A/N: Initially, I intended this to be part of a longer fic, but I haven't had much time available to whack chapters out. So instead I've just uploaded this oneshot from 'The Year of Hell'. I was unhappy with how the show handled the other 130 crew members who left, so the result is this. What might have happened to one small off-shoot of the Voyager crew?
Disclaimer: Star Trek Voyager and her characters belong to the fans now. CBS and Rick Berman can have them back once they learn how to treat them nicely. (Not really. All rights to CBS and Paramount)
"... But we were going home."
They are refugees. They are strangers in an intolerant land. They stand in rags; reutilised blankets stripped from cold bodies or bargained-for hand-me-downs (she doesn't tell him what she did for that jacket he wears; there is enough heartbreak in his eyes already). They are cold. They are hungry. They are one of many, lost in a sea of tragic narratives and misfortune.
They'd arrived here with only the clothes on their backs, two gangly pylons of mustard and black shunted to a corner and forgotten about. They'd forfeited all their supplies to bargain safe passage to this hell-hole. No-one here has need of a warp-field specialist, nor a systems analyst. They are just two more faces, two more numbers to add to a purposeless list.
The first night he'd lost his boots to an oversized Gamerian. The second night, they'd stripped her to her undershirt, and would have taken more if it weren't for the blankets he offers them. She'd stood there, a shivering mess, trying to cover every inch of naked, traitorous skin. His uniform jacket fends off the prying, ravenous eyes.
They'd found a corner that wasn't rodent-infested or home to a family of four, and began a plan of escape.
Find a ship!
We have highly valuable skills!
Empty words, terrible lies… a humourless joke. No one here has need of a Vulcan male or human woman. And if they do, it isn't for their respective fields of specialisation.
They handle menial jobs, working maintenance on the station just to curry favour with whatever hierarchy there is on this floating prisoner. Tools are pocketed, data chips are platinum. They make plans to build a subspace transceiver in the hopes of locating other Voyager crew members, but the Muerelo gang ransacks their corner during their shift hours.
They no longer have their communicators. They take his socks.
Tarjinka from Krinal, their 'neighbour' squatting one bulkhead up, warns them to stay away from the east precincts; the head gangs trawl through the streets in search of a next easy victim. It is rare that they go any deeper than the south precinct, Tarjinka tells them through a second-hand cigarette, but there are worse things here than the Gamerian raiding parties and what is laughably dubbed station security.
They salvage broken bulkheads, support beams, strips of metal, blankets and tarps — anything and build a small shelter to keep over their heads.
At night, they offer each other a fleeting chance of escape through tales of remembered worlds. These memories are like gold; the rich reds of Mount P`i`orai on Vulcan; the breathtaking blues and greens of the Coromandel Peninsula in New Zealand; the uniform grey of Voyager given life by her crew. The euphoria entrusted by these memorised escapes is always short-lived, brief and prone to leaving them only further dispirited. She makes him promise that the heat of Vulcan's Forge will burn the unprotected skin, and she smiles (something he finds illogical — why smile at such an unpleasant prospect?). She is shocked that he's never learnt how to swim, let alone submerged himself in water before. She promises that one day she'll have him swimming laps around her. He doesn't look convinced. But for an unhurried moment, they are seated across from one another in the Mess Hall, or hooking out a malfunctioning gel-pack from within a Jefferies tube. They are bathed in brilliant blue from the light of the warp core and waiting to hear their names in the far-off, barked orders of B'Elanna Torres.
Reality comes to share their roof, an unwanted third party that they can't manage to shake. Her smile fades, his eyes grow visibly darker. The sound of their native tongues die out.
They sleep in one another's space, close enough to be sharing breath. It is cold here, at night. They listen to the hum of the station's energy core, and wait as it powers down to conserve energy. Blankets are a viable currency. Body heat is like liquid gold. At first they'd tried to sleep with a respectable few inches between them. But when the icy cold comes blowing down corridors like the breath of God, necessity forces them into each other's arms. She lies perfectly still as Vorik slides in behind her. She's careful not to touch any stretch of skin, wary of Vulcan touch telepathy and her heating cheeks. He moves carefully, cautiously, as if curling up next to a hissing viper, or wild sehlat.
And he lays as rigid as a statue behind her, every muscle tense and straining. Naturally, she sighs, and pushes back into him in the hopes of pooling their heat. We'll freeze, otherwise. He is her own personal plasma manifold, running hot like the sands of his planet. She settles into the coveted heat, pulling the moth-eaten blankets over her shoulders. The sound of his measured breaths and beating heart almost has her asleep, when he pulls away. Annoyed at the sudden, merciless strip of cold down her back, she follows his warmth. However, her not-so-quiet groans of protest cease when she feels the reason for his shifting come between them.
They both freeze.
The brief flash of embarrassment she feels is directed towards her own reaction; a flash of guilty pleasure rolls through her like a wave.
She decides she doesn't care. Sighing, she shuffles right back into the heat of his body. Mortified hips try and wiggle away, but she places a hand on his waist, stills him, and pulls him closer. She slides his hands beneath her ribs, and lets herself enjoy the way he curls right into her.
It is their third month in; fifteen-year-old Lorent Prixton has just passed him a data pad in the hallway (in payment for the water pipe he'd fixed in their quarters) when he spots them. They're not much different to the rest of the station's population to the untrained eye, but after three trying months of life here, he knows their type when he sees them. He sends Lorent Prixton back to his mother, half-walks, half-sprints back to their corner of the station, raps his knuckles on Tarjinka's feeble door in warning, and throws everything he can over Lyssa Campbell. He knows what these gangs do to women, young or old. He knows what they do to the men, too.
"Vorik?" She starts, angry and confused, but then they both can hear the gangs rattling down the hallway. A pipe, or some sort of cylindrical object drags and bangs along the bulkheads. Every clang and clunk sends an involuntary, illogical chill down his spine. He sits and shivers in distasteful fear, trying to press his fingers together and calm his mind through fruitless meditation.
Then he's hauled backwards, straight from the safety of blankets, tarps and Lyssa, and right into the blinding light of the corridor.
...
Thugs don't listen to reason; they have no use for logic. Their lexicon is built on power, violence and carnal pursuits.
...
When they are done with him, they leave him shuddering in a pool of his own blood and mess. He's crying, a pathetic, shameful image of Vulcan resilience. When he feels those hands return, he doesn't have the strength to fight back. He resorts to steely resolution, hoping to lock away his consciousness inside the recesses of his mind.
