![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
open rp post
open rp post
gen | smut | memes | whatever
open rp post
gen | smut | memes | whatever
Don't you "madam" me, okay. [She's not annoyed, though, she's almost laughing. Yes, she's annoyed that Spock keeps her out of the loop, but it's so Spock, she almost expects it from him. The fact that he's playing directly into the role she's mentally written for him just makes her feel satisfied. She shakes her head at him, sighing.] Well, don't come crying to me when you manage to wind up with boils in some very inconvenient places because you reacted badly to something on some off-world mission, alright? I can't help you when I don't know what's wrong with you.
[She's still laughing when he tries to tell her that he was insulting her, which just makes her laugh even more. The synthehol has left her feeling far giddier than usual at this time of night, but Spock is acting looser than he normally does, so she doesn't feel too badly for being a little silly.] Oh, I know. I just choose to take it as one, so thank you.
[His hair is always so neat and tidy, like a wig, or a helmet. It's just another part of his fastidious nature that she's always come to depend on, like the fact that his boots are almost mirrored they're so polished, and that his reports are written with such exact grammar that they might as well be examples in a college textbook. When he bows his head in acknowledgement of her backwards compliment, she can see that his hair is mussed, just a little, just a few pieces lying out of order.
It's startling, and distracting.]
Well, it's a good thing we have you around then, isn't it, Mr. Spock?
[She's still laughing when he tries to tell her that he was insulting her, which just makes her laugh even more. The synthehol has left her feeling far giddier than usual at this time of night, but Spock is acting looser than he normally does, so she doesn't feel too badly for being a little silly.] Oh, I know. I just choose to take it as one, so thank you.
[His hair is always so neat and tidy, like a wig, or a helmet. It's just another part of his fastidious nature that she's always come to depend on, like the fact that his boots are almost mirrored they're so polished, and that his reports are written with such exact grammar that they might as well be examples in a college textbook. When he bows his head in acknowledgement of her backwards compliment, she can see that his hair is mussed, just a little, just a few pieces lying out of order.
It's startling, and distracting.]
Well, it's a good thing we have you around then, isn't it, Mr. Spock?
Very well, Doctor. If you insist. [ He is not one for familiarity, even with people who might not be concerned. Though he cannot see the difference between "madam" and "doctor". ] As it is unlikely that I will wind up with boils that cannot be cured by a healing trance or medication you already possess, I see no reason for concern. Besides, Dr. M'Benga has some knowledge of Vulcans, and what you cannot do, he can.
[ Spock does, actually, possess some measure of esteem for her medical expertise, but he will never say such a thing. At least, not to her face. If anything negative does impact his health, Spock knows the doctor will find a cure.
He is not going to acknowledge her thanks. Not only does he rarely acknowledge thanks, for no thanks are needed in most circumstances, her reaction is ridiculous. Thanking someone for calling them illogical. Spock does not even try to resist rolling his eyes at her.
It is a good thing he does not notice his hair is out of place. It is a distraction he would not care for, especially when the chocolate is so good and the warmth in his blood startling. ]
Indeed, it is fortunate. Were I given to idle speculation and frivolous imaginings, I would venture to say that the ship would fall apart without my guidance.
However, that is improbable. The ship cannot fall apart, Mr. Scott is most adept at keeping her repaired. And the individuals residing on the ship would likewise not fall apart literally. It is operations that would suffer.
[ Spock does, actually, possess some measure of esteem for her medical expertise, but he will never say such a thing. At least, not to her face. If anything negative does impact his health, Spock knows the doctor will find a cure.
He is not going to acknowledge her thanks. Not only does he rarely acknowledge thanks, for no thanks are needed in most circumstances, her reaction is ridiculous. Thanking someone for calling them illogical. Spock does not even try to resist rolling his eyes at her.
It is a good thing he does not notice his hair is out of place. It is a distraction he would not care for, especially when the chocolate is so good and the warmth in his blood startling. ]
Indeed, it is fortunate. Were I given to idle speculation and frivolous imaginings, I would venture to say that the ship would fall apart without my guidance.
However, that is improbable. The ship cannot fall apart, Mr. Scott is most adept at keeping her repaired. And the individuals residing on the ship would likewise not fall apart literally. It is operations that would suffer.
Spock. What did I tell you? [She arches her eyebrows pointedly at him, not even trying to hide the smile curling her lips.] And when something happens to you and Jabilo isn't around? What will you do when you're hurt and unconscious and the only sawbones around is me, with my sub-par knowledge of your biology?
[Of course she'll find a cure if something negatively affects him. She'll stay up all night for days on end, working feverishly until she figures out how to crack the code of whatever ailment is afflicting him, because she's a damn good doctor but also because he's her friend. A friend she enjoys antagonizing, but a friend nonetheless. She's lost enough friends as it is, she's not going to lose any more if she can help it.
If she were braver (drunker), she might reach out and fix his hair for him. For now, she just fiddles with a chocolate wrapper and tears her eyes away from his head.
She chuckles and then opens her mouth as if she was going to ask him something, but freezes before any sound comes out. After a slow blink, she heads in a different direction.] How old are you, anyway?
