"You are leaving."
"We are leaving," Spock corrects. "Five minutes ago, in fact."
From where undertakes the apparently laborious task of putting on her shoes, Tabitha shakes her head. "On the Enterprise."
Spock pauses in the perusal of his jackets. He has already decided on one, a civilian style, one of his few clothing options that is not emblazoned with a Starfleet crest, and yet it is lighter than the others, and he is not entirely certain that he wishes to spend the afternoon chilled. "I did not say that."
"Cadet Uhura said that you would be hired and the logical deduction is that-"
He turns, quicker than he intends to.
"-It is impolite to listen to another's conversation."
"You two would not cease talking," Tabitha says, as she arranges the leg of her pant over her first shoe. "No other option was available."
"Announcing yourself."
Tabitha ignores him, though not in favor of moving any faster. "When will you leave on the Enterprise?"
"As I am not yet hired, I have no way of answering that question."
Tabitha pauses with her second shoe in her hands, not even opening the fastening, just holding it. He does not truly think she is capable of purposefully stalling, the motive too illogical, though her pace puts that assumption to question. Even so, there is no solace in her intention or lack thereof, only the fact that the result is the same. He considers whether standing nearer to the door will prompt her onwards, or perhaps a solid push at her mind, though he does neither, instead letting out a slow breath and instructing himself to wait, to abide her pace, to not consider the possibilities that may lie ahead of them, of commitments later in the afternoon Nyota had not mentioned, but that render their meeting moot.
"If you are not hired on the Enterprise, will you seek a position on another ship?"
"I am not certain," he says. Illogical to speak so firmly, as even as he says so, he realizes that he is entirely sure. The idea of remaining at the Academy for too much longer is stifling. It is not the first time he has recognized as much, but perhaps the surge of claustrophobia has not been as strong, nor held such a conviction, that he would prefer to finally be somewhere other than Earth, the number of years spent on this planet too many for his taste, the churning passing of semesters ticked off one after the next, with no end to them in sight.
Though he need not necessarily leave for some time yet. Just soon. Relatively so. "Yes, in all likelihood."
Tabitha slowly pushes her foot into her shoe, only to stop once again. "Then you will not be here at the Academy when we visit Grandmother."
"That is irrelevant, as your visits are uncommon."
"There have been three," Tabitha says. "And I am only eight."
"You have only been here twice."
Her head snaps up. "Three times."
"You did not come to campus on your first trip." Their father had watched her in the hotel room, leaving Spock's mother to spend the visit with him. A relief, that concession was, to not have to walk through the Academy's campus with Sarek at his side, the successes Spock had found here diminished under his father's gaze.
"Yes, I did."
"No, you did not."
"I did, I remember," Tabitha says so resolutely that Spock does not bother to correct her again.
When they finally arrive at the beach, Spock would not quantify the temperature of the air as particularly pleasant, despite the warmth of the sun. This has proven no barrier to the groups of humans who seem determined to splash through the waves, some of them only a head bobbing above the surface of the water and others lying prostrate on towels. Many have brought no form of entertainment, their heads resting on folded arms or their eyes closed as they face the sun, though Spock is certain that despite this, they are hardly engaged in anything as practical as meditation. Napping, more likely, considering their breathing patterns.
He stops walking where loose, dry sand gives way to a harder, firmer pack beneath his feet. Tabitha drags the toe of her shoe across the sand and then examines the sole. At home, sand does not clump and cling like that, no moisture harbored in it, nothing but dry grit that turns to dust. Here, it coats the pad of her index finger when she touches her shoe and then draws a streak on her jacket when she wipes her finger off.
"It is loud," she says.
"Humans are often loud," he says, but she must be speaking of the crash of the waves, for that is where her eyes have travelled, her palm still wiping over the grains of sand stuck to her coat. But the humans are quite noisy, calling to each other in the water and holding conversations that are carried on the wind. He can pick out none of the voices, recognizes no one.
"I did not anticipate that it would be audible." Tabitha does not move towards the edge of the water, instead remaining where she is, her expression stony.
"On a calmer day it is not," Spock says, still searching the nearby clumps of humans.
"We should return then."
"No." He scans the length of the beach. "We are not leaving now."
"But-"
"-We have only just arrived."
"I have now seen the ocean," Tabitha says. Her hands are tucked up into her sleeves. "This is sufficient."
"Making the trip is illogical if we do not spend further time here."
