i feel a sadness in my skin, it happens sometimes now (♫)
How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Time blurred when they were on the Gorn ship, trapped and sedated in darkness until they'd reached the breeding planet. It wasn't the same place La'an had been before, but she still recognized it for what it was immediately. The hot, humid atmosphere. The shadows that covered everything. The stench of blood and rotting meat in the air. She'd nearly been sick from the horror of it, but she'd pulled herself together and gotten to work.
Listen to me. If you do as I say, we can survive this. Someone will come for us. The Enterprise, her crew, someone will come. We just have to last long enough for them to find us.
Even now, with her feet firmly back on the Enterprise, she can't say if she really believed those words. All she'd really known at the time was that people needed to understand the threat they faced and hold on to even a shred of hope. Not believing you're going to die will get you killed, but so will giving up. So she'd done her best to keep that balance, stepping into a leadership role she hadn't asked for but that no one else could do.
There were hundreds of them, at the start. Starfleet personnel and colonists. Men, women, and children. Keeping everyone together was a recipe for slaughter, so they'd had to split up into smaller groups, and it had killed something inside of her every time they came across signs of those who'd been caught. By the time Captain Pike and the others finally found them, there were only 53 survivors.
George Samuel Kirk was one of them. At no point had she explained to Sam why she insisted he stay with her group, or why she'd stuck close to him during each encounter with a hatchling. He'd assumed she didn't think he could handle himself and she hadn't bothered to correct that assumption. Telling him about her mission to the past would do no one any good; he didn't need to know that in another life, he'd died and something inside his brother had broken at the loss. Even as dozens of people died around them every hour, she kept Sam safe because she couldn't bear to see the look in another Jim Kirk's eyes when he found out his brother was gone.
It had been close once, not long before they were rescued. A youngling had managed to get within reach, its sharp claws and teeth diving through the air toward Sam's chest. She'd shoved him out of the way, rolling them both to the side, but those claws had ripped through her shoulder, shredding her armor and leading to enough blood loss she'd worried she might not make it. But they'd killed the youngling, her group working together to take it down like they had others before, and they'd stemmed the blood flow before she lost consciousness.
Her injuries are all healed now. Despite the exhaustion he'd also been suffering, M'Benga had seen that every one of the survivors made it safely to his medbay, his well-trained staff checking over each of them in turn. After however many days of constant adrenaline, La'an hadn't been aware enough to insist on keeping the scars; it's made it difficult for her to process what happened when the horrific memories almost seem like terrible nightmares rather than something she actually lived through. Even now, sitting in the empty Port Galley bar while the rest of the ship is either overseeing repairs or on leave on the starbase they're docked at, her hand keeps straying to her shoulder, testing that new skin beneath her uniform. It feels wrong... but then, so does just about everything else now. It's why she's awake now when she should be sleeping; why she's drinking when she should be dreaming. Things are easier this way, and she needs easy right now.
The retreat from Parnasus Beta had been a harrowing blow to the crew. The vacuum left in the wake of that mission yawned wide and terrible, despite their scattered successes. The thought of the fates of the captured drove the survivors to distraction, Spock included. With Mr. Scott's impromptu IFF, however, they had a way to move behind enemy lines, a way to steal in and rescue those who survived long enough to be rescued.
It was a fraction of the settlers, the officers, the crew who survived. Less than a quarter, overall, who held on until the cavalry arrived.
With the absence of Lt. Ortegas, the duty of retrieval was one Spock took on readily. It had not been a simple matter, but no one who saw his shuttle was abandoned to that world. Several perished after the fact, from blood loss, from trauma, but he left none behind. He would not admit to blatant favoritism, but the Enterprise crew who survived the ordeal meant the most to him. Ortegas, George Kirk, M'Benga, and La'an--along with Christine's retrieval--their rescue, their survival gave him some measure of peace.
The loss of life was appalling, tragic, but in a distressing way, compartmentalizing it was easy. He had lost no one of personal note. His grief was abstract, removed, and lesser for it. The distance from the emotions was welcome, if not expressly healthy to indulge in. The feeling echoed with other loss, with grief he was not prepared to contend with even now.
He set it all aside.
He took no leave. The sights and sounds of the starbase seemed unappealing after the horrors of the Gorn. No, he remained and began his work incorporating their intelligence on the Gorn into the systems of the Enterprise. It was tedious, grueling, and staggeringly complex at times, but he found it gratifying. Comforting, perhaps.
When he was finally ground down to exhaustion, incapable of work, Spock retired to the nearly abandoned bar. There were, including the ensign bartending, only four people in the whole of the establishment when he arrived. He was inclined to give them their space, to salve his own frayed tapestry of emotion and be on his way, but La'an was seated at their customary table.
Spock felt the immediate, consuming need to assure himself of her health. It was irrational, this driving need to hover, but most feelings derrived from fear were.
"Lieutenant," Spock greeted as he approached, an incongruously strong drink in hand. He had not planned on whiling away time with companionable discussion. He had planned on getting innebriated and passing into an alcohol soaked (and preferrably dreamless) sleep. That was still his plan...more or less.
He just. He had to know.
She had been...delirious from blood-loss when George Kirk and Dr. M'Benga dragged her into the shuttle. Alert, impressively so, but pale and drawn in a way that he had never seen her. She had looked dead on her feet, like a shambling--what was it? Zombie? It was a gruesome sight.
Now, she was much improved.
"It is good to see you up and about," Spock said. It was small talk. While he rarely bothered, it was the only type of talk he could tolerate currently. "I take it you are sufficiently healed?"
Each life lost on the planet was a twist of the knife in her heart, but the lives lost after their rescue are the hardest to bear. It was her job to get them back safely, and even though she'd known not all of them would survive, it breaks something inside her to know they'd been so close. All she can do is hope they'd found some peace in the knowledge they were finally safe, if anything like peace can be found after living in a waking nightmare for so long.
La'an recognizes the signs of trauma for what they are, cataloging and categorizing each one. Some are new, like her desperate need for her quarters to be significantly colder than usual, but many more are familiar old friends, like the survivor's guilt. Even as she hears Dr. Sanchez in her head telling her there's nothing wrong with these reactions but those deaths weren't her fault, she still blames herself for not being fast enough, strong enough. The logical part of her knows she should be proud of saving the lives she did — but logic has no place in trauma responses.
Speaking of logic...
Spock's entrance does not go unnoticed, though she makes no outward sign of it. She's found the tiniest measure of comfort in sitting at their usual table, the familiarity feeling both incredibly strange and inescapably necessary for her sanity. And as much as she doesn't feel like talking, she finds some strange comfort in his approach as well, her hand gently rotating the glass in her grip with only a few more sips of her Old Fashioned left. The lights catch in the liquid and she looks up at the man with an expression of bone-deep weariness.