[Of course she'll find a cure if something negatively affects him. She'll stay up all night for days on end, working feverishly until she figures out how to crack the code of whatever ailment is afflicting him, because she's a damn good doctor but also because he's her friend. A friend she enjoys antagonizing, but a friend nonetheless. She's lost enough friends as it is, she's not going to lose any more if she can help it.
If she were braver (drunker), she might reach out and fix his hair for him. For now, she just fiddles with a chocolate wrapper and tears her eyes away from his head.
She chuckles and then opens her mouth as if she was going to ask him something, but freezes before any sound comes out. After a slow blink, she heads in a different direction.] How old are you, anyway?
Edited (i use people's names WAY TOO MUCH in tags whoops) 2016-06-17 22:47 (UTC)
Not to call you 'madam,' which, I will point out, I did not. [ She did not say anything against calling her doctor, and Spock lives for technicalities. ] There are resources you can access, should you need to in such a situation.
[ And while it might be easier to indulge her curiosity now, when there is no disaster, it will take more than some chocolate to get Spock to ignore a lifetime of trained reticence.
Besides, he knows the ship and her crew, and knows that no matter what the universe might throw at them, someone will find a way. And if not - well, dying in space, working along side those he considers close, is a better fate than many.
The pile of chocolate wrappers is larger than the pile of remaining chocolate by the time Spock finally stops eating the chocolate. It leaves him feeling warm and pleasant, and when she asks about his age, it's easy to answer - and explain more. ] I am thirty. It is still young in Vulcan terms, as we generally live much longer than humans.
[ And while it might be easier to indulge her curiosity now, when there is no disaster, it will take more than some chocolate to get Spock to ignore a lifetime of trained reticence.
Besides, he knows the ship and her crew, and knows that no matter what the universe might throw at them, someone will find a way. And if not - well, dying in space, working along side those he considers close, is a better fate than many.
The pile of chocolate wrappers is larger than the pile of remaining chocolate by the time Spock finally stops eating the chocolate. It leaves him feeling warm and pleasant, and when she asks about his age, it's easy to answer - and explain more. ] I am thirty. It is still young in Vulcan terms, as we generally live much longer than humans.
Edited (what is age even?) 2016-06-21 23:53 (UTC)
To call me Lenore. We're off-duty. Good lord. [She rolls her eyes at him and drains the last of her synthehol, setting the empty cup down on her half-eaten tray and then pushing the whole thing to the side so she can rest her elbow on the table surface and her chin in her palm.] You're impossible.
[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
I assure you, I am not impossible. I do exist, Lenore, and am not a figment of your imagination. [ He could not resist the raised eyebrow, or the slightest curl of his lip. ] Unless you make it a habit to imagine conversations with me when you are inebriated.
[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
You know what I mean. [She picks up one of the wrappers she's rolled into a ball and flicks it at him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again.] And my imagined conversations usually end with me winning, so. [He rarely follows the script she writes for him when she makes up conversations in her head whilst in the shower or on the treadmill, but that tends to happen with her scripted thoughts, so whatever.
She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
[ The indignity! Spock's eyes widen for a brief second as the wrapper hits his forehead, and he fishes up the wrapper, flicking it back. ] That is why they are imagined conversations, not actual.
[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
[The look on his face when she brains him with the chocolate wrapper is so indignant and shocked that she can't help the bark of laughter it forces from her lips, laughter that she immediately tries to stifle by slapping her hand over her mouth.] I'm sorry! [But he gets her back by flicking it right back at her, and somehow she finds herself returning the gesture. Are they going to play table hockey with chocolate wrappers? Maybe.] I need all the practice I can get, going up against you.
[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
[ Her apology, hardly sincere with that laughter, only gets a glare, and when that wrapper she shoots at him goes skidding off the table, he crumples up another one, flicking it back.
Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
[Lenore may have been an only child, but she's competitive enough to mean that there's no way she's going to let him best her in any sort of endeavor, and certainly not in table-top wrapper-hockey.
She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
[ The competitive nature of most of the crew is one thing that draws them together. They can work together (nearly) seamlessly, but they continue to push each other to be better, turn it into something of a competition.
Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
Death is a part of life we must learn to accept.
Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
Death is a part of life we must learn to accept.
[Bones can't help laughing, the surprised sound bubbling up out of her as he flicks wrapper after wrapper at her, scrambling a defense and then mounting her own offense strategy in order to win.
The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
That doesn't make it easy to do so.
The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
That doesn't make it easy to do so.
[ Spock is not a playful person by nature, but it might simply be that the playfulness of Vulcans is defined differently from that of humans. This certainly feels playful, even by human standards.
He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
[Lenore can be uncharacteristically playful when she's happy. She's almost surprised to find how happy she feels, sitting here with Spock, of all people, but here she is, playing table soccer with him with bits and pieces of chocolate wrappers.
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
I...did not handle it admirably.
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
I...did not handle it admirably.
[ 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. ]
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.]
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. ]
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.]
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 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. ]
[ Spock fervently does not want Jim to see him in such a state. He knows the captain and knows that he will spend the rest of their five year mission trying to escape the handful of chocolate that will be shoved at him at any given moment.
No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]
No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]
[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.]
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. ]
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.]
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.]
Page 2 of 3