Archive of Our Own

Nyota always found joy in the beautiful translation of symbol to word to meaning. Her parents loved to tell stories of walking her down the street in her stroller, her chubby hands waving excitedly as she shouted “ jambo !” to every passing stranger. Appropriate, that her first word should be ‘hello,’ that her life should be built upon a foundation of greeting, of meeting, of opening herself up to a stranger with the hope of conversation. Connection.

After Swahili, Nyota discovered Xhosa, and Zulu, languages spoken by neighbors and by members of her family who would come to visit on special occasions carrying bowls piled high with steaming banana leaves, with wide smiles on their faces, willing to lend their languages to the child who clutched at their sleeves with her fumbling desire to learn.

From there, Nyota’s mother gave her the gift of Standard, based mostly on English, which used syllables and sounds that felt strange pressed against the roof of her mouth or hissed between her lips and teeth. At least at first. As she practiced, sitting at a computer console in a room that sweltered with summer heat, it became a part of her. Just as Swahili was a part of her. Just as Xhosa and Zulu were a part of her. She was twelve years old when her Standard practice software pinged ‘proficient,’ and she squealed, pumping her fists in the air and scaring the dog that lay curled at her feet.

She went five miles on her daily run that evening, exhilaration and pure joy speeding her along faster than she’d ever run as she recited the Standard words for everything she passed. “House,” she gasped as the soles of her shoes scraped over dirt and gravel. “Tree, cat, soil, fruit, woman, cloud—” each word punctuated by panting breath, huffed with a smile as wide as the horizon that stretched out in front of her, beyond her small town.

Even then, Nyota knew that she wanted more. The first four languages of her soul were terrestrial, immediate, close to home, but she would stare out at the stars at night and consider communicating with those planets whose languages felt as strange to her as their cultures did.

She had received Swahili, Xhosa, Zulu and Standard from her family, but it was a stranger who first gave her the gift of Vulcan. She was fourteen when her mathematician mother took her to San Francisco. It was a conference, she said, but also an opportunity. Nyota could explore a whole new country while her mother set about her presentations and events.

The moment Nyota was given free rein — with a communicator, a smile and a pat on the head — she ran out the hotel and into the busy streets, staring wide-eyed at the tall buildings, the thousands of people of all races who flitted past. Her ears opened wide to every lift and fall of voice, every guttural glottal stop, every puff of air, every click of a tongue, languages she’d never heard spoken, blended in a cacophony with those she knew well, and she wondered why anyone would waste their life on a universal translator when they could hear this. She wandered for hours, taking in the sights and sounds until heavy gray clouds rolled in over the bay and the day grew late and she was as lost as she had ever been. The communicator her mother had given her lay forgotten in her hotel room, unknown miles away.

Along the boardwalk, scattered people shuffled past with hands in pockets, eyes downcast, umbrellas up against the rain that had only just begun to fall. She tried to stop a few of them, but none would speak with her, or maybe they didn’t hear her over the incoming wind and the choppy waves of roiling ocean.

And then, as she was about to just set off into the heart of the city to find a café or restaurant that might help, she saw the young woman, a figure that became etched into her memory as if she had studied that sharp profile as rigorously as she did everything else. The smell of eucalyptus and sea salt hung heavy in the humid air and the rough twill of the woman’s dark, formal robes caught dew like diamonds. She was sitting under an awning on a bench facing the sea, her skin as tawny and smooth as windswept desert sand, her back straight, alone with a data PADD in her hands and her sharp eyes downcast. Her pointed ears curved up into elaborate curls of dark hair, plaited with a braid on the side of her head — and she was exquisite , regal. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen, but she had an air of quiet wisdom about her, a serenity in the line of her full lips and in the smooth curve of her brow. Nyota knew of Vulcans from her studies, of course, but had never met one in person. But, lost and out of options, she swallowed her nerves and approached.

The girl looked up as Nyota’s shoes splashed through puddles laying in dips of old concrete, but that stoic expression didn’t change. She merely lowered the PADD and eyed her.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious of her own over-large sweater and her hair flying out of its messy bun, frizzing in the humidity, Nyota offered a nervous smile.

“Hello,” she said in Standard, wishing she knew the word in Vulcan. She always liked to speak to people in their own tongue. “Excuse me, I am lost. Can you help?”

A beat passed as thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Then, gesturing with a slender, unadorned hand to the empty side of the bench, the girl met Nyota’s eyes purposely. Nyota took a seat, mirroring the rigid posture of the figure beside her. The girl didn’t speak, but handed her PADD to Nyota, who took it with a grateful duck of her head and a hastily muttered “thank you.”

She knew her cheeks were hot, in spite of the chill in the air, and she tried to convince herself that she didn’t need to be nervous. In spite of her composure, this Vulcan was a teenager, just like her, alone in an alien city. Nyota should simply be grateful the girl had taken pity on her.

She looked down to input the address of the hotel, but paused, eyes tracing the lines of the intricate script that flowed down the screen. She raised it closer to her face, watching the delicate rain fracture the light, the lines and curves of the text. “Is— Is this Vulcan?” she asked before she could stop herself, flinging her eyes back up to the girl beside her.

A single eyebrow lifted, storm-dark eyes alight with something like curiosity, or maybe amusement. “It is,” the Vulcan responded, her voice containing music without melody, thick with an accent Nyota had never heard.

“What— what does it say?” Nyota couldn’t hold in the excitement that wavered along her words. “I don’t mean to bother,” she rushed to add when the girl continued to regard her silently. “I just don’t know very much about Vulcan.” She knew nothing about Vulcan, actually, but was somehow hesitant to admit as much.

The girl looked on her for a moment, her eyes as hard as they’d been when Nyota first approached, but something in her shoulders seemed to soften as she held Nyota’s gaze.

“They are the teachings of Surak,” she finally explained, and Nyota let out a small breath of relief at the patience in her tone. With an inelegant little scoot, the girl moved infinitesimally closer, reaching out to run a finger along the screen. Nyota followed the movement with rapt attention, attempting not to focus on the spicy-sweet scent that wafted from the girl’s hair over the dampness of the air. “This phrase reads, ‘ Ma etek natyan. Teretuhr lau shetau etek weh-lo'uk do hau-ov t'on .’”

It was unlike anything Nyota had ever heard, a graceful language that flowed like water, like rain sliding down a window pane, like the sea beating against the Kenyan shore, like it was fluid and malleable and so unlike the people who spoke it — both made all the more beautiful by the contrast. The girl seemed to pick up on her wide eyes and gaping mouth. A corner of her lips drew up, if only slightly.

“You were finding directions,” the girl reminded her, settling back into her previous place, and Nyota felt herself flush with embarrassment before she turned her eyes back to the PADD. It didn’t take long for her to call up her hotel’s address, and to find the nearest transport station, which lay merely a block away. When she’d mentally marked the location, she handed the PADD back to its owner, letting it go as reluctantly as if she were saying goodbye to a friend.

“Thank you, miss,” Nyota said, “I— I wish I knew how to say it in Vulcan.”

“ Nemaiyo , T’Pring,” the girl said. “ Nemaiyo is ‘thank you.’ T’Pring is my name.”

When Nyota’s mind managed to crack through its initial disbelief — its awe and excitement and the pure, simple beauty of that name — a grin split her face. She felt a breath fill her lungs, and she nodded. “ Nemaiyo , then, T’Pring,” she said, and, because she had seen it in holos, she raised her hand in the Vulcan salute, spreading her fingers only a little clumsily. T’Pring seemed surprised at this, her chin lifting before she returned the gesture.

“You should go now,” T’Pring said. “It is not wise to spend a great deal of time in the rain.”

Nyota lowered her hand. “What about you?” she asked, glancing around, as if the nearly empty boardwalk might suddenly offer some kind of hint as to where T’Pring had come from, or what she was doing here alone.

“I will return to my lodgings momentarily,” she said. “As you must.”

That was a clear dismissal, said with authority. Nyota didn’t know why she wanted to linger, but she wanted to. Maybe to ask T’Pring to speak Vulcan to her again, or maybe to absorb some of the simple elegance T’Pring seemed to emanate, or to solve the mystery of her presence. But she couldn’t linger. T’Pring was right — she did have to return.

“Of course, yes,” Nyota said after a moment. But as she stood, she saw movement at her periphery. T’Pring had raised a hand as if to stop her.

“One moment,” T’Pring said. She looked back to her PADD and tapped the datadisc inserted in the top, removing it. Then, as carefully as if she were holding glass, she pinched it between two fingers and held it out to Nyota.

“I know the teachings of Surak by rote,” T’Pring said. “Perhaps you may now benefit from them.”

Nyota felt her fingers trembling as she reached out and took the disc from T’Pring’s hand. Her heart ached with an emotion far too large to be called gratitude as she clutched it to her chest. A clap of thunder sounded above, and the rain fell more insistent, splattering around them in a crescendo of sound and light.

This time, when she said “ Nemaiyo ,” it was in a whisper so small it seemed to carry itself away on the wind, but she could tell that T’Pring knew what she meant. That was the beauty of language. Sometimes it did not even need to be spoken to be understood.

Nyota gave her first girlfriend a poem written in Vulcan. The grammar was clumsy, if not entirely incorrect. Its construction far from beautiful. And she could not bear to tell Banou that Vulcan vocabulary didn’t really allow for grandiose expressions of affection.

But Banou smiled when Nyota read it to her, and Nyota found herself lost in the girl’s dark eyes. She’d always had a penchant for girls with dark eyes.

The exams required for the application had been almost laughably easy, but Nyota could admit to herself that she had gotten stuck on the essay like flypaper. Though she knew she could write well, and though she could translate that writing now into eight different languages, she never quite knew what to say.

Was it enough to say she’d dreamed of joining Starfleet since she was a child? Was it enough to say that she wanted to be among the thousands of cadets who walked the halls of the Academy? Was it enough to say that she knew she belonged there with as much certainty as she knew anything?

She wanted to find herself on a starship, or on an alien world, or in conference rooms with foreign ambassadors, learning everything there was to know about all of them. Her heart ached with the potential she knew she had, and with all the infinite possibility of her life.

So she began to type, unsure what to say but that she wanted this, that she would be good at it, and that she had been given the gift of language and refused to squander it. As she wrote, recalling the story of a Vulcan girl she met on a bench in the rain and a language that informed the trajectory of her life, she felt a smile pulling at her lips.

On the shuttle ride to San Francisco, Nyota read over the teachings of Surak once again, repeating them to herself under her breath. The young man sitting beside her kept shooting her annoyed glances, but she couldn’t be bothered with him. Her nerves had reached a peak the closer she got to Starfleet Academy, and she had discovered over the years that nothing soothed and centered her quite like the feeling of the Vulcan language on her tongue, or the simple logic of these words she knew now by heart.

She had no reason to be nervous, she knew. The acceptance letter had been personalized, and expressed a great deal of interest in her burgeoning skills. But it was the first time she had been away from home for longer than a week, and she felt a little at war with her own sense of adventure.

“Eik-veshtaya to'ovau kau — lu veshtaya ri glazhau goh na'kastorilaya t'kashan," she muttered to herself. Wide experience increases wisdom. And with Starfleet Academy mere minutes away, she knew she would soon have much to experience. So she took a breath, and read on.

It was the woman's voice — a familiar tone with no affectation, but a depth to her accent that resonated against the lecture hall’s high walls. And, too, it was her hands, graceful fingers laced in front of her where they rested absently against her body. The folds of her modest dress drew tight along her hips, her chest, her shoulders, and she stood by the podium with as much poise and elegance as she’d possessed six years ago when Nyota had first seen her on that bench in the rain.

Nyota would recognize this woman as T’Pring even without the introduction, even without Professor Dunmeyer fumbling over the intricate syllables of T’Pring’s family name. T’Pring’s face and figure were a part of the fabric of Nyota’s memories, and now she was here . All these years, Nyota had thought fondly of the patient, beautiful young woman who had given her the gift of the Vulcan language and philosophy. That datadisc still occupied a special pocket of her school bag, where she kept it safe and looked it over daily. She thought she would never see T’Pring again. And now she was here .

In the hour that T’Pring had stood at the front of the hall, discussing the evolution of modern Vulcan dialects from ancient Golic Vulcan, Nyota hadn’t taken a single note. T’Pring’s very presence, the sheer coincidence that she should be the surprise guest-lecturer her professor had been talking up, was so simultaneously distracting and arresting, Nyota wasn’t sure if she would remember every word T’Pring said, or if she would only remember the way the woman’s lips moved as she spoke, her accent plucking at consonants and rounding vowels as though cradling them.

And not once did Nyota’s eyes leave her. Her leg bounced as she continuously wrestled to contain a smile, and when those stormy eyes — so dark they were nearly black — turned to her, Nyota could swear there was recognition in their depths. But, as always, it was difficult to tell with Vulcans.

The lecture ended before Nyota had fully processed that it had even begun.

“Thank you, Miss T’Pring,” Professor Dunmeyer said as he stood from his seat in the corner of the room where he’d been observing. He began to clap, and Nyota barely remembered to join in as the lecture hall echoed with moderate applause. As it died down and students slumped to grab their bags and data PADDs, Dunmeyer spoke a little louder over the din.

“Don’t forget to send me your observations by tomorrow morning!” he shouted, but shook his head with a little flop of his hands when he realized no one was paying attention — no one but Nyota, of course. She watched him turn to T’Pring, waving her over to speak privately, which gave Nyota a little time. She snatched her bag and stood, sidling out of the row around the students moving far too slowly for her liking, and taking the steps of the tiered seats at a brisk jog.

When she approached the podium where T’Pring and Professor Dunmeyer were speaking, Nyota felt herself smiling.

“It was good of you to come,” Dunmeyer was saying. “As you well know, Vulcan is not my strongest language.” He punctuated this with a chuckle, but T’Pring looked unamused, her lips a single thin line, straight as the set of her narrow shoulders.

“That is true,” she said. “And it was not an inconvenience to deliver a short lecture. My work at the lab does not begin in earnest until tomorrow.”

“Nevertheless, you must be busy settling in. How long are you going to be on Earth?”

“My superiors are uncertain. Our goal is to study the effect of alien viruses on Vulcan immune systems, so a great deal depends on Starfleet Academy’s medical staff and their ability to provide the samples and information we require.”

“Well, I’m grateful you could spare some time for my classes. Tough to track down native Vulcan speakers in San Francisco, and tougher to find any that aren’t too busy.”

“We tend to stay occupied, yes.”

Getting impatient, Nyota side-stepped so that she might be visible in the Vulcan’s periphery. Those eyes turned to her once again, absently. Then, T’Pring looked back to the professor. “I believe your student wishes to speak with you,” she said, indicating Nyota with a flat hand. Dunmeyer glanced over and offered a smile and a wave.

“Ah, Nyota,” he greeted, and he rounded the podium to approach her. He clapped a hand between Nyota’s shoulder blades, making her stumble slightly, but the gesture was made out of pride, so she didn’t fault him for it. “T’Pring, you should meet Nyota. She’s one of my best students — strong interest in Vulcan.”

T’Pring raised an eyebrow at Nyota’s grin, “Indeed?” she asked, and Nyota felt her smile slip just slightly. She could have sworn T’Pring recognized her earlier, but now she gave no indication.

“Ah, actually we have met,” Nyota said, speaking more to T’Pring than to Dunmeyer. “About six years ago?”

“Perhaps,” T’Pring said, and Nyota’s smile fell fully now.

“Well,” Dunmeyer put in, “I’m glad to introduce you now. T’Pring, you may want to visit Nyota at her club. She runs — what is it called again?”

“Study of Advanced Interplanetary Languages, or, ah, SAIL for short,” Nyota said, “I’m the president.” Though she typically said as much with pride (not all second years became club presidents, let alone started their own), the cold look in T’Pring’s eyes made the words come out almost meek. There was nothing of the patient girl Nyota had met on the boardwalk in that expression, and suddenly Nyota felt fourteen again, and very nervous.

“I will have little time for such pursuits,” T’Pring said. “However I believe it is customary to express appreciation for the invitation.”

Which, Nyota mentally translated, did not mean that she would actually express appreciation for the invitation.

An awkward beat of silence passed. “I will take my leave now,” T’Pring said. She nodded to Dunmeyer. “Goodbye professor.” And to Nyota. “Cadet.”

In a moment of panic, Nyota raised the ta’al. “ Dif-tor heh smusma ,” she said, the Vulcan language tumbling out of her lips as if she were really saying ‘look how far I’ve come. Look what you gave me, even if you don’t remember.’ But she should have stuck with ‘goodbye.’

T’Pring lifted her chin slightly, but did not lift her hand to return the gesture. “Your accent is atrocious,” she said stiffly. “I would expect better from a student of advanced xenolinguistics.”

Nyota snorted in spite of herself, as astonished by the tactlessness of the statement as embarrassed by its truth. Then, her mouth ran away with her, as it tended to do. “A human student, you’ll remember. Besides, ningependa kusikia Swahili yako ” There was a challenge in the words, spoken in her own native language, almost childish in her desire to prove she knew just as much as T’Pring, at least in some way, but it struck her that T’Pring may very well know Swahili, or at least be able to pick up on the spirit of the challenge. She let out a breath of relief when T’Pring looked at her without comprehension.

