The BLTS Archive - But Your Chains by nostalgia (thehappinesspatrol@hotmail.com) --- Disclaimer: Paramount, I think… Notes: Oh, crap, I wrote TOSfic. Kill me. Kill me now. . . --- When he's drunk he sings songs in Russian, passionate songs that seem designed to echo across the tundra. He sings them quietly though, because he knows he shouldn't really be singing them. The Federation anthem would be acceptable, but Spock would probably raise an eyebrow at lyrics suggesting various methods of desecrating Joseph Stalin's corpse, most of them obscene. You don't mind though, it's nice to hear a human language that isn't English. You think about teaching him Swahili, but you doubt he has the patience. When he lies next to you in bed, he tells stories about old women who played the balalaika. He talks about Sputnik and Gagarin and wishes things could have been different. You stroke his hair and tell him that everyone gets homesick in space. You were never meant to be so far from home. You break fifteen separate rules of conduct when you kiss him, and you wish you were important enough that no one would care about such indiscretions. Perhaps one day you will be, but in the meantime you carry on in secret. There are always plenty of places to hide away from prying, unforgiving eyes. You tell him about a woman named Hoshi and complain that your skirt is far too short. He tells you that it suits you, and you swear at him in his own language. Sometimes you wonder is that's the only reason he says these things, to hear a whisper of his home. He's the only person on the bridge who knows your first name, because he's the only one who's ever asked. You doubt that Captain even knows you're there most of the time, that he knows how important you really are. That he sees you as anything more than an instrument of his adventure. You came out here to meet new peoples, but no one ever lets you talk to them. You hail them, you make contact. You stay on the ship, miss the excitement, and leave none the wiser. You tell your lover that all communications officers curse the name of Sato, harbour a hatred of the Universal Translator. It cuts your workload and it cuts you out of the loop. You wonder what you're doing on this ship. Sometimes you talk about leaving, and you see the spark dimming in his eyes. He is only good at going forwards, he loses his purpose when if he puts down roots. At least you have the option. There's a school in Brazil you want to teach at, but you find yourself always signing up for one more mission, one more journey. The distance from your home is measured in light years. Everything centres on space these days, where the colours are brighter and the sun never rises. Stars streak past your window and your genes complain that they should be standing still. None of the constellations of the Earth are visible, but the stars are the same. You were born when the sun was in Taurus, but from here Aldebaran sits above the Pleiades. Nothing is the same out here, nothing is certain. You close your eyes, and for a moment you can almost hear the music of a balalaika. --- The End