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1.

Desert Wind

There is a chance Nyota will not survive, so when Spock names his twin daughters, he names them for her. Selik, a shorthand of s'yel'iki, which means, from the soul of a star. And Amayel, mimicking a star.

Spock observes them through the glass of their incubator. He reaches a hand through the slot to touch their diminutive bodies. Selik grasps his thumb, Amayel his pinkie. Samekh, he hears vaguely from the both of them, not as a word but as an idea, a concept, an image, a feeling, and most of all, a smell. To them, he is a particular configuration of pheromones, skin cells, soap, aftershave. Where there is Samekh, there should also be Komekh, they think, again, not in so many words. They long more than anything for their mother, for the one who carried them, whose belly had been their home for nearly a year. She is palm oil and engine grease and burntness from short circuited wires. She is lullabies and harsh swear words uttered violently at computer consoles. They cry out for her even as they sleep, a pang in the bond that Spock must shut away in order to carry on functioning at all, unless he remember, too, that without Nyota he is nothing but a half-thing.

"I will remain at your side as long as it is required to do so, and there exists a high probability that I will remain even after that fact," Spock tells his daughters. He knows that they cannot understand the precise meaning of his words, but they are used to hearing his voice. He hopes that his particular cadence will be a comfort to them, an anvil to anchor their little minds and little bodies to this world. A reason to live.

#

13.2 Standard hours ago, Spock found Nyota lying prone and unconscious in their quarters.

The two of them had taken a joint posting on a space station satelliting New Vulcan, never more than a beam away from New Shikhar's state-of-the-art medical facilities. Though Nyota was on temporary leave for her mandated bed rest, Spock's position required he go on frequent away-missions. He was on one such fact-finding expedition on a Gamman moon several light years from Vulcan Beta 6 when he heard his Nyota wailing through the bond, so loud he thought it was something he was perceiving audibly rather than psychically.

He requested immediate transport back ship-side, beaming up to a vessel called the Pisces, then to the Persephone, then finally back to the space station, hopscotching across the galaxy in what took no more than four minutes and twenty nine seconds. The metallic smell of iron and the tangy smell of salt filled their quarters as the door slid open. Healers were already on their way. They could not wait to beam Nyota down to New Vulcan. A surgeon cut into her right there in the med bay, and it was only two hours later, when they were all more or less stable, that they made their journey planet-side.

"Meditate with me, my son," says Sarek, a hand on Spock's shoulder. The feel of Father's grip wakes Spock from the trance of his memories.

"I will not leave Selik and Amayel's side," Spock tells Sarek.

"It is not necessary for us to do so," Sarek assures him, who has been here since they all arrived, not so quietly or subtly barking orders to anyone in charge who would delay care of his granddaughters.

Two healers, one woman named T'Shael and another named Arev, press their hands to Selik and Amayel's bulbous bellies to monitor their condition. A Vulcan healer's empathic sensors are more sensitive than any scanner or biobed. T'Shael is old, older even than T'Pau, and blind. She has seen to 44,000 patients in her lifetime. Arev is fresh out of her medical studies at the New Vulcan Science Academy, a prodigy in neonatal development in high-risk births. They nod assent to Spock, saying he and Sarek may meditate in the room whilst they carry out their exam. It takes Spock seventy-two more seconds before he is ready to remove his hand from the air chamber, his fingers losing contact with Selik and Amayel.

"Their minds are very robust and active despite physical weakness, which is promising," says T'Shael.

Sarek and Spock sit across from each other on their knees a few feet away from the air chamber, hands joined to meditate. For moments, there is silence, as a link is established, then the warble of soft, infant crying in the background as T'Shael and Arev tend to the babies. The beeping of monitors.

Then the feel of Sarek's calm radiating to Spock colossal and unyielding.

Nyota is in surgery. Spock can feel her in his mind, and now so can Sarek. Focus on the bond, says Sarek. Cling to her.

And Spock does.

#

Selik and Yel stare at Spock with eyes so like Nyota's he wonders if they are her clones—though this is of course an illogical line of inquiry. They represent a genetic combination of both him and their mother, a result of parent gametes fusing via fertilisation. Subsequent mitosis. Accidental, odds-beating miracles.

His daughters' lips pout and poke. Large, brownish pink. Nyota's lips. Their skin is red-brown, a few shades lighter than Nyota's. Otherwise, they favour Spock phenotypically. The hint of olive on their pale palms match his. With a preposterous amount of sincerity, he kisses the bottoms of their feet and mutters, "Perfection, perfection, perfection. Lafot-fam. Pa-shi-lafosh-fam. Buhfik kofu-lar t'nash-veh." Without fault. Without discernible error. My perfect daughters.

