A kiss is like arousing a sleeping adder. It transforms the whole body into a nest of adders. ~ Ruth Van Saun
Spock walks past his quarters and continues until they reach Uhura's.
"You shouldn't come in," she tells him.
"No." But he's already inside with the door slipping shut behind him.
For a few moments they simply look at each other.
He's frowning slightly. She seems resigned. "I really want to kiss you right now. I also want to punch you in the face."
"You have an urge to do violence?"
"Don't you?"
His gaze drifts past her head. "Not – no. Not violence. Exactly."
She examines his features for clues, waiting with a patience that seems preternatural, disconnected to her trembling body.
"I am experiencing a persistent image," he says quietly. The low rumble of his voice raises all the tiny hairs on her arms. "A vision of an act."
She steps closer. Or he does.
"I lift you up and press you against a wall." His eyes flick to that place beyond her head again. "That wall." And she turns to see a blank canvas of bulkhead next to the door. She breathes in the whole of his vision – of her suspended from his arms, the backs of her knees looped over them, pinned like some fascinating specimen as he pushes up into her slowly and carefully…
Not violence. Exactly.
She shoves at him with the flat of her palms, which moves him not at all, and reels towards the bathroom. "I'm taking a shower. You should leave."
"Yes." But her hand is stretched out behind her, a tether pulling him along. He follows the sway of her hips.
Once inside they stand too close again. "We should have told Dr. McCoy," she says.
"About the kissing?"
She's been trying not to look at his mouth. "Kissing. Yes. It must be a symptom. Or a side-effect."
"We are not kissing now."
"Oh god. I know. I know." She pats blindly at the wall behind her seeking purchase, some way to keep the sliver of space between them from shrinking even more. Instead, she accidentally triggers the sink to emerge from its hiding place which pushes her pelvis forward so that her belly nestles between his hipbones.
A quiet groan escapes him. He gulps it back down, screws his eyes shut tight. She presses her face to his chest, rubs her nose against the fabric that covers it, rubs her cheeks on it, her chin. "Don't kiss me."
"You. Do not. Kiss. Me."
"I'm not," she says into the fibers of his shirt. "We're not." She digs her forehead into his breastbone like she's burrowing out of a trap. "Go away. Get out now."
"Let go."
"You let go."
She's vaguely aware that the upper half of her uniform is now around her waist, her unfastened bra slipping down. She stops it, cradles the cups (and her breasts) in her palms. But one nipple has already crested a lacy edge and the pad of his finger moves closer, slides across the tip experimentally.
"I'm going to take a shower," she tells him. His mouth is at her jawline. A few centimeters one way he'll be at her lips, a few the other way, her throat. "With water," she adds. He won't like it. The water. Vulcans prefer—
Breath ghosting her eardrum, he says, "You'll get so wet."
A deep shudder runs the course of her body and comes out the top of her head. It's taking too long to get out of her clothes. "Move," she hisses. He straightens, steps back.
She lurches toward her bed. Tries to get her boots off. Gives up. Tries to get her pants off. They're short and small. It should be easy, but she ends up just pushing them down far enough to brush her knuckles over the crotch of her tights. She arches up at the sensation—
He's watching from across the room.
She notes his posture, thinks his expression must mirror the weird analytical detachment in her own head. That she is doing this in front of him, that the urge to kiss, to complete the circuit with their mouths is so overpowering she must do this instead. The way it starts is the way it will end—
(Her knuckles then the pads of her fingers then her knuckles again, friction rasping over the fabric of her tights—)
Equally pressing (and contradictory) that they must never allow the circuit to complete. These strange particles moving between them cannot flow unhindered to the source.
(—knuckles fingers knuckles fingers knuckles tongue – his – curled, rough as a cat's lapping at her clit—)
Metaphor, yes, but somehow, fact.
And which course of action is correct? Complete the circuit or maintain distance in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction?
Was he thinking of satisfaction when said the word wet?
So wet. She can't quite get there, wants his lips there, his mouth.
Eyes squeezed shut in desperate concentration, she feels the bed dip with his weight. If she keeps her eyes closed, a pretense of dream-like hallucination can be claimed as an excuse later. She rocks her hips, presses the heels of her boots into the mattress, trying to get the angle right. It's not the way she usually does this, knuckles, pads of her fingers. Her preferred method is more…
She gasps as his hand settles on top of the one moving between her legs. Her fingers uncurl beneath his and glide over the slick swell of her clitoris, a smooth steady rhythm that gradually picks up speed until she's right there, she's right there. There, oh, there yes yes yes yes.
His steady hand rides a throbbing pulsing rolling wave of the most intense fifty-one seconds of her life. She knows it's fifty-one seconds because he tells her. Asks if fifty-one seconds is usual for human females.
She groans, too spent to be mortified. That will surely come later.
"What's happening to us?"
"Reason would suggest some adverse effect of the sedative…" But he doesn't sound convinced. He rises unsteadily to his feet, tugs at the hem of his tunic, inhales a cleansing breathe, releases it. Then lists drunkenly towards her door. "I shall investigate."
"Shower first," she calls after him.
She decides to use the sonic shower rather than water. Better to shake the dirt and grime from her pores than wash a perfectly good orgasm down the drain. And besides, her hair would take forever.
Upon leaving Uhura's cabin, Spock intended to inform Dr. McCoy immediately of the compulsions he and the lieutenant were experiencing. But he'd been two days in a jail cell and twenty-two minutes trying not to succumb to…compulsions. He took her command as suggestion and showered thoroughly first. After which, to his confusion and alarm, he seemed to have fallen asleep naked on his bed with clean undergarments clutched to his chest. He awakened to the captain's voice over the comm requesting his presence in Conference Room 3.
