Since Jim Kirk's first improbable report of him, since she first met him, Nyota has thought of the soi-distant Selek as Elder Spock, or Spock The Older, or Spock From Another Timeline, some sort of relative to her Spock, an odd amalgam of uncle and twin. As she leans back against her Spock's broad tense chest, rising and falling with his careful breathing, she looks for and finds his clean lines in the craggy cliffside of 'Selek''s weathered face, the tiny flickers of warmth grown to a radiant, affectionate kindness as Selek regards her with his infinite eyes.
Still, he doesn't look like her Spock. But when she closes her eyes and three dust-dry fingertips settle into the meld points on her face, she startles at the jarring familiarity, because he feels like her Spock, the easy slide into her mind, the banked heat of him, the fractal comprehension and straightforward strength. He feels like her Spock, but not identical, further recesses, layers, dimensions, experiences and regrets and losses.
And, she notes wistfully, she doesn't feel that deep buried fire, her first confirmation that Spock -- her Spock -- loves her.
The Elder Spock gathers his presence together, slipping from her mind as smoothly as he entered. "I see," he says softly, and she opens her eyes to find her head bowed, to see his hands folded simply in his lap. "Thank you for allowing me to."
Nyota gathers herself, too, matching her breaths to her Spock's even pace until the rolling surge inside her quiets somewhat. "I can imagine a universe where we didn't love each other. But I'm glad I don't live there." Her Spock tightens his hands fractionally on her shoulders, a thousand words in the press of his fingers.
The Elder Spock smiles at her -- smiles! -- and in that unSpocklike gesture she sees her Spock most of all. "Nyota Uhura," he says, as warmly as anyone ever has, "I do not believe any such timeline exists."
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Technically, it's not a threesome
Date: 2010-03-24 03:13 pm (UTC)Still, he doesn't look like her Spock. But when she closes her eyes and three dust-dry fingertips settle into the meld points on her face, she startles at the jarring familiarity, because he feels like her Spock, the easy slide into her mind, the banked heat of him, the fractal comprehension and straightforward strength. He feels like her Spock, but not identical, further recesses, layers, dimensions, experiences and regrets and losses.
And, she notes wistfully, she doesn't feel that deep buried fire, her first confirmation that Spock -- her Spock -- loves her.
The Elder Spock gathers his presence together, slipping from her mind as smoothly as he entered. "I see," he says softly, and she opens her eyes to find her head bowed, to see his hands folded simply in his lap. "Thank you for allowing me to."
Nyota gathers herself, too, matching her breaths to her Spock's even pace until the rolling surge inside her quiets somewhat. "I can imagine a universe where we didn't love each other. But I'm glad I don't live there." Her Spock tightens his hands fractionally on her shoulders, a thousand words in the press of his fingers.
The Elder Spock smiles at her -- smiles! -- and in that unSpocklike gesture she sees her Spock most of all. "Nyota Uhura," he says, as warmly as anyone ever has, "I do not believe any such timeline exists."