Chapter Four: Sticky Notes
Disclaimer: Borrowed with love, nothing sold.
As soon as she reaches the top of the stairwell, Nyota hears the soft murmur of Commander Spock's voice. The door to his office is open, the light on, but the Commander's voice is the only one she hears. He's on a comm call, then, not meeting with a visitor. She slows and comes to a halt several feet from the door, unwilling to intrude on his conversation.
Almost at once she hears a slight scuff, as if he has shifted in his chair. Putting his comm away in a pocket? Waiting a few seconds more to make sure he's finished his call, she starts forward and hesitates briefly in the doorway.
Though he's facing away from her, from the cant of his head Nyota knows that he's aware of her, that he probably ended his call prematurely because she could overhear him. That idea flusters her and makes her feel like an unwanted intruder. Well, there's no help for it. She is a few minutes early for her shift—but in the two weeks since she began working as his teacher's assistant, she's been early more often than not. He should expect her by now.
"Good morning, Commander," she says as she crosses the distance between them and comes even with his desk. "I'm sorry if I interrupted you."
His expression doesn't change but she senses a flicker in his mood, as if a dark cloud has just passed in front of the sun. Then he blinks and whatever she saw—or thought she saw—disappears.
"You did not," he says. "My cousin had concluded what he wanted to say."
"Your cousin!" Nyota's hand is over her mouth almost as soon as she utters it—embarrassed to sound so shocked. But she is. The Commander is so self-contained, so private that she's never before imagined him with a family. And with a cousin! Extended family—aunts, uncles, little Vulcan cousins. She lowers her hand and grins in spite of herself. "I'm sorry, Commander, it's just that—"
Meeting his eyes, she sees that dark cloud drift by again and her grin fades. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I hope it wasn't bad news."
"Uncertain," Commander Spock says. "My father took ill several days ago and may require treatment for a heart condition. I was unaware—until my cousin's call."
"Oh!"
Nyota is so busy unwinding all the layers of meaning in the Commander's words that she doesn't know what else to say. As hard as it is to picture the Commander with cousins, imagining his father is harder. Do Vulcan parents not tell their children when they are ill? Is speaking of medical conditions some sort of taboo? Yet the Commander's cousin knew—and felt Spock should know. What does that say about the lines of communication between the father and his son?
"I—I hope your father is going to be okay." Her words sound small for such a weighty concern. Darting a glance at the Commander, she sees him nod once and turn to his computer screen.
Nyota goes to the table the Commander has set up in the corner for her use, sets down her messenger bag, and pulls out a piece of heavy card stock. Holding it up, she says, "Do you mind if I post this in the workroom? It's an announcement about the Chorale concert tonight. I know it's late, but someone might see it and decide to come."
It's a colorful poster slightly larger than a normal flimplast, a throwback to a time when such announcements were typically printed on paper and displayed on bulletin boards, road sign poles, doors—anywhere students might see them. Now digital scrolling screens dot the campus and upcoming events are advertised through electronic mail and newsletters. All the more reason to put up something retro and surprising—the better to compete with all that data.
The Chorale poster has a photograph of the members superimposed on an expressionist design of musical notations. Nyota's already sent one to her mother as a souvenir—and a gentle chastisement for not coming to the concert, though she understands that a trip to San Francisco would be an extravagance. Still, she's being featured as a soloist and she's uncharacteristically nervous about it. Having her mother in the audience would have been calming—or at least, appreciated.
Commander Spock says, "You are a member of the Chorale Ensemble?"
"Vice-President," Nyota says. At once she's embarrassed, not of her hard-won accomplishment but for offering an unasked for detail about herself. It's something she does easily with friends and even new acquaintances. It is not the kind of familiarity the Commander seems to want and Nyota blinks and looks away.
"Please," she hears him say, and when she looks up, his hand is extended. With a start, she steps to his desk and gives him the poster.
For almost a minute he examines it so intently that she begins to feel uncomfortable, certain that he will tell her that posting it in the workroom is against some rule or regulation.
Then suddenly without looking at her he gives it back and says, "You may post it."
