Title: Sparrows

Author: Wildcat

Series: TOS

Rating: MA

Codes: S/f, S/U

Summary: While on Earth with Uhura, Spock remembers something that happened twenty-six years before.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Spock. I have just borrowed him for a while and will not profit from any of this.

This story is set in my Spock/Uhura Trekiverse. It takes place between Bright Shining as the Sun and Thaya, but you don't need to have read Bright Shining as the Sun to read this one. It's enough to know that this takes place after Spock and Uhura have been married for a number of years.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Jungle Kitty. Also, thanks to Kathy and Rabble Rouser for their terrific comments.

This story was awarded 1st place for "Best Spock Pairing" in the 2001 ASC Awards.

Feedback is desired.

Sparrows

I have not been here for twenty-six years. When Nyota stated that she wished to visit the Smithsonian Institution while we were on Earth, I thought nothing of it. Now, however, I have come to this doorway. It is unremarkable, and every day hundreds of people pass quietly through it without noticing it. I see it, though, and I halt. And I remember.

...

It happened during the fourth year of our original five-year mission.

My bond to T'Pring had been severed for six months, and although I did not comprehend it at the time, I believe that the pain from the ending of our bond had begun to metamorphose into a sense of newfound freedom. Suddenly the constant presence of people who knew me and expected a certain mode of behavior became oppressive, and I requested leave. I know that I shocked my friends. I made the decision, I planned the trip, and I left, all within a single day.

On vacation.

Never before had I requested leave without a set agenda, so already I was beginning to test the limits of what it meant to be me. Where I went did not matter, and I somewhat arbitrarily chose the destination of Washington DC, on Earth. Granted, I had been there before, but always as a scientist or a Starfleet officer. This time I was a tourist, and that is how I found myself entering the Museum of Natural History surrounded by a group of third graders still sticky from lunch, their teachers, and a school shuttle driver named Merv.

...

The children rushed to view the dinosaur exhibit, so I went the other way. Eventually I found an area with a satisfactory level of near-reverent silence: the bird exhibit.

The specimens moved gracefully in their holographic prisons, and one could almost believe that they were alive. I understood that at one time dead creatures had been stuffed and posed in a gruesome attempt to simulate life, so I was quite grateful to the artisans who had skillfully created these mechanical reproductions. I was so engrossed in an especially large and colorful display of the birds of New Guinea that I did not see her until I was almost upon her.

She was human, approximately thirty-five years old and of average height, and she frowned at a bird of paradise as it sat on a branch and regarded her with similarly serious scrutiny. Her blonde hair was shiny and straight, cut even with her jaw and pushed behind each ear. She held a stylus poised above a padd, and I could not help but grow curious about what had caught her attention.

I moved close and studied the bird. After a moment, she pointed at it with her stylus.

"They got the feathers in the tail plumage wrong."

"Indeed? I am unfamiliar with the species."

"Oh, yes. There should be twelve lateral plumes rather than ten. But it's pretty good otherwise."

She returned her attention to the bird, so I moved on. Soon I had forgotten about her.

...

Two days later I went to Arlington National Cemetery. Generally I cannot understand the human fascination with rituals of the dead, but there has always been something about this place that draws me. Perhaps it is the calmness. Perhaps it is the orderliness. Perhaps it is the immense sense of history. I do not know. At any rate, I arrived so early in the morning that my feet left snail-like traces through the dewy grass, and the sounds of the city seemed very far away in relation to the singing of the birds.

I walked over a slight rise, and that is when I saw her again. It was not unusual to encounter the same people repeatedly when visiting the tourist haunts—just an hour earlier I had exchanged nods with Merv as he sat on a bench by the shuttle station, apparently drinking one last cup of coffee before picking up his charges—but somehow it seemed unsettling to see her again, for she appeared simply to have been lifted from the museum and transplanted here. The padd and stylus were still in her hand, and she had the same intent expression on her face as she gazed at a nearby tree.

I decided not to interrupt her, but she saw me before I could move away. "Hello again," she said.

"Greetings."

She gestured toward the tree. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing out here."

"I assumed that you were bird watching."

"That's right." She smiled. "Good guess."

"It was a logical deduction."

"Of course."

We fell into an awkward silence, and she ran her fingers through her hair as if tucking it behind her ear even though it was already there. I could see her quarry, a sparrow, sitting on a nearby branch. Finally, I spoke.

"Are the tail feathers of that Melospiza melodia more to your liking?"

