The BLTS Archive - Happy Anniversary
by Capt. Margaret O. Waveswift (capt.waveswift@yahoo.com)

---

Published: 02-25-07 - Updated: 02-25-07

Warning: This is SLASH! It is non-explicit, but it is there.
You have been warned.

Special thanks to Tempest, Queen of all things Spock/McCoy,
for the beta job and without whom this story would probably
never have seen the light of day.

---

Drunk. He is drunk.

He was supposed to be home hours ago. I have been fighting
worry and reminding myself that Leonard is an adult fully
capable of taking care of himself. The hospital reported
that he had already left, but perhaps he had been delayed by
traffic. Leonard hates to transport anywhere. I had
speculated that perhaps something had come up; some
emergency had prevented him from returning to me or
communicating with me for a time.

But no, he is drunk.

Today is our anniversary, a day that is supposed to have
great significance to humans who engage in a relationship of
a romantic or intimate nature. I find that, illogically,
unexpectedly, it is a day that also has significance for me.

"Spock!" He staggers through the front door where I met him
and throws his arm around my shoulders. He is not gentle and
he is far too loud. "Spock, my love! Today is our anna-
annifer- today is the day we finally got together!" His
speech is slurred and his breath and skin reek of the
alcohol he has been consuming. "Well, y'know, two years ago,
I mean. Not today-today. Defni'ly not today-today." He nods
firmly, as though he has just made a point that is most
profound.

"Yes, Leonard. I am fully cognizant of the fact that today
is the commemoration of the day that we began our
relationship. I confess to a certain surprise that you
recall such a fact at this time, however." I have slipped my
arm around his waist and am half-coaxing, half-carrying him
toward the stairs and bed. Clearly he is in no condition to
do anything other than go to bed, and unfortunately he will
only be sleeping. I had hoped that tonight would be special.
. . but I see that it is not to be.

We pass the kitchen and he tries to veer toward it, throwing
both of us off balance. "C'mon, Spock! Let's have a drink! A
cel'brat'ry drink! We deserve to celebrate." He whirls,
suddenly amorous, to press sloppy kisses across my face and
neck. The smell and the wash of his chaotic and intoxicated
thoughts are dizzying, nauseating, nearly overwhelming me. A
layer of cloth is sufficient to provide some barrier, but
there I have no defense against skin-to-skin contact. I have
become unused to shielding myself from him, but now I almost
wish, illogical, irrational as it is, that I had not let all
of my defenses lapse. But. . . if I had not, we probably
would not have become what we are. I cannot regret that.

"I think you do not need to do any more 'celebrating',
Leonard. You should go to bed."

He pulls himself from my grasp, standing shakily on his own
feet. "Y'all never let me have any fun! Ah am sick of being
confined! Ah give up everythin' for you, Spock! No meat, no
alcohol, no friends, no fun! Well Ah'm tired of it!" His
accent has become more pronounced than I have ever heard it.

"Leonard," I say, extending a hand toward him. "You are not
well. Come to bed. We can discuss this in the morning."

"Ah am perfectly well!" he protests. "Ah jest need a little
coffee. And Ah am not going to be put to bed lahk a
recalcitrant child!" He pronounces the words carefully,
exaggerating the accent on the more easily said words. He
spins around to march indignantly into the kitchen, but he
overbalances and trips over his own feet. I am at his side
in an instant, catching him, supporting him.

Is it true? Have I deprived him? Have I forced him to make
changes that he did not want, that he was not ready to make?
Have I hurt him without realizing? Surely not. Surely I
would have detected such a thing. Even without a formalized
marriage bond, I remain sensitive to his thoughts, his
emotions, especially through touch. And Leonard has ever
been physically demonstrative.

"Come," I whisper, lifting him to his feet. Again, I begin
to coax him toward the stairs. We make it up two, but
Leonard's uncertain balance is converted to momentum that
takes us back to the bottom. We try again, and this time we
are able to make it up five, but again we find ourselves
going backward. It is a great temptation to simply pick him
up and carry him to our bed, but I am uncertain that this
would be wise. His accusation stands between us and I am
hesitant to overstep any but the most basic of bounds. And.
. . I do not wish to see the preparations I had made, the
candles waiting to be lit, the rose petals I had scattered.
Romance is very important to the doctor, despite his gruff
exterior. He needs it, and I. . . I find that, despite the
sentimentality, despite the blatant emotionalism of such
gestures. . . I am not averse to making them.

