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The ship’s bar is a great place for parties, and New Year’s Eve is no exception.
Drained glasses litter the table in front of Erica, olives on cocktail picks reminiscent of the grapes they most certainly aren’t, and while Nyota and Christine and La’an can hold their liquor to varying extents, water has been Spock’s drink of choice tonight as he mostly observes other partygoers.
“I once again find myself fascinated by the human instinct to demarcate the passage of time.” Spock’s gaze alights on two very inebriated yeomen whose countdown to the new year — less than ten minutes to go — has gained volume as the night has gone on. “Though this instinct does seem to wane with age.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Despite her civilian clothes, La’an’s security instincts seem to kick in, assessing and dismissing the loud yeomen as potential threats to the party that sprawls across the entire bar — food, music, a dance floor brought in for the occasion, and high spirits for people and beverages. “The captain and Una chose to work so more of us could enjoy a night off to celebrate. I was surprised Pelia left once she found out Joseph was alone in sickbay, but she definitely had party energy while she was here.”
La’an is right — and party energy is good.
Especially on New Year’s Eve.
“I just hope I won’t get called to assist with surgery.” The warmth of Christine’s soft chuckle radiates, filling Erica up as Christine motions toward an ensign whose dancing exuberance is a blur of arms and legs. “High danger there for an ankle sprain, pulled hamstring, maybe even rotator cuff tendonitis.”
While Spock nods with concern, there’s laughter around the rest of the table, affectionate, gentle commiseration — most everyone knows what it’s like to go to sickbay with non-duty injuries — and Erica is laughing, too, right? Because Christine is funny and smart and people should enjoy themselves at a party on New Year’s Eve, grapes or no grapes. Hell, if Christine can be her usual ethereal self, the chin Erica would love to tip in a kiss lifting in laughter, eyes sparkling, then Erica can get into the party mood, too.
“Hey,” Nyota’s voice is low and, probably because Nyota knows communication better than anyone, she manages to be both barely audible and perfectly understood. “You okay, Ortegas? You look like you’re a thousand light years away.”
Not quite that far.
But it was two New Year’s Eves ago that the USS Palenque was near the Klingon border, and there was no music or dancing or celebration. Just the loop of the distress call that those of them still alive hoped to hell that Starfleet would receive instead of the Klingons intercepting. Just ration bars and a conn station that barely responded, comm signals full of Klingon battle cries and Erica’s belly twisting with hunger and fear — and New Year’s Eve had slipped her mind and even if she had had a way to get twelve grapes, what kind of luck could she have dared to hope for back then?
“I’m all right.” It’s not a lie that Erica tells Nyota. Erica is all right. She has great friends and she pilots the flagship and the war is over.
It’s just … flying is an analogy for life, right? And some people think flying means setting a course and sitting tight. But space is always moving — the rotation and orbit of planets, asteroids that tumble and hurtle, dust that swirls and flumes, ion storms that … storm. Even stars can have solar flares or coronal loops. And Erica gets to experience that partnership in motion of starship and space every shift, dancing not through the cosmos, but dancing with the cosmos, being part of something old and new and vast and dazzling.
And that’s important. Togetherness. Being with, not moving through. That’s … that’s the most important thing.
“Did you hear about the ensign who interrupted a slow night in sickbay with a concussion?” Erica preps the joke for launch, loud enough for everyone at the table to turn toward her, then she fires on all thrusters for the punchline. “Yeah, turns out the ensign’s commanding officer saw the ensign trying to adjust a plasma relay with the wrong engineering kit and the commanding officer said, ‘Come on, Ensign. Use your head.’”
There’s laughter, wonderful laughter that Erica helped create — being with — a camaraderie and joy in the vastness of space, her friends at the table and throughout the ship a family by choice, an extension of her biological family that laughs and cries and celebrates together.
It’s six minutes until the new year.
Six minutes until the war years are that much farther away in time.
Her friends haven’t asked much about her war service. Nyota was at the academy, Christine and La’an and Joseph have their own stories, and Spock was with the captain and commander out of the action. And that’s good, actually. Some people probably heal by talking things through, by going deep into fear and confusion and hurt. But, for Erica, healing has meant reconnecting with who she was before the war, finding her way back to parts of herself that seemed almost indulgent in the aftermath of losing so much on the Palenque. So, if she’s going to bring who she was and who she is together — being with herself and others — that means enjoying laughter and friends and sharing … sharing herself a little bit more?
There are no ration bars this year.
She — she needs to get the grapes.
“I’ll be right back.” Erica stands, a rush of hope and excitement ringing in her ears as much as the music, “keep your butts in your chairs, but clear a place on the table.”
Glasses clink as her friends make room, Erica shouldering through the crowd. Thank goodness the bar always has food as well as drinks. Because she’s going to do it. For the first time since the war. She wouldn’t have to explain to her family back home, but her family onboard will trust her. They always do.
