Intergalactic Women's Day Fic
Title: Omnium fidelium defunctorum
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Uhura/Spock (barely)
Prompt: She's a xenolinguist: that means she doesn't know whatever rare Earth language you've brought her today.
Summary: Uhura just wants to help.
Notes: I chose this prompt intending to write something funny. Thaaat didn’t quite happen.
Ensign Inoue’s hands were shaking as she pressed the data chip into Uhura’s palm.
“I don’t mean to impose… I’m sure you… I know you must have lost people, too. It’s just… everyone said you’re the best, the best linguist on the ship, and.” She paused to take a steadying breath. “I don’t speak it. And I want it to sound… right. Perfect. She deserves that.”
“Of course,” Uhura said, closing her fist around the data chip and wanting to reach out, touch the girl’s shoulder, or hand-but didn’t. She wasn’t sure why not. “I’d be glad to read it at the memorial service on your behalf. What language is it?”
“Latin. It’s Latin. Angela- Lieutenant Martine’s family was really Catholic, like old-school, you know?” she said with a watery laugh that betrayed how close she was to tears. “I remember she searched, like, half the galaxy to find what must be the only church on Earth that still conducts services in Latin, and she’d watch their live feed at about two o’clock in the morning…”
“Latin,” Uhura echoed carefully. She opened her mouth to go on, but the yeoman quickly interrupted.
“It’s not a problem, is it? I asked-I asked around, and they said probably any of the linguists would be able to do it, but everyone said you’re the best. Angela was my best friend and-and I feel like she deserves the best. If you don’t mind.”
Xenolinguist, Uhura thought, feeling pained. She wanted to help, she wanted to help everyone. She wasn’t a commander, an engineer, a doctor-there was no clear-cut way she could see to use her skills to provide the assistance the grieving crew and broken ship so desperately needed. Until Inoue came to her, and for a moment Uhura had thought she might not be completely useless after all. And if it had been Tellarite, Andorian, hell, even Romulan, she really could have finally helped someone, but she didn’t speak Latin.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said.
Spock came to her room when Beta shift ended and she was still awake, hunched over her PADD. She heard him sit down on the edge of her bed, and he was silent for so long she almost forgot he was there.
“What are you doing?” he asked at last.
“Learning to pronounce Latin,” she said. She felt certain she could hear him arching his eyebrow.
“The study of Latin is not related to your xenolinguistic focus. Furthermore, this has been a… difficult time, and more than the usual amount of rest is required if one wishes to continue performing at one’s optimum capability. I fail to see the necessity in this activity.” And Uhura knew him well enough to know that this was Spock-speak for ‘I’m worried about you, please get some sleep,’ but she couldn’t force down the surge of frustration that rose in her chest at that impeccable logic, and she snapped around in her chair perhaps more forcefully than strictly necessary.
“Because,” she said crisply, but could get no further without her eyes going soft, without something in her throat going hoarse. “Because Angela Martine died when one of the phaser banks exploded and I never met her. Because her best friend asked me to do it and I couldn’t say no. I wanted to help.”
Some small, petty part of her wanted him to tell her it was illogical, that she was expending energy uselessly, that guilt was a pointless emotion, that her role as acting chief communicator was not only helpful but vital in establishing contact with Starfleet, so that she could yell at him and in doing so, perhaps cleanse herself of all these things she didn’t know how to feel.
“Are you utilizing the Classical or Ecclesiastical form of pronunciation?” he asked. Her breath caught with an involuntary gasp, and when she started to cry, he sat down beside her. And even though she knew perfectly well how uncomfortable such displays made him, he let her bury her face in his shoulder and held on tight.
It was the only reason, she was sure, that she was able to maintain her composure throughout the next day’s memorial service for those lost on and around Vulcan. And when her turn came, she rose with poise and recited the Latin prayer perfectly, just the way Angela Martine whom she had never met deserved.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Uhura/Spock (barely)
Prompt: She's a xenolinguist: that means she doesn't know whatever rare Earth language you've brought her today.
Summary: Uhura just wants to help.
Notes: I chose this prompt intending to write something funny. Thaaat didn’t quite happen.
Ensign Inoue’s hands were shaking as she pressed the data chip into Uhura’s palm.
“I don’t mean to impose… I’m sure you… I know you must have lost people, too. It’s just… everyone said you’re the best, the best linguist on the ship, and.” She paused to take a steadying breath. “I don’t speak it. And I want it to sound… right. Perfect. She deserves that.”
“Of course,” Uhura said, closing her fist around the data chip and wanting to reach out, touch the girl’s shoulder, or hand-but didn’t. She wasn’t sure why not. “I’d be glad to read it at the memorial service on your behalf. What language is it?”
“Latin. It’s Latin. Angela- Lieutenant Martine’s family was really Catholic, like old-school, you know?” she said with a watery laugh that betrayed how close she was to tears. “I remember she searched, like, half the galaxy to find what must be the only church on Earth that still conducts services in Latin, and she’d watch their live feed at about two o’clock in the morning…”
“Latin,” Uhura echoed carefully. She opened her mouth to go on, but the yeoman quickly interrupted.
“It’s not a problem, is it? I asked-I asked around, and they said probably any of the linguists would be able to do it, but everyone said you’re the best. Angela was my best friend and-and I feel like she deserves the best. If you don’t mind.”
Xenolinguist, Uhura thought, feeling pained. She wanted to help, she wanted to help everyone. She wasn’t a commander, an engineer, a doctor-there was no clear-cut way she could see to use her skills to provide the assistance the grieving crew and broken ship so desperately needed. Until Inoue came to her, and for a moment Uhura had thought she might not be completely useless after all. And if it had been Tellarite, Andorian, hell, even Romulan, she really could have finally helped someone, but she didn’t speak Latin.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said.
Spock came to her room when Beta shift ended and she was still awake, hunched over her PADD. She heard him sit down on the edge of her bed, and he was silent for so long she almost forgot he was there.
“What are you doing?” he asked at last.
“Learning to pronounce Latin,” she said. She felt certain she could hear him arching his eyebrow.
“The study of Latin is not related to your xenolinguistic focus. Furthermore, this has been a… difficult time, and more than the usual amount of rest is required if one wishes to continue performing at one’s optimum capability. I fail to see the necessity in this activity.” And Uhura knew him well enough to know that this was Spock-speak for ‘I’m worried about you, please get some sleep,’ but she couldn’t force down the surge of frustration that rose in her chest at that impeccable logic, and she snapped around in her chair perhaps more forcefully than strictly necessary.
“Because,” she said crisply, but could get no further without her eyes going soft, without something in her throat going hoarse. “Because Angela Martine died when one of the phaser banks exploded and I never met her. Because her best friend asked me to do it and I couldn’t say no. I wanted to help.”
Some small, petty part of her wanted him to tell her it was illogical, that she was expending energy uselessly, that guilt was a pointless emotion, that her role as acting chief communicator was not only helpful but vital in establishing contact with Starfleet, so that she could yell at him and in doing so, perhaps cleanse herself of all these things she didn’t know how to feel.
“Are you utilizing the Classical or Ecclesiastical form of pronunciation?” he asked. Her breath caught with an involuntary gasp, and when she started to cry, he sat down beside her. And even though she knew perfectly well how uncomfortable such displays made him, he let her bury her face in his shoulder and held on tight.
It was the only reason, she was sure, that she was able to maintain her composure throughout the next day’s memorial service for those lost on and around Vulcan. And when her turn came, she rose with poise and recited the Latin prayer perfectly, just the way Angela Martine whom she had never met deserved.