Clockwork

When Jim lifted his eyes to the window, he could feel silence. As it sometimes does, it waited motionlessly behind his shoulders while he peered through the general darkness that even the capital city of Loth could not outglow. At moments like this, he would forget why he was here. He would forget where he was, and the empty room on a starbase far away from time would ebb into a snowy blur.

It was cold, and as he laid his hands flat on the flawless stone desk, he felt like he was touching ice. The heavy coolness on his palms distracted him, and his eyes were pulled down to study the grey stone. Without apology, it reflected back his countenance, and Jim was startled to see his eyes look so tired, a refracted image from another dimension. He blinked at this man in slow motion.

He looked like a curved monument, silhouetted as a figure in shades of grey, and he did not move like a person would, but stayed as still as rock.

Spock had been missing for five months, six days, four hours, and, Jim's eyes shut, twenty-four solar minutes.

Of course, expeditions needed to go on, the mission needed to go on, everyone needed to fall back into their routine, allowing themselves to quiet emotions and regain their equanimity. And they did. Jim watched, detached, as if from behind a glass, as each of them found again their casual mien, wondering from far away if Spock would be proud of this ability to adapt. His senses seemed erased as he milled through time.

Starfleet offered their condolences, and a temporary search party, but with empathy exhaled, ordered their next mission in the same breath, like clockwork.