“If you wish to speak with me, I would advise you to continue in Standard,” T’Pring said, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Nyota let out a breath.  “Listen,” she said, taking a step forward, forgetting for a moment about Dunmeyer beside them. “I’ve got the best accent of anyone in my club, so if it’s that bad, well — it would mean a lot to me if you might be willing to come one night. Lend us all your insight.”

“I will consider it,” T’Pring said, her voice hard as though shutting a window against bothersome noise. “Good day to you both.” And with that, T’Pring turned and made her way to the door off the hall, now echoing with her footsteps in its emptiness.

Nyota stood beside her professor for a moment in silence. Then, Dunmeyer chuckled. “Vulcans,” he said dismissively. “You know how they are.”

But Nyota didn’t. And she wanted to. And she couldn’t help thinking as the door closed behind T’Pring that an opportunity had walked out with her.

Nyota arrived at the clubroom early, as she always did. Though SAIL boasted only five members, she devoted herself to it, spent countless hours collecting materials and made it to the library at least twenty minutes early each week. Their club business was simple — study together, share extra reading. But considering she provided the majority of that reading, it took more time than any of the club’s members knew. So now, as with every week, she made sure the small computer table in the center of the library reading room had its power on, its screens ready, a document about Klingon pronunciation open. And she stopped herself, as she had all week, from sighing.

It was a silly thing to be upset about, she knew, the awkward conversation she’d shared with T’Pring. Yes, that meeting on the boardwalk had proven one of the most fateful of her own life, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it was so forgettable on the other end of it. Nyota had just been some silly, lost human girl with some silly obsession with language that even her family didn’t understand. She shouldn’t expect the understanding of a stranger. And she shouldn’t have expected T’Pring to live up to the vision in her memory. The girl she had met that day had been kind, patient, soft-spoken, but Nyota didn’t know her. It was possible she’d caught her on a good day, or had simply not stuck around long enough to annoy her. Or, T’Pring had changed. Six years was a long time.

But still, since T’Pring had walked into that lecture hall, Nyota had found her thoughts returning again and again to her. And, now, to the cold look in her eyes and the dismissive way she had brushed Nyota aside.

As Nyota settled her bag in one of the seats and finally allowed a sigh to heave her chest, the door behind her swished open, and she forced herself to straighten. Now wasn’t the time to dwell.

She turned, ready to say hello to the first arrival, when her greeting caught in her throat and her lips froze mid-smile.

Perhaps it was a habit of T’Pring’s to show up where she was least expected, but once again there she stood. The doorway framed her like a portrait, beautiful in that same, simple dress, in dark blue this time, cut in a square above the knee. Her hair was done up as it had been all those years ago, silver pins holding the braid in place along the side of her head. A subtle glitter speckled her stockings, and she seemed so out of place in the drab reading room with her casual and effortless elegance. Maybe that was why it took Nyota a good few seconds to realize that she was really there.

“I — hello, T’Pring.” Nyota said in a rush when she realized how long she’d been staring, and because she never knew how to stop herself from saying things when they didn’t need saying, “I didn’t expect you to come.”

T’Pring stepped into the room and the door slid closed, and though there was no cause for it, Nyota felt almost trapped. But T’Pring seemed less stiff than she had before, glancing around and finally settling her eyes on Nyota once again, something in their depths that Nyota couldn’t fathom.

For a moment, there was silence. “I found myself with a free evening,” she finally said.

Somehow, Nyota doubted that. T’Pring would have had to take steps to find out where and when the club met, looked it up on the Academy servers, or asked Dunmeyer. She had to have intention to be here. And somehow that made Nyota fight back a smile.

She let out a breath, trying to let out her tension along with it, and approached somewhat cautiously. “Are you here to help us with our accents?” she asked. “I don’t have any urgent club business, so I’d be happy to yield the floor. Your lecture on Thursday was—“ distracting, beautiful, intense, intelligent, exactly the kind of content I spend hours studying, but hearing it from you was —“enlightening.”

T’Pring moved past Nyota, claiming a chair at the end of the small table. She sat ramrod straight, a familiar posture. “I would prefer to observe,” she said.

Nyota returned to the table herself, resting her hands on the back of one of the chairs, feigning a casual stance in spite of the unfounded nerves that made her fingertips tingle. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, T’Pring beat her to the punch. “Vulcans,” T’Pring began, something in her tone Nyota could not read, “have eidetic memories.”

Pausing, Nyota took a moment to consider that statement, its implications. It seemed to come out of left-field, but when it sank in she felt herself smile, though she tried unsuccessfully to temper the expression. “You… you remember me.”

“I believe I gave you a datadisc of the teachings of Surak.”

Nyota felt some kind of unnamable excitement rising up in her like hot air, making it much harder to contain her grin. Eidetic memory or not, there was something affirming about the idea that this beautiful, otherworldly woman remembered her. That Nyota had left some small mark on T’Pring’s life.

Nyota slipped into the seat across from T’Pring, leaning forward just slightly. “ Ma etek natyan ,” she quoted. “ Teretuhr lau shetau etek weh-lo'uk "

“ Do hau-ov t'on ,” T’Pring finished. There was something in her voice that Nyota couldn’t decipher. Though that may have simply been an effect of the still-foreign language. She’d seldom spoken Vulcan with an actual Vulcan before.

“You have been studying,” T’Pring observed, “though I stand by my earlier assessment of your accent.”

Nyota laughed an inelegant sort of honk that made her flush. But she cleared her throat to cover the moment. “If — well, if it bothers you that much, maybe you could teach me,” she managed to eke out with some semblance of confidence. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“I am here to satisfy a curiosity,” T’Pring responded, and Nyota’s own smile turned coy.

“A curiosity? About me? I’m flattered.”

“About your … club,” T’Pring said with an air of distaste that Nyota guessed wasn’t nearly as genuine as T’Pring may have wanted it to appear.

“Right, of course,” she said. “But, well, now that you are here — I mean it about wanting lessons. How would you feel about an exchange?”

“An exchange?”

“Swahili,” Nyota said, resisting the urge to touch T’Pring — a hand on her arm, on her shoulder. She would have touched anyone else at this point, making a physical connection to better illustrate her desire for an emotional one, but that was not how Vulcans operated, and she was momentarily proud of herself for remembering. “You obviously didn’t know the language,” she continued at T’Pring’s blank expression. “Or, if not Swahili, I know fifteen other human languages you might enjoy learning. I think I owe you that much.”

“What debt do you owe me?” T’Pring asked, and there was a note of genuine surprise in her voice, in the way she raised a single sculpted brow.

Nyota grinned. “ Vesht tan-tor du nash-veh Vuhlkansu ” she said, though she continued in Standard. “And I love this language. All its dialects, its evolution, the way it feels when I speak it. I haven’t had the opportunity to visit your planet yet, to study among native speakers — which is probably why my accent is so horrible,” she laughed. “But I want to know it inside and out. It’s important to me.”

T’Pring regarded her for a moment. “You are dedicated,” she said eventually.

Nyota ducked her head, disproportionately flattered by the near-compliment. “A little,” she said, an understatement.

“I will consider it,” T’Pring said, and Nyota looked back up to her, her smile widening. T’Pring had said the same thing about coming to SAIL, and now here she was. Maybe that was her way of saying ‘yes.’ But before Nyota could speak, to tell T’Pring as much, to tease her just a little, the door opened again, and Gaila came sauntering in with a bag over her shoulder.

“Alright, girl, you’d better be ready to help me with my Klingon because I swear this professor is riding me so hard — oh,” Gaila paused just inside the doorway. Her eyebrows lifted into those rampant curls of red hair, and a sly smile played across her green lips. “Am I interrupting something?”

Nyota looked to T’Pring, then back to her roommate (the reluctant, if supportive, first member of SAIL). “Not at all,” she said, and stood. “T’Pring will be joining us tonight.”

T’Pring nodded and lifted the ta’al. “Greetings.”

“Dis tor he snusnu,” Gaila said dismissively, and Nyota caught the look of horror on T’Pring’s face.

She laughed, something full and joyful, and T’Pring’s eyes fell to her, inscrutable as always.

The message came through three days later. I accept your offer.

Nyota did not recognize the number, and it was on her official Academy communicator, which led her to believe it must be a professor, but she didn’t have to wonder at it for long. Just as she set down her bag on her narrow bed and moved to type out a response, two more messages followed in rapt succession. I am interested in your human language, and may have free evenings during which we may meet.

Then, Starfleet Academy has given me a temporary apartment for the duration of my study. You may come Friday evening.

And though Nyota knew, even as a bubble of giddy excitement rose in her chest, that this was simply a friendly and professional exchange, she felt her heart speed up at the thought of spending time with the very woman who had captured her attention and imagination all those years ago. No, T’Pring was not the same girl she’d met on the boardwalk, the same girl she had idealized all these years, but she was better than that. She was real.

So Nyota responded with I’ll be there, with as much detachment as she could muster, and thought rather suddenly that she should do something with her hair. Or find the jewelry she’d stuffed in her dresser. Or maybe borrow one of her roommate’s more creatively attractive outfits.

But this was not a date, Nyota reminded herself somewhat forcibly. T’Pring had come to SAIL to satisfy a curiosity, and maybe that’s what they were both doing now. T’Pring was very much a curiosity to her, and if there was one truth she had accepted about herself, it was that she liked to understand how things worked.

She hoped she might learn to understand how T’Pring worked.

The first time she stepped into T’Pring’s apartment, she was struck by how stark it all seemed. There was one rug in the middle of the living room, brown-gray and lifeless, one cream-colored couch, no artwork, no photos, and the kitchenette off to the side looked as though it had never been used.

But it was temporary, she reminded herself. And it was T’Pring’s. She couldn’t imagine that a Vulcan would value decoration. There was barely a word of welcome exchanged before they launched into business, T’Pring outlining the night’s schedule and how she planned to refine Nyota’s accent before Nyota had even removed her shoes.

Nyota tried not to let her disappointment show as she fiddled with the green hoop of her earring or felt the slide of lipstick between her lips. It was silly to have gotten dressed up, but even still, she had hoped there would be as much friendly chatter as there was education. And, if she were being honest with herself, she never quite missed an opportunity to look nice for a beautiful woman.

Though there was a certain distance between them, they began to edge closer that night, and the week following, and the week after that. T’Pring continued to look at her with an intensity of concentration that seemed out-of-place in a friendly tutoring session, and in spite of the fact that they discussed nothing but what came next — the basic structure of Swahili, the way Nyota needed to hold her tongue to imitate those soft Vulcan vowels — Nyota found herself rather fond of that stare, those dark eyes. She found herself fond of the way T’Pring would let out a little huff when Nyota corrected her, the way the woman sat with her hands resting as if in meditation on her knees, the way little strands of hair would spring from her braid as the night wore on, the way she would smile — nearly smile — when Nyota got something right.

When the PADD beeped and a quiet, computerized voice said “proficient,” Nyota cheered ridiculously, recalling herself of that day all those years ago when she had become fluent in Standard. But this, tonight, was not her success; it was T’Pring’s. T’Pring, who now looked at her with a gently confused sort of curiosity.

“I fail to see the logic in your vocalization,” T’Pring said, though it was without accusation, and Nyota snorted.

“I just can’t believe it only took you a month and a half to become proficient,” she complained, though she was grinning ear-to-ear, and far more proud of T’Pring than she was jealous of her skill. “Swahili isn’t an easy language.”

“All languages are ‘easy,’” T’Pring said, holding the PADD out to Nyota, “once one understands their structure.”

Nyota chuckled, taking the offered device and closing the software. T’Pring sat comfortably beside her, her posture far less rigid than it used to be. The scent of T’Pring’s favored bitter tea wafted through the air, and Nyota felt at peace, even with the distance they forced between themselves on the narrow couch.

“Is that so?” she challenged playfully. “Want to try Mandarin next?”

The question was partly selfish. If she could continue teaching T’Pring, then T’Pring could continue teaching her. She didn’t want this — whatever it was — to end just yet. There was a possibility here, in the way T’Pring leaned against the back of the couch and let her lips quirk, in the way she let Nyota get close sometimes, a brush of fingertips against her shoulder to get her attention, or the nudge of an elbow when Nyota teased her.

“That would be logical,” T’Pring said, pulling Nyota from her thoughts, “as it is the most-spoken language on Earth, barring Standard.” There was something in T’Pring’s eyes, something Nyota thought she might be close to understanding, and Nyota wondered if maybe T’Pring were using this as an excuse too.

But, well, Nyota wouldn’t let herself walk down that particular path of thought again. Whatever she herself felt, she could assume nothing of the woman beside her.

“Perfect,” she said, and T’Pring offered a small smile.

The next week, Nyota brought Mandazi, fried donuts from the Swahili Coast, “to celebrate,” she had explained.

Though T’Pring protested there was anything to celebrate, as achieving fluency in Swahili was exactly the point of their lessons, she did not turn down the treat. When she asked if Nyota had made it herself, Nyota nearly lied, if only because the truth was so embarrassing.

In fact, she had begged to borrow a friend’s kitchen, proceeded to make a terrible mess,  set the fryer on fire, and eventually had to enlist that very same friend in helping her make the second, much more successful batch. But she could never outright lie to T’Pring, and managed to tell the story without blushing too furiously. When she finished the tale, T’Pring half-smiled at her with something like fondness in her eyes.

Nyota changed the subject as quickly as she could, but they did not study that evening. Instead, they talked about their lives, their cultures, what it meant to celebrate and what it meant to share such celebrations with friends.

She left that evening rather reluctantly, smiling the whole way home, the taste of sugar still on her lips.

Nyota pressed the tip of her tongue to the roof of her mouth, vocalizing softly. “N. N. N.”

Nodding her approval, T’Pring gestured for Nyota to continue. It was well into the night now, and the warm light coming from T’Pring’s solitary living room lamp cast deep orange shadows in the dip of her nose and the side of her mouth. Nyota was a little self-conscious about how inelegant she herself must look right now in comparison, cross-legged on the floor in front of her tutor, hands on her knees, back straight, mouth making the strangest, over-exaggerated movements to try to get the pronunciation right.

“N. N. N,” Nyota continued.

“Better,” T’Pring said. “Now attempt the ‘e.’”

“Eh. Eh. Eh.” Nyota said, stretching her lips back just a bit on each attempt, waiting for that light in T’Pring’s eyes that meant she got it right. She knew the second she had.

“Very good,” T’Pring said, and Nyota thought she might combust from the praise. “Now try the whole word.”

“Are you sure?” Nyota said, curling her fingers into the hem of her uniform. She had stopped gussying herself up before coming over, if only because the earlier she arrived, the more time she was able to spend here. That had begun to feel more important than how she looked. “I feel like I need to work on the individual phonemes a little longer.”

“Might I remind you that between the two of us, I am the one who speaks fluent Vulcan?”

Nyota chuckled, hoping that had been a friendly barb, as she’d taken it. “Fine fine.” She took in a breath. Then, with all the sincerity she could muster: “ Nemaiyo .”

And, yes, that little light appeared in T’Pring’s eyes. Nyota had gotten it right. As right as she could with her human tongue, at least.

“You are welcome,” T’Pring said, as if in response to her ‘thank you,’ and Nyota laughed heartily, tossing her head back. When she looked again to T’Pring, sitting so serenely on her living room floor, the woman looked soft, warm, welcoming, maybe even happy.

“Thanks for being patient with me,” Nyota said awkwardly when T’Pring allowed the silence between them to settle for too long. “I must look so silly, especially on the ‘k’s. I don’t know how you make your tongue click and stop at the same time.”

T’Pring’s lips curled in that smile that was becoming more familiar the longer they spent in each other’s company. They hadn’t had a great deal of time together — T’Pring’s work with other visiting scientists from the Vulcan Science Academy kept her at the labs a great deal — but they did have this. An hour or so a week to share their language. To Nyota, that was as intimate as sharing her soul.

Shifting, T’Pring uncrossed her legs and laid them instead beside her, resting her hand on her ankle. Nyota’s eye followed the line of her arm to the angle of her knees, skimming the fabric pulled taut over her thigh before shooting back up, self-conscious of the infraction, though she admitted to herself that such infractions happened far too often, and T’Pring never commented on them.

“You do not look ‘silly,’” T’Pring said, a reassurance in her tone. “And it is illogical to fault your tongue. Your pronunciation has improved greatly already.”

Nyota felt an unexpected smile overtake her, and she lowered her eyes. “ Nemaiyo ,” she said, since she knew now she could say it correctly.

“Do you wish to retire for the evening?” T’Pring asked. They had already gone over T’Pring’s Mandarin lesson for the night — and of course she was already reading at a high-school level — so it would be, to borrow a term, logical to call it quits, but Nyota found she was reluctant to do so.

Something of her reluctance must have shown in her face, because T’Pring shifted once again, moving closer. They were already in close proximity, a necessity so T’Pring could watch the movement of her mouth, but Nyota had ceased speaking and T’Pring’s eyes still seemed to fall to her lips.

“I am not opposed to further instruction, however,” T’Pring continued, almost hesitant. “If you wish to stay.”

Nyota opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. T’Pring’s hand was on the floor between them, her delicate fingers curled slightly, relaxing. Nyota felt her own fingers flex, as though unconsciously reaching across the rug. “Do you want me to stay?”

T’Pring should have expected the question, but she looked at Nyota with consideration, her eyes soft. Then, to Nyota’s complete shock, T’Pring’s hand stretched, closed the distance, grazing her fingertips with as light a touch as she’d ever felt.

