#and I have. a lot of thoughts about t'pring in general and aos t'pring in specific.

[enterprisetrampstamp]

General #42 t'pura plssss <3

I have written so many "bustling marketplaces" lately. I think it's projection; deep in my subconscious my ideal self is at a weird little booth on King St in Charleston poking through sterling silver jewelry and touching the pavement every thirty seconds to make sure the dogs' paws are okay.

(AO3 Link)

***

The market was bustling and vibrant, a cacophony of sounds and sights and scents as vendors hawked their wares and the savvy populace argued back. The streets were wider and less claustrophobic than Nyota was used to, the sky above lit brightly by pale binary suns instead of the singular pulse of Sol, but it still put her in mind of the market her family had frequented when she was younger. For their everyday needs, her parents had shopped at the usual grocery stores and department stores and corner markets among the glittering skyscrapers and bustling streets of Nairobi, but once a month her mother would pack Nyota and her sisters into the car and take them down to the open air market that sprawled across several city blocks on the outskirts of the city, where fresher produce and more unique items could be found.

Besides, it was fun.

Nyota and her sisters would buy fruity popsicles and play tag; as they grew older, they might haggle over jewelry and scarves and that perfect trinket for their father's birthday or a sister's graduation. Her fascination with language could be traced back to those afternoons in the market as much as anything else, listening to hundreds of voices arguing in nearly as many dialects-- Swahili, English, and Standard, of course, but Dholuo and Kamba and Somali and the voices of all of Kenya's other indigenous peoples, too. Hundreds of voices, loud and unapologetic and alive as they pushed and shoved their way through life. Nyota had had her first date at that market, with a boy who lived down the hall-- and, later, she'd shared her first kiss there... with his older sister.

Oops.

Nyota grinned at the memory, hitching her bag higher into the crook of her elbow, and trailed her hand through a selection of beautifully intricate scarves hanging from a delicate display made of thin, curving pieces of brass. Janice's birthday was coming up, she noted thoughtfully. The bright purple one was very much the yeoman's speed, embroidered with silver thread in a dizzying geometric pattern. She pulled it from the rack, running it thoughtfully between her fingers as the sun-- the suns, she corrected herself with a snort-- beat down on the back of her neck.

"This one will better highlight the undertones of your skin," a woman said, her voice light and warm and catching on the soft Standard consonants.

It was the accent that caught Nyota's attention; that unmistakable curl of a native Vulcan speaker in the way she pronounced the thorn at the start of "this." She looked up as the woman draped a scarf-- silky and deep red, decorated in a delicate swirl of tiny golden beads-- about Nyota's neck and trailed one end back over her shoulder, her long, gloved fingers carefully avoiding the brush of bare skin.

(Somehow, that half-centimeter's implication of a touch was more sensual than if she'd truly trailed her fingertips along the line of Nyota's shoulder.)

"It's beautiful," Nyota agreed honestly, because it was. She raked her gaze over her new friend, resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow. The Vulcan woman was tall, dressed in a romper with loose, flowing pants that tapered back to her ankles to tuck into simple leather (faux, presumably) boots and a stiff vest that shimmered subtly beneath the sunlight, reaching high up her throat but leaving her lightly freckled shoulders bare. All of it, from head to toe and including her gloves, was rendered in a deep, eyecatching purple. Her hair was braided simply and fell heavily over her right shoulder, thick and so darkly black that the sunlight turned it faintly blue. The leather tie at its end was that same, vibrant purple.

(A cosmopolitan Vulcan woman, Nyota supposed. It was a far cry from the robes and elaborate hairstyles Nyota was used to seeing, but then she usually saw the diplomats and the Council members-- women dressed formally and in pointed representation of their culture.)

"But," Nyota added, placing a delicate emphasis on the word as she unwound the scarf and returned it to its place on the rack, "I'm not shopping for myself."

"Pity," the woman said, her dark eyes likewise sweeping over Nyota. (She, for the record, was dressed comparatively simply in a blue dress and ankle boots.) "It did look good on you."

Nyota leaned towards her as if confessing a secret, a smile pulling teasingly at one corner of her lips. "Everything looks good on me." One slanted eyebrow twitched high on the Vulcan's forehead, and Nyota laughed, straightening, and lifted her hand in the ta'al. "Dif-tor heh smusma, my new friend."

