From: "nostalgia" <email@example.com> Subject: 'Sloth' (Enterprise, PG-13) Date: Saturday, November 30, 2002 10:07 PM Title: Sloth Author: nostalgia Rated: PG-13 Summary: "It's not instinctive...": T'Pol represses. Disclaimathon: Berman and Braga own the inhabitants of the NX-01. They wouldn't do this with them though. Spoilers: 'Aquistision', 'A Night In Sickbay'. Author's Random Shit: Beta'd by kbk. Can't remember if Vulcan "touch-telepathy" is canon or fanon. It's in here anyway. Author's Further Random Shit: 456 words. Inspired by, of all things, a Kenickie song. Blatant theft of a single line from the epic Dr Who fic 'Velvet, Silk, Linen, Skin.' (Sincerest form of flattery? Umm...) The other six sins can be found at http://bitextual.gatefiction.com/nostalgia
Awake, it's not a problem. Awake she can control and suppress and analyse and nothing can perturb her. Given the choice, she would spend her life in a state of continual consciousness.
But sometimes, like all imperfect creatures, she needs to sleep.
And when she sleeps the training slips away and all the gains are lost. For hours - hours - she is at the mercy of her own emotions. They nag, cajole, harass, disturb.
And she remembers defending his ship for him (*their ship/their child*). She remembers releasing him from bonds. She remembers his emotions - irritation, impatience, relief...
Arousal. The definite, unique, human scent of testosterone. She remembers shock, a wave of disgust, quickly repressed. And...something else. A reaction of her own to complement his. Something that she analysed away as a stress reaction.
She remembers touching his skin as the key found the lock.
Touch-telepathy can be a curse.
Awake, she avoids the memory. Asleep, her minds drift back to the image in his mind.
[Her Captain, submissive and penitent. Kneeling. Needing.]
She doesn't love him.
[Her Captain. Hers.]
Awake, she sees his arrogance and his petulance. She fights irritation and suppresses anger. She lists flaws and works around them.
[Polymer, cotton, cotton, skin]
She spends her days negotiating with his ego, correcting his mistakes, lamenting the species gap. Her emotions are entirely under her own control.
[Her Captain. Hers.]
She chooses not to find him attractive.
She has to sleep eventually. She can feel her control start to slip as her heartrate slows.
[Images and sounds and memories and feelings.]
She feels herself drifting away from discipline and focus.
She is falling asleep. She is falling from grace.
There is nothing she can do to stop herself falling.
[In some other place, not the real world, she lies bare between his sheets, stealing body-heat.]
Humans think of sleep as peaceful. They see it as an escape. When they are depressed, they sleep more often. They advise each other to solve a problem by "sleeping on it."
[In the dream world she sleeps beside him, his arm resting on her stomach. In the dream world she is possessive.]
Her feelings are irrelevant. They are a distraction and a failure. They are inappropriate.
[He runs his fingers across her skin. She shivers, sighs.]
All it takes is concentration.
[A kiss, a caress.]
The price of peace is eternal vigilance. (A human phrase, though they miss its meaning.)
[In the dream world her eyes are open, and her heart is racing.]
She walks away from another argument. He will apologise, as always, in the morning. She wonders what humans dream of.
"Goodnight, Sub-commander," he says as the door slides closed.
He hasn't the slightest idea.
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