Chapter Four: Plomeek
Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from writing about these characters.
As she does every Tuesday morning, Nyota arrives at the language building by 0700 to sort Spock's mail. After three weeks as his TA she knows the routine—delete the numerous requests for him to appear as a speaker at various conferences; save the responses from other researchers to his own queries for information.
How typical, she thinks. If he approaches you, okay. Otherwise, forget it.
But that isn't fair. The Commander is standoffish—certainly—but he isn't completely unapproachable.
Just yesterday he had come into the break room as she began her lunch and asked if he could join her. She tried to cover her surprise—and, if she is honest, her slight discomfort—by offering him some of her fruit salad.
"My mother's specialty," she said, holding out a piece of gingered pineapple.
But he was quick to refuse, tucking his hand conspicuously away from her.
She had grown hot with embarrassment, and then hotter still with anger.
Her human touch. There it was again, that cultural divide that keeps tripping her up.
Spock isn't the only non-human she has close contact with. She understands the importance of respecting boundaries, of recognizing taboos—but the Commander's distaste is barely disguised. He could at least try not to let his prejudice show.
Still, he had sat with her while she ate, asking her questions about her own classes this semester, about her ideas for her senior thesis.
And then he had made them both tea and they sat for a few minutes in companionable silence.
"Don't you want any lunch?' she had asked as she was finishing her tea and gathering her things, and he had tilted his head as if considering a question of great import.
"I generally eat an evening meal," he said. She nodded and headed back to the lab.
For an hour she sorts his mail and files his most recent notes into the separate categories of research he is doing—a collaboration with the cyber-intelligence department on a new protocol for syntactical programming; a plant growth hormone experiment that two graduate students are running under his direction; a theoretical construct he is designing to explain quasar drift.
Although the Commander had sent her a message last night that he would be late this morning, she is surprised when he is still not in the office by the time she has to open the lab.
An emergency? His text hadn't said. He might be sick—he had left the office abruptly yesterday afternoon.
She could call him—he gave her his personal comm number when she started working for him.
But something stays her hand. She suspects he would not welcome her intrusion into his privacy, even if he is ill or dealing with an emergency.
All morning she looks up expectantly each time someone enters the lab—and every time she is disappointed when he doesn't appear.
A few minutes before noon she alerts the three students working that she will be taking a lunch break. One cadet, a second year who is almost finished with an advanced tutorial rotation, opts to continue working. The other two students seem grateful for the excuse to shut down their computers and leave.
As she walks out of the lab, Nyota can see that Spock's office lights are still off and his door shut. He really might be sick, she thinks, pulling her comm from her pocket.
Before she can dial him, she turns the corner into the break room and is startled to see him there, uncapping a silver thermos and pouring something lavender into two bowls.
"Commander!" she says, aware that she sounds both relieved and annoyed.
"Cadet Uhura," he says, placing the thermos on the table and motioning for her to sit. "If you are interested, I brought a Vulcan dish for you to try. Perhaps a trade? If you still have some of your mother's fruit—"
"Yes, of course," Nyota says, stepping lightly to the cooler and taking out her bagged lunch. She opens the container of gingered pineapple and sets it on the table between them.
"What is this?" she asks, sitting down and picking up the spoon Spock has placed in the bowl.
"My mother's recipe for plomeek soup," he says, sitting across from her and picking up his own spoon.
Nyota gingerly tastes the soup. It is both tangy and savory—an odd combination, but not unpleasant. She takes a second taste and recognizes hints of thyme and cumin.
"It's good," she says, meeting Spock's gaze. He nods briefly and says, "May I?'' He spears a small piece of pineapple with a fork and she watches as he lifts it to his mouth.
"It's hot," she warns. "The ginger is pretty spicy."
"Very agreeable," Spock says, chewing the pineapple, and Nyota laughs despite herself.
"I'm sorry," she says, smiling, "but your face—you don't look like you are enjoying it. Don't worry. It won't hurt my feelings if you don't like it."
His face changes then—a rapid succession of expressions she cannot read. Has she offended him? And just as they were starting to be comfortable in each other's company, at least a little bit.
