He sees the human girl for the first time at the Sh'Kahr Open Market, scarf hooding her hair, basket over her left forearm. She's—and Spock struggles to call to mind the appropriate word—captivating? Diverting? Sunlight turns her brown skin bronze. The clothing she wears is an amalgam of Earth and Vulcan styles: linen trousers that taper to her ankles, a short, Kimono-like robe.
Her eyes catch his for a moment, satiny and dark. Spock expects her to smile, or at least nod, as is the human custom. Instead, she averts her gaze, disappears into the crowd. Spock, nonsensically, calls out to her. His breath catches when he realises he doesn't know her name, and a strangled gurgle erupts from his mouth.
"Something wrong, love?" Amanda asks. She loops her arm through his to steady herself, rests her head against his shoulder and sighs. Jutting cliffs provide some semblance of shade but do little to stifle today's formidable heat.
"Nothing's wrong," he answers. "I was momentarily distracted."
"By that girl?" she asks, weighing a cantaloupe with her palm before sniffing its rind.
"If you're referring to the adolescent female human, then yes," he says. "Such a specimen is an anomaly in Sh'Kahr, and therefore cause for my increased scrutiny."
His mother makes a sound that he's certain he cannot identify, then says, "She's a person, Spock, not a specimen. And I happen to think she's very lovely." Her tone is playful rather than reprimanding. "You know, I'd kill for her cheekbones."
Spock pulls his mother further into the shade. "Your cheekbones are more than suitable, certainly not motive for murder."
Amanda finishes her transaction, and Spock leads her through the maze of carts and booths. "Shall we return home and partake of a midday meal?" he asks. "I fear you're exhibiting early symptoms of heat exhaustion. Food and water will surely revive you."
#
Spock is seventeen and already worried he will not survive it, though he can't define what "it" is, not with any measure of certainty. There is something inside him, a dense knot that won't unfurl. Dramatics, that's what his father would say, if he were here.
"Put the kettle on?" his mother asks. She's washing greens in the basin in preparation for soup.
Spock fills the kettle and places it on the stove. As the water heats, he sprinkles black tea leaves into a porcelain pot, followed by grated orange peel, verek root, cardamom, and cinnamon. He uses the precise ratio he knows his mother prefers. "Thank you, love," she says.
"Of course, you know it's no trouble," says Spock, pausing, hesitating for several seconds before continuing. "I'd also like to offer an apology for my language earlier, at the market. I meant no offence when referring to the girl as a specimen. You were right to correct me, as I do not wish to be disrespectful."
"It's already forgotten," Mother says, "but thank you for your apology." She kisses him lightly on the cheek.
Spock's grateful the matter is resolved. Amanda's commentary had initially confused him. Surely something could be both a specimen and a person, as 'specimen' only meant 'part of a whole.' It was only later when they arrived home that he realised the connotative repercussions of the word. He hadn't meant to suggest the girl was an object of experiment, stripped of dignity, but nonetheless, he had.
The scent of spotted pepper overwhelms the kitchen, and he inhales the pleasant aroma. Sundays come easy to them. The market, a light meal, conversation in the garden followed by several hours of reading.
"You know, I wonder if she had anyone with her," says his Mother. "She looked too young to be there by herself."
"I estimate she's at least thirteen," says Spock, "If I recall correctly, you sent me to the market by myself at age ten."
"Yes, but you were intimidating," she says, squeezing his arms as if to emphasise his size. "She was tiny and delicate and cute, like a sprite."
"I assure you I was not intimidating. On the converse, I was a near content source of amusement for the market goers. I was barely tall enough to reach the booths."
It's an exaggeration, of course, but Spock indulges in the untruth because he recognises it as a key feature of human comedy. From what he's gleaned, drastic overstatement as well as drastic understatement are the pillars of Terran humour.
"Oh, I beg to differ. You were gloriously frightening, a force to be reckoned with. I don't know how you managed to turn into such a colossal teddy bear." She rumples his hair, which he hates but tolerates for her sake.
"I am not a teddy bear," says Spock.
He fixes the both of them a cup of tea, adding milk to hers and a squeeze of lemon to his. Mother readies the soup, a human recipe of greens, sweet potatoes, peppers, coconut milk, and spices. It's a dish Spock finds exceedingly satisfactory. A round of flat bread awaits them on the table, and a selection of fresh fruit will also complement the meal.
"She must be a student at the Federation school," says his mother, stirring the last of the ingredients into the ceramic pot. She adds a generous helping of sea salt, a rarity on Vulcan, garnered during her last holiday to Earth.
"I wasn't aware Shi'Kahr had an interplanetary school," says Spock. "I can't imagine the city elders would be amenable to such an institution."
Mother shrugs. "It's run through a space station for that very reason. I wonder if she commutes daily, or if they take boarders?
"Without further information, we cannot speculate with any degree of accuracy. Let's eat."
But his mother will not cease talk of the mysterious human, and by the end of their meal, she's concocted a fanciful biography for her: Her name is Estella, or perhaps Seren, maybe Beatrix, and her father is a diplomat, mother a teacher. The Newtons, she says.
Though he cannot support his mother's wild, baseless guessing game, he understands the impulse. Spock wonders her name, interests, what brings her to Vulcan, and most illogically, why she turned away from him in the Market. Did she sense his strangeness, his split heritage? Did his appraisal frighten her? Did he frighten her? Had she deduced, quite rationally, that he was not worthy of her time, or anyone's time?
There it is—that knot, again.
#
Suicide, of course, would be illogical. And yet.
His sadness is becoming a distraction. He works his way through the DeMaut Theorem, and it takes him nineteen minutes longer than it should. Converting energy to matter is the scientific basis for replicators, and he must build his own for this semester's final assignment.
Father knocks at his door. Spock knows it's him because Mother rarely bothers, preferring to barge in.
"You are unwell," Sarek says.
Father tugs inside his mind through their bond, warm but solid, unreadable. "I am managing," says Spock.
"Have your peers been treating you favourably?" Sarek continues. "I have spoken with your instructors and the headmaster." His arms rest at his side, for once not clasped behind his back. Spock doesn't know how to interpret the gesture.
"They treat me cruelly," says Spock. "But it is no bother. In the words of Surak, the needs of the many outweigh that of the few. The ferocity of their collective behaviour toward me suggests they're only fulfilling a biological imperative—a necessity."
"You provoke them," Sarek says.
"They provoke themselves," says Spock. His tone, as it is always is around his father, is measured, even.
