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She knows she's pushing her luck. The very fact that it was that idiot Kirk who actually got the entry code to the Officer's Residence Tower to give to Gaila to give to her should give her serious pause. It could mean serious disciplinary action if any of them got caught, never mind whatever sexual favors Kirk got out of Gaila for it (never mind how he got the code either, but Kirk knowing shit he shouldn't was par for the course). She only hoped her friend kept her mouth shut about who she was getting it for in the first place. Or kept her mouth full. Whatever.
Spock will almost certainly question it, if he doesn't report her right off the bat. She's counting—very heavily—on the fact that he has a recurring tendency to make exceptions in her case. The turbolift carries her to the 17th floor, and she glances into the hall before stepping out. She'd dressed in civilian clothes in the hopes it will disguise her cadet status, but she'd rather not run into any of her other professors here if she can help it, or anyone, really. Her heeled boots sound loud on the polished travertine floor, and she pushes a stubborn lock of hair back behind her ear, taking a deep breath and pressing the comm button outside the door marked 1708c.
The vidscreen in the door flickers to life with her professor's face, bewilderment passing swiftly over it. "Cadet Uhura."
"Commander," she replies, heart pounding.
He hesitates for a beat, "May I inquire as to why you are… here?"
She inhales, darting her tongue over dry lips and raises the small scroll she carries into view.
Another pause, and he glances offscreen before it goes idle again. Several seconds pass, long enough for her to start to panic, to think she's grossly overstepped her bounds and is about to get in some deep shit, but then the door slides open to her professor in the flesh.
He’s wearing Vulcan robes. Black from throat to toes, with accent sashes of violet and silver embroidery. Holy shit.
Stop staring, you complete ass! She quickly drops her eyes to the floor between them. "I came to return your Dorvok volume," she says, raising the ancient scroll again.
"I see," he says, but does not reach out to take it. Another few agonizing seconds, and he looks both ways in the outer hall before he steps aside. "Please come in."
She silently lets out the breath she's been holding. Oh my god, it worked! she thinks and enters her professor's personal quarters, the hiss of the door closing behind her with a finality.
It's absolutely nothing like she'd expected. She'd expected a stark militance, clean grey paneling, few to no personal effects, total and precise order, much like the simplicity of his office. This is another thing entirely.
The space is not large by any means, probably no more than 30 square meters in total, even less that she might have expected to be allotted for the quarters of a Starfleet Commander. She enters on a sitting/office area, with a kitchenette along the far wall beyond that, a door to toilet and shower facilities, and a small alcove in which a neatly made bed is half hidden by a screen. It eclipses her and Gaila's dorm significantly in space and amenities (oh, what she wouldn't give for a private bathroom and kitchen) but that isn't what strikes her.
The walls are the color and texture of burnished copper, hung here and there with abstractly painted silks in purples and reds. The furniture is of simple design, but fabricated in ebony stained woods and soft textiles. A rug with a delicate pattern covers the sitting area floor, with a thick knitted throw draped over the armchair. The screen separating the sleeping area appears silken, not unlike the cloth of Spock's robes, in a warm red. As she turns a circle, there is even a holo-projected hearth, crackling with flames. A stylistic lamp stands beside the chair, and a small piece of sculptural art sits on the well-organized desk, where two or three padds sit in their chargers, and a pen atop of few sheets of real paper.
Everything about this space radiates warmth, not least the temperature, which is somewhat uncomfortable to her, but ideal for a Vulcan's physiology. It's certainly clean and well ordered, yet anything but cold. It's a space designed with an almost Feng Shui attention to equilibrium and comfort.
With an inhale, she comes back to her purpose (or her excuse) for being here, holding out the volume of ancient writing he had lent to her. Spock takes it, watching her carefully. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Oh yes!" she breathes, as she watches him open a wood and glass cupboard by the desk and slide the volume into a shelf containing several similar scroll capsules, as well as old Earth books and other decorative items. "The calligraphy is beautifully done. And the verse is so dynamic. Thank you."
"Dorvok was particularly ahead of his time among the old poets," Spock says. He looks long at the shelf’s other contents. "These belonged to my paternal aunt, from a collection of her ancestor's library."
A sudden movement near the floor startles her, but then she laughs with delight as a sleek black cat weaves between her boots. "You have a cat!"
"Yes," Spock answers as the cat jumps to perch on back of the armchair, looking at her with green eyes. She reaches out her hand, which the cat sniffs and then rubs its cheek across her fingertips.
"What's your name?" she asks the animal, knowing full well it will push Spock's buttons. The cat obviously won't answer.
"This is Lhet'chass," Spock says.
"Grace," she repeats the name in Standard, "Aren't you a pretty girl."
"He is a sterilized male," Spock corrects.
"Oh. Sorry, kitty." Uhura makes a face at her mistake, still petting. "Very handsome boy, then." Like your owner.
