Upon arriving at the mess hall, the Vulcan "birthday boy" is met first by his courter, the gathering's organiser. Her arms encircle his torso, the slender limbs holding him taut in a doting embrace. In her background, are the grinning faces of the bridge crew and other senior officers, of whom he had grown quite fond. Undoubtedly, they had chosen an alternate route through the ship, hastily leaving their respective stations after he had, avoiding him on their own travel to the venue.

This rather mixed group of unique individuals had become respected colleagues, friends even, through recent tribulations. Almost a second family to him, having lost part of his own along with his home. And with that sentiment, this ship is like a home for him. This gracious, majestic vessel, whose interior walls may be viewed as cold by an unfamiliar, yet she houses within her this crew. This collection of people, who have made from her a home.

Within the space of the mess hall, there is no white noise of deafeningly blaring music, nor boisterous displays of intoxication. There is only the soft modulations of pleasing music wafting in the background.

Palatable to sensitive ears, the piece is instrumental, almost classical in its composition. The specific instrument with which the piece is performed one explicitly familiar to the Commander: the ka'athyra, a Vulcan harp-like contraption comprised of wood and an array of strings. If the music is pleasing to the ears, the instrument is pleasing to the eyes. Its stylings are similar to that of some stringed instruments of Earth, yet it still remains uniquely Vulcan.

Unsurprisingly, the piece had been composed and performed by none other than the First Officer's father, with the Ambassador recording and transmitting it to the Communications Officer with instructions for it to be played on this day. There was a musical event on their home world, a competition of sorts, in which both had participated. Competent with the ka'athyra, both had competed against others with a show of skill and technique. The Ambassador had placed first in this contest; his son, second. Proficient indeed, their respective achievements are exceptionally admirable.

Inside the walls of the flagship's mess hall, the notes of the composition float around the room, almost filling it without becoming overbearing. Truthfully, all of the gathering's participants find the music to be rather soothing and uplifting and pleasant all at once. If only the Vulcan officer's mother were present to hear what her husband had composed for their beloved son, and to bear witness to the love and admiration and respect from his peers, his comrades...his friends. No doubt, she would have been elated to find that he had accumulated such a wonderful group, this collection of souls with which he shares this magnificent ship. Tearfully elated.

And so, the group encircle their crewmate and friend, offering him warmth and love without much need for a touch. A light tap on the arm, yes; no more than that, however. So much more can be conveyed, through only their eyes and their faces. Smiles and well-wishes are delivered, and after this brief pause, the crowd disperse, allowing the Vulcan and his courter space to progress further into the room. With arms affectionately bound together, the couple travel across untainted flooring, all while the strumming and plucking of the recorded ka'athyra wafts around, amongst light-hearted discourse and laughter.

As the pair move through the sparse crowd and further into the room, the dark eyes of the Commander spot a table deliberately placed at the centre of the other arranged furniture. Atop, is a plate, relatively small in size, and onto which some form of foodstuffs had been settled and veiled by a light cloth. On closer inspection, vague shapes are more visible, circular and ovaloid beneath the covering. Moving closer still, he can discern a tiny gap where the plate meets the cloth, and a glimpse of pastry is soon sighted.

Finally within direct proximity of the mysterious plate on the table, she releases his arm, having led him all the way there. His voice breaks the silence between the couple, at a volume a tad lower than the norm, despite being amidst cheerful chatter.

"You need not burden yourself, Nyota. Such lengths are not necessary.".

"Oh...", her hands brush against his with a delightful grin, "how nice of you to think of me, Spock. Trust me, it was no trouble at all. I actually thought the preparation was fun.".

With a rise onto her tip-toes, she plants onto his cheek a sweet peck, then turns to the table, unveiling at last that which had been concealed during the entire period. Atop the small ivory-tinted plate, there sit a meagre bundle of "cloud cakes", each no bigger than the palm of one's hand.

As with any social gathering or event, there are those late stragglers, attendees that trickle trough the venue's open doorway one or two or three at a time. Among those arriving after the gathering's commencement, is a pasty young ensign, with short russet hair styled in slick pompadour.


With one small bun taken into his hand, the Commander gazes at the delicacy, with its airy character and appealing scent. Almost weightless, the bread feels rather pleasant, even for tactile-sensitive fingers. As Vulcans do not consume food with their hands, he places the treat onto a plate much smaller than the one onto which the other buns are set and grabs a fork. Moreover, being midday, he would not eat any meal at all, as his people generally do not partake in what others would deem a lunchtime meal. Yet, it would be impudent, and illogical, of him to not consume that which had been meticulously and lovingly prepared solely for him. Additionally, it would be quite logical for him to allow himself a minor indulgence or two on his birthday.