The touch hummed up her arm, a transfer of energy so subtle it may have been static, but it felt like T’Pring, like a gift. And Nyota had never had anything to give in return except a language — useless to T’Pring — in exchange for the passion T’Pring had instilled in her. A shallow breath in exchange for this touch.

And though Nyota didn’t know if this was a gift to T’Pring or to herself, she leaned forward before she could force her body back, lips meeting T’Pring’s across their short distance, fingers curling around T’Pring’s hand, a breath escaping her even as T’Pring inhaled sharply. But then a gentle hand rose up to the nape of her neck, twisted into her hair, and pulled her in. The clasp of her fingers was returned, and Nyota felt herself tugged forward, falling into the gravity of touch as though it had been inevitable.

Their lips pressed softly together, hesitant, almost virginal as their fingers laced, and a shudder seemed to pass from Nyota to T’Pring — anticipation and wanting and a culmination of something Nyota hadn’t even been sure was reciprocated until this moment. She wanted to deepen the kiss, to press forward, chest-to-chest so T’Pring could feel how fast her heart was beating, but T’Pring broke the contact before Nyota could take action.

Lips parting from their brief and tender touch, Nyota felt T’Pring rest their foreheads together, felt the hot breath that mingled with her own. “ Nam-tor ish ri’kau-bosh ” T’Pring said, a whisper that felt more intimate than it could have in any other language. Nyota closed her eyes, nudged T’Pring’s nose with her own.

“ Aitlu du pehkau ha? ” she asked, pulling away just enough to meet T’Pring’s eyes.

T’Pring was staring at her, pupils so wide they nearly eclipsed the enticing brown of her irises. And Nyota knew in that instant that T’Pring did not want to stop, but that she would, and the realization made her stomach sink.

“We must,” T’Pring said, the Standard language sounding stiff on her lips, still shining from their kiss. “I believe — I believe it would be in both of our best interests if you were to leave now.”

She yanked her hand from Nyota’s hold, scooting backward and rising to her feet before Nyota could even think to rebut, to request to stay, to talk it out.

But, after a moment, she managed to stand, her knees weak. T’Pring moved past her toward the direction of her bedroom, without even a look back. “T’Pring, I—“

“Please,” T’Pring interrupted, pausing just before the bedroom door, her shoulders drawn tight.

Nyota stared at her in silence for a moment, her heart hard and heavy in her chest. “Right,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

She gathered her bag with its books on Mandarin and Vulcan, its precious datadisc that held the teachings of Surak, and she felt as much shame as if she were collecting her clothes after a disastrous one-night stand. Before she left, she turned, but T’Pring had already disappeared into her bedroom, without a goodbye, without an acknowledgement of Nyota’s apology.

So, Nyota took in a breath, steadied herself, and opened the door into the cool, damp evening, heart pounding as she left T’Pring behind.

I wish to see you again .

The message arrived two days later, and Nyota stared at her communicator far longer than she needed to in order to digest its meaning. It read simple, honest; and it was more than Nyota could have asked for.

Standing in a hallway crowded with rushing cadets as if she were a stone in a stream, Nyota thought about what to say, moments passing into minutes as she thought words of apology and intent in a thousand languages, none of which were able to convey what she was feeling.

Finally, she took in a breath, drew her lower lip between her teeth, and typed out her response.

Me too .

She wondered if T’Pring could read the understatement in the text, if she knew that Nyota wanted far more than to see her for lessons, or if she knew how thoroughly she’d managed to occupy Nyota’s thoughts these last two days. T’Pring was a fascination to her, someone completely unlike anyone she’d ever known. And though she wanted to explore her in every way, to know all there was to know, she could be content with this, with sharing her knowledge and gleaning T’Pring’s.

She knew this wasn’t love. It was infatuation, desire, curiosity and — most painfully — potential. But she could be content with this.

She could be content with this.

“One week?” Nyota asked, though there was no fire in the question. It fell flat, more a statement than anything, and tinged with a kind of regretful disbelief she hadn’t expected to feel when T’Pring had invited her here tonight, when they’d settled on the couch and T’Pring had asked her to set aside the books for a moment. Nyota had felt her heart surge with hope, emboldened by T’Pring’s proximity, the intimacy with which she laid an arm along the back of the couch, but hope was a dangerous emotion when it came to T’Pring. Nyota had learned that well.

Of course, she had always known this was temporary. T’Pring had come to Starfleet Academy to study with her colleagues, and now that her research was complete, it would only make sense for her to return. Nyota should consider the three months she’d had with T’Pring a gift — just one more thing T’Pring had given her that she could not return. And now she wouldn’t have a chance.

Though, perhaps she never would have. T’Pring did not want the one thing Nyota was able to give her. That much had been made clear.

“One week,” T’Pring echoed after a moment. “It should not come as a shock.”

“It doesn’t,” Nyota answered, resting her hands on her thighs and refusing to look beside her, though she could feel something intent in T’Pring’s gaze. “It’s not a shock. A disappointment, I suppose.”

T’Pring nodded as if she understood, and silence settled. Nyota had learned from T’Pring that Vulcan silence often meant as much as human speech, but she hadn’t yet figured out how to translate it. Was T’Pring saying she would miss her, or that she was relieved? Was she saying she didn’t want to see Nyota again? Or that she was desperate to? This strange friendship had developed out of nearly nothing, and maybe that was how it would end.

Finally, unable to take it, she looked to T’Pring. “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you,” she said, and she shifted to face her friend, a woman who had managed to become a part of her life in such a short time; she didn’t know if she should be grateful or furious.

“Whether you are ‘ready’ or not is inconsequential,” T’Pring replied, her spine straightening.

A prickle of anger sparked down Nyota’s nerves, and she stood, striding into the center of the room where they’d spent so many nights sitting together, learning each other. But, no, they hadn’t learned each other. They’d learned each other’s languages , shared insight and ideas, but T’Pring knew so little of Nyota’s family or life outside the Academy, and Nyota knew so little of T’Pring outside her studies, her accomplishments, the way her voice sounded when she spoke and the way her lips felt so timid against Nyota’s own. So she couldn’t explain why it felt as though a part of her were being ripped away.

“I thought I would have more time,” she finally said. “To get to know you. To —“ she paused, words failing her.

Maybe the timing had been wrong before, but there had been something behind that kiss they had shared. A possibility in the press of lips that Nyota couldn’t help wanting to explore. What she was really saying was that she thought they might have more time to explore it.

Behind her, she heard T’Pring stand, the shift of fabric as she moved toward Nyota, but Nyota didn’t turn to look at her. Then, a hand settled on her shoulder, a gentle pressure that made Nyota swallow.

“You do not wish to know me,” T’Pring said, and there was such a raw honesty in her voice that Nyota couldn’t help turning into the touch of her hand, meeting those eyes and seeing sadness in them — for the first time understanding every line of T’Pring’s expression.

Nyota’s breath caught in her chest. For a few moments, they seemed frozen in time, eyes locked, until some tension bled from Nyota’s shoulders and she smiled in spite of herself, though it was without heart. “I once spent a whole weekend studying the anatomy of Klingon uvulas to figure out how best to imitate their accents,” she said, and T’Pring raised an eyebrow, surprise drawing her back. Nyota let out a quiet, hollow chuckle at the look on her face. “I’m just saying — there’s nothing I don’t want to know. Nothing I don’t want to learn about.”

Though she tried to force herself not to, her hand moved without permission from her rational mind, reaching out and resting along T’Pring’s waist. And T’Pring didn’t pull away. “But out of everything,” she continued, voice near a whisper, “I think I’d most like to learn about you.”

T’Pring’s lips parted just barely and her fingers curled into Nyota’s shirt. “You are—“ T’Pring began, though she stopped, a breath escaping her. There was something tight in her expression, something tense in the muscles under Nyota’s hand. At first, Nyota thought T’Pring would retreat again. She was sure T’Pring would retreat again. But instead T’Pring took a step forward, her free hand coming to the curve of Nyota’s cheek as she guided Nyota to her, their lips meeting in a kiss far less hesitant than their first, T’Pring using the pressure of her thumb to open Nyota’s mouth and deepen the contact, her tongue brushing along Nyota’s lip.

Nyota whimpered, winding her arm around T’Pring’s waist fully and pulling her in, pressing flush against her, licking into her mouth and releasing a breath of relief, echoed by the woman in her arms.

T’Pring’s hand fell from Nyota’s shoulder, seeking Nyota’s own, finding it and laying her fingertips along Nyota’s. Nyota knew the intimacy of the ozh'esta , the implications of the fingerprints that pressed like a brand against her own, and her heart pounded with a kind of soaring delight, giddiness she was sure T’Pring could feel in her. She grazed her fingertips over T’Pring’s, pulling herself closer and exploring T’Pring’s mouth with her tongue, tasting the bitter bite of T’Pring’s tea. It made her breath hitch.

Fingers curling in the fabric of T’Pring’s dress, Nyota hiked it up, collecting folds in her fist as her knuckles grazed the nylon of T’Pring’s tights, and a shudder passed through the body against her, delicious and absolutely intoxicating.

T’Pring’s teeth grazed her lip and she pulled away. For a terrifying moment, Nyota thought T’Pring would step back, take her heat and the soft curves of her body away, say something once again about how unwise this was. But she didn’t. Instead, she laced her fingers into Nyota’s and pulled her in again, bringing their clasped hands between them. Nyota could feel T’Pring’s breath, the rise and fall of her chest.

“Stay with me tonight,” T’Pring said. It was not a question, which meant she already knew the answer. So Nyota answered in another language, taking T’Pring’s lips again with a clash of teeth and tongue, winding her free hand into T’Pring’s hair and pressing against her with intent.

They stumbled back toward the bedroom, T’Pring finding the zipper of Nyota’s uniform, folding the fabric down and grasping at the hooks of her bra. When they reached the bed, Nyota yanked at T’Pring’s dress, tumbling them down.

They rolled onto the duvet together, and Nyota’s laugh, T’Pring’s breath, a brush of thighs and wandering fingertips were part of a language in which Nyota was well-versed, far more fluent than any she’d studied. But T’Pring was a dialect she was looking forward to learning.

Morning came with a wash of white light through the window, a glare that made Nyota blink reluctantly into a new day. She became aware of an overwhelming heat beside her, around her, the weight of an arm laying over her waist and the press of lips against her spine. T’Pring’s chest rose and fell against her back, breath steady.

Nyota moved her hand, finding T’Pring’s, grazing fingertips over knuckles, a simple delight in the realization that they had fallen asleep together. She felt the woman beside her stir, let out a gentle hum of wakefulness, and Nyota snuggled closer against her warmth.

Nothing had changed about their circumstances, she knew. T’Pring would leave in a week whether she took Nyota as her lover or not, but once again she allowed herself to hope that there might be an opportunity here, to come together with the intention of coming together, even as life put distance between them.

She smiled as she tilted her face into the pillow, as she trailed her fingertips up T’Pring’s arm. All this time, she had thought there was something unsaid between them, and now it was all out in the open. Nyota wanted T’Pring, and she realized with a bubbling sense of joy that T’Pring wanted her as well. How lucky, how unexpected, how beautiful that they’d managed to figure this out before T’Pring disappeared once again from Nyota’s life. Now, she might be able to keep her.

T’Pring pulled back slowly, taking her heat with her, lifting her arm off of Nyota and shuffling away. Nyota rolled to her side, seeking an explanation for the movement, but her question stuck in her throat at the sight of the woman beside her. T’Pring looked completely undone — her hair still plaited but springing with loose strands, green lovebites along her collarbone, her waist encircled by rumpled white sheets. But those eyes that had looked so dark and purposive in the night now turned to Nyota, and somehow the white light seeping through the curtains made her feel so vulnerable in her own nakedness.

Nyota sat up, a spike of worry tingling through her limbs, though she couldn’t place its cause. “Good morning,” she said, smoothing back her own hair. “Did you — did you sleep well? Are you hungry? I could make breakfast. Or —” Nyota paused with an awkward smile, remembering her last disastrous attempt to cook. “Well, I could synthesize breakfast.”

T’Pring did not answer right away. She sat up, looking around the room as if in confusion, though their actions the night before had seemed incredibly clear. Then, she looked back to Nyota, and something in Nyota’s stomach sank. T’Pring’s eyes were half-lidded, but not as they’d been last night. Instead of desire, Nyota saw something like sadness carved into T’Pring’s subtle crows feet, in the lines at the corners of her lips.

No, Nyota knew T’Pring well enough now to know that this wasn’t sadness.

It was regret.

“Don’t,” Nyota said before T’Pring could speak. “Please.”

“Nyota,” T’Pring glanced down as though searching herself for something, the right words or the right expression, but when she looked back to Nyota, it was all wrong. “I do not wish for you to think that this is more than it is.”

Nyota stared at her for a moment, heart aching before she had even fully digested the words. More than it is. Sex. One night. One time.

Unwise.

With a groan, Nyota tossed off the bedsheets and stepped out into the cool morning. Casting around for a moment, she knelt to grab her underwear, then searched the floor for the rest of her clothes, tossed aside in such haste. Urgency. Impulse. Recklessness. “I can’t believe I did this,” she said pitifully, more to herself than T’Pring. “Let myself think you might —” she let out a huff of frustration, embarrassment, yanking her underwear up her thighs and finding her uniform dress discarded in the corner, bunched at the bottom of the dresser. “I’m so stupid . I should’ve just — after we kissed I should have —“

“Nyota, I do not regret what we have done,” T’Pring said, her tone honest enough to draw Nyota’s eye to her, to take some of the steam from her engines. T’Pring was still sitting up in bed, still looking ruffled, so comfortable and familiar Nyota didn’t know if she could resist crawling right back into the sheets beside her.

“But that’s all it is, right? One night and you’re done. I thought...” Nyota paused and clutched the uniform between her fingers, eyes on T’Pring so she could see every tiny twitch of expression.

T’Pring took a breath as she untangled herself from the bedsheets and swung her legs off the mattress. When she stood, she knelt briefly to take up Nyota’s bra, which had fallen somewhere on her side of the bed. Then, she approached, glorious in nothing but her smooth skin, dusted with a green blush from cheek to chest. Nyota’s gaze traced the lines of her thighs, the roll of her stomach, the wide sweeps of her hips, the very planes of her body that Nyota had explored last night.

When T’Pring reached her, she held out Nyota’s bra, regret still shining in her eyes in spite of what she said. “I do not regret what we have done,” she said again, “but…” she paused, took a breath. “But it cannot happen again.”

Nyota felt fire burst through her veins again and she snatched the bra from T’Pring’s hand, turning away and tossing her uniform on the bed so she could shrug into it.

“Of course it can’t,” she said. She felt T’Pring reach out before she felt the hand land on her shoulder, and she shook off the contact at once, wheeling around to her. “What was the point, then? I thought — last night, this morning , I thought you might want to try this. Be together. Be — be something .” She felt, to her horror, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. But instead of giving them their outlet, she simply grabbed her uniform and pulled it over her head, shoving past T’Pring as she zipped it up the back.

T’Pring followed her. “I am fond of you, Nyota,” T’Pring admitted, and that admission of emotion was just enough to pause Nyota in the living room, tension in every cord of her muscles. “However, a relationship between us is an impossibility. I should not have expected you to know this. I apologize.”

“Well,” Nyota said, venom in her voice, “I know now. I guess I should thank you, then. I’ve learned a great deal from you.”

She didn’t look back at T’Pring. If she had, she may have seen something like sadness in her expression. Or, she may still have seen that regret, that self-same regret that Nyota felt sinking into her own bones. Instead of opening herself up to the pain of either outcome, she found her bag, her shoes, and, standing in the doorway, she managed to say “goodbye.”

If T’Pring returned the sentiment. if she lifted the ta’al or uttered ‘ dif-tor heh smusma ,’ Nyota didn’t stay to find out. She left without a look back, her heart breaking, feeling used and tossed aside and already missing T’Pring so much it ached.

Professor Dunmeyer stood with his hand on the podium as the lecture hall echoed with the usual after-class chatter. He smiled proudly at Nyota, who had finally gotten her heart to slow down.

“That was an excellent class,” he said fondly. “I knew if any upperclassman were to give a presentation to my first-years, it should be you. You’ve come a long way, Nyota.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said proudly. She had come a long way, but there was still a voice in her head that whispered T’Pring’s name, insisted that she owed any finesse she had gained with the Vulcan language to this woman who was now a year into Nyota’s past. The basis of her studies for the last few years, the dissertation on Golic Vulcan she was currently researching, and the presentation she had just given to a group of first-year xenolinguistics students had all borrowed so much from the lessons she herself had learned in the intimacy of a little apartment with the quiet instruction of the very person who had given her the language in the first place.

But she had made it her own after all these years of study and passion. T’Pring had helped her light a spark, but Nyota had nursed it into a bonfire all on her own, and she could be proud of that, even if speaking Vulcan hurt sometimes.

“Have you considered teaching once you graduate?” Dunmeyer asked, and Nyota only barely remembered to pay attention. “You only have a year left, and you’d make an excellent professor.”

Nyota managed a smile. It wasn’t the first time a professor had told her as much, but she knew in her heart where she wanted to be. “Thank you, sir, but I am looking forward to my first assignment. I’ve requested the Enterprise .”

His lips quirked and he nodded respectfully.

“I’ll put in a good word,” he promised. “You’re going to blow them all away.”

She grinned fully now, knowing in her heart that he was right. She had worked so hard, and someday soon it would all be worth it.

