Bells Through the Leaves, chapter 8
"Nyota. It is time for me to go."
Crawling up from the depths of a deep sleep, she opened her eyes to find that Spock was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. Behind his head, the early morning sun was just beginning to flicker through the leaves, and it looked like the day would be clear. Well. Finally her effort to open the curtains at night had paid off. She stretched and rolled onto her back.
"Already?"
He nodded. "My transport will be here in approximately five minutes."
She sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"
"You were sleeping peacefully. I did not wish to disturb you."
"Are you sure that you don't want me to take you to the spaceport? Just give me a minute to throw on some clothes." She swung her feet to the floor and started to get up.
He held out his hand to stop her. "Yes, I am sure. The hour is early, and I know that you would like to go back to sleep. It is not an imposition for me to take a taxicab to the spaceport."
"I don't mind."
He nodded gently. "I know."
They gazed at one another for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, and as she looked at him she was suddenly overwhelmed by all that she wanted to tell him. She loved him, she needed him, she wished that he could stay, the uncounted months until she saw him again would be unbearable... How could she possibly find the words to express so much in only a few short minutes? It was impossible.
Finally, she simply shook her head and smiled ruefully.
"Here we go again. Somehow, it seems like we say goodbye more than we say hello."
"If you are counting the number of times we have parted and the number of times we have been reunited since we began our intimate relationship, you are correct."
She laughed and saw the answering humor in his eyes. "Oh, Spock, I'm going to miss you."
"I shall miss you, too."
Touching her lightly on the chin, he turned her face up to his, but his lips had barely made contact with hers when they heard a vehicle pull up outside the front door.
He glanced toward the window. "My transport has arrived earlier than I anticipated."
"You'd better hurry."
He brushed his fingers lightly against her cheek, then stood and picked up his suitcase. She grabbed her robe and belted it as she followed him toward the door.
"Would you convey my gratitude to Milele and Yusufu?" he asked quietly as they walked down the stairs. "I would have preferred to take my leave of them in person, but I assume that they are still asleep."
Nyota grinned. "Oh, they're probably awake, but they're going to let us say goodbye in private."
"Ah." He stopped by the front door and put down his suitcase. "That is considerate of them."
She slid her hands around his neck. "Isn't it, though?"
He pulled her into his arms, but they were both very aware of the taxi waiting outside. Before she knew it, he had picked up his suitcase again and he was walking out the front door. She stepped into the open doorway.
"Have a good flight, Spock. Call me when you get back to the ship!"
"I shall."
Turning as he stood on the top step, he held his hand up with two fingers extended, and she pressed her own hand to his. After only an instant, though, he pulled away and trotted briskly down the steps, then put his suitcase into the taxi, nodded once in her direction, and climbed in. She watched as the taxi sailed into the sky and vanished in the distance.
Grasping her upper arms, she walked slowly back into the house. The air was cool, despite the clear sky, and it felt good to close the door behind her. She trudged up the steps and returned to her room.
The bedroom seemed very empty now. Spock had even neatened the pillow and the sheets on his side of the bed, and she could hardly tell that he had slept there. She didn't bother to open the closet door, but she knew that if she did, all she'd find were a few of her things next to a row of unused hangers.
She turned away from the empty bed and dragged a small wooden chair over to the window. Seating herself, she propped her elbows on the sill and rested her chin on her hands, then leaned forward until she could feel the chill coming off the glass. The leaves were beautiful, reds and golds and oranges, and they waved in the breeze like a thousand tiny little flags.
What had happened last night between her and Spock? Their week had been good despite a few minor bumps, and she had assumed that everything was fine. But then last night she had been caught entirely off-guard by his difficulties. Was it her fault? Had she inadvertently pressured him? She'd never known him to succumb to pressure, and heaven only knew that he had lived with incredible pressure from both within and without his entire life. Maybe, though, he was just good at pretending that the pressure didn't bother him. And last night he had found himself in a situation where pretending wasn't going to fool anyone. She'd have to be more careful in the future.
The window began to blur where her breath fogged the glass, and she cleared it off with the side of her hand.
If only he hadn't had to leave so early this morning. Why had he been in such a hurry? If he were still here, he would be awake by now. She would open her eyes to find him watching her, and she would sleepily wriggle over in the bed until she could feel him next to her. He would be so hot under the heavy covers, and every muscle in her body would relax in his overwhelming heat. Maybe he would put his arm around her and pull her onto his chest, and she would rest her head on him and gaze out the window. He would gently rub her arm, or maybe he would run his fingers through her hair. If only, if only.
Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted by the tiniest clanging of a single, far-away bell, which an instant later was joined by the joyous tumult of rippling scales. She frowned and turned away. How could anything be so cheerful when she felt so melancholy? She tried to hang on to her cozy fantasy, but it flitted away, as startled as the little bird that had been resting in the branches of the tree. She wanted to feel sad, to miss him, to long for the day they would be together again... but somehow she couldn't. The clamor of the bells was too life-affirming and uplifting, and she felt her spirits rise despite herself as the bells tumbled from high to low, high to low, again and again. It was Sunday morning, and the bells of Westminster Abbey were inviting everyone to get up and share in the creation of another beautiful day. How could she resist? As if in response, the wind began to blow harder, tossing the leaves in a riotous dance outside the blurry window.
She leaned back toward the glass and peered through the leaves. Could Spock hear the bells? He was probably still in the taxi. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture exactly where Heathrow lay in relation to Westminster, and she decided that unless he was already at the spaceport, there was a good chance he could hear them. Oh, she hoped so. She would try to describe them to him later, but no description could possibly capture the beauty of this moment.
She held her breath as the bells subsided into only a single voice, eight strokes... and then nothing was left but a ghostly vibration in the silence of the morning air.
She looked back toward the center of the room. Somehow, without her even realizing it, the sun had climbed up into the sky and was streaming through the window, falling over the bed and flickering across the wall.
She rose to take her shower.
...
Sitting motionless in the taxicab, Spock listened to the clanging of the last bell. Eight strokes. 0800 hours. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that they would ring no more.
His throat tight, he remembered the last time he had heard such a cacophony of bells. They had been very different in timbre—small, jangling, harsh—but they had rung, nevertheless, and incited his blood into molten lava, pure fire running through his veins there on the grounds of his ancestors. So different than the chill that had descended upon his body when the raucous noise began today.
Why had he not awakened Nyota this morning? He had stood by her bedside and studied her as she slept, and the pressure in his chest had been something he could not ignore. Even though he had cared for her deeply for many years, he had not expected to experience such strong emotions as these. And each time he saw her, they became even stronger. He would not have thought it possible, but it was true.
So, to return to his original query, why had he let her sleep? Was it because he was afraid? Afraid that she would wish to discuss his near-impotence of the night before? Afraid that he would have to look her in the eyes and tell her that it meant nothing? Afraid that he might break under the intensity of her gaze and tell her that it meant everything? That he had not been truthful, that he had concealed so much from her, that the time might come when he would demand that she submit to his most irresistible desires? She told him that his confession of 'primal urges' excited her, but she had no idea what she was really saying.
Or perhaps he truly just wished for her to sleep, so that he could observe her smooth features while she was relaxed and unaware of his scrutiny.
The flitter began to descend, and he saw that he neared the spaceport.
He idly calculated the amount of time he would need to check in, pass through customs, locate the appropriate terminal, and travel to his gate. He should be able to complete all of those activities in no more than eighteen minutes, and his flight did not depart until 0910 hours. He had known, of course, from the moment he rose this morning that he had ample time to prepare for his departure, but illogically he had felt the need to hurry, and he had done nothing to fight that impulse. He closed his eyes briefly and hoped that Nyota had not noticed his haste.
The taxicab settled gently onto the pavement, so he climbed out and lifted his suitcase from the back. As he walked toward the entrance of the spaceport, he wondered what Nyota was doing right now. Had she crawled back into bed and burrowed under the covers? Or had she decided to rise and meet the day? Perhaps she was in the shower at the moment, or she was sitting at the kitchen table sipping her morning coffee, laughing and smiling with her sister.
The large clearsteel doors parted as he approached, and he entered the spaceport. To his right were a bank of comm terminals, the small sign that marked them for public use flashing overhead. Less than half of them were occupied. Even under the most conservative estimate, he had forty-three minutes that would contain nothing but idle time. Perhaps he should call her...
Scanning the ever-changing display at the end of the lobby, he saw that check-in for his flight was in progress at counter fifty. He paused and looked at the comm terminals again.
What would he tell her if he called? That he was merely thinking of her? That he missed her already? Such sentiments were not only maudlin but highly illogical. And he could certainly not broach such sensitive topics as those he truly wished to discuss over a public comm system. He squared his shoulders and walked toward counter fifty.
Perhaps he would call her later.
End part four of "Fire, Wind, and Water: The Debussy Suite"
The next story in this series is Gardens in the Rain.