[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I]
Part III
Uhura.
Uhura is on break in the lounge, getting some coffee, when Gaila slips up beside her.
"I've got something for you," she whispers, punching in an order for soh'lahi tea. The Orion herbal blend tastes terribly bitter to Uhura, but Gaila loves it.
Uhura raises her eyebrows as they walk to a couch and settle down with their cups. "It's a box," Gaila says. "I wanted to give it to you for your birthday, but I'm giving it to you early to celebrate … you … that you came back."
Uhura squeezes Gaila's hand. "Well, at least we got the dilithium sales figured out. The captain said my help was crucial during the negotiations."
"Of course it was. It always is! What would they do without you?"
Uhura grins at her friend and Gaila smiles, but there is sadness in her blue eyes.
"You … you're my best friend ..." As she does when nervous, she's twisting one of her red curls around her finger.
Uhura knows what Gaila means. She is good at reading Gaila, always has been. "I'd hate to lose you too." She puts down her cup, extending her arms, and Gaila reaches over and they exchange – as they used to do at the Academy after a stressful event – a "nutritious hug," a long, simple, warm and calming embrace, no patting, just breathing quietly together for a few extended minutes.
When they break it off, they can always look at each other and intuit from micro-expressions – and right now, from the gleam of tears in each other's eyes – what the other one is thinking. And they are thinking, So glad you're here, my friend.
Spock.
The dream is the same. He is holding his mother's hand. But he wasn't holding her hand, he knows. She had stood slightly apart, and had turned to look at him with gratitude for the rescue and in sympathy for the impending loss of Vulcan.
He is holding his mother's hand. And he lets go because Nyota has appeared by him, and introduces herself to Amanda, oddly in this dangerous place ….
And she and his mother fall together, on a scream.
/\
He wakes; he studies Nyota and lifts some of her hair to let it fall through his fingers. His face is wet and he is breathing hard.
She sleeps peaceful in the knowledge that he sleeps beside her.
Spock.
I have set the table and prepared Nyota's favorite dinner. I am taking this time because I've begun to sense an ending may come, that I must free her; my mind is weighted with the potentiality of loss.
She enters our quarters as I am lighting the last of the candles. The room is aglow with their soft light. Her smile is gentle as she comes to me, encircling my waist with her slender arms. I hold her and feel as though something flutters low in my chest.
We sit to eat and her eyes continually meet mine; her face is lit with anticipation. Her dark eyes gleam in the soft light, as does her smile, and when we finish she reaches out her hand to clasp mine across the table. "Do you have any idea how welcome this is after the day I've had?" she asks me rhetorically. Her thumb strokes the back of my hand as she gives me a meaningful look.
I hold up my hand in a "wait" gesture and stand to get dessert, a chocolate mousse, which she has said she adores: my consumption of the delicious confection is a clear signal between us that I wish to be completely uninhibited in the hours to follow.
I am. Nyota is such an imaginative and responsive lover; I have been with other human women, but Nyota … is perfectly suited for me. Thus I regret … I will never regret loving her. I regret that I am retreating across a distance; somehow, I sense that this will be the last time I will be fully present with her. I cannot explain this even to myself.
I scent every centimeter of her skin, I taste of her, I give her myself, and even meld with her, hiding my inner knowledge as much as I can, my sense that "this is the last …"
I realize I am memorizing every touch, every look, every moment.
Even unaccompanied by the linking of minds, our lovemaking has always been … transcendent. Something in Nyota and something in me are in perfect accord; I knew this the first time I touched her, that I would be hers, only hers. Yet as I feel our future together – our deep and mutual trust – dying, I lie with her, feel her nipples budding under my kisses and tongue strokes, her lips against my ear as she whispers endearments, her fingertips on my skin, her hair tickling my shoulders as she rides me … the incomparable sensation of her surrounding me, the pang as I release into her and she pulses around me, throwing her head back, sighing, moaning as she climaxes, and my utter surrender to her in this moment, this ephemeral and precious moment.
Afterward, she and I curl together, our backs facing outward, our hands entwined, our foreheads touching, and she falls asleep. I watch her, admiring her facial structure, her slender, muscled body, its endurance clothed in delicacy. How beautiful and timeless she is, how feminine; I appreciate anew how expressive she can be. How she can be what I am no longer. She is strong.
I listen to her breathing; there is a regularity that could be a rhythm, could be the words, This is the last, this is the last.
/\
I am centering upon my work. My attention is focused there; I have no time for anything else, no thought to spare. Nyota is safe now, and that is all I was concerned with two weeks ago when she returned from her Away mission. Our relationship requires no further attention, no "maintenance"; she has always seen to herself and surrounded me with caring, and that has not changed.