Something is pressing to his throbbing cheeks. His unbidden panic grows tenfold, expecting another blinding punch… until he can discern what the soft, ghosting touch is. It peppers his face in slow, languid movements, and he tries to meet each touch with drunken lips. Her lips are gentle and attentive. He can ignore the pain of his split lip when her mouth finally presses to his.
Tarjinka sends her youngest over with a bowl of water, a spare rag, and a small, precious bottle of ointment. The little girl sits in the corner and watches as Lyssa strips her friend to his underclothes and begins the arduous task of cleaning cuts and wiping away the frightful green. His torso is a nightmarish patchwork of blooming bruises and gashes. She hopes to soothe him with the whispered words of his native tongue; her topics are dry and she's hopelessly inept at the second inverted vowel tonight. His hands are cold, slathered in green, but she steeples his trembling fingers together in the hopes of encouraging a healing trance — she'd settle for sleep, too. There's a perfect print of a fist just below his ribs, and she smears a dry lick of balm over the spasming, tortured flesh. Malnourishment and insufficient use has ravaged away the once strong muscle beneath her palms. When she sees the heated bruises on his hips, she can't see her hands through the tears.
She wants to punch him… She wants him inside her.
She wants to batter, hit and strike every last foul savage on this floating necropolis.
But most of all, she wants to go home... She wants to go home to Voyager. Oh, God.
That night she dreams of the cramped Jefferies tubes, the sweet taste of Neelix's leola root soup, and mourns the loss of Starfleet issue… everything. She can hear the honeyed notes of Harry's Mozart concerto, and Susan's sharp, angular jazz. Captain Janeway welcomes them home with an urgent hug, and sends them all to bed. Dolph's already fast asleep as she crawls beneath cotton sheets. She rolls over, and finds Vorik rolling her back over beneath him…
She wakes up, a heated, sweating mess of embarrassment and misery. Vorik is still, mercifully, asleep on their litter of blankets and one stolen throw cushion. And lodged in beside him is Tarjinka's youngest. Lyssa chokes out a laugh or a sob, she's not sure which.
The clinical smell of Voyager's corridors is gone, replaced by the stench of sweat, blood, thousands of alien beings cramped together in joint despair... and stale urea.
She decides to spare herself from her self-given torture this morning. At this point in their adopted routine, she'd be emerging from a nest of warmth, wiping sleep from her eyes, ready to croak a bleak 'good morning' to Vorik as he crawls back in with their replenished water-tubs. And as he sets about splitting rations and scheduling 'work', she'd set aside a few moments for self-torment. Captain Janeway's parting words usually takes top-billing, stuck on repeat until it's all she can hear.
'Asking you to stay… would be asking you to die.'
... That bargain has a different appeal now.
...
But today there is no Vorik to collect precious water. There is no Vorik to manage their meagre rations, while she indulges in a few moments of human wallowing to drag herself out of sleep. There is no one to shunt a ration bar in her hand, and give her masked words of encouragement.
She does a double shift, covering for herself and Vorik, but not after hustling for a sad share of rations at the food distributions, and stopping by the Prixton's for a tub of diluted water. This morning, she'll skip visiting Galpin — she doesn't think she can stomach the man's passes.
She loathes to wake him, loathes to force food into him when he so looks like he'd prefer to be left alone to his shame. She quells the urge to yell at him. When she wins by asking him to see the logic of not starving, she presses her lips to his forehead to quieten the cynical look she receives.
"Sleep, ashayam. I'll return later; you have nothing to do but rest today." Her vowels are still on the harsh side, but she's become far more proficient in the last three months.
A shaky hand dares the gradually closing distance between them, and she's left guessing to his intentions until he folds all but two of his fingers. She recognises the gesture, and it takes all her strength to breathe in all the calm she can. She presses their fingers together. He shivers, and she's nearly rendered to tears again.
She doesn't give herself time to explore the explosion of hot and cold, highs and lows that Vorik has left within her. With an 0800 deadline on the front promenade, she'll be sprinting through the precinct to meet it. She collects whatever tools they have and shuts him in behind a flimsy tarp. Tarjinka's youngest sits on a useless chunk of metal just outside.
"Will you watch him for me?"
She nods a head of patchy blonde hair.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
Unremarkable and routine, the day is made interesting only by the news that the station will be receiving a supply run in a week's time.
When the supply ship eventually docks, Lyssa feels like her body has finally given up on her. A last burst of strength gets her home... home. When had she started referring to this shack stashed in a corner as home? Exhausted, mush-like legs don't have the strength to ease her to the ground; she all but collapses on her side of their home and tries to get some precious sleep before she has to rise and take Vorik's shift.
(I will go, he tells her as he tries to get to his feet. She sees his screaming muscles and pulsing jaw, and pulls him back down. 'I won't have you collapsing in the middle of the south precinct because of stubborn Vulcan pride, Vorik. Just give yourself another day.')
A day later, Tarjinka's youngest brings them the greatest gift she has ever seen, she thinks, as the tiny child throws back the tarps with several tentacles and plops down in Vorik's lap. Four of her six tentacles are wrapped around something invaluable, and she unfurls her tight grip to reveal the melon-like fruit beneath.
Lyssa can't believe her eyes. 'What about your mother — your sisters, and brothers?'
She taps Vorik's knee twice. Two. Two fruits.
The taste isn't dissimilar to a watermelon, and the sugary sweet juice runs down her chin in rivulets. Overzealous hands try and catch every drop, and she sucks the saccharine liquid from her fingers. Tarjinka's youngest isn't fairing any better. She smiles through mouthfuls of bursting fruit, the perfect image of childish joy. Vorik is the exact antithesis to them both, taking small, delicate bites and quietly savouring each reserved mouthful.
The child's laugh is a strange sound; they've only heard it through the makeshift walls. To Lyssa, it sounds a mix between a chirruping cricket and a cackling hyena, and when it starts up, she can't help but encourage it.
It's a joyous din, unconventional to their ears, but something that brings much needed light to their small corner. She thinks it's the way in which she is devouring the alien watermelon. Someone who is roughly six-years-old and in possession of several tentacles must find it hilarious to watch a two-armed bipedal stuff their mouth. It's the outrageous slurping sounds she's making, definitely.
She thinks she will be on the end of Vorik's disapproving look, so when she looks up and finds his dark gaze locked directly on her mouth…
He coughs, removes the giggling child from his lap, and rises to his feet in a tense, neat line of Vulcan control.