"I would tell you," Spock says, his brows knit together, "if I did not like it. Why would your feelings be affected by my response?"
There it is again—that oddity in how they see things that keeps throwing her off.
"How would you feel," she says with some asperity, "if I said I didn't like your mother's plomick soup?"
"The word you mean is plomeek," Spock says, "and your appreciation of it is based on your taste receptors, your past experiences with similar cuisines, your willingness to try something unfamiliar—why would my….feelings…be affected in any way?"
"I see," Nyota says. "It must be a human reaction."
She takes another sip of soup and then says, "I thought you didn't eat lunch."
She looks up from her bowl and waits for him to respond. In the silence she can hear the wind shaking the window—the last vestiges of a storm blowing out to sea—and a sudden shaft of sunlight pours in and falls across Spock's face.
In the light his eyes are warm and brown—how had she not noticed that before?
"A mistake on my part," he says, and she finishes her soup without being able to say a word.
X X X X X X X
The front door was open, and as he usually did in the late afternoon after school, Spock made his way through his parents' house to the kitchen where his mother would be working, a snack already made and waiting for him on the table.
This afternoon, however, his father was in the kitchen instead—with no snack of sliced flatbread and fruit arranged on a plate.
And no mother, either. How unlike her to be absent when he got home. For a moment Spock felt a flicker of worry—but his father radiated calm, not concern, through their bond.
"Sit," Sarek said, nodding toward the chair opposite his own. "I wish to speak to you about an important matter."
Where is Mother?—Spock almost spoke the words aloud, but he paused. His father would already know he was concerned, or at least curious, and might see his interruption as inappropriate or disrespectful. He carefully pulled the chair from the table and sat.
Since his successful kahs-wan, Spock had been able to restrain his impulses more effectively. Not speaking, for instance—six months ago he would have annoyed his father with his question. Now he could wait.
He felt a measure of pride in his growing maturity—and he sat up straight and looked steadily at his father.
"You are gaining more control," Sarek said, a hint of approval in his voice. Spock flushed and looked down at the table.
Sarek leaned forward and said, "We are having company for the evening meal tonight. When your mother returns—"
Again Spock almost interrupted to ask about her—and again he stayed silent. He hazarded a glance at his father and saw his normally impassive expression. If his father sensed his impatience, he was not upset by it. Spock took a breath and let it out slowly.
"You will be required to help us with the meal preparations. Do you have school work to do before that time?"
In fact Spock didn't. Just this week he had been moved to an individualized learning center—and could set his own pace and work as long as he wanted. For the past two afternoons he had lingered longer than the other students at school, ostensibly to continue a lesson, but partly to avoid the other students as they gathered briefly before catching their various transports home.
Before Spock could answer his father, he heard a bustle of activity at the front door—his mother, undoubtedly, and from the sounds, carrying heavy bundles. He jumped up from his chair and followed Sarek out the kitchen.
"You're already home!" Amanda said.
"Obviously," Sarek said, and Spock felt an emotion ripple between his parents. Humor? Irritation? He couldn't tell. Often his mother felt compelled to comment on the obvious—and just as often, Sarek chided her for it. That his mother continued to do it suggested it was what she called a joke.
Then Spock felt another surge, this time from his mother, and he looked up at her as he took the large bag from her left arm.
"Have you told him yet?" she asked, and Sarek replied, "We were beginning."
As quickly as he had felt some unidentified emotion from his mother, he felt her closing herself off from him. Most of the time his awareness of his parents was steady and quiet—like a faint light or distant noise in the background of his consciousness—but sometimes they retreated into silence…shielding him, keeping him from being overwhelmed by their adult concerns.
He felt their distance now—and he quickly set his bundle on the kitchen table and turned to watch his mother as she opened the cooler and stood putting in vegetables from her market bag.
Something in her motions seemed forced, though when she looked up at him, she smiled briefly and glanced up at Sarek. Spock felt his father's hand touch him lightly on the arm, directing him to a chair.
"Have you eaten anything?" Amanda said, pulling out a chair beside Spock. "Did you get a snack when you got home?"
"I am not hungry."
It was true. He was too focused on parsing out the unspoken communication between his mother and father to want to eat.
