Morning has never been Starek's favourite time of day, and this morning is slightly lower on his list than some he can remember. He'd been furious when the hail came in, two days ago, then fascinated at the implications and the invitation, and the two sort of settled into a vague irritation. Either way, he's come. And he's come alone, to boot, despite insistence from Stavret and the doctor that he take one of them down, with him, for his health.
It's good to be cautious, and he knows this well, but it's bad form to impose. He's got a bag of tools, slung over his shoulder, and they should be enough to keep him safe -- and if they don't, he's still got a beacon. He can be out in ten seconds, at any time.
He's voluntarily walking into a house full of Vulcans on a neutral world. He wonders if he's taken leave of his senses.
As he approaches the door, a faint itching starts on the back of his hand, and by the time he taps the panel beside the door, it has spread up his arm, to his shoulder, and begun on the other side. Out in ten
( ... )
Selov answers the door and gets about as far as "welcome" before he sees the reaction and hustles Starek inside.
"Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do, not at all. Come with me, quickly -- and quietly."
He sneaks, actually sneaks, down the hall, bends his head to peer cautiously around a doorway, and then dashes by, motioning for Starek to do the same.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, Selov's head and upper body have been engulfed by a cabinet. His robed posterior wiggles in a most un-Vulcan manner as he rummages.
"Where is it? We had another few here . . . this happens often enough that we keep a supply. The second High Council member was most displeased until we could medicate him properly. Even then, he was sure we'd done it on purpose. As if we'd engineered the flora specifically to -. Ah."
He backs out with a hypospray in one hand and a jar of salve in the other. "These should bring relief. We can never tell who will be affected. I am quite sorry."
Starek bows shallowly, visibly relieved, as he accepts the jar and the hypospray. Miraculously, he manages to avoid commenting on the older Vulcan's shapely posterior, but twice damned if he hadn't noticed that display.
"Nash-veh itar-bosh," he says quietly, pressing the hypospray to his own neck. Within moments, the itching begins to fade, and he dabs salve onto a spot or two that have remained inflamed.
"Who were we attempting to avoid? I had thought my visit engineered to miss all of the less-desirable elements that had invaded your home." His eyebrow arcs up and he licks the inner edge of his lip in relatively unsubtle dry amusement. There is no need to pretend to be Vulcan, here -- especially, it seems, in front of this one of T'Nis's fathers.
"Don't worry about it. I get that all the time. The fool part, I mean." Starek shrugs and actually smiles. "Nam-tor orensu t'gen-lis-tal heh kitausu. Nam-tor lakh ritsuri-wuh-set'ko t'nash-veh."
"Rom-Ekon. Thurai ra?" Selov mutters this, shaking his head. " Kup'nah-tor i po Spock-kam vesht tevan-tor ni'lerash."
He twists his lips conspiratorially. "We did not wish for you to burn out your engines on the journey here, but . . . dungi sashavau be'hai'la wuh'ashiv e'tum t'etek ha?"
Selov finds that he actually remembers how to roll his eyes and does so, quite expressively. “Goh zaha’uh, klon-lanet.”
He pauses at the foot of the stairs and indicates the archway they snuck past earlier with a wave of his hand. "They are through there. Your appearance should interrupt their Kal-toh match quite spectacularly, I think."
Tunor freezes with the chess piece still in his hand.
Spock jerks towards the sound of the voice. The half-conscious motion starts in his chest and travels, a microsecond later, to his head. He rises. Freezes. Looks at his hosts, with wide eyes, and then rushes forward to embrace Starek deeply.
"Yeht-veh," he whispers.
Selov saunters in, perches on the armrest of Tunor's chair, and sighs. "Nam-tor ni’petakov teretuhr. Mok nu-ri ha’kiv t’etek ha?"
"K'diwa!" Starek knows he's holding Spock too tightly -- the buttons on his coat are stabbing back into his own chest -- but he can't let go. He shudders like a fool, burying his face in Spock's neck, as the preceding week comes rushing back like a warbird at warp nine.
"T'nash-veh. Nam-tor du t'nash-veh - heh dungi-trasha du na'tevanu-yokulsu ri'va'ashiv. Worla." His voice is sharp, and he burns with self-loathing and protective rage, so strong a human could read it from fifteen feet away. It's probably a good thing the room contains Vulcans, instead of Betazoids.
“Worla vesht rok-tor na’gla-tor du va’ashiv.” Spock’s eyes are closed, his hand curling protectively around the base of Starek’s skull. His pulse is once again far too fast and he breathes deeply to try to calm himself down. But this just has the effect of filling his nose with his Starek’s alluring scent. It is all Spock can do to avoid kissing him, open-mouthed, there and then.
He pulls back to look at Starek’s face. “Nam-tor muhl ha? Sandau u’zung vesht u’olau nash-veh za-gad.”
"Ha. Ik heb niet goed slapen." Starek stops, rubs his eye, and tries again. "Vesht yuk-tor ri'yeht. I think of you, and it keeps me up all night. ... Ri'sanoi'le."
Starek rubs his eye, again, and the façade of indestructability crumbles away, leaving him looking a good deal more haggard and distracted, than like the daring and reckless starship pirate he'd been mere moments earlier.
Spock simply holds him again and broadcasts the mutual feeling into the nape of Starek's neck, rubbing gently.
He pulls back at last and turns to Tunor and Selov, who are watching them while deep in a finger embrace. "Ki’nam-tor kasular t’etek maut-ves na‘vitorau ish-latva."
Tunor answers in his solemn but kind manner. "As we said previously, it is the very least we can do. Whatever you would care to accomplish here, or however long you wish to stay, nam-tor kalek t'etek t'du."
Selov's face is positvely glowing as he regards them. "May we offer you anything?"
