[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I] Many thanks to Linstock and Spockchick for concrit.
Part V.
Spock.
"Oh, you are a master of perception." She approaches me and stops just in front of me, her arms folded tightly about her to minimize her angry trembling, her eyes steady on mine. "But you are not a master of yourself anymore. You are doing things that scare me to death, Spock, and even you don't know why. Won't you please talk to someone? Dr. Noel? Dr. Tamargo?"
"There is little to be gained …."
"You'd be honoring my love for you by caring for yourself," she pleads. "At least try."
"I will not."
She is startled by my outright refusal. "Damn it, Spock—!"
"It is illogical to expend effort in a futile cause."
"What is futile? Caring about your life? Caring about us?!"
"I am fulfilling the requirements of my duty as a Starfleet officer. As are you. That's all that is necessary for us to do."
Her gaze goes flat – she slaps my face.
"Your … effort … is futile," I say quietly, my eyes steady on her. My center is a black void.
She does an about-face, gathers some of her things – including the boxed, broken asenoi – and walks to the door. She looks at it, not at me. "Well I hope when you're dying after your next suicidal adventure that you're happy with yourself. When you see your mother on the other side, say hi for me."
I study the floor as the door slides shut behind her. Neither my mind nor my mouth has any words.
Uhura.
I am wretched, Masa. I left Spock because I was so angry I couldn't even think. What a terrible thing I said to him. I went to Gaila's quarters and she held me and I cried without speaking for an hour. She made me bitter tea I couldn't drink, gave me cold water and I drained the glass in seconds.
I don't know if Spock and I will ever be together again. He doesn't care about anything outside of his duties, not even about himself. I don't want to lose him but he wants to be lost. He wants to be alone. When I've asked him anything about his apparent death wish he's been silent, or worse, dismissive. I love him, or I love him as he was. Does that mean I no longer love him? Masa, I am so miserable and heartbroken. And the thing is, I know he is, too; the death of his mother and of his planet in such a cruelly useless attack devastated him, it took his foundation out from under him. I tried to be that for him, but now … I can't help. What can I do? Please tell me.
~/\~
My Nyota, I have no words of wisdom. Your father, who left us when you were so young, was determined upon his own way. When he sent me divorce documents and went with the treasure hunters to planets beyond the Alpha Quadrant, I was broken hearted and angry. How could you and your sister get along without a father? Why would he leave us when we loved him so?
You and Upenda were such a comfort to me. You both missed him, but you loved each other, and me, and we were all right together. Do you remember? Those nights when we walked to the beach and the three of us would lie on the sand looking up … your eyes shone with desire and ambition as you gazed at the stars.
One night you said, "I will fly on a starship someday and I will see what Father failed to see. Treasure is nothing compared with learning new things and loving people."
Later on I met your stepfather and he loved and showed consideration for me, for all of us. And he still does. I love him. I fuss over him and worry about him, and he understands I am caring for him.
But he has not lost what Spock has lost – his mother – or his whole world.
My daughter, I wish I could tell you that Spock will return to you as he was. I hope he will – he is an admirable young man and I saw how much he cared for you. But he is on some kind of journey now, and you can't go with him there. You can only wait – and I know how hard that is for you. You have always made things happen, through your own hard and thorough work, but this time, you must let him do the work he needs to do. You will decide whether to open your arms and your heart to him if he returns.
I love you, and my spirit reaches to yours in solidarity, every minute.
Uhura saves her masa's message and looks out the viewport of Gaila's quarters. Her stare is as dark as the feelings inside her. She thinks, I am so angry with you, Spock, but I will always stay open to you, I will always love you. I can't stop that.
/\
Uhura sits alone in a privacy-screened area on the Observation Deck where she and Spock used to come together. They would drink tea of an evening, reading, reviewing department reports, researching, or listening to music, sitting together on the couch facing the viewport. She would sit up, Spock's head in her lap, or the other way round. They could be physically close, while mentally concentrating on other things: department reports, projects, reading, or music. Sometimes they'd chat about what they were reading or working on, or listen to music together. Both of them enjoyed the Observation Deck because it was crowded with plants; their fresh scent and their varied shades of green were restful. The couch here wasn't any more comfortable than the one in Uhura and Spock's living area, but they liked this for a change of pace.
She thinks about ordering some tea from the food processor. It would warm her hands, but it'd make her miss Spock. Often in handing each other a glass of tea, their hands made brief contact – his sweet, "private" gaze would meet hers …. Coffee then. In a big artisanal mug. She sits down, putting the mug on the table while she orders up some music, then sips the coffee slowly, thinking.
