Chapter 15: After the Fall

Disclaimer: All play and no work...not making any money here, folks.

"Commander Spock!"

A woman's voice calls through the crowded San Francisco spaceport. Shifting his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other, Spock increases his stride and ducks as nimbly as he can away from the voice. Startled passengers look up and part as he hurries forward.

"Commander!"

The last thing he needs is to be hailed by some curious onlooker who recognizes him from the news vids—or worse, a journalist wanting a story from a surviving Vulcan. Redoubling his efforts, Spock crosses the concourse and heads like a salmon going upstream into a rush of disembarking shuttle passengers.

In the two months since the Battle of Vulcan, Spock has been the object of attention wherever he goes. In the past he had always drawn curious looks on Earth—Vulcans being underrepresented not only at the Academy and in Starfleet but in an otherwise diverse San Francisco as well. Heads turned when he walked down the street or entered a store. Children pointed. Human curiosity: an annoyance, but understandable.

Now, however, the looks are overlaid with some emotion Spock can't identify—shock or sadness or anger—something that both pulls people in his direction and makes them oddly more cautious, as if they want to speak but are afraid to.

Nyota says they mean well, but he's not sure. Lately the Enterprise is the only place where he doesn't notice surreptitious glances, where a room doesn't fall silent when he enters.

The crowd thins at last as Spock reaches a connecting concourse. All around the vast room are seating areas for passengers waiting to depart through the various gates. Making his way to the section for the Seattle-bound shuttle, Spock slides his duffel into an empty seat and turns to sit down.

"Are you trying to avoid me?"

The voice again, this time at his elbow. Straightening, Spock faces a tall, regal looking dark woman dressed in a neatly tailored suit, the strap of a rolling suitcase in her hand.

M'Umbha Uhura, Nyota's mother.

Spock flushes and stammers, "I…did not realize that it was you who called out to me. Forgive me. I was…distracted."

His lapse in recognizing her voice is obviously more distressing to him than to her. Mrs. Uhura nods once and smiles.

"Of course," she says. "You didn't expect to see me here. And I know you have much on your mind."

She tilts her head slightly the way Nyota does when she wants him to respond—a learned mannerism, clearly. And effective. Spock surprises himself by saying, "Indeed. My thoughts are much preoccupied lately."

To his relief Mrs. Uhura doesn't ask him to elaborate. He would tell her if she asked—about the difficulty of the Enterprise's shakedown cruise, his guilt about leaving the establishment of New Vulcan to others, his recurring nightmares about his mother—

"How long has it been since we've seen each other?" Mrs. Uhura says as she slides her suitcase next to a seat and sits down. Spock perches on a seat facing her.

"Eight months, twelve days, fourteen hours—"

Spock stops suddenly and flushes again. Of course she didn't mean her question literally. It's the kind of communication that still trips him up.

But Mrs. Uhura's smile is gentle and she says, "As long as that? Then we are overdue for a visit."

"Excuse me, but why are you here?"

Mrs. Uhura waves her hand like someone shooing a fly. "Here? I'm on my way to Seattle to a conference. Don't know why I couldn't just teleconference, but the university president insisted that I come. Face-to-face networking with other deans is important, I suppose."

She tilts her head at him again in invitation but he has no idea what to say. Without any data about the nature and topic of the conference she is traveling to attend, he cannot comment.

After a moment, Mrs. Uhura says, "And you? Why are you here?"

"I am on leave," Spock says quickly. "My cousin in Seattle invited me to spend it at his home."

A lie of omission, his mother would have called that. Far too much unsaid. He studies Mrs. Uhura's face for her reaction but her expression doesn't change. If she finds it odd that he's on leave and traveling without Nyota, she says nothing.

Unless, of course, Nyota told her everything and that's why she's here.

Almost as if she can read his mind, Mrs. Uhura says, "I haven't spoken to Nyota in several weeks. I knew I wouldn't have time to visit when I came through town so I didn't tell her I'd be here." She pauses and then adds, "She'd be upset with me if she knew."

Again Spock has the sense that he's being asked or encouraged to do something, though he doesn't know what. Her tone of voice suggests a collusion of sorts. Is she asking him not to mention seeing her in the spaceport? That will not be difficult. He and Nyota are more silent than not with each other these days.

