Thrae's Days

like I have time for this...

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Fic: Five Times Nyota Uhura Fucked Up with Jim Kirk and the First Time She Didn't
Okay, here'd be the first thing I've actually finished in about four years.  In a fandom that barely existed last time I posted something. Ah, I'm old.

Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Genre: Gen (an implied touch of Jim/Gaila because canon), a bit of drama/angst, a bit of humour, academy fic, the start of a friendship that isn't one yet...
Summary: What it says on the tin. Nyota has to admit that recently she might actually be beginning to like Kirk. Just a little bit. From time to time.
Rating: PG-13, because Jim's a potty mouth and so is Nyota's brain.
Warnings: References to genocide, including the Holocaust. Less seriously: A touch of xenophobia and a couple of fanon cliches.
Beta: The lovely amaranthtraces, who not only fixed my grammar and pointed out confusing stuff, but gave me the idea behind one of the scenes.

Five Times Nyota Uhura Fucked Up with Jim Kirk and the First Time She Didn’t.

She can’t believe what she’s overhearing.

“What do you mean you’re not going?” she demands. “It’s mandatory for third and fourth-class cadets.”

“Yep. Nothing like a nice round year like 2255 to make for an even bigger-than-normal dog and pony show.” Kirk twists around in his seat, smirking slightly as he sees who he’s talking to. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure they’ll let me get away with missing it, assuming they notice I’m not there at all.”

Her lips purse involuntarily. “It’s disrespectful.”

His smile grows tight. “You honour the dead your way, and I’ll do it mine. I prefer to do it with a decent bottle of scotch and/or Romulan ale, if I can get it. Besides, you’re shiny and patriotic enough for both of us.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “You can’t leave off the drunken revelry for one weekend? Not everything’s about you, Kirk. Jesus.”
He tilts his head and studies her for a disconcertingly long moment then scoops his PADD into his pack and stands. “Not everything is, no.”

Kirk’s grumpy-looking seatmate glares at her as he leaves. She’s left wondering if she missed something.

It isn’t until the Academy’s 93rd Annual Remembrance Ceremony reaches the Ks in the list of Medal of Honour recipients and the citation honouring the sacrifice Acting Captain George Kirk made for his crew and family that Nyota realizes maybe Kirk isn’t blowing off the memorial just because he can.

Suddenly the idea of booze seems pretty appealing.

Nyota sighs. Ethics debates are interesting and always challenging, but now she’s paired with Kirk of all people. She can out-argue any of her other classmates hands down, but Kirk could sell calculation sub-routines to Vulcans if he so desired.

Actually, between the two of them, the debate might be lively enough to impress even Commander Kaasd. She spares a moment to fantasize about earning extra credit for the pleasure of giving Jim Kirk a verbal smack down.

Her PADD lights up with their topic, and her newfound enthusiasm ebbs away. Of course this one is personal. The woman Nyota always admired most died on that planet, lost to the ethical ‘dilemma’ she’s about to have to argue. Though maybe she can control which side she argues. She often enjoys playing devil’s advocate, but in between her homeland-induced loathing of anything remotely resembling genocide and the fact that her greatest hero fell victim to this particular one...

“You should argue the governor’s perspective,” she tells Kirk, reading over the details of the assignment. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’ve probably got enough charisma to pull it off.”

She’s expecting a crude witticism about his ‘charisma’ or his talented tongue or maybe even an argument over her claiming the easy part. But she doesn’t get a reply at all. She turns to look at him and finds him staring at the PADD on his desk, fists so tight around his chair’s armrests that his knuckles are white.


“I am not,” he says through clenched teeth, still staring at the assignment on the PADD, “arguing that monster’s case.”

Nyota rolls her eyes and looks back at her own PADD. “Someone has to, and you got off light in your last debate.” She stabs at the device, bringing up a summary of the Tarsus IV tragedy. “It’s easy enough to argue the logic of the plan. If the supply ships hadn’t arrived earlier than expected, he’d have been responsible for saving four thousand lives.”

Kirk’s head turns slowly towards her, expression incredulous and far more livid than she’s ever seen him. “No. He’d still be responsible for murdering four thousand, one hundred and seventeen people.”

Nyota checks her PADD where the stats are disturbingly laid out in a table for her. Kirk’s got the number bang on.

“I agree,” she says, then shrugs. “But it doesn’t matter. One of us has to take his perspective, and I still think you’d do a better job.”

