Waxing Crescent

by letterstonorah

As an inter-species family living on the harsh, desert-planet of New Vulcan, life has never been easy for the S'chn T'gai-Uhuras. Part kid fic, part drama/angst, part romance, with chapters and and stand-alone ficlets interweaving past, present, and future. Warnings for explicit sex.

11. Chapter 11

Thank you so much for your patience as this chapter and the next grew unexpectedly long. Your comments helped sustain me through the long haul of what turned out to be a more difficult section of the fic than I foresaw. Sometimes, FanFiction's interface upsets me because there is no way for me to make public statements about how I am working on something or close to publishing, and you are all simply left to wonder. Anyway, I continue to be thankful for every single comment. Every. Single. One. So thank you.

Warnings: This chapter and/or the following contains very explicit sex, much of it delving into the realm of the kinky I guess? I mean, if you've read my smut before, it's not much more wild than that. But yeah, mad alpha!Spock. Um, and a little ummm, *whispers* anal stuff? So yeah. JUST FYI. *runs away* Also, again, there are references to CSA in this chapter.

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11.

Reactive Elements

S'chn T'gai Spock Uhura
Hgrtcha Clan, House Surak
Khu'tev'rak Uzh Shi'kahr

19 July 2270

S'chn T'gai Nyota Uhura
Hgrtcha Clan, House Surak
Khu'tev'rak Uzh Shi'kahr

My dear Nyota,

I write this letter to you in a state of relative calm. I have meditated aggressively since your departure, and though the peace I have achieved feels decidedly tenuous, it is my hope that it will last me the duration of writing this missive. You deserve me at my most clearheaded.

Regarding the events this morning that led to your leaving, I offer my apologies. I expect neither your forgiveness nor understanding, but I wished to state my case and otherwise clarify my position. My inability to speak has thrust us into marital discord and led you to experience doubt as it pertains to my affections for you. I endeavour here to correct the false conclusions you have drawn based on my admittedly confounding behaviour.

These are the objective truths, Nyota:

I will cherish thee until I am no longer alive to do so.

I will desire thee until I am no longer alive to do so.

I will find thee breathtaking until I am no longer alive to do so.

These facts remain immutable. You are an essential part of my being, and my feelings for thee will never wane. In fact, my love for you is waxing, as if a moon, growing more complete with each passing day. It is regrettable that my nature frequently prevents me from expressing that reality to you adequately.

You once 'joked' that despite your prowess in deciphering electronic signals, you lacked the skills necessary to decipher interpersonal communications. I have found this to be untrue. You are an adept reader of persons across species. Your inability to deduce my internal state has been intentional on my part, and I fear that by not confessing this fact sooner, I have 'gas-lighted' you. Let me assure that it is I, not you, who is mad.

I write this letter to you in great physical agony.

I am unwell and have been for some time. I desired to protect thee from my inner turmoil. You are highly empathic, Nyota. You know this and you know my concerns surrounding it. More than that, you have a tendency to absorb and take on that which you feel and experience it yourself through the bond. I did not wish to feed you my feelings when I knew you would take them on as your own. I would not wish my state of unrest on anyone, especially not my wife.

And do you think I do not know how aggressively you hide the deleterious effects of Selik's attacks on you?

I worry constantly about losing her, and losing you.

Were I a better Vulcan, more in control of my tempers, I would not have needed to drive you away as I did. I would have been able to control my emotions so you would not have had to experience them.

And has Amayel not taken it upon herself to copy my behaviours? Her experiences at camp were a direct result of her refusing to open her bond to us. A father is to be a positive example for his offspring, and instead I have led her down a path of concealing her upsets rather than facing them head on, which is the true Vulcan way.

I held myself at a distance because I believed, and still believe, I will hurt you. You have interpreted our lack of intimacy as a rejection on my part when in reality I am ashamed of the violence of feelings you've provoked in me this last year.

Last night, after you'd tucked Selik in, you came to bed and changed into your night garments. Upon seeing you in a state of half-dress, I wished to lie on my back so that you could straddle my face and grind yourself into my tongue. I thought of this whilst in the other room our child planned to run away; and is it not my fault that she got herself into such a state? I should have been more attuned to her feelings and needs. I have been distracted, and my control is not as it should be. I had hypothesized a self-imposed celibacy would help, but it has only alienated you; and here I am now, so erect that I am in pain, and I have driven away the only person who has ever sated me.

Please trust that I was not in my right mind when I spoke those accusations to you this morning. I have not been in my right mind for some days. Even now, as I type these words, I cannot help but think that you are in Maresh's arms at this very moment, that I must kill him in order to prove my worthiness to you.

Afterward, I would lay you down, kiss you with great vigour, and shove myself into you while I held your legs up by the ankles.

I am obsessed with such images.

I cannot confess the darker of my imaginings, but I wish to, to tell you all the ways I want to corrupt you and use your tight cunt

How is a husband to ask his wife, "Are you amenable to being held down, to having your wrists bound with the force of my grip?" or, "Would it please you to know that I stimulated my penis to thoughts of you riding my fingers on Maresh's desk?" When you orgasm and shudder and clench, your heat and wetness on my fingers are enough to make me come. I have imagined that after I fingerfuck you to climax, you would my fingers into your mouth and lick them until I reach completion. I would spurt my come on Maresh's belongings and then have you again. Tie your hands be hind your back. Get you on all fours. Lift your ass up toward my lok and stroke myself as the tip of my length touched the crease of your buttocks. I imagine that gasping sound you make when I start to press the head of my penis into your hole. Usually I stop there but in recent fantasies I thrust in hard all at once and fuck you until you are begging me for more, pushing your ass back into me greedy for more of my cock.

I wish to spill my ejaculate into all three of your holes, Nyota, so that you will know that you are mine. You belong only to me. Not to Maresh and certainly not to any other 'Spock.' Me, Nyota. Me.

You are beautiful, kind, outspoken, ambitious, compassionate, driven, and intelligent. I have no right to think of you, as I would have no right to think of anyone, in such a degrading manner. Even as I tell myself this, even as I have tried meditating these new and disturbing thoughts away, I get hard thinking of all the ways once I finally crack—once my control has finally reached its limit—that I will join with you. More than anything, I want to lay next to thee, front to front, and feel your naked body against mine as I stroke you and you stroke me and our tongues touch as we bring each other to mutual release with our hands.

You have left, and you were right to do so, but I send this letter to you anyway, asking you via written word what I cannot ask out loud via comm: and that is for you to come home to me, for you to return. I do not believe I am functioning optimally in your absence. This letter has likely solidified your doubts about our marriage, but you deserve the truth. I hope that I do not disgust you, as I disgust myself.

I feel that I am slipping away. My thoughts scatter and I cannot catch them.

I can think only of my desire for you, and of my wish to rip Maresh's heart from his side.

I do not know from where these thoughts come.

I am sorry for all the ways that I have failed to be the husband you require, but please, Nyota. Please. It is with all my sincerity and all my longing that I ask you to come back. To let me look upon you and perhaps kiss your cheek. I deserve not even that.

Yours always,

Spock

#

He folds the letter into thirds before sliding it into an envelope. He knows not where he will send it because he knows not where she is.

He should call. That would at least offer him the opportunity to hear her voice.

His comm sits on the desktop invitingly. "Call Nyota," he says, and the phone begins to complete the command. "End call," he says, before it fully connects.

He tries twice more but fails both times. Pressing his palms flat onto the desk in his study, he remembers to breathe, to become still.

There is another way to experience her voice. He may not be able to gather the fortitude to speak to her in-person, but there are recordings of her on his computer.

"Lights, 0%," says Spock now that early morning sun shines through the windows.

He returns to his and Nyota's bed chambers with his portable comp. The first video he watches is not one that he has stored. It is uploaded onto one of the social media sites to which she belongs. In it, she's strumming Spock's lute as she hums lazily along. A year ago. Spock remembers the day that he'd shot that. He'd been attempting to program more functionality into Amayel's tricorder and got sidetracked, as he often did, by his wife, choosing to record her

Spock watches all the videos on her page before turning to his own collection. They are marked by date in a folder titled "Video Correspondences between Nyota and Myself."

There are twenty-three videos in the folder, and he clicks on the one marked October 7th, 2357.

The screen stills on a close up of Nyota's face, and Spock presses play.

At first, the video shows only garbled, blurry images, before focusing in on Nyota. "Sorry this is so half-assed. I kind of had a day," says Nyota onscreen. After adjusting the angle of her PADD stand, she changes a setting in the software, causing the image to brighten and become sharp.

"So," she says, then dips her head down, suddenly shy. Her hair falls, obscuring parts of her face. Spock runs his thumb along his computer screen, tracing Nyota's cheekbones and lips. He's watched this video many times over the past thirteen years, but still he is overcome by her beauty. "You're a thousand astronomical units away doing God-knows-what secret mission, and I know over the course of our life together we're going to be apart for way longer than a single semester, but I…Shit," she says. "I'm not this girl. I'm not the sort who pines. I'm not the girl that calls first. Hell, I'm not even the girl who calls back." Her lips tremble as she releases a heavy breath. "I guess this is just my long and drawn out way of saying I miss you." She looks away from the camera, then down: his bright, confident, shining star so bashful before him.

"Sometimes I'm still so ashamed to want you," she says. "It's not easy for me to accept this part of myself." Swallowing, she presses her palms against her thighs. "So I thought this was something I could try to feel more at ease." She brushes locks of hair from her forehead and scoots back. "I know how much you like to watch me, Spock," she says, tongue darting across her bottom lip. "So watch me."

Nyota removes her t-shirt and her bra then props up her head on two pillows.

Her dark brown nipples are already taut. She pinches the left between her forefinger and thumb.

Spock watches as she stimulates her breasts on screen and he cannot help but slide his hand into his briefs. He is hard and already dripping pre-come.

"Remember when you used to have me finger myself in front of you?" she asks, a hitch in her voice. "You loved making me lose it like that, to make me beg, to see me jam my fingers inside myself as fast and hard as I could. What is it you used to say to me, Spock? Show me how dirty you are. Show me how much you lust for my lok. You made me crawl to you. Did it gratify you to see your former student on her knees like that? Willing to do anything?"

She sits up onto her knees, sets them a foot apart. She moves her hand from her breast down to her stomach then over her panties. Rubs herself over her crotch.

Spock sees the spreading dampness in the white cotton, the silky change in texture as they become wet with her desire. He licks his lips. Seeing her image on screen is nothing like what it would be like if she were here with him right now, but it suffices in the short term.

Nyota rubs her fingers over her clitoris through her underwear with one hand and massages her breast with the other.

"I'm thinking about the time you first slid your cock into me, how I gasped at the stretch of it, to be so filled with you, your length moving into me slow before you removed it to the very tip, then thrust back in," she says. "You laid me on your desk, put my feet on your shoulders, pounded into me slowly at first then hard and fast. I loved hearing you out of breath. I loved knowing that you wanted to wait and have it be special, but you gave up and had me on your desk. I could feel your thoughts where we clasped hands. I still remember what you were thinking. Look what your dirtiness does to me, Nyota. Look how you make me lose control ."

Nyota is breathless. Her panties soak through and her fingers are slick with it.

"I wasn't on my shots yet, so when you came you pulled out and splashed semen on my stomach and thighs. Then you, then you," she said, her voice breaking as her respiration becomes more and more unsteady, "Then you licked me. I remember how close I was but I couldn't get there and I was so embarrassed, the way I couldn't help but press my hips back into your face as you ate me out. My whole body was shaking then you did something. Do you remember what you did, Spock?"