The boardwalk was crowded this time of day, with the typical summer afternoon rainstorm rolling on the horizon, but not quite imposing enough to scare off tourists and jogging locals.

She wandered down that familiar concrete path, the smell of the ocean in her nose, her hands in the pockets of her uniform, passing benches identical to the one where she’d first met T’Pring. She’d long forgotten exactly which bench it had been — there were many, and she’d been so lost that day — but every time she sat and stared at the sea and allowed herself to absorb the sounds and smells of the edge of the city and the edge of the ocean, she remembered her.

Sometimes — more often these days than she cared to admit — Nyota remembered her fondly. Yes, T’Pring had hurt her, but Nyota had struck up perfectly satisfying, casual romances with a couple of girls since then, and it was easier now than it once had been to simply be grateful for what she’d once had, for all that T’Pring had given her.

It felt better to focus on that than to focus on what T’Pring had taken away.

‘An impossibility,’ T’Pring had said. Well, Nyota didn’t deal in impossibility anymore. The universe would open up to her soon, and right now it felt as though anything was possible.

She pulled her communicator from her pocket, looking again at the message that made a smile break her lips like the sun broke the clouds above her.

Assignment: Communications Officer, Alpha Shift, U.S.S. Enterprise .

Signed: Captain Kirk, Commander Spock.

With graduation only a week away, it wasn’t the best time for a conference on the diplomatic relations of Federation allies. Nyota had taken classes in nearly every discipline in her final year, and though it was unlikely she’d graduate with anything less than perfect marks, and though her assignment on the Enterprise was already assured, she wanted to devote herself to her studies on the home stretch.

Even still, an ambitious cadet did not refuse an invitation to a conference like this, especially if it was held on the very same planet that had captured her imagination since she was a teenager. So, a week before graduation, Nyota found herself in a shuttle beside a happily chatting Professor Dunmeyer; then standing awestruck in the thin air of a planet whose sands flowed red from the spired buildings of the city to the imposing crags of The Forge; then in the conference room of a grand, redstone hotel where people of all races milled about, flickers of conversation and broken languages filling her ears. She could hardly believe she was here, and it took all her self-control not to strike out into the city of ShiKhar and damn the conference entirely.

But as she sat in seminar after seminar and took rapid notes on the intricacies of treaties and the cultural clashes that had once caused tension and since been resolved, she understood more than she ever had that this was where she belonged. This work was perfect for her — these complicated issues and processes tailor-made, and that alone managed to distract her from the most insistent of her thoughts. The kinds of thoughts that made her scan the session schedule for any mention of the Vulcan Science Academy. The kind of thoughts that made her calculate the odds of seeing one Vulcan on a planet of millions.

On the second and final day of the conference, at the concluding reception, Nyota stood with a drink in her hand, draped in a modest satin dress, mingling with a few lower-level ambassadors from Federation colonies, all three human. And though they were fine company, their conversation wasn’t revelatory.

So she offered them a few minutes of polite conversation, downed the rest of her drink, and excused herself to grab another, though she knew she would stick to one. It wasn’t wise to become inebriated in this group — hundreds of people of a variety of cultures, each with their own standards of decorum, and a great many Vulcans who wouldn’t look too kindly on a drunk cadet.

Still, she moved to the bar, considering something virgin. She passed a group of excited Andorians, smiling at the twitches of their antennae, then Professor Dunmeyer, who was chatting loudly with an Ithenite ambassador. By the time she reached the bar across the ballroom, her eyes were so consumed with the vibrant colors of costumes and skin, she didn’t even notice the woman.

Until a hand landed gingerly on her elbow, and a voice that Nyota knew well — though it was two years removed from memory — reached her over the sound of the crowd and the unobtrusive Vulcan string band that played continuously in the corner.

“Nyota?”

Nyota knew better than to turn, to look at her. She should have yanked her arm away and pretended not to have noticed the touch, the gentle sound of her name, but instead she fell into the trap of that voice as she had every time she had encountered T’Pring, and turned to the Vulcan, her breath freezing in her chest.

The years had done nothing to diminish T’Pring’s beauty. In fact, she looked much the same, just more composed, though that was likely due to the political importance of the company. She too wore a modest dress, a formal line of silver embroidery along its square collar. At Nyota’s expression, she drew her hand away, which made Nyota wonder what T’Pring may have seen in her eyes.

“T’Pring,” Nyota greeted, attempting something casual to cover the fact that her heart had begun to pound like a drumline and the environmentally controlled air suddenly felt very, very thin. What was she doing here? “I—” Nyota urged herself to recover, trying to remember what words felt like on her tongue. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Vulcan’s a large planet, after all.” By some miracle, it had come out as one coherent sentence. Nyota tried not to show her relief.

“Indeed,” T’Pring said, laying a hand on the bar. “I received an invitation from a… colleague. He is involved in cross-cultural sciences.”

Nyota glanced around, wondering where this ‘colleague’ was and whether or not ‘colleague’ quite covered their relationship by the way T’Pring hesitated over the word. T’Pring seemed to notice her curiosity.

“He is a fellow scientist at the Vulcan Science Academy,” she explained. “He requested my presence so that I might help him communicate with humans — he finds your species perplexing.”

Nyota laughed, tense and bubbling, and something flashed in T’Pring’s eyes, a recognition maybe. Nyota supposed not many people laughed openly on Vulcan.

“And you’re an expert on dealing with humans, are you?” Nyota asked, not intending the question to come out accusatory, though it certainly seemed to. She tried to maintain some kind of control over her tone, her posture. But the mere fact that T’Pring was speaking to her — had in fact sought her out to speak to her — was a little hard to push past.

T’Pring drew back slightly. “I am more qualified than most,” she said, “though I believe I have made many mistakes.”

Nyota felt her eyes widen, a speechlessness with which she wasn’t familiar overtaking her. “I—“

“What can I get you folks?” a human voice asked, and Nyota turned to the bartender in surprise. The room had melted away the moment she’d locked eyes with T’Pring, and now it came rushing back — the sounds of glasses clinking and quiet conversations over tenuous music, the smell of liquor and perfume, the realization that they were not alone and she was here to be a professional, to make connections, not to relive old memories with someone who should have remained in her past.

“Soda water, please,” she said, out of instinct rather than choice, and T’Pring waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. The bartender nodded and ran off.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. “It’s good to see you,” Nyota said, “but— well, you know. I should really get back.” She waved her hand in a vague sort of flop, gesturing to the ballroom behind her, hoping she might be able to find a conversation to insert herself into.

T’Pring nodded, just as the bartender dropped off Nyota’s drink. Nyota muttered a thank you, then returned her eyes to T’Pring.

“Of course,” T’Pring said softly. “And I must find Stonn. I trust you will enjoy your stay on Vulcan.”

“I have so far,” Nyota said with a small attempt at a smile, raising her glass. “Good night, T’Pring.”

“Good night, Nyota.”

Nyota turned away, immediately moving toward Professor Dunmeyer, who now stood talking with an older, imposing Vulcan woman. She raised her hand in the ta’al as she approached, and greeted the woman with a perfect accent, trying not to remember the lessons T’Pring had taught her tongue, and trying not to focus on the way her heart kept beating an insistent thump against her chest.

The reception lasted well into the night, and Nyota grew very tired very quickly. The night before, she had stayed up long after the conference had let out, working on her dissertation, unwilling to slack simply because she was off-planet, and now exhaustion seemed to weigh down every limb.

She said a quick goodnight to Dunmeyer, whose cheeks were red with drink, whose hand rested on the lower back of an indulgent-looking Andorian, and she glanced around the wide, arching ballroom once more, grateful to not see T’Pring. She had caught sight of the woman only a few times throughout the evening, seemingly attached at the hip to a plain and tired-looking Vulcan man, and though there was a part of her aching to speak to her, to reconnect, to catch up on the last two years, she knew better than to listen to that want. T’Pring had hurt her before, and Nyota had far too much on her mind, too much on her plate, to worry about what hadn’t even been a relationship.

So she wandered into the hotel lobby, a large stone chamber with polished floors and little decoration. A few short, beige couches lined the walls, and one geometric rug lay large and thick in the middle of the lobby. There was a little check-in panel on the wall, scrolling with Vulcan and Standard text, but otherwise the place was empty. At least, Nyota believed it to be.

She began to walk toward the lift, mourning the ache in her feet, considering whether or not she could accomplish any work tonight, when a voice called out to her.

“Nyota.”

Not ‘Miss Uhura,’ as people had been addressing her all evening, but “Nyota,” a familiarity in the three syllables forged from long nights of study and intimate glances, forged from one evening of heat and soft sheets and softer skin, a rough tongue and gentle hands. Nyota paused, eyes closed, and heard the click of hard-heeled shoes on the stone floor behind her. She didn’t turn until T’Pring was directly behind her.

A protest on her lips, Nyota wheeled around, but T’Pring caught her fingers, pulled her forward, and kissed the words from Nyota’s lungs, her mouth meeting Nyota’s in a touch that ignited her, a fire in her natural body heat and her overwhelming strength and the way she — T’Pring, by god — let out a whimper when their bodies clashed.

Nyota should have pulled away. She should have pulled away when T’Pring had been so cold to her in that lecture hall all those years ago, when T’Pring had dismissed her after their first kiss, when Nyota had dragged T’Pring onto that narrow bed and pulled the dress from her shoulder and bitten down until her teeth met green, she should have pulled away.

But she never could, when it came to T’Pring.

Free hand coming automatically to T’Pring’s head, Nyota fisted her fingers in the fine strands of her hair, shoved T’Pring’s mouth hard against her own, felt their teeth clash and their lips press and T’Pring’s body move up against hers as though she’d been desperate for this.

And consciously Nyota knew that they were in the middle of a hotel lobby — deserted for now but not for long — just feet away from the ballroom door where ambassadors and professors and linguists and scientists could spill out at any moment, but her body refused to listen to her mind.

T’Pring’s hand found her ass and squeezed, and Nyota shuddered, the memory of that night returning to her with all its insistence and frenzy and she choked, “My room, now,” against T’Pring’s lips before she could even think to stop herself.

They managed to tumble into the lift, an elbow against a button to speed them upwards, hands grasping breasts under thin satin, breath mingled even as each of them gasped for air between frantic kisses. Nyota’s lips were wet and bruised and hot and she couldn’t quite care — couldn’t bring herself to bother with what was or what should or shouldn’t be. All that mattered was this, that talented tongue working against the line of her throat as she swallowed, the lift doors opening onto a floor that Nyota hoped was the right one, the fist she curled into T’Pring’s dress to drag her onward.

And when they made it to Nyota’s room, there wasn’t any turning back. Nyota had made this bed and she’d lie in it — as long as T’Pring lay beside her.

This time, when morning glowed orange through the window, T’Pring’s quiet fingers carded through Nyota’s hair, and she whispered “I have missed you,” against Nyota’s skin, and though Nyota braced herself for the fallout, for the confirmation of the mistake they’d made in the frenzy of the night…

It never came.

A week later, Nyota’s temporary quarters in San Francisco — where she’d stay for final training before boarding the Enterprise — felt empty. She had just said goodbye to her family, just shed the uniform now marked with her rank, just accepted the congratulations and the graduation gifts and still it all felt empty.

She shouldn’t have sent the message, but she did, and T’Pring should not have responded, but she did. And Nyota’s heart swelled with relief that she had a few months still on Earth. Shuttles to and from Vulcan were not hard to come by, and by god there’d been a fire lit inside her.

I will arrive in the morning , T’Pring’s message read, and Nyota dropped her communicator to the bed. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea.

But Nyota felt herself smile anyway, a hand coming to her chest to slow her racing heart.

She kissed T’Pring goodbye in the shadow of the shuttle, hiding from view. Vulcan society didn’t look kindly on public displays of affection, but they could never seem to part without one more kiss, one more touch, one more brush of fingertips.

This had become a regular trip — from Vulcan to Earth and back again — each of them taking turns visiting each other. They never stayed long, never lingered more than a day or two, but sometimes Nyota let herself pretend they were an actual couple, not a couple of fools sharing what brief rendezvous they could manage.

She sighed against T’Pring’s lips, the heat of the Vulcan day overwhelming even in the shadow, almost as overwhelming as the heat of the body pressed against her.

“You’re coming to Earth next weekend, right?” she asked tenderly, brushing a strand of hair behind T’Pring’s ear.

“Certainly,” T’Pring replied, her grip tightening where she held Nyota at the waist. “I will see you soon.”

Soon.

But for how much longer?

In a few short weeks, this would be impossible. Nyota knew that, consciously, and she repeated it to herself as she tried to fluff her hair into its usual pomp in front of the mirror. In the reflection, she caught sight of the plane of T’Pring’s bare back, curved as she bent to pull on her tights. In three weeks, Nyota would be in deep space, and these trysts — these occasional and so very valued moments together — would be a thing of the past. There was almost no way they could see each other while Nyota was on her five-year mission. No way their paths would accidentally or conveniently cross. It was easy to charter a shuttle to Vulcan, or to Earth in T’Pring’s case. Easy to take a day or two off of work and find each other in T’Pring’s apartment, or, like now, in Nyota’s temporary lodgings at Starfleet headquarters. It was easy to come together and pull apart like this.

But nothing was easy, really. Not since they’d complicated things so thoroughly. Not since they’d begun this — whatever it was. It still wasn’t a relationship, Nyota knew, though sometimes it felt like one. Sometimes they’d lay awake after they’d made love and talk, genuinely talk, for the first time since they’d known each other. The day after Nyota’s graduation, T’Pring had bought her dinner, and confessed in a controlled, yet sincere voice that she was proud of her. The day they’d learned when Nyota would be leaving — and for how long — they remained curled in the bedsheets for hours, trading stories of what it meant to be away from home. T’Pring had traveled so much as a young woman, and Nyota had hardly even left Africa before coming to the Academy. She found it was helpful to hear T’Pring’s advice and, more than that, to learn about this woman who seemed to be a part of her gravity, who Nyota could never quite pull herself away from.

“You are preoccupied,” T’Pring observed quietly, and she made her way over to Nyota, who stood by the bathroom in front of the thin, full-length mirror. They were both bare but for the stockings that puckered T’Pring’s waist and smoothed the lines of her legs, and Nyota thought with mingled sadness and appreciation that they looked good together. T’Pring’s hand found the dip between Nyota’s shoulder blades, caressing gently down.

“I’m just thinking about the mission,” Nyota confessed, putting a pin in her hair and turning to T’Pring. Her arms fell onto T’Pring’s shoulders, their hips pressed together as T’Pring settled her own hands along Nyota’s waist. Nyota had grown accustomed to the hum of contact, the strange psychic closeness that T’Pring had once confessed came about through physical intimacy. She felt with a pang of sadness that she would miss this, though she had been trying so hard not to think of it.

“We won’t be seeing each other very often, once the Enterprise leaves spacedock,” Nyota tested. She felt her eyes fall to T’Pring’s collarbone, the dip of shadow there, and she found she couldn’t quite look her lover in the eye.

But she had known this was temporary. It always was with T’Pring.

T’Pring took in a breath, and Nyota felt those fingers curl into the softness of her own skin, gentle in their strength. “Perhaps it is for the best,” T’Pring said.

Though a sting of hurt sliced her at that, she nodded in understanding. “‘A relationship between us is an impossibility,’” she quoted with a sad sense of irony in light of their intimacy. T’Pring’s own words from what felt like a lifetime ago. She didn’t know if T’Pring picked up on the swell of regret that rose inside her, or if she simply heard it in her tone, but in the next moment, T’Pring had pulled away.

“Come,” T’Pring said, taking one of Nyota’s hands. A subtle buzz worked up her arm, and in spite of the sadness that still seemed to fall over her like a shroud, Nyota smiled. T’Pring led her past the bed, toward the tall double doors that led to the balcony. They were high enough up in Starfleet’s massive residential wing that Nyota didn’t worry over their nudity when they stepped out into the air, nor did she particularly care if anyone in the neighboring skyscrapers could see them. She leaned her elbows on the rail and looked out over San Francisco, cars speeding by down below as small as pinpricks.

A breeze whispered past, and the morning sunlight was warm on her bare skin. She closed her eyes, gratified when she felt the presence of T’Pring at her side, the hand that rested on the railing right beside her elbow, close enough to touch.

Quiet settling between them as it often did when either of them addressed the reality of their situation, Nyota did not expect that T’Pring would be the first to break it.

“I would like to tell you, Nyota,” she said, drawing Nyota’s eyes to her. “why I was on the boardwalk the day we met.” She looked so serious, her eyes staring out over the cityscape, her skin gilded bright in the sunlight as if she were shining with polished gold.

Nyota straightened, though her mind wasn’t on her own movement. She’d long ago come to peace with the fact that she may never know — that T’Pring may never let her in on the secrets of her life and the mysteries that seemed to pull her away each time they came together. She was afraid to speak, as if she might scare T’Pring into silence, so she waited, unwilling even to breathe.

T’Pring looked down, fingers tightening along the rail. “My parents had brought me to Earth to — to spend time with someone. Someone I did not wish to see.” Something tightened in every line of T’Pring’s body, and Nyota resisted the urge to reach out, to touch her somehow. “We had not met since we were children. Since… since our bonding.”

At this, she looked to Nyota as if afraid of her reaction, but Nyota would need to understand the phrase to react to it. “Your bonding?”