“It matters,” Kirk says as he hauls himself out of his chair. “And I’m not arguing anything.”

He stalks off towards the professor, ignoring her hissed “Topics aren’t optional, Kirk. You won’t get reassigned!”

Except, apparently, he will. The rumour mill suggests Admiral Barnett himself steps in to excuse him from the assignment when Kaasd refuses, though Nyota has no idea how Kirk manages to swing it. She complains bitterly about it to Gaila after she’s forced to defend Hoshi Sato’s murderer to Kirk’s utterly uninspired replacement. She only manages to place third on the assignment, and Kirk doesn’t even have the decency to show up and observe the debate.

Four years later, after Jim temporarily resigns his command under Regulation 619 when they’re sent to assist during a planetary famine, Nyota recalls the debate and reminds herself that not everything’s always about her, either.

Nyota spends the Wednesday nights she’s not overwhelmed with coursework at the by-invite-only academy club for improvisational musicians. The group is eclectic, to say the least, but that’s part of what makes it so much fun. Nyota’s one of the few singers; the others range from saxophonists and drummers, to cellists and classical pianists, to an Andorian flabbjellah player and that new Vulcan professor who plays his lyre so beautifully.

She loves it.

But when Kirk’s name comes up as a possible addition to the group, she can’t help but vehemently voice her objections. He’s all flash and charm. No depth. No substance. That’s not what the group is about. She feels slightly guilty as she successfully blackballs Kirk, but only because ch’Thalar pouts through zher next solo in protest.

Besides, Kirk’s already bullied his way into her xenolinguistics club, and she’ll be damned if she has to spend more of what little spare time she has with him.

After the Enterprise saves Earth and avenges Vulcan, after the injured have been cared for, the repairs started, the dead grieved, and the Captain confirmed, there’s a plethora of ceremonies, tours, and diplomatic posturing where politicians express their almost-believable gratitude to the command team and general crew. Nyota enjoys an adorable presentation from a group of Bengali kindergarteners, complete with crayoned representations of their heroes. Most of the kids picked Spock, though Sulu was also quite popular. She has a good chuckle over a wild-eyed depiction of what can only be McCoy.

Eventually, an impeccably dressed woman gifts Kirk with a Stradivarius; the Soil, to be exact. Nyota scoffs at both the absurdity and extravagance of the gesture, until she notices the way Kirk’s hands shake as he picks up the priceless violin. After a moment, he gently turns it over and hesitantly traces the very distinctive grain of its back.

After another long moment, Kirk thanks the woman quietly, almost reverently, and disappears with the instrument as soon as he can get away with it. Nyota can’t contain her curiosity and instead of beaming immediately to Nairobi as she’d planned, she follows him and sneaks into the observation area above one of the Academy’s smallest music practice rooms.

Kirk warms up with what sounds like an archaic rock piece, and though it sounds wonderful to Nyota, he breaks off halfway through. He rests the Soil on his knees and stares at it. Just when Nyota is about to give up on hearing anything more, he takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes, picks up the violin and bow, and plays.

It’s a piece Nyota instantly recognizes. The haunting melody of Theme from Schindler’s List flows from the Soil. While his playing isn’t on par with the holo she’s seen of the long-dead Itzhak Perlman who brought Williams’ most famous piece to life on this very instrument so long ago, Kirk still manages to infuse an amazing amount of skill and emotion into it. She’s not sure if he’s playing it at two thirds speed due to technical inexperience or artistic licence, but whatever the reason it works so very well for him.

It’s only years later that Nyota truly appreciates the power of having heard a survivor of a one genocide that killed thousands channel the agony of failing to stop another that engulfed billions through a piece composed for millions murdered three centuries past on an instrument that had outlived every one of them.

As it is, she has enough musical experience to know she’s witnessing something unique and painfully private. She’ll never admit to the tears streaming down her face.

When Kirk reaches the end, after the last echoes die away, he places the Soil and the bow back in their case. He runs long fingers along the strings and over the F-holes, across the bridge and down to the fine tuners. Then he reactivates the stasis field, closes the case, and rests his elbows on his knees, head bowed in thought - or perhaps memory.

She can’t make herself disturb him. She never tells him what she heard.

Kirk donates the Soil to the Global Museum of Music the next day. The official statement he gives is that he can’t in good conscience take such a treasure into space where it wouldn’t be played well enough or heard often enough by the people of Earth. It’s a valid point, though she suspects the donation is more out of self-preservation than self-sacrifice.