"She is currently working double shifts overseeing an upgrade to the mobile translators," he offers. This, too, is a lie of omission. Like him, Nyota is on an extended weekend leave. That they've chosen to spend it apart is something he does not wish to share with anyone, least of all with Nyota's mother.

"She's so busy these days," Mrs. Uhura says, nodding. "Of course, everyone is. But a mother never stops worrying about her children. In my mind she's still that little girl who never slowed down, who always wanted to be busy learning and doing something. She might be the only child on the planet whose parents had to take all her PADDs and books out of her room to get her to go to sleep at night."

Mrs. Uhura looks at him expectantly and Spock says, "Indeed. Even now she often falls asleep with a PADD in her hand."

Mrs. Uhura laughs out loud at that, and Spock is relieved that she does not realize what a sad confession this is, what a telling statement about their loss of intimacy. Or what a contrast to their time together…before. They'd kept each other in such a heightened state of sexual arousal that any private moment not in each other's arms was a moment wasted. They had tumbled into bed every night with such energy and enthusiasm that Nyota's lack of sleep became a concern.

That he finds her asleep with a PADD in hand these days—that he's not in their bedroom until he's sure she is asleep—is one of the reasons he's here without her now, waiting for a shuttle to Seattle.

"It might do you good to get away," his cousin Chris told him the last time he called. "You know, a change is as good as a rest."

Something his mother used to tell him when he'd beg off visiting home.

"I know you're busy," his mother would say, "but a mother never stops worrying about her child. It would do you good to get away from work occasionally."

And occasionally he had—heading to Vulcan for a few days during the summer break, once meeting his parents on Altair 3 when his father officiated at a treaty signing.

Still, he could have visited more. Should have. It would have pleased his mother—

"And what about you, Commander? Are you falling asleep with a PADD in your hand?"

An odd question, though Mrs. Uhura's expression seems gentle or kind. Has Nyota mentioned his nightmares? Doubtful, since she values his privacy almost as much as he does.

Spock weighs the cost of being forthcoming or letting the silence stretch between them. He's spoken to Mrs. Uhura at length only three times—none of them alone. She might find his honesty off-putting, the way humans do, asking for the truth but then setting it aside if it proves inconvenient.

"You know," Mrs. Uhura says before he can answer, "I can't imagine what you are going through, what you are feeling—and yes, I use that word deliberately. No one has any illusions anymore that Vulcans don't feel. Your suffering—your grief—has to be terrible. My father died when I was too small to remember him, but I didn't lose my mother until right before Nyota left for the Academy, and I feel her absence keenly still. If you ever want to talk—"

"I am fine." The words he intends to say, but Spock astonishes himself instead by describing the nightmares that shake his sleep—images of his mother reaching out to him, their fingertips brushing, the sorrow in her face as she falls away. Waking tangled and sweaty in the bed, his heart hammering in his side, Nyota's cool fingers pressed into his hand. The crushing, grinding grief almost physically weighing him down at unexpected times. The guilt for all he left undone, all he is leaving undone now.

And worst of all, the way he's pushing Nyota away—or rather, turning away from her, causing her pain.

As he speaks he struggles not to look down. At last he comes to a stop and leans back, folding his hands in front of him. Mrs. Uhura takes a deep breath and lets it out as an audible sigh.

"It might be helpful to see a counselor," she says, but Spock shakes his head.

"Vulcan healers are in short supply. My…needs…are minor compared to many."

It's almost verbatim what he's told Nyota—and Dr. McCoy, and the captain, at different times when each one made the same suggestion. Some of the survivors of the Vulcan genocide are small children who lost both parents, or are partners ripped from their bondmates without any mental preparation. By contrast he is functioning well.

"I see," Nyota's mother says. "Then you'll just have to lean on the humans who care about you. You said you have a cousin in Seattle?"

"Chris Thomasson."

"And your shipmates? Nyota speaks highly of them. Don't be afraid to ask them for help. Nyota's tougher than you think. Have you shared what you're feeling with her?"

"Not…everything," Spock says. "I do not wish to burden her." Nyota knows about the nightmares, of course, but what he hasn't told her—what he hardly admits to himself—is his growing conviction that the only way to stop the relentless, gnawing pain is to stop feeling anything at all. No sorrow, no regret, no…love. Nothing. Already he spends part of each day reading the treatises of the ancient Kolinahr masters; each day the lure of an emotionless life is more appealing.

