Mirror, Transfer (part 3)
Mirror My Malady, Transfer My Tragedy
Star Trek XI
NC-17/ ~25,000 words
Hikaru Sulu/Nyota Uhura, Hikaru Sulu/ Jim Kirk, Implied Nyota Uhura/ Spock
Warnings for explicit heterosexual sex and partially explicit slash, pegging, character death, angst, and an instance of drag/crossdressing. Also, retrofitted Chuck Norris jokes and moments that dip to 'romantic comedy', and no, not in that way.
Title blatantly stolen from TV on the Radio’s Wolf Like Me
Part 3
While he's packing, Hikaru finds an old picture, ink on glossy paper, Polaroid-style. The novelty of the printed picture had been quaint when it was taken, now it's just another thing that shows its age.
The picture is of the three of them, squished together in the corner of a couch during a themed drag party at the officer's club downtown. Gaila and Nyota looked like mob bosses from 20th century organized crime movies, tight pinstripe suits flashing cleavage and hair styles that tuck long waves into short updos, locks hanging under fedoras. Hikaru had been standing between them with his arms slung around their shoulders. He’d went as Marilyn Monroe, platinum blond wig and funny little mole, billowing white dress and replicated fur, crimson lipstick and fake breasts.
He remembers this night, how they'd spent so much time shopping for a gown and coaching him until he could get the caricature just right. There was his still-horrible Norma Jean impression, endlessly breathy falsetto renditions of 'I Wanna Be Loved By You' only made worse by wine, beer, and shots of sparkling Sambucca that had been bought for him by several potential suitors at the bar. Everyone wanted to see Marilyn get trashed.
He realized halfway through the night and after his third round of gin that it might have been smarter to dress as Audrey Hepburn.
When he finds the dress hanging in the back of his closet, Hikaru remembers that night’s drunken stagger on the way back to his loft. He remembers Nyota using all of her strength to hold him up on one side, Gaila on the other.
The fabricated silk still is soft and conditioned, the sensation a comfort and a memento of a night with friends he'll never see again. The thought is bitter, painful.
A pang of guilt cuts through him; it was so easy for the three of them to turn into good friends before, and now every memory has an echo of loss, the most stable pillar someone he'll never see again. There's still a good chance Nyota's staying in San Francisco, and while he's going to have new interactions with Jim and Bones, or Pavel and Scotty, he’ll never have the kind of adventures San Francisco brought ever again.
His time with Nyota and Gaila will always be particularly different. It will be known for its tight shirts and high heels, sharp suits and careless laughter. It’ll compose itself in the times he's posed as a boy Friday to get them out of situations filled with morons of all genders, and the overwhelming happiness of having schedules line up for the first time in weeks. He'd been the fellow TA who Nyota could sit with over lunch, bitching about students endlessly. He’d been the gentleman that walked Gaila back to the dorms after midnight, joking with her about being another easily manipulated man ready to do whatever she asked.
His other friends had warned him of the rumors about Orion women and their pheromones. They had joked that he was joining the hunt for Uhura’s affections to his own eventual demise. As much as he loved and appreciated the time spent with his other friends, people who shared histories with him and passed in and out of his life like people stepping onto a dance floor or competition mat, he’s seen memories of his escapades with Galia and Nyota like they’re scars, battle wounds of rumor mills and gossip tables.
Their differences had brought them together and kept them there.
It was far from thankless work. There was always the sense of walking out of a club knowing everyone was watching the asshole who seduced the two hottest girls at the bar, and the stunned silence that would happen whenever the three of them entered a room. Uhura had been a gracious date during times when Hikaru’s current conquests had crashed and burned and he’d been petty enough to want them seething with jealousy, and days when Galia had extracted him from his studies under the guise of teaching him dances from her childhood, trying to divorce painful memories from ones she needed, the two of them deducing who she was and who she could be from them. There had been the times Gaila cooked for him while he was sick, and times Nyota tried to learn fencing so he could get his instructor certification. Those instances were swollen over with pride, as central to his years at Starfleet as his career or the lovers he'd taken.
He wishes he had a picture of how they'd looked the morning after that particular drag ball, stripped down to underwear and piled into his bed. The picture would have been a downright scandal at the time, proof of rumors that he’d been constantly maintaining a rather clandestine triad. Clothes had been messily abandoned along the floor up to the bed, glasses of water left full thanks to half-hearted attempts to sober up, drunkenly chaste kisses and bodies wrapped into each other in hopes of siphoning warmth.
He aches for the memories of that particular morning, of being so hung over that he’d woken up convinced he’d become a girl thanks to those sadistic stick-on breasts. He remembers the sun flooding his loft, Gaila's slim fingers spread over his chest and the curve of Nyota’s back while she was turned away, curled up into herself in sleep. He had imagined the warmth of her skin that morning, his eyes focused on the clasp of her bra, and pictured the worried glance she'd give when he invited her back in, singing warmly in her ear.
He's always wished that he had reached out to Nyota, then. He’s always regretted the fact that he didn’t curl his hand around her shoulder or nudge her awake.
The picture ends up in the bottom of his bag, the dress in a box at the bottom of Megumi's closet. It's better off that way.
In retrospect, he missed his golden opportunity that morning. He notes the realization bitterly, and then locks it away.
The shipyard is always an uncomfortable experience, high-priority documents being beamed from PADD to PADD, personal identification codes being whispered in every ear, clearances getting checked and shifts being battled over. When he finally gets a projected ship roster, she's not on it.
However, she is standing by a shuttle, arms crossed like she’s sizing the ramp up.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says.
"Sulu," she says, looking serious.
"Here to see me off?" he asks lightly.
"What do you think?"
He bites his lip, turning the possibility over in his mind and arrives at the same answer he's been getting every time he thinks about it. "I think the Academy will love you."
"I'm sure they would." The curve of her lips tell him how wrong he is. He takes a minute, brushes aside the curt burn of the statement, how patronizing it is, and realizes he’s been wrong about her, again. She beams, "I picked the Enterprise."
His mouth hangs open for a second in wonder before he realizes she isn’t yanking his chain. "Really? No worries about what happened at Vulcan or missing tenure at the Academy or wanting to be one of those people who don't know how close they came to annihilation?"
She raises a finger, glaring at him. The gesture is so well practiced between them that he smiles and falls silent. It brings back memories of absolute happiness, lunches and after dinner drinks, Gaila's red hair spilling over Uhura's back as she rests her head on Nyota's shoulder in the back of a booth. His heart might just be caught in his throat, even though he wouldn’t ever admit it.
"I worry about all of those things, and I don't need to be reminded of them," she says, prim. "Tenure will be there when we get back; it won’t go anywhere the Enterprise is built to go, and I figure I could do with some time off the ground.”
He can hear the relief in his own voice. “I’m glad you’re coming, then. You’ve never been the kind to sit an adventure out.”
“I also decided I'll tell Spock about what happened in Portland. If he comes back. I owe it to him," She says.
"He's going to kill me, isn't he?" Hikaru asks. So much for all that space exploration and assorted bad-assery he's been fantasizing about. He should figure out who gets the sword when he dies, anyway.
