sesh_khem

A Long Time Coming

It started on the bridge of the Enterprise. During an unexpected run-in with the Klingons, Lieutenant Uhura was thrown from her chair, hitting her head on her console. Spock ran to her, helping her to her feet. The ship was hit again, knocking them both to the deck. Spock found himself on his back with the not unpleasant sensation of the lieutenant on top of him.

Aghast, she started to remove herself from his person, but he held her still with one arm around her waist while with the other he reached up to her face to wipe away the blood from her injury.

“Lieutenant, you require medical attention.” While concerned about her wellbeing, he noted with satisfaction that she was blushing.

“I’m…I’ll be fine, sir.” She scrambled to her feet and headed back to her station.

The Klingon vessel having been successfully dispatched, Spock was insistent. Before relaying the ship’s status to the captain, he called sickbay.

When the lift doors opened, it was not McCoy, but Dr. M’Benga who stepped onto the bridge. Spock found he did not appreciate the familiar manner with which the man spoke to Uhura.

The doctor diagnosed a mild concussion and, after administering a hypospray, told the captain that she needed to rest. He then offered to escort her to her quarters.

“That will not be necessary, Doctor,” Spock interjected. “The lieutenant’s quarters are near my own. I will accompany her.” M’Benga and Uhura shared a questioning glance, but the doctor stepped aside and nodded his acquiescence.

They entered the lift and began the descent in silence. Uhura shifted uncomfortably.

Spock considered how best to broach the subject on his mind. His previous research indicated that a compliment would be appropriate. “Lieutenant, you performed admirably during the recent altercation.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Thank you, sir.” A compliment? Spock never complimented. What was going on?

The lift doors opened and they made their way down the corridor to her quarters. A sudden wave of dizziness hit her and her steps faltered. Immediately, two warm arms encircled her.

“We are almost there,” his deep voice murmured at her ear. “Lean on me.” She complied, trying to ignore the shivers his voice sent down her spine.

“Well, here we are,” she said trying to sound livelier than she felt. “Thank you for getting me home, Commander.”

“No thanks are necessary.” Her hand was on the pad…the door was opening, she turned to smile her goodbye…he had to do this now….

“Lieutenantwillyouhavedinnerwithme?”

She couldn’t have heard what she thought she heard. Could she? “Excuse me?”

He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I…Would you—when you are fully recovered, of course—have dinner with me…some evening?”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Commander, are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

She beamed. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you…Spock.”

Spock seemed to breathe with relief. “I will contact you with the particulars.”

Two days later, when she returned from lunch, she found a message waiting for her from Spock: Tomorrow, 1900 hours, his quarters. She smiled and turned to the science station. He was watching her. She nodded her acceptance and saw his whisper of a smile before he turned back to his monitor.

***

She wore a flowing caftan of muted colors; an outfit she thought she’d seen him regard appreciatively some months before. As she made her way to his quarters, she chided herself for being nervous. She’d been in his quarters countless times over the years for ka'athyra lessons. Yes, she was attracted to him, but she was not one to carry a torch.

She rang for entrance and the door opened. Spock met her at the door, wearing a black Vulcan-cut jacket and black trousers that fit oh-so well. “Good evening, Nyota. Please, come in.”

His room had been transformed from its Spartan efficiency into a candlelit oasis.

“Oh, Spock. This is lovely!”

The ghost of a grin manifested itself as he ushered her to the table.

He’d prepared grilled vegetables with steamed grains. Once they were seated, he poured a measure of blue liquid into their glasses. She gasped.

“Spock, how did you get your hands on Romulan ale?”

“Being the son of a diplomat has its advantages.” He raised his glass. “To you, Nyota: the brightest of stars.”

She fought the urge to sigh and sipped the pungent ale. “I had no idea you knew the meaning of my name.” In fact he had never used her given name until this evening.

“I know much about you,” he said quietly. “Agacian lilies are your favorite flower. You enjoy traditional Mexican chocolate. You read the Terran classics in their original languages. When you dance, it is…breathtaking.”

She looked at him, mouth agape, “Spock, how long?”

“Since the conclusion of your first ka'athyra lesson.”

“That was over three years ago! Why didn’t you say anything?”

He set down his glass. “I was not ready. My previous relationships have been mere dalliances. I respected and admired you too much to attempt such a course with you.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “We are nearing the end of our mission. I am clear about the direction I want my life to take. I am ready to pursue something more real, something enduring. Nyota, do you…is it your wish to pursue such a relationship with me?”

For the first time in over four years, she saw him vulnerable. The Vulcan with the strength of three men, and probably the intelligence of four, was sitting before her hoping she returned his regard.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “It is my wish.” He answered her smile with his own.

Later, when he kissed her goodnight, she realized that indeed, some things were worth the wait.