fic: In Search of a Word

[filenotch]

Title: In Search of a Word
Fandom: Trek Reboot
Pairing: Spock and Uhura
Rating: PG
Summary: Written for my winning bidder unflexible in help_haiti. I like the idea of Spock and Uhura together. This is my take on how it might have started. Many thanks to tesserae_ for the lightening beta.


Sun. Warm on her face. She should be studying, but a day like this is so rare in San Francisco that she cannot resist basking. It doesn't smell like home, but a few moments of heat on her face and the glow of the light that makes it through her closed lids--it feels good. Part of her knows that the red tinge to the glow is the light interacting with the blood of the capillaries that line her retina, and that somewhere deep in her brain some of the photoreceptors in her eye will send signals to her pineal gland. Physiological psychology was not a typical course for a budding xenolinguist, but Nyota knows in her bones that language is of the body.

"Cadet Uhura, may I ask what occupies your thoughts?"

She opens her eyes and turns, surprised at hearing the familiar voice here, outside the classroom. She isn't sure she heard him correctly. "I beg your pardon."

Commander Spock has his hands clasped in front of him, thumbs steepled. He nods his head in a slight bow. "I apologize for my intrusion."

"No. It's alright. I was just startled," she says, as quickly as she can in order to forestall his move to turn and leave. She looks at him and realizes that he is even more not-relaxed than usual. She answers precisely, as if called on in class. "I was thinking about how the physiology of a being's sensory perception affects the structure of a language."

"Interesting thesis. Can you elaborate?"

"If I may take Vulcan as an example?" she asks, feeling almost foolish to be having this conversation with no warning, standing in the middle of the Academy garden, but he nods, the one eyebrow only slightly raised, indicating interest more than skepticism. "Of course, the caveat is that this is merely theoretical and based on what is published on Vulcan physiology and my study of the language. I haven't read enough literature to gather more data, but--"

He unclasps his hands just enough to hold one palm out for a short moment. "You will not cause offense, and I will be pleased to discuss any misapprehensions."

Nyota has had three courses with Commander Spock, and she's learned his tells. The raised hand was not an insult, but an invitation to stop giving him the caveats. It shouldn't make her feel as good as it does. Still, she picks something as safe as possible. "Humans have evolved from diurnal animals, whereas life on Vulcan, as I understand it, is primarily nocturnal. Thus, the kinds of metaphors humans use for understanding, such as, 'to shed light on the subject' are not common in Vulcan language and literature."

He inclines his head. "In general, Vulcan language does not include metaphors."

"But it is not without them," she says. "What about the use of the term unspiced as applied to music? Even though Vulcan hearing is much more acute than chemoreception, a food-based metaphor can be used to critique a musical composition that is insufficiently complex." Nyota can hear the formality in her own speech patterns, but this is Commander Spock. She knows as much as she does about Vulcan language and physiology because she studied him as much as the subjects he taught. She ventures a glance up at him. He is studying her.

"I can find little fault with your observations" he says, and from him there is no higher praise, but she senses a reserve because he takes a breath and pauses, eyebrows drawing together. He says, "I wish to confirm something." She nods back, imitating his gesture in giving permission. "You will take no further courses from me." She can feel her confusion show on her face. "I apologize," he says. "This is more awkward than I had anticipated." He looks down at his hands, and she does, too. The skin around his thumbnails distorts with pressure, and he brings them down from their steeple to go head to head, like two bucks fighting.

Nyota keeps her peace, feeling that if she says one wrong word, he will simply apologize again and leave. If he does that, she doubts he will ever approach her again, and she will never know why he is here now. She waits for a moment, letting the sound of birds and other conversations fill the space, and then says, "I've taken every course you teach that's appropriate for my specialization. Unless you add to the curriculum, I don't expect the pleasure of being your student again."

He inclines his head in his sideways nod of acknowledgement. "I would," he starts, then takes a breath and folds his thumbs one over the other, their battle resolved. "I would very much like the pleasure of your company outside the classroom."

It was the last thing she expected to hear, and yet it does not surprise her as much as it should, because she had briefly held what she thought were fruitless hopes. She has been studying him for a reason.

***

"Dinner and a show is traditional, is it not?"

"Traditional?"

"For a date." A date. She had started to think that he wasn't interested in her that way, that he merely wanted her intellectual companionship. "I realized that my suggestion of the linguistics lecture last week might not have been appropriate."

"It was fine. It was very interesting," she says. They are down at the water front in a sushi restaurant, a sparse place with silvered wood and a dock next to it. Spock has ordered only vegetarian varieties, so she has done the same. Raw fish she can take or leave, and she is impressed by the amount of wasabi he uses. He eats diffidently, and when she does not answer he says, "I have obtained tickets to a play."

