[ It was fairly rare to find the mess empty. Between the size of the ship and the various shifts, there were usually crowds in the mess off and on throughout the day, with the occasional spike and fall in population, usually around times that corresponded to typical eating times on Earth.
But that day found the place nearly empty, only a few people taking up corner tables. Not surprising, because it was the day after a most illogical Terran holiday and there had been a party the night before. A good majority of the crew were sleeping off hangovers and headaches.
Spock eyed the leftover candy, collected in a bucket on the table, with an air of curiosity. Vulcan had nothing similar to chocolate, and he was tempted to try a piece. It would, after all, be logical to experience it for himself.
But just as he was reaching for a piece, he heard movement behind him, and quickly - guiltily - snatched his hand away. ]
[It's not that her divorce made her a Grinch. Lenore has always found the plethora of holidays that have some kind of ritual where you have to spend money on things you wouldn't otherwise buy obnoxious, and yet she understands the necessity of celebrating them, especially when you're stuck in the vast vacuum of space with just a few feet of steel between you and a cold, solitary death.
There was a time when she used to celebrate Valentine's day, and happily, too.
Still nursing hurt feelings over her disastrous attempt to call home — "I'm sorry, Len, she's just at that stage where she's distrustful of strangers, why don't you try calling again in a few days?" — and a stressful day in surgery attempting to reattach Ensign Yamagata's severed arm, she stomps down to the mess, determined to scrounge up some food and perhaps, hopefully, even some synthehol. Even if it's disgusting as usual, it's better than nothing, and she wants to get drunk tonight. Her carefully-hoarded bottle of Saurian brandy is for sipping, not for drinking until she forgets how it felt to watch her own daughter hide her face from the woman she doesn't recognize anymore.
At this hour, the mess is usually all but deserted. Seeing Spock sitting all alone is a surprise, as he's usually as precise as clockwork when it comes to his routine, and that includes when he eats dinner.
Needling Spock might just be the distraction she needs from her own maudlin thoughts.] You look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Spock, [she says as she drops her tray on the table and takes a seat across from him.] Just eat it. Better you than me, chocolate goes straight to my hips.
As I am not a child and the container is hardly jar, let alone one that contains cookies, your phrase is misleading, Doctor.
[ But Spock reaches in, eyeing the good doctor, and took one small piece of wrapped chocolate. It was real chocolate, because the captain had insisted, purchased at the last starbase they had visited, rather than something replicated. Part of the experience, according to the humans on board who had offered up their opinions about the entire holiday.
Spock carefully unwraps the chocolate and studies it for a moment. Vulcans do not eat with their hands, but he lacks any utensils to properly manipulate the candy. As it is only the doctor, it is harmless enough, hefiures, and snaps the square in half, bringing it to his nose to smell the candy. It's certainly stronger than most Vulcan foods, rather rich and intriguing. ]
I am unfamiliar with your phrase. It is impossible for an inanimate object to go straight to your hips, as it lacks any mobility with which to traverse the distance between itself and the aforementioned portion of your anatomy. Furthermore, that implies a certain amount of consciousness, which this lacks.
[Sometimes she's not sure how much of Spock's clueless routine is him being a pedantic asshole and how much of it is genuine misunderstanding. Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she picks up her glass of synthehol and takes a bracing sip before attempting to explain.] It's an idiom denoting an expression of guilt. You looked as guilty as a child caught doing something they had been forbidden from doing, such as taking a cookie before the proper meal, hence the expression.
[The replicators do their best when it comes to fulfilling dietary requests, but they don't always quite hit the mark. Her plate of good Southern comfort food is a very close facsimile to what she might eat after a bad day back on Earth, but subtle things about the texture or the flavor are just a little bit off. Still, it's worth it to shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth and let the buttery flavor spread across her tongue, so she doesn't complain, just watches as Spock examines his chocolate.]
That's dark chocolate, [she points out, watching him smell it. It looks ridiculous, but then again, if he's never eaten it before, it's not the strangest reaction to have.] It'll be a little bitter. Milk chocolate is sweeter and creamier, but it doesn't have as strong a chocolate flavor.
[She rolls her eyes at him, cutting off the skin of her friend chicken and lamenting the fact that it just isn't quite right. Still, she's going to eat it because she's had a shit day, goddammit, and this will make her feel better.] I'm saying it'll make me fat, Spock. Sweets like chocolate go straight to my hips because that's where most human women store fat deposits. "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips," that's what my mother always used to say.
[ There is a secret is his clueless Vulcan routine, and it brings a certain satisfaction to him when people assume he is genuinely clueless. He grew up with a human mother, a linguist herself, and his curiosity knew no bounds.
It is highly un-Vulcan-like to be amused, but every time he gets an explanation like the one Bones is providing, something inside him twinges. It is always carefully repressed.
Though her explanation is better than his mother's had been. Not that Spock would admit to such. ]
Do children make it a habit to indulge in sweet snacks before their meal times?
[ That he is genuinely curious about, because children generally do not filch food on Vulcan.
Dark chocolate, hmm? He places it on the tip of tongue, letting the candy melt, rather than biting into it, and the flavor makes his eyes widen. It tastes similar to how it smells - dark and rich, with a surprisingly bitter note he had not been expecting, though it mellows after a moment. There is nothing he can recall ingesting that even begins to approach the flavor. ]
If any food is going to cause an increase in weight gain, it is the food you are currently consuming. There might be some benefit in ingesting something so deeply fried and coated, though I fail to see any.
[ He says it almost primly, while shoving the other half of the chocolate square in his mouth and digging for another piece. ] This chocolate is most intriguing. I see why humans are fond of it.
Children make it a habit to break as many rules as they can, it's a way to test the limits of the boundaries placed upon them and to flex their burgeoning independence. Also, they just love sweets. At least, Jo did.
[Though her daughter never stole food before their meal, not in Lenore's experience. Then again, the divorce happened when Jo wasn't yet two, so she was still learning to walk and talk the last time she really spent any time with her.
