Mirror, Transfer (part 2)

[hegemony]

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 2




He's on his third cup on coffee. He didn't realize the ground was so soggy before they put the blanket down and tried to sit on it in the backyard. It should be depressing, but he finds it comforting, a simple pleasure in a time where he's not sure how many of those he'll be getting after the next few days. She's writing translation in a worn composition notebook, her PADD next to her, her handwriting loopy and messy. He tries not to look and fails, sabotaging his own efforts under the guise of looking back at the house, or looking down at her hand.

One of the dogs comes over and curls up in the rounded negative space of his arm at his side, and he lets it settle, scratching at it gently as it cuddles into him.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"Universes," he says, and he can almost hear her eyes rolling. "How many versions of us do you think are out there?"

"Not my area," she says, and slides the tip of her pen into her mouth in thought.

"I know. It's just..."

"You looking for an answer or are you musing about how many copies of yourself are sitting on a blanket just like this one right now?" she asks. "It could easily be solved with a quick comm to Pavel."

He snorts, and does an impression of Chekov he's been perfecting for just the right moment. "Russians invented this whole 'multiple universes' theory, Hikaru. Ah, yes. Let me just run the obligatory calculations and, yes, forty-eight. There are forty-eight parallel universes, and of course this means we reside in Universe One. That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, Hikaru?"

She rolls over, laughing. "You're such an ass, Walter."

"I may be an ass or any number of other things, but that doesn't mean you can invoke my middle name," he says as she rests her head on his shoulder and lets him wrap his free arm around her shoulders. He closes his eyes; the frayed damp cotton of her t-shirt soft under his fingertips.

He wonders if there's a universe where this is his house, his girlfriend, his dogs, his plants and his wet, soggy grass. The illusion’s pleasant, even though he dislikes such overt domesticity. He lets it settle in his head and tries to remember everything about it, another pleasure he can hold onto for later. She tucks her head under his chin, skin to skin. He closes his eyes and smiles; she’s warm against him.

"Do you think you’re up for going out again tonight, Sulu?"

He blinks. "You want to get drunk again."

"I was thinking about something more like some dinner, but if you really want..."

"I don't think my liver will be able to take another bottle of Jack with you," he points out.

She snorts, shoving at him playfully. "Fuck that, I'm sure my liver won't be able to take another bottle of Jack with you. I knew you’re much more into beer than hard liquor. I didn’t expect we were gonna be going shot for shot half of the night.”

“You’re telling me that now. I always thought that was some party trick you did to get guys thinking you were more butch than they were," he says.

"You have a weird concept of seduction."

"I never said you were doing it to seduce them."

For dinner, he wrangles her into a hole-in-the-wall storefront that makes Andorian food served on plates that look like Styrofoam cartons. They sit together on one side of the table, hip-to-hip, casually stealing food from each other’s plates.

She tells him about her translation and asks him about the plants. He tells her about his sword and the improvements he made while supervising a new sproutling in the greenhouse, and asks her about the proper pronunciation of the dish he's eating. When she says she isn’t even sure if it’s Andorian, given the ingredients list, they spend the rest of the meal debating the implications of human-appropriated off-world cuisine.

His heart aches; this is one thing he’ll genuinely miss about Earth.

It’s a good dinner, a good start to the night, but it's also Monday. All the nightclubs are either empty or closed. They sit in the restaurant far longer than they should, moving from dinner to coffee.

"Let's go home, Nyota."

"Are you all right?" she asks. "Tired? Did the food make you sick?"

"I'm fine, but I think I have a better idea of how to spend some time."

"Oh?"

He waits a bit, then leans in to press his forehead to the side of her face and whisper in her ear, "I want you inside me."

She pauses, and it's like he can see the wheels turning in her head as she turns to him, trying to see if it’s a joke. He turns away, coyly picking up the cup of coffee on the table, sipping at it casually.

“You're joking with me, right?"

"How much do you want to bet?" he asks. The restaurant is empty save for the customers passing through to get take away. “I want you to take me, do whatever you want and you’re thinking it some kind of joke. You should know by now that I don’t joke about things I want.”

He could dirty talk her all night if she really doesn’t believe him, whispers about all the noises he’ll make for her, and all the ways he wants to put his mouth on her. He wonders what the imagery would do to both of them, the thought of that kind of worship while sitting in a restaurant window watching cars pass by over a second cup of coffee.

She sits there, silent. He turns to look out the window, watching a motorcycle zoom down the street. She anchors her chin on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind, the two of them looking out at the darkness. Her voice is like velvet, like a femme fatale from a film noir.

"I guess I’ll have to bet the house, then, before I start thinking about all the ways I could regret it.”

“Like I’d ever let you do anything to me that you’d regret,” He says, softly. He turns to her, whispering like he’s inulging her in a secret. “You’re wet with just the thought of it, I know you are. That’s what you’ve really been fantasizing about, isn’t it, having whatever part of me you want?”

“Hikar-“

“Answer me,” he says softly, firmly. Anybody looking in from the outside would think they’re arguing over something, the way Nyota’s nails are tapping against her coffee cup, the cadence of his voice. “You think about it all the time.”

“Yeah, I do,” she smiles. “Finish your coffee so we can go home, Hikaru."

They're much closer this time during the walk home. He's got his arm around her and they're ambling, her heels still clacking along the pavement. The somewhat emboldened dirty talk that happened in the restaurant has cooled down, thankfully, but Hikaru hopes that Nyota doesn’t just think he’s speaking in filthy hypotheticals. He wants this, and he wants to share it with her. That shouldn’t be a big deal, but he can understand why it is.

Her voice interrupts his thoughts."Are you sure?"

"Hmm?" he asks.

"Are you sure you want me to fuck you?"

"You always used to talk about it, I thought I'd see if you were interested," he shrugs.

"You'd said you didn't want to go there," she points out. "You don’t have to do this for me, we're not keeping score and it's not like I'm going to get crabby about you having the anatomical advantage."

"In all fairness, neither of us wanted to go anywhere near there that night," he points out. "Anatomical advantage?"

"Well, when you put it that way," she says, deadpan. "What's wrong with saying you have an anatomical advantage? It's a satisfying advantage from where I'm standing."

"Uh, thanks for the compliment?" He looks at her, standing in the middle of the empty sidewalk. "Is that your way of telling me you don't want to switch roles or that you aren't into that anymore?"

"That'd be an awful way of telling you anything," she mutters. "I'm just surprised. You're lucky I brought my gear."

