![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
Work Text:
“You’re not wearing that,” Jim says.
Rolling her eyes, Nyota turns back to the mirror to adjust the outfit’s top—ah, better. It’s still an iron bikini, but it’s at least a little more comfortable now.
“No, seriously,” Jim goes on, because God forbid he ever know when to stop. “You’re not wearing that.”
Nyota turns to bestow a disdainful look. “I am, in fact, wearing this, which you’ve known for weeks. Now go put on your costume.”
“No. Spock, tell her she’s not wearing that.”
Spock glances up from his tea and a treatise on propulsion. He’ll need to start getting ready soon, though his costume isn’t particularly complicated. “Nyota is an adult competent to make autonomous decisions regarding her apparel and, indeed, anything else. It is illogical for you to attempt to dictate her choices, and it would be illogical for me to do so as well.” Having made his pronouncement, he returns to the treatise—though he does pause to add, “Nyota, I find your selection of garments for the evening quite visually pleasing.”
“Yeah, and so will every cretin on Risa,” Jim says. “Uhura, I swear to God, you’re wearing that over my dead body.”
This time she turns all the way around. She wishes she could raise one eyebrow like Spock can, but two will have to do. “If you’re really trying to tell me what I can and can’t wear, I will in fact do it over your dead body, because I will kill you for being an atavistic misogynist throwback who’s laboring under the assumption that women, including me, are still chattel.”
A death threat, apparently, is what’s required to tear Spock away from warp propulsion equations. “Nyota, to whose quarters will you be returning after the conclusion of the festivities?”
It’s an obvious question, and she doesn’t grace it with a response.
Unruffled, Spock continues, “I ask for rhetorical purposes. Will you do me the favor of entertaining the question?”
OK, now she gets it. “To ours, here at the hotel.”
“Jim, I assume you hold no doubts regarding this fact?” Spock asks, with just a little eyebrow.
“No!” exclaims Jim, looking appalled at the implication.
“Then I see no logical objection to the biological fact that other persons and entities have the ability of sight.”
“They’re not— She’s— You’re— They don’t deserve to be able to look at you,” Jim mutters.
“You yourself state regularly that you do not merit Nyota’s regard—a thesis to which I object, as you know, but an argument that I suspect will continue nevertheless.”
“She seems to want me around.” Jim shrugs and looks at the opposite wall. “So I go with it.”
“In other words,” Nyota breaks in, “you trust my judgment.”
“Yeah,” Jim admits. “OK, fine, wear your iron bikini. I’ll try not to sock anybody, but—”
“It’s Risa on Halloween,” Uhura says. “Do you really think I’m going to be the most scandalously dressed person there?”
“True,” Jim allows.
“Probably nobody but the two of you will even pay any attention to me.”
“That seems,” Spock says, “highly unlikely.” He’s gone to stand next to Jim, their shoulders only just touching as Spock’s hand settles on the small of Jim’s back.
“Hey, I voted for the bounty-hunter outfit, but does anybody ever listen to me around here?” Jim says, punctuating with a sigh and a gaze towards the heavens.
“Poor baby.” Nyota laughs as she goes over to kiss Jim and tangle her fingers around Spock’s when his other hand comes to rest on her hip. “But that other costume was really boring.”
[Note: Uhura is, of course, wearing a facsimile of this outfit. Kirk went as Han, and, after much cajoling over the importance of the holiday, Spock was prevailed upon to dress up as Obi-Wan.]
“Nope,” Leonard says. “I’ve got a midterm next week that I’m nowhere near ready for. You two have fun.”
“You’re going to leave me on my own with this child?” Rian says.
“Hey!” Jim objects.
She pokes her tongue out at him. He pokes his out back.
“If the peanut gallery doesn’t mind, some of us are trying to study,” Leonard reminds them.
“Grumpy, grumpy,” Rian says, leaning against the doorframe.
Leonard ignores her.