"I'm fine, Spock," she answers quietly, grief and exhaustion and emotional pain softening the usual steel in her voice. She isn't fine unless fine means absolutely terrible. "You don't need to worry about me. I received a clean bill of physical health."
Spock makes no comment as she dismisses his concerns, it is not an uncommon or even an unexpected reaction. The tactical officer is professional bordering on taciturn at the best of times. This is not the best of times, and she wears the weariness and weight of her harrowing ordeal like a shroud. Her new trauma has doubtless melded with the old, as his own still threatened to.
It is unfair to compare them, the horrors of being captive far outstrip the pain of waiting, but he cannot do otherwise.
"May I?" he asks and gestures toward one of the free chairs surrounding the empty table. La'an makes a noncommital gesture that he reads as assent and Spock sits.
He settles into the chair with an uncommon slump, allowing his perfect posture to falter and bend against the curved back of the chair. He rests his forearms on the table, his glass held loosely between the fingers of both hands. His drink could be mistaken for water. It is not. He has forgone mixers in favor of expedience.
Her drink is nearly consumed, she will doubtless retire soon.
"If you would indulge me?" Spock requests in a tone that is neutral, standard for him, but not much louder in volume than her own dismissal. "I find it has become...challenging for me to ignore the impulse to hover."
Spock doesn't bother trying to disguise the assessing look he levels at her. He does not assess quickly, he is quite exhausted.
"I assure you," he adds as he lifts his glass. "I will do my utmost to avoid prying. It is not my intention to..."
He is at a loss momentarily, his glass raised, and his vision drifts to the middle distance as he searches for the term.
"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable--offend. I do not wish to offend."
The drink he takes is considerable, he grimaces just so as he lowers his glass once more.
It's only because of who he is that she doesn't refuse his request or beg off by simply finishing her drink and excusing herself. Because this is Spock. Aside from Una, no one else on the Enterprise has seen her as vulnerable, and there's certainly no one who so deeply understands the pain and fear she experienced during her time on the breeding planet when she was a child. He'd been inside one of her worst memories, he'd felt her overwhelming emotions, and he'd helped her despite the psychological risk to himself.
There are plenty of humans aboard their ship who find Vulcan logic and mannerisms to be annoying at best. As much as Starfleet teaches respect and acceptance of all species, that doesn't mean they all have to like each other as well — except she does like Spock. She's always appreciated his perspective on things, particularly how he can be convinced to change his mind if given the proper logical argument, unlike many full-blooded humans.
But above all of that is the fact that he cares. He might not always show it in ways that are easily discerned, but she sees it now. It's in the way he hovers. In the look he gives her. In the struggle to find the right words. There's a reason he's drinking tonight and it isn't in celebration.
"I don't offend easily," she assures him gently, not wanting to hurt him with an overly dismissive or flippant response. He might often wear the emotionless mask of a Vulcan, but she's seen his human side and knows he feels as deeply as any of them. She eyes his glass before taking a sip from her own, the mix of bitter and sweet sitting on her tongue. "I would ask if you're alright, but the answer to that question seems fairly obvious."
"I am not," Spock confirms in a way that would seem jarringly casual for anyone else. There is no merit in obfuscation. "As I expect you are not." It is said wholly without judgement, as one might speculate on the weather or describe the amount of salt present in a cooked dish. Simple fact.
"However, in my case at least, sufficient sleep will do a great deal to rectify that."
Hence his beverage.
There were few people aboard who were wont to be as blunt as he was. She is one of them. There is some comfort in speaking with someone who doesn't interpret Vulcan mannerisms as slights. He will do her the courtesy of presenting himself plainly. It is a courtesy that is usually reserved for his immediate nuclear family.
He tries not to ruminate on that too deeply.
Small talk is merited, now, if only to soften the edges of the injurious thoughts that plague them both.
"I have spent...I believe it is thirty six hours, now, writing protocols into the ship's sensor arrays. The Enterprise will shortly have a bespoke security runtime dedicated to detection and quarantine of the Gorn."
Shortly, presuming sleep would permit him to see straight. Reading the walls of code had become troublesome. His gaze drifts from his drink back up to La'an. She is remarkably improved. That helps.
"I will need your authorization to add the command interface to the tactical console," he adds and takes a deep breath. It leaves him slowly. It is not a sigh, but only just. "At your leisure, of course."
No, she most certainly is not okay, and no amount of sleep will be able to change that. She can still hear the screaming. The crying. The clicking. She still watches the corners for hatchlings skittering just out of sight, and still flinches internally when someone moves too quickly. These are all things she'd struggled with as a child, too, except now she knows just how people will look at you if they know about those struggles.
The child has sustained, in the words of the examining physician, 'substantial and heavy physical, emotional and psychological trauma and it would be a miracle if the child were to recover to a functional level.' Those were the words written in her file, the words read by every commanding officer she served under. It wasn't until her time with Christopher Pike that she finally had a captain accept her story as fact rather than the fiction of a traumatized child's mind. Not that any of them had outright called her a liar or argued with her; they'd accepted Starfleet's designation of her account being unconfirmed and based their assumptions upon that designation.
Chris and the rest of the crew believed her then, and she trusts them not to judge her now if they see the outward signs of her trauma, but she cannot allow them to see just how broken she is after this latest encounter with the Gorn. The crew need her to be strong; she needs to be their steady rock in a storm, just as she had been on the planet. It's a burden she's willing to bear for the others, even if it may ultimately be at her own expense.
But with Spock... She appreciates how blunt he is, and whether it can be attributed to his logic-forward Vulcan thinking or something that is wholely himself, she knows that he doesn't need her to be that figure of strength and hope. With Spock, she can consider letting her walls down — just a little. Except they fall more than that little bit when he reveals just what it is that's kept him awake. Something in her relaxes and her muscles visibly lose tension as the ramification of what he's done slowly sinks in.
"You'll have it first thing," she assures him a little breathlessly, the words coming out automatically as relief threatens to overwhelm her. Her expression shifts, a range of emotions flitting across her face before that relief takes a dominant place, though pain threatens at the edges.
"Spock, what you've done, I—" La'an usually tries to keep her emotions in check, but this news threatens to break the carefully constructed dam holding her together the past few days. Finally, there's only one thing she can think to say, the words tighter than they should be: "Thank you. This will change everything."
