A/N: Sorry this one took so much longer; RL has decided to butt in and slow down my productivity for both this and Amor Delirus. I promise I will always update, though, even if it takes me longer than it has been--for a while with Amor Delirus I was managing to update every one to two days, but that's not going to be possible for a while. I'll get both out as often as I can, though.
To answer Masked Pineapple's question, Mandana is Nero's wife in Countdown, the prequel comic that came out before the movie. I'm drawing a lot of Nero's not-quite-horribleness out of that one, too.
----
When Winona first woke, she had no idea where she was--and for a few blessed moments, had no memory of anything that had brought her here. Even when the horror of remembrance did come it was fuzzy, distant, still unable to pierce the protective cocoon of drugs that shrouded her mind.
The only thing she was really aware of, in her brief moments of clarity, was Jim--Jim who still lay safe beside her. It took her a long while to realize they weren't on the shuttle, and longer still for that to frighten her. She was still so hazed with grief and pain and exhaustion that she had little room for anything more. Dim, familiar noises filtered through here and there--distant footsteps, the faint hum of computer systems, voices without words; the hundreds of little sounds that made up life on a starship. The fact that it was all wrong was one she refused to wake up enough to acknowledge just yet. Better to stay here, in this fuzzy, nebulous world, with only one tiny anchor keeping her from drifting away entirely.
And she did, for she didn't know how long. Jim was still asleep when nearby voices dragged Winona all unwilling back to something like reality--two voices, one familiar and one very much not. The first, a woman's, was the one she recognized--her doctor, the woman who had delivered Jim--how long ago, now? She had no way of knowing. The second, the utterly foreign one, was male, deep and accentless.
"She's not really awake yet," the doctor was saying, her soft alto tones sounding distinctly worried beneath their professional veneer. "I don't know how coherent she is--"
"I don't care." No worry in that voice, only command--and irritation. Oh God, please let this be a Starfleet ship--please let them already have been picked up, rescued, on their way safely home. But even before she opened her eyes, she knew that was not the case.
When she did open them, she froze. Her vision would not properly focus at first, skittering over the white-faced, huge-eyed doctor, coming to rest on the man beside her--a very tall man, too tall, in some kind of heavy black coat. Shaved head, face etched with tattoos that looked almost black, and dark, alien eyes whose expression she could not and did not want to read. Pointed ears, too, but whoever he was, he was most emphatically not Vulcan--Romulan? Though the Federation had been at war with the Romulans almost a century before, nobody on this side of the line knew what they looked like; nobody had had visual communication then. All she knew of Romulans was that they were an extremely warlike and militaristic society, and that being their prisoner…no. God no. At this point she hardly cared what they did to her, but Jim…what in hell would they do to her baby? No, not this, not now, it was just too much….
She hugged Jim tighter as the pair approached, as though by doing so she'd actually stand some chance of protecting him. Wide, glassy eyes locked on this terrible stranger, unblinking, wondering if he'd kill her first or if he'd make her watch Jim's death before granting hers.
Instead, almost more alarmingly, he half-sat on the edge of the bed beside her, and the expression on his face was…she didn't know what it was, only that it was not what she had expected. It so jarred her that she couldn't help but flinch when one hot finger brushed the hair back from her forehead, a gesture surprisingly gentle and horrifyingly intimate. She hoped that didn't mean what she thought it meant, that he didn't want what that gesture suggested; because of Jim, she couldn't fight him if he did. And if the grief itself wasn't enough to drive her mad, that in concert with it almost certainly would.
And she was so tired--too tired to fight, too tired even to keep back the tears that fought to fall when she closed her eyes. What dignity did she have to lose, now? She didn't matter; only Jim mattered. As long as he didn't kill her, and leave Jim without a mother or father….
Winona's eyes snapped open again when that hot finger traced the line of her tears, from the corner of her eye into the hairline at her temple.