"I bid you meditate, son." Sarek's eyes are steady on his own. "There is no emotional state of being that cannot be controlled." With that, he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
He knows, without a doubt, that his father is incorrect. Spock cannot reason himself out of despair.
#
At seventeen, he is not the youngest to be admitted to the Vulcan Science Academy, but younger than usual, and half-human at that. You're not half anything, his mother would say. He supposes, in a way, it's not untrue.
When the elders speak of Spock's disadvantage, he refuses to react.
If Spock has gained admittance to the Academy, it stands to reason that his human genetic material did not limit him at all, at least on a biological level, and it therefore stands to reason it has not been a disadvantage. Thus, for them to refer to it as a disadvantage is purposefully inflammatory, whether they are cognizant of that fact or not.
"I find my genetic makeup to be satisfactory," Spock answers, then turns away. He vows to finish his course of study at the Academy of Science in record time.
#
In seven years, he's an associate professor of Computer Engineering, with honorary appointments in Xenocultural Studies, Philosophy, Xenobiology, and Literature.
#
It's his mother who informs him, over their weekly Sunday supper.
"Did you hear the news?" she asks, spooning a salad made of red cabbage, scallion, fresh ginger, honey, and lime juice onto his plate. She's taken to only making Terran food. He worries for her. Through their bond, he detects a sadness from her end, a weight that he knows is homesickness. Vulcan is harsh and hot, its people difficult and often intractable.
"To what news do you refer?" Spock asks. As a rule, he avoids gossip, professional or otherwise. His survival requires a deliberate ignorance, lest the wrong words from the wrong person 'set him off', to use an English expression.
"The human admit, to the Vulcan Science Academy," Amanda says. "The first ever."
Spock takes a bite of food, enjoying the strong flavours. "Highly unusual," he says, "and surprising, given Vulcan sensibilities."
"According to Sarek, her application was 'most impressive,' which is the closest I've ever heard him come to gushing. Technically, under the human system, this will be an advanced degree for her, as she already completed her undergraduate coursework."
"Curious," says Spock, but stymies the urge to raise an eyebrow.
"Very curious, indeed. So curious, in fact, that I just had to look her up. Her honours thesis won some pretty big awards. There's a write-up about her in the Star Dispatch." She slides a PADD over to him excitedly.
"Mother," he says, realising the exclamation illogical. He sets his fork down, eyes the PADD.
"I know," she says. "It's your specimen."
The woman in the picture is none other than the human girl he saw in the market nearly half a decade ago—older, of course, but unmistakably the same woman. Shrewd eyes, dark skin, sharp bone structure.
"Apparently, she's no stranger to Vulcan," says Amanda. "I want to know everything about her. I don't know how I've lived here this long without becoming more acquainted with her."
"She was born here," Spock notes, reading the article next to the picture. "Though she spent most of her time on Earth." There's no mention of her father, but her mother is a geneticist, famous for her work trying to prove all humanoid alien races shared a common ancestor.
"I know," says Amanda, not eating, her food surely growing cold. "Her mother is a fringe scientist, not wholly respected, but I frankly find her ideas interesting."
Spock is no longer listening, attention focused on the image of one Nyota Uhura.
#
Her project piques his interest. The idea, of course, is not unheard of, but Spock has never before seen more convincing research. It doesn't surprise him that the Vulcan Science Academy would admit such a student. Designing a electroneurotransmitter that allowed for telepathic communication between psi-null species was utterly fascinating.
He watches a holo where she gives an interview, her demeanour bright, warm, and effusive—yet serious, focused. His mother might say 'no-nonsense.'
"Living on Vulcan influenced me greatly," Uhura says, clearly confident despite a large audience. "I realised that if Vulcans could share thoughts telepathically, that those thoughts must have substance, you know? Thoughts had to be made of something. Or else, how could they be moved from once place to the other, from one person's mind to another person's mind? When a tree falls in a forest, regardless if there's anyone around to hear it, sound waves are pulsing through the air. I surmised something similar was going on with thoughts. When I think, 'hmmmm, I'm hungry,' my brain is a storm of electrical signals, and those electrical signals produce a material I call netron, or particles of thoughts . Like light, it demonstrates characteristics of both a particle and a wave. Detecting the substance was just a matter of believing it was there. And then, how to translate netron into language? My earliest experiments allowed people to share crude, primitive thoughts when wired togther. Now, we're figuring out how to translate the substance into more advanced language. While it was the urge to learn more about telepathy that fuelled my research, it is my hope that a deeper understanding of brain chemistry will help treat certain mental illnesses, and to create more empathic relations between people."
Spock replayed the holo over and over.
#
A new school year beginning, Spock peruses the applications for his introductory seminar on robotics, pausing when he reaches hers.
Name: Uhura, Nyota B.
Primary Field of Study: Neurolinguistics
Year of Study: First year, PhD
Chief Advisor(s): S'Lch T'nis Seryl
Previous Computer Science Coursework (List chronologically.):
Object-Oriented Computer Programming Standard Level A&B Accelerated
Computer Programming Standard Level C&D Accelerated
Sentient-Computer Interaction
Mechanical and Electrical Engineering for Computer Scientists
Artificial Intelligence Standard Level A
Artificial Intelligence Standard Level B
Computers and Language
Ethics of Robotics
Subspace Networking
Primary Reason for Taking the Class (twenty-five words or fewer): Curiosity.
#
Nyota Uhura is approaching his office. He knows this because she requested a meeting with him, and that meeting is only two minutes away. The delicate steps in the corridor could only belong to her.
When she peeks her head through the door, Spock takes a sip of tea. He finds this is necessary so that he does not stare.
"Professor Spock?" she says.
"Correct, you may enter."
She nods her head curtly, takes a seat at the chair in front his desk. She is—exasperating. Spock compels his heart rate to decrease and his respiration to even. It is not attraction, per se, but a sense of being riled.
"Sir, I was wondering if we could talk about my application," she says, "and why you rejected it."
Her youth spent partly on Vulcan has made her direct.
"I surmised as much," Spock says, again, sipping his tea.
"I'm not here to dispute your judgment. I'm not here to start trouble. I'm not—,"
"Perhaps it would be prudent to start with why you are here, as opposed to why you are not," says Spock.
"Right," she says, cheeks flushing red. He regrets having embarrassed her. "I suppose I'd just like to know why you rejected me, so that I can work to improve my deficiencies and re-apply for your seminar next semester."