She doesn't see him for another hour. She and Tarjinka's youngest sit and finish the fruit (she packs some away for when he returns — albeit, a small amount). A half hour later, her starved belly can't take the overdose on fructose and she's a mess in the communal bathrooms.
It's an awkward return for both of them, her cradling her emptied stomach, and that long suffering expression of his in full swing. He doesn't bring up his earlier abrupt exit, and she chooses not to go into detail over the consequences of her over-exuberant melon-eating.
When they huddle beneath the standard four blankets, routine dictates that he curve in behind her. They have it down to an exact, perfunctory science; one arm stationed over her waist, his knees arranged in the bend of hers, and her back situated to his chest. Vulcan physiology is their secret weapon; Vorik can heat the bed for four, she thinks.
However, tonight, that air of unease still lingers. She is busy committing the neon light-fixture on their low wall to memory, busy knowing they both should be asleep, when she feels him shift behind her. That in itself is a rarity. He rolls away, but it's too late. She's felt it.
It is a mix of curiosity, concern, and pure exhaustion that spurs her on. She follows him over and stuffs the mound of young man and illogical self-loathing into the curve of her body. They've never slept in this arrangement before; it is illogical. She won't generate enough warmth for them both, and Vorik's natural body heat is wasted. But tonight, she stations an arm over his waist, arranges her knees in the bend of his, and situates his back to her chest.
It is another fifteen minutes (an eternity) before she brushes her lips over the nape of his neck. As he shivers, she can feel the echo of want still loud and prominent.
She knows to take his hand, knows to pool all her affection and leave it simmering where he can easily find it. She weaves her fingers through his beneath the blankets.
In the litany of hampered emotions and exhaustion they share, she can discern the foreign tinge of his arousal. She can feel the urge to roll over and pin her down... But with it comes the cold determination for composure.
He can't get up and walk it off now. Her sleep-laden mind wonders if it'd be an affront to work his pants down over his hips and help him out; anything to help hush him. But then the thought of bringing the young, stoic Vulcan to trembling orgasm through unhurried, calculated strokes and drowsy kisses is so shockingly erotic, she squeezes her thighs together and tightens her grip... on his hand.
Her wave of guilt is exacerbated by horror. It is enough to shock her out of the haze of fatigue and arousal, and leave her blinking down at her close friend. He blinks back in the dark, and she finds an equally guilty hand settling onto her hip. She is stilled, then pulled to.
"We shall deal with this another time," he mumbles. "But for now, sleep, ashayam."
And she does.
He takes both their shifts the following day; she's turned away when she goes to punch her time in. 'Your husband, Campbell. Your husband is taking your shift. Remember?' 'Yes, right. Of course.'
When he comes in later that evening, he doesn't make a sound as he slides beneath the blankets. He doesn't curl in behind her. The temperature drops like usual, but they both choose to freeze.
"You're avoiding me." She says in standard one night, after he's finished meditating and she's meant to be asleep. "Vorik, why?"
"I did not mean to wake you, I apologise."
"That's not an answer, Mister."
She almost immediately regrets turning over. The strain is palpable, pulling at and draining every inch of his features. The tight muscles of his jaw, the pulsing vein just to the left of his right temple… his eyes remain close, and she can see him trying to form measured words and sentences with every stretch of taut muscle.
His control is wavering, and it's something she feels she shouldn't be witnessing.
She sits up, pushing filthy, frizzing hair from her face. "Vorik, what's wrong?" She's alive with panic now. "God, are you alright? You're not ill, are you?"
"I am," He swallows, "I am fine. Just… stay where you are. Please."
She pauses on her side of their cramped quarters. "This isn't about the other night, is it?"
His hair is getting longer, it sits down near his brows now, and brushes against his collar. He frowns in what she knows is a mix of Vulcan incredulity and distaste, then sniffs.
The tips of his ears have disappeared into rich, dark hair. "We're going to need to cut this soon," She reaches out, and sweeps it back from his ears. "Maybe Galpin will have something we can use. Mind you, I wouldn't feel comfortable taking a defective laser scalpel to your hair… This isn't some allergic reaction to your hair growing beyond regulation Vulcan length, is it?" Humour is a valued commodity on this station, just like everything else. She's smiling, acknowledging it's an awful joke through the upturn of her brows… She isn't ready for the hiss, nor the vice-like hand snagging her fingers.
"Lyssa."
That explosion of hot and cold bursts along every nerve ending in her hand, and she's sucking in a glacial breath. His eyes are a dark jumble of anger, pain, and desire… and then he's letting go, turning away from her and shaking his hung head.
"Vorik…"
"Leave me be, please."
"Vorik," she puts a hand on his shoulder, and feels him recoil. "T'hy'la…"
A flash of skin, teeth and fabric, she finds herself pinned to the floor-grating and staring up at his exotic features caught in fire. She thinks she's never seen anything more beautiful; every line and contour, lean and taut. Unsuppressed power crackles beneath the surface, and for a moment she's entirely helpless beneath him.
Their time here has taken its toll on him; deep sunken eyes are rimmed with dark circles, and his nose has been broken in several places. She raises a hand and trails it over the handsome plains of his face. "My shining Vulcan in stolen blankets," she croaks out, caressing his pale cheeks. His usually olive complexion has bled away, left mottled by yellowing bruises. "Still as handsome as ever…" she smiles, brushing her fingers along his lips.
"Lyssa…"
His eyes perform the cursory sweep of everything important to a male, and return to her eyes. She's sure he's taken stock of her before, many times. They undress and redress according to the mercurial temperature, and she's sure he's seen more than a hint of her breasts.
"Do you," He begins, short of breath and still looming over her. "Do you accept?"
"You?"
In a desperate flurry, she finds his lips and pulls him down. She arcs her waist into him in primal answer, and he writhes against her in just the right way. "I'll be damned if I don't." She resumes her assault on his mouth, feeling his drunken lips slow with inexperience.
And then the tears begin, and she can't slow them nor apologise for them as she lays beneath him in filthy, stolen rags, trapped on this alien station, counting the days by ration packs and blanket losses.
How had they ended up here? Four months ago, she would have been agreeing to meet him in Engineering to discuss the power-output levels of the bio-neural circuitry. She'd be pushing to keep a holodeck time with Harry Kim in the evening. She'd have had time for a volley of verbal sparring with Tom, a late dinner with Dolph, and then they'd all turn in for the night. How fortunate they'd been, to be able to call Voyager home.
