Spock is opening the message that just arrived to his padd from Captain Pike when his comm rings. Caught between the two, his curiosity over the message warring with the desire to efficiently answer the call, he has less attention available to pay to the figure that appears in his doorway than he might have otherwise.
"Sir?" he hears as he reaches for his comm, his thumb hovering over the button to accept the call. Nyota's eyes travel to his hand and the comm he holds, before he can acknowledge her standing in the door, not even properly inside his office. Even in the privacy of his own mind, her given name resonates oddly, jarring against the months in which she was 'Cadet' and then 'Uhura'. This further change has stymied him in the days since she asked for it, a novelty to the idea that has yet to wear off and leaves him paused, his eyes on her, his padd in one hand and his comm in the other.
In the space between one ping of his comm and the next, she quickly shakes her head, "It's a bad time."
Time has no morals. He could inform her of this, but she has already given him a small smile and a smaller wave and disappeared as quickly as she arrived. His mouth opens too late to stop her. An illogical action, not just for its delay, but that she is correct - her timing was inopportune. Still, he listens to how her footsteps fade into those in the hallway, the last few cadets on their way towards the quad and the impromptu, informal celebrations they hold there in honor of their completed exams and final commitments of the semester.
It is not surprising that Nyota is one of the last to join them. Likely she was working in one of the language labs. Inconvenient, then, that she did not come by prior to now, as he was alone in his office all afternoon, the room silent and still.
His comm pings once more. He checks the ID before answering it, his eyes immediately back on the still open door.
"Mother," he says.
"Am I interrupting?"
She is. Instead of saying so, he tells her, "I am in my office."
"I'm sorry, do you have a student there?" she asks, and across the lightyears he can hear the beat of concern in her voice, the tenor of apology.
More cadets pass by his door. The groups are dwindling, fewer cadets in each small knot and longer intervals of blank corridor between them.
"No."
"Tell me about your day," his mother prompts. Spock gives the padd in front of him one more look before he reaches for the button to dim the screen. He turns his back to it, pacing to the window in his office that overlooks the roof of a lower floor and beyond, the slope of campus down towards the bay. Fog hangs close to the buildings, too bright white against the comparative dimness of his office.
"I am waiting for a number of students to submit their final papers," he says. She has always preferred specificity in his reports to her and would not be satisfied by an outline of the general banality of finals or the lackluster length of the days, now that classes have ended and his meetings and lectures have largely concluded.
"Are they due soon?"
"In thirteen minutes." Truly, he had expected the indicator light that blinked on his padd to signal the delivery of one to his inbox. The message is instead from Pike, and while it was not entirely unexpected, Spock had not allowed himself to dwell in the anticipation of it. And even had he, he would have predicted it would arrive yesterday or the day before. Though admittedly he does not know the standard elapsed time between submitting an application and resume and an offer of an interview, only that it seemed longer than it should have been, rendering whatever expectation that might have existed diminished in its power, fanciful at most, and therefore entirely unacceptable.
"What was the assignment?" his mother asks, as if she knows his mind has wandered. Impossible, the presence of her thoughts against his muted with distance and time, no more than an occasional nudge, and even now, with her voice in the room with him, that touch is so light as to be a mere wisp of all the strength it once held when he was a boy, living on Vulcan.
"A critique of the leading theoretical approaches in xenosociolinguistics and their potential implementation during First Contacts." The latter half of the assignment is at least useful, even if it means he will read through repetitive descriptions of the prevailing theories in each one of the essays. Still, the practical application of academics to field work has always been of import to him, the tie of the work done in classes to the jobs these students may someday hold on board starships.
He does not look at his padd again but out at the bay and the fog that hangs there.
"I'm sure the papers will be interesting," his mother says, and he can hear the smile in her voice, one that hardly reaches his own expression. "Do you still have that cadet helping you grade?"
He staunches the desire to turn back towards his door. By the sound of it, the corridor has emptied, a lone pair of boots tapping out steps on the tile that likely belong to a colleague, given the speed with which most cadets made their egress. "I do."
"Well, it shouldn't take you that long then," she says.
"I would be finished by the time you arrive regardless," he assures her. He presses his finger into the corner where the window sill meets the wall, dust coming away on his skin.
