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)
2017 by Djinn. This story is Rated R.
Tainted
By
Djinn
Her:
You
watch as your lover is led away, the screen showing you a man you don't even
recognize.
"Cartwright
was your mentor, wasn't he?" someone asks and you nod, numbness filling
you.
He
still is your mentor. A goddamned traitor is your fucking mentor.
And
sometimes it feels like he's your only friend anymore. Ny is on the Enterprise still and Janice is with Sulu
on Excelsior. You could comm, but they're usually too busy or tired to talk long.
It hurts. You managed to multitask to handle their various personal crises when
you were first in ops and overwhelmed and tired. Why are they so hands off with
yours? You know Jan really is busy—Sulu depends on her and she's on an
important ship. But Ny? She's in a a job she can do
in her fucking sleep.
"Commander."
The voice isn't one you recognize, but you know the sound behind it. Security.
Here for you.
You
turn and nod.
"We
just need a word." They are being gentle and giving you respect. They must
not think you're part of this. Just doing due diligence because you were living
with one of the architects of a goddamned conspiracy.
How
many people will think you're part of this? You and Cartwright had a long
association, although you waited until he wasn't your boss before starting a
more physical relationship. That was your idea; he'd been in love with you for
years, but you hadn't wanted to be involved with yet another boss.
Well,
that wasn't the only reason. You had to let go of the idea of Spock ever
wanting you before you could let Cartwright in.
Sad
that surrendering to the inevitable has proven a less prudent route than just
hanging on to the unrequited love.
You
lead the security men into your office in ops and close the door. "I had
no idea he was planning any of this. What do I need to do to prove that?"
"Standard
measures for now."
You
nod. You know the standard measures well. Everyone with special clearances
knows them.
"We
may also require a meld."
You
nod again, not caring about the loss of privacy this will entail. Or caring but
not having the luxury of protesting.
You
just want to clear your name. As soon as possible.
Because
with the man who was supposed to be a good part of your future gone and your
friends emotionally AWOL, your career is all you have left.
Him:
You
sit numbly as the Khitomer conference goes on around you. You have saved the
day—you and Jim and Sulu and the others.
But
you have lost so much. Valeris was—she was everything to you. Protˇgˇ,
friend, lover. You thought you had finally found happiness in a way that no
Vulcan could ever condemn.
But
she was...a traitor.
The
meetings finally wrap up and you see your father conferring with someone from
Starfleet security. Your father is...furious. You are stunned to see it so
clearly from him, even if you think the security officer has no idea.
"Father,
what is it?"
Your
father moves closer, as if he is trying to shield you. You cannot remember a
time he has done this. "It would seem Starfleet security requires you to
undergo some...screening."
You
nod because you expected this. "I was involved with a member of the
conspiracy, Father."
"You
prevented war." Your father is clearly frustrated that you can be so
sanguine. Is this not what he has taught you?
You
finally murmur, "The needs of the many..."
He
nods. Defeated. And steps out of the way. "Will you do it here? When he
needs to mingle? To show his faith in the peace he has worked so hard
for?"
The
security officer looks down. She is only a lieutenant commander. Not prepared
to face down a Vulcan with the status of Sarek.
You
take pity on her. "Perhaps when I return to Earth?"
She
looks torn. Sarek seems angrier. You just wait.
You
can hear Jim coming up behind you. "Spock, you're needed." Then he
seems to read the tension. "What's going on?"
You
meet the security officer's eyes. "It is nothing. Just something I must do
once we arrive home."
She
gives up on taking you in now. You can see it in her eyes.
"I
am not going anywhere, Commander. I have work to do here." You say it to
soothe her, because she did not decide to bring you in on her own, and you
imagine all of the conspirator's close associates will be brought in for
questioning.
Someone
might have known something. It is the ultimate embarrassment that you had no
idea. Valeris played you.
She
loved you; you could feel that from the meld you forced on her—the only
meld you two ever shared. She loved you dearly. But she played you, with great
effectiveness and, to your dismay, enjoyment.
Her:
You
are coming out from your session. Your head hurts and you feel betrayed all
over again. As you leave, they call a friend of yours from ops in—another
of Cartwright's favorites.
You
hope this is the last time you will see this place.
As
you lift your eyes to the exit, you hear a soft, "Christine."
You
turn and frown, because while you have learned that nothing they will ask you
in this place is a surprise, it's shocking to see Spock in the waiting room.
In
this waiting room because it's only
for these sessions. Unless he's here because he needs some new clearance.
It
takes you a longer moment to realize he addressed you by your first name.
You
make your way to him. "Are you here because of her?"
You
don't have to say her name. He nods and you can't read his expression. Which is
not to say that it's just the normal Vulcan stone-face because those you've
learned to read. You just see too many emotions running across Spock's
face—albeit in Vulcan fashion—to pick one.
He
motions for you to sit, so you do. "You are here because of Admiral
Cartwright? You were his protˇgˇ just as Valeris was mine."
"I
was his lover. Wasn't Valeris yours?" It is more direct than you would
usually be with him, but your filters are shot by this latest four-hour session
of unrelenting honesty with Starfleet security.
"She
was." His filters are apparently nonexistent too.
"I'm
sorry."
"I
as well—for you." He frowns. An actual frown. "And for
myself."
"You
loved her?" You've always wondered. Even if you tried to put Spock into a
little mental box labeled "Done" when you gave finally said yes to
Cartwright.
"I
did. And you? You cared for the admiral?"
You
nod, because it's fair to say you cared for him. You didn't love him, not the
way you would have loved the man sitting next to you, but that was a trade you
made consciously.
Some
loves are stronger because they're imaginary. Because being unrequited, they
suck up all the energy you have to give and never send it back in ways that
hurt, or leave you unsatisfied. Imaginary lovers never forget to put things back
in the chiller or use up the last of the shampoo and forget to tell you.
They're...perfect.
You
meet his eyes, and say, "I'm not involved in the conspiracy."
"Nor
am I. But we were the closest to them. How could we not know?"
"I
don't know." It's something you've asked yourself far too many times.
"I hope this is my last time here," you whisper.
"Have
they hurt you?"
"No.
It's just...embarrassing. I imagine for you, too."
"I
believe I have more freedom on what I choose to tell them. Most of their
methods do not work well on Vulcans."
You
laugh softly. "Of course." Reaching over, you grab his hand.
"I'm clean of this." You want him to read you, to feel your
innocence, but you can tell you are making him uncomfortable so you drop his
hand. "I'm sorry. For...everything."
And
then you are up and to the door and you hear him saying your name again.
But
then he is being called and you turn to meet his eyes. He's ignoring the person
calling him, is watching you go. You hold up your hand halfway, a weak goodbye,
and then flee.
When
you get home, you check the time and comm
Nyota—she transferred right after Khitomer to the Cirrus. She's first officer, a big step up—except it's a tiny
ship with a limited mission. She may be asleep but she won't be on duty.
She
definitely was asleep. "Christine?" She rubs her eyes. "What is
it? It's really late."
"I
just...I just needed to talk to you." You feel stupid now. Because while
you need to talk to her, it's not about anything in particular. You just want
to feel part of something. The old gang—you and Ny and Jan.
She
sits up, sighing. "What's wrong?"
"Does
something have to be wrong? I mean we used to just talk?"
"Okay.
Sure. What do you want to talk about?" She sounds like she's humoring you,
but maybe you're giving off crazy-friend signals. Before you can think better
of it, you say, "I saw Spock."
And
you see her shut down—what the hell? "Wow, that didn't take long. So
was it worth waiting for?"
You
stare at her for a long time, then say, "I saw him in the—never mind
where I saw him, but it was a work thing. I didn't mean I was with him. Why are
you being so mean?"
"I'm
not being mean." But she's looking away the way she does when she's hurt.
"So...you're not with him?"
"No.
But he called me by name. He never does that."
"Christine,
when will you stop grabbing at straws?"
"When
will I...? Ny, are you interested in him?"
"Would
you care? You called dibs on him and Jan on the captain and I was left out.
That's how it worked, right?"
You
aren't sure what to say, so you sit, looking no doubt very stupid, until she
leans in and says, in a voice more like the friend you remember, "I'm
sorry—I'm dead on my feet and I don't even know what I'm saying. I have
to get some sleep. We have meetings all day tomorrow." She looks desperate
to get off the comm line, but you don't think it's
because of meetings.
"I'm
sorry I bothered you." You reach for the terminal to cut the connection.
"Christine?
If you and Spock—that's great, okay? Just...just ignore me. Change is
hard for me and this assignment is a big change. Plus, I thought I could get
off for the launch, but it turns out I can't. I really wanted to be there for Ji—for the captain, you know? So I guess I'm cranky
Nyota. I love you, but I have to go."
"Yeah.
No. It's fine. I'll talk to you later." As you cut the line, you realize
you haven't told her you're being questioned. You could send a time-delay
message. She'd get it tomorrow when she got off shift. You open up a message,
fingers hovering over the keyboard, and then close it back up.
You
doubt she'd care much anyway.
Him:
You
sit, waiting, always waiting, and finally you look up at the commander studying
the readouts from your latest session and ask, "Are we done?"
If
he hurries, you can make it to the launch of the Enterprise-B. You can stand with Jim as he says goodbye to his
former life. You can somehow make it up to him for being such a...
You
exhale slowly, the most basic of the control disciplines: mastery of breath.
For
being such a trusting fool.
"I'm
sorry, sir, but no. Your readings..."
"Are
standard for Vulcans." You go through this every time they test you on
these machines and, given the level of access you have, they test you
frequently. "Please compare them to my baselines."
"I
have, sir. It's inconclusive. We've called in a Vulcan on our staff. I hope you
won't mind a meld?"
No,
why should you mind that level of violation? You feel anger rising but force it
down. "Which Vulcan?" Not your father. Your mind is a mass of chaotic
emotion. "Surely Sarek has better things to do?"
"No,
not him. That would be a conflict of interest, sir."
Yes,
of course it would.
"What
if I refuse?"
"Refuse?"
"Yes.