With a sudden motion, Sarek sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table. He steepled his hands and leaned forward slightly.
"I indicated that we are to have visitors this evening," he said, and Spock nodded. Visitors were not unusual in their home. His father's many work contacts and his mother's circle of friends, both off-worlders and Vulcan neighbors, were occasional dinner guests. Why did his father confer such import on tonight's company?
"Now that you have completed your kahs-wan, it is time to consider your future," Sarek said, looking away from Spock briefly, flashing a glance at Amanda. "It is time to arrange your koon'ul."
A betrothal? Spock felt his mother stiffen beside him. His father's expression was unexpectedly guarded.
"T'Lea and her family will join us for the evening meal," Sarek said. "If you are….compatible…and it is amenable for both families, we will continue negotiations for the koon'ul."
A betrothal. Again the unfamiliar word. He tried to imagine what it would mean—beyond the obvious. A bond mate chosen, a thorny decision made and put aside until it was needed when….
His mind ran up against the never-spoken reality that every Vulcan knew—and stepped aside it neatly.
Someone to share his thoughts with. Perhaps a friend.
And later, when he would leave his parents' home—he would have someone to make a home with.
He sighed in relief and looked up at his father. Sarek was watching him closely, and though Spock could not feel any emotion from him, he had the distinct impression that his father was pleased.
His mother, on the other hand—
"I could use some help with the meal," Amanda said, pushing back her chair and standing up abruptly.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in quiet food preparation—washing and trimming the tough outer leaves from the woody stems of fresh plomeek, chopping them into pieces and arranging them in his mother's covered tagine to soften while baking.
Afterwards was the part of the preparation that Spock secretly enjoyed—smashing the cooked plomeek with a stone pestle, turning it into a purple paste that was diluted with water and cooked until smooth.
As she always did, Amanda set up one area of the kitchen as Sarek's workspace, piling up leafy greens for him to rinse and tear into bite size pieces. She busied herself with arranging slices of fruit on a platter—imported apples and citrus as well as kaasa and hirat.
"Taste," she said, taking the spoon Spock was using to stir the plomeek soup. She lifted it to his mouth and he took a reluctant sip. Using the preparation utensils this way was unsanitary—though he knew better than to object.
Not that his mother would get angry, but she would feel slighted somehow—as if he objected to her personally.
"Well?" she asked.
"It is not as flavorful as it usually is," he said, and even as he did, he knew his mother would be upset.
He and his father had, on more than one occasion, spoken about his mother's sensitivity to criticism of her cooking.
"Humans have difficulty discerning certain nucleotides that affect flavor," Sarek had said. "When your mother cooks, she relies on you to correct for her deficiencies. She appreciates your commentary."
"She appears angry," Spock said, and his father had not contradicted him.
"Also a human deficiency," he said, "to take offense at the truth."
And then, as if to soften his words, Sarek added, "But your mother knows that food preferences are highly individualized—dependent on the biology and experiences of the individual. As she would say, you cannot please everyone. I have found that to be true—in many things."
Instead of being angry that evening, Amanda dipped the spoon back into the soup and tasted it for herself.
"You're right!" she said, hurrying to the cabinet where she stored spices and herbs. "I left out the cumin and the thyme. Where's my mind today? Don't answer that," she said sharply, turning and giving a deliberate glare at Spock—another of her jokes, he knew.
By the time T'Lea and her family arrived, the meal was ready and Spock had bathed and changed into a clean school uniform—a waste of time and energy during the seasonal drought, he thought—but Sarek had not objected when Amanda insisted.
The two children sat next to each other at one end of the large formal dining table made from blonde lapan wood. Sarek and Amanda sat together on one side; T'Lea's parents sat across from them.
From the corner of his eye Spock stole glances at T'Lea as he ate the first course of chopped greens. Surprisingly petite, she was several inches shorter than he was, even sitting. Her hair was much lighter than his, and most startling were her eyes—blue and fringed with thick brown lashes.
He said nothing to her—nor did she speak.
"Spock," his mother said, "remove the plates and help me with the soup."
