An Apple a Day 2/6
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except a pair of Spock ears.
Rating: PG13 - mild adult themes
A/N: This takes place after the TOS episode "The Apple". It will go up to NC17 rating at chapters 4 and 5. UK spelling :-)
2. Uhura
Uhura walked tentatively up to the bio-bed where Mr. Spock lay with his head turned toward her. She had not seen him for four days and was taken aback by his unusually haggard appearance. Could it be the sickbay’s influence on her subconscious, a place where ill people were to be expected? Perhaps after the absence of a few days she simply saw him afresh. His eyes were closed, but unmistakeably sunken, his skin reflected the translucent pallor of a waxwork and even his normally boot-shiny hair was dulled. One beautiful hand lay near to his face, long, strong fingers curled around the edge of the bed. She longed to reach out and grasp it, kiss his hair, tell him she was there to help him get better. Instead she took a steadying breath and said, quietly but professionally, “Mr. Spock Sir, are you awake?”
He slowly opened his eyes, “Lieutenant, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
She sat in the chair by the bed, “Doctor McCoy told me you were hurt and could use a friend.” To her delight, the corners of Mr. Spock’s mouth curled up ever so slightly.
“Occasionally, the Doctor’s instincts are correct.”
“How do you feel?” she asked, fully expecting either a lecture on her use of a word redundant to a Vulcan, or for him to say he was “functioning normally”, which he clearly wasn’t.
“I am…weakened.”
His open admission made her heart sore. “Why don’t we get you out of here Sir? The Doctor has offered me a portable derma kit. You can go back to your quarters and I’ll see to your burn.”
“Ah, I expected a member of nursing staff would be ah, allocated to this task.”
Spock was flustered. Uhura knew that stuttering inflection, if he was in uniform he would be running a forefinger beneath his collar now. “There are no available nursing staff tonight Mr. Spock, it’s your decision, I will understand if you decline the offer.” She watched him closely as his face took on the expression it donned while he raced through warp calculations.
A beat, “Lieutenant, I would be honoured to accept your kind offer. I am aware it is no secret on this ship that I am incompatible with sickbay.”
She pressed her lips together and gave a curt, but firm nod. “Very good Sir, I’ll come by your quarters at 17.00 hours.” She turned to leave but Spock stopped her with a warm, gentle hand on her forearm.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“That’s all right Mr Spock, that’s what friends are for.”
Uhura grabbed the derma kit, offering a thumbs-up to the Doctor and fairly skidded out of the sickbay on her boot-heels. She had about forty minutes left to jump in the shower, get dressed, and head to Spock’s quarters. In the shower she pondered the Doctor’s instructions and realised she would have to attend to Spock’s burn ten times. The distance from her quarters to his was about seven minutes. This, coupled with the amount of time to treat the burn, was not a hugely practical proposal; she would simply have to stay with him. They could play chess, she never won but each match was a learning experience, and Spock was a generous and patient teacher. She would play his Vulcan Lyre and take a padd of the latest communications journals to catch up on. She would also get some food from the mess for them later.
Get a hold of yourself, you sound like a girlfriend.
Doctor McCoy told me to look after him.
Nope, he told you to look in on him.
With a wave of her manicured hand she swept away the cobweb of internal dialogue and began to pack a small duffel with a couple of padds. As an afterthought she slipped in an old Starfleet t-shirt, a pair of light pyjama bottoms and a sonic toothbrush.
Kidding yourself much?
Oh shut up!
In front of her vanity unit, dressed in a colourful, thigh-length sadza batik caftan and a pair of loose, black linen pants, she considered re-dressing in sweats. That might give the impression that she was deliberately dressing down to avoid something, what though? Her brain was in Bantu knots of introspection; could anything be read into Spock’s habitual kindness towards her? She was over-thinking again, he was kind to her because he was Vulcan and, despite what many humans thought, Vulcans were a thoughtful and kind species. Getting out the small machine that softened her nail-glue she ran it over each manicured hand. When the glue became tacky she peeled off the acrylics and wiped them down, leaving just her own, short, clean nails. She didn’t think her usual manicure suitable for a medic, temporary though her posting was. She swung the little duffel over her shoulder, picked up the derma kit and repeated her mantra; you are a Starfleet professional.
