Letters in Tow

Posted on Thu Mar 3rd, 2022 @ 11:35pm by Fleet Admiral Sturnack & Captain Jocelyn Blake

Mission: Episode 2: 18th and Constitution
Location: The Fortress
Timeline: Mission Day 28 at 0123

[Living Room]
[The Fortress]
[MD 28: 0123 Hours]

A pile of haphazardly stacked, unopened letters sat on the floor, their paper envelopes having yellowed with age. Lit only by the flickering of the nearby fireplace, one could see that each letter bore the name and address of Sturnack, though the addresses varied from letter to letter, following the Vulcan's various moves throughout the years. All letters had in common the loopy, not-so-neat print handwriting of the letters' sender: a woman by the name of Ovrora Sh'rholok. Going by the return addresses that were visible, the letters had mostly come from various locales on Andoria, though a starship here or there graced the upper left corner of some of the envelopes. And sitting on the floor, staring at the pile of missives that sat so close to the fireplace, was Sturnack himself, his eyes gazing past the steeples of his conjoined fingers to regard the letters with an expression that could only be described as dour. The only sound in the room came from the winds whipping through the snow-filled forest beyond the frosted windows nearby.

With a particularly loud pop, the fireplace flung a burning ember out into the room. It went wide, landing on the cold, wood-planked floor of the cabin, where it burned itself out into a tiny, smoking mote. Sturnack's eyes flicked to watch the ember cool there only to have his attention drawn back to the fire as it popped again. One particular piece of wood must have been filled with sap, which boiled in the heat to the point that -- pressure mounting inside -- the log hissed and spat out another ember. With the pile of letters so close to the fire, however, said ember flared like a photon torpedo as it launched from the fire and landed on the top letter of the stack. There it smoldered, threatening to go out, until the aging paper of the envelope on which the ember rested gave way to the tiniest little spark of flame. Slowly the envelope caught: at first rising the littlest lick of flame but as the seconds passed, more and more of the envelope began to burn away.

Instinctively, Sturnack reached forward to pick up the letter and blow out the fire. But as he held it in his hand, eyes watching the dancing tongues of flame, the Vulcan decided to do nothing at all actually. He simply let it flare and flame, the robin's egg blue envelope bearing his name disappearing bit by bit as the little flames slowly burned across its surface. He could -- if he wanted -- stop the fire before it did more than damage the outer envelope containing the letter. But why, he asked himself, should he bother? He'd intended to burn the pile anyway so why not let the happy happenstance of the flung ember get the process started? The Vulcan decided, instead, to help the fire along, gently blowing onto the flames and watching them grow even stronger. The stench of burning paper filled the air as thin tendrils of smoke drifted up towards the bedroom where Jocelyn Blake had, hours before, retired to bed.

[Jocelyn's Room]
[Concurrent]

For the few days that Jocelyn had been staying at the Fortress, sleep had been a fickle thing -- easy sometimes in a way that was almost alarming, pulling her under and cradling her in the black depths of nothingness that led to rest and entirely impossible to pin down at others. On this night she had the fluffy down comforter pulled up to her ears, chin tucked just outside. Her eyes were closed, but any close observer could tell that she wasn't asleep. She tossed, limbs splaying and arms coming up to settle behind her head. An annoyed expression ran across her features. "C'mon," she murmured to herself.

A few minutes like that and again she turned, this time curling onto her side facing the door and tucking her legs up, then pressing them back down, then throwing one hip over so she was half halfway onto her stomach. She sighed, eyes flickering open. No use.

Closing her eyes again she tried a breathing visualization she had learned once an age ago. She drew a long slow breath in, imagining, as she did, that with the breath her body was filling with light, starting with her toes and working its way up to the top of her head. With the exhale the light slowly bled outward through her toes. She repeated the motion, stuttering to the stop as the acrid prick of something burning hit her nostrils. She stilled, inhaling deeply.

