Chapter Four: Father Knows Best
Disclaimer: I wish I made money from shamelessly using these borrowed characters, but I don't.
"Hurry up, hurry up," Nyota mutters under her breath, dancing lightly from one foot to the other. The line stretching in front of her is unusually long, snaking all the way from where she stands on the Presidio walkway near the bay to the security checkpoint outside the front door of the Federation legislative building.
"Cold?" Professor Artura asks, and Nyota nods, ducking her head into the wind. The Andorian leans forward and says something to the junior ambassador standing ahead of him in the line. The junior ambassador, his wispy white hair ruffled by the wind, turns and looks at Nyota.
"If you would like," he says with the characteristic Andorian lisp, "you may use my overcoat."
"Thank you," Nyota says, crossing her arms and tucking her hands to her side, "but my roommate is bringing my jacket. She should be here any minute."
Right on cue, Gaila waves from the top of the knoll and hurries forward, a large black swathe of material in her arms.
"What's this?" Nyota says, frowning. "I asked you to bring my jacket."
"Couldn't find it," Gaila says, grinning at Professor Artura. "If you weren't so messy, Ny—"
Nyota gives Gaila an evil look. Nyota's side of their shared dorm room is spotless. Gaila's side, on the other hand, looks like the aftermath of an earthquake—clothes, PADDs, shoes all mingled indiscriminately on the floor.
"This isn't mine," Nyota says, lifting the black coat from Gaila's arms.
"It's mine," Gaila says, "I think. Anyway, it's what I found. Go ahead and put it on."
With a skeptical grimace, Nyota slips her arms into the coat. At once she is swallowed by the bulky black material. She lifts one foot experimentally. The coat almost drags the ground.
"See," Gaila says, plucking the front of the coat, "fits perfectly."
Vaguely Nyota is aware that Professor Artura and the Andorian junior ambassador have been watching her, and she glances up and shrugs her shoulders.
"Very fetching," Professor Artura says. As she often does, Nyota feels that the professor is pulling her leg. Fetching? In this huge lumpy coat? Hardly.
"Cadet Farlijah-Endef," Professor Artura says to Gaila, "are you also working during the meeting?"
"Not this time," she says brightly. "I'm just here for the plenary session."
Of course, Nyota thinks. All of the Academy cadets attend the plenary session of each quarterly legislative assembly of the Federation. No wonder the line to get in is so long.
As the line moves forward slowly, Nyota scans the crowd for Spock. He's taller than most of the cadets or the off-worlder ambassadors and their aides who are waiting, but she doesn't see him. Nor does she see any other Vulcans, though she knows they are here somewhere.
Including Ambassador Sarek. Her stomach gives a nervous flip.
Until this morning she hadn't known he was attending. Spock mentioned it casually as they were opening the language lab for an early tutorial.
"I'd like to meet him," Nyota said, and Spock paused, his hand hovering over the computer terminal he was turning on. His quiet—his hesitation—surprised her. And hurt, too, though she tried not to show it. After all, Spock has hinted that his relationship with his father is strained. His hesitation may not be a reflection of his feelings about her so much as a commentary about his feelings about his father.
"I was going to ask you," he said at last, reaching down to finish his task at the terminal, "if you would be willing to serve as an aide for the Vulcan commission. It might be a good way to… meet my father."
At once she was sorry, and this time she didn't try to hide her disappointment.
"Oh!" she said, her right hand going to her mouth automatically. "I already told Professor Artura I'd help the Andorians with their simultaneous translations. The translator who came with them is ill today. Perhaps tomorrow?"
"Perhaps," Spock said. His voice was even and measured but Nyota noted disapproval in his tone. Lately he has chafed in the presence of Professor Artura, and though he has said nothing directly to Nyota, she can tell that the professor's jibes and kidding, his innuendos about them have begun to wear on Spock.
Too close to home.
The phrase comes to her as she stands in line, hopping from foot to foot in the cold. Professor Artura's teasing is too close to home—now that she and Spock are more than professor and teaching assistant….
She stops that train of thought and pulls Gaila's coat tighter.
Soon enough she is at the head of the line, handing her ID to the security guards and registering as an adjunct member of the Andorian ambassador's party. As Gaila heads to find a seat on the floor of the assembly room, Nyota follows the two Andorians to the area set aside for the Federation representatives. Several other Andorians are already there, one, Nyota is surprised to see, an Aenar, whose pale eyes and skin have a ghostly sheen.