Glad for a reason to move, Spock jumped up, bumping his knee against the table, shaking the glasses and spilling some of his own beverage. He flushed hard—not daring to look at T'Lea. His mother's reassurance flooded him—she was watching from the door—and he sent back a flicker of annoyance.
He is not a child—his father's words came across their familial bond. His mother's hmpfh was just as clear.
The soup tureen was heavy but Spock took his time and set it without a tremor on the utilitarian sideboard against one wall of the dining area. As Amanda ladled the soup into bowls, he carried them to T'Lea and her family first and then served his parents and finally himself.
"A human custom," his father said, and Spock was startled to realize that he had not paid careful attention to the conversation around him. What was a human custom? Preparing a meal for guests?
Traditionally, Vulcan guests prepared the meal or at least pitched in to help—but then so did Spock's cousins from Seattle when they visited. And his elderly Vulcan aunt always had refreshments ready when he and his parents visited her.
Perhaps his father's observations about food preferences extended to food preparation as well—it depended on the individual.
Or maybe his father was talking about something else. Spock tried to pick up the thread of the conversation.
"How do you decide which ones to adopt?" T'Lea's father said. Like Sarek, T'Lea's father was tall and broad across the shoulders, his dark, wavy hair cut in the traditional style.
T'Lea's mother, by contrast, was petite like her daughter, her eyes a pale blue. During the meal she kept her gaze down on her food, hardly saying a word.
"Human customs have as much significance as Vulcan ones do," Amanda said, and Spock thought he heard some heat in her voice. He looked immediately at his father. Sarek's expression had not changed, but Spock sensed….unease.
"I did not suggest otherwise," T'Lea's father said smoothly. "My question was how you determine which customs you observe. Surely not all. That would be confusing for….everyone."
Amanda had opened her mouth to respond but Sarek beat her to it.
"We have found that our collective experience as a family is both richer and more expansive because we honor both human and Vulcan customs."
His words hung in the air—a rebuke of sorts, Spock was certain.
For an awkward moment no one spoke.
"Of course," T'Lea's father said, putting his spoon down on the table.
"Would you care for more?" Amanda said, offering to take his bowl.
"Thank you, no. It was…an unusual version of a soup I normally find quite refreshing."
Spock darted a glance at his mother—her cheeks were pink with the heat of the late afternoon.
"I, too, am finished," T'Lea said, and before he could stop himself, Spock said, "But you haven't eaten any of it."
At once he was abashed—where was his newfound ability to wait to speak?
"Lady Amanda," T'Lea said, ignoring Spock's outburst, "I do not care for the soup. That is why I did not finish it."
Spock felt a wave of embarrassment—though whether it was his own or his mother's, he was unsure.
"I see," Amanda said. "Well, we have fruit, too. Spock—"
Before she could tell him to, Spock rose and hurried to the kitchen to retrieve the platter of assorted fruit.
Although he was not particularly fond of either apples or oranges, he carefully speared several slices for his own plate.
"These are Terran," he said to T'Lea, offering to put an apple slice on her own plate.
"I do not want it," T'Lea said without looking at Spock.
The rest of the meal was over quickly—and soon T'Lea and her parents were gone.
That night as he lay in bed, Spock listened to his parents working in the kitchen, talking in hushed tones.
"Now you see the wisdom of meeting with the healer first," Sarek said. Spock could hear his mother's voice but was unable to distinguish her words.
"Because it is too unfamiliar," Sarek said in response. "In this matter we must do things as tradition demands—"
Again Spock could tell that his mother was speaking, but her words were too soft to hear.
And then a door shutting—hard—and his parents' footfalls coming down the hall and passing his room.
"He's my son, too," Spock heard his mother say before she shut the bedroom door.
He reached out tentatively to feel her presence—and there it was, quiet and unhappy.
Rolling over, Spock felt a catch in his side.
When he arose the next morning, his father had already left for his office in the city. He found his mother where she often was as the sun rose, sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea.
Looking up, she smiled and held out her arm—and though lately he had dodged her gestures of affection more often than not, he slipped close enough to allow her to hug him, quickly.
