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
-- Part 2 --
Her:
You
are trying to enjoy your day off, rummaging through the racks at the boutique
you love, trying to find thing you think Spock will like you in. You have the
place to yourself until a woman comes in and starts perusing the jewelry
counter.
A
gray negligee catches your eye and you pull it out to admire it. You don't need
it. But you imagine the way Spock's eyes will dilate when he sees you in it.
You've learned to watch his eyes; they tell you so much when you're in bed.
Not
that he's shy about telling you what he likes—and the few things he
doesn't.
"Oh
what the hell," you say softly as you grab the negligee and add it to the
things you want to try on.
In
the changing room, a burgundy dress and some shirts end up in the pile you're
going to get. You try on the negligee and sigh—it's amazing. You don't
need it.
You
repeat that you don't need it as if it will mean more if you say it enough
times, then you laugh and throw it with the others. Spock deserves it. He's
been so nice to you.
You
carry the ones you want out as one of the clerks takes the rejects back the
racks. The woman looking at jewelry glances over at the negligee, which is
lying on top of the pile, and smiles. "Pretty."
"Isn't
it? I don't need it."
"No
one ever needs something like that. And yet..."
You
nod and turn back to the clerk, but then the woman sighs as she studies the
jewelry in the case and says, "I hate this."
"You
okay?"
"No.
Just got married. Mother-in-law hates me. It's her birthday and I have no idea what
to get her. I don't want to be cheap but I also don't want to look like I'm
trying to bribe her into approving of me, you know?"
You
nod, because you do know. Roger's mother couldn't stand you.
"You
have a mother-in-law like that?"
"But
for the grace of God." Which is a horrible thing to say considering
Roger's fate, and yet you've always felt like you dodged a bullet not having to
deal with Marilyn Korby for the rest of your life. "I was engaged to
someone. But long ago. My current guy's mom is great."
"She
approves of you?"
"Yeah,
she does." You study the woman. "Have we met? You look
familiar?" She has blue eyes and long blonde hair and looks to be in her
mid twenties. "Starfleet?"
"Oh,
goodness, no. Have you been to Philadelphia? We just moved here from there. My
husband wanted to be closer to his family." She makes a funny face.
"Missed his mommy."
You
laugh. "Long apron strings, huh?"
"Very,
very long. The longest." She sighs. "The things they sell here are
too nice. I wish I knew the city better. Where should I shop?"
"I
know an amazing chocolate place. You can get a nice gift without looking like
you tried too hard. It's on my way if you want me to show you?"
"That's
so nice of you. Yes." She smiles as she pushes away from the counter, and
turns, leaning against it. "I'm Leslie, by the way."
"Christine."
"Nice
to meet you." She seems to be studying the racks. "Such pretty
clothes in here."
"You
should buy something for yourself. Something your husband will like."
"I'm
not terribly happy with him right now. Maybe next time." She takes a deep
breath. "His ex lives here, too. And I just found out she's working in the
same place he is. Which...I didn't know before we moved."
"Believe
me. I am well acquainted with ex issues."
"Yeah
but is your guy still in love with his ex?"
You
sigh. "That's such a good question."
"Oh,
sorry." She moves closer, studying you. "Do you hate her? I hate
Martin's."
"I
didn't know her well enough to hate her. But definitely strong dislike." You
sigh. You're laying all this on a total stranger. But you need to talk to
someone who's not Spock's mother about this. "There's also a coffee place
if you want to grab a cup."
"That
would be great. I don't have anyone to talk to right now. I'm not working—I
mean I plan to, eventually, but I'm sort of between things. The relocation and
everything..." She laughs a bit bitterly and looks down. "Wow, could
I sound any more pathetic?"
"Totally
understand. Funny how we put our whole lives on hold for a man, huh?"
"Yeah,
real funny." She follows you out of the boutique and you talk easily as
you walk the few blocks to the chocolatier.
You
have to move closer to her when a man rolling a stasis trolley comes up the
sidewalk, and you smell her perfume. "What a lovely scent."
"Thank
you. I love it but I also wear it because my mother-in-law is allergic."
You
laugh because it's the kind of thing you would have liked to do to Roger's mom.
Then you see the chocolate shop and say, "This is us," holding the
door for her and then following her in. The scent of her perfume gives way to
the luscious smell of chocolate and other goodies.
She
wanders the shop, a smile growing. Finally she turns to you and says,
"Yum. If she doesn't like this, she's not going to like anything."
You
point to your favorite collection of truffles. "I can tell you on good
authority that there is something for everyone in that box. No matter how
picky."
"That
one it is, then."
You
point to a display behind the counter. "For gifts, they'll include a
balloon with her name on it, if you want."
"Too
whimsical for, I think. Just the candy is fine." She smiles at the clerk
as she pays then turns back to you. "Christine, thank you so much.
Coffee's on me."
"Oh,
you don't have to. I mean you're not working."
"I
will be. And Martin's working—many, many hours. So many that I never see him. I'm sure he's springing for
drinks for his tramp—I mean ex—so it's only fair if it's my
treat."
You
laugh. "Fine, coffee's on you."
Him:
You
lie in bed, feeling contentment suffuse you now that you are home and Christine
is in your arms.
She
nuzzles in, fingers flitting over your skin the way you have come to crave,
even if you would never admit that to her. She has no idea how much power she
has over you.
You
could tell her. She will not hurt you the way Valeris did. And you trust her.
But for now, while you are still learning how to be with her, you will forego
over-sharing.
But
touching her—that you can indulge. You pull her
closer, kissing her for a long time.
When
you pull away, she laughs and cups your cheek. "Someone was lonely. I
guess I don't have to worry about fidelity."
"Did
you think you did?" But you can sense from where she touches you that she
is not worried. "I would not betray you that way. If I were to wish to
pursue someone else, I would simply tell you."
You
narrow your eyes, sure that what you have just said is not a good thing to have
shared, but she laughs. She surprises you frequently that way: so much more comfortable
with truths, no matter how ugly, than uncertainty. But given her profession,
perhaps that makes sense. Her job is to make sense of chaos.
"Well,"
she rubs her finger over your ear tips and you close your eyes and exhale with
pleasure, "I missed the hell out of you. I, for one, have no one else in
mind."
"Nor
do I." You capture her fingers, forcing her to stop the pleasurable
assault on your ears, and study her. "Are you attached to your
apartment?"
For
some, it would be a non sequitur, but you find she navigates the abrupt nature
of Vulcan conversational shifts with ease. You enjoy how flexible she is that
way.
"I
hate my place. But I'm super attached to the room service." She studies
you. "Why?"
"I
would like us to live together. I am just not sure where."
"They
have nicer places. On the upper floors. Unfurnished so
you can bring your own things in." She smiles. "We can get things
that are ours, not yours or mine."
You
hear the unheard: or yours and Valeris's. You approve of that concept. "An
excellent idea. And we would still have access to the room service, which I
know is convenient for you."
"Exactly."
Her
happiness is pulsing into your skin, and you feel the need to protect yourself
easing. You push her to her back and move over her, making sure she is looking
at you before saying, "I love you."
Her
smile is beautiful. "I love you, too."
And then neither of your talk for a long time. When you finally lie
quietly together, she says, "Which way do you want the apartment to face?
I would have rather faced the water but they didn't have any when I moved in
and I just wanted out of Cartwright's."
If
you were human, you would laugh. She never loses the conversational
thread—no matter how many orgasms interrupt it. "A water view would
be pleasant."
"I'll
make inquiries." She strokes your face, her smile gentle and knowing.
"You want out of here, don't you? The memories of her?"
For
once, you don't feel jealousy surging up inside her with the mention of
Valeris. So you simply say, "I do."
"When
is your lease up?"
"I
pay month to month."
"That's
crazy. I'll get working." She laughs. "I love furniture shopping. Do
you like to shop?"
"No."
"Tough
beans. You're helping me pick out the bed and the couch. Everything else I'll take
care of." She makes a face. "Unless you love this bed or your
couch."
"I
do not. The only piece of furniture I am attached to is my desk and office
chair. It belonged to my grandfather." Your human
grandfather. He was kind to you at a time when you seemed to never
measure up as a Vulcan, and never made you feel strange for being not fully
human either. Someday, perhaps, you will tell her about him.
"Those
are beautiful pieces. I don't blame you for loving them. I promise not to look
for office furniture." She laughs and claps her hands lightly.
"Something fun to do while you're off planet." She turns on her side,
her expression easy and light. "I may have even made a friend while you
were gone. Too early to tell but who knows. Maybe she'll like furniture
shopping."
You
thought you smelled a different perfume on her jacket. So many scents in this
apartment, although the traces of Valeris are growing faint now that
Christine's scent is overlaying them. You imagine a human nose would not even
notice the difference.
"Is
this someone from Starfleet?"
"No.
A civilian." She makes a funny face. "I haven't had a civilian
friend—other than your mom—since college." She traces your
lips, smiling as they tick up slightly. "It's nice, you know? She doesn't
understand my history or the conspiracy or what ops is
or the things we've seen or done. I'm just...a female friend. Maybe even a
little bit of a big sister. She's new to the city."
You
sense her enthusiasm for this new person and are glad. You know she misses Nyota
and Rand. And while she and McCoy hug in a manner that seems genuine at your
infrequent dinners, they do not seem to reach out to each other otherwise.
"I
would like to meet her. If your relationship progresses."
"She
was so starstruck when I said I'd served with you and
Jim. Plus, I think she's shy—and a little bit awkward. But yeah, that'd
be nice. She may have already made friends though. She's younger than I am by a
lot."
"It
is not the age but the resonance."
"Sometimes,
my love, you're a poet." She kisses you quickly. "Now, back to
furniture. I've always dreamt of a four-post princess bed. Pink lace covering
and lots of scroll work." She looks over and starts giggling. "If you
could see your face..." She climbs on top of you, taking first one wrist
and then another in her grasp, pushing them over your head. "I, sir, am no
princess."
You
let her pretend to hold you down—as if you could not overpower her if you
wished. You love the feeling of her riding you, the way she slips over your
skin, the way you fit together when she eases down and...there.
You
breathe out slowly and reach for the meld points, the pleasure ratcheting up as
you connect mentally. She gasps and begins to move more quickly, able to tell
where you both are.
