Chapter One: Overthinking

Disclaimer: No money made here. All for love.

"You're definitely overthinking this," Gaila says. "It's just an email from your professor, not the end of the universe."

She lies sprawled across her unmade bed, a fingernail file in one hand, her other hand raised in what Nyota knows is the Orion signal of bemusement. On the opposite bed, Nyota sits cross-legged, her largest PADD in her lap. At the moment her hands are also raised—palms up, fingers spread in the universal human symbol of "you've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm not overthinking anything," she says, her eyes on the screen of her PADD. With a sudden motion she stabs one finger at the offending email from her xenolinguistics professor, Commander Spock, the source of her sour mood. "Where Commander Spock is concerned, you have to be precise."

Gaila lifts one eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of the Vulcan commander. "You mean you have to be precise. The heavens forbid that you get a bad grade for once. Give it a rest, Ny. Join the ranks of us mere mortals who don't always get top marks. You don't have to be the best student in every class you take."

Gaila's words are teasing but her halfway-serious tone catches Nyota by surprise.

"That's what you think of me?" she says, lowering her hands and sitting back against the headboard. "That all I'm worried about is outscoring everyone?"

"I don't think it. I know it," Gaila says, ducking as Nyota tosses a pillow at her head.

"You're wrong!" Despite herself, Nyota laughs. More than anyone she knows, Gaila has a way of knocking the wind out of her sails, of making her take herself less seriously and with more humor and grace than is easy or natural. No matter how annoying her roommate can be—her inconvenient love life, her habitual messiness—Nyota values her ability to keep her grounded.

Except that this time she's wrong. Commander Spock is being unfair.

Not that there isn't a kernel of truth to what Gaila says. The semester has barely started and already Nyota is struggling to stay ahead of the reading assignments in Commander Spock's seminar. When other students warned her away from his section before she signed up, she had scoffed. "If he's the hardest professor in the department, then he's absolutely the one I need to take," she said. Now three weeks into the course, that sounds suspiciously like hubris.

Not that the Commander isn't an interesting lecturer, or that his class discussions aren't incisive and illuminating. If anything, Nyota thinks he's one of the best instructors she's had yet at the Academy, and she's had plenty of terrific teachers in her two years here. In the seminar he's especially intense, probably because it is small—15 students—and all are communications majors. More often than not when the dismissal bell chimes, Nyota is so entangled in discussing some finer point with the Commander that when she looks up she's surprised that they are the only two left in the room.

"Okay," Nyota said, "let's say that I'm competitive." She hears a little puff of air as Gaila parts her lips to speak. Hurrying to head her off, Nyota adds, "Overly competitive. Even so, you have to admit that this note would upset anyone."

Gaila tucks Nyota's errant pillow under her head and starts to file one nail. "Read it to me again."

Picking up her PADD, Nyota reads, "To Cadet Nyota Uhura, Member, Class 2254 (est.) Look! See that." She holds up the PADD toward Gaila.

"See what?" Gaila says. "He got everything right."

"Technically," Nyota concedes. "But he didn't have to put that little "estimated" in there. There's nothing in my record to indicate I won't graduate on time."

Gaila rolls her eyes. "Back to my original comment, Ny. You're overthinking this. Commander Spock is a Vulcan, right? They love technicalities. It's who they are. That has nothing to do with you."

Nyota harrumphs loudly. "That's not all," she says, lifting the PADD to eye level. "Be advised that the most recent draft of your paper on Tartainian fricatives includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. Please schedule an appointment to discuss necessary revisions."

"So?" Gaila says. "He's giving you a chance to fix your paper before he grades it. Sounds like you're the teacher's pet alright."

"That's not what he's saying at all! He's questioning my citations, saying there's something wrong with one of them. But I know they're okay. I triple checked everything. I even ran them by Professor Salendar first. He grew up on a Tartainian colony world. If anyone would know if I got my facts straight, he would."

"Commander Spock didn't question your facts," Gaila says. "He questioned your citation of a fact. Since you're being precise, maybe you need to think about what he's actually saying."

Nyota snorts and puts her PADD back on her lap. As much as she hates to admit it, Gaila has a point. Still, she's certain that her documentation is correct. With a sigh, she calls up Commander Spock's office schedule. Most of the available hours are during her other classes, but he has an opening this afternoon. She hesitates for a moment, her finger hovering over her PADD. Later would be better—she'll have time to cool down if she waits. On the other hand, he's wrong, and the sooner he realizes it, the sooner she can get back to finishing up the final draft of her paper.

She taps on the time slot and types out a short reply.

"There," she says with a flourish. "That takes care of that." She feels her mood already starting to lift. She'll meet with Commander Spock in a few hours and set him right. Glancing at the time on her PADD, she plans what she needs to do in the meantime. A short run, maybe down to the marina and back. A quick shower and a light lunch. Start on next week's assignment for her advanced physics class. Answer some emails to friends back home.

And yes, look over the citations in her paper about Tartainian fricatives. Just to make sure she hasn't missed anything. Which, of course, she knows she hasn't.

Narrowing her eyes, she conjures up an image of Commander Spock sitting stiffly behind his desk, his instructor grays impeccable as always, not a hair out of place. "See this," she will say, her finger resting on the citation page of her paper. "Every reference is perfect."

What will the unflappable commander do? Flush in embarrassment? Stutter an apology? Do Vulcans ever admit when they are wrong? It will be interesting to see.

