Playing With Toys: You Got Played! (Part III/XII)
Title: Playing With Toys: You Got Played (Part III)
Author: TeaOli
Characters/Pairings: Uhura, Gaila, Spock, eventually Uhura/Spock
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff
Summary: Spock and Uhura get played.
Author's Note: Just a little bit to get y'all through til Sunday. (I actually came into work for two hours on MY DAY OFF, to post this.)
Read Part I: The Toy
Read Part II: Come Out and Play
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Uhura jumped up and began clearing dinner dishes from the table.
Spock remained seated and mentally kicked himself for his ill-advised comment about her (unusually pleasing) physical features.
“I hope you’ll like dessert,” she called from the kitchenette. “It’s not Rigelian, but I figured it would go well with the meal and that it would be something you would enjoy.”
She walked back over to his eating alcove and, with a small shrug, grabbed the two small bowls she’d placed on the table earlier.
“Forgot these,” she explained unnecessarily. Spock merely nodded in acknowledgement.
When she returned from the rooting around in the chiller, the two bowls were occupied by something with bright orangey-yellow skin, covered in spikes. A mound of pale green substance protruded from each.
Her smile was hesitant as she approached the table.
“It’s kiwano sorbet - African, not Rigelian - at least the fruit is African. We don’t usually make it into sorbet at home,” she said in a bit of a rush. “Like I said, though, I thought the flavor would go well with dinner.”
Noting her discomfort, and reasonably certain that his earlier statement had something to do with it, Spock decided to move the evening into his originally intended direction.
“Cadet,” he said, eyeing the way her hands trembled around the bowls, “perhaps you might like to consume dessert on the sofa? I believe you would be more comfortable there.”
Uhura’s eyebrows flew up.
“In the s-sitting area, s-sir?” she stammered. “You wouldn’t feel… odd, eating in an area made for socialization, entertaining and, very occasionally, study?”
Spock realized, with another twinge of something that was three quarters amusement and one quarter annoyance, that she was simply parroting his own views - stated during their very first meal together - back to him.
Amusement won the battle of emotions and he gifted her with one of his rare grins.
“Indeed, Cadet,” he said, the teasing note slipping back into his voice. “It would seem we have spent enough time in one another’s presence to ensure that you have rubbed off on me.”
Uhura nearly dropped the bowls at his choice of phrase.
Spock swallowed a groan and motioned for her to precede him to the sitting area.
__________________________
“Cadet, have you given any more thought to what you would like to do once you have graduated?” Spock knew the question was somewhat lame. Experience told him that Nyota Uhura thought of little else. Perhaps he should be more specific.
“Lieutenant,” she said before he could speak further, “I think you know exactly what I want to do as soon I graduate.”
Spock stuffed another spoonful of the cold sorbet into his mouth before speaking. Uhura had been correct; he found the flavor of the kiwano - something akin to a cucumber, mixed with a banana sprinkled with lime juice - quite pleasing. And in light of the Rigelian meal and the affects the cadet’s presence seemed to be having on him, refreshing.
“I meant to ask,” Spock told her once his most recent flush had faded, “‘Have you given any thought to what you would like to do other than serve on the Enterprise?’.”
The cadet’s hand stopped mid-scoop and she let her spoon fall back into her bowl. Her eyes grew wide with apprehension. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the bowl on his coffee table and turned to face him.
“Sir?” Her voice trembled almost as much has her hands had earlier. “Sir, are you trying to tell me something? Have I already been disqualified for consideration?”
Once again, Spock mentally kicked himself. He had wished only to encourage the cadet to consider a fuller range of possibilities for her future. It was never his intention to frighten her or break her heart. And he suspected Enterprise held her heart.
“No decisions regarding Enterprise have been made beyond choosing her captain and first officer,” he assured her. When she sagged with relief, he nearly sagged with her. “I merely wished to ascertain whether or not you have given consideration to any alternatives, as I have frequently advised you to do.”