As
she rides you to completion and follows you into her own climax, head thrown
back and skin gleaming, you think she is correct—she is no princess: she
is a queen.
Her:
You're
trying to figure out what to order from room service when your comm goes off. You see "Harris" on the caller
identifier and frown as you answer. "Hello?"
"Christine?
This is Leslie. You helped me with my mother-in-law's gift at the chocolate
place and we went to coffee."
You
laugh. "You could have stopped at Leslie. You're not forgettable."
"Oh.
Good. I'm sorry. My...my mother-in-law said something mean a few days ago. About how I needed to work on being more memorable. So I
didn't want to assume you'd remember me."
"You
did not win the lottery with that one, sweetie."
"I
know. Listen, I know you're super important at Starfleet and you're probably
scheduled into next year, but Martin suddenly had to take a business trip, and
I'm pretty sure it's with his ex, and well, I just would rather be anywhere but
in our apartment right now? Is there any chance you want to get a coffee or
something?"
"Actually,
I was just about to order dinner. Why don't you come over?"
"Are
you sure? I don't want to interfere with you guys."
"Oh,
Spock's on Taluvis. He won't be back for a week. I'm
sending you the address." You hit the combo of keys and hear her say,
"Oh, wow, that's very close to us. I can walk."
You
feel sorry for her because this all seems to be making her so happy. "So
I'll see you in a bit."
"Yes.
Twelve minutes." She laughs. "That's what it says on my directions.
Twelve minutes to walk there if I take the route they're showing. How fast do
they think I walk—that's mostly uphill? I think it will be more like
fifteen."
"Whenever
you get here, you'll get here. I'm thinking bacon cheeseburgers. I've been
doing the vegetarian thing lately and it gets old. You want one—or
something else?"
"Ground
meat...it's just that I made meatloaf last night—not that Martin ate any
of it. I know I'm not a bad cook but— Okay, you don't care. You just want
to order so the food is ready when I get there. How about a salad and a big
order of sweet potato fries? Do they have those?"
"They
have everything. Well not everything everything, but
a lot. I know they have the fries and they're really good. What kind of
dressing for the salad?"
"Ranch?
Maybe extra, so I can dip the fries?" She sounds so tentative, like she is
asking for the world.
Again
you feel a pang of pity. Have you ever felt so...small? Sometimes McCoy made
you feel that way—although you don't think he meant to the way Leslie's
husband and mother-in-law seem to with her. Len was just an accidental asshole.
"Extra ranch. We'll be swimming in it." You smile when she laughs.
"See you soon."
The
food arrives just before she does, and you let her in and tell her to drop her
stuff on the couch. "What do you want to drink?"
"What
are you having?"
"Beer."
You nod toward the bottle on the table.
"Oh."
She looks worried. "I don't drink. I'm sorry."
"You
don't have to booze it up for me to like you. Trust me, dating a Vulcan means I
have juices galore."
"Cranberry
is fine. Or whatever you have."
"I
have cranberry. Ice?"
She
nods and then looks at the food cart. There are five extra things of ranch and
she starts to laugh. "Wow, you were not kidding."
"I
ordered the fries for me, too. Dipping them in ranch sounds yummy. Usually I go
for tartar sauce but change is good." You realize it's been a long time
since you tried something new. "Change is really good." You hand her the
glass of juice and lift your beer. "To new friends."
"To
new friends." She seems unsure so you clink your beer against her glass
gently. "Were you raised in a convent?"
"Oh,
no. It's just... I did that with my glass to the blessed
Lorraine's—that's my mother-in-law—drink and well, she did not like
it. Told me it was a low-brow thing to do."
"Wow.
Bitch."
"As
I said. And the drinks—well. It's not that I
don't drink; it's more I can't. Because...I enjoy it a little too much. Yet
another way I don't measure up." She looks down, clearly embarrassed.
"Enough
said. I will never force booze on you."
"Thank
you." She follows you to the table and as you start handing out the
plates, she says, "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I got a job. Much faster than
I expected."
"That's
great. What are you doing?"
"I'm
sort of a headhunter." At your look, she laughs. "You know. Executive
staffing."
"Oh,
that kind."
She
laughs. "I mostly do research—finding people who fit a
profile—because as you've seen, I'm not the most socially adept. Not
really an 'in front of the crowd' recruiter type. I know it drives Martin nuts,
how awkward I am." She sighs. "Okay, I am not going to talk about him
again tonight. I am so sorry."
"You
can talk about him. It's fine."
"No.
I want to forget him just for tonight. Tell me about you and Spock. I mean, everyone knows who he is. He and Kirk
both. Were they together...?"
You
laugh. "No. But you're not the first person to ask." At least you
think the answer is no. You've never come right out and asked—and what
difference does it make now?
"Spock
is so handsome. But then, Vulcans are such an attractive people."
"Yes,
they are."
"But...cold?"
She digs into her salad with gusto and races you for a sweet potato fry from the
huge basket you ordered.
You
win, laughing. "Vulcans aren't cold."
"No?"
"Not
when you get to know them."
"I
always thought they were noble. There was a Vulcan woman in that big
conspiracy, though—she was a traitor, right?"
"She
was."
"But
why?"
You
sigh. This is the downside of a friend who's not in Starfleet—no shared
landscape for this kind of thing. There are so many ways you could describe
Valeris, but you decide to try to be fair. "I think she was misguided. By,
uh, the guy I was with before Spock." You frown, trying to figure out the
simplest way to explain it to someone who doesn't understand Klingons and
neutral zones. "I think he filled her head with the wrong ideas. She was
with Spock before I was, and I think she thought Spock would approve once he
understood the end goal."
"Which
was what? War?"
"The
end to a threat. The end of the Klingon Empire. Or
something. I'm a little fuzzy, frankly, on what they thought they were doing.
Suffice it to say, my guy did not fill me in on the details. Boy did I feel
like a sap."
"Wow,
this is a soap opera." She immediately looks uncomfortable. "That was
rude. I am so sorry."
"No,
it's pretty apt, frankly."
"So,
you're with Spock now? Did you two double date as couples?"
"God,
no." You laugh, picturing the holy hell that would have been. "I've
known him for decades. Loved him for that long. I guess...when it was clear he
was choosing her, I finally let go. And moved on to that other guy."
"So
if he was with her, then Spock had to know he was with the traitor, didn't he?
They'd have had that psychic connection, right, that you read about?"
There is a world of condemnation in her voice.
"It's
way more complicated than that. And no, he didn't know what she was. I—I
think he was blinded by love. I think she may have been the love of his
life." You take a long pull of your beer because it hurts saying that, but
it's the truth and you're sick of not saying it to Ny or to Rand when you comm them, because they'd just look at you like you're pathetic
for expecting anything different.
When
had Spock ever chosen you? Until now, when no one else is
left. But that's unfair. Because when you're with him, you're so happy.
It's just when he's gone that you let these thoughts in.
"Now,
I've made you sad."
"No.
I really like being with him. And I know he likes being with me. It's
just...it's just hard not to be a first choice."
"I
understand." Her voice is sweet and apologetic. "I think he's lucky
to have you. You're so kind."
"Not
always."
"But
you are. You could badmouth her—and him—but you're not. You're
being so...logical about it. Maybe it wears off if you're around Vulcans too
long?" She smiles gently. "I am going to take a lesson from you. Stop
complaining about my situation. Look at it rationally."
"Hey,
sometimes you need to vent. Now, this Lorraine, mother-in-law
from hell. I think you need to get stuff off your chest, so spill,
sister."
Her
grin is so open and grateful you feel something settling down inside you that
got riled up with all this talk about one true loves. It's nice to be around
someone who thinks you're the one with the healthy relationship. And you know
you've got it better than she does. You have a good man whose family you love.
A man who makes you feel unbearably sexy when you're
around him—that's the most surprising thing of all.
You
can tell Martin doesn't make Leslie feel that way. You wish there was something
you could do, but you know listening is the best you can offer.
But
that's not nothing. Not for friends.
As
you clean up the dishes, you ask, "Do you like furniture shopping?"
She
frowns, clearly trying to figure out if there was a logical progression to that
question.
You
laugh. "Spock and I are getting a place together. Still here, just bigger,
on a different floor." With an amazing view of the
water. "But we need furniture. Everything he has..."
"She
had, too, because she lived with him, right?" She makes a commiserating
face.
"Right.
I want things that are just ours, you know? He's going to help me with the key
items. But the rest—there are so many fun shops and you said you don't
know the city."
She
smiles, a sweet expression. "You don't need to sell me the experience,
Christine. Count me in. I'd love to help you wipe her out of existence."
Him:
You
are on Harriman's Enterprise, and you
know you have been less than welcoming to the new captain. But every time you
look at him, you see Jim—Jim dying, Jim sacrificing himself for a ship
that wasn't ready to be launched. Why hadn't this man said something? He was
the captain: lives depended on him and yet he had gone ahead with a launch.
The
brass would have pushed him. The logical part of you knows this. But as you sit
on the ship that killed your best friend, the logical part of you is not in
control.
When
the announcement comes that you are within beaming range to Earth's spacedock, you pick up your things and head to the
transporter room, not bothering to say goodbye to Harriman. You do not think he
will mind; the dislike seems to run both ways.
Once
on spacedock, you beam to Starfleet Command, make
your reports, check in with Christine, who has to work late, and then head
home.
Home:
a place you now share with her. A place neither Valeris nor Cartwright ever
spent time in. A place that is just for you two.
To
your amazement, the apartment looks finished. Two weeks ago, you and Christine
had picked out a bed, a couch, and moved your grandfather's desk set as well as
your personal items in. Now, the place is fully furnished, and you walk around
the unit, enjoying the opportunity to assess while Christine is still at work.
A
white leather chaise seems particularly appealing and you sink into softness, then find support as you move. Whatever it is made of, it
follows your body's profile as you move, rising up to meet hollows. You sigh,
relieved to be done with this latest mission.
What
feels like a few moments later, Christine is waking you up with a kiss. Instead
of asking what time it is, you pull her down to you, enjoying the feel of her as
her lips touch yours.
"Are
you hungry?" she murmurs when you finally let her up. "Because I'm
starving."
You
realize you are very hungry, and not for the first time are
grateful your building offers room service. A short time later you are eating dinner
together at a table that seems to be made of hammered steel and diftwood-colored wood.
"You
like?" She smiles as if she knows you do.
