DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are
the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2004 by Djinn. This
story is Rated R.
Drowning in Shadows
by Djinn
She lies against the crook of
Spock's arm, staring at the ceiling of his quarters as he watches her. She is intimately familiar with this room and
this bed, has come to understand the needs of the man who lies on top of the
covers holding her in his arms. Since
the Pon Farr brought their bodies crashing together,
she has learned the small marks on his skin by memory--moles and freckles and
greenish-dark raised scars from some childhood mishap or other. He has not told her how he came to have so
many scars, and she has not asked. They
do not talk much. This room is for other
things.
She can tell by the way he
kisses her what kind of sex he will want.
Gentle and tender or fierce and mindblowing--literally,
he has become an expert on enhancing their pleasure with the meld. There are times when he says her name, and
the whispered, "Christine" echoes in their minds through the silky
channels of the meld. She thinks at
those times that perhaps he loves her.
She doesn't know for sure that
he doesn't.
And there isn't time in the nights
that pass so quickly to ask. Or perhaps
it is just that she lacks the courage.
There are times she almost resolves to ask, only to have the alarm go
off and start the day, signaling that it is time for him to go his way and for
her to head to sickbay. They do not come
together again until the clock has wound down on their hours on duty.
Until the
clock has more than wound down. She comes to him after dinner, after whatever
recreation he or she wishes to take. The
few times she has had dinner with him have been in the shelter of his
quarters. In the
prison of his quarters.
She has never sat with Spock in
the mess at breakfast, never watched as he plays chess with Kirk. She has never walked through the darkened
observation lounge with him, never shared a shore leave with him under a
strange sun.
He has told her she is
his. And she is. She is just not sure what she is. His lover? His slut? His convenience?
And while it may be true that
she is his, he has never been hers.
She does not think he ever
will be.
"You are upset," he
says softly.
She shakes her head. But if she were to look away from the
ceiling, she would cry.
He sighs. It is a sound she did not think he ever
made. But she has heard him sigh. She seems to bring it out of him.
But then how would she know
if he sighs normally or not? She does
not know him normally, just in this extraordinarily intimate fashion. Intimacy without access. She can touch him, but she cannot know him.
She turns on her side, away
from him. He moves closer, his body warm
against her. His hand moves down her
side, his touch gentle. Even loving. He moves
her hair away from her neck, touches his lips to her back, moving up to her
neck.
She shivers. He can move her. He can move her more than any man she has
ever known.
She wishes she could move
him.
Or that they could just move
from this room. Even out into the
corridor. She would accept even
that. To stand in
front of his door talking. Not to
be held captive inside this hot, breathless room.
"Christine?"
She closes her eyes. She is broadcasting her distress to him
again. It is happening with more
frequency. They can read each other
without him actively holding the meld in place.
It should make her happy.
It should thrill her.
It should be enough.
He sighs again. She pretends to sleep. He does not call her on the lie.
-----------------------
Spock watches Christine as
she takes another reading of the vegetation.
She does not have to do that; there are others in the landing party who
are capable. She has moved away from the
main group. She glances over at him, her
face a neutral mask. It occurs to him
that she is learning that from him. Will
she end up more Vulcan than he is?
She looks away. No one but he can feel how miserable she
is. How angry she is.
She was not supposed to have
been on the landing party. Spock did not
ask for her. McCoy was his first choice,
but he was unwilling to leave a sick patient.
He sent his deputy. He sent
Christine.
Jim sighs. "Something's damned odd here." He looks over at Christine. "Better call her back. She's too exposed."
There is no danger here. Or so their tricorders
tell them. But Jim has been anxious
since they beamed down, and Spock has learned to trust his friend's
instincts.
He turns to Christine, almost
calls her by that name before realizing his mistake. "Doctor. Please rejoin the group."
She shoots him a look that is
not friendly. But she begins to move back
to their position. She does not see the
creature behind her, does not see it strike, moving at a deadly speed toward
her like some bizarre hybrid of a snake and a tiger. Its striped body flashes once and she cries
out. Its fangs are buried in her, wicked
claws reaching out. Spock sees blood
well down her sides, as the beast grabs hold.
She screams in pain.
Jim's phaser blasts past Spock. Two other beams catch the beast as the
security officers fire too. It screams, letting go of Christine and rushing
toward them. It falls before it reaches
them, dying as it hits the ground, convulsing in a dizzying pattern of yellow
and black.