Six point five minutes later, she pressed the entry pad on Spock’s door, stomach like she’d swallowed a Horta’s egg. This was ridiculous, if she had to perform field first-aid on him she wouldn’t think twice about it.
“Uhura Sir.”
“Enter.”
The door whispered open and she stepped through into the unknown.
Spock sat at his desk, leaning forward on the chair, playing his computer at 3D chess. He wore a standard issue blue sickbay robe, but had tied it back-to-front, presumably to avoid irritating the burn.
“Computer, end game. I apologise for my informal attire, however it is necessary.”
“Yes Sir, I expected it.”
“I believe under the circumstances, formalities may be dropped. Spock will suffice.”
Relaxing, she smiled, “Of course, my name is Nyota.”
“Yes, I know Nyota.”
“I’ll see to your burn now Spock.”
“Proceed.”
She put down her bag and pulled up a second chair while Spock rose, untied the short robe and sat astride his chair, facing the back. He wore black loose pants, not unlike her own and she noticed that they rode teasingly low, displaying his sacral dimples and the clear outline of his rock-hard rear. Ignoring the unbearable urge to run her hands over him, Nyota unclipped the case for the derma kit. She glanced briefly at the instructions for the painkilling spray and shook it. Looking up for the first time at the burn she saw a raised, inflamed, olive green area in a streak between his shoulder blades. It was peeling lightly in patches and looked painful, but she made no comment.
“Right Spock, I’m going to spray painkiller on this for twenty seconds, can you tell me from when I start spraying when I need to stop?”
“Affirmative. I am sure I have no need of it, however I have no wish for Doctor McCoy to regard you as derelict in your duties.”
She smiled and slowly sprayed at the instructed distance from the burn, after a short while Spock said, “Stop.” next, she switched on the dermal generator.
“OK, this is the dermal generator, I’m going to hold it on each part of the burn for fifteen seconds. I’ve set the timer so you don’t need to time it for me.”
“Very well.”
The small, hand-held device covered about a third of the burn so Nyota set about her work, moving it in stages from the top to the bottom of the wound. The fingers holding the instrument were so close to his skin that his warmth infused them; the area of the burn radiated a desert heat. A spicy odour enrobed his hair and caught distractingly in her nostrils. It was a male smell, Vulcan spices similar to black pepper and cloves, mixed with his own faint tang. A magnetic pull to move closer and kiss his traumatised, alabaster skin was strongly fought. The wing-like sweep of his sharp shoulder-blades, so prominent beneath his uniform, was mesmerizing, and her free hand rose toward him of its own volition, stopping short of contact. Short hairs at the back of his neck cried out to be ruffled, she imagined the intimate, hot prickle of them beneath her fingers as he moved above her, exhaling with force, muscles flexing beneath her arm. The last few seconds of treatment were an eternity. She doubted she breathed at all while Spock patiently endured her ministrations, until the sharp beep of the timer pushed her harshly back to reality.
“You have a good bedside manner, Nyota.”
“Why thank you Spock, I know this probably makes you uncomfortable.”
“The alternative was less acceptable to me, and I am not uncomfortable.”
“I’m done.” she said superfluously, tidying the kit back into its case and moving around the chair to face Spock. Her plan to stay was in error, she felt on-edge and headed towards the door on faun’s legs.
“When should I expect you back, Nyota?”
“Well, I have to do this every hour until 2.00am.”
Spock’s eyebrows raised in tandem. “You have given up your night for me, and you will be tired tomorrow on your day off. I am grateful, however would it not be more efficient for you to stay? We could play a little music and 3D chess, and you may read if you wish, if you do not feel too constrained.”
Nyota was really embarrassed now, “Um, actually I brought a bag with padds…” she tailed off, looking at her feet.
“Very well, excellent, I am feeling markedly better already.” Spock seemed almost relaxed.
“Doctor McCoy hypoed you full of painkiller, didn’t he?” asked Nyota, suspiciously.
“Affirmative, it was a condition of my parole.”