Thinking about how much of her child's life she's missing is depressing as hell, so Len switches her attention back to her food. Spock's oh-so logical observation has her fighting against the urge to flip him off. Either he wouldn't understand what she was doing and she'd have to explain yet another strange Earthling behavior, or he would understand and she'd round off an already terrible day by being written up for insubordination. Instead, she just points her fork at him and narrows her eyes.] You don't get to make comments about my dietary choices, as you are neither my mother, nor my husband. I just spent seven and a half goddamn hours painstakingly sewing shredded blood vessels and nerve endings back together on one of Scotty's hapless ducklings, I think I've earned the right to eat whatever the hell I want. [She punctuates that statement by popping a piece of cornbread in her mouth, licking the crumbs off her fingers and trying not to focus on the fact that the texture was all wrong. It tasted close enough, at least.
She's not really angry, though, too tired to feel anything more than a mild annoyance which is pretty par for the course when it comes to interacting with the Vulcan. Watching him devour his chocolate has her smiling a little, though, and she even goes so far as to push the bowl closer towards him.] We aren't the only ones, it seems.
Is this 'testing the limits' an inborn quality in all humans, Doctor? It would explain why so many grow up to be reckless.
[ The 'idiots' is only implied, never out-right stated, because Spock would never demean himself to be so crudely insulting. Why outright state something when you can simply imply?
Besides, the search for another piece of chocolate is far too engrossing. Why discuss human children when there are more immediate concerns at hand, such as deciding what to try next.
McCoy's finger-licking does get a raised eyebrow, though. He knows well enough that McCoy is familiar with some Vulcan cultural norms, had to take xenobiology like most science-track cadets, and is probably well-aware of what she is doing.
Rude humans. ] I fail to see why your mother or husband would play a role in your dietary choices. They are your own. I was simply commenting on the irrationality of blaming chocolate for weight gain when you are indulging in far more caloric food choices.
[ He shoves another wrapped square of chocolate toward her. ] Is this the milk chocolate you were referring to, earlier? I must sample multiple varieties, in order to form a valid opinion regarding chocolate.
More or less. Humans have a great independence of spirit, and being a 'rebel' is viewed as socially desirable, at least until you reach a certain age. Some people never grow out of it. [She's clearly referring to Jim, although, privately, she's also referring to Spock. He likes to think of himself as above silly, petty human nature, but he's half human and far more rebellious than he'd probably want to admit to.
Eschewing a place at the Vulcan Science Academy to enlist in Starfleet? Cleaving himself to one of the most emotional, rebellious individuals on the whole ship? If he wants people to think of him as a purely rational, logical being, becoming fast friends with Jim Kirk is not the best way to go about it. Len would know. She made that mistake on the shuttle to San Francisco, and she's never been able to be rid of him since.
She is aware of the whole hands-as-erogenous-zones thing in regards to Vulcans, but she honestly forgets sometimes. Spock doesn't wear gloves in his daily life to remind her, and he's the only Vulcan she's actually spent any time with. Combined with her stressful day and the sleepless night before, not to mention the glass of synthehol she's nursing, and she just plain forgot about his cultural taboos. So sue her.]
Humans are irrational, Spock, just accept it and move on. [She's not going to launch into an explanation of the outdated modes of belief that a woman's parents "owned" her until said "ownership" passed on to her husband, nor the way such beliefs still stubbornly clung to the more rural areas of the Deep South. She's just not in the mood to debate things she can't even change with him tonight.
Picking up the chocolate he pushes her way, she peels back a corner of the foil wrapper before nodding.] Yes, this is milk chocolate. [She hands it back and then dips her hand into the bowl as well, rifling around until she's pulled out a few more foil-wrapped squares in differing shades of red, pink, and white.] This one's white chocolate, which is actually a misnomer, as it's mostly milk and sugar. Very little cocoa in it at all.
I am aware. It would be of a benefit if those individuals learned some measure of caution.
[ He is, likewise, speaking of the captain. Really, some caution would not be amiss.
Spock is certainly rebellious, and he acknowledges that somewhere in the back of his mind, another concept carefully shielded and repressed from all introspection. It began even before rejecting the VSA, and it carried on to him joining the Enterprise rather than helping his people settle in their new colony.
It is simply not an easy thing to admit, this rebellious desire that lingers in his chest. It had been easy, before, to cite his mother - and she had been a major reason, because he still cannot bear negative talk regarding Amanda Grayson - but it has grown much more complex.
Kirk is a good, logical choice to place the blame. He draws people in and makes demands, and Spock cannot let go.
There's nothing he can really say about humans and their irrationality, because he knows how this argument goes. Besides, he finds he tolerates their irrational natures, from time to time. ]
Your help is appreciated, Doctor. [ He glances between the chocolates, and selects one of the white chocolates. It lacks the same rich smell as the dark chocolate, and the taste is -
Well, it's not chocolate. All it tastes like to Spock is a mess of sweetness. ]
This is atrocious. [ He doesn't make a face, but only barely, and discards the rest of the white chocolate in favor of another square of dark. ] The nomenclature of said candy is misleading. In fact, many candies the crew discuss are misleading. Is it simply the human way?
[She's been trying for four years to curb Jim Kirk's flighty nature, all to no avail. If Spock thinks he can do better, she's going to let him do his best and watch him crash and burn with a drink in her hand and a laugh on her lips. She needs more things in her life to amuse herself with, and that would be a prime contender.
Spock takes a bite out of the milk chocolate and stills, and if Len were a betting woman (she is), she would put money on the micro expression he just made being akin to a baby's grimace when they first try a slice of lemon. It takes real self-restraint to keep from laughing aloud. She knows if she did, Spock would just get huffy, assuming she was laughing at him (she would be), and wouldn't be able to see the humor in the situation. To stop herself from chuckling some more, she takes another sip of her synthehol, and shrugs when he drops the white chocolate to reach for the dark square.]
I dunno, Spock, you're going to have to give me specifics. I don't really know what kinds of candy the crew discuss in their downtime.
As the individual in question rarely listens and it is illogical for me to expect him to change, I will refrain.
[ He is not even trying to be subtle anymore. They are both referencing Jim, and are aware of it, and no one else is close enough to overhear.
