Chapter Seven: Ghostwriters

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Leonard McCoy leans across the table and taps Nyota on the wrist. "Go home," he says, the half-empty glass of bourbon at his elbow making his Georgia drawl even slower and more honeyed than usual. "Go home before you lose another hand. You're off your game tonight, missy."

From anyone else this would be an insult. From McCoy it is a simple statement of truth. The stakes at the weekly Academy poker nights—surreptitious and unsanctioned but widely known—aren't large. With a glance at her chips Nyota sees that she's lost fewer than 20 credits. Not much, but more than she's used to losing. Her mind is elsewhere.

Still, she hates to void the field so early. Poker night is Gaila's night in—to entertain guests, usually, or so Nyota assumes. She makes a point of being out of the dorm for several hours every Thursday night.

"I'm okay," Nyota says, meeting McCoy's gaze. After a beat he shrugs and reshuffles the cards.

"Suit yourself," he says. With a flick of his wrist, he sends cards sliding around the table. Four players including her; a small crowd, though not a surprise. Exams began last week and cadets who haven't finished and left for home are hunkered down in the library studying.

That's where she should be—not here watching her small cache of credits dribbling away because she can't focus.

No, not can't focus. She can focus just fine. Just not on poker.

Her attention keeps drifting back to the language department holiday party two days ago—and the book of Vulcan poetry Commander Spock gave her. Not just Vulcan poetry but erotic poetry so highly charged and sensual that Nyota is still unsure how to respond. More times than she can count she's pulled out her PADD to craft some clever thank you—only to stammer and flutter to a draw.

Small, compact, with a cover of lavender slubbed silk, the book would have been a delight no matter what the contents, a thing of beauty and artistry in its own right.

But the words inside: Startling in their naked emotion—unabashed, frank, passionate.

I am drawn to you against my will. I ravish you in my dreams.

With those lines everything she thought she knew about Vulcans was turned upside down. Everything she thought she knew about the Commander….

Is the book a hidden message? Or a subliminal one? A reflection of what she glimpsed in the Commander's mind the day she slipped in the office and he caught her in his arms, their thoughts joining briefly before she pulled herself upright, unsure if the longing she sensed was his or her own?

And if it is, what should she do? Ignore it? Pretend ignorance?

Or if there's no subtext at all to his gift? If the poetry is merely an example of pre-Surakian literature, interesting as an artifact of an ancient time and nothing more? What should she say then? That she appreciates the education, the expansion of her vocabulary?

She grins, remembering the Vulcan dictionary she was forced to download just to be able to read the more explicit poems.

"What's so funny?" McCoy says, scooping his cards into his hand and fanning them out. Nyota follows suit, making an idle note that she has a pair of jacks and nothing else worth saving.

"Three," she says, still grinning, determined to dodge the question. McCoy frowns and counts out her cards.

She loses that hand in short order, and the next two. Just as she's decided to call it a night after all, the other two players bow out and she and McCoy are left at the table eyeing each other.

"So," the doctor says, tipping his glass up, "you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing," Nyota parries.

"Sweetheart," McCoy says, "don't lie to me. I'm your friend, remember? If you can't tell me the truth, at least don't give me a lie."

What a temptation it is to tell him everything—her confusion about her feelings for the Commander, her greater confusion about his feelings for her. Leonard McCoy's been a friend almost as long as she's been at the Academy, and he's bent her ear on multiple occasions about his own grief—a marriage gone sour, a daughter he doesn't see often enough. His personal sorrows have made him a sympathetic listener. Nyota imagines that his patients are rarely fooled by his gruff demeanor.

"It's just that—" she begins. McCoy folds his arms and settles back in his chair to hear her out. Nyota sifts through what to tell him—and how much.

"It's just that I need to write a thank you note to someone, and I'm not sure what to say."

For a moment McCoy is so still that she wonders if he heard her. Then he snorts and reaches for his glass.

"You're joking, right? A thank you note? Here I was ready to dispense all my wisdom, too. Heartbreak, failing grades, personal tragedy—I was ready. But if it's etiquette you need help with, you're asking the wrong guy."

