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Mar. 12th, 2012 10:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
witticasterSpock goes to sleep easily, as he often does. He's a well-behaved baby, sometimes eerily so--from what Amanda knows of human infants, they aren't quite so docile. Perhaps it's the fact that his mind can already reach out to those of his parents in the same sweet, fat-fingered way he closes his hand around a finger when it's pressed against his palm, and feel their love radiating out like the Vulcan sun. Perhaps it just isn't logical to cry after receiving whatever it is he needs.
Or, perhaps, it's simpler than that. Her mother maintains that the first baby is always well-behaved, to trick his parents into having a second. There's a hint buried in there, that Spock's Savta wouldn't say no to another grandchild, but Amanda's quite sure she doesn't have the fortitude to go through that ordeal a second time. She's happy with her family just as it is--and anyway, Sybok and Spock are enough of a handful.
Or will be, once Spock reaches the terrible twos. The child-rearing handbooks here seem to suggest that there's a Vulcan equivalent, and she's not looking forward to seeing him learn to shout "No!" in two languages. But for now, too small to speak or walk or do anything more than consider the world with a thoughtful sort of gaze, his eyes slip closed before she finishes singing his lullaby. He's warm, curled against her as he is, his head pillowed upon her breast, and she's tempted to begin the song again, to have reason to hold him close just a little longer. But even docile babies are tiring, and Amanda has learned to take her rest where she can get it.
She's still humming the song as she shuts the door to the nursery softly, glancing in one last time to check that the little red light of his baby monitor is on.
"Is that a Terran song?" Sarek asks quietly, and she looks over her shoulder at him. He carries himself with dignity and grace, as always, but she's come to learn where to look for tension in him: his jaw, his shoulders, the brittle edges of his thoughts. And after a long day of negotiations that weren't expected to go well from the start, she doesn't need to search to find his weariness.
Amanda turns to him fully and holds out two fingers. He returns the gesture, his expression softening, and she feels the familiar brush against her mind, a buss from his soul to hers. "It is--quite old, too. Would you like to hear it?"
Sarek nods, and they walk down the hall to their bedroom, fingers still touching.
"Well, it goes like this." Amanda takes a breath before beginning, her voice thready and soft. She's never been much of a singer, but for husband and son, she'll do her best. "Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight..."
Or, perhaps, it's simpler than that. Her mother maintains that the first baby is always well-behaved, to trick his parents into having a second. There's a hint buried in there, that Spock's Savta wouldn't say no to another grandchild, but Amanda's quite sure she doesn't have the fortitude to go through that ordeal a second time. She's happy with her family just as it is--and anyway, Sybok and Spock are enough of a handful.
Or will be, once Spock reaches the terrible twos. The child-rearing handbooks here seem to suggest that there's a Vulcan equivalent, and she's not looking forward to seeing him learn to shout "No!" in two languages. But for now, too small to speak or walk or do anything more than consider the world with a thoughtful sort of gaze, his eyes slip closed before she finishes singing his lullaby. He's warm, curled against her as he is, his head pillowed upon her breast, and she's tempted to begin the song again, to have reason to hold him close just a little longer. But even docile babies are tiring, and Amanda has learned to take her rest where she can get it.
She's still humming the song as she shuts the door to the nursery softly, glancing in one last time to check that the little red light of his baby monitor is on.
"Is that a Terran song?" Sarek asks quietly, and she looks over her shoulder at him. He carries himself with dignity and grace, as always, but she's come to learn where to look for tension in him: his jaw, his shoulders, the brittle edges of his thoughts. And after a long day of negotiations that weren't expected to go well from the start, she doesn't need to search to find his weariness.
Amanda turns to him fully and holds out two fingers. He returns the gesture, his expression softening, and she feels the familiar brush against her mind, a buss from his soul to hers. "It is--quite old, too. Would you like to hear it?"
Sarek nods, and they walk down the hall to their bedroom, fingers still touching.
"Well, it goes like this." Amanda takes a breath before beginning, her voice thready and soft. She's never been much of a singer, but for husband and son, she'll do her best. "Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight..."