Impasse: Part 1/2
Disclaimer: Don't own them
A/N: This two shot and its summary was inspired by a favorite Jeff Buckley song of mine (I would die with happiness if anyone guessed it). This may be expanded in a longer fic later in which certain questions will be answered. I'm not too confident writing drama so I greatly appreciate input of all kinds. Thanks for reading.
Just as he'd known it would not, Spock's life did not flash before his eyes in the moments before expiration. Instead, he focused on controlling every nerve, muscle and synapse so that his body was perfectly still.
He knew this cooperation would not save his life: it was a result of his Vulcan desire of control and honor, even in the face of the death. The deceptively strong hand draped around his neck tightened in anticipation. Less than a minute before it had broken his left arm in no less than three places.
It was the same injury Spock had inflicted upon the female Klith lying in a heap behind them, killing her instantly. A horrible miscalculation that was not meant to take her life—despite the mutinous female's attack, her people were recognized by the Federation as an insular yet peaceful race. The Enterprise's away team had disarmed on the shuttle as an act of goodwill and left their communicators in their lodging during the ceremonial meal. Both acts which had been beneficial in the past two trade negotiations on Tau Klith. Nothing had gone awry until less than five minutes ago when one of the lithe, pearlescent-skinned females had inexplicably attempted to deal a murdering blow to their captain, inciting Spock to intervene with seemingly non-lethal force.
He knew without needing to confirm that the female's grief-stricken mate—holding him now in a death grip—would not be assuaged until her loss was appropriately avenged.
Spock's teeth clenched a fraction as beautiful brown eyes met his. He didn't want her to speak or move. He hardly wanted her to blink. His own lack of physical movement allowed him to channel his remaining energy into the form of this final unspoken plea, over and over again, communicated solely through the fragile, alien bond link which rationally should not even exist.
The receiver of his repetitive message appeared oddly composed while the doctor at her feet furiously worked to revive their badly wounded captain. Even in those final, motionless moments Spock did not regret his death as it would spare his human colleagues from equally senseless ends. McCoy had done everything in his power to halt this execution short of offering himself in place; Kirk had been incapacitated trying to do just that.
Despite their beginning, both men had proven themselves more than worthy of not only respect, but friendship—something he had not thought he was capable of, especially in Kirk's case. He trusted they would care for her once he was dead.
A clear, firm voice suddenly broke the silence.
"Wait."
As if in a trance, Spock watched as Uhura slowly stepped forward, her mouth and eyes set in a tranquil mask to rival his own, the raven fall of her hair a deep contrast to the crimson Starfleet uniform impeccably fitted to her every curve. She moved with a quiet confidence that completely belied the coiling fear pulsing wordlessly from her mind to his.
In that moment, with equal fervor, he loved and hated her.
Again, she spoke.
"A monuk'h. Q'aa fulor." He is mine. Take me in place.
The male Klith's grip loosened infinitesimally. A low growl rose in Spock's chest.
"Ti'uq da, " he intoned, teeth bared. End this now.
Emerald blood dripped from his clenched fist into the cold beige dust, flowing freely from the broken skin of his useless, throbbing arm as he waited for his life to end. But the Klith's eight-fingered hand remained lax on his throat.
"The Vulcan murderer will die if he utters another word. You wish to invoke the rite of Q'aa'fulor'uxun. Confirm this," the Klith ordered Uhura in his native tongue, his pupil-less eyes glinting a silver blue.
Uhura looked over one shoulder at McCoy, who was now red-faced with sudden understanding that the one person who could unlock the emergency communicator was also the only one who could have ordered her to stand down.
"Dammit Jim, don't fucking do this now!" The doctor positioned an adrenaline hypospray over Kirk's chest and thrust it directly into his heart.
"Breathe godammit!"
Kirk spasmed twice but could barely take in a mouthful of the thin oxygen.
