Work Text:
As had become his usual modus operandi, Jim pressed the button next to Spock’s quarters’ doorway to alert his First Officer of his presence, only waiting a second or two before entering in his override code to step into the other’s rooms. While it was one of their usual nights for playing chess, there was an extra bounce in the Captain’s step on this evening: Jim had been sent an itinerary for a new mission on the way down to the officers’ quarters, and the thought of finally getting to visit an inhabited planet—a temporary break from nebula explorations—was more than enough to fill the blond with both excitement and anticipation.
“Spock!” Jim began, voice elevated and cheerful as the other man’s door slid shut behind him. “We’ve finally been sent a new mission, and you wouldn’t believe where the Admirals are sending us next—“
The Captain’s tumbling words quickly stuttered to a halt, however, when Jim caught sight of the Vulcan’s current activities. Spock was standing in a corner of his bedroom, back to the door but angled enough for Jim to see that the other man was carefully lighting a second branch on a menorah as his lips moved, voice too low to actually catch any of the words spoken. The candelabrum’s metal gleamed in the low light that was a constant in Spock’s quarters, the menorah obviously well-maintained and well-loved amongst the rest of the Vulcan’s belongings.
Jim remained silent as Spock finished lighting the menorah, snuffing the match that had been used to light the candles with a quick puff of air; discomfort and embarrassment were heavy weights in the bottom of the blue-eyed man’s stomach, regret at interrupting something that was obviously private the forefront emotion as his XO finally made his way towards the living area at the chess board set upon the table between two arm chairs.
“I’m sorry,” the Captain murmured, lightly tapping his PADD against a thigh. “I really do need to stop barging into your quarters. I didn’t mean to interrupt, Spock—and, for that, I do apologize.”
“Apologies are unnecessary, Captain,” the other man answered in turn, and something small and carefully hidden softened in the Vulcan’s dark eyes as Spock glanced upwards to meet Jim’s gaze. “Considering that it is a night during which we play chess, I calculated the likelihood of your interruption at ninety-seven point six-eight percent. If I felt any genuine discomfort at your presence, I would have lit the menorah at an earlier or later point of time.”
At a gesture from Spock, Jim fell gracelessly into his usual arm chair, limbs sprawled every which way as the blue-eyed man made himself comfortable in ways that only a cat could typically emulate. He handed over the PADD when Spock gestured for it, leaning forward, as well, to make his first move on the 3-D chess set. It was obvious that Spock was tempted to make his move in turn, but the Vulcan shifted his attention to the tablet instead to glance over their new mission parameters before he allowed himself to become immersed in the game.
With Spock distracted by the PADD, Jim’s attention drifted back towards the menorah; the individual flames glowed steadily, counterpoint to the blinking white pinpricks of distant stars that winked out from the window next to the candelabrum. It was a sight that was surprisingly soothing and the blond allowed his thoughts to drift idly as he waited for his XO to finish his initial perusal of the new mission.
As the silence stretched on between the both of them, comfortable and familiar, Jim eventually blinked—lashes lowering and lifting slowly, almost sleepily, in the near darkness of the other’s quarters—and shifted his star-bright gaze Spock’s way. “…hey,” the younger man started, voice unusually tentative as he watched the Vulcan from beneath hooded lids. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Affirmative,” was the other’s answer, Spock flicking a brief glance Jim’s way before returning his attention back to the mission outline. “Though I cannot guarantee the promise of an actual answer.”
Jim hummed quietly in understanding, propping a cheek in the palm of a hand even as his gaze drifted back towards the lit menorah, eyes tracing over the elegantly curved arms of the candelabrum. “I was always under the impression that Vulcans didn’t believe in a higher power. In deities, I guess…?”
Spock stilled at the vagueness layered within Jim’s question, familiar enough with the Captain’s patterns of speech to be able to infer just what it was that the other man was asking: “While it is true that Vulcans did have an extensive religious network before the Time of Awakening,” the dark-eyed man began slowly, picking and choosing his words before speaking them aloud, “that is no longer the case. The teachings within the Kir’Shara have laid a groundwork for Vulcan behavior and belief in its stead. Since I believe that your question is prompted by the presence of the menorah, Jim, I should clarify that it belonged to my mother.”
“…oh,” the younger man answered, voice quiet and muted as he looked at the menorah with a new set of eyes, understanding the meaning behind its presence—why Spock kept it, lit it, must have been saying a traditional blessing as the wick flared to life. Jim blinked, face twisted with an emotion that Spock wasn’t able to quite understand, and shifted his attention back to the half-Vulcan, mouth quirked upwards in a half-smile. “I’m glad that you were able to keep another piece of her memory safe, Spock.”