He follows her as she walks past him, falls into rhythm with her stride. Her hips swing from side to side like she's dancing, hand at the back of her hip while she looks at him over her shoulder, daring him to catch up. He grins back, teasingly.

"Wait, I saw your bag and it was tiny, how the hell did you fit something like your 'gear' in there?" he asks.

"A girl has to know how to pack, Sulu," she says enigmatically. "Maybe I packed my toothbrush, some soap and deodorant and left the rest of my kit in San Francisco. What about that?"

He tries to remember if she's been wearing makeup, unable to divorce it from anything else. "Were you planning to get some action, Nyota?"

"I may have been willing to gamble," she admits. "I want to know what made you change your mind about the whole thing."

"A few hook-ups, here and there," he shrugs. "Nothing big."

"Look, you don't have to tell me about Kirk, but we both know it happened," she points out.

"We do?" he asks.

"Of course we do. It's not like you and Gaila weren't getting off on sharing notes about him, although I never made it a hobby to keep count of how many other partners the two of you could have possibly and constantly shared. I do have eyes, though, and language is kind of what I do."

He laughs, of course she knew. They were calling Jim the Orion equivalent to 'fucktoy' right in front of a freaking xenolinguist, it's not like she wouldn't have put two and two together.

"And we know all of your inklings about the relationship I have with my Captain take the nuances of our individual personalities into account."

"We do?"

"We do now."

She makes an ecstatic noise at that, eyebrows shooting up in surprise like she's debating what that means in her head. For a second, he thinks she's going to scoff and call him a slut or any other number of things in a number of different languages. For an even weirder moment, he wants to tell her more, to see if her eyes glaze over from the explicit details of how many moves it takes for Jim to get needy, all the ways he can knock Kirk off guard.

He debates even telling her exactly how he got comfortable with bottoming, the act he puts on whenever Jim gets a little too punchy, controlled yet breathless like a 20th century starlet, panting and pleading for Jim not to come, not yet, the both of them pretending it's not an order.

He doesn't tell this to Nyota on the walk home, though, as he watches her long gait. Instead, he files it away as something to get her riled up over another time.

"I should know by now you never back down from a challenge," she smirks.

They stay quiet the rest of the walk.

When they get home, they separate and tend to the house. She sets out water and food for the dogs before she takes them on a walk; he goes to the greenhouse and makes sure that the plants are holding up, watering a few of them and sprinkling out some plant food for the more needy ones.

He sets a clean pitcher for water in the bathroom with two glasses, and watches as she walks in and rummages in her bag as it sits on the counter top, pulling out the lube and the dildo, the worn leather harness. He places a few condoms from his pocket next to the harness, as they both stare.

"I'm not going to bother asking you again," she says, determined but deep in thought, like she's trying to figure where to start with him. He turns to her, punching a button that keeps the door to the bedroom open, hovering in close like he knows what he wants.

He doesn't push her against the bed, or hustle her against the wall. He simply lets her grab onto the ornate door frame as he wedges himself underneath her, lifts her skirt and slips her panties off, letting her step out of them and throwing them aside.

"Sulu, what the hell are you..." Her question falls into an endless moan as he uses just a little pressure against her clit and licks his way down. He doesn't waste time with clever banter or teasing, doesn't draw things out even though he could. He doesn't even stop for breath, her body drawing up like she's trying to half-heartedly tear him away. She's grown restless, trying to hold still like she wants to be polite.

When that fails, she whimpers and curls one of her legs around his back. She clenches into his mouth, screaming something in a language that he can’t focus on enough to recognize.

She's careful to remain balanced as she plays with his hair, wrapping it around her fingers and breaking her litany of noise to announce, in plain and careful English, that he's about to make her come.

He smiles at that, and buries his face in the skin of her thigh, biting as he lets his fingers slip in and curl to finish the job. She twists and turns, and he slips his other hand under her dress to hold her at the crease of her hip. She leans in, covering his hand with hers, nails digging into the skin of his knuckles.

Her mouth hangs open, but the room falls quiet like she's not even breathing anymore, and the foot slung over his shoulder has burrowed under the collar of his shirt, a toe drawing idle swirls on the back of his shoulder until it curls in, taking his skin with it. He indulges himself, moaning as she comes with an overwhelming sense of finality.

She drives him away afterward, whimpering. He knows his lips are filthy wet with her in the way she stares at him, clawing possessively against his neck, her weight dependent on his shoulders and the hand clinging to the doorsil.

He closes his eyes, sucking at his bottom lip like he's trying to chase every last taste of her, like he wants every little drop he can get. He arches up a little more, putting on a show with tousled hair and overused lips. She smiles like a predator as she bends to kiss him, making him aware of just how much she's in control as she uses her teeth. Eventually, she pushes him down into the floor, and it feels foreign to yield this way but the anticipation is enough to soothe whatever part of his ego that may feel bruised.

He gropes for anything that will settle him but it's not going to take much to reveal how much he wants everything she's willing to give.

"We do this my way," she says it like she means every word, like she's going to kill him before she gives him the opportunity to come, "and I want you right here."

"At least I had the decency to fuck you in a bed," he teases weakly as her fingers undo the buttons of his shirt and ripping the black fabric to splay open and rest around him.

She pauses, tracing the smirk of his lips. His eyes float shut, his heart beating thick in his chest. She undoes the fly of his jeans.

"You always were the more decent one," she teases back, winding fingers in his undershirt with a ruthless force. "Take this off."

"It’s not like I’d know," he says.

She lets his words hang in the air, staying silent for a few seconds. Perhaps to show how much he really does want this, he presses his fingers to the foot now sitting on his abdomen, apologetically caressing her ankle. Reluctantly, he does what she asks, heaving his shirt over his head. He looks up at her, catching fingers that are dangling above him into his mouth, tries to use all the performance tricks he'd once only created for Kirk. She pulls her fingers away, watches as his expression doesn’t change, lips parted like he's waiting for anything she'll give him.

"You’ll like it this way."

"How about I give you feedback when we're done."

"Are you this catty every time you bottom?" she grumbles.

He shrugs, “I’d like to think it’s part of the package, but if we’re being honest, it’s fair to say it’s really just for you.”

