Star Trek Fic: Out of Many, One (Part 5/6)
Title: Out of Many, One
Genre: Romance/Friendship fic
Word Count: ~39,000
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: McCoy/Uhura, Jim/Spock
Warnings: None
Summary: The holidays are a time for family and friends, for celebrations and showing them just how much they mean to you. For people from different walks of life and different cultures, it also means finding a common ground. McCoy, Uhura, Jim, and Spock's first holiday season together at the Academy.
Author's Note: As always, a huge thanks to phoenix_laugh for the beta. A far, far overdue Christmas present for rusting_roses. So late, in fact, that it kind of became a fusion Christmas/birthday present. As always, my dear, we've had some crazy adventures along the way. The road's usually not straight, and I'm more likely than not to take the long way around, but we got there. To be quite frank, I wouldn't trade our adventures for the world, you've become a lifelong friend, one of the best I've ever had. We'll raise a glass this fall (maybe even with a bit of real alcohol!) to celebrate the adventures yet to come.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]
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It was chaos, that was really the only way to describe it, Uhura thought to herself. There were people going a hundred different directions doing a hundred different things all in preparation for tomorrow's concert. Standing back and observing it from afar, it really did seem like there was no plan here.
When she zoomed in her focus though, it all became clearer. It was a bit like the holos she'd seen of a honey bee colony in her biology class. Thousands of individuals rushing around in cramped quarters. Despite the apparent randomization of it though, there was a plan there, thrumming quietly beneath the surface, just as there was here. She'd had a hand in that, helping divvy out all of the tasks that needed to be done. Every person knew what they were doing. Four of the men from the choir were unstacking chairs for overflow seating and placing them in rows at the back of the theatre. Well, four men plus Gaila. Uhura had picked those four because they could do the heavy lifting without issue. Gaila, though, had volunteered for it. From the way her roommate was wearing a flirtatious grin on her face, she kind of thought there were ulterior motives at play rather than pure altruism.
The tech crew was running around on the deck hanging high overhead, adjusting lights and other electronic equipment. They were a bit hard to make out, in the black outfits they favored specifically for that reason, but she could make out their shadows against the bright lights.
She looked down at her clipboard with all of the tasks that she still needed to account for and sighed. They'd get there, she knew they would, but there was still a long way to go before they were ready. She turned and exited the theatre, heading out into the lobby.
A few students stood on ladders, hanging decorations in the floor to ceiling windows to commemorate the holidays of all of the cultures being represented in this event. The left side of the lobby had been cleared for practice space for any group that needed to run through their routine before the dress rehearsal.
She wove a path through the atrium, stopping here and there to check progress with a few of the late additions to the program. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, causing her to pause for a moment and pull her attention completely away from her clipboard.
Jim and Leonard were crouched up against one of the walls. Her brow furrowed. Those two hadn't been on the list of people she had expected to be here. She walked a bit closer, feigning interest in a group of Bajorans in ceremonial robes as they practiced the visual telling of one of the famous folk tales of their people. Jim and McCoy were bent over a stack of white paper, much of which had been chopped into tiny pieces.
"Come on, McCoy! This is not a snowflake. Were you sick the day they taught this lesson in preschool?" Kirk asked, holding up a horribly mutilated piece of paper. It had started as a square and had large holes running in strips down the center fold.
"I'm from the South, Jim. It's a little counterintuitive to teach kids to make paper cutouts of a natural phenomenon they've never encountered," he shot back, huffing.
"Let's try this again," Jim said, shaking his head. He held up a circular paper that had folds radiating out form the center. It had been transformed into an intricate piece of artwork. She hadn't seen snow in person, either, really, but she thought it probably reflected the reality of it quite admirably.
"This is what we're going to make," Jim prompted. He pressed another piece of paper into McCoy's hands. His friend begrudgingly accepted it with a shake of his head and an eye roll.
She allowed herself a small smile. McCoy looked up then, and his eyes met hers. There was a question behind his eyes, she could see it. She allowed her face to slide back into a neutral gaze as she continued on with her rounds. At one time, she might've had an answer for that silent inquiry, but not anymore. There was more work to be done.
"McCoy, you paying attention?" she heard Jim ask as she slipped back into the crowd.
The doctor turned his attention back to the paper. "Yeah, I'm good. Let's do this."
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Step 1-Defrost the turkey. If you have purchased a frozen turkey, you will need to defrost it in the refrigerator for several days first. Allow approximately five hours of defrosting for every pound of meat.
Bones looked up from his cookbook and over at his turkey, his rock-solid, frozen turkey. He'd bought a fifteen pound bird. Mental math brought that to seventy-five hours, or about three days. His eyes went wide. Given that it was Christmas Eve morning, his meat would be ready to go into the oven two days after Christmas. Leonard McCoy was truly a dead man walking.
He picked up his comm to contact Jim about this snafu in the making, but he slid the device back into his pocket hesitantly. The man was dealing with his own kitchen issues, right now, he was sure of it. Spock's mother had sent them a whole slew of traditional recipes to try. Jim and he both lived off what they could snag in the dining halls. For late night food, it meant whatever they could get delivered. No, Jim was probably waging his own war in the kitchen right now against an army of pots and pans and kitchen implements neither of them had probably used in their lives; best leave him to his own devices. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. He could figure something out, right?
It was an hour later that he poked his head around the corner to scout out the communal laundry room on the floor. There were rules for things like this, common decency rules that kept the building tenants living in an agreeable environment and prevented them from going at one another's throats. McCoy was pretty sure he was violating every one of them with what he was attempting here.
The room was blessedly empty. No one was there to witness what he was sure sounded like a few bowling bowls bouncing around in the floor's dryer.
He crouched down in front of the front loading machine and popped the door open a bit. He waited until the machine stopped its cycling before opening it further, not wanting its contents to spill out onto the floor. He closed his eyes. God please let this crazy, crazy idea work. He bit his lip, swallowed the lump in his throat, and slowly opened his eyes.
"Leonard Horatio McCoy. What travesty have you inflicted upon that poor dryer?" came a voice from behind him.
The dryer and its contents momentarily forgotten, he snapped his head around. A witness to this was not good. The person stood there, a full laundry basket rested on her hip as she held it aloft.
"Uhura-"
She sighed and dropped her basket to the floor, crossing the room to kneel next to McCoy and the disastrous remains of his contribution to their Christmas Eve/Chanukah feast. "What is this?" she asked, reaching a hand inside to pull out a fistful of shredded meat.
"It was a turkey. I don't know if it qualifies anymore," McCoy lamented.
Uhura raised an eyebrow, holding the handful of soggy meat to him. "I do believe this is your mess. Here, take it."
"I don't want it," he squawked quickly, backing up a step. He was used to a lot of messy things, in his line of work. This was something altogether different.
"Well I certainly am not keeping it," she retorted. McCoy begrudgingly took the mess off her hands. "I'll ask again, what the hell were you attempting to do here?"
"It wouldn't thaw-" he rebutted.
"And you thought a dryer was your best bet instead of a refrigerator like any normal person would try?"
"It was going to take three days to thaw. I had one day. I tried hot water in my shower, the thing dwarfed my sink. A blow dryer didn't cut it either. This was my last bet."
"Is there any household appliance you didn't try? This meal needs to be taken out back, shot, and buried in an unmarked grave. You're not planning on serving this, right? Isn't the Hippocratic Oath supposed to keep you from killing people?"
