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) 2011 by Djinn. This story is
Rated R.
Solace
by Djinn
Spock
wakes. He is in a room, half lit by
the sunshine coming from filtered blinds.
He is in bed.
And
he is not alone.
He
takes a deep breath. He does not
remember the night before. Indeed,
he is not even sure if he is on Earth or some other similar planet. He can tell he is not on Vulcan--the air
is too robust to be his home planet.
Also, the woman--what he can see of her, anyway, with her dark hair
pushed over her face--does not appear to be Vulcan.
He
moves, and she moans. It is not a
happy sound, and he eases back enough so he can roll her over, brush the hair
off her face, and see that it is Commander Chapel he has made his bed partner.
She
is bruised. She is naked. And other than the moan, she does not
seem to be awake.
His
first thought is the Pon Farr. But he does not remember the warning
signs that lead up to the burning.
He does not feel the disorientation that days of sex can bring. And he is not, when he assesses it, sore
in any place that would be overused during sex.
He
does not think he caused her bruises, and for this, he is thankful.
"Commander." He nudges her, then
shakes her a little harder.
"Commander Chapel?"
She
moans again and seems to move away from his hand a little.
"Christine."
Nothing.
He
reaches out, fingers hovering over the bruises on her cheekbone, then settling down on the meld points as he opens himself to
her and finds nothing familiar.
Suddenly
he is shoved nearly off the bed, and Christine kicks her way out from under the
covers. "Who the hell are
you?" she yells at him, and her eyes are wild as she takes in the
room.
"I
am Spock. Who are you?" He makes no move toward her. Not only because she is clearly
frightened but also because she has grabbed a knife he did not notice and is
holding it up. She may not have her
memories, but she is holding the knife correctly if skewering someone is the
goal.
"Who
are you?" he asks again.
"What is your name?"
"You
were in bed with me. You don't know
my name?" She moves back,
seems to realize she is naked, and reaches for the sheet but then appears to
think better of it, as if he is too close.
He
pulls the sheet off the bed and tosses it to her.
"Thanks."
"You
are welcome." Then he remembers
that he too is naked and grabs the other sheet, wrapping it around
himself. "Your name is
Christine. We are
friends." That is, of course,
an exaggeration, but she will not know it.
She
leans against the wall, touching the bruises on her arm and then turning to
stare at him accusingly. "Yeah,
real good friends."
"I
did not do that to you."
"Then
who did?" She looks him
over. "You don't have any
injuries."
"No." He sits carefully on the bed, trying not
to spook her. "I do not feel
as if we have had sex. Do you?"
"How
the hell would I know? My body
hurts everywhere." She
frowns. "Well, actually, it
might not hurt, you know, there."
"You
are a doctor. You can refer to it
in medical terms."
"I'm
a doctor?"
"Not
currently practicing, but yes."
"Do
I like being a doctor?"
He
is not sure how this is relevant, but she has lowered the knife, so he nods.
"What
is your name again?"
"I
am Spock."
"And
we'reÉfriends?" She looks
down. "Naked friends?"
"We
have not beenÉnaked friends in the past."
"And
yet." She takes a deep breath
and slides down the wall till she is sitting on the floor. The bruises on her
legs stand out in stark contrast to the off white carpet. "I'm in a lot of pain."
"I
am sorry."
She
nods and sets the knife on the ground.
Close enough, he thinks, where she can reach for it again if he moves
too fast.
"I
would like to search the room for medicine. Is that all right with you?"
"This
isn't your room?"
"I
am unsure where we are. The last
thing I remember is reporting for a briefing at Starfleet Command."
"I
work for them." She
frowns. "I mean...I think I
do."
"You
do. You are in Emergency
Operations."
"Do
I like that?"
Again he questions the efficacy of the question as compared to any others she could
ask, but settles for nodding.
"It
sounds hectic. Am I good at
that?"
"You
have been there for some time so I would assume you are."
"But
you don't know?"
He
shakes his head.
She
moves her hand closer to the knife.
"You said we were friends.
If we're so close, why don't you know if I'm good at what I do?"
It
is an extremely logical question. Her memory may be gone, but her brainpower
seems as sharp as ever. "I may
have exaggerated."
The knife is in her hand and she's on her feet, amazingly fast. "Are we even friends?"
