After the genocide and destruction of his home planet, Spock goes on the Vuhlkansu equivalent of a bender, dabbling with the V'tosh ka'tur (Vulcans without logic). As he alienates those he holds most dear, there are grave consequences. Jumps around in time a bit, flashing back to Spuhura origins. In my 'verse, Amanda lives; I'm sorry (not sorry). This is a story about how Spock and Uhura overcome the hurts of the past so they might return to each other.
I've been working on this story for seemingly ever. I shall update every three days, if that is acceptable, as I am far enough head that I feel confident with that pace. As this is only the prologue, it's rather short. Expect most chapters to be between 2k and 6k words. Beware angst. There are allusions to violence of a sexual nature throughout, but no portrayals. Minor suicidal ideation. For more extensive, spoilery warnings, please feel free to message me.
Your feedback is always so very cherished : )
Prologue
Nyota presses the comm to her ear, taps her foot impatiently as she waits for the call to connect. The solar-charged battery is moments away from dying, and a red light blinks in warning. It'd been reckless, verging on insane, to come to this area without viable communication—something Spock might've done. What is it she'd told him, only days before he'd left her? I can't keep worrying myself sick, literally sick, with nausea and headaches. Baby, it's like you've got a death wish.
That was almost a year ago. Now, Nyota wonders if she doesn't have a death wish herself. She'd come here, hadn't she? Alone? With a dying comm unit and not so much as a can of mace?
Wet, cold, only half-dressed, she shivers violently. The storefront awning affords rudimentary shelter, but it's too little, too late. Her bare feet tingle with encroaching numbness. Her heart beats more quickly than is strictly healthy.
The rain has, at least, washed away the visible blood. A rather pathetic silver lining, but a silver lining nonetheless. She'll take it.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up," she says into her comm, because she knows that he's here, back on Earth. She can feel him. His presence in her mind is hot and angry, muted and prickly. "Fucking pick up," she says, louder than intended. Save for the storm and her own hiccupping breaths, the street is silent. Still, she presses herself back into the wall of the building, hopes to make herself less visible should someone join her on the deserted roadway.
Eventually, the call goes to his voicemail.
"You have reached Spock. I am not available. If you wish it, record a message."
After the beep, she says—nothing, hangs up after only a few seconds of ridiculous panting. She's not surprised he didn't answer. When she'd needed him most, he had ignored her communiques. There was no reason for tonight to be any different. She shoves the comm back into the pocket of her ripped skirt, then feels it buzzing weakly. Wavering for only a moment, she picks up.
"Spock?" she asks, cringing at how pathetic her voice sounds.
"Lieutenant Uhura," he says, using her formal rank and address. "It is 3:23AM, hardly an appropriate time for satellite conversation. May I inquire as to how you came to be in possession of this phone number?"
The wind off the Bay snaps over Nyota's exposed chest, legs, arms. Any thoughts of purposefully disconnecting the call die swiftly. Now is not the time for pride.
"Lieutenant?" he asks, and Nyota thinks his tone sounds almost, a tad bit, fractionally, infinitesimally, marginally, worried. "Tra wi ha?"
It's not the first time Nyota's noted his tendency to switch to his native tongue suddenly, mid-talk.
"I'm still here," she answers, then thinking better of it, switches back to Standard, not wishing to draw attention to herself. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm sure it's an inconvenience. I couldn't think of anyone else who'd be awake," she says, though that's not remotely true. She should've called Gaila, or Kirk, even. She doesn't linger on why she didn't.
"You are unsafe?" he asks, and at the sound of him using 'tu', the intimate form of you, rather than the more appropriate 'du,' she swallows. A note of uncertainty creeps into the syllables of that last word, too, 'ri-shar,' unsafe, but it's hard to determine for certain over the phone. "I can hear that your respiration is laboured and uneven, suggesting a state of physiological agitation." Nyota can't tell if he's amused, bothered, indifferent, but after a moment, he adds, "Our previously disharmonious relationship has no bearing on my ability to provide effective help. Elaborate on your condition so that I may do just that."
Nyota hugs one arm around her chest as she struggles to find the right words to convey her situation. "It's raining. I'm soaked," she says.
The response hardly qualifies as an elaboration, but it's all Nyota can manage. Spock is more intuitive than he'd ever admit, and she hopes he understands that which she cannot speak. Suppressing another shiver, she leans against the window of the closed bookshop.
"Lieutenant, you are located near a twenty-four hour coffee shop, approximately two and a half blocks west of where you currently stand. It is called Dedalus."
"Yeah, yeah, I think I know it," she says, confused. Her head is still throbbing, and she's not sure she heard him correctly.
"Go there. I will join you shortly and provide any assistance that I can," he says.
Nyota inhales sharply but answers him with only minor hesitation. "I can't."
"You are incapacitated?"
Legs weak and wobbling, Nyota ventures a step. She could walk, she supposes, if pressed. "No, it's just—Spock—I'm not very decent at the moment." Her eyes fall shut.
There is a pause, no more than two seconds, before he speaks again. "I expect to arrive to you in twenty-one minutes. I regret that I cannot travel to you any more expeditiously, nor can I stay on the line with you during my transport."
"It's all right," she says, infusing the words with as much dignity as she can.
"Nyota?"
"Yeah?"
"I—will see you soon."
Nyota doesn't how he'd located her. Instead, she sags down to the concrete, clutches her knees to her chest, too exhausted to resist the lure of unconsciousness.
.