This was going to be interesting.
Rating: PG13 - mild adult themes
A/N: This takes place after the TOS episode "The Apple". It will go up to NC17 rating at chapters 4 and 5. UK spelling :-)
2. Uhura
Uhura walked tentatively up to the bio-bed where Mr. Spock lay with his head turned toward her. She had not seen him for four days and was taken aback by his unusually haggard appearance. Could it be the sickbay’s influence on her subconscious, a place where ill people were to be expected? Perhaps after the absence of a few days she simply saw him afresh. His eyes were closed, but unmistakeably sunken, his skin reflected the translucent pallor of a waxwork and even his normally boot-shiny hair was dulled. One beautiful hand lay near to his face, long, strong fingers curled around the edge of the bed. She longed to reach out and grasp it, kiss his hair, tell him she was there to help him get better. Instead she took a steadying breath and said, quietly but professionally, “Mr. Spock Sir, are you awake?”
He slowly opened his eyes, “Lieutenant, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
She sat in the chair by the bed, “Doctor McCoy told me you were hurt and could use a friend.” To her delight, the corners of Mr. Spock’s mouth curled up ever so slightly.
“Occasionally, the Doctor’s instincts are correct.”
“How do you feel?” she asked, fully expecting either a lecture on her use of a word redundant to a Vulcan, or for him to say he was “functioning normally”, which he clearly wasn’t.
“I am…weakened.”
His open admission made her heart sore. “Why don’t we get you out of here Sir? The Doctor has offered me a portable derma kit. You can go back to your quarters and I’ll see to your burn.”
“Ah, I expected a member of nursing staff would be ah, allocated to this task.”
Spock was flustered. Uhura knew that stuttering inflection, if he was in uniform he would be running a forefinger beneath his collar now. “There are no available nursing staff tonight Mr. Spock, it’s your decision, I will understand if you decline the offer.” She watched him closely as his face took on the expression it donned while he raced through warp calculations.
A beat, “Lieutenant, I would be honoured to accept your kind offer. I am aware it is no secret on this ship that I am incompatible with sickbay.”
She pressed her lips together and gave a curt, but firm nod. “Very good Sir, I’ll come by your quarters at 17.00 hours.” She turned to leave but Spock stopped her with a warm, gentle hand on her forearm.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“That’s all right Mr Spock, that’s what friends are for.”
Uhura grabbed the derma kit, offering a thumbs-up to the Doctor and fairly skidded out of the sickbay on her boot-heels. She had about forty minutes left to jump in the shower, get dressed, and head to Spock’s quarters. In the shower she pondered the Doctor’s instructions and realised she would have to attend to Spock’s burn ten times. The distance from her quarters to his was about seven minutes. This, coupled with the amount of time to treat the burn, was not a hugely practical proposal; she would simply have to stay with him. They could play chess, she never won but each match was a learning experience, and Spock was a generous and patient teacher. She would play his Vulcan Lyre and take a padd of the latest communications journals to catch up on. She would also get some food from the mess for them later.
Get a hold of yourself, you sound like a girlfriend.
Doctor McCoy told me to look after him.
Nope, he told you to look in on him.
With a wave of her manicured hand she swept away the cobweb of internal dialogue and began to pack a small duffel with a couple of padds. As an afterthought she slipped in an old Starfleet t-shirt, a pair of light pyjama bottoms and a sonic toothbrush.
Kidding yourself much?
Oh shut up!
In front of her vanity unit, dressed in a colourful, thigh-length sadza batik caftan and a pair of loose, black linen pants, she considered re-dressing in sweats. That might give the impression that she was deliberately dressing down to avoid something, what though? Her brain was in Bantu knots of introspection; could anything be read into Spock’s habitual kindness towards her? She was over-thinking again, he was kind to her because he was Vulcan and, despite what many humans thought, Vulcans were a thoughtful and kind species. Getting out the small machine that softened her nail-glue she ran it over each manicured hand. When the glue became tacky she peeled off the acrylics and wiped them down, leaving just her own, short, clean nails. She didn’t think her usual manicure suitable for a medic, temporary though her posting was. She swung the little duffel over her shoulder, picked up the derma kit and repeated her mantra; you are a Starfleet professional.