She stands up tall, looking down her nose at him. Shrugging out of her dress, she lets it pool on his chest, her body naked underneath. When she sits, he lifts his hips in offering, watching as she strips him of his pants easily. He licks his lower lip as she leans over him, slipping her hands around his wrists, taking all of his leverage away. He tries to squirm and reach up for her, but she pulls away. He deflates and she follows, melting over him. Her grip softens. His hands sneak away to grab her and hug her to his chest, groaning as they rub together. She’s doing something that feels like she’s stroking his cock, the sensation overwhelming. He gasps and she smiles into his neck.

She ducks down, licking an aimless pattern over the head of his cock, pressing her tongue all over, dragging her lips down the shaft. He elbows himself up to watch.

"Not tonight, Lothario," she sing-songs. "We're keeping this on task."

"Sir, yes sir," he says curtly.

She raises an eyebrow at his sarcasm, touching his stomach, nails digging into skin until he writhes. "Careful, or I'll be making you call me that all the time."

Hikaru isn’t particularly fond of giving up control. Not because of some kind of previous trauma, or because someone's done him wrong. It's just... He's not that guy. The piloting, the physics, the botany, most of his life has some root in how he feels at home when he's calling the shots.

Maybe it's an urge, a bad habit. He's never been quite sure.

"You sure you can be seen with me?" he'd asked in the morning, watching her dress. "Wouldn't want to wreck that wall of primness, I suppose."

She looked up at him while buckling the top of one boot, smiling. He knows he'd been incredibly lucky to have seen her up close, to have witnessed her shaky breath and seen her hair spread out on institutionalized carpet, heard the soft request for him to stay the night. He tried not to admit to himself that he'd been a touch smitten.

"Stop thinking so hard. Come eat breakfast with me," she'd said. There hadn't been venom in her voice or pity in her eyes, and she seemed unashamed about the events of the night before.

The memory never faded, and he was sure it never would. However, after breakfast all that was left had been camaraderie, and a sense of want that never aged well.

It's through this camaraderie that he's made aware of how fond of control Nyota is, too. At times, she's even more capable of self-discipline than he is, demanding what she wants in a way he never could. He's always admired that about her and secretly wanted to know how she does it, how she manages to find the strength to be so bold all the time. He's envious of her nerve.

He thinks she knows him, too, knows that it doesn't take much to reveal the real dominance he can show, the somewhat sadistic longing to experiment, the need to gauge the reaction to the action and file it away for later use.

Perhaps, though, it's through each other that they've discovered the need to constantly maintain control is a conversation and a compromise, not a mandate.

Hikaru thinks it's possible that now is the time to see where that conversation could lead.

He crashes back down into his body as the fingers inside him brush against his prostate.

"Well, if I would have known you were so responsive, I would have demanded this instead of being polite," she grins wolfishly.

She flicks her wrist and, God, he's sure she's about to fit four fingers in him, maybe even work him over until he's begging for everything she'll give. He makes a wholly unbecoming noise while trying to scratch his nails into the stone floor underneath him. There’s nothing to hold onto within his grasp, and the only other thing he can do is plead for more sensation, fucking himself down on her fingers.

"Just making sure you're still awake," she comments, scratching a trail down his thigh, just enough pain to really get him burning up, breathing irregular.

"I'm ready. Fuck me," he orders sternly, licking his lips and spreading his legs even more, hoping he can beckon her closer. "C'mon, I want you to fuck me."

"You sound good asking for that. You should ask for it more often."

He sits up a bit, his eyes glazing over as he licks his lips, squirming against her. He bites his lip and glances at her from under his eyelashes. He's sure he looks as slutty as he feels, pushing back on her fingers again anyway. "C'mon, want that cock."

"What if I make you suck it first?" she asks.

He doesn't answer verbally, sitting up and opening his mouth playfully as a challenge. Her brow knits softly and her free hand prods at him like she's testing the waters, her fingers stretching his mouth. It’s like she wants to see what's inside him, plotting her next move. He doesn't lick until she slides her fingers across his tongue. The intimacy would shock Hikaru if he weren’t going crazy with need.

When she's satisfied, she straddles his chest, tightening the harness onto her hips, the straps taut. He looks at her, the leather and the dildo she's attached to it, the long curve and burnished head, the carved vein down the underside. She holds the brown material like it’s a part of her body, bringing the head down to push at his lips. It’s different than skin, just a little cooler to the touch. He rolls his tongue around the crown and it tastes foreign. He gazes up and takes pause.

“Tell me,” he says, pausing to suck the head into his mouth, let it flirt behind his teeth. It’s heavy in his mouth.

“What?”

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, pulling away again to speak.

"About how much this must infuriate you, Mister I-don’t-bottom," she grins. He looks up at her, his tongue curling around the head before sucking down the shaft. He opens a little wider and she falls quiet as he sets a pace, sucking like he wants to get her off. Her fingers comb through his hair, the touch familiar at a time when everything about this is new.

He pulls away, lying back on the stone. He watches her shiver as his palms skim over her thighs, letting his fingers curl around the silicone into a fist. "Trust me, ‘infuriate’ isn’t the first word that comes to mind.”

He waits a beat then gets back on it, hands wrapped around her thighs, taking care not to strain the angle he's been holding his head in. She tips his head backward, dragging the wet silicone down his neck as she looks at him. He looks at her for a second before arching his back, lips parted as his eyes slide closed. They both know how eager he is for this, he knows that in the way she looks at him, fingers fluttering against his jugular vein and feeling his pulse.

She’s wet against his chest, and he wonders if this show actually has that effect on her. He ponders slipping his fingers underneath the leather to touch her, stroke her off again.

"Fuck," she says.

"Get some manners and ask me nicely," he parrots, knowing it will set her off. She manhandles him into position, his hips on her thighs, one of his legs lying to the side as she lifts the other one over her shoulder. The head of the toy rubs at his entrance until he's arching up because he wants it, all the pressure welling.

"Like I'd give you the pleasure," she grins, and thrusts in slow enough it could be torture, stretching him wide. He closes his eyes, relishing how she holds him steady like she knows he wants to get it all, make her slide right in and worry afterward.

"Fuck, should have known you'd be huge," he groans, grabbing at her skin, hungry for whatever he can find. She stops, giving him time to adjust, but the burn of entrance fades as quickly as it came. There's only adrenaline skittering all over him now and he pushes back onto her, twisting on her hips. He doesn't need the reprieve, wishing she wouldn’t be so polite. He claws at her as she pulls out halfway and slams back into him, pushing him backward on the stone, his shirt pinned under him. Jagged edges jab into him, pain rasping down his back.