"I know." Her tone is gentler than is needed. He wipes his finger on his pant leg and resolves to inform the maintenance department that greater attention to detail is necessary. "About that-"
"-You are still coming?" he asks before he can stop himself, the words offered in a quicker manner than he intended. Briefly he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the fog is still too bright. "If your plans have changed, it is-"
"-We're still coming," his mother says. "But Spock, I need to ask a favor of you."
"Of course." The response is automatic and with a speed that he begins to regret as his mother outlines her request.
He does not let her finish. Illogical to interrupt another while they are speaking, but the need to do so arises with a strength that he does not find in himself to dispel. "Mother-"
"-It's only for a few days."
He turns toward his desk, as if she is there to see him take in the work laid out on its surface. "I am occupied."
"The semester ends today."
He rests his hand on the back of his desk chair. "I must grade those papers."
"So fortunate that you have an assistant, in that case."
The angle at which his padd rests is pleasingly aligned with the edge of his desk, though the smudge of his fingerprint mars the surface, the light glinting off it at such an angle that brings the marks to his attention. "I have other obligations."
"Spock." The sound of his mother clearing her throat is clear even with the distance between them. Familiar, too, as is the tone her voice takes. "Your father and I really need you to watch her."
"She can go ahead to Grandmother's house," Spock says.
That his mother did not think of this is attributable to human oversight and therefore it falls to him to point out the rationality of the plan to her. The fact that he chooses not to articulate this is not lost on him, sure that her vexation would reach him even with the distance to Vulcan and more certainly across the connection of their comms.
"We will join her there when we arrive," he says
"I happen to remember a certain someone not particularly appreciating being sent there alone," his mother says. Pointed. That is the descriptor Spock is nearly certain could be attributed to her tone. To say something pointedly.
"Grandmother's house was the logical destination," he says, echoing what he was told at the time, ad nauseum, when he repeatedly asked his mother to stay with her and Father, when his arguments went unlistened to, when his suggestions were dismissed. He could have remained at home, he could have stayed at a neighbor's house, he could have, and would have very much preferred, to be sent to Sybok's family for those days.
Even now, the strength with which he had desired that still exists in him, threatening to well up before he can firmly shutter the place in which it resides.
He shakes his head, a neat, economic gesture, designed to return his mind to the matter at hand. "You yourself said as much."
"And you made clear your displeasure with the decision." There is a significant pause. Likely intended as a moment in which he should reconsider his position. His hand tightens on his chair, as his mother adds, "Please."
"I have my commitments to my classes," he says again, though he knows that if such reasoning did not already sway his mother, it is illogical to presume it will now. "I do not understand why-"
"-Do you really want me to tell you why we need you to watch her for a few days?"
Standing in their home, with the bag his mother packed for him when he himself had refused to put his clothes into it, he had not understood her insistence he leave her and his father alone. Now as an adult, he finds that despite the curiosity of his younger self, there was a certain refuge in that ignorance. He can all too well count the number of years since he was similarly sent away from home. "I would prefer that you did not."
"Me too," she says with a finality that is immediately followed a far gentler plea. "It's just this once. The next time, she'll be fifteen and more than capable of taking care of herself."
Internally, Spock balks at the mention of there being a next time and has to repress the accompanying grimace. A useless reaction, as his mother continues in her reasoning, ignorant of the reaction her words stirred or simply so determined to sway him that she does not pay mind to it.
"Really, it's a chance for you two to bond," she says.
"We are bonded."
"A little family time would be good for you."
He is certain the matter has already been decided, and probably was so before his mother called him, and yet he says, "As you and father are already intending a visit in only a few days, it is already-"
"-It is already so convenient that you'll get even more time with your sister," his mother says in a tone that signals, despite Spock's continued displeasure with the result of the conversation, he is correct that her mind is set. He swallows the sigh that threatens.
Outside his door, the corridor is entirely empty. The building is likely similarly unoccupied, except for him. It will be for some time, so that his return to his office over the days of the Academy's academic recess will be met with the peculiar sort of vacancy reserved for normally bustling spaces.
A solitude he had quite looked forward to, as illogical as such expectancy is.
"When?" he asks, sweeping aside the threat of disappointment.
"She'll be arriving on the 0837 shuttle from Shi'Kahr tomorrow morning," his mother says, her tone losing its persistence, that unrelenting note replaced instead with briskness.
Only hours from now. He presses his lips together. "Mother-"
"-It's a bit of a rush, Spock."