She laughed. "Much better. He looks like he was in a losing battle with a cat, but there's not anything in nature more perfect than a sparrow even if his tail is a bit bedraggled."

The sparrow hopped to another branch, rustled its wings, and then flew to one of the white tombstones on the next small hill. It began to sing.

"Listen," she said. "This is why the song sparrows are my favorites. He's telling us that he's thankful to be alive on a beautiful morning like this."

We were silent until the bird finished its song, then I nodded a polite farewell. "Enjoy your bird watching."

"Thanks. You, too. Uh, I mean, enjoy whatever it is you're doing."

"Thank you."

I returned in the direction from which I'd come, and soon I knew that she could no longer see me. This time I did not dismiss her from my thoughts quite so quickly.

...

I encountered her again the next evening. I had just been seated at a table in the corner of a quiet restaurant when I looked up from my menu to see her standing at the door. The hostess escorted her to a table on the other side of the room. I watched her take her seat, accept a menu with a smile, and push her hair behind her ears before studying it. Once again she adopted the same expression of scrutiny, and I wondered if she approached everything in life with such rapt attention.

It was without warning that she looked up and caught me watching her.

I had intended to dine alone. Even when she entered the room, it had not occurred to me to invite her to my table. Before I was able to adapt my thinking to a possible change in plans, she had risen and was crossing the room. By then, it was too late to feign interest in my menu. I could only look up and await her approach.

She stopped next to my table and smiled. "Imagine seeing you again. I think it must be fate."

I did not have a response for that, so instead I gestured to the chair on the other side of the table. "Would you care to join me?"

She hesitated for a moment as if assessing my intentions, then said, "I'd like that. Thanks. Give me a moment to get my menu, and I'll be right back."

As she returned to her table, I thought that she might feel self-conscious, because she moved rather stiffly. Another patron stepped into her path, and she was forced into a small shuffle in first one direction, then another, when she attempted to dodge him. She was wearing a pale mint-colored pantsuit made of silk or some other flowing fabric, and as I watched she tugged on the hem of the shirt in an attempt to smooth the wrinkles that had gathered across the back. Her waiter was just placing a goblet of water on the table when she arrived, and I saw her exchange a few words with him, pick up the goblet, and return. Soon she was seated across from me.

She clasped her hands with a definitive motion, and rested them on the table in front of her. "I guess this is a good time to introduce myself. I'm Joyce Conklin, here in town on business although I'd much rather be a tourist."

"I am Spock. A tourist."

"Nice to meet you, Spock. What do you think of DC so far?"

With that, we began the process of getting to know one another.

...

By the time the restaurant closed and we were forced to relocate to the adjoining bar, I had learned that she was an ornithologist originally from New Haven, Connecticut, who was in town for a seminar at the Smithsonian. The first time I had encountered her, she had been taking advantage of a break in her schedule, but generally she had been busy from morning to late afternoon each day. That is why I had encountered her so early at Arlington. She was in town until tomorrow, at which time she would return to her job at a nature refuge in Biloxi, Mississippi.

By the time the waiter had refilled our glasses with wine so dark it was the color of the night, I also knew that she had an older brother who lived in Taiwan and that her father had recently retired from his administrative position with the University of Connecticut. She had married briefly at the age of 23, but since then she had remained unattached. By the time the piano player was joined by a sultry-voiced singer and a different crowd had begun to gather in the bar, I knew that she lived in an ancient house that was all but falling down when she bought it and that each year she targeted a portion of it for restoration. Her current project was the front porch, and yesterday she had purchased an antique brass door knocker to affix to her front door.

She in turn learned that I was a commander in Starfleet, that I was a scientist, and that I was assigned to the Enterprise. She knew that I was on leave and that I would have to return to the Enterprise in another two days. I told her about my disagreement with my father over my choice of career, and I even told her about T'Pring. One thing I did not share with her was the fact of my half-human heritage. To this day, I am not certain why I withheld that information while being so free with other equally private matters. Perhaps I sensed that she was impressed by my Vulcanness, and I did not want to diminish myself in her eyes.

Now those eyes glinted in the low light as she leaned close. I could see that her cheeks were flushed, and I could smell the slightly floral scent of her hair.

"Spock," she said, toying with the stem of her wineglass, "I've had a good time tonight."

"As have I."

She leaned even closer. We had each just finished our third glass of wine, and it was warm and smoky on her breath.

"I've never really known a Vulcan before, and I have a question."

I waited for her to continue.

