Author's Note

Originally posted on tumblr, for the prompt "Sleep Intimacy".

In her dreams, Nyota falls.

The world around her is a blur of color and light; she cannot see more than that. She hears a voice, so loud and deep it fills her body, rumbling through her core. In the dream, she understands it. The ground crumbles under her feet and a hand reaches for her—too late. The ground vanishes, and she falls.

Nyota startles awake, her heart pounding in her chest. The dream evaporates. It slips through the cracks of her mind until she remembers nothing but orange clouds and the breathless, heartless sensation of falling. She takes a deep breath. She draws the warm air of her cabin into her lungs, holds it for a count of five, and breathes out. 

“Nyota.”

Spock’s voice is soft and even. He doesn’t sound sleepy; he never does. Nyota turns toward him, curling into his side almost unconsciously. She puts an arm over his chest, and Spock reciprocates, cradling her against him. Nyota presses her forehead to his shoulder. “I apologize,” Spock murmurs. 

“For what?”

“I may—” He stops mid-sentence, and then begins again. “You were dreaming.” 

“Yes,” Nyota breathes. She closes her eyes. Spock is warm and solid at her side. He sleeps fully clothed, as a rule; when they share a bed, Nyota does the same. 

“My own dreams may have… influenced yours.” Spock’s voice remains even, but softens—an admission of responsibility, of guilt. “This disturbed your sleep. I apologize.”

Nyota lifts her hand, the one on Spock’s chest, and finds his face. She cups his cheek. For the first few seconds the sensation is merely physical, her fingers against his cool skin. Then Spock’s mental presence reaches out to her, gradually, carefully. He weighs at the edge of Nyota’s mind, like a stone suspended in water. 

“I forgive you,” she says. His apology is sincerely felt; so will her response be. She reaches out and brings a fraction of Spock’s emotions to herself. Loneliness and grief bleed into her, ice cold. “You miss her,” she whispers. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Spock lifts his own hand over Nyota’s and folds her fingers in his. He breathes in. Nyota matches her breaths to his, embracing his presence in body and mind. 

“It will not happen again,” Spock says. His mental presence begins to withdraw, though he leaves his hand pressed to hers. “Sleep now, Nyota.” He says her name with something close to Vulcan pronunciation, as though it were an endearment of its own.

He is silent then. Nyota lies still, snuggled up against him. Spock has withdrawn to himself, but as her conscious mind begins to slip away, Nyota feels warm contentment pooling between them.