"Desperation suits you," she comments impassively. He stares up at the ceiling before grasping at her, reaching to kiss her. “You look stunning.”

She rearranges him onto his knees, and he surprises himself by following her command, arching his back. He shivers as she traces the crease of his spine, the stone hard on his knees. She teases him, lining up, the head still a steady pressure at his entrance. The seconds drag on with constant sensation, maddening quiet, and her warm hands at his waist, nails barely scratching down his back.

“Nyota…” he gasps.

The pressure breaks, and suddenly she’s fucking at him shallowly until he becomes too concerned with breathing to tell her how good this is. He's open and stretched around the head of her dildo, getting pulled in every direction as she manipulates him until he cries out, a thin and airy sound. She makes it sting as she pushes deeper, angling to drag at every spot that could possibly feel good inside him.

She stops. “You’re so quiet. Why are you so quiet for me, huh? What would it take to make you scream?”

He doesn’t answer her question, and he can feel her fingers slip-sliding over the head of his cock as he feels her circle his entrance, stimulating skin already stretched open. He lets his head hang first, and then opens his legs a little more and pushes his forehead to the ground, mouth hanging open.

He can hear his own breath coming in pants and sobs, and he has nothing to hold on to, no place to root himself. The awareness of being filled starts to dig at him. Pleasure unravels in his stomach, sensory overload wrapped around him.

"Do you know what the really exciting thing about this is, Hikaru?" She pauses and laughs filthy-low as she speeds up, hips working, every stroke almost painful in its pleasure. "If I wanted to... If you let me? If your body let me? I could keep you like this for hours, hard and fast on hands and knees in a fucking bathroom. Look at you, not even able to speak because you want this so much. You won’t say it, but you don’t have to, just have to keep making those pretty sounds. C’mon, whimper a little more.”

Her hips do all the work for him, a steady rhythm in and out that gets more intense as time slips out of his grasp, every stroke impeccable. He's too busy making totally ridiculous noises to answer her, vision blurring as he struggles to paw up onto his hands and push her backward, show her how much he wants this. It throws them both for a loop, bodies in seemingly perpetual motion, grappling with fingers everywhere, nails digging in enough to leave marks in their wake.

“Bet I could turn you into the kind of cock-slut you turn all those boys into. Bet I could make you want this every time you saw me." She helps him with a careful arm up and around his middle, grinning in his ear as his mouth falls open at the change in position. "I could make you to beg, if I wanted."

Her skin is warm and soft against his back. She pushes at his hips, the curl of her nails holding him in place. "Fuck, Nyota."

She slams home inside him, smiling behind his back. He aches to turn around and see it. "You should always say my name that way."

His defenses melt and he starts working himself on her, muscles burning with exhaustion. "Nyota."

"Wanna see you ride me, next time," she whispers. "Want to watch you do all the work yourself. I know how hot it would be."

"What do you mean, next time?" he asks, his breath short and staggered, arms up and thrown back, fingers thrust into the softness of her skin.

"Got it in you?"

He wishes he'd reserved more of his composure to make a witty remark. He's ready to come, wouldn't even need anything around his dick, and he hangs his head and bares his teeth trying to find the strength to hold it off. Instead, he pulls off of her and turns around, pushing her down to the stone. It takes some work, reining in his control and slowing himself down, but it's worth it to see her face as he glides back down on her.

She stares, watching him take his pleasure from her. He can feel her eyes trace over his abdomen and the thick of his thighs as they lever back and forth to let him rise and fall. He pushes the observation aside, and gives into momentum, unable to fight the sensation.

“You look fucking sexy on my cock,” She hisses, the sentence jarring and ruthless. Nyota’s thumbs trace the crease of his hips, like she’s trying to read his skin.

He leans down, sucking at her bottom lip before kissing her, framing her face while his hips push back selfishly, watching her grin and lift her hips into the movement. He savors the friction, the way the material stretches him in a way skin and muscle never will.

They roll over again, her strokes becoming rough and messy as she gets comfortable. She grapples at his wrists to shove them above his head, keeping the kind of pace that he knows he'd use if he were doing this to her. She doesn't give him the room to breathe, jack-hammering until his eyes are rolling backward in his head and he's ready to come.

"You never needed my permission, Hikaru," she points out, because of course she fucking knows, it’s what she fucking does. “Let me watch you come.”

He surges up, skin forced against skin as he gives in, vision going white just before his eyes fall closed. He shakes through the end, gasping for air his lungs can’t find as his body relaxes into the stone.

Her pace eases and her grip falls loose on his wrists, until he can slip a hand away and use it to curl around her body. He can tell she’s come too in the way she's panting, her whole body expanding and contracting for air in the circle of his arms. It makes sense with all that hard pressure on her clit, the way he’d crashed his hips down onto hers, always seeking more.

He groans when she tugs at his hair to haul him up. The way she kisses him is inescapable, almost cruel as she fucks her tongue into his mouth. Very much under her control, he's trapped until she lifts her mouth up and away, pulling out.

“You know, you’re so quiet when you come,” Nyota teases, her voice an intoxicating purr. “It’s amazing. You go all slack-jawed and wide-eyed like you don’t know what to do with yourself and at the last minute, the last little second, you give in. It’s like you know it’s wrong but you need it anyway.”

"Jesus fuck, Nyota," he gasps, rests his head in her neck. She whispers something to him again, circling her fingers against him and slipping back in to find his prostate one last time. He shakes and whimpers like he’s trying to get away. He can't even tell if she's speaking in English because she’s got him almost coming again, exhausted and happy. She takes mercy, leans down onto his shoulder and curls into his arms.

They stay there, laying together on hard and cold stone. He smiles lazily, her breath a rhythmic breeze on his neck.

She pulls away. He indulges in the loss, and misses her when she's gone.

Water showers are an indescribable luxury after years of sonic ones in the Academy, but the shower they share is utilitarian, standing under the spray to wash away dried sweat and come smeared down her thighs and across his stomach. There are a few chaste kisses, and the rumblings of something more, but he stops her, eyes closing.

"We should stop," he says, breathless, "before I die."

"You sure know how to give a girl a compliment, Walter."

He shoves at her jokingly. "I should have never told you that."

"It's okay," she assures. "I found out through Spock about a month before you'd told me."

He makes a face as she kisses him again and helps him scrub clean.