At the arrival of that conclusion, he utilises the edge of the fork to break off a tiny slice of the bun, with the utensil cutting through the light mixture. As the fork lifts the slice closer to his mouth, the scent along with it, his nostrils spark within his mind fond memories from times long passed. Memories of his beloved mother. A flash of images from those occasions where she would prepare these treats for him, with the fragrance floating about the air inside the walls of the house. The aroma is rather light and quite pleasant for the sensitive nostrils of a Vulcan or two. Of course, those memories only intensify once the taste of the bun enters his mouth. Imagery displaying his mother's smiling face as she lovingly watches on whilst he takes a bite of the bread, and the secret joy on his own face, veiled by upturned brows and thankful eyes.

In this present moment, that same visage is almost mirrored by the woman currently by his side, the Lieutenant's cocoa eyes affectionately glancing at him with an anticipative grin. She silently offers him several moments to enjoy the sweet bread, and those warm remembrances which accompany each bite. At the arrival of a favourable opportunity, she begins to speak to him, her tone soft despite the low background noise.

"I was informed by your father that this was a favourite of yours and got the recipe from him. Prepared the cakes last night. I just hope I did them justice.".

"I believe the Earth idiom 'just like mother used to make' is appropriate. They are much more than satisfactory.".

"I'm so glad. Your father also recorded the music we're listening to right now. Sent that via subspace communication.".

"That is unsurprising. He is highly skilled with the ka'thyra, more so than I.". He pauses a moment to glance around the space behind them, his sensitive ears picking out every note of the harp through a muddle of conversation. Noticing the movement of his irises, she lightly touches his forearm, with a smile of understanding on her lips.

"I hope it's not too much for you.".

He responds by temporarily setting the plate of partially-eaten cloud cake onto the table, gazing into her eyes as his hand gently touches hers.

"You have my assurance that it is not. I find this gathering to be quite enjoyable. I am immeasurably appreciative of your efforts. Thank you, Nyota.".

"You're very welcome, Spock.". With an arm encircling his waist and a lift of her figure so her face meets his, there is planted onto his lips a doting kiss and an equally loving gaze into mahogany irises.

Now he reciprocates, tilting forward his upper body until their foreheads meet, embracing each other with all the affection and warmth that their figures encompass. Beneath the surface facade of his repressed emotions and outward stoicism, she can nearly discern a kind of elation within him. A hairline break, perchance, in his Vulcan armour, and seeping out into his aura. She could probably state that for the first time, he is happy. For her, he makes no attempt to mask this invisible air of bliss, and it results from her mirthful smile, as if she were also grinning for him.

The couple maintain this amatory contact for a few moments, almost entire minutes, with time seeming to lose its forward momentum for them alone. Around them, bodies and objects and sounds almost dissipate, blurring and merging into a haze. This rather odd sensation is somewhat familiar to her, like the mind-meld she had experienced with him soon after the initiation of their courtship. That may be what this sensation is: a form of mind-meld, yet without the physical touch of his fingertips to her face. Not a complete meld, however, as he is not witnessing her thoughts; moreover, he is sharing with her his thoughts and emotions in this present moment. It is as if he were opening himself up to her and her alone, revealing to her his innermost feelings. Pleasant as it is, this act would almost cause one to wonder just how powerful a Vulcan mind really is.

Through words unspoken, the connection is gently severed by them both, their brows simultaneously parting from each other. Smoothly picking up his plate once more, he resumes his tidy consumption of the first cloud cake. In the same instant, she fixes herself a plate of another foodstuff arranged for the event: a small portion of neatly cut fruit. With a fork of her own, she elegantly takes a bite of one piece, the juice from the sliced mango flowing into her mouth, sweet and luscious as it goes, satisfying her palate.

In contented silence, the pair enjoy their respective treats, wallowing in the flavour with each bite, each taste. All manner of activity around and behind them had been practically ignored by this point, the gathering maintaining its tamed festivity and merriment all this time. Having sighted his completion of his first cloud cake, she takes the moment to speak once more.

"I know you don't normally eat lunch, which is why I only made a small batch of the cakes. And, since I made them solely for you, we can save whatever you don't eat for later on.".