The Vulcan’s heart thudded in his torso, unexpected and breath-catching, and Spock lowered his dark gaze to return it to the PADD. “Indeed,” Jim’s First Officer murmured.
++
Maybe once upon a time ago, the Kirks maybe have been religious—may have celebrated holidays, gone to whatever house of worship the family believed in, honored Sabbaths, participated in community gatherings… maybe once upon a time ago. If that had ever been true, those days were long in the past: Winona never messaged Jim or Sam on their birthdays or holidays most others celebrated; why would that attention to tradition bleed over into anything else when there was already such a lack of detail in the most basic of ways?
The point was: Jim wasn’t religious, had never been religious, and the only thing he could say that he honestly believed in was Lady Luck (too many kisses blown his way to do anything else but put faith in Her). Despite that, however, seeing Spock honoring the traditions that must have been passed down in the Grayson family over generations, watching him light his mother’s menorah in her memory, quietly repeat the blessings and prayers that he must have grown up listening to—all of it combined to settle something heavy, weighty with meaning and understanding, in the pit of Jim’s belly.
Spock had been able to save so little from Vulcan’s destruction—even less that brought memories of his mother.
The thoughts were dark-edged, sour with grief and loss for the older man, circling endlessly through the shadowed valleys of Jim’s mind to the point that, hours into his sleep cycle, he finally gave rest up as a lost cause. Pushing himself up in his bed, the Captain’s starfire-bright gaze settled on a piece of driftwood that he had picked up three planets ago.
Planet Ll’o had been an unexpected treasure after a series of away missions that had gone wrong in all sorts of ways. The planet’s weather had been absolutely spectacular, air balmy while being stirred to life with a gentle, hint-of-salt breeze as it blew in from the inland sea that they had appeared before. The science department had been over the moon at the amount of specimens and samples they’d collected over the nine day mission, and security had taken advantage of the downtime to stretch their legs in several melees that Hikaru and Jim had snuck in on, as well. The last day had ended with a barbeque on the shoreline that all of the crewmembers had been able to attend through a series of carefully time rotations, and Jim had picked up the driftwood piece before Scotty had beamed him back up to the Enterprise.
A memento of a good memory. Something that filled him with a sense of quiet every time he glanced its way, connection and gratitude and responsibility and family—family that had been kept out of his reach, just barely, for so much of his life.
“Computer,” Jim began, sliding all of the way out from beneath his sheets, hand coming up to tiredly rub at an eye. “Lights to eighty percent.”
As his quarters began to lighten once again, the Captain padded on silent feet towards the salt-dusted chunk of wood, lifting it in one hand—hefting it to absently test its weight—and turning to head towards his sitting area, grabbing a small, leather-rolled toolkit along the way.
The kit unfurled on his glass-topped table with a small tap of Jim’s fingers, and it only took a moment or two longer before the blue-eyed man plucked the first of his straight chisels from the roll and began to work at the wood in his left hand, shaping it with a serene sort of patience that seemed anathema to Jim’s personality but lay hidden within him as a homage to his late Grandpa Ti. The hours began to while away as the blond man chipped away at the driftwood, settling into some sort of quiet place within himself that echoed with the quiet footsteps of his crewmembers going about their business just outside his quarters’ door.
Jim’s new task wouldn’t be finished within the night—but it would be before the Vulcan lit the last candle on the menorah. He remembered that much, at least, from Grandpa Ti’s lessons, no matter how many years it had been since Jim had last sat down and actively worked on a project, carving carefully to work with the grain of the wood and coax a shape into existence.
++
Work calloused fingers brushed over the carefully etched lines of ש, tracing the delicate arches that made up the letter shin; it had been tempting to indulge in a bit of a calligraphic slant when Jim had begun working on the alphabet letters, but the artistic flair hadn’t been the purpose of this gift—and, besides, wouldn’t particularly fit with the Vulcan’s sensibilities, either. And this was supposed to be for Spock, to provide for another memory of his mother, the traditions that she must have carried over to Vulcan, keeping true to despite the sidelong glances and sharp-toned derision she must have remained steadfast through.
Jim had quietly thought Amanda Grayson to be a strong woman, intelligent and fierce in her own regal way—the woman who had created the universal translator, who had left her home and people behind to follow her heart and the man she obviously loved, had carried their child of two worlds—moving like the graceful flow of the river to both adopt her husband’s culture while still remaining fiercely human… yes, there had been much to admire about Spock’s mother and, perhaps, this would help Spock keep her memory safeguarded within his own mind and heart.