"Hey-"
"Not to mention my laundry. What am I supposed to do now? Wait, don't answer that," Uhura said, grimacing. "Following your train of logic you'd probably recommend I throw my whites in your oven to dry."
Mccoy didn't really have a response to that. Here he was, crouched next to a dryer with a handful of raw meat. It technically was thawed now, it had kind of worked...And here was Uhura. They were still fighting, weren't they? There was heat in her voice as she spoke, but it was more of that trademark abrasive charm of hers than anything else. She was smiling at his predicament.
What the hell was he going to cook now? He rocked back on his heels and all of a sudden tumbled backwards, landing on his butt. And then it all collapsed. He chucked the handful of meat back in the dryer and slammed the door before a fit of laughter overtook him. This was one of those stories that you just wouldn't believe unless you witnessed it. Or experienced, he supposed. This was his own grave he'd dug here.
Uhura sat down next to him, leaning up against the washing machine, covering her face with her hands and shaking her head. Her own laughing fit started soon after.
Eventually they ran out of breath. McCoy met her gaze, shaking his head. "How the hell did we end up in this mess?"
"We?" Nyota inquired, raising an eyebrow fractionally. "This stroke of genius was all yours, Dr. McCoy. Take credit where credit is due."
"Fine," he admitted. "How the hell did I end up sitting here in front of a dryer loaded with meat?"
"Still not quite sure myself," Nyota replied. "I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going to wash my dress for the concert now that you've ensured that I will never, ever do another load of laundry here lest my clothes come out smelling of smoked turkey."
"You could trademark it as an alternative to perfume, a more natural scent, right? You always were complaining about that floral stuff women spray all over themselves."
She bit back another laugh. "I somehow don't see the trend catching fire with the general public. Points for creativity, I suppose?"
"Har, har. I know, I screwed this up royally. Really, though, what I am going to do here? I have three hours to get this meal done."
"What time are you guys eating?" she inquired. It was technically only three in the afternoon, she'd have thought he would have more time than that.
"We're eating after the concert."
She sat up a bit straighter. "You're going? I mean, I figured since we weren't really together anymore..."
"I promised you weeks ago that I'd be there. I'm not the type of man to go back on my word," Leonard replied, momentarily abandoning his joviality for a more somber tone.
"Thanks," she said quietly, a slight blush creeping across her face.
McCoy grinned in response. They sat there for a beat before Nyota spoke again. "Ok, what's the game plan here?"
"I think you put it pretty bluntly yourself, I can't serve this unless I'm anticipating pulling an overnight shift in Medical caring for the food poisoning victims of my wayward cooking attempt."
"Yeah...this meal's out. I made macaroni for the choir dinner they are doing after the concert, I still have some of the ingredients for that. I could probably make an extra batch."
It was McCoy's turn to be surprised. "Really? You'll help?"
"Well I certainly don't anticipate leaving you to your own devices lest the building burn down. It's really just concern for the safety of your neighbors."
McCoy took her hand. She didn't pull away. "It's not just them. You're helping me. Thank you. Jim's just made such a big deal about this whole thing. I just want it to go well for him."
"I'll cover it. I have a few hours since the rest of the choir e-board threw me out of the hall and told me to go regain some of my sanity before coming back this evening for the concert."
McCoy climbed to his feet, then helping pull Uhura up. "You sure? What about your laundry, and the other ingredients, you said you had some of them. You're still missing some? All the stores are closed by now."
She checked off the items one by one on her fingers. "I have another dress I can wear, so I'm fine there. A friend worked in the kitchen and duplicated the key for me. I can sneak in and raid the kitchen for whatever else I need. We'll have to use your kitchen, our dorm one doesn't deserve to be called a kitchen. It's little more than a hot plate or two."
McCoy nodded. "Ok, that sounds good. What about the meat dish, though? That was supposed to be my contribution."
"Gaila was cooking the chicken for our dinner. I'll see if she has a bit extra we could take off her hands. I should be able to swing by my place, grab the ingredients, and we can reconvene in an hour."
"You are a goddess," Leonard said.
"I know," she replied, smugly.
"What do I need to do in the meantime?"
She looked down at the dryer and its hidden contents, shuddering slightly. "You are going to clean up this...thing, you've created, and then put an out of order sign on this poor machine."
He winced. "Ok, I deserved that. I'll take care of it. Really though, thanks."
Uhura nodded in acknowledgement, picking up her laundry basket and turning toward the hallway. "Oh, and one more thing, I don't even celebrate this holiday stuff and I even know that you don't cook turkey at Christmas. Just food for thought."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about me making that mistake again. I don't plan on making turkey anytime again in the next millennium or so."
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This was the part Uhura hated the most. It had been weeks, really months, of preparation leading up to this night. There had been countless meetings and hours devoted to making sure this went perfectly. It was to be her crowning accomplishment in the one year she would serve as director of the choir. She had thought she could balance choir with her senior course load and a thesis during her senior year...but through this process she had seen how this event had crept in from the periphery to become a central focus during this entire term. She would have to pass the torch at the end of the year. She'd still participate, but it wouldn't be quite the same. This event wouldn't belong to her in the same way this holiday concert had grown to be. It had started out as a mere idea, nothing more, and with her dedication and guiding hand, it had stepped from a mere concept to a glorious reality.
She had stood backstage through the female chorus line's acoustic performance of "Don Oiche Ud I Mbeithil."They had chosen to pay homage to Celtic Woman, an all-female ensemble of Irish woman who, in the late twenty-first century, had brought a new meaning to this same song, "That Night in Bethlehem." The casual music listeners in the crowd may not have understood the references made through the brilliant dresses that the twelve members of the chorus had chosen, but from her position nestled to the side between the retracted curtains, she knew. She smiled at how each of their self-designed and homemade dresses echoed the dresses once favored by the women of Celtic Woman, floor length, strapless gowns in a range of pastel colors. She had sat with her friends through midnight sewing sessions as each brought their own personality to their creations. Cecilia had chosen rhinestones, a perfect statement for the way she drew attention the moment she walked into the room. Lisa's gown lay tight against her frame through the bodice, expanding into a sea of ruffles from the waist down, a testament to the sewing prowess she had inherited from a family of seamstresses. Simpler dresses were represented too, for those amongst them who had learned to sew for this very occasion. Despite the variation, these woman stood together as their voices rose in synchrony as they presented to the audience a creation that was entirely their own.
Uhura's lips had curved upward as their voices echoed through the room. She stood a bit straighter, pride swelling through her chest, as she watched the audience's nervous pre-show endeavors fade into pure stillness as they were absorbed into the music.
As the women took a bow to a thunderous applause and filed off the stage, Uhura's attention was drawn by a tap on her shoulder. She turned to face the individual.
"You're up in two acts, Uhura, you should go downstairs and start getting yourself ready."
She tightened her grip on the clipboard that held her list of acts for the performance, her guide for helping the show run smoothly. This is the part she hated, passing the reins to what she had come to think of as her show, into the hands of another. Yes, Eric was the vice president of the choir, yes, she trusted him. The fact remained though, that once she stepped below stage to check her make-up one last time and run through her song to warm up her voice, she would have to implicitly trust that all of their practice and preparation would allow the show to run smoothly in her absence.