“Could I get five dozen grapes, please?” Erica calls out as she reaches the bar, leans against the hard surface to keep herself steady because space is always moving and life is always moving and sometimes circling back to something important is actually a path forward. “Seedless. Green if you’ve got ’em, but red grapes are all right if you don’t.”
The bartender nods, turns toward a food synthesizer, and Erica is jostled by partygoers to the left, to the right — stay loose, keep on course — and there’s just four minutes left.
“Hey,” she calls out to the yeomen counting down to the new year, “once we hit midnight, I need you to make a chiming sound like an old-fashioned grandfather clock or a clock tower. Twelve chimes for twelve o’clock. Think you can handle it?”
There’s an inebriated “whoo!” that seems like a yes.
And the bartender returns, a platter laden with bunches of green grapes thrust toward Erica — “Thanks!” — and Erica balances the tray through the crowd, evasive maneuvers, port, starboard, flying toward her friends, and there’s a clear spot in the middle of the table that’s just the right size, and La’an, Christine, Nyota, and Spock all look up at Erica, quizzical but ready.
Two minutes until the new year.
“It’s called The Twelve Grapes of Luck — Las Doce Uvas de la Suerte.” The platter lands in the middle of the table, grapes settling into their very temporary new home. “You eat a grape for each clock chime of the new year. While you eat, you think about the significance of the month or make a wish. It’s from the old Earth twelve-month calendar.”
La’an plucks a grape from its stem. She turns the grape in her fingers, studious. “Can we eat two or three grapes at once?”
“Only if you want my grandmother to kick your ass.” A grin tugs at Erica’s lips. La’an is tough, but abuelita is tougher. “Each grape has to be eaten during its clock chime.”
“Go grandma! Grapes can be a choking hazard, so that’s a smart move.” Christine pulls grapes from their stems, strong fingers, deft, probably in part because of her work but also because that’s who Christine is — powerful, yet careful, almost cautious.
And even though Erica’s stomach flutters with the thrill of Christine, especially, being part of something as important as Las Doce Uvas de la Suerte, Christine is smart enough to know that Erica likes her and if Christine wants to be friends and nothing else, that’s all right. A little pining never hurt anyone.
Well, except for that lieutenant who tried to descend an orbital glider through an alien forest. But he hit an actual pine tree, so that doesn’t count.
One minute until the new year.
“Since I am not from a planet with a twelve-month year, do I take grapes to correspond to the Vulcan calendar or do I maintain the ritual as Earth-centric?” Spock looks up from dropping grapes into one of his empty water glasses. “Not that I believe in rituals to create luck. But in order to properly honor this tradition.”
Oh, Spock totally believes in luck.
Does Erica believe in luck? It depends on the day. Today, she does.
“Twelve grapes!” Erica nearly sings in triumph, her stomach flutters growing into a full-body celebration — of friendship, of this part of her upbringing and life before the war becoming something her friends aren’t doing just because she asked them, but because they’re interested, asking questions, wanting to understand. “And if you don’t finish all twelve by the time the clock stops chiming, you risk misfortune in the new year.”
There are twelve grapes left on a stem and Erica grabs them as she sits, the seat soft on her back, the grapes cool and just the right amount of weighty with tradition.
“One problem.” Nyota’s grapes form a small hill in front of her. “No clock to chime.”
Erica pulls off her first grape, a round promise in her hand. “Relax. I’m way ahead of you.”
The yeomen’s countdown reaches midnight and while the party erupts in cheers for the new year, the yeomen become even louder, the beginnings of their resounding impression of a clock chiming twelve — “DIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNG-DOOOOONNNNNNG!” — an impression so terrible that it’s sort of perfect under the circumstances, and a good-enough guide for eating the grapes.
One!
Sweet. Good luck for January.
Two!
February will be “grape”-fully great.
Three!
March will be re-“March”-ably good.
Four!
A spray of the best kind of grape juice means a fun month full of April showers. Wait — April showers in space? Eh, there’s always the shower in the bathroom. Close enough.
Five!
“May” Erica expect an excellent May? Of course she “may.”
Six!
Jump for June, and —
“Chew, don’t just swallow grapes.” La’an manages to chastise despite a grape in her mouth. “Security risk.”
Seven!
Nyota reaches for another grape. “I thought we decided on medical hazard, not security risk.”
Eight!
“I believe you both may be correct.” How does Spock manage to eat grapes so quickly yet cleanly? “I would elucidate, but I am otherwise occupied.”
Nine! And abuelita would fight every one of them and win — except Christine, Christine seems even more contemplative than usual as she chews — because part of the point of Las Doce Uvas de la Suerte is to focus.
“Remember, you gotta think, too.” Erica’s tenth grape is locked and loaded — October is going to be excellent. “Consider what you want out of the month for each grape. Make it a wish if you want.”
There are grape-fueled nods around the table, the yeomen’s clock impression louder than ever as other partygoers join in.
Eleven!
A November of good cheer.
Twelve!
A glorious December to close out the year.
And … and it’s done. The last grape — and some mush from grapes that were mostly eaten — slides down and Erica … Erica did Las Doce Uvas de la Suerte for the first time since the war.
