ossamea:
It’s a starbase, not Risa. He’s lucky he could track down actual alcohol and not the synthetic stuff. Most people couldn’t tell the difference, but Leonard could. It wasn’t like the Enterprise would be ready to set out tomorrow. They had time. Had it in spades. It’s a mixed blessing. They’re not flying into the unknown, but they are sitting ducks on this rotating snow globe called Yorktown, just waiting for some wayward Klingons or Romulans to happen by and blow them all to hell.
Leonard’s metaphorical glass might be half empty, but his real one would be full. And he knows just who to share it with. What a lovely excuse it made to drop by and check on Spock. State of the art medical facilities or not, he’d sleep easier if he got a look at the Vulcan’s wound ( or the spot where it used to be ) with his own two eyes.
Warm fingers curl around the neck of the bottle and he bounces a little on his toes, anxious. A press of the panel beside the white door alerts Spock to his presence, and now the ball is in the commander’s court.
@logicavitium
The party had ended hours ago, and they had only hours more before they would set out on their new mission, but Spock could find no true peace this night cycle, nor any inclination to seek formal reflection when he knew very well what still lurked within his shadows. It was a grief he had chosen to experience, that he felt it was his duty to know. His other self had feared paradox before the Va'Pak, had kept them separated out of caution, but after... there had been too few of them for such concerns to truly matter any longer.
Knowing the great man he could have been, or an aspect that he might yet one day be, had been incredibly empowering. Losing him had been equally as devastating, however logic would dictate that advancing age must eventually win over what sheer will and determination had rendered steadfast for a lifetime.
Uhura had unwittingly found herself woven into this grief, this awareness, and her loss weighed heavily on him as well as he attempted and failed to find his equilibrium, until finally, mercifully, he was interrupted, the identity of the man beyond his door evident long before he surrendered and crossed to the door to let him in.
“Doctor.” Turning aside without additional comment to allow him entry, Spock padded back to the low couch he’d been installed on, brooding, though he would not have liked to refer to it as such. Such activities were unproductive, even detrimental to the recovery process, but at the moment he could find no desire in himself to act as properly as he’d been raised. “It is late. I would have thought you retired by this hour.”