Yes, he remembers. He remembers.

"You slid your finger, slick with your come and my come, into my ass. Do you remember how quickly I climaxed? How I begged you more even after I'd finished convulsing?"

"Fuck," she says, moaning as she rubs herself. She turns around and gets onto all-fours, pulls down her panties to her thighs. She slides two fingers between her legs and begins to fuck herself with them. "Fuck, Spock, fuck," she says. With her free hand, she grabs a fistful of sheets and holds tight as she loses it. "Wish you were here," she says. "Wish it was you inside me, Christ, you fuck me so good, want you to come inside me, want to feel your hot seeding pulsing deep inside me., fuck, fuck, fuck." Then she cries his name as she tumbles over the precipice.

The video transmission ends and Spock has not found his release.

He rifles through the pile of dirty laundry that has built up in the wicker laundry basket. Somewhere, the logical part of his brain is sending him messages informing him of how utterly depraved he is behaving, but all he wants now is to be wrapped up in Nyota's smell. With a small bundle of her undergarments and shirts in his arms, he heads to the bed.

Spock breathes in Nyota's fragrance, the erection that has not subsided since he first woke this morning throbbing in his loose-fitting trousers.

It is a humiliating and frightening low for him, this consuming need, so overwhelming he does not trust himself around his wife.

With his wife's scent surrounding him, Spock grabs himself again and begins to rub. He tries to think of nothing, to stimulate himself with a mind kept blank. Spock has always believed it somewhat of a violation to imagine someone in a vulnerable and naked state as a means for achieving sexual gratification.

But in this moment, images of his Nyota come unbidden. Her naked body, her legs splayed open for him. Spock sees himself lifting her ankles and feet onto his shoulder and pressing into her slowly, his length going in and out over and over, stretching her with his size, her muscles squeezing him, her moans, the hardness of her nipples.

He can never keep the filthy words out of his mouth when he is entwined with her thus. He loves to press their fingertips together so he can read the less dignified of her thoughts, make her say them out loud for him, prove how much he riles her, how debauched she is when it comes to pleasing him.

As he strokes his cock, Spock imagines what he would do to her were she still here.

Everyone has their proclivities and Spock's is Nyota. The taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her skin, the softness of her hair. The desperation in her throaty moans when she begs, please, please, I'll do anything, please. Let me come.

Is it so wrong to wish to savour her? To make her wait? To bring her to every possible edge multiple times?

Spock strokes himself until come spills on his abdomen, and then he does it again, and again, his need worsening.

With each attempt to relieve his erection, his thoughts grow more depraved. There is no decency inside of him.

This is his Time, he knows, and as he imagines how pleasurable it would feel to bruise Nyota's waist with the force of his grip as he spurted his seed deep inside of her, he understands also that he must stay away from her, protect her from this madness.

After his third unsatisfying climax, Spock feels the heat inside him rise and spread, his thoughts becoming jumbled and lost. Thankfully, thankfully, when he is sure he can take no more, he passes out, dreams and thoughts of the past his only company.

#

Spock's first memory is of his mother, the smell of her like fog. Like that Wet World from which she came. On Terra, water sits in the air, condensed and white, hovering like a mobile.

"Greetings, piglet," Komekh says.

He is not a piglet. He is not a Vulcan. He is not a human. He is one year and fourteen days old and therefore knows these sorts of things.

Blood—red blood—flushes Komekh's cheeks as she removes her head cover, tosses the cloth onto a table.

Pink, sunburnt nose.

Wavy strands of dark hair fall from a bun that has lost structural integrity.

"Did you have an acceptable and logical day? Were you a good boy for T'Ru?"

"Komekh," he whines, and reaches for her from the floor, where he is completing a geometric puzzle.

She kisses him on the cheeks and forehead, holds him tightly.

Then, because it is Friday, the two of them light candles. For Shabbat. An illogical human custom that Sarek allows because he believes it an acceptable sensory experience for Spock. Twenty minutes before the Vulcan sun sets, Komekh asks Samekh, as she always does, if he will join them. Samekh, as always, declines.

"Alright then," says Komekh.

After Samekh leaves, she begins to pray in the language reserved only for such occasions then says, "Lights, 100%." The dark room illuminates, and the orange flicker of Sabbath candles fades into the swath of other photons, less bright now.

Spock touches Komekh's pink, pink cheeks. Then touches his own. "Pink?" he asks.

Later that night, he finds scissors and cuts his cheek then looks in the mirror, expecting to find red blood like his mother's. It is green, however.

"Spock!" calls his father, and tears the scissors from his hand. "Pi'veh, what did you do?"

"Cut," says Spock.

Samekh cleans the cut and rubs the skin with dermal regenerator, puts a bandage overtop and rocks Spock to sleep with a bottle.

#

His second memory involves scissors, too.

He is almost two Standard years old. He has a large vocabulary and eats many diverse foods and is nearly weaned.

The matter of concern is his hair. It is customary at 18 months for Vulcan boys to receive their first haircut in the style characteristic of their people. Amanda does not wish him to cut until he is three, as is the tradition in her family.

But Spock does not have red blood, as his komekh does, and as her family has. Therefore, he must cut his hair in the Vulcan way. He walks into his Samekh's study, climbs onto the chair then onto the desk, picks the lock on the drawer with a pen, then removes the scissors inside.

He jogs to the bathroom. His nanny T'Ru calls him.

Before she can catch him, he is in the bathroom and has locked the door. He climbs onto the sink cabinet and cuts.

His left eyebrow props up in his reflection.

It is done, and he hopes that he is sufficiently Vulcan now.

#

A few months after his seventh birthday, Spock's father invites him into his study. "Sit," says Sarek, taking his own seat behind a desk, his hands folded neatly on the wooden flattop. Spock sits on the stool provided him, fingers interlaced as he sets them into his lap.

"You are engaged to be bonded to L'na Syl T'Pring of the House Ralas."

Spock waits for his father to continue, but he says nothing else.

"I have not met L'na Syl T'Pring but I have every reason to believe that you have secured a logical match," Spock says then returns to his bedroom to monitor the growth of silbium moss in his terrarium.

On the day of bonding, he and T'Pring touch their fingers and there is a tingle of electricity. From her there is mild curiosity, boredom at the ceremony, scientific fascination at the half-human, half Vulcan, a desire to know if any of his interests coincide with hers.

It turns out that they do. They are compatible across a number of points.

T'Pring is a formidable three-dimensional chess opponent and a competent competitor in the games of Go, kal-toh, and pleenok.

They meet once each twenty-five days to play various abstract strategy games for a period of three hours.

When Spock turns fourteen, his mother suggests that he and T'Pring expand their courtship. They visit the Museum of Pre-Warp Astronautics. Following a visit to each exhibit, they dine at a restaurant that specialises in dumplings. Spock learns her interests. They include trade economics, civil engineering and urban design, and pre-Reform history covering the Red Age, the New Awakening Period, and the Emergence.

Top of her class at the Shi'kar Academy for Natural Science, she has succeeded beyond what was expected considering her mid-ranking House in a nearly extinct Clan.

She sews, knits, and does woodwork and pottery.

Before he leaves for Starfleet, she presents him with a ka'athyra, one that she has crafted herself. It is made of the finest, dark, sher skah. The trees that supply the wood grow in the mountains on her clan's land.

"Your work is detailed and precise, and I can perceive no faults," he says upon receiving the gift. He strokes the silk strings and the resulting sound is full, lush. "Your skill in carpentry is impressive."

"I am gratified you think so. There is great nobility in working with one's hands. Hands built this city," she says, gesturing her head outside.

They are silent for several moments. Spock replaces the lyre into its fine, hard leather case.

"I cannot stay here," he says.

T'Pring faces him straight on. She has never been one to look away.

"What can Starfleet offer you that the Vulcan Science Academy cannot?" she asks.

"Professors who do not resent my presence—my entire personhood," says Spock. "Is it not logical to attend where one is wanted?"

"You are wanted here," she says. "I desire you here."

T'Pring will not attend an institute of higher learning. Following the conclusion of her secondary education, she will begin work on an engineering project that will extract water from minerals abundant in the range of volcanos outside Shi'kahr. Should she perform well on the project, she will begin work on environmental engineering work on Tetra, a Vulcan Colony in the early phases of development.

"Are we not parted and never parted?" says Spock.

When he'd announced his choice to attend Starfleet to the Board, he had not considered that T'Pring would not support his choice.

"I do not wish to have an absentee husband," T'Pring says.

Spock lacks her bravery. He looks away from the stab of her gaze.

She is thinking of her father and of the mother he left behind to raise T'Pring alone. A transport ship's captain in deep space, she rarely saw him more than once a decade. It is the way of things, but it is a way that has left its mark.

"I…consider you an integral part of my life," says Spock.

"I have made a similar assessment in regards to you." T'Pring is perfectly poised, hair braided up into a high bun, jewellery embedded in the strands.

They conclude their meal peaceably and head to T'Pring's flat. She has only just moved in in preparation for her work beginning in a few months.

He brushes his fingers against hers as they enter through the front door. She turns and looks at him, nods, heads to her room. A thin mattress sits atop wood planks.

She takes down her hair. He has never seen it thus. Dark, almost black, hair brushes against her tailbone. Next, T'Pring removes her necklace. Her sandals.

She is lovely, indeed. He approaches her as she undoes her adornments, close enough that he can see the pulsing of blood in her neck. "Is it your intention to test my control?" he asks.

There is a break in her stoic countenance. A tiny—the tiniest—smile. "Have my attempts thus far been successful?"

"Is that not obvious?" Spock answers, glancing down to the hardness pressing through his trousers.

That night is the first night they join bodies and also the last. T'Pring has made her decision. She wishes their bond severed now, before time makes it more difficult.

"So easily you would have me banished from your mind?" she says.

"No more easily than you would abandon me for Starfleet."

"Is it not enough to know that we will be together psychically? Am I not enough?" he asks.

"Perhaps not, Spock, son of Sarek."

It is a painful loss, but all V'tosh youth between the ages of sixteen and nineteen learn the practise of enok-ka-fi, an advanced form of meditation that allows one to feel no pain. For the length of his time as a cadet, Spock feels nothing as a result. He learns. He excels. He breaks records. His mind feels like it's not his own mind. It is so far away from him. Mother calls it heartbreak, but Spock rejects this hypothesis. The more reasonable explanation is that he is devoted to his studies.

During his first posting on a research vessel, he feels sensation return. He remembers what it is like to be fascinated by the way that molecules with the same component parts can have completely different behaviours based on their structure. The powdery substance found on the surface of a Telkanis moon is identical atomically to a hard, quartz-like rock native to Vulcan.

It is highly reactive. The moon is all explosions and wild fires.

It is during his stay here that he receives a missive from Komekh informing him of T'Pring's marriage to a man named Stonn. Spock burns the missive in one of the moon's many fires, not from sadness or grief but a feeling of 'good riddance'. It is a relief to watch the flimsy paper disintegrate into asshes,

Later, T'Pring herself reaches out. A call once Spock has returned to Terra.

"I wish to offer my regrets for the way I terminated our bond so abruptly when I did. My emotional control was not as strong as it should have been, and I realise now that I sought to hurt you in the same way you hurt me by choosing to go to Starfleet," she says onscreen.

"I am gratified to hear your voice and to inform you that I feel no ill will in regards to you. It pleases me that you have found someone else who can be the person you require," he says, realising he absolutely means those words, that there is no bitterness as he assumed there would be.

