Putting on Civvies
May. 19th, 2009 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tree_and_leafLook! It's fic! And there are no Anglo-Catholics!
In fact, it's shameless, fluffy, pre-ship Spock/Uhura fluff. And I'm not even ashamed of it.
Movie-verse, pre-film. 1134 words. Did I mention that it's embarassingly fluffy?
Cadet First Grade Nyota Uhura had been Commander Spock’s adjunct for a term and a half, and they had fallen into a comfortable pattern of meeting for the last hour of classes on a Friday, drinking tea and discussing any matters of concern with the students, interesting research questions and, latterly, not only music, but something approaching a mild form of faculty gossip. The Commander, she discovered, was not only academically brilliant in an impressively wide range of fields linguistic and mathematical. He was also passionate – and how odd that she used the word, and knew it to be true, for all his perpetual reserve – about music, and a passably talented amateur on the Vulcan lyre. She wasn’t entirely sure when the meetings had become the highlight of the week, but somehow they had. There was something restful about them, though she wasn’t sure, again, why the word presented itself, because conversation on historical linguistics or xeno-semantics with Commander Spock were often the toughest intellectual challenge of the week, too, but there it was. Perhaps it was because he never made demands on her that she couldn’t meet – no, that wasn’t quite right, either, because sometimes their conversations sent them both haring off to the library or the audio archive banks – say rather, he never demanded that she be anything that she wasn’t; in fact, she felt more herself with him than she had done since childhood. Except she wasn’t sure what she was to him: a talented pupil, yes, who was becoming a valued colleague. But while she would have liked to call him a friend, she wasn’t entirely sure if Vulcans even thought in those categories. Especially about younger members of the opposite sex, and especially if they were in statu pupilari.
Normally Nyota drank Ceylon tea, without milk and with a dash of lemon, and Commander Spock drank Sencha; he had once told her – it had been the first thing approaching a personal remark he had made – that he disliked khy’lar, a semi-fermented herbal drink which was the nearest Vulcan had to tea, though well-meaning acquaintances could not be dissuaded from making it for him.
Tea-making was usually her job, largely because the Commander tended to get involved in his reading or his talk and forget it. Today, though, when she came in, he was actually pouring boiling water into an old brass tea-kettle – at least, she supposed that was what it was – which had been sitting gathering dust on the top of a cupboard for as long as she had known his office. And – she sniffed – that wasn’t Ceylon, and it wasn’t Sencha either; in fact, it was “Khy’lar? I didn’t think you liked it, Commander?”
“I do not,” said the Commander, and inclined his head towards her chair, “Please, Cadet, sit down – but there are occasions on which, nevertheless, it is the proper drink.”
Oh. Nyota sat down, and tried to remain calm. Occasions, she recalled, such as marking a move from a merely business relationship to something analogous to a respectful friendship. She was touched; and how like the Commander to stick to tradition. Of course, having rules and formalities to play by could be something of a lifeline for the reserved; in some ways, she thought, Vulcans might have got on better with humans in the Middle Ages, for all their barbarism.
The Commander put a tea glass in front of her; Vulcan work of the last century. Austere, but with a certain serene, almost moving elegance.
He put a glass in front of his own place, then poured the Khy’lar, starting with her glass. The liquid was faintly violet, and smelled of spice and dust.
Then he sat down and picked up his glass. “Cadet,” he said, looking her full in the face, “I value you as a colleague, as a scholar, and an individual. When we are not on duty, and when we are alone, my name is Spock.”
She raised her own. “And mine is Nyota.” He bowed, slightly, and she reciprocated. Then they both tipped back their glasses.
And now, perhaps, we can go back to talking like sensible people, thought Nyota; but the Commander – Spock – drained his glass, almost as if he were nervous, and hastily poured himself another glass.
“And –” he paused, awkwardly. She had never seen him awkward, before; even when he was failing at social chit-chat at faculty parties, he had always been assured in himself.
He switched to Vulcan. “And, when we are speaking Vulcan together, I would like, I mean –”
Good Lord, she thought, he’s going to invite me to use the Familial Respect. Vulcan had three forms of the second person singular, which were difficult to translate into English; the Respect, which was translated ‘you’, the rather confusingly named Familial Respect, for close colleagues or for distant or elderly family members – or, up till a century ago, one’s parents – which was clumsily rendered with the Quaker ‘thee’ and the Familiar, ‘thou’ (tu, du). Now that was a compliment, she thought, and tried not to blush.
“May I say ‘thou’?”