"Cadet Uhura," Professor Artura says as he settles into his chair, "would you be so kind as to get the agenda folders? You can pick them up at the registration desk in the lobby."
"Of course," Nyota says, glad for an excuse to look around the room for the Vulcan delegation. Already the crowd is so large that making her way up the aisle means stopping and starting, waiting for people to find their places.
"I'll help you," Nyota hears behind her. The Aenar is only a few feet away, his sightless eyes open, his hand held out like he is holding a compass.
"Ambassador," Nyota says, stepping to the side and watching him catch up.
"Please," the Aenar says, "call me K'ev. And I am not an ambassador, just an observer. I'm afraid your participation today is on my behalf. The translator who is ill is my personal assistant."
Nyota takes a tentative step forward and K'ev moves with her. Nyota struggles to remember what she knows about the Aenar. Professor Artura has mentioned them in passing—their minority status in Andorian society, their reluctant participation in Federation affairs.
And their telepathy. Unlike their blue-skinned cousins, the Aenar are strong telepaths.
Darting a glance at K'ev's unblinking eyes, Nyota suppresses a shiver. Like other strong telepathic races, the Aenar eschew intrusion into the minds of sentient beings without their consent.
Still—
Shouldn't and wouldn't are two different things.
The lobby is even more crowded than the assembly room and Nyota and K'ev are temporarily separated. Across the room Nyota sees a sign for the registration desk and she makes her way slowly to it.
"The agenda folders for the Andorian delegation," she says to the cadet manning the table. Without a word the cadet punches in some information into a scanner and then motions to another cadet to hand Nyota two cardboard boxes, each the size of an old-fashioned hatbox. They aren't heavy, but they are awkward, and Nyota is grateful when K'ev sidles up beside her and takes one from her.
She lets him lead the way back across the room. As they turn down the corridor to the side entrance to the assembly room, a sudden rush of people almost knock her off her feet. In the distance she can see K'ev pass through the threshold. As she catches her balance and heads through the door, she feels herself spun around by someone already standing inside the assembly room.
"Here you are!"
A breathy male voice, and then a face, mottled purple and red, looms in her vision. Before she can react, she feels herself pressed backward by a sudden kiss.
Dropping the box, she tries to push the figure away with a shove, but he continues to nuzzle her face, his beard scratching her cheek.
"Stop!" she cries out, shoving her elbow down into the man's abdomen.
Suddenly she is free and her assailant is standing in front of her, breathing hard.
"I'm sorry!" he says, and Nyota rounds on him furiously.
"What are you doing!"
The man—a burly human with patchy brown hair—steps back, his hands dangling by his side, his face red and flushed.
"I…uh…I thought…you were someone else."
"Obviously!" Nyota says angrily, leaning over to pick up the box of agenda folders. The man bends down swiftly to beat her to it and almost topples over on her.
"Don't help me!"
But he ignores her, reaching out his hand and grabbing her arm to pull her up. As he does, Nyota looks at his fingers, big and hairy and as flushed as his face.
"I really am sorry!" the man says again, and Nyota nods briefly and darts into the crowd.
Completely rattled, at first she is so disoriented that she doesn't see the Andorians.
But as her heartbeat slows, she catches a glimpse of Professor Artura chatting with K'ev, still standing in the aisle, box in his hand.
Professor Artura takes the box from her and opens it, handing the thin agenda folders to each of the Andorians already seated. Looking around once more at the crowded room, Nyota takes her place between the two men and opens her own folder.
The agenda lists the usual greetings and introductions that will make up most of the plenary session, with a banquet tonight. The real work of the assembly won't start until tomorrow. Then the ambassadors will spend the next three days discussing such issues as how to respond to the plague on Denus Argentia, whether or not to admit three new applicants for membership into the Federation, how to broker peace among two warring member worlds.
Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, Nyota looks around the room for the man who kissed her. He must be crazy, she thinks. She tries again to settle her disquiet by reading the detailed précis of the agenda—to no avail. The feel of the unwanted kiss lingers on her lips—and though she rubs her fingers roughly across her face, she can't get the image of the man out of her mind.
"Cadet," Professor Artura says, and Nyota is aware that he has spoken her name several times in succession.
"Yes," she says, focusing her attention. His antennae are tipped toward her, his expression concerned.
"You seem distressed."
"No, no," she says quickly. "I'm fine."
For a moment Professor Artura is silent. Then he says, "If you don't mind—"
He hands her a PADD designed for translators, with separate screens for the different languages and a scrolling commentary across the bottom. Virtual buttons along the sides allow the translator to annotate the translations or call up dictionaries. Nyota's task is to highlight anything that will need editing later for the archives.