The
sheet falls away from her. She
appears not to care. She is moving
the knife back and forth from hand to hand, as he has seen some knife fighters
do.
"Christine,
when did you learn to fight?"
"I
was trained by Carahvidh."
"By
whom?"
She
frowns. "By Carahvidh. My
teacher. He isÉhe is famous."
"Famous
where?" Spock has never heard
of a warrior or sensei with this name.
She
is breathing fast, grimacing as she stares down, her eyes scanning the carpet
as if they hold her memories.
"I don't know."
She flips the knife in her hand, fingers curling around the blade just
right. She throws it, and it skims
past his ear, lodges in the wall just behind him.
"You
missed."
"I
meant to." Turning in a fluid
movement, she grabs the sheet and wraps it back around her. She stalks the room like a caged cat,
seems to be looking for the door.
Why
has he not thought to do this?
It
is an irrelevant question as quick inspection reveals there is no door. She goes to the window and rips the
shutters aside.
"What
the hell?" She backs up,
nearly colliding with him as he comes up behind her.
There
is no window there, only a lightscreen masquerading
as the outdoors.
"Is
this room even real? You may not be real," she says, but she makes no move
to get away from him, is in fact, be pushing against him slightly.
"You
have none of Christine Chapel's memories.
You are more likely to be unreal."
"Oh,
I'm real. I hurt like hell. Tell me that's not real."
He
can feel the pulse of her under his fingers, the feeling no computer program has
ever been able to replicate, even in the most advanced holograms. To a human, perhaps, the replicants feel real, but never to a touch telepath.
This
is Christine. But perhaps it is not
his Christine. Of course, it is
equally likely he is not her Spock.
"May
I meld with you, Christine?"
"You
want to have sex at a time like this?"
"I
mean a mind meld. I can, perhaps,
retrieve your memories. And find
out who planted your memories of training as a warrior." Not just memories, though. Actual skill. He does not remember Christine ever
having been so adept with a blade before.
"And
who hurt me." She narrows her
eyes, staring at the bruises on her arms.
"OrÉwait." She
turns, spins suddenly, her forearm poised to strike him. He reacts automatically, lifts his arm
to block hers. She stops before
they make contact. The bruises
match where she would have struck him.
"I've been fighting."
"So
it would seem."
She
touches his arm, runs her finger down it.
"Do you bruise?"
"I
do."
"Then
you haven't been fighting."
There is disdain in her voice.
"I
am, perhaps, a better fighter."
She
kicks his legs out from under him, has him on the ground before he can raise an
eyebrow. "I don't think
so."
She
holds out a hand to help him up, and he yanks her down, taking advantage of her
surprise to use the neck pinch. As
she crumples into his arms, he mutters, "I believe you are wrong."
He
eases her down, finding the meld points again. He is inside her mind quickly, finding memories
that seem old but are not. Memories of fellow warriors. Of campaigns. Of training and fighting until she could
barely walk.
None of it real.
UntilÉ
He
is thrown off her, his mind snapping painfully back to the here and now. She should not be awake, but she
is.
And she is far from happy with him.
They
both run for the knife. She beats
him to it, but he reaches out, pinches her neck again--or tries to. She slips back enough that his fingers
slip down her front.
A
roundhouse kick sends him into the wall behind him. Then she is on top of him, the knife in
her hand, its blade at his throat.
"Give
me one reason I shouldn't kill you?" Her hand is shaking as she holds the
knife against his skin. Her eyes
dilate as she looks at him.
"Because
you love me," he says softly, hoping it is still true. It has been years since they have spent
time together.
She
pushes the blade in a bit, and he knows she has drawn blood. She does not seem taken aback by the
fact that his is green.
He
does not move. "You love me,
Christine."
"Do
you love me?"
He
thinks to save his life he should say yes. But he shakes his head.
She
stares down at him, as if she cannot believe he would say this to her. But then her expression changes and she
begins to move, grinding gently at first, then not so easily.
He
moans. This should not feel good.
This should not be arousing.
It
is--his body, unfortunately, cannot lie.
"You
may not love me, Spock. But you
most definitely want me."
He
does not argue, just waits to see if she will kill him or not. She pushes the knife a little harder and
he meets her eyes.
