Comforts of Home
Note: These stories intertwine somewhat with Before and After, for a dose of angsty goodness.
Standard disclaimers apply то, что делает меня очень грустно (и Павел тоже, я подозреваю).
Письма
Pavel Andreivich has heard from his mother.
For Pavel, hearing from his mother is not as extraordinary, perhaps, as it is for some other members of the Enterprise crew, but, still, this is not something that happens every day. Or every week, for that matter.
Communications across Space are not as straightforward as people at Home seem to think they should be. Every letter he receives, Mамa will complain that she does not hear enough from him, and ask, 'Mой сын, скажи пожалуйста, what do you need, out there on that ship?'
He will write her in return - and the note will piggyback to other, more official, communications, routed from base to base and ship to ship until it finally reaches his mother's console - to be devoured and lamented over, and derided as much too short and too long in coming.
Her response – responses – will be written and sent off to Starfleet, to be held and bundled together with those of the other families to make their slow way subspace to where the ship is expected to eventually be.
But schedules for a starship – and on it, for that matter – are notoriously unpredictable, and mail can wait for weeks or months, even, before arrival. And that is just the electronic.
Actual, physical mail is far slower. And that much more precious as a result.
At the Academy, Chekov had never really understood the pieces of real paper or plastic film his friends had received; and he thought it funny that they would keep those pages once they had been read, and not recycle them right away. He knew they would do so, eventually – it would be irresponsible not to – but to keep them seemed odd, especially since more were likely already on their way.
But now he understands.
Chekov has seen his friend Lou, transferred here from the Constellation, hold the note telling him of the birth of his son. He already knew, of course, from official notice – Starfleet understands the importance of this sort of news – then from the subspace electronic packet. But this piece of paper - received after the baby, now a toddler, had cut his first tooth - is as close as Lou can get to touching his child.
He has seen his friend Christine hesitate, then tear open the last letter she will receive from her fiancé. Though this is long after she was informed that communication with his team had been abruptly severed, her hands are shaking.
And today, he went to Forward Observation, to relax on the long couches there and to think about his news from home. He had fallen asleep, only to wake when he heard Commander Spock's level voice issuing a computer command.
Pavel is aware, from a few encounters much like this one, that the Commander comes here to meditate, sometimes. Pavel knows it is a deeply personal thing for the Commander – but even if he does not recognize that fact, he knows he can not stay long: The Commander is Vulcan and will pit his own inflexible will to maintain control against the inexorable will of the warp field to disorient.
The Commander kneels at the very center of the curving view screen, where it wraps back around his field of vision, and - as the polarizers shift and rise, and the filters dilate, allowing the room to fill with intense streaks of warping light - Chekov can see him fold and put away a small, well-worn piece of paper.