"Thank you," Nyota says, and then on an impulse, she says, "You should come. I mean, if you like music. We perform all sorts, not just Terran music."
She stumbles to a stop as the Commander turns slightly in his chair and eyes her.
"I appreciate many types of music," he says. It's such a rare offering—telling her something personal about himself—that she straightens and smiles.
"I wasn't sure if Vulcans sang," she says. "I'd love to hear some Vulcan music."
"Most sentient species have an equivalent vocalization of singing," Commander Spock says matter-of-factly, and Nyota hides a smile at his deft sidestep. She'll have to work harder to get him to reveal any facts about himself.
"If you have some suggestions," she says, slipping into the chair beside his desk—his eyebrows lifting slightly as she does—"I'd love to bring those to the ensemble. We are always looking for representative selections for our concerts."
She's watching him so closely that she sees some sort of calculation going on in his expression—some decision he's coming to. Then drawing a breath, he says, "I am not as familiar with Vulcan vocal music as I am with the instrumental variety. The Vulcan lyre—the ka'athyra—is the instrument I know best."
For an awkward moment Nyota remembers her first day of working for the Commander when he opened his mail and found a Vulcan lyre inside. When she'd asked to hold it he pulled away abruptly, warning her that the human oils in her fingertips could damage the wood. For several days she smarted as if someone had struck her, until at last she confided to Gaila how alien, how unworthy, the Commander's words made her feel.
"Now you know," Gaila said, her chin tucked down to her collarbone. "Humans say thoughtless things like that to me all the time—to all of us who are off-worlders. Besides, how do you know he wasn't just telling you the truth—that Vulcan wood can't withstand human touch? Maybe you're blowing this all out of proportion."
Nyota's face had flushed, first that anyone would say something deliberately hurtful to Gaila, but also at the belated realization that she had been oblivious to such human slights, perhaps even uttering them herself with a thoughtlessness that shames her now.
If the Commander feels any uneasiness at the allusion to that disastrous first day of work, he doesn't show it.
"You play?" Nyota asks.
"I do. But my father is the more accomplished musician."
The mention of his father brings back the dark tone in his voice, in his eyes. Without thinking, Nyota lifts her hand to place it on his forearm, a note of sympathy—but Commander Spock's expression shifts suddenly and she lets her palm land on the desk instead. What had she seen in his face? Not panic, but something close to it. With a jerk, she hops to her feet.
"I'll go put this up now," she says as she backs out of the office. When she returns he is busy with something on his computer and he doesn't acknowledge her. Without comment, she goes to her own computer and begins the task of sorting and filing his mail.
By noon her stomach is rumbling so loudly that she's sure the Commander can hear it.
"Do you want me to bring you anything?" she asks, knowing he will turn her down as he always does.
She grabs a salad in the cafeteria and eats in a corner alone—even ducking once when she sees Gaila come in, hoping her roommate will find someone else for company. Otherwise Nyota will get caught up in whatever drama Gaila wants to discuss today—and end up being late getting back to the language lab which she is scheduled to open and run all afternoon.
As she always does she sprints up the three flights of stairs to the language offices, her breathing only becoming labored on the last turn. As she pauses to catch her breath on the landing, she sees that the lab lights are off, a small square of yellow paper on the glass inset of the door. As she gets closer she sees that it is a sticky note—a throwback to the days when paper was commonly used to send messages. At first glance she thinks it is an illustration for something, but on closer examination she recognizes the Commander's handwriting, small and neat but also hinting at the flourishes characteristic of Vulcan script. For a moment she marvels at the beauty of the words without trying to comprehend their meaning.
The language lab is closed for the rest of the afternoon. Practice sessions will be rescheduled at a later time.
Confusion, dismay, relief—she feels all three as she rereads the note. Why hadn't the Commander told her he was going to cancel the lab sessions? Has an emergency come up, perhaps worse news about his father? She hurries down the hall to his office. The door is open and the lights and his computer are still on, but the Commander is nowhere in sight. He's not leaving nor apparently planning to.
