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) 2006 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.

They All Fall Down

by Djinn

Spock saw Nurse Roberts at the far end of the corridor. Her back was to him, so he eased out of his room and down the hall, trying not to let the rubber tip of his cane fall too heavily as he limped his way to the exit. His leg pinged with each step, reminding him of how seriously injured he'd been when they'd brought him to this convalescent center. He frowned as he took a bad step, could feel the new skin on his cheek protesting a little at the expression. He looked down, saw the shininess of the skin on the hand that held the cane.

The Moroshan rebels had shot him several times and left him to die in the burning wreckage of the outpost he'd been visiting. His government contacts had warned him that following the rebel's negotiator, who had stormed out of the negotiations, was too dangerous; Spock hadn't listened.

Or maybe he just hadn't cared.

He knew he'd been taking an increasing number of chances on his diplomatic missions. He knew why, too. But knowing why hadn't made it any easier to stop.

He got to the door, and it swooshed open, warm, pine-scented air rushing in. He was out of breath after just that short walk, could feel the sweat beading up on his temple. He could not remember the last time he'd been this weak.

Moving out of the doorway, he saw a bench in the sun about twenty paces ahead. A week ago, he could have covered the distance in moments. Now, he measured every painful step in ragged breaths and force of will.

He was not supposed to be out of bed. He was not yet cleared for walking on his own outside of his therapy sessions. But lying in bed had left him too much time to think about what was gone.

To dwell on who was gone.

He sank gratefully onto the bench, his legs trembling with the effort he'd put them through. Closing his eyes, he rested, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin. He felt his sweat evaporating, knew it was cooling him--also knew that Nurse Roberts would lecture him on getting chilled in the light breeze. His hospital-issued clothing was damp, but the sun compensated enough to keep him comfortable.

He needed this. Needed to be active, to be doing something. Anything. Anything but thinking about how he had failed Jim. In his room, he could not seem to think about anything else.

He should have been at the launch. But he'd been too focused on preparing for his latest mission. He had not been able to get away, he'd told Jim. He could have, though. And if he had--would things have turned out different? Better?

He heard the sound of slow footsteps coming toward him, opened his eyes, and blinked.

It could not be. She could not be here.

Christine was staring at him, and she did not look happy. She continued to approach, and he held up his hand as if to keep her away.

She seemed to take in his cane; her lips twisted in a smirk as if she knew he'd snuck out. But she didn't say anything.

"I require no assistance, Doctor Chapel."

He saw a look of puzzlement in her eyes, and her forehead creased.

"Fine." She kept walking.

He realized her steps were nearly as slow as his own. That she was holding her left side as she walked. That her white pants and shirt were hospital issued, not a uniform.

"You are hurt?" His voice came out rough, harsh.

She stopped, did not turn to look at him. "Would you care if I was?"

"I am not sure I care about anything." The words came out too fast, rushing past lips that had, up to now, kept the truth fettered.

She still didn't look at him. "Fair enough." She started walking, faster than was probably good for her.

He saw Roberts come out of the building, her face pinched as she looked at him. But she left him alone, saying something to Christine that made her slow down. Roberts watched her for a moment as if checking to make sure she would continue on at a wiser pace, then she turned and walked to where Spock sat.

"It is most pleasant out here," he said. Jim had taught him that sometimes the best defense was a good offense.

"I'm sure it is. But you're not cleared for takeoff, Captain." Roberts sat down on the far side of the bench. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. "I always get the difficult ones. You. That stubborn woman--no worse patient than another healer."

"Doctor Chapel is badly injured?"

"She was sick. She's in the homestretch now."

He nodded. He'd heard Doctor McCoy use that term a number of times.

"You know Commander Chapel?" she asked.

Commander. Christine had given up medicine, McCoy had said. For the lure of Ops.

"I do." Although it was not really true. While he had known her once, he did not know much about her any longer, except that she had managed to emerge unscathed from the investigations of those behind the Khitomer conspiracy. In fact, she had profited. There had been a leadership hole when the coconspirators had been rounded up. Christine and those like her had filled the void.

