Work Text:
The air carried a faint metallic tang, closely resembling iron and its alloys, and suggestive of poor filtration or prolonged exposure to unsealed structural materials. Spock perceived the strength of gravity as weaker than Vulcan’s, yet marginally stronger than that the artificial gravity on the enterprise. He estimated it to fall between 10.0 and 10.2N/kg — perhaps this planet had a higher mass or higher density? Furthermore, the atmosphere felt humid, its temperature around 292K, resulting in a thin layer of moisture across his skin; sticky and uncomfortable, but not impairing.
The room itself was enclosed. There were no windows, the only light source being a basic bulb attached to the ceiling that cloaked the room in a warm yellow-orange glow, the ceiling was low with a single, visible vent, and the only exit was a reinforced door, guarded by two hooded figures. Both were equipped with low-quality tasers, edged blades, and most notably, firearms prohibited by Federation law.
A total of four humans were in the room. The individual, who had cuffed his wrists behind his back and forced him to his knees, was a man in his late 20’s, missing two front teeth, with a chiselled brown beard, a crooked nose, and an old scar above his right eye. He held a serrated knife to his throat with dry, rough, tanned hands. His grip lacked complete stability. Not untrained nor unpracticed but merely imperfect.
Meanwhile, the woman behind them was younger, early 20’s, with a pale complexion, sandy blonde hair, and light blue eyes. She handled a leather whip with practised familiarity, the air giving a sharp crack each time she flicked it. She was clearly… skilled at the craft.
At first inspection, his cuffs looked simple and inefficient. However, after testing their durability, they seemed to be designed specifically for a species with enhanced strength. A precaution with intent.
Spock remained on his knees; his back straight, posture unyielding, and neck held precisely still to accommodate the blade at his throat. Discomfort was present. However, Spock was familiar with sitting on his knees for long periods of time, and could tolerate the numbing sensation.
The cracks of leather ceased. “Do you think it will bruise green?”
The man sniggered. “Probably.” The knife inched closer to his neck. “The real question is ‘how many lashes will it take for it to bleed?’.”
Clenching his jaw, Spock trained his eyes directly forward, and concentrated on counting each minuscule mark on the wall. This wasn’t the first time he had been captured, and it wouldn’t be the last. Pain was expected. A part of waiting patiently was taking every jab, every sneer; every—
The first lash cracked against his bare back, forcing a sharp gasp from Spock’s tight lips. The targeted skin stung; pain bloomed beneath it, and travelled down his spine, eliciting an involuntary shudder. The reaction was… inefficient.
Spock inhaled slowly through his nose. The sensation did not lessen, but its significance did. Pain was data. Nothing more.
A pause followed.
“…That it?” The man muttered, almost disappointed.
A second crack split the air.
Spock did not react.
The woman exhaled a quiet laugh. “‘Thought you said it would scream.”
“It will.” The knife pressed fractionally closer to his throat. “They always do.”
Spock’s gaze remained fixed ahead, tracing the irregular patterning along the wall. Seventeen marks clustered near the base. Three deeper than the rest. A weak point in the wall.
The third lash came at a different angle. Testing. Spock noted the variation. The wielder was skilled, but not methodical. She sought a reaction, not efficiency; that was her fatal flaw.
Spock flexed his fingers within the restraints to test his circulation. Sensation remained intact. Picking the lock would be feasible. However, his escape attempt required further investigation.
“Look at it!” She huffed, lashing his back for a fourth time. “It doesn’t even flinch with each lash!”
“Can it even bleed?”
A fifth lash.
Spock clenched his jaw.
“Cut it and find out.” She sneered.
A sixth lash.
The man’s smirk widened.
Spock swallowed; the motion minimal and controlled, avoiding the teeth of the knife. The development was… suboptimal.
“You could carve it with something.” She mused with the seventh lash. “Or just open its chest?”
“Both ideas are…” — an eight lash, another different angle, flicked harder against his sensitive skin — “Tempting.” The man chuckled, licking his lips, as he thought. “What about its stomach?”
“Can’t.” The woman replied before Spock could fully process her partner’s question. “We need it alive. ‘Can’t risk killing the mutt, can we?”
The fact they preferred him alive was Spock’s only relief. It meant lethal force was not currently permissible. Escape was still feasible. Soon.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He sighed. “‘Guess the chest will do.”
She flicked the whip for the ninth time. “You’re very talented on the chest area.” She purred.
Spock visibly shuddered.
The wielder laughed, and whipped him for the tenth time. “So now it moves?”