"One more?" Uhura asked, pleading.
Eric smiled and shook his head. It was funny how even though she towered a good foot above him, he could still order her around when need be. "We had this conversation, remember? And you told me that when push came to shove, you needed two acts to get ready to go on stage yourself and that I should lock you backstage in one of the dressing rooms if I had to in order to make sure you took the time you needed to prepare."
She huffed in complaint and then sighed. She had even prepared for this final compulsion of hers before the show had started. She really had thought of everything. Begrudgingly, she loosened her grip on the clipboard and passed it over into his waiting hands. "Give it your all to make sure everything goes ok?"
He smiled, crossing the Celtic Woman act off the list and watching as the next group filed on stage past them. "I know, it's your baby. I'll take care of it. Now shoo!"
She began her own preparations as one of the coed chorus groups performed Little Drummer Boy with an accompaniment from full orchestra. By the end of that act she had reset her hair in a high ponytail and braided it down her back. She had retouched her makeup with as much attention as she could spare for it. From behind a closed door she could feel the vibrations that the instruments sent through the walls and floor, but the voices were muffled by the thick walls.
She finished her vocal scales as the male chorus line rolled through Petit Papa Noel. She had just enough time to practice her own performance once before it was time for her to take her place just off stage as their voices faded into silence. She was about to step onstage before one of the stagehands pulled her back, telling her to wait a minute. Uhura's brow creased and her breath quickened. She had been through the program obsessively enough to know that this was a deviation from the plan.
Eric walked past her, giving her a wide grin as he did so. She noticed the hint of mischievous in his eye, as well as the fact that he had traded jeans and a black t-shirt for a suit, jacket, and tie sometime between the time she had handed the show over to him and come back to go on stage.
He strolled out onto the stage where the lights had been dimmed to a single spotlight in the center of the stage. He raised the microphone, cleared his throat, and broke the silence in the auditorium. "I'm going to break a bit from the program here just for a moment to acknowledge the work of our next performer whom I have the distinct pleasure of introducing personally," he said, pausing.
Oh, she was going to kill him.
"Without her, this show would've never become what it's grown into over the past few months. She's been there every step of the way, from club meetings to discuss logistics to late night rehearsals, there is hardly an aspect of this evening that she didn't have a hand in. What more, she threw herself into this performance heart and soul, never asking for acknowledgement or reward, but simply out of her love for music. I'm here representing everyone that's been a part of this production when I give a heart-felt thanks to this individual and ask that you give her performance the attention and respect it so rightfully deserves."
He glanced at her then to where she was waiting in the wings tucked just offstage. With a wink and a broad smile, he continued. "Nyota Uhura, performing Tchaikovsky's 'Shedryk,' in its original Ukrainian."
With that said, he jogged off stage in her direction as the lights momentarily dimmed. He slowed his pace as he passed her. "Knock 'em dead!"
She smiled and nodded in response, a slight blush rising into her cheeks at how much praise he had bestowed upon her with his introduction. She strode out into view of the audience, front stage center. She took a quick glance over her shoulder at the female chorus line that would be accompanying her. Then the lights flared to life, illuminating her form.
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McCoy grinned as Nyota was introduced. It was exactly the thing she wouldn't expect. To her, giving one hundred percent of her best effort to an endeavor was second nature. She didn't really realize that the extent of her dedication was somewhat extraordinary. He was glad to see her get the recognition she deserved. It humored him to imagine Uhura standing just offstage staring daggers at the MC as he did so. He somehow doubted she had signed off on it.
His thoughts were interrupted as the string section plunged into the song with the first note, slow and drawn out and accented with a strong vibrato. It was Uhura's voice that rose to join the melody next, her voice rich and strong.
The accompanying singers rose in echo of Uhura, going quiet as her voice rose in intensity, hers quieting ever so slightly as theirs grew louder. Together, the orchestra, the choir, and Nyota wove a tapestry of song. He might not know much of music to appreciate the fine intricacies of this piece, and he might not know Ukrainian to comprehend the words, but it was a story all the same.
He read it in Uhura's face and her stance and her body language as the song progressed. It might not be the story that others were going to take away from the performance; it was his knowledge and his experiences with Uhura and the smile on her face that painted a portrait of just what this song meant to her. Her smile, the slightest upward curve of her lips as she took a breath and let her eyes roam their way through the auditorium. When they passed over him, he saw a spark of something special, a flame in her eye that only shone that brightly when Nyota was wholly immersed in something she loved. It was the way that, while her chorus accompanists read their notes from a page, Uhura recited them from memory.
This was Nyota as he'd never seen her before. Before tonight, he hadn't quite understood the paradox of how she could work so hard on a holiday performance when she stood so bitterly opposed to their celebration. As the final note rang and echoed into a staunch silence and the lights dimmed, it was like someone had flipped a switch in his mind. Uhura had tried to tell it to him plainly, it was for the music that she did this. In that moment, he finally understood just how monumental, how immeasurable, her love and passion for it was.
She took a bow, sweeping the skirt her floor length black dress to the side as she did so, and strode out with a confidence and pride in her step. He leaned back in his seat for the first time since she had begun and took a few fast breaths, his heart beating fast, as his mind struggled to catch up to emotions that had flooded through his mind. He struggled to put a word to what he was experiencing. It came eventually, it always did. It was awe, amazement. Nyota Uhura was the most amazing woman he had met in a very long time, and somehow, he had allowed her to slip away.
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Spock had slid backstage to prepare for his own debut at intermission. Uhura had wanted him backstage two acts before intermission, but Jim, with his ability to sell anyone on almost anything had talked him into sitting in the audience with him through the first half of the show. He had already tuned his lyre twice now, and gone through the piece he was to play three times. All that was left to do now was wait.
He pulled up a worn wooden chair he had recovered from the corner and sat down by the wall closest to the stage. He could barely make out the sounds from the group currently performing, but with his keen hearing he was at least capable of determining which group was on.
The human acts had all been grouped together before intermission. The second part of the show was actually the part he would've been more keen to observe, given the chance. Once the audience had filed back into the auditorium after intermission and the lights dimmed to give the two minute warning and the curtain had risen, the performances had all showcased the cultures of other species represented in the Federation and the Academy. He had closed his eyes during the Hortian rock thrumming, focusing on the vibrations as they crept up through his feet and through his body, so strong he could feel it in his chest.
When the floor had stopped humming, he concluded that the act had reached its end. There was a minute of silence, during which he assumed the stage was being cleared and reset, and then the tell-tale banshee wail of an Orion female marked the beginning of their courtesan gyre, a dance between an Orion female and male that paid homage to the days where slavery had been a staple of their culture. He'd seen such a dance in person before, the green-skinned male and female would appear in traditional garb that highlighted their muscular frames, the curvatures of their muscles, and fine physiques. The male would stand, rigid, poised as the woman circled him like a satellite, a carnal lust in her eyes. Her circuits would quicken and her orbit would become more jilted before falling apart altogether and the true dance would begin. It would devolve into an animalistic showcase, never vulgar but enticing one another all the same. They would separate to opposite sides of the stage before circulating back inwards until they hovered just inches apart. It was a dance that teased about what might be. It made ones skin shiver with desire and lust while never satisfying the urges it quickened.