When he was a boy, he had been afraid of the dark. For a myriad of nonsensical reasons that all amounted to loneliness and hurt. He had struggled with that for many years; with a child's understanding of the world he was unable to parse the motivating factors from the resulting emotion. Michael had helped him, in her way, until their schism put that to its end. He recalled, with some painful measure of fondness, how frequently she forgot to extinguish the lights, how she would make excuses to open his door to the brightness of the hall. How she would complain about the sounds of wind or thunder and climb into his bed because his room was ostensibly quieter.
Spock could no more protect the crew from the spectre of the Gorn than his sister could protect him from the night itself, but there was much to be said for leaving the hall light on.
He had expected some small measure of relief from La'an, perhaps barely perceptible. That had been his goal. His enhancements were, quite probably, not sufficient for combat, they were untested, but expertly crafted in every way he knew how to. La'an's reaction is considerably stronger than his predictions, however, and Spock feels some nameless discomfort tangled in his chest start to unwind.
"It is the least I can do," Spock demurs as her expression becomes fragile.
He does her the courtesy of not seeing, she is as private in her emotions as he is, and instead glances down to his drink. The second mouthful is no more or less pleasant than the first, but that is not unexpected. It is not a recreational beverage. His own throat is unexpectedly tight as he swallows.
It occurs to him, not for the first time, that La'an's steadfast variety of stoicism reminds him of Michael's.
"May I--" It is a false start, a request he should not make caught a moment too late. Spock frowns as, instead of speaking, he lifts his glass and downs the remaining mouthful. The burn and upset of the alcohol moving down his throat provide him a moment to think, but in his exhaustion his mind moves slowly. He lowers his empty glass and ends up nearly scowling at the tabletop for a moment before he remembers himself.
"Nevermind, it is not of consequence," Spock dismisses his aborted request and rests his empty glass on the table. He will take it with him when he leaves, now he must simply regain the will to stand and walk. It will take him a moment to marshall that energy from his depleted reserves.
He circles back, once more, to small talk.
"Have you traveled to the station during our time in dock?"
Edited (Skipped a word ;A;) 2023-09-17 19:36 (UTC)
What he's done might be small in the grand scheme of things, but here on the ship with hundreds of crew members who have been personally affected by their encounter, even the smallest acts can have a massive impact. People need hope to get them through the worst times. Chris taught her that, back during their first shared encounter with the Gorn. It's a lesson that helped her keep those 53 people alive down on that horrific planet, and it'll be confirmed again with this gift Spock has given them all.
The almost question followed by that look he briefly wears gives her pause. It seems unusual for Spock to step back like that, which likely means whatever he'd been about to say is more personal or emotional in nature. She's not surprised when he shifts the conversation, but it doesn't brush aside her curiosity.
"No, I haven't. I feel..." Her voice trails off and she leans back in her chair, her eyes on the table as she tries to find the words. There are so many she could say, but the question is should she say them at all? Finally, after a long gap of silence, she finishes, "Safer on the Enterprise."
There's no reason the ship should feel any safer than the station. The Gorn haven't ventured this far into Federation space yet, so the odds of them attacking here are exceptionally low, but she still can't shake that feeling. This ship is her home, the only one she's had since she was a child, and all she wants to do is hide away within its halls until she stops searching the ceiling for hatchlings reading to pounce.
She should follow his line of small talk. It's clear that he's rethought whatever he was planning to ask her, so she should respect that and let it go. Instead, she looks at him with her own physical and emotional exhaustion on full display and tells him softly, "You can ask me anything, Spock. And you can ask anything of me. If it's not something I can give, I'll be honest about that."
Her answer is to be expected and, despite the sparse wording of it, Spock takes her entire meaning. He does not fill the intervening silence with additional words, settling instead into the vague, distracted space afforded to those waiting, listening in conversation. It is not quite a meditative state, but neither is it otherwise.
Traditionally, in exchages like this, the onus of the next inanity alternates. Spock has no preference between continuing or permitting the conversation to lapse in extended silence. Being present with someone, particularly with La'an who had concerned him so considerably, is sufficient. When she looks back at him, he expects an easy comment, a continuation of their small talk, but she surprises him.
He cannot pretend he has not seen the way she sags, the way the light catches on the drawn places in her expression. Her statement is direct and cuts to the core of his concerns so efficiently that he finds himself torn between appreciation and the strong desire to recoil. His own slip was inelegant, as too is the way his expression tightens at her assurance. It is reflex and he is too tired to suppress it.
She deserves his candor.
She is his friend, she will understand.
Spock draws a long slow breath and then speaks.
"It was an inappropriate request," Spock tells her quietly. They were not being listened to, but this too is reflex. He maintains eye contact as he continues. "I intended to request--"
He has to pause here, the words don't align in Standard as they do in his head. There is implication where none is intended, regardless of how he frames it.
"In times of intense duress, when I cannot achieve sleep or meditate effectively, the remaining solution is company. I wished to ask for your company in bed."
He holds her gaze a moment longer and lets out a short sigh.
"It isn't inappropriate," she replies before she's even properly processed how she feels about the said request. It's the most important thing she can say, offering him reassurance that she won't judge him poorly for giving voice to what he needs, and certainly not for asking it of her. If anything, she's honored that he trusts her enough to put himself in such a vulnerable position with her, both in the asking and in the potential act itself.
But how does she feel about the idea? It's an unusual one, certainly. She hasn't shared a bed with anyone in... too many years. This isn't even like that, though. They're colleagues, friends, looking for solace in the presence of someone else who understands and won't judge them for the way they're processing all they've endured. So really, how she feels about it is easy to decipher. Whether she'll be able to explain it properly is the real question.
"I don't know how Vulcans deal with trauma, but given that you're half human, I'm guessing at least some of our coping mechanisms are the same," she says carefully after some thought, deciding that common ground is the best place to start. "I don't have any desire to be around a crowd of people I don't know right now, but being with a friend I trust, someone who won't push me to be okay when I'm not..."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before shrugging slightly and finishing the last of her drink. Then she slowly stands, her body stiff and heavy with exhaustion, and reaches over with her free hand to pick up his empty glass.
La'an surprises him again. To do so twice in such quick succession is impressive. That, or it is a scathing indictment of his current mental faculties. He will assume it is the former, both because it is more likely and preserves both their dignity. She takes his glass from his loose grip and unexpectedly agrees to his request.
For several seconds, Spock's relief plays across his face and then he inclines his head.
Standing is an endeavor. It is made all the more difficult after the meager comfort of the bar chair, but Spock manages it. The appeal of having someone nearby, of another warm body in sleep, a trusted friend, is considerable. The promise of the deep rest that comes from such circumstances keeps him up and moving, but his exhaustion has paired quite well with the liquor he's imbibed. He is soundly intoxicated. He doesn't sway as he walks, but his gait is much looser and less formal as they exit the bar.
