The rain has its own eyes; they rely more on feeling than on images, but reflect an entirely different world, one the same but only seen differently, more precious, more ephemeral. It floods through the tiny beads of water lining the unplanned curls of her hair, and dances in silver droplets on her eyelashes, reflecting a thousand times her eyes, hinting at their dimension he already guessed.

I would feel safe with you, he thinks, if his thoughts became words. I always did, but never quite like this; before, it was a normal lifetime; before, the impossible never happened. Somehow I know you now as something undefinable; as a mother, a friend, a student, a lover, a soulmate.

Her lips are parted, perhaps in surprise. And she barely notices the rain, only that he is shivering beneath the thick but not-thick-enough funerial robe the young boy—young man, she corrects herself, seeing the wild spark in his eyes—who is the new life of Spock is huddled in. She moves next to him—rain sliding against rain—seeing only a vague green blur in her peripheral vision as Genesis glistening with rainfall—but still he shivers even as she gathers him in her jacket-clad arms and hauls him so that he sits on her lap. His legs splay out, unplanned, ungainly but not awkward even with his accelerated growth, so that in her mind the young boy he was only hours ago is in stark contrast with this shuddering individual. She closed her eyes in a moment of calm, and, completely logically, found a solution.

David woke to the whisper of fabric sliding over skin. He blinked blearily, then his eyes widened.

The rain had stopped.

Spock had lain at first against Saavik's chest, utterly wearied and bone-frozen. Then the strangeness, the deep familiarity of skin contact, formed a bond between them beside the burning in his blood and the heartbeat and urge drumming through his extremities. His hazy thoughts had become apparent, then surged a little into Saavik's conciousness, as their skin touched. She had known that she, warmer than her clothing, for she was half Vulcan, as was he, was a much more effective remedy for the cold, but hadn't guessed…

He's gone such a long way from the child I loved, the child only there briefly, she thought, torn.

Ssh, she thought to Spock as he became restless, half-dazed. She thought he only needed sleep, or some sort of deep meditation, but realized he was whimpering and his face was a mask of agony.

Saavik's eyes shocked open, millions of miles away, the desert heat of Vulcan previously unseen. But she had felt it, in remembering Genesis as if it lay right in front of her eyes...she willed her fingers to uncurl and her breathing to start, glancing swiftly downwards and then to the risen sun, which burned into her vision...

The rain held silent, innocent eyes, undissolved by pain or death. They reflected a thousand times what lay under the leaves, which overlay, apologetically, a face that stared ever upwards. David's eyes were closed, his face peaceful, even in death. Dead, as Spock would be, as she would be. She found it hard to care, as tremors of an entirely different emotion than she had witnessed shook her body. As Saavik watched, the sun's light passed swiftly away.

"Sov-masu," she told T'Sei, who stared unblinkingly upwards, calm and distant worlds reflected in her gaze. 'Rain,' as the tears fell.