After a moment's consideration I decide to stop fighting
gravity and help him back to the couch. It is not as
comfortable as our bed, but it will suffice. It is the work
of mere minutes to settle him in a horizontal position with
a blanket tucked gently around him. He has, surprisingly,
refrained from resisting, and I wonder if his earlier
outburst was not simply a moment of belligerence brought on
by his indulgences. But, that may be incorrect. After all,
alcohol lowers the inhibitions, perhaps he has serious
complaints. I cannot help but wonder why he would not voice
them to me. It is illogical to feel pain over what may be
only speculation, I remind myself firmly. I place the waste
bin next to the sofa and set a glass of water on the coffee
table which is within arm's reach but not close enough that
he might injure himself rolling off the couch.

With a soft sigh I sit on the solid wood of the low table
and watch my lover's face. He has fallen asleep, probably
due the soporific effect of the alcohol in his system. I do
love him, I know this. Emotional, irrational as it is, I
cherish the time we spend together and I find that I cannot
envision the future without him.

Is this what my father felt for my mother? Is this the force
that allowed the implacable Sarek to set aside cultural and
familial expectations and wed my human mother? It is
unlikely that I will ever know. We are no longer estranged,
but the relationship between my father and I remains a
distant one. The odds that we might ever engage in such a
whimsical and personal conversation as 'why he married
Mother' are so low as to be negligible.

Leonard would tell me that I am being pessimistic, if he
could hear me now. I permit myself a tiny smile as I reach
out to him, brushing my hand over his face and along his
cheek before letting it drop back to my knee. His thoughts
are quieter in sleep. Leonard would, correctly, point out
that my logic is uncertain where it concerns my father. He
would tell me that Sarek once said that his logic was also
uncertain where it concerned me. I sigh.

I do not feel like sleeping, the usual activity for the
hour. Perhaps I will meditate.

Rapidly and with the ease of long practice, I make the
appropriate preparations and settle myself in the
traditional pose. I set aside a portion of my awareness to
listen for Leonard, so that I will be able to assist him if
he has need of me; then I take a deep breath and begin the
disciplines.

---

Oohh, my head. . . I take a slow careful breath through my
nose. The air is warm and does nothing to ease the pain in
my head or to calm the tempest raging in my belly.
Cautiously, I open my eyes. It takes me several moments to
recognize where I am. The view is nothing like the one I
normally see from my side of our bed, but after a time I
realize that I am instead lying on our sofa. What happened?
I close my eyes again, trying to remember, but instead I
find myself drifting off and my eyelids don't seem to want
to cooperate when I try to open them again.

A sound wakes me and I jerk upright, thinking that there is
some emergency that requires my attention as a doctor. It is
bright now and after a second or two I realize that there is
no emergency, that I am not on the /Enterprise/ anymore, but
at home. In the home I share with my lover, Spock. But, why
am I sleeping on the couch? And why do I detect the fading
remnants of a headache the size of the /Enterprise/ herself?
The sour taste in my mouth reminds me. Oh no.

Yesterday was our anniversary, and I ruined it. We had
planned to have dinner together.

I had run into some old friends and we had started talking.
We hadn't seen each other in years. A quick cup of coffee
wouldn't delay my rendezvous much. But that quick cup of
coffee had become another, and then it had turned into
snacks and drinks, and before I was fully aware of it, the
evening seemed to have disappeared into a haze of
reminiscences. I had stood up in a panic, exclaiming that I
had to get home. This had prompted some good natured teasing
and an explanation of exactly what was awaiting me. They
were thrilled and insisted on a congratulatory round. Then I
had to explain how we had met, which necessitated explaining
how we had ended up as a couple, which meant that other
stories had been told and soon it was even later than
before.

I let my head fall into my hands. Oh no. I had vague
memories of coming home and yelling at Spock. I groaned. I
seemed to recall accusing him of preventing me from living
my life the way I wanted. Which is completely ridiculous
because the single most important thing in my life is him. I
would give up anything and everything for him.

A noise at the door rouses me. It is probably Spock. He
makes it a habit to go for a quick run every morning and
clearly today is no exception. Startled, I stand and bolt
for the stairs. Perhaps I can hide in the shower, but I
cannot bear the thought of seeing him right now. Will I
glimpse disappointment in his dark eyes? Or will I see
nothing? Will I be confronted with his Vulcan mask of
indifference and cool logic? I could not bear that.

