Clutter
The Enterprise is incredibly clean. Her air filtration systems are state of the art. Her surfaces gleam. The decks and labs and bays are invariably spotless.
It seems she is intolerant of anything which will mar her pristine perfection.
Engineering – where you'd expect to see grime – is watched over by the jealous eyes of a once grubby man turned puritanical tyrant where his Lady is concerned.
Even the Captain is as neat as she demands that he be.
Uhura finds a certain amusement in the fact that the messiest place she can think of, on the whole ship, is in the very heart of the Medical Facilities - where her most reluctant denizen resides. Doctor McCoy's desk is, compared to everywhere else, a cluttered heap. And it's not, really - Not at all: There are a few data chips by the console, some handwritten notes, an empty coffee cup. His padd hangs, precariously, over one edge.
He makes an effort to straighten it when his immediate superior is due for a conference; but it eventually devolves to its former cluttered state, a perennial victim of benign neglect.
Uhura wonders what the Enterprise would look like if she were not haunted, after hours, by the silent foot falls of the tidiest man on the ship. Because Spock is very, very tidy – and while he makes allowances for the humanity of her crew, nothing will be allowed to interfere with the proper functioning of this ship.
Knowing this to be so - whether from respect, or fear, or well-trained habit - at the end of every shift every thing is returned (as much as possible) to its right and proper place.
Standing in his quarters, she finds that kind of funny, too.
Spock is very tidy - very neat and precise - with a matter-of-factness that makes it appear only logical.
But he doesn't seem to mind the feminine clutter that shifts about these rooms. She'll tidy it away in fits and spurts, and promise herself to be neater. But she made that same promise a week ago – and now there's a bottle of nail polish on the table, and a knitting bag on his couch.
Under the mirror, her eyeliner and compact have shifted from their burnished tray, and her hairbrush is nestled alongside his.
Her tallest heels are thrown to opposite sides of the now neatly-made bed – and there are underthings somewhere around.
She checks the chronometer, and turns down the music. She places her work neatly on the desk, and grabs the nail polish. She quickly puts the cosmetics aright, and hangs up the bag.
She aligns the heels precisely to carry them to the closet. She doesn't hear the door, as she's looking for her other stocking.
His hands are on her hips, then; and, as she straightens, his breath in her ear. "Leave them," he says.