Definitely something burning. Her body jumped into motion, feet landing lightly on the floor, she shoved them into slippers and hurried to the door of her room. No heat at first touch, but she opened the door slowly just in case. Nothing on the landing. Down the stairs she went, eyes scanning the open space at the bottom of the steps and finally landing on Sturnack, sitting cross legged by the fire, what could only be a letter held in his hands slowly engulfing in flame.

"Sturnack?" she asked, concern lacing her tone. "Is everything ok?"

The Vulcan looked up at Jocelyn with a placid expression that was, in itself, a stark contrast to the fiery letter held in his hand. The flames continued to slowly burn away the envelope, though the letter beneath had yet to catch. "Apologies if I've woken you, Jocelyn," Sturnack said just loud enough for the woman to hear. "Everything is fine, though I should have anticipated that the smell might rouse you." His eyes followed the little flames as they traced a path across the envelope, turning blue to black in their wake. The Vulcan made no move to quell the flames now that Jocelyn was present: in fact, he made to blow on the fire again, the flames strengthening as oxygen surged across them.

Blue-green eyes narrowed and she stepped closer, eyes assessing as she worked to put this behavior into line with what she knew of him. The yellowing of the letter in his hand told her enough to know that it was old. She didn't know who it was from or why the sudden fascination with burning them, but she did know that things like that couldn't be gotten back. "Once you burn it, it's gone," she said quietly, coming closer still and settling on the ground across from him, legs crossed. "Be sure..." she said intently. She didn't need to know what they were to know that burning a letter was a particular sort of action. You only burned letters you wanted to be rid of.

Be sure. Of course he was sure. Vulcans were nothing if not deliberate and thoughtful in their actions. Letting the fire continue to happily consume the envelope, Sturnack simply nodded. "Of course, Jocelyn," the man said, turning the letter around in his hand so he could see the back of the envelope. It'd been sealed with wax that, even so many years later, still smelled faintly of a floral bouquet to a nose as sharp as a Vulcan's. As the flames neared the wax, it began to melt and dribble down the surface of the paper, running to meet Sturnack's fingers. With a quick twist of the envelope, the wax was halted before it made contact with the Vulcan's skin. It pooled on the surface instead, bubbling in the fire. "I suppose it would burn more quickly if tossed directly into the fire," he commented, moving the letter closer to the fireplace.

Jocelyn's brow creased in concern and, without thinking, she reached across the small pile and put her hand on his arm to stop him. "Sturnack," she said, voice carefully neutral though a well of worry had sprung up in her. "What's going on?"

The Vulcan's eyes shifted from the letter to Jocelyn's hand, which rested atop his arm. The touch set off a miasma of feelings which, in and of itself, was a problem. It seemed like everything was problematic right now: this was just a cherry on top, as humans would say. But his gaze traveled from the hand and up the woman's arm, finally making eye contact as Sturnack debated how to answer. What would she think of what he was doing? And why hadn't he waited until much deeper into the night to do this, so as to further avoid being interrupted?

With the slightest of nods, Sturnack decided to simply be honest. "These letters are from a woman I was once...in love with." The admission sounded difficult for him to parse out. "I was very young and we served together aboard a starship. The USS Ulysses. Control over my emotions was a much more tenuous thing then," he explained as if he needed to justify feeling love, "and we'd gone to the Academy together. There was much history between us. I could not fully suppress what I felt for her. The endless string of lovers she took -- while remaining unavailable to me -- took its toll. She is, in fact, the reason I left Starfleet for so long."

"After I left, she would occasionally send a communique. Ovrora felt badly," Sturnack continued, "about how things had gone. She wanted to rekindle and maintain our friendship but I was not in the place to do so. I'd returned to Vulcan and had immersed myself in isolation. Her messages went unanswered. And eventually," he held aloft the still-but-now-barely burning letter, "she began to send hand written messages. I confess, I've never read them. Why I kept them for so long, I cannot say. But recent events have reminded me very much of caring for someone I cannot -- should not -- be with..." he trailed off, holding eye contact for several long moments. "Ovrora has been gone for many years -- she passed away in her old age," he noted. "But the hurt remains. At least until I excise it," he gestured again to the fire.