Amayel is quiet and serene, and Spock posits that it is her congenital deafness that makes this so. Her world is quiet, and so she is quiet. She misses her mother's womb, that much is obvious, but she lies in the incubator contentedly serious, eyes gray, rheumy, wide open, taking it all in. She is so much like Sarek that the various healers have begun calling her pi'Sar, little Sarek. Stern, serious, peaceful beauty. There is a trace of Amanda in her, too, that Spock does not like to linger on, something about the curve of her ears, the proportion of her chin to her cheeks, the set of her eyes.

There is nothing quiet inside Selik. She does not sleep. She will not take milk. She wails and wails, only ever soothed when held naked against her father's bare chest—and even then it's a tenuous sort of peace. Her middle name will be T'Rama. Lady of Thunder. It is Arev, the young healer, who suggests it.

In two days, S'chnn T'gai Uhura Selik T'Rama has surgery on her bronchi, and it is likely that after that she will still need supplementary oxygen for the rest of her life. Selik wheezes and wheezes, loud and hiccupping. If Spock were prone to bouts of illogic he would say it sounds like a song. Of the two, she is so clearly Nyota's daughter. Never satisfied with easy answers and solutions, always wanting, striving, angry, so deeply compassionate and feeling that every spark of emotion blazes.

He uses a cloth to secure Selik tightly to his chest, her little cheek just above where his heart would be were he human. "My little electrical storm," he says. "What gods have I pleased to be favoured with a child such as thee?"

#

The first time Nyota met Spock she called his translation of Ho' je Jat, 'overly literal to the point of complete incomprehensibility, with zero consideration for the Klingon cultural context. An embarrassment to linguists everywhere. An embarrassment to the Federation. To Vulcan. And all humanoids.'

It was at a conference in Addis Ababa. He'd been giving a presentation on the recently unearthed Skeleton Scrolls as a representative of Starfleet. Spock's computer program Fenius™ was to aid researchers in their efforts to decode the writing therein, a previously unheard of language that was loosely Semitic, but only barely so, and more alien than anything anyone had ever seen on Earth.

"And tell me, Lieutenant-Commander Spock, where are these sacred documents now?" a young woman asked, later identified as a PhD student named Nyota Uhura. She wore a short dress and over-the-knee socks, oxfords, a cardigan.

It was an outfit that made Spock feel—interestingly.

He cleared his throat, which had suddenly become dry, took a sip of the water provided for him, then: "I assume you refer to the original Scrolls?" Digital copies were available through most university databases.

Uhura gripped the microphone tightly and stared at him with unblinking eyes, pursed lips.

"I will take your silence for an affirmative. To answer your question, the Scrolls are presently located in San Francisco, where the galaxy's top researchers are—"

"So you mean they're not here, where they were found, and where they most certainly belong?"

When Spock explained that Starfleet was the only institution with resources capable of decoding the text, Uhura snorted, rather audibly, and said, "You do realise that you're within the walls of a world-renowned university right now, don't you?"

"I do realise this, yes," he'd said, unsure where this tread of conversation would lead. What set of circumstances could allow him to give a speech somewhere, without realising where he gave it? Was the young woman questioning his mental faculties? Accusing him of some sort of psychotic break?

"Okay, so you realise that, yet you claim only Starfleet is capable of working with the Scrolls—suggesting that we are inferior?" Again, Uhura's gaze was unfaltering.

"In matters of technological advancement, I am doing more than suggesting this university is inferior. Rather, I am asserting so with great confidence," Spock corrected.

This statement elicited a gasp from the crowd.

"Nice of you to come out and say it," she said.

"I always endeavour to speak the truth."

Uhura crossed her arms over her chest and said—deflating, somewhat—that if those interpreting the texts were anything like Spock, they'd never make progress decoding the documents, especially if his translation of Ho' je Jat was any indication of Starfleet's so-called superiority. Her tone didn't imply insult so much as genuine upset.

What followed was what could only be called a 'tirade,' in which Uhura maligned Spock's entire body of work, Starfleet, and, if he understood correctly, 'typical Western arrogance.'

The audience stood and clapped. Professor Abram, who had introduced Spock, shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

"Perhaps this discussion is more suited to another venue," Spock said.

"Where? When? Tell me, and I'll be there, as the Federation has ignored pleas from the local government as well as petitions with hundreds of thousands of signatures. So you tell me, and I'll be there. But unless you plan to discuss the terms of the Scrolls' return, there's nothing left to say. Either you're thieves that will be held accountable, or you're thieves that won't be held accountable." Another round of claps.

At the time, Spock found the young woman to be impetuous, rude, brazen, and unprofessional, and he could not fathom why her heckling prompted applause.

Now, there is no question in his mind that he'd already fallen prey to the Engulfment.