"I don't know how to ask this. I mean, I could come right out and say it, but I'm afraid I might scare you away. But here goes. I'm sure you know that I find you attractive. Very attractive. And maybe it's only wishful thinking, but I'm thinking that you find me attractive, too. So here's my question. Would you like to—"

"Yes."

I knew that I appeared calm, but inside I was anything but. I had never done anything like this before. I had seen my shipmates slip away with people they had only just met, and I had never understood the desire to connect temporarily with a stranger, the desire to assuage a purely physical hunger in a meaningless tryst. Yet here I was, doing the very same thing. Or at least I thought I was. When she did not answer immediately, I wondered if I could have possibly misunderstood her intentions.

Finally a seductive smile curved her lips. "You don't even know what I was going to ask."

I swallowed and held her eyes. "I believe that I do."

She touched me for the first time. Her fingers were very gentle as she brushed them across the back of my hand, but I felt a roiling tension burn all the way to my core. It was not an objectionable sensation.

"I guess you do at that. Come with me."

...

Her hotel was only two blocks away, but the walk seemed very long. Neither of us spoke, and I do not know what she was thinking. I, myself, tried very hard not to think at all, because I feared that if I did, rationality might win out over impulse, common sense might squash the fragile yet inescapable thing that had blossomed within me. Soon enough, however, we had taken the lift to the sixth floor, walked calmly down the carpeted hallway, and slipped into her room.

It was dark, with only the lights from the city shining through the open curtains. I followed her as far as the foot of the bed and halted, uncertain what to do next. Her back was to me, and as I waited, she pushed her hair behind her ears. I knew at that moment that I would always associate that gesture with her. And I realized that she was just as uncertain as I.

Finally she faced me. We were separated by mere centimeters, but we did not touch.

"So tell me," she whispered, "how does one seduce a Vulcan?"

"I do not know," I replied. "I have never seduced one."

Although I had not intended my statement to be humorous, she laughed softly, and I felt emboldened. So I continued.

"But I believe that one would begin like this."

I reached for her hand.

Her hand was very soft, and she wove her fingers through mine before stepping closer. Her breasts brushed against me, and I held my breath for fear that I might either subtly press harder against them or shrink away. It was soon a moot point, however, because she disengaged her fingers from mine and placed both hands behind my head, pulled my face down to hers, and pressed the entire length of her body against me. I knew that she had to feel my erection, but she showed no reaction to the hardness between us.

Obviously she wanted me to kiss her, so I placed my lips against hers. I had only ever kissed one other woman in my life, Leila Kalomi, and I knew that my kisses had been rather artless with her. I had been in the throes of a chemical-induced lust disguised as love, and I had considered the kisses something to be tolerated prior to more intimate relations, and a payment to be bestowed afterward. I did not want it to be so tonight, however. This moment might also be a prelude to what was to come next, but I wanted the similarity to end there.

She closed her eyes, and I did the same. Her lips were soft and pliable against mine, and when I felt her tongue flick my upper lip, I relaxed my mouth enough to allow it entry. This also was new to me, but of course I had witnessed this act often enough to understand what was expected. Surprisingly, I found it very stimulating, and when I increased the pressure of my hands on her back, she rewarded me by increasing the fervor of her kisses.

I knew that soon I would be expected to change the parameters of our interaction, so I decided that I should place my hands against her bare skin. Once again I was reminded of my encounter with Leila, and I remembered how we had stood apart as we hastily undressed, how she had lain on the bed and parted her legs as if she were a sacrificial offering, and how I had buried myself in her without preamble. And then it was over. Although she had appeared very content, I knew that her pleasure had been tied more to my capitulation than to any actual physical gratification. This, also, would not do tonight.

So, I found the hem of her shirt and slid my hands inside to rub her bare back. This was obviously a good choice, because she responded by opening the front of my tunic. I was wearing a shirt underneath, but it was not a heavy shirt, and she found my nipples through the fabric and made circular motions over them with her hands. Then she pulled my shirt loose from my trousers and placed her hands directly on my chest. Her lips were on my neck now, and I could feel deliberate thought beginning to slip away. That was good. I wanted to lose myself that night. I wanted to forget who I was and let another man take my place, one who was free and unbonded, one who could behave in any manner in which the moment might take him.

She tugged the hem of my shirt upward, so I helped her remove it, and it had not even landed on the floor before her lips began to sear a path across my chest. I leaned my head back and let her do as she wished, but soon I felt the urge to taste her flesh as well. I found the clasps at the front of her shirt and opened them, and then dropped to my knees and placed my lips against her belly. She alternately clutched my shoulders and ran her fingers through my hair, and when I kissed my way upward, it seemed very natural to slide the shirt off her shoulders so I could find the clasp of her bra.

