The benches outside the skating area were hard. Something that should have been apparent to Nyota given the total lack of padding on the flat, metal seats. But what hadn't been apparent was how much her tail bone would hurt after the inglorious plummet to the ice she'd taken a few minutes earlier.

Once she'd grown brave enough to skate on her own, she and Spock had circled the ice twice more. She'd negotiated the first time round without incident, but halfway through their second circuit, her legs had gotten tangled up together in the middle of a turn, and she'd ended up in an undignified heap right at Spock's feet.

His only reaction had been to bend down, take her hands, and pull her upright while she'd still been struggling to do more than push up onto her knees. Even once she'd been on her feet again, his hands had stayed locked around hers for a long minute, so much warmer after her scramble down on the cold, damp of the ice than they'd been earlier, and she'd nearly wrapped her arms around him right there in the middle of the rink. Luckily, a passing skater had zoomed through her peripheral vision from out of nowhere, and she'd staggered back a step to keep her balance, yanking her hands away before she could do anything to make herself feel even more foolish that she already did after her graceless spill.

Which had probably been for the best. Otherwise, she might have slipped her arms around his waist. Pressed her face into his chest. Inhaled that clean, dry scent that always clung to his clothes and maybe went all the way down to his skin right there in front of all those people. Immeasurably better than leaving her hands in his and having to worry the rest of the night about exactly how much of that impulse he'd been able to pick up through his fingertips.

When they'd finally reached the break in the railing, she'd been more than ready to be done. She'd all but collapsed onto the short bench in the locker area closest to where she and Spock had stored their shoes and coats so that she could take off her skates and pull her boots back on. Her backside had thudded dully against the bench top, and she'd sucked in her breath at the sharp, throbbing pain that flared across her seat. If her legs hadn't felt too weak and rubbery to support her on the narrow-bladed skates she'd still worn, she would have stood right back up. In the end, she'd wadded up her coat and perched on that so she could finally unlace the tight, white boots and drop them to the padded ground.

Spock, on the other hand, had changed into his street shoes quickly and disappeared with both their skates while she was still rubbing her aching feet and sore ankles and straightening out her socks.

That was something else that hadn't been apparent, how sore her ankles would be. She'd known when she'd agreed to go out on the ice that she could fall. Probably was going to fall at some point, but no one had mentioned what skating would do to her ankles. She groaned and rubbed at her foot one last time before slipping her boot on, sealing it up over her calf, and looking around for Spock, who hadn't returned yet.

As tall as he was, even with his distinctive cap of glossy, black hair and the up-swept tips of his ears hidden under the gray wool of his hat, Spock should have been easy to spot. The ease with which he carried himself and the quiet grace and dignity in his manner were usually beacons of calm in whatever chaos swirled around him. But the ice, which had been so crowded at its peak, had been cleared once the ninety-minute block of skating time was over, leaving only the automated ice resurfacer thing with the funny name circling the rink, and most of the skaters were crammed into the small changing area.

She scanned the crowd for him, but from her seated position, she couldn't see much. There were too many people milling about, and Spock was nowhere she could see in the rush of the departing skaters. Standing up was probably her best course of action. Nyota finished fastening her other boot and tugged on her coat. She pushed to her feet to get a better sightline, but the lingering quiver in her legs made her wobble at first. It was ironic that with all the running that was a part of her Starfleet training, she wasn't better prepared for stumbling around the ice, but she wasn't, and she clamped down on an aggrieved sigh and looked around again.

She was on the verge of climbing up onto the bench when a firm hand pressed into the small of her back and heat seeped through the layers of her clothes to pool at the base of her spine. She jerked away with a start and spun around. Standing in front of her, his coat neatly closed, was Spock, his unflappable composure firmly in place. He carried a disposable stasis cup, steam rising out of the drinking vent.

"My apologies," he said quietly. "I did not intend to startle you."

Nyota took a deep breath and ordered her heart to settle back into her chest from where it had lodged in her throat. She gestured in the direction she'd been facing when Spock had come up behind her. "I thought the skate return was that way."

"It is." He held the cup out to her, and she took it without thinking. "I brought you this."

The container was warm to the touch, and a scent that was deep and bitter and sweet all at once wafted up to her on a curling wisp of steam and tickled her nose. Nyota closed her eyes and inhaled. "Hot chocolate?"

"You stated a preference for the beverage earlier."

"Yes. Thank you." She smiled and took a tentative sip. "Nothing for you?"

"Not at this time. You are prepared to depart?"

