Ficlet: Quiver
Title: Quiver
Characters/Pairings: Spock Prime/Gaila
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Summary: After the banquet, there's one more dish to be served.
Author's note: I blame this story on my new cookbook, which contains the following irresistible image, and on lymanalpha, who is a blancmange-enabler. ETA: If you'd like to make your own, the recipe is here. ♥
Pink! And wobbly!
The banquet is over. The last courses have been eaten, the wine consumed, and the last guests have drifted out, finally off to their beds. Not even Jim Kirk remains, having been dragged away by the Orion girls who volunteered to escort him to his room. For the first time in many hours the house is quiet, and the soft sound of the fountain in the courtyard can once again be heard.
Ambassador Spock leans back on the cushions, enjoying the moment of tranquility. He is conscious of a warm, relaxed sensation, a slight fuzziness that is not unpleasant. He suspects the meal's last course contained chocolate; it is an ingredient for which Gaila has a great fondness--and one she often forgets to disclose until after it has been served.
Gaila is seated beside him, her knees drawn up, her feet tucked beneath her. She makes a slight adjustment, moving closer to his side, then leans her head on her hand and regards him thoughtfully.
"Ambassador," she says. "We appear to be the last ones here."
Spock lifts an eyebrow. "Indeed. Unless Jim Kirk intends to return."
She smiles. "I don't think so. Flora and Reina seemed to have plans for him. We won't be seeing him before tomorrow afternoon at least."
"Then your observation is correct. We are the last ones." The low table before them still bears the remnants of the evening's conclusion: half-filled bowls of fruit, plates of cake reduced to crumbs, glasses tinted amber by the traces of Andorian wine. Ordinarily such scenes disturb his innate sense of order, but Spock finds he does not mind this one. Perhaps it is the softening effect of the lamplight. Or the chocolate.
Beside him, Gaila stretches luxuriously. "Mmm," she agrees. "In that case, I have something for you."
At Gaila's words, a young Orion girl appears, seemingly from nowhere, bearing a covered dish. As she places it on the table she glances from Gaila to Spock with an arch look. She lifts the lid from the dish with a practiced flourish, bows with great politeness, and darts from the room, giggling.
Spock regards the addition to the table with some perplexity. It seems to be a dessert, elaborate in structure, composed of several tiers of a pale rose-pink substance. It appears both creamy and light, lacking in density, and yet able to support itself, along with a number of pointed meringues and a scattering of sugared rose petals. The entire structure quivers gently, as if in some manner alive. He suspects it to be some type of gelatin, presumably edible, presumably compatible with both Orion and Vulcan physiology. In short, he believes he will be required to consume it.
He realizes Gaila is looking at him expectantly. He clears his throat. "It is--unusual," he says. "But festive."
"It is traditional," Gaila corrects, "and delicious. I suggest we eat it."
He scans the table and perceives a difficulty. "There are no utensils."
Gaila lifts an eyebrow. "None are required," she says. She reaches out and gently breaks off a piece with her fingers. "This dish is traditionally eaten with the hands."
She places the small morsel in her mouth, closing her eyes with a soft noise of contentment as she tastes, and swallows. "So good," she sighs, opening her eyes. In the half-light her skin appears to glow, like the viridescent wing of an exotic bird.
"Vulcans," he says slowly, "do not eat with their hands."
She kisses him, then. Her mouth is sweet, her tongue laced with sugar and the intoxicating essence of roses. She kisses him until he is distracted, until he draws her into his lap and she comes easily, settling with her body full and warm against his. She breaks the kiss and looks down at him, her eyes alight with mischief.
"Vulcans don't eat with their own hands," she says, pressing the tips of her fingers gently against his lips. "I don't remember any rules about Orion hands."
"Indeed, nor do I," he replies. It is true. It is one of many things he suddenly cannot remember.
Gaila smiles. She reaches out and takes another piece from the soft pink tower--it appears lighter than air, impossibly insubstantial. She holds it, her fingers poised before him, and leans down close to his ear.
"I should warn you," she says, "by Orion tradition, once you eat this from my hands, we're definitely married."
He looks up at her, at her eyes filled with amusement, with warmth, with hope.
"Then I have been warned," he says. And he lifts her fingers to his mouth to take the bite.
