Officers' Mess for Two
"I am not going to talk about him," Uhura declared, her tone brisk and unequivocal.
They rounded the corner, and her quickly clacking footfalls were loud in the deserted corridor.
She was lengthening her stride to pull ahead – anxious to put some distance between them. The door at the entrance to the Officers' Mess whooshed smoothly open in front of her as she turned toward it, and Jim had to hurry, just a little, to keep up with her fast, stalking pace.
"Uhura, wait a sec," he said.
"I don't want to talk about him." Her ponytail swung with the fury of her gait. "Don't even ask."
"I wasn't…" He started to protest. She stopped abruptly, and his next step carried him past her. He turned, only to see a pair of indignant brown eyes flashing furiously at him - forcing him to admit, shame-faced, "Yeah, I was."
He sighed. "Okay? I was." He saw her pull in an angry breath. "But I'm not."
She didn't move, and her glare didn't waver. He unconsciously lifted one defensive shoulder, a palm: "Uhura, please. I'm not."
Wanting to believe in his sincerity - in spite of herself - she let out the breath; and her shoulders slumped, just the tiniest amount, before straightening resolutely. "Okay, then." She turned on her heel, and headed over to get a tray.
He trailed slowly behind, feeling oddly like a kid caught-out, or like he'd been though a storm. He was glad the room was unoccupied.
It was quiet, peaceful – even serene - especially after the vividly-peopled flurry of purposeful activity on the Bridge.
He wondered how Spock could stand that: The bright constant bustle, and noise.
(It must, he thought, be a constant drain…)
Even in the aftermath of being good-and-pissed, Uhura was polite: She had already grabbed a tray, but was waiting for him to catch up before entering her lunch order. He absently took a tray, and held it awkwardly in front of him, staring at nothing - thinking. When a few seconds had passed, and he hadn't reached for the controls, her voice prompted him, "Captain?"
He looked up. She was looking at him curiously, and there was a little crease – not anger, maybe concern? – between her perfect, arched brows.
"Captain?" she repeated. Her eyes shifted toward the food machines, and she pointed, a little, with her chin. "What do you want?"
God, she was beautiful.
He dropped his glance, and put the tray on the waiting surface. His voice was low, when he finally answered – Afterward, he was pretty sure he hadn't meant to. "He keeps on breathing, working… I want to know how it's possible for him to do that." She had made a small sound; and when he looked up at her, she had turned away. He studied his empty tray, as though it might suddenly explain the inexplicable.
"Every day; day after day." He was still thinking out loud. His voice dropped even lower. "I just can't imagine…"
She put her tray down, right next to his. He was all too aware of her proximity. "No," she said, her own quiet voice surprisingly steady, "Me, either."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her body turning. He watched her lean forward and firmly key in the order for her meal. Her next words were just as firm: "He's Vulcan. He can't do anything less." She collected her food, and started to take it over to their usual large communal table. Then, unexpectedly, she veered, and went instead toward a table-for-two, off to the side.
When his food arrived, he tentatively moved toward her. She was steadily spearing lettuce leaves, carrying them neatly to her mouth. Even consuming a heaping mound of curly, leafy, untidy multi-colored vegetation, she was uncompromisingly beautiful.
He slid his tray onto the edge of the table, half-expecting her to tell him to go away. She merely glanced up, and nodded; so he dropped into the other chair, and started to eat.
Even with his stomach starting to feel a bit… well, like it was, he was glad for the company. There would never be a better opportunity – and he knew, now, that he had blown it. But, still, she was here; and he could be glad of that much, at least. They ate for a while in silence, except for the occasional click or clink of utensils.
After long, long minutes, she looked at him, her gaze appraising. She put down her fork, and placed her napkin next to it. "Let me show you something."
He glanced around the vacant room, surprised, and a little confused. "Alright."
"Let's call it an experiment." She stood up and headed smartly for the door. "C'mon."
It didn't feel right abandoning his tray, but he followed her anyway. It turned out they weren't actually leaving: She stopped at the wall comm, and he stopped just beside her. The look she gave him then was difficult to read: Vaguely challenging, perhaps?
"In order for this to work, you are going to have to tell him to do what I want. Okay?"
"Uhhhm…"
One arm crossed over her body; the other hand was on her hip - She appeared to be both frustrated and mildly amused. She asked, a tad impatiently, "Do you trust me, or not?" (She didn't say 'Captain' – which was probably just as well.)
He didn't sigh. (He heard, again, as if from a distance, her voice observing, 'I sure hope you know what you're doing.' His internal response, now, was pretty much the same.)
No, he didn't sigh: Rather, he reached for the comm panel, and hit the toggle with the edge of his fist. "Kirk to Bridge."
The response was immediate. "Spock here." He could almost see the First Officer straightening, as he spoke. Uhura's head was tilted to one side, listening to the Vulcan intently.
Jim took a deep breath. "Commander Spock, are you at the Science Station?"
"One moment." There was a brief pause. His listeners mentally tracked his rapid traversal of the ship's Bridge - Both knew that he was putting in an earpiece, and tapping the switch that would prevent the ensuing conversation being broadcast over the main Bridge speakers. The level voice continued: "Go ahead, Captain."
"Lieutenant Uhura and I are conducting an experiment. She has some instructions for you."
A tiny silence, then. "Yes, sir."
Jim turned, and motioned for Uhura to come forward to speak. He moved a few inches to the side as she stepped up to the wall unit. He was amused when she turned her back on him conspiratorially - and startled by her words. He shouldn't have heard them: He shouldn't have been standing so close. He shouldn't have been eavesdropping. "Hey, Babe," she said softly, and the note in her voice was unmistakable - intended, as it was - for the other's ear alone.
It occurred to Jim that he should probably move further away.
"Lieutenant." Spock's voice was as cool as ever. It sounded so clear over the comm speaker, so exactly like Spock, that Jim jumped aside a little - then simply kept moving in the direction of the food consoles.
In the unjudging silence of the empty Mess, Uhura's voice was a bit louder, and teasing - laughing the smallest amount. "Sweetie, put your eyebrow down, and listen: I can't program this, myself…"
Jim was definitely not listening any more. He got himself a glass of water, and went back to the little table. He idly poked at his food, and watched Uhura talk – grateful, again, for the sound-dampening design of the room. Now, she was nodding, and she shot a glance his way. She turned her back, once more. Noticing her body language, he was glad he couldn't hear what she was saying just then. He swallowed his mouthful and, when it stuck in his throat, took a big gulp of water. He was just putting the glass on his tray when she came back over and sat down, curling her endless legs primly under her chair.
She was smiling faintly.
"Now," she said, comfortably, "we wait." She speared a bite of her salad, and looked directly at Jim. She looked insufferably smug: He thought maybe she was laughing at him, but he wasn't totally sure. (He wondered what, exactly, she had seen in his face earlier…) She gestured with her fork. "He said ten minutes." For a second, she pretended to ponder those words; then her nose wrinkled just a bit and she said decisively, "Let's give him three, shall we?" Another faint, infuriating smile. She was evidently enjoying tormenting him. (Or maybe that was just his guilt…) She popped the bite in her mouth, and chewed it with obvious satisfaction.
Jim took a bite of his sandwich, and wished he had gotten chicken soup, instead.