He closed the door behind him. He did not try to meditate, though he needed it. What was the point? Instead Spock lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling again. What was it about seeing his mother in that portrait that caused his lapse in control? He had many photos of her, but looking at them did not cause the intense reaction that the portrait had. Several minutes went by as his mind continued to ask, in a more human fashion, Why, why, why?
He reviewed the portrait's many elements, one by one. Was it the pairing of himself with his mother? No, he had a photo in his quarters, one of he and his mother that she had insisted that he take with him when he left Vulcan for Starfleet Academy those many years ago.
Was it seeing her as she was then? As a Vulcan, Spock was not given to dwelling on appearances, past or present. That was a human behavior.
He realized it was not Amanda's image itself that tore at him. No, it was the warm palette of colors that Margaret had chosen for the background, for their clothing, in their skin tones that created the nearly palpable emotion that flowed from the painting. They were the same ones Spock knew from connecting thoughts and emotions through their mother-son bond. The warm rusts, vibrant blues, golds, and corals that Spock had seen in his mother's mind, and in the aura he sensed when he was with her, communicated love, acceptance, security, belonging... With Amanda's death, the colors of her essence were forever gone—or so he thought until he saw Margaret's painting. Seeing them again in the vulnerability of grief had shocked him.
Upon further contemplation, he factored in the fact that he had never allowed himself to grieve. Outwardly, he had attended the ceremonies and services honoring the dead. He had submitted himself to and participated in the public and private rituals of family and society marking the losses. He pushed down the hurt, never allowing his grief to surface.
Inwardly, in the constant war between his Vulcan and human halves, he admonished himself continually. Remorse and sadness were illogical. They would not bring back his mother. She was gone. Accept that. Intellectually he had, but his human heart never ceased to ache, and, as always, his Vulcan mind berated him for missing her. And so this incessant loop had continued over the months, eroding his energy, eating at his core, and upsetting his balance.
Still, he turned to Vulcan logic in an attempt to fix his human-based issues. It was fact: Repeatedly using the same variables in a formula and expecting a different outcome was illogical. Therefore, to change the outcome, one had to change at least one variable. But which one?
Clearly Vulcan methods of emotional control were no longer sufficient. Over the months since Amanda's death, he had exhausted all his Vulcan mind disciplines. They had been effective, but only temporarily. Unfortunately, whenever his grief returned, each time it had returned, it returned with an intensity greater than the last, draining his control and reserves so far that it threatened his ability to function at times. Spock needed something else.
Grief was a human emotion. Perhaps now it was time to turn to a more human method.
There was a human saying: "Time heals all wounds." Spock reasoned that if he granted himself permission to allow the sadness he felt, it did not mean that he had to lose emotional control. It did not have to incapacitate him, nor would he allow it. He would keep his control in check until sufficient time had passed.
With that decision, his head cleared. With this plan he had some peace. It was elemental, was it not? How could he have missed this? Did Nyota not already tell him that it was all right to mourn Amanda's loss, that he should stop burying it? How did he not understand what she meant until this moment?
Spock decided that he had been foolish blocking the inconvenient, but undeniably present human elements of his psychology and physiology. He also decided that he needed to apologize to Nyota for the months of irrational behavior. And he would—after he re-centered himself—at the earliest opportunity.
He got off the bed, sat cross-legged on the floor, and began a series of deep breaths. Meditation might be more fruitful now.
-o0o-
A couple hours later Spock emerged from his room with a renewed calm, but eager to find Nyota. He followed her voice and Margaret's to the breakfast table. Their jaws dropped when he appeared before them as if nothing had happened.
"Excuse me, Margaret, but may I have a word with Nyota?"
Nyota eyed him—something had changed. "Spock?"
"With me, please." He turned and headed out the door to the back yard. It was abrupt, even for him.
Nyota rose to walk out after him, giving Margaret a quizzical backward glance. Margaret, equally confused, shrugged in return as Nyota followed Spock outside.
Margaret was afraid that Spock would announce that they were leaving. He had been upset, and she knew from Nyota's input as well as her own observations of Sarek that control was everything. Perhaps Nyota could calm him.
She had spent several minutes contemplating the many possibilities by time Allen walked in through the front door with a spring in his step. "Hi, Margaret! Where's Spock? He's a genius!" Allen could barely contain his excitement. "His suggestions were spot-on, and I think we finally broke through." Allen noticed Margaret's pensive mood. "Hey, what's going on?"
Margaret rolled her eyes heavenward. "It's been quite the morning here." She related the drama of the past couple hours, finishing with "…then he practically comes bounding down the stairs, and now he and Nyota are out in the back yard."
"What are they doing out there?"
"He's talking to her. I don't know what about."
His curiosity piqued, Allen walked up to the window to look out.
"Allen, what are you doing?"
"Seeing what's going on."
"Get away from there. It's rude!"
"It's also very interesting."
Despite her better intentions, Margaret had to get up and look. Seated on the bench was a patient, yet bemused Nyota. In front of her was a more-animated-than-usual Vulcan, pacing and gesturing occasionally as he spoke. Nyota's smile grew wider and wider as Spock continued to speak. Finally, after several minutes, he stopped and sat beside her. Soon they were looking into one another's eyes, and she started nuzzling against his shoulder.
"OK, Allen, that's enough!" Margaret hissed, trying to pull him away.
"But they're so cute," Allen teased. "And I want to see what happens next."
Margaret hit him squarely on the arm. Hard. After knowing Sarek, her husband knew better than to intrude on a Vulcan's private moments.
"OK, all right… I'm going. But aren't you the least bit curious?"
"Of course I am. But I'm not invading their privacy," Margaret declared. "After everything that's gone on this morning, just let them be."
Allen laughed. "They're out in the middle of the yard in broad daylight. How private is that?"
Margaret glared at him, but she had to laugh, too. "Fine, they're not in an underground bunker. But we don't need to be voyeurs. I got Spock to agree to sit for the portrait, and I don't want you messing it up. He was rattled enough as it was."
"He doesn't look rattled now," Allen observed, eyebrows raised as he took another peek out the window.
"That's it! Get out of here!" Margaret huffed, playfully grabbing a towel with which to chase Allen into the living room.
Allen made a hasty retreat.