"I
approve of all of it." You glance over at the sofa.
"Except
those?" She is looking at the orange throw pillows you are not sure you
appreciate. "Leslie said orange is the latest thing. She's amazing, Spock.
She helped me so much." Her smile is easy and sweet, and you are glad she
has found a friend.
You
had not realized how truly isolated she was until you watched her with first
your mother and now this new woman. Humans need more than just their
mate—something your father might have told you if you and he were given
to personal conversations about your women.
She
glances at the chaise and you follow her gaze. "You looked so comfy. I
wasn't sure about getting that. It was really expensive."
"Between
us we have plenty of credits."
"I
know. But it's a chair."
"Yes,
a chair that I can see giving both of us a great deal of comfort in the
future."
She
laughs. "That's what Leslie said. And the comfort
features are created by doctors as well as designers. So it's beyond
ergonomic." She reaches out and you take her hand.
"I
approve."
"Good."
She draws her hand back and concentrates on her food for a few minutes. "I
left some blank spaces on the wall for your things. And we can move my art
around if you don't like it." She is talking very fast so you reach out
for her hand again, and are surprised to feel how unsure she is.
"I
have very little art. What you put up is lovely."
"You
have the Chagall." She pulls her hand free and gestures to a blank spot
over the couch. "I thought...there?"
"Yes,
that is an ideal spot for it." You study her. "Do you not like the
Chagall?"
She
looks surprised. "Oh, I do. I donÕt always get his imagery, but then
that's the case for lots of art. Understanding and appreciation are often two
different things."
You
know your lips are ticking up; you feel that way about humans at times. "I
agree."
She
puts her utensils down and stares at you. "I really missed you."
"Is
this in some way a less than positive thing? Missing someone is in direct
proportion to affection, is it not?"
She
laughs. "It is. But...did you miss me?"
You
frown, trying to imagine why she is asking.
"It's
just that, before, if I'd woken you up that way, kissing you, you would
have..." She takes a deep breath. "Wanted to have sex."
"I
do want to have sex. I did then, too. But you asked if I was hungry, so I
assumed we would eat first and have sex later."
She
laughs.
"Some
day, Christine, you will be sure of me." You mean it to be a statement,
and yet there is a questioning note that you regret—almost an accusation.
"I'm
sorry, Spock. It's been such a long day and I thought I could get off early to
welcome you home but then more shit kept happening. I guess...I guess I was
disappointed and I'm off balance."
"And
you did not have the benefit of a nap in the lovely new chaise you have
procured for us."
"I
sure didn't, did I?" She looks around the apartment. "I love our
place, Spock."
"As
do I, Christine."
Her:
The
chime sounds, so you open the door to the new place and grin at Leslie.
"Ready for the grand tour?"
"I
am." She hands you a bottle of a very nice Cabernet. "Tradition,
right?"
"You
helped decorate. You should get a fee, not have to bring a gift. But thank you.
I'll enjoy this."
You
take her around the apartment, and she exclaims in all the right places.
"It's so pretty." She sits on the couch you and Spock picked out, and
clutches one of the orange throw pillows she insisted on to her, almost as if
for comfort. "You're happy?"
"We
are." You get up and move over to her. "What is it? Is it Martin?
What's he done now?"
"Have
you ever let someone derail your life." She
shakes her head. "No, have you ever derailed your life following someone?
Because it's always our choice, isn't it?"
"It
usually is, yeah. And yes, I have. The fiancŽ I mentioned. We didn't break up.
He went on an expedition, and they crashed and were lost. I was on the tenure
track at the university I was at. Had one PhD and was on my way to another. But
he was gone and he'd been everything to me during a really impressionable time.
He was my mentor and the first man to really seem to want to know what I
thought about things. It was so much more than just chasing after a lover, you
know?"
She
nods. "My life was on track, too. You wouldn't know it, but I was doing so
well where I was. People admired me. And I had—well, maybe not friends
like you, but I knew a lot of people, could say hello and how are you, you
know?"
You
nod.
"And
I had a man—a nice one. One I looked up to. One who thought I could do no
wrong, until he found out I was...betraying him."
You
don't know what that's like, but compassion doesnÕt always require empathy so
you nod and make generally soothing sounds.
"I
had boundless opportunities in front of me. And I was sidetracked." She
sighs. "And now I'm here and I'm mostly alone and I'm finding myself
envying your beautiful place and the happiness you have."
"Oh,
sweetie, when I invited you over, I never meant to make you sad."
"Oh,
no, none of this is your fault, Christine. You've been nothing but nice. You
didn't tell me to make bad choices and follow a man who ultimately I
left."
"You
left Martin?"
She
seems to realize what she said. "Will leave, I mean. I will leave him. But
even if I do, those opportunities are gone. It's been too long to go back. Too
many things have happened."
"I
know. I found my fiancŽ. Or his body, rather. But by
then, it was too late to go back to academia. So I found a new path with new
friends and new goals."
"If
I could go back, I'd tell the girl I was not to follow a man."
You
smile. "I think I would tell myself that, but then I think of what I have
now." At her look, you smile gently. "I'd have never met Spock if I
hadn't done the things I did."
"I
can see how for you inertia is comforting. But I think of how many alternatives
there would have been for me if I had just acted differently."
"We're
trained to spin scenarios in ops. The thing is, not all of them have the same
weight. People tend to go a certain way, repeat decisions. If you didn't follow
Martin, you might have followed another man, for the way he made you feel, the
part of you he attracted. Could you have done something else? Possibly. Would
you have without some outside force? Probably not."
"Inertia
indeed. So unless I could go back in a time machine and convince myself, I am
stuck." She looks like she thinks that might be a possibility. "Fascinating."
You
laugh. "You sounded just like Spock." Then you hear the main door
opening, hear Spock's familiar step. "Speaking of whom, I think someone's
home early. I know you've been reluctant to meet him, but you need to get over
the starstruck thing, my friend. He's just a
man." You stand, prepared to introduce them, but Leslie grabs you, pulling
you in front of her, her grip—her grip far stronger than you expect.
"Leslie, what the hell?"
Spock
walks in and there's a moment of confusion as he takes in the tableau you must
be making. But then his nostrils flare, the way they do when he is scenting you
during sex, and he says, "You," at the same time Leslie moves her
hand to your throat.
He's
been carrying a phaser since Khitomer and he pulls it out. "Let her
go."
"You
must shoot, Spock. If you are logical, you must shoot."
You
frown—what the hell is she talking about? Why does she sound like she
knows him?
"We
are not replaying scenes here, Valeris."
Valeris?
Va-fucking-leris? You try to turn, but she says, "No,
Christine. Behave or I will snap your neck. Tell her how little effort it would
take for me to do it, Spock."
"Stay
still, Christine."
This
seems like a bit of a standoff, so you try your own diplomacy
skills—Vulcans are logical people. They'll listen, won't they? Even if Spock is still gutted in his deepest self over her
betrayal. Even if Valeris must harbor hatred for his forced meld and
destroying the conspiracy. Best not to think of that. Best just to put on her most
soothing voice and say, "How about you take your hand off my throat and
Spock, you put down the weapon?"
She
laughs, a sound so soft you think only you can hear
it. "Spock, if you want me to let her live, you will put the phaser down,
and kick it over to me."
You
can tell Spock is assessing the situation, trying to find a better answer than
compliance. You're spinning scenarios, too, but this woman behind you is Vulcan
strong and you're sleeping with her ex. She can kill you in an instant. May in
fact want to after all the stuff you've shared.
Holy
shit—you've made her a part of your goddamned life.
What
the hell is wrong with you? She played you as skillfully as she did Spock. Only
with Spock she at least had some true regard. "You fucking bitch."
"You
are much less pleasant now, Christine. If you keep it up, it will be a pleasure
to kill you." There is something off in her voice. You think—you
think she doesn't mean that.
And
you remember what she was saying. The...regret she has. For
following not Martin, but Cartwright. The diversion
that blew her life to hell.
"Valeris—Leslie.
Please? You don't want to hurt me. I know you don't."
She
moves you over to the chaise she helped you pick out. "Perfect for
naps," she'd said as you'd debated if it was worth the exorbitant price
tag. Was she going to kill you and throw your dead body on it? You try to
resist her, but she's making it nearly impossible to breathe. "Spock, the
phaser. Now. Or lose yet another one of your lovers."
You
think that's cruel, that it may anger him, but instead he puts the phaser on
the floor and kicks it to her. "If you hurt her, I will hunt you. I will
never stop. And when I find you, I will kill you. Very slowly."
"Wow."
She lets up on your throat slightly. "Do you understand what he just said?
How counter to Vulcan ideology it is? You sounded like a Klingon, Spock."
"They
at least have honor." You choke the words out.
"Not
all of them," she says as she moves her hand off your throat and you
breathe in great gasping breaths. But then she grasps your shoulder. "You
will have a severe headache when you wake up. I regret that. I have been told
that antitox is surprisingly effective for the
pain."
"Wait?
What?"
You
feel the pinch on your shoulder—surprisingly painless, but then your head
feels as if it's exploding, and you gasp in agony just before everything turns
to black.
Him:
You
start to move as Christine goes limp, but Valeris adjusts the phaser at her
instead of you. "She is only unconscious, Spock. Do you want me to kill
her?"
For
a second, rage takes over and you want to charge her no matter the
consequences, but you force yourself to take a breath, to think.
You
hold up your hands in a temporary truce but then you notice Valeris's hand is shaking.
That she is setting Christine down very carefully on the chaise. That when she
meets your eyes, hers lack any of the resistance or certainty they did on the
bridge, when she refused to answer Jim's questions.
Not
for the first time you hate Admiral Cartwright for what he did to this young
woman. Although, of course, the choice was ultimately hers.
"What
now, Valeris?" You move to the table, hoping she will come with you and
sit, leaving Christine farther from harm.
She
does not. She seems to be fully aware that any moderation you are showing is
because of Christine. "I did not expect you to be here. You were supposed
to be on Faella."
"I
was. The negotiations ended early." You look at Christine. "I did not
tell her. I wanted to...surprise her."
"Well,
you surprised both of us." She sinks to the chaise, sitting next to
Christine and sighs. "I never told you I was sorry."
"For
which part, Valeris?"
"Yes.
So many sins I have to account for. But not all to you,
Spock. You are not the Federation or Starfleet. You are a man. You were
mine."