He starts to rise and Nyota says, "Well, it's complicated. It's for a gift that's…personal, not the kind you'd give just anyone."

At that McCoy slumps back into his chair.

"What does that mean? And it better not mean what I think it means."

Nyota darts a glance at McCoy—and is startled to see such a fatherly look of concern that she hesitates.

"It's nothing to worry about," she says, still watching McCoy. His face relaxes a fraction and she continues. "Someone gave me a book of poetry—"

At that McCoy's expression changes again, this time complete with eye rolling.

"Poetry!" he says, picking up his glass and finishing off the bourbon. "Here's my advice. Don't send a thank you note at all. Discourage that kind of thing. Nip it in the bud. Poetry, indeed!"

"You aren't a fan."

"Of poetry? Why can't people just say what they mean! Poetry's just another chance to say something wrong and be misunderstood. There's enough of that kind of miscommunication in the world without adding to it with poetry!"

Nyota puts her palms flat on the table, disappointed that McCoy is so dismissive and unhelpful. Her face must give her away, for he reaches across the table and taps her wrist as he had earlier.

"But then," McCoy says, "you haven't told me everything. Have you?"

Squirming, Nyota shrugs.

"It's…it's love poetry."

McCoy's eyebrows shoot up. "You have an admirer. So what? You don't return the feeling?"

"I don't know," Nyota hears herself blurt out. "I mean, I do, but I'm not sure—"

"You're not sure this relationship is right? That it will work?"

Rather than answering, Nyota shrugs again. McCoy snorts loudly.

"Take it from me, kid, the odds are it isn't going to work out. So my advice is, don't expect it to and you won't get hurt."

"But I can't say nothing—"

"Then lie and say the poems are beautiful. That's still a word, right? Covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. Say you're touched. Or grateful. Or maybe just flattered. Then say a big ole no. You don't have time for this, heading into your senior year. What will a romance do except distract you and pull down your grades? Hell, it's already wrecking your poker game. Isn't that enough of a warning?"

"Thank you but no?"

"Thank you but an emphatic no. That's my advice, for what it's worth."

"It's just that—"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know that he's actually asking me for anything—"

"You said it was love poetry," McCoy says, lifting his glass again and peering inside. "Nobody gives love poetry without some agenda behind it."

"He might," she blurts out. "I mean, he's a language professor, and the poetry is a good example of—"

At once she realizes her mistake. McCoy's relaxed, friendly booziness evaporates. He sits up unnaturally straight and crosses his arms like an interrogator.

"Your professor gave you love poetry?"

"Not a professor I have now, but one I know."

"An Academy professor?"

"Of course," she says, beginning to feel irritated. "But not one I'm taking a course from now."

"But a professor. Here."

Squelching her annoyance, Nyota nods. "You see why it's…complicated."

"Turn him in," McCoy says. "What he's done is inappropriate. At the very least, it's making you uncomfortable. He deserves to be censured for that. If you won't report him, I will."

With a wave of alarm, Nyota says, "It's not like that, really. He's probably not even aware of the…meaning…or symbolism….of the poetry. He comes from a different culture that doesn't recognize those kinds of relationships. I'm sure when I explain it to him, he'll be mortified."

McCoy is clearly skeptical, his mouth turned down, his eyes narrowed.

"So what are you asking me, then?"

Nyota takes a deep breath. "He gave it to me two days ago and I need to acknowledge it. It was a gift, after all. I can't pretend it didn't happen."

"How about thanks for nothing," McCoy says tartly. "Thanks for complicating your life. Thanks for putting you in an awkward position."

"I can see you aren't going to be any help." She pushes back her chair and starts to rise.

"I'm serious," McCoy says, getting to his feet. "If you feel compelled to write something, tell him what a pain in the ass he is."

"Right now you're the bigger pain," she says, stepping around the end of the table and pecking McCoy on the cheek. "Lesson learned. Don't ask a grump for advice."