Her head shakes back and forth, and the wind whips strands of loose hair against her face that she pushes back with her hands still hidden in her sleeves. "We have already undertaken the walk, and as such, it cannot be rendered-"
"-You're Tabitha."
The relief he feels is difficult to drive off, as quickly as it comes on, and as strongly.
He has heard various descriptions of Cadet Gaila in the two years since she joined the ranks of students, ranging from the prurient to something that borders on awe, and Spock very much doubts that the latter is related to her aptitude in her engineering courses. Considering the reputation he has gained for himself, he further doubts that anyone would be surprised that clad even as she is, Gaila is hardly of any notice to him, for it is not to her that his attention travels, nor his eyes wander.
No, it is not Gaila who Spock looks to, but the figure a step behind her. He is certain, quite suddenly, that he is staring.
"What do you think?" Gaila asks and Spock jerks his eyes from Nyota to follow the broad sweep of Gaila's hand at the horizon, the waves crashing up onto the shores, bringing with them the smell of salt.
Beside him, Tabitha looks only at Gaila, her lips parted and her face tipped up, unmoving.
"That's your answer?" Gaila asks when Tabitha's eyes do not follow the second gesture that Gaila makes. Spock watches the wideness of Tabitha's eyes narrow with a confusion that beats at him. Steadying, somewhat, to let his mind fill with his sister's wonder, allow it to push back his own thoughts.
Tabitha looks up at Spock and he is careful to only look back at her. "I did not provide an answer."
"Silence is a valid form of communication," he tells her and does not look again at the details of Nyota he has already catalogued, the towel held in front of her, clutched in both hands, the water beading her skin, the way the ocean has washed her eyes free of the cosmetics she typically wears.
Staring is considered rude on Earth, no matter the hypocrisy inherent in that tenet, for Spock has found that principle dismissed with impunity, his back crawling with the sense of being watched, no matter how inane the notion that such attention could possibly instill a perceptible sensation. Still, were Tabitha not concentrating so closely on Gaila that he is sure any prodding at their bond would go unnoticed, he would attempt to impart this fact, tell her to close her mouth, to not scrutinize Gaila with such marvel.
Though when Gaila places her hands upon her hips and peers down at Tabitha in turn, he considers that of anyone, Gaila likely is not only inured to the peculiarities of Terran norms, but in fact dismissive. Nyota would know. Does know, likely, but Spock is too aware of each inch of space between them, too entirely cognizant of every way in which her presence pricks at him to manage anything more than a mere glance towards her.
She smiles at him.
"Good afternoon," he says and looks away.
"The ocean," Gaila prompts. Her head angles towards the water, a sway of darkened, damp curls. "What'd'ya think?"
This time, still watching Gaila too closely, Tabitha speaks. Her voice is so quiet that Spock strains to hear her over the wind, the shouts of the humans around them, the rumble of the waves that threaten to drown her out. "Are you Orion?"
"Sure am," Gaila says. "Are you?"
"What?" Tabitha asks and again turns towards Spock.
"I thought we were taking a survey," Gaila says.
Tabitha's uncertainty threatens towards unease, and Spock gently pushes back at that throb of her agitation against his mind. "What is your opinion on the ocean?"
Tabitha blinks rapidly, first at him, and then at the urge he nudges towards her thoughts, at Gaila.
"It is acceptable," she says. Her forehead creases, her brows drawing together until a tight furrow appears. "I am not Orion."
"You were right," Gaila says to Nyota, though as to what, she does not explain. Instead, she scrutinizes Spock in a way that makes him feel pinned to the stretch of beach, rooted to the sand that shifts under his boots. He is certain that under her study he should not look again at Nyota, everything the towel does not cover, the wet drip of her hair down her arms and shoulders, sure that Gaila will catch him at it.
"Well, c'mon, then," Gaila finally says, and though she speaks to Tabitha, Spock knows that he is somehow the cause of the smile that flits across her face.
"Come where?" Tabitha asks.
"Take off your shoes," Gaila says and points to her own toes, green and half covered in sand.
"Why?"
Gaila sets her hands on her hips again. "So they don't get wet. It's logical."
"What are we doing?" Tabitha asks Spock. Were he human, he would likely shrug. As it is, he has no answer for her, no matter how she stares up at him.
"Making a sand castle. It's what humans do," Gaila says. "So, you know, all roads lead to Rome."
Nyota's lips purse. A strand of wet hair is caught on her cheek. "That's not-"
"-Speaking of," Gaila toes a line in the sand. "We probably need a bridge."