Eyes wide, Uhura turned to address the Klith again, this time punctuating her stilted speech with sharp hand gestures not unlike the tactile sign languages of Earth. A fine sheen of sweat glowed on her face and arms as she reiterated her statement twice more. Even now, her precision with this odd language their universal translators barely deciphered was nothing short of admirable. It was maddening.
Spock felt his fragile hold on sanity slipping...no. She was pulling it from him.
"Lieutenant Uhura, you will desist," he calmly ordered.
For a fleeting moment, as her eyes met his, Spock was lost in the strange depth of her expression. One that was simultaneously angry and apologetic. Scared, defiant. More than a little stubborn. All suffused with a mad love that he knew mirrored his own, something neither of them had felt before that moment.
A white-hot chill ran uncontrollably through him. The alien link pulsed and raged.
"Q'aa fulor. DA!"
Spock was unceremoniously thrown to the ground with feet still bound, but quickly rolled to his knees. The roar of protest died in his throat at the surreal image of Uhura now in his place, her left arm being snapped in half, just as his own had been.
Her high, piercing wail seemed to rouse Kirk to full consciousness. His entire body shook with jagged, bloody coughs, but he immediately began overriding the lock on the emergency communicator.
"Kirk to Enter--" he coughed again, spitting and hacking red,"--we need emergency transport NOW!"
Spock wildly thrashed against the non-lethal chokehold of a second Klith, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. The creature had already wrenched McCoy from his own run towards Uhura seconds before.
Unable to stop the tremors from overtaking her body at the sight, she closed her eyes.
"Spock, rish-tor."
"NO!"
"Energy signatures locked, Captain. Transporting in 5...4..."
The disembodied voice was drowned by the crunch of the communicator under another Klith's foot, and Spock's hold on sanity broke in perfect synchronization with Uhura's neck.
The sound of ripping fabric tore Spock from the nightmare of his memory. His breaths were nothing but short, painful bursts of air as he worked to control the maelstrom of his emotions, his still-flexing fingers now grabbing at nothing while the frenetic pounding in his temples slowly grounded him to the present.
He didn't need a mirror to know that his face must have been a living reflection of his current surrounding. The white cotton sheets were useless shreds; his comforter had spilled artificial hypoallergenic feathers from foot to headboard. Distantly, Spock found this continued lack of control unacceptable.
Almost as unacceptable as the fact that she was not lying in rest beside him.
He began to choke on another breath, then suddenly ran from the bed to the personal lavatory attached to his sleeping space. He dry heaved into the toilet, his pale skin flushing a sickly green. But there was nothing in his stomach to dispel. He had eaten only the bare minimum of nutrients for three days, ever since their return to the Enterprise after the horrific confrontation with the psychotic Klith and her mate. He could no longer deny his body the supplement it needed to function, but the thought of food made him nearly as nauseated as he had felt after the annihilation of Vulcan.
Even then, you did not forsake your duty...
Aside from a written account of what took place on Tau Klith, Kirk had not asked for an explanation of Spock's absence from the bridge and the Enterprise at large. The captain and chief medical officer had jointly authorized a medical leave for as long as necessary. The human part of him had been relieved; his Vulcan nature burned in self-disgust.
Spock peeled off his sweat-dampened sleep clothes and showered quickly, not caring that the lukewarm water sluicing over his body felt frigid on his clammy skin. He dried and dressed in a clean, pressed science officer uniform. Although it was gamma shift and the vast majority of the crew were in quarters for the night, his appearance would be beyond reproach to anyone who may encounter him on the way to his destination.
He strode through the dimly lit, empty halls of the ship at an even pace. Rode the turbolift down one level and turned left at the split of the corridor after exiting the lift. Instead of lifting his palm to gain entry, Spock quietly spoke into the intercom. Moments later she stood in the open doorway, as if an apparition in his dream.
"Spock...what's wrong?"
She frowned up at his impassive expression with concern.
"What do you need?"
Q'aa'fulor'uxun (Klith): obscure rite in which one endures the punishment of their mate's crime
rish-tor (Vulcan): to continue to live despite trauma (VLD)