Her breasts, when exposed, were utterly beautiful to me. I suppose in hindsight that they were not particularly impressive, but at the time I had never seen anything so wondrous. I found her nipple with my lips and sucked on it, and finally I understood the fascination my fellow cadets at the Academy had always professed with reaching this goal.

I came to my feet again, and I knew what must happen next. Rational thought attempted to crowd back into my mind as I reached for the front of her pants, but I forced it away. I did not want to become aware of my actions. Her pants opened easily, and the soft, supple fabric immediately dropped to the floor. She freed her feet and in the process divested herself of shoes, and I was reminded once again of the gossip between cadets at the Academy as I carefully slid my hand down the front of her underpants.

She was soft and warm, and I was surprised at the amount of moisture I found there. I had not touched Leila in this way at all, but I knew where my finger would go if I applied just the slightest amount of pressure... there. Yes, there. She rubbed herself shamelessly against me, and it only took a few moments of exploration for me to learn what pleased her the most. Her fingers dug into my shoulders as I concentrated on that small area of flesh, my eyes closed and our breathing loud in my ears, and when she cried out and pushed herself against my hand, I felt a thrill of triumph unlike anything I had ever experienced: I did this. I, who had never given physical pleasure to another being before, had brought her to orgasm. I wanted to make it happen again, but she had other plans.

"Help me take off the rest of your clothes," she whispered.

I was already shirtless, so I kicked off my boots, and together we removed the rest. She shed her underpants, and finally we stood naked before one another. My erection had become almost painful by this time, but I still did not want to rush. I allowed her to take the lead on what she wanted to do next, for it was clear that she had something in mind.

She placed both hands flat on my chest and pushed until I had backed to the bed, and then she pushed some more until I was supine. She took a moment to look at me, appreciation and desire clear on her face, then she carefully stretched out full length on top of me, her legs spread enough to allow her to rest a knee on either side of my thighs. The wetness between her legs was almost unbearable against the base of my erection, but it was apparent that she did not wish for me to enter her. So, I satisfied myself by cupping her buttocks in my hands. She did not allow me to do that for long, however, for she kissed me on the lips, kissed me on the chin, then slid out of my grasp and kissed down my chest and my stomach. I was distracted from fully noticing the sensations provided by her lips, because the wet softness that had begun at the base of my erection trailed down my thigh in tandem with the kisses.

Of course, I knew what she intended, so I thought that I would be prepared to feel her mouth on my penis. I was wrong, however. Nothing could have prepared me for her tongue touching my glans, for her lips sliding downward, and for the vacuum that was created when she sucked the air out of her mouth. I know that I arched my back off the bed and that I must have hurt her when I involuntarily tightened my fingers in her hair. She did not allow that to slow her, however, and when I felt her hand cup my testicles and fondle my anus, I groaned in a voice I had never heard come from my throat before.

She continued her ministrations until I literally could not bear it another moment, at which point she evidently detected that I would ejaculate if she did not stop. She rolled onto her back, and I assumed that penetration was next, but she surprised me. Instead, she placed a finger on her inner thigh close to her knee and whispered, "Kiss me here."

I raised an eyebrow in surprise, momentarily jolted from my fog of sensory overload, but an instant later I slid toward the foot of the bed and complied. This was a night of new experiences, and I did not want to overlook anything. Her skin was smooth against my lips and slightly salty, and the musky scent of her desire was almost overpowering at such close proximity.

She slid her finger higher and whispered, "Kiss me here."

I understood the game, so I did that and nothing more. Then, she placed her finger on the tendon that connected her thigh to her pelvis and told me to kiss her there. When she placed her finger on her clitoris and issued her command in languorous, breathy tones, I licked my lips and kissed her exactly where she wanted. She gasped and wriggled slightly, and I knew without being asked that she wished for me to do it again. And again, and again.

She squeezed my head gently between her thighs, and I allowed my tongue to wander. I had always regarded oral sex as a rather dubious practice, but I found that I liked the taste of her and greedily wanted more. I experimented with soft strokes of my tongue and firmer probing. I carefully used my teeth to nibble on her. Then I sucked on her, and her fingernails were suddenly sharp on my forearms when she came to orgasm. I did not stop, by then so abandoned that I was rubbing myself against the sheet, and when I experimentally inserted a finger into her vagina, she cried out so loudly that I thought the other patrons of the hotel must surely hear her. And for some reason that only heightened my own excitement. I have never been an exhibitionist by even the furthest stretch of the imagination, but it did not disconcert me that others might overhear our sexual encounter. I even wondered what it might be like to be heard by someone who actually knew me, someone who assumed that I was a nonsexual being just as I had always assumed myself to be. While I knew that I would never allow such a thing to happen, the fantasy was incredibly stimulating.