Nyota nearly dropped her glass, and she felt the blood start to her cheeks. Thou. It was… like being naked. Nonsense, she corrected herself, swiftly; not in the least like that. Spock would never proposition one of his pupils (though she found herself, shamefully, thinking that part of her wouldn’t have minded).
Spock looked – there was no other word for it – alarmed. “I’m not proposing anything against regulations,” he said hastily in English. “I have far too much regard for you to wish to cause you any discomfort. But I would value your friendship.”
“Then thou hast it, Spock,” she said, smiling slightly, and taking a sip of the tea which, to be honest, was rather horrible.
Spock nodded, apparently not sure what to say. Then he frowned at the liquid in his glass, and said in English, “Nyota, what happened to the Sencha I bought yesterday?”
“The cleaner moved it, as usual,” she said. “It’s under that Padd, for some inexplicable reason. Would you like some decent tea? – um. Sorry.”
Spock almost smiled. “Yes. And I’ll make it; you do more than your share as it is. You read this article of Graves' in Xenolinguistics Today, and tell me if you think it’s as wrong-headed as I do.”
“Thanks, Spock,” said Nyota, and was hardly even surprised at how natural it felt.
Not exactly like being naked. More like changing into civvies, and relaxing.
“There’s a concert of Vulcan music on Sunday night at the Embassy I thought might interest you,” said Spock, pressing buttons on the replicator. “I could give you a lift, if you liked, and we could have dinner somewhere first.”
She thought that she might rather like Spock in civvies.
In fact, it's shameless, fluffy, pre-ship Spock/Uhura fluff. And I'm not even ashamed of it.
Movie-verse, pre-film. 1134 words. Did I mention that it's embarassingly fluffy?
Cadet First Grade Nyota Uhura had been Commander Spock’s adjunct for a term and a half, and they had fallen into a comfortable pattern of meeting for the last hour of classes on a Friday, drinking tea and discussing any matters of concern with the students, interesting research questions and, latterly, not only music, but something approaching a mild form of faculty gossip. The Commander, she discovered, was not only academically brilliant in an impressively wide range of fields linguistic and mathematical. He was also passionate – and how odd that she used the word, and knew it to be true, for all his perpetual reserve – about music, and a passably talented amateur on the Vulcan lyre. She wasn’t entirely sure when the meetings had become the highlight of the week, but somehow they had. There was something restful about them, though she wasn’t sure, again, why the word presented itself, because conversation on historical linguistics or xeno-semantics with Commander Spock were often the toughest intellectual challenge of the week, too, but there it was. Perhaps it was because he never made demands on her that she couldn’t meet – no, that wasn’t quite right, either, because sometimes their conversations sent them both haring off to the library or the audio archive banks – say rather, he never demanded that she be anything that she wasn’t; in fact, she felt more herself with him than she had done since childhood. Except she wasn’t sure what she was to him: a talented pupil, yes, who was becoming a valued colleague. But while she would have liked to call him a friend, she wasn’t entirely sure if Vulcans even thought in those categories. Especially about younger members of the opposite sex, and especially if they were in statu pupilari.
Normally Nyota drank Ceylon tea, without milk and with a dash of lemon, and Commander Spock drank Sencha; he had once told her – it had been the first thing approaching a personal remark he had made – that he disliked khy’lar, a semi-fermented herbal drink which was the nearest Vulcan had to tea, though well-meaning acquaintances could not be dissuaded from making it for him.
Tea-making was usually her job, largely because the Commander tended to get involved in his reading or his talk and forget it. Today, though, when she came in, he was actually pouring boiling water into an old brass tea-kettle – at least, she supposed that was what it was – which had been sitting gathering dust on the top of a cupboard for as long as she had known his office. And – she sniffed – that wasn’t Ceylon, and it wasn’t Sencha either; in fact, it was “Khy’lar? I didn’t think you liked it, Commander?”
“I do not,” said the Commander, and inclined his head towards her chair, “Please, Cadet, sit down – but there are occasions on which, nevertheless, it is the proper drink.”
Oh. Nyota sat down, and tried to remain calm. Occasions, she recalled, such as marking a move from a merely business relationship to something analogous to a respectful friendship. She was touched; and how like the Commander to stick to tradition. Of course, having rules and formalities to play by could be something of a lifeline for the reserved; in some ways, she thought, Vulcans might have got on better with humans in the Middle Ages, for all their barbarism.
The Commander put a tea glass in front of her; Vulcan work of the last century. Austere, but with a certain serene, almost moving elegance.
He put a glass in front of his own place, then poured the Khy’lar, starting with her glass. The liquid was faintly violet, and smelled of spice and dust.