This time, the grimace slips through. "Please do not provide further details."
His mother's soft laugh is entirely unnecessary. "We'll see you soon. And- Spock, thank you."
A needless explosion of air sits at the top of his throat. "It is no matter."
For some time he continues to stand at the window. The very edge of the quad is visible, what is typically a sliver of green grass now packed with swarms of students. Most have removed their jackets, piles of red fabric dotting the lawn, so that many of the figures are half clad in their pressed slacks or skirts and half in the gray standard issue undershirts typically worn beneath. More than a few have also removed their boots, and Spock can only picture the marks left on the synthetic leather by dropping them on the ground, when just that morning the students would have polished those same boots to a high shine for the beginning of the day.
Unnecessary for them to even consider the time it will take to once again produce a suitable appearance in uniform, as they have no commitments until the beginning of the next semester. There is sufficient time for them to thoroughly relax, as they apparently intend to, what with the empty days stretched out ahead.
When he returns to his seat, he attempts to summon his earlier equanimity, sorting through the stacks of filmplasts he was shuffling, arranging his desk for the end of the day, and finally, when his thoughts threaten to drift towards tomorrow, reaching for his padd. It is inopportune to dwell on the impending disruption, as he has fewer hours now in which to complete his work. Still, he finds himself off kilter with the news of the coming days and with the unbalance his mother's request brings. He cites that perturbation as the reason an eagerness swells in him, as he finally opens Pike's message, followed immediately by an unease that is difficult to quell.
Steeling himself against further emotional response, he reads quickly over Pike's words twice before the sigh that he has held at bay for some time escapes.
The anticipation he holds for the interview is tempered by the day and time in which Pike indicates he is available. Moments ago, Spock would have been attempting to staunch the well of excitement at the opportunity. Now, he has to push back disappointment.
He will reschedule. Surely the Captain will understand a familial obligation, though even as he considers writing out his reply that he can most certainly be available for an interview, just not when the Captain proposed, he assesses being on the receiving end of such a response. It would be unlikely to garner him any favor and could serve to work in an opposite manner. It is a concern he would not have were Pike Vulcan, but Spock has come to learn at least some about his human colleagues, and this appears to be the type of situation where his logic, and their lack thereof, grind discordant against each other. Spock is entirely too able to predict Pike's negative response to a scheduling conflict, inconvenient as it is for him, and boding ill for any positive impression Spock might have made.
Still, he has no choice, no matter how certain he is that Pike will be far from impressed that Spock cannot accommodate him, though such a thought staunches how quickly he might have accepted the Captain's offer. Instead of attempting to immediately compose a reply, he tucks his padd under his arm and palms his comm, sure that given sufficient time, he will land upon a way to respond to the Captain in a manner that makes it clear that his application for the position of First Officer of the Enterprise remains an utmost priority.
Outside, the scent of grilling meat hangs in the air like a cloud. The sun has peeked through the fog, lending a bright cheer to the day. Spock attempts to breathe through his mouth and finds it fortunate that he was planning to launder his uniform that evening, since he will certainly be pressed to do so after walking past the grills a group of fourth years have set out on the quad. He watches the students as they cook, aware as they are that in a matter of days they will graduate, and the next semester will start soon thereafter, with a reordering of students into higher ranks, as they all shift closer to their own commencements. The shuffle of campus has become ordinary by now, a passage of time that once marked Spock's own academic progress and, now that his role as an instructor has stagnated that constant advancement, simply accompanies the turning of the years. He is so used to that inertia as to notice less now than he once had, though the scent of charcoal fires brings back the first steps he took across this quad, when he was attempting to find the tack officer assigned to his cohort of students. That day a fine drizzle had hung in the air, incongruously not enough to temper the human desire to cook outdoors, even given the functioning banks of replicators in the mess hall. Spock's bag had weighed heavy on his shoulder as he had paused at the edge of the quad, teeming with bodies he must pass by. Now, he slips between them with an efficiency he had once not been able to muster, cutting around a group of Tellarites lying prostrate in the sun and a triad of humans kicking a ball between them.
He stops, not at the sound of his name, but the voice that calls it.
"Cadet," he offers as Nyota approaches him. Her jacket is unzipped to the middle of her chest. He is unsure if he has ever seen her bare throat before, hidden as it always is behind the stiff collar of her uniform or the red of her high necked sweaters.