He slipped into the half-Vulcan’s quarters through their shared bathroom, deftly avoid the softly smoldering incense bowl that was proof that Spock had finished with his daily meditations not long before; if the First Officer stuck with his typical schedule—which, if Jim had to rely on anything in his life, it was the fact that Spock kept his days both structured and regular—he’d just now be entering the science labs.
It would be hours until he finally returned to his own quarters.
Still, though, there was a muted sort of trepidation as Jim approached the unlit menorah, displayed so that the XO would be able to observe it from all angles of his rooms—and the careful angling of the candelabrum tightened something in Jim’s chest, leaving it aching and himself sort of breath.
(Remembered, for just a short moment, the look in Spock’s eyes when Jim accused him of never loving his mother.)
His fingers brushed over the menorah’s base, just a fleeting touch, and the blue-eyed man gently set the hand carved dreidel next to the silver candelabrum, top resting just barely upon the arch of its foundation. It was a small piece, a little bit smaller than the palm of the Captain’s hand, but Jim had been meticulous in its sanding: the wood grain was silky, smooth as satin, and he had carefully stained the nun, gimel, he, and shin so that the letters stood starkly contrasted against the pale honey of the main body of the dreidel.
“You were probably always proud of him,” the blond whispered, barely distinguishable in the ghost-filled silence of Spock’s room. “And you had reason to be. He’s become one of the most steadfast—steady and true—lights of Starfleet. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Jim swallowed roughly at the hoarse honesty layered within his words, gaze downcast—hidden and vulnerable—and pulled away to head back towards his quarters through the bathroom once more, aware that his shift on the bridge would shortly begin.
++
This time around, the Captain waited until the door opened before heading inside, refraining—for the first time in weeks if not months—from using his override code to barge into his XO’s quarters instead. As Jim made his way through the small foyer and towards the sitting area that it opened onto, his steps came to an abrupt halt when he caught sight of Spock’s living room table:
The 3-D chess set was nowhere in sight and, instead, two piles of little things—gold foil chocolates, certain other sweets, packets of both Spock and Jim’s favorite teas, the necklace that the Captain caught sight of just beneath his First Officer’s collar from time to time: a small bounty, divided carefully between the two arm chairs, and where the dreidel that Jim had carved for Spock lay resting along that middle ground.
“…Spock?” the Captain asked, tentative and cautious as he glanced from the table to where Spock was comfortably sitting, obviously waiting for Jim’s appearance for the night while the menorah burned cheerfully in the background, all eight candles brightly lit and steady in their flames.
“My mother had a dreidel that belonged to her great-grandmother. She brought it out only during Hanukkah and oftentimes played with Sybok, Michael, and myself. I have always felt particularly… fond… of those memories, and I wish to teach you how to play, as well, Jim,” the Vulcan stated, gaze clear as he met Jim’s blue eyes.
“Okay,” Jim acquiesced after a moment of silence, eventually settling in the arm chair that he had claimed for himself months ago with the same carelessly unconscious grace that he so regularly carried himself with. It was only when his Captain was comfortably situated opposite himself that Spock lowered his own dark gaze and reached for the dreidel that Jim had spent most of the past week meticulously carving.
++
Jim had won the overall pot—gimel—and claimed his bounty with a surprisingly boyish smile on his face, though the Captain still ended up sliding a portion of the non-chocolate candies Spock’s way when the Vulcan had been distracted in retrieving their cups of tea from the yeoman who had brought them up from the cafeteria at Jim’s request.
“Congratulations, Jim,” Spock quietly offered, setting the cups in their respective place before carefully lowering the necklace that the blond had won over Jim’s head, clasping it closed at the nape of the younger man’s neck. The blond glanced up at that and the Vulcan had withdrawn, composed as ever, though his fingertips had momentarily brushed over Jim’s psi points—a touch that was there-and-gone-again.
“No need for thanks, Spock,” came the rough-edged reply, Jim clearing his throat and reaching for his cup of tea to distract himself from that fleeting touch and that assessing, contemplative look within the Vulcan’s eyes. “Tonight was… good. I had fun.”
“Affirmative,” Spock confirmed and seated himself, as well. Silence fell between both men, familiar and thrumming with unnecessary words—understood and unspoken, a connection that already linked them both though now was not yet the time to acknowledge it—and Jim closed his eyes to a steadily burning candelabrum and just… let himself be.
::fin::