Such a life would be devoid of many things he currently values, his relationship with Nyota first and foremost. He would have to let it go to achieve genuine control. Indeed, he has come on this trip without her to prepare what he will say when he returns—how they need to part ways, how he cannot bear to continue to hurt her.

Darting her hand into her pocket, Mrs. Uhura pulls out her comm and frowns at the screen.

"Wouldn't you know it," she says, glancing up. "An emergency's come up at the university. The president wants me to return as soon as possible. So much for the conference in Seattle."

Spock stands as she slips her hand through the strap of her rolling suitcase.

"Commander," she says, stepping so close that her voice drops to a near-whisper, "we don't feel burdened by the people we love. Don't be so hard on yourself. Your mother wouldn't want that."

And then just like that she is walking away, one hand raised in farewell.

Spock spends the flight to Seattle replaying the conversation with Nyota's mother.

We don't feel burdened by the people we love, she said, and he puzzles over that. He has, from time to time, found the requests from the people he loves—his parents, Nyota, his friends on the Enterprise—unwanted impositions, inconveniences, burdens on his time and attention.

But the people themselves?

Of course not. Gifts, his mother would call them. Even his troubling memories of his mother, as burdensome as they are, may not always shatter his sleep and send him into a vortex of despair.

At least, that's his hope.

XXX

"Baby Girl!"

Nyota stands in the open doorway of the apartment she and Spock share in San Francisco when the Enterprise is in Spacedock. Her mouth falls open and for a moment she doesn't move. On the other side of the doorway stands a stocky dark man wearing the uniform of a Starfleet engineer.

"What's this? No hug for your father?" he says, holding out his arms. Nyota leaps forward and grabs him.

"What are you doing here! When did you get into town? Oh, Baba, I'm so glad to see you!"

To her horror Nyota feels tears rush to her eyes. She squeezes her father so hard that she hears him grunt.

"Whoa!" he says, pulling them both across the threshold into the room. Wiping her eyes, Nyota pushes the door shut and then hugs her father again.

"If I knew I'd get this sort of reception," he says, laughing, "I'd ask the captain to schedule more maintenance rotations."

"The Antares is in Spacedock?"

"Just picking up some Federation bigwigs on their way to the new Vulcan colony. We're heading out tomorrow."

At the mention of the Vulcan colony, Nyota feels her eyes watering again.

"What's this?" her father says, shepherding her to the sofa and settling beside her against the cushions. "What's upsetting you?"

Sniffing, Nyota tries to smile. "Nothing, Baba. I'm just glad to see you. It's been so long!"

"Eight months, twelve days, fourteen hours—"

This time Nyota's smile is genuine and she laughs.

"You sound like Spock!"

"Where is the Commander? I was hoping to see him while I'm here."

Nyota's face falls. "Yeah, well, we've decided to take a little time apart to sort out what we want. Ever since—"

She swallows hard and blinks, determined not to cry again. Her father puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side, something that never fails to comfort her. Nyota leans into him and sighs.

"I imagine it's been a hard time," her father says softly. "And will be for awhile."

"I'm afraid, Baba."

"Afraid?"

"That I can't reach him anymore. That he'll leave without any word."

"He wouldn't do that," her father says. Nyota shakes her head.

"Yes, he would," she says. "He almost left Starfleet right after…well, right when we got back home. I'm not sure why he changed his mind, but he was ready to go with the colonists. And ever since, he's been…different. Distant. Like I don't matter. Like I'm just in the way."

Her father gives her another squeeze and then releases her, leaning away and meeting her gaze.

"Give it time. You have to be patient."

Despite herself, Nyota feels a spike of annoyance. She is patient—but Spock isn't making it easy.

"You don't understand, Baba," she says. "No matter what I try to do, he doesn't respond. I offer to listen but he won't talk. I try to talk but he won't listen."

She watches as her father stands up and makes his way slowly to the door of the tiny kitchen.