He pauses momentarily, then answers: "There's obviously been a misunderstanding.".
"Excuse me?"
"You assume that you are deficient, Uhura," he says.
Her eyes widen, then narrow—a subtle gesture by human standards, but a veritable meltdown in Vulcan terms. "You rejected me," she says. "It follows, logically, that I must be lacking in some way. Otherwise, why not accept me?"
Yes, indeed, a misunderstanding. Spock aims to clarify. "You've completed coursework beyond what will be covered in my introductory seminar. I believe you're too advanced, and you should have received communication expressing that fact days ago." As he elucidates, she brightens, shock evident in her raised eyebrows and slightly agape mouth. "It was my intention that you would submit an application to my advanced-level colloquium. When I received nothing from you by the due date, I assumed the topic of that class was not of interest."
Her expression goes hard, her brow knitting into a series of bumps and zigzags. "Did you send word yourself, Sir?" she asks.
"I did not. I've been counselled to conduct all communications through your advisor."
She looks away, lips pinched, brow still furrowed.
"I gather you're upset."
Her retort is measured but sharp. "Professor Seryl never sent me any such communication. I wanted to apply to your advanced class in the first place, but he insisted it'd be too hard for my measly human brain—not a direct quote, by the way, but still. So I applied for the introductory class under his encouragement. Sir, I realise you're under no obligation to consider extending the deadline to the application for me, but if you—"
"You are accepted," says Spock. "The application was only a formality. If your previous academic work is any indication, you will contribute satisfactorily to the class. Do you find this arrangement agreeable?"
"I do, Sir," she says, standing and taking leave. When she's halfway down the hallway, he hears her say 'qapla!' quite gutturally. Success, indeed.
#
He sends Professor S'Lch T'nis Seryl a strongly-worded communique.
#
On the first day of class, she arrives one minute and twelve standard seconds late. As such, Spock is already one minute and twelve standard seconds into his opening remarks.
He turns to regard her. Her hair is in two French braids, culminating into a bun at the back of her head, leaving her neck and curved ears exposed. She wears a tunic-like shirt, a long skirt. He is again reminded of when he first saw her—the curious ways that she adheres to Vulcan style using Earthen clothes.
His students are composed, revealing nothing of the surprise he knows they must feel.
"Uhura, are you aware that this seminar is slated to begin at nine o'clock?" he asks.
"I am aware, Sir," she says, head held high.
"And you're also aware that your tardiness has disrupted the class?"
She bites her lip but does not answer the question immediately, her PADD clutched to her chest.
"I took a wrong turn."
"You did not think it prudent to allow sufficient time in case of such an obstacle?" he presses her.
She refrains from answering. He expects her head to drop in deference to him. It does not. "I apologise for disrupting. I hope that you as well as my fellow students will forgive me."
"You may sit, please see me after class."
A student named Tesak stands and speaks, a third-year. "Sir," he begins, using a rare dialect of High Vulcan, presumably to exclude Nyota. "Will the seminar progress at a slower rate in order to accommodate the human, and if that is the case, may I propose she be removed from the seminar, as the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and there are more of us than there are of hr?"
Spock flicks a glance toward Nyota, who has settled into her desk, seemingly unaware of Tesak's disparaging remarks.
Spock answer Tesak's query in Vulcan standard, so that everyone might understand. "We will progress at whatever rate we settle on naturally. It is logical to assume that because we are all individuals, our skills and points of view will differ significantly depending upon a complex relationship of biology, experience, and work ethic. If such an academic environment does not suit you, it is not too late to replace this class with a private tutorial. Any other questions?"
"Yes, Sir, I have a question," Nyota says, standing.
This time, students are much less successful containing their surprise. Nyota is speaking in flawless High Vulcan. A myriad of quirked and raised eyebrows, agape mouths, and lifted eyelids replace the previously stoic expressions of his students. They turn toward Nyota. Spock barely manages to keep his face neutral as he awaits her query. "Go ahead, Uhura," he says.
She switches to—Spock is quite certain—Elvish to ask her question. "I don't really have a question, Sir, just an overwhelming need to nip that guy's dick wagging into bud. Thank you for indulging me," she says, then sits.
"Of course," he says.
Admittedly, he enjoys the perplexed expressions of his students, who understood not a word Uhura said.
#
He knows Elvish because she knows Elvish. It was mentioned in one of the articles he read about her, that as a linguist, she enjoyed constructed languages almost as much as naturally occurring ones. Curiosity sufficiently piqued, he took on the language himself.
#
Every time he's in the library, she's in the library, arriving long before him, leaving long after. She is diligent and industrious. Her contributions to class are satisfactory. She's done something he never managed to do in thirteen years of primary and secondary schooling—garnered her peers' respect.
The colloquium is focused on Artificial Intelligence and language acquisition, but as expected, their discussions cover a wide range of related fields.
A woman named T'Sela poses an interesting hypothesis one class, that A.I. and robotic 'lifeforms' might form tribes based on pettily constructed differences—programming language, materials, et cetera.
"To clarify, you're positing that computers couldt be racist?" asks Tesak.
"In a fashion," says T'Sela. Spock doesn't intervene, allowing the conversation to take place.
"Impossible," Tesak says. "Computers behave according to a logical system, and reason based on that logical system. Racism is highly illogical. Therefore computers cannot be racist."
Uhura interjects. "Vulcans are highly logical, yet racially stratified."
"Untrue," says another student, a young woman named Kylar. "Differences within sentient species based on ancestry groups have no bearing on their potential or abilities. Vulcans recognise this."
"And yet," says Uhura, "How many dark-skinned Vulcans are on the High Council? Or are here in this very classroom? I count me. And I'm human. It's no different than Earth, where they say racial inequality ended centuries ago. It's a fiction we tell themselves, so that nothing has to actually change."
T'Sela says, "A fascinating observation."
Spock thinks, yes.
#
He's dining alone in his flat, eating a spicy legume dish, when his comm vibrates, alerting him to a new email.
Professor Spock,
Vir T'rrs Tesak has submitted a complaint against you, regarding your treatment of class discussions in your Advanced Colloquium. I will be monitoring your seminar next meeting as a result.
Elder Gars
No longer hungry, Spock throws his food into the compost, cleans his plate, preferring to do it by hand so that he might clear his mind.
He wonders if there's any amount of success he might reach that would allow Vulcans to see him as someone to be respected.
