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}
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.