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"Can you hear the piccolo? It's just behind the bass, almost like a teasing . . ." Nyota stops, bitting her lip. Of course he can hear it. She saw his expression change when the new sound arose.
"I find its tone most fascinating."
"Really?" Nyota says, "You know I do too but I've never heard anyone else say that before."
"You enjoy music appreciation and yet you have never interacted with one who would enjoy a certain tone?"
"Nope," Nyota smiles at an old memory, "My brother played the flute and then the piccolo when he became a better player. In my experience, no matter one's skill level, no one likes listening to the piccolo."
Makena, who is off buying Nyota some toiletries, could tell Sarek much more about this phenomena with examples from personal experience. Nyota, however, who was also a performer, keeps such memories to herself.
"Can you hear the piccolo? It's just behind the bass, almost like a teasing . . ." Nyota stops, bitting her lip. Of course he can hear it. She saw his expression change when the new sound arose.
"I find its tone most fascinating."
"Really?" Nyota says, "You know I do too but I've never heard anyone else say that before."
"You enjoy music appreciation and yet you have never interacted with one who would enjoy a certain tone?"
"Nope," Nyota smiles at an old memory, "My brother played the flute and then the piccolo when he became a better player. In my experience, no matter one's skill level, no one likes listening to the piccolo."
Makena, who is off buying Nyota some toiletries, could tell Sarek much more about this phenomena with examples from personal experience. Nyota, however, who was also a performer, keeps such memories to herself.
"Amanda plays the violin masterfully," he stops, shakes his head in confusion, clears his throat, "It was an instrument which demanded rigorous technical training and rehearsal along with impeccable talent and auditory skill. She was an exceptional player but few properly appreciated her skill. I believe the piccolo is akin to the violin in that regard."
Nyota wants stop. The direction of this conversation is sad and neither of them wants to experience it. Yet, he has offered himself and she feels the need to give also.
"My son enjoyed Mozart's violin pieces."
He is quiet, his eyes lingering for a half-second on her midsection but she shakes her head before he can even formulate a false idea.
"No. Our first son, Suhayl," she pauses, "When I was off duty, I would play music for him and he moved so much that I used to imagine he was dancing, happy."
Sarek is silent and the music fills the room but neither of them hear it. Nyota remembers Spock calling Sarek to tell him the sad news, her husband's voice low and slightly unstable. Spock had waited until he thought she was asleep to tell his father.
"I remember that pain. S'ti th'laktra." Sarek had said and that was all she could bring herself to remember about that late night call.
Sarek is the first to speak. "In utero, Spock enjoyed hearing music as well," he is watching her now, as if he knows he is testing the limits of both of their control, "As I recall one of his sisters did also."
"Spock had a sister?"
"No. However, he was not our first attempt at conceiving children."
Then, just for a moment, a memory that is not her own cross through her mind. She is in a hospital room with Amanda, watching as the woman cries in front of a disapproving Vulcan doctor. This is not the first time this situation has occurred but the tears and the disapproval are not new either. Sarek pulls away when he is certain Nyota has experienced the memory. Back in Nyota's room, he is starring at his hands, avoiding her gaze.
"I almost had a daughter once before too," she blurts out and then quickly raises the volume on the music player as if this will make him unhear what she just said.
Now, she must stop. She hasn't cried over them in front of another person in years. It is her way, much like it is his, to leave the burdens of the past behind her when they become too heavy to carry. But, there will certainly be tears again if she does not stop now, repression or not.
She had not known the first time. Not when they had asked for crew members for an away mission and she'd volunteered. Not when she had begun bleeding like that and not knowing why. Not until she was back with Dr. McCoy and all he could say over and over again was, "I'm sorry."
The biggest surprise, of course, was how badly she wanted that child after it was no longer a possibility.
The pain, while still great, had been different with her second pregnancy, with her first son. Her sadness had been mostly containable and largely directed at herself, not at the child who was more of an idea than anything else. She had planned and hoped for Suhayl. His death had consumed her.
They had wanted him so badly. She had given birth on Risa, unexpectedly, while on vacation. He had been viable, breathing, living. Then he had begun to fade and there was nothing the doctors could do for him. They had been force to watch as he ceased to be. Then and especially now, she could only assume, his death had been the result of a misdeed on her part. A failure.
And then, because he has given and because for the first time ever, she actually wants to share with someone else rather than being forced to for a session or as an explanation, she gives him a memory too.
It was the first and only time they had been with him alone. Spock is holding Suhayl, one hand supporting their son's tiny body, the other stroking his fingers. Nyota is watching, telling Spock that their son has his eyes. The only indication their boy is not well is the small mask he wears and the machine on a nearby he is connected to.
When Nyota is finally able to, she looks at Sarek. He is still sitting across from her, posture impeccably with his hands laced in his lap, looking as dutiful as a school boy. His eyes are closed and his breath is forcibly patterned. She looks through the window next to her, watches the sun set, waits patiently for his impromptu meditation session to end.
Nyota wonders if Sarek was like this that night Spock had told him the terrible news. She wonders a lot of things. Such as why she is able to walk to Sarek this, easily when she has almost never been able to tell another.
"Does it ever make sense?" Nyota asks, her voice cracking very much against her will.
"No," he manages between controlled breaths. Nyota has never heard this answer before yet for reasons she cannot fully comprehend, she is comforted knowing he understands.
She looks to the monitor on her wrist which she has worn for months now. Three heartbeats. She looks at the monitor often. She looks for signs of life obsessively and she will continue to do so until she is certain she has finally fulfilled the penance for whatever past, present, or future sin against providence she had committed. This time, however, she flicks the volume on her monitor up so that he too can hear the three steady rhythms.
They both hope desperately that all three hearts continue their cadence.
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