She walks to the door of the smoky basement dorm room and leaves before McCoy can say anything else. On one hand, he's right. Commander Spock's gift has complicated her life. She's seen him only once since he gave it to her—this morning at his office, Professor Artura making sly innuendos over tea in the breakroom, the Commander leaving abruptly soon afterwards and not answering his comm since, almost as if he's dropped off the planet.

All the more reason to reassure him that she's not reading too much into the poetry, that she understands his intent in giving it.

…except that she doesn't. She almost stumbles over the short steps at the entrance of her dorm. Focus, Nyota.

To her relief, the room is empty, Gaila nowhere in sight. Pulling her PADD into her lap, she tucks her legs under her and leans against the headboard of her bed.

Thank you for the book of poetry. I'm very touched.

Isn't that what McCoy suggested? A safe grandmotherly word like touched? Or was it grateful? A word implying some sort of transaction. Or flattered? Even more provocative, with a hint of an implied future transaction.

She deletes the last sentence. Better to leave her emotions out of the equation altogether and instead make the note about the book itself.

Thank you for the book of poetry. It is—

Surprising. Interesting. Instructive. Suggestive. Intimate.

She says each adjective out loud in turn, feeling the syllables in her mouth like uncomfortable pebbles.

Thank you for the book of poetry. I hope to talk to you soon about it. It is beautiful.

There. As McCoy said, a word that covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. A functional thank you, sufficiently vague if Spock meant nothing untoward, sufficiently on guard in case he did.

Before she can rethink her decision, she presses her thumb to the PADD and sends the message on its way. Now to wait for a reply, if there is one.

X X X

Spock's PADD chimes softly, an indication of an incoming message. Glancing around at the other passengers on the shuttle, he notes their relative inattention and glances at the name of the sender. Cadet Uhura. Before he can change his mind, he tabs the screen closed and leans back into the shuttle seat, closing his eyes briefly.

It isn't characteristic for him to avoid a necessary action this way, yet here he is, not reading her note, not composing a reply. He also owes her a thank you for what was obviously a carefully chosen gift she gave him at the language department holiday party—a handcrafted mug by the same potter who threw his asenoi. The day he purchased his firepot, Cadet Uhura had been with him, his invitation that she join him as he shopped just the kind of impulsive behavior he has always prided himself on avoiding.

"You can't control everything," his mother often told him. "Not even yourself." And here he is proving her right.

He opens his eyes and considers reading the mail. Dread isn't a word he often associates with himself, but he dreads reading it. It will not be pleasant.

The odds are that she is taking him to task for something—for leaving for Vulcan unannounced, for not answering the door when she stopped by his apartment last night. For slipping up in word and deed and letting her know—and admitting to himself at last—that his emotions are governing his behavior in a way that is shameful.

Worst of all is the book, of course. Weeks ago he'd asked his mother to find it in his room at home and send it to him—ancient Vulcan poetry that until lately has been more baffling than anything else. He'd bought it years ago and has puzzled over it ever since, the explicit sexuality not nearly as discomfiting as the unabashed emotions, each line giving words to the kind of longing and possession and despair Spock had never experienced firsthand.

Until now.

He'd hoped that the book would be a salve—or at least a rudder—but if anything reading it again has made him feel more at sea, hopeless and lost. When he'd taken to carrying it with him everywhere he was dimly alarmed. When Cadet Uhura saw it in his pocket and assumed it was for her, he was horrified.

Even now he flushes as he remembers handing it over to her when she demanded it, his misdirection about the contents tumbling out of his mouth before he could think straight.

"Pre-Enlightenment poetry," he told her, careful not to meet her gaze. "You might find it…interesting."

"You Vulcans think everything is interesting," his mother often teased when he, in her estimation, overused the word. "On Earth, may you live in interesting times is a curse."

Again his mother proves prescient. Spock powers his PADD on and opens a screen to compose a message to Cadet Uhura.

Somehow he has to explain away the gift of the book. The authors, T'Quir and Kohlar, lived so long ago that little is known about them other than what they reveal in their poetry. Lovers, mates, companions—their book is a compilation of paired poems to each other. When he reads them, Spock feels like an unwanted intruder.

That Cadet Uhura is now reading those same poems is almost unbearable.