What if I refuse? I was instrumental in stopping the conspiracy. Why would I do
that if I were part of it?" You stand. Surely they cannot be serious. You
have indulged this idiocy long enough.
The
commander hits something under his desk. The doors open and guards stand just
outside, weapons pointed at you.
You
feel a moment of actual panic. "I must accompany Captain Kirk at the
launch of the Enterprise-B. I will
return if you insist, but I must do this."
"You
are going nowhere, sir." The commander motions to the guards. "Escort
Captain Spock to a holding cell."
You
want to yell. The impotent rage you have felt at Valeris is swirling up,
threatening to overtake you, the way the fire of the challenge did on Vulcan,
the way being sent into the past did on Sarpeidon.
You
pull yourself away from that ledge and follow the guards, fighting for the most
basic level of emotional mastery.
It
does not come. You sit and...fume in the holding cell. Until later that day,
when the commander comes to your door, his expression stricken. He drops the
force field and hands you a padd. "I'm sorry, sir."
You
read the headline three times before it makes sense to you. While you were held
here, for a crime you did not commit, your captain—your friend—was
dying.
You
step out of the cell.
"Sir,
I thought you should know but I'm afraid you're not cleared to leave yet."
"We
are quite done here, Commander, and if you do not wish me to leave, I suggest
you shoot to kill. I cannot guarantee what my actions will be if you use less
than deadly force." You turn and meet his eyes. "Or you can take the
more prudent route and unlock the doors between the exit and me and allow me to
leave." There may be a maelstrom of emotions inside you, but you know your
face is giving nothing away. "I have no time for this. He might still be alive.
They have not found a body."
It
is a slight chance but all you have to hold on to.
The
commander finally leans down, hits the intercom, and calls in a guard.
"See that Captain Spock is not impeded on his way out."
You
take a step toward the door but then turn. "Commander. I hope for your
sake that our paths never cross again." You are not given to threats but
you want to rip this man apart—you might have made a difference had you
been at the launch. Failing that, you might have died in place of Jim. It would
have been a fair trade for all he gave you.
Fear
flickers across the commander's face.
Good.
Her:
You're
in your office and you hear the kind of murmuring from the bay that means someone
important just walked into ops. A moment later, Spock appears at your door.
He
nods as if unsure what to do now that he is in your space.
You
stand, going to him but stopping short of the spot you know is too close for
comfort. "Oh, Spock...what happened to Jim. I'm so sorry."
He
closes his eyes, as if you have said exactly what he wanted you to. You have
the sense he would like to lean in, put his forehead on your shoulder, and let
you comfort him, but of course he doesn't do that.
He
was out searching for him. You saw that on the various logs that pass by your
desk. He was out without orders—nearly without permission.
You
wouldn't want to be the one to try to stop him from looking for his friend.
"I
could not find him, Christine."
"Do
you want to sit?" You reach for his shoulder and touch it gently, since he
seems unsure. "Or walk? We can walk?"
He
goes to your window instead and stands staring out at the view. You love your
view. It's just an inner courtyard but still pretty. Flowers blooming, birds
landing in the trees, a few intrepid squirrels. "Are they finished with
you?" he finally asks and you think he means security.
"I
guess so. They haven't called me back." That's how they work. No one is
ever clear, they just stop calling you in and eventually you quit waiting for a
summons. "You?"
"I
believe it was inconclusive. I—I refused to cooperate." He shakes
his head but still doesn't turn around. "I should have been at the launch.
I might have been able to save him."
You
move toward him, standing next to him without touching. "You don't know
that. You both might have been killed. Or just him despite your help. Or just
you."
"All
of those options seem preferable to having been detained for no logical reason
and thus missing the launch." He sounds angry.
"But
it was logical. We're the most likely co-conspirators, Spock. Lovers know
things. And we didn't just sleep with them—we lived with them. It makes
no intuitive sense to either of us because we know each other—we know
we'd never do that—but security doesn't give a shit about our gut
reactions."
He
closes his eyes and sighs audibly. "What you say is logical, and yet I do
not wish to hear logic from you."
"You
want comfort?" You touch his face softly and he leans into your fingers.
"The old me would have given you that without a moment's thought. But I
let her go, when I got good at this job—and when I said yes to
Cartwright."
"Is
that Christine really gone? Your touch is soothing, so perhaps she is still
within you." He looks at you so intently it's as if he's trying to peer
inside you. "Did you love him?"
"I
wanted to." It's out before you can call it back, before you can say
something more fair to your former lover. But it's out and it's true, so you
let it stand.
"That
is not a yes."
"I
know."
"Do
you still love me?"
You
think this is an unwise road to journey down so you drop your fingers. He is
hurting. He has lost so much. And you are some strange sad constant in his
life. So you answer with, "Did I ever really love you? It was just a
crush."
He
turns away but his mouth actually turns up. "You forget. We shared
consciousness. Do you think I forgot that in the fires of the refusion?"
You
sigh.
"You
loved me then. I think you still do." He reaches for your cheek and cups
it, his touch more tender than you've ever felt it. "I know you still
do."
"You
need a friend right now, Spock. Not a lover. But I'm not sure you want me to be
your friend. Maybe...maybe ask Len?" God, this is killing you. You're
effectively telling him to go away.
"And
what if I do not wish to ask Leonard?" He lets go of your cheek.
"What if I want you to spend time with me?"
"Then
I guess..." You stop talking, ordering yourself to use your brain, not
your heart. Ordering yourself to be logical for once when it comes to him, but
you say, "Then I guess you should ask me to."
"This
weekend. I have no plans. Have you any?"
You're
off duty. He doesn't know that, though. There's still time to bow out gracefully.
But again your mouth is moving in concert with your heart instead of your head.
"I don't."
"Where
would you like to go? I have an abundance of transporter credits."
You
smile. "I don't know. Where would you like to go?"
"Wherever
you will be."
You
smile because it's romantic even if it's probably the highest truth he knows
right at this moment. He is hurting and you are distracting him. You are a
distraction. You have to remember that when he gets over needing one. That you
knew this going in.
That
this isn't a romance. Not really.
"Buenos
Aires," you say, because there are shops there you love to go to and a
restaurant that serves the best steak—if he wants to spend time with you,
he better get used to you being a carnivore. You don't plan to change for him
even if you are ignoring the part of you that is screaming this is a horrible
idea.
"I
have never been there."
"Then
I'll be your guide." It sounds sexual, the way you say it, and you don't
mean it to, but you see his lips tick up again.
"Then
we are agreed." He looks supremely self satisfied. But the triumph
seems...impersonal. Like he needed to do this, to move on, to reach out. But
does it matter that it was you at the other end reaching back?
"Please
don't hurt me, Spock." The plea is out before you can call it back. You're
normally so good at saying the right thing at the right time, but you've been
put through the wringer, and you're sad over Jim and not at your best.
"Please, please don't hurt me."
"I
do not intend to." His look is concerned. "Do you believe I
will?"
"I
don't know. I think you won't mean to—that it's not what you're setting
out to do, but...things can change."
He
looks frustrated. As if by questioning his intent, you've ruined everything.
Maybe
you have. Maybe he has no idea what to do with his time without the man he
served with and the woman he loved.
Not
loved—loves. You don't fall out of love because someone's a traitor. Just
as he won't fall in love with you just because you're not.
"I'm
sorry," you say, but you're not sure if you're talking to him or to
yourself.
He
finally nods. "Do you wish to wait, then? Another weekend?"
No,
screams your heart. But you nod before that stupid part of you can take over
again. "Yes. If we both want to go in a week, then we'll go."
He
nods, and you want to read disappointment in his expression, but you think it
is just annoyance that you ruined his plans. "Yes, in a week." He
studies you for a long moment then turns and walks out of your office.
You
hear the hush of ops as people watch him leave. He is famous and handsome and
brilliant and people adore him.
And
you just turned him down. What if he never comes back?
Then
you'll know, right? That you made the correct choice. If he never comes back,
it was never meant to be.
What
if he goes to someone else. You think Ny would welcome him with open arms.
What
will it be like to see him with her?
Damn
it. This is not productive.
It
is a long time before you can concentrate on work again.
Him:
You
lie in bed, smelling Valeris's scent on your sheets. It is an illogical
indulgence to have not washed them—or better yet, thrown them
out—but you miss her.
You
have not commed Christine or stopped in at ops for
another emotionally induced visit. She was wise—the more logical of the
two of you and that would shame you if you thought she would hold it over you,
but you do not think she will. She may think she has changed, but you still see
a caring person.
Although
you know she is not lying in her ex-lover's scent. She moved out of
Cartwright's house. McCoy told you, when you sought him out. Christine was also
wise in that—you needed a friend, not a lover.
A
friend who thinks now is probably not the time to pursue her, not that you
indicated you would.
"You're
both just too damn raw, Spock. Give it some time. I don't want her hurt."
It
is ironic to you that both he and Christine think you will hurt her. And yet
you are the one who is still reeling emotionally from betrayal. She appears to
have moved on.
Although
moving out and moving on are two different things. But you suspect the latter
is helped by the former. This was your apartment to begin with; Valeris moved
in with you. It would be illogical to move simply to flee unpleasant
associations even if it might help you turn your life—and
emotions—in a more positive direction.
You
hear the chime that means someone is at the door. You expect no one and are not
dressed, so you ignore it.
If
it is Starfleet security, they can break in if they wish to resume questioning.
The
chime continues to go off and you feel anger fill you. Is it not apparent you
are not here? Or at least, not interested in answering?
Suddenly
your intercom buzzes, and Christine's voice fills your room. "I know
you're in there. I need to talk to you. I can use my medical override, but I'd
rather not."
You
tell the door to let her in. Let her come to you if she is so intent on
conversation.
A
moment later you hear her footsteps on the wooden floor. She is not sure where
you are and has never been here; you are not helping her find you.
But
it is not a large apartment and she does eventually find you.
"Something
wrong with your legs?" She sounds...angry. Then she tosses a padd to you.
"You never saw this, understand? I never showed you this."