The junior officers in Sciences are beginning to look up from conversations when I enter a space; they quickly change what they were saying, forgetting my aural acuity. They are more concerned about my supervision than ever before – they seem to feel they are lacking in their performance – they are filled with doubt about my reactions to their accomplishments, as if they fear reprimand. As if, perhaps, I am unpredictable.
/\
I dream nightly of childhood, of my home planet.
In these dreams I am always a little child, open to the sights, scents and sounds around me, absorbing our culture: the ever-present dry heat, the market, with its vendors and the produce and crafts on display, the modesty of fine artisans and farmers, and my efficient mother, weighing fruits and vegetables in her hands, considering the meals she plans in the next few days. When we return home I smell incense – Mother raises a finger to her lips. "Your father's meditating, let's not disturb him. Let's go out to the garden." She takes my little hand and I look up into the blazing sky, then off toward the L-Langon Mountains as we step outside to the terrace with its garden corner. Mother goes to the roses and clips a few; she disappears inside to get a vase and brings it out, roses on display, bringing Earth colors to our sere landscape.
When Father emerges from his study to join us, he walks straight to Mother. They exchange the ozh'esta, looking into each other's eyes. Mother extends her arm to welcome me in.
McCoy.
"What the hell happened to you, Hendorff?"
"I was working out with Commander Spock. He fuc… uh, really kicked my ass."
McCoy dabs some anesthetic liquid on "Cupcake's" face. It's heavily bruised, even the zygomatic arches by his eyes. Spock must not have realized what he was doing. He could have injured Hendorff severely. McCoy checks for fractures, finds none, and says, "Here, I'll just dermaplase those bruises and it should improve your looks, if only marginally."
"Hey, I'm so good-looking nothing could make much improvement, Doc."
McCoy smiles in fellowship. "I hope you gave as good as you got."
"I got in a few hard hits, but he's kind of … unstoppable. He practices suus-mahna, and let me tell you, never get a Vulcan pissed off at you. They move faster than cats and hit like hammers."
"Did he seem pissed off?"
"Let me put it this way, Doc. I've worked out with him before, but he's never hit me this hard. Damn."
Uhura.
As Spock undresses, she notices heavy bruises on his arms and legs. There are lighter bruises on his face and chest. She is circumspect, but he sees her looking.
"I am perfectly well. There is no need for concern."
"Why didn't you see the doctor?"
Spock gives her a look. The look which, in his lectures, used to mean Continue speaking at your peril, Cadets. "Again, Nyota, I am well. I will not comment further."
Spock.
He notices he is becoming clumsy. In Engineering he takes a step down the ladder and misses. Fortunately he is strong and his hands, gripping the ladder's rails, steady him as he regains his footing; no one notices his slip. He continues slowly down, mentally noting a number of similar instances in the last week.
In a Bridge staff meeting, he fails to hear a query; when he recalls himself, everyone is looking at him expectantly. Kirk prompts him by asking the question again and Spock reels off details in rapid succession as if that can save him. Everyone believes his act but Kirk and Nyota. They look at him with following gazes, as if assessing his fitness.
There are days he cannot bear Nyota's eyes on him.
McCoy.
McCoy, Chapel and an orderly are waiting in the Transporter Room for the Away Team to return from Athfer - another mission that wasn't supposed to involve hostiles.
Kirk and Hendorff are holding Spock when they materialize on the transporter pad, saying, "He pushed you out of the way, Hendorff."
"Why'd he try hand-to-hand? When I had a phaser on the guy?" Hendorff says.
"I think Spock wanted to take him by surprise. He was aiming his wrist spines at you."
Hendorff looks pale, and angry. "It was my job to defend us, sir!"
"Spock took the opportunity to distract an attacker, that's all. Don't blame yourself."
"Dammit, sir … all due respect … the commander got hurt on my watch."
"Mine, too, and I'm no happier about it than you are," Kirk says as he and Hendorff settle Spock onto the gurney. Taking readings, McCoy glances up to see Jim glaring at the unconscious Vulcan.
Are they angry with themselves, or with Spock? McCoy wonders. Chapel nods at McCoy as if to say, "Let's move."
As they swiftly leave the Transporter Room, Kirk says to McCoy, "Let me know how he is as soon as you get a chance." He heads for the Bridge and the others run Spock to Sickbay.
Under an ultraviolet sterilizing field, McCoy extracts the spines, now a nasty mess of shell-like fragments and stingers. He's able to dematerialize them, but it's painstaking work, as each tiny bit must be completely visualized on scanners and its location tallied for the microTrans, then the sutureplaser, where possible. Spock is unconscious, or in a healing trance; the bioscanners can't read the difference.