A part of my mind had been counting, and I believe that I brought her to orgasm six times this way. Finally, she clutched my arms and tugged me upward, and it was clear that she did not want to wait any longer for penetration. She opened her legs to me, grasped me in her hand, and when I slid into her, we both stopped and gasped for breath. Soon, though, I began moving, and as I found my rhythm, she wrapped her legs around me and moved, too.

I looked into her eyes as I pounded into her, and I was mesmerized by her gaze. I had wondered earlier if she brought intensity to everything she did, and I knew that I had found my answer. Perspiration gathered on her forehead, her mouth was open, and she began to grunt with my every stroke. Surprisingly, I realized that I was vocalizing, too. Time had ceased to exist for me, and I do not know how long we continued like this.

Suddenly she closed her eyes and arched underneath me, and without understanding that the moment was upon me, I felt a wave of pure physical pleasure explode from my groin. It rushed up my body to my brain, and I was completely, utterly lost to everything but my flesh inside her. The entire universe had ceased to exist until slowly I regained enough awareness to feel my body shiver, spasm once more, and grow still.

We panted in the silence.

Gradually, I became aware that I was in bed with a stranger. My body was still blissfully relaxed, but I could not stop my mind from betraying me. I had done something tawdry and discreditable. I began to regret it even as her heart still beat against me, even as my liquids began to trickle from her body. What would happen now? Would we sleep? Somehow that seemed too intimate, which was illogical in the face of what we had just done. In that case, would I get dressed and leave? Who should suggest it? Me? Or her? What would she expect from me?

Finally, she said, "Could you bring a couple of towels from the bathroom?"

I nodded, and when I pulled away, my penis fell limply from her body with a small sucking sound. I ignored the uncomfortable sensation of evaporation as I crossed the room, but when I had entered the bathroom and was out of her sight, I took a moment to clean myself before I returned with a towel for her. She smiled at me when I handed it to her, then attended to the business of drying herself off.

I stood by the bed, uncertain about what should happen next. She must have detected my uncertainty, for she patted the mattress next to her and said, "Come here and talk to me."

"Very well."

I stretched out next to her. We did not touch. She avoided my eyes at first, but finally she looked up and said, "That was wonderful."

"Thank you." I knew as soon as I said this that it was inadequate, but unfortunately I made it even more inadequate by adding, "For everything."

She smiled, but with only one side of her mouth. "I suppose you could say that it was my pleasure."

We were both silent until she took a deep breath and said, "Well, it's awfully late, and I have to get up early in the morning."

"I understand." I rose and began to gather my things. "Will you check out of the hotel in the morning, or will you wait until after the last session of the seminar?"

"I'll probably check out in the morning. There's a cloakroom where I can stow my luggage, and that way I'll be able to go straight to my shuttle when it's done." She watched me put on my pants. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"I have never been to Monticello, and I thought that tomorrow might be a good day to do so." I tucked in my shirt. "I understand that the gardens should be especially impressive this time of year."

"You should like it."

We both fell silent again as I sat on the edge of the bed and put on my boots. When I was fully dressed, I faced her.

"I am not quite certain how to take my leave of you. I could say that it was good to meet you, but that would be an understatement."

She laughed. "We'll just say goodbye."

Rising, she took my hand and walked me to the door, at which point we stopped and faced each other.

"In that case, goodbye, Joyce."

"Goodbye, Spock."

I took her in my arms and kissed her because it seemed the proper thing to do. It was rather awkward, since I was fully dressed and she was naked, and I feared she would detect that my actions were as mechanical as the fluttering of the birds in their holographic displays at the Smithsonian. However, I surprised myself with the degree of warmth that crept into our embrace, and it was with real regret that I released her.

I raised my hand to the door control, and she moved back so that she could not be seen from the hallway. Just before I completed the motion, she stopped me with a gesture.

"Uh, by the way, I come to this seminar every year. If you should happen to find yourself back in DC at this time, you know where to find me."

I do not know if I was successful in keeping the astonishment from my features, but I said simply, "Perhaps I will find a reason to take another trip."

A sly smile on her lips, she said, "Oh, I'd say that you shouldn't have any trouble finding a reason."