You
decide to see what it is before answering. You open the message she has queued
and see—
"I
thought you needed closure. I know I did. I'm—I'm sorry, Spock. I know
you loved her."
Valeris
and Cartwright lie on slabs. There does not appear to be a mark on Cartwright
but his head is at an angle that indicates a broken neck. Valeris's throat is
cut and there is blood on her right hand and forearm.
"She
killed him, then herself."
You
nod. It is the logical escape from an inescapable prison.
"I
need the padd back. I can't let you keep the picture. I'm sorry." She
looks down. "Do you want a moment—in private with
it—her?"
You
hand it back to her. "No need. Valeris has been dead to me since her role
in the conspiracy was made clear. This is just a formality."
"That's
a swell attitude, but it's also a lie." She gestures toward the bed.
"Have you washed them? When Roger disappeared I kept the sheets on until I
couldn't smell him anymore. Then I put them in a box and stored them on a high
shelf. Couldn't bring myself to throw them away. She's not dead to you, Spock.
She's got you by the throat." She looks down at the padd.
"You
do not seem similarly afflicted."
"I
loved you. I tried to love him. There's a difference." She turns and heads
for the door.
"Christine."
She
stops but doesn't turn.
"Thank
you."
"You're
welcome." And then she is gone.
The
image of Valeris's corpse is burned into your brain. You close your eyes and let
yourself sigh, a long, human sigh.
Christine
is not wrong that you feel this pain—that Valeris is not dead to you. You
thought you had found your life mate.
You
were wrong.
Her:
The
first thing you think of when you wake is Spock's face, how it looked when you
told him his love was dead. You were angry when you went to him. Angry at him
for not picking you in the first place. Angry at him for listening to you when
you sent him away. Angry at him for still being so clearly in love with
Valeris.
So
you went to him and hurt him. If Starfleet security finds out you shared
restricted information they will finally have something to grill you on.
You
aren't this person. You aren't petty and cruel.
But
you were. Yesterday you were.
You're
quick to snap at people once you get to ops. Your deputy starts coming in for
things your team members would normally ask directly. You're being that big a
bitch.
At
lunchtime, Starfleet releases the information that Cartwright and Valeris are
dead. You hear murmuring in the bay so you check the comms
to make sure it's relatively quiet and walk out.
The
room goes silent.
You
walk to the party cabinet, open the locked shelf and drag out three bottles of
twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig. "Could someone grab the glasses?"
Your
deputy rushes to help you. You pour as he lays out the glasses.
"We've
never talked about Cartwright. Not formally. I know many of you never knew him
as head of ops, but a lot of us did. So we're going to send him off. The way we'd
send off any lost member of our family. Anyone who has a problem with that can
leave; I promise there will be no judgment."
No
one gets up and drinks are passed down the line and around the room.
You
hold up your glass. "It's tradition for the person who knew the deceased
best to talk. I think you all know I lived with him. That should mean I knew
him best, but I didn't. I never saw this, and I've sat many a night trying to
figure out what I missed."
You
hear murmurs of "Me, too" and "It wasn't your fault."
"Maybe
he was just that good at hiding stuff. And at lying. At the end of the day, he
was a goddamned traitor. But he taught me everything I know about working here,
about how to run this place—hopefully in a better way than I've been
doing this morning. I'm sorry I've made myself unapproachable today."
More
murmurs: "Totally understandable" and "It's okay" and even
a "We love you."
"I
cared for him. He was my mentor. Ultimately he betrayed everything I believed
in and almost got friends of mine killed in the very place he died. So, to
Cartwright: the enigma, the asshole, the corpse." You sip and the others
follow suit. "And to Cartwright: the good man, the honorable man, the one
I loved." You drink because even if you weren't in love with him, you did
love him.
The
others drink too.
Your
deputy goes next. He knew Cartwright nearly as well as you did. His words
aren't that different than yours. None of you can figure out how a good man
went so wrong.
You
pass the bottles around so people can refill as they toast, but less people
than normal speak and it seems no one is going to get very drunk. Which is good
because you haven't checked the antitox stash in a
while, although people here usually keep it ready to go.
You
look around the room, waiting to see if anyone else wants to go. Before the
silence can get uncomfortable, you pour a new glass and walk it to the front,
to the ledge where another glass sits, the whisky nearly gone now. The person
who placed it there will remove it without comment once it's empty.
As
you set it down, you say: "Admiral Cartwright: you will always be ops even
if your path took you places no one should travel. Once ops, always ops."
Your
team's voice is strong when they echo back: "Once ops, always ops."
You
decide not to tell them this tradition doesn't go back as far as they think.
Cartwright started it, but said it was from the early days. He cared so much
about his people, about making you all the best team possible. That was the
kind of man he was.
But
a traitor was also the kind of man he was.
You
pour yourself more of the Scotch and gesture for people to enjoy it rather than
putting it back. You think they need it.
Your
deputy looks concerned, like he might follow you into your office and want you to
talk to him about your feelings, so you wave him off. You need some space and
he's too good at reading you. He nods and goes back to his office.
You
sip, wondering what kind of goodbye Spock will give Valeris.
Him:
You
stand at the spot on Command grounds where you've been told Starfleet intends
to put up Jim's memorial. It's too soon for there to be anything constructed,
but it's the closest thing you have to a grave for him.
Ripped
from you—both of them have been. Jim by that ribbon of energy, Valeris by
her own hand—figuratively and literally. There is a bench near the spot
and you sit and wonder at your inability to...weather this. It is illogical to
be so mired in emotion.
It
is no doubt the human side of you.
But
you feel immediately sorry for thinking that. Jim was human and he moved on.
Tragedy after tragedy and he moved on. Or he found a way to make it right. You
are doing neither.
You
hear steps coming and steeple your fingers, staring down at them as if you are
in a deep Vulcan meditation, but the person doesn't go by you, they sit next to
you.
You
smell Christine's perfume, then the familiar aroma of Scotch, and it makes you
miss Jim all the more.
"I'm
sorry, Spock. I think—I think I wanted to hurt you when I showed you that
padd yesterday."
"I
would not have wanted to hear the news for the first time in an all-hands
announcement. Whatever your motives, I am grateful that you told me." You
look over at her. "You have been drinking on duty?"
She
smiles but you can't tell what emotion prompts the expression. "We have a
tradition. A ritual of sorts. For ops officers who die. Once ops, always
ops." She suddenly slides closer until she is almost against you, her hand
finding yours in a way that your robe will hide the contact. "I'm so angry
at him."
And
you feel the anger. You feel the hurt and the sadness but not as much grief for
him as you expect. It is possible she is angry at Cartwright for what he stood
for her and what his actions have done to those memories—and her own
career—and not because she loved him.
It
is something you do not expect from her. It does you no credit but you have
always held her in your mind as someone whose affection was guaranteed.
Your...fallback, Jim would have deemed her.
Jim,
who often told you that you should have pursued her. That Cartwright was a
lucky man. You assumed that meant she had transferred her love to him. But she
had not. Jim had not understood.
Just
as he had not understood your attraction to Valeris. And he was right. You
should have listened to him.
You
sigh. Christine holds your hand more tightly.
"You're
floundering, Spock, aren't you?"
"I
am." It is not in your nature to admit weakness with such ease. But the
way she is holding your hand, the...love and concern you feel coming off her
for you, make you want to be open. "It is not just about Valeris. It is
about Jim, too."
"Of
course it is. Why do you think I came to this spot?"
You
settle for nodding, unsure what to say.
"Do
you think he would have liked it here? It's so quiet and he wasn't."
"He
was, actually. He worked hard to be outgoing, to be caring and warm and
present. But he needed time alone."
"To
recharge?"
"Yes."
"I
never realized that. I thought he was one of those extroverts who just sucked
strength from a crowd and pitied poor introverts like you and I."
"It
was a common misconception. Just as many thought him shallow but he was quite
complicated."
"That
I got." She smiles and it's a more genuine expression.
You
feel something in you calming. Talking about your friend while this woman
you've never wanted is touching you, is sending you support in so many
ways—ways she may not even be aware of—is helping you.
"I
never knew him as much as I would have liked." She leans back and closes
her eyes and you study her.
She
has never been a beauty, but she has appeal and you were never unmoved by her.
You wanted her when the burning was upon you that first time; you think she has
no idea how close you came to taking what you wanted.
She
laughs softly and is watching you watching her, and then she shakes her hand
and you realize you are gripping her quite tightly. "Big thoughts?"
"I
am assessing you." You are relatively certain this is a terrible thing to
say to a human female.
But
she only smiles. "What's the criteria? Face? Boobs? Fertility factor? Or
is this not an attractiveness thing? Are you assessing my mind or my command
presence?" She lets go of your hand and you realize she probably does not
want you to be able to read her reactions. But she does not move away and you
do not tell her to give you space.
You...enjoy
how close she is sitting. "I should have chosen you."
Again
the strange laugh. "You would never have chosen me, Spock. Not when a full
Vulcan wanted you."
You
nod to show her she is right.
"But
I'd have been better to you than she was. I wouldn't have betrayed you for some
grand conspiracy. So yeah, you should have chosen me, you dimwit." Her
tone is light; her expression is not.
You
want to pull her to you. Her energy, even if it is somewhat chaotic, calls to
you. You want to take her home and undress her and push her onto your bed and
let her body and her perfume and the scent of her shampoo erase the last
vestiges of Valeris from your bedroom.
She
is watching you as if she knows what you are thinking.
"I
wish to spend time with you. But I cannot guarantee I will not hurt you."
She
takes a deep breath, seems to be considering, but then she smiles, and you can
tell by the smile what her answer will be.
"No,"
she says as she stands. "Come to me when you absolutely will not hurt
me."
"Can
anyone promise that?"
"Of
course they can't. But they can at least start out thinking they won't. Your
way: we're half over before we've even started."
She
leans down and kisses you, and you should push her away because this is not
done—even if this is a quiet path, someone might come—but the
slight taste of whisky and the feel of her lips is soothing. "I love
you," she whispers as she pulls away.
Then
she is gone and you are left staring at ground that will mean nothing until
someone breaks it.
