Games

Sulu and Scotty leave the Briefing Room looking just a little too grim.

The Captain chuckles, and pokes his head out the door to watch as – shoulders slumped - they head down the corridor. "Better luck next time, gentlemen," he calls after them, with sympathy a little too hearty to be real; then turns back into the room, shaking his head just a bit.

His amusement isn't altered by the sight of the frown that greets him next.

"Could have been worse, Bones," he says, making McCoy's scowl deepen further.

"Yeah. Could have been you," replies an irascible drawl. "He has an unfair advantage, Captain," the doctor concludes, glancing over his shoulder, "With a face like that…"

The object of this remark says nothing. Seated at the table, he continues his task of gathering, sorting, and putting away a variety of colored plexine disks, as serenely as though he hadn't heard the doctor's expression of repressed frustration.

The doctor raises his voice, just a hair - although he knows full well that he had been heard very clearly, in fact. "Captain, you sure they don't need a new Science Officer on the Intrepid?"

"No, Bones, we need him here," Captain Kirk replies.

He turns to the Science Officer. "Well done, Commander," he says, with the formality he prefers to set aside, if he can. For his First Officer, he makes an exception: After an evening of (comparatively) relaxed equality, he considers it sort of a system re-set, allowing the other a dignified return to full Vulcan reserve.

Mr. Spock simply nods.

Kirk smiles and looks at Uhura. She is collecting the cards, neatening them with a few swift taps on the tabletop. "Good Night, Lieutenant," he says, and his warm tone makes it clear he means it.

Uhura looks up with a smile. "Good Night, Captain, sleep tight."

Then the Captain is moving toward the door, gathering Doctor McCoy in his wake. He throws a quick grin over his shoulder, before speaking to the still-frowning surgeon. "Oh, yeah, Bones," he says, as the door opens in front of them, "We definitely need Spock here: Someone has to keep you in line."

"And keep you humble, you –" The rest of the Doctor's retort is cut off by the closing 'whoosh' of the door.

There is a small silence, then, in the Briefing Room.

Lieutenant Uhura slides the cards into their sleeve, and securely closes the flap. She looks at the deck in her hands, weighs it in her palm; and speaks without moving, her voice very quiet, "Commander, I wondered… do you have plans, later, to play chess, or something, with the Captain?"

Commander Spock's voice is level, detached; he has almost completed his task. "No, Lieutenant, I have made no arrangements of that kind."

After a second, Uhura turns and brings the package of cards over to where Mr. Spock is straightening disks, long fingers wrapped around them, caging the columns. She drops the deck unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. It makes a dull thud; his hands still.

There is another tiny silence. Then the last of the poker chips are slipped into their case, the lid firmly secured.

She steps closer - well into his personal space - and turns, arms crossed on her breast. As she leans back against the table, one hip negligently grazes lightly against his arm. She is definitely too close for Vulcan comfort.

Spock places her deck of cards neatly onto the box of poker chips - His hand drops, then, to his thigh, unobtrusively breaking their physical contact.

There is another silence, before he lifts his eyes to hers. His face is unreadable.

She looks down at him. "You played well, tonight, Mr. Spock." She uncrosses her arms, and presses her hands against the edge of the table, her back arching just a little, and just for a second. It is probably an unconscious action – a stretch, maybe, after sitting too long. "You're surprisingly lucky."

He starts to speak; and she shakes her head, looking down at him, still, unsmilingly. "I meant 'lucky.' You might believe in skill, sir, more than luck - but I'm pretty sure that everyone here tonight would agree that you're lucky."

Again there is a silence. Then Uhura leans forward, her body shifting markedly toward his; and his eyes follow hers through the movement as far as they can, until she comes too close. "If you play your cards right, for the rest of the evening," she says, her voice dropping as she comes closer, "you might find…" Her lips are close enough to his ear that she knows he has to be feeling the breath behind her words. As she whispers, her lip brushes his skin delicately; and in that instant, she hears a tiny hitch in his breathing. She smiles: "…you are very lucky, indeed, Commander."

His eyes sweep her form as she straightens away from him. "Hmmm," is all he says.

It is all he needs to say: Her widening smile speaks for both of them.

She lays her cards out on the floor between them, inhaling the warm dry spice-scented air of his quarters. Her voice is quiet - but there is an undeniable note of triumph within it as she says, tapping the cards to illustrate her words, "Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a straight eight makes fourteen." She looks up at him, to see whether he concurs with her assessment. Apparently he does: He does not disagree. He simply waits.

She reaches and moves the little golden peg: Five, five, five-take-away-one. Fourteen.

She sits back and eyes him appraisingly a moment, then says, "Left boot."

He says nothing. He unfolds his legs from underneath him; and bends the left one up. He leans forward, his arms wrapping around thigh and calf, to undo the bindings. Watching him, she takes in the play of muscles beneath his clothing, the arc of his neck, the unconscious grace in everything he does... Without meaning to, she exhales – an appreciative sigh. His motion stills; only his eyes shift to meet hers. Then they shift away, veiled - and he starts to remove the boot, fully aware that she is watching him.

She is on her hands and knees, then, one hand outstretched; her fingers barely brush his as they finish working the fastenings. All movement stops. His eyes rise to hers once more, then drop to where her skin is making fleeting contact with his own. She moves a little closer, and reaches to pull off his boot, very slowly, revealing a long foot wrapped in fine black Vulcan wool.

She sits back, taking the boot with her. She places it next to her, caressingly - with evident satisfaction, and delight with her trophy.

Dark eyes study her a moment.

Long pale fingers flip over the card on top of the stack, gather up its fellows, begin efficiently to shuffle.

Her eyes move from those fingers up over the strong hands - against which the bowed cards bridge - to the flashing braid at the ends of the long blue sleeves. She can just see the hint of black beneath the edge of the blue.