Nyota, in her campus quarters that evening—she can’t face the thought of her boisterous family in her current frame of mind—considers Kirk’s brilliance at improvising on the bridge, in the field, during an argument, and is almost devastated that she blew the opportunity to collaborate with that talent through music.

Nyota has been dreading the landing party simulations. Not the scenarios themselves; she’s looking forward to testing her translation and negotiation skills in a more real-universe setting. But it’ll be the first time she’s had to collaborate closely with cadets from other divisions and specialty tracks in job-specific ways.

Command cadets have a reputation—well deserved, in Nyota’s opinion—for being arrogant and egotistical. She supposes a good leader needs to be confident, but by the time a Starfleet officer is actually given a command, anyone who can’t learn wisdom and humility from their years of experience has already been weeded out of the promotion pool. There’s a reason only a few cadets ever make it all the way to Captain, and it’s not just the shortage of ships.

Unfortunately for Nyota, her grade will be heavily influenced by the decisions of her team leader, who, statistically, is almost assured to be one of the Command track cadets who will never be trusted with an actual command.

She manages to talk herself down into an almost zen-like acceptance of the inevitable. Then she meets her team. And swears. Loudly. In Japanese, which she’s been practising lately.

Kirk grins at her. “Nice to see you too, Uhura! Everyone, this is our lovely communications officer.”

McCoy is on deck as their medical ‘officer’. There’s also two security guards, neither of whom Nyota knows.

They’re given their scenario objective: the Federation needs to secure a chemical compound with medical potential from a relatively unknown confederation. They’re then beamed onto the surface of the “alien” world, more accurately described as a set from a low-budget action holo.

They’re met by three sentients that Nyota has never seen before. They’re humanoid and have skin tones approximating those of Earth. They also have only four fingers on each hand and a very distinctive set of ridges running down their forearms from elbow to the tips of their not-pinkies. She notes that Kirk is studying them, too. He mutters something that sounds like ‘Gretchen’ under his breath, but shakes his head when she quirks an eyebrow at him, motioning for her to get started.

The negotiations go fairly well. Neither party is familiar with the language of the other, but the other side also has a linguist, and between the two of them they manage to create a pidgin that gets most of their needs across.

One of the aliens, the second in command if Nyota’s reading them right, eventually brings out a sample of the compound they’re supposed to be acquiring. McCoy runs a scan and rolls his eyes, but dutifully announces “Well, ‘Captain’. According to these completely and utterly realistic readings, this here is a bona-fide miracle drug. I’m sure it’ll cure everything from ingrown toenails to Iverson’s disease.”

Nyota glares at him, but Kirk just takes the sarcasm in stride. “Guess we’ll have to get some then. What are they asking for it, Uhura?”

They hash out a deal. Kirk holds out longer than Nyota thinks is necessary, but the trade is still fair enough that the alien leader and his second seem happy so she doesn’t make an issue of it. She smiles and indicates what she thinks is agreement to her counterpart. But rather than produce an electronic document or even old-fashioned paper for Kirk to sign, the alien commander grabs her around the neck and powers up his weapon against the back of her head.

It startles the hell out of her, and it takes her a second to remember it’s only a simulation. She hopes she didn’t misspeak and screw up her grade, but then figures there needs to be some aspect that tests the abilities of the command track and security cadets. She looks at Kirk to see what he’s going to do to resolve the situation, ready to translate his attempt at peacekeeping.

Except it doesn’t really need translation. Kirk takes one look at her situation, cold-cocks the nearby translator, grabs the second in command, taking a hit to the face in the process but successfully immobilizing him and then primes his phaser against his neck.

“Kirk!” She can’t help but exclaim. “What the hell are you doing?”

He spares her a glance but then immediately looks back to the alien leader, who still has her in a headlock. “Trust me.”

Well, isn’t that reassuring? The security cadets have their phasers drawn as well, gazes flicking from Kirk to her captor and back again, waiting for exactly what she’s not sure. McCoy, at least, has the sense to step back out of mid-fray, exactly as a team medic is supposed to. “I swear, Kirk, if your cowboy bullshit costs me this credit I’ll—”

“Work on your acting before re-applying?”

She huffs in annoyance, but realizes he’s right. She’s broken character.

The standoff lasts another excruciating few moments, before the alien leader suddenly chuckles and releases her. A second later, Kirk has released his hostage as well, and the two of them are slapping each other’s backs and pulling up a file to formalize.