There's a lot of space between them in bed. After tonight’s events, the occurrence is utterly ridiculous, like two people lying on opposite sides of an ocean. It makes him uncomfortable even though he's focused on other things, chasing sleep as it hides behind memories of San Francisco, grinning faces of now-dead cadets and the spiraling Vulcan landscape, gripping at the sheet underneath him like it's the only thing that's keeping him alive.

He hears her whimper and he looks over, whispering, "Still awake?"

She groans and turns over to face him. "Can't sleep. Have I woken you?"

He tries to keep his eyes closed even though the lights are off. It doesn't work. She’s flopped over onto her back and he can see the outline of her profile when his eyes adjust. He murmurs, "No."

"It's hard for me, too."

He doesn't know if she means trying to sleep, or if she means thinking about living after Vulcan. Still, she fidgets and slides closer to him: body heat and points of contact that tingle with familiarity. He shivers from the cold air, and huddles in next to her. Her hair is warm, still moist from their shower and he buries his face in it, lost in the smell of artificial fruit.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks, holding her close.

She makes a bitter and empty sound. His face is awkwardly buried in her ear and cheek, shaking vibrating skin. "No."

He tastes salt slipping into his mouth, and tightens his grip around her. His eyes well up, little pools that threaten to run over as he holds on.

He wants to be strong for her as she cries. Tears fall down his face when he realizes he can't; too much of this pain is his own.

She wakes him up at five; a gentle shaking that brings the world into slow focus through eyes that hurt from crying too hard. A still-damp pillow under his cheek is a leftover relic of last night’s bittersweet end, and he hates everything about this. He grunts at her and rolls over, the emptiness between them ever-present even though she's close.

She tucks herself in behind him, and the rough fabric of her oversized shirt chafes on his back. The unwelcome texture makes him itch beside her. She fits her mouth at his ear.

"Watch the sunrise with me?"

"Did you ever get to sleep last night?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Did a lot of thinking, though."

"Thinking about making some coffee before waking me up, maybe?"

Her thumb traces his bottom lip. He doesn't think, letting his tongue curl around it to taste the strong and sweet liquid on her skin. He smiles against her palm.

"You're too good to me," he groans.

"While I'm glad you'd thank me for the favor and not assume that since I'm a woman making you things is what I'm supposed to do, don't think I haven’t drank half the pot myself."

"So good to me, Nyota," he says dryly. He turns to kiss her chastely. "Let me get some pants and I'll meet you out there."

Her voice wavers, "I… Sure, Sulu. That's fine."

He watches her from afar, looking at how she ambles over to the bench, sitting at the corner and tucking her legs onto the stone. He doesn't have to see her face; she's looking at the stone and it’s obvious she's somewhere else. The dogs bark, chasing each other around the yard, endless green grass that drops off to a view of the houses below and the low mountain across the way.

He walks over to her, bare feet against concrete roughed with age. He winces at the jarring sound, like he’s ruined something so beautiful about this scene.

"I miss her," she says, softly.

Hikaru stares at the mountain, green almost glowing with morning light, the scene triggering too many memories. "What happened to not talking about it?"

"We're still not talking about it," she says, turning to him. "It just... kept me up for a while."

"That happens," he sighs. "I miss her, too. I miss her a lot. Like I keep on expecting to turn around and see her there."

He leans his elbows on his knees when he sits, looks into the darkness of his coffee, looking at his murky reflection. He knows she's holding something from him; he can hear it in her voice. He stays quiet, curious about her reaction.

"I know you're still tired, it's just..." She tilts her head in thought, reminding him a little of Spock. "I didn't want to be alone."

"Don’t worry about it. It's okay," he says.

"No," she says. "I don't think it's okay at all."

He doesn't know what she's really talking about. "What's really worrying you? Gaila's part of it, but there's something else, isn't there?"

She shuts down, jaw firming, eyes closing. Panic floods him, and he wonders if she’ll never speak to him again, the way she stays quiet. The sun rises a little more, nudging into the corner of his vision. He looks over at her, and sees someone so tired and yet so beautiful to him, her frailty revealed in the downturned corners of her lips and the way her hand clamps onto the edge of the bench.

"You don't have to say anything," he says, softly. "I'm sorry."

"No, you should know," she sighs. "I need you to know."

"What?"

"Pike's report included my discovery, the distress call. The Academy offered me incentive to stay in San Francisco," she says. "The new accommodations were part of that incentive, a way of trying to get me to stay. I'm not sure about the Enterprise, not when I can get tenure in the Academy within a year or so."

The dogs bark off in the distance, two of them tumbling in a playful fight under the tree, scampering around each other. The littlest one starts to run back to the terrace, likely in search of food.

Nyota's admission explains a lot.

"It's a good offer," he says, carefully.

"It's a big compliment," she replies. “I mean, look at me, emotional because I get to choose between two dream jobs. That deserves so much sympathy, right?”

He shrugs, knowing better than to try derailing her self-deprecation. “I dunno. Both assignments appeal to different parts of you, and they’re equally important to you, last time I checked. So, I’m sure picking one isn’t simply choosing your favorite and never looking back, it’s turning away from something you love.”

She stays quiet. He feels like he’s stuffed his words into her mouth.

It's frustrating, how close she's sitting next to him and yet how far away she is. Hikaru's unsure he can offer anything to bring her back or change her mind, no matter how much he wants her in space with him. They brush against each other shoulder-to-shoulder, and he freezes, wondering if the contact will do more harm than good.

He's never ached for boundaries with her more, wanting to make sure he doesn’t make her decision harder. He's also never ached for the absence of those boundaries in the way he does now, wanting to comfort and support her. His stomach drops, and fear radiates through his body. His stomach tightens, his breathing stutters in a careful fragile moment.

He knows it. He’s going to lose her, too.

"So, yeah. I have to make up my mind when I go back, and I... I'm conflicted," she sighs.

"I'm sure you'll be able to live with it, whatever you choose," he says, but it doesn't sound friendly at all. He takes another long drink of coffee in hopes that it will shut him up, or at least make him more helpful.

"I don't want you to think that this decision is the only reason why I came with you or the only reason why we..."

She doesn't finish the sentence.

He takes another sip of coffee, and settles into the knowledge that the intimacy on this trip was a cash-out, something she wanted to do before they parted ways. The revelation stings, and he prepares to add her name to the roster of people he’ll never see again, the thought of hugs and handshakes or any contact at all falling through his fingertips like sand.

When he looks at her again, she's tying her hair into a ponytail, sitting up. Hikaru sees the change, can tell she's gone back to Uhura instead of Nyota. Watching her preform such a simple action makes him feel helpless.