Her arms rise in triumph.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that fast in my life.” Nyota’s hand on her own stomach rises and falls with a laugh of what seems like relief. “That was amazing. Can we tell our wishes?”
Four sets of curious eyes turn toward a grape-drunk Erica, bar music louder than the yeomen for the first time in hours, and her arms lower in a hazy glow of … feeling like herself but also like someone new, as if Erica has knit together in a way she didn’t know she needed after the war.
And, uh, the knit-together person isn’t going to worry about not doing so great on her first question.
“I don’t know.” Erica’s shrug is smooth. “My family never did, but I never heard one way or another about a superstition for sharing what you were thinking about for the grapes.”
So a new tradition is born.
Nyota tells how she chose a theme per month for her wishes — career or fitness or a new skill — and what she wished for for each one.
La’an explains how she thought about how the month had gone in the most recent year and how she could do better in the next year.
Spock outlines … in some detail … his methodology to correlate the twelve months to spans of time in the Vulcan calendar and to reflect on each ritual observance and its importance in the upcoming year.
Christine shakes her head. “I’m gonna make this a birthday thing and figure that telling my wishes means they won’t come true.”
That’s fair.
But Erica tells her practice of getting excited and optimistic for each month, and she’s buzzy, a talker talking in a way she hasn’t in a while, and a little extra truth slips out.
“I actually haven’t done Las Doce Uvas de la Suerte since the new year before the war. It felt wrong to hope for luck or good times after so much had gone wrong. So, uh, thanks, you guys for helping me get back to this. It feels good.” Tears of appreciation pinprick behind her eyes, but Erica won’t cry. The gratitude is there, though, and her friends nod their appreciation, Nyota leaning over to place a hand atop Erica’s, a quick squeeze of affection.
Then there are yawns and talk of duty in the morning and, with a shout of thanks over her shoulder to the yeomen, Erica starts her walk home.
“Um, hey.” Christine falls into step with Erica. “Mind some company?”
“From you? Nah.” Erica grin is easy, content. “That would be really nice, actually.”
There’s a shift to Christine’s shoulders as if Christine is squaring herself to a decision — not in a bad way, though. Hopeful. “Thanks. I, uh, really liked the twelve grapes. It was really cool that you shared that.”
“Well, you know,” flutters find their way to Erica’s belly again but that’s just how it is around Christine, “it kind of occurred to me in the moment. Not planned. But thanks.”
And there’s quiet between them. At first it seems like a comfortable quiet, the quiet of people who have spent all night together and are winding down, but there’s a nervous energy from Christine and they’re almost to Erica’s quarters so maybe Erica should say something?
She doesn’t get the chance.
“So, um,” Christine stops in front of Erica’s door, “I wanted to say why I didn’t talk about what I had in mind for each month. It’s kind of a lot and I don’t need to tell everyone what’s in my head. But I wanted you to know I took the twelve grapes seriously and I’d like to talk with you about it. Maybe dinner tomorrow or the next night?”
“Sure.” It’s an honor that Christine cares so much about something Erica just taught her, and Erica looks up at Christine’s eyes and there’s an adoration shining there that’s not quite new but also different, more intense.
“And, um, I guess another New Year’s Eve tradition is a kiss at midnight and I get that it’s not midnight anymore and I hope you’ll say no if you don’t want to, but would it be okay if we, um —?”
Time slows down with Christine’s unfinished question hanging in the air.
The footfalls of crewmembers in the corridor.
The lift and lower of Christine’s chest as she breathes.
The crystallizing of what Erica has wanted for so long into one word: “Yes.”
At dinner tomorrow, Christine will explain that she’s thought about this for a long time, too, but parceling out the year month by month helped big things seem smaller, more manageable, and a walk to quarters became a chance to start something small that could become something big — first by figuring out if Erica might be interested in taking their friendship in a new direction.
At lunch in a few weeks, they’ll tell their friends that they’re dating.
At their housewarming party in a few months, they’ll celebrate moving in together — a big step of being with that came from smaller steps, like months that make a year or grapes that make a bunch.
But first, Christine bends a little lower and Erica stands a little taller. And Erica can’t help but reach for Christine’s hand and hold on, stability as everything changes because that’s what everything does, it changes, whether that’s space or people or Erica’s own self as her life unfolds. Fingers thread in hope and there’s a blush of breath, a nervousness of something that feels so right yet hasn’t ever happened between them before.
Then there’s darkness as Erica’s eyes close and Christine’s lips are soft and there’s a gentle sigh, a strange feeling of being home in a kiss that’s only just begun, and Christine’s thumb is gentle on Erica’s cheek, a caress, and Erica’s arm finds Christine’s waist, pulls the ethereal that is Christine closer, a first kiss to linger in, two souls nudging each other upward in a dizzying flight of love.
Is it luck that brought them together tonight? Or is this just one of the infinite possibilities of the continual motion of the cosmos and the people and celestial bodies within it?
Whatever it is, it’s as sweet as a dozen grapes on New Year’s Eve.