That is something he would normally never say, expect maybe to Jim himself, but Spock doesn't think about the oddity of the words leaving his lips. ]
Or rather, only mention it when he is truly in danger.
[ So a dozen times a week. No matter.
The second square of dark chocolate disappears even quicker than the first, and he takes a piece of the milk chocolate to try. It is sweeter than the dark chocolate, creamier and lacking the bite, but acceptable. He still prefers the dark chocolate, going for a third piece - his fourth altogether. ]
They refer to candies such as kisses and fruit-based chews that lack any trace of fruit.
[She snickers to herself over her glass, pleased when Spock gives up the ghost and admits what they both know: that they're talking about Jim Kirk.] Yes, well, at least you're able to admit that to yourself. Most divorces happen because people are unable to see that attempting to force someone to change to suit your own needs will never work out in the end. [Not that they're married; although, she's heard some scuttlebutt insinuate that they might as well be. Not that Len listens to gossip, though.] Good luck with that, buddy. I've been yelling at him for four years about his damn fool antics and he's never listened to me yet.
[She sounds fond, though. As much as she complains about him, Len is very fond of Jim Kirk. It's almost impossible not to be, he's the type of person who inspires one of only two reactions: you either love him despite your better judgement, or you loathe him because of it.
Nothing in between.
He really seems to like chocolate. Amused, Len watches as he devours another piece, his higher body temperature melting the chocolate slightly against his fingertips. He hasn't seemed to notice yet; she wonders if he will, if he'll wipe them on a napkin or lick the chocolate off so as not to waste any.]
Hershey Kisses is just the name of the chocolate, I don't know why they're called that. The fruit ones, though, well. That's probably to trick people into thinking they're anything other than artificially-flavored sugar bombs. Who knows, really.
Attempting to change an individual is illogical, Doctor. It will happen when they wish, or not at all, and one should not attempt to change the base personality. It leads to disharmony of the mind. I do wish the captain would learn to exercise caution, in some aspects of his life. [ A delicate sniff accompanies his words that from anyone else would be a tremendous sigh. Really. Some caution.
And no one should listen to gossip. Spock has already had words with his department, but they show no signs of stopping.
His fingers are covered in chocolate, though he doesn't realize it until he reaches for another piece of chocolate. It is improper to waste food, and smears of chocolate are still a waste, so there is only one logical course of action.
Spock brings his fingers to his lips, licking them off his thumb rather delicately. It is good they are mostly alone, and it is only Bones watching him. Spock can at least pretend Bones has no idea what he is doing. It's easier to think that at the moment, which should trigger an alert in his head, but strangely doesn't.
He sucks his index finger into his mouth, licking the pad. It's almost indecent, by any cultural standard. Bones can forever hold this over his head.
He releases his finger with a 'pop,' and when he responds, his voice is just a fraction warmer. ]
See, as I said, they are misnomers. Terran traditions regarding names are most perplexing, Doctor.
[ There is always work to do for Starfleet, even when they are grounded for a refit. And with two such talented individuals as Spock and Nyota, it is not surprising that Starfleet has odd jobs for them, work that requires distance between them, immeasurable by simple miles.
Spock can admit he misses people, now. It is a slow, fraught acceptance to the idea of admitting to anything remotely emotional, but the sorrow in his father's eyes, and in the eyes of his counterpart, forces Spock to acknowledge a truth: not only is he human, but Vulcans also feel - and deeply at that. He does not admit to Nyota during their brief, infrequent communications during their time apart that he misses her, but carries it around inside his chest.
Time does not pass faster or slower for Spock, as he counts down the days until the work is done and they are united once again. (Time passes at the same pace as it always does; he does not understand the human concept of time passing differently.) Nor do the days get easier to manage. (They were always perfectly acceptable.) But he finds he is looking forward to seeing her again, anticipates their reunion.
He returns to Earth with little fanfare, goes through the briefing, and retreats to his apartment, finding Nyota there as expected. He greets her with something almost like a small on his lips and dips his head to hers, pressing a kiss to her lips as his fingers seek hers out. ]
[Separations like this were to be expected long before they made their relationship publicly known. Nyota was fine with it, knowing her independence and commitment to complete every task handed to her by Starfleet would carry her through. That, however, doesn't mean that there's no heavy weight in her stomach when her thoughts turn to towards Spock, a feeling that twists inside and rides up to her heart giving her a kind of pain that even Dr. McCoy can't measure with his tricorder. The doctor would probably understand it if Nyota told him, but it's a secret she keeps close to her chest. Something private, something only she really needs to know about because no one else has a solution for it.
Unlike Spock, Nyota tells him that she misses him in the few times they manage to send messages to each other. They are always short--never enough time to really say what she wants to say, never enough time for her to interpret what Spock doesn't--but they are long enough for her to make sure he is still alive, uninjured in any way, and still her Spock.
He'd argue about the logicality of belonging to her as she did not purchase him in a shop or barter for him, but all Nyota would do is smile and flip her ponytail in that way that indicates she never wants that part of him to change.
Reports and records are submitted and discussions are had with the top Starfleet brass, responsibilities Nyota meets with full professionalism. As soon as they are completed, she travels to Spock's apartment and showers, washing the day away and leaving in its place just the scent of cleanliness and her, making sure to use the unscented soap she keeps stocked on her side of the bathroom counter so Spock doesn't come home to an unwelcome assault on his senses. By the time he arrives, her hair is still barely damp, hanging loose along her shoulders and threatening to curl as she lays across his sofa, sitting up when she hears the door open.
The smile, or in truth the implication of one is caught and the pain in her chest dissolves on sight of it being replaced with an obvious one of her own. He's happy to see her. She's happy to see him. The silence of their greeting is nothing to make commentary of. A simple hey is unnecessary, not when his lips are on hers, and his fingers find hers for a much more intimate embrace. Nyota knows what Spock is looking for, what he is in need of, and like he showed her one night early in their relationship, she curls two of her fingers to slip against the backs of his.]