The drum beat eventually began to slow, releasing Spock from its spell. In being drawn up in the performance, he had forgotten to make his way to the stage, a minor issue considering he was up next. He quickly rose from the chair and pushed it back. He suppressed the urge to run, he would never be so careless with such a precious instrument in hand, but he hastened as much as possible while keeping a steady gait.
He wound his way between a slew of individuals spread out through the hallway, sitting on the ground chatting amongst themselves, checking costumes, or rehearsing lines one final time. As the final beat of the drum reverberated through the auditorium, he filed in behind the Andorian performers, slowing his breath to appear calm and collected. They filed out onto the stage together.
He took his position to the side of the stage, leaving the main stage area clear for the Andorian performers. He sat down on the stool that had been placed there for him, squinting as he looked out into the audience.
The lights were blinding, the audience a dark conglomerate mass. Despite that, he was comforted by the thought of a single individual amongst many. Jim was out there somewhere, perched in his seat, there to support him as he performed. Spock had learned much about his human half in his years here, and Jim had taught him even more. Tonight was a celebration of many things, his time with Jim and his inherited human traditions from his mother. He felt blessed to find a small place for his Vulcan heritage in this night too, he thought as his ran his hand along his instrument, waiting for the Andorians arranged themselves on stage before he began. Through this, he had found a way to share a small piece of Vulcan with not only an audience of many species, but more importantly with Jim. He settled the lute into his lap, brushed his fingers lightly across the strings, and drew the first note.
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Jim knew it was clichéd, he really did. But at the same time, it was an appropriate analogy. It was like someone had pulled back the curtain and was letting him peek into a part of Spock's world that he had never seen until today.
Most of the audience was focusing on the Andorians in their muted white robes as they chanted. In front of the row of chanters, a pair of Andorians was dressed in traditional dueling garb and leather armor, going back and forth through a practice exercise with wooden staffs.
Jim's eyes, though, were focused to the left side of the stage where a lone figure was tucked away just on the edge of the area lit by the spotlights. If you didn't know where to look, you might miss it. There, almost out of view, Spock plucked away on his lyre. The man had foregone his standard Academy uniform in favor of a tuxedo appropriate to the occasion.
The instrument he had seen once before, when he wandered in late one night. Spock had been polishing its wood at the kitchen table with the sort of care that made it immediately obvious how important it was to him.
Tonight though, was the first time he had seen Spock play the instrument. It brought a whole new dimension to his personality. Spock's whole body went into the performance, his foot tapping to the beat, his body dipping forward and sinking back as he plucked the notes. His ear was cocked slightly to the side as if he were evaluating the tonal quality of each note.
It was the man's face, though, that really told the story. Normally it was a stark facade, the Fort Knox of emotion. Tonight, though, it bled emotion. There was a fury in his eyes, something deep and passionate and something wholly new to Jim's understanding.
It wasn't a long act. Jim wished it would've gone on longer. As the chanting died out and the Andorian warriors stilled, so too did Spock's fingers across the strings. The walls went back up, his face went blank, but the memory of it echoed in Jim's mind. Somewhere behind that facade laid that sort of passion. Jim swore to himself that he'd find a way to bring more of that to the surface.
He'd been chipping away at that facade from the very beginning of their relationship, looking for the small hints of human emotion that might lay there. Now he had a goal, now he knew what he strove to uncover with his ministrations, a way to elicit that sort of intensity in his partner's eyes.
They concluded the act. Spock took a bow. Despite that, Jim felt that it was really only the beginning.
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McCoy watched the entrance that led from the atrium into the theatre. With the show over, it was now serving as an exit as the crowd slowly gathered their belongings and slowly filed out of the theatre. It was a slow exodus as family members and friends met up with the performers and passed along their congratulations on what he was sure would go down as one of the most memorable holiday concerts that the Academy had ever hosted.
He was watching for one individual in particular, of course. The MC for the event had pegged it perfectly; she was the invisible thread that wound through every performance, pulling them together into a flawless ensemble. He tapped his foot nervously. He wasn't quite sure where this would all lead.
They had been fighting for days now, not that he was entirely sure what he had said that had cut Nyota so deeply. He'd played that conversation over in his mind again and again and had picked out a thousand little things that might've dealt the fatal blow to their relationship.
He really had tried to respect Nyota's wishes by letting her be, it was a large school, but not impossibly so. He couldn't help but follow her with his eyes when he saw her crossing the campus or curled up with a stack of books in the library. They had shared something special, the sort of something he hadn't had since the divorce. The spark wouldn't die, though, no matter how much he tried to stamp it out. The flames might not be there, brilliant enough for everyone to see. The embers were still there, though, bringing a warmth to his heart whenever she snuck into his thoughts.
He had been halfway to putting Nyota in the rearview mirror when she had shown up to do laundry in his building. Part of him wanted to reject her excuse for their run in, that the laundry facilities in the senior housing were better. That same part of him kind of hoped that she had gone out of her way to swing by in the same way he took the long way to the clinic sometimes just to walk past her building.
And just like someone had flipped a switch, they were talking again. They were laughing and joking and cooking for heaven's sake, as if nothing had ever happened. He had snuck a few secret glimpses at her while she worked over the stove, lamenting the horrors of boxed macaroni and cheese, explaining how you couldn't call it a real dish without asiago and mozzarella and white cheddar in perfect proportion, each glimpse just a reassurance that she was really there. Talking to him and smiling at him instead of yelling at him or staring daggers into his back. He didn't know quite know what stars had aligned to make this possible, but he hadn't questioned it. He knew they would have to talk about their fight eventually, but the moment was perfect, still beating strong, and he had no desire to bring it to a premature halt.
The temperature in the atrium was going up with all the people filing in, enough so that he slipped his suit jacket off and draped it over an arm as he focused on scanning the crowd for any sight of her. It wasn't easy, there were groups posing for photos, others the exchange of flowers between smitten couples.
There! He caught a glimpse of her in the crowd, her height playing to his advantage, allowing him to see her. He cut a path in her general direction, not darting in, but trailing behind her. A man approached her, tapping on her shoulder to draw her attention. She turned to face him, a curious expression on her face.
There was a brief exchange of words that he couldn't make out, and then he passed a large bouquet of flowers into her arms. She looked bewildered and her eyes began wandering through the auditorium as the man faded back into the crowd. As if there were some unseen force in play, their eyes met. Her gaze stopped wandering. She cocked her head to the side ever so slightly and began making her way over to him until they stood facing one another.
"You came," she observed. They had cooked together. Well, she had cooked; he had handed her utensils and tried to stay out of her way. Then they had parted ways to prepare for the concert.
He nodded. "Did you expect anything else? I see you have a secret admirer. He apparently has good taste in floral arrangements," he observed, motioning to the bouquet.
The clear plastic they were wrapped in at the base crinkled as she shifted them from one arm to the other. "See, that's the part I find rather peculiar. You would expect roses for a romantic gesture like this. I distinctly remember only ever sharing my preference for white lilies with a single person."
They had had that conversation on their way into town to pick out a gift for Joanna. They had passed a florist and their conversation had wandered onto the topic. "Well this person is obviously a good listener to have remembered such a small detail of a single conversation had weeks ago."
She swatted his arm slightly. "Oh, stop tooting your own horn," she chastised him lightly. "Now come on, I believe we have a dish to retrieve. After all the effort that went into it, someone better appreciate it while it's fresh."