T’Pring took in a long breath through her nose. “At the age of seven, I was, in your terms, betrothed to a boy. We share a bond that will be cemented when we reach a certain age.” Speaking of this looked to be painful to T’Pring, as though each word were a strain. Her fingers tightened hard on the balcony rail and she looked tight, hard, angled. At her words, tension began to ebb into Nyota’s muscles too, like a tide coming in, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even think but to listen.

“That day, I refused to see him. I left, to be alone. And that is where you found me. You were…” a smile touched the corner of T’Pring’s lips before it faded, as fleeting as the brief breeze that ruffled T’Pring’s hair. “You were refreshing, so human. Everything that I — that my betrothed — was not. I tell you this not to beg sympathy, which I do not require, but so that you may understand. As a Vulcan, as a Vulcan woman , I am at the mercy of expectation. I may not sever our bond until the day comes that it is expected I should cement it, and to do so would put the person I have taken as my lover in danger. I cannot say more than that. And I cannot — will not — put you in danger.”

Danger. The word felt so out of place on this serene balcony in the warmth of the sun, where they stood together in spite of everything — even in spite of themselves. Nyota tried to force herself into understanding, though the gears of her mind turned at an infuriating glacial pace. She felt her own muscles pulling tight, and a pang of sympathy spiking in her, regardless of what T’Pring said she did or did not require.

“That’s why… why we can’t be more than this,” Nyota finally said without question.

“ Ni'droi'ik nar-tor ,” T’Pring said, somehow more honest with her apology in Vulcan than Nyota felt she could ever be in Standard. “I understand I have hurt you before. I understand I may be hurting you now. But, Nyota,” she shifted, turned to face Nyota. A hand came to rest upon her cheek, and out of pure instinct Nyota felt herself turning into the touch, placing a kiss on the sensitive skin of T’Pring’s palm. “ Taluhk nash-veh k'dular ,” T’Pring breathed out, voice almost lost on the sound of the wind and the traffic far below, “and you deserve to know the truth.”

Nyota lingered there in T’Pring’s touch for a moment, thinking over T’Pring’s words and knowing it would be insensitive to ask, to beg detail when already T’Pring had seemingly forced herself to reveal what little she had.

“What if I didn’t care about the danger?” Nyota finally asked, hope eking into her tone without her permission. “What if we tried this? Really tried this? Us. This betrothal — it can’t be set in stone .”

T’Pring’s eyes darkened, and her hand fell, though she laid it to rest along Nyota’s hip. “I cannot tell you more than I have. However, I can say that whether or not you are willing to risk the consequences, I am not.” T’Pring paused, and Nyota’s breath stopped working, stuck in her chest as though trapped between her ribs.

Edging closer, T’Pring pressed her lips together, then dropped her eyes to her feet, looking meek and tentative for the first time since Nyota had known her. “But I must confess, Nyota,” she nearly whispered, “though this may not continue forever, I am not ready to say goodbye to you yet.”

And though it was unwise, though it had always been unwise, Nyota knew in her heart what she felt, what she wanted and what she would accept in place of what she wanted. “Neither am I,” she whispered, voice straining over the words. She laid her hand along the bare slope of T’Pring’s chest and leaned in, knowing that, in this moment, T’Pring would meet her kiss, though she had no idea when or if it would happen again.

The bridge of the Enterprise was astounding — the finest in the fleet, state-of the-art, the most exciting place Nyota could be.

And she was thrilled, smile so wide and undying on her face that she knew she must look manic to the more seasoned officers on board. “You look happy, Lieutenant,” Kirk remarked from behind her, his tone gently teasing. She turned in her chair, taking the earpiece from her ear and settling her hands in her lap.

“Yes sir,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to this since I received my assignment. Thank you for the opportunity.”

He shook his head with an easy smile and a wave of his hand. “You came highly recommended,” he assured her. “And I have no doubt you’ll do an exemplary job. Do you feel ready? Leaving Earth for five years — it’s not easy.”

Nyota took a deep breath through her nose and nodded, refusing to let her smile slip. There would be much she would miss — and she hated that the first pang of regret came accompanied by the image of a face she’d been trying not to think of — but she had wanted this since she was a child.

“I’m ready, Captain,” she said.

He gave her an understanding look, almost as if he knew how much Nyota would miss T’Pring, though of course he didn’t. Maybe he just related to the feeling. Maybe they all did. Everyone left someone behind when they joined Starfleet.

She knew T’Pring was not her lover, knew she had no right to compare her loss to that of the officers who left spouses and children on Earth, but it was a loss, and she would have to learn to deal with it.

“Well, secure your station then, Lieutenant. We’ll be leaving spacedock shortly.”

“Of course, Captain,” she said, replacing the earpiece and nodding. “Just give the word.”

“Message from Starfleet Command, Captain,” she said, and Kirk turned to her, holding up a hand to Mister Spock as if asking him to hold his thought.

“Relay, Lieutenant,” he ordered, and she held her hand to her ear as a computerized voice recited their orders.

“Request diversion to Space Station K-3, cargo pickup and delivery to — Vulcan.” Her voice stuttered over the planet’s name the moment it came through, and she swallowed back her immediate reaction. She was on the bridge, by god, and all eyes were on her. She couldn’t let herself think about what this meant just yet.

“Cargo?” Kirk asked, standing, and beckoning Spock to join him. “Send the orders to the briefing room, and get me Admiral Komack.”

“Aye, Sir,” she responded immediately, fingers flying to her console to obey. The command team strode off together, and each bridge officer returned to their duty. To them, it was just an average assignment, maybe a little asinine for their ship’s status, but nothing to concern themselves over. For Nyota, it was an opportunity, a rare one, the first in the six months they’d been in space, and she was not going to let it pass by.

The moment she’d patched the admiral into the briefing room, she pulled up a new screen on her console and immediately put in her shore leave request.

For six months, she had fallen into a pattern of distraction. Work that she enjoyed, a crew that felt like it could become family, a few one-night stands with a few willing women who she worked alongside but didn’t feel awkward about taking to bed, but so often it felt as though that was all it was. Distraction.

She wasn’t sure she should even tell T’Pring she was coming. This was destructive. This was impossible. But Nyota knew that if she called, T’Pring would answer.

So, once alpha shift ended and she made her way to her quarters, she called, opening up a subspace channel that she probably should have put in a request for, and fighting back the ache in her chest when T’Pring’s face appeared on screen.

“We’re going to Vulcan,” Nyota said, before she even said hello, and T’Pring responded with parted lips and widening eyes, surprise as obvious as if T’Pring were human.

“I did not believe we would see each other so soon,” T’Pring said, her voice raw in its sincerity. “Nor was I certain you would wish to see me again.”

Nyota leaned forward, swallowing something hard in her throat. “I do,” she said in a rush, hating how desperate it sounded. “I always want to see you — and we might not see each other again for a long time, but...”

T’Pring stared at her then, a look that made Nyota’s heart pound against her ribs as though it were reaching out to T’Pring, aching for touch.

Finally, T’Pring let out a breath, a look that Nyota could only call resignation manifesting in the tight lines of her sharp features. “I await you,” she said.

Nyota didn’t like the way that sounded — as if it were an unwelcome inevitability. “Do… do you want to see me?” she asked, afraid of the answer if only because T’Pring looked so far away and far too transparently upset.

But T’pring locked Nyota’s gaze and leaned forward herself, bringing a hand to the screen. “I always want to see you,” she said, repeating Nyota’s own admission, though the sadness hadn’t left her voice.

And even though they were supposed to have stopped this, even though it made sense to stop this , Nyota knew that she couldn’t let what they shared go entirely. And, maybe, neither could T’Pring.

T’Pring’s home was modest, even by Vulcan standards, but it felt comfortable by now. It was a small building, two narrow stories, cast in red stone in perfectly symmetrical architecture, identical to the homes beside it. It sat in the heart of the city, mere blocks from T’Pring’s work at the VSA, right off the main stretch of street where two levels of traffic whizzed by in an almost deafening cacophony.

Inside, the decor was simple — a wooden statue of a sehlat stood guard in the entryway, and a few old geometric tapestries hung in a perfect line along the hallways. There were no family portraits; there was no clutter. The furniture was straight, narrow, austere. The first time, Nyota had been struck by how minimal it felt.

But now, so many months after she had first stepped foot inside, it seemed abundant. T’Pring lay in her bed, surrounded by pillows and sheets that flowed over her arms like a cornucopia as she gathered them around her waist. Nyota was dressing off to the side, slipping her uniform over her head and wishing there was more time. There was never enough time. “I’ll call you when I get back to the ship,” Nyota said as T’Pring stood, the white sheet hanging from her like a robe where she held it between her breasts. “And I’ll let you know the second we come back to this side of the quadrant. It might be a while — the captain said something about tracing the line of the neutral zone, but —”

“Nyota,” T’Pring interrupted as Nyota pulled the zipper up her back.

“Yes?”

T’Pring’s eyes held something heavy, and as she stood there in the yellow light of morning, glowing from the pith of her cheeks to the elegant drape of the sheet hugging the line of her hip, Nyota was struck by a feeling of the uncanny, the surreal, the ethereal — as though she were standing in a dream.

It took a moment for T’Pring to speak. When she did, she took a long breath through her nose, as if in preparation.

“This must be the last time.”

Nyota stared at her, arms falling to her sides. “What?”

“You should not contact me again,” T’Pring said. “We must end this.”

Feet rooted to the floor, ice running through her veins and freezing her limbs in place, it took Nyota’s body far too long to react to those words, and far longer for her mind to process them. But her eyes were locked on T’Pring’s, and as the silence stretched she felt her heart beginning to beat again — fast, too fast — the ice turning to fire as disbelief choked her.

“What?” She said again, inelegant, ineloquent, but needing something — clarification, understanding — something.

“I should have told you when you arrived yesterday,” T’Pring said, her voice weighing down the words as if lifting them from her lips took effort. “But I wanted —”

She paused, and Nyota felt her fingers beginning to clench, curling into fists that she didn’t even realize she was making. And thankfully T’Pring continued, because Nyota didn’t know what she could say. “You knew — I knew — that this was temporary. I ask your forgiveness, though I do not expect it.”

The world had gone quiet. Though she could usually hear the bustle of the ShiKhar street outside, now Nyota only heard the rush in her ears, the unsteady rhythm of her breath, the shift of fabric as T’Pring moved closer.

“I am sor—”

“Why now?” Nyota said, her voice strained and choked around a breath. “We’ve been — T’Pring, we’ve been doing this on and off for years . I know things are hard with — with the Enterprise , but why—”

“There are circumstances,” T’Pring said, clutching the sheet tighter around her chest as her other hand reached out, lying along Nyota’s arm, though she felt numb to the touch. “Circumstances that you do not and may not know or understand. I must prepare for the future.”

“Okay,” Nyota said, putting a hand over T’Pring’s and taking a step forward. “Okay, then prepare for the future. I’m — I’ll still be here, T’Pring. You know I will. I always have.”

“And that is why you cannot any longer,” T’Pring said. She pulled her hand away, fingers slipping through Nyota’s. “You, too, must consider your future. Our paths were not meant to lead to the same destination.”

“But—” Nyota paused, her chest heaving, something sharp stinging behind her eyes. “But they could, right? We’re the only ones who can decide what we do and where we go and—”

“We are not,” T’Pring said, “and we cannot. Do not ask me to reveal more than this.”

“No,” Nyota snapped. “No, that’s not fair. Of course I’m going to ask you to explain yourself. This — T’Pring, this came out of nowhere. What circumstances are you talking about?”

“No outworlder may know,” T’Pring said, and it felt stilted as though she were reciting a common phrase. “And no outworlder shall. I am asking, Nyota, that you accept this.”

Nyota turned around, her head in her hand, her heart aching, and tried to force back the tears that threatened to fall. After all this, after everything they’d become to each other, was that all that Nyota was to her? An outworlder?

“You aren’t giving me a choice, are you?” Nyota asked, and she heard T’Pring’s sharp exhale of breath — an expression of emotion that Nyota could not begin to decipher. How could she? Suddenly she felt as though she didn’t know or understand T’Pring at all.

“There is no opportunity for choice. For either of us.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me before?” Nyota asked, turning to T’Pring again and feeling one hot tear slide traitorously down her cheek. “Last night — it felt like —”

Last night had felt like it always did. Last night had felt like two stars colliding, the inevitability of gravity. Had T’Pring been planning to end it all this time?

T’Pring remained quiet for a moment before she sighed, pulled her eyes from Nyota, and settled onto the bed, her lips thin and her shoulders slumped. “I was not ready to say goodbye to you,” she said, a bare echo of a sentiment that had actually meant something last time she had said it.

And Nyota wanted to tell her, as T’Pring had told her so many years ago, that whether she was ready or not was inconsequential, but she knew that they would never get anywhere if they repeated themselves over and over again, repeated their mistakes and their own empty words.

So she moved to the bed, flopped down beside T’Pring, and watched the sun stretch their shadows along the floor.

Neither of them said another word until they said goodbye.

Everyone knew something was wrong. Everyone who knew her, at least. She didn’t join Chekov and Sulu in the rec room for a while, didn’t sing when O'Reilly asked her to, didn’t smile or laugh or engage in any gossip on the bridge while Kirk and Spock were away.

She kept to herself for a good few weeks, and spent more than one night staring at her computer console, considering penning a message to someone who she had promised herself she would not message again.

T’Pring wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. T’Pring wouldn’t explain the circumstances that led to their breakup. And T’Pring wouldn’t admit that it had been a breakup at all.

Nor should Nyota. It had never been a relationship, what they shared. It had been a series of mistakes and misplaced wants. And it had gone on too long. Whatever the reasons, T’Pring had done her a service. Nyota knew that. Maybe, even, T’Pring had given her another gift. Her freedom.

Though this didn’t feel like freedom. And it didn’t feel like a gift.

The crew held a celebration the night of the one-year mark in their mission. Captain Kirk insisted on it, and Scotty — dear, reliable Scotty — broke out the scotch. Nyota sang a few songs, accompanied on one or two by Commander Spock who showed a rather lovely grasp of the lyre, and by the end of the night she felt light and warm and welcome and happier than she had in a long time.

She loved this ship. She loved this crew. And as she took Janice’s arm and wheeled her around, dancing to some Russian song Chekov had filtered through the ship’s speakers, she managed to push aside the loneliness for a time.

There was no reason to be lonely here, she knew. One year in and four to go, and these people were good. They were kind and adventurous and caring, and Nyota was proud to be among them. But she so often she wished there were someone at her side. Someone calm and patient and warm and collected, someone whose mind seemed to brush against her own with overwhelming affection in those vulnerable morning moments, someone she hadn’t missed a day thinking of in the months since they’d seen each other last.

And she hated that even here, even now, her thoughts found a way to return to T’Pring.

Janice was always an aggressive kisser — one thing Nyota liked about her. The second the door to Nyota’s quarters slid shut, the woman’s tongue was in Nyota’s mouth and her hands were slipping up the line of Nyota’s thighs under her dress, and Nyota felt that sense of numb arousal wash over her, as it usually did. Pleasure without connection, but warm and insistent and enough. She liked Janice very well, and they’d slept together occasionally, but Nyota suffered a surreal sense of loss every time. A sense that something was missing that could never be recovered.

Janice pulled off of her lips, drawing away, a question in her raised eyebrow. “Nyota?” she asked, and Nyota realized she’d just let herself be kissed, back against the door, dress up around her hips, hands flat at her sides. She didn’t usually succumb to preoccupation, especially during times like these.

“I’m sorry,” Nyota said immediately, hands coming to rest on Janice’s waist. “Sorry, I’m here.”

Janice snorted a laugh and pulled back further, her touch soothing down Nyota’s sides. “No you’re not,” she said, though it was without any anger or upset. They both knew what this was, and Janice had never once expected emotional investment. “What’s on your mind, hon?”

Nyota felt her fingers curl into Janice’s uniform, a sense of guilt washing over her. “It’s nothing,” she said, and she wheeled their positions around to tug Janice toward the bed. But when the backs of her knees hit the mattress Janice pushed her down, but didn't follow.

“Likely story. Listen, Nyota, I’m not going to fuck you if you’re off in outer space again. If you don’t want to do this anymore —”

“No, I do. I just —“

Nyota paused. She did want to do this. Sex was sometimes the best remedy for missing T’Pring. She could close her eyes and ride a wave of pleasure and pretend that she hadn’t left half her heart sitting on a bed in ShiKhar mere months ago.

“Girl back home?” Janice asked, and she came to settle by Nyota, an understanding smile on her face. God, Nyota didn’t deserve a friend like her.

“In a manner of speaking,” Nyota finally said, tugging down her dress. It looked like their planned activities weren’t in the cards tonight. It was probably for the best.

“That’s okay,” Janice said, a tick of her lips upward. “I kind of suspected, all this time. Assuming you aren’t official, then?”

Nyota felt a hollow laugh bark out. “No. Never have been, and — well. We never will be. She doesn’t really… do relationships.” Nyota did not know if that was true, necessarily, but she was certain at least that T’Pring did not ‘do’ relationships with her.

Now Janice was the one laughing, something musical as she lifted a hand to her lips. “Well, hate to break it to you, Ny, but neither do you . Saying the word ‘relationship’ next to you is like firing off a gun next to a race horse!”

All it took was a look in Janice’s direction before her mouth turned into a little ‘o’ of understanding. They shared a pause as it all sank in. “Oh,” Janice said after a second. “Oh, this is why, isn’t it? Why you’re all no-strings-attached.” Before Nyota could respond, Janice let out a low whistle and patted Nyota’s knee gently. “She’s really got you messed up, huh?”