The dog comes up to the bench, almost pleading with her to be lifted. She reaches down, takes it into her arms and smiles softly as it barks at her, little tail blithely wagging. He's sure it would follow her back to San Francisco, if it could. It always looks so happy in her arms, like it knows it's going to get doted on. Uhura spoils it, cradling it in her thighs and smiling sadly.

"It's okay. I get it," he says. It isn't anywhere near enough. "You don't have to say anything else. Doesn't mean I can't miss you, though."

"I haven't made up my mind. You don't know anything more than I do," she says, idle and even-toned. He falls quiet, listens to the steady in and out of his breath and tries to find it within himself to stay calm. The sun's high in the sky.

Fuck morning, he wants to go back to bed. This new day already sucks.

"Hey, come back," he says, spontaneously nudging her with his shoulder. It shocks him as much as it shocks her, the way he breaks through that space that seems to always sit between them. "Stay with me, Nyota, just this once."

"Five years is a mighty long time," she says without thinking. That’s not what he meant.

"Ten days is a mighty long time."

She looks at him like she's trying to analyze him. "It's numbing, Hikaru. I just... I don't know if I'm ready for space. I thought I was until we dropped out of warp."

"And you think my stomach didn't drop when we hit Vulcan? C'mon," he says. "You're one of the hardest working people I know. We both know how much the Enterprise needs you."

"I know," she nods. "It... became very real at that point. It wasn't simulation anymore; it wasn't a final or some stupid cooked up scenario. It wasn't programmed; it was real. And maybe... maybe that's not where I want to be, right now. Maybe that’s not what I need."

He laughs humorlessly, thinking of how many simulations were about maintaining control in the face of ruin. People weren't behind a panel somewhere, looking in and grading how well any of them did.

The truth was, what happened at Vulcan wasn't the kind of test any of them had come in contact with before, and Starfleet doesn’t make simulations for conversations like these.

She hangs her head, and starts laughing with him. He can hear the heartbreak in her voice: it's familiar, a tone he knows is in his, too. To take their minds off this would mean taking their minds off the choices they've made, and the consequences they've endured.

Those consequences killed Gaila. He's not sure it's a good idea to ignore them any longer.

"You should do whatever you believe is right for you, but if you're asking my opinion, there's not a single officer in the fleet that deserves senior bridge duty on the Enterprise the way you do," he says, softly. "The Academy won't know how lucky they are."

Her fingers brush his wrist and the touch sets off a thousand newly minted memories of being pressed down between her and the cold floor, memories of what it feels like to be at her whim. She lingers, like she's remembering the same thing.

"Thank you for the kind words," she says, "but I'm sure they’re quite aware of my talents."

She's not crying. Secretly, he wants to do it for her.

"I think it's time for both of us to go back to sleep."

She doesn't look like she agrees with him, but gets up and walks away first.

They huddle together close in bed, and she yanks the covers over their heads, not bothering with the curtains. It's only then that he presses his lips to her forehead and whispers that everything's going to work out just fine.

"I know," she whispers back. It sounds certain in a way he was sure she wasn't. “It’s still nice to hear it from you.”

Behind his eyelids, he’s spinning out of control.

When they wake again, the sun is shining right into the room. He takes the opportunity to kiss her awake, trying his best to divorce the act from the suggestion of romance by sticking to her cheeks and forehead, toying with the hair at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are red when she opens them and looks at him, but she only pauses for a moment before meeting his lips in a chaste, closed mouth kiss.

"Are you going to regret this, when we get back to San Francisco?" he asks.

"Why would I, Hikaru? I was going to be alone on leave, remember? I was going to amble to all the tourist traps of San Francisco, and curl up in my room for a week, wishing I had decided to go home for a while and think about how I might not have come back. I'm with someone who cares about me and my wellbeing and that's more than I could have asked for, honestly."

"But..."

"You need to stop reading all those antiquated romance novels," she interrupts. "I'm not a Jane Austen heroine, here."

The remark thankfully breaks the tension. He ducks into the cloth of her shirt, laughing bashfully. She raises his head with careful fingers on his cheek, staring at him again.

"Who are you, then?" he says, amused.

"Academic by day, explorer by night," she grins, stealing a kiss. He's thankful for the silly colloquialism, curling around her. She gives him unspoken permission, closing her eyes and licking at his bottom lip. She whispers soft words in his ear, Vulcan, soft vowels and sugar-sweet inflection. He trembles, listening to the lilt in her voice. He knows she's asking for something she wants, and it's not the same thing she wanted before. There's no space here for wit, repartee or power-play. She wants him.

They kick off the covers and abandon what little they'd been wearing. He tries not to stare: now's not the time to obsess but the sunlight shining into the room shows him places on her body he longs to touch and taste. He thinks of the curve of her thighs and the flat of her stomach, the acres of gorgeous skin there for him to touch, taste and memorize. She looks like she's the doing the same, like she's trying to memorize how he looks in front of her.

He blinks, takes a slow breath, and reaches for a condom.

She lifts her head to suck at the curve of his collarbone, dragging across it in a long line like she's trying to find something, and curls in to whisper in his ear. "Slow this time."

"Slow," he agrees.

There is no Academy or Enterprise here.

Hikaru forgets everything but the gentle rocking of his hips and how warm Nyota is, her legs hooked around his waist. Her fingers collect at his shoulders, palms flat and warm across his collarbones and neck.

Her body is the final frontier and the only exploration that takes place is punctuated by skin to skin, the brush of lips. The dance of bodies rolling across smooth white cloth defies description in its familiarity.

They’re silent, save for soft breath and the occasional sigh. Anything else would wreck this, intimacy built haphazardly and meant to convey so much without the help of words they could never genuinely bring themselves to say.

The world stands still inside this bed, as cheesy and unbelievable as it sounds. There’s nothing else in relation to this, nothing can compare to closing his eyes and breathing her in, his lips dragging across her chest.

In a moment of stillness, Hikaru wishes this could never end. For both of their sakes.

Even though they've spent day in bed, Nyota takes the dogs out for a walk and goes to get some take-away before sunset. Hikaru considers offering to go with her, but the dogs are enough to keep her company and he's sure she could use the alone time to think. Perhaps he could use the alone time, too.