You
know there is anger in your eyes and do not try to push it back. "Is that
the reason for this game you've been playing with Christine? Because
you are jealous? Because you want to hurt me—or her."
"Or
both of you. I could wish to hurt you both." But she leans back and sighs.
"Do you like my new appearance? Does it remind you of Leila Kalomi? Your long-lost love?"
"I
have had many chances during my life to pursue her. I never did. Your
insecurity about her does you no credit."
"Well,
your mother never tired of fanning those flames. Do you know how many times I
had to listen to her go on about you and your father preferring humans?"
"As
I was with you—as I planned to make our bond permanent—you should
have ignored her." You lean in. "Or, if you had allowed the meld, you
would have known my true feelings for you. But you would not meld with
me."
"You
know why." She sounds like a human teen. Angry and
frustrated.
"I
do know why. It was eminently logical why you would not, given your role in the
conspiracy. But do not seek to blame me—to pull specters from my
past—when you were to blame for the lack of certainty. I cared for you
without measure."
"Cared."
She strokes Christine's hair off her cheek. "But now you care for this
human. Your mother, after all, was right."
You
are not sure what the right thing to say is; you do not want to upset Valeris
further when her hand is so near Christine's throat.
"I
had to know, Spock."
"You
had to know what?" Does she mean she had to know that you moved on? Why
would you not have?
She
sits up and studies you. "I do not mean that you moved on. Although
Cartwright thought she would turn to you and that this time, you might respond.
He had many allies and some of them were watching both you and Christine and
reporting to him—at least until we were remanded to the Klingons. They saw you talking several
times."
"Then
what did you have to know?"
"If
he really intended to kill the two of you. When we reached Rura
Penthe, he told me there were still
faithful—members who would never be found. And that he intended to see
that the man who had brought down the conspiracy would pay the ultimate
price—even if it included the woman the admiral was obsessed with.
Perhaps because it included the woman
he was obsessed with." She seems to be watching you closely, no doubt
seeing the dismay on your face. "I did to him what you did to me, Spock,
and after I had my identity altered, I found the people I had seen in the meld.
But the conspiracy was set up in a way that even he didn't know everyone."
You
look down at the table. You were a fool to have thought it was over. "Give
me the rest of the names and I will work with Starfleet security
to—"
"No.
The people we are talking about are not even on their radar. I know because I
have killed two of them already. They were never questioned after
Khitomer." She cocks her head, her look taunting. "But you were,
weren't you? By our crack team of security experts.
You were in a holding cell instead of by Kirk's side."
You
feel rage rising, at her, at security, but you push it back down.
"Spock,
I ripped more names than I expected from their minds. Security will get nowhere
with this and the conspirators will go to ground. You might get farther than
security but do you really want to rape another mind, let alone many?"
Her
words evoke what you think she wants them to. Her trembling
under your fingers. Her mind-scream loud in your mind.
The way you...ripped the information from her.
She
has not looked away. "Will you trust yourself to meld with Christine if
you have to mind-rape others? I imagine that first meld after the one you
forced on me was difficult for you—how will you feel after many? Will you
want her to see the man you've become or if you won't meld with her, will she
stay with you? She is uncertain already."
"You
no doubt encouraged that insecurity."
"Actually,
I did not. I...I like her. I wanted to know what she was like—if you
prospered with her. If I approved of her as my successor—did we not do
the ritual of succession once? This was my version of it."
You
try to hear the lie in her voice. Try to hear all the times she played you, but
she does not seem to be trying to mislead you in this. And the look she gives
Christine is so full of affection it could be human.
But
that is her goal, now. To be human—to fit in.
You must never lose sight of that. She will pretend to emotions she does not
feel because that is what she must do to survive.
She
stands. "If it were just you who was at risk, I am sure you would take
your chances with the assassins and turn me in. But it is not just you. Tell
me, Spock. Can you afford to lose her? After everything else you have lost
already?"
You
stand, hands clenched. You know your duty. You need to turn her in. You need to
at least try, even if Christine is put in danger. The needs of the many...
But
this woman is an efficient killer. She hid the truth from you for years. It is
only logical to admit she is the better choice of the two of you to hunt down
those who would harm you.
"And
when you find them all? Then what? Will you come back and kill her?"
"Why
would I do that?" She laughs and the expression and sound are jarring, even
coming from her new human face. "Spock, I am trying to right the wrongs I
helped create. I know that I chose the wrong path. I thought...I thought you
would approve. That you would see the logic once we succeeded. And I
was...proud of being trusted. Of Cartwright's interest in me.
You know I like to excel. This made me feel...special."
"In
a way I never did?" Again the hurt, and you wish you could act like a full
Vulcan, in this at least.
"They
were not the same thing. Spock, you were my lover but you were also my mentor.
You expected me to follow in your path. And this—this would have been
mine alone. Don't you see?" She sighs. "But I know now that it was
wrong. And I will...atone."
She
turns the phaser around and walks to you, holding it out. "It is your
choice now. Do I continue to hunt and keep her safe for you? Or do you turn me
in and take on that role yourself?"
Christine
moans softly and she looks back at her. "You're likely to lose her either
way, if it helps you decide. Although I believe she will eventually forgive you
for letting me go. But only in the second scenario do you lose yourself. Hasn't
this conspiracy taken enough away from you?" Her voice is pure Vulcan and
her eyes are steel as she waits.
You
take the phaser, dial it back to stun, and holster it.
"You're
going to have some explaining to do when she awakes. She will hate me, but you
are the one who will feel her anger."
"I
will deal with her emotions. Give me your word you will keep her safe. If it is
a choice between saving her or me, you will choose her. Do you
understand?"
"I
do. She is fortunate that you care so deeply. Someday she will understand
that." She turns and walks out of the apartment, your finger on the phaser
the whole time.
You
want to pull the trigger, to drop her like a stone, call Starfleet security,
and end this.
But
you do not want to hunt the conspirators. You want that part of your life to be
over. And while you can pull names and information from her mind, you can never
duplicate her experience with the conspiracy, can
never make them confide in you the way she will be able to. Nor will they trust
you, not when you were one of the people who stopped them.
You
go into the bathroom and get some of Christine's antitox,
then move her to the couch, where you can sit next to her and wait for her to
wake. And practice what you will
tell her.
You
strongly suspect she will not agree but letting Valeris go, as wrong as it
feels, is the logical thing to do.
Her:
You
come up fighting, striking out, kicking, and your shin connects with something
hard. It hurts and you roll into a ball and mutter, "Fuck."
"Christine,
shhh. It is all right. She is gone."
Spock.
Spock is alive. You open your eyes and immediately shut them. From your head to
your shoulder, every nerve is throbbing.
"Here. Antitox." His fingers
hover at your lips, so you open your mouth and let him slip in the small
tablet.
It
dissolves under your tongue and you open your eyes tentatively.
"Valeris?"
"Is
gone."
"Are
you all right? Did she stun you?" But then you realize his phaser is in
the holster on his hip. "How did you get that back?"
"I
need to explain."
You
let your eyes travel slowly from the holster to his face. Pressing your hand
against your face, you try to make the pain stop. "Where is she?" But
you see it in his eyes, before he can even start to form words. " You let
her go?"
"Christine,
I had to."
"You
had to? What? She threatened you with a weapon that you either took back or she
gave back to you?" You try to struggle away from him. "Why the hell
would you let her go?"
"Because
she is protecting you."
"Oh,
by pretending to be my new best bud?" You push away from him, trying to
stand and your head explodes with pain. "Oh, fucking—just kill me
now."
"Sit.
Please."
You
stumble to the chaise, not wanting to be next to him, and curl up, feeling the
material cradle you. "Do you still love her? Are you going to her?"
"Christine,
listen to me. There are members of the conspiracy at large. She is...she is
hunting them. Melding with them to find other members."
You
think of how she described her new job. Head
hunting. You laugh bitterly and pain again explodes. "Oh, fuck
me." When it finally subsides, you glare at him. "And then she's
taking them to Starfleet security? Oh, wait, no, I bet she's not."
"She
is killing them."
"And
that's all right with you?" Your voice is getting louder and hurting your
ears. "Shit," you whisper.
"Christine,
I would rather they be rounded up. But can you really expect me to trust that
Starfleet security would not mishandle this the same way they did you and me?
None of the people she has found so far were questioned. And there are
others—Cartwright didn't know them all. She is getting those names."
"Getting.
Such a safe word. You mean she's melding. The way you
did with her?"
"Yes,
that is what I mean."
"This
grudge you're holding against security is ridiculous."
"Grudge?
They were so busy interrogating me about the conspiracy, when it was clear I
had nothing to do with it, that they prevented me from going to the launch. I
could have saved him, Christine."
"What
if you couldn't have?"
"Then
at least I would know that. This way...this way I will always feel the
guilt."
You
can hear the pain in his voice. "What else will you always feel, Spock?
Did you let her go because it was pragmatic or because you still love her?
Because you will always love her?"
"This
is not about how I feel for her. It is about you. Cartwright intended for you
to die."
"Bullshit.
The man worshipped me, Spock. And you know what? He would have turned her in. I
would never have had to ask him who he loved more."
"He
was the head of this conspiracy and you would hold him up as some sort of
paragon? How can you bring him into this argument as any kind of realistic
factor other than negative?" He gets up and moves closer to you.
"Would you rather I lied? Told you she stunned me but left my
phaser."
You
realize it could have happened that way. Phasers have trackers. She might use
his in his apartment but she could not have kept it.
But
he's saying that's not how it happened. He's saying he let her walk out.
"Did
you kiss her goodbye?"
"Christine.
You are being illogical."
"That's
not an answer." You can feel pain and insecurity rising along with rage.
You scramble out of the chaise because you realize it isn't yours. Nothing in
this place is yours. It must have been a grand joke she played, being your
friend. "Did you know it was her and not tell me? You can smell
differences."
"The
perfume she wore. It was an excellent masking agent."
You
lean against the wall, looking around the apartment. "I can't trust you,
Spock."
And
then you see anger in his eyes. Not restrained Vulcan ire but pure frustration.
"You have not trusted me since the beginning. What else must I do to prove
myself to you? Can you not just accept that letting her go was the best thing
to do?"
"No.
No, I can't." You kick a small table she helped you pick out across the
floor. The glass sculpture that's on it—a favorite of
yours—shatters.