"All of the members of the delegation are fluent in Standard," the professor had told her when he asked her to help. "But this report will go back to the citizens on the home world. It has to be recorded accurately—and none of the delegation will have time while we are in negotiations."
Ordinarily working at a legislative session would be interesting—even thrilling. Today, however, Nyota feels nonplussed—and not, she realizes, just because of the strange, random kiss—an obvious case of mistaken identity—but because of her conversation with Spock that morning in the lab.
If only he had asked her earlier to work with the Vulcan delegation! She could have spent the day getting to know Spock's father, sideways, obtusely, almost stealthily. Getting to know him—letting him know her—as an individual first. Before he suspects that she might be anything more.
And there, she puts her finger at last on the real source of her unease. What would Sarek of Vulcan think of her? Sarek, whose reputation is even more formidable than his son's?
Spock has shared nothing about whatever he may have told his father—or his mother—about her. Surely not much. Not that his father would tell anyone, but if he is as bound to tradition, as committed to rules and regulations as she assumes an ambassador must be, then he would not condone his son's risking his career this way.
As the president of the legislature walks to the lectern to open the session, Nyota shrugs off Gaila's heavy black coat and smushes it into a lump. How hot it is in the room already—with so many people finally seated. Why did she ever think she needed her jacket?
The introductions are thankfully brief and the president outlines the proposed agenda. A few members add to it. The Horshan delegation makes their usual protest about humanoid hegemony.
Through it all Nyota keeps one eye on the scrolling commentary on the PADD. As the speakers pause, she looks around for Spock, spotting him at last near the stage, sitting with a large group of Vulcans. Most are women—their elaborate scarves and richly embroidered robes more colorful than the somber dark tunics of the men.
Immediately Nyota knows which one is Sarek. As tall as Spock but stockier, he holds himself with the same rigid posture. A family trait, or typical of Vulcans in general? Nyota isn't sure.
Because the Andorians are sitting further back, she can't see Sarek's face, except occasionally in profile. His ears, she notes, are not like Spock's at all—but are thinner and angled differently.
She feels herself flush with a sudden image of Spock's ear, running her thumb and forefinger on either side of the pinna, ending at the tilted point, watching Spock's eyes close of their own accord, the slightest frown line between his eyes as he struggles not to give in too swiftly….
The heat in the room is oppressive. She wipes her brow with her hand.
"Hot?" Professor Artura says quietly, and Nyota almost giggles, remembering how two hours ago he had asked her if she was cold—in exactly that same tone of voice, his head tilted forward the same way.
"I…uh…I think I need some water," she says, handing him the translation PADD and standing up. For a moment she is too lightheaded to walk, but then she regains her equilibrium as she heads up the aisle.
The lobby is cooler. With relief she accepts a cup of water from a cadet manning a table set up with refreshments.
Pulling her comm from her pocket, she scrolls through her messages and sees one from Spock—a note saying he will look for her after the afternoon session.
At least he isn't still annoyed about her working with Professor Artura, if he was, in fact, annoyed. He might simply have been preoccupied. When she sees him, she can ask.
If she remembers. Right now she just wants to sit for a minute in the cool air and not think about anything.
Soon the mental fog lifts and she gets back up.
The rest of the afternoon is a mix of tedium and surprise. For the most part the delegates approve the agenda without much discussion, but an occasional outburst from overly impassioned attendees ricochets around the room.
Through it all Nyota beavers away on the translation, occasionally asking Professor Artura or K'ev to corroborate a word choice.
When the president chimes the bell to signal the end of the session, Nyota is too tired at first to rise.
"If you don't mind," she tells Professor Artura, "I'm going to sit here for a little while and catch my breath.
He tips his antennae toward her—a gesture that can indicate amusement or worry, Nyota decides.
"My assistant sent me a note that the medics are treating her illness," K'ev says. "If she is unable to return to work tomorrow, would you be willing to do the translation work in her place?"
Is she? Nyota has to think. Right now all she wants to do is get out of the heat and rest. Or walk around in the evening air. Anything other than sit longer in a cushioned chair. Another day bent over a PADD scrambling to compose Andorian prose is not an exciting prospect.
And Sarek. If she is free tomorrow she might get to work with the Vulcans and meet Spock's father.
Why is she having so much trouble deciding what to do?
"You are tired," K'ev says, and Nyota has the impression that he is not making a simple intuitive leap but feels her exhaustion with her. "Please do not concern yourself about tomorrow."
