Lieutenant Uhura prepares her tea with precise movements which he can't help but appreciate. She stirs counter-clockwise between seven to ten times, depending on the type she has chosen to brew. After stirring, she shakes the spoon gently for three to five seconds, making sure to catch all the droplets in the cup. She then places the spoon carefully on the right side of the saucer, perpendicular to the teacup's handle, and use a napkin to clear any remains of tea or sugar on the table.
She isn't quite so meticulous when it came to drinking it. Though Spock appreciates the care she put into the preparation, what comes afterwards is a torment.
Cradling the teacup in her hands, she leans in and inhales softly, her eyes fluttering shut as she does so.
Spock invariably finds himself leaning in despite himself, waiting.
She always smiles, finding the aroma satisfactory.
He always leans closer, catching the faintest whiff of the herbal scent. He always closes his eyes. He waits, blocking out all other sounds as he listened for one in particular…
Nyota exhales softly, and he is undone.
He would always feel something clench tightly in his chest. It is painful but not painful and he cannot understand how this can be. He experiences mild arrhythmia as his heart ignores his attempts at regulating his pulse, very nearly pushing him to hyperventilation. His eyes open and he stares unabashedly at her as she drinks, lost in her own world and oblivious to his affliction.
Spock knows by now he is in no danger of being caught.
He watches the smooth column of her neck when she tips her head back, and feels his breath hitch; even after she finishes her tea, it takes several minutes of swallowing for the tightness in his throat to subside. It would take an even longer time before he trusts himself to speak
Vulcans can control their physiological reactions with relative ease. Spock wonders why he fails to do so in such moments.
Later, he thinks about her soft sigh of pleasure, and feels the tightness in his chest once more. Eidetic memory is a detriment rather than an asset when it comes to Nyota Uhura, and he can remember every movement she makes with perfect clarity. The way she strokes the teacup in simple appreciation fills him with the compulsion to kiss the palm of her hand, to fill the spaces between her fingers with his own. When she rises to put away her teaware, he looks steadily away and tries to understand why such an act would feel like a loss.
Vulcans do not dream, but he dreams of her all the same.
Her sighs appear in his dreams, but these are different from the more heated ones that usually afflict him. In these dreams, he lies on his bed, watching her undress in his quarters. It is not an erotic act, and what he feels is far from lust. His chest heaves with an unnamed emotion as he watches her slip off her boots and pull off her uniform, placing each article of clothing carefully on the table. Her eyes are tired, rather than lustful, and in the dreams he doesn't mind. It has been a long day, and he understands her weariness. She undoes her hair and combs her fingers through the thick locks, and he is hit with the scent of jasmine. Again, the tightening of the throat. Her hair tumbles down and frames her face, and the arrhythmia reappears.
It is hard to breathe.
He cannot look away.
She approaches him, naked, yet in these dreams he is not aroused. Rather, he feels almost helpless watching her move towards him. She is beautiful, too beautiful, even when she is exhausted. Illogically, he holds his breath as Nyota crawls languorously under the sheets. He is afraid to move. Her skin is soft and warm and he feels the muscles in his throat working furiously as he tries to control his respiration, convinced the tiniest motion will send her fleeing from his quarters. Their bodies are flush against each other, now. Slowly, she rests her head against his bare chest. One hand finds its way to the space over his heart. He is sure she can feel his rapid pulse under his skin.
Then she sighs softly, contentedly, and the sound is deliverance.
Suddenly and miraculously, Spock knows for certain she will not leave.
It is cowardly, but it is only then that he acts.
In his dreams he wraps his arms around her, pushing one hand through her hair and reveling in its softness. In his dreams, he can feel her through their link—no, their bond. Her thoughts are muddled with sleepiness, but her happiness echoes throughout his mind and he cannot recall the last time he has ever felt so peaceful. He holds her closer, and the tightness in his throat and his chest fade. His pulse slows, his respiration returns to its normal rate, and finally, after what has felt like years and years of holding his breath, he sighs as well.
In his dreams, he reaches to her through their bond and tells her everything he cannot put into words.
In his dreams, she understands.
When he awakes, he is shaking and alone. His hands are clawing at the sheets beside him, searching for her in desperation to perform a kash-nohv, a mind-meld. When he realizes this, his body freezes; the tenseness returns. Once more he is rigid, and it takes several minutes of meditation before he can bring himself to even unclench his fists.
Spock prefers the erotic dreams. The heat and shame that followed them is easier to cope with than this cold despair.