She promises Gaila that if she doesn't get arrested again, she'll try with him, if only as an outlet for the lexicon of vocabulary Gaila tries to banish from their room as surely as Nyota tries to banish random men.

It seems a fair trade for not spending her Sundays in a police station, and a fair trade for the silences that stretch, him looking at her intently and her looking over his shoulder as she thinks of what to say next.

She tries because Gaila asked her to try, and she tries because she thinks back to him playing chess against the computer, sitting quiet and solitary next to her. She thinks back to his admiration of her attempts at learning t'snovekh, Vulcan script, and makes an effort to keep the conversation going. It gets easier, with time.

She finds herself asking him about the Enterprise when she can't think of another topic, if he's going to serve on it, if he's been at the shipyard lately, if he knows when it will launch. He tells her as much as he can, and she listens to his every word. She loves that ship, no holds barred, like she used to love horses or pop music, and deeper, also, like she loves the splash of stars on a clear night and like she loves the even rhythms of Vulcan and the cadence of other languages beating a tempo in her mind as she learns them.

She finds, as they speak, that she can begin to identify the occasional discomfort and confusion that makes his tone sharper than a human's would be, or more off-putting. She imagines the mistakes she would make on Vulcan and finds she can admires him for his attempts, even if he occasionally fails. It's as much as she can do to try in return, and she tells him details about her classes, her research projects, and is pleased that he always asks follow up questions which are more engaging on mornings when he's busy and they have a large work load than most of her friend's are when they have hours to talk.

…

He sends her a paper on Romulan fricatives and they discuss it after work, the light growing gold, then rosy, then fading as the building empties for the evening. He listens attentively, fixed upon her words, and she cannot help but contrast him with others who grow tired of her interest and passion for language. This, this is easy, she thinks, pointing out a paragraph that intrigued her and he gives her another source with similar information, texting the citation it to her comm so she can look it up later.

He does not ask her to stay past when she is able and she leaves him in his office, turning back to his work as she shoulders her bag. She wonders what he gave up working on to speak with her. She grabs her comm and texts Gaila that she'll be there soon, she just ran a few minutes over, and hurries down the hall, thinking back on their words.

…

She sometimes listens to music when she works, and he sometimes asks about it. She finds herself telling him about her favorites, sending him songs she listens to on repeat. He mentions he occasionally enjoys Beethoven and they talk about classical Terran composers until they both look at the clock and quickly turn back to work. He sends her a clip of Bach played on a ka'athyra that night and she plays it in her room until Gaila insists she stops, since she can't focus on painting her nails, and that is supremely important and delicate work.

…

She sees him at the gym a number of times, the strap of his bag slung across his chest in a way she might notice if she noticed such things about him. She sees him often in the library, where they don't speak in the heavy silence, but he has more than once stood behind her for a moment, looking at her work, or handed her a filmplast he's reading so she can scan the long rows of Vulcan, Romulan, Orion, numbers of computer programming she can't decipher but enjoys nonetheless.

She sees him in the cafeteria occasionally and they eat together once. Gaila joins them, their quiet conversation interrupted by her exuberance and cheer and sheer joy, and she would have though Spock would be awkward or annoyed, but he's calm and collected and maybe a little amused. She's not amused to realized she has begun to think about him without his rank, and resolves not to, and then finds she can't help herself when he sends her another paper, nods at her across the quad, passes her in a hallway and asks about the test she just took, if it she thinks she performed up to her expectations.

…

He sends her another paper, this one on the Bjoran lack of subjunctive, and they talk about it over a mug of tea he asks if he can bring her. He can, and it's good, and the article is better, and she has to run to chorus practice but finds herself standing in the doorway for a moment, unable to leave without explaining her last thought fully as he watches her and listens.

He sends her a third paper, on Andorian pluperfect, and she reads it while getting dressed for a Saturday evening with Gaila, quickly typing a response while she slips on her heels and puts in her earrings.