As soon as he's finished "de-spining" Spock, McCoy takes some time to analyze the Vulcan's brain scan and sees some neural activity that's different from his baseline readings.
A while later McCoy calls up to the Bridge. Uhura is at her station – Captain Kirk is trying to sort out with Athfer's government what has just happened, why there was an attacker. He pauses to speak with McCoy.
"He's gonna be okay, Jim."
"Well as soon as he wakes up tell him I'm coming down to lecture him about damage to government property." It's an old joke in Starfleet, that injuries to personnel are worse than damage to machinery – injuries are costlier, not only in work hours missed for "repair" and recovery, but also the pain to the injured.
"I'll break it to him."
At last Uhura's able to come to Sickbay. As she sits with Spock, McCoy talks with her about what Spock will need and she confirms his theory about the brainwaves.
"He's in a healing trance," she tells McCoy, her eyes as solemn as they were during and after the destruction of Vulcan.
Uhura.
She sits, holding Spock's cooler-than-usual hand between her two hands, adding her own healing thoughts, meditating on the thought of him whole, healthy, and complete. Her mind traces over the last time they made love, the dinner he'd made and the hours after, waking again to make love in the wee hours the next morning, his breathing fast then calm, after, their warm bodies curling toward each other to nap together until they woke to begin their duties for the day.
As she remembers she brings his hand up and kisses the back of it, her lips tickled slightly by the silky black hairs near his wrist bone. She loves these little details of his body, the perfect curves of his upper lip, the way his bangs part when he is sleeping, the softness of his skin, his rough chest hair, the cushions of his sensitive fingertips. His warm breath in her ear.
She sees McCoy pass by and gives thanks; she is glad Spock will whisper to her, that she will feel him again.
Spock and Uhura.
"Nooo!" he wakes – again – on a shout. Nyota turns to him and touches his shoulder in concern, about to say something.
"I am perfectly well, Nyota. Please permit me to rest."
"But you're shaking–"
His teeth clench; he turns from her and breathes deeply, feigning sleep.
Spock.
She is frightened. I perceive this as I wake from another dream of reaching out to my mother, of failing to grasp her hand, watching her fall to her death. Nyota, curled on her side, away from me, pretends she is asleep. Her arm and ribs quiver, possibly with her silent weeping. At my request she has not reached out to me the last several times I've had this dream. I told her I did not see the point of discussing it, and did not wish her to trouble herself by trying to comfort me. It makes little sense for her to do so; there is no comfort to be found, not even in her arms. We have not coupled in some time; I cannot summon eros. Even seeing Nyota's loving gaze is painful to me now – she longs for something I can't provide – she longs for the man she once knew.
Since the day my home planet was destroyed, I have risked my life many times. I have done so heedlessly, been severely injured several times, and given Nyota much cause for concern. I have no answer for why I have done this. Now there is a wide, dark space in me that runs deep. I cannot fill it with Nyota's love; I cannot fill it with my heedless behavior, I cannot fill it with my accomplishments. I know I am hurting her and still cannot stop. She is not only worried for me, but is devastated by my lack of care – for myself, for her.
Spock and Uhura.
"I miss you," she says one night as she lies in bed. He is sitting at the desk, reading computer efficiency ratings on his Padd and making notes.
"I am here, Nyota."
She runs her hand slowly down his side of the bed. "But you're not here. Won't you come to bed?"
His eyes go blank for a moment. Then he remembers, rises, undresses, and joins her to sleep.
She strokes the outside of his arm, traces her fingertips through his chest hair.
Her touch irritates his skin as if painful; physically it is neither irritating nor painful, but in his mind, it hurts. He stiffens.
He knows she is trying to look into his eyes. "Are you sure there's not something wrong?" Her voice is quiet.
But the question slaps at him like the insults of his young classmates on Vulcan … weak … weak Human … look at its eyes … it's easy to trip, its responses are slow like a Human's … ape boy … the slaps, the tripping, their endless kicking of his legs and worse in suus-mahna training … Why so dull and stupid? Is it your ape heritage? Can't you move faster? What's wrong with you? They would ask, and ask and ask.
He turns on her swiftly – his eyes let in so much light he knows they must look black; part of a Vulcan's ancient defensive posture – and he grits out: "Please do not. Ask me. Again."
Uhura.
She is back from work earlier than Spock, as is usual now. She puts the lights down low and sits, breathing quietly for a while, looking out the viewport to the stars. It's been weeks since they made love, several weeks since he fixed her that lovely dinner. It was shortly after that he seemed to begin drawing in on himself.
