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Pon Farr: The Morning After
Previously
I wake close to dawn enveloped in Sarek’s arms. My fiancé is coddling me like a fragile newborn. His shoulder pillows my head, one of his arms is curled snugly around my waist holding me close to his chest. My head rests against his and I can feel his breath on my neck and shoulder. When I shiver slightly and press closer to him, he responds by wrapping me with his body. He shifts my hips moving them closer to his groin and covers my legs with one of his.
His body’s higher temperature soon warms mine and I drift back to sleep. Several hours later a chill penetrates my slumber as well as a faint whirl. My eyes slowly open. Sarek is hovering a few inches above running a scanner over my body. A med kit is open on the bed.
“Do you required a healer, or will my ministrations be adequate?” he asks in his species’ unmistakable monotone, yet the question’s delivery is faster than Sarek’s usual measured cadence.
“What?” I blink sleepily. “I’m cold. Come back to bed.”
He frowns at the scanner’s output. “You have minor injuries, though none which would decrease body temperature. I will treat them and then decide if further medical care is necessary.”
“Excuse me?” I mutter then add in a louder firm tone, “I’m fine. And by the way, I’m cold because my Vulcan is puttering with his toys rather than wrapped around me.”
He shoots me that look I have dubbed, ‘who wears the pants in this family?’ I answer it with a thought of my own, well me actually, I’ve never seen a Vulcan in anything but a robe.
“Why are pants germane to this conversation? And because robes are cooling and practical in a desert climate,” he replies with slight headshake and a grimace.
“What? Wait. How did you … oh …” It seems this morning my vocabulary is limited.
“I shall explain once I have completed tending to you. Your wrist is broken, you have several large bruises and a cracked rib.” He snaps a bone knitter over my wrist and then plumps my pillows and eases me up and against them. His touch is gentle despite the accompanying stiff body movements. “It is forbidden, but in my pon farr madness I initiated the mating bond, our mental oneness.”
My brain is fuzzy, I feel disoriented as if awakened suddenly from a deep sleep by a loud noise, and my head aches as if hung-over. Sentences will not form as I continue muttering, “How … long …”
“Does pon farr last?” Sarek finishes after reading my chaotic thoughts. “72.7534 Vulcan hours. Longer if in the midst of battle.”
“How much longer?”
“Weeks,” he replies while monitoring the bone knitter’s progress.
“Well, thank heaven for small mercies,” I say.
“Neither heaven, nor deities are involved,” Sarek points out.
“I remember taking the Lord’s name in vain several times last night.”
Sarek stares at me. “Yes, that was … curious. Though our active engagement in intercourse at those moments prevented follow-up questioning of your vernacular.”
My cheeks pink. “It’s a compliment to your technique.”
His eyebrow raises. “Fascinating.” Sarek’s expression is pleased, nearly a self-satisfied smile. Which quickly vanishes. “But I must confess in the midst of the blood rage …” his words trip, “there is no … I have little control … consciously applying method or skill is impossible.”
His addendum sends a shiver down my spine, a shudder of anticipation. “After pon farr concludes and we complete the seven days of family obligations, our, the Vulcan term is D'vash yerach, seclusion begins. Then we shall explore all the intricacies and nuances of one another’s bodies. Then I will learn how to please you without fail. Then, during our …”
After a nearly imperceptible pause as if catching up with my thoughts, Sarek continues, “lovemaking is an excellent and now preferred descriptor; then perhaps you will call for Surak using the very old sacred address. Yes, I shall set that as a goal.”
He scrutinizes me. “You have paled. Concern is unwarranted. I will instruct you in the proper etiquette.”
“Huh?”
He patiently explains, “The rituals for greeting family elders. And, although it is frowned upon, I shall remain at your side while you complete these ceremonies of respect and promises of obedience.”
“Oh.” Saying hi to Grandmere isn’t a high priority in my thoughts, though that obedience expectation niggles. Instead my thoughts are still …
“Reference to our D'vash yerach excites you,” Sarek says. “Your heartrate has increased, your respiration is elevated, and your pelvic area is throbbing.”
Damn, just how much information flows through our permanent mind link?
“Much more than Terran’s imagine. However I am not currently in need of relief and as the one responsible for your well-being my decision is you will remain in bed, rest, and recover rather continue with sex.” The bone knitter pings and Sarek removes it from my wrist. “It is time for nourishment. What do you desire?”
And here we go, the learning of eccentricities. Post-clitoral I crave cheeseburgers and French fries. And ice cream …
“There are no, and I quote, ‘greasy burger joints’ on Vulcan. I shall acquire ice cream. Neither of these selections qualify as appropriate nutritional choices and therefore are not permitted this morning. Fruit salad is a better option.”
“Sarek?”
“Yes, my beloved?”
“Do you hear my every thought?”
“Yes. And this privilege fills me with joy and peace,” he reassures.
“But my thoughts are undisciplined.” I sigh. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of them.”
“Yet they are precious to me. I cherish you; your deepest secrets, whether triumphs or shames, are safe with me.” Sarek tilts his head to one side. I assume he is sorting through my jumbled emotions. He clasps my hand and sits on the edge of the bed by my side. “The closeness, the oneness of a mating bond cannot be described, only experienced. I hope, with time, you find the comfort and validation through and with it that I do.”
After positioning a stray lock of hair behind my ear he says, “I shall now prepare our morning meal. Remain where you are.”
Sarek exists our bedroom.
He calls from the hallway, “I infer ‘bossy’ is not a compliment.”