“Where’d you learn about Grechlans?” McCoy asks later as he runs a decontaminator over the scrape on Kirk’s cheek, tilting Kirk’s jaw back and forth as needed like he’s a wayward child. “I’ve never heard of them.

They’re in a waiting room; their instructors will debrief and grade them each separately, though the team result will weight the mark heavily.
“Read about them when I was a kid,” Kirk answers. “Will you get that thing away from my face?”

“Where’d you read about them?”

Kirk flushes and looks away like he’s going to try to avoid the question before giving a resigned-sounding sigh. “Klaleth the Courageous. Number 17. There’s a scene with a Grechlan scouting party at one point. I remembered the arm ridges.”

McCoy lowers the instrument and starts to chuckle. “You were a Klaleth fan? Really?” His laugh grows stronger as Kirk purses his lips in not-quite-irritation. “Did wittle Jimmy pre-order and stay up until midnight every release date to be able to read the very first pixel delivered?”

Nyota can’t help but chime in. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as an avid reader, but I suppose a trashy adventure serial is about right.”

“Admit it,” McCoy says, still laughing—and ignoring Kirk’s pissily muttered “Worked, didn’t it?”—“You wouldn’t have bet he could read at all.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

She gets through the debriefing, but only barely. The instructors compliment her skill in deciphering a language she’d never heard before and her ability to keep Starfleet’s orders in mind while negotiating the trade deal. They’re not so enamored with her teamwork, however, specifically her reluctance to follow her Captain’s lead. Still, she gets an acceptable pass on the simulation and won’t have to redo the course.

Things aren’t too bad until the Grechlan ‘commander’ pulls her aside afterwards. His accent is strong, but he speaks perfectly adequate Standard.

“Your companion thinks highly of you, cadet.” He seems to sense Nyota’s confusion and adds, “James.”

She snorts. “I doubt that.”

“My people do indeed trade hostages in a show of trust at the end of important negotiations. However for the display to be meaningful, the hostages must be of similar value in terms of strength or usefulness. James chose to capture and exchange my highly skilled second-in-command rather than my translator, the easier and more obviously equivalent target.” He slaps her heartily on the back, almost knocking her over. “He considers your talents very worthy.”

Nyota’s not sure she credits Kirk with that much understanding or insight, but a hastily suppressed part of her is warmed by the possibility.

In any case, Nyota really hopes she never has to do a training simulation with Kirk again. This one certainly isn’t going to dim his cockiness anytime soon.

Nyota checks her chronometer for what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes. If Kirk doesn’t show up soon and she has to suffer this meeting alone with two disgruntled admirals, she’ll—

Which is, of course, right when he arrives, out of breath, red-eyed and wearing what is obviously yesterday’s dishevelled uniform, including pants that actually have some sort of biological stain on the leg that she really doesn’t want to think about. He looks like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet.

She’d really hoped the maturity he’s shown the last couple of weeks would be more than a passing phase.

“Seriously? You couldn’t leave your flavour of the week ten minutes earlier to freshen up?”

He looks taken aback for a moment, but then spreads his arms with a tired grin and declares “What can I say? Sometimes the ladies just can’t get by without me.”

She’d blame Gaila for his condition if she hadn’t just visited her miserable and still-recovering friend at Starfleet Medical. Which just makes Kirk’s behaviour that much more infuriating. “Isn’t it about time you grew up?”

He grin turns sour, but he stifles whatever response he has planned when Admiral Singh’s aide tells them they can go in.

It’s a smaller and shorter debriefing than those she’s already been through, just going over the order of events from her interception of the Klingon transmissions to Kirk’s recognition of Vulcan’s distress as being caused by the ship that attacked the Kelvin. She can’t imagine the gruelling interrogations Kirk’s had to endure over his subsequent mutiny, marooning, command, and ultimate victory, and suddenly she feels a bit bad for calling him out so harshly. He probably deserves to enjoy what little downtime he’s been granted, though she’s surprised the meeting didn’t start off with a sharp reprimand.

Captain Quan eventually ends the official inquiry and looks at Kirk. “I hear congratulations are in order, Cadet.”

Kirk, who’s been sitting ramrod straight in his chair throughout the meeting despite his obvious fatigue, blinks and then almost shyly returns the smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Nyota has no idea what they might be congratulating Kirk for, other than saving the planet, which, shockingly, Quan didn’t have to hear through the grapevine. Whatever guesses she might have made are quickly sidelined when the captain asks, “Boy or girl?”

