It can't have been a very good kiss; you stood more rigidly than a flagpole as soon as it started, and Spock let go of you fairly quickly afterwards. Some uncontainable emotion flickered behind his ever-gorgeous eyes as he watched you in silence, awaiting your reaction. Your jaw opened with about as much ease as those damn doors from the Jefferies tubes six months ago, but no sound escaped. Your voice seemed to have train-wrecked and died in your throat. Your brain was moving in slow motion, a drowning swimmer trying to make it through an ocean of mud.
Oh God! Spock had kissed you! Did Vulcans even kiss like that? Maybe his human side had supplied the move. He was a terrible kisser – granted, you had absolutely zip in the way of kissing experience, but it seemed that he was even worse. Did you like him in a romantic way? Apparently, he wanted to be more than friends. Did you want that? Was this why you had felt guilty about considering McCoy's date invitation? Was this why he blushed around you, why he checked up on you in sick bay so often? Had some part of you always felt this way? Why the hell was your heart trying to set a new speed record?
And of course, stupid you, the only one of these thoughts that broke out of its prison and fled from your mouth in the form of words was, "God, you suck at kissing."
His eyebrows shot up. Stupid you, indeed. It had obviously been quite the feat of courage for him to give you such a powerful display of emotion, and all you could say was something that either insulted him or confused him nine ways to Sunday. Probably both; he didn't quite seem to know how to respond to your statement.
"My apologies," he said at last.
A silence dinned in your ears louder than a phaser on overload. You and Spock stared at each other, a battle of awkwardness ensuing. Apparently, you won, for he looked away and retreated an uncertain step.
"No!" you blurted out. "Wait!"
You lurched forward more than gracelessly, but he caught your balance for you, replacing his hand at your waist. He tried to release you, but you stopped him.
"Um," you said.
He looked down at you. "(Y/N)?"
There; your name, falling from his lips – it was the dynamite to the dammed up words.
"I think I think of you like I think you think of me!" you burst out.
He stared again. God, (Y/N), get it together!
"I like you in a romantic way," you clarified. "And as for your kissing . . ."
"Terrible?" His lip twitched upward. That rare twinkle had entered his eyes, and his free had joined the first at your waist.
"Yeah." You brushed your fingers against his cheek without even noticing that you did it. "Have you ever heard the phrase 'practice makes perfect?'"
"I have."
You kissed him again. "Better?" you asked.
"Perhaps you are simply more adept as a kisser than I am."
"You try, then."
He did just that.
