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It is 0630 when his mother calls.
It is a logical time — between the time difference and his schedule, there are limited hours of convenient overlap between Vulcan and Earth, and the hour is late enough that he has typically long since arisen, meditated, and readied himself for his day. It is logical to rise early. “Healthy, wealthy, and wise,” his mother used to say in singsong tones when she found him and his father seated in silence at the kitchen table in the early morning. His father never acknowledged the statement, but would pass her a cup of the coffee he carefully brewed for her every morning from the stash she rationed out between visits home to Earth.
It is a logical time for her to call, typically, except that today the familiar sound of his comm interrupts his observation of the shape of Cadet Uhura’s hip under the sheets, his musing as to whether it would be too forward to reach across the space between them and wrap an arm around her midriff and pull her close to him.
He reaches for the comm instead, sliding out of bed as he answers.
“Good morning,” he says quietly.
“Morning, baby!” Amanda Grayson’s voice is melodic and warm and normally a joy to listen to, but at this precise moment he wishes he could pluck it back from the otherwise undisturbed silence of his bedroom. Cadet Uhura stirs slightly, and he hastens toward the door with a noncommittal “hmm”.
“You’re usually more chipper in the mornings,” his mother comments, though Spock isn’t sure he could ever truly be considered chipper. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” he replies just as quietly as before, closing the bedroom door with a click that’s slightly louder than he’d intended.
It is unfortunate, he thinks, that his mother has such an admirably logical mind for a human.
“Spock,” she says slowly, “were you still in bed?”
He replies in the affirmative, busying himself with making a cup of tea.
“Spock,” his mother continues, and he can hear the twitching of her lips and a part of him that’s still fifteen years old desperately wants to roll his eyes and slam a door. He represses it. “Is there someone there with you?”
He replies in the negative just as the door he’s just closed opens, regrettably audibly, and Cadet Uhura steps into his living room in the uniform shirt he’d discarded somewhere around the end of his bed the night before. He cannot ascertain from his current position whether or not she is wearing anything else, but the scientist in him clamors to find out. She sees the comm in his hand and grimaces, bringing both of her hands up in a gesture of apology that far exceeds the severity of the transgression.
His mother is making no attempt to hide her amusement at his expense. “Hi, whoever you are!” She calls loudly enough for Uhura to hear her voice across the quiet room. Spock winces as he moves the comm slightly further from his ear. “Okay, Spock, I’ll get out of your hair, but I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Or, wait, maybe early mornings aren’t good for you anymore? I’ll look over the timetables and see what works, send me an updated copy of your schedule.”
Uhura is shaking with silent laughter, her face half buried in the sleeve of his uniform shirt.
“Have a pleasant day, mother.” Spock closes his comm with a click, aware that his mother likely would have continued speaking until he ended the call.
“I’m sorry,” Uhura says with a wide smile, “if I interrupted a standing appointment.”
“It is of no consequence,” Spock replies, placing the cup of tea he’s been brewing onto the table, turning the handle in her direction in an unmistakable gesture of invitation the way he remembers his father doing for his mother on a thousand mornings. “I am afraid I do not have coffee.”
“It is of no consequence,” she parrots, sliding into a chair and taking the cup.