Ficlet: Beautiful, Exactly (Number One/Spock)
Title: Beautiful, Exactly
Pairing: Number One/Spock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: At the Academy, One and Spock go on a date together.
Notes: At where_no_woman's February drabble tag, taraljc asked for the first time someone told One she was beautiful and she believed them. This little story is the result. I have no idea if One and Spock could really have been at the Academy together, but it's a pairing I've always wanted to try.
One applies borrowed red lipstick with the aid of a small hand held mirror - the only one she has - and avoids looking at her roommate. She may or may not be wearing the uniform shirt from second year that got too tight when she unexpectedly acquired cleavage her third year. Wearing it makes breathing kind of hard, and One suppresses a small, involuntary thrill of excitement: she is willing to make a sacrifice for fashion because she is going out with a man. If this is what it feels like to be one of the girls, she has to admit it's fun. A little bit, anyway. Not that she'd admit that to her roommate.
“You look pretty,” Cait says.
One rolls her eyes.
“What? You do look pretty.”
“That's what your girlfriends are supposed to say.”
Cait looks a little wounded, and One feels guilty for questioning her sincerity. Cait rarely says things, good or bad, that she doesn't mean.
“I'm going out with Spock,” One says hastily to make up for hurting Cait's feelings.
Cait's eyes light up with positively indecent zeal. One suspects her roommate has been waiting for this moment for three whole years.
“Going out like on a date?!”
One shrugs her shoulders; she has no idea how to tell if Vulcans want to date you or be friends with you. Cait surveys her with an appraising look that threatens the application of eyeliner and the dissection of her wardrobe, and One begins backing cautiously toward the door.
When her back hits its cool metal surface, she exclaims, “Almost late! Gotta run!” and dashes out of the room before Cait can stop her.
***
Two hours later, One is a little drunk. The funny thing is, so is Spock.
“I didn't know Vulcans drank,” she says, lifting her glass. It's her third. Or maybe the fourth. Counting is getting a little difficult now.
“I am half human.”
It's at least the sixth time she's heard him say that in their brief acquaintance. It seems important to him that everyone know that and respect it, which makes her feel a little guilty because she is mostly interested in the delicate points of his ears.
“I believe it is customary at this time to say happy birthday,” he says. His voice is still perfectly level, but his movements have lost some of their catlike grace.
They clink their glasses together. Today, they are both seventeen, even though she is in her fourth year at the Academy and he is in his first. When she drinks, she thinks she can feel him watching the long line of her neck. She puts the glass down and smiles; he gazes at her more intensely, which is maybe the Vulcan equivalent of a smile and maybe the Vulcan equivalent of sexual attraction. She realizes she is hoping for the latter and blushes.
“The flush on your face is a pleasant contrast to your pale skin,” Spock says, which only makes her blush more deeply. She swallows another gulp of her drink, hoping it will give her an excuse for how red she is.
“In addition, the your dark hair calls attention to your blue eyes, and the slope of your nose and cheekbones are both powerful and striking.”
Without quite meaning to, One pins him with the fearsome stare she uses on first-year cadets who try to bullshit her. People tell her that the expression is intimidating, but Spock merely cocks his head and asks, “Is there something about my statement that you did not understand?”
“Are you trying to tell me that I'm beautiful?”
“Beautiful has wide range of meanings. I wished to communicate more exactly.” He pauses, considering the glasses spread on the table before him. “It is possible that the alcohol has made me somewhat more...verbose than normal.”
One counts the glasses in front of her. There are definitely four of them, and somehow a fifth one in her hand.
“Do you think we should stop?”
Spock nods gravely.
“I am uncertain of the risks of alcohol poisoning in human-Vulcan hybrids.”
He rises from the chair carefully, his hands - long-fingered and strangely delicate, One notices - splayed over the tabletop in case he needs to steady himself. He doesn't, and One sees the brief look of triumph that flashes across his face when he realizes he can still stand upright.
“I believe my motor control is sufficient to walk you back to your dormitory. If you will permit me, of course.”
One nods her assent. They don't hold hands or link their arms, but she can feel him standing closer to her than he had when they had walked to the bar hours ago. Something in him is relaxed in a way that it wasn't before, and One lets herself believe for a moment that it's because of her, not just the alcohol.
At her door, he turns to face her, and though he doesn't kiss her, he stands close enough that he might have. It feels intimate without being sexual, which is about as much as One is ready for.
“If it is agreeable to you, I would like to see you again. Without the use of intoxicants.”
It is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to her. She beams.
“Friday night at seven?”
“Indeed. I shall look forward to our outing.”
Cait is sleeping when One steps inside, and she's nice enough to pretend to continue sleeping when One swipes a tube of mascara from her nightstand. She puts it on in front of the bathroom mirror and ties a green velvet ribbon - the only thing she has of her mother's - in her hair. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to be beautiful after all.