"I take it she's not a friend?" At his look, the nurse smiled. "Do Vulcans even have friends?"

Spock thought of Jim. "We do." He turned away, his face to the sun, his eyes closed to keep out the ghosts of friends lost forever.

"I'll be back out in twenty minutes with an antigrav chair. Don't you dare walk on that leg anymore today."

He nodded. His leg was throbbing. More than it had after therapy. It had been illogical to come out here.

There was little logic to any of his actions lately.

-------------

"Did you get him settled?" Chapel asked as Roberts came into her room, loaded with meds. "And I'm not taking all of those."

"They're not all for you." Roberts glared at her. "I don't remember ordering an extra helping of cranky with my day."

Chapel remembered how she'd felt when she'd had a difficult patient. "Sorry. Didn't expect to run into him."

"He's a nice enough guy. For a Vulcan." Roberts was studying her. "Is there a reason you two give each other the willies?"

"Natural anti-chemistry." Which would only be true if she weren't attracted to him. Still-- her stupid little heart insisted on speeding up at the sight of him even though she'd given up on him years ago.

"Anti-chemistry huh?" Roberts laughed as she loaded up a hypo. But her smile faded. "And what the hell did you think you were doing out there?"

"Going for a walk."

"All the way down to the beach?"

"Is the beach off limits?"

"It is when you were legally dead a week ago."

Chapel exhaled slowly. "I've been legally dead before."

"Not on my watch, you haven't." Roberts held the hypo to Chapel's arm and hit the trigger.

Chapel analyzed the sensations, trying to decide what they'd given her this time. Muscle relaxants, probably, which was good--her body ached and she had a stitch in her side that was really bothering her. Some kind of sedative because she was already yawning--trust Roberts to figure out she hadn't been sleeping as much as she should. Antivirals. Even if her fever had broken, she was a long way from cured. As maladies went, Palevian Heart Fever was a bitch of a disease. And hardly fair reward for wading through disease-tainted rivers to rescue innocent civilians caught in the line of fire.

Then again, Chapel had gotten off easy. Commanders Trannin and Forenza had not been so lucky. They were still legally dead.

Nobody had warned the rescue crews that the rivers were disease laden. They'd all been brave without even knowing it.

"Too much thinking going on in that head of yours," Roberts said. She held up another hypo. "This one's just vitamins."

"I was back on Paleva."

"Maybe you should stay here instead." Roberts' smile was gentle. "It's much nicer."

"Well, it was until a few minutes ago." Spock had to be here?

"One man bothers you so? And a Vulcan at that?"

"It's...complicated." And Chapel had no intention of going into exactly what she meant by that. Yawning again, she scooted down in bed, getting more comfortable. "And I didn't need a sedative."

"I know you're not sleeping."

"All I've done is slept." But it was a lie. All she'd done was dream. Odd, fevered dreams. Of people in rivers--people she tried to save, but couldn't. Sometimes Trannin and Forenza floated by, their bodies bloated, their eyes open and staring. The inhabitants had known the rivers held death. But they'd chosen that over the military coming from the other direction.

"Christine, if you're having nightmares...?"

"I'm not."

"It had to have been scary there."

"It's scary lots of places. They don't, as a rule, dispatch Emergency Ops teams to Risa."

"Fine. Hide in sarcasm."

Chapel shook her head. There'd be no hiding this time. Sleep was calling, so she closed her eyes and prayed that her dreams would be gentle ones.

They weren't.

------------------

Spock sat on the far side of the center's mess and watched Christine. She was rubbing at her eyes, gulping at what was probably coffee. She didn't talk to anyone, didn't seem to be truly "in" the room. He didn't remember her appearing so distant when he'd seen her several days before.

He stood carefully, leaving his tray for the room attendant to gather up. Moving slowly but steadily, he walked toward the entrance. The route he'd chosen would take him by her table.

Why had he chosen this route?

She was facing the window. Unless he spoke to her, she would probably never know he'd been this close.

He would just not speak to her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, stopping at her table.

She looked up at him, her eyes dead. She seemed about to answer, but then turned and gazed out the window again. He sat, noticed her cup was empty and motioned for the attendant to come fill it again.