Jocelyn was quiet, but intent as she listened. Her hand remained where it was at first, but as he spoke, and she could see he wasn't going to do anything hastily, it returned to her lap. There was something mesmerizing about the way he spoke of the long gone woman whose hand had penned the letters he was now getting rid of and her brain conjured an image of what that must have been like -- what a very young Sturnack might have been like.

Her eyes left his face for a moment, tracking down to the smoldering missive in his hand when he held it up, but remained there for only a moment as the explanation continued, stopping on an admission... or at least something that seemed like one. His expression, as always, was neutral; hard to read for someone who was used to body language as a method of understanding a person's feelings. But she found, as he held her gaze, that she couldn't quite breathe right. Something tense and electric passed between them, as she realized that the cues she was looking for were there. Not in his body language, but in his gaze.

And then the moment passed and the explanation continued. She exhaled slowly, trying to quiet the way her whole self felt like it was on alert so she could return to simply listening.

"Wounds," she finally said after he had gone quiet for a moment and she had finally regained some clarity of thought, "rarely go away by simply excising them. Removing evidence of a love, even one lost, doesn't make it any less real. It simply places it out of sight. You have to tend to wounds for them to heal. Perhaps..." she said, her voice gone quiet, "you should read them before you burn them. So you can know and not wonder when they are gone."

"And yet," the Vulcan looked placidly at Jocelyn, "what purpose would learning the contents of these letters serve now? Ovrora is long dead and..." He seemed about to say more but something stalled him; something that threatened to crack his neutral mask, visible only in his eyes. It was, so clearly, emotion that he was feeling but, as a Vulcan, why was such on display, limited though it was? With a deep breath, Sturnack regathered himself and began anew. "Ovrora is gone. Reading her thoughts, feelings, and entreaties to resume contact may only serve to deepen said wounds," he said, now eyeing the envelope. The flame had petered out, the only evidence of it having been there were burnt edges and curling wisps of faint smoke.

"Sometimes wounds have to be reopened for them to heal properly," Jocelyn persisted quietly, her tone gentle but determined. She pressed her lips together, working quickly to formulate her thought in a way that might appeal to the logic he prized so highly. "You've just said that the hurt remains. This is an old wound... one that sounds like perhaps it was not properly cared for. That maybe healed poorly." A breath huffed out of her in a sigh. What was she doing giving relationship advice to someone who had seen her lifetime more than twice over? Still, there was something there, just out of reach, that felt important here and she wasn't willing to let it pass. "It is your choice, of course, but you chance the wound continuing to plague you if you don't take the risk of reopening it."

The woman's further-expanded analogy of wound care gave Sturnack pause. "As a Vulcan, I am not unaccustomed to emotion. We feel things deeply," he explained, "but we are experts at suppressing those emotional responses and acting from the cold light of logic instead. The trouble for me," he continued, "is that I have never been adequately able to deal with this hurt, Jocelyn." Her name was said oh so softly as, again, his eyes returned to hers. "I have set it aside but that is not the same thing as leaning into it. Perhaps it has, as you suggested, healed improperly...like a broken leg that has been set incorrectly. Only..." he trailed off, sounding for the first time unsure, "I do not believe I am capable of resetting my own leg. Perhaps you would help me?" the Vulcan asked, gently pushing the partially burnt letter in Jocelyn's direction.