"What do I have to do to get a cup of tea around here?" he calls over his shoulder. Nyota hops up and busies herself for several minutes heating water and pulling mugs from the cabinet. Her hand touches the mug she bought for Spock one Christmas, a handmade wobbly-looking one that matches his asenoi. Pushing it to the side, she chooses two less interesting mugs.

"Vulcan tea okay? I'm out of anything else."

It's a symptom of her distraction these days that she's letting little things like replenishing the tea canister slide. Not just any canister, but the one where she stocks her own favorite Kenyan blend. Of course she's remembered to keep Vulcan tea available. She jabs her spoon into the mug and hands it to her father. For a few moments they stand at the kitchen counter and sip their tea in silence.

"How's the shakedown going?" her father asks, and Nyota is grateful for the chance to think about something other than her own sadness. For several minutes she tells her father about the many and various communications snafus—most of them simple mechanical or software glitches but all of them requiring lots of time to track down and repair.

"I don't really mind," she adds. "It helps me…not think."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"Baba, I told you—I've tried everything but I can't reach him. I really don't know what else to do."

"Maybe," her father says, gently lowering his mug to the counter, "just maybe, you are trying too hard."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you've tried to listen."

"I have!"

"And you've tried to talk."

"He doesn't seem to hear anything I say!"

"Then maybe you just need to be."

Nyota cups her hand around her mug and frowns. "What do you mean, I just need to be?"

"Just what I said. Just be. If it means being where he is, fine. If it means going down separate roads, maybe that's fine, too. Might not be what you want, but it might be what has to be. This thing that's happened, Nyota—well, it's extraordinary. Terrible, senseless, wholesale awful. And you can't hurry up how people deal with it. Not even yourself. You might just need to stop trying and just be."

The room is so still and heavy that Nyota hears her heartbeat in her ears.

"I'm not sure I understand everything you are saying," she says at last, nudging his elbow to break the serious mood. "But I'll give it all due consideration."

That's his own phrase, one she'd heard all through her childhood.

Baba, can I have a tiger cub? Baba, can I go camping in the mountains alone? Baba, will you promise to live forever?

I'll give it all due consideration, he would say solemnly, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

With a sudden twitch, her father takes his comm from his pocket and frowns at the screen.

"This is going to have to be a short visit, Baby Girl," he says. "Captain's calling me to come check on something in engineering. Probably nothing—just some extra housekeeping since we have illustrious guests for the next few days. Come give me a hug."

Later after she's locked the door behind him, she washes the mugs and dries them. Before she puts them back in the cabinet, she takes Spock's mug out and holds it in the palm of her hand, feeling its heft and turning it slowly to catch the glints of light in the glaze. It's a beautiful piece of clay—but fragile, too.

"Like us," she says out loud to no one. She puts the mug back carefully and picks up her comm on her way to the bedroom. To her surprise, there's a message from Spock in the text queue—but she sits down on the side of the bed before opening it. Her throat is hot and tight and she briefly considers not reading his message until morning. If he's sending her a farewell—

But she knows herself too well to wait. If she doesn't read it now, she won't sleep at all. Taking a deep breath, she remembers her father's advice to simply be.

I have arrived safely. Chris sends his regards. I feel your absence keenly.

She almost laughs out loud—partly from relief, but partly because she knows how Spock must have labored over that stilted last sentence, that admission that he misses her.

She starts to type a response—something funny like "Likewise!" or "I'll give that all due consideration!"

Or something serious, like "I miss you, too," or "hurry home," or perhaps even the sacred, scarce words she hasn't dared utter since he started pushing her away: "I love you."

Or maybe she will say nothing at all. Spock won't expect a reply. Nothing in his message invites a comment, though linguist that she is, Nyota has to restrain her urge to frame one in words.

Later, when he gets back to San Francisco, she'll tell him about her father's surprise visit and wander, idly, who the Vulcan passengers might have been and whether or not her father might have chatted with them. But mostly through the next difficult months she will think often of her father's advice to watch and wait—and be.

Author's Notes: Ah, dear readers, I have missed you! Hopefully my Muse won't take another vacation!

In this chapter we've finally taken a leap forward past the Battle of Vulcan. I've written several different stories about the immediate aftermath and the effects on our couple, and I don't want to simply rewrite those tales. I hope that doesn't make this story confusing or too out of kilter in pace and intensity. At any rate, I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know!