"You're the helmsman. You pilot his ship. Killing you would be illogical," she deadpans. She looks down the shipyard row, at crates being packed and people milling like a marketplace. "Besides, he knows of your affinity for swords."
"You gonna start with the pirate shit again?"
"I mean, we xenolinguists are walking PR mills. With the help of a few well-placed rumors, you know," She smiles, leaning in closer. "That Sulu kid? I heard he carries this old knife he won in a bare-knuckle boxing match and that the last person who quoted protocol to him about it lost his tongue."
"Could you not?" he asks. "And besides, why would I win the knife in a bare-knuckle boxing match? Isn’t the point of anything bare-knuckle to be free of weapons?"
"Nobody would try crossing a man that badass, that’s the point. It’s just an open and standing offer," she says quietly. The banter’s amusing and comforting and proof that everything will work out in the end.
"It's good to have an offer like that out on the table. It’s just a bit premature," he says, simply. She looks at him and laughs. "It's probably a bad idea to turn me into Chuck Norris within the first year. Starfleet would still care, in the first year."
"I hadn't thought about that, actually," she says. "It's a good idea. 'Hikaru Sulu destroyed the periodic table because he only recognizes the element of surprise' sounds a lot like you."
"I do not only recognize the element of surprise. I'm fond of beryllium, too," he says.
She laughs at him, looking down at her shoes. "Why do I even bother to put up with you?"
"You know it's because you absolutely adore my sense of humor."
“I’ll miss it,” she says.
“It?” he asks.
“San Francisco. Earth,” she shrugs. “That coffee house down on Columbus, that lingerie shop on Watson, the bridge.”
“It’s going to be hard, sweetheart. I’ll miss it, too.”
The nickname fits well; Gaila had always been fond of the word.
She stops smiling, and takes a shaky breath. "Hikaru."
"Yes?"
She bites at her lip and looks away from him uncomfortably, shifting her weight. "Say my name like that again. Like you did in Oregon? Like you meant it?"
He looks up at her, studying the concern on her face. The uniform she's wearing is brilliant red as it catches the sunlight. He wants to touch her, ground her in something other than herself, even if it's bad form in the middle of the shipyard.
"Sometimes we do things because we know we're vulnerable," she continues, picking at a nail, the black polish peeling at the corners, " I need to be sure of something, anything right now."
He leans down, conspiratorially close, pressing his forehead to hers. He knows what he's asking her for. "Nyota."
She's more relaxed than she'd been in the days since Vulcan, biting at her lip and trying not to reach up and kiss him right there. She stands, arms framing his shoulders as he slides his hands around her waist, and grins. The allowance of touch is a thank you, more sincere than words would be able to describe. Perhaps she’s found some kind of freedom in the scope of this decision. Her fingers trace the grooves of his shoulder blades through his uniform, sliding down his arms as she slips out of his grasp. It breaks his heart to feel how the connection of her fingertips on his separates.
The moment ruptures down the middle with his unending curiosity.
“Wait, there’s a lingerie shop on Watson?!”
Her smile is breathtaking. “As far as I’m aware, you can’t really be called a bodice ripper unless you have a bodice to rip. I think I found one you’ll like, if you ever get to see it.”
There go those completely unbecoming noises again. “You know I’m flying your ship, right? It’s a bad idea to give me a heart attack before we even start.”
"I'll see you, Hikaru," she smiles, and he watches as she walks away.
He doesn't move until he's registered that she's walked in the direction of the Starfleet shuttle to the station, not the direction of the Academy dorms.
Huh. Wow.
Spock returns to the ship, and Hikaru can almost feel Nyota's relaxation as she takes her post the first time, sitting at her station. In the corner of his eye, he can see her turning, watching him and Spock at their stations, and while he can’t hear her wistful sigh, he knows it’s there. He's happy for her, wouldn't dare be anything else; he's always found Nyota's happiness to be palpable, contagious.
After that, the first week on the Enterprise without the grasp of crisis is a lot like the first few days of any school year in the Academy. There's the delirious stagger from nights of drinking alcohol that's been smuggled on board and conversations of mechanics and shift schedules, the smell of artificial citrus cleaner and the shine of glossy white fixtures everywhere, too-blue light reflecting off the corners of every room.
His bed still feels alien. His quarters are too quiet. The polymer on the walls is too slick, too new under his fingertips. He doesn't know what to do with himself.
It's like he's been given a brand new toy and finds just enough to be afraid about, wondering what the first few scuffs and the first chips of paint will say of his character.
The picture of Galia, Nyota and him at the drag party sits next to a picture of his family on vacation in Kyoto and a picture of his Academy fencing team, taped crudely in a row at the bottom of the mirror in his side of the bathroom he shares with Pavel.
Sometimes, when he dreams of uncontrolled falling and the crunch of broken alloy, he gets up and walks into the bathroom. He can’t help but stare at the pictures, and goes back to sleep comforted by the presence of those memories.
Three weeks into the mission Jim comes to him, seeking some place to step out of his duties for a while. Hikaru decides it's a good time to inform him of what happened in Portland.
He plays it simple, even if he is a bit cruel. He directs Jim to disrobe and kneel on the bed, makes Jim cite codes of conduct and fraternization policies before he even touches him, an impromptu interrogation. He tells Jim to clasp his hands together behind his back before shoving him backward, finding Jim's already prepared himself, loose and wet. He fucks Kirk with two fingers, makes him recite regs again, interrupting with murmurs and whispers of what he's done, how he's fucked Nyota filthy-slow and pulled the most gorgeous noises from her, how good she tastes.
He understands Jim's affinity for anything as commanding as Nyota Uhura, so he's put some thought into this, made sure to only describe in sensation and allow for no question about history. He gives snippets of information designed to push Jim's buttons, half-lies that are accompanied by just the right stimulation. He does not divulge anything that would reveal the adoration he has for Nyota, or the intimacy that existed in the spaces of dance clubs, restaurants, backyards and bathrooms. Jim sucks the information up like a sponge, not moving until Hikaru makes him.
When Hikaru finally thrusts in to the hilt, he whispers, "Perhaps if we ask her nicely, she'll let you lick her boots next time I fuck her."
Jim's reaction is perfect, writhing and angry-aware, bucking up into every stroke. Hikaru fucks him hard with his hands holding onto Jim’s wrists like reigns while Jim’s trying to hold onto the visual. Hikaru is thankful for this, thankful for the reestablished contact when space's solitude has rocked them all to a lull, teeth bared and sunken into the flesh of Jim’s shoulder, holding him in place.
He's also thankful for the chance to divide the things he got from the sex and separate them away from the things he got from simply being around Uhura, seeing her baby those dogs and eat burgers and sit in wet grass, writing notes by hand. He doesn't have to describe the tears that fell down her cheeks silently at the mention of Vulcan, or the fact that they've been around each other enough that she knows how he takes his coffee. These are things Jim does not need to hear, and these are things Hikaru’s glad he does not have to reveal.
Jim comes like a gunshot without any touch or permission, his moans becoming more urgent and his body shaking with need. Hikaru’s not sure if any sort of punishment would be able to fit such a gorgeous crime. Instead, he simply adds salt to the wound, pushing Jim down, riding him hard. He teases Kirk about coming so soon, and jokes about all the things he knows Kirk will have to endure before he could ever consider getting Nyota for himself.