Spock knows this now because as he gazes at his daughters, it is the very same feeling, wonderment, awe, fear, anxiety, overwhelming affection.

#

"Twins are lucky," Nyota had said. She smiled, and Spock's heart beat arrythmically for several seconds before settling back to a steady pace.

"I do not see how the halving of a zygote into two distinct embryos, or alternatively, how the fertilisation of multiple eggs, would influence our lives more positively than the far more common occurrence of the fertilisation of a single egg," Spock said.

"Twice the cuddles, Spock. Twice the cuddles. That's how," said Nyota.

The 3D image of their offspring, rendered in perfect detail, showed follicles of hair, thick and straight at 24 weeks.

He was smitten, which was neither becoming nor acceptable. One woman in his life already troubled his logic. He did not need two more.

"Those are our babies," she said, finger dragging over the monitor. "It is a miracle. It is magic. It is science fiction. I do not understand it, and yet here they are."

Spock would not have put it in such terms, but shared the sentiment. "Indeed, adun'a."

#

He is useless. He cannot give his wife his blood. The other half of his heart is dying and he is hot, cold, tingling, burning, black, black, black, a pit.

#

One of the first times he and Nyota were intimate, Spock buried his face into the crook of her neck, whispering: "Zarahk-tor na'nash-veh, Nyota." Come for me, Nyota. Literally—break into pieces for me.

He lapped at the skin of her throat, hungry for her, and she ground herself senselessly into him, her uniform skirt hiked up, knickers still on.

"Taluhk-veh. E'tum-veh. Nuvan-veh," he said. Precious one. Beautiful one. Trembling one. "Do you know how much it gratifies me when I make you shudder thus?"

He slid two fingers inside her and she rode them, calling out Spock's name, begging for his touch, her come on his hands. When she climaxed a second time, he dropped to his knees, pulled the crotch of her underwear to the side to lick her clitoris, pushing his tongue inside of her and fucking her with it. He wanted her to come in his mouth. When she nervously slid fingers into his hair, pressing his mouth harder between her legs, his lok twitched with neediness. Droplets of pre-come fell onto his thighs.

She mewled and rasped and rubbed into his tongue, and came, slumping back against the wall. She made him mad with lust. To touch her was his personal heaven.

He loved to watch her, too. Those times she visited his flat, he asked her to sit on the sofa, her legs splayed wide. He would observe her from across the room in his lounge chair. It was a testament to his control how long he lasted without grasping his erection when he watched her rub herself. First through her leggings, then through the cloth of her underwear, then naked, massaging her clit in circles as she told him how much she loved doing this for him. "Do you like that you can reduce me to this, Spock? You see how much I want you? So desperate for your touch I toy with myself in front of you, hoping you'll intervene?"

"Be quiet," he told her, voice cracked. He would not be able to hold onto his control if she kept speaking in such an inflammatory manner.

"Do you see how sticky my thighs are, Spock? I'm so wet for you," Nyota said.

When he still did not stand up from his chair, she crawled over to him, her t-shirt still on, but her ass and legs bare. She took his lok into her mouth and sucked him until he jut his hips in and out, five minutes later spurting his semen onto her lips.

Seven years ago now. He still wants her like he wanted her then. Always will. Of this he has no doubt. Should she die, he will never have another.

#

Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant-Commander Marcus arrive when the twins are four days old. The Enterprise is docked on Alpha X-II for repairs, a two-day shuttle ride from New Vulcan.

T'Pau is not amused.

"An excess of stimulus will tire the infants," she says. "And any expenditure of energy not focused on their survival is energy wasted."

"Of course. We understand," says Kirk. It is not the response Spock expected, but he is grateful for it.

"I appreciate your presence here," Spock says. "However, I must return to my wife and daughters and am not available for extended repartee. Please accept my sincere gratitude that you are here. It is—very much noted."

He has not eaten. He has not slept.

T'Pau and Sarek corner him as he is about to enter the twins' room in the neonatal unit.

"My daughter-by-marriage and granddaughters are relying on their bond to you. It is through this link that you are able to siphon them some measure of strength. Eat. Sleep. So that you will be strong. Your strength is their strength," Sarek says.

"Your father's logic is sound," says T'Pau.

Spock does not sleep. More accurately—cannot. But he does eat. A bowl of fruit. A thick stew of pureed roots and verdure. He wants to vomit it up but refuses to, biting back the nausea and feeling of gagging in his throat.

#

Spock cannot find the message he wrote his komekh years ago, but it is no matter. He remembers it.

Dear Mother,

I wish your expertise on certain human customs when it comes to courting.

I find the rules that govern these interactions to be very illogical, yet I endeavour to live by your motto, "When in Rome…" I am not in Rome. I am in San Francisco. It is my understanding, however, that the metaphor extends to any foreign locale one finds themselves in.