"A bridge?" Tabitha asks. "A bridge across what?"
Gaila points with her sand covered toes, taps the ball of her foot at the line she drew. "The moat. One that-" She raises the flat of her hand. "Lifts. Ny?"
"Drawbridge," Nyota supplies. She is still smiling, the towel held in both hands tucked up near to her chin.
"What mechanism will you use?" Tabitha asks before immediately saying, "That design is not feasible with this building material."
"Never say never."
"But you just said-" Tabitha stares up at Gaila, and then at Spock, her chin tipped upwards towards him. If the confusion writ across her face were not enough, bewilderment continues to wash across the space between them.
Gaila is already halfway to the water. "Are you coming?"
Surely this is too fortunate, too entirely auspicious to be happening, but Spock has long sought to subdue the voice that protests at what seems to not be and instead focus on what is, and Gaila stands there at the water's edge waiting for his sister, and Nyota remains next to him, indisputable and unarguable in her presence.
"Go," Spock prompts when Tabitha lingers with them.
Slowly, so slow that Spock is not entirely sure it will happen at all, Tabitha sets off, first one step and then another and then in a quick patter down the sand. She stops at the water's edge, peering at it, and then out at the horizon, only moving again when Gaila steps in front of her and points to her shoes. Tabitha runs back, a spray of sand behind her. She stands on one foot to strip off a shoe, so precariously that Spock is nearly tempted to hold her upright. With a tug, she pulls it off and balances as she similarly divests herself of her sock.
"Here," she says, holding both out to Spock and then simply pushing them into his hand. Only then does she seem to realize that Nyota remains beside him still, Tabitha's gaze catching on her, and more sedately does Tabitha remove her second shoe and sock before depositing both into Spock's other hand, leaving him there holding them as she trots away again.
"We have-" Nyota turns and points. Sand clings to her bare shoulder, dry now from the sun beating down on them. Surely, in a moment he will blink, and this scene will evaporate. He will never have seen how her hair sticks wet to her back, the detail of her elbow, the fine line of her collarbone, typically hidden behind her clothing and now only interrupted by two thin white straps. "Our things are over there."
Their belongings consist of a second towel, imperfectly laid out, a corner buried and sand sprinkled over the remaining surface, and two piles of clothes, one neatly folded, the other dropped in a line that leads towards the water. He sets Tabitha's shoes next to them, small and impossibly precisely arranged, so that he is half tempted to instead leave them slightly askew, as if they will fit in better that way, inordinately miniature as they are in comparison.
The clothing is not cadet reds, but they are hardly on campus, no matter that if Spock turned to look, he could surely see the tops of the Academy's buildings over the trees.
"How was your work?" he asks, when listening to the sound of the waves, the shouts from the other beach goers, becomes inadequate to fill the silence.
Beside him, Nyota combs her hair from her shoulders, running long fingers through it. It does not hang as straight as he is used to seeing it, worked through by her hands as it is. Nor is it hardly as neat, no matter how she brushes it back. At the water's edge, Gaila has enlisted Tabitha in creating piles of sand, to what end Spock cannot discern, no matter how he continues to study them.
"Fine. Good, actually. I got through those last few transcripts from the other week."
"That is significant progress." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that she nods. "Do you intend to continue over the break?"
"I don't know. Maybe." She brushes sand from the towel she still holds, which is ineffectual at best. Like Gaila, her feet are covered in it. He tries to recall if he has ever seen her without her uniform boots, but surely he would remember making note of the fact that she paints her toenails the same shade as that of her fingernails. Her hair drags across her back as she shakes her head, leaving wet trails where her skin has already dried. "No, I don't think so." She smiles down towards the water. "A few days off seem like a good idea."
A drop of water edges downward from her hair, on a track that takes it just in front of her ear. "Logical."
The wind pushes his clothes against him, the breeze unbroken across miles of ocean. Gusts billow off the plains of Vulcan, similarly free to build up speed in the open expanse of uninterrupted space, but there they carry red dust and the scent of heat, not that of brine and a sweetness to the air that seems particular to Earth. The sand he is used to, but not the bright gold of it, yellowed like a mirror of the sun that hangs above them, the brightness of which creases the corners of Nyota's eyes as she squints towards where Gaila stands ankle deep in the waves. Tabitha hovers at the very edge of the water, twice taking quick steps backwards when the sweep of the tide threatens her toes.
