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Sybok’s reading is interrupted by a sharp mental yank.
He frowns. Puts down his PADD and sits up on his bed.
“Michael?” He calls.
“Yes?” His sister appears in the doorway, and Sybok jumps.
“How the hell do you even do that?”
“Magic. And watch your tongue.” He rolls his eyes.
“I learned it from you.”
“I’m two years older than you, Sybok. You’re not allowed to curse.”
In a decidedly un-Vulcan move, Sybok sticks his tongue out at her. Michael just raises her eyebrows.
“Do you know where Spock is?”
She blinks, head cocking to the side. “Probably in his room. Why?”
Sybok takes a moment to assess the state of the bond he shares with his little brother— yes, Spock definitely tried to get his attention a minute ago.
“Just a feeling,” he says finally. “Come on.”
-
It takes almost 4 minutes (3 minutes and 37 seconds, the annoying clock in the back of Sybok’s head says) for Michael and Sybok to find Spock. In fact, the only reason that they do find him is because I’Chaya nudges at his bed until it moves. Even then, it takes a few seconds for them to spot their little brother.
Spock is curled up on the floor, perfectly centered in the rectangular indent that his bed has left in the soft pink carpet. His head is tucked into his robe, making him look a bit like the turtle sticker on Michael’s PADD case.
I’Chaya nuzzles at what Sybok thinks is Spock’s shoulder (it’s a little hard to tell, seeing as he is currently shaped more like one of the house’s many bean bag chairs than a Vulcan), prompting a squeaky whine that is too high-pitched for Michael to hear. I’Chaya and Sybok both flinch, their ears pinning, and the sehlat takes a step back. Michael frowns.
“Spock?” She crouches a few paces away from her youngest brother. He curls up tighter. “Spock, are you alright?”
The only response she receives is another whine, while Sybok gets a strong impression of too-loud/too-bright/too-much that sends his head spinning.
“Computer,” he says softly. “Lights down to twenty percent.”
The lights dim. Sybok waits for his eyes to adjust. Michael is already moving.
-
“Scoot over.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have room for my legs.”
“There is literally nothing keeping you from stretching your legs out, Sybok.”
He points to the edge of the bed-shaped depression in the rug, giving Michael an exaggerated pout. She sighs.
“As I said. There is literally nothing keeping you from stretching your legs out.”
Between them, Spock makes a grumpy trilling sound, tiny ears pinning back.
“Sorry,” Sybok whispers.
Spock flicks him with his tail.
“Do you want us to be quiet?” Michael asks softly. Spock nods. “Okay.”
After a few minutes of silence, I’Chaya flops down beside them. They immediately move to lay on top of him— the pink rug is comfortable, but nothing beats sehlat carpet.
-
When Sarek and Amanda finally get home, the house is quiet.
Sarek will admit that this is a bit concerning, even to him.
“Children?” Amanda calls. “Michael? Sybok? Spock?”
Nothing. Sarek is not alarmed, for he can feel their children’s minds buzzing peacefully against their parental bonds.
What is especially odd, however, is that I’Chaya has not come to meet them at the door. The sehlat may be old, but he is diligent.
Sarek goes to the base of the stairs, Amanda just behind him. He raises his chin slightly and gives a single, loud chirrrp.
He listens, ears perked.
Chirrrup!
There.
He ascends the staircase with the same non-urgency that he usually employs, the click-click-click of Amanda’s shoes a slightly quicker echo beside him.
The whispers of sleeping minds lead Sarek to Spock’s room. He pauses in the doorway, and at his shoulder, Amanda gasps.
Sarek cannot say that he faults her for this reaction.
Their children are piled on top of I’Chaya, who is sprawled out on Spock’s rug with his paws kneading lazily in the air.
Sybok and Michael are facing each other, their bodies curled inward under a weighted blanket and their foreheads nearly touching. Sarek assumes that Spock is somewhere between them—
There’s a soft mrrp noise from the space between the two elder children. Ah, Sarek thinks, there he is.
He walks over to them, smoothing a hand over his younger son’s messy hair as the child looks up at him blearily.
“Go back to sleep, sa-fu.”
Spock presses up into the touch for a moment before he begins to purr, and curls up to do just that.
Sarek lowers himself to the floor to lean against I’Chaya, feeling for a moment as though he is himself a young child again. The sehlat adjusts his position to accommodate — turning slowly so that he can lay his large head in Sarek’s lap.
He hears the soft click of Amanda’s antique camera (something called a “polaroid,” manufactured during a “retro craze” in Earth’s early 21st century. He wonders, sometimes, at the human determination to continue creating even during periods of devastation. He thinks sometimes that it is a trait uniquely human ), but doesn’t look up, even as Sybok’s foot presses rather uncomfortably into his back.
Another click. Sarek allows himself a small sigh.
“My wife,” he says, careful to keep his voice low so as not to awaken his sleeping companions, “what is the purpose of capturing low-quality images of a mundane occurrence?”
“It’s called ‘taking pictures,’ Sarek.” He can hear the smile in her voice, and his ears swivel towards her accordingly. “And Vulcan cuddle piles are certainly not a mundane occurrence.”
“Two of the participants in this…’cuddle pile’ are not Vulcans, Amanda.”
“You get my point,” she says. He trills with pleasure as she presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“Is that so?” He cranes his neck up to look at her (definitely not just so that she’ll scratch gently at his throat in exactly the way she knows he likes best).
“Mhm.”
“You did not answer my question about the pictures.”
Another kiss. Sarek purrs loudly when Amanda finally graces him with what she calls ‘skritches’ to the sensitive underside of his chin. “As you so gracefully pointed out, liebe,” she says, “two of the members of this cuddle pile aren’t Vulcan.”
“I’Chaya has no use for—“
“Let me finish.” He closes his mouth. “Michael doesn’t have an eidetic memory. And neither do I.”
Oh.
“…I believe I understand.”
“Good.” She pulls back a little, and the camera clicks again just as Sybok’s tail flicks the back of Sarek’s head.
No, Amanda thinks to herself, amusement tucked away in a loosely shielded corner of her mind as she watches her husband purr himself to sleep, not mundane at all.
