Apparently, I am incapable of writing pure whump in Whumptober, or fluff in Fluffbruary, so we get angst with a dollop of both. Ah well.
Originally for the fluffbruary prompt of Hot.
Vulcan is intensely, intolerably, almost infernally hot.
As if in ironic contrast to the planet's calm, logical native species, the climate boasts a wildly extreme weather pattern. Dangerously hot mid-days, and dangerously cold midnights, as most desert planets with a thinner atmosphere have. Water is precious on such worlds, and the species native to them develop to be typically much hardier than humans.
The last time Jim was planetside on Vulcan this particular time of the planet's orbit was decades ago, soon after the back-to-back death of his brother and a gutting time-traveling mission to Earth's past. Spock had all but bullied him into taking well-deserved bereavement leave, and had also understood that the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his own thoughts then.
Spock always had – has – been good at that.
Spock had spoken once, during one of those endless, sleepless nights they spent star-gazing on the edge of the desert, of the mazhiv-yon. Sandfire, a frightening phenomenon of power borne of violent wind and harsh, gritty sand; one which blows up quickly, and is capable of producing beautiful but deadly lightning storms across the endless expanse of sky.
Jim had wondered aloud if that meant there were patches of lightning-forged glass somewhere out in the wilds of the Vulcan desert, and had been told there were. Sparkling elemental mementos, lingering behind as brave and beautiful testament to the forces of nature after the storm has passed.
He imagines the sandfire is regarded in these parts similarly to how tornados are, in places like Iowa. A rare but deadly occurrence, and while it is certainly not something to be trifled with, a catastrophic event which holds a sort of deadly fascination, to the daredevil within.
He'd once joked on a landing party years ago, in those very early days of their original Enterprise mission, that Spock should never ask him to visit Vulcan during the arid season. (To which Spock had responded "Which arid season, sir?" in complete seriousness, and had been mystified by the laughter that engendered among the rest of the landing party.)
The memory makes him smile now, which is nice, because there is very little else but memory to smile about, now.
Sandfire seems an accurate description, because it is so. Damn. Hot.
Jim is pretty sure Sarek is about to forcibly refer him to a local, and probably very Vulcan, therapist, if Jim doesn't stop metaphorically climbing the walls around the extensive familial estate; but so far the elderly Vulcan has refrained with admirable patience from any observation more personal than a mild request for Jim to at least not overestimate his human tolerance for the heat.
It was a weirdly fatherly admonition, in retrospect, and he has no idea what to do with that, right now.
He's basically begged for something to do, so that he doesn't take his frustrations out on the wrong people or lose his mind in the process, and Sarek had seemed to understand the need for distraction. Spock's family have always come from old Vulcan wealth, though there is little enough requirement for that in modern society, and so the idea of getting their hands dirty, literally or figuratively, with tasks that could easily be outsourced to more expert individuals, is not something they think of unprompted.
Granted, if Jim doesn't get this hovercraft back up and running as planned, Sarek might not be so willing to allow him access to something better left to one of the aforementioned experts. He's almost curious enough to risk it, given that Sarek seems to be regarding them all with far more warmth than a Vulcan usually would – but he resists the admittedly unreasonable urge to push that boundary.
Jim doesn't need to lose any more ground to Bones, in this particular area of familial favoritism.
But those are darker thoughts, and ugly ones too. Shameful enough that he does not hear the light footsteps approaching the covered awning where he's been tinkering, well away from kind questions and the rest of his brave bridge crew, those loyal few who may have thrown their own futures away to ensure Spock has his.
So the throat-clearing startles him half out of his lightly sunburned skin, and he promptly bashes his head on the under-carriage of the vehicle because of it, scrambling back in an ungraceful sprawl on the flagstones.
"I would have thought you'd learned some colorful Vulcan metaphors by now," Amanda Grayson says, with a small smile. She holds two frosty glasses of what looks like iced tea, one in each hand, and is attired in lightweight aqua robes with a matching hair covering. They float almost airily about her in the wind, a beautiful mix of fluid Vulcan and colorful human design.
Jim hastily gets to his feet, blushing slightly at his lapse. "Amanda. I am so sorry."
"I have certainly heard worse. Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine." He rubs the back of his head ruefully, and tries to pull himself, and the manners he apparently left behind on Genesis, together. "I'm happy to see you up and about, though. Sarek said you've been ill lately?"
"Not precisely in the physical sense, but yes," is the graceful, if somewhat evasive, response.