Her breath caught again with the held eye contact, but she didn't back away. Gently, almost reverently, she took the letter from him, smoothing it in her lap. "Are they in order?" she asked quietly waiting for his confirmation before sliding a finger under the seal of the paper and tugging. The paper, brittle with age, gave quickly and, with careful fingers she pulled free the missive, unfolding it and holding it in front of her in her lap. She scanned it first, a part of her worried that her advice would turn out incorrect, that there would be something terribly hurtful here. The tone of the letter was clear enough and Jocelyn felt a pang of sadness for the writer and for Sturnack about to hear the long dead voice of the woman he'd once loved.

Taking a deep breath she looked up at him. "Ready?"

"They are," the Vulcan confirmed. "From oldest to newest," he said, gesturing towards the stack. "And I do not believe I would ever be 'ready,'" Sturnack replied, "but I am close enough," he confirmed with a nod. This was all going sideways: the letters had been meant for the fire, not the soft hands of Jocelyn Blake. But the Vulcan had been swayed by the woman's argument, however, and there'd been something about the way she was urging him...something calming to him, like balm on a burn. It'd all been enough to turn around his thinking, at least in the current moment. He hoped that she would begin reading soon before his resolve flagged, however.

Jocelyn's voice was quiet at first, almost tender, as she read, eyes tracing the bubbling writing of the writer.

Sturny,

I have started this letter at least 5 times today and every time I end up tearing it up and throwing it away. You don’t want to hear from me. If you were here you’d tell me that writing you a letter is illogical.

I guess that’s why you’re getting this. If you were here… The world, the universe, everything is too quiet without your opinion in it. For years you’ve been there. To listen and to talk and to give input and I really don’t know what to do without you.

I hate this.

I don’t expect anything to change just because I sent a letter, but I can’t not send it Sturny. You’re my best friend.

I miss you.

-Ov


Green-blue eyes came up from the paper, evaluating and soft. "Should I keep going?" she asked quietly after a brief pause or do you want a moment?

Sturnack remained by the fire, sitting with his legs folded underneath himself. As Jocelyn had read from the letter, his eyes had drifted to the flames, his gaze unfixed. But as the first letter came to a close, he turned back to the woman. "'Sturny' was her nickname for me," he commented by way of explanation. "When I first introduced myself to her, she said my full name would not 'do.' Forever after, that is what she called me. Even when I would not respond to her, it seems..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "No, no moment needed. You may continue."

A quick bob of her head was all the acknowledgement she gave before setting the first letter aside and reaching for the next. The next two led with his proper name, a comment made that she was trying to make the break in their relationship hurt less, though it was clear as Ovrora wrote about her own heartbreak and her father's attempt to fix it by bringing by suitor after suitor that she, too, struggled to come to terms with what had happened. One particular line tugged Jocelyn's eyes back up to the man across from her, causing her to stammer her way through the end of that letter.

I want, so badly, to be what you need me to be. If I could be that, even for a moment, would you come back?

The picture Jocelyn was beginning to form of the Andorian was of someone deeply emotional and stubborn, and in the back of her head it struck her that Sturnack, cool headed and logical, had fallen for someone entirely his opposite. She studied his face for a very long moment, reaching across and setting her hand on his, squeezing briefly.

Sturnack considered Ovrora's words for a few moments, deep in thought. When Jocelyn again received eye contact, the Vulcan said, "People cannot make themselves love someone they do not. It was a fallacy to even suggest such might be possible," he commented, his eyes drifting to the hand resting on his own before it withdrew to pick up the next letter.

Jocelyn's eyes scanned the text of the next letter before she read and she sucked in a deep breath. Her eyes darted up to Sturnack's face and then back to the letter before she spoke, her voice describing, in Ovrora's words, the man she had met, someone different than the ongoing line of men her father had paraded before her.

"She married him," Sturnack said, adjusting the position in which he was sitting by the fire. The new position brought him in reach of the stack of wood piled beside. "I met him just before Ovrora passed away. He seemed...adequate," the Vulcan noted, grabbing two logs in turn and carefully arranging them in the fire. "They had an entire family together."