"I don't need anything from you, Spock."

"I did not think you did."

"Then why are you sitting here?"

"An excellent question. I myself am unsure of the reason." He studied her as the attendant refilled her coffee. "I was told you've been sick."

"I was sick. I'm fine, now."

She did not look fine. But he didn't think he should say that. He waited, curious to see if she would break the uneasy silence between them.

She did not. She just drank her coffee and stared out the window. The skin under her eyes was dark, but everywhere else it seemed pale to him. Her hand shook as she lifted the cup. She turned, aware of his scrutiny apparently, and her brows knit as she looked at him.

"Christine, I--"

"What do you want?"

He could not answer that. Getting up slowly, leaning on the cane more than he liked, he said, "I apologize. I should not have disturbed you."

She looked down, attention seemingly fixed on the now empty cup of coffee.

He did not ask the attendant to bring her another.

----------------

Chapel saw Spock sitting in the sun, on the same bench he'd used before. She walked over, happy that her muscles and joints had quit aching, even if she was so tired that even a short distance tired her out.

He looked up as she stood in front of him, blocking the light. "Doctor?"

"I'm sorry. I was rude in there."

"I am not certain rude is what you were. You seemed...distracted."

"Such a careful word." She looked at the bench. "May I?"

"Yes."

She sat, trying not to show how good it felt to not be standing. "I'm just very tired."

"The disease has left you weak?"

It had, but not this weak. But she went with the nice, comfy lie. "Yes."

"Then you will become stronger in time." Problem solved, apparently.

"What about you? How did you end up here?" She knew; she just wanted to hear him say it.

"I underestimated the danger of a diplomatic situation."

She'd taken the liberty of looking at his file--a perk of still having medical accesses. It had looked like he'd underestimated quite a few diplomatic situations recently. Only none as seriously as this latest one. She had a feeling she knew why he might be acting that way. "You must miss him."

Spock glanced at her, surprise showing on his face. Didn't he know that his friendship with Jim Kirk was of legendary proportions? Many--including her, at times--had wondered if their relationship had been more than friendship.

"I do miss him." Spock said it as if it was a great concession to admit it.

"You must wonder what if...?"

"What if?" His expression changed; his voice grew tight.

She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, to not be sitting here trading what were probably cruel observances with this man. But he was staring, his eyes locked with hers, so she said, "What if you'd gone to the launch?"

He looked away, and she knew she'd hit the mark.

"You might have saved him."

Spock moved his cane, positioning it the way someone would to get up.

"You also might...just have died with him."

His fingers clenched on the cane, then he stood. His expression as he looked down at her was unreadable. "That would have been acceptable."

There were no words she could think of to follow that, so she didn't say anything.

He seemed to shake his head a little, as if coming out of a dream, then he turned and walked off, leaving her alone.

----------------

Roberts watched as Spock packed his carryall. "Ready to move?"

He was ready to get off this planet. But the doctors had not yet cleared him to resume duty. At least he could get out of the main ward and into one of the more private, if small, dwellings. "Thank you for your care."

She smiled. "I'll see you around. It's a small place."

He knew that too well. He had been unable to avoid seeing Christine. Not that they had interacted. Since their last conversation, she would turn and walk the other way whenever she saw him.

"Is Commander Chapel moving into the residences, as well?" he asked.

Roberts shot him a glance he could not interpret. "She sure is."

"She is not recovering as quickly as you hoped?"

"You'd have to ask her that, Captain. I'm sure you wouldn't want me talking to her about your case."

He felt the sting of the gentle rebuke, then a surge of embarrassment. Why was he asking about Christine at all? "It was improper of me to inquire."

"She asked about you, too, by the way." Roberts grinned at him. "So, you want to tell me why the two of you are so interested in each other but can't stand to be in the same room?"

"Perhaps you should ask her."

"Uh huh. That's what she said."

