Chapter Text
“This is the antithesis of ‘low-profile’ Lieutenant,” Spock mutters into his glass – a glass noisy with chunks of ice. He does not care for ice in gin. Or ice. Or gin.
Uhura laughs, a sparkling arpeggio drawing appreciative glances. She taps his right biceps in a playful manner, and exclaims, loudly, “Oh, you.”
As a response to his statement, it’s nonsensical. He raises a brow in silent demand for clarification. Her answering smile is the gregarious, flirtatious crowd-pleaser she’s taken to using so often of late.
“We haven’t been low profile for weeks,” she singsongs at him. Someone waves at her. She waves back. “Besides," she says, taking a sip of her own beverage, "low-profile got us nowhere. This got us invited to a party.”
She sweeps a hand over her astonishing ensemble.
The green lame gown flows over her form like viscous liquid and pools on the floor, a dangerous tripping hazard around her equally dangerous shoes. A flower of the same fabric dangling a tassel made of gold chains is perched between her breasts. Rising from the diadem in her hair sits a golden disc, angled back so it frames her head and illuminates her face like a halo in paintings of Earth’s venerated gods and saints. Her fingernails are painted bright shimmering pink, as are her eyelids.
He’d had no opportunity to ask how, when, or by what means she’d acquired the ensemble before she’d grabbed his arm and swept him into this suite of rooms where the party was well underway.
His own clothing – ubiquitous Vulcan blacks and grays – stand in stark contrast against the dazzling canvas that is Lt. Uhura.
Across the hall, a shout, “Nova! Nova! Look everyone, it’s Nova Fanchon.”
“Nova” blows a kiss, then turns to him, running the tasseled chains idly through her fingers. “Trust me.”
He has no other option. It’s too late to leave. The host has spotted them.
^^^
96 days earlier.
Uhura sat on the bed watching Spock lay each item out on the table.
With his back to her, only the set of his shoulders clued her into his mood. For some reason (exhaustion probably) her mind wandered into anatomy lessons from primary school as she followed the rounded hunch of deltoids, the bunch and shift of subscapularis just below.
Only a colleague with a long association to the man would recognize this careful, clipped precision as an indicator of just how pissed off he was.
Kerthunk
One metal token, possibly for a complimentary buffet.
Thwip thwip
Two foil packets, probably condoms.
Clack Clack C-LACK
Three candy-colored data sticks.
Flupflupflupflup
Four strips of local currency.
Scarcely a fraction of the tribute tossed at her feet by an enthusiastic audience and all she’d managed to grab before he’d whisked her off the stage and away from the clamoring crowd.
She heard him sigh (though he would never call it such), a longitudinal wave pushing terrified air particles out of the way, and he spun in its wake to confront her, almost comically j’accuse.
Pinched between a thumb and forefinger, its wrapper crinkling ominously, dangled a small something.
Her best guess was a cough lozenge. Or an edible intoxicant made to resemble one.
Spock did not care for guesses, best or otherwise.
Adrenalin fueled giddiness threatened a fit of the giggles, but she dared not laugh. Best to address the true cause of this…logical tantrum.
“I’m sorry sir, but the opportunity arose to solve one of our problems and I took it. An executive decision if you will—”
“You made a unilateral decision without consulting me. I am the executive officer. I am also your commanding officer, responsible for your safety and security on this mission.”
He conveniently left out the part where the purpose of their mission was long gone. Cleared out. Out of scanning range figuratively and literally. Eodetti Voch, their contact, had scarpered to who-knew-where with all their tech – communicators, tricorders, emergency beacon, medkit, not to mention money and travel IDs.
As Lyonuma was not a Federation world nor a member of the Planetary Trade alliance, this was a pretty big problem. Just because they were currently in a city with a multi-species population and working infrastructure didn’t mean it wasn’t a hostile environment. The night before this they’d spent behind a dumpster in an alley, and tonight they were in a comfortable room in an okay hotel with funds for at least one meal.
She gazed out the window watching the sky brighten through narrow passages between buildings. The one that cozied up next to theirs had brick threaded with light-emitting diodes that reconfigured at set intervals for various advertisements. The pale green glow of burgeoning daylight couldn’t compete. But at least they could lower the blinds.
Her flush of post-performance adrenalin was starting to fade now, exhaustion creeping in. He needed to see her logic so she could get some sleep.
“Look. I have a skillset uniquely suited to our circumstances—”
“I cannot not allow you to sell your…self to assure our well-being, Lieutenant.”
“Mr. Spock, for heaven’s sake, it’s not sex work. I’m singing and dancing in a club. It’s Variety Theater, really. I don’t even take off my clothes.” She wouldn’t be wearing many clothes, but no need to bring that up right now. “I have an excellent singing voice as you know. And I teach a dance class once a week on the ship.”
“I am aware,” he said, but the tense line of his mouth showed he was still unconvinced.
She tried another tack. “You think Voch is still on the planet, right?” He dipped his chin. “Well then, if we have any chance of finding him we’ll need to network, gather information the old-fashioned way. There’s no better place to start than a nightclub frequented by couriers.”