For a few minutes he busied himself with breakfast—pouring himself a cup of tea and dipping some flatbread into it. As he ate he watched his mother closely. She didn't seem upset this morning—far from it. Spock felt a measure of relief.
"Mother," he began, wanting to talk but not wanting to upset her, "what happens now?"
Amanda set down her tea cup and frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"T'Lea," Spock said. "When is the koon'ul?"
At once he was sorry he had spoken. His mother's face fell.
"I'm….I'm not sure," Amanda said. Something in her tone was odd, as if she were telling an untruth.
Spock set his own cup down and peered at his mother.
"I don't think—" Amanda began, and then she sighed loudly and placed her hands on either side of her face.
"Oh, Spock," she said, her voice wavering, "I don't think…that T'Lea's family will agree to the koon'ul."
"Why?"
It was a simple question, not fraught with overtones or disappointments. Yet as he watched his mother's face drain of color, he felt alarm, and then anger.
"I should have listened to your father," Amanda said, an uncharacteristic note of bitterness in her voice. "But I thought a meal together—"
She paused, apparently unable to continue, and Spock walked quickly to the sink and rinsed out his tea cup. With his back to his mother, he said, "They found me unacceptable."
"No, Spock," Amanda said quickly, "they had…other concerns."
Taking a deep breath, Spock stood for a moment at the sink, looking down into the polished stone.
"They do not like humans."
"That may be," Amanda said, "or it may simply be that they are afraid."
That was unlikely. Spock turned to face his mother.
"Why would they be afraid, Mother?"
But instead of answering, his mother shook her head.
Her silence frightened him more than her words had.
They did not speak of T'Lea or the koon'ul for many months—in fact, Spock realized later, until his parents came to retrieve him from his cousins' house in Seattle after his mother's miscarriage.
The week after his return, Spock looked up one evening to see his father standing at the door of his bedroom.
"I must speak to you," Sarek told him, and Spock tilted his head and waited for an explanation. Hesitating a moment, Sarek took a step inside Spock's room and said, "We will meet with a healer—and discuss your koon'ul."
Unable to stop himself, Spock blurted out, "But Mother said that T'Lea's family objected."
"We are also meeting with the parents of K'Loh'r T'Mir T'Pring. Both are environmental engineers. They recently returned from a work assignment on Earth."
At that Spock had looked up at his father and met his gaze. They are familiar with humans.
The thought passed between them.
"If you have school work or chores, finish them quickly," Sarek said, stepping back into the hall. "We leave after the evening meal."
The actual meeting with T'Pring and her family was brief. The meeting room was one of many set aside for formal gatherings in a large ornate building on the outskirts of the city. Already seated were T'Pring and her parents. On the opposite side of the room was the healer T'Sala, a wizened woman with thinning white hair, clearly the oldest person Spock had ever seen. She wore a thick winter robe, even in the mid-day heat, and her hands were muffed with gloves.
Walking ahead of his mother, Spock lowered his eyes respectfully and waited for T'Sala to acknowledge him. To his surprise she rose and touched the top of his head—a benediction of sorts, he thought later, though at the time he didn't question her actions.
"You are Spock," she said, her voice surprisingly strong, and he nodded, still keeping his eyes cast down.
"I have heard of your accomplishments," the old healer said. The unexpected praise was shocking—not just to him, but to his parents. He felt their surprise flutter through their bond.
Spock knew he ought to respond, but he was at a loss for words. Pride in one's accomplishments was frowned on—and self-promotion was the height of bad manners. The silence stretched on until at last he was able to say, "Thank you, Lady T'Sala. You honor me."
"Your mother has taught you well," T'Sala said, and again Spock felt both his own and his parents' surprise.
And suddenly he understood. T'Sala's comments were not meant for him. He glanced up at T'Pring and her parents.
T'Pring was almost as tall as Spock, and as dark. Her eyes were large and luminous—though when Spock made eye contact, she looked away.
Her parents, on the other hand, were looking at him intently.
"You will talk," T'Sala said, directing her comments to the adults in the room. She motioned to Spock and then to T'Pring to follow her as she walked toward a door in the rear of the room.