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Continue to Part 6
Genre: Romance/Friendship fic
Word Count: ~39,000
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: McCoy/Uhura, Jim/Spock
Warnings: None
Summary: The holidays are a time for family and friends, for celebrations and showing them just how much they mean to you. For people from different walks of life and different cultures, it also means finding a common ground. McCoy, Uhura, Jim, and Spock's first holiday season together at the Academy.
Author's Note: As always, a huge thanks to phoenix_laugh for the beta. A far, far overdue Christmas present for rusting_roses. So late, in fact, that it kind of became a fusion Christmas/birthday present. As always, my dear, we've had some crazy adventures along the way. The road's usually not straight, and I'm more likely than not to take the long way around, but we got there. To be quite frank, I wouldn't trade our adventures for the world, you've become a lifelong friend, one of the best I've ever had. We'll raise a glass this fall (maybe even with a bit of real alcohol!) to celebrate the adventures yet to come.
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]
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It was chaos, that was really the only way to describe it, Uhura thought to herself. There were people going a hundred different directions doing a hundred different things all in preparation for tomorrow's concert. Standing back and observing it from afar, it really did seem like there was no plan here.
When she zoomed in her focus though, it all became clearer. It was a bit like the holos she'd seen of a honey bee colony in her biology class. Thousands of individuals rushing around in cramped quarters. Despite the apparent randomization of it though, there was a plan there, thrumming quietly beneath the surface, just as there was here. She'd had a hand in that, helping divvy out all of the tasks that needed to be done. Every person knew what they were doing. Four of the men from the choir were unstacking chairs for overflow seating and placing them in rows at the back of the theatre. Well, four men plus Gaila. Uhura had picked those four because they could do the heavy lifting without issue. Gaila, though, had volunteered for it. From the way her roommate was wearing a flirtatious grin on her face, she kind of thought there were ulterior motives at play rather than pure altruism.
The tech crew was running around on the deck hanging high overhead, adjusting lights and other electronic equipment. They were a bit hard to make out, in the black outfits they favored specifically for that reason, but she could make out their shadows against the bright lights.
She looked down at her clipboard with all of the tasks that she still needed to account for and sighed. They'd get there, she knew they would, but there was still a long way to go before they were ready. She turned and exited the theatre, heading out into the lobby.
A few students stood on ladders, hanging decorations in the floor to ceiling windows to commemorate the holidays of all of the cultures being represented in this event. The left side of the lobby had been cleared for practice space for any group that needed to run through their routine before the dress rehearsal.
She wove a path through the atrium, stopping here and there to check progress with a few of the late additions to the program. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, causing her to pause for a moment and pull her attention completely away from her clipboard.
Jim and Leonard were crouched up against one of the walls. Her brow furrowed. Those two hadn't been on the list of people she had expected to be here. She walked a bit closer, feigning interest in a group of Bajorans in ceremonial robes as they practiced the visual telling of one of the famous folk tales of their people. Jim and McCoy were bent over a stack of white paper, much of which had been chopped into tiny pieces.
"Come on, McCoy! This is not a snowflake. Were you sick the day they taught this lesson in preschool?" Kirk asked, holding up a horribly mutilated piece of paper. It had started as a square and had large holes running in strips down the center fold.
"I'm from the South, Jim. It's a little counterintuitive to teach kids to make paper cutouts of a natural phenomenon they've never encountered," he shot back, huffing.
"Let's try this again," Jim said, shaking his head. He held up a circular paper that had folds radiating out form the center. It had been transformed into an intricate piece of artwork. She hadn't seen snow in person, either, really, but she thought it probably reflected the reality of it quite admirably.
"This is what we're going to make," Jim prompted. He pressed another piece of paper into McCoy's hands. His friend begrudgingly accepted it with a shake of his head and an eye roll.
She allowed herself a small smile. McCoy looked up then, and his eyes met hers. There was a question behind his eyes, she could see it. She allowed her face to slide back into a neutral gaze as she continued on with her rounds. At one time, she might've had an answer for that silent inquiry, but not anymore. There was more work to be done.
"McCoy, you paying attention?" she heard Jim ask as she slipped back into the crowd.
The doctor turned his attention back to the paper. "Yeah, I'm good. Let's do this."
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Step 1-Defrost the turkey. If you have purchased a frozen turkey, you will need to defrost it in the refrigerator for several days first. Allow approximately five hours of defrosting for every pound of meat.
Bones looked up from his cookbook and over at his turkey, his rock-solid, frozen turkey. He'd bought a fifteen pound bird. Mental math brought that to seventy-five hours, or about three days. His eyes went wide. Given that it was Christmas Eve morning, his meat would be ready to go into the oven two days after Christmas. Leonard McCoy was truly a dead man walking.
He picked up his comm to contact Jim about this snafu in the making, but he slid the device back into his pocket hesitantly. The man was dealing with his own kitchen issues, right now, he was sure of it. Spock's mother had sent them a whole slew of traditional recipes to try. Jim and he both lived off what they could snag in the dining halls. For late night food, it meant whatever they could get delivered. No, Jim was probably waging his own war in the kitchen right now against an army of pots and pans and kitchen implements neither of them had probably used in their lives; best leave him to his own devices. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. He could figure something out, right?
It was an hour later that he poked his head around the corner to scout out the communal laundry room on the floor. There were rules for things like this, common decency rules that kept the building tenants living in an agreeable environment and prevented them from going at one another's throats. McCoy was pretty sure he was violating every one of them with what he was attempting here.
The room was blessedly empty. No one was there to witness what he was sure sounded like a few bowling bowls bouncing around in the floor's dryer.
He crouched down in front of the front loading machine and popped the door open a bit. He waited until the machine stopped its cycling before opening it further, not wanting its contents to spill out onto the floor. He closed his eyes. God please let this crazy, crazy idea work. He bit his lip, swallowed the lump in his throat, and slowly opened his eyes.
"Leonard Horatio McCoy. What travesty have you inflicted upon that poor dryer?" came a voice from behind him.
The dryer and its contents momentarily forgotten, he snapped his head around. A witness to this was not good. The person stood there, a full laundry basket rested on her hip as she held it aloft.
"Uhura-"
She sighed and dropped her basket to the floor, crossing the room to kneel next to McCoy and the disastrous remains of his contribution to their Christmas Eve/Chanukah feast. "What is this?" she asked, reaching a hand inside to pull out a fistful of shredded meat.
"It was a turkey. I don't know if it qualifies anymore," McCoy lamented.
Uhura raised an eyebrow, holding the handful of soggy meat to him. "I do believe this is your mess. Here, take it."
"I don't want it," he squawked quickly, backing up a step. He was used to a lot of messy things, in his line of work. This was something altogether different.
"Well I certainly am not keeping it," she retorted. McCoy begrudgingly took the mess off her hands. "I'll ask again, what the hell were you attempting to do here?"
"It wouldn't thaw-" he rebutted.
"And you thought a dryer was your best bet instead of a refrigerator like any normal person would try?"
"It was going to take three days to thaw. I had one day. I tried hot water in my shower, the thing dwarfed my sink. A blow dryer didn't cut it either. This was my last bet."
"Is there any household appliance you didn't try? This meal needs to be taken out back, shot, and buried in an unmarked grave. You're not planning on serving this, right? Isn't the Hippocratic Oath supposed to keep you from killing people?"