… And she'd once called it a prison.
"I'm sorry," she hiccups, a frightful mess of blubbering tears and emotion. "But we were going home." Lyssa wants to tear her own eyes out to stop the tears. "We were going home. Who knew how long it would take, but we'd get there." She meets his eyes, and is forced away by her own guilt. She can't rid herself… can't scrub herself clean of that horrifying image of him being dragged from their rickety little hut, nor the haunting sound of bludgeoning fists, grunts and… "I'm so sorry, Vorik."
"Do not be, ashayam." One last kiss to her lips, wet with her own tears. "We will leave this place, one day." He pauses as he lifts himself from her body. "You have agreed to teach me how to swim."
And she smiles, her sore cheeks burning through the action. "We'll need an abundance of water for that."
"Then we shall find an M class planet with an ocean to your liking."
He settles in behind her, pulling her back into him. Every inch of him curves perfectly to her, and she longs to bury herself away; to loose herself in his unconditional warmth… "I think we'll start shallow. I don't want to loose you beneath the waves."
His voice rumbles through his chest to her's. "… A logical choice."
Without warning, she rolls over in the dark. The plains of his face catch the faint light that seeps off the neon wall fixture, and she feels her heart catch in her chest.
"I love you."
…
"Have done for a while now."
The pulsing warp-core within her chest isn't expecting the touch of his fingers against her cheeks. He sweeps the slopes of her face with two feather-light fingers, enwrapped by the movement, and she shivers. There is no cold here, no deadlines to meet, no bodies lining corridors, no gangs to cower from… there is only Vorik.
She falls asleep pressed to his chest, her legs weaved through his, and her mind drifting freely alongside his.
And the months pass. Their days are spent collecting blankets and rations. They pocket tools, and repair what little hardware they can get their hands on. They bargain these hodgepodge bits and bobs for other supplies, and begin to earn themselves a reputation of sorts. Galpin calls her in to fix whatever he can't in his small black-market operation, and Vorik obtains a promotion to 'power-matrix architect'.
Lyssa snorts as they share a hot meal; the first in a very long time. "Too bad we don't get officer privileges. I could sure use a change of scenery. And clothes."
Vorik raises a brow over a bowl of steaming soup. It has nothing on Neelix's leola root soup, but at least it's warm.
Their nights are still filled with the sound of Vulcan and Maori, and retellings of childhood experiences and Academy hijinks (she's particularly fond of the story of the mayhem caused by his twin status. Jen and Megan have a similar story, but somehow she finds it far more amusing that Vorik once stood in for his brother on dreaded Photo Day. 'Where was your brother?' 'Chosen for an exchange program in the Alpha Centuri system.' 'So it's you in both photos for the Advanced Engineering Classes of 2265?' 'Yes.' 'Did they notice?' 'Commander Jensen suggested I take Taurik's spot.' 'Commander Jensen. Why am I not surprised?'). However, when conversation runs dry, and she can no longer see the circuitry she's rewiring...
She certainly doesn't mind spending her nights with Vorik's heated, searching hands exploring her every dip and curve. The trained hands of an Engineer, fine-tuned by Vulcan deliberation and a virgin's insatiable curiosity...
Their first time is a near mess. It's a fumbled affair; she can't get his pants down far enough before he's taking her. However, when she starts giggling incessantly, he slows his desperate thrusts to take in her streaming tears. "Eager beaver... try again." He goes a deep shade of green when he peers down, and finds himself lodged between her thigh and the throw cushion.
"Why didn't..." He clears his throat, blushing furiously. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"You seemed to be doing well without me. For a while there I was happy just to watch."
For the rest of the night, his hands are tucked up beneath her chin, and she shares his every sigh and moan. She misses the smell of the clay plots in her family kitchen, stands beside a beloved brother she can't claim amongst the numbers of her own, sees the intricacies of warp mechanics unravel before her eyes, and watches B'Elanna Torres move like a revered goddess around Engineering. Lyssa studies her own profile above a steaming cup of tea, sees herself talking to L-cars displays, gel-packs and the piano down in Sandrines... She feels his confusion, and early, profound affection for her...
He sleeps on her naked chest, and she cards her fingers through his lengthy hair.
Of course, this nightly routine is thrown to the side when Tarjinka's youngest decides to come and join their ranks. On these nights, Lyssa regales her with stories of Voyager, or of her several siblings and her family home in Whitianga. Earth. That magical blue and green orb 70,000 light years away. Vorik tries to explain what a lightyear is, but Tarjinka's youngest would rather hear about the Osana Caverns and the heights of Mount P`i`orai.
'Captain Janeway and friends' quickly becomes a favourite. The child's bulbous head tips to the side as she listens with rapt attention from Vorik's lap. Lyssa thinks she likes hearing about the furry, friendly Talaxian in the Mess Hall, or about Naomi Wildman, or even Harry Kim as Lyssa whistles the opening notes to Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A major.
Tom Paris and his super-speedy shuttlecraft.
B'Elanna Torres, the angry, beautiful warrior who stands guard over warp-theory and all things Engineering.
Captain Janeway, the fierce mother hen who they'll return to one day.
...
On nights where she can't afford the time to entertain Tarjinka's youngest, she listens and presses her smile away as Vorik attempts to teach the several-tentacled child the basics of meditation, or even the teachings of Surak if he's feeling particularly adventurous. Again, she'd much rather hear about his several summers in the Osana Caverns, even if she's heard the story too many times. As Lyssa slaves over a particularly troubling algorithm, she mouths along with the precise, measured wording of Vorik's childhood escapades.
Sometimes they sleep with her lodged between them, a tentacle around her waist and blonde tufts assaulting Vorik's nose. And for a short while, despite how illogical it seems, everything seems right.
All good things come to an end. Eventually.
They come in the night. A clatter of heavy boots rattling down corridors. Lyssa and Vorik emerge bleary-eyed from between the tarps, along with every other of their exhausted neighbours. The light from Tarjinka's quarters douses the darkened corridor in a pale gleam. Frantic shadows dance along the far wall. Lyssa wipes the sleep from her eyes. Someone screams. Something is smashed against a wall.
They drag Tarjinka from her derelict quarters, kicking and screaming, along with her several adopted children. Everyone recognises the flash of station security. Many hurry back into their ramshackle lodgings in acceptance of an unspoken status quo. Vorik clamps a hand around her wrist.