"Peace and long life," the woman returned in Standard, flashing her own-- purple gloved-- ta'al and lifting her other eyebrow to join the first. "Your accent is very good."

"Well, if it wasn't I'd probably be out of a job," Nyota replied easily. She watched the Vulcan in her periphery as she decided against the purple scarf for Janice-- the yeoman could be finicky about clothing and would probably rather Nyota pick her up some tourist-y magnet that would be wildly embarrassing to have to purchase-- and debated an emerald green for Christine instead. (Her birthday wasn't coming up, but it never hurt to be thinking ahead.)

"You are employed as a translator?" the Vulcan guessed, picking at the scarves herself. The motion seemed less like she was interested in them, and more as if it was an excuse to keep talking to Nyota.

"Sometimes." Chris would love it, she decided. She half-turned towards the vendor, lifting the scarf, and had started to ask "How much--?" when she caught a glimpse of the scarf that had been hidden underneath it. With a laugh, she traded the green scarf for the new one and turned back to the Vulcan, holding it up consideringly.

"It's your favorite color," she said, too many teeth in her grin.

"Having a preference for a particular color would be illogical," the Vulcan returned archly, but there was something in her voice, some teasing irreverence hiding beneath the lack of inflection, as she plucked the scarf from Nyota's hand and held it against her chest to compare the shades of purple.

"Too red," she said, her gaze flicking up to meet Nyota's as she raised an eyebrow.

Nyota scoffed. "Oh, please."

A tiny, almost imperceptible corner of the woman's mouth twitched in a smirk. "Your disbelief will not change the fact that the scarf is too red."

"Those Vulcan eyes of yours must be missing some rods and cones. It's a perfect match," Nyota insisted, reaching out to drape the scarf about the woman's shoulders-- the motion pulled them close, each of her hands wrapped loosely in silky fabric, and she smirked up at the Vulcan as she took another, deliberate step forward.

"Are you flirting with me?" the Vulcan asked, amusement smoldering in her dark eyes. They stood so near that, had they each taken a deep breath in, Nyota's hands would be trapped between them.

"You started it," Nyota pointed out, teasing, as she unwound her hands from the scarf. "And I'm feeling nostalgic this morning," she declared, fondness curving her lips into a smile, "for a different dark haired beauty I flirted with in a market not so different from this one, once upon a time."

"Vulcans do not flirt."

Nyota's grin spread wider. "Now that I know from experience is a lie."

"Vulcans do not lie either," the woman said, and there was that self-aware edge of irony once again-- Nyota didn't even feel like she was insulting her when she tipped her head back and laughed.

"Oh, sure," she said, flashing a few credits at the vendor and receiving a word of confirmation as she plucked the green scarf back off of the rack. "Vulcans don't lie, as a generality." She handed the credits to the vendor, glancing over her shoulder to add, tartly, "That doesn't mean they can't, or that Vulcans in the individual won't."

There was that little twitch of a smirk again.

"A wise woman," the Vulcan observed, falling into step next to her as she tucked Christine's present into her bag and walked away from the booth. "I hope, when you are not engaged as a translator, that you make use of your skills as a counselor-- or perhaps a bartender."

Nyota barked another laugh, shooting her a grin. "I do mix a mean martini," she agreed.

"Metaphors," the Vulcan sighed. She spread her hands in a shrug, the movement loose and fluid. "I have never understood what qualifies a drink as 'mean.'"

"Usually it's because it insulted your mother," Nyota told her, straight-faced, and was rewarded with a rise and fall of the Vulcan's chest that she chose to interpret as a silent sigh of exasperation.

"So what do you do?" Nyota asked, as she paused to peer at a display of sterling silver jewelry, bedazzled with a variety of inexpensive-- but beautiful-- gemstones, most of them imported from the other side of the galaxy. Spock probably could have told her exactly where with a single glance, and the thought made a smile tug at the corner of her lips. Her hair slipped over her shoulder, falling in a soft brown wave, and she reached up to brush it back as she looked.

The Vulcan spun a rack of earrings, sharp enough to make it rattle, and the artisan behind the booth barked out a remonstration in her own native tongue. Then, she repeated it under her breath in Vulcan-- pointedly, loud enough for both Nyota and the Vulcan to hear it-- as she returned to her soldering.