The door led to a small indoor garden, severely trimmed and cultivated with almost mathematical precision. Three benches were arranged evenly around the perimeter, like sides of a triangle. T'Sala sat on one and motioned for Spock and T'Pring to sit on the other benches.
"Your parents must talk of adult things," she said, "but you must talk about what is more important. T'Pring, tell me of yourself."
As Spock watched, T'Pring sat primly and folded her hands in her lap. She looked at neither Spock nor T'Sala, but stared straight ahead and spoke in a tone that sounded like rehearsed indifference.
"I am K'Loh'r T'Mir T'Pring. My parents are engineers. My older sister is at the Vulcan Science Academy studying astrophysics. I prefer architecture as an area of study. Our sojourn on Earth lasted 9 months, 17 days, and 2 hours."
Was he expected to sum up his own life this way? Spock felt a moment of anxiety.
"Spock," T'Sala said, and Spock cast about in his mind for what to say first. That he valued math and science equally—and music, too, especially the ka'athyra—that suus mahna left him bruised every day but offered him a relief that nothing else could…
Before he could speak, however, T'Sala said, "What would you ask T'Pring?"
Ask T'Pring? Should he ask her something? Was this in the category of being polite, that mysterious set of social cues his mother always tripped him up with?
Asking questions of a stranger was difficult. Asking questions when he didn't care to know the answers was even more so.
But apparently he must.
"How did you enjoy your time on Earth?"
"It was cold."
There. He had discharged his duty. Spock looked up at T'Sala just in time to see an unmistakable look of amusement cross her features.
When his own turn came, his recitation was as short as T'Pring's had been—and as pointless, he thought later. They were still strangers when they parted.
And strangers still at the end of their first meal together a week later, one that Spock's parents hosted. Unlike the meal with T'Lea, however, this one was more traditional. While Sarek showed T'Pring's family through their house and gardens, T'Pring stayed behind in the kitchen, washing plomeek and helping Spock pound it into purple mush when it was baked.
She spoke little, and Spock spoke less. Instead, they focused on the task at hand—and when Spock called his mother at last to come season the bland soup, Amanda shook her head.
"Let T'Pring taste it, too" she said, and T'Pring leaned forward a fraction and dipped her spoon into the large pot.
"Well?" Amanda asked, and T'Pring straightened up and said, "Acceptable."
"But—" Spock began. One look from his mother silenced him.
This is how she likes it. How they like it.
He tried to meet her gaze but she turned away, carrying the soup bowls to the dining area.
So. This was what it meant to arrange a koon'ut. A silent compromise. An abnegation of part of who he was.
"I am S'chn T'Gai Spock. My father works for the Vulcan government and my mother is a teacher. I have no siblings. I am taking advanced theoretical physics and calculus, and I play the ka'athyra. I returned last week from a trip to Earth that lasted 27 days, 3 hours, and 13 minutes. And my mother is human. I am both Vulcan and human."
"T'Pring," T'Sala had said after his recitation, "What would you ask Spock?"
"Nothing, Lady T'Sala," T'Pring had said evenly. "He has told all that needs to be said."
X X X X X X X X
"The healers are trying medicine first," Amanda said, her image tiny and wavering over the subspace receiver in Spock's apartment. "If he doesn't improve, then we will consider surgery."
"Why did you keep this from me?"
To his dismay, Spock hears a note of petulance in his voice. His mother does, too—she frowns at him.
"I sent you an email last week," she says, and Spock recalls the note he had set aside to read later. Forgetfulness like this is uncharacteristic—and alarming.
He resolves to add more exercise to his evenings.
"Are you unwell?" his mother asks, and Spock considers her question a moment before answering. Is he unwell? He is troubled—and distracted—but those are different.
"I am not unwell, Mother," he says. "Please tell Father that I will speak to him later in the week to see how he is responding to the medication."
"Certainly," Amanda says. "Perhaps you can visit soon—and see for yourself how he is doing."
With a quirk of his lip, Spock says, "Perhaps."
It is an old joke between them—Amanda's quiet reference to visits home. Spock's quiet refusal to make any promises.
Although he had expected his weekly phone call home to make him late to work, the news about his father's heart attack—mild though it was—extended his normal conversation with his mother considerably. Suddenly his father's gift of the family ka'athyra makes sense.