“Boy, ma’am.” He hesitates and then announces proudly, “Peter James Kirk.”

Wait, what?

Admirals Singh and Peprah both smile back at Kirk. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all,” Peprah says.

“My brother was en route from Ganymede and didn’t get back until after it was all over. The labour didn’t go smoothly and my sister-in-law needed a friendly face.”
Oh. What a remarkably mature reason for looking like crap.

Singh nods his head. “I’ll have Lieutenant Phlennex shuffle your afternoon appointments so you can catch some sleep. Bring a holo of your nephew next time to show him in recompense; he loves babies.”

Peprah snorts. “Right, it’s Phlennex that loves babies.”

Singh barely glances at her. “Dismissed, cadets.”

Nyota and Kirk both salute. When they get out the door, Nyota turns to apologize, but Kirk ignores her and walks away as fast as his exhaustion can carry him.
She supposes she deserves that.

Nyota leans on the bar, sipping her drink and watching the dance floor. They all need this. After the solemnity of the memorial for Vulcan and far too many funerals for friends, family, and classmates lost to Nero’s madness, the Academy needs some relief.

The party starts low-key, just groups of emotionally drained students chatting in hushed, still-respectful voices. As the evening wears on, the occasional laugh can be heard, and eventually the cadets have had enough alcohol to loosen their remaining inhibitions, and a full-blown thank-god-we’re-alive party is underway.

Nyota smiles as she catches sight of Christine Chapel bumping and grinding with two of Enterprise’s orderlies as well as an engineer, her beer bottle waving high above all four of their heads to the beat of the classical rap currently playing.

The song changes to one that Nyota recognizes as a favourite of Gaila’s. Her former roommate generally prefers modern Middle Eastern or Indian compositions when it comes to Terran music, but this one is a ridiculous example of early twenty-first century North American hip hop. Gaila has always been fond of its determined underdog theme.

Gaila hadn’t really wanted to come to the party, but Nyota convinced her she needed to make her way into the public at some point, and her fellow survivors and the underclassmen will be more understanding and accepting of her changed appearance than the general public will be.

She sees Gaila standing at the edge of the floor watching others dancing, somewhere she would never have been before. Gaila loves to dance; she would normally be the first one out there, probably dragging Nyota along with her too. Nyota is about to return the favour when someone else beats her to it.

Jim Kirk swoops in from behind Gaila, wrapping one overly familiar arm around her hips and leaning his chin on her shoulder, apparently oblivious to the deep scars marring that side of her face mere centimeters from his own. He says something; Nyota’s angle isn’t clear enough for her to read his lips. Gaila shakes her head, but instead of accepting the demurral—and really, when has Kirk ever let anything go?—he lets his hand slide down her arm and entwines her green fingers with his pale ones. He steps around her, walking backwards and tugging her with him onto the dance floor, flashing that too-charming smile of his.

Gaila still looks like she wants to refuse, but Kirk simply holds on and starts swiveling his hips to match the latinesque beat of the song. Another tug on her hand and a whisper in her ear has Gaila quirking the first real smile Nyota has seen since she was released from Medical, and soon her chest is tight against his, their hips matching as he leads her into a modified mambo.

Kirk is smiling, still whispering in Gaila’s ear, and when they turn, Nyota is pleased but not a little surprised to see his expression matched in Gaila’s wide grin. They move together skillfully, sensuously, and it seems no one else in the hall exists in that moment for either of them.

If Gaila wasn’t one of her closest friends and Kirk wasn’t, well, Kirk, it would be downright hot.

However, the next morning a mere glance at the headlines on her news feed has Nyota stalking angrily down the corridor to Kirk’s dorm room. He is going to do something about this if she has to murder him to make it happen. Cocky son of a bitch garnering even more attention at the expense of—

“What the hell do you mean you can’t withdraw it?” Kirk’s angry voice echoes down the hall despite the closed door of his quarters. Nyota pauses in the doorframe, her own rage subsumed under the tide of his. The unlocked door opens at her request but Kirk either doesn’t notice or is deliberately ignoring her.

He sits at the main comm panel at his desk, on the line with an overly stylish male civilian who is looking down at a PADD rather than at Kirk. A reporter, if Nyota has to guess, from the very publication that posted the infuriating story.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the reporter says, clearly not sorry at all. “That story is currently our most popular special interest piece and thus is unlikely to be removed at this time.”