Her shoulders stiffened a little, but she appeared to be nowhere near as tense as she had been before he had explained himself. His Vulcan ears caught her muttering, “constantly, endlessly, incessantly, nearly obsessively” as she studied her hands which rested in her lap.
She looked up and turned to face him, drawing her legs up beneath her in what he recognized as her “serious talk” posture. It was a position she often assumed as she became fully engaged in a conversation.
As he expected her to do, she reached behind her to grab a cushion as she opened her mouth to speak. It was another of her habits to hug one of the colorful throw pillows to her chest as she warmed to a topic.
He did not expect the first sound out of her mouth to be a sharp yelp of pain.
“Ow!” she cried, and she darted a glance over head shoulder. “Damn it, Spock! What the hell?” Her head swung back around in order to increase the effectiveness of her glare, and she seemed to remember to whom she was speaking. “I mean, damn it, sir! What the hell are you hiding behind the cushions?”
He should have been able to stop her:
She was a human woman; he was a half-Vulcan male.
She was just shy of completing her third year at the Academy; he was a fully trained Starfleet officer.
But she was slightly pissed and in pain. And he was nearly frozen with (what would soon be) embarrassment for the third time that evening.
Uhura reached into the corner of the sofa and pulled out three small bits of red fabric, one of which sported a big needle laced with crimson thread.
She glanced at Spock again and eyebrows drew together.
Then she shook out the largest of the bits of fabric to reveal a tiny, but oddly familiar, red turtleneck and sweater. Her frown deepened.
The second bit proved to be a miniature red miniskirt. She very nearly scowled at him.
When the third bit showed itself to be a minute replica of the red briefs that were part of the uniform for female cadets, her head shot up again and she fixed him with the fiercest glare he ever seen on her outside a bar brawl.
“You!” she accused, pointing a finger at him. “You’re Gaila’s supplier?”
Several thoughts crashed into Spock’s head at that moment.
First, Cadet Uhura knew about her roommate’s toy habit.
Second, she believed that he had some part in the manufacture of said toys.
Three, if he chose, he could save himself from additional embarrassment by allowing her to continue to believe he worked in concert with Cadet Gaila.
But his Vulcan side, which had apparently been absent for the majority of the evening, won this round and he decided to go with the truth.
“Not at all, Cadet,” he informed her. “Last week Cadet Gaila gifted me with what she described as a ‘therapy doll,’ and I unfortunately tore some of its garments two days ago. As the damage appeared too extensive to make repair a reasonable pursuit, I opted to manufacture replacement garments. Today presented my first opportunity to do so.”
Uhura leaned back against the arm of the sofa, all anger clearly faded from her posture. Spock suspected she was holding back laughter, in fact.
“So, you’ve been making doll clothes,” she asked, not quite hiding the giggle that threatened.
“Indeed,” he admitted with a nod.
And then her shoulders stiffened again, and Spock could almost see the gears turning in his head. (Obviously he was spending too much time in the company of humans if he was using such colloquialisms in his internal dialogue.)
“Wait a minute,” she said-demanded, really. Her dark eyes were speculative, now. “I want to see this ‘therapy doll’.”
Spock had truly hoped she would not ask that of him. But he decided to comply anyway.
“If you will wait here, Cadet, I will return momentarily,” he told her as he pushed himself up off the sofa and made his way to his sleeping chamber.
When he returned, as promised, moments later, Cadet Uhura was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, head down as she stroked an object that rested between her knees and seemed to speak softly to it.
Quietly, Spock crossed the room and cleared his throat when he reached the other end of the sofa.
She looked up.
Spock held up his Nyota Uhura plushie.
Once again, Cadet Uhura frowned fiercely. She jumped up and peered closely at the doll, who dressed in loose wheat-colored trousers and a pale orange T-shirt. Precisely as she was dressed.
“She came with a wardrobe?!?” Her face was a mask of fury, jealousy and incredulity.
Spock glanced down at the Spock plushie dangling from her hands. It was dressed in a replica of his Academy instructor’s uniform.