"Everything
in here is tainted." You look at him to make sure he understands you're
including him in that assessment. "I don't want any of it. You keep the
place. I'll get my stuff later."
"Christine,
you do not have to leave. Please, we need to discuss this."
"What's
to discuss? She's...she's everywhere. Was I ever here?"
He
moves closer. "You were—you are. I love you."
"But
you said the same thing to her, didn't you?" You raise your hand as he
starts to speak. "Perhaps not those exact words, but the Vulcan
equivalent. You said it to her and you said it to her first. And now she's on
the loose because you let her go."
He
grabs your arm. "Christine."
"Let
go of me or I'll have security here so fast it will make your head spin."
He
lets you go.
Of
course he does. Protecting her to the end.
Him:
You
walk down the halls of Starfleet Command, slowing as you see several officers
rushing towards you but they pass by without paying attention to you. You let
out breath you were not aware you were holding.
Two
days you have been waiting for Christine to turn you in—or to come back
to you. She has done neither.
You
turn and head for emergency operations and skirt the bay to get to her office.
She is alone, working, and she doesn't look up until you say,
"Christine?"
Before
she can school her features into disapproval, there is welcome in her
expression. Welcome and love.
You
walk in and sit, waiting for her to either order you
out or call for privacy.
She
does the latter. "What do you want?"
"You.
Back in our apartment."
"You
let her go."
"And
you also are letting her go, are you not? You have not called security."
She
looks wounded. "I'm protecting you, not her. You walked out on them in the
middle of questioning. How do you think it would go for you if I told them you also
have been in contact with her, and not only did you let her leave but you
didn't even report the meeting?"
"It
is not as if I called the meeting. She was in our apartment because you invited
her."
"I
invited Leslie Harris. Who knocked me out. You were
the one who let Valeris leave."
You
do not answer, are not sure what you have to do to make her understand that
keeping her safe is more important to you than sending Valeris back to a
holding cell. But she doesn't want to believe—she hasn't trusted you and
she isn't trusting you now.
"Will
you tell them, Christine?"
"No.
But that doesn't mean I won't turn her in if I can think of a way to do it
without involving you." She meets your eyes and you can see she is
serious.
"Please
come home."
Surprise
registers on her face. "Home? Is that how you think of our place?"
"It
was. Now it is a just space I inhabit alone. If you were to come back, that
would change." You lean in and want to take her hand, but think she will
not respond well to that—she is still so angry. "I would like for us
to talk about this."
"What
is there to talk about? How you chose her over me?"
"I
did not." But you can see by the steely resolve in her eyes that she will
not listen.
You
are doing this for her, but she has decided to not believe that. You nod, and
wonder if she can tell how defeated you feel as you walk out, leaving her
alone.
Her:
You're
sitting in your favorite bar, wondering what Spock is doing, when you smell a
familiar perfume and feel someone sliding into the booth beside you. "Oh,
you've got to be shitting me."
You
start to turn to face her, but feel her hand on your shoulder, soft this time.
"Are
you going to knock me out again?" If she does, at least you know the antitox trick. It was startlingly effective after about
fifteen minutes—your head stopped hurting halfway to the hotel you've
been staying in since you walked out on Spock.
"No,
I'm not going to knock you out but I do have a phaser. It is not set on stun so
I suggest you act naturally or I will shoot." She lets go of your
shoulder. "I know that I hurt you. I know you would like to hurt me back. Thus, the phaser. Now, you can turn around if you
wish."
You
turn and study her. "You don't sound human anymore."
"The
jig, as they say, is up, is it not?" She is smiling but now that you know
who she is, the expression is jarring. Her hand is under the table, and you
tilt your head slightly and see that, yes, she is holding a phaser but you
can't tell what it's set to.
"You
did not believe me?"
"I
had to check."
She
smiles again. "You remind me of Kirk in some ways."
"Well,
we're both human, so..." You want to launch yourself at her. Claw her eyes
out. Take the phaser and pull the trigger until she's dead.
You
do none of those things. "Is there a reason you're here, Valeris?"
"I
wanted to clear the air."
You
can't help it. You laugh. "What? Let me guess—you want to tell me
you were fucking Cartwright while I was with him?"
"The
admiral? No, I was not. You were everything to him."
"Well,
I think I took second place to a massive conspiracy."
She
nods, her face falling into an expression that finally looks Vulcan even with
human features.. "Yes, but other than that, you
came first."
You
aren't sure what she expects you to do, and you flinch back when she leans in.
"Christine,
why do you never call him Matthew anymore? Does it work? To
distance yourself by only referring to him as Cartwright? Am I still
Leslie to you—or simply the traitor?"
"You
were never Leslie."
She
cocks her head and seems to consider that. "I was never only Leslie, but
there was no other Leslie Harris whose life I took over. So, in actuality, I
was Leslie. I was your friend."
"You're
sick."
She
doesn't answer, just shifts a bit as the waiter comes up. "I'll have a
tonic water please. With lime. And my friend will have
another of—whatever that is."
"I'll
switch to what she's having." Once the waiter is gone, you study her.
"You morph into human with astounding ease. Even contractions—I'm
impressed."
"I
always had a back-up plan, Christine. I kept a surgeon with limited scruples
but great skill on retainer. I'd mapped out escape plans in case I ended up in
any number of detention facilities. Even Rura Penthe—Chang was not the only Klingon who opposed
peace, and photos are so easily doctored."
"Nyota
said you were easy to be around." Actually what she told you was that
Valeris was scarily human at times without ever not being Vulcan. You should
have remembered that.
"It
was a skill I cultivated. Learning human behaviors—the way you speak and
your little pet sayings—was important to me since I knew I might have to
pass as one. I was, after all, part of a conspiracy that I believed logical in
its goals and means, but which had a not insignificant chance of failure."
She leans back as the waiter brings the drinks. Once he is gone, she says,
"Admiral Cartwright wanted to bring you in. He hated having to lie to
you."
"He...what?"
"I
told him not to. From what I knew of you, I did not think you would be
sympathetic."
"Got
that right, toots."
She
smiles and you're struck by something. "Oh my God. You look like
her—like Leila Kalomi. Why didn't I see
it?"
"You
weren't expecting it and I modified it somewhat. She was his first love, you
know. Not T'Pring. Have you met T'Pring? She is unpleasant."
"We're
not going to sit here and chat about Spock's exes."
"Why
not? We are both his exes, I think. Did you not leave him after he let me
go?"
You
look away. "He was tainted."
"Then
turn him in." She smiles in a gotcha fashion. "But you love him, so
you will not." She plays with the drink, swirling it so the ice spins
around the glass without spilling a drop. "Do you know why he let me
go?"
"Because
you were probably holding a phaser just like now? People tend to repeat
behaviors."
"That's
a logical answer, actually. I can see why you please him. But no, while that
might be a reason to let me escape the apartment, it does not explain why he
has not alerted Starfleet that I am alive." Her tone is like that of a
teacher to a group of pre-schoolers, and it angers
you, as you think she intends.
"He
let you go—he continues to let you go—because you're getting rid of
the members of the conspiracy. But that's something he could have done if he
just let Starfleet catch you. He could meld with you the same way he did
before."
You
see the same pitying expression on her face as Spock wore when you told him
that. What is so flawed with your logic?
"That
will not work, unfortunately for you. I know the names of very few of the
members who are left. I took what I could from Cartwright before I killed
him."
"Why
did you kill him?"
"He
wanted to kill Spock. He was always jealous of him because you loved him. And
Spock ruined everything—a greater crime in the admiral's book. He gave
the orders to kill Spock from the detention center on Earth to a select few of
his faithful. But he didn't tell me until we were on our way to Rura Penthe. He knew I wouldn't
allow Spock to be hurt."
You
try to square the Cartwright you lived with against this version of him.
Obsessed. Petty. But why not—his hard-on for destroying Klingons was at
the root of this entire conspiracy.
"So
you know what Cartwright knew and Spock can rip out what you know the same way
he did before. I don't see the problem."
"And
then...?" She is smiling—a condescending expression. "There are
more, Christine. More known only to each member. Conspirators
they brought in to add to the web. I get those names before I...dispose of the
problems." She leans in. "Do you have any idea what Spock did to me? To pull those names from a mind that way? The...violence of
the act."
You
refuse to look away. "It wasn't as if you didn't deserve it." You
imagine the meld Ny told you about. The way Spock ripped the names of the
conspirators from her, the pain she seemed to be in.
"Perhaps
not. But it did not just hurt me. It injured him in a far more lasting manner."
You
look away.
"I
have lived in the twilight world of expediency. Despite what Spock thinks,
there is no black or white for me, only shades of gray. But he... He is
idealistic. It is part of his charm—and an element of his essential
personality."
You
close your eyes, sighing heavily as if you can drown out her voice.
"Christine,
look at me. If he were to stop me, he would have to take on the burden himself.
How many forced melds do you think he can do before he loses himself?" She
puts down her glass. "You love him for who he is. But will you love him
for who he would become?"
She
smiles, and it's Leslie's smile, the gentle, forlorn smile of your new friend,
and you hate that it makes you feel soft and hurt. She used you—that's
all. The same way she did Spock. She was never your friend.
"Christine,
I know you. You, also, live in a world of gray. There are no absolutes in
emergencies."
That
was one of Cartwright's favorite sayings. But he got it from you: he latched on
to it after you said it to him during a particularly bad mission. He always
gave you credit, though. "As Commander Chapel is so fond of
saying..."
"What
do you want, Valeris?"
"I
need to know that you will maintain your silence. Spock I am sure of, but
you...?" She sighs. "You see, I lied to him. I
told him the admiral would make you both pay by having you killed. That they would never stop and that I
had the better chance to neutralize the threat. Spock did not let me go
because he was in danger, but because I told him you were. Even though you
don't seem to fully realize it, you are his world now."
You
have no answer for her; you think she knows you won't.
"But
you and I both know that the admiral would never have hurt you. You were his
world, too—other than the conspiracy. It's Spock he's after, as I
said." She slides the phaser into a pocket and smiles gently. "Do you
know why you're going to let me go? Why you will not tell Starfleet anything
about this either?"
"Do
tell."
"You
know I'm the best person to keep Spock safe."