"This is apparently more fun than your office," Nyota says.
"Second only to snow, it would seem."
"I think Gaila could make anything enjoyable," Nyota says, and as if she could have heard her name above the wind whistling past them, Gaila jogs towards them, bearing wet sand held in both hands and garnering the attention of more than a few nearby individuals.
"Are you two going to help?"
Nyota again wipes at her towel. "Do you need us to?"
"Yes," Gaila says and piles one handful of sand on top of the other. It is unproductive, as most falls in wet clumps at her feet. A finger points at Nyota. "My assistant architect informs me that we should recruit you due to relevant experience."
"I'm happy to just watch from here." Nyota turns towards him, and Spock allows himself to meet her gaze, already in agreement even as she asks, "Right?"
Gaila rolls her eyes. "Please."
Please what, she does not specify, returning to the water and the hard pack of sand there that Tabitha has begun to dig in. From there, Gaila calls, "Come on!"
It is mostly self preservation that spurs Spock down the beach, for Nyota lays her towel next to Gaila's, and he will not allow himself to turn to watch how her movements pull the white band of her swimsuit across the middle of her back, that expanse of skin, the wet drip of her hair.
"Rolling up your pants will prevent them from becoming further soaked," he informs Tabitha when a wave catches her unaware. Behind him, Nyota stops near enough that he is overly aware of her, but perhaps he would be anyway even if she were out of sight, far down the beach and around the spit of land that juts out- perhaps even then, his skin would prick and his thoughts would be as diffuse and scattered as the scraps of clouds that litter the sky above them.
The water must be cold, for Tabitha's face wrinkles, and she skips up the beach, the now wet fabric outlining her ankles where it clings damp to them. It might also be refreshing, he imagines, not entirely wishing to find out, but he is warmer than he thought he might be, and he is not certain he can truly blame the sun for that, even hung high in the sky as it is.
"I am fine," Tabitha says.
"Your clothing, however, is not."
"It is immaterial," Tabitha says, and this time allows the water to flood over her feet and rush out again, leaving her sunk into the sand. She leaves behind small footprints when she chases after the wave, ones that are washed away as it sweeps back in. Again she stands, watching the water come and then examining the depressions in the sand around her feet with its egress.
"Stay still," he instructs and reaches for her.
"Do not," Tabitha says but remains where she is as he bends and folds her pant legs halfway up her calves. He does not allow his knee to touch the sand, though when he rises again it is nearly a moot point, as his hands are now coated with fine grains. He brushes his palms together, but the sand sticks to his skin, gritty and too rough.
Behind him, Nyota has crouched over the small mounds of sand Tabitha and Gaila have made. He looks at her face, her expression of concentration like they are in his office, not the length of her bare legs.
"It's supposed to be all one pile," Nyota says.
Gaila towers over her, feet planted and her head shaking in what Spock guesses must be exasperation. "Those are the outer defenses. Obviously."
Nyota picks up a handful of sand and tosses it at Gaila's leg. "Obviously."
"But we need to know how high and-" Gaila turns to Tabitha. Tabitha has her hands in the water now, the cuffs of her sweater creating small eddies where they drag. "What was the other question?"
"Roll up your sleeves," Spock says.
"Total volume." Tabitha stands, examines the wet cuffs plastered to her wrists, and then looks over at Nyota, her hands dropping back to her side.
"It can be whatever size you want," Nyota says.
"Given the size of the base you have chosen and the solidity of the sand, it can only be so tall," Spock says.
Gaila now faces him, sand still stuck to where Nyota's handful hit her knee. "So you have ample experience as well, it would seem."
Spock points to the sand they have collected. "One can infer from the moisture saturation, the particle size, and the-"
"-Really." Gaila says. It is not a question. "You should come give an Engineering lecture."
Spock does not frown, despite his uncertainty as to whether her suggestion is genuine. "The relevance of this skill set is hardly applicable to-"
"-You don't know that," Gaila says. "Unexplored reaches of space and all. Frankly, I'm surprised there's not an Academy course on this."
"Lieutenant Graves is teaching an away mission practicum next semester," Spock says. Tabitha is looking back and forth between them, water swirling around her ankles and a clump of sand in her palm. Nyota is smiling again, her hands cupping her knees, and her eyes bright in a way that has nothing to do with the sun shining over her.
Spock focuses on Gaila, still standing above him.