He was not entirely sure why he cared about Christine's status. She had been so many things to him, most of them unpleasant. Her infatuation with him during their first tour had made him uncomfortable, had made it impossible to be even civil to her without her making more of the interaction than what it was. And later, after V'ger, when they'd served together again, she'd seemed to hold it against him that those early years had been as difficult as they were.

But he'd thought they'd reached some kind of detente after Khan. He'd decided that dealing with his death had allowed her to finally let go of any unrealistic desires. They'd been cordial to each other when they'd been forced to interact--cordial without being friendly. It had been a comfortable ambivalence.

So why could he not leave it at that? Why worry about her?

Was he worried about her?

He looked over at Roberts. She was smiling the way McCoy used to when he'd been trying not to laugh at Spock.

"You have something to say, Nurse?"

"Me? Not a thing, Ambassador." She hailed an orderly coming down the corridor, handed him the carryall. "Monroe will take your bag to the transport out front. You catch the same transport to get back here for physical therapy." She gave him a stern look. "And we will know if you don't show up."

"Of course." He let his eyebrow rise slowly, which made her smile.

But then her smile died. She leaned in, pitching her voice low. "I am worried about her. If you could help her..." She shook her head. "Listen to me. Such a busybody. I'll see you around, Captain Spock." She hurried out.

"Ready, sir?" Monroe asked.

Spock followed him out of the ward. Christine was on the transport also. She saw Spock as he got on the vehicle, stared at him for a long moment before looking away.

She looked worse than before, her eyes drawn and bloodshot.

He walked to the seat opposite her, sat as Monroe stowed his gear. As the orderly left, Spock looked over at Christine. She was still staring out the window, as if the view of the center's front entrance was mesmerizing.

"I am pleased to be leaving the ward," he said.

She didn't answer.

"I am sure you are, too."

Christine ignored him.

Feeling a bit like she must have when she'd been trying to get his attention all those years ago, he forged on. "Nurse Roberts--"

"Is a goddamned troublemaker," she said, never turning away from the window. "Leave me alone, Spock. You're usually very good at that."

He felt as if she'd slapped him, but was not sure why. Nothing she'd said was untrue. Taking a deep, calming breath, he decided to follow her lead and find solace in the view from his window.

---------------

Chapel paced, trying to keep herself awake. She'd ordered coffee from the replicator--had found herself restricted to decaf. "Caffeinated beverages are not allowed before rest period," the replicator had told her.

She'd tried to order several herbal beverages that had no caffeine but would still keep her awake. The replicator had not been fooled.

So she was reduced to pacing.

The room became smaller the more she paced, and she finally gave up, going out to the small patio in the hope that fresh air would wake her up.

"Are you all right?" she heard from the patio next to hers.

She peered into the shadows--he had the lights out, was sitting in darkness. But she knew Spock's voice. And of course he was in the dwelling next to her--Roberts probably made the room assignments.

She stepped around the low hedge that divided their patios, stared at him. Even up close she could barely make out his expression.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked.

"Will it wake me up or put me to sleep?"

"The latter."

"Then no." She was about to turn, to head back to her own place, but she heard him shift, and then his hand settled on her arm.

"You do not wish to sleep?"

She could shake him off. He was sitting and she was standing; gravity was on her side. But it felt good. That he'd touched her. That some part of him cared.

And she hated that it felt good. She jerked her arm away, stood staring down at him, still not able to see his face.

"Sit," he said, his voice even, as if she had not just rejected his overture.

Perhaps it had not been that? But when had he ever touched her?

She found the other chair, sat down.

"Sometimes Jim did not like to sleep. He'd fight it, any way he could. Often through vigorous exercise."

"In your bed?"

The silence was horrible. Why in God's name had she just asked that?

"No. Not in my bed." He sounded more than a little angry. He was probably asking himself why he'd wanted her to stay.

She rose. "I should go."

Again he grabbed her, this time he held on firmly. "You did that on purpose? Struck out to anger me so I would forget my original question?"

She tried to pull away. Gravity was not helping this time.

"When Jim fought sleep, it was because of the dreams."

She exhaled slowly. "I'm fine." She moved back toward the chair, as if she was going to sit down, but as soon as he loosened his grip, she pulled away and hurried to her own patio. "Good night, Spock." The quick closing of her door cut off his reply.