You
stare at her, hating that she's right. Wishing you could tell her to go to
hell—or better yet to reach for your communicator and hit the combination
that sends an emergency message to security and your location.
But
you don't.
"Why
come here, Valeris? Why tell me all this? You want to rub it in? That I'm as
tainted as Spock is?"
"No.
I came for the same reason I didn't kill you in Spock's apartment. I like you.
You were kind to me—a stranger—when you didn't have to be. I think,
under different circumstances, we would be friends."
You
laugh, a bitter sound that you can see hurts her.
"Have you ever had a friend?"
"Yes.
I killed him on Rura Penthe."
You
close your eyes.
"And
I had you. For a brief time. I realize that time is
over. What will you do—let me go or turn me in?"
You
pull out your comm unit and snap her photo.
Her
eyebrow goes up, but not very well, not in a way that looks Vulcan. Still, you
have clearly surprised her. "And what will you do with that, Christine?
Send it to security? Or will you add it to your scrapbook? Will you label it
Leslie or Valeris?"
"Maybe
I'll give it to Spock. His one true love." You know you sound bitter and
angry and you wish you could say it in a more matter-of-fact way, but you
can't. You hate this woman.
And
you don't.
She
glances at the screen. "That's blurry. Take another one. I want you to
have a better one to remember me by."
"Really?"
She
nods, so you do, rolling your eyes.
She
checks it. "Much better." She smiles. Leslie's smile again—does
she practice it in the fucking mirror?
"This
could all be one big mind-fuck. You think I don't know that. You may not be
hunting anyone. There may be no one to hunt."
"You
are exceedingly clever. If you look, you'll find them. I've already
started."
"Hunting?"
"Well,
that's the nice way to put it."
"Why
should I believe you?"
She
nods, as if she understands the quandary you're in.
"I love Spock. I say that as easily as I do because I would have been
proud to be his bondmate. Ours was a union of true esteem
not logic. I hoped, once the conspiracy succeeded, once I would no longer have
to postpone our bonding, that he would find it in himself to forgive me. To see
that I had insured the future of the right side—for us
and our children. But now. Now I know he will
never forgive me. And...now
he has you."
"You
aren't jealous?"
"What
logic is there in that?"
"That's
not an answer."
"Then
yes, I am. If I allow myself to be. But I also will
work tirelessly to ensure his well-being. I could not
kill him when I had the chance on the Enterprise
and I won't let him die now." She slides out of the booth. "If you
let me go, then you are as tainted as Spock, and thus there is no longer any
logic in staying away from him. You see, even now I look out for
him—sending you back to him. Perhaps I am the more noble of we two?"
She turns and walks out, as if she is not a fugitive, as if you could not send
the picture you just took to security. They'd have her new face on every
monitor in the quadrant so fast she'd never get off world.
Then
again, she probably has a back-up plan for her back-up plan. Who will she look
like next? Zarabeth? That Romulan
bitch? You?
You
stare down at your communicator and sigh. Finally, you send the picture to
Spock with a one-line message: "If you still want to talk, I'm
ready."
You
bring up the picture again, and your finger hovers over the delete key, but you
press "Save" instead.
Him:
You
sit at a terminal in your father's study, running a facial recognition search on
the picture Christine has sent you. You are using Vulcan resources because you
do not want Starfleet to have any record of this.
To
your annoyance, old pictures of Leila keep coming up. Valeris, no doubt chose
to resemble Leila on purpose. Not just someone who was important to you when
you were young but also a scientist in her own right, a well-known one in
botany circles who appears repeatedly in the search results.
It
was a jab at you that also muddied the search—most logical.
Finally,
you find one that is not of Leila or some other blue-eyed human with long
blonde hair, and you bring it up. Security footage. It is Valeris. But why only this one?
"Is
there a reason you're looking at pictures of that Kalomi
woman?" Your mother sets a plate and glass down next to you. Your favorite
fruit juice and a grilled cheese sandwich fixed the way you've preferred since
you were a child.
"You
once liked her, Mother."
"I
pretended to, Spock. Because you liked her." She sits next to you.
"Why are you looking at her—or is that her daughter?" She
points at the date on footage you have pulled up.
"She
is neither. She is a...subject matter expert I have been told to consult for my
next mission. I do my homework, as you know."
"Yes,
just like your father." She sighs—dramatically. "When are you
going to make up with Christine? I miss her."
"We
are meeting tonight to talk at our—my apartment."
"Oh."
She leans in and studies you. "You don't look very happy about that."
"As
I am unsure what the result of the meeting will be, I see no logic in
displaying premature satisfaction."
"Are
you afraid she just wants to meet to get something she left behind? Women
usually don't bother coming over to do that. She'd probably just send a
messenger."
You
feel a bit buoyed by that idea. Christine would certainly not subject herself
to time with you if she wasn't willing to forgive you.
Or
perhaps you just hope that is the case.
You
close the terminal. Valeris has been careful. The footage you found is the only
one available to your resources. You think she wanted to be seen since the
footage came from a transporter station in Philadelphia, in the departure
lounge where those waiting to beam up to the orbiting shuttle stations wait
their turn in relative comfort.
You
doubt she has left Earth.
"Has
my father ever done something you considered grievous enough to not want any
further association with him?"
She
reaches over and rubs your hair, and you lean in because it reminds you of your
childhood, when things were simple and it was your deepest form of safety to
find her alone in the house and let her be...human with you. "Of course
not or I'd be gone."
"Not
even Sybok's exile?"
"That
wasn't just your father. T'Pau was pushing him. And
he was on such thin ice with her at the time for marrying me. Insisting on a
love match when she'd wanted him to marry T'Pring's
mother."
This
is news to you. "Is that why he pushed my bonding with T'Pring?"
"Yes.
He wanted to please the matriarch. Everyone did, Spock. It was how the family
was back then." She frowns. "Did you do something—you didn't
cheat on Christine, did you?"
"Of
course not, Mother."
"Then
what would be so unforgiveable?" She gestures to the screen. "And is
your so-called expert part of this?"
You
ignore her question and take a bite of the sandwich. You chew slowly and make
some happy boyhood sounds both to make her smile and to get you out of having
to answer.
She
rolls her eyes and stands, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. "Grovel,
if you have to. I want Christine back in the family. So does your father."
You
do the nod-shrug that Jim taught you can mean just
about anything.
Your
mother smiles and says, "That's my good boy" and leaves the room,
fooled just as easily as McCoy always was when Jim used it on him.
You
are not willing to grovel, but you consider how far you will go to get
Christine back. You close your eyes and picture her naked, head thrown back,
mouth open slightly, just about to climax. It is one of your favorite mental
images.
You,
too, want her back. And not just for the sex—sex that far surpassed
anything you ever had with Valeris.
Her:
You
stand in front of the apartment you picked out and consider whether you want to
palm yourself in or not. Finally, since you don't live there anymore, you ring
the chime.
Spock
answers it at the door instead of just calling entry. He seems to be drinking
you in, and you try not to let that affect you. "You are still on the
door, Christine."
"I
thought maybe I was. But it didn't seem right."
He
nods and moves aside. "Please."
You
feel a pang as you take in your beautiful place. The view,
the lovely furniture, the smells of Spock's incense and your favorite candles.
"She
came to me," you say before he can start off on some other tack.
"Your girl."
"She
is no longer 'my girl.'"
You
turn. "You got the picture I sent?"
"Yes.
And I used Vulcan facial recognition software on it from a computer at the
embassy."
"Smart."
"She
was picked up on a camera in a waiting lounge to beam up to a shuttle station.
There was nothing else. If she wanted us to think she left the planet, she
failed."
"What
if I could give her back to you?" You move closer, trying to read him,
trying to see if he still loves her. But all you see is the way he's looking at
you. The way he's reaching out for you.
You
back up.
"What
do you mean?"
"What
if I could find her? You and I know she's Valeris, but no one else does. I
won't tell if you won't. You and she can...start over."
"With
her?" There is a note of horror in his voice that makes you laugh against
your will. "This is not why I wished to talk to you." He moves
closer. "I have been missing someone, but it is not her."
The
heartfelt way he's saying it makes you stand still as he reaches for you, makes you wrap your arms around him as he pulls you to
him and kisses your hair. "She said she would keep you safe from the
people Cartwright sent against us, Christine. I do not believe I can do it with
the same effectiveness or I would have taken on the job myself."
"And
forced the meld? Over and over?" You pull back so you can see his face.
"That would destroy you." Reaching up, you cup his cheek. "And
she lied to you. They aren't after me. They're only after you. You're what she
cares about. Not me." You move closer and whisper in his ear, "I
truly think she would give anything to have you back."
"And
I would give anything to have you back." He moves so your lips are on his,
so you're pressed against him, so he can open his mouth to you and you respond.
As he lifts you up, you wrap your legs around him and let him carry you to the
bed.
But
you pass a picture she found in a pile at an antiques store, then the console
table that sits in the hallway that she saw on a day you were at work. She sent
you a picture, and when you loved it, she went back to the store and reserved
it so it would still be there when you came to look at it in person.
"Spock,
she's never going to go away." You stop his hands, his questing lips, and
force him to put you down. "No. Wait."
He
pulls away, but holds your shoulder, his fingers slipping under your collar to
your skin—so he can read you, no doubt. "Christine, I understand
this is upsetting you. What she did—has done. What she will continue to
do—for us, but also for herself, if we are honest. These people she is
hunting may eventually discover she did not die at Rura
Penthe, especially as more and more of them
die."
You've
thought of that. "Did Cartwright really threaten either of us or is she
just trying to get what little bit of a life she can by destroying all the
other players?"
"A
very good question. We can agree her reasons for being here are undoubtedly not
entirely altruistic. But given all that: is she our enemy? We know who she is,
and yet she has not moved against us."
You
think about it. "No. But she's the
enemy."
He
nods. "It is a distinction I can find myself living with. Can you? Can you
let her go?" He presses his finger down, clearly taking in the myriad
emotions you are feeling and no doubt broadcasting.
"I
was so lonely. For a friend, I mean. And she knew that."
"I
am not sure that she did. I think she wanted to know who you were, this person
who had taken her place."
"Why
not just kill me and take it back?"
"Because...she
feels affection for you." He shrugs in a way that would do a human
teenager credit. "I am at a loss, Christine, but she is...alone. In a way
no Vulcan ever is. No family, no homeworld, no mate,
no place for her katra when she dies. Even her Vulcan features are gone. You
were lonely, but I think she was as well. I do not think I was part of what
went on between the two of you, other than in the abstract."