Right.
She also knows how absolutely gutting it is, to lose a son.
His face must betray him, because she gives him a look, as she hands him one of the glasses.
"You know, no one would ever believe me if I said Spock got that from you," he says, as he accepts the olive branch for what it is. "I was sure for years that ability to shout without speaking was just a Vulcan thing."
"Well, perhaps it is, and I have simply assimilated the skill as my own." She gestures toward one of the comfortable benches lining the perimeter of the awning. "Would you sit with me for a while, Jim?"
"…Yes. Of course." He clears his throat a little painfully, but follows her to the bench.
"You look as if you expect to be put on trial," she observes, once they are seated. A light breeze kicks up for a moment, setting her head-scarf fluttering. "Is that why you're hiding away out here?"
Jim stares down at the glass. Mere slivers of ice remain now, phantoms of the cubes that had been present when she left the estate home. "Not completely."
"But partially." She sips delicately from the glass and then settles back, adjusting a fold of her robe in a regal gesture. "Sarek is worried about you, you know."
He sighs, and absently swirls the glass, watching the slow spread of dilution on the surface. "Believe it or not, I could actually tell."
"I'm sure you could. You are long-practiced in the art of reading an eyebrow."
The smile is brief, this time, because he's too tired to fake his way through it for very long again. "There's no need to be concerned. And he has a lot more important things to think about right now."
"Important by whose standard?"
He sets the glass on the arm-rest of the bench untouched, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You sound like Bones."
"And that is a bad thing?"
"It's a terrifying thing," he answers, with a rueful snort. "And I'd rather not get it from all angles, if it's all the same to you."
"Well." She sips again from her glass, unperturbed by the searing heat or his petulance. "What would you like to talk about instead, then?"
That gives him pause, as he had not expected the easy compliance with changing the subject (something she most certainly does not have in common with McCoy). Frankly, Jim had not expected her to seek him out at all, at least not until he apologized for recent events, and his mishandling of them.
She deserved better than receiving notice of Spock's death through official Starfleet communication. Even if Jim doesn't really remember most of those first few days, numb and drowning in a sea of grief, and definitely couldn't have made the call himself without a breakdown he simply could not have while in command…he still should have made sure someone more personable than a 'Fleet counselor broke the news.
It's just one more thing he should have been able to do for Spock, but ultimately failed to.
"Tell me something about Spock's childhood," he finally says, grasping for a topic that will steer far clear of the painful ones. "Something silly, that I might not know."
"Hm." She sets the half-empty glass down and tucks a fold of the head covering into proper place as the warm breeze kicks up again. "Well, like many curious children, there was a dreadful incident when he was about four years old, where he decided to cut his own hair."
"You're joking."
"Not at all," she replies, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "And it was every bit as awful as you're imagining, particularly given that most Vulcans opt for a very specific style that does not allow for camouflaging mistakes."
"Oh, no."
"A missing chunk in the front is rather noticeable. I'm sure I have holopics, somewhere, if you'd like to see."
"Yes, please. I have every intention of pressing my advantage while he's otherwise occupied."
"I hope you have every intention of actually putting that vehicle back together," Amanda observes mildly, nodding toward the hovercraft and its scattered mechanical detritus. "I was shocked to learn Sarek allowed you anywhere within a hundred meters of it."
The lighthearted redirection from anything more emotional is flawless, and Jim is grateful for it. "I do know enough about engineering to perform a basic tune-up, yes. Something tells me I'll have the time, now." He clears his throat and picks the glass back up, careful not to drop it due to the thick, slippery condensation formed on the outside. "Maybe too much time."
"Time is a gift," Amanda points out, with infinite gentleness.
"It is indeed."
One that most people do not realize is such, until it's far too late. He finally throws his self-reflections to the wind and takes a long swallow of the tea so that he doesn't have to look at her, and promptly chokes as it leaves a burning streak of liquid fire going down.
Amanda raises an eyebrow at him over the lip of her own glass.
"I was not expecting a Long Island version. And a strong one at that," he manages to cough out, with a genuine laugh. "Bit early in the day, isn't it?"
"I have lived on a planet full of Vulcans for half a century, Jim," she replies, with that particular dry wit she also clearly passed on to Spock. "It is never too early."
"Well, who am I to argue with the expert in the field."
"That would certainly be illogical." She extends her glass. "To human coping mechanisms?"
"And to more time," he agrees, and meets her in the middle with a mellifluous ting.