If there even was one.

--------------

Spock stared into the night, replaying what had just happened. Slowly he rose and stepped around the hedge the way Christine had. He took a step, then another. Two more carried him to the door.

What was he doing?

He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again.

She opened the door; she was crying.

He didn't say anything. Just stood and waited.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He eased her aside so he could step in, closed the door behind him and realized he had left his cane on the patio. The therapists had said he didn't need it any longer. They appeared to have been right.

Christine looked over at him, wiping at her eyes as if she was angry he'd caught her crying.

He let out a long breath--breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "What is wrong?"

"I don't know." By the way her voice trembled, he knew she was telling him the truth. She turned away from him, moving to the couch. She sat, drawing her knees up tight, hugging them with her arms. As if she was protecting herself.

From what? From him?

Sitting down in a chair across from her, he waited. She smiled at him, and it was the first real smile he'd seen on her face. Even if her lips trembled and the smile died almost instantly.

"Was it this last mission?" he asked.

"Do you care because you couldn't help him?"

"Possibly. Was it?"

"Helping me won't bring him back."

"I am aware of that. Answer my question."

She seemed to give up, leaned back and stared past him, at something very far away. "It was bad. But...I've seen worse. Much worse. I've been hurt worse." She met his eyes. "I died. For a few minutes."

"I did not realize that."

"I've died before." She gave him another shaky smile. "It's a trend for us Enterprise types."

"Not for all of us." His friend was never coming back. Jim's face swam in front of him with that disappointed look he used to wear. A look that Spock would never see again because he had failed him. He could have gone to the launch. He should have gone.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean that one to hurt."

"I know." He leaned in. "Are you sleeping?"

"Not if I can help it." She looked away. "You were right. It's the dreams. About this mission. About other missions. Things that went right that suddenly go wrong in the dreams. Things that went wrong that go even worse."

"Has it occurred to you that you may be burning out?"

She swallowed hard. Then she nodded.

"And you do not wish to be finished with Ops?"

"Maybe I don't want Ops to be finished with me. I can do this."

"No doubt you can. But should you?" He looked down. "Perhaps at a subconscious level, you are tired of being constantly at risk."

"You realize the irony of that coming from you? The man who can't seem to stop himself from taking risks lately."

He frowned, met her gaze. "You read my file?"

"I did." She said it as a challenge, and he realized she was doing it again--trying to anger him to divert him from the real question.

On the other hand, his recklessness might be the real question. "I was not there when he needed me, Christine."

She looked surprised he'd called her that. "Killing yourself won't change that."

"Logically I accept the truth of what you say."

"But you were never very logical when it came to the captain, were you?"

"No. I was not." He leaned back, let his eyes close. "Why do you not wish to leave Ops?"

"It's my home. I have a lot invested there."

"Ops is not a home. No matter how much of yourself you have invested."

"I'd get upset with you, but I think you're calling the kettle black, Spock. Where's your home?"

"I do not have one."

"Ah."

"Ah." He opened his eyes. "The question is, then, can a person live with no home?"

"A person? Or you?" She smiled, but this time it was biting. "There is a difference."

"Do you hate me?" The question seemed to take her by surprise, so he forged on. "Or do you hate yourself for still loving me?"

"Your sense of self-preservation may be shot to hell, but there's nothing wrong with your ego."

He let a small smile show. "That is not an answer."

"What makes you think I'll give you one?"

"After our last interactions, I truly have no idea."

Another smile, real again, broke through, and she laughed softly. "You're a masochist. Who knew that all I had to do to get you was to be mean to you?"

He ignored the comment. "Have you told the doctors about your dreams?"

She seemed to shut down.

"They must be logging your activity. Nurse Roberts alone--"

"They know. They suggested I talk about it. I declined. End of story."

"Perhaps that is why they have not released you?"

"That and the fact I look like death warmed over." She got up suddenly, walked to the kitchen. "Can I get you something?"

"I am fine."

"I bet the doctors doubt that, too. You're as big a mess as I am. Only you hide it better."