I am at the door to our bedroom now, and I freeze at the
threshold. There are candles, wilting rose petals, the
covers are turned down invitingly. Spock had clearly had
plans beyond dinner last night. To be truthful, I had been
looking forward to those plans, counting on them, in fact;
there was something I had wanted to discuss...But instead I
had stayed away to have drinks with others.

Is that him on the stairs? "Leonard?" I hear his voice.
Panicking again, I turn away from the sight of our bedroom
and flee to the guest room. It has a shower. Perhaps I will
manage to drown myself.

"Leonard?" I hear again. He is nearer now, on the same
floor. He knocks on the door, but I know he will not open it
without an invitation. He is always very careful about such
things. Ever since he learned of what his mirror did in that
other universe. . .

I find that I cannot speak; I can only stare at the door
that separates us. I picture him standing on the other side,
waiting, only to turn away and begin his daily preparations.
I don't blame him. We both have work to do and I. . . well,
I would not blame him in the least if he were furious with
me. Were our positions reversed. . . but then they never
would be. Spock is my better half in so many ways. It would
never occur to him to disappear or fail to show up when we
had made explicit plans.

I rub my hands over my face. I would have to apologize. I am
not the sort of man who can't admit when he is wrong, but
still I dread that moment. What damage have I done this
time?

I stand under the spray long past the time when I normally
would turn it off. It began to cool some time ago, but I
want to make sure that Spock has time to leave. Our usual
ritual of kissing goodbye will have to be omitted today.

---

Clearly Leonard was up. He was not on the couch when I
returned from my daily exercise. I heard the shower in the
guest room, but it did not turn off after the usual 8.7
minutes. It did not turn off after even fifteen minutes, nor
after twenty. I made breakfast for two, but Leonard did not
come down. I waited as long as I could, but at last I had to
leave or risk being late to work.

It would be unacceptable to allow my personal life to
interfere unnecessarily with the discharge of my duty.
Leonard would understand this. Would he not?

His avoidance of me, however, is painful. I must force
myself to seriously consider the possibility that Leonard is
unhappy with me. Unhappy with our relationship. I find
myself strangely reluctant to return home. Perhaps I will
work a little later than usual tonight.

---

Spock isn't home yet. Why isn't he here? Maybe he just got
hung up somewhere, or caught in traffic, or maybe some
fascinating detail caught his attention. But any minute now
he will come through the door, just as he always does.

Nervously I glance around at the dining room. The lights are
dimmed. Spock's favorite dishes are waiting to be dished up.
His favorite fruit juice is chilled to the preferred
temperature. I have replaced the rose petals and added a
stick of incense to the brazier in the corner of our
bedroom. All is ready for him.

I adjust my collar again. I even know roughly what I'm going
to say when I apologize. I'll tell him how sorry I am, how
wrong I was, promise that it will never happen again, grovel
if necessary. Please, God, don't let him ask me to leave. .
. I love him.

---

I take a deep, fortifying breath before I enter our house,
and then chide myself for the emotionalism of it. I do not
seem to be listening; however, as a part of me is quietly
worrying over the thought that it may not remain /our/
house.

I step in cautiously and look around. Soft music is playing.
The living room is dark, but I see dim lighting in the
dining room. I set aside my things and shed my coat before
walking toward the doorway. Leonard is pacing and I
interrupt him, his face lifting to mine.

For a moment, it is twisted with trouble, worry clearly
defining his expression. Then all of that is cleared away
and he smiles at me. "Spock!" he exclaims. He seems joyful,
but there is an undercurrent of unease. Has it all been an
act? I have learned not to underestimate Leonard, but I was
not aware that he possessed such consummate acting skill.

"Leonard," I say evenly. My next inhalation brings me a
familiar odor. I sniff again, is that—it is! My lover has
gone to some trouble this evening. But to what purpose?

"Uh-how was your day?" he asks.

"Acceptable," I reply, raising one eyebrow. "Yours?"

"Oh, you know me," he says. A definite tremble insinuates
itself into the last word. "The same as it always is," he
laughs, but the sound is hollow.