About the book of poetry, much of the language is obsolete. Rather than attempt a modern translation, your time would be better spent reading more current authors. I can recommend some to you when I return in several days.

There. He can't be any clearer. The book should not be read. The language is…inappropriate.

On the other hand, Cadet Uhura has proven unusually tenacious in the past where language is concerned. No other student, for example, has even attempted to learn Trill, much less master the formal and the familiar dialects. Telling her that the book is too obsolete for a translation might, in fact, encourage her to attempt it.

His heart hammers in his side. With the swipe of his finger, he erases the message. Perhaps the best thing to do is say nothing—and hope that she's busy with exams and final projects and has not looked at the book at all. When he sees her again in person he can suggest she set it aside—or return it to him in exchange for something more contemporary and less…descriptive.

That still leaves the matter of the thank you note for the mug. Everything about the mug is aesthetically pleasing—from the imperfect shape to the potter's fingermarks visible through the glaze. Cadet Uhura could not have chosen one closer in design to his asenoi. When she placed it in his palm after the party, her face bright with anticipation, he struggled not let his hand shake.

He should have written a thank you that evening, before he had time to consider any possible subtext to her gift, before he decided to flee to Vulcan for a few days to sort out his disturbing lack of focus and accidental slips of the tongue.

His mother would not be pleased. Long ago he'd learned not to question her insistence that he show appreciation or gratitude, at least with his human family.

"Your grandmother went to a great deal of trouble to send this to you," his mother told him the year he turned eight. "You need to write her to thank her."

Spock stood in the middle of the family room, the opened birthday package spread out on the sofa beside him. He held up the bulky knit sweater with sleeves too short and a neck too narrow to be comfortable.

"We should send it back," Spock said. "She may wish to give it to someone else."

His mother pursed her lips and sighed.

"That would hurt her feelings," she said. "She picked it out for you."

"But I do not want it," Spock said, "and her feelings do not concern me."

Compared to his father, his mother's emotional state was easy to discern. Right then her displeasure was apparent—but to his surprise, her anger was directed at him rather than at his grandmother who had failed to do sufficient research into his current size and clothing needs.

"Other people's feelings better concern you!" she said as she rounded on him. Taking the sweater from his hands, she added, "And whether or not you want what someone gives you isn't the reason you thank them! You thank them for thinking of you!"

"But Grandmother's thoughts about me were incorrect," Spock said. "She is unaware that my current height is—"

"Spock! Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?"

His mother's face was pinched and flushed. Through their shared bond he could tell that her question was not rhetorical, that she thought he might be doing what she called stonewalling. This time, however, he was not. His confusion was sincere.

With a rush, his mother dropped the sweater to the sofa, took several steps to the side table, picked up a PADD, and returned, placing it in his hands. He looked down at it and back up, baffled.

"Write," his mother said. "You tell your Grandmother that you appreciate her gift. You tell her that you know she went to a lot of trouble to send it and you are grateful. Even if you don't mean it, you tell her that, Spock. And you make it sound like you mean it!"

With that she stormed away. He listened as her footsteps banged a retreat down the hall and the front door opened and shut with a shudder.

The noise brought his father from his study.

"Explain," Sarek said simply, and Spock struggled to keep his voice steady.

"Mother went outside," he said, looking down at the PADD on his lap. "She is…unhappy with me."

He expected his father to retreat into his study and shut the door as he usually did, leaving Spock and his mother to sort out their differences. This time, however, Sarek sat down beside him on the sofa. For a moment, neither said a word, and then Spock let his words tumble out in a heap—reporting his mother's scolding and his bewilderment about what to do next.

"Your mother," Sarek said, "wants you to know how to participate fully in human social interactions."

"She is asking me to lie," Spock replied. His father's expression didn't change but Spock could sense some subterranean emotion—amusement or surprise, or something equally mild.

"When humans give gifts to each other, the expected response is to offer words of gratitude," Sarek said. Before Spock could interrupt, he added, "What matters most is that you recognize the effort of the giver, regardless of the gift."

"But Grandmother did not make sufficient effort," Spock said. "If she had, the sweater would fit."

