"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.
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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.