Watching Miss Uhura Sleep

Sitting in the sun, watching her sleep, he thought he understood what made her smile so. His glimpse of her dream had been faint - and tomorrow he would do his best to forget - but just for this moment, he knew.

Pavel Andreivich had seen them together.

He hadn't meant to, and he would take it back if he could: He was aware he was not meant to see them.

The planet was so beautiful, and leaving the others near the small shoreleave village, he had walked a little way into the forest. He climbed a tree to be able to look through the branches across the spreading gold-and-green canopy of the sunlit valley beneath. This spot was perfect; and the niche in the tree seemed formed to hold him. He appreciated the lumpy solid feel of trunk and branches around him and the scratching of the rough black bark, so different from the clean lines and smooth textures of the ship. He was half dozing, listening to leaves in the breeze and the rustle of small animals, the beatings of wings and calling of birds, when he heard them talking as they approached through the clearing below.

It was Commander Spock's voice that first drew his attention. The Vulcan Science Officer was Chekov's good friend. He knew that would sound funny to anyone he tried to tell, but the Commander listened to him, and understood him – not just what he said, but what he meant, as well – and did not mock him for his youth or inexperience. Sometimes, Pavel thought the Commander must be Russian: They both spoke the same language.

As First Officer, Commander Spock was Pavel's superior. In this capacity, it was easy to think of him as a particularly demanding professor: He knew what you could do, and expected your best, always; but he was fair, and dispassionate.

Chekov admired Commander Spock. He liked him.

So when he heard Mr. Spock speaking, he was interested. And he closed his eyes, and listened.

At first the words were unintelligible. He realized then that they were not in Standard - The language was not familiar to him at all.

"Goh ma etek zam-wak. Vun-abuifis-tor nash-veh na'yel-hali. Ak'vun nam-tor fi'ar'kadan," the Commander's voice said. Hearing it, Chekov suddenly understood that these were the sounds that this voice was designed to make. He was glad for the Commander. Chekov knew what it was like to not be able to use his native tongue: He could talk, yes, but not really express himself… He was glad that there was someone to whom the Commander could speak in Vulcan, even if only for a while.

People often thought the Commander's voice was cold, or distant, or even stilted; but really, the Commander's voice was Vulcan – even when he spoke in Klingon or Andorian, or Standard. The Commander was fluent in all of them and more; Chekov was sure that he thought completely in these other languages (most unlike Chekov who still translated from Russian, much of the time, even sometimes about his work) and when he spoke, he was like one born to it - but Mr. Spock's thought processes, themselves, remained logical, Vulcan. It was very interesting.

Speaking his native language, Spock's voice melted and flowed. "Dungau bekan Khart-lan nash-veh. Dungi-tishau nash-veh kuv hafau odu - eh tizh-tor wak t'odu fi'ish-panu."

"Lau nash-veh – ri k'odu - uf," answered a second voice, dreamy and sweet. This voice also was familiar, though the soft tone most certainly was not: Lieutenant Uhura was walking in the woods with Commander Spock, speaking Vulcan like a woman in love.

Chekov peered down through the tree-branches. The two of them had moved to a spot almost beneath him, just a short distance away, and were standing very close together. The Commander stood as he usually did, straight and tall: Chekov had a clear view of his hands clasped behind his back.

The Lieutenant was smiling up at him. Chekov could see her face perfectly.

Then Miss Uhura looked around. "Nam-tor vaksurik la – ha."

She looked back up at the man beside her, the question present in her raised brows.

The Commander nodded; his hands had relaxed to his side, and his tone, when he spoke, was very gentle. "Ha – Niota – ma'vaksurik." His head was bowed slightly.

The look on Miss Uhura's face said that she was gazing into his eyes – and enjoying what she saw there.

"Wi ri ovsotuhlik dva-tor nash-veh ta vesht nahp-tor odu ta vesht dungi-nam-tor nash-veh kesik tal-tor semrik aifa laplar." Mr. Spock's voice was light: It seemed almost - just the tiniest amount - to be teasing her.

Uhura's answering smile was dazzling. Chekov admired her radiant expression right up until the moment he realized one Vulcan hand had risen to caress her cheek - Then the view was obscured by a tilting dark head.

Pavel Andreivich hastily looked away.

Commander Spock was kissing Lieutenant Uhura.

After a long moment of silence, Pavel risked another glance – just to assure himself that he had not fallen out of the tree and suffered a concussion without noticing…

Commander Spock's back was no longer stiff and unyielding: He was bent a little, and though Chekov could not see them, it was obvious that his arms were around Miss Uhura's body; hers were around his neck, the fingers of one hand trailing over his skin.

Commander Spock was, most certainly, kissing Lieutenant Uhura.

Lieutenant Uhura was neither surprised nor offended that he would choose to do so: That was equally obvious.

Chekov looked out across the valley. He was very comfortable, cradled here by the tree, and he was in no hurry to climb down. He would focus on the clouds, and the golden treetops; listen only to the birds and the wind in the branches.

Too short a time later – Pavel was sure that there was regret in the fluid voice that drew his attention downward once more – Commander Spock spoke. "I'vun-hal-tor - Niota – bolayatik nam-tor pulayaya t'nash-veh fi'nel-tash-svitan."

The Lieutenant nodded; her lower lip caught, just for a second, between her teeth. Then she reached up, and, with her hands linked behind his head, brought the Commander down for one protracted kiss. They had turned a little, and Chekov saw them now almost in profile – He could see Spock's long fingers flex across her lower back, pulling her body into his.

Pavel looked up, and studied one of the golden leaves dancing before his eyes.

When their kiss broke, Uhura spoke. "Sarlah," she said. She moved back,taking one of Spock's hands in hers. Together, they turned and started toward the village.

After only a few steps, they separated by an arm's length; and the Commander's hands returned, once again, to rest behind him.

Seeing that - watching the Commander's slow measured paces, as he followed Lieutenant Uhura - Chekov felt a little sorry for the two of them. He thought maybe Commander Spock would have preferred to walk hand-in-hand back to the village with his lady. Maybe she would have liked to have taken his arm…

After they left, Chekov carefully shifted his position in the tree. It was very comfortable, here, and peaceful. He believed he could easily go to sleep.

When he thought enough time had passed, he climbed down from the tree. He looked around indecisively for a moment, then picked his way down into the valley. He thought it would be good to return to the village by a different path than the others'.

His walk was very pleasant - The planet did seem almost magical… As he headed back, he amused himself by recounting stories from his childhood of mystical glades and spell-bound dream-folk. Though he did not see any feathers, he imagined he heard the calling of the жар-пти́ца.

Back in the little town, Chekov found a shop where he could purchase a refreshing drink. Emerging into the village square, he carried it toward one of the stone benches warmed by the afternoon sun. He sat on the first one of an empty pair, and took a long sip. It was very good; it reminded him of the sekanjabin he had had during a trip when he was young. The taste only added to his nostalgia.

He leaned back and glanced around him. Other members of the crew, still on shoreleave, were here and there, a few heading into or out of the shops, a few leaning against the pillars of the porticos, talking. Several of the other benches were occupied, and Chekov was glad he had found one away, a bit, from the others.

Looking again, he saw he was mistaken: The other bench was not empty at all. There was a slender figure, there, curled up in its crook. Her head was leaned against the back of the bench, her cheek padded by one slim hand. Her smile was gentle, peaceful – beautiful - but the merest shadow of an earlier one. Her eyes were closed: Lieutenant Uhura was sleeping.

Chekov gazed at her for a few more moments, before looking away and taking another long sip of his drink. He curled up in the crook of the bench, and leaned his head back so that he could idly watch the clouds drift by behind thatched rooftops and gold-and-black branches. He would call the ship soon, to return to a waking world of clean lines and smooth textures, of measured steps and cool distant voices - but not just yet.

sssssssss

translations

Do you really want translations?

Really?

Chekov didn't need 'em, are you sure you do?

Well, alrighty, then.

Russian:

жар-пти́ца (zhar-ptitsa) – firebird

Vulcan (all translated idiomatically):

"We have only a little time. I must transport up to the (star)ship. Soon, I have to be at work," Spock said, "The Captain will be awaiting me. It will please me if you stay, and enjoy your time on this world."

"How can I, without you?" Uhura answered. Then, "It is beautiful here, isn't it?"

Gently: "Yes, Nyota, extremely beautiful." Teasingly: "Yet I do not entirely believe that you thought that I would be likely to find these trees fascinating."

"I must go now, Nyota," he said (perhaps reluctantly?). "My presence is required on the Bridge."

"Come," she said.