A/N: Well, between your excessively kind reviews and the urging of my newly-acquired-and-outrageously-awesome beta, mhgood, I've decided to go the long haul on this one. So here's chapter 2.
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. It's Roddenberry's sandbox, I'm just playing in it. I don't own much of anything, really, so suing me would be counterproductive.
They did not discuss it that first afternoon.
It would have taken too much time, and his schedule was constrained by the classes he had to teach. As for Cadet Uhura--Nyota--she had, as he was aware, several lab sessions on Tuesday afternoon and evenings. She often worked late into the night; this fact was why their Tuesday sessions were scheduled so early in the day. Her Tuesday afternoons were not conducive to protracted discussions about inappropriate relationships.
The very practical problems of scheduling did not occur to him immediately. At first, in the slow movements of kissing her, and observing, with pleasant clarity, that she was kissing him back, he was too astonished, and then pleased, to consider that this was an unorthodox way to treat one's assistant, that there were several portions of the Starfleet Regulations directly relevant to this situation, and that he was contravening very specific subsets of his orders. That a discussion of the situation between himself and the Cadet (Nyota!) was very clearly in order.
These thoughts, despite their relevance, were surprisingly easy to suppress. It was difficult to concentrate, with her like this. He observed the awkwardness of their relative positions--although he and Nyota had been in very close physical proximity prior to his indiscretion, the position of their seats did not allow him to be as close to her as was ideal, now that circumstances had changed. Their knees bumped, her hand reached to his shoulder, and he considered how much improved their relative angle would be if they could stand. Or lie.
Instead, his hand slid of its own accord back up her arm and to her face, cupping her jaw, as he learned his way around her mouth and teeth and tongue and breath. He moved slowly, carefully, so as to both not frighten her away and to not lose his mind entirely. Some part of his brain recognized his need to maintain control over this situation (late to look for control, another part of his brain observed; he wondered idly when his internal thoughts had become so wry. Perhaps when they had also become irrational), if only so that he could hold on to the moment for as long as he was permitted. She tasted of fresh air, of starlight; their lips moving together were natural, belonging, involuntary. The heretofore unintroduced part of his mind that had started this peculiar chain of events was very, very relieved.
The rest of his mind was not quite so sanguine. It wasn't until she gasped into his mouth, and he pulled her to him more closely for just a moment, that he remembered himself, and tore himself away.
She stared at him, breathing hard. The loose strand of hair, the source of his undoing, spilled down her shoulder and the front of her blazer, now a bit rumpled from his hands. He had lost control in anger as a child, but it had been years; he had never lost control like this.
He was not entirely sure what to say. He reflected that this was the original problem, and his apparent solution had not improved the situation. He made note of this fact to consider in the future. He was behaving irrationally. How did humans sustain such uncertainty at all times?
What was she thinking? His experience with these matters was limited to the single datapoint, but he considered case studies from his education in human employment custom. She was, with high probability, regretful, having been coerced into untoward behavior by a superior officer. Perhaps she felt shame. He regretted this.
In cases like this one, where the correct course of action is unclear, protocol often provides useful guidance.
"Ms. Uhura, I apologize for my behavior. I am in violation of--"
She cut him off. She climbed into his lap, and pulled his face to hers with a force he was not expecting. She was trained, of course, but she was still small, for a human, for a human female, and human females are understood to have strength equivalent to that of the average Vulcan male of age nine. But this angle was much improved, from a physical perspective.
He considered, later that evening, in a sequence of thoughts that were difficult to control, the course that this situation might have taken if the door had not chimed at that precise instant.
For the first time in a long time he started in surprise. At the very least his eyes blinked open wide, at the same time that she jumped, and they broke apart, staring in astonishment at one another, Nyota on his lap, his hands on her waist. A second passed and she was standing, and the rush of air between them was novel and unwelcome. The book on the table rustled in the wind created by her rapid, but poised, efforts to collect herself, smooth her uniform, straighten her skirt.
He marveled at her composure.
"Are you expecting someone?"
"No. I am not."
The interruption had, at least, added much-needed structure to their conversation.
He waited until she was seated, until she had lifted her chair and separated it from his own by a minimum of 75 centimeters, by his estimation, before speaking.
"Enter."
It was an instructor from the science college, coming to ask a short question that unfortunately but predictably turned into a protracted discussion about the lower-level xeno-neurochemistry syllabus. Nyota bent her head over the book, pausing only to break her seemingly impeccable concentration to acknowledge the captain in question. She scanned passages with practiced ease.
He added her apparent self-control to the mental list that delineated her more appealing attributes. He had stood at the opening of the door, and the hands behind his back clenched one another with slightly more than their usual rigidity.
The captain left, after what felt like an unreasonable period of time but was, in truth, only 20 minutes, and the door shut with a click. He turned. She was still working, alone in the concentration that made her so good at her job, and he admired her from the back, long ponytail trailing, as it did. The style had become more tousled over the course of their exertions, despite her attempts to straighten up in response to his unexpected visitor. The stray piece hung loose, still; it had escaped from its location behind her ear.
This time, he stopped his uncharacteristic reverie before it had chance to take hold.
"Cadet Uhura."
She looked up, spoke. Her voice was subdued, for her. "I have prepared summaries of several passages you might find instructive for the course next week."
She paused, glanced at the clock.
"I have to go to class."
This was not what he had anticipated, even though it was true.
Her veneer visibly cracked, for a moment. She turned from him, her hair falling in front of her face, as she collected her things.
The distance between them helped him maintain his balance. He weighed his options as he watched her place her additional PADD in her bag, and collect her stylus for storage.
He could say nothing. He knew the Cadet well, and she would read him, and say nothing of it either. She would return, or not, but nothing would be said, and no one would know, and he would never have to speak of it, or think of it, beyond in his nightly meditations, as an instructive example of what happened when he let himself lose track of his emotions.
He could apologize, and terminate their working relationship. This was a more honorable option than the first, but more difficult.
He could --
She turned to him, nodded, and turned again, not waiting for the requisite dismissal. Her grasp on formality had not yet returned to full strength.
He could.
He reached for her arm, the one farthest from the door, before the other made it entirely to the electronic pad that controlled the entrance.
Pause.
"I understand that your Tuesday evenings are fully scheduled. However, I believe you are free on Wednesdays."
A beat.
"The second years are assigned to the comm lab tomorrow evening; you must be free."
The level of detail with which he could articulate her schedule was inappropriate, his second mind observed.
She nodded.
"It would be logical to continue this conversation later, when our schedules are less constrained."
A long, long pause hung between them. This hour had been constructed of pauses, it seemed. He leveled a gaze at her, wondering if she knew how intensely he wanted her to agree to what he could not quite bring himself to ask, despite knowing very sensibly that she would not. He actively suppressed the recent memory of her weight on his thighs and her lips against his, and focused, meditatively, on the impossibility of her acceptance of the offer he had not articulated aloud.
He found himself wishing that, in her effort to render herself presentable for the captain, she had, in fact, retied her ponytail.
And then, like mercy, manna, water to a dying man in a desert, she smiled.
A/N: You know what's awesome? Reviews.