La'an falls into step alongside him as he turns toward his quarters. He doesn't need to offer verbal confirmation of the destination, she likely knows where all the senior staff quarters are by memory. But as they walk through empty corridors without so much as the sounds of crew to break the silence, Spock feels the strange inclination to explain himself. It's not something La'an has asked for, nor would she, but it feels oddly prudent.
In dry dock, at least, he can be certain that the internal sensors are inactive and that he shall not be recorded.
"Are you aware that I have a sister?" Spock asks and catches himself before he calls her Lieutenant. They are not on duty and he is relaying this in spite of their positions, not due to them. "Or, perhaps, the operative verb should be: had."
The glasses are dropped off with the bartender who gratefully accepts them, glad to have something to do with so few people in the Port Galley. She stays close to Spock as they make their way out of the bar, keeping him within arm's reach just in case he does start to suddenly wobble. He could hold his alcohol fairly well compared to most humans, even when drinking something as potent as Klingon bloodwine, but it had been clear from the way he'd been drinking that there was a purpose behind his intoxication. Now, given his request, she thinks she can understand part of that purpose.
It seems he intends to explain the other part of it for her, satisfying a curiosity she wouldn't have given voice to on her own. Her heart aches when he asks his question, the pain growing stronger at his clarification. The grief over a lost sibling is one she knows well, having carried the sorrow for her lost brother for the past two decades. But while she has had the time to learn how to carry that pain, she has a distinct feeling that his pain is much more recent.
"I recall having that impression during our mind meld, though I wasn't made aware of any specifics." She finds it difficult to put the answer into words, particularly when they haven't spoken of that event since. What he did for her helped save them all, but it put them both in a vulnerable position very early in their working relationship. "I've often wondered, but I never felt it was my place to ask about something so personal."
He remembers, very distinctly, what La'an heard from his mind during that meld. The reciprocal feeling, the moment of loss, had risen from him unbidden as he witnessed its emotional twin within her memory. They had not been friends then and he had reacted strongly, ending the meld before any further information could jeapordize the secrecy surrounding the fate of Discovery.
Spock is far more familiar with La'an now and, knowing her as he does, he is not surprised she has retained the impression of that moment. Most human minds would have lost that information, failing to grasp it like the transitional moments of a dream, but La'an is...resiliant in a way that few humans are. Even within the meld, she had recalled his official records, redacted as they were.
"Her name was Michael Burnham," Spock finds himself speaking, without conscious thought intervening to prevent it. The ship around them is silent as they walk, still and empty, all sensors deactivated.
La'an will know the name, he has no doubt. Spock and Michael's schism had made it simple to redact her from his records and vice versa, but omitting her history with Starfleet was impossible. Michael would be forever remembered as the first mutineer in the history of Starfleet and as the primary instigator of the Klingon War. While she was commended and her record expunged at the end of hostilities, officially, he is aware of how she is regarded.
The situation surrounding Michael is complicated on many levels, not the least of which being the heavy involvement of time travel. He has done well to keep the confidence of her whereabouts, but the nature of the redactions weigh upon him more as time progresses. While Spock is capable of lying, he is neither fond of it nor prone to it. This lie has meant foregoing any symbolic recognition of his loss, however small, and it is a weight that the scattered officers who knew the truth could not relate to.
He had not even been granted a Discovery remembrance token.
While he is expert in the art of compartmentalization, that first brush with the Gorn and this most recent encounter, each laden with a similar vein of open-ended loss, has erroded the foundations of his carefully constructed emotional walls. It is untoward of him to speak to her about this, knowing what he does of her mind, knowing the overall risk involved, but there is no one else aboard who can begin to understand.
"The official record lists her as a casualty of combat. While the date on the record has been formally redacted, along with the bulk of her information, she was lost on on stardate 1207.1."
It is hard to accurately capture anniversaries while traversing space, but this one has passed once and is due again shortly. When he had melded with her, the loss of Michael had been a very fresh wound, weeks old at most.
"I am forbidden, by the regulations regarding classified incidents and multiple, extenuating factors, from speaking about her or her loss with anyone," Spock admitted as they walked. "My family...our family included."
Given all La'an has endured in her relatively short lifetime, it really is impressive that she has the mental fortitude she does. Her public record may not include the analysis of the physician who saw her when she was rescued by the King, Jr, but every captain she's served under has had access to that part of her history. Each of them was privy to the knowledge that she had "substantial and heavy physical, emotional and psychological trauma and it would be a miracle if the child were to recover to a functional level."
A miracle — or sheer force of will. Once she put herself back together with no small amount of help from Una, La'an focused all her energy on earning a place in Starfleet, and once she'd done that, on becoming the best officer she could be. That meant knowing her fellow officers as well as, if not better than they knew themselves.
Spock has been... a challenge in that regard. He's as guarded with his secrets as she is, and even more so with his emotions. For him to open up like this to her feels monumental. This is a crossroads in their friendship and she needs to treat this show of trust with the respect it deserves. So she listens, keeping her reactions carefully controlled until she has all the information he intends to give her.
Michael Burnham. Of course, she knows that name; she would be surprised if anyone in Starfleet didn't recognize the name of someone nearly as infamous as La'an's ancestor. But they aren't speaking of a criminal right now — the person in question is Spock's family. That kind of loss is one she understands all too well, and not being able to speak of one's grief is something she is also intimately familiar with.
"Being forbidden from speaking of the loss of someone is something I unfortunately understand," she shares after a moment of weighing exactly how much she could or should divulge. "To not even be able to share it with your family, though... I can only imagine how difficult that is for you."
The closest comparison she has is Una, who is the closest she's had to family since she lost hers two decades ago. Not being able to confide in the older woman has threatened to tear La'an apart more than once, and she can't see it getting any easier with time.
"I thought you might," Spock says and the implication in that is an admission in and of itself. He had thought about how she could relate. He had considered telling her this before now and had decided, with the silence of drydock and the bravery granted by alcohol, to finally make it so. That he doesn't regret breaking his silence is an immediate relief--La'an listens carefully, intentionally, and gives a measured response. The tangle of emotion in Spock's chest feels looser as she does.
He makes no comment on the difficulty with his family. He will not seek sympathy from La'an for the rift between himself and his father, exacerbated by his mandatory silence. That his father still lives and is capable of being disappointed in him is a far cry more than she has.
"I could not aid Michael in any constructive way, not until the end of our time together," Spock continues.
