Author's Notes: Sorry for the absence, life has been hectic the last few months, and I have been sorely remiss with my duties. I hope you enjoy this further outpouring of fluff (sheesh, I think that I am giving myself cavaties) . . . As always, this is made possible by the ever lovely Jade_eyes. Thanks for everything!


IX: "Calmly, I find a lull to my sea in you"

He spent the first few hours of every morning in meditation.

His mixed blood made it so that he required not even half of the hours Uhura spent every night in sleep. So, hours before she would awaken he would get up and prepare for the day. There was a meditation mat in a small alcove before their bedroom, made complete by an ever constant drift of incense from the burner there and equally low burning candles. The early hours of the morning could find him there day after day. These hours were as peaceful as they were necessary for him. In these hours he was able to center himself as the candlelight rippling on the metallic toned walls, and he recited Surak's mantras under his breath in time to Nyota breathing in the next room.

He had let her join him once, after she had awakened. There was something . . . soft that touched him as he tried to teach her the ways of his people. He had felt a joy at teaching her how to breathe; how to hold herself. He had instructed her to close her eyes, and he had mumbled softly under his breath as he pressed his first two fingers gently over her closed lids to keep her eyes closed. He could feel her smile at his thumbs, and found a peace in that small gesture that hours of candles and mantras could sometimes leave him lacking.

While she had admitted that the sessions brought a peace over her, it was not as necessary for her as it was vital for him. She had then divulged that she had found it as peaceful to watch him as it was to join him in the ritual. Ever since then, he could be aware of her eyes on him shortly after she would awaken. She would stand against the door quietly, a small smile curving to her lips as she observed him. Her gaze was as peaceful as the routines that were as needed for his psyche as air itself.

And yet, what he enjoys most about those hours, is the heightened awareness that it gave him. He could hear the rustle of silk and sheets as she rose from bed, and he could feel the echo of her footsteps across the floor. Through their bond he could feel her contentment, could feel her heartbeat echoing alongside his own as he purged himself of the world around him. The scent of her morning coffee rose and twined with the incense before him, and the sound of her humming under her breath swirled in his mind under the customary mantras he muttered.

Every morning, she would bring him out of his trance with cool fingers against his hands, reminding him that it would be time to leave soon. And every time he opened his eyes to see her small smile, he found a center that he thinks he has been looking for his entire life.

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Every week, on the third day, Spock spent the hour before his shift in one of the practice rings with Kirk.

While there were many things she understood and enjoyed from Spock's mixed heritage, she thinks that the Suus Mahna routines are her favorites at times. She remembered the first time she had seen him indulging in the martial arts – back at the academy, her and Gaila in jogging attire on the treadmills, and Spock leading a group of cadets through the katas with a singularly effortless grace.

She had not looked away then until her Orion roommate had passed her a cold water bottle with a coy wink and an appreciative sigh.

Later, as their relationship had progressed, Spock had only talked about his proficiency with hand to hand combat on a time or two. It was a way of centering the body and the mind, not a form of violence, as it very easily could have been. The teachings and the theories behind the art – because that was what it truly was – reminded her of the far eastern philosophies on Earth. She had told him that she . . . enjoyed it all the same. If there had been a little too much stress on the word enjoy at the time, then he had made no comment to it.

Upon being stationed on the [i]Enterprise[/i], he had taken to performing the regular routines on a basis, at first as a source of exercise of body and mind, and then in the roll of teacher once again. Apparently, Kirk, remembering the fighting style that had him so effortlessly beat on the day of Vulcan's destruction, was a curious student. He was a fast learner, taking to the force and effectiveness of the routines if not with the grace of, but the skill of a dedicated fighter. Slowly but surely, everything about the Captain that had been an ever so accomplished bar brawler was becoming something deadly and refined between lessons with Spock and Sulu both.

And, if she were to start out on the other side of the gym, dutifully going through her own routines, and end up on the bleachers set up around the more distant sparring rings, then no one was to say anything. And if, these occasions coincided with the times that the two managed to be shirtless due to the exhortation, then she still found that no one could fault her.

Today, like every other day she took her spot on the bleachers as they warmed up. Their light banter tinkled on the cool air, back and forth in the easy rhythm that the two had taken to like fishes to water. She could feel Spock's amusement at the back of his mind, which grew when Kirk caught her eye with a playful wink. As Spock was showing him the correct positioning for that particular routine, Kirk teasingly struck pose after ridiculous pose, flexing his muscles in a ridiculous show. He wagged his eyebrows insinuatingly, as he said, "See something you like, Lieutenant?"