"Mmmm." She swallowed and made a happy noise around the lip of the cup. "What's next on the list?"

"Our destination is only across the street."

Threading his way between the last stragglers leaving the skating area, Spock led Nyota through the dwindling crowd, past the long line of people waiting for the next session to begin, and towards the giant glass-walled department store directly across from the square. Nyota's gaze traveled up the front of the building to the huge, brightly lit Christmas tree that rested on top of the overhang that shielded the front entrance from the weather. It stretched up four stories, its great branches blocking the view of the floors inside. A shining star that could probably be seen for blocks, even with the rest of the city lit up, adorned the top peak.

"Wait." She reached out and caught at his sleeve. "Are we going there?"

"Yes." Spock's long, graceful strides consumed the pavement, and Nyota quickened her steps to keep up.

"We're not going to see Santa, are we?"

Without slowing, he peered at her out of the corner of his eye, one eyebrow lifted so high, it disappeared beneath the ribbing at the edge of his hat.

"No," he replied, and what Nyota was certain could have been a smile tugged at his lips. "How did you reach that conclusion?"

"Gaila makes me go with her every year."

"Your roommate is Orion, is she not?"

"Yeah, but she loves Christmas. She says any holiday based on rampant consumerism where the major traditions include kissing random people based on your proximity to a parasitic weed and sitting on a stranger's lap and telling them exactly what you want is something she can get behind."

Spock's brows drew together in the barest approximation of a frown. "Did you not explain the religious significance of the holiday?"

"I tried. And I tried to tell her how not every Terran culture celebrates Christmas in the same way, but between the kissing and the laps and the presents, she wasn't really interested. Anyway, we were here the day after Thanksgiving. She likes to shop around for the hot Santa."

"And by 'hot,' you mean…?"

"Physically attractive."

"Ah. I did not realize an appealing outward appearance was an important factor in Santa selection."

"Me either, but apparently it's vital."

"And the Santa at this establishment?" Spock asked, nodding towards the store.

"His 'ho, ho, ho' wasn't jolly enough."

"That is indeed a grave shortcoming," he intoned, and Nyota laughed at his studied solemnity.

They crossed the street and stopped in front of one of the store's large windows just at the lights were coming up on an elaborate scene inside: what looked like a sitting room or a study from the Victorian era, a towering Christmas tree the centerpiece of the miniature room.

Music, or at least what might have been music, trickled out of what was likely a full compliment of artfully concealed speakers, but Nyota could barely hear the vague tinkling over the buzz of the surrounding street. People still hurried in and out of stores. They rushed to parties or restaurants or shows or just home to their families or they stopped and looked at the windows and other holiday decorations that decorated the area around the square.

A rail car rumbled behind them down one of the only remaining lines of the ancient cable-operated trolley system that used to be a vital means of safe transportation up and down the city's steep and treacherous streets before the advent of electric street cars and motor engines. But for the last couple of centuries, it had mainly existed to ferry tourists back and forth over the hill between Union Square and Fisherman's Wharf. The car was decorated for the season in lights, evergreen garland, and jingling bells, and the grip man clanged the trolley bell with merry enthusiasm for his full load of passengers as they trundled towards the turnaround at the end of the street. The tinny sound system didn't stand a chance. Even Nyota's sensitive ears couldn't pick out the tune despite it's nagging familiarity jangling just outside of her hearing range.

She looked over at Spock. He was watching the scene behind the window, his dark head tilted curiously to one side. Could he hear the music? His expression gave no indication, but Vulcan hearing was notoriously sharp. Given the number of whispered rhetorical questions he'd answered over the course of the seminar he'd led, questions never intended to reach his ears based on the looks on her classmates' faces, he was no exception. She was about to ask when he spoke again. "I find the practice wherein children solicit material possessions from a mythical figure in exchange for satisfactory behavior perplexing."

"So no holos with Santa for you?" Nyota sipped her hot chocolate, hiding her grin behind her cup.

"It is not an experience I wish to repeat." There it was again. That too-bland non-inflection of his that should have been impossible to parse for meaning but, in reality, was rich with it. Nyota shot him a quick, sidelong glance, half expecting to see him smiling down at her, but Spock was as calm and impassive as ever. The teasing light in his eyes was the only other clue that he wasn't completely serious.

"It's not something in Kenya, either. There is Santa, but he's more of a —" She broke off and blinked up at him. Did he just say…? "Wait. Repeat?"

"Yes."

"That would imply you've visited Santa at least once before," she said carefully.

"As I said."

Nyota gaped up at him. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth slowly dropped open. "I would never have guessed."

"It was the request of my maternal grandmother," he said, simply. "My mother would not have otherwise subjected me to the experience."

She shut her mouth with an almost audible click.. "How old were you?"

"Three Terran years. My opinion with regards to the activity was not solicited."

"And you remember this." Nyota drank again, gripping the cup firmly between her hands, as much to give them something to do as to warm them.

"Clearly."

"So what happened?"

"Are you familiar with the legend of the Kanlar Skilamu?" he asked. His expression shifted so minutely, the change was almost indiscernible but for the shadow that fell across his eyes.

"The children's champion?" Nyota translated. "No."

"The Kanlar Skilamu was a minor deity worshiped by the nomadic tribes that roamed the grassland of Kir Province thousands of years before the Reformation. According to legend, the spirit would appear in the guise of a wandering tinkerer and seek the hospitality of a caravan, offering his services as a metal worker and small items for trade in return.

"His stories of adventure in the far reaches of the province and his wondrous creations would beguile the children of the clan, and they would spend their unoccupied time congregating around his pavilion. In the morning, he would be gone, leaving no vestige of his presence. Save one. If he had determined during his sojourn that any of the tribe's children were being mistreated, he would imprison the miscreants at his fortress deep within the crater of Mount Tar'Hana."

"Okay," said Nyota uncertainly. Other than the connection with children, the legend didn't seem to have much in common with Santa Claus, but experience had taught her Spock didn't bring things up unnecessarily. "And?"

Spock's eyes flicked towards her and then back to the scene in the window. Little more than a glance, but enough for her to see the teasing reprimand for her impatience in the look he gave her. "And," he replied, "I overheard my father relate this history to my mother and maternal grandparents the night before the scheduled visit to Saint Nicholas. I had been put to bed with strict instructions to remain there and sleep." His fingers twitched restlessly, performing some unknown, invisible task, only stopping when he tucked his hands into his coat pockets."I did not comply."

"I always suspected you were a rebel."

"While my transgression was intentional, it was not an act of defiance," he countered. "I had been to Earth on prior occasions; however, I had no recollection of those journeys and was fascinated with the strangeness of my grandparents' residence. I was exploring the upper levels of the dwelling when I heard the adults speaking downstairs.

"My father did not tell stories as was my mother's practice, so I concealed myself so as to avoid discovery. At the time, it was merely a curiosity. I did not think of it again until the next day when my mother presented me to the actor portraying Saint Nicholas. My father had described the Kanlar Skilamu as an old man in red robes with a great, white beard. "

"Oh, no."

"I became distressed. I believed that my having been out of bed in violation of my parents' wishes reflected poorly on their efficacy as authority figures and was certain the spirit had come to imprison them inside the volcano."

"Why would you think that?" said Nyota, shaking her head.

Spock hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking more uncomfortably human in that moment in his bulky coat, his hat covering the tips of his ears, than Nyota had ever seen him. "My logic was not yet fully developed."

"I can't imagine you like that," she told him, trying and failing to picture the impeccable Vulcan officer she'd met at the beginning of the semester, the same man standing beside her, far more calm and composed than she ever felt, being anything other than staunchly rational at any age and failed.

Something inside him seemed to unknot. His posture, still straight and upright, was no longer painfully so, and the warmth and light she'd so quickly grown accustomed to seeing crept back into his eyes, making her heart thump solidly against her sternum. "Logic and emotional control are not innate. While training begins at an early age, mastery is a lengthy process."

"At least I know you didn't cry." Nyota turned back towards the window and tried to catch her breath, something that was impossible with him looking at her like that, with her heart pounding the way it was.

The v-shaped furrow that sometimes marred the space between Spock's brows reappeared, but otherwise, his expression was as impassive as ever. "Vulcan children are often indistinguishable in their behaviors and reactions from the young of other species." Dropping his head closer to hers, his next words were whisper quiet. "Including humans."

Nyota snorted. Seeming to provide a response when what he'd actually done was sidestep her question. That was a well he went back to over and over again. Was that something he'd learned from his father, she wondered and edged over close enough to nudge him with her shoulder. "Oh, my god. You did. You cried."

"You are incorrect," he said, looking down at where her arm was pressed against his.

"Am I?"

"Yes." His eyes traced slowly over the lines of her face, making the skin of her neck and arms tingle as surely as if his fingertips had followed the same path. "My reaction was somewhat more…combative."

"Combative?" Nyota puzzled over his choice of words, and then…. "Oh, no. You didn't."

"Did not what?"

"Hit Santa Claus."

"I did not. As the modern concept of Santa Claus in western Earth culture is a fictional amalgam of multiple mythical and historical figures, as well as an ancient deity associated with the Germanic pagan festival of Yule, that would have been impossible." Spock hesitated, his lips drawn tight for less than a heartbeat before his features smoothed again, and he tucked his hands behind his back and grew impossibly taller. "I struck the performer portraying Santa Claus."

Laughter bubbled up from inside her chest. "You did not."

"I assure you I did." He fixed her with the unwavering gaze that had discomfited so many of her classmates that semester. The one that even a few weeks before she would have been unable to meet for more than a few seconds before she remembered how engrossing the toes of her boots were. The little thrill that raced from deep in her belly straight down to her toes whenever she found him watching her was a more recent development and distracting in a way her boots had never been.

"I don't believe you."

"If you require confirmation, I have access to the holographic record of the event."

"You're joking." She smiled up at him before lifting her cup to her lips again and taking a long draught that she hoped looked more unstudied than it felt.

Slowly, Spock's mild expression changed. One corner of his mouth curled upwards as if it were entirely beyond his control but in all probability was purposeful and deliberate, and he leaned down to speak softly in her ear, his warm breath tickling against her skin. "I am Vulcan. I am not inclined towards humor."

He was so close, she could make out the flecks of gray and gold that gave his dark brown eyes so much depth, and for a second, they danced with not-quite suppressed mischief. It was probably just the light. Just the reflection from the display in the store window in front of them. It had to be. Still, her mouth went dry, and the heated blush that crept across her cheeks was, in all probability, plainly visible to Spock thanks to his species' superior vision.

Raising her cup to her lips and draining the last of the hot liquid in it, she struggled to find something else to say. "I don't believe that either," she finally blurted.

Spock didn't respond. He only took the empty cup from her hand and moved to deposited it in the recycling receptacle back on the corner.

"So, if we're not seeing Santa Claus, what are we doing here?" Nyota asked when Spock's firm, measured steps settled beside her again.

He nodded towards the scene on the other side of the glass. "Viewing the themed window displays traditionally deployed by retail establishments between mid-November and the final day of calendar year as a means to attract customers and increase sales revenue."

Of course that was what they were doing. Nyota laughed at herself for literally not seeing what was right in front of her. No one would have blamed her for missing it. No one would have ever predicted that the somber, staid, very Vulcan Starfleet officer she'd met only a few months before would bring her to look at Christmas decorations on their first date. Then again, it had never occurred to her that Spock would take her ice skating, either, but he had. A part of the human heritage that he'd so rarely mentioned before that day. Besides, whatever scene was playing out behind the thick sheet of glass, Nyota hadn't really noticed. The contrast of his dark lashes against the pale, slightly green cast of his cheeks and way the light that spilled over them from the display glinted gold against his skin had been far more engaging.

She glanced up, fully expecting to find him studying her with that unflappable calm that always made her want to smack him, but he wasn't. He was staring at the window, watching with the same determined intensity usually reserved for reviewing programming errors or studying complex data strings.

With one last look at Spock, she turned back to the display, really taking it in for the first time. The window was dimming to black again, the narrative loop restarting from the beginning. She couldn't see anything at all behind the glass, and she pulled closer and closer until she was only inches from the glass, her breath a fragile fog against the clear, cold surface. Without warning, golden words scrolled across the glass, sparkling and molten and so suddenly bright against the darkened background that if she closed her eyes, she'd still see their ghosts burned onto the backs of her lids.

"During the long, long day of the twenty-fourth of December, the children were not permitted to enter the parlor, much less the magnificent showcase beyond that…When it had grown completely dark, the doors burst open, and a dazzling light erupted from the great chamber…Come, come, dear children, and see what Christmas has brought you!"

The music Nyota had heard earlier resumed its anemic serenade from the unseen speakers. No louder or distinct than before, still too quiet for her to identify but hauntingly familiar. If she just focused a little harder, maybe closed her eyes. Except at that moment, the fiery letters faded, and the scene behind them began to glow.

The tree at the center of the display was a wonder. It was covered in meticulously detailed gold and silver apples that were no bigger than peas. Bead-like nuts and candies were so thickly hung, it was a miracle the slender branches didn't collapse. And the candles. What had to be more than a thousand dots of light, with their delicate, holographic flames that flickered like stars, made the tiny ornaments sparkle and glitter.