"I am Vulcan."

Turning to look at him, she said, "You just agreed with me, you know?"

"I realize that." He rose and walked to the door. "I should go."

"Thank you...for coming over here."

He nodded, and saw the sweet smile break through again, realized he was glad to see it. She was probably right, however. He was in danger of making her a project. Even if it would not bring Jim back.

"Goodnight, Christine. Try to sleep."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that." She appeared to be trying to bypass something on the replicator.

He left her to it.

---------------

Chapel saw Spock getting off the transport; he barely limped as he made his way to the entrance, and he wasn't using his cane. He hadn't used it last night, either, when he'd come over. She considered getting up from the sunny spot she'd chosen, but decided it wouldn't hurt if he saw her watching him.

He walked over and dropped into the chair next to her without preamble, stretching his long legs out and closing his eyes as the sun beat down on him.

"Hello to you, too."

His lips tilted up just so slightly. She realized he enjoyed the more acerbic Christine that had grown up in Ops. Chapel liked her a lot, too. If only her screwed-up psyche would decide it liked that Christine, life would be good again.

Life had been good, hadn't it?

"Did you sleep?" His voice was soft, as if he was utterly relaxed.

"'Fraid so."

"Were the dreams unpleasant?"

"Oh, yeah." She turned to look at him; he still had his eyes closed. "Next time, I'll pound on the wall and let you know I'm up."

"Our bedrooms share a wall. I heard you cry out."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She hadn't heard him through the walls at all. But then he was probably quiet, and she didn't have Vulcan hearing. "I'll sleep on the couch next time I surrender to the sandman."

"Is there nothing the doctors can do?" He looked over at her.

"Oh, sure. There are ways to suppress dreams, but that isn't wise. The dreams are trying to tell me something."

"What?"

"If I knew that, they'd probably stop."

"I see." He sighed, a strangely evocative sound. One she didn't think she'd heard him make before. "I dream, too. Of launches I choose to attend this time."

"Launches you change the outcome of?"

"Yes." He shook his head. "I do not, as a rule, dream."

"Aren't we the pair?" She realized how that sounded and made a face. "Or not."

Again his lips tilted a little.

"I amuse you?"

He seemed to think about that. "You do."

"Even when I'm being mean to you?"

"You are not being mean to me right now."

"Well, you know that can change in a flash."

He leaned back, closed his eyes again--the picture of unconcern. "I believe we have forged a new understanding."

"You do, huh?"

"I do."

"One fucked up officer to another?"

His eyebrows slanted down for a moment. "That is not how I would choose to phrase it. But empathy is a component."

"Spock, I get why you're upset. You lost a friend. You lost your best friend. And you feel guilty about that because you could have been there. Your disregard for your own safety is actually quite logical given how adrift you must feel." She took a deep breath. "What I don't get is what's wrong with me."

"You, too, have lost friends, have you not?"

"I lost people on this mission, yes."

"That is not what I meant."

She frowned. "I don't follow."

"Admiral Cartwright? You were his protege, Christine. Did you have to disassociate yourself from him during the inquiries? Did you have to put aside friendship and loyalty to save yourself?"

"I wasn't involved and--"

He held up a hand. "I believe you. But perhaps you feel guilty? Perhaps you believe you betrayed him?"

"I did what I had to. I had no part in the conspiracy." She realized she was starting to cry.

Spock was regarding her with such sympathy it made it even harder to fight back the tears.

But she did fight them back.

"I had heard rumors that you and Admiral Cartwright were involved."

"He was my boss."

"That hardly precludes a romantic relationship. Were you involved?"

She clenched her fingers, made a fist. She wished she could use it to beat off the rumors that wouldn't die. "We weren't. We were just friends."

"Ah. Just as with Jim and me."

She could feel herself flush. "I should never have said that."

"You only verbalized what others have also wondered. And you were interested in me at one time. I imagine you were jealous of him."

"I was." And Rand had been jealous of Spock. Kirk and Spock's friendship of legend--it was easy to mistake it for love. She and Matthew--everyone had assumed their regard stemmed from romantic interest and not a more straightforward affection. Protege had come to mean mistress, girlfriend, lover. Not just friend. Not just trusted officer.