With a slow blink, like a cat reaching out to shove a mug off of a coffee table, the Vulcan spun the rack a second time. "I am employed as a record keeper aboard a small civilian spacecraft," she said, staring down the scowling artisan.

Nyota looked up, her interest piqued. "You mean you live out here in the black?" she asked, surprise sharpening her tone. So few Vulcans lived or even worked away from New Vulcan for any extensive period these days, in deference to their ongoing efforts of cultural revival.

She hadn't realized quite how open the woman's expression was-- for a Vulcan-- until it shuttered. "I do," she said, neither her tone nor her body language inviting further questions.

Nyota thought of the way Spock still, all these years later, could not think of New Vulcan as anything more than a pale imitation of a home he would never replace, and she gently eased off. It had been an intrusive line of questioning, anyway.

"What do you think?" she asked instead, pointing to a necklace with a delicate silver charm with a soft pink stone at its center.

The Vulcan leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against Nyota's, warm and solidly muscled. Her hair smelled faintly of orange blossoms and incense, and there was a hint of that prior teasing tone in her voice as she observed, "I have been told that everything looks good on you."

Nyota smiled, turning to look at her. "And how," she agreed. "But I told you, I'm not shopping for me."

"Of course." The Vulcan looked over as well, her dark eyes studying her with a heady intensity and the strong curve of her nose nearly brushing Nyota's. "May I?" she asked, and the slight tilt of her head, the imperceptible lean forward indicated the meaning of the question.

The artisan made an inarticulate noise of fury, but they both ignored her.

"I don't even know your name," Nyota teased, even as she closed the distance between them to press a featherlight kiss to the other woman's lips.

(Oh, don't look at her like that; like you wouldn't kiss the mysterious, clever stranger who's been flirting with you all morning. There was something a little fun and a little daring about it, and in a few hours she'd say goodbye and head back to the ship. Maybe they'd exchange comm frequencies; maybe not. They call them whirlwind romances for a reason, you know.)

"T'Pring," the Vulcan murmured, their lips still brushing.

"Nyota." She returned to the array of jewelry, a crooked grin turning up one corner of her lips. "Dated humans before, have you? That was no first kiss, darling."

"Well, there are just so many of you," T'Pring returned, with that remarkable Vulcan ability to both maintain perfect stoicism and also come across dryly sarcastic. "And you have dated a Vulcan before, have you not? Your ability to maintain a mental shield against touch telepathy is impressive for a human." A beat. "'Darling.'"

Nyota barked a laugh. "Yes, I have." She patted T'Pring's cheek, winking. "Don't worry; you're prettier than he is."

T'Pring raised one slanted eyebrow, conveying amusement without ostensibly altering her expression. "I find myself much assured."

Nyota caught her wrist-- careful to stay below the edge of her glove, avoiding skin-to-skin contact so she wouldn't need to maintain that mental shield-- to tug her back into motion. "Lunch," she suggested.

T'Pring allowed herself to be pulled along in Nyota's wake without complaint. "One of my crewmates tells me there is a bakery with excellent savory pastries on the next street over."

"Mm, I heard about that place, too." Her smile was pleased as she looked over her shoulder at T'Pring. One of Hikaru's husband's friends had raved about it; the whole bridge crew had been looking forward to it for weeks.

"A satisfactory choice, then?" T'Pring asked, with a raised eyebrow, and Nyota laughed.

"Most satisfactory," she agreed, tone teasing.

Once their pastries were in hand-- a spicy, aromatic beef filling in Nyota's, and a potato and vegetable one in T'Pring's-- they ignored the tables arranged outside of the bakery in favor of tucking themselves into a semi-private alcove. Nyota hopped up onto the low stone wall separating an earthy, plant-filled garden space from the rest of the market, and T'Pring propped her hip against it. She removed one of her gloves, tucking it into a pocket of her pants, and picked thoughtfully at the pastry with dark-eyed curiosity.

"Reminds me of an empanada," Nyota said, inhaling the fragrant steam rising off of her choice, and T'Pring huffed, ever so slightly.

"'The closest you will get to decent food in this corner of the galaxy,'" she said, pitching her voice to a deeper octave in a way which implied it was an impression. "My crewmate hails from Chile," she added, as an explanation. "As the pilot of our ship, I do not believe he intended to allow us to skip this planet once our path turned us in this direction, regardless of our captain's acquiescence."

