Spock awoke slowly the next morning, aided by the lights he installed to imitate those of his home-planet.

Immediately, his focus was recalled to a stack of research tapes, teetering in front of the communication screen on his desk. He was assigned to scanning them for information on Christmas traditions, despite his insistence that Doctor McCoy was a better resource. Kirk had laughed, shoving him towards the Records Library, as they both left the Bridge in command of the evening crew. It was rare for their breaks to line up, as Spock did not require as many, and always hated to take them.

He was determined to return to the Bridge that morning before the Captain was even awake. And he would bring all the promised information.

Spock inputted the first of the tapes, eager to read them faster than the computer's voice could.

To himself, he considered the ancient dependency on paper. Although in some cases it had monetary value, most of the things he read involved the ritualistic taping and tearing of it.

As he neared the end of the data gathered about paper, the computer offered a moving image. He enlarged this, intently focused on the two smiling figures.

"Of course," he said, "Cards."

The pictures continued flickering past, begging him to open the desk-drawer. The logical presentation, he thought, was the request for a match. The picture needed its complements.

He set down a swatch of thick paper, made to mimic the style used on Earth. It was made on Vulcan, printed with films of fine metal.

This image did not move. His mother specifically requested for it to be stationary. His father, as he recalled, offered no protest. Vulcan accepted peaceful traditions, however illogical.

Amanda's face was there, etched in warm hues of gold and copper. Her smile was delicate, and mostly covered by her best Vulcan salute. Sarek stood behind her, copying the gesture but not the expression.

Spock turned the paper over, to read the gilded symbols his mother insisted on writing with her own hand. He shook off the sentiment; the words remained dormant in his memory, and he would call them from there. The card was returned to the table, with the image facing upward. The metal skidded and squeaked against the desktop.

He recalled the exact moment he received it, and how it released all the feelings he otherwise kept in cages. Before it had arrived, shoved through the slot in the door of Academy dormitory, he had no knowledge of what his peers called 'homesickness.' Once peeling away the wrapping, seeing a familiar picture, and reading the overly emotional words of his mother, Spock wanted nothing more than to go home.

The communication screen flashed, recalling his attention. The captain would be returning to the Bridge, for the beginning of the new day's shift.

"Very well," he said to himself, cutting down every new thought that grew from the memory of his mother's card.

He remained quiet until reaching the Bridge. Captain Kirk was already settling down in his seat; Spock had miscalculated his time of arrival. And how much he would sleep, on his night off.

As soon as the doctor arrived on the Bridge, running his hands absently over the captain's armrest, he agreed.

"I was hoping you'd get some rest, Jim," he said, "You're worse than Uhura."

Kirk turned his head, as Spock stepped up to join them on the platform.

"I had to put in for her leave yesterday," the doctor explained, "She'd never stop, otherwise."

Spock placed his hands on the opposing armrest, in a pattern he copied from Doctor McCoy. His gaze met the Captain's. Jim coughed.

"I trust you found something… interesting." he prompted. McCoy rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers.

"Yes, Captain," said Spock, "Although I believe you'll find Doctor McCoy more insightful about Earth history."

"Try me," he breathed. His knowledge about Christmas customs was practically nonexistent, but he enjoyed bluffing.

Spock began his cautious outline of Christmas cards, accepting frequent nods from Kirk and occasional mutterings of 'fascinating' from McCoy.

"So, these cards… they'resent to friends?" Kirk asked. He held out one hand, as if waiting for the answer to be dropped there.

"Family, traditionally. A means of maintaining positive contact and conveying emotion."

"Love," said Bones, softly, "That's what you're describing, Spock, and you know it."

The Captain did not bother with turning his head; his eyes stretched to see his friend, hovering behind his shoulder.

"Bones…"

"Doctor McCoy is quite correct, Captain," the Vulcan interjected, "I have… seen a traditional Christmas card, and it is signed 'love', before the giver's name."

"There was one with the records?" led Kirk.

"I was sent one." Spock caught a drop of embarrassment, and returned it to its place, "Many years ago."

"Oh?" mused the Doctor.

"From my mother and father. As you know, they study Earth culture."

"I think the term you're looking for, Spock, is 'Christmas cheer.' I didn't think there was room for it on Vulcan."

"You are incorrect; the card was produced on Vulcan. I assume the 'cheer' you refer to is the message within the card."

McCoy nodded, slowly accepting contentment. It was a slow-moving but sweet medication. One that kept him out of fights, but not disagreements. He thought more about the cards and their delightful illogic, while he returned to the turbo-lift.

Spock watched him as he left. Kirk did not.

"Tell me more about the card," began Kirk, "If you don't mind, that is…"

Spock considered the words as he had the card; a match must be sought. It was logical to give the captain information which would please him, as this was not of great importance to their mission.

"It is printed on a paper-replica. One side shows a picture of my mother and father; the other bears her handwritten message."

"That hardly seems like an efficient means of communication," said Kirk, eager to use terms Spock would enjoy.

"It is not made to be efficient," Spock admitted, "It is made, unlike so many modern exchanges, to be kept."

Kirk smiled, letting his eyes flicker toward the ground before stumbling back up to his first officer. They were in a constant, protective, and entirely necessary orbit.

"Thank you, Mister Spock. I'll keep that in mind."

The scientist gave a faint bow before returning to his station. He counted every star that passed the sensors, and stacked them against the offending emotions in his mind. It was difficult to forget his mother's words, and his father's annotations. Their faces, preserved in happiness and youth. He could look at the card a thousand times and see precisely the same thing – the colors in their faces, the measurements of the novice Vulcan symbols, the stresses in the ink – but harvest infinite different meanings. This troubled him; love.

"Did you send a response?"

The well-intentioned addition made Spock's task more difficult. He stared into his scanner, but sealed his eyes behind both eyelids. Darkness offered a space for reflection which no mirror could ever duplicate.

"I did not."

"You should," the captain said, gently, "I know they'd love to hear from you."

Slowly, Spock reinstated his sight. The human part of him offered tears, but the stronger half refused.

"I will."

The intercom speakers coughed above them, and Spock was grateful for the added distraction.

It was Uhura, voice smooth and recently awoken, detailing the captain's shore leave orders.

"You've got plenty of time, Spock," Kirk said, once her message concluded.

He thought more about the picture, and what he could do to passably duplicate it. Nothing.

It was the silent protestation of his father, seen in his stance. His mother's overeager smile, which always sought to encourage something similar from him.

Spock kept his eyes shut, allowing himself to see the answer.

His place on this Starship, among humans. That was logical. That was the stiff posture, contrasted by the wavering, glowing humanity.

A match.

Of the father's heart begotten,
Here the world from chaos rose.