"She made the kind of effort she could make," Sarek replied. "Your Grandmother sees you rarely and her judgment of your expected growth was faulty, but that does not mean you do not owe her a thank you."

"I am not thankful."

Sarek's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Not for the gift, perhaps, but you should endeavor to be thankful for your Grandmother's good wishes. Not everyone has them."

It was a veiled allusion to Sarek himself, to the difficult relationship he had with Amanda's mother. Not that Grandmother Grayson had ever said anything disparaging about him in Spock's hearing, but their infrequent visits to her home in Seattle were fraught with the tension of what didn't get said.

The sofa rocked gently as his father rose, his footsteps tracing the same path down the hall and out the front door as his mother. Taking a deep breath, Spock opened the PADD and wrote Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me.

The note was, he knew, incomplete. His mother would insist that he comment on the gift itself. Curving his fingers around the stylus, he typed the sweater is well crafted. He didn't know that for certain, but he assumed his Grandmother would not send him something of inferior quality.

Still, the sentence bothered him as unnecessary—a statement of the obvious. Striking it out, he wrote the sweater is acceptable. High praise if his Grandmother were Vulcan, but Spock recalled his mother's sour look the last time he told her a meal she had labored over was acceptable.

"I should hope so!" she snapped, and Spock had darted a glance across the table to his father who carefully avoided meeting his gaze.

With a click, he deleted acceptable.

The sweater was an interesting shade of blue; it was warm when he slid his hand into the too-short sleeve; it was agreeably soft to his touch. Spock ran his fingers over the sweater on the sofa and searched for a word to describe it.

The sweater is aesthetically agreeable, he wrote.

"Not bad," his mother said when she came in from watering her rose bushes, her mood considerably brighter. "But let's change 'aesthetically agreeable' to something less…distant or formal. I know, I know—it's what you mean. But try to speak to your Grandmother in her language, not yours."

It was frustrating, this onus on the writer to prevent miscommunication. Spock took the PADD and sat in his room until the evening meal. When his father called him to come eat, he set the PADD on the table at his mother's place and watched as she read his final draft.

Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me. It is beautiful.

An afternoon wasted and all he could think of was beautiful, a word so anemic and paltry that it was almost meaningless. Every human he knew used the word for such a diverse array of objects and actions that Spock had long ago stopped accepting it as a valid assessment of anything.

His mother's roses were beautiful, the sunset was beautiful, the graceful sprint of an accomplished athlete was beautiful, and so on.

Yet for all that, the word seemed to resonate, too, like the time his cousin Anna told him that his speed and prowess with math was beautiful. Or his ka'athyra teacher used the word to describe an original composition he played for her.

Or all the times he overheard his father murmur it in his mother's ear, her smile lighting up her face, her face lifting like a sunflower.

His mother set the PADD back on the table and nodded, her eyes glistening.

"Grandmother will like this, Spock," she said. "She'll like this very much."

A distant bell brings him to the present—an announcement that the artificial gravity has been turned on and passengers on the shuttle flight to Vulcan are free to move around. Blinking, Spock looks at the empty page of his PADD waiting for his thank you note.

Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me.

It's true. He is thankful, not just for the mug itself but for Cadet Uhura's care in matching it to his asenoi.

It is aesthetically pleasing, he adds. Cadet Uhura—Nyota—will understand that his words are not as distant, as formal, as they might sound. Unparalleled among the humans he knows, she won't mistake what he writes and what he means.

Or so he hopes.

On further reflection, this is not quite what he means. Angling the PADD to see the screen without a glare, he frowns slightly and taps out a correction.

Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me. It is beautiful.

With another tap he sends the note on its way and takes a deep breath before opening the mail from her.

A/N: For everyone waiting on this tardy update, my sincere apologies. RL has thrown a few curve balls lately, but writing and hearing from readers is such a joy that I'm trying to move forward. Thanks for your support!

Sarek gives little Spock a lesson on gift giving in Chapter 14 of "What We Think We Know." That's also the chapter where Nyota and Spock exchange the problematic gifts of book and mug.