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 --