“I guess so,” Nyota said. She hadn’t thought of it in those exact words, but the fact was she’d been saving her heart for T’Pring for years now, maybe without realizing it, and certainly without intending it. And she still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that she’d wasted all that time and affection on someone who could never —

“Are you in love with her?”

The question seemed to echo through the little room, leaving them in a sort of dumbstruck silence. Janice drew back a little bit as Nyota stared at her, feeling the distress pull tight at her own expression, feeling her heart speed up at the very idea of the word.

But then, she looked down, and thought over those warm mornings spent curled against T’Pring, the way T’Pring’s lips always cloyed so soft against Nyota’s, the way every nerve in her felt alight when the static sparked between their fingertips, and she thought of the patience with which T’Pring had explained her language, spent nights upon nights sitting with her on that hard floor. She thought of her crossed legs and serene half-smile. She thought of that quiet figure — a young woman sitting alone on the San Francisco boardwalk, dressed so formally, looking so unbelievably sad. Nyota hadn’t recognized it as sadness at the time, but now it struck her like a slap to the face how T’Pring’s young shoulders had slumped with the weight of her responsibilities.

“Yes,” Nyota finally said, and she felt herself swallow. Janice’s hand stroked her leg, a slight comfort.

“So what’s the problem? She’s not straight, is she?” Janice asked.

Nyota shrugged, but shook her head. “No, but. Well, she’s Vulcan, for one,” she said lamely, and Janice leaned back in surprise, her eyes wide.

“Oh, hon.”

“What?”

“Well,” Janice scratched her head, pursing her lips. “Well, I just — if you’re looking for a relationship, maybe a Vulcan’s not the best, ah… the best option? Maybe?”

She punctuated this with a nervous little smile, and Nyota rolled her eyes, flopping back onto the bed.

“I know ,” Nyota groaned, putting a hand to her face. “But she’s the only option. I’ve never —” She paused, took a breath, and felt Janice’s hand squeeze her thigh slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s impossible.”

“Well, okay, maybe not! C’mon, we’re the Enterprise . Nothing’s impossible, right?” Nyota cracked open her eyes to meet Janice’s encouraging smile. “Indulge me: Why do you think it’s impossible, aside from the whole Vulcan thing?”

“Well, that’s why,” Nyota said, sitting up. “Tradition. Expectation. She’s not supposed to — with a human woman , I mean —”

Janice patted her slightly as if to quiet her. “Ny, what does it matter what she’s supposed to do? You’re both adults. Have you ever just asked her what she wants?”

“You don’t know her,” Nyota said with a hollow laugh. “We’ve never been very good at this.” She motioned between herself and her friend, the truth of her own admission making her stomach hurt. “Talking, I mean. Figuring things out. She kept saying she can’t tell me everything.” Nyota paused, her breath shuddering as it slipped through her lungs. “She can’t tell me anything ,” she finally said, voice low.

Janice looked contemplative for a moment, then gave Nyota’s thigh a much harder squeeze. “You’re the communications officer of the fleet’s flagship, Nyota. I’m sure you can find a way to talk about this. If anyone can, it’s you.”

With a slow ebb and flow of realization, a kind of numb understanding dawning, Nyota looked to her hands lying in her lap, remembering the feeling of T’Pring’s fingerprints pressed against her own. Much as she hated to admit it, Janice had a point. Nyota had built her life on this — on negotiating unwinnable interpersonal problems, finding the perfect word for everything, in any language that necessitated it. So why couldn’t she communicate this?

“Nyota?”

Janice’s voice barely reached her, but she managed to turn her eyes to her friend. “Do you really think —” she swallowed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as though searching for the right words. “Do you really think it’s possible?”

With a simple shrug, Janice’s hands flopped into her own lap. “Oh I don’t know, Ny! It’s worth trying, isn’t it? It’s not much like you to give up.”

No, Nyota realized, staring at Janice as though her comforting smile were the answer to a puzzle she’d been trying to figure out for years. Janice tilted her head down, looking a little uncomfortable.

“You — you okay?”

“I think…” Nyota said, her voice far away. “I think I have a message to write.”

“Atta girl!” Janice said, pumping her fist in the air. “Hey, you need help? Not to brag, but I have quite a way with words.”

Nyota smiled at her, unsure if she could convey her gratitude. “Thanks, Janice, but… I think I probably need to be the one to say this.”

As Nyota sat at her computer console in the quiet of her quarters, she wished she had taken Janice up on her offer to help. Nyota, too, had a way with words, and yet she found herself at a loss.

Because nothing she wanted to say could be written. There was no way she could convey the sincerity of her desires with a simple message. What did “I miss you” really mean? What did “I love you” really mean?

W e should talk, she wrote decisively. Honestly this time. I don’t think either of us are ready to say goodbye, and I need to know what you want.

We have differences . Her fingers paused on each key as if forcing her conviction into the words. This had been a core truth of their relationship, and now perhaps it could be a promise. May we together become greater than the sum of both of us.

She signed t’du , yours, and put it into the subspace queue.

Then she waited, at least assured that she would be the first to know when a response arrived.

I accept. The reply read, and it took all of Nyota’s composure to read it on the bridge without giving any outward sign that she had even received it . And I wish to see you in person if we are to speak.

It was what Nyota wanted, but not enough. She had hoped for some kind of confirmation of T’Pring’s feelings, but, well, maybe she’d been spending too much time with humans. This was how T’Pring communicated, and she needed to remember that.

So she wrote back that she would arrange it, and allowed herself to feel a kind of tentative hope for the first time in months.

“May I ask why you want to bring a VSA scientist aboard?” Kirk asked. “If it’s for a project, Mister Spock is more than capable —”

“It’s not work-related,” she said as they sat comfortably at the desk in his quarters. She had assumed the location might convey that this was a personal favor she was requesting, rather than a professional one. “It’s—” she paused, huffing a desperate little laugh, putting her head in her hands. “Would you make fun of me if I told you it was for true love?”

Through her fingers, Nyota watched Kirk smile, that gentle kind of expression he wore sometimes, though there was only fondness, not amusement in the look. “Miss Uhura,” he said, and reached across the desk to lay a hand on her arm. “I never make fun of true love.” He leaned back and retracted his touch, the smile on his lips turning almost coy. “A Vulcan though. Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

She joined him in his grin, relieved. “Oh, trust me, I’m aware,” she said with a chuckle, and he crossed his arms genially over his chest. They regarded each other for a moment, and he shook his head, smiling.

“Alright, Uhura. Request granted. Just, give me some professional excuse for her visit if you can. I would rather not deal with any official queries. She studies, what, alien viruses you said? Foist her off on Bones. For, ah, consultation . A few hours should be good enough.”

Nyota relaxed back in her seat. “Thank you, Captain. I — I appreciate your understanding.”

He laughed, rubbing his head. “Oh, Lieutenant, I don’t think there’s anyone on this ship who understands better.” Before Nyota could quite decipher what that meant, he continued, voice taking on a very business-like quality as he laid his hand flat on the table. “Now, go give her the news. We’re going to be on patrol near Federation space here in a couple weeks, thanks to that new space station. We will happily receive her then.”

With a deep breath, Nyota nodded. “Perfect. I look forward to introducing her to everyone. She’s — well. I think you’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will, Lieutenant,” he said, and Nyota felt grateful, infinitely grateful, that this was her commanding officer. That she should have another chance to get things right.

Nerves didn’t become Nyota. She’d built a reputation on this ship, after all. Confidence and poise and an ability to do anything that was required of her, under any circumstances. But she did not know if she could do this.

She stood in the transporter room, heart hammering, shifting awkwardly on her feet, ignoring the sideways look of the transporter technician, whom she knew by sight but not by name.

Then, the machinery hummed, the telltale wavering sound of the transporter beam reached her ears, and a figure appeared on the pad. She materialized almost painfully slowly, first her feet, set shoulder-width apart, the long and tantalizing lines of her legs, the curve of her hip and her waist, her arms set behind her back as if standing at attention, and then her chest, neck, shoulders, and finally her face. That face that had been so long-missed, that face whose eyes lit up at the sight of Nyota standing there.

“ Dif-tor heh smusma ,” Nyota said when the beam had finished. She held up the ta’al, forcibly stopping herself from running forward and launching herself into T’Pring’s arms.

“ Sochya eh dif ,” T’Pring responded. She moved forward off the pad, elegant, deliberate steps that clicked on the metal floor, then she came to stand directly before Nyota, the transporter tech momentarily forgotten. “ Ki’din-tor nash-veh tu,” she said in Vulcan — a language spoken by millions that, nevertheless, felt like their own. Private and personal.

“ Na nimekukosa,” Nyota responded in Swahili, prompting a small half-smile from T’Pring. The woman she loved and could finally admit to loving. Soon. As soon as they were alone.

Catching herself staring, she cleared her throat. “Ah, would you like to see the ship?” she asked, reverting to Standard. “I’m happy to take you on a tour.” The words ‘before we talk’ hung unsaid in the air.

T’Pring nodded gently. “I am amenable to that,” she said. Nyota felt her lips smiling. There was much to discuss — in fact, discussion was the reason they were here, but she was excited to share her life, her work, with T’Pring, even in so small a way.

She gestured toward the door, and they fell into step beside each other, walking leisurely out into the corridor. As there was little activity on the ship at present (beta shift on a rather routine patrol), few people were milling about. Those that were were clearly going about their business, either too distracted to notice the Vulcan woman beside Nyota, or too busy to spend much time staring. Nyota was glad of that. The nerves hadn’t yet abated, and she didn’t want to field questions right now.

“I can start by showing you Sickbay on deck six, if you’d like,” she said as they strolled. “That’s where you’ll be working tomorrow, consulting with Doctor McCoy.”

T’Pring nodded. “That is logical,” she responded. “However, I do not wish to postpone our conversation overly long.”

Nyota felt her heart skip a few beats, her mouth going dry, and though she was quite anxious for the same thing, she swallowed. “Neither do I,” she said. “But let’s get you settled in first. Acclimated.”

“The gesture is appreciated, if unnecessary,” T’Pring said. But the fact that she didn’t argue meant that she knew this was as much for Nyota’s own sake as it was for hers.

Nyota ducked her head, about to respond when the sound of rapid footsteps reached her ears along the corridor up ahead. She glanced away from T’Pring, where a figure appeared in a rather obvious rush around the corner.

Commander Spock, straight-backed as always, did not look distressed, but Nyota could swear she could feel distress radiating off of him for a moment. Just as she thought with a spike of fear that something was happening — some ship emergency — he caught sight of them and halted. T’Pring stiffened beside her, and all three of them stood there, stock still, regarding each other.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nyota saw T’Pring lift the ta’al. “Commander Spock,” she said, and her voice had lost every lilt of affection that Nyota had grown so accustomed to. It felt robotic, completely at odds with the woman she knew. And it took her a good moment to realize that T’Pring knew him — at least, knew of him.

“T’Pring,” he said, and his own voice seemed to falter over her name.

As if he hadn’t said it in a very long time.

“You — You know each other?” Nyota asked as T’Pring dropped her hand. Spock had not returned the gesture. “That’s incredible. Vulcan’s a small world, isn’t it?” She punctuated this with a nervous kind of chuckle, looking between the two of them. Neither even allowed a half-smile at the statement, their faces taut and expressionless as she’d ever seen either of them.

“Vulcan’s population, Lieutenant is, in fact, greater than that of Earth,” Spock said, as if reciting some fact in the back of his brain, rather than actually engaging in conversation.

An awkward silence settled, and Spock took a step forward. He seemed to collect his thoughts, his hands stiff behind his back. “The captain neglected to mention that he had approved your arrival until mere moments ago,” he said. “You understand my surprise.”

This was said in such a way that it suggested he had expected T’Pring to notify him. Were they that close?

“I have not come to see you,” T’Pring said, and she shifted closer to Nyota, as though making a point. “Informing you of my visit would have been illogical. And if you had felt fit to inform your captain of me, I am sure he would have told you.”

Nyota felt her heart clench painfully as Spock’s cheeks took on a very subtle green flush. Embarrassment? By god, he was embarrassed .

But now Nyota turned to T’Pring, eyes narrowed. What possible relationship could these two have that would cause such outward animosity? What possible relationship could they have that would necessitate Spock telling Kirk about T’Pring?

“T’Pring,” she started cautiously, “how do you know Commander Spock?”

And when T’Pring’s eyes shifted to her, the quiet fire that had ignited in them at Spock’s appearance seemed to snuff itself out. That sadness, that regret that Nyota had become so familiar with over the years had returned to the subtle lines of her face. But before Nyota could decipher the expression in its entirety, T’Pring turned back to Spock.

“I wish to speak to Nyota privately,” she snapped. “If you and I must speak, we may do so at another time.”

Nyota had never heard T’Pring talk like that, nor had she ever heard anyone address Spock with such clear distaste. The respect he usually commanded did not seem to affect T’Pring at all. Nyota stared wide-eyed at her, about to jump to Spock’s defense before he seemed to startle out of a reverie.

“We will speak,” he confirmed to a subtle clench of T’Pring’s shoulders. “I trust your stay on the Enterprise will be adequate.”

“It will be,” T’Pring said, and Spock drew up his shoulders, gave one glance to Nyota, then strode right past them.

Nyota turned, watching him walk away for a moment before she looked back to T’Pring.

“What was that ?” she asked in a hiss of a whisper. “That’s my commanding officer you just antagonized.”

That sad look had returned to T’Pring’s eyes, and she took in a deep breath. “It would be wise to postpone the tour,” she said. “I had hoped we would not see Spock before we had the opportunity to speak, and I believe it is imperative we take that opportunity now.”

And though nervousness did not suit Nyota one bit, she felt those nerves rise back up in her throat, churning her stomach. But there was no remedy for nerves but to face them.  “Okay.” She said. “Okay.”

When Nyota had previously imagined T’Pring in her quarters, she had imagined very different circumstances. Though she’d called T’Pring here in order to speak, her ideal vision of that conversation had been very short, and it had ended very pleasantly. Now, an unnamable tension pulled between them like a strained rubber band as Nyota sat in her desk chair and T’Pring stood, glancing around the small room.

She looked out of place in the pink décor, the cramped space that housed so much of Nyota’s personality and life. It was different from her temporary quarters at Starfleet, back when they had seen each other regularly. She had known then that she would leave that little apartment, but this — she had worked very hard to make this feel like home. And for so long she had wanted to see T’Pring here.

“Okay,” Nyota said, after T’Pring had been silent a long time, examining Nyota’s things. Now, she held a small wooden lion that Nyota’s father had carved for her, many, many years ago. She did not look up at Nyota’s voice. “Are you going to tell me how you know Commander Spock?”

T’Pring’s initial answer was silence, a silence that Nyota attempted to interpret as she had for many years. But she came up empty, and waited.

T’Pring replaced the figurine on its shelf, but did not look at Nyota. “Our relationship, in fact, has much to do with what you and I were meant to discuss,” she said after a long, tense moment.

It took a few seconds for Nyota to really understand what that meant. T’Pring, in many ways, was still a mystery to her — her life, her relationships, the expectations of her society still so shrouded by Vulcan propriety and T’Pring’s unwillingness to reveal too much.

Nyota waited, something dreadful sinking deep into her gut.

“You recall,” T’Pring continued, finally lifting her eyes to Nyota, “what I once told you. About my betrothal?”

“I do,” Nyota said gently, trying not to let the tremor in her body show in her voice.

“Spock,” T’Pring started, then stopped, resting her hand on the shelf. “ Commander Spock, is my intended mate. We are to be wed when we undergo Pon Farr. It is not logical, but it is so.”

Breath stolen from her lungs, Nyota stared for a moment, her fingers curling into the hem of her dress, her entire body tightening, shrinking in on herself. “Excuse me,” she said softly, “You’re telling me that Spock — all this time Spock ’s been the one you were supposed to marry?”

With an absent kind of look, T’Pring turned her gaze away. “Yes.”

Nyota shot out of her seat, clenching her teeth and moving just to move, walking past T’Pring and toward the sleeping alcove, her heart stuttering over its beats. “You couldn’t have told me earlier?” She asked, outrage quaking under the words.

“By the time I was aware you served on the same ship, I already intended to end our association. It seemed illogical to discuss the matter, knowing — or rather, assuming — you would no longer be a part of my life.”

“Illogical?” Nyota snapped, wheeling around. “You didn’t think it was logical to tell me that you were engaged to my commanding officer? Do you realize how selfish that sounds?”

T’Pring held up a soothing hand. “I understand this now. Your message — Until then I did not realize that you might still feel affection for me. That you may still wish for more than we have had. I made another error in assumption. One of many.”

“I’m sorry? You didn’t think I still cared about you? T’Pring—” she moved toward her, but stopped herself from going too far. “I practically begged you to give us a chance.”

“And I rejected you,” T’Pring responded, straightening. “If you had harbored ill will, I would not have blamed you.”

“I didn’t,” she said, a note of defeat in her voice. “You know I couldn’t. I —” she wanted to say it. She was desperate to say it. How could three little words be so much harder to speak than any language she’d ever learned? She tossed her hands in the air, as if to wave the half-finished confession away. “So — So Spock is your ‘intended mate.’ What does that mean? What is Pon Farr?” She’d never learned that term. It sounded as though it had come from Golic Vulcan, but she couldn’t decipher it, especially when her mind was occupied with thoughts far more insistent than etymological curiosity.