[ Until the destruction of Vulcan, Spock had no concept of home. He understood the term well enough, but the underlying meaning of warmth and comfort and a place to simply be was lost amid the cool, detached logic with which Spock surrounded himself. Before the destruction of his planet, home was simply a place - the place where one was born, the place where one resides. Nothing more, nothing less. It has only been recently that he has had an understanding of the deeper concepts of home, and it is less a specific place for him than is the company of the individuals who share his space. Home is as much the Enterprise as it is his apartment, because home is presence of those who have accepted him as he is now.
It is gratifying in ways he cannot accurately express to return to Nyota, to breathe in her unique scent and the familiar smells of his apartment, and to feel her touch against his skin. He does not deliberately try to read her emotions, but he can feel her happiness, a pleasant feeling he finds immensely soothing. One of the things that drew Spock to Nyota was her structured mind and the intelligence of her thoughts, and after being gone for weeks, he revels in her presence.
It is just a soft, small kiss and he breaks it after a moment, though he continues to touch her fingers. ]
Greetings, Nyota.
[ A bit late, and he will not follow it with the obvious I have returned, as that is evident. He does not appreciate small talk, and even the chance to simply stand in her presence, in quiet, is welcome. ]
[Kenya has and will always be home for Nyota, regardless of where she is and what time she's in. It's where she was born and raised, where her toes dug into the moist soil of her backyard after a rainstorm, where she was taught to be kind and intelligent, that education was important because no war or enemies could ever take that from her. It is where her family still resides, where she creates time to visit every so often to connect with her parents and catch up with her siblings, immersing herself in her native culture with food and music and her mother tongue.
But there is no law or regulation that says a person cannot have more than one home or even more than two. The ship is also a home. Surrounded by people day in and day out, to the edges of the universe, struggling to put all the pieces back together in the face of constant loss, is something that makes cold steel a warm home.
Spock, himself, is Nyota's third home. He is the column she finds herself bracing against, reveling in his ability to tuck away his emotions while allowing her to have hers open and unbidden. He is where she rests her body, parting her thighs to take him inside her, creating a day to day ritual around meals, housework, and partaking in their own interests.
She's given him permission to take a peek into her mind in the past, to pick up what she chooses not to put down, and Nyota is grateful that Spock has never used this for nefarious purposes. Nyota almost barely ever feels him inside her head, not without asking for express permission immediately beforehand, and knowing that he sometimes doesn't need to just to know how she feels says how far he's come.
The kiss ends far too soon for her liking, and the verbal greeting is late, yes, but still very much appreciated.]
Welcome home, Spock.
[Welcome back to her, to everything he needs from her that she is willing to give.]
[ With no express permission, Spock keeps his shields up; it is no hardship, no struggle because it is how he lives - among humans and Vulcans alike, he maintains mental shields that allow him to keep his composure and allow him to interact with little issue. He projects no feelings, picks up very little about other people. His telepathy is something central, but also near sacred for Spock: to use it against someone's volition would be anathema. It makes staying out of Nyota's head simple, makes it so he never even considers using his telepathy for something nefarious against her.
It is a privilege to know her mind, one he does not intend to forsake.
Spock drops his fingers from hers to wrap his arms around her waist, hands settling low on her hips so he can pull her in close. Spock is always in control - he can count the number of times he has lost control on one hand and each of them is a deep shame - and does not feel anxiety or displeasure from traveling in close quarters with strangers, does not find it difficult to adjust to new places. But he finds it gratifying to return to his own apartment and take in familiar sights. He has no reason to prefer his own bed, but sleeping in it shall be advantageous to his physical condition. His nose is sensitive, but he has adjusted to the unique smells produced by cities and space docks and a thousand milling individuals, so he has no reason to lower his head to Nyota's shoulder and press his nose against the juncture of her neck and breathe in the scents unique to her.
But he does, closing his eyes as he allows himself a moment to simply accept the pleasure it brings him. ]
[It is a privilege, given to him out of love and respect, and though it is not one he takes advantage of, it doesn't mean Nyota hides anything in her mind from him. What she thinks she says, never hesitating to tell Spock how she feels for him, what his presence in her life means, and what she desires most from him in and out of the bedroom. He knows she's missed him because she's told him. He knows that after they've finishing taking their time greeting each other in their own particular way, she wants to move things along into the bedroom and show him other ways of welcoming him home.
Though she made sure to eschew any strong fragrances, Nyota still rubbed her usual cocoa butter across her fresh from the shower skin, giving it not just a golden sheen, but a mild inoffensive scent. She's fully aware of what Spock is doing and she is not only amused, but honored. For a man whose nose can bring him all sorts of suffering, to take in her scent after being apart for so long, she can't help but tip her head back for him to take all he needs, all he wants.]
[ Spock has always been an unusually strong telepath, his skills exceeding most of his peers, but he has always been careful to maintain control, and if his head was slightly empty, slightly lonely, he never noticed. His life was dominated by his parents and his schooling until Starfleet, and then it was dominated by Starfleet and the way he rose through the ranks. It was not until Nyota that he realized his head, his life was what most individuals would deem "lonely," and then he had an exceptional individual to fill in any holes.
The fact that she is willing to talk to him and work out any issues that might arise because of their differing cultural histories means their relationship is even stronger than relying on the need to guess or read her emotions. Returning home to her is gratifying, because Nyota understands him in ways very few others even attempt.
Beneath the smell of the cocoa butter - a smell he has come to associate with his girlfriend, by the point - he can smell her own scent, and when she tips her head back, exposing more of her neck, he drags his nose, and his lips, up the column of her throat. He does not need to attempt to smell or read her arousal, because he knows she desires him, just as he desires her, knows that this will progress into their bedroom, all without saying much.
He drags his hands up her back and back down before releasing her, reaching for her hand again so he can lead her into the room. ]
[Maybe it's her passion for languages, and in turn the cultures they stem from, that drew her to him. After all, aside from not being fully human and her former instrctor, his personality is the complete opposite of hers. While his face remains stoic except for the rare times she's seen a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, Nyota is quick to grin, even quicker to lay a comforting hand on someone's shoulder in their emotional time of need. She is the sun, a bright and warm shining ray of light, and he is the moon, sometimes considered cold but still instrumental at times.