Nyota laughed, tipping her head back. She didn't miss T'Pring's thoughtful, appreciative glance. "A man after my own heart," she declared. "Food is a unifying experience. There's nothing quite like it--" she gestured, a piece of pastry in hand, between herself and T'Pring. "It says, 'I care about you,' and it says, 'I want you to survive,' and it says, 'I want you to enjoy it, too. Share this with me.'"

"The exchange of fruit is an inherently romantic gesture within Vulcan culture," T'Pring agreed. "And the act of sharing a meal has proven an invaluable ritual in building a rapport with my human crewmates."

"Is that what we're doing?" Nyota asked. She set one hand on the stone between them, leaning towards T'Pring as she is watched by dark eyes that glitter with the barest hint of amusement. "'Building a rapport?'"

"How would you describe it?" T'Pring challenged in turn.

A smile spread, slowly, across Nyota's face. "A date," she said.

"And how would you describe what happens between two people on a date?" T'Pring raised an eyebrow.

"Which part of the date are we talking about?" Nyota asked, her smile impish, and T'Pring's other eyebrow raised in turn.

"That was an innuendo," she observed.

"And not a subtle one." Nyota patted her cheek, forgoing any attempt at mental shielding in favor of letting T'Pring feel the full brunt of her amusement. She sensed more than felt the moment that T'Pring tensed, attempting to subjugate whatever emotional response-- laughter, lust-- she was experiencing, and she backed off politely, both physically and conversationally.

They lapsed into a companionable silence as they finished their meal. The spices were certainly alien, unfamiliar and sharp but not at all unpleasant, and there was a buttery quality to the bread itself that was-- in a word-- heavenly. Nyota crumpled the waxy paper her pastry had been wrapped in, sighing with satisfaction, and accepted the napkin that T'Pring passed her to wipe off her fingers.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said, glancing up from the slick buttery feeling between her fingers, and promptly rolled her eyes at the tiny smirk T'Pring had turned in her direction. "Yes, I am aware I have just asked one. Spare me."

"As long as you are aware," T'Pring said.

"Spare me."

After a moment in which she somehow broadcast her amusement in just the slightest smirk and the tightness of the muscles at the corners of her eyes, T'Pring requested, "Make your inquiry, by all means." She pulled her glove back on, her own fingers wiped clean, and then turned to face Nyota more directly. Her expression was polite, inquisitive.

"Why did you approach me in the first place?" Nyota asked. She dropped her legs from their folded position, sliding down to stand beside T'Pring and brushing off the back of her skirt. This put her a head lower, once more, but she didn't mind the way she had to tip her head back to meet the Vulcan's heavy lidded eyes. "You don't need to tell me that it's unusual for one of your people to make such an overt overture."

T'Pring tipped her head lightly to the side in acknowledgement of the point. "I wanted to. You are beautiful," she said, and the simple, matter-of-fact manner of the statement was more flattering than any purple prose. Nyota ghosted her fingertips down the inside of T'Pring's forearm, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and T'Pring's dark eyes flicked, briefly down to her lips. "I saw no need to deprive myself of the opportunity to speak with you; it is not as if I seek a sustained liaison. My ship departs later this afternoon."

"Mine, too," Nyota agreed.

T'Pring blinked. She had probably assumed Nyota was employed on-planet, as few ships bothered to employ a living translator, when universal translation technology is so ubiquitous. Only diplomatic ships-- seeking to impress and flatter-- or Starfleet exploratory vessels-- likely to come across unknown species-- had enough need for a xenolinguist. But she evidently decided to file the information for later discussion, blinking again and then returning to their current topic.

"That I stayed to talk further is a factor of your intelligence and humor," she said. "You are... intriguing."

"Some have said, 'Fascinating,'" Nyota said, with no small hint of irony, and then she offered, "You are a distinctly interesting woman yourself, T'Pring of Vulcan."

T'Pring inclined her head in a nod. "High praise."

"For a deserving specimen," Nyota quipped, reaching out to tap her index finger against the tip of T'Pring's nose-- and promptly threw her head back, laughing, at the disgruntled expression of shock which the action earns her.

"Most illogical," T'Pring said, obviously fumbling for a response as she took a hasty step backwards, and Nyota gathered their trash to dump in a nearby wastebin as she hooked her bag up onto her shoulder.