He shifts his padd to his other hand and redirects his gaze across the quad, lest it rest on the collar of her gray t-shirt.
"I'm sorry to have interrupted you," she says. Her head tips slightly, her eyes on him, and her earrings dancing at the motion.
He shakes his head. "It is of no consequence."
He adjusts his grip on his padd again, ready to explain to her all the ways in which her presence was acceptable, but from the ground he hears, "Ny wants to know if you two can start grading right this second."
He clears his throat. Nyota's roommate is laying on the grass, at first glance nearly indiscernible from the lawn and the piles of discarded uniform jackets. An inexcusable oversight on his part, to be so unobservant of his surroundings.
"Hello," he says. Gaila smiles at him, her teeth a bright white flash.
"Stop," Nyota tells her, though the word does nothing to diminish Gaila's apparent delight. "No, sir, I was just hoping to confirm that we were still planning to meet tomorrow morning."
He certainly had been. Awaiting it as one of the last signs of the end of the semester. And in a way that recently he has been hard pressed to attribute only to the help she offers, her efficiency, and the quality of the work she completes.
Firmly, he redirects his thoughts. Given the change in his schedule, completing their work this afternoon would be the most efficacious choice. Technically, her position continues through her final obligation to him and the class, and as neither are completed, he is at his leisure to direct her as he will.
Nearby, music starts. Synthesized and distributed through speakers, so not a live performance. Even so, heads turn in that direction, and there is a yelled demand for increased volume.
He could request her presence now, and she would agree to it with all of her customary respect for her obligations. He looks again at the gathered cadets, her classmates, and instead, he says, "Tomorrow afternoon would be preferable."
"That makes tonight party time," Gaila calls out.
"The morning is no problem at all," Nyota says quickly.
Meeting in the morning would have given them all day together. He searches for a steady tone in which to say, "I am no longer available then."
She lifts her hand, palm towards him. He does not understand the gesture, though her accompanying nod is familiar. "Whatever works best for you."
He is sure that were he human, he would smile at her words, at the incongruity in which they are offered in juxtaposition to his mother's. As it is, he simply returns her nod and after a moment in which he debates whether to say anything further or not, adds, "My sister is visiting. I was not aware until just now."
"Oh." Nyota's smile is sudden and serves to brighten her eyes in a way that cannot help but catch his attention. A correct choice then, to present her with the reason for the change in his schedule. "I didn't know you had a sister."
"I have not mentioned it."
She is still smiling. "That's lovely that she's coming. A bit of a surprise, is it?"
An understatement, to be sure. "Indeed."
"Are you two going to do anything fun?"
He blinks. "Unlikely."
"What Nyota is trying to say is that there's that new bar that opened, and you two should come join us there."
He looks down at where Gaila is grinning at him from beside his boot. "She is eight."
Gaila's mouth tightens in a frown. "No, Ny's like twenty something."
"Eight?" Nyota repeats.
He is so accustomed to what were misunderstandings on Vulcan regarding the differences in their ages, and the surprise on Earth when someone new learns of it, that he simply nods in confirmation, rather than attempting an explanation of any sort.
Then he reconsiders how she is watching him, the smile not quite faded from her expression, and her hands clasped in front of her and confirms, "Yes, she is quite a bit younger than I am."
"Didn't you say your parents are coming, too?"
He had said exactly that, over one of the lunches he had shared with her recently, the ones that had become increasingly common as the semester had worn on and she had begun bringing food to his office, rather than taking the time out of her day to go to the mess hall. Inefficient, really, despite her intention, as it predisposed them to idle discussion, especially when he began taking his meals at the same time. In the end, the time spent eating in his office had become increasingly casual too, in a way he had not been entirely prepared for, as their conversations turned from their work to discussions of her classes, to him recounting stories from his deployments, all with a growing informality that he could not wholly attribute to the practice of eating together.
Regardless, the semester is nearly over. Is over, in actuality, and they have only a number of hours left together to complete their grading.
He resists the urge to shake his head, as if doing so will dispel the thoughts of those lunches, when he should be fully capable of controlling his thoughts without associated gestures. "Later this week. Tabitha is arriving before them."
"Tabitha," Nyota repeats, her smile once again firmly in place. She says it once more in Vulcan, asked as if it is a question, "T'abeta?"