Suddenly,
she rolls off him, coming up into a warrior's crouch, the knife tip gleaming a
liquid green. "What did you
find in my head?"
"You
were used. Someone gave you these
memories. Of
being a fighter. Your
injuries, the bruises--they were obtained in battle, in an arena."
"I'm
not cut."
"It
was hand to hand." He meets
her eyes, waits for her to understand.
"There were no weapons.
But it was to the death."
She
holds her hands out, squeezes the one that isn't holding the knife. As if she is strangling someone. She meets his eyes. "It is easy to kill this way. If your
opponent has a fragile neck."
"Yes."
"Did
I kill someone?"
"Yes." Ten someones, to be precise, over the last several days. But he does not think it will be useful
to elaborate.
"An
arena?" She slumps onto the
floor. "Why can't I remember
fighting?"
"I
do not know. Nor do I know why I
have not been made to fight."
"Well,
you're not very good at it."
"I
am stronger than you are. Usually much
more skilled."
She
gives him a look that says she clearly does not believe him.
"You
should sleep. Regain your
strength." For what is to
come.
"I'll
sleep when I'm dead." She
laughs, a darkly rich sound.
"And judging by the amount of bruises on me, that may be sooner
than I'd like." She
frowns. "Why can't I remember
the fight?"
"Perhaps
because I was not here? This may be
a way of resetting the game, as it were."
She
nods. "I don't like them. Whoever they are. I'm going to go out on a limb and say
they're not nice people."
"That
much is certain."
They
sit, she on her side of the room, he on his, and wait.
------------
Guards
come for them the next day. After
food has been beamed into their room.
After they have slept some and eaten more and hydrated because she says
it is important and he knows she is right.
They
are given clothes and taken to an arena, and a man with cold eyes and
greyish-brown skin tells them they must fight. Christine follows the guards to the
middle of the sand, but Spock stands and stares at the man who seems to be in
charge.
"You
consider yourself our superior without even knowing anything about us, don't
you, Spock?" The man smiles. "Oh, yes. I know who you are. You were brought specially, after
all." He looks over at
Christine. "For her. To make her fight better." He smiles, a deadly expression. "And she is so very skilled
already."
"I
will not fight."
"Oh,
you will. Eventually. There is always something to fight
for." The man leans in. "We just have to find what that is
for you. I already know what it is
for her. I've just taken everything
away so she can rediscover you.
Love is an excellent motivator, and unless I miss my guess, you've
already told her she loves you--to keep her from killing you. Vicious creature when she gets going,
isn't she?"
Spock
does not answer.
The man only smiles.
"Hard to believe she was ever a healer." He nods to the guards who drag Spock out
of the arena and up the stairs, to an unadorned chair next to the one the man
sits in. "I am the Chancellor,
Spock. Most
inconsiderate of you not to have ascertained that. Disrespectful, even."
Spock
does not answer.
"She
will pay for it." He
stands. "Christine."
She
looks up at him.
"You
like knives so much. See how well
you fare today with them."
The
guards throw daggers into the arena.
Christine takes one, and a gate at the far end of the space opens and a
man steps out. Christine backs up,
leaving room for him to claim his weapon.
Then
they fight. She is astonishingly
brutal. Her opponent seems as
surprised as Spock is.
The
Chancellor leans in. "Those
who abhor the fight make the best warriors. I have seen it before. The healer becomes the assassin. The lamb becomes the lion."
Spock
meets the man's eyes. "I will
not fight."
"So
you say. So you say." He stands up and claps as Christine
finishes off her opponent.
"Well done. Do it
again." The gate opens;
another man steps out.
He
meets the same fate as the first.
"Enough
for now, I think." The Chancellor beams at Spock. "I wanted you to understand. And her to get a taste
of first blood all over again.
I, of course remember her previous fights, but she does not. AhhhÉexhilarating."
The
guards drag Spock down to Christine, who is cut worse than he could see from
the stands.
She
meets his eyes. In hers is a wary
sort of guilt--but also a determination.
She will fight; she will win.
He
does not know this woman. He would
not have thought her capable of this.
They
are taken back to the room, beamed in--there truly is no door. She cleans up and then eats the food
they have been left as if she has not just killed two men. She catches him watching her, asks,
"Would you have rather I let them kill me?"