"No, really—"
"If we need you," Professor Artura interjects, "I will contact you. Thank you, Cadet, for your service to Andoria today."
Dimly she is aware that the Professor and the other Andorians are walking away—and then something catches the edge of her consciousness and she looks up into Spock's eyes.
He is standing as he often does in public, ramrod straight, his head tilted slightly to the left, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Cadet Uhura."
"Commander," she says, gathering up Gaila's coat. She stays in her seat another beat. A human would have stepped forward to offer a hand. Spock doesn't move.
Behind him she can see the other Vulcans talking and collecting their things. Sarek is there, too—looking in this direction. Nyota forces herself to stand up.
"I am accompanying my father to dinner," Spock says, his voice more formal than she is used to hearing. His way of saying she is not invited to join them? Right now the idea of meeting the ambassador is too daunting. She needs to be clear-headed when she does, and she is too tired to think straight.
"The banquet?"
"If he chooses," Spock says. "At any rate I should be free later."
He's asking her something. She's sure of it. But at the moment she can't parse out exactly what.
"Cadet," Spock says, stepping closer, and Nyota raises her hand to stop him.
"Yes," she says. "Call me when you are free."
Gaila's coat is so heavy—almost too heavy to carry in her arms. How does anyone wear a coat like this?
"Do you need—" he begins, but with a burst of energy she smiles.
"I'm fine," she says. "Really. Good luck with…everything."
It's a joke they share—her wishing him luck before he has time to protest. A belief in luck, he likes to say, is a human tendency to impose a narrative on a random universe.
Without looking she knows that he is still standing in the aisle watching her go, his eyes lingering on her as she threads her way through the few people ambling toward the door.
But when she turns around at the end of the aisle to grant him a farewell nod, he is not there. Indeed, she can't see him anywhere, nor any of the Vulcans. Apparently they exited near the stage when her back was turned.
If she weren't so tired she might be miffed. Not miffed—for that sounds trivial and self-serving. Disappointed. Deeply.
What would have been the danger in introducing her as his teaching assistant?
Well, plenty. Her face would have given her away. Teaching assistant, indeed.
The glass door is cool to her hand as she pushes her way out of the legislative building. Instead of being cold, the wind now is refreshing, bracing, and Nyota tucks the unnecessary coat under her arm. Suddenly she is restless. A walk along the Presidio? Or dinner in the cafeteria?
The idea of the noise of students chatting and eating is unappealing and tiresome. All at once she is a deflated balloon, a cat needing a nap.
But food. She needs to eat. Walking as swiftly as she can across the campus, she heads to the market deli. A wrap. A quiet seat at one of the round tables Arun pulls outside every day. The image lures her forward.
Maybe Vijay will be there and she can ask about his plans to head home next month. It will be nice to hear someone talk about something other than treaties, legal rights, border refugees.
The coat unfurls in the wind and Nyota laughs at what she must look like, the black cloth catching the breeze like a kite.
Dinner is definitely called for. This….giddiness is unlike her.
The deli. If she can get to the deli and get something to eat.
After that Spock may call, and they can compare their impressions of the session.
Shivering violently, she reels the coat in and slips her arms into the sleeves. Idly she notes a flush along one arm. Pulling out her other arm for examination, she sees that it is mottled as well, with tiny raised purple pinpricks.
A heat rash? If it doesn't go away by tomorrow, she will stop by the infirmary and have someone look at it. That nice doctor she saw the other day, maybe. What was his name? Dr. Puri. That nice Dr. Puri. The one who helped her set up her antigen routine.
She never thanked him properly, and she really should. She needs to let him know how important those antigen shots are, how they offer her peace of mind, how her relationship with Spock wouldn't be possible otherwise….doctors probably never hear those kinds of testimonials about their good work. She really ought to tell him, or send him a message on her comm.
If she weren't so tired right now she would.
X X X X X X X X X
In legislative sessions, Sarek is almost never called by his formal name. The off-worlders he knows best do not try to pronounce his family name, preferring instead to call him Sarek of Vulcan.
He doesn't mind. The more private his personal world, the better.
So he is uneasy about the public nature of what he must do now—even though the participants are both family.
All day he has divided his attention between the requirements of the plenary session—listening to the debates, voting in the initial agenda setting—and the anticipation of a trickier diplomacy—speaking to Spock and T'Rhea at dinner.
T'Rhea is his distant cousin by marriage—a widow whose husband died three years ago from a degenerative disease. She has no children, is in excellent health herself, and is a gifted civil engineer who works from time to time as an attaché at the Vulcan embassy.
