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Most people don’t apologize with kittens. Then again, most people aren’t Jim Kirk.
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He apologized to her formally before they left—called her into his office and everything, an official summons in her inbox without a single emoticon. He told her he was sorry for acting unprofessionally with her during their schooling and last mission, but hoped she would consider a position on his ship anyway.
She smiled, and said, “I accept, but only if I can still tell you when you’re being an asshole, Captain.”
He grinned back at her, eyes sparkling. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, Lieutenant Uhura.”
She thought that was it—slate cleaned, system formatted, stars realigned—but apparently he was just waiting to spring part two on her.
Jim Kirk never does things by halves.
-
The kitten is a scrawny marmalade with huge blue eyes, liberated from the office of the former head of Colony Zhuwen, a slug of a man who is being escorted back to Earth in the brig for his trial.
“Uhura,” Kirk calls to her when the away team returns. “Can I speak to you in the conference room?”
He takes the kitten out of his jacket the moment the door slides closed, and holds it out with a hopeful smile. “So, hey. Gaila said you loved animals, and I thought you might wanna keep this little guy.” He waggles one of the kitten’s paws at her.
“Isn’t that against policy?” she forces herself to ask.
“Policy schmolicy. Consider it another apology for being a jerk.”
She rolls her eyes, but reaches out. The kitten is soft and tiny, and fits perfectly in her hands.
“You don’t have to apologize twice, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to.”
She snorts. “Always grand gestures with you.”
“You enjoy ‘em.”
-
(She does.)