Ornaments
Nyota wakes suddenly, and Spock is no longer beside her. It is dark and quiet. She listens but cannot hear him moving.
When she turns on the light, and surveys the room, blinking, he is not there.
Spock has slipped from his quarters, while she slept, so many times before that that is as much a part of her unconscious expectation as his presence would be. She knows with no doubt he will return before morning, to share her waking moments. He goes, and returns, always, silently - never disturbing her sleep.
She wonders what woke her, then, so completely; and cannot think what it could have been.
She dresses in the comfortable clothes she has left here in his rooms; and grabs a sweater – pulling it on as she heads out the door. Compared to his quarters, the corridors seem chilly; and her body cannot adjust in the same way his would.
All the evening, he had been too quiet, too still. She took that as a sign that the crew's celebration had come much too close – but whether his discomfort stemmed from the fact that it was alien to him, or familiar, she is uncertain.
But his thoughts, she suspects, were looking back, to his past – and, perhaps, his life with another Human woman: One who had sacrificed much to embrace the traditions of her chosen world, but still secretly delighted in all things of Earth - including Christmas.
As painful as that would be, she hopes, really, that that was where his thoughts tended. Other possibilities were even worse…
It is ironic – wrong in the devastating cosmic sense of wrongness – that a man so peaceful, so unwilling to admit to anything as violent, even, as emotion, should be missing the tranquil familiarity of a home ground to less-than-nothing, swallowed up by violence, and mourning for a serene like-minded people decimated in a disaster engendered by a heart engulfed in grief, madness and cruel calculating revenge.
She has witnessed Spock's struggle too many times, already, to not recognize the signs of his personal haunting.
He does not wish to bring pain to her, with the fact of his own, and so he is quiet. And tonight he stayed behind in solitude to seek a soul-deep serenity - once common, easy, now too oft-elusive - while she went to a friend's loud and boisterous revel in celebration of the season and the lighting of the tree.
When she returned, he was still kneeling in the muted heat and fragrant dimness of his quarters. Staring at that spare, motionless form, she dropped her bag, abruptly, and, stepping forward, kicked off her shoes. He immediately rose and moved toward her, embracing her with a touch that felt of something suspiciously like need.
Later, he did not murmur to her, as he often did, as they nestled together before she slept, or smoothe her hair or soothe her skin with warm feather-light caresses; but simply held her, still, and kept silence.
Now, he has slipped away - and she is wakeful.
If he has gone to work, to find peace, she will not disturb him. But she thinks maybe he has gone to the gym, and there she can be with him, support him, keep him company – even if he does not notice she is there.
But he is not in the gym.
She's not sleepy, yet; and her restless heart directs her feet once more to the Arboretum. She thinks maybe she can gaze upon the Christmas tree for a while – maybe come to terms with it – maybe forgive it for its unrelenting bright icy beauty.
Spock does not turn his head at the sound of her footsteps, but remains still, gazing at the tree. He appears so self-contained – so isolated in his composed self-sufficiency – as he sits on the ground, legs tucked neatly under him, looking up at it.
She wonders how much of his serenity – this present tranquility - is an illusion.
His strong calm face is illuminated by the reflected light of the glowing tree, and it strikes her that that mysterious beauty, too, is illusion – covering as it does with its easy glory something deeper and richer yet, of a real life hidden in a graceful green-and-black shell.
She wonders what he makes of the splendid garish mishmash of toys and trinkets draped with such utter gleeful abandon on an unsuspecting space-faring tree.
She kneels a few feet from him, gazing at him, her position an unconscious acknowledgement of his own cultural traditions. She takes in the lean profile she loves: The ears, the brows, his nose, his chin. She notices, once more, with pleasure, the fact that his mouth – so determinedly serious – yet has lips that curve up, naturally, at the corners, alleviating the severity of his expression. His eyes, the one thing that he often leaves ungoverned, frequently reveal so much of the man inside. At this moment, however, those eyes appear deep and black - mysterious; and she suspects that any thoughts he allows himself to think are in Vulcan.
She wonders whether he shall, perhaps, in his mastery, find a little mercy as well…
He turns his head, then, and their eyes meet, before he directs his, again, to the tree. He has made no comment, but he has acknowledged that she is here, with him.
It is enough.
She scoots a little, to sit beside him; and after a second his arm encircles her, drawing her close in against his body. She sighs, and leans in closer, yet, resting her head on his shoulder. She instantly feels herself begin to relax. In another moment, his other arm wraps around her, and he lifts her onto his lap. When she snuggles into him, fitting herself against him, he drops his chin onto her head, and stills once more.
They gaze at the tree together, in perfect silence; and time has no meaning, unwinding away toward dawn.
Finally, a lifetime later, she shifts her cheek against his chest, and says to him, "I thought maybe you'd bring your IDIC."
He shakes his head then, his tiny sideways Vulcan negative, and presses his lips to her hair. "No," he says.
"Too personal?" Her voice reflects her slight smile.
"Hmmm. Perhaps," he says, and she hears a smile, too, though it is not displayed outwardly upon his lips. His arms tighten around her, and she sighs with contentment and settles back.
"Well," she says, "this is perfect."
Looking at the deceptively simple symbol he placed on the tree, she thinks about it - and it becomes evident to her how very true that is. No one else on this ship, probably, would realize it or even bother to look beyond the obvious, but she does – and if the others just note the presence of one elegant Vulcan figure in the midst of a joyful, chaotic miscellany of varied human expression, perhaps that is all they need to see. Unconsciously, she shakes her head, as it rests against him; and he lifts two fingers to touch her chin and tilts his head to kiss her.
"Indeed."
She is starting to let herself immerse completely in his eyes, losing herself in their warm, expressive, red-brown depths - when they suddenly flick away, back up to the tree. When they meet hers again, one eyebrow twitches. "Bedtime, I think," he says, and a moment later he starts to unfold himself from around her. He stands, and reaches toward her to draw her to her feet. She doesn't let go of his hand until she is pressed against him, embracing him tightly. He has to free it to wrap his arms around her.
As one, they stand there for another minute, two, gazing at the tree, before she observes, with her voice on a razor's edge, "It's missing something."
Her tone makes him go very still, with that inward-drawing Vulcan restraint – Feeling that, she reaches one hand up to caress his cheek, her thumb smoothing the line of his brow. It lingers a moment, then one careful finger traces the outline of his ear.
She smiles, slightly, tears in her eyes, and reaches toward her own ear. She slips out her earring, and steps toward the tree. Standing on tiptoe, she stretches up and carefully hooks the earring over a crossbar of the ornament he made, where it dangles in the open center of one of the graceful curls.
When she steps back to him, she takes his hand, and starts toward the door. He is still looking at the figure, even as his feet move to follow her. He pauses, and glances, then, back over his shoulder – The tourmaline teardrop is no longer swaying, but hangs motionless at its heart, lit as if from within: A single, still, glowing point of apple-green surrounded – encompassed - by carefully crafted Vulcan peace.