“Intoxicated people are often indiscreet,” he acknowledged.
Thinking the matter settled for the time being, she gave the mattress a test bounce. One bed. They’d take turns—
“What is my role then?”
His plaintive tone startled her. Startled him too it seemed. He couldn’t quite look her in the eye.
“That is to say, the social communication and emotional intelligence required to glean information in the manner you suggest is—” He paused, graced her with a rueful expression, “not where I shine.”
Uhura gave a soft snort and fell back on the bed, her knees still hooked over the edge. “True enough. But grim and taciturn? You’ve got that down to a science.”
“Grim and taciturn will not benefit our efforts at intelligence gathering, Ms Uhura. Moreover, what reason can I possibly have for spending time in this nightclub? Without funds to purchase even a beverage I doubt my presence would be tolerated for long.”
“Uh…that... should not be a problem. I told the club’s owner that you’re my manager. And, also, uh, my husband.”
The silence that followed was the loud kind, and after a few seconds she propped herself up on her elbows to see if he was still breathing.
“To be clear, I said ‘husband’ first because Mr. Zeeza was getting a little too chummy, but then ‘manager’ seemed like a smarter lie. So now you’re both. It’s quite common in the business.”
“I bow to your superior understanding of the business then.”
She toe-d off her shoes and scootched up toward the pillows to curl into a comfortable ball. One hand slipped beneath her cheek, her mouth slackened and words were sticky on her tongue. “D’you mind if I get the bed tonight, sir? You can have it tomorrow I promise. We’ll take turns.”
“You can have the bed every night, Ms. Uhura. Though, technically, it is morning.”
“Such is the life of a chanteuse.”
A minute later she was asleep.
^^^
Spock manipulated the bed cover out from under her and drew it over her shoulders. She’d squinted at him a moment when he’d lifted her hip but then rolled over to her left side and was soon snoring softly. He took the blanket at the end of the bed for himself, arranging it on the floor near the window.
He felt well past the need for sleep, which he knew from experience was a warning sign, but there was little he could do except acknowledge it. Meditation would have to do – he’d run on nothing but fumes and tal t’li before – so he knelt on the blanket, tucked his heels under his buttocks, closed his eyes, and proceeded to examine events of the past two days.
Spock believed Eodetti Voch was still on the planet somewhere. Uhura was not so sure. And yet she proceeded to secure not only their comfortable survival, but a potential means by which to determine if his theory was correct.
She seemed to assume her performance was the cause of his somewhat forceful response. That he disapproved of her behavior, perhaps. In retrospect this was likely because of how stridently he’d hustled her off the stage and away from the crowd. But that was only out of concern for her safety. The ephemera being pelted at the stage wasn’t all coins and candy.
A mildly provocative performance would hardly cause him discomfort or offense. And under their current circumstances it wasn’t cause for professional censure either. They’d served together for ten years. She knew him better than that.
There persisted, however, a concept of Vulcan people as prudish and sexually repressed. Vulcans did little to allay the impression, of course. And, as no sapient species with phenomenal qualia had escaped being immortalized in pornography, Vulcans were wide open to creative interpretation. Factual realism was not a featured quality in entertainment of that nature.
In truth, he hadn’t seen Uhura’s performance at all. He’d been on his way to the alley where they were to meet and passed the club just as the door opened. The last notes of her song rang out, sustained, and amplified, followed by an uproar of whoops and shouts and whistles, fists pounding tabletops, waves of applause.
He knew that voice and that song, neither of which should be on the other side of that particular door. Those belonged to another world altogether – to the Enterprise among friends and colleagues, teasing flirtations in sly portamentos, swoops and vibratos as he played a crew favorite but still their song.
This cognitive dissociation faded replaced by reason. Lt. Uhura was inside. Lt. Uhura had sung for a room full of strangers. Why was a question that could only be answered by going inside himself.
The bouncer had not been at their post. If they had Spock would never have gotten past the threshold. As it was, he found himself pushing through a crush of “standing room only” and into the main room and luckier clientele at tables and banquettes and these clientele were busy throwing things at her. Technically, they were throwing things onto the stage, but as she was crawling around trying to snatch up as many of the items as she could it amounted to the same thing. From his perspective she was being pelted with debris.
Loud and lewd invitations combined with an aggressive enthusiasm from those standing at the back, prompted Spock to leap onto the stage with only one goal – get her and get out.
Uhura, still thanking the audience, hands full of hodgepodge, let out a squeal of startled protest as he locked his arms around her, lifted her up and carried her out of harm’s way.
Which presaged his abrupt introduction to the club’s Nausicaan bouncer. It was only due to Uhura’s interference that Spock escaped being bludgeoned.
“No, no, no, Sluka, Sluka, stop, stop! I’m all right. He’s not going to hurt me.”
“You sure, Mees Nova? I can break him. Vulcan males get crazy, you gotta put ‘em down—"
“Don’t break him. I’m fine. We’re fine. This is Nirak, my— this is Nirak.”
Nirak. A common name, though Spock could only wonder if Uhura knew the literal meaning when she chose it.
Nirak. Fool.