#na01

[spockvarietyhour]

U.S.S. Aledo, Starfleet's first automated starship, "Trusted Sources".

[nicholas-spencer]

rave reviews; nic&ames.

"Thank you for this summer,” Nic mumbles, dropping a kiss between her shoulder blades before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her into his chest. The TV plays whatever cartoon is on at this hour (’Tom & Jerry’ his brain notes), but he’s way more focused on Ames, and on holding her close than anything else.

So maybe they were supposed to be home two days sooner than right now, and maybe they’d stopped in Seattle again on their way up for one last hurrah inside the little bubble they’d created for themselves these last two months away before getting back to the real world.

Could you blame them?

Back home, they had to face the Post-Grad world of deciding between finding jobs or getting a masters, of their friends (all of whom they missed in their time away), of figuring out real adult life.

And sure, they were prepared for all that (barely), and sure, they knew they couldn’t hide away forever, but really, what were two more days? Two more days of being lost in each other, of celebrating all those little bubbles that came with their pretend, but-real-in-the-states, marriage, before having to deal with everything else.

Little did they know.

“I know it’s stupid to say this now, but I'm really glad I met you when I did,” he whispers, dropping another kiss, this time to her cheek.

After the accident that took a lot of his recent memories, and nearly his life, the road to recovery had been a long one. Feeling lost in his own body had been a major set back for Nic. Waking up to an older looking version of his friends and family, to strange faces, all expressing concern, had been more than a little overwhelming, especially with the information that came with that.

He’d apparently just turned twenty three when he woke up, and was not eighteen like he originally thought, and had four years of a college education and a degree with no recollection of any of it. His parents looked like they’d seen God and all the saints when he opened his eyes, Marc looked incredibly relieved, and to Nic’s shock was twenty three and off to law school, and there was a tiny brunette who looked like her world had come crashing down when he didn’t know who she was. (Lennon, he’d constantly have to remind himself through therapy. Because apparently making new memories was a struggle, too)

His parents had insisted on therapy, and he’d obliged to make them happy, but he was still so confused, and eight and a half months in and only a very minimal portion of his memories recovered, he’d given up. (An angry flare of rage that ended with Marc having to come get him because he still didn’t know his way around Vancouver)

And then he moved. He figured he’d be just as lost in a new place in Vancouver anyway, and it just kind of hurt to see the hurt in his loved ones’ faces when he had no recollection of whatever they were talking about. He packed his things, and all of the books he’d apparently used in college, and moved to a town down in the states where he could start over from scratch.

He spent the next six months trying to reteach himself everything he’d learned in four years, but that had proven to be easier said than done, especially when getting the information to stick took so much longer than he was used to. Sleep was such a concept now, and barely remembered what it felt like (aside from the times he passed out from sheer exhaustion) in his quest to retain information. That, and thinking and coming up empty didn’t help. At least there was TV, right?

With the little knowledge he’d managed to acquire on his own, he’d muddled his way through an internship application, and a job interview, which landed him in the Times. He’d come in at twenty five, with a fiery spirit, and the urge to put this stupid memory loss behind him, working twice as hard to get his job done and not forget everything.

In the next two years, he’d cultivated a life for himself here, one that didn’t let his memory loss dictate the path his life took. Sure, he couldn’t obliterate it completely, but here, in this new place, he wasn’t defined by four missing years.

His family was in the wings at all times, but they’d managed to respect his space. He thinks it’s because Marc always came to visit, bringing the tiny brunette along, and could report back. He’d admitted it was nice to have his best friend around every now and again, and Lennon, who now had a very, very cute baby on her hip, wasn’t so bad either, but it was also nice when they left, too. Sure, they never pressured him, but he still wasn’t the person he used to be before he lost his memories.

Sometimes, he’d be triggered here and there, remembering random details that had him calling Marc in the middle of the night, who’d sleepily celebrate his success and confirm that his thoughts weren’t just random things he’d strung together, but actual memories.

One night he’d even called Lennon about how he thought he remembered eating an entire ice cream cake with cartoons playing in the background, with her, and how he’d hoped this was an actual memory. She’d cried over the phone, and told him they had, that it had been her birthday and that he’d surprised her with the cake at midnight. He’d shed a tear or two to hear her so happy after that.

There was another memory that kept sneaking into his thoughts. Blonde hair and a bright smile, but it was too fuzzy a picture for him to make sense out of it. He hadn’t asked anyone about it because when any efforts were made to help him remember, that particular face was never in any photo albums, so he’d just end up not questioning it, assuming it was his brain trying to string things together.

Being a regular, published and recognized writer for the Times by the age of twenty-eight was an accomplishment few people could add to their resumes, especially not people who had an entire four years worth of a gap in their memory. Nic, however, was one of the distinguished lucky ones, who’d been able to break through in this town he now called home.

His latest article was set to publish this morning, and he was already working on his new one: a review.

The fun part about living in a not-so-large city was the amount of small businesses that kept the town alive. They gave the place character, and kept it interesting. And maybe this sounded pretentious, but he kind of loved that the city wasn’t littered with big shot companies. Plus, it made his job easier to have a bigger variety of places to choose from for review. That, and he could give said places some publicity. It was a weird form of symbiosis.

This morning he was stepping into a coffee shop he’d seen more than a handful of times since he’d moved into town. He hadn’t ever gone inside, and hadn’t planned to, but his coffee maker (and most powerful survival tool) had finally given up on him and his overuse, and he desperately needed a good cup of coffee. And maybe a pastry, if this place worked out.

He tugs a little harder on his backpack, as he walks in, eyes widening a bit at the decent amount of people inside, and the busy line near the register.

Definitely a good sign, he thinks, the wheels already beginning to turn in his head for his possible piece, as he walks up to the line, eyes glancing up at the menu.