"Just a minute," she says quickly as Gaila stands with one hand on her hip, the other holding her comm that is chiming with texts from probably a host of species wondering where she is.

"Can this not wait for, oh, I don't know, Monday? And focus on hanging out with me for once?" she asks, her green fingers flicking across the screen as she types.

"I'm ready, I'm done. Sorry."

"Hold on, let me just finish this."

"Pot. Kettle."

"What?"

"Nothing. Let's go."

…

She begins to know more about him. He mentions a message from his mother and she expects it to be in Vulcan, but it's in English, and she didn't know he spoke that. She didn't know that he was half human, either, but when he tells her and she is clearly surprised, he doesn't say anything. She can think of a dozen responses and voices none of them.

He mentions other things then as well, books that he read as a child that she read as well, and they spend an hour discussing Sherlock Holmes, a lunch break taking about Dickens. She read it in middle school and he read when he was four, which she thinks is great, and says so.

She asks what he read when he was older than that, thinking it would be her high school literature syllabus, but he tells her he found it illogical to read fiction when there was so much to learn about the world around him. She smiles, imagining his first interest in science, and mentions Thiong'o, and Faulkner, and Hemmingway. When he asks a week later for her thoughts on Alcott, she tells him and he listens, watching her closely until she has run out of breath and words, which, when she tells Gaila about it later, admits is unusual for her. But his attention and interest is unusual too, and she thinks they don't make the worst pair in the world.

…

She sees him at work almost daily, fit in around her classes and clubs, she sees him at the occasional meeting, and often runs into him elsewhere in the Xenolinguistics building, a turbolift, a classroom, the break room. She sees him around the Academy too, as they pass between buildings, his dark jacket blending in with the other instructors he speaks with while he walks, sparing a quick nod to her as she passes him, or, once, off campus as she walked with Gaila from lunch at an Orion restaurant and he stepped out of a small, antique bookshop that she never asked him about, but often thinks to.

She is slightly unprepared to see him in his dress uniform at the Comparative Xenocultural Dinner.

It's a truly horrible night every year, something that probably everyone in the room knows, and something that Starfleet and the Federation and the dozens of envoys and diplomats ignore as they pack a host of Bjorans, Risians, Tellarites, Andorians, Trills, Vulcans, humans, and the odd Deltan in a function hall. Gaila is invited as the Academy's sole Orion and Nyota is invited because of her outstanding academic record and xenolinguistic achievement and, more likely, as a way to reign in her roommate. It doesn't work and Gaila leaves on the arm of a Betazoid after only two drinks.

Her dress uniform is hot, and the skirt is uncomfortably short, and she downs a glass of water and wonders how long she has to stay.

She sees Spock, tall and serious against the crowd of shifting tentacles, antennae, and limbs, and he looks poised and unflappable. She wishes for some of his calm when three different men and one Andorian ask if she wants a drink, and she has a drink, and it's water, and it's a work event, and no thank you, but they don't really listen so she walks away and tries to disappear into the crowd.

She doesn't try to talk to him, because it's just too weird and he looks so…

It's just too weird, so she talks to her Intermediate Xenoneurolinguistics professor and after, talks to Ensign Mai'mone about its new posting on the Lexington that it's leaving for in a week, then speaks with Lieutenant Commander Truax about warp drives, which are boring, and Klingon past participles, which are the opposite of boring, even if he evidently doesn't agree.

There are maybe three other Vulcans there, and apparently the Ambassador as well. She thinks she catches sight of him through the shifting crowd, a tall, severe Vulcan that bears a resemblance to Spock, who is standing clear across the room. She sees him glance at Spock occasionally, then realizes she's staring, then can't stop because they speak briefly before Spock turns abruptly and walks away.

She makes herself focus on talking to officers she rarely sees or doesn't know who may be good connections someday. She tries not to ask about the Enterprise more than is necessary, tries to remember their names and postings, and tries to not look at Spock through the crowd. She does anyway, and sees him leave quickly after the meal. She finishes her conversation with Lieutenant Mitchell, glancing at the door that slid shut behind him, and follows him out. The night air is cool and refreshing on her face and she takes a deep breath, looking up at the clear sky and feeling slightly more centered than she did in the stuffy reception hall.