“Pon Farr is our time of mating,” T’Pring responded, her voice almost infuriatingly calm. “I believe it will come upon both Spock and myself within a year. Perhaps less. It is — we do not speak of it.”

Nyota took a long breath through her nose. “But you came here to talk about it, didn’t you? You came here to talk this through with me. Please, T’Pring, don’t back out now. I deserve to know this, don’t I? After everything?”

T’Pring looked at her long and hard for a moment, then brought her hands to clasp in front of her, a position of deference and humility that suited her about as well as nerves suited Nyota.

“Of course, Nyota. I simply ask that you exercise patience. I have attempted to prepare myself for this conversation, but our situation is decidedly irregular.”

Closing her eyes for the patience that had been requested of her, Nyota sighed. “I know. I know. Just, go on. Please.”

When Nyota opened her eyes, T’Pring had taken a few strides away and now stood off in the center of the room, her gray dress looking lifeless against the vibrant color of the walls. Nyota swallowed as T’Pring took a breath, and finally continued. “The Pon Farr is a violent time. Our mating urges are ancient. Powerful. We must not only mate, but form a lasting mental bond — or we will die. Ideally, according to our parents and Vulcan custom, Spock and I would form such a bond with each other. However, I will not allow him to take me as his mate. And if I wish to preserve my life, I must bond with another.”

Nyota stared at her. “You’re going to have to say that again,” she said. “Slower.”

“Nyota,” T’Pring turned and began to move toward her, arms out as though expecting to walk into an embrace. Nyota felt her heart sink.

“No, no, don’t — not until you explain this to me. What are you telling me? What kind of conversation are we having here?”

T’Pring took another long breath and dropped her arms, though she continued to approach. “Nyota, I have tried to protect you from the reality of my situation. I thought I might divorce Spock, perhaps put another at risk and win my freedom. We have...” T’Pring took a breath, though she gave no other indication of her emotions. “We have very few options.”

With a helpless kind of groan, Nyota put her head in her hands, unable to look at T’Pring right now. She had hoped this would be easy, but had known in her heart that it wouldn’t be. It never was.

“What are they? Our options?” she said quietly, finally lifting her gaze again to the woman she loved.

“In order to divorce Spock, I must challenge him in combat.”

Nyota snorted out her disbelief, arms falling to her sides in a useless sort of flop. “I’m sorry, combat ?”

“Indeed,” T’Pring said, cautiously. “Traditionally, my lover would act as my champion and battle Spock for me. Our first option, which I will not allow, is to force you to fight him when he enters the Plak Tow — the blood fever. This would result in either his death … or yours.”

Nyota felt herself swallow, opening and closing her mouth. She reached out and steadied herself on the nearby partition, nodding slowly. “Definitely not my first choice,” she said, and T’Pring let out a little huff.

“Nor mine,” she said, and a beat passed before she continued. “I may also challenge him myself, though that would go against tradition. Moreover, I have little doubt that he could kill me, and in spite of my indifference toward Spock — I do not wish to kill him.”

“Is there a version of this that doesn’t end in death?” Nyota asked, her voice strained and desperate. She hated how transparent her own emotions were when T’Pring’s seemed as though they were on the tightest lockdown of her life, but she had no way of controlling her emotions right now. She had expected some kind of old-fashioned misogynistic tradition, but she had not expected all-out combat to the death to be a part of a Vulcan ritual. Where was the logic in that? Where was the calm intention?

“If we are to conform to the expectations of my society, these are our options,” she said, “And I am at the mercy of expectation. To take you as my mate outside the tradition of the kal-if-fee would be difficult. I cannot ask this of you.”

Drawing back, Nyota met T’Pring’s eyes. “What do you mean you ‘cannot ask this of me?’” she asked lamely. “What would you be asking for that I haven’t already offered you?”

T’Pring’s shoulders seemed to fall. “Nyota, I do not believe you understand the magnitude of the Pon Farr. In less than a year, you would be required to know that you wished to be my mate for life. You would need to defend me, yourself and our relationship to a Vulcan council and submit to an invasive mental bond between us. And, after all this, you would undergo an emotionally, mentally and physically taxing mating ritual every seven years. This is not so simple as agreeing to become lovers. I cannot ask you to do any of these things. And I will not.”

Closing her eyes, Nyota tried to steady herself in spite of the fact that her fingertips were tingling and numb with nerves, her eyelids fluttering closed to calm her churning stomach.

“But,” she started, shaking her head and turning her gaze back to T’Pring. “But is it what you want? All of that — the bond. With me. Is that what you want?”

“I cannot ask it of you.”

“But is it what you want ? T’Pring, I know it’s a lot but I’m willing to consider it. I just need to know if —” she paused, wondering if now was the time to drop that word, and deciding that it had to be the time. There was no other. “I need to know that you love me. That you want this. And then we can figure it out from there.”

T’Pring stared at her, drawing back, her arms straight at her sides and her hands clenched. Every line of her face was drawn tight, her jaw clenched behind her lips.

“I cannot love,” she finally said. “I cannot want. These things are forbidden from me.”
Nyota felt her stomach sink. She had called T’Pring here for answers and now, well. She supposed she had them.

“All these years,” she managed to say through the constriction of her throat, “I thought Vulcan culture was enlightened.”

“You were mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

Silence settled between them. Nyota watched T’Pring, the woman she loved, a tight ball of tension as stiff and uncomfortable as she’d ever seen her. And she looked out of place in Nyota’s room. In Nyota’s life.

“Why did you come, then?” Nyota asked in defeat. “If you were just going to tell me again what a terrible idea this was?”

T’Pring looked down, a sigh heaving her shoulders — such a human gesture. And Nyota felt too numb to appreciate it. “I owe you more than I have given,” T’Pring said. “A great deal more. I believed telling you the truth might make you understand why… ” she stopped, maybe at the look in Nyota’s eyes. “I see now,” she said after a moment. “It was — it was a mistake to come.”

Maybe it wouldn’t have been complicated, Nyota thought numbly, watching T’Pring ascend the steps of the transporter pad. Maybe it would have been easy if T’Pring were human. If she were betrothed to anyone but Spock. If she had told Nyota all of this from the beginning. If they had stopped dancing around each other and making assumptions about intention and maybe, if they had just realized what they wanted a little earlier. Maybe it wouldn’t have been complicated if Nyota even knew for sure that T’Pring had the capacity to love her, though she knew some affection had to be there. Maybe it wouldn’t have been complicated if there weren’t so many expectations and so few precedents for bucking them.

But it was complicated. There was no changing it.

Kaiidth , she thought to herself with a now familiar sting behind her already red and puffy eyes.

What is, is.

T’Pring met Nyota’s eyes when she arranged herself on the pad, her arms behind her back. “I thank you for bringing me aboard,” she said, the calm of her voice obviously a mask. Nyota could almost feel the tremor in her, and Nyota was afraid to speak for the same reason, because she’d cried out her tears already and had nothing left but the shaking, the tremble in her hands and her throat.

“Right,” Nyota said, stepping back, wishing she could pull T’Pring in for one more kiss, wishing she could somehow convince T’Pring that what they shared was — or, at least, could have been — worth so much more than the risk. “Goodbye, T’Pring.”

“ Faida , Nyota.”

The technician, the same one who had beamed T’Pring aboard mere hours ago, now energized the console again, and in a waver of glittering light, T’Pring was gone.

He didn’t ask, the young man at the console. He didn’t question the fact that he’d been told T’Pring would be staying two days on board the Enterprise . He just beamed her back to her cruiser and gave Nyota a sort of pitying look.

She couldn’t suffer any pity. Head high, she made her way back out into the corridor, saving her weakness for the solitude of her room.

She didn’t have the heart to go to Kirk first. She should have — it was his ship. He should know that the scientist he brought aboard would not be completing her specified purpose (though the purpose itself had been a front). He should know that his guest had already left. And maybe he did know. The cruiser had sped off a few hours ago.

She didn’t have the heart to go to Spock, either. Knowing what he was to T’Pring, knowing what he represented, she wasn’t sure she could even look at him right now. He had expressed an interest in talking to T’Pring, and she didn’t know if she could handle his disappointment on top of her own grief.

But she did have to go to someone, whether she had the heart or not, so she went to the only other person who might be directly affected by T’Pring’s absence, someone who might be able to carry the news to Kirk and Spock while she locked herself in her quarters and tried to absorb the inevitable end of her childish hopes.

Sickbay was mostly empty when Nyota walked in — no altercations the last few months meant few injuries to deal with, and she’d specifically arrived before the shift change that might crowd the halls. So she was gratified to find only McCoy and Chapel in the main room, both looking over the same data PADD. They looked up at her arrival, both smiling.

“Uhura,” McCoy greeted, “thought you’d be carting that Vulcan around the ship. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” He handed the PADD to Christine, who took it dutifully and continued reading.

Nyota opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and finally took in a steadying breath.

“She — ah. She won’t be consulting with you tomorrow. I thought I should let you know. She’s — gone.”

“Thank the heavens,” McCoy said with a chuckle, casting his eyes over his shoulder to meet Christine’s indulgent look. “One Vulcan on board is bad enough. What’d you do, Lieutenant? Scare her off?”

It was said in jest, a joke that made him chuckle as his eyes turned back to her. But the smile fled his face immediately. Nyota didn’t understand why until a single hot tear rolled down her cheek, and she realized her shoulders were shaking with the effort of holding back more.

“Oh,” he said, holding out his hands as though reaching to steady her but afraid to actually touch her. “Oh, no. Ah, nurse!”

Eyes burning, Nyota felt more tears begin to fall, a cascade of them, and Nyota didn’t know why she couldn’t stop them, why she couldn’t school her face into that Vulcan mask T’Pring could, why she couldn’t even breathe, but suddenly her throat closed up and her heart froze in her chest and she was holding a hand to her mouth to stifle the whine that had caught in her lungs. “I—”

Christine dropped the PADD to the desk, rushing forward past McCoy and taking Nyota by the shoulders, bringing her into a hug that Nyota didn’t want. She didn’t want pity or sympathy and she didn’t want anyone to touch her, but the moment Christine pulled her tight to her chest, Nyota buried her face in the woman’s sleeve and felt herself sob, something hard wrenching itself from her chest.

“Nyota,” Christine whispered, and Nyota could feel her exchanging a look with McCoy. “Nyota, what happened?”

“I—” Nyota choked out, sniffling into the fabric and finally bringing her arms around Christine’s shoulders. She felt McCoy’s hand land in a sort of tentative gesture on her shoulder, and a fresh sob wracked her. “I thought she wanted — I thought we could be —”

She took in a shuddering breath, unable to continue, screwing her eyes shut and curling her fingers tight into Christine’s dress and wishing she could have kept it together. Why couldn’t she keep it together?

“My god,” McCoy uttered lowly. “ Vulcans . Between you and Jim, I swear. Is it catching?”

Christine reached out to whap him, cutting him off, and Nyota was glad of it. She knew what everyone thought.

Vulcans. A terrible idea. A worthless place to set your heart. Why love a Vulcan when you could love anyone else?

But she couldn’t love anyone else.

“It’s going to be okay,” Christine whispered, tucking Nyota’s head under her chin. “It’s going to be okay.” But as Nyota sobbed into her chest, she wasn’t sure she had the capacity to believe her.

Nyota went back to work the next day as if nothing had happened. She heard the cautious way Kirk greeted her, saw the eyes of her fellow officers turn in her direction. It was likely they all knew what had happened. Word travelled fast on a starship.

But for all intents and purposes, Nyota functioned as she always did. Capably, professionally, seemingly effortlessly, though no one could see the incredible toll it took just to keep her voice steady, just to look Spock in the eye when she needed to.

But only when she needed to.

After a month, it still hurt, and Nyota sat at her computer as she had nearly every night, wondering if she should try again, just send one more message. She still had so many questions, so few answers, and she still wanted . But they hadn’t spoken since T’Pring had said ‘ faida ’ and she didn’t know now that T’Pring would even read any message Nyota sent, let alone answer it.

And what could Nyota say, anyway? She just missed her, and she wondered (couldn’t help but wonder) if T’Pring missed her too.

I cannot ask this of you , T’Pring had said. But if she had just asked, just dared to ask, then she at least could have given Nyota a choice.

Still, Nyota knew, even in her darkest moments, that Janice had been right when she said it wasn’t like Nyota to give up. It wasn’t like any of them to give up. Where no choice was present, the Enterprise crew made one. And she knew what choice she wanted to make.

The turbolift door was about to close, but Nyota slipped in just before it had a chance. Spock scooted to the side to make room for her, then took the knob. “Which deck may I request for you, Lieutenant?” he asked casually, and Nyota looked to him, intentional in her gaze for the first time in a long time.

“Deck four,” she said, “and, Mister Spock, would you mind joining me for a moment? I — there are some things I want to ask you.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at her, but said “Deck four.” The turbolift sped downward, and Nyota breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Mister Spock.”

“You are welcome, Lieutenant,” he said. There was a moment of silence, as if he weren’t sure he should ask. Then, almost tentatively, “I assume this is in regard to T’Pring?”

“It is,” she said.

Nodding, Spock kept his eyes forward. “I had wondered if you might have questions. Though I believed it would be overstepping to approach you.”

Nyota leaned against the wall, feeling gratitude toward Spock, not for the first time. He was a considerate commanding officer. A considerate person. And she knew her anger toward him, mostly faded now, had been displaced. It was not his fault that he had been forced into the same marriage T’Pring had. “I appreciate that,” she said. “I think I needed some time to think things through. Maybe I still do. But it’s difficult to think things through when I don’t have all the information.”

“That is logical,” he said, tone testing. Nyota risked a glance as the lift slowed to a halt. He looked contemplative, the way he did when he was attempting to solve a difficult equation.

Nyota could sympathize. So often, this felt like math and science rather than romance — this thing between she and T’Pring. They had faltered so much, made so many mistakes, and the experiment had to reach a conclusion, one way or another. Maybe in T’Pring’s mind, it had, but Nyota wasn’t done.

They stepped out into the corridor, Spock motioning for her to lead the way. She did so, tracing well-worn steps to the observation deck where she often went to think. It was quiet this time of day. Alpha had just ended and most people went straight to the mess after shift, so when they arrived the deck was empty.

Starlight slid by outside the window, and, when the door closed, Nyota took in a steadying breath.

Then, she turned to Spock.

“So,” she began, watching him settle his hands behind his back. He looked uncomfortable, but that was no surprise. She was too. They hadn’t really become friends since Nyota had begun serving on this ship, though they had a perfectly fine working relationship, and she knew he respected her as much as she respected him. But conversations like this were… irregular.

When she failed to continue, Spock cleared his throat minutely, and she swallowed, nodding. “I suppose you know,” she continued as though she hadn’t faltered at all, “that T’Pring and I are — have been — were . Romantically involved.”

“I had surmised as much, yes,” Spock said, and Nyota couldn’t tell if there was any emotion at all behind those words.

“First off, I just want to say that all this began long before I knew she had a fiancé. And even after I did know, I had no idea it was you until she came to the ship. I want to make it clear that I didn’t want to come between the two of you or… or anything.”

“Of course, Miss Uhura. It was quite obvious that you were unaware of our acquaintance, let alone the exact nature of our relationship.”

Nyota took a breath, then turned from Spock, walking a few steps toward the window. She looked out at the stars, fingers clenching unconsciously at her sides. “Right.” She said.

It took a moment, but Spock moved to join her, standing close enough to be a comfort, but far enough away to give her space. And it was a comfort. He did not seem angry. He was just there.

And that was the only reason Nyota managed to squeeze the question from her lips. “Do you want to bond with her, Mister Spock?” she asked, and her heartbeat quickened the second it was out. She had considered a thousand times what she might do or say if the answer was ‘yes,’ but all those possibilities fled her mind now, and she felt blank, a little empty.

But Spock simply straightened his spine and breathed slowly out his nose. “No,” he said, and Nyota felt relief sink deep into her, though it wasn’t quite enough to completely assuage her nerves. “No,” Spock repeated, “my… affections lie elsewhere. As do her own.” He shifted his eyes to her now, and Nyota didn’t know if she should succumb to her surprise that Spock had admitting to having affections, or if she should simply be happy that he knew T’Pring cared for her. Struck a little speechless, she floundered for something to say, but Spock continued instead.

“I have always known that she would challenge our union. Since we were children, she has been forcing me from our bond. Though in recent years it has become more obvious how little she cares for our connection. I, too, would much rather bond with…” he paused, his lips thinning. “Someone else.” And Nyota examined him, wondering what he had been about to reveal.

“T’Pring has told me what a divorce would entail,” she tested slowly. “She would have to challenge you in combat herself, or allow me to challenge you. What would happen if you were to bond with someone who wasn’t your intended?”

“I would be ostracized,” Spock said with little inflection, “though I would not face a greater consequence than that. In comparison to risking one’s life, or the life of one’s lover, it is a small punishment.”

Nyota huffed. “It’s outdated,” she said venomously, “misogynistic, cruel —”

“I do not disagree,” Spock said, “but it is tradition. And in spite of my own objections to our union, I have long planned to follow through with this tradition.”

“But—“ Nyota wheeled around to him, flopping out her arms in frustration. “But T’Pring doesn’t want to be with you, and you don’t want to be with her. What if you both just… refuse?”