But opposites certainly attract and that is indeed why they work so well, regardless of the friction sometimes caused by their differences. She has experience to look back on, old lovers to think of and consider what she needs and wants the most out of her relationship with Spock. Nyota knows she has the upper hand here with that, but she never feels like it's something to be wielded as a weapon. No, instead, she brings it out gently, giving it to him so he can understand where she has been and where she's going and for him to show her what he has (or doesn't in this case) in exchange.
Nyota is reluctant to let go of her hold on him, fingers curled and gripped in the folds of his shirt. She sighs softly with a little hum as she feels his cool lips skate across her warmer skin, but then whines almost inaudibly when Spock pulls back. Certainly she could stand to stay here in the middle of his living room and hold him a little longer, but once Nyota feels his hand in hers, her reluctance fades away and is replaced with a small knowing smile as she follows him down the hall. Yes, the next step is definitely a better option than just standing here. She won't even try to argue against it.]
[ There is something bright about Nyota, warm and inviting even to Spock. Most people are not. They find his logic and his control cold and robotic and he in turn finds them overly... everything. Too loud, too bright, too emotional. Nyota might be bright and emotional, but it was soothing rather than painful, a meshing of their personalities rather than a conflict.
He knew, in a world where experience was important in any field, that his lack of expertise in relationships was a hindrance, especially when he considered the complications of dating a non-Vulcan, and a human dating a Vulcan. It had made him hesitate, at first, but there had never been regrets - instead, he had appreciated the guidance and the ability to learn more of this stunning woman who cares for him, and for whom he cares in return.
The tight fingers in his shirt and the soft whine bring a slight twist of his lips, something that might almost pass as a smile for Spock. It is gratifying, illogically, to know that she would be content to stand there and allow him to hold and kiss her, and drink in the smell of home. But the bedroom is a better option for them, as it means a bed, where he can feel the weight of her pressed against his body, or the warmth of her skin seeping into his.
He turns to her again, once they have entered the room and the door slides shut behind them, settling his hands on her hips and going in for another kiss, deeper this time, drawing it out as long as he can. ]
[Though there is no one on the other side, Nyota has never been more grateful for closed door. It's more symbolic of finally having some time to themselves, some privacy, with no risk of someone coming to bang on it to catch their attentions or a strong tense voice over a ship's loudspeaker calling them back to the bridge even though their shift is over.
Once his hands reach her hips, hers are in motion too, climbing under his shirt hem and skating across his back just to come around to his front. The Starfleet uniform does his body no justice; Nyota spreads her fingers across the rippled muscles of his stomach as she sighs softly into his mouth. The fitness of Spock's body always feels like her little secret, being the only one to see it and touch it and most of all, taste it.
And speaking of that, as much as it pains her again, Nyota pulls out of the kiss, licking the taste of him off her lips before speaking.]
Lay down.
[It's more of a request with her questioning tone than it is a demand. He has room to say no if he has other plans.]
[ He has no plans; all of his intent had been to be close to her, seek comfort in her arms, something he rarely seeks and almost never finds. So he steps away from her, moving slowly, his hands lingering on her hips before he drops them back to his side and takes the few steps to the bed.
Though she did not request, he removes his shoes and socks, tucking them aside. He won't be going out again tonight. Next is his shirt, removed and folded and set aside for laundering later. He leaves his pants alone; those can come off later, especially has she hasn't indicated anything more, yet.
Spock sits down on the edge of the bed before lying back, the movements simple and efficient and almost graceful for that. He watches Nyota, however, eyes dark as he studies her face. ]
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for olemiss
But that day found the place nearly empty, only a few people taking up corner tables. Not surprising, because it was the day after a most illogical Terran holiday and there had been a party the night before. A good majority of the crew were sleeping off hangovers and headaches.
Spock eyed the leftover candy, collected in a bucket on the table, with an air of curiosity. Vulcan had nothing similar to chocolate, and he was tempted to try a piece. It would, after all, be logical to experience it for himself.
But just as he was reaching for a piece, he heard movement behind him, and quickly - guiltily - snatched his hand away. ]
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There was a time when she used to celebrate Valentine's day, and happily, too.
Still nursing hurt feelings over her disastrous attempt to call home — "I'm sorry, Len, she's just at that stage where she's distrustful of strangers, why don't you try calling again in a few days?" — and a stressful day in surgery attempting to reattach Ensign Yamagata's severed arm, she stomps down to the mess, determined to scrounge up some food and perhaps, hopefully, even some synthehol. Even if it's disgusting as usual, it's better than nothing, and she wants to get drunk tonight. Her carefully-hoarded bottle of Saurian brandy is for sipping, not for drinking until she forgets how it felt to watch her own daughter hide her face from the woman she doesn't recognize anymore.
At this hour, the mess is usually all but deserted. Seeing Spock sitting all alone is a surprise, as he's usually as precise as clockwork when it comes to his routine, and that includes when he eats dinner.
Needling Spock might just be the distraction she needs from her own maudlin thoughts.] You look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Spock, [she says as she drops her tray on the table and takes a seat across from him.] Just eat it. Better you than me, chocolate goes straight to my hips.
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[ But Spock reaches in, eyeing the good doctor, and took one small piece of wrapped chocolate. It was real chocolate, because the captain had insisted, purchased at the last starbase they had visited, rather than something replicated. Part of the experience, according to the humans on board who had offered up their opinions about the entire holiday.
Spock carefully unwraps the chocolate and studies it for a moment. Vulcans do not eat with their hands, but he lacks any utensils to properly manipulate the candy. As it is only the doctor, it is harmless enough, hefiures, and snaps the square in half, bringing it to his nose to smell the candy. It's certainly stronger than most Vulcan foods, rather rich and intriguing. ]
I am unfamiliar with your phrase. It is impossible for an inanimate object to go straight to your hips, as it lacks any mobility with which to traverse the distance between itself and the aforementioned portion of your anatomy. Furthermore, that implies a certain amount of consciousness, which this lacks.
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[The replicators do their best when it comes to fulfilling dietary requests, but they don't always quite hit the mark. Her plate of good Southern comfort food is a very close facsimile to what she might eat after a bad day back on Earth, but subtle things about the texture or the flavor are just a little bit off. Still, it's worth it to shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth and let the buttery flavor spread across her tongue, so she doesn't complain, just watches as Spock examines his chocolate.]