As always, her accent is impeccable. "That is correct."
"Will you bring her tomorrow?"
He nearly closes his eyes at the thought, having previously not considered it. Yes, he will likely need to. And he will have to more carefully consider his schedule, rather than allow such oversights for the remainder of the week. "If it is not an inconvenience."
"Oh, no, not at all, that'll be great." Nyota is still smiling. "And really, let me know when you're free tomorrow," she says, and then repeats herself to add, "I'm not up to much of anything until the new semester starts. Just some more data collection."
"Your research is going well, then?"
"Yeah, it is."
"And you are able to recruit sufficient participants?"
"I'm on break," Gaila says, and when he looks down at her, her arm is thrown over her eyes. "So you two need to stop. Please."
"I have," Nyota says as if Gaila has not spoken. "I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."
"Acceptable," he says. Not preferable, though, not with the knowledge he now has that she and he will not be alone together.
His rooms are blessedly silent when he arrives. His padd he places on his desk, the order of items there identical to his office, with his padd in its customary spot in the middle, between the assortment of styluses and filmplasts and single framed piece of art. This he stares at for a long moment, the familiar reds and golds of home etched across the paper in short, small strokes.
Then he puts his comm on his kitchen table, removes his uniform, and turns on the sonics in his shower to their highest setting. He stands with his back to them, sure marks will rise to the surface of his skin with the kneading pressure, but he cannot bring himself to care.
Soon he will have to emerge, when the desire to linger is outweighed by the logic of action. Before he retires for the night, he will have to ascertain if he has sheets that will fit his couch and a spare pillow. In his mind, he counts through his towels, certain he has a sufficient number, and pictures his closet with its extra blankets, visualizing the surface area of the warmest one and then the space it will take up on the couch over a small body. He will have to check to make sure it is acceptable, which he will do, as soon as he is finished allowing the sonics to beat into him. He will shake the blanket out, decide if it needs to be washed, and then spend a quiet evening alone. Despite the pleasant temperature of the air outside, he is already certain he will leave his windows closed, lest the noise from campus permeate his quarters. Perhaps the silence can be filled with music of his own, or he could take a last opportunity to meditate in the privacy he is currently afforded that has only hours until it ceases for longer than he wishes now to contemplate.
As he considers the evening before him, and the morning that will come soon enough, he tips his head against the wall of the shower, his thoughts drifting back to the sunlit early evening he just left, the cadets milling about in the warm weather and Nyota standing before him. The tile of his shower is cool against his forehead, and he instructs himself to not dwell upon the shape of her smile, nor how she sought him out, or even the invitation offered by her roommate, the one he would not have likely accepted and now, being unable to, is suddenly all the more attractive.
He had no clear idea what would occur in the days after Nyota's position terminated, only the knowledge of one last meeting to review exams and final grades, and after that a rather aimless intent about what would come next, unclear and, strictly speaking, illogical in the vagueness with which he had allowed himself to consider it. Undirected ideas had begun to circulate in his mind of what might follow thereafter, half formed notions of further lunches, a desire to continue their discussion in the idle hours of the Academy's break, and a surety that he did not wish for the tenuous association they had developed to cease. But now no such opportunity will avail itself, so it does not do to dwell on exactly how those intentions might have solidified, the form they might have taken, how they could have been spurred into realization by an enthusiasm in her that he has to acknowledge would galvanize him, buoy him in further expectations, the types of which he has not allowed himself to consider.
Likely it is for the best that no clear intent ever took shape, best left to the indistinct speculation over what tomorrow might have brought, were he at his leisure to pursue it.
He is not, so he does not linger over the thought of a set of events that may not have occurred in the first place and now certainly will not. Instead, he turns off the sonics, takes a towel from its hook and wraps it around his waist. He steps from the shower with the intention of deciding what task he will begin with first, rather than allow his mind to wander yet again.
11/21/16: So many thanks to give! First off, buckets of gratitude to wifebeast-s for the huge amount of help beta reading, she is truly astounding. Second, thanks to everyone on tumblr who helped name Tabitha- I cannot for the life of me find the post in question, so I can't thank you by name, but if it's you a) amazing job and b) let me know! And thank you to Sam for helping me name Spock's grandmother, and thank you to all of you who were so enthusiastic about this story what was now months and months ago. I'm so excited to share the rest of it with you!