He
has no answer for that.
------------
There
is only the one bed, so they both lie on it. She turns, studies him, and finally
says, "Am I so abhorrent to you?"
He
looks away, stares at the ceiling.
"Would
the person I was, the Christine you know, would she have fought?"
He
is not sure. She might have
fought. But she would certainly not
have won.
Christine
gives up and turns away from him.
"Just before I went to the sands, the guards told me
something."
He
waits.
"If
I don't perform to the best of my ability, they will kill you."
"Then
choose not to kill and let me die."
"ButÉyou
said I love you." She turns
back to him. "How can I let
you die if I love you?" She
reaches out, sees him flinch and pulls back. "IÉI feel something for you."
"You
have just killed and fed. The last
thing left to do with the primitive part of your brain that you are using is
copulate. That is all you
feel."
"Oh." She looks hurt.
He
turns on his side, shutting her out, and strives to find some measure of peace
in an easy Vulcan meditation.
He
fails.
------------
Their
life turns into routine. She
fights; he watches. The Chancellor
gives him the opportunity to fight; he declines.
And
after every fight, they are sent back to their room.
And
after every fight, it gets easier to forget what he has seen her do.
One
day, she is hurt worse than usual, and he can tell she is in a great deal of
pain. The Chancellor gives them
food and water but no regenerators.
No medicine.
He
melds with her, to ease her pain, to help her heal.
He
feels her confusion as their minds join.
She is not relishing the battles as it appears. She is fighting for him, not for
herself. As he pushes her consciousness to the back of her mind, as he gives
her peace and a dreamless sleep, he holds her close and lets his lips rest on
her cheek.
In
the morning, when she wakes, she cuddles into him for a moment. He lets his arms slip around her even
though he knows they are playing into the Chancellor's hands.
"I'm
sorry, Spock," she whispers, and her voice is broken. "I know you disapprove of me."
"It
is wrong to kill, Christine."
"I
know. But it would be more wrong to
let you die."
"I
am not sure that is true."
She
slides across him, agile and strong, and she kisses him once she is straddling
him. She eases down and down and
then he is inside her. They sleep
naked now--they have no clothes other than the ones they wear during the day so
there is no logic in hiding their bodies.
She
looks down at him, some darkly sad emotion shining from her eyes. "Is this
all right?"
He
nods and moves inside her, harder than he might if he weren't so disappointed
in her--and in himself.
They
come loudly. He imagines the
Chancellor is enjoying the show.
------------
They
are wrapped around each other.
Christine is hurt worse than before, but she wanted to make love and he
indulged her.
"They
will make me fight," he says, and she holds him close. "I ask myself what Jim would have
done."
He
has told her of their captain. Of
his bravery and his love and his death.
Of what he meant to Spock. Of how little Spock cared about anything
after he was gone.
She
listens, and her eyes shine with the compassion he remembers from sickbay. She likes to hear the stories of James T.
Kirk, even if she has no memory of him.
"He
would not give up." She has
absorbed the stories well. "He
didn't believe in the no-win scenario."
He
nods. "He was also not a
killer."
"He
was, though. He would fight. He would kill. Just notÉevery day. When it mattered, though. You've told me of times when he
did."
And
he probably has told her. In some
desperate attempt to make what is happening--what the woman he has fallen in
love with is doing--all right. Or at least tolerable.
It
should never be tolerable to kill.
She
pulls him on top of her, and he realizes she is crying. He has not seen her cry here. Not even when truly hurt.
"Christine?"
He stops moving.
"I
can stop this. I can do something
about this, Spock." She
touches his face, then moves under him, making him
moan and thrust into her harder.
"Tell me it's too much and I'll not fight well."
At
his look, she shakes her head.
"No, Spock, I can do that for you. I can let them kill me. And then you'd be free. You won't ever have to watch me kill and
then have to live with it."
He
stops moving, touches her cheek, memorizing the contours. "I am in love with you."
"I
know."
"I
do not want you to die." He
kisses her deeply, knowing he has made a choice he does not fully understand.
"I
love you, Spock," she says as he moves inside her again, as he finishes
them both off. "And I'm
sorry."
