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You entered your quarters, the sounds of the hallway becoming an auditory blur as blood pumped through your ears. This was your safe space, and yet everything felt wrong. The air vents let in too much sound, the air was stale, and it’s too hot and too cold and you needed to get out of this uniform now .
You tore the shirt from your torso, leaving you in your black undershirt, and attempted to take off your boots, but your heel gets caught in the small space between the heel and the opening. You sat on the floor and tried pulling the boot from your foot, exerting much more effort than anticipated, and successfully wrenched it off, tossing it out of your field of vision. You attacked the other boot with the same force, letting out a whine when it didn’t immediately come off. A quiet sob left your throat, pricks of tears welling against your eyes.
You let the boot go, still attached to your foot, and leaned against the wall. There was too much feeling in your body, too many sensations. It was like fifty alarms were all going off at once. You squeezed your eyes shut and wrung, flapped, and shook your hands. It felt like it was in your brain, threatening to take over every sense and part of you. You hit the side of your head, just wanting them to get out . Whimpers and groans freely left your mouth and it felt shameful. There was no one else in the room and yet it felt like a million eyes were on you, passing judgements onto your spectacular meltdown. You drew your knees to your chest and trembled.
The gentle (well, it felt anything but gentle right now) whoosh of the door made you jump, terrified to look up and see the source of the boots that clicked their way in. Oh, God, did they hear you through the door? You knew you should be standing at attention, but you felt locked to the floor and anywhere but the floor sounds like too impossible an excursion.
You kept your gaze to the ground, listening to the mysterious boots make their way over to you. The person’s knees made a soft click as they crouched down.
“You are crying,” Spock’s voice said astutely. A tear rolled down your cheek and you sniffled. A little relief swept through your body at realizing it was Spock, but with it came nervousness of being overly emotional in front of him. Spock sat down a few feet from you to give you space. He let a few moments of silence rest between the two of you before speaking again.
“I noticed you were distressed as you made your way to your quarters. I took it upon myself to assure that you were not in danger.”
You slightly moved your head in his direction in acknowledgement, but didn’t take your eyes off of the floor. While you were glad you weren’t alone, the alarms in your head didn’t stop and your skin crawled with every breath.
“Is there an effective way for you to communicate?”
You knew he didn’t mean it, but his statements felt like interrogations. More shame rose from your chest, but also anxiety and fear . Shame from feeling like his statements were threats, like his attempts at comfort were something to be afraid of. And the anxiety that those fears may be true, however small the chance may be.
A few more whines erupted from your throat before you raised your hands and cupped them on and off your ears, hoping Spock would be able to recognize the meaning. You could almost hear his eyebrow raise.
“Hearing protection?” He said in a low voice. There was no judgement in his tone, but something closer to acknowledgement than understanding.
He stood slowly and paused, taking a look around the room. You raised your hand without lifting your gaze and pointed to where the ear defenders rested on your bed. Spock stepped carefully through the room’s division and took them in his hand. He was about to return back to your ball-shaped-form when he noticed a PADD-like tablet on the foot of your bed. Of course, he thought.
Bringing both items over to you, he crouched down a bit closer this time and gingerly placed the ear defenders around your head, the snug fit acting almost like a weighted blanket. You sighed in relief, still unable to meet his face, instead staring at the badge on his shirt and counting a few of the stitches. One, two, three, one, two, three. Like a waltz , you thought.
Before you could count every thread, a familiar tablet came into your view, Spock not putting it into your grasp, but simply offering it. You slowly took it and set it down onto the floor, turning it on and tapping on the small labeled boxes littered across the screen, arranged juuuust right. You couldn’t see his gaze, but you trusted Spock wasn’t looking at what you were doing.
“BAD. DAY.” the tablet spoke. “BAD. FEELINGS.”
“ Bad feelings?” Spock inquired.
“MANY. NOISE. MANY. FEELINGS. WANT. CRY.” You paused for a moment. “SHAME.”
Spock furrowed his brow. “You feel ashamed for your response to excessive external stimuli?”
You swallowed. “YES.”
He took a breath and exhaled slowly. A shot of anxiety swept through you.
“I understand that your feelings may seem… illogical. However, taking your condition into consideration, your emotional response is, in fact, quite logical,” he stated carefully.
That made you furrow your brow. Spock, seeing your confusion, continued.
“Your condition——Autism Spectrum Disorder——causes certain sensitivities to external stimuli. When this sensitivity cannot be immediately alleviated, one becomes overwhelmed and unable to regulate their emotions in their dysregulated mental and emotional state. Thus, a ‘meltdown’ ensues.” He paused. “In other words, your reaction is natural given your condition. You cannot expect yourself to react in ways others without your condition would, and neither can they expect it of you. Such a thing would be… illogical .”
You stared downwards for a few moments, taking in what he had said. It was true that you sometimes couldn’t do things others could do, and expecting it of yourself when you were aware of your limits was, well, illogical , as Spock had said. You sniffled, tears welling up, but not out of frustration or being overwhelmed. The kindness that Spock had shown you in this simple series of interactions was more than you had shown yourself in a while, and it was simply so pleasant a feeling, to be taken care of.
You slipped the tablet from your hands and slowly turned your gaze upwards, not looking directly at Spock’s face, but enough to see his expression. He wasn’t looking in your eyes like most others did; it was more like he was looking at all and none of you at once. An indirect yet very direct gaze. He raised his eyebrows a bit——because of your expression or your willingness to look at him, you didn’t know. But you raised your hands and arms a little bit, stretching them out just barely. The motion perplexed Spock for a split second before he obliged, taking your torso and arms, if a little awkwardly, into his arms. He was very pleasantly warm, a relief from your airy quarters, and hugged you tightly, letting his chin rest ever-so-slightly on the top of your head, his warm throat pressing into where you hit yourself on the head. You folded your hands between his ribs like little T-Rex arms and breathed in deeply for the first time since you had gotten to your quarters that day. He really did smell nice——like incense and soap and cotton. The deep yet subtle smells helped to ground you in your spot. It’s Spock, and I’m safe, and it’s nowhere else , you thought.
You both stayed embraced for a little while before he cleared his throat. You pulled away from him, confused, if a bit hurt by the sudden reaction.
“If I may ask… where is your other boot? And your uniform, for that matter.”
You looked to your left and right, seeing them no where in sight.
“Don’t know,” you answered, smiling a little. “Not good… spacial awareness.”
Spock quirked an eyebrow.
“Logical,” you pointed out. “You said.”
He paused. “I suppose I did.”