"Don't cry," he said--half order, half supplication. "I won't hurt you, nor will my crew. Your doctor will take care of you until you and your son are strong again."
My crew, he said. My crew. This must be the captain, then, the man who had killed Captain Robau, who had destroyed their ship and murdered her husband--her eyes widened, and she fought an urge to jerk away. Knowing who he was, his words did not reassure her--quite the opposite. A man who would destroy a peaceful ship without provocation was not to be trusted, whatever his promises.
And…who knew how elastic a definition of 'hurt' he had? For all she knew it just meant no one would hit her or Jim; it didn't guarantee….
"And what," she asked cautiously, voice hoarse in an ash-dry throat, "do I need to do in exchange?" She cursed herself inwardly, cursed the weariness that couldn't keep the fear from her voice.
Anger flared in those alien eyes, but only for a moment--after a fraction of an instant it was replaced, to her bewildered surprise, with a level of pain and raw grief that rivaled her own.
"Nothing," he said, a little more forcefully than he'd perhaps intended. And then, with some bastard approximation of gentleness, "Live. Just live, both of you, and--do not be afraid of me. I will do nothing to you that you do not ask."
She couldn't help but flinch when he leaned in to press his lips to her forehead, and could do nothing but stare when he left, confused as well as scared half senseless. What he meant by all of that, she didn't know, and was too weary to ponder it. Darkness took her once more, leaving further thought and worry for her next waking.
----
She was afraid of him.
Of course she was--that was hardly surprising. Even had he not destroyed her ship, he knew he made a terribly formidable sight to a human--as would all his crew. It was no surprise, but that hardly helped Nero's mood--he didn't want her to be afraid of him, damn it. And there was nothing he could do about it save wait and let time prove to her he meant what he said. He had always been a patient man, but he was hard-pressed to be so now, not when he thought he might have something decent so perilously close within reach.
He was still in a foul temper when he reached the bridge and found Ayel--capable, faithful Ayel--supervising repairs. He could see the caution in Ayel's face when his second-in-command looked at him, and quite suddenly it left him drained. His crew feared him--the crew that had served under him for years, whom he'd led and protected. Too much fear here, now, permeating this ship like poison.
"Rest, Ayel," he said, watching the tension drain from the younger man's face at his tone. "I will call you next watch."
"Aye, sir." Nero saw the glance he shared with Onen--Onen, who he'd very nearly killed earlier. If he wasn't careful, Nero knew, his own temper would destroy him. But that knowledge could not obviate his anger forever.
"How long until main weapons are back online?" he asked, taking a seat in his command chair. The stench of slagged electronics had lessened, he noticed, the ship's air system clearing away the smoke.
"Two hours, tops. It wasn't as bad as I'd thought." She didn't look at him when she spoke--her head remained bent over her console, tangled brown hair obscuring her face. She was so young, Nero realized--not yet twenty-five, she'd only served aboard the Narada for two years. Her fiancé had just been released from the military--they were to have married before the year was out. He forgot, sometimes, under the weight of his own grief, that the rest of his crew had lost just as much as he had.
"Rest yourself, when you've finished," he said, and that did make her look at him--for a brief moment he sounded more like the Nero his crew had known than he had since before Romulus burned. So much had happened in so short a time, so much that had drastically changed them all, but there were still echoes, from time to time, of who they'd been--his were just far more infrequent than anyone else's.
He'd have to force them around Winona, however difficult a prospect that might be. He couldn't let her see that other side of him--the side he would never have wanted Mandana to see. It was almost frighteningly easy to think of Winona in terms of Mandana; if he wouldn't do it in front of Mandana, he wouldn't do it in front of Winona. It gave him an anchor around which to tether his judgment.
And where would he put her, when she was able to leave sickbay? Ideally with him, to his preference, but so early on that was a bad idea for several reasons-it would terrify her, and distract him in ways he did not need to be distracted right now. Near him, at least, quarters close to his own, that he might visit her, prove he meant her no harm. Nero was many things, had done and planned to do more terrible things, but he wasn't a rapist. His mind was not so far gone as to be capable of something like that; he genuinely believed his vengeance was justified and right, but there was nothing right nor justifiable in rape.
