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Apr. 18th, 2012 09:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
witticasterSpock blah blah blah post-"The Naked Time." PLEASE DON'T JUDGE MY SPOCKWRITING TOO HARSHLY nor that this is basically the fanficcest thing in the whole fucking world.
Spock has never told his mother that he loves her.
It's the way of things, certainly nothing to weep and rend his clothing over like a human matron performing funeral rites. His mother is aware that he has respect for her achievements; did he not give his congratulations when she was recognized for her translation of a particularly dense collection of Vulcan poetry? Does he not thank her whenever appropriate? He certainly communicates with her on a regular basis, after a childhood of dreading his maternal grandmother's refrain of "You never call."
There is no shame in following the teachings of Surak, nor in striving to fulfill the Vulcan ideal. It is an ideal among his people for a reason, and his mother could hardly have married his father without respect for that fact. Spock is not a neglectful son, by his measure, nor an undemonstrative one.
But since that day in the orbit of Psi 2000, the thought has intruded on his consciousness several times, at increasingly inopportune moments. He has never told his mother that he loves her.
They traveled backwards in time, so logically, that day never existed in the first place. It has no pressing relevance to his life. And he could put from his mind the embarrassment of sobbing through the hallways of the Enterprise. He has even forced himself to forget the sensation of being slapped by Jim Kirk (though for three consecutive nights, he could feel the weight and sting on his cheek just as he drifted off to sleep).
The nagging sensation that he has somehow done the Lady Amanda a disservice, however, is not so easily dismissed. When it becomes clear, two weeks on, that he will not soon forget his confession to Jim, he takes to his quarters to consider the problem privately. It is not logical to put off perpetually the consideration of hard truths, as illogical as they themselves might be.
In the end, he writes her a letter, not unlike others he sends: general descriptions of the crew's doings, mild inquiries as to her health and own activities, a studious avoidance of anything that might suggest his father to her. At the end, before his usual valediction, he adds a line he hopes does not call undue attention to itself.
It is my hope that you are in good health. You have my love and affection.
He cannot bring himself to write out I love you, Mother, but it is there--painfully, nakedly there, to his eye--and he is quite certain she will know it.
Spock has never told his mother that he loves her.
It's the way of things, certainly nothing to weep and rend his clothing over like a human matron performing funeral rites. His mother is aware that he has respect for her achievements; did he not give his congratulations when she was recognized for her translation of a particularly dense collection of Vulcan poetry? Does he not thank her whenever appropriate? He certainly communicates with her on a regular basis, after a childhood of dreading his maternal grandmother's refrain of "You never call."
There is no shame in following the teachings of Surak, nor in striving to fulfill the Vulcan ideal. It is an ideal among his people for a reason, and his mother could hardly have married his father without respect for that fact. Spock is not a neglectful son, by his measure, nor an undemonstrative one.
But since that day in the orbit of Psi 2000, the thought has intruded on his consciousness several times, at increasingly inopportune moments. He has never told his mother that he loves her.
They traveled backwards in time, so logically, that day never existed in the first place. It has no pressing relevance to his life. And he could put from his mind the embarrassment of sobbing through the hallways of the Enterprise. He has even forced himself to forget the sensation of being slapped by Jim Kirk (though for three consecutive nights, he could feel the weight and sting on his cheek just as he drifted off to sleep).
The nagging sensation that he has somehow done the Lady Amanda a disservice, however, is not so easily dismissed. When it becomes clear, two weeks on, that he will not soon forget his confession to Jim, he takes to his quarters to consider the problem privately. It is not logical to put off perpetually the consideration of hard truths, as illogical as they themselves might be.
In the end, he writes her a letter, not unlike others he sends: general descriptions of the crew's doings, mild inquiries as to her health and own activities, a studious avoidance of anything that might suggest his father to her. At the end, before his usual valediction, he adds a line he hopes does not call undue attention to itself.
It is my hope that you are in good health. You have my love and affection.
He cannot bring himself to write out I love you, Mother, but it is there--painfully, nakedly there, to his eye--and he is quite certain she will know it.