"Hey-"
"Not to mention my laundry. What am I supposed to do now? Wait, don't answer that," Uhura said, grimacing. "Following your train of logic you'd probably recommend I throw my whites in your oven to dry."
Mccoy didn't really have a response to that. Here he was, crouched next to a dryer with a handful of raw meat. It technically was thawed now, it had kind of worked...And here was Uhura. They were still fighting, weren't they? There was heat in her voice as she spoke, but it was more of that trademark abrasive charm of hers than anything else. She was smiling at his predicament.
What the hell was he going to cook now? He rocked back on his heels and all of a sudden tumbled backwards, landing on his butt. And then it all collapsed. He chucked the handful of meat back in the dryer and slammed the door before a fit of laughter overtook him. This was one of those stories that you just wouldn't believe unless you witnessed it. Or experienced, he supposed. This was his own grave he'd dug here.
Uhura sat down next to him, leaning up against the washing machine, covering her face with her hands and shaking her head. Her own laughing fit started soon after.
Eventually they ran out of breath. McCoy met her gaze, shaking his head. "How the hell did we end up in this mess?"
"We?" Nyota inquired, raising an eyebrow fractionally. "This stroke of genius was all yours, Dr. McCoy. Take credit where credit is due."
"Fine," he admitted. "How the hell did I end up sitting here in front of a dryer loaded with meat?"
"Still not quite sure myself," Nyota replied. "I'm still trying to figure out where I'm going to wash my dress for the concert now that you've ensured that I will never, ever do another load of laundry here lest my clothes come out smelling of smoked turkey."
"You could trademark it as an alternative to perfume, a more natural scent, right? You always were complaining about that floral stuff women spray all over themselves."
She bit back another laugh. "I somehow don't see the trend catching fire with the general public. Points for creativity, I suppose?"
"Har, har. I know, I screwed this up royally. Really, though, what I am going to do here? I have three hours to get this meal done."
"What time are you guys eating?" she inquired. It was technically only three in the afternoon, she'd have thought he would have more time than that.
"We're eating after the concert."
She sat up a bit straighter. "You're going? I mean, I figured since we weren't really together anymore..."
"I promised you weeks ago that I'd be there. I'm not the type of man to go back on my word," Leonard replied, momentarily abandoning his joviality for a more somber tone.
"Thanks," she said quietly, a slight blush creeping across her face.
McCoy grinned in response. They sat there for a beat before Nyota spoke again. "Ok, what's the game plan here?"
"I think you put it pretty bluntly yourself, I can't serve this unless I'm anticipating pulling an overnight shift in Medical caring for the food poisoning victims of my wayward cooking attempt."
"Yeah...this meal's out. I made macaroni for the choir dinner they are doing after the concert, I still have some of the ingredients for that. I could probably make an extra batch."
It was McCoy's turn to be surprised. "Really? You'll help?"
"Well I certainly don't anticipate leaving you to your own devices lest the building burn down. It's really just concern for the safety of your neighbors."
McCoy took her hand. She didn't pull away. "It's not just them. You're helping me. Thank you. Jim's just made such a big deal about this whole thing. I just want it to go well for him."
"I'll cover it. I have a few hours since the rest of the choir e-board threw me out of the hall and told me to go regain some of my sanity before coming back this evening for the concert."
McCoy climbed to his feet, then helping pull Uhura up. "You sure? What about your laundry, and the other ingredients, you said you had some of them. You're still missing some? All the stores are closed by now."
She checked off the items one by one on her fingers. "I have another dress I can wear, so I'm fine there. A friend worked in the kitchen and duplicated the key for me. I can sneak in and raid the kitchen for whatever else I need. We'll have to use your kitchen, our dorm one doesn't deserve to be called a kitchen. It's little more than a hot plate or two."
McCoy nodded. "Ok, that sounds good. What about the meat dish, though? That was supposed to be my contribution."
"Gaila was cooking the chicken for our dinner. I'll see if she has a bit extra we could take off her hands. I should be able to swing by my place, grab the ingredients, and we can reconvene in an hour."
"You are a goddess," Leonard said.
"I know," she replied, smugly.
"What do I need to do in the meantime?"
She looked down at the dryer and its hidden contents, shuddering slightly. "You are going to clean up this...thing, you've created, and then put an out of order sign on this poor machine."
He winced. "Ok, I deserved that. I'll take care of it. Really though, thanks."
Uhura nodded in acknowledgement, picking up her laundry basket and turning toward the hallway. "Oh, and one more thing, I don't even celebrate this holiday stuff and I even know that you don't cook turkey at Christmas. Just food for thought."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about me making that mistake again. I don't plan on making turkey anytime again in the next millennium or so."
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This was the part Uhura hated the most. It had been weeks, really months, of preparation leading up to this night. There had been countless meetings and hours devoted to making sure this went perfectly. It was to be her crowning accomplishment in the one year she would serve as director of the choir. She had thought she could balance choir with her senior course load and a thesis during her senior year...but through this process she had seen how this event had crept in from the periphery to become a central focus during this entire term. She would have to pass the torch at the end of the year. She'd still participate, but it wouldn't be quite the same. This event wouldn't belong to her in the same way this holiday concert had grown to be. It had started out as a mere idea, nothing more, and with her dedication and guiding hand, it had stepped from a mere concept to a glorious reality.
She had stood backstage through the female chorus line's acoustic performance of "Don Oiche Ud I Mbeithil."They had chosen to pay homage to Celtic Woman, an all-female ensemble of Irish woman who, in the late twenty-first century, had brought a new meaning to this same song, "That Night in Bethlehem." The casual music listeners in the crowd may not have understood the references made through the brilliant dresses that the twelve members of the chorus had chosen, but from her position nestled to the side between the retracted curtains, she knew. She smiled at how each of their self-designed and homemade dresses echoed the dresses once favored by the women of Celtic Woman, floor length, strapless gowns in a range of pastel colors. She had sat with her friends through midnight sewing sessions as each brought their own personality to their creations. Cecilia had chosen rhinestones, a perfect statement for the way she drew attention the moment she walked into the room. Lisa's gown lay tight against her frame through the bodice, expanding into a sea of ruffles from the waist down, a testament to the sewing prowess she had inherited from a family of seamstresses. Simpler dresses were represented too, for those amongst them who had learned to sew for this very occasion. Despite the variation, these woman stood together as their voices rose in synchrony as they presented to the audience a creation that was entirely their own.
Uhura's lips had curved upward as their voices echoed through the room. She stood a bit straighter, pride swelling through her chest, as she watched the audience's nervous pre-show endeavors fade into pure stillness as they were absorbed into the music.
As the women took a bow to a thunderous applause and filed off the stage, Uhura's attention was drawn by a tap on her shoulder. She turned to face the individual.
"You're up in two acts, Uhura, you should go downstairs and start getting yourself ready."
She tightened her grip on the clipboard that held her list of acts for the performance, her guide for helping the show run smoothly. This is the part she hated, passing the reins to what she had come to think of as her show, into the hands of another. Yes, Eric was the vice president of the choir, yes, she trusted him. The fact remained though, that once she stepped below stage to check her make-up one last time and run through her song to warm up her voice, she would have to implicitly trust that all of their practice and preparation would allow the show to run smoothly in her absence.