She is not averse to living on Earth—or at least, Sarek has noted that unlike some of the other members of the diplomatic corps, she does not comment negatively about the climate, about humans, about the few times she has made extended stays in San Francisco.
Of course, Sarek muses, her silence in these matters may be a reflection of her sensitivity towards him rather than her genuine impressions. She may simply be careful not to cast aspersions on the homeworld of her cousin's wife.
Like most Vulcan women, T'Rhea is dressed in heavy embroidered robes, her head covered by a filmy scarf. Her thick clothes cannot hide her slender build and petite stature—and, Sarek reflects, watching her adjust her overcoat as she prepares to leave the legislative building at the end of the afternoon, her face is pleasing, her hair such a glossy black that it appears blue in the overhead light.
Getting Spock to consider her, however…
Tricky diplomacy. Especially after the shame of the annulment—not that Spock has anything to be ashamed of. T'Pring's conduct in the matter is shameful—her refusal to communicate with Spock when he was home, for instance. And Spock has hinted that she refused to see him earlier when she was traveling on Earth.
The annulment had been necessary. Regret about the necessary is illogical.
Sarek has repeated this mantra since he helped Spock find a healer two months ago during his visit home—a visit neither Amanda nor Sarek had expected, though they were both glad to see their son and to help him end a relationship that was causing him distress.
And probably worse, though Spock has said nothing to him. Or to Amanda. Not that he is always forthcoming about his private life, but Sarek is mildly surprised that Spock has not said more.
"I think he has a young woman," Amanda said after Spock headed back to the Academy after the annulment, and Sarek listened skeptically to her reasons for her assumption.
"While he was here he called Earth seventeen times," she said and Sarek replied, "Spock has many colleagues at the Academy—"
"All seventeen calls were to the same private comm," she said, raising her chin in his direction. "Not one with an Academy prefix."
Sarek had to admit that such evidence was weighty. Though not proof, as he cautioned his wife, that Spock had a young woman.
"What about his teaching assistant?" Amanda asked. "Spock said she was angry that he left Earth without telling her. That says something."
"It says that her work might have been impacted by his absence," Sarek reminded her, but Amanda was not impressed.
"During a school break? And furthermore, Spock told me that his assistant was worried when she didn't hear from him for several days. You have to agree that is suggestive."
"Suggestive of what, Amanda?" Sarek said, raising one eyebrow in what Amanda calls the Vulcan exclamation point.
"You know exactly what I mean," she said, darting him a glance as she hurried to the kitchen to attend a whistling teakettle.
And he had known, though he had said nothing more to Amanda.
If Spock has a young woman—a human companion—it does not mean that he will have the help he needs when the time comes.
And that, Sarek acknowledges to himself, is the real source of his worry about his son.
A human companion might be nothing more than a temporary dalliance—an entertainment. Sarek has no objections.
But long term?
"Rather than attend the banquet," Sarek says to Spock as they exit the building after the plenary session, "I would prefer eating at a restaurant your mother and I often enjoy when we are here."
"As you wish," Spock says at once, his eyes cast down like a proper obedient son. Illogical to see his actions as anything more than they appear—as an ironic message, perhaps—yet Sarek can't help but feel that Spock is agreeing against his will.
He has no time to consider further. He turns to T'Rhea and says, "And you, cousin? Will you join us?"
"I would be honored," she says, nodding, and Sarek feels a weight lift from his shoulders.
The restaurant is close to the Federation complex, a tiny room seating fewer than 20 diners. The food, however, is very fresh, the wait staff attentive, and both Spock and T'Rhea strike up an extended conversation about upcoming infrastructure projects on which T'Rhea has been invited to consult.
As Sarek finishes his salad and pours himself some of the fermented tea that is the specialty of the restaurant, he wills himself to relax—to prepare to turn the conversation to more serious matters.
How to start? That is always to key to a successful negotiation—and when one of the parties involved is resistant….
The odds are high that Spock will resist another betrothal. Sarek and Amanda have had words about it—arguing late into the night before he left for Earth this time, her words still ringing in his memory.
"Haven't you learned anything?" she demanded. "Even T'Pau told you to leave him to his own choices—"
"What is so amiss about planning for the future?" Sarek said, watching Amanda shake her head.
She had no reply.
There is no adequate reply—Sarek is right to be concerned.
He expects Spock to resist, but he cannot predict T'Rhea's reaction. She is older than Spock, and more settled in her career, and though she would benefit financially in a betrothal, she may have…other objections.