"Dinner and a play is nice, but it is also traditional to ask the woman if these are things she would like to do."

"I see. Has my choice displeased you again?"

"No," she admits. "And I liked the lecture, it's just... We're dating?"

"I thought my intentions were clear."

"I guess they are now." She smiles and shakes her head, picking up the chopsticks. "Show me how to use these."

***

"It wouldn't surprise me if Andorians don't have the concept of dance," she says to Spock during the intermission.

"I have not studied that question. Indeed, given the performance so far, I am uninterested in pursuing the subject."

She has to admit, this hasn't been her favorite of Berkeley's Xenomusicology concert series. Andorians have an odd, insectoid circulatory system, and their rhythms are not based in human heartbeats, human steps. She wants to ask Spock if Vulcans dance. Some of the music she has found in the database is very rhythmic, but she does not know how to ask. She can't imagine Spock dancing other than formally--a stiff waltz at a reception, perhaps.

She hears the brash laugh before she sees him. Jim Kirk. It's the last person she expected to see at an event like this, but he's with a girl (he's always with a girl). It was probably his date's idea, and Nyota guesses that he's just made some joke about the sound of the Andorian instruments. She does not want him to see her, and especially not with Spock. Kirk always, always finds a way to ask her name, and she is too well bred to give into her impulse to punch him. He would only use it as an excuse to fight back and get his hands on her.

That image mixes with her memory of the irregular, booming music, and she looks at Spock. "Would you mind if we left now?"

If he weren't Vulcan, she would think he looked relieved. "If that is your wish, I am amenable," he says.

The closest door will take them past Kirk, and forgetting herself for a moment, she takes Spock's hand to lead him in the opposite direction, and before they have reached the door her mind is whirling with images of herself, seen through another's eyes--her face and form and an underlying sensation of complex geometries. There is also a strange sense like a layer of thick, calming oil over a sea of constant movement. When they reach the cool air outside the building, Spock pulls his hand from hers, and the sensations stop. She looks up at him, and he seems embarrassed and shocked under his mask of calm.

Touch telepaths She realizes, and feels her face warming as she suddenly wonders what he saw in her mind. "I am so sorry," she says, looking down. "That was thoughtless of me."

"I also apologize," he says. "I am unsure of what thoughts you perceived, but if it offended you in any way..."

"No," she says quickly. In his mind she is beautiful, bright, complex, and wanted. Ideal, but not idealized. She also could sense his concern that the attraction was one sided. She looks up at him, and he is looking past her, eyes unfocused as if he is processing something.

"If your attractions lie elsewhere," he starts, and he places his hands behind his back with an air of finality. "I do not wish to violate your privacy."

"They're not," she says. "Not elsewhere. If you saw James Kirk in my head, it was because I was trying to get us away from him."

"I see," says Spock, and he looks like he's processing again for a few seconds until he looks at her. "In that case would you like to walk? The theater is in a park," he says, as if she might not have noticed. "The weather and temperature are clement. And my ears would appreciate natural sounds after what we have just heard."

She smiles, thinking that this is the Vulcan equivalent of likes romantic walks in the moonlight. "It would be a pleasure," she says, her tone teasing in its formality, and she wonders if he can tell. They walk side by side, his hands behind his back, hers reaching out to touch plants when they're close, feel the texture of the leaves. She would hold his hand if he were human, but instead she says, "You want to know what I disliked most about that music?"

He says, "Yes," and she knows he means it.

***

"When first I approached you last summer," Spock says, "What were you thinking as you stood in the sun?"

"What do you mean?" Uhura looks up at him for a moment, and then back at her footing. They are in Arizona, hiking a trail on the edge of the Grand Canyon. "I told you."

"Please." It is all he says, without the sarcasm she knows he's capable of using. He is not accusing her of lying. There's something he wants to know. "I ask what you were thinking before I approached you."

She isn't sure why he's asking the question, but she suspects he knows her answer then was born as much of a desire to impress him--or at least not embarrass herself--as truth. "I was enjoying the sun. My home is more like this region, but at a lower elevation. Fog is rare, and the sun is closer to the middle of the sky. Sometimes in San Francisco I feel like it just skirts the edges of the sky." The sun is high here, but she is glad of the thermal clothing in the crisp fall air. "I never feel as warm, never get hot."

"I remember similar observations when I first came to the Academy as a student," he says. "I have not let myself dwell on what cannot change. When possible I visit areas of this planet that are more like my own." He pauses, and corrects himself. "I mean areas of this continent. I have never been to your home."

"Some parts look a bit like images I've seen of Vulcan. Many parts are moister and have more plant life," she says, picking her way up the rocky trail that he seems to flow over, like he is part cat, part goat.

