Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offense.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, and endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.
~ 1 Corinthians 13 ~
She noticed it first. Probably because of the fact that his eyes, those wonderful, eager eyes of his that lit up like blue paper lanterns in a cold, gray Russian sky, had begun to fade into an eternal faintness. No spark of interest, not a speck of activity – just inert state of being. Her friend (as careful as their friendship was, she cared for his safety and well-being) had slipped into some somnolent netherworld of apathy.
For once, Nyota Uhura was resentful of the gift for observation she had been given - something was very wrong with the young navigator, and it only took the painful days of watching his erratic, mindful habits slip into their current drone-like condition to realize what it was.
"Chekov," she said softly, placing her hand over his. He jerked, reacting to the sudden contact, but looked at her with such expectant eyes, dull as they were. "Maybe you should return to your quarters. You look like you could use some rest."
He cleared his throat and reached for his fork again, gesturing to the utensil with a reticent laugh. "A boy has to eat, da? I will last through dinner, I think."
He didn't want to talk about it. Why would he? She knew it would be hard, coaxing the boy out of his new adapted environment of concealment.
It only upset her that the boy who withheld nothing was now the guardian of many secrets, even in the face of their long-established camaraderie…secrets he did not feel inclined to tell.
It was that time of year, and the first for most of the crew aboard the USS Enterprise. McCoy had made the announcement from his station in Sickbay, looking unenthused about the looming terror that was the annual 'physical'. Throughout the month, each Ensign would report to the cantankerous doctor (if they were fortunate, they would be assigned a nurse instead) and everything would be reviewed – muscle reflex, stamina, physical health in general. Mental stability, if necessary, would be evaluated as well.
Uhura had been one of the many who had been steered toward a vacant nurse's station, but Chekov, whose examination had been scheduled the same day, was sitting on a biobed across from her. The Lieutenant could not take her eyes off the slouched figure, the wan face of the navigator haunting her as she recognized the haggard shadows under his eyes, brushstrokes depicting the chronicles of countless wakeful nights. How many? She did not know – and it was likely that, if she didn't resort to drastic measures soon, no one would ever know.
She was a communications officer; her specialty was language. She hoped it would be as easy as it seemed, coaxing a few confessions out of a teenage boy who was not only without his family, but in dire need of assistance.
Uhura's eyes caught the darkening expression of concern on McCoy's face. He, too, seemed to share her opinion.
Sickbay was blessedly quiet. No symphonies of pain, not a dance of movement to inhibit the clandestine discussion of the pair that had slipped into a sheath of shadows in a search for discretion, their whispers quick and confrontational. Most of the nurses, save for one that knew better than to interfere, were off duty as a result of the slow admittance of patients that came with the tedium of inactivity on the Enterprise. The nurse confirmed the steady vitals of the small cluster of crewmen that were there, and then moved on.
A woman, her long hair falling steadily over thin, delicate shoulders, caught the faint shine of the dimmed lights and her hardened eyes reflected in the glow. "Bones… I need to know what's happening to him."
"Don't tell me what you need, Lieutenant, when it comes to my files," the doctor countered tetchily. "It's a little thing called patient confidentiality-"
"Screw patient confidentiality! You know there's something wrong; I can help him, if you'll just give me…"
The usual gruff countenance of the man softened into something gentle, something almost like affection. He put a friendly hand on the woman's shoulder, and no sooner did it encounter the warmth of the skin beneath the callused palms it fell away. "I can't do that, Uhura. You know I can't...I'm sorry. The kid will tell you himself…he has a mouth on him faster than a bell clapper in a goose's ass. It's bound to start up some time or another."
The doctor then slipped away from beneath the shroud that closed around them, and only Uhura remained behind, lost in the darkness…lost in her own winding thoughts.
Uhura was not usually one to pry into the privacy of others. Especially since her own, amidst the surreptitious months of her relationship with Spock, had been so valuable to her. But it seemed the right thing to do, to confront him on his recent behavior. He needed help; even if he wasn't on his knees before her, begging for her to provide her assistance, she knew that he was only a boy yet – stubborn and groping through the weakening veil of childhood to find his own independence in maturity.
He would no more willingly beg than she would; in that way, they were similar creatures of habit. It had been the reason she could no longer see the boy in the same way, the same distant affection that came with friendship between a man and a woman, the reticent gestures of kindness and the careful radiance of laughter between them. It had been the reason for the detachment between her and Spock – something different had wedged itself between them. Something had changed.