"Why are you smiling?" Gaila asks. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Nyota says smugly. "I'm not thinking about anything at all."

X X

Long before the knock at his door, Spock knows that Professor Artura is making his way down the hallway toward the office. Like the majority of Andorians, he is thin and deliberate in his motions, his blue skin and white hair an aesthetically interesting contrast. Since dividing his time between the computer science and the language departments, Spock has come to know the elderly professor fairly well—or at least well enough to be able to anticipate his moods based on the actions of his never-still antennae.

Right now Professor Artura's antenna are almost flat, looking like two blue stubby fingers pointing directly at Spock. Curiosity, then. The Professor has come on what Spock's mother likes to call a "fishing expedition."

"Commander," he says with a little bob at the waist. "May I come in?"

Stifling a sigh, Spock moves away from the door and Professor Artura follows him to an empty chair beside his desk. "Please," Spock says, motioning to the chair as he settles into his own. Touching the computer screen, he closes the note he had been composing to Cadet Uhura.

If he's feeling more flustered than usual, that's to be expected. Twelve minutes ago he received a baffling note from the cadet, and he's been considering how to reply ever since.

"Be advised," her note said, "that your most recent communication to me concerning my paper on Tartainian fricatives is in error in concluding that one of my citations includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. I have scheduled an appointment to discuss necessary revisions to your assessment. Cadet Nyota Uhura, Class of 2254 (est.)"

Her note is almost a copy of the one he sent to her earlier, but by adding a few words, she's turned the meaning around and changed the tone entirely. While his original note was straightforward and clear cut, Spock is puzzled by the way her reply feels…impolite? Mocking? Angry, perhaps, though he can't sort out why she might be. He is, after all, offering her a chance to update her paper with information not readily available to her. Last night he had been checking the preliminary newsfeed from the J'alia Tou Outer Rim Languages Conference when a presentation about Tartainian fricatives caught his eye. The preeminent authority in the field—the one Cadet Uhura quotes in her paper—admitted that his early work had not been with Tartainian natives but with inhabitants of one of their colony worlds, casting his research conclusions in doubt. While the language spoken on the colony world might be similar to the native speakers, it is more likely that the vowels have drifted or the fricatives have diverged. No one knows yet, but the cadet needs to indicate the possibility in her paper.

When she comes for a conference, he'll check his interpretation of the tone of her note against her vocal and facial expressions. It is quite possible that he is, as his mother sometimes accuses him, overthinking things. After all, the cadet is a gifted student who welcomes criticism and is eager to learn.

On reflection, perhaps that is precisely the reason she sounds annoyed in her note. Rather than explaining the reason for questioning her citation, he requested a conference instead. An exceptional student such as Cadet Uhura would be eager to begin the corrections to the paper and might find an office consultation a waste of her time. She might, he realizes, have felt insulted, or at the very least, misjudged. The idea makes him flush.

He see now that he should have sent her a link to the conference papers without asking her to make an office appointment to discuss them in person. Far off in one corner of his mind he examines and quickly puts aside one possible explanation for his actions—that he enjoys her company and wants to continue their contact outside of the classroom. A possibility, and one that makes him flush again. If that is the case, now that he's brought it to his consciousness, it won't happen again.

All this he thinks in the blink of eye as Professor Artura leans forward in his chair. Again Spock stifles a sigh. The professor is often an unwelcome interruption to the day, indulging in casual conversation –or at least attempting to—and stopping by Spock's office frequently to proffer tea.

"I came to ask your advice," he says in the sibilant lisp characteristic of Andorians. "You know that the dean has approved the funding for teaching assistants next year. I'm looking for someone with a particular interest in the Beta Quadrant languages. The only students I know who are truly fluent in Klingon are graduating this year. I was hoping that you might have a suggestion of someone in your seminar who might be interested. Just for teaching, I think. I'm not doing any research at the moment."

Cadet Uhura is fluent—or nearly so—in Klingon. As far as Spock knows, she is the only one in his seminar who is. Indeed, he doesn't know another student with similar proficiency.

Until now he had not given much thought to the dean's notice about future teaching assistants. He hesitates a fraction of a second before answering.

"I am sorry," he says, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the desktop. "I can think of no candidates who would be suitable for you."

Professor Artura's antennae droop closer to his head, an indicator of his disappointment.

"Oh!" he says, surprised. "I was so hopeful you would know someone!"

With that he stands slowly. Spock rises and tucks his hands behind his back, watching Professor Artura make his way out the door. As the sound of his shuffling footsteps echoes down the hall, Spock sits and tabs open his computer screen.

Cadet Uhura's note springs open. Reading it once more, this time Spock is convinced she is annoyed.

With a tap of his finger he sends her the link to the conference papers. For a moment he considers following up with a note explaining why—but she will understand that he's recognizing—belatedly—that she can read and understand them for herself.

With another tap he calls up his office calendar and scans the appointment time she requested. He lets his finger hang in the air for a moment, and then with a decisive push, presses delete.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I've been away for awhile writing original short stories and playing in the "Elementary" fandom, but Star Trek always has been and always shall be my best friend.

I hope you enjoy where this new story takes us. Although I've never been much of a fan of epistolary novels—you know, those books that are set up as a series of letters between characters—I do think it will be fun to explore what happens when Spock and Uhura write all kinds of things to each other, starting in their Academy days and going all the way through "Darkness." If that interests you as well, let me know!