Beyond it, Christine is
trying to rise, manages to push herself to her feet and sways dangerously. She looks at him, pain and fear so clearly
written that he aches for her. He thinks
she will reach out for him, and he is already moving toward her. But then she seems to force her eyes away from
him, looking at the others.
Jim is the first to reach
her. He catches her as she begins to
convulse like the beast that savaged her.
"Poison," she
says.
As Jim calls for emergency
beam out, she looks over at Spock. There
is fear, and pain, and naked longing in her face. Then there is nothing as she passes out.
He wants to take her from
Jim, but the transporter is ready, and his friend does not know that Spock
should be the one to hold her, to help her.
He has never told his best
friend that Christine is his.
Why has he never told his
best friend that?
Jim gives Christine over to
the emergency medical team that runs into the transporter room. He looks back at Spock, his face set in an
odd expression. It seems almost
like...distaste.
"I will make sure she is
all right," Spock says, unwilling to be subjected any longer than is
necessary to his friend's strangely hostile look.
Jim nods, turns and heads to
the bridge. Spock watches him, then follows the med techs to sickbay.
McCoy looks up at him as he
comes in. Christine is convulsing
again. Spock feels apprehension rise
like bile in his gorge, making it difficult to swallow, to breathe.
She cannot die. She is his.
He...enjoys her.
He realizes she is awake, is
looking at him. Her eyes lock with his
as McCoy works on her. She does not look
away from him, not when McCoy fills her with something from a hypo, not when
the nurses put her in stasis restraints to control the convulsions. She looks at him until the life seems to fade
from her face, and she falls into an exhausted sleep.
She looks at him but never
says a word.
McCoy turns to look at
him. "She's not contagious,
Spock. You can come into the room."
Spock realizes with a shock
that he is still standing in the entrance to sickbay, hands
clutching the doorframe as the door bumps gently against his hip, trying
to close. He moves slowly to her side, hears
the door ease shut behind him.
He watches her as she
sleeps. "Will she be all
right?"
"Yes." McCoy begins to work on the long gashes. "Nothing vital hit. But she's going to be sore. She'll need time to heal. She'll need to take it easy."
Spock does not answer, just
watches her.
McCoy waits until the nurse
leaves the room, then he turns and says in a low
voice. "Just to make myself clear,
she will need rest. No strenuous
activity."
Spock forces himself not to
react. Has Christine told McCoy? Would
she do that?
McCoy is looking at him with
the same expression that Spock saw earlier on Jim's face. He finally recognizes it for what it is.
Disapproval. His friends
disapprove.
He pushes past McCoy, touches
Christine on the cheek, his finger resting lightly on the psi point. It is all that is necessary between them now,
just the barest of touches and he is in her mind and he can feel her, strong and
alive, but tired. Tired
and hurt and afraid. The fear
lingers even as she sleeps. He pulls his
hand away, lets her rest.
McCoy's jaw is set, a tight
line that is made more foreboding by the silence that accompanies it. McCoy always has something to say, some goad
to apply, something caustic or flip to share.
But now he is silent. Just stares
angrily at Spock.
Spock feels an unaccustomed
anger fill him. How dare this man judge
him? "This is a private matter,
Doctor," he finally says.
"Private? Our quarters share a wall, Spock. And it's a thin one." McCoy's smile is bitter and sharp. It would cut Spock to the bone if the
doctor's words weren't already making him look away in sudden embarrassment.
Spock waits for McCoy to
leave, but the doctor settles into the chair next to Christine's bed. He shows no sign of moving, his face set in a
stubborn line.
Spock turns and leaves. He must get to the bridge. Work. Work will calm this fierce anger he
feels.
But when he gets there, Jim
spends the shift glancing back at him.
He finally gets up, walks back.
"She's all right?"
Spock nods tightly.
"Your equanimity is
astounding, Spock."
"Jim, I--"
"--Truly
astounding." Jim leans down, his breath warm on Spock's
ear. Warm and
dangerous. "Do you even care
that she was hurt?" Then he
straightens up, his expression unreadable.
"I'll be in sickbay."
Spock sits at his station,
fingers hovering over the panel. He is
unsure what to do, how to occupy himself. He sets his fingers down on his legs,
drumming a pattern that he suddenly realizes would be a perfect twin to
Christine's heartbeat as it sounds when she sleeps in his arms.
Every night she sleeps in his
arms. Every night.
She is his. Is that wrong?
Is it wrong that they touch
and share their bodies?
Is it wrong that he can bring
her pleasure?
She is not quiet when he
brings her pleasure...and the walls are thin.
She broadcasts her pleasure
loudly. But her misery has been
silent. How is it that his friends seem
to have heard it long before he did?
