Genre: Drama, Family
Time Frame: Pre ST XI
Characters: Amanda G., Spock
Summary: "He becomes a bit more like her everyday" . . . Amanda Grayson, and a study in human emotion.
Notes: Something short, and hopefully thoughtful-ish.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Her son was entering his fourth year when he started noticing that she was different.
She became aware of his unspoken questions through small things – the trace of his gaze over the laugh lines on her face, and the lingering touch of his first finger to the smooth curve of her ear. She knows that he has heard the term human enough to know both its meaning, and perhaps a few of the more negative connotations that the loose tongues may have given along with it.
She lets him touch her curiously, trying to keep from smiling when his finger came to rest at the corner of her lips.
Apparently, she had not been successful.
"Mother, what is this?"
"It's a smile, dear," she tells him. Her grin leaked into her voice, her tone melting into humor as Spock titled his head curiously. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"A smile," he repeated carefully, his lips stretching oddly to make the movement himself.
As he struggled, her smile only grew.
It is years later when she gets the call informing her of her son's . . . alteration (they refuse to call things by their proper names. Odd, at times, for a race consumed with the logic of things) with a group of his classmates.
She had been shocked at first – Spock was a gentle soul, she knew, and it would have taken much for him to physically engage another being. The physical aspect, at least, could almost be defined as something Vulcan, and deeply repressed – but the root of the anger, righteous indignation in behalf of those you considered your own and the fierce desire to see them cleared of all smear was something completely human.
With a sigh, she knelt down in front of him while Sarek spoke in low tones with the Headmaster some feet away. A year ago, even, she would have embraced her son, but even already he had bent so much in the way of his father's people . . . While there was much she loved about that, there was also much she lamented at the same time.
Not wanting to cause him further discomfort with an open display of emotion, she simply reached out to gently tilt his head up – meeting his eyes head on. The fear there – of disappointment, and perhaps of something that she could never begin to understand - was enough to convince her that he was more like her than he would ever admit to being.
"It's okay," she whispered, a smile leaking into his voice.
A sigh escaped him as she moved her hands to squeeze his once, soothingly. When she made it apparent that she wasn't going to draw away, he hesitantly leaned forward to wrap his small arms around her shoulders.
She blinked once, surprised, before hugging him back, feeling the way his small form shivered in the circle of her arms.
She closed her eyes, long and slow, and savored a moment while it was still there to savor.
She had known that there was something wrong before she knew the particulars.
In her mind, she could feel her husband's anger – a slowly burning thing that he would never admit to. Rational acknowledgment of the emotion, or not, though – it was something tangible that ate low at her bones.
She understood the anger's root when Spock returned home, wasting no time in completing the more formal steps of accepting admittance to Starfleet. While there was a part of her that was proud, there was also a part a large part that felt a clenching in her gut as she watched him pack. A part of her already felt empty, and it was not a feeling she was inclined to embrace anytime soon.
He pressed his hands against hers once before he went to leave; shortly, covertly. There was a gratitude about his eyes, next to a promise set in the gaze that was always too human for her husband's people, and too alien for her own . . .
Behind her, she could feel her husband's shadow fall over her.
One last deep breath, and he stepped back from her before departing. She closed her eyes, and listened, memorizing the way his footsteps sounded against the floor.
She becomes aware of something different about her son, after a time. It had begun as a line of small things – increased absentmindedness, and a whole twenty seconds of tardiness on their scheduled communications. There was a tap to his fingers on his desk, and a contemplative glow to his eyes as his choice of conversation seemed to route back to one topic, and one topic only, with increasing regularity.
She finally puts a face to the name that her son had slipped on when she called his office directly. A young woman, a cadet by the cut of her uniform - with a smile that infected her eyes and an uncannily firm hold on the Vulcan dialect - greeted her, and introduced herself as Nyota Uhura.
Their conversation was brief – lasting only of seconds before Spock took up the communication.
She could feel a wry look forming on her lips, punctuating the glint to her eyes as he shuffled his weight slightly. When she spoke, there was a smile bleeding into her voice that she did little to hide. "So this is her," she teased, a mother's humor invading every part of her. "I cannot wait to meet her in person." This, is pointed. Knowing, even.
She watched as the tips of his ears flushed a faint green. "I look forward to making the introductions."
When the communication ended, she wore a smile on her face that failed to cease the entire day through. When asked as to its origin by her husband, and revealed, Sarek merely shook his head and muttered 'completely illogical.'
But there was amusement threading through the presence at the back of her mind, nonetheless.
She knows what how this will end, before it does so – she sees the knowledge that flashes in his eyes right about the same time as it swirls inside of hers.
She can feel the planet shudder beneath her – can feel the tremors of it in her bones, in the still of the beat to her heart. Before her the rock face crumples, and in a moment of clarity she knows that she will go with it.
A deep breath, surprisingly calm, stole through her as she turned to face her son. He was reaching out a hand, his form already flickering as it was engulfed in rings of gold. She knew that he will not be able to act in time, and hopes that someday he will be able to forgive himself for that.
She can taste dust and ash as death defined on her tongue, her hands trembled even as she tries to smile at him – the role of mother coming instinctively to her, one last time. She could see the resignation in his eyes past the wild denial – mourning already starting without his conscious thought.
In a last moment, she knows that he will mourn her as a human will mourn. It is that thought, perhaps, that hurts above all else. And yet, it is also a thought that gives her hope – a peace that he was on the right path, in the right hands. While he was cut down two seams, she knew, there was a stitched path to be found in the center . . . He was well on the way to finding it.
In the end . . . that was all that she could truly ask for.