Her:
You
look at the invitation that's arrived by courier. It's on a substance that
mimics old-fashioned parchment and the handwriting is exquisite. You are cordially
invited to attend a poetry reading at the Vulcan embassy in two days. Attire:
black tie.
You
snap a still of it and send a personal comm to Spock
that says, "Is this your idea?"
A
response comes quickly. "No."
You
laugh, because a human would have elaborated. "Your mother?"
"Undoubtedly."
Again
you smile. "Should I go?"
You
expect an "Up to you" kind of response but all that shows up on your
screen is "Yes."
"Will
you be there?"
Again
no games. Just: "Yes."
You
decide you don't want to play games either. "Then I'll see you
there."
"Excellent"
appears on your comm screen.
You
go to your closet and assess your formal wear. Spock has seen you in none of
it. Buying a new dress is a waste of credits, especially when you love the
dresses you have.
You
go to your favorite boutique anyway. The dress you buy is navy and hugs you in
the right places. It's not immodest but it shows enough skin to be interesting.
You resist buying new shoes to go with it. There should be a limit to how much
trouble you go to simply to impress a man who's already said he's interested.
Then
again, he's interested in you as a concept. You'd like to make him interested
in you as you.
You
buy the shoes, too.
Work
keeps you too busy to obsess much more over it. The night of the reading you
call a flitter for the ride to the embassy, and see Amanda grin as you walk in.
She and Sarek are holding court near the entrance so you wait your turn, then
roll your eyes at her after you give Sarek a more respectful greeting. "I
don't remember getting invites when Valeris was in the picture."
She
laughs. "My dear, if I can help my son find a better mate than that
bi—"
"My
wife." Sarek's rebuke is gentle, and you smile.
"That
woman, then I will. And you look stunning. Doesn't she look stunning, my
husband."
He
has the look of a man stuck between wanting to agree with his wife but wary of
admiring another woman. You take pity on him and say, "I'm sure he'll
agree with whatever you say, Amanda. Happy wife, happy life."
He
looks grateful and says, "Indeed." But then he says softly, "If
my son fails to appreciate you, he is a fool."
You
roll your eyes at him this time. Then you move on, letting others get their
time with the two.
Spock
comes in a few minutes after you do. He gives his parents a respectful nod but
doesn't stop to talk to them, making a beeline for you. "Christine."
"Spock."
He
stands so close to you the message he is sending to any other interested
parties is that you're with him—not that you think there are any other
interested parties at this event.
"Feeling
territorial tonight?"
"Yes."
You
smile. "You're just not one to waste words, are you?"
"Should
I? Would you prefer some elaborate courtship? I am sure Leonard could give me
instructions."
"I
told you I wasn't interested in you."
"More
accurately, you told me that my attitude toward wooing you needed
adjustment."
You
laugh, because that's an excellent summation.
He
drops his voice even lower. "And you told me you love me. Which is
encouraging."
"When
haven't I loved you, Spock? It's just what you'd expect, isn't it?"
"What
I expected was for you to say yes. You have not said that. I am...surprised at
how much work it will apparently take to..."
"To
land me? Jesus, Spock." But you're laughing because he looks so peeved and
sincere all at once. "So me saying that I love you gave you hope there
might be some positive outcome to all this work?"
"You
agreeing to come here is also an encouraging sign."
"I
might just like poetry."
"Do
you like it?"
"Yes."
His
eyes are shining. "Did you come solely for that?"
"Maybe."
You grin.
He
gives you a slow once-over that makes you shiver. "That dress is new, is
it not?"
You
shrug.
"I
doubt you would buy it if you were simply here for poetry."
"Maybe
I had nothing else to wear."
"In
the position you are in, I would expect attendance at receptions and ceremonies
to be a fairly common event. I imagine you have a closet full of dress uniforms
and civilian formal wear."
"You
imagine correctly." You stop short of asking him what else he might
imagine in your wardrobe. "Do you like the dress?"
"I
admire how you look in it."
"Wow.
You're pulling out all the stops. Did your mom teach you that one?"
He
looks very pleased with himself. "No. I often heard Jim phrase it that
way."
"Getting
tips from the great Kirk. Points for paying attention."
He
nods.
You
realize that for the first time since the news about the conspiracy broke,
you're actually having fun. You think by the look on his face, that he is too.
You smile wider and his expression turns tender. For a moment, you're lost, and
you think if he asked you to, you'd go anywhere he wanted, let him do anything
he wanted. Fortunately, a soft chime sounds and he gestures for you to come
with him, into a large room where chairs have been set up.
They're
the kind you hate. Flimsy and temporary. They get uncomfortable quickly. But he
leads you to the back of the room, where the furniture that's probably normally
in this room has been pushed. He chooses a settee for the two of you. It's more
comfortable than it appears at first glance and you smile at him. "Good
choice."
"The
reading may be lengthy. What logic is there in discomfort?"
"Especially
when discomfort can actually be counterproductive to polite listening. What
with the shifting and all."
"Precisely."
You
lean in, aware that there are keen ears on the Vulcans filing in so you need to
talk more softly than normal. "You also get to sit closer to me
here."
"Indeed.
An additional benefit." He puts his hand on the cushion, then moves his
robe to cover it, just as it was on the bench. "Moreover, there is no one
behind us."
"Is
that your subtle way of saying you want to hold hands?"
His
lips tick up ever so slightly.
"Well,
who am I to deny you?" You reach for his hand, having fun being sneaky as
you slide your fingers over his, rubbing gently.
He
closes his eyes for a moment, then turns to you. His expression is serious.
"I will endeavor not to hurt you."
"You're
getting the hang of this." You start to pull your hand away, but he turns
his so you are palm to palm, then he tightens his grip until you abandon the
idea of getting away from him. "Big, big points, Spock."
He
lets a short squeeze be your answer, then turns his attention to the person
getting up on the small stage that's been set up at the other end of the room.
He looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but as Amanda comes in, she
glances over and is obviously biting back a smile before taking her seat.
"She
approves of you," he murmurs.
"So
does your dad."
"I
am well aware of that." He gives you a look that says this might not be a
point in your favor.
You
decide you don't like that, and let your eyebrows go up and start to slide your
hand away, but he tightens his grip again until you smile and stop.
"Message
received?" you ask.
"With
startling clarity."
Him:
You
are having a difficult time paying attention to the poetry reading. The feel of
Christine's hand, so much cooler than yours, rubbing gently against you in a
way you do not think she is aware she is doing, is...arousing.
You
know it is a sign of how emotionally compromised you are that you are not only
allowing Christine to do this but have encouraged her to do it. You cannot
imagine Valeris ever holding your hand this way and it pleases you to have
this, something she can never taint.
Christine
shifts and she eases her hand away from yours. You feel strangely bereft and
glance at her. She's facing front, appears rapt, but now you think she is fully
aware of the effect she was having on you—and has chosen to take it away.
You
appreciate her tactics. It is a basic tenet of negotiations that the harder one
works for something, the more one will value it. You are surprised she would
use this on you, but perhaps giving a taste and then withholding something
desired is also useful in emergency operations.
Or
perhaps your father has been mentoring her. She was quick to leap to his
defense. But it is hard for you to imagine him conspiring with Christine on
this. Not because he would refuse her his assistance, but because you think you
would not merit such behavior on his part.
You
are simply not that interesting to him. Not since you made it clear you would
never follow his blueprint for your life.
You
thought he would approve of Valeris. She was everything T'Pring would have been
without the duplicity—or so you thought. You close your eyes, trying to
will both of them away. Vulcan females have done nothing but hurt you. Perhaps
it is why your father chose a human wife after his unpleasant union with Sybok's mother.
It
is no doubt why you have turned to Christine.
Although
she has not made being with her easy. You are grateful to your mother for
engineering this; you would not have thought to invite her to this.
She
looks over at you and smiles in a way that makes you wish you could lead her
upstairs to one of the guest rooms and remove the lovely dress she has bought
to please you and take her.
And
you think she knows it. It is why she is not holding your hand. She has reset
the table.
She
does not plan to be used. You feel disappointment, but also new respect for
her. This is unexpected and you pride yourself on seeing all the possible
options in a scenario.
Unless,
apparently, a Vulcan female is involved.
There
is restrained applause and you realize the current poet has finished. Is there
another? You glanced at the program but did not pay the kind of attention you
normally would have.
You
were distracted. Christine distracted you.
You
reach over and take the program from her lap, checking it. She turns and you
pretend not to notice that she is watching you. Finally, you set it back on her
lap and meet her eyes.
Her
are playful, but they turn sensual the longer you look at her. You think she is
enjoying this. But as her pupils dilate, you also think she is not unaffected.
Is
it using if you both want it this badly?
When
the last poet concludes, you urge her up and lead her to the stairs.
No
one else is filing out—was there a question and answer period? You do not
remember and you do not care.
She
laughs softly. "You really think now is a good time to show me your
etchings?"
"Please.
We do not have to— I merely want to—" You stop. You know what
you want but a Vulcan in control would not need it this much.
"Come
on." She grabs your hand long enough to get you going and then lets go.
You
lead her to your favorite of the rooms, check to make sure no one is currently
staying in it, and then close the door, pushing her up against it.
She
smiles but makes no move. "What now, sailor?"
"You
joke." You press against her, your nose against the skin of her neck,
learning her scent.
She
moans and you know you are smiling.
"Are
you joking now?" you ask as you let your lips touch down on her throat,
kissing around to her ear, turning her so she has to brace herself against the
door as you kiss the back of her neck.
She
suddenly struggles and you let go of her. She is angry; you can see it and you
can feel it as you touch her hand to try to calm her.
"Christine,
what did I do?"
"Why
don't you just close the drapes? I'm sure they have black-out panels. And hey,
turn the lights off, too. Then it'll be so much easier for you to pretend I'm
her."
You
shake your head in a way you hope means you have no idea what she's saying.
"If
you really want someone you don't even have to look at, get a prostitute.
Better yet, get a shape-shifting one and you can have your traitor back."
She pushes you off her, but you hold the door shut so she can't leave.
"I
do not understand."