While she's gone, he waters the plants and takes some notes on the ones he's been helping along. After he's done in the greenhouse, he configures the katana, and practices his stances in the backyard. He prefers to do this alone, finding the place he goes to is too intimate when nobody's sparring with him. He doesn't like it when people watch this: the way he closes his eyes and lets his feet and wrists do the work, dancing with his sword against an imaginary opponent.

He stands barefoot so he can feel the grass under his feet and bends his knees just enough, careful not to slide. He acts like he's playing for keeps, imagining all the places to strike and attacking them in order, high to low and back again. The sword follows, feeling like an extension of his arm while he exhales, letting himself get into this with flourish and technique. He gets messy, a little dangerous. He needs it; it’s safe to lose himself in this.

He abandons proper form completely for a second, taking the weight of the sword. He stops thinking, adrenaline surging through him. It goes to his head and he takes risks he'd never allow himself to take in the heat of competition or battle unless he were really desperate, giving himself space to practice parries and thrusts and altered grips on the handle, swinging the sword clear and high over his head, letting it tear down to land near his side.

"Wow," he hears her voice behind him, turns around to see her standing on the patio. "You really do look like a pirate king when you do that."

“Will you stop with that?” He asks.

“You have a sword in your hand, of course I’ll stop teasing you. I’ll be honest, though, a touch of eyeliner, some leather boots, one of those absurdly ruffled shirts. I think we both know you’d make an insanely sexy pirate.”

"Could you not give yourself any more ideas?" he asks, then takes in the fact that he's not wearing a shirt, his hair's flopping in his face and soaking with sweat, and he's probably been stabbing into the air in a way that looks entirely too feral for a civilized sport like fencing.

"No," she says, playfully. "Don’t mind me, just admiring your swordsmanship. Remind me to never challenge you to a duel."

"Who needs to stop reading romance novels now? I’m not going to change my middle name to ‘bodice ripper.’"

She laughs at that, casual and a little breathy, "Like I own a bodice for you to rip.”

"I'm sure we could find other things for me to rip off you if you really want it that badly," he shrugs.

She snorts, the moment of heat and temptation over. "I prefer to be particular about my fantasies, thank you."

He raises an eyebrow at that, “You’ll be able to find anything in San Francisco, if you really want to.”

She leers, hands on her hips. “Changing the subject from lingerie shopping and antiquated gender performance, I brought dinner."

"Good. I’m hungry," he says, retracting the katana, snapping the safety into place and sticking the handle into the back of his pants. He grabs her and attempts to wipe his face off on her shirt. She bats him away, giggling.

"Why are we friends?" she groans.

His lips curl into a smile as he goes to get some water.

Back when Hikaru was little, it was all the rage to try teaching the grand slam of Romance languages to children at a very young age. All he has to show for this 'education' are the dirty limericks and colorful curses of informal Portuguese and the melodies of 20th century French nursery rhymes as familiar as his own name.

Hikaru can count the languages he's good at on one hand: Federation Standard, American English, and Baja Spanish. He knows others: a decent bit of Filipino from his childhood and scraps of Japanese from people who have insisted that California can never possibly be his true home.

A lot of people ask if he knows Japanese, especially people who do not know him well thanks to the Academy. It’s a pet peeve if there ever was one, ripe with confused and offensive references to any practice of ‘the Orient’, relying upon Anime colloquialisms, Sun Tsu passages, talk of Confucius, and the ever popular jokes about Bruce Lee. Hikaru always paints a sterile smile over his face and refuses to answer beyond a simple and firm ‘I am American.’ Things are better, that way.

In a moment of vulnerability, he’d only ever indulged the curiosity of one person: Nyota.

Her tongue wrapped around words he couldn’t understand save for the formality of her tone, as if she’d known what a gift his frank answer had been. When he’d asked her what she meant in response, she’d reverted back to English, leaning forward in her seat as if to indulge him in a secret all her own.

“It means ‘If you would like, someday, I will teach you more,’” She’d said.

The memory’s edges have sharpened considerably. He knows that day will not come soon.

The wine from dinner makes the kisses they share warm and sweet. When she whispers words he doesn't know in his ear, he simply holds onto her hips and tilts his head, closing his eyes and listening. Nyota's speaking to him in Orion. He can tell from the familiar accent, and the way she's crooning it. Her voice becomes throaty like she's telling him something insanely dirty, straddling him on the couch, her hands curved around the back of his neck.

Instead of thinking about all the possible things she could be saying, his imagination takes him back to Gaila. He remembers the ever-present smile and the eager laugh, the way her fingers would always tap idly at the corner of her PADD in class. When they started hanging out after study sessions, she'd tell him the most ridiculously dirty jokes and inform him of how many different engineering-related double entendres there really were, doing impersonations of the faces people would make for her when they came.

"Wait, you two went on a date?" Gaila asked him after she set him up with Nyota.

"Judging by the somewhat awkward morning after conversation, I'd say yes," he'd nodded.

"Wait, you also had sex?"

"Wasn't that the point?" he'd asked her. "I mean, you did set us up, I totally thought you paired us off so that we would eventually fu..."

"No! That was totally not the point," she said. "It’s not like I was expecting for you to assume that because it was me asking you to meet her, I meant for you to have sex with her. I want other things than sex you know, including your happiness.”

“I know that. I’m not that much of an asshole,” He’d reassured. “It wasn’t as if I’d gone in thinking I was going to score last night. Half of the time I thought she was just going to turn around and walk away.

“I totally fail at this whole introducing friends thing, and I'm really, really sorry. I didn’t think you guys were going to think it was a blind date. Was it at least enjoyable?"

"I'm sure if you ask her politely you'll be able to experience it for yourself," he had offered without thinking. She’d raised an eyebrow in challenge, a dare to ask her for details and oh, that was the kind of dangerous territory that Hikaru was attracted to like a moth to flame. "I mean, yes, it was great. A bit more high octane than I thought it was going to be, but that wasn't her fault."

"Meaning you two bitched at each other about who was going to do what and who was going to sit back and take it," she laughed. "I thought that you were going to realize that you got along well and that you would be good friends."

"Really?"

"Yes, really! I didn't expect that either of you were going to go all the way," she'd said. "Oh, wait, you didn't get that far because you're both the same person."

"Does that make me narcissistic?" he'd asked sarcastically. "I mean, I'm willing to look like a lot of things, but ‘a narcissist' isn’t anywhere near the top of my list. I already have enough people thinking I’m a jock."

The incredulous look in her eyes had been far too amusing, and the two of them had broken into laughter.