Even monsters had limits.
One day, he hoped, she'd come to him willingly--maybe, in time, even come to love him. The thought that no sane woman could ever love a man who had murdered her husband never even entered his head. All he could think of was someday being able to touch her as he had Mandana, to have her sleep beside him without fear--he was still sane enough to realize that might take years, but he sincerely believed it would eventually. Maybe there would be another child, a brother or sister for Jim--Jim, James Kirk, who in this timeline would certainly never captain the Enterprise. Spock was clear evidence that Vulcans and humans could breed, and Romulan physiology was still not very much different than Vulcan; maybe it could happen for he and Mandana, too. He would not be forever denied a family; he would not allow it. Sooner or later Winona would have to agree--preferably sooner.
----
Winona's thoughts couldn't be further from Nero's. She was still so exhausted and so scared she could hardly think straight, and what thoughts she did have made her wish for a return to unconsciousness.
She flat-out didn't believe Nero when he said he wouldn't hurt her. Such might be his intent now, but Romulans were not known for their self-control; sooner or later he'd want more from her than her continued breathing, than her continued presence on his ship, and she had no idea how she was to stand it if--when--he did. And for Jim's sake she had to, whatever the effect on her very sanity. She couldn't even wish she would die.
Part of her still hoped desperately they might be rescued by Starfleet, but even in her current state she knew how unlikely that was. She'd seen this ship; even a whole fleet might not have a chance against it, and when the Romulan eventually tired of her he was hardly likely to just let her go. Maybe even giving him what he wanted would only forestall the inevitable. And that was a thought she simply could not endure. Would it be better to die now, with Jim, while he was too young to know what was going on? Did she want to wait until he was a toddler, or older, and would know to be afraid?
These thoughts went around and around her dizzy head, until the doctor--Sy, her name was, Doctor Sy--brought her some cold water and soup--Terran soup, from the shuttle, presumably. Winona fed Jim, lulling him back to sleep, and then, having nothing else to do, stared at the ceiling and tried not to think.
She failed. Ought she to test this Romulan's patience? Would it be at all safe, or should she, God help her, give him what he wanted before he asked, and took it anyway? Or…should she end this now, for her and for Jim, before the Romulans could hurt either of them?
That last was tempting, horribly, horribly tempting. As terrible as it would be to murder her own baby, it would be so much worse to watch the Romulans kill him at four, or five, or six--assuming they both lived even that long. Even considering it would have made her cry again if she'd had any tears left, but she didn't, not now. All she could do was sink lower and lower, down into mental shadows far removed from waking life, until she could go no deeper. And at that fathomless depth she found a weird sort of calm, free of the near-paralyzing fear that had gripped her since she'd first heard the call for the Kelvin's evacuation. What could the Romulans do? Torture her, rape her, kill her and Jim, but if they died--when they died--she'd see George again. They would die, and it would all be over.
----
At some point she must have slept, because when the world re-focused, he was there--the Romulan. The captain. It occurred to her that even now she didn't know his name, and wasn't sure she wanted to. He was watching her and Jim with those black alien eyes, and once again his expression was such a mixture of thought and emotion she couldn't read it at all. Winona was still so far down in that inner shadow that he no longer frightened her, though--well, not much. Nobody could ever be wholly at ease with that fierce tattooed face watching them, those black-black eyes bent on them. There was so much intensity about the man it was almost exhausting just to look at him, a sense of coiled energy wound up like a too-tight spring that might give at any moment. What the hell had happened to him, to make him so? Nobody was born that way.
He said nothing, and for what seemed an eternity neither did she, until finally she found enough voice to say, "What's your name?" She might as well know her tormenter.