.O.O.O.O.O.
Characters/Pairings: Spock Prime/Gaila
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Summary: After the banquet, there's one more dish to be served.
Author's note: I blame this story on my new cookbook, which contains the following irresistible image, and on lymanalpha, who is a blancmange-enabler. ETA: If you'd like to make your own, the recipe is here. ♥
Pink! And wobbly!
The banquet is over. The last courses have been eaten, the wine consumed, and the last guests have drifted out, finally off to their beds. Not even Jim Kirk remains, having been dragged away by the Orion girls who volunteered to escort him to his room. For the first time in many hours the house is quiet, and the soft sound of the fountain in the courtyard can once again be heard.
Ambassador Spock leans back on the cushions, enjoying the moment of tranquility. He is conscious of a warm, relaxed sensation, a slight fuzziness that is not unpleasant. He suspects the meal's last course contained chocolate; it is an ingredient for which Gaila has a great fondness--and one she often forgets to disclose until after it has been served.
Gaila is seated beside him, her knees drawn up, her feet tucked beneath her. She makes a slight adjustment, moving closer to his side, then leans her head on her hand and regards him thoughtfully.
"Ambassador," she says. "We appear to be the last ones here."
Spock lifts an eyebrow. "Indeed. Unless Jim Kirk intends to return."
She smiles. "I don't think so. Flora and Reina seemed to have plans for him. We won't be seeing him before tomorrow afternoon at least."
"Then your observation is correct. We are the last ones." The low table before them still bears the remnants of the evening's conclusion: half-filled bowls of fruit, plates of cake reduced to crumbs, glasses tinted amber by the traces of Andorian wine. Ordinarily such scenes disturb his innate sense of order, but Spock finds he does not mind this one. Perhaps it is the softening effect of the lamplight. Or the chocolate.
Beside him, Gaila stretches luxuriously. "Mmm," she agrees. "In that case, I have something for you."
At Gaila's words, a young Orion girl appears, seemingly from nowhere, bearing a covered dish. As she places it on the table she glances from Gaila to Spock with an arch look. She lifts the lid from the dish with a practiced flourish, bows with great politeness, and darts from the room, giggling.
Spock regards the addition to the table with some perplexity. It seems to be a dessert, elaborate in structure, composed of several tiers of a pale rose-pink substance. It appears both creamy and light, lacking in density, and yet able to support itself, along with a number of pointed meringues and a scattering of sugared rose petals. The entire structure quivers gently, as if in some manner alive. He suspects it to be some type of gelatin, presumably edible, presumably compatible with both Orion and Vulcan physiology. In short, he believes he will be required to consume it.
He realizes Gaila is looking at him expectantly. He clears his throat. "It is--unusual," he says. "But festive."
"It is traditional," Gaila corrects, "and delicious. I suggest we eat it."
He scans the table and perceives a difficulty. "There are no utensils."
Gaila lifts an eyebrow. "None are required," she says. She reaches out and gently breaks off a piece with her fingers. "This dish is traditionally eaten with the hands."
She places the small morsel in her mouth, closing her eyes with a soft noise of contentment as she tastes, and swallows. "So good," she sighs, opening her eyes. In the half-light her skin appears to glow, like the viridescent wing of an exotic bird.
"Vulcans," he says slowly, "do not eat with their hands."
She kisses him, then. Her mouth is sweet, her tongue laced with sugar and the intoxicating essence of roses. She kisses him until he is distracted, until he draws her into his lap and she comes easily, settling with her body full and warm against his. She breaks the kiss and looks down at him, her eyes alight with mischief.
"Vulcans don't eat with their own hands," she says, pressing the tips of her fingers gently against his lips. "I don't remember any rules about Orion hands."
"Indeed, nor do I," he replies. It is true. It is one of many things he suddenly cannot remember.
Gaila smiles. She reaches out and takes another piece from the soft pink tower--it appears lighter than air, impossibly insubstantial. She holds it, her fingers poised before him, and leans down close to his ear.
"I should warn you," she says, "by Orion tradition, once you eat this from my hands, we're definitely married."
He looks up at her, at her eyes filled with amusement, with warmth, with hope.
"Then I have been warned," he says. And he lifts her fingers to his mouth to take the bite.
.O.O.O.O.O.