“Indeed, it is most complete and contains many of the garments I have observed you wearing,” he said. “However, I believe it is a common rumor on campus that I live in that uniform.” Go to Part IV
Author: TeaOli
Characters/Pairings: Uhura, Gaila, Spock, eventually Uhura/Spock
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff
Summary: Spock and Uhura get played.
Author's Note: Just a little bit to get y'all through til Sunday. (I actually came into work for two hours on MY DAY OFF, to post this.)
Read Part I: The Toy
Read Part II: Come Out and Play
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Uhura jumped up and began clearing dinner dishes from the table.
Spock remained seated and mentally kicked himself for his ill-advised comment about her (unusually pleasing) physical features.
“I hope you’ll like dessert,” she called from the kitchenette. “It’s not Rigelian, but I figured it would go well with the meal and that it would be something you would enjoy.”
She walked back over to his eating alcove and, with a small shrug, grabbed the two small bowls she’d placed on the table earlier.
“Forgot these,” she explained unnecessarily. Spock merely nodded in acknowledgement.
When she returned from the rooting around in the chiller, the two bowls were occupied by something with bright orangey-yellow skin, covered in spikes. A mound of pale green substance protruded from each.
Her smile was hesitant as she approached the table.
“It’s kiwano sorbet - African, not Rigelian - at least the fruit is African. We don’t usually make it into sorbet at home,” she said in a bit of a rush. “Like I said, though, I thought the flavor would go well with dinner.”
Noting her discomfort, and reasonably certain that his earlier statement had something to do with it, Spock decided to move the evening into his originally intended direction.
“Cadet,” he said, eyeing the way her hands trembled around the bowls, “perhaps you might like to consume dessert on the sofa? I believe you would be more comfortable there.”
Uhura’s eyebrows flew up.
“In the s-sitting area, s-sir?” she stammered. “You wouldn’t feel… odd, eating in an area made for socialization, entertaining and, very occasionally, study?”
Spock realized, with another twinge of something that was three quarters amusement and one quarter annoyance, that she was simply parroting his own views - stated during their very first meal together - back to him.
Amusement won the battle of emotions and he gifted her with one of his rare grins.
“Indeed, Cadet,” he said, the teasing note slipping back into his voice. “It would seem we have spent enough time in one another’s presence to ensure that you have rubbed off on me.”
Uhura nearly dropped the bowls at his choice of phrase.
Spock swallowed a groan and motioned for her to precede him to the sitting area.
__________________________
“Cadet, have you given any more thought to what you would like to do once you have graduated?” Spock knew the question was somewhat lame. Experience told him that Nyota Uhura thought of little else. Perhaps he should be more specific.
“Lieutenant,” she said before he could speak further, “I think you know exactly what I want to do as soon I graduate.”
Spock stuffed another spoonful of the cold sorbet into his mouth before speaking. Uhura had been correct; he found the flavor of the kiwano - something akin to a cucumber, mixed with a banana sprinkled with lime juice - quite pleasing. And in light of the Rigelian meal and the affects the cadet’s presence seemed to be having on him, refreshing.
“I meant to ask,” Spock told her once his most recent flush had faded, “‘Have you given any thought to what you would like to do other than serve on the Enterprise?’.”
The cadet’s hand stopped mid-scoop and she let her spoon fall back into her bowl. Her eyes grew wide with apprehension. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the bowl on his coffee table and turned to face him.
“Sir?” Her voice trembled almost as much has her hands had earlier. “Sir, are you trying to tell me something? Have I already been disqualified for consideration?”
Once again, Spock mentally kicked himself. He had wished only to encourage the cadet to consider a fuller range of possibilities for her future. It was never his intention to frighten her or break her heart. And he suspected Enterprise held her heart.
“No decisions regarding Enterprise have been made beyond choosing her captain and first officer,” he assured her. When she sagged with relief, he nearly sagged with her. “I merely wished to ascertain whether or not you have given consideration to any alternatives, as I have frequently advised you to do.”
Her shoulders stiffened a little, but she appeared to be nowhere near as tense as she had been before he had explained himself. His Vulcan ears caught her muttering, “constantly, endlessly, incessantly, nearly obsessively” as she studied her hands which rested in her lap.