"I'm going to get in touch with her. This is gold. We'll build this today, work the kinks out- not that kind-" She stops herself, turns to Tabitha. "Sorry. Anyway. Draw up a schematic and send it in."
"I look forward to her response," Spock says.
"I look forward to revamping the Academy's curriculum," Gaila says, and Tabitha continues to watch them in turn, the movement of her eyes and the smaller motion that is carried to her head only stopping when she notices Nyota, still crouched where she is, her palms now holding the front of her shins, and her teeth biting at her bottom lip through her grin.
Spock looks away. "If you move these-" He points to the piles that have already been erected "-You will greatly be able to increase the height."
"No," Tabitha says and steps forward, her feet a wet smack in the water. "We are not going to do it like that."
"They have too many ideas," Gaila says to Tabitha, her curls, even damp as they are, bouncing around her shoulders as she shakes her head.
"Agreed."
"Get out of here," Gaila says and points up the beach, to the sandy towel and the pile of clothes she and Nyota left behind.
Briefly, Nyota rests her chin on her knee, her smile now directed at Spock. Sand is stuck to her cheek. "I spend most of my life being ordered around by Gaila."
"You should consider the command track," Spock tells Gaila, who only rolls her eyes in a circle.
"Too easy."
"Starfleet isn't ready for that," Nyota says and rises in one fluid motion, all long limbs and grace. Spock allows himself to follow after her, attempting to focus only on the task of rubbing his hands free of sand.
"And don't talk about work," Gaila shouts after them.
His boots are wet. Briefly, he hesitates, considering, and then toes them off, sitting on the edge of Gaila's towel to remove his socks as well so that they might dry. Nyota joins him in watching the water when she settles beside him, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. The position stretches her back in a long curved arch. Her hair continues to drip, gathered over her shoulder and streaked with sand from where she has touched it.
It is an odd sort of solitude, far more imperfect than privacy offered by his office, the times when one or the other of them slid the door shut against intruding noise, the nights when the sun slipped below the horizon, and he turned the lamp on his desk on for them to see by. Here, the sun still hangs above them, no discernible eek towards the west, and they are ringed with the throng around them, some so close that the ball they pass between them is not beyond being in danger of overshooting and landing near to where he and Nyota sit. And yet even with Tabitha and Gaila near enough to call to, the other beachgoers hemming them in, encroaching with their conversation and laughter, the quiet feels nearly complete, the towels an island of sequestration upon which only the breeze impinges.
"So," she says finally, when he has not compelled himself to speak. "The Enterprise."
"That-" He swallows. Nyota has her cheek on her knees and is smiling at him. "Is against the rules."
Surely he has seen her in the sun before, but not with the corner of her eye tightened against the brightness, not with shadows playing over her face as she lets out a laugh, and certainly not with her shoulders bare, the length of her arm a study in the angle of the light. "Oh, I'll take a chance. Do you get to go up there for your interview?"
She points one finger at the sky above them before once again clasping her arm around her legs, her hand finding her opposite wrist.
He looks away before he can study the way her slim fingers curl over the joint.
"It is scheduled at Headquarters." Pike's office, he assumes from the address provided, not that he has been before. Spock has met him, deployed as they both briefly were on the Lexington, but he has not been in contact since he left the ship. Recently there has been no occasion to, as Spock has been at the Academy and Pike between Iowa and the deep reaches of space. Exactly where, Spock is not certain, though he perhaps should find out. Surely Pike will have reviewed Spock's own resume, the details of his service listed there, and that overlap with Pike's own, no matter how the Captain is known for his poor memory with names and faces. Spock has always been unique enough to stand out, and perhaps this time it might be to his advantage.
"Probably an easier trip then," she says. "And not too much of your day."
He nods in agreement, though silently he acknowledges that it was a poor choice to accept the appointment, what with Tabitha's visit. He cannot dismiss this fact, as he watches her and Gaila continue to add to their piles of sand, but so too can he not completely staunch the gratification at the offer of the interview itself. It is times like these that he is nearly certain he can hear the voice of his father, the instruction to find the thread of logic, to not be swayed by the war that takes place in his stomach, but to push that aside in favor of a cool calculation. Truly, an opportunity to visit the gym today would have been beneficial, and if not that, then silence in the morning hours to meditate, not the sounds of Tabitha rising, blankets kicked off and small feet padding across his floor. He is entirely too agitated, a disquiet that grows the longer he fails to hold it at bay, doubled over again by the impending interview and now the thrill of Nyota sitting next to him.