She stopped before the entrance to his quarters, the white-washed door radiating a cold, mechanical light and it shone blue-white over her dark skin.
At first, she hesitated, standing at the threshold of her own acceptance of sentiment – what would he say, finding her of all people on his doorstep? And her of all people, there to help him, like some dark, misplaced angel of mercy? It would not be so strange to her if the vague sovereignty of companionship had been the reason – a question of mechanics or an invitation to drink. But it was not simply a matter of sociable request this time…nor would it ever be again.
Her decision had been made. There would be no going back, once the first step had been taken.
She approached the authorization pad and pressed her thumb against the touchpad. It immediately recognized her print and allowed her access into a region of near tangible darkness of the room, at last drifting into some semblance of watery light which originated from a small, square beam over the bed. A still body was sprawled across the mattress in some haphazard position of desperation, tangled in standard issue Starfleet blankets and the goldenrod shirt it wore was now riddled with wrinkles.
She crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed frame, like a sentry ghost over her breathing lover. "Chekov?" She murmured, placing a quiet hand on the motionless form. Hope flooded through her as she received no answer; had he found rest on his own?
A restless whisper cut through the serrated darkness, reaching her and condemning each small shred of hope to death. "Lieutenant, is that you?"
"I am…sorry I trespassed," she said. "I have noticed over the last few days…you were very tired. My hope was to find you asleep but…" She alluded to his wakefulness.
"I am no more asleep than you are, Lieutenant Uhura," he replied, and even in the dusky shadows she could see the faint, rosy patch of mirth on his bow-like mouth.
She swallowed hard against the growing mound of doubt in her throat. "Chekov, let me help you…I don't know exactly what to do," she admitted. "But I…I can try."
Uhura watched as the boy turned away from her, his russet curls rendered a mere silhouette of wild coils and whorls in the overwhelming gloom. "I don't think there is much to do. Dr. McCoy, he gave me pills for sleeping but…I think they wouldn't work, so I didn't take them," he returned his gaze to her and, though she could not see them, she could feel the gossamer touch of his eyes on her face. "But…I do thank you for the concern."
She felt the sting of rejection, as illogical as it was to experience such a sensation of denial in the face of plain intentions. Behind the façade of obliging amity she had offered for him, she felt as if there was something much more substantial in the proposal that had been given.
But being a woman of strength and duty, the sting seemed only to linger a moment and the affliction passed almost as quickly as it had come. She gave a nod of assent and released his fingers, which she had taken amid their fleeting conversation; no sooner did she release it did the hand reach for her.
"Please, Uhura…stay."
Within moments, Uhura found herself woven around the body of the young navigator like russet thread, like she was stitching together Chekov's frayed, damaged seams and holding them hostage to his fading sense of reality. Her warmth, abstract and omnipresent, settled over his drowsy figure and seemed to drink him in – the smell of his musk cologne, the ethereal glow of his porcelain skin and the softness of his curls grazing against her cheek, all as entrenched in the very roots of earth-born beauty as her memories of Africa appeared to be.
It seemed funny to her, that this pale boy would remind her of home….not strange because of the simplicity of his European heritage, nor was it the complexity of the long miles of differences that separated them. Strange because, while she wandered longer through her thoughts, she realized he was, in some odd way…home.
"Spock, I'm…I apologize for my actions," she said, watching as the pale, green-tinged hands curled behind his back. "I am only human. You can expect no more of me."
He did not turn to face her. "Am I to understand that you do not wish to end our relationship?"
She did not need to give him any sort of confirmation; he knew it to be true already, without even a shadow of doubt to conceal it from him.
As he turned to face her at last, he saw the same resolution that he had detected in her lack of response. He took her hand. It did not flinch, rather melted into the familiarity of the heated flesh.
She looked up at him, her eyes stanch in the face of the stoic Commander, her resolve firm. But she would not deny the lingering effect of their perpetual closeness, and outstretched her hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes, but did not lean into her gesture of contrition.
Her hand, enclosed over the arch of his neck, had slipped into the bronze ringlets as she rested her cheek against his forehead. "Chekov," she murmured. "Ya tebya lyublyu."
She soon recognized that the boy in her arms was much too nestled in his dreams to hear her muttered prayer.
AN: The quote above is credited to the lovely musings and truths of the Bible. Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer - I own nothing that pertains to Star Trek. It belongs to Gene Roddenberry and J.J. Abrams.