"No
shit, Spock." She slips around you and goes into the bathroom, and you
hear her sniff. She is crying?
You
replay what you did, how you turned her, what her view was compared to yours
and you close your eyes and exhale softly—did she really think you did
not want to look at her?
She
has not shut the door of the bathroom so you go in, turning the lights on full,
and pull her to you, then turn her, so she is staring in the mirror with you
behind her. Then you whisper, "I am sorry. I did not think of the message
that might send. Now you can see what I am looking at."
You
kiss the back of her neck again, pulling her more tightly against you, and you
lean in so that you can watch her in the mirror, so you can meet her eyes.
"I see no one but you."
She
stares at you angrily but then it fades, then she gives in and you feel her
arousal through her skin as she holds on to your hands, as she pulls them
higher, off her stomach and under her breasts.
She
will give you anything. You can feel that.
But
just moments ago, she thought you wanted a stand-in for Valeris.
And
you can't say with a hundred percent certainty that some part of you did not.
Even if right now, you just want to please this woman who is leaning back so
languidly in your arms.
You
turn her, kissing her as you push her out of the bathroom and to the bed, as
you urge her to lie back, as you ease her dress up and pull down her underwear
and kiss your way up. As you taste her. As you lick and suck and she begins to
buck under your mouth.
You
pull back just before it is too late, and she moans, and you murmur, "Who
am I with, Christine?"
"I
don't fucking care. Just finish me off."
You
can feel the smile she causes and don't fight it. Although you think that while
she might mean the words at this moment, she will come to regret them over
time. "Who am I with?" You raise your head and wait for her to do the
same, to meet your eyes, to say, "Me."
Then
she laughs and says, "For the love of God, Spock. Finish it."
You
go back to what you were doing, building her up, but just before she is ready,
you stop again.
"Damn
you."
You
ease away. "I do not wish to do this here. My place or yours. But not
here."
"Too
embarrassed to have me seen by all your Vulcan friends?" Her smile is
uncertain.
"No,
I wish to walk naked to the kitchen if I get thirsty. That will
be...problematic if we stay here."
She
laughs, as you intended her to, and you ease her underwear back up. You lean
in, kissing softly, in a way intended to arouse, not ease the tension.
"You're
really not going to finish this?"
"I
will finish it when we are in one of our apartments."
"Mine
is closer."
"Then
we will go there." You pull out your personal communicator and order a
flitter. Then you go back to touching her, to sucking gently through the silky
fabric of her underwear, making her writhe.
Her
pupils are so dilated that there is very little blue showing in her eyes when
you pull her to her feet. She is breathing hard and whispers,
"Please."
You
kiss her and she tries to grind against you, to bring herself to completion and
you pull away and tell her, "No. You must wait."
You
and Valeris never played games like this. But it feels right with Christine.
You want to make her wait, and you will touch her hand during the flitter ride so
you can feel what she is feeling, and when you get to her apartment, you will
finish it. You want to lean her against the wall of her apartment near her
front door and prop her leg over your shoulder, and suck her until she cries
out. You want her to be heard from the hallway.
You
want evidence that you move her, that she loves and wants you. And you know she
will give it to you because she does love and want you. She is practically
screaming it each time your skin touches hers.
She
tries to grind against you a second time, and you turn her, biting down gently
on her neck, sucking as you do it, knowing there will be a mark come morning.
Liking
that you will have marked her.
You
never marked Valeris.
"You
must wait, Christine."
She
moans but she doesn't try to take care of herself again.
Her:
You
somehow follow Spock down the stairs after he runs his hand down your dress to
smooth it and fixes a stray tendril of your hair in a sweet way that only makes
you want him more.
"I
can't say goodbye to your parents in this state."
"Wave
when we get to the door."
"That's
so rude."
"I
believe they will understand."
You
laugh. "Did they do that to you? Wave before they went into their room,
like you shouldn't touch your mom with those telepathic hands when they were in
that state?"
"Christine,
please, I do not want to speak of my parents having sex."
"Oh,
fine." The two of you are almost to the door and you turn, spot Amanda
watching you leave, and give her a smile and a wave.
She
lifts her hand and her smile is knowing.
"Oh,
God, that's so embarrassing. Your mother isn't fooled."
"I
did not expect her to be." He urges you into a flitter you didn't even
know he'd called.
"Wow,
can you multitask or what?" As he slides in next to you, you give the
flitter your address, then once you're safely out of range of the embassy, you
lean against him, put your lips on his ear, and whisper, "Please?"
You slowly let your legs open.
"Wait,"
he says as he eases away. Then he turns and there is such a lightness in his
eyes that you just want to kiss him.
You
resist the urge but you murmur, "This is so fun."
"It
is," he says, surprising you—not that he's having fun, but that he's
admitting it so easily.
"Did
you and she do things like this?" This has to be asked. Now, not later,
when you're too far into it and thinking it's for you alone but maybe being
wrong about that.
"Never.
Did you know her?"
"Not
well. She stopped into ops a few times to talk to Cartwright but he wasn't in a
rush to introduce us. I thought he was sparing me because he knew what you
meant to me. Now, I'm not sure—maybe they were already conspiring?"
"Perhaps
they were. I can say with assurance that she would not have enjoyed this."
He cocks his head as if assessing the statement. "Actually, I think it is
more that I would not have enjoyed doing this with her. I would have
felt..."
"Vulnerable?"
He
nods. "And judged. Will you judge me?"
"I
will if you make me wait much longer." You laugh at his expression.
"Please, Spock. The flitter computer won't tell." It's programmed to
be very tolerant, but maybe that's not the thing to say at this moment. Spock
doesn't need to be thinking about you and other men.
Although
he seems to be. "Did you and Cartwright do this sort of thing?"
"He
didn't have your magic telepathy to let him know where I was."
He
looks pleased to hear that. "But...games?"
"I
guess. But..." You sigh. "Spock, I settled for him, you know? I loved
him dearly as a friend and eventually, when it was clear you and Valeris were
in for the long haul, I let him in the way he wanted. But..." You reach
for his hand and meet his eyes. "Can you feel the anticipation?"
He
nods.
"Can
you feel the love?"
He
nods again.
"Let's
just say I'm glad he wasn't telepathic because he wouldn't have felt this level
of either."
He
shocks you when he cups your cheek, his touch so gentle. "I am sorry. And
I am also...glad."
You
meet his eyes and he frowns, and you know he can feel how your thoughts have
turned your mood darker, so you just ask: "Are you settling for me? The
way I did with him? Was she your one true love, Spock?"
"No,
she was my misguided attempt to be more Vulcan than I am, to find something
that T'Pring took from me. I thought Valeris respected me. As a Vulcan. As a
logical being. As myself."
"She
probably did."
"One
does not betray a person one respects."
You
think about that. Because it would mean Roger didn't respect you. Then again,
that fact was already confirmed when he created something that looked nothing
like you to be his little mechanical geisha. "Okay, maybe."
"I
am not settling." He pulls you closer and eases his hand up your dress and
under your panties. "You were in a better state before our discussion. Perhaps
talking, at this moment, is overrated?"
You
laugh and make noises of general agreement.
"You
are sure the flitter protocols are tolerant of this kind of behavior?"
"Yes.
Well, unless some entrepreneurial type is using flitter vids to blackmail people."
"I
think we are safe. I will be careful not to show anything." And then he's
touching you again, and you're moaning, and just before you get there—he
stops again.
"Spock.
God. Damn. It." You grind against his hand, but he pulls it away, and waits
until you are watching before he puts his finger in his mouth and sucks on it.
You
groan.
He
almost smiles. "I think you are now in a much better frame of mind."
Him:
You
do not think a flitter ride has ever taken longer. Christine is pressed against
you, her fingers tapping on the top of your hand, and her need pulses at you
with each moment of contact.
You
lean into her, your lips grazing her ear for a moment, inhaling deeply, the
combination of her perfume and natural scent intoxicating. You don't think a
woman has ever been so...yours before. Ironic, for all that Vulcan mating
customs tend toward possession.
The
flitter finally pulls over and she slips out. You follow, enjoying the way her
dress moves as she walks, what parts of her it accentuates. She leads you into
her building and to the elevator. She tries to kiss you but you murmur,
"Wait," as you nip her earlobe.
She
moans and your body reacts to the sound; you hope that no one else needs the
elevator. A robe is more forgiving than pants, but it won't hide everything.
She
takes your hand, need pulsing into your skin as she pulls you down the corridor
to a corner unit, palms open the door, and lets you push her against the wall
once you're inside. You have her dress off in mere moments, her undergarments
follow and you stop and admire what is now yours.
You
kiss her, lips moving down, exploring her body, feeling her trying to pull you
somewhere—the bedroom, no doubt—but you say, "No, here."
And then you kneel and ease her leg over your shoulder, finding her with your
tongue, touching as you go, inside her, one finger, then two.
She
is past the point of stopping and you take her as far as you can and then enjoy
the feeling of her pleasure.
She
is not quiet. This pleases you, too.
But
then, as she rests against you, you feel something else, new emotions flooding
in.
Regret.
Shame.
You
ease her off you and stand, pulling her to you so you can study her. "What
is it?"
"It's
okay. That was really good." She does not meet your eyes.
"You
regret this?"
"No
one could regret that, Spock. It was...it was amazing." She still will not
meet your eyes.
"Then
what? Is it that I am not Admiral Cartwright?" You are hurt now and you
let go of her. What is there to be ashamed of?
"Spock,
for God's sake. I'm naked. I'm naked and I'm letting you do this to me and,
okay it's the best orgasm I've ever had, but it's our first goddamned date.
What am I doing? What are you going to think of me?"
You
move back to her. "We have known each other a long time."
"I
know."
"I
wanted to make love to you during the Pon Farr."
Technically you would have been incapable of making love, but you phrase it the
way you think she needs to hear it.
"So
we're counting that as a first date? You throwing soup and then trying to
seduce me?" She glares at you. "Why do you think I said we were bound
for Vulcan? You think I didn't know what you wanted from me that day in your
quarters?"