Is he canceling the lab and sending her home because he's upset with the personal tone their conversation had taken? The look he had given her when her hand had crept toward his arm—shock or dismay or anxiety? Her cheeks grow hot at the memory.
She sees a second sticky note, this one on her desk. Tugging at the weak adhesive, she pulls it up and cradles it in her palm.
The afternoon is yours to prepare for the concert.
A gift, then, not to have to run the lab this afternoon. She gives an audible sigh of relief. This gives her time to settle herself before the concert—even time to go for a run by the waterfront to burn off some of her nervous energy.
Packing her bag, she sees the stack of unused sticky notes on the Commander's desk, and for the second time that day, she gives in to impulse, plucks one off, and picks up a pen.
I hope you make it to the concert.
Nothing inappropriate or even particularly intimate about that. Part of her duties as the vice-president, in fact, to drum up more of an audience. She's not asking for a commitment—just making a suggestion.
Yet for the rest of the afternoon her mind is divided in two—part of her hoping Commander Spock reads more into her sticky note and part of her horrified that he might.
Even as she's warming up in the wings and getting ready to process on stage and mount the risers, she finds herself brushing back the heavy velvet curtain to scan the crowd. Until the house lights go down she's still looking as people take their seats, but she sees no one who could be mistaken for a Vulcan, no one at all.
Then with a rueful laugh at herself, she takes her place and walks onto the stage to scattered applause.
X X
"You look tired," Amanda says. Spock's first impulse is to deny it—as he often denies his mother's assumptions about him. It's an old habit, and at some level, immature on his part and unworthy of his mother's genuine concern. Still, old habits die hard, and Spock frowns slightly and says, "I am fine, Mother."
He's in the basement of the language building in the small, cramped room that houses an auxiliary subspace transmitter. He could have waited until the evening to call home on his portable unit in his apartment, but his mother will be awake now.
"Did Chris tell you what the healers said?" Amanda asks, and for the first time Spock realizes that she is the one who looks tired, not a surprise if Sarek is having symptoms of heart failure.
"Just that medication has been prescribed," Spock says. Amanda nods and goes on.
"They want to try that first, of course. If it doesn't correct the arrhythmia, your father may be facing surgery."
"He has multiple options, then," Spock says. Belatedly he realizes that he should have said nothing. His mother visibly bristles.
"Well, yes," she says. "But that doesn't make it less worrying! I wish he didn't have to deal with this at all."
This time Spock says nothing but waits for his mother's irritation with him to pass. In a moment she sighs and says, "He's out in the garden. You should speak to him."
Her look is so hopeful that Spock feels a twinge of regret at disappointing her.
"Later," he says, "when I am able to speak at length. I am at work and will be leaving shortly."
That's not the reason he doesn't want to speak to his father, and they both know it. Whenever he and Sarek do speak, Starfleet—and Spock's choice over the Vulcan Science Academy—becomes a point of contention. Not often in words, but in the undertone of disapproval Spock senses from his father.
"Then call when you get home," his mother says.
They both know he won't, but Spock feels the need to give a different reason why.
"I may be busy with a social engagement after I leave work this evening."
Amanda's face lights up. "A social engagement! Tell me about it!"
"A campus concert," he says, feeling her mood dim slightly. From time to time she occasionally chides him about not making time for friends or colleagues outside of work—though Spock goes to lengths to reassure her that he is neither lonely nor discontent. "My new teaching assistant is a member of the Chorale and she suggested that I attend."
"You have a new assistant?" Amanda's voice is quizzical, her eyebrows raised—she's on what she herself would call "a fishing trip," trying to ferret out information.
"Cadet Ellison graduated two semesters ago and has accepted a post on a starship. Cadet Uhura has taken his place."
Spock and Amanda have spoken more than once about the difficulty he's had with TA's. Until Cadet Ellison, no one had lasted an entire semester as his assistant. After Cadet Ellison graduated, Spock had been reluctant to hire another TA—until, of course, Admiral Nishiki insisted.
He isn't certain that Cadet Uhura will last the semester either. Although she was an exemplary student, working with her in close quarters has been unsettling somehow, though he is at a loss to understand why.