She looked up and turned to face him, drawing her legs up beneath her in what he recognized as her “serious talk” posture. It was a position she often assumed as she became fully engaged in a conversation.
As he expected her to do, she reached behind her to grab a cushion as she opened her mouth to speak. It was another of her habits to hug one of the colorful throw pillows to her chest as she warmed to a topic.
He did not expect the first sound out of her mouth to be a sharp yelp of pain.
“Ow!” she cried, and she darted a glance over head shoulder. “Damn it, Spock! What the hell?” Her head swung back around in order to increase the effectiveness of her glare, and she seemed to remember to whom she was speaking. “I mean, damn it, sir! What the hell are you hiding behind the cushions?”
He should have been able to stop her:
She was a human woman; he was a half-Vulcan male.
She was just shy of completing her third year at the Academy; he was a fully trained Starfleet officer.
But she was slightly pissed and in pain. And he was nearly frozen with (what would soon be) embarrassment for the third time that evening.
Uhura reached into the corner of the sofa and pulled out three small bits of red fabric, one of which sported a big needle laced with crimson thread.
She glanced at Spock again and eyebrows drew together.
Then she shook out the largest of the bits of fabric to reveal a tiny, but oddly familiar, red turtleneck and sweater. Her frown deepened.
The second bit proved to be a miniature red miniskirt. She very nearly scowled at him.
When the third bit showed itself to be a minute replica of the red briefs that were part of the uniform for female cadets, her head shot up again and she fixed him with the fiercest glare he ever seen on her outside a bar brawl.
“You!” she accused, pointing a finger at him. “You’re Gaila’s supplier?”
Several thoughts crashed into Spock’s head at that moment.
First, Cadet Uhura knew about her roommate’s toy habit.
Second, she believed that he had some part in the manufacture of said toys.
Three, if he chose, he could save himself from additional embarrassment by allowing her to continue to believe he worked in concert with Cadet Gaila.
But his Vulcan side, which had apparently been absent for the majority of the evening, won this round and he decided to go with the truth.
“Not at all, Cadet,” he informed her. “Last week Cadet Gaila gifted me with what she described as a ‘therapy doll,’ and I unfortunately tore some of its garments two days ago. As the damage appeared too extensive to make repair a reasonable pursuit, I opted to manufacture replacement garments. Today presented my first opportunity to do so.”
Uhura leaned back against the arm of the sofa, all anger clearly faded from her posture. Spock suspected she was holding back laughter, in fact.
“So, you’ve been making doll clothes,” she asked, not quite hiding the giggle that threatened.
“Indeed,” he admitted with a nod.
And then her shoulders stiffened again, and Spock could almost see the gears turning in his head. (Obviously he was spending too much time in the company of humans if he was using such colloquialisms in his internal dialogue.)
“Wait a minute,” she said-demanded, really. Her dark eyes were speculative, now. “I want to see this ‘therapy doll’.”
Spock had truly hoped she would not ask that of him. But he decided to comply anyway.
“If you will wait here, Cadet, I will return momentarily,” he told her as he pushed himself up off the sofa and made his way to his sleeping chamber.
When he returned, as promised, moments later, Cadet Uhura was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, head down as she stroked an object that rested between her knees and seemed to speak softly to it.
Quietly, Spock crossed the room and cleared his throat when he reached the other end of the sofa.
She looked up.
Spock held up his Nyota Uhura plushie.
Once again, Cadet Uhura frowned fiercely. She jumped up and peered closely at the doll, who dressed in loose wheat-colored trousers and a pale orange T-shirt. Precisely as she was dressed.
“She came with a wardrobe?!?” Her face was a mask of fury, jealousy and incredulity.
Spock glanced down at the Spock plushie dangling from her hands. It was dressed in a replica of his Academy instructor’s uniform.
“Indeed, it is most complete and contains many of the garments I have observed you wearing,” he said. “However, I believe it is a common rumor on campus that I live in that uniform.” Go to Part IV