"That is pleasing news," she says.

It is shortly after that conversation that Spock meets Nyota at Addis Ababa University.

Their association is not friendly but he is entranced by her all the same. Like those wild fires on the Telkanis moon, she is reactive and easily set ablaze. Spock learns through her that he has a soft spot for bright, burning things. In a pathetic bout of poetic tangent, he notes that her given name does mean star.

He is surprised and gratified when she agrees to transfer to Starfleet under his suggestion.

He is surprised when she is a student in his class and he is exposed to ideas he had not previously considered through her research and writing.

He is surprised by every little detail of her person. The flecks of light in her irises. The set of her jaw when she has proven her point effectively in a class discussion. The pitch of her voice when she becomes frustrated by another's ignorance. She is a proud woman and Spock wonders how she became so.

He wishes to discover more about her thoughts, opinions, and views. What is her family life like? How did she come into her interests? These details he would typically find irrelevant in another, but nonetheless he is curious about them in her case. She provides an intellectual challenge, and when he is around her, he feels under the compulsion of an electromagnetic force.

Spock does not liken it to how he used to feel about T'Pring, or how he feels about his friends. It is a stranger feeling than that. Like he is on high-alert. Hypersensitive. Her presence provokes feelings in him with which he is no familiar. Not necessarily positive. Not necessarily negative.

Simply a disruption.

She does not like him; this much is clear. She leaves his class immediately at dismissal, never lingering to talk like the other students, who have questions about their research or this and that project.

When he agrees with a statement she makes during discussions during seminar, she quickly changes her opinion. Spock is not used to being unliked, and it is a reality that no longer bothers him. But when it comes to Nyota, he simply wishes to know what it is about him that disturbs her so.

He consults Captain Christopher Pike about the matter over a cup of coffee and plate of pastries at a café near the Academy campus.

"Does she remain upset about the part I played in the Skeleton Scrolls?" asks Spock. It is not logical to speculate. He knows that he should confront Cadet Uhura personally about what upsets her. "Seeing the logic of her position, I did all that I could with the little power that I have in the Fleet to make sure they were returned to their home."

Pike nods, stuffs a bite of chocolate-filled croissant into his mouth. "Did you apologise?" Pike asks.

Spock's brow crinkles. "I did not. I believed the Scrolls effective return to the East African State Alliance was gesture enough to convey my regrets," he says.

Pike shrugs between sips of coffee. "Politics are deeply personal, Spock. One wrong word, one difference of opinion, can be hard to let go of, grand gestures or not. Maybe she thinks you think less of her because of her background. This was the speech where you said that her university was inferior to Starfleet, right? Now, regardless of what you meant…"

"I see now how my words might have had lasting harmful effect, but I never told Cadet Uhura I believed her inferior, nor have I done anything but convey my deep respect for her intellect and for her thoughts," he says.

"Well, what people think doesn't always line up with reality. And sometimes, you think you're conveying one thing, and people are actually perceiving another. We're flawed creatures. We make false conclusions all the time, right? Even Vulcans make bad judgments sometimes, wouldn't you say?"

Spock considers interactions with his people as well as the last several thousand years of Vulcan history. "Indeed."

"Just be nice to her. Reach out to her. Eventually, she'll get it. I foresee you two working together a lot in the future, and you may be the only one qualified to be her thesis advisor. It wouldn't be good for that relationship to be marred." Pike gestures his hand toward the waitress for the check, and Spock cuts off a piece of cinnamon roll with his fork to bite into.

"Tonight she will be presenting some of her research in a speech at the Open House event. I have invited my mother to hear her. Perhaps that will be a worthwhile opportunity to engage in conversation with Cadet Uhura? I returned her class's first papers back just before this meeting, and I look forward to discussing her ideas. Would tonight's event be an acceptable venue?" Spock asks Chris.

"See, you're getting the hang of it, that sounds like a wonderful idea," says Chris with a smile.

But Nyota seems no more amicable to him after he talks to her after her speech. Whilst she is kind to Amanda, her conversation with Spock is perfunctory. They have only been talking five minutes when she says that she wishes to leave.

He insists on walking her back to her dormitory and through no will of his own—some part of his unconscious must have taken over—he invites her to his flat for evening meal.

And after some hesitation, she agrees.

They talk in an open manner and he gets some indications about why she feels the way she does about him. When she leaves, they part no longer as enemies, but as friends.

She starts to linger after class. She always sits on his desk though there is more appropriate seating available. They debate frequently on world issues. She comes to his office hours. When both are free, they dine together in the mess.

For her 20th birthday she invites him to 'hang out' with some of her friends, which entails a picnic in a park off-campus. Spock is relieved that he is not the only faculty member at the lunch.

When it starts to rain, they all run together to a coffee shop and spend the rest of the afternoon there. It is not unpleasant, and she sits next to him for the duration of their time there.

Her friends give her presents. A credit certificate to a store called 'Sephora.' A necklace and pair of earrings. A hand knitted-scarf. A tin can filled with a particularly aromatic tea. Some candles.

Again, Spock is relieved he is not the only one who thought to bring a gift. He hands her his present last, a small package.

"Ooo, what's this?" she asks, and shakes it next to her ears.

"Though your aural sensitivity is commendable, I do not believe you will be able to ascertain the contents of the box by sound alone."

She sticks her tongue out at him, and the others at the table laugh. Cadet Uhura unfolds the wrapping slowly, then examines the book inside.

The cover is blank and brown, old. The binding is no longer used. The spine sewn together by hand then reinforced with a form of very sticky glue found on Vulcan. Cadet Uhura flips it only, squints as she reads the text.

"Is this a diary, Commander?" she asks.

He nods his head. "Yes. It dates to approximately 1008 years ago."

"Is this Vulkhansu?" she says as she examines the handwritten script, her fingertips gentle as she rubs them over the ink.

"It is believed to be a proto-Vulcan script from a Clan of people no longer with us. I thought you might endeavour to decipher the language."

She flips through the diary silently, her touch careful and precise.

"And do not be concerned that you have stolen something from the V'tosh people. The book has been in my family's possession for some years and I wish to give it to someone who might actually give it the care and attention it deserves."

"That's really something, Commander," says Cadet Marcus, leaning over to get a look at it.

"Yes," says Nyota, and looks up from the diary for the first time since opening it. "Thank you. You are…this is so thoughtful. Thank you. I promise I will take good care of it, and I will return it to you once I have decoded it," she says.

That will not be necessary but he lets the matter drop.

The rest of their time together continues on nicely, and somehow, Spock is last to leave.

He buys Nyota a glass of wine and procures a hot cocoa for himself as it gets late into the night.

"I feel so warm and bubbly, like I can do anything," says Nyota.

"I believe that you can," Spock says.

She finishes her first glass quickly and moves on to the second. "The year is almost over, you know."

"I know," says Spock.

"December means winter break, then I won't be in your class anymore."

Spock takes a sip of his cocoa. "I am aware."

"Will you miss me?" she asks, finger twirling in her hair.

"It is my wish that we continue our association."

She smiles widely, looks down into her glass. "Me, too. I am really glad I came here, Commander. To the States. To Starfleet. And I'm glad you came to University of Addis Ababa and made a complete ass of yourself, and I'm glad I was my usual ridiculous, self-righteous, indignant, impetuous self, so that we could cross paths. Thank you for being here with me tonight. Thank you for being such a devoted teacher and friend."

He knows not what to say so he nods his gratitude for her kind words. He walks her back to her dormitory, and as Spock is on route back to his own flat, he understands that his feelings for Nyota have veered into the territory of the inappropriate. He wants to be next to her always and that is not how a teacher should feel toward his students. Further, he is six years her senior.

He endeavours to meditate those feelings away, and he does so with some success.

Still, he considers her his friend and he behaves accordingly.

When she's not longer a student in his class following her first semester at Starfleet, they make time to grab lunch or dinner with each other in the mess at least once a week.

He considers her his t'kam'la. Cherished student. He makes an effort to support her in her studies even though she's no longer his student. He helps build her skills in inferential statistical methodology. He is pleased that she has decided to take several statistics courses. He believes it unnecessary, but her commitment to improving her research impresses him.

The summer following her first year at Starfleet, she remains on campus as his research assistant, a role that ends at the beginning of her second year when she becomes his TA for Introductory Xenophonology.

They discuss personal affairs. Their homes and their families and their goals.

He knows that something unpleasant and dark lies in her past, and half of her desire to go to the stars is so she can escape from it.

One night, when they are walking from the relay-lab to the mess for dinner, she asks him about his 'love life' as it were. "Are you betrothed?" she asks, her arms wrapped around herself to stave off the evening chill. It is January, and the night is cold and wet.

"I am not. I was in the past, but that relationship concluded. Her name was T'Pring. We still communicate via the occasional email and video chat, and I consider her a friend."

Cadet Uhura nods. "That's good. How about—you don't have a girlfriend or anything, do you? Forgive me if I'm being too nosy. I just got curious all of the sudden," she says.

"I do not."

"Have you been with anyone since T'Pring?"

He does not know if she means 'been with' in the sexual since—in which case, the answer is yes—or if she means 'been with' in the extended, long, romantic relationship sense—in which case, the answer is no.

"I have not been in a relationship since T'Pring, no. And you, Cadet? Have you been in many relationships?"

She walks a few more steps silently, her boots clicking on the concrete. "Zero," she says. "Well, pretty much zero."

"That surprises me. It is my impression from my observations that many covet you," he says.

"It takes me a long time to feel comfortable around people is all. I'm kind of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of girl. Do you think of her often? T'Pring?"

"There was a time when I thought of her daily."

"You loved her?"

"Yes," he answers honestly. She'd lived in his mind for over a decade.

"And now? Some people say love is forever, that it never really goes away."

"She will always contain a certain amount of importance because I knew her for so long, but my romantic feelings for her are no longer present. She is married now and expecting a child, and I wish her only peace and a long, prosperous life. I am afraid it is someone else much less attainable who fills my thoughts now."

There is a noticeable hesitation in Nyota's next step, a pause before she clears her throat and speaks. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yes," he affirms.

"A doomed love sort of thing? Faulted stars and all? Are they Romulan? Or wait, I know. She is ridiculously rich and you, a poor farm boy, who her father refuses to allow—"

"It is nothing so dramatic as that, Cadet. Come now, we must hurry should we wish to eat before the mess hall closes."

That night, he meditates until dawn. He does not know what came over him that made him confess that small hint of his affection to her.

He endeavours to put distance between himself and Nyota. She continues to be his TA during the second semester of her second year, but he promotes more effective boundaries between them: no more shared meals, no more personal conversations.

If she is hurt by it, she does not show it. He suspects that she understands, that she has known all along.

Still, it is painful when she goes on summer leave without so much as saying good bye to him.

#

There is a 22-day mission to take place over this summer and Spock loses himself in preparations to stave off feelings of missing Uhura.

Starfleet has reserved five spots for cadets who show significant promise, and Spock peruses the roster of those who'se applied and been accepted.

Name: Darwin, Aisha

Major: Stellar Physics

Name: Marcus, Carol

Major: Biocomputation & Nuclear Physics

Name: Kirk, James T.

Major: Political Science

Name: Sulu, Hikaru

Major: History and Astrogation

Name: Yazid, Hawa

Major: Archaeology

They are a mix of rising second through fourth years, and Nyota is not among them.

Spock supposes it is possible that Nyota applied and was not accepted, though the chances of such are quite unlikely considering her accomplishments.

