Watching Nyota Sleep
He had, in the course of their time together to date, watched Nyota Uhura sleep on some one thousand four hundred and sixty three different occasions. 'Some' because he was not certain whether seven or eight of those ought not to be further subdivided into distinct instances unto themselves.
He had studied her, observed her, guarded her. He had soothed her, held her, even woken her.
Now, he watched her.
He thought she was beautiful. He had resisted that thought for the many months of their early acquaintance, believing it to be an unworthy one: A purely subjective assessment, of little import. But now he knew it for truth, and acknowledged it. It was an empirical fact: Nyota Uhura was beautiful.
He lifted two fingers and lightly, gently, delicately, traced from her brow, over her cheekbone, along her jaw, to her chin.
With his palm, he brushed her hair back, away from her temple, and allowed his hand to continue its movement, briefly caressing the side of her face before sweeping down to rest, with the faintest pressure possible, along the side of her throat. Before his movement even stilled, her chin was turning slightly toward him, as though seeking to increase the contact. He withdrew his hand, not wishing to disturb her slumbers.
In her sleep, she sighed. Her lips parted, then curved in the slightest of smiles. She sighed again, and the exhale was a word. Only someone with hearing as sensitive as his own would have heard it; but he did not need such hearing to know what she said.
"Spock," she breathed.