A/N: This is my imagining of a Plato's Stepchildren epilogue, because honestly, why they didn't follow up on the emotional/psychological aftereffects of that Final Scene on Kirk, Uhura, Spock, and Chapel?! It's a disgrace. I ship both Kirk/Uhura and Spock/Chapel, but how each couple finds closure will be very different (as we shall soon see). Updates will be regular as I'm nearly finished writing the final chapter. I own nothing except for Philana's reason for pairing the two couples on her planet.

Stardate 5784.8

USS Enterprise

Standard orbit, Platonius

The stunned faces of the Platonians were the last things Nyota Uhura saw before everything dissolved in the golden shimmer of a transporter beam. In that eery, seconds-long dimension between dematerialization and reformation, the only real, tangible things were her own thoughts—and they whirled in a mass of anger, horror, and shame that would've given a Vulcan a conniption.

How dare they? Oh God, how dare they?! And they're just getting off scott-free! "We are exis-ting merely to nourish our own power—It's time for some fresh air." Well let me tell you something, mister: it's about time you all stood trial for—for mind rape! That's what you've done and you've ruined everything and oh God I can't stand this…

The smooth grey walls of the Enterprise's transporter room solidified around her, and with it the return of her physical senses. Her heart still pounded, but whether that was from the lingering terror of that whip snapping inches away from her face or the thrill of having been kissed more fiercely than she'd ever been kissed in her whole life, she didn't know. She didn't want to know. As soon as the last tingle of rematerialization wore off she sucked in great lungfuls of starship air. It smelled better to her than the potpourri-sodden air down on Platonius.

The Enterprise could smell like a sewer and she'd still prefer it over Platonius.

"Captain!"

The gasp mangled Lieutenant Kyle's cultured British accent. Nyota's gaze darted to where he stood behind the transporter console in his neat red uniform; all the blood rushed to her face when she suddenly realized that although he'd addressed the captain, he was staring at her…and just behind her, Christine Chapel.

And boy, he was staring with all his eyes.

"Eyes down, Mister," Captain Kirk snapped on Nyota's right. "And you keep them down until Nurse Chapel and Lieutenant Uhura leave this room or I'll see you in my quarters for a good long talk."

Poor Kyle. He snapped his mouth shut and fixed his eyes on the console like his life depended

on it. Nyota couldn't bear to look directly at the captain. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him turn towards her—still dressed in that horrible excuse for a toga—but she ducked her head, grabbed her flimsy lavender skirt in both hands, and hurried down the transporter steps.

"Uhura, wait…"

I can't, Captain, I'm sorry, I can't!

Her vision blurred and she squeezed her eyes shut as the doors hissed open for her. The quick, light footsteps behind her definitely didn't belong to the captain. Nyota didn't have to look over her shoulder to know it was Christine, just as desperate to escape as she was. Maybe more so. Because at least Captain Kirk hadn't known how she, Nyota, felt, at least not until that witch Philana told them exactly why she'd chosen Nyota for that…"role."

Mr. Spock knew all too well how Christine felt.

"We sensed a deep bond between the Vulcan and the nurse…and between the captain and his lieutenant. Deep but…suppressed bonds. Wouldn't it be entertaining to see how the pairs would react to certain stimuli?"

Nyota shuddered at the memory of the scathing mockery in Philana's tone. She had wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and die. Now she thought the idea of smashing Philana's head with a cast iron skillet was a much more satisfying solution. A phaser bolt was too good for her.

And now we're the ones left with all the broken pieces.

If anybody gaped at her in that sheer, revealing gown—or at Chris, whose Vulcanesque make-up was downright nightmarish—Nyota didn't pay attention. She kept her head and her eyes down and gripped her skirt with both hands. She catapulted into the nearest turbolift with Christine still on her heels; as soon as the doors shut behind them she threw her head back.

"Deck Five," she gasped, "and don't stop for any other passengers!"

"Acknowledged," the computer intoned. The turbolift began to move. Nyota slumped against the wall and dared to look at Christine. She immediately wished she hadn't. Tears streaked her friend's paper-white face, and with the hand not gripping the turbolift handle Christine rubbed and scraped at the pencilled-in, slanted eyebrows. Choked sobs burst from her clamped lips like hiccups she couldn't suppress.

How do you put together a bunch of broken pieces?

"Don't, Chris," Nyota whispered. Her throat felt clogged with her own tears—but I'm not going to cry in here, I'M NOT. "You're only scratching yourself. Wait until you can wash it off."

"But I'll never be able to wash it out!" Christine gasped. She pressed her palm to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh Ny…what have I done to him?"

