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From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Date: Wed, 21 Apr 2004 19:43:00 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW TOS  The Yearning 1/1 (K/S)[NC-17]
Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Title: The Yearning
Author: Lyrastar
Series: TOS
Codes: K/S
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Paramount owns 'em. I want 'em.
Contact: Lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com or 
www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher




THE YEARNING


It's only during Enterprise's night that it happens, and only when 
the ship is silent and very,v ery still.  It happens while clamped 
tightly into spacedock or while gently free-falling in 
geosynchronous orbit--when the thrill of the ship's engines yields 
to the intrinsic peace and quiet of space.  When the bulk of the 
work is done and the intercom chatter has abated, then can you 
discern the select sounds that are the manifestations of the 
humanity all around you.   

Then you can hear the footsteps in the corridor; sometimes you can 
even distinguish one crewman from another.  You make out spackles of 
conversation as the speakers pass by your door.  They prattle on 
unabashedly, as they have not yet realized what non-human ears can 
hear.  It makes little difference; what they say doesn't interest 
you at all.

Instead you attend to the sounds from the other wall--the one of the 
bathroom that you share.  You hear his naked feet as they pad 
confidently across the boards.  You hear the steam and spray of the 
shower water as it falls around his body and the splash of him as he 
suds his glistening torso slick with soap. You have heard this 
vision so many times that you can play it over in your mind.  
Sometimes you do.  Against all the teachings of Surak, sometimes in 
your loneliness you do.

Then you hear the water stop.  You imagine you can hear the friction 
rub of towel over body as he dries his most intimate places, but 
surely your ears are playing tricks. A short time later his bedding 
rustles restlessly.  You do not hear any hint of the man re-donning 
clothes.  This affects you in a most curious and un-Vulcan way. At 
long last you hear the accelerating slap of lonely hand on skin as 
the man soothes himself to sleep.  The pattern never varies; he has 
it down to a science.  The speed and intensity increase and increase 
again.  Across the bulkhead, the bedding groans once in sympathy.  
Was it the bedding, or was it you?

And once again, suddenly all is silence.  A deafening silence, so 
empty that it hurts.

You tell yourself that to listen is not logical.  You have told 
yourself this each of the one hundred and seven nights that you have 
lain here just this way.  And yet, every night that it happens that 
the engines are silent and the ship is very still, you track his 
movements through the shift. When he retires, you retire.  And you 
lie.  And you wait. You lie and you wait this night, like all the 
other nights before.  You will wait for as long as it takes him to 
begin.

This night will make one hundred and eight.

At first it was an intrigue only. Yet one more passion of humanity 
you could see and hear and stand so close to--so very, very close to-
-but never seem to touch.  Over the weeks and months of your time 
together, your fascination with the act became a fascination with 
the man.   A man that you could see and hear and stand so close to--
so very close to--but never dare to touch.  A man so great and 
vibrant and open that no one soul could possibly hold him.  Not one 
barren Vulcan, least of all. 

For besides what he is, you are what you are, and that is a man 
promised to a woman.  So now you strain your ear against the wall to 
capture each one of his moans and each rustle of every self-caress, 
and you use that long suppressed too-human imagination to visualize 
every gesture, every shiver, every expression upon his enraptured 
face.  You can never have him, you know, but you can have this at 
least.

Parted from him and never parted, never and always touching and 
touched, you pace your hand to the rhythm of his breath and you 
close your eyes and imagine you two as one.

It should have been an irrelevant luxury.  To any full Vulcan, it 
should have been much more than enough.  Perhaps it would have been 
enough except for that fateful night when you heard him choke your 
name with a strangled cry, and it was clear that this nightmare was 
not only your private hell but his as well.

A captain is not permitted.... No, a captain is not permitted.

You know you should stop this illogical display; you know you should 
leave him to his private place. You know you should reinforce the 
bulkhead soundproofing with all due haste.  

You know you should let him go.

You know you should tell him what his Vulcan friend can hear--and 
feel.  You know you should do all these things for your friendship 
is pure and true and he trusts you like a brother.  A brother.  A 
friend.  T'hy'la.  A lover.

But instead you touch yourself where you ache--where you ache 
physically, that is--moving to his music as each sequential night 
has taught you to do with such sad familiarity. You hear him break, 
and you come wasting seed into your own hand and wondering again, 
how else it could be. In a perfect world, how would it be?

Such thoughts serve no purpose and you let them go.  You rise and 
cleanse yourself as the lonely silence echoes oh so loudly in your 
ears.  The water is cold and the towel is rough and you tell 
yourself that this time will be the last. But even as you fold your 
eyes into sleep, the vision of his sweet face floats before you, and 
you know with absolute crushing certainty that Vulcans can indeed 
lie--to themselves at least. 

With shockingly little remorse, you abandon those concerns yet again 
and chase the teasing vision of him through the grey haze of waning 
consciousness and into the waiting free expanse of dreams.  For 
after all, no one else will ever know, so who is it really hurting?  
 


~Lyra
April, 2004

  


[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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