I gazed at her assessingly, nodded, and let myself out.

...

The next year, I happened to be on Earth that very week. It was a coincidence, for the Enterprise was in for minor repairs, but with a great deal of uncertainty I found myself in the Smithsonian at noon, standing outside the area that housed the bird exhibit. Was I foolish for coming? Would I belatedly understand that her invitation had only been given out of politeness? Would I even recognize her? What if she was with a man? What if another woman in there had short blonde hair and I mistakenly approached the wrong person?

I told myself that she would not be there. The odds against my coming to town, entering the room, and finding her waiting were astronomical. Yet when I crossed the threshold, there she was. And when she looked up and saw me, she appeared no less surprised than I. We met for supper that night, and of course she invited me to her room. I thought that I had learned all there was to learn when we were together before, but she proved me wrong in an assuredly satisfactory way by teaching me that the variation is all in the details.

She told me once again when I walked out the door that she attended this seminar annually, but the next year when that date on the Terran calendar came around, I was at Gol.

...

And here I am, twenty-six years later, once again standing outside the entrance to the bird exhibit. I truly have not thought of her for more years than I care to count, but suddenly it seems as if it happened only yesterday. I have the irrational fear that I will enter the room and there she will be.

Nyota had become impatient when I dawdled too long in the reptile exhibit, and I could not deny my relief when she decided to go on without me. Now, however, I realize that my problems have only been compounded. What will I do if I enter the room and find not only Joyce, but Nyota standing right beside her? I have never told Nyota about Joyce, and although I think she would understand, I do not care to confess that I not only indulged in a 'one-night stand' but I compounded my error by repeating it.

I step out of the way to allow a group to pass, and one man gives me a rather odd look. No doubt I deserve it, for I am simply standing in the middle of the room, staring at the door. I chide myself for my foolishness—of course she will not be there. I am only allowing old ghosts to haunt me, which is highly illogical for I did not believe in ghosts even when I was a child.

I take a deep breath and enter the room. Nothing. Actually, I do not even see Nyota. I decide that I will skip these exhibits and catch up with her, so I stride quickly through the room. When I enter the next room, however, I stop dead in my tracks. There is a woman with straight blonde hair streaked with gray, a padd in her hand and a frown on her face as she studies a wood duck. While I watch, she reaches up and pushes her hair behind her ears. I remember how certain I was all those years ago that I would always think of her when I saw a woman do this, but I was wrong. I have not noticed it at all.

She meets my eyes, and I realize from the thudding in my ears that I have been holding my breath. I exhale carefully, and when I compose myself, I see that she is not Joyce after all. I do not know this woman. She regards me cautiously as I pass her, and when I turn the corner, I find Nyota in the next corridor.

"There you are! I thought I'd lost you." Nyota narrows her eyes. "What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."

As I gaze at my wife, something new begins to coalesce in the midst of my discomfort, and I realize that it is possible I owe Joyce a debt of gratitude. Perhaps our relationship was meaningless, but there is meaning in that very meaninglessness. I gained a great deal of knowledge—not to mention physical gratification—from her, but more importantly I gained confidence in the fact that I did have something to offer another person. The very first time I held Nyota in my arms, I would not have understood that I had the means with which I could express my emotions through my actions. Indeed, it is possible that I would not have dared take her in my arms in the first place. And to extrapolate further, I very well might not have even viewed her as someone I would have liked to take in my arms.

The woman with the padd chooses that moment to walk past, and it is clear from the look on her face that something has passed between her and me. I watch her back as she departs, then place my hand on Nyota's shoulder so she will walk with me.

"Did you see that woman?" I ask.

"Yes. Do you know her?"

"No. But she reminded me very much of someone I once knew."

Although my words are vague, she immediately surmises my meaning. Arching an eyebrow, she says, "What is it with you and blondes?"

I allow myself a slight smile. "I believe that neither of us wishes to examine that statement too closely, considering that my mother was blonde when I was young."

"Good idea," she says with a laugh.

We walk in silence. There is no one else in the corridor with us. Faint music can be heard in the distance, where a children's orchestra is giving an informal concert on the lawn. I recognize Mozart's first symphony. We pass underneath a skylight, and when I look up, a sparrow hops across it. Nyota waits while I pause to observe the pattern its small feet make as they click across the glass, but an instant later something startles it, and it is gone.

Finally, I say, "Would you care to see what is in the next room?"

She looks up at me, smiles, and nods, so we continue forward.

End story

The next story in this series is Thaya.