In the hysterical panic, no-one notices as the smallest of seven children is scooped up and tucked beneath a blanket.
That night, she sits and cradles a sobbing child. It is one of many nights to come.
"We can't stay here." She says sometime into their sixth month of life here. Routine deftly followed, the deck-plates whisper quietly back into place after Tarjinka's youngest has scrambled out from beneath their flooring. Vorik helps the child to her feet, and she dashes to the table.
Vorik and Angala (after the Darangal Goddess of Eternal Youth, Lyssa decided) sit at the makeshift table in their quarters, a single data pad sat before them. Teaching her to read and write Federation Standard keeps her preoccupied, keeps her distracted. The child's vocal cords aren't capable of forming the sounds of spoken language, and the shoddy universal translator they have can't discern her complex trills and clicks. But they've devised a way of communication through simple sign language and written words. I'm hungry, and I love you need some working out, one too-many waving tentacles might earn Angala a ration pack rather than a reserved Vulcan hand to her shoulder, but they're gradually making progress.
"I would concur." Vorik says after a long stretch, and his gaze drifts to the narrow viewport to their left. The stars shift ever slowly out the window, and the passing of the Bontarian Nebula tells Lyssa that it's nearing someone's bedtime.
"Bedtime, Chicken. And sleep." Please, she adds to herself. She's laid enough nights in Vorik's arms, listening to the alien sniffles and tears. They sleep in her mother's bed, and she watches Angala stretch out in a cot that is meant to house her and her six other siblings.
"Was Tom really everywhere, all at once?"
"Mr Paris' successful attempts at breaking the warp 10 barrier did mean he was simultaneously present across the known universe, yes."
"So he went home? To Earth? And Vulcan?"
"Mr Paris is human, so his home planet is Earth."
"But he went home. Will you take me home, Vorik? I wish to see Vulcan one day."
Lyssa clasps her hand around the isolinear spanner she's holding, and she can feel it groan.
"Perhaps. If we ever reach the Alpha Quadrant."
A rustle of sheets, and a flash of obvious shock sent across a strengthening bond... Lyssa turns around to find Vorik accosted by several tentacles, and one bulbous head flat against his chest. Two hesitant hands eventually come to settle around the alien child, and Lyssa hides her reddening nose and cheeks behind a filthy hand.
"They took the Verians the other day. Galpin says he's housing the Marvlix children with his second wife." She slides easily into his Y`a`if`aba, to avoid eavesdropping from small ears.
Vorik nods her way. "Tongarik failed to show up to duty today. Lourink fears that he will be next."
She pulls at her slowly lengthening hair, collapsing next to him at the table and nearly spilling the jug of water over him. "Jesus. It's starting. They're cutting into their work force." She stares at the purified water, and Vorik feels the fear in her eyes echoing to his own heart. "They're liquidating the ghettos." She hisses, closing her eyes. Outside, the corridor is near empty. They aren't the first family to take up residence in Tarjinka's abandoned quarters; closer to the fourth.
Tarjinka and her children were just the first of many.
No one knows where they go, they just know that they do go.
The Marvlix children stopped eating the soups after the Dimmerichs disappeared.
Windigix Torpia swears the east precinct smells of roast dinner.
"We have to try the supply ship again." Lyssa drags her hands over tired eyes. "I know what'll happen if we're caught... But it's our only choice. That subspace transceiver is getting us nowhere."
He takes a moment to consider her proposition, and she sees the cogs whirl inside her husband's mind. His dark eyes meet her's again. "Perhaps if we try and modify the field amplifier, we can attempt to beam aboard."
He knows she doesn't like that. "I barely managed to beam us back here, last time. You were lucky to make it out with your spleen and kidneys intact."
"I am grateful for that."
"Vorik… We need a way outta this hell-hole, now, more than ever."
She leaves him sitting at the table, and misses the feel of him scooped in behind her that night. She rolls over at intermittent moments to find him labouring over an array of data pads and other tools spread out over the table. If the situation weren't so dire, and if Angala wasn't sleeping four feet away, she'd have him a shivering, submissive mess on the floor by now. Then again, that's also if she didn't have to work an eight hour shift in the morning.
A week later, she is on her haunches before Angala, Tarjinka's youngest, cradling two of her six tentacles in hand. The little girl watches her with wide, silvery eyes. Sheets of sallow skin blink in two different directions, and she tilts her head. "We're leaving." Lyssa tells her, and those giant eyes blink up at Vorik immediately. He nods, and she chirrups.
How many lightyears is it to Voyager? She bounces on the balls of her feet. How big is a chicken hen? Will we go as fast as Tom's shuttle craft? I wish to try leola root soup!
She doesn't have the heart to tell her that it's likely they'll never see Voyager again.
Between her and Vorik, they pack whatever possessions they need for if they make it off this floating tomb (she tells herself they will. Vorik makes no comment when she throws her fists against the shelf). And still a bundle of reutilised blankets and bargained-for hand-me-downs, they slide down now haunted corridors.
She'd have thought fatigue would be slowing her down by now; an entire night spent pacing, going over every single inch of this plan ('You've double-checked those warheads, yes? How about those secondary modifications to the field amplifier? Yes, I know I made them... That's why I want you to check them... Vorik!') until she had Vorik threatening a nerve pinch... She's too alive with adrenaline now to ponder on such luxuries like exhaustion.
She grips Angala to her side when the station rocks at exactly 1750. By the time they are standing in the cargo-bays, Lyssa is throwing their bags to the ground and Vorik is putting one deceptively heavy six-year-old back down on rumbling deck-plates. Two Starfleet Engineers are tackling an uncooperative transporter console when the remainder of their party comes rushing through rusting bay doors.
"I think that's it. Kids, on the transporter pad." Two gangly twins, one gamerian and Tarjinka's youngest pile onto the illuminated cargo-transporter. Tiny, frightened eyes meet hers, and she presses her lips together. "Four to beam over." She says for no one's sake, but her own. The children disappear in a swirl of pale light.
The adults are next, pulling bags and tattered blankets.
A timer sees her and Vorik arrive in two respective pieces in the darkened hold of the supply ship.
It's a long time before she allows herself to breathe again.
"Perhaps... if you sit quietly and steeple your fingers. You'll do well to follow Angala's example."
A single tweet, followed by an exasperated groan.
"But Angala's got tentacles! How is she supposed to show me anything?"