Then he sat down and picked up his glass. “Cadet,” he said, looking her full in the face, “I value you as a colleague, as a scholar, and an individual. When we are not on duty, and when we are alone, my name is Spock.”
She raised her own. “And mine is Nyota.” He bowed, slightly, and she reciprocated. Then they both tipped back their glasses.
And now, perhaps, we can go back to talking like sensible people, thought Nyota; but the Commander – Spock – drained his glass, almost as if he were nervous, and hastily poured himself another glass.
“And –” he paused, awkwardly. She had never seen him awkward, before; even when he was failing at social chit-chat at faculty parties, he had always been assured in himself.
He switched to Vulcan. “And, when we are speaking Vulcan together, I would like, I mean –”
Good Lord, she thought, he’s going to invite me to use the Familial Respect. Vulcan had three forms of the second person singular, which were difficult to translate into English; the Respect, which was translated ‘you’, the rather confusingly named Familial Respect, for close colleagues or for distant or elderly family members – or, up till a century ago, one’s parents – which was clumsily rendered with the Quaker ‘thee’ and the Familiar, ‘thou’ (tu, du). Now that was a compliment, she thought, and tried not to blush.
“May I say ‘thou’?”
Nyota nearly dropped her glass, and she felt the blood start to her cheeks. Thou. It was… like being naked. Nonsense, she corrected herself, swiftly; not in the least like that. Spock would never proposition one of his pupils (though she found herself, shamefully, thinking that part of her wouldn’t have minded).
Spock looked – there was no other word for it – alarmed. “I’m not proposing anything against regulations,” he said hastily in English. “I have far too much regard for you to wish to cause you any discomfort. But I would value your friendship.”
“Then thou hast it, Spock,” she said, smiling slightly, and taking a sip of the tea which, to be honest, was rather horrible.
Spock nodded, apparently not sure what to say. Then he frowned at the liquid in his glass, and said in English, “Nyota, what happened to the Sencha I bought yesterday?”
“The cleaner moved it, as usual,” she said. “It’s under that Padd, for some inexplicable reason. Would you like some decent tea? – um. Sorry.”
Spock almost smiled. “Yes. And I’ll make it; you do more than your share as it is. You read this article of Graves' in Xenolinguistics Today, and tell me if you think it’s as wrong-headed as I do.”
“Thanks, Spock,” said Nyota, and was hardly even surprised at how natural it felt.
Not exactly like being naked. More like changing into civvies, and relaxing.
“There’s a concert of Vulcan music on Sunday night at the Embassy I thought might interest you,” said Spock, pressing buttons on the replicator. “I could give you a lift, if you liked, and we could have dinner somewhere first.”
She thought that she might rather like Spock in civvies.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 10:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 10:28 pm (UTC)It depends on the language. French has a division between the Formal (vous) and the Familiar (tu), but I don't know enough whether there are Terran languages which have a threefold division.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 11:05 pm (UTC)There are three levels of formality in some languages, per Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tutoyer), including Basque, Bengali, and Hindustani. It also looks like some languages that make a formal/informal distinction do share a tradition of toasting for the initiation of the use of the informal/intimate form.
It looks like many of the Eastern languages are more complex and/or approach the question differently enough that they don't really quite fall into these divisions -- though I'm not a speaker and not a linguist, so I could certainly be wrong.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 11:12 pm (UTC)I have actually met Germans who still 'drink brotherhood' when offering each other the familiar (strictly speaking, it has to be the older person who offers, too) - though I think the tradition's mostly died out.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 11:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 10:24 pm (UTC)(I need a Spock/Uhura icon, darn it.)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-20 04:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-19 10:43 pm (UTC)Brainy specs yay!
Date: 2009-05-20 04:56 pm (UTC)Putting on Civvies
Date: 2009-05-20 10:25 am (UTC)I love the distinctions in second person singular.
Re: Putting on Civvies
Date: 2009-05-20 04:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-20 11:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-20 11:18 pm (UTC)Spock couldn't be schmoopy in the unlikely event that he tried with both hands for a week, but that, for some reason, doesn't seem to stop people trying... Though I have seen some good fic out there; it's just that there's so much, it's difficult to find what you're looking for.
Also, I am disconcerted by the tendency of new! fanon! Kirk to behave like a reject from Torchwood; I know he always had a girl in every spaceport, but he was also quite good at his job... (And I always felt one of the reasons he wenched on shore-leave was compensation for regarding the crew, rightly, as off-limits). I did enjoy the film, though, for all its silly moments.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-20 11:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-20 11:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-02 02:36 am (UTC)Thanks for writing such lovely stories!
(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-02 04:03 pm (UTC)