The idea shakes Sarek's usual equanimity.
Other objections. Objections to Spock's human heritage.
Watching the two of them talking amiably over dinner, Sarek dismisses the possibility. She will approve. She has no reason not to.
Setting his cup on the table, Sarek prepares to broach the topic at last. Negotiations must start somewhere.
But T'Rhea pushes her chair back from the table and stands.
"Please excuse me," she says without preamble. "My mother needs my attention. I'll see myself back to my quarters."
And with that she is gone.
Looking across the table, Sarek meets Spock's eyes in understanding. As soon as he had returned to Earth from his last trip home, Spock had been hurt in a hover bus accident, and both Sarek and Amanda had known at once through their bond. T'Rhea's mother is elderly and frail and living alone in Shi'Kahr. She may need her daughter's assistance.
Suddenly the restaurant feels like a misstep, particularly now that he will need to speak to Spock alone.
"Can we," Sarek says, signaling to the waiter to bring their check, "retire to your apartment? I have matters I wish to discuss with you in private."
As he hands the waiter his credit chit, Sarek sees Spock's expression go flatter than usual. Not a good sign.
"As you wish," Spock says, and Sarek has the same impression that he had earlier, that his son is wary in his compliance.
Spock's apartment is not far from the restaurant. His hands clasped behind his back, Sarek watches Spock key their entrance into the building and then into the apartment, the first door on the left.
Not surprisingly, the apartment is spartan and neat, though Sarek notes a half-filled tea mug still sitting on the table beside the sofa.
Motioning to his father to have a seat, Spock whisks the cup to the kitchen and Sarek hears him filling the kettle. For several minutes Sarek sits on the sofa, scanning the room as Spock makes tea.
The bookshelf along one wall contains several books Sarek gave Spock years ago—a revelation that both pleases and surprises him. Several pictures are propped up among the books—photographs of their garden at home, and one particularly aesthetically harmonious picture of Amanda and Spock, standing side-by-side, the open door to the house in the background.
Other than these few things, nothing reveals his life here. No pictures of companions. No souvenirs or artifacts from travels.
Sarek feels his heart give a little lurch.
He hopes his son is not lonely.
"I think he has a young woman," Amanda had said, but if he does, the bare apartment contradicts that idea.
Sarek thinks about the young woman he saw today—the teaching assistant. Could she be the young woman Amanda is convinced has a personal relationship with their son? Spock had spoken with her briefly at the conclusion of the plenary session, neither his posture nor his expression indicating anything other than a professional connection. They had exchanged only a few words, their eye contact brief.
Spock comes from the kitchen holding two similar mugs, both rough to the touch and obviously hand-made. Sarek takes one and blows across the top of the tea, waiting for some internal signal to tell him when to begin.
"Your mother," he says after taking a sip, "worries about you."
He looks up in time to see a glimmer of amusement cross Spock's features. A good sign. He waits for Spock to reply.
"A trait common to human mothers," Spock says, and Sarek adds, "All mothers."
For another minute they sip their tea in silence, and then Sarek says, "I…wanted to talk to you about…your future."
At once he senses Spock's hackles going up. The gentle pulse of their bond closes, like a door pushed to, and Spock puts his cup down on the table and laces his fingers together.
"My future?"
"In hindsight," Sarek says, setting his own mug down, "T'Pring was an unsuitable choice. It would be understandable if, given what has happened, you feel resentment about your bonding."
He stops and searches Spock's face for a hint to his reaction. Spock frowns slightly and says, "I do not resent the bonding. I never have."
For a moment Spock seems to pull within himself, and then he says, "In fact, I welcomed it. It made me feel less—"
"Alone?" Sarek says, thinking of the steadiness of Amanda's presence in his mind.
"Unusual," Spock says.
A rush of sorrow catches Sarek off guard. Usually his control is stronger, but Spock's tone pierces him, reminding him of all the times Amanda cried at night after putting their son to bed, weeping into her pillow, into Sarek's shoulder, about the injustices Spock faced daily as a child.
"Then perhaps you will be agreeable," Sarek says, steadying his voice, "to a new bonding. With T'Rhea. Every indication is that she would be—"
"You have spoken to her?"
Anger. And disbelief? Sarek isn't sure. He struggles not to sigh.
"I have not," he says, and Spock leans away. "I wanted to speak to you first."