He speaks slowly, not out of reluctance or exhaustion, but rather unfamiliarity. He is on uncertain footing explaining this, his feelings, his motivations, so that someone else might understand. He aims for precision but the subject itself is, by its very nature, ephemeral. They are nearing the end of their travels and Spock, inexplicably, wants to express this before they do.
Accepting the comfort she has agreed to provide feels close to deception if he omits this facet of his thinking.
"You...remind me a great deal of her," Spock says and keeps his eyes trained ahead. He sounds as uncomfortable speaking that aloud as he has ever sounded aboard the Enterprise. "That is, I expect, why--"
His brow creases as he thinks. His mind refuses to supply the right words and the bravery granted by alcohol does not make him more coherent overall. He cannot help but conjure the memory of how she had looked, bloodless and ailing, when she was pulled onto his shuttle. He can't begin to explain the weight of open-ended horror, but that is a tangible fear that has been righted.
They arrive at his door before Spock can complete his thought. He abandons it in favor of a more succinct sentiment when he finally looks at her again. His expression shifts, in that moment, to something more honest than he intends--it is a shade of relief that falls along the border with gratitude.
"I am glad to see you recovered, insofar as you have," he says finally. The sentiment is one she knows already, he'd told her as much when he first intruded on her solitude. Repeating it is illogical--and yet, the full context of his regard may explain his actions where his words have otherwise failed him.
Is it the alcohol impacting his ability to find his words, or is he simply struggling the way most do when faced with difficult situations and powerful emotions? Whichever it is, she waits just as patiently for him to find his way around those barriers, and when he finally does, she takes a moment to process all he's said before replying.
"I take it as a compliment that I remind you of her," she tells him, her expression and tone softening to show her sincerity. "I can tell she means a great deal to you."
Present tense, because the love of a sibling never fades. After two decades, Manu is still with her. She might not remember the sound of his laugh or the way he'd looked as he bravely defended her from bullies, but she recalls the warmth of his hugs and how safe she felt with him. It is a terrible thing to have such a loss in common, but already she feels closer to Spock and like she is better able to understand him by just that slightest bit.
"And if our friendship can provide you comfort while you process all of this..." Her voice trails off as she now struggles to find the right words to explain what she's trying to say. Talking about her feelings isn't something La'an is particularly adept at, though she has learned how to better examine them through her therapy sessions, which have already been scheduled to resume in the coming weeks.
"Your friendship means a great deal to me, Spock," she admits quietly, her voice barely carrying through the empty hall, "and I'm grateful you weren't down on the planet when we were taken. I've already lost too many people I care about."
The sentiment La'an grants him is similar, reciprocal, and Spock takes her meaning as it is intended. He doesn't agree aloud, but inclines his head just slightly as he lets silence settle following the end of her admission. Friendship does not come easily to either of them and Spock is momentarily wary to shatter this moment. His wariness passes, however, as he has to snuff out the urge to yawn.
"Please," Spock says and palms the controls on the wall. The door to his quarters opens promptly and the low, reserve lighting kicks on within. Door open, he gestures for La'an to enter. "After you."
His quarters are surprisingly well decorated. Considering his usual lack of ornamentation or affect, the hanging landscape images, sculpture, and tapestry seem almost jarringly gauche. He clearly prefers the color orange and coppery gold fabric with geometric embroidery. It is a deeply Vulcan aesthetic and, fortunately, lends itself well to halflight.
Beyond the decorations, Spock's room is the mirror of any other Lieutenant's. It is the same template and orientation as her own, though Spock had no way of knowing that. Once La'an enters, he follows after, stepping through and closing the door in his wake. It seals and locks by default, as is Spock's preference. He doubts she would prefer otherwise.
Now that he is within the confines of his own quarters, Spock finds the challenge of maintaining his posture and composure insurmountable. He slouches just slightly as the formality bleeds out of him, his movements made easy and loose by the combination of alcohol and privacy. He considers the wardrobe by the facilities and decides, all at once, that changing out of his uniform requires far too much effort.
"Do you require any accomodations?" Spock asks as he moves and drops down on the end of his bed, sitting as he removes his boots. He will, of course, rise and acquire anything she requests, he is not an inept host, but he takes the moment to savor the comfort of his mattress.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
some feelings don't fade away.
no subject
It was a fraction of the settlers, the officers, the crew who survived. Less than a quarter, overall, who held on until the cavalry arrived.
With the absence of Lt. Ortegas, the duty of retrieval was one Spock took on readily. It had not been a simple matter, but no one who saw his shuttle was abandoned to that world. Several perished after the fact, from blood loss, from trauma, but he left none behind. He would not admit to blatant favoritism, but the Enterprise crew who survived the ordeal meant the most to him. Ortegas, George Kirk, M'Benga, and La'an--along with Christine's retrieval--their rescue, their survival gave him some measure of peace.
The loss of life was appalling, tragic, but in a distressing way, compartmentalizing it was easy. He had lost no one of personal note. His grief was abstract, removed, and lesser for it. The distance from the emotions was welcome, if not expressly healthy to indulge in. The feeling echoed with other loss, with grief he was not prepared to contend with even now.
He set it all aside.
He took no leave. The sights and sounds of the starbase seemed unappealing after the horrors of the Gorn. No, he remained and began his work incorporating their intelligence on the Gorn into the systems of the Enterprise. It was tedious, grueling, and staggeringly complex at times, but he found it gratifying. Comforting, perhaps.
When he was finally ground down to exhaustion, incapable of work, Spock retired to the nearly abandoned bar. There were, including the ensign bartending, only four people in the whole of the establishment when he arrived. He was inclined to give them their space, to salve his own frayed tapestry of emotion and be on his way, but La'an was seated at their customary table.
Spock felt the immediate, consuming need to assure himself of her health. It was irrational, this driving need to hover, but most feelings derrived from fear were.
"Lieutenant," Spock greeted as he approached, an incongruously strong drink in hand. He had not planned on whiling away time with companionable discussion. He had planned on getting innebriated and passing into an alcohol soaked (and preferrably dreamless) sleep. That was still his plan...more or less.
He just. He had to know.
She had been...delirious from blood-loss when George Kirk and Dr. M'Benga dragged her into the shuttle. Alert, impressively so, but pale and drawn in a way that he had never seen her. She had looked dead on her feet, like a shambling--what was it? Zombie? It was a gruesome sight.
Now, she was much improved.