Six point five minutes later, she pressed the entry pad on Spock’s door, stomach like she’d swallowed a Horta’s egg. This was ridiculous, if she had to perform field first-aid on him she wouldn’t think twice about it.
“Uhura Sir.”
“Enter.”
The door whispered open and she stepped through into the unknown.
Spock sat at his desk, leaning forward on the chair, playing his computer at 3D chess. He wore a standard issue blue sickbay robe, but had tied it back-to-front, presumably to avoid irritating the burn.
“Computer, end game. I apologise for my informal attire, however it is necessary.”
“Yes Sir, I expected it.”
“I believe under the circumstances, formalities may be dropped. Spock will suffice.”
Relaxing, she smiled, “Of course, my name is Nyota.”
“Yes, I know Nyota.”
“I’ll see to your burn now Spock.”
“Proceed.”
She put down her bag and pulled up a second chair while Spock rose, untied the short robe and sat astride his chair, facing the back. He wore black loose pants, not unlike her own and she noticed that they rode teasingly low, displaying his sacral dimples and the clear outline of his rock-hard rear. Ignoring the unbearable urge to run her hands over him, Nyota unclipped the case for the derma kit. She glanced briefly at the instructions for the painkilling spray and shook it. Looking up for the first time at the burn she saw a raised, inflamed, olive green area in a streak between his shoulder blades. It was peeling lightly in patches and looked painful, but she made no comment.
“Right Spock, I’m going to spray painkiller on this for twenty seconds, can you tell me from when I start spraying when I need to stop?”
“Affirmative. I am sure I have no need of it, however I have no wish for Doctor McCoy to regard you as derelict in your duties.”
She smiled and slowly sprayed at the instructed distance from the burn, after a short while Spock said, “Stop.” next, she switched on the dermal generator.
“OK, this is the dermal generator, I’m going to hold it on each part of the burn for fifteen seconds. I’ve set the timer so you don’t need to time it for me.”
“Very well.”
The small, hand-held device covered about a third of the burn so Nyota set about her work, moving it in stages from the top to the bottom of the wound. The fingers holding the instrument were so close to his skin that his warmth infused them; the area of the burn radiated a desert heat. A spicy odour enrobed his hair and caught distractingly in her nostrils. It was a male smell, Vulcan spices similar to black pepper and cloves, mixed with his own faint tang. A magnetic pull to move closer and kiss his traumatised, alabaster skin was strongly fought. The wing-like sweep of his sharp shoulder-blades, so prominent beneath his uniform, was mesmerizing, and her free hand rose toward him of its own volition, stopping short of contact. Short hairs at the back of his neck cried out to be ruffled, she imagined the intimate, hot prickle of them beneath her fingers as he moved above her, exhaling with force, muscles flexing beneath her arm. The last few seconds of treatment were an eternity. She doubted she breathed at all while Spock patiently endured her ministrations, until the sharp beep of the timer pushed her harshly back to reality.
“You have a good bedside manner, Nyota.”
“Why thank you Spock, I know this probably makes you uncomfortable.”
“The alternative was less acceptable to me, and I am not uncomfortable.”
“I’m done.” she said superfluously, tidying the kit back into its case and moving around the chair to face Spock. Her plan to stay was in error, she felt on-edge and headed towards the door on faun’s legs.
“When should I expect you back, Nyota?”
“Well, I have to do this every hour until 2.00am.”
Spock’s eyebrows raised in tandem. “You have given up your night for me, and you will be tired tomorrow on your day off. I am grateful, however would it not be more efficient for you to stay? We could play a little music and 3D chess, and you may read if you wish, if you do not feel too constrained.”
Nyota was really embarrassed now, “Um, actually I brought a bag with padds…” she tailed off, looking at her feet.
“Very well, excellent, I am feeling markedly better already.” Spock seemed almost relaxed.
“Doctor McCoy hypoed you full of painkiller, didn’t he?” asked Nyota, suspiciously.
“Affirmative, it was a condition of my parole.”
This was going to be interesting.