"One more?" Uhura asked, pleading.
Eric smiled and shook his head. It was funny how even though she towered a good foot above him, he could still order her around when need be. "We had this conversation, remember? And you told me that when push came to shove, you needed two acts to get ready to go on stage yourself and that I should lock you backstage in one of the dressing rooms if I had to in order to make sure you took the time you needed to prepare."
She huffed in complaint and then sighed. She had even prepared for this final compulsion of hers before the show had started. She really had thought of everything. Begrudgingly, she loosened her grip on the clipboard and passed it over into his waiting hands. "Give it your all to make sure everything goes ok?"
He smiled, crossing the Celtic Woman act off the list and watching as the next group filed on stage past them. "I know, it's your baby. I'll take care of it. Now shoo!"
She began her own preparations as one of the coed chorus groups performed Little Drummer Boy with an accompaniment from full orchestra. By the end of that act she had reset her hair in a high ponytail and braided it down her back. She had retouched her makeup with as much attention as she could spare for it. From behind a closed door she could feel the vibrations that the instruments sent through the walls and floor, but the voices were muffled by the thick walls.
She finished her vocal scales as the male chorus line rolled through Petit Papa Noel. She had just enough time to practice her own performance once before it was time for her to take her place just off stage as their voices faded into silence. She was about to step onstage before one of the stagehands pulled her back, telling her to wait a minute. Uhura's brow creased and her breath quickened. She had been through the program obsessively enough to know that this was a deviation from the plan.
Eric walked past her, giving her a wide grin as he did so. She noticed the hint of mischievous in his eye, as well as the fact that he had traded jeans and a black t-shirt for a suit, jacket, and tie sometime between the time she had handed the show over to him and come back to go on stage.
He strolled out onto the stage where the lights had been dimmed to a single spotlight in the center of the stage. He raised the microphone, cleared his throat, and broke the silence in the auditorium. "I'm going to break a bit from the program here just for a moment to acknowledge the work of our next performer whom I have the distinct pleasure of introducing personally," he said, pausing.
Oh, she was going to kill him.
"Without her, this show would've never become what it's grown into over the past few months. She's been there every step of the way, from club meetings to discuss logistics to late night rehearsals, there is hardly an aspect of this evening that she didn't have a hand in. What more, she threw herself into this performance heart and soul, never asking for acknowledgement or reward, but simply out of her love for music. I'm here representing everyone that's been a part of this production when I give a heart-felt thanks to this individual and ask that you give her performance the attention and respect it so rightfully deserves."
He glanced at her then to where she was waiting in the wings tucked just offstage. With a wink and a broad smile, he continued. "Nyota Uhura, performing Tchaikovsky's 'Shedryk,' in its original Ukrainian."
With that said, he jogged off stage in her direction as the lights momentarily dimmed. He slowed his pace as he passed her. "Knock 'em dead!"
She smiled and nodded in response, a slight blush rising into her cheeks at how much praise he had bestowed upon her with his introduction. She strode out into view of the audience, front stage center. She took a quick glance over her shoulder at the female chorus line that would be accompanying her. Then the lights flared to life, illuminating her form.
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McCoy grinned as Nyota was introduced. It was exactly the thing she wouldn't expect. To her, giving one hundred percent of her best effort to an endeavor was second nature. She didn't really realize that the extent of her dedication was somewhat extraordinary. He was glad to see her get the recognition she deserved. It humored him to imagine Uhura standing just offstage staring daggers at the MC as he did so. He somehow doubted she had signed off on it.
His thoughts were interrupted as the string section plunged into the song with the first note, slow and drawn out and accented with a strong vibrato. It was Uhura's voice that rose to join the melody next, her voice rich and strong.
The accompanying singers rose in echo of Uhura, going quiet as her voice rose in intensity, hers quieting ever so slightly as theirs grew louder. Together, the orchestra, the choir, and Nyota wove a tapestry of song. He might not know much of music to appreciate the fine intricacies of this piece, and he might not know Ukrainian to comprehend the words, but it was a story all the same.
He read it in Uhura's face and her stance and her body language as the song progressed. It might not be the story that others were going to take away from the performance; it was his knowledge and his experiences with Uhura and the smile on her face that painted a portrait of just what this song meant to her. Her smile, the slightest upward curve of her lips as she took a breath and let her eyes roam their way through the auditorium. When they passed over him, he saw a spark of something special, a flame in her eye that only shone that brightly when Nyota was wholly immersed in something she loved. It was the way that, while her chorus accompanists read their notes from a page, Uhura recited them from memory.
This was Nyota as he'd never seen her before. Before tonight, he hadn't quite understood the paradox of how she could work so hard on a holiday performance when she stood so bitterly opposed to their celebration. As the final note rang and echoed into a staunch silence and the lights dimmed, it was like someone had flipped a switch in his mind. Uhura had tried to tell it to him plainly, it was for the music that she did this. In that moment, he finally understood just how monumental, how immeasurable, her love and passion for it was.
She took a bow, sweeping the skirt her floor length black dress to the side as she did so, and strode out with a confidence and pride in her step. He leaned back in his seat for the first time since she had begun and took a few fast breaths, his heart beating fast, as his mind struggled to catch up to emotions that had flooded through his mind. He struggled to put a word to what he was experiencing. It came eventually, it always did. It was awe, amazement. Nyota Uhura was the most amazing woman he had met in a very long time, and somehow, he had allowed her to slip away.
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Spock had slid backstage to prepare for his own debut at intermission. Uhura had wanted him backstage two acts before intermission, but Jim, with his ability to sell anyone on almost anything had talked him into sitting in the audience with him through the first half of the show. He had already tuned his lyre twice now, and gone through the piece he was to play three times. All that was left to do now was wait.
He pulled up a worn wooden chair he had recovered from the corner and sat down by the wall closest to the stage. He could barely make out the sounds from the group currently performing, but with his keen hearing he was at least capable of determining which group was on.
The human acts had all been grouped together before intermission. The second part of the show was actually the part he would've been more keen to observe, given the chance. Once the audience had filed back into the auditorium after intermission and the lights dimmed to give the two minute warning and the curtain had risen, the performances had all showcased the cultures of other species represented in the Federation and the Academy. He had closed his eyes during the Hortian rock thrumming, focusing on the vibrations as they crept up through his feet and through his body, so strong he could feel it in his chest.
When the floor had stopped humming, he concluded that the act had reached its end. There was a minute of silence, during which he assumed the stage was being cleared and reset, and then the tell-tale banshee wail of an Orion female marked the beginning of their courtesan gyre, a dance between an Orion female and male that paid homage to the days where slavery had been a staple of their culture. He'd seen such a dance in person before, the green-skinned male and female would appear in traditional garb that highlighted their muscular frames, the curvatures of their muscles, and fine physiques. The male would stand, rigid, poised as the woman circled him like a satellite, a carnal lust in her eyes. Her circuits would quicken and her orbit would become more jilted before falling apart altogether and the true dance would begin. It would devolve into an animalistic showcase, never vulgar but enticing one another all the same. They would separate to opposite sides of the stage before circulating back inwards until they hovered just inches apart. It was a dance that teased about what might be. It made ones skin shiver with desire and lust while never satisfying the urges it quickened.