Spock considered it for a moment, facing her. “Then, perhaps, we would find a way to ensure that there would be no bloodshed. It is unlikely either of us could keep our good standing on Vulcan. She may even sacrifice her career. If she has shown reticence to bond with you, it is likely that has influenced her decision.”

A silence fell between them for a moment, but Spock eventually let out a long breath and turned back to the window. “Knowing now of your relationship with T’Pring, I have reconsidered a great many of my own fears,” he said softly. “Though I once thought it would be better to die than to break with Vulcan custom, I now wonder if the four of us might find a solution that does not end in such heartache. If T’Pring and I both refuse —” he stopped, clenched his hands tighter behind his back, and seemed to convince himself to continue. “I am willing to risk much for the one I love. And I suspect T’Pring is as well. But we must both conquer our fear in order to honor that love. Perhaps we all must.”

Nyota felt her heart clench on the word ‘love.’ T’Pring had never said that to her, never once suggested that ‘love’ was even a part of her vocabulary, but now it fell out of Spock’s lips almost effortlessly.

“So you can love? Vulcans, I mean.”

He caught her eyes, the dark reflecting starlight, and Nyota thought there was determination in them.

“Passionately,” he said, and Nyota felt her breath catch in her chest as her throat closed.

“Do you — do you think she loves me like that?”

Spock took in a breath, facing her fully now. Lifting a hand with only a hint of hesitation, he laid it to rest it lightly on her shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze that felt reassuring, intentional. Spock had never touched her and, in fact, only ever seemed to risk a touch with the captain. The comforting intimacy of the gesture was not lost on her.

“I believe, Miss Uhura, there is only one way to be sure.”

Nyota stared at him as his hand fell. He pulled the hem of his tunic straight, and when next he spoke the professional, clipped tone of her commanding officer had returned. “I will approve your request for shore leave and assist you in arranging transport to Vulcan,” he said, and Nyota stared dumbly at him.

“But I haven’t requested —”

He caught her eye with a raised brow and she let out a breath. “I — Thank you, Commander,” she said, something hard in her throat. “This means… this means a lot to me.”

And as he turned on his heel, walking out the observation deck door, Nyota felt herself smile, the wonder of possibility opening up before her again. There was always a choice. It seemed as though Spock had made his, and now Nyota would offer this choice to T’Pring. A gift, perhaps, in exchange for all T’Pring had given her. Forgiveness for what she had taken away.

The shore leave approval came through only a few hours later, while Nyota sat at her computer console catching up on some reading. She curled her bathrobe around herself a little tighter, biting her lip as she read through the message. In one week, she would have a transport to Vulcan secured, and she could finally see T’Pring once more.

A second message followed the first, this one from Kirk’s personal communicator. She opened it, curious, and had to stifle a snort of laughter.

Go get your girl, it said.

In response, she typed out a quick message. I intend to.

The harsh atmosphere of Vulcan wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Nyota hadn’t been on a planet in a good few months, and though the air was so dry it felt like sandpaper, she breathed it in as best she could, glad McCoy had thought to send her on her leave with a couple of tri-ox compounds for the worst of the day’s heat.

Nyota had become somewhat familiar with Vulcan over the years, though she admitted to herself as she disembarked the shuttle that she seldom visited for the purpose of experiencing the planet. Each time she’d come, it had been for T’Pring. But over the course of her many and brief visits, T’Pring had taken the time to show her around ShiKhar — The Vulcan Science Academy, the temples, the markets. Sometimes, back then, it had felt as though they were an actual couple. At least until the urgency returned, the realization they had only so much time together, until they went back to T’Pring’s home and sequestered themselves in together.

But Nyota valued those glimpses into T’Pring’s life just as much as she valued the time they spent curled around each other in bed, sharing breaths and heartbeats. In fact, it was those moments — eating together in a starkly decorated Vulcan restaurant, walking through the echo of a temple with evening’s yellow light pouring onto the red stone of the floor, bending over a microscope in T’Pring’s lab to view the virus she’d been studying — that made her realize that she could do this. That she wanted to do this. She hadn’t had a steady girlfriend since high school, and she had certainly never thought of anyone as marriage material — let alone herself.

But there was time before T’Pring hit her Pon Farr, time to learn each other the way they were meant to learn each other, and Nyota had thought again and again as she’d planned this trip, planned the surprise of her visit, that if her feelings for T’Pring hadn’t changed but to grow in all these years then they wouldn’t change now. All these years, though they hadn’t been together, they had been a part of each other. Their lives had intertwined from the moment they’d met, and now T’Pring was so woven into the fabric of her existence she may well have been a part of her.

Was it such a stretch to think they could make this work?

Nyota waited on the shuttle platform under an awning, where a couple of humans and an Andorian, passengers on the same shuttle that brought her here, stood to take advantage of the shade while they waited for their rides.

When the driverless transport she had called pulled up, Nyota let out a breath. She hadn’t told T’Pring she was coming, but it was midday and she knew where the woman would be.

Nyota hefted her bag and made her way down the platform steps just as the door opened. The moment she tossed her bag inside and settled onto the hot vinyl seat, she called up the screen on the transport’s console, undeterred to find its instructions written in Vulcan. It felt like she had come home. Smiling, she altered the environmental controls, breathing in the comparatively cool and humid air that began to seep from the vents. Then, she plugged in her destination.

The Vulcan Science Academy.

With a lurch, the transport sped off, taking her from the isolated shuttle platform off toward the city. This planet never ceased to surprise her with its beauty, with the scenery that flew past out the window. There was so little vegetation, less even than the deserts she had visited on Earth, and no large bodies of water near the city. Having split her young life between the Congo and the coast of Kenya, the pure, dry heat was always the strangest thing about this place. But it was beautiful in its own way, a landscape cast in hues of red from rust to ruby to vermillion to sienna, the dying sunlight playing against it like a symphony of color.

When she reached the city, she scanned the groups of people on sidewalks, dark robes hanging at their ankles, hands tucked into sleeves, perfect posture and almost uniform steps. She recognized landmarks — the great temple she was so fond of, the Earth and Andorian embassies, side-by-side with their respective flags waving, the tall glass-walled building that held a science museum the likes of which Nyota had never seen before T’Pring had guided her through it, half-smiling every time Nyota fawned over some relic of Vulcan’s extensive scientific history.

Nyota grinned to herself, leg bouncing, waiting, until finally the transport slowed to a stop outside one of the largest buildings in the city, a towering monolith of dark glass that seemed to absorb the light of the powerful sun rather than reflect it. She clambered out of the transport, leaving her bag inside and commanding the vehicle to stay, and took an unsatisfying breath of thin air before making her way inside.

She had only visited the VSA twice, but she recognized it as entirely unchanged the moment she stepped in. A large round desk in the center boasted a few information consoles and one tired-looking Vulcan receptionist, and somber-faced scientists moved slowly through the grand, arching foyer. The surrounding floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glimpse of the ShiKhar street, but Nyota moved forward instead of looking back.

As she approached the desk, the Vulcan receptionist seemed to straighten. “Nyota Uhura,” he said, and Nyota jumped a little, her posture straightening out of diplomatic reflex. But Vulcans had eidetic memories — T’Pring had once been very clear about that — and she should not have been surprised. If only she could remember this young man’s name.

“Ah, hello,” she said, fumbling. “ Dif-tor heh smusma .”

He raised his chin slightly, though not in distaste or judgment. “ Sochya eh dif ,” he said, unruffled and uninterested. “You are not in the company of T’Pring.”

“No,” she confirmed, looking around as if T’Pring might materialize out of necessity. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Can you tell me where to find her?”

He sniffed slightly, but turned to his computer and began tapping something into the screen. Nyota was grateful that he remembered her, or this whole “going to the VSA to surprise T’Pring” idea would have been much harder to execute.

“Floor eighteen,” he said after a moment. “If she is expecting you, I may call her down.”

“No,” Nyota said, maybe too quickly. “No, thank you, I would like to go up, if I may.”

He seemed dubious, but nodded after a moment. “Of course,” he finally said, and Nyota sighed.

“ Nemaiyo ,” she said, then made her way to the turbolift without another word. There was a sense of urgency in her steps, something that she hoped the Vulcans around her didn’t notice or care about. She just knew that she had to find T’Pring, now. And though she couldn’t be sure T’Pring would accept her, accept this offer, this gift, she wanted to believe it.

After all this time, she hadn’t learned not to hope. She thought with a kind of nervous half smile that she had learned a lot from T’Pring, but this particular lesson had never sunk in. Maybe that was for the best.

In the lift, she stood beside three stoic Vulcans, each immeasurably old by her standards, giving her side-eyed glances as though they didn’t trust her, or as though her excitement were distractingly obvious. She resisted the urge to give them an awkward smile (which would have been socially expected on Earth, but would certainly be frowned upon here) and kept her eyes forward, her thoughts forward, waiting for the moment the doors slid open.

When they did, she slipped out before they’d even had a chance to open the whole way. The windows now overlooked the whole of the city and the surrounding desert, and as Nyota moved past she saw the massive rocks of the Forge off in the distance. The room was flooded with light, hot and hard to breathe, but she hardly noticed, eyes on the tall glass doors at the end of the hallway where a small plaque read in Vulcan, “Medical Sciences.”

Smiling, she strode through the doors as they opened for her, and she looked around the room that lay ahead. It was a large, echoing chamber, with high ceilings and a whole host of sectioned-off units. Some were small, denoting a single-person workspace. Others bustled with multiple scientists, speaking in hushed tones to each other. On the far end of the room, where the main lab seemed to be, many Vulcans moved in and around each other, carrying PADDs and petri dishes, leaning over microscopes or watching data scroll past on the large screens set up against the far wall. The room rang with the sound of the Vulcan language, bouncing off the walls and windows, layering upon itself so that none of it was recognizable, but all of it carried the beauty that had made Nyota fall in love with it in the first place. It felt like she’d walked into a waterfall, and she let it soak her.

But her objective was not forgotten. There were perhaps a hundred or more Vulcans in this room, but Nyota thought with a small smile that she could find T’Pring blind if she had to. So she made her way down the steps into the pit of the room and followed what felt like breadcrumbs, a trail of their connection, a mental link that — now that she knew it was there and knew it could be so much more — gave her a sense of serenity and comfort.

Slipping past cubicles and workstations, dodging fast-moving Vulcans and their fragile equipment, Nyota swung her head around, peeking past partitions as if she were an old radar beam, scanning, scanning until—

Until there she was, T’Pring, standing in the yellow light of the tall windows, a PADD in her hands that seemed to have her full attention. A Vulcan was standing beside her, a man with a large nose and a shock of dark hair, sharp eyes. He seemed to be attempting to speak to her, but she held up a hand to stop him. She was resplendent, dark robes, sleeves rolled up inelegantly as though she’d been working on something and forgot to roll them back down, a lock of hair flying out of her elaborate braids and clips, resting across her forehead.

Nyota didn’t realize she’d stopped moving, or that she had been staring far too long, until someone brushed past her, giving her a look that, in Vulcan terms, could have been venomous. “Are you supposed to be here?” The Vulcan asked, their eyebrow rising into their hair in a gesture that felt familiar after all these years knowing T’Pring and Spock. Nyota opened her mouth to respond, but a clatter drew her attention back to the main lab, where T’Pring was standing with empty hands and a PADD at her feet.

“Nyota?” T’Pring asked, so quiet she could barely hear it over the bustle, and Nyota forgot all about the Vulcan beside her. Her feet carried her forward without her will or intention, as though there were a magnet between them. It was so illogical to ask, wasn’t it? To speak Nyota’s name with a question when all the evidence suggested it was her, and she was here? But Nyota wasn’t going to judge T’Pring her disbelief. She’d felt the same all those years ago, when T’Pring had wandered into the SAIL clubroom. T’Pring had reached out to her then, and though Nyota felt as though she’d been the one reaching out to T’Pring all this time, maybe it took this — meeting her where she was — to truly convey what she wanted to say.

“T’Pring,” the Vulcan who had been speaking to T’Pring said sharply. “Who is this?”

But T’pring was moving toward Nyota, too, with wide eyes, and when finally they met in the center of the room, she looked as though it took everything in her power not to touch her.

Nyota restrained herself, too.

“T’Pring,” she said, “I’m — I’m sorry I didn’t know what to say to you, and it took me so long to figure it out. But I know now. I haven’t stopped thinking of this, of you, and I know we can make this work. I’m scared, too, but we can be scared. I just want us to be scared together. You said you couldn’t ask me to bond with you, but you don’t have to ask. I’m yours, if you’ll have me. If you want me.”

T’Pring’s breath seemed to fill her lungs in preparation, and Nyota smiled. She couldn’t help it, though a whole room of Vulcans had their eyes on her. On them. If T’Pring accepted what she had to say, this would be her first defiance of Vulcan society. She supposed it was fitting they should have an audience.

“I should have told you before, but, T’Pring, I love you,” Nyota finally said. “ Ashau nash-veh tu, nakupenda , wo ai ni , and I’ll say it in a thousand more languages if you want. Just as long as you understand me. I’m willing to try this. I want to try this. I fell in love with you when I was fourteen years old and I swear,” she laughed, something nervous rising up in her. “ Taluhk nash-veh k'dular. I always have.”

T’Pring stared at her for a moment, a silence echoing around them. This time, Nyota thought she finally knew how to translate it.

A light appeared in T’Pring’s eyes and her lips lifted in one of those rare and beautiful half smiles, and Nyota didn’t know what she expected to hear, but she certainly did not expect any action. T’Pring took a conscious step forward ‘til she stood near-against Nyota’s body, found Nyota’s hand and pressed her fingers in the ozh'esta.

Nyota felt T’Pring’s breath, so focused on the contact of their fingers and the look in T’Pring’s eyes that she barely registered the sudden murmur of the Vulcans around them. Through the touch, she felt a wave of wanting without restraint, and a sense of joy that overshadowed what fear remained in her. Nyota met her eyes, feeling tears stinging her own.

“Nyota,” T’Pring said, “you would still be mine?” There was something so uncertain in her voice, as if she couldn’t quite believe it, in spite of the evidence in Nyota’s presence. So Nyota laughed, raising a hand to T’Pring’s cheek.

“I’ve always been yours, T’Pring,” Nyota said, sincerity weighing down her words. She felt the judgement of the room settling over them, heard the indistinguishable whispers, but before Nyota could suggest they take this somewhere else lest they further offend, T’Pring raised her other hand to Nyota’s cheek and guided her forward, meeting her lips in a kiss that felt as tender and innocent as their first, though no longer hesitant. Never hesitant again.

The room grew loud all at once, and on the outskirts of her mind Nyota heard someone shout “inappropriate” and multiple people speak T’Pring’s name in various tones of Vulcan outrage, but she hardly heard them. Instead, she absorbed herself in the simple comfort of this kiss — the familiarity of T’Pring’s lips and the surety that nothing mattered so much as this.

Love was worth any risk.

“I am unused to succumbing to public displays of emotion,” T’Pring said softly, and Nyota watched a hint of green spread over her cheeks. “It is likely my superiors will submit a formal complaint.”

Together in the garden outside the Vulcan Science Academy, they were tucked into the shade of a towering hedge, the sound of a fountain nearby providing the impression of cool water without any of the relief. It was very hot, but Nyota could not move from T’Pring’s side. She sat, as she had so many years ago, beside her on a bench, eyes unable to tear themselves from the simple elegance of her profile. T’Pring stared forward, breath steady, her hand warm on Nyota’s thigh.

“I’m sorry,” Nyota said, though her heart still managed to beat like a drumline at the thought of T’Pring’s kiss, in full view of her entire department, a claim and a promise and so much more.

“You needn’t apologize,” T’Pring said, finally looking to her. “You have returned to me. After I have done nothing but push you away. In fact, I must apologize. For my fear. I find now that the thought of a formal reprimand does not scare me as it once did.”

Nyota squeezed her hand gently, glancing around as she did to ensure they were alone. According to T’Pring, the botanists were working on samples in the greenhouses, so they were safe here. As safe as they could be anywhere. It was likely T’Pring would soon lose her job, her standing, at least once she officially broke her engagement with Spock, but those were worries for another day.

“You know,” Nyota said, “you don’t have to apologize for being afraid. It took me a long time to understand, but I think I do now. The pressure you’re under — no one can hope to endure that.”

“At least,” T’Pring offered, “no one can hope to endure it alone. I believe I am willing to face this fear with you at my side.”

Heart swelling, Nyota ducked her head, attempting to hide her smile. Somehow, this moment felt more honest than it ever had between them. All their walls were down, and they had no more secrets. Not between them, and not hidden from others.

“And we’ll have help,” Nyota said. “My friends on the Enterprise , Spock … and I don’t know if you noticed but I am the best communication’s officer in the fleet. If we need to talk to a Vulcan council or — or your family, I’m willing to lend my skills to the cause.” She punctuated this with a smile, partly to ease her own worries and partly to ease T’Pring’s.

It looked to work. T’Pring’s lips lifted. “You are—” she paused, let out a little breath, and tightened her own grip on Nyota’s hand. She didn’t need to go on. Though Nyota had wanted T’Pring to make the same kind of daring confession of love Nyota had thrown at her, she realized as T’Pring pulled her in once again, lips brushing so softly against her own, that this was it. And she knew exactly what T’Pring meant.

That was the beauty of language. Sometimes it did not even need to be spoken to be understood.