“‘Scared mutt?” He sneered; the teeth of his knife shifted less than an inch from Spock’s throat. “You should be.”
Spock exhaled slowly. Fear was not an efficient response. Observation remained… productive.
“Can it not speak?” She snarled as she inflicted an eleventh lash. “Speak mutt. Speak.” The woman lashed him a twelfth time. Impatience. Spock noted she was easy to enrage.
“I have the ability to speak, yes.” Spock replied, voice calm and unwavering.
A thirteenth lash. “Yes, Ma’am.” She corrected with the fourteenth. Impatient, indeed.
“Yes, Ma’am.” He repeated with the same composure.
Another crack of air. Spock waited for a fifteenth lash. It did not come.
“Pin the mutt down.” The wielder gestured to the two hooded guards. “Let’s see if it still has a smart-mouth when its chest is wide open.”
The man laughed. “I like the sound of that!”
The guards slowly approached from each side. Spock tracked their motion, the shift in weight, the angle of approach, the timing — it was too soon. His current position was… suboptimal.
A sound interrupted Spock’s thoughts. Faint. Metallic. Beyond the door.
Spock stilled.
The guards did not.
Then there was that sound again. Louder. A sharp, resonant impact, followed by the unmistakable strain of stressed metal.
The man faltered. “What the—”
The door burst inward with a violent crack.
“Freeze!” The voice was unmistakable. T’hy’la.
The Captain, Jim, his partner in every possible way, stood in the doorway; phaser raised, eyes sharp, and jaw clenched with pent-up rage. Behind him, red-shirted security officers fanned out with practised precision, circling Spock’s captors.
A pause.
The four humans moved. The wrong choice.
The red-shirts fired.
A phaser discharge narrowly missed one of the guards, hitting the wall beside them. They stumbled back, fumbling for their firearm, but a second, more accurate shot, knocked it out of their hand and sent it flying across the room.
The woman’s whip snapped through the air, but her aim faltered. She had not accounted for variables beyond her control.
Spock twisted sharply, driving his shoulder back into the man. His grip on the knife slipped (imperfect, as predicted), and the blade skidded harmlessly past his throat as Spock, ignoring the protest of restrained limbs, surged upward.
A second later, a phaser blast struck the man squarely, dropping him instantly. A blast from Jim’s phaser, specifically.
“Spock!” He crossed the room in quick strides, lowering his weapon only once the remaining threats were subdued. “Fuck!” He hissed, his fingers ghosting over the lashed wound, before quickly working on the handcuffs. “Are you okay?”
Spock’s gaze shifted — to the wall, the door, the fallen captors; then back to The Captain — and finally allowed himself to exhale a relieved sigh. “I am… functional, ashayam.” The cuffs came undone with a click. Spock allowed himself to shudder as he tested his circulation. Sensation remained… somewhat intact. “Is…” Spock hesitated, lowering his head. “Does it look…”
The red-shirts filtered out of the room, dragging the four bodies along with them.
The Captain knelt in front of him, and cupped his cheeks, slowly guiding Spock’s eyes up to meet his. “Honestly? Not… great.” He planted a soft kiss against his forehead. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you…”
“It is not your fault, t’hy’la.” Spock shook his head. “Besides, you came at an… appropriate time. If you hadn’t…” Spock noticed the swollen marks around his wrists, and winced, gulping hard. “They were going to cut me.” He whimpered; his voice cracked, wavered, and lacked his usual composure.
The Captain’s hands stiffened against his face. “What?” He growled; grip tightening, jaw clenched, and eyes burning with fury.
“They—“ Spock closed his eyes. “They were—“ He choked.
“Whoa, hey, hey, easy.” He guided Spock close toward his chest. “You’re okay, you’re safe now, I’ve got you. You don’t need to tell me if you’re not ready yet.”
Spock melted into the embrace. “Thank you, t’hy’la.” He trembled in his partner’s arms. “I apologise for my discomposure. I am… tired.”
The Captain kissed the top of his head, and buried his nose in his hair, inhaling the familiar scent. “Let Bones look you over, and then you can sleep for as long as you need, baby.” He murmured, gentle and loving. “‘No shifts on the bridge, until you’re fully recovered, that’s a Captain’s order.”
“That… may be for the best, yes, I agree.” Spock nuzzled against his chest. “May I request you hold me as I sleep?”
Their embrace tightened. “Of course, baby. I’ll be right there, holding you close to my chest, and promising to never let you go.”
“Mmm I hope that’s a true promise.” Spock mumbled, his chest vibrating, as he purred contently like a cat.
His t’hy’la laughed.