You
smile, a small one but a real one, and you can see she is surprised.
"Spock,
this isn't the...?" She is reaching for something in her closet and you
suppose it is her med bag, so before she can pull out a scanner, you say,
"It is not the Pon Farr, Christine."
"Okay."
She is trying to cover up, so you pull your robe off and put it on her.
"Great,
now you're naked on our first date."
"I
am not naked; I have on undergarments." You smooth her hair back where the
robe mussed it. "We also shared consciousness."
"Still
not a date. And don't even think of suggesting that the kiss forced on us by
the Platonians counts as anything. You weren't even
trying."
You
pull her to you and kiss her gently. "I think you know me well enough to
understand I am not given to promiscuity." You decide to take her hair
down as you talk. "I know you well enough to say the same thing. You did
stop me that day in my quarters. You could have had me, but you stopped
it."
"I
should have stopped this."
"Why?
You have felt isolated since Khitomer, have you not?" You toss the clips
that have held her hair up into a bowl by the door and fluff her hair. It falls
in waves just past her shoulders. "I have, too. But now I do
not—because of you—and I would like more of this closeness."
"Of
course you would. You haven't come yet."
"Yes,
that is most disagreeable." You kiss her again and feel the insecurity
rising off her. "I cannot tell you that I love you, Christine. Not because
I cannot love, but because I have never let myself know you well enough to
determine if the regard I do feel would turn into that."
"You
loved Valeris."
"I
did. I may always to some extent. Just as you do Roger. Did that die with
him?"
"No."
"If
we meld, I can show you that I want to be here because I want to be with you. I
can show you that this is not a case of anyone will do and I will pretend she
is Valeris." You run your fingers along the meld point. "I have not
melded with anyone since the one I forced on Valeris."
"But
you were used to melding with her, right?"
"No,
she told me she did not like to meld. Some Vulcans do not. It is a personal
preference whether it will be used beyond the times prescribed by ritual."
"So
you guys never...?"
"Only
the one time. I understood immediately when I was in her mind. What she could
hide from a touch telepath, she could not hide from a full meld. I was often
dissatisfied because she continually found reasons to postpone our bonding.
That should have been a warning sign to me, I suppose, but she...played
me." You feel Christine relaxing as you speak. You think that not hiding
what you feel about Valeris is actually soothing to her. She fears what you
won't say far more than what you will.
You
realize you are shivering. "May we get in your bed? I am cold."
She
grins. "That'll teach you to be gallant. Don't give your robe up."
"I
will not. In the future." You like the way she smiles, and the way her
mood lifts at your words. She wants you to have a future with her.
You
want that, too. Not just for tonight. But more nights. And days.
She
pulls you to the bedroom and slips out of your robe then says, "Hey,"
as you move to get into her bed. Laughing, she pulls off your undergarments.
"No undies for me, none for you."
You
pull her down with you onto the bed, rolling so she is beneath you.
"Whether or not you want to try the meld, know this. Since I walked into
the embassy and saw you, I have been fully focused on you. I have not once
thought about how I could have saved Jim. My thoughts of Valeris have been
comparisons to how you make me feel—to what you let me do."
You
feel embarrassment rising in her and roll to your side, pulling her with you.
"No. You are feeling uncomfortable and you should not. I enjoy how free
you are—the way I feel when you let me be free. With her, nothing was
real, even if I did not know it at the time."
"And
she controlled you." She snuggles into you. "So did you need to control me the way you just
did."
"Perhaps
this time I did. Were I to repeat it, it would be because I—and
you—enjoyed it immensely."
"I
won't lie about that."
"You
do not tend to lie at all, Christine. Do you?"
She
seems to think about that. "No, I guess I don't. I mean there are things I
can't talk about."
"That
is different. You have been uncomfortably blunt at times. But I appreciate
that. I know where you stand. I do not have to wonder what I'm missing."
She
reaches down, her hand slipping along your skin until she grasps and begins to
stroke you. "You're not missing anything. Other than an orgasm."
"Other
than that." You kiss her as she controls you. Then you let her go as she
kisses her way down, as she takes you in her mouth— You are not quiet. It
startles you how much you let go.
She
comes up laughing. "Wow, are you always so vocal?"
You
cannot form words so you just shake your head.
"I'll
take that as a compliment."
You
nod.
"Once
you've recovered, can we do the meld?"
You
nod and pull her to you, stroking her hair. "Fun," you manage to get
out.
"This
is fun? I'm fun?" She laughs as you kiss her and says against your mouth,
"You're fun?"
You
manage to grunt out an "Mmm hmmm" then you
relax into her, enjoying the way she runs her fingers so lightly over your
skin, causing an almost shivering reaction. Enjoying the way her eyes go soft
as she smiles at you.
You
wish you could tell her you love her, but you know she won't want you to say it
unless it's true.
Her:
You
are almost asleep, curled against Spock, when he shifts and says, "You are
relaxed. And, I think, feeling more positive about this."
You
look up, smiling as he kisses you. "I'm not feeling much of
anything—you caught me just in time."
"I
could feel you drifting. It was pleasant." He strokes back your hair.
"Are you ready?"
You
nod and pull him down, kissing him gently. "Thank you for this."
"It
is no hardship."
"I
should just have faith."
"Why?
We both did with our previous partners and look where it got us."
"True."
You pull him down again. "Do you think, before we do the meld that maybe,
we could do this?" You pull him onto you, wrapping your legs around him,
feeling parts of him coming alive as you rub against him. "Please?"
you ask, as if he is going to say no, when his eyes are closed and he is
breathing in the stuttering way you are coming to associate with pleasure.
"If.
You. Insist." He pushes into you and moves your legs higher, thrusting
gently, then less so.
"Harder."
You could never get Cartwright to just let go. Maybe he was afraid that if he
did, secrets would follow. "Spock, harder."
He
nods, holding on tightly to your arms, and you can see he is gauging how hard
to go by your reaction.
"Let
go."
He
goes harder but doesn't lose himself in it as he moves in a way you love, and
he reaches between you and—
God.
Yes. You're loud as you come and he kisses you to cut off the sound. He slows
but you whisper, "Let go. I'll tell you if it's too much. Even if you get
lost and can't tell, I'll tell you."
He
meets your eyes, as if he's unsure whether this is all right. Finally, he nods
and begins to go harder and faster and when it gets too much you whisper,
"Less" and he slows until you say, "There, yes, go."
He
comes much more quietly this time, but you think he's deliberately holding it
in, as if he's afraid of how loud he might be as he buries his head in your
neck, moaning into your skin.
He
rolls off sooner than you expect but pulls you to him, his fingers on the meld
points. "I want you to feel what I do. How...satisfying that was."
The
feeling of him hovering at your mind is strange, and he seems unsure—you
get a sense of Valeris, but not as a rival, just the remnant of what he did to
her—his guilt.
You
reach up and push his fingers more firmly into your skin. "I trust
you," you whisper, and that seems to be what he needs.
He
presses on and says, "This. Feel this."
Around
you is...contentment and release and a deep sense of relief. That you let him
go, that he didn't go too far. You sense that he wanted to hurt
Valeris—to take her and make her pay and you understand that.
But
now, he's letting it go. The feeling of her is fading.
"I
am with you, Christine." He
seems to be sucking up what you're feeling, too, and satisfaction covers his
other feelings. "I want to make you...happy."
And
you sense he does. Even if he's not entirely sure what happy looks like after
so much betrayal.
You
relax into him. "You do make me happy. Even if you did get me to sleep
with you on the first date." You try to laugh into the meld and hear him
exhale sharply, and amusement colors everything. "I like this, Spock. I
like not feeling..." You are unsure how to express what you've been
feeling.
But
you don't need to because he echoes the sentiment back via the meld and sends
you relief and contentment and comfort. "I am as tired of being their
victim as you are. We will move on. Together." He lets go of the meld
points but the resonance remains.
"It
will fade gradually. I could end it more abruptly but I thought it might be
pleasurable for you to know what doing this"—he slides his hand down
your belly, then lower until he finds the spot he's discovered you like the
best—"does to me."
Warring
sensations: pleasure building in your body from his hands but also his own
pleasure, feeling you move against him, watching your chest redden as the
tension grows. You give up and let go and—
"Holy
shit." You realize you almost passed out. "You really never did this
with her? Man, was she dumb."
"Not
if she was trying to hide something. Do you think you could hide how you feel
if you were involved in something that I would not like?"
"I
guess not. It's so...open."
"Yes.
Exactly. And she could not be. Nor, I presume, could Cartwright."
You
nod. "But neither he nor I were psi talented so it wasn't as
apparent." You nuzzle into him. "That makes you a dummy, huh?"
You kiss him to take any sting from the words. "You can be my dummy."
You run your finger gently over his ear tip and see his eyes close. "If
you want?"
"I
would like that."
"Only
minus the dummy part?"
His
lips almost tick up. "Yes." The he yawns and you wonder how long it's
been since he really slept.
"I
knew that." You pull the covers up over you. "Do you have to get up
early tomorrow?"
"No."
"We
could sleep in and order breakfast. This place is like a hotel with room
service and they serve breakfast all day. Just the thing for a busy ops
girl." You're babbling because suddenly you're nervous.
"Most
convenient." He pulls you to him and you struggle for a second to find a
comfortable way to lie, then he moves and you shift, then move again, and you
find it, that indescribable sense of fitting together.
You
fit: this is nice.
Him:
You
wake before Christine does and take in the bedroom you barely paid attention to
last night. It is not overly frilly—in fact you think it may be similar
to visiting officer's quarters. Furnished in a neutral way.
She
lived with Cartwright—almost certainly had to move out when he was
arrested and his assets seized. You see some cartons in the corner, two deep
and three high. Her belongings? The ones she didn't unpack?
There
are a few photos in frames on the dresser. Bottles of perfume on a tray. Art on
the walls but again, it looks like what a hotel might put in. Attractive but
unaffecting.
With
the hours she works, this kind of place no doubt makes sense. But you wonder if
she misses the admiral's house. Jim used to speak of it with envy. Apparently,
it had a wonderful view.