Hikaru comes thinking about his captain and one of his best friends in bed together, the vision of skin on skin and the pleasure of watching Kirk get completely stripped of all his control. Nyota would enrapture Jim brilliantly, bark out orders and present no room for them to be disobeyed, tell him how much he lacked control when he was around her and how that would never do.
In the afterglow, Jim sees the picture in Hikaru’s bathroom, and Hikaru catches him staring, brows furrowed. Jim asks him where they are after the trip to Portland and how Nyota's doing after losing Gaila, knowing they were close friends. Gaila and Jim ended callously, a fight over some words that did not take into account Gaila's heritage, among other things. Gaila had curled up and sobbed on Hikaru’s couch in sorrow for all of an afternoon before calling Jim Kirk the biggest asshole she'd ever met and starting to move on.
Hikaru carefully chooses the second question to answer, and offers that Nyota's doing the best she can. Jim nods, thankful.
There’s some ribbing about Hikaru being an excellent drag queen, Jim insisting he’s learned something strategically critical.
“You never know when you’re going to need a katana-wielding drag queen on the away team,” Jim shrugs.
“Just give me fair warning about it, okay? Shaving my legs is a bitch, and if I have to go out in one of those dresses…”
Jim grins, “I trust you’d clean up well enough on short notice. I'll gladly help if you need an extra pair of hands, if you want to consider that a fair trade. It’s the makeup I’d be worried about, personally. None of the women on this ship are loyal to wearing the kind of eyeshadow that’d match your uniform. It's a real pity, y'know. The gold would bring out your eyes."
This is easy, Hikaru thinks as he shoves Jim. Right when he plays it up in classic 'Jim Kirk' style, Hikaru pulls him back so they align mouth-to-mouth, passion and anticipation intertwined. As the joke tires and they separate to breathe, Jim says a few words about hoping that any sort of relationship with Uhura would not spill over to professional duties, or present a tense situation with Spock on the bridge. Hikaru simply rolls his eyes and shakes his head, reassuring his captain. While there have been hints in the past few weeks that Nyota would like to continue spending time with him behind closed doors, he’s not expecting anything. Besides, both of them are professionals and nothing’s going to change that anytime soon, unless Spock goes postal.
Kirk lets it drop, and slips into bed. "I heard something interesting yesterday about you, by the way."
Hikaru takes the bait, "Yeah?"
"That you destroyed the periodic table because the only thing you believe in is the element of surprise. Couple of guys in engineering, asking me about that sword fight on the drill," Jim shrugs, half hearted. "You might have to go down there and set them straight."
Hikaru laughs until his stomach starts to hurt and he almost runs out of air. He's glad Jim does not ask what's so funny; Hikaru hates lying in order to keep inside jokes private.
"I told Spock," Nyota says, one day over lunch.
Hikaru's brows furrow melodramatically. "Okay, tell it to me straight. How long have I got to live and who's piloting the ship after I die?"
She tisks. "It's not like that. I mean, he was perplexed and surprised at first but then he, well, you know."
She fumbles for words and ends up motioning all around her head. He knows Spock asked to meld and she gave him what he wanted. Logical and mutually beneficial, Hikaru thinks. He wonders what that must feel like, being taken so fully, wonders if it's like someone moving around inside your head and showing up in every memory.
"What happened after that?" he asks.
"He was still surprised, but not as perplexed, I guess. He was worried that I would have gone crazy alone, so he was thankful you had asked me to come along. He also said that he was detrimentally unaware of my friendship with you, and found what happened particularly curious given the traditional definitions of the word 'platonic.' Said something about how Vulcans are typically monogamous and heterosexual, but he understands that Terrans are not Vulcans. Something about being open to spontaneous sexual wiggle room and multiple interpretations of polyamory, blah blah blah.”
"What, you mean 'when in Rome?' Is he going to want a piece of 'hot, Sulu-related, bodice-ripping action' in hopes of better understanding what you see in me?"
She snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose and playing with the leftovers of her salad, "I wouldn't quite go that far. The likelihood of him seeking 'hot Sulu action' is pretty low, statistically, although I’d gladly pay the half of the salary I wasn’t going to pay you for swashbuckling to see the train wreck of you and Spock awkwardly reenacting an romance novel together.”
“Should I be flattered by that?” he asks. Spock’s pretty much Spock, and while Hikaru likes the guy enough, it’s hard to fathom seeing him naked. He also can’t imagine watching Spock fuck, has given it a bit of thought but seems to get doe-eyed and distracted imagining how Nyota’s gorgeous when she comes, shoved up against all of that Vulcan control.
It’s not like Hikaru hasn’t imagined seeing more of Nyota’s gorgeous and contorted body trapped in orgasm from far away as well as up close.
“Look, I think he's curious about this and finds it illogical to get angry because he and I never were exclusive. Chances are he'd feel much differently if you and I did not know each other and I'd just hauled you off the street or picked you up in a club. Or if there’d been history between Spock and I beyond kisses here and there."
"‘Kisses here and there,’ right. You know one day you’re going to have to be honest with me about him. It’s not like I’m the jealous type," he says, watching as she rolls her eyes. "Does this mean I'm your wingman, too? Because, you know, we both agreed we'd be shit at going on pulls. It’d be ‘every man for himself’ within twenty minutes."
"Well, when you’re right, you’re right, but wingmen can do other things, too," she insists. "We also don't have to call it that if you think it's an inaccurate description of our relationship."
"We have a relationship?" he asks. "I thought you didn't want to put a label on it."
"Indulge me, here" she says.
"Wingmen will do just fine," he grins.
"Spock suggested that I give you something as well," she says. "Let me see your hand."
He shrinks back a little, guarding it. "You're not going to stab me, are you?"
She snorts. "No, Hikaru, I'm not going to stab your hand. Besides, half the ship probably thinks you can't feel pain. Didn't you hear that Hikaru Sulu uses pepper sauce instead of face wash?"
"Didn't I tell you explicitly that I didn't want to be a meme?"
"Give me your hand already so I can tell Spock that I delivered his damn message," she says, taking it. She closes his pointer and forefinger together and he watches her two fingers stroke from the palm to his fingertips. It's the kind of caress that's barely there, simple and elegant and intimate in plain sight.
He smiles, knowing what it means even though he doesn't quite believe it and won't until he can run his fingers over the outline of her lips, fit his hands to the small of her back and kiss her the old fashioned way. Still, he's surprised, and tries to parse the depth of meaning in the movement for a second before pausing, realizing there's something even better he can do.
Remembering Portland, Hikaru returns the gesture without thinking, slipping his fingers over the long column of hers. He watches as the smile spreads over her face, and she curls her fingers to interlock around his, until it’s two fists twined together. Her thumb caresses at the back of his hand, and it feels like it always has: like them. This has history, shared misunderstandings and the pain of loss, fond memories constantly rehearsed and replayed. This has San Francisco, and Gaila’s grinning face, and it’s steady and comfortable and loving, even though Hikaru can already tell they’ll never use the word. Still, he holds on tight and can see in her eyes that she needs this as much as he does.