You
think about that. How...grateful she seemed at times for your friendship.
"Was your Mom mean to her?"
He
sighs. "My mother did not entirely approve of her."
You
study him. "She approves of me."
"She
does. She wants us back together. She has told me so in no uncertain terms."
You
move toward him, letting him enfold you in his arms. "And you? You want me
back?"
"And
not just as the woman I live with. I wish for you to be my mate."
You
narrow your eyes. "Is that supposed to be a proposal?"
"It
is. On Vulcan. Your response is yes or no. We value
simplicity."
You
smile. "I value it, too. But if I say yes, we're going ring shopping. I
like garnets."
"Whatever
you wish." He holds your face between his hands, his skin hot on yours.
"Are you saying yes?"
"If
I am, she is not going to be in the wedding party."
"There
is no wedding party in a Vulcan mating ceremony. Just witnesses. Unless you
wish a human wedding?"
"Oh,
God, no. But I want the honeymoon. Tahiti or Paris or somewhere romantic."
He
begins to unfasten your uniform. "Will it be romantic if I am there?"
"Yes,
despite your best efforts." You giggle as he picks you up and kisses you,
backing to the wall, moving so you can lift up his robe and slide down
just...there.
He
moans and you kiss him as he thrusts, as he murmurs, "Mine, mine,
mine" until you come, clutching his back, probably leaving marks. "I
have missed you so, Christine," he whispers, and the longing in his voice,
the sweet way he is kissing your neck, is the most romantic thing in the world.
But
you take in the lovely antique mirror across the room. You found it at a street fair in
Sausalito with Valeris.
He
pulls away enough to study you.
"I cannot read what you are feeling."
"Our
bedroom is full of her again."
"Then
we will remedy that."
You
know that means you will; he's a horrible shopper. But it's a sweet sentiment.
Him:
You
sit next to Christine on the banquette in the bar that Leonard has chosen for
this impromptu reunion and memorial. Excelsior
is back for refits and Nyota is on Earth for training. Only Scott is missing.
The memorial is as much for him as for Jim.
You
see Nyota eye Christine's hand, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the ring, then meeting yours. You gaze back, keeping your expression
even. It gratifies you to see that Christine is making no special effort with
her, and Nyota seems unsure what to do with that.
Withholding:
another key tactic of diplomacy.
Although
for her sake, you wish she did not have to. You would prefer that she felt
comfortable, that she could sit with her, their heads together, looking as if
they were conspiring about any number of no doubt inappropriate things. But if
she also wishes this, there is no outward sign.
It
occurs to you that Valeris may have been closer to Christine of late than
either of her friends now in this room.
Christine
is also making no effort to show off the ring, and you appreciate her
restraint—and that she is not trying to make this day about her despite
how happy you know she is about both the engagement and the ring. You enjoyed
watching her design the setting—surprised that she wanted a specific kind
of garnet—rhodolite. A very dark pink, nearly red.
There were diamonds flanking the main stone but only because your mother gave you
some to use. Family heirlooms that Christine loved.
It
pleased you to pass the stones to her; you do not think your mother would have
given you them if the ring were for Valeris. Then again, Valeris would never
have worn a ring so it is a moot point.
But
it pleases you to see the ring on Christine's hand. To know what she has chosen
and why, but to let it mean, at its most basic level, that she is yours.
You
see that Chekov has finally arrived and the stories begin, some you know and
others you don't. Both of Jim and Scott. You add your
own; you've learned over the years how to tell a tale in a way humans find
droll. You admired both men, Jim, of course, knew what he meant to you but you
doubt that Scott realized the depths of your esteem. He was the finest engineer
you have ever known.
You
meet Leonard's eyes and you know yours are sad. You wish that the two of you
were closer. But it was Jim who brought you together and this crew that keeps
you coming back, not a bond between the two of you.
The
night goes on, as these things do, and alcohol is consumed in large quantities.
Finally, McCoy stands and says, "Well, I for one am sick of sad things.
Little lady." He points his glass at Christine, his bourbon sloshing.
"You are wearing a ring."
"Women
do that, Len." Her voice is teasing and he rolls his eyes.
"But
it's a new one, isn't it? And on a certain finger."
"Women
buy new rings. And it has to end up on one of the fingers, why not that
one?" She winks at you and you want to pull her to her—this lightness
is what you both have needed.
"Oh,
for God's sakes, they're engaged, Leonard." Nyota's
voice is far from warm and you see Rand frown as she looks from her to
Christine, who is...ignoring the coldness.
In
fact, Christine laughs and rolls her eyes and says, "Yes, we are. Which I
guess means drinks are on us this round."
You
think it does not mean that. But you admire the way she has just shut down
whatever Nyota was doing. Rand comes over, telling you to move the hell over,
so you get up and take her place by Sulu. You glance at Nyota and she murmurs,
"Sorry."
"I
am not the one to say it to."
That
earns you a glare. You decide to follow Christine's lead and ignore it. You
turn instead to Sulu.
"Congratulations,"
he says with a grin. "Good choice."
"Indeed
she is."
"Although..."
He looks at you, his eyes merry and light—command has not robbed him of
that. "Given your last girl..."
"There
is no comparison." And for that you are very thankful.
Her:
You
are using a free afternoon to wander the city, stopping at furniture stores you
did not go to with Valeris. You keep thinking you see blonde hair, but when you
turn, there's never anyone there.
How
long will she haunt you?
You
end up in a new shop, and tell the clerk you're just getting ideas so he'll
stop following you.
A
moment later, you hear someone else say the same thing to the clerk. In a voice too familiar. You turn,
not believing Valeris is really there—the balls on this woman.
"Hello."
She says it as if you're the kind of people who say hello in a store. As if you
aren't on the verge of pulling out your communicator and turning her
in—to hell with the danger from whatever remnants of the conspiracy may
or may not exist.
You
try to push past her, but she grabs you, her grip like iron. You expect a
threat. You expect a taunt. You expect a long-winded lecture on expediency and
shades of gray. What you don't expect is her voice to tremble slightly as she
asks, "Are you really replacing what we bought together?"
"Are
you really sad about that? What is wrong with you? You're the bad guy."
"Villains
are determined by outcomes."
"No,
villains are determined by actions." You drop your voice lower. "You kill people."
"And
you save them. So of course my actions are anathema to you. We are opposites on
the scale."
"Yes,
sane and not so."
"Is
it a sign of insanity to say that I enjoyed the time I spent with you?"
She lets you go. "And I must point out that what we selected were lovely
pieces."
And
the hell of it is, she's right. You adore the way the apartment looks.
You
flop into a nearby chair.
She
studies your hand. "That ring is new. I believe you and Spock have
returned to each other. And perhaps that signifies more?"
You
nod. Is she actually happy for you? What world are you living in where your
friend is a bitch about it and Spock's psycho ex is waxing rhapsodic?
"The
ring is lovely. It is different than those I saw in the Academy. I like that
you would pick something different."
"I
just love rhodolites—that's a garnet—and
with the dia—God damn it. We are not going to
talk about my fucking engagement ring."
Her
eyes are dancing, and you think she wants to laugh but is holding it back out
of habit. "May I make a suggestion?"
"May
I tell you to jump in a lake?"
She
does laugh at that. "Pretend there is a Leslie. Pretend she exists and it
was she who helped you with the furniture, not Valeris. She
who admires your ring, not Valeris. Tell yourself that there is no
Valeris."
"There
will always be a Valeris."
"But
you didn't even know me then. By that logic, should there not also always be a
Leslie? The woman you did know."
"The
woman with a fake husband and mother-in-law." You sit up, staring at her.
"They are fake, right? There is no real Martin and Lorraine, thinking they
have a human living with them, not some psychotic Vulcan?"
"I
am not psychotic." She looks sincerely offended.
"That's
the part you're going to focus on?"
"They
are not real. Christine, please. You have made a career out of helping others:
going from nurse to doctor to emergencies. The most logical way to attract your
attention when we first met was to be...in need." She perches on a coffee
table near the chair. "Making them up—well, part of it was Amanda
and how we interacted, as I imagine you know or will come to—but part of
it was simply...enjoyable. I had fun living that life, being that
woman—getting to know you."
You
push yourself out of the chair and head for the door.
She
catches up easily, but she doesn't grab you this time. "And you had fun
knowing that woman."
"I
won't argue with that. But she's not real. Now, get the fuck away from me or so
help me I will call security."
She
must see something in your expression, something that says finally, "Don't
goddamn push me."
She
holds her hands up and backs away. "I will not approach you this way
again."
You
leave before you lose whatever is finally making you scary enough for her to
pay attention to.
Later
that day, a comm appears. "A friend is
sorry" is the subject line and it's from one of those places that sends all-occasion electronic cards. You open it and a
picture of a sad looking cat stares back at you. "Oh, come on." It's
so kitschy it almost makes you laugh. You touch the cat to open the message and
see a gift card is included from the store you saw Valeris in. The message
reads: "I am truly sorry. If you really do not like the furniture because
of its association with me, buy something new. My treat."
You
cannot believe she thinks this is how a human disassociates. You forward the
gift card to a charity that helps out displaced families, and send the card to
trash.
Then
you look around at the gorgeous rooms you've put together. You
as in you and Spock but also you and her.
You don't want to get rid of your pretty new stuff. Besides, what would it
serve? Memories are like cat hair: no matter how you try, you'll never get rid
of them completely. And you love these pieces, not because of how you got them
but for the memories you'll make on them with the man you've loved for what
seems like forever.
To hell with her. She doesn't run your life. She never will.
Spock
comes in and finds you lounging on the leather chaise. He almost frowns.
"I thought you were opposed to that piece?"
You
laugh at how diplomatic he is being. "I was. I'm not now. This is our
furniture, Spock. This piece, even though she had a hand in
it. It's ours—yours and mine. Unless you hate it?"
"I
find it immensely comfortable."
"Me,
too. So...so a traitorous bitch who may consider me her best friend helped me
pick it out for us—nothing's perfect, right?"
He
actually smiles, a small puff of air coming out. He walks over, and manages to
somehow cuddle in with you on the chaise, partially holding you. "A most
pragmatic attitude."
"I
can be pragmatic. I can let this go."