“Please?” Jim wheedles. “Just to the parade? The parade’s awesome even when you’re not drunk. Just watch the parade with us, and then you can come back here and feel superior about studying while everybody else is out making asses of themselves in weird costumes.”
“I can do that without leaving the room,” Leonard retorts.
Jim rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. “Fine. But when you’re old and wrinkled—I mean, more so than you already are—and all you have is stories about wild nights in the library studying for xenobio, don’t blame me. Now I’m going to get ready, because I’m not a complete loser like some people in this room.”
Once Jim’s door is closed, Rian goes to stand beside Leonard’s chair. “You really won’t come just to the parade? I’ll even go study with you after.”
He does look up, this time. “I’d like to, but I’ve got a lot left here—”
She takes the PADD from him, and he lets her, because he always lets her. “You’ve been studying all day,” she says. “You know as well as I do that your brain can only take in so much without a break.” She sets the PADD on the table and covers his hands with hers. She pulls gently, and he stands up. She rests a hand on his hip. “Did you eat yet?”
“No,” he says.
She has a suspicion, and she follow up with, “Did you eat lunch?”
“No,” Leonard admits.
“You know better than that,” Rian points out, and takes Leonard’s nonresponse as acknowledgment. She wraps her other arm around his neck and strokes his hair; he leans forward just enough to encourage her. She gently rubs his nape, and his eyes close. She loves that she can get him like this, that he’ll let her see him like this, that he’ll let himself, sometimes, be cared for. “Here’s what you’re going to do, Leonard,” she tells him. “We’re going to go out to dinner, the three of us and maybe Gaila, Nyota, and Hikaru if they’re around, and then we’re going to go to the parade, just for a while. Then you and I are going to leave and to go the library. We’re going to leave when the study rooms close—you're not staying over in the all-night area; I know you. I’d like it if you came and spent the night with me, but that’s up to you. Mainly I just want you to get some sleep.”
Rian keeps her hands steady and reassuring on him, and waits while he fights it out with himself—because even when he knows what he wants to do, Leonard always has to fight it out.
“It’ll have to be at your place,” he says after a moment, and Rian knows she’s won. “God knows what or whom Jim’ll be bringing back.”
She laughs, and Leonard does too.
[Note: Rian first appeared in this story.]
Number One appears at his office at twelve sharp. “Admiral Pike, are you ready— Oh, I apologize, I must have— Chris, that really is you!”
He can’t help laughing as he takes off the Groucho Marx glasses. Meanwhile, Number One’s expression turns decidedly disgruntled. “It’s Halloween,” he says. “Did you really not notice all the ridiculously dressed undergrads?”
“You are suggesting that I divert my attention to the sartorial choices of a population not highly regarded for taste and discretion?”
“I still can’t believe you didn’t notice, if for no other reason than the fact that my assistant usually wears suits rather than—well, whatever that is she’s got on.”
“You clearly noticed,” Number One says, crossing her arms.
“I also noticed that Jonathan’s sporting a pair of bunny ears—for reasons I suspect I deeply don’t want to know—and even though Nogura’s wearing a tux, I have it on good authority we were narrowly spared the sight of him in a toga.” Pike gets up and closes the door. Number One lets him trace her cheekbone and the curve of her lips. “But what I’d really like to be thinking about is what you’ll be wearing after we get home tonight.”
“It is reasonable to assume that I will be wearing my uniform or perhaps some sort of leisure attire.” She raises an eyebrow. “However, given sufficient incentives, I might be convinced to remove them.” And then, of course, not missing a beat, she opens the door and continues, with perfect, crystalline professionalism, “I believe I selected our restaurant last week, Admiral. Would you like to choose this time?”
“It’s already so cold up there,” Grace murmurs. “I had to get Mama to send me my winter coat. I had no idea I’d need it yet.”
Even though they’re tucked together, lying in his bed with the window open, needing nothing but each other and a cotton blanket to stay warm, Leonard pulls her closer—his beautiful girl, his best friend, his Grace should never be cold.