"Father," Spock says, "I have no interest in bonding with T'Rhea or anyone. I realize that you are…concerned, but I assure you—"
"You cannot know how frightening it is," Sarek says, his brows furrowed, "to face—"
And here he falters, unable to bring himself to say the words.
His inability to speak opens a dam in Spock. In a rush, the younger man says, "I know that you are rightfully worried for me. And I appreciate your concern. But it is illogical to make an untenable choice based on a future that may not happen—"
Here Sarek looks up, ready to protest, but Spock heads him off.
"—may not happen, Father. You cannot know. No one can."
The bitterness in Spock's voice is unmistakable. The old hurt. His legacy to his son.
Regret about what cannot be changed is illogical, he thinks.
Now it is his turn to say, "As you wish," glancing away.
"Thank you for the tea," he says, standing, and Spock stands too, his arms close to his side, his hands behind him. Making his way slowly to the door, Sarek considers what else he can say, what might change Spock's mind.
But his logic fails him. And his feelings compel him to silence.
"I think he has a young woman," Amanda had said, and now Sarek recognizes the hopefulness in her pronouncement. She will quiz him when he returns, wanting news.
The news will disappoint her.
There is no young woman.
There is no one at all.
X X X X X X X X
By luck—or more accurately, because of where the light fixtures in the hallway of the apartment building are placed—a ray of light falls on the mug on the side table as soon as Spock swings open the door. It jumps to his attention like a beacon.
Nyota has been here. Half expecting to see her when he steps through the door, Spock looks around the living area.
Nothing else is out of place. Just the tea mug, cool to his touch when he lifts it and takes it to the kitchen sink, out of his father's view.
He has an idea what his father wants to discuss. Twice since the annulment his father has made oblique comments in passing about making new arrangements. Both times they were speaking via the subspace comm—tail ends of longer conversations with his mother. Both times he was able to sidestep the issue, wishing his parents well before hastily signing off.
The dinner with T'Rhea had been so transparently cobbled together that Spock had actually been embarrassed. If T'Rhea had felt anything similar, she was too gracious to show it.
On the walk here from the restaurant, Spock deliberated about how to stop the matchmaking he is sure his father will continue otherwise.
He can't tell him about Nyota.
And yet—
For a moment he feels the burden of the lie, the secret, and gives into a yearning that he allows himself only in his unguarded moments—the relief he would feel if their relationship could be openly expressed.
What folly to indulge in such a fantasy.
What…danger….to think this way. He might slip.
When his father speaks at last, Spock slows his breathing and holds onto his anger as best he can. His father does not mean to meddle—and is genuinely worried, an uneasy admission for any Vulcan.
And then Sarek says, "You cannot know how frightening it is to face—" and Spock trembles once with a memory of his father slipping into the agitation of early pon farr years ago.
Restlessness, and more alarming, the mindless, blank-eyed irritation that made his father a stranger to him. With unwanted clarity he recalls the flight to a neighbor's house, the three days of stretching out through the bond to his parents, confused by their distance and their silence while he waited to be allowed to come back home.
His future? The healers have already said he will have trouble with reproduction because of his hybrid genes. Perhaps he will be spared the ancient drives as well.
"I know that you are rightfully worried for me. And I appreciate your concern. But it is illogical to make an untenable choice based on a future that may not happen, Father. You cannot know. No one can."
He knows his father is not mollified, that he will try to have this conversation again.
When he locks the door after his father leaves, Spock is overcome with weariness.
It isn't too late to call Nyota. He picks up his comm but hesitates. After the plenary session she had looked tired—or more than tired, ill. If he calls, he may wake her.
She must have come to the apartment and made some tea while she waited for him. Would calling her and waking her be better than not calling at all? He has no idea.
Taking the comm with him as he walks back to his bedroom, Spock breathes out deeply. Meditation is in order, is necessary. Beyond necessary. He feels his way into the dark bedroom, moving to the corner where his asenoi rests on its tripod.
Something indefinable stops him, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
"Lights," he says. "Nyota?"
The small lamp beside the bed flickers on and he sees Nyota stretched across his bed, still fully clothed in her jumper and boots.
In the dim light she looks oddly flushed, as if a rash has crept up her neck and across her cheeks. Leaning one knee to the bed, Spock reaches out and touches her forehead with the pads of his fingers. She stirs and sighs, opening her eyes.
"Here you are," she says, her voice husky from sleep.
"Why are you here?"
Even as he says it, Spock realizes that his words could be misconstrued as a criticism. In the past he has gotten crossways with Nyota with questions asked too bluntly—but she yawns and says, "I was waiting for you."