That's dark chocolate, [she points out, watching him smell it. It looks ridiculous, but then again, if he's never eaten it before, it's not the strangest reaction to have.] It'll be a little bitter. Milk chocolate is sweeter and creamier, but it doesn't have as strong a chocolate flavor.
[She rolls her eyes at him, cutting off the skin of her friend chicken and lamenting the fact that it just isn't quite right. Still, she's going to eat it because she's had a shit day, goddammit, and this will make her feel better.] I'm saying it'll make me fat, Spock. Sweets like chocolate go straight to my hips because that's where most human women store fat deposits. "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips," that's what my mother always used to say.
i'm so sorry, spock's a jerk ;;;;;
It is highly un-Vulcan-like to be amused, but every time he gets an explanation like the one Bones is providing, something inside him twinges. It is always carefully repressed.
Though her explanation is better than his mother's had been. Not that Spock would admit to such. ]
Do children make it a habit to indulge in sweet snacks before their meal times?
[ That he is genuinely curious about, because children generally do not filch food on Vulcan.
Dark chocolate, hmm? He places it on the tip of tongue, letting the candy melt, rather than biting into it, and the flavor makes his eyes widen. It tastes similar to how it smells - dark and rich, with a surprisingly bitter note he had not been expecting, though it mellows after a moment. There is nothing he can recall ingesting that even begins to approach the flavor. ]
If any food is going to cause an increase in weight gain, it is the food you are currently consuming. There might be some benefit in ingesting something so deeply fried and coated, though I fail to see any.
[ He says it almost primly, while shoving the other half of the chocolate square in his mouth and digging for another piece. ] This chocolate is most intriguing. I see why humans are fond of it.
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[Though her daughter never stole food before their meal, not in Lenore's experience. Then again, the divorce happened when Jo wasn't yet two, so she was still learning to walk and talk the last time she really spent any time with her.
Thinking about how much of her child's life she's missing is depressing as hell, so Len switches her attention back to her food. Spock's oh-so logical observation has her fighting against the urge to flip him off. Either he wouldn't understand what she was doing and she'd have to explain yet another strange Earthling behavior, or he would understand and she'd round off an already terrible day by being written up for insubordination. Instead, she just points her fork at him and narrows her eyes.] You don't get to make comments about my dietary choices, as you are neither my mother, nor my husband. I just spent seven and a half goddamn hours painstakingly sewing shredded blood vessels and nerve endings back together on one of Scotty's hapless ducklings, I think I've earned the right to eat whatever the hell I want. [She punctuates that statement by popping a piece of cornbread in her mouth, licking the crumbs off her fingers and trying not to focus on the fact that the texture was all wrong. It tasted close enough, at least.
She's not really angry, though, too tired to feel anything more than a mild annoyance which is pretty par for the course when it comes to interacting with the Vulcan. Watching him devour his chocolate has her smiling a little, though, and she even goes so far as to push the bowl closer towards him.] We aren't the only ones, it seems.
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[ The 'idiots' is only implied, never out-right stated, because Spock would never demean himself to be so crudely insulting. Why outright state something when you can simply imply?
Besides, the search for another piece of chocolate is far too engrossing. Why discuss human children when there are more immediate concerns at hand, such as deciding what to try next.
McCoy's finger-licking does get a raised eyebrow, though. He knows well enough that McCoy is familiar with some Vulcan cultural norms, had to take xenobiology like most science-track cadets, and is probably well-aware of what she is doing.
Rude humans. ] I fail to see why your mother or husband would play a role in your dietary choices. They are your own. I was simply commenting on the irrationality of blaming chocolate for weight gain when you are indulging in far more caloric food choices.
[ He shoves another wrapped square of chocolate toward her. ] Is this the milk chocolate you were referring to, earlier? I must sample multiple varieties, in order to form a valid opinion regarding chocolate.
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Eschewing a place at the Vulcan Science Academy to enlist in Starfleet? Cleaving himself to one of the most emotional, rebellious individuals on the whole ship? If he wants people to think of him as a purely rational, logical being, becoming fast friends with Jim Kirk is not the best way to go about it. Len would know. She made that mistake on the shuttle to San Francisco, and she's never been able to be rid of him since.
She is aware of the whole hands-as-erogenous-zones thing in regards to Vulcans, but she honestly forgets sometimes. Spock doesn't wear gloves in his daily life to remind her, and he's the only Vulcan she's actually spent any time with. Combined with her stressful day and the sleepless night before, not to mention the glass of synthehol she's nursing, and she just plain forgot about his cultural taboos. So sue her.]
Humans are irrational, Spock, just accept it and move on. [She's not going to launch into an explanation of the outdated modes of belief that a woman's parents "owned" her until said "ownership" passed on to her husband, nor the way such beliefs still stubbornly clung to the more rural areas of the Deep South. She's just not in the mood to debate things she can't even change with him tonight.
Picking up the chocolate he pushes her way, she peels back a corner of the foil wrapper before nodding.] Yes, this is milk chocolate. [She hands it back and then dips her hand into the bowl as well, rifling around until she's pulled out a few more foil-wrapped squares in differing shades of red, pink, and white.] This one's white chocolate, which is actually a misnomer, as it's mostly milk and sugar. Very little cocoa in it at all.
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[ He is, likewise, speaking of the captain. Really, some caution would not be amiss.
Spock is certainly rebellious, and he acknowledges that somewhere in the back of his mind, another concept carefully shielded and repressed from all introspection. It began even before rejecting the VSA, and it carried on to him joining the Enterprise rather than helping his people settle in their new colony.
It is simply not an easy thing to admit, this rebellious desire that lingers in his chest. It had been easy, before, to cite his mother - and she had been a major reason, because he still cannot bear negative talk regarding Amanda Grayson - but it has grown much more complex.
Kirk is a good, logical choice to place the blame. He draws people in and makes demands, and Spock cannot let go.