“But you like it there?” he asks, just to check. Their conversations and messages via comm would imply that she’s settling contentedly into Cornell, but he’s wanted to ask her in person, just to be sure.
“Yeah. Everybody’s so smart. And it really is beautiful there—there are waterfalls everywhere, and the leaves turn these amazing colors. That actually happens because of the cold—the temperature has to drop a certain amount to cause the color change.” Grace shifts, turns in his arms so that they’re looking at each other. “I think you’d like it, too, Lenny. I know you said you didn’t think you could live up North, but I think you could. When I said everybody’s smart—I’m average at Cornell. Back home, we were the freaks, reading books while everybody else got drunk and drove their daddy’s cars into the reservoir. Up there, the people who do that kind of stuff are the freaks, not us.”
They left for college two months ago, and during that time, there have been times when Leonard has missed Grace so much that, if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was bleeding inside. He wishes he could say that Ole Miss is like Cornell and that he’s totally average here, but it’s not true: It’s more or less like being in high school again, only now the drunk drivers have auto-shutoff cars that keep themselves from being driven into bodies of water. But mostly it’s the same.
The idea of being a thousand miles from his family, only able to get home on shuttles that make him want to curl up and shake, also feels like bleeding.
He never learned how to say no to Grace, but he can’t lie to her, either. He opts for not answering at all.
She pulls him closer, her arms tight and almost desperate. Leonard realizes that he gave her an answer despite himself, and that she knows it.
[Note: Grace first appeared in this story.]
As ambassador to Earth and husband to a human for nearly thirty years, Sarek is extensively familiar with that planet’s various cultures and those cultures’ various traditions. However, upon receiving this particular holo from Spock, he is finally forced to comm for the purpose of asking, “Why have you costumed my granddaughter as a vegetable?”
“Jim and Nyota were most insistent,” Spock replies. “T’Ili is garbed according to an American Terran tradition known as Halloween, when individuals—and children in particular—don fantastical costumes. Nyota selected this particular clothing, however, because of an attendant tradition of decorating pumpkins and setting them on the doorstep.”
Sarek has a sudden memory of Amanda making a spectacular mess in the kitchen: She had ordered a set of gourds from Earth, hollowed them out, and proceeded to carve the hard outer skin into patterns approximating cartoonish faces. Upon Sarek’s bewildered query, she had informed him solemnly (but with her lips quirking as they did when she spoke in jest) that this was a solemn Terran tradition, and that he was not to interfere. He had not, though he had enjoyed the roasted seeds Amanda had made from the cooked insides of the pumpkins; the pie, however, had been too sweet for his taste.
In earlier times, Sarek would not have spoken of this—illogical to bring up such a trifling memory—but now he does. “I recall your mother following this tradition. Not often—it was costly to procure the pumpkins from Earth, and she insisted that the replicated sort were inadequate—but she did enjoy it. She also baked a sort of tart out of the insides, and roasted the seeds.”
“Pumpkin pie,” says Spock. “American and Canadian Terrans consume it as part of their Thanksgiving holiday. I do not care for it, though Nyota once made pumpkin soup that was quite delicious.”
As he and Spock both have a few moments free, it is logical to converse about the status of Spock’s family as well as Sarek’s activities. Jim and Nyota are well, and T’Ili is contented, healthy, and meeting all relevant developmental milestones for both Vulcans and humans. Sarek is on Betazed speaking at a conference; when the time to reconvene draws near, he finds himself reluctant to end the conversation with his son. Sarek remembers that Amanda was similarly disinclined to do so, even when logic dictated that her time or Spock’s should be redirected towards other activities. This is just one more thing, of so many over the past six years, that Sarek wishes he could tell her.
The following day, before his shuttle departs to return him to New Vulcan, it occurs to Sarek that he has not acquired birthday gifts for either T’Ili or Nyota. Betazed’s major city contains a street known for its jewelers: Nyota will appreciate a new pair of earrings, and while T’Ili, at six months of age, is too young to appreciate a gift, perhaps Sarek might find something she will enjoy when she is older.