Her expression was soft listening to him explain. So he had reunited with this woman -- or at least with her family -- at some point. Setting the letter aside she picked up the next. This one was longer than the others and she read it slowly.

Sturny,

I’ve been putting this one off for a while. Honestly, I wish I knew if you read the other ones. If you haven’t this is probably not the time to start.

Sometimes, when it’s dark and I’m trying to fall asleep I imagine having a conversation with you. As far as anyone in my family knows my best friend Sturnack is just very busy. It helps me to remember what we had to pretend like that. So they ask about you and I make excuses. You’re busy. You’re doing something far away. I don’t know. They’re lame excuses.

I’m avoiding the point.

Kith asked me to marry him last month. I had a day of leave to kill and he met me at Starbase 5. Can you believe that he’s stuck with corresponding with me all this time? It’s been 6 months and we barely go three days without talking. Sometimes it makes me think of what it was like when we talked all the time.

Anyway, he asked me to marry him. I said yes. If you are reading these letters, even on a chance, I wish you’d come celebrate with us. It would mean the whole world to me to have my best friend there to celebrate. The wedding is in 6 months. On Andoria.

Think about it?

- Ov

Jocelyn set the letter down slowly, eyes watching Sturnack as she did. She lifted the next envelope, popping the seal to find that it wasn't a letter at all. Carefully she tugged the item free. It wasn't a large photograph, but it was sufficient for Jocelyn to actually get a look at the long dead Andorian whose letters she was reading. She stood next to a tall man, easily a head taller than her, dressed in what she assumed was formal attire. Ovrora, as it turned out, was a tiny thing. But even in a picture decades upon decades later you could see she was beaming. Wordlessly, Jocelyn handed the photograph to Sturnack. Her fingers brushed his as she passed it over and she fought back a momentary urge to hug him.

As Jocelyn's fingers slid over his own -- his eyes drinking in the picture he now held -- Sturnack could feel his emotional barriers breaking down. It was as if he stood in a room on fire, the walls flaming as the blooms of heat and light threatened to cave in on him. But as a touch-telepath, the Vulcan could feel something else, too. Though the contact was fleeting, the touch between himself and Jocelyn -- combined with the howling grief he felt inside -- served to spark an instinctive telepathic connection, even if only for a moment. Sturnack could feel the woman's surge of sympathy and affection for him. Her feelings of concern and kindness swept over him like cool water, sputtering the flames and leaving in their wake a deep appreciation and adoration of Jocelyn. And perhaps, through that very same link, she could feel him, too. In the absence of words, his emotions -- for once -- did the speaking for him.

In the moment it had taken Jocelyn to hand the picture over to him she felt grief crash down over her; filling her as if this were her loss and not his. Tears pricked at her eyes and she wiped them quickly with the back of her hand, trying not to draw attention to the way she was reacting. She understood, instinctively, the depth of loss Sturnack felt and sensed the transition from grief she was observing to grief that belonged to her now, too. A deep rooted hunger flared in her, a need to comfort and be comforted; to touch and be touched. Almost without thinking she reached for him, every ounce of her feeling the rightness of that motion even as a rational voice in her mind reminded her that he was the one to be comforted, not her. This was his loss, not hers.

With a quick course correction, she brought her hand up to tuck an imaginary strand of hair over her ear before shoving both of her hands underneath her. She shifted, wrists protesting at the awkward angle and the complaint helped to clear her head a little bit. In moments the grief cleared nearly as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a warmth and affection that was hard to explain. His eyes remained on the picture which gave her leave to look without his notice. She studied his face, feeling the blossom of something deeper than affection uncurl in her. This thing... this... whatever was going on between them... had been threatening to unfurl for days and somehow she had managed to keep it tamped down with reminders of duty and rank and circumstance. Now, though, she wanted nothing more than to pretend those things didn't exist -- to be able to reach up and run the back of her hand down his cheek and draw his attention away from that thing which was causing him the most pain.