Then he wonders how much worse it must be for Uhura, on Earth or on Vulcan.
#
Tesak, in a display not at all becoming of a Vulcan of his age, calls Nyota a racist as well as a sexist slur, two words in quick succession, delivered with the faintest hint of a smile. Spock requires that Tesak leave the class immediately.
It is the first time since Spock was a young child that rage seethes inside him in such an uncontrolled fashion. He grits his teeth to prevent a vocal outburst, telling Tesak calmly but coldly to leave the classroom and never to return. Elder Gars stands impassively in the corner, hands behind his back, offering no comment.
T'Sela says to Nyota, her voice hushed, "It is not my general practise to state the obvious, but I feel it necessary to say that Tesak's statements are wildly inaccurate. His behaviour toward you is reprehensible, and today he shamed all Vulcans. I regret that we failed as a collective to prevent what just occurred."
Nyota's eyes are fixed to her PADD, her body still. "If you are agreeable, Professor, I would leave class early today. My emotional control at the moment is," and she pauses for several seconds, "not what it could be." Her lips tremble, and just bites down to stop the tremor.
Instead, Spock dismisses the entire class one hour before their allotted end-time, so that everyone might meditate.
He walks Nyota to her flat several kilometres from campus, in a neighbourhood made up primarily of off-worlders.
"I do not know if will be of any comfort to you, but I plan to suggest Tesak be expelled. My father sits on the board. It would not be beneath me to use all manner of manipulation to compel him to see my suggestion sees fruition."
Nyota shrugs. She is distant, he can tell.
"Is it illogical that after everything all I want is for him to like me?" she asks.
"It is not illogical to demand respect, or to be upset when someone refuses to give it to you."
He walks her up the stone steps to her flat, stands closer to her than he should outside her door. Her hair is swept up into a messy bun, the individual strands somewhere between curly and poofy. She is beautiful, he realises. She exists, and he's glad for it, his world all the better for knowing her.
"Nyota?" he says.
"Mm?"
"You are, contrary to what anyone has ever led you to believe, satisfactory."
#
He wakes up early from dreamless sleep, heads to an always-open café not far from the Academy campus. Inside is Nyota, dark puffs under her eyes, coffee next to her. It is five in the morning, and he understand immediately that she's been here all night.
"Nyota," he says.
She looks up, gives him a hesitant smile. "Professor, please join me."
The invitation warms him, and his muscle untense. They have not spoken one-on-one in two weeks, since Tesak's regrettable conduct.
"You're not otherwise engaged?" he asks, gesturing to the PADD and several notebooks surrounding her.
"At some point, you've got to say uncle," she says.
"Uncle?"
"Uncle," she says, not explaining, shutting off her PADD.
Even like this, hair frizzing out of her ponytail, eyes red, she is a sight.
"When is the last time you had sustenance beyond coffee?" he asks.
Her eyes flick to the chronometer on her wrist. "Ummm, twelve hours ago," she says. "No wonder I'm feeling nauseous and a bit woozy. A minute ago, I thought two Spocks walked in here. Note to self, double vision means it's probably time to eat."
"Agreed. In fact, it's probably time to eat long before you reach the stage of double vision. As one of your professors, it's my duty to help foster your academic success. Sustenance is crucial to that success. If you are amenable, I would buy you breakfast."
She smiles, more fully this time, her whole face brightening. "I'm amenable."
Spock gestures for the waiter to come, orders himself hot cereal, fresh fruit, and juice. Nyota orders the eggy bread platter.
"Do you study here often?" he asks, hoping it's an appropriate question for the situation. Idle conversation has never been a strength of his.
"Most nights, yes."
"Do you not have early classes?"
She sighs, stirs her spoon in a half-empty cup of what looks like truly unsatisfactory coffee. "I do, yeah. Most nights, I try to catch three hours of sleep if I can, then I grab an hour nap later in the afternoon." When the waitress comes with her food, she takes a large bite of eggy bread, closing her eyes as she chews. "God, that's good." She moans as she takes another bite. "You want some?" she asks, pushing her plate toward him.
"No, thank you," he says.
"Suit yourself," says Nyota.
"I am concerned," he says, realising too late that the conversation shift is abrupt. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "Your current sleep patterns are far from optimal," he says.
"'Far from optimal is an understatement,'" she says. "But I'm an insomniac, and anxious to a fault, and a student at the Vulcan Science Academy. I'll sleep when I'm dead."
He hopes that is only an expression. "Your studies will suffer if you overwork yourself. Have you talked to your advisor about taking a lower workload next semester?"
The expression on her face tells him he said exactly the wrong thing.
"I am not overworked. Have I not been performing to standard in your class?"
"Your contributions are more than acceptable. You always perform admirably. But it is logical to face realities. You require sleep, rest. You have limits."
"I do not have limits," she says, then seems to recognise the statement is far from rational. She smiles, laughing quietly at herself.
Spock doesn't know what to do, so he waits.
"I have a lot to prove," she says.
"A sentiment with which I'm familiar."
"I can't be seen as weak, you know?. I can't be weak," she says, a trace of desperation in her tone. She folds her hands around her mug of tea, fingers interlocked.
"Do you believe there is something wrong with being weak?" he asks. It's a genuine question, not meant to be provocative, something he's mused on himself. Vulcan society constantly urges for the protection of the weak, yet suggests that weakness should be avoided at all costs. If he felt the need to use figurative language—which he doesn't—he'd say the contradictions inherent in Vulcan philosophy give him whiplash.
Nyota doesn't answer his question straight away, her head tilted. "There's nothing wrong with being weak, no," she finally says, sounding defeated, like she's lost an argument, even though she has not.
"I tend to agree," Spock says, hoping the statement validates her. He'd not meant to be combative. "All living things have limits. For example, I cannot fly as the bird can fly." Stating the perfectly obvious is a rhetorical tool he's picked up from his mother. He finds it effective. "I cannot breathe underwater, nor can the shark breathe on land. If to have limits is to be weak, we are all weak."
He cannot decipher the expression on Nyota's face, and so he continues. "If you're approaching your limits, I propose it is my duty to see that you don't exceed them. Do you object?"
Nyota takes another bite of eggy bread, chews thoughtfully. There is an intensity to her that leaves him disoriented.
"I've seen you before," she says out of nowhere.
Surprised, Spock coughs whilst ingesting a bit of food. "You remember that?" he asks, even though Nyota's just indicated that she has.