------------
"This
time, you will fight." The
Chancellor looks at Spock and his eyes are implacable. He has the look of those who have no
honor. Spock has spent too much
time with the Klingons, and with this new Christine, to not see how cunning and
wrong this man is.
"I
will not. I have told you."
"And
because your mate wins you think she will always win? Don't you realize we let her quit before
she can lose? Don't you realize we
stack the deck in her favor?"
The man laughs and it is not a pleasant sound. "Swords this time,
guard."
The
guard throws swords onto the sand.
Christine hurries to pick one up and backs away as her opponent grabs
his.
"She
is tired from yesterday, Spock. How
long can she keep on before she drops her guard?"
"You
are the ones who gave her the memories of being a warrior, who imbued her with
these killing skills. Surely you
know her limits."
"We
don't. That's what makes it
interesting, Spock. We never
know. We take the ones we find and
give them what they need to make them fight. And then we see. We watch."
"And
you enjoy it."
"Well,
of course. What would be the point
if we didn't?" He turns to the
arena. "Fight!"
Christine
and her opponent come together, swords clanging, dust rising from their
footwork as they hack at each other.
"Very
little grace in this. Brute strength, really.
She is quite remarkable, don't you agree, Spock?"
"She
is an excellent fighter."
"Oh,
and you have no envy for her ability to fight with no shame? Her ability to lose
herself in the battle--in the bloodlust? You would never be like that, would
you? Even if you did fight."
"I
would never be like that. I would
never give in to you."
"Well,
then I'll have to enjoy watching her."
Christine
finishes off her opponent. Two more
take his place. She kills them
both, but more slowly and with more effort.
She
is breathing hard when the next three come in. She looks up at Spock, and there is
panic in her eyes for a moment. Panic and exhaustion.
Then she turns back to the sand and the dust and the heavy steel of her
blade.
They
die eventually. She is hurt,
though. Bleeding
and limping.
Four
more come in and she seems to hesitate, then goes to meet them. They do not die easily.
"She
is truly breathtaking, Spock. I can
only imagine, if we can turn a human into such a killing machine, what a Vulcan
would be."
Spock
sits silently, watching her as she takes the water finally offered to her by a
guard, as she glances up at him as if afraid he is no longer watching.
Does
she think he could look away?
"Your
ideals are strong, Spock. It is a
shame they will end up killing her."
The
gate opens one more time and five fresh warriors stride into the arena.
Christine
looks over at him. Smiles, a game
smile, the human smile that Jim taught him means "I understand" or
"it's okay." She lifts
her sword and her arm trembles, but she straightens her shoulders and takes a
step toward the five.
Spock
stands.
"What
are you doing, Spock?" His father's voice.
Why does this man suddenly sound so much like Sarek?
Christine
turns as if she can feel his movement across the sands. "Spock, I've got this." Her voice is thick and he imagines the
Christine he knew, striding across sickbay the way this one walks the arena to
meet her death.
He
takes a step, then another. Down the stairs, to the guard at the gate. The man asks, "Are you sure?" He sounds like Jim. The eyes staring out at him aren't hazel,
though. They are a flat gray.
"I
have to. I am sure." Spock takes a sword from the man and
strides onto the sand.
Christine
turns and waits for him. The five
warriors stop as if giving him the courtesy of joining his teammate.
His crewmate, once.
His mate, now.
"We're
going to die," she says to him with a smile that belies the words.
"Then
we will die together."
"Okay,
then." She takes a deep breath
and raises her sword.
He
does the same and--
------------
Spock
wakes. He is in a room, half lit by
the sunshine coming from filtered blinds.
He is in bed, monitors blinking and pinging softly. Christine lies on the bed next to him, a
bracelet on her wrist blinking in time with one on his.
She
opens her eyes. "I guess we
didn't die." She smiles and
touches his cheek for a moment; her touch feels sweet to him. "Can you move?"
He
tries, finds it difficult but manages.
He can tell she is sore, too.
How long have they been in this bed? And what is this? Another game?
"You're
back, Spock. Relax." She takes off the bracelet on her wrist
and some of the pinging stops--and a resonance he didn't realize was between
them fades--then she undoes his as well, and he once
again feels right in his mind. He
moans before he can stop himself. In relief. And
in--
"What
do you remember?"