Conference Room 3 was only used when heightened security protocols were required. It seemed overreaching for a standard mission debrief.
He saw Lt. Uhura approaching as he was preparing to request entry. Any embarrassment she might have been feeling or even concern about the choice of conference room was hidden under fresh make-up and a contentious attitude. She appeared, as Dr. McCoy would put it, "itching for a fight."
Though her head was held high – imperious, majestic really – she staunchly avoided direct eye-contact.
"Did your investigations reveal anything?" she asked coolly.
"Not yet." And not a lie.
She deigned to look at him then. Briefly. The result of which was… problematic.
Ordinarily he did not allow the quixotic moods of his human shipmates to affect his behavior. But the look she gave him evoked extreme and conflicting urges – one, to press his mouth to hers and two, turn and flee. Her scowl of displeasure was like a knife between his ribs, yet her lips were plump and looked delicious.
Still he was a Vulcan. Even if the cause or substance influencing their behavior was yet unknown, he had thirty years of solid practice in the disciplines of Surak. He would weather this storm as he had always done, with logic.
He inhaled a cleansing breath as the security scans passed over and through them. The computer granted clearance and access and the door opened. Whereupon they discovered the captain was not alone in Conference Room 3.
At his side Uhura went stiff-kneed, trying to pull him back into the corridor – or so he assumed from the nails digging into the flesh beneath his shirt sleeve. He extricated her hand, though not without the captain making note of it. She recovered quickly, said with a shaky laugh, "I guess we can rule out a mission debrief then." Kirk gave her the smile meant to put subordinates at ease.
Chancellor Heuri's top aide was present, as well as a person Spock didn't recognize but assumed (from military bearing and lack of uniform) was a member of their secret service. He and Uhura took the only empty seats at the table. Stationed too close together if her surreptitious chair maneuvering was indication. She scooted as far from him as the limited space would allow.
"Commander Spock. Lt. Uhura. I believe you've met Chancellor Heuri's chief advisor."
Spock nodded his acknowledgement of the fact. Uhura granted the man a tight smile. "Mr. Iwasaka."
"And this is—"
The other man, who'd been smiling, smiled more broadly as he rose and reached across the table to shake Uhura's hand. "Hilmi Sabanci," he said, not even glancing Spock's direction. "I can't tell you what an honor it is to meet you, Lt. Uhura. I must confess to being a total fanboy. The algorithms you wrote for hunter-trapper AI's were game changers for many of us in the intelligence sector."
If Spock understood this bizarre introduction correctly, "fan" was derived from "fanatic" describing a person who enjoyed something to the point of obsession. From context he assumed Himli Sabanci was not a fan of "boys" per se, but rather a boy fanatic of Lt Uhura's past contributions to a specialized field. Apparently, a declaration intended to flatter her, though why asserting one's immaturity would be—
"Oh, my!" Uhura squeaked, pressing a hand to her heart. "Thank you. But that was ages ago, Mr. Sabanci-"
"Please, call me Himli—"
She batted her eyelashes. "Himli. And I think you know that my little mhuni programs were meant to be used to trap encrypted spyware, not enable actual spying." The last was said in a mildly chiding manner, with a playful finger wag.
"Captain," Spock cut in, "if this is meeting is so casual that we can forgo the use of titles why is it being held here, in Conference Room 3, with securities protocols set at level 7?"
Uhura cast a heated side-eyed gaze his way then abruptly turned her back, which involved sitting uncomfortably sideways in her chair.
"Good question, Commander," Kirk said. "These protocols were at your request, Mr. Sabanci. My officers have barely had a chance to recover from being unjustly detained as agents provocateurs—"
Mr. Iwasaka stiffened. "Again, Captain Kirk, we do apologize for the misunderstanding, but these political disruptions are being purposefully stoked by outside actors—"
"Not the Federation I can assure you."
"We know," Sabanci said. "The interests of these outside actors correspond significantly with the business interests of certain industry leaders on Caishen Colony."
Iwaska put two clenched fists on the tabletop. "A callused, cold-blooded, concerted campaign of misinformation is happening, Captain, aimed at sabotaging all the social progress we've made over the past fifty years! And for what? Profit and transitory convenience!"
"I feel your frustration Mr. Iwasaka, but you must understand that the Federation cannot involve itself with local politics."
Which was almost word for word what Spock had said to Lt. Uhura when she inserted herself into the throngs of protestors outside the chancellery. If she would just turn around so he could remind her of that to her face—
"That's as may be, Captain," Iwasaka was saying, "but if this campaign of disinformation succeeds, your communications array – deemed by yourselves to be essential to peace and safety in this sector – could be delayed indefinitely."
Kirk sighed, caught his lower lip between his teeth, then brought a hand up to rub his thumb compulsively over that lip. Spock knew his captain well enough to understand what the gestures indicated about his thought process. He was thinking that, once again, a simple mission of administrator drop offs and precursory PR had become A Problem.
"I see." Kirk drew out the syllable. "So. Am I correct in assuming your request for the presence of these particular officers under a level 7 security protocol has something to do with the situation?"
Sabanci (his attention focused on Uhura for no fathomable reason Spock could determine) said, "We have reason to suspect that one – or both of you—" He included Spock in the sphere of his gaze briefly— "may have inadvertently witnessed or overheard something incriminating to the perpetrators of this disinformation campaign."
"Crap." Uhura uttered poignantly.
A/N Do Vulcans not like getting wet? I don't know. I don't think Uhura does either. Is Conference Room 3 a thing? I couldn't be bothered to do research. I doubt anyone reading this is a stickler for canon or continuity.