She nods her head, gaze sure and unyielding. "At the Sh'Kahr Market. I was fourteen at the time."
"You ran away from me," Spock says.
"I was scared."
Spock deflates, the prickle of disappointment familiar but unwelcome. "It is sometimes logical to be scared of those we don't know," he says, "but might I ask, was it something particular I did to earn your fear? If so, please accept my very belated apologies."
Unexpectedly, she grins. "There's obviously been a misunderstanding," Nyota says "You suggest that you were in some way deficient." He feels his own lips twitching upward at her mocking use of his words. "I meant only that I was a silly girl with a silly crush, and my reaction at the time was to run away. I was scared of all cute boys at that age, and girls, I might add." She gulps down a large sip of tea, eyes cast down.
"Oh," he says.
"Indeed."
#
After their discussion, it is only logical that he make good on his offer to help her excel academically, and that means sharing breakfast with her most mornings. He doesn't always buy, but his presence at the café in early hours reminds her that she requires sustenance. She says that she often forgets to eat when she gets wrapped up in an interesting topic.
He helps her study, reviewing topics with her, quizzing her the nights before an exam. Classes move at a pace that is difficult for her to keep up with, but she says she loves the challenge, that it's worth it to 'wipe the smug grin off Seryl's stupid mashed potato face.' Spock assured her that if she saw Seryl indulge in a smug grin, that she was likely hallucinating, as Vulcans do not grin, smugly or otherwise. The remark had the desired effect, and Nyota laughed. He experienced a brief moment of heart arrhythmia.
She is, in a word, brilliant. At the conclusion of the semester, she's received excellent marks in every class, his included. He submits her final essay to the Graduate Research Grant Award Fellowship. She makes it to the shortlist, receives a runner-up prize of 5000 credits. More than proud and impressed, he is in awe.
#
"Mother, I wish to invite a colleague to supper next week. Are you agreeable?" He cuts into a piece of eggplant.
Long used to his abrupt conversation style, she answers readily. "Of course, darling. Who is it?"
"Nyota Uhura."
Spock doesn't miss the almost imperceptible pause, the way his mother struggles to swallow her food properly for a second. Her smile is coy, wry. Spock doesn't know why. "Oh, I've been dying to meet her. Of course I'm agreeable. I'm more than agreeable. I insist that she come," says Amanda. "What should I cook? Or should we go out? Does she have any food preferences?"
Spock answers his mother's questions in order. "You should cook whatever you believe is fit. I prefer your cooking to what is available at most restaurants, so if it's acceptable to you, let's not go out. She has many food preferences."
His mother's smile is broad at he answers. "Do you care to elaborate on what those food preferences are?" she asks.
"Spicy food," he says. "Dishes that utilise a mixture of sweet and savoury, such as present in curry. I should also add that she is allergic to tree nuts."
"Your father has been wanting to meet Ms. Uhura in person. Is it okay if he joins us?" she asks.
"Father's attendance is acceptable," says Spock.
#
When he opens the door, sees Nyota standing there, he freezes, some temporary malfunction in his nervous system. Spock stands utterly still for twelve seconds longer than he's sure is appropriate. Nyota is wearing a gold dress, her hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, which are very bare, he should note. He does not understand the physics of a dress with no sleeves.
"Spock?" Nyota asks. "Are you okay?"
He means to answer, 'yes, of course,' but instead says, "Unclear."
"Don't mind him," his mother says, stepping around him, hands reaching out to clasp Nyota's. "Come in, please. I'm Amanda, Spock's mom. I've heard so much about you."
"Nyota," he says, as it's all he can muster. Her smile is arresting.
His mother grabs him by the arm, pulls him toward the dining area. She whispers into his ear, "Pull yourself together, bubba."
"I seem unable to do so," he says.
Sarek is waiting for them at the table, and he stands when Nyota enters the room. "Ms. Uhura," he says. "Allow me to say what my son seems unable to. It is most agreeable to have you here."
It's easier once he's sitting. Spock follows the conversation well enough. Mother has prepared a spicy peanut stew with cornmeal dumplings.
"Professor T'Vol informs me that next semester you will be taking all of your courses as tutorials," says Sarek.
Nyota nods. "Hopefully, my time here will be less stressful with one-on-one classes I admit I've had difficulty keeping up with my first semester classes. The tutorials will be tailored to my personal needs."
"It is logical to seek a learning environment that allows for optimal personal scholarship," Sarek says, seeming to approve.
Spock remembers for the first time in several years that he loves his father very much.
"Do not be fooled by Nyota's modesty," Spock says. "She is an impressive scholar and an even more impressive person." There it is again, the malfunction in his nervous system, and it's affecting his ability to keep his mouth shut. "What I meant to say is—"
"No way, you can't unsay it," says Nyota, her smile truly a sight to behold. "I am an impressive scholar and an even more impressive person. No take-backs."
Amanda and Nyota laughs. Spock and Sarek share a look. By the end of the evening, when Spock is confident his motor skills have returned, he walks Nyota home.
#
It is nearly six months later, at the start of the next school year, that he first touches her. Her wrist is wrapped in a bandage. "Things got a bit wild when I was frying pancakes this morning. Burned myself," she says.
"May I?" he asks, gesturing to the aloe sitting next to her on the table. They are in his office, which has sort of become her office, because she's here just as often as he is.
She nods her head, licks her bottom lip with a quick dart of the tongue.
He unwraps the bandage. Most of the damage is already healed, or healing, but he sees the blistery red mark. Squeezing the aloe into his fingertips, he hovers for just a moment over the marks, inhales, then massages the liquid into the abrasion.
Instantly, he's sure it's a mistake, his physical response inappropriate.
"Spock," she says, pressing her hand over his, still on her wrist. "It's all right."
"Is it a suitable moment to tell you that I find your company more welcome than I find anyone else's company?"
"Yes," she says.
Then someone clears their throat in the doorframe of his office. They break the touch.
#
He kisses her not because it's logical, but because he desires to do so. He is dropping her off at her flat—only that was two hours ago. For some reason, he's still here, on her sofa. She's telling him the sorts of things Vulcans would never tell him: that he is kind, but 'doesn't take shit,' which according to her is a good quality. She tells him that his sadness is not his fault, that when he is overwhelmed by thick unhappiness, he can call her, and she would come to him, if only to remind him that he does not have to be sad alone.
"I would like to share a secret with you. Are you agreeable?" he asks.
She nods. Their hands are joined, and the brush of her mind is hot but soft.