Amanda peers at him across subspace on the screen, a slight frown on her face. Surprising himself, Spock blurts out, "Perhaps my attendance at the concert would be…inappropriate, or confusing. I am, after all, Cadet Uhura's supervisor."
At that Amanda's expression changes—her mouth quirking up and her eyes flashing.
"Spock, it's just a concert! Surely you have the right to attend it, regardless of who is performing."
"But—" Once more Spock astonishes himself by speaking too quickly. Old habits again. His mother always could winkle out a confession from him—a glance, a tap of her foot, one hand on her hip, and he offered up any detail she asked of him—not that he was deceptive by nature but because she was such an overwhelming presence in his life that he needed to keep her at arm's length, her emotions draining him at times.
"But what? It is frowned on at Starfleet? That doesn't seem very practical to me."
"Starfleet has no proscriptions against faculty attending public functions where students are performing," Spock says. "Our attendance is encouraged as a show of support."
"Then what's the problem? Don't you want to go?"
"I believe that Cadet Uhura expects me to attend. Although I had not planned on going, I am reluctant to give offense with my absence. She is, after all, an officer in the ensemble."
The wrinkles at the corner of his mother's eyes deepen.
"You find this amusing," he says, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"Not at all!" his mother says, and he looks at her closely. "I'm glad you are getting out and doing something instead of working all the time. I'm just…surprised…that's all, that you are dithering over whether or not to go. You're usually so decisive about things."
Now Spock doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. "I do not dither. If I hesitate now, it is because I am unsure about Cadet Uhura's meaning in the note she left."
"She left you a note?"
"I canceled her afternoon duties so that she might prepare for the concert tonight. She left a note expressing her hope that I would attend."
"And you're worried that her feelings will be hurt if you don't go?"
But that's not it at all, Spock realizes. Cadet Uhura is, for a human, unusually level-headed and rational. She would not have hurt feelings over something so trivial.
No, his hesitation is less about what going means to her and more about what it means to him.
His heart speeds up and to hide his discomfort he says, "If I continue this conversation much longer, Mother, the decision will be moot. The concert begins shortly."
With an audible sigh, Amanda says, "Very well. But do call your father when you can. He needs to hear from you."
The concert hall is in the center of the campus but the language building is close to the west gate several minutes away, even at a fast clip. By the time he arrives, the house lights are down and the ushers—two students handing out old-fashioned programs—have taken seats in the back of the auditorium.
Only half of the seats are occupied—a detail that Spock notes with more than passing concern. No wonder Cadet Uhura was still putting up concert notices this afternoon. After so much preparation, the lack of a sufficient audience might negatively affect the Chorale's performance.
As he slips into an empty seat on the aisle, Spock waves back one of the ushers who half-rises, ready to hand him a program. The odds are the program notes will add nothing to the music that he doesn't already know—and if the Chorale does sing something unfamiliar, he can look up any extra information himself.
The first two pieces are, indeed, familiar to him—Terran tone poems by modern composers, dichromatic syncopated works that highlight the Chorale's technical skills. An Orion mourning song follows, the high notes haunting and evocative. Then Cadet Uhura steps down from the risers and takes her place in front of the group, the lights on the stage dimming while a spotlight illuminates her like a single candle.
Her voice starts out low and rises slowly, a capella, and as it does, Spock gives an involuntary shiver. The song is unfamiliar, but from the lyrics he deduces that it is a Terran lullaby. Soon enough he stops listening to the words and hears only the notes, clear and crystalline and hanging suspended in the air above his head, as if for him alone.
A dangerous illusion—and a foolish decision to come. When the crowd begins to applaud at the end of the song, he feel released, like someone suddenly freed from a trap. He carefully makes his way out of the auditorium and into the chilly night air of San Francisco, troubled by the hitch in his side he can't explain, certain only that he has had a narrow escape.
A/N: This chapter makes a glancing reference to Chapter One of "What We Think We Know" and Nyota's first day as Spock's TA. I hope that wasn't confusing!
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