“Your ‘special interest piece’ may be getting billions of hits, but you’ve managed it by being condescending, insulting, insensitive, xenophobic fucktards.”

Ah. Perhaps her anger is misplaced. It seems Kirk isn’t complicit in the headline after all. And he seems to be every bit as angry about it as she is. She’s suddenly glad she didn’t just barge in shouting as she originally intended.

Also, she’s clearly underestimated his appreciation for antiquated slang. She thinks her great-grandmother once used the word “fucktard” in her presence, but she hasn’t heard it since.

“I hardly think the story insults Captain Kirk. It clearly emphasizes his humility in the face of—”

“It’s Cadet Kirk,” Kirk insists, cutting off the unctuous little worm. “And I was talking about how you described Cadet Gaila as, and I quote: ‘an Orion transient with a congenital deformity.’ Gaila is a first class cadet at Starfleet Academy who is due to graduate with full honours in less than a month. She took Earth citizenship six years ago and has participated fully in all the rights and responsibilities that status grants her. She was stationed on the USS Farragut during the Narada Incident and her quick thinking and heroic actions kept atmospheric shielding in place over part of the engineering deck, saving the lives of four Starfleet officers besides herself and resulting in scarring to her face. So, even if you can’t be bothered to correct your factual errors on her status in the Federation, she is a war hero who acquired her injuries in service to said Federation and you will damn well show her some respect.”

Nyota has to admit that recently she might actually be beginning to like Kirk. Just a little bit. From time to time.

Too bad his righteous anger doesn’t seem to sway the twit on the comm. He prods at his PADD with his stylus before deigning to answer in a bored tone: “The public doesn’t have the attention span to take note of every action or participant from the Narada Incident. I will, of course, forward your concerns to my editor, who may contact you for further information once she is available—”

Kirk cocks his head. “Here’s an idea. How about you make her available right now?”

“Unfortunately Editor Raymail is a very busy woman and is unable to interrupt her schedule to deal with every complainant seeking to speak to her.”

“Ah,” Kirk says, leaning back in his chair, his air frighteningly close to what it was as he ordered the Narada blown to hell. “Understandable. In that case, how about I ensure that your publication enjoys a significant drop in subscribers over the next few hours and days, and you let me know when Editor Raymail is available to speak to me.”

The little drone on the comm actually rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you have a great deal of influence over the masses, Cadet.“ He sighs and adjusts his PADD, readying his stylus. “I’ll pass your message along, shall I? Please spell your name for me.”

“It’s K-I-R-K. Cadet Kirk, James Tiberius.” Kirk smirks evilly—not that Nyota is complaining about it in this instance—as the suddenly white-faced reporter finally makes full eye contact with him. “I think I'll worry about how much influence I have over the short attention span of the masses and that way you can worry about how much influence my influence will have on your future job prospects.” He reaches forward and slaps the disconnect button on the comm. “Fucker.”

Nyota leans on the wall. “Y’know, if you’d introduced yourself at the beginning of your call, you might have made more headway.”

He starts at the sound of her voice. Clearly he didn’t see her come in after all, but he recovers quickly. “I did introduce myself. Apparently he wasn’t listening then, either. I’m guessing he’ll never get far as a reporter even if I don’t manage to get his ass fired.” Kirk tosses his stylus at the screen in disgust then turns to favour her with a leer. “Something I can do you for?”

Nyota rolls her eyes. Some things never change. She invites herself in and sits with a thump in the chair on the far side of his desk. “I’d planned on ripping you a new one over that article, but it appears you’ve already got it under control. So, instead I just want to thank you for how you treated Gaila last night.”

He frowns at her. “How did you expect me to treat her? She’s my friend.”

She nods, a bit ashamed that she’s always assumed he was only using Gaila, first for her sex drive and then for her programming codes. “Yeah. I’m beginning to get that.”

Kirk smiles, a real one this time. He reaches forward to flick the comm on again. “Wanna help me ruin an interplanetary news journal out of pure spite?”
Nyota smirks and slides her chair to one side so she’s fully off-screen. “I’d like nothing better.”


I'm rather fond of fics that cover the adversarial nature of the start of Jim and Nyota's relationship in AOS without bashing either character.  For my favourite of these, check out Deastar's How Many Roads, or 27 Times Jim Kirk Hit on Nyota Uhura.


Log in

No account? Create an account