She rolled her eyes and said something about finding the muscle structure of a Cordarin (or lack thereof) more interesting. Kirk, suitably repentant, laughed slightly and turned back to Spock, who had watched the encounter with a raised brow. If Kirk went down in record time during the first set, he didn't say anything to it save for a sheepish smile and a muttering of, "It was just a joke."

She tried very hard not to laugh.

Because really, there was no contest. Yes, Kirk's form had the beginnings of bulk that age would only increase, and he was what most women on the ship would flutter and sigh dreamily over, but he really wasn't to her tastes. The rest of the female population could keep the blue eyed Adonis, she was quite happy with her man. More than happy.

Because, really, what she found so pleasing about watching Spock in times like these, was that he seemed unaware of her appreciation. In contrast to Kirk's strutting and posing, Spock hardly looked up at her. His grace was a natural one, something almost feline and fluid that was a testimate to the alien blood running inside of him. The confident assurance without arrogance as he eased his body through the motions made his appeal completely unintentional, which only added to her enjoyment. His build was akin to that of a swimmer or a runner, as opposed to Kirk's more defined tone - all long lines that emphasized the smooth play of muscle over muscle under perfectly delicious snow white skin . . .

She sighed dreamily as she watched Spock ease into the routines, the movements perfectly showing off every delectable thing he had to offer . . . Her eyes remembered where her hands had traced every inch of that skin before, remembered the jump of the muscles under her fingers where she had found every sensitive spot . . .

In the back of her mind, she could hear his chiding voice. Apparently, she was distracting him. In answer, she stuck her tongue between her teeth as she smiled at him. Part of her enjoyed flustering him more than she cared to admit. But, seeing as how she really didn't want him to put a shirt on, she reigned in her thoughts as much as she could . . . or merely toned back on the intensity of their bond, if she was completely honest with herself.

Kirk had watched the subtle back and forth, shaking his head before glumly muttering, "I just don't get it."

Spock raised a brow, but would not comment on the matter as he launched into a detailed explanation on how this set of moves centered the mind and calmed the flow of thought. Kirk was more interested in the philosophies than he'd ever admit, she knew.

And as to his prior confusion . . . well, it was just much more fun to let the Captain linger in the dark about some things rather than attempting to enlighten him. Besides, she had much more important things to do . . . they were moving again, and she didn't want to miss a thing.

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For the most part, the only discrepancies of his dual nature could be found in a curious balance of emotion and logic only. Physiologically, he was seamless, a strangely whole combination of human eyes and Vulcan blood and heart. Physically, he was superior to human strength, and yet he would not live the very long life that Vulcan's expected . . . although he would live longer than a human lifespan, he knew. Thoughts of outliving Nyota were those he tried not to think of unless his mood was black and she was far away so as to not pick up on his morose thoughts.

And, from his nature, the very thing that he took pride in was not any of these things – it was his mind. By human standards, he was a genius, and even by Vulcan standards he was gifted. Under the thick bindings that Surak's teachings gave him, his mind moved at a mile a minute, constantly shifting and computing and sorting through problems and numbers and a hundred other fascinating things. He remembered the first time he had touched minds with Nyota . . . how amazed she had been to see everything that truly went on behind the admittedly blank face he presented to the world.

At times, though, it was hard to turn these thoughts off.

A full blooded Vulcan required approximately five hours of sleep every three day cycle. A human required at least eight hours daily. He could get by closer to the Vulcan average of sleep . . . but there were times when he needed more. Still, his mind was Vulcan, and unaccustomed to shutting down and resting so often.

It made for many restless nights for him, nights when he was tired beyond reason, and still his mind worked itself in circles past where even extra hours of meditation could grant him peace.

Nyota had fallen asleep over an hour ago – as he had tried to do as well. It was a frustrating situation at times.

"You're sighing," she mumbled sleepily from next to him. She was using him as a pillow instead of her pillow itself, and she had her one hand laid flat on the side of his chest that wasn't occupied. She could feel him breathe, he knew. She had said before how she found it soothing.

"My apologies, Nyota," he whispered. "I shall try not to impede your slumber any longer."

He could feel her snort in a quick breath. It tickled his skin. "No one should be allowed to talk smart this late."

Talk smart?

"Okeon," she mumbled, a deity's curse left over from her time with her Orion roommate, "I can [i]hear[/i] you raise your brow."

Said brow did lift at that.

"That is illogical," he whispered, "as there is no sound in the movement."

She gave a snort, one he had come to recognize that as amusement from her. Amusement at his expense. She sounded more alert now, and he felt a moment's remorse for rousing her. She needed her sleep more than he did.

She heard his thoughts. "You need to as well," she said, propping up on one arm to look at him, her brow dipped in concern. "You're going a mile a minute in here," she said, tapping the side of her head.

He blinked, the equivalent of a shrug. "It is nothing outside of the norm."