You
were never invited to it. An oversight or just cell members maintaining
operational distance?
She
moves, cuddling into you and you lean in and kiss her.
She
wakes, sighing and then kissing you back. As you pull away, she asks,
"What time is it?"
You
check the chrono. "Seven."
"Mmmm, too early." She curls in against you, but but then pulls back and seems to be studying your face.
"You're not going to fall back to sleep, are you?"
"It
is unlikely."
"What
if I tire you out?" Her eyes are half closing as she says it, so you think
it is an empty promise.
"If
I may use your terminal, I will work while you sleep."
She
studies you and there is something hurt in her eyes. "No, I'll get
up." But her eyes are half lidded.
"You
are tired. Sleep. It is what you wanted."
"And
you'll just work?" She sits up. "Will you still be here when I wake
up again?"
You
feel a surge of frustration—you realize your relationship is new, but
have you given her a reason to think you would simply leave? "Why would I
not be?"
"Well,
you kind of look like you're ready to go."
"I
am not ready to go, but I am ready to get up. I do not need as much
sleep."
She
narrows her eyes, her expression turning less pleasant. "And I guess
neither did Valeris. Match made in heaven but for the whole traitor part."
She slides away from you and gets out of bed, heading into the bathroom and closing
the door—but not slamming it, which you take as a good sign.
"Christine,
I am quite content to let you sleep more."
She
doesn't answer you from the bathroom, but when she comes out, she says, "Spock,
I wanted to sleep late with you, not alone. I can sleep alone without
you." She frowns. "That made no sense." She goes out to the
kitchen. "Do you drink coffee?"
"No."
"Of
course not." There is the kind of soft slamming of utensils that you have learned
with your mother means she is aggravated with your father for something he has
done.
Only—what
have you done? You woke up. You would have liked to make love to her again, but
you clearly have missed your chance to start the day that way.
She
comes in and drops a padd in your lap. "Menu's on there. I have no idea
what you eat for breakfast." Her eyes are steely as she asks, "You do
eat breakfast, right?"
"I
do."
"Well,
yay." Then she's gone.
You
sigh, an audible sigh. You've heard your father make the same sound. Getting
up, you stare at your robe and consider if you should put it on. Christine must
have had a robe hanging in the bathroom, because she is clothed now. You decide
to be bold and walk naked to the kitchen, bringing the padd with you and
setting it down near her.
She's
standing with her back to you, staring at the mug of coffee that is on the
counter.
You
come up behind her, easing her robe open and pulling her against you. You enjoy
how cool she feels to you, how soft her skin is against your hands. "I
have done something wrong and I am sorry."
"No,
you're just being you and I'm being stupid." She leans into you and you
kiss her hair. "I just had this stupid idea about what this morning would
be like."
"And
this is not it?" You let your hand slip down and down and...there.
"Ohhhh. Spock. That's not fair."
"So
you do not like this?" You know she does. You remember from last night and
can feel it now as you touch her. "I should stop, then?"
"I
guess you can keep going. Since you like to do it." She is leaning harder
against you and her breathing is faster.
You
could tease her the way you did last night, but you think something less
controlling is called for, so you send her over as soon as you she is ready,
and she clutches at you, calling your name but not as loudly as last night.
You
wait for her breathing to level out before asking, "Have I disappointed
you, Christine?"
"No.
I just..." She turns and kisses you. "I wanted romance. Maybe that's
not what this is."
"Or
perhaps romance with a Vulcan is not what it would be with a human."
"Sure.
Be logical." She is glaring, but it's not a very severe look, and she
smiles as you move her coffee aside and ease her onto the counter.
"I
would like to do this." You slip into her and moan, closing your eyes as
you murmur. "This is good, Christine. You feel so good to me. To be inside
you is a superb feeling."
Her
answering moan is lovely. She has so many vocalizations during sex. You think
you will enjoy inventorying them.
You
take your time, making sure she climaxes again before you let go, burying your
face in her hair, moaning loudly. As you relax into her, you can feel her mood
lightening, and she plays with your hair in a way that is both sensual and
sweet.
You
move your mouth to her ear and whisper, "I cannot be what I am not,
Christine. I will never be effusive. Nor, unfortunately, a late sleeper. In
fact, this was late for me."
"I
know. I'm sorry."
"But
I am intensely interested in you. You...this. Us. It is good. It makes me feel
good. And I can tell that it makes you feel good as well."
"It
does." She pulls back and strokes your face. "Ignore me when I'm pissy."
"I
cannot. I do not want you to think I am indifferent when I hurt you."
"You
didn't hurt me. I hurt me. I wanted...too much."
"You
want to feel safe—right now, you are off balance." And unsure, but
you decide not to add that since it might sound overly critical. "We will
find a rhythm. This is our first day as a couple."
You
feel a spark of joy in her. Such a simple phrase—such easy truth—to
make her so happy. You decide to try to do better. "You are mine."
Some
women would not like it—there are days you imagine she will not like it.
But she is feeling tentative about you right now, and you feel happiness rising
in her at your words.
She
kisses you for a long time, sweet, glancing kisses, her lips so soft against
yours. Her smile is a gentle one when she finally pulls away. "Are you
hungry?"
"I
am. We did not eat last night."
"We
didn't, did we? No wonder you woke up. Wow, I'm a shitty girlfriend and a
shitty hostess."
"You
are neither." And you find it greatly encouraging that she just referred
to herself as your girlfriend.
"What
do you want to eat?"
"Normally
I eat fruit and oatmeal, but I am quite hungry this morning." You pull her
back for another kiss—it is not just food you are hungry for.
She
grabs the padd and smiling says, "May I take your order, sir?"
"Scrambled
eggs. Vegetarian bacon."
She
makes a surprised face.
"It
is quite delicious."
"If
you say so."
"Fruit
of some kind. Berries, perhaps?" You have a craving for strawberries. Or
more accurately you just want to feed them to her and have her feed them to
you. You've never done that with a lover and you suddenly want to.
"Strawberries—do you like strawberries?"
She
laughs. "I love strawberries." She leans in as you let your lips rise
slightly and says, "What are you thinking about? That expression is a
keeper."
"How
we will eat the strawberries." You rub your finger along her lips and she
captures it in her teeth, biting down gently before letting go.
"Alrighty, then. Sexy strawberries it is." She studies
the padd and inputs some dishes for herself. "You want toast or potatoes?
The hash browns are to die for."
"I
have no wish to die. How will I enjoy you if I am deceased?"
"I'll
resuscitate you. I'm a doctor, remember?" She adjusts the order. "You
can share mine. Just to be safe. And we need rye toast. I love that—commit
it to memory because I'm not going to be happy seeing wheat or white."
"Understood."
"I
will accept an English muffin, though. No bagels."
You
let an eyebrow rise. "I thought all humans ate those."
"Not
this one." She sends in the order, then reaches down, playing, making you
close your eyes. "They'll be up here in about ten minutes. How do you feel
about quickies?"
"I
am feeling quite positive about them at this moment."
She
laughs and wraps her legs around you, pulling you in. "I'm sorry I was so
unpleasant."
"You
were not. This is new. We will...learn how to be with each other. And as we are
now making love, I am not opposed to the process if it ends in this way each
time."
"That
was sort of a romantic statement."
"I
will try my best." You pull her toward you, tired—for now—of
talking. You take her quick and hard and she likes it, urging you, responding
to your thrusting and your fingers.
You
come first but she's right behind you, moaning as you collapse against her,
still fingering, enjoying the cries she is making.
"This
may be better than sleeping in." She laughs softly as she hugs you
tightly.
"And
there is breakfast either way."
"Mmm, so true." She holds you until her chime goes off
and as she slides off the counter and ties her robe back in place, you retreat
into the bedroom to slip on your robe.
You
should leave one more appropriate to the occasion here. You do not think she
will mind. And you could keep other things here so you do not have to go back
to your apartment each time.
You
ask her if she would mind if you did that. Does she have room in her closet?
Her
smile is a beautiful thing and she touches your hand, squeezing gently for a
moment. Curious that such a pragmatic request would make her so happy.
Curious
but pleasant.
Her:
You're
having dinner at the Vulcan embassy. You and Spock have been together a few
weeks now but you don't think he would have dragged you home to the parents
quite so soon if he wasn't trying to make a point to you that you don't need to
be so damned insecure.
And
you're trying. You really are. You wonder if you would have had the same kind
of adjustment issues if the two of you had gotten together during the first
voyage or even after V'ger. You think it's not the
basic issues of a new relationship that are bothering you; it's one, and her
name is Valeris and she's a goddamned ghost.
Even
if he seems to be leaving her behind. You're having a lot more trouble with
that.
But
you saw them together in the halls. You think you knew they were a couple
before they did. Ny has told you how...compatible they seemed—at least
before Spock had to rip critical information out of the love of his life's
mind.
They
were compatible at a molecular level. Spock wouldn't have felt so betrayed by someone
he hadn't truly loved. Will he love you that way someday? Or did he pick you
because he will never have to worry about loving you so much you can hurt him?
These
are negative thoughts and when the two of you are making love or just spending
time together, you can forget them. You're usually too busy at work to obsess
over what is and isn't true about your relationship, but the stupid doubts roil
around in your head when you're alone.
If
Ny were just here, on Earth, and not out on a ship where she is finally doing
something different. But being first officer—even on a small
ship—is frazzling, and she never seems to want to talk in real time
anymore. She sends updates all the time and asks how things are going, but it's
not the same as discussing in a real one-to-one conversation.
And
Jan is even busier. And involved with Sulu. The double whammy of absent-friend
syndrome: geographical distance and a new lover.
Why
do you only have two close friends? You've served with so many people who you
could sit and drink all night with, but did any of you ever share things that
mattered? Maybe the only way to stay sane in ops was to shut down? To keep
things superficial?
And
then once you and Cartwright became involved, your new friends were
couples—friends of his, who not surprisingly are nowhere to be found now
that he's gone and you're just the left-behind ex-lover.
Maybe
part of your problem with Spock isn't with him at all—but with yourself.
Who you've become.