Had she not applied after all? Spock only volunteered for the mission because Nyota mentioned Spring Semester that she would be going and therefore would not be able to work as his lab assistant over the summer.

The chime on Spock's office door dings, and Spock tells the computer, "Open."

It is Lieutenant Junior Grade Su-Laush. She stands at attention, a PADD in her left hand. "Greetings, Lieutenant," says Spock. "At ease."

"Lieutenant-Commander," she says, nodding. Her blood is iron-based, like most humanoids, and despite her blue skin, Spock can see her blush dark red, almost purple. He intimidates her, as he intimidates most people.

He takes a seat behind his desk in an attempt to lessen the effect of his stature.

"I'm here about equipment requests for the upcoming mission on Xigma, Sir. Commander Silko requested I verify each order in person, see what's really necessary," says Ru'Laush.

Ah, yes. Budget constraints. A three-week exploratory and excavation mission on an uninhabited planet, its life-forms all extinct, is not one of Starfleet's priorities.

"Thankfully, we have a little more room than expected," Ru'Laush continues. "I spoke to Uhura this morning and she insists she'll be able to retrofit the old wave compressors with buffers from some consoles not in use, which means the 90,000 credit equipment allowance reserved for her can be split amongst the rest of your team."

Spock knows that he has not misheard, but he questions the Junior Lieutenant anyway. "Uhura? You refer to rising third-year Second Class Cadet Nyota Uhura?" he asks.

Is there an error in the roster? He scans the form on his PADD one more time, confirming that she is not on the list of cadets who will be attending the mission on Xigma-L.

"Ensign Uhura, actually," says Ru'Laush. "She'll be under Lieutenant Saladin's team, if I'm remembering correctly."

Ensign. That is a development of which Spock was not aware. The reason she is not on the list of cadets is because technically she is no longer one.

"You may similarly distribute any credits allotted to me amongst others. My tricorder will be sufficient for my purposes, and I assume there will be a central lab available for use?"

"Correct, but you'll want to sign up for a shift early," she says.

He dismisses her, and with a salute, she leaves.

"Computer, close door."

He hears the click of the dogging mechanism, and he turns on the screen of his computer, opens his messaging system. He prepares to send Uhura, Ensign Uhura, a short video 'congratulations' as it customary for such promotions.

He clicks the record button and begins:

"Ensign Uhura, I have received word of your promotion. I believe congratulations are in order. You continue to be remarkable and worthy of admiration. Live Long and Prosper."

He sends the message and opens up the submission form so he can request laboratory time.

A minute later, there is a video reply from Uhura. Spock straightens, takes a sip of his tea, and presses play.

It takes a moment for the feed to unblur, and when it does, she appears on-screen. It would be illogical to reach out and press his finger to the video representation of her cheek, but exactly how illogical, he wonders? Unforgivably illogical? Yes.

Her hair is in a bun, but it is looser than he's used to seeing it, strands falling around her face. Her shirt is—could one even call it a shirt? There are no sleeves but for the stringiest piece of fabric over her shoulders.

"Mama, I'm coming, one second!" she yells in Swahili, then readjusts the camera and looks at it straight on. "Sorry about that. Hi, Commander. Thank you for your message. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I haven't had any time. I return to San Francisco tomorrow. I can tell you about it in person, if you'd like. I hope you're well. Bye."

The feed cuts off, and Spock clicks replay, memorising each detail of Uhura's face. There is an uncharacteristically thick layer of concealer under her eyes. Usually, she wears none. Dark circles. She has not been sleeping well.

She does not smile. Her manner is uneasy. Is it he who has caused her discomfort?

Spock prepares to send another message, this time taking a breath to relax any tension that might be present in his muscles. "Uhura—Nyota. Is it acceptable for me to call you that as we are off duty? As you are no longer my student no my assistant, and are an official recruit of Starfleet, it seems appropriate. I look forward to your return tomorrow. Would you be amenable to my retrieving you from the shuttleport? I thought that you had not planned to return for another two weeks."

Spock makes no pretence of working whilst he waits for Nyota's response. He watches the notification alerts, immediately clicking open when it comes, then play.

"Yes, Spock," she says with a slight smile. "You can call me Nyota. And I'd love it if you picked me up. Means I won't have to spring for a hovertaxi. I'll message you my flight information. I'm looking forward to seeing you, too, Spock. Okay? I really am. We'll talk later. I miss you."

He replays the message nine times.

When Nyota does arrive the next day, 4:30 in the afternoon, she has a large, black backpack duffel on over her shoulders, another bag over her elbow, a small handbag, and a suitcase with wheels.

Catching sight of him, she smiles, and he is pleased to perceive it looks genuine. Her mood seems remarkably improved from yesterday, though there is still a heaviness to her demeanour.

"Ensign," he says, using her new rank.

Her smile widens upon hearing it, creasing her eyes. "I thought we established we were on a first name basis now?" she says.

"I decided an exception in this case was warranted. Come," says Spock, holding out a hand so that he can take one of her bags. He would gladly accept all of them, though he knows Nyota would not appreciate it. All Academy attendees have learned intense self-reliance, independence. The only limits are those you place on yourself, that is what they tell all first-years, fourth-class cadets during their six-week basic training.

Nyota hands Spock the roller-bag and follows her to his flitter. She is not especially talkative, but Spock is simply relieved to be in her presence. It has only been three weeks. To think had she stayed the whole five, as she originally planned.

"You said yesterday in your message that you would explain your promotion," says Spock, wishing to hear her voice.

She shrugs, her head resting back against the passenger side seat. "I still don't know to be honest. I think since I finished most of the academic requirements before I came here, I was able to spend what was supposed to be class time doing the necessary military, tactical, and physical training. I think—part of me thinks it's kind of political? Starfleet's come under a lot of attack lately about how human it is, to the exclusion of other species, and even among humans, it's not particularly, um, diverse. But honestly, I'm not complaining."

Spock recalls that on his first station, he is one of two non-humans on a ship with a forty-person crew. "Indeed," he says.

"I'm here for two more years taking extra classes, so I'm an Ensign only in name. I admit, though, it feels pretty damn good. And how about you? How've you been?"

Better now that she has returned.

"I have been adequate. Summers allow me time to continue work on personal projects without the distraction of students. How was your summer, besides the obvious elation your promotion evoked?"

She shifts her head to the side so she can look out her window. "Not great, actually."

"You are back early," adds Spock.

"I—yeah."

"Why?" he asks.

She runs her finger over median of the flitter, shrugs. "Because."

"That is a fragment that reveals no information," Spock says.

"Why do you care so much, anyway, huh?" says Nyota. The words strike Spock as combative, but her coy smile suggests she means her statement in jest. "Do you wish I'd stayed gone?"

Spock keeps his hands rested on his lap in the flitter as the car flies itself, unsure of the acceptable reply, deciding ultimately on complete honesty. "I believe you are deflecting because you do not desire to reveal the reason for your early return. You need only say so, Nyota. I have no wish to pry into matters you would rather keep private."

She bows her head.

"You need not hide your face from me," he tells her.

"Not hiding. Just. Regrouping," she says. She lifts her head then smiles at him, composure re-established. "I don't think I could hide from you if I wanted."

"No?" he asks.

"No."

Silence grows between them, their eyes on each other.

"I saw someone I hadn't seen in a very long time and it kind of threw me off. That's all."

"Someone unpleasant?"

She snorts. "You could say that."

"If you wish to discuss another matter, you need only say so," says Spock. "As I stated previously, I do not wish to force you to engage in uncomfortable conversations."

She flips the enviro-controls in the flitter, taps her finger on the glove compartment in front of her. "It's fine. I'm fine. I've just never told anyone, you know?"

Spock nods and makes a speed adjustment on the autopilot. The landing on this model of flitter is manual, and he wants to make sure the incoming velocity is adequate for when he makes his descent.

"Have you ever felt like you're crazy?" she asks. "Like you're remembering everything wrong? Like you made the whole thing up in your head?"

Spock considers the question, and after 2.1 seconds, answers. "I feel that way only when someone else's version of events conflicts with my own, and I have reason to trust their judgment."

Nyota nods her head forcefully. "That's exactly it," she says. "I was just a kid. Children are imaginative. Or maybe it did happen, but it wasn't as bad as all that, as I remember it. Or maybe I started the whole thing. How can I trust my memory if when I saw him, he asked me…he asked me how I was, what I was studying, have I been well. He was nice. Decent. Like there was nothing between us. Not baggage. No shared history. I just, I'm sorry, Spock. I know this probably sounds like nonsense to you."

Spock remains quiet over on the drive side, his eyes on the airspace in front of them.

"Has my rambling scared you away?" asks Nyota.

"No," he answers.

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure," says Spock. "Of whom do you speak, Nyota?" he asks. "Are you willing to say?"

He begins to land the car though they are not yet at her dormitory. He puts the flitter down on a quiet street just outside the Academy campus.

"My old Track and Field coach," she says, eyes forward. He posture stiffens.

"Is there more you wish to tell me?"

She bites her lip, looks off to the side as a woman on her bike rides by. "Yes."

"Then I am here. You may speak to me at your comfort and leisure."

"I don't know why I suddenly need to tell you this," she says.

She swallows and turns to look at him, a sad smile on her face.

"Would it make you more comfortable to speak together in a different locale?" asks Spock.

"No. I love cars. Especially flitters. You can go anywhere in them. It's like running, but without all the physical work."

Spock is not sure he understands but he nods his head to offer support.

"When I was younger," she starts, "I guess I was between the ages of 12 and 14. To put it simply, I'm the girl who fucked her track coach. There. I said it. It's done."

She gulps a breath and trains her eyes out her side window.

"Shit, say something, please," she says.

What words could he possibly speak? What phrase is adequate response to such a question?

"Spock, did you hear me?"

"I heard you," he says and reaches one of his hands toward Nyota. "May I?" he asks. "May I touch my hand to yours? Only if you are willing and comfortable with such a gesture."

She stares at his hand for a moment before nodding her head and grabbing hold of him with her left palm tightly, squeezing him with all her strength.

Spock sends to her what he can of his sorrow, anger, warmth, admiration, affection. "You did not deserve to have such great harm befall you, Nyota," he says.

Though by the time she spoke her revelation he had intuited what she would say, it was still a great physical and emotional blow to hear the one he cherished so much confess such a terrible truth. He is uncertain that what he expresses to her through the touch of his hand conveys the weight of his reaction.

She jerks her hand away and wipes away a tear that begins to fall from her eye. "Thank you for that," she says. "Do you mind if we just sit here a minute?"

"I do not," says Spock, hoping that he had not unconsciously fed her some of his rage, too…that she would mistakenly feel it directed at herself rather than at the one who violated her.

"I understand if you no longer want to be friends," she says.

"I want no such thing."

"Are you sure?" asks Nyota.

"Yes."

He wishes to tell her that not only does he wish her to remain his friend, but he wants to become more than that to her, as well. That these feelings he has when it comes to her show no signs of abating. Her presence pleases him and it is his goal to take care of her every need. Though he longs to be that man who knows the right words to speak when handling such a confession, he is instead the man who sits quietly and ineffectually next to her in the gently humming flitter.

"Sometimes I think that I got exactly what was coming to me," she says.

"Nyota," he says, unable to find the words to tell her how precisely wrong she is to think that, and unsure if it is appropriate to invalidate her feelings by saying such a thing anyway.