A moue of amusement passes over Spock's face. "I doubt he is offended. I have often observed Humans speak this way, of apologies and social constructs, to non-sentient species who do not grasp such concepts as remorse or gender. It is illogical."
"We tend to anthropomorphize our pets," Uhura answers, smiling back at her professor, "It makes us feel closer to them."
Spock's brows vaguely gather. "I see."
"Grace is usually a feminine name in Standard, that’s why I assumed. It's somewhat archaic nowadays."
Spock reaches toward the cat himself. The manner in which he touches the animal is quite different her own, just his middle finger to the top of the head, drawn down the arching line of the neck and back. The cat slowly closes its eyes and purrs, and she wonders if Spock uses telepathy with animals as well. "I was unaware the word had gender specifics. The concept of grace does not apply only to females."
"No, you’re right," she says, thinking aloud, "Both men and women are perfectly capable of being graceful as a cat." She lifts her eyes to Spock's again. Certainly in your case, she thinks, wishing she had the balls to say it. "It's an old word, though. Medieval French, I believe, meaning ‘to give favor’.”
“Yes,” Spock nods, "Some Terran Indo-European languages continued to apply gender to many words for centuries, those termed the 'Romance Languages' descended from Latin. Would you care for refreshment?"
She does a double-take, her mind thoroughly elsewhere. Not only is she in Spock's quarters, he's speaking her language, her passion for language. "I… what?"
"I had endeavored to make tea before your unexpected arrival. I have just remembered my intentions," he explains, "Would you like some?"
"Oh, um, sure. Thank you."
"Please sit, if you wish."
She does, but she can't help but turn to watch him at his tiny kitchenette, preparing two cups of tea from a pouch of real loose leaves, rather than using the replicator. The robes accentuate the long lines of his body, his narrow waist and broad shoulders, the immaculately trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. It warms her so thoroughly she'd really prefer to remove her sweater to the thin, lacey camisole she has on beneath, actually, with the fireplace and ambient temperature so high. She imagines doing so, not for the first time, wondering what sort of reaction Spock would have. This particular daydream tends to delve into places she only thinks of in the dark with her fingers between her legs. Fortunately, the cat steps down into her lap and curls up there as a distraction. She giggles, stroking its sleek fur.
He returns with two saucers and cups, but then hesitates handing one to her. "I must apologize. I neglected to ask if you enjoy Vulcan teas. It is sash-savas. It may be too intense for a Human palate."
She laughs out loud, reaching out to accept one cup. "I've had it before. Plus I’m African.”
He pulls his desk chair around to face her and sits, crossing a leg under those robes. It's a casual gesture, though his face seems bemused. "How does your regional ancestry relate to Vulcan tea?"
Uhura schools her features back to a smile. “Some of our cuisine is known for being spicy." She takes a sip, the flavor both floral and citrus, with an undercurrent of almost raw ginger and pine. "Mmm. It's delicious."
His eyes go warm as he lifts his own cup, lips pursing to blow softly across the hot liquid before he sips. The pale tone of his skin, offset by his dark hair and lashes, and those incredible lips are breathtaking. Her pulse flutters, wondering if he has any idea at all how fucking beautiful he is.
His eyes cut back to her, and she sips her own tea to occupy herself. As always, his eyes feel like they're unraveling her thread by thread. "I have not met many Humans who enjoy Vulcan food and drink. Your species is very attached to your native dishes."
"Are we?"
"I have observed many Human cadets consuming the same foods every day. Pizza being 93.2% most popular."
Uhura laughs at that. "Can't kill an old fave. Late night cram food."
Spock quirks a brow at that, clearly not understanding, but he doesn't question it.
"Do you like pizza, Commander?"
"Not especially," he answers, "Perhaps my dietary restrictions limit its desirability. But I do not find synthesized substitutes for animal derived products such as cheese anymore palatable than their counterparts."
"What's your favorite comfort food, then? Plomeek soup?"
He almost seems to blush. "I am fond of ameelah."
"Sweet tooth, then," she smiles, encouraged, "My family passes down a delicious recipe. I should get it from my bibi."
"Your family has Vulcan recipes?" His eyebrows rise nearly into his bangs.
"Does that surprise you?" she says, setting her cup aside and leaning her cheek on hand. The cat jumps from her lap and resettles on the floor.
"Yes."
"My great great—five greats—uncle was a transcriber during First Contact," she explains. "I don't think I ever mentioned that."
"No, you did not."
"My great great great grandmother once spoke of it to me." Spock tilts his head, and she can almost see the calculations going in it. "I was very young, and she very old and revered."
"Your thrice-great grandmother would have had to attain an incredible age in Human terms to remember the Terran-Vulcan delegation."
"One hundred seventy-three,” she says. "And I was only a toddler when she told me. Maybe… one and a half, two years old."
He gives her a look of appraisal, "Few Human children are grammatically verbal at that stage of development."
