A Betrayal of Sincere Regard

Nyota often wondered what her life would've been like if Nero hadn't messed up the time-space continuum, if he hadn't killed Jim's father and a good portion of the crew of the U.S.S. Kelvin. She knows when she finally meets Spock's older counterpart that she could just ask. This Spock, while similar in mannerisms and quiet reservation, seems more open when speaking of matters of the heart. It would just take a question, she knew, and she'd have her answer. She'd know the world, friendships and relationships in which her alternate self lived; she'd have the answers.

In reality though, there was really only one question she wanted answered. 

"In his reality, I do not believe we were companions as we are in ours," Her Spock finally says, after she posed the question nonchalantly as she made sanka for them both. He hadn't answered immediately, and she'd begun to think he wouldn't at all, but there it was - her answer.

She didn't let her slight smile falter as she turned back to him to hand him the tea. In fact, she smiled a bit brighter, perhaps to make the internal disappointment, perhaps to fool him.

She should've known better, though, for he was one of the few that could see past her thick skin and glistening facade.

His tea went on the low table in front of him and his hand stopped hers from retreating.

"It is of no matter, Nyota, please know that," He says, and she sinks beside him most ungracefully on the couch. Some days, she didn't have it in her to try to match him - this is one of those days, one of those moments.

"His world and mine, his history and mine - they hold differences in ways completely beyond the relationship you and I hold."

She knows this. She's aware of this. It doesn't stop her from feeling foolish, for feeling the disappointment at the realization that their connection didn't transcend the different parallel universes. What kind of human is she. for feeling the proper disappointment in not being as important to Spock in another world as she is in this one, and then feeling shame for this emotion? A foolish one, perhaps - but a human none the less.

She knows Spock can feel the subtle shift in mood, that he knows she's having an internal struggle. His hand is still on hers, pale against smooth cream; fingers that go one forever, nails perfectly trimmed to the quick, lines of muscle betraying the otherwise feminine compound of them. His hands, moreso then any other part of his body signifies strength and power - it was the first thing she'd been drawn to, really - watching his fingers as he slid them under lines of foreign texts or over the buttons and screens of PADDs. 

Now, these hands would be his betrayal; the key that unlocks the barrier between Vulcan and human. Even now, his fingers, tightening deftly around hers, are giving away his feelings.

His features read, "This is a topic of very little importance."

His hands, though, say, "I feel it too."