Story Notes:
This story was written for Ship Wars! at ST_Respect on LiveJournal. The prompt was "In the Doghouse."
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Title: Still Waters
Author/Beta: Yalegirl03
Ship: Team Ashayam (S/U)
Canon: TOS
Words: 2038, not including the title
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek nor do I make any profit from it.
A/N: This story makes references to characters and conversations from the TOS episodes "The Apple" and "The Man Trap"
Still Waters
Author/Beta: Yalegirl03
Ship: Team Ashayam (S/U)
Canon: TOS
Words: 2038, not including the title
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek nor do I make any profit from it.
A/N: This story makes references to characters and conversations from the TOS episodes "The Apple" and "The Man Trap"
Still Waters
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Still Waters
“Status report, Ensign Hayes,” Spock spoke into the comlink from his place in the command chair.
“Two dead, three seriously injured but in stable condition and one unaccounted for, Commander Spock,” the ensign replied.
The steady taps of rapidly moving fingers over brightly lit consoles stopped momentarily as the bridge crew absorbed the information.
“Duly noted, ensign. Prepare to beam the injured directly to sickbay. Increase scans of the area to locate the missing crewman. A recovery team will arrive on the surface shortly. Standard procedures.” Spock flipped a switch, closing the connection with a resounding snap.
Ensign Chekov spun around in his chair to face the commander, his brown eyes wide with concern, an unspoken question on his lips. Yeoman Landon, a young woman with whom Chekov was currently engaged in a romantic relationship, was a member of the landing party that had been sent to Toros XI to investigate the inexplicably abandoned Federation outpost. Spock regarded the young man silently, one eyebrow arched in question.
“Is there a problem, Ensign Chekov?”
“Nyet…no, Commander Spock,” Chekov replied.
“Then it would be advisable for you to return your attention to your station, Mr. Chekov.”
“Yes, of course, Commander Spock,” Chekov replied, flushing scarlet before turning back towards the helm.
Spock knew that if Lieutenant Uhura had been on the bridge that she would flash him a quick look, understanding warming her eyes and softening her features, before returning to her work. This had not always been so. She had once scolded him most openly on the bridge for his apparent unconcern for the welfare of the captain when a similar report was given to him.
“Somebody is dead and you just sit there,” she stated in disbelief. “It could be Captain Kirk. He’s the closest thing you have to a friend.”
“Lieutenant,” Spock replied. “My demonstration of concern will not change what has happened.”
Uhura had turned from him then, frustrated by his Vulcan detachedness, thinking him to be the unfeeling computer that Doctor McCoy so often proclaimed him to be. That was before she was Nyota and he simply Spock; before their accidental conversations on the observation deck where her dulcet tones caressed his ears, his head bent towards her content to listen; before the lyre lessons where he would guide her cool fingers into the proper positions, her smiles his only payment; before the Suus mahna sessions where she would bend and stretch around him, her brow furrowed in concentration; before the evenings where he would buck and sigh beneath her, his name a soft plea on her lips.
Now Nyota knew better.
“Still waters run deep,” she would murmur into his chest after his fingers left her temple and cheek during those times when words proved woefully inadequate.
Spock focused solely on his duty, pushing the flutter of panic deep into his subconscious where the sound of it beating its wings against its cage could be drowned out by the din of logic, of orders to be given and tasks to be done. He had neither the time nor the ability to come apart at the seams, his fearful wondering of where she stood among the numbers drowning him from the inside out.
When his relief came, Spock left the bridge, not sparing a sideways glance for the ensign who sat white knuckled and sweating at his station, wound tight for the moment when he too could spring from his seat and run through the halls towards sickbay. Spock’s steps were calm and measured as he walked into the turbolift. He gripped a handle on the wall and indicated Deck 10 where the officer’s quarters were housed. He ignored the urge to retreat to sickbay or the morgue. He would not search for his k’diwa among the broken and the dying.
Spock stopped outside of her door, his practiced hands entering the code for entry. He stepped into the room, ignoring the familiar scent of jasmine that hung in the air. He did not see her sitting on the chaise, her feet bare and tucked underneath her as she read. Spock cocked his head to the side, the sound of stuttering breaths reaching his ears. He closed his eyes. She was there. She was well.
Spock found her sitting on her bed behind the partition. Although it had been several hours since her return to the ship, Nyota had not changed her attire. Her uniform was torn, the red dress smudged with ochre dirt, her normally pristine hair in disarray, a jade hoop missing from her right ear. She lifted her head at the sound of his entrance and looked up at him with swollen eyes.
“Spock.”
She stretched her arms out to him in supplication, like a toddler reaching towards a parent, yearning to be lifted and held in strong arms. Spock moved to her side and sat on the bed, gathering her silently onto his lap. She rested her head on his shoulder. Spock could smell a hint of jasmine beneath the dirt of the planet, the blood of those fallen, the lingering fear and the sweat that wet her hair. He did not tell her that her emotional response will not resurrect Yeoman Landan or heal the Captain’s damaged organs. Tears are a logical release in the privacy of her quarters, in the confines of his embrace. Spock felt something akin to envy before he buried his nose in her hair, searching out the jasmine once more.
