Just Another Dinner, Too

That afternoon, Captain Kirk kept his mind on his job through sheer force of will. He figured that that was probably suspicious, enough, all things considered, without him turning around every ten minutes to consider his First Officer, or his Communications Officer, or both of them together (which was, after all, pretty much what they were). He was very much aware of their presence – of Uhura's determined strength and startling vulnerability, of Spock's impossibly clear perception – his equanimity, and loss. No: Jim was not going to be caught staring; and every time his mind tried to wander, he wrestled it back to work.

They left the Bridge that evening – he, Spock and Uhura, Kyle, Chekov, Sulu, and Hannity - as a group, hanging out through the short-staggered shift changes, as though reluctant to leave one another. Spock was the last to finish: He did not hurry through Jakobsen's briefing, although he had to be cognizant that the others were waiting.

Watching as the Science Officer gave a few last patient instructions, listening to that calm even voice, the Captain wondered whether, after dinner - once they were alone – the Vulcan would ask Uhura about her 'experiment.' He wondered what she would say. Remembering her anguish – her attempts to transform it to anger - Kirk doubted whether she would be able to tell Spock the whole truth. But he doubted, also, whether she would be able to look into his eyes and lie.

Once again, Kirk shook his head over the complexities inherent in that relationship – everything about it so fraught with difficulty, and pain. He couldn't imagine how hard that must be; but this time, there was nothing selfish tingeing his reflections. And that, he decided, made for a nice, refreshing change.

From his place at the usual table in the Officers' Mess, he watched the two go to get food: Walking side-by-side (aware, probably, that they were likely to be observed), they were careful never to get close enough to touch.

Jim wondered, just for a second, whether the universe would end if Spock reached for her, drew her to him, kissed her tenderly in front of God and everyone. The Bridge Crew would certainly applaud. In fact, they'd probably cheer.

He looked around at the other tables in the Officers' Mess, picking out a face here and there. No. No, even here – even here, where the officers convened, in what was supposed to be safe, even ground – there were still a few who were less than pleased that they had to report to a non-Human. (That had little to do with Spock, of course, but that didn't really matter: He still bore the brunt. Too, Kirk knew, there were others onboard who felt even more strongly…) He could only imagine what they would think – say – do - if they discovered that their Vulcan First Officer and their very desirable, very Human Communications Officer…

Damn it.

Damn it.

Jim had known since the beginning that Spock was fiercely private; it had struck him as so unnecessary - and pretty irritating. He had assumed that the couple's reluctance to acknowledge their… whatever… was because of some closely-held Vulcan cultural secrecy. He had always considered that kind of selfish of Spock, even rude – not that Jim had really wanted to have to see it, or anything, but still…

Now, like so many things, Jim was seeing it from a different perspective: What if that obdurate insistence on privacy was Vulcan protectiveness at work – not on behalf of himself, alone, but for her?

Yes, there was curiosity on some of the faces, here, even after all this time. And, on some of them, something more: Something ugly… Jim was reminded uncomfortably that he had a stomach, with something vaguely like remembered pain.

McCoy joined them at the table almost immediately, plunking his tray down with a scowl. His mood wasn't any better than it had been earlier; Kirk had to smile. He was fairly certain he knew how Bones had spent his day: His Head Nurse would allow the doctor to dodge paperwork for only so long; and when that limit had been reached, she was liable to turn tyrannical. Today there had been no crises in the offing, no emergencies to deflect her attention - no hope of reprieve. Guaranteed: Tomorrow the First Officer would be reviewing reports first thing in the morning; and the Captain would be avoiding them, himself, before noon.

But Kirk knew, too, that a virtual stack of completed paperwork on the corner of his desk was, to Bones, a huge weight off his shoulders: This evening, McCoy wouldn't stay too grouchy for long.

Around the table, there was the usual swap of the day's 'most interestings' – gleaned, in this case, from a not-particularly-remarkable day. Yet, as voice followed voice, they still found a lot to say. Jim was amazed, again, that these cheek-by-jowl colleagues could delight so in each others' company.

The conversation grew lively; and yes, the doctor soon joined in. Spock's level gaze travelled from speaker to speaker, as he quietly ate. Jim found himself wondering what the other saw, heard behind their words.

Today, Jim just listened, too, grateful once more that Spock had chosen to join them at last: That had taken a long time; and Jim pondered, sometimes, the reasons for that initial reluctance. Early on, he had found that uncharacteristic hesitation interesting, even amusing - His ideas about that were changing, now, too.

But today… Today, as the words flowed around him, Jim's 'most interesting' he just couldn't share. He looked down at his tray, glad he had selected… well, anything but chicken soup.

No. He was not going to look at Uhura.

Without him telling them to, his eyes strayed to the plate in front of Spock. It held something green - simple and spare.

Right.

Most of the time, on missions, Spock refused food and drink as unobtrusively - as respectfully - as he could. When challenged, he would say some enormously superior-sounding something about Vulcan physiology. True; but Jim personally chalked it up to sheer stubbornness and strict ethical vegetarianism: The guy was sorta limited, really, about things he would eat.

But there had also been, oh, a handful of shore leaves when he had eaten; he had simply requested, in his most toneless Vulcan voice, 'vegetables, water-steamed, plain' no more specifically than that. Jim and the others had razzed him about it, saying that that was a terrible thing to order: No one could want to eat that – No one could care that little. (Spock had ignored them, or raised one brow.)

Well, in retrospect, maybe not, to the first; and maybe so, to the second.

Maybe, if you knew you could never get what you really wanted, you might not care what you got.

Oh, God.

(Oh, yeah, Jim: Remember? Sucks to be...)

"… Jim?" Bones' voice broke his reverie: It dawned on him that the rest of the table had fallen silent. Jim blinked, and his eyes came into focus on his water glass. At least, he thought, he wasn't blatantly staring at Spock's plate still: Thank Heavens for small mercies. He glanced to his left. Bones' look of mild concern was turning to wry amusement. When the laughing conversation resumed around them, Bones leaned closer and murmured, "Drop by the office later. You look like you could use a drink."

He was the doctor: He should know.

Jim wasn't going to look at Spock, or Uhura.

Maybe he could ask Uhura, tomorrow, what things Spock especially liked. Maybe they could figure out a way to get them, or grow them, or whatever they needed to do. That might be nice.

(He risked a quick glance, and took in too-aware brown eyes directed, thankfully, toward someone else, while straight black brows revealed nothing.)

Or not.

Uhura surely knew exactly what she was saying when she told Jim that anything he said or did would be an invasion of Spock's privacy. What she hadn't said was that that was about all the guy had left.

Internally, Jim sighed.

It felt like he'd been doing that a lot, lately.