A single, dark eye glides open, and Brinj Marvlix swallows at the brow lift he receives.
"Sorry, Mr Vorik." He mumbles, and falls into a perfect, if strained mirror of the Vulcan siting across from him. A minute of silence follows, where four children and one Vulcan sit in a disjointed circle and practice breathing. Lyssa raises a brow from the console she is tinkering with.
/Having trouble with the children, darling?/
/Not at all. I'll admit they do display a lack of discipline, but this exercise is proving constructive./
/Ah-ha. Careful, I think Meralli's bursting to ask you another question./
And sure enough, all six of Meralli's eyes fly open, and the Gamerian child is chewing on her bottom lip. "Vorik, what was it like on your ship? Angala says you and Lyssa are from the other side of the galaxy. Are you really?"
Vorik un-steeples his fingers, sighs, and meets Meralli's glistening eyes. "Yes, we are. I am from a planet called Vulcan, located in a section of this galaxy called the Alpha Quadrant. Ensign Campbell is a human, from the planet Earth."
Grinj Marvlix cocks his head. "Is that why you have pointy ears, and Lyssa doesn't?"
...
"… Yes."
Vorik doesn't wish to find himself explaining the intricacies of human physiology, nor Vulcan physiology with the four children at this point in time. He'd much prefer it if they'd close their eyes, calm their minds, and follow the breathing exercises taught to him as a boy.
It'd make the next part of their journey transition far more smoothly if they can all 'keep their cool'.
"When's dinner? I'm hungry." Brinj looks over at the rest of the adults, and the barking laugh of Galpin carries across the bay.
"Vorik, my boy, the day you get these kids meditating will be the day I go home to Merathda IV."
"Quiet, Galp. Leave him be... If he can get the kids calm, then we're all better off." Galpin's (second? first?) wife lays a hand on Galpin's rounding chest, and shakes her head.
"I'm just hungry." Brinj shrugs, and his brother agrees with a nod.
"You didn't pack the soups, did you? Won't eat that stuff."
A series of trills and clicks earns everyone's attention, and Lyssa sighs. "Yes, thank you Angala. A bit of quiet would be much appreciated. If not so I can splice into the ship's navigation to find out where the hell we're heading... then just to make sure no one hears us down here. Fooling internal sensors only goes so far."
…
"How much longer?"
"Quiet, Grinj! Lyssa is working."
They are bunkered down behind a shipment of some kind of alcoholic beverage when Lyssa feels the ship's manoeuvring thrusters fire. She finishes handing Brinj his much desired dinner, then the ship jolts. The inertial dampeners stop the rattling of floor panels, and she nods across to Vorik.
The transport off is harder than beaming on, mostly because she hasn't had sufficient time to familiarise herself with the computer on board. Once everyone else is off, she stands and waits for Vorik to beam her across.
…
She throws up when she materialises on the other side.
"Yeah, I did that too." Meralli pats her shaking shoulder in childish commiseration. Angala clicks away in agreement.
"Christ, that was choppy. I feel like my insides have materialised on the outside." She just manages to pull her noodle-like knees straight.
"You are in one whole, intact piece, Lyssa." She looks up to find the heavenly site of Vorik standing tall, hands folded regally behind his back and gazing down at her. She catches the teasing brow. "I would have thought you'd have more faith in my abilities."
"Beam me here with my lunch next time, hun, and I'll be happy."
"Come on, you lot!" Galpin hollers from up front. His wives bustle along behind him, carrying the multitude of their bags. Lyssa pulls her pilfered boots back into place, panicking slightly when she can't fit her finger between the leather and her ankle (It's fused! Dammit Vorik.) Her finger hooks round her sock, and she breathes easier.
The twins hurry along with all their worldly possessions strapped to their backs, and Meralli weaves her hand through her mother's. Lyssa finds a mellow tentacle weaving around her's.
"You escaped from that hell-hole? Gods! You must be loved."
The Captain of the cargo-ship Relonkt sits them down with a hot meal, and a promise of transport. In exchange, of course, for Vorik to take a look at his supposedly 'lousy' dilithium stores.
"You'll wanna be heading out of Krenim space, I can tell you that." The Captain pats his ballon-shaped belly and smacks his lips together. Vorik meets his gaze over a spoonful of soup.
"That much is obvious."
From the seat beside Vorik, a series of tentacles wave in the air. Several clicks and chirps punctuate the frantic gestures.
"Swimming, you say? Well, I'd suggest the Mentrol System. We'll be pulling through there in a month. The sunsets on Mentrol III are the envy of this sector."
Lyssa and Vorik exchange a look. "You can understand her?"
The Captain looks at them both through bulging eyes, as if they'd just accused him of unprecedented stupidity. "'Course I can. Every educated Threlin can speak Jin'ti'gra."
"Alright, this is all very educational, but where's the nearest inhabited planet?" Galpin leans forward, scooping himself another helping of soup. "Preferably one that doesn't thrive off slave labour, and has a booming black-market."
The Captain guffaws, continuing to rub his belly. Lyssa raises a brow, wondering if there's more to read with the affectionate way in which he does. "A man after my own heart! You'll want Rv'lik Prime. Five lightyears from here. Can have you there by tomorrow morning."
'Lightyears?' Angala chirps, 'I know all about lightyears! Vorik told me everything there is to know about lightyears.'
"Vorik also taught us about meditation." Meralli pipes up through a mouthful of bread.
"Meditation?" The Captain smiles at the child.
"Ah-ha. You sit very still, and breathe."
Vorik looks somewhat offended by the very crude explanation of the practice. "There's more to meditation than just—"
"Oh! And you have to hold your fingers like this!" Meralli drops her bread, and steeples her fingers together. Lyssa has to stifle her laugh when the child focuses all six of her eyes on the joint tips of her fingers, and sinks her brows. It's a very good impersonation of her husband, Lyssa has to admit.
"You forgot the eyebrow thing." Brinj offers, and Meralli delivers.
"Alright, kids, enough bashing on the poor Vulcan for one day I think." Lyssa lowers the girl's hands, and puts a finger to her own lips. "Eat your food, and then listen to Mordi and Lynchra. You've had a long day."
"Yes, Lyssa."