"Indeed?" I cannot help that it comes out as a question. I
cannot help that I am questioning whether or not I truly
know him. I thought I did. Two years as lovers, so many more
as friends, and yet there is the possibility that I was
wrong. Wrong in so many ways. I wish, suddenly, that my
logic were more certain where Leonard is concerned. Perhaps
then I would know with some definition.

---

This is what I was afraid of. He is just standing there,
unmoving as a Georgia pine and cool as Aunt Sadie's sweet
tea on a hot day. I want to step toward him, to take his
hand in my own, to kiss him, but I do not know that I would
be welcomed. If he rebuffed me, I might shatter into a
couple hundred pieces. I have known him, loved him, so long,
but I feel as though I am looking at a stranger. So, we
stand in silence.

No, I won't let it end this way. I won't let him just drift
away without knowing how truly sorry I am. I have seen the
flash of emotion in his eyes, and I won't let him get away
with this aloofness now!

---

Suddenly, with the characteristic unexpectedness that he
delights in, Leonard drops his pose of uncertainty. He steps
forward purposefully. "Spock, I want to talk to you."

"I will listen," I assure him, inclining my head.

He nods jerkily. "I. . . I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I
didn't mean to hurt you, but. . . well. . . " he stutters to
a halt. I brace myself for some form of rejection. Perhaps
the cliche but ever-popular human phrase, it's not you, it's
me. Or perhaps he will use some other colloquialism, the
wording matters not when the intent is the same.

---

Why isn't he responding? Spock, usually so tolerant, seems
to be closing himself off even more. Why? Is what I've done
that wrong? Have I hurt him that badly? I know that missing
an anniversary is a serious thing, but I didn't realize that
he would take it quite this much to heart. I open my mouth
but nothing comes out. What happened to my planned words?
Where is my usual eloquence? Hell, I'd settle for bare
coherence!

---

He stares at me in silence. I do not wish to wait for
rejection. I promised to listen, but he does not speak. Very
well. If he cannot say it, I will. "Leonard, perhaps we have
made a mistake. I realize that our relationship is, to a
certain degree, unconventional. Perhaps we should not have
pursued it." I pause. "We should consider this possibility."
I have just ripped my own heart in half, I know. I will not
apologize for the emotion of that statement. It is true,
though not literally.

---

I feel as though the air has been stolen from me and the
ground has vanished from beneath my feet. A mistake? He
thinks this, us, everything, is a mistake? I can feel the
blood draining from my face as I grip the back of a chair
for support. A mistake? I had wanted to marry him. Or bond
to him, or whatever it was that Vulcans did. I wanted to
make sure that he knew that I was his for as long as he
would have me, that I would relish the thought that he was
mine as well. And now, this.

It couldn't have been just last night, then. Spock is as
passionate, as emotional as the next fellow, but he never
manages to totally let go of his precious logic. If he
thinks that we should separate, then he probably has a list
of reasons as long as his arm. I force my numbed brain to
come up with a response, force my unresponsive lips to
pronounce it. "If you think that's best," I gasp.

---

Leonard has become very pale. This does not appear to be
simple shock that I have anticipated his request. He looks
ill. Could it be some lingering effect of the alcohol he
consumed last night? At last he speaks, but it is not what I
expected. Not at all. If /I /think it's best? I certainly do
not think so. But, is this not what he wanted? "You
disagree?" I ask, not daring to recognize the sudden
existence of hope.

---

"I. . . " I looked up at him. He is still cool, still calm,
still terribly collected. I am seized with the sudden
impulse to tell him that I do disagree. I think he's
completely wrong, way off base, that he couldn't be any more
mistaken if he tried. Instead I say, "Dinner's going to get
cold."

---

My hope has died a rapid and painful demise. We are eating
in silence. It has not escaped me that Leonard has not
properly responded to my question, but why would he remain
silent if he did not wish for our separation? The silent
meal gives way to cleaning up the kitchen. Leonard
disappears the instant it is done, slipping away upstairs. I
wonder if he is packing. I linger downstairs a little
longer. I do not wish to face the reality of our failed
relationship, but there is nothing to be done here.

At last I mount the stairs and cross the hall. My ears,
which Leonard is forever teasing me about, do not detect the
sounds of belongings being placed into a bag. Instead, I
hear something quite different. I believe that Leonard is
crying. It is not an action that he typically permits
himself. For all he champions emotion, Leonard greatly fears
being perceived as weak. I am still uncertain why he
considers himself so unworthy, but I am reminded of the fact
from time to time.