She is here for a few hours tonight because Gaila – as she often did at the Academy – has company.
Gaila has been a big source of comfort. As an Orion Gaila loves body contact, so she is quite the hugger, and as an excellent amateur masseuse, is also sensitive to bodily tension. Uhura is very tense these days, so Gaila urges visits to the Gym where they work out, then hit the whirlpool. Gaila is also getting Uhura to dance with her for fitness' sake; the music uplifts Nyota's spirits and the precision of active troupe-style movement gives her a delicious tiredness after an hour and a half. They often practice a sweeping and graceful and intricately detailed South Asian dance they did at the Academy with Lt. Dixit. Uhura remembers their performance, how Spock appreciated it, artistically and … otherwise.*
Uhura will be able to move into her own new quarters soon. She'll miss Gaila's warmth and emotional openness, even the mess she invariably spreads through the rooms, and the lovely Orion artifacts, textiles and clothing Gaila has collected since joining Starfleet. She'd left everything behind when she escaped the Orion slavers.
Nyota's memory travels over the richly-embroidered wall hangings Spock has in their – his – quarters, the silky red bedspread, his beautifully crafted wooden lyre, the asenoi in which he burns incense or a candle when meditating.
She recalls, too, the spicy scent of the grooming oil he rubs into his palms every morning after brushing his hair, to smooth its surface and keep it neat. His large, capable hands, flashing briefly over his silky black cap of hair. That haircut that all her girlfriends at the Academy called "stupid-looking" – somehow Uhura never found it stupid at all, because her dear friend and lover wore it thus.
She misses his body – the sight of him undressing and putting his clothes in the refresher with not a motion wasted, the way he sinks directly into meditation posture, his graceful movements; the way he so easily lifts – lifted her and held her to him. How secure she felt in his strong, gentle arms, how tender he could be. She misses the way he would study her, love in his eyes, and the sharp breath he would take when she tongued the tip of a pointed ear. Walking by him as he sat on the couch she would sometimes reach to touch his hair, and he'd wave a hand as if at a pest, but the look on his face was always one of indulgent affection.
She remembers their early days together; they'd gone on about thirty dates before making love for the first time. She recalls her thrill at catching sight of him when they met off-campus at a park or in a restaurant – his absolutely correct posture and his assured bearing, and, once met, his gentlemanly manners, learned in many years of ambassadorial visits with his parents. His warm hand lightly on her elbow, a hand on her shoulder or touching her upper back to help guide her through a crowd, the sexual significance of a glance shared with her in public.
Her thoughts leap from one recollection to another.
The first time she asked him to remain still while she undressed him, loosening the fasteners of that dead-sexy, high-necked, form-fitting black uniform – how his mouth opened slightly as his eyes closed with feeling her hands on him … she could still feel his heat, the tickle of his chest hair and the smoothness of his skin, hear the raspy depths of his voice in moments of passion –
Tears track down the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth; she licks her lips and touches her wrists to her eyes to dash the moisture away.
McCoy.
"Spock, I'm not asking. I'm ordering you, as your Chief Medical Officer, to get down to my office."
The Vulcan – half-Vulcan, but more Vulcan these days – strides in, perfect posture and all, and stands at attention in front of the CMO's desk.
"Siddown, Spock."
"I prefer to stand." No honorific, even. Spock is definitely acting more reserved and weirder than usual.
McCoy smiles his nasty smile. "Well, your CMO says sit the hell down, so plant it." He points at the chair in front of his desk, deliberately placed there because he's about to exercise authority over Spock, and he knows that after years in the service and at the Academy, Spock is sensitive to human body language and furniture placement.
Spock sits. Crissakes, he looks like a plebe, braced-up-chin-into-chest. He's defensive, all right.
"Commander Spock, I'd like to address a couple of matters of a personal nature."
Spock's looking straight ahead. What was it they always used to bark at me when I first reported? "Eyes in the boat!" Yeah, that.
Damn, those eyes are cold and remote. No wonder Uhura's heart is breaking.
McCoy raises what Chapel calls his Disruptor Eyebrow. "Do you have any idea what matters those might be, Commander?"
"I do not."