"I know it's not true but I can't help but think it anyway. It was so easy for him to do what he did, and sometimes I make myself sick thinking about those who might've done it to before me, and even worse, after because I said nothing. Because I was too ashamed. I was supposed to be the smart one, but all it took was saying that I was special and I fell for it so hard. Sometimes I look back at my younger self and just think, stupid, stupid, stupid girl. I hate you and I'm glad it happened to you because it's what you deserved."

Spock wishes to reach out and touch her, to tell her that the rage he feels at her younger self (and by extension her present self), is so completely unwarranted.

"There is no sin is being defenceless, Nyota. All children are thus and that is why adults are commissioned to protect, not exploit them," says Spock. "Were I to introduce to you a child going through such a trauma at the present moment, what words would you speak to her? Would you tell her that she was stupid? That you hate her? That she deserved her fate simply for the tact that her youth and her innocence made her an easy target for a predator who sought to coerce and manipulate to fulfil his deviant and reprehensible desires?" he asks.

"No," says Nyota.

"Then what would you tell her?"

Nyota pauses before answering, her eyes closed. "I would tell her, whoever she was, that she is precious, dear, and worthy of protection and happiness."

"As you are, Nyota," says Spock.

Another tear rolls down her cheek. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm telling you all this, please, Jesus, don't tell anyone, okay? Please?"

"I will not," he says.

"I'm so sorry," says Nyota.

"You have nothing for which to be sorry," he says

"Don't I? I mean, sometimes I guess I wanted it? I felt like I was better than the others. I could be trusted. I was an adult and the others wouldn't understand. They were just jealous because I was so fast. I was leaving them behind."

She looks over at him, her eyes glassy with liquid that does not fall. "I really won't think less of you if you want to cut things off. Our friendship. I promise you I'm not some girl who just goes about preying on her teachers, but yeah, if you feel that way, I understand. Maybe it's true after all, I don't know. Sometimes when I consider how I feel…how I feel about you...I don't know what to think. Maybe it is something wrong with me. Something written in my DNA. I can leave, though. I'll take a taxi the rest of the way."

She makes a move to leave the flitter, but Spock calls her to stay as she opens door.

"Nyota. Please do not take my silence as condemnation. My emotions are quite volatile at this time, and I cannot always give voice to what I feel. Your experience has not diminished all that I know you to be. I had previously considered the adage 'if I could turn back time' to be illogical and overly emotional. I must admit at this time I would do much and give much to have such an ability."

Nyota uses her sleeve to wipe her face. "Can we go back to your place or something?" she asks, then sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. "And I don't mean that how it sounds. I just, I don't want to have to deal with an empty, lonely room and a bed with no sheets, a closed mess hall."

Spock nods. "It is of no concern."

He sets the controls and reroutes the flitter toward his flat. It's only five minutes away.

He prepares her soup and salad once they arrive. They go out to a movie, which turns out to be terrible, but they drink spirits and eat popcorn and chocolate sweets. She leans her head onto his shoulder and whispers into his ear when something particularly ridiculous happens onscreen, and in the dark of the theatre, he lets himself almost smile.

After the movie, they go to a salsa club. Spock pointedly refuses to take part but he watches her move from his spot in a corner table, appreciative of her form and of the music.

After the club, a 24-hour coffee shop.

After that, they are both hungry again, and they eat at a diner. It is 3 in the morning before too long, and Spock knows that Nyota is not anxious to go home, either to his place or to her dorm.

When she is finally so tired she cannot keep her eyes open, Spock takes her back to his flat. He lays her in his bed and meditates for the rest of the evening in his living room. When she awakes at seven in the morning, apologetic, they decide to go on a run together.

Around noon, she is finally ready to go to her dormitory.

"Nyota," says Spock, the rhythm of her first name still unfamiliar on his teeth, tongue, and lips.

"Yes, Comman—Spock," she says, grinning softly.

He pauses to gather his courage, hopeful that this is the right time to pose this question. "Would you be amenable to a personal social call in my company involving sustenance?" he asks, relieved once the words are out.

"Do you mean eat lunch together?" she asks, scanning her key card over the pad by her dorm room. The lock disengages and she pushes open the door with her shoulder.

"Yes. That is what I mean," says Spock. He follows Nyota into her room, a bare, grey-walled double.

"Yeah, we can eat lunch together. I kind of just assumed we would, since we pretty much always do when I'm around," says Nyota. "How about we grab curry from that one take out place? Then we can eat back in your lab. Did somebody already tell you I'm going to try retrofitting the sonic wave compressor with the buffer from those old consoles we used to use in the first-year communications tech class? I think it will save some money and solve some of the transmission problems we noticed before the school year let out. If not, I'll play around with the sensor modules to see if they need to be recalibrated," she says. Her attitude noticeably brightens as she discusses her work, now oriented on a particular task.

Nyota lets her duffel bag slip from her shoulders, and it falls to the floor with a thud. "Does that sound like a plan?" she asks.

She has misread his intentions. Yes, they frequently dine together. Takeout or a quick meal in the mess. He had intended the invitation to be for something more formal.

Two friends. Dining. Formally. Friends.

She is clearly overworked as well as exhausted by her confessions yesterday. He desires to treat her, as a friend.

"I have allowed the robotics club use of my lab for the afternoon," he says, "so lunch there is not feasible."

She sits on her bed, the thin mattress bouncing. "I guess we could eat here then?" she says. "I'm starving. We could order something. And um, you could help me unpack, which I'm sure you're just dying to do."

He recognises her tone as one of sarcasm, but truly, he does not mind.

"That is agreeable," says Spock.

The roller-bag Spock has chosen to unpack contains only food, to be exact, eighty 350-mililiter silver freezer bags labelled so you don't starve. Spock has seen these storage bags before. Insulated simonium. Once frozen, the contents do not thaw unless the package is opened.

"My mom is a little bit over-protective," says Nyota. "And borderline paranoid. She doesn't trust the food in the mess. She also always insists I've gotten thinner when I come back home for short leaves, even though I've gained one stone of muscle in my two years here." Nyota squats and unzips her duffel bag, filled entirely with shoes.

"Is it necessary to order food when we have all of this available?" Spock asks, putting the freeze-bags onto one of her closet shelves.

"It's all meat, I'm afraid, so it wouldn't be too good for you."

"This bag here is says sukuma wiki. Is that not collard greens?"

Nyota nods and undoes her ponytail, sweeps the strands that have escaped at the nape of her neck, and redoes her hair into a low, loose bun. "Collard greens cooked in bone broth. There's probably oxtail in there, too," she says.

"What about this ugali?" he asks.

"Again, cooked in chicken bone broth," Nyota says, shrugging apologetically. "Sorry. When I was vegetarian for a short while at university, my mother sincerely thought I'd joined a cult. She was so concerned. She even had a meeting with our priest. She's kind of old fashioned. Eventually she kind of came around, which means she would pick out the big pieces of meat in food she served me, at least, but her progress kind of plateaued there."

Spock continues to put away the food. "Mothers are fascinating creatures."

Nyota inhales breath quickly through her nose and mouth. Spock identifies the resulting sound as a 'snort.' "Fascinating is certainly one word for it," she says, as she continues to unpack. Suddenly exhausted by her actions, she bounces onto the bare bed. "Hey, come here," she says, pulling her legs up onto her mattress, crossing them in a pose similar to the lotus position utilised in yoga.

He goes to her bed, near the headboard, the opposite of where she is at the footboard.

"You can sit if you want," she says.

The door to her dorm room is wide open, and Spock decides that it is not inappropriate. Though instead of seating himself on the mattress, he pulls out the chair from under her desk.

"I've missed you these last few weeks," says Uhura.

"Twenty-two days, nine hours, and two minutes have passed since our last in-person contact," Spock says. They have not been apart that long since her enrolment at the Academy. Winter break is only a two-week leave.

"Thank you for yesterday," she says.

Spock nods. "Thank you for trusting me with such painful information. I trust that you know I am available to discuss it with you whenever and if ever you wish to."

Nyota's stomach growls and she smiles."Maybe we should order that food." She bounces up, grabs her PADD. "What are you in the mood for? I could go for Altairian, or maybe Chinese? Tacos? Honestly, I could eat anything right now."

They decide on a little 'hole-in-the-wall' with a variety of cuisines from diverse locales across the planet and quadrant. Nyota orders for the both of them: dumplings, paratha, roti, noodles, spicy vegetables, roots mashed into fried cakes, rice, legumes, soup.

"I'm a big believer in leftovers," she says. "My mini cooling unit arrives tomorrow from storage, praise the Lord."

As is their custom, they sit on the floor across from each other, no chairs, a rug their table.

Nyota speaks vaguely about her trip home, switches quickly to discussing how much she can't wait to be on Xigma-L. Spock shares the developments he's made in his research in her short absence. They talk long after they've finished eating, Nyota's back leaned against the post of the bed, Spock again in the desk chair.

At eleven, Nyota's energy levels begin to deplete. Her head bobs back. Her eyelids become heavy.

She hangs on until 12. 1. Valiantly offering her opinions on a number of topics despite her obvious exhaustion.

"I will take my leave now, Nyota," he says.

She makes an assenting sound in the back of her throat.

"Nyota?"

She does not answer.

Spock stands, lifts her onto the bed, which still has not been covered with a sheet. He opens one of her suitcases and finds a thin sheet, covers her with it.

He flips off the light, closes the door behind him, and returns home; again, he spends the whole night in deep meditation.

#

It is Spock, rather than Uhura, who insists they both need rest.

"Fourteen hours of sustained work is more than sufficient, Ensign," he says, using her rank. Spock knows how proud it makes her to hear it.

Ensign Uhura does not hear him. Her forehead furrows, a stylus held between her teeth. The PADD connected wirelessly to the sensor module displays lines of code that she herself as written, and judging by the expression on her face, she is not pleased.

Spock intuits that she is debugging 'by hand,' which means that the various software systems meant to discern mission-critical anomalies had not picked up anything, at least not the one that she was looking for.

Nyota shifts her head from side to side, stretching the muscles of her neck. Droplets of sweat wet her skin, which has turned a redder, fuller brown since their arrival here. It is the logical repercussion of spending a full work day beneath Celta-H's three small suns.

"You are experiencing physical strain," says Spock. "Let us return to base."

"I think I'm okay for at least one more hour? I'm trying to correct the calibration on this thing so it isn't so sensitive that it picks up every little indent in the dirt where an insect has ever crawled. Before, it was effectively isolating the pictograms and other carvings, but since I changed the code to catalogue each unique shape, it's started picking up every stupid crack, every random smudge. I'm wondering if it's not something on the electrical and hardware level, rather than the software level, " says Nyota, brow still scrunched as she examines her code.

It is nineteen-hundred-hours, the sky still bright white despite the early evening hour. Spock wonders if the intense light has caused a disruption in Nyota's circadian rhythm, her pineal gland missing the signal to release melatonin.

He and Nyota had left the base site at 05:00 this morning, had woken up an hour before that. Given human norms, she should be exhausted. And indeed, they had worked through lunch with only a few 'snacks' of flavourless protein bars to sustain them. Whilst the others have taken the last two hours and twelve minutes to explore the ruins in a more leisurely fashion, including a swim in the ravine 1.2 kilometres from the dig site, Nyota remains on-task.

"I understand your wish to complete your task before the morrow. I insist, however, that we retire to the base site. You will not perform adequately if you deplete your body's resources," says Spock.

Nyota puts her hand on her hip, thumb resting on a bit of exposed skin where her shirt has ridden up. "How about a quick break—then I go back to work, and if I can't figure it out in twenty minutes, we can go back?" she says.