The situation in question: A human woman and I have been 'seeing' each other (correct usage?) for 402 Standard days. Her communications with me have become increasingly sporadic and perfunctory over the last eleven days, however.

Do you have any insight?

Spock


Spock,

Well—what happened twelve days ago?

Komekh


Dear Mother,

A very relevant question, and yet for some reason, I had not thought of it. Twelve days ago, I cancelled plans with her to visit ruins on the Eldar Moon so that I could meet with Samekh at the Embassy, knowing he would only be on Terra for 18 hours. I have changed plans before without adverse effects in the past, though, therefore I do not believe that is the cause of her reticence.

Spock


And you told her you were meeting your father?


Dear Mother,

Yes, of course.

Spock


And you invited her to come along with you to meet him, right?


Dear Mother,

I did not. I would not wish such a discomfiting experience upon her.

Spock


My dear, clueless, son. Well, let's see. Have you met her parents?


Dear Mother,

On multiple occasions, yes. They are very pleasant.

Spock


*headdesk* SON.


Dear Mother,

Am I to intuit that you are exasperated? I apologise for my ignorance in these matters.

Spock


No. It's okay. Don't apologise, sweetie. Let me see if I can explain—

A year and a half is a long time to be with someone. She's introduced you to her parents. She's probably wondering why you haven't introduced her to us. Maybe she's put off asking about it because she assumed it was too difficult, Vulcan being so far away, but when you neglected an opportunity when Sarek was right their on Vulcan….well. Maybe she feels like you are hiding her or are embarrassed by her. Or that you don't take the relationship as seriously as she does.


Dear Mother,

In fact, you have met her, and she you, though this was before we were in an exclusive relationship of a romantic nature. I do not believe that Nyota—yes, Komekh, Nyota Uhura—could ever be so illogical as to believe I am hiding her. She is an extraordinary person. Her intellect, creativity, drive, and compassion are unparalleled. She is admired by all.

On the second point, I take our relationship very seriously. If she would have me, I would have her as my mate and the mother of my children.

I do not see what this has to do with meeting Sarek.

Spock


#

Nyota is not yet awake, but Spock sits next to her. He resists the illogical urge to kiss her cheekbones.

Quiet little Amayel is in the crook of his left arm, Selik the right. They are both sleeping.

Selik snores loudly, more loudly than anything so small should have the right to. Surgery has eased her breathing somewhat, but it is still a struggle for her, her lungs a mess of fluid and phlegm.

Amayel whistles with each intake of air. Round lips. Her eyebrows look perplexed. Even asleep she is concentrating, solving a puzzle.

"Let me introduce you to your komekh," says Spock. "Can you feel her like a fierce desert wind in your mind?"

The healers say that Nyota will awaken soon. A human doctor might say she is 'out of the woods.' Indeed, Spock can feel her more firmly in his mind. Solid. There. His wife. What a shame it is that she has not yet had a chance to see her daughters, now six days old. She will no doubt find them as fascinating as Spock does.

#

When Nyota does awake, Spock realises how close to endless, unshakable despair he had been. His daughters were a balm in those uncertain days, but his family is not complete without Adun'a. He is not complete without her. It is is an old, cliche sort of thing, but it does not bother him. No sentient being is meant to thrive without connection.

"I hope you are not alarmed that I named them without consulting you," says Spock. Nyota is holding Amayel, and crying, and kissing the little infant's indescribably perfect cheeks, as Spock himself has done numerous times, despite the illogic of it.

They had had other names picked out. Ranaka, shortened ralash-tanaf-kan, child of music, and Rivku, shortened sahriv-kofu, daughter of the storm.

"My Amayel and my Selik. I cannot imagine them called anything else."

Spock is illogically proud.

Nyota feeds them from her breasts, and Spock watches fascinated. It takes several minutes to get started as well as help from the healers, but soon the infants catch on. They latch and drink. "Ouch," says Nyota. "I swear it feels like Selik already has teeth."

When the twins are one Standard month old, they, for the first time in their lives, leave the hospital. Spock and his family are staying in the guest house of Sarek's estate on the clan compound until they can work out a more permanent solution.

There are decisions to be made, but Spock cannot bother to make them, not when either of his two girls are in his arms.

Nyota stares at herself in the mirror as Spock attempts a joint feeding of Yel and Selik.

She pinches the pudge of loose skin and fat over her belly, runs her finger over the dark brown stretch marks.

"You are stunning thus," says Spock then lays the twins into their crib. T'Pau insists it is in bad form to let the children fall asleep during feedings, but he does it anyway, takes the bottles from their mouths after they drift to sleep.

"You think so?" Nyota asks.

"I do."

When she smiles, Spock is gratified.