For weeks Sarek must have known something was wrong.
On a sudden impulse, Spock opens his cooler and peers inside. He still has some fresh plomeek. He pulls it out and starts preparing soup.
Washing and cutting the thick stems takes him back to his childhood—the many afternoons he and his mother puttered around in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Plomeek soup is not easy to make—but Spock has heard it called Vulcan comfort food, a description he finds quite apt.
Making it helps him feel less…lonely. Or homesick.
Lately he has made it quite often.
It is almost noon before he finishes, and though it is not in his nature to leave anything untidy, he hurries out the door with dishes still in the sink and discarded plomeek leaves littering the counter top.
At the language building he takes the stairs two at a time to the third floor, walking quickly down the hall and unpacking the thermos and bowls before the lab hours end.
In the distance he hears the lab door open and Nyota's boots clicking on the tile.
"Commander!" she says as she enters the break room.
"Cadet Uhura," he says, placing the thermos on the table and motioning for her to sit. "If you are interested, I brought a Vulcan dish for you to try. If you still have some of your mother's fruit—"
Yesterday she had startled him when she tried to hand him a piece of pineapple—her hand touching the food, holding it out to him. He could see her frown when he had refused her offer—and today he is determined to show more grace if she offers again.
"Yes, of course," Nyota says, stepping lightly to the cooler and taking out her bagged lunch. She opens the container with more gingered pineapple and sets it on the table between them.
When she sees the bowls on the table, she sounds curious…a good sign—and one of the characteristics he finds most appealing about her.
"What is this?" she asks, and he says, "My mother's recipe for plomeek soup."
As he pours the soup, he pictures his mother and replays some of the conversation from this morning. His negligence in returning her mail had hurt her—he will be more attentive in the future.
"It's good," Nyota says, tasting the soup and meeting Spock's gaze. Perhaps he should be more attentive to her, too.
"May I?''
He spears a small piece of pineapple with a fork and takes a bite.
"It's hot," she warns. "The ginger is pretty spicy."
It is, in fact, rather bland—particularly compared to some Vulcan peppers.
"Very agreeable," Spock says, trying to sound sincere. Nyota rewards him with a laugh that exposes her teeth in a most pleasing fashion.
"I'm sorry," she says, smiling, "but your face—you don't look like you are enjoying it. Don't worry. It won't hurt my feelings if you don't like it."
How can she tell? For a moment Spock is nonplussed. Hasn't he lived among humans long enough to be able to sidestep the truth almost as well as they do? Her ability to read him is uncanny—and unnerving. What else does she know?
"I would tell you," Spock says, his brows knit together, "if I did not like it. Why would your feelings be affected by my response?"
It isn't a lie, exactly. He might tell her, someday.
Without wanting to, he remembers himself in his mother's kitchen—this soup isn't as flavorful as it usually is.
"How would you feel," she says, "if I said I didn't like your mother's plomick soup?"
"The word you mean is plomeek," Spock says, "and your appreciation of it is based on your taste receptors, your past experiences with similar cuisines, your willingness to try something unfamiliar—why would my….feelings…be affected in any way?"
Again he feels deceitful—and vaguely uneasy that she might know that he is being deceitful.
"I see," Nyota says. "It must be a human reaction."
She takes another sip of soup and then says, "I thought you didn't eat lunch."
Outside a storm is rushing past, shaking the window like a frenetic, invisible prankster. Nyota looks up from her soup and he knows she is waiting for him to speak.
What can he say? That working with her closely for the past three weeks has been a misery—and a pleasure so intense that he no longer recognizes himself?
That the quickness of her mind and the depth of her intuition delight him—that the warmth in her gaze causes him distress?
That he dreams about her, waking and sleeping—and tries to erase her from his ruminations with meditation, with exercise, with the distractions of work.
That since he has known her, he has felt a growing dissatisfaction with his relationship with T'Pring—and that, more than anything else, causes him despair.
He can never tell her any of this.
But he can enjoy a meal with her, at least.
"A mistake on my part," he says, and they finish their soup in silence.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviews!