She stood in the doorway with her mouth open, muttering unintelligible syllables. Her heart was thumping so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
Aside from a slight upward tick of his eyebrows, his face remained remarkably stoic. She realized she was making sounds that didn't quite form words and stopped. She was afraid she was going to hyperventilate.
"Miss Grayson?"
Somehow his neutral tone kicked her mind into the appropriate gear.
"I am so sorry, ambassador. I wasn't expecting you. I thought you were- well, it doesn't matter. I just- I can't believe- that was so rude of me- I'm beyond sorry."
"How can one be 'beyond sorry?' One is either sorry or one is not," he replied.
"Right," she mumbled. Her face began to grow hot, which was causing it to throb from her bruises.
Her hands started brushing away the stray hairs from her face and her self-consciousness expanded to her appearance. Her mind started scrolling through a checklist of things.
She was wearing a bra, right? She was afraid to look down to confirm. Was her apartment dirty? Did he have a good view of her apartment from where he stood on her front porch? Why was he even here?
"… I thought it was important you knew," he finished.
He had been talking and she hadn't even heard him over the screaming of her own thoughts. Now she had been rude twice.
She stood there quietly, unaware that she was holding her breath. His face remained completely expressionless. Seconds ticked by and an already awkward situation turned from bad to worse. He was clearly waiting for her to say something. A wind gust rolled into her apartment and she shivered. Suddenly she noticed his cheeks and the tips of his nose and ears had a greenish hue to them, which gave him a very strange appearance.
She desperately wanted someone to say something. Should she invite him in? Would that be appropriate? Was her apartment clean enough? He looked very cold and at long last she realized she was being rude for yet a third time.
"Would you- would you like to come in?" she stammered.
His eyes darted from her to the apartment behind her and then back to her. He said nothing for what felt like an eternity and she was silently calling herself every swear word she knew.
"Very well," he said, his body leaning backward a fraction of an inch.
Her invitation seemed to make him uncomfortable, but taking it back would be even ruder still.
"It's just that it's so cold outside," she added, trying to explain her offer.
They remained at an impasse, motionless and both sizing up the situation and each other.
"May I enter?" he asked eventually.
She instantly recognized the problem and felt stupid: she was blocking the doorway. She took a shallow breath and stepped aside to let him in.
Her eyes darted around her apartment. It looked ok, didn't it? She had a particle filter that kept dust from forming and an automatic sweeper that got rid of most of the cat hair and dirt off the floors. Sure, there was some cat hair on the couch and her luggage was still sitting on the floor. Was there a cat smell? Her dining room pub table was covered with lesson plans and cross-referenced Rigelian and Romulan phonics and syntax schematics that she had spent more than a month unsuccessfully diagramming for her work on the universal translator. Hopefully it looked like an organized mess.
She never had guests in her apartment besides John and Vera. John was his own cleaning and organization service and she had long ago given up on trying to impress him. And Vera, well, she wasn't a guest; she was more like a stray animal that kept coming back for the food and pats on the head. She had promised herself that she would make some new friends after she booted John from her life, she thought with a degree of sad irony. Sure, she had pictured someone more affable and less… Severe? Important? Unswervingly Logical?... but who was she to be choosy?
They stared at each other and she knew the situation was circling the drain and picking up speed. All the pocket guides she had ever read about cross-cultural etiquette with other species had only related to formal settings. As far as she knew there were no primers titled things like A Night on the Town with Tellarites or Tea Time with Vulcans: 10 Ways to Break the Ice. Even if there were, surely there was nothing so specific as The Human Idiot's Guide for What to Do When a Vulcan Dignitary Arrives on Your Doorstep.
Why had no one ever written anything like that? She would have forked over her life savings on any such publication that could clue her into what she should do.
"Can I take your coat?" she asked, wringing her hands.
"Thank you," he said, shrugging it off one shoulder, twisting it around his tall frame to offer it to her.
It was more of a floor length cloak than something she would consider a coat, extremely heavy and surprisingly soft, with a very high collar and immaculately detailed stitching that she hadn't noticed before. She folded it over her arm to avoid it dragging the ground and hung it in her entryway closet. The task had only taken about ten seconds. Now what?
She looked back at him nervously and he turned to face her. She bit her lip, starting to feel annoyed at how awkward this was becoming. She thought about her mother, the socially conscious woman who had spent her entire life climbing to the middle of New Chicago's social circle. What would her mother do? That was easy: she'd ask if he would like to sit down and offer him a drink. She imagined that if her mother were here, she'd be scolding Amanda for not having done this sooner.
"Would you like to sit down?" she asked, trying to look calm.
"Very well," he said.
She thought she noticed a hint of indecision in his tone. Now where to sit? The couch was covered in white cat hair and he was wearing dark clothing. Her bistro table was would be more suitable, except it was covered with old-fashioned books, charts, and paperwork. She chose it anyway.
She motioned him in the direction of her tiny breakfast nook, moving quickly to try and collect her things.
"I apologize for my mess," she blurted. "I wasn't expecting company."
Was that the right thing to say? Was she implying that he was being rude?
"I did try contacting you from the directory at the embassy complex," he intoned. "However it is illogical for you to apologize for finding yourself unprepared to welcome an unannounced visitor."
She would kick herself for not responding to her calls later. She worked quickly to compile her things into a neater stack and move them to the nearby kitchen counter. It felt like his eyes were drilling through her.
"I see that you study the Romulan language," he noted. "Impressive."
"Hmmmm?" she murmured, then looked down and noticed her flowchart on Romulan syntax. "Oh, well, yes. What we know about the Romulan language, anyway."
"I presume you've also studied Vulcan. Your command of its difficult pronunciation suggests you have been a student of it for a considerable amount of time."
"Um, I have studied it, yes," she stammered. "Though I wouldn't say I can communicate in it particularly well. It's far more difficult than Romulan, though the features they share in common are quite striking."
She stopped herself there. She often had a tendency to ramble on about the nuances of linguistics, and it seemed arrogant to give the man a lecture on his own language. She felt herself relaxing a bit now that conversation was flowing.
"Ambassador," she said quickly, "I hope you can forgive me, but I don't often entertain many Vulcan guests, well, none really, and I'm not really familiar with your customs on these things. To be completely honest, you're actually the first Vulcan I've ever spoken with directly."
There. Honesty never hurt.
"This is your home," he said, as if trying to forgive her misgivings. "You must be as you are."
She felt a smile forming on her face and tried to force it down. She began to think more about the situation from his point of view: it was likely just as unfamiliar to him as it was to her. She felt herself relaxing further, which lowered her anxiety to about a 38 on a scale of 0-10.
"Would you like anything to drink?" she asked, waving her hand in the direction of her kitchen. "I can brew some tea, I think I have some cranberry juice, and of course water."
"Water will be acceptable, thank you," he replied.
She moved to the kitchen, feeling shaky and hoping it wasn't noticeable.
She moved around the counter and into the kitchen and extracted two small cocktail glasses from the upper cabinet above the sink. She poured two glasses of cold water from her filtration unit and rejoined him.
"I hope you don't think I'm being rude for asking," she said, handing the glass to him, "but why have you come?"
"To apologize for the incident last night. You were seriously injured and my actions contributed to those injuries."
"That's not true," she argued. "Well, not exactly true. You were only trying to stop a bad situation from getting worse. I just, sort of got caught in the crossfire. I don't blame you any more than I blame the waiter, or myself. The only person to blame is Congressman Molineaux."
She felt a strange sense of embarrassment in bringing up John's name and wondered if the ambassador knew they had been in a relationship. She wanted to explain that they were no longer together, mostly as a way to convey to him that John's opinions were not hers as well. Yet it felt inappropriate bringing up such a private matter.
"Also, I wasn't seriously injured," she continued, deciding to try and steer the conversation away from her ex-boyfriend.
He glanced at her face and she noticed his eyes narrow a fraction of a centimeter.
"Oh, well, I mean, I realize it looks bad, but it really isn't," she added. "Besides, the more I think about it, maybe getting punched in the face was good for me, in a way."
"Explain," he said, raising an eyebrow.
She sighed and tried to think of how best to put it.
"Well, before last night, I would have thought being hit in the face hard enough to break my nose was the worst thing that could happen to me. Well, maybe not the worst, but you know… Anyway, it taught me that I'm not as fragile as I thought I was, and there's value in that."
"I see," he remarked.
Amanda took a drink of her water and he followed suit. He shuddered.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. "Is the water too cold for you?"
He paused for a moment, staring into the glass in his hand.
"It is acceptable," he replied.
"Really, it isn't a problem. I can get you something else."
He looked from the water to her, directly meeting her gaze for the first time since he had invited him inside. It was somehow both intimidating and reassuring at the same time.
"Look, you told me that it's my home and I should 'be as I am.' Well, being as I am means that I want you to be comfortable," she said earnestly.
"The water is colder than I am accustomed to," he admitted.
"I can make some tea," she offered.
"I do not wish to inconvenience you."
"It's not an inconvenience if I offer," she said, forgetting her company and smiling. "I was thinking I'd like a cup myself since it's so cold outside."
"I have not sampled much Terran tea," he mused.
"Well," she said, standing up and walking into the kitchen, "I don't know a great deal about Vulcan customs or Vulcan in general, but I do know about tea. What sort of Vulcan tea do you prefer?"
She began filling her teakettle with water and turned on her induction burner. She opened her large tea organizer and began sifting through the vast array of tins and bags.
"At home I normally consume a simple t'hgara blend with breakfast," he explained.
"I don't have any of that, but I do have a white oolong that's quite similar. Would you be interested in giving it a try?"
"Whatever you recommend, thank you."
"Do you prefer it hot or warm?" she asked, putting the full kettle on the stove.
"Both words have highly subjective and variable definitions. Specify."
"Well, I suppose the upper limit of 'hot' is boiling and I'd say 'hot' stops somewhere around 60 degrees Celsius," she quipped, realizing how regrettably sarcastic her words must have sounded as they escaped from her mouth.
"'Hot' will be suitable, thank you."
She set to work, finding that focusing on her task was calming. She felt like she was completely out of her element and badly stumbling through making small talk with him, but tea she understood. Several minutes passed without either of them speaking and Amanda took a deep breath. Soon enough tea was ready and she emerged from the kitchen and observed him looking at the books on the shelves opposite his seat at the table.
"You must think I'm pretty old-fashioned, keeping hard copy books around," she said, setting the hot cup of tea in front of him.
"Not at all. I see you have several titles devoted to astronomy; is it a subject of interest to you?"
"Um, I guess so, but I think a lot of subject areas are interesting. All of my astronomy books came from my father, though."
"Is he an astronomer?"
"No, he's a surveyor. He's probably spent more of his life out in space than he has here on Earth. I've been interested in languages since I was a kid and he would send me books and maps and texts from whichever port he was at. I think it's fine to learn languages by reading about them, but I think mastering them comes from reading them as the natives do."
"Logical."
"The first one was that one," she said, pointing out a thick manuscript on a middle shelf. "It's actually a collection of Tellarite star charts. What little I know about interstellar cartography came from the Tellarites. What about you: do you like astronomy?"
"I enjoy astronomy generally, but it is a broad field. More specifically I studied astrophysics at the Vulcan Science Academy," he said, pursing his lips together to a nearly miniscule degree.
"Applied or theoretical?" she asked, taking a sip of her tea.
"Both, to a degree."
She observed a slight downward tilt of his chin and took note of it. The more time Amanda spent in his company, the more she was able to discern certain diminutive mannerisms in his face and body language that seemed remarkably synonymous with those of humans, if she was interpreting them correctly. As a linguist, she couldn't help but acknowledge that some of the most important language wasn't spoken aloud, and she wasn't aware how much she relied on nonverbal cues until now.
"What was your area of focus?"
"I designed a comprehensive search for neutral baryonic matter in the subspace medium," he replied.
"That's really impressive," she said, taking a drink of her tea. "So how did you end up going from particle physics to politics?"
He was silent for a brief second. She analyzed his face but could draw no conclusions about what he was thinking.
"Familial responsibility," he answered, reaching for his teacup and hesitating before taking a sip. "This is very pleasing."
"I'm glad you like it."
Silence fell between them once again. Thinking over the reason for his visit started to weigh on her. She finished the last of her tea and set the cup down and stared at the table.
"I just want you to know," she mumbled, "the things John, Congressman Molineaux, said, they were terrible. I don't share his opinions."