She considers carefully: It can't be hopeless. Can it? One boot, two socks, blue tunic, black shirt, black thermal undershirt, pants, underwear... No, not hopeless surely?

She usually wears more.

The cards make a small silken rustle in the silence, as he deals almost too swiftly to see. He places the remainders precisely, neatly, mid-way between them, aligned with the edge of the board. He waits politely for her to pick up her cards, before collecting his own. One glance, and he has selected two to place tidily in front of him.

She fans her cards, studies them - shifting them a few times into various combinations. With a small groan, she drops two onto the ones he has chosen. Without comment, he neatens them.

She looks at his face. Licking her lips, she slowly reaches out and lifts part of the remainder stack – very careful to make her cut as annoyingly random as she can…

Composed, Spock will ignore such provocations.

A five. (A five!)

She looks at him again, trying to suppress her smile – probably unsuccessfully – but he'd never comment on her lack of success in such matters. His face reveals nothing, and she wants – just for a second – to shake his restraint. But that can wait.

"Nine," she says, the card making a quick 'thwap' as she snaps it down.

"Nineteen."

"Twenty-seven."

"Go," he says.

There is a pause. Long fingers move the golden peg forward for her; and she finds herself unable to look away from them.

It is her turn; she should just play. She blinks; she plays. As the cards are revealed, one by one - hers, then his – she shivers, just a little, in the warm, warm air.

She counts out, and takes her seven points, her gold peg jumping forward five-and-two.

But Spock will definitely gain twelve or more this hand, she thinks. That means…

His voice is even. She feels the little shiver, again - dancing up her spine and spreading across her skin in a delicious anticipatory wave. "Fifteen eight, a straight eight, and nobs are seventeen." He coolly moves his peg in one go: No 'three fives and a two' for him - and no unseemly triumph. He raises his eyes to hers. Then, after a lingering second, they rake boldly over her body in frank assessment and meet hers again, one black brow rising.

He will not make a demand.

She slowly reaches up and pulls out her ponytail-holder, shaking out her hair, luxuriously, to fall around her. She raises both hands and runs her fingers through it sensually, languidly - lifting it off her neck - dropping it heavily to swirl around her shoulders in a dark silken cascade. This time, she is the one aware of being watched…

Then she holds the hair band up for him to see. He extends one hand, palm upwards, and she drops the band into it – perhaps a bit dismissively.

Without comment, he adds it to the items already neatly arrayed next to him: Feminine Starfleet-issue boots, stockings, red dress, two earrings, a necklace, a single bobby pin. A hair band.

She spares a passing glance for the unexposed hand face-down in front of him. She knows she's given him two points – and another two, with the five from the deck - oh, and two more with the pair - but it can't be helped…

Hopeless.

She smiles into his eyes, her lips curling lazily upward.

Behind her smile, she's thinking: He probably won't get twelve…. Next turn, she'll have the crib: She'll get two hands to his one. (Then after that, she'll count first.) She is determined: She'll go straight for his Blue.

Spock silently flips the remaining hand. Her generous complacency and pleasurable anticipation change to unremitting shock: Impossible! It simply isn't possible… But, in fact, three fives are surrounding the King of Hearts she gave him, and the five already facing upward on the top of the deck is enough to explain the tiny smile in the eyes of the sword-wielding king.

She gasps, and her companion glances at her momentarily before directing his attention to the game-board - where his silver pin is leapfrogging off the end of the track to the winning position. His thumb and forefinger release their delicate grasp; and as his hand moves away - revealing the remainder of the board - the inequality of their play is laid bare.

Not only has he won, Uhura thinks, he's thoroughly spanked her.

His eyes are raised to hers, once more.

He moves just a little, wrapping his arm, again, around one folded-up leg. His other hand is on his raised knee - His eyes don't drop as he lowers his chin to rest on it, his head angled, a little, to one side.

Uhura is still gaping at him. "I can't believe it!" she says at last, "You double-skunked me."

Spock's eyes cut to the board just for a second, then back to her: "I won, Nyota. Again."

"I know, but…"

There is a little gleam, now, in his eye (of satisfaction? amusement? anticipation? She isn't sure – maybe all three). His frank stare is back – She hasn't moved, and his eyebrow is rising.

She shakes her head, still disbelieving; but she will do this right. Gazing into his eyes - daring him to look away - she reaches up to undo the front clasp of her bra; she peels it off - as gracefully as she can, as insouciantly – very much aware of those deep, deep brown eyes.

She holds it up, for him to see. Without comment, he lifts his chin, turns his hand palm-upward between them. She drops the garment into it. His leg shifts downward as he turns his body to add the latest to his spoils… she feels his vigilance relaxing… and then she is in his arms, wrapping herself around him. Only his sense of balance - and reflexes swiftly employed - prevent her knocking him flat. His hands close about her.

She is half-laughing, half-scolding, "You're the luckiest man I've ever met!"

Unguarded eyes gaze into hers for a moment. Then pale lids drop.

In silence, long fingers sweep over her skin, drifting unhurriedly southwards from her scapulae. Warm hands pull her body in closer to his; and her legs tighten around his waist. He murmurs softly: "I cannot deny it."

She smiles, burying her face in his shoulder.

There is a small, contented silence, before she feels him draw breath to speak once more.

"You do realize, Nyota," he says, "that you will always be -" Hearing that certain something in his voice, she makes a small breathy purr-like sound; and he falls immediately silent. One strong hand gently traces her spine upward, draws her hair to one side; his lips graze her skin. He tilts his head to rest alongside hers, and he exhales softly, his breath caressing her bare shoulder.

"… the one who wins? Yes, Spock, I know."