Nail-polish

Nyota knows she can never really explain to him why it feels so good.

Curled up at the opposite end of the little couch, facing him, she struggles to find a logical reason, something he will relate to; and Spock just looks at her, patiently awaiting her next words - and a more successful attempt.

She gazes into his eyes – deep and warm, tempting as a tropical pool - and wonders why this is one thing he can't understand.

She glances away a moment, to try to find other words to express what she means - and catches a reflection in the mirror. When she turns back, to gaze at him again, she still has that image in her mind's eye; and it super-imposes over the more intimate one of the man she loves.

With sudden objectivity, she sees a man who is not discontented wearing a uniform every day of his life. Even in those uncommon circumstances that demand he don something other than his Science Blue, he still wears a uniform. Before the Blue goes on, there are the regulation Blacks. Barring that, the Formal Dress tunics that make the others squirm – but which he will wear like a second skin.

(His Instructor Greys – for years all she'd ever seen him in - hang, ignored, in his closet, worn last on a fateful day.)

For exercise, he still wears Starfleet issue.

And the rest of the time?

He has always belonged to a culture that operates logically. Efficiency is logical. Uniforms are efficient. Vulcan children all dress alike, at least for school – Their clothes are logical, created for this specific purpose.

On those very infrequent occasions, now, when he wears clothing of Vulcan origin, it is still a uniform: Though crafted with a restrained beauty, these garments say much about his purpose, his position, and his people. When he wears his black or charcoal sha'mi robes, and kneels to mediate, it is clear exactly what he is: Disciplined son of a noble Vulcan clan. Even on the Enterprise, surrounded by standard Starfleet décor, he can not be anything else.

But without those robes, he is still obviously Vulcan.

Yes, by blood – it shows in his ears and his eyebrows, but not just there: His Vulcan-ness flows through his veins, as surely as the copper does.

And yes, by tradition and training – he believes in Vulcan philosophy, and he approaches the Universe, always, with curiosity and logic. Immersed as he is in the words of Surak, he embraces that underlying principal that makes them possible: She and Spock are a living example of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations – and he accepts their differences as both necessary and beautiful. It is only logical to do so.

But he also follows the Vulcan way by choice; and his hair – so severe and so precise -reflects that choice, and proves him, once again, to be exactly what he is.

And about that, she knows a secret - but it only demonstrates how Vulcan he chooses to be. She will run her hands through its soft, silky strands; she will rumple it and do her best to disarrange it. And it might be messy - almost human - for a moment or two; but when the moment is over, Spock will shake his head, and his hair will fall back into place (with rare assistance from deliberate fingers) and he will be thoroughly Vulcan once more.

But still, she thinks, he should be able to understand.

Then she realizes his very uniformity is part of what makes him seem so different. It is obvious he is Vulcan; and people are curious. Strangers stare and, sometimes, point him out. So perhaps he does understand – but he can not relate.

He has chosen a life of uniformity because he is, himself, so very different. On Vulcan, Human – Everywhere else, Vulcan. And she sees, now, how the former is no longer possible.

No, he could never relate.

But Spock is, in fact, Vulcan, a true follower of Surak: He can most certainly accept.

Smiling into his eyes, she surrenders her attempt at rational explanation. She shrugs. "It just makes me feel good," she says. "It makes me feel unique, special – beautiful."

Looking back into her eyes, he nods gravely.

And as she props her feet on his thigh, he takes one of them into his warm strong palm, turning it gently so that he can see her toes clearly. He reaches those deliberate Vulcan fingers for a bottle of nail-polish.