"Your terms are acceptable," says Spock.

Nyota removes a small parcel of foodstuff from her pocket and undoes the paper wrapper, takes a bite into something that smells of cocoa, rolled oats, cinnamon. She is silent as she eats, her eyes still on the input feed of the transpose responder, no doubt fine-tuning the algorithm in her head, reconsidering data matrices.

She is gorgeous thus.

"It's a good thing Earth doesn't have three suns. I'd never stop working. It's going to be bad enough on a star ship for me. I won't ever turn off."

Spock unscrews the cap from the jug of water they've been sharing, pushes it toward Nyota as she takes a seat on a rock protrusion, finally taking a proper respite. "Long days upward of twenty hours occur on Vulcan, too, though there is night, of course, unlike here."

Nyota nods, wipes her thumb across a smear of chocolate extending from her lip up her cheek.

The scent of cocoa combined with what Spock now recognises to be Nyota's natural odour is arresting. Spock blinks, then has the presence of mind to dull the sensory cells in his nasal cavity, to inhibit the neurotransmitters that would communicate between his glomerulus and the olfactory bulb in his frontal lobe.

It is not a perfect solution, but it allows him to remain in her proximity without becoming overly intoxicated.

"I love long days. I love sunshine. I love it when I can feel it burning my skin," she says. She licks her lips, but a miniscule amount of cocoa still remains. Then she—then she uses her tongue to lick up the melted chocolate that has affixed itself to the side of her index finger and thumb.

Her tongue actually makes contact with her fingers.

Not just once.

The side of her knuckle is nestled between her bottom and top lip, and she sucks the remaining chocolate off.

"Commander?"

"Yes," Spock says. He wishes it were practical to dull his visual perception in the same way he'd dulled his olfactory senses.

"Are you all right, Sir?" she asks.

Spock is not certain that he is.

"I am adequate," says Spock.

Nyota nods. "Okay," she says, though Spock can discern the scepticism on her face. "Perhaps you were right about returning now before it gets much later. I wasn't even thinking about how tired you must be, too. Come on, let's go."

She pulls her right arm across her chest, elongating the muscles, then switches to do the same to her left.

It's a two kilometre walk back to the base site, a far enough distance away from the narrow, shallow canyon where they're doing their research so that their equipment doesn't interfere with the various sensors and other tech in use.

They reach base and part ways, Nyota to go shower, Spock to meditate.

The camp is under a small, glass-like dome, meant to create the illusion of darkness and night so everyone might sleep properly on this so-called sun planet.

Spock recalls various conversations he has had with Nyota as he lights his asenoi, letting his body relax as the scented smoke fills his tent.

Spock begins a simple recitation in an attempt to centre himself, lets his consciousness shrink until it is nothing but a black dot, barely self-aware. He is but a primitive things in moments like this. He does not even respond to light and dark, to sound, to touch. He simply, is.

After two hours in this state, feeling more in control, he awakens from the semi-trance.

He requires sustenance in the form of food and water. The base camp is silent when he steps out of his tent, exhausted soldiers and researchers deeply asleep. Toward the centre, there is a rudimentary replicator, and Spock requests porridge. He eats it, as well as some kov-sayas butter he'd had stored in his luggage. Nut butter is a Terran invention but it has spread to Vulcan as well. It has become a rather popular meal in and of itself, though replaced with Vulcan nuts and legumes, of course.

After he's finished, it occurs to him that Nyota might have gone directly to sleep following her return to camp, given the amount she'd worked. He will stop by her tent to ascertain her well-being. Perhaps she is awake and hungry, but too tired to secure anything for herself. He can be of assistance.

Those here in a research rather than military capacity—as Nyota is—are located in barracks on the opposite side of the camp from Spock.

Her tent is unzipped, open, but no artificial light is on.

"Ensign Uhura?" he says, using her formal address in case anyone is awake to overhear. The only sound, however, is a rustle of wind.

He sees footsteps in the dirt and follows them. Follows for three kilometres until he reaches the same tunnels from which they left, though at a point farther away. Spock enters inside from a small opening. He hears water splash and follows the sound. It is almost completely dark, compared to just outside, where at least one of the suns of the planet is still shining brightly. As he takes careful steps forward through the tunnel, his eyes begin to adjust, and up ahead, he makes out the white glow of a flash light.

"Ensign Uhura," he calls out again.

The sound of splashing water ceases. "Who's there?" she asks, afraid.

"It is only I, Nyota" he says, going toward her—not sure whether she has fallen or gotten herself trapped. "I am coming for you."

The light from the lantern brightens as he approaches, and he can see the section of tunnel clearly. On a boulder sits Nyota's clothes. Shirt, jean shorts, boots, hat. Undergarments. She is standing in water a few feet below, one of the planet's rumoured hot springs. The tunnels are built through and around them. Steam rises, ensconcing Nyota in an ethereal cloud, and she looks like something otherworldly.

Nyota faces away from him, her body in the water up to her waist. He can see her bare back, her lose wet hair hanging over her shoulder. He has never seen it outside of the constrains of pins, clips, or elastics.

"Apologies," he says, frozen in place. "I will leave you to your swim," he says, though he makes no actual movements to do so, his body completely taken and stilled.

She turns her head and catches Spock's eyes, her back still to him even as she faces him. "You can stay if you want," she says. "I just thought the hot water might soothe my muscles."

She looks down, her braveness leaving her, her voice quiet and shaking with nerves.

She sinks down into the water to her neck and turns so her front is to him.

Spock can see a hint of her bare shoulders, collar bone, the inkling of the rest of her chest.

Swallowing, he turns away, but his eyes land on her clothing, where he sees her white underwear.

"Nyota," says Spock. He'd intended to say something else, something more substantial, but he can only speak her name.

She swims through the hot spring toward him. Her head disappears under the water as she moves, and Spock can see the back of her graceful form as she glides. Her shoulder blades and ass peak out of the water before she emerges near the shore.

He is uncertain if this is a seduction. If it is, her attempts to unravel him are successful. If it is not, he is responding inappropriately and he should leave now before he should feel moved to do something untoward. Something that might betray her trust.

"Do you," she starts, "Do you want to come in to the water?"

"Nyota, it would not be appropriate," he says.

Her face flushes and she bites her bottom lip. She is humiliated, but she should not be. It is he who should be ashamed. Upon realising she was in no danger—upon seeing her clothes on the boulder and understanding the situation for what it was—he should have turned to leave, never brought his eyes to her body, which in glimpses he saw was beautiful, perfect, striking.

Swallowing, he removes his eyes from the hot spring, fixing them instead to the wall of the cave.

"Don't you want me?" she asks.

"Please do not ask me that, Nyota," says Spock.

Frowning, she nods, swims away deeper into the spring, which foams with steaming water.

"Nyota, return here at once," he says, but she keeps swimming, turning down an enclave so she is out of visual range.

Spock removes his shirt, shoes, trousers, socks. Black boxers still on, he dives into the water and swims after her.

The saltiness of the water helps him stay easily afloat, and he moves quickly through it, pushing water behind him with each stroke, kicking hard.

He finds her quickly. She is resting against a rocky ledge, breathing hard, her back to him.

"Nyota."

"Please, leave me alone," she says.

"I will not leave you here in this emotional state."

"I'm fine."

The water is shallow enough that he can walk, but deep enough that he is mostly submerged, up to his neck. Nyota is likely unable to touch the bottom here.

"Please, Spock, can we just forget that happened? I'm so, so sorry."

"I will endeavour to put it from my mind if that is your desire, though I will have much difficulty doing so." Nyota's shoulders slouch. She leans her forehead into the ledge, her breaths beginning to even.

"May I see you fully?" he asks. "Will you face me?"

"Is that what you want?"

Yes, yes, yes. Most certainly. Yes.

"It is," he says.

"Are you sure?"

"Please, Nyota."

She hoists herself up onto the rock, her legs crossed, but he can see her bare chest, the triangle of hair covering her mound.

"It is not logical for one to be as beautiful as thee," he says, switching to Vulkhansu. "Will you come to me?" asks Spock.

She slips back down into the water, causing a small splash, and she swims to him. He meets her half way, crossing the few short feet of the enclave. He was right that she cannot touch. She treads water before him.

"May I touch thee?"

She nods her head then she is in his arms. Nyota is in his arms. Her body is in his arms. How is it possible for skin to be so soft?

He wraps his arms around her waist, holds her so that she does not have to work her legs to stay above water. Spock does what he can to avoid empathic connection, but there's so much input and he cannot organise it all. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, her breasts brushing against his chest, nipples hard despite the warm temperature of the water, the heaviness of her breaths, the look of her hair, heavy and wet and wavy. With all that to contend with, it is all he can do not to bombard her with his own perverted thoughts.

Spock senses her nervousness, trepidation, confusion. Her need.

She tilts her head up and kisses his cheek. Her lips are trembling, and they shake against his skin, warm and damp and plump and soft.

"Again," he says.

She presses her lips to his cheek again, this time a little lower, almost to his chin.

"Does that feel okay?" she asks.

"Yes." God, yes.

She reaches up her hands and cups his chin, kisses him on the lips. A soft peck, then another, then another, each one expanding in length, their mouths closed.

He flicks out his tongue to lick her bottom lip. The whimpering sound she makes is beautiful and he endeavours to hear it again.

"Spock," Nyota says, her voice soft, raspy, and weak. How can he stay standing when she says his name in that manner?

He presses his mouth to hers and breathes her in, as deeply as possible even as his hands trail lower down her sides, fingers grazing over the skin where her waist concaves inward then flares back out at her hips. Were he to go just a little bit farther down and around, he'd feel the curve of her backside.

He moves his hand in that direction, grazing his palm over the soft, round flesh, running a finger down the crease of her ass, then going forward. He can feel the slickness of her, even in the water.

She moans and rubs herself against his fingers, suddenly taken by lust.

One of her hands is entwined in his hair and the other works its way downward from his waist. She slips her hand into his boxers, pulls them down far enough that his lok springs out, now bare and pressed against Nyota's soft belly.

She wraps her fist around the length, pulls.

"Nyota," he says, and grabs her hand. If she strokes him, he will lose himself quickly.

As he grabs her hand and their fingers interweave, he makes stronger telepathic contact. Underneath her desire and longing, there is intense, debilitating fear, crippling anxiety, so heavy that it stills her in place and she has forgotten how to pull away, to move.

He pulls his lips from hers and—difficultly—convinces himself to remove his fingers from between her legs, despite the heat radiating therefrom, inviting him to touch. She feels unfathomably good, slick with want.

"What is it?" she asks, pecking her lips against his chin, neck.

Would it be so wrong to have her here? Now? She clearly wants him.

She hoists herself up onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist. His lok brushes against her keshtan-ur, and it takes a considerable amount of strength not to push into her. He would make sure it was pleasurable for her, make her come and tremble and clutch him.

"Nyota. No," he says, untangling himself from her.

Immediately, she pulls away, but he grabs hold of her hand, sending her just a fraction of his thoughts about her through the touch.

"Please. I do not wish you to leave," he says, not used to voicing such feelings.

"Then why did you stop? Did I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing?" she asks. Their fingers are laced together. He can feel every flicker of emotion that passes the labyrinth of her mind.

"There is nothing you could do or say that would be wrong," he says.

"Then what?"

"I would not have you before you are ready."

"I am ready."

He kisses her forehead. "You are not, and that is acceptable."

"No it's not. I'm frigid," she says, clearly quoting something that has been said to her.

"You are…far from frigid," he says, his eyes. "Your temperature is adequate."