-----------------------
She wakes and is conscious of
fire in her veins. Her sides hurt when
she breathes, and she can't feel her limbs.
She hears a murmur of voices,
then soft hands fiddling with something near her arms and legs. There is a familiar whine, and she realizes
she has been in stasis restraints. Her
mind accepts that, remembers convulsions--dangerously strong ones. They did right.
She hears McCoy talking to
her and opens her eyes. Everything is
blurry and a nurse puts drops in her eyes and her vision clears.
"Rest," McCoy says,
shooting her with another hypo. Something to reduce the fire inside her, no doubt.
"Thirsty," she
says.
An ice stick is held close
and she sucks on it greedily, taking as much liquid as they will allow. She is always thirsty these days. When she is with Spock in his quarters, she
is always thirsty. It is hot in that room, hot like the venom that is raging a fiery path through
her body.
She does not need to look to
know that Spock is not with her. Not
sitting by her bed in anxious vigil.
But then she hears Spock's
voice from the doorway, sees McCoy's face freeze, his hand tightens on her arm
almost convulsively. She can feel her
face redden. How does he know? She has told no one.
"I sensed she was
awake," Spock says, as if daring McCoy to contradict him.
"Bully for you,"
McCoy says.
"Len," she says,
her voice making a gravelly mess of his name.
"Please."
McCoy just shakes his head,
but he leaves them alone.
Spock moves to her bed. "You did not think I would be
here."
"You weren't here. You just got here."
He frowns, but he does not correct
her. He stands by the bed, touches her
hand--a fleeting glance of a touch. As if he cannot resist the touch, but considers it ill conceived.
She wonders if that is what
he thinks of them. Irresistible but ill
conceived?
She tries to turn away from
him, but it hurts too much. So she
closes her eyes. She can't see him. And he can't see how much she wants from him.
And she won't have to watch
how uncomfortable that will make him.
She has learned to shield,
better than he probably even realizes.
But she is hurt, and the pain is keeping her emotions near the
surface. She wants him, and he'll never
be hers.
It doesn't matter that she is
his. It never has mattered.
She was a fool to think that
things would change.
She opens her eyes, blinks
the dryness away. He is staring down at
her, his face the same blank mask that so often troubles her.
"I can't do this
anymore." Her voice is barely more
than a whisper, but she knows he can hear her.
He always hears her.
He frowns.
"Us. I mean. Us."
He blinks then. Her words are a surprise.
Finally, he says, "You
are mine."
She shrugs.
He looks away. "It will be difficult to stay
away." He seems suddenly
complacent. As if he knows she will not
be able to keep her distance from him, so he does not have to take her words
seriously.
He is right. She will not be able to stay away from
him...not on this ship.
"The Exeter's CMO was
called away for a family emergency. Starfleet
Medical asked if I'd fill in. I wasn't
going to, but now..." She can't
bring herself to look at him. "It's
only a temporary assignment. But it will
give us time. To get
used to sleeping apart."
Being apart at any other time
will require no such adjustment.
He stares at her. He did not expect her to leave? There is a sudden look in his eyes that she
cannot bear. As if he is a small boy
being abandoned. Will he ask her not to
go? Will he try to convince her to stay?
"How long will you be
gone?" he asks.
"A few
weeks. Maybe a month."
"But you are hurt."
She feels her face twist
painfully, into an expression that she doubts could ever be called a
smile. "Were you planning on taking
care of me?"
He nods.
She laughs then. It is a laugh made of pain and
disappointment. "Go away, Spock. I can take care of myself."
McCoy comes out of his
office, stares at them. "Don't tire
her out, Spock."
Spock's face tightens into an
unreadable mask again, then he turns and leaves.
She closes her eyes. She has done it. She has broken free.
Why does she feel even more
miserable than before? And why can she
feel Spock's pain too? She just wishes
she knew what exactly has hurt him.
She is fairly certain it
isn't her.
-------------------------------
Spock studies the
chessboard. Jim sits across from him,
smiling. He is winning. Again.
Spock finds it difficult to
focus on the board. Christine has been
gone for two weeks. She has not
contacted him. She is light years away.
Yet he can feel her. He is aware of her. She is sad.
She is lonely.
And she is not alone.
His hand hovers over the
queen. Finally he moves her, a safe
move, his usual style--to protect the king. He will sacrifice the queen if he has to...to
protect his king.
He wonders if Christine plays
chess. He has never asked her. She has never said one way or the other.
There are so many things he
does not know about her.
Spock wonders if the man she
is with knows more.