Her eyes sparkle with the promise of ‘later’, and he already knows after shift he’s going to be attempting to rebuild the intimacy of their shared time, piece by piece in the spaces still left bare in his quarters. Her free hand curls around the corner of his face, far more overt. He stares, lowering his mouth to slide a chaste kiss against her palm.
“Always such a smooth operator, Hikaru,” she teases.
“Learned from the best,” he replies.
It’s times like these that he understands the power of small gestures and what they say about the people who make them.
It’s one of the reasons he likes her so much: she understands this power, too.
It's been months since that instant in the canteen, but it feels like days.
The first time he casually curls his tongue around the proper Japanese pronunciation of a polite conjugation required for the translated phrase ‘I’ve been thinking of you’ in a video conversation with his grandmother, her eyes gleam. He can see how proud she is, sees it in her eyes as they threaten to brim with tears, and wishes he could grab her, hugging her close as he says it over and over again.
After he’s done, he curls his tongue around the same syllables in a message to Nyota, imagining fingers that curl into each other, settling into two fists intertwined and the evolution of what has come since the Academy. He smiles, remembering the time where lines and boundaries and disagreements were all they ever really knew of each other. He thinks of how it has given way to laundry left dirty in the curl of her smile.
Pavel’s eyes gleam as Hikaru passes him in the hall. He hears another absurd joke about his badassery in the officer’s commons after Beta Shift as Jim's eyes meet Hikaru's from across the room, shocking blue like lasers. He knows Kirk will be wanting, soon and is already three steps ahead, thinking of all the demerits that Jim's racked up since their last go-round. Jim indulges the newbies they picked up from the last space station in a story of one of their most ridiculous cases of crewmen being poisoned, carefully omitting details of Hikaru running around trying to save Nyota in the name of chivalry.
Half the ship thinks the main export of Hikaru Sulu is pain. It's been about six months, he figures everyone's just going along with it now.
He spars with Spock using old-fashioned epees. Spock's a gentleman about it, and a quick learner. He makes sure to cover the spots Hikaru would normally work to expose, pushes Hikaru to think while others are sloppy and are asking for their ass to be handed to them. Each yield is feral and yet respectful, reserved with heat of all kinds just below the surface.
Nyota’s waiting for him as he returns from the practice rooms, follows him into his quarters and sits off to the side as he undresses, waits as he showers. As he walks back into the room, he can see she's changed as well, her uniform replaced with a colorful robe as she drapes her uniform and boots off to the side.
She’s wearing that bodice from so long ago, he can see the line of it underneath her robe as he steps closer and smiles, fingers crawling around her waist as she undoes the belt and lets him see what she’s been hiding from him, teasing him with for so long.
The heat radiates off her body as she looks at him with lidded eyes and her chest heaves like she's begging him to free her from the garment's confinement. She searches his face and reaches up to capture his lips between hers. The kiss is so chaste it's inhuman and yet so hot it should be against the law. He pushes the fabric of her robe from her shoulders, pressing his mouth against her collarbone. She moans quietly at the contact, and the sound tears through him like electricity.
The room seems on the verge of running out of air.
“What’d I do to deserve this?” he asks.
She shrugs. “I figured it was time for me to start being particular with you.”
“I’m glad,” He says. He means to say 'I love you', but knows this goes beyond that, manifested between all these moments of expansion and contraction over the years. He can hear it in the cadence of his voice, careful and fragile, direct. He doesn't need the words, he never needed the words.
“I know,” she says, softly. He knows she's saying it, too.
He’s sort of glad they don’t even have to say it. It’s their style: words left unspoken and yet always known between them, languages encoded in eyes and hands, the small favors they do for one another.
Even though he's careful with the material, the bodice rips easily and reveals teases of skin just below her breasts. Her head falls backward, revealing her neck in offering as her nails dig into the crease of his back, intertwined with him against the wall.
When he touches her, she touches back.
That night, he dreams of Gaila curled up against him as they watch yet another idiotic romantic comedy from the 2090s, on the couch he’d had back in San Francisco. The popcorn they’re passing back and forth is stale on his tongue, a welcome punctuation on the memory. He likes to throw it at the TV whenever the hero gets absurdly sappy and his love interest gets gooey eyed.
“Do you ever wonder why you watch these with me?” She asks, suddenly.
“Well, mostly because it’s my apartment,” he says. “What are you getting at?"
She shakes her head, grinning lopsidedly at him. “Oh, come on, you know it’s something other than that. I think you like the idea of being one of these guys. Getting what you want in the end.”
“Life has never worked like that,” he says.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she says. “These stories wouldn’t be so popular and withstand so much time if they didn’t have some ounce of truth to them.”
“You know that’s incredibly naïve, right?” he asks.
“You’re such an annoyance sometimes,” she says, picking up popcorn and throwing it at him. “I think you’re so much of a romantic you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if the right person came your way. Sure, it wouldn’t be nearly as easy as these movies make it out to be, but I think everyone, after a while, wants to be the hero in their own love story, if these movies have any ring of truth to them.”
“You have watched far too many of these,” he points out. “Love’s far too dysfunctional to work like this, and we both know it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” she singsongs. “You know you’d be a big sap if everything worked out like it would in one of these movies and this happened to you, dysfunctional as it could be.”
On screen, the hero is finally getting the chance to kiss his love, after years of being apart. The orchestral soundtrack swells, the leaves sweep up around them, time stops as the camera dances around the pair. Hikaru looks on, not bitter but amused and maybe annoyed, but wistful over the prospect of something more gradual taking hold. Friends into lovers, lovers into something else. The thought is electrifying, brings a smile over his face.
“See,” she says, pointing at him. “You’re thinking about it right now, sweetheart. Admit it, everybody wants some kind of self-preservation and some kind of love, no matter how dysfunctional those things are.”
“When did you become so prolific?” he teases.
“Somewhere between ‘Pretty Woman’ and ‘Pirates 14, Stagnetti’s Ghost.'”
“You’re aware one of those isn’t actually romantic or a comedy, right?” he says.
“After a while they all start to blur together,” She says. “You Terrans are predictable.”
“How much porn have you been watching?” he asks, incredulously.
She shoves him in response, putting her head on his shoulder. "Just you watch. They'll align for you, Sulu. The stars align for everyone, once or twice."
The sweetness of the memory fades again into black, dotted with twisted metal and endless silence, ships breaking apart and lungs collapsing as they run out of air.
He startles awake.
Nyota’s lying next to him, locked up in his embrace as she sleeps. He stays still, watching the rhythmic movement of her breath as she rearranges herself next to him, revealing wrists still marked with the restraints they used tonight as well as fingernails he knows she didn’t paint herself. Her fingers are reaching out, two of them together as she curls down his bicep, Vulcan kisses everywhere like body worship the way he imagines Spock doing it. The touch is light and teasing, like she’s exploring another part of him in her sleep, even though he should be mind-numbingly familiar.
He knows he shouldn't like her touch like this, but it soothes him, leaves him peaceful. He'll argue with her for a lot of things, but he won't argue over a good night's sleep in her arms. His breath strives to match the rise and fall of her chest as he rests his forehead against hers.
Before he fades back into sleep, Hikaru wonders how the stars aligned for him like Gaila'd said. Or perhaps, as she'd told him those words about love, Gaila had known from experience that she was right.