"I think we'll get off at Rv'lik Prime tomorrow." She says later that night, running a hand through the short tuffs of Angala's hair. They both rise and fall with the rhythm of Vorik's breathing. From her vantage point, Lyssa can just make out Meralli curled around her mother and Grinj. The steady sounds of sleep whisper through the blackened room, accompanied by the much welcomed bass roll of a warp core. She closes her eyes, relishing in the familiar sound. After seven months on a lifeless station, she longs to feel the vibration of travel beneath her; longs to know that they are going somewhere; anywhere.
"I concur. If it is an economically inclined planet, we may be able to acquire a ship of our own." A hand sweeps circles through her hair, and she can feel the simmering emotion beneath Vorik's cool exterior.
We made it. The tears she sheds is kissed away by gentle lips, and she shakes her head. "I'm sorry,"
"R``ar th`ek, Lyssa-g`ar."
She smiles.
"R``ar th`ek, Vorik-g`ar."
We are at peace. It is the traditional greeting for strangers in his native tongue, but she clings to its promise.
She falls asleep, and dreams of a little grey starship bursting up through a blanket of colossal clouds. To the blackness it soars, travelling through a field of ribboning stars, on an everlasting trek home. Inside, there is a crew who know nothing of this pain. They carry out their lives, running diagnostics and scans, scouting nebulas, recording astronomic phenomena, and hosting diplomatic negotiations. They wake each morning, communally bemoan their apparent misfortune, and never realise how truly blessed they are to have one another.
It is perfectly 12 months to the day when the timelines reset. None of the Voyager crew have kept tabs on the dwindling days. Even Captain Janeway has lost count of the long-line of repetitive logs she has made in an effort to bring order to chaos. Half of them are irretrievable, something Ensign Kim apologises for as he breaks down over the operations console. Kathryn orders Harry to leave; orders them all to leave and try and find a way back to the Alpha Quadrant without her…
While it is a monumental moment for Kathryn Janeway as she sacrifices her ship in vanishing hope, for the remainder of Voyager's lost crew, it is just another passing moment.
Ken Dalby and Greg Foster potter around a geriatric ward on Hebe IV, in the Hebion System just outside Krenim Space.
Terry Fischer is screaming blue murder aboard a ship bound for the Gamma Quadrant, as she enters labour with her and Borris Dimitri's first child. Samantha Wildman holds her hand, while Naomi promotes herself to replacement morale-officer and takes Borris Dimitri through a very rough crash-course on fatherhood. Ayala offers further advice when Naomi's attention wanders.
Sarah Grimes, Hugh Hickman and Mei Kyoto wait outside the door, betting on the gender.
Susan Nicoletti is buying a new pair of boots from a department store on Prinis VI. Louis Colbert thinks the red would have been a better choice.
Ensign Rollins and Crewman Sharr count the winnings from the small gambling business they run in the Varaxian Cascade, unaware of how close Tony Reynolds and Barbara Reen are, who've taken jobs as wait-staff aboard the galactic cruise line docked just outside their establishment.
Billy Telfer is sweating over the arrival of his bride-to-be in a small registry on Phlodian Prime. Harren looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Kashimuro Nozawa is wondering what to cook for dinner.
And there is a small family of three on one of the moons of Mentrol III, swimming circles in the gentle, tepid waters of a placid beach. Lyssa Campbell (Vorik, she thinks. Would it be Ensign Lyssa Vorik now?) watches her once aquatically-challenged husband make gentle waves in the purple-hued water. She thinks of the first time she'd coaxed him to the water, and recalls the floundering fish-out-of-water she'd struggled to soothe. Desperate to keep his head up, unwilling to lay on his back and relax…
A desert child, through and through.
He's still timid, reluctant to swim out to any great depth where the ocean floor can't easily be accosted.
Lyssa swims to the sand bar and props herself up.
She sometimes thinks of Voyager, and wonders about the fate of her crewmates. Perhaps her and Vorik are one of the lucky-ones. Perhaps some are already standing in San Fransisco again.
They won't settle here. They need to move on from this paradise, and keep moving for something. Maybe that something is the blue of Coromandel's coastline, or the rich reds of Mount P`i`orai from the window of Vorik's childhood bedroom, but whatever it is... they'll keep going.
And she watches as the Vulcan in question is orbited by one silvery moon that is perfectly at home amidst the waves. Streamline tentacles propel a small seven-year-old child in open circles around one unsuspecting victim, and Lyssa almost feels guilty enough to warn him.
... Almost.
A sudden burst from the surface sends an eruption of salt water raining down on the peacefully floating Vorik. He disappears below the surface, and comes back up a moment later, covered in sparkling water and gasping for air with his eyes squeezed shut.
Lyssa shakes with laughter. She earns herself a wary look from dark eyes when he's no-longer water-logged.
The surface breaks again and she receives a mouthful of water to her face.
Lyssa rolls back onto the sandbar, as Angala's bizarre laughter follows her underwater. Beneath the waves, Lyssa stares up at the monumental clouds above. It's a strangely soundless moment, tranquil even, as she lets the waves wash over her and warp the orange tinged sky above. Bliss. In one long-held breath, she can feel Vorik as he wades closer, and Angala's joy in her nonsensical twittering. She has just enough breath to squander below the waves to ponder on their future, and the months spent on that forgotten-about graveyard floating in space.
She crashes back up, emerging in a wall of water. Someone pulls her back below, and she laughs into his chest. This is home, she decides. Here.
...
A sweeping sunset of deep orange and blue is gone in a heartbeat, and with it, a year of joint hardship and bittersweet peace.
Her alarm is always proficient. Always outrageously loud.
Always enough to order her to her feet, and march her to the bathroom.
She takes five minutes longer in the sonic-shower today, because there's no-one to hammer on the bathroom door and demand that she hurry up. Dolph has nowhere to be until midday and will sleep in until half past eleven, no fail. It's a bad habit, Lyssa tells her, but her advice falls on belligerent ears.
She's in the Mess Hall by 0700, grabbing the mandatory tea from a replicator, stealing a plate of whatever smells that good on Neelix's stove-top, and parking herself in an unoccupied seat at an empty table by 0705. She has a few papers she needs to brush over before she'll try and tackle that power-conversion matrix Seven is demanding down in Astrometrics. Lieutenant Torres wants it installed today, which means she actually expected it yesterday.
Harry's lending a hand… Anything to get within staring distance of Seven of Nine.
Following that, she's agreed to assist Vorik in running that level one diagnostic in sensor maintenance. Crewman Rollins is convinced the bio-neural gel-packs down on Deck 15 have gained sentience. One more unexplainable crash in the sensor logs, and she and Harry might be inclined to believe him. Vorik hadn't looked so convinced.