The irritation he had felt with his father ebbs away—as does his resolve to spend time meditating in front of his asenoi.
"Come here," Nyota says, reaching up and tugging his ear, and he pulls himself onto the bed and stretches out beside her. She slides her arms around him and he feels his heart speed up.
He shifts his position so that his thigh straddles hers and she sighs again.
"Where have you been?" she says, closing her eyes and nipping his cheek with a light bite.
He closes his eyes in response and holds himself motionless, willing himself to slow down.
"With my father," he says after a moment. "An evening meal."
"Um," Nyota says, her voice muffled, and Spock's eyes fly open in alarm. In the dim light the circles under her eyes are dark, her skin faintly moist. He runs his hand over her brow again and brushes against her consciousness.
Unlike times in the past when her mind was full of sound and light, tonight he senses little more than exhaustion, and a longing for dark and quiet.
Abashed that he has let his own sexual needs press him forward, Spock rolls back, freeing his arm.
"Um," Nyota murmurs again, her hands curling together under her chin, her eyes still closed.
She needs to sleep. And he needs to meditate.
Carefully sliding backward until he can stand up from the bed, Spock moves to the corner of the room and lights his asenoi. The light plays across the ceiling and offers a focal point as he sits cross-legged in front of it, slowing his breathing and trying to let his uncomfortable arousal drift away.
Within minutes he knows it is useless. Each time Nyota takes a breath he aches to touch her. He imagines climbing back into the bed, rousing her from her sleep with his fingers on her cheek, or kissing her like some Terran prince in a story.
Instead, he gently perches on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. If he takes her boots off she will be more comfortable—and so he unzips the left one first and slides it down and off, the image of her foot, freed and delicate, almost undoing him. He gathers his breath and takes off her other boot.
For exactly three minutes he allows himself the guilty pleasure of examining her unawares, his eyes traveling up the curve of her knee to where her thigh disappears under the hem of her skirt. A flush along her neck slipping under her collar, her jumper rucked up around her shoulder, her hair splayed out behind her—he admires each part separately, aiming for an objective assessment, failing miserably.
He could sit here all night and watch her, he feels that grateful.
But he doesn't. Tomorrow will be as busy a day as today—more so, because he will have to assist the Vulcan delegates in the morning before leaving to teach an afternoon class that he has not yet prepared for.
Pulling the duvet up and over Nyota, he heads back down the hall to the living area.
Stretching out on the sofa, he thinks about how his father had sat here an hour ago and wonders where he is now. Or rather, what he is doing. Preparing for tomorrow, most likely, reading over the notes for the morning session, the difficult discussion with his son already compartmentalized in some acreage of his mind.
How fortunate, Spock thinks, that Sarek didn't discover Nyota here. Spock can't imagine how he could explain her asleep on his bed—other than by telling the truth.
And what exactly is that truth? That he is breaking—willfully and in full cognizance of the consequences—Starfleet rules against fraternization. Rules that cost another professor his position recently.
But the deeper truth—the one he doesn't yet have words for—is that he doesn't care. Rules or no rules, he chooses this.
His father would not approve—might even feel constrained to tell someone in authority. Might even, Spock thinks, be glad to see his son drummed out of the service, forced to return to Vulcan, to the life he had planned for him after all.
Spock folds his arms behind his head and lets himself feel a measure of relief.
Checking his internal clock, he muses. 2134. Not very late by human standards.
In an hour he will wake Nyota and walk her back to her dorm. She can't stay the night. No use inviting gossip from the neighbors, some who are also instructors at the Academy.
Or he might gently nudge her awake in a few minutes, swamping her with his heat and motion. Even here, while he is prone on the sofa, the sounds of her occasional murmurs, her intake of breath, the slow exhalations, keep him aware of how close she is, how available. His need for her is almost painful.
"Be kind," his mother told him more than once. "Other people have needs, too."
The book of Vulcan poetry is still in his room. He doesn't need to see the page to remember the line.
I ravish you in my dreams.
A disappointment if poetry is all he can have tonight.
She needs to sleep. And they need to be cautious.
The poetry will have to do.
Not getting caught when Sarek was here...they've already been granted one reprieve today. Asking for more, as Nyota might phrase it, would be pushing their luck.
A/N: Clueless dads.
The next chapter follows the action in this one pretty closely, taking place the next day. Stay tuned!
Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Your notes keep me going! And thanks to StarTrekFanWriter for her help and support. She's having a good time writing a StarWars fic, "Epidemic." Check it out in my faves.