The ferocity of the feeling made her blush, aware that there was more to it than simply a desire to comfort or even a desire to express deeply felt friendship. Even as her own heart wrestled with what she felt, she was certain, without knowing how, that Sturnack wanted her there in that moment. Was glad of her and... something else... something intangible that made her heart speed up in anticipation of... Of what? Something she had no right to even consider.

She closed her eyes a moment, trying to clear her head. This wasn't about whatever this thing was that neither of them were acknowledging was going on. This was about him and things that he needed to deal with. Guilt reared its head, reminding her that so much of what she was feeling, thinking, even desiring, was so likely only in her own head. With a deep shuddering breath she reopened her eyes.

"Are you ok?" she finally asked, tone gentle and a little bit tentative.

"I will be alright," Sturnack nodded, recollecting himself under that damned neutral mask of his. "I anticipated that this exercise would not be an easy one. Hence only one of the letters has ever been opened," he explained. At this, however, Jocelyn's mouth seemed to form a surprised "oh" shape and the Vulcan nodded, confirming that he had, indeed, read at least one of the missives. Reaching toward the stack, Sturnack skipped the last couple of unopened letters and produced the last the in pile. It, like the others, was yellowed with age but, unlike the rest, it's envelope had been ever so neatly cut open. The Vulcan pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it to rest in his lap.

"Thirty seven years ago, I received an emergency communique from Ovrora's daughter, Sorih," Sturnack began, the light of the fire flickering across his features. "Given that the call was not from Ovrora herself, I decided to listen to the message. And in it, Sorih described how her mother's health had been failing for some time. She mentioned that Ovrora had written me about this some months prior but the letter had gone unanswered. She told me," Sturnack looked away, into the fire, "that her mother only had a few days left. Sorih begged me to put whatever past hurts had separated us behind me and come see Ovrora before it was too late." The Vulcan's eyes drifted back to Jocelyn then. "As opposed as I'd been to communicating with Ovrora, the news of her imminent death surmounted that. I decided that I would read her latest letter before going to see her on Andor. This is what she wrote."

Lifting the letter from his lap, he began to read...

Sturnack,

I doubt this letter will be read. By now we have lived much more of our lives apart than the years we knew each other. Still, I keep those years close to my heart.

I am dying Sturny. I’ve known for a while now.

I have very few regrets in my life. I have a beautiful family. Grandchildren, children, a husband who loves me and a bond group who is dear to me.

I held a full career in Starfleet--one that has allowed me to see more beauty and learn more things in my life than I have ever imagined.

There is only one thing that, when I consider the end of my life, I want. Sturny, I can never undo the harm I did you. But you still have time. When you walked away from me you walked away from a whole life of things that you loved--many that had nothing to do with me. Please don’t live the rest of your life without at least considering if those things still hold value for you.

At this point I know it is too much to ask to see you. But, since I will not be here much longer anyway, I have little pride left to lose. I would love to see your face, Sturny, one last time.

I do not ask you to forgive me. But, perhaps, for a moment we can pretend that we are dearest friends again?

-Ovrora

Looking up from the letter, Sturnack seemed carefully composed again. As if, in retreading the familiar, he'd found his equilibrium somehow. "It was her request at the end that convinced me to go to her on Andor. I was able to procure passage and, within a few days, found myself at her bedside, surrounded by her family. She was not exaggerating about the extent of her progeny," the Vulcan noted. "In a quiet moment alone, we unburdened on each other. In the end, I told Ovrora that there was nothing to forgive. One cannot dictate whom they love, no matter how much they might wish it so." Something about his tone indicated he had, himself, indeed wished for that very thing. "I believe that she passed away with the closure she needed from me: the knowledge that I did not hate her and that, once again, we were...'dearest friends.' I was thankful to have seen her one last time."