There's nothing he can really say about humans and their irrationality, because he knows how this argument goes. Besides, he finds he tolerates their irrational natures, from time to time. ]
Your help is appreciated, Doctor. [ He glances between the chocolates, and selects one of the white chocolates. It lacks the same rich smell as the dark chocolate, and the taste is -
Well, it's not chocolate. All it tastes like to Spock is a mess of sweetness. ]
This is atrocious. [ He doesn't make a face, but only barely, and discards the rest of the white chocolate in favor of another square of dark. ] The nomenclature of said candy is misleading. In fact, many candies the crew discuss are misleading. Is it simply the human way?
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[She's been trying for four years to curb Jim Kirk's flighty nature, all to no avail. If Spock thinks he can do better, she's going to let him do his best and watch him crash and burn with a drink in her hand and a laugh on her lips. She needs more things in her life to amuse herself with, and that would be a prime contender.
Spock takes a bite out of the milk chocolate and stills, and if Len were a betting woman (she is), she would put money on the micro expression he just made being akin to a baby's grimace when they first try a slice of lemon. It takes real self-restraint to keep from laughing aloud. She knows if she did, Spock would just get huffy, assuming she was laughing at him (she would be), and wouldn't be able to see the humor in the situation. To stop herself from chuckling some more, she takes another sip of her synthehol, and shrugs when he drops the white chocolate to reach for the dark square.]
I dunno, Spock, you're going to have to give me specifics. I don't really know what kinds of candy the crew discuss in their downtime.
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[ He is not even trying to be subtle anymore. They are both referencing Jim, and are aware of it, and no one else is close enough to overhear.
That is something he would normally never say, expect maybe to Jim himself, but Spock doesn't think about the oddity of the words leaving his lips. ]
Or rather, only mention it when he is truly in danger.
[ So a dozen times a week. No matter.
The second square of dark chocolate disappears even quicker than the first, and he takes a piece of the milk chocolate to try. It is sweeter than the dark chocolate, creamier and lacking the bite, but acceptable. He still prefers the dark chocolate, going for a third piece - his fourth altogether. ]
They refer to candies such as kisses and fruit-based chews that lack any trace of fruit.
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[She sounds fond, though. As much as she complains about him, Len is very fond of Jim Kirk. It's almost impossible not to be, he's the type of person who inspires one of only two reactions: you either love him despite your better judgement, or you loathe him because of it.
Nothing in between.
He really seems to like chocolate. Amused, Len watches as he devours another piece, his higher body temperature melting the chocolate slightly against his fingertips. He hasn't seemed to notice yet; she wonders if he will, if he'll wipe them on a napkin or lick the chocolate off so as not to waste any.]
Hershey Kisses is just the name of the chocolate, I don't know why they're called that. The fruit ones, though, well. That's probably to trick people into thinking they're anything other than artificially-flavored sugar bombs. Who knows, really.
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And no one should listen to gossip. Spock has already had words with his department, but they show no signs of stopping.
His fingers are covered in chocolate, though he doesn't realize it until he reaches for another piece of chocolate. It is improper to waste food, and smears of chocolate are still a waste, so there is only one logical course of action.
Spock brings his fingers to his lips, licking them off his thumb rather delicately. It is good they are mostly alone, and it is only Bones watching him. Spock can at least pretend Bones has no idea what he is doing. It's easier to think that at the moment, which should trigger an alert in his head, but strangely doesn't.
He sucks his index finger into his mouth, licking the pad. It's almost indecent, by any cultural standard. Bones can forever hold this over his head.
He releases his finger with a 'pop,' and when he responds, his voice is just a fraction warmer. ]
See, as I said, they are misnomers. Terran traditions regarding names are most perplexing, Doctor.
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set maybe in some pre-Beyond time?
Spock can admit he misses people, now. It is a slow, fraught acceptance to the idea of admitting to anything remotely emotional, but the sorrow in his father's eyes, and in the eyes of his counterpart, forces Spock to acknowledge a truth: not only is he human, but Vulcans also feel - and deeply at that. He does not admit to Nyota during their brief, infrequent communications during their time apart that he misses her, but carries it around inside his chest.
Time does not pass faster or slower for Spock, as he counts down the days until the work is done and they are united once again. (Time passes at the same pace as it always does; he does not understand the human concept of time passing differently.) Nor do the days get easier to manage. (They were always perfectly acceptable.) But he finds he is looking forward to seeing her again, anticipates their reunion.
He returns to Earth with little fanfare, goes through the briefing, and retreats to his apartment, finding Nyota there as expected. He greets her with something almost like a small on his lips and dips his head to hers, pressing a kiss to her lips as his fingers seek hers out. ]
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Unlike Spock, Nyota tells him that she misses him in the few times they manage to send messages to each other. They are always short--never enough time to really say what she wants to say, never enough time for her to interpret what Spock doesn't--but they are long enough for her to make sure he is still alive, uninjured in any way, and still her Spock.
He'd argue about the logicality of belonging to her as she did not purchase him in a shop or barter for him, but all Nyota would do is smile and flip her ponytail in that way that indicates she never wants that part of him to change.
Reports and records are submitted and discussions are had with the top Starfleet brass, responsibilities Nyota meets with full professionalism. As soon as they are completed, she travels to Spock's apartment and showers, washing the day away and leaving in its place just the scent of cleanliness and her, making sure to use the unscented soap she keeps stocked on her side of the bathroom counter so Spock doesn't come home to an unwelcome assault on his senses. By the time he arrives, her hair is still barely damp, hanging loose along her shoulders and threatening to curl as she lays across his sofa, sitting up when she hears the door open.
The smile, or in truth the implication of one is caught and the pain in her chest dissolves on sight of it being replaced with an obvious one of her own. He's happy to see her. She's happy to see him. The silence of their greeting is nothing to make commentary of. A simple hey is unnecessary, not when his lips are on hers, and his fingers find hers for a much more intimate embrace. Nyota knows what Spock is looking for, what he is in need of, and like he showed her one night early in their relationship, she curls two of her fingers to slip against the backs of his.]
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It is gratifying in ways he cannot accurately express to return to Nyota, to breathe in her unique scent and the familiar smells of his apartment, and to feel her touch against his skin. He does not deliberately try to read her emotions, but he can feel her happiness, a pleasant feeling he finds immensely soothing. One of the things that drew Spock to Nyota was her structured mind and the intelligence of her thoughts, and after being gone for weeks, he revels in her presence.