"It is good to see you up and about," Spock said. It was small talk. While he rarely bothered, it was the only type of talk he could tolerate currently. "I take it you are sufficiently healed?"
no subject
La'an recognizes the signs of trauma for what they are, cataloging and categorizing each one. Some are new, like her desperate need for her quarters to be significantly colder than usual, but many more are familiar old friends, like the survivor's guilt. Even as she hears Dr. Sanchez in her head telling her there's nothing wrong with these reactions but those deaths weren't her fault, she still blames herself for not being fast enough, strong enough. The logical part of her knows she should be proud of saving the lives she did — but logic has no place in trauma responses.
Speaking of logic...
Spock's entrance does not go unnoticed, though she makes no outward sign of it. She's found the tiniest measure of comfort in sitting at their usual table, the familiarity feeling both incredibly strange and inescapably necessary for her sanity. And as much as she doesn't feel like talking, she finds some strange comfort in his approach as well, her hand gently rotating the glass in her grip with only a few more sips of her Old Fashioned left. The lights catch in the liquid and she looks up at the man with an expression of bone-deep weariness.
"I'm fine, Spock," she answers quietly, grief and exhaustion and emotional pain softening the usual steel in her voice. She isn't fine unless fine means absolutely terrible. "You don't need to worry about me. I received a clean bill of physical health."
I hope this minor godmod is okay.
It is unfair to compare them, the horrors of being captive far outstrip the pain of waiting, but he cannot do otherwise.
"May I?" he asks and gestures toward one of the free chairs surrounding the empty table. La'an makes a noncommital gesture that he reads as assent and Spock sits.
He settles into the chair with an uncommon slump, allowing his perfect posture to falter and bend against the curved back of the chair. He rests his forearms on the table, his glass held loosely between the fingers of both hands. His drink could be mistaken for water. It is not. He has forgone mixers in favor of expedience.
Her drink is nearly consumed, she will doubtless retire soon.
"If you would indulge me?" Spock requests in a tone that is neutral, standard for him, but not much louder in volume than her own dismissal. "I find it has become...challenging for me to ignore the impulse to hover."
Spock doesn't bother trying to disguise the assessing look he levels at her. He does not assess quickly, he is quite exhausted.
"I assure you," he adds as he lifts his glass. "I will do my utmost to avoid prying. It is not my intention to..."
He is at a loss momentarily, his glass raised, and his vision drifts to the middle distance as he searches for the term.
"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable--offend. I do not wish to offend."
The drink he takes is considerable, he grimaces just so as he lowers his glass once more.
a-okay!
There are plenty of humans aboard their ship who find Vulcan logic and mannerisms to be annoying at best. As much as Starfleet teaches respect and acceptance of all species, that doesn't mean they all have to like each other as well — except she does like Spock. She's always appreciated his perspective on things, particularly how he can be convinced to change his mind if given the proper logical argument, unlike many full-blooded humans.
But above all of that is the fact that he cares. He might not always show it in ways that are easily discerned, but she sees it now. It's in the way he hovers. In the look he gives her. In the struggle to find the right words. There's a reason he's drinking tonight and it isn't in celebration.
"I don't offend easily," she assures him gently, not wanting to hurt him with an overly dismissive or flippant response. He might often wear the emotionless mask of a Vulcan, but she's seen his human side and knows he feels as deeply as any of them. She eyes his glass before taking a sip from her own, the mix of bitter and sweet sitting on her tongue. "I would ask if you're alright, but the answer to that question seems fairly obvious."
no subject
"However, in my case at least, sufficient sleep will do a great deal to rectify that."
Hence his beverage.
There were few people aboard who were wont to be as blunt as he was. She is one of them. There is some comfort in speaking with someone who doesn't interpret Vulcan mannerisms as slights. He will do her the courtesy of presenting himself plainly. It is a courtesy that is usually reserved for his immediate nuclear family.
He tries not to ruminate on that too deeply.
Small talk is merited, now, if only to soften the edges of the injurious thoughts that plague them both.
"I have spent...I believe it is thirty six hours, now, writing protocols into the ship's sensor arrays. The Enterprise will shortly have a bespoke security runtime dedicated to detection and quarantine of the Gorn."
Shortly, presuming sleep would permit him to see straight. Reading the walls of code had become troublesome. His gaze drifts from his drink back up to La'an. She is remarkably improved. That helps.
"I will need your authorization to add the command interface to the tactical console," he adds and takes a deep breath. It leaves him slowly. It is not a sigh, but only just. "At your leisure, of course."
no subject
The child has sustained, in the words of the examining physician, 'substantial and heavy physical, emotional and psychological trauma and it would be a miracle if the child were to recover to a functional level.' Those were the words written in her file, the words read by every commanding officer she served under. It wasn't until her time with Christopher Pike that she finally had a captain accept her story as fact rather than the fiction of a traumatized child's mind. Not that any of them had outright called her a liar or argued with her; they'd accepted Starfleet's designation of her account being unconfirmed and based their assumptions upon that designation.
Chris and the rest of the crew believed her then, and she trusts them not to judge her now if they see the outward signs of her trauma, but she cannot allow them to see just how broken she is after this latest encounter with the Gorn. The crew need her to be strong; she needs to be their steady rock in a storm, just as she had been on the planet. It's a burden she's willing to bear for the others, even if it may ultimately be at her own expense.
But with Spock... She appreciates how blunt he is, and whether it can be attributed to his logic-forward Vulcan thinking or something that is wholely himself, she knows that he doesn't need her to be that figure of strength and hope. With Spock, she can consider letting her walls down — just a little. Except they fall more than that little bit when he reveals just what it is that's kept him awake. Something in her relaxes and her muscles visibly lose tension as the ramification of what he's done slowly sinks in.
"You'll have it first thing," she assures him a little breathlessly, the words coming out automatically as relief threatens to overwhelm her. Her expression shifts, a range of emotions flitting across her face before that relief takes a dominant place, though pain threatens at the edges.
"Spock, what you've done, I—" La'an usually tries to keep her emotions in check, but this news threatens to break the carefully constructed dam holding her together the past few days. Finally, there's only one thing she can think to say, the words tighter than they should be: "Thank you. This will change everything."
For the Enterprise. And for her.
no subject
Spock could no more protect the crew from the spectre of the Gorn than his sister could protect him from the night itself, but there was much to be said for leaving the hall light on.
He had expected some small measure of relief from La'an, perhaps barely perceptible. That had been his goal. His enhancements were, quite probably, not sufficient for combat, they were untested, but expertly crafted in every way he knew how to. La'an's reaction is considerably stronger than his predictions, however, and Spock feels some nameless discomfort tangled in his chest start to unwind.
"It is the least I can do," Spock demurs as her expression becomes fragile.