******************
Spock barely dodged a swift kick to his head, Nyota’s petite foot passing within five millimeters of his nose. Nyota’s anger made her sparring movements unpredictable and out of synch. They did not move as one unit in their normal dance of long limbs arching wide over torsos bent back, of feet retreating and advancing to the beat of an unheard drum. Spock knew that he was the source of her ire.
Several months had passed since the ill-fated away mission to Toros XI. The dead had been given the traditional Starfleet burial, their remains sent to float in the boundless confines of space, a liveried messenger sent to inform their kin on whatever planet they called home. The captain’s flesh knitted itself together, not even a scar remaining to remind him of his mortality. Chekov again began to proclaim all good things Russian, to the relief and vexation of his colleagues. Many landing parties had been transported to planets, space stations and ships, their parties returning after the mission is complete, their numbers sometimes fewer than what was sent.
Nyota was not among those assigned to a landing party. She did not normally go on away missions with the same frequency as the Captain and Spock, so her absence was not conspicuous at first. Being in charge of staffing the landing parties, Spock chose not to place the lieutenant among those chosen. His logic in doing so appeared sound for the first five missions after Toros XI. Toros XI was a particularly tragic mission where the Lieutenant bore witness to highly disturbing events. Standard procedure dictated that she not be staffed for at least two successive away missions in order to ensure that she was no longer emotionally compromised in a manner that would affect her performance. However, when Spock assigned a much less experienced xenolinguist to the latest away team, Nyota’s suspicions were all but confirmed.
She confronted him later that evening, when he came to her quarters after their Suus mahna session. Spock noticed that the tea things were not arranged on the sitting room table as per the custom, the scent of Vulcan and African herbs rising from the teapot. Nyota sat on the chaise, her back rigid, her arms held stiffly at her sides, the exercise having done little to quiet her ire.
“You are troubled, ashayam,” Spock began as he walked towards her. “Please tell me what has upset you and what can be done to rectify the problem.”
Nyota huffed loudly through her nostrils before rising from her seat.
“Why have you purposefully overlooked me for assignment on away teams?”
“I have not overlooked you, Nyota,” Spock replied.
“Please don’t quibble with semantics,” she stated as she stalked towards him, her arms crossed over her chest. “I have not been on a single away mission in the last six months and today you assigned Ensign Garver to assist with the treaty negotiations with the Rigelian colony. Garver can barely speak Rigelian, much less translate Rigelian to standard at the level required for complex negotiations.”
Spock sighed. “Mr. Garver’s performance today was less than exemplary.”
“Fess up, mister! You were willing to compromise the success of the mission just to avoid sending me down to the surface. You have been deliberately avoiding assigning me to away missions and I demand to know why!”
Spock’s gaze slid from her fierce brown eyes to rest on a point on the wall behind her.
“I…I did not wish to put you in harms way. It is my duty as First Officer of this ship to see to the welfare of the crew.”
Uhura scoffed. “Ours is a dangerous business, Mr. Spock. I knew that when I enlisted. However, I signed up to be an explorer. If I wanted a life of safety, I would have stayed dirtside. I am a trained officer who is more than capable of doing my job.”
“I do not doubt your skill as an officer, Nyota. However, seventy-five point nine percent of the last twenty-five away missions have resulted in the death or critical injury of a crewmember. It is only logical that extra precautions be taken to better ensure your safety.”
“So, it is okay for you, McCoy and the Captain to go on nearly every away mission, but I have to be left behind to mind the shop? If it is just a matter of odds and numbers, then everyone is at equal risk. Aren’t you all members of this crew? Aren’t Len and Jim your friends?”
“Yes, but I am not their sa’kulgasu. They are not half of my heart and soul,” Spock replied his voice tight.
Nyota seemed to deflate before him, her shoulders rounding as she regarded him. She reached for him and gently placed one cool palm against his cheek.
“When we began this relationship, we promised each other that we would keep our personal lives strictly separate from our work lives. That meant that on the bridge and on off ship official business, I am just like any other lieutenant and you are just like any commanding officer. My career in Starfleet is important to me and any man I marry has to respect that.”
“I find it…difficult to view you in such a detached light, Nyota. However, I shall endeavor to keep my word.”
“That’s all I ask,” Nyota smiled at him before rising on her toes to kiss his other cheek.
**********
Nyota stepped onto the transporter pad behind Captain Kirk and Mr. Scott, a tool belt strapped around her waist, her uniform dress exchanged for thermal gear. Spock stood beside the transporter technician, his eyes fixed on her until her form shimmered and disappeared. He turned and made his way to the bridge, locking away his winged anxieties with each step.
When she returns, her body whole and her spirit light with exhilaration, he will go to her quarters after his shift. She will be perched on the chaise, her uniform exchanged for a diaphanous blue caftan, her long legs bare and tucked beneath her. He will gather her in his arms and carry her laughing to their bed. He will watch as she unbuttons the thin garment at the shoulder, noting how it slowly puddles at her feet, before his dark eyes feast on the expanse of brown skin made bare. She will help him discard shirts, pants and boots before pulling him after her. They will bend and stretch around each other, their flesh engaged in an ancient dance, their minds locked in an embrace. She will reach past his logic and duty, her fingers turning the lock, her hands pushing past the bars, urging his caged fears to take wing and depart.
Chapter End Notes:
sa’kulgasu=fiance
ashayam= beloved