It is just a soft, small kiss and he breaks it after a moment, though he continues to touch her fingers. ]
Greetings, Nyota.
[ A bit late, and he will not follow it with the obvious I have returned, as that is evident. He does not appreciate small talk, and even the chance to simply stand in her presence, in quiet, is welcome. ]
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But there is no law or regulation that says a person cannot have more than one home or even more than two. The ship is also a home. Surrounded by people day in and day out, to the edges of the universe, struggling to put all the pieces back together in the face of constant loss, is something that makes cold steel a warm home.
Spock, himself, is Nyota's third home. He is the column she finds herself bracing against, reveling in his ability to tuck away his emotions while allowing her to have hers open and unbidden. He is where she rests her body, parting her thighs to take him inside her, creating a day to day ritual around meals, housework, and partaking in their own interests.
She's given him permission to take a peek into her mind in the past, to pick up what she chooses not to put down, and Nyota is grateful that Spock has never used this for nefarious purposes. Nyota almost barely ever feels him inside her head, not without asking for express permission immediately beforehand, and knowing that he sometimes doesn't need to just to know how she feels says how far he's come.
The kiss ends far too soon for her liking, and the verbal greeting is late, yes, but still very much appreciated.]
Welcome home, Spock.
[Welcome back to her, to everything he needs from her that she is willing to give.]
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It is a privilege to know her mind, one he does not intend to forsake.
Spock drops his fingers from hers to wrap his arms around her waist, hands settling low on her hips so he can pull her in close. Spock is always in control - he can count the number of times he has lost control on one hand and each of them is a deep shame - and does not feel anxiety or displeasure from traveling in close quarters with strangers, does not find it difficult to adjust to new places. But he finds it gratifying to return to his own apartment and take in familiar sights. He has no reason to prefer his own bed, but sleeping in it shall be advantageous to his physical condition. His nose is sensitive, but he has adjusted to the unique smells produced by cities and space docks and a thousand milling individuals, so he has no reason to lower his head to Nyota's shoulder and press his nose against the juncture of her neck and breathe in the scents unique to her.
But he does, closing his eyes as he allows himself a moment to simply accept the pleasure it brings him. ]
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Though she made sure to eschew any strong fragrances, Nyota still rubbed her usual cocoa butter across her fresh from the shower skin, giving it not just a golden sheen, but a mild inoffensive scent. She's fully aware of what Spock is doing and she is not only amused, but honored. For a man whose nose can bring him all sorts of suffering, to take in her scent after being apart for so long, she can't help but tip her head back for him to take all he needs, all he wants.]
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The fact that she is willing to talk to him and work out any issues that might arise because of their differing cultural histories means their relationship is even stronger than relying on the need to guess or read her emotions. Returning home to her is gratifying, because Nyota understands him in ways very few others even attempt.
Beneath the smell of the cocoa butter - a smell he has come to associate with his girlfriend, by the point - he can smell her own scent, and when she tips her head back, exposing more of her neck, he drags his nose, and his lips, up the column of her throat. He does not need to attempt to smell or read her arousal, because he knows she desires him, just as he desires her, knows that this will progress into their bedroom, all without saying much.
He drags his hands up her back and back down before releasing her, reaching for her hand again so he can lead her into the room. ]
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But opposites certainly attract and that is indeed why they work so well, regardless of the friction sometimes caused by their differences. She has experience to look back on, old lovers to think of and consider what she needs and wants the most out of her relationship with Spock. Nyota knows she has the upper hand here with that, but she never feels like it's something to be wielded as a weapon. No, instead, she brings it out gently, giving it to him so he can understand where she has been and where she's going and for him to show her what he has (or doesn't in this case) in exchange.
Nyota is reluctant to let go of her hold on him, fingers curled and gripped in the folds of his shirt. She sighs softly with a little hum as she feels his cool lips skate across her warmer skin, but then whines almost inaudibly when Spock pulls back. Certainly she could stand to stay here in the middle of his living room and hold him a little longer, but once Nyota feels his hand in hers, her reluctance fades away and is replaced with a small knowing smile as she follows him down the hall. Yes, the next step is definitely a better option than just standing here. She won't even try to argue against it.]
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He knew, in a world where experience was important in any field, that his lack of expertise in relationships was a hindrance, especially when he considered the complications of dating a non-Vulcan, and a human dating a Vulcan. It had made him hesitate, at first, but there had never been regrets - instead, he had appreciated the guidance and the ability to learn more of this stunning woman who cares for him, and for whom he cares in return.
The tight fingers in his shirt and the soft whine bring a slight twist of his lips, something that might almost pass as a smile for Spock. It is gratifying, illogically, to know that she would be content to stand there and allow him to hold and kiss her, and drink in the smell of home. But the bedroom is a better option for them, as it means a bed, where he can feel the weight of her pressed against his body, or the warmth of her skin seeping into his.
He turns to her again, once they have entered the room and the door slides shut behind them, settling his hands on her hips and going in for another kiss, deeper this time, drawing it out as long as he can. ]
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Once his hands reach her hips, hers are in motion too, climbing under his shirt hem and skating across his back just to come around to his front. The Starfleet uniform does his body no justice; Nyota spreads her fingers across the rippled muscles of his stomach as she sighs softly into his mouth. The fitness of Spock's body always feels like her little secret, being the only one to see it and touch it and most of all, taste it.
And speaking of that, as much as it pains her again, Nyota pulls out of the kiss, licking the taste of him off her lips before speaking.]
Lay down.
[It's more of a request with her questioning tone than it is a demand. He has room to say no if he has other plans.]
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Though she did not request, he removes his shoes and socks, tucking them aside. He won't be going out again tonight. Next is his shirt, removed and folded and set aside for laundering later. He leaves his pants alone; those can come off later, especially has she hasn't indicated anything more, yet.
Spock sits down on the edge of the bed before lying back, the movements simple and efficient and almost graceful for that. He watches Nyota, however, eyes dark as he studies her face. ]