I realize that I have paused on the stairs and start forward
again. I do not allow myself to hesitate again as I walk
into the bedroom we have shared for nearly a year now. As I
draw even with Leonard, who is sprawled on the bed, face
buried in one of the pillows, I note the scent of my
favorite incense and of crushed rose petals. Those that I
scattered yesterday have been replaced. Why would Leonard do
so if he had planned to say goodbye to me? It is not
logical.

Drawing nearer, I place a gentle hand on the back of his
shoulder. "It will be all right," I murmur. He does not
reply immediately, but his sobs cease. After a minute he
sits up and I allow my hand to drop back to my side. His
face is reddened and blotchy in places, but he is no longer
crying.

"Why?" he asks me. I confess I do not know to what he is
referring and ask for clarification. "I know it can't be
just last night. Not with you. What have I done that is so
wrong? What did I do to make you want to leave me?"

I draw back in surprise. "I do not wish to leave you," I say
almost before I realize that I am going to.

"Then why would you suggest that we had made a mistake?" he
asks. "Why would you want to consider the possibility?"

I paused. "I wished to spare you. You seemed to have trouble
saying it."

"Spock," he gripped my hand urgently. "I don't want to leave
you. I love you. I have for a long time now, and I will for
a long time yet. But if you don't want me around anymore I
will leave. You just have to tell me."

"Leonard, I have already told you that I do not desire your
departure. I thought that you had grown tired of our
arrangement."

He frowns and shakes his head in confusion. "Why would you
think that?" he demands.

I take a deep breath and sink onto the bed beside him. "You
did not come home until late last night, and when you did
arrive, you intimated that you felt I was preventing you
from having fun." He is squeezing my hand now.

"What did I say?" he whispers.

"You said that I was confining you." I said evenly. "That I
have forced you to make changes to your life and habits that
do not agree with you."

"I said that?" He is pale again.

"You did, though not in as many words. You were rather
intoxicated."

"I was drunk as a skunk," he corrects me bluntly. I do not
contest his words. After 5.2 minutes he continues. "I didn't
mean to mess up our plans. I ran into some people I hadn't
seen since medical school. We started talking, catching up,
swapping gossip. It got late a lot faster than I meant it
to." He pauses again. "I ended up telling them about you,
you know." I do not point out that I have no way of knowing
this. "I told them that you were the best thing that ever
happened to me. I can't believe I was so stupid." His head
drops into his upturned hands as he releases mine.

"I have asked you to make changes," I say. "But I did not
wish to force you to alter who you were. I realize that
compromise is often necessary in a relationship. If you wish
to continue eating meat, I will not stop you, and I do not
desire that you give up your friends. I would prefer that
you do not drink alcohol, but I understand that you do not
feel as I do about it, and I will not chastise you for it."

"You haven't forced me to do anything, Spock." He looks up
at me in shock. "I haven't done anything I didn't want to. I
don't mind giving up meat and booze, although I do miss them
from time to time. And I haven't given up my friends."

"Why, then, would you say that you had?" I examine him
closely.

"I felt guilty as hell last night, and I was drunk. I wasn't
in control of myself, which is hardly my favorite state of
being. I must have struck out at you to try to assuage my
own feelings." He drops his gaze again. "I will understand
if you are angry with me."

I consider for what seems an eternity. "I am not angry," I
say at last. "I am. . . hurt."

He gives me a stricken look. "I am sorry! So sorry. I'll do
anything I can to try to make it up to you. I know it's not
the same, but I'll do it. Anything you want."

"Leonard, I desire only that you stay and that you. . . that
you love me as I love you."

"I do love you, Spock." He hesitates. "I wanted to tell you
yesterday, I am willing to bond to you, or marry you, or do
nothing more than we already have. I want you to understand
that I am committed to you." He blushes. "I just don't seem
to be capable of showing it."

"You show me everyday, Leonard." I raise my hand to cup his
cheek and am gratified when he turns into it.

"I could show you in a more tangible way," he suggests
turning to kiss my palm.

"I would find that acceptable," I assure him as I draw
nearer, pressing him down to the mattress. After all, it
would be illogical to waste what remains of our
preparations.

"Happy anniversary," he whispers between kisses.

Happy anniversary indeed.

---

The End