Breakfast

Author's note: Well, I was going to put this in Comforts of Home, because a nice, hot breakfast would normally be considered one of those - but then I reconsidered: I think Uhura has more on her mind than I originally realized, and might prefer to make a note-to-self on the subject.

Breakfast

Hot?

Best that way, really.

She smiles internally, thinking of breakfast, and that morning's overheard conversation: A few tidbits snatched from the mouths of two girls whose voices had trailed off when they suspected the no-nonsense Communications Officer was getting close enough to catch their words.

Outside, she looks as professional as ever: No one on the Bridge will see that smile.

She had just received her food: She was holding her breakfast tray in Rec Room Five; her morning tea, delicate and strong, was steaming - fragrant vapour curling upwards. And Commander Spock was headed her way.

She had seen him, first, moving toward her from the doorway, as she turned from the dispensers.

Moving easily – Disciplined body relaxed, powerful stride long and fluid, determined face serene…

…hunger temporarily satisfied.

(Temporarily: Like hers.)

And then she noticed heads turning, more than just a few.

He didn't notice – He likely never would.

And a blonde and brunette in front of her had not seen any reason to conceal their own voracious appraisal from anyone but him.

The blonde had whispered eagerly, "Don't you think he's hot?" - Her willing eyes following greedily as Mr. Spock walked smoothly past.

Under other circumstances, she might not have been so bold: It was patently evident that the First Officer was not paying any attention to her, whatsoever, intent –as he was - upon thoughts of his own.

"Oh," the other had replied keenly - leaning a little, to look around her friend, "Yes. He's hot. Verrrry hot…"

They were not aware of Uhura's aural sensitivity, of course. Or the fact that it was into her eyes that Spock was looking, as he passed - That frank, fleeting glance a faint public shadow of the probing, intimate gaze he had favored her with, a mere hour before.

Hot.

At her station, Lieutenant Uhura puts one hand to the little comm device seated firmly in her left ear, and turns slightly in her chair, pretending she is letting her vision aimlessly stray as she listens intently to the absolutely nothing that is coming through the thing. She rechecks all her monitors; and adjusts one console control with the tip of her index finger, just to be sure. Nothing of importance. Nothing at all.

She turns a little more, and her eyes slide to the right.

He is intent upon his own work; his spine straight, his eyes moving as his focus shifts rapidly from screen to screen. She has a perfect view of his left ear, his jaw, his left bicep flexing as his hands fly purposefully over the console.

His hands.

So hot.

Long fingers, both forceful and delicate.

They are slowing now, their movement almost... leisurely.

She fidgets in her chair, a bit - taps her fingers impatiently, fine-tuning the earpiece that is telling her nothing.

Spock's left hand drops to his thigh, and rests there quietly, a moment, curved over his quadriceps. His head bends, a little, as he leans forward, pulling back his extended left foot - and his hand rises slightly with the shifting, bunching movement of the muscle on which it lies.

On which hers had lain, this morning.

Over which it had moved - with purpose of its own.

She is not going to smile.

His hand returns to the Science console, and his fingers play confidently, surely, over the controls.

She can still feel the blazing path those fingers forged over her naked, waiting skin… Delicate, yes, but strong – and insistent.

Hungry.

(Ravenous, in fact.)

And, hot.

She turns her eyes, and her chair, back toward her own station.

Oh, yes. Spock is hot.

Very hot.

Really, she notes, lifting one hand to her earpiece, some things are just best that way.