"That is quite a mindful gesture, Nyota. I plan to have another at a later stage of this gathering.". He makes another tender gaze at her kind face and affectionate eyes as he continues. "Again, I am infinitely grateful.".

With the fork resting on the plate in his hand, he extends his free hand to her, the index and middle fingers outstretched. Mirroring this gesture, she touches tips of the same fingers on her opposing hand to his, a grin of love spread across her lips as the couple engage in the ozh'esta. Once again, his brow caresses hers, in an additional display of his deep affection for her. A familiar voice soon politely enters their space, the rather jovial sound belonging to their captain, and friend.

"All right you lovebirds, that's enough. Happy birthday, Spock.".

"You know, a few hundred years ago, people used to say that everything starts going downhill once you hit the 'big three-zero'...and you begin to feel old.", the good Doctor McCoy utters, before his Vulcan friend has a moment to respond. "Feelin' it yet?".

"A rather odd notion, Doctor, one that is not shared by Vulcans. Given that our lifespan is significantly longer than that of people from Earth, someone of my age is considered to be quite young. Moreover, we are not ashamed or 'embarrassed' by the inevitabilities of 'growing old'.".

"Is that so? You do know I was joking, right? Anyway, let's all be hopin' that you have many more birthdays after this one.".

"I second that.", adds the blond Captain. "Here's to your longevity, Spock.".

In the place of the clinking of a drink glass, he merely taps the shoulder of his Vulcan friend, a comradely gesture that he is genuine in his words. The Commander's reciprocation is not one of a physical nature; instead, it is more of an upturn of his sharp brow and a slight altering of his facial muscles. Accompanying, of course, are words of gratitude toward his two friends.

"That is an amiable sentiment, and an agreeable one at that. Thank you, gentlemen.".

"Don't mention it, pal. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're going to mingle. You two kids enjoy yourselves.". With those parting words, Kirk takes his leave of the couple, the physician following with a wink and a smirk towards the two.

Meanwhile, a rusty-haired ensign had overheard the entire exchange from his position at an adjacent table...


Having consumed the final crumb of his first cloud cake, the Vulcan momentarily sets down his plate and fork in order to acquire a beverage for himself as well as his suitor. The Lieutenant had, of course, insisted upon fixing his drink for him, with this being his "special day", and escorts him to a table laden with cups and various beverages. Some liquid refreshments are of the alcoholic kind, with only light to medium degrees of strength, whereas others are specifically non-alcoholic. Pouring him a glass of light wine, she passes the liquor to him and fixes one of her own, raising her filled glass and delicately touching it to his in a tiny clink in his honour. It is true that Vulcans are seemingly unaffected by certain types of alcoholic drink, there is enjoyment in the flavour of the liquor, and with this being a social gathering amongst friends, Spock is willing to partake. Uhura, naturally, is happy to share the moment with him.

Always observant, a pale ensign awaits several moments, then moves stealthily towards the table holding the rest of the cloud cakes, his enduring patience at last offering his reward.

With the couple, and the rest of the gathering's participants, sufficiently preoccupied, the ensign approaches the now seemingly unguarded table. His opportune moment arriving at long last, he reaches a hand into his trouser pocket. Fortunately for him, the table houses many a varied type of culinary delight, making his next movements much less...suspicious. A small, cylindrical vial is removed from the shelter of his pocket and hovers with his hand over the peak of the cloud cake bundle. Not much larger or thicker than a pinkie finger, the phial is easily concealed and difficult to sight unless within close proximity. With a lid unfastened in deft fingertips, a crystalline fluid is methodically released, raining onto the bread in miniscule drips. There is no odour emitted from this liquid solution, nor taste; naught that would rouse the unwanted glance of curious eyes. His task is complete within mere seconds, whilst his eyes shift their gaze along the other prepared foodstuffs, as if he were struggling to decide which of the delectable treats he would consume first.

The vial sufficiently emptied and his meagre undertaking now accomplished, the tiny vessel is promptly returned to his pants pocket with a lone hand. A free hand, in the same moment, grabs a barren plate, and the tableware is subsequently topped with a fist-sized portion of Earth fruits. With the refreshment held to his chest and a utensil in his grasp, he departs from the table, calmly moving along the untarnished flooring, and positioning himself at a safe distance from the table of cloud cakes. Irises of a silver hue glance about the surrounding space, yet remain observant of the couple now situated at the liquor table.

Observing and waiting...