He works his heel into the sand, creating a small depression. A needless capitulation to the urge to fidget. Still, he does not stop himself. "It is only an hour."
Alternatively, the appointment seems immeasurably long, far too many minutes with which to fill in the details his resume could not hold, and yet also not nearly sufficient for all he imagines he could impart, the fervency he must continually attempt to quell at the thought of the black of space lit with the pinpricks of stars, the white shine of a new ship and a deep space mission ahead of him, the labs equipped with a caliber of equipment that even the Vulcan Science Academy would be hard pressed to boast.
"You'll do great," Nyota says with so much assurance that he cannot help but pull his gaze from the repetitive curl of the waves to her instead. She is so calm, so confident, her eyes on him with a steadiness he wishes he did not envy.
He pushes his feet further into the sand. "I have been told I do not interview well."
Repeatedly. And often without him soliciting such feedback.
"If it makes you feel any better-" She presses her tongue into her cheek and then looks away from him and smiles down the beach. "I was so nervous before this one interview I had, I nearly talked myself out of going." She laughs lightly, and her eyes dart over to his. "It was with this professor. Super smart guy."
She is watching him now, that smile still perched on her lips
"Oh?" he asks, at a loss for anything more, what with her cheek curved like it is, the shine of the sun through her drying hair.
She curls her hands over the outside of her feet, bending even further forward. She is not wearing earrings. A small difference, and yet he is so used to the fall of them at her neck, against her cheek where they might hang now, with her head bent down as she examines her toes.
"But I totally nailed it." She smiles at her feet. Where drops of water must have once clung, salt has dried against her skin, scattered traces of it over her long neck. "Apparently. Or possibly was just hired out of attrition of other applicants."
She is not looking when he shakes his head.
"That was not the case," he says.
"Good." She uncurls, her hands now placed behind her, the sun free to play over her stomach and chest where she no longer bends against her own thighs. He does not watch that shine of sun on her, the shapes shadows take. Instead, they look at the water, the line of the horizon that lifts upon incoming waves and dips back down as they turn to a froth against the sand.
Gaila is laughing, her stomach working and her head tipped back. Below her, Tabitha crouches like Nyota had done, her knees at her shoulders, her head shaking back and forth. Her mind bumps up against his with a hum of focus, the reflexive restraint of one's thoughts against another's eased with the distraction Gaila provides, the objective of their building project, the novelty of the beach.
"Seventeen years, huh?" Nyota asks.
"I presume the spread between you and your sister is substantially less."
"Two years," she says. "Well, twenty one months and what, nineteen months? To be accurate." When she catches him looking at her, she adds, "I have a brother, too."
"I did not realize," Spock says. There is so much to know of her. So much more than has been revealed so recently. He cannot help but ask, "He is nearly three years younger than you, then?"
"No." She catches her teeth over her bottom lip and smiles. "I'm the baby of the family."
"Truly?" Try as he might, he cannot slot this new information into his perception of her, and he realizes that in attempting to do so, he is studying her perhaps too closely, because she raises one hand, leaning more heavily on the other, and briefly covers her smile.
"Ok, ok. It's not- How about this. You-" She points at him. "Have a little sister. When were you going to ever tell me that? And you applied to work on the Enterprise." She laughs, her head shaking, as if this is irreconcilable information. "What else should I know?"
"I believe that is all," he says, too caught up in her smile to even consider an answer. Though there is more. But it can be unfurled over time, given the chance. Never has he been predisposed to laying himself bare, stripping away layers of privacy for the sake of idle conversation.
Waves crash with tossed up foam. They curl over each other, one after the other, in a regularity that is soothing. It should not be. He should not be reliant on such patterns for emotional stability.
Beside him, she is watching the waves as well. Her expression is open and soft, none of the focus with which she bent over her work spread out on her desk. A smile still lingers at the corner of her mouth, lays there in the crease of her eye and the looseness with which she holds herself. There is such confidence in her. Such resolute self-assurance. An ease and poise with herself that he has admired for so long now, a calmness with which she goes through her days that speaks to a determination that seems laid down deep within her very character, colored through with a careful decency that she carries in spades, a persistent kindness that strikes him as enduring, steadfast and unwavering.
She, of everyone, has always listened to him.
He takes a breath.
He could stay silent. Instead, he says, "My father has another son as well." Another wave crashes. "He is six years older than I am."