"You seem
distracted," Jim says quietly as he moves his knight.
His friend no longer glares
at him, no longer rebukes him for his lack of concern. Jim has let go of his role of Christine's
defender. But Spock imagines that he is
glad she is off the ship. For everyone's sake.
"Do you miss her?" Jim
asks.
The question is
unexpected. Spock looks up, meets Jim's
eyes. Bright, quick
eyes that see everything. Why did
he think he could keep the truth from him?
He does not answer, pretends
to study the board. Finally, he looks
up, sees that Jim's eyes are still on him.
Spock nods.
Jim sighs. "It may not be the best thing. You and she..."
Spock nods. His friend is wise. It is not the best thing. But that does not keep Spock from wanting her
back in his bed. From
lying awake at the end of his shift, staring at the ceiling that used to so
fascinate her.
He knows she is making love
with another man. He does not know how
he knows, but the knowledge is katra deep.
She is his and she is with someone else.
It is elemental.
"Do you love her?"
Jim asks. At Spock's look, he shakes his head. "Forget I asked that."
He would like to forget. Does he love Christine? He is not sure. He is not sure if what calls to him is
anything close to love.
He only knows that he wants
her. That he wants her back.
He studies the board. The queen is in danger. He moves her back, to where she was, next to
the king.
She is no safer there.
Jim frowns. "Not a very smart move."
A rush of stubbornness comes
over him and he lifts his fingers. The
play is done, he has moved her stupidly.
Jim has called it.
He has put her back where she
started.
"What does love feel
like?" It takes him a moment to
realize what he has asked.
Jim is staring at him. "Spock?"
"The question is not
difficult to comprehend. What is your
answer?"
Jim shrugs. "Love feels...good. It makes you feel more secure, happy and
light." He smiles. "It's hard to explain."
Spock shakes his head. What he feels for Christine does none of
those things. But then he is a Vulcan. Why should love--if that is what he feels for
Christine--make him feel any of that?
Why should any strong emotion make him anything but wary?
"If you don't love
her," Jim says quietly, "you should let her go." He glances up at Spock. "She's a good woman."
Spock nods. He knows all this. She was willing to sacrifice herself so that
he might live. He is aware that she is
good, that she deserves better.
That does not mean he wants
to let her go.
He thinks about the sense he
has that she is moving on. Maybe she
will elect to stay on the Exeter with her new lover and never come back to the
Enterprise. Perhaps he will have no
choice but to give her up...to let her go.
Perhaps that will be best.
--------------------------
Christine can feel the
difference in the air as soon as she beams back to the Enterprise. Her past is written in the bulkheads, the
corridors, sickbay, her old quarters, her new ones.
And
Spock's.
They asked her to stay on the
Exeter. She almost did.
Why didn't she? She wants to turn around and climb back on
the pad. Tell the tech to send her back
to the nice safe ship that is probably already speeding away.
She is back. By her own choice, she is back.
And there is only one
reason. She picks up her bag, walks to
the door.
It opens before she can get
there. Spock stares at her from the
corridor.
"I'm back."
"I know."
They stare at each other like
ancient enemies. Eyes
wary. He takes her bag, walks her
to her quarters. She is surprised at the
gesture.
She thanks him at her door,
but he gently pushes her inside. She
takes the bag from him, busies herself with putting her things away. He watches her from near the door, does not try
to touch her. Says
nothing.
"You're making me
nervous." She turns to look at
him.
He is staring at her. His eyes intense. She knows that look.
He wants her.
And every cell in her body
wants him back.
She turns away. She is about to ask him to leave when he
says, "You were with another man."
It is not a question; he is
not asking her to say he's wrong or right.
He knows.
She nods, does not look at
him.
She can hear him moving
toward her. His hands on her arms are
rough. He pulls her to him, her back
coming up hard against his chest. He begins
to touch her.
She moans.
"Was he good?"
She nods. He was good, her young officer. Good and nothing at all that she wanted.
"Yet you came
back."
She knows they can both hear
the unsaid "to me."
"Yes."
He stops moving; his hands
are warm where they rest on her arm, on her waist.
She does not move, closes her eyes against the tears that are
threatening. She does not want to love
him. She wishes she could have loved
that other man. Wishes he could have
touched her in some way that mattered.
"You are mine."
She sighs. The words are truth. She turns in his arms, stares up at him.
He touches her face, his
fingers settling over the meld points.
She lets him in, does not hide anything from him.
His hand tightens on her as
he finds the memories, relives with her the way the man touched her, what she
felt. What she didn't feel.