Jocelyn had sat quietly, listening, as Sturnack spoke and letting his voice and and the crackle of the fire wash over her. There was a soothing quality to the way Sturnack spoke, even as he described the bittersweet nature of the reunion. At some point in the explanation she had relieved her hands of the pressure of being sat upon and settled them in her lap, one hand clasping the opposite forearm as a way to ward off the earlier impulse to touch and comfort. Her thoughts seemed to dance in circles, spinning to dip into things that felt better left untouched and then dodging away to reach for sympathy or the warmth of friendship. Still, it was as though the last minutes had unlocked and wedged open a door that she had fastidiously kept closed and, now opened, a rise light of realization had begun to seep through the crack.

Her heart sped as the listening turned to questioning, her brain connecting statements with half formed impressions and feelings that felt as delicate and fragile as a soap bubble. The silence stretched taut, finally broken by a deep breath before she spoke. "Ovrora received her closure," she said quietly and oh so carefully, "But you did not. Otherwise... why now? Why keep the letters at all?"

"I..." Sturnack began but then stopped, searching for the words but coming up short. Why had he kept the letters? They certainly did little good beyond reminding him of all he had lost. But in a way, they also served as a kind of reminder of the time he'd spent with Ovrora: a tangible link to her, as it were; a link that, 37 years later, still held him back. And if he were to press forward...he needed to move on, too. "I believe that I have come to care for another, Jocelyn," he looked up, the exchange of light and shadows dancing across his face as the Vulcan spoke her name softly. "Someone I have come to deeply respect and admire over the last several months. But acknowledging those thoughts only leads me back to how I failed Ovrora. And, frankly," his eyes hardened, "how I failed myself. Burning the letters seemed a ceremonial way of excising the past and trying to move forward. However, in reading them," Sturnack nodded, "I realize that approach was...misguided."

He was looking at her as he spoke and she found herself almost holding her breath at his explanation. It felt as though she was locked into that moment, holding his gaze, not breathing, heart pounding. The crack in the door widened just a bit further and with it she exhaled, a rush of breath tumbling out all at once even as she started to feel heat creep up the back of her neck. It would be so so simple. Just lean forward. Just a little bit. One hand on his knee to brace herself. Her mind played it out twenty ways in the millisecond of her next inhale and then, before she could talk herself out of it she moved.

Soft lips brushed his cheek as one hand pressed on the knee closest to her. It was quick, just a whisper of touch, and as quickly as she pulled back she was scrambling to her feet, a brilliant shade of red coloring her face. "To move forward," she said, voice holding an intensity that spoke volumes, "you should tell her."

She held still like a doe frozen and poised to bolt, not sure what to do. "We should both get some sleep," she finally breathed, voice unsteady. "Good night Sturnack."

The kiss had taken the Vulcan entirely by surprise. Sensations of so many varieties sparked around the touch, flowing through Sturnack's cheeks and down his body. Hardly noticeable in the firelight, a verdant flush colored his skin as goosebumps raced across the surface of his flesh. "Good...night, Jocelyn," he said carefully, unsure of how to move or what entirely to say beyond that. He sensed the moment between them had passed but promised to consider what she had said. "I will...give that some thought," Sturnack nodded before looking again to the stack of letters.

As Jocelyn ascended the stairs to resume trying to sleep, the Vulcan re-folded the various letters they'd read together and slipped them back into their envelopes. The other unread missives were carefully opened and studied in the dying firelight before they, too, were repacked and organized back into the stack by date. Collecting the letters into his hands, Sturnack stood and, for a moment, contemplated his original intent to burn the past away. But maybe...just maybe...he would keep them instead. Placing the protective grate in front of the fireplace -- so the fire could burn down without risk in his absence -- the Vulcan padded towards his own bedroom, letters in tow.


=/\= A joint post by... =/\=

Fleet Admiral Sturnack
Commander-in-Chief
Starfleet Command

and

Captain Jocelyn Blake
Press Secretary
Starfleet Command