"Are you alone, Christine?" Spock asked. "If you aren't with Cartwright, do you have someone in your life?"

"Do you see anyone in my life?"

"No."

"Right back at you, Spock."

"Well, I admit I am alone."

She leaned in. "Why? Why are you alone? You had Len. And Saavik."

"I still do." He sighed, leaned in toward her, so their heads were very close together, his words hushed. "When Jim died, it was as if all the air went out of the room. I have other friends. I have family and those who care about me. I just cannot..."

"You just can't forgive yourself for not being there for him, can you?" She touched his hand; he didn't jerk it away. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I feel bad about Matthew."

"It would be natural, I think." He gently freed his hand. "You knew Valeris, as well, did you not?"

"I did. But she and I weren't friends."

He glanced at her. "No?"

"Spock. Come on. Given how close you two were..." She knew she was admitting she was still interested. But in this new spirit of friendship, it seemed right to do so.

"Ah. Of course. So no guilt for you on that count."

"No." She tried to stifle a yawn.

"I will sit with you. If you want to close your eyes?"

"To sleep, perchance to avoid the hell out of dreaming?"

"A different venue might keep them away."

"And having someone to watch over me?" She looked away. That had been going too far.

She felt his hand on her arm.

"Close your eyes, Christine."

She leaned her head back against the soft headrest on the chair and closed her eyes. Spock didn't pull his hand away, and she smiled.

"You'll give me the wrong idea, mister."

"Sleep." He gave her arm a gentle squeeze and then let go.

She slept. Not for long, but the minutes that passed were free of any dreams.

-----------------

The night breeze was growing uncomfortably cool, and Spock considered going inside. He looked into his small unit, knew that he was too restless to retire this early. Then he heard Christine's door open and glanced over, waiting for her to come into view.

"Are you there?" she said very softly.

"I am."

"I have goodies."

"Define that."

"My Ops comrades sent me a care package. And I'm willing to share. If you want me to come over?" Her voice was very tentative.

"Please."

She stepped around the hedge, cradling a shipping package. "Do you like cookies?"

"Not particularly."

"Good. More for me." She pulled a bag out and handed him the package. "Go nuts."

He could just make out what was inside by the light spilling onto the patio from inside. He saw fruit and pulled it out. "You are sure?"

She glanced over. "The grapes are all yours."

He bit into one; it was tangy and full of juice. He realized she was handing him a napkin and took it, nodding his thanks.

"See. They are family." She shot him a look.

"I did not say they were not family. I said Ops was not a home. The people will move on eventually. The next group might not be family."

"Quit raining on my parade. I have a big, beautiful care package from home. End of story."

He decided not to argue with her. She seemed so...happy.

They ate in silence for several minutes, then she sealed her bag and put it back in the package. He started to do the same with the grapes, but she said, "No, you keep them."

"Thank you."

She smiled and leaned back, closing her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might fall asleep right there, but she jerked up.

"You should sleep."

"Out here?"

"Out here. In your apartment. Wherever you are comfortable."

"Comfort has nothing to do with it, Spock. It's a matter of..." She sighed. "I wake up and I don't know where I am. I don't know if the dreams are real. Sometimes I only think I wake up, and then I realize I'm still in the dream. Those are the worst of all."

He did not answer, just watched as she fidgeted in her chair.

She glared at him. "I napped earlier."

"You slept for less than an hour."

"Well, it was a quality nap."

He let an eyebrow answer that.

"Spock, I don't see you offering to tuck me in, so lay off the bedtime crap."

"Would it help if I tucked you in?"

She stared at him, her expression darkening. "Very funny."

"I was not joking. Would sleeping with someone be beneficial?"

"With someone?" She exhaled loudly, a bitter sound.

"With me."

"Right. We'll have a slumber party all so little Chrissie can get her Zs."

He leaned back. "I do not remember you being this sarcastic."

"I wasn't. And stop it with the bizarre questions."

