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Even after a full rotation of nothing but sleep, Nyota’s still tired, and she knows she’s in good company—the whole crew’s slinking about like slugs, and they only have two ensigns who actually fit that description. The rest of them barely manage to stay on their feet. They’ve been through three grueling missions back to back, stressful and long, with scheduled R and R built up for everyone but no suitable planets close enough to enjoy it on. At least they’re finally headed back to a starbase. And at least there’s coffee.
Nyota nurses a fresh cup on her way up to the bridge. She’d bring a cup for the woman she’s replacing, but coffee doesn’t work so well with other species—especially laden with chocolate, like all of Nyota’s favourite brews. Those two ingredients are the main reason she’s glad to be human. She doesn’t know what she’d do without them. She has no idea how Commander Spock’s suffered through six consecutive shifts without caffeine—and she knows for a fact he hasn’t indulged in chocolate in particular, because she knows from a singular past experience that Vulcans on chocolate are a wild sight. Caitians on chocolate are a bad time—lots of vomit and hairballs.
The bridge is quiet, save for the usual whistles and bells and humming deckplates—the occasion click of buttons and the captain’s quiet grunts as he shifts in his chair, unwilling to rest until he’s gotten his crew home. The turbolift whines with other drop-offs, other personnel filtering in for the shift change. Nyota’s not the only one with a steaming mug in her hand—but never too steamy, because there’s always a chance the gravity could go out, and coffee stains are bad enough without it burning. M’Ress wrinkles her nose when Nyota gets close enough—she’s never been fond of the bitter smell.
She’s also not fond of lengthy, dull missions—her ears are wilted against the mass of her thick orange-brown hair, trim tail limp beneath her, the bushy tuft at the end dead on the floor. She doesn’t even look up at Nyota’s arrival, but she does hum a quiet purr of greeting. Nyota answers with a deep rumble—a fond Caitian ‘hello.’
And she slips her hand into that big gorgeous hair, because clearly, M’Ress needs a little wake-up push to get up out of her chair. Nyota’s fingers tangle through the silken strands, weaving between teased knots that still feel so soft. She gets caught in a few places, but M’Ress doesn’t complain at the pull—she leans her head back and arches up into the touch, purring deeper, louder, hearty and meaningful. Nyota knows just how to pet her, just how she likes it. She rewards the attention with the beautiful sound of her voice and the way her pretty gold eyes roll back in her skull.
Her ears flutter up, alert again, the communicator piece snug against one. And she drawls out, “That’s why you’rrre my favourrrite, Uhurrra.” An ensign one station away glances over, smiling lightly at the camaraderie or maybe a little jealous. Nyota winks but takes the cue to end it there—she pulls back, to a disappointed sigh and slump of M’Ress’ round shoulders.
It did its job. M’Ress pushes out of her chair, stretching up on her haunches. She rolls out her neck and plucks out the earpiece, passing it over.
Then she leans in to press a fuzzy kiss to Nyota’s cheek: repaying the affection in human terms. The warm fur tickles; Nyota can’t help a giggle.
She takes her seat as M’Ress saunters off to their quarters, and the coffee’s a little cool but still rich and good.