There was a bizarre, almost obsessive gentleness in his answer, a tenderness that would have scared the life out of her if she'd still been capable of it. "You couldn't pronounce my real name," he said softly. "Call me Nero."
Nero. Nero, the mad Earth emperor who had, so legend went, fiddled while the capital of his empire burned around him. It fit, she thought grimly, even with what little she knew of him.
She only flinched a little when he touched her hair--the very ends, carefully far from her scalp, and she couldn't help but wonder he was thinking, though she didn't want to. So she stayed very still, not fighting him yet, but her eyes never left his face--she didn't dare let them. Even at this distance she could feel his higher-than-human body heat, could smell the peculiar scent of him--sharp sweet machine oil, harsh chemical soap, and something that was probably just him, clean Romulan. Not unpleasant but different, very different.
"My wife had hair like yours," he said, and with those words she understood with horrible clarity why he'd spared her. It didn't take a genius to see he was far from stable; whatever had happened to his wife, he wanted a replacement. There was absolutely no way this could end well.
"What happened to her?" That was it, keep him talking--find out whatever she could about him, anything she might use. Distract him, even if only temporarily, from whatever else he might want.
"She died," he said, and Winona was startled at the sheer depth of grief in his voice. "And my unborn son, when my planet burned."
That surprised her. Surely if something that cataclysmic had happened to Romulus, even the Federation would have heard of it. Just how crazy was this man?
"What was her name?" she asked trying to cover her startled confusion.
"Mandana." His voice caressed the syllables. "A little over a week ago now."
That soon? He wanted a replacement that soon? That almost more than anything else drove home to Winona how crazy he must be--and why. God knew that if she hadn't been saddled with this fresh horror she'd be half-mad with grief herself right now. Was that madness why he was convinced his planet had been destroyed? It would make sense, in a horrible, twisted way; his world had, after all, ended.
"Is that why you spared me?" She wanted to hope that it was merely because he couldn't bear to kill another mother, but she knew better. Unfortunately; she would have treasured a little ignorance, even if only for a while. If he wanted a wife, he wanted more than simple companionship, and she knew where that would end up. Exactly where she'd feared it would.
"I said I wouldn't hurt you," he said, as though he'd read her mind--could Romulans do that, like Vulcans? Oh, she hoped not; that would just be too much. "And that would do nothing you did not ask of me. You need not be afraid I'll hurt you in that way, either."
Yet, she thought, and fought a shudder. Who knew how long it would take him to get impatient? And if he could read minds, he'd know how much she'd hate him even if she…didn't let him get impatient. That wouldn't end well, either. If he was willing to wait for her, it meant he wanted more than just a…a toy, apparently not realizing he'd get no more from her. Then again, if he was that crazy it might never occur to him.
"The doctor said his name is Jim," he went on, when she didn't say anything, and his tone was very, very odd. She didn't know what to make of it, and didn't try. He touched the baby's downy head and she held her breath, but his touch was light and Jim didn't stir. Winona breathed out.
"It is. James Tiberius--" after George's dad, oh God George, why aren't you here?
"Kirk," Nero finished for her. "James Tiberius Kirk." He spoke the name like he'd heard it before, she realized, and wondered how, and why. There was something that would have been amusement in it, had it not been so crowded out by madness and grief. "Don't worry that I would ever hurt him. I think he will go on to do very great things." And he sounded so convinced of it that she only wondered further.
"Onen, my navigator, is altering some clothes for you," he added. "She's much taller than you, but they should fit well enough when she's through. And the crew is preparing quarters for you and Jim." He seemed to speak very carefully there, as though stressing the quarters were only for her and Jim. At least he wasn't going to make her share his bed in a platonic sense either, not yet. His consideration was almost more disturbing than imperious cruelty would have been; it made him extremely unpredictable. "For now rest, and heal."
He did kiss her forehead again, warm fingers lingering in her hair, but she manage not to flinch this time. If that was all he wanted, she could let him have it. Winona just hoped to any deities that might be listening that it would be a long while before he wanted more.