Lyssa stops mid sip of her tea, finding herself unable to follow Mathias Grendel's theory on infinite conversion when her mind drifts.
She wonders if Vorik is free for dinner this evening. Well, he will be, but the question is, would he want to?
She finishes her tea, recycles the cup and plate, and makes her way down to Astrometics.
"Here. Try that."
"Still no change."
"Nice."
From the bundles of wires and circuitry beneath Mortimer Harren's console, Lyssa pushes herself out. Wiping her sleeve along her nose, she finds her feet on long legs and stops beside Vorik. The readout above their heads exists solely just to make her day lousy, she knows. "Then the problem isn't here. It's the power relay up on the Bridge that isn't feeding properly back into the system."
They meet each other's gaze with the same thought. "You wanna go ahead? I'll call this one in to the Lieutenant."
He nods, turns, and leaves with the maintenance case in hand.
However, before she can get her hand to her comm badge, she finds her eyes locked on the field of stars suspended beyond Harren's personal viewport. She can't explain why, but some part of her expects to see an unremarkable pink and blue nebula float into existence. She turns with the half-assembled thought to usher someone to bed… someone that isn't there and subsequently shouldn't need ushering to bed?
"Lyssa… You okay?" Jack Mitchell studies her from the cramped doorway. She hurries to pull back her outstretched hand, and smooth a hand through her hair.
"Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine, Jack." It doesn't help that she's still frowning through her confusion.
"Hey, you better get that console closed. Harren's gonna throw a fit if he sees it like that."
Lyssa eyes the partially gutted console and drags a hand down her thigh. "Harren threw a fit as soon as Vorik walked in here."
"Yeah, you can never win with Mortimer Harren."
B'Elanna tells her to work fast — the Captain wants the sensors working at peak efficiency for the duration of their trip through Krenim Space. Lyssa places everything back in order for the pacing Harren, making sure to leave even the dust just as she found it, before she's catching the turbo lift up the fifteen decks.
Vorik already has the wall panel off and is half-lodged in sensor circuitry by the time she meets him. Harry is beginning a diagnostic on the faulty relay, and Lyssa is just happy that it isn't her working upgrades to the bio-neural circuitry at fault here.
Nor is it gained-sentience across the gel-packs.
The science station is unusually busy as three ensigns bustle about their duties. Ensign Lopez at Ops offers a readout of the sector, as per the Captain's orders, when Vorik manages to reinitialise the malfunctioning power relay an hour later.
"Nothing much, Captain. Astrometrics reports a small, J-class nebula 10 lightyears from our current position. There's also a planetary nebula roughly 32 lightyears away, located just outside Krenim Space. Seven believes it's populated by a gambling syndicate.
"An upcoming star system is broadcasting on multiple frequencies… Advertising to the holiday maker, mostly. And according to our current course, we'll be passing ships in the night with a Galactic Cruise Liner from a nearby system in 47 hours exactly. Provided we stay on current course, Captain."
Janeway raises a brow at the short-of-breath Ensign, before turning to her first officer. "Disputed space? Sounds like Krenim Space is the life of the party."
"Maybe, if time permits, we can give in to a little advertising." Chakotay retakes his seat, Janeway following him down with a smile.
"Shore leave, you mean? I don't know, Chakotay. Something tells me we might be better off just pushing through this leg of the journey. Krenim Space," Kathryn folds her hands over her middle, letting her eyes settle on the passing streaks of light outside the hull of her ship. "Don't ask me to explain it, but I'd prefer it if we could be beyond it as soon as we can. I, for one, don't fancy another year here."
"I can't argue with you there…" Chakotay trails off, eyes down in a series of reports Crewman Kyoto has just delivered.
"Hmm," Kathryn chews on the side of her mouth in a fit of distraction. Chakotay is sure he's read these reports before. Tom Paris can't shake the feeling of dejavu when he looks down at the navigational read-outs. Crewman Sharr is double-checking Lopez's scans, convinced he's seen those co-ordinates before for that small, inconsequential planetary nebula they'll be passing in a few days time. Barbara Reen fights the sudden urge to neaten the removed gel-pack on the console, and place a napkin down beside it.
Ensign Grimes spares a fleeting look at her friend's middle.
Crewman Fischer passes a hand over her flattened stomach, unable to explain why.
"Captain?"
Captain Kathryn Janeway turns to find Ensign Campbell stepping down from science. Something is alive in the ensign's eyes, something a mix between confusion and... is it fear? A muscle pulses erratically in her neck.
"Yes, Ensign. Everything alright?"
"Captain…" Lyssa shakes her head, but she can't shake the cold dread crawling over her. "Captain, there's… a transit station. About 10 lightyears from here. A detention centre for refugees from the Krenim War."
The bridge is silent.
"... War refugees? Ensign... There's no war."
"… Conventional scans will not be able to detect it," comes from behind her, and every eye is now on the usually cool Vulcan Engineer starting with an uncharacteristic hesitance. That same look is present in his eye, although the level-headed exterior is perfectly schooled. "However, a few modifications made to the sensor array..."
Lyssa doesn't understand the brilliant flash of warmth she feels; she can't tell you why it comes. But somehow, she knows it belongs in the biting cold of a forgotten night. It is meant to outshine soiled blankets and tattered clothing, and remind two lonely people of what home truly means.
The distracted thought drifts again through her mind. I wonder if he's free for dinner tonight.
A/N: So I'm guilty of diving into the (little) wealth of Vorik-centric fics on both here and AO3, and I thought I might just chuck my own two cents in here. I'm a bit late to the party (try nearly 20 years), but I've been rewatching Voyager lately, and I'm just a bit spicy over the lack of screen time or development the non-senior crew got.
Another disclaimer: Lyssa Campbell isn't a creation of mine, she's out of the Voyager book series. I've definitely taken a bit of creative licensing with her character, though. She was rather unremarkably developed (shocking) in the books, thought I might try and do her justice somehow.
Another another disclaimer: I borrowed from and referenced to a few other fics I've read (adopted headcanons galore). Vorik's native dialect (Y`a`if`aba) comes from 'Cultural Nuances' by sixbeforelunch on AO3. I just really adored how she handled his character and Vulcan in general.
Again, this was originally intended to be part of a larger fic, but I've been short of time lately so this is sort of a snippet of what could be.
Comments are always welcome!