"You."
She
smiles. "Can you be more
specific? This is groundbreaking
therapy I just used on you. I'm
going to need something for the report."
"You
were a warrior. You fought in the
arena and I would not. I--"
Memories
flood him. Sand,
covered in blood--red, green, the fuchsia of Klingons. He is standing, a blade drooping as the
last man he fought dies in the sand in front of him.
There
is no Christine. He is not fighting
to save her. He is alone in the
arena. Alone with the men he has
killed.
"Steady." Her touch on his arm is the only thing
holding him in the room. "They
gave you drugs. They made you do
it."
"I
killed."
"Yes. You did." She pushes down gently, her touch on his
skin grounding him. "It wasn't
your fault."
"IÉI
could have--"
"You
could have done nothing. I checked
the levels in your blood when we found you. Even days later, you were still under
the control of the chemicals they gave you. You had no choice." She leans in, her lips settling near his
ear. "You went away. It was too much and your mindÉyou
sent it away. When we found you in
that place, there was nothing left of you. We didn't know what had happened. But then I saw the vids. I know what they made you do."
"But
it was you who was made to fightÉ" Memories conflicting, hitting up against
each other. Her in the arena--then him. Which of them was it? "I remember both. HowÉ?"
"The
bracelets. They're new--they linked
us. Your father set up the meld and
the bracelets made it endure."
She moves closer, then frowns.
"Is this all right?"
"We
are lovers." He says it and
then wonders if it is true. By her
expression, he can see it is not. And
the memories are overlapping, the real ones taking over.
"We
are not." She kisses him, and
he kisses her back and does not debate the illogic of the activity in the face
of her statement. They are not
lovers, but kissing her feels utterly natural. "I couldn't lose you," she
murmurs. "It was selfish of
me, I suppose. But
with Jim gone, and Scotty. I
couldn't lose you, too. Even if you
were never mine."
He
pulls her down to him, kisses her instead of telling her he wishes she'd let
him go. But he thinks she can feel
it in his touch and she pulls away.
"Your
father is waiting, Spock."
"Has
he seen the vids?"
"No. But he knows. The basics. I had to tell him something to get him
to help."
"Of
course." He swallows, sees her
frown. "He will not
approve."
"He
will not care, Spock. Like me, he
only wanted you back." She
touches him, but not like a lover. Like a doctor. Like a fellow officer.
Then she slips out of bed, and looks down on him with a fierceness he
has never seen. For a moment, she
is the warrior he thought he was saving.
His
champion. Whether he wanted one or not.
He
should thank her for saving him. He
does not.
------------
Spock
sits outside Emergency Operations, waiting for Christine to get off shift. She is not expecting him. He has not seen her since she brought
him back.
She
was right when she said Sarek would not censure him. Spock wonders how it is this woman he
barely knows except in a world that never existed seems to understand his
father so much better than he does.
"We
will speak no more of guilt, Spock," Sarek said. "You were not acting of your own
will. Christine has explained it to
me."
Christine. His father calls her Christine so
easily.
"A
fine woman of good character," Sarek said of her. His eyes gleamed with approval.
"Spock?" Christine's voice carries to him from
the doorway. She sounds surprised. Also wary.
He
looks up. She is in uniform. Her hair is regulation. She looks like the perfect officer,
nothing like the woman who stood covered in blood in the arena sands.
He
loved that woman. But did he love
her as he once loved Zarabeth and Leila? In a way that only an altered state
could make possible?
She
walks over and sits next to him.
"I didn't expect to see you."
"I
owe you gratitude."
She
smiles. "That's an interesting
way to not say thank you." She
leans back and sighs. "You
don't owe me anything. I told you. What I did was selfish."
"I
know it was only in my mind, but I have this vision of you, in the arena,
looking back at me. As if whatever
I chose was all right with you."
She
looks down.
"You
came to save me. But you would have
let me go, wouldn't you?"
She
nods. "You were hurting. I
could feel that every time we made love.
I didn't want to force you back if returning destroyed you." She turns to look at him. "I was already in love with you,
but I didn't know you. I set out to
save a man I barely knew. But the you that I got to know, in there--in your mind--it was
more than I expected. OnlyÉthat
wasn't real either, was it?"
"It
was not."