She broke down into real, shoulder-wracking sobs. The turbolift doors opened. Nyota jerked herself to attention, prepared to shield Christine from anymore bulging, inconsiderate eyes, but the corridor was empty. Most of the ship's senior officers were on duty in the middle of the afternoon, anyway. Christine didn't even seem to notice the open doors.

You can cry once you're by yourself, in your own rooms, Nyota told herself. Right now you've got to get Christine to her cabin. That's your priority. You are the superior officer in this situation. Do what he would do. Take care of your subordinate first and yourself last.

She drew a shuddering breath and slid an arm around Christine's slender waist, leading her out of the turbolift with soothing whispers. Christine leaned on her until she realized Nyota struggled under her weight; then she sniffled and drew herself up to her full, impressive height, wiping her eyes and smearing the glittery eye shadow all over her face.

"I'm all right, Ny," she said in a ragged whisper. "You'd better go to your own cabin before someone sees you."

Nyota looked up at her worriedly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Christine lowered her hands from her face and looked at Nyota with a tortured expression that seemed to say, No, but there's nothing either of us can do about it. Nyota stared back…then pressed her lips together and nodded with a hard swallow. It didn't help the burning in her throat, but at least it helped her brace herself for a nod and a turning-away.

I don't want to leave her. But she needs to be by herself…and I need to pull myself together. I can do that better if I don't have to watch her and remember what she and Spock looked like down there…

Nyota started walking faster at the unwanted memory and ended up running the last few feet to her own cabin. She stabbed at the door code with shaking fingers and plunged inside as soon as the doors hissed open.

The cozy room, decorated in her favorite purple and full of familiar objects—the Vulcan harp Mr. Spock gave her for her last birthday, the mahogany box with her mother's jewelry, the cute little stuffed lion her five-year-old niece thrust into her arms right before Nyota left Earth—seemed ready to envelop her in a warm hug. For a moment she stood frozen in the middle of the room, wanting nothing more than to throw herself onto the bed, bury her face in the pillow, and cry her eyes out.

But then she saw her own reflection in the same mirror where she'd seen Captain Kirk during the Tholian incident only a week ago. The sight filled her with such revulsion that her stomach threatened to rid itself of whatever remained of her last, long-ago meal.

The makeup was just as garish as Christine's, just without the obvious Vulcan eyebrows. The eyeshadow stretched all the way to her temples. Whatever they'd done to her hair with all those extensions, it was hideous. And the dress—

She jerked the whole thing over her head in one swift, tearing motion and fled to the 'fresher, ripping the silver combs and the extensions out of her hair as she jumped into the shower. She scrubbed her face with a washcloth so vigorously, her skin stung when she rinsed it. She scraped her scalp with her fingernails, trying to get that noxious perfume out of her hair.

And then, when she stepped out of the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around herself, she brushed her teeth twice.

I'll never be clean I'll never be clean I'll never be clean…

All those times I've heard his voice—I meant that.

But I lied, too. I was absolutely terrified. They could have made us do anything if they'd really wanted to…

I'll never be able to look him in the eye again!

At that thought Nyota gripped the sides of the sink and burst into groaning, wracking sobs no less tortured than Christine's had been. She'd been on this ship for three years—three years of adventure and camaraderie, the occasional tragedy, the undeniable fun. Three years of fulfillment, of belonging, of earning the right to advise and gently tease and encourage all those men on the bridge, from Captain Kirk himself to young Pavel Chekov who looked up to her as an older, wiser sister.

Whatever she'd felt for her captain, she'd kept a tight lid on it. She knew she had, and she was proud of it. No one else should've had any inkling. Maybe Christine did but no one else—not Sulu, not Chekov, certainly not Mr. Spock, and definitely not Captain Kirk.

I know him like the back of my hand. I'd follow him to hell and back if he asked me to—and now…oh no, I can't leave him, don't make them make me leave him…

She cried herself out until she slumped over the sink, gasping for breath and exhausted. When she lifted her head and looked at herself in the mirror her dark eyes were red and bleary and looking bigger than ever in her clean but haggard face. She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. When the intercom buzzed, it scared her so badly that she jumped.

"Uhura—" She stopped, cleared her throat. She sounded like a sick bullfrog. "Uhura here."

"Dr. McCoy here. You doin' all right, Lieutenant?"

She leaned her head and shoulder against the wall. "I'll be all right, Doctor. I'm just tired."

"I know. And you're on sick leave for the rest of the day…you and Christine Chapel both. The captain's cleared it and you're relieved from all duties until 0900 tomorrow morning. You just take it easy, you hear?"

The quiet understanding in his usually-acerbic Georgia drawl left her squeezing her eyes shut to keep back more tears. He knew. He'd seen all of it and knew she and Christine would rather die than face anyone today…and the captain had agreed.

Thank you, Captain. Thank you.

"Thank you, Doctor," she murmured. "I appreciate it."