"Well, I am a human, after all." She shot T'Pring a look over her shoulder, grinning. "Are you coming?"

"One moment--"

T'Pring caught her wrist, pulling her back into the relative privacy behind the corner of the building. When Nyota shifted to face her, T'Pring's fingertips-- the leather of her gloves supple and warm-- tipped her chin back and leaned down to kiss her again. This one was deeper, longer; Nyota hooked her elbow about T'Pring's neck for leverage and pushed herself onto her toes.

"Wow," she said, dazed, as T'Pring drew away.

"Mm." There was self-satisfied amusement in those dark eyes. One of T'Pring's hands had found its way to Nyota's hips, and it was warm and strong.

"You're a weird Vulcan," Nyota told her, still slightly breathless, and T'Pring shrugged. Somehow, that simple motion carried a great deal of the unspoken.

"I consider myself a singularly driven individual," she said, dry like desert sands.

"You see what you want; you go after it."

"It can be difficult not to gain a certain perspective." It wasn't a complete thought, though T'Pring voiced it as if it was.

Unfortunately, Nyota could fill in the rest. Trauma changed things; the trauma of losing nearly your entire people could change a lot of things. (Not to mention, she'd clearly spent much of the intervening years processing that trauma amongst humans.) She brushed a thumb over T'Pring's cheek, fighting down the sympathetic words that she could tell the Vulcan didn't want to hear, and settled down off of her toes. "Coming?" she asked, again.

T'Pring tucked her hands into her pockets, posture loose and casual as she fell into step next to her. "Where do you wish to go?"

"I-- Oh!" Nyota caught a glimpse of blonde through the crowd, taking a winding path towards the bakery, and quickly waved a hand. "Jim!" she called.

He spotted her, too, and his face broke out in a wide smile. He held up a finger, turning to smack the arm of a dark-haired man next to him, and Nyota may not have been able to hear Dr. McCoy's response, but she could guess at it by the scowl he turned towards their captain, gesturing to the stain of water down his jeans where Jim's attempt to get his attention had made him nearly drop his water bottle.

"Friends of mine," Nyota told T'Pring as she pushed through the crowd towards her crewmates and Jim led the way to meet her in the middle.

"Nyota!" Jim cried, throwing his arms wide.

"Oh," Leonard said, "finally, some sanity on this damn shore leave--"

"What, is Spock not enough for you?" Nyota demanded, as she let Jim sweep her up and spin her around in a hug-- thereby missing the way T'Pring snapped straight, her eyes widening.

"Spock?" she repeated, loudly, and the man in question looked up from a booth of antique astronomical devices which had previously held his attention.

"T'Pring," he said, with similar wide-eyed shock, nearly fumbling the astrolabe in his hands.

"You know each other?" Nyota asked, her eyebrows shooting high as she takes in the uncharacteristic uncertainty in Spock's movements, and she exchanges a look with Leonard.

The Vulcans both ignored her--or, perhaps more accurately, neither of them heard her.

T'Pring recovered first. "You look well," she said, somehow awkward with her impossibly straight posture.

"As do you," Spock said, something indefinable in his tone, "considering I was under the impression you were dead."

Leonard choked on an ill-timed sip of water, and Nyota had a sudden, horrible thought about the childhood friend turned betrothed who Spock had broken his Bond with just prior to absconding to Starfleet. "Oh, god," she said, covering her eyes with one hand.

T'Pring considered Spock's statement for a moment. "My apologies," she said, finally, and Spock's stoic expression broke in favor of something murderous.

He took several stiff-legged steps towards her, catching her elbow and drawing her off to the side so that they could engage in a hushed, incredibly blank-faced argument. Jim watched with bright, delighted eyes, and Leonard squinted over towards Nyota.

"You know who she is?" he asked, gesturing towards them with the hand holding his water bottle.

"I have a guess," Nyota hedged. She folded one arm over her chest, tucking one hand into her elbow as she pressed her mouth against the knuckles of the other. "He never mentioned her name, so it's difficult to say."

"Exes," Jim said. He tilted his head towards them, clearly trying to catch what they were saying beneath the din of the marketplace. "Gotta be exes."

Leonard was still giving her that side-eye. "Nyota," he said, slowly, studying the expression on her face as she watched Spock say something that made T'Pring close her eyes and reach up to rest her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Were you on a date with your ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend?"