"It is in regard to Tesak. Are you still agreeable?"
Nyota nods again, this time with an eyebrow perked up.
"I planned to kill him," Spock says, gripping her hands tightly, probably too tightly. "The night in question, I saw that he was alone. We were in the city centre. I knew, without a doubt, that I could easily overpower him, make it so that no one would ever know that I was responsible. It would be easy, in fact, to dispose of the body." He suppresses a shiver at his own callousness. "When he saw me, he taunted me. He repeated a number of unkind insults, directed toward—," and it's a not quite a lie, so he says it, "toward me. I pressed him against the wall. I nearly strangled him to death. I could have nerve pinched him, but I wanted him to be awake for his last breath. I, as they say, came to my senses. But I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that I am not always so kind. Though I would never intentionally hurt you, there is a rage inside me that some days cannot be quieted."
He looks up, searching for censure in Nyota's face. Instead of chastisement, there is only understanding. "I am no stranger to rage," she says, "or to losing control at those moments when it's most required." She leans forward so that their foreheads almost touch. The sound of her breath hitching is intoxicating.
Spock closes the gap between their lips, presses his against hers tentatively. Her mouth opens, and he slides his tongue a fraction inside. She moans, and it makes his cock hard.
Her hands move to his head, one on his cheek and the other on the back of his neck. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he slides her down onto the sofa, so that he is on top. Their kisses turn from shy to fevered. Her tongue is hot and soft against his own. He nips her bottom lip with his teeth, and the startled gasp she emits makes him press himself to her.
Nyota stimulates herself through her clothing, skirt pushed up to her waist, but underwear in place. Rubbing against length, still constrained in his trousers and briefs, she coils one leg around his back, her heel digging hard into his back.
He can smell the scent of her and he urges to press his nose into her knickers, lick her through the fabric, bite her inner thighs.
Spock allows himself to grind into her, shaking with the control it takes to keep from coming in his trousers like he hasn't done since he was a teenager.
"Spock," she says, fingernails in his back.
"Tell me what you want," he says, kissing her neck, sucking her salty skin. He doesn't say what he wants, which is to remove his penis from his clothing, ejaculate on her stomach.
Nyota grabs his hand, pushes it downward. He readjust, pushes his fingers to the growing wet spot on her underwear, slick and silky and so hot. She pushes her hips up, and he starts to rub, lazy teasing circles because he's sure that after this tryst, she will have had enough of him, and won't want him any longer.
He circles two fingers over her clit, and her legs jerk. "Is this what you want, Nyota?" he asks. "For me to finger you?" Spock feels his pre-come dripping down his cock.
Massaging faster, he pushes her shirt up, slides his hand under her bra and squeezes her breast. He licks her left nipple through the lace, hard and perfect and small.
Nyota rocks her hips into his fingers, holds him tighter with each passing moment as she gets closer.
"Want to be inside you so bad," Spock says, nuzzling his face into hers, licking her neck. "You're so wet for my cock. Come for me," he says, increasing the pressure on her clit until she's jerking beneath him, moaning his name, her wetness on his fingers.
He feels his own semen sticky inside his briefs.
#
In a case of really questionable timing, Nyota visits her mother on Earth. She's had the trip planned for months, can't cancel now, and Spock is embarrassed for even asking that she consider it. His feelings for her has had a generally negative effect on his sense of decorum.
Their hands brush at the shuttle port and he traces a tremor of her anxiety. It is glaring and suffocating, and he wonders how she lives with it constantly. He breathes in and out, hoping his own calm will soothe her. Nyota relaxes a degree at the press of his thoughts. "Your brain is very comfy," she says.
Then, it's time for her to depart. "You will reach me at your earliest convenience?" he asks, his fingers still touching hers.
"I will," she assures him.
"I'll miss you," she says, giving him one last look before they part.
"Good bye, Nyota."
He's fantasised about her before, but now that he's had a taste, his imaginings have taken on a new layer of vividness. Most frequently, he pictures his face buried between her thighs, tongue lapping her clit, her pussy driving into his face as she comes. He wants to be engulfed in her, to please her, to feel her shaking and unknotting because of him, crying out obscenities.
When he receives a small package from her at his office, he must excuse himself for the day. It is a pair of white knickers, dirty and marked with her scent, the aroma of it so strong he knows that soaked tem before she sent them.
He jerks himself off with them, shooting his seed into the silky fabric, then sends them back to her.
In her ten-day absence, they manage one face-to-face call. The screen goes black briefly, then comes into focus, showing her in a ribbed muscle tee and underwear. Her legs are crossed, and her back is straight, ever poised and graceful, even in her sleep attire.
"Can you see me?" she asks, reaching forward to adjust the camera.
"I can see you," says Spock, his voice breaking slightly on the last word at the sight of her chest leaning forward toward the screen. "I must admit, I do not know if I'll be able to adequately form sentences seeing you dressed in such miniscule clothing."
Her smile fills the screen, and she throws her head back in laughter. "Who says I want you to adequately form sentences?"
"Are you implying that our activities will not be of a primarily conversational nature?" he asks.
She shrugs her shoulders, "I don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with."
He considers that for a moment, then asks, "I believe when two people involved in a romantic relationship are apart, and they have a chance to connect via telecommunication, it is customary for one member of the party to ask the other to remove their clothes. Nyota, will you take off your clothes?"
She's not smiling now, but Spock ascertains that she's not unhappy. He sees her chest rise and fall, indicating increased respiratory speed.
"Okay," she says, voice quiet, and removes her shirt, revealing her skin. He doesn't know how he missed the fact that she is not wearing a bra.
Next, Nyota leans back to remove her shorts. "Leave on your undergarment," Spock instructs, not because he doesn't want to see her fully, because he very much does, but there are still four days until she returns to him, and he longs for the scent of her.
"You want me to rub myself off with these, like I did before?" she asks, swallowing, her hand drawing a trail down her stomach.
"Not to completion. Only enough to wet them," Spock says.
Her expression is shy, coy, then she says, "They are already wet," she says. "I've been dripping in preparation for this call for the last several hours."
Spock's erection is painful inside his trousers, and he undoes the zipper, pushes his cock through the slit in his briefs. "Please, touch yourself," he says, and she obeys. Nyota leans back, rubs herself over her undergarments, her legs open wide. His longing for her is painful. Her soft pants make him leak droplets of pre-ejaculate over his fingers, and he rubs the moisture over his length.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," he says.