He wishes he could tell her just how right she was.
Star Trek XI
NC-17/ ~25,000 words
Hikaru Sulu/Nyota Uhura, Hikaru Sulu/ Jim Kirk, Implied Nyota Uhura/ Spock
Warnings for explicit heterosexual sex and partially explicit slash, pegging, character death, angst, and an instance of drag/crossdressing. Also, retrofitted Chuck Norris jokes and moments that dip to 'romantic comedy', and no, not in that way.
Title blatantly stolen from TV on the Radio’s Wolf Like Me
Part 3
While he's packing, Hikaru finds an old picture, ink on glossy paper, Polaroid-style. The novelty of the printed picture had been quaint when it was taken, now it's just another thing that shows its age.
The picture is of the three of them, squished together in the corner of a couch during a themed drag party at the officer's club downtown. Gaila and Nyota looked like mob bosses from 20th century organized crime movies, tight pinstripe suits flashing cleavage and hair styles that tuck long waves into short updos, locks hanging under fedoras. Hikaru had been standing between them with his arms slung around their shoulders. He’d went as Marilyn Monroe, platinum blond wig and funny little mole, billowing white dress and replicated fur, crimson lipstick and fake breasts.
He remembers this night, how they'd spent so much time shopping for a gown and coaching him until he could get the caricature just right. There was his still-horrible Norma Jean impression, endlessly breathy falsetto renditions of 'I Wanna Be Loved By You' only made worse by wine, beer, and shots of sparkling Sambucca that had been bought for him by several potential suitors at the bar. Everyone wanted to see Marilyn get trashed.
He realized halfway through the night and after his third round of gin that it might have been smarter to dress as Audrey Hepburn.
When he finds the dress hanging in the back of his closet, Hikaru remembers that night’s drunken stagger on the way back to his loft. He remembers Nyota using all of her strength to hold him up on one side, Gaila on the other.
The fabricated silk still is soft and conditioned, the sensation a comfort and a memento of a night with friends he'll never see again. The thought is bitter, painful.
A pang of guilt cuts through him; it was so easy for the three of them to turn into good friends before, and now every memory has an echo of loss, the most stable pillar someone he'll never see again. There's still a good chance Nyota's staying in San Francisco, and while he's going to have new interactions with Jim and Bones, or Pavel and Scotty, he’ll never have the kind of adventures San Francisco brought ever again.
His time with Nyota and Gaila will always be particularly different. It will be known for its tight shirts and high heels, sharp suits and careless laughter. It’ll compose itself in the times he's posed as a boy Friday to get them out of situations filled with morons of all genders, and the overwhelming happiness of having schedules line up for the first time in weeks. He'd been the fellow TA who Nyota could sit with over lunch, bitching about students endlessly. He’d been the gentleman that walked Gaila back to the dorms after midnight, joking with her about being another easily manipulated man ready to do whatever she asked.
His other friends had warned him of the rumors about Orion women and their pheromones. They had joked that he was joining the hunt for Uhura’s affections to his own eventual demise. As much as he loved and appreciated the time spent with his other friends, people who shared histories with him and passed in and out of his life like people stepping onto a dance floor or competition mat, he’s seen memories of his escapades with Galia and Nyota like they’re scars, battle wounds of rumor mills and gossip tables.
Their differences had brought them together and kept them there.
It was far from thankless work. There was always the sense of walking out of a club knowing everyone was watching the asshole who seduced the two hottest girls at the bar, and the stunned silence that would happen whenever the three of them entered a room. Uhura had been a gracious date during times when Hikaru’s current conquests had crashed and burned and he’d been petty enough to want them seething with jealousy, and days when Galia had extracted him from his studies under the guise of teaching him dances from her childhood, trying to divorce painful memories from ones she needed, the two of them deducing who she was and who she could be from them. There had been the times Gaila cooked for him while he was sick, and times Nyota tried to learn fencing so he could get his instructor certification. Those instances were swollen over with pride, as central to his years at Starfleet as his career or the lovers he'd taken.
He wishes he had a picture of how they'd looked the morning after that particular drag ball, stripped down to underwear and piled into his bed. The picture would have been a downright scandal at the time, proof of rumors that he’d been constantly maintaining a rather clandestine triad. Clothes had been messily abandoned along the floor up to the bed, glasses of water left full thanks to half-hearted attempts to sober up, drunkenly chaste kisses and bodies wrapped into each other in hopes of siphoning warmth.
He aches for the memories of that particular morning, of being so hung over that he’d woken up convinced he’d become a girl thanks to those sadistic stick-on breasts. He remembers the sun flooding his loft, Gaila's slim fingers spread over his chest and the curve of Nyota’s back while she was turned away, curled up into herself in sleep. He had imagined the warmth of her skin that morning, his eyes focused on the clasp of her bra, and pictured the worried glance she'd give when he invited her back in, singing warmly in her ear.
He's always wished that he had reached out to Nyota, then. He’s always regretted the fact that he didn’t curl his hand around her shoulder or nudge her awake.
The picture ends up in the bottom of his bag, the dress in a box at the bottom of Megumi's closet. It's better off that way.
In retrospect, he missed his golden opportunity that morning. He notes the realization bitterly, and then locks it away.
The shipyard is always an uncomfortable experience, high-priority documents being beamed from PADD to PADD, personal identification codes being whispered in every ear, clearances getting checked and shifts being battled over. When he finally gets a projected ship roster, she's not on it.
However, she is standing by a shuttle, arms crossed like she’s sizing the ramp up.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says.
"Sulu," she says, looking serious.
"Here to see me off?" he asks lightly.
"What do you think?"
He bites his lip, turning the possibility over in his mind and arrives at the same answer he's been getting every time he thinks about it. "I think the Academy will love you."
"I'm sure they would." The curve of her lips tell him how wrong he is. He takes a minute, brushes aside the curt burn of the statement, how patronizing it is, and realizes he’s been wrong about her, again. She beams, "I picked the Enterprise."
His mouth hangs open for a second in wonder before he realizes she isn’t yanking his chain. "Really? No worries about what happened at Vulcan or missing tenure at the Academy or wanting to be one of those people who don't know how close they came to annihilation?"
She raises a finger, glaring at him. The gesture is so well practiced between them that he smiles and falls silent. It brings back memories of absolute happiness, lunches and after dinner drinks, Gaila's red hair spilling over Uhura's back as she rests her head on Nyota's shoulder in the back of a booth. His heart might just be caught in his throat, even though he wouldn’t ever admit it.
"I worry about all of those things, and I don't need to be reminded of them," she says, prim. "Tenure will be there when we get back; it won’t go anywhere the Enterprise is built to go, and I figure I could do with some time off the ground.”
He can hear the relief in his own voice. “I’m glad you’re coming, then. You’ve never been the kind to sit an adventure out.”
“I also decided I'll tell Spock about what happened in Portland. If he comes back. I owe it to him," She says.
"He's going to kill me, isn't he?" Hikaru asks. So much for all that space exploration and assorted bad-assery he's been fantasizing about. He should figure out who gets the sword when he dies, anyway.
"You're the helmsman. You pilot his ship. Killing you would be illogical," she deadpans. She looks down the shipyard row, at crates being packed and people milling like a marketplace. "Besides, he knows of your affinity for swords."
