silver_feathered_raven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silver_feathered_raven) wrote2009-07-13 01:12 pm
silver_feathered_raven) wrote2009-07-13 01:12 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: To Speak of the Symmetry
Title: To Speak of the Symmetry
Characters/Pairings: Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None, really. Fluffy-ish stuff.
Summary: He is not a poetic man; he cannot write sonnets about the color of her hair or the light in her eyes.
A/N: Short, Spock's POV. I'm a little hesitant about how well I captured him this time. Also, I hope I got my anatomical terms correct in this; it's been a year since I took human anatomy and I seem to have forgotten a *lot* about bones.
He traces the lines of her face, the planes, the angles. The curve of her cheekbone to the slight hollow beneath it to her jawline, fingers measuring the distance from brow ridge to nose, from nose to lips, from lips to chin. Feels the changes of texture in her skin, however slight; the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her cheek, the delicate skin around her eyes. He smudges the makeup there, black ink across his fingers. Looks for the undertones of color in her face, the blues and blacks, the coppers and golds, the places where the tinge of the red running through veins tells him that she is human, that there is iron in her blood and not the copper that is in his.
He is not a poetic man; he cannot write sonnets about the color of her hair or the light in her eyes. She is beautiful to him, but to simply say that, to say you are beautiful - it seems to not be enough; it is too general, to simple; it does not capture the shape of her mouth when she smiles at him, how her spine curves when she sits at her station on the bridge, how her hair captures the light as it falls around her shoulders. But he does not know how to articulate this; the words catch in his throat, feel odd and revealing on his tongue; he stops them before they ever fall from his lips and simply looks at her, wordlessly, trying to tell her everything with his gaze, with the eyes that she can read so well.
(He remembers the day that she first was able to read the emotions in his eyes; he remembers how the shock that he felt was mirrored on her face, the surprise that lit both their eyes.)
(It was discomforting at first, though that is no longer the case.)
She, she is the eloquent one, the one who knows words in so many languages and is not afraid to use them; she is a master of language, and while he can speak and understand many of the languages that she does he cannot spin his words so that they carry the same meanings as they do when she speaks them. It sometimes surprises him how many meanings a single word can have, given the context and the tone of voice.
And so he does not know how to tell her this, that she is beautiful. He can speak of the symmetry of her face, of the ratio of one feature to the next. He can explain the science of her, and the science of how she affects him - yet it seems too cold; it does not do justice to that fire, to that beauty, to that human spark that is Nyota.
He kisses her forehead, the corner of her eyes, her nose, her lips. Spreads fingers over planes of skin, runs them over the areas where bone is just below the surface; the bend of her wrist, her elbow, her knee, her ankle. Lateral epicondyle of the humerus, styloid process of the ulna, medial epicondyle of the femur, the lateral and medial malleolus. Places that fascinate him for no apparent reason, and yet they do.
To him, she is beautiful. And yet he cannot say it.
She asks him, once, to tell her that she is beautiful. It is a playful jest, a teasing statement that she says lightly, expecting nothing back, saying it well before they establish their relationship, when they sit in a small restaurant a few miles from campus and drink tea while discussing the next day's lesson plan.
And he remembers the feel of words freezing in his throat, and how she quickly drops the topic when he is silent.
(It is before she can read him, before she knows what emotion hides in his eyes.)
(He wonders what she though, at that moment.)
He kisses her, and he holds her, and he speaks softly into her hair - scientific words that make her smile and laugh, and perhaps, perhaps, she doesn't need those poetic words that he cannot say.
Perhaps she only needs exactly what he can give.
(She has said as much. He is not certain if he dares to believe that it is true.)
(It is true.)
Characters/Pairings: Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None, really. Fluffy-ish stuff.
Summary: He is not a poetic man; he cannot write sonnets about the color of her hair or the light in her eyes.
A/N: Short, Spock's POV. I'm a little hesitant about how well I captured him this time. Also, I hope I got my anatomical terms correct in this; it's been a year since I took human anatomy and I seem to have forgotten a *lot* about bones.
He traces the lines of her face, the planes, the angles. The curve of her cheekbone to the slight hollow beneath it to her jawline, fingers measuring the distance from brow ridge to nose, from nose to lips, from lips to chin. Feels the changes of texture in her skin, however slight; the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her cheek, the delicate skin around her eyes. He smudges the makeup there, black ink across his fingers. Looks for the undertones of color in her face, the blues and blacks, the coppers and golds, the places where the tinge of the red running through veins tells him that she is human, that there is iron in her blood and not the copper that is in his.
He is not a poetic man; he cannot write sonnets about the color of her hair or the light in her eyes. She is beautiful to him, but to simply say that, to say you are beautiful - it seems to not be enough; it is too general, to simple; it does not capture the shape of her mouth when she smiles at him, how her spine curves when she sits at her station on the bridge, how her hair captures the light as it falls around her shoulders. But he does not know how to articulate this; the words catch in his throat, feel odd and revealing on his tongue; he stops them before they ever fall from his lips and simply looks at her, wordlessly, trying to tell her everything with his gaze, with the eyes that she can read so well.
(He remembers the day that she first was able to read the emotions in his eyes; he remembers how the shock that he felt was mirrored on her face, the surprise that lit both their eyes.)
(It was discomforting at first, though that is no longer the case.)
She, she is the eloquent one, the one who knows words in so many languages and is not afraid to use them; she is a master of language, and while he can speak and understand many of the languages that she does he cannot spin his words so that they carry the same meanings as they do when she speaks them. It sometimes surprises him how many meanings a single word can have, given the context and the tone of voice.
And so he does not know how to tell her this, that she is beautiful. He can speak of the symmetry of her face, of the ratio of one feature to the next. He can explain the science of her, and the science of how she affects him - yet it seems too cold; it does not do justice to that fire, to that beauty, to that human spark that is Nyota.
He kisses her forehead, the corner of her eyes, her nose, her lips. Spreads fingers over planes of skin, runs them over the areas where bone is just below the surface; the bend of her wrist, her elbow, her knee, her ankle. Lateral epicondyle of the humerus, styloid process of the ulna, medial epicondyle of the femur, the lateral and medial malleolus. Places that fascinate him for no apparent reason, and yet they do.
To him, she is beautiful. And yet he cannot say it.
She asks him, once, to tell her that she is beautiful. It is a playful jest, a teasing statement that she says lightly, expecting nothing back, saying it well before they establish their relationship, when they sit in a small restaurant a few miles from campus and drink tea while discussing the next day's lesson plan.
And he remembers the feel of words freezing in his throat, and how she quickly drops the topic when he is silent.
(It is before she can read him, before she knows what emotion hides in his eyes.)
(He wonders what she though, at that moment.)
He kisses her, and he holds her, and he speaks softly into her hair - scientific words that make her smile and laugh, and perhaps, perhaps, she doesn't need those poetic words that he cannot say.
Perhaps she only needs exactly what he can give.
(She has said as much. He is not certain if he dares to believe that it is true.)
(It is true.)