Here and now, however, Nyota is watching him with concern. "Hey, are you all right? You drifted off a bit, there."

"I think I'm fine," he says, slipping her fingers into his.

"Hey," she says, carefully. "Stay with me. Just this once."

If there's one thing Hikaru will miss about Gaila, it's her energy, buzzing high and fast. If there's one thing he's going to miss about Nyota, it's her endless compassion, the knack she has for wanting to understand.

He comes close to Nyota, his lips barely brushing against hers. She moans and tugs him down onto the couch.

"What are we, Hikaru?" she sighs.

He pauses, tries to think about what she means in the question, and decides to play it safe. "We're, uh, people?"

"Hikaru," she says, carefully, "what are we doing, here? You have arrangements and I may have arrangements and I don't want this to put those arrangements in jeopardy. I don't want it to hurt anything, and maybe..."

He turns on his side, looks at her. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe I am worried about regrets. Maybe I'm worried about a lot of things."

He smiles at her, keeping his space even though it seems paradoxical. "What do you want us to be? Do you want us to be anything?"

"I'm your friend, Hikaru. I'll always want that," she says, but there's a sparkle in her eye even though her tone is flat. He smiles at her and lets her continue. "I just don't want our friendship, or how we are around each other to be compromised."

"I'm shocked."

"Shut up, I'm not done. I'm your friend, but... I think I want this, and I don't want to lock myself down or put a label on it. It's logical and mutually beneficial."

"Does this mean you're sticking with Enterprise?"

"I haven't made a decision," she says, pained. He tries not to kick himself for that. One good fuck isn't going to change Nyota Uhura's mind on anything. "And I'd like to think that our friendship would not be dependent upon my choice."

"Never. Not by a long shot."

"Well, then. Logical and mutually beneficial."

"Seeing as we're talking specifics, is Spock going to choke me on the bridge because I'm your friend with benefits?"

"That depends on a set of variables that are presumably beyond my control," she says, deadpan. "What, feeling guilty?"

"No," he says primly. "I just like being alive and fully able to breathe, is all."

She laughs, an honest to god laugh with its hazy smoothness and a dazzling smile. It's the first time he's heard that laugh in a long time, certainly since Gaila. "Thanks for killing the moment here. You know what I'm saying."

"Are you asking me to be your wingman, Nyota?" he asks. "Because, I gotta say, you sure know how to make a girl feel special."

She shoves him against the back of the sofa, laughing. "Like we'd ever be good on a pull together."

"Wingmen do tons of other things together, you know."

"They do?" she asks. "Like what?"

It's a softball question, like the kind in old romance movies Gaila used to love making them watch. Still, he teases, not giving in so quickly. "Hang out? Watch movies? Play cards? Eat?"

"We just did that. Are you drunk enough to be hungry again? Should we make a late night run the way we used to?"

He debates saying yes, but he doesn't know this place well enough for the two of them not to look like two newbies drunkenly whooping up a storm in hopes of fish tacos or Orion split roast or Vindaloo. He misses late nights spent with spicy tea and hookah, rose-smelling smoke and darkly seductive music, the curl of budding friendship between Nyota, Gaila and him.

He wishes he could steal a little bit of that naiveté back.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry. I’ll just have some more of this, instead.

He hooks his hands around Nyota's back and twists his fingers into the fabric of her shirt. She smiles at him again, open and wide, as he traces the curve of her neck.

He kisses her, and gets lost in the feeling again.

On the platform, Hikaru gets a twist in his gut. He pours over everything that they could have possibly done in the house, written notes and laundered sheets. Every used dish has been cleaned, the plants watered, the dogs fed. He thinks for a second about whether they got all the condom wrappers, but that's not the issue.

He misses space. The air's too fresh and the gravity's too real here and he knows it. He realizes he wants to be out there, shacked up in a tin can. His life up there has evolved into a testosterone driven sausage fest, but he gets to drive it, and that counts for something. That counts for a lot.

When he turns around, Nyota's gone. He lets his mind turn over at that, lets himself wonder for an insane minute if the last few days have been a fever dream. It could be the wishful thinking of a man that has had a streak of unfathomably good luck. For all he knows, this could be true meaning of temptation, a questioning of his own faith and sanity.

She walks back to where he’s standing and smiles.

"I wanted a cup of coffee," she says. "Got you one, too. Black with sugar?"

She slips the cup into his hand, and he grins at the first taste. "You're a goddess, Uhura."

"I'm considerate, that's what I am."

They stand there, and he knows he shouldn't ask her again about the decision she's been trying to make; it's not like she hasn't thought about it the whole time she's been with him here. He's desperately curious, and almost hates himself for letting it show all over his face. Almost.

"I'm not telling you," she says, happily.

"But that means you've made up your mind, right?"

"No, it doesn't," she says. "All I'm saying is that whenever I do make my final decision, you'll know."

"You have more important people to tell, and I’ll hear it eventually," he says. "Important people like to gossip."

She stops for a second like she's choosing her words carefully. "I... have to tell my family, first. And perhaps go talk with Gaila."

He smiles at that, thinking about how she'll sit primly in the memorial hall at the Academy and whisper the news while sliding her fingers over Gaila's name imprinted into the marble. He knows he needs to go do the same, press his fingers into so many names of childhood friends that are now only remembered by stone, as cold and immobile as death itself.

“I think I kind of want to be surprised," he says. "Don't tell me at all."

He knows he'll be disappointed if she isn't in the shipyard, and her name isn't on the roster for the mission. He just doesn't want her to see it.

The shuttle touches down, and she pitches her empty cup into a nearby compost bin as she picks up her bag. The doors open, and he can see her return back to the same tension so familiar to both of them, perfect posture and determined, professional eyes. He stands up, and watches as she gathers her hair and twists it into a bun. He touches her stomach, stilling her where she stands. He grits his teeth, and hopes the gesture isn’t inappropriately intimate.

"Thank you for coming with me, Nyota. Really."

She smiles. "I'm glad I did, Hikaru. I hope you don't think less of me because of my motivations for coming, and I hope you don't regret what we did."

She kisses him, long and slow like it's already illicit or like she knows it's the last time she's going to be able to be with him this way.

"Never," he whispers. She slides her lips over the cut of his cheek, caressing his skin as she holds him. They walk like that together, bags over their shoulders and arms around each other, wrapped up in each other.

"You read way too many romance novels, you know that?"

He laughs. Whatever they have will be enough.

Part 3