She has missed him; he's being reticent, coming to bed long after she does, sometimes not coming to bed at all because "I am Vulcan and I do not require as much rest as you do." He has always gone to bed with her – snuggling with her while, he's told her, setting up experiments, running calculations, writing reports in his mind – unless some emergency or some time-sensitive duty or experiment needs his direct attention, but lately … lately it seems is as if he has stopped taking part in their relationship.
She takes her attention away from this new and constant problem; there is little she can do except care for herself, and one of the things that needs tending is her sensuality, her sexual drive. After a while she sighs, undresses, and goes to take a shower singing an old sultry song, remembering wonderful times with Spock; when she emerges she lies down on their bed and begins running her hands up and down her body.
She begins, slowly, to pleasure herself.
After a few minutes, she is breathing hard - That's it, that's it I'm almost there – but an intrusive thought comes to her mind: Spock's forbidding look during today's Bridge watch. All she had done was invite him to lunch with her as once was usual. He's been skipping lunch, and these days is physically or mentally absent every evening.
Her bodily enjoyment drains away. This … masturbating – how she hates that word – has been only mechanical, physical, and now makes her ache. No other body lying with hers, no other heat, no tickle of body hair, no warm skin or arms, no voice rumbling softly as she leans her head against his chest, no Spock; she misses Spock, the man she has come to love and regard as part of herself, half of her whole, as she supposedly was to him.
Her hands are still, fingers lying idle on her loins. Tears overflow her eyes and run down her temples into her hair. My hair ... he used to tell me how aesthetically pleasing it was and would run his fingers through it, his eyes seeing into mine … now these are things of my past … his tongue gently tracing patterns on her skin … his voice, so quiet, initiating conversation or weaving poetry, stories to elicit words or smiles or happy tears … his upper chest vibrating with purrs as he slept.
Her torso feels so tense she cannot breathe. She gulps and inhales; cool air fills her lungs. Turning in the bed, she gathers the covers close around her like a cocoon, and holds Spock's pillow close to her, trying to smell his scent – a faint spiciness remains – and snuggles her head into her own pillow, tears streaming silently until she sleeps.
Uhura.
"Hey," says a soft voice at her elbow, the next morning in the officers' mess. "Can I get you some more coffee?"
She looks up, and up; Dr. McCoy is tall, she thinks he may have a centimeter on Spock, even. She pastes a smile onto her face. "I'm fine, thanks."
He sits down next to her then, and leans in close to say two words, ones she anticipates from this source: "Bullshit, darlin'. You come see me as soon as you finish your breakfast. My office. Doctor's orders."
She turns to watch him leaving, walking in that easy lope of his, and can't stop her eyes from tearing up.
Ten minutes later, she's in his office. A hot cup of her favorite coffee sits on his desk by the visitor's chair. She sits and reaches for the cup.
His hand intercepts hers, closes over it and squeezes briefly before he lets go. Her hands are trembling because her eyes are tearing up for real now. She closes both hands around the cup to sip the coffee, trying to school her expression and failing.
"I've made an appointment for you to talk to someone. Michima Tamargo is a psychologist, a damn good one. She's expecting you this evening after your shift is over."
"But I don't need—"
"Uh … yes you do. You may have a little post-traumatic stress yourself after Al-Rugh. And I know for a fact you've been dealing with Spock's … since, oh, since the Enterprise's maiden voyage to Vulcan that time?"
Her eyes squeeze shut – Vulcan – she swallows tears and her forehead wrinkles up. I will not lose it here, I … will … not.
"You know how Spock can be. I have to wait until I have incontrovertible evidence before I confront him, and I can guarantee it's gonna be confrontational – he'll see to that part, I reckon. His PTSD is comin' to the fore, now, and I think … I think you need to look after yourself. If I know him, he won't bear lookin' after until he's up against the wall." McCoy leans toward her, his hazel eyes open with compassion. "I've seen you lookin' more and more peaked over the last few weeks. I've reviewed your diet – it's been poor lately – and you've lost weight to the point that if there's a strong wind, you might blow away. Unlike Spock, at least in these sorts of things, you possess a lick of sense. So get something to eat after work. And eat it, this time. Michim's expectin' you in her office at 1830. Be sure you get there."
She stands up to hide her face from him, goes to the wall dispenser to get some water, and, her back to McCoy, gulps it down, cool and oh so sweet. She exhales, inhales, and walks back to the desk, leaning in slightly to put her hand on his. Tears still in her eyes, she squeezes his hand, nods her thanks, and leaves.
To be Continued
A/N: If you'd be so kind, share some comments; they keep us fanfic writers writing and improving. What did you like? Did anything distract or pull you out of the story?
More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!
/\ Glossary /\
Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]
FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet
Hir: 'him or her'
Loshirak: lotus position
Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]
Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"
Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]
Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.
Zero hundred hours: midnight