She's finds him standing outside, his posture stiff and harsh against the soft breeze, laughter and music spilling out of the building behind them.

"Commander?" she asks quietly, not wishing to disturb him, and realizes she can't remember the last time she addressed him by his rank.

"Good evening," he says as if by rote, turning to face her. "I trust you enjoyed yourself."

"Oh, you know. As much as anyone ever does at things like that."

He doesn't answer but looks somewhere over her shoulder, then resumes staring at whatever patch of ground in front of him is so fascinating.

Even with him not looking at her, him standing rigid and unmoving, she feels more grounded and stable than she did inside. She still doesn't know what to say and just leans against the low wall next to him as he breathes evenly, slowly, and finally looks at her.

"I imagine Cadet Unbe'hait had a satisfactory evening?"

"Probably. I think she stayed for about five minutes."

He doesn't react with the glimmer of amusement or slight signs of mirth she has come to expect from him when she mentions Gaila, just looks a little hollow, or a little hurt, or maybe not, since his expression is blanker than it's almost ever been.

She thinks of a dozen things to say and none of them seem appropriate and she can't not look at the clean lines of his uniform, medals and commendations she had no idea he had earned pinned to his chest, and can't not look at the way he's just staring at the ground. Instead, she looks at the stars, the trees moving slightly in the wind, and listens to the sounds of the party echoing through the night air as they stand in silence.

She thinks of the other Vulcans in there, the crush of humans, and the way he is still standing so straight, so perfectly crisp in his pressed jacket and creased pants.

"Was that your father, the Ambassador?" she asks, even though it's probably illogical since she already knows the answer, and furthermore, it's probably illogical to pry into his life if he so clearly doesn't want to talk about it.

"We have not spoken in many years," he says, quietly, after a pause, and she's surprised that he even answered, let alone told her anything so personal.

"I'm sorry."

"It is of no consequence."

"I'm still sorry," she says. She can't imagine not wanting to talk about it, if it was her. "It's of consequence to me."

"Kaiidth," he says, looking up at the sky. He blinks and looks at her and she realizes she's staring at him. "What is, is."

"Yeah," she murmurs, studying her hands instead of his profile. They are silent so long that she begins to think of walking home, wondering if he'd rather be by himself.

He seems like he wants to say something, though, and she thinks she wants to hear it. They have spoken of so much, so many words and definitions and languages passed between them, that when he says, suddenly, "would you like to leave?" she knows he means that he means them leaving together, and thinks it's the best idea she's heard all night.

The walk to his apartment is short and she follows him there because he promised not that long ago that it wasn't sexual or romantic. It should, maybe, be strange when he steps into his bedroom to change out of his dress uniform, and should, probably, be strange to see him in something other than a shirt with a Starfleet insignia on it, but his slacks and sweater are just as easy to take in as the classic aesthetic of his apartment.

He makes her tea, which is thankfully less strange than if he had offered her alcohol. He doesn't step any closer to her than he ever has, which she appreciates, since it's still his apartment and it's late at night, and this could easily, easily be misconstrued and turn out horrible in a way that would be irreparable.

Instead, he gestures to his table and not his couch, and looks in her eyes, not at her skirt, and when he turns on music, it's a piece they've listened to before and it's familiar and comforting. She sits across from him as he sets up the 3D chess board, steam curling and rising from their mugs and his voice is soft and low as the night wears on and they play game after game as he slowly, haltingly, tells her about his family, his home. His words are more beautiful and evocative and important than she ever could have imagined and she finds she can't even begin to move her pieces when it's her turn because listening to him takes up her whole focus, his dark eyes downcast and what he says rings in her ears. She hears his words for days, afterwards, and it is not long until she returns what he offers her about his life with pieces of her own.