"Few," she arches a lofty brow in imitation, "Some exceptions are going into Starfleet Communications." The warm look of approval in his eyes lights her up inside.
"My Bibi Kubwa said, 'They called them Vulcans, Nzuri Nyota. Like the Roman god of fire'."
"A confounding sentiment, since we are neither deities nor associated with fire beyond the manner in which Humans are as well."
She giggles, shaking her head. "No. But Vulcans are fiery people, nonetheless."
Spock tilts his head. "My mother often says the same of my father. I have never understood it. Many Humans have described me as cold, which is the opposite effect, yet just as perplexing a sentiment."
The Iceman, Professor Fridge, Glacial Goblin. Uhura has heard all of them from fellow classmates and disagreed with all of them. As a professor, Spock is absolutely immovable with regards to the emotional distress caused by his classes, his exams, and his load of coursework on his students, but she knows it isn't in any way out of malice or sadism, but only a desire to instill knowledge, and as much as possible in a short span of time. She smiles, "She means it to refer to temperament. Passion, Commander." She searches his expression for any sign of reaction to that, but he seems merely considering. “Passion for knowledge, in your case, and your father's, I would assume."
"That is a fair assessment," he says after a moment’s pondering. "My mother is wise."
"I'd love to meet her," she says, and immediately clenches her teeth, waiting for him to tell her how deeply wrong that would be on so many levels.
It doesn't come. Instead, he turns to pick up a holo frame set on the desk, thumbing through the photographs before turning it for her to see a Human woman in Vulcan dress. "This is my mother."
Hesitantly, she takes the frame. The woman's expression is impassive, but a smile dances in her eyes. "She's very pretty."
If she didn't know any better, Uhura would say Spock is fidgeting, his fingers lifting and setting down his cup in its saucer two times before stopping at the clinking sound. Chances are he's never shown this photograph to anyone. Uhura flushes with pleasure at the thought that he's trusting her with such a thing. "You have her eyes," she says.
It's the truth. These lovely, large, expressive brown eyes, lined with dark lashes that speak volumes of emotion without so much as a twitch from any surrounding facial muscle. Spock, a hybrid who identifies and is so often considered an alien on Earth, by action as much as physical appearance, has Human eyes.
He seems to come to a realization and sits up straight, taking the frame and setting it back in its place. "Nyota, how did you enter the Starfleet Officer's residence? Cadets are strictly unauthorized, even as visitors."
Her heart isn't pounding in fear anymore. He used her name—Nyota. Not Cadet. Not Uhura. It makes her bold. "How is it that you have a cat in the building, sir? Pets are strictly against Academy housing regulation."
They hold in a standoff, his dark, hot eyes boring into hers. Then, slowly, he sits back in his chair, though his gaze never breaks as he inclines his head. "I believe the old French expression for this situation is, touché."
She can't hold back her grin. Not many people could say they won a battle of wills against this man.
"However, my discrepancy is of significantly less consequence than yours," he chides, but it is light. "You could have returned the scroll during my class or office hours. It is highly inappropriate for a student to be in my personal quarters."
"Do you want me to go?" she asks and stands as he does, relieving her of the empty cup and saucer. He places both sets on the desk and turns back, his eyes searching her face.
"I have found your company and conversation… gratifying," he says, his hands coming together between them. "But I must insist that you leave. The dinner hour approaches, and officers will soon be moving through the building's corridors. It would be prudent for you to leave now if you wish to remain undetected."
Her heart throbs again. "Yes, sir."
She turns to the door, but his hand on her arm makes her freeze in place, barely a brush of his fingers over cloth, but she knows, fuck, she knows this man does not touch anyone without due cause. As she turns back, he is opening the case of scrolls again, choosing another to hold out. “'The Doctrine’, by the philosopher Nirak. I believe you will enjoy his writings."
"Thank you, sir." She takes the scroll, and he steps past her to open the door and check the hall. When he pulls his head back, his eyes are alight with embers of… mischief? "There is a fire stairwell at the end of the corridor, rarely used."
She bites her lips against a smile, "Thank you, sir." She suddenly realizes how very close he is, close enough that she can smell the spicy, clean scent of him. She really should go.
"Cadet," he halts her once more, "Building security codes are changed monthly. I trust you will not use the specific code you procured—whatever its source—again."
She blinks. October will be over in four days. "No, sir."
Spock nods, "I shall see you in class."
"Thank you, Commander."
She darts down the hall, wrenching open the door to the stairwell, leaning against the wall inside to catch her suddenly shallow breath.
She won't use the code again. He won't report her for this transgression. But damn if she doesn't think he basically gave her more information than strictly necessary about building security and how to circumvent it.
Apparently, the Vulcan commander who is feared by many as the tightest ass in Starfleet when it comes to following regulation, is sometimes willing to break a few rules.
Shit, she hopes Jim Kirk doesn't catch on.