He does her the courtesy of not seeing, she is as private in her emotions as he is, and instead glances down to his drink. The second mouthful is no more or less pleasant than the first, but that is not unexpected. It is not a recreational beverage. His own throat is unexpectedly tight as he swallows.
It occurs to him, not for the first time, that La'an's steadfast variety of stoicism reminds him of Michael's.
"May I--" It is a false start, a request he should not make caught a moment too late. Spock frowns as, instead of speaking, he lifts his glass and downs the remaining mouthful. The burn and upset of the alcohol moving down his throat provide him a moment to think, but in his exhaustion his mind moves slowly. He lowers his empty glass and ends up nearly scowling at the tabletop for a moment before he remembers himself.
"Nevermind, it is not of consequence," Spock dismisses his aborted request and rests his empty glass on the table. He will take it with him when he leaves, now he must simply regain the will to stand and walk. It will take him a moment to marshall that energy from his depleted reserves.
He circles back, once more, to small talk.
"Have you traveled to the station during our time in dock?"
after an age and a half...
The almost question followed by that look he briefly wears gives her pause. It seems unusual for Spock to step back like that, which likely means whatever he'd been about to say is more personal or emotional in nature. She's not surprised when he shifts the conversation, but it doesn't brush aside her curiosity.
"No, I haven't. I feel..." Her voice trails off and she leans back in her chair, her eyes on the table as she tries to find the words. There are so many she could say, but the question is should she say them at all? Finally, after a long gap of silence, she finishes, "Safer on the Enterprise."
There's no reason the ship should feel any safer than the station. The Gorn haven't ventured this far into Federation space yet, so the odds of them attacking here are exceptionally low, but she still can't shake that feeling. This ship is her home, the only one she's had since she was a child, and all she wants to do is hide away within its halls until she stops searching the ceiling for hatchlings reading to pounce.
She should follow his line of small talk. It's clear that he's rethought whatever he was planning to ask her, so she should respect that and let it go. Instead, she looks at him with her own physical and emotional exhaustion on full display and tells him softly, "You can ask me anything, Spock. And you can ask anything of me. If it's not something I can give, I'll be honest about that."
YAY!
Traditionally, in exchages like this, the onus of the next inanity alternates. Spock has no preference between continuing or permitting the conversation to lapse in extended silence. Being present with someone, particularly with La'an who had concerned him so considerably, is sufficient. When she looks back at him, he expects an easy comment, a continuation of their small talk, but she surprises him.
He cannot pretend he has not seen the way she sags, the way the light catches on the drawn places in her expression. Her statement is direct and cuts to the core of his concerns so efficiently that he finds himself torn between appreciation and the strong desire to recoil. His own slip was inelegant, as too is the way his expression tightens at her assurance. It is reflex and he is too tired to suppress it.
She deserves his candor.
She is his friend, she will understand.
Spock draws a long slow breath and then speaks.
"It was an inappropriate request," Spock tells her quietly. They were not being listened to, but this too is reflex. He maintains eye contact as he continues. "I intended to request--"
He has to pause here, the words don't align in Standard as they do in his head. There is implication where none is intended, regardless of how he frames it.
"In times of intense duress, when I cannot achieve sleep or meditate effectively, the remaining solution is company. I wished to ask for your company in bed."
He holds her gaze a moment longer and lets out a short sigh.
"As I stated: it was an inappropriate request."
yay indeed!
But how does she feel about the idea? It's an unusual one, certainly. She hasn't shared a bed with anyone in... too many years. This isn't even like that, though. They're colleagues, friends, looking for solace in the presence of someone else who understands and won't judge them for the way they're processing all they've endured. So really, how she feels about it is easy to decipher. Whether she'll be able to explain it properly is the real question.
"I don't know how Vulcans deal with trauma, but given that you're half human, I'm guessing at least some of our coping mechanisms are the same," she says carefully after some thought, deciding that common ground is the best place to start. "I don't have any desire to be around a crowd of people I don't know right now, but being with a friend I trust, someone who won't push me to be okay when I'm not..."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before shrugging slightly and finishing the last of her drink. Then she slowly stands, her body stiff and heavy with exhaustion, and reaches over with her free hand to pick up his empty glass.
"I could use the company too."
no subject
For several seconds, Spock's relief plays across his face and then he inclines his head.
Standing is an endeavor. It is made all the more difficult after the meager comfort of the bar chair, but Spock manages it. The appeal of having someone nearby, of another warm body in sleep, a trusted friend, is considerable. The promise of the deep rest that comes from such circumstances keeps him up and moving, but his exhaustion has paired quite well with the liquor he's imbibed. He is soundly intoxicated. He doesn't sway as he walks, but his gait is much looser and less formal as they exit the bar.
La'an falls into step alongside him as he turns toward his quarters. He doesn't need to offer verbal confirmation of the destination, she likely knows where all the senior staff quarters are by memory. But as they walk through empty corridors without so much as the sounds of crew to break the silence, Spock feels the strange inclination to explain himself. It's not something La'an has asked for, nor would she, but it feels oddly prudent.
In dry dock, at least, he can be certain that the internal sensors are inactive and that he shall not be recorded.
"Are you aware that I have a sister?" Spock asks and catches himself before he calls her Lieutenant. They are not on duty and he is relaying this in spite of their positions, not due to them. "Or, perhaps, the operative verb should be: had."
no subject
It seems he intends to explain the other part of it for her, satisfying a curiosity she wouldn't have given voice to on her own. Her heart aches when he asks his question, the pain growing stronger at his clarification. The grief over a lost sibling is one she knows well, having carried the sorrow for her lost brother for the past two decades. But while she has had the time to learn how to carry that pain, she has a distinct feeling that his pain is much more recent.
"I recall having that impression during our mind meld, though I wasn't made aware of any specifics." She finds it difficult to put the answer into words, particularly when they haven't spoken of that event since. What he did for her helped save them all, but it put them both in a vulnerable position very early in their working relationship. "I've often wondered, but I never felt it was my place to ask about something so personal."
no subject
Spock is far more familiar with La'an now and, knowing her as he does, he is not surprised she has retained the impression of that moment. Most human minds would have lost that information, failing to grasp it like the transitional moments of a dream, but La'an is...resiliant in a way that few humans are. Even within the meld, she had recalled his official records, redacted as they were.
"Her name was Michael Burnham," Spock finds himself speaking, without conscious thought intervening to prevent it. The ship around them is silent as they walk, still and empty, all sensors deactivated.
La'an will know the name, he has no doubt. Spock and Michael's schism had made it simple to redact her from his records and vice versa, but omitting her history with Starfleet was impossible. Michael would be forever remembered as the first mutineer in the history of Starfleet and as the primary instigator of the Klingon War. While she was commended and her record expunged at the end of hostilities, officially, he is aware of how she is regarded.