The urge to steel himself against her response is illogical, especially as her reaction is a benign turn towards him. "You're a middle child, then?"
"Of a sort," he says.
"Well, my sister could give you an earful about being a middle sibling."
"We only briefly lived together." Fortunate, perhaps, to avoid the complications that may have plagued other families. And surely she can count the years through to Tabitha's birth, find in that math the shape and manner of their household.
Beside him, she digs her toes into the sand and then stretches her legs out, crossed at the ankle. There is a scar on her knee, and another midway down her right shin. Any questions she harbors do not come, and he pushes away any twinge of relief, unneeded and unnecessary as that response is.
The afternoon shimmers like a soap bubble that might burst at any moment, pricked through with a reality that does not seem to touch the beach, impossible as it is that Nyota sits beside him in aimless conversation as the sun edges downward, as the mounds that Gaila and Tabitha construct grow ever larger. The sun has slipped lower still by the time Gaila presents to them the final product, a tower of drying sand that the tide threatens. Nyota pushes herself up from the towel to join him in inspecting it, her long legs covering the distance with a fluidity that he cannot help but notice, and once he has noticed, watch. Sand dusts her lower back. How it has gotten there he does not know, but it clings everywhere to them. Unbidden and sudden, he imagines brushing it from her skin. His hands at his side, he rolls grains between his fingertips, the grit a rough prick against the thin skin.
Tabitha points to the horizon, and he quickly wipes his palms on his pant legs. "Gaila says there are sea lions."
"That is correct," Spock tells her.
"And that the whales are gone."
"At the aquarium there are holos of them," Nyota says, standing after she has finished scrutinizing the assembled mound of sand, the motion smooth and effortless. "We went once."
"We did," Gaila says. She holds her hands out, her arms spread wide. "Huge. Really, super, big."
Tabitha puts her hands on her waist, her elbows bent outward and her eyes narrowed at Gaila. "How big?"
"The biggest," Gaila says.
"Bigger than le matayas," Spock clarifies when Tabitha moves closer to inspect the distance between Gaila's hands. With each step she takes, the space between Gaila's hands expands.
"You know what, Ny knows loads about fish. The ocean. You name it," Gaila says, her arms now straight out to the side. Nyota frowns. "She knows everything there is to know. Built in tour guide, you two can't pass this opportunity up."
"Gaila…" Nyota holds both hands up, palms out. "I do not. At all."
"Whales are mammalian," Tabitha says.
"See?" Nyota asks and smiles at Tabitha. Tabitha watches her do it, eyes searching over Nyota's face. "I'm hardly an expert."
"No, really, really, she's just being modest," Gaila says and a green hand grips each of Nyota's shoulders. Nyota receives a gentle shake, and Gaila a glare.
"Both of those statements cannot be true," Tabitha says.
"But," Gaila says, one finger now held up, though she does not release Nyota. "The only way to know is to bring Nyota to the aquarium."
"Are you coming, too?" Tabitha asks.
"I have a thing," Gaila says, shaking her head, which in turn jostles Nyota again. Nyota lifts her eyes towards the sky and lets out an audible sigh.
"What thing?" Tabitha asks.
"A thing that means only Nyota can go. Such a shame. You and Nyota and her Lieutenant Commander."
"Stop," Nyota says, twisting away from Gaila's grip on her.
"What a day," Gaila says and is suddenly halfway up the beach gathering towels, haphazardly tossing Nyota's relatively sand-free one on top of her own. "What a day tomorrow will be."
"Are we truly going?" Tabitha asks.
"If you would like to," Spock says. He turns to Nyota and for a moment watches her watch Gaila. Nervousness threatens, accompanied by a swell of disquiet as the shape of the coming days springs to mind, the emptiness of them, the time until the semester recommences and the vague, indistinct possibility of how hollow the term might be. All of this, he pushes away as best he can, the effort imperfect, incomplete with how his hands threaten to shift at his sides. It is just an offer, one that she can decline. It bears no more significance than that of the suggestion of lunch in his office, of tea, of conversation. It is trivial, truly. Inconsequential. He takes a breath and presses onward before he can find a reason not to. "If you would like to as well, you should join us."
Surely she does not. She has plans. She has her work. She has an active and fulfilling social life. She has interests of her own, and she has a wealth of ways in which to spend her time that do not include another day with him and his sister.
And yet Nyota's mouth untwists from the frown Gaila left it in. Her smile is slow to come, aimed at the sand as it is, but brilliant all the same.