The doors on the side of the room burst open, and the holographic figures of a half dozen children swept inside and surrounded the tree. They were followed by twice as many adults, all dressed in the kind of elaborate period costumes Nyota had only seen in holovids and history texts. The children jumped and twirled as their parents tried to calm and control them, each movement graceful and stylized almost like a dance. Or exactly like a dance, she thought as the barely heard music and the scene before her locked together into a cohesive whole.

"The Nutcracker."

"Based upon the writings of Hoffmann. You are familiar with the piece?"

"When he was five, my little brother saw a production on the vid console. He went crazy for it." Nyota couldn't help but smile. Crazy might have been a bit of an understatement. Kamau had stood, rooted squarely in front of the screen for nearly half an hour without so much as twitching. An almost unprecedented period of inactivity for her little brother, who hadn't stopped moving since the day he was born. When their parents had finally pried him away from the screen and sent him off to bed, he'd careened off the walls trying to pirouette down the hall. "My mother says they had to put him in dance class to keep him from destroying the house."

Spock stepped up next to her. He studied the projections intently, as if looking for flaws in the programming. The subtle, clean scent of his soap, blended with the rich earthiness that always seemed to cling to him was so like the desert back home after the rain that she was momentarily struck speechless by the sudden ache that bloomed in her chest, and she looked back at the window.

The dancing had given way to the chaos of a child's game played around the tree. From there, it transitioned again. Brightly wrapped boxes and bags were ripped open, their contents excitedly displayed and shared. And then expectant waiting for…something, the whole charade playing out in time to the music that while still faint and of poor audio quality, she could at least follow now that she had identified what it was.

The lights in the display began to dim again. All except for a faint, growing glow centered over the grandfather clock in the corner. The scaled-down timepiece was like everything else in the diorama, perfect in its details, but whether it was real or a holograph, Nyota couldn't tell. At least not until the owl perched at the top of the clock came to life. It stretched and fluttered and preened just like a real bird and not a thing of gears and metal. Spreading its wings, the bird cast an ominous shadow across the display case, growing larger and larger until it spilled out onto the sidewalk, enveloping them both in darkness. Even the light trained on the clock faded. The window went black, and the lights that illuminated the sidewalk brightened.

Spock's gaze drifted away from the window to trace along the curve of her cheek and down over her jaw. The way his eyes moved over her was tangible in a way it shouldn't have been, and she shivered at the ghostly caress. He was waiting for her to continue her story with far more patience than she had given him. But before she could take the deep, steadying breath she needed to calm the excited jump in her chest, a high-pitched squeal sounded behind her, quickly followed by two more and the scuffling of tiny feet. Lots of them.

Nyota barely had time to step back before three little girls, no taller than her hip, rushed the window. They each wore tiny crowns with twinkling multi-colored lights and what could only be described as ice princess dresses peeked incongruously out from under their undone bubble jackets. A harried looking man hurried up the sidewalk after them. He called for them to slow down and be careful, but the girls ignored him. Pressing their noses up against the darkened glass, they giggled and whispered, wriggling as joyously as puppies, and Nyota found herself unceremoniously crowded up against Spock when one of the girls bumped into her legs as she danced and squirmed.

At first, she tensed at the warm hand at the small of her back, but the memory of the ready way Spock had taken her hands back on the ice reassured her. Even though she'd given him no warning when she'd stepped into him seconds earlier, he wasn't moving away. Unobtrusive, but there if she needed support. It was as if he was looking for reasons to keep touching her. She was going to have to reevaluate her assumptions about Vulcans. About him. She didn't really know anything, did she?

Nyota let herself sink back into his hand, drawing out the moment his palm molded itself to the small of her back. He leaned into her, so that it would be the easiest thing in the world to tip her chin upwards and press a kiss against the side of his jaw. If she wanted.

Would his skin be as warm against her lips as it was against her hands? Was the stubble on his chin, something she'd never seen him with before, rough and scratchy or would it tickle? Or maybe he'd turn towards her and instead of the hard line of his jaw, her mouth would find his. And then without giving herself any more time to think. If they stayed curved into one another the way they were much longer, she'd do just that. Before she could give herself time to reconsider, she straightened and reached to hook her fingers into his and pulled him down the street to the next window.

Kanlar Skilamu - Children's Champion

A/N: Finally. It seems like I've been working on this chapter forever even though it's been more like six weeks. Thank you for all the comments and favorites. I appreciate them more than I can express. So, this is about half done, but I'm going to be getting back to my other story for a bit. I'm totally energized and ready to get down to work. I hope everyone's year has been going well so far!