Pairing: Number One/Spock
Rating: PG-13
Summary: At the Academy, One and Spock go on a date together.
Notes: At where_no_woman's February drabble tag, taraljc asked for the first time someone told One she was beautiful and she believed them. This little story is the result. I have no idea if One and Spock could really have been at the Academy together, but it's a pairing I've always wanted to try.
One applies borrowed red lipstick with the aid of a small hand held mirror - the only one she has - and avoids looking at her roommate. She may or may not be wearing the uniform shirt from second year that got too tight when she unexpectedly acquired cleavage her third year. Wearing it makes breathing kind of hard, and One suppresses a small, involuntary thrill of excitement: she is willing to make a sacrifice for fashion because she is going out with a man. If this is what it feels like to be one of the girls, she has to admit it's fun. A little bit, anyway. Not that she'd admit that to her roommate.
“You look pretty,” Cait says.
One rolls her eyes.
“What? You do look pretty.”
“That's what your girlfriends are supposed to say.”
Cait looks a little wounded, and One feels guilty for questioning her sincerity. Cait rarely says things, good or bad, that she doesn't mean.
“I'm going out with Spock,” One says hastily to make up for hurting Cait's feelings.
Cait's eyes light up with positively indecent zeal. One suspects her roommate has been waiting for this moment for three whole years.
“Going out like on a date?!”
One shrugs her shoulders; she has no idea how to tell if Vulcans want to date you or be friends with you. Cait surveys her with an appraising look that threatens the application of eyeliner and the dissection of her wardrobe, and One begins backing cautiously toward the door.
When her back hits its cool metal surface, she exclaims, “Almost late! Gotta run!” and dashes out of the room before Cait can stop her.
***
Two hours later, One is a little drunk. The funny thing is, so is Spock.
“I didn't know Vulcans drank,” she says, lifting her glass. It's her third. Or maybe the fourth. Counting is getting a little difficult now.
“I am half human.”
It's at least the sixth time she's heard him say that in their brief acquaintance. It seems important to him that everyone know that and respect it, which makes her feel a little guilty because she is mostly interested in the delicate points of his ears.
“I believe it is customary at this time to say happy birthday,” he says. His voice is still perfectly level, but his movements have lost some of their catlike grace.
They clink their glasses together. Today, they are both seventeen, even though she is in her fourth year at the Academy and he is in his first. When she drinks, she thinks she can feel him watching the long line of her neck. She puts the glass down and smiles; he gazes at her more intensely, which is maybe the Vulcan equivalent of a smile and maybe the Vulcan equivalent of sexual attraction. She realizes she is hoping for the latter and blushes.
“The flush on your face is a pleasant contrast to your pale skin,” Spock says, which only makes her blush more deeply. She swallows another gulp of her drink, hoping it will give her an excuse for how red she is.
“In addition, the your dark hair calls attention to your blue eyes, and the slope of your nose and cheekbones are both powerful and striking.”
Without quite meaning to, One pins him with the fearsome stare she uses on first-year cadets who try to bullshit her. People tell her that the expression is intimidating, but Spock merely cocks his head and asks, “Is there something about my statement that you did not understand?”
“Are you trying to tell me that I'm beautiful?”
“Beautiful has wide range of meanings. I wished to communicate more exactly.” He pauses, considering the glasses spread on the table before him. “It is possible that the alcohol has made me somewhat more...verbose than normal.”
One counts the glasses in front of her. There are definitely four of them, and somehow a fifth one in her hand.
“Do you think we should stop?”
Spock nods gravely.
“I am uncertain of the risks of alcohol poisoning in human-Vulcan hybrids.”
He rises from the chair carefully, his hands - long-fingered and strangely delicate, One notices - splayed over the tabletop in case he needs to steady himself. He doesn't, and One sees the brief look of triumph that flashes across his face when he realizes he can still stand upright.
“I believe my motor control is sufficient to walk you back to your dormitory. If you will permit me, of course.”
One nods her assent. They don't hold hands or link their arms, but she can feel him standing closer to her than he had when they had walked to the bar hours ago. Something in him is relaxed in a way that it wasn't before, and One lets herself believe for a moment that it's because of her, not just the alcohol.
At her door, he turns to face her, and though he doesn't kiss her, he stands close enough that he might have. It feels intimate without being sexual, which is about as much as One is ready for.
“If it is agreeable to you, I would like to see you again. Without the use of intoxicants.”
It is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to her. She beams.
“Friday night at seven?”
“Indeed. I shall look forward to our outing.”
Cait is sleeping when One steps inside, and she's nice enough to pretend to continue sleeping when One swipes a tube of mascara from her nightstand. She puts it on in front of the bathroom mirror and ties a green velvet ribbon - the only thing she has of her mother's - in her hair. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to be beautiful after all.