She is warm, so warm. Full of heat. "He kisses her again, harder than before, slipping his tongue between her lips. Her knees buckle in the water and he steadies her with his arm, retreating just centimetres so his lips brush against her cheek as he speaks.

"Do not doubt how much I desire thee," he says.

She rubs her cheeks against his hand, and he feels her affection, her admiration, her love. "I can feel you," she says, her eyes flicking downward to his erection, which is pressed against her soft thigh.

"Does it disturb you? My want for you?" he asks. If she finds his attentions unwelcome, he will cease touching her in this way and make attempts to get over his affection for her. And if it is not possible to get over them, which he suspects is the case, he will not burden her with them.

"I want you, too. So, so much," she says. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It just gets all mixed up in my head, any time someone touches me."

He presses a kiss to her ear, brushes strands of wavy hair off her face. "There is nothing wrong with you, Nyota. You will have me when you are ready to have me."

"What if I'm never ready? That's the part I'm afraid of," she says.

"If you are never ready, then you are never ready. It does not change my feelings toward you. Should you…should you wish to be with me, then we will be together, and if our only expressions of physical intimacy is the touch of our hands and the occasional pressing of lips together, I will be satisfied."

#

Back on Terra, they take to touching fingers.

The tips of hers are calloused, as are his—Spock's the result of playing his lyre, hers the result of soldering, welding, lathing. She prefers to build her own comm boards and consoles so that they will conform to her personal specifications. She is a blacksmith and metallurgist, and often, he wonders where it is she picked up these skills. Not Starfleet.

Then their explorations move beyond finger touches and lip kisses. She allows him to feel her body and to slide his hands beneath her clothes, run them over her perfect skin.

Touch becomes easier for her, and though Spock meant what he said, that he would be satisfied with whatever limits Nyota placed on him, he is pleased for the opportunity to bring her pleasure in this way. It is months into her third year at the Academy, November, before they place their hands on each other's genitalia.

With time, the fear beneath her desire diminishes to nothing. She trusts him and feels safe with him, and the past manages to stay out of her mind when they touch most nights. He knows that it is still a weight on her shoulder that she will carry always, but he is relieved that at least in this small way she has gotten rid of some of her burden.

They are bad at the limits they set themselves. They make a rule to never touch each other on campus, but he has fingered her in his office before, has sucked her bare nipples whilst he was supposed to be grading papers.

It is near Christmas when they first share complete intercourse.

Spock remains in his office late into the night. The Automated Cleaning Units have already come and gone. Lights in the wash rooms, corridors, and lobby have already faded to zero.

Spock has finished grading assessments but there is some other work he would like to complete in his office: debug the auxiliary software for the Kobayashi Maru, read over Captain Pike's crew recommendations, complete final edits on the paper he plans to submit to the Astronomy and Astrophysics Review regarding some of his recent findings (Nyota suggested ways for him to clarify his language in certain areas, and he agrees with her advice).

Now that finals are complete and students have largely abandoned campus for their two-week winter leave, he has time and opportunity to complete his personal work in relative peace.

Of course, it is just as he is having that thought that the chime on the outside of his door rings.

"State your business," says Spock, eyes never leaving the screen of his PADD. Data from the remote sensors in his lab is syncing to the device.

"It's me," Spock hears.

Spock tells the Computer to disengage the lock. "Nyota," he says.

He stands up as she enters. "Are you well?" he asks, going toward her.

She lingers for a moment in the door frame before entering and the letting the door shut behind her.

"Nyota?" Spock asks again.

"I'm all right, Spock," she says. She stands approximately 2.8 metres away from him but he can smell her scent in full. Hair product. Salt.

"Your shuttle to Nairobi left nine hours ago," he says.

"I wasn't on it," she says. "I needed to talk to you."

Her hair is messy. Wind-blown. Weighted down in places by sweat.

"I am quite reachable by comm or video," says Spock. "It was not necessary for you to delay your trip." He takes a moment to examine her more fully.

Her physical condition appears adequate. No visible injuries. Spock's heart rate settles by seven beats per minute. She is unharmed.

"Did you get my edits?" she asks. Despite her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair, she does not appear flustered. She is all business. Professional. Poised.

"I received them, yes," says Spock. "Did you wish to discuss your suggestions for my journal submission in person? Is that why you did not return to your family for the winter leave?" he asks.

She pouts and gives him a look. She is wearing her uniform, as is the expectation of all students on campus, regardless of their leave-status.

"You know that's not why I'm here," she says.

Yes. He knows.

"Perhaps you should take a seat then and tell me the actual reason for your presence here?" says Spock.

She nods, but instead of taking a seat in his chair or in one of the chairs provided for guests to his office, she walks to his desk and hoists herself on top it. Her dark red skirt, which usually falls at mid-thigh, rises.

Nyota is wearing her black tights. They are thick, opaque. He can see nothing of the brown skin that he knows lies beneath.

"Chair," she says, and points to his spot. He obeys the command, takes a seat across from her in his chair.

"I can't go back there right now," she says. "To Nairobi."

"Do you not wish to see your mother?" says Spock.

One of her legs is crossed over the other. He can see the bony knob of her right knee, stretching the fabric of her hosiery so he gets the faintest impression of what the skin looks like beneath.

"I do, but I can't risk…I don't know. It's unfair that I feel safe in my own homeland but I do. I want to stay with you, Spock. Will you let me do that? Just over the break. If not, it's okay. I have enough money to rent a little place for a couple of weeks, but I have been thinking…it might be okay? If I were to stay with you? If you were all right with it, of course. I know that just like me you value your privacy."

She slides off the desk and gets onto his lap on the desk chair, her knees straddling his thighs. She kisses the top of his head. "Well?" she asks. "What do you think?"

As if he could ever be expected to make a well-thought out decision with her proximity so immediately close.

His voice comes sounding not at all like it should. Croaky, low, unsteady. "I am amenable," he says.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asks, reaching out to grab his fingers so she can know whether he speaks the truth to her.

"Yes," says Spock. These simple yes or no questions he can handle when she is on top of him in the way.

"Does it distract you when I sit like this?"

"Yes," he answers.

"So do you want me to get off of you?" she asks.

"No."

She kisses him again on the forehead.

Spock moves his hands to the small of her waist to steady her. "You are here," says Spock, head nestled into the crook of her neck.

"Yes," she says, kisses him on the temple. "I'm here."

The touch of her lips is so, so soft but still the kiss sparks like shorted copper wire against his skin.

They lean their foreheads together and touch the tips of their noses.

Spock scents her. Rubs his into her cheek and neck, back and forth. He wishes to lick and bite her over and over but knows it is uncouth. He's an animal and he wishes he was not.

He allows himself a teasing dart of the tongue against her chin—just to get a taste—but once her skin is inside his mouth he cannot resist dragging his tongue along her jawbone and grazing the cuff of her ear with his teeth.

Nyota's breaths become shallow as he laps at her skin. She moans and it incites him. His teeth close and pull on her jaw. Harder than he intended to, he knows, because she gasps.

"Apologies," he says, voice breathy and shaky.

"Again," says Nyota.

"Apologies."

"No, no," Nyota says. "Teeth again. Please. Please. Please. Please," she says.

"You would not want me to lose myself with you," says Spock, lips brushing her skin intentionally. He sucks skin on her neck hard until he leaves a dark purple mark. He wants to taste her mouth. Lay his teeth in her skin. "Does it please you to reveal how weak my control is? Do you like knowing I have no dignity when it comes to you?"

Her lips find his, open and soft. He slides his tongue between them.

Nyota starts to grind herself against him, her skirt scooching up over her bottom, the in-betweens of her legs making contact with the growing bulge in his trousers.

The pressure is excruciatingly inadequate, reaching through boxers, trousers, her thick, opaque hosiery, then briefs.

Nyota attempts to sink down further onto him, pressing herself into his groin and rubbing herself. She whimpers.

He palms her right buttocks, squeezes. Soft and round and perfect. Reaches around to grab the other. Moves her up and down so her clothed-crotch slides up and down over his erection.

Nyota's breaths turn to gasps as they dry-fuck, her body rocking into his unbidden.

He rips her stockings from behind, tearing a line in the fabric from the bottom curve of her buttocks to her cunt.

The scent of her makes him groan. He can't help but inhale hungrily, He tears her tights more, and then her knickers, so she is exposed. As Spock slides two fingers down the crease of her ass, working toward her vagina, they become slick with her arousal. He wants to slide them into her and stroke inside her til she comes, dripping. Wants Nyota to lick her own moisture from his index and pointer, felate his fingers, her lips and tongue and teeth working them.

"Will you ride my fingers, Nyota?" he whispers into her ear, sliding them into her, weaving his hand under the torn hosiery. He derives much pleasure from the clench of her muscles over his sensitive fingers.

Nyota begins to lift her hips up and down over his two fingers.

She is shy in her desire and moves slowly, cautiously.

So Spock reaches out a thumb to tease her clit, sliding it around in circles for three seconds before pulling away, enough to make her whimper in want. "Spock," she says. "Please, Spock. Want you," she says.

"You have me. Take what you wish," he says, stroking inside of her with his fingers, pressing against that tender spot that makes her seize up.

She begins to move herself up and down on his fingers more forcefully. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she says. Faster now. He can feel the mounting tension inside her, the need for friction and pressure and more.

Spock knows he will come from the feel of her hot cunt slick on his fingers.

With his free hand, he reaches down and unbuttons his trousers, unzips, lets his cock slide out of his briefs.

He strokes it with his right hand as he continues to pump his left inside of Nyota. "You like the feel of me inside of you, Nyota?" he asks as she squeezes her fingers into his neck hard, marking him, her cunt rocking senselessly onto his fingers.

She is painfully tight. Two fingers is a difficult fit. They fill and stretch and open her.

The desk chair is no longer suited to Spock's desires. He picks Nyota up and sets her on the desk, lays her onto her back as he continues to stand. Her legs are lifted up and bent at the knee, spread wide, revealing her perfect cunt.

"Spread yourself," he says.

Her fingers slide downward. She opens herself up for him so he can in perfect detail the dark brown of her labia and the pink of her cunt.

"Show me how much you hunger for me."

She put two fingers between her legs and begins to fuck herself with them.

He jacks himself off as he watches her.

"Grab your ankles," he says, brushing his finger against her thigh, letting her know that even though he's phrased it as a command, she is under no obligation to obey, and his chief concern is always her pleasure.

She wraps a palm around each ankle, holding them up, still bent at the knee.

He is quite certain that his superiors never imagined he'd used his desk in quite this fashion.

"Do you like putting yourself on display for me?"

She opens herself up wider for him.

"Can I touch myself?" she asks.

"No."

He drags a finger down her thigh and the bottom of her ass, exposed in this position. Then he runs it between her legs, til it's wet.

"I have often wondered if there is part of you that has intentionally paraded yourself for me to lure my affections. There are uniforms with trousers or with skirts that reach the knee," he says. "I recognise that your choice to wear the uniform that reveals your body to perfection is not necessarily meant to provoke me; yet when I see how much pleasure you are in right now, how excited you become showing off your near-naked body and your wet pussy so shamelessly, I wonder if perhaps I am wrong."

She blinks slowly, lids heavy. "How long have you wanted to fuck me?"

Since Ethiopia.

Since she'd humiliated him in front of a crowd of his academic peers.

How he'd wanted to take her against the wall in front of them all and make her beg for it so she would know and they would know he was worthy of her.