She
nods and looks down. "I miss
you anyway. Even if it wasn't
real."
He
does not look at her as he says, "I miss you, too."
They
sit quietly, and she leans back and closes her eyes and seems to be trying to
breathe more deeply, to calm herself down.
"I
will never be free of what I did."
"No,
Spock. You never will. But you do know you didn't choose it,
right?"
"I
do know that. My fatherÉmy father
was quite helpful."
"He's
a hell of a man." She smiles
gently. "Just give it
time. The memoriesÉthey'll
fade. It wasn't you. Not the real you."
"No,
not the real me." He sits
thinking, then as he hears her start to get up, he
murmurs, "Making love to you was not real."
She
settles back down. "I
know."
"Despite
that, I find I miss it." He turns to watch her expression change, to grow
to the slow, sensual look that has not changed from warrior to officer. "Do you, perhaps, miss it as
well?"
"I
do." She is smiling a little now
and cocks her head to study him as she waits.
"Would
you like to explore this idea more fully?"
"Are
you seducing me?" She pitches
her voice low, only for him.
"With
little skill, no doubt. But
yes."
She
meets his eyes and hers are intense, but then they lighten and she grins. "Don't sell yourself short, mister. And yes, I'd love to explore this more fully." She stands. "Your place or
mine?"
"The
walls in the VOQ are very thin."
"My
place, then." She waits for
him to stand then says, "Little human male trick. Always go to the woman's place. That way you can flee in the
morning."
"Ah. Logical." He gestures for her to lead the
way. "And if I do not wish to
flee?"
"That
works, too, then." She is
walking quite fast and his mouth ticks up just a little. She sees his almost-smile and laughs,
the sound light and happy. He is
not sure she has ever laughed this way with him before.
She
does not live far and he follows her up the stairwell to the second floor and
down the hall. She palms the door
open and lets him go in first, then locks it behind them.
They
stand, awkwardly, in the hall and look at each other.
"So. You're the diplomat, Spock. Now what?"
He
moves toward her, aware that he has never held her in reality the way he held
her in his mind, but letting that memory guide him. She flows to him, wrapping her arms
around his neck as if they have been intimate for years.
"You
were that woman, that Christine."
She
nods. "But I'm not that woman,
Spock. Not now. I'm just me."
"That
is acceptable." He kisses her,
and she opens her mouth to him the same way she did when she was his
warrior. She grinds against him in
a similar, if less ferocious, fashion.
He pushes her against the wall, struggles with her uniform, until she finally
says, "Let me," and pushes off her pants and then his. He hikes her up and she is on him,
riding him, and he groans at the feeling.
So familiar and utterly new.
He
can feel how aroused she is and moves faster, until she is coming and he can ride
the explosion as they kiss, as she cries out. He follows her, his body tensing and
then releasing in a glorious spasm that leaves him crushing her against the
wall.
She
laughs softly as she kisses his neck and murmurs, "I have really, really
missed that."
He
pulls away, gives her a true smile--albeit still a Vulcan one--and says,
"I could not put this from my mind."
"Well,
no. It's goddamned wonderful,
Spock." She kisses him again
and says, "Put me down. I
can't breathe." Once he lets
her down, she strips off the rest of his clothes and leads him into the
bedroom.
Then
she stops and glances back at him, her look full of gentle mischief. "Unless you want to flee?"
"I
think not, Christine." His
voice is the very model of Vulcan indignity, and she laughs and pulls him after
her until they fall on the bed and touch again, trying everything for real that
they did in his mind.
They
get very little sleep. In the
morning, he wakes to find her nestled against him, her back to his chest. He is holding her tightly and she moans
softly in her sleep.
He
kisses her awake and she pulls him to her, into her. It feels right. Even if it is new, it feels completely
natural to be with her.
He
tells her that as she makes them breakfast. She is cutting grapefruit and smiles in
a strange way when he says that she will always be his warrior.
"There
may be some things you don't know about me. I've picked up a few new skills since I
came to Ops."
"Such
as?"
Her
knife slices the air just beside his ear, goes into the wall behind him, and
vibrates from the force of the throw.
He
can feel his eyebrow rising.
"You missed."
She
smiles, a mischievously sensual expression. "I meant to."
FIN