"You gonna start with the pirate shit again?"
"I mean, we xenolinguists are walking PR mills. With the help of a few well-placed rumors, you know," She smiles, leaning in closer. "That Sulu kid? I heard he carries this old knife he won in a bare-knuckle boxing match and that the last person who quoted protocol to him about it lost his tongue."
"Could you not?" he asks. "And besides, why would I win the knife in a bare-knuckle boxing match? Isn’t the point of anything bare-knuckle to be free of weapons?"
"Nobody would try crossing a man that badass, that’s the point. It’s just an open and standing offer," she says quietly. The banter’s amusing and comforting and proof that everything will work out in the end.
"It's good to have an offer like that out on the table. It’s just a bit premature," he says, simply. She looks at him and laughs. "It's probably a bad idea to turn me into Chuck Norris within the first year. Starfleet would still care, in the first year."
"I hadn't thought about that, actually," she says. "It's a good idea. 'Hikaru Sulu destroyed the periodic table because he only recognizes the element of surprise' sounds a lot like you."
"I do not only recognize the element of surprise. I'm fond of beryllium, too," he says.
She laughs at him, looking down at her shoes. "Why do I even bother to put up with you?"
"You know it's because you absolutely adore my sense of humor."
“I’ll miss it,” she says.
“It?” he asks.
“San Francisco. Earth,” she shrugs. “That coffee house down on Columbus, that lingerie shop on Watson, the bridge.”
“It’s going to be hard, sweetheart. I’ll miss it, too.”
The nickname fits well; Gaila had always been fond of the word.
She stops smiling, and takes a shaky breath. "Hikaru."
"Yes?"
She bites at her lip and looks away from him uncomfortably, shifting her weight. "Say my name like that again. Like you did in Oregon? Like you meant it?"
He looks up at her, studying the concern on her face. The uniform she's wearing is brilliant red as it catches the sunlight. He wants to touch her, ground her in something other than herself, even if it's bad form in the middle of the shipyard.
"Sometimes we do things because we know we're vulnerable," she continues, picking at a nail, the black polish peeling at the corners, " I need to be sure of something, anything right now."
He leans down, conspiratorially close, pressing his forehead to hers. He knows what he's asking her for. "Nyota."
She's more relaxed than she'd been in the days since Vulcan, biting at her lip and trying not to reach up and kiss him right there. She stands, arms framing his shoulders as he slides his hands around her waist, and grins. The allowance of touch is a thank you, more sincere than words would be able to describe. Perhaps she’s found some kind of freedom in the scope of this decision. Her fingers trace the grooves of his shoulder blades through his uniform, sliding down his arms as she slips out of his grasp. It breaks his heart to feel how the connection of her fingertips on his separates.
The moment ruptures down the middle with his unending curiosity.
“Wait, there’s a lingerie shop on Watson?!”
Her smile is breathtaking. “As far as I’m aware, you can’t really be called a bodice ripper unless you have a bodice to rip. I think I found one you’ll like, if you ever get to see it.”
There go those completely unbecoming noises again. “You know I’m flying your ship, right? It’s a bad idea to give me a heart attack before we even start.”
"I'll see you, Hikaru," she smiles, and he watches as she walks away.
He doesn't move until he's registered that she's walked in the direction of the Starfleet shuttle to the station, not the direction of the Academy dorms.
Huh. Wow.
Spock returns to the ship, and Hikaru can almost feel Nyota's relaxation as she takes her post the first time, sitting at her station. In the corner of his eye, he can see her turning, watching him and Spock at their stations, and while he can’t hear her wistful sigh, he knows it’s there. He's happy for her, wouldn't dare be anything else; he's always found Nyota's happiness to be palpable, contagious.
After that, the first week on the Enterprise without the grasp of crisis is a lot like the first few days of any school year in the Academy. There's the delirious stagger from nights of drinking alcohol that's been smuggled on board and conversations of mechanics and shift schedules, the smell of artificial citrus cleaner and the shine of glossy white fixtures everywhere, too-blue light reflecting off the corners of every room.
His bed still feels alien. His quarters are too quiet. The polymer on the walls is too slick, too new under his fingertips. He doesn't know what to do with himself.
It's like he's been given a brand new toy and finds just enough to be afraid about, wondering what the first few scuffs and the first chips of paint will say of his character.
The picture of Galia, Nyota and him at the drag party sits next to a picture of his family on vacation in Kyoto and a picture of his Academy fencing team, taped crudely in a row at the bottom of the mirror in his side of the bathroom he shares with Pavel.
Sometimes, when he dreams of uncontrolled falling and the crunch of broken alloy, he gets up and walks into the bathroom. He can’t help but stare at the pictures, and goes back to sleep comforted by the presence of those memories.
Three weeks into the mission Jim comes to him, seeking some place to step out of his duties for a while. Hikaru decides it's a good time to inform him of what happened in Portland.
He plays it simple, even if he is a bit cruel. He directs Jim to disrobe and kneel on the bed, makes Jim cite codes of conduct and fraternization policies before he even touches him, an impromptu interrogation. He tells Jim to clasp his hands together behind his back before shoving him backward, finding Jim's already prepared himself, loose and wet. He fucks Kirk with two fingers, makes him recite regs again, interrupting with murmurs and whispers of what he's done, how he's fucked Nyota filthy-slow and pulled the most gorgeous noises from her, how good she tastes.
He understands Jim's affinity for anything as commanding as Nyota Uhura, so he's put some thought into this, made sure to only describe in sensation and allow for no question about history. He gives snippets of information designed to push Jim's buttons, half-lies that are accompanied by just the right stimulation. He does not divulge anything that would reveal the adoration he has for Nyota, or the intimacy that existed in the spaces of dance clubs, restaurants, backyards and bathrooms. Jim sucks the information up like a sponge, not moving until Hikaru makes him.
When Hikaru finally thrusts in to the hilt, he whispers, "Perhaps if we ask her nicely, she'll let you lick her boots next time I fuck her."
Jim's reaction is perfect, writhing and angry-aware, bucking up into every stroke. Hikaru fucks him hard with his hands holding onto Jim’s wrists like reigns while Jim’s trying to hold onto the visual. Hikaru is thankful for this, thankful for the reestablished contact when space's solitude has rocked them all to a lull, teeth bared and sunken into the flesh of Jim’s shoulder, holding him in place.
He's also thankful for the chance to divide the things he got from the sex and separate them away from the things he got from simply being around Uhura, seeing her baby those dogs and eat burgers and sit in wet grass, writing notes by hand. He doesn't have to describe the tears that fell down her cheeks silently at the mention of Vulcan, or the fact that they've been around each other enough that she knows how he takes his coffee. These are things Jim does not need to hear, and these are things Hikaru’s glad he does not have to reveal.
Jim comes like a gunshot without any touch or permission, his moans becoming more urgent and his body shaking with need. Hikaru’s not sure if any sort of punishment would be able to fit such a gorgeous crime. Instead, he simply adds salt to the wound, pushing Jim down, riding him hard. He teases Kirk about coming so soon, and jokes about all the things he knows Kirk will have to endure before he could ever consider getting Nyota for himself.