He
nuzzles you. "If you would like to replace the orange throw pillows,
however, I would have no complaints."
You
laugh. "Yeah, those suckers are definitely going back." Then you
laugh harder, because he's urging you up so you're straddling him, and you
murmur, "Oh, so you think we're going to exorcise her out of all this new
stuff by having sex on it?"
"We
would have done that anyway." His expression is light as he pushes your
shirt up and unhooks your bra so he can play with your breasts.
You
give yourself over to his amazing hands and lips and tongue and forget about
anything but him and what he's doing to you.
Logic
is a wonderful thing. Who knew it would play so well with sex?
Him:
You
are inside Christine, moving slowly, building the tension when she whispers,
"I don't want a ceremony on Vulcan."
You
know your lips are ticking up as you continue your movements but say,
"Elaborate."
She
thrusts up to meet you and you groan. "I want to bond now. Just you and me. No fuss, no muss. Simple, like this."
She uses muscles you think were not on any anatomical models you studied and
you groan even louder. "Will we be breaking any Vulcan rules if we do it
now?"
You
study her, then reach for the meld points. She is so
open to you it is as if you are walking through an open door, and you feel that
she does want this and not out of desperation or fear she will lose you.
She
loves you. She does not want to wait. She knows life is short.
You
know that, too. "We will break no rules." You smile, a true smile,
because you want her to know that you love her for this. In truth, you did not
want a ceremony on Vulcan either.
She
smiles back and you feel joy jumping between your minds.
You
begin the bonding, working more from instinct than knowledge, feeling your way,
and she moans.
"Parted
from me and never parted." Your voice is harsh but your grip on her is
light and you can feel her becoming one with you. "Never and always
touching and touched."
Pleasure
builds between you. You go back to thrusting.
"Oh,
fuck."
You
laugh. It is not Vulcan to do so, but neither is her response. Yet it is
beautifully apropos and quintessentially her to swear during a moment like
this, so you say, "Indeed," and thrust harder, feeling it now from
her point of view as well as your own.
She
comes and the feeling rockets through you. You hear her murmuring, "I love
you so much" as she comes down and you go faster, harder—this will fade
but for now you are one person. And you make love as if that is so.
When
you finally roll off her and pull her to you, she is panting. "Holy shit,
Spock." She laughs. "Sorry, I'm sure there's some ritual response.
'Honorable husband: the mind-blowing orgasms were most appreciated.'"
You
smile, and you can tell she understands this openness will also fade. And she
doesn't care. You can feel that she will enjoy this while she has it and not
mourn it once it is gone.
You
pull her close. "Before I cannot so easily say these things, know that I
love you. You are all that I want. All that I desire."
She
kisses you, but then she moves to your ear and whispers, "Sweet talking me
now isn't going to get you out of taking me to Tahiti later."
You
pull her back to you so you can kiss her. Kissing turns to
more and soon you are pushing her to her back again and climbing on top.
When
you finally pull away, you ask, "I thought it was Paris
"Maybe
it'll be both. Paris and then Tahiti. Maybe a trip to an
amusement park. Do you like roller coasters?" She grins and you
trace her lips with your finger. "Or is life with me enough of one."
"I
would ride one if you wanted me to."
"Just
one?"
"I
would do almost anything if you wanted me to." You know this is hyperbole
and you can tell she does too. But she is still charmed that you would say it
and you are still earnest in saying it.
"Will
your parents be mad at us? For not waiting?"
"Not
as long as my mother can have a party for us at the embassy."
"Of
course." She closes her eyes. "Wow, is that my body or yours that is
so sore."
"I
think both."
"I
guess no more sex." She laughs and lays her hands over her breasts and
genitals. "Off limits, buster."
You
let an eyebrow be the answer to such nonsense.
Her
smile is a beautiful thing as she pulls you back onto her. "I don't want
to waste this connection. While we have it, we should use it, yes?"
"I
concur."
"Even
if neither of us can walk in the morning." She giggles as you kiss down
her belly. "Fortunately I'm a doctor. I can heal us right up. Provided I
can get to my bag."
Then
she stops talking and starts moaning.
When
morning comes, it is you who stumbles to the closet to get her med bag. You are
profoundly grateful you had the foresight to bond with a doctor because you are
both in need of attention.
She
smiles as she runs the regenerator over you. "Are you sorry we didn't show
some restraint last night?"
You
pull her in for a kiss, her lips sweet on yours. "Not at all."
Her:
You're
just getting in from a meeting when your terminal beeps in the way you've
programmed it to for results from a search you've set up. You sit and call up
the message queue, then have to go through the additional safeguards you've
made to open the comm.
Another Starfleet officer dead. Freak
accident while home alone. Lassiter, Jennifer. Commander. You call up
her service record. It takes awhile but eventually you find the link—not
to Cartwright this time, but to Lieutenant Hanover, who was killed when his
phaser overloaded on a mission. Hanover served with Cartwright early in his career, Lassiter was Hanover's next supervisor.
You
add it to the list—the mental list: you're not stupid enough to keep a
real one—of the people Valeris has wiped out. She was hunting even when she
was pretending to be an awkward human. Hunting—killing. Wiping out the
enemy.
One less threat to Spock. One
less threat to your happiness.
Your
ability to be pragmatic about this is verging on scary. You should probably be
concerned.
Instead
you close the message and go back to work.
Your
personal communicator beeps and you frown because it should be on "do not
disturb" when you're on shift. You look at the identifier screen, but it's
not showing who's calling.
You
answer it anyway, just as you always do. Valeris promised in the furniture
store she would never again approach you that way. She didn't say she wouldn't
comm.
Her
face fills the screen. "You're welcome, Christine."
"Are
you kidding? I'm at work. This could be tracked."
"Do
you really think they can track my messages if I don't want them to?" She
cocks her head. "I understand congratulations are in order. Felicitations on your bonding. How is the mother-in-law from
hell?" She looks particularly pleased—no doubt on the precision of
her human impression.
"She's
good to me."
"You
two are close? You can talk to her?"
"I
can."
"So,
of course you've told her all about my comms?"
She leans in. "I don't call Spock, you know. Just you."
You
know that's true. But you tell Spock when she comms—he'd
know, now that you're bonded, if you were keeping something that big from him.
And even if he wouldn't, you'd tell him. You don't want that kind of secret
between you, not now that things are good again.
Good—things
are amazing.
You
lean in. "Hey, is that the last one you need to take care of?"
"Why?
So you can send my picture to Starfleet security finally and end this lovely
relationship?"
"Just
exactly."
"No,
that's not the last one."
"You
wouldn't tell me if it was, though."
"True.
When it is, I'll...slip into the wind. And it really will be goodbye."
You
mock pout and pretend to dab at your eye.
She
laughs, and you find that you miss the sound. The laugh of
your fake friend. You've stopped blaming Spock for missing her—you
can feel through the bond that he does occasionally think of her, although his
love for you at this point overshadows any regard for her that lingers.
How
can you blame him when you miss the person she became—this version of her
that you got to know—to like?
"Honestly,
Christine, is Amanda good to you?"
"She
really is." You lean in. "But the way she cuts his
sandwiches..."
"See."
She smiles. "Thank you. That was generous because I know you like
her."
"I
love her."
"I
never would have. Spock's probably better off with you." She sighs.
"Well, more hunting to do. Leads and more leads." She seems to be
stalling and you wonder if there really are more leads. Or if
this is it.
Then
she says, "Goodbye, Christine" and she reaches for the screen.
"Wait."
She
looks up.
"Just
so we're clear: I hate what you do. And I hate what you did—the larger
issue." You don't have to talk around things—it's damning enough
that you have calls from her on your comm
record—but you'll be damned if you're going to give a prosecutor anything
concrete if you ever do get caught. "But...thank you. If Spock is safer,
thank you."
"You're
safer too." Her expression is perfectly serious and her tone grave.
"The last one was planning a farewell party for both of you."
"Oh."
That leaves you shaken. Although should it? You'd rather be taken out with
Spock than have to live without him the way you did Roger.
She
leans in. "I wish, sometimes, that we could get coffee again. Or have
dinner." Then she shakes her head, as if clearing an errant thought.
"Or I would—if it were my nature to wish."
"Right."
You study her, the tight way she's holding herself. What kind of life is this
for her?
The
life of a traitor, some nobler part of yourself
answers. The life she fucking deserves.
But
then she looks up and meets your eyes, and you see the woman in the boutique.
"Sometimes," you say softly, "I wish we could too."
She
smiles. You think she enjoys smiling; she does it so often.
You
lean in. "Even though I hate you. Leslie."
"Right.
Hate." Her smile goes broader as she cuts the connection.
You
stare at the screen for a long moment, then send Spock a message marked routine
that he can read when he gets out of his meetings.
All
it says is: "Your friend called again."
He
will know what that means. All the implications. She
doesn't reach out to you after every one, but she never contacts you any other
time.
Then you comm Amanda. "Hi, are we still
on for coffee later?"
"Wouldn't
miss it, darling. Oh, hell. Caterers are here for some conference T'Lana is holding. Why is it up to me to supervise
everything?" She points and tells someone to go to the far conference
room. "An ambassador's wife's job is never done. But I'll see you at
three." Her smile is luminous as she cuts the connection.
You
try to imagine not loving her and fail. Even the way she cuts Spock's
sandwiches charms you—that was a lie to make Valeris happy.
Jesus,
are you under her spell or what—lying about Amanda just to make her
smile? You hope this really is goodbye.
There
is a chorus of "Oooohs," from the bay and
then your deputy's at the door saying in a sing-song
voice, "Someone's got an admirer."
You
look up to see him carrying a box from the chocolatier you first took Valeris
to. A red balloon with "Christine" written on it is attached and a
little envelope dangles from the ribbon.
He
hands you the package. "The delivery guy was trying to get in when I came
back from lunch so I said I'd bring it to you. What's the occasion?"
You
open the envelope and pull out the little card. In beautiful handwriting that
could easily be mistaken for Spock's if one didn't know better, it says,
"I miss you."
"Well?"
"I'm
missed." You hold out the box and say, "Have one."
He
takes a truffle and breaks into a happy smile as he bites in. "Oh, man,
this is good. Who knew Vulcans were so sentimental?"
You
smile in a way you think could mean anything. "Yeah. Who knew?"
FIN