Nyota woke up this morning just a little out of sorts. And that's odd - because she's curled in her favorite position: Half-flung over him, one knee draped across his thighs, her head on his chest, listening to him breathe. His arm is around her; and she can feel his fingertips grazing her hip, his breath stirring her hair. He senses she's no longer sleepy, and his arm tightens around her, his fingers drawing figures on her skin.
She joyfully forgets about the niggling something for the first hour she's awake: She's not concentrating on anything besides being alive. She's definitely alive. And, she's satisfied.
But later, as she's showering, combing her hair, she hears that little discontented whisper in a tiny traitorous corner of her mind. She can't tell Spock how she's feeling - not now.
She idly tries to remember more of her dreams, but all she's left with is a fading impression of the Academy dorm and a walk in the sunshine from the Mess Hall.
She frowns at herself in the mirror as she puts on her make-up. This is ridiculous, she thinks: There's nothing wrong - I have never been happier in my life.
She's never been happier.
And yet…Nyota feels, just a little bit, that she's missing something. She feels guilty even thinking it: She would never trade what she has – nor even change what she has – for the world. She looks for him in the mirror, meets his eyes, and smiles – because she wants to, has to, even when she's not sure what he's thinking.
Even when she's not sure why she's feeling what she does.
She feels his eyes resting on her as she dresses – Those beautiful expressive eyes that follow her gently, telling her the things that his lips simply won't.
No, this feeling – this need - is certainly something he won't understand.
And Nyota doesn't want to tell him.
Before he leaves for his morning meeting, he comes to her in the silence of his quarters – the quarters they mostly share, now. He eases down her collar with careful fingers, and kisses the pressure point at the juncture of neck and shoulder; she feels a familiar, exciting, electric spark. Pressing into him, kissing him back, she forgets that little whisper and is totally content.
She watches him go, and she smiles: He moves so beautifully, always – and just now, his movement is elegant, fluid – unguarded.
As she slips in her earrings, she thinks about how hard he tries to understand the things she tells him. So many of them don't make sense – to either one of them, really. And she wonders whether it hurts him, sometimes, when she gets tangled up and strangled in the words that don't come out right.
But it's worse when she doesn't even try to tell him. She knows he notices that. But sometimes she can't help it.
Yes, that's worse. Because no matter what it is, no matter what she needs – no matter what she wants, even – Spock accepts.
She slips on her boots; pulls them up, seats them firmly, so that they encase her ankles just so. Her walk is now her firm on-duty walk.
A general disclosure of their connection is non-negotiable: It is private, just for them. That, she knows, is one of the few things he needs. And, really, she's fine with that. More than fine, actually.
What they have really is perfection. Nyota loves Spock. (Not just the idea of him – No, don't even think it: It's the himness of him she cherishes, the Spockness…)
She is fully dressed, now. She touches her hair and smoothes her skirt one last time. She's the consummate professional: Chief Communications Officer for the Enterprise, ready to get to work.
The door whooshes closed behind her as she leaves his quarters.
She doesn't need slow dances during parties, and kisses when he beams back up. She doesn't need to hold hands or walk arm-in-arm in the corridors, or get winks on the Bridge. God, no, she doesn't need that.
But when she walks down the corridors, and feels other eyes following her – other eyes not deep and brown and expressive – eyes not framed by straight black upswept brows – then she wishes, just a little bit, that they all knew.
Maybe not about them - not about him, she thinks - but about her. Yeah, that'd be good.
When she walks with Spock, they don't expect anything - and they leave her alone. (Not because of them, really, but because of him.) And, oh, that's fine with her. That's great.
Today, coming back from breakfast, in the turbolift there's a crewman who's new. Uhura smiles at him absently, her thoughts already on the day's assignment. He knows he's handsome; he moves a little closer, and he smiles in return. He makes some small talk, mentions when he'll be off-shift. She wants to be nice, wants to chat - maybe even flirt a little - just to keep in practice, because, frankly, that feels good. But she doesn't; and she knows that as he goes away, shaking his head, he will call her an ice-queen. Or worse.
But that's better than a chokingly awkward conversation at a crowded table in the Rec Room, later: This handsome confident man would pull up a chair between her and Spock – squeezing into the small space they've carefully left between them – to smile and chat and try to get to know her…
No, she's no ice-queen, but that would be worse.
Emerging on the Bridge, she sees Captain Kirk already in the center seat. He smiles a morning greeting before he turns back to the viewscreen. He knows about the two of them: About her and Spock. She knows he knows – and he knows she knows he knows… But they never say anything, and that's fine, too. That's better than fine.
Sometimes, on shoreleave, Jim will take her dancing. He'll buy her drinks, and he'll flirt. It's outrageous, ridiculous - and it makes her feel wonderful: She knows it doesn't mean anything – and he does, too.
Sulu knows; and Chekov. Surely, they have to know: They give her gentle attention, and step between her and anyone – any men - that, well, might not know. But they never say anything, either; and really, it's better than fine.
