she could hold it like a dagger. “Are infuriatingly calm.”
Vuron felt a touch of amusement behind her frustration.
“Did you not already speak to your students about that exasperation?”
He slipped out of her way once again. With open hands, he found he could move with similar steps. Grapple as he needed to. Take his enjoyment from the occasional touches of skin on skin as they sparred.
Take his enjoyment from seeing the minute shivers along her body as she responded to his touch.
His fingers tugged at her belt. He reveled in her surprised smile. The blush of her skin at the sight of her bare chest.
“You might be cheating,” she all but purred.
“You are doing the same,” Vuron replied, as her fingers caressed the back of his hands, distracting him from a shoulder lock. She slipped completely from her robe, letting more of their skin graze as they exchanged punches, grabs, pins.
Every touch of their skin, Vuron felt his internal walls crumbling. A warm tide rising from J'Mara's skin. Banishing away the chill of the winter air.
A dull echo of the ponfarr fire sent a shiver of... nervous anticipation? Worry? Anxiety? Any and all, truly it didn't matter.
The moment it was there, another caress of hot skin both flared it up and soothed it down.
She originated that heat in him. A whisper of his mind wanted to explore the heat – did it come from her? Or perhaps more worrisome, did her alien genetics call up the the heat in his blood again? – but as the tide rolled away to a manageable desire, he found the fear of the emotion seep away.
J'Mara's grip turned to caresses. The fingers tight, possessive on the back of his neck. Gentle on the sensitive fingers of his dominant hand. Teeth nipping at his jaw, close to his ear. The panting of her breath, the rush of her blood, roared through him.
Distracted enough that she didn't notice him reach under his belt for the d'k tahg she'd sharpened earlier. His thumb flicked the switch. The secondary blades snapped open, slicing both of their stomachs.
J'Mara glanced down, a particular expression crossing her eyes a moment, before she collapsed on top of him in a fit of laughter.
His shields came down at the flood of her emotions.
“You had that planned the entire time.” Her smile took out any sting from the comment.
“It was a possibility.”
Her fingers gently caressed the shallow gouge in his skin, bringing the green blood to her lips.
“Not all battles can end so... neatly.”
“No, but a spar between bondmates can.” He stepped closer to her, tucking his nose against her temple, drawing in her scent again. Riding the tide of her uncontrolled emotions with nothing more but the feel of her fingers holding his to anchor him. “I will treasure this memory. As I treasure you.”
She met his gaze, unfocused with their closeness.
“That is the closest you have come to saying you love me.”
Vuron's shoulders tightened a moment, but he forcefully released the tension. With none of his own species in the room, none to ostracize him for his differences, to judge him for his occasional slip from the ways of Surak....
“Even knowing you only a few days, I am more fond of your presence than any I have known in my lifetime. I am not ashamed to say that I am continually surprised – no, amazed – that I would find such a compatible mind.”
“Let alone in the mind of a Klingon?”
Vuron flinched at the bite he felt through their link.
“Regardless of species. Do you not... hesitate, at the thought of being connected to me for the rest of your life? An emotionless, smooth-faced, pointy eared, pale, prudish-”
Her fingers on his lips stayed his train of thought.
“My people are not so,” she struggled for a word, finding “isolationist,” in his mind, again in Vulcan, before continuing. “Perhaps some are,” she corrected herself with a chuckle. “But if one has honor, proves themselves in battle, then that is enough. I see into the very heart of you, through this bond of yours.
“A wise, old master I knew,” she continued, her thoughts drifting. “Often said that the heart will go where it wants to. One can follow it, and deal with the consequences, or one can tear it out and feel nothing. Those gouges in the wall, were from his mate. They fought terribly. Every day. Weapons crumbled, bones broke, under their wrath at one another. I questioned him about it, when I got old enough to understand. Why not just leave? Or kill her in honorable combat?”
Her fingers trailed down to where his robe had slipped from its belt. Tentatively stroking along old scar tissue.
“And?”
“He said, she carried his heart. If he left, or killed her, he would die without it.”
“A romanticized view of the world.”
“Klingon poetry is the most beautiful in the universe,” she countered, with a jab to his ribs. “Of course we would be a romantic. Ah well. Once I was old enough to see that their fights simply kindled their passions into a bonfire, rather than a cookflame, I understood.”
A little flicker of amusement passed between them.
“This is why you wanted to challenge me to a spar.”
J'Mara grinned. “And it worked, did it not?”
He hummed in response, nipping her cheek gently between his even, flat teeth.
Her fingers slid down his smooth, hairless stomach to the belt, undoing it and sliding off the robe.
Vuron shivered at the temperature differential between her hot hands and the cool air.
“Does your species only mate during this blood fever of yours?”
He shook his head, amazed that she hadn't delved into that secret like she had so much else.
“Not honorable, when there is so much shame surrounding it,” she replied, pressing her bare chest against his, offering her warmth.
“We mate outside the pon farr,” Vuron offered. Felt her curiosity. His cheeks heating with it. They'd skimmed the condition before, but... she deserved to know. And it would be easier to speak of such things here. “Once every seven years, the fever takes us with a strength we can not control or deny. We must return home, and take our mate. It is not unusual to be in its grips for two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” J'Mara pulled away a bit to meet his gaze straight on. Pulled away mentally as well, so he could only guess at her thoughts in her suddenly expressionless face. “You were in that fever, in the blizzard, for two weeks?”
He nodded. He'd accessed one of her few computer terminals to gather some data the day before.
“Fifteen days. It is... unusual that I would survive that long.”
“No wonder you were as weak as a kitten when you burst through my door.”
He felt an eyebrow lift at that, subtly tugging at the strings of her barrier, plucking at the memory she'd shared with him, of fighting for two days without pause.
“Vulcans have great stamina.”
Her eyebrows shot down, then up.
“Wait. You are saying... they take their mate, for two weeks, with great stamina.”
His cheeks flushed.
“That would be the typical response to the pon farr.”
Her grin, her arms wrapped tightly around him, warmed him.
“Seven years to wait, hm?”
“As I said,” he stated calmly, clearly, wanting to whisper but not in deference to Klingon etiquette. “We do mate outside of the fever.”
The mental distance she'd been holding slipped away again. Their temples pressed against once another as they embraced. Vuron not looking forward to his next Time, but for once, not fearing it either.
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Far Away From Home