Hikaru comes thinking about his captain and one of his best friends in bed together, the vision of skin on skin and the pleasure of watching Kirk get completely stripped of all his control. Nyota would enrapture Jim brilliantly, bark out orders and present no room for them to be disobeyed, tell him how much he lacked control when he was around her and how that would never do.
In the afterglow, Jim sees the picture in Hikaru’s bathroom, and Hikaru catches him staring, brows furrowed. Jim asks him where they are after the trip to Portland and how Nyota's doing after losing Gaila, knowing they were close friends. Gaila and Jim ended callously, a fight over some words that did not take into account Gaila's heritage, among other things. Gaila had curled up and sobbed on Hikaru’s couch in sorrow for all of an afternoon before calling Jim Kirk the biggest asshole she'd ever met and starting to move on.
Hikaru carefully chooses the second question to answer, and offers that Nyota's doing the best she can. Jim nods, thankful.
There’s some ribbing about Hikaru being an excellent drag queen, Jim insisting he’s learned something strategically critical.
“You never know when you’re going to need a katana-wielding drag queen on the away team,” Jim shrugs.
“Just give me fair warning about it, okay? Shaving my legs is a bitch, and if I have to go out in one of those dresses…”
Jim grins, “I trust you’d clean up well enough on short notice. I'll gladly help if you need an extra pair of hands, if you want to consider that a fair trade. It’s the makeup I’d be worried about, personally. None of the women on this ship are loyal to wearing the kind of eyeshadow that’d match your uniform. It's a real pity, y'know. The gold would bring out your eyes."
This is easy, Hikaru thinks as he shoves Jim. Right when he plays it up in classic 'Jim Kirk' style, Hikaru pulls him back so they align mouth-to-mouth, passion and anticipation intertwined. As the joke tires and they separate to breathe, Jim says a few words about hoping that any sort of relationship with Uhura would not spill over to professional duties, or present a tense situation with Spock on the bridge. Hikaru simply rolls his eyes and shakes his head, reassuring his captain. While there have been hints in the past few weeks that Nyota would like to continue spending time with him behind closed doors, he’s not expecting anything. Besides, both of them are professionals and nothing’s going to change that anytime soon, unless Spock goes postal.
Kirk lets it drop, and slips into bed. "I heard something interesting yesterday about you, by the way."
Hikaru takes the bait, "Yeah?"
"That you destroyed the periodic table because the only thing you believe in is the element of surprise. Couple of guys in engineering, asking me about that sword fight on the drill," Jim shrugs, half hearted. "You might have to go down there and set them straight."
Hikaru laughs until his stomach starts to hurt and he almost runs out of air. He's glad Jim does not ask what's so funny; Hikaru hates lying in order to keep inside jokes private.
"I told Spock," Nyota says, one day over lunch.
Hikaru's brows furrow melodramatically. "Okay, tell it to me straight. How long have I got to live and who's piloting the ship after I die?"
She tisks. "It's not like that. I mean, he was perplexed and surprised at first but then he, well, you know."
She fumbles for words and ends up motioning all around her head. He knows Spock asked to meld and she gave him what he wanted. Logical and mutually beneficial, Hikaru thinks. He wonders what that must feel like, being taken so fully, wonders if it's like someone moving around inside your head and showing up in every memory.
"What happened after that?" he asks.
"He was still surprised, but not as perplexed, I guess. He was worried that I would have gone crazy alone, so he was thankful you had asked me to come along. He also said that he was detrimentally unaware of my friendship with you, and found what happened particularly curious given the traditional definitions of the word 'platonic.' Said something about how Vulcans are typically monogamous and heterosexual, but he understands that Terrans are not Vulcans. Something about being open to spontaneous sexual wiggle room and multiple interpretations of polyamory, blah blah blah.”
"What, you mean 'when in Rome?' Is he going to want a piece of 'hot, Sulu-related, bodice-ripping action' in hopes of better understanding what you see in me?"
She snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose and playing with the leftovers of her salad, "I wouldn't quite go that far. The likelihood of him seeking 'hot Sulu action' is pretty low, statistically, although I’d gladly pay the half of the salary I wasn’t going to pay you for swashbuckling to see the train wreck of you and Spock awkwardly reenacting an romance novel together.”
“Should I be flattered by that?” he asks. Spock’s pretty much Spock, and while Hikaru likes the guy enough, it’s hard to fathom seeing him naked. He also can’t imagine watching Spock fuck, has given it a bit of thought but seems to get doe-eyed and distracted imagining how Nyota’s gorgeous when she comes, shoved up against all of that Vulcan control.
It’s not like Hikaru hasn’t imagined seeing more of Nyota’s gorgeous and contorted body trapped in orgasm from far away as well as up close.
“Look, I think he's curious about this and finds it illogical to get angry because he and I never were exclusive. Chances are he'd feel much differently if you and I did not know each other and I'd just hauled you off the street or picked you up in a club. Or if there’d been history between Spock and I beyond kisses here and there."
"‘Kisses here and there,’ right. You know one day you’re going to have to be honest with me about him. It’s not like I’m the jealous type," he says, watching as she rolls her eyes. "Does this mean I'm your wingman, too? Because, you know, we both agreed we'd be shit at going on pulls. It’d be ‘every man for himself’ within twenty minutes."
"Well, when you’re right, you’re right, but wingmen can do other things, too," she insists. "We also don't have to call it that if you think it's an inaccurate description of our relationship."
"We have a relationship?" he asks. "I thought you didn't want to put a label on it."
"Indulge me, here" she says.
"Wingmen will do just fine," he grins.
"Spock suggested that I give you something as well," she says. "Let me see your hand."
He shrinks back a little, guarding it. "You're not going to stab me, are you?"
She snorts. "No, Hikaru, I'm not going to stab your hand. Besides, half the ship probably thinks you can't feel pain. Didn't you hear that Hikaru Sulu uses pepper sauce instead of face wash?"
"Didn't I tell you explicitly that I didn't want to be a meme?"
"Give me your hand already so I can tell Spock that I delivered his damn message," she says, taking it. She closes his pointer and forefinger together and he watches her two fingers stroke from the palm to his fingertips. It's the kind of caress that's barely there, simple and elegant and intimate in plain sight.
He smiles, knowing what it means even though he doesn't quite believe it and won't until he can run his fingers over the outline of her lips, fit his hands to the small of her back and kiss her the old fashioned way. Still, he's surprised, and tries to parse the depth of meaning in the movement for a second before pausing, realizing there's something even better he can do.
Remembering Portland, Hikaru returns the gesture without thinking, slipping his fingers over the long column of hers. He watches as the smile spreads over her face, and she curls her fingers to interlock around his, until it’s two fists twined together. Her thumb caresses at the back of his hand, and it feels like it always has: like them. This has history, shared misunderstandings and the pain of loss, fond memories constantly rehearsed and replayed. This has San Francisco, and Gaila’s grinning face, and it’s steady and comfortable and loving, even though Hikaru can already tell they’ll never use the word. Still, he holds on tight and can see in her eyes that she needs this as much as he does.