"Since I met you," he says. "I'm going to drink from you now, Nyota."

He buries his face between her thighs, conveniently open for him.

Tongue in her cunt and nose on her clit. For a moment he forgets her pleasure and thinks only of his hunger for her taste, eating her greedily as she bucks. He runs his tongue over her clit, down all the way to her perineum, then back up.

He loves it when her hips jerk up into him. Wants more. "Harder, Nyota," he says, reaching under her to grab her ass and press her cunt to his mouth.

Spock drops to his knees, pulls her by the ankles so her ass is right on the edge of the desk so he can reach her easily with his tongue.

Her hips move up and down into his face hard.

Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling, pressing him in between her legs, using Spock's tongue and mouth like her private toy.

Later, when they mate for the first time, and he can feel the burn of his penis stretching her vagina through the touch of fingers, he wonders how he held out this long. There is no more pleasurable sound in this quadrant of the galaxy than his cock sliding in and out of her, her breathy moans a lovely counterpointe.

It is that memory of their first coupling that Spock still considers years and years and years later some nights, when Nyota is stationed for a week or two away and he must take himself in hand. When he is alone, he chooses to remember that moment because it was then, when they first joined physically, that he knew their minds should be one, as well.

#

Night comes and with it, icy winds from the Northeast.

Spock awakes mad and hot from dreams of the past and he knows not where his day went.

Was it 11.2 hours ago that Nyota packed a bag, gathered up the girls, and departed? Or 10.2 hours ago? He has blacked out and lost time.

He sees the porch table in pieces in the yard. Logically, he knows that he is responsible, yet he cannot recall at all when he—

No. He remembers. He'd picked the table up and thrown it to the ground, no longer able to stand the memories the piece of furniture provoked: images of his Nyota prone on its top, her ass up for him. He'd instructed her to widen her knees, and she'd complied, revealing slick arousal in the place where he would enter her over and over and over.

Nyota is gone. He calls out to her in his mind, but he has pushed her so far away that she is not close enough to hear his yearnings.

Spock's heart thumps in his side hard and painful. His ribs feel bruised but he knows not why.

#

5003. 5009. 5011. 5021. 5023. 5039. 5051. 5059.

A litany of prime numbers.

5077. 5081. Nyota. Nyota. Nyota. 5087. 5099. 5101. 5103—

No. 5103 divided by three is 1701 and is therefore not a prime number. Toddler's arithmetic and yet Spock has botched the simple calculation.

For the fifth time since starting this meditation technique tonight, he must start over.

1. 3. 5. 7. 11. 13. 17. 19. 23. 29. 31.

It is highly probable that Nyota is in Maresh's arms at this very moment.

34. 37. 41. 43.

Is she calling out his name? Is his tongue pressed inside of her? Is she squeezing her breasts, small and round, as Maresh looks on lustfully?

47. 53. 59. 61.

Spock relocates outside so the cold wind might cool his burning body.

He rubs his face against Nyota's 't-shirts,' 'leggings,' and, 'hoodies' as he treads a course from one end of the laundry line to the other, marking his scent onto the fabric, his eyes never far from the horizon line.

A bird watches him from its perch on a boulder 11.2 metres away. It must smell the droplets of green blood that flow from Spock's feet where thorns press in. Spock should go inside and treat the tiny puncture wounds, but the abrasions prove a welcome distraction from more pressing grievances, namely, the pulsating heat in his chest, stomach, and groin. He has not experienced the sensation before but he likens it to a second-degree burn: a hot brand being held against his insides for ten seconds at a time, over and over.

A small, bipedal mammal with red fur darts across his sightline, headed toward the bird keeping tabs on Spock. The kushel flies away before the mammalian predator can pounce.

Spock turns his ear eastward when he hears the soft murmur of a flitter-engine. He jogs to the front gate. The transport is government-issued, black, flat, narrow, made for a single person.

The flitter comes to a stop, hovers in the air three seconds before it floats down to the ground. The driver side door slides open and Varum steps out, dressed in a long, cotton black tunic with brass buttons, a high-necked collar. His guard outfit. Official business, then.

"Na'shaya, Osu, Spock," says Varum. His stride is long as he moves toward the gate.

"Na'shaya," Spock returns. It is unlike Varum to stall with unnecessary greetings. "You bear news?" he asks. It takes all of his strength to keep his voice steady and calm.

"Ha. Of your adun'a and kofu-lar. They are safe, in good health, and your daughters currently reside at the Central Estate."

Spock blinks his eyes twice as he considers the information. Nyota had gone to T'Pau then. Why? To request p'pi'lay?

"A comm message would have sufficed," says Spock, the harsh consonants of his Vulkhansu sharper now because he's intoning them lazily like a child. "You said my daughters currently reside at the Central Estate but said nothing of my wife. Is she not there?"

"That is the matter I wished to discuss with you in person. Osu, are you well? You tremble as if chilled. Shall I call a healer to the house?"

Spock stills himself immediately, inhales then exhales. "I am adequate. Simply exhausted."

Varum hesitates, the smallest scrunch of his brow apparent before it smoothens out. "Of course, Osu."

"Varum, does Honoured Matriarch T'Pau know that you are here?" Spock asks. He makes an effort to remove all intonation from his speech, and though it requires more focus than it usually would to complete the task, he finds the result acceptable. Vulkhansu, especially the Golic tongue in which they now speak, has a tendency to sound like 'baby-talk' when overly intoned.

When Varum does not answer the question immediately, Spock asks him again. "Does Honoured Matriarch T'Pau know that you are here?"

"There is little T'Pau does not know," says Varum, gaze averted a millimetre left.

"You avoid answering the question."

"She does not know," Varum says.

"Then it would behove you to leave."

"Honoured T'Pau allows me a certain level of freedom to accomplish tasks she may not wish to deal with directly given her other responsibilities to the Clan."

"And what task is it with which you wish to deal?"

"Lady Nyota. May we step inside? I do not wish to be overheard."

With a nod, Spock begins the walk toward the house. They both move silently.

It occurs to Spock that he wears no shirt, no socks, is unshaven, fringe untrimmed. "I regret my current appearance. I did not expect a caller."

"It is of no concern," says Varum.

"Tell me more of my family," Spock says.

"Osu Sarek has returned, and right now he cares for your daughters." Varum pauses for several seconds, seeming to consider his words very carefully. He stops, turns to Spock. "Lady Nyota…" says Varum. He stutters slightly over her name, then restarts. "Lady Nyota was at the Central Estate but just recently left. I did, however, speak with her before her departure, and she gave me word of where she was going."

"And where is that?" asks Spock.

"We will speak more once inside," says Varum.

The inside of the house is not clean. A blanket strewn on the sofa. A half-finished water bottle sits on the counter. Nyota's dirty running clothes in a pile in the corridor.

"Are you familiar with the V'Tosh called Maresh? He who is your aduna's direct supervisor?"

Has T'Pau already agreed to bond him and Nyota?

"I am familiar," says Spock.

"You must understand that Lady Nyota revealed these things to me in assumed confidence," Varum says.

"Say what you wish to say."

"Maresh has behaved in an untoward fashion toward Lady Nyota, and I do not believe her work situation is conducive to emotional or physical safety. Lady Nyota expressed what I believed to be feelings associated with someone responding to a particular sort of harassment. When she revealed some of his actions to me—and I do not believe she told me everything, so there is perhaps more—I knew immediately that he requires removal from his position. He is not honourable, Osu Spock."

Spock turns toward the open screen door. It wavers slightly as a breeze passes.

"I know that it is our people's way to deal with these matters with a certain…decisiveness, but I assure you, once Nyota has finished her business I will inform Honoured T'Pau and we will resolve this matter through the proper channels, swiftly, and if we are fortuitous, with Maresh's exile," says Varum.

"You tell me this aushfa has violated my wife and expect me to leave him breathing?" asks Spock. His nostrils flare with each breath of air he exhales. "What business is Nyota finishing?" says Spock.

Varum hesitates for an unnaturally long time.

"Tell me. You said that after Nyota finished her business, you would inform T'Pau. To what business do you refer?"

"Osu, are you sure you are well? Please, let me call a healer."

"Where is my wife?" Spock asks. "You said that she told you where she went before she left the Central Estate."

"Perhaps it is best we—"

"Are you attempting to conceal her from me so that you might keep her for yourself?" he says, stepping up to Varum. He will snap this man's neck if he dare hide Nyota from him.

"No, Osu Spock, of course not. This-one understands Lady Nyota is yours."

"Yes, mine."

Varum nods, taking a slight step back. "You are feverish, Osu. I will call a healer then retrieve your aduna myself and bring her to you."

"You will not touch her," says Spock, and he rushes Varum and forces him against the wall, his forearm pressed into the servant's windpipe.

"Osu, this-one understands Lady Nyota belongs to thee," Varum gasps.

"Then tell me where she is."

"I—please, first, let me go."

Spock loosens his hold but keeps Varum pinned to the wall.

"She has gone to her workplace to confront Maresh," says Varum. "Please, Osu, stay here. I know that you require your aduna and I will bring her to thee, but you must not leave the house in your condition."

Spock lets Varum off the wall but he has no plans to heed his words.

He hears the servant making a call.

"Yes, I require immediate transfer to the Honoured Mother," Spock hears Varum say.

Spock heads out the front door and runs toward the gate to Varum's flitter, busts inside.

He sets the autopilot to her workplace and then goes, knowing that Varum will be picked up soon and not far behind him.

He will kill the man who dared harm his wife in such a way.

When he arrives, Spock is able to hack the security check easily, considering it was he who designed it. He runs through the corridors, honing in on the bond to his wife so he can find her in the maze-like structure.

Spock, he hears her say through their link, a thread of shock in her voice.

I come to thee, he says and continues to run.

He rips the door off its hinges when he comes to the room where his wife and Maresh are located.

Maresh standing across from Nyota, hands clasped neatly in front of himself, though a subtle twitch of the lips breaks through his apparently calm exterior as Spock approaches him.

"Nyota, you will wait for me in the corridor. Go," he says.

"Spock," she says, and then says the next part silently through their bond, do your burn?

Yes, I burn for thee.

She nods her head, makes a call through a comm device as Spock sizes up Maresh.

Maresh appears cocky, a slight smirk present on his face.

He's got an inch or two on Spock height-wise. He's dressed handsomely in robes. His skin is olive and tanned a beautiful gold. "Does it disturb thee that nyota wishes to spend the evening here with me, working?" asks Maresh.

"You will not say her name again," says Spock.

"It is not unusual for us to work closely together in this capacity. Worry not. I take care of her needs, and it is my job as her superior to insure her satisfaction."

Spock takes a step forward and lifts Maresh up by his neck against the wall with a single hand, choking the life out of him, Maresh six inches off the ground. "You dare taunt me?" he asks. Through his fingertips, Spock can feel the life leave from Maresh.

Spock sees through the corner of his eyes that T'Pau has arrived via emergency transport-beam. "Spokh!" she calls.

"You will not disturb this-one now," says Spock. "This-one will kill he who would defile his mate."

"Spokh! Enough!" T'Pau calls again.

Spock lets Maresh drop to the floor, gasping and panting and spitting and coughing. Spock kicks Maresh hard in the face, satisfied by the sound of cracking jaw and the feel of a tooth loosening. He does it again.

Then Nyota calls him, her voice a sweet balm and he forgets about Maresh and goes to her, presses his nose into her neck then licks her from the collarbone up to her ear, his body pressed into her. Finally, finally, he is touching her. Finally, finally, he is reunited with his wife.