Fandom: Star Trek XI
Word Count: 508
To Know, To Feel
When the hot air on New Vulcan drifts across his skin, it feels warm and familiar and kind of itchy. When he leans over and grabs some of the sand with his fingers and lets it scatter on the ground again, it feels rough.
When he plucks at the strings of the Vulcan lyre, they feel rough and sharp at the same time. When he handles a tricorder, the buttons feel cool and metallic and worn smooth from use. When he stands on the observation deck and looks out while Sulu practices evasive maneuvers, sometimes he feels dizzy. When he walks through the knee-deep snow and gives his jacket to the tired and cranky child he's carrying, he feels cold. When he pulls a three-day shift to help find the cure for a virus and ends up losing half the crew before they stop it, he feels tired. When he sees one of his subordinates crying at the loss of a friend, he feels helpless.
When he sits with Chekov and Sulu and Scotty in the officer's lounge and listens to them get drunk and crack math jokes that aren't the slightest bit amusing and laugh themselves into hoarse throats and include him in them even when he doesn't smile, he feels accepted.
When he and Dr. McCoy spend seventy-two hours arguing about irrelevant things and come up with a plan that saves the Enterprise at the end of it, he feels respect for the other man.
When he walks with his captain into another ambush, and Jim doesn't look back because he knows his back is covered, he feels pride.
When he lies next to Nyota and runs his thumbs down the bumps along her spine and kisses her neck reverently and breathes in the scent of her hair and tangles his legs in hers so that their sheets bunch up around their knees and their ankles knock together, and Nyota turns around and smiles and smooths her hand across his cheek and says she cares for him, he feels awe and wonder and joy and love, all broken up and mashed together and settled quite comfortably somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
When he stands next to his father at his mother's memorial service and looks at the makeshift hall with its makeshift decorations and its makeshift mourners, humans most of them because there aren't enough Vulcans left to go to all the funerals, and looks at the way his father's thumbs twitch and and the way his father's jaw is clenched so stiffly it could be made of iron and the way he and his father both unconsciously move their hands to brush against the space at their sides where Amanda would usually stand and softly bump her fingers against theirs to comfort them except that now the space beside them is empty, he hurts.
But when Spock looks at the calm, collected faces of the other gathered Vulcans, he knows he wouldn't dull any of it for all the calm in the world.