Starek flashes a predatory grin at Selov, over Spock's shoulder, twitches his nose mischievously, and lets the subject drop. It's reflexive, really.
"A room?" He's tired enough that he can't quite check all his impulses -- just the worst of the patently offensive ones. With a dismayed sound between a groan and a laugh, he lays his forehead against Spock's shoulder. "Sorry. Mijn mond is sneller dan mijn hersens, soms wel."
A pause...
"Mouth moves faster than my brain, sometimes." The sentence is slow and measured.
It's good to be cautious, and he knows this well, but it's bad form to impose. He's got a bag of tools, slung over his shoulder, and they should be enough to keep him safe -- and if they don't, he's still got a beacon. He can be out in ten seconds, at any time.
He's voluntarily walking into a house full of Vulcans on a neutral world. He wonders if he's taken leave of his senses.
As he approaches the door, a faint itching starts on the back of his hand, and by the time he taps the panel beside the door, it has spread up his arm, to his shoulder, and begun on the other side. Out in ten ( ... )
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"Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do, not at all. Come with me, quickly -- and quietly."
He sneaks, actually sneaks, down the hall, bends his head to peer cautiously around a doorway, and then dashes by, motioning for Starek to do the same.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, Selov's head and upper body have been engulfed by a cabinet. His robed posterior wiggles in a most un-Vulcan manner as he rummages.
"Where is it? We had another few here . . . this happens often enough that we keep a supply. The second High Council member was most displeased until we could medicate him properly. Even then, he was sure we'd done it on purpose. As if we'd engineered the flora specifically to -. Ah."
He backs out with a hypospray in one hand and a jar of salve in the other. "These should bring relief. We can never tell who will be affected. I am quite sorry."
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"Nash-veh itar-bosh," he says quietly, pressing the hypospray to his own neck. Within moments, the itching begins to fade, and he dabs salve onto a spot or two that have remained inflamed.
"Who were we attempting to avoid? I had thought my visit engineered to miss all of the less-desirable elements that had invaded your home." His eyebrow arcs up and he licks the inner edge of his lip in relatively unsubtle dry amusement. There is no need to pretend to be Vulcan, here -- especially, it seems, in front of this one of T'Nis's fathers.
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"Stariben vuhlkansu ha?" he raised a well-shaped eyebrow. "Nam-tor ek'mesukh?""
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"Don't worry about it. I get that all the time. The fool part, I mean." Starek shrugs and actually smiles. "Nam-tor orensu t'gen-lis-tal heh kitausu. Nam-tor lakh ritsuri-wuh-set'ko t'nash-veh."
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He twists his lips conspiratorially. "We did not wish for you to burn out your engines on the journey here, but . . .
dungi sashavau be'hai'la wuh'ashiv e'tum t'etek ha?"
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"Another of your beautiful guests, you say? Ma-kobat'es na'vaksurik-veh." He raises a suggestive eyebrow.
This Vulcan is just too much, Starek thinks, pleasantly entertained to have something that isn't an Orion to flirt with.
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He pauses at the foot of the stairs and indicates the archway they snuck past earlier with a wave of his hand. "They are through there. Your appearance should interrupt their Kal-toh match quite spectacularly, I think."
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"Riots in the drawing room? You sound as Romulan as I am." He twitches his nose in amusement, as if squaring up, before he steps into the room.
"Don't do that. You'll lose the rook, next turn."
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Spock jerks towards the sound of the voice. The half-conscious motion starts in his chest and travels, a microsecond later, to his head. He rises. Freezes. Looks at his hosts, with wide eyes, and then rushes forward to embrace Starek deeply.
"Yeht-veh," he whispers.
Selov saunters in, perches on the armrest of Tunor's chair, and sighs. "Nam-tor ni’petakov teretuhr. Mok nu-ri ha’kiv t’etek ha?"
His mate blinks. "I'mok."
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"T'nash-veh. Nam-tor du t'nash-veh - heh dungi-trasha du na'tevanu-yokulsu ri'va'ashiv. Worla." His voice is sharp, and he burns with self-loathing and protective rage, so strong a human could read it from fifteen feet away. It's probably a good thing the room contains Vulcans, instead of Betazoids.
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He pulls back to look at Starek’s face. “Nam-tor muhl ha? Sandau u’zung vesht u’olau nash-veh za-gad.”
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Starek rubs his eye, again, and the façade of indestructability crumbles away, leaving him looking a good deal more haggard and distracted, than like the daring and reckless starship pirate he'd been mere moments earlier.
"I've missed you."
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He pulls back at last and turns to Tunor and Selov, who are watching them while deep in a finger embrace. "Ki’nam-tor kasular t’etek maut-ves na‘vitorau ish-latva."
Tunor answers in his solemn but kind manner. "As we said previously, it is the very least we can do. Whatever you would care to accomplish here, or however long you wish to stay, nam-tor kalek t'etek t'du."
Selov's face is positvely glowing as he regards them. "May we offer you anything?"
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"A room?" He's tired enough that he can't quite check all his impulses -- just the worst of the patently offensive ones. With a dismayed sound between a groan and a laugh, he lays his forehead against Spock's shoulder. "Sorry. Mijn mond is sneller dan mijn hersens, soms wel."
A pause...
"Mouth moves faster than my brain, sometimes." The sentence is slow and measured.
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"Of course. You must be quite fatigued. Spock please escort him."
With a nod to their hosts Spock, guides his tal-kam towards the hallway, an arm about his shoulders.
"“Ri’of-kat’uh fan-vel,” Selov singsongs, teasingly after them.
Spock's room is spare but comfortable. A tapestry and an ancient-looking lirpa decorate the wall above the bed.
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