But
then you never had that many friends in college, either. You had Roger, and
that was enough. A shortsighted policy, then and now.
But
at least here, sitting in the dining room of Sarek and Amanda's private
chambers at the embassy, you feel like you're part of something that's more
than just you and a man. Sarek gently teases and Amanda seems out-and-out
thrilled that you're with her son.
Spock
seems very at ease. Proud of you, even. Content.
All
good things. And not consolation prizes. You're happy, or you are when you get
out of your own way.
Amanda
notices your glass is nearly empty and pours you more wine. "I've been
invited to a winery opening out in Napa, Christine. Sarek, of course, can't be
bothered. Please say you'll go with me? It's next Saturday."
Spock
is leaving on a diplomatic mission so you know you'll be free, barring any last
minute emergencies.
"I'd
love to."
"Excellent.
My social secretary will make the arrangements for us." She winks at
Spock. "Couldn't have done this with Valeris."
Sarek
doesn't even look up from his soup as he says, "My wife..."
You
grin at her. "You can badmouth her. It makes me feel better."
"You
are better than that, Christine." Sarek is looking at you as if he really
believes that to be true. "Valeris is dead. Let us not resurrect
her."
Spock
shoots his father a grateful look and you mutter, "Fine," but as you
glance at Amanda, she mouths, "Later."
You
look down, trying to hide the laughter. You think it's possible you aren't the
only one who needs a female friend to spill your guts to.
Once
dinner is over, Spock follows Sarek into his study, keen on picking his mind on
the people he will be dealing with during his upcoming negotiations. Amanda
waits until the door is shut and then motions for you to follow her. You sit at
the counter of the small kitchenette, and watch as she mixes cocktails.
Something with cognac—and is that absinthe?
"That
looks strong."
"Only
if you can't handle your liquor." She grins. "Can you?"
"I'm
in ops. It's practically a job requirement."
"Valeris
used to watch with such...disapproval when I drank. But nothing I did could
please that one." She slides the glass to you and you drink, tasting the
brandy and a hint of the absinthe and you're not sure what else—but it's
good. "Let me introduce you to the Sazerac."
"Yum."
You take another sip, then say softly, "I worry sometimes. That she was
Spock's one true love. That I'm..." You sigh. Should you be telling her
this?
"I
imagine you do. He was smitten but she intended for him to be."
"You
think she didn't love him?"
"Oh,
no. She did. She worshipped the ground he walked on—not enough to get his
advice before joining a conspiracy, but still, her devotion to him was
clear." She comes around to join you. "But part of her appeal, I'm
sure, was that she was a full Vulcan. He's been trying to be accepted on Vulcan
his whole life."
"Any
human looking at him would assume he is Vulcan." You laugh at her look.
"Any human who's not also his mother."
"Spock
paid the price for being my son. When he was really young, he used to cry,
which of course made it worse for him. I remember the day he stopped showing
his pain. I felt like I'd lost my baby and he was only five." She sips her
drink, her look thoughtful. "T'Pring was one of the worst. She made him feel small right up to the
day they were betrothed. It does my heart good to think of her being Stonn's property."
"You
mean she's a slave?"
"No.
Because Stonn is as addled with her as he was when he
betrayed Spock. But technically her only standing is through him—because
he allows it."
"Don't
you think that's barbaric?"
"Yes."
She starts to laugh. "I made Sarek tweak the words of the bonding
ceremony. To say T'Pau was unhappy with me is to
underestimate how ticked off one old Vulcan woman can get. Not that she showed
it, of course."
"I
guess you were the trailblazer for the rest of us." You think that sounds
presumptuous of you, that you'll bonded to Spock any time soon. "Not that
he and I are..."
She
waves off your protest. "If you're here, with him, then he's serious about
you. He would never bring home a casual acquaintance."
"Does
he have those? I mean...of the romantic variety?"
"Oh,
heavens, no."
Or
if he does, he's not telling his mother. Although you get the feeling she knows
an awful lot about his life.
"I'll
be honest, Christine. I was worried sick about him. First Valeris's betrayal,
then Jim dying. I've never seen him so lost. Well, other than when his brother
was exiled. But I've noticed how happy he's been since the poetry reading last
month and I know you're the reason."
Or
sex with you is. They may be two different things.
God,
when will you stop self-sabotaging? Spock clearly cares about you; he's putting
up with you and your emotional see-sawing with way more grace than you are.
The
two of you drink in silence for a moment, and you enjoy the ease, the lovely
cocktail she's made for you, the support you feel coming from her.
"The
dedication of the memorial for Jim is next week, isn't it?" she asks.
You
nod. They broke ground in record time. The memorial grounds are beautiful and
the statue even more so. Spock has asked you to go with him—you would
have gone anyway, but you understand how much weight he's investing your
relationship with by asking you to be by his side for this. "I'm going
with him."
"Good.
He'll need you." She studies you. "Christine, I may get an unhealthy
amount of joy out of badmouthing Valeris, but that's because she and I never
got on, not because I think she isn't truly gone from this relationship. I want
you to understand that. Spock doesn't move on easily, so if he's with you and
happy, then he's let her go."
"I
know. I tell myself that." You finish your drink. "This really is
delicious, by the way."
"Tastes
like more?"
"Definitely
tastes like more."
"More
it is." She finishes her drink and gets up to make new ones. "So much
fun to finally have someone here around who appreciates my mixology
skills."
Him:
You
sit on the left side of the front row at the memorial, the statue of Jim in
profile to you. It is how you viewed him for so many years from the science
station; there should be a comforting familiarity but all you can feel is loss
and anger. He should not be dead. If Starfleet had waited until the ship was
truly ready to be launched, they would not have run into the singularity, and
your friend would be alive and not memorialized in a statue that looks out
instead of up.
You
glance at Christine and she smiles gently. She turns, scanning the crowds, and
you know she is hoping Nyota or Rand will show up. You do not think she has
anyone to talk to at ops—she holds herself apart more than you think she
realizes.
"Are
Sulu and Rand coming?" she murmurs so softly a human would not have heard
her.
You
shake your head, then mouth, "Nor Nyota."
McCoy
takes the seat to your left, rubbing his forehead even though it is not that
hot. "Damned shuttle was late. Had to hurry." He leans out.
"Hello, Christine. You with this guy?"
"She
is," you say, to spare her the need to and also because after all the
times McCoy has teased her for this, it will do him—and her—good to
hear you affirm the relationship.
She
grins as she points to you. "Whatever he says."
"And
Jim didn't live to see this. He'd have been happy for both of you."
You
know that's true. "Are you well?" you ask, suddenly wanting him to
be, even if you and he rarely see each other.
"I
am. Other than cutting it too short on my transports." He winks, then he
studies the statue of Jim. "Why the hell isn't he looking up?"
"Indeed."
"Good
likeness, though. Tougher than I thought it was going to be making my
vid." He points with his chin to the buttons set around the memorial.
Each, when pressed, features a holoscreen of someone
who served closely with Jim, sharing memories both touching and humorous. You,
too, found it difficult to maintain your composure even if your interviewer
looked at you as if you were cold.
"I
listened to your vid, Len. It was wonderful." Christine grins at him.
"How's
Nyota's? She was so nervous." McCoy doesn't seem
to see that he's upsetting Christine so you try to move the conversation on and
she lets you, but the two of you share a glance.
When
Nyota was in town to record the vid, Christine wanted to see her, but Nyota
found excuses not to. You suspect Nyota is uncomfortable with the fact you and
Christine are together. She has always been interested in you, and you find her
a charming and lovely woman but not one you wish to be involved with.
Much
like Jim, you are generally drawn to scientists.
But
you have not speculated to Christine why Nyota might have wanted to avoid her.
If you are wrong, you could damage a friendship that appears fragile but could
recover in time. If you are right, Nyota will grow used to your relationship
with Christine, and their friendship could resolve in time.
You
touch your finger on her hand, feeling for her emotions. There is a sting of
hurt but primarily she is giving you a combination of grieving and...happiness.
She looks down at where you are touching her, then meets your eyes and smiles
gently.
You
make your eyes as soft as you can and slide your fingers across her skin as you
let go.
She
turns away, her look untroubled.
You
see Scott and Chekov hurrying, taking their seats next to Christine. You nod at
them, and they nod in return. They were both at the launch. Where you should
have been. Do they blame you? Do they know why you weren't there?
The
ceremony is mercifully short. And while most of the attendees go inside, those
of you who served with him on that first mission stay outside, moving back and
over so you can take in the statue from all angles. They chose to show him as
he was during the first voyage, when you first became his friend.
"He
was so handsome," Christine says and you glance at her in surprise.
"Not my type. Too emotionally available. But that doesn't mean I don't
have eyes." She grins and moves closer, her arm pressed lightly against
yours.
"I
do not wish to go inside or hear more speeches from people who barely knew
him." You look around, seeing a bit of shock on the faces of Scotty and
Chekov, but McCoy and Christine look unsurprised.
"Let's
go to his favorite watering hole, then." McCoy is rubbing his hands
together. "He'd love that. He hated these empty ceremonies."
You
follow him to some place called Smitty's. You never
came here and you doubt you will ever come back. But for now, this is perfect.
McCoy
leads you in and to the bar; the place is not surprisingly empty at this time
of day, so you can all have stools. "Smitty, my
good man. We're here to drink to James T. Kirk."
"We
miss him here."
"Amen,
my friend." McCoy leans in, drawing the bartender in as if he is one of
your group. It is a skill you have always admired. "Other than my Vulcan
friend here, who will have water, we'll have a round of scotch. Something Jim
liked."
"You
got it. And first round's on me. Jim was a fine man and a great customer."
You
watch as Christine talks animatedly with Scott. They are laughing and it gives
you pleasure to see her enjoying herself.
"So,"
McCoy tugs your arm to pull you down. "You really with her?"
"I
am."
"Okay,
then. I have to say this. You hurt her, and there'll be hell to pay from Uncle
Len."
"You
are not her uncle."
"That's
not the part of my statement you should be worried about."
You
let an eyebrow be his answer.
-- Continue to Part 2 --