McCoy leans forward and says in a reasonable tone, "For the second time I'm ordering you to go for counseling. Now I know we don't have a Vulcan Healer on board, and I've asked for one to be assigned, but for now I'm askin' you to muddle through with a Human. Dr. Noel's been studying Vulcan approaches to psychology so she can work with you. If you refuse again," he slaps his palms on the desk and half-stands, still leaning in, and lowers his voice to threat-level – "I'll need to tell Jim, so he can order you."
Spock raises his own eyebrow, the Supercilious Bastard one, and says coolly, "From your tone and your air of hostility I would presume you needed counseling, Doctor, not me."
"Would you." McCoy stands. His height is not inconsiderable. He's at least as tall as Spock. "Let me tell you something. You're breaking her heart, you Vulcan idiot."
"Your logic, if I may use such a word in relation to you, eludes me. The heart is a muscle and cannot break—"
"Lieutenant Nyota Uhura … you know her, I think? Brilliant Communications Officer, speaks over a hundred languages, friendly to everyone, a lovely young woman who's worried sick, because apparently you have a death wish! She cares about you, and she's suffering for it."
"She is … suffering over something I cannot change."
"You can't change? Or won't? You can damn well try."
"I have tried, Doctor; I have exerted myself to achieve peace and have not been able to do so. Human-style counseling – or a human's attempt at Vulcan healing – will be of no use. And I have no wish to die. I wish to continue my service to Starfleet."
Spock, though sitting, is staring him down. McCoy almost wavers, but hardens his resolve when he recalls Uhura's sorrowful eyes and her graying complexion. Her weight loss. Her professionalism when on duty, energy ginned up from somewhere deep and disciplined inside her. The words of her psychologist, which McCoy will not divulge. He is, however, going to share his own observations of the lieutenant with the stupidest genius he has ever met.
Those eyes continue boring holes into him, those fathomless, black-looking eyes. McCoy knows they are brown, but when Spock is being forbidding, his pupils dilate to an incredible degree; it's threatening as hell to some people. It just ticks McCoy off. He paces around the desk to stand right by Spock.
"Look at me, Commander." Good. Got your chin out of your chest. Now you have to crane your neck a little don't you, you goddamn fool. "You, sir, can't self-prescribe. Nor can you tell me something won't work for you until you've tried to work with it. Want to continue serving Starfleet? Then serve by learning how to deal with your stress, first. Some way healthier than what you're doin' now. I don't know any specifics, if you and Uhura argued or broke up or what. I know she's livin' alone now, but it hasn't helped her a whole lot.
"When she's on duty, I don't know how, but she's still as professional as ever. Oh, I suppose you are too, aren't you." McCoy's in full ticked-off lecture mode now, and crosses his arms at chest level. "Except lately, when you've come back from Away missions hurt. Sometimes badly. I'm thinkin' about the last one. You had to take some time off to recover, remember?" McCoy starts slowly bending his face toward Spock's.
"I looked at your records, Spock. The only time you've ever gotten badly hurt was three years ago when you saved Captain Pike on Arach IV. Remember? Since then, not a single time have you needed surgery or time off. You've been able to handle everything with that Vulcan mumbo-j—" the black eyes snapped up to his—"Vulcan stuff you do after I patch you up.
"I'm being real polite here, because frankly I feel like punchin' you in the face right about now. Uhura's been doin' the best she can, but she's grieving, Spock. I can see it, and I blame you for it.
"See, if you'd broken up – I know her, she'd mourn awhile, then get herself together, straighten up and sail on. But she's sufferin' because she still loves you, god help her."
Spock interrupts his eye-laser drilling of McCoy to blink.
"It's crystal clear to me, and Jim, and the entire crew of this ship, that you're experiencing post-traumatic stress. And you're stressin' the ones close to you. Now here's what you need to do as a Starfleet officer. It's somethin' professional, Spock. You need to see Dr. Noel – today – or I'll make a report to Jim, and he can decide what to do."
If it's possible, Spock stiffens his posture even more. There is no shaking that foolish son of a b— …son of a Vulcan.
Spock rises smoothly, leaning slightly back and away from McCoy, straightening the backs of his knees so slowly that the chair glides back without a sound.
"Very well, Doctor. Report me if you must." And standing to full attention once more, the first officer executes a perfect about-face and leaves McCoy's office.
Goddamn it, Spock, the doctor thinks. You must've fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
To be Continued
* See my story, Aaja Nachle
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.
Stupid tree: In areas of the Southeastern US, there is a rather quaint way of saying someone is ugly. "He must've fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down." I've changed the adjective to fit McCoy's thought.
Zero hundred hours: midnight