She's already lost, though, seeming to barely register the question. "Thinking about," she starts, then stops, "thinking about sliding my tongue over your cock. Want to suck you off so bad. Want to feel your come hot on my lips and cheeks," she says, panting and moaning, fingering her clit roughly, thighs wet and slick.
His own breathing is far from steady. He strokes himself watching her, listening to her. He stands when he sees she's about to orgasm, so that he can shoot his come onto the monitor. Four spurts of white seed drip down the screen. Seeing it, Nyota lets go, bucking her pelvis up and down, crying out his name.
#
She arrives to Sh'Kahr a day early, surprising him at his flat. He can contain himself no longer. He lifts her onto the dining table, kneels, and presses wet kisses into her legs. She spreads herself for him, her skirt ridden up to her hips, and she's not wearing any knickers.
For the first time in his entire life, he says, "Fuck," overwhelmed by the sight of her pussy, glistening. He rubs his face into the black hair, eyes closed, and he'd feel foolish if he wasn't so mad with lust.
Her hands tangle into his hair, pulling tightly, and she says, "Please."
He darts his tongue out, licks a long trail from her perineum to her clit. Her taste is nothing short of exquisite. He parts her labia with his lips so that he can drink from her.
"Spock, baby, more," she cries. He obliges, licking inside her quickly, then moving up to her clit, flicking his tongue over the hard nub, his nose in her hair. As her body starts to tense, she pushes herself into his mouth, and he can hardly breathe. He wants to drown in her. "Gonna come," says Nyota, then her legs close around his head. She comes onto his face, and he can think of no better feeling than this right here
He rests on the flat plain of her tummy, feels her hands splayed in his hair, stroking at the nape, then moving to his temples and cheeks.
"Thank you," she says, voice raspy and quiet.
"On the converse," says Spock. "Thank you."
#
Spock has had sexual relationships before, but none compare to what he shares with Nyota. He thought he might experience some frustration. He's only ever coupled with Vulcans. It is true that he must show some restraint, but it is not difficult to respect her limits. He wants never to hurt her. He wants to protect her.
He is surprised, but intrigued, when on their first bout of intercourse, she calls herself a whore for his cock.
The sheets are wet with perspiration and her arousal. She has come twice, the first time when she stimulated herself with her fingers whilst taking his penis into her mouth. He came into her mouth, and she licked the drops she missed from the head of his cock.
The second time she comes that night, he's getting her ready for him. Nyota is unbearably tight. He starts with one finger, than two, finally fitting three inside. His cock stiffens again when she starts to grind in to his hand.
Every centimetre of her body is ablaze, oversensitive. She can barely speak, just pulls his hips toward her. "Need your cock inside me," she says, and he drives himself inside her, stretching her. He sets a slow pace—more for his sake than hers. If he goes much faster, he'll come. That's when she says it, moving up into him, calling herself a dirty whore. His arousal increases at the sound of those words from her mouth, and he knows that's something he'll have to interrogate later. For now, he's content to whisper into her ear as he fucks her tight heat. Spock calls her his little slut, tells her she's only allowed to fuck him, that her pussy belongs to him.
They go over the edge in unison, him harder than he ever as.
#
In an act of generosity wholly uncharacteristic of him, Sarek invites Spock and Nyota to the banquet for the State of the Federation Address. It is to be hosted on Vulcan for the first time in a decade.
"Do I look respectable?" Nyota asks. Spock's been at her flat all day, having spent the night. He wonders if her dressing process is always this extensive.
"I struggle to grasp how what clothes one wears relates to how respectable they are," he says. Nyota is a living being, and so of course she looks respectable, whether naked, adorned in full Vulcan robes, in skinny jeans and a blouse, or in a silver, backless dress, as she's wearing right now.
"You know, respectable," she says, as if merely repeating the word clarifies its meaning. "For example, I couldn't show up to this thing with your semen smeared on my face. That wouldn't be respectable."
Spock feels a pulse of blood shoot to his dick.
"Down, boy," she says, smiling, twisting her hair into a rather flattering updo.
"You look like Nyota and therefore you look beautiful," Spock says.
"Good, because I've run out of dresses to try on."
He watches her as she applies her makeup. He admires her focus, the steady way that she draws the black pencil beneath her eye. She is always aesthetically pleasing, but he appreciates the artfulness of her face when she's finished brushing over her skin, brushing rouge onto her cheeks.
Even Vulcans stare at Nyota when they arrive to the banquet hall, as taken with her beauty as Spock. He fights the urge to wrap a possessive arm around her waist. He regrets that her earlier statement about marking her face with his seed was in jest. At this moment it would come in handy.
His father steals him away, which is frustrating. Amanda says, "Be nice. He's proud of you. He wants to show you off."
"Your companion's accomplishments at the Vulcan Science Academy are admirable," says an elder named Verick. "For a human she is highly intelligent and industrious."
"She is highly intelligent and industrious, for anyone," says Spock. "I had her as a student last year, and she performed as well if not better than many of her peers."
Sarek agrees. "I've had the opportunity to overlook much of her research. Her work is impressive."
Spock searches the crowd of mingling guests to locate Nyota. She is dancing with a human man.
"If you'll excuse me," Spock says, then leaves his father and Verick. The man's palms are low on Nyota's back, pinkie fingers almost grazing her buttocks. Spock feels his chest constrict. They have not discussed exclusivity, but he'd assumed his expectation of monogamy as clear. She may not be his property, but he feels the irrational desire to be the only one to bring her pleasure, to be the only one allowed to touch her the way the human male is touching her.
"Spock," she says, seeing him, her smile easing some of his discomfort.
"This is Jim, an old friend from undergraduate," she says. She steps away to introduce them.
"So this is the guy who's made an honest woman out of you?" says Jim, clearly sizing Spock up. "In all her gushing about you she didn't mention your truly wonderful haircut."
Spock doesn't understand what is happening.
"Jim, I know it's hard for you, but please try not to be an ass," she says.
"My haircut?" says Spock.
"Love those bangs. Tres chic," Jim says.
Then, Spock comprehends. "You're being sarcastic, deliberately stating an untruth to emphasise the exact opposite point, which is that—you are not fond of my hairstyle."
"And he's smart to boot," says Jim.
"Please stop antagonising my man," Nyota says.
"Your Vulcan, you mean," Jim says, and Spock watches as they trade banter.
"Regardless, mine," says Nyota.
Yes, hers.
