Author's Note: This takes place between episodes 4 and 5 with Tyler in the Klingon prison. They showed us very little of his interaction with L'Rell, only hinting at what happened to him. This had an enormous impact on the character Ash Tyler (before it was revealed to him and us that he was Voq) so I thought I'd write a little about it to explore what he'd gone through from the Tyler personality's perspective.

Please review and let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for additional scenes :)

Not Ready to Die

In his cell he went to sleep praying that he would not be taken to the captain's quarters. But every other night at least, he was pulled from the cell and forced down that dark corridor. Each time, he gave in without any kind of fight; each time he forced his mind to go back to the lake of his childhood, to soft rain showers, to sunlight glistening on the water, the smell of pine trees on the breeze – anything to help him get through it, to forget her smell, her sharp hands, the sounds she made so alien to him.

He could hear her breathing now, the soft rumbling, almost a purr, that she made in her sleep. It was becoming a disturbingly familiar sound. Lying on his side, he watched the stars shoot past through the window, their light faintly illuminating the darkened room. He was exhausted, but he didn't sleep. He could never sleep here, not really.

It wasn't often he stayed in her bed – most often, he was put back in his cell once she was finished with him – and though the bed was warm and softer than the floor of a cell, he dreaded the times when she allowed him to stay. That added intimacy of sleeping beside her, sometimes skin to skin, her ridged skin softer than he'd expected, her hands still on him, his on her, it was almost more than he could bare. He was thankful this time they were not touching; she'd shifted over in her sleep, leaving a little space between them.

He edged over to the side of the bed, moving slowly, carefully so as not to disturb her. He set his feet on the floor and dropped his head into his hands. The sheet, made of a tough yet thin and silken material that he'd never seen anywhere else, covered him. His uniform, the only clothing he had, was on the floor. He didn't reach for it, however much he wanted to. Though he knew better than to count on it being over for the entire night, he hoped she wouldn't wake again. It had already been a long night. He didn't think he had it in him to take any more of her…affection.

That perverse affection, for lack of a better word, was the only reason he was still breathing. For reasons he didn't know, his captor and torturer had taken a liking to him that seemed to border on obsession. And now she tormented him in a different way. And he encouraged it. Encourage it because it was the only thing keeping him alive, his only way out from the other horrors of this place.

And as much as he hated her, he couldn't help the small seed of gratitude that he felt, as if she'd saved him; the faint stirrings of affection that wormed their way past his disgust and hate; the feeling of arousal from any touch that was not intended to cause pain (even though it sometimes did). Feelings that he didn't want, that had a disjointed feel as if they weren't really coming from him. He knew it was a result of his captivity – survival mode, his mind and body trying to get through the ordeal with as little pain as possible, with any sensation that was not pain being construed as pleasure after the torture he'd suffered – not any real genuine feeling, but try as he might he couldn't erase it. So instead, he stomped it down and locked it in a box.

Her bizarre attachment to him did not mean that he escaped the beatings that the guards meted out completely, that was too much to hope for, but he was not returned to their torture rooms. No, instead this, the captain's quarters, was his own personal torture chamber.

But he could survive her in this room.

He could not survive another round with her in that other room where he had seen other Starfleet Officers in pieces, where he was thankful when they stopped screaming because it meant they were dead. Or at least he hoped they were, that their pain was over. He swallowed the bile that the guilt at wishing death for his fellow officers raised in his throat.

Anytime he cringed at what he had to trade to escape that same fate, he remembered the pain, the agony, the screaming – His own.

There were times when he didn't know which was worse, when he didn't think he could take any more; when he thought it might be better to give up, to just let them kill him. He could say no to her – then she would stop with her…special treatment…and put him back with the other prisoners. After what he'd already been through, he didn't think it would take long for him to die.

But he didn't want to die.

She might kill him outright if he angered her. Or…she might not let him die. She might not let him say no. He'd never said no to her before. He wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't give in to her. He didn't know what to make of her inexplicable obsession; why she wanted him, a human, at all. The small kindnesses, like the few times she gave him extra food before returning him to the cell. The more tender touches that he forced himself not to flinch away from. The words she said in her own language when she had him in her bed, words he couldn't understand but which sounded like endearments…

He didn't know what made her fixate on him when she could just as easily find another human pet to play with. Internally he cringed again, guilty at wishing his fate on someone else. There were no good options here. His existence was bleak with no light at the end of the tunnel. The only choice he had (and he used the term loosely) was which method of torment he was to suffer through. He chose the one that allowed him to see another day; the one that allowed him to escape the pain…for the most part.

Her breathing changed and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping she would just go back to sleep. Futile hope. Her hand landed on his shoulder, the pointed tips of her fingers prickling his bare skin, moving down his chest…and then lower. Her tongue lapped up the side of his neck. He suppressed a shudder, schooled his expression to hide what he felt, and turned to face her. He didn't resist, feeling an equal measure of fear and unwanted anticipation, as she pushed him back onto the bed. And when she got on top of him, he gave her what she wanted. He always did.

He wasn't ready to die.