A/N: Maybe one day I'll write something other than Spock and Uhura. (Yeah, who am I kidding, I got a billion more stories planned out in my head!) But for now, a drabble.
Disclaimer: Suing me would be illogical since I don't own it.
Logic, definition; the systematic study of valid inference.
He has built his life with blocks of reason and math, sciences that will not fail him – that he cannot fail. He stacks them high, taking his time to make sure each one slots with the last until it is strong, unbreakable. He steps back and looks and thinks; this is what I know. This is what I found, and will find, to be true. Upon the top of his brick castle he lays his logic.
How was he to know that he had built his walls on sand foundations?
It is a laugh that makes the first crack, a delightful sound that he drinks like a dying man on his last night. (His mind cannot stop thinking in metaphors, in bright images that shine just as she does.) And he does drink, drinks deep. The way her upper lip curves in to expose a wide expanse of white teeth, a bright shine that throws her cocoa skin into contrast. Her head is tilted back, and this gesture reveals an open canvas he longs to touch, to make his own.
With each tear she sheds, another brick tumbles down into the ruins that his logic and reason are slowly becoming. Each one has marked a salty trail upon her skin, and he's close enough to see – see the way it meanders over the bridge of her nose, curves left to her cheek and continues downwards to fall over the curve of her jaw. Desperately he pulls those blocks together, tries to keep the shaky foundations from bringing it down around him. But she sheds another, and another, and he gives up.
Logic is chased out from the moment she smiles at him. Each one he manages to draw from her – though he stops his attempts to try, she offers them without provocation – just makes the distance between what he knew and what he will know further, wider, until all he can see is her. Words follow soon after logic, and when her brow creases with confusion all he can do is reach out and smooth the wrinkles away with gentle fingers and lips. With every touch her skin becomes smoother, soft again, his.
Her yawn destroys what is left; a quaint little sound at the base of the throat his lips attack with hunger he would not think was possible. She follows it with a smile, a flash of white against brown, another laugh to expose more skin to him. He accepts it without question, takes idle delight in the growls he can pull from her with the correct pressure of his fingers or flick of his tongue. Later he will count these marks, trace the outline of the bruises his fingertips left on her side, the mark of his teeth against the curve of his shoulder.
Whatever is left in the wreckage he once called his life she has swept away with a slow tide - carefully, precisely, a constant motion he recognizes all at once as him and her.
He built his life with blocks of reason and math, yet he paints his world in colored strokes on chocolate skin with the brush Nyota gives him.