Uhura moves to her station, touches the shoulder of the officer sitting there. She waits for him to leave, takes her seat. She reaches for her earpiece, and as she does, Spock turns just a little in his chair. His hand is reaching the other way, but just for a second their eyes meet. He nods. She nods.
Inside, she smiles.
And they both go about their day.
Doctor McCoy calls a while later, to speak with Commander Spock. His voice is already grouchy – and that makes her smile. He is tender-hearted, kind – and will deny it to the moon. He covers himself in prickles, and hopes that'll keep pain out.
But in the Rec Room, on shoreleave - in the corridors, even - Leonard practices his Southern gallantry; and she is grateful, and flattered, even though it means nothing. She smiles: He doesn't want to know, but he does. That, she knows.
And Scotty needs a moment with the Captain. He calls her 'Lass,' and says not to put him through right away. She imagines him leaning on the console as he speaks. He gives his burr a little extra weight and says he's thinking of quitting Engineering and going in for Tactics, because those men on the Bridge get to hear her sweet voice all the time - which, he says, simply isn't fair… Oh, he knows.
Funny, she thinks, that her friends are mostly men, now. She thinks about it and realizes her friends are the men who know.
She used to have lots of girlfriends. But that was before – before Spock, before this ship - before Nero.
She used to have Gaila.
Before her mind can run away down that path, she pulls it together. She blinks, blinks again. Blinks a few more times. After a minute, she stretches, pops out her earpiece, looks around - and meets Spock's eyes. His hand is on his earpiece, but he gazes steadily at her until she nods a little, and smiles. He eyes her another moment before nodding, himself, and turning his attention back to his console.
She may not have winks on the Bridge, but she does have Spock.
When it's time for her to grab some lunch, she heads for the turbolift. The Captain follows her in; and before the doors close, she sees blue moving toward the center seat.
Jim doesn't say anything; they ride in companionable silence.
The next deck down, a crewman gets on. He smiles at Uhura, steps a little closer, starts to say something personal – He notices, then, who is standing beside her. He mumbles something – an apology: For her? For the Captain? - and steps away. He gets off a couple of decks later.
Jim doesn't say anything, and in the awkward ensuing silence she tries to convince herself that he really didn't notice.
Uhura steps out near Rec Room Six. She isn't very hungry, now, but decides to go in, anyway. There really isn't time for anything else.
The Rec Room is crowded, and she wonders, a bit, why she chose this one. Maybe because Jim was with her on the way? It's where most of her classmates usually come.
She and Spock meet here, sometimes, for dinner, when she needs to feel connected with life on the rest of the ship. She'll get here first, and boldly sit with someone she knows, and when he comes in, he'll take a tray and join them. Sometimes more people will come on their own to sit with them - and then there's less likelihood of the uncomfortable pauses in conversation that she rationalizes by the fact that it's the Ship's First Officer sitting there so quietly – not anything else about him: No, no other reason at all.
Uhura looks around to see whether there is someone she knows well enough to join, now, for lunch.
Over to one side are a couple of girls from her last lab class. They work in the communications array. She thinks maybe the one, Simons, could be decent as an emergency relief, with a bit of extra training: The blonde has a cool head… She wonders whether they would be excited to see her if she went over, if they'd include her in the conversation they are having so cheerfully - Or do they believe that she thinks she's above them, now, somehow?
There's Janice, the Captain's yeoman. She's sitting with Christine. They are the people who work under the people she works with side-by-side. It's so strange – She feels oddly out of place (like a fish out of water, she thinks), and she understands, suddenly, the old expression 'neither fish nor fowl.' That's her, she thinks: She doesn't swim below, or fly above. She's just living her life in the middle.
And really, that's fine.
But still, watching them sitting there, their heads together, their friendship obviously an easy one, she thinks maybe – just maybe – she'd like to have that, too.
She misses having girlfriends.
She doesn't miss the drama, and the hurt feelings amidst the nonsense. She doesn't miss the backbiting, or endless speculation and gossip. No, she doesn't miss that, at all, thanks.
She doesn't miss getting together on free evenings when everyone else has plans, when it's just too lonesome to be by herself. No matter how much they might laugh together, she wouldn't take that.
She doesn't miss the shared yearning for something better; and the hopes that someone will notice all their hard work, notice their potential, notice their desire. No, not one bit.
But she does miss having someone she can tell all the little things - the things that aren't really problems, but are the things on her mind. She misses the girls who will tell her that she is always right – and that she is smart, and beautiful, too.
She misses the one staunch friend that will always take her side, and will tell her how her annoyance is so reasonable – even when it isn't, at all.
She misses having an outrageous friend who will push her out of her comfort zone to do stupid things, try crazy things – but not too stupid, not too crazy, thanks.
And she misses that one loyal friend that she can slip hints to – just tiny ones – about the love of her life. Oh, Gods, she misses that.
She misses Gaila.
Uhura finishes her lunch in silence, in the midst of the noise of the Rec Room. And when she has carried her tray back to the unit and is retracing her steps to the turbolift, she's glad she's going back to the Bridge.