Memory Lane
She wriggled her toes inside her restrictive boots and scowled as she tugged at the bottom of her regulation skirt. Luckily, no one was in the hallway to see her undignified adjustments. Just because some of the other officers (cough-the captain-cough) were content with lax personal presentation didn't mean that she was.
Though she did have to admit that these uniforms were definitely vestiges of a bygone era, a time when cars traveled on the ground and women were expected to be demure. Seriously, the damn things were ridiculously short and forever riding up. Not at all conducive to the image of competency she was going for.
"Still think it was worth it to stick with the sexy skirt over the sensible pants?" she questioned herself.
A snort burst from her nose, at odds with the classic, soft nature of her face.
The sexy skirt really hadn't served her all that well. Which was pretty surprising when she considered the far less obvious manipulations of male testosterone in which she had engaged to much greater results.
Not that she typically relied on her oft-praised looks – she was, after all, a foremost Federation linguist and a decorated Starfleet officer – but it would be foolish of her not to use every tool at her disposal in obtaining her goals. One didn't get to be the Communications Officer on a Constitution Class Starship, indeed Starfleet's flagship, before age thirty by sitting around waiting for things to happen. So she didn't see the harm in occasionally cashing in on her genetic lottery.
However, in this case, the DNA cash flow was not affecting a certain person quite the way she had hoped it would. The one guy she wanted was also the only male aboard who hadn't checked out her toned runner's legs in the miniskirt.
Not once.
It was enough to make her want to scream. For heaven's sake, most of the female crew members had looked.
But no, not him.
Instead, he was aloof, holding her at arm's length, both emotionally and physically, refusing to compromise himself. Refusing her proffered feelings. Refusing her.
Oh sure, she was closer to him than most anyone else, both being creatures of the same prudent cloth who had shared an instant connection upon their meeting, and when it came down to it, she knew that he cared for her, but it wasn't in the same way that she cared for him.
And that was the real kicker. That she loved him and that they had so many things in common, an affinity for language, a love of music, a deep sense of duty, a respect for rules, and an aversion to chocolate, but still, despite it all, he didn't love her.
It still hurt to hear even in the privacy of her own head.
She'd loved him since the first time she went to his office hours for help translating Vulcan poetry and his voice had become alive, rich with the sound of enthusiasm, and his dark eyes warmed and his hands fluttered excitedly, eager to share with a student who wanted to grasp the spirit of his homeland.
She'd fallen under the spell of his intensity, intoxicated by his attention and approval.
Each term she signed up for every class of his that she could take and made a point of going to his office twice a week.
The judicious voice inside her head warned her that he was her teacher, that he regarded her only with scholarly warmth, that she was being silly to indulge a school-girl crush at her age, but she ignored it, squashing it ruthlessly beneath the weight of her floral love.
One day, she was at last justified in that squashing when he finally agreed to meet with her outside of class and friendship blossomed between them. They were soon talking about a great many non-Academy related things, conversations about books, art, and philosophy, every discussion more interesting than any she had ever had, and even playing music together when he had free time.
Her happiness floated along with her, buzzing just beneath her skin.
She was an untouchable bubble, joyful air encased in a beautiful shining shell.
The happiness' shell; however, was prickled somewhat by the fact that no matter how open she was with him, no matter how many of her dreams and memories she placed in his confidence, he gave her nothing beyond the odd tidbit in return.
His silence made her uneasy, it cast a shadow upon her cheerful glow, but she always dismissed it. He certainly wasn't letting anyone else sing while he played the Vulcan lute. That had to count for something. His race showed affection differently and she was sure it was only a matter of time until their relationship changed.
Her plans of them being together consumed a larger portion of her inner life than she liked to admit. She couldn't help but to indulge them anyway.
Obviously he needed to consider going to the next level carefully, since romantic relations were so serious for his people, and it would reflect poorly on him if they got together while she was his student.
She anticipated that they would become an "official" couple after her upcoming graduation and contented herself with learning about him what she could in the meantime.
The nagging voice in her head whispered about counting chickens before they were hatched, but she shook it off, choosing to mull over their future instead.
One of the greatest regrets in her life so far was that she never got to find out which part of her was right – a distress call came in during an academic hearing.
It changed everything.
She went from cadet to officer, she saw an entire planet destroyed, and she discovered with certainty that he did not love her back.
He was meant for someone else.
Hello!
I sat down to work on my other stories and this is what came out. Funny, isn't it, how words have ideas of their own. So this is going to be a two or three part thing from Uhura's point of view, but it's about Kirk and Spock. I'm far too addicted to slash and soul-mates to ever throw in for Uhura/Spock, but I do love her character and I think she gets shafted a lot, so I'm really having fun with this.
Thanks so much for reading and I'll love you forever if you review...
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I own nothing.