"Would I understand you more if I saw your home?" he asks, and before she can answer he says, "I am familiar with the customs of partnering rituals in the area of North America around the Academy, but I assume there are regional differences in appropriate behavior. I would like to understand your expectations."

It isn't one question, really. It is a host of concerns she didn't know he had, and they mirror her own. Since the walk after the Andorian concert they have been diffident with each other.

Spock stops at the top of the rise, looking out, and she wonders if he feels something close to embarrassed. When she catches up, she realizes there is a vista here. The day is clear, and the striations of the canyon wall on the opposite side draw her eye, analyzing the layers of rock before she allows herself to see just how big the canyon is. At that, she draws a breath. Against the vastness of space, this cut of river through planetary crust should not affect her, but it does.

"It is indeed grand," Spock says, and the un-Vulcan banality of the remark causes her to turn to face him, eyebrows rising. "I apologize," he says. "I thought a joke might lighten the mood. I thought, perhaps, I was too forward."

"Too forward?" she says, controlling the part of her that would be berating a human male for being stupid and slow on the uptake. "Spock," she starts, and then pauses to gather her thoughts. Like that day in the Academy garden, a wrong word here will put him to flight. "We have been dating for months, sharing company, food, cultural events." She raises her eyebrows at him. "I know nothing of your childhood, how you came to join Starfleet. You know more about me because you saw my student file, but you haven't ever used that information. I have never asked you questions about your life, but it was not because I wasn't interested. I respect your privacy. I don't know your customs either."

His eyebrows have gone up a fraction. "I see."

She doesn't know what to say, and realizes that speaking more will accomplish nothing of what she wants, and if she has learned anything in these last months, it is that she wants to be with him, that he will never bore her, and that he would never ask her to be something other than what and who and everything she is.

"Will you tell me about your home?"

"My home," she says, "my home..." She doesn't know where to begin, how to describe the landscape, the smells, the different sounds. She turns toward the canyon, draws breath, and begins to sing. She chooses a long song, a story told in melody and words. She holds nothing back, notes becoming surer as she warms up, as she catches her breath from the hike in high altitude. She makes the thin air take the shape of the browns and greens and rhythms of home.

He says nothing for a long while, but she knows to take his silence for contemplation. He turns away without a word, reaching into his pack for a communicator. She hears him arrange transportation, and feels the heat from his body on the bare skin of her face and hands as he stands close, but not touching, never touching. They look out over the canyon in silence, but her thoughts roil, afraid she has somehow offended him.

He says, "The transport pad is over two hours hike away. A shuttle will be here in about ten minutes. I hope you will forgive my presumption, and I would consider it a great courtesy if you would sing again, while we wait."

She nods, confused and glancing at him, but he looks out across the chasm in the earth, hands behind his back, seeming more calm than the edge she heard in his voice would indicate. She sings the legend of the woman who was loved by a god, and who loved him but refused to marry him, and his vengeance on her. She sings a lullabye, low and sweet, remembering her nephew as a baby, sleeping in the shade. She sings a blues that drops back in her throat, takes the edge off the sweetness, and the shuttle arrives before she gets to the verse about what she'd do to get that rotten man back. She falls silent before the door opens and lets out the air from wherever the transport has come, and beyond courtesies with the pilot, they say nothing for most of the half-hour ride back to San Francisco.

She can feel Spock meditating next to her, so she matches his breathing and waits, but when he doesn't explain by the time the bridge comes into view, she asks, "Are you still planning for us to go to the new Shakespeare production on Friday?"

"What?" he says, blinking. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because when we land, I plan to go back to my room and study, and I may just need to study straight through the week and next weekend unless you explain to me why we came back three hours early."

"I do not wish to end my time with you so quickly," he answers.

"Then tell me where we are going, or better yet, ask me if I want to go there." She looks at him, keeping her gaze steady until he looks away.

"I have forgotten my manners." Nyota doesn't bother to agree aloud. He tilts his head for a moment, his hands steepled in front of him. "I have never asked you to my rooms. I would like to request that you join me this afternoon. There is something I would like to show you. To share with you."

A part of Nyota wants to pass this off as a Would you like to come see my holograms?, but she knows this is something more. "All right."

She walks with him through the city, to a quarter full of small apartments usually occupied by people on temporary duty at Star Fleet Headquarters. He has been here for much longer than that, and when he opens the door, he stands aside for her to enter first.

It is an alien world. The space, if she were to measure the walls, would be small, but there is a sense, somehow, of the vastness of deserts, that if she turned back through the door she would instead see cliffs and rocks, but it is done with fabric and hangings and careful, very careful placement of sculpture and art.