"That's not good, you know." She frowned, every line about her face speaking of a deep thought. "Have you tried counting sheep?" she finally said.

He did raise a brow at that. Again. It seemed to be the logical thing to do. "Counting sheep?" he repeated slowly, as if to make sure that he had heard her correctly.

Her laughter was light on the night air. "Yeah, counting sheep."

"A human custom that I am unaware of, I take it?"

"I guess," she said with a smile. "It's just well . . . exactly what the name would imply. You count sheep in your mind until your brain shuts itself off. It lets you sleep then."

"That is . . ." he tapered off, trying to think of a proper word to express his thoughts on the custom.

"Illogical?" she supplied.

"Different," he hedged.

She snorted. "Sure."

She laid back down, snuggling into him until he wrapped both of his arms around her. He could feel her breath against his skin, could feel the lazy beat of her heart against the warmth of his body. It was soothing.

One sheep . . . two sheep . . . three sheep . . . He felt ridiculous.

He felt it as her lips curved into a smile. "It's not ridiculous," she muttered. "Give it an honest chance."

He took in a deep breath before closing his eyes once again. He would try, just to humor her. He started to count once again, this time more slowly. As her breathing deepened and her pulse fluttered lazily in time to the . . . sheep parading in his mind, he slowly found himself lulling off beside her as well.

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There were times, for a race that prided themselves on their logic and the strength of their reason, that the Vulcan culture was beautiful just for the sake of being beautiful.

Most of these instances were found before the Dawn of Reason, before the teachings of Surak . . . centuries ago, when their poetry was alive with passionate words and their art lived and breathed feeling – vice and pain and passion and a hundred other inspired things. Now, the culture was sedate, bound by control and an ever constant need for logic and serenity.

And still, some of these things found a way through.

She disliked the majority of modern Vulcan poetry, it was too dull compared to its lyrical predecessors, and while she could appreciate modern art, it was often too streamlined, too simple and uninspiring to truly grasp her admiration.

Vulcan music though . . . that was one area in their culture where emotion still thrived, unintentionally, or not. She remembered once, way back at the beginning of her acquaintance with him at the academy, where he had hypothesized that music was an exorcizing of emotions as much as it was an embodiment of them. It was a way to channel what logic and meditation could simply just will away.

Spock played the ka'athyra with an easy skill that she had not yet seen in any other Vulcan. If music was a way of channeling unwanted things from their psyche . . . then Spock channeled much through his playing. Both mourning and wistful by turns, the tunes were always something that drew her ear whenever she was around, her fingers staying at her work, and her acute hearing picking up every thread of melody and harmony that he admitted.

It was something that he was passionate about – she had seen that when she had first heard him play, years ago. The ka'athyra had gleamed from it's place of honor in his rooms, speaking of many a night spent in polishing and careful maintenance. The instrument was perfectly tuned and perfectly cared for. The ease with which his fingers glided over the strings spoke of many a year of practicing and dedication . . . those fingers caressing the instrument had been one of the initial things that had sired her attraction for him. The care and reverence she had found there, the attention to detail that he spent in anything – whether it be a new language or a new specimen of flora – had birthed a new intensity to her admiration for him.

Part of her thought he knew that.

Since Amanda's death, the tunes that he had played had been darker in nature, their chords choking at her lungs until it was hard to breathe. The emotion there was raw and heavy on the air, all the while carrying a softness to it. There was letting go in the mourning she heard that perhaps touched her more than anything else . . . At the end of long missions, the tunes would be slower, more mellow. When they lost those of their own, the tunes would weigh hard on her shoulders. They sounded like requiems. And sometimes, when a day had gone well, or he looked at her with [i]that[/i] glow in his eyes . . . the tunes would be light things. Searingly beautiful and passionate things that hit at that tender spot right below her heart where he permanently seemed to dwell.

And when he would attempt to teach her how to play, leaning over her shoulder as he placed his hands over hers, moving her fingers for her, she would marvel at the ease with which he taught her, the tenderness with which he spoke to her.

When she finally produced a melody that was somewhat pleasing to the ears, she whispered a faint, "Beautiful," without looking at the instrument at all.

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There were times when he felt the weight of his mixed blood acutely. While not always in a detrimental nature – he was proud of his lineage on both sides, and knew that his unique bloodlines meant that he had much to offer – there were times when it weighed acutely on him. There were many things that assisted with him – logic that bound the emotions that were too Vulcan and controlled the impulses that were too human.

And then there were times when he found that he didn't need any of these things – he has found a centering in her. As illogical as the thought was, it was one that was true. It was a thought that gave him peace even as he thought it, cooling everything in him that was a raging sea, tempest tossed and longing to be soothed.

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~MJ

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