The situation surrounding Michael is complicated on many levels, not the least of which being the heavy involvement of time travel. He has done well to keep the confidence of her whereabouts, but the nature of the redactions weigh upon him more as time progresses. While Spock is capable of lying, he is neither fond of it nor prone to it. This lie has meant foregoing any symbolic recognition of his loss, however small, and it is a weight that the scattered officers who knew the truth could not relate to.
He had not even been granted a Discovery remembrance token.
While he is expert in the art of compartmentalization, that first brush with the Gorn and this most recent encounter, each laden with a similar vein of open-ended loss, has erroded the foundations of his carefully constructed emotional walls. It is untoward of him to speak to her about this, knowing what he does of her mind, knowing the overall risk involved, but there is no one else aboard who can begin to understand.
"The official record lists her as a casualty of combat. While the date on the record has been formally redacted, along with the bulk of her information, she was lost on on stardate 1207.1."
It is hard to accurately capture anniversaries while traversing space, but this one has passed once and is due again shortly. When he had melded with her, the loss of Michael had been a very fresh wound, weeks old at most.
"I am forbidden, by the regulations regarding classified incidents and multiple, extenuating factors, from speaking about her or her loss with anyone," Spock admitted as they walked. "My family...our family included."
no subject
A miracle — or sheer force of will. Once she put herself back together with no small amount of help from Una, La'an focused all her energy on earning a place in Starfleet, and once she'd done that, on becoming the best officer she could be. That meant knowing her fellow officers as well as, if not better than they knew themselves.
Spock has been... a challenge in that regard. He's as guarded with his secrets as she is, and even more so with his emotions. For him to open up like this to her feels monumental. This is a crossroads in their friendship and she needs to treat this show of trust with the respect it deserves. So she listens, keeping her reactions carefully controlled until she has all the information he intends to give her.
Michael Burnham. Of course, she knows that name; she would be surprised if anyone in Starfleet didn't recognize the name of someone nearly as infamous as La'an's ancestor. But they aren't speaking of a criminal right now — the person in question is Spock's family. That kind of loss is one she understands all too well, and not being able to speak of one's grief is something she is also intimately familiar with.
"Being forbidden from speaking of the loss of someone is something I unfortunately understand," she shares after a moment of weighing exactly how much she could or should divulge. "To not even be able to share it with your family, though... I can only imagine how difficult that is for you."
The closest comparison she has is Una, who is the closest she's had to family since she lost hers two decades ago. Not being able to confide in the older woman has threatened to tear La'an apart more than once, and she can't see it getting any easier with time.
no subject
He makes no comment on the difficulty with his family. He will not seek sympathy from La'an for the rift between himself and his father, exacerbated by his mandatory silence. That his father still lives and is capable of being disappointed in him is a far cry more than she has.
"I could not aid Michael in any constructive way, not until the end of our time together," Spock continues.
He speaks slowly, not out of reluctance or exhaustion, but rather unfamiliarity. He is on uncertain footing explaining this, his feelings, his motivations, so that someone else might understand. He aims for precision but the subject itself is, by its very nature, ephemeral. They are nearing the end of their travels and Spock, inexplicably, wants to express this before they do.
Accepting the comfort she has agreed to provide feels close to deception if he omits this facet of his thinking.
"You...remind me a great deal of her," Spock says and keeps his eyes trained ahead. He sounds as uncomfortable speaking that aloud as he has ever sounded aboard the Enterprise. "That is, I expect, why--"
His brow creases as he thinks. His mind refuses to supply the right words and the bravery granted by alcohol does not make him more coherent overall. He cannot help but conjure the memory of how she had looked, bloodless and ailing, when she was pulled onto his shuttle. He can't begin to explain the weight of open-ended horror, but that is a tangible fear that has been righted.
They arrive at his door before Spock can complete his thought. He abandons it in favor of a more succinct sentiment when he finally looks at her again. His expression shifts, in that moment, to something more honest than he intends--it is a shade of relief that falls along the border with gratitude.
"I am glad to see you recovered, insofar as you have," he says finally. The sentiment is one she knows already, he'd told her as much when he first intruded on her solitude. Repeating it is illogical--and yet, the full context of his regard may explain his actions where his words have otherwise failed him.
no subject
"I take it as a compliment that I remind you of her," she tells him, her expression and tone softening to show her sincerity. "I can tell she means a great deal to you."
Present tense, because the love of a sibling never fades. After two decades, Manu is still with her. She might not remember the sound of his laugh or the way he'd looked as he bravely defended her from bullies, but she recalls the warmth of his hugs and how safe she felt with him. It is a terrible thing to have such a loss in common, but already she feels closer to Spock and like she is better able to understand him by just that slightest bit.
"And if our friendship can provide you comfort while you process all of this..." Her voice trails off as she now struggles to find the right words to explain what she's trying to say. Talking about her feelings isn't something La'an is particularly adept at, though she has learned how to better examine them through her therapy sessions, which have already been scheduled to resume in the coming weeks.
"Your friendship means a great deal to me, Spock," she admits quietly, her voice barely carrying through the empty hall, "and I'm grateful you weren't down on the planet when we were taken. I've already lost too many people I care about."
no subject
"Please," Spock says and palms the controls on the wall. The door to his quarters opens promptly and the low, reserve lighting kicks on within. Door open, he gestures for La'an to enter. "After you."
His quarters are surprisingly well decorated. Considering his usual lack of ornamentation or affect, the hanging landscape images, sculpture, and tapestry seem almost jarringly gauche. He clearly prefers the color orange and coppery gold fabric with geometric embroidery. It is a deeply Vulcan aesthetic and, fortunately, lends itself well to halflight.
Beyond the decorations, Spock's room is the mirror of any other Lieutenant's. It is the same template and orientation as her own, though Spock had no way of knowing that. Once La'an enters, he follows after, stepping through and closing the door in his wake. It seals and locks by default, as is Spock's preference. He doubts she would prefer otherwise.
Now that he is within the confines of his own quarters, Spock finds the challenge of maintaining his posture and composure insurmountable. He slouches just slightly as the formality bleeds out of him, his movements made easy and loose by the combination of alcohol and privacy. He considers the wardrobe by the facilities and decides, all at once, that changing out of his uniform requires far too much effort.
"Do you require any accomodations?" Spock asks as he moves and drops down on the end of his bed, sitting as he removes his boots. He will, of course, rise and acquire anything she requests, he is not an inept host, but he takes the moment to savor the comfort of his mattress.