She breathed in. She breathed out. "Worse," she told him, grimly. "I'm pretty sure I'm on a date with my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife."

"Spock was married?!" Jim yelped, as Leonard did an actual, literal spit take.

Spock and T'Pring both snapped up to look over at them; Spock looked pained and T'Pring simply raised her eyebrows. She looked back at Spock. "You did not tell them?"

"I told Nyota," he said, voice tight.

"A name would have been great, though," Nyota muttered, and T'Pring looked back and forth between them.

"I see," she said, clearly making a swift, accurate leap of logic. "Your taste in women remains impeccable."

Nyota burst into hysterical laughter, for lack of anything better to say. She buried her face into her hands and felt Jim's shoulders shaking with his own sublimated laughter as he slung his arm over her shoulders. "Now, his taste in men," he said, joking, and Leonard snorted.

"Speak for yourself," he declared. He laid the Southern charm on thick as he stepped towards T'Pring, extending his hand for her to shake. "Leonard McCoy, ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet an old friend of Spock's."

"Experience with humans tells me you're simply hoping for embarrassing stories from our youth," T'Pring observed, but she shook his hand with the slightest hint of a smile hiding in the corners of her eyes.

"Who wouldn't?" Leonard countered, grinning, as Spock looked at him, drawing an air of exasperation about himself with just a twitch of his mouth.

"Perhaps another time," T'Pring said, with impeccable grace. She glanced, briefly, towards Spock, but after a moment of hesitation she stepped away and turned her attention towards Jim. "And you are..."

"James Tiberius Kirk," he declared. He extended a hand, but when T'Pring reached out to shake it like she had Leonard's, he switched his grip and dipped into a bow to brush his lips against her gloved knuckles.

T'Pring looked at Spock, who shrugged.

"Ignore him," Leonard said, dryly.

"I intended to," T'Pring informed him, and Leonard barked a laugh as Jim staggered with faux insult.

"Why do Vulcans always dislike me when we first meet?" he complained, throwing himself against Spock's side and draping an arm over his eyes dramatically.

Spock clearly made the decision to let the theatrics break the tension of the moment the way Jim had calculated them to. "Your personality," he said, quite frankly.

"It's why most humans dislike you, too," Leonard added, and he caught both Jim and Spock by the elbow, jerking his head towards the bakery. "C'mon, morons; lunch. Let's let the ladies get on with things, shall we?" He winked at Nyota as he nudged his partners into motion.

T'Pring watched them, quiet with her hands folded tightly behind her back, and Nyota drifted back towards her. "I can give you the necessary information to contact him later," she offered softly. "I'm sure you didn't cover everything in just a couple of minutes."

"That would be..." T'Pring breathed out. "Appreciated."

"Sure," Nyota said. She cleared her throat, glancing aside. "I could also give you the necessary information to contact me."

T'Pring looked at her, her eyes dark and thoughtful. "That would also be appreciated," she said.

"Yeah?" Nyota asked, a smirk curving her lips as she tipped her chin back to meet those heavy-lidded eyes. "Intriguing enough to speak with again, am I?"

"Perhaps I am just hoping for more recent embarrassing stories of Spock."

Nyota laughed, ducking her head. "Well, I certainly have plenty of those," she said, dryly, and caught T'Pring's wrist once more. "Want to keep developing our rapport?" she asked, with a twitch of her lips.

T'Pring hummed. "I believe there is a booth nearby selling citrus fruit," she said thoughtfully.

"The inherent romanticism of sharing an orange," Nyota agreed, letting herself be drawn into motion, and T'Pring smirked but did not disagree.

#a tramp stamp original #nyota uhura #t'pring #t'pura #femslash #I wrote this #and less importantly: #spock #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #this is like. an au meeting for them from a longfic I'm working on #but I think I've done enough to make it accessible and explain my thoughts about AOS t'pring regardless #and I have. a lot of thoughts about t'pring in general and aos t'pring in specific. #I really really like the idea of her and spock having also been friends as kids #anyway she gets back to her ship and her captain is just like ''what trouble did you get into this time :/'' #''made out with my ex-husband's ex-girlfriend.'' #''..........well at least nobody almost died for once'' #yes I couldn't resist throwing in some background mcspirk