Her eyes sparkle with the promise of ‘later’, and he already knows after shift he’s going to be attempting to rebuild the intimacy of their shared time, piece by piece in the spaces still left bare in his quarters. Her free hand curls around the corner of his face, far more overt. He stares, lowering his mouth to slide a chaste kiss against her palm.
“Always such a smooth operator, Hikaru,” she teases.
“Learned from the best,” he replies.
It’s times like these that he understands the power of small gestures and what they say about the people who make them.
It’s one of the reasons he likes her so much: she understands this power, too.
It's been months since that instant in the canteen, but it feels like days.
The first time he casually curls his tongue around the proper Japanese pronunciation of a polite conjugation required for the translated phrase ‘I’ve been thinking of you’ in a video conversation with his grandmother, her eyes gleam. He can see how proud she is, sees it in her eyes as they threaten to brim with tears, and wishes he could grab her, hugging her close as he says it over and over again.
After he’s done, he curls his tongue around the same syllables in a message to Nyota, imagining fingers that curl into each other, settling into two fists intertwined and the evolution of what has come since the Academy. He smiles, remembering the time where lines and boundaries and disagreements were all they ever really knew of each other. He thinks of how it has given way to laundry left dirty in the curl of her smile.
Pavel’s eyes gleam as Hikaru passes him in the hall. He hears another absurd joke about his badassery in the officer’s commons after Beta Shift as Jim's eyes meet Hikaru's from across the room, shocking blue like lasers. He knows Kirk will be wanting, soon and is already three steps ahead, thinking of all the demerits that Jim's racked up since their last go-round. Jim indulges the newbies they picked up from the last space station in a story of one of their most ridiculous cases of crewmen being poisoned, carefully omitting details of Hikaru running around trying to save Nyota in the name of chivalry.
Half the ship thinks the main export of Hikaru Sulu is pain. It's been about six months, he figures everyone's just going along with it now.
He spars with Spock using old-fashioned epees. Spock's a gentleman about it, and a quick learner. He makes sure to cover the spots Hikaru would normally work to expose, pushes Hikaru to think while others are sloppy and are asking for their ass to be handed to them. Each yield is feral and yet respectful, reserved with heat of all kinds just below the surface.
Nyota’s waiting for him as he returns from the practice rooms, follows him into his quarters and sits off to the side as he undresses, waits as he showers. As he walks back into the room, he can see she's changed as well, her uniform replaced with a colorful robe as she drapes her uniform and boots off to the side.
She’s wearing that bodice from so long ago, he can see the line of it underneath her robe as he steps closer and smiles, fingers crawling around her waist as she undoes the belt and lets him see what she’s been hiding from him, teasing him with for so long.
The heat radiates off her body as she looks at him with lidded eyes and her chest heaves like she's begging him to free her from the garment's confinement. She searches his face and reaches up to capture his lips between hers. The kiss is so chaste it's inhuman and yet so hot it should be against the law. He pushes the fabric of her robe from her shoulders, pressing his mouth against her collarbone. She moans quietly at the contact, and the sound tears through him like electricity.
The room seems on the verge of running out of air.
“What’d I do to deserve this?” he asks.
She shrugs. “I figured it was time for me to start being particular with you.”
“I’m glad,” He says. He means to say 'I love you', but knows this goes beyond that, manifested between all these moments of expansion and contraction over the years. He can hear it in the cadence of his voice, careful and fragile, direct. He doesn't need the words, he never needed the words.
“I know,” she says, softly. He knows she's saying it, too.
He’s sort of glad they don’t even have to say it. It’s their style: words left unspoken and yet always known between them, languages encoded in eyes and hands, the small favors they do for one another.
Even though he's careful with the material, the bodice rips easily and reveals teases of skin just below her breasts. Her head falls backward, revealing her neck in offering as her nails dig into the crease of his back, intertwined with him against the wall.
When he touches her, she touches back.
That night, he dreams of Gaila curled up against him as they watch yet another idiotic romantic comedy from the 2090s, on the couch he’d had back in San Francisco. The popcorn they’re passing back and forth is stale on his tongue, a welcome punctuation on the memory. He likes to throw it at the TV whenever the hero gets absurdly sappy and his love interest gets gooey eyed.
“Do you ever wonder why you watch these with me?” She asks, suddenly.
“Well, mostly because it’s my apartment,” he says. “What are you getting at?"
She shakes her head, grinning lopsidedly at him. “Oh, come on, you know it’s something other than that. I think you like the idea of being one of these guys. Getting what you want in the end.”
“Life has never worked like that,” he says.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she says. “These stories wouldn’t be so popular and withstand so much time if they didn’t have some ounce of truth to them.”
“You know that’s incredibly naïve, right?” he asks.
“You’re such an annoyance sometimes,” she says, picking up popcorn and throwing it at him. “I think you’re so much of a romantic you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if the right person came your way. Sure, it wouldn’t be nearly as easy as these movies make it out to be, but I think everyone, after a while, wants to be the hero in their own love story, if these movies have any ring of truth to them.”
“You have watched far too many of these,” he points out. “Love’s far too dysfunctional to work like this, and we both know it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” she singsongs. “You know you’d be a big sap if everything worked out like it would in one of these movies and this happened to you, dysfunctional as it could be.”
On screen, the hero is finally getting the chance to kiss his love, after years of being apart. The orchestral soundtrack swells, the leaves sweep up around them, time stops as the camera dances around the pair. Hikaru looks on, not bitter but amused and maybe annoyed, but wistful over the prospect of something more gradual taking hold. Friends into lovers, lovers into something else. The thought is electrifying, brings a smile over his face.
“See,” she says, pointing at him. “You’re thinking about it right now, sweetheart. Admit it, everybody wants some kind of self-preservation and some kind of love, no matter how dysfunctional those things are.”
“When did you become so prolific?” he teases.
“Somewhere between ‘Pretty Woman’ and ‘Pirates 14, Stagnetti’s Ghost.'”
“You’re aware one of those isn’t actually romantic or a comedy, right?” he says.
“After a while they all start to blur together,” She says. “You Terrans are predictable.”
“How much porn have you been watching?” he asks, incredulously.
She shoves him in response, putting her head on his shoulder. "Just you watch. They'll align for you, Sulu. The stars align for everyone, once or twice."
The sweetness of the memory fades again into black, dotted with twisted metal and endless silence, ships breaking apart and lungs collapsing as they run out of air.
He startles awake.
Nyota’s lying next to him, locked up in his embrace as she sleeps. He stays still, watching the rhythmic movement of her breath as she rearranges herself next to him, revealing wrists still marked with the restraints they used tonight as well as fingernails he knows she didn’t paint herself. Her fingers are reaching out, two of them together as she curls down his bicep, Vulcan kisses everywhere like body worship the way he imagines Spock doing it. The touch is light and teasing, like she’s exploring another part of him in her sleep, even though he should be mind-numbingly familiar.
He knows he shouldn't like her touch like this, but it soothes him, leaves him peaceful. He'll argue with her for a lot of things, but he won't argue over a good night's sleep in her arms. His breath strives to match the rise and fall of her chest as he rests his forehead against hers.
Before he fades back into sleep, Hikaru wonders how the stars aligned for him like Gaila'd said. Or perhaps, as she'd told him those words about love, Gaila had known from experience that she was right.
He wishes he could tell her just how right she was.