"Yes," she says. So simple, really, her answer so easily given. He exhales. Unbidden, that response. Unacceptable in the ferocity in which it comes. "I'd love that."
Even when they reach his apartment, Tabitha is still covered in sand, and drying water leaves rings of salt on her clothing.
"Was that a close enough inspection of the ocean?" he asks as he unfastens his jacket.
"Satisfactory," Tabitha declares, a line of sand following her where she walks. Despite any efforts he makes towards immediately cleaning it, the sand will likely be ground into his carpet now, her small feet tracking back and forth over the mess as she removes her own jacket and sits on the floor to take off her shoes once again. "Spock?"
"Yes?"
"Gaila is not very logical."
"No, I suppose she is not."
Not much of the day was. Here, in the quiet of his rooms, he can only catch sight of the preceding hours in snatched images of sun soaked skin, scraps of conversation, as he and Nyota idled the afternoon away, the remembered fragment of her laugh. And here, where he has stood so many times, removing his jacket and bag and shoes, he lets out a breath of everything that was caught and held inside of him, latched onto, as if any ease of that grip would begin a tumult he could not hope to stop. The ground beneath him is hardly shifting sand, but it might be for all the steadiness it provides him as he tries to wrench his thoughts from the slope of Nyota's shoulder, the flash of her teeth in her grin. It is not the leftover wash of the sun that burns bright in him, but a fire kindled on the strength of her smile, aimed as it was at him.
The promise of tomorrow is etched through with a hope he can barely admit to. Better not to, in all likelihood. Safer, as something half imagined.
Far more acceptable too, what with how an unasked for, unsought, optimism now pounds in him. No, much better to not lay stock in expectations. Surely he is capable of controlling himself more ably than that. And it is simply one more day. Today was a windfall. Unprecedented, unexpected, and that much more exceptional for the fact of it. Tomorrow is nothing more than the same, and there is no promise of the creation of an enduring habit, no matter the directions his mind wishes to wander.
Slowly, Tabitha removes one shoe, a hand braced beneath the heel of it, and the other cupping the toe. "It was enjoyable regardless."
"I am glad," he says. He wants to shake himself into movement, into a purposeful task beyond staring into his apartment.
She pauses with her thumb hooked into the top of her sock. "Do you think that Nyota has truly built sand castles before?"
He should have asked. He can, tomorrow. The leap in his stomach at that thought is entirely unacceptable, but he is powerless to push it away. "In all likelihood, yes."
"Do you think she knows about Terran fish?"
"At least a cursory amount." He carefully hangs his jacket on its hook. He leaves it straight and neat, as if it were any other day, as if he were returning from his office, a meeting, a lecture hall, not a sun drenched afternoon. The fabric is still warm. "She is quite intelligent."
"Is she truly going to come to the aquarium?"
He adjusts his coat once more, and Tabitha's beside his. Impossible, nearly, that Nyota is, and yet the fact of it burns bright. "Is that acceptable to you?"
"Will Gaila come?"
"Apparently not." For better or for worse. Their mother says that often, though generally in respect to some aspect of Vulcan culture she finds expendable, and more specifically to the fact she must endure it regardless of her opinion. He supposes the phrase can also be applied to the calculation of whether tomorrow would benefit from Gaila's absence, or if it would not be advantageous to have her included. Would that she would come in order to leave him alone with Nyota again.
But to want as fervently as he does is not acceptable, to have had the hours together they did and still hunger for more is unreasonable, intolerable. And yet, he is at a loss to do otherwise, an eagerness building in him, even as he stands before his coatrack, and swells as if insurmountable.
"Very well," Tabitha says, her sock a wet plop on the floor when she drops it. "Nyota alone is adequate."
Her head is bent forward over her other shoe. She is so small, seated there, no matter how she has grown.
"The Terran sun has properties not shared by ours," he says when she finally stands, and he is still rooted to the same spot. Tabitha's forehead creases, and he clarifies, "You now have freckles."
"I do not."
Gently and carefully, so as not to intrude upon her mind, he touches the bridge of her nose. "Incorrect."
Both of her hands cover her nose, and he barely moves his finger in time to not have it trapped there beneath her own. He is not particularly inclined to share his thoughts. He never is and never has been, and he sends her towards the shower with the resolve to gain a much needed grip on himself, lest his control slip further, a determination that is tempered by the knowledge that such a pursuit is likely impossible, what with the idea of tomorrow waiting for him.