The drum beat eventually began to slow, releasing Spock from its spell. In being drawn up in the performance, he had forgotten to make his way to the stage, a minor issue considering he was up next. He quickly rose from the chair and pushed it back. He suppressed the urge to run, he would never be so careless with such a precious instrument in hand, but he hastened as much as possible while keeping a steady gait.
He wound his way between a slew of individuals spread out through the hallway, sitting on the ground chatting amongst themselves, checking costumes, or rehearsing lines one final time. As the final beat of the drum reverberated through the auditorium, he filed in behind the Andorian performers, slowing his breath to appear calm and collected. They filed out onto the stage together.
He took his position to the side of the stage, leaving the main stage area clear for the Andorian performers. He sat down on the stool that had been placed there for him, squinting as he looked out into the audience.
The lights were blinding, the audience a dark conglomerate mass. Despite that, he was comforted by the thought of a single individual amongst many. Jim was out there somewhere, perched in his seat, there to support him as he performed. Spock had learned much about his human half in his years here, and Jim had taught him even more. Tonight was a celebration of many things, his time with Jim and his inherited human traditions from his mother. He felt blessed to find a small place for his Vulcan heritage in this night too, he thought as his ran his hand along his instrument, waiting for the Andorians arranged themselves on stage before he began. Through this, he had found a way to share a small piece of Vulcan with not only an audience of many species, but more importantly with Jim. He settled the lute into his lap, brushed his fingers lightly across the strings, and drew the first note.
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Jim knew it was clichéd, he really did. But at the same time, it was an appropriate analogy. It was like someone had pulled back the curtain and was letting him peek into a part of Spock's world that he had never seen until today.
Most of the audience was focusing on the Andorians in their muted white robes as they chanted. In front of the row of chanters, a pair of Andorians was dressed in traditional dueling garb and leather armor, going back and forth through a practice exercise with wooden staffs.
Jim's eyes, though, were focused to the left side of the stage where a lone figure was tucked away just on the edge of the area lit by the spotlights. If you didn't know where to look, you might miss it. There, almost out of view, Spock plucked away on his lyre. The man had foregone his standard Academy uniform in favor of a tuxedo appropriate to the occasion.
The instrument he had seen once before, when he wandered in late one night. Spock had been polishing its wood at the kitchen table with the sort of care that made it immediately obvious how important it was to him.
Tonight though, was the first time he had seen Spock play the instrument. It brought a whole new dimension to his personality. Spock's whole body went into the performance, his foot tapping to the beat, his body dipping forward and sinking back as he plucked the notes. His ear was cocked slightly to the side as if he were evaluating the tonal quality of each note.
It was the man's face, though, that really told the story. Normally it was a stark facade, the Fort Knox of emotion. Tonight, though, it bled emotion. There was a fury in his eyes, something deep and passionate and something wholly new to Jim's understanding.
It wasn't a long act. Jim wished it would've gone on longer. As the chanting died out and the Andorian warriors stilled, so too did Spock's fingers across the strings. The walls went back up, his face went blank, but the memory of it echoed in Jim's mind. Somewhere behind that facade laid that sort of passion. Jim swore to himself that he'd find a way to bring more of that to the surface.
He'd been chipping away at that facade from the very beginning of their relationship, looking for the small hints of human emotion that might lay there. Now he had a goal, now he knew what he strove to uncover with his ministrations, a way to elicit that sort of intensity in his partner's eyes.
They concluded the act. Spock took a bow. Despite that, Jim felt that it was really only the beginning.
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McCoy watched the entrance that led from the atrium into the theatre. With the show over, it was now serving as an exit as the crowd slowly gathered their belongings and slowly filed out of the theatre. It was a slow exodus as family members and friends met up with the performers and passed along their congratulations on what he was sure would go down as one of the most memorable holiday concerts that the Academy had ever hosted.
He was watching for one individual in particular, of course. The MC for the event had pegged it perfectly; she was the invisible thread that wound through every performance, pulling them together into a flawless ensemble. He tapped his foot nervously. He wasn't quite sure where this would all lead.
They had been fighting for days now, not that he was entirely sure what he had said that had cut Nyota so deeply. He'd played that conversation over in his mind again and again and had picked out a thousand little things that might've dealt the fatal blow to their relationship.
He really had tried to respect Nyota's wishes by letting her be, it was a large school, but not impossibly so. He couldn't help but follow her with his eyes when he saw her crossing the campus or curled up with a stack of books in the library. They had shared something special, the sort of something he hadn't had since the divorce. The spark wouldn't die, though, no matter how much he tried to stamp it out. The flames might not be there, brilliant enough for everyone to see. The embers were still there, though, bringing a warmth to his heart whenever she snuck into his thoughts.
He had been halfway to putting Nyota in the rearview mirror when she had shown up to do laundry in his building. Part of him wanted to reject her excuse for their run in, that the laundry facilities in the senior housing were better. That same part of him kind of hoped that she had gone out of her way to swing by in the same way he took the long way to the clinic sometimes just to walk past her building.
And just like someone had flipped a switch, they were talking again. They were laughing and joking and cooking for heaven's sake, as if nothing had ever happened. He had snuck a few secret glimpses at her while she worked over the stove, lamenting the horrors of boxed macaroni and cheese, explaining how you couldn't call it a real dish without asiago and mozzarella and white cheddar in perfect proportion, each glimpse just a reassurance that she was really there. Talking to him and smiling at him instead of yelling at him or staring daggers into his back. He didn't know quite know what stars had aligned to make this possible, but he hadn't questioned it. He knew they would have to talk about their fight eventually, but the moment was perfect, still beating strong, and he had no desire to bring it to a premature halt.
The temperature in the atrium was going up with all the people filing in, enough so that he slipped his suit jacket off and draped it over an arm as he focused on scanning the crowd for any sight of her. It wasn't easy, there were groups posing for photos, others the exchange of flowers between smitten couples.
There! He caught a glimpse of her in the crowd, her height playing to his advantage, allowing him to see her. He cut a path in her general direction, not darting in, but trailing behind her. A man approached her, tapping on her shoulder to draw her attention. She turned to face him, a curious expression on her face.
There was a brief exchange of words that he couldn't make out, and then he passed a large bouquet of flowers into her arms. She looked bewildered and her eyes began wandering through the auditorium as the man faded back into the crowd. As if there were some unseen force in play, their eyes met. Her gaze stopped wandering. She cocked her head to the side ever so slightly and began making her way over to him until they stood facing one another.
"You came," she observed. They had cooked together. Well, she had cooked; he had handed her utensils and tried to stay out of her way. Then they had parted ways to prepare for the concert.
He nodded. "Did you expect anything else? I see you have a secret admirer. He apparently has good taste in floral arrangements," he observed, motioning to the bouquet.
The clear plastic they were wrapped in at the base crinkled as she shifted them from one arm to the other. "See, that's the part I find rather peculiar. You would expect roses for a romantic gesture like this. I distinctly remember only ever sharing my preference for white lilies with a single person."
They had had that conversation on their way into town to pick out a gift for Joanna. They had passed a florist and their conversation had wandered onto the topic. "Well this person is obviously a good listener to have remembered such a small detail of a single conversation had weeks ago."
She swatted his arm slightly. "Oh, stop tooting your own horn," she chastised him lightly. "Now come on, I believe we have a dish to retrieve. After all the effort that went into it, someone better appreciate it while it's fresh."
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Continue to Part 6