"If it was bizarre, I apologize. But I am asking you to think as a doctor, not as the woman who once pursued me. Do you believe you would sleep better if you were not alone?"

"I don't know, okay. Probably not. You'd just end up getting mauled to death when I tried to wake up." She stood up.

"I believe we are past you storming off into the night."

"I wasn't going to storm; I was going to walk." She grabbed the box. "I'm going in now. This conversation is not good for my mental state."

He watched her leave, eating a few more grapes as he considered the fact that he was a bit disappointed that she had not taken him seriously.

-----------

"Christine?"

She woke. The room was dark. Pitch black. And it was freezing cold. What was wrong with the environmental controls?

"Christine, help me?"

She felt around, realized she wasn't on her bed. She was on a rough, earth floor. On furs that felt matted with some substance she didn't want to identify.

"Christine, for the love of God."

"Matthew?" She reached over, felt someone reaching back. Bones bit into her hand, and the lights suddenly went on, and she was holding onto a skeleton dressed in Starfleet red.

She screamed. In the dream and all the way into waking. She cut off the scream as soon as she realized she was awake. Sitting up in bed, she tried to catch her breath as her heart hammered in her chest.

There was a knock on her patio door. She ignored it.

Another knock, this time louder.

She got up and walked to the door, opening it and moving aside so Spock could come in.

"You woke me." He was in his pajamas, had not even put a robe on.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"I am not sure that is true." He turned her, pushing her toward the bed.

She resisted, and he just pushed harder.

"You can't be serious, Spock."

He pulled her hand up, holding it at the wrist, so they could both see how badly she was trembling. "You cannot go on like this. You need sleep."

She jerked her hand away, but he pushed her again, toward the bed, with a face set in stone when she turned to glare at him.

"I don't want to sleep with you."

"I am not sure that you know what you want, Christine. You are too tired." He settled his hand on her back, rubbing gently--it felt much too good.

She spun on him. "You shouldn't do this. You were right. I am still in love with you. And I'll read into it and it'll be just like it was and you'll be so sorry if--"

His hand came down over her mouth. Firmly, but not in a mean way. "Be quiet, Christine." He pushed her into bed and settled in beside her. Pulling the covers up over them, he said, "The meld might keep you from dreaming."

"No. I don't want to share consciousness again."

"Was it so unpleasant?"

She couldn't answer. It hadn't been unpleasant when it happened. It had been a dream come true then. But not now. And especially not like this. She turned on her side, away from him, and felt him nestle against her. He pulled her closer, her back to his front.

"Spock. This isn't--"

"Shhh."

He rubbed her hip, his hand moving down, then back up in a soothing rhythm. His touch was warm, even through the fabric of her pajamas. She dropped her arm, giving him better access, then immediately regretted it.

"Spock."

"Be still."

But he wasn't being still. Everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire--her face felt like it was on fire, too. She knew she was getting aroused, then she realized he was, too.

"Spock. Please."

"Shhh." He stopped stroking her, letting his hand sit on her waist, then slip around her, to nestle under her breasts.

She moaned. "Why are you doing this?"

"You need to know I'm here. Your body needs to know I'm here."

"My body is fully aware of that fact." She pushed back, wriggling a little, trying to pay him back for making her so hyperaware of his nearness.

He let his breath out slowly, blowing slightly against her neck. "Close your eyes," he finally said.

"This isn't a good idea." She realized she'd put her hand over his, as if part of her was afraid he'd leave. And didn't want him to.

"Close your eyes, Christine."

She closed her eyes. "Now what? You want me to count Vulcan sheep?"

He began to murmur something. It took her a moment to realize it was a complicated physics problem.

"You've got to be kidding me."

But his voice, so low, so close to her ear, going on in that quiet, soothing tone was too much. She yawned, and felt him tighten his hold.

He didn't let up, just kept talking, explaining how force and mass and energy and other things could make a grown woman fall fast asleep.

She moaned, shifted a little to get more comfortable.

And then she was gone.

The dreams came for her. But not until it was light out again. And he was there, easing her out of the false waking, stopping the dream from getting worse.