"I made no assumptions on the matter," he replied. "It would have been illogical to do so."
"Thank you," she said, feeling a sense of relief. "I just want to say sorry for the things he said."
"Why should you? They were not your words, nor are they your opinions, as you've just indicated. I have never fully comprehended the human propensity to apologize for things outside of their control."
"But you came here to apologize to me for something that was an accident, and therefore out of your control," she challenged.
"I felt it was my duty to do so, not as an individual, but as an ambassador to your planet and your people. It is what I believed a human would expect."
"So you consider it logical to be illogical?" she asked with a mildly playful tone.
His eyebrows rose significantly and she knew she had struck a nerve.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'm not trying to lecture you on logic. I imagine that's a bit like a kitten trying to spar with a lion."
"Again, you are apologizing for a thing outside your control. You highlight a paradox that I have been forced to attempt to reconcile many times as ambassador to Earth. A kitten may be a kitten, but it still has claws, to use your analogy."
"Well, if you'll permit me one more apology, which is undeniably my fault and was well within my control, I would like to say that I am sorry for yelling at you when I answered the door."
"You apologized for that already," he dismissed, finishing his tea and placing the cup in the saucer on the table.
"I just felt like I needed to reiterate that," she replied.
"Do you normally answer your door in such a fashion?"
"Actually you would be the first person I've ever greeted with completely unsolicited wrath, so no, not normally," she said sheepishly, trying to avoid the mention of John.
She collected their cups and went into the kitchen, wondering what to do next. She set the cups in the sink and her eyes darted around her kitchen. She heard Euclid meow from the next room.
She came out to see him staring intently up at her guest, his tail swishing side to side. He rose up on his hind legs and stretched out his paws onto the ambassador's leg. Her cat was about to use his slacks as a scratching post.
"Euclid!" she hissed.
The cat jumped in surprise and darted into the living room, only to return moments later and bound up onto her pub table. To be fair, he most likely had run out of food sometime yesterday while she was at the conference and she had neglected to feed him when she got home. She should have gotten a dog.
"I'm sorry," she said, scooping him up and ferrying him to the kitchen.
"A third unwarranted apology," the ambassador said, crossing his arms and watching her open the food container and scoop out two heaps of dry cat food.
In a way she felt glad her face was so bruised, hoping it was hiding the color rising in her cheeks. A chirping sound emerged from her entryway closet.
"I am receiving a call, excuse me," he said, rising to collect his PADD from a large pocket hidden away in his cloak.
She looked down at her cat; he was crunching his food hungrily and she became acutely aware of how hungry she was.
"Miss Grayson?"
"Hmmm?" she murmured, wandering out of her hiding place in the kitchen and into her small front room.
"I must go. Thank you for your hospitality. I hope I have made amends for last night's episode," he said casually, pulling on his coat.
"I already told you, there were no amends to make," she said, approaching him and walking him the short distance to her front door. "It was really thoughtful of you to stop by in person, Ambassador…"
She stopped abruptly, feeling embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, it just occurred to me that I don't know your name."
"A fourth illogical apology."
She offered him an exasperated smirk. She couldn't help but think that she wanted to find his straightforward personality rude, but he wielded it well and he wasn't abrasive or condescending.
"Illogical," he continued, "because I have been impolite and neglected to tell you. I am Sarek."
"Well, Ambassador Sarek, thank you for your company, and I'm sorry to see you go," she said, immediately realizing her mistake. "So that brings our total for today's visit to five illogical apologies," she added with a sigh.
He turned back to her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. His thoughts seemed to linger for a moment before he pulled the door handle and said, "Live long and prosper, Amanda Grayson."
"Peace and long life, Ambassador Sarek," she replied.
He stepped out and started down the steps to the street level and she watched him go. It had started sleeting during his stay. The cold winter air swirled into her apartment, so she shut the door behind him and sighed as she leaned into the doorframe. She supposed it could have been worse. Not for the first time, she found herself overwhelmed by the irony that she had both a gift and a passion for language learning and communication but so little experience or skill in actually putting that talent to practical use. She started to review the entirety of their interaction, wondering how accurately her memory would portray her awkward stammering and self-conscious silences. She softly banged her head into the door in abject frustration and yelped, having forgotten about her tender face.