To Sarek’s great surprise, the female behind the counter in the jewelry shop is Vulcan.
She is younger than Sarek, though older than Amanda had been when he first met her. Her hair is uncovered and short, styled without regard for any of the traditional forms. When he gets closer, he sees that her fingernails are blunt, her fingers skillful rather than elegant, stained with the marks of her trade—a true jeweler, then, and not simply a saleswoman. She greets him, and he tells her what he is seeking: a pair of earrings for a woman, and something that would be appropriate for a young girl.
She assists him in selecting pieces for both, and Sarek finally decides to ask the question that settled on his mind the moment he walked in. “I apologize for my impropriety in asking, but I admit my surprise upon finding a Vulcan employee of a Betazoid enterprise.”
“My shop is Betazoid in the sense that it is located on Betazed, but Vulcan in the sense that it is owned by a Vulcan—myself.”
He apologizes again, aware now of two improprieties before this woman in a very short period of time.
“It is of no consequence,” she says. “There are very few non-Betazoid-owned ventures in the city—it would be illogical to assume without further information that this shop is different.” She wraps the earrings they selected for Nyota, and asks, “I must now ask your forgiveness for any impropriety in asking, but will these earrings be a gift for your wife?”
Sarek shakes his head. “No. My wife is no more.” It is the euphemism Vulcans—and the rest of the Federation—have developed when referencing those who died with the planet.
“I grieve with thee.” This is the traditional response, all too appropriate now. “My husband as well.”
Sarek knows that logic does not dictate that he add what he says next—but, in another sense, logic may well dictate that he disclose this information, for it is logical to discover now whether this woman possesses contempt for a nontraditional familial setting such as his son’s. (Why it is logical to discover this now—indeed, why it matters—Sarek decides to contemplate at a future time.) “The earrings are a gift for one of my son’s spouses. The necklace is intended for their daughter, although she is yet an infant.”
The woman does not appear affected by the disclosure. “Infants cannot yet appreciate a gift—should one wish to bestow one, it is logical to select something that will be useful to the parents now or enjoyed by the child later.”
Half an hour later, Sarek and the woman whose name he discovers is T’Kesa continue to discuss enjoyable topics that are of no particular importance or consequence, and Sarek realizes that he must depart in order to board the shuttle to New Vulcan.
“I must again apologize for any impropriety,” he begins—and is certain, quite suddenly, that T’Kesa is amused.
“I have noted multiple apologies for impropriety, and yet no actual impropriety, in a short amount of time,” T’Kesa observes.
“It is pleasing that no offense was caused. I plan to return to Betazed within the month for an academic gathering, and wondered only if you might wish to join me for a musical performance or a meal while I am here.”
“I would find that quite satisfactory,” says T’Kesa. “However, I plan to make my first visit to New Vulcan within the fortnight, and wondered only if you might wish to join me for a musical performance or a meal while I am there.”
Sarek did not think to anticipate that particular invitation.
“I would find that quite satisfactory,” he says.
Sarek’s refusal to remarry has been no less scandalous than his son’s multifarious marriage. He has been accused of behaving illogically: He remains capable of reproduction, and he possesses a duty to serve as an example to other Vulcans, to inspire others to repopulate their race.
Sufficient numbers of matings have taken place, Sarek has always thought, to demonstrate that his example is unnecessary.
Once he is on the shuttle, Sarek closes his eyes and finds the part of his consciousness Amanda once inhabited. I am sorry, k’diwa. I will send her a communication and cancel our engagement.
He can envision Amanda rolling her eyes. For God’s sake, Sarek. The only thing you have to be sorry for is being lonely for so long when you didn’t have to be.
No. I had met no one with whom I wished to…socialize in such a fashion.
He’s sure she’d roll her eyes again. Socialize? Is that what they’re calling it these days?
K'hat'n'dlawa, I miss you more than you will ever know.
I miss you, too, Sarek. So much.
He does not sleep, but he opens his eyes only when the shuttle lands on New Vulcan.
He does not cancel their date.