"Please," he says. He takes her jacket, and because the room is so warm, she pulls off the extra thermal layer. When he hangs them, he takes off his own. "Sit wherever you would like. May I offer you water or tea?"

He sounds like he's reading from a script of how to be polite when someone visits your home, like he's trying to make up for the abrupt end to their hike, and she appreciates the effort, and she's curious now. She wants to cut to the question of why she is here, but instead she says, "Tea would be nice. Whatever you're having." She sits, and while he is in the kitchen, she sees something hanging on the wall. It reminds her a bit of the ennanga, the arched harp, married to the mandolin. It is beautiful, and she rises to step in front of it, leaning in look more closely with her hands behind her back so as not to touch it.

She hears the sound of a replicator, but also of rummaging in the cabinets. She is trying to imagine how the instrument will sound, its strings fanning out up the neck, apparent dials on the side. She can't see how it might be fretted, isn't sure that it is, or what range of notes the strings might have. Spock's voice surprises her. "That is what I wanted to share with you. It is a Vulcan harp."

"Do you play?" she asks, and then feels stupid, because there is no other reason he would have it.

He doesn't seem to mind. "Not as often as I should." He hands her tea. "This is from Vulcan. I do not know if you will like it, but it is a small taste of my home world."

She takes the mug, smells the vapor of sharp cinnamon, and sips. The tea is bitter and there is a heat of spice, like berbere from Ethiopia and the kind of cinnamon flavor that comes from the concentrated oil. There are flavors she cannot describe mixed in, and it is overwhelming. It was one thing to read about Vulcan preferences in flavors, but experiencing it was momentarily overwhelming, threatening to make her cough. "Wow."

"It may not be to human tastes," Spock says, a hand extended to take her mug. "I can have something more mild replicated."

"No," she says, holding the mug closer to her chest. It reminds her in some ways of the touch they shared so briefly a month ago. She takes another sip, and her taste buds seem to have adjusted, and it goes down easier. "I would like to have this," she says. She might never choose to drink it again, but she wants this experience.

He gestures for her to sit again, and when she does, he takes the chair opposite. "I have never had anyone visit me here. You are the first human I have ever wanted to see me in any way but as an exemplary Star Fleet officer."

"I see you," she says. "Sometimes I don't know what I'm seeing."

Spock puts his tea aside, and stands up. He takes down the harp and turns to her. "May I play for you?"

"I would like that," she says, "very much."

The first notes are wind in the desert, pebbles falling down a slope. The note lines are different from Western music, with more of the semi-tones of songs from her native Swahili, mixed with the glottal stops of Bantu. The rhythm is sinuous and builds, notes intertwining in complexities like the music from her home.

It is not one piece of music that stops. He improvises and shifts the rhythm seamlessly, logically, from one pattern to another. After several minutes Nyota remembers her tea, and when she sips, the spice heat and the music, the dry, warm air of his quarters and the colors and tones of the room together tell her something about him she could never put into words. Eventually he brings the music back to the slow wind of the beginning, and says, "Would you be uncomfortable if I asked you to sing with me?"

The words are like a coal in her heart. In her school days she thought she loved a boy, but it didn't feel like this. "It would be my pleasure. I think I can improvise."

He plays differently, more structured and with more repetition, and she sings in Swahili because it fits. She sings about the beauty of the canyon, and the love of her home lands and how she longs for vast black emptiness of space despite it all. She repeats words and phrases that she likes, following his lead sometimes, pulling him in her direction others, and it is long minutes before he slows and stops, her last note held, lingering a moment longer. They sit for a moment in the sudden quiet, and then he stands and puts the harp away.

Before he can return, she stands, too. Frightened of rejection, she looks at him when he turns back and, imitating the gesture she has only read about, raises her right hand with two fingers extended.

His face does not change expression, but she hears him draw breath, and look from her fingers to her eyes. He raises his left hand, the one on the same side, and pauses with the pads of his fingers an inch from her knuckles. "Nyota," he says gravely, and there is a hint of rasp in his voice. "I was betrothed when you were a child." Because his hand is there, she cannot drop hers, although her heart feels like it has fallen and folded in on itself.

"So this would be," she swallows and then finishes, "temporary."

"Last month I began negotiations with her family to end the marriage."

She is numb, and her fingers are trembling. "What do you mean end the marriage? I don't understand. You said betrothed."

"It is a bond," Spock says. "More than a human engagement, but less than a marriage. It was sealed when we were children. Breaking it has... political as well as personal ramifications."

"For me?" she asks, and her voice feels small. This was not something she'd learned about in any files she'd read.

His fingers make contact, and she can feel as much as hear him say, "For the hope of you."

-fin-