She realizes he is
trembling. His eyes are open and he is
watching her, a strange look on his face.
"Do you still love
me?" he asks.
She might lie, but he is
inside her mind. He can see the truth
for himself. He just wants to hear her
say it.
She doesn't give him that; he
has to settle for a nod. It seems to be
sufficient, for his mouth turns up slightly.
She sighs, and his smile
fades.
Reaching up, she touches his
face gently. "This
relationship...it is what it is."
She smiles at him, a sad smile she thinks.
He pulls her closer. His lips are extraordinarily gentle on
hers. Tender. Sweet.
Loving.
"It is what it is,"
he says, as he brushes her hair back from her face. "But it is not what it was."
She shakes her head
slightly. She does not understand.
"I have missed
you." His fingers tighten on her
face.
She gasps in pain. He is going deep, too deep.
Then he stops. And opens to her. For the first time, he is exposed, and she
tastes his pain when he felt her with her new lover. He shows her that he was lonely without her.
That he had ample time to
reflect on how things were between them.
To regret how things were between them.
To want to fix the things that were between them.
"I love you," he
whispers, mind to mind.
She forgets how to breathe
until he says it again. And again.
She sees that he was
frightened for her when she was injured.
That he did care.
She was never sure.
"Of course I was
affected. You might have been
killed." He is pushing her down on the
bed, and she realizes that he has removed her clothes and his own.
He leaves them at this
strange, deep level of meld as he moves into her. It is more intense than she remembers--so
good, so unbelievably good. No man can touch her now. Not without leaving her hungrier for Spock.
She feels his satisfaction at
her thought. He moves hard and fast and
she holds him and cries out as he pushes the meld deeper and deeper. She begins to lose consciousness and he pulls
back a bit, just enough to keep her safe.
"I love you," he
says again, this time in words.
She murmurs the words back,
can barely think for the sensations that are bombarding her. The sensations...and the
emotion. His
emotion. Love. He loves her.
He missed her.
She begins to cry. Weeks of trying to forget him seem to
disappear, and there is nothing but Spock and her and their bodies touching and
moving and merging.
He kisses her tears away,
rolls and lets her ride him. He watches
her as she moves, finally taking his hand off her face. The meld pulses between them like a living
thing. She can feel it beating; it has
its own heart, its own soul. It is more
than them.
He pulls her down to kiss
him. Their lips and tongues move
desperately, his hands are frantic, as if he must touch her everywhere or
die.
He rolls her, covers her with
his body. "I love you," he
says as he pounds her.
She cries out, unsure if she
has used her voice or her mind. She
hears his harsh cry echo in her mind as he comes, pulling her closer, his body pushing at her like he will disappear inside her if
she lets him.
He kisses her, stares at
her. It's as if he is seeing her for the
first time, as if he is memorizing her face.
She is uncomfortable, afraid
that she will do something that will end this closeness. She looks away.
He gently pulls her back so
she is looking at him. He smiles, and the
miniscule upturn of his lips is such a strange thing. She reaches out, touches the sides of his
mouth, the tiny curve of his smile.
"I wanted to forget you,"
she says.
"I know."
She does not realize she is
crying until he brushes her tears away.
"I am sorry that I hurt
you." His voice is so tender it
makes her cry harder.
She buries her head against
him, does not want to think about how he will hurt her again. And again.
It is wonderful now. But morning will come. And nothing will change.
She tries to pull away from
him, but he holds her.
"Let me go, Spock."
He smiles again, and she
believes that she could fall in love with just that tiny lift of his lips.
He kisses her, his mouth lazy
on hers, not pressing her so much as just touching, just connecting. Light--the kisses are light. And happy.
She laughs. Such whimsy. It is why she is so easy to hurt.
Yet as he kisses her she
doesn't feel as if she is in danger. She
feels safe. She feels good.
He pulls away from her enough
to ask, "Would you like to have breakfast together in the morning?"
She stares at him.
"Should I restate the
question?"
She laughs. The sound is odd, hangs between them. She does not laugh very often with him.
She would like to laugh with
him. And she would love to have
breakfast with him.
She tells him so.
"We will have to wake up
earlier then; the mess is crowded in the morning," he says. Then he reaches over and calmly sets her
alarm.
She laughs again and he pulls
her to him, kissing her fiercely. She is
lost, lost in his touch and his kiss. In
the meld, which he deepens after each act of pleasure. She is drowning, feels as if she will split
apart and be consumed in the connection between them--the love.
It does not sound like a bad
way to go.
FIN