The banquet seems neverending, but Spock is overwhelmed with the need to take her. He drags her through the stone building and finds an empty corridor. He pushes her against the wall, pulls her underwear to the side, and shoves his cock inside of her already dripping cunt. He bites her neck. She wraps her legs around his waist so that he can lift her up and down over his length.
Distantly, he's aware of footsteps. He casts a glance sideways, sees a Vulcan male staring. Spock growls, shows his teeth, and the Vulcan leaves.
Nyota's pussy clenches over his penis as she comes, and he quickly follows. The rest of the banquet is much more agreeable. Even when she leaves to talk to someone, or his mother or father pulls him away, he can smell his semen inside her, knows that it's trickling down her inner thighs.
#
Nyota is snuggled into him as they watch a holo on Vulcan wildlife. She tells him about missing her homeland, her love of big cats, especially cheetahs, with their lanky build and tear-drop markings. As a youth, she spent some time working on a wildlife preserve, got to feed lion cubs. "What's your favourite animal?" she asks.
"Favourite animal?"
"Yes, which do you like the best?"
"The Terran species canis lupus, common name grey wolf, possesses an intriguing mixture of grace and ferocity," he says.
"I love the way they howl at the moon," says Nyota. "It's beautiful but frightening."
"Yes, it's how they find each other. I'm afraid they wouldn't like it here, as Vulcan has no moon."
Her head rests against his bare chest, cool. Her lips brush against his nipples, and he shivers. "Love you so much," she says. He can feel her sputtering heartbeat.
#
She stops answering his communications. When he arrives to his office Monday morning, she's not there for the first time in months. He worries, until he sees her in the corridor engaging in an intellectual debate with T'Sela and some other students. She is pointedly not looking at him.
There is no Vulcan word for the feeling spreading inside him, so he uses the Federation Standard word, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He is so achingly lonely without her. Her rejection cuts him so sharply.
He spends the evening in meditation, allows his thoughts to float fully through his mind. His need for her is persistent and unyielding, and he cannot logic himself out of it.
Against his better judgment, he goes to her flat. She is not alone. Biting back a way of nausea, he knocks.
"Spock," she says, opening the door, and he sees T'Sela and a human male inside.
"I'm interrupting," he says.
"We were just leaving," says the human male, who seems to be of Asian descent. He grabs Nyota in a loose hug and kisses her cheek. T'Sela bows her head curtly at Spock, then exits behind the human.
"Bye T'Sela, by Hikaru," she says.
"May I enter?" asks Spock, wondering at why he feels out of breath, even though he is breathing normally.
Nyota sighs, then gestures her head for him to come in. There are dirty glasses and plates at her small round table, and she carries them toward the kitchen.
"I have come here for clarification," he says.
"Clarification of what?" says Nyota. Her tone is harsh, and it stings. She stands with a hand on her hip.
"Clarification on the status of our relationship. Am I to assume based on your sudden distance that you no longer find me a suitable companion?" He cannot suppress the shake in his voice.
"You've got it wrong. I am not a suitable companion for you," she says.
Spock blinks. "Explain."
Sadness replaces her previous anger, and she closes her eyes. "I know that I ended things rather ungracefully," she says. "I just—couldn't take knowing you didn't feel about me the same way I felt about you."
She is clearly hurting, and knowing that makes him hurt. "We are different people. Of course our feelings for each other will not match precisely," he offers.
At that, she chokes back a sob. There is a pang in Spock's chest, and he has never regretted more his lack of social grace.
"It's hard to hear you say it out loud, that you don't love me," she says.
Spock steps closer toward her, tries and fails to resist the urge to reach out and places a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't love you?" he asks.
"Just—the other night. I confessed my feelings for you. You said nothing."
He brushes his thumb over her cheek, tries to get a sense of her feelings. "Nyota, you're referring to the night we spent at my flat nine days ago when you said that you loved me?"
"Yes," she whispers. A tear drops from her right eye, and he kisses the wet trail it leaves.
"Then I offer my sincere regrets. If it is not obvious that I cherish and love you to a degree that is frankly alarming, I have been negligent, indeed. I thought it strange to state the so very obvious, which is that I see you as my one true mate, and could never think of myself with another."
Nyota cries full on now, and he licks away each tear. He wraps his arms around her, and she shudders in his embrace.
Her lips find his, and they kiss messily and wetly, tongues pressed together.
Spock takes her tenderly, carries her to her bed, undresses her. It's only been just over a week, but he's missed her body. He groans as her naked form is revealed, gorgeous brown skin, full curves. He needs to see her, so she rides him. Her hands clasp his shoulders as she straddles him, sits down onto his cock and begins to move. Her back arches when she comes, and it is so beautiful.
#
They have been together for nearly two years now, and Spock has never been more content. Tonight, Nyota is at his place. She sits at the foot of his bed, fixes her hair into two plaits. As expected, when she's finished, she reaches for the scarf beside her, silky and brightly coloured, the one Spock gifted her 11.2 months ago on a whim, a word that does not exist in any dialect of Vulcan, but fortuitously, has a place in Federation Standard.
"You're staring," she says, cross-legged, and looking softer than she usually does. The regal poise of her posture is there, but wavering. Is she tired? Weary? He longs to feel her mind. They will meld and officialise their bond in nine weeks.
He is staring her, yes, or more specifically, imagining his tongue licking a trail down the curve of her neck, to her collarbone, back up to her cheek, lips. "Do you object to my appraisal?" he asks.
Her eyes flick towards his briefly, thick with an emotion Spock cannot parse. "I don't," she says.
After her hair's complete, she slides her feet from under her and onto the floor, retreats to the washroom. Spock appreciates the predictability of Nyota's before-bed ritual, the consistency with which her nights unfold. At twenty-three hundred hours precisely, she scrubs her face clean with black soap.
Next, she changes into her night clothes, practical fare, cotton shorts and a t-shirt, but for a brief moment, he sees her in only underwear, lean, narrow limbs disrupted by the swell of her breasts, hips, thighs. She is marked with him, her skin a landscape of healing bruises and abrasions, a scant blue mark here, a dark smudge there—the most obvious one an ovular swirl near the external lip of her left-side iliac crest, 3.2 centimetres in length, 1.8 in width. Three days ago, he'd had her on all-fours, gripped her hips and drove into her as she whimpered his name.
"You want me?" she asks, her eyes darting to his erection.
"Always, Nyota," he says, and for once the knot inside him untangles.